cess of delight and admiration, that has disappointed the expectations of many in the effect produced upon genius by the view of a soul-stirring scene. Burns was once conducted to a cataract of great grandeur, which he surveyed in silent wonder. He did not write verses upon it, as his friends expected he would do, for he was overpowered by the scene; to have done so he must have reflected; he could not, like a painter, do his work on the spot by the use of his eyes and hands. The mind was powerless, as to composition, being confused with admiration. No man can write his feelings at such moments; there must be an interval for re-action, that imagination may act and embody its ideas with order and symmetry. The house was broken into angles; a part was erected upon arches, which were continued terrace-fashion beyond it on one side, and were covered with fine turf. A chapel with an antique tower of grey stone stood on the opposite side; the whole was backed with lofty trees and dense but varied foliage, rising "shade above shade," and reflected darkly in the water. A shrubbery and garden were situated close to the building; and at a little distance, surrounded by trees, was a green in closure, in which a few sheep were feeding. Several swans floated proudly along the smooth part of the river, leaving in their track, on the dark water, a long stream of "dewy light." The fall near the mill threw its foam sparkling in the rays of the setting sun. Willows and limes were quivering in reflection among the agitated water, while the shore on which the house stood was wrapped in that deep warm inue which distinguishes the shade at the hour of sunset. Retracing my steps across the Avon, I entered the shrubbery by a door in a low wall, which I found open, and soon reached the back part of the house, or what some might call the back front, looking down on an avenue of lofty fir and cedar trees towards the turnpike road, from which a stranger could have had no idea of the scenery next the water. The tout ensemble forcibly recalled the truly English picture of a pleasure-ground drawn by Sir P. Sidney in his Arcadia; though when he wrote it is to be presumed, that the ancient stiff unnatural style of gardening was in full vogue. "The back side of the house was neither field, nor garden, nor orchard; or rather, it was both field, garden, and orchard; for as soone as the descending of the staires had delivered them downe, they came into a place cunningly set with trees of the most taste pleasing fruits; but scarcely they had taken that into their consideration, but they were sordainely stept into a delicate greene; of each side of the greene a thicket, and behind the thickets againe new beds of flowers, which being under, the trees were to them a pavilion, and they to the trees a mosaicall floore. So that it seemed that arte therein would needs be delightfull, by counterfeiting his enemie errour, and making order in confusion. In the middest of all the place was a faire pond, whose shaking chrystall was a perfect mirror to all the other beauties, so that it bare show of two gardensone in deed, the other in shadows." After walking over the shrubbery, brimful of delight, as I found myself, I could not help returning to the spot from whence I had first seen the house, which became enveloped in deeper shade as the twilight advanced. The hollow bleating of cattle came sullenly upon the ear at intervals, from the meadows and moors that lay northward along the banks of the river. These, and the sound of the gently dashing water, were all that disturbed the stillness; for no voice was heard. The bat too flitted across the shade, beneath the close and lofty trees, impatient for a darker hour. Several ladies came out of the house, and moving along among the trees and shrubs, disappeared behind the clumps of foliage, their white dresses rendering them indistinctly visible amid the gloom. It was one of those moments when a "pleasing fit of melancholy" comes over the mind, and we begin to recall "by-gone" times and forms of those we once loved and reverenced that now live no more. I drew out my watch instinctively; its former possessor was in the grave. I gazed upon the monitor of time, and could not help reflecting of how little The charm of English scenery is predominant at Guy's Cliff; poor indeed is the pomp of palaces to such a retreat. The air of antiquity about it is, however, less impressive than around some buildings of a more recent date. But all the accompaniments of our best rural beauty are there-foaming water, and that which is dark and still; thick shades; a total exclusion of foreign objects; depth of green colour in the verdure; the gothic tower; the inarti THE RENEGADE. Continued. [The princess has another interview with Alaor, who thus relates the incidents of the life of the Renegade.] TH HIERRI III. reigned in France, which, having been considerably aggrandized by the victories and conquests of Charles Martel, enjoyed profound peace. While, however, the Maire du Palais was pursuing his career of glory, the French monarch died of poison, and the infamous Geoffroi, aided by his perfidious troops, possessed himself of the crown and the prerogatives of royalty. The queen, who was at a chateau, some distance from the eapital (with Prince Clodomir, then fifteen years of age, and the infant Princess Elfrida) on being informed of the death of Thierri, hastily proceeded to Paris, accompanied by the princess. But, alas! the gates of the palace were closed against her, and the usurper pronounced sentence of death on the widow of Thierri. An assassin advanced, and after plunging his dagger into the bosom of the queen, stabbed the young princess Elfrida, and was about to lay his murderous hands on A ROMANCE. Clodomir, when the prince, in a transport of indignation, sprang from the royal litter, on which the queen and her children had been conveyed to the gates of Paris. He seized a sword; it was that of Thierri, and pierced the heart of the execrable murderer. The young prince rallied the courage of his followers, but, overpowered by numbers, he fell amidst his defenders, and his eyes seemed to be closed for ever. But Clodomir was not doomed to perish in obscurity. On recovering he found himself stretched on a bed of straw beneath the humble roof of indigence. A faithful soldier had rescued him from the combat, and escaping throngh the woods, saved him from his pursuers. A cottage, in a valley of Ardennes, was now the asylum of the heir of the throne of France, and Clodomir, concealing his rank and birth under the assumed name of Astolphe, was represented as the child of the soldier, the son of the generous Faldis. Meanwhile Geoffroi proclaimed the death of the queen and her two children, and the existence of the young Except Blacklow Hill close by, on which an inscription records, that Piers Gaveston, Earl of Cornwall, was beheaded in 1311,and which adds greatly to the interest of the view. 43 ATHENEUM VOL. 11. prince was known only to the usurper royal authority. Insulted by the guards and some of his attendants. Astolphe was now a shepherd of the valley of Polmeran, and months and years succeeded each other without producing any change in his situation. Faldis, who still hoped for the return of Charles Martel, and the defeat and death of Geoffroi, inspired his charge with the noble pride of his ancestors, and kept alive his hope of recovering the sceptre. The old soldier had a son and daughter named Turial and Anathilde. Turial adored Clodomir, and being acquainted with his illustrious origin, he was ready to sacrifice his life for his prince. Anathilde, simple as the rose of the valley, was ignorant of the secret of Clodomir. He whom she supposed to be a shepherd, occupied all her thoughts, and her heart became susceptible to love. The son of Thierri, who in his turn was ardently attached to the daughter of his preserver, did not disguise his sentiments. He wished that Anathilde should be his bride, and the remonstrances of the old soldier were ineffectual. Astolphe owed his life to Faldis, and his love for the daughter rose out of his gratitude for the father. The news of an important event now reached the valley of Polmeran. The long wished-for day had at length arrived. Charles Martel returned to Paris and completely defeated the troops of the usurper. The conqueror entered the French capital, and decreed the death of the regicide. Faldis had carefully preserved the sword of Thierri, which Clodomir had seized after the murder of the queen the mark of the wound on his breast which the prince had received from the Algerine pirates when an infant, and the ring of the princess Ezilda, were undeniable proofs of his identity. Faldis, Astolphe and Turial bade adieu to Anathilde, and quitting their peaceful abode, hastened to Paris. But alas, how vain were their hopes! -Charles Martel had indeed subdued Geoffroi, had avenged the murder of the king and queen; but in his heart he secretly rejoiced at the extinction of the royal race. The supposed death of Clodomir smoothed his way to the throne, and he only waited a favourable opportunity to possess himself of the of the conqueror, and disregarded by the multitude, Astolphe and his two friends were unable to gain an audience. Faldis had, however, recognized several of his old commanders among the royal troops. He shewed them the sword of Thierri, and revealed to them the secrets of Clodomir. A report soon spread that the heir of the French throne was still living, and that he had appeared to claim his lawful rights. A violent agitation prevailed among the people, and Charles Martel issued an order for the arrest of Astolphe, whom he styled the false Clodomir. A numerous party now joined the young prince. His banner waved before the gates of Paris, and fortune seemed to smile on the descendant of Clovis. But Charles Martel, issuing from his capital, followed by his devoted guards, impetuously attacked the troops of Clodomir. In vain did the prince, by prodigies of valour, justify his rash enterprise, and prove his exalted origin. His party was cut to pieces, and usurpation was once more triumphant. It was then that the unfortunate Clodomir, recollecting the tragical fate of his family, and beholding on every side the triumph of crime, treason and injustice, raised his eyes to heaven, and for the first time doubted the existence of a God. The prince saw the noble and generous Faldis fall dead at his feet. Frantic, and unconscious of what he did, Clodomir rushed amidst his assailants, and dealt deadly blows on all around him, not from the desire of vengeance, but from the impulse of despair. Suddenly dragged by force from the enemy's ranks, he was conducted to the river side, where a boat was in readiness to receive him, and he had gained the opposite shore ere Charles Martel perceived his escape. He by degrees recovered his reason. Glory, hope, honour, no longer surrounded him; but friendship still remained-Turial was beside him. Having traversed a thick forest, the prince and his companion discovered at a distance a hospitable convent. Clodomir was exhausted with fatigue and privation. Turial saw but one resource, it was dangerous, but the prince was un able to proceed farther, and the emissaries of Charles Martel were perhaps pursuing him. He no longer hesitated; he hastily advanced to the gate of the convent, and having obtained a private interview with the abbot, he discovered to him the secrets and misfortunes of Clodomir, and confided the prince to the generosity of the minister of Heaven. 'Soldier, (said the Abbot of Saint Vaudrille) convey your friend hither. Whether he be Clodomir or not, if he take refuge in this convent, I will be responsible for his safety: not all the power of Charles Martel can reach him in this inviolable sanctuary.' These words were consolatory, and yet Turial shuddered as though the abbot had pronounced a sentence of death. He endeavoured to express his gratitude; but the words died on his lips. [These fears are justified by the result; the abbot holds him captive, and endeav. ours to force on him the monastic habit. He is dragged to the altar, when suddenly drawing from beneath his robe the royal sword of Thierri, he plunged it into the heart of the abbot, and rushing through the throng of terrified monks, with the bloody sword in his hand, he appeared to be borne on the invisible wings of an exterminating angel. He crossed the chapel, the galleries and the court-yard, and at length reached a private gate of the monastery, which opened on an extensive forest. Here one of the cloister opposed his escape, and another victim fell beneath the sword of Clodomir; but he was now without the walls of the convent and had recovered his liberty. The prince pursued his impetuous course through the forest. He cast his eyes on his sword, and he shuddered to behold the blade which was died with gore.-He meets Turial, who had watched for him, and, disguised in pilgrims' cloaks, the prince and his friend at length arrived within sight of a long chain of the Ardennes, which had in the mean time been desolated by Charles Martel.] Anathilde was no longer at Polmeran. Turial was received by the friend to whom Faldis on his departure had in trusted the care of his daughter. The young soldier learned that, the French army having halted in the valley, Charles Martel became captivated by the beauty of Anathilde, and that the conqueror bad forcibly carried her from her home. This news was a thunderbolt to the friends; but, defying the difficulties and fatigues of the journey, they followed the course which had been taken by the army of Charles Martel, and they speedily joined the French camp. After many inquiries, they learned that a young female was confined in a solitary castle on the shore of the Atlantic, and that Charles Martel frequently visited the mysterious retreat. One evening, disguised as French knights, they introduced themselves into the castle as messengers from head-quarters, and having shewn the royal arms on the sword of Thierri, they produced a pretended order from Charles, directing the guards of the castle to send Anathilde immediately to the camp under their escort. thilde proceeded to the armory, where her lover and brother were waiting to receive her; her gaolers withdrew; Turial raised his vizor, and Astolphe threw himself at her feet. For some moments they were unable to find words to express their sentiments; but, alas! another stroke of fate awaited them. Ana The door of the armory suddenly opened, and Charles Martel appeared, accompanied by three knights. "Presumptuous soldier, who art thou ?" exclaimed Charles. Thy monarch; usurper, defend thy life!' was the reply. A dreadful conflict ensued, in which Clodomir evinced heroic intrepidity. Two of his adversaries already lay dead at his feet; and Charles Martel was himself on the point of being subdued, when the third knight,who was already severely wounded, fled to a balcony which opened on a vast terAnathilde race overlooking the sea. was there he seized the daughter of Faldis, and turning to Clodomir, Thou shalt not enjoy thy triumph!' he exclaimed, and immediately precipitated his defenceless victim into the waves. -Meanwhile the tumult had alarmed the guards. The two friends were surrounded on every side. Turial was still fighting valiantly, when a traitor rushed forward and plunged a dagger into his heart; he staggered and fell, and with his last breath pronounced the name of his beloved Astolphe. What a spectacle for the prince ! On the one hand the remains of a murdered friend, and on the other a mistress floating on the waves of the ocean. Frantic with despair, he cut his way through the midst of his enemies, and rushing to the balcony, he in a moment plunged into the sea, fesolved to share the grave of his adored." [They escape to a raft, and are driven to sea, but Anathilde perishes in sight of a vessel which is bearing down to their rescue. The agony and despair of Clodomir are forcibly painted: their result is infidelity and apostacy.] A Mussulman, one of the chiefs of the ship's crew, first stepped on board the raft. Young man, (said he) you appear overwhelmed with sorrow; but remember that every misfortune has an end: a God' A God, (interrupted the prince, in a transport of fury,) there is no God! The universe is but a mass of disorder, the world a mere chaos of horror and misery, and man the production of darkness and chance!' Convinced that excess of grief had deprived him of reason, the Mussulmans conveyed him on board the vessel in spite of his resistance. Every mark of care and attention that humanity could suggest was bestowed on him with success. The life of Clodomir was not yet near its close; but gloomy apathy and calm insensibility were painted on his countenance. The vessel, which was bound for Iberia, was commanded by Athim, an African warrior, celebrated for his valiant exploits. Abderam, who was then Caliph in Spain, was raising an army to reinforce the Saracens in Gaul, and having heard of the achievements of Athim, he invited him to Spain for the purpose of placing him at the head of his intrepid Moors.-During the tedious hours of the voyage, Clodomir heard the heroic language which the African chief addressed to the Arabs. Athim detailed his plans of conquest and glory: he burned with the desire of ravaging the plains of Gaul. The unfortunate Prince, who had become the enemy of the human race, and particularly of the French people, now thought only of battles, massacres and devastations. All the force of his despair, all the fury of his vengeance, were directed against Charles Martel. He expressed his determination to inlist under the banner of Mahomet. His enthusiastic language, his bold resolution, and his thirst for revenge, delighted the African chief, and he himself promised to present the prince to Abderam. They landed in Spain, and the son of Thierri, concealing his birth and his rank under the name of Agobar, was conducted to the caliph. Young man, (said Abderam,) I am informed, that having been exiled from Gaul, you hate your country and wish to adopt another; but I cannot receive a Christian among the warriors of Mahomet. Do you consent to renounce your faith, and wear the turban of the prophet?" Potent caliph, (replied Agobar,) I wish to fight and to serve you. Jupiter or Jehovah, Mahomet or Christ, what signifies the choice of a name! The helmet or the turban, the crescent or the crucifix, all these toys are equal in my estimation! Pleased with the boldness of his replies, and the vehemence of his passions, Abderam no longer hesitated. Such a character suited the barbarians of Iberia. A gobar bound the turban on his brow, and descending the Pyrenees, the Renegade soon appeared like a meteor in Occitania. A VOICE FROM ST, HELENA.* THIS is the title of a work on we have Napoleon in familiar intercourse with us, giving accurate, or, al least, striking portraits of his contem poraries, from the revolution down to the battle of Waterloo; reading lectures on the political state of England; and speaking of his own actions as if they belonged to other times. In such Buonaparte, far more interesting than any that has preceded it, to those who would know the real character of this extraordinary being. It shows him to us in his private life, in those moments when the Emperor is lost in the man, when the actor is off the stage: This work is still in the press. Our account is received from a friend, who, by favour of the publishers, bas had access to the proof sheets of the first volume. |