is never called to account therefor,—­a strange remissness on the part of everybody, which seems to have no recommendation except that it leaves him free to do this very work of robbing the mails, and which, by his failure to do it, is left utterly unexplained and profoundly mysterious.  All this is very bad.  The Doctor’s meanness is utterly inconsistent; and the bare thought of a sober and uncommonly awkward Yankee, like Squire Deacon, deliberately making two separate attempts at assassination, is unspeakably ludicrous.  Moreover, we are hopelessly unable to see the need of having the unfortunate Mr. Linden shot at all.  Everything was going on very well before, as nearly as we could see, and nothing appears to come of it, after all,—­not even the condign punishment of the incongruous and never-to-be-sufficiently-marvelled-at assassin, who is suspected by several people, and yet remains as unharmed as if murder on the highway were altogether too common an occurrence in New England to excite more than a moment’s thought.

This leads us to speak of the Plot; and we are constrained to say that a more inartistic, unfinished piece of work we cannot remember.  There is a lamentable waste of capital on Squire Deacon’s sportsmanlike propensities.  Why not have something come of them?  We are not anxious to have the man hanged, or even indicted; but we did expect a magnanimous pardon to be extended to him by Mr. Linden; and although that gentleman was altogether too magnanimous before, we should have acquiesced mildly.  And what becomes of Mrs. Derrick?  There we are in earnest; for Mrs. Derrick is an especial favorite with us.  It seems as if our authors had become bewildered, and, finding themselves fairly at a loss what to do with their characters, who drift helplessly along through a great part of the second volume, had seized desperately on the hero and heroine, determined to save them at least, and, having borne them to a place of refuge, had concluded to let the others look after themselves.

What redeems the novel, and gives it its peculiar and exquisite charm, is the execution of certain detached passages.  We have never seen the drollery of a genuine Yankee to more advantage than in “Say and Seal.”  An occasional specimen we venture to quote.

On Mr. Linden’s first appearance at Mrs. Derrick’s house, where he is known only as the new teacher, nobody knows and nobody dares ask his name; and recourse is accordingly had to the diplomacy of the “help.”

“‘Child,’ said Mrs. Derrick, ‘what on earth is his name?’

“‘Mother, how should I know?  I didn’t ask him.’

“‘But the thing is,’ said Mrs. Derrick, ’I did know; the Committee told me all about him.  And of course he thinks I know,—­and I don’t,—­no more than I do my great-grandmother’s name, which I never did remember yet.’

“‘Mother, shall I go and ask him, or wait till after supper?’

“‘Oh, you sha’n’t go,’ said her mother.  ’Wait till after supper, and we’ll send Cindy.  He won’t care about his name till he gets his tea, I’ll warrant...  Faith, don’t you think he liked his supper?’