it, and believe me, it shall be removed. You are unhappy," she continued, after a moment's pause; "trust the secret cause of your sorrows to our good vicar, he will sympathize with you and relieve your mind."

He shook his head mournfully, and then, as if ashamed of his weakness, he stept to where she stood, and taking her delicate hand in his: “I have been wrong," he said, "but in all the error of my thoughts not one was ever meant to injure thee. And yet, 'twas not wrong. I have worshipped that form as the Peruvian kneels to the sun. You were to me the star that ever shone to guide me in my path. I have loved you, Marian-man can never know how dearly, passionately, I have loved you. I have striven with it until my mind is almost gone, and still that feeling yet remains in all its pristine force. I would have sacrificed wealth, happiness, honor, for that which I came here to seek, but thy lovely face has wrested from me that wish, and left me a lonely miserable being. I would not have thee weep-no-'tis not well. You must still be gay; 'tis for me alone to grieve, and pray that you may be always happy. Farewell! I go, fearful that my longer stay may endanger the happiness of her I prize above the world. One thing more will I tell you, ere I am lost to you for ever. I am not what I have appeared; circumstances have compelled me to be a nameless stranger. I have laboured that I might be known as I ought, but that hope is gone. To render me worthy of thee, Marian, I must injure thee; and though the sacrifice which I make is great, 'twere much better that I suffer even death, than one shade of unhappiness should shadow thy path."

"Oh, do not go, dear Walter," she replied, giving way to the full torrent of her feelings, "do not go; think not that your love has been unfelt and unrequited. I had been more than ungrateful had I not accepted it; yes, and returned it as fervently." "Returned it," he cried. "Oh, thanks; blessings on you, for that word; I have not then sighed in vain :" but relapsing into his previous melancholy mood, from which these words had for a moment roused him, "even this may not alter my resolve; thy father, lady, is proud of his title and his blood: the children of his house mate not save with their equals." Marian sighed deeply, as she thought on the truth of his remark. Making an effort to recover her composure, she said, "If 'tis ordained we never are united, our minds, Walter, man cannot sever. You will, perhaps, hasten to some foreign clime; and then, amidst gaiety and pleasure, forget your Marian." A smile of incredulity passed over his handsome countenance. "However," she continued, "take this portrait," and she drew a small miniature from out her bosom; "it has been thought like me: 'twill, however, perhaps serve when far away to bring to your remembrance the form of her, who for thee will die unwedded." He seized it wildly, and printed a hundred kisses on the senseless ivory; when he spoke. "This is, indeed, kind; next to my heart will I for ever wear the precious gift. Should I be in wretchedness and woe," he continued, as he gazed intently on it, "this will cheer my drooping

spirits. Should I, though 'tis scarcely possible, ere live surrounded with splendour, the sight of this will remind me of this day, of your kindness, and my own unworthiness. Farewell!" and clasping her to his bosom, he pressed one burning kiss on her ruby lips. In an instant his receding footsteps were heard in the vaulted gallery that led to the apartment.

When Walter first sought the Manor House, the reader will remember it was in the bloom of summer, months had since passed away, and dreary winter had assumed his reign and spread his snowy mantle o'er the scene. The shades of a winter's evening were closing fast around, when a stranger, whose dress was decidedly foreign, entered, with an unsteady and tired step, the kitchen of the Crows; the appearance of his face, was that of one who had seen and withstood the rough assaults of fortune: nor was he without some marks of her desolating power. A deep gloom had settled on his brow, and an air of carelessness prevailed his countenance, which even in his youngest, happiest days had been far from prepossessing. Throwing himself into the seat next to him, in a hurried and broken voice, he called for a draught of the strongest brandy, which having heartily swallowed, he again arose, and after asking some questions of old Tunbell, he muffled his dark cloak closely round him, and in spite of the weariness under which he was evidently labouring, he once more departed on his way.

After having taken leave of Marian, as we have seen, Walter repaired to the house of his first friend, the smith; to him he communicated his intention of leaving the country, and the cause that gave rise to his determination. It was not without a tear that the old man could relinquish the idea of seeing him in the possession of the estates and title of De Morville, which he had ascertained undoubtedly belonged to him. It appeared that the last baron was the father of two sons, one older than him who now held the title; but that the eldest, a short time previous to the death of his father, for some crime committed against the state, was banished for a certain period. In consequence, however, of the great interest which he possessed at court, the sentence was mitigated into a heavy fine, and an order that for his life he should refrain from using the title or name. For years he lived secluded in the neighbourhood, under the assumed appellation of L'Haville. He it was that had been married to the mother of Walter; (for he confessed to the smith that he was the son: but fearing some ill might befall him, he had kept it a secret); as the estates were not forfeited, they of course descended to the next heir. Of the elder brother nothing was known; it was rumoured, that in order to rescue the property, the present baron had caused his destruction.

"I have been thinking, my boy," said Ben, after they had been some time together, "I have been thinking that all will not be so well at the Manor House, to-night, and I'll tell you why. You heard of that strange fellow at the Crows; he inquired much about the family and the road to the house. "Tis a clear night, an ye mind not a cool breeze, we will take a cast round there; who knows, we may yet find

things turn up as we could wish and just by the way of keeping the blood from freezing in my old veins, I'll sling my sledge over my arm, just for exercise like;" equipping himself accordingly, they left the smithy. They had scarcely reached the entrance to the Manor House, when Frog, striking his companion on the arm, "Your eyes are younger than mine, yet even I think that I can see something strange about the window of the sleeping-room of the baron." "Yes," said Walter, "I see it distinctly; it is as though a dark figure was endeavouring to undo the fastenings. By heavens he has accomplished his purpose; hasten father to give the alarm." Quickly gaining the spot under the window, they found a ladder had been raised against the house. With the speed of thought, Walter had reached the window, and soon disappeared into the apartment. A short scuffle was heard by the smith, (whose age prevented him from following his companion so swiftly), then a heavy fall, and almost immediately the dark figure again appeared at the window; springing on to the ladder, he soon gained the earth: his progress here wns arrested by the smith; drawing a pistol from his belt, he discharged it full at him; fortunately he missed his aim, and the next moment saw him lifeless at the foot of Ben, levelled by a blow of his trusty hammer. Hastening up the ladder, fearing some ill had happened to his young relative, he had the satisfaction to find him safe, and supporting the head of the baron, from whom life's tide was ebbing fast. "Thanks, thanks, muttered the dying man; your kindness is too late: the villain struck too deeply. Casting his eyes on the form of Walter, he raised himself by great exertion, pointing to a cabinet which stood on the table at the foot of the bed: "I have been to thee," he said, "a bitter foe. I know thy birth, and have been the cause of all the wrong you've suffered. You cannot forgive me, therefore I do not ask your forgiveness. In that cabinet..... Oh, my child! my poor child!" then falling heavily in their arms, he was no more.

But little remains to be told; in the cabinet were found the papers which deprived Walter of his rights. From these also, it appeared, that his father had been murdered by the command of his younger brother; and from the circumstance, that the assassin killed by the smith was recognized to be the favored servant of the late baron, (who had for years left the country), no doubt remained that he had been the person employed to commit the deed; but the cause of his return, and for what he had destroyed his former patron did not transpire.

Walter De Morville bestowed his hand on his gentle coz.; their sorrows found a happy end, and Benny Frog had the pleasure of nursing their smiling babes.

VOL. I.

K

THE GENIUS OF PANTOMIME.

BY HARGRAVE JENNINGS.

PANTOMIME and Christmas are convertible, or rather, reciprocal terms. One loses half its grace without the other. Not more unseasonable would Pantomime be, any time out of Christmas, than Christmas-Christmas itself-without Pantomime. Pantomime in summer!-the idea is ridiculous. Its very birth-place must have been in some frigid latitude, where the people were obliged to betake themselves to thumps, bumps, and tumbles to keep themselves warm. It flourishes in snow, ice and winter winds, grey skies and fiery hearths, blue noses and crimson fingers. It despises any less arbitrary dominion, than that of "cold Winter with his icy beard;" the severity of whose rule effects something, which is not always done, even under more enduringly despotic governments,— it obliges its subjects to bestir themselves. His cold sceptre, gemmed with icicles, is held before their eyes, till the tears freeze, as they spring from their sources; jealous of his power, he, now and then, gives a friendly nip to the noses, toes, and digits, in order to put one in mind, of the lord and master who kings it over them. Conscious that his power is only pro tem, he, therefore, cruelly drives it to extremities; freezes our waters to make them hard; blows off our hats, and damages our roofs, that he may give the hatters and slaters an opportunity of replacing the tiles; shortens the days, and abridges the sun's journey, not only that he may run all the less chance of being prosecuted for libel by Making reflections,'

66

but, as an exemplification of the well-known line

"Coming events cast their shadows by-four;" tempts little boys to slide upon the pavements, that passengers may get a drop too much; freezes our water pipes, to cut off the supplies; lets loose the gusty boreas, like a doughty prize-fighter, to insult all he meets by giving them a blow in the face; snows up our roads, and cuts off all epistolary communication with the provinces, merely to make a trial of the silent system; freezes policemen on their beats, to make them look sharp, and by frightening their comrades, oblige them to keep their station; makes the inhabitants of barracks, and all other military establishments

"To put on a compelled valour,"

and drive away the enemy, by keeping up a good fire; astonishes the political circles, by causing the dismemberment of Turkey; necessitates those gentlemen who have counting houses in the city and country houses a few miles from town, daily, after business,

"To fret their hour upon the stage;"

creates such a state of public suspicion, that every body looks blue at one another; and does, in fine, a number of other strange things, which only winter could do with impunity, and with so good a grace. We smile at those things with which we are obliged to put up, and so generally well constituted is the season, that we turn our mishaps into merriment.

With the firm conviction, that Pantomime is not so well appreciated as it might be, and as it ought to be, we have taken upon ourselves to wield a pen in its defence. As our cause is so good, we expect to work wonders, even with so humble an instrument.

Is it not a grateful office, to point out those merits which shrink from the public observation. We must rake for pearls, before we may expect to meet with them. Let us look with an attentive eye, and we shall find that Pantomimes contain the genius of romance, poetry--aye! even and philosophy, "have we" as Hamlet says, "the trick to seek." It is only to furnish ourselves with spectacles of a particular construction, and we shall see wonders in every thing!

What is a greater proof of the most consummate art, than the mystery which always envelopes a Pantomime? Mystery is the medium, seen through which, things swell out to giant dimensions. What a deal is imagined when we have no data to proceed upon! Wisely therefore, have Pantomimes scarcely head or tail, beginning or end: to events bold, striking and all out of the common way, and therefore, provocative of curiosity, which is really, one of the most pleasing of our attributes, we supply causes, details, and consequences. Why need the author distress himself to make things plain and consistent, when he has such superexcellent allies in his audience! Half of the representation is our own composition, and we may therefore go away, with all the pride and selfsatisfaction consequent upon such an agreeable conviction. The only irregularity is, that the two parts are framed independently of one another, and that a running commentary is coursing through every brain in the theatre, unattached to, and perhaps even unauthorized by the text. A strange sympathy between the representation and beholders, the reasoning, yet unsubstantial mind, and the substantial medley, that must find its sense and meaning in it-matter and spiritual sentience. What a fine opening is here, for a metaphysical inquiry! "S' blood! there is something in this more than natural, if philosophy could find it

out!"

What fascinate us so much, even from our youth upward, as matters of marvel? There is nothing interesting in every day occurences,-we know all about them. That which, we are not acquainted with, stirs up our curiosity, our natural love of something new and unusual, and we "Prick the sides of our intent,"

most ardent in the pursuit. Our mind stands in need of a spur, now and then; something that will rouse it out of its lethargy, and force us out of our usual jog-trot way. Our machine, urged by the impetus, sets again more lively to work, and so continues till the new object becomes old, or, in other words, the added power expands itself, and resigns that on which it was exercised to its pristine laziness. But new pushes succeed each other so rapidly, that our mind is kept in tolerable motion that motion, yes! that perpetual motion is the health of the spirit; for without it, we should stagnate, glide back instead of go forward and become dead to all good purposes.

Where can the taste of mankind, for the wonderful, be so fully satisfied as in a Pantomime? There all is wonderful,-from the colossal abode of Sulphurio, the Fire Fiend, to the singular way in which clown and pantaloon, are able to bear so many slaps in the face; and bear them, too, with so good a grace! There is no ill nature in the composition of these motley vagabonds; they revenge themselves, indeed, upon, one another in so awkward a way, that their ill intentions are sure to recoil upon their own heads. The most upright creatures in the worldthey balance their accounts with the utmost regularity, and have by