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passions which succeeds, for the recruit approaches our author in this mood to relate his tale. He is the son of a gentleman of ancient lineage and great wealth in the North of England. His father is avoided by every body for his morose, saturnine disposition and unsocial habits; and his mother being dead, he passes through Eton and the University, knowing nothing of home or of family endearments. Returning from Cambridge, his studies finished, he finds the ancient, gloomy, dilapidated Hall, modernised with taste and elegance. "The servant demanded my name. I was so confounded, that I could not contrive to stammer it out so as to be understood; and the man mistaking my words, ushered me in under some appellation which I have forgotten. My surprise amounted to stupefaction, when there arose to meet me, not my father, but a lady beautiful as an angel; young, elegant, graceful in every motion, with eyes that did not look, but speak-ay, Sir, speak words, plain, intelligible words -dark, large, brilliant, surmounted with long lashes, which softened, whilst they took not away from, the variable expression of the orbs beneath them. But I must command myself-so let that pass." Presently the father enters, and introduces the lady to him as Charlotte, "his mother." The father, aged forty-nine, had married the school-girl of eighteen; their habits and dispositions being as antithetical as their ages. "We never saw him, except at meals, for his mornings were spent in his library, and he retired thither as soon as dinner ended; and as to any act of kindness or attention, neither the one nor the other received such at his hands." The conflict of nature and circumstances with the most sacred and awful duties, and the ascendancy of principle, are painted with great power. The son at length leaves the Hall, and after a lapse of time is summoned to it again, upon the dangerous illness of his mother-in-law."The door was ajar, and, without considering the consequences, I pushed it open. There was no attendant in waiting. The curtains were drawn closely round the bed; and the blinds let down, with the shutters half closed, threw a dismal light over the chamber. There was a dull noise, too, as of one that breathed with difficulty, or in slumber; and a slight movement of the bedclothes served to indicate that the former was the cause. Maddened by apprehensions,-I knew not of what, I hastily pulled back the hangings: it was a desperate deed, and desperately done; but it roused the sufferer from her lethargy. She opened her eyes; they fell upon my countenance, and I was immediately recognised. One shriek told thisa shriek shrill, loud, terrible; there was an effort, too, to rise-a movement as if to meet the embrace which was offered, but it failed. Before my extended arms could reach her, she fell back upon the pillow-she was dead. I saw this, yet I saw it with eyes dry as they are now. I looked upon her pale, smooth forehead, beautiful even in death, yet not a drop fell from my burning balls; and I kissed her cold lips calmly, as I would have kissed a block of marble. I had no power to weep. I was gazing upon the wreck of all that once was lovely and loveable, when a hand laid roughly upon my shoulder caused me to turn round. My father stood beside me. There was an expression in his face of every evil passion by which the heart can be wrung-hatred, malice, pride, fury, triumph likewise, hellish triumph, was in his eye, as he looked sometimes at the corpse of his wife and sometimes at his son.

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The father ejects him from the Hall, his last words being "May the curse of a father weigh upon your spirit till it drag you to the earth." The wanderer enters the army, as we have seen, and terminates his career, after a deportment corresponding with the effects of what we have related. The facts are very skilfully managed by the author; producing the strongest effects of the pathetic and the terrible, without infringing upon virtue or principle.

There is a striking tale called "Saratoga," which gives the scenes in the American and British camps in General Burgoyne's campaign." In a small chamber, the earthen floor of which was but scantily covered with straw, lay seven officers, two of whom, Colonel Breyman, and our gallant Brigadier,

were already in the agonies of death. The Colonel, whose wound was in the head, appeared to suffer no pain; a heavy breathing alone, with an occasional quiver of the lip, giving testimony that life had not departed. The General groaned audibly, like one in acute torture, and spoke, from time to time, with the strong voice of a man whose sufferings promised to endure many hours, though death must in the end remove them. A musket-ball had passed through the body, rupturing the stomach in its progress, and he now lingered a martyr to pangs as violent as such a wound was calculated to produce. Nearly opposite sat, or rather reclined, Lady Harriet Ackland, her face buried in her handkerchief, and sobbing audibly, whilst the Baroness Reidesdale's children were lying, like seraphs in the midst of carnage, sound asleep upon the floor."-"The Baroness recognised Fraser, and begged him for God's sake to come in. For I am in a sad plight,' continued she. 'Here is poor General Fraser dying in one corner of my room, and Lady Harriet Ackland frantic for the loss of her husband in another, besides a number of unfortunate gentlemen, more or less severely wounded, thrown, in a great measure, upon my attention.'" Passing through a wood, where there had been a battle-"the most remarkable objects in this horrid panorama were several American marksmen, who hung lifeless among the branches of the trees. These persons, who had mounted for the purpose of securing a good aim, and had done considerable execution, soon drew towards themselves a full share of our riflemen's attention. Very few escaped; and there they still hung, having been caught by the boughs, among which they waved to and fro, like the rocking-cradles in use among the Indians." There is a story of the destruction of a planter's cottage by the Indians, and of their bearing away his young and beautiful daughter. "But the barbarians into whose hands the maiden fell, quarrelled amongst themselves respecting their right to the captive; and one, more inhuman than the rest, clove her skull with his tomahawk. The cordiality, which had already begun to wax faint between us and our native warriors, was by this last act of devilish treachery destroyed. We regarded them now as little better than fiends, useless in the field, and worse than useless out of it."

"A Day on the Neutral Ground" is one of the best tales, in point of incident, character, and narration, that we have seen for some time. Two young officers had been in the habit of sporting on the tract of neutral ground between the camps of General Washington and Sir Henry Clinton. On one occasion surprised by the enemy, they had found security in the house of Mr. Morgan, a reputable planter, with whose daughter, Cecily, Harry Beckwith falls in love. Harry and his cousin Oliver are about to renew their visit, when the latter, finding his cousin's designs disreputable, refuses to accompany him, and with dog and gun he sets out alone, Oliver returning to the camp. The dialogue is adinirably managed for displaying the two characters, and the mastery of mind and principle over the thoughtless notions of impassioned youth. "It would have been extraordinary had Harry Beckwith failed to be powerfully struck with the extreme loveliness of this unsophisticated girl. Finer women he had doubtless beheld-women of more commanding carriage and fashionable address; but upon a creature more perfectly loveable than this artless American maiden his eye had never rested." Harry Beckwith is seated at the hospitable board of Mr. Morgan with his children Cecily and Davis, when "the door of the parlour burst open, and a negro, with terror strongly depicted in his countenance, rushed in. Fly, massa, fly, hide, here come de Skinners a-foot and on horseback right up the valley, and the riglers (regulars) are all round de house." Harry is thrust into a closet concealed by a sliding portrait, and Captain Dobson of the Skinners, a species of guerrillas, rushes in and seizes Mr. Morgan, and is about to put him to the torture to make him divulge the retreat of the English spy, when "the picture itself was pushed aside, and Harry Beckwith, his eye flashing with fury, stood before them. Monsters, ruffians,' cried he, would you murder an innocent man in cold blood? Let that gentleman go, and make me your prisoner. But remember I am a British officer, and

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I insist on being carried before your general, who will deal with me as justice requires.-The effect of Beckwith's sudden appearance was as if a thunderbolt had burst over their head. Cecily screamed, and before Harry could reach her, fell senseless on the carpet. Mr. Morgan could only exclaim, 'Oh, Beckwith, you have ruined all;' whilst Davis, shaking himself from the nerveless grasp of the Skinners, darted through the door and dis-" appeared." Morgan and Beckwith are bound hand and foot, Dobson holds a mock court-martial on them, and they are sentenced to be hung as spies, on the tree before the house. Captain Dobson is drinking before the two unhappy men, and invites them to drink with him. "Now it strikes me,' observed the ruffian, pouring out a large goblet of wine, which he drank off at a draught, that you stand grievously in your own light just at present. A short life and a merry one has been my doctrine, and seeing your lives have been short enough, in the devil's name why not make merry to the last?'Wretch!' exclaimed Beckwith, for man I cannot call you, is it still possible that you can jest with the miseries of dying men?'-Well rated, boy! spoken like any twaddler or old woman of three score. Jest! why what the devil would you have me do? sing psalms or say prayers? Jonathan Dobson has no great skill in such matters; he has been a merry blade all his days, and has made many a poor devil laugh as near the gallows as you are; and when it comes to his own turn, he means to laugh there too. For heaven's sake,' exclaimed Mr. Morgan, grant me one request. My daughter, my beloved Cecily, and my son-let me see and embrace them before I die.'- Your son! ten thousand devils seize the scorpion, where is he?' exclaimed the Skinner, starting up as he spoke. Let every hole and corner be searched for that young viper.'- But my daughter, my Cecily!' shrieked the old man. - Curse your daughter,' replied the Skinner, as he twirled the bunch of keys in his hand and quitted the room. What were the feelings of the unhappy father at this moment! Not gifted by nature with a mind particularly vigorous, he sunk into a state of despondency so pitiable, as to draw away Beckwith's thoughts from his own not very enviable condition." By the humanity of the Corporal, in the Skinner's absence, Cecily is admit"Bless thee, my Cecily!" exclaimed the wretched old man, C6 a father's last and holiest blessing upon thy head! They have told you but the truth, though it was indeed cruel to do so; our hours are numbered, and to-morrow you are an orphan." A scene of the most afflicting nature ensues, until Dobson seizes the old man, to apply the torture of fire to make him divulge the hiding-place of his son. Captain Dobson!' cried the Corporal, 'I have witnessed more of these matters than my conscience exactly approves, and by heavens I will not stand by to witness another! The first that lays finger upon my prisoner dies! The Captain drew his sabre and sprang towards the Corporal, but before a blow could be struck or a trigger pulled, the voice of the sentinel at the front door was suddenly heard over the tempest. He challenged loudly, but his challenge was unanswered, and, before it could be repeated, the report of a musket rang through the house. To arms! the enemy are upon us!' was echoed in all quarters; the door was burst open; six of the Skinners rushed in, followed by twice as many more in British uniform. Forward! forward!' shouted a voice, which Harry instantly recognized as that of his cousin. The contest, though fierce and desperate, was of short duration. The brave and good Corporal, pierced by three balls, fell dead; Captain Dobson was pinned to the earth by as many bayonets, and the remainder of the Skinners entreated for quarter." We need not say that the sudden disappearance of the lad Davis accounts for the rescue of the party. The whole of them immediately set off for the British camp. “They had not, however, gained the bottom of the valley when a spectacle attracted their notice, upon which, even in their circumstances, few could look without horror.-The elegant villa, where of late such scenes had been acted, was one sheet of flame. In arranging his furnace on the flag pavement of the hall, Captain Dobson had not been very particular in avoiding the wood-work. In five minutes after the house was abandoned, it caught fire, and being con

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structed entirely of timber, the flames spread with inconceivable rapidity. The strong light cast by the blazing mansion over the woods and green hills produced no common effect, combating, as the flames appeared to do, with the torrents of rain which fell upon them. There appeared all at once in the midst of the fire a man, vainly struggling to make his way into the open air, and he was instantly recognized as the Skinner. His efforts to escape were vain. Enfeebled by his wounds, he seemed scarcely able to raise one limb after the other, and he had just placed a hand upon the outer ledge of a window-sill, when the substance on which he stood suddenly gave way, and he fell back into the fire. He was seen no more; and his shrieks, if he uttered any, were unheard amidst the roar of the flames and the bellowing of the storm." We need scarcely say that Cecily is married to Harry Beckwith, and we need hardly express our hope that the old father was restored to his lands, when the horrors of war had subsided. The whole story is admirably conceived, and in all its parts it evinces very high talents in its author.

A tale, entitled " Maida," evinces the writer's accurate analysis of the human heart. The allusions to the Sicilian Court and to the British army will be a source of attraction to general readers; but the portraiture of the conflicting passions in the hero's breast, is given with a truth to nature and a knowledge of effect which have seldom been surpassed. With the fifth tale, "A Pyrenean Adventure," we are obliged to find serious fault. It is too short. The materials of the story are worthy of being more elaborately wrought, The tale in itself is excellent, but it might be, and ought to have been made a story of altogether a higher class.

The last tale of these interesting volumes, termed "The Rivals," is defective, although it abounds in excellent point. The Ellen Shaw of this story may remind the reader of that masterpiece of Sir Walter Scott, the Jenny Deans of "The Heart of Mid Lothian." The scene in the military hospital between Ellen and her husband's friend, her first lover, must impress itself upon the mind of every reader.

The fault of these volumes is the parade of military details. They give identity to the scenes, but they occupy too much space, and, with the exception of certain points, they are not, with the general reader, calculated to sustain the high interest and intense feeling created by the greater part of the work.

PARLIAMENT AND THE LADIES.

THE House of Lords, during the late discussion of the Roman Catholic Relief Bill, presented a perfectly novel feature. The space near the throne was occupied by females of rank and fashion, whose personal charms and splendid attire gave additional life and lustre to the scene. The earliest accounts of the state of society in England represent its females engaged in the toils of war and other dangerous pursuits of life, They were seen fighting at the side of their husbands and brothers," painted, and clad in the skins of beasts. This primary testimony to the spirit and devotion of the British fair is gratifying; but it is grievous to think that men should not have appreciated the delicacy of the sex with a proper feeling, and did not reserve exclusively to themselves the course of labour and peril which Nature appears to have intended for their peculiar province. The present age boasts more gallantry. Modern warriors leave their wives at home; and the latter, although not all Penelopes, prudently prefer even this state of" single blessedness" to the din of battle and the rude accommodation of a camp.

* A remnant of this fashion still survives.

Reference is generally made to the winds for the illustration of fickleness. As fickle as the wind, is an old adage. Female fashions and pursuits are, perhaps, not less changeable; for the wind has been often found to blow during a series of weeks from the same point of the compass. At the most moderate rate, it must be allowed they keep pace with the moon. A list of female fashions is published every month in the year, in which almost every hour in the day, as well as every female occupation, has its particular costume assigned to it, from which it would be a violation of decorum to depart, intolerable in the fashionable world. There is morning dress, noon-day dress, and evening dress; dress for the carriage, dress for dinner, dress for the Opera, and dress for the ball; the shapes and colours and materials of which are as variegated and fantastic as the colours and figures of the floating masses of the clouds on a summer's evening. It is not, however, with the personal attire, but with the mental dress of our fashionable fair these lines have to do.

Females, although by the delicacy of their frame unfit for the rude encounter of the field, are not equally disqualified to shine in the wordy war; but they have never appeared in the Senate, except as spectators of the battle. Formerly they were admitted as auditors to the House of Commons during the hours of public business. Of the causes which led to the discontinuance of that privilege, there is no satisfactory ac count. The fair listeners, impatient under the restraint of silence, may have trespassed upon the liberty of speech, of which the House arrogates to itself the monopoly.* That unruly little member, which even Socrates, with all his powers of disputation, was unable to put down, may have risen in rebellion, and been pronounced disorderly by the chair. A stiff and unaccommodating Speaker, "dressed in a little brief authority," may have ejected the fair visitor without any pretence; or the gossip of the tea-table may have asserted its superiority over the eloquence of the Senate, and political debate, having become "flat, stale, and unprofitable," she may have spontaneously withdrawn from the scene, and confessed the mightier influence of the card-table, the Opera, and the ball. In fine, whatever may have been the cause, the fashion changed, and the House of Commons ceased to be visited by females. About six or seven-and-twenty years ago, an effort was made to revive it. The late Queen Caroline, then Princess of Wales, upon one or two occasions made her appearance, with a female attendant, in the side-gallery. The royal visit soon became generally known, and several other females were tempted to follow the example. Among these was Mrs. Sheridan, the wife of the late Right Honourable Richard Brinsley Sheridan; but this lady, considering herself an intruder, to whose presence, if known, exception might be taken, thought fit to disguise her person in male attire. Her fine dark hair was combed smooth on her forehead, and made to sit close, in good methodistical trim, while a long loose brown coat concealed her feminine proportions.

At the commencement of the Session of a new Parliament, the Speaker of the House of Commons, when elected, attends at the bar of the House of Lords to receive the sanction of his Majesty, on which occasion he prays the royal permission for "freedom of speech," and the other privileges of the House.

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