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Miss continues her oratory, and the little girls pull the skirts of his coat, while the boy exerts his eloquence on the coachman.-Ah! the assailants have gained the victory; Papa, who, I suspect, was playing the lady, refusing in order to be entreated, is at length overcome, and the landau is opened. Each one now appears intent upon getting his own particular property, or that which he thinks most necessary to take with him, accommodated. Papa is lining the coach with great-coats, boatcloaks, and duffle-mantles; Mamma is stuffing the pockets with innumerable paper parcels; Miss is endeavouring to persuade her port-folio to stand upright at the back of the seat, and little Master seems determined to procure a comfortable settlement for his whip and whistle. Mrs Mitchell and the children seat themselves; but the father stil! anxiously looks in the direction of Hanover Street. Ah! there comes the cause of the delay; Mr John, with breathless haste, turns the corner; a few seconds more, and he is seated on the barouche-box. The father then seats himself beside his wife, the door is shut, the carriage drives off; and a dead silence succeeds the last sound of the retreating wheels.

Happy man! Yet how different were our prospects when we entered into life! I was heir to an ample fortune; he, an orphan, depended on an uncle, who had a large family of his own to provide for. Which of us is now the happier? Alas! I dare not abide the comparison. He is the husband of an amiable wife, and the father of five beautiful and healthy children; and what am I? A solitary wanderer; waiting, sometimes impatiently, until the time of my departure shall come.

approach what appeared at a distance a verdant and gently sloping hill, we discover it to be a rugged and barren mountain. I know what it is to tread this dreary path alone,-to wind my weary way through the sombre and flowerless region which lies between the summit and the brink of the declivity. I have almost reached the brink, and must soon descend into the dark valley of the shadow of death, without a friend to support my tottering and feeble steps.

And when the last dread hour shall arrive, that hour which brings terror to the bravest and best, who, Oh! who will support my trembling frame? What gentle arm will raise my drooping head, to aid, if possible, the shortening respiration? Who will wipe from my forehead the cold dew, sure presage of the approaching night? And when my bewildered thoughts know not where to turn, and darkness comes over my soul, who will gently whisper the last and the best consolation? Who will tenderly remind me of my sure and well-grounded hope of soon finding myself in that happy land where there is fulness of joy and pleasure for evermore? No one. My breath will steal away unnoticed; and a stranger shall close these eyes. Yet to suffer this last, this most bitter pang, I trust I am resigned; but let him who is yet in the first stage of his journey remember, that resignation is not happiness. George Street, Sept. 2.

When we set out on the journey of life, we may feel that we have no need of a companion. The sun shines brightly; gay prospects and smiling fields are before us; and as far as the eye can reach, all appears brilliant and cheering; while we exchange lively salutations with the numerous travellers who pass us, or cross our path. By and by the road becomes less frequented; some of those who have accompanied us part of the way turn into another track, and we see them no more; others stop short in the midst of their career. As we


THIS book certainly sets out with a considerable air of originality.The splendid dresses, the glittering arms, fierce conflicts, and bold achievements, of the days of Chivalry, have been rendered familiar to us by this writer, as well as by his prototype, who sung "Arms and the men," in the ever-living Lay, and the last adventures of the ill-fated Falcon Knight. We are not entitled to assume that our admired novelist is another and the same, though, meeting, as we do, the same spirit walking through the pages of Ivanhoe, we may be forgiven a suspicion so honourable to its

3 vols. 12mo. Constable and Co. Edinburgh, 1820.

object. Yet, after this full display of the glories and the crimes of belted knights, and iron-hearted warriors, after great abundance of fighting and feasting, one desideratum yet remained. We had still a natural wish to see how the domestic arrangements of these gallant warriors were carried on when they neither fought nor feasted. The calm, or, perhaps, sluggish tenor of their domestic life, when the armour was hung up in the hall, and the warder lounged whistling on the battlements, remained shrouded under the dark veil of oblivion. This adventurous Knight of the Restless Quill has now thrown open the halls and chambers of Avenel for our inspection. It was thus that Homer spent the more dazzling fires of his genius in pourtraying man brave in armour or sage in council-as he appears in the hostile camp or the beleagured city-illuminating with the more temperate rays of that declining light, the humble dwelling of the faithful swineherd, and the looms and distaffs that were so busily plied by the fair hands of Penelope and her at tendant maidens, all the domestic arrangements, in short, of the petty court of Ithaca. With equal fidelity, and nearly equal minuteness, has the first of modern story-tellers described the calm regularity and respectable monotony of the Castle of Avenel.We should regard with admiration, not unmixed with surprise, any young reader, sufficiently romantic, after perusing this picture of feudal grandeur, to prefer this quiet island in a stormy main to "this Scotland and this now."

Though well aware that the rapid circulation of these works, in general, anticipates the sketch of the story we should be inclined to convey, yet, for the sake of our very distant or very patient readers, we shall endeavour to give an outline of the tale. We fear it cannot be a very distinct one, for certainly never were the parts of a story, if such it may be called, so loosely connected with each other. The stage, in the first place, is filled with the same persons who disappear ed from our view at the end of the former drama. One new character is born to be the hero of the new tale. One dies, to our infinite regret, without making any sign of recognition to his old acquaintances! The defunct is the excellent Abbot Eustace, whose


extinction makes the Catholic Church history little better than a blank. Edward Glendinning succeeds to his office, but not to his place in our imagination. Halbert Glendinning vindicates the judgment that raised him from obscurity, and the love that added the gifts of fortune to his other distinctions. Wisdom and valour seem to hover over him like attendant genii; yet he is not too brave to be temperate, nor too wise to be kind. Zealous for the reformed religion, he yet cherishes the warmest affection for his Abbot brother, and, though earnestly desirous of heirs to his new honours and large property, regards his childless, but excellent, wife with unvaried tenderness. The turbulent and unba lanced state of the Court makes it an undesirable residence for the Lady, and the same state of affairs renders the Knight's aid and counsel indispensable in that perturbed region.Thus was the Lady left to almost unvaried solitude, relieved only now and then by a visit from the husband whom she loved with unabated fondness and increased esteem. The sullen calm of the castle was broken by a strange accident. A manly little boy, engaged in some childish sport on the side of the lake, with his companions of the village, plunged in after a toy vessel, and sunk when beyond his depth. He was dragged to land by the Knight's dog Wolf, who, in courage and sagacity, which is the wisdom of animals, resembled his master, whose favourite he was, not undeservedly. The lovely child, for such he proved, became first the object of the good lady's compassionate care, and lastly and gradually that of her tenderest affection. Finding him to be an orphan of dubious birth, she was inclined to believe him sent to supply the void in her heart, and received him, to use an oriental phrase,


"the child of her soul." A mysterious old woman appears to claim him. She seems possessed of great energy, but has a wildness bordering on insanity in her manner and dis course. Poverty, shunning all aid and dependence, though endured by a person who had seen better days, seems scarcely felt by this extraordinary person. The desolation of her Church, and the sacrilegious robbery and wanton destruction of all that erroneous piety held sacred, seem to have stung

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almost to madness a powerful and enthusiastic mind, supported, however, by a visionary presentiment that she was born to act some distinguished part in the restoration of the falling Church. She has some mysterious motive for leaving the darling of her affections in a heretic family, providing, however, for his being preserved in the true faith by the private counsels of the Abbot of St Mary's, thinking, too, no doubt, that, in the wellordered and warlike menzie of the Knight of Avenel, he would be better taught to "breast a steed, and wield a brand," than in any inferior household. Meanwhile, the boy, adding to his personal beauty the attractions of a bold spirit, a great promise of understanding, and a fond attachment to his benefactress, daily growing a favourite with the Lady, and not at all the more regarded by the rest of the family, he experienced, in its fullest extent, the truth of the well-known axiom, "A favourite has no friend." The petulance of the spoiled boy was increased by the coldness, bordering on ill-will, shown to him by the old absolute butler, and the long indulged lady's maid. Even Henry Warden, the good old gospeller, who, having outlived his antagonist Eustace, was now chaplain in the castle, frowned on the youthful Page. His, however, was a better motive for discountenancing the orphan. He thought he was likely to be brought up in idleness, and thus disqualified from any useful pursuit. Matters did not much mend as the spoiled boy grew towards manhood, without a name or an assigned place in society, his proud spirit rebelling equally against the obscurity of his birth and the insignificance of his place-panting for distinction, and jealous of the little consequence he possessed. This consisted chiefly in a kind of mastery over the dogs and hawks. In a quarrel with a blunt Englishman, who presided over the latter department of his master's amusement, he drew his dagger on the wonted companion of his sports, and thus furnished a pretext to the menials, who envied his favour with his Lady, 'to exaggerate this hasty ebullition of proud resentment into a dangerous outrage. The Lady's strong affection, struggling against what she imagined the highest provocation, and the gratitude and attachment of the Page contending with wounded pride, and

a sense of injury from the misrepresentations of the servants, afford a scene of contending passions drawn with the author's wonted felicity.The high-spirited Page scarcely waits for his dismission; conscious, as he is, of being hated and envied, he anticipates the sentence of expulsion, and leaves the Lady, still beloved and honoured, deeply mortified by the necessity which urged their separation. A very well supported conversation betwixt the Steward and the Waitingmaid throws light, not only on the politics of the family, but those of the kingdom, then agitated by violent convulsions. The Reformation, born in a tempest of popular vehemence, and nursed amidst the turbulence of civil commotions, was then making rapid progress, though in such a manner as to remind us of a most impressive passage in holy writ,-" Surely the wrath of man shall praise Him, and the remainder of wrath shall he restrain."

The Queen of Scotland, deposed, and, in breach of a solemn treaty, imprisoned by her subjects, was now beginning to excite in many loyal bosoms that sympathy which the sterner moralists and colder politicians refused to her charms and her misfortunes. It was at this time that the hapless Roland Græme wandered forth, unknowing where to turn for even a night's shelter. Father Ambrosius, the Abbot, earlier known as Edward Glendinning, was the youth's private friend and instructor, and knew the secrets of most importance that concerned him. Through his means, he had, in private, cherished, in an austere Protestant household, the faith of his ancestors, impressed on his mind in childhood. Wandering along towards the abode of this his spiritual father, he attempts to take shelter for the night in the cell of a holy hermit on the way. He finds, however, that the rage of Reformation has reached even this humble abode of sequestered piety. The hearth is cold, the chapel shattered, and the image of the presiding saint lies broken amidst the general desolation. A well-known voice, however, sounds through the gloom, and the ghost-like form of his lofty-minded grandmother appears, clad in a pilgrim's weed, and animated by a double portion of Catholic zeal and pious indignation; mourning over the fallen shrines, and full of

projects to restore the ancient religion, through the medium of which, she vainly hoped, the imprisoned queen might yet regain her power. Through her conversation with her grandson, we discover that his birth was far above his present condition, and that he had claims, in right of his family, which, in a more favourable conjuncture, might still be asserted. His relative distrusting his impetuous temper, does not think fit, as yet, to put him in full possession of the secret, but she proposes another and severer trial for his discretion, before this disclosure can be made. In short, she has some mighty projects, of which she means him to be the agent, but offends his pride by insisting on his prompt and blind obedience, without reposing full confidence in him as to the object. He determines not to yield up his free agency, yet follows her to a place which appears to be a deserted convent, anxious to discover Here the tendency of her designs. they meet an austere and grim personto be an abbess, who, age, who appears with equal zeal, but far less ability than Magdalen Græme, joins in her ardent projects for the re-establishment of the ancient regime. they meet with a damsel, apparently a nun in her noviciate, who will be best described in the words of the author.

arms and taper fingers very busily employed in repairing the piece of tapestry which was spread on it, which exhibited several deplorable fissures, enough to demand the utmost skill of the most expert seamstress.

"But Roland's eyes found better employment than to make observations on the accommodations of the chamber; for this second female inhabitant of the mansion seemed something very different from any thing he had yet seen there. At his first entry, she had greeted with a silent and low obeisance the two aged matrons, then glancing her eyes towards Roland, she adjusted a veil which hung back over her shoulders, so as to bring it over her face; an operation which she performed with much modesty, but without either affected haste or embarrassed timidity.

"During this manœuvre Roland had time to observe, that the face was that of a girl not much past sixteen apparently, and that the eyes were at once soft and brilliant. To these very favourable observations was added the certainty, that the fair object to whom they referred possessed an excellent shape, bordering perhaps on embonpoint, and therefore rather that of a Hebe than of a Sylph, but beautifully formed, and shown to great advantage by the close jacket and petticoat, which she wore after a foreign fashion, the last not quite long enough absolutely to conceal a very pretty foot, which rested on a bar of the table at which she sate; her round

"It is to be remarked, that it was by stolen glances that Roland Græme contrived to ascertain these interesting particulars; and he thought he could once or twice, notwithstanding the texture of the veil, detect the damsel in the act of taking similar cognizance of his own person. The matrons in the meanwhile continued their separate conversation, eyeing from time to time the young people, in a manner which left Roland in no doubt that they were the subject of their conversation. At length he distinctly heard Magdalen Græme say these words: Nay, my sister, we must give them opportunity to speak together, and to become acquainted; they must be personally known to each other, or how shall they be able to execute what they are entrusted with?'

It seemed as if the matron, not fully satisfied with her friend's reasoning, conti.. nued to offer some objections; but they were borne down by her more dictatorial friend.

Here other.'


"It must be so,' she said, my dear sister; let us therefore go forth on the balcony, to finish our conversation.—And do you,' she said, addressing Roland and the girl, become acquainted with each

"With this she stepped up to the young woman, and, raising her veil, discovered features which, whatever might be their ordinary complexion, were now covered with a universal blush.

"Licitum sit,' said Magdalen, looking

at the other matron.

"Vix licitum,' replied the other, with reluctant and hesitating acquiescence; and again adjusting the veil of the blushing girl, she dropped it so as to shade, though not to conceal her countenance, and whispered to her, in a tone loud enough for the page to hear, Remember, Catherine, who thou art, and for what destined.'

"The matron then retreated with Magdalen Græme through one of the casements of the apartment, that opened on a large broad balcony, which, with its ponderous balustrade, had once run along the whole south front of the building which faced to the brook, and formed a pleasant and commodious walk in the open air. It was now in some places deprived of the balustrade, in others broken and narrowed; but, ruin. ous as it was, could still be used as a pleasant promenade. Here then walked the two ancient dames, busied in their private conversation; yet not so much so, but what Roland could observe the matrons, as their thin forms darkened the casement in passing or repassing before it, dart a glance into the apartment, to see how matters were going on there." I. pp. 218–223.

to be affianced to the church, or abbey, as successor to the ever lamented Eustace. The abbey stood like a mourning bride, divested of its choicest ornaments, and dark with the gloomy forebodings which pervaded all its inhabitants. The pious and resolute Ambrosius seemed more like a partizan about to take the command of a forlorn hope, than a dignitary preparing with festal triumph to wed a wealthy abbacy. Forms, however, were to be observed. The magnificent hallelujahs burst from the organ, accompa nied with what ought to be " Glad voices uttering praise;" but, alas, "Small heart had they to sing," and, in the midst of these solemn rites, they were insulted by the entrance of the Lord of Misrule, a wight so called, who, acting the principal part in a burlesque interlude, was accompanied by all the new Protestants in the adjoining village. These now turned the arms of the Church of Rome a gainst itself. These interludes, in the practice of which the clergy indulged the people, as a kind of counterbalance to the fasts and penances which the Church exacted, had long worn an aspect of scarce concealed hostility to the authorities by which they were permitted. And now, with all the freedom, and all the acrimony of the new regime, these discharged the shafts of undisguised satire at the falling Church. The subject of this mummery was a parody on the election, performed by a mock abbot, &c. &c. There is, indeed, "something too much of this." Gross and boisterous merriment may, by its very noise and bustle, excite a transient sympathy in those who despise it, while they are hurried round in its vortex; but gaiety, to please long in description, must be light and graceful. Not the Abbot himself could be much more relieved than we were, by the opportune arrival of Sir Halbert Glendinning, the holly on whose helmet operated like an olive branch on the followers of the Abbot of Misrule, who, stripped of his canonicals, appeared to be no other than honest Adam Woodcock, the master of the hawks, who, having before evinced a kind of generous remorse for being the involuntary means of Roland Græme's expulsion from the Castle, had since showed him much kindness. Sir Halbert, questioning the Page on his absence from the Castle, receives

Catherine seems universally hailed as a new character, and new she certainly is on this author's theatre. To say that Shakespeare's Beatrice is equally light-hearted, determined in spirit, fearless and unmerciful in the exercise of her wit, and inflexibly faithful, as well as generous in her friendship, does by no means infer that Catherine is a younger sister of the same family, though the dear love of diminishing due praise may lead petty critics to exult in the resemblance. Of the thousands of sprightly young women, whose wit is rendered more poignant, by the consciousness of beauty and the wantonness of power, not one will be found exactly to resemble another. Yet not one can be described without suggesting the recollection of some leading feature of the others.

It is not the business of him who paints from real life to forsake nature, in search of originality, as some of the wonder-mongers in this monsterbreeding age have done. (Vide Godwin, Shelly, and a long etcætera.) There is infinitely more power of delineation-more accuracy of judgment and more nicety of taste, displayed in preserving the specific distinctions between characters appearing similar to the vulgar eye, than in drawing a new portrait, without particular resemblance to any one.

Thus much we have premised, in regard to our favourite Catherine, because she not only acts a considerable, but very consistent part, all along. Gladly should we apply the same observation to all the characters, if we could do it with equal justice; but more of this anon. We cannot spare room for the innocent gaiety, and extempore playfulness, which bursts, as it were, spontaneously from the young people when they are left together for the grave purpose of getting acquainted with each other, that they may occasionally unite their efforts in carrying on some grand scheme, as yet undisclosed to them,-the finale of which may show them to the world as confessors or martyrs, if unsuccessful.

The Abbess and the enthusiastic Magdalen agree to meet in Edinburgh, to which the former immediately proceeds with Catherine; while the latter, with her grandson, goes to consult the Abbot of Kennaquhair. On the way, she finds the reverend father preparing, in the Catholic phrase,

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