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may, it is the business of philosophy
to accumulate facts, not theories,
and where these are few, and the
connecting principle doubtful, to
avoid all hasty generalizations*.
I am, yours, &c.

any degree of plausibility, whether
these premonitions result from any
internal consciousness, or external
agency, from some latent power of
the mind suddenly called into action,
or from the immediate influence of
that Mighty Being of whom it is
only an emanation. Be this as it Edinburgh, Feb. 6, 1824.

Sonnet to Evening.

BRIGHT is the hour, when, bursting from the sea,
The glorious Sun begins his course on high;
Then Nature smiles, and o'er the flowery lea
A flood of music streams along the sky.

But dearer far, sweet even-tide! art thou;
Gentler thy breeze, and sweeter still thy light;
Whilst yet, perchance, on some far mountain's brow,
A sunbeam rests, in mockery of night.

O! it is then, when every sound is still,

Save where the lark his untaught vesper sings,
Then sinks to sleep, beside the gurgling rill
Meand'ring near, and rests his little wings,—
'Tis then that I, my soul to rapture given,

Can look around, and fancy earth is heaven!

CASSIUS.

Having confined myself to military anecdotes, illustrative of the presentiment of approaching and inevitable death, I shall advert, in this note, to the well-known case of Henri IV. That truly great prince, on the night immediately preceding the day on which he fell by the knife of Ravaillac," could take no rest, and was in continual uneasiness," and, " in the morning, he told those about him that he had not slept, and was very much disordered. Thereupon, M. de Vendome entreated His Majesty to take care of himself that day, and not to go out; FOR THAT DAY WAS FATAL TO HIM." (Pere de l'Etoile.) The King, however, treated this advice with derision; and as one La Brosse had predicted that he would fall on that day, he seemed resolved, like Cæsar, to brave the ides of March, and, if possible, to give the prophet the lie. This disturbance and disorder continued unabated, till the very moment that he formed the resolution to go abroad in the afternoon. Mathieu, in recounting his discourse both before and after dinner, adds, that "he could not stay one moment in any place, nor conceal his irresolution and disorder;" and that striking his forehead with his hand, he exclaimed, "My God! there is something here which strangely troubles me; I know not what is the matter!" The assassin, who was on the watch for his opportunity, hearing that the King had ordered his carriage, mut tered to himself, "I have thee-thou art lost!" and the dreadful prediction was fulfilled. We are informed by Sully, that Henri lived in perpetual apprehension of assassination; and it is therefore quite probable that the prediction of La Brosse, coupled with the constant dread that he would, in this way, be immolated, to satiate the implacable rage of his enemies, may have occasioned that undefinable irresolution and disorder for which he himself was unable to account. It may therefore he doubted whether the state of Henri's mind, immediately preceding his death, can be considered as that of a person labouring under a presentiment of his approaching fate. He derided, or affected to deride, La Brosse's prediction; he appears to have been oppressed by no overmastering conviction that his hours were numbered; he only felt an unusual restlessness, and a disorder of the brain, which might have been produced involuntarily by the causes already mentioned. The circumstance, however, was altogether too remarkable to be passed over.

THE ALBIGENSES, A ROMANCE; BY THE AUTHOR OF
&c. &c.

THIS is really a very good Ro-
mance ;-not exactly so original as
we might have expected from Mr
Maturin, but all the more reasonable,
perhaps, on that account; possessing
much eloquence, some pathos, great
bustle and variety of incident, a few
absurdities, and not a few specimens
of exaggeration and bad taste. There
is an obvious improvement, however,
in this last particular, since the pub-
lication of Melmoth, which we can
attribute only to the author's having
abandoned the Devil and all his
works; so far, at least, as to dispense
with his personal appearance upon
the scene, though it is quite evident,
from many things in the present
work, that he is still a little reluctant
to dissolve the connection, and has a
strange hankering after all sorts of
diablerie, and other abominations.
But he has abandoned, in a great
measure, the falsetto of passion-the
systematic rant which characterised
his former works; and here, with
all the versatility of Bottom, "he
roars us as gently as 'twere a sucking
dove, as 'twere any nightingale,"-
"bridling in his struggling muse"
with a great deal of patience and ad-
dress, and elaborating his style with a
degree of vigilance and care which we
had hardly given him credit for. We
do not mean to say that his Romance,
even now, is a very common-sense
production; nor do we believe that
he ever has written, or will write,
any thing which it could not be easy
for any ill-natured critic, with more
judgment than imagination about
him, to cut to pieces in a most savage
and truculent manner; but if one
could just allow the reasoning faculty
to sleep a little, and let the imagina-
tion do its work, and yield, unresist-
ingly, to the influence of those wild
and shapeless fancies over which Mr
Maturin has so great a mastery, the
interest of his Tales must far over-
balance their extravagance. They
will hardly bear to be read in day-
light, to be sure; and we should
scarcely answer for the quiescence of
our risible muscles if we were called
on to read them aloud at any time;
but if we were to take them up, on

VOL. XIV.

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66 BERTRAM,"

some winter evening, in the country,
"Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,"
"while rocking winds are piping
loud" among leafless boughs, or roar-
ing down the chimney, or the rain
comes battering the windows with its
arrowy shower," we should certain-
ly feel a little, or rather not a little
tremulous, after yielding, for an hour
or two, to the spell of Montorio. The
early part of that Romance, notwith-
standing the author's opinion, (which,
by the bye, he has since virtually re-
tracted, by imitating it,) appears to
us by far the most splendid and suc-
cessful of his romantic efforts. The
midnight watchings at the Tomb of
Count Orazio, the death of the old
Steward interrupting his disclosures,
and the meeting in the ruined house
near Naples, are masterpieces of the
terrible; and the escape of Filippo
will scarcely suffer from a compari-
son with the exquisite storm-scene
in the Antiquary. Like all other
Romances, however, constructed on
the system of Mrs Radcliffe, its con-
clusion is unsatisfactory, from the
obvious inadequacy of the means as-
signed for the production of events
apparently supernatural, yet proceed-
ing from natural causes; and its
popularity was injured, we have no
doubt, by the monstrous nature of
the leading idea on which the Tale
is founded. With all its defects,
however, it could never be confound-
ed with the thousand and one still-
born children of the Minerva Press;

and had Mr Maturin never written any thing but that Romance, of which he now speaks with so much indifference, we question whether his character as a novelist would not have stood just as high as it does at this

moment.

But revenons à nos moutons. The present Romance, we are informed, is the first of a series of three Historical Romances, descriptive of the progress of manners from the commencement to the decline of the feudal system. The design is certainly striking and ambitious enough; and the subject affords (as Mr Maturin rather injudiciously remarks) Da

room "for all that is picturesque, intelligent, and interesting in description." But we have our doubts whether Mr Maturin is the person to realize all these splendid anticipations, and bring into play these capabilities. We suspect he is deficient in the most indispensable qualification for the task, namely, a minute and extensive acquaintance with the antiquities of the middle ages. His descriptions, at least, are always of that vague and conventional cast which may be executed by any one moderately read in Froissart, and tolerably conversant with the less recondite sources of information contained in the common English and German Romances. But, at all events, be his information limited or extensive, any one must see that it is not in the description of realities that Mr Maturin's forte consists. It is in the conception of what never has been, and, in all probability, never will be, that he is peculiarly at home, and the restraint of history sits heavy on him. It will readily occur, too, to any one who has read the Albigenses, that the choice of a subject was rather unfortunate, as leading, we believe, almost necessarily, to some obvious coincidences, and some dangerous competitions, with the Author of Waverley. The mind is continually wandering from Mr Maturin to Old Mortality and Ivanhoe; and even where there is no immediate imitation of particular incidents, the general tone and manner of the book irresistibly recal the idea of those popular novels. We must confess we find it impossible to separate the character of Genevieve from that of Rebecca, and equally so to disjoin those of that Member of the Church Militant, the Bishop of Toulouse, and the Templar Bois Guilbert. One would swear to the identity of the persecuted Albigenses with those worthies whom an Italian translator of our novels has libelled under the title of "I fanatici di Scozia;" and the misquoting Abbot of Normoutier is certainly a resuscitation of our old friend Prior Aymer of Jorvaulx. But all this, perhaps, is a little invidious, and it is better to let Mr Maturin speak for himself.

The Tale opens about the year 1214, when the persecuted Albigen

ses, after their midnight flight from Carcassone, dispersed over the country in woods and caves, are endeavouring, under the protection of the vacillating Count Raymond of Toulouse, to make head against the Army of the Church, commanded by Simon de Monfort. In this situation, a certain Lord of Courtenaye, strongly suspected of cowardice and magical practices, conceiving his moneybags and his beautiful niece to be in danger, from the neighbourhood of the heretical Albigenses, summons the Crusaders to his assistance. The call is obeyed; and the Hall of the Castle of Courtenaye soon exhibits a strange and varied assemblage of character,-the warlike Bishop of Toulouse, ambitious, fearless, luxurious, and sceptical,-the Abbot of Normoutier, a gluttonous man and a wine-bibber, and a murderer of Latin quotations, Sir Aymer, a brave old Knight, somewhat of a coxcomb withal, and still endeavouring, notwithstanding his "weak hams,"_to play the reveller and the gay deceiver,-Sir Ezzelin de Verac, the Piercy Shafton of the Tale, absorbed in the contemplation of the fashion of his garments,-Semonville, a dullheaded cypher,-Sir Paladour, the hero of the story, a very melancholy and mystical personage, the old Lord of Courtenaye, and his niece, the beautiful Isabelle," the cynosure of neighbouring eyes." This Lady had just been replying, in a very flattering manner, to a speech from Paladour, when the sound is drowned by a trumpet-blast from the walls. It announces the arrival of the redoubted champion of the Church, Simon de Monfort.

The heavy tread of armed steps was heard approaching the hall the folding doors were expanded to their utmost limits by the pages-marshal and minstrel, sewer and seneshal, were all in their places to perform their appropriate rites of ceremony-the guests rose from their seats, and the Lord of Courtenaye was gracefully carrying the cup of wine to his lips, about to give as his pledge the health homage strode into the hall; and followof De Monfort, when the object of all this ing him, like skiffs in the wake of some mighty galleon, came knights and squires of noble birth, with their various trains of attendants; and, as they floated on in a tide of gorgeous and gloomy magnifi

cence, seemed as if they entered the castle rather as conquerors than guests. The courtesy with which the company was prepared to receive the champion of the church was repelled by the uncouth and unnurtured fashion in which he made his entry. Armed from head to foot, and scanning the guests through the bars of his helmet, as he would the features of a foe, he stalked to the board-end of the hall, like an iron tower that was moved by some internal mechanism.

Arrived there, without greeting the lord of the castle, or bowing to the lady of the feast, he flung himself on a seat, and made signs to his squires to undo his helm and gorget. While this was performing, he growled internal curses at their unskilfulness; and, rending all asunder, flung the weighty pieces of armour on the floor, and disclosed a visage that accorded with the promise of his figure. The latter was gigantic, of a clownish, heavy make, but unequalled in strength; the former were coarse and inexpressive, but sometimes lit by a gleam of rude jocularity, and oftener by a glare of ruthless and savage ferocity. As he flung his helmet on the floor, his heavy but not undiscriminating eye rested for a moment on the Lady Isabelle; and the omnipotence of female beauty received at the moment that homage of instinct which is perhaps the most powerful, as it is the most sincere. As he viewed the fair vision, the jaws of the uncourtly gazer involuntarily expanded, his cold eyes twinkled and rolled in their sockets, and his vague and savage laugh indicated that species of admiration which, wanting words, announces itself by a fierce and involuntary delight. This rude homage paid, the Count de Monfort began to give a glance of surly recognition at the guests.

"My Lord of Monfort, we pledge you," repeated the Lord of Courtenaye, holding his goblet high.

"I will do you reason, Lord of Courtenaye," answered the Count; "but first let me know those who pledge me, as well as thee. Now, by my faith, that star of beauty had almost quenched my sight! I drink to thee, Lord of Courtenaye. And whom have we here?Ha! the Lord Abbot of Normoutier ?Nay, then, all the fathers have taken the field in one thick volume, and we may lay aside sword and spear, and beat out the brains of the heretics (if the Dominican preachers have left them any) with mere books. But what say the fathers to this, Lord Abbot ?" he pursued, in a tone of rude jocularity; "where be thine authorities, thy citations and quotations, and the devil knows what?-Nay, if

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"I have thought of it," said the Abbot demurely, who sometimes blundered on a right construction; "but methought it savoured too much of carnal vanity for a churchman; wherefore, I pray you, cherish the motto for yourself."

"Sinful man that I am!" said De Monfort, not heeding him," and have I overpassed the Bishop of Toulouse ?"

"Champion of the Church!" said the Bishop, "Champion of the Church! we greet you well, and give you the amplest benediction of the cause whose noble and approved soldier you are."

The warlike savage bowed his head in short reverence at these words; then raising it, and shaking back his thick and uncombed locks, "Now foul befall the meddling priests," he exclaimed, “who put a mitre on thy head, and a crosier in thy hand, when the one should have borne the helmet, and the other wielded the brand!"

"The sword of the church," said the Bishop," is two-edged, and smiteth both ways."

66

"I wot it well," said the rude lord ; one edge to scare the wolf, and another to shear the flock. How now, Lord Abbot? Drain not thy flagon so fast! I am sore athirst; and thou, though a cru sader against the heretics, wilt not, on such occasion, deny the cup to a layman ?"

66 By the bones of St. Benedict," said the Abbot, much incensed, "a most scurril and profane jest, lepidè ac facetè dictum !”

"And who be these," said Simon De Monfort, finishing his ample draught, "who cluster round thy board, Lord of Courtenaye?-minstrels or mimes, as it should seem by their holiday array. What pageant, what device, are they about to show us? Let them forth with their foolery, that we may laugh."

The scrutiny was not favourable, it appeared, to the company, and the rude Knight endeavoured to digest his spleen, by an ample indulgence in the pleasures of the table. The scene that follows is spirited:

By this time the Lady Isabelle, shrinking alike from this gross excess and obvious negligence of her rank and sex, rose with her female attendants to quit the banquet-hall, polluted by the presence of the brutal lord and his companions, who were fast following his example in inso lence and licentiousness.

"Stay, lady, stay!" cried De Monfort, as he saw her preparing to retire;

"what! flying without news from the courts ?-how Queen Ingelberg sets her hood, and how many gems her girdle is studded withal-meet tidings for fair dames when uttered by courtier-lips like mine!"

"We will hear the court-tidings at our better leisure," said the Lady Isabelle, with the dignity of offended beauty; "and we trust your ample draughts of Maivoisie wilt not have washed such precious matter from your brains ere the morning."

"Marry! my tidings from the court will brook no such delay," said the stern lord, exalting his voice to a pitch the ears of the proud beauty were ill accustomed to; "I bear a message from King Philip, which matters of higher import had swept from my remembrance."

He rose with fierce action from his seat, and while the Lady Isabelle, terrified and incensed, stood pale and proud, averting her looks, but delaying her de parture" Lady of Courtenaye and Beaurevoir," he cried, "I come to claim thee as the ward of King Philip. He hath vowed thine hand to the Lord of Auberval; and if his lands be not broad as thine, or his coffers filled like yon ample chests," (here the Lord of Courtenaye cast a look of speechless agony on the chests that then formed the principal furniture of feudal mansions, and which in the hall of Courtenaye were loaded with plate, gems, and coin, so as almost to be immoveable,)" I pledged word, oath, and fealty, to deliver the royal hest, and five hundred of my knights and men-atarms shall be thine escort to the court of King Philip, though their absence cost me to spare the lives of thrice that number of heretics-a debt which this good arm and brand shall soon redeem," and he brandished the former as he spoke: "meanwhile," he added, crossing the hall,

let me hail the future bride of the Lord of Auberval."

The spirit of her high-descended race glowed on the cheek, and lit the eye of the noble maiden, as, withdrawing her hand from his touch, she exclaimed, with a strong but an ill-timed allusion to the masculine and martial propensities of certain females of the count's family, "The dames of the house of De Monfort may be won, like the Amazons of old, by him who can deal the heaviest blows; but the ladies of Courtenaye are to be won by other suitors, and in different wise from those who claim them as tributes to their liege lord."

Neither the incensed looks which the younger knights exchanged as they half rose from their seats, nor the majesty of

insulted and trembling beauty, touched the fierce spirit of De Monfort.

"For my dame," he said with a hoarse laugh, "I grant she can furbish a corslet, and even wield a brand at needgood gifts in times like these; but for thee, thou gaudy, delicate, disdainful toy, what must I say to thee? This onlyyield thee to the will of King Philip, whose ward thou art, and think not to strive with me. Will thy skirt of tissue prove a fence against a royal mandate, or thy braided tresses man thy towers, when the boldest of thy warders would tremble at the summons of the royal trumpet? Nay, dry thine eyes, lady-I promise thee a bridegroom noble and valiant-the minion of the King-the very Hylas of our royal Hercules, as our school-bred courtiers phrase him; what would woman in all her fantastic cupidity, all her minstrel-taught visionry of loving days and livelong nights, desire beyond such offer ?"

"Her liberty!" answered the lady with a voice of power that made her persecutor start at the spirit he had raised. "Her liberty-that liberty granted to the meanest cottage-dame, whose locks are hid by the coif, not bound by the coronal-the liberty which I would give to the daughter of the meanest serf who lives under the shadow of the towers of Courtenaye, to choose or reject her humble partner. And shall such privilege be denied to the daughter of the lordly line of Beaurevoir and Courtenaye?"-and the pride and spirit of her ancestry (the proudest of their day) seemed to dilate her form, and inspire her looks as she spoke.

"Thou knowest the law, or rather the will of the King," said De Monfort doggedly; 66 thy hand, person, and ample dower, are all at his dispose, or thou must redeem the pledge perchance at the price of half thy lands. The wars against these heretics have deeply drained the royal coffers; our liege hath also to watch the movements of King John of England; and other matters, which may not be told to a lady's ear, have made King Philip willing to transfer some of the heavy chests that cumber this hall to make easy seats for his favourites at Paris."

"Lord of Monfort!" said the Lady Isabelle, with that high-wrought energy of look, voice, and resolve, which, though originating in fear, has in woman all the effect of courage, "Lord of Monfort! Bear back my greetings to the King, and tell him thus, as thou art true knightlet him take lands and living, towers and towns-despoil my domains, and enslave my vassals; and then let him despair of bending to his will the spirit of Isabelle of

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