Here unsheltered I am burning "Every breast was moved to grief, Adozinda answers that she cannot hold out another hour. She tells how she has been supported against thirst, heat and cold, through the seven years by a continued miracle, but that the hand of God has been withdrawn from her for the last three days, and she can endure no more. She concludes by again repeating her stanza of supplication. The tidings reach Don Sisnando: To the tow'r he rushes, shouting kr 'Daughter! yet 'tis time-Oh live! Daughter, daughter, Oh! forgive This vile murd'rer!"-Passion's force Choaks his accents, choaks his groans; Voice, strength, breath, have sudden failed him- These events raise Auzenda from what was thought her deathbed. She totters to the foot of the tower, and orders her daughter to be released. But no exertions can burst the prison doors, till the Hermit who had forewarned Adozinda arrives. At his word the tower opens.-- Adozinda is dead-and dead he leaves her. But Don Sisnando he recals to life, that the sinner may, by long and painful penitence, atone his crime. The guilty father departs with the hermit, and is seen no more; but even to the present day, "Still at midnight's solemn hour It would appear misplaced to introduce any political reflections or discussions on the present state of Portugal, or the result of the present struggle, at the close of an article which has been hitherto so strictly confined to literary criticism, to biographical notices, and poetical translations. But we cannot help reminding our readers how inauspicious the late events in Portugal have been to the cultivation of the muses, and preparing them for still expecting a long interval of sterility in the "Lusitanian Parnassus.' The political changes and civil commotions-the rebellions and insurrections-the alternate establishment of schemes of freedom too wild to suit the temper or secure the tranquillity of the nation, and of a despotism under which no national art or accomplishment could flourish-have been more fatal to the culture or progress of Portugueze literature, than even the uncontrouled sway of the Inquisition itself. During the war of independence, the whole energy which the inglorious tyranny and deadening superstition of the last three sovereigns had left the people or the nobility, was devoted to the field. The lecture-halls of Coimbra were deserted for the camp-and a few patriotic songs or other poems of no great merit constituted nearly all the literary harvest which could be reaped in the sight of the Gallic legions. On the return of peace the muses were not allowed to repose under the laurels of victory. The absence of the court and the great nobility in Brazil, the play of the factions at home, and the necessarily provisional state of affairs which thence resulted, kept the people in a ferment of political discontent or of political expectation, unfavourable to the secure leisure and quiet pursuits of literature. The insurrection of Oporto in 1820, and the consequent revolution which established the Cortes for nearly two years and a half at Lisbon, converted every man who could write into a political partizan, and totally withdrew the minds of the nation from the enjoyment or the cultivation of poetry and literature. It is needless to say that the combined powers of superstition and of absolutism, which were strong enough to overturn the inverted pyramid of constitutional freedom, (which had no basis in national institutions,) was more than enough to oppress any feeble commencement of literary independence, and to extinguish every spark of literary ambition. In a country where a little earthen image of two or three inches long, said to have been discovered by a dog in a rabbit hole, was proclaimed a miracle-worker, and escorted by the royal family and the civil and military authorities to the cathedral of Lisbon, where it wrought so many miracles as to give its guardians a power of overthrowing the constitutionin such a country, what could be expected from the renewed ascendancy of the monks and priests? Where almost every man who had learned to read, or who professed a wish to read any thing more than his missal, was liable to be denounced as a freemason, a revolutionist, or an atheist, what encouragement could there be for the cultivation of intellect in any liberal walk of exertion? A considerable number of the most enlightened men of the nation were driven into exile, and those who remained were obliged to conceal their literary acquisitions, or their liberal tastes, under the penalties of something worse than banishment. The death of King John, the absence of Don Miguel, and the confinement of the intriguing old queen, gave another interval of unquiet freedom to Portugal under a constitutional charter. The hopes of the enlightened portion of the nation (embracing many of those who were most opposed to the Cortes of 1820, 1821 and 1822) were unbounded, and as the political ferment, or the rage for political innovation, was less violent than at the former period, a better prospect was held out for the cultivation of science and letters. Some books of merit, previously prepared, were then published, literary criticism began to be indulged, and two or three of the poetical writers whose productions have been alluded to with praise in the preceding part of this article, distinguished themselves by the publication of their works. These (for instance, Mozinho de Albuquerque and Almeida Garrett) and many more, are now in exile, or in the ranks of civil conflict, having been driven from their homes and their pursuits by one of the most brutal and brutalizing despotisms that ever disgraced or degraded mankind. They may re-publish collections of their works in the land of their exile, but poetry does not, like thistle-down, take root on every soil on which it may happen to be blown by a tempest. The prospects of Portugueze literature at the present moment are dreary in the extreme. In whatever way the contest terminates, the genius of the people cannot be directed with energy to liberal pursuits for many years. If Don Miguel succeeds, unheard of horrors must be perpetrated to celebrate his triumph. Farewell then to every exertion of mind during his reign, but in VOL. X. NO. XX. K K the ravings of fanaticism or the justification of tyranny. The press will then remain, as it is now, the instrument for publishing the lies of the court, the tales of pretended miracles, and the sentences of arbitrary judges. Should, on the other hand, victory declare for the standard of the young queen, now upheld by the hand of her father, there must still be a long interval of poverty, anxiety, and agitation, before the muses can be recalled. This, however, is incalculably the best alternative of the two, in this Thebaic contest-this unnatural war between the two brothers; and no lover of Portugueze literature can say, with the patriotic indifference of the mother of Polynices, ART. VI.-1. Un Mariage sous l'Empire. Par Madame Gay. 2 tom. 8vo. Paris. 1832. 2. Madeleine. Par Ch. Paul de Koch. 4 tom. 12mo. Paris. 1832. THE difference between a French and an English novel of the present day is sufficiently marked. The novels of this country turn chiefly on material distinctions: they strive to show the forms which luxury takes in the privileged classes, and to exhibit the differences between the initiated in fashionable life and the pretenders to it-between the regularly trained and thorough-bred contenders in the race of pleasure, so called, and the ridiculous efforts of those whom neither breeding nor education have qualified to enter the lists of fashionable celebrity. In our novels the man is but a part of his equipage; he is the principal person in his establishment, but not more necessary to its completeness, than the butler or the coachman. His characteristics are the street he lives in, the wealth he inherits, the company he keeps, the rank he is born to. The play of his feelings, the lights and shadows of his mind, are of no more account than the peristaltic motion of his bowels, or the systole and diastole of his heart. His character is like his livery, a family affair. The only means of distinction permitted, is that of pursuit; a senator is domestically dull; an exquisite is disproportionately attentive to dress; a roué sits up all night at hazard, or spends all day in seduction. On the other hand, in a French novel, it is difficult to say whether a man drives a pair, or lives in a garret if distinctions are made, they are those of sentiment, language, or manners. The grand business of French fiction is the feeling excited by certain situations and relations of life: all men dine-in French fiction dinner is understood-in the English it is a main business, during which the capabilities of the host are fully developed. We have in French novels experiments upon the moral or sentimental codes in peculiar cases, or else we have exhibitions of character as displayed by individuals in ordinary life. In English ones we have clever sketches of fashionable follies, or able pictures of particular eccentricities. They who look to what in England is called the world, find their account in considering its modifications in our novels; they who study human nature, who love to learn its play in certain given circumstances, to ascertain with exactness, and describe with delicacy, will resort to the chef-d'œuvres of French fiction. Character is a favourite study with the novelist of both countries; a difference however exists in this case as wide as in the other. Our writers occupy themselves with national character, or with character of a broad and general description, such as may be taken as the representative of large classes influenced by causes common to the whole class, but only to that class. In the French novels character is thoroughly individual; the effects described are such as arise from ordinary experience acting upon common natures, showing in full relief, however, all those shades of variety that necessarily distinguish every human being from his fellow creatures. In another class of novels, for which English literature is distinguished, the French have nothing to show, except some paltry imitations-we mean the novels of adventure. Here the roaming genius of Britain reigns triumphant; every wild shore or semi-barbarian realm has had its novelist, as well as its traveller and its merchant, and from the appearance of Anastasius down to that of Mr. Trelawney's Younger Son, there is an uninterrupted series of works, of unequalled variety, interest and instruction, which are not to be equalled by the fictious treasures of any other country in the world. The two works placed at the head of this article we have selected for notice from the late publications of Paris, as models of two great classes of French works of fiction, as contradistinguished from English ones; they are each able in their way, and moreover let us into the private morality and tone of sentiment prevalent in France by a very easy and agreeable process. "Un Mariage sous l'Empire" is a novel of sentiment; that is to say, it is a history of the feelings under peculiar circumstances of an experiment upon the heart. "Madeleine" has also its sentiment, has also its trials of the heart; but is mainly a medium for the exhibition of character as it exists in Paris and its provinces among the middle ranks of France. The novels of Paul de Koch have already been characterized in our pages, and we take the |