do," said Oswald, with a face of flame, as he rushed out of the house. His mother began to weep, but Peter said to her, "Let him alone, the headstrong boy; I'll warrant him he'll soon change his tone. What should he do with Beeli? I should certainly be sorry if he were to run away from me just now, for then, perhaps, somebody else might get Clara; but if he had once made sure of her, I would not care for his going out into the world a little, and helping to win the Valteline."

The next morning no Oswald was to be seen, and Catherine was the first to discover that Peter's halberd was missing from the nail on which it usually hung, near the door. "Ah! you may believe me," said she; "I know Oswald well. Quiet as he looks, when he is once determined, he is as hard as iron. May God have mercy upon me! Oh! if I should lose my last, my only boy!" "It will not come to that," said the father, in a somewhat soothing tone; "I will just try, though, if I can make my way through the snow down to Mayenfeld, and in the mean time, do you make yourself easy, Catherine; and now don't be going to old Goutta's, for no good can come of that."

To be concluded in our next.

Strange time for mirth when round the leafless tree

The wild winds of the winter moan and sigh,

And while the twilight saddens o'er the lea, Mute every woodland's evening melody— Mute the wide landscape-save where, hurrying by,

Roars the dark torrent on its headlong Or, slowly sailing through the blackening flight, sky,

Hoots unto solitude, the bird of night, Seeking the domeless wall-the turret's hoary height:

And yet with Nature, sooth, we need not grieve;

She does not heed the woes of humankind;

No; for the tempests howl, the waters

heave

Their hoary hills unto the raging wind,

And the poor bark no resting-place can find; And friends on shore shall weep-and weep in vain,

For, to the ruthless elements consign'd, The seaman's corpse is drifting through

the main,

ference of society. Their popularity is nearly equal among all classes. The most refined and the most illiterate, the most elevated in rank and the humblest in station, are agreed as to their pre-eminent merit, and the matchless knowledge of history and of character, which they almost invariably manifest. Hence a new performance is no sooner announced, than every thing else in but one wish seems to actuate the vast literature is for a time forgotten, and mass of what has been quaintly called "the reading public." The book is published, and in a space of time incredibly brief, you will find that every body knows every thing about it, and has made up his or her mind on the subject. The critic can say nothing which has not been anticipated, and tell nothing which is not as well known as that the sun rose yesterday. His praise is not required, and his censure is disregarded. Verily, quoad hoc, "Othello's occupation's gone!"

We confess we are not sorry for this. We like the honesty and independence of those who are pleased "they know not why, and care not wherefore," and who award to an author the meed of heartfelt praise, without asking Aristotle's permission. For our own parts, let the serious business of the day be once fairly over, and the mind in tune and sions; let our easy-chair be approxitrim to receive pleasurable impresmated to the ingle-cheek, and our legs be duly elevated on the chimney at an angle of forty-five degrees exactly; let all be quiet and still around us, and nothing to solicit our attention, for a moment, from the pages of this delightful author; then put into our hands " a new novel by the author of Waverley"-" PEVERIL OF THE PEAK," for example-and if ever in our lives we formed a true notion of Paradise, we are certain it will be when we have fairly embarked on the stream of the narrative,-when our interest has been once powerfully awakened,-when the characters are expanding under our hands,when, by the spell of this Mighty Magician, kings and courtiers, roundheads and cavaliers, patriots and parasites, with almost every diversity of passion and purpose, are made to

pass before, in all the freshness and truth of actual existence,-when, in short, we mingle insensibly in the contests of war, the intrigues of courts, and the hopes of constant and unalterable love, and feel ourselves transported, as it were, into the very scenes and times which this author alone knows how to represent, as well as how to describe: And we hold that the man who, thus situated, does not subscribe to the truth of Gray's celebrated aphorism, is fit for no purpose under the blessed sun, but to drive negroes in a West Indian plantation, or to be sent across the Blue Mountains, to colonize the banks of the Macquarie.

"Peveril of the Peak" has convinced us, that the genius of the author of Waverley resembles the veins of ore in the Peruvian mines, which encrease in productiveness and riches the deeper they are wrought. In this remarkable production, he has borrowed almost nothing from himself; and though he has abandoned the department in which his excellence has long been supreme and uncontested, he has created and preserved an interest equally new and powerful. This interest, as usual with him, depends not so much on a dexterous perplexment and cunning evolution of the story, as on the powerful conception of the individual characters, and the strong contrast in which they are placed; on the inexhaustible fertility and dramatic power of his dialogue; and, above all, on that faculty peculiar to himself, of entering into the very spirit and essence of his tory, and of bodying forth characters, manners, and modes, in aspects original, striking, and natural. Nothing escapes him, and every thing springs up in the freshness and individuality of life under his hand. The intrigues, follies, gaieties, and pleasures of the courtier, as well as the narrow passions and limited pursuits of the peasant, are delineated with equal facility and effect; with a fulness and broadness of outline, and a warmth and force of colouring, which leave nothing to be wished for or supplied. His penetration is almost supernatural : his faculty of making his personages speak the language of their identical

characters, unequalled and inimitable. The sailors of Smollett, and the squires of Fielding, furnish the only. examples which he has not greatly surpassed. But in many points he is infinitely superior to both. If his humour be not so broad, nor his drollery so irresistible, as Smollett's, it is more natural, and in better keeping: and though no writer has ever equalled Fielding in the skilful concatenation and evolution of his fable, and in a species of refined, sharp, sarcastic wit, his range is extremely limited, and the display of this matchless skill, in a great measure, confined to one master-performance. Neither of these admirable writers has in any instance dared to dramatize history, to embody, in a light and airy narrative, great events, great actions, and great characters-or to attempt to transfuse into a connected tissue of adventures, the very soul and spirit of a particular age. It is in this highest department of his art in which the Author of Waverley has been uniformly most successful, and in which he has neither equal nor rival. In proof of this, we might refer to almost every novel he has published but we would particularly point out Waverley," ""Kenilworth," "Nigel," and the work now under consideration. Paradoxical as it may seem, we have no doubt that, in after times, these "Novels and Tales" will be resorted to, by the Student of History, who, desirous to acquire a deep insight into the manners and characters of the times to which they respectively refer, will abandon the contradictions and theories of the Chronicler and the Annalist, for the fresh, living, breathing, moving pictures, sketched by the pencil of this inimitable master. For our own parts, truth compels us to confess, that, until we read "Kenilworth,"

66

Nigel," and " Peveril," we had no well-defined ideas of the splendid court of the Maiden Queen-of the strange, non-descript, anomalous character of King James-or of old Rowley and his witty, profligate, and inconstant favourite Buckingham.

The whole fabric of the story in "Peveril of the Peak" is, in a great measure, if not altogether, built on

the generous act of Lady Peveril, in receiving into her house, and educating along with her only and beloved son, Julian, Alice, the infant daughter of Ralph Bridgenorth, a Presbyterian, and a Roundhead. Considering the frenzied spirit of party by which that unhappy age was afflicted, and the deadly hatred that prevailed between the two great contending factions of Cavaliers and Roundheads-a hatred latterly exasperated, on the one side, by success, and on the other by defeat-we should say, that such generous and humane superiority to the passions of the time, is not, per se, very natural, or very probable. But it should be recollected, that Bridgenorth,-only half a rogue and half a fanatic, had, during the ascendancy of his faction, and when his loyal neighbour was in some degree in his power, acted with unexpected moderation and forbearance: and, making this assumption, it cannot, we think, be denied, that the superstructure is reared with exquisite and inimitable skill. There is almost no incident in the whole narrative, or drama rather, which does not either directly or collaterally arise from this circumstance; and no passion or change of fortune, which it does not more or less influence. Hence we have exemplified a unity and coherence of action, not always to be met with in writings of this author; and the interest originally excited in the fortunes of the lovely orphan, Alice Bridgenorth-so strangely situated in respect to her fanatical father, and her adopted mother and benefactornever for an instant flags; nor is the reader so far carried away by the multitude of characters and events that pass before him, by the splendour of the dialogue, the brilliancy of the wit and eloquence, or the powerful delineation which escapes almost unconsciously from the magic pen of the author, as to lose sight of that singular being upon whose destiny he feels, although at the moment he cannot tell how, that the denouement must finally depend. Doubtless the miscroscopic eye of cynical criticism may detect slight flaws and blemishes in some of the parts, and perhaps discover that we have too much of some of the per

sonages, too little of others, and a third class, introduced merely to show themselves, tell us their names and business, and then walk off: but we speak of the general effect produced by the coherence and keeping of the whole: and, in this view, our opinion has been deliberately formed, and is confidently pronounced.

The character of Bridgenorth is, in our judgment, a complete and admirable original; exhibiting the struggles between knavery and principle, sense and fanaticism, right feeling, and the preposterous hallucinations of the visionary and enthusiast, which sometimes overset the balance of even the firmest and strongest minds, and transform into rebels and traitors men, who, in happier circumstances, and under more benign influences, might have proved the ornaments of society, and the benefactors of their species. Never were the strange alliance between hypocrisy and fanaticism, the worldly-mindedness of those who pretend ed, and perhaps believed, that they had renounced the world, and the rascality, and proneness to rebellion, of the Fifth Monarchy-men, represented in such just and striking colours; or the gradual, but certain and inevitable progress of a mind in which the seeds of fanaticism have once been sown, more forcibly and faithfully developed than in the character of Bridgenorth. Yet he has many redeeming points about him. His gratitude to Lady Peveril, for the maternal tenderness with which she had educated his daughter, seems never to have been smothered in his bosom; though it must be confessed, that he takes rather rough and extraordinary methods to show it. He is as warmly attached to Julian Peveril as it was in his nature to feel for almost any human being, and would willingly consent to his marrying Alice, provided he would embark in the desperate schemes of the discomfited Roundheads; and though he is guilty of the incredible meanness of playing the spy on the affections of his daughter, it is almost atoned for by the flashes of deep, suppressed, but intense feeling, that involuntarily escape from him, when he bursts upon the secret interview of the lovers, and withdraws Julian, to lecture him

upon the occasion. The Cesperate schemes in which he at last embarks with desperate men, are the natural consummation of the mental disease which had been long growing and strengthening within him.

In fine contrast with this composite character is that of his brotherin-law, Edward Christian,-the lago of the piece, the very incarnation, as it were, of the principle of evil, and true to nothing but his own interest, and his thirst for vengeance on the Countess of Derby, for the execution of his brother; which, compared with the other principles by which his conduct was regulated, assumes almost the appearance of a virtue. The villany of Christian is of a deep and commanding character. In wit and profligacy, he is almost equal to Buckingham; in penetration, sagacity, and steadiness of purpose, greatly his superior. He is capable of the darkest and basest atrocities, and seems, in order to realize his designs, to want nothing but congenial instruments. He is a person whom Machiavelli would have pronounced fit to govern_an empire: his ambition is boundless, and he is as little scrupulous about the means he employs, as he eagerly pursues the end he desires to attain. The only, the innocent, the heroic daughter of his brother, he would prostitute to the jaded lust of an amorous and profligate monarch; and is only prevented from realizing his diabolical purpose, by the fickleness and inconstancy of Buckingham. If he ever loses sight of his object, it is when swayed by his thirst for revenge. He has the dexterity to impose a creature-nay, as it turns out, a daughter of his ownon his mortal enemy, the Countess of Derby; and is, consequently, aware of all her movements and plans, as well as of those of her party. In that most atrocious of all villanies, the Popish Plot, he is a prime, though secret mover, and lays his infernal schemes with such consummate skill, as, by means of that terrible and disgraceful delusion, almost to accomplish the destruction of his enemies. In fine, and to finish the picture, after long practising the arts of deception against the faction of the Roundheads-many of whom believe him

VOL. XII.

to be a saint of the first order-he insensibly becomes infected with the principles which he had only counterfeited, to serve his ambitious purposes, and at last embarks with Bridgenorth in the dark and desperate counsels of a conclave of fanatics, ready for the perpetration of any act of atrocity and bloodshed. In the wide compass of fictitious composition, we know nothing that surpasses the powerful and masterly conception of this character.

But it is in the representation of Buckingham that the powers of the author appear in their fullest power and extent. Inimitable Buckingham!-how shall we speak of thee,-thou changeling of every hue

thou grotesque compound of wisdom and folly, wit and wickedness,-thou creature of gaiety, sunshine, pleasure, and profligacy,thou ornament and disgrace of a brilliant and licentious court,-thou spoiled minion of favour and fortune, -thou riddle of thy species, hitherto unresolved,-thou "every thing by starts and nothing long!" Surely the sombre pencil of Rembrandt, and a feather from the butterfly's wing, have been alternately employed in giving life, truth, and keeping to this glorious and perfect delineation. Henceforth we shall believe as firmly in the omnipotence of language as in the omnipotence of Parliament. Words, we thought, were inadequate to the task of conveying even the remotest idea of this microcosm of marvels, incongruities, and contradictions; and painting could have only fixed one evanescent type of that infinite variety of passions, projects, whimsies, vagaries, and follies, by the which the mind of this singular being was occupied in rapid and ceaseless succession. Hence, where we expected the greatest and most prominent failure, we encountered the most complete and perfect suc cess. Except, perhaps, the character of King James in the Fortunes of Nigel," the English language has nothing to put in competition with that of Buckingham.

Grouped with the favourite, we have, of course, the full-length likeness of his royal and too-indulgent master, touched off, perhaps, with too friendly a hand, but still possess

H