ground; and when every Englishman turns indignantly from the baneful progress of a priest-ridden government, we cannot conceal our admiration of the tendency, as well as of the execution, of the mournfully-pleasing pages of Alcon Malanzore.

Some want of connection in the story, and of perspicuity in its development, together with a few harsh and defective lines, are blemishes which are more than compensated by the high tone of sentiment, the striking imagery, the forcible exhibition of passion, and the vivid glow of genius which characterise the work.

Such passages as the following might redeem a host of

faults:

--

"Oh! that those moments in our life so rare,

Should mock the grasp, like fancied forms of air!
As the dark clouds emit etherial light,

Deep'ning the gloom, by flashes false, and bright;
As some dear lovely vision of our sleep,
Quits the enraptured wretch to wake and weep:
Those fleeting pleasures, transports wild and fair,
But leave the memory of what they were-
Raise us from earth, to sink us down again,
To darker, colder loneliness of pain—
Oh strange! that joys engendering remorse,
Should have a keener bliss, a loftier force!-

The calm delights that Peace and Virtue bring,

Boast not their capture-but disown their sting." Canto 11. p. 67.

The heroine of the tale is a princess of the royal house of Spain, and her name is Rosaline. We wish the fair authoress had indulged us with a few notes, such as some of our poets so copiously bestow, or that she had at least condescended to fix the epoch of the action of her piece, and informed us how much of it is history, and how much fiction. The Infanta having cherished an unfortunate and, according to the prejudices of her birth and her religion, a criminal passion for a noble Moorish warrior, retires to a convent, at once to atone for, to conceal, and to indulge, her deep-rooted affection for the enemy of her country. The poem opens with a beautiful description of the shame, remorse, and tenderness of this highspirited and warm-hearted creature. We are admitted into

the chapel of the convent, where the solemn rites of prayer are interrupted by the appearance of the invading troops of the Moors The nuns disperse, and fly from the polluted fane; Rosaline becomes the prey of ferocious soldiers, from whose grasp she is rescued (but without being recognized) by

their commander, the gallant Malanzore; the man of whom she had learned to know both happiness and misery. The first canto closes with the raptures of their meeting.

The second canto shews us the discontent of the followers of Alcon Malanzore, who murmur at his devotion to his Christian captive, his conformity to her creed, and the suspension of the war. Revolts and stratagems ensue; and the hero of the tale, finding himself closely pressed by the Spaniards, and encompassed by treachery and danger, demands, with an impetuosity which allows of no refusal, the instant performance of the solemn vow which Rosaline had made, to become his wife under whatever circumstances he clai ned her hand. This inauspicious marriage is performed under circumstances of extreme terror; and the nuptial benediction, expiring on the lips of the trembling priest who united these ill-fated lovers, is drowned by the din of approaching battle. Rosaline, torn from the side of him to whom she had sacrificed her country and her conscience, breathless with apprehension for her safety, seeks concealment in the fortress he had conquered. The Moorish power is repulsed, and the unhappy bride is torn from her retirement by her angry and relentless brother Don Carlos, indignant at the disgrace she has brought upon a royal house, by her marriage with an infidel and an enemy; and a dark story of the attempted assassination of Rosaline, by the barbarous policy of the prince, brings us to the end of the third canto.

The introduction to the fourth canto need not shrink from the comparison that will naturally be made with the elegant and classic Gray.

"Iron-handed goddess!--chill adversity!

Thou, whom the mortal race abhor and dread;
From whose stern lash, they vainly seek to fly,
Or 'scape the snare, thy toiling fingers spread!-
Oh! thou dost laugh to scorn each petty guile,
The struggling victim plies to burst his chain-
On freedom's verge, thou bidst him sport awhile,

Then back replung'd, he is thy slave again!

Ah! that pale languor o'er thy breast might creep-
A moment loose thy hold, and veil thine eyes in sleep!-

Thine are the joys, that from religion flow

More rapturous pure, than ought this world can yield;
Thine is the heart, that mourns another's woe,—

The fount of feeling by thy touch unseal'd ;

The proudest glow that firm affection feels-
The fortitude, that strong, unbending, high,
Man, in his native dignity reveals,

From thee derive their force and majesty.
The mask withdrawn-thou art an angel given

To wean from this low earth, and make us meet for heaven."

p. 117.

We are now shewn the lion in the toils,-Malanzore in prison. The author is successful in her aim at throwing round this important personage a gloomy dignity-a savage grandeur, which lift him above compassion, and mingle respect and admiration with our sympathy. We are ready to exclaim in her own words,

"Dark hero! we lament, but pity not

Thy fallen state-thy hard and fearful lot.
Pity thou art above-her soft pangs sleep,
Her melancholy eye forgets to weep,
When dazzled by the broad resplendent blaze
Of greatness in its wane-whose setting rays
Have more of majesty, than when on high,
They glare unveil'd to every vulgar eye.—
Wondering we pause-no milder thought can steal-
And awe and reverence are all we feel."

p. 122.

Don Carlos visits Alcon Malanzore in his deep and noisome dungeon, but, it seems, to no ostensible purpose, except to insult over his misfortunes, and, with the malevolence of a fiend, to enjoy "a sight worthy of the gods, a great man struggling with adversity." The noble captive finds a friend and ally in a renegado monk, whose adventurous heart, beneath the lowly habit of a christian priest, beats high for the swarthy sons of Africa. The liberation of Alcon Malanzore is effected by means of this extraordinary agent, aided by a mysterious being-a youthful and enterprising page in green and gold," whom the reader immediately discovers to be the rescued Rosaline; but her lover is strangely deceived by her appearance in male attire. The flight of this ill-fated pair is discovered by the myrmidons of the Holy Inquisition; the Moor escapes, but Rosaline remains their prey. The close of this canto displays to us that house of horrors where the victims of fanatic zeal or private revenge have been so frequently immolated in the name of the God of Mercy and Peace! The fifth and last canto conducts us to the hideous tribunal, where, as Sterne says, "after the form of a mock trial," the wretched culprit receives a sentence irrevocable in this world; and, as if to add insult to cruelty, couched in such terms as "palter with us in a double sense.'

The anguish and remorse of Rosaline (we will not say her repentance, since no lover ever repented without ceasing to love!) are encreased by the presence of the venerable abbess of the convent, within whose walls she had sought for shelter and security from her own feelings; and whose affectionate and mild government had called forth her liveliest gratitude. The block is ready-the headsman is prepared-Don Carlos is withdrawn, unable to see the sacrifice he had caused-the victim kneels-the axe is raised-when a sudden tumult is heard, Alcon Malanzore and his troops rush in to the deliverance of the princess!-The arms of Mauritania have been again successful; Seville bows to the Moorish yoke; and had the poem ended here, some indefinite hope of transient happiness for the hero and heroine might have soothed the mind of the reader. But we are invited to a feast of tears, and are sent away sorrowing. Rosaline dies-we know not how, or where, or when-but she dies in the arms of her lover; and the ardent and devoted Moor, the convert of love and not of faith, will not survive the being he adored. He has the means of death, and he expires while embracing the cold remains of his beloved.

"A dark'ning cloud has veil'd the moon's pale glow,
And wrapt in deepest shade the scene below.
-And now-'tis past-ah me! a deed was done,
E'en then-that mortal eye must weep and shun!-
"The grave can join us yet,' the warrior said-
On Rosaline's bosom rests his weary head—
The blood flows fast from out the yawning wound,
Purples the stream, and trickles o'er the ground.-
-The wind howls hoarse above their lofty bed-
The only dirge, that paus'd above the dead.-"

p. 191.

Mrs. Erskine has every thing to claim from readers of taste and sensibility, whom her genius will elevate and her pathos subdue; but from verbal critics, and the observers of exact versification, she has something to apprehend. We trust to the good sense which always accompanies talent, although sometimes overpowered and carried away by its impulse, that the future compositions of this accomplished lady will be less rapid and more correct.

ART. IV.-Emma: a Novel, in Three Volumes. By the Author of "Pride and Prejudice," &c. Murray. 1816. THERE is a remarkable sameness in the productions of this author. The Emma and Knightley of the work before us, are exactly the Elizabeth and Davey of "Pride and Pre judice;" the prototypes of which were the hero and heroine in "Sense and Sensibility." Nor is there more variety in the subordinate characters, or the incidents; both are of a description that occurs every day in the rank of life to which they are allotted. Yet the author will always interest and please, and this exactly from the causes which we are persuaded are beyond all others desirable to her. From a certain elegance of mind, and acquaintance with the usages of polite society, from a just sense of duty which makes her show the performance of it, in all its bearings, to be its own reward, and from that rational view of happiness which enables her to teach her readers to look for it where it is certain to be found. "In the mild majesty of private life," in the culture of intellectual endowments, and in the exercise of the social affections, we find nothing ridiculed that ought not be ridiculed; no undue consequence annexed to things which have not consequence in themselves; and every person has bis place, and his influence assigned him in the scale of society, with the propriety and good sense which the author is fond of exbibiting as the characteristics of her heroines. In the following sketch our readers will observe many traits of that nicety of observation, and goodness of disposition, for which we have already given the author credit.

t

After these came a second set; among the most come-at-able of whom were Mrs. and Miss Bates and Mrs. Goddard, three ladies almost always at the service of an invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and carried home so often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no hardship either for James or the horses-Had it taken place only once a year, it would have been a grievance.

"Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a very old lady, almost past every thing but tea and quadrille. She lived with a single daughter, in a very small way, and was considered with all the regard and respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward citcumstances, can excite. Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree of popularity, for a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor married. Miss Bates stood in the very worst predicament in the world for having much of the public favour, and she had no intellectual superiority to make atonement to herself, or frighten those who might hate her into outward respect. She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her youth