Asia, and from their geographical position, as well as from their singular character, they could not fail to be known and to be spoken of: but the case was otherwise with the Etrurians, who occupied no more than a corner of southern Italy, and who dwelt for ages on the extreme verge of the then civilised world. Beyond them all was darkness, ignorance, and barbarism; behind them all was light, activity, energy, and knowledge. But they were nearly secluded from intelligent communion with the rest of mankind, with whom they are not known to have formed any alliances of peace or of war, if Corinth and possibly Carthage* be not exceptions; and when they do appear on the stage of human affairs, it is as the adversaries of obscure tribes of savages, whose lands they appropriated and whose persons they enslaved. Their future celebrity is wholly owing to their connexion with Italian politics in the first ages of the Roman commonwealth, and about a hundred years before our era they finally disappear as a people. Their history is, therefore, more curious than important; but from the circumstances by which it is surrounded it is necessarily dark, and has every chance to remain so. That Mrs. Gray has succeeded in illuminating it we cannot conscientiously affirm. Throughout her two volumes she has to struggle against the oppressive weight of an unwieldy hypothesis, which she strives with praiseworthy diligence to engraft upon the stock of western traditions, but in vain: and we fear that we must say of her ambitious History of Etruria, what Blumenbach said of Gall's Craniological System when it was first broached, that "What is new is not true, and what is true is not new." Let us do justice to our own feelings, however, by declaring, that though we differ, and differ seriously, from this accomplished lady, we would not be understood as wishing to disparage either her talents or her acquirements. On the contrary, we would take this opportunity of publicly recording our unfeigned re

spect for both, and our admiration of the learning and zeal with which she has prosecuted her hopeless enterprise. We would likewise remember, that if her enthusiasm on a favourite subject has carried her beyond the limits of legitimate induction, it has left unimpaired that delightful simplicity and confiding faith which are among the chiefest charms of her sex. Men reason where women feel, but in the latter we prefer nature to logic; and though we do not think that history is the proper field for the display of purely feminine properties, the laws of chivalry forbid that we should too sternly rebuke it. Ethnography is now a formidable branch of science, which it takes much time to master; but its date is recent, and before it arose, theories on the origin of man as unsound, and greatly more ridiculous, than any which Mrs. Gray has constructed for her Rasenes, were the undoubted products of masculine understandings and learned male heads. To say nothing of Lord Monboddo, who was a man of ample literature, scarcely more than half a century intervened between the publication of M. Bailly's glittering letters to Voltaire and Dr. Prichard's great work; and yet who now believes in the submersion of Plato's Atlantis, or in the existence of a primitive people under the 49th parallel of northern latitude, with whom all knowledge originated? both of them propositions which a profound mathematician thought he had demonstrated. Nobody. Let Mrs. Gray be comforted, then. If she has failed to do what was impossible, she is not without companions, and companions of no mean name: but let her also bear in mind that there is a homely maxim which says, ex nihilo, nihil fit. Neither ability nor diligence will make up for the want of materials; and until these be discovered, if ever, the ancient Etrurians must continue to be a mysterious race, of whom nothing can be positively affirmed but their eastern origin, and, according to some, not even that.

His

THE young clergyman of the parish of had been married three months. It had been noted by all who had opportunities of observing him that a very great change had of late come over his manners. Before his marriage he had been remarkable for a certain wild buoyancy of spirits, which the more sedate and censorious of his critics did not fail to find fault with as unbecoming in a clergyman, and which was all the more suspected by them, that it was coupled in his case with a bold and unusual mode of expressing himself on religious subjects. Not that there was any thing which they could complain of as positively unorthodox in his sentiments; on the contrary, it was observed that in his sermons he used to be drawn, as if by a natural tendency, to those special and inner doctrines, in fondness for which orthodoxy was conceived to consist. representations, in particular, of the incidents of Gospel history were marked, when contrasted with those of other clergymen, with a freshness and power that were quite surprising. Still even here there was something dissatisfying to one portion of his critics. He aimed, they said, at making Scriptural scenes too vivid. It was remembered against him, for instance, that he had once spoken of Christ walking on the green grass; and that, on another occasion, not in the pulpit but in conversation, he had described with great enthusiasm, the effect produced on his mind by a Fongh engraving of Albert Dürer, representing Christ driving the money changers out of the Temple. The vague sensation of uneasiness which these little eccentricities of speech, as they were considered to be, produced in the minds of those critics, was complicated, as we have mentioned, with a feeling of alarm caused by the amazing flow of animal spirits which every one remarked in the young clergyman.

Other critics there were, however, who, being either less censoriously disposed, or more clear-sighted and penetrating, were very hopeful of his future career. His faults they

regarded as those natural to a young man distinguished for what they called a highly imaginative turn of mind; and they trusted that these would disappear as he became older, and the various elements of his character became more thoroughly interwrought. This view was adopted, in particular, by the clergyman of one of the adjoining parishes, a man already past the prime of life, and in whose heavy brows was indicated a sort of moral sternness, which, conjoined as it was with an intellect of no common order, made him the ruling mind of the district. The opinion of such a man, very decidedly expressed in favour of his young colleague, had the effect, to some extent, of hushing the remarks of the inferior critics. This man, however, held an opinion of his own respecting his young friend, which, although he had never made it public, he had not failed seriously to hint to the youth himself, "My dear boy," he had once said to him, grasping his hand, and speaking in a tone of tenderness which both surprised and affected the young man, "there is a great difference between poetical fervour on Christian topics and the piety which a clergyman ought to have."

There was yet another class of critics with whom the young clergyman of formed a subject of discussion. These were his more intimate acquaintances; young men who had formerly been his class-fellows, and who, from their residences at greater or less distances from the remote part of the country where he was settled, still kept up a correspondence with him. With these he was not only a favourite, but an object of quite a peculiar kind of interest. They knew him better than those among whom he was now cast; and in some of the most pleasant and enduring recollections of their lives he was a principal figure. Evenings they had spent in his lodging when they were students together at college, walks they had had in his company, little humorous extravagancies, and riotous outbreaks, of

which on such occasions he used to be guilty, and which, in fact, gave such occasions their peculiar stamp and after-relish, lived in their memories, and were invariably rehearsed when a few of them chanced to meet and talk over their college days. They understood better that superabundant mirthfulness which so perplexed the new acquaintances of their friend; indeed, this was scarcely the aspect of him which they remembered best. They had seen him in moods more profound, and, as they thought, more characteristic; when, that exterior coat of mirthfulness thrown off, he would be all intensc, energetic, and scornful; when awakened by some sublime thought, his eye would open calm and full, and every line of humour would vanish from his countenance; or, as was more common still, when he would thrill them by some low note of sadness, the over-sobbing, as it seemed, of a secret sorrow. The truth is, however, that these were prejudiced judges, at least on the special point of the congruity of their friend's character with the clerical profession, to which most of them also belonged; inasmuch, as not only had he tinged them with something of his own gaiety, but their very views of the clerical profession and its duties were in part his.

The young clergyman's critics were exclusively persons of his own status in society; mostly, indeed, his fellowclergymen. By his parishioners, generally, he was not criticised; he was beloved, idolised. A poor and rude population, partly agricultural and partly fishing, they had none of those recondite fears and doubts respecting their young pastor which were reciprocated within his own clerical circle. It is true, his inexperience, his almost total ignorance of the commonest affairs of country life, did not escape their notice; and the mistakes he committed in his questions regarding farming matters, for instance, were a subject of pleasant comment in their little familymeetings. Nevertheless they respected and loved him; they were proud of the reputation which they understood him to possess as a scholar; and it was their boast, that, in the whole country-side there was not his equal as a preacher, nor one who

more zealously and punctually performed his duties as a parish clergyman. He was so modest, too, they said; very young, and a little boyish in appearance, perhaps; but that was a fault which was always mending.

Such was the state of matters in the parish of when, about twelve months after the young clergyman had been settled in it, the report spread that he was about to be married to a young lady in the metropolis, to whom he had been attached since he was a student. Of course the news produced a great sensation in the parish. As there was no young lady among his parishioners upon whose pretensions his choice of a wife from a distance could be received as a slight, the feeling, upon the whole, was one of general contentment. It was, indeed, hinted by some that their minister might have acted as well if he had selected Miss , the minister's daughter of a neighbouring parish, a good-tempered, agreeable, and pretty girl, whose qualities as a housewife had been proved satisfactorily by the manner in which she had managed her father's household since her mother's death, and who was understood, poor thing! to have become too partial to her father's young colleague. "I wish, after all, this fine young lady from the town, may make a good country-minister's wife, with her music and her accomplishments," was the remark of the more outspoken of the gossips, founded partly on a vague notion of town young ladies in general, partly on certain intimations which had reached them, as to the peculiar qualifications which distinguished the young lady in whom they chanced to be more immediately interested. The hum of gossip, however, died away as the time fixed for the minister's departure to be married drew near; and when he was gone, the whole parish was on tiptoe for the day on which they should welcome him back with his young bride.

It came at last. After three weeks of absence the young clergyman returned to his parish, bringing home his wife. It was on a Saturday ever ing; and the first glimpse the parishioners would get of the fair stranger would be as her husband led her to church on the following morning,

This was speedily noised abroad through the parish, and it was plain that on the morrow an unusually farge congregation would assemble to hear the minister's first sermon after his entry into the married state, and to see his young wife.

The morrow came,-a fine Sunday morning late in June. Already the sound of the kirk bell was heard in the manse; already the minister's man had set out carrying the Bible under his arm, with the sermon shut in within the leaves; the boy and the maid-servant had also gone, in haste to reach the church-door in time to have some talk with the bystanders before service should commence. When these were fairly out of sight, the young clergyman issued from the garden-door, with his bride leaning on his arm. Walking slowly down the little avenue which led from the manse towards the highroad, they turned on the right into the footpath by the side of the planting leading to the church. Save the sound of the bell, which came upon their ears from the church still out of sight, all was quiet, the air was calm, the sky mild and clear, the carth green, fragrant, and glad. The heart of the young man swelled within him, and turning to the fair being by his side, he said, in a low,

earnest tone,

"Oh, Helen, you are welcome to the parish of your Henry. God bless you, and make me worthy of you."

She spoke not; but turned her eyes to meet his, which were swimming with tears. No wonder that the young clergyman felt proud and full at heart, as he gazed on her whom he had chosen for his own; no wonder that he was careful to lead her so that her feet might avoid every stone or twig that lay in her path, or that he advanced his hand to push back with a tender jealousy every too-presuming branch that threatened to brush her shoulder as she passed. Her delicate and graceful form bending lily-like as she walked, caught a singular and accordant loveliness from the pure white of her dress, which contrasted as she hung on her husband's arm with the deep black of his clerical costume. Her face was pale, calm, and of a beauty rare, and smileless.

Over the full white arch of her forehead was shaded hair of a light auburn; and her large eyes were of that deep, limpid, indolent blue, which is like the moonlit heaven we see mirrored down in a tranquil pool, mystic, fathomless, beautiful. There was, moreover, an indefinable coldness or sadness in her whole expression, most specifically marked, perhaps, in a slight and apparently habitual parting of the lips, which would have been noticed by an attentive observer. This listlessness, however, hung about her beauty like a mantle which became it. It seemed as if her mind by preference were ever at a distance, and as if, each time she looked at you, she were returning somewhence. So it was when she turned her eyes in reply to her husband's fervent blessing and tearful glance. At the same time there was a momentary change in her expression, appropriate, as it seemed, to that coming from a distance which we have described; the blue languor of her eyes turned of a sudden, nay, almost shot, into a something more keen, tremulous, and vivid, whether the rushing spark of fondness in a bride of three weeks, or some other more complex and characteristic feeling, it would have been difficult to tell. Evidently her husband received the look as a boon and assurance of affection, for he drew her closer to him, pressed her hand silently, and raised it to his lips. A kiss might have followed, but it was Sunday morning, in the open air, the planting was not thick, there might be persons on the other side, he had his ministerial bands on, and the kirk-bell was in his car. They walked slowly on, therefore; he opened the little wicket that crossed the path where it reached its highest elevation; and now the church was in view, with the people who had not yet entered gathered about the doors.

As the pair were seen approaching, the boys, the sexton's willing deputies at the bell-rope for the last sixteen minutes, ceased from their violent exertions, and placing their hands in their pockets, leant against the church-gable, adding their leisurely and open stares to the more discreet glances with which their seniors were already regarding the bride. A faint blush overspread the coun

tenance of the object of so much curiosity; her eyes sought the ground; and her husband, feeling her arm slightly tremble in his, hastened to lead her into church. Passing along the narrow aisle, with its smooth earthen floor, he reached one of the long pews on the left of the pulpit, distinguished as the minister's pew, by the plain cushion of green baize laid along the seat. The boy and the maid-servant from the manse, who, with the greater part of the congregation, had taken their places before the minister's arrival, came out of the pew to allow their mistress entrance. After handing her in, the clergyman passed on to the vestry at the farther end of the aisle, from which, the worshippers in the meantime having all composed themselves in their seats, he soon issued to ascend the pulpit-stair. The service passed much as usual, save that the hearers were perhaps less attentive to what was spoken than was customary with them, most eyes being directed at intervals towards the upper corner of the minister's pew, where, scarce moving, sat one, with whom also, as if he grudged being so near her and yet not by her, the speaker's thoughts were. What with the glimpses obtained by the more rude and curious of the congregation who had waited outside before service, what with the more steady view which others were able by their position in church, to obtain while the service lasted, and what with the brief introductions to the bride, with which a considerable number contrived to get themselves favoured after service was over, the whole population of the parish had that evening a pretty correct portrait of their minister's young wife to comment upon.

"And what think you of our minister's wife?" said the wife of the miller of the parish, on her way home from church, to the wife of a farmer, who, in respect of her husband's dignity as one of the elders, had enjoyed the opportunity for a closer inspection of the bride, which a personal introduction afforded.

"Weel," was the reply, "there's no denyin' that she's bonny, for a lovelier face I never clappit e'e upon; but to me there's something waefu' about her a want o' lichtness like."

Nearly three months had passed since that day. The busy occupations of summer and early autumn had come both to fisher and husbandman, and the minister's marriage had become a topic of the past. Yet, as we have before mentioned, it had not escaped the attention of the parishioners that a great change had taken place in the whole demeanour of their young pastor since his marriage. Instead of that overflowing joyousness which they had formerly remarked in him, there was now a gravity which it was difficult to provoke to a smile, a certain expression of care, of anxiety, sometimes amounting even to pain and restlessness. What was the cause of this? and was it in any way connected with his marriage? The parishioners had no means of answering this question; they very rarely saw the young clergyman and his wife when they were in the company of each other; indeed, they very rarely saw the latter at all, and never in such a way as to become familiar with her-a circumstance which by no means disposed them to speak favourably of her, it being the established morality for a clergyman's wife in that part of the country, that she should go about doing good, and learning who were sick within the bounds of her husband's parish.

Nor even had the families, who constituted what might be called the society of the district for some miles round, very ample opportunities for judging respecting the happiness of the young clergyman's married life. Occasionally, indeed, he and his wife paid visits to one or other of the families in question, when generally the same circle of persons would be invited to meet them; but of these occasions no more fruitful subject of remark could be gathered than this, of which, however, the ladies made the most, that the young minister exhibited, by his looks even at table, by the care with which he adjusted his wife's shawl as he led her out in the evening air, and by a thousand little acts the publicity of which is tolerated only during the honeymoon, an excess of matrimonial fondness, a perpetual yearning towards his young wife in the presence of other people, which it was really provoking for other people to wit