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agglomerated fragments, they belong to a subdivision of the same formation which may bear the name of agglomerated. The name of superincumbent rocks is given to the basalt, greenstone, trap and amygdaloid rocks, which belong to the volcanic or emitted formation. We must observe that he is mistaken, when he gives the following definition of volcanic productions, viz. "minerals upon which changes have been wrought by volcanic fires." Since the luminous discoveries of Patrin and Davy on volcanic productions, they must be termed, minerals chemically emitted and combined. The emission of water, mud, &c. by igneous volcanoes, the aerial volcanoes or volcanic springs, existing every where, and emitting air, clay, sulphur, hydrogen, &c. with or without heat and fire, the numberless submarine volcanoes, yet existing under the sea, and forming there, when compressed by a great weight of water, stratas of basalt, trap, coal, &c. by means of their smoke, ashes and fluids, are evident proofs of the emitted or volcanic origin of many of the secondary formations; and it would be difficult to prove that all those secondary substances which cannot be held in dissolution in air or water, or formed chemically in the sea and the atmosphere, do not belong to the same volcanic for

mation.

We shall not attempt to confute the absurd supposition that the strata, now constituting the Catskill Mountains, and the western parts of New-York, once extended to the Atlantic ocean. This speculative hypothesis, ought at least, to be supported by very strong proofs before it is advanced, and we are unacquainted with the power that could remove this chain of mountains, without disturbing the regularity of stratification, upon which this hypothesis is built; while we know very well that similar local causes may produce here and there, detached masses of consimilar substances.

The chain of mountains which divide the waters of the Hudson from those of the Connecticut, are called the Peru Mountains by Mr. Eaton; we thought hitherto, that their name was the Tackonick Mountains, while the Peru Mountains are a chain in the state of NewYork, west of lake Champlain, where the Hudson takes its rise; we refer those, who may have any doubt on the subject, to Spafford's Gazetteer of New-York, and beg leave to ask who is in the wrong, Mr. Spafford or Mr. Eaton?

We regret that the premature geological speculations of Mr. Eaton, should have VOL. III.-No. III.

23

induced him to add to his valuable details of facts, an appendix under the title of Conjectures respecting the Formation of the Earth. It is in reality the common, bat deplorable propensity of all geological writers, to deduce and assume some theoretical hypothesis, as soon as they have observed or collected a few facts, changing thereby gealogy into geogony, which are two different sciences altogether. The former describes the earth as it is, and no one will venture to deny its conclusions, since they arise from facts and existing causes, while geogony describes the earth as it was, or rather as it is supposed to have been, at different periods, or attempting still more, ventures to assert what it may yet become; when the speculations of geogony are deduced from history, records, data, remains, analogies, and phenomena, they become a sort of geological history; but all those which emanate from suppositions, conjectures, fictions, presumptions, probabilities and plausible causes, are at best but ingenious dreams, particularly when they attempt to embrace the origin and the end of our globe. Such are in part, the features of the conjectures before us: being not even modelled from the actual knowledge of the various parts of the globe, neglecting more or less the enlarged views, which late discoveries have revealed, the immense strata and mountains of organic formation scattered every where, and even under other formations, the various volcanic formations covering one third of the known soil, the numberless anomalies through the strata, their different succession, arrangement and configuration in different parts, and a variety of other important considerations; and they speak, instead of a primordial chaotic mortar, of an internal heat of the earth lifting up the granite, of an antediluvian continent, which has sunk and disappeared, &c. mere conjectures indeed, since they may be so easily denominated, when we attend to the actual phenomena and formations going on before our eyes. In the present improved state of chemical knowledge, from which our age has received the appellation of the age of chemical philosophy, every former conjectural theory must shrink before the chemical theory of the formation of the earth, until another improvement of philosophical knowledge, or till new discoveries shall compel us to lay it aside, for something apparently better, or nearer to truth, according as our perceptions shall permit us to conceive it.

However, when Mr. E. states physical

or historical data, such as the deviation of the pendulum, the progressive succession of organized beings, the late comparative period of human existence, &c. we find him in the true line of logical geogony. When he attempts to show that the geogony of Moses and his account of the flood, do not in the least contradict the facts which experience has revealed, when he proves that the days of the creation have been periods of time, as many learned divines have asserted, and every geogonist believes; we find him engaged in a desirable act of coneiliation between science and religion;

which, those who may happen to be acquainted with the late radical Hebrew translation of the first chapters of Genesis, by the learned Olivet, may improve into a demonstration, against those who hold the doctrine of their literal translation and explanation. The prejudices which ignorance or sectarian tenets, had thrown over geological studies, as soon as they became involved or blended with geogony, may thereby, we trust, subside entirely; their removal is certainly desirable, and cannot fail to become acceptable to all the friends of inental union and peace. C. S. R.

ART. 5.

Women; or, Pour el Contre. &c. 2 vols. 12mo. pp. 492.

ȚITH our opinion of the former writ

readers are already acquainted. It was with no little satisfaction that we read the preface to these volumes, in which the author acknowledges the mistaken taste which prompted his previous prose productions, and professes his willingness to rest the merits of this tale, which, he admonishes e, contains few characters and incidents, upon the comparative probability of these, and the closer resemblance to real life of those. Encouraged by so candid an avowal of past errors, and such fair promise of amendment, we ventured upon the perusal of this novel and much we regret to say, that we have found it one of the most extravagant ab surdities, which the teeming imagination of the reverend author has given birth to. We speak of it as a whole-for in the midst of a mass of folly, there are irresistible evidences of genius,-bursts of eloquence-images highly impressive and poetical-and able and lucid arguments; and some of the minor characters are drawn with fidelity from nice and discriminating observation. But the storywe hardly know how to tell it with gravity, melancholy as it is. We will, however, make the effort.

The hero, Charles De Courcy, an orphan, and heir to a large fortune, is introduced to us, at the age of seventeen, on his way to Dublin, to enter himself at the university. Just before he reached the city, the stage-coach broke down. It was evening, but he resolved to walk the few miles which yet remained of his journey. He was alone, and as he crossed the canal bridge, he heard the cries of a female in distress. At this moment a

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stantly set off in pursuit, on foot. The stumbling of one of the horses enabled him to overtake it. He found his conjecture right, and attempted to rescue the damsel, but was repulsed by the outriders. The driver plied his horses effectually with the lash; and the equipage was soon out of sight. Nevertheless, De Courcy followed, and by inquiry traced it to a lone hut. The coach had disappearedbut he boldly entered the cabin, where he found no one but a strange figure of a woman, as mad and as ominous as Meg Merilies. Convinced that this was not the object of his search, he penetrated into an interior apartment, where he saw stretched on a pallet, a delicate female form, apparently lifeless. He immediatcly raised her in his arms, and maugre the maledictions and resistance of the maniac, bore her off in triumph; and after running some mile or two, with the lovely burthen, gained a place of safety -and sent to Dublin for a chaise. Mr. Wentworth, the uncle of the redeemed fair one, who had now recovered her recollection, met De Courcy's messenger brought him back, and took De Courcy and his niece to town. He was a very solemn, formal personage, and hardly condescended to thank our hero for his prowess, much less did he invite him to his house. De Courcy's wonderful exertions very naturally brought on a fever, and fever superinduced delirium, and delirium obliterated from his mind every remembrance of the occurrences of this eventful evening, save a vague impression of the beauteous unknown. Whilst convalescent, however, he accompanied

Montgomery, the friend who had watched over him in his illness, to a Presbyterian church, where his pallid appearance attracted the attention of a pious lady, who kindly gave him a seat in her pew. This lady proved to be Mrs. Wentworth, and in a sweet little girl of about fourteen, he discovered his inamorala. On this recognition, he was invited to Mr. Went worth's house. Here he ever found as sembled professors of evangelical religion, in the mysteries of which, Mr. Wentworth was profoundly versed, and on which he was delighted to descant. Disputation and prayer, alternately occupied the host and his guests, and poor De Courcy had no enjoyment, but in looking wishfully at Eva, with rarely an opportunity of addressing to her the most indifferent discourse. This tantalizing intercourse he could not long endure. He had imparted his secret attachment to no one but it preyed upon his health. He fell into another fever, and again became delirious. In his ravings, he betrayed the latent cause of his malady. The watchful Montgomery communicated it to his guardian, who, touched with the condition of his ward, made immediate overtures, in his behalf, to Mr. Wentworth. The unregenerate state of De Courcy, formed in the minds of Mr. Wentworth, and his amiable wife, an almost insuperable objection to his proposals-but the eligibility of the match, in a worldly point of view, weighed with the former, and the attachment of the parties with the latter, to induce them to allow De Courcy's visits as the acknowledge suitor of Eva. Mr. Wentworth indulged, too, a hope of converting him by his logical powers-at any rate he would have a pretext for exercising them. But De Courcy proved a refactory pupil, and far from improving by the godly conversation of Mr. Wentworth, became daily more disgusted, with what he deemed, the cant of orthodoxy. He was dissatisfied too, that he could not elicit from Eva, demonstrations of the same wild passion which consumed him. Her placid and equable manner, seemed to him frigid; and though he was occasionally refreshed with a smile, he could not content himself with so infrequent and so unsubstantial a condescension. Whilst he was thus lingering out his period of prebation, a Madame Dalmatiani was announced to make her appearance on the Dublin boards. This lady was an absolute prodigy. Her personal beauty was dazzling, her talents were transcendant, ber vocal powers unrivalled,--Ler pathos

was irresistible-in short, she was a second Corinne. All the fashionables of Dublin were emulous of the intimacy of Madame Dalmatiani, whose income enabled her to maintain a style, equal to that of the proudest of the nobility. De Courcy was overcome by her charms, and sought and obtained admission to her society. At her house, all the literati of the metropolis were assiduous in their attendance, and vied with each other in deference to her superiority. Her knowledge was not confined to a perfect acquaintance with the modern languages and modern philosophy, she had possessed herself of all the hoards of classie lore. At the first conversazioni, at which our hero was present, we find her drawing a comparison between the Orestes in the Eumenides of Eschylus, and Shakespeares's Hamlet." To cap the climax, De Courcy begins to quote Schlegel on the drama, and adds "the remark of an English crític, that the characters of Electra and Hamlet, bear a closer resemblance to each other than any that the ancient and modern drama furnish.” De Courcy spoke in French too, and by the purity of his language, and propriety of his pronunciation, drew the attention of the wonderful Italian,-whom we must henceforth designate by the name of Zaira. His beauty and talents made not a less vivid impression upon her, than had her's on him. We cannot describe minutely all the gradations and fluctuations of sentiment, through which the lovers passed— suffice it to say, that De Courcy abandoned Eva, and followed Zaira to the continent. But Zaira had not sufficient confidence in the stability of his affection, to yield to his wishes, and unite her fate with his. They met in Paris, and visited in the same societies. Her caution was not superfluous. No sooner was De Courcy seen in the Parisian circles, than he was admired; and vanity soon stifled every tender sentiment in bis bosom. He became tired of his situation. The charms of Zaira's conversation no longer rivetted him. His attention was caught by every lure that was thrown out by rival belles, to ensnare him. In this state of vaccillation and listlessness, he learns from Montgomery, who happens opportunely to arrive in Paris, that his barbarity has driven Eva to the verge of the grave. The compunctious visitings of conscience, bring on another fever and a new fit of insanity. He recovers, deserts Zaira, and returns to Ireland. Zaira grows delirious, and determines on suicide,—but at last, in obe

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dience to a supernatural impulse, follows the footsteps of De Courcy. On his arrival, our hero learns that the condition of Eva is desperate indeed. He writes her a penitent letter, which she receives, and which revives in her feelings she had hoped for ever to have laid at rest. She had essayed to devote her heart to God, and she shrinks from the idea of admitting an unworthy mortal to share in her affections. She resolutely declines seeing him; and he is brought into a state as hopeless as her own. We had forgotten to mention that the old hag, in whose hut De Courcy had first found Eva, had frequently afterwards crossed his path, and uttered her malisons upon him and Zaira. After her return, Zaira kept herself secluded, but secretly indulged herself with the distant view of De Courcy, as he rambled through the streets of Dublin. Retracing her way to her villa, one evening, a shower forced her to take refuge in a hovel by the road side. In a corner of this miserable habitation, she descried the maniac who had so often persecuted her. The poor creature was dying; and in this hour, her reason revisited her. She disclosed herself to Zaira, as her mother. Zaira was the illegitimate child of a man of fortune, in Ireland, who had educated her with the greatest pains, and designed her to inherit his fortune. But he was an infidel, and had discarded the mother of his child, on account of her bigotry. Having failed to impress Zaira with any sound principles, she yielded to her inclinations, and secretly married Fioretti, her instructor in music. Circumstances at last compelled a disclosure of the connexion. Her father banished her from his presence. Fioretti showed himself a base and mercenary wretch. On the birth of Zaira's child, he took it from her, and she could never learn its fate. Fioretti carried his wife to Italy, and resolved to turn her accomplishments to account, brought her forward on the stage. He soon died, but Zaira pursued her profession till she had acquired a fortune. She now learned from the lips of her dying mother, that her child lived-and was Eva Wentworth! Zaira only waited to close her parent's eyes, and hurried to Mr. Wentworth's. She came too late Eva had just breathed her last. She reproached herself as her daughter's murderer. Zaira and De Courcy attended the funeral of Eva, as the principal mourners-but without an interchange of recognition. On the evening of the next day, Montgomery delivered to De Couroy the ring which was his first present to

Eva, and which she had bequeathed to him as a token of reconciliation.

"De Courcy took the ring, and pressed it to his pale lips. Encouraged by the permission to speak to him, Montgomery pressed him to recline on the sopha, and try to get some rest. De Courcy lay down-slept-and awoke no more. As Montgomery beheld the calmness of his exquisite features, he trusted his soul had gotten grace.' He was interred near Eva, for Montgomery knew the wish of his heart, though death had prevented his uttering it. On his gravestone was this simple line :

CHARLES DE COURCY.
Obiit Mense Novembris, anno Domini, 1814.
Etatis suæ 19."

Eva was not sixteen when she died. Zaira we are told still lives, a monument of misery.

Comment on such a tale, seems superfluous. It is too tragi-farcical for deliberate criticism.

That our readers may be enabled to judge as well of Mr. Maturin's powers of description, as of the perfections of his heroines and hero, we will select a portrait of each of them.

It will be recollected that De Courcy accidentally recognized Eva at church.

"As he leaned near her, the young fe male, with that liberty which seems to inspire confidence, but not to express it, offered him her hymn-book, and pointing with her white finger to the page, pursued her sacred song with as little emotion as if her sister held the other leaf. De Courcy bent over the book, which was so small that their hands almost touched each other; his eyes, fixed on the white fairy fingers so near, wandered over the lines without distinguishing them ;-that thrilling voice so close to him, those tones that seemed to turn the very air into music, gave him sensations of delight, such as Milton felt, when he said, 'Intremuit loto florea terra sono.' He did not wish for some moments to catch a glimpse of her face-he felt as if the present moments were to last forever-as if the sounds which he then heard were never to cease. It was only at the conclusion of the hymn (when the lady attempted to withdraw the book, which he still held unconsciously, looked up with a slight expression of surprise) that he beheld a countenance which gleamed on him like a vision of the past. The ringlets of pale gold, curling like the untutored locks of childhood, falling over her cheek, like the shade of brilliant foilage over a bed of blossoms; the eyes of heaven's own blue, in which every feeling of the pure heart was written, and not a feeling that might not be avowed to men and angels; the lips, over whose young

roses no breath but of devotion had ever sighed; her whole aspect reflecting the mild glory of that holy harmony, whose last notes trembled on her half-open lips, and her glance so suddenly raised, so suddenly with drawn, he recognised all-it was herself the very female he had saved-she evidently did not know him, he was much altered by his illness, and this was the first time he thought or felt he was. He still continued to gaze on her, as we watch the sleep of a beautiful infant, delighted with its calm unconscious beauty, and feeling that when it awakes it will turn to us with

looks of love."

He first saw Madame Dalmatiani, or Zaira, as she chose to be called, at the theatre.

:

"The performance on this night was a succession of scenes from the most distinguished Italian operas. The house was crowded, and the overture just over as they entered. A brilliant audience, lights, music, and the murmur of delighted expectation, prepared Charles for a far different object from Eva. What a contrast in the very introduction, between the dark habits, pale lights, solemn music, and awful language of a conventicle, and the gayety and splendour of a theatre! He felt already disposed to look with delight on one who was so brightly harbingered, though it was amid a scene so different his first impressions of passion had been received and felt. The curtain rose, and a few moments after Madame Dalmatiani entered she rushed so rapidly on the stage, and burst with such an overwhelming cataract of sound on the ear, in a bavura that seemed composed apparently not to task, but to defy the human voice, that all eyes were dazzled, and all ears stunned; and several minutes elapsed before a thunder of applause testified the astonishment from which the audience appeared scarcely then to respire. She was in the character of a princess, alternately reproaching and supplicating a tyrant for the fate of her lover; and such was her perfect self-possession, or rather the force with which she entered into the character, that she no more noticed the applauses that thundered round her, than if she had been the individual she represent ed; and such was the illusion of her figure, her costume, her voice, and her attitudes, that in a few moments the inspiration with which she was agitated was communicated to every spectator. The sublime and sculpture-like perfection of her form, the classical, yet unstudied undulation of her attitudes, almost conveying the idea of a sybil, or a prophetess, under the force of ancient inspiration, the resplendent and almost overpowering lustre of her beauty, her sun-like eyes, her snowy arms, her drapery blazing with diamonds, yet falling round her figure in folds as light as if the zephyrs had flung it there, and delighted to sport among its wavings; her imperial loveliness, at once at

tractive and commanding, and her voice developing all that nature could give, or art could teach, maddening the ignorant with the discovery of a new sense, and daring the scientific beyond the bounds of expec tation or of experience, mocking their amazement, and leaving the ear breathless. All these burst at once on Charles, whose heart, and senses, and mind, reeled in intoxication, and felt pleasure annihilated by its own excess."

Now for a picture of the nonpareil De Courcy-this Adonis, Apollo, and Hercules of eighteen. We have it in a letter from M. de Viosmenil to Madame St.

Maure, the bosom friend and confidante of Zaira.

"Well-my beloved Delphine, I have seen your friends; your friend rather I should say, for you have not seen M. De Courcy. I have seen him, and have half forgiven Zaira. I have studied him, and trembled for her. He is the most perfect human form I ever beheld; nothing like him has ever trod the earth; and the gentleness of his manners makes a contrast almost ludicrous with his gigantic stature and commanding presence. His manners are singular, a mixture of diffidence and enthusiasm altogether incredible, totally un-Parisian-destitute of our inimitable ease, and borrowing their chiefest charm from that destitution. This stranger enslaves us, by fighting with weapons unknown to us before. He blushes like a girl, frolics like a boy, talks like a man, and looks like a hero. He is a man, in the language of that inimitable poet you taught me to readWho could win woman's heart, ruin and leave

her.'

"Believe me, it is this class of men, so seductive from their softness, who are the destruction of women; that very gentleness and flexibility that lends its dangerous charm to their manners, extends its influence to their character, and the idol of yesterday is trod into dust, while they rush to offer their worship to the deity of to-morrow over the fragments."

We have not patience to copy any more of this ridiculous stuff.

But laying aside the plot, and the principal personages in the piece, we may find some amusement in the by-play. Mr. Maturin has exercised his wit chiefly at the expense of that class of religious people, who in Ireland assume the exclusive title of Evangelical. We have already mentioned that Mr. Wentworth's house was a great resort of this sort of people, Mr. W. being a man of wealth, keeping a hospitable board, and withal having a strong penchant for theological controversy,which he justified himself in, by what he deemed a very apposite quotation from

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