RAGLAND CASTLE.

Ix one sense this fiction is the best of Mrs. Tuosisos's works. It has a story of greater coherence and interest than Anne Boleyn, and the motives of the actors are more sufficient than in her other novels; or, what comes to the same result, the private con- duct of the persons being influenced by the stream of public events, the principal incidents do not seem to be produced by such trifling causes. The chief fault in the story, but one common enough in historical novels, is the introduction of public incidents and characters, that rather display the reading of the author than con- tribute to the progress of the tale. The time chosen for this novel is during the Great Rebellion, when the Royalist cause was on the decline. The principal public events are the taking of Wardour House and Ragland Castle by the Parliament forces ; the King's visit to the latter mansion ; and the Court and courtiers at Oxford, in their waning splendour. The private incidents are the difficulties and do- mestic distresses produced to the Cavaliers by the civil war ; but the interest of the piece turns upon the exploded custom of our ancestors in early matchmaking. At fourteen, Blanch Somerset, a Catholic, has been, as a matter of course, betrothed to her cousin Edward Herbert, without any thought of the solemn character of marriage, or any regard for him beyond that of a playmate, which feelings turn to indifference as he reaches the awkward period between youth and manhood. On the capture of Wardour House, Blanch with her female relations is protected by a Parliamentary officer—the poet Sidney Godolphin. An attachment in consequence springs up between the high-spirited, impetuous, youthful Blanch, and the cultivated and intellectual Godolphin. The difference in politics and religion, the betrothment, (unknown to the lover,) with his subsequent death in the service of Charles, render the passion of course unhappy : it might also perhaps be objected, that the vehemence of Blanch's love and conduct is unmaidenly, tested by modern notions ; and that nothing but the honour of Godolphin, when he discovers her betrothment, saves her from discredit. But the characters of both are drawn with great delicacy, finished with great care ; and, in Blanch especially, a good knowledge of the private manners of the day is exhibited, in their effects upon the disposition of an ardent-minded girl, brought up in seclusion and spoiled by indulgence. The fore- knowledge of Godolphin's death .in action, removes one source of interest for a novelist, uncertainty of the future ; but the termination being mournful, or the elements of the subject leading to a mournful termination, this is but slightly felt as a drawback, and the final denouement is not anticipated.

Besides this unhappy passion, the heroine is further troubled by

the intrigues of her uncle, afterwards the celebrated Marquis of Worcester, and the almost equally celebrated intriguing Countess of Carlisle, to marry her to the infamous Goring. But, though some of the characters of the politicians and courtiers are well drawn, this part of the story is not very completely done : and the same remark may be made on the war and politics. The method of Mrs. THOMSON is partial, her treatment feminine. She sometimes dwells upon things which are " common enough in war," as Colonel NAPIER remarks upon the ragged clothes and unshaven chins of the troops that landed from Corunna, to horrify with Sir Jona MOORE'S disasters those people who knew nothing of soldiering but the parade. Of the pleasant manner in which Mrs. THosssosi uses her antiquarian knowledge, we may give an example from LETTER-WRITLNG IN CHARLES THE FIRSTS DAYS.

The letter was not despatched in haste. Nothing in those times was done in haste. Next to making a will, a letter was the most arduous literary em- ployment that private individuals usually had to contend with. Spelling, which, until the reign of Anne, was arbitrary, did not hamper Lady Arundel's efforts: she spelt extempore : and when she had written plenty of double ees and double eases, she was tolerably comfortable as to her orthography. But the phrases, the ceremonials, the niceties of letter-writing, were never more sedulously observed than in the days when Lady Arundel sat down to pen an epistle.) To say enough, yet not too much—to tie civil, not familiar— dignified, not lofty—distinct, not verbose—were points which cost many: a thoughtful hour to heads which, bad they throbbed in our degenerate sera, would have indited a chapter in the same period of time. Then there was the necessary flourish at the end of the name, considered polite and indicative of accomplishment, though not yet arrived at that elaborate pitch to which it attained during the Hanoverian dynasty, and which may still be traced in the very best epistles of elderly gentlemen and ladies, when in their very best humour writing to some respected contemporary.

At length, after a long duration of silence in the room, Lady Arundel com-

pleted her despatch ; which, when folded, and even when sealed with a sort of halfpenny-piece cipher-seal of her ladyship's, bore, in outward semblance, no small similitude to those documents which virtuous and affectionate washer- women might write in our days, to other functionaries of the same stamp. With all the refinements of Charles the First, his court, and nobility—and considering what they succeeded and what they preceded they were singularly refined—with all their luxury and taste, they knew not the comforts of fine woven paper and good sealing-wax. Their paper was—ghosts of the epistolary, rise not up against me !—yellow in colour, coarse in texture, scanty in quantity : they were marvellously sparing of it. The wax was such as we now see on bottles of wine, of a spurious colour, hard, brittle, unfragrant.

The following scene will convey an idea of the love-passages. Except a brief meeting at Oxford, where he rescues her from the importunities of Goring, it is the last interview between Godolphin and Blanch.

4' It was a clear cold evening, and as the lights gleamed from the gallery. windows upon the artificial platform which formerly surrounded nearly the whole of Ragland Castle, they gleamed upon the figures of two persons walking leisurely enough, considering the season, along the fortifications, undisturbed by the occasional passing of the word by the sentinels, or by the still more ex- citing sounds of music and merriment above. The moon shed her rays upon, this solitude-loving pair : a white arm, a kerchief, sometimes hastily raised to the face, were disclosed beneath the dark muffler of the female figure; a fine, though slight form appeared, notwithstanding the disguise of a cloak, to cha- racterize her male companion ; they were young, comely, and alone. Why was it that no familiarity, as of persons exclusively interested in each other, marked their interview ? Why was it that often they seemed on the point of parting, and yet turned and walked, and walked again ? " In yonder chamber,' said the voice of one of the parties sorrowfully, where thou seest the casement open, and flowers set upon the outer ledge— there, whilst the sounds of merriment are heard in the gallery, my poor Cecily sits watching his slumbers. I cannot join the dance; I cannot mingle with the gay ; I am sick at heart, and wish not for such a scene.' ' That I gainsay not ; but wherefore,' answered Sidney Godolphin, 'risk you your peace of mind—your good credit with the court, the displeasure of your family, to seek converse with one despised and contemned by all good Royalists. Wherefore do you risk your—your—'

"What mean you?' answered Blanch, in a low tone. ". Your good name. For betrothed as you are to another, the world may reasonably impugn your faith to him ; it will not give you credit for high and worthy motives in seeking me.'

" There was a silence of some momenta. Blanch broke it by saying, ' Then, Mr. Godolphin, you would not have sought me ? Fortunate as we once were, nay familiar, at Shaftesbury, at the Bath also—you would have quitted Rag- land without so much as a word of kindness, even a farewell, to your poor, your grateful prisoners and faithful friends?' ' I had bid my Lady Arundel adieu,' replied Sidney Godolphin, his voice trembling. ' I had said farewell to Lady Cecily. I entreated her to say for me all that was respectful, gracious, kind, to one whose welfare,' he cried, agitated, will ever be dear to me whose happiness I augur, pray for—'

" Spare your auguries," cried Blanch passionately. ' Mr. Godolphin, there will come a time, I trust, when girls of condition will not be bartered for and sold like lands; their destiny fixed by deeds of parchment ; their faith plighted, ere they know the horror, the shame of a bond without choice, love, respect 1 ' ' Such lath been my destiny ! ' She resumed—for Mr. Godolphin was

struck dumb by her vehemence. At fourteen, I was asked, nay, almost com- manded, to give my approval to a solemn contract of marriage with my—my cousin—Edward Herbert. Marriage! how sacred to me seems that word now 1 how light and unmeaning then ! He was my playmate—my brother I called him ; the slave of my childish sports ; my partner in the dance ; my esquire in the chace. Marriage, or a convent, is the lot of a portionless girl: the first was gay, the latter sad—and by one act of this hand, would I could wring it off—I bound myself for ever!'

" And honour, duty—' returned her hearer.

"' Mr. Godolphin, talk to me not of honour, duty. I never will be his! I would not do him such wrong I What ! Perjure myself at the altar, before my Creator! Give the form of vows which I detest ! No, for me there is another course. The convent, rather, with the dull monastic round, and the gray-haired nuns preaching to me patience and prayer; patience to a broken heart—prayer to the restless spirit. No, I cannot vow myself to Heaven. The contract would be base as that to Edward I ' " ' Then what?' asked Godolphin, slowly, timorously, yet moved by the too oft-told tale of those and earlier times, 'what alternative ? " ' You will know—you will hear,' answered Blanch, her energy of speech cooling down : for she shrank into herself, and felt ashamed when the passion- ate emotions of her heart, venting themselves, had been exhausted.' Speak of it no more. Holy Mary 'tis eight o'clock that strikes. My uncle will miss

rae from the dance. I shall be sent for—sought.' She turned irresolutely to- wards Godolphin as she spoke. " ' We must then part,' Godolphin began : his voice faltered a little ; and that tone, so slight a fuel did it require to feed the flame of the young heart that loved him, drew forth the vehemence of Blanch's nature.

" I shall go; but think not it is to mirtb,or raillery, whilst you, Mr. Godol- phin, are condemned to the guard-room, or to the terrace, on your parole. Do not suppose that I can forget, that when we were prisoners you protected and cheered us. Oh! how I wish that time were to come over again ! '

" Yet go,' said Godolphin, extending his hand; we must speak of those days no more.'

" ' It is easy for you to forget them !' replied Blanch mournfully : ' to me, never. Ah ! Mr. Godolphin, how unlikely it is that we shall ever meet again ! I am ashamed—affrighted at myself,' she exclaimed, after a few moments. You, whose rebellious course, whose very faith are hateful to God and man. Dangerous—irreclaimable I May God forgive me !' she added impetuously ; and, breaking from Godolphin, she hastened to the postern-door thence, tread- ing lightly and knowingly the intricate passages, she ascended the gallery."