The Sun.
London, England, 1842-08-02 00:00:00

AINSWORTH'S MAGAZINE.

More than half this number is taken up with Mr. Ains-
worth's tale of the " Miser's Daughter," which figures
in all the glory of large type. in order that its merits
may be set off to the best advantage. This is a fashion
of recent date among the monthly periodicals, and is one
more honoured in the breach than the observance. Let
each article stand on its own deserts, and be left to make
its own way with the public, instead of being indirectly
puffed, through the artful medium of large, showy print..
Mr. Ainswortlee story needs no such help to popularity,
for it is really very clever, and would be read with inte-
rest, even were it not printed in a more conspicuous type
than the rest of the articles. The scene where the Miser
is discovered burying his treasure in the earth, is power-
fully written ; and we like it the more, that there is no
visible effort made to produce effect. The sketch of Rene-
high, as it existed in the year 1740, is not less striking ;
and the account of the duel in Tothill•fields, between
Randulph and Beau Villiers, reminds us, in some of its
minute, characteristic touches, of the free and easy play
of Steele in the Tatler. This is high praise, but it is
not unmerited. The " Songs of Italy" is a very so-so
paper. A much abler essay on the same subject appeared
in Bentley's Miscellany some months since. " Mary
O'Brien" is from the pen of Lady Harriette D'Orsay, and
will please, by reason of its touching and unaffected sim-
plicity. The " Angel of the Flowers" displays more
botanical knowledge than
_poetical ability. The " Co-
quette's Week" is a whimsical journal of seven days'
conquests, supposed to be penned by a fashionable flirt.
Some of the hits are very pointed, and will be appre-
ciated at the West-end--that paradise of coquettes. " A
Viiion of Coventry" is an ingenious idea, ingeniously
wrought out. The " General Cemetery at Kensal-
green" is ian exceedingly interesting article, wherein a
minute description is given of the different tombs and
mausoleums in this picturesque place of interment. We
have long projected a summer afternoon's visit to this
cemetery, if only to see the last resting-place of Doctor
Valpy—one of the most liberal and enlightened of men.
and sincerest of Christians. Besides, there is nothing
like a quiet evening's stroll through such a scene, to
calm the spirit, and teach us to set a just value—and no
more—on existence. Do we toil after wealth and ela-
tion ? Here, about us—each tomb speaking eloquently
and directly to the heart—lie the results of all 'worldly
toil I- Nut a heap of ashes in this newly-erected cemetery
but, ten years since, was informed by a living spirit,
alternately elated or depressed by fortune's smiles or
frowns. But their day is past—their sun is set—and
oven while we stand musing beside the graves of the
'•departed, our sun, too, is verging on its decline. Thoughts
like these are useful, not as inducing melancholy, but as
tending to trim the mental balance, and impart an
equable tone to the spirits. To appreciate Life pro-
perly, it is necessary at times to keep Death in view ;
and where can he assume a more cheerful and benign
aspect, than in this sylvan field of sepulture, where
no sound strikes the ear—no sight meets the
eye, but such as conduce to peace and con-
tentment ? The Report of the " Twelfth Meeting of the
British Association at Manchester" is as dry as a ship-
biscuit. "A Gossip about England's Helicon" is a
tasteful critical paper by Mr. Robert Bell. This gentle-
man—if we may judge from the tenor of his criticism—
is an ardent admirer of the writers of the Elizabethan
age ; a race of giants, certainly, but, with the exception
of Shakspeare, Jonson, and one or two other luminaries,
rule, clumsy, and of very ogre-like proportions. Who
can read the vigorous, saturnine Webster, without find-
ing something to shock his taste and judgment in every
page ? Ford's "Broken Heart" is deservedly admired
for its frequent bursts of passion and tenderness e but
Was there ever such a preposterous denouement? Cyril
Tourneur's " Revenger's Tragedy," where a lover is
represented making a long complimentary address to the
skull of his dead lady—what an object for love to linger
on with admiration I--is, if possible, still more ridicu-
lous and revolting. We admire the E izabethan writers,
but ours is a qualified admiration ; we protest against
enthusiasm in such a cause: The " Shrift on the Raft"
is an impressive story. The hero, Count de Burigny,
has been wrecked off Norway, in the ship Drontheim.
Unknown to himself, his daughter was in the same
vessel when she foundered, and the Count is almost
the only one of the crew who escapes. After swimming
about for some hours, he encounters a raft whereon a
priest is sitting, who had also managed to effect his
escape, and assists the Count to climb up the sides of the
raft. The following scene then takes place, from which
it would seem that the priest was no other than the
Devil himself disguised in the decorous attire of a cler-
gyman I—
' The Priest made no reply, but pointed to the water. A
sudden and wondrous change had taken place upon its surface.
In lieu of the foaming and dashing billows, the sea had become
ca'm as a mountain lake. The roar of the waves was hushed,
but in its stead, had arisen a low, droning, and distant sound,
which brought with it a fear the wind owned, but could not
explain. The raft had hitherto been carried swiftly along, but
its speed was now increasing tenfold. The consternation of
the Count became evident, but to all his exclamations the
Priest gave no answer. That strange droning sound grew
gradually louder, but the ear struggled in vain to discover how
it was composed. Still the raft hurried on with lightning
speed. Darkness was all around it, save the bright red gleam
of the Priest's lamp.
Suddenly the thought of his daughter recrossed the Count's
brain. He gasped—for the swiftness of their course now ren-
dered speaking difficult—
" Father I I implore you, what know you of Eugenia?"
Once more the Priest pointed silently to the water, and as
the Count's eye followed the motion, he beheld a form whirling
by his side in a current, the intense fierceness of which ren-
dered its surface smooth as glass. There was the corpse of a
pale and beautiful girl, lovely even in death. Long and golden
•locks clustered around her neck and shoulders, but the locks
were wet and tangled, and the alabaster skin was becoming blue
with exposure to the water. The eyes were elosed—it was
well they were so. That form was following the rift, but the
increasing velocity of the latter left the corpse behind in
moment;—that moment had sufficed for a father to recog-
nise his daughter. He uttered no word, but gazed steadily at
the Priest.
The terrible and indescribable sound had now increased to a'
roar, which would have rendered the voice inaudible at the
shortest distance. The speed of the raft was now terrific ; yet
it neither swerved nor swayed, and the Priest sat unmoved, re-
turning the stupified gaze of the Count I Suddenly one side
of the raft became depressed, and in that position it continued
its furious career. The roar had now become more hideous
than any noise which can he conceived, and yet it was of a
Rat ure that bailed the ear. The Priest rose slowly to hie feet,
and preserving his balance, apparently unconscious of the
frightful slope of the hurrying raft, he leaned to De Burigny,
and in a low tone, which, in spite of the horrible noise around,
earrivd the full meaning of its words to the Count's under-
standing, said—
" We are in the Maelstrom !"
They were indeed in that dreadful whirlpool—the most
awful abyss which disfigures the face of creation. That hideous
roar, so strange and so appalling, was the sound of the waters
which whirl and rage in the unfathomable gulf. Louder and
louder still it waxed, until the ear could bear no addition to the
noise, and faster and faster flew the raft, but every instant it
went deeper down the vertex. The wretched be Burigny
struggled with die cord which held him to the raft, and sought
to break from it in vain; The link -which he had demanded
when exertion would have saved him, was now the means of
dragging him more surely to destruction. For one instant he
looked upwards, and, to his horror, beheld the red light of the
lamp, reflected on a sloping wall of raging waters, rising a
hundred yards above him, down the side of which he was
hurrying to an abyss on which he dared give no glance. Then
his eye turned to the raft—there was no one upon it ; but in
the maddening agony of that moment De Burigny heard, ac-
companied by a hellish laugh, the words—" The Priest's dues
for thy shrift, arc paid I" The next instant, the cords gave
ways, the raft shot violently forwards, and De Burigny was
alone—in the Maelstrom.