EVELINE BERENGER.

""Twas when ye raised, 'mid sap and siege, The banner of your rightful liege

At your she-captain's call, Who, miracle of womankind, Lent mettle to the meanest hind,

That manned her castle wall."

THE plate which adorns our magazine the present month, is an illustration of a scene in Scott's tale of " The Betrothed." The chief scene of this tale is laid in a

castle on the borders of Wales, to which the author has given the name of the "Garde Doloureuse," and its original is supposed, by antiquaries, to be the castle of Clun, in Shropshire. But few vestiges of its former grandeur remain to teach the observer, that it was once a fortress of great power, from which its brave and noble Norman founder and occupant, Fitz Allan, engaged in dire and bloody warfare with the hardy Welshmen

who dwelt near to the marches. At times the Lord

Marchers rushed from their impregnable fortress into the adjoining territories of the Welsh princes, called the Powys Land, pursuing a system of rapine, plunder and persecution. It is at the time of these terrible affrays, that Scott has chosen the period of his tale.

The "Garde Doloureuse," was held, in the tale, by Raymond Berenger, a grey-haired and valiant warrior, who longed to join in deadly combat with Gwenwyn, a neighboring Welsh prince, of scarce inferior valor, and his mortal foe. At length the wished-for opportunity occurred. Gwenwyn besieged, with a mighty host, the redoubtable castle, and Raymond sallied forth to meet him, with his men-at-arms. When, by exalted prowess, he had approached so near to the Welshman, that they exchanged sentences of defiance, a treacherous enemy crept beneath his mailed charger, and stabbed him in the belly. Falling, he threw down his noble rider, whose helmet being jarred from his head, a mortal blow was dealt by Gwenwyn, as he rose.

Eveline Berenger bravely bore herself after her father's death, though he was dear to her as her life, and supplying his place, in a degree, she inspired the hearts of the garrison by the unshrinking courage of her own. She trod the battlements where they were posted, and cheered them by her words; and not until the Welshman was driven back, did she think to resign herself to grief. There, in the stillness of midnight, when the Flemish sentinel, and the castle confessor, overcome with weariness, had sunk to sleep, she walked on the platform with her attendant, Rose. The filial fortitude that had nerved her to restrain her tears, lest the infection of her sorrow should abate the courage of her followers, in the arduous struggle in which victory seemed, to her, to be only a just offering to the gory manes of her slain parent, was no longer necessary, now that victory had been secured. In the language of the taleVOL. XI-31

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"THE calmness of all around seemed to press like a weight on the bosom of the unhappy Eveline, and brought to mind a deeper sense of present grief, and keener forebodings of future horrors, than had reigned there during the bustle, blood and confusion of the preceding day. She rose up-she sat down-she moved to and fro on the platform-she remained fixed like a statue to a single spot, as if she were trying, by variety of posture, to divert her internal sense of fear and sorrow. At length, looking at Father Aldrovand and the Fleming, as they slept soundly under the shade of the battlement, she could no longer forbear breaking silence: "Men are happy," she said; "their anxious thoughts are either diverted by toilsome exertion, or drowned in the insensibility which follows it. They may encounter wounds or death; but it is we who feel in the spirit a more keen anguish than the

body knows, and in the gnawing sense of present ill, and

fear of future misery, suffer a living death, more cruel than

that which ends our woes at once.”

"Do not be downcast, noble lady,' said Rose, 'be rather the heroine you were but yesterday.'

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'Alas, Rose,' answered her mistress, 'you have a father to fight and watch for you; mine, my kind, noble, and honored parent, lies dead on yonder field, and all which remains for me is, to act as may best become his memory.'

"So saying, and overpowered by the long-repressed burst of filial sorrow, she sank down on the banquette which ran along the inside of the embattled parapet of the platform, and murmuring to herself, ' He is gone for ever!' abandoned herself to the extremity of grief. One hand grasped unconsciously the weapon which she held, and seemed, at the same time, to press her forehead; while the tears, by which she was now, for the first time, relieved, flowed in torrents from her eyes, and her sobs seemed so convulsive, that Rose almost feared her heart was bursting. Affection and sympathy dictated the kindest course which Eveline's condition permitted. Without attempting to control the torrent of grief in its full current, she gently sat down beside the mourner, and possessing herself of the hand which had sunk motionless by her side, she alternately pressed it to her lips, her bosom, and her brow-now covered it with kisses, now bedewed it with tears, awaiting a more composed moment to offer her little stock of consolation in such deep silence and stillness, that, as the pale light fell upon the two beautiful young women, it seemed rather to show a group of statuary, the work of some eminent sculptor, than beings whose eyes still wept, and whose hearts still throbbed. The glimmering corslet of the Fleming, and the dark garments of Father Aldrovand, as they lay prostrated on the stone-steps, might represent the bodies of those for whom the principal figures were mourning."