I saw a smiling infant bend the knee, OUTLINES. BY ALFRED TULK, ESQ. See, how yon stars they love the night! And while the morn upon the wave Unhallow'd ghosts are treading, A tale of passion, and a warning beacon!told with eloquent emotion, and the indignation which the upright feel for crime. In truth, this novel points its moral most powerfully: the gradual steps by which "mirth may into folly glide, and folly into sin" are delicately discriminated and dwelt upon; not extenuated, so as to "call good evil, and evil good," but so set forth before us that the lesson of the apostle may be clearly learned, "Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall." We have not read any of Mrs. Grey's previous works, and therefore came fresh and unprejudiced to the consideration of the present one, and at first we felt inclined to be provoked with the doleful old governess who tells the talestopping every minute to sigh and groan so audibly, as to risk her story being flung away by the impatient reader. This little blemish is particularly striking in the first volume, where the governess, in describing the happy childhood of her heroine, forewarns you so frequently of the troubles to come, that you lose interest in the picture set before you in the mean time; but, as you proceed, the exceeding truthfulness of narration, the clear-sightedness with which every downward step is traced, rivet the attention of the student, and fix his mind entirely on the mournful history. Two young children are educated together the boy an orphan of great wealth; the girl the only child and heiress of doting parents, also the guardians of Albert the boy. It is the wish of these parents, Mr. and Mrs. Devereux, that their beloved ward shall wed their child, for which objects they educate her in the strictest privacy, and allow her to associate with few young people, and with none intimately. Felicie, the Swiss governess, the narrator of the tale, moralizes with great wisdom on the danger of educating a young mind on system, of removing from it all food for the imagination, all play for the fancy; she proves by the sad circumstances of her beloved pupil's life, how fatally these precautions defeat their own purpose. Sybil Devereux is never allowed to read poetry, novels, or any light literature; she is studiously kept back in childhood, till she attains her seventeenth birth-day, on which day Albert Lennard, whom she had regarded as a brother, and who is now of age, returns to her parents' house, and claims her hand. The inexperienced child, as she is represented to be, recoils half frightened from a love which had never visited her dreams; she wishes still to remain Albert's sister, but when he passionately declares he never can again regard her as a * T. C. Newby, Mortimer-street. sister, rather than forfeit his affection entirely, she yields to his desires, and to the rapturous satisfaction of her parents, who now see fulfilled the one hope of their life. Sybil Devereux therefore becomes Sybil Lennard, and in the peaceful ignorance of her own capabilities for passion, she is happy with her calm love for her husband; unto her, in due time, lovely children are born, and among the groves and hills of Albert's Welsh castle the young, pureminded wife passes her days in innocent, tranquil enjoyments. But more stirring times are at hand; the talents of her husband summon him to the duties of a senator, and he repairs to London, to the hot, heady excitement of politics. His beautiful wife accompanies him. We have omitted till now the mention of a wild Irish youth, Hardress Fitzhugh, who had, during a year of Sybil's girlhood, been placed with the rector of the parish for instruction; this boy, a genius, and full of untamed passions, had been intimate at Oakleigh for a short time, and had been deeply fascinated by the young, lovely Sybil. This was during one of Albert's absences at school; on his return his jealous dislike to the bold and wild-spirited youth, whom he found intruding on his home, had induced Mrs. Devereux to discountenance the visits of young Fitz Hugh. He soon after went forth into the world, and was forgotten by all save Sybil, who had been strangely interested by his peculiar genius, and by a burst of incoherent admiration for herself. 66 Well, when the Lennards take possession of their London house, Hardress Fitz Hugh is electrifying the nation as a Radical member, a Repealer full of incendiary eloquence. Albert Lennard is a Tory, a good old country gentleman;" and the old dislike between these men revives as strong as ever. Hardress has ruined a lovely young Irish peasant, whom he has brought with him to London; but the instant he sees Sybil Lennard at the opera, in the full blaze of her matured beauty, his former passion awakes, and the worst designs take possession of his mind. Through a literary lady, of no very good character, Albert's cousin, he once more gains admission into Sybil's society, and availing himself skilfully of old associations, keeps his ground there in spite of the coldness of Albert, and the rooted antipathy of Felicie, the Swiss governess. He then sets to work to undermine Sybil's purity; Rousseau's works, Byron's poetry, and French novels, being the instruments of corruption, in all of which his female ally, Albert's cousin, is excessively active, as disseminator. Sybil gradually grows reserved to her friend Felicie, who has remained with her as governess to her children; "And thus did Albert and Sybil meet once more! The light fell feebly upon that haggard face, and revealed it to him who sat opposite, with his counte nance of unutterable woe. He started with a look of horror; then murmured, in a tone of fearful agita"Good God! Sybil?' tion determined voice, I am-his mother. I have a 'Yes, Albert,' she answered, in a hollow, but right. I told them I was his mother, and they could not deny me-will you?' Her voice died away. "A groan from Mr. Lennard was the only reply. * * * * "And those two sat together in silence-dread, immutable silence-hour after hour, of that fearfulfearful night; even till the spirit of their fair boy had gently glided from its earthly dwelling. * * * * then, impatient of control, low-spirited, capricious, and at length, during a brief absence of her husband, she wildly leaves the house for the "protection" (hateful, misapplied word!) of Fitz Hugh. The sort of intoxication of passion to which she is worked up by her tempter, the horror with which her self-accusing conscience shrunk from the caresses of her trusting husband, the despair which judges her by that awful declaration of scripture which pronounces the sin of the heart as damning as any actual crime; these driving her at last to the fatal plunge, are all set before us under a lurid light of most appalling eloquence. The deserted children, the husband's return to his home, and his stunning anguish; the agonized shame of the parents of the guilty, lost Sybil; these follow in terrible detail. Fitz Hugh, by artifice and threats, prevails on his victim to have a divorce obtained, and to wed him in utter desperation; after this, her reaction of feeling, her gradually over-mastering hatred for him, and remorse for her sin, render her distasteful to the man who had so madly adored her. A child is born, a girl, which by its sex defeats Fitz Hugh's endeavours to prevail on his uncle, Lord Castlerosse, to make it his heir. On that uncle's death-bed, he bequeaths Fitz Hugh an ample fortune, on condition that he live separate from his unhappy wife. The man, weary of her faded looks and sullen misery, readily consents, but will not yield his marital rights of visiting and controlling her actions. The little child proves sickly, and at last dies when about eight years old. The father droops into a consumption, brokenThe wretched mother's feelings towards the un-hearted for his dead child; the girls are galled complaining patient sufferer from her sin, are the most touching scenes in the book. "And then they must once more part. They must not mourn together; they cannot crave each other's sympathy. * * * "Ah! who could paint-who can wish to gaze on such a picture!" We must object to the asterisks, here and elsewhere so profusely scattered. Asterisks are the safeguard of mediocrity, who attempts to pourtray what it cannot clearly conceive; but a writer like Mrs. Grey-whose hand so ably seconds her heart in diving into the "deeps profound" of human emotions-need have recourse to no such paltry expletives. by the consequences of their mother's guilt, for too securely does the scorn of the world visit the innocent offspring of sin. They are exquisitely painted: the spiritual-minded, heavenly-faced Mary, and the enthusiastically-impulsive Sybil; one grieving over her lost mother, the other chafing passionately at the punishment she has Meanwhile the young Lennards-girls-grow up to womanhood; while the boy, beautiful and spirited, is the only solace of his heart-broken father. He goes to Eton; in some boyish squabble a fellow-scholar taunts him with his mother's shame; the proud youth, stung with the remem-left her children as a dowry. brance of the past, and enraged at the insult, Sybil, the younger, loves and is beloved; but strikes the slanderer; he returns the blow, the stain upon her name prevents the father of which, falling on the head, produces concussion her affianced from consenting to his son's of the brain. Bertie Lennard lingers some choice. days, insensible; the father, sisters, and faithful governess, frenzied by despair, watch around his unconscious sufferings. The last night, he is dying, when the pale, woe-worn mother glides in, and seats herself by his couch, opposite the father, stupified with grief. "It was the third evening. The London practitioner, with grave, compassionate concern upon his countenance, had left the house, to return to London. He could not be spared to stay to watch a case so utterly hopeless. A few hours, and all would probably be over. The father still sat and watched the ing agony. I too was there, seated apart, and at slackening breath, the glazing eye; love o'ermasterlength saw the door open slowly, and before my griefbewildered sight appeared the tall, dark form of a At last Mr. Lennard dies; and his wretched wife, for whom he sends on his death-bed, is prevented from seeing him by the fiendish malignity of Fitz Hugh, who has come to her on purpose to deny her a last interview with the passionately-loved and injured husband of her youth. During the night she escapes from him, and is found at break of day senseless on the threshold of the house where lies her beloved Albert-a corpse. Her father finds her, and takes her back to his protection; terrible and long had been her expiation of her guilt. The the mother-whose memory she had scorned youngest girl is stricken by a brain-fever, and and hated-is the unwearying nurse of her delirious hours. When the poor girl recovers, the father of her lover is too much softened by her sufferings to renew his old objections to the marriage; and her sister, having yielded her heart to her brother's tutor, these two children | LINES. of sorrow are at length rewarded for the anguish | One fair, bright day in Spring I strayed "Can my readers wonder," she concludes, "that the world to me is but a dreary place; that memory darkens life of all light and gladness? No: my wonder is that my heart has not withered quite; and yet, "After so many deaths, I live and write.'" Altogether, this story is most overwhelmingly affecting. The length of time over which it extends demands additional skill in the author, to show the modification of characters under the hand of that great worker of change. Thro' sheltering lanes, midst fields where flowers Upon a thousand things which owed their life Few could have looked on such a scene as this The portrait of Sybil-a full length one, from the cradle to the grave-is wonderfully consistent. We can anticipate from the first, at her marriage-persuaded into it, as she is, without any feeling but sisterly affection-that so pas-To rest with Man, and ne'er take flight again! sionless an union cannot stand the fiery tempta- Seem'd for awhile removed; my heart once more A veil, thro' many years of sadness worn, tions of the world. In like manner, when we Beat lightly-happily; the bitter scorn see her carried away by the sudden violence of Of world and worldly feelings fled before an evil inclination, we feel impressed that in one Reflection caused by Nature's beauty, borne by nature so good and affectionate, the zest of Resistless thro' my heart, a-priceless store sín cannot long abide: we know she will repent, Of rapturous thought, bright, pure, and unalloyed! and we are prepared for her agonized remorse- Too soon inspired-too soon to be destroyed! her loathing of her destroyer-her miserable yearnings for her deserted children. AUGUSTUS PECQUEUR. This book ought to be instructive; it is written in a pure, wise spirit: the religion of love breathes through it all, and the tears its vivid portraiture calls forth are not the sickly drops of sentimental sympathy, but the earnest sorrow of pity for the fallen, and for the wide devastation that is spread by a single sin. Oh! if the wicked were not "blinded by the god of this world," surely one thought of the consequences of guilt would stay them on its threshold! But, as is powerfully shown here, the naturally good-in whom the seeds of wickedness have, as yet, lain unfruitful, and therefore unguarded against-do not rush headlong into vice, and, by one leap, spring from innocence into abandonment of God and man. The work proceeds slowly at first, and unconsciously, to the victim. An unworthy thought flitting through the mind, unchecked, often is sufficient to let Satan in; let one single stone of the fortress be misplaced, and he will soon make good his lordship over all. Guard, then, the entrance of the heart! Look to little faultsthe evil one is sometimes permitted "to draw us by a single hair;" keep the fountain-head ever pure, and the river will flow pure into the sea. No external stain can truly light upon the spirit while the inner-heart is washed by faith and love, and by the continual remembrance of the "Omniscient eyes." P. P. C. * LINES ON HAYDON. BY ELIZA NORTHHOUSE. Poor Haydon! thou no more shalt give According to Gerber, this great musician was born at Milan, in 1760; but many others have supposed-and, from the variety and reasonableness of their evidence in favour of it, with some semblance of truth-that the time of his birth was 1752; the place, Naples. He was doomed to lose both his parents at an early age, and, by the interest of his friends, was placed in the Conservatorio di Loretto, to study the rudiments of composition under Cimarosa. He also studied under Geordaesello and Feneroli, and, on quitting the Conservatorio, he finished his studies under Speraza-men of great and consummate learning; but whose names, with the exception of Cimarosa, the composer of the sparkling and brilliant "Il Matrimonio Segreto," are now almost forgotten; or remembered only as great masters of counterpoint. Almost his earliest work* obtained the approbation of Haydn. At this time (about 1783-4-5) he was engaged to write for the principal theatres in Italy; and after visiting Paris, in 1789, he was appointed Maestro di Capella to the cathedral of Milan. While in Paris, however, he composed and produced his "Antigone;" a work, which although it has given place to that of our illustrious living composer Mendelssohn, is nevertheless cherished by many as one of, if not the highest order of genius, still, as evincing the working of a master-mind, urging its upward course, and striving to perfection. He now devoted himself to the composition of those sublime records of his genius-those devotional bursts of feeling which have tended to render the style of music to which they belong (and which Mozart and Haydn afterwards joined to render) so perfect. Till the death of Guglielmi, in 1816, the star of Zuigarelli slumbered; but he was then called upon to be that great musician's successor in the Vatican at Rome. In 1811, a rather singular incident happened, which for a time obstructed the quiet path of our composer, and indeed at the time threatened to be of more serious consequence to him in his * Montezuma-an opera serią. future career; and which, as tending to show how the nobility of Nature's genius overcomes the nobility of rank, deserves more than a passing mention here. The fate that swayed the destinies of Francenay, of almost all Europe-at that time, was Napoleon Buonaparte; who, though the conqueror of nations, was the patron and friend of many obscure musicians. We may premise that Zingarelli, next to Paesiello, was Napoleon's favourite composer; for though the genius of the future celebrated musician Cherubini was at that time both recog nized and encouraged by the Emperor, yet his mind and taste turned the more readily to the simpler beauties of Zingarelli; which appealed more effectually to the feelings of him, who, though not scientifically a musician, yet was a true one by Nature. In the year 1811, therefore, on account of the birth of a son to the Emperor, a grand and solemn Te Deum was commanded to be performed in every church throughout France and the Papal States. Orders to that effect were, therefore, sent from the Tuilleries to all the provinces; and the same order reached, in its course, the "Holy City" itself. Never were such extensive preparations made for celebrating any event before as there were now in the "City of the Cæsars;" so gorgeous were they that it seemed as if all the riches, all the glory of the earth, were concentrated in that one spot. Never before did the people exhibit such excitement. St. Peter's was arrayed with the most costly magnificence; cardinals, priests, each wore their robes of office; and it seemed almost like a religious festival. In the high altar the sacred candles were kept constantly burning, and the acolytes ceaselessly swinging incense from their censers. Amid the throngs that crowded the streets, at even so early a period of the morning to which we allude as the first grey streak of dawn, might be observed one, who from his abstracted manner and hesitating step, seemed as if some oppressive feeling were on his mind; and so deeply was he engrossed in some painful train of thought-to judge from the rapidly changing hues that appeared passing over his strongly marked and expressive countenance-that all wonder at his uncertain step ceased, and raised |