life, and by this means to arrive at some accurate information with regard to his past and present character.

Constantine is of the middle stature, robust, and well proportioned: his air is martial, and his deportment gentle or severe, according to circumstances: his manners are polished, and though sometimes rude, he can, at pleasure, conduct himself with the highest decorum. Notwithstanding the peculiarities of his features, his visage, upon the whole, presents a well-defined, bold, and severe outline, which well accords with his military taste; while a considerable developement of his forehead indicates the possession of natural talents-talents which have been greatly improved by study, diligence, and experience. It may be said that he is a well-informed prince, and perhaps his general knowledge of the affairs of state is not surpassed by that of many of his compeers of Europe. Therefore to call Constantine an ignoramus is quite preposterous, and to reckon him a savage or a barbarian betrays a total ignorance of the Tsesarévitch's character. If he is a barbarian,-though it may seem a paradox,-he is at least a civilized barbarian; in other words, if some of his past actions bear the stamp of barbarism, they were the actions of a civilized prince,-of a prince who, as we have seen, received a liberal education under the distinguished La Harpe and the talented Greek general, Kouruta, and of a prince who, at times, can conduct himself in the most polished manner, and with as much propriety as any of his equals in the world. The devotion of too much time to military occupations, the acquisition of a knowledge of the immense territories and the various nations of the Russian empire, and long protracted studies in the art of government, naturally prevented Constantine from giving much attention to the sciences, or to general literature; on which subjects he may be said to be behind his brother princes.

Constantine's rapidity of judgment and action, his caprice, his want of self-command, his impetuosity, and indeed his fury, in former days. were quite proverbial. Like his father Paul, he was not only a terror to evil-doers, but also to the most devoted and the best subjects of the state. His attaches well knew the temper of their master, and, like Paul's favourites, they turned his alternate paroxysms of displeasure and rage, of good humour and liberality, to their advantage. We are not aware, however, that in his moments of contrition and remorse Constantine was so liberal of his favours as Paul; but the difference may have arisen from the deficiency of the same means of indulging his whims. We have never heard this prince accused of ingratitude or neglect of his friends; on the contrary, some histories are related which show that he is possessed, at least at times, of kindness and generosity, and that his zeal has been equal to his professions. His vivacity, shrewdness, and penetration, his activity and vigilance, have been well remarked by his friends and by his court; and it cannot be questioned that he is endowed with energy of mind, an extensive capacity, decision of character, and firmness of resolution-qualities of incalculable value to the ruler of a great nation. He is very cunning, he well knows the arts of dissimulation, and his wonderful powers of imitation and mimicry have astonished both natives and foreigners. Strangers might imagine that, as the Emperor must be conscious of his naturally forbidding features, he would be backward to show his grimaces; but this is not the case; and probably the Tsesarévitch is of opinion that his visage is more pleasant under certain distortions than in a state of complete quiescence.

There cannot be a shadow of doubt respecting his sincere and tender fraternal love towards the late Autocrat, nor of his affection to the other members of the Imperial family; and his complete devotion to the Empress Mother is well known, and has often been the theme of admiration. Though of so violent and imperious a character, yet he is capable of affection and friendship; and that his heart is not unsusceptible to the pleasures of matrimonial felicity, is completely proved by the facts already recorded regarding his last marriage.

Constantine is said to be very jovial, pleasant, and social at table, and, in general, he is now abstemious as to diet, and moderate in his cups. Like Alexander, he knows little of music: his ear is not acute, nor was he permitted to devote much time to the cultivation of this accomplishment in his youth. Martial music, however, delights him; and he is one of the best and liveliest dancers we have ever seen. He likes all kinds of active employment and athletic amusements, which, no doubt, have contributed to the vigour of his constitution, and to the hardihood with which he bears exertion and privation, heat and cold, hunger and thirst. He rises at four o'clock in the morning, devotes much time to the arrangement of the affairs of the army, and daily occupies himself many hours in training, and manoeuvring, and reviewing his troops. He gives up the evening to his consort or a domestic circle, and generally retires to bed at an early hour.

In speaking of Constantine's failings and vices, excesses and cruelties, in his youthful days, we must not forget the disadvantageous circumstances under which he was reared at the corrupt and debased court of Catharine the Second, to which particular allusion has already been made in our sketch of the life of Alexander. Many of his faults may have sprung from his naturally impetuous constitution, his ignorance of the practice of good principles, and the inconsideration and inexperience of youth. Such a view is justified, in a considerable degree, by the great change which has taken place in his mode of life since his last marriage. Yet it must not be forgotten that he received instruc tions from a strictly virtuous and sincerely religious parent, the Empress Mother, whose conduct was worthy the imitation of her sex ;* nor must it be concealed, that though the late Emperor Alexander was placed in the same unfortunate circumstances with Constantine, yet that he, comparatively speaking, evinced but few of the vices of monarchs, or even of men in general. The excesses and infamous deeds of which Constantine stands accused, while they may be in some degree pal'liated by a consideration of the evil example of the court in which he moved in his youthful days, assume a still more reprehensible aspect when we class him among polished princes. It ought to be added that though he has given many proofs of his total want of self-command, yet that he has been often deceived and irritated by the false reports of courtiers and favourites; and a Pole has assured us, that, on occasions, when the truth was discovered, he has shown great compunction, has rewarded the injured, and that he has severely punished persons guilty of defamation and falsehood.

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* The reserved manner and chaste conduct of the Empress Mother and of the Dowager Empress can never be sufficiently praised, and must have had much influence on the court ladies during the last thirty years.

BRAMBLETYE HOUSE.*

A FEW years only have passed since an historical novel was held to be an inexcusable anomaly in all the established tribunals of criticism. It was argued, with irresistible gravity and according to the forms of demonstration, that all who attempted this species of composition must either accord with, or depart from history: if the first, they only wearied their readers with an old story, which had been better told before; if the last, they disturbed all previous associations, and took unwarrantable liberties with truth. A better reason for the public distaste than this logic might be found in the practice of the authors, or, more generally, authoresses, who made free with the great of old, " to point a moral or adorn a tale ;" for they either exaggerated and distorted the characters which they selected for their purpose, or glossed them over with a sentimental varnish, in which all the finer shades of distinction were lost, and the actual was rendered unreal. But it is the prerogative of genius to make laws and to break them-to establish the essential harmonies of its own nature as the rules of inferior spirits or to select for its sphere the ground considered as the least favourable to its purposes, and turn difficulties into materials. This has been done by the Author of Waverley, in reference to historical romance; he has demonstrated its practicability by his success; and has shown that the objections of cavillers have not been sustained by exhibitions of the true, but of the false; and that no style of writing is capable of more potent charms, than that which introduces us into the society of the celebrated persons of former times by the pleasant path of an individual story; which enables us to live along some lines of personal existence, in the very midst. of those stirring scenes, with the general aspect of which we have always been familiar; and to contemplate the characters and the events which stand out from the mist of years, at the hearty meal or the jovial fireside. As yet the bold enchanter has possessed almost solely the magic. circle which he has cleared, and within which he has called forth so many august forms, and exhibited so many high and festal pageants. But we have now to greet a new adventurer in the same field; one who is supported in his bold attempt by reputation as a wit and a poet; who, almost avowedly following the course of the Scottish novelist, will "not steal, but emulate" his excellencies; and whose work will be read by none with more pleasure than by him who has inspired it by his example. The time which our author has chosen, including the latter days of the Protectorate and the beginning of the restored Monarchy, is peculiarly adapted to the style in which he aspires to succeed. Such a period is, of necessity, full of striking contrasts: the fervid energy of democratic and religious zeal is seen in its most steady and decided exertions; and the profligacy of the court is exhibited, on the other hand, in its full-swollen pride, and joyous recklessness of the future. Both parties, disgusting or mischievous in reality, are peculiarly entertaining in fiction. Kings that gracefully play the devil, and turn the miseries they cause into merry jests, are delightful when they can neither tax nor imprison; witty libertines are harmless Merry-Andrews in classical

Brambletye House, or Cavaliers and Roundheads. By one of the autho's of Rejected Addresses.

prose; gay exploits, which would deserve the gallows, are simply enchanting as jeux-d'esprit ; and a Puritan's or a Covenanter's zeal is picturesque without being wearisome, when we are not bound to listen to his prayers. The heroes of the Bible or the ball are exactly suited to the prolonged representation of the novel, for the very reason that they are unfit subjects for the tragic muse; because the interest we feel for them depends mainly on the accurate detail of their peculiarities of expression and demeanour, which set off' or temper their excesses of passion or folly. These it is the peculiar province of the novelist to develope, as it is the first duty of the tragedian to discard. In the novel we should be charmed into personal sympathy with the characters by the nice exhibition of minute traits which realize them to our hearts; while in the drama, the incumbrances of ordinary life should be purged away, and high passions and actions-a whole world of thought and feeling, compressed into a few hours-should be presented to our view, softened only by such touches of the imagination as the struggling emotion may itself suggest and justify. Our author, therefore, in his choice of a subject has not shrunk from a fair trial; but, as became him, has dared nobly, and resolved either to fall at once or establish himself as a worthy competitor of his model,-for which the critics especially are bound to thank him.

There is something both impressive and picturesque in the opening of the novel. On a dark and gusty night of autumn, in the latter days of the Protectorate, a covered cart, attended by two men in arms, emerges in silence from Ashdown Forest, and proceeds toward Brambletye House, the residence of Sir John Compton, the most zealous, the most single-hearted, and the most imprudent of Cavaliers. Before the men reach the place of their destination they are joined by Sir John himself, whose joviality almost betrays them, and who conducts them to his mansion, not without incurring the ban of a mysterious female, who glides amidst the woodland, and vents on them sad and bitter curses. The cart contains, as shrewd readers may surmise, arms and ammunition prepared for a rising in favour of the exiled King, which are deposited in vaults beneath the mansion. The fearful work performed, we are fairly introduced to the honest Sir John Compton-a real English squire, true to his old wine, his old songs, and his old associations,-a Royalist from habit and prejudice, giving vent to the feeling of the instant, and entering on a conspiracy as on a chase. "This," as all experience proves, "will never do:" true plotters should be spare as Cassius; and the natural result is that, while our honest blade is hunting down the stag he has christened "Old Noll," and cheering on his royal hounds, called Rupert, Maurice, Digby, and other loyal names, his mansion is quietly possessed by a band of Cromwell's Ironsides, who ransack his armoury, eat his venison, and say a long grace in his hall. As the soldiers are holding their solemn feast, a young boy, the only son of their absent host, clad in green-the future hero of the tale-makes a spirited debut in a balcony, and, on hearing his father called "a malignant and a traitor," lets fly an arrow at Colonel Lilburn, the leader, which sticks quivering in the wall behind him. The gallant though petulant child is carried to London, while his father, warned of his danger, escapes towards the coast; and, after officiating as ostler at an inn, and passing through many perils, which we must pass over, arrives safely in France. Jocelyn, the child, who finds favour with Colonel

Lilburn, is carried by him to the court of the Protector, at Hampton; and we are introduced with him bodily into the presence of this plain master of kings, whose quiet power, exerted on others, and whose halfcrazy enthusiasm, when directed inward towards himself, we are made to feel. By his command the boy is consigned to the Gate-house, Westminster the prison facing the western entrance of the Abbey, the inmates of which present a sample of all the varieties of excess and phrenzy, which long-continued political and religious convulsion had produced. Among these, the pleasantest of the group, ever making" a sunshine in the shady place," are two poor players-one yet light-hearted and gay, seeking refuge from sorrow in bombast, his unwieldy, but not inefficient substitute for imagination, and contented if he can deck himself in some tattered remnant of tinselled finery, the emblem of grandeur and joy; the other, sunk into squalid sloth and sottishness, yet whose fixed and drunken eye is lighted up at the recollection of his old applauses, and who casts off stupor and misery like a garment, when he feels himself, for a little moment, once more an actor. These agreeable persons contrive to get up a play in the prison, and dress our hero to act Lady Macbeth, in which guise he is driven out of the prison by the gaoler-a farcical and unpleasing incident, which we wish expunged. After some adventures, not very well made out, he is taken on shipboard, and joins his father in France, by whom he is welcomed with a bottle of claret, the idea of which makes us thirsty. Together, the father and son repair to the court of Charles, at Bruges, where we become presently familiar with the frolicsome, graceful, and heartless prince, whose manners, associates, gaieties, and wants, are described to the life. After having been sent by the king on a mission, to obtain the picture of one of his mistresses, Sir John places his son at Paris, where he becomes as accomplished and as handsome as a hero should be; wins the friendship of the young Duke of Monmouth, by chastising the insolence of the Duke of Anjou; plays a very gallant part at a very pretty tournament patronized by the French king; and, looking up to the gallery of noble ladies, is fascinated by two large lustrous eyes, which haunt his thoughts till he afterwards discovers their fair proprietor to be perfection itself—and then, we grieve to say it, they enchant him no longer!

In the mean time, Charles is restored to the throne, and poor Sir John gets into a melancholy scrape; for he is drawn in by a middleaged Dutchwoman, supposed to be the widow of a fisherman, and who keeps lodgings, first to bring her to England as his mistress, and afterwards, in the due course of such proceedings, to make her his wife. The costume and manners of this creature are powerfully, though somewhat coarsely delineated; and the way in which she domineers over her husband, reduces him from his favorite beverage to small beer, and contrives to pocket all his cash before it comes to his hands, is painted with a reality which makes one tingle. His son returns home to obtain a restitution of his estates from the careless and thoughtless sovereign for whom he lost them, and takes to court a graceful demeanour, and skill in singing and playing, which are more important than a good cause. Here he is brought out in due theatrical style by Rochester; appointed Vice-chamberlain to the neglected Queen; resents the insult cast on her by the introduction of Lady Castlemaine at her party; fights a duel with the Duke of Buckingham's favourite ; takes refuge at Walthamstow, and is saved by old Izaac Walton, who