ART. V. Tales of the Crusaders. By the Author of "Waverley," &c. 4 Vols. Small 8vo. Edinburgh, Constable and Co.; London, Hurst, Robinson, and Co. 1825.

SELDOM, we believe, has the tantalization of “hope delayed" been more severely felt among novel-readers than during the interval between the announcement and the appearance of The Crusaders.' So much have we become accustomed to regard these Tales as emanations of the periodical press, that any interruption to their return any deficiency in the wonted complement of six volumes per annum-immediately strikes us as a sort of breach of contract, and an unfair abridgment of those pleasures which Gray considered as no bad type of the joys of Paradise.

The very name of 'The Tales of the Crusaders' prepares the mind for pompous exhibitions. Palestine and its borders, equally rich in sacred and chivalrous associations, the cradle, as it were, of the human race, abounding with all that nature displays of either the beautiful, the magnificent, or the terrible, whether we contemplate the barbaric grandeur of their phylarchal days, their remains of desolate cities, their hills and vales, trod by heavenly feet, and linked with our earliest and deepest feelings, — their delightful plains, watered by those streams whose names are so familiar to our earsJordan and Arnon; Abana and Pharphar, "rivers of Damascus:" — these, with their neighbouring rocks, and lakes, and caves; their cedar groves and sandy deserts, crowding before us, offer an assemblage of eventful scenes and divine visions for description, such as no other portion of the earth could call together.

Nor is the moral aspect of the Crusades less suited to the powers of the novelist than the physical character and importance of the country which was the scene of these enthusiastic expeditions. The mighty and almost miraculous impulse so suddenly communicated to the discordant states of Europe; the strange abandonment of all disputes, and the cessation of all mutual enmities; an anomalous confederacy to effect a purpose which promised no increase of power or accession of territory, but which derived its importance solely from its connection with the common feelings of religion; the incongruous mixture of theoretical piety and benevolence with practical immorality and ferocity which constituted the bands of the Crusaders; the subsequent abatement of that glow of enthusiasm which had been kindled in the Council of Clermont, and kept alive by momentary success; the petty interests and worldly feelings which gradually crept into and divided the camp; the oppo

site peculiarities of national character in an army which numbered in its ranks the troops of almost every state of Europe: - all these, and a thousand other images, "begin to throng into the memory" when we read this spirit-stirring title; and it is with pleasure we add, that some of these volumes, in which the author has

"Revelled among men and things divine,

And poured his spirit over Palestine,"

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will realize the brightest of our imaginations and recollections. The work consists of two tales of most unequal merit; one intitled The Betrothed,' the other The Talisman.' The former is really a dull tale; and without going far in search of it, the cause, we think, is at once apparent. We feel the less delicacy in thus characterizing this piece, finding. our opinion borne out, as it is, by that of a very competent, judge; namely, the author himself; who, in a whimsical introduction, has fairly avowed as much as we have expressed. It is not a tale of the Crusaders. The scene never shifts from England and Wales. Its only connection with the East, is, that the hero, the Constable of Chester, is obliged, in consequence of a vow, to pay a three years' visit to the Holy, Land. The whole story suggests the idea of difficulty and labor; and looks as if a bold design had faded into a cold and feeble picture as if the spirit of composition had been, suddenly paralyzed by one of those visitations of languor those mental siroccos- by which the delicate constitution of the imagination may sometimes be affected. Be this as it may, certain it is, that the incidents in The Betrothed' are neither very interesting nor very original. By loitering at home the author has narrowed his field of display, and has been reduced to the employment of materials to which even his powerful mind has found it no easy matter to impart novelty and effect. The principal characters in the piece have little hold on our sympathies. The only two personages, on whom the author has bestowed any distinctive traits, a Flemish artizan and his daughter, are too slightly connected with the story to excite any regard for themselves. That the tale possesses, even defective as it is, much of that masterly ease and natural coloring which characterize the artist, it is almost unnecessary to say: but it is, in every respect, so inferior to its companion, that we shall act wisely, we think, in turning, at once, to a strain of, indeed, a higher mood. The transition from the coldness of The Betrothed' to the brilliancy and warmth of The Talisman' is like turning from one of Tenier's pictures, with its cloudy skies and dull REV. JUNE, 1825.

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hazy grey tint, to the bright glow which is poured over the evenings of Claude. Here every thing is new and wonderful. The very style partakes of the influence of the clime, and glows with figurative and Oriental ardor. The descriptions have all the vivacity and freshness of the first touch. The incidents are, at once, striking and natural. All the grandeur, the beauty, and the nakedness of the land is spread before us; and, though slightly, the author has touched with the hand of a master the solemn associations connected with the birth-place and sojourn of the Son of Mary.

"Dove mori, dove sepolto fue

Dove poi rivesti le membra sue."

Peopled with all the splendor and picturesque array of the East and West, we behold this Syrian landscape laid open to our view. The chivalry of Arabia and Europe are opposed to each other; and a brilliant procession of eastern rulers, dervises, Arabs, Christian emperors, kings, chiefs, knights, and followers, passes with most imposing grandeur before our eyes. Never, perhaps, was life and reality more completely lent to the skeletons of history; never could we be more completely brought to feel that so the royal and noble leaders of this religious pageant must have lived, and moved, and had their being;-that such must have been their thoughts, their plans, their amusements, their loves, their jealousies, their very mode of speech and action! Never could the effect of such pomps and spectacles have been more perfectly represented than in the masterly descriptions here exhibited of the camp of the Crusaders. The cautious Philip of France, the coarsely obtuse Austria, the cold-hearted, ambitious Grand Master of the Templars, the supple, politic, and treacherous Marquis of Montserrat,—are opposed to each other with all the bold distinctness yet unforced simplicity of nature; while over all moves, like a lowering cloud, the presiding spirit of Richard Cœur de Lion, — the Rinaldo of this Crusade, hated by some, envied by others, but commanding all by the force of his character and his talents. At one moment we see him asserting or regaining, by some trait of greatness or generosity, his habitual ascendancy over the minds of his compeers, only to lose it the next by some extravagant ebullition of anger, or some unprovoked insult: yet all along redeeming his follies and faults by so much courage, good feeling, and address, that we look upon him with mingled feelings of pity and admiration. Richard is, in fact, the centre of interest, the object on which the attention

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attention of all the personages of the tale is fixed from first to last.

"Dolcemente feroce alzar vedresti

La regal fronte - e in lui mirar sol hitte.

The different radii of the story are made to tend, with great art, towards this centre; and the fortunes of the hero, who in this case possesses much of the spirit and vivacity of Quentin Durward, are very naturally linked with those of the King. But it is time to proceed a little more methodically.

It is only necessary to premise, in order to render the following incidents intelligible, that the hero, Sir Kenneth, a Scottish knight in the camp of Richard, of good family, of course, but without fortune, has dared to lift his thoughts to the Lady Edith Plantagenet, the cousin of Richard; and that his passion, if not approved, had not been discouraged by the object of his ambitious love. The tale introduces us to the young knight as he is riding along the dreary shores of the Dead Sea, charged with missives from the council of the Crusaders to a holy hermit residing at the grotto of Engaddi.

'Crossing himself, as he viewed the dark mass of rolling waters, in colour as in quality unlike those of every other lake, the traveller shuddered as he remembered, that beneath these sluggish waves lay the once proud cities of the plain whose grave was dug by the thunder of the heavens, or the eruption of subterraneous fire, and whose remains were hid, even by that sea which holds no living fish in its bosom, bears no skiff on its surface, and, as if its own dreadful bed were the only fit receptacle for its sluggish waters, sends not, like other lakes, a tribute to the ocean. The whole land around, as in the days of Moses, was "brimstone and salt; it is not sown, nor beareth, nor any grass groweth thereon;" the land as well as the lake may be termed dead, as producing nothing having resemblance to vegetation, and even the very air was entirely devoid of its ordinary winged inhabitants, deterred probably by the odour of bitumen and sulphur which the burning sun exhaled from the waters of the lake, in steaming clouds, frequently assuming the appearance of water-spouts. Masses of the slimy and sulphureous substance called naphtha, which floated idly on the sluggish yet sullen waves, supplied those rolling clouds with new vapours, and seemed to give awful testimony to the truth of the Mosaic history.

Upon this scene of desolation the sun shone with almost intolerable splendour, and all living nature appeared to have hidden itself from the rays, excepting the solitary figure which moved through the flitting sand at a foot's pace, and appeared the sole breathing thing on the wide surface of the plain. The dress of the rider, and the accoutrements of his horse, seemed also chosen on purpose, as most peculiarly unfit for the traveller in such a coun

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try. A coat of linked mail, with long sleeves, plated gauntlets and a steel breast-plate, had not been esteemed a sufficient weight of armour. There was also his triangular shield suspended round his neck, and his barred helmet of steel, over which flowed a hood and collar of mail, which was drawn around the warrior's shoulders and throat, and filled up the vacancy between the hauberk and the head-piece. His lower limbs were sheathed, like his body, in flexible mail, securing the legs and thighs, while the feet rested in plated shoes, which corresponded with the gauntlets. A long, broad, straight-shaped, double-edged falchion, with a handle formed like a cross, corresponded with a stout poniard on the other side. Secured to his saddle with one end resting on his stirrup, the knight had his proper weapon, the long steel-headed lance, which, as he rode, projected backwards and displayed its little pennoncelle to dally with the faint breeze, or drop in the dead calm. To this cumbrous equipment must be added a surcoat, as it was called, of embroidered cloth, much frayed and worn, which was thus far useful, that it excluded the burning rays of the sun from the armour, which they would otherwise have rendered intolerable to the wearer. The surcoat bore, in several places, the arms of the owner, although much defaced. These seemed to be a couchant leopard, with the motto, "I sleep-wake me not." An outline of the same device might have been traced on his shield, though many a blow had almost effaced the painting. The flat top of his cumbrous cylindrical helmet was unadorned with any crest. In retaining their own unwieldly defensive armour, the northern Crusaders seemed to set at defiance the nature of the climate and country in which they were come to war.'

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The solitude of the desert is suddenly broken by the ap-. proach of a Saracen cavalier, evidently on hostile thoughts intent." The knight, not less inclined for warfare, couches his lance; and an extraordinary combat ensues, which is described with uncommon vivacity and force. Each champion satisfied with the skill, the strength, and the bravery of the other, the Saracen proposes a truce; and the pair, so lately hostile, sit down together to their meridian repast by the side of a well-spring in the desert, with all the mutual confidence described in the fine apostrophe of Ariosto. After their repast, which on the part of the knight consists of pork and wine, and which elicits some symptoms of disapprobation from the Mahomedan warrior, they set out together for the grotto of Engaddi, dispelling the dreary route across the desert by conversations on various subjects. They unexpectedly meet the hermit near his residence, by whom they are conducted to the cavern. Sir Kenneth, who had obtained some information from his fellow-traveller as to the singular character borne by the hermit, is prepared to expect some strange scenes in the grotto, and is not disappointed. He is awakened