De Winza. Cold drops of sweat hung on the brow of DE WINZA, cold as the drops that fell from the dripping trees,-his heart throbbed with a wilder palpitation, as a tall sepulchral figure clothed in white passed before him, like a wailing spirit of the blast, and, gliding through the trees at some distance, vanished from his view. Superstition in the breast of DE WINZA was a feeling so connected with his education, that even the native bravery of his character was unable to subdue it. His proud and indignant spirit, that spurned the cold restraint of bigotry and prejudice, was awed by the presence of this unearthly being; and while his cooler judgment mocked the idea of supernatural agency, his wild and romantic fancy admitted its possibility. But in addition to this, DE WINZA had sensations known only to himself— he had passed through scenes, the recollection of which caused him to shudder; and whenever any circumstance accidentally struck upon the chord where those feelings lay entranced, it awakened a train of ideas in his mind, from which he would gladly have escaped. No wonder then that fancy, thus acted upon by conscience, should have assigned to ordinary circumstances the wild and extravagant ideas of a heated imagination, and that he attributed to the object, thus strangely passing before him, a supernatural existence. It was present to his mind long after it had passed from his eye,-it seemed as if a warning spirit had descended from on high, to remind him, that the time was come when he must account for deeds long buried in oblivion, when the whole tenor of a life chequered with virtue and with crime must be laid before that tribunal from whence there is no appeal;-and in that awful hour, how sweet are the feelings of the heart which can look back without remorse on the deeds of the past, with hope and confidence to the prospect of the future! The storm raged with increased violence, and the rain again fell in torrents. DE WINZA pressed forward in hopes of gaining some place of shelter, though utterly ignorant, from the darkness of the night, what course he was taking. Guided by the momentary gleams of lightning that played around him, he pursued his way,-in danger every minute of falling headlong from some precipice; till he reached at length a narrow valley between two hills which arose almost perpendicularly on either side, covered with lofty pines, whose thick umbrageous foliage formed an insuperable barrier to the storm. A stream, swelled by the recent rains, De Winza. rolled at the bottom, and DE WINZA proceeded along its banks for some time, till he reached a large building, whose broken walls and circular towers, mouldering in ruins, bore evident traces of the ravages of time, and the depredations of many a winter storm. It seemed to be the remains of one of those monuments of feudal power raised in former ages for the exercise of oppression, and now, like its possessors, mouldering in the dust. DE WINZA paused before the gloomy pile, upon which the lightning played in frequent and vivid gleams, and he thought of the desolation of his own heart, where hope slumbered amid ruin, and the only light that shone upon its gloom was the lightning gleam of passionfleeting and destructive! He crossed a narrow court-yard, overgrown with weeds and shrubs, and was about to enter the building when a large wolf-dog, darting from behind the doorway, sprung at his throat. Starting back, he escaped the meditated grasp, by receiving it on his arm-with one hand he dashed the dog to the earth, while drawing his sword with the other, he plunged it into his heart,-the ferocious animal fell gasping in the agonies of death, madness foamed from his mouth, and fury flashed from his eyes, as, writhing with inward convulsion, he expired. An attack so unexpected raised the fears of DE WINZA, lest this place should prove the haunt of robbers, or that some of the enemy should have sheltered in it, from whom, in his present situation, he could hope for little mercy, as his dress would immediately betray him. After a moment's hesitation however, he determined to proceed, and, with his sword in his hand, he entered what was once the hall of this ancient Castle, but now so ruinous and decayed, as scarcely to be distinguished from the rest of the building. His lone and solitary footsteps echoed along the pavement, as with a beating heart and agitated frame, he trod silently along. Through a thousand apertures in the wall, the wind whistled with a mournful solemnity, and the sounds which it conveyed fell on DE WINZA's ear like the voices of the dead, warning the sinner of eternity. The thunder still rolled at a distance, and the transient gleams of lightning that broke through the mutilated walls gave but a partial view of the objects around him. Uneasy in his present situation, and uncertain how to act, he was proceeding with cautious steps to examine the interior of the building, when, De Winza. a flash, more vivid than the rest, revealed to his sight the same female form which had crossed him in the forest, kneeling in a supplicating posture before a crucifix. The moon, that had hitherto been obscured, now burst through the broken masses of clouds, and gave a more distinct view of her person. In breathless astonishment he gazed on the almost supernatural form; her hair, long, black, and shining, fell on her neck and shoulders, whose snowy whiteness rivalled the drapery that hung around her; she seemed in the act of devotion, with one knee bent to the ground, and her clasped hands extended towards Heaven. Her countenance, pale and emaciated, wore the features of youth, and her woeworn cheek, whereon the moon-beams faintly lingered, retained evident traces of the desolation of her mind. DE WINZA approached-the sound of his footsteps struck on her ear; she started from her kneeling posture, and with a wildness bordering on insanity, gazed on him with a steadfast eagerness. The adventures of the night had given to his countenance a wild and haggard appearance, which the object before him was little calculated to remove; the gloomy grandeur of his tall majestic figure was finely contrasted by her light and airy form, his dark hair curling round his helmet, while his sable plume, that trembled in the blast, waved over his brow, like a cypress over the grave of the dead. He attempted to seize her arm, but she shrunk from his grasp "Who, and what art thou?" he cried, "that thus alone, standest like a spirit of the tomb, where all is desolation ?"- "Still is the slumber of the grave, and the heart that rests there-mine beats yet," and her countenance writhed in inward convulsion, her eyes flashed a sepulchral glare, as the pale moonlight fell on her haggard face, revealing the ruins of all that once was beautiful. Again DE WINZA attempted to seize her hand. She eluded his grasp, and exclaimed, with a voice whose tones sunk deep into his heart-" Away, away, DE WINZA, the spirit of destruction is upon thee, and marks thee for his own!— a judgment, dreadful and impenetrable, hangs over thy head, an arm yet reeking with kindred blood is raised against thy life, and eternity awaits thee!-For this have I sought thee in the vale and on the mountain; in the hour of peace and in the day of battle, when the loud clarion echoed over the field of the slain, and every sod beneath my feet was Review of Melmoth the Wanderer. stained with blood! Better, far better, we had never met, than meet as we do now; better-oh! better, we had never parted, than part as we must for ever!-In the lone hour of solitude and sorrow, whilst brooding over my heart's de solation, when all around was dark, and chill, and comfortless; when my soul seemed the centre of a burning world, and every tear upon its surface was a tear of blood; even then, when ruin blasted every hope, and despair withered every charm, memory lingered upon thee!-Over the waves of my benighted soul, like a star in the firmament, came the light of thine image; it reminded me of the days of my youth, when peace and joy and innocence were mine; when every sigh from my bosom breathed the soul of purity, and every tear upon my cheek was a token of delight! Again I warn thee to begone; the curse of the wicked one pursues thee,— they have bound me by an oath, an oath dreadful and unsearchable, and sealed with my heart's best blood, else could I tell thee a tale-but be warned, fly, fly ere it be too late-you know not the voice that warns you, nor the heart whose innocence you have destroyed; our meeting was on the grave of happiness, and our parting shall be there too; -farewell-farewell Her eyes seemed starting from their sockets; her livid features assumed a more ghastly appearance, as, waving her naked arms with convulsive energy, she rushed past DE WINZA towards the extremity of the hall, and vanished from his view. (To be continued.) REVIEWS. "Melmoth the Wanderer," a Tale, by the Author of " Bertram." 4 Vols. Edin. 1820. SINCE the days of Horace Walpole, the author of the Castle of Otranto and father of English Romance, our writers, whose tales," like the baseless fabric of a vision," are drawn from the resources of imagination, have indulged the utmost exuberance of fancy in their adoption of machinery. Their aim has seldom been to engage the attention by a recital of Review of Melmoth the Wanderer. probabilities; and, amid our confusion of modern novelists, very few indeed have studied the elegant simplicity which we consider as the standard of perfection in their class of composition; very few indeed can dare a competition with the Vicar of Wakefield. We may apply these observations to all our fictitious writings; but more especially to the Romance: a narrative" o'erstepping the modesty of nature," preserving its interest by exciting the horror rather than the admiration of its reader, and completely irreducible to the laws by which Fielding, Richardson, Smollett, Goldsmith, and Mackenzie, have regulated their aberrations. It is the distinguishing characteristic of the English Romance, that its interest is involved rather in the excitement of the imagination than of the senses. Giants, dwarfs, soldans, enchanters, knights, sylphs, fairies, genii, &c. had in their turn contributed their shares to our entertainment and edification; but some had disappeared before the magic touch of Cervantes, others required an imagination too ardent for general introduction, all had become obsolete from the mental fatigue incident to the perusal of the pages which they disfigured. Readers were become more numerous and more fastidious; and even Walpole, who introduced a new world of terrors, though admired by many, has escaped the censure of none. Since his time every castle has its dungeons and its vaults, its sliding pannels and its subterraneous means of egress (always unknown to its proprietor); and, instead of dragons and griffins, the hapless heroine is detained by the mountain banditti;-instead of the roaring of the animals, whose savage ferocity is softened by her virgin smile, she is tormented by the hollow murmurs of the midnight wind, sweeping through the long corridor, or sighing through the high and shattered casement. The fertility of Mrs. Radcliff's imagination, and the beauty of the scenery which she had beheld with a poet's eye, and described from her own recollections, have rendered her the guide of almost all her successors; but her imitators have always endeavored to account for the improbabilities of their narratives, and to reduce the powers of their agents to the known limits of human capability. Hence, the English school of Romance may be divided into two classes :-one, which spurns every restraint, and, like the stories of the east, acknowledges no law but the writer's convenience-the other, subject to the necessity of a satisfactory explanation. The author, who adopts the Castle of Otranto as the model of his tale, has much less |