The Sun.
London, England, 1858-01-11 00:00:00

habit of thinking aloud. What strange enntradietions of
character come persons offer. Out of ;:ch.io!, Mr. Cariz,
was very amiable and good-tempered, f'nd of music, and
Cultivated a taste for poetry. I hated Lila eordialv
then ; but I 1-arlit to like him afterwat ds, :sod now .1
lament in him the loo; friend."
" •

As a companion extract—ddineative this time
rather of incident than of character—take the fol-
lowing enthralling passage„descriptive of the ice-
breaking on Marston Mere, an event to which, it
will be recollected, we have already made passing
reference. The two school-boy adventurers are
suddenly startled about midway on the frozen sur-
face of the Mere by the ice bending—when, quoth
Mervyn Clitheroe :
" Forcing a laugh, I begin to repeat the schoolboy
rhymes— _ _ _

" If it bends, it'll bear,
If it cracks, it'll swear,
If it breaks—'
" r Hold your tongue I' interrupted Malpas. Why
the devil do you mention such a thing as breaking now ?
I wish we were safely back again. What a tool I was
to come with you at all
" He was here interrupted in his turn by a most ter-
rific crack, beginning just beneath his feet, passing
under mine, and sweeping on with an awful noise to an
immense distance. Malpas and I stared at each other
aghast, uncertain whether to advance or retreat.
" We were now about midway from either shore, and
therefore it seemed immaterial which course was adopted.
Malpas was for turning back ; but he had scarcely
moved a foot in that direction, when another crack,
louder and more appalling than the first, took place
beneath him, and water sprang from between the fissures.
Starting bade with a cry of terror, he speeded off in the
course we had originally pursued. We trod es lightly
and moved as swiftly as we could, stepping on the points
of our feet. The distance between us and the shore
seemed interminable. The ice seemed fairly giving way,
and cracked and groaned most fearfully. On looking
back I saw that the surface not fifty yards behind us
was covered with water. I now gave myself up for lost,
and thought of my mother, hoping I should be buried
beside her, if my body was ever found, in Marston
Churchyard.
" Malpas, who was not encumbered with a gun and
a bag of wild ducks, and who besides, bad a very light
pair of heels; got considerably in advance, and thinking
I might safely follow where he went, I shaped my course
accordingly. But I soon found this to be an error, for
the ice which bent beneath him and cracked, would
hardly sustain me, and more than once gave way alioge-
ther, so that my emapes from destruction seemed abnoet
wiraculou c. For some time, my attention bad been so
intently directed to my own precarious situation, that I
had not dared to glance towards the shore ; btr, now
looking in that direction, with a thrdt of delight, I dis-
covered that I was much nearer it than I expected—
scarcely more than a hundred yards off, while the ice
had become much firmer. But where was Malpas ?
Had he already reached the bank ? I could nowhere
perceive him. A vague apprehension crossed me that
he had sunk through the ice ; and my fears were
instantly afterwards confirmed by remarking Lie cap only
a few yards before me. At a glance I saw what had
happened. In his haste, he had incautiously approached
a spring, and had fallen through the thin c ffering of ice.
The sound of his immersion had been drowned in the
loud cracks and explosions. All selfish considerations
were lost in the thought of saving him, and twenty rash
plans—any of which would have cost me my own life—.
occurred to me. I approached as near as I dared to the
bole. Nothing was to be discerned of him. The ice
was as transparent as crystal, and I looked eagerly around
for any object beneath it. The next moment I
distinguished Malpas under the glassy barrier with
his hands outstretched, and his eyes open and fixed ou
me. Never shall I forget their expression. I sprang to
where he was, pointed in the direction of the
aperture, and signed to him to move towards P. He
understood me, and with a last alert struggled thither,
and got his head above the ice. But the trail support
broke beneath his hold, and he sank again. I uttered
a cry of despair. But the next moment he reappeared ;
and, having thrown myself flae on the ice, I managed to
lay my gun across the bole, and he caught hell of the
barrel. But I saw that he was so much exhausted, that
unless he could be immediately extricated be must
unquestionably perish ; and I therefore approached still
nearer, though at the greatest personal risk, until I
could grasp his hand, and then, bidding him second my
efforts, I exerted all the strength I possessed, and suc-
ceeded in dragging him out of the hole."
So far from diminishing in any respect in its
attractions, the work only increases in its interest
as it advances : the last number, the sixth, being
in truth, perhaps of all, the very best yet published.
The tendency of this progression, to say the least
of it, is auspicious. May it continue throughout
the remainder of the serial to the date of its comple-
tion f Mervyn Clitheroe, in that c. se, can hardly
fail to realize our expectations to the fullest—
assuming the foremost rank among the many bril-
liant fictions already contributed by the genius of
Harrison Ainsworth to the atoms of our imagina-
tive literature.

Sir John, Falstaff. Illustrated by George Cruik-
shank, Parts TM. and IX. Longman and
Company.

Another number and there will be an end of this
last brilliant comics serial embellished by the pencil
of our inexhaustible Cruikshank. It is as it should
be—considering its subject—perhaps the greatest of
our artist's many wonderful successes. The etchings
in the two latest instalments published are really
exquisite both as works of art and as pictorial
ebullitions of a humorous genius altogether
inextinguishable. Whether it be because of
their intimate association with the same locality,
or because of their veritable resemblance to those
delightful illustrations, we will not decide—but
certainly these four last engravings, illustrative of
the History of " Sir John," appear to us to bear a
marvellous family likeness to the charming sketches
adorning Harrison Ainsworth's historical romance
of " Windsor Castle," sketches we have hitherto
regarded as among George Cruikshank's undoubted
masterpieces. But these now before us, fresh from
the printing press, aro far and away the most grace-
ful productions we yet remember to have seen from
a hand as much beyond the hand of Gilray or Row-
landsor, as the brush of Hogarth was beyond that
of his sire-in-law, the vaunted Thornhill. Two of
them pourtray Falstaff in connection with
the immortal incident of the Buck-basket.
In of e we see him smothered up in dirty linen by
the mischievous hands of the merry wives, Mistress
Ford and Mistress Page—names long identified
in our mind with the recollection of two charming
faces—those of Lady Boothby and poor dead Ma-
dame Vestris. • In the companion etching, coming
immediately afterwards, we have the fat knight
being bundled out of his sweltering lair in the
basket, and soused in the muddy ditch, the cur-
rent of which is sluggishly surging under the
effects of the immersion. Capital, too, is the deli-
neation of the cudgelling inflicted upon Sir Johu
by Master Ford, when the former is striving. tcs
make his escape unharmed under the disguise of
Mother Prat. And at once beautiful andbeltrich
is the scene disclosed to view by the dainty etching-
needle of Cruikshank, in his fairy-like limning of
Herne's Oak, and the elfine rabble dancing about
the prostrate form of Falstaff ! As to the accom-
panying letter-press, the " Biography of the Knight
from Authentic Sources, by Robert B. Brough,
Esq.," it appears to us, from beginning to end, the
most egregious mistake imaginable. It is intended,
of course, to be extremely funny—but throughout
is either merely vapid or impertinent. The serio-
comic observations upon Shakspere, especially, read
to ourselves in every separate syllable quite intole-
rably. We cannot, in simple justice, but accord
to the work of the writer about as much contempt
as we award to that of the artist unaffected and
unstinted admiration.

Scenes of Clerical Life. By Gecrg© Eliot. 2 vols,

i3lackliood.

Those readers who have previously perused these
stories in the pages of Blackwood's Magazine will
delight in the opportunity thus afforded of re-pe-
rusal, and for those who are strangers to them, they
can in all confidence be recommended as composi-
tions of sterling excellence. With truth and feeling
are the events related to us, and we behold in vi-
gorous sketches, some of the trials and tribulations
through which those must pass who aspire to be
the labourers in the heavenly vineyard. " The sad
fortunes of the Rev. Amos Barton, the shortest
as she is
and simplest of the three tales ; it is cbjefly made
familiarlypleasing
the delineationw ife ooff
whose sombre career is herein depicted. Her pe_ bytertmheed,
culiar gift is the "soothing unspeakable charm of
gentlo womanhood, which supersedes all acquisi-
tions all accomplishments." It was the saddestday of 4iis life when Amos consigned her to the dust
in the bloom of life. The Countess Czerlaski is
a
good specimen of her class, shining with borrowed
humouring her
could light, and disporting herself and
fancies, at the expense of others who ill afford
such vagaries. " Janet's repentance" is rather a
peculiar story, which endeavours
intolerance that prevailed in to exemplify the
Milby, a small town of
the last century, on the occasion of the advent of
a new curate, whose tenets did not exactly accord
with the time-honoured
tants. Janet is prejudices and its inhabi-
an attractive character, with all
short-comings, her faults and
impulsive
ones,
she is one of eager
whose lot is too often dark and
stormy, at the .
same time that they are gifted with
that exquisite sensibility, and that acute
perception which can the most highly appreciate
happiness, and the most
deeply feel sorrow. Her
husband w4s a bad man, violent and ungoverned
in his conduct, and even brutal in his behaviour to
her. Stung by such insults, aggravated by her ill
fortune, Janet sinks to his level instead of rising
in the native worth and integrity of her own mind
to resist and overcome evil of every kind. Mr.
Tryan, the curate, is.well described as a zealous ad-
vocate of the doctrines he believed genuine. In
failing health and depressed spirits, he effected what
:many gifted with strength and assisted by approv-
ing friends have failed to realise, because his heart