casional gleams of information respecting Redgauntlet. He is introduced to smugglers, and Jacobites, and visits Cumberland in search of Darsie, who is mixed up in the schemes of Redgauntlet. He finds that the Greenmantled Lady is his only sister Lilias, and that he himself is the heir to the title and estates of the family. We must not interrupt our analysis, or we would give a passage from the narrative of Lilias, respecting her conduct at the coronation of George II.

Redgauntlet endeavours to mix up Darsie (now Sir Arthur) in his projects of rebellion, though in vain. He is presented to Charles Edward, who had arrived in England on the invitation of some of his old partisans; but the attempt to excite a new insurrection is abortive. The Pretender quits England, and Redgauntlet goes with him. Sir Arthur attaches himself to the house of Hanover; his sister marries Alan Fairford, and with this the story ends.

Our opinion of Redgauntlet, is not one that the author need be proud of; we need not look at the title page to be informed it is by the author of Waverley, for it bears within sufficient testimony; but those brilliant and glowing descriptions-energetic sentiments--graphic delineations of character-and dramatic effect, that generally distinguish the Scotch Novels, do not characterize the last. Redgauntlet treads on the heels of St. Ronan's Well, not only in regard to the space of time that has elapsed between the two, but also in regard to merit. Need we express any further opinion? if we must, it is, that we hold it no higher regard than Peter Pindar's razors, which were "made to sell." The work is evidently intended more for the Booksellers, than the public: but however, from the small interest it has excited, we believe all parties concerned in its publication will find, that it is even in the power of him who possesses the highest share of reputation to lose it, and that however great a favourite author may be with the world, his mistress will be found too capricious for him to relax his endeavours, to secure her permanent regard.

DEAN SWIFT.

DEAN SWIFT being once upon a journey, attended by a servant, they put up at an inn, where they lodged all night. In the morning the Dean called for his boots; the servant immediately took them to him: when the Dean saw them-"How is this, Tom," says he, " my boots are not cleaned?" "No, sir," replied Tom-" as you are going to ride, I thought they would soon be dirty again."—"Very well; go and get the horses ready." The servant obeyed his orders, and in the mean time the Dean desired the landlord to let him have no breakfast. When Tom returned, the Dean asked if the horses were ready?—Yes, sir." "Go and bring them out then.”—“ I have not had my breakfast yet, sir."-"Oh! no matter for that; if you had it, you soon would be hungry again."-They then mounted and rode off: as they rode, the Dean pulled a book out of his pocket, and fell to reading. A gentleman met them, and seeing the Dean reading, was not willing to disturb him, but passed by till he met the servant. Who is that gentleman?" said he.-" "Tis my master, sir."—"I know that, you blockheadbut where are you going?" "To heaven, sir."- "How do you know that?" "Because I am fasting, and my master is praying; so I think we are in the right road to that place."

Some ACCOUNT of the LIFE of the late GILBERT EARLE, ESQ. Written by himself. London, 1824. C. Knight, 8vo.

THIS fictitious story may be told in a few words. Gilbert Earle falls in love with a beautiful and accomplished lady: that lady is the wife of another her husband is ignorant and brutal: she hates him, and loves the hero of the tale their love is first platonic, and then practical; a month afterwards the husband dies, and marriage legitimates their passion; their anticipation of the legal period, however, and the memory of their month of sinning, renders them wretched: she dies of a decline, and he lives the victim of remorse.-Over the whole tale are spread a morbid sensibility, with which we cannot sympathize, and a miserable gloom, which renders the perusal of the work painful to the reader. There is something even whimsical and absurd in the distress of the lovers being caused only by their mistake as to time, and in their sin or their sanctity depending so much on a mere difference of date. As the work is nevertheless pretty well written, bateing the affectation of French phrases, we extract its more interesting passages.

"The room was very crowded; it was a musical party, but I chanced to arrive just at the termination of a song, so that some short time passed in that general hum of conversation which commonly intervenes between the pieces of music at a concert. But of a sudden, there was an endeavour to obtain silence-some one was going to sing. I was engaged in conversation, and did not pay much attention to the prelude, which was played on a harp. It was a simple air, just played over, as it seemed, to give the key to the singer, and to accord the instrument to the voice; but, as I have said, I continued my conversation, heeding it but little. I happened to be speaking on some subject that interested me; and I continued talking earnestly, but par bienseance, in a low tone of voice, when the singer began. I stopped instantly; the most perfect silence by this time reigned in the room, and gave full effect to the notes of a voice, clearer, fuller, and far, far more sweet, than any I had ever heard. The song was of that style which may be termed pensive gaiety; which may be supposed to speak the feelings of one naturally joyous and buoyant, but saddened by the visitation of early sorrow. The singer gave-what is so rare-the words of the song with the utmost distinctness; and they were uttered with a truth of feeling and expression which, added to the wild, simple, and beautiful air to which they were breathed, sank to my very soul. There was, however, no parade of feeling-none of that displayed and spurious sensibility which so often reigns in the atmosphere of piano-fortes. The song was of a tender and regretful cast, and it was given as if the singer understood and felt it -no more. I stood motionless; my ears were drinking in the sweetest and most touching sounds I had ever heard, and I scarcely allowed myself to breathe, lest I might impede the slightest note reaching me. My delight in music had always been something passionate-not scientific, elaborate, complex music, which means nothing, and feels nothing, and makes nothing understood and felt-but music such as this, where poetry and sound join their sweetest and strongest powers, to enchant the senses, and enthrall the soul.

"I was so engrossed while the song lasted, that I never thought of the singer. I was standing in a corner of the room, where I had been talking to my friend, shut in, as it were, by a pillar; so that, from the crowd of

persons collected before me, I could see no more than the top of the harp. But of this I was scarcely aware, until the music had ceased, and a long deep-drawn respiration had relieved me from pleasure which had almost become oppressive. Then, I began to desire to see her from whose lips such sounds could flow, and I strove to extricate myself from the crowd. I was some little time accomplishing this-but when I did, I came at once in full sight of a creature, of a beauty, such as my eyes had never rested upon before. She was seated by the side of the harp, receiving the praises which were naturally being dealt forth most lavishly. Her cheek was a little flushed, and her eye glistened in a manner which shewed that she was touched by the intoxication of success, and of the consciousness of the keen admiration which she excited. But the expression of a glance which she now and then cast on those around her, and a sort of shade which, at intervals, passed over the brightness of her countenance, sufficed to shew, that though she could not but enjoy the homage paid her, yet she fully knew how hollow and worthless it was. This was plain to me, as I gazed upon her face of heavenly beauty; and I was just then, as may be supposed, in no mood to judge severely. No-I thought-I still thinkthose emotions of young and womanly vanity, far more than outweighed by the countervailing feelings I have described. Succés de société are, beyond all things, likely and able to make giddy a youthful brain. I believe there are few who would not have enjoyed the incense as she did— I am sure there are few who at such a moment would have felt its light value, and have sighed for something far higher and better than this.

"How beautiful I thought Eleanor then-how beautiful she really was! and that, too, of a beauty exclusively, even strangely individual. I have, during the course of my life, seen some women who were her equals -one or two who, strictly, perhaps, were her superiors, in beauty. But I never, either before or since, knew any one, in the least degree, like her. Her eye, especially, was such as I never saw in any other person. It was a full, beautiful blue eye, but with all-with more than all-the fire and power of a dark one. I can see it at this moment, beaming on me with the softness of tender affection-with the flashing of passionate love. I can see it bright with the fearful brightness of agony-subdued in the melancholy mildness of sorrow. I can see it as if curdled and frozen in the coldness and dimness of death! Oh, it is the human eye which bestows creating expression upon the human countenance !-it is that which gives the immaterial spirit to actual vision--which enables us to see the soul. Hence, in all our recollections of one we have loved, it is the look which is ever the most present-for that places her before us, body and mind at once. Yes, I can see her now-her tall and rounded form, possessed beyond all others of that grace of motion which adds such charm to accuracy of shape, where it exists-and almost supplies its place to us, where it does not; her face, of more than earthly loveliness, with its bright clustering hair, and its clear, pale, pearl-like complexion-varied on occasions with a flush of rich blood, of a tint like that presented by the interstices of the fingers when held against the sun; and, above all, the deep and magical effect of her general image; all, all are now before me in that full, lavish, luxuriance of beauty, which was her's when my eyes rested upon her for the first time.

"She was sitting, as I have said, by the side of the harp; which gave, as it were, token and remembrance of the exquisite sounds she had drawn

from it, and of those she had superadded. She had all the advantages of dress the perfect and exquisite whiteness of her skin was given to view -her full and rounded arm was uncovered-and her bright beautiful hair was fastened with a knot of diamonds. I thought then she never could be so lovely, as when full dressed; I afterwards thought that in simple unadornment she was more lovely still. But I found the reality to be(and in a truly beautiful woman it always is so)-that the dress in which she is before our eyes, is that in which we think she looks the best. At night the brilliancy of dress appears to us most suited to her beauty; in the morning, we become converts to the plain white gown, and that indescribable loveliness of complexion, which a perfect, but still a healthy, paleness, possesses by day-light; and, when night returns again, she again seems to eclipse her simple self, and we revert to our former creed.

"The spot where we were seated is as present to me at this moment, as if it were before my actual vision. It was by the side of a steep rocky path, which wound, in zigzag lines, up the face of the mountain. Before us, was a deep and narrow valley-so narrow, indeed, that it might almost be called a ravine-which separated the fellow-mountain from that which we were on. In front of this valley, a little to the right, was the sea- -the magnificent eternal sea; now spreading its boundless expanse of deep inky blue into the horizon, with an unruffled surface, but a heavy, bulky, swell of the body of its waters. I do not know that there is any state in which the ocean is so solemn and imposing as in this. In a perfect calm, it is dreary and monotonous; in a light breeze, it is dressed in smiles and brightness; in a storm, it is awful, fearful, terrible. But in the state I have described, we gaze on it with a deep and oppressive sense of its majesty and vastness, which it inspires at no other time. In calm it loses the one, in tempest the other-for the rage of the elements always narrows the circle of our view.

"The sun, too, was setting on it now. It was one of those evenings in which the sun goes down almost to the horizon, shrouded and hidden by dense clouds; and then shines forth for a few moments with that deep and lurid brightness, which it sheds at such times. The wide sea was tinged with a dark shadowy tint of red, like that which is produced by looking through obscured glass at an eclipse. Its full heaving acquired a sullen threatening aspect from this blood-coloured hue, and looked, if I may so say, like the face of a guilty man, brooding over fierce and revengeful thoughts. The valley was in perfect gloom, as well as the hill behind us, and three-fourths of that opposite-but the summit of this last caught the only ray of gold which the clouds permitted the sun to shed, and shone in feeble and melancholy lustre, as contrasted with the darkness, or the gloomy light, which spread over all else.

"We had walked slowly up the difficult path, and sat down here upon a fragment of a rock to gaze on this beautiful and impressive scene. The seat placed us close to each other; our limbs touched, and I was forced to pass my arm round Eleanor, to support her on the rock. Is there any one who was ever thus placed, in such a scene, at such a season, and does not treasure in his heart's memory the sensations of that hour? Even when alone, mountains-the vast sea-a frowning sun-set-occasion a full deep awfulness which weighs on the heart, and even on the physical breath. There is a tightening of the breast, and a leaden oppression of the nerves,

which, nevertheless, cause a deep moral sensation rather than bodily pain. The most thoughtless pause in their thoughtlessness-the most wicked are softened to repentance-the most callous, for that moment, feel. Upon a heart warm and ardent-untouched, at least untainted, by crime-it is needless to say what the effect must be and is. But when we are with one we love-whom we doat on with all the softness of the tenderest feeling -whom we adore with all the fervour of burning passion;-when we feel the vital warmth of her frame thrill through us;-when her breath is mingled with ours-and we gaze into her very soul, which beams in her eyes with inexpressible affection and abandonment-then, indeed, does the heart swell with sensations which have no words to paint them-but which need them the less-as those who have once felt them require no description, and to none but those who have felt them, could any description convey the feeblest shadow of what they are.

"We were thus placed:-my arm supported Eleanor on the narrow seat -her eyes mingled with mine. We did not speak. There are some moments, and this was one of them, when speech is wholly powerless. Nay, more-when to speak would break, as it were, the enthralling spell which is over us—would destroy at once those air-built visions, which, as in the Eastern story, lap our silent spirits in Elysium. Yes! thus we felt-as if the earth, and sky, and sea, had vanished from our eyes, and there were only ourselves in the world; as if we were but one being-as if we had but one soul!

"But, alas! there is no scene, however sublime-there is no hour, however solemn-which can long suspend the head-strong wilfulness of passion. I took advantage of the softening and swelling of the heart, which we then both felt, to return to my ceaseless topic-to urge my usual suit. But the heart of Eleanor was not like mine: that which passed away lightly in me was by her far more strongly felt. The holy sensations of that hour outweighed its dangers, and spiritualized and made pure even unlawful affections.

"As I proceeded, though she continued to listen attentively, she seemed to cease to hear; her eye became fixed and unmeaning, and her whole form grew motionless and stiffened. A sort of waking stupor appeared to come over her; I strove to rouse her, but in vain. I shall be better presently,' was her only answer, and she repeated it to all I said. The continued, unvaried, and mechanical manner in which she repeated this sentence, was more fearful than if she had been wholly speechless. I became alarmed to a maddening degree. There she sat like a stone; her eyes fixed -her colour gone-her frame rigid. I shall be better presently,' she repeated to every thing I said to her, and even when I did not speak. I was utterly, helplessly, at a loss. A fit, a swoon, hysterics, I should have known how to succour and relieve; but this unearthly statue-like suspension of animation, with the single exception of that one-echoing phrase, made me nerveless and helpless as a child. There was no water on this rocky mountain, and I feared to leave her to fetch it. She remained motionless.

"At this moment there came singing down the path a little boy of, it might be, ten years old, in ragged clothes, and with bare feet, but skipping along at a merry pace, and carolling forth his ditty, with the gaiety and lightness of an innocent and happy heart. The path brought him close to