very interesting. The tone of the piece too is sustained with a rich and romantic equability. The scene where Ion shows the architecture and statues of the vestibule to the admiring Athenian visitants, while the sun is shining over the Parnassian cliffs on the fuming myrrh of the altars, opens the drama with imposing beauty; and its joyous recognition closes it worthily.

On the whole, Euripides brought an accession of impassioned interest and fanciful novelty to dramatic art. He was the first who made love the subject of tragedy, and he delineated madness with fresh and masterly originality. The fearful gaiety of Cassandra, in the Troades, bursting in on the other tragic sufferers, is like lightning aggravating a midnight shipwreck. There is not an affection of our nature, from its fondest to its fiercest mood, which his language has not traced with the shape of truth and the colouring of sensibility. Either from his defective management, or from there being something in the Greek theatre uncongenial with the change which he introduced of making passion, more than destiny, the main-spring of tragic action, he certainly left his native drama in its kind less perfect than he found it. But he enlarged the resources of dramatic poetry, and it must be considered as importantly his debtor.

KIT-CAT SKETCHES.-NO. IV.
London Remanets.

In the Metropolitan Court of Hymen, only a certain number of causes can be tried during the season. In a considerable portion of them the plaintiffs are nonsuited: now and then a juror is withdrawn ; and sometimes they go off by consent. Notwithstanding all this, the suits are so numerous, that those which are set down late become Remanets. Mrs. M'Tangle and family are still sojourning in Russellplace, Fitzroy-square. All the rest of the world (that is to say, all the individuals in Mrs. M'Tangle's visiting-book) are out of town. The Partingtons are stalking, at the rate of sixpence a head, upon the upper pier at Margate: the Fergusons are at the Plough at Cheltenham the Fairfields superinspect the new steps now constructing in the cliff at Ramsgate, vice Jacob's Ladder superannuated: Colonel and Mrs. Nightingale hum duetts on Sion Hill, Tunbridge Wells: and the Honourable Lieutenant-colonel Ogle perforates hearts, like one of Homer's charioteers, from his tilbury, round the Steine at Brighton, every day from three to five. But Mr. Mrs. and three Miss M'Tangles continue in Russell-place, Fitzroy-square. In other words, the

M'Tangles are London Remanets.

"What can be the reason of this?" is the question pretty generally put by husbands to wives, and by wives to husbands: who, if they are attached at all, must be held, upon these occasions, to be "attached for want of answer." None of them know the secret; I do. Mrs. M'Tangle is a very clever woman, and must be supposed to have a reason for what she does. As to Mr. M'Tangle, he is nobody; which, to be sure, is generally the case in families where the wife is somebody. I never knew the world to admit both husband and wife to be clever people. In this respect they are like Chelsea water-works: when one

is up, the other is down. M'Tangle is by no means a fool, when you get him into a corner. A little too apt, indeed, to talk about the Corn Laws, but in other respects I should call him an endurable sort of a body; and his prudence is proverbial. During the heat of last summer, he is said to have tied up his wheelbarrow, because a mad dog had snapped at it. And yet when the wife is mentioned, people always cry him down. When I marry, I mean to choose rather a stupid woman. Akin to this prejudice is that of supposing that one person cannot be clever in two pursuits. Parke, the oboe-player, was caught by a friend playing on the fiddle: "For heaven's sake," exclaimed the orifice-puffer, "don't mention it again; if the town knew that I played upon two instruments, they would never give me the credit of excelling on either."

Men always sympathize with the sufferings of girls, more than those of their own sex. "Really, my dear, I pity those poor girls, the M'Tangles," said Mr. Partington to his lady, as he peeped through his telescope on the Margate Pier-head, in the vain hope of catching a little smoke in the horizon, from which to infer the coming of the Eclipse steam-vessel: "there they are broiling in town this whole blessed summer-you should ask one of them down." So saying, Mr. Partington tilted his Chinese straw-hat a little more over his brow to shade his eyes from the burning glare of Phoebus. "Why as to that, my dear," answered the wife, "we have daughters of our own to dispose of: and don't you remember how Sally M'Tangle took the first in the duett of Con un Aria' with Colonel Nightingale, after he had tried it with our daughter Fanny, and had found that the poor girl could not get on with it?—I have never had a good opinion of the family since." This, of course, settled the matter.-A word with Mr. Partington about his phrase "broiling in town." I am a town man myself, and think it my duty to stand up for my own metropolis. Why should the M'Tangles broil, because they happen to be in town? For my part I can only say that, when I was last at Ramsgate, I was broiled pretty handsomely. I took a walk upon the Light-house Pier, and a very light-house pier it was my face was like Lord Kelly's, whom Foote solicited to look over his garden-wall to ripen his melons: Saint Laurence was a sprat to me. On my return to town, I took a boat from Cherry-garden Stairs to Whitehall: to do which I had to walk down Botolph-lane. The street was delightfully narrow: the sun could not enter, but a column of air could: and I was regaled by the grateful scent of oranges and lemons in the adjoining warehouses. Let us hear no more of broiling in town. From that time forth I have always set down my cause as a London Remanet.-The fact is, that Mrs. M'Tangle has let me into her confidence, knowing that I never publish. I met her, of all places in the world, in a private box at the Adelphi Theatre, witnessing the representation of Long Tom Coffin, by Mr. T. P. Cooke; and a very clever representation it is. "You never come near us now," ejaculated Mrs. M'Tangle in one of her most mellifluent moods. Knowing that I was past praying for in the matrimonial line, I felt puzzled to account for this sudden predilection. However, it was settled that I should dine with her on the Wednesday following, when I accordingly met three or four young men a great deal too young for me, but by no means too

young for the Mesdemoiselles M'Tangle. We had the usual lures. Tom Gisborne, who had made a good deal of money by Mexican Scrip, was asked by Miss M'Tangle if he would not have some love sauce with his muffin pudding. George Juniper, a rising wine and brandy merchant, sang after dinner, "My spirits are mounting, my heart's full of glee," (Cause and effect in one line,) which Jane M'Tangle pronounced to be the best song she ever heard in her life; and Sarah, the youngest, undismayed by her former failure in "Con un Aria," consented to take the first in the "Witches Glee," composed by King, if Mr. Parsons (son and heir of Sir Peregrine Parsons) would take the second. I found, by comparing little circumstances together, that they had been conning it over for weeks: and I now discovered the secret of Mrs. M'Tangle's adoration of me at the Adelphi Theatre: I had observed Jane whispering her mother between the acts significantly, and had overheard the words "Sings a base." I thought at the moment that this was meant to apply to Long Tom Coffin, but I now found that I was the hero of the side-speech, and that I had been complimented with a knife and fork in Russell-place, in order to grumble out, "When the Hurly burly's done." Being in the main a good-natured man when nothing occurs to vex me, I made no objection, and away we started with "When shall we three meet again," as loud as if nothing had happened. After this, I left the three girls tumbling over their music-books in quest of "O Patria ingrata!" "You will find it among the loose songs," said Jane to Sarah, where, it occurred to me, it had no business to be. It farther occurred to me, that my base being ended, and there being three girls and three young men, exclusive of the author, I was one too many. Accordingly kind Mrs. M'Tangle called me into the adjoining drawing-room, to get me out of harm's way and I left the half dozen young ones pinned two and two, as young ones should, looking over operas, and hoping that Velluti was not going to leave us.

66

Mrs. M'Tangle now let me a little into her plan. I took my seat by her on the sofa; and, while a crimson ottoman propped her feet, she opened after the following fashion :-" This is the third year of my continuance in town during the summer. After a pretty regular run of the watering-places, I found them all, from July to September, overstocked with other people's daughters, possessed of greater personal attractions than mine. One warm morning I was conning the matter over with Mr. M'Tangle, at Donaldson's Library, when it suddenly occurred to me, that London in the autumn, from the absence of competitors, would give the girls a reasonable chance. I mentioned the matter to Mr. M'Tangle, who caught at the idea with alacrity. Poor man! he never liked the sea-side. The sun put out his eyes; and the absence of his ledger and day-book gave him the yellow jaundice. We accordingly resolved to adhere to Russell-place, Fitzroy-square, through good and evil report, from year's end to year's end. The scheme has, I am glad to say, hitherto succeeded. Young men are delighted with a dinner invitation in September and October; and when you once have them, you keep them."-" True," answered I, "but what species of young men? People of fashion are killing game a hundred miles off."-" People of fashion! people of fiddlestick!" retorted Mrs. M'Tangle," I have no taste for the Lord Charleses and Lord Johns. Give me income. There is a considerable portion of good

marriageable material in the Excise and Customs, and about the Royal Exchange. People occupied there must be in town during a great part of the autumnal season. I have procured two sons-in-law already, who came hither a courting, with their legs pendent from the top of the Tallyho Paddington coach. On their descent, they had only to cross Fitzroy-square, and here they were. You may rely upon it, Sir, the true way of attaching society is to give people dinners when nobody else will."" I highly approve of your plan, Madam," answered İ, rising to take my leave. "I will recommend its adoption to Alderman Hungerford, now on his travels in Greece in quest of Liberty and the picturesque. He has seven marriageable daughters. Our young countrymen are flocking to Athens in shoals-a dinner party in the Acropolis will infallibly do the business."

THE TOR HILL.*

THIS novel is, as we anticipated, superior to Brambletye House; not in the absence of positive faults, but in the exhibition of higher beauties. Both works have imperfections, which are manifest on the most cursory perusal; but both are redeemed by felicitous traits of character, gleams of feeling and humour, and abundant brilliancy of description. In the work before us, as in its predecessor, there are occasional failures, arising from a desire to produce violent effects; but the interest is more condensed and sustained; the incidents are thrown into greater masses; and there is a unity of design and general consistency of execution, which, in the earlier romance, were wanting. Brambletye House was too much a succession of scenes—always animated indeed, and always fascinating; but somewhat too slenderly connected with each other; so that, although peculiarly amusing in perusal, the work did not leave behind an impression of power nearly equal to that actually exerted. In "The Tor Hill," our author has done himself more justice; he has reduced the number of his figures, to render them more distinct and palpable; and has completed a picture of more definite outline, and more solemn and decided colouring.

The period of history, into the heart of which we are introduced, is rich in the materials of romance. It is a portion of the reign of Henry the Eighth, commencing a little before the Reformation, and extending beyond that great event, by which the slumbering intellect of England was roused into action. The momentous changes of the political world at the time are not, indeed, presented in the foreground; the immediate objects of our interest are of a personal and domestic cast; but we hear the roar in the distance, and catch an occasional glimpse of the struggling passions and terrific actions of the public sphere through the vista. of individual fortunes. One splendid picture we have of the more than kingly state of Wolsey; and some vivid glances at his atrocious master; but the energy of the Cardinal is rather shown in its results than its circumstances, and the crimes of the sovereign are touched only with indignant brevity. In

"The Tor Hill. By the Author of 'Brambletye House,' 'Gaieties and Gravities,' &c." 3 vols.

the picture, however, to which we allude, we see before us, moving about with all the distinctness of reality, the magnificent cardinal himself; the luxurious monarch; Anna Boleyn in the young pride of her loveliness; and the melancholy and ill-used queen, Catherine of Arragon. Had we been existing at the time, and present on the spot, we could hardly have witnessed the manœuvres of these famous individuals more completely than we have been enabled to do by the necromancy of the novelist, who has evoked their departed figures, and commanded them to stay till we have gazed our fill, and to act over again the scenes which have been buried under the weight of three hundred years! There is Henry gloating at the fresh court-beauty, who, little thinking she was about to marry her murderer, is bridling and exulting under his amorous glances; while the poor faded queen, by engaging her rival at a game of cards, is contriving to expose to the notice of the king one or two trifling blemishes in her person.

The foreground of the novel is occupied by two objects, each noble in its kind, and both, with strict adherence to local truth, brought into a single scene: the proud Castle of the Tor, cresting the dark and lofty eminence, and bespeaking the iron power and reckless disposition of its master; and the glorious Abbey of Glastonbury, fairest image of mild ecclesiastical grandeur, with its rich and lovely domains, soon to be laid waste by the arm of the spoiler. Here is a fine opportunity for a contrasted picture, of which the author has generally made full use; though he is evidently more at home in the valley than on the mountain. His scenes in the castle are well conceived, and adorned with the results of much antiquarian study; but there is an effort apparent in the execution; while the author luxuriates, with evident delight, among the gentle pastures of the abbey; breathes a tender atmosphere of sentiment over its venerable towers; and makes us listen, subdued with him, to the divine harmonies which echo through its aisles.

To detail the plot of a novel, which will shortly be in every body's hands, is one of the worst abuses of the critical function; for the abstract itself is necessarily dry, and yet it spoils the original for the reader. We shall, therefore, avoid the dull anticipation of a pleasing reality, and devote the little room we have to spare to a few remarks on the chief characters by whom the action of the work is sustained, and the leading peculiarities of thought and feeling which it developes.

The first personage introduced to our notice is Sir Giles Hungerford, Governor of one of the gates of Calais-a spirited sketch of a stout-hearted and most obstinate knight-who is mortally wounded in the cheek by an arrow while leading a band of marauders into the French frontier to avenge the fate of a number of their associates who had been surrounded and cut to pieces. There is a painful vividness in the description of the alternate butcheries, which we attribute to a shrinking dislike of warfare, inducing the author to slight its " pride, pomp, and circumstance," and to dwell on its physical and unalleviated horrors. Hence the scene changes to Somersetshire, where Dudley, the nephew of Sir Giles, seeks the Tor House, his uncle's mansion, to fulfil the dying wishes of his late protector. Here, after a romantic journey, and some marvellous adventures among the Mendip Hills, we become guests at the alehouse of Sib Fawcett, "The Tables," in the good city of