peculiarities have awakened our mirth; could we look into the early history of that individual, and trace the causes that have led sorrow to mask itself with eccentricity, we should feel only wonder and pity; but the waters of life are for ever flowing onwards, and little trace do they bear of what clouds have darkened or reddened the waves below as they floated by. In despite of his affected contempt of the fairer half of the creation, his niece, Mary Mac Intyre, has a hold upon his heart; witness his instant anxiety when he fancies that she is exposed to the storm—though he avenges its betrayal by the contempt he at once throws on the truly feminine remedy of a basin of gruel, with a glass of white wine in it. We see, however, but very little of her, she only speaks in a few affectionate sentences of remonstrance to her hot-headed brother; still we wish to see more of her—a true novel reader will feel defrauded of his just rights, when at the close there is only a rumour of her marriage with Captain Wardour, which rumour wants confirmation. We will, however, hope for the best—and that best is to suppose her married in her uncle's neighbourhood. We like to imagine the old man, with age gradually smoothing down all asperities, as the shadows of twilight soften the landscape while the night approaches, and surrounded by those whose affection grows nearer and
