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lamentations and animated talking from that quarter; yea, drawing nearer, we could distinguish German sounds, which induced us to stand and listen what was to be confided to an Italian evening sky in tones to us so familiar.

“Don't weep, don't weep,-my dear friend,' said a lovely voice, which vibrated but too sensibly in Lindan's heart. 'I tell you I am now all your own again, as the song has it; do you remember it? I once refused to sing it to you, but I now sing it in my dreams, and when I am awake—'—Then suddenly interrupting her own song, she whispered, The Frenchman is not near us, I hope-he cannot be here, you know I dread his gibes, but love you nevertheless as warmly as ever. Do bear with me patient ly!'

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"Lindan threw himself into my arms with great emotion. She is here!' ejaculated he; she speaks to me, she still loves me! Oh come, come, I'll surprise her with my presence.' Drawing nearer, perceived Violante embracing the stem of a pine-tree, and bathing it with her tears. 'Do not give to the tree what belongs to me, my sweet angel,' said Lindan, his voice softening with melancholy joy; it comprehends thee not; the rustling of its branches is its only answer; here a true heart speaks to thee through faithful lips.'

"Violante raised herself with an extraordinary degree of embarassment in her manner. She soon, however, recovered her composure, and came to meet us with all the airs of the gay and the fashionable; she addressed us as strangers, in the French language, and spoke to us on the common topics of court conversation. Violante, what ails thee?' exclaimed Lindan, in German. 'He whom thou seekest is here,-the Frenchman is far off."

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"Non, monsieur,' said she, in a timid voice; non, monsieur le chevalier, croyez moi, je vous le dis franchement, jamais je ne serais à vous'; and hurrying back to the pinetree, she embraced it, whispering tenderly, 'Deliver me from his persecutions, my dear German friend. He is so troublesome, and I cannot

get rid of him. He must shun thy valiant arm-make him begone!'

"The evening breeze now shook the foliage of the pine-tree, 'Entendez Vous ce qu'il dit, monsieur?" _resumed Violante; je vous prie de vous ménager, et de vous retirer, celà vous fera du bien.'

"Alas! what I had anticipated proved but too true. Her accomplished mind was deranged, and continued so in spite of all endeavours to cure it. When Lindan tried to approach her, she flew from him with loud screams; but though she never could be allured into the house, she never passed the boundary of the grounds. Whenever she was prevailed upon to answer my friend, she always did so in the French language,-made use of the choicest phrases, and continued in the melancholy illusion that she was speaking to the chevalier; she, on the other hand, lavished the sweetest caresses on trees, shrubs, and statues, mistaking each of these objects for the ardently wished-for Lindan.

"My poor friend allowed his deep distress to prey upon his vitals, and the rapid decay of his strength proved his only comfort for the insurmountable separation from a mistress who lived under his eye, and continued to love him with the tenderest affection. He caused a tomb to be constructed for Violante and himself; Here, at least, we shall find rest together!' exclaimed he, looking at the finished edifice, and consecrating it with a plenteous offering of pious tears. Violante one day finding him alone in this place, shewed less timidity; she even began to talk German to him, and said at last, If you would not think me mad, my dear sir, I could almost feel inclined to tell you that you remind me of my dear, oh, so-much-beloved Lindan. A ray of hope glimmered in his soul; but dark distraction suddenly spreading its infatuating wings over her poor mind again, she flew from him, uttering a scream of terror. This same thing has often happened since; and Lindan spends whole days near the tomb, in order to catch on this spot, which the approaching sacrifice seems to have hallowed, the few bright moments which flash through Violante's mind.

"Called to Germany on business of importance, I took leave of him, as if for ever. Poor Violante will have found rest long ere my return. Already her tender spirit strove painfully to free itself of its earthly bonds, and to fly to where eternal truth and love for ever reign."

Bernwald ceased, and a melan

choly silence prevailed throughout the company, when something was heard rustling against the window; the person nearest to it threw open the sash, and a beautiful white dove was seen looking in, and then directing its flight straight towards

heaven.

GASTON DE BLONDEVILLE

THE appearance of a work from the pen of a first-rate author is, in these literary days, a matter of no small interest; but when the production issues, as it were, from the grave, when we know that the hand whose efforts for our instruction and entertainment we are now, and for the first time, enjoying, has long since been mouldering in the dust, we are filled, not merely with the usual glow of gratitude, which every pleasing composition ought to excite in us towards its author, but with a reverential and mournful affection, for the departed soul who profits us even in death, by bequeathing to us a picture of itself in its most elevated moments. Mrs Radcliffe has long borne undisputed, and almost solitary sway, over the regions of romance; and the book we shall now refer to is certainly one of her own magical writing. If external evidence were needed to estab lish the latter position, it would find sufficient support in the intrinsic worth of the composition. Gaston de Blondeville, without being so diffuse as any of the other romances of Mrs Radcliffe, is at least equally powerful, passage for passage, with the best of them; and accordingly it is clear, that, on the whole, the power of the work, from its greater concentration, must be far more effective than that of the rest, how ever beautiful these may be, perhaps in respect of qualities which do not belong to the volumes under review. The Italian, which was the last work Mrs Radcliffe published before her death, showed her to be making rapid advances towards that style of composition, which, without giving

too much, yet leaves nothing to be desired. She, in that most appalling story, rejected the light poetry with which its predecessors had been so freely interspersed; and she, moreover, kept à stricter rein over her descriptive powers than she ever had done before. She avoided long particulars of rural scenery, and tedious trackings of the agitated mind, from one terrible or sorrowful imagination to another. She, in fact, left more to the fancy of the reader; and the consequence was naturally most favourable. We are in general better pleased with what we discover ourselves, than with any thing pointed out to us by others; and a skilful author will inake no scruple of administering to this human vanity as often as possible, by confining himself in a great measure to leading points, by which the mind of the reader is directed towards the lesser particulars of what is alluded to; and if these points are neither too few, nor too irregularly determined, he who reads is at once led to discover all the minutiæ, which the author, though he omitted them, never intended to conceal, and is at the same time cheated into the agreeable belief, that the greater part of his delight springs up in his own bosom, from sources hid even from the magic wand of the enchanter. The Italian is an eminent example of this consummate species of skill in romance-writing, and Gaston de Blondeville is another instance even still more striking. No extracts will here be given; for those who have read Mrs Radcliffe will at once give credence to any thing good of her; and those who have not, ought

Mrs Radcliffe's Gaston de Blondeville; or Henry the Third keeping Court at Ardennes. London. 1826.

to take their first view of her, in the awful' calm or tumult of her own wondrous pages, rather than amidst the petty bustle of a Magazine. To the romance, a series of good poems is appended; and there can be few persons of taste, who will not reoice at this innovation, on the author's former mode of publishing her

poetic effusions. As they are, they are most beautiful; but introduced in a tale, even though forcibly connected with it, they would have been ill-placed, and therefore ill-esteemed; which could not have occurred, without the greatest injustice having been done by some party or other, to their very superior merit.

B.

[The languor of this hot month will, we trust, be our apology, if it is necessary to offer one, for departing so far from our usual course, as to insert so short and detached anecdotes as the following:-]

ORIGINAL ANECDOTES OF LORD BYRON, &c.

Lord Byron. His Lordship was sometimes fond of indulging a malicious propensity of setting his friends at cross purposes. He, Rogers, and Moore, were members of a club, in which extravagant expenditure was frequently resorted to. Mr Rogers having latterly given up all connexion with the said club, in his capacity of friendly counsellor of Moore, he strongly advised him to do so likewise. The latter promised acquiescence as soon as some pecuniary matters betwixt him and the club should be arranged. In the meantime, at Mr R.'s further request, he promised not to attend a supper party of the club that evening: happening to meet Byron afterwards, his Lordship's superior influence prevailed, and secured Mr Moore's attendance, but upon the stipulation, that Rogers, (at whose table they were to dine the following afternoon previous to their going to Drury-Lane Theatre,) should not be informed of it. Mr Moore was punctual to the hour; not so his Lordship, who, instead, sent a card to Mr Rogers, stating, that "Moore and he had had such hard doings at the club last night, as must really plead his excuse of absence." Mr R. with some expression of chagrin, handed the card to Moore, who, in his turn, had no alternative but that of a candid explanation of all circumstances. Byron came, however, in his carriage in proper time to convey them to the theatre, and, in their way thither, Rogers and Moore read him such a lecture on his reckless conduct, that when the vehicle.

stopped at the walls of Drury, his Lordship instantly sprang out of it, and disappeared for the remainder of the evening.

Mutual Mystification.—A celebrated Orientalist, political economist, metaphysician, and divine, &c. member of a Provincial University in Scotland, being asked if he had read Mr Owen's plans for the improvement of society, replied, "Yes; he sent me a copy of his work." « And did you understand it?" "No, but there I am upsides with him, for I have sent him a copy of my Essay on the Trinity."

Meridian. The custom of taking a "meridian," otherwise a dram of ardent spirits in the forenoon, once too prevalent in Scotland, has now fortunately fallen into desuetude, or is at most confined to the labouring classes, if we except Glasgow and Forfar. There, among several members of the legal and mercantile professions, the odious habit is not yet abolished. Two worthy citizens of Glasgow, one Mr B——, a merchant, the other Mr M, a member of a banking establishment, were wont to meet, punctual as the sun-dial, to time and place, and drink their "meridian." But it was Mr M.'s peculiar hard fate, on his return, to be jibed by his sober companions of the counting-house. "Stolen waters are sweet:" and it was all to no purpose that Mr M. swore he had tasted nothing stronger than water all that blessed day; but his companions at the ledgers thought, like Falstaff's cronies, " O, villain! your lips are not yet wiped since last you drank,"

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Original Anecdotes of Lord Byron, &c.

and they said, "Pray turn your breath aside, Mr M., for it is quite pestilential.' His co-potator, Mr B., knew of this, and getting into pecuniary embarrassments, as all dram-drinking merchants sooner or later must, the following dialogue took place one morning soon after: Mr B. I have discovered a recipe for the smell of brandy.

?

Mr M. Have you, by Mr B. Indeed I have, Mr M., and it is at your service.

Mr M. You are an excellent fellow, by; I'll give you two gills when we meet this forenoon.

Mr B. Thanks; and perhaps you'll do me another favour. Mr M. Name it, only name it,

man!

Mr B. Why, it is only to use your influence with the good folks in your bank to get this bit of paper melted.

Mr M. Count it as done, my good fellow, count it as done, man!

(SCENE II. of this dramatic piece
occurs in a tavern, the time meri-

dian, and a gill of brandy on the
table.)

Mr B. Here's to your good health,
Mr M.

Mr M. Thanks to you, Mr B.; here's to your health, and there are the proceeds of your bill. Now, my good fellow, now for your preventative to the smell of the brandy.

Mr B. O, aye, (rings the bell, and enter waiter.) Waiter, bring me the thingumbob I told you of.

Mr M. By G-, B. it's a grand discovery; how the deuce, man, did it? (re-enter waiter you hit upon with another gill measure.)

It

Mr B. Here it is, Mr M.; just take a glass of this here rum. will, to a dead certainty, put away the smell of your brandy!

More Punning.-A wholesale grocer in Aberdeen, being lately employed in raising a barrel of sugar to an upper apartment in his premises, by means of a crane, or joist, in common parlance, a jeest, unluckily the machinery gave way, and the barrel, according to the laws of gravitation, bounded, with a facilis deA scensus, to its former station. young wine-merchant in the imme

VOL. XVIII,

705

diate neighbourhood, famed for wit
and pun, standing at the door of his
counting-house, eyeing the process,
now stepped forward to the scene,
and coolly exclaimed, "Well, I never
before knew so sudden a fall of sugar."
The owner, in no humour to relish
a joke, remarked, that the accident
was of no jesting nature, to which
the inveterate punster instantly re-
plied, "You have no great reason
to complain, since you must readily
admit, that, on the present occasion,
you were the first to crack a jest!

A way to do better.-The English commercial travellers have become almost proverbial for their love of gourmanderie, exemplified in their incessant talking of the qualities of inns, and rightly-cooked dishes. The late Mr L., well known in the commercial room, was so notorious in his liking of roast pig for dinner, that rather than push forward, on a journey, to expedite business, he has been known to prolong his stay at an inn for no better purpose than that of participating in the destruc tion of a whole choice litter.

In

after years, Mr L. got into such
sorry circumstances, as compelled
him sometimes to accept a dinner-in-
vitation, proffered in charity, from
individuals whom he had formerly
met on more equal terms. One of
those meeting Mr L. one morning,
"Come and
accosted him thus,
take pot-luck with me to-day, if you
cannot do better." Mr L. assented.
On being ushered, at the hour ap-
pointed, into the mansion of his
quondam friend, and seeing the din-
ner-table set for two only, with only
a single dish, consisting of a joint of
roast-mutton upon it, he instantly
retreated, saying, "Good afternoon,
Mr M.; I now see that I can do bet-
ter."

A Private Earthquake.-Commercial travellers, domiciled at inns, do not always make Sunday a day of rest, although the bag, the order-book, and other insignia of office, be safely stowed in some quiet corner, yet a heavy bill and an aching head on Monday, prove sad momentoes of the hard work in which their owners had been engaged. A rainy Sunday, in particular, is sure to benefit the landlord, by

4 U

making the "stout gentleman" a good customer. One Saturday lately, two cronies, an Englishman and a Scotchman, met at the inn of a northern burgh, and were so unsocial as to separate after breakfast on Sunday morning, with the view of spending the rest of the day among their respective friends in the place, and of avoiding the dinner-party in the commercial room. The Englishman returned to the inn about ten in the evening, and slipped up stairs quietly to his bed-room. The Scotchman followed his friend's example about eleven, but, during the night, he awoke, and found himself stuck fast betwixt his bed-side and the bed-room wall. With a bruised

arm, it cost him some labour to ex-
tricate himself from that position.
Sawney, however, resolved to be si-
lent about this affair, assured that
its recital would only provoke his
friend to exclaim, "Oh! you had
got too much of the Provost's wine
yesterday." But, somewhat to his
surprise, and greatly to his relief,
when they met at breakfast, the
Englishman exclaimed, "By
there must have been an earthquake
here, for, during the night, I found
myself jolted in my bed into a sit-
ting posture." On this, Sawney
instantly related his own mishap,
and agreed most readily with his
friend, that there must have been an
earthquake!

WILLIAM DOUGLAS; OR THE SCOTTISH EXILES t. WE had heard a good deal of this book, and have been not a little disappointed by its perusal. The truth is, it is an attempt to give novelty to a subject which has already been presented in every possible light, and in which every possible modification of opinion has already been embodied, either in history, romance, or song. The darker, or the more ridiculous features of the Presbyterian character, their strange and insane enthusiasm, which would be ludicrous, but from the dreadful consequences to which it led,—their fantastic and absurd interpretations of Scripture, their abuse of the language of Holy Writ, have already been pourtrayed with a powerful and unsparing pencil, although not without a feeling of the sufferings which had thus shaken from their seat minds of no ordinary capacity and vigour, and not without an admission of the noble and exalted motives by which the greater part of these enthusiasts were actuated. On the other hand, the better parts of the character of the Covenanters have been no less anxiously and elaborately detailed, both by historians and novelists, who, forgetting their absurdities in their constancy and re

See "Tales of a Traveller."

solution, and forgiving their occasional extravagancies, for the sake of the general soundness of their views in politics and church-government, have dwelt with delight on their eloquence, their patience under affliction, their stern and uncompromising adherence to the views they had adopted, and the resources of mind which they exhibited, under the most adverse and unpromising circumstances. That there has been a great deal of exaggeration on both sides every one seems now to be aware; and an impartial and comprehensive view of the character of the times is perhaps still a desideratum in literature. But, most assuredly, that task is not likely to be fulfilled by the author of this novel, who, with all his professions of impartiality, has adopted the same limited and party views with his predecessors; and unfortunately, without illustrating these views, as far as we can perceive, by any great novelty of arrangement, or felicity of illustration. The truth is, that, as a novel, as a series of events, connected together by any common bearing, containing any progressive interest, the book is utterly defective, and in this respect decidedly inferior to

+ William Douglas; or, the Scottish Exiles. A Historical Novel. In3 volumes. Oliver & Boyd, Edinburgh; and Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown, & Green, London. 1826.

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