“Saint Leger” has been considered by some critics to be of German origin; it has been thought to bear a striking family likeness to a class of books of which “Wilhelm Meister” is the type and paragon. This erroneous opinion must have arisen either from an imperfect acquaintance with German literature, or from not giving to “Saint Leger” that careful analysis which it certainly deserves. The class of German novels, to which “Saint Leger” has been compared, cannot, strictly speaking, be said to possess any plot. There is no regular sequence of events—no relation of parts to a whole—no dramatic bearing of character upon character, to produce an ultimate result—no apparent effort to close the story at the very start, which an influx of conflicting circumstances alone prevents, and toward which it ever struggles, overcoming obstacles and softening down discordances, until the end is gained by an unforced blending into one harmonious mass of all the opposing elements of the plot. But these very qualities, for which we look in vain through “Wilhelm Meister” and its fellows, “Saint Leger” possesses to a degree beyond any work of a semblable character with which we are acquainted; and from the crowning result of its plot arises what has been called, from the days of Æsop to those of Walter Scott, the moral of the story. Without such a moral, expressed or implied, any fable, however well told in detail, is a crude, lifeless mass, wanting altogether that vital principle which alone can give fiction endurance. It is to this fact that posterity will owe its safety from the pernicious influences of the thousand well written immoralities that crowd their betters from our modern book-shelves, while the downfall of these literary falsehoods must as surely make way for the continued popularity of such books as “Saint Leger.” That “Wilhelm Meister” and kindred works are entirely without moral, we will not attempt to say; but that they want the directness of purpose which everywhere characterizes “Saint Leger,” and the consequent dependence of action upon action, in order to work out a clear and significant result, we may say, without fear of controvertion. A lie, written or spoken, is always a bungling thing. The straggling, touch-and-go manner of hinting out a story—admitting the author not to be thoroughly depraved, and willing, like the George Sand School, to blazon his vices, and glory in his iniquities—seldom fails to betray the false and shallow principles upon which it is founded. Truth seeks the light; the author of “Saint Leger” does not shun it. There is a zealousness of purpose, and a lucidness of style and exposition upon every page of his book, which at least proves our author’s conscience to be in his work, and must forever free him from the imputation of endeavoring to hide falsehood, either under the covering of silence or of sophistry.