for which he possesses high and undeniable qualifications. There are few narrative authors who display more fluency, variety, and ease; his language is well selected, his sentences are never harsh or monotonous, and the pleasantry that threads like a bright vein the body of his fictions seems natural and necessary to their construction. It is true that the conversational tone in which he frequently writes has subjected him to the charge of feebleness; for people generally consider that what is familiarly expressed cannot be powerful or comprehensive in its kind; but we think that a re-perusal of his former volumes will correct an opinion that is justified by the manner of the author rather than by his matter;" and many parts of the present work, we may add, tend still more to counteract that charge.

We gave a specimen of this work on a former occasion; and we now quote, from the reminiscence of a scene in Ireland, entitled "No Fire!" a passage which exhibits strong marks of feeling. "A figure rushed from the wood, frightful at first sight and shocking on examination. It was that of a man, tall, gaunt, and middle-aged. Fever was on his lip and madness in his eye. His hollowed cheeks, bushy beard, and matted hair, spoke disease, neglect, and misery, and the wild glance which rolled backwards as he tottered toward me, gave evidence of maniac imbecility and exhaustion. His right-hand grasped a staff, which was useless either for support or offence, while he feebly waved his arm above his head. His body was wrapped in a coarse blanket, girded round his middle by a rope of straw; his emaciated limbs were all bare, with the exception of his left arm, which was enveloped in the rude covering that formed his only shelter against wet and wind.

"While the soldiers stood steadily prepared, not merely for the approach of this apparition, but for whatever might follow its movements, the poor wretch fearlessly, or rather unconsciously, moved forwards and redoubled his pace, as about half a dozen ragged village boys, who pursued him with loud shouts, emerged from the lane. Flying from their perse cution to the shelter of the barrack, he implored protection with an air so piteously helpless, that even the fears of O'Toole and Mrs. Merryweather died away before the compassionate wonder

which irresistibly seised every bystander. Every one made way for him, and he entered the barrack; and, seemingly allured by the savory fragrance of the dinner, he advanced into one of the inner rooms; but, as it seemed to me, in momentary consciousness of his forbidding and forlorn appearance, he shrank back from the fire-place, and couched low upon a little three-legged stool, in the most distant corner. He was immediately surrounded by the kind-hearted soldiers and their kinder wives, who, one and all, got over their disgust and fright, and vied with each other in attending to their miserable guest. Large portions of soup, bread, and meat, were placed before him, and voraciously devoured, while a murmured utterance of thanks and blessings broke from him at intervals. When his hunger was sati ated, I said to him, 'Now, my poor fellow, come warm and dry yourself-get near the fire.'-'Oh, no, no,' groaned he, in a hollow and shuddering groan-'no fire-no fire!' and, starting up from his sitting posture, he rushed to another corner of the room, into which he huddled himself, putting his face close to the wall, and shivering in the violent impulse of some horrible recollection. This emotion excited in about equal ratios the pity of the men and the terror of the women, thus stamping its alliance with the first and finest elements of that deep tragic feeling from which it sprang. Perceiving that the coarse sympathy of the group around him only worried the poor sufferer, I strove with a little more address to soothe his irritation. My efforts succeeded; for after a few minutes he looked gratefully up to me, and exclaimed, in a tone of deep and savage pathos, God bless you, and keep you and your's from fire and flame !-Look here,' continued he abruptly, where it scorched and withered me;' and, with gesture and action suiting the words, he drew from beneath his blanket the shrunken and excoriated remnant of his once sinewy arm. The marks of the fierce element were fresh on it; it was scathed and scorched from the shoulder to the wrista blasted branch of the decayed stem it hung to.

'Good God! How did this happen, poor creature?' burst from a dozen voices. 'Whist, whist, and I'll tell you,' hoarsely whispered the maniac, putting his finger to his lips; but say nothing-don't waken them-Norah and the childer are sleeping still-whist!

sequent on this, that gives them a physiognomy so difficult to be seised by the pencil of the writer. We are neither Germans, Spaniards, nor French. We have picked up from each a little of what is good, and rejected a great deal that is bad. We have remained Belgians, neither more nor less, with all that contrariety of character so puzzling to strangers who have not studied it. If a Belgian appears indifferent and cold, it is less from reality than for convenience sake; he is œconomical without being actually avaricious, studious and fond of ease, unempassioned, averse to novelties, at once sober and gluttonous, modest, yet presumptuous, cold in his amours, and terrible in his enmities: he seems, I must allow, an eternal problem of indecision, and displays a plurality of character that exists but in him."

The Trappists of Catsberg are described from personal observation.-"We walk ed through the narrow corridors, on each side of which were ranged the little cellular divisions, where the monks went through the mockery of repose; for there can be little of its comfortable reality in the four hours' rest snatched between eight o'clock and midnight, when they rise again to pray and chant, without changing an article of their clothing from morning till night, or night till morning. Their very shirts, of coarse horse-hair, are worn for a fortnight together. The beds on which they lie down are most ingeniously uncomfortable, being too short for even a common-sized man, and I have no doubt that their possessors often wish for a couch of the Procrustes fashion, with one-half of the capabilities of his celebrated machine. A scanty rug covers the straw on which these selftormentors stretch themselves; and no other furniture of any kind adorns their cells, the dimensions of which do not exceed six feet square. A small aperture is cut in each door, to admit a literal mouthful of air, and on each is inscribed the name of its occupant.

"We next visited the refectory, where a table was laid for about forty. Beside each plate, of the coarsest earthenware, was a mug of the same material, about the size of a small drinking-glass. These were filled with beer; a scanty bit of brown bread was beside each plate; a still smaller portion of cheese; and I found that these, with an undressed salad and a soup made of water, onions, potatoes, and parsley, composed the entire

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repast. But it must be observed, that, at the period of my visit, the Trappists were living well. They had bread and milk for breakfast, beside the dinner luxuries which I have enumerated; but they never eat meat, poultry, or even fish. On the first of October their Lent of nine months was to commence, and during the whole of that time they allow themselves but one meal a day, excluding totally the indulgences of milk and beer, and wholly living (if it can be called so) on vegetables, bread, and water. every room the word Silence was painted on the wall, and I figured to myself these unsocial Cenobites, placed at their lonely board, and, in the coarse though scanty indulgence of appetite, discarding those convivial accessories, which raise eating men above grazing brutes. But the whole system of Trappism goes to degrade mankind to its lowest possible level. Beggary, needless filth of person, perpetual silence (except to the few who must use their tongues to keep their commerce open with the world), seem to be fundamental principles of the order. They herd together for no conceivable purpose that might not be effected by each man singly, and by thus congregating they give a scope to imagination or malignity for odious imputations, which after all may have no reality in them. Yet I could not help viewing these monks with a species of compassion that approached to what might be called interest. Whatever may have been the excesses of bigotry or crime that forced these men into such an asylum, the life they lead is indisputably one of wretchedness. Whatever their sins, the penance is equivalent. For what misery can exceed that of the closest intercourse, without the least society, with one's fellow-men; the mind condemned to wallow in the mire of its own dark thoughts, with constant yearnings to unburthen itself; a companion, perhaps for years, at the very elbow of each wretch, only wanting the interchange of one word to become intimate, confiding, and compassionate-and that word forbidden; to move about, each man a breathing automaton, heart, feelings, and faculties, all under interdict? I say nothing of their personal austerities; but let me be of any order save that of La Trappe-fasting and praying, as long as nature and the brain can be kept on the stretch, flagellated daily, hourly if the vows demand it, so as thought is free to vent itself in

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speech, so as the healing intercourse of friendship be allowed, even at the risk of confidence leading to disappointment! The best fate that awaits the Trappist is, that he cannot live long, and that the intellect is worn out, ere the body sinks under the wasting sufferings to which it is doomed."

ECARTE, OR THE SALONS OF PARIS.
3 vols. 1829.

NOVELS may be rendered, by a writer of judgement and talent, more conducive to moral improvement than solemn sermons or formal essays, because, by lively sketches of character and manners, and by a well-conducted plot, they are calculated to make a strong impression upon the feelings of the reader. The errors of gaiety and dissipation, and the vices resulting from "evil communications," are in these volumes depicted with force.

Sir Edward Delmain and his nephew Clifford pass over to France, and, at Paris, meet old friends, Mr. Dormer, and colonel Stanley, with his daughter.. Dormer has passed through a campaign in America and on the continent. In the former country his vice of gaming had exiled him from the affections of an amiable young lady; but he conquers his failings, and reaps the best reward of his victory. Clifford, however, has less strength of mind, and he falls into the common courses of fashionable young men who are introduced to the Parisian salons. By this conduct he brings his affectionate uncle to a premature grave, throws himself into the prison of St. Pelagie, and loses the esteem of Miss Stanley, until adversity works out his reformation, when he is received by the early object of his choice, and enjoys the happiness of virtue, enhanced by the contrast with the miseries of vice. The plot is simple, but it is ably managed, containing vivid descriptions of fashionable life, animated dialogues, striking incidents, scenes of pathos, and fine moral antithesis. The strength of mind with which Dormer has overcome his propensity to play-the sordid, mean, and desperate features which that vice produces in the generous character of Cliffordthe disinterested, independent friendship of Dormer, and the treachery and, as it proves, fatal cunning of the gambling French marquis, are admirable moral

contrasts; and we may add that the character of Miss Stanley is finely discri minated from that of the giddy and thoughtless Adeline, who falls a sacrifice to profligate associations.

The mention of captain Dormer as a prisoner of war in America, leads to a striking exemplification of the rage for gaming."There are few countries where a passion for play is more painfully manifested than in the United States. All the officers, with very few exceptions, make it their chief study and amusement, and the sun often dawns on the flushed and discolored countenances of those whom it had left agitated by the various and contending emotions which the smiles or frowns of fortune had elicited. Our journey was on horseback, under the escort of two or three officers. A fallen tree, covered with a cloke or pocket handkerchief, was our table; and, squatted like savages on the ground, we usually played by the glaring light of the birch-bark, supplying the absence of the candle, and falling on anxious and harassed counte

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nances."

A gambling scene at Paris is deline ated with spirit.-"Nothing could surpass the magnificence of the scene. A flood of light seemed to burst from the rich crystal lustres, which studded the walls of the gilded apartments, and were reflected from the splendid mirrors. Glittering in jewels, covered with plumes, adorned in all the elegance of Parisian costume, a hundred fine and voluptuous forms arrested the eye in quick succession. A few German and Italian women, who could readily be distinguished -the former by the rich fullness of their proportions, the latter by the almost overpowering lustre of their eyes—were among the number; the remainder were almost exclusively French."

"The princess de L

took up

the cards, and, as she put them together, fixed her eyes upon an Englishman, and, complimenting him in his own language on his knowlege of the game, drew his attention entirely from the board. Melez bien les cartes, whispered a voice in his ear, as she presented the pack to be cut. The young inan took up the cards with an affected air of distraction, and continued to shuffle them for a moment, as he replied to her compliment. The countenances of the adverse party became suddenly clouded, and several

of the men ground their teeth, and evinced every symptom of rage and disappointment. Even the polite player herself

seemed vexed; for she observed, with evident pique, You will certainly wear out the cards if you continue to shuffle them in that manner. I dare say Madame Astelli will supply us with others,' said the Englishman."

The stranger won the game, and was preparing to retire.-"The fury of the opposite party was now extreme; some stamped violently, others uttered exclamations of despair; and, as they beheld the Englishman distributing the wealth, they secretly cursed him in all the bitterness of their hearts. Some, to give their passion full vent, began to abuse the individual who had turned up the last card; and in this they all speedily joined. Women glittering in jewels, and men covered with ribands, were alike loud in their clamours against his interference."

The braggadocio manners of the Frenchman, the calm dignified courage of the English gentleman, and the selfish animal courage of the Irish duellist who advises his English friend to dip his arm in cold water to strengthen the nerves, and to take a glass of brandy before going to the ground, are painted to the life. "Why, Sir,' resumed O'Sullivan, who ever heard of a gentleman fighting in that garb? Black silk pantaloons and stockings, black coat buttoned up to the throat, black silk handkerchief round the neck, not a speck of white to be seen-this, Sir, is the real duelling dress; but a blue coat with metal buttons, and a pair of trowsers of such dimensions-oh, monstrous! and against such a marksman as De Hillier, too! why, Sir, every but ton would be a bull's-eye, and he must be a bungler who could miss your legs, with such a quantity of cloth to conduct the pistol. The dead black is the thing; it disconcerts the aim, and diminishes the object to the eye, while the silk pantaloons often turn aside the ball.'"

We are sorry that our limits preclude our quoting several scenes between Adeline and Clifford. They are full of pathos, and may be highly beneficial, as they evince how impossible is confidence, and how useless are devoted attachment, intensity of feelings, and disinterestedness, where integrity in all things, and the decorums of life, are not most scrupulously observed.

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THE LADY OF ARNHEIM,

Legend, from Sir Walter Scott's new
Romance of Anne of Geierstein,

RUDOLF, a Swiss, relating a story to the hero of the romance, says, "I told you that the lords of Arnheim, though, from father to son, they were notoriously addicted to secret studies, were, nevertheless, like the other German nobles, followers of war and the chase. This was peculiarly the case with Anne's maternal grandfather, Herman of Arnheim, who prided himself on possessing a splendid stud of horses, and one steed in particular, the noblest ever known in these circles of Germany. I should make wild work were I to attempt the description of such an animal, so I will content myself with saying his color was jet-black, without a hair of white either on his face or feet. For this reason, and the wildness of his disposition, his master had termed him Apollyon; a circumstance which was secretly considered as tending to sanction the evil reports which touched the house of Arnheim, being, it was said, the naming of a favorite animal after a foul fiend. It chanced, one November day, that the baron had been hunting in the forest, and did not reach home till night-fall. He was seated alone in his hall, illuminated with cressets and torches. His one hand held a volume covered with characters unintelligible to all save himself. The other rested on the marble table, on which was placed a flask of Tokay wine. A page stood in respectful attendance near the bottom of the large and dim apartment, and no sound was heard save that of the night-wind, when it sighed mournfully through the rusty coats of mail, and waved the tattered banners which were the tapestry of the feudal hall. At once the footstep of a person was heard, ascending the stairs in haste and trepidation; the door of the hall was thrown violently open, and, terrified to a degree of ecstasy, Caspar, the baron's master of horse, stumbled up almost to the foot of the table at which his lord was seated, with the exclamation in his mouth,'My lord, a fiend is in the stable. 'What means this folly?' said the baron, arising, surprised and displeased at an interruption so unusual. Let me endure your displeasure,' said Caspar, if I speak not truth! Apollyon Here he paused. "Speak out, thou frightened fool,' said the baron; is my horse sick,

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