this chasm, and believe it. That he perished here is certain, however; and the Neapolitan saw his remains re-appear below, and float down the current!"-p. 83.

"Our guide, who had unwillingly followed us to this place, now declared it would be utterly impossible to proceed any farther; and we were inclined to believe him. Clouds of smoke were rising from the broken rocks in every direction, and often obscured the sight; the flat ground at the foot of the little hills on the left, was the place occupied, only last year, by a smoking mount, which had suddenly fallen in, and given place to that now before us. Even where we stood, the lava was hot to our feet; and scalding streams burst out from the crevices, with a loud hiss, like the leaks of a steam-engine. After some persuasion, however, and the show of more resolution than we actually possessed, the guide consented to proceed, and led the way up this valley of the shadow of death;' which, with the surrounding hillocks, was reeking like a smothered furnace, through a surface as black as the coals."pp. 84, 85.

At length the tourist sets off in a vettura for Rome, not a little alarmed at the report of the abduction of certain lads and the murder of their schoolmaster, at Terracina, by the banditti. The inn at St. Agatha, and the beggars at Fondi, are sketches to the life; at the former place a council is held among the inmates of the vettura;-" A young German made a long speech in broken French to the few who could understand him on the subject of the robbers. He insisted that we should go on without fear, and if attacked defend ourselves-with what? with our fists, and if overpowered by numbers die gloriously."-p. 185. Accordingly they proceed to the Roman frontier, where the aforesaid German makes an injudicious use of his pugnacious powers, by striking a soldier in the face with his passport; for this offence he is detained by the local authorities, but after due acknowledgments, he is suffered to rejoin his party, who all arrive in safety at Terracina.

Those among our readers who remember the desolation of the Pontine marshes, will read the following extract with interest; it relates to the hostess of one of the inns in that district :

"I was born among the mountains,' she said, 'out of sight of the marshes, in a pleasant and healthful country. In an evil hour, we were induced to come to this dreary place, as misfortunes had reduced my husband to poverty. The first warm season our whole household, except two, were severely attacked by the malaria, which has returned upon us fourteen successive years, till the greater part of those who once formed my family are dead, and all of us who survive have been repeatedly reduced to the borders of the grave, by a malignant fever, which has never left enough of the house to take care of the sick.'

"While she spoke thus, my companions regarded her with more and

more attention, till their countenances expressed as much melancholy as her own; and as the narration proceeded, one of the large cats occasionally startled us, by making its appearance suddenly at the door, or glaring from a hole in the chimney. Figlio mio,' continued the poor woman, in answer to one who had last spoken. 'My son, the malaria has robbed me of four little children, all I ever had; and I have thought every year since that it would take my life also. At best, I cannot endure its repeated attacks much longer; I am rarely free from the fever four months in the year, and nearly the whole household are in the same condition. A dropsy, the natural effect of its repeated attacks, has now advanced to an alarming height, so that death will soon succeed my accumulated sufferings. My son, we are absolutely sacrificed to the deadly atmosphere of these morasses.'"-p. 204.

In our author's remarks on Rome, there is not enough of learning or originality to invite particular criticism; they consist of details drawn for the most part (as indeed he frankly confesses) from the usual guide-books, and like them are occasionally incorrect. Livy will not allow us to believe that the building beyond Albano, with three pyramidal cones, is the tomb of the Horatii and Curiatii -p. 209. Jupiter Feretrius does not mean Jupiter with the quiver; and our friend's classical recollection failed him, when he called Canova the modern Apelles. There is, however, something pleasing, just, albeit truly American, in the train of thought suggested by the first view of "the eternal city."

"How unlike such a scene as this, to the first view of one of our American cities; and how different the train of thoughts it introduces to the mind! Instead of the cheerful and exhilarating sight of a savage wilderness retreating before the progress of a free and enlightened society, and a new continent assuming the aspect of fertility and beauty, under the influence of an enterprising population, and a generous form of government; taking a noble stand before the world, and showing an example which many a nation might think itself blest to follow, even at a humble distance: here we have the poor remains of that mighty city-the cradle and the grave of an empire so long triumphant on earth-now dwindling away before the wide-spread desolation which surrounds it, and shrinking back upon itself, as if for dread of an invisible destroyer. Accustomed to the fertility and beauty of our own luxuriant meadows, and the thick foliage which covers our mountains, the campagna seemed to my eyes as dreary as if but lately wasted by the barbarians; but the farther we proceeded, the better did we realize the melancholy truth, that the soil has long lost its vital principle, and, alas! that it is most deficient of all in things of human mould."p. 210.

But we must conclude. Our traveller quits Rome, and pursuing the road by Spoleto and Terni, meets the whole Austrian army

descending on the kingdom of Naples. All the circumstances of the journey are related in an amusing and spirited manner. At Thrasymene, he seeks with enthusiasm the site of the celebrated battle; and, although his researches are somewhat tardy, he has the good fortune to find "pieces of human skulls, and a jaw with a row of fine teeth."-p. 381. Since, however, he does not find a deep ravine where there should be one, he takes occasion to remark with great truth, that "historians have not always been careful enough even on more important subjects."-p. 381. We fear the same observation will apply to readers also; and when the American refreshes his recollection of this period of history, he will learn that the battle of Thrasymene did not take place "after the battle of Cannæ,"-p. 380, and he will be able to describe with greater accuracy the circumstances that attended it. We can make no room for the carnival of Florence, or the journey to Genoa, but we take leave of our traveller with feelings of goodwill, convinced that he has "laid up a rich store of recollections for life," and hoping that "delightful scenes may be awaiting him on the other side of the Atlantic."-p. 468.

ART. X.-1. Gaston de Blondeville, or the Court of Henry III. keeping Festival in Ardenne; a Romance.-St. Alban's Abbey, a Metrical Tale; with some Poetical Pieces. By Anne Radcliffe, Author of "The Mysteries of Udolpho," "Romance of the Forest," &c. To which is prefixed, a Memoir of the Author, with Extracts from her Journals. In 4 vols. London, Colburn, 1826.

2. Woodstock, or the Cavalier; a Tale of the Year Sixteen Hundred and Fifty-one. By the Author of "Waverley," "Tales of the Crusaders," &c. In 3 vols. Edinburgh, Constable and Co., 1826.

3. Brambletye House, or Cavaliers and Roundheads; a Novel. By one of the Authors of "The Rejected Addresses." In 3 vols. London. Colburn, 1826.

"PLACE aux dames," say all codes of politeness; and were it not so, our early obligations to our old favourite, Mrs. Radcliffe, should insure her posthumous work the foremost place in the catalogue of those books of romantic fiction which remain to be noticed by us. At the same time we cannot deny having shared in the disappointment which the world in general has felt on perusing its pages. The principal fault seems to be, that it consists too much

of feasts, tournaments, and processions, without introducing any characters sufficiently prominent to concentrate the reader's interest upon themselves. Even the fair lady of Gaston de Blondeville is little more than a mute personage, who bestows her faith lightly on an untried lover, and appears to console herself easily enough for his detection and death. The kinsman of the murdered knight also excites no other feeling than that of compassion for an oppressed and innocent man; and when once set at liberty, no one thinks more about him. Now, as it is quite needless to remark the power evinced in Mrs. Radcliffe's former works, of creating the interest in question, it is probable that in the present instance she purposely kept it down, for the sake of giving a more perfect imitation of the Gothic chronicles, whose pithy, antiquated style is so happily caught, and which she appears to have copied merely for her own amusement. This, perhaps, was not necessary. Even a bass relief, or one of those pieces of Gothic blazonry of which Gaston reminds us, is not rendered out of keeping by some one principal figure which may serve as a rallying point to the eye. We have, however, no right to criticise a work which the modesty of the authoress never intended for publication, and in which her own good judgment would probably have led her to supply the defect which we have remarked, had she brought it before the world. Its merits are, after all, considerable, and much occurs to remind the reader, in parts, of her former happiest efforts, particularly in the manner in which the whole ghostly agency is managed. The wild ballad which is introduced (with the prolix imitation of Sir Walter Scott, which follows as a separate tale) also shows undiminished powers in her favourite department. And when, in addition, we learn the benevolent purpose for which the three volumes have been published, and have the satisfaction of receiving from the best authority a contradiction of the tales of derangement and misery which were so unaccountably circulated respecting a very happy and rational woman, we think that Mrs. Radcliffe's surviving friends deserve the thanks of the public better than is usually the case in similar instances.

In classing and mentioning together Woodstock and Brambletye House, the public have paid a justly-deserved compliment to Mr. Smith, the author of the latter work; and confirmed by their suffrage the honourable mention made of it in the preface to Woodstock. It is no small success to have written at the same time, and in a great degree on the same subject, with the most popular author of the day, and not only to have received, but to wear becomingly, the favourable testimony which no one can bestow with a better grace than the Scots novelist. The style and manner of the latter, indeed, has been in most instances so happily caught by

Mr. Smith, on whose merits in a different department of writing we need not enlarge, that the reader finds it difficult to separate in his recollection the two books and their events, and amalgamates them together as the beginning and sequel of the same story. In impartiality and historical accuracy, the author of Waverley has wilfully fallen short of his disciple; though the total deviation from facts so well known as the circumstances of Charles's flight is not likely to mislead any reader. The fine old picture at Ditchley, the great dog introduced therein, the legends recorded of him and "the loyal Lee," his master, and above all, the facts of the "merry devil of Woodstock," were, no doubt, strong temptations to the glaring liberties which are taken with historical truth, to the detriment of Colonel Wyndham, Bridget Lane, the Pendrills, and other of Charles's real preservers, who might have formed a various and effective dramatis personæ.

Though as avowed an admirer of the unfortunate and extinct race of the Stuarts as the Persian Prince was of the Princess Bedi at Jernal, who died some hundred years before his own birth, the author of Woodstock has not invested Charles (whose portrait in both works is drawn with great spirit and truth) with more merits than certainly belonged to him during his better days of probation. We doubt, however, whether Cromwell receives his full measure of justice in the forcible and elaborate character of him which the pages of Woodstock present. At one time he betrays a mean and blood-thirsty spirit to his creature, Pearson; at another, he pardons his most determined enemies, each on some frivolous pretext or other; on a third occasion, he discloses his most secret thoughts in a long soliloquy, uttered in the presence of a stranger and a suspected person. Now, all this is inconsistent with that strength of character and unity of purpose which so eminently distinguished the usurper. It is true that Cromwell possessed and studied less personal dignity than perhaps has ever distinguished an adventurer so transcendently successful as himself. Brutus never counterfeited a more clownish and ungainly demeanour in the days of the Tarquins, than belonged naturally to the English Protector when at the summit of his ambition,-coupled too with the tendency to practical jokes on which Mr. Smith has remarked. Nor was he deficient in a certain blunt kindliness of nature, which sat well on him as the representative of democracy. We have even heard a Welsh family legend which attributes to him the merit of saving Sir John Owen's life," because the poor Welshman had nobody to speak a good word for him;" amerit which Pennant assigns to Ireton, and Mrs. Hutchinson claims for her husband. At the same time he was prompt and decisive in his punishments, and so profound a master of dissimulation, as to render it