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came from the opposite wing of the inn--it was a ball-roorn---theté seemed a gay and tashionable, as well as numerous assembly. The windows were large and clear, and he saw distinctly almost the entire length of the room. He heard equally distinctly the music's enlivening sound. The dance was just törming-ihe company walked up and down-the music changed -it struck up The Conquering Hero-the tall figures seemed to grow taller, in unison with the lofty sound. The grandeur of this tune has been often remarked--its character of profound melancholy, Howard did not fail to remark also. • Even in mirth,' sighed he, there is sadness. Alas! what is man, when joy even is joyless, and grandeur mbelancholy! The dance began-he stood a long while looking and listening~ Beautiful young women, in dresses brilliant as the rainbow's choicesi hues, flirted past him like gay visions in the Elysiao fields. Gentlemen in coloured clothes and uniforms, in brown, blue, and scarlet, were their delighted attendants, and elated partners, in pleasure's iumultuous maze.
“ It was a scene of exhilaration; to many it would have been so: it was no scene of exhilaration to him. To him there was but one being on earth, and he wrapped every oth in the shroud which he dreaded awaited her. His heart sank the deeper at every burst of merriment and every tread of joy. They seemed to his gloomy imagination the sense less laugh of the idiot beneath the chariot-wheel which is about to crush hin--the maddening tread of the sleeper, who unconscious approaches the frightful abyss.
“ Ye nymphs of rosy lips and radiant eyes!
By day ile frolic, and the dance by night. Poor, hapless, giddy creatures! exclaimed he, too much in earnest long to use any language but his own. •Puor, hapless, fluttering, unfortunate creatures, how I pity you, who have no thought por pity for yourselves! Moving thoughtless in the wanton round and frantic whirl of the illusive present, ignorant and unthinking of the inevitable future that awaits you, of the changes that a few years will bring about in these erect, and graceful, and light, and bounding forins-ignorant and unthinking that instead of these essenced, and perfumed, and courteous, and smiling, and obsequious, and numerous partners; as in the death-dance of Hol. bein, one hideous partner, one inexorable skeleton, one grave-breathing and squalid spectie, will dance off in turn, reluctant or unreluctant, with you all-- will have you in turn, reluctant or unreluctant all, to Death's own frightful ball-room, where, instead of that illuminated apartment dazzling the eye with its lustre, you will have the grave's everlasting darkness, and where instead of those gay dresses, Autiering to the air of your own light movements, you must throw off each costly ornament, and put on the soul-appalling shroud.'”
" He was gazing and moralizing, if moralizing it may be called in this manner, when three or four officers burst into the yard, as from the dancing-room. They crossed the court, and entered a door of the side where he was standing; an instant afterwards he heard footsteps in the apartment un derneath-he took no heed-he looked still on the dancers—he listened to their music, which, as if to make, what quick as lightning followed, more awful and impressive, at that moment struck up its most animated notes. Another sight glanced on his eye-another sound reached his car
“While antic measures beat the burthend ground,
And to the vaulted skies, the trumpet's clangors sound. “A gleam of light fell on the opposite wall, which was accompanied by the report of a pistol, and instantly followed by a second report. A shriek of pain and heavy crash, as of something or somebody falling, instantly succeeded. He ran down, and went into the room. There were several people there. In one corner was a gentleman wringing his hauds in an apparent state of distraction and despair. A little circle was round another, who was stretched on the floor: he looked, and saw by the dress it was an officer; a surgeon, or person who performed the office of one, endeavoured to staunch the blood, which streamed on the ground. The wounded man seemed not absolutely dead. He made a slight convulsive effort. He next attempted to raise himself, but fell helpless back. «Ile wants air, perhaps,' exclaimed our young man, 'raise him.'
“ lle was raised half up-Howard bent forward-he started back-he eagerly bent forward again--his eyes did not deceive him, though much he wished that they had. It was a well-known face that he saw, distorted as it was by the agony of pain-by the agony of death I should rather say. It was a well-known form that he recognized; deformed as it was by convulsions, blooil, and woun:ls.
" It was his friend the young othcer, whom, a few months before, he had parted with elate and erect in youth and health, and whom now he saw so lowly laid-soon to be still more lowly laid.
“ As the room became cooler and quieter, the wounded sufferer came a little to himself. The dew stood in less deadly drops on his forehead. He unclosed his month-he half opened his eyes--they rested on his friend, is ho was anxiously bending over him. T'he poor man shuddered, and uttered a faint exclamation of surprise--of more than surprise. He groaned, and closed his eyes again. The tears of him who supported bis drooping head dropped fast on his face. He could not see, but he felt them, and the force of sympathy drew them from his own eyes they slowly trickled from underneath his drooped eye-lashes, and coursed one ar.other down his neck in piteous chace.' He groaned again—again he half-opened his eyes-he essayed to speak, but was unable; a little wine in a tea-spoon was put into his mouth; it caused convulsions, and rested in the throat; it was at length, however, swallowed; another teaspoonful was swallowed with less ditficulty, and a third with still less. Howard now poured a glass full down his throat-delightful effect! the effect of wine on the dying man. For death and old age it is nature's own cordial, and treasured up resource. To them it may truly be said to sparkle, and to grow ruby-red. Pity that youth and health, which so little want it, should exhaust the fountain from which oblivion of their extremest sorrows and sufferings is to flow! The wounded man now drew his breath more easily. The colour came somewhat to his face; the lustre returned a little to his eye; he essayed to speak, and this time, though not without a strong effort, was able to do so.
“I have led a foolish life,' said he, faintly, and to a foolish end am I come! * All our lives are folly,' sighed heavily our young man. : What profit have we of all our labour under the sun? I envy almost him who is come to his end, whether it be a wise or a foolish one.'Forgive me!' exclaimed the departing sinner. “ Forgive you!' exclaimed Howard, wringing his hand, Forgive--? You may not think much of it, but I think it now-in your youth I led you astray!
You could not have led me astray,' said the other, 'except by my own fauit-I led myself.' •You have more to forgive me, said the dying
• Be it what it will,' replied Howard, pressing the clammy hand that he held, ' I forgive you as readily as I espect to be forgiven.' %. p. 58.
Howard, in spite of his urgent desire to proceed on his journey, and snatch all he loved from shame and sorrow, waits not only to close the eyes of his former companion, but in compliance with the request, that he had made, to attend at his funeral and give the sad tidings to his family. This piece of humanity proves his ruin. He reaches Litchfield a day too late. On coming near the town, he hears a number of people speaking of a young woman who had been drawn out of the river nearly drowned, in consequence, as it is supposed, of an attempt upon her own life. He dreads to enquire who it is the dreadful truth flashes upon his mind. It is the woman he loves, the wretched victim of his folly. The subsequent scenes are very highly wrought.— The unhappy father curses the destroyer of his child; the penitent sufferer writhes under the penalty of her crime ; and the wretched lover abhors himself for having caused the misery of both.
Under every aggravation of shame, remorse and terror, the beloved of Howard, in consequence of the shock to her constitution from her attempted suicide, gives birth to a dead child. The mother survives, but heart-stricken and exhausted by contending emotions, falls into a lingering distemper, and just before the time fixed for her marriage with the hero of the tale, dies from the effect of mortification, on finding that her 50ciety is rejected by the women of character in the neighbouthood.
Of Howard we are told, that “The bright form of existence passed from his view, and left nothing in its stead but a chcerless blank.' His heart closed itself to joy, and if ever he felt a moment's pleasure, it was when on the solitary hill, or lonely mountain, be could shun mankind, and avoid communication with them; yet short-lived was the pleasure, for even here would reflection intrude. And while he saw himself a cheerless wanderer, he could not but remember that, were it not for his own fault, in the society of his wife, and of her and her children, he might have lived beloved and honoured. Yet for him, surely, there was some excuse. Passion prompted, and opportunity presented. His heart bled for the woes he had indicted, and gladly would he have repaired them as far as he could. But for the world which wantoned in cruelty, which broke the bruised reed, and crushed the drooping lily-for the barbarous world, where is there an excuse?"
Such is the story-but where is the moral ? The catastrophe is brought on by the ladies, who declare that they will not
go to an assembly if a young woman who has been seduced from chastity be admitted.' This is hard, but it is requisite; and we pity the victim to the laws by which vice is discountenanced, and decency maintained, while we reverence those laws, and deprecate any attempt to loosen their hold on the public mind.
Sarsfield, or the wanderings of youth, is a tale replete with interest and feeling, but overflowing with improbabilities and false reasonings. It bears more resemblance to the Bryan Perdue of Holcroft, than to any other fiction we are acquainted with. It is superior to Howard in composition, and the diction is less careless and defective; but it leads us back to our old objection against this animated and forcible writer, the want of a moral tendency. Sarsfield's misfortunes do not obviously arise from his faults, but from a mysterious fate which perplexes, counteracts, and at last destroys him. The pernicious doctrine of fatalism is the ebon wand round which Mr. Gamble delights to twine the blossoms of fancy. The story is artificially conceived but naturally told; the action is reduplicated, and the narrative, after the manner of epic poetry, begins in the middle. It is long before we find out who Sarsfield is, and longer before we discover what he is. Many passages in the work are so highly wrought as to hold the attention in breathless expectation. The epic lyre is powerfully swept, but not delicately touched, many a grating discord and unpleasing flat break the charm of continuous melody; the performer is for ever changing his key, and shews himself more chromatic than scientific; the passion for transition is in fact his bane. Some of the scenes are like a debauch painted by Hogarth-horridly fine. But although we do not pretend to be so fastidious as the fine ladies in the Vicar of Wakefield, who could not endure any thing low-lived, we must maintain that, in painting the manners and language of ruffians, there is a point which good taste cannot pass, and from which piety and decency recoil; nor can we excuse the author who sullies his page with blasphemies. There may be much, to be technically called good writing, which, nevertheless, ought never to have been written. · Sarsfield is first betrayed into guilt by an abandoned woman, he then flies from his parents, robs his master, and becomes a renegade and a sharper. In the midst of these evil courses he preserves a warnıth of feeling, a good nature and something like honor which attach to him a young man of virtuous character, who attempts the desperate enterprise of his reform. Love for an amiable woman aids his endeavours, and he succeeds.The eyes of Sarsfield are purified from the clouds of vice and NO. VII. Aug. Rev.
errot, and opened to the beauty of holiness," -- his reformation is complete. His father forgives him, his mistress welcomes him, and the story ends-No, we will not do Mr. Gamble the injustice of telling how the story ends.-Mr. Bayes piqued himself on his power to “elevate and surprise;" Mr. Gamble might have aspired to elevate--he chose only to surprise his readers.
ART. III.- A voyage to Cadiz and Gibraltar, up the Mediterra
nean to Sicily and Malta, in 1810 and 1811, including a description of Sicily and the Lipari Islands, and an Excursion in Portugal. By Lt. Gen. COCKBURN. Two vols. 8vo. pp.
810. Harding, London, and Mahon, Dublin, 1815. WHETHER we direct our attention to the events of past ages, or confine it to those of our own times, the southern part of Europe must ever present to us an interesting spectacle. The nature and succession of recent occurrences have conferred an additional interest upon all that relates to those regions; and insure a favorable reception for the labors of those who have lately traversed them, and either witnessed the transactions themselves, or surveyed the scenes where they took place.
Lieutenant General Cockburn sailed from Portsmouth, in the Lively Frigate, commanded by Captain MʼKinley, on the 16th of June, 1810; and arrived at Cadiz on the 8th of the following month, and sailed again on the 12th. This interval of four days he very industriously employed in examining whatever was most interesting, either in a civil, naval, or military point of view, in Cadiz and its neighbourhood. Cadiz was at that time besieged by the French, and was crowded with families from the interior, who had gone thither in consequence of the disturbed state of the country.
The author describes Cadiz as an extremely clean city, and all the women he saw as well made and handsome. Respecting the latter he observes : “ They dress in black and wear veils till after the evening walk, when they put on white to go to the Tertulia:" several of which assemblies, with high play, take place every night. With respect to the Spanish gentry, he met mang walking about the streets, who “ looked like Pero in the Panto mime. Astley might pick up a dozen in half an hour ready equipped.” “The men are stout and strong limbed, very brown and lazy. They lie about in the streets in heaps, fast asleep, particularly during the heat of the day.”