The British Press; or, Morning Literary Advertiser.
London, England, 1824-02-10 00:00:00

THE OUTCASTS.

This is a very entertaining novel, and indeed one of the
most so we have lately met. It is the production of the
Baroness tie la Motte Fouque, a lady 'heady known by
the production of a few works of sentimental composition,
hut more likely to gain celebrity by the present volumes
than by any of her former publications. The Labor takes
the Scotch Romances avowedly as a model for her present
work, by blending the events of a very interesting period
of history with the effusions of her imagination, and form-
ing from their combination a very pleasing historical nar-
rative. This is a useful mode of novel-writing ; for it not
only of entertainment, but communicates knowledge.
Besides, it imposes a degree of assiduity and research on
the writer, for which novelists are not always remarkable,
and imparts a lite►ary character to their performance be-
yond what is due to the mere effitsions of fancy. We should
I like to see such a spirit of useful industry generally per-
vade the writers in this interesting department of lite-
rature; the success of the writings of the Great Unknown
should serve as an example to stimulate them to a general
imitation of the felicitot, plan with which lie makes the
powers of wit, and the resources of history, harmoniously
administer to the compilation of an egret able and in-
structive book. The passage of English history which is
interwoven with the volumes before its, is the fate of the
unfortunate Lady Jerre Grey ; and a fate more singularly
interesting could not perhaps be found in the whole range
of the English annals. A beautiful young women, invo-
luntarily placed upon the throne to play the puppet of the
ambition of others—enjoying, or rather holdiag, her high
station for ten days--abtlicating, then, as much through
choice u necessity—and finally, suffering ignominiously on
a seaffbld with her young and gallant husband, for poli-
tical offences, of which she was not only guiltless, but the
nature of which she could scarcely comprehend—is cer-
tainly an object of human suffering as awfully interesting
as any the imagination can well contemplate. In reading
these events in history, we experience a powerful soreness
of feeling, from a sense that we are treading on real
round : whereas the poignancy of our feelings, whether of
lindignation or sympathy, that arises in tracing sufferings
and crimes in novels and romances, is diminished by the
consciousness that we are treading on surreal ground; and
though the sorrows that we read of may have been real,
from the place in which we meet them we are privileged
to treat them as shadowy and unsubstantial.
The plan of the novel is very simple, and the dramatis
persona are almost all historical characters. The book
opens with an account of the pageant of the ceremony of
Lord Guildford Dudley's marriage with Lady Jane Grey.
The procession to Sion House is given in a strain of bold
and animated description. The principal persons who
figure in the work are the Duchess of Suffolk and Sir It.
Bertie, to whom the Duchess, after the death of her Lord,
is married. On the death of the unfortunate Lady Grey, and
the discomfiture of her party, they are obliged to leave the
country. They leave it, however, as voluntary exiles, and
not as outcasts, so that the title of the book is not very ju-
diciously selected. They encounter various difficulties
abroad from the spies of the Catholic party in England,
and at length find an asylum in the Court of Sigismund,
of Poland, until the accession of Queen Elizabeth to the
throne, when the Protestant exiles are enabled to re-
turn home and enjoy in security their properties. ii'hilst'
in Poland, the Duchess has a son, whose juvenile feats oc-
cupy the second volume principally. He is married finally 'I
to Rosa, a widow of the Count of Toulouse. Rosa was a
foundling, to whom the Duchess took a fancy, on account
of her extreme beauty, when a child. She was brought
up with her son Peregrine, and this attachment afterwards
ripened into the union of marriage. Though Rosa was
found in this accidental manner by the Duchess, it appeared
that she was of noble birth.

We cannot select a passage more likely to convey a cor-
tect and favourable specietten of the style of our author than
bet account of the Duchess of Sufrolk's visit to Donna
Laura de Aquila', beseeching her intercession with the
Queen to spare the life of Lady Jane Grey:-,
Os the evening of the third day, the Duchess reached the dreary
building, which to its surrounding loneliness and desolation, gave
sufEcient tokens of the withered spirit that inhabited it. No!
sooner had she given in her name, and added, that the daughter of
Lady Willoughby of kiresby, by descent an Aquila*, wished to,:
wait on her kinswoman, the lady of the mansion, than two servants
in complete black came out and assisted her to dismount. A grad
number of titian mourning-figures tilled the steps and landing-
place, who, with torches in their hands. and silent greeting, con-
ducted their visitor to the chamber of the Countess. At the door
stood a diminutive old man with snow-white hair and beard, that
half covered his long cadaverous face, and fell down in little curls
upon the upper part of his garment. The lady past likes shadow
before his dim eyes, as he greeted her with a sort of convulsive
smile, and a mechanical inclination of the head then lifting up his
trembling hand to the lock of the dour, he cautiously opened it,
and left a free ingress to his mistress.
Tice Countess sat at the end of a spacious room, and fed herself
with the grateful warmth of a sood.fire that glimmered redly in
its embers. On one side sru a screen which sheltered the withered
figure, and allowed enough light to fall from two girandoles for the
emaciated fingers, glittering. with jewels, to manage the business of
reeling silk ; a continual faint cough, and the unceasing motion of
the hands, alone betrayed her to be a thing of life.
Opposite to her, in the chimney-corner, was a priest, who, on the
entrance of Catherine, looked up with a thoughtful silence; and,
tuming,agaln to the Countess, exclaimed prettly loudly,—" she
comes
" Who comes '" asked the Countess.
•

The Duchess," replied the priest; a title which remained to
ber, notwithstanding her second marriage.
A hoarse " Indeed !" burst from the drawn-In lips; the long
body drew itself up, the shining fingers rested, and Donna Laura
de Aquilas ruse slowly from her seat; there she stood upright and
stiff, while her gown spread out its folds more and more, and di-
viding over an under garment, disclosed the anuoria/ bearings of
Aquila; and Lerida* worked in coloured silks. Her head was co-
vered with a high cap, running up to a peak ; over that again was
a velvet bonnet, with long lappets, hanging down, trimmed with
fur, that gave to the whole an appearance so much the more
striking as the short fallen-in face, which looked out of all this, was
ever at work with a sort of gnawing action, and seemed scarcely
human.

The heat and gloom of the apartment, the sickly sweetness of
the odours, spread through it by fumigation, and the sight of her
spectral kinswoman, opposite the priest, threatened at first to over-
whelm the Duchess. she went forward with tottering steps, and
was endeavounng to recollect herself, when the thin voice of the
Countess asked—" You are an Aquila' ?---married to Count
Willoughby ?"

,
fhere was a pause, occasioned by Catherine's hesitation. The
Countess continued, " You served our Queen, I know, Wore you
entered into the state of wedlock. Ah f you have wept for her,
with me, no doubt; but sit, sit; my feet are weak."—And sud-
denly dropping herself down into the chair, ■nd sitting bolt up.
right, she added with a Litter laugh—" Dow is it 1 now come to
the honour of your visit, after haring heard nothing of Lady
Willoughby for so long ?"
" M mother is dead," said the Duchess, faintly. " I was
• to the Duke of Suffolk, probably known to your Grace by
the name of Charles Brewton."

" Charles Brandon !—Charles Brandon, one of those lewd
fellows who pandered to the pleasures of the libertine Henry?
nod bepraised ! I have no memory for these coarse lumpish faces
that are as like to each other, externally, as their heretic souls are
like each other."

" The Duke of Suffolk," replied Catherine coolly and firmly,
" had the honour to serve his sovereign in the undisturbed enjoy-
ment of royal favour, without ever seeing his zeal exposed to the
suspicion of panderism it"
" Suffolk !—Suffolk ! " repeated the Countess, labouring at
recollection ; after a moment's effort, she turned to the priest, and
said—" Bishop Day, I must crave your help; what was it I
lately heard of the Suffolks?"
The Pretender, Jane, is the daughter of the rebel, Suffolk, for-
merly Marquis of Bonet," said the Bishop, midi:.
" And the grandchild of toy husband," cried Catherine, while
her face, as she said this, was darkened by a shade of calm seve-
rity, which often overcast it, and gave an expression of loftiness
to her taturally mild features.

After the irontinuanee of a conversation of this kind for
some minutes, Queen Mary pays her intended visit to the
Countess de Aquilas. The description of the Queen, and of
her conversation and manner, is in strict fidelity with that
character which some historians not very partial to her me-
mory, draw of her :
An unusual noise in the court-yard excited the attention even of
the dull Countess, who, with her eyes wide open, and full of ex.
pectation, seetned to ask the messing. of the tumult.
It is beyond doubt the Queen, ' said Day, bending over to
Donna Laura.

" The Queen ! and to-day!"
" She purposed passing a night here, in her way to Kenning
Hall, whither she intended to , after signing the death-warrant
of the rebels. Although as a Queen anti a Christian, she may be
resolved, yet the heart of a woman suffers in events of this kind. •
The Duchess shuddered with fear and horror at these words,
and was on the point of rising, and taking her leave of the impene-
trable Countess, when the grey-headed servant opened the door,
announcing in a voice that trembled with joy—" fler Majesty the,
Queen !". _

An old wasted figure now entered with hurried steps, greeted
all without observing the objects of her greeting, and immediately
crossed the room to Donna Laura, who seemed to revive In her
presence. The Queen, for it was the Queen, presented hand
to the Countess to kiss, and laboured out ■ few kind words;
whereupon they both stated themselves, and Catherine bad an
opportunity of examining mom. narrowly her morose and gloomy
features. tier heavy attire, rendered still more burthensome by

fur and jewc4s, seemed to press almost painfully upon her long
narrow shoulden, while the veil and other parts of her head-dress,
covered the greater part of her face, and ber sickly eyes threw
cold uncertain looks about her.

She spoke much in Spinlah with Donna Laura ; and then
calling to the Bishop of Chichester by name, said something to
him, but in too low a tone to be understood by the Duchess. It
was evident, however, that she was the object of the whisper, for
after the Queen had again turned to the Countess, and put several
questions to her in her native tongue, she made a slight motion of
the hand, which Catherine immediately understood, and hastened
to kiss her garments.
" 1 did not know you at first," said Mary, with a gracious in-
clination. "It is besides long since I have seen you; but they
tell me you have renounced the traitorous Suffolks, even to the
abandonment of their name, and married a young nobleman, Sir
Richard Berne, I think. I ant glad, moreover, to meet you in •
house like this; it is a favourable pledge of your imentions."
Catherine was on the point of answering with all that frankness
which was swelling every moment more strongly in her bosom,
when the Queen suddenly broke off, and turned to Day ;—" The
Sulfolks are condemned; to-morrow Dudley and tl.e Pretender,
Jane, will be executed ; and aeon after, the Duke and the traitor
Catt."
atherine heard no more ; he dropt down senseless; and at the
time it was the best thing that could have happened, fur it freed
her fmm the burthen of the Queen's presence. On recovering
the found herself alone in asiothrr room, the open windows of
which allowed the fresh air to stream in upon her.
" Away! away from here !" she cried, after the first moments
of stupefaction—" Jane ! my street Jane ! but I will once more—
only once more—look on those gentle eyes en they are closed for
ever."

She hurried to the door with the purpose of setting off instantly
for London, but was stopt on the threshold by a man, whose wild
and death-like features seemed at first unknown to her. A sort of
spasmodic laugh convulsed his features as he tsclanned--.. You
know me not?

" My God! Hastings !"
" The name is a horror to you In truth I cannot myself hear
it without shuddering. But forget the unfortunate one, who is
weary of name and life, and rather say, did you speak to the Queen?
Did she remain unmoved? You are silent; by all the saints!
, I conjure you, tell me, is it irrevocably ised that—"
" Jane diet," sobbed the Duchess, in a tone that was scarcely
audible;—" Yes, flutings, she dies, and I go to keep her com-
pany inher last travel."
flutings laughed wildly—" Give me your hand then: we'll
once again dance the nuptial dance together. I go with you,
Catherine. There was a time when we Were patties to a glorious
festival, and how should either of us stay behind now ?"
" You dream, Hastings ; you are in the service of the Queen."
" What Queen P"
" Unhappy man ! On such a journey I dare not tate you with
me." And she gently put aside his proffered hand. "Bethink
yourself ; you have sworn fealty to Mary."
The account of the last interview with poor Lady Jane
Grey is highly pathetic and affecting. It has all the pro-
liability of historical truth about it, and presents an edify-
ing spectacle of human greatness passing through the moat
awful scene of life with becoming dignity and resignation.
We conclude with this extract, and with it renew our re-
commendation of these very entertaining and well-written
volumes

It was with augmented anxiety that she reached London, when
she immediately flew to the Tower. Lady Jane was sleeping;
her bead lay upon a black cushion, over which the auburn hair
flowed down in loose ringlets, while bey pale face rested on her
breast, like a white rose in the night of tempests. Iler hands,
fair as wax, were folded over those of Dudley, who knelt at her
feet, and watched every motion of her bosom.
The noise made by the Duchess in entering awoke the sleeper:
she immediately got up and saluted her dear kinswoman, but
neither of them said a word. The first moments of their interview
were past in speechless emotion, and, when Jane did speak, it was
only to announce their separation.
Forgive me, my dear friend, if I now part from you ; a short
time only remains to me and Guilford, and I have yet much to say
to him.'

She grasped Catherine's hand with a beseeching look, when at
that moment the approaching sound of the sheriff 's steps froze the
blood in her veins. •' .My God ! already !"--ahe murmured, but
not another syllable escaped her lips. The sheriff announced to
the young nobleman that he was to precede his wife in execution.
Guilford wt an unutterable look at Jane, who smiled, and gave
him a dips that she should soon follow. Upon which he seemed to
collect all his resolution, and with a stifled ay of agony left the
prison.
Jane sat silently upon the cushion, and played with her tresses,
that flowed in disorder about her neck ; but, as if recollecting her-
self, die said to the Duchess—" Braid up my hair, for my neck
must be free, and we have no more time to late."

Catherine essayed the teal, with trembling fingers, which Jane
tenderly kissed; at .he same time presenting her with a ring, a
birth-day gift from her grandfather, and then remained lost In
thought, her hands folded, and her eyes fixed constantly upon the
ground. On a sudden she started up to the door, exclaiming,
`• It is time!" Her attendants were already there; she signed
hack she Deehere, who would have followed, and bade her fare-
well aloud; but added, in a whisper, "Save yourself, for here you
will not be sate much longer."
She was now led out, and seemed to finat away like an angel
before the multitude, which gaped after her in astonishment. A
young shopkeeper, who had bought the black baize that covered
the scaffold, WAS taken home for dead at her sight. None could
i bear the moving tones of her voice when she addressed the people.
in the innocent confession of childish weakness allowing her own
error, and the justice of her punishment, and calling on the citi-
zens of London to be faithful to their Queen. A thousand tears
were shed, but no arm stirred to save her.

The ITuel;;;Tad long mince left the town, and intended return-
ing to Castle Barbican without delay, when the following lines
from an unknown hand completely changed her plans :
" You are accused of heretical opinions, ant' Gardiner, Bishop
of Winchester, leads the accusation. If you value your liberty,
quit England without delay."