"As she passed along the streets, the dim soft gloom of twilight made her feel more melancholy, and the freshening breeze, which was felt by others as a delightful change from the heat of the day, made her shiver with cold. She sighed as she met frequent parties of happy persons (they all seemed happy to her) returning from their evening walks in the neighbouring country. Some of them were laughing loudly, others carried in their hands large nosegays, and branches of hawthorn in full blossom, which scented the cool air as they passed along.

"The house in which Helen Gray lodged had never seemed so dismal as on that evening. The shop and staircase felt oppressively hot with confined air. When Laura had reached the chamber of Helen, her melancholy feelings left her, for her whole attention was called to the scene of death before her, and that was too absorbing to allow any uncertain sorrows to disturb her mind. The dying woman was forbidden to speak, and Mrs. Delmour pointed to a sheet of paper and a pencil which lay beside her.-The darkness of twilight had cleared away into the calm splendour of a bright moonlight night: the moonbeams streamed into the chamber through the open window, and the candle's light looked dim. Helen sat in a large chair before the window: in the full radiance of the moonshine, her face appeared of a deathy paleness, and her white garments glistened with dazzling lustre; she looked like one already dead, and beautiful in death. Laura supposed that she was asleep, and stealing very softly to her side, she sate down in silence. Helen was not asleep-she raised her eyes, and held out her hand to her friend: that hand was icy cold, and moist with the damps of death; but tenderly it returned the pressure of her friend's. The prayer-book, in which Helen had accompanied Mr. Curzon, during his performance of the sacrament service, still lay open on the table: she leaned forward, drew the candle nearer, and turning over a few leaves, gave the book to Laura: her finger pointed to the commendatory prayer, for a dying person at the point of departure; and she looked up, with a smile on her face, to Laura, who perfectly understood the wish expressed in her countenance. They knelt down, and Laura then first perceived a person who had been sitting also in silence in a darker corner of the chamber-he was the husband of Helen Gray. They knelt down; Helen endeavoured to rise, but was unable to do so; supported by the nurse, she sat upright in her chair, with her hands clasped together, till Laura had finished praying. Then Helen sunk back again, and remained in silent thought, with her eyes fixed on her kind friend for some minutes; again a smile beamed over her face, her lips unclosed; but she seemed immediately to recollect, that she was forbidden to speak, and quietly extended her hand towards the paper and pencil: she vainly attempted to write, but she could not guide the pencil properly; Laura endeavoured to assist her, but the pencil fell from her fingers, and she said, 'I cannot see. Thank God, I have seen you, my dear friendnow the light of the candle looks dim,-now all is darkness: death must be very near me.' Her eyelids closed, she fell back, and Laura feared she was dead; but again she raised her hands, and held them out towards the place where her husband had been sitting: he came to her, and throwing himself on the ground before her, pressed them repeatedly to his lips. Just then Laura heard, as Helen drew her breath, a faint rattle mingled with the sound of her breathing: she had seemed for some minutes to breathe with difficulty-Helen sunk down from her chair; they thought that she was falling-she was not falling, she was striving to kneel, and, supported in their arms, she did kneel-she lifted up her open hands, and, with trembling lips, she slowly uttered out the words: 'He goeth before them, and the sheep follow him, for they know his voice.' She could not speak afterwards-her head sunk on Laura's shoulder-Laura could feel the breath of the dying woman blowing upon her neck: more and more faintly came that cold damp breath, and with it was heard again the convulsive rattle. Laura could scarcely sustain the weight of the dying woman; a faint and sickening shudder seemed to creep through her own frame: again the cold breath blew upon her neck, and Laura half shrunk away from it. She struggled with her weakness, and bent down affectionately over the pale face which lay upon her bosom; the tears streamed from her eyes -they dropt upon Helen's face, but Helen knew it not-the heavy head sunk lower and lower on her friend's bosom-Helen Gray was dead."

Need we add even to this imperfect example of the writer's talents any commendation of his work?

FROM THE MONTHLY REVIEW.

L'Hermite en Province, &c. i. e. The Hermit in the Provinces, or Observations on French Manners and Customs at the beginning of the Nineteenth Century. By M. DE JOUY, of the French Academy. Vol. IV. 12mo. pp. 366. With Engravings. Paris, 1822. Imported by Treuttel and Co. Price 7s. 6d.

THREE former volumes of this lively and ethic tour have been noticed in our eighty-fifth, ninety-first, and ninety-fifth volumes; and the fourth yields not to its predecessors in variety of topic, precision of delineation, or urbanity of style. Forty years have now elapsed since the writer of this article undertook nearly as extensive a tour through the provinces of France as M. Jouy has narrated, and he can attest the fidelity of the picture of provincial manners most certainly; while he feels not a little surprised that they remain so unchanged for more than a generation, and when so great a revolution has taken place in the political institutions of the country and in its public education. Yet, wherever he reads, he is reminded of old times, in all the little particulars of drapery, dialect, building, landscape, and in the very proportion of the classes of characters which assemble in the public walks. The gale of Revolution has bowed the barley into billows, but left the trefoil at its feet, seemingly unconscious of its blast.

The department of the Isere is now the site of the Hermit's peregrinations. He passes from Lyons to St. Marcellin, to Grenoble, and to Gap; wanders among the mountains, visits the Chartreuse, and returns at length to Lyons by La Tour du Pin. In the neighbourhood of Gap, at Champsaur, occurs the following pastoral scene, which paints the native hospitality of the mountaineers; and the whole volume is a sort of eclogue in the form of

a tour:

"Crossing the village, I stopped to contemplate a group of girls, who were dancing to the music of their own song, under a canopy of verdure formed by an old and spreading elm, which adorned the turf of the common. A young man came towards me, and, addressing me in a frank and easy manner, said to me, 'Sir, this is the holyday of the village saint, and every inhabitant of consideration keeps open table to-day for the passing stranger or the poor neighbour; will you do my father the honour to be his guest? To-morrow, if you want a guide, I shall be happy to attend you any where.'—I gave my hand to the young man, and said that I would accept the patriarchal hospitality of his family. At his father's dwelling, which seemed one of the best farm-houses in the parish, I was introduced into a large hall where a man whom age had marked with many wrinkles, and with white hair, rose to receive me with a smile full of benevolence. Then patting his son on the cheek, he said, 'My dear Peter, you are as lucky as I used to be at your age; if a stranger came to the place, I always tried to meet him first, and to bring him to my father's table. I will get this gentleman some refreshment, and gladly offer him a lodging: but you must be his guide when he wishes to roam about, for I am no longer active enough for that office.'

:

"As the day was hot, I gladly accepted some immediate refreshment. After the common questions, I learnt that these parish-feasts are called vogues, that every house is open on that day; that toasts are given after dinner; and that, the master of the feast setting the example, the guests empty their glasses in turn. VOL. III. No. 15.-Museum.

2 G

This ceremony was repeated quite as often as I wished; and when it grew dusk, and I thought that I might retire, it seemed to me a long way to my bed."

The entire work consists of eighteen numbers, one of which includes some very equitable criticisms on Bonaparte. It is so agreeably written that we have no doubt of its becoming a French classic, and it is worthy of the pen of their Addison.

FROM THE LONDON LITERARY GAZETTE.

Recollections of the Peninsula. By the Author of Sketches in India. 8vo. pp. 262. London, 1823. Longman & Co.

THE author of this book, an officer attached to the victorious force of the illustrious Wellington in Spain, has contrived, amid the vicissitudes of a military life, to collect materials, or rather to store observations, for a very pleasing, picturesque, and entertaining view of the Peninsula at a period the most interesting in its history. Led by habit and frequent disappointments to expect little from such a quarter, except tales in the King Cambyses's vein, or in the manner of Othello, about "Antres vast and desarts idlemoving accidents by flood and field," &c. these Recollections came upon us with a double charm; and though our readers may be deprived by our exordium of that advantage, we still hope that our extracts will suffice to produce the same effect upon them which the entire volume did upon us.

The writer's acquaintance with his subject was acquired during five years' residence, from the year 1809; and, to commence with the commencement, we shall copy his account of his first billet in Portugal, (at Santarem):

"The regiment was quartered for the night in a convent, and I received a billet on a private house. At the door of it I was met by the owner, a gentleman-like looking well dressed man, of about sixty, and of a very mild, pleasing address; he led the way to a neat apartment, and a pretty bedchamber. I was covered with dust and dirt, and declined them as too good; but how was my confusion increased, when my host himself brought me water in a silver basin to wash, while his good lady presented me with chocolate, bearing it herself on a salver. I feared that they had mistaken my rank from my two epaulettes, and I explained to them that I was a simple lieutenant. No: they well knew my rank, but did not pay me the less attention: they perfumed my chamber with rose-water, took off my knapsack with their own hands, and then left me to refresh myself by washing and dressing, and to recover from the pleasing astonishment into which their cordial and polite reception had thrown me. In the evening my party dined here, and the worthy host presented us with some magnums of fine old wine, and the choicest fruit. We made scruples; he overruled them with true and unaffected hospitality, and we, in return, pressed on his acceptance six bottles of excellent Sauterne, the remains of our small stock of French wine.

"Such was my treatment in the first billet I ever entered in Portugal, and such, with very few exceptions, was the character of the reception given by Portuguese of all classes, according to their means, at the commencement of the Peninsula struggle to the British army: rich and poor, the clergy and laity, the fidalgo and the peasant, all expressed an eagerness to serve, and a readiness to honour us. In these early marches, the villa, the monastery, and the cottage were thrown open at the approach of our troops; the best apartments, the neatest cells, the humble

but only beds, were all resigned to the march-worn officers and men, with undis. guised cheerfulness. It is with pain I am compelled to confess, that the manners of my strange, but well meaning countrymen, soon wrought a change in the kind dispositions of this people."

This quotation may appropriately be followed by a more striking picture of a bivouack:

"It is a pleasing sight to see a column arrive at its halting ground. The camp is generally marked out, if circumstances allow of it, on the edge of some wood, and near a river or stream. The troops are halted in open columns, arms piled, picquets and guards paraded and posted, and, in two minutes, all appear at home. Some fetch large stones to form fire-places; others hurry off with canteens and kettles for water, while the wood resounds with the blows of the bill-hook. Dis persed, under the more distant trees, you see the officers; some dressing, some arranging a few boughs to shelter them by night; others kindling their own fires; while the most active are seen returning from the village laden with bread, or, from some flock of goats feeding near us, with a supply of new milk. How often, under some spreading cork-tree, which offered shade, shelter, and fuel, have I taken up my lodging for the night; and here, or by some gurgling stream, my bosom fanned by whatever air was stirring, made my careless toilette, and sat down with men I both liked and esteemed, to a coarse but wholesome meal, seasoned by hunger and by cheerfulness. The rude simplicity of this life I found most pleasing. An enthusiastic admirer of nature, I was glad to move and dwell amid her grandest scenes, remote from cities, and unconnected with what is called society. Her mountains, her forests, and, sometimes, her bare and bladeless plains, yielded me a passing home: her rivers, streams, and springs, cooled my brow and allayed my thirst. The inconvenience of one camp taught me to enjoy the next; and I learned (a strange lesson for the thoughtless) that wood and water, shade and grass, were luxuries. I saw the sun set every evening: I saw him rise again each morning in all his majesty, and I felt that my very existence was a blessing. Strange, indeed, to observe how soon men, delicately brought up, can inure themselves to any thing. Wrapt in a blanket, or a cloak, the head reclining on a stone or a knapsack, covered by the dews of night, or drenched perhaps by the thundershower, sleeps many a youth, to whom the carpeted chamber, the curtained couch, and the bed of down, have been from infancy familiar."

We like these descriptions, for they place distinctly and vividly before our eyes the images of things to which, though often presented to the imagination, we rarely attach individuality: by simply telling us a few particulars, the author enables us to see, as it were, a whole regiment take up its quarters in a town, or encamp on the open field. The latter picture is added to in another part:

“A bivouack in heavy weather does not, I allow, present a very comfortable appearance. The officers sit shivering in their wet tents, idle and angry till dinnertime, after which they generally contrive to kill the evening with mulled wine, round a camp-kettle lid filled with hot wood-ashes by way of a fire. The men, with their forage caps drawn over their ears, huddle together under banks or walls, or crowd round cheerless, smoky fires, cursing their commissaries, the rain, and the French."

Another view of a soldier's life occurs upon a march, while almost alone, going to sick quarters:

"At the distance of two leagues from Estremos, the sun set with the most threatening appearances. A sky heavily overcast; a breathless, yet speaking stillness around us; far off, amid the southern hills, a low muttering sound, that faintly reached us; all foretold a violent autumnal storm. Being both invalids, we felt not a little anxious about shelter, and spurred forward; but strength was denied me, and I fell on the neck of my horse, nearly fainting: the colonel would not leave me, and bidding me recline on my saddle, made his groom lead my animal by the bridle. Here you may frequently travel from one town to another without

passing a village, a country-house, a cottage, or indeed a human being. No clean ale-house, as in England; no rustic auberge, as in France, invites you to refresh. ment and repose. If you are benighted, and the weather be fine, you must betake yourself to the first tree; if it be stormy, and you have no baggage, or conveniences for encamping, you must wander on. Luckily, however, for us, we espied a light at some distance from the road, and made towards it. It proceeded from a solitary cottage; and a woman, who answered to our knocks, expressed her willingness to receive us. Wretched as was her appearance, I never saw more cordial, more fearless hospitality: she heaped up her little fire, killed and stewed for us two out of the few chickens she had, spread for us two straw mattresses near the hearth, and regarded us the while with looks of the most benevolent pleasure. Seated on a rude bench of cork, near this cottage fire, I thankfully partook of the repast she prepared; and while the thunder burst in peals the most loud and awful over our heads, and the pouring rain beat rudely on her humble dwelling, with a heartfelt sensation of gratitude I composed myself to rest.

"Comfort is ever comparative; and, after all, if his wishes be moderate, how little does man require. Sick, hungry, and exhausted, I wanted shelter, food, and repose: 1 enjoyed all these blessings; the storm raged without, but not a raindrop fell on me. I never ate with a keener relish, I never passed a night in more sweet or refreshing slumbers. Yet where, let me ask, was the hotel in England which, in the caprice of sickness, would have satisfied all my wants and wishes? When we rose with the morning to depart, our good hostess was resolute in refusing any remuneration, though the wretched appearance of her hovel, and the rags on her children, bespoke the extreme of poverty. "No,' said she, the saints guided you to my threshold, and I thank them. My husband, too, was journeying yesterday, perhaps last night, amid that thunder-storm; he also knocked at some Christian's door, and found shelter.""

But all the foregoing yield to the first encounter:

"Two hours before break of day, the line was under arms; but the two hours glided by rapidly and silently. At last, just as the day dawned, a few distant shots were heard on our left, and were soon followed by the discharge of cannon, and the quick, heavy, and continued roll of musquetry. We received orders to move, and support the troops attacked: the whole of Hill's corps, amounting to fourteen thousand men, was thrown into open column, and moved to its left in steady double quick, and in the highest order.

"When within about a furlong of one of the points of attack, from which the enemy was just then driven by the seventy-fourth regiment, I cast my eye back to see if I could discover the rear of our divisions: eleven thousand men were following; all in sight, all in open column, all rapidly advancing in double quick time. No one, but a soldier, can picture to himself such a sight; and it is, even for him, a rare and a grand one. It certainly must have had a very strong effect on such of the enemy as, from the summit of the ridge, which they had most intrepidly ascended, beheld it, and who, ignorant of Hill's presence, thought they had been attacking the extreme of the British right. We were halted exactly in rear of that spot, from which the seventy-fourth regiment, having just repulsed a column, was retiring in line, with the most beautiful regularity, its colours all torn with shot. Here a few shells flew harmlessly over our line, but we had not the honour of being engaged. The first wounded man I ever beheld in the field was carried past me, at this moment: he was a fine young Englishman, in the Portuguese service, and lay helplessly in a blanket, with both his legs shattered by cannon-shot. He looked pale, and big drops of perspiration stood on his manly forehead; but he spoke not-his agony appeared unutterable. I secretly wished him death; a mercy, I believe, that was not very long withheld. About this time, Lord Wellington, with a numerous staff, gallopped up, and delivered his orders to General Hill, immediately in front of our corps; I therefore distinctly overheard him. If they attempt this point again, Hill, you will give them a volley, and charge bayonets; but don't let your people follow them too far down the hill.' I was particularly struck with the style of this order, so decided, so manly, and breathing no doubt as to the repulse of any attack; it confirmed confidence. Lord Wellington's simplicity of manner in the delivery of orders, and in command, is quite that of an able man. He has nothing of the truncheon about him; nothing full-mouthed, important, or fussy: his orders, on the field, are all short, quick, clear, and to the purpose. The