Next morning we had a skirmish, in which I received this wound in the knee; and soon afterwards, with other invalids, I was ordered home. We were landed at Portsmouth, and I proceeded to my native village. But in this I had no will nor choice; a chain was around me, which I could not resist, drawing me on. Often did I pause and turn, wishing to change my route; but Fate held me fast, and I was enchanted by the spell of many an old and dear recollection, to revisit those things which had lost all their innocence and holiness to me.

The day had been sultry, the sun set with a drowsy eye, and the evening air was moist, warm, and oppressive. It weighed heavily alike on mind and body. I was crippled by my wound,—the journey was longer than my strength could sustain much further,—still I resolved to persevere, for I longed to be again in my father's house; and I fancied were I once there, that the burning in my bosom would abate.

During my absence in India, the new road across the common had been opened. By the time I reached it, the night was closed in,—a dull, starless, breezeless, dumb, sluggish, and unwholesome night; and those things which still retained in their shapes some blackness, deeper than the darkness, seemed, as I slowly passed by, to be endowed with mysterious intelligence, with which my spirit would have held communion but for dread.

While I was frozen with the influence of this dreadful phantasy, I saw a pale, glimmering, ineffectual light rising before me. It was neither lamp, fire, nor candle; and though like, it was not yet flame. I took it at first for the lustre of a reflection from some unseen light, and I walked towards it, in the hope of finding a cottage or an alehouse, where I might obtain some refreshment and a little rest. I advanced,—its form enlarged, but its beam became no brighter; and the horror, which had for a moment left me when it was first discovered, returned with overwhelming power. I rushed forward, but soon halted,—for I saw that it hung in the air, and as I approached, that it began to take a ghastly and spectral form! I discerned the lineaments of a head, and the hideous outlines of a shapeless anatomy. I stood rivetted to the spot; for I thought that I saw behind it, a dark and vast thing, in whose hand it was held forth. In that moment, a voice said,—"It is Winlaw the murderer; his bones often, in the moist summer nights, shine out in this way; it is thought to be an acknowledgment of his guilt, for he died protesting his innocence."—The person who addressed me was your Honor's gamekeeper, and the story I have told, is the cause of my having desired him to bring me here.

(To be concluded in the next Supplement.)

We have also received for notice Two Religious Annuals—the Iris and Emmanuel; both which shall appear in our Second Supplement to be published within two or three weeks.

Two Juvenile Annuals—the Keepsake and Forget-me-not, have likewise the same claim on our attention. These works, with two or three others not yet published, will form another sheet of interesting extract.

We thank the Correspondent who has forwarded to us a notice of The Sylph, a Musical Annual, which justice to ourselves and the public forbids us to insert, as we have not yet seen the work in question and are consequently unable to judge of the writer's criticism. Humble and unheeded as our opinions of New Works may be, we are always ready to prove that no undue influence is used in the adjudication of their merits. This has uniformly been our maxim, and our success is the best criterion of its policy.

1

See Gibbon's "Decline and Fall," chap. 39, for the general conduct of Theodoric in Italy.

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2

Tiraboschi, book i.

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3

We have abridged this tale to suit our limits, though we trust not at the expense of the interest of the author. The style is rich and tender, and well suited to this class of works, although we cannot help thinking some of the details unnecessarily protracted. In the volume it occupies 22 pages.

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4

Vide Catal Manuscript. Sanct Ang. No. 817. 4to. Rom. 1532.

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5

This ingenious lady is the most indefatigable of all lady-writers of the present day. Her "Sketches" will soon reach the famed "One Thousand and One." At this moment too, our favourite authoress is engaged on two tragedies for the patent theatres—one Inez de Castro, which has been poetized in half-a-dozen forms of late, and is even in the Amulet before us: the subject and title of the second tragedy is Otho: both will probably be of a melo-dramatic cast, which founded the success of Rienzi. If it should be so, the fault will not rest with the fair authoress, the managers, or admirers of the pure drama; we need not add where the blame lies.

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