from oneself to oneself. The lecture was the author's, and the author says, that the author understands his subject. This is indeed authority. We remarked the same practice in our notice of the former part, in which the writer bestows the most extravagant commendation on every common-place that he puts into the mouths of his

characters.

We have stated, that Lady Madelina and Miss Fane are of the usual circulating library manufacture-the marble-cover ware. No expense has been spared with regard to their beauty, and they are as fascinating as epithets can make them. Mr. Grey, at first, fancies himself in love with Madelina, either because she is the biggest of the two, or because she is the lady; but the Miss happening to say or look a civil thing to him, he transfers his heart to her. "Think not, however," observes the author, he was fickle, inconstant, capricious; his love for the first had insensibly grown out of his admiration of the other; as a man gazing on a magnificent sunset, remains, when the heavens have ceased to glow, with his eyes fixed on the evening star." (p. 249.) This makes the matter perfectly clear, it must be confessed. When we can't have one thing we must content ourselves with another. Thus love for a pair of chickens may be said to grow out of admiration of turbot; as a gourmand, gazing on a magnificent top dish, remains when the fish is removed, with his eyes fixed on a pair of fowls.

The manner in which Miss Fane won the heart of poor Mr. Grey, is well worth the attention of young ladies of sentiment; and his own conduct is a model for romantic youth of our sex. They take a tète à tête walk in the garden-a very improper thing-by moonlight.

"How brilliant are these gardens!" said Vivian, looking at the sky.

Very brilliant!

said Violet Fane, looking on the ground. Conversation seemed nearly extinct, and yet neither offered to turn back.

Good heavens! you are ill, Miss Fane," suddenly exclaimed Vivian, when, on accidentally turning to his companion, he found she was in tears. "Shall we go back, or will you wait here?—Can I fetch any thing?—I fear you are very ill!"

Mr. Grey is at his wit's end, to divine what is the matter. Perhaps it is the air-he hopes he has said nothing improper-and that no misfortune has happened-that no one has dared to be rude-but at last, he suddenly bethinks himself-why we know not—that perhaps it is the baron that disagrees with Miss Fane.

"Perhaps the air has suddenly affected you-had we not better go in ?--Pray, pray compose yourself. I trust that nothing I have said-that nothing has happened that no one has dared to say, or do, any thing to offend you to annoy you? Speak, pray speak, Miss Fane-dear Miss Fane, the-the- -the words died on Vivian's lips, yet a power he could not withstand urged him to speak-the-the-thebaron?"

"Oh!" almost shrieked Miss Fane-" No, no, stop one second-let me compose myself-an effort, and I must be well-nothing, nothing," &c.

To confess the truth, we do not by any means approve of Miss Fane's conduct. Being vehement admirers of decorum, we are immeasureably shocked by some solecisms in that young lady's manners and customs. It grieves us to the soul to say any thing injurious to a female reputation, but we must avow our suspicion that her admiration of Mr. Grey's man servant was of too warm a kind. Mr.

Grey, poor deluded youth, fondly imagined that Miss was attached to him, but it is too obvious that the valet behind his chair was the real object. Vivian had contracted a sort of friendship with a vagabond charlatan, or mountebank, or juggler, who insists on becoming his servant. This person discovers the scheme of the baron against his master's purse. He observes that the cards are marked, and being, from professional habits, a man of extraordinarily nice morality, he is terribly shocked at the circumstance. On hearing of this service, Miss Fane says, "I must go and see him this instant." Now we all know that it is not by any means the way of the world for a young lady to go and pay a visit to a single gentleman's man-servant! We thought the hussy was no better than she should be," when we found her making this delicate proposal, which has called the blush of modesty into our decorous cheeks. Shortly afterwards the matter becomes still more unequivocal. There is no sign of love more certain than extravagant commendation of every ordinary action of a particular object. Selflove is discoverable by the same symptom. When the author of Vivian Grey, for instance, is in perpetual wonderment at his own wonders, and uttering his common-places as bon-mots, who can fail to perceive that he is a literary Narcissus? He sees the copy of his own mind in his book, and conceives an unbounded admiration and ardent passion for every plain feature of the production. A woman too who likes a man, finds every thing that he does admirable, and unrivalled by the rest of the species. The footman, Essper George by name, (who is the machine of all work, the Meg Merrilies of the book,) plays a number of monkey mountebank tricks at a fête champetre; among others, walks upon stilts, and then plays the mandolin, whereat Miss Fane is in ecstacies. "Ah, inimitable Essper George," she cries out, "how can we sufficiently thank you. How admirably he plays." What sort of language is this for a decent young lady to hold to a footman?

Considering her mood, very well for her fame it is, that she dies before any decided mischief happens. As she is going home from the fête, she is attacked by what we at first imagined, the common symptoms of champagne; but it turns out to be sudden death, and really under circumstances we cannot lament her early end, which alone prevented an esclandre.

It must be confessed, that our author's production is a raiment of many colours, or rather it is a huge darn of motley hues. He works with one thread till it breaks or is exhausted; then, very coolly, takes another of a different tint, passes it through the eye of his needle, and stitches away with it again, most industriously and complacently, until he arrives at the knot, when he again repairs to his housewife, and botches on as before. The result is a piece of patch-work, which indicates more thrift than wealth. With Cleveland, his scane snapt at the end of the second volume; he therefore took up Miss Fane, and worked till, at the conclusion of the third, the sheers of Atropus, in mercy to her fame, severed her rose-coloured thread; ransacking his depository of odd and ends, he then draws forth some German worsted, and weaves a strange kind of linsey woolsey tissue, in the fourth volume. As we never like to include any thing good in general condemnation, we must acknowledge that there is, in this part, one piece

of clever Freischützism, (if we may be allowed such a coinage,) which we now quote for the horrification of our readers. Mr. Grey and his man Essper are benighted in a forest.

My horse has stumbled," continued Essper, "and your's, Sir, is he not shying? There's a confounded cloud over the moon-but I've no sight in the dark if that mass before you be not a devil's stone. The Lord have mercy upon our sinful souls!" "Peace! peace! Essper," said Vivian, who was surprised to find him really alarmed; peace! peace! I see nothing but a block of granite, no uncommon sight in a German forest."

"It is a devil-stone, I tell you, Sir,-there has been some church here, which he has knocked down in the night. Look! look! is it the moss-people that I see!

as I'm a hungry sinner, the Wild One is out a hunting to-night."

As sure

"More luck for us, if we meet him. His dogs, as you say, may gain us a supper. I think our wisest course will be to join the cry."

"Hush! hush! bush! your Highness would not talk so if you knew what your share of the spoils might be. Ay! if your Highness did, your cheek would be paler, and your very teeth would chatter. I knew one man who was travelling in a forest, just as we are now, it was about this time, and he believed in the Wild Huntsman about as much as your Highness does-that is, he liked to talk of the spirit, merely to have the opportunity of denying that he believed in him; which showed, as I used to say, that his mind was often thinking of it. He was a merry knave, and as firm a hand for a boar-spear, as ever I met with, and I've met with many. We used to call him, before the accident, Left-handed Hans, but they call him now, your Highness, the Child-Hunter. Oh! it's a very awful tale, your Highness, and I'd sooner tell it in blazing hall than in free forest. Your Highness didn't hear any sound to the left, did you?"

66

Nothing but the wind, Essper; on with your tale, my man.'

"It's a very awful tale, Sir, but I'll make short work of it. You see, your Highness, it was a night just like this; the moon was generally hid, but the stars prevented it from ever being pitch dark. And so, Sir, he was travelling alone; he'd been up to the castle of the baron, his master-you see, Sir, he was head-ranger to his lordship --and he always returned home through the forest. What he was thinking of, I cannot say, but most likely of no good; when all on a sudden he heard the baying of hounds in the distance. Now, your Highness, directly he heard it-I've heard him tell the story a thousand times-directly he heard it, it struck him that it must be the Spirit Huntsman; and though there were many ways to account for the hounds, still he never for a moment doubted that they were the hell-dogs. The sounds came nearer and nearer. Now, your Highness, I tell you this, because if ever,-which the Holy Virgin forbid if ever you meet the Wild Huntsman, you'll know how to act :-conduct yourself always with propriety, make no noise, but behave like a gentleman, and don't put the dogs off the scent; stand a-side, and let him pass. Don't talk, he has no time to lose, for if he hunt after day-break, a night's sport is forfeited for every star left in the morning sky. So, Sir, you see nothing puts him in a greater passion than to lose his time in answering impertinent questions. Well, your Highness, Left-handed Hans stood by the road-side. The baying of the dogs was so distinct, that he felt that in a moment the Wild One would be up: his horse shivered like a sallow in a storm. He heard the tramp of the Spirit-steed: they came in sight. As the tall figure of the Huntsman passed-I cannot tell your Highness what it wasit might have been, Lord forgive me for thinking what it might have been! but a voice from behind Hans, a voice so like his own, for a moment he fancied that he had himself spoken, although he was conscious that his lips had been firmly closed the whole time, a voice from the road-side,—just behind poor Hans, mind,-said 'Good sport, Sir Huntsman, 'tis an odd light to track a stag! The poor man, Sir, was all of an ague; but how much greater, your Highness, was his horror, when the tall Huntsman stopped! He thought that he was going to be eaten up on the spot, at least not at all, your Highness My friend,' said the Wild One, in the kindest voice imaginable ; my friend, would you like to give your horse a breathing with us?' Poor Hans, your Highness, was so alarmed, that it never entered into his head for a single moment to refuse the invitation, and instantly he was galloping by the side of the Wild Huntsman. Away they flew away! away! away! over bog, and over mere; over ditch, and over hedge; away! away! away!-and the Ranger's horse never failed, but kept by the side of the Wild Spirit without the least distress; and yet,

your Highness, it's very singular that Hans was about to sell this very beast only a day before, for a matter of five crowns:-you see, your Highness, he only kept it just to pick his way at night from the castle to his own cottage. Well, your Highness, it's very odd, but Hans soon lost all fear, for the sport was so fine and he bad such a keen relish for the work, that far from being alarmed, he thought himself one of the luckiest knaves alive. But the oddest thing all this time was, that Hans never caught sight for one moment of either buck or boar; although he saw by the dogs' noses that there was something keen in the wind; and although he felt that if the hunted beast were like any that he had himself ever followed before, it must have been run down with such dogs, quicker that a priest could say a pater-noster. At last, Sir, for he had grown quite bold, says Hans to the Wild Huntsman, 'The beasts run quick o'nights, Sir, I think; it's been a long time I ween, e'er I scampered so far, and saw so little !' Do you know, your Highness, that the old gentleman was not the least affronted, but said, in the pleasantest voice imaginable, A true huntsman should be patient, Hans, you'll see the game quick enough; look forward, man! what see you?' and sure enough, your Highness, he did look forward. It was near the skirts of the forest, there was a green glade before them, and very few trees, and therefore he could see far a-head. The moon was shining very bright, and sure enough, what did he see? Running as fleet over the turf as a rabbit, was a child. The little figure was quite black in the moonlight, and Hans could not catch its face :-in a moment the hell-dogs were on it. Hans quivered like a windy reed, your Highness, and the Wild One laughed till the very woods echoed. How like you hunting mossmen?' asked the Spirit. Now when Hans, your Highness, found it was only a mossman, he took heart again, and said in a shaking voice, that It is rare good sport in good company;' and then the Spirit jumped off his horse, and said, 'Now, Hans, you must watch me well, for I'm little used to bag game.' He said this with a proudish air, your Highness, as much as to hint, that hadn't he expected Hans, he wouldn't have rode out this evening without his groom. So the Wild One jumped on his horse again, and put the bag before him. It was nearly morning, your Highness, when Hans found himself at the door of his own cottage; and bowing very respectfully to the Spirit Hunter, he thanked him for the sport, and begged his share of the night's spoil. This was all in joke, your Highness, but Hans had heard that talk to the devil, and fear the last word;' and so he was determined, now that they were about to part, not to appear to tremble, but to carry it off with a jest. Truly, Hans,' said the Huntsman, thou art a bold lad, and to encourage thee to speak to wild huntsmen again, I have a mind to give thee for thy pains, the whole spoil. Take the bag, knave, a mossman is good eating, had I time I would give thee a receipt for sauce; and so saying, the Spirit rode off, laughing very heartily. Well, your Highness, Hans was so anxious to examine the contents of the bag, and see what kind of thing a mossman really was-for he had only caught a glimpse of him in the chase-that instead of going to bed immediately and saying his prayers, as he should have done, he lighted a lamp and undid the string; and what think you he took out of the bag, your Highness? As sure as I'm a born sinner--his own child!"

This is good in its way; but what follows in the German style, is abominable, however we consider it. Many German writers have fallen into the mistake of supposing, that the merit of imagination is due to sheer extravagance and wild absurdity. This error our author has adopted; and, accordingly, he labours indefatigably to produce that kind of nonsense which vexes us in a dream. Let any one sup off half a pound of toasted cheese, and we will engage that he shall see, at that moderate price, a vision which shall surpass the best scene of the would-be grotesque in Vivian Grey. Let the author exert himself to the utmost-he is yet no match for the night-mare. Indigestion is superior to his invention, and the mightiest efforts of his brain will be excelled by the workings of a foul stomach. Imagination is a very fine faculty of the mind, when happily directed or judiciously controlled; but there is no kind of merit in the imagination of unalloyed nonsense; and when we give play to the imagination, we should have a care of playing the fool. This may seem a very unnecessary lecture

to those who have not been fatigued with the unutterable folly of some imitations of the German in Vivian Grey. We refer particularly to a description of a debauch, which is indeed " an idiot's tale, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." What may follow this performance we know not, for it ended our weary attempts to struggle through the book, as we flung it aside in disgust, and dropping into a doze, dreamt more reasonable things.

FRAGMENT OF A LETTER FROM A YOUNG ARTIST IN ROME TO HIS FRIEND IN VENICE, IN 1575; TRANSLATED FROM A FOREIGN ORIGINAL.

Rome, October 1575.

Ar length the fondest dream of my early youth is realized! I have trod the soil of the "eternal city." I have stood amidst the awful relics of the Capitol; and, like Marius on the ruins of Carthage, I have mused over the vestiges of departed empire, and have compared the moral grandeur of Rome in the days of the Scipios, with the fallen state of her existing and priest-ridden children. I have gazed with awe upon the daring conceptions of Michael Angelo; with kindling rapture upon the glorious creations of the poet-painter Raphael; and I have stood in mute astonishment before the gods and heroes of antiquity, until I became a statue amongst statues.

No, my Angelo! not even Pygmalion, when his sculptured fair one bounded from her pedestal in breathing and voluptuous reality, felt ecstacy more rapturous than mine, when these grand productions of human genius, which I had hitherto known only in casts and copies, beamed upon me in radiant and intellectual vitality.

Until the current of my feelings was turned by domestic calamity, the most ardent and absorbing impulse of my youth was to study the rich spoils of Italy and Greece, and the wonders of modern art, accumulated in Rome. So fervent and unruly was this inclination, that it haunted alike my nightly visions and my waking dreams. Thus incessantly indulged, it became a master passion, a feverish and aching want, a modification of insanity, which, like a rapid and consuming flame, defied every effort to subdue it. At length this diseased influence yielded to the stronger excitement created by the untimely death of my father, and the determination to inflict a just retribution upon his assassin. Now that I dwell within the sacred walls, that the soothing task of just revenge has been accomplished, and that my mind has regained comparative health and elasticity, my ruling passion for the arts has revived with a force exceeding even its original intensity. The pictured glories of the Sistine and the Vatican shine ont encouragingly upon me; the stern statues of antiquity relax their iron features, and extend their fostering arms to the most ardent of their votaries. My departure for Greece is indefinitely postponed; and I yield unresistingly to the enchantment which confines me within the magic circle of Rome and its environs.

My progress has hitherto been rather the rush of a wandering and fiery meteor, than the motion of a rational being. The intoxication of my spirits has communicated a restless and sweeping energy to every movement; and, in a period inconceivably short, I have explored each