her daughter-in-law's arm; "What! and you are Pauline Butler !"

The young woman bowed tremblingly before her.

"Yes, madame,” said she, dark-red from shame;" yes, I am that unhappy creature. Yes, it is true; rather than bring disgrace upon the humble but honest name of my father, I assumed a foreign name. I would not, even in my guilt, be supposed a French

woman.

"But," said the Marquise, "if you be Pauline Butler, his name must also be a false one. He is D'Herbanne!"

Pauline bent her head in assent. "D'Herbanne!" cried the Marquise; "the justice of heaven itself has brought him hither. Lift up your head, madame; this man has dared to make terms with us-it is for me to dictate to him."

A smile of mockery curled D'Herbanne's lip, and was his only answer.

"Oh, sir," said the Marquise, dropping her voice into a tone of clear distinctness, "mistake me not; not in my name do I make this threat, but in that of your victim-Madame de Lostange, at this moment in Toulouse on her way to Bayonne, to acquaint your uncle with a certain transaction you are well informed on.

You

threaten us with exposure in open court-we accept the challenge. If you have in your possession_my daughter-in-law's letters, M. de Lostange has others of yours; and let me add, that there are such things as men call speculations on the "Bourse”which the judges of the land may dedesignate by another title-which I will not utter. I see you understand me: follow me, sir. It should not be before my daughter-in-law this interview should take place, and you shall learn what I require of you."

At the same moment she seized D'Herbanne's arm, and hurried him into the adjoining room before he, pale and horror-struck, could utter a word in reply.

Scarcely had they gone, when Pauline fell upon her knees, and, burying her head between her hands, poured forth her prayer of thankfulness. She remained thus for some time, when on lifting her eyes, they fell upon the figure of Ferdinand de Livry, who, pale and with haggard look, gazed on her in silence.

"Ferdinand," cried she, in a voice full of agony.

M. de Livry threw on her one look of withering contempt, and then, in an accent of the deepest bitternes, said "What! you here-you in this man's room! If you had not uttered my name, I would not have believed my eyes. It is but a few hours since that with that very voice you swore to me that you loved me, and that you were innocent. How you must have laughed at my credulity."

"Ferdinand," replied she, sadly, "I am not at liberty to speak, nor are you in a condition to hear me. Your passion will make you say that which you will repent all your life, and which I never can forget. Give me your

arm-let us leave this."

"No, madame," replied de Livry, with a roar of passion, "you shall stay. Ah! your lover, perhaps, is listening to us— be it so before I tell him he is a coward, I rejoice that he knows what I think of you."

"Enough, enough," stammered Pauline; "do not say more."

"Ah! it is for his life you fear."

"Alas! I came hither to protect yours. Ask no more, but lead me home. I appeal to your mother if she believes me guilty."

"You hope then thus to give your lover time to escape?"

"Sir !"

An

"When did you know this manbefore or since our marriage? swer me this question."

"Oh!" cried Pauline, in a voice of agony, "have mercy on me."

"Yet what matters it," continued De Livry, with passion; "in either case you have deceived me. I might have expected it; and this is the worthy recompense of every sacrifice I have made for you, beginning with my honour. When I married you I forgot all. I do not complain. I have but what I deserve. But you-you, madame, I now repeat your own words: There is no name for your infamy."" At this moment the endurance with which she so long bore up against the unjust reproaches of her husband at once gave way, her tearful eyes became suddenly dry, her trembling lips grew steady, and in a tone of firmness she said "This is too much. I care not what may be the consequence; I must now justify myself.

Stay, sir, stay; it is your turn to listen to me. Ferdinand," added she, drawing nearer to him, "to prove my innocence, I need but speak one word but I warn you, it is a dreadful word, which once spoken will render all happiness impossible-a man's life hangs on it. Do you still demand it?" "I do," said De Livry, with a hollow voice.

"Be it so. The report which announced D'Herbanne's death was untrue. He is alive. He is in the house we now are. I came hither to implore him to leave me my child.”

"What! D'Herbanne!" cried Ferdinand; "that man-he still lives! and you, Pauline, you are not deceiving me: you could not do so. What have I said? what have I done? Can you forgive me?"

Yes, Ferdinand, I forgive you, and I love you, and I forgive all that is past:" and as she spoke she fell into his arms.

"And now," said Ferdinand, endeavouring to tear himself from her embrace," my part begins."

As he spoke, the Marquise entered the room.

"I said," cried Pauline, "your mother should be my judge."

"Ferdinand," said the Marquise, as she kissed her on the forehead, "this is still my daughter."

"And you still my own dear mother," said M. de Livry; "be kind to and comfort each other.-Farewell."

Pauline bowed her head.

"My son," replied the Marquise, "we are saved! There are all your wife's letters-and as to M. deFontenay, I can rely on his silence."

"What signifies his silence to me?" cried Ferdinand passionately; "what care I for these letters? It is his life I want. Where is he? where is he?" "Gone," said the Marquise. "Gone!"

"For ever. He is never to return to Toulouse-never to enter France." "And you supposed that I could not follow him! So long as that man lives I cannot taste of happiness; nor is Pauline avenged. Hold me not!"

As he spoke a servant of the hotel entered the room-his face pale and haggard.

"M. de Fontenay !" cried he "where is M. de Fontenay? The horses are ready, and he can't be found

anywhere. At the very instant of his departure a gentleman came for him, and since that, he is nowhere to be found."

"Oh," said Ferdinand, "let me try if I can't find him."

As he spoke, the double crash of fire-arms was heard from the garden behind the hotel. A cry burst forth from Pauline and her mother-in-law.

"He has killed himself!" cried she. "No. There were two shots," said Ferdinand: "it was a duel. Who has dared to take my place?"

He tore open the shutter, and by the clear moonlight, which rendered every object palpable as the sun at noonday, M. de Livry saw beneath him in the garden the figure of Clodion, standing, pistol in hand, above the body of a man, who lay stretched upon the ground, his face turned upwards towards the blue skv.

"What! it is you, Clodion?" cried De Livry. "Fool! what have you

done?"

"A piece of awkwardness," said he coolly. "I have forced this M. de Fontenay into a duel, and, without intending it, have contrived to hit him."

"Is he wounded?" cried Ferdinand hastily.

"Dead," said the other.

"Dead!" repeated the three, in accents of horror, and a silence sad and awful followed the words. At last Ferdinand drew near to his wife and said

"Your son is mine-he shall never leave us."

"What!" cried Clodion, entering abruptly" What! then it was not Madame de Melcourt, after all?" "Hush, nephew!" said the Marquise "we have been all mistaken."

THE first question that we asked ourselves on seeing this book advertised in the newspapers was-" What is it? Have we a history, a romance, or a disquisition?"—and as we particularly dislike every thing that smacks of affectation, we were naturally somewhat prejudiced against the work, when we found that a composition entirely historical had received a title more characteristic of a novel, a poem, or a tragedy. That which thus, at the very outset, dissatisfied us, may have disappointed others; and we hope that the author, in his future productions, which we trust may be many, and are sure will be valuable whenever they do appear, will take a friendly hint to let the title express the nature of the work.

We have then before us, in this volume, a history of the order of Knights Templars, comprising within its chronological limits, one of the most interesting and romantic periods in the records of the world. It was a grave undertaking, offering a fine field, but requiring no inconsiderable abilities to do full justice to the subject, and we at once admit that Mr. Addison has won for himself honour by the manner in which he has accomplished it. No work, indeed, was ever perfect; nor is this by any means so; but the talent and research displayed are deserving of high praise; and while we point out what we believe to be some errors, some blemishes, and some deficiencies, we shall endeavour to do so in no ungenerous spirit, and at the same time to render ample justice to the general excellence of the work.

Beauty of style, accuracy of statement, propriety of arrangement, and philosophical views, are all of course necessary to the higher branches of history, and though there are occasions when the nature of the subject, or the limit which the author fixes to his own efforts may diminish the sphere of requirements; yet the critic, in every historical work, looks for some display of all the four qualities

mentioned above, and is disappointed if he finds any of them entirely wanting.

In regard to beauty of style and propriety of arrangement, on which, as the two least essential points, we shall first touch, we cannot help expressing a regret that the author of the "Knights Templars" has not paid more attention to these objects. Easy they may be of attainment, but they are not on that account less worthy of being sought; and the neglect of such simple means of pleasing the reader, and rendering his task agreeable, is not a compliment to the public, and is a great disadvantage to the author's own work.

The very first sentence, "To be propagated by the sword was a vital principle of Mahommedanism," is by no means an easy or agreeable form, and we find many such inaccurate phrases as the following, scattered through the work:

66

By refusing the request contained in them, they frequently offended some powerful person, who had been a great benefactor to the order, and by acceding to it, they would constantly be compelled to overlook the superior claims of other members of the fraternity."

Amongst the great blemishes in the style of this book, we must not omit to notice the frequent use of foreign words, such as quondam, myrmidon, &c., many of which have acquired, in some degree, a ludicrous sense, and none of which can, with propriety, be introduced into an English book of a grave and important character; neither can we at all approve of the practice of making long quotations, in the text of a work of history, from foreign authors, in the original languages. The right place for all such quotations is in the notes, and even when it is found necessary to introduce into the text extracts from foreign authors, rendered into English, the translation should be made as analogous to the general style as possible. The Eng

lish language is sufficiently copious in its vocabulary, and varied in its forms, to do without aid from any other tongues in works which pretend to a high place in our literature.

Neither in general plan, nor in individual details can we praise the arrangement of" The Templars." There is a frequent want of continuity in the narrative, very different from the grave and regular march of wellordered history, and such a carelessness of proprieties in regard to the mere disposition of the various topics treated, as sometimes to make us start, and sometimes to make us smile. As an instance of the latter fault, we need only point to the commencement and termination of the work, which begins with the principles of the Mahommedan religion, and ends with a disquisition upon the Templars' beards. Yes, absolutely ends-for the last period in the whole book (the text, not the notes be it remarked,) is a Latin letter, regarding the beard of a valet of Edward II., concluding with "&c."perhaps the first time that ever a work of history terminated with such an abbreviation.

We will satisfy ourselves with giving one instance of the want of continuity of narrative, of which we have spoken, and quoting what musicians would call a staccato passage, where every part is independent of, and unconnected with the others:

"Saladin accordingly sent to the grand master of the temple to know if the Templars would guarantee to him the surrender of all the Moslem prisoners, if the money, the Christian captors, and the true cross, were sent to them; but the grand master declined giving any guarantee of the kind.

"The doubts about the agreement, and the delay in the execution of it, kindled the fierce indignation of the English monarch, and Richard Cœur de Lion led out all his prisoners, two thousand in number, into the plain of Acre, and caused them all to be beheaded, in sight of the Sultan's camp.

"When the fiery monarch of England tore down the banner of the Duke of Austria from its staff, and threw it into the ditch, it was the Templars who, interposing between the indignant Germans and the haughty Britons, preserved the peace of the Christian army.

66

During his voyage from Messina to Acre, King Richard had revenged himself on Isaac Comnenas, the ruler of the

island of Cyprus, for the insult offered to the beautiful Berengaria, Princess of Navarre, his betrothed bride. He had disembarked his troops, stormed the town of Limisso, and conquered the whole island; and shortly after his ar rival at Acre, he sold it to the Templars for three hundred thousand livres d'or.

"Shortly after the surrender of Acre, the King of France became disgusted with the holy wars, and returned to Europe, leaving behind him a considerable force of knights and foot soldiers, under the command of the Duke of Burgundy, to continue the contest.

"On the 21st of August, the Templars joined the standard of King Richard, and left Acre for the purpose of marching upon Jerusalem, by way of

the sea coast.'

Here the third and fourth paragraphs refer to events which had taken place long before; they are totally unconnected with the first and second, and with each other, and have no reference to the two last. Neither is the slightest word added to ease the mind of the reader in regard to these terrible jumps backwards and forwards. He comes upon them unprepared, and is obliged to take each as a sort of standing leap.

Without materially impairing the value of a work, such faults certainly render a book less pleasant to the reader than if it were without them; and, whatever valuable matter we may meet with in the course of the history, a feeling of discontent must be generated in the mind, on finding that the author could select no fitter or more dignified subject for its close than the length of the Templars' beards.

It must not be inferred, however, from the observations which we have felt bound to make, that this work is without the attractions of style, or destitute of fine and striking passages. On the contrary, many of the sieges and battles in which the Templars were engaged are described with much fire and spirit, and frequent extracts from the Arabian historians, afford a good deal of rich oriental imagery, which enlivens the details of the history. A fair specimen of the author's powers of description may be found in the account of the famous battle of Tiberias, which we subjoin :

"It was a sultry summer's night; the army of the cross was hemmed in

amongst dry and barren rocks; and both the men and horses, after their harassing and fatiguing march, threw themselves on the parched ground, sighing in vain for water. During the livelong night, not a drop of that precious element touched their lips; and the soldiers exhausted, and unrefreshed for the toil, and labour, and fierce warfare of the ensuing day.

"At sunrise the Templars formed in battle array, in the van of the Christian army, and prepared to open a road through the dense ranks of the infidels to the lake of Tiberias. An Arabian writer, who witnessed the movement of the dense and compact columns, at early dawn, speaks of them as 'horrible in arms, having their whole bodies cased with triple mail.' He compares the noise made by their advancing squadrons to the loud humming of bees! and describes them as animated with 'a flaming desire of vengeance.' Saladin had behind him the lake of Tiberias-his infantry was in the centre, and the swift cavalry of the desert was stationed on either wing, under the command of Faki-ed-deen (teacher of religion). The Templars rushed, we are told, like lions upon the Moslem infidels, and nothing could withstand their heavy and impetuous charge. Never,' says an Arabian doctor of the law, have I seen a bolder or more powerful army, nor one more to be feared by the believers in the true faith.'

Saladin set fire to the dry grass and dwarf shrubs which lay between both armies, and the wind blew the smoke and the flames directly into the faces of the military friars and their horses. The fire, the noise, the gleaming weapons, and all the accompaniments of the horrid scene, have given full scope to the descriptive powers of the oriental writers. They compare it to the last judgment; the dust and the smoke obscured the face of the sun, and the day was turned into night. Sometimes gleams of light darted like the rapid lightning amid the throng of combatants -then you might see the dense columns of armed warriors, now immovable as mountains, and now sweeping swiftly across the landscape, like the rainy clouds over the face of heaven.

The

the faith of the Trinity, and speedy ruin, desolation, and destruction, overtook the miserable sons of baptism !'

The lake of Tiberias was two miles distant from the Templars, and ever and anon its blue and placid waters were to be seen calmly reposing in the bright sun-beams, or winding gracefully amid the bosom of the distant mountains ; but every inch of the road was fiercely contested the expert archers of the Mussulmen lined all the eminences, and the thirsty soil was drenched with the blood of the best and bravest of the Christian warriors.

"After almost superhuman exertions, the Templars and Hospitallers halted, and sent to the king for succour. At this critical juncture, the Count of Tripoli, who had always insisted on being in the van, and whose conduct, from first to last, had been most suspicious, dashed with a few followers through a party of Mussulmen, who opened their ranks to let him pass, and fled in safety to Tyre. The flight of this distinguished nobleman gave rise to sudden panic, and the troops that were advancing to the support of the Templars, were driven in one confused mass upon the main body. The military friars, who rarely turned their back upon the enemy, maintained, alone and unaided, a short, sharp, and bloody conflict, which ended in the death or captivity of every one of them, excepting the grand master of the Hospital, who clove his way from the field of battle, and reached Ascalon in safety, but died of his wounds after his arrival.

"The Christian soldiers now gave themselves up to despair; the infantry, which was composed principally of the native population of Palestine, men taken from the plough and the pruninghook, crowded together in disorder and confusion, around the bishops and the holy cross. They were so wedged together that they were unable to act against the enemy; they refused to obey their leaders, and quietly resigned themselves to their fate. Brother Terrice, grand preceptor of the Temple, who had been attached to the person of the king, the Lord Reginald of Sidon, Balian D'Ibelin, lord of Naplons, and many of the lesser barons and knights, collecting their followers together, rushed over the rocks, down the mountain-sides, pierced through the enemy's squadrons, and, leaving the infantry to their fate, made their escape to the sea-coast. The Arab cavalry dashed on, and surrounding with terrific cries the trembling and unresisting foot soldiers, they mowed them down with a frightful carnage.

"In vain did the Bishops of Ptolemais and Lidda, who supported with difficulty the holy cross in the midst of the disor