nearly thirty times as much as the amount of tithe, and it will not be going too far to suppose the produce of the earth twice as much as the rent. If so, it would appear that the farmer possessed no small advantage in consequence of tithes, notwithstanding his hatred of them, for it is a well-known fact that land, tithe-free, let for more than ten per cent. higher than land which paid tithe. Mr. Goulburn's bill, therefore, if made imperative on both parties to enter into composition, would produce incalculable advantages. But, to render the benefits lasting, the amount of tithe, when ascertained, should be made perpetual, according to a fixed scale, always bearing the same proportion to the rent of the land that it did at the moment of composition. Such a course is absolutely necessary to prevent a return to the old method, for the church, on seeing its deficiency, will, in all likelihood, endeavour to augment her income. Mr. Goulburn's bill stands, therefore, in need of amendment.

If this is done the landlord alone supports the church; and this he has every right in the world to do; for he either received his estate from his ancestors, or purchased it subject to this impost, consequently he is as much obliged to pay it as the crown rent; but, as he stands indebted full one-tenth of his income to the church, why not compel him to discharge what he owes? In consequence of the tithe-composition bill, he will have to pay only one-thirtieth; but, as that sum goes exclusively to the incumbents, why not compel him to pay the remainder, or at least a portion of what remains due, to the churchwardens, or some other authorized persons, who would apply it to the wants of the church; such as building and repairing,

ΤΟ

clerk's fees, &c. &c. and save the Catholic peasantry from one of the most unjust imposts that ever was levied on an unfortunate people? It is tyranny, in its most hideous features, to compel the members of a church supported by voluntary contributions to build and keep in repair the temple devoted to the religion of the state. Algiers could not furnish a more cruel law; and what renders parish cess still more oppressive in Ireland is the way in which it is levied, by a thing called a vestry, whose assessments are generally partial, and frequently illegal.

Let the legislature, at once, repeal so abominable a law, and fix the burden on those who have a right to bear it. The landlords have been too long in possession of the church's property, for it is now full a century since they arrogantly exonerated their rich domains from the visit of the tithe-proctor, whom they sent to the cottier's potatoegarden. It must be admitted that some church has a right to certain revenues; and since the Protestant Church is in possession of them, in the name of goodness let her keep them. But, if she studies her own interest, she will now make those pay who are in debt, and cease to persecute the peasantry, who certainly owe her nothing. By following this obvious and direct course, she will no longer inspire the Catholic with hatred, or feel it her interest to oppose his entrance into the temple of the constitution. Her own independence will be permanently secured, without the consciousness of having obtained it by tyranny and injustice.

The facts I have stated and the principles I have laid down admit of no contradiction; those whom they concern will do well to profit by the instruction they impart. Z. Z.

THE new Waverley novel has made its appearance, after a longer preparation and more repeated disappointments than usual. We do not profess to be so deep in the mysteries of the trade as to guess for what reason the hopes of the reading public' have been mocked for the last nine months with the announcement of this work; but unless there be some such, better and more cogent than we can imagine, we must think that the delay is ill judged and has too much the appearance of coquetry to produce any good effect. Let us, nevertheless, be thankful for the good we have, however long it has been in the coming.

One of the disadvantages inseparable from the Author of Waverley' is, that the reputation which he has already obtained has begotten in his readers an expectation that every succeeding production shall be better than those which have preceded it; and this it is, according to our notions, that has induced so much cavilling and criticising at his later works. Novel-readers are an ungrateful set; and we doubt very much whether a man who has already satisfied them once, ought not to be content with his good fortune, and forswear ever again trying or trusting them. It is perhaps impossible for a man to go beyond a certain mark; it is very likely that, if not in his first, at least in his early efforts, while all the freshness of the task inspired him, he reached that mark; and although, let him write as often as he will, (with due care,) he will never fall back from the point he has achieved, yet it is not in his nature to make a higher flight and this we believe to be the case with the author of Waverley. We do not, however, mean by this, to disparage his talents in the slightest degree; we are too warmly and too sincerely his admirers to seek to detract or abate from his merit one single iota, and we do not think that he has, in the whole of his career, either deceived or exceeded the hopes which his first novel gave rise to, with two exceptions: the first the Bride of Lammermoor,' which stands, in that branch of the literature of

this country to which it belongs, alone and unequalled; and St. Ronan's Well,' which is not above the ordinary run of tolerable novels.

We think that the author (for to talk of a plurality of pens in such productions seems to us little short of absolute stupidity) is the first of his kind, in this or in any other language, who united the same qualities in his own person. His invention, wit, ingenuity, learning, knowledge of mankind, and skill in composition, are such as never met before in any one novel-writer; and, although it might be possible to give examples of these various qualities in various writers, it would be impossible to find one by whom any of them are surpassed, and not less difficult to find one who possessed them all. The author of Waverley is identified with the language and literature of England, and as long as they last his fame must endure. His works are no more for an age than were Shakspeare's; and, without making between him and the immortal bard a comparison, at which (if he be the man we take him for) he would scoff, we pronounce unhesitatingly our opinion, that, Shakspeare excepted, he has no rival among the past and present authors of works of imagination in England.

This much premised-and we have felt it a duty, on the first occasion that has presented itself, to express our opinions as to this popular author -we proceed to the task of examining his last novel. It consists of two distinct tales; the first called The Betrothed;' the second, The Talisman.' The first opens with a description of the warfare carried on in the Welch marches between a Norman knight, Sir Raymond de Berenger, who held the fortress called Garde Doloureuse, and the British Prince Gwenwynwen, Lord of Powis.

The Welch prince proposes to marry Eveline, the fair daughter of the Norman; but his offer is refused by her father, on the pretext_that her hand has been promised to Hugo de Lacy, the Constable of Chester. The Briton, who, notwithstanding his old blood, is little better than a

savage, immediately attacks De Berenger; and the latter, from a chivalrous feeling, in which the point of honour is carried sufficiently far, goes out of his castle to give him battle, and is defeated. The fortress is then in great danger; but is protected by the good sense and courage of a Fleming, one Wilkin Flammock, who had settled upon the knight's estate, and who had, with good reason, left his mills, and withdrawn himself and his people to the castle as soon as the news of the proposed attack reached him. The Lady Eveline, in the moment of her terror, swears before a holy relic in the chapel that she will bestow her hand upon whomsoever shall deliver her. The Constable of Chester no sooner hears of the attack than he comes up with his forces, routs the Welch, kills the prince, and sends his ne-phew, the gallant Damian de Lacy, to relieve the castle, he himself being under a vow not to enter a house until he shall have visited the Holy Land, where the wars of the crusade were then waging. The Lady Eveline sees in Damian her deliverer, and falls in love with him off-hand; whence spring all the disasters which ensue. Let any young lady read the description of this same Damian, and then, if she can blame the Lady Eveline for falling in love with him, we shall think (although we dare not say) that she is marvellously hard to please.

A single horseman advanced from the constable's army towards the castle, show-ing, even at a distance, an unusual dexterity of horsemanship and grace of deportment. He arrived at the drawbridge, which was instantly lowered to receive him, whilst Flammock and the monk (for the latter, as far as he could, associated himself with the former in all acts of authority) hastened to receive the envoy of their liberator. They found him just alighted from the raven-coloured horse, which was slightly flecked with blood as well as foam, and still panted with the exertions of the evening; though, answering to the caressing hand of his youthful rider, he arched his neck, shook his steel

caparison, and snorted, to announce his unabated mettle and unwearied love of combat. The young man's eagle look bore the same token of unabated vigour, mingled with the signs of recent exertion.

His helmet, hanging at his saddle-bow, showed a gallant countenance, coloured highly, but not inflamed, which looked out from a rich profusion of short chestnut curls; and, although his armour was of a massive and simple form, he moved under it with graceful attire, not a burden or incumsuch elasticity and ease, that it seemed a brance. A furred mantle had not sat on him with more easy grace than the heavy hauberk which complied with every ges ture of his noble form. Yet his countenance was so juvenile, that only the down on the upper lip announced decisively the approach to manhood. The females, who thronged into the court to see the first envoy of their deliverers, could not forbear mixing praises of his beauty with blessings aged dame, in particular, distinguished by on his valour; and one comely middlethe tightness with which her scarlet hose set on a well-shaped leg and ancle, and by the cleanliness of her coif, pressed close up to the young 'squire, and, more forward than the rest, doubled the crimson hue of his cheek by crying aloud, that our lady of the Garde Doloureuse had sent them news of their redemption by an angel from the sanctuary.'

Eveline's affection is, however, an mised her to the elder De Lacy, who ill-starred one. Her father had proclaims her hand. Damian does not woo her; she cannot woo him, nor member, ladies, this happened in the can she refuse such an alliance (refeudal times, when people did not enjoy so much freedom as at present) as that of the constable. She, therefore, becomes his affianced bride, and is betrothed; that is to say, the preliminary ceremony of marriage is performed, but the consummation is postponed until the constable's rehis vow leads him. turn from the Holy Land, whither

Previous to this the Lady Eveline, on a visit to an old relation of hers, has been induced to pass the night in a chamber said to be haunted by the spirit of one of her female ancestors, who had been murdered by her husband, and who foretels to all the daughters of her house whether their fate in wedlock shall be happy or otherwise. She is accompanied by Rose Flammock, the daughter of the Fleming, who is, however, not allowed to enter the haunted chamber. Rose keeps watch; and, hearing her mistress scream, she calls out for

help to a Norman soldier on guard, who bursts the window of Eveline's chamber, and carries her to Rose; after which he retires, without discovering himself. Eveline tells Rose that she has seen the spectre, who predicted to her a fatal doom in these mysterious words :

'Widowed wife and wedded maid,
Betrothed, betrayer, and betrayed.'

After the fiancialles_the_constable goes to the wars, leaving Damian at home to keep his own castle, and guard that of his bride. Danian pines, and is almost at death's door, for love, which he dare not utter, of the Lady Eveline; and both of them are as miserable as any pair of lovers can be imagined.

By a contrivance of Randal de Lacy, an unprincipled relative of the constable, Eveline is decoyed, under the pretext of a hawking match, from the castle, and, at a convenient distance, is surprised by some Welch outlaws, and carried off. Damian goes to her rescue, which he achieves; but is so dreadfully wounded in the attempt, that he is confined for a long time to his bed in the castle of Garde Doloureuse, his hopeless passion, at the same time, retarding his cure. His military duties, in the mean time, are neglected; his soldiers mutiny, and refuse to go to the assistance of one of his feudal allies, who is in consequence destroyed. The king is incensed; his enemies take advantage of his absence; and at length he is denounced as a traitor, and an officer of the king sent to seize him. The Lady Eveline, like her father's daughter, refuses to give him up; the castle is attacked and taken, and Damian doomed to a dungeon.

At this juncture the constable, who has been wrecked on the coast of Wales, returns disguised as a pilgrim, with a single follower and a minstrel, Renault Vidal, who has accompanied him during the whole of his travels in the Holy Land. His presence sets all things to rights; he visits his nephew in prison, in the disguise of a palmer, and after trying his fidelity, which stands the proof, he discovers himself, and reVOL. I.-No. 5.

nounces his bride, whose passion he has learnt, to her more youthful lover.

A good deal of interest is made to turn upon the following incident, in which the minstrel, Vidal, whose character has always been mysterious, plays a conspicuous part. It happens at an assembly of the constable's tenants, when he is about to grant a charter to Flammock, and is immediately after the return of the pilgrims from the Holy Land.

'Vidal made incredible exertions to approach the leader of the procession, whose and right hand holding his truncheon or morion, distinguished by its lofty plumes, leading-staff, was all he could see, on ac

count of the crowd of officers and armed men around him. At length his exertions prevailed, and he came within three yards of the constable, who was then in a small circle which had been with difficulty kept clear for the purposes of the ceremonial of the day. His back was towards the minstrel, and he was in the act of bending from his horse to deliver the royal charter to Wilkin Flammock, who had knelt on one knee to receive it the more reverenstable to stoop so low, that his plume tially. His posture occasioned the conseemed in the act of mixing with the flowing mane of his noble charger.

At this moment Vidal threw himself, with singular agility, over the heads of the Flemings who guarded the circle, and, ere an eye could twinkle, his right knee was on the croup of the constable's horsethe grasp of his left hand on the collar of De Lacy's half coat; then, clinging to

his

in the same instant of time, a short, sharp prey like a tiger after its leap, he drew, dagger, and buried it in the back of the neck, just where the spine, which was severed by the stroke, serves to convey to the trunk of the human body the mysterious influences of the brain. The blow was struck with the utmost accuracy of aim and strength of arm. The unhappy horseman dropped from his saddle, without groan or struggle, like a bull in the amphitheatre, under the steel of the tauridor; and in the same saddle sat his murderer,

brandishing the bloody poniard, and urging the horse to speed.'

This, however, is not the real constable, but Randal de Lacy, who, upon a false report of his kinsman's death, had assumed his title and state. The supposed Vidal is, in fact, Cadwallor, the bard of the Prince of Powys, who, upon his mas

2 G

ter's death by Hugo de Lacy's hand, swore to be revenged on the latter. For this he assumed the character of a Norman minstrel, and for this he followed De Lacy to the crusades. He is seized, confesses his intentions, and is immediately executed. The Lady Eveline, in a vision, sees the spectre again, who, with a smiling face, revokes her prediction. The news of De Lacy's return, and of his generous intentions, arrive immediately afterwards; the lady is happily married to Sir Damian; and thus ends the tale.

The second story is superior to that which we have just left in all respects, save that most important part which relates to the loves of the hero and heroine. The scene is laid in the Christian camp, in Palestine. The hero of the tale is a young Scottish knight, Sir Kenneth, who has joined the British standard with a small troop of men, all of whom the wars have destroyed, with the exception of a single esquire. Upon a journey, which he has undertaken at the request of the council of Christian princes, to the hermit of Engaddi, Sir Kenneth encounters a Saracen cavalier, with whom, after a short skirmish, he comes to a parley, and, like generous foes, they proceed together to the hermit's abode. Sir Kenneth, notwithstanding the lowliness of his state, has fixed his affections upon Edith Plantagenet, the cousin of Cœur de Lion; and her heart, although as proud as that of her kinsman, owns a passion which her tongue has never yet uttered. Sir Kenneth is introduced at the hermit's abode to a mysterious chapel, in which he discovers among a troop of ladies, who had come thither upon a pilgrimage, his mistress and her royal relation, the queen of Cœur de

Lion.

Sir Kenneth returns to the camp, where Richard is lying sick of a fever, which has baffled the skill of his physicians. The sultan, the glorious Saladin, whose fame was never surpassed by the ancient or the modern world, hearing of the king's illness, sends him a physician to effect his cure, and a present of cooling fruits. Sir Kenneth visits the royal tent, but is repulsed somewhat rudely by the

Lord de Vaux, the faithful friend of the king, who, with a justifiable distrust, refuses to admit the knight until he has seen some proof of his skill. This Sir Kenneth offers him in the person of his own esquire, then sick of the same fever; but he makes some excuses to the English lord for the poor appearance which his quarters present. They are thus described; and this little sketch will serve better than a more lengthened extract to give a correct notion of the persons we have mentioned, and the style of the work :

The interior of the hut was chiefly occupied by two beds. One was empty, but, composed of collected leaves, and spread with an antelope's hide, seemed, from the articles of armour laid beside it, and from a crucifix of silver, carefully and reverentially disposed at the head, to be the couch of the knight himself. The other contained the invalid, of whom Sir Kenneth had spoken, a strong-built and harshfeatured man, past, as his looks betokened, the middle age of life. His couch was trimmed more softly than his master's; and it was plain that the more courtly garments of the latter, the loose robe, in which the knights showed themselves on pacific occasions, and the other little spare applied by Sir Kenneth to the accommodation of his sick domestic. In an outward part of the hut, which yet was within the range of the English baron's eye, a boy, rudely attired with buskins of deer's hide, a blue cap or bonnet, and a doublet, whose original finery was much tarnished, sat on his knees by a chafing-dish filled with charcoal, cooking upon a plate of iron the cakes of barley-bread, which were then, and still are, a favourite food with the Scottish people. Part of an antelope

articles of dress and adornment, had been