ling of arms, invites him, though still preserving his incog, to pass the remainder of the night in his cavern among the mountains, where he is compelled to secrete himself until the day for action arrives, and from whence he only issues each night to obtain food and the news of his prospects from his faithful adherent, the Count of Lichenstein. From the description of the cavern and its inmate, we extract the following brief paragraphs "The walls of the cavern were composed of dazzling white rocks; while a mighty arch, that startled the beholder by its height, formed the majestic dome. The stalactites, with which this cavern was lined, were strung with countless crystal drops, wearing the richest prismatic colours, and falling in silvery streams into the crystalline cavities beneath. The immense masses of rock that stood around, presented to a fanciful eye, an exact picture of a splendid chapel, with its great altar, and its carved Gothic pulpit, hung with dazzling draperies. Even the organ was not wanting in that subterranean fane; and as the flickering torches glared in varying splendour on the irregular walls, one could readily imagine pictures of martyrs and saints, standing in their respective niches." In the cavern interview between Ulrich and Sturmfeder, where the youth still regards him as a devoted follower, and not the Duke himself; the reader becomes strongly interested in the success of Ulrich. Generous, ardent and readily won to friendship, the Duke of Wurtemburg often reminds us of the Chevalier Charles Edward, as described by Scott, and with the sympathizing Sturmfeder, we are ready to wish success to the duke and his true friends," and rejoice to see him released from the mournful seclusion, as he thus describes it, of his lonely cavern. "Ah! yes,' exclaimed the saddened chief, in return to Sturmfeder's toast, 'those little words "true friends," impart as much comfort to my bleeding heart, as a draught of sparkling water affords the drooping desert wanderer. Young man! forgive my weakness, fo it is not often that I yield to complaint; but if you have stood on the heights of Rothenburg, and gazed as I have done, over the beautiful land of Wurtemburg, where the Neckar meanders between green banks, the fields wave with verdure, and the very forests look like gardens; where lovely villages rise amid flourishing orchards, and the men are all industrious, and the women all beautiful; if you had seen all this, like me, and then been forced to take shelter, as a banned and persecuted man, amid this desolate domain, shut out from the light of day-Ah! such fate is hard even for a brave man to bear!"" After taking leave of his distinguished host, who presents him a costly ring, as an introduction to the Count, Sturmfeder hastens on to the Castle of Lichenstein, (which is built on the brink of a stupendous cliff, as the nest of a bird hangs on the branch of a lofty oak,) where, as the duke's devoted follower, he receives a hearty welcome from the father, and a yet warmer one from the happy Marie. After some days of anxious uncertainty, during which the duke, in expectation of news from Tübingen, visits the castle, and reveals to his friend, at the desire of our hero, the secret of Marie's long attachment; a messenger arrives, who brings the tidings of the treacherous desertion of many of Ulrich's mightiest chiefs, and thrown principally on the support of the peasants, the brave duke now declares himself openly to his few adherents, and determines to risk an attack on his capital of Stuttgard, which now lies in the possession of the League. The persecutions and privations, which the honest burghers of Stuttgard had endured from the Suabian troops, quite roused their disloyalty to the Emperor, and after some eloquent and amusing harangues in the great market-place, between the citizens and Suabian leaders, the former win the ascendancy, and ere the first cannon is fired against its walls, the gates of the capital are thrown open, its drawbridges are dropt, and the victorious Ulrich enters. During the brief period of peace that ensues, soon to be followed by those conflicts, which, at length, drove the duke from his native land, and in which Sturmfeder proves a devoted follower, the marriage of our hero takes place, and after the fashion of the olden novels, we will close our already too lengthened article, with a description of the wedding: "The fashion of the times did not allow the slightest communication between the nuptial pair, before the priest had joined their hands together; but as Marie stood before him, in all the splendour of personal beauty and costume, with downcast eyes, and hands modestly folded on her breast, George could scarcely prevent himself from rushing to her side. The folding doors were now thrown open, and revealed the long galleries, crowded with the duke's household; while a band of young nobles, bearing blazing torches, stood ready to lead the procession. These were followed by a lovely train of the ladies of the court, clad in their rich costumes, embroidered in gold and silver, while each carried a lemon and a huge banquet in her hands. The bride, led by two of the first noblemen of Wurtemburg, and attended by her maidens, next appeared; and after her, came George of Sturmfeder, whose striking figure and fine face, distinguished him among the handsome youth of the kingdom. As the procession passed from the Castle to the principal church, the crowd VOL. VII. NO. 13. 14 poured blessings on the beautiful pair, the organ pealed out its loudest measure, and the choir sang their liveliest anthem, till the minute for the ceremony arrived. When that solemnity was concluded, the guests returned to the gardens of the Castle, and while the ladies amused themselves by rambling among its shaded walks, the gentlemen hunted the tame deer in the large enclosure. At mid-day the flourish of trumpets summoned them to the banqueting room, which was the pride of the Castle, and large enough to contain many hundred persons. A range of painted glass windows filled up one side of this apartment; along the other side, ran galleries, hung with gaudy tapestries. These sometimes served as a resort for the ladies, when they wished to witness the tilting of the knights below; but to-day they were filled with the musicians and spectators. At the head of the table, under a splendid canopy sat the duke, with the bride at his right hand and the groom at his left. When the first courses were finished, the abundant meats were removed to the court yard and divided among the poor; pastries and fruits, along with huge goblets of wine, were arranged in their stead, while small silver vases, filled with the sweet wines of Spain, were set before the ladies. And now the fashion of the times required that the nuptial presents should be produced, and large baskets were placed near the bride, for the reception of the various articles. First came the duke's pages bearing golden goblets, precious ornaments, medallions and rich stuffs; next followed the servants of the knights, who were present at the wedding with delicate household articles, weapons, costly cloths and the like, while a deputation from the city presented a beautiful service of wrought silver, and some of the humbler class brought fine linen and hanks of flax. At a sign from the duke, the banquet was concluded; and while the ladies took possession of the tapestried galleries, the knights occupied the hall, from which the table had been removed, and soon the noise of lances, shields and swords, with all the accoutrements of the tournament, changed that spacious saloon into a scene of conflict, while the ladies enjoyed the successes of their lords with as much zest, as the dames of the present day would catch some bright thought of their husbands, in a political disputation. After some hours of warlike action, the dancing commenced, and here the successful champions, Duke Ulrich and George Von Sturmfeder, of course took the lead, till about midnight the nuptial pair were conducted by a long row of torch-bearers from the gay saloon, and thus ended the marriage day." We have thus endeavoured to give a glimpse at the plot and style of the novel of "Lichenstein," and should our readers be induced to peruse the work in the original, we think that they will not close the volumes, without allowing that Hauff promised to become a pleasant writer of fiction or without bestowing a sigh to the memory of one, whose early promise was blasted by death at the age of five-andtwenty. ; ART. VII.-The History of Etruria, Part I., Tarchun and his Times. From the Foundation of Tarquinia (Tarquinii?) to the Foundation of Rome. By Mrs. HAMILTON GRAY. London: J. Hatchard and Son, 187, Piccadilly. 1843. 1 vol. 12mo., pp. viii., 432. HAD the singular volume before us been written by any thing laying claim to the honours, and obnoxious to the liabilities, of the genus masculinum, our course of procedure in its examination would have been obvious and easy; nor should we have hesitated a moment in determining the language to be employed in criticising it. We should have either passed it by altogether without notice, or we should have ridiculed its follies, exposed its fallacies, pointed out its defects, corrected its inaccuracies, chastised its blunders, and concluded by recommending the author to knit stockings than write such books, and by advising our friends to employ their time more profitably than in their perusal. To attain the last object more effectually, by giving additional force to our recommendation and advice, we might possibly have yielded to the strong temptation held out, and have exaggerated the deficiencies of the work into a caricature, in some such strain as this: The remarkable book before us, purporting to be a History of Etruria, makes a very pleasing romance, and may have been designed as an accompaniment to the famous "True Histories" of Lucian. Unfortunately for novel readers, but most fortunately for us and other students of history, it is still unfinished :-one part only has been printed; three more are threatened; but, as this menace presents a dignus vindice nodus, we may rightfully hope for the interposition of some divinity to defeat its accomplishment. Should our expectations be disappointed, we shall be compelled to conclude that Apollo and the Muses have for ever deserted the steeps of Parnassus and the waters of Helicon, and that there is now no deity to whom the critic in his need may turn for assistance. The threat, however, may have been. merely held out in terrorem, to induce us to purchase the silence of the author, on the same principle that swindling letters, of a well-known character, are sent to extort money by acting on the fears of individuals. Incredulous readers have denied the veracity of Baron Munchausen's Travels, and Gulliver's Voyages to Lilliput and Laputa, but we think, after reading this work, on insufficient grounds, for in this veritable History of Etruria, stranger things are affirmed, and facts invented or set aside, with even less ceremony than in those celebrated narratives. According to the old saying, the book contains many things which are new, and some which are true, but the true things are not new, and the new things are not true,-a misfortune which should not, perhaps, be imputed as any very great crime to the writer, since it is by no means of rare occurrence in our day. The work is dexterously besprinkled with the parings of secondhand learning, which has been painfully raked together from the foot-notes of essayists, and the suggestions of friends; and we must express our admiration of the hardihood and ingenuity of the historian, who would attempt so arduous a task as has been here undertaken, with such a slender stock of materials. To the lover of romance, these will appear to be slight objections, he will be delighted with the imaginary world to which he will be introduced, and perhaps he may institute a comparison between Tarchún, the hero of the present tale, and Amadis of Gaul, or Palmerin of England. This would certainly have been done by Lord Camden, had that diligent reader of all fiction been now living to enjoy this History of Etruria.-And so we might go on, admitting the while that this exaggeration would amount to caricature. But, in the present case, we dare not adopt this mode of criticism, the author with whom we are concerned, is a lady, though she has endeavoured to appropriate the propria quæ maribus,-and such language as this would be impolite, and might even be deemed improper. We cannot bolster up our conscience, or restrain our courtesy, by musing on the text of Virgil : namque etsi nullum memorabile nomen and it would be a new form of petty treason, to be caught humming the bitter sarcasm of Voltaire: Ciel, que je hais ces créatures fières, Soldats en jupe, hommasses chevalières ; |