But a serious opposition awaited them there. The enemy, driven from the main wall, took shelter behind a retrenchment, in front of which they had dug a ditch of considerable width; and whilst our men were vainly endeavouring to pass ita mine was suddenly sprung. The havoc occasioned by that terrible explosion was prodigious, numbers of the bravest and most forward of the men being blown up and destroyed. Unfortunately for the army at large, the gallant McKinnon was among them; but the rest, nothing daunted by the fate of their comrades, only redoubled their exertions, with a courage which seemed to rise in proportion to the difficulties opposed to it. They were thus situated, when Major O'Toole's little column, which had acted under the guidance of Major Sturgeon upon the right, joined them; when finding that all their efforts were fruitless, and that it was impracticable to press further till the results of other attacks should be known, they established themselves among the ruins.

"In the mean while, both the light division under Crawford, and the Portuguese brigade under Pack, were following up with equal resolution the measures pointed out to them. The former issuing from the convent, made for the lesser breach, their brave chief leading as few like himself could have led, when a musket ball struck him in the arm, and penetrating the side, lodged in his lungs. He fell to the ground, and was borne from the field in a dying state. Almost at moment, Major Napier commanding the storming party, Colonel Colbourne of the the same €52nd, and General Vandeleur, all most distinguished and brave officers, received severe wounds, and the troops were left to the guidance of accidental leaders, and their own bravery; but neither the one nor the other were wanting. The pause of a moment, and only of a moment occurred, when, with a shout which was distinctly heard over the roar of musketry and cannon, they renewed the charge, and in five minutes had won the ascent. Y quarter; for General Pack's Portuguese had succeeded in their escalade, and the Then arose the cry of victory from every troops rushing along the ramparts, speedily opened the way to the third division, and the town was our own. pursued from street to street, and from house to house, with the fury which is irreThe enemy fled in the utmost disorder. They were Jpressible among men flushed with conquest, and exasperated by the memory of comrades slain; and all who continued to offer the slightest resistance, were immediately put to the sword. To the honour of British soldiers, however, be it recorded, that not a single life was taken in wantonness. He who threw down his arms was

spared by the very hand which had been uplifted to destroy him, and hence, out of a garrison which consisted originally of 1800 combatants, full 1500 were made prisoners."

T

*f*

THE MINSTREL'S AGES.

WHEN first my harp to Love I strung,

Few years my tranquil heart had known,

Of truth, of tenderness I sung

For truth and joy were all my own.

I struck again a bolder chord

Less sweet, less joyous was the strain;

My heart, alas! could then record
Forgotten vows and visions vain.

Once more my hand its tones awoke,

But strange and harsh was then its theme,
Ambition in the numbers spoke,

Like accents in a fever'd dream.

It pass'd-and once again I strove

To sing, to feel as oft of yore,

But found, too late! deserted love,

Once slighted, would return no more.

The magic of my harp is gone,

These breaking strings have sigh'd their last,
Sorrow and age come stealing on-

Ambition-Joy and Love are past!

L. S. C.

A MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE, &c.*

THE late abundance and success of novels which illustrate the character and pursuits of persons of quality, are to be accounted for on principles more creditable to our nature, than idle curiosity or love of personality and scandal. It is surely worth while to see man in all his conditions, and more especially in those which are brought about by his habits as a social being; and, as these states of existence are infinitely various, so are they all necessary to be studied, in order to arrive at a perfect comprehension of that strange microcosm, the human heart. In this study, the sagest moralists have not thought it derogatory to their wisdom to acquaint themselves with the low and vicious and degraded habits of the very refuse of society; and if Fielding the magistrate, Smollett the physician, and Le Sage the scholar, thought they were contributing to the general stock of knowledge by depicting clowns and mendicants and sharpers, it will not, we think, be denied that it is also useful and interesting to know something of the movements of those classes which are kept apart, by birth and wealth, from the rest of their species. Until lately, however, it has so happened, that the representations of this portion of the human hive have been derived rather from conjecture than from actual observation of the life. This has been of no utility; but when books professing the object we have described are produced by the initiated, it is no wonder that they should be welcome in the present day; and those of them that survive will be resorted to by posterity as curious memorials of evanescent manners. What, for example, would we not give for such living pictures of the fashionable follies, and exclusive assemblies of the time of Elizabeth?

The novels now before us, though we have grouped them together as belonging to one class of society, are greatly distinguished from each other in style, and in the respective nature of their stories. The first on our list is called "A Marriage in High Life," a narrative of which the incidents are more pathetic than are generally found in tales of fashion. There is scarcely any institution so interesting to the idle observer as marriage; more especially when this contract takes place among the great, with whom the motives are more various and more questionable than with other persons. Venal unions, no doubt, occur in the humbler classes; but love is more frequently the incentive; while with kings and patricians the conjugal alliance is, in nine instances out of ten, a mere matter of expedience; and though, in these cases, the disastrous consequences, in their fullest extent, are generally kept secret, enough transpires to indicate the unhappiness of such connexions.

The present tale is evidently the production of a lady. Its subject is peculiar and delicate; and it is surprising to observe the nice tact with which the authoress has steered her way through the dangerous path before her. Nothing indeed can be more modest and matronly, than her manner of detailing and discussing matters which, in less discreet hands, might have bordered on indecorum. A male writer could not have told such a tale without occasional violations of les bienséances; whereas the present story is as remarkable for the purity of its delineations as for its dramatic talent and the grace of its sentiment. The main subject of the volumes is this:A young lord is induced, in order to free his father from some pecuniary troubles, to marry the daughter of a rich banker; but although the lady is young, beautiful, accomplished, and virtuous, her husband refuses to see her except in company or at his table; and, on their wedding-night, he communicates this remarkable resolution to his bride by letter, for the purpose of writing which he withdraws into his own room, and leaves his young wife to sit alone in a strange house. The reason assigned by Lord Fitz

A Marriage in High Life. Edited by Lady Charlotte Bury. 2 vols.
Pelham; or the Adventures of a Gentleman. 3 vols.

At Home. By the Author of English Fashionables Abroad. 3 vols.

henry for this conduct is, that before his marriage he had intrigued with another man's wife, and he considers himself bound in honour and gratitude to preserve unparticipated his love for the adultress! Meanwhile, his lawful bride is to be the uncontrolled mistress of his house, and to receive every respect and attention compatible with separate rooms and meetings only at meals and out of doors. This subject branches out into many curious matters, such as the visit and inquisition of the bride's mother-the prying and gossip of female friends-the tattle of the servants-the eternal perplexity, and evasion of questions-the mutual embarrassment of the heroine and her husband whenever they meet, and some critical situations at Al- : mack's, the Opera, and in private parties. The insulted and virgin wife, however, represses and conceals her feelings within her own bosom and, for the love she bears to her lord, refuses to listen to any insinuation against him. Events at length arise, which we will not anticipate the reader's : pleasure by detailing, but which open the eyes of Lord Fitzhenry as to the deplorable life he is leading, though this conviction is speedily followed by his death in the arms of his faithful wife. It will be seen by this hint of the plot, that the tale is a pathetic one; but we should add, that it includes a few scenes of so much liveliness as to convince us that the authoress could, if she chose, write a very humorous novel. We do not, however, indulge the hope that she will do so, for she appears to be "rather piously given;" and we think that, in the religious part of the story before us, she has given us a little too much of what may not inaptly be styled cant. While we are speaking of what we conceive to be the authoress's faults, we may as well say, that her novel would have been the better for some underplot or episode, inasmuch as at present the narrative presses too unsparingly upon one theme. We are also of opinion that the moral might have been strengthened, had the life of the hero been preserved: it is hardly doing justice to the charms and virtues of his wife, to make him faithful only when his state of health would render infidelity impossible. Altogether, however, we think that the volumes will make an impression; and whether our opinion of their merits be right or not, we do not hesitate to say that, in the nature of their subject, they are quite original, of which our readers will, we think, be convinced by the following fragment of one of the scenes, which, we should premise, occurs on the first evening of the wedding :—

“Fitzhenry had no distinct religious feelings; but still, when he heard the sacred vow he was to pronounce, (and of which he had never thought,) with his lips still vibrating with that he had pledged to Lady Florence; no wonder those lips quivered. Although no dread of the anger of his God appalled his mind, yet, as a man of honour, he felt the atrocity of the act. Of Emmeline, of the poor victim, who stood trembling beside him, he hardly thought. He looked upon her as a mere obedient child without a character; perhaps, even worse, an ambitious, worldly being; and all his thoughts, all his compassion, were bestowed on Lady Florence and himself.

"Fitzhenry wanted neither decision nor character. During their melancholy journey to Arlingford Hall, he had sufficiently surmounted his agitation to have decided on his conduct. He resolved to tell all to Emmeline, to let her fully enjoy the honours, the worldly advantages of the situation he thought she had in her union with him sought; to assure her he would ever endeavour to make her happy, but that she must never hope for his affections.

"Often, after an awful pause, he resolved to speak, but each time his courage failed him; and finding all explanation by word of mouth impossible, he then resolved on writing to her. It was to compose this letter, therefore, that, after dinner, he left his bride, as has before been said.

"Such a letter was not easily written; and Emmeline had some time to ruminate on her situation, before he returned. At last he came. He seemed in the feverish state of one who has taken a desperate resolution: he hurried up to Emmeline; asked her if she was not fatigued? if he should ring for candles? and then, without waiting for an answer, rung the bell violently till it broke. His hand shook so much, that he tried in vain to tie the string together again. Emmeline smiling said, she supposed she was more used to strings and knots, and

begged to assist him. As she took the cord, her hand accidentally touched bis it was icy cold.

"Reynolds, the old servant, brought in the candles, and asked, if his Lordship, if my Lady,' would not have any supper? any wine and water? * Yes, some wine directly,' said Fitzhenry, as if hardly conscious of his demand. "When it came, he endeavoured to pour out some for Emmeline; but twice, from the nervous shaking of his hand, he was forced to put down the bottle. "Emmeline was really alarmed. Surely,' again she said timidly, you are very unwell. He did not seem to heed her, but drank off a large goblet of wine, and then with a steadier voice and manner said I have something on my mind which I must make known to you perhaps I should have done it sooner-I thought it best for both of us to write it,' and he held out his letter- Take it with you into your own room,' he added, seeing she was going to break the seal, He took up a candle, gave it her, went with her to the door, put his hand on the lock, and said When you have read this, forgive me if you can; then hastily seizing her hand, which he almost convulsively grasped, he left her.

"What poor Emmeline's feelings were, can be better imagined than described.

In one short moment, a thousand vague fears and horrors passed through her mind. It was her turn now to tremble, as, with the dreaded letter in her hand, she hurried to her own room. She there found her maid, whose presence disconcerted her much; but she resolved to take off her gown speedily, and then dismiss her. Never before, she thought, had her attendant been so slow and tedious. She entangled or pulled every string into a knot. At last, her gown off-that beautiful lace gown in which her poor mother had that morning, with so much pride, arrayed her-all her bridal finery laid aside, she told her maid she wanted nothing more.

Nothing more, my Lady!' said the maid astonished; shall I not put up your Ladyship's hair? Shall I not wait to take away your candle? Mrs. Benson desired me to and she stopped short.

"No, I want nothing,' again said Emmeline, in a voice she could hardly command. The woman stared, busied herself still some time in the room, and, at length, reluctantly departed."

When she was gone, Emmeline sat for several minutes with the letter in her hand, before she had courage to open it. At length, taking a violent resolution, she broke the seal."

"Pelham" is altogether a novel of a different kind, involving a great number of subjects, each strongly contrasted with the other. In this work, the masculine hand is as evident as the pen of the female in the preceding. The life of a gentleman" must be rather an exciting affair, instead of a languid one, as is too generally supposed, if it at all resemble, in its adventures, the incidents of the present work; wherein dissipated gallantry and virtuous love, effeminacy and duelling, politics and cookery, poetry and drunken exploits, literary criticism and coxcombry in dress, metaphysics and pugilism, aristocratical refinement and vulgar debauchery, oratory and drawing-room persiflage, gaming and murder, personality and philosophy, and tragedy and comedy, mingle together in one whirl before the eyes of the reader. The author is evidently familiar with his subject; and so peculiar are his details, and such internal evidence do they bear of truth, that it is impossible to avoid the conclusion that they could have been obtained only by experience. Our article would extend itself to a very inconvenient length, were we to attempt to give an abstract of a story so very fertile in incident; but our readers will have some idea of it, when we tell them that it is formed on the old admirable, but disused plan of Le Sage, Fielding, and Smollett; namely, the tracing the life of the hero from his boyhood upwards, and thus laying before the reader, as in a map, the whole history of the man, and of his opinions and pursuits as modified by change of age and new connexions. Mr. Hope in his "Anastasius" has practised this method of novelwriting; but in his work, no less than in Gil Blas, Tom Jones, and Roderick Random, the hero is a mere adventurer (not the less interesting, we admit, on that account); and it seemed strange that the same scheme of fiction had never, in any conspicuous instance, been adopted to delineate the

life of any other class of persons. "The adventures of a gentleman" are, it must be acknowledged, something new in literature.

The hero of our present novel is at once a dandy and a philosopher, an effeminate coxcomb who curls his hair and perfumes himself, and a cool and daring character when any desperate enterprise is to be achieved. He shines equally as a debauchee and a moralist; and his opinion of coats and of the state of parties are alike worthy of attention. His school exploits-his intrigues in Paris-the figure he cuts in the private fashionable society of that capital, in which we are brought, as it were, face to face with living personages of eminence, such as Villele the statesman, the Duc d'Angoulême, the Duchesse de Berry, Madame de la Roche Jaquelin, &c.-his sneers at the Cheltenham assemblies-his consultations with the great tailors of the day-his nocturnal street adventures-his diplomacy-his love-his devotion to his friend-his whim and his melancholy, are all capable of fixing the attention of the reader. Next to Pelham himself, a certain Sir Reginald Glanville makes a conspicuous figure in the novel; and the unexplained hatred he bears to Tyrrell (another of the characters) together with his supposed guilt in the murder of that person, are circumstances which irresistibly fix one's attention to the page. Of the minor characters, we were much struck with the Parisian coquette, the Duchesse de Perpignan, Thornton the English sharper, Russelton (a very lively sketch of Beau Brummell), Lord Guloseton the epicure, Lord Dawton the whig leader, and Clutterbuck the hen-pecked pedant. The enthusiasm of this last person, we would just hint, is more that of a poet than of a verbal critic. On looking over our list, we find that (probably out of a horror of mixing company) we have omitted to mention the vagabonds Gordon and Job Jonson, two not unimportant personages.

To give specimens of the various moods of our author, would be impossible within our limits. We shall content ourselves, therefore, with the following brief autobiographical sketch of the life of Mr. Russelton. Have you read -'s Memoirs?' said Mr. Russelton. No! Well, I imagined every one had at least dipped into them. I have often had serious thoughts of dignifying my own retirement by the literary employment of detailing my adventures in the world. I think I could throw a new light upon things and persons, which my contemporaries will shrink back like owls at perceiving.' "Your life,' said I, must indeed furnish matter of equal instruction and amusement.'

Ay,' answered Russelton; amusement to the fools, but instruction to the knaves. I am, indeed, a lamentable example of the fall of ambition. I brought starch into all the neck cloths of England, and I end by tying my own at a three-inch looking-glass at Calais. You are a young man, Mr. Pelham, about to commence life, probably with the same views as (though greater advantages than) myself; perhaps in indulging my egotism, I shall not weary without recompensing you.

I came into the world with an inordinate love of glory and a great admiration of the original; these propensities might have made me a Shakspeare-they did more, they made me a Russelton! When I was six years old, I cut my jacket into a coat, and turned my aunt's best petticoat into a waistcoat. I disdained at eight the language of the vulgar, and when my father asked me to fetch his slippers, I replied, that my soul was swelled beyond the limits of a lackey's. At nine, I was self-inoculated with propriety of ideas. I rejected malt with the air of His Majesty, and formed a violent affection for maraschino; though starving at school, I never took twice of pudding, and paid sixpence a-week out of my shilling, to have my shoes blacked. As I grew up, my notions expanded. I gave myself, without restraint, to the ambition that burnt within me I cut my old friends, who were rather envious than emulous of my genius, and I employed three tradesmen to make my gloves-one for the hand, a second for the fingers, and a third for the thumb! These two qualities made me courted and admired by a new race-for the great secrets of being courted are, to shun others, and seem delighted with yourself. The latter is obvious enough; who the deuce should be pleased with you, if you yourself are not?