• TALES OF PASSION . LITERARY SPECTATOR.

THESE three tales are properly called Tales of Passion, at least of the passion of love. The first is the passion of a young lady for a monk, the second of a nobleman for a gipsy, the third of a soldier for a nun. The course of true love is proverbially a troubled stream, but the author, for the purpose of seeing how it will fume and fret when dammed up by obstacles nearly insurmountable, has invented situations in which the indulgence of the passion is all but impossible. Tragic are the results of the two first liaisons; but the happiness of the last pair is just snatched out of the fire for the sake of a flaw in the nun's vows : it appears that she is not quite a nun, be- cause she had not made her responses. In favour of this accident, the catastrophe is made lucky, and the passion dignified with the name of a virtuous passion. The British soldier carries off the imperfect nun, but all-perfect woman ; and we find, from a letter in conclusion, that the fair Portuguese makes an excellent domes- tic wife, and presides over an English country-house in a truly dignified manner. The story of " The Bohemian" embraces both the passion of love and the passion of revenge. The gipsy-mis- tress is turned off for a " suitable match" by the Count her lover ; whereupon she shows herself a complete Medea or furious Phaedra, to whom the author loves to compare her. She plots a horrible revenge: reverting to the old gipsy trick of child-stealing, she kidnaps her former lover's daughter and only child by his wife ; but not content with this fierce retribution, she determines to bring up the poor infant a strumpet—a woman of pleasure : when the sacrifice is complete—when the poor creature, educated in corrup- tion, has been dragged through a fair portion of infamy, she is in- troduced to her father in the exercise of her profession. We could almost hate the man who was able merely to conceive such an atrocity : our indignation was extreme when we found him dwell- ing on all the horrid details of the execution. If there are persons capable of acting such infernal deeds, we trust they have not the in= genuity to devise them ;—must, then, society be grateful to a writer who assists them with his diabolical inventions ? Murder is inno- cent compared with the detestable revenge of Mabel the Bohe- mian: blood-spilling is clean when set against the foul destruc- tion of the mind—the heart—the soul: to turn a living being to a corpse, is to make a revolting change it is true, but to metamor- phose the purity and innocence of childhood into the festering cor- ruption of depravity and prostitution, is something so atrocious and disgusting, that the mere passage of the idea across the mind of the reader leaves a stain. Yet even this is not all—to breed a prostitute, is only part of the scheme ; the father is made uncon- sciously to pander to his daughter, and then he is informed of the blessing that awaits him in the restoration of a lost child! Away with books of imagination and all their train, if, for the sake of novelty, men of talent are compelled to rake in such ordure as this: luxury and effeminacy have grown apace—the torpor of ennui must he deathly indeed, if this is the only successful stimulant. Well-regulated minds take no pleasure except in the perusal of that which is consistent with the principles on which they believe the welfare of society or the happiness of individuals is founded: education is however of so random a description generally, and in its best form so imperfect, that few people are aware of the ten- dency of what they read; fewer still have so cultivated a moral sense as to reject with unhesitating indignation the noxious matter the moment they perceive the bitterness of its taste. This very bitterness in some vitiated tastes acts as a relish ; and, like olives, relieves the insipidity of wine, or stimulates a surfeited palate. The ordinary measure of a novel's excellence, is the power of the writer to produce interest in the reader : if he can make the pulse beat quicker—if at any crisis of his tale the breath thickens or tears fill the eyes, or if, in short, it produce any kind of strong emotion, —the end is worked ; the author is popular, the book is sold, the publisher is pleased, and recommends the author to try again. Measuring the Tales rf Passion merely by the vulgar scale of power, the author is not deficient : he can create a stirring interest ; he expresses himself sometimes with great force ; he is occasionally eloquent ; he traces sometimes with ability the turns and windings of the human heart. These are bigh faculties—they might have been better bestowed.

The first story is called " Lord Lovers Daughter." It is laid at the time of the dissolution of the monasteries, in which Lord Lovel was an active agent of Cromwell Lord Essex. At this cri- tical moment for the monastic establishments, a popular preacher arises among the monks of Holy Cross, a monastery which borders the estates of Lord Lovel. Father Hubert is a young but ener- getic defender of the faith: either his eloquence' or his personal recommendations produce a powerful effect upon one of his audi- tors, the daughter of Lord Lovel. She is consumed by a passion of which she is unconscious: she is ignorant of the character of her feelings towards her confessor, until her father proposes mar- riage to her : the truth then breaks upon her mind. Concealed love and a guilty conscience are preying upon her tender frame, when Father Hubert seconds the suit of the young Lord Peyto : this is too much,—in a broken and incoherent manner she declares her passion for the confessor himself. A man has no difficulty in perceiving that young 1'. then Hubert was placed in a very de- licate position ; he however behaves with the utmost propriety and good feeling, and in the course of all the subsequent adven-

* Tales of Passion. lord Lovers Divigliter Bohemian : Second Love. By the Author of ft Gilbert Earle." << vols. Lvadva, Cvlburn: tures, is never betrayed into an impropriety but once,—the lovely but too tender Lady Alice, on occasion of a sudden and unexpected meeting, faints in his arms, whereupon he imprints upon her lips a kiss of passion, more becoming the Monk Ambrosio of LEWIS than the pure and seraphic Father Hubert. He is at length puri- fied by fire : he burns in Smithfield, among those whom the bloody Henry sacrificed at the shrine of his capricious will: the Lady Alice throws herself on his pile—without, however, being particu- larly burnt : we find her living and dying the life and death of a sainted maiden. There are parts of prettiness and sentiment in this first story, but it is on the whole dull, and if operative in any way, simply to mischief.

The second tale is "The Bohemian." A young German Baron,

who has been refined at the French court of Louis XIV., is idling at Leipzig fair : he is attracted by the genius and beauty of a gipsy girl, who performs her task of dancing and sineing in the streets with her tribe: the seduction of this girl costs Count Oberfeldt a week ; he proposes to cultivate her talents, and to bring out a dis- position full of sensibility and passion. This is the bare truth ; but we can' assure our readers, that this little intrigue, though, when described thus nakedly, it sounds rather low, is managed with the utmost decorum. The pouiparler is very well maintained; and such pretty and natural arguments are put into the mouth of cacti party, that we vehemently suspect the writer is a dangerous man amongst the milliners and his mother's maids. The:accomplished Mabel, the gipsy hurdy-gurdy girl, becomes the temporary mis- tress of Oberfeldt castle : what follows, we have more than alluded to.

The third tale is " Second Love,"—an inappropriate title : it is

the story of an elopement of a Portuguese nun with an officer of Lord Wellington's army. The young lady is of course forced into a nunnery by a stern and selfish parent : she takes advantage of the offers of a warm-hearted Briton, and rectifies the mistake her father had made, in condemning to a nunnery a young person so fitted by nature for the married state. This tale is conducted with spirit, and is at last wound up to a pitch of uncommon interest. After Captain Saville has married the angelic Angelica, he is com- pelled to join the army : the lady's father discovers her retreat, and, in the absence of her husband, carries her off; imprisons her in his house ; starves her by way of penance ; and is proceeding, as a last stroke of power, to whip her—the father and the priest stand by—a lay-brother enters with the cat—and all is ready for the ceremony, when the husband rushes in with a file of British guards, and rescues his wife from the ignominious penance. He had been introduced by the old woman whom the monsters had engaged to remove the lady's attire. This would act well, we think, if the • author, like Mr. BaNim, is disposed to dramatize his Tales qf Passion.

In spite of all we have said, we have been highly gratified with insulated portions of these volumes ; and if we produce a very pretty selection of beauties from them, let no one imagine we have been unjust.

VIGNETTES FROM: THE TALES OF PASSION.

Av OLn MANsiox-itousE.—It was in style, what is called a Cardinal Wolsey's house, like the old part' of Hampton Court Palace, and some private places in that neighbourhood, of red brick namely, with tall twisted chimnies, numerous gable-ends, and an infinite irregularity of out- line. But how different is such a building from that which is commonly associated with the term " red brick !" Instead of a gaping square, hos- pital-looking edifice, dropped in the middle of a field, this stood in the elbow, as it were, of a secluded valley—with a line of gigantic firs, in which the owls built, at each side of the entrance—and a fine mill- stream of a brook running through the bottom. The small bricks, pe- culiar to that date and style of building, were darkened by age—and over- grown, in places by ivy, in placeS by magnificent pear-trees, which were trained along the face of the house. Grass, shaven as smoothly as the scythe could crop it, stretched downward to the bank of the stream, which, after taking a bold sweep through the valley, disappeared in a wood of dark foliage at its extremity. The moment I saw the place, I exclaimed "this must have been a monastery !" The monks always nestled in sheltered laps of land like this, with a hill to protect them from the north and east, and a smiling exposure to the south, and, above all, with a brook to turn their mill. Such spots abound in England ; and form at once one of the most pleasing and peculiar of the characteristics of its scenery. THE ANCIENT ANO MODERN Bounom.—The apartment of Lady Alice

was in a flanking tower of the old castle, and it occupied its whole area : and very different was it from that most charming of human habitations —a lady's boudoir of the present day. Nothing, I think, can he more fascinating than these Penis palaces. Books on one side, paintings on another, music on a third—here writing implements, the pen perhaps still wet from tracing a three-corned note which lies on the portfolio, and the contents of which one would give a finger to know—there, those thousand and one indescribable knackeries, trinkets and toys, which are scattered in profusion around. Of all these things the turret chamber of Lady Alice afforded but slight indication. There were her virginals, in- deed, on which the very slender skill which she possessed was, in the val- ley, esteemed extraordinary ; but instead of paintings, there was only the tapestry on which the story of Cephalus and Procris was worked : and for books, besides the missal of which I have spoken, there were but a small collection of songs and sonnets by Lord Surrey, and the first volume of Lord Berners' translation of Froissart. A tall japanned cabinet stood in one corner ; and a carved chair of ebony, with ivory knobs and or- naments, formed Lady Alice's seat. The furniture of the room was com- pleted by rushes with which the room was strewn—another point which it would not a little surprise a fine lady of these times to find in her apart- ment.

A BOHEMIAN uissrrFm. Gnu .—Oberfeldt paused a moment to gaze upon this singular group, when th:ce of their number struck up a wild and spirited air, upon a flute and two guitars, and a fourth, with a tambourine in her hand, sprang into the centre of the circle, which had by this time gathered around them, to dance. The dancer was a young girl apparently about sixteen ; she was slender and finely formed, like most of her race, but she was already of a height beyond their ordinary low stature, and had the appearance of not being yet arrived at her full growth: A petticoat

of bright scarlet displayed an ankle, combining, like the fetlock, delicacy, activity. and grace, in a singular degree. The fine voluptuous outline of her limbs, at her early age, gave token to a practised eye, like that of Oberfeldt, of the perfection which it would attain in the maturity of womanly beauty. Her scarf was disposed around her bosom in a man- ner somewhat fantastic indeed, but highly picturesque and graceful—. while her abundant tresses of coal-black hair were, for their only cover- ing and ornament, intertwined with a few ears of wheat and cornflowers, apparently just plucked from the fields. Her skin was dark in complexion —but of that exquisite clearness, and extreme delicacy of texture, which almost render it doubtful whether it be surpassed by the most perfect fairness. It might be called-

" That clear obscure So softly dark, so darkly pure,"

which we may suppose to have existed upon Cleopatra's cheek. Of her eyes—those gems which form the crown and completion to the golden circle of beauty—the description has already been given in the motto at the head of this chapter. [She had the Asiatic eye, &c.—Byron.] The air to which she danced was accommodated to its vaeying expression. Now it was spirited, animated, and even triumphant—and in such parts

the young Bohemian's step became more rapid and decided, her eye flashed, and she swung her tambourine into the air wits a free and even fierce gesture, bespeaking exultation and pride. Then would come a sud- den pause, and the music would recommence with a slow and soft measure —the bright eye then became languid and beseeching—the movements and the whole bearing insinuating and subdued—next the tone was of sor- row and dejection—and this versatile creature sank her head upon her breast, drooped her instrument by her side, and trailed her steps slowly and sadly on the ground. Then again the music burst forth into liveli- ness and joy—and again she sprang into the air, like the wild deer start- ing from the covert, and the dance ended as it had begun, with the dis- play of mingled activity, brilliancy, and grace.

E.Sco u Roa.—I am surprised that you (said the Confessor to Angelica) should thus venture to talk of Don r.12bastian bringing disgrace upon the house of Vicenza. Every act of his tends to support its honour and great- ness ; while yours, alas ! were they known, would, indeed, throw a stain upon the name. Apostacy ! would not that be a blot on any escutcheon however noble ? a married nun ! would not this he esteemed a stigma in the history of any race, however ancient or exalted? The only method to prevent this blot, to avoid this stigma—not to speak for the moment of our duty to the Church and Heaven—is to insist that you shall enter a Brazilian convent, and to expel, by all due and holy means, that ac- cursed spirit of resistance, which seems as though it were the immediate ,gift of the author of all evil, Do you still adhere to your rebellious and damnable refusal?

" I still refuse."

" Then, my Lord," continued Sanchez, " I think no further delay should

take place—hut that the penance should be undergone at once." " You are right, father," answered Don Sebastian ; " this headstrong girl is equally traitorous to the Church, to her father, and to his blood." It would, indeed, ill become -the house of Vicenza to have among its members an apostate nun and not insist upon her restoration to the service of the Church anti of Heaven. Call up Juanna—and the lay-brother—is he here?

" He is—I left him with the old woman to makethe necessary prepara- tions—they were to come at my call." He went to the head of -the stairs, and called, in a loud tone, "Juanna! Lopez !"

After a short pause, the latter came. This was the wretch who was to be the actual inflicter of the torture. He was a lean, abject-looking miscreant—the very incarnation of meanness. Reentered the room with a cringe to his superiors ; and while the loathsome smile of servility was displayed upon his pale lips, his hand grasped the scourge.

Where is Juanna?" asked Sanchez.

" She will be here forthwith," answered Lopez ; " she stayed but to bring the cords and the unguents." " Enough I" said Sanchez, interrupting him ; for he saw that even Don Sebastian, screwed as his courage had been to the sticking place, looked uneasy at the blunt and brutal mention of these implements incidental to the cursed infliction he meditated.

There was a dead silence for the space of more than a minute. Don

Sebastian was sullen and resolved ; Sanchez was fast becoming impa- tient; and the lay-brother remained awaiting the moment of what he termed his duty, without oae hope, wish, feeling, or care on the subject whatever.

At some distance from this group stood Angelica. Her cheek was

flushed, her eyes glistened, her breath came and went with rapidity. I-lope—eager, strong, almost undoubting hope—caused these appear- ances : but, as the moments rolled away, and still Juanna did not arrive, [Angelica was aware of the plan for her rescue] a doubt came, like a bolt of ice, upon her mind. She dreaded that some mistake—some acci- dent—had frustrated their plans, and that even yet she should be sacri- ficed. But even in a moment of unequalled bitterness like this, the exalted and admirable resolution of this noble creature was, by an un- sparing effort, suddenly exercised—a darker fire flashed from her eyes— she hit her under lip with a movement almost convulsive—while she in- wardly exclaimed, as though in answer to her own fears, And if all be lost, I will undergo this horrible outrage as firmly as nature will support me: though they should lash me to death, I never will abjure my hus- band.'

" Where can this old woman be loitering ? " exclaimed Sanchez, whose impatience was increasing every instant. " Why is she not here to her time, with the necessary things in her charge ?" " She is here to her time !" exclaimed Juanita, entering, rapidly fol- lowed by Saville (Angelica's husband), Wentworth (his friend), and Jost (his servant), while three stout fellows with pistols and cutlasses ap- peared outside the door—" She is here in time, and with that which is must necessary ! Madam I thanks be to the Almighty and the Virgin ! you are saved.'