of noisome stench, very wide, covered all over its surface with sulphureous flames, and filled with a multitude of demons, who cried out to him, that under that river was situated the real hell. A bridge was extended across the river, in which appeared, as it were three impossibilities. First, the bridge was so slippery, that although it had been ever so broad, no man, or scarcely any, could stand with firm feet upon it. Secondly, it was so narrow, that no man could stand upon, much less walk across it. Thirdly, it was so high above the river, that it was horrible to cast the eyes below." Now must thou walk over this bridge," exclaimed the demons; " and so the wind which served thee so well before will now blow thee into that river. Then shalt thou be taken by our companions who are in the river, and plunged into the depth of hell." Nevertheless, the knight, after invoking the name of Christ, ascended the bridge without fear; and the further he walked upon it, the wider he found it, till at last it became as broad as a great public street. The demons seeing him walk over the bridge so freely, shook the air with their profane cries in such manner that he was more astounded by that noise than he had been by all the torments which were previously inflicted upon him. Others of his enemies, who were in the water under the bridge, darted their long burning hooks of iron to seize him, but were unable to reach his body; and so he marched on his way securely, meeting with nothing to do him any harm. Thus this unconquerable soldier, being at length freed from the vexation of the unclean spirits, saw before him a lofty wall whose height ascended even into the heavens, of admirable and unmatchable structure, appearing to have but one gate, and that closed, which shone with a magnificent splendour of metals and precious stones. When he approached towards it, he perceived the odour of waters so pleasant and refreshing which issued from it, that it renewed the strength of his body, and turned even the tor-, ments he had endured into gladness. Then the door opened, and there came forth to meet him an orderly procession, with crosses, tapers, and banners, and branches of palm glittering like gold, followed by crowds of both sexes, and all conditions of people, of whom some were archbishops, and bishops, and abbots, and monks, and presbyters, and ministers of the church of every degree, arrayed in their holy vestments, and arranged in their due order, who all received him with grateful reverence, and led him within the gates amidst a concert of indescribable harmony. The concert being finished, he was accosted by two archbishops, who gave thanks to God for having strengthened his soul with so great constancy to endure the torments through which he had passed. Then they conducted him through that beautiful region, displaying before his eyes most pleasant meadows, adorned with flowers, fruits, and trees, of all descriptions and forms, the odour of which seemed to be capable of supporting life alone. Night never overshadows that region, which is constantly illuminated by a celestial radiance of ineffable splendour. The multitude of people whom he saw therein was so great that he believed the whole residue of the age was not able to hold them. From place to place were choirs that with sweet harmonious concert hymned praises to the great Creator of all things; others wore crowns on their heads, like kings; some were clad in robes of gold, and others again in garments of various forms and colours, resembling those which they were wont to wear when alive. Some rejoiced in their own happiness; some triumphed in the deliverance and rejoicing of others. All who beheld Sir Owen blessed God on his account, and congratulated with him on his deliverance from death. Neither is heat nor cold felt in that region, nor any thing seen or perceived that can do mischief to man. Then the holy prelates who had shewn the wonders of this beautiful place to Sir Owen, said unto him, "Since by the mercy of God thou hast come to us unhurt, it behoves thee to hear from us the explanation of all the things which thou hast beheld. This region is the earthly paradise from which the first man was banished for his sins, and afterwards cast into the misery of death. his flesh are we all descended, and born in original sin, but by the faith of Christ which we have received in baptism, we return to this paradise, From and since, after our baptism, we have become implicated in numberless actual transgressions, we could not come hither except through the purgation of sins and the endurance of punishment. The penance which we have undertaken before death, or in the hour of dissolution, and not performed while alive, remains to be fulfilled by torments, in those penal regions which thou hast lately surveyed, according to the mode and measure of our faults; for all of us who are now here were once in those abodes of punishment for our several transgressions; and all those whom thou hast seen suffering chastisement, except such as are within the mouth of the pit, will in time come to this habitation of rest, and be saved. Every day some who have there been purified join our company here, whom, when they arrive, we introduce into this place of rest, as we have done to thee; and none of us know how long it is our doom to continue here; but by masses, psalms, alms-giving, and prayers of the church universal, and also by the especial aid of friends in particular, either the torments of those who remain to be purified can be mitigated, or they may pass from the greater to the lesser degrees of punishment, untill they are finally liberated. Here, as thou seest, we enjoy the greatest tranquillity; nevertheless, we are none of us yet found worthy of ascending into the joys of the highest heaven. After the space appointed by God for each of us, we shall pass hence into that celestial paradise which God hath provided for us.” Then these venerable men conducted the knight to the declivity of a mountain, and commanded him to cast his eyes upwards, which he did, and they then asked him what was the colour of the sky with respect to the place on which he stood. He answered, that it appeared to him like that of gold in a burning furnace. "That which thou beholdest," they said, "is the entrance into heaven, and the celestial paradise. When any of our companions leave us, they ascend from this place into heaven; and so long as we continue here God feeds us from day to day with heavenly food. Thou shalt now taste with ourselves what manner of food it is." They had scarcely made an end of speaking, when a ray of fire seemed to descend from heaven which covered the face of the whole country, and, dividing itself into so many distinct beams, settled on the heads of every one present, and by degrees entered into them all. From which the knight experienced such sweetness and pleasure in his heart, and over his whole frame, that he scarcely knew whether he was living or dead. But all this passed away again in the space of a moment, for though the knight would gladly have remained where he now was, his rejoicing was speedily to be changed into sorrow; and his guides thus addressed him, "Since thou hast now beheld in part, according to thy desire, both the rest of the saints and the torments of the wicked, it behoves thee to return whence thou camest; if (which God forbid) thou livest an evil life when thou art again among the living, thou hast seen the torments which await thee. But if thou livest a good and religious life, be secure; for thou shalt certainly come hither amongst us, when thou shalt have departed from out of thy body; and in that return, thou shalt have to dread no torments which thou hast beheld; for the demons will have no power to hurt thee." Then the knight, weeping and lamenting himself, said, "Let me not depart from hence, for I greatly fear lest through the frailty of human misery, I may be guilty of some new offence which shall prohibit my return hither!" "This cannot be as thou wilt," they said, "but as he will who created both thee and us." Thus the knight was led back by them, with tears and sorrow, to the gate at which he had entered, and which, when against his will he had departed through it, was closed again after him. Thence, returning the way he had come, he reached again the hall which he had before entered. As he passed, the demons flew away on every side as if afraid of him, and the torments through which he went were unable to hurt him. As soon as he found himself again within the hall, the fifteen holy men before mentioned met him, glorifying God who had supported his constancy through all those distresses. "Now it behoveth thee," said they to the knight, "to depart from hence as quickly as possible, for the morning already breaks in that world of thine, and if the prior, when he opens the gate, doth not see thee, he will despair of thy return, and go back to the church, having barred the gate after him.' So having received their blessing the knight departed from them, and making great haste to return, met the prior just as he had opened the gate, and was re ceived by him with gratulation, and led into the church, where he continued the space of fifteen days in prayer, and afterwards took the cross, and went into the holy land to visit the sepulchre of Christ, and the other venerable relics, in holy contempla tion. ROSALIND AND HELEN, A MODERN ECLOGUE, BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. We have already expressed our belief that Mr Shelley is a true poet, and that it will be his own fault if his name does not hold a conspicuous place in the literature of his country. With our high hopes of him are mingled, however, many disheartening fears, which, we lament to say, are far from being weakened by the spirit of his new poem. For, while this modern eclogue breathes throughout strong feeling, and strong passion, and strong imagination, it exhibits at the same time a strange perversion of moral principle- a wilful misrepresentation of the influence of the laws of human society on human virtue and happiness-and a fierce and contemptuous scorn of those sacred institutions which nature protects and guards for the sake of her own worth and dignity. Indeed, Mr Shelley does not write like a conscientious man, sinking into fatal error through the imbecility of his intellect―nor like an enthusiastic man hurried away into fatal error by the violence of his passions-but he often writes like a man angry and dissatisfied with the world, because he is angry and dissatisfied with himself-impotently striving to break those bonds which he yet feels are rivetted by a higher power-and because his own headstrong and unhappy will frets and fevers within the salutary confinement of nature's gracious laws, impiously scheming to bring these laws into disrepute, by representing them as the inventions and juggleries of tyranny and priestcraft. We are willing to attribute this monstrous perversity in a man of genius and talents like Mr Shelley, to causes that are external, and that, therefore, will pass away. We leave it to others to speak of him in the bitterness of anger and scorn-to others again to speak of him in the exultation of sym pathy and praise. We claim no kindred with either set of critics-seeing in this highly-gifted man much to admire-nay much to love-but much also to move to pity and to sorrow. For what can be more mournful than the degradation of youthful genius involving in its fall virtue, respectability and happiness? Rosalind and Helen are two ladies, whom the events of a disastrous life have driven from their native land, and who, after a long discontinuance of their youthful friendship, meet in their distress, one calm summer evening, on the shore of the lake of Como. They retire into the forest's solitude, to communicate to each other the story of their lives-and in these confessions consists almost the whole poem. It was a vast and antique wood, Pursuing still the path that wound The vast and knotted trees around This silent spot tradition old And sate on the seat beside him there, Helen had directed the steps of her friend Rosalind to this spot, Svo, C. and J. Ollier, London, 1819. "From the wrecks of a tale of wilder sorrow, That these for it might, as for me, And what may be this tale, of pow- Or mark my own heart's restless beat er to soften or elevate grief? A fearful tale! The truth was worse: For here a sister and a brother Had solemnized a monstrous curse, Leaving for the present without any comment this worse than needless picture of unnatural guilt, let us attend to the heroines. Silent they sate, for evening In that profound solitude Rosalind Then with a laugh both long and wild On her father's death her mother Rock it to its untroubled rest, And watch the growing soul beneath Dawn in faint smiles; and hear its breath, Two shapes of gladness to my sight; These fair shadows interposed be- Flashed on their faces,-if they heard At last wore out with the feverish and quenchless thirst of gold, and with the selfish cares and cruel thoughts that eat into a miser's heart, this man of sin dies. Seven days within my chamber lay Having seen and brooded over his wife's loathing, and disgust, and ha tred, the shrivelled miser had laid up vengeance in his heart. After the funeral all our kin To blast and torture. Those who live The will imported that, unless Rosalind instantly abandoned her birthplace and her children for ever, they should be disinherited, and all his property go to A sallow lawyer, cruel and cold, And with close lips and anxious brow The effect of this iniquitous last will and testament was to throw over the character of Rosalind the suspicion of adultery and infidelity, the first of which crimes she indignantly denies; but As to the Christian creed, if true Rather than reduce her children to Such is an outline of the Tale of Rosalind, distinguished by great animation and force of passion, and containing much beautiful description of external nature, which we regret it is not possible for us to quote. She then requests Helen to "take up a weeping on the mountains wild." Yes speak. The faintest stars are scarcely shorn Of their thin beams by that delusive morn Of early love, soon lost in total night. Which sinks again in darkness, like the light Helen then gives a long, laboured, and to us not very interesting account of her lover, whose whole soul in youth had been absorbed and swallowed up in schemes for the amelioration of the political state of mankind. He seems, first of all, to have revelled in the delight of the French revolution; and finally, if we mistake not, to have fallen into a consumption out of pure grief at the battle of Waterloo and the dethronement of Buonaparte. And so, my friend, it then befel To many, most to Lionel, Whose hope was like the life of youth Its innocence and tenderness. ers. Lionel and Helen now become lov He dwelt beside me near the sea: The progress of their love is then described as terminating in a sort of wedding, without benefit of clergy. On the very night of these moonlight nuptials, however, Lionel is seized" by the ministers of misrule," and committed to prison. Helen tells this in a very silly manner. For he, they said, from his mind had bent With all the fidelity of a wife, and all the passion of a mistress, Helen, |