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In a moment, the report as of a thousand cannon thundered through the air; and fragments of clay, rock, and shingle fell, thick as hail and heavy as millstones all around. Immediately after, a piercing cry for aid burst upon their car, and spread over land and water.

exclaimed Springall: "it is not possible that any human creature could have been within the place!" And he stretched himself forward, and looked up to where the cry was uttered. The young man, whose locks were then light as the golden beams of the sun, and whose step was as free as that of the mountain-roe, lived to be very old, and his hair grew white, and his free step crippled, before death claimed his subject; he was moreover one acquainted in after-years with much strife and toil, and earned honour, and wealth, and distinction; but often has he declared that never had he witnessed any thing which so appalled his soul as the sight he beheld on that remembered morning. He seized Roupall's arm with convulsive energy, and dragged him forward, heedless of the storm of clay and stones that was still pelting around them. Wherever the train had fired, the Crag had been thrown out; and as there were but few combustibles within its holes, and the gay sunlight had shorn the flames of their brightness, the objects that struck the gaze of the lookers on, were the dark hollows vomiting forth columns of black and noisome smoke, streaked with a murky red.

As the fire made its way according to the direction of the meandering powder, which Dalton himself had laid in case of surprise, the earth above reeled and shook, and sent forth groans, like those of troubled Nature, when a rude earthquake bursts asunder what the Almighty united with such matchless skill. The lower train that Springall fired had cast forth, amongst rocks and stones, the mass of clay in which was the loop-hole through which Fleetword had looked out upon the wide sea. Within the chasm thus created was the figure of a living man. He stood there with uplifted hands, lacking courage to advance; for beneath, the wreathed smoke and dim hot fume of the consuming fire told him of certain death; unable to retreat,—for the insidious flame had already destroyed the door which Roupall had failed to move, and danced, like a fiend at play with destruction, from rafter to rafter, and beam to beam, of the devoted place.

"Hah!" exclaimed the reckless rover, with a calmness which at the moment made his young companion upbraid him as the most merciless of human kind; "Hah! I wonder how he got there? I heard that somehow or other he was in limbo at Cecil Place; he wanted to make an escape, I suppose, and so took to the old earth! Ay, ay, look your last on the bright sun, that's laughing at man and man's doings--you'll never mount to where it shines, I trow."

Sir Willmott Burrell-for Roupall had not been deceived either as to the identity of the person, or the motive which led him to seek refuge in the Gull's Nest-had effected an almost miraculous escape, considering how closely he was guarded, a few hours before, and secreted himself in the very chamber where he had left poor Fleetword to starvation, little imagining that he was standing on the threshold of retributive justice! He had caught at flight, even so far, as a sort of reprieve; and was forming plans of future villainy, at the very moment

the train was fired. God have mercy on all sinners! it is fearful to be cut off without time for repentance. Sir Willmott had none. In the flower of manhood, with a vigorous body and a skilful mind, he had delighted in evil, and panted for the destruction of his fellows. His face, upon which the glare of the garish fire danced in derision of his agony, was distorted, and terrible to look upon: brief as was the space allotted to him, each moment seemed a year of torture. As the flames rose and encircled their victim, his cries were so dreadful, that Springall pressed his hands to his ears, and buried his face in the sand; but Roupall looked on to the last, thinking aloud his own rude, but energetic thoughts.'

Cromwell had a curiosity to inspect the resort of the Buccaneers; and, perfectly unconscious of Sir Willmott's escape, was petrified with horror and astonishment on seeing him under such appalling circumstances-the tumbling crags-the blazing fire-the dense smoke, mounting like pillars of blackness into the clear and happy morningsky-and above all, the agonized, scorching figure of the wretched Knight, writhing in the last throes of mortal agony!

"The Lord have mercy on his soul!" exclaimed Fleetword: "Pray, pray!" he continued, elevating his voice, and hoping, with a kindliness of feeling which Sir Willmott had little right to expect, that he might be instrumental in directing the wretched man's attention to a future state. "Pray! death is before you, and you cannot wrestle with it! Pray! even at the eleventh hour! Pray!and we will pray with you!"

The Preacher uncovered; the Protector and his soldiers stood also bareheaded on the cliff. But not upon the prayers of brave and honest soldiers was the spirit of active villainy and cowardly vice to ascend to the judgment-seat of the Almighty-before one word of supplication was spoken, a column of flame enwreathed the remaining portion of the crag-it was of such exceeding brightness that the soldiers blinked thereat; and when its glare was past, they looked upon a smouldering heap at the foot of the cliffs. It was the only monument of "the Gull's Nest Crag;" and the half-consumed body of Sir Willmott Burrell was crushed beneath it.' Vol. III. pp. 276–282.

This is vivid and powerful description; and the volumes abound with it. But the most remarkable and distinguishing feature of the story is, the dramatic skill with which the characters are conceived, developed, and grouped in picturesque combination and contrast. Indeed, in the rapidity of the action, the quick succession of incident, the well managed shifting of the scene, th acting, rather than narration of the story, it partakes of the racter of a drama, as much as of a tale. From first to last, interest is never suspended; there is no languor in the composition -no prosing or spinning out of chapters. The female character are portrayed with a feminine skill, the want of which is the most obvious defect in the Tales of the Author On the other hand, too much of woman is attribu characters depicted in these volumes. There

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the story, but none, we think, of a very prominent character. Among those faults, we do not rank the various improbabilities comprised in the story; first, because real life is scarcely less full of improbabilities than romance, and secondly, because the art of the writer is often most happily displayed in throwing a plausible air over unlikely incidents, and in working them into the story, so as to make them seem probable. In a work of fiction, probabilities and improbabilities being equally true, the only difference between them consists in the degree of skill which is shewn in the introduction and management of them.

Many admirable sentiments occur in these volumes; and we are convinced that the Writer has meant to convey, in some instances, religious instruction; but where this is not a writer's main object, it is seldom either happily or efficiently accomplished. As a moral writer, we must place Mrs. Hall, if somewhat above her friend Miss Mitford, yet, much below Miss Jewsbury, although, in another way, she has displayed talents equal, at least, to both. We make this remark, not for the sake of comparison, but of distinction. Works of a totally different description are often confounded under a common name. The "Three Histories" of Miss Jewsbury are all truth, though a fiction. The Buccaneer, though containing a vein of historic and moral truth, is pure romance. The reader of Mrs. Hall's work cannot close the volumes without forming a very high estimate of the powers of the author. On reading Miss Jewsbury's tales, we are less struck with the genius than with the knowledge of the writer,-less with her power of describing, than with her skill in analysing. She brings before us, not scenes so much as things, and is more philosophical than dramatic. The female Writer of the day with whom Mrs. Hall may be most fairly compared, and whom she may be thought to have followed, is Miss Lawrance. The latter, in some fragments of a story contributed to " Friendship's Offering," has ventured upon the same historic ground, and indicated talents capable of producing greater things. Both ladies have given portraits of Cromwell and of Cromwell's still more illustrious Latin secretary; and our readers may compare with the extract given in our November Number (p. 452), the following portrait.

Behold him as he sits, within the tapestried chamber at Hampton Court! 'Tis the same room in which the Protector sat last night; but how changed its aspect, just by the presence of that one man! How different is the feeling with which we regard men of great energy and men of great talent. Milton, blind-blind, powerless as to his actions, overwhelming in his genius, grasping all things and seeing into them, not with the eyes of flesh, but those of mind, altering the very atmosphere wherein we move, stilling the air that we may hear his oracles!

< The room is one of most curious fashion, and hung with the oldest

tapestry in England, lighted on either side by long and narrow windows, that are even now furnished as in the time of the old Cardinal who built them. On the low seat formed within the wall the Poet sat. Who would suffer a thought of the ambitious Wolsey or the sensual Henry to intrude where once they held gay revels and much minstrelsy in their most tyrant pastimes? Cromwell, the great Protector, even Cromwell is forgotten in the more glorious company of one both poor and blind! He sat, as we describe him, within the embrasure of the narrow window; the heat and brightness of the summer sun came full upon his head, the hair upon which was full and rich as ever, parted in the centre, and falling in waving curls quite to his shoulders; his eyes were fixed on vacancy, but their expression was as if communing with some secret spirit, enlivening thus his darkness; he seemed not old nor young, for the lines upon his face could not be considered wrinkles-tokens were they of care and thought-such care and such thought as Milton might know and feel. He was habited with extraordinary exactness; his linen of the finest quality, and his vest and doublet put on with an evident attention to even minute appearance. His hands of transparent whiteness were clasped, as if he were attending to some particular discourse; he was alone in that vast chamber, yet not alone, for God was with him,-not in outward form, but in inward spirit. It was the Sabbath-day, and ever observed in the Protector's family with respect and reverence. The morningmeeting was over, and Cromwell in his closet, " wrestling," as he was wont to term it, "with sin." Silence reigned through all the courts -that due and reverend silence which betokens thoughtfulness, and attention to one of the Almighty's first commands-" Keep holy the sabbath-day," given when he ordained that man should rest from his labours in commemoration that he himself set an example of repose after calling the broad earth into existence and beauty. The poet sat but for a little time in that wide silence; yet who would not give a large portion of their every-day existence to have looked on him for those brief moments, moments which for their full feeling might play the part of years in our life's calendar? Blessed holy time!-when we can look on genius, and catch the gems that fall from its lips! Yet Milton spoke not,-he only looked; and still his looks were heavenward-turned towards that Heaven from whence they caught their inspiration. He heard the sound of coming footsteps, and loving quiet on that holy day, withdrew to his own chamber. How empty now appeared the tapestried hall! as when some great eclipse shuts to the golden portals of the sun, and steeps the earth in darkness!'

Vol. III. pp.

32-35.

In the correct finishing of her portraits and pictures, Miss Lawrance, we think, excels. The graphic talent of Mrs. Hall is displayed in a bolder use of the pencil: if we may use the metaphor, she paints in oil. But we have said more than enough to intimate our opinion of the sort and degree of literary merit displayed in these volumes, and now leave our readers to frame the verdict.

Art. IV. The Year of Liberation: a Journal of the Defence of Hamburgh against the French Army under Marshal Davoust in 1813: with Sketches of the Battles of Lutzen, Bautzen, &c. &c. Volumes. 12mo. pp. 656. Price 18s. London, 1832.

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UNDER a title that does not seem to promise much, we have in these volumes a melange of the most brilliant and entertaining description. The ostensible subject, though an interesting episode of the war of liberation', would, in ordinary hands, have afforded scanty materials for a chapter; but give this Writer any subject, and it is evident that he could work it up into any prescribed form or number of volumes. At the touch of his pencil, the most common-place and unsightly objects become picturesque. He has the strange art of making an old story new, of imparting to the fresh coinage of his fancy the semblance of history, and of making veritable history seem half romance and half a joke. By help of scenic description, inexhaustible anecdote, portraiture of character, politics, battles, poetry, romance, the grave and the gay, the lively and the severe, he contrives to keep the attention in a state of constant and pleasureable excitement; so that, whatever be the road he chooses to travel, the reader thinks only of the pleasant company he finds himself in. He has endowed a mere incident with the opulence that would have sufficed to furnish out a whole history of the war. But the most remarkable feature of the work is, that, although the Writer's style is too vivacious to be sentimental, too sportive for grave philosophy, and you scarcely know when he is quite in earnest, there lies concealed beneath this off-hand, trifling manner of dealing with things, a depth of observation and a seriousness of opinion and purpose, which impart to some of his occasional observations an axiomatic force and practical value, redeeming both the book and its author from the class to which a superficial glance might have referred them. The charm of the work is its style, which sparkles with wit, or flashes with eloquence, from beginning to end; but the retrospect of events which the work comprises, is adapted to be at the present moment peculiarly instructive. We seem to be taken behind the scenes of the great drama, and are shewn the machinery of history.

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The Author is quite serious in his Preface, which contains the moral of the tale. From this war, the great patriotic war of Germany', eminently rose, he remarks, the fearful supremacy ' of Russia, which now threatens all independence, and the not 'less fearful sense of popular power, which threatens all government; the imbodying of the principles of despotism and democrasy, at this hour arming for a conflict, which, whenever it arrives, may cover the world with dust and ashes.' Upon this

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