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"His words convey some deep, though unexplained, interest in her, and he pauses as she approaches. Matilda enters, sees Osmyn, and recoils in terror. Finding that she does not recognise him, he falls at her feet in an agony of despair.

"Act the third discovers Osmyn, still in the ruined cathedral, recovering from his trance; he resolves to spare Salerno on conditions, and dispatches officers to summon the Christian leaders to his presence. He then discloses to Syndarac, a faithful adherent, the circumstances of his past life. Twenty years before, he was Guiscard, Prince of Salerno, and the husband of Matilda. Manfred, a neighbouring potentate, seized his territory, and plunged him in a dungeon, where he was supposed to die of famine. A slave furnished him with the means of life: after six years of captivity, his dungeon is rent by an earthquake, and he escapes; no one knows him, and he wanders through the city unrecognised. One day, on a solemn festival, he sees Matilda come in triumph, attended by shouting multitudes, acknowledged as the wife of Manfred, and with a child, whom she calls on the people to protect, as the son of his enemy. Convinced of her perfidy, he flies, abjures the Christian faith, and, as Osmyn the renegade, after an absence of many years, returns to gratify his long-delayed vengeance. The following passages, taken from this scene, are among the most striking and poetical in the play:

There is a choking agony When the heart's torture labours for confession, Even though confession's torture; and we tell To friend or foe-or stranger-or the windsThat which they mock at, all alike—and feel Their mockery as a respite to the pang That rent us ere disclosure-Listen to me.

Oh! when the tide of ruin swept my towers,
Whom did I grasp at in the wreck?-that woman!
Whom did my last appealing groan invoke?
Whom did my bursting eyeballs strain to see—
(Would they had burst)-whom did the blood I shed
Drench to her shrinking bosom?-that-that woman!
They seized me when I could no longer strive-
They plunged me in a dungeon of these towers-
I cannot tell my dungeon agonies-

Nor time-nor space was there-nor day-nor midnight—
I knew not that I lived-but felt I suffered —
Synd. Didst thou not live for vengeance?
Osmyn. No; I lived for her-

Amidst those horrors lived for her aloneShe was the moonbeam of my maniac cell, That, lighting me to madness, still was light.

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A helmet hides their heads-a turban thine-
And when ye mutter o'er your heartless prayers,
They bend them to the East, and thou to Mecca.
'Tis reason strong and just as e'er
Distorted conscience gives to evil passions.
Thou art a fool in vengeance-a blunt fool,
Who knows the weight a fleshy frame can bear,
And lays it on with strong unpitying hand,
But forms no exquisite engine for the soul.
Canst thou, o'erlooking matter's paltry pangs,
Forge agonies for the heart of man within him?
Bend down the viewless and impalpable spirit,
To writhe in tortures body never felt?
Thy vulgar cruelty, thou fool in torture,
Cries out-I hate thee, and will kill thee;-mine
Exclaims-I hate thee far too much to kill thee.
If thou wouldst make man wretched, make him vile,
Sear up his conscience, make his mind a desert,
His heart an ulcer, and his frame a stone;
Countryless, friendless, wifeless, childless, Godless;
Accursed of Heaven, and hated-make him Osmyn !'

"Guiscard surrenders himself to save his country. Osmyn accepts the sacrifice, and determines to bear him away as a slave. Hating him as the supposed son of Manfred, he admires his heroism, and addresses him as follows:


I've sought thy ruin, have o'erthrown thy power, Have flung thee captive into bonds of iron, Yet there is here a nameless wandering feelingI know not how to utter it-to image itI came to curse thee like the prophet oldLike him, o'erruled by a supernal power, Lo! I return to bless thee-be thou bless'd!


Men shall speak of us in the after ages;
Thus will they say of thee: He was a star
That sail'd on smiling through the deeps of Heaven,
Mocking all clouds-whose brightness was within.
Thus will they say of me: He was a meteor,
On whose dread light pale faces doubtful gazed,
As he swept on his path of desolation.

Glorious shall be thy light, and bright thy setting-.
My track is terror-and my end is darkness.'


"Matilda rushes in as Guiscard is on the point of being carried away in bondage, and declares that a secret in her possession will release him from the hatred of Osmyn, to whom she demands to be conducted. The fourth Act opens with the most touching, and the most dramatic, scene in the play, between Osmyn and Matilda. In the course of this interview, she proves her fidelity to her first and only husband, and that her acknowledging herself the wife of Manfred, after his death, was a subterfuge, to save the life of Guiscard, her son, and to secure for him his just succession to the sovereignty of Salerno. Osmyn can no longer command his feelings, but discovers himself to Matilda This passage is extremely beautiful :

Osmyn. Wouldst thou behold thy husband? Matilda. My husband?

Osmyn. Ay-the husband of thy youth.

Him long deem'd dead amid the vaults we tread on-
Darest thou see him? He wore no turban once-
The glow of youth was on his cheek-'tis faded;
The light of hope was on his brow-'tis quench'd;
The strength of hosts was in his arm-it trembles-
Trembles to lift this veil-this was thy husband.

Matilda. Risen from the dead! Away, and save thy son!

Osmyn. The son of Manfred mine?

Matilda. Talk not, but save him. He is thy son.'

"Osmyn dispatches his signet to Bentaleb, with orders to surrender his prisoner. Bentaleb refuses obedienceexcites the troops to mutiny-seizes Osmyn as a traitor, and plunges him in a dungeon. The fifth Act is short, but contains quite enough of incident to sustain the tragic interest of the piece. Guiscard is released by Syndarac; the Christians overthrow the Turks; Bentaleb, though foiled, seizes a moment in which he effects the murder of Osmyn, who dies repentant in the arms of his wife and son.

"From the passages we have quoted, our readers will perceive that the poetry is characterised by all the peculiarities of Maturin's genius. Both on the stage and in the closet, Osmyn will add to the reputation of the author, and its production on our national boards is highly creditable to all parties concerned. Maturin and Knowles, both Irishmen, have produced the most successful modern tragedies. Both are entitled to a high place in the list of dramatio authors-opposite in style, but kindred in genius. The writing of Knowles is distinguished by strength and simplicity that of Maturin, by gorgeous ornament and splendid figures. Knowles was more fortunate in his selection of subjects. Virginius and William Tell are hallowed in our memories by long and fond associations. The story of each strikes home to every heart; the incidents belong to the situations, and every one can feel their truth and probability. The more romantic imagination of Maturin searches among the dark and stormy recesses of the human soul, and produces scenes of guilt and agony, and characters of terrible passion and energy, more powerful and appalling, but less natural and affecting. They command, perhaps, our admiration, rather than our sympathy-our wonder, rather than our tears.


Chronicles of a School Room. By Mrs S. C. Hall, Editor of "The Juvenile Forget-Me-Not." London. Westley and Davis. 1830. 12mo. Pp. 243.

Tris publication alone, were all her previous efforts obliterated, would elevate Mrs Hall to the first rank as an elegant and delightful instructress of youth. If we place her second to Miss Edgeworth, we certainly think she is pressing close upon that lady's footsteps, and is second to no one else. We hold her already superior to her friend, Mrs Hofland, to whom she has dedicated her present volume. Besides the information which they convey, and the fine moral lessons they inculcate, there is a warmth, a sincerity, an enthusiasm, an Irishness about Mrs Hall's writings, admirably calculated to win the youthful mind. It is impossible for any young lady, from ten to twenty, to read the Tales composing the "Chronicles of a Schoolroom," without being made wiser and better, without having her heart softened, and her dispositions improved. The tales are supposed to be told to the authoress by a pleasant elderly lady, called Mrs Ashburton, who had long kept a boarding-school of the highest character in the neighbourhood of Little Hampton, a village in Sussex. There are seven stories, and they are entitled "Marie de Jariot," "Millicent O'Brian," "Sweet May Douglas," "The Two Indians," "The Painter's Sister," "Zillah Penrose," and "The Deaf and Blind." We love all these, but the three last are special favourites with us. Of course the heroine of each narrative is one of the young ladies, who had been placed under Mrs Ashburton's care; and we are thus presented with a succession of beautiful portraits, each distinct in itself, yet each more attractive than another. The tender interest attached to the French lady Marie de Jariot, is finely relieved by the still higher fortitude and happier fate of Millicent O'Brian. The merry and sweet May Douglas, transplanted into the richness of England, from her father's castle, far away among the Highland hills, dances before us like one of her own harebells in the light and dew of a summer morning. Nor are the two Indian maidens less interesting, with their magnificent black eyes, and glorious features, telling of remote intermarriages among the princes of the Eastern land; nor the Painter's Sister, that pale and delicate girl, with a face to which genius lent its own peculiar beauty, and an undying affection and admiration for the brother of her childhood, the friend and com

panion of her riper years; nor Zillah Penrose, the Quaker's daughter, shutting up in the recesses of her own bosom an enduring treasure of meekness, patience, gentleness, and lofty mental firmness, which yields not even to the terrors of the storm upon the mighty deep; nor Clara and Anna Damer, sisters in beauty, and sisters in affliction, the one blind and the other deaf, yet both capable of adorning and enjoying life, and of winning for themselves a purer inheritance, where all films will pass away from the eyes, and floods of music 'swell upon the ear. It is delightful to dwell, though but for a few hours, among creations such as these, for there is something in the very atmosphere in which they move, that refines the grosser spirit, and purges away the impurities contracted by an intercourse with the selfish world.


"I dearly love what may be called tire-side enjoyments. Music!-yes, it decidedly is, or ought to be, one; and a young lady employed in the exercise of that exquisite talent, for the purpose of soothing or enlivening the dear home circle, is ever an object of interest and affection. How delicious are some of our sweet ballads sung in the soft twiremembered notes of The Winter it is past, The Birks light,-papa and mamma tranquilly listening to the wellof Endermay,' or the thrilling combination of sense and sound in the Exile of Erin,' and then blessing God for having given them an unspotted child, who, though it may be rich, and young, and beautiful, derives more delight from their approval, than from the applause of the gay and brilliant.


"Books!-what pleasure do they not impart? Quick,draw the curtains,—the circular table a little nearer the fire; Emily, the dear little Emily, on her own particular stool t mamma's feet, her fine doll in her lap, which she is stealthily undressing, lest papa should be shocked at seeing it en robe de nuit; Martha, the good-natured Martha, arranging some flowers in her hortus siccus; Rebecca, the sage, the wise young woman of the family, pondering over The Foreign Review,' or the last Quarterly,' or the sound yet laughing Blackwood,' or my especial favourite, The British Magazine;' mamma investigating the contents of a Tidy,' that newly invented receptacle of torn clothes, sighing over portions of the dilapidated wardrobe of seven children; papa turning the leaves of a musty folio, the stock-book of the household for various purposes; while Alfred, the eldest hope of the family, stretches his feet on Pompey's silky coat, and tosses over and over an aged newspaper, from which (silly fellow) he knows he can derive no information. Gentle reader!fancy such a scene, in a country mansion, some forty er sixty miles from London, at the beginning of November; and fancy, also, old Daniel, or old Joseph, or old Samuelany old servant will do-entering with a parcel, a London parcel of books! Just fancy the delight such an event must occasion to such a party, who are all, with the exception of mamma, who has too much to think of, and Emily, whe does not think at all, somewhat book-wormish; how charming! A parcel containing the best of Colburn's public tions, for those seniors of the party who ought to know how the proceedings of the literary world are conducted; books from Westley and Davis, fit for the Sabbath and the serious; and such charming pretty-looking things from Hailes and Harris, as make even Emily forget her doll. A heap of delightful Annuals for those who love pretty pictures and rational amusements. How much are we indebted to them during the winter evenings, when out of doors the snow is deep and the wind piercing!

"I might say, and with truth too, that, for very little masters and misses, a quiet game of blindman's-buff is seasonable at Christmas time, particularly when a steady person is present to call 'fire' and prevent mischief; though I almost fear that to express such an opinion is likely to bring me into disrepute with the young élégantes, and those very smart juvenile gentlemen who come under the denomination of little dandies-troublesome monkeys! I could better, by a thousand times, endure a good romping boy, than a min cing, finikin, perking, bowing, simpering Jemmy Jessamy, with kidded hands, perfumed handkerchief, and empty But I am sure all little creatures, roly-polys under eight, will forgive me, ay, and love me too, for tolerating



gentlewomanly amusement, and ought not to be neglected, "I am sorry that needlework goes out of fashion; it is a particularly by those who have many brothers and sisters, and whose parents are not rich. Many girls, I am sorry to say, despise their needle, and affect to think work unfit occupation for genteel or intellectual beings. I both grieve for, and am angry with, such misses. I can tell them, that framing clothes for the poor and desolate widows and er many of our high-born noble ladies employ their fingers in

Nor are the tales the only attraction of this excellent little volume. They are interwoven with much useful information and instructive discourse. We are present-phans of our distressed country. And I can also tell them ed, for example, in one place, with some pleasant anec- that the sensible and instructive Hofland, the playful and dotes, illustrative of the habits of the birds; in another, highly-gifted Mitford, ay, and even the graceful and ele with sea-side meditations, and a few glimpses into the gant Landon, think it no disgrace to form themselves the science of Conchology; in a third, with remarks on Bo-garbs in which they are always fascinating, because always tany, and so on throughout. As we cannot afford space for cupations is, that the mind can be engaged, either in hearunaffected. One advantage of the generality of female ocing or reflecting, when the fingers are employed in plain work, or even in embroidering; and nothing is more delightful than a party enlivened by alternate reading and music, where the greater number are not too fine to be industri

'any of the separate stories, we must be contented with an extract of a different nature, which, though it conveys no notion of the merits of the "Chronicles," will afford some idea of Mrs Hall's lively and agreeable style. We may entitle the passage



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rived just at the time when Preciosa was about to take the veil, and retire from the world for ever: Impressed with the solemnity of the ceremony, a sudden stupor seized our heroine, and she fell motionless at the foot of the marble pillar. "They raised her up; they bathed her pale and lovely face,-lovely even in death; but it would not do,-it would not do! With that last strain Such Gertrude; a Tale of the 16th Century. 2 vols. London. of harmony the immortal soul had fled for ever." is a brief outline of the incidents upon which the story Colburu and Bentley. 1830. of Gertrude is founded.

We earnestly recommend this volume to the attention of all parents, guardians, and teachers, who are anxious for the moral culture of the female part of their charge, for the growth of those graces which pass not away, which charm in this life, and prepare the way for a better.

THE reign of Henry the Third is one of the periods in French History which abounds in incidents well calculated for the purposes of the novelist. The character of the reigning Prince was a strange compound of levity, folly, and vice. Surrounded by a young and thoughtless nobility, and abandoned to all the effeminacy of a court, he augmented, says Millot, the scandal of his manners, "par les grimaces de devotion." The Protestants and Catholics were at this time striving for the ascendancy, and France was in a state of perpetual agitation, to the continuance of which the ambitious spirit of Catherine de Medicis not a little contributed.

It is to this period, so fertile in events, that the tale of Gertrude relates. Gertrude was the daughter of Count Guy of Frontenaye, in Provence. During the troubles which followed the massacre of St Bartholomew, the family to which Gertrude belonged was destroyed by a band of villains, enemies to the Huguenots. For some time after this catastrophe Gertrude lived in a retired manner, until a party of the Royal Family happened to pass near her residence. Among this party was Duke Beaumont, King of Navarre. His heart was touched at the sight of the "Violet of Provence," as she was termed; and he soon afterwards sought her dwelling again in the character of a wandering Troubadour. Having ingratiated himself into her favour, he disclosed to her his real name

and rank, and, induced by his importunities, together with the repeated invitations of the Duchess of Monbazon, Gertrude left the castle of Frontenaye, and set out for Paris, to accept of the office of maid of honour to Madam Catherine, the sister of Henry of Navarre. Our heroine bore a distinguished part in all the balls and festivities which took place at the junction of the two courts of France and Navarre. She surpassed in beauty all the other ladies, and her accomplishments did not fail to engage the attention of even Catherine de Medicis. It was amid the splendours and gaieties of the fashionable circle,

that the affection of the Duke for Gertrude increased so

much, that he proposed to divorce his own wife, Marguerite of Valois, in order to make way for Gertrude. Her regard for the Duke was equally sincere, and she would probably have become the wife of the future King of France, had not prudence seemed to oppose the alliance. She was advised by her friends to abandon all thoughts of it, both on account of the vast difference in point of rank, and also from the envy and hatred which such a union would excite among the different members of the court. This prudent counsel, after a severe struggle, Gertrude followed. The court was soon afterwards transferred to the castle of Pau, in Bearne. During the war with the Huguenots, Catherine here beguiled the time by numerous fetes and amusements. It was after one of these pastimes that the Princess and Gertrude, wandering through a wood near the river Adau, were rescued by a stranger from the attack of a ferocious boar. The stranger, known by the name of "Le beau Chevalier Anglais," was Lord de Gray, an Englishman by birth. He had left his native country at an early age, and had entered the army as a simple volunteer. Gertrude felt grateful to her deliverer, and he fell in love with her; but a certain prophetic presentiment of the shortness of her existence brooded over the feeling mind of Gertrude. Nothing could induce her to marry Lord de Gray. Oppressed by a religious melancholy, she retired to the convent of her friend Preciosa, and ar

We may now present our readers with a specimen or two of the style of the fair authoress of Gertrude. The massacre of St Bartholomew took place, August 24, 1572, during the reign of Charles IX. The following is a graphic and interesting description of that direful catastrophe:


"For six days the massacre of St Bartholomew had con tinued in Paris. Five hundred noblemen perished, with many thousand persons of every sex and age, from the infant on its nurse's breast, to the grey-haired old man, who, standing on the brink of the grave, was hurried into it. For virtue, science, religion, beauty, no claim was heard; dom followed the example of the capital; and, during the no pity was shown. Almost every province in the kingwhole of September, France was divided into two parties, executioners and victims. The names of the King of Navarre, and of his cousin, the Prince of Condé, were, after much deliberation, effaced from the list of those distinguished victims, who were marked for slaughter by Queen Catherine de Medicis that of the King of Navarre principally on acwhich he had contracted with his sister; while the Prince count of his relationship to the King, and of the alliance of Condé was saved through the interest of the Duke of Nevers, who became surety for his fidelity and submission. We are told that King Charles looked from the windows of the Louvre, and seeing that the sun shone brightly, observed that the weather itself was rejoicing at the murder of the Huguenots. As if Heaven had heard the infamous With remark, the sky became clouded, and a storm arose. a glance of horrid satisfaction, the monarch strained his eyes over the scene which presented itself before him. Mingled with the thunders, arose the blasphemous voices of the murderers, traversing the city like demons unchained before their time-the continual firing of arquebusses and pistols, each sound of which gave signal that an immortal soul had taken its flight to another realm-the lamentable cries of those who in vain endeavoured to escape-the groans of the dying wretches whose bodies were thrown from the windows, or dragged through the dust with savage yells of triumph, while showers of stones were levelled against the doors and windows, and six hundred houses given up to plunder. In the evening of St Bartholomew's-day, the King, followed by his brothers, by the three Queens and their ladies, and by all his court, went to the Cimetrière somed that day, was regarded as a prodigy. On their re des Innocents,' to see a honeysuckle, which, having blosturn homeward, they walked gaily through rows of dead bodies, and the next day repaired to mass in solemn procession, to render thanks to God for the success. History does not record that any voice faltered while singing this Te Deum; but, from the hour of Coligny's death, sleep refused to visit the eyelids of the French King. Surfeited with human blood, the royal assassins at length stretched forth their hands, saying, It is enough;' and a short calm succeeded this frightful hurricane. According to Perèfixe, a hundred thousand people perished. Execrable action! he adds, which never has had, and, please God, never will have, any parallel.'"


Among the numerous mignons, or favourites of the King of France, there was one Monsieur de Balzac, who had lately returned from his travels in Scotland. The following passage, in which the corcomb gives an account of what he had seen, is amusing:

"Give us an account of your travels, Monsieur de Balzac?' said Madame Catherine.


"Beshrew me, if your Highness be not too severe,' lisped the favourite, as if a few minutes would suffice to relate the dangers and adventures which I have gone through, since the hour when an evil genius first tempted me to visit that accursed land, where I have scarce escaped starving, drowning, and every manner of privation; their wine is

wretched, their pastry uneatable-the men are ruffians

the women unmannered, dowdy savages! If your Highness Hoyle made Familiar, with the Rules of Practice. By

will believe me, I breakfasted with the Countess of Mar, or rather saw her breakfast, upon a chine of beef and a gallon of ale!'

Eidrah Trebor, Esq. Edinburgh. Stirling and Kenney. 1830. Pp. 106. 32mo.


"The ladies expressed due horror at this enormity. "And not a drop of cool claret,' continued de Balzac, 'pon honour! not the smallest possibility of getting one's ruff properly starched. That I have escaped alive is next to a miracle. By the mass! I have been forced to tighten my girdle by two inches.'

er, we know nothing; and being somewhat curious in genealogical pursuits, we were rather anxious to ascertain And their town of Edinburgh?' said the Queen-mo-the family of Eidrah Trebor, Esq. At length we hit


upon the expedient of reading the letters backwards, and found them to make Robert Hardie-the same patronymic as that of the ingenious printer of the book. This is a discovery which none but an editor of first-rate talent could have made, yet we shrewdly suspect that Mr Hardie has received important assistance from some practised hand, and that there has been an imperium in imperio. The work rejects all games not played with cards; but comprises distinct rules and instructions for playing many games, directions for which were hitherto to be obtained only in separate treatises. The editor explains his object more specifically in the following preface:


"The very high reputation which Hoyle's Games have deservedly maintained for nearly a century, has led to innumerable editions of his treatises-all, as the phrase is, 'revised, corrected, much improved, and considerably enlarged.' But it seems to have escaped the observation of his numerous editors, that Hoyle wrote for those who were previously in some measure acquainted with the mode of playing the various games of which he treats, and that his than to instruct the wholly uninstructed. In this edition, work was intended rather to enlighten the already instructed, an attempt has been made-successfully, it is confidently hoped-to incorporate the Reading-made-easy' with the Grammar' and Philosophy of cards;-in other words, to give such a plain and perspicuous description of each game, from the cutting for deal to scoring the last point, as will enable the person who never saw a pack of cards, by peru sing the three or four prefatory pages, and the treatise on the game he wishes to acquire a knowledge of, to understand its principles, and, with a little practice, to play it well. A number of new games, never before published, have been intioned, the fashionable game of Ecarté, freely translated serted in the present edition, among which may be menfrom the French treatise, with Catch the Ten,' or Scotch Whist, and the Irish game of Five and Ten; besides several new Round Games, and varieties of some of the old ones."

"Dull as a provincial town, 'fore Gad,' replied he; 'nothing going on every thing in confusion. A savage creature called Knox, thundering in every body's ears against the abominations of Popery. Coarse rustics, with lank hair, and shining faces, listening with wonder to his tiresome shouting. I paid my devoirs to the Regent Murray, and he asked me to dinner. By my lady! I went with an appetite, but the sight of his unsavoury viands was more than sufficient. A house trumpet, the sound of which nearly annihilated me, summoned us to the banquet. I was placed next to a hideous hairy savage, called Lord Ruton, or Ruthven, or some such name. I merely intended to hint to him that his ruff was scarce sufficiently stiff, and beshrew me, if he did not grin upon me after the fashion of a hyena!-But I pray you, ladies, question me no more; it irks me to think of it.""

Throughout this novel, we meet with many pleasing and interesting passages, not unfrequently reminding us of the touching pathos which pervades the beautiful story of Louisa Venoni, by the Man of Feeling.

In this age, when every intellectual pursuit seems to be tending to extravagance and excess," when," in the language of Johnson, "the rage of writing has seized the old and the young, when the cook warbles her lyrics in the kitchen, and the thresher vociferates his heroics in the barn; when our traders deal out knowledge in bulky volumes, and our girls forsake their samplers to teach kingdoms wisdom," it is pleasant to meet with so chaste and simple a production as Gertrude.

HAVING examined this neat and comprehensive treatise, on no less than thirty different games of cards, with considerable care, we are free to state, that it is written with both accuracy and judgment. Of the editor, how

The Fortunes of Francesco Novello de Carrara, Lord of
Padua, an Historical Tale of the Fourteenth Century,
from the Chronicles of Gataro, with Notes. By David
Syme, Esq. Edinburgh. Constable and Co. 1830.
8vo, pp. 257.
WE have read this work with much pleasure. It con-
tains a faithful and vivid picture of the manners of the
Italians in the fourteenth century. Gataro, the princi-
pal historian of the House of Carrara, possesses a style
full of simple eloquence and natural vivacity; and is for-
tunate in having for his subject the vicissitudes of an an-
cient and noble family, whose successes and power, so
constantly alternated with harassing sufferings and hair-
breadth escapes, and finally ending in a very sad and
bloody tragedy, afford materials for the chronicler almost
as interesting as could be found in any work of fiction.
In reading Gataro, we are not unfrequently reminded of
Froissart, and he interests us almost as much in the
principality of Padua, as the French historian does in
the affairs of his own nation. We had intended to have
presented our readers with a more elaborate analysis of
this work, and some extracts from it; but as we find
that its interest mainly depends upon its continuity,
we prefer simply recommending it to those who enjoy a
peep into the stirring events of the past. Mr Syme, the
translator, or rather the compiler, has executed his task
with great judgment. "As the excessive prolixity," he
says, "of honest Gataro has with justice been complain-
ed of, I have melted down the original narrative, and
re-cast it in a smaller mould, preserving as much as pos-
sible the fashion of the old workmanship." Mr Syme
has also given some explanatory extracts in the shape of
an Introduction, and has added a number of useful notes.
The work altogether indicates the hand of a scholar, and
will be read by scholars with much satisfaction.

This work is adorned with a frontispiece, very neatly engraved by Lizars, but from a most ungallant design by J. Stewart, from the land of the West. An elderly per son-evidently a gourmand, "with spectacles on's nose,' and "in fair round belly, with good capon lined,”—th very image of Mathews in the character of Mr Wiggans is represented at table with a "Bold Dragoon" for his partuer, and with tricks before each of them! whilst they are opposed in the game by two ladies-spinsters as part ners! Mr Stewart should have recollected that Shak speare says,

"Two women placed together, always make cold weather.'

This treatise carries with it, besides our recommenda tion, the virtues of being neatly printed, handsomely co vered, and moderately priced; whilst its size is adapte either for a lady's reticule, or the waistcoat pocket of gentleman. It would be well were a copy of the boo laid on every card-table, along with the cards; for may safely be taken as an umpire in all companies, o disputed points.

FINE ARTS.-Landscape Illustrations of the Waverl
Novels. Engraved by William and Edward Finde
Part I. London: Charles Tilt. Edinburgh: Thom
Ireland. 1830.

JUDGING by the present specimen, this promises to a beautiful and interesting work. "From the numero

Historical Illustrations," say the conductors, "which Jave appeared to embellish the Novels of the Author of Waverley, it is matter of surprise that no attempt has yet jeen made to convey an idea of the scenery, which, beauiful in itself, has been rendered doubly interesting by the lescriptions of the distinguished author. To supply this leficiency is the object of the present undertaking." A umber of distinguished artists have been engaged to furnish drawings; and those views will be selected which have been dwelt on with admiration by Sir Walter himself. The work is to be published in parts, each containing four plates, of a size to bind up with the new edition of the Waverley Novels, but the impressions are also taken off on paper sufficiently large for any of the collected editions. Part first, comprises views of Arran, of Doune Castle, of Penrith, and of Windermere, illustrative of passages in the "Heart of Mid-Lothian," " Waverley," and Gay Mannering." All these are finely executed, and are a good augury of the success of the work.

Mercator and Felix. By John M'Cay, Member of the Royal Physical Society of Edinburgh. Edinburgh. MacLachlan and Stewart. 1830. Stitched. Pp. 23. THIS is a neat and classically-written brochure, illustrating and inculcating the fact, that wealth is neither the surest nor the best road to happiness.


We have seen T. P. Cooke in the redoubted drama of Black-eyed Susan," to have a peep at which the Cockneys squeezed themselves to death for a hundred nights. The acting of T. P. is, of course, excellent; but in so far as the writing is concerned, the piece is greatly below par. It wants the true sea smell; it savours too much of Wapping and Grub-street. One may discover pretty easily, that though the author may have more than once taken a wherry at Blackfriar's Bridge, he has never weathered a storm in the Bay of Biscay. His nautical phrases have been culled from books, not picked up on the forecastle. Although entitled a "Nautical drama," there is not a single really nautical character in the whole piece except William, and, if we are not much mistaken, T. P. Cooke has, in a great measure, made that for himself. There never was a set of more complete nondescripts than Doggrass, Gnatbrain, Jacob Twig, Blue Peter, Raker, and Hatchet. The three last look, speak, and act just as like coal-heavers as sailors; and were it not that Stanley contrives to give to the part of Gnatbrain a humour which the author never foresaw, the whole set would be as stupid as a score of marines riding at anchor in a wet night. The truth is, that this piece is indebted to Gay, the author of the fine ballad of "Black-eyed Susan," for its principal attraction. His William and Susan are two persons who have taken a hold of the popular feeling, and whom many a long association has now endeared to us. All that Mr Douglas Jerrold has done, is to add a few vulgar excrescences to the far more simple and elegant production of the poet. Had he entrusted his hero to any other actor than T. P. Cooke, the whole thing would have been forgotten in a week. As it is, the veriest booby sees at once that it is to the genius of the performer, not of the author, that he is indebted for the enjoyment he receives. Cooke rejects altogether many of the flimsy sentimentalities which Cock. ney scribblers are too apt to put into the mouths of sailors; he softens down others, or rather braces them up into a manly vigour; and he does all he can, and what no other person could do, to infuse into the whole personification the hardy, boisterous, warm-hearted, and saltwater spirit of a British sailor. He succeeds so well, that after he has cut down his officer for being rude to his wife, and has been tried and is condemned to death, the illusion becomes nearly complete, and it is impossible

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to witness his parting with his comrades, and then with
Susan, without being melted almost to tears. But all this,
as we said before, is entirely done by T. P. Cooke, and the
effect is feeble to what it might have been had the compo-
sition of the drama been entrusted to an abler pen,-to
Cooper, for example, the American novelist, who can
put his hand upon the ocean's mane, and vault upon its
back, and sway it to his will. Long Tom Coffin and Fid
are sailors worth seeing; but the sailors of Douglas Jer-
rold are diluted into the insipidity of five-water-grog.
T. P. Cooke's motto may well be,

"Nothing in him But doth suffer a sea-change."

His ordinary melo-dramatic performances are middling
enough, for whenever he tries to look like the brigand or
the hero, he is sure to look a thousand times more like the
coxswain or the boatswain's mate. Even when he plays
the Monster in "Frankenstein," we oftentimes fancy we
see him chewing his quid, and whenever he turns his
Could the blue
back, we invariably look for his pigtail.
apparition sing, we never doubt for a moment that he
would strike up, "Bound 'prentice to a waterman ;" and
were it consistent with the creature's dignity to dance, you
may rest assured that it would be an “admired naval horn-
pipe." Mr Cooke's range is therefore limited, but he is
on that account only the more natural. Was there ever
a more limited being in point of character than a genuine
tar? His whole being is adapted to the range of the
wooden walls within which he lives. He moves as they
move; he rocks up and down as they rock; he is buffeted
by the winds and splashed by the waves as they are; if
they go gaily on their course, so does he; if they founder
at sea, Jack for a certainty founders too. He knows the
technical terms of his own art, and, in all other respects,
language is to him a mystery. He knows a little of the
very outskirts of the earth, as it were the very rim-but
the ocean is his home; he is happier on its bosom than
the sea-bird. Now, how could T. P. Cooke-we like
the letters T. P., they distinguish him—be a good sailor
were he a good actor of other parts? The thing is an
absurdity; when was a sailor an actor? T. P. is not an
actor; he is a sailor-every inch of him, "all as one as a
bit of the ship." It is as good as a long voyage to see him
for a night or two now and then. The Theatre becomes
a seventy-four, and, if rightly rigged, its sky-scrapers,
and moon-rakers, ay, and even its grog-stopper, should be
distinctly seen from the Register Office; whilst the ladies
in the captain's cabin below may thank their stars if they
are not all pitched out of their berths by a sudden lurch.
If the wind be fair, heaven only knows in what part of
the world the people in the hold may find themselves
when they expect to step out at the pit door, and walk
quietly home to their own houses. As for the Captain
himself, William Henry Murray, we have no doubt
he always makes it a rule to keep a good look-out a-head;
and when he has T. P. Cooke at the helm, he need he
under no apprehension.


Old Cerberus.



Ah! sir, the good die first,

And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust
Burn to the socket!
THERE came no vision girt with glorious pomp;
No seraph stood reveal'd; nor heavenly choirs
Pour'd their full harmony around the bed
Where she lay down to everlasting rest:
Yet were her virtues there,-array'd in light,
And shedding radiance round her clammy brow;
Yet was the voice of Mem'ry loud and clear,
Singing the lofty song of deathless praise

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