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degree, instructed. His whole efforts are turned to the development of human character; and, it must be owned, he possessed a ready key to it. The mere story of the novels seldom possesses much interest-it is the conduct of his personages, as thinking and speaking beings, in which we are interested; and, contrary to the general case, the reader is seldom or never tempted to pass over the dialogue in order to continue the narrative. The author deals. occasionally in quick and improbable conversions, as in that of Sir George Osmond, from selfishness and avarice, to generosity and liberality, by the mere loveliness of virtue in his brother and his friends. And he does not appear to have possessed much knowledge of that species of character which is formed by profession or by nationality. His seamen are indifferent; his Irishmen not beyond those usually brought on the stage; his Scotchmen still more awkward caricatures, and the language which he puts in their mouths, not similar to any that has been spoken since the days of Babel. It is in detecting the internal working of a powerful understanding, like that of Paracelsus Holman, that Bage's power chiefly consists; and great that power must be, considering how much more difficult it is to trace those varieties of character which are formed by such working, than merely to point out such as the mind receives from the manners and customs of the country in which it has ripened.

A light, gay, pleasing air, carries us agreeably through Bage's novels, and when we are disposed to be angry at seeing the worse made to appear the better reason, we are reconciled to the author by the ease and good humour of his style. We did not think it proper to reject the works of so eminent an author from the collection of the British Novelists, merely on account of speculative errors. We have done our best to place a mark on these; and, as we are far from being of opinion, that the youngest and most thoughtless derive their serious opinions from works of this nature, we leave them for our reader's amusement, trusting that he will remember that a good jest is no argument; that a novelist, like the master of a puppet-show, has his drama under his absolute authority; and that whether the devil flies away with Punch, or Punch strangles the devil, forms no real argument as to the comparative power of either one or other, but only indicates the special pleasure of the master of the motion.

SELECTED FOR THE MUSEUM.

The Troubadour, and other Poems. By L. E. L. Author of the "Improvisatrice," &c. Small 8vo. pp. 336. 10s. 6d. Boards. Hurst, Robinson, and Co. 1825.

MISS LANDON has secured, in the title of her principal poem, a charm which awakens many delightful associations. It renews our

recollections of Provence, her "ivy mantled" castles, her forestshades, her fragrant climate, her high-born, graceful, and impassioned women, and, crowning all, her early devotion to the witcheries of poetry and music. The golden age of chivalry, when heroism and minstrelsy found their best stimulus and reward in the smile of beauty, is brought before us by the sound of the Troubadour's guitar; and, fascinated by its influence, we never think of inquiring to what extent such an age existed in reality, or how far it was the mere creation of romance. In truth, it is of little importance, so far as the pleasure of the imagination is concerned, whether our impressions concerning that period are founded on history, or legend. It is enough for the poet to know that we possess such impressions, no matter from what source they are derived; and all that he has to think of is, how they are to be allied with new inventions of a kindred character.

Strictly speaking, perhaps, the title is not altogether justifiable, for it is assumed only from the circumstance of the hero of the poem appearing, near its conclusion, in the disguise of a Troubadour. But it would not be generous, or useful, criticism, to resist the authority of the poet in such a case as this, particularly as the feelings which are kindled in every page of the work, the imagery with which it is illustrated, and the incidents of which it is composed, are all marked by that exquisite genius for which the Troubadours were framed. Like that happy race, Miss Landon seems to draw her inspiration from a passion, which is the same as to its power in all ages, and in every aspect is deeply interwoven with the interests of mankind. Like the Provençal poetry, Miss Landon's is distinguished by great tenderness, and by a perpetual yet varied flow of imagination, which appeals to the inward world of the heart, and to every gentle object connected with it in external nature. The perfume of the rose, the colour of the lily, the hum of bees, the murmur of falling waters, and the music of the groves, seem to be the favourites of her fancy, and to haunt it wherever it is occupied, whether in a lady's chamber or a field of battle. Precision of thought, strength of diction, and boldness of metaphor, are not to be expected from a mind so constituted as hers. They would be wholly out of keeping with the delicacy which presides over the most rapturous of her visions, and imparts to them softness, purity, and grace, the true characteristics of woman, and the best instruments of her power.

The Troubadour consists of four cantos, and is framed very much like the Improvisatrice, which has already given celebrity to Miss Landon's name. Several episodes spring out of the principal story, and serve to relieve it by a variation of theme as well as of measure. It is on the whole, we think, superior to the Improvisatrice; the language partakes more of the dialect of poetry, and the animation of the tale is more equally sustained. The poem is founded on a custom said to have been once prevalent in Provence, according to which floral games were celebrated once a year, under the

superintendence of some distinguished lady of the district, and a "golden violet" was presented by her as a prize to the author of the best poem composed in the language of the country. The first canto opens with a description of a lonely castle, which is the abode of Raymond, the hero of the tale. He is the last of a proud race, that left him little save his sword, and an ardent longing after military fame. This was not the only ambition that raised him above

the ordinary throng:

'But there were other dearer dreams
Than the light'ning flash of these war-gleams
That fill'd the depths of Raymond's heart;
For his was now the loveliest part

Of the young poet's life, when first,
In solitude and silence nurst,
His genius rises like a spring
Unnoticed in its wandering;
Ere winter cloud or summer ray
Have chill'd, or wasted it away,

When thoughts with their own beauty fill'd
As waters from sweet woods distill'd

Shed their own richness over all,

Breathe perfume out where'er they fall.'

Raymond does not inhabit the castle alone. His solitude is beguiled by the presence of Eva, the daughter of his brother, whose loveliness and mysterious origin, though confessedly borrowed from the Bride of Lammermuir, are described in a manner perfectly in unison with the legendary wonders of Provence. Amirald, her father, was formerly lord of the castle. One day outstripping his companions in the chase, he followed the stag into a green-wood recess, where the animal lay down at the feet of its mistress. She implored the hunter to spare her favourite; her beauty pleaded not in vain. Captivated by her appearance he revisited the spot; they met again and were wedded. She gave birth to Eva and disappeared; no one knew whither she went. It was said that Amirald had been deceived, and that she was not of this world. Amirald placed his child under his brother's care, and went to the Moorish wars, in which, it was supposed, he had perished.

But his fair child grew like a flower
Springing in March's earlier hour,
'Mid storm and chill, yet loveliest-
Though somewhat paler than the rest.
"Perhaps it was her orphan'd state,
So young, so fair, so desolate,-
Somewhat of likeness in their fate
Made Raymond's heart for her confess
Its hidden depths of tenderness.
Neglected both; and those that pine
In love's despair and hope's decline,

Can love the most when some sweet spell
Breaks the seal on affection's well,
And bids its waters flow like light
Returning to the darken'd sight.'

This young affection was destined to be severely tried. A feudal chief threatened to attack the neighbouring castle of Clotilde,

the lady of Clarin, and every young knight in Provence was summoned to her aid:

And rush'd the blood, and flash'd the light
To Raymond's cheek, from Raymond's eye,
When he stood forth and claim'd the fight,
And spoke of death and victory,

Those words that thrill the heart when first
Forth the young warrior's soul has burst.'—
'And Raymond felt as if a gush

Of thousand waters in one rush
Were on his heart, as if the dreams
Of what, alas! life only seems,
Wild thoughts and noontide revelries,
Were turn'd into realities.
Impatient, restless, first his steed
Was hurried to its utmost speed:

And next his falchion's edge was tried,

Then waved the helmet's plume of pride.'

But how was this change in Raymond's fate to be borne by Evá?

"How durst she hope, that when afar
Eva would be to memory brought.

Oh, she had yet the task to learn
How often woman's heart must turn
To feed upon its own excess

Of deep yet passionate tenderness!
How much of grief the heart must prove
That yields a sanctuary to love!'

Raymond joins the warrior-train in his court-yard at the dawn of morning, and prepares to march with them to the assistance of Clotilde. The separation from Eva, the tenderness of her feelings, her gentle form (which is so poetically compared to that of Peace) leaning over the battlement, the armoured knights below, the bustle of their departure, the winding of the army over the distant heights, the last backward glance of Raymond, the lessening sound of the horn, and then the sudden relapse of the scene into its usual tranquillity, are all pictured with a master-pencil. There are not many passages of the same length in English verse more truly beautiful than this:

'Dark was the shade of that old tower
In the grey light of morning's hour;

And cold and pale the maiden leant
Over the heavy battlement,

And look'd upon the armed show

That hurrying throng'd the court below:

With her white robe and long bright hair,

A golden veil flung on the air,

Like Peace prepared from earth to fly,
Yet pausing, ere she wing'd on high,
In pity for the rage and crime

That forced her to some fairer clime.
When suddenly her pale cheek burn'd,
For Raymond's eye to her's was turn'd;
But like a meteor past its flame-
She was too sad for maiden shame..

She heard the heavy drawbridge fall,
And Raymond rode the first of all;
But when he came to the green height
Which hid the castle from his sight,
With useless spur and slacken'd rein,
He was the laggard of the train.
They paused upon the steep ascent,
And spear, and shield, and breast-plate sent
A light, as if the rising day

Upon a mirror flash'd its ray.

They pass on, Eva only sees

A chance plume waving in the breeze,

And then can see no more-but borne
Upon the echo, came the horn;

At last nor sight nor sound declare

Aught of what pass'd that morning there.

Sweet sang the birds, light swept the breeze,
And play'd the sunlight o'er the trees,
And roll'd the river's depths of blue

Quiet as they were wont to do.

And Eva felt as if of all

Her heart were sole memorial.'

Such are the scenes that are peculiarly within Miss Landon's province. When she comes to the battle-field, she finds it a theme, as she would feel a lance of those days, somewhat too unwieldy for her delicate hand. She imagines, perhaps, that she lightens the burden by wreathing it with flowers. In no part of her poem is she more prodigal of ornament, or at the same time less successful in the use of it, than where she relates the conflict of the adverse squadrons. It is, however, no very material portion of her design, and she dismisses it with as much expedition as the topic would permit. Why is it that she speaks on this occasion of death as that sleep the last and best?' Besides being almost a repetition of" that sleep the loveliest since it dreams the least," of Lord Byron, it is an adoption of the most cheerless and most debasing of the doctrines of infidelity, which we are bound to presume she did not intend.

The enemy having been defeated, and Raymond having won golden honours during the day, he and his fellow-warriors returned from battle to the castle of the Lady Clotilde. Their entrance into the court-yard, after the drawbridge was lowered, is, with peculiar felicity, likened to "the sudden rush of a summer shower." They were welcomed in the name of Clotilde by the younger and more bewitching form of her ward the Lady Adeline, she herself having vowed that night to fasting, prayer, and thanksgiving for her deliverance. Adeline presided at the festive board, Raymond occupied the place of honour: her beauty was too dazzling to be gazed upon without danger; and forgetting the lovely Eva, he surrendered his heart to the fascinations of the stranger. He had not yet the courage to give expression to his feelings.

'Enough for him the dim sweet fear,
The twilight of the heart, or ere

VOL. VII. No. 41.-Museum.

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