reigneth. A water-spout had burst up among the moorlands, and the river, in its power, was at hand. There it came -tumbling along into that long reach of cliffs, and in a moment filled it with one mass of waves. Huge agitated clouds of foam rode on the surface of a blood-red torrent. An army must have been swept off by that flood. The soldiers perished in a moment-but high up in the cliffs, above the sweep of destruction, were the Covenanters-men, women, and children, uttering prayers to God, unheard by themselves, in that raging thunder." pering along the sweet-briars, and the broom,and the tresses of the birch-trees. It came deepening, and rolling, and roaring on, and the very CartlandCraigs shook to their foundation as if in an earthquake. The Lord have mercy on us--what is this?' And down fell many of the miserable wretches on their knees, and some on their faces, upon the sharp-pointed rocks. Now, it was like the sound of many myriad ⚫ chariots rolling on their iron axles down the stony channel of the torrent. The old grey-haired minister issued from the mouth of Wallace's Cave, and said,with a loud voice, The Lord God terrible Here we close our extracts. The volume from which they have been made stands in no need of our praise, and therefore we shall leave these few passages to speak for them. selves. The author appears throughout in the most amiable character. Every page overflows with images of the most pure and beautiful tenderness. Occasionally he displays a deep knowledge of the sterner and more troubled passions. His faults are the faults of exuberance-never of poverty; and we have a confident hope that ere long, by exerting all his great powers together, and concentrating their energies on some work of a more extensive character, he will take boldly the high place that is his due. The intelligent reader of these little tales will be delighted, but certainly will not be surprised, in receiving a MASTERPIECE from his hands.* CONSOLATIONS FOR HUSBANDS AND WIVES. He is odd, so much the better:there are few oddities which may not claim noble precedents.-The Emperor Julian inked his fingers on purpose, Commodus powdered his wig with gold dust, and Julius Cæsar wore a green one. Fontenelle cared for nothing but asparagus fried in oil; Sir Isaac Newton forgot his dinner, and Moliere consulted an old gentlewoman. He is a Sloven,-Better still-he is no worse than eight or ten learned men now living, and half a hundred dead. It is a sign he does not admire himself too much, and a comfortable security that nobody else will. He is always abroad. He will come home when he is tired. Birds return to their nests, but seldom to their cages. He loves bustle.-Good!-People in a hurry are like hailstones, which leap about with great noise, and then settle very quietly. Bustle is a healthy exercise in all climates; even savages have their game, called "worree." Besides, a fidgetting person is only an idle one in a fever. He has lost half an hour in the morning, and runs after it the whole day. He loves money. That is a great comfort. Flints yield oil sometimes, and the greatest misers may be talked out of it. Old Elwes used to say, young Pitt could have persuaded him to empty his purse at any time:-besides, the money itself is good, and a miser is no more to be considered than the bag which holds it. One may find the opening if one can. He loves wine.-Another comfort for then the money will not be kept very safely; and it causes interregnums of intellect which make the wife regent. Besides, if he will reduce himself to a brute, he can have no reasonable objection to being beaten. A noted bibber returning non compos one day, found his wife's cloak, rolled himself in it, and fell asleep. Her father came in, and seeing her thus disgraced, remembered the Russian law which inflicts the batogs on ladies who drink before nine o'clock. Thinking he had not ceded his right to chastise, as Russian fathers do, he brought two sticks and applied * The "Lights and Shadows" are now in press by Munroe & Francis. them with great perseverance and effect. So the lady told the story, but her husband never did, not being quite sure who gave him the batogs. He is passionate.-No bad thing. Such people, says the Marquis of Halifax, always make amends at the foot of the account. Be not witty, make no replies, and good humour will follow. The dew is sweetest and most plentiful in hot climates. M. De Luc always carried a lump of sugar in his pocket to hold in his mouth when he or his companions grew angry. There are places where quarrelsome people are put into cold baths till they cease talking, but we have not water enough in England. A wife reasoning with an impatient husband is as silly as the eglantine in the fable arguing with a waterfall, when it might have looked quietly on and sparkled after the sprinkling. He is proud. Take comfort-so are all hasty men. Whoever is passionate is so partial to himself that he will not bear contradiction. But if those who live with him are patient, his weakness will be their strong-hold, for he will let nobody else molest them. He is churlish.-Still there is comfort. If he has good sense, it will be so often waked by other people's follies, that, like a good house-dog, it must bark a little; and honest Englishmen, like their favourite hounds, have a good deal of surliness about them. But, either with over much rudeness or excessive civility, nothing is so useful as quiet indifference. A flatterer is sooner shamed and a ruffian tamed by this than by grand airs. Besides, what seems peevishness may be sickness. Poets pretend, Prometheus was sentenced to endure the gnawings of a vulture, but it was, probably, a fashionable liver complaint, or a stitch in the side. However, let a churlish temper alone: nothing good can be forced from it. The wine squeezed from grape-stones and husks is always sour. He is indifferent.-This is almost an inconsolable matter; but if you think aversion a better fault, take a particular friend into your house. Let her be very beautiful, poor, and fashionable; or very ugly, witty, and eloquent. The first will take care that he shall know all your faults, and the other that his shall never pass unnoticed by you. There will be telegraphs on both sides, and produce a deep, broad, open hatred, as much preferable to indifference as a thick ice is to a little hoar frost. If this is not enough, hire a companion. In old times, all families kept a tame knave; and people in India still think a tame snake lucky in their houses. Last of all, take a prying cousin or an instructive aunt; then you will have a third person to hate, and sufficient business for you both to remove her again. She is a shrew.-Very consoling: -a shrew is always a good manager and a little eater. Keep a mischievous dog and a stupid footboy, and her anger will never trouble you. Her tongue is the safety-valve of the steam engine. She is too busy.-Better still. Busy people are apt to be short sighted, which preserves peace in families. Bees see only an inch before their noses. She talks too much.-'Tis a better fault than sulkiness and never ends so ill. An honest gentleman may stop his ears, but he cannot see through a fog. Archbishop Cranmer proposed to make a sullen temper a claim for divorce, because he thought a silent woman a thing not fit to enter heaven. "For," says he, "we are never told that angels hold their tongues.-They must be women, for they are always talking and singing." Nobody knows her mind. She is not to blame for knowing more than other people. Woman's mind should never be seen except in profile, for she is wisest when she shews only half her graces and her thoughts. What should we think of a jeweller if he never shut some great his windows?-And as man said on a similar occasion, "It proves she might be trusted with a secret." She brings no money.-There is Next to marrying an comfort instead. heiress, a pennyless girl is the best, for you may have the credit and authority of an obliger, and she the servitude of an obligée.-Most probably, if you please, she will spend your for tune with more fancy and glee than ten heiresses.-Only take her far off, or you must marry all her relations. She is jealous.-A certain cure for all other plagues, because, like Aaron's rod, it swallows them up. Of all the 2,500 diseases acknowledged by physicians, it is the most painful, but the most economical. For it spares no time, it heeds no amusement, and takes no food except of its own making. It cures all delight in dress, all love of feasts and company, and makes all the senses sharp, except common sense, which it has no concern with. She loves flattery.-Best of all:-it is the cheapest, the pleasantest, and may be the most elegant taste-that is, if she knows how to administer as well as to receive it. For it is to the temper like oil poured on the sea, not only smoothing, but giving it a thousand bright colours. It is the most elegant, for it requires a polite fancy; the pleas antest, for it pleases every body; and the cheapest, for a little serves the wise. She is nervous.-This is the sum total of a wife's defects, and I only know one consolation. Let her find in her husband's portfolio his horoscope carefully drawn with an intimation of the year when he may become a widower, receive ten thousand pounds from his godmother and marry again. If she does not survive the time through spite, she will die through fear, and either way will serve. Here my art of consoling ends, for more must be needless. V. THE RENEGADE. A ROMANCE. BY THE VICOMTE D'ARLINCOURT. Concluded. THE Princess of Cevennes was only at a short distance from the torrent of Fontanias. Followed by the Prophet of the Mountain, she directed her footsteps to the spot whence the plaintive moan had issued; and penetrating through the thickets, she soon reached the brink of the torrent.There, beneath an old willow-tree, a Saracen soldier lay asleep. At a little distance, stretched on a litter, appeared the body of a warrior. The features of the victim were pale and smeared with blood. Ezilda approached, and recognized. . . the Renegade. "Oh Heaven! (she exclaimed,) Agobar and have I then lost him for ever!' Goudair was lost in amazement; but the daughter of Theobert, having ascertained that Agobar still lived, thus addressed the bard, whose thoughts she already guessed :- Goudair, promise not to reveal the secret which I am now about to confide to you. Know that Clodomir is before you, and that an inconceivable fatality has rendered the son of Thierri the chief of the infidel army.'--' Heavens! (exclaimed Goudair,) can it be possible!... Agobar! . . -- Is your monarch and my husband, (resumed the Princess;) and our duty is to save him. Let us not waste time in words. Bring your boat hither. Let us rescue Agobar from the hands of his enemies, and Heaven will do the rest.' While Goudair hastened for his boat, Ezilda cut the cords which bound the limbs of Agobar, and sprinkled some drops of water on his pale forehead. The son of Thierri raised his languid eyes: his first glance met that of the princess. Where am I? (exclaimed the hero.) Have I then quitted the abode of darkness!-Ezilda here !'— Goudair returned, and the boat was in readiness. Fly (said the Prophet of the Mountain,) I hear voices at a distance. The enemy perhaps approaches.' Assisted by Goudair, the prince rose and took his seat in the boat. In a moment Ezilda was by his side. She seized the oar, and the bard untying the rope which still bound them to the shore, bade them a last adieu. old man, (suddenly exclaimed the prince ;) in the name of the angelic being who takes an interest in my fate, I conjure you to listen to my prayer. Condemned to death by Abderam, and pursued by the rage of Athim, I am exiled, and treason has deprived me of all power. But my devoted friend Alaor has not forsaken me. This night Stay, he left me only to ensure the means of my preservation. He will return to yonder hut which you perceive between the trees of the forest. Hasten to inform him how Ezilda has saved me.''Adieu! (said the bard of the mountain,) I will direct Alaor to your retreat.' With these words he ascended the mountain and proceeded to the hut of the wood-cutter. Guided by Ezilda, the boat glided lightly over the surface of the water, and passing through a cavern issued from the bowels of the earth, and the persecuted pair once more beheld the glories of day. [The valley of Fontanias is like the Happy Valley in Rasselas.] Here Agobar and Ezilda found an asylum, and in the course of a few days the prince was recovered by the skilful One application of medical herbs. evening, seated at the door of Roderick's cottage, Ezilda called the attention of the hero to the magnificent spectacle of the setting sun, whose last rays spread a veil of gold over the lofty trees which covered the surrounding hills. Agobar pressed the hand of Ezilda. He gazed passionately on his liberatrix and his bride, and the Priñcess of Cevennes, more beautiful than ever, seemed to live only for him. 'Oh my beloved Ezilda (he exclaimed,) I have long wandered in the burning desert of life; but I have now found the enchanted Oasis. Behold the invincible Agobar, the untamed tiger, trembling and prostrate at your feet! A tear dropped from the eye of the princess, a deep flush suffused her cheeks, and in a faltering accent she said, 'Clodomir, do you love me?''Love you!' (exclaimed Agobar,) more than man ever loved.'- Yonder is the church of the happy valley! (said Ezilda.) If I really possess your heart, to-morrow we may be united. Have I not received your ring? (resumed the prince;) at the royal chapel of Lutetia have I not plighted my faith! What is wanting to complete our union ?'— "The nuptial benediction,' replied the princess. And who can pronounce it here?' The priest of Fontanias.' -The priest of Fontanias! (repeated Agobar in a transport of fury ;) and can you regard as sacred bounds a few mysterious words uttered by a stranger, and scarcely heard or understood.Priests! (he continued,) I know them and I abhor them. I was the victim of wretches who were styled the ministers of Heaven. No, Clodomir will never bend his knee before a priest !' Son of Thierri, (replied the princess,) at the foot of the holy altar you will not bend before a priest, but before your Creator. It is the blessing of Heaven and not of man that we shall implore. As when surrounded by these enchanting scenes of nature, I see only Clodomir, so in the Christian temple I see only the Almighty.' Agobar promised to meet his mistress on the following evening in the church of Fontanias, and Fate seemed at length to be propitious to the lovers. But, alas! a moment of happiness is too frequently only the forerunner of The Princess of Cevennes sorrow. retired to rest, surrounded by hopes of felicity; but she awoke amidst the bitterness of grief. At day-break, the sound of the trumpet, hitherto unknown to the shepherds of Fontanias, echoed through the valley. The astonished Agobar suddenly started from his couch. At the sound of the warlike instrument, his martial spirit, which had been for a moment extinguished, was rekindled with twofold ardour. The door of his apartment suddenly opened, and with a transport of joy he beheld his brother in arms. What a moment for the Renegade! Alaor, a secret messenger from the Saracen camp, had come to summon him to glory and revenge. Athim still commands, (said Alaor;) but the Mussulmans and their chiefs regard him with horror, and are ready to rise against him. They loudly call for Agobar, and as soon as their former chief shall appear among them, the thunderbolt will break on the head of Athim.'-The valley of Fontanias had lost its enchantments. Glory and revenge now filled the mind of Agobar. [He quits the valley for a castle called Miltaid, situated between Cevennes and Angustura, and occupied by Mohamud, a powerful chief of the Mussulman army, no less perfidious than Athim himself, who has deluded Alaor to get Agobar into their power.] The prince and his faithful brother in arms were already far from Fontanias, and at sunset the travellers arrived within sight of the towers of Miltaid. On reaching the draw-bridge, they sounded the horn: the gates were speedily opened and the bridge was lowered behind them. They were conducted to the grand gallery of the castle; the immense space was filled with Mussulman warriors, whose swarthy and ferocious countenances presented an appalling spectacle. It is he! It is Agobar!' exclaimed a voice: it was the voice of Mohamud. A fierce cry resounding from the extremities of the gallery, answered the signal, and the satellites of the traitor rushed forward and seized Agobar and his friend. At length (said Mohamud, addressing the prince,) your career is at an end. In this castle, and by my hands the world shall be delivered of a monster, who has long been the scourge of his fellow-creatures.' 6 bound Agobar hand and foot to the wall of the dungeon, and, deprived of all power of resistance, he was compelled to witness the atrocious execution of his friend. Alaor was tied to the fatal stake: the perfection of his form, the beauty of his features, his youth, his resignation, nothing could soften the hearts of his murderers. They drew their javelins, and pierced the pure and devoted heart of the young soldier. Mohamud and his janissaries retired, and Agobar fell motionless before the bleeding corpse of the companion of his past glory. A week elapsed, and a messenger arrived from the camp of Athim with the fol lowing letter. To-morrow a decisive battle will be fought. It is my intention to convey the Renegade in chains to Iberia, and until the period of my departure I proposed to leave him at Miltaid. But it is possible that the warriors of Segorum may make an attempt to rescue the prisoner; there fore, immediately on the receipt of this dispatch, transport Agobar and all the Christian captives to the pyramid of Fabias. Should victory crown the Mussulman banner, we will convey them back to Miltaid; but should fortune betray, they must be put to the sword." The captives were conducted from the gallery of the castle, and conveyed to a subterraneous vault, lighted here and there by sepulchral lamps. The janissaries withdrew. Agobar threw himself on the stone floor of his dungeon. His sufferings were at their height; but he was no longer possessed by that impious spirit which in his former days of adversity had induced him to vent imprecations on his fate, and to utter blasphemy against his God. Alaor was on his knees before him. He could no longer withhold his expressions of despair: My brother! (said he,) am I worthy to bear that name: I brought you from the Happy Valley to plunge you into the abyss of perdition, to deliver you into the hands of assassins. Do not break my heart (said Algobar.) Let us not give this new triumph to our enemies. Let us meet our fate with fortitude! The door of the dungeon opened, and a party of janissaries armed with javelins, entered. Young Saracen, (said one of the agents of Mohamud,) prepare for death. The sentence of Athim, which was long since pronounced on you, is now to be executed before the eyes of your chief.' The janissaries blood! Ezilda uttered a shriek of hor [Ezilda is recalled by Charles Martel on the eve of this great battle, as the heroes of Segorum refuse to obey Her reinforceany leader but her. ment arrives as the French are retreating, and changes the fate of the day.] The Saracens retreated in their turn: torrents of blood inundated the plain, and amidst the deadly conflict Athim perished by the hand of Charles Martel. But, alas! his death came too late. The perfidious African at the appearance of Ezilda foresaw his de feat, and dreading the thought of dying without being avenged on Agobar, he despatched an order to Mohamud for his execution. [Ezilda is carried by her horse to the monument of Fontanias.] She hastened to the pyramid. But what to her eyes! Agobar weltering in his was the spectacle that presented itself |