writer's fancy seems equally at home in scenes of a gay, joyous and brilliant nature. "The Bayadere❞— is full of exquisite descriptions of Oriental luxury, and resembles without being inferior to thein, some of the brighter passages in Moore's Lalla Rookh. The shorter poems abound in the same pure and delicate sentiments, expressed with equal simplicity and beauty. Our extracts have already been so copious that we dare not begin again to mark any passages for quotation. We have been told that L. E. L. is a very young and accomplished female. If this be the case we shall feel a still higher admiration of her poetry, which we consider as superior in nearly all the true characteristics of poetry, to that of any other living female. Indeed, the youth and diligence of the authoress gives us reason to look for the day, when her real name shall be prefixed to the productions of her pen, and when they shall be hailed by all as a source of delight and pride to her country. This is very enthusiastic praise-but we are sure it will be echoed by every one who reads the volume we have noticed.

The Literary Gazette.

The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner.
Written by Himself. London: Longman and Co. 8vo.

1824.

the grave of a suicide. The "confessions" themselves are good only so far as they are illustrated by the editor's narrative. Of that narrative we will give a short abstract. A Scotch country gentleman, some century and a half ago, marries a fanatical predestinarian wife, by whom he has a son, and they separate and then she has another. The elder boy, George, is a fine, frank, generous youth-the younger, Robert, a sour, darkminded, and rigid fanatic. Robert takes it into his head to pester and torment his brother on all occasions, and particularly at his sports :

nity, rather set upon a joke than any thing else. He per"George took him for some impertinent student of diviceived a lad with black clothes, and a methodistical face, whose countenance and eye he disliked exceedingly, several the first time they two met. But the next day, and every times in his way, and that was all the notice he took of hin succeeding one, the same devilish-looking youth attended him as constantly as his shadow; was always in his way as with intention to impede him, and ever and anon his deep and malignant eye met those of his elder brother with a glance so fierce that it sometimes startled him.

"The black-coated youth set up his cap before, brought his heavy brows over his deep dark eyes, put his hands in the pockets of his black plush breeches, and stepped a little farther into the semi-circle, immediately on his brother's right hand, than he had ever ventured to do before. There he set himself firm on his legs, and with a face as demure as tended to be following the ball with his eyes; but every death, seemed determined to keep his ground. He premoment they were glancing aside at George. One of the THIS is another Scotch novel. These Scotch are ultation, That's a dd fine blow, George!' On which competitors chanced to say rashly, in the moment of exafter all a very curious race. Their general character the intruder took up the word, as characteristic of the comis plodding dulness, but it is dulness "with a dif-petitors, and repeated it every stroke that was given, makference." When once, by any extraordinary excite-ing such a ludicrous use of it, that several of the on-lookers were compelled to laugh immoderately; but the players ment, they are animated into great intellectual motion, were terribly nettled at it, as he really contrived, by dint of they continue in that motion by the mere vis inertia for sliding in some canonical terms, to render the competitors a surprising length of time. Thus is it with them at pre- and their game ridiculous. sent in the way of novel writing. Half a century ago they exhibited the same spectacle in political economy and metaphysics. After having been started on their career, how steadily they rolled along through every difficulty, moral and physical, until they were lost in the obscure depths of their own profound speculations.doubtedly have finished the course of the young laird of The mania for novels is on them at present, and it|| rages with an alarming intenseness. Where and when it will end, we dare not venture to prognosticate. So long as paper, pen and ink abound, so long as the booksellers will buy, or the public read-or rather so long as any money is to be made by the artists-just so long will the general madness continue. As part of the reading public, we are quite indifferent about the matter, since we are not obliged to read-nolens volens but as reviewers are often at a loss for materials-we are glad to see volume after volume tumble from the press, and cry sunto perpetuæ.

The novel before us is a curious work enough. It is a sort of pendant to a hoax in Blackwood's Maga. zine. The main idea is very German in its character, and not unlike that of the "Devil's Elixir"-noticed in our last. It purports to be "the confessions" found in

beyond sport. George, in flying backward to gain the "But matters at length came to a crisis that put them point at which the ball was going to light, came inadvertently so rudely in contact with this obstreperous interloper, that he not only overthrew him, but also got a grievous fall over his legs; and, as he arose, the other made a spurn at him with his foot, which, if it had hit to its aim, would unDalcastle and Balgrennan. George, being irritated beyond measure, as may well be conceived, especially at the deadly stroke aimed at him, struck the assailant with his racket, rather slightly, but so that his mouth and nose gushed out blood; and, at the same time, he said, turning to his cronies, Does any of you know who the infernal puppy is?'

a

"Do you not know, Sir?'" said one of the on-lookers, stranger: The gentleman is your own brother, Sir—Mr.

6

Robert Wringhim Colwan!'

"No, not Colwan, Sir,' said Robert, putting his hand in his pockets, and setting himself still farther forward than before, not a Colwan, Sir; henceforth I disclaim the

name.'

6

6 No, certainly not,' repeated George: My mother's son you may be,-but not a Colwan! There you are right.' Then turning round to his informer, he said, Mercy be about us, Sir! is this the crazy minister's son from Glasgow?'

"In the meantime, young Wringhim was an object to all of the uttermost disgust. The blood flowing from his mouth and nose he took no pains to stem, neither did he so much

as wipe it away; so that it spread over all his cheeks, and breast, even off at his toes. In that state did he take up his station in the middle of the competitors; and he did not now keep his place, but ran about, impeding every one who attempted to make at the ball. They loaded him with exeerations, but it availed nothing; he seemed courting persecution and buffetings, keeping steadfastly to his old joke of damnation, and marring the game so completely, that, in spite of every effort on the part of the players, he forced them to stop their game, and give it up. He was such a rueful-looking object, covered with blood, that none of them had the heart to kick him, although it appeared the only thing he wanted: and as for George, he said not another word to him, either in anger or reproof."

Edinburgh was at this time full of dissensions between the Whigs and Jacobites, and the former took up

heartily the cause of Robert Colwan against his brother. After many disputes, and one serious fight,-the matter became somewhat forgotten, when one night George Colwan is found murdered, and one of his young companions is suspected, and in his absence condemned. The father loses his senses and dies, and then succeeds young Colwan to the lairdship and estate. All these incidents are described at length, with considerable power. Young Colwan is suspected by an old housekeeper of his father's to be the guilty person, and this suspicion is justified by strong evidence. Sundry other crimes are laid to his charge. Just as the officers of justice are enquiring for him, he is missed, and never heard of more. Then follows "the confessions," which are supposed to be written by Robert Colwan after his escape. It is a singular exposition of the effects of fanaticism on the human character. He describes his early life, and the religious tuition of his mother and || a bigotted preacher, her friend, and supposed by many to be his real father. He narrates his own misdeeds of cruelty, malignity, and calumny. He becomes acquainted with a mysterious youth, who continues with him through life, and gives the cast to all his actions. This is the account of their first meeting :

"As I thus wended my way, I beheld a young man of a mysterious appearance coming towards me. I tried to shun him, being bent on my own contemplations; but he cast himself in my way, so that I could not well avoid him; and more than that, I felt a sort of invisible power that drew me towards him, something like the force of enchantment, which I could not resist. As we approached each other, our eyes met, and I can never describe the strange sensations that thrilled through my whole frame at that impressive moment; a moment to me fraught with the most tremendous consequences: the beginning of a series of adventures which has puzzled myself, and will puzzle the world when I am no more in it. That time will now soon arrive, sooner than any one can devise who knows not the tumult of my thoughts, and the labour of my spirit; and when it hath come and passed over-when my flesh and my bones are decayed, and my soul has passed to its everlasting home, then shall the sons of men ponder on the events of my life; wonder and tremble, and tremble and wonder how such things should be.

"That stranger youth and I approached each other in silence, and slowly, with our eyes fixed on each other's eyes. We approached till not more than a yard intervened between us, and then stood still and gazed, measuring each other from head to foot. What was my astonishment, on per

ceiving that he was the same being as myself! The clothes were the same to the smallest item. The form was the same; the apparent age; the colour of the hair; the eyes; and, as far as recollection could serve me from viewing my own features in a glass, the features too were the very same. I conceived at first, that I saw a vision, and that my guardian angel had appeared to me at this important era of my life; but this singular being read my thoughts in my looks, anticipating the very words that I was going to utter."

He fancies the stranger to be Peter the Great in disguise, and passing under the name of Gil-Martin. Of his residence and pursuits he can discover nothing. Gil-Martin becomes his religious adviser, and shapes his conduct as he pleases. He invites him to commit brother George, and finally aids in his murder also. a murder on religious pretexts-sets him against his The writing here is singularly forcible. Gil-Martin is of course the Devil himself, or an impersonation of the fanatical feelings of poor Colwan. After his obtaining the lairdship, he commits all sorts of crimes at the instigation of Gil-Martin. Drunkenness, seduction, murder and parricide, are in the catalogue. But GilMartin is a treacherous friend. He constantly instigates to crime, and yet he is always at hand to betray his victim. Escaping from the officers of justice, he wanders in destitution and despair throughout Scotland and into England. Here is a passage describing some of his sufferings:

"The scene that ensued is neither to be described, nor believed, if it were. I was momently surrounded by a number of hideous fiends, who gnashed on me with their teeth, and clenched their crimson paws in my face; and at the same instant I was seized by the collar of my coat behind, by my dreaded and devoted friend, who pushed me on, and, with his gilded rapier waving and brandishing around me, defended me against all their united attacks. Horrible as my assailants were in appearance, (and they had all monstrous shapes,) I felt that I would rather have fallen into their hands, than thus be led away captive by my defender at his will and pleasure, without having the right or power to say my life, or any part of my will was my own. I could not even thank him for his potent guardianship, but bung down my head, and moved on I knew not whither, like a criminal led to execution, and still the infernal combat continued, till about the dawning, at which time I looked up and all the fiends were expelled but one, who kept at a distance; and still my persecutor and defender pushed me by the neck before him."

"At length he desired me to sit down and take some rest, with which I complied, for I had great need of it, and wanted the power to withstand what he desired. There, for a whole morning did he detain me, tormenting me with reflections on the past, and pointing out the horrors of the future, until a thousand times I wished myself non-existent. 'I have attached myself to your wayward fortune,' said he;

and it has been my ruin as well as thine. Ungrateful as you are, I cannot give you up to be devoured: but this is a life that it is impossible to brook longer. Since our hopes are blasted in this world, and all our schemes of grandeur overthrown; and since our everlasting destiny is settled by a decree which no act of ours can invalidate, let us fall by our own hands, or by the hands of each other; die like heroes; and, throwing off this frame of dross and corruption, mingle with the pure ethereal essence of existence, from which we derived our being.'

66

"I shuddered at a view of the dreadful alternative, yet was obliged to confess that in my present circumstances

A Tour in Germany, and some of the Southern Provinces of the Austrian Empires, in the Years 1820, 1821, 1822. London: Hurst and Co. 2 vols. 1824.

AFTER toiling through innumerable volumes of tours and travels on the continent with infinite vexation, it is quite "refreshing" to light upon such a work|| as this. The labours of a professional reviewer are not always without reward, and the perusal of the volumes

breach must be made in the luggage castle, and be built up
again. Half a day's travelling in one of these vehicles is
enough to make a man loathe them all his lifetime.
(To be continued.)

VISIT TO HAMPTON COURT.

cookery, in its general character, is the very reverse of that of France, and it is by no means certain that the national cookery of a people may not have some connection with its national character. The German justly prides himself on the total absence of parade, on the openness, plainness, and sincerity which mark his character; accordingly, he boils his beef, and roasts his mutton and fowls just as they come from the hands of the butcher and the poulterer. If a gourmand of Vienna stuff his Styrian capon with truffles, this is an unwonted tribute to delicacy of palate. French cookery, again, really seems to be merely a product of the vanity and parade which are inseparable from the French characAFTER leaving our sticks with the sentry, we ascended ter. The culinary accomplishments are to his dinner just the noble painted staircase, and entered a large anti-room, what sentiment is to his conversation. They are both sub-lined with warlike gear, but on the whole making a stitutes for the solid beef and solid feeling which either are not there at all, or if they be there, are intended for no other purpose than to give a name. No one portion of God's creatures is reckoned fit for a Frenchman's dinner till he himself has improved it beyond all possibility of recognition. His cookery seems to proceed on the very same principle on which his countrymen laboured to improve Raphael's pictures, viz. that there is nothing in nature or art so good, but he can make it better.

very pretty armoury. A respectable elderly-looking per-
son, with a profusion of hair-powder, and beautified with
a queue which hung down his back like a bell-pull, sat
in a corner of the apartment, like a spider watching flies,
to conduct company through the state chambers. We
rested here a few minutes, examining the arrangement of
the arms, while other parties were collecting for the same
purpose with ourselves; for our Cicerone, though there was
little either of physical or mental exertions in his labours,
was as anxious to save both as if they would never again re-
collected before he unlocked the stately chambers. An old
gentleman of very intelligent countenance joined us, and
soon after an elderly gouvernante, one of the
"unwed she-sages

As a specimen of the author's playful style, take the cruit, and like a commodore waited till his convoy was fully following:

scended to subjects of less excitement, and expatiated on the old Flemish masters, he made sad work of them, and as for chronology,-a fig for dates; here he floundered sadly, and the farther he waded he only sunk the deeper.

"What the Germans call a Diligence, or Post-wagen, dragging its slow length through this delicious scene, is a bad Whose tale belongs to Hallam's middle ages,' feature in the picture. Much as we laugh at the meagre cattle, the knotted rope-harness, and lumbering pace of the swelled out the party by the cortege of misses in her train, machines which bear the same name in France, the French evidently on a Saturday's excursion to Hampton Court, to have outstripped their less alert neighbours in every thing see the wonders of the place under her sagacious direction. that regards neatness, and comfort, and expedition. The Our guide could not go far wrong with the history of the German carriage resembles the French one, but is still more almost contemporary beauties of King William's court, and clumsy and unwieldy. The luggage, which generally con- really the flesh-and-blood attractions of many of these substitutes by far the greater part of the burden, (for your Dili-jects did not leave much inclination to attend to his gence is a servant of all work, and takes a trunk just as cheer-prating, while he particularized them. But when he defully as a passenger,) is placed, not above, but in the rear. Behind the carriage a flooring projects from above the axle of the hind wheels, equal, in length and breadth, to all the rest of the vehicle. On this is built up a castle of boxes and packages, that generally shoots out beyond the wheels, and towers far above the roof of the carriage. The whole weight is increased as much as possible by the strong chains intended to secure the fortification from all attacks in the rear; for the guard, like his French brother, will expose himself to neither wind nor weather, but forthwith retires to doze in his cabriolet, leaving to its fate the edifice which has been reared with much labour and marvellous skill. Six passengers, if so many bold men can be found, are packed up inside; two, more happy or less daring, take their place in the cabriolet with the guard. The breath of life is insipid to a German without the breath of his pipe; the insides puff most genially right into each other's faces. With such an addition to the ordinary mail-coach miseries of a low roof, a perpendicular back, legs suffering like a martyr's in the boots, and scandalously scanty air-holes, the Diligence becomes a very Black-hole. True, the police has directed its denunciations against smoking, and Meinherr the conducteur (he has no native appellation) is specially charged with their execution; but Meinherr the conducteur, from the cravings of his own appetite, has a direct interest in allowing them to sleep, and is often the very first man to propose putting them to rest. To this huge mass, this combination of stage-coach and carrier's cart, are yoked four meagre, ragged cattle, and the whole dashes along, on the finest roads, at the rate of rather more than three English miles an hour, stoppages included. The matter of refreshments is conducted with a very philanthropical degree of leisure, and at every considerable town, a

Having detected the old gentleman and myself smiling, he became more cautious, seeming to think with honest Dogberry, "that the less note he took of such folks the better," and addressing himself chiefly to the lady, who was gliding about with all the eagerness and flutter of a hen, followed by her chickens, affecting to point out les merveilles," and teach the young idea how to shoot," and engraft on their severer studies a taste for the fine arts, under her own auspices. But soft awhile, our guide is saying his lesson: "That ere picture, Ma'am, was painted five hundred years ago, by Wandyke, for Cardinal Volsey;" a slight breach of chronological accuracy, which passed unnoticed by his auditor, and added very much to the interest of the tale. "Oh la!" says the gouvernante, turning up her eyes, to which she in vain tried to give the intellectual look, "a'n't it a sweet beautiful picture? How well you could copy that Miss- -; I am sure no one would know the difference, and it would be so delightfully clean, and look so fresh in a gilt frame; now remember, my dear girls, what the gentleman tells us; that picture was painted five hundred years since for the Cardinal I told you of in our last historical readings." There was one picture remarkable for the profusion of legs and arms displayed in it; for among the whole group, and it was pretty numerous, there was not one inch of petticoat; but when our commodore came in sight, he drew up, cried a hem! and shot ahead from it, as if it had been a sunken rock, not without a scowling look of espial at the quarter where we stood, as if at a nest of pirates. In a kind of undertone, he pointed to a picture