THE "HANS SACHS" OF DOVER. [THE following letter and verses, some of which we have extracted from much longer poems, all exhibiting a real power struggling with conventional forms of language, will speak for themselves. All we shall say to the author is, let him stick to his trade and his verses too, for thus he will reconcile duty and pleasure, and help the world to learn how noble and manly a thing is every useful employment, and capable of being associated with elegant recreation. We must own that we cannot patronize the keeping of birds in cages, any more than we would the keeping of a man in one, if birds were lords of the creation, and fond of catching Brahams and Catalanis; but we publish the verses connected with it, partly because of their freshness, and partly to show how the kindest and most reflecting natures may be led to give into a custom without thinking of it-nay, even while pitying its victims. But our author will tell us, perhaps, that he did not imprison the bird; he only found it imprisoned, and retained it so. There is a perplexity in that point, we acknowledge; but the custom should be discountenanced, especially by the considerate. Imprisonment is a melancholy state for any creature; but, of all creatures, a winged one is surely the most unfit for it. Suppose Mr D. writes some verses on that view of the subject?] Dover, August 31, 1834. SIR,-The account you have given in one of your late Numbers, from Carlyle's German Literature,' of a "Guild of Poets!" in Nürnberg, and the circumstance of one of my own calling, the redoubted Hans Sachs, being the prime head of the fraternity, led me to think of my own attempts in the same way; and as I have no desire to be "left standing on my own basis as a singular product," as was the honest German, I have, through the opportunity of a friend going to London, resolved to try if I could base myself-though a shoemaker-on the favour of the London Journal,' and find some "seat-room for the few pieces I have herewith forwarded for the purpose. Believe me, Sir, the hardihood of this attempt I know well; I know (and yet, alas! too poorly know) who is to scrutinize my pretensions; and have some conception of the manner in which an Editor is haunted by "Poets!" and must be haunted, notwithstanding a thousand letters of Goethe's were to be reprinted, to keep the "order' in some sort of abeyance. All this I know well, and as proof to you that I, like the rest, am not to be easily deterred, I do as I do, and await with fear and trembling the awful result of your answers to Correspondents, which, though couched with such art and delicacy, are yet, I surmise, in all cases, not without their bitter. I am, Sir, your admirer, and as such your grateful and most obedient servant, P.S. I hope, under the circumstances in which I write, you will excuse all that may be excusable, and set my errors down, not so much to an inability of knowing better, as to a want of an opportunity of ever being put in the way of knowing. Like the spider, I have been compelled to spin from my own in-gatherings, never having the aid of another as to the taste or solidity of my manufacture. I have weaved my own woof, like the witch in Gray, and must be content with its quality, indifferent or absolutely bad, as it may be; there is no choice-for myself there is not, but with you the matter is otherwise. A BIRD'S KNOWLEDGE. Could'st thou but tell to me, my pretty bird, 'Twould make, I think, sweet verse! Tell what thou'st witness'd in thy freedom's day, How thou did'st look upon the opening morn, As starting from thy rest within some tree, And saw the sun glint o'er its blushing bourne, And forcing into life, all gallantly, Making the dark clouds fall! TO MY ROBIN ON HIS SINGING BY CANDLELIGHT. Whence comes, sweet thing, this wond'rous confidence, Soft singing in a light thou ne'er could'st know, When thou did'st nestle in the hedge-row's fence, To slumber on till day again might grow? Whence comes it, or who, taught thee thus to vie With the far famous sorcerer of the night? Or seek'st thou with the poet but to try How thou can'st, too, promote thy own delight, Finding employment in the bosom strain That comes in lonely hour to soothe one's pain? SONNET. [On seeing a Rainbow stretch across the Channel from Dover to the opposite Coast of France, Saturday Evening, August 30, 1834.] Magnificent Phenomenon! with thee Can aught of beauty in this world compare, As now thy proud arch runneth o'er the sea In all its mixture of rich colours rare? Thrown superb 'gainst the concave Heavens, there! Thou send'st thy brilliance down on either side On Britain and the Gaul-land o'er the wave, To keep this feeling worshipp'd, for 'twill save Indian Hospitality.-The virtue of hospitality in India, as elsewhere, prevails most in the wilder and more unfrequented districts. "I sometimes frequented places," says Forbes, "where the natives had never seen an European, and were ignorant of every thing concerning us; there I beheld manners and customs simple as were those in the patriarchal age; there, in the very style of Rebecca, and the damsels of Mesopotamia, the Hindoo villagers treated me with that artless hospitality so delightful in the poems of Homer, and other ancient records. On a sultry day, near a Jinore village, having rode faster than my attendants, while waiting their arrival under a tamarind tree, a young woman came to the well; I asked for a little water, but neither of us having a drinking vessel, she hastily left me, as I imagined, to bring an earthen cup for the purpose, as I should have polluted a vessel of metal; but as Jael, when Sisera asked for water, gave him milk and brought forth butter in a lordly dish,' so did this village damsel, with more sincerity than Heber's wife, bring me a pot of milk, and a lump of butter, on the delicate leaf of the banana, the lordly dish of the Hindoos. The former I accepted; on my declining the latter, she immediately made it up into two balls, and gave one to each of the oxen that drew my hackery. Butter is a luxury to these animals, and enables them to bear additional fatigue. Oriental Annual. Sensible Apartment.-A very extraordinary practice, which might perhaps be advantageously imitated in more civilized communities, prevails among the superior classes of Hindoos. They have in their houses an apartment called Krodhagara, or "The Chamber of Anger," in which any member of the family who happens to be out of temper, shuts himself up, until solitude has medicined his rage. When sufficient time for reflection has been allowed, the master of the family goes and endeavours to bring back the seceder to the domestic circle. If by chance it should be a woman, he inquires what she wants. To this, perhaps, she replies, that she desires to have a large fish to eat every day-having probably seen one in the hands of some female member of the family, or a palanquin and bearers to carry her daily to the river to bathe; or a large sum of money to perform the worship of some idol; or rich garments, and costly and beautiful ornaments. Having obtained her wishes, she consents (to borrow a vulgar English adage) "to come out of Coventry."-The Hindoos. ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE. XLII.TRIAL OF SPENCER COWPER, AFTERWARDS JUDGE COWPER, AND GRANDFATHER OF THE POET. No comment need be made upon this singular case, except, perhaps, that the poor girl, after all, was less in love than she took herself to be; otherwise she never would have left such a sting in the mind of an honest and well-meaning man. Wilfulness was predominant over lovingness.” Spencer Cowper, a barrister-at-law, of fair character and honourable family, in the reign of King William, and in the full career of a profitable practice, was accused of murdering the daughter of a wealthy quaker at Hertford; a charge for which he was tried at the assizes of that place, eleven years after the revolution. And it must be confessed that there were circumstances in the conduct and behaviour of Mr Cowper, and other persons associated with him in the indictment, which, though not sufficient absolutely to fix and bring home the crime upon them, certainly required explanation. Repairing to Hertford, as was his custom, at the assizes, he had been prevailed on by pressing and repeated invitations from the fair quakeress, to dine, and pass a good part of the afternoon and evening at the house of her mother, a respectable widow, with whom she lived. He had been with her almost the whole of the time without a third person; was the last who had been seen in her company; and, at a late hour of the night, they had both gone out of doors, while the servant was warming a bed, as she supposed for Mr Cowper. The unhappy female returned no more, and the first news her miserable mother heard, after a night of agitation, suspense, and anxiety, was, that the corpse of her daughter had been found floating in a river not far from their dwelling. It is not necessary to describe the acute sufferings of a parent, or the silent mortification of a fraternity who, if they have more than one fault, it is, that, with considerable temptations to triumph, they somewhat overvalue themselves, in excelling most men in purity of manners. The coroner, after as fair and impartial an inquiry as he was able to make, pronounced it a case of lunacy; and the family followed their poor kinswoman to the grave, with the hopeless regret that such kind of deaths generally produce. But reports unfavourable to the deceased, and to the visitor of her family, were industriously circulated by folly or by malice. Certain ignorant or prejudiced bye-standers asserted that they saw a dark, circular mark round her neck, as they drew the body from the water, and that the distention which generally takes place in drowned bodies was not observed. From these, and other circumstances hastily taken up, they rashly concluded, that the young lady had by no meens destroyed herself, but that some unwarrantable method, probably strangling, had been made use of, to shorten her life, before she was thrown into the river. It was also proved that a party of gentlemen, friends and acquaintances of Mr Cowper, and some of them attendants on the judges of the assize, had arrived at Hertford the night the deceased was missing; that they were heard to make her the subject of their conversation, and to use the following remarkable expression soon after their arrival: "Her courting days will soon be over; a friend of ours will quickly be even with her." It ought further to be mentioned, that party politics had for many years run high at this place; that Mr Cowper's father, and, we believe, his brother, were at the period in question sitting members for the town, after a warm and strongly contested elec tion; for these and other reasons, it was supposed that many circumstances were exaggerated, and that the opportunity was thought favourable, and eagerly seized on by an exasperated minority, to cast an odium on the family and connexions of a successful candidate; the quakers also were anxious to remove the stigma of suicide and intrigue from a member of their society. Whatever were the motives of the different persons concerned, the public mind was highly agitated, and the populace inflamed. After much cavil and clamour, the body was disinterred, and accurately examined by professional men, who, after a long and elaborate discussion, determined that there were strong grounds for suspecting Mr Cowper and his associates of being guilty of murder. The gentlemen were immediately taken into custody, and arraigned at the ensuing assizes. The position of a man of unblemished reputation, liberally educated, and by his connexion and profession generally known and respected, thus, at once accused of murder, attended with circumstances of peculiar foulness and aggravation, naturally excited general curiosity and attention, and produced a crowded court. To remove not only from himself, but his friends, the danger as well as disgrace attached to so shocking a charge, Mr Cowper brought a number of physicians, surgeons, and anatomists, eminent in their day,-Sir Hans Sloane, Sir Samuel Garth, and a namesake, but not relation, of the barrister's, a diligent and accurate dissector, who ought never to be named without praise; these, and many other gentlemen proved, to the satisfaction of the court, that the arguments adduced by the medical men, in support of the prosecution, were unfounded and inconclusive; that the circumstance of the corpse having little or no water in the stomach, did not originate from its being dead previous to falling in, but that it frequently occurred with suicides, who plunge in, determined resolutely to die. That the case was very different with those drowned by accidents, who, in their efforts to emerge, and often to call for assistance, generally struggle for some time, and swallow a considerable quantity of water. This, and much more of scientific theory, abstruse reasoning, and anatomical explanation, in which judges, jurymen, and all unprofessional men, must be governed by the decisions of others, was long and fully urged on both sides, and concluded in favour of the opinion, that the young woman had thrown herself into the river. In answer to what had been said of a mark round her neck, it was denied by several respectable witnesses that any such appeared: they agreed that there was a discoloured spot below the ear, and another near the collar bone, but neither of them circular, or such as a cord drawn tight on the neck would have left; they were accidental bruises, probably produced by the body falling against piles, near which it was found, or settlements of blood, not unfrequent, on such melancholy occasions. After a long and impartial examination of a variety of witnesses, Mr Cowper was asked what he had to say in his defence. Struggling between the urgency of his case, and the laudable delicacy which has been generally observed in anything that collaterally or directly relates to such subjects, he was compelled to confess, that the unhappy young lady, on account of whose death he appeared that day at the bar of a court in which he had so often pleaded, had long secretly nourished, and at length expressed, a strong attachment to him, which, as a married man, and as the father of a family, he had dissuaded her from giving way to, by every means in his power. The letters, in justice to himself and the gentlemen who, by some strange concurrence of circumstances, or some perverse misrepresentation, had been implicated with him in the charge, he would presently submit to the inspection of the court; but he wished first to give a plain unvarnished tale of the whole of his conduct with respect to the deceased. Mr Cowper then proceeded to observe, that when she saw no probability of her passion meeting with approval, she became low-spirited, melancholy, negligent of her dress, and had been heard in different places and by various persons, to drop expressions of discontent and despair, purporting that her abode in this world would be of short duration; of which, in due time, he would bring sufficient evidence. The very evening they spent together, he observed, the last evening of her life, the conversation, which he little thought of ever repeating in public, was passed in soothing and, he had trusted, salutary advice on his part, and in tears and tender reproaches on hers; and he threw himself, he said, on the pity of every person present of either sex, to spare his entering into further details on the subject, when he solemnly declared that no alternative remained, but his quitting the house peremptorily and abruptly, with a female endeavouring to convince him that he should not do it, or forgetting the line of conduct which in every respect became him. Mr Cowper then appealed to the general tenor of his life and conversation, to which he called many and respectable witnesses. He asked if any reasonable motive could be adduced for his atrociously murdering one who had long been his client, the object of his most friendly regard and commiseration, and who, without any encouragement from him, had yielded to a fatal infatuation, which deprived her of life; one who, but for this fatal weakness, might have been a credit and comfort to her family? He hoped that the situation in which he stood would not only excuse but justify his making public that which otherwise would never have passed his lips; and having entered into a long, circumstantial, and satisfactory account of many particulars, which it is not necessary to repeat, and after producing strong vouchers in confirmation of all that he had said, he concluded with taking two letters out of his portfolio, which the deceased had addressed to him. These strongly corroborated the defence in every particular. Such letters, the more singular from having been written by a quaker, and one, too, whose general deportment had been consistent with the prudent manners of the society, raised the curiosity of the court and excited the attention of the judge, Mr Baron Hatsell, who desired to look at them. Having perused them as a literary novelty, and seeing a brother of the deceased, he demanded of him what he thought of the hand-writing?" It is like my sister's," replied the honest sectary, struggling between his love of truth and fraternal affection; "but the sentiments avowed are so contradictory and inconsistent with the whole tenor of her previous life and conversation, that I hesitate in believing them to be hers.” The same question being put to her mother, the poor lady answered with the asperity of a parent bereft of her darling daughter, under circumstances so appalling;-"Nothing will persuade me that these abominations proceeded from the heart or the pen of Sarah; I believe not a word of all that has been said." Many of the intimate friends, however, of the family, and several persons unbiased by the ties of nature, interest, or corporate feelings, were reluctantly compelled to confess, that the hand-writing resembled that of the deceased as nearly as possible; and that to the best of their knowledge and belief, they considered her as the writer of the letters in question. The persons indicted with Mr Cowper being called upon to explain their singular conversation (before alluded to) on the night of their arrival at Hertford, replied that Mr Marshall, a common friend of themselves and Mr Cowper, had formerly paid his addresses to the deceased; that for a certain time she encouraged, but at length refused his offers; and that when they understood Mr Cowper was at her house, their chat over their cups was unguarded concerning her, having often joked Mr Marshall on the subject; that the words produced against them they remembered to have made use of, but they only meant, perhaps -in a spirit which they did not pretend to justify, that the barrister ought not to be very scrupulous in his treatment of a woman, who had behaved like a jilt and a coquette to her former lover. The accused parties were honourably acquitted. A DOMESTIC ADMISSION INTO THE SPECULATIONS OF A GREAT AND LOVING MIND. (From Mrs Austen's Characteristics of Goethe.') In the summer of 1809, one afternoon, I called (says a friend) on Goethe, and found him sitting in the garden enjoying the mild weather. Katz, the landscape painter, for whom he had a singular regard was also there. Goethe sate at a small garden table; before him stood a long-necked glass, in which a small live snake was moving about with great vivacity; he fed it with a quill; and made daily and minute observations upon it. He maintained that it knew him already, and raised its head to the edge of the glass, as soon as he came in sight. A great What splendid, intelligent eyes! said he. deal was half finished in this head, but the awkward writhing body would not allow much to come of it. Nature, too, has cheated this long, ensheathed, organization of hands and feet; though this head and these eyes might well have deserved both. Indeed, she frequently leaves such debts unpaid, at least for the moment, though sometimes she afterwards pays them under more favourable circumstances. The skeletons of many marine animals clearly show, that, when she made them, she was full of the thought of some higher race of land animals. Very often, working in an ungenial and untractable element, she was obliged to content herself with a fish's tail where she would evidently have used to give a pair of hind feet into the bargain-nay, even where the rudiments of them are clearly discerned in the skeleton. Near the glass which contained the snake lay some chrysalids of caterpillars, whose forthcoming Goethe was expecting. They showed a remarkable mobility, sensible to the touch. Goethe took them off the table, watched them eagerly and attentively, and then said to his boy-Carry them in doors, they will hardly come out to-day. It is too late now. It was four in the afternoon. At this moment Frau von Goethe (Madame Goethe) came into the garden. Goethe took the chrysalids out of the boy's hand, and laid them again on the table. How magnificent that fig-tree is in leaf and blossom, exclaimed Frau von Goethe to us from a considerable distance, as she advanced towards us along the middle walk of the garden. After greeting me and receiving my salutations in return, she immediately asked me whether I had gone close to the fig-tree to admire it. We will not forget, said she, at the same time addressing herself to Goethe, to have it matted next winter. Goethe smiled and said, Let yourself be shown the fig-tree-and that directly-or we shall have no peace this evening. And it really is worth seeing, and deserves to be handsomely dealt with and provided for. What is the name of the exotic plant, resumed Frau von Goethe, which a man lately brought us from Jena? Do you mean the great hellebore? Yes, it thrives admirably. I am glad of it. We shall make a second Antiajra, of this place, in time. There, I see, lie the chrysalids-have you seen nothing yet? Do listen, I beg of you I laid them there for you. (taking them again in his hand and holding them to his ear), how it knocks; how it jumps; and will burst forth into life! Wonderful would I fain call these transitions of nature, were not the wonderful in nature the most usual and ordinary. But we must not omit to let our friend here partake of this sight. To-morrow, or the day after to-morrow, the butterfly will probably be here, and a prettier, more elegant thing you have seldom seen in your life. I know the caterpillar, and I summon you to attend to-morrow afternoon, at the same hour, in the garden, if you have a mind to see something more remarkable than the most remarkable of all the remarkable things Kotzebue saw on his long journey to Tobolsk, in the most remarkable years of his life. Meanwhile let us put the box in which our yet unknown beautiful sylph lies enclosed, and decks herself in all her splendour for to-morrow, into a sunny window in the summerhouse. So there you stand, my nice, pretty child. Nobody will interrupt you in this corner, nor disturb you while you are completing your toilet. Well, for my part, said Frau von Goethe, casting a side glance at the snake, I could not endure such a nasty thing as that near me, still less feed it with my own hands. It is such a disagreeable creature! It makes me shudder to look at it. Hold your tongue, replied Goethe,-though, tranquil as he was himself, he was generally not displeased at this vivacity of expression in those around him. Yes, added he, turning to me, if the snake would but spin himself a house, and turn into a butterfly to oblige her, we should hear no more about nasty things. But, dear child, we can't all be butterflies, nor fig-trees dressed with flowers and fruit. Poor snake! they despise you! they should treat you better! How he looks at me! How he rears his head! Is it not as if he knew that I was taking his part? Poor thing, how he is pent up there, and cannot come forth, how fain soever he be! Doubly, I mean, first in the glass, and then in the scaly case in which nature has enclosed him. As he said this, he began to lay aside his reed pencil, and the drawing paper to which he had made some strokes towards a fantastic landscape, without seeming the least interrupted by the conversation. The servant brought water, and while he was washing his hands, he said, to return once more to Katz, the painter, whom you must have met as you came in, the sight of him is most agreeable and refreshing to me. He is exactly the same in every respect in Weimar as he was in the Villa Borghese. Every time I see him it is as if he brought a bit of the dolce farniente of the Roman atmosphere of art, into my presence. As he is here, I will arrange a little scrap-book of my drawings. We constantly talk a great deal too much; we ought to talk less and draw more. I, for my part, should be glad to break myself of talking altogether, and speak like creative nature only in figures. That fig-tree, that little snake, the chrysalis that lies there on the window, quietly awaiting its new existence,-all these are frequent signatures, indeed he who could decypher them might well afford to dispense with the written and the spoken. The more I reflect upon it, the more it strikes me that there is something so useless, so idle, I could almost say so buffoonish in talk, that one is awe-stricken before the deep solemn repose and silence of nature, as soon as one stands withdrawn into oneself, and confronted with her, before some massive wall or rock, or in the solitude of some venerable mountain. I have brought together a number of varieties of plants and flowers, said he, pointing to the fantastic drawing before him, strangely enough here, on this piece of paper. These spectres might be yet more wild and fantastic, and the question might still remain, whether the originals of them are not actually to be found in some part of the world or other. In design, the soul gives utterance to some portion of her inmost being; and the highest mysteries of creation are precisely those which (as far as relates to their fundamental plan) rest intirely on design and modelling; these are the language in which she reveals them. The combinations in this field are so infinite, that they afford a place even for the exercise of humour. I will take only the parasitical plants; how much of the fantastic, the burlesque, the bird-like, is contained in their fleeting characters! Their flying seeds perch like butterflies on some tree, and feed upon it till the plant is full grown. Thus, rooted in the very bark, we find the mistletoe, from which bird-lime is made, growing like a branch out of the pear-tree. Here, not content with fastening itself as a guest, it forces the pear-tree to supply its very wood out of its own substance. • Die merkwürdigsten Jahre mienes Lebens. The title of Kotzebue's book.-Trans. + Zeichnung und plastic. It might be Englished,-outline and form.-Trans. The moss on trees, which is also a parasite, belongs to the same class. I have some very fine preparations of this tribe of plants, which undertake nothing on their own account, but deposit themselves, in all directions, on something that comes ready to their hand. I will show you them at some favourable opportunity-remind me of it. The peculiar construction of the rooty part of certain shrubs, which also belong to the parasitical class, is explained by the ascent of the sap, which is not drawn (according to the common course of nature) from a rude, carthy matter, but from one already organized and fashioned. No apple grows from the middle of the trunk, where all is rough and woody. A long series of years, and the most careful training are necessary to transform the apple-tree into a fruitful, succulent tree, sending forth blossom and then fruit. Every apple is a globular compact mass, and, as such, requires both a great concentration, and at the same time an uncommon refining and perfecting of the juices which flow into it from all sides. Figure to yourself Nature, how she sits, as it were, at a card-table, incessantly calling au double!—i. e. exulting in what she has already won, through every region of her operations; and thus play on into infinitude. Animal, vegetable, mineral, are continually set up anew after some such fortunate throws: and who knows, whether the whole race of man is anything more than a throw for some higher stake? During this agreeable conversation, evening had closed in; and as it was grown too cool for the gar den, we went up stairs into the sitting-room. Some time after, we were standing at the window, the sky was thick-sown with stars. The chords in Goethe's soul, which the open air in the garden, and the works of nature had struck, still quivered, and during the whole evening their vibration was not stilled. All is so vast, said he to me, that an end-a cessation of existence is nowise to be thought of. Or do you think it possible that the all-creating Sun may be intirely effete with the production of his own planetary system; and that his earth-and-mooncreating power may be intirely gone out of him, or lie utterly inactive and useless? I can by no means believe this. It appears to me extremely probable, that beyond Mercury, which is still small enough, a still smaller star will sometime or other become visible. We see, it is true, from the position of the planets, that the projectile power of the Sun is notably decreased; since the greatest masses in the system are at the greatest distance from him. In this way to pursue our reference, the time may come that the projectile force may be so exhausted, that the attempted projection of a planet may miss. If the sun cannot sever and cast off the young planet to a proper distance, like its predecessors, he will, perhaps, have a ring, like Saturn's, form itself around him, which, being composed of earthly particles, would reduce us poor earth-inhabitants to a sad condition. And, indeed, the shadow of such a ring would produce a not very cheering effect upon all the other planets of our system. The genial influence of light and heat must naturally be greatly diminished by it, and all organizations whose development is their work, must in their several degrees be cramped and stinted by it. On this view of the subject, the spots in the sun might certainly cause us some uneasiness for the fu ture. Thus much is certain, that at least, in all that we know of the past history and the laws of our planet, there is nothing to prevent the formation of a solar ring, though, to be sure, it would be difficult to assign any time for such an event. A Caution to Uncharitable Judgments of Extraordinary Men. The world is habitually unjust in its judgments of such men (as Burns); unjust on many grounds, of which this one may be stated as the substance. It decides, like a court of law, by dead statutes, and not positively, but negatively; less on what is done right, than on what is, or is not, done wrong. Not the few inches of deflection from the mathematical orbit, which are so easily measured, but the ratio of these to the whole diameter, constitutes the real aberration. This orbit may be a planet, its diameter the solar system, or it may be a city hippodrome; nay, the circle of a gin-horse, its diameter a score of feet or paces. But the inches of deflec tion only are measured; and it is assumed that the diameter of the gin-horse and that of the planet will yield the same ratio when compared with them. Here lies the root of many a blind condemnation of such men as the Burnses, Swifts, Rousseaus, which one never listens to with approval. Granted, the ship comes into harbour with shrouds and tackle damaged, and the pilot is therefore blameworthy, for he has not been all-wise and all-powerful; but to know how worthy, tell us first whether his voyage has been round the globe, or only to Ramsgate and the Isle of Dogs.-Thomas Carlyle. THE WEEK. From Wednesday the 29th October, to Tuesday the 4th November. THE FIRE OF LONDON IN 1666. In consequence of the late event in the metropolis, of which every body is talking, but which it does not fall within the province of our Journal to write upon, we have been looking into our books to see what we could lay before our readers this week respecting some other event of the like sort. We have to apologize to them for not being able to find anything better than an extract out of a production of our own; but it is not for want of the inclination to do So. We would have given them a better account of the great fire of London, could we have found one. As it is, we may observe that the present narrative, though forming part of a work of fiction, was carefully founded on passages in authentic writers. It is taken from Sir Ralph Esher, or Adventures of a Gentleman of the Court of Charles the Second,' a work which was announced as a novel, but which it would have been better to publish solely as what it was intended to be, the imitation of a real set of translated Memoirs,—an humbler and more scrupulous Count de Grammont. The hero, who is a courtier but a good fellow, is giving the account of the fire himself: 66 I was pondering on these things one night, as I was sitting in the parlour at Mickleham, looking on a beautiful moon, and delaying to go to bed, when Bennett came in and told me that there was a dreadful fire in London. One of the tradesmen had brought news of a dreadful fire the day before; but, as every fire was dreadful, and I had seen the good people of London run away from a cow, crying out a mad bull," I had thought nothing of it, and was prepared to think as little of the new one. The old gentleman, however, assuring me that both fires were one and the same, that it had burnt a whole night and day, and was visible as far as Epsom, I thought it time to see into the truth of the matter. I ordered my horse, and promising to bring back a correct account, purely to satisfy the house that there was no such thing (for some of the domestics had kindred in London), I set off at a round gallop, looking towards the north, as if I could already discern what I had doubted. Nobody was stirring at Leatherhead, but at Epsom, sure enough, there was a great commotion; all the people being at their doors, and vowing that they saw the fire, which, however, I could not discern. That there was a fire, however, and a dreadful one, was but too certain, from accounts brought into the town, both by travellers and inhabitants; so, with the natural curiosity which draws us on and on upon much less occasions, especially on a road, I pushed on, and soon had pretty clear indication of a terrible fire indeed. I began to consider what the King might think of it, and whether he would not desire to have his active servants about him. At Morden the light was so strong, that it was difficult to persuade oneself the fire was much nearer; and at Tooting you would have sworn it was at the next village. The night was, nevertheless, a very fine one, with a brilliant moon.* Not a soul seemed in bed in the village, though it was ten o'clock. There was a talk of the French, as if they had caused it. By degrees, I began to meet carts laden with goods; and on entering the borders of Southwark, the expectation of the scene was rendered truly awful, there was such a number of people abroad, yet such a gazing silence. Now and then, one person called to another, but the sound seemed as if in bravado, or brutish. An old man, in a meeting of cross roads, was haranguing the people in the style of former years, telling them of God's judgments, and asserting that this was the pouring out of that other vial of wrath which has been typified by the fiery sword, a spectacle supposed to have been seen in the sky at the close of the year sixty-four. The plague was thought to have been announced by a comet. not Very different from this quieter scene was the one that presented itself on my getting through the last street, and reaching the water-side. The comet itself seemed to have come to earth, and to be burning and waving in one's face, the whole city being its countenance, and its hair flowing towards Whitehall in a volume of fiery smoke. The river was of a bloodish colour, like the flame, and the sky overhead was like the top of a pandemonium. From the Tower to St Paul's there was one mass of devastation, the heat striking in our eyes, and the air being filled with Evelyn, speaking of this night, says that it was "light as day for ten miles round about, after a dreadful manner." 'Memoirs,' vol. i. p. 361. second edit. 4to. Sir Ralph does not seem to make the light so strong, but he does not absolutely say it was otherwise. Perhaps Evelyn speaks of a later hour. The flames appear to have become visible afterwards to the distance of forty miles.--EDIT. burning sparkles, and with the cries of people flying, or removing goods on the river. Ever and anon distant houses fell in, with a sort of gigantic shuffling noise, very terrible. I saw a steeple give way, like some ghastly idol, its long white head toppling, and A poor girl near me, who paced a few yards up and down, holding her sides as if with agony, turned and hid her eyes at this spectacle, crying out, "Oh, the poor people! oh, the mothers and babies!" She was one of the lowest of an unfortunate class of females. She thought, as I did, that there must be a dreadful loss of lives; but it was the most miraculous circum going sideways, as if it were drunk. stance of that miraculous time, that the fire killed nobody, except some women and infirm persons with fright. I took boat, and got to Whitehall, where I found the King in a more serious and stirring humour than ever I saw him. Mr Pepys, begging God to forgive him for having an appetite at such a crisis, and interrupting his laughter, at the supper they gave him, with tears of pity and terror, had brought word to his Majesty that the whole city would be destroyed, if some of the houses were not blown up. The King accordingly not only dispatched myself and others to assist, but went in person with his brother, and did a world of good. I never saw him look so grim, or say so many kind things. Wherever he went he gave the people a new life, for they seemed dead with fright. Those who had not fled (which they did by thousands into the fields, where they slept all night) seemed only to have been prevented from doing so, by not knowing what steps to take. The Lord Mayor, a very different one from his predecessor, who showed a great deal of courage during the plague, went about like a mad cook with his handkerchief, perspiring, and lamenting himself; and nobody would have taken the citizens for the same men who settled my court friends at the battle of Naseby. The court, however, for that matter, was as frightened as the city, with the exception of the King and one or two others; so terrible is a new face of danger, unless there is some peculiar reason for meeting it. The sight, indeed, of the interior of the burning city was more perilous, though not so awful, as its appearance outside. Many streets consisted of nothing but avenues between heaps of roaring ruins, the sound of the fire being nothing less than that of hundreds of furnaces, mixed up with splittings, rattlings, and thunderous falls; and the flame blowing frightfully one way, with a wind like a tempest. The pavement was hot under one's feet; and if you did not proceed with caution, the fire singed your hair. All the water that could be got seemed like a ridiculous dabbling in a basin, while the world was burning around you. The The blowing up of the houses, marked out by the King, was the ultimate salvation of some of the streets that remained; but, as a whole, the city might be looked upon as destroyed. I observed the King, as he sate on his horse at the beginning of Cheapside and cast his eyes up that noble thoroughfare; and certainly I had never seen such an exSome said that pression in his countenance before. he now began to see the arm of heaven in these visitations, and that he resolved to bethink himself I know not from that time, and lead a new life. how it was the new life certainly was not led; but his thoughts were very solemn; perhaps they would have been more so, had not a madman pretended to show him the arm of heaven literally stretched over the city, "like unto the arm of a blacksmith;" and had not another afterwards, (who got hung for it) pretended that he helped to set the city on fire. and that the Papists had employed him. poor wretch was a Papist himself, and numbers believed him. Others said the French did; others the Dutch; and others the Republicans; particularly as the 3rd of September, that is to say, the day on which it did not break out, was the anniverthought that all these, Papists and Protestants, had sary of Cromwell's victory of Dunbar. made up a plot; but the opinion that secretly obtained most ground was, that it was a punishment for the sin of gluttony; the greatest argument, next to the looks and consciences of the aldermen, being the appalling fact, that the fire began at Pudding Lane, and ended at Pye Corner. The fire raged four days and nights; and on the 5th of September, London, from the Tower to Fleet street, was as if a volcano had burst in the midst of it and destroyed it, the very ruins being calcined, and nothing remaining in the most populous part to show the inhabitants where they had lived, except a church I looked into it here and there, and an old statue. three days afterwards, when the air was still so hot, that it was impossible to breathe; and the pavement absolutely scorched the soles of my shoes. Many The loss of property by the fire was of course far greater than that by the plague; and yet, assuredly, it was not felt a thousandth part so much, even in the city; for money, with the lovers of it, is not so great a thing, after all, as their old habits and affections. The wits at court never chose to say much about the plague; but the fire, after the fright was over, was a standing joke; and the beneficial consequences to the city itself soon became manifest, in the widening and better building the streets, an improvement which came in aid of the cleanliness which was resorted to against the plague; so that instead of a judgment against the King and his government, Rochester said, in his profane way, that heaven never showed a judgment of a better sort. SPECIMENS OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS. VOITURE. VINCENT VOITURE (says the General Biographical Dictionary) once celebrated as an elegant French writer, was the son of a wine merchant, and born at Amiens, in 1598. His talents and taste for the belles lettres gave him considerable celebrity, and easily introduced him to the polite world. He was the first in France distinguished for what is called bel esprit; and though this is all the merit of his writings, yet this merit was then great, because it was uncommon. His reputation opened his way to court, and procured him pensions and honourable employments. He was sent to Spain about some affairs, where, out of curiosity, he passed over to Africa. He was mightily caressed at Madrid, where he composed verses in such pure and natural Spanish, that everybody ascribed them to Lopez de Vega. It appears by his letters that he was in England in 1633. He made two journeys to Rome, where, in 1638, he was admitted a member of the Academy of Humoristi; as he had been of the French Academy in 1634. He was the person employed to carry the news of the birth of Louis XIV to Florence; and had a place in the household of that monarch. He had several considerable pensions from the court; but the love of play and women kept him from being rich. He died in 1648. He wrote verses in French, Spanish, and Italian; and there are some very fine lines written by him, but they are but few. His Letters' make the bulk of his works, and have been often printed, in two vols. 12mo. They are elegant, polite, and easy; but, like the genius of the writer, without nerve or strength. Boileau praises Voiture excessively; and doubtless, considered as a polisher and refiner in a barbarous age, he was a writer to be valued; yet his letters would not now be thought models, and are, indeed, seldom read. Voiture, says Voltaire, gave some idea of the superficial graces of that epistolary style, which is by no means the best, because it aims at nothing higher than pleasantry and amusement. His two volumes of letters are the mere pastime of a wanton imagination, in which we meet with not one that is instructive, not one that flows from the heart, that paints the manners of the times, or the characters of men; they are rather an abuse, than an exercise of wit." With all this insignificance, Voiture's 'Letters' cost him much labour; a single one took nearly a fortnight, a proof that his wit came slower in writing than in conversation, otherwise he would never have been the delight of every company. Pope appears to have had a good opinion of these letters, as he thought them a suitable present for Miss Blount," and never seems to have suspected that this was not paying that lady's delicacy any great compliment. Notions of delicacy vary with times and manners. The compliment paid to Miss Blount was such as would have been gladly received by any lady of that period, as may be seen by what is addressed to ladies of all ranks and times of life, in the works of contemporary writers. Voiture's pains-taking to be easy amounts to the ludicrous; yet he has succeeded, after his fashion; and it can be easily understood how he may have talked with facility, though he wrote slowly; for personal manner, and the warmth of intercourse, supply what is wanting in the one instance; whereas a letter is to be read deliberately, and in cooler moments; and the writer is thus put upon striving to do his best. We cannot think, with Voltaire, that our author has failed so intirely in painting the manners of the times; for, not to mention the features that occasionally transpire, he has, at all events, given us an egregious picture of the delicacies of his own coxcombry, half banter, and half in earnest. He is the Brummell of flatterers; and his letters should be read accordingly in the last new tone. It is astonishing how this fetches them out. If the reader cannot do it for himself, or chuse to do it, he should fancy them read out by some actor of stage-dandies. Voiture was one of the artificial wits, whose race was swept away by the manlier genius of Molière. His talent, however, though beaten out and thinned into such trifling, was genuine, and in the subsequent age might have given him a far solider repu tation. The first of the ensuing letters, which is addressed to a celebrated brother wit and letter writer, is surely exquisite of its kind,—the quintes sence of exaggeration. That to the Marchioness of Rambouillet, the great blue-stocking of her day, and patroness of hyperbole, is more extravagant, and not so nicely managed. His ludicrous comparisons with Alexander, now-a-days would be taken for pure affronts to a woman's understanding. But surely these are also specimens of "manners; " and now is impossible to help admiring his wit and grace. and then, during his most extravagant moments, it But pray let the fancy of the reader mince and dandify the words in perusal. TO MONSIEUR DE BALZAC. SIR, If it be true that I have always kept the rank which you tell me I have held in your memory, methinks you have shown but a very indif ferent concern for my satisfaction, in delaying so long to impart the pleasing news to me, and suf fering me to be the happiest of men, without dreaming I was so. But perhaps you were of opinion, that this very good fortune was so infinitely above anything I could in reason hope for, that it was neces sary you should take time to invent arguments to render it credible, and that you had occasion to employ all the power of rhetoric, to persuade me I was not forgotten. And thus far, at least, I must needs own you have been very just; for, in resolving to let me have nothing but words for all the affection you owe me, the choice you have made of them has been so rich and so beautiful, that, let me die, if I believe what they assure me of would be of greater value. This, at least, is certain, that they would suffice to counterbalance any friendship but mine. I am only discontented at one particular, viz. that so much artifice and eloquence should not be able to disguise the truth from me; and that in this I should resemble your own shepherdesses, who are too simple to be beguiled by a man of wit. * I Nay, I know not if the very extravagancies of a soul so exalted as yours are not too serious, and too reasonable to descend so low as to me. And I shall esteem myself too obligingly treated, if you have but so much as dreamed of your loving me; for to imagine that you have actually reserved a place for me amidst those sublime thoughts, which are, at present, employed in recompensing every one's virtues, and distributing shares of glory to mankind,-to imagine this would be an excessive presumption. have too high sentiments of your understanding to believe you would be guilty of what is so much below you, and I should be unwilling your enemies should have that to object to you. I am perfectly satisfied that the only affection which you can have justly for any one, is that which you owe to yourself; and that the precept of studying oneself, which is a lesson of humility to all but you, ought to have a contrary effect in your instance, and oblige you to contemn whatever you find in others. TO THE MARCHIONESS OF RAMBOUILLET. MADAM, Though my liberality should, as you tell me, surpass the bounty of Alexander, it would nevertheless be richly recompensed by the thanks which you have returned me for it. He himself, as boundless as his ambition was, would have confined it to so rare a favour. He would have set more value on this honour than he did on the Persian diadem ; and he would never have envied Achilles the praise which he received from Homer, if he could but himself have obtained yours. Thus, Madam, on this pinnacle of glory whereon I stand, if I bear any envy to his, it is not so much to that part of it which he acquired himself, as to that which you have bestowed upon him; and he has received no honour which I do not hold inferior to mine, except it be that which you did him, when you declared him your gallant. Neither his vanity, nor the rest of his flatterers, could ever persuade him to believe what was so advantageous to him; and the quality of Son of Jupiter Ammon was abundantly less glorious. But if any thing comforts me for the jealousy which it has raised in me, it is this, Madam,-that knowing you so well as I do, I am pretty well assured, that if you have done him this honour, it is not so much on the account of his being the greatest of mankind, as of his having been now dead these two thousand years. However, we here find cause to admire the greatness of his fortune, which not yet forsaking him, so many years after his decease, has added to his conquests a person wife of Darius; and which has gained him a mind who gives them more lustre than the daughters and greater than the world he conquered. I ought here to be afraid, after your example, of writing in a too lofty style. But how can the writer be too sublime who writes of you, and of Alexander? I humbly beseech you, Madam, to believe that I have for you a passion equal to that which you show for him; and that the admiration of your virtues will oblige me to be always, Madam, Your, &c., &c. TO MADEMOISELLE RAMBOUILLET. For MADAM,-I do not at all wonder you laughed so heartily when you wrote me word of the strange, unaccountable report which is spread of me; namely, that I have neither goodness nor friendship in me; and you had good reason to hear it in the same for really nothing was ever uttered more ridiculous manner, as if you had been told that Mons. de Chaudebonne robs on the highway, or has married the daughter of Mons. Des's gentleman. my part, I cannot help wondering that such a false opinion, and so unguarded a calumny should have extended so far, and infected three provinces; and whoever gave it birth, he who did it must be the most dangerous person on earth. I will inquire diligently to find out the author or authors; and if I discover it, I positively will be revenged, even be she or they as lovely and terrible as yourself. You told me some time ago, Madam, a piece of news to which I made no answer, because I was then in the dumps; but since you inform me of the report which is now spread, I must say, that I think the other is as strange as ever I heard. Though I am, as well as any one, acquainted with the charms of the Marchioness de***, I shall never have done wondering how, at a time when she had no man living in her thoughts beside her Doctor and her Cook, when she was dressed in the Rateen we saw, with two or three napkins about her head; how, I say, she could then win the heart of a man so hard to please, as I take the Marquis to be, and send a lover to sigh for her in the Thebaid deserts? The spark you mention would have done well to go after him; or if he did not care for taking so long a journey, he might at least have turned hermit upon the Valerian mountain. But in sober sadness, instead of putting the questions you propose to me from him, he had better hold his tongue, and not speak again these seven years. Nevertheless, Madam, I will answer them, since you desire it. The first,-"Why, being dressed in blue, he always seems dressed in green ?" is one of the most arduous questions I ever heard proposed in any science whatever; and, for my part, I cannot find what can be the cause, unless the gentleman, instead of rising at one in the afternoon, and being dressed by three, as he used to be formerly, is now grown more lazy, and never appears but by candle-light. However it be, I should advise him to wear green, in order to see whether he will not then seem dressed in blue. As for the second,-" Which I would have him resolve upon, to take La Motte, or to deliver me out of the hands of the Saracens? Without a grain of selfishness, I think this last enterprise, besides its being the juster of the two, is also the more difficult, and consequently the more glorious. There are five-and-twenty thousand foot and six thousand horse, who are to take care to guard me with as much care as Gueldres and Anvers; yet he has no need to be frightened at this; for Hector the Brown did alone defy five-and-thirty thousand men in Northumberland, and I do not think he was so valiant as our friend; and then he has no occasion to apprehend that he shall have any want of laurels here: the finest to be found in all Europe grow in this country. On my side, I promise him, I will take care to see to them, and get the crowns made. But, besides Saracen soldiers, he will have Saracen ladies to fight with too; some of whom will not quietly see me taken from them; and the report which you tell me is spread all over three provinces, is not yet come to one of the seventeen. I have not so ill a character here as I have in the place where you live; and it is believed, that though I should not be so very much inclined to love, I should nevertheless be worthy to be beloved. Yet, Madam, I own this is no consolation to me; and I shall think myself very wretched, if, among all the persons in France for whom I have so great a respect, there is not one who has such a good opinion of me as to believe that my heart is formed as it should be; that I can constantly honour those who deserve it, and infinitely love those who are infinitely lovely. I cannot tell what you, for your part, think of it; but, I assure you, no one has less cause to doubt it; and I am as perfectly as I ought to be, and as you could wish, Madam, Your, &c. &c. TO MONSIEUR DE CHAVIGNY. [A real delicacy and feeling almost intirely pervade this letter.] SIR.-Take notice, I beg you, how far people have extended the report of the credit I have in you. Mons. Esprit, who is going to court with a letter of recommendation from M. to you, thought it would be better if I recommended him to you, and I was so vain, that I chose rather to be so bold as to do it, than to tell him that I durst not. He is really, sir, one of the most agreeable men breathing; his mind is just such a one as you love; he is very good, very wise, very learned, a very great divine, and a very great philosopher; yet he is not one of those who despise riches; and as he is positive he should know how to make a right use of them, he would not be sorry if he could obtain a good abbey; for which Madame d'Aiguillon has written to my lord cardinal. That will depend on his eminence; but it will depend upon you to give him a good reception, and that is all he desires. After the character I have bestowed on him I believe it is needless to add the humble supplication I make you in his behalf; and I only do it because he desires I would, and I have been always used to do whatever he would have me. But, sir, having said thus much for his interest, I hope the rules of friendship do not forbid me to say something of my own, and to beg you will do me the honour to continue loving me, and to believe that I am, Sir, Your, &c. &c. Paris, June 5, 1641. SPECIMENS OF THE ESSENCE OF POETRY. [FROM a capital article in the Dublin University Magazine. This is the first time we ever really knew what admirable poets existed in old times in Ireland, -men full of the union of an heroic vigour with a woman's feeling. The italics are the writer's own marking, and argue no little critical fortitude in being so spare. We should have been tempted to score almost all the verses, from the whole of the first pathetic and most poignant stanza, down to the exquisite delicacy of the darted javelin at the conclusion.] The affection of the hereditary bard, it will at once be seen, is, primarily, reverence to the principle of sacred duty ultimately shaping itself, through regard to the point of honour, into its second nature of personal attachment. It is, in a word, piety concentrated into loyalty, natural religion supplying the instinet of natural love. Neither foster-father, nor father himself, could feel more yearning affection for his son, could more anxiously express the fondest alarm for his safety, or more proudly exult in his achievements, than does the bard O'Hussey for his chief, but not relation, Hugh Maguire! We take the extract from Mr Hardiman's unpublished collection in the Egerton MSS., British Museum. O'HUSSEY'S ODE. Cold weather I consider this night to be for Hugh! A cause of grief is the rigour of its show'ry drops; Alas! insufferable is The venom of this night's cold. This night, it grieves my heart, Less ruthless than the hate which pursues him. Though he were a wild creature of the forest, He could not bear the rigour of this weather. Mournful I am for Hugh Maguire Under the embers of thunderbolts, amid the showers flaming, And the keen anger of the whistling clouds. In the country of Clan Daire It grieves me that his fate should be so severe : Perhaps drenched with the cold wet dripping off the thickets; Perhaps exposed to the high heaven's floods. Cold seem to me your two cheeks strawberry-red, Should be ground by this rough, sullen, scowling night In cold steely accoutrements! Hugh marched, though it grieved me, with his host to battle, And his tresses soft curling are hung with iceCause of warmth to the hero are the shouts of war, And the many mansions lime-white which he laid in ashes. O'Hussey was a poet. There is a vivid vigour in these descriptions, and a savage power in the consolation drawn from their antithetical climax, which claim a character almost approaching to sublimity. Nothing can be more graphic, yet more diversified, than his images of unmitigated horror, nothing more gradually startling than his heroic conception of the glow of glory triumphant over frozen toil. We have never read the poem without recurring, and that by no unworthy association, to Napoleon on his Russian campaign. Yet perhaps O'Hussey has conjured up a picture of more inclement desolation, in his rude idea of northern horrors, than could be legitimately employed by a poet of the present day, when the romance of geographical obscurity no longer permits us to imagine these Phlegrean regions of endless storm, where the snows of Hamus fall mingled with the lightnings of Etna, amid Bistonian wilds or Hyrcanian forests. This ode possesses a new interest in our papers, for it is the first our readers have yet met, in which description has not been altogether sacrificed to sentiment. But timent, and here there is no sacrifice of either-a O'Hussey's descriptions are pervaded by intense senrare conjunction of felicities in Irish song. While the impression is still hot, let us complete the vindication of O'Hussey's claim to descriptive power, pious sentiment, and devoted loyalty. Hear how he strikes out Tiege Mac Brian at a single Between the wooded banks of Barrow, and the steep steps of Blackstairs lie many a black bog and misty valley girdling their grey wall of mountain, with solitude which, we can well imagine, whispered moaning horror from inextricable swamps and thickets, where Kavanagh held sylvan court in Saint Mullins, and O'Hussey made his hearers shudder in the hall of Tempo, at the perils of the dark Leinster borders. Here it was that the ill-fated Richard wound his disastrous way through woods and quags, for six weeks, with Art MacMurrogh hanging on his discomforted march, and Henry Bolingbroke turning his reluctant stay tofroyal account, at home; but neither kern nor quagmire could stop the progress of that Iron Saxon, who first made his way through the scattered clans of Byrne, Toole, and Kavanagh, and from the maiden passes of KillEdmond, and the sleepy hollow of Scallagh Gap, carried the fire and sword of the republic through bog and glen, and breached castle wall, from Ballyburris to Waterford and Clonmel. Kill-Edmond is no longer, in O'Hussey's words, The breast of mountains, and wind-whirling vales,* Yet, were we an exciseman, we should prefer making our descent upon the bogs from Graig or Carlow. But to return to O'Hussey, of whose descriptive excellence we have had abundant proof; let us, by one more extract, exhibit him in his pious His ode character of a faithful and true clansman. is now for Cuconnaught, in the north, with Hugh. But I would not deem the weather inclement, If I were with him in his distress: How happy would I be this night, If I were under one garment with Cuconnaught! I would not complain of the rude winds, When standing on the watch for him; Nor the pelting rain would I regard, though drenched my garments, Beside Hy Duach of tempests! But the didactic devotion of this declaration is consumed in a glow of adoring affection, when he apostrophises the chief himself, Thou joy! thou promise! thou sprightly salmon! This excels Macpherson; O'Hussey is no unfit representative of the true Ossian, but Ossian was a Prince, and O'Hussey sought no higher honour than to be the bard of Maguire. Maguire was his theme, his mark, his sacred butt for devoted shafts of endless and untiring panegyric. Be on thy guard!" he cries, aiming at his idol's heart. 66 Be on thy guard, for I will dart This lay as a javelin cast from me! And could he, like Cupid in Anacreon, shoot himself bodily into the soul of his chief, he would follow his swift iambics to their unreluctant destination. Whether the next O'Hussey would as successfully fulfil his military duty by the next Maguire, must have been more than doubtful; for such writing as this as we have just seen, is not to be expected in every generation; but whether or not he might equal his father in poetic art and in fervour of poetic feeling, we have no doubt he would not have been deficient in pious emulation of loyal will. What duvaus in the tortuous energy of the epithet! PRETTY STORY OF AFFECTION IN CHILDHOOD. (From Mr Clarke's Adam the Gardener.") [We have been given to understand, on the best authority, that this agreeable little picture of mixed liveliness and tenderness (the most agreeable of all pictures) is from the pen of a lady. We mention this, because it is always pleasant to know how much one is obliged to the sex; and the more modest they are in their pretensions, the more delightful does it become to show one's gratitude. We take this opportunity of stating, that the book we lately inquired after, Mr Clarke's new and purified edition of Chaucer, with the spelling modernized,-will appear early next month.] Dame Barton was an honest, hard working woman, who lived with her husband and son, in a small hut under Dover Cliffs. Her husband was a fisherman, and as industrious as herself; for he laboured night and day at his trade to support his wife and child, till one dreadful day he was drowned in endeavouring to save the crew of a ship, that was wrecked in sight of the hut, on the sea-shore. About three months after his death, as little John Barton was sitting one evening, mending a net for a neighbour, opposite to his mother, he suddenly exclaimed, Oh, mother, how tired you must be of spinning! You have sat at your wheel ever since four o'clock this morning, and now it is seven o'clock, yet you have hardly stirred from your work. |