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of novelty is found to interest the reader, with the following example of which we shall conclude this critique :

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"In the Basque Provinces and Navarre the women play a very active and influential part. They may be seen engaged in field operations, digging as sturdily as men, bearing the harvest home in heavy burdens, or carrying it to market; again, managing boats on the rivers with surprising strength and dexterity, or driving provision or ammunition carts under a cannonade with a degree of equanimity that indicates a long familiarity with the perils of civil warfare. They do not indeed carry arms, but they know the use of them right well, and are not at all put out of their way by the introduction of such furniture into their kitchens and chambers, or the necessity of receiving a company' (sixty men), night after night, who strew every room in the house with muskets, bayonets, and cananas, and leave them not room enough to whip their cat. When Espartero's troops lately came plundering along the rich vale of Azua, some half-dozen Christinos, who ventured into a casario a little in advance, found only the good wife at home, who, pretending to be very much alarmed, did not cause them much concern in return. On a sudden she ran out, locked them up, summoned assistance, and, returning ere they could find means to escape, took them all prisoners.

"I saw another, whose cow had strayed on the road side near the church of Bogona, during Villareal's siege of Bilboa, and who fearlessly went to drive it back. The Urbanos in the church tower deliberately fired, and shot her down. She lived, however, was carried to the hospital at Derio, despite the continued efforts of the sharp-shooters, and, to the surprise of many, recovered from the effect of the ball which passed right through her body. That shot has done the Christinos no good. She will remember to them!' So will all her kith and kin to the fifteenth remove, in the mountains of Asturias and Catalonia. Spaniards, male and female, have excellent memories for such matters.

"Exposure to sun and air, without any shade to their features, gives all the elderly female peasants the appearance of being one flesh with the male, both being thoroughly tanned; but the younger ones, who are not so much exposed, present occasionally complexions of a ruddy bloom, that would attract admiration even in England; features finely chiselled, of a singular nobleness and delicacy (especially in that wild valley, encircled by leagues of mountains, containing Ascoytia, Aspetia, and the splendid church of Loyala), with dark eyes of a power rarely to be found in our northern latitudes, and which appear to owe much of their singular force to the contrast afforded by the habitual repose of the other features. In some countenances, this strange diversity of expression produces an effect more startling than agreeable. The lower part of the face may be fixed and pallid; in short, half dead; while the eyes are mobile and brilliant, as if something more than alive! I cannot explain the cause, not understanding the physiology of the matter. However, the Basque sculptors and carvers study the effect to good purpose, and all their churches present their Madonna and the favourite Santa of the place as veritable Basque beauties of the highest grade; the pouting lips (which, when they do smile, present a copia of graceful meanings with a varying of expression that must be seen to be appreciated) forming the most distinctive characteristic."

The City of the Sultan; and Domestic Manners of the Turks in 1836. By MISS PARdoe.

THE name of this lady is rising rapidly into fame and favour. Her "Traits and Traditions of Portugal" was a work of much promise, evincing the powers of an acute observer, and an elegant writer employed in the delineation of Portuguese scenery, characters, and customs, in a manner perfectly original and at

the same time highly entertaining. The "City of the Sultan" has completely justified the expectation formed of Miss Pardoe's peculiar talents and genius for this species of literature, and such interior views of Turkish manners are now for the first time disclosed as only a female could possibly have had the opportunity of beholding, and which only a female genius could with such competent force and yet such perfect delicacy of colouring have drawn. As these volumes have already furnished rich materials for the columns of our daily journals, and as such selections have of course been chiefly made with the view of gratifying popular curiosity, we shall transfer to our more permanent pages a scene of deeper interest than the Harem or the Bath-and enrich them with a poetical gem to which that scene gave birth, and which in our estimation entitles the authoress to a high rank among the female votaries of Apollo, who grace the dawn of a female sovereign's reign.

"I remember nothing more beautiful," says the authoress, "than the aspect of the burying-ground of Scutari, from the road which winds in the front of the Summer palace of the princess Haybe'toullah. The crest of the hill is one dense mass of dark foliage, while the slope is only partially clothed with trees, that advance and recede in the most graceful curves; and the contrast of the deep dusky green of the cypresses, and the soft bright tint of the young fresh grass in the open spaces between them, produces an effect almost magical, and which strikes you to be more the result of art than accident, until you convince yourself, by looking around you, that it is to its extent alone that this noble cemetery owes its gloom, for its site is eminently picturesque and beautiful. On one side an open plain separates it from the channel; on the other it is bounded by a height clothed with vines and almond trees-the houses of Scutari touch upon its border, and even mingle with its graves in the rear, while before it spreads a wide extent of cultivated land dotted with habitations.

"Need I add that the Nekropolis of Scutari, such as I have described it, has also its local superstition? Surely not; and the idea is so wild, and withal so imaginative, that I cannot pass it by without record.

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Along the channel may be constantly seen clouds of aquatic birds of dusky plumage, speeding their rapid flight from the Euxine to the Propontis, or bending their restless course from thence back again to the Black Sea, never pausing for a moment to rest their weary wings on the fair green spots of earth that woo them on every side; and it is only when a storm takes place in the Sea of Marmora, or sweeps over the bosom of the Bosphorus, that they fly shrieking to the cypress forest of Scutari for shelter; and these the Turks believe to be the souls of the damned, who have found sepulchre beneath its boughs, and which are permitted, during a period of elementary commotion, to revisit the spot where their mortal bodies moulder; and there mourn together over the crimes and judgment of their misspent existence upon earth-while, during the gentler seasons, they are compelled to pass incessantly within sight of the localities they loved in life, without the privilege of pausing even for one instant in the charmed flight to which they are condemned for all eternity.

"My mind was full of this legend when I visited the cemetery-and I can offer no better apology for the wild verses that I strung together as I sat upon a fallen column in one of the gloomiest nooks of the forest, and amid the noonday twilight of the thick branches, while my companions wandered away among the graves.

THE DAMNED Souls.

Hark! 'tis a night when the storm-god rides
In triumph o'er the deep;

And the howling voice of the tempest chides
The spirits that fain would sleep :

SEPT. 1837.

X

When the clouds, like a sable-bannered host,
Crowd the dense and lurid sky;

And the ship and her crew are in darkness lost,
As the blast roars rushing by.

Voices are heard which summon men
To a dark and nameless doom;
And spirits, beyond a mortal's ken,
Are wandering through the gloom;
While the thunders leap from steep to steep,
And the yellow lightnings flash,
And the rocks reply to the riot on high,
As the wild waves o'er them dash.

And we are here, in this night of fear,

Urged by a potent spell,

Haunting the glade where our bones are laid,

Our tale of crime to tell.

We have hither come through the midnight gloom,

As the tempest about us rolls,

To spread, 'mid the graves where the rank grass waves, The feast of the Damned Souls.

Some have flown from the deep sea-caves

Which the storm-won treasures hold;

And these are they who through life were slaves
To the sordid love of gold;

No other light e'er meets their sight,

Save the gleam of the yellow ore;

And loathe they there, in their dark despair,
What they idolized before.

They have swept o'er the rude and rushing tide,
Bestrown with wreck and spoil,

Where the shrieking seaman writhed and died
'Mid his unavailing toil;

And they rode the wave, without power to save
The wretch as he floated by;

And sighed to think, as they saw him sink,
What a boon it was to die.

Some were cast from the burning womb,
Whence the lava-floods have birth;

From fires which wither, but ne'er consume
The rejected one of earth ;-

And these are they who were once the prey
Of the thirst that madmen know,

When the world for them is the diadem,
That burns into the brow.

They who crouch in the deepest gloom
Where no lightning-flash can dart,

Who, chained in couples, have hither come,

And can never be rent apart;

These are they whose life was a scene of strife,

And who learnt, alas! too late

That the years flew fast which they each had cast
On the altar of their hate.

But, hark! through the forest there sweeps a wail
More wild than the tempest blast,
As each commences the darkling tale
Of the stern and shadowy past-

And the spell that has power, in this dread hour,
No pang of ours controls;

Nor may mortal dare in the watch to share,

That is kept by the Damnëd Souls!”

FICTION.

The Bivouac. By W. H. MAXWELL, Author of "Stories of
Waterloo," &c. 3 vols.

Bentley.

MR. Maxwell's reputation was so firmly established by his former productions, that the announcement of a new work from his talented pen could not fail to create a considerable sensation in the literary world. No quackish means were resorted to, to ensure these volumes a welcome reception; and in making this remark, we feel ourselves in duty bound to compliment the spirited publisher who, confident of the success of a good book, did not think it worth while to endeavour to persuade the public of the fact by ridiculous notices. "The Bivouac" appeared, and, as we had anticipated, was favourably received. It is a book of no ordinary merit; and however beaten may be the track chosen by the author-however blazé the public may be of novels and tales teeming with nothing but "moving accidents by flood and field"--we still perceive an infinite degree of novelty in the work under notice. The writing is pleasant and easy; the numerous anecdotes related by the officers at the mess-table are perhaps told with a little too much familiarity, and consequently are not sufficiently dignified for the episodes of a novel, but partake more of the listless method of oral discourse : the whole is nevertheless a spirited compilation, rather than a continuous narrative, of warlike achievements, instances of courage, and camp-reminiscences.

Works of this species are as instructive as they are amusing, when the historical fact is not too much disfigured by the colouring of fiction. Mr. Maxwell has done much to celebrate the achievements of British arms, and characterize the English soldier with a certain dignity already possessed by the French and Prussian. His writings have not only been recognised as established favourites amongst a certain class of readers, but have also maintained a permanent place in the libraries of every species of literary amateurs. "The Bivouac" will be found a valuable addition to that collection.

Our limits prevent us from making elaborate extracts: but the following brief anecdote may serve as an illustration of the general style of the work :"An instance of French confidence occurred yesterday, after we had debouched by Vera,' observed one of the lieutenants. I was with a section of the company in advance of the rest, when, on turning a sudden angle of the road, we perceived, not twenty yards off, a wounded voltigeur extended on the ground, and a young comrade supporting him. The Frenchman never attempted to retreat, but smiled when we came up, as if he had been expecting us. 'Good morning,' he said; I have been waiting for you, gentlemen. My poor friend's leg is broken by a shot, and I could not leave him till you arrived, lest some of these Portuguese brigands should murder him. Pierre,' he continued, as he addressed his companion-here are the brave English, and you will be taken care of. I will leave you a flask of water, and you will soon be succoured by our noble enemy. Gentlemen, you will honour me by emptying this canteen. You will find it excellent for I took it from a portly friar two days ago.' There was no need to repeat the invitation. I set the example, the canteen passed from mouth to mouth, and the monk's brandy vanished. The conscript-for he had not joined above a month-replenished the flask with water from a spring just by. He placed it in his comrade's hand, bade him an affectionate farewell, bowed gracefully to us, threw his musket over his shoulder, and trotted off to join his regiment, which he

pointed out upon a distant height. He seemed never for a moment to contemplate the possibility of our sending him in durance to the rear; and there were about him such confidence and kindness, that on our parts no one ever dreamed of detaining him."

In concluding this notice of "The Bivouac," which is much shorter than our inclination would have induced us to make it had our limits allowed us to be more elaborate, we cannot help expressing our hope that Mr. Maxwell will continue the literary career he has so well commenced, and that his next work may treat of other subjects besides the adventures and contingencies of war. Stokes-hill Place, or the Man of Business. A Novel, by the Author of "Mrs. Armytage," &c. 3 vols. 8vo. Colburn.

FEW modern authors have been more over-rated than Mrs. Charles Gore. It was fortunate for her that Mr. Colburn again entered into the publishing world, otherwise her name would in all probability have never again appeared on the title-page of a three-volumed novel. The weekly publications have paid their due tribute of fulsome praise to the last work which emanated from the pen of this lady, and which has occasioned these remarks. We are really astonished that respectable journals should prostitute their powers of criticism to bestow on a trashy book such unjust adulation and undeserved praise. Had the authoress of a "Diary of a Desennuyée,” been an obscure individual, that book would have been reviled when it was first published, and its writer branded as a scandalous and mischief-making person. But Mrs. Gore was the fabricator of that precious compilation of ridiculous chit-chat, scandal, and defamation, only worthy to be exhibited at the "tea-table of some tabby." At the same time was published "Mrs. Armytage, or Female Domination," a work without interest, incident, or even good writing to recommend it. A year has scarcely elapsed, when this voluminously bad writer inflicts another book upon the public, bearing the pleasant title of "Stokes-hill Place, or the Man of Business." As in all the other compositions of Mrs. Charles Gore, it is easy to detect the haste in which it was written; and its paucity of incident, trifling details of the most uninteresting events, elaborate attempts at description, and interminable conversations, will immediately condemn it to the "family vault of all the Capulets." Novels ought to be written to amuse the reader, not to fatigue him with a somniferous sameness and want of anecdote that effectually close his eyes in slumber ere he can wade through the third chapter.

It is a source of considerable grief to us, to be obliged thus to criticise the works of a lady-a lady no less eminent for the amiability of her manners than the attractions of her person. But a severe duty is imposed upon us; and, as impartial reviewers, we cannot refrain from differing with our contemporaries in the opinions they entertain of Mrs. Gore's works. We appeal to our readers-we will abide by their decision-and we will ask them whether they ever regretted the moment when they were obliged to lay aside one of Mrs. Gore's volumes for a few hours, and whether they were very anxious to resume the perusal ?

The character of Barnsley, an attorney's clerk, is far from original. He pursues a career of mingled prosperity and adversity-is led into ruinous speculations by his own fault (an uncommon trait in the life of such individuals)—and is driven to the perpetration of a capital crime, the consequences of which he evades by self-destruction. His adventures at the election are as poorly told as they are badly conceived; and the strange combination of passions and feelings of which the whole character is concocted, is an unnatural and impossible jumble of the ambitious and the avaricious, the proud, the meddling, the conceited, the selfish, and the imprudent! This ridiculous picture is somewhat relieved by a bright ray which the feeble talent of the authoress was nevertheless enabled to shed over her design. We allude to

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