rits, and carried him to the British camp, saying, that if taken prisoner he must die, and he wished to save the life of so brave a man, by delivering him to the care of the surgeons of his own nation, who performed cures beyond the skill of Indians. When offered a reward for his kindness he firmly refused it, as he would not sell his good offices.

ELEGANT URBANITY.

Somerset. This person had been brought from the West Indies to England by a master, whose name we would, if in our power, gladly hand down to the execration of posterity; and falling into bad health, was abandoned by him as an useless article of property, and turned into the streets either to die, or to gain a miserable support by precarious charity. In this destitute state, almost, it is said, on the point of expiring on the pavement of one of the pubFENELON, Archbishop of Cambray, lic streets of London, Mr. Sharp chanced though inflexible in his religious and moral to see him. He instantly had the poor principles, never failed in accommodating creature removed to St. Bartholomew's suavity so far as higher duties permitted. Hospital, attended to his wants, and in a The Chevalier Ramsay gives a striking short time had the happiness to see him instance of this amiable politeness. Two restored to health. Mr. Sharp now German noblemen dining with the Arch- clothed him, and procured him comfortable bishop, to testify their high respect, rose employment in the service of a lady. Two from their seats, and stood up when they years had elapsed, and the story and name drank to his health, according to the cus- of the poor negro had almost escaped the tom of their own country. Some young memory of his benefactor, when Mr. Sharp French officers could scarcely repress a received a letter from a person signing burst of laughter at this novelty, and their || himself Somerset, confined in the Poultry looks and gestures too plainly indicated Compter, entreating his interference, to the ridicule they did not audibly enunciate. save him from` a greater calamity even than The Archbishop turned his eyes upon them the death from which he had before rescued in reproving glances, called for wine, and him. Mr. Sharp instantly went to the standing, in conformity to the German prison, and found the negro, who in sicketiquette, drank the health of the nobles ness and misery had been discarded by his who had paid to him a similar compliment. master, sent to prison as a runaway slave. The officers felt, and afterwards acknow- The excellent patriot went immediately ledged how admirable was the Arch- to the Lord Mayor, Nash, who caused the bishop's humane adoption of a foreign parties to be brought before him; when, custom, and how intrinsically preferable after a long hearing, the upright magistrate to their assumed superiority over the decided, that the master had no property strangers. in the person of the negro in this country, and gave the negro his liberty. master instantly collared him in the presence of Mr. Sharp and the Lord Mayor, and insisted on his right to keep him as his property. Mr. Sharp now claimed the protection of the superior tribunals; caused the master to be arrested; and exhibited articles of the peace against him for an assault and battery. After various legal proceedings supported by him with the most undaunted spirit, the twelve Judges unanimously concurred in opinion, that the master had acted criminally. Thus did Mr. Sharp emancipate for ever the race of blacks from a state of slavery while on British ground.

THE LATE SIR JAMES GRANT, OF GRANT.

A lady had sunk a sum of money, for which this chieftain engaged to pay the annuity usual in such cases. In two years the lady died. Sir James understood that her sister's family were in distressed circumstances; upon which, with the prompt benevolence, and the high houour which marked all his transactions, the worthy Baronet ordered the principal sum to be paid to Mrs. — and her children.

ANECDOTE OF GRANVILLE SHARP.

THIS distinguished philosopher, and friend to the liberties of mankind, first became known to the public in the case of a poor and friendless negro of the name of

66

The

Among the heroes and sages of British glory," says an eminent Review, we can

think of few whom we should feel a greater,
glow of honest pride in claiming as an an-
cestor, than the man to whom we owe our
power of repeating with truth,
"Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their
lungs

"Receive our air, that moment they are free:
"They touch our country, and their shackles
fall."

HONOUR AMONG THIEVES.

AFTER the battle of Culloden, a reward of thirty thousand pounds was offered to any one who should discover or deliver up the young Pretender. He had then taken refuge with the Kennedies, two common thieves, who protected him with fidelity, robbed for his support, and often went in disguise to Inverness, to buy provisions for him. A considerable time afterwards, one of these men, who had resisted the tempt- || ation of thirty thousand pounds for a breach of fidelity, was hanged for stealing a cow of the value of thirty shillings!

EXTRAORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCE.

THE Edinburgh newspapers have communicated the extraordinary birth of twin lions in the northern metropolis, and that a nurse of the canine species has extended to them her fostering cares. We have seen a Newfoundland dog adopting two young seals in a similar way. Her own progeny happened to be five weeks old when these amphibious creatures were caught in a net. The puppies were removed to the house of a friend five miles distant, and partly by threats, and partly by caresses from his master, enforced, no doubt, by the uneasiness arising from her milk, Coaxer accepted the seals as nurslings. They seemed lively for the first month, but then evidently drooped. One died the fifth week, and the other did not || survive its companion more than thirteen days. Their canine adoptive parent long bemoaned her loss.

THE CORRESPONDENCE OF CAROLINE.

LETTER VIII.

Bury, Suffolk, Aug. 6. MAY I arrogate to myself, my dear sister, variety in my letters to you? The last, I fear, is dreadfully romantic; and so fully was I aware of this, that I promised my next should be from Worcester, or rather that it should give you some account of that place. I have, in imitation of all tourists, made notes of what I saw during our peregrinations, and the annexed account of a Cathedral has amused me. I have attempted the style of the author of Waverley. I tell you that I have attempted it, but do not imagine for a moment that I think I have at all succeeded.

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along the intercolumniation of the upper arches. The service had begun, and the peals of the organ, now high now low, gave to his ardent imagination no feeble picture of the angelic choir, hymning the praise of their Maker as they winged nearer earth, or again soared to heaven.

The interior of the Cathedral was not at all in unison with the appearance of its outer-works, for here the hand of improve

ment had been suffered to continue its un

holy cleansing till every vestige of tracerywork, or enamelling, was either clotted with white-wash or covered with paint, depriving ancient art of all that was venerable or artist-like. The exterior facing improved as it had been, was yet broken by many a massive angle and threw its depth of architecture into broad shadows; but the interior exhibited one sheet of white, chilly and cold to the eye of the painter, and possessing but few attractions to the lover of architectural beauty. The enriched statue, which at one time showed its vermillion and gold, was now covered with a lucid white. All the beauty of curtain, of capital, of frieze, every interstice was filled with ochreous mortar, hard as its original cement. Still, however, the beautiful proportions of the building were un distinguishable; these were as they were left by the great architect Walstan, and the elliptic arches, whether intended to bear the resemblance of enarching trees, or as realizing any other figure of older times, or any theory presumed by architects of modern time, they lifted his soul to those regions which the association of Grecian or Roman dome could never form to his imagination.

THE CATHEDRAL-A FRAGMENT. THE exterior of the building to which be now bent his steps, exhibited nothing particular with any other elevation of the fifteenth century; it was massive and grand, and erected upon circular, or Saxon arches: on each side the north entrance were unoccupied niches, except by two projecting bases, which probably once held the effigies of two holy men. Its cancellated window above the entrance, of a later date, was robbed of much of its ornamental work, but whether by the hand of time, or the more ruthless hand of modern improvement, it was now too late to decide. Ivy filled up many of the chasms which the destroyer had made, and wound itself about till it had coiled round some column, and not being able to climb higher, it waved in the air, stopping here and there about the architrave, surmounting the battlements, and playing a thous and fancies between the tabernacle-work The monuments which lined the aisles of till it attracted the eye to the magnificent the nave, contained but few that harmonspire of the building, round which the ized with the place; recumbent Bishops, chough and the crow played their airy in the act of conferring a blessing, and redgambols. The striking and overwhelming cross Knights, were not seen here in mul heat of the outward air receiving a check titudes; but a few modern personifications from the unrarified air of the building, of graces and virtues of modern date shockcaused the perspiration which was seated ed the eye, as did pimping mural slabs, on his brow to turn chilly, while he un-mustard-pot vases, and blubbering infants, covered his head to enter the building; but soon a more congenial breeze played along the nave, and ever and anon poured

the great work of Roubiliac, adorned the side of one entrance into the choir; but he was disgraced in the other by effigies

which art must ever disown. Carriers of stone showed here many a spoilt block of marble, but the divine hand of a Chantry was wanting to give a charm to modern statuary; had he been employed we should not have seen wounded heroes falling into the arms of ladies whose names were unknown to us: here lay, for an example, the mitred Abbot and whimpled dame, dismembered occasionally, it is true, by John Bullish idiotcy or Vandalism; and here lay Timothy Jackson, shouldering some venerable dean; there lay the parson and the clerk, or their ladies, surmounted by golden flames or blubbering cherubs.

The choir, which he now entered, was of the grandest proportion, injured as it was by the modern stalls of Henry VIII.; while its altarpiece, of Roman design, laughed to scorn all attempts at rendering it Gothic, and showed the miserable taste which had intruded here with unprofessional hand. Its window, however, was trumpery; but the pulpit of stone showed with how idle a tale we had branded those monks as drones in the hive, who, indeed, as such, had executed this building.

snug alderman's clerk, who put up his hair as he took his seat-each accommodating himself to what he deemed most becoming. Nor were peculiar characters wanting. There was the dressed-out beau, formed to attract maiden's hearts on the one hand, and the poor parish driveller on the other; the one demanding attention by a thousand fashionable airs-the other, by repeating his responses louder, and with more affected piety, than the rest; the one pulled up his collar twenty times the other threw up his eyes to heaven, and as often waved his palsied hands. But T was interrupted in his contemplations. The service at the altar was about to commence: the procession of the few prebendaries, preceded by the verger, marched to the full swell of the organ, which T— almost wondered had ever given place to the nasal twang; and he fancied, as he beheld the well-bred and rosy choristers, that he had, like many of his sect, condemned ceremonies which they had never beheld, or which, perhaps, found no unison in their minds.

The vicar-choral, who chaunted the service, was a veteran in his art; he was fat and healthy-looking, though thirty years of hard duty had worn his frame. Discipline had not appeared to check his growth, and cheerfulness kept him from declining: pious hope lighted up his countenance. Time had thinned his flow

T was a Dissenter, but yet a man of taste, and could not prevent his eyes from wandering during a religious exercise foreign to his creed; yet he felt a subdued ecstacy as the monkish chaunt ran along the passages of the cathedral: and when his heart whispered that the Alcocks, the Wykehams, and the Islifs were the founding locks, for they lay scattered on his ers of such piles, his conscience, halfchurch, half-disseuter, promised to inquire further into all this, if the architects of these times, the sculptors, the illuminators of missals, these physicians, and authors, were buried in all that sloth which nonconformists had painted them.

The cathedral was now nearly full: its inmates, it is true, were not so numerous as he had seen them in the extra-parochial chapels in London, but there were many both of poor and rich. The dignitaries of the college, with their wives and families, formed the principal part of the congregation; their servants and dependants, the poorer. There was the countryman, in his clean frock, who smoothed down his hair as he entered; and there was also the

forehead; and proved, if not a crown of glory, one of venerableness. When the sermon was ended, T- declared that if he felt not all that devout warmth for the establishment that others did, he had no objection for the future to attend that ritual and those ceremonies, which had been composed by the best of men, and cherished by their worthy descendants.

So much, my dear Margaret, for my profound literary exercise: it is, at least, better than entertaining you with those égaremens of the heart, or such other follies of your sister; who yet subscribes herself, your's, most affectionately,

CAROLINE MATRAVERS.

SKETCHES OF PUBLIC CHARACTERS.

THE LATE MR. CURRAN.

In his political relations Mr. Curran was not vindictive. The prominent and decided part which he took in public affairs, necessarily involved him in many enmities which the condition of the times, and the nature of the questions at issue, inflamed into the highest state of exasperation; but as soon as the first fever of passion and indignation had subsided, he evinced a more forgiving disposition than he found among his opponents. In his latter years be spoke of the injuries which he had sustained from Lord Clare and many others,|| with a degree of moderation which could scarce have been expected from a person of his quick and ardent temperament.

A few days before his death, Mr. Curran strolled into the Poets' Corner, in Westminster Abbey. As he contemplated the monuments he became deeply affected by the spectacle of mortality on every side, and for the moment dismissing every barsher feeling, gave up his mind to the solemn reflections which the scene was calculated to inspire." The holy influence of the spot," to adept the words of an illustrious countryman of his in relating this circumstance, "had so subdued him, that he began to weep."-While he was in this softened mood, he observed at a little distance his old antagonist Dr. Duigenan. Mr. Curran, considering that they were both to be soon beyond the possibility of further contention, and that no place could be more suited for the exchange of mutual forgiveness, approached, and affectionately offered him his hand.—“ I shall never take Mr. Curran's hand," replied the Doctor, and abruptly turned away.

One of his great peculiarities was, that in the most trivial things he was particular. He did not sit in his chair like other persons, he was perpetually changing his position, throwing himself into attitudes of thinking, and betraying, by the incessant play of shifting expressions on his countenance, that there was something within which was impatient of repose.

During the more active period of his life he frequently sacrificed a night's rest with impurity. After passing the day in his No. 145.-Vol. XXIII.

professional occupations, and one half of the night in the House of Commons, and the other in the convivial meetings of the leaders of his party, he re-appeared on the succeeding morning in the courts, as fresh for the ensuing labours of the day as if he had spent the interval in renovating sleep. There were, in his more ordinary habits, many similar indications that his frame was, as it were, overcharged with life. In his conversation his fancy generally became more brilliant as the night advanced. He retired to bed with reluctance; and his friends often remarke 1, that he was seldom so eloquent and fascinating as after he had risen from his chair, momentarily about to depart, but still lingering and delighting them-indulgens animo, pes tardus erat. One reason why his frame required so little may be, that his sleep was generally most profound, and uninterrupted by dreams. The latter circumstance he often regretted, for he was inclined to think that the throng of fantastic ideas which present themselves in dreams, might, if carefully attended to, have supplied him with new sources of poetic imagery.

In his diet he was constitutionally temperate; he ate little, and was extremely indifferent regarding the quality of his fare. From his attachment to the pleasures of convivial society, he was supposed to have been addicted to wine; but the fact was, that a very small quantity excited him; and whenever he drank to any excess (as was sometimes the case in large companies) it was rather mechanically and from inattention than from choice. When left to his natural propensities he was almost as temperate in this respect as in his food. At his own table he was hospitable and unceremonious. In every transaction of common life he disliked and despised the affectation of state. His maxim was, that the festive board should be a little republic, where the host, having previously provided whatever was necessary for the ge neral interest, should appear with no greater privileges or responsibilities than a guest.

From the same distaste to show, he was always remarkable for the plainness, and

B