This day is published, In one volume, post 8vo, price 10s. 6d., SECOND EDITION, This day is published, Handsomely printed in 4to, with a Portrait, price L.3, 3s. in bds. ON THE CONSTITUTION of THE CHURCH THE LIFE OF RICHARD BENSLEY, D.D. and STATE, according to the Idea of Each; with Aids towards a Right Judgment on the late Catholic Bill. By S. T. COLERIDGE, Esq.'R.A. R.S.L. London: HURST, CHANCE, and Co., 65, St Paul's Church-yard; and sold by CONSTABLE, and Co. Edinburgh. (Glasgow Free Press.) In a note to his excellent History of Italy, Mr Perceval says of Signor Francesco and his lady, "the story of their harassing sufferings and hair-breadth escapes, and of the subsequent adventures of Francesco, is told by a contemporary chronicler of Padua, Andrea Gataro, and may be found in the seventeenth volume of the Scrip. Rer. Ital. The tale is more interesting than any romance, from the simple air of truth which pervades it."-The praise of so judicious a writer as Perceval we are well inclined to second, after a perusal of this beautiful book, which throws more light on the character of the internal wars of Italy than all the pompous writings of a Sismondi and other eloquent generalisers. Master of Trinity College, and Regius Professor of Divinity in the University of Cambridge; with an Account of his Writings, and Anecdotes of many distinguished Characters during the period in which he flourished. By the Very Reverend JAMES HENRY MONK, D.D. London: Printed for C. J. G. and T. RIVINGTON, St Paul's Church-yard, and Waterloo Place, Pall Mall; and J. and J. J. DEIGHTON, Cambridge; and sold by BELL and BRADFUTE, Edinburgh. Neatly bound, price 10s. 6d. BURKE'S OFFICIAL KALENDAR, for 1830. An ALPHABETICAL REGISTER of the Public Institutions, and Public Functionaries, Ecclesiastical, Civil, and Military, of the British Empire, including its Colonial and Foreign Dependencies; with Circumstantial Details of the Sovereign Houses of Europe, particu larizing the Present Members of each Family, &c. &c. By JOHN BURKE, Esq., Author of a General and Heraldic Dictionary of the Peerage and Baronetage, &c. &c. HENRY COLBURN and RICHARD BENTLEY, London; and sold by BELL and BRADFUTE, No. 6, Bank Street, Edinburgh. This day is published, Part II. royal 8vo, price 4s. of LANDSCAPE ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE WAVERLEY NOVELS, from drawings by Messrs Barrett, Brockedon, W. Daniell, R.A., Dewint, C. Fielding, J. D. Harding, S. Proutt, R. R. Reinagle, R.A., Robson, T. Stothard, R.A., Stanfield, and W. Westall, A.R.A.; engraved in the most finished style by W. and E. Finden. London: CHARLES TILT, Fleet Street, and JOHN ANDREWS, New Bond Street. *** A few Proofs, royal 4to, on India Paper, 78. per Part. "They are such prints as have adorned the most finished of the Annuals, and we rejoice to see them addressed to the Works of our great Novelist."-Lit. Gazette, April 10. Part III. will appear on the first of July. Edinburgh: Published for the Proprietors, every Saturday Morning, Price 6d. ; or Stamped and sent free by post, 10d. THE title "New Bath Guide" has become, as is indeed remarked by the erudite editor of this work, somewhat of a misnomer. More than half a century has elapsed since its first publication; and those who would seek, in the playful Alexandrines of Anstey, a picture of the modern frequenters of the springs of Bladud, might as well look for the age of the moon in one of Partridge's Almanacks, or consult the Directory of the year 1799 for the abode of a fashionable physician of the present day. In one sense, however, it certainly still is the New Bath Guide, -for it is the first work which proposed for its object to initiate the stranger, not merely into the localities, but into the society, of Bath; and it has remained the only one. There is no newer Bath Guide. Only, instead of being now a gossiping retailer of novelty, it has become a prater about the good old times. It is like a gazette of the last century, elevated to the dignified character of a history. The gay and romantic Miss Jenny,-the gallant Captain Cormorant,-the worthy booby Mr Simkin,— Prudence—and Tabitha Runt;—where are they? “Gone glimmering through the mist of things that were." Their bag-wigs and solitaires, hoops and têtes-de-mouton, have vanished from the earth, though they drag on a shadowy existence" in the verse that immortally saves." flatter ourselves that we cannot do a more acceptable service to the effeminate successors of the heroic supporters of these fearful encumbrances, than by devoting a column or two to the antiquities of fashion. We England differs from France chiefly in this: that while our neighbours concentrate all that they have of rich and rare in one capital-assembling all the delicacies of their land into one huge ragout-we have a separate capital for every independent interest of the body politic. London is the capital of law and politics,-Oxford of learning, Manchester and Sheffield of different manufactures, Bath is the capital of fashion. We do not pretend that London does not contain, during the season, an equal, possibly a greater, number of fashionables. All that we mean to say is, that fashion occupies, in that busy mart, a subordinate position. In Bath, she is paramount. There is the throne of her empire. There people enact her behests by day, and dream of them by night. There delegated sovereigns have for ages swayed the sceptre of the goddess, and administered her equal laws to successive races of “a true, a happy, and a loyal people." The first monarch of this illustrious dynasty sprung from an unknown source, was called Nash before he ascended the throne, and, after that event, Richard I, He PRICE 6d. was worthy of the elevation to which he was raised by If life's occupations are follow'd below,- He died in 1761, at the advanced age of eighty-one, and was succeeded by Collett, whose name alone has been preserved by historians. This is not unfrequently the fortune of weak sovereigns, when they follow immediately upon a hero. They seem to be lost in his blaze, like the planets Mercury and Venus in their transit between us and the sun's disk. To him succeeded Samuel Derrick—a poet, critic, and coxcomb-concentrating in himself three diverse and brilliant excellencies of character, each sufficient to secure immortality for its possessor. In character, he somewhat resembled Charles II. of England. He closed a short reign, rendered troublesome by his lavish and indolent habits, in 1769; a reign, however, richer in materials for history than any other period of the Bathonian empire. This is owing to the industrious collections of Boswell, (Johnson's Boswell,) Smollett, and Anstey—all of whom were his contemporaries. The most remarkable incident in Derrick's personal history was his encounter with the lap-dog of Miss Tabitha Bramble, which, as Derrick was of small stature, might easily have proved fatal, but for the interference of Sir Ulic Mackilligut. His death gave occasion to one of those civil commotions so frequent in elective monarchies. Two candidates aspired to the vacant throne, whose claims were urged by their respective adherents with much clamour and violence. This civil war is remarkable as the first in which a foreign state arrogated to itself a right to interfere with the domestic arrangements of the kingdom of Bath. The Bristolians are said to have sent a remonstrance on the subject of the feud. It was at last ended by the exertions of a select band of patriots, who brought forward Captain Wade as a candidate, whose character conciliated for him the approbation of the two contending factions. We have now arrived at a period when those political unions, intrigues, and cabals, had their origin, which still guide the cabinet of Bath. As we have uniformly refrained from taking any active part in public business, we prefer eschewing the delicate task of recording contemporary history, and thus treading, to the infinite danger of our slippers, upon concealed ashes. Besides, we have already carried down the tale as far as is necessary to enable the reader to enter with the necessary preparation upon the perusal of Anstey's work. The Memoirs of the B-n-r-d Family were publishlished some six or seven years before Humphrey Clinker, and Smollett has evidently been indebted for some of his best Bath scenes to their pages. The adventures of the family at Bath may be briefly told. An only son, who has been crammed with good things by Lady Bountiful, his mamma, till his stomachic organization is somewhat deranged, arrives to try the waters, in company with an awkward chit of a sister, their cousin Jenny, and a dumpy maid, who has hurt herself by taking in succession, just to keep her well, every quack medicine she sees in the papers. Mr Simkin Bountiful is awkward, ignorant of the world, and sheepish, but at bottom a generous fellow, and endowed with a blundering kind of sense. His cousin Jenny is a plump, handsome girl, with a lively temper, and deep read in romances. Prudence, his sister, is one of those blanks which are ready to take any impression. This partie carrée consult the doctors, and enter into the amusements at Bath. Miss Jenny and Mr Simkin are kindly taken under the guidance of an accomplished gentleman, who cheats the latter out of his money at cards, and nearly succeeds in persuading the former to marry him. Prudence, and her maid, Tabitha Runt, are made the dapes of a pious Moravian, who lodges in the same house. In short, after a brief residence at Bath, during which they flutter through all the scenes of gay and pious life, the B-n-r-d family return home with increased experience, empty pockets, and one of the ladies a little singed in reputation. accomplished artist. He has entered completely into the humour of Anstey. His first print is Simkin consulting a Bath physician on his arrival. The grim look of Death's doer contrasts admirably with the sheepish expression of the anxious patient. Prudence sits with a most perpendicular angularity opposite her brother, and Jenny, a fine figure of a woman, leans over the back of her chair, laughing at the whole. In print second we have the Doctors flying from their own physic. Three members of the faculty, with their fees in their pockets, have just issued from the house, the fat nurse is about to close the door behind them, while Miss Jenny, from a window above, dispatches, with the most graceful air in the world, pill-boxes, gallipots, and phials, on the heads of their astonished prescribers. We can compare the easy elegance of the lady to nothing but the calm dignity of the Apollo following with his eye the flight of the fatal arrow. The scramble of the three Doctors to escape this novel avalanche, their fear and their hurry, their awkward contortions, are spiritedly and variously conceived. Simkin stands at Jenny's elbow with a face lustrous with delight. In print third, we see Simkin taking advantage of the city musicians, who have waited upon him to congratulate his safe arrival, to rub up his dancing. There he is, capering in the foreground, with two chairs for partners. Rather behind him, in a recess on his right hand, an active and elegant flirtation is carrying on between Miss Jenny and her Romeo. Near them Prudence and the pious Nicodemus are reading together some edifying book. The maiden's eyes are fixed on the page, but those of her instructor are gloating on her countenance. To the left we catch through the half-open door, the battle between the musicians and the French footman of a surly invalid, who has been disturbed by their noise. We have never seen a picture in which a whole story was better told. In the fourth illustration, two sturdy chairmen are forcing into their chair Tabby Runt, who had bespoke their services the previous evening to carry her to the bath, but felt her courage sink in the morning. The fifth is a caricature of Patience, under the hands of a French perruquier. The frontispiece and fly-title are by Williams, and are cleverly executed. The only thing wanted to make this edition of the New Bath Guide perfect, was a livelier editor. Mr John Britton is most insufferably dull. The Fortunes of Perkin Warbeck; a Romance. By the Author of "Frankenstein." 3 vols. London. Henry Colburn. 1830. THIS is a talented work, but, at the same time, a little tedious and heavy. Mrs Shelley informs us in the preface, that she studied the subject originally with a view towards historical detail, but that, becoming aware of its Miss Jenny's picture of her lover, Captain Cormorant, romance, she determined not to confine herself to the is most delicately drawn : "Well I know how Romeo dances, With what grace his gloves he draws on, Me through every dance conducting, The present edition of this edifying work-the prototype of the Twopenny Post-bag,-is got up with great elegance. There are five excellent illustrative engravings by George Cruikshanks. They have increased, if that indeed be possible, our admiration of the genius of this mere incorporation of facts narrated by the old Chroniclers. A good deal of the leaven of history, however, still remains; and though several fictitious characters have been introduced, a calm straight-forwardness of style characterises the whole book. The authoress sets out on the assumption that Perkin Warbeck was really the Duke of York, and consequently entitled to the throne of England upon the death of his elder brother Edward the Fifth. Upon this disputed question it is unnecessary for us to enter farther, than to remark that sufficient plausibility attaches to Mrs Shelley's theory, to authorise her as a novelist to avail herself of it, although we are afraid that, in order to carry it through, she has been obliged, in more instances than one, to twist to her own interpretation the established facts of history. The chief fault we have to find with her production is, that it does not blend together with sufficient skill what is fictitious and what is true. The great use of an intermixture of fiction in an historical romance, is to relieve the reader from many dry details, and agreeably to fill up the interstices be- like her better in the narrative parts, interspersed as these tween those events which rivet the attention the more always are with her own observations on men and manpowerfully that they stand forth in bold and promi- ners, and coloured by her own peculiar imagination, feelnent contrast to the no less important occurrences of every-ings, and associations. We last week gave a short but day life. Mrs Shelley, however, is contented to follow favourable specimen of her style, and we shall now add one or two more. We like the following portrait of the companion of Perkin Warbeck's childhood-one who loved him deeply but hopelessly: her hero's fortunes through thick and thin; and instead of fixing, as we should have advised her to do, on a few circumstances of acknowledged interest and moment, and contriving that all the narrative should tend towards them, she rather prefers patiently to act the part of a biographer, and with the utmost perseverance follows Warbeck through all his fortunes, whether his adventures be brilliant or stupid, fortunate or disastrous. Could every reader enter into the fate and character of her hero with the same enthusiasm as our authoress, there would be nothing tire-ing. some in this minuteness of detail; but even though we were to grant that he was the veritable heir to England's erown, we fear that, with one or two exceptions, there was little in his career to warrant our devoting undivided attention to it through three long volumes. Unlike our own Prince Charles Stuart, Perkin Warbeck had never even the semblance of a kingly crown upon his head; and though received and acknowledged at various courts as a true Plantagenet, he does not appear to have had within himself genius enough to command his own fate. From the very first, he was driven about like a wreck from billow to billow. Wherever he came, it was as a mendicant; and however generously assisted, he was never able to better his condition. In Spain, in France, in the Ne-beauty. It seemed widened at the forehead, to give space therlands, in Ireland, and in Scotland, he was continually involved in intrigues and petty insurrections; but he never once seriously disturbed the quiet of Henry the Seventh; and at last, when he fell into the hands of that monarch, the ignominious death which he died excited little sensation. "Monina de Faro was, even in childhood, a being to wor ship and to love. There was a dreamy sweetness in her countenance, a mystery in the profound sensibility of her nature, that fascinated beyond all compare. Her characteristic was not so much the facility of being impressed, as the excess of the emotion produced by every new idea or feelWas she gay-her large eyes laughed in their own smiles, her thrilling voice was attuned to lightest mirth, brightness, her lovely countenance became radiant with while the gladness that filled her heart, overflowed from her as light does from the sun, imparting to all around a share of its own essence. Did sorrow oppress her-dark night fell upon her mind, clouding her face, oppressing her whole person, which staggered and bent beneath the freight. Had she been susceptible of the stormier passions, her subtle and though impetuous-wild-the slave of her own sensations, yielding soul would have been their unresisting victim; but her soft bosom could harbour no emotions unallied to goodness; and the devouring appetite of her soul was the desire of benefiting all around her. Her countenance was the mirror of her mind. Its outline resembled those we see in Spanish pictures, not being quite oval enough for a northern and veined lid; her hair was not black, but of a rich sunny for her large long eyes, and the canopy of the darkly-fringed chestnut, finer than carded silk, and more glossy; her skin was delicate, somewhat pale, except when emotion suffused it with a deep pink. In person she was not tall, but softly rounded; and her taper, rosy-tipped fingers, and little feet, bespoke the delicate proportion that moulded her form to a beauty, whose every motion awakened admiration and love." The following attempt, made by a creature of Henry the Seventh, upon Warbeck's life, is spiritedly told: One It is therefore to be regretted, we think, that Mrs Shelley has, in the present work, indefatigably gone through the whole of Perkin Warbeck's life. Many of the smaller adventures and unsuccessful attempts at rebellion should have been omitted, because they lead to no"The breeze had rather sunk towards sunset, but it arose thing, and wear out without satisfying the mind; and again with the stars; the vessel's prow struck against the because, moreover, they tend to diminish our respect for light waves, and danced gaily on through the sea. her hero, pointing him out as one continually borne down man stood at the helm; another, one of the Friar's hirelings, loitered near; the other kept out of the way. Still, by adversity, and consequently one more to be pitied than beneath the thousand stars of cloudless night, the little bark admired. Had she, on the contrary, confined her story hurried on, feeling the freshening of the wind; her larto one or two of the more striking parts of his career,- board beam was deep in the water, and, close at the deck's such as his residence and marriage in Scotland, and sub- leeward edge, Meiler and his intended victim paced. One sequent fate, she would have greatly strengthened her thoughtless boy, high among the shrouds, whistled in annarrative; and by contracting her details into a narrower swer to the wind. There was at once solitude and activity compass, given a solidity and compactness to them, in in the scene. This is the hour,' thought Richard; surely if man's sinful heart was ever touched with remorse, this which they are at present deficient. To speak in the lan-man's may now. God's throne visible in all its beauty above guage of painters, her novel has not a sufficiently power-us; beneath-around-the awful roaring waters, from ful middle-distance and foreground. The objects introduced are too much diffused and scattered. She has taken us to the top of a hill, and when we expected a broad and beautiful lake to burst upon us at once, we see nothing but the long line of a canal, which is equally broad at the one end as it is at the other. Though we have thus stated, pretty plainly, our objection to Mrs Shelley's novel, we must at the same time state, no less plainly, that it unquestionably bears the stamp of a powerful mind, and that no one can read it without feeling a conviction that the authoress need not fear a comparison with even the most talented of her sex. It is certain that Mrs Shelley is apt at times to be heavy, and assuredly her "Last Man" is, in many parts, abundantly so, yet we entertain a high respect for her abilities, and believe her worthy to have been the wife of the author of the "Cenci." There is much powerful writing in her "Perkin Warbeck," and several of the characters introduced especially those of Sir Robert Clifford, Monina de Faro, and Catherine Gordon-are sketched with bold vigour and fine discrimination. It is not, however, in a facility of giving an intense individuality to the persons of her story that Mrs Shelley chiefly excels. We which he lately so miraculously escaped!' He began to speak of England, of his mother, of the hopes held out to him by his companion; eager in his desire of winning a traitor to the cause of truth, he half forgot himself, and then started to find, that, even as he walked, his companion got him nearer to the brink of the slant, slippery deck. Seized with terror at this manifestation of the worst designs, yet scarcely daring to credit his suspicions, he suddenly stopt, seizing a rope that hung near, and steadying himself by winding his arm round it-an act that escaped his enemy's observation, for, as he did it, he spoke :-Do you know, Father Meiler, that I suspect and fear you? I am an inexperienced youth, and if I am wrong, forgive me ; but you once were. Strange doubts have been whispered: do you have changed towards me of late from the kind friend you reply to them! Are you my friend, or are you a treacherous spy?-the agent of the noble Yorkists, or Henry Tudor's hireling murderer?' "As he spoke, the Friar drew still nearer, and the Prince recoiled further from him: he got on the sheer edge of the deck. Rash boy!' cried Frangman, know that I am no derer! tell me where is sainted Henry? where Prince Edhireling sacred vengeance pricks me on! Son of the murward? where all the noble martyrs of his cause? Where my brave and lost sons? There, even where thou shalt be quick-Look back, thy grave yawns for thee!' : "With these words he threw himself furiously on the Prince the stripling sprung back with all the force lent him by the rope he held, and pushed at the same time Frangman violently from him, as he cried aloud on the A heavy splash sailors, What, ho! treason is among us!" of the falling Meiler answered his call; the strong man was cast down in his very pride; the waters divided, and sucked him in. In a moment the crew were on deck; Frangman's hireling, scared, cried out, He is King Henry's prisoner; seize him!' thus increasing the confusion. The Friar, his garments floating, now appeared struggling among the waves; a rope was thrown to him; the vessel sped on meanwhile, and it fell far short; Richard, horror-struck, would have leapt in to save his enemy; but the time was goneone loud shriek burst on the ear of night, and all was still; Frangman, his misery, his vengeance, and his crimes, lay buried in the ocean's hoary caves.' We had marked other passages for quotation, but our We noticed space warns us that the above must suffice. briefly, about a fortnight ago, another novel which has just been published, bearing the same name; in nothing but the name, however, does it resemble that of Mrs Shelley, which is, in all respects, the superior of the two. The Royal Book of Dreams. From an ancient and curious Manuscript, which was buried in the earth during several centuries; containing one thousand and twenty-four Oracles, or answers to Dreams, &c. &c. By Raphael. London. Effingham Wilson. 1830. 18mo. Pp. 161. DREAMS are one of the most interesting phenomena connected with humanity. From Epicurus and Aristotle, down to Locke and Addison, innumerable theories have been broached concerning them; but there is not one that has yet laid open the heart of the mystery. The work before us, without seeking to enquire why we dream, limits itself to the question—are dreams prophetical? and, after leading a proof to show that they are, proceeds to furnish us with a method by which we may discover the secrets of fate portended by nocturnal visions. So far from attempting to ridicule those excellent old women who believe in dreams, and read fortunes in teacups, we have felt for them, from our youth upwards, the most profound respect. Are we not all "such stuff as dreams are made of?" and is it not delightful to be able to see with the eyes of our soul (for certes it cannot be with the eyes of our body, considering that they are shut at the time) a thousand immaterial shapes and prospects, which no waking eye ever beheld, yet with which we hold communion, as if suddenly carried into a new state of existence. We pity the man who is too grossly corporeal to dream, or too perfectly prosaic to believe in dreams. If he had dreamt the dreams that we have done, and watched the consequences with equal earnestness, he would have known, that to talk of the spiritual world of sleep as merely the offspring of toasted cheese, devilled kidneys, or red herrings, was the grossest profanity; and during the silence of the night he would have felt his nature cognizant "Of subtler essence than the trodden clod." "They have souls," says the learned Bishop Bull, 'very much immersed in flesh, who can apprehend nothing but what touches and affects their senses. And although I am no doter on dreams, yet I verily believe that some dreams are monitory above the power of fancy, and impressed on us by some superior influence; for of such dreams we have plain and undeniable instances in history, both sacred and profane, and in our own age and observation. Nor shall I so value the laughter of sceptics, and the scoffs of the Epicureans, as to be ashamed to profess that I myself have had some convincing experiments of such impressions." With Bishop Bull we entirely agree, and also with Socrates, Plato, Xenophon, Cicero, Pliny, and Hippocrates, who thought similarly. The multitude of astonishing dreams that have been dreamt in all ages is beyond calculation. Many extraordinary and well-authenticated instances are given in the From these we extract a few: volume before us. REMARKABLE DREAMS. "Numerous modern instances of prophetic dreams might be here recited, and those, too, well testified by credible witnesses. Monsieur Calignan, chancellor of Navarre, was esteemed a man of singular virtue; being at Berne, one night as he lay asleep, he heard a voice, which called him by his name, Calignan! Awaking, and hearing no more of it, he imagined it only a dream, and fell asleep again. A little afterwards, he heard the same voice calling him in the same manner: this made a greater impression on him than the former, so that, being awakened, he called his wife, who was with him, and told her what had happened. They both lay waking for some time, expecting to hear it a third time; at length, they went to sleep together, when the voice awaked him again, calling him by his name, and advising him to retire immediately out of the town, and to remove his family, for that the plague would rage horribly in that place in a few days. He followed the direction, and within a few days after, the plague began in the town, and destroyed a great number of people. "When the celebrated Dr Harvey, being a young man, went to travel towards Padua, he went to Dover with several others, and showed his pass, as the others did, to the governor. The governor told him that he must not go, but he must keep him prisoner.' The Doctor desired to know the reason, and what he had done amiss; he said it was his will to have it so.' The packet-boat hoisted sail in the evening, which was very clear, and the Doctor's com panions in it, a terrible storm ensued, and the packet-boat, with all the passengers, was cast away. The next day the melancholy news was brought to Dover. The governor was a total stranger to Dr Harvey, but by name and by face: only the night before he had a perfect vision, in a dream, of Dr Harvey, who came to pass over to Calais, and an order to stop him! This the Doctor was told by the governor the next day, and he told the story again to his friends in London. men. "Thomas Wotton, Esquire, a little before his death, dreamed that the University of Oxford was robbed by five He wrote to his son, who was then in Oxford, and told him the particulars of his dream. The University was robbed accordingly, the very night before the letter came to his son's hand! As soon as morning arrived, there was a great noise concerning the robbery; whereupon the young man showed his letter to the persons concerned, and all the five men were taken up and found guilty. "Doctor Pitcairne is said never to have related the following story, without some emotion of mind. His friend, Mr Lindsay, upon reading with the Doctor, when very young, the known story of the two Platonic philosophers, who promised to one another, that whoever died first should return on a visit to his surviving companion, entered into the same engagement with him. Some years after, the Doctor, at his father's house in Fife, dreamed, one morning, that Lindsay, who was then at Paris, came to him, and told him that he was not dead, as was commonly reported, but still alive, and lived in a very agreeable place, to which he could not as yet carry him. By the course of the post, news came of Lindsay's death, which took place, exceeding suddenly, the very morning of the dream. "Some years ago, the Lady of Colonel Gale, having lost her husband, was going to Kingston in Jamaica, to administer to his effects. In her way she stopped all night at a friend's house, intending to proceed on her journey the next morning; she accordingly ordered her coachman to be ready to set out at the appointed hour. Mrs Gale's waiting-woman, who accompanied her mistress, dreamed that night that her master appeared to her, and enquired where her mistress was; the servant told him that her lady was going to Kingston, and was now on her journey; the colonel replied she must not go,-she must return with him, for he was come to fetch her; this the servant told next morning to the family where they were. Soon afterwards she went into her lady's room to call her up, but was told by her that she felt herself somewhat indisposed, and did not think she should be well enough to proceed on her journey that day. She, moreover, desired the servant to forbid the carriage being got ready, according to the order given to the coachman the night before. When the lady of the house perceived her friend very feverish and indisposed, the doctor was called in, but all to no purpose, for the fever increased upon her |