maiden's hand, he now found they were preparing to descend an old and, as his footsteps soon informed him, broken staircase, which wound deeper and deeper, and round and round, till his head grew giddy. On reaching the bottom they turned through a low archway, and Ludwig discovered to his horror that he now stood in what appeared to be the funeral vaults of the hereditary possessors of the castle. What could they all want with him amongst the tombs ? Had they come here to spend the honeymoon when the ceremony was concluded? or did they mean to murder him? He was all tumult and anguish. He again thought of retreating, but a supernatural impulse restrained him.

While, therefore, the interesting trio seemed to be holding a mute conference, meditating, as he thought by their looks, how they might conveniently dispose of him, the pale maiden nodding at him all the while most vehemently, poor Ludwig stood in the greatest embarrassment, resting first on one leg, then on the other,-now looking on the daughter, now on her parents, towards whom he already entertained sentiments of the most profound respect, if not veneration, and occasionally stealing fearful glances at the mementos of death which were scattered around, and when they again passed along, seemed to be ogling him from every part of this dismal sepulchre.

Old monuments, grave-stones, broken tombs, skulls, and bones lay before him, profusely mingled with coffins of various sizes in copper, stone, and glass. At a short distance further they paused again. They were standing before the steps of a tomb on which reposed a bronze effigy with a venerable beard, and bearing a mitre and crozier. The lamp, which now threw a brighter flame, shewed the vault to be much dilapidated, the tomb damp and mouldy, and in a recess opposite, Ludwig thought he could trace the faint and indistinct outlines of an altar. They evidently meant to marry

him.

The pale maiden now approached the bronze figure,-alone,bent forwards and kissed the hands which were folded across its breast. It arose gradually from its couch of stone, and with ponderous footsteps went towards the shadowy altar, on which two candles in massive antique candlesticks all at once revealed to the terror-stricken bridegroom two empty coffins. The lamp was then given by the maiden into the hands of the female portrait, who had so kindly taken the trouble to walk out of the frame where Ludwig first made her acquaintance for the sake of being present at his wedding. No sooner, however, had she touched it than it flared suddenly and became instantly extinguished.

She majestically motioned Ludwig forwards, who, more dead than alive, advanced towards her.

The bronze figure at this moment turned round to the pale bride and trembling bridegroom, now standing side by side before the altar, and, in a deep and hollow voice, solemnly asked the former whether she was willing to take Ludwig as her wedded husband?

Upon her nodding as before, the figure then placed on her finger one of the rings, and casting upon Ludwig a fixed and chilling gaze, said in the same monotonous tones, "Sir knight, will you consent to take this maiden as your wedded wife?"

Ludwig felt that his hour was come. He was nearly at his last

gasp. He thought of the position on the tomb five minutes before of that figure whose voice now resounded in his ears; and when he looked at those staring fish-like orbs below his iron brow, his joints trembled, his knees smote violently together, his hair began to rise on his head, his teeth to chatter, and the cold sweats of death to break forth all over his body. He tried to speak, but in vain,-his breath grew thick, and the muscles of his throat became violently collapsed, he could not utter a sound. The mitred man, without stirring or turning a look, kept a dead, steady glare upon Ludwig, as if waiting his reply; but it came not,-it wouldn't come!

Suddenly the brow of the bronze man darkened with anger, and the various members of this ancient and interesting family, to whom he felt he was already more than half allied, assumed towards him a menacing attitude.

Ludwig was not naturally a coward, but he had been brought up in the most devout belief in ghosts and goblins. Nevertheless, he had borne all these things long and patiently enough, and if it came to a push, was not one to yield even to Beelzebub himself without giving a taste of his arm. He, therefore, doubled his ponderous fists with the most determined energy of a desperate man, and was concentrating all his powers for a last struggle with the chief master of the ceremonies, when suddenly was heard above their heads the long continuous booming of a bell, which evidently produced the greatest consternation amongst his company. The unexpected and deep reverberation caused Ludwig to recede a little. He saw the bronze figure slowly resuming its former recumbent position; the father and mother of the bride uttered the most piercing cries,-the pale maiden herself rushed towards him, her face awfully distorted and nodding at him more violently than ever, till at length, to his dread and dismay, her head fell off and rolled at his feet. At that moment a strong blast of wind extinguished the lights, and roared and drove through the now impenetrably dark and gloomy vault, and Ludwig fell senseless amongst the coffins.

After a while came consciousness. When he recovered, the night had passed away and the dawn had appeared; the sun had climbed the horizon, and the earliest matin-bell was sweetly pealing from the neighbouring steeple. But Ludwig lay sprawling at the bottom of the moat, into which he had evidently just rolled. A large round stone which he had brought down with him in his descent lay at his side. He got up and rubbed his eyes, but knew not what to make of it. He felt hungry and faint; but, thank heaven! if his supper had been a dream, he had also escaped being married to a goblin! He sought his horse, and presently found it secured near the entrance to a vault, which he had no recollection whatever of having visited the previous night; there he stood neighing cheerfully to his master in friendly recognition.

A CONTRAST.*

THE appearances of Englishmen and Englishwomen, in fiction, still continue to be as new, vigorous, and remarkable, as if the croakers, who are perpetually announcing the end of the world of Fancy, and the echoes, who can do nothing save ape their dreary note, were not crying in all quarters of the habitable world, their lament over the exhausted estate of Fairy-land. Here are a new candidate for honours, and an established public favourite, in every respect as wide asunder as Macedon and Monmouth;-for this their very diversity of gifts, training, position, purposely selected to illustrate the strength of England during this year of disorder, and her riches at a period of all but universal famine.

We speak first of the lady, as one whose appearance is extraordinary, even in these days of extraordinary "female development" (as Mrs. Ellis might phrase it). Last year, in the midst of a heap of novels of a stupifying mediocrity, we were startled by the opening pages of an anonymous book, with a strange name, "Azeth." Now, diligent novel-readers as we are, we confess to a general disinclination towards romances of the ancient world. Such themes are too often the resource of persons, who possess scanty knowledge of life and small power over creative character, but who presume that grand words and elaborately prepared descriptions will suffice to establish their reputation for originality. On the other hand, exquisite specimens of the antique and classical romance are in existence to deter all, save the very strong, or the callously audacious. The "Valerius" of Lockhart the cumbrously gorgeous "Salathiel" of Croly-the breathlessly fascinating "Pompeii" of Bulwer, must, we apprehend, stand on the threshold as shapes of discouragement to any one meditating excursions upon the holy ground of the past. Nor can we forget another example or two, differing in manner,-Mr. Ware's American "Letters from Palmyra"-Mr. William Howitt's “ Avenger of Blood" from the "Pantika," as illustrating that great power, strong pathos, and vivid interest will not always suffice to secure those who exhibit them their due reward; if they select what is remote and unfamiliar requiring also, peculiar preparation, and peculiar sympathies in the reader-as subjects for their art.

In spite of all these predilections, prejudices, aud experiences, "Azeth" was not to be laid down, when once begun. We felt that it must have been no piece of task-work on the part of the writer, no heavy congestion of facts painfully gathered: but the reflection of the eager, ardent, impassioned mind of one who had lovingly looked towards the tombs and the temples of the ancient East, till their depths and their colonnades had become gradually peopled with life and passion; and the gazer had told her vision. The descriptive passages in that novel possess a glow, a colour, a resemblance, such as no mere closetstudy could have given-the persons a distinct vitality and occupation. That "Azeth" is long, cumbrous, over-wrought, is true: a young painter rarely knows when to cease from the work of which he has be

"Amymome; a Romance of the Day of Pericles," by the Author of “Azeth;" and "Vanity Fair; a Novel without a Hero," by William Makepeace Thackeray.

come enamoured-but it is a book, which the reader most timid in judgment, most devoutly in fear of the coteries, could not look into, without perceiving that a fresh, and vigorous, and poetical writer was added by it to the brilliant list of English novelists.

"Amymone" will confirm the impression. It justifies Miss Lynn in selecting a second remote and classical subject as the theme for a romance. This she tells us, love, not conscious pedantry, incited her to do: and (what too seldom happens) the explanation in her Preface, is fully borne out, by the book itself. The invention is simple:-being merely the rise, triumph, and downfall of an ambitious woman, whose magnificence of beauty and intellect and hypocrisy, absolutely gives a dignity to imposture and crime. Her audacity is successful for a time and with its failure the book closes.

So much for the invention of "Amymone." It has been prompted and shaped by a generosity of purpose, which, whether well placed or misplaced, in a case where illustration avails itself of forms, customs, and characters, widely different from those of our own time, gives the story a value and a meaning. The heroine is, as we have said, a magnificent Hypocrisy: a creature of fraud, crime, and arrogance, whose whole being is a lie: whose greatness was snatched by the agency of murder, who is chaste because she is cold; and queenly, because the gods have made her beautiful. For a while, as has been told, she imposes herself upon the fickle Athenians to the point of their accepting her as the superior to Aspasia, because the latter has preached an intellectual liberty, and held herself clear of the traditional superstitions by which the old mythology was encumbered. Here, then, is another example of the temporary triumph of conventionalism, and of the dominion which even the least worthy can for a time wield, if adroitly enough they address themselves to the vanity, weakness, and jealousy of those whom they would subjugate. It is remarkable, of how many women of genius, the denunciation of such social injustice is now the leading idea. They are beginning at last to feel, that many of the evils of which they have so long complained, are not of Man's so much as of their own making;-they are beginning to understand that in their support of one another, they do not support that which is worthiest so much as what will best minister to their own indolence or frivolity, or moral cowardice. But to tranquillize the nerves of some who read, having said thus much, let us hasten also to say, that Miss Lynn is not one of your scolding Britomarts, who make angry words cover strangely immoral tendencies in her argument. She is not one of those with whom attack is rendered a necessary measure, by as necessary an apology for their favourites. warmth of her pleadings (if we read her novel aright) is not more remarkable than the purity of her principles. Therefore she must be set apart from others of the sisterhood with lively imaginations, who have flung themselves into the "Wrongs of Woman" question, with a volubility and an eagerness so confusing, that, in their desire to exterminate, they have ended in extolling the most frantic and selfish aberrations, the most irrational and eccentric sallies,-in trampling on primary duties, for the sake of some secondary sentiment. Well is it for them that they are not taken at their words, and allowed to legislate for themselves and against "Woman's Master!" Well would it be for some, if they could keep the balance between the uttermost toleration and the most strict self-sacrifice, so well as our authoress is

VOL. XXIV.

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The

able to do, if in the least we apprehend the meaning of the sermon she preaches in "Amymone."

By this time another section of the public becomes uneasy; the very talk of a preachment being distasteful, and stirring up a prodigious bustle of words about "Solons in petticoats," Mrs. Trimmer, Miss Martineau, and we know not what other absurdities of like kind. Those who read for story and character, and who are shocked at the slightest idea of having any profit smuggled in, under pretext of their entertainment, may be at peace as regards "Amymone." So wellknit is the story, so rich its descriptions, so glowing its characters, that there is no occasion for them to notice the high-toned argument of the tale-if it rumples them. For the merest romance reader, what can be more acceptable than the melancholy love-story of poor Chrysanthe? a love-story as intense as it is pure, told without "a yea” or "a nay," without one misgiving or second thought. Rarely has an engrossing passion been more openly or earnestly revealed, than in this sad episode of a maiden's love unrequited by its object. Yet we cannot imagine the reader who would raise a jest, or dismiss the melancholy history without a sigh,-or dissipate the simple and sincere, and sisterly earnestness, with which the case is handled. It was by way of foil, possibly, as much as for the sake of completing the picture of Athenian manners, that Miss Lynn introduced Glaphyra, the frivolous and cold coquette. She, in her turn, is painted in the true cameleon-colours of the creature; not a tint is spared, not a trait shrunk from. A woman wanting every virtue, rather than actively vicious, is no pleasant object for a woman's contemplation, unless she range with Mrs. Candour. But having accepted the necessity as part of her design, Miss Lynn is too sincere an artist to turn aside from the completest revelation.

The style in which " Amymone" is written bears out our idea of Miss Lynn's earnestness of purpose, and does credit to her taste. It is florid, without doubt; but our's are not days to which either medieval angularity, or Augustan polish and succinctness, come naturally. And our's, alas! are days of bombast and trick in imaginative writing. Miss Lynn has fallen into the fashion of the time gracefully, without being seduced into its bad fashions. Though ornate, her diction is rarely turgid. She is given in her dialogue to longer speeches than we like, (who believe in such lightning-touches as Shakspeare has put into the mouth of his Cleopatra); but her words have purpose and probability, and we are spared those pitiful writhings-those ejaculations and broken sentences-by which too many of our novelists now-a-days fancy that they are enveloping their auditory, in the storm of real terror and emotion. It was well remarked by one of the most acute and experienced critics of the time, that it is hardly possible to read some of the most widely-vaunted and popular scenes of modern fiction aloud. Whereas (save for tears) no difficulty is experienced over the last days of Richardson's Clarissa,-or over the interviews between Scott's Rebecca and Bois-Guilbert,- —or over the return of Ravenswood to the signing of Lucy's marriage-contract. The stricture is but too just,-the art of finding in good English adequate resources for the utmost exigencies of tragedy and comedy is in too great danger of being lost; and, therefore do we dwell on what was hardly a distinction when the Lees, and the Opies, and the Porters were fiction-weaving. Miss Lynn offers us no indication for others to fill up; but a graceful, self-consistent, wellsustained expression in words, of her thoughts, fancies, and feelings.