The Sun.
London, England, 1851-12-30 00:00:00

oflife was withheld from:him. 'The story is well writ-
ten, and the author has evidently taken great pains to
give a full awl faithful description of the customs and
dress of the Scots in the sixteenth century, and else
of the Norwegians at the same period ; but we are
ieclined to think that if he had dispensed with a few of
the toilets of the ladies and gentlemen, the reader
would not have missed them much, and would per-
haps have enjoyed the book better. The plot is
simple, interesting, and peculiar. Inasmuch that
three young ladies forsake theirjovers, or betrotheds,
for higher born and less virtuous admirers, and on
finding themselves deceived throw themselves into the
arms of their former lovers and are at.once accepted,
as if nothing had happened.to diminish their former
affection. One, indeed, to prove her sincerity, is
hanged in the piece of her lover, who is so shocked in
consequence that he becomes a wanderer upon the
face or the earth. The character of James Hepburn
Earl of Bothwell, as drawn by Mr. Grant, is just
what the reader would fancy such an accomplished,
unscrupulous, gentlemanly villain to be ; while
Black Hob of Ormiston gives a good representation
of the unbelieving, ruffianly, petty lords who flou-
rished in Scotland after the Reformation. The two
following extracts are a fair sample of the work, the
one describing Bothwell when his career is over, the
other the reunion of Conrad and Anna :
" The sun, as ho set in the western ocean, shed a
mellow light upon the wide expanse of shore that
stretched upon their lee—on many an impending cliff, on
the dark summits of which waved the old primeval pines
of Scandinavia, and on whose bases the waters of the
west were dashing in foam—on many a wooded wilder-
ness, amid the recesses of which the wolves were prowl-
ing by the Druid stones of Loda, and tho long-forgotten
grave of many a g,thic chief.
" Berried in reverie, with folded arms and saddened
ryes, Bothwell watched the changing features and wind-
ings of that foreign shore, with all its pathless woods,
volcanic rocks, and dark blue hills, throwing their deepen-
ing shadows on each other, as the burning sun sank in
the distant sea, and the dusky tints of night shed upon
the scenery a gloom iu unison with his own dark thoughts
and hitter memories.
a" Bitter and sad they were truly; but how unavailing!
" Now separated from the evil influence of Ormiston
and others, he deplored his wickedness and folly with an
intensity that amounted to agony. Had the universe
been his, he would have given it that he might live the
last year of his life over again, with the experience in
his mind of what the guilt, the terrors, the anxieties,
and remorse of that year had been.
" With sorrow, with envy, yea, with agony, he looked
back to the position ho had held in the estimation of
others, and of himself; and felt, in the bitterness of his
soul that the eminence could never more be re•won.
" Never more, never morel It was a terrible re-
flection.

" Ho thought, too, of the native land ho might never
see again; and—
" Of many a tale of love and war
That mingled with the scene;
Of Bothwell's bank that bloom'd so dear,
And Bothwell's bonny Jean."
But he thought of Anna only with anger, f.:r no human
heart could ever contain two loves. Jane Gordon he
remembered with feelings of compunction, whon he
mused on her um epining gentleness and devoted love;
but he thought most of Mary, and, forgetting that he
was himself a captive, laid many a wild and futile scheme
to free and to avenge her.

" lie could not fl:o from his own thoughts. They
would come again and again, weighing like an incubus
upon his mind, alike in the bright sunshine of noon and
the solemn silence of night; amid the heedless revelry
of the Norwegian officers he longed for solitude, and in
solitude the stings of conscience drove him back to
revelry and wine; and thus the deep and morbid horror
tbat hour fly hour, and day by day, had everywhere
pursued him, settled down like a cloud of darkness on
his soul.

" Long since satiated with pleasure, sick of ambition,
and wearied of the world, he now found how deep were
the stings of unavailing regret.
" The day, we have said, went down, and night spread
her spangled mantle on the darkened water and the
moonlit sea.

" Brightly in its calm beauty the evening star arose
from the dark heaving line of the northern ocean, and
Bothwell thought of the time when he had last watched
that orb expanding on the night, as it rose above the
ruined spire of St. Mary-in-the-Field.
"At that moment, a cry—that seemed to be wafted
over the surface of the water—made his ears and heart

tingle, as it passed away on the skirt of the hollow wind.
'• 133 tn well grew ghastly pale, ho covered his cars
with his hands, and rushed away to his cabin in despair."

" Konrad had no intention of remaining in a place
where all was so changed to him; but, ere he turned to
leave it for ever, he paused a moment irresolutely. Since
last ho stood there, all that had passed appeared like a
dream, but a sad and bitter one. His heart melted
within him at the very thought of his own desolation; a
shower of tears would have relieved him, but he had
none to shed, for his eyes felt dry and stony.
" Why should I remain here, where not one is left
to care for me ,tow he ,said with a smile, as if in scorn
of the weakness that made him linger, and, turning
away, was about to retire, when a sound arrested him;
once more the arras rose and fell, and Anna stood be-
fore, him. Ho gazed upon her without the power of
utterance.
" She was alone.

" With a heightened colour in her cheek, and a charm-
ing timidity in her eye, she approached, and, touching
his arm, said—

"`Christina told me thou wort here, Konrad; and
wouldst though go without one greeting—one farewell—
to me?'

" Her accents sank into his inmost soul; he trembled
beneath her touch, and felt all his resolution melting
fast away.
" ' Unkind Konrad!' said she, with one of her sad but
most winning smiles, 'is this the friendship thou didst
vow to me at Westeray?'
" I have learned, Anna, that love can never be suc-
ceeded by friendship. It runs to the other extreme—
the impulses of the human heart cannot pause midway.'
" ' Then bast learned to hate me, then?'
" Heaven forbid!' replied Konrad, elapsing his hands;
hate thee, Anna? oh no!'
"His eyes were full of the sweetness end ardour of
the days of their first love, and Anna's filled with tears.
"' I have long wished,' she faltered in a low and
broken voice, while seating herself on the bench of one
of those deeply-recessed windows near them—'l have
long wished to see thee once more,' she repeated, with-
out raising her timid eyes, to implore—not thy par-
don, dear Konrad, for that I have no right to expect—
but—that thou wilt not remember rao with bitterness'—
"Konrad muttered something—he know not what.
" ' I feel, Konrad, that I owe thee much for all I have
made then suffer; and I have, now seen the worth and
faith of thy heart when contrasted with mine own, and
I blush for my weakness—my wickedness—my folly.
Thou mayst deem this unwomanly—indelicate; but in
lecie we are equal, and why may not ono make repara-
tion as the other—l as well as thou? I have lived, I
say, to learn the value of the heart that loved me so
well, and which, in a moment of frenzy—infatuation-
0, dearest Konrad! call it what thou wilt—l forsook fur
another—another who betrayed MO by a semblance
of religious rites—oh! spare me the rest!' . . .
"' Anna,' said Konrad, in a choking voice, as he rose
to retire—but, instead, drew nearer to her; ' though
my eye may be hollow, my cheek pate, and my heart
soured and saddesied, its first sentiment for thee hath
never altered. Anna—Anna, God knoweth that it
hath not! For all thou bast made me endure for the
past two years—from my heart—from my soul, I forgive
thee, and I pray that thou mayst bo happy. Anna—
dearest Anna—l am going far away from the hills and
woods of Bergen, to join the Lubeckers, or perhaps the
Knights of Rhodes in their warfare in the distant East,
fur I have doomed myself to exile; but I still regard
thee as I did, when we were in yea far isle of Wes►eray
—as my sister—as my friend. As we first met in this
old castle hall, when thou went bat a guileless girl and I
a heedless boy, so shall we now part. All is forgotten—
all is forgiven. And now—farewell; may the Smother
of God bless thee!'

"He kissed her hand, and his tears fell upon it; he
turned to leave the hall, but a giddiness came over him,
and a film overspread his eyes.
"He still felt the hand of Anna in his: another mo-
ment, and she sank upon his breast. All her love for
him had returned; and all her womanly delicacy, and
overweening pride, had given way before the more ten-
der and generous impulses this sudden reunion with her
early lover had called up within her.
‘" Oh, Konrad!' she whispered, while almost suffo-
cated by her tears, if my heart, though seated and
saddened, is still prized by thee, it is thine, as in the
days of our first love.'

"And, borno away by his passion, tL•e forgiving
Kw:l.A pressed her closo and closer to his breast.
And here, sayeth the Magister Absalom, in his quaint
papors, here endeth the most important Buke in this
our Ilistorie.'"

A CHARGE DELIVERED to the CLERGY
of the DIOCESE of ST. DAVID'S, by
Connop Thirlwall, D.D., Bishop of St. David's,
at his Fourth Visitation, in October, 1851.
Rivingtons, London.
(FROM A CORRESPONDENT.)
The first object to be regarded in criticism is
always the intention of the work under review, and
next the indications of ability or disability manifested
in carrying out that intention. The business of an
episcopal charge is generally to instruct, counsel, and
exhort the diocesan clergy, adapting each several ad-
monition to the varied exigencies of time, place, and
circumstances. These principles, therefore, taken in
connexion with the exordium of Dr. ThirlWall, will
materially assist the formation of a correct judgment
upon the merits of his present production. The
charge b2gins as follows :
"My Reverend Brethren,—The period which has
elapsed since our last meeting has been marked by oc-
currences of no slight immediate moment to the Church,
and fraught with consequences which are perhaps only
now beginning to unfold themselves ; but to my view
still more important as indications of certain mighty.
currents of thought and feeling which, according
to the course they may take, may produce vast
changes both in the outward and the inward con-
ditiou of tha Church, and in her relation to
the State. To stay or control these tendencies way be
beyond the power of any man, or body of men. oven
if it were possible for any one to stand wholly aloof from
them, as a mere spectator completely exempt from their
influence. But it may not the less concern each of us,
both for hia inward peace and his practical guidance, to
form tit clear notion of their nature and bearings, and I