Ten years have passed since that dreadful morning, and I have never openeɑ my lips to inquire the issues of the event; but one day, about two years ago, in visiting the English cemetery at Lisbon, I saw on a marble slab, which the weather or accident had already partly defaced, the epitaph of Maria. The remainder of my own story is but a tissue of aimless and objectless wanderings and moody meditations, under the anguish of the inherited curse. But all will soon be over :-a tedious hectic, that has long been consuming me, reluctantly and slowly, hath at last, within these few days, so augmented its fires, that I am conscious, from a sentiment within, I cannot survive another month; I have, indeed, had my warning. Twice hath a sound like the voice of my sister startled my unrefreshing sleep when it rouses me for the third time, then I shall awake to die.' Such is what some of the gentlemen of the daily and weekly press call ' a powerful production.' The language is in general highly polished and elaborate, but sometimes not a little overstrained and bombastic. Indeed, we suspect, that the book owes its principal powers of attraction to the strangeness, and horribly tragic character of the incidents, as well as to the novel and somewhat affected style in which they are related. Why it is called the Omen we are at a loss to conceive. There is to be sure some mystification about OMENS and PRESENTIMENTS in various parts of the volume, but nothing definite. The authorship of this ebauche has been ascribed to no less than three persons, viz. Mr. Lockhart, Mr. St. Leger, the author of Gilbert Earle, and Dr. Macginn. The last is the likeliest guess. The first of these gentlemen would not have chosen such a subject; the second might, but would have treated it with more force and skill. One thing is certain, that the author of the Omen, be he who he may, is capable of better things. STANZAS.-FROM THE ICELANDIC. BY J. H. WIFFEN, ESQ. I. WITH many a warrior richly mailed II. In youth near high Drontheim Fiord I fought and flashed my maiden sword; The former were as ten to two, And wild the clash of bucklers grew. The spoil of thousand fights adorns me, III. Once with but sixteen hands at sea, A tempest lashed our ship a-lee; We eased, struck sail, and cleared the reef: Thenceforth from my commanding mind In eight diversions I excel I tilt on horseback, none so well; V. What maid or matron can deny That when grey morning streaked the sky, I left for song's triumphant page No lasting records of my rage? Now! glory's laurel-wreath adorns me, VI. Though born on Nordland's hills, where men But drive the wild deer through the glen, Far from all human haunt, I plough, I mock the deadly mahelstroom; SONNET. BY THE LATE ISMAEL FITZADAM. They loved for years with growing tenderness; Till they were parted, and his spotless fame Became the mark of hate and obloquy; "Till the remembering tear that dimmed her eye, Would walk alone beneath the evening star, THE WRECKER. * A CORNISH LEGEND. TOWARDS the close of the 16th century, a horrid custom prevailed on the coast of Cornwall, of luring vessels to their destruction in stormy weather, by fastening a lantern to a horse's head, and leading it about on the top of the cliffs, in order that the bewildered mariner, mistaking it for the light of a vessel, might be induced to shape his course towards it. This atrocious expedient was often successful. The devoted crew dreamed not of their danger until warned of it, too late, by the foaming breakers that burst upon them from the shore; and the vessel speedily became the prey of a set of ruthless barbarians, who, to secure themselves impunity in their plunder, often murdered those who escaped drowning, and then called their booty a 'God-send.' In a small hovel, on the craggy shore of a deep and dangerous bay on the coast of Cornwall, dwelt one of these wretches-an old and hardened desperado, who united in himself the fisherman, the smuggler, and the wrecker, but the last was his favourite occupation; and such was the confidence of his companions in his experience in this capacity, that he was usually appointed their leader, and rarely failed in his office. His wife, too, encouraged him, and not unfrequently aided him in his iniquitous exploits. Disgusted with the wickedness of his parents, their only son left his home in early life, and sought to obtain an honourable subsistence as the mate of a West Indian trader. It was at a period when a long and profitless summer and autumn had nearly passed away, that Terloggan, like the vulture, ever watchful for his prey, was more than usually observant of the signs of the heavens; nor was any one more capable than himself of discovering the most distant indications of a tempest. Nature had for several months worn a placid and most encouraging aspect. The soft and azure sky seemed to rest upon the transparent sea, and the slowly expanding waves swept with slow murmurings along the shining sands of the deep bay with a wild and monotonous plashing, that seemed to strike like the voice of a prophecy upon the ear. Not more hateful were the glorious beams of the orb of day to the fallen Lucifer, as described by our great poet, than was the quiescent state of nature to the dark mind of Terloggan. In his impatience he cursed the protracted season of tranquillity, and hailed the approaching period of storms as more congenial not only to the gloomy temper of his soul,' but to his interests. At length he saw, with a smile of savage satisfaction, the sun sink in angry red beneath the dim and cloudy horizon; heard with secret exultation the hollow murmuring of the winds, and beheld the blackening waves rising into fury, and lashing the lofty rocks with their ascending spray. As the night advanced in chaotic darkness, the horrors of the tempest increased; and the long and loud blast of the contending elements rung out upon the ear like the death-knell of a departed soul. Now's thy time,' ejaculated the old hag, his wife, go thy ways out upon the cliffs, there's death in the wind.' Terloggan speedily equipped himself, and ascended the steep promontory at the entrance of the bay. The usual expedient was resorted to; and he soon observed a light at sea as if in It may be proper to mention that this little sketch has already appeared in the columns of a provincial newspaper. It will, however, be as good as manuscript' to a large portion of our readers.-ED. Lit. Mag. answer to his signal. His prey seemed already in his grasp. The light evidently approached nearer; and before an hour had elapsed, the white close-reefed sails of the vessel could be dimly discovered through the darkness, and the appalling cry of the seamen at the discovery of their danger distinctly heard. Signal-guns of distress were immediately fired, and the loud commands, all hands on deck, and about ship, were vociferated in wild despair. Every exertion was made to wear the vessel from the shore; but the redeeming moment was passed, the ship was completely embayed, and neither strength nor skill were of any avail in averting her impending fate. In a few minutes a tremendous crash, and a heartrending, but fruitless, cry for help, announced the horrid catastrophe; and the last flashing signal-gun revealed for a moment a scene too terrible to be described. The stranded vessel, hurled repeatedly against the jagged rocks of the bay, soon parted; the waves dashed over her shattered hull with relentless fury, bearing to the shore the scattered cargo, broken pieces of the wreck, and the tattered rigging; whilst the mingled shrieks of the drowning, blended with the roar of the conflicting elements, rose upon the ear like the despairing cries of an army of dying Titans. There was one, however, in whose eyes such a scene was joyous—in whose ears such sounds were melody—and that being was Terloggan. He waited impatiently until the storm had somewhat abated, and when silence began to indicate that the work of death was well nigh over, he descended the well-known cliffs to dart upon his prey. Unmoved by the horrid spectacle (for the moon had broken from the clouds by which she had before been concealed), he stood awhile gazing upon the scene of desolation around him as if at a loss where first to begin his work of rapine. But to his surprise and momentary dismay there was yet one living soul on board, who, should he survive, would interpose between him and his hard-earned booty, and who was even now loudly supplicating his assistance. To despatch this unhappy creature in his exhausted and helpless condition was a resolution no sooner formed than executed. Whilst he was appearing to aid his escape from the jaws of death, one stroke of his hanger laid him a livid and mutilated corse upon the sands before him. Terloggan then rifled the pockets of his victim, took a ring from his finger, and laden with the most portable articles of plunder, retraced his footsteps to his hut. • What luck?' exclaimed his fiend-like helpmate, as he crossed the threshhold of the door. 6 Never better, rejoined Terloggan, pointing to his booty. He then described the success of his hellish stratagem without even concealing the particulars of the murder; after which he displayed some pieces of foreign gold coin, and the ring which he had taken from the finger of the stranger. Give me the light, Meg,' said the hoary villain. The hag obeyed. But no sooner had he examined the ring than he recognised its form and certain marks upon it. His countenance changed, and with a groan of agony he quickly handed it to his wife. She knew too well from whose hand it must have been taken, and after glancing at it for a moment, yelled out with supernatural energy, Oh my son, my poor son!' and fell senseless at the feet of her husband. Terloggan endeavoured to master his feelings until the fact could be ascertained. He arose with the dawn, and hastened to the spot where he had left the murdered corse. It was indeed his son. The stroke of retribution had been complete. Overwhelmed by despair, and stung by remorse, to which his heart had ever before been impervious, he determined on self-destruction. A few days afterwards his mangled body was found among the rocks, and interred on the spot where he had perpetrated his last deed of blood. The chief incidents of his terrible story are still narrated in the neighbourhood which was the scene of its hero's manifold atrocities. His wretched wife perished a few weeks afterwards by the fall of her hut, occasioned by one of those dreadful storms which she and her savage helpmate had so frequently invoked. CHIT-CHAT: LITERARY AND MISCELLANEOUS. There seems to have been few new works published during the last month of any great interest. Of Sermons, Philosophy, Lexicography, Physiology, and several other ologies too tedious to enumerate, there have been quant. suf: An accredited edition of Miss Sophia Lee's Canterbury Tales, is, we are told, on the eve of being published by her family. Lord Byron's obligations to her German's Tale,' in his Werner, have been pointed out in detail. The Memoirs of Mr. Lindley Murray, the grammarian, who died a few weeks ago at his house at York, are, it is stated, about to be published by his family. The present generation is greatly indebted to this excellent and laborious man. His talents, if of an humble, were of an extremely useful order. We are glad to learn that a third part of Cruikshank's Points of Humour is nearly ready for publication. We refer principally to the plates, not having been at the pains of perusing any of the letter-press. Mrs. Joanna Baillie will shortly publish a Drama, in three acts, called the Martyr. The Rev. A. S. Burgess is preparing for the press a volume, entitled Worthies of Christ's Hospital; or Memoirs of Eminent Blues. Carl Maria Von Weber, the celebrated composer, and author of the Music to Der Frieschutz, has lately arrived in this country. We are happy to hear that Baily's admirable statue of Eve at the Fountain, has been purchased by his fellow citizens of Bristol, just as he was on the eve of exporting it to the continent. It appears from the Sierra Leone Gazette, recently received, that Captains Clapperton and Pearce, Messrs. Morrison and Dickson, have sailed in the Brazen for Benin and Biafra, where they are to be landed to prosecute their interesting inquiries. The Literary Gazette brings an indirect charge of plagiarism against the writer of the article on Moss's Manual of Classical Bibliography, in a late number of the Monthly Review; the two critiques are probably the production of the same person, and if so, the coincidence of opinion is not so very remarkable. Mr. Chandos Leigh has just printed a very pleasing volume of poetry. We cannot, however, go the whole length of the puff which the New Monthly has given of this book; neither do we admit with Mr. Campbell that the defect of Mr. Leigh's verses is over-fastidiousness. When poets happen to be afflicted with this disease, they generally abstain from publishing at all. The New Monthly advises people, whose clothes catch fire, to roll themselves in the Hearth Rug! Surely, as Dangle has it, we have heard something like this before.' Sir Egerton Brydges has written and published an answer to a Review of a work of his in the New Monthly two or three months ago. Mr. Jennings has a poem in the press, entitled, Ornithologia, or the Birds; with copious notes. The journeymen shoemakers of the metropolis have had a meeting to discuss the propriety of petitioning against the Corn Laws! Dr. Halliday's Annals of the House of Brunswick,' is, it appears, to be published in a few weeks. |