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[Description of the Castle of Udolpho.] Towards the close of the day, the road wound into a deep valley. Mountains, whose shaggy steeps ap. peared to be inaccessible, almost surrounded it. To the east a vista opened, and exhibited the Apennines in their darkest horrors; and the long perspective of retiring summits rising over each other, their ridges clothed with p'nes, exhibited a stronger image of grandeur than any that Emily had yet seen. The sun had just sunk below the top of the mountains she was descending, whose long shadow stretched athwart the valley; but his sloping rays, shooting through an opening of the cliffs, touched with a yellow gleam the summits of the forest that hung upon the opposite steeps, and streamed in full splendour upon the towers and battlements of a castle that spread its extensive ramparts along the brow of a precipice above. The splendour of these illumined objects was heightened by the contrasted shade which involved the valley below. 'There,' said Montoni, speaking for the first time in several hours, 'is Udolpho.'

Emily gazed with melancholy awe upon the castle, which she understood to be Montoni's; for, though it was now lighted up by the setting sun, the Gothic greatness of its features, and its mouldering walls of dark gray stone, rendered it a gloomy and sublime object. As she gazed the light died away on its walls, leaving a melancholy purple tint, which spread deeper and deeper as the thin vapour crept up the mountain, while the battlements above were still tipped with splendour. From these, too, the rays soon faded, and the whole edifice was invested with the solemn duskiness of evening. Silent, lonely, and sublime, it seemed to stand the sovereign of the scene, and to frown defiance on all who dared to invade its solitary reign. As the twilight deepened, its features became more awful in obscurity, and Emily continued to gaze till its clustering towers were alone seen rising over the tops of the woods, beneath whose thick shade the carriages soon after began to ascend.

The extent and darkness of these tall woods awakened terrific images in her mind, and she almost expected to see banditti start up from under the trees. At length the carriages emerged upon a heathy rock, and soon after reached the castle gates, where the deep tone of the portal bell, which was struck upon to give notice of their arrival, increased the fearful emotions that had assailed Emily. While they waited till the servant within should come to open the gates, she anxiously surveyed the edifice; but the gloom that overspread it allowed her to distinguish little more than a part of its outline, with the massy walls of the ramparts, and to know that it was vast, ancient, and dreary. From the parts she saw, she judged of the heavy strength and extent of the whole. The gateway before her, leading into the courts, was of gigantic size, and was defended by two round towers, crowned by overhanging turrets, embattled, where, instead of banners, now waved long grass and wild plants that had taken root among the mouldering stones, and which seemed to sigh, as the breeze rolled past, over the desolation around them. The towers were united by a curtain, pierced and embattled also, below which appeared the pointed arch of a huge portcullis surmounting the gates; from these the walls of the ramparts extended to other towers, overlooking the precipice, whose shattered outline, appearing on a gleam that lingered in the west, told of the ravages of war. Beyond these all was lost in the obscurity of evening.

[Hardwick, in Derbyshire.]

Northward, beyond London, we may make one stop, after a country not otherwise necessary to be noticed, to mention Hardwick, in Derbyshire, a seat of the

Duke of Devonshire, once the residence of the Earl of Shrewsbury, to whom Elizabeth deputed the custody of the unfortunate Mary. It stands on an easy height, a few miles to the left of the road from Mansfield to Chesterfield, and is approached through shady lanes, which conceal the view of it till you are on the confines of the park. Three towers of hoary gray then rise with great majesty among old woods, and their summits appear to be covered with the lightlyshivered fragments of battlements, which, however, are soon discovered to be perfectly carved open work, in which the letters E. S. frequently occur under a coronet, the initials and the memorials of the vanity of Elizabeth, Countess of Shrewsbury, who built the present edifice. Its tall features, of a most picturesque tint, were finely disclosed bet ven the luxuriant woods and over the lawns of the park, which every now and then let in a glimpse of the Derbyshire hills.

In front of the great gates of the castle court, the ground, adorned by old oaks, suddenly sinks to a darkly-shadowed glade, and the view opens over the vale of Scarsdale, bounded by the wild mountains of the Peak. Immediately to the left of the present residence, some ruined features of the ancient one, enwreathed with the rich drapery of ivy, give an interest to the scene, which the later but more historical structure heightens and prolongs. We followed, not without emotion, the walk which Mary had so often trodden, to the folding-doors of the great hall, whose lofty grandeur, aided by silence, and seen under the influence of a lowering sky, suited the temper of the whole scene. The tall windows, which half subdue the light they admit, just allowed us to distinguish the large figures in the tapestry above the oak wainscoting, and showed a colonnade of oak supporting a gallery along the bottom of the hall, with a pair of gigantic elk's horna flourishing between the windows opposite to the entrance. The scene of Mary's arrival, and her feelings upon entering this solemn shade, came involuntarily to the mind; the noise of horses' feet, and many voices from the court; her proud, yet gentle and melancholy look, as, led by my lord keeper, she passed slowly up the hall; his somewhat obsequious, yet jealous and vigilant air, while, awed by her dignity and beauty, he remembers the terrors of his own queen; the silence and anxiet of her maids, and the bustle of the surrounding at tendants.

From the hall, a staircase ascends to the gallery of a small chapel, in which the chairs and cushions used by Mary still remain, and proceeds to the first storey, where only one apartment bears memorials of her imprisonment-the bed, tapestry, and chairs, having been worked by herself. This tapestry is richly embossed with emblematic figures, each with its title worked above it, and having been scrupulously preserved, is still entire and fresh.

Over the chimney of an adjoining dining-room, to which, as well as to other apartments on this floor, some modern furniture has been added, is this motto carved in oak:

"There is only this: To fear God, and keep his commandments.' So much less valuable was timber than workmanship when this mansion was con. structed, that where the staircases are not of stone, they are formed of solid oaken steps, instead of planks; such is that from the second, or state storey, to the roof, whence, on clear days, York and Lincoln cathedrals are said to be included in the extensive prospect. This second floor is that which gives its chief interest to the edifice. Nearly all the apart ments of it were allotted to Mary; some of them for state purposes; and the furniture is known, by other proof than its appearance, to remain as she left it. The chief room, or that of audience, is of uncommon

loftiness, and strikes by its grandeur, before the veneration and tenderness arise which its antiquities and the plainly-told tale of the sufferings they witnessed excite.

[An Italian Landscape.]

These excursions sometimes led to Puzzuoli, Baia, or the woody cliffs of Pausilippo; and as, on their return, they glided along the moonlight bay, the melodies of Italian strains seemed to give enchantment to the scenery of its shore. At this cool hour the voices of the vine-dressers were frequently heard in trio, as they reposed after the labour of the day on some pleasant promontory under the shade of poplars; or the brisk music of the dance from fishermen on the margin of the waves below. The boatmen rested on their while their company listened to voices mooars, dulated by sensibility to finer eloquence than it is in the power of art alone to display; and at others, while they observed the airy natural grace which distinguishes the dance of the fishermen and peasant girls of Naples. Frequently, as they glided round a promontory, whose shaggy masses impended far over the sea, such magic scenes of beauty unfolded, adorned by these dancing groups on the bay beyond, as no pencil could do justice to. The deep clear waters reflected every image of the landscape; the cliffs, branching into wild forms, crowned with groves whose rough foliage often spread down their steeps in picturesque luxuriance ; the ruined villa on some bold point peeping through the trees; peasants' cabins hanging on the precipices, and the dancing figures on the strand-all touched with the silvery tint and soft shadows of moonlight. On the other hand, the sea, trembling with a long line of radiance, and showing in the clear distance the sails of vessels stealing in every direction along its surface, presented a prospect as grand as the landscape was beautiful.

MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS.

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gotten by the readers of the novel. The haughty and susceptible monk is tempted by an infernal spirit-the Mephostophilis of the tale-who assumes the form of a young and beautiful woman, and, after various efforts, completely triumphs over the virtue and the resolutions of Ambrosio. He proceeds from crime to crime, till he is stained with the most atrocious deeds, his evil genius, Matilda, being still his prompter and associate, and aiding him by her powers of conjuration and sorcery. He is at length caught in the toils, detected in a deed of murder, and is tried, tortured, and convicted by the Inquisition. While trembling at the approaching arto de fe, at which he is sentenced to perish, Ambrosio is again visited by Matilda, who gives him a certain mysterious book, by reading which he is able to summon Lucifer to his presence. Ambrosio ventures on this desperate expedient. The Evil One appears (appropriately preceded by thunder and earthquake), and the wretched monk, having sold his hope of salvation to recover his liberty, is borne aloft far from his dungeon, but only to be dashed to pieces on a rock. Such is the outline of the monk's story, in which there is certainly no shrinking from the supernatural machinery that Mrs Radcliffe adopted only in semblance, without attempting to make it real. Lewis relieved his narrative by episodes and love-scenes, one of which (the bleeding nun) is told with great animation. He introduces us also to a robber's hut in a forest, in which a striking scene occurs, evidently suggested by a similar one in Smollett's Count Fathom. Besides his excessive use of conjurations and spirits to carry on his story, Lewis resorted to another class of horrors, which is simply disgusting; namely, loathsome images of mortal corruption and decay, the festering relics of death and the grave. The ac count of the confinement of Agnes in the dungeon below the shrine of St Clare, and of her dead child, which she persisted in keeping constantly in her arms, is a repulsive description of this kind, puerile and offensive, though preceded by the masterly narrative of the ruin and conflagration of the convent by the exasperated populace.

Among the most successful imitators of Mrs Radcliffe's peculiar manner and class of subjects, was The only other tale by Lewis which has been MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS, whose wild romance, reprinted is the Bravo of Venice, a short production, The Monk, published in 1796, was received with in which there is enough of banditti, disguises, mingled astonishment, censure, and applause. The plots, and mysterious adventures-the dagger and first edition was soon disposed of, and in preparing the bowl-but nothing equal to the best parts of a second, Lewis threw out some indelicate passages The Monk.' The style is more chaste and uniform, which had given much offence. He might have car- and some Venetian scenes are picturesquely deried his retrenchments farther, with benefit both to scribed. The hero, Abellino, is at one time a the story and its readers. The Monk' was a youth-beggar, at another a bandit, and ends by marrying ful production, written, as the author states in his the lovely niece of the Doge of Venice-a genuine rhyming preface, when he scarce had seen his twen-character for the mock-heroic of romance. In tieth year. It has all the marks of youth, except none of his works does Lewis evince a talent for modesty. Lewis was the boldest of hobgoblin writers, humour. and dashed away fearlessly among scenes of monks and nuns, church processions, Spanish cavaliers, maidens and duennas, sorcerers and enchantments, the Inquisition, the wandering Jew, and even Satan himself, whom he brings in to execute justice visibly and without compunction. The hero, Ambrosio, is abbot of the Capuchins at Madrid, and from his reputed sanctity and humility, and his eloquent preaching, he is surnamed the Man of Holiness, Ambrosio conceives himself to be exempted from the failings of humanity, and is severe in his saintly judgments. He is full of religious enthusiasm and pride, and thinks himself proof against all temptation. The hint of this character was taken from a paper in the Guardian, and Lewis filled up the outline with considerable energy and skilful delineation. The imposing presence, strong passions, and wretched downfall of Ambrosio, are not easily for

[Scene of Conjuration by the Wandering Jew.] [Raymond, in The Monk,' is pursued by a spectre representing a bleeding nun, which appears at one o'clock in the morning, repeating a certain chant, and pressing her lips to his. Every succeeding visit inspires him with greater horror, and he becomes melancholy and deranged in health. His ser vant, Theodore, meets with a stranger, who tells him to bid his master wish for him when the clock strikes one, and the which Lewis avails himself of the ancient legend of the Wantale, as related by Raymond, proceeds. The ingenuity with dering Jew, and the fine description of the conjuration, are

worthy of remark.]

He was a man of majestic presence; his countenance was strongly marked, and his eyes were large, black, and sparkling: yet there was a something in his look which, the moment that I saw him, inspired

me with a secret awe, not to say horror. He was dressed plainly, his hair was unpowdered, and a band of black velvet, which encircled his forehead, spread over his features an additional gloom. His countenance wore the marks of profound melancholy, his step was slow, and his manner grave, stately, and solemn. He saluted me with politeness, and having replied to the usual compliments of introduction, he motioned to Theodore to quit the chamber. The page instantly withdrew. I know your business,' said he, without giving me time to speak. I have the power of releasing you from your nightly visitor; but this cannot be done before Sunday. On the hour when the Sabbath morning breaks, spirits of darkness have least influence over mortals. After Saturday, the nun shall visit you no more.' 'May I not inquire,' said I, by what means you are in possession of a secret which I have carefully concealed from the knowledge of every one?' 'How can I be ignorant of your distresses, when their cause at this moment stands before you?' I started. The stranger continued: though to you only visible for one hour in the twenty-four, neither day nor night does she ever quit you; nor will she ever quit you till you have granted her request.' And what is that request?' That she must herself explain; it lies not in my knowledge. Wait with patience for the night of Saturday; all shall be then cleared up.' I dared not press him further. He soon after changed the conversation, and talked of various matters. He named people who had ceased to exist for many centuries, and yet with whom he appeared to have been personally acquainted. I could not mention a country, however distant, which he had not visited; nor could I sufficiently admire the extent and variety of his information. I remarked to him, that having travelled, seen, and known so much, must have given him infinite pleasure. He shook his head mournfully. 'No one,' he replied, 'is adequate to comprehending the misery of my lot! Fate obliges me to be constantly in movement; I am not permitted to pass more than a fortnight in the same place. I have no friend in the world, and, from the restlessness of my destiny, I never can acquire one. Fain would I lay down my miserable life, for I envy those who enjoy the quiet of the grave; but death eludes me, and flies from my embrace. In vain do I throw myself in the way of danger. I plunge into the ocean, the wares throw me back with abhorrence upon the shore; I rush into fire, the flames recoil at my approach; I oppose myself to the fury of banditti, their swords become blunted, and break against my breast. The hungry tiger shudders at my approach, and the alligator flies from a monster more horrible than itself. God has set his seal upon me, and all his creatures respect this fatal mark.' put his hand to the velvet which was bound round his forehead. There was in his eyes an expression of fury, despair, and malevolence, that struck horror to my very soul. An involuntary convulsion made me shudder. The stranger perceived it. Such is the curse imposed on me,' he continued; I am doomed to inspire all who look on me with terror and detestation. You already feel the influence of the charm, and with every succeeding moment will feel it more. I will not add to your sufferings by my presence. Farewell till Saturday. As soon as the clock strikes twelve, expect me at your chamber.'

He

Having said this he departed, leaving me in astonishment at the mysterious turn of his manner and conversation. His assurances that I should soon be relieved from the apparition's visits produced a good effect upon my constitution. Theodore, whom I rather treated as an adopted child than a domestic, was surprised, at his return, to observe the amend ment in my looks. He congratulated me on this

symptom of returning health, and declared himself delighted at my having received so much benefit from my conference with the Great Mogul. Upon inquiry I found that the stranger had already passed eight days in Ratisbon. According to his own account, therefore, he was only to remain there six days longer. Saturday was still at a distance of three. Oh! with what impatience did I expect its arrival! In the interim, the bleeding nun continued her nocturnal visits; but hoping soon to be released from them altogether, the effects which they produced on me became less violent than before.

The wished-for night arrived. To avoid creating suspicion, I retired to bed at my usual hour; but as soon as my attendants had left me, I dressed myself again, and prepared for the stranger's reception. He entered my room upon the turn of midnight. A small chest was in his hand, which he placed near the stove. He saluted me without speaking; I returned the compliment, observing an equal silence. He then opened the chest. The first thing which he produced was a small wooden crucifix; he sunk upon his knees, gazed upon it mournfully, and cast his eyes towards heaven. He seemed to be praying devoutly. At length he bowed his head respectfully, kissed the crucifix thrice, and quitted his kneeling posture. He next drew from the chest a covered goblet; with the liquor which it contained, and which appeared to be blood, he sprinkled the floor; and then dipping in it one end of the crucifix, he described a circle in the middle of the roon.. Round about this he placed various reliques, skulls, thigh-bones, &c. I observed that he disposed them all in the forms of crosses. Lastly, he took out a large Bible, and beckoned me to follow him into the circle. I obeyed.

Be cautious not to utter a syllable!' whispered the stranger: step not out of the circle, and as you love yourself, dare not to look upon my face.' Holding the crucifix in one hand, the Bible in the other, he seemed to read with profound attention. The clock struck one; as usual I heard the spectre's steps upon the staircase, but I was not seized with the accustomed shivering. I waited her approach with confidence. She entered the room, drew near the circle, and stopped. The stranger muttered some words, to me unintelligible. Then raising his head from the book, and extending the crucifix towards the ghost, he pronounced, in a voice distinct and solemn, 'Beatrice! Beatrice! Beatrice!' What wouldst thou?' replied the apparition in a hollow faltering tone. 'What disturbs thy sleep? Why dost thou afflict and torture this youth? How can rest be restored to thy unquiet spirit?' 'I dare not tell, I must not tell. Fain would I repose in my grave, but stern commands force me to prolong my punishment!' Knowest thou this blood? Knowest thou in whose veins it flowed? Beatrice! Beatrice! in his name I charge thee to answer me.' 'I dare not disobey my taskers.' 'Darest thou disobey me?' He spoke in a commanding tone, and drew the sable band from his forehead. In spite of his injunction to the contrary, curiosity would not suffer me to keep my eyes off his face: I raised them, and beheld a burning cross impressed upon his brow. For the horror with which this object inspired me I cannot account, but I never felt its equal. My senses left me for some moments; a mysterious dread overcame my courage; and had not the exorciser caught my hand, I should have fallen out of the circle. When I recovered myself, I perceived that the burning cross had produced an effect no less violent upon the spectre. Her countenance expressed reverence and horror, and her visionary limbs were shaken by fear. 'Yes,' she said at length, I tremble at that mark! I respect it! I obey you! Know, then, that my bones lie still unburied-they rot in the obscurity of Lindenberg-hole. None but

this youth has the right of consigning them to the grave. His own lips have made over to me his body and his soul; never will I give back his promise; never shall he know a night devoid of terror unless he engages to collect my mouldering bones, and deposit them in the family vault of his Andalusian castle. Then let thirty masses be said for the repose of my spirit, and I trouble this world no more. Now let me depart; those flames are scorching.'

He let the hand drop slowly which held the crucifix, and which till then he had pointed towards her. The apparition bowed her head, and her form melted into air.

boldness of his speculations and opinions, and his
apparent depth and ardour of feeling, were curiously
contrasted with his plodding habits, his imperturb
able temper, and the quiet obscure simplicity of his
life and manners. The most startling and astound-
ing theories were propounded by him with undoubt
ing confidence; and sentiments that, if reduced to

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MRS OPIE.

MRS AMELIA OPIE (Miss Alderson of Norwich), the widow of John Opie, the celebrated artist, commenced her literary career in 1801, when she published her domestic and pathetic tale of The Father and Daughter. Without venturing out of ordinary life, Mrs Opie invested her narrative with deep interest, by her genuine painting of nature and passion, her animated dialogue, and feminine delicacy of feeling. Her first novel has gone through eight editions, and is still popular. A long series of works of fiction has since proceeded from the pen of this lady. Her Simple Tales, in four volumes, 1806; New Tales, four volumes, 1818; Temper, or Domestic Scenes, a tale, in three volumes; Tales of Real Life, three volumes; Tules of the Heart, four volumes; are all marked by the same characteristics-the portraiture of domestic life, drawn with a view to In 1828 Mrs regulate the heart and affections. Opie published a moral treatise, entitled Detraction Displayed, in order to expose that 'most common of all vices,' which she says justly is found in every class or rank in society, from the peer to the peasant, from the master to the valet, from the mistress to the maid, from the most learned to the most ignorant, from the man of genius to the meanest capacity.' The tales of this lady have been thrown into the shade by the brilliant fictions of Scott, the stronger moral delineations of Miss Edgeworth, and the generally masculine character of our more modern literature. She is, like Mackenzie, too uniformly pathetic and tender. 'She can do nothing well,' says Jeffrey, that requires to be done with formality, and therefore has not succeeded in copying either the concentrated force of weighty and deliberate reason, or the severe and solemn dignity of majestic virtue. To make amends, however, she represents admirably everything that is amiable, generous, and gentle.' Perhaps we should add to this the power of exciting and harrowing up the feelings in no ordinary degree. Some of her short tales are full of gloomy and terrific painting, alternately resembling those of Godwin and Mrs Radcliffe.

In Miss Sedgwick's Letters from Abroad (1841), we find the following notice of the venerable novelist: I owed Mrs Opie a grudge for having made me in my youth cry my eyes out over her stories; but her fair cheerful face forced me to forget it. She long ago forswore the world and its vanities, and adopted the Quaker faith and costume; but I fancied that her elaborate simplicity, and the fashionable little train to her pretty satin gown, indicated how much easier it is to adopt a theory than to change one's habits.'

WILLIAM GODWIN.

WILLIAM GODWIN, author of Caleb Williams, was one of the most remarkable men of his times.

The

William Garim

action, would have overturned the whole framework
of society, were complacently dealt out by their
author as if they had merely formed an ordinary
portion of a busy literary life. Godwin was born at
Wisbeach, in Cambridgeshire, on the 3d of March
1756. His father was a dissenting minister-a pious
nonconformist-and thus the future novelist may be
said to have been nurtured in a love of religious
and civil liberty, without perhaps much reverence
for existing authority. He soon, however, far over-
After receiving the
stepped the pale of dissent.
necessary education at the dissenting college at Hox
ton, Mr Godwin became minister of a congregation
in the vicinity of London. He also officiated for
some time at Stowmarket, in Suffolk. About the
year 1782, having been five years a nonconformist
preacher, he settled in London, and applied himself
wholly to literature. His first work was entitled
Sketches of History, in Six Sermons; and he shortly
afterwards became principal writer in the New An-
nual Register. He was a zealous political reformer;
and his talents were so well known or recommended,
that he obtained the large sum of £700 for his next
publication. This was his famed Enquiry concerning
Political Justice, and its Influences on General Virtue
and Happiness, published in 1793. Mr Godwin's
work was a sincere advocacy of an intellectual re-
public-a splendid argument for universal philan
thropy and benevolence, and for the omnipotence of
mind over matter. His views of the perfectibility
of man and the regeneration of society (all private
affections and interests being merged in the public
good) were clouded by no misgivings, and he wrote
with the force of conviction, and with no ordinary
powers of persuasion and eloquence. The Enquiry
was highly successful, and went through several

560

after this mental pollution, to meet Godwin again as a novelist

He bears no token of the sabler streams,

editions. In a twelvemonth afterwards appeared his novel of Things as they Are, or the Adventures of Caleb Williams. His object here was also to inculcate his peculiar doctrines, and to comprehend a general And mounts far off among the swans of Thames. review of the modes of domestic and unrecorded despotism, by which man becomes the destroyer of In 1799 appeared his St Leon, a story of the 'miraman.' His hero, Williams, tells his own tale of suf- culous class,' as he himself states, and designed to fering and of wrong-of innocence persecuted and mix human feelings and passions with incredible reduced to the brink of death and infamy by aristo- situations. His hero attains the possession of the cratic power, and by tyrannical or partially-admi- philosopher's stone, and secures exhaustless wealth nistered laws; but his story is so fraught with by the art of transmuting metals into gold, and at interest and energy, that we lose sight of the politi- the same time he learns the secret of the elixir vitæ, cal object or satire, and think only of the characters by which he has the power of renewing his youth. and incidents that pass in review before us. The These are, indeed, 'incredible situations;' but the imagination of the author overpowered his philo- romance has many attractions—splendid descripsophy; he was a greater inventor than logician. His tion and true pathos. Its chief defect is an excharacter of Falkland is one of the finest in the cess of the terrible and marvellous. In 1800 Mr whole range of English fictitious composition. The Godwin produced his unlucky tragedy of Antonio; opinions of Godwin were soon brought still more in 1801 Thoughts on Dr Parr's Spital Sermon, being prominently forward. His friends, Holcroft, Thel- a reply to some attacks made upon him, or rather wall, Horne Tooke, and others, were thrown into on his code of morality, by Parr, Mackintosh, and the Tower on a charge of high treason. The novelist others. In 1803 he brought out a voluminous Life had joined none of their societies, and however ob- of Chaucer, in two quarto volumes. With Mr Godnoxious to those in power, had not rendered himself win the great business of this world was to write amenable to the laws of his country.* Godwin, books, and whatever subject he selected, he treated however, was ready with his pen. Judge Eyre, in it with a due sense of its importance, and pursued his charge to the grand jury, had laid down prin- it into all its ramifications with intense ardour and ciples very different from those of our author, and application. The Life of Chaucer' was ridiculed the latter instantly published Cursory Strictures on by Sir Walter Scott in the Edinburgh Review, in the judge's charge, so ably written that the pamph-consequence of its enormous bulk and its extraneous et is said to have mainly led to the acquittal of the dissertations, but it is creditable to the author's taste accused parties. In 1796 Mr Godwin issued a series and research. The student of our early literature of essays on education, manners, and literature, will find in it many interesting facts connected with entitled The Enquirer. In the following year he a chivalrous and romantic period of our historymarried Mary Wollstonecraft, author of The Vindica- much sound criticism, and a fine relish for true tion of the Rights of Woman, &c. a lady in many re- poetry. In 1804 Mr Godwin produced his novel of spects as remarkable as her husband, and who died Fleetwood, or the New Man of Feeling. The title after having given birth to a daughter (Mrs Shelley) was unfortunate, as reminding the reader of the old still more justly distinguished. Godwin's contempt Man of Feeling, by far the most interesting and of the ordinary modes of thinking and acting in this amiable of the two. Mr Godwin's hero is self-willed country was displayed by this marriage. His wife and capricious, a morbid egotist, whose irritability brought with her a natural daughter, the fruit of a and frantic outbursts of passion move contempt former connexion. She had lived with Godwin for rather than sympathy. Byron has saidsome time before their marriage; and 'the principal motive,' he says, 'for complying with the ceremony, was the circumstance of Mary's being in a state of pregnancy.' Such an open disregard of the ties and principles that sweeten life and adorn society astonished even Godwin's philosophic and reforming friends. But whether acting in good or in bad taste, he seems always to have been fearless and sincere. He wrote Memoirs of Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin (who died in about half a year after her marriage), and in this curious work all the details of her life and conduct are minutely related. We are glad, *If we may credit a curious entry in Sir Walter Scott's

d ́ary, Godwin must have been early mixed up with the English Jacobins, 'Canning's conversion from popular opinions,'

Romances paint at full length people's wooings,
But only give a bust of marriages.

This cannot be said of Mr Godwin. Great part of
Fleetwood is occupied with the hero's matrimonial
troubles and afflictions; but they only exemplify
the noble poet's farther observation-'no one cares
for matrimonial cooings.' The better parts of the
novel consist of the episode of the Macneills, a tale
of family pathos, and some detached descriptions of
Welsh scenery. For some years Mr Godwin was
little heard of. He had married again, and, as a
bookseller's shop in London, under the assumed
more certain means of maintenance, had opened a
name of Edward Baldwin.' In this situation he

says Scott, was strangely brought round. While he was study. ushered forth a number of children's books, small ing in the Temple, and rather entertaining revolutionary opi-histories and other compilations, some of them by nions, Godwin sent to say that he was coming to breakfast himself. Charles Lamb mentions an English Gramwith him, to speak on a subject of the highest importance. mar, in which Hazlitt assisted. He tried another Canning knew little of him, but received his visit, and learned tragedy, Faulkner, in 1807, but it was unsuccessful. to his astonishment that, in expectation of a new order of Next year he published an Essay on Sepulchres, things, the English Jacobins designed to place him, Canning, written in a fine meditative spirit, with great beauty. at the head of the revolution. He was much struck, and asked of expression; and in 1815 Lives of Edward and time to think what course he should take; and having thought John Phillips, the nephews of Milton. The latter is the matter over, he went to Mr Pitt, and made the Anti- also creditable to the taste and research of the Jacobin confession of faith, in which he persevered until author, and illustrates our poetical history about Canning himself mentioned this to Sir W. Knighton upon occathe time of the Restoration. In 1817 Mr Godwin again entered the arena of fiction. He had paid a visit to Scotland, and concluded with Constable for another novel, Mandeville, a tale of the times of Cromwell. The style of this work is measured and stately, and it abounds in that moral anatomy in

sion of giving a place in the Charter-house, of some ten pounds a-year, to Godwin's brother. He could scarce do less for one who had offered him the dictator's curule chair.'-Lockhart's Life of Scaft. This occurrence must have taken place before 1793, as in that year Canning was introduced by Pitt into par

liament.

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