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

habit of thinking aloud. What strange crkntraklik.tionE, of
character some persons offer. Out of ,-cheoi, Mr. Cane
was very amiableand good-tempered, fkknd of music, and
cultivated a taste for poetry. I lkated him cordially
then ; but I learnt to like him afterwards, and now I
lament in him the lo.kkt friend."

As a companion extract—delineative this time
rather of incident than of character—take the fol-
lowing enthralling passagedescriptiv e 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 aLout 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-'

" Hold your tongue !' interrupted Malpas. Why
the devil do you mention such a thing as breaking now !
I wish we were safely back again. What a fool 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 back with a cry of terror, he speeded off in the
course we had originally pursued. We trod as 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 Manton
Churchyard.

" Maims, who was not encumbered with a gun and
a bag of wild ducks, and who besides, had 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 altoge-
ther, so that my e3capes from destruction 'seemed almost
miraculous. For some time, my attention had been so
intently directed to my own precarious situation, that I
had not dared to glance towards the shore ; but now
looking in that direction, with a thrill of delight, I dis-
covered that I was much nearer it than I expected—
scarce!y more Oita a hundred yards off, while the ice
had become much firmer. Bat where was Malpas ?
Had ho already reached the bank ? I coni:d nowhere
perceive him. A vague apprehension crossed me that
he had sunk through the ice ; and my fears were
instantly afterwards confirmed by remarking his cap only
a few yards before me. At a Blanca I caw what had
happened. In his haste, he had incautiously approached
a spring, and had fallen through the thin uwering of ice.
The sound of his immersion had been drowned in the
loud cracks and explosions. All selsh 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 fdared to the
hole. Nothing was to be discerned of him. The ice
was as transparent aacrystal, 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 on
me. Never shall I forget their expression. I sprang to
where he was, pointed in the direction of the
aperture, and signed to bim to move towards
understood me, and with a last effort 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 flair on the ice, I managed to
lay my gun across the hole, and he caught hold of the
barrel. But I saw that he was so much exhausted, that
unless he could be immediately extricated he 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 draggicg him out of the bole."
So far from diminishing in any respeot in its
attractions, the work onlj 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 I Mervyn Clitheroe, in that case, 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 stores of our imagina-
tive literature.

Sir John Falstaff. Illustrated by George Crnik-
shank. Parts TIII. and IX. Longman and
Company.
Another number and there will be an end of tkis
last brilliant comic serial embellished by the pencil
of our inexhaustible Cruikshauk. 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, are 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-
landson, 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 ore we Fee him smothered up in ditty linen by
the mischievous hands of the merry wives, Mistress
Ford and Mistress Pitge—names long identified
in our mind with the recollection of two charming
faces—those of Lady Boothby and poor de id 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 John
by Master Ford, when the former is striving to
make his escape unharmed under the disguise of
Mother Prat. And at occe beautiful and eltrich
is the scene disclosed to view by the dainty etching-
needle of Cruikshauk, 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 George Eliot. 2 vols.

i3laokii-.ood.

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, is the shortest
and simplest of the three tales ; it is chiefly made
pleasing by the delineation of " Milly," as she is
familiarly termed, the wife of the unhappy man
whose sombre career is herein depicted. Her pe-
culiar gift is the "soothing unspeakable charm of
gentle womanhood, which supersedes
wrsedaesstahlel acquisi-
tions,
t
uess all accomplishments."
day of his life when Amos consigned her to the
in the bloom of life. The Countess Czerlaski is
good specimen of her class, shining with borrowed
light, and disporting herself and humouring her
fancies, at the expense of others who could ill afford
such vagaries. " Janet's repentance" is rather a
peculiar story, which endeavours to exemplify the
intolerance that prevailed in Milb y,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 prejudices and its inhabi-
tants. Janet is an at tractive character, with all
her faults and short-comings, she is one of the eager
iwpslsive ones' whose lot is too often dark and
stormy, at the same
time that they are gifted with
that exquisite sensibility, and that acut2
perception which can the most highly appreciate
happiness, and the most deeply feel sorrow. Her
husband was 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, iawell 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