CONTEMPORARY POETS, AND WRITERS OF FICTION. ACCOMPANYING this lady's portrait, an Illustrative Memoir has already imparted interest to the pages of LA BElle AssemBLEE ;* and we now redeem our pledge of making her admirable writings the subject of one of these papers. ties, and biography has been more extensively and more advantageously pursued than at any former period. Few, perhaps, are aware of the research and the labour attendant upon the composition of these works. Superadded to the exercise of the imaginative powers, the mere mechanical exertion requisite for the production of one of these novels is at least equal to all that may be necessary for the composition of history itself. The multifarious course of historic reading, which it must be indispensably necessary to go through for the purpose of qualifying the author to write such a work of fiction as would acquire credit and fame in the To distinguish her from her equally estimable, equally gifted sister, Miss Anna Maria Porter, let us be pardoned for repeating, that the productions by which she is best known are " Thaddeus of Warsaw," The Scottish Chiefs," "The Pastor's Fire-side," and "Duke Christian of Luneburg." The first of these has stood the test of more than twenty years, and it is yet in the full flower of its popularity. Long is it since we experienced the gratifica-present day, is inconceivable to those by tion derived from its perusal: it is not now upon our shelves, but we shall not injure the fame of its author by selecting her "Scottish Chiefs" for the basis of our remarks. We claim not too much honour for Miss Porter, when we mention her as the founder of the modern historic romance. Sir Walter Scott admitted the justness of this claim at the table of his prince; accompanying the admission by a splendid compliment, which we regret that the treachery of our memory prevents us from recording. Historic romances, such as Miss Porter's, such as several of those which are usually denominated the Waverley novels, have rendered essential services in promoting the spread of literature, in operating as excitements to study, in enlarging the grasp of the human mind, in inspiring the most elevated sentiments of honour and virtue, of all that is great, and good, and noble in our nature. Works of fiction, such as these, do not, by a falsifiçation or misrepresentation of facts, mislead the mind or confuse the judgment: on the contrary, they stimulate inquiry, and lead to investigation. It would not, we conceive, be a difficult task to prove, that, within the last fifteen or twenty years, during the existence of the passion, as it may almost be termed, for reading historic romances, the study of history, antiqui * Vide vol. i. p, 185, No. 10.-Vol. II. whom the trial has not been made. "I have spared no pains," observes Miss Porter, in her preface to The Scottish Chiefs, "in consulting almost every writing extant which treats of the sister kingdoms during the period of my narrative." Labour like this is somewhat different from that of sitting down and skimming a few pages of the ladies' historian, Hume. "It would be tedious," she adds, "to swell this page with a list of these authorities, for they are very numerous." must perceive, on reading The Scottish Chiefs, that in the sketch which history would have laid down for the biography of my principal hero, I have not added to the outline, excepting where time, having made some erasure, a stroke was necessary to fill the space and unite the whole." This is the true spirit of historic romance. Probably, however, Wallace was in reality a character of rougher mould, with less of personal grace and beauty than he has been invested with by the genius of Miss Porter. The topographical knowledge displayed by the writer of The Scottish Chiefs is not less striking or remarkable than is the extent of her historic lore. The wild mountains and glens of Scotland, its roaring waters and its mist-clad hills, are familiar missed, and all that is pure to her as to Ossian. We smile at the feeble objection which we have heard urged against the delineation of heroes and heroines of excessive goodness. To behold men and women as they ought to be, rather than as they are, cannot be otherwise than beneficial. There never yet was a character drawn in fictitious narrative too good for human emulation. The exalted virtues of Clarissa have excited many a female breast to virtue; and one of the most estimable men we ever knew has repeatedly assured us, that, for all the merit he possessed, he felt himself indebt- || ed to an early perusal of Grandison, which lighted up a fire in his bosom never to be extinguished. and heavenly will be blessed in full fruition-burns with a bright and holy flame. That there are souls pure, and warm, and sublime as Helen's-that there is, even in this lower world, love pure and devoted as Helen's— we feel and know, and we rejoice in the knowledge: we could bless, and honour, and worship the almost angel possessor. That there is patriotism, too, pure and devoted as Wallace's, we are perfectly satisfied. Contrasting with the character of Helen, that of Lady Mar is deeply and powerfully conceived; though, perhaps, the latter is painted in colours almost too dark for woman. Nationally speaking, we should have been better pleased had not the Scottish character been so constantly elevated at the expense of the English. We could allow Wallace, the hero, to be all that is generous, grand, and noble-the personification of every virtue; but we cannot perceive the necessity of exhibiting so frequently-almost incessantly-the English officers in unfavourable points of view. They are almost invariably held forth as cowards or traitors, ruffians or assassins, without magnanimity, generosity, or common honour or honesty; or if, by chance, they are allowed to be brave and generous, a taint is suffered to rest upon their religion or their morals. Heselrigge, De Va Not less than those of Richardson are the sentiments of Miss Porter calculated to raise the human soul to a due sense of its greatness and its glory as it issued from the plastic voice of its Maker. "It is the fashion," says she, to contemn even an honest pride in ancestry." Fashion, forsooth! No one ever yet in his heart despised the pride of ancestry who could boast of ancestors worthy of honour; and, for an honest pride in ancestry-why it is one of the noblest feelings of our nature! "Where," inquires Miss Porter, "is the Englishman who is not proud of being the countryman of Nelson? Where the British sailor that does not thirst to emulate his fame? If this sentiment be right, re-lence, and De Warenne, furnish instances spect for noble progenitors cannot be wrong; for it proceeds from the same source-the principle of kindred, of inheritance, and of virtue. Let the long race of Douglas, or the descendants of the Percy, say, if the name they bear is not as a mirror to shew them what they ought to be, and as a burning glass to kindle in their hearts the flame of their fathers ?"-Pronounced in the spirit of a soldier's daughter, and worthy of a chivalric age! In The Scottish Chiefs, the devoted love of Helen Mar-the love that, to coldhearted mortals, seems more than humanthe love that seems to exalt its possessor above the rest of her sex-the love that affords indubitable presumptive proof of the soul's immortality, of a future state of more blissful existence, in which all that is gross and sordid in our nature will be dis in point. Gilbert Hambledon, afterwards Earl of Montgomery, and Grimsby, the soldier, are almost the only redeeming traits in favour of England. Descending to minor objections, we should say that the incidents of the chapel, where Wallace meets Helen, and where he is stabbed by the base traitor, De Valence, are too melo-dramatic in their charactertoo much in the style of Monk Lewis's dramas-the exploded school of romance. Neither are Wallace's minstrel adventures quite to our taste. These, however, are, indeed, minor blemishes. In the general conception and conduct of the work, a depth of feeling and a power of mind are displayed, seldom equalled, rarely, very rarely, if ever, excelled. Most firmly must Miss Porter have felt her ground when she determined on the bold and hazardous experiment of the death of Marion. In the language of the course, nineteen authors out of twenty would have "broke down" at such a setout. Yet, for the perfect development of Wallace's character, the sacrifice-the deep, tremendous sacrifice-was necessary, and it was made with complete success. The management is altogether admirable. In turning to " Duke Christian of Luneburg," the latest of Miss Porter's producsions, we are struck with some extraordinary coincidences between the mechanical structure of that work and of "The Scottish Chiefs." In the first volume, the death of Adelheid is a palpable but unsuccessful parody upon the death of Marion. The effects produced by Adelheid's deathrendered necessary by an immoral compact are not great and important compared with those of Marion's. Beautifully and touchingly as she is described, and agonizing as is the death-scene of Adelheid, we are less interested in her fate than in that of Marion. whether it may not be due even to a greater extent. The opening of the work is eminently picturesque and beautiful; the rescuing of Elizabeth from drowning is very finely effected; and in the grand parting scene between Duke Christian and Elizabeth, great power and pathos are evinced. Altogether, the production is worthy of the high honour it procured for its author, in the command, which, unsolicited, she received to inscribe it to his present Majesty. Until the publication of this work, it was not known in England-scarcely, perhaps, in Brunswick itself—that, at the period to which the narrative refers, there were, contemporary with each other, two princes of Brunswick, bearing the name of Christian, and performing a nearly similar train of military exploits.* "Both were sons of contemporary Dukes of Brunswick, espoused to Princesses of Denmark; both were secular Bishops; both em braced the cause of Bohemia; and both were Knights of the Garter: and no doubt, in conIn "The Scottish Chiefs," it will be resequence of so extraordinary a coincidence, all the historians of those times, whether German collected, Helen Mar conceives a passion or English, which the writer of this narrative for Wallace from the reports of his valour- has seen, have been induced to suppose the ous achievements, and his many virtues. || actions of both Princes the performance of one Precisely the same thing occurs in "Duke alone; whom they always designate under the Christian of Luneburg," where the Princess general appellation of Duke Christian of BrunsElizabeth falls in love with the Duke from wick. But while perusing these several histhe fame of his heroism and virtue. Ano- torians, in forming the design for this work, ther coincidence, though of a much slighter contradictions became observable, impossible to reconcile in one character. Sometimes Duke kind, presents itself in the attachment which Christian was spoken of as the reigning soveexists between the brothers, Christian and George: it strongly resembles that of Wal- reign of a rich and powerful dominion; then we were told in a few pages onward, he was distinguished indeed by illustrious birth, but Speaking of "Duke Christian of Lune-destitute of territory and resources. One tells us burg" in general terms, we should say that the work is not sufficiently dramatic; that, in most of its earlier scenes, it is deficient in domestic interest; and that, in many parts, it is too recherché for the general run of novel readers, improved as is the taste of that class of people. It was not, we think, quite judicious for the old Duke, in his last lecture to his sons, to resort to the Esopian fable of the bundle of sticks, promoted to the dignity of arrows. lace and Edwin. All, however, that we have before said in praise of the writer for her studious application to history, with respect to "The Scottish Chiefs," is equally due to her upon this occasion: we are not certain, indeed, he died in the year 1626; and another in 1633. "These, and other similar discrepancies, embarrassed me much in the consistency of my view of this hero of the times. But on consulting the chronicled documents from Brunswick itself, many pages of which I turned over with no small solicitude, to find some solving of this enigma, I discovered the first key in the registers of the ducal entombments; and that clearly proved the existence of two princes of the name and house. "The one was Christian Duke of Luneburg, born in 1566, died in 1633, and entombed at Celle. The other was Christian Duke of Brunswick Wolfenbuttel, born in 1599, died in 1626, and buried at Wolfenbuttel.”—Vide Historical Note to Duke Christian of Luneburg.. "The Pastor's Fireside" also opens finely; but, comparing it with Miss Porter's other performances, it is not one of our favourites. It turns too much upon politics-upon state affairs; presenting, as it were, a tangled skein of secret political history. We hardly perceive the object for which so much pains are bestowed upon the character of the Duke de Ripperda. It is not a character entitled to either love or admiration; it is not a consistent, not a sustained character. His wounds, received in the attempt to assassinate him, do not sufficiently account for the subsequent irregularities and violence of his conduct. The work presents no female character of leading interest. Louis's military achievements are impossibilities. Wharton is a noble sketch-a —a finished portrait, we would rather say; but he is not sufficiently before the reader. Possibly, however, it may be the attractive splendour of his presence which causes us so much to regret his absence. hurried along the beetling craigs; Ellerslie! Ellerslie!' cried he, 'tis no hero, no triumphant warrior, that approaches! Receive,shelter, thy deserted widowed master! I come, my Marion, to mourn thee in thine own domains!" He flew forward; he ascended the cliffs; he rushed down the hazel-crowned pathway, but it was no longer smooth; thistles and thickly interwoven underwood obstructed his steps. Breaking through them all, he turned the angle of the rock-the last screen to the view of his once-beloved home. On this spot he used to stand on moon-light evenings, watching the graceful form of his Marion as she passed to and fro by her window, preparing for her nightly rest. His eye now turned instinctively to the same point, but it gazed on vacancy. His home had disappeared: one solitary tower alone remained, standing like ‘a hermit the last of his race,' to mourn over the desolation of all with which it was once sur rounded. Not a human being now moved on the spot which three years before was thronged with his grateful vassals. Not a voice was now heard, where then sounded the harp of Halbert; where breathed the soul-entrancing song of his beloved Marion! Death!' cried, he, striking his breast, how many ways hast thou to bereave poor mortality! All, all gone! To "The Scottish Chiefs" we return with increased delight. They offer a repose to the heart, which feels as though it could rest upon them for ever. The sentiments are of the first order of virtue, of religion,My Marion sleeps in Bothwell; the faithful of sublimity; and the language is worthy of the sentiments. It is, throughout, poetry-poetry of the purest, most elevated class. What can be finer than Wallace's Halbert at her feet. And my peasantry of Lanark-how many of you have found untimely graves in the bosom of your vainlyrescued country!' "He sprung on the mouldering fragments last visit to Ellerslie, the death-spot of heaped over the pavement of what had been his beloved, his sainted Marion ! "Hills, rivers, and vales were measured by his solitary steps, till entering on the heights of Clydesdale the broad river of his native glen spread its endeared waters before him. Not a wave passed along that had not kissed the feet of some scene consecrated to his memory. Before him, over the western hills, lay the lands of his forefathers. There he had first drawn his breath; there he imbibed from the lips of his revered grandfather, now no more, those lessons of virtue by which he had lived, and for which he was now ready to die. Far to the left lay stretched the wide domains of Lammington: there his youthful heart first knew the pulse of love; there all nature smiled upon him; for Marion was near, and hope hailed him from every sun-lit mountain's brow. Onward, in the depths of the cliffs, lay Ellerslie, where he had tasted the joys of paradise; but all these, like that once-blessed place, now lay in one wide ruin! the hall. My wife's blood marks these stones!' cried he. He flung himself along them, and a groan burst from his heart. It echoed mournfully from the opposite rock. -He started, and gazed around. 'Solitude! solitude!' cried he, with a faint smile; 'nought is here but Wallace and his sorrow. Marion ! I call, and even thou dost not answer me; thou who ever flew at the sound of my voice! Look on me, love,' exclaimed he, stretching his arms towards the sky; 'look on me; and for once, for ever, cheer thy lonely, heartstricken Wallace.' Tears choked his further the stones, he wept in soul-dissolving sorrow, utterance; and once more laying his head upon till exhausted nature found repose in sleep." We know nothing that deserves to be mentioned with this, unless it be Burns's soulthrilling stanzas to "Mary in Heaven." THE COURTENAYE FAMILY.* FRANCIS MERVYN was too deeply and upon the subject nearest his heart. Little sincerely in love to permit the difficulties interested in the present history of the which accident or design had thrown in his Courtenaye family, new residents and way to overcome his passion. He sat local changes engrossed the whole of his down and wrote a long and explanatory conversation and thoughts. Though his letter to the Baronet, stating his family, expectations were only verified, Mervyn property, hopes, and expectations; the dis- felt disappointed, and with drooping spirits interested nature of his attachment to|| he commenced a solitary walk to the hall. Lillias D'Almaine, and his anxiety to be The absence of Lillias was discoverable on allowed to become a candidate for her the first approach; an air of desolation hand. This epistle he consigned to the was spread over the whole scene, wide gaps care of Sir Arthur's banker, who promised continually occurred in the park-paling, to forward it to the agent in Paris, whence and the gate creaked as it swung heavily there could be no doubt of its reaching its upon one hinge. The avenue betrayed destination-money being indispensable to equal symptoms of neglect; egress and reall travellers: but weeks, nay months pass- || gress had been permitted to the mischievous ed away, and no answer arrived. Mervyn urchins of the village, who spoiled in wanwas in despair. Upon the eve of being tonness; and more determined depredators called to the bar, and promised the most had committed serious ravages upon the zealous support from active friends inte- || forest trees. Many of the windows were rested in his welfare, he did not feel justi- broken in the front of the house, and these fied in quitting London at this critical dilapidations gave it a sordid aspect very period, to commence, what might have different from the appearance which the been denominated, a Quixotic expedition || venerable pile had worn in the preceding over the continent, in the perplexing search year. Taking his usual route, he perceived of a person to whose residence he did not that the flower-beds were choked up with possess a single clue, and who might pro- weeds, and trodden down by cattle; the bably, if she had ever returned his affec-hedges rioting in unclipped luxuriance, and tion, now cease to regard him with any tender sentiment. Not, however, relaxing in his inquiries, and meeting still with the same ill success, he fagged through the spring. During the summer assize he found himself in the neighbourhood of the old Hall where he had spent the most delicious days of his life, and though hopeless of gaining any information from the servants, he could not resist the desire which he felt to visit the spot. Accordingly, he left his brother counsellors to the full enjoyment of all the briefs which the litigious spirit of the county might have prepared for the benefit of the long robe, and proceeded to the village where he had lounged away a whole summer. The landlord of his rustic hotel, as communicative and obliging as ever, could not give him any intelligence * Vide page 99. the garden so utterly neglected, that all its ornaments were either running wild or reduced to ruins. Even the peacocks seemed to be aware of the change, and moping drooped their gorgeous trains. Shocked at the disorder which reigned where neatness had been triumphant, he made his way with considerable difficulty into the interior of the mansion. The situation of the steward explained the cause of the general devastation: retaining his health and strength, and not unequal to the management of accounts, on all other points he was indifferent even to imbecility. The inferior servants, no longer under the command of Mrs. Yates, who had for many years ruled all things, and even the steward himself, performed the few duties which their own comfort obliged them to con| tinue in the most slovenly manner possible. The domestic offices were the only habitable apartments in the mansion. A small |