peal was not unreasonable; and so, calling together his officers in council, he asked them what he should do, in order to send all the christians to Spain without incurring the risk of any sinister event, in case their numbers should give them courage to rise against their captors.

Some were of opinion that he should make them pass one by one into his ship, and that as each one went below deck, they should dispatch him, and thus put them all to death; and so the great ship might be carried safe to London without any fear or anxiety.

To this Ricaredo made answer :"Since God has vouchsafed us so great a mercy in giving us so rich a prize, I will not requite it with a cruel and ungrateful spirit; nor is it good that what I can manage by prudence, I should execute by the sword. And so, I am of opinion, that none of these catholic christians should die ;-not that I like them at all; but that I like myself very well, and would fain that this day's achievement should not, either to myself, or to you my companions in it, give, mingled with the renown of valour, the reputation of cruelty; for never did cruelty add grace to valour. What must be done is this:- All the guns of one of our vessels must be removed into the great Portuguese ship, leaving in that vessel, neither arms, nor anything else but the provisions; then, manning the great ship with our own people, we will carry her to England, and the Spaniards shall go to Spain."

No one dared to contradict Ricaredo's proposal; and some thought that it shewed his bravery, magnanimity, and good sense; while others set him down in their hearts for being no better a protestant than he should be.

Ricaredo, then, having taken this resolution, went on board the Portuguese ship with fifty musketeers, all with their matches lighted, and their pieces ready to fire. He found in the ship three hundred individuals surviving, of those who had escaped from the galleys. He first of all asked for the ship's papers; when the same man who had before spoken to him over the ship's side, answered him, that the commander of the Corsair vessels had taken them, and so they had gone to the bottom along with them. He instantly put the helm in order; and bringing his second vessel alongside the great ship, with wonderful celerity, and by the force of capstans of very great strength, they removed the guns out of the small English vessel into the large Portuguese one.

Then making a brief address to the christians, he ordered them to remove into the lightened vessel, where they found provisions enough to last them abundantly for a month and more; and while they were changing vessels, he gave each of them four Spanish gold escudos, which money he had ordered to be brought from his own vessel, in order in some degree to relieve their necessities when they should reach land-which was so near, that the lofty summits of Calpe and Abyla were plainly discernible. They all returned him infinite thanks for the kindness he was doing them. The last of all that was going to pass from the one ship to the other, was the man who had spoken for the rest; and he now said to Ricaredo :—

"I should deem it more fortunate for me, brave sir, that you should carry me with you to England, than that you should send me to Spain; for, although Spain is my native land, and it is but six days since I quitted it; there is nothing for me to find in it that will not remind me of my sadness and my solitude. You must know, sir, that in the loss of Cadiz, which happened some eight years ago, I lost a daughter, whom the English must have carried to England; and in her I lost the comfort of my age, and the delight of my eyes, which, since they ceased to behold her, have looked with pleasure upon nothing else. The great unhappiness in which I was left by her loss and that of my property, which was also taken, reduced me to such a state that I had neither wish nor means to embark again in commerce, my practise of which had gained me the repute of being the wealthiest merchant in the whole city. And so I was; for, besides my credits, which amounted to many hundreds of thousands of escudos, the property actually in my house was worth above fifty thousand ducats. I lost it all-and yet the loss would have been nothing, had I not lost my daughter. After that public, and my individual misfortune, necessity beset me to such a degree that, unable any longer to resist it, myself and my wife, who is that sorrowful creature whom you see there sitting, resolved to go to the Indies, the common refuge of the independentspirited poor. Having embarked six days ago in a packet-ship, in coming out of Cadiz we fell in with those two Corsair vessels, which captured us; and so our misery was renewed, and our ill-fortune made complete- which yet would have been still greater had not the Corsairs

taken that Portuguese ship, which found them occupation until what you know has just now befallen them."

Ricaredo asked him what was his daughter's name; and he answered, that it was Isabel.

This convinced Ricaredo of that which he had already suspected that the man who had been relating his fortunes, was the father of his beloved Isabella. So, without giving him any news of her, he told him that he would very willingly take himself and his wife along with him to London; where, perhaps, they might get some intelligence of her whom they desired to find. Then he made them go on board his flag-ship, and furnished the Portuguese prize with seamen, and a sufficient guard.

That night they hoisted sail, and made all haste to steer away from the Spanish coast, on account of the vessel containing the liberated captives; amongst whom also were twenty Turks, to whom Ricaredo had likewise given their liberty, in order to shew that it was rather owing to his kind temper and liberal spirit than from partiality to catholics, that he acted with that generosity: he had requested the Spaniards to set the Turks at full liberty, the first opportunity that should offer; for which request the Turks, in their turn, testified their gratitude.

The wind, which had promised to be favourable and sufficiently strong, began for a little while to subside; which approaching calm raised a storm of apprehension in the breasts of the English, who now blamed Ricaredo and his generosity, telling him that the liberated captives might give information in Spain of this event, and that if there happened to be galleons of war in port, they might come out and give them chase, and might even press them so hard as to put them in imminent danger of being lost or taken.

A WORD IN FAVOUR OF NOVELS.

MUCH has been said and written, pro and con, about the good or evil tendency of novels: and the most they appear to have gained by these discussions of their merits, is the being tolerated as necessary evils, or the faint praise of being possibly productive of good. But as novels will be read as long as they continue to be amusing, we have endeavoured to find some arguments in their favour, and as their friend, will take the liberty of throwing out a few hints for the consideration, not only of those who read and those who write them, but also of those who deprecate their influence, and can see no merit in anything not invested with the solemnity of plain matter of fact, or the pomp of dry disquisition.

The truth of the proposition, “History is philosophy teaching by example," has been denied; but, we think, with little appearance of reason. What is philosophy, and what is history? The first is the science which teaches us how to regulate our conduct, and how to discipline our minds, in order to enjoy the greatest possible degree of temporal happiness. The second portrays the lives of other men, exhibits their temptations, their yielding weakness or their bold resistance, and teaches us to avoid their errors, or to imitate their virtues ; and thus, by means of the reflections it suggests, fixes indelibly upon the mind those principles of philosophy, of the truth and advantages of which mere written reasoning would never perhaps have convinced us. For what is all our reasoning worth, unless there are examples to which we can appeal to test its correctness! And where can we find examples, of the consequences of which we can accurately judge, at the same time that we are inspecting them, if not in history? Not in the world around us; for the judgments of very few on what is passing, then will be found to be impartial or correct. Not in reviewing

the characters and actions of distinguished individuals of our own, or even of the preceding age; for exaggeration and detraction will not suffer us to see them as they are. It is to history, then, that we must apply-to those relations of actions and events, and their consequences, which time and frequent discussion have stamped with the impress of truth.

Although we have here contended for,

and firmly believe, the correctness of the proposition above quoted, yet we are far from believing that history supplies all the examples that are wanting. To the embryo statesman and warrior, it perhaps affords all that are necessary; but those who are, and intend to remain, contented with a humbler station, need subjects for their reflection of a less pretending, but, to them, equally important nature. The historian has selected the strongest lights and shades of human character for the admiration or detestation of his readers. The conductors of enterprises, whose success or failure inIvolved the interests of a world-the tyrants, who, lost to all feelings of humanity, have triumphed and rioted in the blood of thousands for a while, in order that there downfalls might present a more remarkable contrast-the philanthropists, who, incited by the desire of effecting some great universal good, have had no leisure to aid in the cultivation and dissemination of the more private and less ostentatious virtues are those on whose biographies he delights to expatiate as pregnant with instruction for all who desire to be like them. The adventures and conduct of the legitimate monarch or the ambitious usurper-of the warrior, nobly sacrificing his life for the benefit or glory of his country, or seeking his own aggrandizement under the mask of patriotism-of the minister of state, exhausting the energies of a gigantic and upright mind in devising plans for the lasting benefit of his fellow citizens, or basely waiting for an opportunity to win the price of treachery have filled his pages; while he has left unrecorded the simple, but interesting and instructive incidents, which hourly occurring in the walks of private life.

are

From whom, then, are we "everyday people" to learn? Are we to draw a moral from the lives of those whom the historian has been contented with describing, and apply it to our own situations and circumstances? Are we not to seek for the honourable office of mayor of this goodly city, because Dionysius, Nero, and others, became intoxicated with power, and abused the privilege of being great? Are we not to become generals, colonels, or even captains, because Alexander and Napoleon subdued, one the whole, and the other the half of the world? Or, to be more sedate, if not more serious, are not the narratives of those who have moved in a humbler sphere capable of affording us the examples which are necessary to

excite and direct our emulation, or to teach us how we may avoid the rocks on which better ships have split? Are there not those to be found in many domestic circles, who have resisted temptation, and held on to their integrity better than he who "thrice refused a kingly crown?" Are there not those to be found there, who have been the fountains from which have flowed neverfailing streams of benevolence and social love? And are there not, alas! those to be found there who have broken every law, human and divine, whose consequent anguish and remorse are more powerful to deter from the perpetration of like enormities than all the reverses and bloody deaths of ambitious tyrants? But who shall dare to lift the veil, and reveal to the world the virtues of the private benefactor—or wound the feelings of the innocent, by exposing the crimes of a reckless and dissolute relative? who would do either, would deserve and receive the execrations of all capable of appreciating the excellence of goodness, or the holiness of family affection.

He

How then are we to be benefited by the examples of uprightness or depravity to be found in private life? Are they to be lost to us for want of a chronicler, or because we fear to violate the sanctity of the domestic circle? No! the novelist must be their chronicler, and he can perform the duty without betraying confidence or making the good ashamed. It is his province, aided by his free imagination and prolific pen, to portray scenes and characters that may have existed, and to form, from the remarkable incidents in various lives, an individual character which cannot be ascribed to any, because it resembles no single one; but, like the Venus of the sculptor, unites the graces of many: or to select from the mass of human depravity such details as may suit his purpose, and describe them as the acts of a personage of his own creation. It is also his province to exhibit the simple elegancies of retired life to shew how, when removed from the toil and turmoil of the world, and placed beyond the real wants and restless desires which erase one half of it, the heart has leisure to expand, and finds its highest enjoyments in the exercise of its best affections; or, on the other hand, to delineate the scheming man of the world, crushing those feelings in himself and in all around him, and sealing the unhappiness of his daughters and degrading his sons, for the lucre of place or power. It is also his province to display the virtues and the vices of those

whose portion is poverty-to depict the steadfast uprightness and uncompromising integrity of the poor, uneducated, but conscientious family-their trials, afflictions, and triumphs; and to contrast them with those in their own station, who, acknowledging no law but their own unrestrained passions, have committed crime upon crime, until they met a fearful end.

In short, it is his to shew, that vice, in its absolute and inevitable deprivation of those enjoyments which virtue alone can confer, is its own punishment: thus teaching us to be contented with competence, and those domestic sources of happiness the Creator has bestowed upon all, and not to barter for wealth-bought honours or for the world's applause, which gladdens but for a moment and remains not with us, that which is our own, and which none but He who gave can take away.

Such is the novelist's privilege as well as province, and so long as he exceeds not the bounds of possibility, it is no matter whether the characteristics he ascribes to his imaginary creations, have been copied from one or a thousand individuals, the picture presented to our view is equally instructive. If he has represented a degree of perfection, which our inspection of human nature has never revealed to us, we certainly should not, therefore, relax in our endeavours to approach it. If he has exhibited an aggregate of depravity, that exceeds anything it has ever been our lot to meet, vice is not thereby made more inviting. And if he has occasionally omitted to deal out "poetical justice" to all; but has chosen rather to picture the loveliness of repentance, and to consider its tears and groans of anguish worthy of a temporal reward, let us not blame him; but remember that repentance, when sincere, is the worst of punishments.

Shall we add that in describing his province, we have also described his duty? We fear that by so doing, we might be accused of an assumption of the authority of the established critic. But this we may safely add, that the novelist, who disregarding the opportunity afforded him to convey instruction to his readers, has contented himself with catering for their amusement, and merely described extraordinary characters and events for the qualifications of a vitiated taste, should be classed with the historian, who, biassed by a political prejudice, or from a base subservience to those in power, has compiled a tissue of misrepresentations. The productions

COLERIDGE.

In a lecture delivered upwards of twenty years ago, at some hall in Fetter-lane, he divided readers into four classes. The first he compared to an hour-glass, their reading being as the sand-it runs in and out, and leaves not a vestige behind. A second class, he said, resembled a sponge-which imbibes every thing, and returns it in nearly the same state, only a little dirtier. A third class he likened to a jelly-bag-which allows all that is pure to pass away, and retains only the refuse and the dregs. The fourth class, of which he trusted there were many among his auditors, he compared to the slaves in the diamond-mines of Golconda, who, casting aside all that is worthless, preserve only the pure gem.

ONE raw cold morning in the winter of 1829, I mounted the cabriolet of one of the diligences that journeys between Calais and Paris; I found an Englishman seated there, with a copy of the "Traveller's Guide" open in his hand, ready to commence a comparison of the roads as we jogged along, with the description in his volume: being rather of a free disposition, I soon drew the Englishman out, and we quickly became good friends. During the day nothing passed that could be called extraordinary -but many notes were taken by my travelling companion every time that the changing of horses gave our bones a little repose. At six o'clock in the evening we dined at Montreuil, where we made the acquaintance of an Irishman who was an inside passenger. After we had finished our coffee and tossed off a small glass of brandy furnished to each guest, the Irishman called me aside and

said, "that being an outside passenger I should have an opportunity of observing if any harm happened to us during the night, and if so, call out for Patrick O'Hara, who was provided for all comers." "Never having dreamed of accidents of the nature alluded to, in this well frequented road, I was astonished at the remark, but of course thanked him for his attention, and clambered up to the cabriolet burdened with cloaks and great coats.

The horses were soon harnessed; thwack, thwack, went the whip; jingle, jingle, went the bells; the postilion vaulted into his seat, and off we jolted. The night was cold and dismal; not a star was to be seen, the lamps of the diligence gave little or no light, and the fog was so dense that we could not see how many horses were in the vehicle; but notwithstanding the uncomfortable appearance of the evening we were far from being uneasy; a good dinner had put us into admirable humour, and a bottle found its way, notwithstanding the fog, to our chilly lips, from which we tasted