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thing should happen to either of the consuls, he will be a very proper candidate for "surrogation." However, his defence is very fair; and he does well to insist much on the madness of

Nicholas. He tells the jury that it was notorious that a passionate attachment to a distinguished young lady in the neighbourhood had turned the prisoner's brain; regrets that he was not allowed to call for her evidence and that of her uncle; and that he had it not in his power to subpoena certain persons from the Continent who could have given decisive testimony to the insanity of the prisoner for some time back. Here the Judge interrupts him, and begs him not to proceed on a topic which without evidence could be of no service to the prisoner, and inflict fresh wounds on an eminent family whose peace of mind had already suffered too deeply. At this moment an out-break of frenzy from Nicholas, on the allusions to Miss Walladmor, whose name he wishes to keep clear of all attaint, does something to support the statements of his counsel: which he fails not to press upon the jury. At length Master Pritchard has perorated: the prisoner has made his bold defence, in which the only thing that looks like a disposition to conciliate the jury is a slight allusion to his own unhappy breeding amongst pirates which had taught him little respect for human laws. Night is come, and the jury have retired to consider of their verdict. Betting now recommences with great spirit any odds that Nicholas is game to the last step of the gallows ladder, if indeed he should come thither: but a young nobleman offers a 100 guineas to 100 that the jury acquit him: we are not told whether the judge takes this bet. All this in open court: close behind the prisoner goes on this little conversation:

:

"A stout fellow! by G-: he'll need no stones in his pocket to tighten the noose."

"Is his body sold?"

"Oh no! he's to be dissected here." "Dissected? Oh that's all my eye. Maybe they'll cut a little into the skin just to comply with the law: but take my word for it, he'll be sent to London: the Lon

doners wouldn't miss such a sight for in the British Museum." something. And his skeleton will be kept

"Aye, but I hear," said a third, "that the Fressological Society of Edinburgh has bought him."

"Fressological! You mean Phrenological: I know it very well: Sir Walter Scott's the president."

"Well, fress or phrenological, for aught I care: but I hear they say that he has got the organ of smuggling in his skull, and was born to be hanged."

At

Shift the scene, reader, before the jury bring in their verdict, to Walladmor castle. Here is Sir Morgan sitting alone, having already on certain accounts a deep interest in Nicholas, and some misgivings. this moment steals in Gillie Godber: all is now accomplished: her day is come at last, the day she has been preparing through 25 long years: and the luxury of her vengeance is perfect. Knowing that it is now too late for Sir Morgan to interfere, she gives him satisfactory proof that Nicholas is his son-whom she had stolen in the very hour of his birth, and had delivered to the captain of a smuggling vessel. At the same moment enters Sir C. Davenant: "What is the verdict?" exclaims Sir Morgan, "Guilty!" judgment has passed: the prisoner is to be executed on the following morning: and, to prevent a rescue, the sheriff has resolved to lodge him for this night in Walladmor castle. Sir Morgan bears all with dignity and apparent firmness; and resolves not to see his son until after his death.

Now then we come to the winding up. And the question is-how shall we dispose of the bold criminal? Shall he die?-We have had one obstinate attempt on his life by drowning in the first chapter: and here in the last volume we have 12 men

improved. So that, as betting is the fashion, and supposing the case to admit of any decision, we would gladly stake 10 guineas to 1 with our German friend that out of the first 12 barristers we should see in Westminster Hall we would produce 4 that should work through a chorus of the Agamemnon; not so well as Mr. Symmons, or Mr. Von Humboldt; but yet taliter qualiter: and one of the four perhaps that would puzzle as good an editor as Mr. Schütz.

* "Fressological: " there is a sort of joke in this mistake to German car, which it is scarcely worth while to explain.

combining in another attempt upon his life by hanging: shall this be tolerated? The scenes which follow are so tumultuous and full of action that we have no space left for them. Suffice it to say that Nicholas is for this night safely lodged in the "house of death"-before he can escape, he has the aerial corridor to pass, and the guard room full of dragoons; and the sheriff flatters himself all is safe. "The ides of March are come: saith he yes, Sheriff, but not passed. More than one heart still clings to the guilty Nicholas: steps are moving in the darkness for his deliverance; and hands are at his service (to use the language of a metrical romance) "more than either two or three." There is an old prophecy attached to Walladmor Castle:

When black men storm the outer door,*
Joy shall come to Walladmor.

"

How that should be, the reader will think it hard to guess. All, we shall say, is this: that, as the sheriff of Nottingham in well-known days was often foiled, we see no reason why a Welsh sheriff should hope for eternal success; that the British Museum is quite rich enough to bear a single disappointment; and that the Phrenological Society of Edinburgh may chance, like Mecca waiting for her caravan, to "sicken at the long delay." There are such things as smuggling vessels full of men from every climate under heaven: and even amongst enemies there may be some friends: and Sir C. Davenant and his dragoons may chance to find more work than they can manage and we are in the hands of a fine scenical artist for arranging grand situations; and he may contrive, just as all things hasten to a conclusion, to give us another great discovery or avayr@piois; and he may bring all his people upon the stage together, and groupe them in the finest attitudes for parting and forgiveness; and show South America in the back ground for any bold man that has a character to whitewash; and then drop the curtain upon us all; and call upon us for a "Plaudite!" with three times three for the gay hoaxer and for "WALLADMOR!"

Thus, mounted sometimes en croupe behind the novelist in character of translator, sometimes flying on the wings of abridgment,-we have given a rapid sketch of the German novel. We are now expected perhaps by some readers to put on the black velvet, and pronounce judgment. But the truth is this: novel reading is so purely a piece of sensuality (elegant sensuality no doubt), that most readers resent the impertinence of criticism in such a case, as much as he who sits down to a carouse of immortal wine resents a medical intrusion: the day after he may bear it; but not when he is imbibing the nectar, preparing to imbibe it, or having just imbibed it. In any of these cases it is prudent in the medical friend to keep out of his way. The reader sees, without our telling him, that there is great life and stir in the movement of the story; much dramatic skill in devising situations; and an interest given to some of the characters, beyond the mere interest of the action, by the passions which move them. Two indulgencies however we must suggest to the reader: 1st with regard to Cato-street, he must consider that distance of place has the mellowing effect of distance in time; and that what might be bad taste or coarseness, in any of us-is less so in a German who did not stand so near to it as we, and to whom imperfect knowledge abstracts many of those circumstances which make the recollection of it to us painful or revolting. Secondly we must allow for errors of manners, or feelings, in costuming the parts: these are not at all greater than in many of our own novels of high credit: though more obtrusively forced upon our notice, because the manners painted happen to be our own. And all this it will be the translator's duty to remove. As to the anachronisms, we doubt whether they are not designed. Sir C. Davenant of the year 1822 is said to be the son of the celebrated Sir William Davenant: consequently, he is (according to ancient scandal) by possibility the grandson of Shakspeare, who died in 1616: either son, or papa therefore, must have had a tolerable allowance of life. Bangor Abbey we have noticed

Gate properly (thor); but, for rhyme's sake, door.

already. And there is a battle (not in the story of the novel, but in one of Sir Morgan's long stories) in which we verily believe as many different centuries take a part as in the famous drama of the Antijacobin. The Templars are there; all sorts of Saxons and Welshmen are there: Rhees ap Meredith is there: (and we all know whereabouts he dates :) and a very conspicuous part by the way is played by two Earls of Chester and Slop Now the Earl of Chester (God bless him!) is still a prosperous gentleman in this world; we read of his Lordship daily in the Morning Herald: and he generally does bring a very considerable weight to any side he takes in the battles of this world. But who is his cousin of Slop? Is he by syncope for Salop, i. e. Lord Shrewsbury-some bold Talbot or other? If not, we fear he has long been spilt and wiped up by the Muse of history. However, all these things are trifles: nobody cares about such things in a novel, except pedants.

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runs on. "Author of Guy Mannering!" says Bertram, "Do I hear you right?" "Yes, Sir, and likewise of Kenilworth, the Abbot, the Pirate," &c. and away he bowls with a third roll-call. Now thus far all is fair, and part of the general hoax. But, when we add that this Mr. T. Malbourne conducts himself very much like a political decoy or trepanner-makes himself generally disagreeable by his cynical behaviourand condescends to actions which every man of honour must disdain (such as listening clandestinely to conversations, &c.)-it will be felt that our pleasant friend has here been led astray by his superabundance of animal spirits: this is carrying the joke too far; and he ought really to apologize to Sir Walter Scott by expelling the part from his next edi tion. A second point which we could wish him to amend in his next hoax is the keenness of his satirical hits at us the good people of this island. We like quizzing immensely, as we have said: (we have quizzed him a little here and there :) and we like even to be quizzed. Nay, we could muster magnanimity enough to subscribe to the keenest pasquinade upon our own worthy self, provided it had any salt of wit (for something it should have): and we would never ask after its precise number of falsehoods. But in our national character we do ask a little after this: and the more willing we are to hear of our faults, the more we expect that they shall be our real faults. We will not suspect that he does not like us: for we like him monstrously. Yet, if we were to set Capt. Fluellen or Capt. M'Turk upon his book, we fear that either of those worthy Celts would exalt his nostrils, begin to snuff the air, and say, "Py Cot, I pelieve he's laughing at us.' And Celtic ground, whether Welsh or Gaelic, is not the most favourable for such experiments on the British temper. But let this be reformed, good hoaxer! Do not put quite so much acid into your wit. Come over to London, and we will all shake hands with you. Over a pipe of wine, which we shall imbibe together, you will

But now, dear German hoaxer, a word or two to you at parting. And mistake us not for any of those dull people qui n'entendent pas la raillerie:" on the contrary, we are extravagantly fond of sport: la bagatelle is what we doat on: and many a time have we risked our character as philosophers by the exorbitance of our thirst after "fun." Nay we patronize even hoaxing and quizzing, when they are witty and half as good as yours. But all this within certain eternal limits; which limits are good nature and justice. And these are a little trespassed on, we fear, in the following case:-we put it to our readers. There is a certain Mr. Thomas Malbourne in this novel, of whom we have taken no notice, because he is really an inert person as to the action-though busy enough in other people's whenever it becomes clear to his own mind that he ought not to be busy. This Mr. Malbourne, being asked in the latter end of the book-who and what he is, solemnly replies that he is the author of Waverley. "Author of Waverley!" says Bertram, "God bless my soul! is it possible?" "Yes, Sir," he rejoins, "and also of Guy Mannering, the Antiquary, take quite a new view of our characTales of my Landlord," and so he ter: and we in particular will intro

duce you to some dear friends of ours, Scotch, Irish, and English, who will any of them be glad to take a sixteenth in your next hoax, or even to subscribe to a series of hoaxes which we shall assist to make so witty that (to quote Sir Charles Davenant's grandfather) they shall "draw three souls out of one weaver," shall extort laughter from old Rhees ap Meredith in Tartarus, and shall call out "Lord Slop" from his hiding place. Now, turning back from the hoaxer to the hoax, we shall conclude with this proposition. All readers of Spenser must know that the true Florimel lost her girdle; which, they will remember, was found by Sir Satyrane and was adjudged by a whole assemblage of knights to the false Florimel, although it did not quite fit her. She, viz. the snowy Florimel,

exceedingly did fret:

And, snatching from her hand half angrily

The belt again, about her body gan it tie. Yet nathemore would it her body fit: Yet natheless to her, as her dew right, It yielded was by them that judged it. "By them that judged it!" and who are they? Spenser is here prophetic, and means the Reviewers. It has been generally whispered that the true Florimel has latterly lost her girdle of beauty. Let this German Sir Satyrane, then, be indulgently supposed to have found it: and, whilst the title to it is in abeyance, let it be adjudged to the false Florimel; and let her have a licence to wear it for a few months, until the true Florimel comes forward in her original beauty, dissolves her snowy counterfeit, and reclaims her own "golden cestus."

ON DYING FOR LOVE.

To turn stark fools, and subjects fit
For sport of boys and rabble-wit.-Hudibras.

DYING for love is a very silly thing. It answers no one good end whatsoever. It is poetical, romantic, perhaps immortalizing; but nevertheless it is silly, and oftentimes exceedingly inconvenient. I have been pretty near it myself six or seven times, but thanks to my obstinacy! (for which, indeed, I ought to be thankful, seeing I possess a very considerable portion of that unyielding essence,) I have contrived to keep Death from the door, and Despair from the sanctuary of my thoughts. I cannot, in fact, believe that half of those who have the credit (I should say discredit) of dying for love have really deserved it. A man fixes his affections on a piece of cold beauty -a morsel of stony perfection-or on one far above him in rank and fortune-or on an equal, who has unfortunately a lover whom she prefers. Well! he becomes melancholy, takes cold upon it, and dies. But this proves nothing; he might have died if his passion had been returned, or

The

if he had never loved at all. fate of my friend R is a case in point. He was deeply enamoured of a very beautiful but adamantine lady, and, as a matter of course, grew very low-spirited and very miserable. He did not long survive; and, as another matter of course, it was given out that he died for love.

As the world seemed to think it sounded better than saying, that his death was occasioned by drinking cold water immediately after walking ten miles under a burning sun, I did not contradict the report, although I had good grounds for so doing, and it became very generally believed. Some aver that Leander died of love, "because," say they, "if Hero had not been on the other side of the Hellespont he would not have been drowned-argal, he died for love."* These are your primary-cause-men! your wholesale deduction-mongers! Now I am a plain-spoken fellow, and am more apt to draw natural than romantic conclusions-argal, I say

See As you like it. Act iv. S. 1.

he died of the cramp, or from
being carried away by the rapidity
of the stream: although, I know at
the same time that this is not the
current opinion. I am no poet, and
therefore take no poetic licences:
the romantic do; and I am quite
willing to let Common Sense decide
between us.
Let me, however, not
be misunderstood; I argue not on
the impossibility, but on the folly
and inconsistency of dying for love.
That it has occasionally happened
I am well aware. I remember Ma-
rian T, when she was as lovely
and lively a girl as ever laid a
blushing cheek on a snowy pillow,
and sank into dreams of innocence
and joy. I remember her, too, when
the rose was fading from her cheek,
and solace and happiness had vanish-
ed for ever from her forsaken heart.
There was the impress of blighted
hope upon her brow-the record of a
villain's faithlessness upon her sunken
cheek. Her eye told of long suffer-
ing, and her constant but melancholy
smile evinced how patiently she en-
dured it. Day by day the hue of
mortality waxed fainter and fainter;
her beautiful form wasted away,

and she became at last like a spirit of heaven dwelling among, but scarcely holding communion with, the sons and daughters of the earth. The latter part of her life seemed an abstraction—a dream—an unconsciousness of what was passing around her. The sister of S-- (of S-- who had broken the vows that were pledged with such seeming fidelity to Marian) abhorred her brother's perfidy, and was fonder than ever of the poor heart-broken girl. She sincerely pitied her

For pitee renneth sone in gentil herte; and sought by every means in her power to revive her past energies, and recall her to lost happiness and peace. But it was too late; although she complained not, her spirit was broken for ever: and in the effort of raising herself to give a last kiss to her friend, she sank back and died without a struggle or a sigh. There were some lines in a periodical work, shortly after her death, evidently written by a person acquainted with the parties, which, I think, may not improperly be inserted here.

To GS

There's a stain on thee that can never fade,
Tho' bathed in the mists of future years,
And this world will be but a world of shade,
Of sorrow, and anguish, and bitter tears.
Thou hast seen a flow'ret pine away,

That, loved by thee, would have blossom'd fair,
And thou shalt meet with a worse decay,
And wither and die in thy soul's despair.

Like the summer's breath was the gentle tale
With which thou told'st of thy love and truth,
But thy falsehood came, like the wintry gale,
And blighted the flow'ret in its youth.
It has sunk to earth, but nor tear nor sigh
Has e'er betray'd thy bosom's pain,
Yet a day will come when thou would'st die
To call it back from the grave again.

Had'st thou cherish'd it with the smile that won
Its fadeless love in Spring's blooming hour;
Had thy love beam'd o'er it like the sun,
Whose rays are life to the drooping flow'r ;-
It had still been fair, and thou had'st now
Been calm as the lake that sleeps in rest;
But the ray of joy shall ne'er light thy brow,
Nor pleasure dwell in thy lonely breast.

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