tranquil and domestic virtues of life, by which our French neighbours have obtained, even with ourselves, not fit audience' certainly, but at least not few. Good sense and good feeling combine to keep him clear of all such questionable topics; he does not put his characters through their paces, or strain them into attitudes the most unlike their ordinary bearing, in order to boast that he is master of their inner man, and can display, like an intellectual showman, the whole psychological mechanism of his puppets; and still less does he invite or dwell upon the delineation of those scenes or situations of which we have had so many from the quarter to which we have alluded, and with regard to which all men either of right head or heart equally feel the propriety of Virgil's advice to Dante when he began to pry into matters which did not concern him,

'Non ragioniam di lor-ma guarda e passa.'

Our readers will perceive, from these general observations, that we estimate Mr James's abilities as a romance writer highly. He is decidedly of the school of Scott; so much so, that it is problematical to us whether, if Scott had not written, he would have been a romance writer at all. But though not entitled to the honour of high original talent, his works are lively and interesting; and animated by a spirit of sound and healthy morality in feeling, and of natural delineation in character, which, we think, will secure to them a calm popularity, which will last beyond the present day.

It would now be absurd to enter on any formal notice of the merits or demerits of individual works, as to which public opinion has long been made up (and which accidental circumstances alone have prevented us from previously noticing),—and, therefore, merely remarking that of the romances hitherto published, our favourites are Richelieu, Darnley, and Philip Augustus—which last, the author, with amiable candour, admits to be 'the best 'thing he has yet composed,'* we pass at once to the last, and, we are sorry to add, to us the least interesting of his compositions, Attila. This too we must despatch in few words.

We do not much blame Mr James for this want of interest, nor consider it as affording any evidence either of less attention and study, or less ability, than his former romances: the error seems to us to lie, necessarily, in the choice of such a subject. With the single exception of Mr Lockhart's Valerius, we know no case in which the difficulties attending a subject of such remote antiquity, when

* Dedication to Dr Southey.

treated as a fictitious narrative in prose, have been overcome; and Valerius, though imbued with a fine classical feeling, really owed its interest to the contest of Christianity with Paganism, or rather to the pure and spirit-stirring emotions, awakened by the picture of a spiritual religion operating upon a pure and loving female heart. Of this in Attila we have nothing-religion scarcely plays any part in this drama of the decline and fall of the Roman Empire it is simply the contrast of the rude valour and rude virtues of the Hun with the specious vices and effeminacy of the former masters of the world. Of Attila's character we certainly know far too little to enable us to speak of it with assurance; all we shall say is, that, as drawn by Mr James in this romance, it seems to us to want keeping and coherence. He exaggerates, in the first instance, the savage virtues of generosity and justice he possessed, and thus renders his transition to wanton cruelty and treachery the more inexplicable. The most striking or successful scenes which it contains, are, that of the earthquake in the commencement, which destroyed the palace of Dioclesian; the description of the quiet abode of Bleda, the brother of Attila-the scenes with his daughter Neva-the escape and pursuit of Theodore by the followers of Bleda, and the stern vengeance of Attila; and the interview between Attila and the Roman Pontiff, when the remonstrances of the latter induce the monarch of the Huns to abandon his resolution of destroying Rome. There seems to us much truth and delicacy in the following scene between Theodore, a Roman prisoner in the camp of the Huns, and dwelling in the house of Bleda, and Neva, the innocent and tender-hearted daughter of the Bavarian chief, by whom the young Roman had been nursed and tended in his illness. Theodore has recovered his strength, but has inspired the barbarian maid with feelings, the existence of which he accidentally begins to suspect, but to which he can make no return, for he is already the affianced lover of Ildica.

After two long days of unsuccessful hunting, having found nothing. within several miles of the village, Theodore threw down his spear and arrows, declaring he would go no more; and on the following morning, while the dew was still upon the grass, Neva offered to lead him up to the fall of a river in the woods, whose roar he had often heard at a distance, but which he had never seen, so deeply was it buried in the intricacies of the forest. He gladly followed, resolved to seize that moment to tell her. all. And yet Theodore was agitated, for he wished not to pain or to grieve her; but still he feared, from her whole manner, and from the tender light which poured from her blue eyes, that the words he had to speak would be displeasing to her ear. It was a bright morning, and betwoon the tall trunks of the trees, over bush and underwood, and mossy turf,

the slanting sun poured his golden light, in the first bright freshness of the rising day.

What a lovely morning is this!" said Theodore, after they had walked on some way, for Neva had remained silent, under emotions of her own. "What a lovely morning! how clear-how beautiful!"

"Have you not such in your own land ?" demanded Neva.

"Oh, yes," answered Theodore, "we have many; and these mornings and the evening are our chief hours of delight, for the heat of the risen day is oppressive. I remember such a morning as this," he added, willing to lead the conversation to the matter on which he desired to speak; "I remember such a morning, some four or five months ago, so bright, so beautiful, shining upon my path, as I returned from Constantinople, towards what I have always called my home."

"And was it not your home?" demanded Neva. "Did no one wait you there to welcome you?"

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"Oh, several," answered Theodore; "several that I loved, and still love more dearly than any thing else on earth." Neva cast down her eyes, and her cheek grew deadly pale. "There was my mother," continued Theodore, "I mean the mother who has adopted me, and ever treated me as one of her own children." The colour came again into Neva's cheek. "Then there was my sister," he went on. "And last," he added in a lower tone, "there was my promised bride, my Ildica, who will one day be my wife."

Neva spoke not, but the rose again left her cheek. That, however, was the only sign of emotion she displayed, except, perhaps, that she walked on more rapidly, and that her small feet brushed the dew from the grass on either side of the path, wavering, as she went, with an unsteady pace. Theodore followed close to her side, scarce knowing how to break that painful silence. It had continued so long, that, ere a word was uttered, he heard the roar of the waterfall and he resolved to speak, let it be on what it would. But at the first word he breathed, the fair girl pressed her right hand upon her heart with a convulsive sob, and fell fainting at his feet.

'Theodore caught her up in his arms, and ran on upon the path. He could not find the cataract, but the stream which formed it soon caught his eye; and laying Neva on the bank, he bathed her brow with water from the river, and strove to recall her to herself by words of comfort and consolation.

At length she opened her eyes; and finding herself lying in the arms of the man she loved, with her head supported on his shoulder, she turned her face to his bosom, and wept long and bitterly. Theodore said little, but all he did say, were words of kindness and of comfort; and Neva seemed to feel them as such, and thanked him by a gentle pressure of the hand. At length she spoke. "I had thought," she said in the undisguised simplicity of her heart, "I had thought to be your first and only wife. I was foolish to think that others would not love you as well as I."

'Theodore had now the harder task of explaining to her, and making her comprehend, that in his land, and with his religion, polygamy, so common amongst her people, could not exist; but the effect produced_was more gratifying than he could have expected.

Better, far better, that it should not," cried the girl, raising her head, and gazing full in his face, with those earnest devoted eyes. "Better, far better, that it shoult not. Had you asked me, I could not have re

fused, feeling as I feel; but I should have been miserable to be the second to any one. To have seen you caress her, to have known that you loved her better, and had loved her earlier than you loved me, would have been daily misery; but now I can love you as a thing apart. You will marry her, and I will have no jealousy, for I have no share; I will think of you every hour, and every monent, and pray to all the gods to make you happy with her you love. But oh, stranger, it were better, till I can rule my feelings and my words, and gain full command over every thought, that you should leave me.”

Would to God!" said Theodore, "that I had never beheld you, or that you could forget all such feelings, and look on me as a mere stranger."

Not for worlds!" she exclaimed, “not for all the empire of my uncle Attila. I would not lose the remembrance of thee if I could win the love of the brightest and the best on earth. I would not change the privilege of having seen, and known, and loved thee, for the happiest fate that fancy could devise. Oh, Theodore, would you take from me my last treasure? But, perchance, you think me bold and impudent, in thus speaking all that is at my heart; but if you do so, you do not know me."

"I do, I do, indeed," cried Theodore. "I do know, I do admire, I do esteem you; and had not every feeling of my heart been bound to another ere I saw you, I could not have failed to love one so beautiful, so excellent, so kind. Nay, I do love you, Neva, though it must be as a brother loves a sister."

“Hush, hush !" she said. "Make me not regret-and yet love me so still. Forget, too, that I love you better, but, oh, believe that no sister ever yet lived that will do for you what Neva will; and in the moment of danger, in the hour of sickness, in the time of woe, if you need aid, or tendance, or consolation, send for me; and though my unskilful hand and tongue may be little able to serve, the deep affection of my heart shall find means, if they be bought with my life's blood, to compensate for my weakness, and my want of knowledge;"`and carried away by the intensity of her feelings she once more cast herself on his bosom and wept. “But you must leave me," she continued, "you must leave me. Yes, and when I see you again, I will see you calmly-not as you now see me. Yet you must have some excuse for going, and whither will you go?"

When your uncle Attila bade me come into Dacia till his return," replied Theodore, "Edicon, who remained with me, affirmed that it was the monarch's will I should proceed to his own usual dwelling-place, on the banks of the Tibiscus."

'Neva thought for a moment, as if she did not remember the name ; but then exclaimed, "Ha! the Teyssa,-what you call the Tibiscus we name the Teyssa. That is much farther on; but let my mother know that such were the directions of Attila, and she will herself hasten your departure; for my father and my uncle often jar, and my mother would fain remove all cause of strife. Or I will tell her," she added, with a faint smile, "I will tell her; and you shall see how calmly I can talk of your departure."

She then spoke for some time longer, in a tranquil tone, of all the arrangements that were to be made; and as she did so, still, from time to time, her eyes were raised to the young Roman's face with a long earnest glance, as if she would fain have fixed his image upon memory,

so that years could not blot it out. Then, in the stream, she bathed the traces of the tears from her eyes; and looking up calmly, though sadly, said, "Let us go, my brother. It is sweet, but it must end."

They took some steps homeward; but ere they had gone far she paused, and laying her hands upon his, she said, "Oh, Theodore! promise me, that if ever, while you are in our land, you need help or aid, you will send to me. Send me this trinket back by a messenger;" and she gave him one of the small golden ornaments which she wore in her hair; send it me back, and I will come to you, be it wheresoever it may. Deeply as I love thee, I would not wed thee now for worlds; but, oh! I would give life itself to render thee some service, which should make thee say in after years, Alas! poor Neva! she loved me well indeed!"

Thus wandered they homeward; and often did she pause to add something more, and to give some new token of that deep, and all unconcealed, but pure affection, which had taken so firm a hold of her young heart. Theodore, too, strove to soothe and to comfort her; and all that was kind, all that was tender-except such words as only the ear of the beloved one should ever hear-he said, to give her consolation. As they came near the village, however, she spoke less, for she seemed to fear that her emotions might leave traces behind for other eyes than his; but she gained courage as they went on; and, to Theodore's surprise, when they joined the household, no sign of all the busy feelings which he knew to be active in her breast, was in the slightest degree apparent, except, indeed, in a shade of grave melancholy, which was not natural to her."

We now turn to Mr Ainsworth, who has certainly produced in his Rookwood a work indicating very considerable powers and resources. The experiment was a bold one; but its success is evinced by the fact that the edition which lies before us is the fourth, and that it has been thought worthy of being illustrated by the graphic powers of Cruickshank-who has given to the picture of Turpin's flight to York, already described by Mr Ainsworth with no ordinary vivacity in words, the additional attraction of some excellent and characteristic illustrations. What Mr Ainsworth has ventured to do, and successfully, was to revive the almost exploded interest afforded by the supernatural; and to preserve this, too, not in connexion with days long gone by, but side by side with the sober realities of 1737,-with the convivialities of Yorkshire squires and country attorneys, with the humours of justices of the peace, and the feats of Dick Turpin the highwayman. Now, even with all the advantages derived from remoteness of time or distance of place, which, to a certain extent, answers the same purpose, it must be admitted that of late all attempts to awaken a supernatural interest-nay, even to save from ridicule any tale in which such agency was allowed to interfere-have been absolute failures. Even Mrs Radcliffe, the great mistress, if not the originator of the school of

VOL. LXV. NO. CXXXI.

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