of

two exceptions, models of excellence; and their beauty is, for the most part, in perfect keeping with the many gems poetry by which they are surrounded.

To that portion of the work which is in prose, we must object that it consists entirely of tales, and that of these the greater number are too slight, if not indeed too fantastic, in their texture. The uniformity of fictitious narrative might, perhaps, have been saved by the introduction of a few "curiosities of literature," inedited letters of distinguished men, an essay or two discussing some interesting question in literature or the arts, or speculating in a gay mood on the features of the past and the signs of the coming year. These, it may be said, are not matters so easy to be attained as the world in general imagines. We know they are not; but neither are tales at least good ones. 'The Lovers' Quarrel,' however, is a story which no cabinet of romance' might hesitate to own. It is a performance perfectly unique in its way. Let the reader judge.

'I wish I could describe the young Lady Sibyl. She was rather tall than otherwise, and her head was carried with a toss of the prettiest pride I ever saw; in truth, there was a supernatural grace in her figure, by which she was in duty bound to be more lofty in her demeanour than other people. Her eyes were of a pure, dark hazel, and seemed to wander from the earth as though they were surprised how they happened to drop out of the skies; and the sweet, high and mighty witchery that sported round her threatening lips, inspired one with a wonderful disposition to fall down and worship her. It was, of course, not to be expected that such a strangely gifted lady should be quite so easily contented with her cavaliers as those who were not gifted at all; and Sibyl, very properly, allowed it to be understood that she despised the whole race. She likewise allowed it to be understood that, the world being by no means good enough for her, she conceived the best society it afforded to be her own wilful cogitations; and that she meant to pass the whole of her pretty life in solitude and meditation. People conjectured that she was in love, and too proud to show it; and Sibyl surmised that they were vastly impertinent, and by no means worth satisfying.

There was a small grotto by the lake that wound before the old arched windows of the hall: a world of fine foliage was matted fantastically above and around it, so as to exclude every intruder but the kingfisher, who plunged, meteor-like, on his golden prey, and vanished in the shade before he was well seen; and an endless variety of woodbines leaped from branch to branch, swinging their dewy tendrils in the air, and showering fragrance upon the green moss beneath, or stealing round the rustic pinnacles, like garlands twined by Cupid for his favourite hiding place. It was

in this choice retreat that the Lady Sibyl chose to forget the world in which she was born, and imagine that for which she seemed to have been created; and in this mood, without manifesting any particular symptoms of exhaustion, excepting that she had grown a little paler and more slender, she continued for three whole years. On the third anniversary of her resolution, she knew it was the third, because the said resolution happened to have been made. on the same day that her wild cousin, who had earned for himself the title of Childe Wilful, chose for his departure to the wars, on the third anniversary, as on all other days, Sibyl again tripped down the chase to live in paradise till tea-time, but, not as on other days; the noble summer sunset seemed to have stained her cheek with a kindred hue. Ere she reached her wilderness, she looked back, again and again, at the hall, slackened her pace that it might not appear hurried, and gazed as long upon the swans and water-lilies as though they really occupied her thoughts. Meanwhile, the flower of the fox-hunting chivalry were carousing with her father in the banquetting-room, and flourishing their glasses to her health. The most mighty and censorious dames of the land were seen stalking up and down the terrace, as stately and as stiff as the peacocks clipped out of the yew-trees at either end of it. Sibyl seemed to have lost the faculty of despising them, and was half afraid that her desertion would be thought strange. As she stood irresolute whether to go on or turn back, she was startled by a voice close by, and the blood leaped in a deeper crimson to her cheek.

"Sibyl!-dear Sibyl!" it exclaimed, "wilt thou come, or must I fetch thee, before the whole posse of them?"

Sibyl tossed her head and laughed; and, with an agitated look, which was meant to be indifferent, strolled carelessly into the shade, just in time to prevent the intruder from putting his threat in execution. He was a light, well made cavalier, with black moustaches and ringlets, and a high-born eye and forehead, which could have looked almost as proud as Sibyl's. As for his accomplishments, the fine frenchified slashing of his costume, and the courageous manner in which he assaulted a lady's hand, bespoke

him a wonder.

"And so, my gallant cousin," said Sibyl, with a voice which was a little out of breath, and with a feeble effort to extricate her fingers," and so you have brought your valour back to besiege my citadel again."

"Sweet arrogance! is it not the day three thousand years on which we parted; and did I not promise to be here at sunset?" "I believe you threatened me that you would. Pray, have you run away from battle to be as good as your word?"

"And pray, did you always consider it a threat, or did you tell me that this grotto should be your hermitage till my return ?" "And pray, for the third time, do not be inquisitive; and trouble yourself to let go my hand, and sit down on that seat over way, and tell me what you have been doing these three days?" "I will,

the

6

"I will, as you desire, take both your hands and the other half of your chair, and tell you, as you surmise, that I have been thinking of you till the thought became exceedingly troublesome; and now oblige me by telling me whether you are as proud as ever since you lost your beauty, or whether you have ever mustered humility to drop a tear for the mad blood which I have shed in toiling to be worthy such a mighty lady."

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Sibyl laughed, and snatched her hand away from him to draw it across her eyes.

"Dear Sibyl," he continued, in a gentler tone," and has not that wild heart changed in three long years? And has not such an age of experience made our boy and girl flirtation a folly to be amended? And do I find you the same, excepting far more lovely, the same perverse being who would not have given her wayward prodigal for the most dismally sensible lord of the creation? Often as I have feared, I have had a little comforter which told me you could not change. See, Sibyl, your miniature, halfgiven, half-stolen, at our last parting; it has been my shield in a dozen fights, has healed, with its smile, as many wounds; - it has asked me if this was a brow whereon to register deceit, were the lips to speak it, if these were the eyes, they are weeping even now!"

- if these

—as I live,

She did not raise them from her bosom, but answered, with a smile of feigned mortification, that she thought it very impertinent to make such minute observations. "I too have had my comforter," she said, drawing the fellow-miniature from her bosom, and holding it playfully before his eyes; "it has been my shield against a dozen follies, it has warned me to benefit by sad experience; it has asked me if this was the brow whereon to register any thing good, - if these were the lips to speak it, if these were the eyes, as I live, they are conceited even now!"

"But have you indeed kept my picture so close to your heart?" "And do you indeed think that your old rival, Sir Lubin of the Golden Dell, would have given me a farthing for it ?"

"Did you ever try him ?"

"Oh, Childe Wilful! can you change countenance at such a name even now? No, I did not try him, and (for you are a stranger, and must be indulged,) I will tell you wherefore. I would not have given it to him for his head; not for as many of them as would have built a tower to yonder moon; and so now see if you can contrive to be jealous of him; - nay, you shall not touch it. Do you remember how often, when it pleased you to be moody, you threatened to take it from me?"

"No more of that, sweet Sibyl."

"And will you never counterfeit a head-ache, to hide your displeasure, when I dance with Sir Dunce, or gallop with Sir Gos

ling?"

"No, never, Sibyl."

"And will you never take leave of me for ever, and return five minutes afterwards to see how I bear it ?" "Never, whilst I live."

‹‹‹ Why,

"Why, then, I give you leave to ask my father's leave to stay a whole week at the hall, for I have a great deal to say to youwhen I can think of it."

"I will ask him for yourself, Sibyl."

"No, no, Sir Childe, you will not do any such thing. When you went from hence, it was with a college character, which was by no means likely to ingratiate you with reasonable people, whatever it may have done with other folks; and you must not talk to my father of the treasured Sibyl till you are better acquainted with him. Talk of ploughs and politics as much as you please; make it appear that, now the wars are over, there is some chance of your turning your sword into a pruning hook, and yourself into an accomplished 'squire; and then, and then, alas! for the high-minded Sibyl!"

Here is as much of elegant coquetry, of picturesque description, and of a charming tale of true love, as would have served, in other hands, for the substance of a volume. We have a lurking objection to the appellation of Childe Wilful it is puerile, and it breaks in upon the otherwise uninterrupted beauty of the scene. But the portrait of Sibyl, whose name is as enchanting as her lover's is otherwise; the grace of her figure, her eyes surprized how they happened to drop out of the skies,' and the witchery of her threatening lips,' reveal the touches of a master-pencil. The grotto, too, and its neighbouring lake, are painted so vividly in a few words, that we see the whole picture at once, and can almost hear the lovers talking in the shade.

Sir Lubin, however, master of the finest glebe in the country, had not in vain paid his addresses, during the Childe's absence, to-Sibyl's father. The latter looked upon the young warrior merely in the light of a friendly visitor, endeavoured to initiate him into the arcana of agriculture, and to teach him the value of a prize-ox; lectures which our hero patiently endured for the sake of Sibyl, who had given him an early hint of the old man's humour. But he had more than this to endure, for Sibyl, exulting in the general homage which was paid to her charms by all the fox-hunters of the country round, resolved to torment her lover, without well knowing why. The young soldier's jealousy was up in arms, and to keep the peace, Sibyl was obliged to accede to an interview in her little boudoir."

'It was a fine honey-dropping afternoon. The sweet south was murmuring through the lattice amongst the strings of the guitar, and the golden fish were sporting till they almost flung themselves out of their crystal globe: it was just the hour for every thing to be sweet and harmonious, but Sibyl was somewhat vexed, and the Childe was somewhat angry. He was much obliged to her for meeting him, but he feared that he was taking her from more

agree

agreeable occupations; and he was, moreover, alarmed lest her other visitors should want some one to amuse them. He merely wished to ask if she had any commands to his family, for whom it was time that he should think of setting out; and when he had obtained them, he would no longer trespass upon her condescension. Sibyl leant her cheek upon her hand, and regarded him patiently till he had done.

"My commands," she gravely said, "are of a confidential nature, and I cannot speak them if you sit so far off."

'As she tendered her little hand, her features broke through their mock ceremony into a half smile, and there was an enchantment about her which could not be withstood.

"Sibyl," he exclaimed, "why have you taken such pains to torment me?"

1

"And why have you so ill attended to the injunctions which gave you?"

"Ill!- Heaven and earth! Have I not laboured to be agreeable till my head is turned topsy-turvy ?"

"Oh, yes; and hind side before as well, for it is any thing but right. But did I tell you to pursue this laudable work with fuming and frowning, and doubting and desperation, till I was in an agony lest you should die of your exertions, and leave me to wear the willow?"

The cavalier stated his provocation with much eloquence.

"Dear Sibyl," he continued, "I have passed a sufficient ordeal. If I really possess your love, let me declare mine at once, and send these barbarians about their business."

"Or rather be sent about your own, if you have any; for you cannot suppose that the specimen which you have given of your patient disposition is likely to have told very much in your favour." "Then why not teach them the presumption of their hopes, and tell them that you despise them ?"

"Because they are my father's friends, and because, whatever their hopes may be, they will probably wait for encouragement before they afford me an opportunity of giving my opinion thereupon."

"But has there been any necessity to give them so much more of your time, - so many more of your smiles, than you have bestowed upon me?"

-

"And is it you who ask me this question? -Oh! is it possible to mete our attentions to those we love with the same indifference which we use towards the rest of the world? Would nothing, do you think, no tell-tale countenance, no treacherous accent, betray the secret which it is our interest to maintain? Unkind, to make poor Sibyl's pride confess so much!"

The cavalier did not know whether he ought to feel quite convinced. He counted the rings upon the fingers, which were still locked in his own, three times over.

"Sibyl," he at last said, "I cannot bear them to triumph over me even in their own bright fancies. If you are sincere with me, let us anticipate the slow events of time, let us seek hap

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piness