Page images
PDF
EPUB

suffice to cover their walls. But were a selection to be makes a prominent feature in the general arrangement. made from this superabundance, and were every work There is a mixture of half-lengths, kit-cats, and three rejected that was not above mediocrity, we are of opi- quarters too, and about the same proportion of histonion, that that part of Somerset House which is appor-rical, dramatic and landscape compositions which usutioned to the arts, would be found ample for the display of what we might bear to see, with due reference to the honour of the British school.

ally adorn the walls of that royal exhibition. The principal attractions with the public generally, as usual, are the landscapes and the humorous compositions. These latter appear to be more congenial to the taste of John Bull than any other class of paintings, as there is more of excitement in these pieces than fine sentiment. He does not like to weep, and to smile he is not prone. But Johnny does, and ever did enjoy a hearty laugh.

We have from year to year regretted that necessity which compels the council of the Royal Academy to admit so many paintings, which are unworthy the designation of works of art. But as there is no national fund furnished to that body for the support of its schools of instruction, the sums raised for that imporJohn loves a boy of spirit. "I will fight," No. 65, tant object are only derived from the multitudes who painted by P. Simpson, touches the chord of his heart. flock thither, and who pay their shilling for the sight: We behold in this very clever picture, by a promising hence every contributor to the annual show helps by young painter, a boy of about ten years, determined to have his admiring circle of friends, down even to the huma round. One, bigger than himself, and of an amiable bler classes of life, to add their entrance money to the countenance, is endeavouring to dissuade him from the encounter; but "I will fight" is demonstrated indelibly in capital stock, and our Royal Academy is thus main-his look, and in each fist. Yes, John enjoys a fight, and for tained rather by public curiosity than by national one who would own the pacific youth for a son, fifty would taste. Were the endowments of this royal institution be proud of the little pugilist. Were we inclined to pun, worthy of the nation, and its members at liberty to blow, the painter had made a we should say of this spirited piece, that even without a 66 good hit." remedy this increasing evil, we feel assured that such a reformation would ensue as would surprise the world of taste.

We have our particular notions upon these subjects, and have long considered that the greatest impediment to the creation of genuine taste, is to be traced to our public exhibitions. We do not mean to the existence of these depositories of art, but to the ease with which those who have no substantial pretensions for public notice, through their medium, thus unqualified, obtain the privilege of exhibiting themselves before the public. Not so with the histrionic art. On the great metropolitan stage, none but able performers are allowed to exhibit their talents: even the inferior parts are filled by the best of their class; the honours of exhibiting themselves before the public must be earned, ere they are attained.

On the opposite side of the great room is another encounter, where generally the fight is not so fair-where a man of mettle frequently comes off with a good licking, only because his hands are tied. This very original and most humorous piece, too, is quite to Johnny's taste, for when he is not engaged in fight, he is apt to go to law.

"No. 197. Cross-examining a Witness," painted by E. V. Rippingille, is the interesting subject to which we allude. The painter here places us in a county sessionshouse, during a trial on some question of the turf. The examining counsel holds a horse-shoe, and in the action of placing a nail in one of the holes, (a point which does not explain itself,) is putting a poser to the witness, a poor farrier, who bewildered, embarrassed, and tortured to the life, would willingly change conditions with a toad under a har row, or sell himself to the wicked one, to get out of the clutches of this merciless gentleman of the robe.

There is a personal identity of character distributed to every figure in this crowded assembly, and a variety of expression depicted on each countenance, that proves the painter to be an attentive observer of manners, and wellHow far this new society, in opening its arms thus qualified to represent scenes of humour. We think this liberally to all comers, will lessen the evil of which we composition the more creditable to the talent of Mr. Rippingille, as, amidst the variety of character and expression, complain, or how the general interests of the arts may there is nothing forced, nothing outre; every group, and be promoted by the plan, time alone can determine. every figure tells its own tale, and it is as near the reality of If it should be found that the works of real merit meet such a scene as correct judgment could render it. Were with purchasers, the scheme will be substantially justi-rank with the best subjects of this class. As it is, we conthe picture painted as skilfully as it is designed, it would fied. Those who have superior talent should be resider it as a work of great merit. warded, those who have not, must labour to deserve reward, and until they do, must be content to wait. We admire the general plan of the building, the apartments are well arranged for the purposes of exhibition, the tout ensemble is gay and cheerful, and the light is well diffused,-an important consideration, and certainly inviting to exhibitors. Many of the apartments of the Royal Academy are miserably defective on this point.

The first glance at this collection reminds the spectator of the general effect of the great room at the Royal Academy, as a range of whole-length portraits

It would be injustice to neglect to add, that the jury-box is filled to perfection. The gravity of the judge is well wrought; it is as much as his ship can do to keep his countenance. The high sheriff is inwardly bursting, as he restrains his risible muscles. The friends of one party may be easily discovered from the other; whilst the crier of the court, with wand of office in hand, like a staid horse, dozes as he stands.

"The Widow," painted by H. Richter. Every one who has paid a visit to this Exhibition, on comparing notes with another, asks, "Did you notice Richter's Widow? Those who have not yet visited the new gallery are advised "not to forget the Widow." It rarely happens that a composition attracts so universally as this; but then again, this is to Johnny's taste-John loves a buxom widow.

We shall not enter into speculations upon the physiog- only for criminals: and I hope, that you will not as yet, nomy of this lady, further than to say, that we are mista- treat me as one." No: but once for all, we cannot accomken if she had not made a young man happier in the bonds modate you better now: consider, it is for your security. of Hymen than an old one, such as we behold in the painted || We will furnish you with mattresses, chairs, a table, every portrait of her defunct spouse. The first match, we may thing you want, and you will do very well:-good night, infer, was for gold: she is now her own mistress, a rich, citizen! With this they departed. I made no answer to handsome widow. "I have married once, to please others,' this salutation; but. after I had recovered from the sort of you may be sure will be her answer to future advisers, stupor into which I had been plunged, I was glad to find and now I shall wed to please myself;" saucily adding, that I was not shut into the dark hole, but was left at li"I'll please my eye, if I plague my heart!" berty to go as far as the grate at the end of the little pasThe admirers of character and expression in painting sage. I immediately availed myself of this, to go and ask cannot have forgotten that admirable composition of Mr. if I could not have a light. An instant after, a little man, Richter's, "The Brute of a Husband," exhibited in Bond- in a red cap, made his appearance, with a pipe in his street, about ten years since. It was as attractive as this mouth, a bunch of keys at his girdle, and perfectly resemWidow, in a pictorial sense: in a moral sense its operation bling the jailors I had seen at the theatres. He had a lanwas differently felt. We would desire to avoid the imputa- tern in his hand; and after shutting the grate, and surveytion of fastidiousness-we abhor your precisians; yet we ing me for some time, said to me,- The law does not alcannot forbear to say of this truly well told subject, that low you candles; but prisoners, who have money, can be we think it had better suited the walls of a bachelor's pri- supplied with what they want: besides, I have orders to be vate apartment than those of a public exhibition. careful of you.' He did not express himself in very good French, for he spoke the Provençal dialect, which I then found it difficult to understand, though I had time enough afterwards to accustom myself to it. You may be satisfied,' I said, as to being paid: I suppose you are the turnkey here. But tell me, what place is this?'-'Why don't you know that you are in the Palace of Justice?'No, I did not: but is not this the place where criminals are confined? No, that is lower down: you are on the civil side: the criminals are still worse off, and, accordingly, they annoy me dreadfully, and you will hear them to-morrow; they are in bed now, but in the day-time they make a horrible noise! When he had brought a light, I and there was such a stench, that it was impossible. returned to my hole, to take some rest, but it was so damp, complained of this, and he offered to burn a faggot in it for me, which I accepted with pleasure. As to the dirt, said he, we will sweep it all out by daylight, to-morrow.' He kindled the faggot, and went away.'

REVIEWS.

Memoirs of His Serene Highness Antony Philip D'Orleans, Duke of Montpensier, Prince of the Blood. Writ ten by Himself. Translated from the French. London: Treuttel und Co. 1824.

THE young and gallant author of these memoirs was the second son of the notorious Egalité. At an early period of the revolution, he, with his brother, the present Duke, entered into the French national service, and distinguished himself as a brave, active, and patriotic officer. In April, 1793, being included in the decree common to the whole family of the Bourbons, he was arrested at Nice, and transferred to Marseilles, to the fortress of Notre-dame de la Garde, to which place were shortly afterwards brought the Duke his father, the Count de Beaujolais, his brother, the Duchess of Bourbon, and the Prince of Contí. Of that imprisonment the present publication gives an account. It is a detail of personal suffering, mingled with a notice of the most important public events of the time. The narrative is full of interest, and sketches with a frightful fidelity, the excesses to which the south of France was at that period a prey.

We pass over the account of the arrest, the kindness of General Biron, and the civility of the guards on the route to Marseilles, and come to the locale of the imprisonment:

"After having gone through several passages, we entered a small one, looking into a very gloomy court, where I noticed that an iron grate was closed after us. At the end of this passage, was a dark hole, about nine feet square, intolerably dirty and stinking, without any light but from a little grated air-hole opening into the court; so that the place was perfectly dark, though it was still light enough without.

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]

"I confess I could not at first believe that this was the abode intended for me; and was petrified when the president of the department said to me, 'Citizen, we are sorry we cannot put you into a better place than this; but your safety requires it; endeavour therefore to have patience, till a lodging equally secure and less filthy is prepared for you. This place,' answered I, is certainly intended||

6

6

[ocr errors]

This had previously been the dungeon of two persons, one a thief, and the other a receiver of stolen goods, who had been condemned to six years' imprisonment in irons! The unhappy youth was after a few days removed from this dreadful den, because the guards who were set over him objected to the disagreeableness of the place. He was soon afterwards removed to the prison of Notre-dame, where he met with his relations, who were likewise prisoners. He was again removed to another prison still more foul and gloomy, and was condemned to suffer almost every species of moral and physical torture. It was only at rare intervals, and then through the precarious kindness of his guards, that he was permitted to see his father and youngest brother, and of this consolation the sudden removal of the former to Paris soon deprived him. It was in the following way that the young Prince first learnt his father's death:

"A city guard (who had been placed over us by the municipality and administrators, ostensibly, to see their orders executed, but really as spies, to make known what we said and did,) told us one evening, with an awkward air, that my aunt had obtained leave to pass an hour with us the next day. This raised our uneasiness to its height, but we still kept hold of our delusion. My aunt, we said to each other, never looks but at the dark side of things. She always fancied my father in some perilous situation, and she is coming, no doubt, to prepare us for some misfortune she fears, but none of which she has any certain knowledge.' On the morrow, (oh! day of agony!)

6

it was so dark in our dungeon, that we were obliged (which happened sometimes), to keep candles burning till bed-time. About noon my aunt came. "My poor children!' cried she, after fixing her eyes piteously on us for some time, I hope you are prepared for the painful duty I have to fulfil towards you! No, aunt,' we eagerly replied, we are not prepared for any thing, we know nothing. Is it possible you should not have had some presentiment of a misfortune, so terrible, that religion alone can enable you to support it with firmness? You must no longer be deceived. First, read this from your mother, which has been entrusted to me to deliver to you.' The letter only contained these words, in a very large and disfigured hand: Live, wretched children! for your equally wretched mother!' This heart-rending injunction totally overcame me. I looked at Beaujolais, and our eyes scarcely met, when the tears streamed from them, and with more violence from having been so long suppressed But even yet, not being able to admit the frightful idea of the loss we had sustained, Aunt!' cried I, in mercy be explicit! What is become of my father? You have no longer a father!' she replied. He has been condemned and executed!'-I had only time to exclaim, O, execrable monsters!' before I fell senseless. Beaujolais fainted also. On coming to myself, I was in convulsions. They attempted to place me on a bed: it was the same my poor father had slept in for four months! The sight had an effect upon me impossible to be described: I raved, I howled, I threat- || ened my father's murderers,-I called upon them to put me to death. Never was there a state of greater violence, or of greater anguish. My aunt began to exhort me; but I was so little inclined to attend to her, that she desisted, and withdrew."

[ocr errors]

The two boys, one of whom was eighteen and the other only fourteen years of age, were still kept in confinement by their barbarous tyrants, though not the slightest shadow of crime could be urged against them. They were often treated with great indignity by the wretches who officiated as their guards :

"These impertinencies became so frequent and disgusting, that we asked, and obtained, permission to fasten our door on the inside with a little hook we had put on it. This precaution did not free us from the intrusion of these military gentry, in their relieving guard during the day; but we excused ourselves for refusing to open the door in the night, and generally it was not insisted on. There was one individual, however, who came once to our cell at midnight, and began knocking loudly at the door. Roused out of my sleep, I asked who was there. The night watch!' he replied.-Citizen, we are in bed, and we are usually left to sleep undisturbed.'- Open the door! I must come in!'

It shall be opened to-morrow; we are in bed now, and we beg you will let us sleep.'- Open it instantly! or I will break it open!'- Break it, then, citizen, if you please, for at this hour certainly we shall not open it! Upon this he went away, uttering a thousand menaces which his rage dictated. At five in the morning he came again, when the same menaces were met by the same replies. At nine he repeated his visit, while we were at breakfast. His excessive rudeness had made us determine not to open to him at all, but wait till noon, when the guard would be relieved. To make sure, however, of the pleasure he had so pertinaciously sought, he had recourse to a stratagem, which was, to counterfeit the voice of the commandant of the fortress. He had very recently been appointed, and, though unable to better our situation, had been to see us, and evinced during his visit that he felt for, and pitied us. Thinking it was he, we opened the door quickly, but were cruelly disappointed when we saw an utter stranger, who rushed upon us with a drawn sword, and every demonstration of fury.

6

'I will teach you,' cried he, what it is to resist a republican! A sergeant, who was at his heels, held him back. My officer, let these unfortunate youths alone; it would be cowardly to hurt them in the situation they are!'-' No!' he replied, they are b-y aristocrats, and nothing is too bad for them! Come on then, wretch!' we cried. • Exercise your valour on two defenceless prisoners; your sabre and your threats have no terror for us!'- Rest thee awhile as thou art,' said he, addressing himself to me with revolutionary familiarity: the guillotine will spare me the trouble of treating thee as thou deservest! Only bear in mind the fate of thy relations, and tremble, for such will be thy own fate! and the report I shall make to the representatives of the people may hasten it. Good bye!' and he marched off."

They were not only insulted by those who avowed themselves their enemies, but they were betrayed by those who professed themselves their friends. Two young royalists who had been in the service of the Bourbons, offered to assist them in escaping; but after being intrusted with their little wealth, immediately decamped and left them in a state of the greatest destitution. The prisoners made some ineffectual attempts to escape, one of which ended in the Duke's breaking his leg, and being subjected to a more severe imprisonment. After two years and a half of suffering and incarceration, the poor youths were liberated on condition of their expatriating themselves to the United States. And with this the memoirs end.

In America they met with their elder brother, the present Duke of Orleans, and remained with him in that country until their departure for England in 1800. Here the Duke of Montpensier was destined to close his

career.

He died of a pulmonary complaint in 1807, and was buried in Westminster-abbey.

There is no attempt at fine writing in these memoirs; they are a plain, modest account of forty-three months' imprisonment, and cannot be read without feelings of detestation of the jacobin tyrants of France, and a deep sympathy with the sufferings and fortunes of their victims. The translation is very well executed.

Trials, a Tale. By the Author of "The Favorite of Nature," &c. 3 vols, 8vo. London: G. and W. B. Whittaker. 1824.

THE fair author of these volumes has already acquired considerable eminence amongst the better class of modern novelists. At an age when many of our sex, and nearly all of her own, are doing little else than devouring with an indiscriminate voracity whatever garbage a circulating library possesses, she has devoted herself with a laudable and successful assiduity to the food. Together with great accuracy of observation and production of a much purer and higher intellectual powerful delineation of character, she has given to her novels a tone of morality which is instructive without “Trials" is pretty much of ceasing to be interesting. the same cast with its predecessors, quiet, unpretending in its general character, happy in the choice of materials, and skilful in working them up into a narrative;

at once improving in the lesson it inculcates, and attractive in the incidents it relates. The "Trials " are chiefly confined to a single person, Catharine, who may be regarded as the heroine. Her character, made up of slight inconsistencies and strong passions, is beautifully drawn. The moment she appears upon the scene, our sympathies are excited in her behalf, and they never|| abate or die away to the end of the story. She marries a young and accomplished officer, and her life glides away for some years in all the tranquil happiness of a dream. At length something excites her suspicion, and the early and strong passions of her nature are roused into a state of the most wretched excitement. Her doubts in a great degree disturb the happiness of her husband, and poison the serenity of their domestic life. || The following scene is pathetically sketched :—

"She was naturally kind and considerate to her servants, and beloved by them all: for her disposition, though hasty, was of too elevated a kind to feel any pleasure in the exercise of power over her dependents, except to make them comfortable, by the easy manner in which she required

their services.

"But now, as the mistress of a family as well as a wife, she was rapidly losing ground in the esteem she had inspired; and, but too conscious that this was the case, she could but mourn with increasing anguish the fatal cause which had led to this subversion of all that was right.

[ocr errors]

they part, though fervently and mutually attached, in something like anger. He is killed in an engagement with the enemy, and Catharine is left to a late and useless penitence. In the opening virtues of her only child she finds some consolation, but it is to religion that she turns with a vague and indefinite but anxious yearning. The characters of the Mortons, a quiet, religious family, are given with great truth and force. "Miss Ann is quite delightful, and were we still in a "state of single blessedness"

But it is not a single "trial" which Catharine is destined to undergo. Circumstances drag her from her solitude and tranquillity, once more into the vortex of temptation and passion. Her aunt leaves her a fortune, and she lives on for years in the bosom of worldly cares and worldly happiness. All the sterner precepts of the Mortons are forgotten. Her son Edmund is grown up to man's estate, and has entered the church; and things standing thus, the second volume begins. and beautiful creature on whom he had placed his affecEdmund too is destined to have his trials. A young tions, marries another. She lives as happily with him as the mixture of her gentleness with his extravagance and levity will permit, until they are utterly ruined in their fortunes. Edmund then interferes to relieve her husband from his involvements. But this is in vain, and the "Trials" of all three are destined to proceed. The story is now little else than a detail of broken reso

"She sobbed as if her heart would break; and, while thus torn to pieces with passion contending with remorse, a voice struck upon her ear which came from a room adjoining her own, the door of which was open. "It was a sweet, gentle voice, softly repeating mamma!lutions, perpetual misconduct, and pernicious habits on It was the voice of Edmund, her only child, which, break- the part of the husband-quiet, uncomplaining suffering upon her ear in accents so mild at such a moment as ing in the wife and heart-broken resignation in Edthis, gave a check to her emotion as powerful as it was unmund. A prison is the necessary result, and we will expected. extract from this part of the novel a scene which strikes us as being extremely touching:

She hastened towards him, believing that he called for her-but he was asleep, and in his slumbers had pronounced her name. He, too, seemed to be wrapt in his little visions; but they were apparently of a calmer, happier nature, than those which occupied the waking fancy of his poor mother; for as he slept he smiled, he murmured inarticulate soundsagain he smiled-he even laughed, so gay and pleasant were the images that passed before his dreaming spirit.

"Though the tears were wet upon her cheeks, though the throb of anguish still heaved her bosom, it was impossible for Catharine to withhold a sympathizing smile as she gazed upon her sweet boy. She bent down and kissed his cheek; and, as if she had at last found a pillow of rest for her aching head, she laid it upon his bosom, and though she wept incessantly, it was with tears that now seemed to give her infinite relief.

"Her grief gradually died away in heavy sighs. Images succeeded each other with less rapidity and distinctness; they became obscure and dull-till at length, exhausted and overpowered, she fell asleep by the side of her child. "In this situation she was discovered by St. Aubyn on his return home-painfully discovered!-for had the most minute detail been given him of all she had endured in his absence, it would have less forcibly impressed him than what he beheld. He could trace it all: he could see indeed, in her pale and hollow cheek, strong vestiges of what had passed; and in his mind's eye he could well pourtray the despair of heart which had driven her to the couch of her child, as to the only asylum which her disordered imagination represented to be left for her, in her self-created

sorrow.

Her husband is ordered to some foreign service, and

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

"He pressed her hand with fervor, but still said nothing. It was after the pause of a minute or two that he spoke. 666

6

that will do no good. No, let us be cheerful,' and he atWhy should we be sorrowful,' said he, Matilda!tempted a laugh, which pierced her very heart.

"She intreated him to be rational. "Rational,' he replied; well, nothing is more rational than to bear misfortunes cheerfully.'

observing the pale gaze of terror with which her counte"Why, Matilda, you look frightened!' he continued, nance was fixed upon him, as if she doubted whether his senses were not affected by his misfortunes.

"Oh, let us go-let us leave this terrible place! she faintly articulated, casting, as she spoke, a fearful glance upon the dead infant. It is a horrid sight!' he replied, horrid. But to this I have brought you, Matilda-you, who deserved a palace for your dwelling-place; but let us go-yes, we will go-I have ordered another room,'-and he attempted to rise-but in vain, he sunk down again in his chair.

[ocr errors]

*** Why, what ails me, I wonder?' he exclaimed; this is really very, very ridiculous! isn't it, Matty?' "Pray sit still, Charles,' said Matilda, trembling with dread: for she knew not whether to believe him under the influence of delirium or wine; so strange and unaccountable appeared his behaviour.

"Well, I am still,' he replied, falling back in his chair, as from excessive weakness; what would you more?- I am all obedience.'

"Oh, Charles, how cruel is this conduct!'-and she burst into a flood of tears.

"Matilda,' and his voice assumed a softer tone, • Matilda, don't take offence at me. I feel so very ill, and I am truly unhappy in my heart, whatever I may seem.' "Are you ill, Charles ?'-and she looked upon his wan and haggard cheek. Ah, indeed I see you are; how long have you been suffering?'

||

perish suddenly at short intervals, and Mary and he are left at an early age in widowhood. The old affection revives, and under its influence it is thus they meet again :

"The moon rose in placid beauty o'er the silent valleys beneath Lillybrae, and gleamed in flakes of waving silver upon the rippling stream, near the wood, as I wandered behind the green hill, anxiously waiting for Mary. A thousand recollections crowded upon me, connected with this sacred spot-our meeting here on the day of her wedding, and the striking circumstances of that night, the last occasion on which I had seen her. At length I observed a shadow moving round the foot of the hill; and, in a few moments, Mary Ogilvie, wrapped in a mantle, with a timid step, drew near. We stood for a moment looking on one another, as if neither could speak or move:-I stepped hastily forward, holding out both of my hands. The embarrassment of the moment prevented her offering me her's. There was an eagerness to embrace; but we seemed undecided at the instant, whether it should be as friends, or as lovers: passion prevailed-I threw my arms round her, and strained her closely-she laid her head passionately on my shoulder -or rather, in Scripture language, she fell upon my neck, and wept.' I felt her limbs tremble beneath her, with arms; but, when the first burst of emotion was past, she started back suddenly, as if blaming herself, and stood at a short distance from me.

"I don't know,' he replied,' at least-but I believe my head wanders a little!' and he pressed his hand to his fore-emotion, as she gave a sob or two, while hanging in my head.

"My dearest Charles!' exclaimed Matilda, and in a paroxysm of alarm she clasped his hand to her heart; don't, don't'-she would have said something of comfort, if she could have uttered it, but she could not; she could only raise his drooping head, and press it to her bosom, and seal her lips in token of pity upon his fevered cheek, while she sobbed with anguish.

"A long suppressed tempest of emotion at length broke forth from the heart of Charles in such a burst of grief as Matilda could scarcely have believed he would indulge; but his weakened nerves betrayed their feebleness in a torrent of tears, which it shocked her to behold. Women weep, for tears seem to be their portion; but in seeing a man subdued by grief, we appear for the first time fully to understand how acute are the sorrows of human nature." Charles dies, and after two years of widowhood, Matilda marries Edmund. The story is made very delightful in the novel, and the fair author has graced it with the befitting adjuncts of a light agreeable style, and a pure and lofty strain of sentiment.

[blocks in formation]
[ocr errors]

"George,' said she, speaking first, and in a tone of elevation which made her forget, for a moment, her native tongue,-I find I cannot hide from you my feelings, or rather my weakness-you know the power you still have over me-I conjure you to say at once, what your pleasure is, and let our conference be short!'

"I was astonished, and somewhat disconcerted, at the dignity and imperative energy of her words and manner, as the moon shone full upon her glowing countenance, such as I had often observed it when she was a girl, but now perfect in womanhood, and her eyes sparkling with passionate animation. 'Mary,' said I calmly, I do not mean to detain you, to give you the first word of confession: I believe I have been lately wandering from my own happiness-I was not happy in my marriage-will you tell me, Mary, if you were happy in yours?'

"She stood looking in my face as if her soul drank up No, George, I was not happy, although I had an affectionevery word that I uttered. After a pause, she said firmly, ate well-meaning husband; but it required something besides these common qualities to make me happy, after having been so much with you! But he was not O George, you have spoiled my happiness!' She exclaimed, covering her face with her hands, 'It would have been better for me had I never seen you.'

666

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]

sionately, my wife-my love-my companion, while life is Will you be mine from this moment?' I said pasgranted to us on this earth.'

We are no tsure that this volume will be classed amongst "Mary,' I said again, can you be mine?' She clasped what are called "the minor Scotch novels," but it is in her hands together, and answered, I can be any thing for some parts equal to the very best of those clever compo-you, George; but for God's sake do not trifle with my sitions. The first tale, Mary Ogilvie," is much in the feelings, and break my heart.' style of Mr. Wilson's beautiful stories in "Lights and Shadows," and scarcely inferior in any merit which can give value or interest to a fictitious narrative. The narrator tells us of his early passion for a Scotch peasant's daughter, and the pride which prevented him from making her his wife; of her marriage with one of his own rank, and his subsequent espousal of a titled and wealthy lady; their uncongeniality of dispositions, and his own embittering recollections of Mary Ogilvie. The husband of the one, and the wife of the other

"O yes, George,' she said with energy, I will be any thing every thing to you, with honour-if you will and beseeching expression of countenance, if you will indeed be mine:' she added, with her peculiar doubting really make me your wedded wife, who am nae gentlewoman, but your simple country Mary Ogilvie.'

calm, and my heart light; I was happy, and Mary was "The fever of my spirits was over, my mind was happy, and nature seemed happy around me. The very

« PreviousContinue »