and however our opinions may differ upon the actual effects of his words and writings, it is no great exercise of candor to suppose that his intentions were pure. His immense stores of knowledge, were, in general, drawn forth to promote, or to resist some practical object, and he forced upon us the necessity of appreciating all human intelligence, by the good or evil to which it is directed. The sensibility of his heart was exquisite, and ever alive; more rapid than the flights of his imagination-infinitely too rapid, and at times, perhaps, too strong for his reason, it often turned against the latter, the strength it occasionally received from both. Always engaged in the contemplation of mighty objects, he knew, that although his objects were mighty, his instruments must be men. In order to make the constitution what he could approve, and the empire what he wished, he united with a parliamentary party, which appeared the most respectable and effectual means of accomplishing these ends; but in attempting to render party his instrument, he became himself, for a time, the instrument of party; and his dereliction of that system upon the new turn of affairs in Europe, (the act of his life which has been the most unpopular) ought to vindicate his principles, though the consequences of it may arraign his judgment.

In our imperfect nature the superiority of one man to another is no more than a partial superiority. One towering faculty, in the composition of an individual, bears down and casts a shade upon the rest; in conduct it obstructs their use, as in comparison at extinguishes their lustre. Mr. Burke's miscarriages in the world of politics, though not proportioned to the grandeur of his undertakings, have been more than proportioned to those incurred by ordinary men, in the ordinary level of human character. His fertile mind nourished every subject on which he thought, into a vast creation, multiform, rich in realities, in images, and in conjectures; much of it fluctuating and fugitive, complex in its materials, boundless in its dimensions, and new to its author. More secure, but far less elevated, their lot, in whom there is little of invention to suggest, and nothing of imagination to delude; whose ideas do not multiply into clogs upon their judgment, but leave it, through an empty region, a free and inglorious path! Where these, and such men as these, have to manage only their respective atoms, Mr. Burke, in his luxuriance, had to wield a universe-and to say that he failed, is to say that he was not a God.

Some weeds of prejudice sprung up with his opinions; a mist of superstition hung over him, which obscured important truths, and raised a multitude of illusory forms; his fancy associated other subjects with these; and his zeal committed them, so infected, to the world. The rest of mankind saw truth and falsehood in colours less strong than Mr. Burke, though perhaps more minutely accurate. All those whose

cold and shallow mediocrity was incapable either of sympathizing with his sensibilities, or of fathoming his deductions, made his greatness a reproach to him, and ridiculed his intellect for being superior to their Some philosophers, also, of that malignant school which affects the absence of feeling to disguise its perversion, joined in a league of abusive controversy; and madness and despotism were common themes of invective, against one of the wisest and the best of men.

own.

Upon the whole, we must impute to Mr. Burke some of the evils we have suffered, but posterity may reap unmixed advantage from his works. He combined the greatest talents of the greatest men, and his judgment was overmatched, not by the abilites of others, but by his own. He roused, by a wound, the sleeping tyger of Democracy, and provoked, and almost justified, his devastations. Had he lived in the most despicable age, his genius would have exalted it; had he lived in the most tranquil age, his conduct might have disturbed it. He has left a space that will not soon be filled. He described a grand, but irregular course; his meridian was more tolerable than his descending ray; but the heat with which he scorched us will soon be no longer felt, while the light which he diffused will shine upon us forever.

THE LITERARY WORLD- -FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

DOBSON'S PETRARCH-Philadelphia Edition, 2 vols. 12mo.

MANY years have elapsed since the indefatigable Abbe de Sade, in the fervour of his zeal for one of the restorers of literature, published three huge quartos, as a sort of Life of Petrarch, the wellknown hermit of Vaucluse, and the romantic lover of Laura. On the appearance of this overgrown work, all the Learned agreed that its laborious author deserved well of the literary commonwealth; but that either the magnitude of his collections, or the copiousness, not to say the prolixity of his style, would terrify every indolent reader. The enormous size of these volumes, so obviously rebellious against the common code of biographical composition, did, indeed, deter many from the purchase and perusal of a book, in which it was apprehended there would be found more flagrant proofs of the garrulity of a Frenchman, than of the accuracy of a compiler. Moreover, doubts were started with respect to the genuineness of some of the manuscripts,

to which the Abbe pretended he had access. There was a clamorous call for papers; and, as in the case of the impudent forgeries of Macpherson, shrewd and inquisitive men insisted upon an inspection of the originals. The guarded silence of the prudent Abbe, and the cunning craftiness of a venal bookseller contributed, very essentially, to corroborate the incredulity of Criticism.

But while the Indolence of some, and the Scepticism of others thus powerfully operated to check the sale, and retard the popularity of this cumbrous performance, elegant scholars on the continent, together with the whole choir of Phabus in Great Britain, plainly perceived that though the Abbe's field was vast, it did not follow that it was barren; and that although some of its ornaments might be artificial, yet it was probable the curious eye might discover many flowers of a perennial character. In a life, checkered by romantic vicissitudes, at an epoch, memorable in the annals of Literature, men might find both instruction and delight. A gold mine was evidently open, and though the first discoverer produced but huge masses of the crude ore, some more adroit artificer might fashion it for use, and polish it for beauty.

About the commencement of the American revolution, Mrs. DoвSON, a literary lady of Liverpool, instead of indulging herself in libels against crowns, or eulogies upon colonists, like Mrs. Macauley, and other viragoes of a similar stamp, wisely relinquished the bickerings of Faction for the bowers of Literature, and read Poetry much more devoutly than Petitions. Soame Jenyns, a most elegant scholar, a diligent inquirer, and a gentleman of the old Court, probably exhorted this Lady to attempt an abridgment of the Abbe's Memoires. This elegant epitome, executed with sufficient spirit, was, in fact, dedicated, by permission, to Mr. Jenyns, who never would have sanctioned with his honoured name, a work dubious in its principles, or slovenly in its execution. In this animated address to her Patron, the learned Lady abundantly testifies her high sense of the honour of his indulgence, and pays a perfectly well-deserved compliment to the captivating conversation and elegant and philosophical writings of one, whose style was as sweet as ADDISON's, although his politics and his party were directly the reverse of those of the awkward secretary of the First Dutch George.

MONTAIGNE, in one of his desultory chapters, wishes that his work might become a parlour window book. Few productions of a light and desultory character have been more popular than Mrs. Dobson's ingenious summary, which it may be said emphatically is a toilet table book. Independently of the sweetness and attractiveness of this Lady's style, the great power of enchantment, which leads a vast multitude of women, and men soft, idle, and luxurious like women, Is the marvellous pleasant love story of the pining Petrarch, and the

languishing Laura. In this best of all possible worlds, while lightning smiles and downcast looks, sunny locks and radiant smiles, looks ex pressive, and sighs suppressed, thoughts that breathe and words that burn constitute a section in the vocabulary of love, so long will the description of anything in the shape of an intrigue witch the imagination of young men and maidens. We must confess that, in our deliberate opinion, whatever relates to Petrarch and Laura, those amorous Signs, whether in opposition or conjunction, is, to the last degree, idle, insipid, and insignificant. We are excessively incredulous even of the existence of such an attachment, as has been so nauseously, so tiresomely, and so everlastingly described. Taking this romantic story for granted, the fond admirers of the lovesick Italian will place their favourite in a very awkward dilemma. If his passion was merely metaphysical and sentimental, a very darling idea which prigs like Sam Richardson, or prudes like his Miss Howe, dwell upon with rapture, then Petrarch was a fool. If his ardour were so ungovernable that he was seriously in love with his neighbour's wife, we need not go very far, nor run knocking at the door of the Decalogue, to discover that he was a rogue. In the first case, the learned Petrarch, with all the absurdity of Don Quixote, passes whole days and nights in the enjoyment of an ideal mistress, and consequently is as crazy and contemptible as the knight of the rueful face; and, upon the second supposition, he is not a very proper person to be led into a modest woman's drawing-room, or to be introduced by Mrs. Dobson, or any other literary lady, Mrs. Clarke always excepted.

Turning aside, with all possible contempt, from these phantoms of Gallantry, we fix our whole regards upon Petrarch, the hermit, the poet, the historian, and the philosopher; upon Petrarch, sequestered and studious at Vaucluse, and caressed and crowned at Rome; upon the adventurous scholar, piercing through the gloom of the fourteenth century, and boldly exploring his way with the Classical Lamp in his hand. It is in this capacity that we delight to behold him; and when we remember that he gave unremitted attention to the whole circle of the Sciences, that he was assiduous in all the offices of Chris tian devotion, and one of the most indefatigable students of the age; that he was a man of business, and a man of the world, occupied with ecclesiastical engagements and by court cares, familiar with cardi, nals, legates, popes, and all the literati, his contemporaries, that moreover, in a life of no uncommon duration he found time to compose folios upon a vast variety of learned and intricate topics, besides keeping up an extensive correspondence with most of the great men of his time, it is very improbable that he was long or desperately in love with Laura, or any other Italian gipsy, chaste, or unchaste.

The legitimate pretensions of these little volumes to the favour of the rational reader are the softness, sweetness, and simplicity of Our Lady of Liverpool's style, and above all, the pious, the philosophical, and the literary character of Petrarch, who, like ERASMUS, amid innumerable cares and perplexities in sickness and in sorrow, always found time to do his duty and to do it well. In Life's visit, he has left his name; and his Italian and Latin works, in despite of the sneers of Gibbon, are a perennial monument not merely of his invincible Industry, but of the fertility of his Genius, the variety of his Learning, and the dexterity of his Wit.

From the last and seventh edition of this fascinating work, Messrs. Finley and Hopkins, two young gentlemen of literary taste in this city, have printed a very neat and commodious edition. Of the extensiveness of its circulation we have no doubt, as it is a book both cheap and popular, and as it exhibits a very graceful portrait of a learned, a good, "and a great man, who acted a much more important part on the Stage of Life, than that of a whining Amoroso, or a woful Sonnetteer. Some half a dozen of his fourteen-stringed verses may be read, and, perhaps, admired by a genuine disciple of the Concetti school, but most of Petrarch's compositions of this character, as well as the fanatic sonnets of John Milton, are scarcely looked at now, except by the old women of Literature. Petrarch's copious literature, and not his unmanly wailing has given him a rank among eminent authors; and Milton's Muse, when drudging over rugged sonnets to a sectary, is certainly as awkwardly employed as Queen Elizabeth or the Empress of Russia, discovered darning stockings, or stooping over a wash-tub.

THE SENTENTIOUS, OR SERIOUS WORLD.

(Continued from page 133.)

Do not attempt to be a public speaker unless you have a clear voice and a clear head.

During a fit of musical ecstasy, every nerve of the human body is in motion, and this may account for the power of Music over Melancholy.

However astonishing it may appear, it is certain that a mite in cheese is as regularly organized as an elephant.

Do not accustom yourself to swear. There are words enough in the English language sufficiently expressive of all our passions.