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sister. As yet we had only observed distant prognos→ tics of the tumult of the elements which was about to take place. Now, however, the collected fury of the storm burst at once upon us. A long and bright flash of lightning, together with a continued roll of thunder, accompanied one of the heaviest rains that we have ever experienced. "We shall have an adventure!" cried Matilda; "We shall be very late," observed Emily. "I wish we were a hundred miles off," said the one, hyperbolically; "I wish we were at home," replied the other, soberly. "Alas! we shall never get home to-night," sighed Sensibility, pathetically; "Possibly,” returned Sense, drily. The fact was, that the eldest of the sisters was quite calm, although she was aware of all the inconveniences of their situation; and the youngest was terribly frightened, although she began quoting poetry. There was another, and a brighter flash; another, and a louder peal: Sense quickened her steps, Sensibility fainted.

With some difficulty, and not without the aid of a conveyance from a neighbouring farmer, we brought our companions in safety to their father's door. We were, of course, received with an invitation to remain under shelter till the weather should clear up; and, of course, we felt no reluctance to accept the offer. The house was very neatly furnished, principally by the care of the two young ladies, but here again the diversity of their manners shewed itself very plainly. The useful was produced by the labour of Emily; the ornamental was the fruit of the leisure hours of Matilda. The skill of the former was visible in the sofa-covers and the curtains; but the latter had decorated the card-racks,

and painted the roses on the hand-screens. The neat little book-cases too, which contained their respective libraries, suggested a similar remark. In that of the eldest we observed our native English worthies,→→→ Milton, Shakspeare, Dryden, and Pope: on the shelves of her sister reclined the more effeminate Italians, Tasso, Ariosto, Metastatio, and Petrarch. It was la delightful thing to see two amiable beings with tastes so widely different, yet with hearts so closely united.

It is not to be wondered at, that we paid a longer visit than we had originally intended. The conversation turned, at one time, upon the late revolutions. Matilda was a radical, and spoke most enthusiastically of tyranny and patriotism, the righteous cause, and the Holy Alliance. Emily, however, declined to join in commiseration or invective, and pleaded ignorance in excuse for her indifference. We fancy she was apprehensive of blundering against a stranger's political prejudices. However that may be, Matilda sighed, and talked, and Emily smiled, and held her tongue. We believe the silence was the most judicious; but we are sure the loquacity was most interesting.

We took up the newspaper: there was an account of a young man, who had gone out alone to the rescue of a vessel in distress. The design had been utterly hopeless, and he had lost his life in the attempt. His fate struck our fair friends in very different lights. "He ought to have had a better fortune," murmured Matilda; "or more prudence," added Emily. "He must have been a hero," said the first; "or a madman," rejoined the second.

The storm now died away in the distance, and a

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tranquil evening approached. We set out on our return. The old gentleman, with his daughters, accompanied us a small part of the way. The scene around us was beautiful; the birds and the cattle seemed to be rejoicing in the return of the sun-shine, and every herb and leaf had derived a brighter tint from the raindrops with which it was spangled. As we lingered for a few moments by the side of a beautiful piece of water, the mellowed sound of a flute was conveyed to us, over its clear surface. The instrument was delightfully played at such an hour, on such a spot, and with such companions, we could have listened to it for ever. "That is George Mervyn," said Morris to "How very clever he is!" exclaimed Matilda; "How very imprudent," replied Emily. "He will catch all the hearts in the place," said Sensibility, with a sigh; "He will catch nothing but a cold!" said Sense, with a shiver. We were reminded that our companions were running the same risk, and we parted from them reluctantly.


After this introduction, we had many opportunities of seeing them. We became every day more pleased with the acquaintance, and looked forward with regret to the day on which we were finally to leave so enchanting a neighbourhood. The preceding night, it was discovered that the cottage of Mr. Lowrie was on fire; the destructive element was soon checked, and the alarm quieted, but it produced a circumstance which illustrated, in a very affecting manner, the observations we have been making. As the family were greatly beloved by all who knew them, every one used the most affectionate exertions in their behalf. When

the father had been brought safely from the house, several hastened to the relief of the daughters. They were dressed, and were descending the stairs. The eldest, who had behaved with great presence of mind, was supporting her sister, who trembled with agitation. "Take care of this box," said Emily. It contained her father's title-deeds." "For heaven's sake, preserve this locket!" sobbed Matilda; it was a miniature of her mother!

We have left, but not forgotten you, beautiful creatures! Often, when we are sitting in solitude, with a pen behind our ear, and a proof before our eyes, you come, hand in hand, to our imagination! Some, indeed, enjoin us to prefer esteem to fascination ;-to write Sonnets to Sensibility, and to look for a wife in Sense. These are the suggestions of Age, perhaps, of Prudence. We are young, and may be allowed to shake our heads as we listen!

P. C.

The Etonian.


THIS Critique we have extracted from Bouterwek's History of Spanish and Portuguese Literature, as the subjet cderives an interest from its having been made a subject of controversy among the critics, since Voltaire attacked it. The present critique is rendered still more interesting by its originality, as the critic takes a view of the Lusiad different from that of all former commentators. The extract is so long, that

we cannot venture to lengthen it by any observations of our own, except that we agree, in general, with the views of the critic. There are, however, some positions to which we should object, and which we may notice at some future time, in treating on Portuguese literature, as we cannot, without considerably exceeding the limits which we have proposed to each article, treat of it here.-ED.

"The Lusiad of Camoens is a heroic poem ; but so essentially different, in the unity of the epic plan, from all other heroic poems, that to avoid falling into the unwarrantable misconception, with which this noble work is every where judged, except in Portugal and Spain, it is necessary, in considering it, to drop the ordinary rules of comparison, and to proceed on the general idea of epic poetry, unmodified by any prepossession for known models.* Camoens struck out a totally new path in the region of epopeia. The style of his poem is formed chiefly on the ancient models, and in his diction he has imitated the elegant stanzas

* Even the apology for Camoens, which precedes Mickle's version of the Lusiad, defeats itself, for the English translator makes the Homeric epic his standard, and, in order to justify the Lusiad, misconstrues the machinery of the Iliad. The remarks on the Lusiad, by Voltaire, in his Discours sur le Poeme Epique, are beneath criticism; and the judgment pronounced on this poem, by Von Junk, in the Introduction to his Portuguese Grammar, evinces a total want of poetic taste. No one should attempt a translation of the Lusiad, who does not possess an intimate acquaintance with the Portuguese language and poetry for it is otherwise impossible to seize the spirit of Camoens. The English translation by Mickle is, hitherto, the only one in which it can be said that, at least, the elegant dignity of Camoens' style is represented.

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