Memoirs of the Life and Times of Sir Christopher Hatton, K. G., Vice Chamberlain, and Lord Chancellor to Queen Elizabeth, including his Correspondence with the Queen and other distinguished persons. By Sir Harris Nicholas. G. C. M. G. Richard Bentley London, 1857.

Any work which throws additional light upon the remarkable reign of Elizabeth, must be viewed as a valuable contribution to historical literature. No man who may boast of the heritage of Anglo-Saxon blood, can turn without pride and admiration to that magnificent era-an era which, in every department of intellectual effort, so brilliantly illustrates the supremacy of his race. Even after the lapse of three centuries, with the most abundant material on hand, whereby to form a correct estimate of the events and the personages of the time, it seems to us that we have not yet come to regard them in the full majesty of their grand proportions. The age was not a one-sided age, great in the manifestation of energies, intense, yet narrow. but catholic, comprehensive well nigh universal in the direction, as well as the grandeur of its genius.

What province of the mind was left untilled by the giants who lived in those days? Philosophy, statesmanship, science, poetry, art, the entire domain of letters, were cultivated with an assiduous, exhaustive vigor, which penetrated to the core and principles of things; daring speculation was wedded to severest practice, and not one necessary force in the economy of progress seemed to lack its guiding spirit-the minister to interpret and advance it.

Some French writer has aptly called the present century a century of "specialities." Looking back from our standpoint, therefore, to the period of Elizabeth, its really wonderful feature strikes us as being the rich variety of individual mental endowments. Never before or since has it been granted to man to approach so nearly the universal in intellectual aptitude. We find a capacity for speculation, the most subtle and transcendental, united in the same person, with the largest talent for practical

detall. The theorist did not shrink from subjecting his laboured conclusions to the sternest of experimental tests. He who built up a system of political Economics in the closet, was permitted to prove its efficiency in the management of the affairs of a kingdom. The cour tier who, in his "luxurious idleness," had mastered Lyly's Euphurist, and could perform a gailliard with the grace and dexterity of a professional artiste, was, perhaps, a few months after, to be seen at the head of his gallant sailors on the Spanish-Main, supporting the honour of England in some desperate conflict with her bitterest foe, or planting the flag of his country on the shore of some far distant region, claimed for Elizabeth and Protestantism the right to which he was ready to maintain against all comers, with his most precious blood and in battle à l'outrance.

In a word, no age of authenticated annals, ancient or modern, can compare with the one we are discussing, in all the elements which constitute true greatness and substantial progress.Therefore we repeat that our gratitude is due to every historical explorer who is able to elucidate more fully the records of that time. This essential ser vice the author of the "Memoirs of Sir Christopher Hatton" has certainly ac complished for us. This book is com piled of materials which have never be fore seen the light. Of Hatton himself, although he filled for years some of the highest offices in the gift of his Queen, little has been hitherto known; and that little, as our biographer shows, having been loosely and erroneously stated, has led to an unjust estimate of the Chancellor's character. Lord Campbell in his "Lives of the Chancellors and Keepers of the Great Seal of England," mentions Hatton as "a vain, idle 'scapegrace,' with few acquirements, and less talents," who was elevated through the capricious partiality of Elizabeth, to positions for which neither education nor nature had fitted him. This opinion is contradicted by the evidence of the vol ume before us. Hatton, we are informed "took a prominent part in all State affairs, and his opinion on public transactions received great consideration

from Lords BURGHLEY, LEICESTER, WALSINGHAM, and all the other Ministers.He was for years what is now termed the Leader of the House of Commons; and if he did not become the Woolsack to which he was unexpectedly raised by great legal learning, he had the modesty and good sense to consult eminent lawyers in cases of magnitude, and obtained the respect of the public by the equity of his decisions" The "Memoirs" have been chiefly made up of numerous letters written by, or to Sir Christopher "Hatton, the original manuscripts of which were discovered in the State Paper Office and in the British Museum. Such documents are, of course, worthy of grave consideration. They carry with them all the weight of direct, personal evidence. We have seldom read anything more curious and entertaining than Hatton's correspondence. The letters to which a special interest attaches are those which he addresses to the Queen. They express the ardour and passion of a lover, rather than the dutiful regards of a subject, and as the memoirist sensibly remarks, "will probably raise a strong doubt upon her Majesty's right to her favorite and wellknown designation." During a brief tour upon the Continent, undertaken for the recovery of his health, Hatton writes to Elizabeth as follows. She had previously given him the queer nick-name of Lids," or "Lyddes," in allusion possibly to some peculiarity of his eye lids.

"If I could," he says, "express my feelings of your gracious letters, I should utter unto you matter of strange effect. In reading of them, with my tears I blot them. In thinking of them, I feel so great comfort, that I find cause, as God knoweth, to thank you on my knees. Death had been much more my advantage than to win health and life by so loathsome a pilgrimage. The time of two days hath drawn me further from you than ten, when I return, can lead me towards you. Madam, I find the greatest lack that ever poor wretch sustained. No death, no, not hell--no fear of death shall ever win of me my consent so far to wrong myself again, as to be absent from you one day. God grant my return, I will perform this vow. I lack that I live by. The more I find this lack, the further I go from you.Shame whippeth me forward. Shame take them that counselled me to it. The life (as you well remember) is too long that loathsomely lasteth. A true saying, Madam. Believe him that hath proved it. The great wisdom I find in your letters, with you country counsels, are very notable, but the last word is worth the Bible. Truth-truth-truth. Ever may it dwell in you. I will ever deserve

it. My spirit and soul (I feel) agreeth with my body and life, that to serve you is a heaven, but to lack you is more than hell's torments unto me. My heart is full of wo. Pardon, for God's sake, my tedious writing. I doth much diminish (for the time) my great grief. I will wash away the faults of these letters with the drops from your poor Lyddes, and so inclose them. Would to God I were with you but for one hour. My wits are overwrought with thoughts. I find myself amazed. Bear with me my most sweet, dear lady. Passion overcometh me. I can write you. God! I beseech thee, witness the same on behalf of thy poor servant. Live for ever. Shall I utter this familiar term (farewell)? Yea, ten thousand, thousand farewells. He speaketh it that most dearly loveth you. I hold you too long. Once again I crave pardon, and so bid your own poor Lyddes farewell. "1573, June.

Your bondman everlastingly tied, "CH. HATTON."

With this precious epistle, breathing such hyperbolical woe and affection, we consign these interesting Memoirs to the judgment of the public.

Quits, a Novel. By the Baroness Tautphæus, author of The Initials," in 2 vols. J. B. Lippincott & Co. Philadel phia.

This is a novel of the quiet and descriptive order, and is a first-class work of the kind. It depicts the course of a comparatively secluded life, analyzing the ordinary emotions with great subtlety and force of insight. The most entertaining chapters are those which contrast the manners of the English middle classes with the conventions of the Continent. There is little of the dramatic or the startling in this tale. Not only are its characters people of the everyday world, but generally we find them engaged in every-day pursuits. We must except those portions of the book which relate to chamois hunting, and the description of life in the Tyrol.Among these, a chapter which paints the minutiae of an Alpine storm, is one of the most vigorous and picturesque pieces of composition it has ever been our fortune to read. We regard it as in every respect worthy the pen even of Walter Scott himself. The description is as follows:

While they were speaking, a thick white cloud began to wreath itself round the mountain on which they stood, its motion scarcely perceptible as it rolled along, avoiding the bright sunbeams that still lingered on the summit. As

the heavens above lowered, valley after valley darkened into deepest shade, a struggling ray of light resting last of all but for a moment on the white steeple of a secluded pilgrimage chapel that had failed to attract the eye in brighter hours. Torp and Nora watched with intense interest the last array of clouds that, rushing across the sky, at length effectually obscured the sun's disc, and caused an indescribable gloom to fall on all around them. Distant lightnings darted through the leaden-hued firmament, and in the direction of the Wild Alp a long stripe of green-colored sky made itself remarkable.

"That looks like a hail storm," said Michael, uneasily. "Indeed, Miss Nora, it would be better if you moved on and tried to pass the waterfall before it comes to the worst. In a very short time we shall not be able to see a yard before us, and when you come to the narrow path, with a wall of rock on one side and a steep fall at the other-"

"I had forgotten that place," said Torp, interrupting him, "and wish for your sake, Miss Nixon, that we had taken our chance of starvation in the hut. Franz would have managed, I am sure, to get to us some way or other.Even now," he added, stopping suddenly, even now we might turn back, and at least secure shelter from a storm that may cause you more discomfort than the wetting for which you are of course prepared."

"Yes-go back-do," chimed in Michael, eagerly; "and early to-morrow morning, let the weather be what it may, I shall return here with provisions, and Franz and his father; and it will be odd if we can't find some way of bringing you home in safety." He had unslung his green pouch while speaking, and held it towards Torp.

"No, no, no," cried Nora; "it is not to be thought of: go on. I shall follow you as carefully as I can. If I fall you must help me up again, and for a shower bath of some hours' duration I am fully prepared."

"On then," said Torp, without the slightest attempt to urge an acceptance of his proposal.

And on Michael went, followed recklessly enough by Nora, who did not choose to be the cause of delay when every moment was of consequence.They had all ceased to look round them, or speak, and were just within sight of the wilderness of rocks around the fall, when a few gusts of wind put the clouds above and below them into commotion, and a few seconds afterwards an impenetrable mist enveloped them. The guide preceding them shouted, Torp ans wered, and Nora sprang on between

them with a fearlessness that was very satisfactory to the latter.

"Keep to the left, Miss Nixon," he said, as the first burst of the tempest swept past them, and the wind seizing her hat nearly tore it from her head.

"To the left-to the left," he repeated, springing towards her; but the words were unintelligible, and, at all events, Nora was too much occupied with ef forts to retain a covering for her head in such inclement weather, to pay much attention to anything else. In vain, however, she raised both hands, and struggled with the wind; the straw yielded in all directions, and even while Torp was speaking, the hat was borne aloft, and she had made an equally fruitless and imprudent attempt to snatch at it.

Another blast of the storm whirled her round until she became perfectly giddy; but she was not immediately aware that, when raised from the ground, the path was no longer beneath her feet, and that she was on her way down the mountain precisely at the spot chosen by the wildschuetz for his desperate slide. The first horrible consciousness of her danger flashed across her mind on finding herself flung on a heap of sand and gravel, that, without affording her a moment's support, began to glide downwards, carrying her amidst a cloud of dust and sand, clumps of loose earth, and a shower of gravel, towards the river that she had, in the morning, scen dashing in cascades among the rocks at the foot of the mountain.

She

Down, down, down she was carried with a rapidity that increased every moment. Being unhurt, she long retained both consciousness and presence of mind; made no resistance where the fall was hopelessly steep, and endeav ored to grasp whatever seemed likely to arrest her progress, when the decreasing velocity enabled her sufficiently to distinguish surrounding objects. did not despair even when a deafening hurricane swept through the ravine, carrying with it large branches of trees, and raising the sand about her in pal pable masses; but when the forked lightning dazzled, and instantaneously following thunder pealed above her head, when she once more felt herself raised from the ground and borne along without the power of resistance, a feeling of utter helplessness took possession of her mind, she expected instantaneous death, or horrible mutilation, and murmuring a prayer, had scarcely touched the trunk of a fallen tree before she became completely senseless.

How long she remained in this state she never could ascertain; her return to consciousness was, perhaps, accelerated by the furious raging of the wind,

and unceasing rolling of thunder, that was echoed a hundred-fold by the surrounding mountains. When she again opened her eyes, Torp was bending over, and watching her, with an expression of such intense anxiety, that a natural impulse made her sit upright and look round her.

"Are you much hurt?" he asked gravely.

"I-think-not," she answered, putting her hand to her head.

Thank God!" he exclaimed, fervently; "for never in my life was I so horror-struck as on seeing you lying there, apparently dead."

"I have, indeed, had a most miraculous escape," said Nora, rising slowly, and supporting herself against the stem of a tree.

"If you can walk, let us leave this place," cried Torp, quickly, as he heard the crashing of falling timber behind them, and observed some young fir-trees rolling past, that had evidently just been torn up by the roots. We are in actual, immediate danger here, and ought to endeavor to cross the fall, before the rain cuts off our retreat."

He gave her her mountain staff, which he had found lying on the ground, seized her hand, and hurried from the unsafe shelter of the wood. But so violent was the tempest, that they had hardly staggered a hundred yards towards the fall, when Nora was again thrown to the ground. The darkness of night seemed to overspread the sky; a few large, heavy drops of rain preceded a long, whistling gust of icy-cold wind, which was instantly followed by the most violent shower of hail that Nora and Torp

had ever in their lives witnessed.

Let not the English reader suppose that these hailstones were such as may be occasionally seen pattering against their plate-glass windows. They were compact masses of ice, like stones; and giving a blow that caused actual pain. Torp pulled off his shooting-jacket, and throwing himself on the ground beside Nora, formed with it a partial shelter for her and himself-the more necessary, as they were both without covering for their heads-and there they sat together, resigned and silent, during the hailstorm, and immediately succeeding torrents of rain, which poured like a bursting cloud upon and around them. Sheets of water seemed borne along by the wind; and the noise caused by the rushing of the already-flooded river below the still rolling thunder above-and the storm sweeping over the adjacent forests, at first prevented them from hear ing the approach of the long-expected, and not a little dreaded wood-fall, which they knew would cut off all communi

cation with Almenau for many hours, and effectually prevent them from returning the way they had come.

By the

Mustang Gray, a Romance.
Hon. Jeremiah Clemens, author of
"Bernard Lisle." J. B. Lippincott &
Co. Philadelphia.

The hero of this story was, the author tells us, "a real character, whose name and exploits are well known in the South West." The details of the "romance" are chiefly facts; but these happen to be of so wild and unusual a character, as to give to the tale the interest of the most imaginative fiction.

There are no evidences in the work of an attempt at complication of plot; the narrative is simple and somewhat disjointed, but always told with effective earnestness and spirit. Mr. Clemens lays great stress in his preface upon the moral of the story, which turns upon the "endeavor to show that no associations, no natural gentleness of disposition, and no pious training in early life will suffice to prevent us from yielding to the temptations of passion." He goes on to observe that he has made no "attempt to paint one of those immaculate characters, without which a novel is generally considered a failure by the sentimental reader." And truly, Mustang Gray, the hero is somewhat more than a scapegrace. With all his brave exploits, and the admiration they naturally excite, we cannot conceal from ourselves the fact that he is very decidedly a desperado, and not a little of a blackguard. We must confess that we do not fancy the school of fiction to which Mr. Clemens' "romance" belongs, but it is certainly a clever book of its kind. We will quote a vigorous description from one of the earlier chapters. Mustang Gray, before he enters on his career of vice and corruption, is represented as loving Julia Allison, the sister of an intimate friend, and, of course, a young lady of incomparable beauty. Her discretion, however, is not equal to her personal charms. She falls a victim to the arts of a certain Mr. Taliafero, who, after the manner of villains of his class, first ruins and then contemplates deserting her. Gray accidentally learns the position of affairs.— Jealousy, indignation and disappointed passion unite to raise the fiend within him, and-but we must allow the author to tell his own story.

"A few days can make no difference to you, Julia," Taliafero replied; "and in that time I shall come back to bear you to the sunny Isle where I am going. There, among its bowers of orange and

of citron, you shall tell me how idle were your fears, and blush to own that you ever doubted or mistrusted me. Be assured no danger threatens us. The secret is our own, and it is safe. Trust me fully you will never regret it."

66

Have I not trusted you? I have surrendered all a woman has to give-and surely, surely, I am not exorbitant in asking back only the innocence I have lost."

Gray heard no more. He was turned to stone. For many minutes he sat with his teeth clenched-his eyes fixed, and his nerves as rigid as a statue. At last, he sprang to his feet with a fierce oath, and rushed with rapid strides towards his own dwelling. Arrived there, he threw himself upon the bed, clasped both hands upon his forehead, and muttered, "Let me think." Soon, however, he was on his feet again, pacing the floor with uneven steps; while now and then a low, heart-broken ejaculation, found utterance-Oh! God, I can't think." The old woman came in to arrange his supper. He bade her leave him; then, seizing the water-pitcher, drank deeply. Throwing himself once more upon the bed, he laid there for hours, motionless as the dead. It was after midnight when he arose, calm, collected, self-composed. The war of the passions was over. A stillness succeeded, which was not the stillness of peace. It was the calmness of despair the dreadful self-composure of a man whose struggles with conscience are at an end-from whose future every hope of joy on earth below, or in heaven above, has vanished, never to return;who had no thought, no feeling, no desire, that did not centre in a single purposea purpose dark and terrible as the hell from which it sprung. The cherished dream of his life had been rudely swept away. He had fondly hoped that, when Julia was convinced of the unworthiness of her lover, she would banish him from her memory; and he calculated that when the first paroxysm of disappointment was over, she might be induced to listen with favor to his own suit. That hopeful calculation was now effectually destroyed. Ruined, undone, what could that stained and guilty thing ever be to him? Still he loved her. The knowledge that she was no longer pure and innocent, while it placed an impassable barrier between them, broke no one thread of the strong cord that bound him. So far from including her in the vengeance he meditated, he would almost have forgone that revenge itself if it threatened to subject her to the possibility of exposure.

"It will not do," he said, "to let even John know the horrid truth. I have

cause enough to quarrel with Mr. Taliafero without referring to this last damning deed. They may hang me, if they catch me, unless I reveal it. If so, welcome be the gallows and the rope, for life is not worth enough to be preserved at such a price. I would hang fifty times over, rather than have the finger of scorn pointed at that erring girl."

The next day, when he met his friend, he said without apparent emotion"So, John, Mr. Taliafero was your guest again last night."

"Yes, and when I saw him come in with Julia hanging on his arm, I found it difficult to keep my hands from his throat."

"Never mind, there is time enough for that. I have concluded that it would be improper to make the exposure at your father's house. We can walk along the road, and wait for him as he returns to the village. Get your rifle, and let us go; it is near his usual time for passing."

Proceeding up the road for a considerable distance, they seated themselves upon a fallen tree, and waited his approach. It was not long before they heard the sound of a horse's feet. Placing himself directly in the road, when Taliafero came up, Mabry Gray laid his hand upon the bridle, and said sternly,

"We have some business with you this morning, Mr. Taliafero, and you will oblige us by dismounting."

Taliafero liked neither the tone in which this was said, nor the countenance of the man who said it. He did not suppose that either of the persons he had encountered could know anything to his prejudice. It was his own consciousness of guilt that made his cheek grow a shade paler, as he replied,

"I am already beyond my time, and it is needful I should speed on to the vil lage. Whatever business you have with me may, I suppose, be transacted there."

"Our business must be settled here, sir, and now.”

"Then, gentlemen," was the response, as he leaped to the ground, and threw the rein over the bush, "you will oblige me by using some dispatch; for I tell you again, I am behind my time."

Without a word, Gray drew a copy of Mr. Brantly's letter from his pocket, and handed it to him. He took it, and read it slowly. Both Gray and Allison watched his countenance in vain for any sign of guilt. Whatever were his feelings, those marble features were too completely under his control, to exhibit any emotion he did not choose to appear.He held it in his hand much longer than was necessary to decypher its contents, probably debating with himself what course to pursue. Thought is active