field, to prevent the escape of the prisoner, no less than to guard his person from premature violence, had such been attempted by the enthusiastic and indignant concourse. Arnold of Falkenhorst, stripped of his Moorish garb, and wearing in its stead, his discarded robes of knighthood, his collar and blazoned shield about his neck, his golden spurs on his heel, and his swordless scabbard belted to his side,---w ---was placed before his peers to abide their verdict; beside him stood a page, displaying his crested burgonet and the banner of his ancient house, and behind him a group of chosen warders, keeping a vigilant watch on every motion.---But the precaution seemed needless; the spirits of the prisoner had sunk, and he seemed deserted alike by the almost incredible courage which he had so often displayed, and by the presence of mind for which he had been so widely, and so justly, famous. His countenance, even to his lips, was as white as sculptured marble, and his eyes had a dead and vacant glare, and scarcely did he seem conscious of the purpose for which that multitude was collected around him. Once, and once only, as his eye fell upon the fatal tree, which cast its long shadow in terrible distinctness across the field of judgment, with its accursed noose, and the ministers of blood around it, a rapid and convulsive shudder ran through every limb; it was but a momentary affection, and when passed, no sign of emotion could be traced in his person, unless it were a slight and almost imperceptible rocking of his whole frame from side to side, as he stood awaiting his doom. Utter despondency seemed to have taken possession of his whole soul, and the soldier who had looked unmoved into the very eye of death in the field, sunk like the veriest coward under the apprehensions of that fate which he had no longer the resolution to bear like a man. The herald stepped forth in his quartered tabard, and crown of dignity, and the trumpeter by his side, blew a summons on his brazen instrument that might have waked the dead: while the sounds were yet ringing in the ears of all, the clear voice of the king at arms cried aloud-" Arnold of Falkenhorst, count, banneret, and baron, hear!-Thou standest this day before thy peers, accused of heresy and treason---a fors worn and perjured knight--a deserter from thy banner, and a denier of thy God---leagued with the pagan dogs against the holy church--a recreant, a traitor, and a renegado---with arms in thine hands wert thou taken battling against the cross which thou didst swear to maintain with the best blood of thy veins !--speak!---dost thou disavow the deed?" The lips of Arnold moved, but no words came forth--it seemed as if some swelling convulsion of his throat smothered his utterance ;---there was a long pause, all expecting that the prisoner would seek to justify his defection, or challenge---as his last resource---the trial by the judgment of God; the rocking motion of his frame increased, and it almost appeared as if he were about to fall upon the earth. The trumpet's din again broke the silence, and the herald's voice again made proclamation. "Arnold of Falkenhorst, speak now! or hear thy doom! and then forever hold thy peace!" No answer was returned to the second summons,— and, at the command of Lusignan, the peers and princes of the crusade were called upon for their award. Scarce had he ceased, before the assembled judges rose to their feet like a single man ; in calm determination, they laid each one his extended hand upon his breast, and like the distant mutterings of thunder, was heard the fatal verdict,-"Guilty upon mine honor." The words were caught up by the myriads that were collected around, and shouted till the welkin rang.-"Guilty, guilty,-to the gibbet with the traitor." As soon as the tumult was appeased, Guy de Lusignan arose from his lofty seat, and-the herald making proclamation after him-pronounced the judgment of the court. "Arnold of Falkenhorst, whilome count of the empire,-belted knight,-and sworn soldier of the cross,-by thy peers hast thou been tried, and by thy peers art thou condemned!-Traitor, recreant, and heretic,-discourteous gentleman,-false knight, and fallen Christian,-hear thy doom!-The crest shall be erased from thy burgonet, -the spurs shall be hewn from thine heels,-the bearings of thy shield shall be defaced,--the name of thine house shall be forgotten!-To the holy church are thy lands and lordships forfeit !-On the gibbet shalt thou die like a dog, and thy body shall be food for the wolf and the vulture !" "It is the will of God," shouted the assembled nations, "it is the will of God!"-As soon as the sentence was pronounced,-painful, degrading, abhorrent as that sentence was,-some portion of the prisoner's anxiety was relieved, at least his demeanor was more firm, he raised his eyes, and looked steadily upon the vast crowd, which was exulting in his approaching degradation. If there was no composure on his brow, neither was there that appearance of abject depression, by which his soul and body had appeared to be alike prostrated. Nay, for an instant his eye flashed, and his lip curled, as he tore the collar of knighthood and the shield from his neck, and cast them at the feet of the herald, who was approaching to fulfil the decree. "I had discarded them before," he said, ". nor does it grieve me now to behold them thus." Yet, notwithstanding the vaunt, his proud spirit was stung,-stung more deeply by the sense of degradation, than by the fear of death,―the spurs, which had so often goaded his charger to glory, amidst the acclamations and admiration of thousands, were hacked from his heels by the sordid cleaver,-the falcon crest, which had once been a rallying point and a beacon amidst the dust and confusion of the fight, was shorn from his casque,-the quarterings of many a noble family were erased from his proud escutcheon, and the shield itself reversed, and hung aloft upon the ignominious tree. The pride, which had burst into a momentary blaze of indignation, had already ceased to act upon his flagging spirits,—and, when a confessor was tendered to him, and he was even offered the privilege of re-admission within the pale of the church, he trembled. "The crime-if crime there be-is his," he said, pointing towards Guy de Lusignan, "I had served him, and served the cross, as never man did, had he not spurned me with injury, and disgraced me before his court, when I sought the hand of her whom I had rescued by my lance from Paynim slavery.— Had I been the meanest soldier in the Christian army, my deeds had won me a title to respect, at least, if not to favor.-De Lusignan and his haughty daughter drove me forth to seek those rights and that honor from the gratitude of the infidel, which were denied by my brothers in arms.-If I am a sinner, he made me what I am, and now he slays me for it.-I say not, let him give me the hand which he then denied me,-but let him spare my life, and I am again a Christian, my sword shall again shine in the van of his array, the plots, the stratagems, the secrets of the Moslem shall be his,-I, even I, the scorned and condemned renegado, can do more to replace de Lusignan on the throne of Jerusalem, than the lances of ten thousand crusaders, aye, than the boasted prowess of Cœur de Lion, or the myriads of France and Austria.-All this will I do for him, all this, and more—if he but grants me life!-I cannot--I dare not die !-What said I?—I a Falkenhorst and dare not!" "Thy life is forfeit !"-replied the unmoved priest,-"thy life is forfeit, and thy words are folly. For who would trust a traitor to his liege lord, -a deserter of his banner, and a denier of his faith ?-Death is before thee,-death and immortality! beware lest it be an immortality of evil, and despair,—of the flame that is unquenchable--of the worm that never dies!—I say unto thee, put not thy trust in princes, but turn thee to him, who alone can say, thy sins be forgiven.-Bend thy knee before the throne of grace,-pluck out the bitterness from thine heart, and the pride from thy soul, and though thy sins be redder than scarlet, behold they shall be whiter than snow! Confess thy sins and repent thee of thy transgressions, and he who died upon the mount for sinners, even he shall open unto thee the gates of everlasting life." "It is too late!"-replied the wretched culprit," it is too late!—If I die guilty, let the punishment light on those who shall have sent me to my last account.---Away, priest, give me my life or leave me !" "Slave,"--cried the indignant priest,--" slave and coward, perish,-and be thy blood, and the blood of Him whom thou hast denied, upon thine own head!" Not another word was spoken. He knew that all was hopeless,---that he must die, unpitied and despised,--and in sullen silence he yielded himself to his fate. The executioners led him to the fatal tree-his arms were pinioned the noose adjusted about his muscular neck-in dark and gloomy despair, he looked for the last time around him; he gazed upon the lists, which had so often witnessed the display of his unrivalled horsemanship, and echoed to the applauses which greeted his appearance on the field of mimic war,―he gazed on many a familiar, and once friendly face-all scowling on him in hatred and disdain; heart-sick, hopeless, and dismayed, he closed his aching eyes; and as he closed them, the trumpets to whose cheering sound he had so often charged in glory, rang forth the signal of his doom!—The pullies creaked hoarsely-the rope was tightened even to suffocation-and the quivering frame struggled out its last agonies, amidst the unheeded execrations of the infuriate multitude. Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath Heralded his way to death: Ere his very thought could pray, Without a hope from mercy's aid, H. MISCELLANEOUS NOTICES OF LITERATURE, SCIENCES, THE DRAMA, &c. AN NEW PUBLICATIONS. SEMI-SERIOUS OBSERVATIONS OF ITALIAN EXILE, during his residence in England; by Count Pecchio. 12mo. PP 226. Philadelphia, Key & Biddle. This is a little itinerary bijou, written with a considerable share of spirit, and contains jocular though sometimes sharp satire upon the manners and customs of the English. It is well, let us say, en passant, that the islanders can bear so coolly the severities which are inflicted upon them, for now that counts, and princes, and great personages have taken it into their heads to become authors, and that the long peace of Europe has given them opportunities of going forth to seek matter whereon to scribble, some of them find great holes in which to pick, or else endeavor to make them,-which is much the same thing. Prince Pückler Muskaw has made the at tempt, with an extraordinary portion of bile about him; but our author appears to have done all in liberal but playful feeling, praising where he can, and good naturedly sporting where his opinions do not concur. That his notions cannot be infallible in judging of English customs, government, or religion, may be easily admitted, when it is recollected that he is an Italian,-born in the very bosom of despotic rule, arbitrary belief, and indolent but proud rank. But he has seen many vicissitudes, has resided in various countries, has a taste for letters, and apparently a naturally candid disposition, all of which are great helps in the correction of early prejudices. Besides which he has, we believe, been resident in England altogether, during the last six or seven years. Still, however, the British constitution, and its effects upon the British disposition and habits, are so utterly strange, and inexplicable to foreigners in general, and we may add, to Italians in particular, that the Count very unconsciously raises a good natured laugh upon himself, at the time he imagines he is conjuring it up, at his own view of the matter. The Count commences with the sensations with which he first encountered a London fog, a dreary subject enough, from whence he makes an excursion to the use of gas in that metropolis, shrewdly insinuating in the words of Sismondi, that "in London, in order to see you must wait till night." He visits tea-gardens, he describes sailors, a London Sunday, and the houses of parliament;-still occasionally wielding his scourge, and not always "striking fair," but in no instance do we find a passage that seems to have the spirit of malevolence about it. We venture to give a specimen of the style in which the author writes, though we can ill spare the mode in which the whole work is conroom, but it will give a lively idea of the ducted; and with which we must close, only here assuring our readers that the the drawing room luxuries;-abounding in little book is a very charming addition to sprightly sallies, and much judicious observation."In England, time is a revenue, a treasure, an inestimable commodity. The he is supremely covetous of time. It is Englishman is not covetous of money, but wonderful how exactly the English keep to their appointments. They take out their watch, regulate it by that of their friend, and are punctual at the place and hour. English pronunciation itself seems invented to save time: they eat the letters and whistle the words. Thus Voltaire had some reason to say, the English gain two hours a day more than we do, by eating their syllain a hurry: since it is in a great part combles. Their very language seems to be posed of monosyllables, and two of them again are often run into one.The English talk little, I suppose, that they may not lose time; it is natural, therefore, that a nation which sets the highest value upon time, should make the best chronometers, and that all, even among the poor classes, mail coach guards have chronometers worth should be provided with watches. The eighty pounds sterling, because they must take care never to arrive five minutes past the hour appointed. At the place of their destination, relations, friends and servants are already collected to receive passengers and parcels. When a machine is so complicated as England is, it is essential for would be ruinous." every thing to be exact, or the confusion MAP OF THE CITY OF NEW YORK. J. Disturnell, 155 Broadway.-This is a neat map of the city and environs of New York; drawn by D. H. Burr, and engraved by J. Stiles & Co., expressly for a work called "New York as it is." This latter, by the way, is a very useful little book to strangers and travellers. In looking over the map we perceive that it contains many advantages over those which have heretofore been published; having Brooklyn and Williamsburg laid down as accurately and minutely as the city itself; the city is also divided into half miles, by lines drawn north and south, east and west, commencing at the City Hall; by which means, a person can at a glance ascertain the distances between any two parts of the city. It is very neatly executed, and put up in the pocket book form, with columns of references within the covers. EBEN ERSKINE, OK THE TRAVELLER, by John Galt, Esq., author of Lawrie Todd, &c. &c., 2 vols. 8vo. pp. 424. Phila.--This is the latest work of a writer who has attained to a considerable and deserved portion of popularity. The novels of Mr. Galt, have all displayed an extensive acquaintance with human nature, but he has seldom been very happy in the art of throwing incidents together, nor is his style very nervous or forcible. The present work contains precisely the same class of defects as those that have preceded it; and it may be characterized, as abounding with circumstances of an interesting description, pic tures of human nature which only an accurate and correct observer could have painted, a constant variety both of scene and interest, yet so incongruous among themselves, and joined together so clumsily, and in so improbable a manner, that they may be considered as patchwork, in which there is an infinite variety of beautiful pieces, but no harmonious whole, and presenting innumerable seams that declare the parts to have been connected by an ordinary seamstress, instead of being interwoven in one piece. We will not say that the plot of this book is altogether contrary to human experience, because in truth such a fact has happened in the world once or twice, but it is of a nature against which our feelings are apt to revolt, and we cannot help thinking his invention was at a low ebbthat he could not hang his incidents upon a better peg than the one he has selected. The nominal hero is little more than an agent in the plot, which mainly consists of the seduction of a wife from an amiable husband; his divorce, and her marriage with her seducer; the feelings and regrets of both the divorced parties; the death of the second husband; and the re-marriage of the lady with her first lord. The particulars are filled up in the course of a series of travels, in which Eben Erskine accompanies the bereaved and sorrowful first husband in the character of his private secretary. This book contains characters, scenic descriptions, and tales which are introduced; many of them are extremely good, and had they been connected by better machinery, would have formed a whole highly creditable to the pen of any writer. The book concludes most comfortably with the marriage of Mr. Eben Erskine to the daughter of his patron, after a denouement very lamely brought about; and the latter days of the hero are crowned with affluence and happiness. There is a caustic humor in the style which is occasionally very pleasing, but there is also sometimes an attempt at smartness which can too easily be perceived, and which, we need hardly say, is sure to fail of its effects. The work on the whole is very amusing, and may be made more so, by considering each chapter as a distinct practical essay, and by throwing out of sight all that relates to plot and connected narrative. TOM CRINGLE'S LOG, 2 vols. 8vo. pp. 424. Philadelphia. Carey & Hart.---Perhaps there is no work of light literature that has been more generally approved, or from which more copious extracts have been made, than the subject of the present article. It has been condensed in newspapers, and copied into magazines; there are few who have not read portions of it, and still fewer, on our side of the water, who have read the whole. It is now reprinted entire, by the respectable publishers above named, and we doubt not will meet with an extensive circulation. There is a fidelity in the descriptions of scenes and actions, which every one will readily admit in the reading of them; yet the incidents are in such rapid succession, of so desperate a nature frequently, and so exhausting to the physical system of human nature, that it is mere impossibility to cram them into the professional life of one man. For this, however, no one need to care,---the book conveys a lively idea of the smugglers, pirates, and desperadoes of the Caribbean Islands,---of the dangers to which merchant vessels have been, and indeed still are, liable in some of the passages; of the naval service, sometimes desperate, frequently lucrative, which attends the protection of commercial shipping in those parts,---and of the sudden and awful vicissitudes of weather under which persons in such a service are liable to suffer. There are the most unequivocal marks of the experienced seaman, and the naval officer in all the details, and the incidents are certainly given in the most graphic manner that it has been our fortune to peruse for a long season. We presume that cheapness must have been an object in the eyes of the publishers, for it is, and we regret to say it, ill got up, upon a brownish yellow, coarse, paper, though the typogra phy is executed carefully enough. We could be tempted to wish that publishers would not cater for that extremely parsimonious feeling, which is too often manifested in the case of book-publishing, ---but all combine to compel a regard for taste in the material, which would assuredly do no harm to the taste as regards the matter. It might even be useful in the latter case, by preventing persons from purchasing trash merely because it is cheap. Our table contains many other works which we are under the necessity of postponing till the next number; we will, however, mention the names of two more which we should be sorry to leave out of the list, and which it is our intention to notice much more particularly in the ensuing month. These two are, 1. A COURSE OF LECTURES on Dramatic Art and Literature, by Augustus W. Schlegel, translated from the original German by John Black, 1 vol. 8vo. pp. 442. Philadelphia. Hogan & Thompson. 2. CHARACTERISTICS OF WOMEN., Moral, poetical, and historical. By Mrs. Jameson, author of the "Diary of an Ennuyee," &c. 2 vols. 12mo. pp. 498. Philadelphia. Carey, Lea & Blanchard. |