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This order was brought by one Fenishe, a relation of Tahar Fenishe, who had been, some years before, ambassador to the court of St. James's. The governor, however, suspecting that the order had been issued in a moment of irritation, delayed its execution, in the hope that it might be countermanded; or, in the hope that the result of a battle would render it unnecessary to be put in execution.-Soon afterwards, news arrived at Mogodor that the two armies had met, bad fought, and the emperor had vanquished his antagonists, who had more than double his force,
but was himself dangerously wounded. This induced the governor still further to delay the execution; having now ascertained that the order was obtained by a stratagem of malicious and ill-disposed people. The next day news came that the emperor suffered extremely from a ball in the upper part of the thigh, which the surgeons could not extract. The emperor, in a fit of frenzy, from pain or passion, took his (kumaya) dagger, cut open the wound to the ball, and expired soon after. Thus were the merchants of Mogodor saved providentially from an untimely death."
FEMALE LITERATURE OF THE PRESENT AGE.
From the New Monthly Magazine,
MADAME D'ARBLAY. T HERE is no work from a female pen which more invites and more baffles enquiry, than the first production of Madame D'Arblay's genius, We can, in some degree, understand how a youthful poet, who finds in the majestic wonders of the universe the fit objects of his sympathies, is able, at once, to astonish and to charm the world. But how a young lady, little accustomed to the varied manners of society, should have produced a work, not only rich in character, sentiment, and humour, but full of the nicest and exactest delineations of the most opposite classes of life, is to us a mystery. We can imagine no joy fuller and deeper than that which she must have felt, when her father returned from London, and brought with him Evelina, declaring that nothing else was talked of, but little thinking that the new favourite of the Town was his trembling child. Nothing can be bolder or more original than the whole cast of her novels. We are one moment convulsed with laughter, and the next drowned in tears; our breath is almost taken away by the quick and brilliant succession of images grotesque, beautiful, or agonizing: "from the sublime to the ridiculous there is but a step ;" and another brings us back from the ridiculous to the sublime. Some of the
deeper scenes, like that at Vauxhall, of Mr. Harrell's suicide, are, in the highest sense of the word, tragic; while the ludicrous scenes vacillate from the airiest comedy to the lowest farce. Agonies and practical jokes weave a fantastic round about us, and keep us giddy by marvellous turns and pleasureable surprises. The great fault of these novels is, that their distresses frequently arise from mere inattentions to the forms of society, from provoking combinations of petty circumstances, or from some finely attenuated delicacy out of place and reason. These things fret and vex the reader, who feels that the whole is "much ado about nothing," and instead of sympathizing,only longs to ex. plain. There is nothing so unsatisfactory as a mere game at cross purposes in fiction. We endure the spectacle of real anguish which springs out of inevitable and mighty causes, from the opposition of high passions to each other, or the struggling of the will with fortune. But we cannot bear to see a man fooled out of his senses by some mistake which a word might do away for ever. Such a thing may happen in fact, but never should occur in fiction, because, we feel, that the author has supreme power to put the person and his readers out of the pain which he has so needlessly brought on them. This,
"not to speak it profanely," is the
middle class of vulgar life, which is
If the works of Miss Burney have not so decided an originality as those of her celebrated relative, they belong to the most pleasing and genial class of modern fictions. They do not display all the nice observation, all the felicitous invention, or all the keen sense of
the ludicrous, which the novels of Madame D'Arblay exhibit; but their interest is more equable and pervading, and their style of more uniform elegance. Her last tale, "Country Neighbours," is her best, and its heroine, Blanch, one of the most exquisite creations of female genius. It is not that this lovely being is of the most perfect beauty, nor that she is endowed with the gentle heroism which women so often exercise; for these qualities are shared by a thousand common-place characters; but that there is in all her words and actions, a simplicity the most unaffected, a cordiality the most genial, and a temper the most frank and engaging. She charms more in the little speeches and everyday occurrences of life, than by her conduct on great and trying occasions. Her considerateness is a virtue, not of the understanding, but the heart; her frankness seems more gentle than the duplicity of others. With all her perfection, she is a real person of flesh and blood, a creature with whom we claim Lindred,
"not too bright or good, For human nature's daily food."
We have also a particular liking for all the members of the family of which Blanch becomes a member. We seem to know the gentle, månly, and kindhearted Sir Geoffery-the mother, so sarcastic, yet so generous and almost romantic at heart-and Miss Stavordale, who relates the story-as really as though they had been our "Country Neighbours," and we had personally observed all the nice shades in their characters. The latter, who belongs to the class of old maids, is really an ornament to that very respectable, though unfortunate, species. Her own character is disclosed by herself in the pleasantest and most unconscious manner; and while we admire her real unpretending disinterestedness, her admirable sense, and affectionate feeling, we feel the slight peculiarities and occasion al inequalities of temper as realizing the relator, and giving an air of truth to all
Lady Morgan's novels breathe of all the peculiar tastes and feelings of her country, softened by the gentleness of her sex. They give us a view of Irish nature, as seen by female eyes. Their style, manner, sentiment, and passion, are characteristic of the land of her birth and her affection. There is in her works all the boldness of outline, with all the delicacy of touch-the quickness of perceiving truth and beauty, with the occasional adoption of their contraries
the proud carelessness of some portion of a work, and the exquisite finishing of others--which may so frequently be observed in the best productions of Irish genius. She differs from Miss Edgeworth, as she has more heart and less judgment; deeper glimpses into the soul and less consistent views of superficial character; more passion, and less prudence; higher power to abstract us from the world, with less of practical wisdom to direct us in it. Her O'Donnel and Florence Macarthy are the best works which she has yet produced; and, as these are among her latest, we may reasonably hope for yet more perfect specimens of her genius. There is a wild grandeur about the first of these
especially in its earlier scenes which are laid among the magnificent varieties of the northern shore of Ireland—which makes an awful and indelible impression on the reader. The latter is more rich in the observation of manners and of character; but disfigured by personal allusious, and by caricatures of those from whom the author conceives she has received insult and injury. We do not deny that she had ample cause of complaint in the gross and unmanly attack on her feelings and her fame by the Quarterly Reviewers. But she might have chosen some other mode of taking vengeance on her Gothic foes, than that of turning a romance for their sakes into a kind of intellectual pillory. The spell of the most enchanting fiction is broken for ever by the introduction of vindictive satires on real or imaginary offenders. Lady Morgan's " France,"
which called forth the criticisms to which she thus was unfortunately
tempted to reply, is, with all its blemishes, a very lively picture of a very lively people.
We turn from the dazzling brilliancy of Lady Morgan's works to repose on the soft green of Miss Austen's sweet and unambitious creations. Her "Sense and Sensibility," "Pride and Prejudice," Mansfield Park," and "Northanger Abbey," have a simple elegance, which is manifestly the natural and unlaboured result of a singularly harmonious mind. There is a moral tenderness pervading them all-a serious yet gentle cast of thought shed over them-which disposes to pensive musing, and tranquillizes every discordant emotion. She has, alas! been taken from the world in the very midst of her course, as she was beginning to enjoy the gratitude of those for whom she had laboured, and to feel that the mild influences of her powers were extensively diffused to purify and to soften.
AUTHOR OF RHODA.
This gentle-minded lady has happily left behind her one of kindred taste, and, at least, equal talent; the author of Things by their Right Names," and "Rhoda." The writer of these works may be justly regarded, not only as one of the most pleasing, but one of the most useful of modern novelists; for she is not contented with exposing those errors and crimes from which the mind naturally revolts, but traces the sad results of mere weaknesses, and of those foibles and mistakes which are usually accounted trivial. In this aim she follows Miss Edgeworth; but her morality is of a nobler cast, and her rebukes are given in a gentler spirit, than those of the dazzling satirist whom, in her design, she imitates. A genuine vivacity, sportive yet not boisterous nor malignant, plays tenderly through all her narratives. Sometimes, perhaps, her object to instruct or amend is rather too directly and frequently avowed; but even those whom the idea of sermonizing alarms, must allow that she is one of the most elegant of moralists.
Mrs. Taylor, of Ongar, rather late in life,has commenced a successful literary career, which we hope will be of long duration. Her work is very shrewd, intelligent, and pointed; but, as might be expected, wants something of that fine bloom which the first productions of a youthful aspirant wear. Her daughters have long been known to the world; one of them at least as the author of ingenious tales, and all as contributors to popular collections of poetry for children. These little works are among the most varied, simple, and harmonicus, which have ever been penned for the benefit and delight of infancy. But there is something of a higher cast than these-and, indeed, than any poems for the same most interesting and important class-in the little volume by the author of Mrs. Leicester's school. These while they are perfectly easy for the childlike comprehension, are imbued with a deeep humanity, which cannot fail to nurture and to mellow the opening heart, to render its seriousness sweetFrom the most ordinary occurrences er, and its joy deeper and more lasting. and the simplest feelings, the poetry gently and naturally expands into imaginations which are beautiful and stately, and which thus enrich the young fantasy and kindle the young affections. MISS PORDEN, MISS HOLFORD, &c.
There are several female poets of great and original merit, comparatively little known to fame. Miss Porden's "Veils" is a poem of singular richness; but its deficiency in human interest, and the perpetual effort which it displays to combine things which are of qualities the most opposite-imagination and chemical science-have prevented it from acquiring the popularity which a more felicitous arrangement of its splendid materials must have commanded. Miss Holford's Margaret of Anjou, and "Wallace, or the Fight of Falkirk," entitle her to a very high station among romantic bards. If the latter has not the exceeding vividness of Sir Walter Scott's best poems, it has more of a stern grandeur, a tragical carnestness,
and fulness of style. In the creations of the great Scottish poet, all objects are seen through an atmosphere of golden light, which sets the minutest object in clearest vision before us; while in those of Miss Holford clouds of awful portent brood over the scenes, and vast masses of deep shadow fill us with a pleasing awe. Miss Beetham's "Lay of Marie," on the other hand, is a light and exquisite poem of the elder time, in which the delicacies of chivalry are selected with a pure and feminine taste, There and most gracefully blended. are many other female authors on whose works we should be happy to dwell, but their merit consists rather in the harmony and proportion of their works than the preponderant attraction of one individual quality; and, therefore, they afford little room for criticism, Among these we must particularly mention Mrs. Strutt, whose novels are as equably beautiful, and as completely finished in all their parts, as those of any living author. Nor must we forget a volume of
poems by Miss Nooth, which unite something of a French airiness with true English feeling, and are at once deep and sparkling. We should be happy to dwell on the excellencies of others; on the felicitous expression of Miss Aiken; the exceeding ingenuity of the sportive Mrs. Shemmelfenning; fancy of Miss Rowden; the admirable good sense of Mrs. Hunter; the gentle piety of Mrs. West; and the rare and varied endowments of Miss Benger, who is as accurate in her biography as she is fanciful in her works of fictionwould but that our time and our space fail us. Here, then, we pause for the present; but with the fond hope that many opportunities will be afforded to us by the production of new works, to enlarge on the powers of those whom we have now passed too lightly over, and that many new female aspirants may arise in our time, whose appearance we shall eagerly hail, and whose advances we shall rejoice to celebrate.
THE WITCH OF AE.
Extracted from Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine.
"A pawkie auld kimmer wons in yon glen,
in glory before me, glancing in the light
And red rows the Nith between banking and brae; chiefly rowans and hazels, which shot
I creeshed kimmer's loof wi' howdy fee,
HE stream of the Ae, which had hitherto flowed broad and slow, began to contract its waters, like that beautiful bird, the first of the game, the heron, before it pounces down on its prey in the lake. The banks became more shagged abrupt, and the waters, limiting themselves to a channel such as an active man might leap over, rushed smoothly on with silent and amazing rapidity. At length I reached the head of the linn, and the whole unrivalled scene was spread out
out on all sides from the perpendicular cheeks of the rocks, and made their way to the level of the brown moor. Be.
low the scene soon assumed a softer and more alluring character, the agitation of the stream subsided, the glen opened wide, and sloped back into green and wooded declivities,corn fields glanced yellow at a distance, and the smoke ascended curling and blue from the abodes of men. The termination of the moorland was so abrupt, that I sought in vain for a pathway to the beautiful vale of Ae; at last I boldly seized hold of a hanging hazel, and swang myself down the front of the