which the author delighted, but often carried be the story will show the materials with which Godyond truth and nature. The vindictive feelings win 'framed his spell.' Caleb Williams, an inteldelineated in Mandeville' are pushed to a revolt-ligent young peasant, is taken into the house of ing extreme. Passages of energetic and beautiful | Mr Falkland, the lord of the manor, in the capacity composition-reflective and descriptive-are to be of amanuensis, or private secretary. His master found in the novel; and we may remark, that as is kind and compassionate, but stately and solemn the author advanced in years, he seems to have cul- in manner. An air of mystery hangs about him; tivated more sedulously the graces of language and his address is cold, and his sentiments impenetrable; diction. The staple of his novels, however, was and he breaks out occasionally into fits of causeless taken from the depths of his own mind-not from jealousy and tyrannical violence. One day Williams extensive surveys of mankind or the universe; and surprises him in a closet, where he heard a deep it was obvious that the oft-drawn-upon fountain be- groan expressive of intolerable anguish, then the lid gan to dry up, notwithstanding the luxuriance of of a trunk hastily shut, and the noise of fastening the foliage that shaded it. We next find Mr God- a lock. Finding he was discovered, Falkland flies win combating the opinions of Malthus upon popu- into a transport of rage, and threatens the intruder lation (1820), and then setting about an elaborate with instant death if he does not withdraw. The History of the Commonwealth. The great men of astonished youth retires, musing on this strange that era were exactly suited to his taste. Their re- scene. His curiosity is awakened, and he learns solute energy of character, their overthrow of the part of Falkland's history from an old confidential monarchy, their republican enthusiasm and strange steward-how that his master was once the gayest notions of faith and the saints, were well adapted to of the gay, and had achieved honour and fame fire his imagination and stimulate his research. The abroad, till on his return he was persecuted with a history extended to four large volumes, which were malignant destiny. His nearest neighbour, Tyrrel, published at intervals between 1824 and 1828. It a man of estate equal to his own, but of coarse and is evident that Mr Godwin tasked himself to pro- violent mind and temper, became jealous of Falkduce authorities for all he advanced. He took up, land's superior talents and accomplishments, and as might be expected, strong opinions; but in striv- conceived a deadly enmity at him. The series of ing to be accurate and minute, he became too spe- events detailing the progress of this mutual hatred cific and chronological for the interest of his narra- (particularly the episode of Miss Melville) is devetive. It was truly said that the style of his history loped with great skill, but all is creditable to the 'creeps and hitches in dates and authorities.' In high-minded and chivalrous Falkland. The con1830 Mr Godwin published Cloudesley, a tale, in duct of Tyrrel becomes at length so atrocious, that three volumes. Reverting to his first brilliant per- the country gentlemen shun his society. He informance as a novelist, he made his new hero, like trudes himself, however, into a rural assembly, an Caleb Williams, a person of humble origin, and he altercation ensues, and Falkland indignantly uparrays him against his patron; but there the pa- braids him, and bids him begone. Amidst the hootrallel ends. The elastic vigour, the verisimilitude, ings and reproaches of the assembly, Tyrrel retires, the crowding incidents, the absorbing interest, and but soon returns inflamed with liquor, and with one the overwhelming catastrophe of the first novel, blow of his muscular arm levels Falkland to the are not to be found in Cloudesley.' There is even ground. little delineation of character. Instead of these we have fine English, 'clouds of reflections without any new occasion to call them forth; an expanded flow of words without a single pointed remark.' The next production of this veteran author was a metaphysical treatise, Thoughts on Man, &c.; and his last work (1834) a compilation, entitled Lives of the Necromancers. In his later years Mr Godwin enjoyed a small government office, yeoman usher of the Exchequer, which was conferred upon him by Earl Grey's ministry. In the residence attached to this appointment, in New Palace Yard, he terminated his long and laborious scholastic life on the 7th of April 1836. No man ever panted more ardently, or toiled more heroically, for literary fame; and we think that, before he closed his eyes, he must have been conscious that he had 'left something so written to after-times, as they should not willingly let it die.' 'Caleb Williams' is unquestionably the most interesting and original of Mr Godwin's novels, and is altogether a work of extraordinary art and power. It has the plainness of narrative and the apparent reality of the fictions of Defoe or Swift, but is far more pregnant with thought and feeling, and touches far higher sympathies and associations. The incidents and characters are finely developed and contrasted, an intense earnestness pervades the whole, and the story never flags for a moment. The lowness of some of the scenes never inspires such disgust as to repel the reader, and the awful crime of which Falkland is guilty is allied to so much worth and nobleness of nature, that we are involuntarily led to regard him with feelings of ex-: alted pity and commiseration. A brief glance at His violence is repeated, till he is again forced to retreat. This complication of ignominy, base, humiliating, and public, stung the proud and sensitive Falkland to the soul; he left the room; but one other event closed the transactions of that memorable evening-Tyrrel was found dead in the street, having been murdered (stabbed with a knife) at the distance of a few yards from the assembly house. From this crisis in Falkland's history commenced his gloomy and unsociable melancholylife became a burden to him. A private investigation was made into the circumstances of the murder; but Falkland, after a lofty and eloquent denial of all knowledge of the crime, was discharged with every circumstance of honour, and amidst the plaudits of the people. A few weeks afterwards, a peasant, named Hawkins, and his son were taken up on some slight suspicion, tried, condemned, and executed for the murder. Justice was satisfied, but a deepening gloom had settled on the solitary Falkland. Williams heard all this, and joined in pitying the noble sufferer; but the question occurred to him At was it possible, after all, that his master should be the murderer? The idea took entire possession of his mind. He determined to place himself as a watch upon Falkland-a perpetual stimulus urged him on. Circumstances, also, were constantly occurring to feed his morbid inquisitiveness. length a fire broke out in the house during Falkland's absence, and Williams was led to the room containing the mysterious trunk. With the energy of uncontrollable passion he forced it open, and was in the act of lifting up the lid, when Falkland entered. wild, breathless, and distraction in his looks. The first act of the infuriate master was to present a pistol at the head of the youth, but he instantly changed his resolution, and ordered him to with- that I had determined impartially and justly. I draw. Next day Falkland disclosed the secret. I believed that, if Mr Falkland were permitted to am the blackest of villains; I am the murderer of persist in his schemes, we must both of us be comTyrrel; I am the assassin of the Hawkinses! He pletely wretched. I believed that it was in my power, made Williams swear never to disclose the secret, by the resolution I had formed, to throw my share of on pain of death or worse. 'I am,' said Falkland, this wretchedness from me, and that his could scarcely 'as much the fool of fame as ever; I cling to it as be increased. It appeared, therefore, to my mind to my last breath: though I be the blackest of villains, be a mere piece of equity and justice, such as an I will leave behind me a spotless and illustrious impartial spectator would desire, that one person name: there is no crime so malignant, no scene of should be miserable in preference to two, that one blood so horrible, in which that object cannot engage person, rather than two, should be incapacitated from me.' Williams took the oath and submitted. His acting his part, and contributing his share to the spirit, however, revolted at the servile submission general welfare. I thought that in this business I that was required of him, and in time he escaped had risen superior to personal considerations, and from the house. He was speedily taken, and accused judged with a total neglect of the suggestions of selfat the instance of Falkland of abstracting valuable regard. It is true Mr Falkland was mortal: but notproperty from the trunk he had forced open on the withstanding his apparent decay, he might live long. day of the fire. He was cast into prison. The in- Ought I to submit to waste the best years of my life terior of the prison, and its wretched inmates, are in my present wretched situation? He had declared then described with great minuteness. Williams, to that his reputation should be for ever inviolate; this whom the confinement became intolerable, escaped. was his ruling passion, the thought that worked his He is first robbed and then sheltered by a band of soul to madness. He would probably, therefore, leave robbers-he is forced to flee for his life-assumes a legacy of persecution to be received by me, from the different disguises-is again in prison, and again hands of Gines, or some other villain equally atroNow or escapes; but misery and injustice meet him at every cious, when he should himself be no more. step. He had innocently fastened on himself a never was the time for me to redeem my future life from endless wo. second enemy, a villain named Gines, who from highwayman had become a thief-taker; and the incessant exertions of this fellow, tracking him from place to place like a blood-hound, are related with uncommon spirit and effect. The whole of these adventures possess an enchaining interest, and cannot be perused without breathless anxiety. The innocence of Williams, and the manifestations of his character-artless, buoyant, and fast maturing under this stern discipline-irresistibly attract and carry forward the reader. The connection of Falkland and Williams is at last wound up in one scene of overpowering interest, in which the latter comes forward publicly as the accuser of his former master. The place is the hall of a magistrate of the metropolitan town of Falkland's county. [Concluding Scene of Caleb Williams.] I can conceive of no shock greater than that I received from the sight of Mr Falkland. His appearance on the last occasion on which we met had been haggard, ghost-like, and wild, energy in his gestures, and phrensy in his aspect. It was now the appearance of a corpse. He was brought in in a chair, unable to stand, fatigued and almost destroyed by the journey he had just taken. His visage was colourless; his limbs destitute of motion, almost of life. His head reclined upon his bosom, except that now and then he lifted it up, and opened his eyes with a languid glance, immediately after which he sank back into his former apparent insensibility. He seemed not to have three hours to live. He had kept his chamber for several weeks, but the summons of the magistrate had been delivered to him at his bedside, his orders respecting letters and written papers being so peremptory that no one dared to disobey them. Upon reading the paper, he was seized with a very dangerous fit; but as soon as he recovered, he insisted upon being conveyed, with all practicable expedition, to the place of appointment. Falkland, in the most helpless state, was still Falkland, firm in command, and capable to extort obedience from every one that approached him. What a sight was this to me! Till the moment that Falkland was presented to my view, my breast was steeled to pity. I thought that I had coolly entered into the reason of the case (passion, in a state of solemn and omnipotent vehemence, always appears to be coolness to him in whom it domineers), and But all these fine-spun reasonings vanished before the object that was now presented to me. Shall I trample upon a man thus dreadfully reduced? Shall I point my animosity against one whom the system of nature has brought down to the grave? Shall I poison, with sounds the most intolerable to his ears, the last moments of a man like Falkland? It is impossible. There must have been some dreadful mistake in the train of argument that persuaded me to be the There must have been author of this hateful scene. a better and more magnanimous remedy to the evils under which I groaned. It was too late. The mistake I had committed was solemnly brought before a magistrate to answer to a now gone, past all power of recall. Here was Falkland, charge of murder. Here I stood, having already declared myself the author of the charge, gravely and sacredly pledged to support it. This was my situation; and thus situated I was called upon immediately to act. My whole frame shook. I would eagerly have consented that that moment should have been the last of my existence. I, however, believed that the conduct now most indispensably incumbent on me was to lay the emotions of my soul naked before my hearers. I looked first at Mr Falkland, and then at the magistrate and attendants, and then at Mr Falkland again. My voice was suffocated with agony. I began:-'Would to God it were possible for me to retire from this scene without uttering another word! I would brave the consequences-I would submit to any imputation of cowardice, falsehood, and profligacy, rather than add to the weight of misfortune with which Mr Falkland is overwhelmed. But the situation, and the demands of Mr Falkland himself, forbid me. He, in compassion for whose fallen state I would willingly forget every interest of my own, would compel me to accuse, that he might enter upon his justification. I will confess every sentiment of my heart. Mr Falkland well knows-I affirm it in his presence-how unwillingly I have proceeded to this extremity. I have reverenced him; he was worthy of reverence. From the first moment I saw him, I conceived the most ardent admiration. He condescended to encourage me; I attached myself to him with the fulness of affection. He was unhappy; I exerted myself with youthful curiosity to discover the secret of his wo. This was the beginning of misfortune. What shall I say? He was indeed the murderer of Tyrrel! He suffered the Hawkinses to be executed, H knowing that they were innocent, and that he alone was guilty! After successive surmises, after various indiscretions on my part, and indications on his, he at length confided to me at full the fatal tale! Mr Falkland! I most solemnly conjure you to recollect yourself! Did I ever prove myself unworthy of your confidence? The secret was a most painful burthen to me it was the extremest folly that led me unthinkingly to gain possession of it; but I would have died a thousand deaths rather than betray it. It was the jealousy of your own thoughts, and the weight that hung upon your mind, that led you to watch my motions, and conceive alarm from every particle of my conduct. You began in confidence why did you not continue in confidence? The evil that resulted from my original imprudence would then have been comparatively little. You threatened me : did I then betray you? A word from my lips at that time would have freed me from your threats for ever. I bore them for a considerable period, and at last quitted your service, and threw myself a fugitive upon the world, in silence. Why did you not suffer me to depart You brought me back by stratagem and violence, and wantonly accused me of an enormous felony! Did I then mention a syllable of the murder, the secret of which was in my possession? Where is the man that has suffered more from the injustice of society than I have done? I was accused of a villany that my heart abhorred. I was sent to jail. I will not enumerate the horrors of my prison, the lightest of which would make the heart of humanity shudder. I looked forward to the gallows! Young, ambitious, fond of life, innocent as the child unborn, I looked forward to the gallows. I believed that one word of resolute accusation against my patron would deliver me: yet I was silent; I armed myself with patience, uncertain whether it were better to accuse or to die. Did this show me a man unworthy to be trusted? I determined to break out of prison. With infinite difficulty, and repeated miscarriages, I at length effected my purpose. Instantly a proclamation, with a hundred guineas' reward, was issued for apprehending me. I was obliged to take shelter among the refuse of mankind, in the midst of a gang of thieves. I encountered the most imminent peril of my life when I entered this retreat, and when I quitted it. Immediately after, I travelled almost the whole length of the kingdom, in poverty and distress, in hourly danger of being retaken and manacled like a felon. I would have fled my country; I was prevented. I had recourse to various disguises; I was innocent, and yet was compelled to as many arts and subterfuges as could have been entailed on the worst of villains. In London I was as much harassed, and as repeatedly alarmed, as I had been in my flight through the country. Did all these persecutions persuade me to put an end to my silence? No: I suffered them with patience and submission; I did not make one attempt to retort them upon their author. I fell at last into the hands of the miscreants. In this terrible situation I, for the first time, attempted, by turning informer, to throw the weight from myself. Happily for me the London magistrate listened to my tale with insolent contempt. I soon, and long, repented of my rashness, and rejoiced in my miscarriage. I acknowledge that in various ways Mr Falkland showed humanity towards me during this period. He would have prevented my going to prison at first; he contributed to my subsistence during my detention; he had no share in the pursuit that had been set on foot against me: he at length procured my discharge when brought forward for trial. But a great part of his forbearance was unknown to me; I supposed him to be my unrelenting pursuer. I could not forget that, whoever heaped calamities on me in the sequel, they all originated in his forged accusation. The prosecution against me for felony was now at an end. Why were not my sufferings per mitted to terminate then, and I allowed to hide my weary head in some obscure yet tranquil retreat! Had I not sufficiently proved my constancy and fidelity! Would not a compromise in this situation have been most wise and most secure? But the restless and jealous anxiety of Mr Falkland would not permit him to repose the least atom of confidence. The only compromise that he proposed was, that, with my own hand, I should sign myself a villain. I refused this proposal, and have ever since been driven from place to place, deprived of peace, of honest fame, even of bread. For a long time I persisted in the resolution that no emergency should convert me into the assailant. In an evil hour I at last listened to my resent ment and impatience, and the hateful mistake into which I fell has produced the present scene. I now see that mistake in all its enormity. I am sure that if I had opened my heart to Mr Falkland, if I had told to him privately the tale that I have now been telling, he could not have resisted my reasonable demand. After all his precautions, he must ultimately have depended upon my forbearance. Could he be sure, that if I were at last worked up to disclose everything I knew, and to enforce it with all the energy I could exert, I should obtain no credit? If he must in every case be at my mercy, in which mode ought he to have sought his safety-in conciliation, or in inexorable cruelty? Mr Falkland is of a noble nature. Yes! in spite of the catastrophe of Tyrrel, of the miserable end of the Hawkinses, and of all that I have myself suffered, I affirm that he has qualities of the most admirable kind. It is therefore impossible that he could have resisted a frank and fervent expostulation, the frankness and the fervour in which the whole soul was poured out. I despaired while it was yet time to have made the just experiment; but my despair was criminal, was treason against the sovereignty of truth. I have told a plain and unadulterated tale. I came hither to curse, but I remain to bless. I came to accuse, but am compelled to applaud. I proclaim to all the world that Mr Falkland is a man worthy of affection and kindness, and that I am myself the basest and most odious of mankind! Never will I forgive myself the iniquity of this day. The memory will always haunt me, and embitter every hour of my existence. In thus acting, I have been a murderer a cool, deliberate, unfeeling murderer. I have said what my accursed precipitation has obliged me to say. Do with me as you please. I ask no favour. Death would be a kindness compared to what I feel!' Such were the accents dictated by my remorse. I poured them out with uncontrollable impetuosity, for my heart was pierced, and I was compelled to give vent to its anguish. Every one that heard me was petrified with astonishment. Every one that heard me was melted into tears. They could not resist the ardour with which I praised the great qualities of Falkland; they manifested their sympathy in the tokens of my penitence. How shall I describe the feelings of this unfortunate man! Before I began, he seemed sunk and debili tated, incapable of any strenuous impression. When I mentioned the murder, I could perceive in him an involuntary shuddering, though it was counteracted, partly by the feebleness of his frame, and partly by the energy of his mind. This was an allegation he expected, and he had endeavoured to prepare himself for it. But there was much of what I said of which he had had no previous conception. When I expressed the anguish of my mind, he seemed at first startled and alarmed, lest this should be a new expe dient to gain credit to my tale. His indignation against me was great for having retained all my resentment towards him, thus, as it might be, in the last hour of his existence. It was increased when he discovered me, as he supposed, using a pretence of liberality and sentiment to give new edge to my hostility. But as I went on, he could no longer resist. He saw my sincerity; he was penetrated with my grief and compunction. He rose from his seat, supported by the attendants, and-to my infinite astonishment-threw himself into my arms! 'Williams,' said he, 'you have conquered! I see too late the greatness and elevation of your mind. I confess that it is to my fault, and not yours, that it is to the excess of jealousy that was ever burning in my bosom that I owe my ruin. I could have resisted any plan of malicious accusation you might have brought against me. But I see that the artless and manly story you have told, has carried conviction to every hearer. All my prospects are concluded. All that I most ardently desired is for ever frustrated. I have spent a life of the basest cruelty to cover one act of momentary vice, and to protect myself against the prejudices of my species. I stand now completely detected. My name will be consecrated to infamy, while your heroism, your patience, and your virtues, will be for ever admired. You have inflicted on me the most fatal of all mischiefs, but I bless the hand that wounds me. And now turning to the magistrate- and now, do with me as you please. I am prepared to suffer all the vengeance of the law. You cannot inflict on me more than I deserve. You cannot hate me more than intellectual powers were truly sublime, and thy bosom burned with a godlike ambition. But of what use are talents and sentiments in the corrupt wilderness of human society! It is a rank and rotten soil, from which every finer shrub draws poison as it grows. All that, in a happier field and a purer air, would expand into virtue and germinate into usefulness, is thus converted into henbane and deadly nightshade. Falkland! thou enteredst upon thy career with the purest and most laudable intentions. But thou imbibedst the poison of chivalry with thy earliest youth; and the base and low-minded envy that met thee on thy return to thy native seats, operated with this poison to hurry thee into madness. Soon, too soon, by this fatal coincidence, were the blooming hopes of thy youth blasted for ever! From that moment thou only continuedst to live to the phantom of departed honour. From that moment thy benevolence was, in a great measure, turned into rankling jealousy and inexorable precaution. Year after year didst thou spend in this miserable project of imposture; and only at last continuedst to live long enough to see, by my misjudging and abhorred intervention, thy closing hope disappointed, and thy death accompanied with the foulest disgrace! termed the master incident in Caleb Williams, and Sir Walter Scott has objected to what may be calls it an instance of the author's coarseness and bad taste; namely, that a gentleman passionately I hate myself. I am the most execrable of all vil-addicted to the manners of ancient chivalry should lains. I have for many years (I know not how long) become a midnight assassin when an honourable dragged on a miserable existence in insupportable revenge was in his power. Mr Godwin might have pain. I am at last, in recompense for all my labours defended himself by citing the illustrious critic's and my crimes, dismissed from it with the disappointment of my only remaining hope, the destruction of own example: the forgery by Marmion is less conthat for the sake of which alone I consented to exist. sistent with the manners of chivalry than the asIt was worthy of such a life that it should continue novel could have had little interest-it is the key. sassination by Falkland. Without the latter, the just long enough to witness this final overthrow. If, stone of the arch. Nor does it appear so unsuited however, you wish to punish me, you must be speedy in your justice; for as reputation was the blood that to the character of the hero, who, though smit warmed my heart, so I feel that death and infamy supposed to have lived in modern times, and has with a romantic love of fame and honour, is must seize me together!' been wound up to a pitch of phrensy by the public brutality of Tyrrel. The deed was instantaneous the knife, he says, fell in his way. There was no time for reflection, nor was Tyrrel a person whom he could think of meeting on equal erms in open despatched in a moment of fury by one whom he combat. He was a noisome pest and nuisance, had injured, insulted, and trampled upon, solely because of his worth and his intellectual superiority. I record the praises bestowed on me by Falkland, not because I deserve them, but because they serve to aggravate the baseness of my cruelty. He survived but three days this dreadful scene. I have been his murderer. It was fit that he should praise my patience, who has fallen a victim, life and fame, to my precipitation! It would have been merciful, in comparison, if I had planted a dagger in his heart. He would have thanked me for my kindness. But atrocious, execrable wretch that I have been, I wantonly inflicted on him an anguish a thousand times worse than death. Meanwhile I endure the penalty of my crime. His figure is ever in imagination before me. Waking or sleeping, I still behold him. He seems mildly to expostulate with me for my unfeeling behaviour. live the devoted victim of conscious reproach. Alas! I am the same Caleb Williams that so short a time ago boasted that, however great were the calamities I endured, I was still innocent. Such has been the result of a project I formed for delivering myself from the evils that had so long attended me. thought that if Falkland were dead, I should return once again to all that makes life worth possessing. I thought that if the guilt of Falkland were established, fortune and the world would smile upon my efforts. Both these events are accomplished, and it is now only that I am truly miserable. Why should my reflections perpetually centre upon myself?-self, an overweening regard to which has been the source of my errors! Falkland, I will think only of thee, and from that thought will draw everfresh nourishment for my sorrows! One generous, one disinterested tear, I will consecrate to thy ashes! nobler spirit lived not among the sons of men. Thy A We have incidentally alluded to the other novels of Godwin. 'St Leon' will probably descend to posterity in company with 'Caleb Williams,' but we cannot conceive that a torso of any of the others will be preserved. They have all a strong family likeness. What Dugald Stewart supposed of human invention generally, that it was limited, like a barrel-organ, to a specific number of tunes, is strictly true of Mr Godwin's fictions. In 'St Leon,' however, we have a romantic story with much fine writing. Setting aside the incredible' conception on which it proceeds, we find the subordinate incidents natural and justly proportioned. The possessor of the philosopher's stone is an interesting visionary-a French Falkland of the sixteenth century, and as unfortunate, for his miraculous gifts entail but misery on himself, and bring ruin to his family. Even exhaustless wealth is in itself no blessing; and this is the moral of the story. The adventures of the hero, both warlike and domestic, are related with much gorgeousness and amplitude. The character of the heroic Marguerite, the wife of Leon, is one of the author's finest delineations. Bethlem Gabor is also a vigorous and striking sketch, though introduced too late in the novel to relieve the flagging interest after the death of Marguerite. The thunder-storm which destroys the property of Leon is described with great power and vividness; and his early distresses and losses at the gaming table are also in the author's best manner. The scene may be said to shift too often, and the want of fortitude and energy in the character of the hero lessens our sympathy for his reverses. At the same time his tenderness and affection as a husband and father are inexpressibly touching, when we see them, in consequence of his strange destiny, lead to the ruin of those for whom alone he wishes to live. How minute,' says one of Godwin's critics, how pathetic, how tragical is the detail of the gradual ruin which falls on this weak devoted man, up to its heart-breaking consummation in the death of the noble Marguerite de Damville! how tremendous and perfect is his desolation after voluntarily leaving his daughters, and cutting the last thread which binds him to his kind! "I saw my dear children set forward on their journey, and I knew not that I should ever behold them more. I was determined never to see them again to their injury, and I could not take to myself the consolation, on such a day, in such a month, or even after such a lapse of years, I will again have the joy to embrace them. In a little while they were out of sight, and I was alone." How complete is the description of his escape from the procession to the auto de fe; of his entrance into the Jew's house; his fears; his decaying strength just serving to make up the life restoring elixir; the dying taper; the insensibility; the resurrection to new life, and the day-spring of his young manhood! How shall we speak of the old man, the bequeather of the fatal legacy to St Leon, and his few fearful words, "Friendless, friendless-alone, alone!" Alas! how terrible to imagine a being in possession of such endowments, who could bring himself to think of death! able to turn back upon his path, and meet immortal youth, to see again the morning of his day, and find in fresh renewed life and beauty a disguise impenetrable to his former enemies, yet, in the sadness of his experience, so dreading the mistakes and persecution of his fellow-door; within I saw no one but an old man, who was men, as to choose rather to lie down with the worm, and seek oblivion in the scats of rottenness and corruption.'* alight and proceed on foot to the place of our con finement, as many as could not walk without assist ance being supported by the attendants. We were neither chained nor bound; the practice of the Inquisition being to deliver the condemned upon such occasions into the hands of two sureties each, who placed their charge in the middle between them; and men of the most respectable characters were accustomed, from religious motives, to sue for this melancholy office. Dejected and despairing I entered the streets of the city, no object present to the eyes of my mind but that of my approaching execution. The crowd was vast, the confusion inexpressible. As we passed by the end of a narrow lane, the horse of one of the guards, who rode exactly in a line with me, plunged and reared in a violent manner, and at length threw his rider upon the pavement. Others of the horseguards attempted to catch the bridle of the enraged animal; they rushed against each other; several of the crowd were thrown down, and trampled under the horses' feet. The shrieks of these, and the loud cries and exclamations of the bystanders mingled in confused and discordant chorus; no sound, no object! tumult, a sudden thought darted into my mind, could be distinguished. From the excess of the where all, an instant before, had been relaxation and despair. Two or three of the horses pushed forward in a particular direction; a moment after, they re-filed with equal violence, and left a wide but transitory ap. My project was no sooner conceived than executed. Weak as I had just now felt myself, a supernatural tide of strength seemed to come over me; I sprung away with all imaginable impetuosity, and rushed down the lane I have just mentioned. Every one amidst the confusion was attentive to his per [St Leon's Escape from the Auto de Fe.] [St Leon is imprisoned by the Inquisition on suspicion of exercising the powers of necromancy, and is carried with other prisoners to feed the flames at an auto de fe at Valladolid.] Our progress to Valladolid was slow and solemn, and occupied a space of no less than four days. On the evening of the fourth day we approached that city. The king and his court came out to meet us; he saluted the inquisitor-general with all the demonstrations of the deepest submission and humility; and then having yielded him the place of honour, turned round his horse, and accompanied us back to Valladolid. The cavalcade that attended the king broke into two files, and received us in the midst of them. The whole city seemed to empty itself on this memorable occasion, and the multitudes that crowded along the road, and were scattered in the neighbouring fields, were innumerable. The day was now closed, and the procession went forward amidst the light of a thousand torches. We, the condemned of the Inquisition, had been conducted from the metropolis upon tumbrils; but as we arrived at the gates of Valladolid, we were commanded, for the greater humiliation, to * Criticism prefixed to Bentley's Standard Novels Caleb Williams. sonal safety, and several minutes elapsed before I was missed. In the lane everything was silent, and the darkness was extreme. Man, woman, and child, were gone out distinguish a single object; the doors and windows to view the procession. For some time I could scarcely were all closed. I now chanced to come to an open busy over some metallic work at a chafing dish of fire. With diffi |