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once to give our readers an account of this pleasant| Maude, that she might prepare to meet her father as bework. The date of the story is in the reign of John, and came the daughter of Baron Fitz-Walter. the scene is laid in London. At that time the metro-lord with due honour; old Ambrose was issuing his orders, "The vassals were all drawn up in array to receive their polis was somewhat less extensive than it is at present. and every one hastening to his post with that joyful alaCastle Baynard, which is now the name of a Ward, crity, which proved their duty a pleasure. and the residence of sundry thousand quiet industrious citizens, was then a castle and a park, the strong hold of the Baron Fitzwalter and his daughter Matilda the Fair. As one of the chief excellencies of the vo

lume is its happy adaptation of style to the era it describes,, we will quote a passage which may let the reader into the vestibule of the narrative :

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"The cavalcade approached amidst the shouts of the charge, and the gates of Castle Baynard were thrown wide citizens and apprentices; the trumpets sounding a grand open to receive the noble owner and his retainers. Six trumpeters wearing tabards bearing Fitz-Walter's arms, richly embroidered in gold, preceded the Baron: who plete suit of steel, holding in his right hand a truncheon rode a large iron-grey charger, and was clad in a comwhich was supported on his thigh, and a plain helmet covered his head surmounted by a profusion of blood "Among those who appeared most prominent in opposing red horse hair streaming in the wind. He bowed repeatthe King's oppression was Baron Fitz-Walter, a noble, edly to all around him, and conversed familiarly with a equally respected by his brother Barons and the citizens of young knight on his right, who bestrode a beautiful London, for his wisdom in council and his undaunted cor- Barbary stallion black and shining as the raven's wing, rage in the field; and being Lord of Castle Baynard, the and curvetting and prancing to the music of the hoarse citizens of London always applied to him for his advice and brazen trumpets. His armour was of the finest polished succour in their difficulties, which they found him ever steel studded with golden stars, on his burnished casque ne ready to bestow. The Baron, at this time, had been absent bore a plume of snow white ostrich feathers, and from his several days on a mission to the King at Brackley, where neck hung a large golden star, pendant from a chain of masthe court was then held, and his return was hourly and sive links. Behind this gaily accoutred knight, rode his anxiously expected by all the numerous inmates of Castle trusty squire in company with the Baron's, bearing his Baynard, but by none more so than his daughter Matilda lance and target; next followed an hundred of Fitz-Walter's the fair; and well she merited the cognomen, for in youth-train on foot, carrying both long and crossbows, habited ful bloom and beauty, she far surpassed the fairest ladies of in green with black velvet caps, adorned with dark green the court, and would have proved a dangerous rival there, plumes; in the rear of these rode fifty horsemen, armed had not her father loved her too affectionately to give up so with spear and target, cuirasses and helms of brass, with lovely and cherished a flower to be blasted by the insinua-flowing manes of horsehair of the colour and fashion of the ting breath of adulation, or to be corrupted by the unli- Baron's; then came the banner of the house of Fitz-Walter censed freedom of the royal court. Nor did he ever hear flapping in the wind, borne by a gentleman in a suit of shellher breathe a wish to that effect; she found all her happi- armour, riding on a milk white charger, with flowing mane ness in the paternal love of the good Baron, whose kind- and tail, guarded by twenty horsemen in coats of mail, and ness towards his beloved child was unlimited. He would accompanied by six trumpeters; lastly came twenty men, sit for hours on the terrace on a serene summer evening, the attendants of the young Knight, in murrey coloured listening with fond delight to the soft melting tones of her velvet, slashed with white satin, walking two and two, voice, singing some ballad of a lady's love, or valiant deed armed with crossbows and short rapiers; and on a piebald of gay cavalier; and strangers passing beneath her father's ambling nag, sometimes chatting with one, sometimes with walls in their boats, would rest upon their oars and listen another, rode the lord of misrule, or fool, dressed in the with mute attention to the enchanting melody. Ofttimes most fantastic style, with a cap and bells jingling most she would accompany these legendary romances with the merrily as he threw himself about, now sitting with his sound of her harp, which she touched with exquisite taste face to the tail, and then again like a lady all on one side, and execution. Sometimes attended by the careful old accompanying his actions with such ludicrous grimaces, Ambrose, whose hairs had whitened in the service of the that he made some of the company shake their sides with Baron and his predecessor, she would mount her pal- excessive laughter." frey, and amble, curvet, and caracol about the court-yard, sitting her saddle in the most easy and graceful manner, her luxuriant flaxen tresses flowing in natural ringlets over her ivory neck and shoulders, her lovely blue eyes sparkling with delight, and the sweet smiles of her pretty mouth denoting the gaiety of her youthful heart. But since the departure of her father, time had hung heavy on her hands; if she sang it was without delight, for he was not there to praise the measure or the sprightliness of the execution; her harp was out of tune whenever she touched it; nay, she would even have complained of the palfrey being unmanageable, if the fear of wounding the feelings of the groom, to whose charge and management it was intrusted, had not restrained her. For three long days she had impatiently expected to see her dear father, and on the fourth morning was busily employed in completing the embroidery of a silk scarf, which she intended to present to the Baron on his birth-day, when her page, a handsome boy of eleven or twelve years of age, entered the apartment, swinging his velvet cap and plume with a most negligent and easy air, and walked up to his lady.

Baron Fitz-Walter approaches the castle!'

At these words the delighted Matilda hastily threw aside the scarf, and desired Edward to send her attendant

The "young knight on the Barbary stallion" is a certain Sir Eustace, who in due course of time, becomes the recognized and betrothed lover of Matilda. The King visits Castle Baynard, and struck with beauty devises a scheme for her ruin. Sir Eustace is sent to

France as ambassador, but Matilda spurns the royal overture. John resolves upon the complete destruction of the Fitzwalters, but in an attempt on the castle he is defeated. A second is more successful, and Matilda is placed in great peril. The opportune though unexpected arrival of Sir Eustace rescues her from her danger, and the general interference of the Barons ensures future safety to the family of Castle Baynard. From this outline, no notion can be formed of the real interest of the story. The incidents are adroitly managed and well chosen. Some beautiful sketches of manners are also introduced. The style is full of quaintness, and often of affectation, but it is spirited. As a spe

cimen of the dialogue take the following. It is dreadfully deformed with puns, but Walter is a cockney wit, and Gilbert a cockney butt :—

"Then is she no better than a mistress, for she will be a kept woman when thou espousest her.'

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But, mother says, marriage will change me.' "Marry, then, for thou art sure to be a gainer!' "And, besides, she thinks it will fix my wandering disposition.'

"Doubtless, Gilbert, for thy wife will make thee keep the house as well as herself. Is she industrious?? "Oh, very!' said Gilbert, counting upon his fingers, She makes the best black-puddings I ever tasted, and butter, cheese, and preserves, and works well at her needle, and

"Thou art a brave man, Gilbert, in verity a brave man ; but truly, now, where didst thou find this same courage, which hath induced thee to declare thyself an intended husband?' These words uttered in a merry, bantering strain, were addressed by Walter Hardie, a stout, robust young man, with a countenance full of health and goodhumour, embrowned by the suns of five-and-twenty summers, to Gilbert, surnamed the Gosling, his junior by three or four years, a simple swain, of a pale complexion, "Enough, enough! That last qualification is worth all light blue eyes and straight flaxen hair, hanging down his the blood in the black-puddings, the cream in the butter, shoulders. the milk in the cheese, and the sugar in the preserves; ***Lord! Walter, thou'rt such a wag!' cried Gilbert, infor, if she be ever so bad, there are at least hopes of her a soft, drawling tone, hanging his head a little on one side, mending, and that thy estate and thy doublet will never with his hands crossed in front, and twisting one thumb be out at elbows.' over the other; and then thou makest one laugh so. I shall never forget when thou told'st the merry tale of the Dog and the Giblets, when Nick and Jasper supped with us at farmer Hedge's, and how thou didst gobble up the coney pie while we were laughing. I thought I never should ha' shut my mouth again.' And he concluded by laughing, at least his muscles made a certain motion like it, but his voice refused the accompaniment of ha! ba! and

a kind of low quick breathing alone was audible,-this Walter used to call silent approbation. It was this peculiar way of expressing his joy which obtained him the nickname of Gosling, and if he had never shut his mouth, but continued to laugh at Walter's joke, his mirth would have been a very trifling inconvenience, or perhaps enjoyed by himself unnoticed by the rest of the company, for his loudest laugh never exceeded the hissing noise of a simple goose.

"Then, Walter, thou think'st I may take her to wife?' "Why how long hast thou run alone?'

"Mother says I used to twaddle in the eleventh month, and I was twenty last Lammas-day.'

"Body o' me, Gilbert, thy mother did let thee run ere nature could give thee enough calf, though heaven knows she made thee calf enough!"

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Whoever the author may be-for the name on the title page is a feint-we are assured that this work will not discredit any previous fame he may have acquired.

Some Account of the late Gilbert Earle, Esq. Written by
Himself. London: C. Knight, 8vo. 1824.

"Ah! Gilbert!' quoth Walter, putting his hand upon his companion's shoulder, and looking most comically Of course, there is no such person now as "Gilbert serious those days of liberty are on the wane; thou'rt Earle, Esq." because he is asserted to be dead; we are about to quit the company of bachelors, and-Alas! who pretty sure that there never was any such person, bewould have thought thou wouldst have been hanged!' cause he never lived. He is the fiction of the author's "Hanged!' ejaculated Gilbert, with a stare of astonish-brain; created merely to be the organ of certain trains

ment.

Hanged!' repeated Walter- Ay, art thou not now of reflection on humanity, and "human dealings;" on the very point of slipping thy neck into the noose of an impersonation of sundry "moods of the mind," matrimony-and what's the difference? You are both of and made to play a part in the great real drama of life. you led to the halter-a priest officiates-thou say'st thy Gilbert Earle, Esq. though nobody, is nevertheless what prayers and art turned off-and must hang together till you are dead! dead! dead!' every body has at one time or other been. The incidents "Another silent laugh followed this rude stroke of wit, of his life, (with one exception) and the currents of and he to whom it was addressed, replied in a half interro- his feelings, are such as all of us are "heirs to." So gative manner-Thou hast never been in love, I'm sure, far they are true to nature and society. We are some"What, dost thou not remember when I became ena- what inclined to protest against the melancholy cast moured of a melon-frame, which I used constantly to visit of Mr. Earle's character. It approaches now and then every night, till the gardener divorced us by virtue of a to sickliness. This is the fault of the day-but the large hazel stick, which he laid athwart my shoulders. But' and here he endeavoured to speak in a more seri-author of the volume is manifestly too highly-gifted ous tone, brace tight the drum of thine ear, for I will a person, to enlist himself under the banners of any catechise thee; now answer me: why dost thou marry?' species of bad taste. "To get a wife.'

Walter?'

"Why, marry, Gilbert, then thou art wrong. At court (I say court, because when a man courts, he should have court authority for courting) they never marry to get a wife, but a maid; for when a courtier requireth a wife, he takes his friend's, that is a ready made wife; now thou seek'st a ready maid-not a wife. Doth the eye of thine understanding perceive the distinction? If so, then art thou wrong. Hath she beauty?' "Much.'

"Then on thy part it will be a needy match, for thou'rt marvellously in want of that commodity. Hath she money?' 'No.'

"The Life of the late Gilbert Earle, Esq." is a collection of auto-biographical fragments, supposed to be written in his old age, and under the saddening influences of bitter recollections, and defeated hopes. All his misery-all his sickly weariness of the worldis ascribed to "one fatal remembrance" of a youthful and guilty love. It is this which has thrown its "bleak shade" over a track of his life, blighting the warm enthusiasm of youth, and discolouring all the associations of manhood. He first becomes acquainted with Eleanor-the name of his mistress-at a musical

party, where he is struck by the exquisite tenderness of her singing, and fascinated by the beauty of her person. But he must describe her in his own terms:

"How beautiful I thought Eleanor then-how beautiful she really was!-and that, too, of a beauty exclusively, even strangely, individual. I have, during the course of my life, seen some women who were her equals, one or two || who, strictly, perhaps, were her superiors, in beauty. But I never, either before or since, knew any one, in the least degree like her. Her eye, especially, was such as I never saw in any other person. It was a full, beautiful blue eye, but with all-with more than all-the fire and power of a dark one. I can see it at this moment, beaming on me with the softness of tender affection, with the flashing of passionate love. I can see it bright with the fearful brightness of agony, subdued in the melancholy mildness of sorrow. I can see it as it curdled and froze in the coldness and dimness of death! Oh, it is the human eye which bestows creating expression upon the human countenance! It is that which gives the immaterial spirit to actual vision, which enables us to see the soul. Hence, in all our recollections of one we have loved, it is the look which is ever the most present, for that places her before us, body and mind at once. Yes, I can see her now, her tall and rounded form, possessed beyond all others of that grace of motion which adds such charm to accuracy of shape, where it ex. ists, and almost supplies its place to us, where it does not; her face of more than earthly loveliness, with its brightclustering hair, and its clear, pale, pearl-like, complexion, varied on occasion with a flash of rich blood, of a tint like that presented by the interstices of the fingers when held against the sun; and, above all, the deep and magical effect of her general image; all, all are now before me in that full, lavish luxuriance of beauty which was hers when my eyes rested upon her for the first time.

"She was sitting, as I have said, by the side of the harp; which gave, as it were, token and remembrance of the exquisite sounds she had drawn from it, and of those she had superadded. She had all the advantages of dress: the perfect and exquisite whiteness of her skin was given to view, her full and rounded arm was uncovered, and her bright beautiful hair was fastened with a knot of diamonds. I thought then she never could be so lovely as when full dressed; I afterwards thought that in simple unadornment she was more lovely still. But I found the reality to be, (and in a truly beautiful woman it always is so) that the dress in which she is before our eyes is that in which we think she looks the best. At night the brilliancy of dress appears to us most suited to her beauty; in the morning, we become converts to the plain white gown, and that indescribable loveliness of complexion, which a perfect, but still a healthy, paleness possesses by daylight; and, when night returns again, she again seems to eclipse her simpler self, || and we revert to our former creed."

husband. The whole is beautifully and pathetically told; but we can give only the concluding passages of this part of the volume :

"The last time we were ever out together, was on an occasion of this kind: when the sky and the earth seemed alike lighted up by the glories of the setting sun. We paused opposite to it at that time when its radiance sheds a brightness and lively aspect over all within the horizon's compass. As the sun declines lower, there is an air allied to sadness thrown over the landscape: but it was before this, that we stopped to gaze upon its beauties and its splendour. It was a very little way from the house, for she was too feeble to walk far. Alas! what a contrast she now was to the radiant being which I have described. Her form was wasted to a fearful thinness, to a degree of attenuation, indeed, almost unnatural, yet it retained that gracefulness of outline and of movement for which it had always been so remarkable. But it was now the grace of languor, not of elasticity and buoyant youth. The deep red spot burned in the centre of her cheek, the rest of which, as well as her brow, was of that clear transparent whiteness common to her disease. Her eye-that eye whose expression I have never seen equalled, and which remains so intensely in my memory-her eye alone appeared unchanged. Yet even this was changed. Its brightness still remained, but it had an unhealthful glassiness superadded; and it was sunken within its hollow, which took from the power of its glance, and gave to it a more saddened expression. She leaned heavily on my arm; but before we had got far, she complained of fatigue, and I supported her to a seat. We watched together the sun decline, and finally sink below the line of the horizon; we saw the glowing and brilliant colours which he left in his descent gradually deepen in the sky, till all became shadow; while, on the other side, the beauties which the heavens wear by night, grew, first vaguely, and then by degrees more strongly, visible. The stars began to glitter one by one, and the firmament became more distinctly and brightly blue. As the chill of the night came on, I pressed Eleanor to go in, but she begged to stay to gaze for the last time on the loveliness of night: I know,' said she, I never shall come out again; I am so feeble I scarcely could get these few steps, I must cease to attempt it altogether. Let me, then, stay, that I may gaze on all that Nature has of soft, and solemn, and enchanting, that the last time my eyes rest on it may be with you. The evening of my life is come-the night is fast approaching-let me look on this emblem of the fate which is so near me;-and, oh! let me hope that after the agitations of the day, and the shadows of the nightfall, I may wake to the pure, solemn, beautiful serenity of a state like this!' She bent her head upon my shoulder, and laid her cheek upon mine-it was hot even unto burning;-and the wasted and fleshless fingers, which I held within my own, were dry and parched. But her spirit was unfevered by the body's illness; and she prayed to heaven with me that night, for the last time in that glorious and holiest temple, Nature, with that calm resignation, that solemn and subdued, but yet assured, hope, which are the best passports to the blessed

This description is a little exaggerated both in style and sentiment, but it is full of talent. Eleanor-unfortunately-happens to be a wife. Her husband was a morose, ignorant, and brutal person, and excessively ill-immortality for which they implore. behaved to his wife. Of course she hates him, and loves Gllbert Earle. We must pass over the curious disquisitions on the platonism of the parties-and omit the awful check which that platonism received-just a month or so before the husband's death. In due course of time they married-but not to happiness nor content. The memory of their guilt filled them with regret and self-reproach. Eleanor falls into a decline, and fades slowly away under the touch of disease, and before the daily gaze of her agonized and penitent

"Why do I dwell on these scenes? Is it that I dread approaching that of death itself? On that, indeed, I cannot dwell. Life ebbed away in gentle, imperceptible, but sure gradations. Her mind had ceased to suffer some time before her death, on all points but one-her child. She had no cause for anxiety concerning it, as regarded itself; but yet in the last days of her existence she longed to have with her that being to whom she had given birth, whom she had loved more tenderly, perhaps, if not so fervently, if not so passionately, more purely, than any other upon earth. She would speak of her child more and more often as her death drew near. The last word, indeed, which she distinctly pronounced was her child's name; but after articulation

had ceased, her last look was given to me, her last sigh was breathed upon my lips."

After twenty-six years of absence from his native land, (for all this had taken place in India,) Gilbert Earle returns to England. The sad changes which had taken place, and which rendered him a stranger in the homes of his father, is affectingly told. This is the interview with his sister :

"My fears on this head were but too truly accomplished. When I drove up to the house, my sister was waiting on the steps to receive me, and in a moment I was in her arms. When, after some time, we drew back to gaze upon each other; there was indeed cause for pain. We could not expect that we should be unchanged: we knew that Time must have done his usual work; but still we lived in each other's recollection just as we had parted, and the reality was scarcely the less sad from its having been, in a great degree, foreseen. The same smile, indeed-a smile never to be forgotten-still played in my sister' eye and lip; but the eye was sunken, and the lip grown thin; and the smile itself was sadder and more aged, like the frames and hearts of both of us. The full, blooming cheek was grown hollow and pale; and the luxuriant and beautiful hair, for which my sister had been remarkable, was entirely hidden, if, indeed, it still remained, by the widow's cap, which she had worn ever since her husband's death. This, and the gown of dark grey, which was likewise, I found, her constant attire, completed the contrast with the light-hearted, bril- || liant, blooming, beautiful girl whom I had left. For myself, I believe I was sufficiently changed also. My period || of absence had been passed under a burning sun, and my figure and my face bore ample marks of its corroding influence. All the mental suffering, too, which I had undergone had given aid to the work of climate. I had left home a tall, florid, athletic boy of eighteen: I returned a withered, worn-out man of forty-five, thin even to leanness, and my whole frame nerveless and relaxed. My cheek was of that yellow, waxen colour, which long dwelling in a burning climate gives; and my white hairs were fast outnumbering those which retained their original darkness. My sister and I read in each other's looks the shock we had mutually received, and we walked silently together into the house. "The long conversation I had with my sister, tended in no degree to remove the sadness which all these circumstances had caused. Her subdued and melancholy manner shewed, that the hand of sorrow had been upon her also, that all her feelings were changed and saddened, except only her affection for me. I made enquiry for all those who were connected, in my recollection, with the dear home to which I had returned. One answer served for nearly all: He is dead. Of all the servants of the family, all the retainers, who are always so numerous about a large country house, who had been my allies in my boyish sports, and who had so fervently bidden God to bless my parting step, not one remained to welcome my return. All the villagers, too, who had been most connected with the great house,' who had paid their court by making their landlord's children share in the merriment of their harvest-home, and the joyousness of their Christmas carol; those, too, who had been my mother's pensioners, and to whom she had made us the dispensers of her bounty, that she might train our young hearts to the exalted pleasure of doing good; all these, as I made enquiry for them one by one, I was told had disappeared from the scene: and, of course, those who had risen up to fill their places could feel no interest for me. My recollections of home had not been confined to the physical scene alone, they had naturally included the images of those who dwelt there; and it now seemed almost a mockery to be restored to the spot itself, and to find that all who had

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peopled it in my heart, were gone for ever. How bitter were my feelings, as the well-known quotation rose in my memory: I came to the place of my birth,' and I said, the friends of my youth where are they?' and an echo answered beautiful, when I first read it-alas! no one knows half its where are they?'-I recollected having admired this as force who has not had occasion to repeat it as I did.”

The descriptions and reflections of Mr. Earlewhich fill a large portion of the volume are very beautiful. We cannot quote them; but there is an episode of the funeral of a young, promising, highly-gifted companion of his boyhood, which is equal in pathos and nature to that exquisite poem of Wilson-" The Scholar's Funeral."

Amongst other melancholy pleasures he turns to the journals, and letters of his brother Frederick. Some of these letters are given, which tell the story of a beautiful and innocent country girl-first seducedthen glittering among troops of admirers, and basking in the love of her protector. The finale may be imagined :

6

"As I pursued my way homeward, I met several of these unhappy creatures coming out of the door of a spirit-shop in one of the courts. They were shouting and laughing, with the scream-like laugh of drunken recklessness and desperation. The foremost of the group, who seemed the loudest and wildest of them all, seized the skirt of my coat, as I was passing, and exclaimed in the common phrase, and sickening accent of her class, Take me along with you.' I drew my coat from her hold, and walked on rapidly; but she followed me, calling out from time to time in the language of coarse and hardened vice. After I had got some way, she caught hold of me a second time, and I had some difficulty in shaking her off. I saw that she was drunk, which added to her boldness, and defiance of the consequences and control which such people usually hold in dread. When I again proceeded, she again followed, saying, Ah, I know you, I know you very well, and you know me, too, though you won't own me now; you were glad enough to do so once!' I took no notice of this, as it is one of their common exclamations; till, at last, she said, 'Yes, yes, I know you very well, Major Earle!' I stopped short at once, in extreme surprise. I had no idea how such a person could have become possessed of my name, and, of course, had very little pleasure in the discovery. I stopped and turned round to look at her. She now attempted to run off, but I seized her by the arm, determined to be satisfied as to who she was, and how she came to know me. We were now in Leicester-square, and I drew her under one of the lamps; but she hung her head down forcibly upon her breast, and pulled her bonnet over her eyes. Who are you?' I asked, and how upon earth came you to know my name?' She was silent. I repeated my question once or twice, still no answer. Who are you?' I said again; I am determined to know who you are, and how you know who I am, before I let go my hold. Who are you?' I felt her tremble under my hand, as in a voice which proved she was completely sobered at once, she at last said, but still without looking

up,

It is no wonder you don't remember me, Major Earle; who, indeed, could? and yet you knew me well I still had no idea who it was that spoke to me. She continued in a yet lower and more broken tone. Though Dallas is dead, surely you have not forgotten him!'

once.

"Never, no never, in my life, did I experience a more violent and sickening shock. Gracious heaven! and this was the creature whom I remembered in her young purity and loveliness, whom I had so often seen surrounded with all that luxury and wealth could furnish for her pleasure,

at whose table, as I may call it, I had so often sat in the midst of troops of admiring and flattering friends, whom I had left, not four years since, the adored, almost the idolized, object of affection to a man who was one of the most feeling, generous, and noble of created beings!

"I had striven, since my last return from abroad, to obtain some tidings of poor, poor Susan; but in vain. Dallas's death was so sudden that he left no will: so she sank at once from splendid wealth to absolute destitution; for his friends (no-his relations) would do nothing for one on whom they had always looked with dislike and fear. Would, oh would to God! that I had been here. She who had been dear to Dallas should not have been treated thus,

"All this passed across my mind in one instant, as the poor wretch raised her face to the light, as she spoke. Heavens! what a face it was! Her eyes were bleared and red at the edges, and the balls were glazed with recent drunkenness. She had, it is true, recovered her senses; but her eye still reeled, and her breath still reeked, with the effects of that poisonous debauchery. If there be, in the human shape, one object more revolting, degrading, and humiliating than another, it is that of a drunken woman!-and it was now presented to my eyes in the person of one whom I had known in all the delicacy of female youth, who had been the first and only love of my first and best friend. Her cheek was fallen and hollowed, and an unwholesome, sodden paleness, which overspread the lower part of it, was made almost hideous by the contrast of a large blotch of coarse red paint which was plastered upon each cheek bone. Of her figure I could see nothing; for she was wrapped to the throat in a large shawl which fell over nearly her whole person, in folds in which grease, dirt, and dripping wet seemed to struggle for supremacy. I never beheld a more pitiable being!"

She dies. The remainder of the volume is filled with meditations on the vast alterations which had taken place in the manners, dress, sentiments, and persons of || England. They are extremely well written, and are charged with a high degree of feeling. Indeed the whole book is full of delicate and strong touches of sentiment and passion. We have no means of guessing at the author--but we suspect that he is one of that clever legion of young men who sustained the reputation of the Etonian," and now contribute to its excellent successor.

DRAMA.

Kings Theatre. During the present week, Madame Pasta has repeated her performances of Desdemona and Tancredi. We have nothing to remark in addition to our former criticisms on these characters, unless it be that the huskiness in the lower tones of this lady's voice appears to have considerably increased since her arrival in England. At first, it was ascribed to a cold; but we suspect it to be a defect inherent in the voice, though more apparent at one period than at another.

On Tuesday evening, an unpleasant accident happened to Ronzi de Begnis. One of the scenes fell, and wounded her in the head, so severely, as to render it necessary for the opera to be continued with the omission of her part of Amenaide. We have learned that the effects of the accident have already nearly disappeared. Nothing which occurs to this lady can fail to interest the public; and it is gratifying to know that she will presently return to us with all her wealth of talent, beauty, and feeling.

Drury-Lane.-The benefits have begun at this theatre, and are proceeding at a very rapid rate; no less than four

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during the present week. Munden, on Monday evening, had what is called, in theatrical phrase, "a bumper;" which means, that the house was crowded up to the very slips before the curtain rose. This is delightful. It is a tribute to the respectability of the man: it evinces the generous attachment of the public. It is for him a glorious crowning to forty years spent amidst all the follies, all the temptations, and all the obloquy of a theatrical life, that he can retire with the honourable testimonies of reverence and regard from such "troops of friends." What a sad contrast between Munden's fortunes, and those of some others, whose talents (in a different line) are perhaps greater, but whose moral obliquities have degraded them from their high stations, and driven them (if report speak truth) into discreditable exile. Munden selected for his benefit the characters of Sir Robert Bramble and Dozey. He never played better in either; and yet we are glad that he chose this moment for retiring, whilst all his faculties are unimpaired, and before the slightest falling off of his merit has been perceived. No one can say of him, as it was said of Kemble and many others,-" Oh! if you had but seen him in his best days!"

Those who saw Munden last week saw him in his best days. Age has thrown a rich mellowness about his performance which is inexpressibly delightful. His humour is as effective and his pathos more touching than in younger and sprightlier days. Fare thee well! Joe Munden!-thou hast been to us a delight and a solace amidst many bitter vicissitudes, and the recollection of thee will be a green spot in the retrospect of our life.

Miss Stephens on Tuesday had a very thronged house; and Harley's benefit (Wednesday) was numerously attended. Their Sandwich Majesties visited this theatre last night, but we have no time, nor is there any necessity, for our making any further remarks on this visit. Covent Garden.-On Monday evening, Tirahee Tirahee," with his Queen and suite, attended the representation of Pizarro at this theatre. We were quite surprised at their appearance and manners. The newspapers have been cutting jokes upon these "illustrious strangers" for the last fortnight, and have excited not a little merriment by ludicrous descriptions of their domestic amusements. Now we never saw more respectable-looking, or more decentlybehaved people, in our lives. Their complexions are rather those of any royal family breathing. The King is a genteel "begrimed," it is true, but their manners are as fair as portly-looking personage, very much like Mr. Bartley playing Othello. He was more of a King, and a great deal more of a gentleman, than Mr. who performed the Peruvian monarch in Pizarro. The Queen is what is called a strapper," that is, she is about six feet four inches high, somewhat resolute in her visage, and is what may be termed "a manly sort of woman." She laughed heartily when the guards stabbed Orozembo, and so did we : she wept a little over the sorrows of Cora and her child, which we did not. The suite (including Mr. Poodle Byng) behaved with all proper decorum, and did infinite credit to the politeness of the Sandwich court. The house was by no means crowded to receive their Majesties: but if the company within was few and select, that without was numerous and not select.

BENEVOLENT FUND FOR RELIEVING THE WIDOWS AND ORPHANS OF ARTISTS. Instituted, March, 1810.

THE Fifteenth Anniversary Dinner of this Institution will be held this day at Freemasons' Hall, his Royal Highness Prince Leopold in the chair. We regret that the address, which has been printed by the Committee, had not reached us before, as we should have inserted it in the present

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