“Having waited for some moments in the pretty boudoir, looking out on a veranda of orange-trees not yet in blossom” (we copy _verbatim_), “Blanche was humming one of her favorite airs, ‘Beautiful Isle of the Sea,’ which she imperceptibly changed to ‘Let each man learn to know himself.’ Frank entered _on the words_, and seemed slightly confused for an instant, but, quickly recovering his composure, he addressed his visitors _with the ease and grace of a debonair_.” “May we not hope to meet _ye_ in Paris?” is one of the questions put by the easy and graceful “debonair” to his visitors. He falls in love with Blanche, of course, though he confesses that he “almost fell in love once with a lady from South America,” and no wonder. “She was a most perfect creature in face and form; that delicate cast of countenance with an exquisite profile; hair that might be called golden, coiled _on the tip of her head_.” The parting at the end of the first chapter, between Blanche and Frank, is not altogether as poetical as it might have been made. The train whistle interferes with it considerably. “A whistle, and all was confusion; everybody astir to get on board. A second one, and Frank started to take leave. He tried to speak, but it was impossible. His face quivered with emotion. He pressed the hand of Blanche in silence, and, darting out of the carriage, he encountered Mr. O’Rourke at the door. Bidding him a hasty farewell, he was soon lost in the crowd. ‘What a fool I am!’ he thought, ‘but _I am human nature_. Yet is it not a weakness to bow to its dictates? Should I ever meet that gifted creature again, I will tell her all....’ He wiped the cold perspiration from his forehead, and, with a sigh, tried to forget his misery.” What a fool he was indeed! Yet he said one sensible thing: “‘Oh!’ said Blanche, laughing, ‘am I not a favored child of fortune? When I go home I shall write a novel or some work of fiction.’ “Frank Mortimer smiled as the words fell from her lips. ‘Heaven save you,’ he said, ‘from such a fate!’” Frank’s prayer was not heard, seemingly, and the result, we suppose, is _Blanche Carey_. We have not got beyond the first chapter of this fascinating “work of fiction,” and we are not likely to get beyond it. The reader may easily judge of its attractions by the extracts given, which were positively too tempting to pass by. THE LETTERS OF REV. JAMES MAHER, D.D., LATE P.P. OF CARLOW-GRAIGUE, ON RELIGIOUS SUBJECTS. With a memoir. Edited by the Rt. Rev. Patrick Francis Moran, D.D., Bishop of Ossory. Dublin: Browne & Nolan. 1877.