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The agedde knighte, at that strange sighte,
Whose consciousnesse hath fledde;
But signe nor sounde disturbethe him,
Who gazethe on the dead.

And seemethe, as that lovelye face
Doth alle exposed lye,

As if its holye calme o'erspreadde
The frowninge faces bye.

And nowe, beside the virginne corse,
Kneels downe the stranger knighte,
And up his vizorr'd helme he throwes,
But not in open sighte.

For to the pale, colde, clammye face,
His owne he stoopethe lowe,

And kisseth first the bloodlesse cheeke,
And then the marble browe.

Then, to the dead lippes glued, so long
The livinge lippes do staye,

As if in that sad, silente kisse

The soule hadde passed awaye.

But suddenne, from that mortalle trance,
As withe a desp❜rate straine ;

Up, up, he springes! his armoure ringes!
The vizorre's downe againe.

With manye a flowerre, her weeping maides, The Ladye's shrowde have dressed;

And one white rose is in the falde

That veiles her whiterre breaste.

One goldenne ringlette, on her browe,
(Escappede forthe) doth straye;
So, on a wreathe of driftedde snowe,
The wintrye sunbeames playe.

The mailedde hande hathe ta'ene the rose
From offe that breste so fayre ;
The faulchion's edge, from that pale head,
Hath shorne the goldenne hayre.

One heavy sighe! the firste and laste,
One deepe and stiflede groane;
A few long strides-a clange of hoofes-
And the armedde strangerre's gone!

PERCY MALLORY.*

AMONG the rest of those sciences, beneficial and ornamental, which have been making huge strides of progress during the last fifteen years, the advancement of the art of novel-writing (in this country) stands very eminently distinguished. "Mrs Roche" has ceased to rave; and, if she raved still, no man would mark her. "Mr Lathom" can no longer terrify the 'prentices, nor "Anne of Swansea" now delight the ladies' boarding-schools. "Mrs Bluemantle" (alas, poor "Bridget!") has washed her hands (of ink) for ever; and but a water-colour kind of reputation is left to Mrs Radcliffe and Mrs Helme. Harp of Leadenhall Street, thy strings are cracked past mending!—Messrs Lane and Newman's 66 occupation's gone!"

In fact, (poetry apart,) the standard of novel-writing has changed among us. That which was the "trash" (eo nomine)" of the circulating libraries," the circulating libraries now can circulate no more.

Nonsense will be printed in the year 1824, but not much that is pure, unadulterated nonsense. The dog-eared darlings of the dressmakers' workrooms have been at auction for the last time!" Miss Nimifie" and "Miss Moffat," and all the "ladies" and "gentlemen" of "fashion," have jumped up, to be "knocked down," at seven-pence-halfpenny a volume; and the cheesemonger smiles, for, at the next transfer, he knows them for his own.

For an array of new combatants have burst into the literary field, who canter, and caracole, and bear down all before them! There is the Waverley knight-he of the hundred weapons! -and his war-cry rings loudest on the plain. There is the author of Valerius, in his Roman armour; and the Ettrick Shepherd, with his knotted club; and there is Hope, on his barb of the desart; and Galt, in his pawkie costume; and Maturin, with his frightful mask; and Washington Irving, just in his silk doublet, throwing darts into the air, and catching them again, and riding as easily as if he were on parade; and then there are

the Amazons, equipped after every fancy and fashion! Miss Porter, waving her Polish lance, and Miss Edgeworth, holding up her ferula, and the authoress of" Marriage," (in Miss Jacky's green joseph,) tucked up upon a pillion; and Lady Morgan, astradelle, (and in French breeches,) since she has taken to be mad about politics! and poor old Mrs Thickenwell, and her friends, are no more able to stand their ground against the tramping, and jostling, and capering, of this rabble rout, than a washing-tub (with a north-west wind,) could be fit to carry sail in the Bay of Biscay, or a poney chaise hope to pass unpulverized through Bond Street, in July.

A modern novel, indeed, if it hopes ever to be cut open, must shew talent of some kind or other. Accordingly, we find, one author trusts to passion, another, to invention; one, to an acute perception of what is; another, to a vigorous fancy for what cannot be. One brings to market wit-another, metaphysics-a third, descriptive force-a fourth, poetic feeling—a few, like the Waverley writer, bring the rare faculty of managing a long story; but very few venture to come at all, who cannot bring some faculty or other.

People commonly find out the value of any qualification best, in A, when, proceeding in their speculations, they fail to meet with it in B. The peculiar felicity of the Scottish novelist, in the business of telling a story, strikes us now perhaps from a certain want of the same power in the author before

us.

But it is curious to observe the manner in which that extraordinary writer contrives to maintain as perfect an arrangement through his history of four volumes, as the Italian conteur ever did in his anecdote of four pages. The Tuscan artist built pavilions-the Scottish sorcerer raises cities; Boccaccio can steer a gondola, amid the "crincum crankum" of a Venetian canal; but the author cf Waverley is "The Flying Dutchman," who doubles Cape Horn in the eye of the wind. The Italian prances along, to a hair's breadth, in his cabriolet, the prettiest Pall Mall pacing in the world! but

Percy Mallory, a novel, in three volumes, by the author of Pen Owen. William Blackwood, Edinburgh; Thomas Cadell, London.

VOL. XV.

D

the Waverley man draws THE MAIL "through"-" from London to Edinburgh"-"'twice a-week !”—He looks to his "way-bill"-takes care of his passengers, loses no parcels, and never drags" an inch of the road! He has got his four" big ones"-" well in hand"-before him. His "five-andthirty hundred weight,"-" live and dead load," behind him. He gets his four "insides" up, and his three "out" -his "bags"-his "time-piece" spare whip, and six great coats. The horn blows-he handles the "ribbands"-lets go the traces: off they go, and he comes in, five hundred miles off, without cracking a splinter bar, sleeps his six hours, has his boots cleaned, and is ready to start again.

Piecemeal, perhaps, we might match the author of Waverley, but we cannot match him as a whole. He awakens an impatience in us as to the fate of his dramatis persona, from the very moment that we are introduced to them. He keeps us straining, and craning," and tiptoeing, after his catastrophe, and trotting along, with our noses in the air, like the hackney coach-horses of Dublin, who are coaxed forward by a pole with hay upon it, pushed from the window of the carriage before them. We are always villainously inclined, before we have got a hundred pages into his book, to kill the goose at once, and get the eggs out of the last volume; and we are just now (as we observed before) put in excellent condition to admire the dexterity and facile conduct of this author, the adroitness with which he keeps constantly dragging his readers on, neck and heels, (sometimes, too, by the way, when they might be inclined to grumble a little, if he allowed them time to stop,) by the want of that same facility being the chiefest defect of the writer whose work lies before us for dissection.

66

Percy Mallory, a novel, by the author of Pen Owen."-It's a pretty practice this, upon "the living subject;" and we are inventing (only it must be a great secret) an improved system of operative" surgery, by which we propose, shortly, to "cut up" authors in an entirely new way! In the meantime, however, we will open Monsieur Pen Owen, "from the systole, to the diastole."-So-one cut across the abdomen, from right to left; another incision(transverse) about

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from eight to eleven inches. There! now we shall see what the gentleman is made of.

The author of " Percy Mallory" has great talents, and his books will be generally read; but, either he has not the knack of managing a narrative, or he will not be at the trouble of exercising it. His main excellence lies in the rapidity and boldness with which he sketches character. He is a quick observer of men's habits and oddities, and has a clever sort of idea of their passions and affections; he writes a smart, petillant dialogue, with great apparent facility, and gives the chit chat, in general, of a mixed company, with an adroitness hardly to be exceeded.

Against these "good gifts” in an author, there are some grievous ill tricks to be set off. We would wager, although we don't know who he is, that he could write farees as fast as he could move his pen. He has the "touch and go" faculty (so lauded in the “manager's room") as light as any gentleman we ever met with. No man is less likely to overlay a conversation, or understands better the advantage of "shifting a scene ;" but, in return, a general heedlessness makes his transitions pantomimic; his "situations" fall out inartificially, and his means are seldom proportioned to his end; he sets a great deal of machinery to work, which he cannot manage when it is in action; he makes a great bustle where he comes to a difficulty, walks round it, and fancies that he has overcome it. The links that connect his tale are often clumsy, and sometimes inefficient; and probable incident, or accurate description, are points upon which he seldom pauses to attend to.

But he doesn't prose, and therefore we won't do it for him. Senhor Fen Owen shall speak for himself.

"Percy Mallory," otherwise "Percy Rycott," otherwise "Percy Clarendon-Lord Brandon," begins his acquaintance with the reader when he is no more than three months old. At that "tender age," he is stolen (or charged to be stolen) from the house of his (supposed) father, "Levison Rycott, Esq.," of Cumberland. After giving a great deal of trouble at the London police offices, and at the Old Bailey, he occasions the "deportation" of two ladies, "Alice Halpin," and "Judith Mallory," the last of whom,

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(even while under sentence,) swears to him for her child; and, at eighteen, (having duly been reconducted to the north,) being stout-valiant-handsome and a 66 cragsman," he meets with a rock adventure-rather too much like that of Lovel in The Antiquary-and rescues "Miss Loo Bellenden," from a jeopardy, into which Heaven alone knows how she ever could have fallen.

The lady being carried to a cottage, near "Wolston Worthy," (Mr Rycott's seat,) a servant is sent, posthaste, for medical assistance.

"Dr Drizzlethwaite, as he was called, at length made his appearance; and, although his horse was covered with dust and foam, the gentleman himself was cool and collected, as if he had just passed from one room to another.

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"For Heaven's sake, my dear Drizzle,' cried Percy, make haste-every moment is precious.'

"The other, taking out his watch, seemed to be calculating the time he had taken in reaching his present destination, as a sort of tacit answer to the young man's impetuosity. He returned the watch to his fob—and, repeating in a low tone of voice, Thirty-seven minutes and two seconds,' quietly drew a chair, and seated himself, whilst he deliberately took his hat from his head. He wiped off a few particles of dust from it with one of his gloves, which he had methodically drawn from his hand."

6

Mr Percy becomes fidgety.

"Come, come,' he impatiently repeated more than once, of which Dr Drizzlethwaite seemed to take no note whatever

his attention being evidently pre-occupied in unbuttoning the overalls which had been the safeguard and protection of a pair of highly polished boots, now slowly disclosing themselves to view.

“Why-Dr Drizzlethwaite !' "Sir,' responded the doctor, as he turned up his head sideways from discharging the last button at his heel.

"The patient.'

"True,' answered the imperturbable doctor, as he neatly folded up the leathern appurtenances, and turned them over the back of a chair.

"Will you-will you go up stairs, sir ?' demanded Percy, out of all patience with this son of Esculapius, although well acquainted with his habits, which mightas they had often done-afford food for a passing joke but were insufferable in a moment of real agitation and anxiety.

"I will, Mr Percy-but first,' pulling down his shirt sleeves, and adjusting the buckle of his stock, the case ?'

"How should I know? Come and judge for yourself."

Male or female?'
"A lovely girl-a-
"A labour?'
"Psha!-an accident.'
"A miscarriage?'

"A miscarriage!-a mis

come,

come, Drizzle, for God's sake, see the poor sufferer. She has had a fall. She was nearly destroyed. She may be bruised-a limb broken.'

"The case-why didst not say so before?' slowly demanded he, as he deliberately raised himself from the chair-when, turning somewhat more abruptly towards the window, as Percy had taken the lead towards the door, he quietly opened the casement, and calling to a boy who held his horse Walk the mare-walk the mare-gently, chum-there-don't let her stand still.'

"He followed slowly up the narrow staircase, and Percy retreated to the lower apartment."

Dr Drizzle finds it expedient "to bleed." Meanwhile, our hero frets up and down the cottage kitchen; and at last knocks the doctor's overalls into the fire.

and is going towards the house-door. At length the landlady descends, "Percy caught her arm, and arrested her progress. Where are you going? What, in the name of Heaven, do you want ?'

"The doctor's horse, sweetheart.' "Psha! the doctor can't have his horse yet. How is the young lady? how has she borne

?

"Here the doctor's long well-polished boots appeared on the upper part of the staircase, and gradually brought after them the rest of his long gaunt figure, bent nearfrom its shelving roof and contracted walls.” ly double, in order to bear him harmless

Percy assists him, and (of course) nearly breaks his neck.

"How now, master Percy ?' cried he, rather more rapidly than was his wont.

"A thousand pardons, my good doctor; but how is the lady? how has she borne the operation? how is she affected? any fracture? any

time.'

Can't answer ten questions at a

"Nay, nay then, how is she? is she in danger ??

"It is impossible to say.' "Have you then doubts?' "Never come to hasty conclusionswhere's my horse, good woman ?' "Why, you-you wouldn't leave me in this state?'

"Why, what ails thee?' instinctively advancing his hand to feel his pulse.

"And why ?'

"Will you not tell me how the suffering angel is ?'

"No acquaintance with angels.' "Your patient above stairs, then ?' "I have said

"Will she die ?' "Perhaps not.

"Only perhaps? Good God! doctor, do you really think there is a chance ?' "There is always a chance.' "And only a chance!' "What wouldst have?'

"A certainty-a hope at least-nay,

do not trifle with me.'

"I-I trifle, Mr Percy!' cried the doctor, with something like an air of surprise.

"Psha! I mean-do you think-do you think she is in immediate danger ?' "Not exactly.'

"Then, why did you not say so before?' asked Percy, peevishly.

"Because you didn't put the question.' "Did I not ask whether she was in danger? Did I not inquire her state?

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Don't do that, Goody,' interrupted Percy, for, in the fire they certainly have been; and I wish they had been burned to ashes,' added he, grinding his teeth at the phlegmatic doctor.

"Mr Percy Rycott!'

"Yes, you are enough to drive one mad.'

"Mad, in verity,' returned the doctor, with perfect sang froid, as he rose up from the vain attempt to reconcile and bring together the lower buttons and buttonholes of the shrivelled straps of his overalls, or spatterdashes, as he preferred to call them. "Good day, mistress; keep her cool; barley-water; panada.'

666 Yes, your honour; I'll take care of her as if she were my own.'

"Thine!' muttered Percy, as he looked upon the woman with horror, at the bare supposition of her being even of the same species.

"I will see her friends,' said the doctor, as he stalked out of the door, again stooping to make good his retreat.

"Her friends!' exclaimed Percy, as he caught at Drizzlethwaite's arm, and had again nearly overset him, do you know them ?'

6

"What then?' "Will you not tell me ?'

"Because I wish to be informed.' "Wish-wish to burn my spatter

dashes!'

"I'll give you a dozen new pair.' "Hold the stirrup, man, there.' "Will you, or will you not tell me?' fiercely demanded Percy, seizing the bridle, as the doctor seated himself in the saddle. "If not?' coolly, asked the doctor. Then you are

"Off!' interrupted the doctor, who, striking the spurs into his mare's sides, jerked the bridle out of Percy's hand, and threw him nearly to the ground, whilst, upright as a dart, and collected as if nothing had happened, he cantered away without once deigning to turn his head upon his enraged opponent."

After an interview with Miss Bellenden, with whom he becomes desperately in love, Mr Percy rides to "Glendara Lodge," and frightens a French governess into fits. He returns to the cottage, but Miss Bellenden is vised by Dr Drizzlethwaite) having gone-her aunt, Miss Norcliffe, (adkidnapped her in the meantime. Then, having nowhere else to go, he goes back to the house of his father.

Mr Rycott, of Wolston Worthy, is a valetudinarian, and half a hypochondriac, despotic-kind-hearted — but impatient of contradiction. His chaenough. racter is a sketch, in lines, spirited

A servant has been dispatched in pursuit of Percy, with orders to say, that "Mr Rycott is dying." Percy finds his father in apparent health; but professes to be " sorry," nevertheless, for his absence.

66 6 Sorry, sorry, what good will your sorrow do, you graceless dog? Hey! will it cure the gout? will it drive it from the vitals when your insolent, audacious ?—'

"Indeed, my dear sir, I was not a

ware

"Not aware-not aware of my commands ?'

"Your commands

"Have I not a thousand times forbidden you to repeat my words? Did I not forbid you to leave the room, and did I not bawl after you till I had nearly broken a blood vessel in my lungs? 1 believe I spat blood. Ask your mother there ?' addressing his lady, who sat on the other side the fire-place."

Mrs Rycott is a quiet woman.

"I think it was snuff, Mr Rycott,' replied she, with most provoking frigidity of tone and manner.

"You think, you think! why should. n't it have been blood? answer me that.'

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