the perspective; and, as she passed these pillars, she feared to turn her eyes toward them, almost expecting to see a figure start out from behind their broad shaft. She reached, however, the vaulted gallery without interruption, but unclosed its outer door with a trembling hand, and, charging Annette not to quit it, and to keep it a little open, that she might be heard if she called, she delivered to her the lamp, which she did not dare to take herself, because of the men on watch, and, alone, stepped out upon the dark terrace. Everything was so still, that she feared lest her own light steps should be heard by the distant sentinels, and she walked cautiously towards the spot, where she had before met Barnardine, listening for a sound, and looking onward through the gloom in search of him. At length, she was startled by a deep voice, that spoke near her, and she paused, uncertain whether it was his, till it spoke again, and she then recognized the hollow tones of Barnardine, who had been punctual to the moment, and was at the appointed place, resting on the rampart wall. After chiding her for not coming sooner, and saying, that he had been waiting nearly half an hour, he desired Emily, who made no reply, to follow him to the door, through which he had entered the terrace.

While he unlocked it, she looked back to that she had left, and, observing the rays of the lamp stream through a small opening, was certain that Annette was still there. But her remote situation could little befriend Emily, after she had quitted the terrace; and, when Barnardine unclosed the gate, the dismal aspect of the passage beyond, shewn by a torch burning on the pavement, made her shrink from following him alone, and she refused to go, unless Annette might accompany her. This, however, Barnardine absolutely refused to permit, mingling at the same time with his refusal such artful circumstances to heighten the pity and curiosity of Emily towards her aunt, that she, at length, consented to follow him alone to the portal.

He then took up the torch, and led her along the passage, at the extremity of which he unlocked another door, whence they descended, a few steps, into a chapel, which, as Barnardine held up the torch to light her, Emily observed to be in ruins, and she immediately recollected a former conversation of Annette, con

cerning it, with very unpleasant emotions. She looked fearfully on the almost roofless walls, green with damps, and on the gothic points of the windows, where the ivy and the briony had long supplied the place of glass, and ran mantling among the broken capitals of some columns, that had once supported the roof. Barnardine stumbled over the broken pavement, and his voice, as he uttered a sudden oath, was returned in hollow echoes, that made it more terrific. Emily's heart sank; but she still followed him, and he turned out of what had been the principal aisle of the chapel. Down these steps, lady, said Barnardine, as he descended a flight, which appeared to lead into the vaults; but Emily paused on the top, and demanded, in a tremulous tone, whither he was conducting her.

To the portal, said Barnardine.

Cannot we go through the chapel to the portal? said Emily.

No, Signora, that leads to the inner court, which I don't choose to unlock. This way, and we shall reach the outer court presently.

Emily still hesitated: fearing not only to go on, but, since she had gone thus far, to irritate Barnardine by refusing to go farther.

Come, lady, said the man, who had nearly reached the bottom of the flight, make a little haste; I cannot wait here all night.

Whither do these steps lead? said Emily, yet pausing.

To the portal, repeated Barnardine, in an angry tone; I will wait no longer. As he said this, he moved on with the light, and Emily, fearing to provoke him by farther delay, reluctantly followed. From the steps, they proceeded through a passage, adjoining the vaults, the walls of which were dropping with unwholesome dews; and the vapours, that crept along the ground, made the torch burn so dimly that Emily expected every moment to see it extinguished, and Barnardine could scarcely find his way. As they advanced, these vapours thickened, and Barnardine, believing the torch was expiring, stopped for a moment to trim it. As he then rested against a pair of iron gates that opened from the passage, Emily saw, by uncertain flashes of light, the vaults beyond, and near her, heaps of earth, that seemed to surround

IF

ROBERT HALL.

Robert Hall, the most renowned of modern dissenting preachers, was born in 1764. A Baptist by denomination, he ministered at Bristol and elsewhere; his sermons were of a more political tone than is usual with Anglican divines, but on the whole were distinguished by moderation and good sense, as well as by a certain eloquence and by respectable scholarship. He died in 1831.

REFLEXIONS ON WAR.

F you had wished to figure to yourselves a country which had reached the utmost pinnacle of prosperity, you would undoubtedly have turned your eyes to France, as she appeared a few years before the revolution; illustrious in learning and genius; the favourite abode of the arts, and the mirror of fashion, whither the flower of the nobility from all countries resorted, to acquire the last polish of which the human character is susceptible. Lulled in voluptuous repose, and dreaming of a philosophical millennium, without dependence upon God, like the generation before the flood, "they ate, they drank, they married, they were given in marriage." In that exuberant soil every thing seemed to flourish, but religion and virtue. The season, however, was at length arrived, when God was resolved to punish their impiety, as well as to avenge the blood of His servants, whose souls had for a century been incessantly crying to Him from under the altar. And what method did He employ for this purpose? When He to whom vengeance belongs, when He whose ways are unsearchable, and whose wisdom is inexhaustible, proceeded to the execution of this strange work, He drew from His treasures a

weapon He had never employed before. Resolving to make their punishment as signal as their crimes, He neither let loose an inundation of barbarous nations, nor the desolating powers of the universe: He neither overwhelmed them with earthquakes, nor visited them with pestilence. He summoned from among themselves a ferocity more terrible than either; a ferocity which, mingling in the struggle for liberty, and borrowing aid from that very refinement to which it seemed to be opposed, turned every man's hand against his neighbour, sparing no age, nor sex, nor rank, till, satiated with the ruin of greatness, the distresses of innocence, and the tears of beauty, it terminated its career in the most unrelenting despotism. "Thou art righteous, O Lord, which art, and which was, and which shall be, because Thou hast judged thus, for they have shed the blood of saints and prophets, and Thou hast given them blood to drink, for they are worthy."

Sermons.

T

THAT

SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH.

Sir James Mackintosh was born at Aldourie in 1765, and died in 1832. An orator, a lawyer, a moral philosopher, a historian, a politician, and a journalist, Mackintosh may, perhaps, be thought to have scattered his energies too much. Nor is any one part of his work very thorough or very brilliant. For facility and variety, however, combined with a certain competence, he ranks very high among miscellanists.

CHIVALRY.

'HAT system of manners which arose among the Gothic nations of Europe, and of which chivalry was more properly the effusion than the source, is without doubt one of the most peculiar and interesting appearances in human affairs. The moral causes which formed its character have not, perhaps, been hitherto investigated with the happiest success: but chivalry was certainly one of the most prominent of its features and most remarkable of its effects. Candour must confess, that this singular institution was not admirable only as the corrector of the ferocious ages in which it flourished; but that in contributing to polish and soften manners it paved the way for the diffusion of knowledge and the extension of commerce, which afterwards, in some measure, supplanted it. Society is inevitably progressive. Commerce has overthrown the "feudal and chivalrous system" under whose shade it first grew; while learning has subverted the superstition whose opulent endowments had first fostered it. Peculiar circumstances connected with the manners of chivalry favoured this admission of commerce and this growth of knowledge; while the sentiments peculiar to it, already enfeebled in