The Press.
London, England, 1856-02-02 00:00:00

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Amberhill. By A. J. Barrowcliffe. Two Vols.
London: Smith, Elder, and Co.
Truman not free from the faults of the spas
modic school, and though the general tenor of
the story is of that tragic cast which inclines
to the repulsive, yet there is great power in
" Amberhill," and its faults are forgotten in
the sustained excitement of the narrative. It
purports to be the autobiography of a young
lady of strong passions and irregular prin-
ciple, whose rebellious spirit against the
decrees of Providence is at last struck down
and utterly crushed by the accomplishment of
her most ardent desire—abundant wealth—at
the moment when it does but add to her
aftli stion.
The opening of the book shows fine percep-
tion of natural beauty. The tranquil parson-
age, in which the youth of the narrator passes,
is brought before the eye so as to form a
distinct and charming picture. But the
garden is shaded by a huge cedar of Lebanon,
which " spread out its broad black branches
" like layers of clouds in the twilight and
" heavy wings by day." The heavy shade of
this tree is typical of the gloom which per-
vades the tale.
The father of the heroine is disquieted by
conscientious scruples. He is in the Church,
but not of it. He cannot make up his mind
to resign his good living—affording him a
thousand a year—yet feels that he is sinful in
preferring his convenience to the dictates of
conscience. We are not informed of the
nature of his scruples, but he dwells con-
tinually on the sentence, " He that loveth son
" or daughter more than me, is not worthy
" of me," and he feels the sting of the words
as keenly as if our Lord himself stood visibly
before him, and spake them with reproachful
lips. His wife is his better angel, and coun-
sels him to forsake all for conscience sake. In
addition to his own children, he allows an
income to his orphan niece, Alice, whose for-
tune has been lost through his good nature in
sparing an unprincipled guardian. We ex-
tract a passage from the first chapter which
will show the key in which the story is
penned, and the bewildering terror which
runs through it from the first page to the
last. Mr. C.E.Nlay is at his bible, when his wife

enters :
He bent his head upon her shoulder, and she smiled
above him, like a protecting angel.
" Mary, you are my staff, my crutch : I think I can be
strong with you beside me."
" We will lean together on a better staff: I am mortal,
dearest, and a woman."
He raised his head again, with a look of pain and
writhing.
" Oh, I cannot think of it ! Our children ! the old, old
bitterness : our children ! "
" God gave them to bless us, not to tempt us, Henry.
Better they should die at our feet than live by their
father's sin."
" There is Alice, my sister's child, have I not wronged
her enough ? Must I take the orphan's bread to buy peace
for my own soul ? Oh, never, Mary, never ! "
" Think manfully, dear love ; &amiss the thoughts that
tempt you, till they can tempt no longer. Ecruember,
too, we are not penniless. 1 have an income while I live,
and Alice shall be cared for. Do I look old yet, Henry?"
She shook the bright hair, which no cap had yet con•
coaled, from her beautiful face and forehead, still almost
girlish in their appearance, though she was nearly forty
years old.
My father looked up into her sweet eyes. but he did not
smile.
" And Amberhill ? "
"Will be a slot of light, my husband, in all our
memories."
"An Eden, Mary : a Paradise, whence Heaven expels
us, to be wanderers on a stony world."
" No, Henry, the beautiful gate of the Temple, which
we leave only because it is the hour of sacrifice !'
A sharp rustle over head—a dull, plashing sound upon
the grass, and a shower of rose leaves fell round my
mother's feet where she was kneeling. It was the first
great drop of the thunder-rain falling through the trailing
boughs over the open glass door. There was no more
sunshine ou the lawn; the black shadow of the cloud lay
upon the breathless flowers, and the drowsy butterflies had
disappeared. The note of a single bird broke the stillness,
but it was a plaintive sound, like a whisper, and full of
fear. A quick flash of lightning followed immediately,
with the thunder close behind. My mother started up
and went to the open door.
My youngest brother, a beautiful child about four years
old, was in the garden driving his hoop round the large
lawn. Me called to him to come iu bet Ore the rain fell.
Ile a Lopped and laughed, but .did

Ile m to43d and laughed, but did not 'c,ale any nearer
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