ONE dreary evening on a late continental tour, I sent to the circulating library of the little town, where I was detained a few days by illness, for some books. I received a bundle of the usual class, deplorable translations from English novels of the last century, from the German of Pichler, and Fouquet; and French fooleries of the same tonsure by Pigault le Brun, La Fontaine, &c. &c. I of course gave up the idea of relieving the weariness of a German winter's evening, by such specifics for the promotion of ennui, and was about to fling them aside in despair, when my eye was caught by a pair of thin volumes, on which, (from the chief part of their leaves being uncut,) I fairly enough concluded, that few eyes of gentle or ungentle readers had even deigned to look. It was in English-a story of Irish manners, and had the singularity of having been printed in Ireland, so late as last year. I dipped into it, and was struck by the simplicity, purity, and occasional eloquence of its language. The author is altogether beyond my conjecture; but the preface, which I can scarcely conceive to be romance, gives the idea of misfortunes, which should not be suffered to fall in their heaviness on such a mind. The book is stated to have been written in detached parts for a periodical publication under great necessity-and literally within a prison. In the writer's own words :

"To urge the mind, from which all the incitements of social intercourse, all know. ledge of the general face of nature, all the aid of books, and all the hopes which give lifei ts value, have been subtracted, to compose a work, which shall furnish new sources of gratification, is somewhat more unreasonable than the Egyptian command to make bricks without straw; for the Israelites, unfortunate and oppressed as they were, could yet roam abroad in search of materials for their work.

"The writer of these pages is confined

within four walls!

"The work is the product of a mind operating under every possible disadvantage and depression, and uncheered by a single hope. The reluctant labour is offered to

the public, most truly as the desponding effort of-An Unwilling Author.".

If this language be true-(and its truth may, of course, be ascertained from its publisher,) it would be a work of honourable benevolence to seek out, and, in the first instance, alleviate the immediate pressure; in the next, to encourage a mind of such intelligence and feeling to proceed in its career-to point out a higher range of view, and to urge it, by public notice, to the cultivation of powers capable of fame. As a man and a Christian, I look upon this as a solemn duty; as a lover of literature, I feel a tendency of spirit towards every mind excited by the graces and delights of literature. I instinctively regard them as forming a class of a superior order, a gentle and lofty brotherhood, a native nobility of genius, among whom, all that was generous and pure, accomplished and splendid, in our nature, spontaneously assumed its place; and from whose spirits, all meanness and vulgarity of manners, all bitterness and avarice, envy and uncharitableness, were expelled without an effort, and without a stain.

And this is the unquestionable truth. The finer imaginations are, in the great majority-assurances of the more generous and kindly hearts. Those mightier and first-rate intellects, that form a race by themselves, and, like the summit of the Alps, overtop the world with undiminished superiority in every age-have, almost without exception, been tender, pure, and full of affection. If they have undergone their periods of sterner displays, and had, like their mountain emblems, the tempest and the thunder round their awful brows; their habitual purpose has been to pour down 'fertility and refreshing to the borders of the land.

Something ought to be done for the "Unwilling Author."

The work, from its minuteness of ledge of the female heart, seems to general observation, and close knowhave been written by a female. An additional claim. But, whether or not, it is written with a power which practice and encouragement might raise to

VOL. XIV.

3 G

no trivial distinction. It consists of two Tales-the Agent and the Pavilion. The former, purely Irish, detail ing the rise of an obscure man of probity and intellectual acquirements to competence and respect ;-the story of Jacob Corr might be no useless manual for many an Irish landlord. The Pavilion is the more attractive and painful sketch of a first love, broken off by the death of one of the parties, a girl of beauty and talents. The lover is Xaverius Blake, a name of weight in the west of Ireland; the lady is Clara de Burgh, both sufficiently opulent, and on the point of marriage, with the fullest approbation of their families. Some adventures and hair's-breadth escapes diversify the narrative, till, within a week of the marriage, Xaverius leaves Dublin in order to make preparations for his bride. Clara is struck with some superstitious presentiment of seeing him no more, takes cold, and is seized with a fatal illness. The story is told by a female friend.

"My sleep that night was so disturbed by indistinct dreams, that it could not justly be called rest. One moment I was endeavouring to fly from a furious herd of cattle, which all my endeavours seemed only to bring nearer to me; the next, some irresistible power was hurrying me down a precipice towards a dark abyss, into which I momentarily expected to be plunged. No catastrophe happened to me from my agony of fear; yet in a second the floating vision changed, and I found myself crushed under the ruins of a fallen house, a heavy beam lying on my breast and impeding respiration, so that I could not speak in answer to the friends who were calling and searching for me. Anon, I saw Clara in the same situation, while I vainly endeavoured to move to her assistance. Again, I saw Xaverius tie her to the tail of an unbroken horse, which he held by the rein, and lashed into fury, while bursts of wild and demoniacal laughter declared the delight with which he saw Clara whirled round the ring. I heard the screams of the victim; and the violence of the efforts which I made to arise to her rescue at length awoke me, with nerves too much shaken to allow me to sleep again. I arose, though it was only just day. When dressed, I attempted to read, but found it impossible, or to keep my thoughts fixed to the book. I took out my work to as little purpose."

After this ominous agitation, she whiles away some hours in recovering her self-possession, and then visits her friend. The scene has in it nothing of singularity; on the contrary, it is al

together simple, and such as may have occurred every day at the death-bed of an intelligent and sensitive mind; yet it takes a strong hold on the feelings, and is pathetic to a remarkable degree.

"With a heavy heart I ascended to the room of my friend. I saw several of the servants as I passed, who noticed me only with a silent curtsey, instead of the smiling welcome with which I had been invariably received. Their noiseless and ghost-like tread had something appalling in it, and I entered my poor Clara's chamber with a the door, she raised herself in the bed, and tenfold depression of spirits. As I opened putting back the curtain, said, Ellen, how I have longed to see you!'

"She seemed to speak with great diffi culty; and her voice was so hoarse, that had I not seen her, I could never have recognized it as hers. •

+

"She laid her head on the pillow for a moment, then turned, and exhibited every symptom of restlessness and fear. At length, flinging down the clothes, she cried, I cannot rest; my poor mother! -Ellen, be a child to her when I am gone; she will grieve beyond measure. I have been the sole source of happiness to her; she had identified all her thoughts with mine. What will console her? So young as I am! it is no life-wearied pilgrim, prepared by infirmity and disappointment for the rest of the grave, whom she resigns, but her child, her only remaining child, who has known nothing of life but its pleasures. Her child who ever closed her eyes in hope, and waked them to joy. My prospects were so bright! no anticipation of evil for, or from me, has taught her resignation to this infliction. In the long vista

of years to come, even the perspicacious eye of maternal anxiety could discern nought for me but felicity, and usefulness, and peace, and honour. What will console her for this blight? Oh, my mother! may you never know how unwilling I am to die. But I am so young, my perceptions of happiness were the most acute, and they were all realized. But yesterday the happiest of the happy; to-day a gasping wretch, struggling on the brink of the dark and terrible abyss of eternity; tomorrow the pale cold image of departed happiness-a senseless clod, no longer the source of pride, of hope, of joy, or interest, to any human being. The creature so beloved will be an object of abhorrence; the eye, which the mind's stern resolve shall compel to regard me, will close in involuntary horror; the hand which shall touch me will shudder, and the muscles shrink from the abhorred contact. Even now my flesh creeps, and my imagination turns with loathing and disgust from the idea of what I shall be then. All I have

loved, all who have loved me, will wish to hide me in the darksome grave; there no thought shall dare to visit me, or picture to itself that form once gazed on with delight.-Ah! Ellen, not the world's wealth could then bribe you to touch the hand you now so fondly caress. She uttered this with such a continuous glow of words, that I found it impossible to interrupt her; yet she must have spoken with great effort, for her voice was thick and hoarse, and its sound scarcely rising above a whisper. It seemed more the internal murmuring of the mind, than a discourse addressed to me. I had taken her hand as she uttered the last words. She turned her heavy and languid eyes on me, and paused as if she expected an answer. Oh! Clara, if you love me, how can you thus rive my heart? Why conjure up such horrible images to harass and incapacitate me from being of use to you?' She seemed offended, and said, From my infancy, all my joys and my griefs-every thought of my soul has been confided to you; but in death I must learn a new lesson.' She turned from me and sighed heavily."

The disease increases, and this interesting creature has a stronger conviction of the coming of death. She takes off her necklace-her lover's present-that it may not be plundered in the tomb. While she is hoping that her mother is not acquainted with her danger,

"The door was softly opened by Mrs de Burgh, who put her head into the room. I am not sleeping, mamma; but I have been just hoping you were. Did you not go to bed? I did indeed, my love.

And did you sleep ?' I did, and had pleasant dreams of you. What did you dream?' said she, languidly, apparently desirous of occupying her mother's attention with anything rather than a scrutiny into her feelings What did you dream, mamma ?'

"I dreamed that your wedding-day was come, and that I entered your chamber early in the morning, to awaken and assist you; but I found you risen and dressed with the utmost elegance and splendour, and looking more lovely than you had ever done before, even in my partial eyes. Your father stood by your side, in appearance such as he was when he led me to the altar, as young, as blooming, and as bright with happiness. I did not receive him with the joy due to a long absent friend, nor with surprise as one risen from the dead; yet I had some faint conscious ness of our not having lately met, for I said, You here! Yes,' he replied, 'I am come for Clara; it is time.'

Suddenly we were in church, I know not how, but I felt no surprise. There was

a vast crowd. There was heavenly music, and such a resplendance of light, that my sight became dazzled and confused. I knew that we were at the altar, and that something was going on; but I could see nothing distinctly. There were bright forms before me, which I felt to be you, your father, and Xaverius, but I tried in vain to look at you.

6

At length I thought the ceremony was finished, and that your father had placed you in the bridegroom's arms. He laid his hand on me and said, This is best; she is happy! Again I tried to look at you, but again the effort was in vain. I saw nothing but light, light so resplendent as to compel me to close my aching eyes. When I opened them, the gay scene was vanished the light, the people, the music, were gone. I was alone in the church, without light, yet experiencing no sensation of fear or perplexity in the darkness.

As I approached the door, I perceived Xaverius seated in a corner near it, meanly dressed, and tossing a gold ring up in the air, and again catching it. I asked him what he was doing there? Waiting,' he replied, to give this to my bride; I believe I must go to look for her.' As he arose for the purpose, I was awakened by Ellis, who came to tell me Mr Russel (a clergyman) was below.""

The struggle becomes more painful, but the description is still natural, touching, and true. Intervals of religious despair and hope succeed each other-a letter arrives from her lover, long and full of the detail of his journey-its liveliness revives her to hopes of life-she talks of seeing him again

but the disease rapidly masters her spirits-she is dying, inevitably dying

"I am going fast, Ellen, let the coffin be ordered. Xaverius will be here on Wednesday; he will come to claim his bride, his Clara; let him not find what was, but is not, Clara. Hide me instantly, bury me deep, and cover the grave with sods; suffer me not to become loathsome to his imagination; still let my image be to him fair, lovely, and gracious; let it dwell in his recollection, like the sweet visions of youthful joy,-sad only because they will be seen no more. He will return on Wednesday; light will be his bounding step along the hall; quickly will he ascend the stairs, and reach the sitting-room of his Clara-but Clara is not there. He will there find only her bereaved and childless mother, in her loneliness, her mourning, and her despair. Yes, there he will also find thee, Ellen; yet, sweetest friend, comfort him not too 200.-Ah! let him feel, let him mourn my loss. Deny me not a few tears from