was called to watch by the side of the wounded Knight of Ivanhoe, where that spark which gratitude and kindness had been instrumental in implanting in her breast, was fanned to a flame, so bright and fierce as to consume every thought of self, and leave only those of warm and ardent love. But of this, anon.

The last scenes in which Rebecca is introduced, are of the deepest interest, and the reader finds his mind wrought up to a high pitch of excitement, by the alternate feelings of indignation and pity-of indignation against the bigoted Beaumonoir, whose character, though high wrought, and to the modern somewhat unnatural, is nevertheless not all a fiction, and against her ruthless oppressor, Bois Guilbert, and of pity for the gentle sufferer. The fact of her being within the interdicted limits of a Preceptory of the Temple, and that, too, by means of force, when it should have secured for her the pity and protection of the Grand Master, served him for a vile pretext to arraign one so young, so beautiful, as guilty of foul crime. And why? Forsooth, because a Jewess and a stranger, she had extended the hand of charity, and applied the balm of healing to the destitute and wounded Christian. Was this the chivalry, this the courtesy of vaunted Knighthood? Was this the gallantry of the age, which boasted its high regard for virtue and loveliness? Was it meet, thus to crush the spirit of one so tender, to consign to the flames one so young and beautiful, because she was a Jewess and unfriended? So thought her persecutors; but their diabolical intentions were foiled of their object, by means against which they could make but slight resistance. The God of her fathers, in whom she had placed her unwavering confidence, appeared for her deliverance. The wounded Ivanhoe, who owed his life to her kind care, rushed with the speed of the wind to peril it again in her defense. But the prey was snatched from his grasp, just as he was reaching forth to seize it. The Templar died by the "judgment of God." The sympathetic reader, however, almost wishes that the event could have been otherwise, that the heroic Richard could have arrived before his more ardent friend, and made the Templar feel the weight of that redoubted arm, which never struck in vain. The issue is, however, happy, as it should be, and such an one as none knew better how to produce than Sir Walter Scott.

Throughout all these agitating scenes, the accusation-the trial-the interviews with her oppressor-the lists where her innocence was to be established, or death to be met, the character of Rebecca is maintained and carried out with a faithfulness and consistency almost miraculous. The courage with

which she repulses the renewed addresses of Bois Guilbert, and her fortitude in rejecting his specious proposals-her keen sense of wrong, and virtuous indignation in repelling the foul charge alledged against her-her meek submission to the cruel sentence of her fanatical judge-her unflinching confidence in God, that he would assuredly raise her up a champion and assert her innocence and finally, the firmness, almost amounting to indifference, with which she viewed the horrid preparations made for her death, invest the beautiful Jewess with a dignity and sublimity of character more than mortal, and the perusal of which, leaves an impression upon the mind, that time alone can eradicate.

During the confusion which naturally attended the various political movements which immediately followed these events, the author has skillfully withdrawn Rebecca, without diminishing the interest of the tale, or impairing the natural order and course of events. Indeed, in this he has given another proof of that consummate skill with which he drew his characters, and brought them unconsciously, as it were, to the accomplishment of the single object he has constantly kept in view. He never permits his scenes or characters to pall upon us. We never grow weary of any one of them, but when, in the course of the narrative, they are necessarily withdrawn, we regret their absence, and wait anxiously for their re-appearance. And when least expected, they again appear in far more interesting circumstances than they left. It is this that constitutes the chief beauty of Sir Walter Scott's characters. The constantly increasing interest which he weaves into the tale and throws around each character, takes captive the mind of the reader, and leads him to expect a denouement proportionably beautiful and interesting. And he is never disappointed, unless agreeably so. It is thus in the present instance. Her innocence established, and herself returned to her father and his people-the gallant Richard again seated on his throne-Wilfred reconciled to his father, and united to her to whom from youth his heart had paid unceasing homage, it would scarcely be expected that the Jewess could again be introduced, so as to impart any additional interest to the narrative. But just as it appears about to terminate, Rebecca returns, and passes through a scene, which, for interest and depth of feeling, surpasses all that precede.

The persecutions to which himself and daughter were subjected, and the insecurity attending his life and wealth, at length induced the old Jew to purchase, in another land, and from the

heathen Moslem, that security, which neither wealth nor entreaty could obtain from the more barbarous Christian. About to bid a final adieu to the land where she had endured such strange vicissitudes, and around which, also, clustered the pleasantest associations of her life, one sweet, yet melancholy duty remained to Rebecca. She would thank her noble deliverer, and impart to him some token, which should testify her own gratitude, and at the same time serve as a memorial when she should be far away. With this object was also united another, so peculiar to her gentle sex. She would behold the beautiful Romna, of whose charms fame had so loudly spoken, and converse with her, who held that place in the heart and by the side of Ivanhoe, which she would fain have occupied herself. When introduced into the presence of the fair descendant of Alfred, though no word declares directly her passion for Wilfred, yet the trembling accents-the suppressed emotion, denoting the "pangs that rent her heart in twain"-the mournfulness of her manner, and her proposed relinquishment of the world, all too clearly revealed that crushing of hope and brokenness of heart, arising from the consciousness of unrequited affection. She entered but to bear her gift, say farewell, and then depart, fearful lest her weakness should betray her to the indulgence of emotions which she would gladly have suppressed, though the life-strings of her heart had sundered in the effort. But she yet remained, as though unwilling to tear herself forever from a spot, hallowed as the home of her first, her only love. And as she lingered, visions of the past rose involuntarily before her mind, with all the vividness of present reality. The lists at Ashby-the sick chamber at Torquilstone-the dreadful scenes at Templestowe, rushed upon her mind, and the recollection. opened the fountains of her eyes. By a desperate effort she recovered her self-possession sufficiently to bid the lady of Ivanhoe farewell, and to withdraw herself from scenes, where every object served but to augment her pain, and remind her of the utter desolation of all her youthful hopes and affections.

In the character of Rebecca, we have depicted, by the hand of a master, that noblest ornament of the female, virtue in its highest degree. And probably no author has ever accomplished more for raising the standard of virtue in the female character, and towards softening down the asperity of that feeling, with which the unhappy Israelite is regarded, even to this day. None can study this character but to admire and love it, and none can admire it but to regard her lowly race with feelings of compassionate interest. In this manner, Scott, by this his chefd'œuvre, has been the cause of more positive good, than usually

falls to the lot of the mere novelist. And it ill becomes those who have arrogated to themselves the business of censors of public morals, to lay the rude hand of prejudice on a character so faultless as this. They may assail it as a fiction, and as one calculated to raise false emotions in the human heart, but their assaults will recoil with ten fold force upon themselves. For the character of Rebecca is natural, and being so, will ever hold a high place in the estimation of the lovers of the beautiful and the great, long after thousands of the ephemeral works of the day, on which they have placed their seal of approval, shall have been consigned to merited oblivion.

W.

I PROMISED a lady to write her a poem,

And that on a thunder-cloud black as my hat,
But I'm sure she could never once think of imposing
A task that would level Parnassus all flat.

For I could ne'er mount to those cloud-rolling heights,
Nor stretch on the pinions of fancy away,

But should have to resort to my spade and pick-axe,
And drive at the old mountain as potters would clay!

But "poeta non fit"-he is not a fit poet,

Who breaks his engagements with one of the fair,
Or refuses to venture the heights of Parnassus,
And catch the sweet music of stars that are there.

Then away to the thunder-cloud rolling on high,
And bellowing loud in its impotent wrath,
While the God of the tempest is sweeping the sky,
And directing the storm in its desolate path.

Ah! now I am borne in my pinionless flight,

And the lightnings are round in their fiery play,
Far onward I sweep through their storm-cleaving height,
To the bosom of light and the regions of day.

But hold! I remember of genius 'tis said,

It goes up in a rocket-comes down in a stick,
Yet alas! the attraction of earth I have fled,

And now bound for the moon, am a gone lunatic!

los.

WORDSWORTH.

"The still, sad music of humanity."

THE present century has witnessed the introduction of a new school of poetry in England. Cowper, Thomson, Byron, and Hemans, have successively disappeared from the stage, and with them the style of poetry which they originated, and in turn adopted. The mantle of their genius has fallen on other, and not less worthy successors. Three individuals at present share the empire of poetic mind in England-Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey, or, as they are more commonly called, the Lake Poets; to these we may also add Shelley, whose writings, though less popular in their nature, still exert an important influence on the character of European mind. Their poetry may be characterized, in one word, as that of the refined philosophic mind. Eschewing, on the one hand, the beaten track of poesy, and on the other the dogmas of the schools, they have struck out for themselves a new path in song, and have erected a system, which, though not complete, perhaps, in all its parts, deserves alike the attention of the scholar, the enthusiast, and philanthropist.

Our object at present, however, is not so much to speak of the character of the Lake School in general, as of one or two individuals connected with that school. At present, we name Wordsworth, not only on account of his own intrinsic merit, but as affording the most favorable example of the school in question. Far removed from the extravagant materialism of Southey on the one hand, and the abstract spirituality of Coleridge on the other, he occupies a position midway between the two, partaking at once of the merits and defects of both.

There is, perhaps, no poet of the present age, whose writings are less appreciated, because less understood, than Wordsworth. This may be owing in part to the character of the man, in part also to the peculiar characteristics of his style, as admitting of little variety or elegance of expression; for ourselves, however, we are inclined to attribute it to the peculiar nature of his poetic theory, as precluding at once the popular success above mentioned. And here, as we are upon the subject, we may as well at once give our ideas in respect to poets and poetry. Theory, in any thing, is disagreeable enough-in poetry it is peculiarly odious. We are accustomed to consider poetry as the outflowing of the human heart-the language of nature and