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ledges the generous trustfulness and high character of the man whom he hates.

The Moor—howbeit that I endure him not, -
Is of a constant, loving, noble nature ;
And I dare think he'll prove to Desdemona
A most dear husband.

And it is from a due consideration of the Moor's “free and open nature,” that Ingo is induced to depend for the purposes of his revenge upon the effect of such subtle insinuations as Othello, believing him to be homest, was compelled to credit. The Moor is of a free and open nature, That thinks men honest, that but seem to be so ; And will as easily be led by the nose, As asses are. Othello had too much fire in his soul to suffer him to play the mean and dilatory and patient part of a man naturally suspicious, who is always lying in wait for opportunities to discover his own misery and dishonour, and who treasures up long and greedily the minute evidences that feed his hateful passion. “ Think'st thou,” he exclaims—

Think'st thou I'd make a life of jealousy,
To follow still the changes of the moon
With fresh suspicions ! No ; to be once in doubt,
Is once to be resolved.

When he is sent by the Senate on the expedition to Cyprus, with what perfect confidence he places his young and lovely wife in the charge of Iago ; and when Brabantio says Look to her, Moor; have a quick eye to see ; She has deceived her father, and may thee.

What is his answer 1
My life upon her faith !

And to show, out of his own mouth, how little he was inclined to insist upon a strict surveillance of his wife, or to build his sets of her fidelity on trifles, let us quote art of his speech to Iago even after that artful villain }. poured the first drops of bitterness into Othello's cup. It is not the language of a man originally disposed to be mistrustful. 'Tis not to make me jealous, To say—may wife is fair, feeds well, loves company, Is sree of speech, sings, plays and dances well; Where virtue is, these are more virtuous ; Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw The smallest fear, or doubt of her revolt; For she had eyes, and chose me ; no, Iago; I'll see before I boubt : when I doubt, prove ; And, on the proof, there is no more but this, Away at once with love, or jealousy. When a man is naturally disposed to indulge the passicn of jealousy, never does he exhibit it more strongly than when he is first working his way into the affections of his mistress ; and Othello from being a mere soldier, “ rude in speech and little blessed with the set phrase of peace,” and having a complexion and cast of features that he was quite conscious were not generally attractive to the Venetian ladies, might have been excused some little anxiety repecting the possible triumph of his rivals. Her father never supposed for a moment that his reception of Othello's visits would lead to so strange a match, and when the event actually occurred he was so perplexed and bewildered, that he could only attribute it to supernatural arts. She is abused, stolen from me, and corrupted By spells and medicines bought of mountebanks; For nature so preposterously to err, Being not deficient, blind or lame of sense Sans witchcraft could not And even the pert Emilia could not help expressing her surprize that Desdemona had forsaken so many noble matches on his account. In her generous passion at the

suspicions of the Moor in one of the latter scenes of the play, she boldly tells him to his face, that Desdemona was “ but too fond of her most filthy bargain.” Yet, notwithstanding Othello's manifest disadvantages as a lover and a lady's man, of which he was so fully conscious, Desdemona never seems to have discovered in him, until the poison infused by Iago had worked its effect, the slightest indication of jealousy. Even after the scene of the handkerchief, when Emilia asks if this man is not jealous, Desdemona answers with an exclamation that she “n 'er saw thus before.” In a preceding part of the same scene the following dialogue occurs. Des.—Where should I lose that handkerchief, Emilia 2 Emil. I know not, Madam. Des.—Believe me, I had rather have lost my purse. Full of cruzadoes. And but my noble Moor Is true of mind, and made of no such baseness As jealous creatures are, it were enough To put him to ill thinking. Emil.—Is he not jealous ! Des. – Who, he 2 I think the sun, where he was born Drew all such humours from him.

I repeat my opinion, that Othello was not naturally jealous, but on the contrary of a most trustful and generous disposition, and that Shakespeare seems to have intended to show, how rapid and terrible are the effects of jealousy when it has once taken possession of a fiery and impassioned heart. His object, it appears, was not to display the petty and never-resting suspicions of a little mind, of a jealous, key-hole-peeping, Paul Pry, but to exhibit a fearful picture of the tempest and desolation, and delirium into which its sudden admission may throw the noblest natures.

We have no right, whatever, to regard Othello in the light of a feeble-minded dupe. If he had not been assected by the evidnce so artfully brought forward by Iago, whom he looked upon as a zealous and disinterested friend, and whose good faith had never been suspected by himself or others, whose honesty in fact was proverbial, we might have fairly censured him for his blind and overweening confidence in his wife's constancy or his own power over her affections. Ile would in that case have almost deserved his dishonor. We ought not to forget that we are behind the scene, and know more than the unhappy Othello himself the true characters and designs of the same circumstances as the Moor could have been proof against the consummate skill of such a master in devilish arts as the fiend lago. We sympathize with Othello's amazement when the light breaks in upon him and he discovers how completely he has been deluded and destroyed by his powerful circumvention. When lago is brought before him, he looks to see if the is cloven-footed.

Othello–I look down towards his feet; but that's a fable: If that thou be’est a devil, I cannot kill thee.

I could easily multiply extracts in support of my opinion ; but perhaps the reader might grow tired of the subject. I shall give but one more brief quotation and conclude. It is Othello's character fiom his own mouth, and I think it a true one.

I pray you, in your letters, Speak of me as I am ; nothing extenuate, Norset down aught in malice; then must you speak Of one, who loved not wisely, but too well ; Of one, Not Easily jealous, but BEING whought, Peoplexed IN The Ex1aeMe.

I ought to apologize for the length of this article on a subject that has already occupied so large a space in the columns of the Literary Gazette; but it is difficult to A check oneself in a discussion in which Shakespeare is the theme.

D. L. R., [Bengal Herald, January 7. 5 RIENZI. time highly characteristic. He had gone through, with controlled feelings, the history of his brother's death, but when he came to that part of the narrative, where he was about to tell of the insults he himself received, when he called aloud for “justice," his indignat on arrives at an excess which he has no longer power to moderate; he connot tell of the cutting words which were spoken, and the contemptuous acts were done unto him, by the proud nobles ; the memory of these things lashes his soul into a whirlpool of incontrollable passion, and he breaks of into a wild cry for vengeance— vengeance upon the oppressors. If we have mistaken the true meaning of this passage, Miss Mitford and our readers must forgive us.

Miss Mitford's Tragedy of Rienzi, was performed on Friday evening for the benefit of Mrs. Leach. The play had never before been performed, and we think, had been little read in Calcutta. It is nevertheless one of the best Dramas that has been produced in these latter days, when the cry is echoed from north to south and from east to west, that the sun of dramatic literature in England, has been obscured, never again to put for th it beams. They who only know Miss Milford by he country stories, and think of her as the placid, subdued writer of those sweet rustic domesticities which find then way into the hearts of all dwellers in the country and of very many town-bred folk, will marvel at the vigour both of conception and of diction, which we meet with every where in the Tragedy of Rienzi. The play is full of energy, each character sorcibly sustained and ful, of individuality, the interest unbroken, and many of the situations eminently dramatic. We doubt not but that most of our readers have perused Mr. Bulwer's admira. ble Romance, built up on the same historical basis. Miss Mitford was first in the field; but neither of the two authors, in pourtraying the character of Rienzi, have adhered very faithfully to recorded facts. It was Si Walter Raleigh, we think, who on hearing a tumuli beneath his chamber windows, despatched some of his domestics to learn the cause of it, and when they return. ed, one giving him one and another another account of the affray, he exclaimed, “Ah! indeed, if I find it so difficult to learn the true facts of incidents which happen at my own threshold, how littlereliance must I place in the records of events, which occurred centuries ago.” It is indeed the rarest of accidents to meet with an in partial historian. Bulwer accuses Gibbon of having unnecessarily blackened the character of the last of the tribunes; and we think that we might accuse Mr. Bulwer of having unduly exalted it. But this is a peculiar characteristic of many of Bulwer's writings to make us sympathize with those who are more worty of our execration and abhorrence—witness the novels of Paul Clifford and Eugene Aram and the character of Sir Reginald Glanvillar in Pelham. None, but a bigoted Tory, could rise from the perusal of Bulwen's Rienzi without a warm, perhaps an enthusiastic admiration of the noble character therein pourtrayed; but we are sorry to say that the Rienzi of the Romance is far different from the Rienzi of History. The cotemporary biographer, who has generally received the credit of rare impartiality, inspires not the reader with that belief in the virtue and nobility of the Tribune which the author of Eugene Aram instils into our minds. We see nothing in Mr. Bulwer's Romance of the obese and bloated wine-bibbing debauchee. We see him only as a hero and martyr, as pure in his private and in his public relations. Tue Romance writer describes him too, as a man of gentle feeling, which assu.edly he was not—first he was, even to a Brutus-like justice, and endowed with a lofty and towering, but not a refined, intellect. Some leven of the “ sordid hostelry,” which was his brithplace, clung to him throughout his career. Unselfish we cannot believe him to have been ; he loved the people because he was one of them ; he hated the aristocracy because they had insulted him. The memory of these insults was ever rankling in his soul and goading him on to action. Revenge was his guiding principle. It was not pity, it was not justice, it was not the love of liberty; it was revenge which stimulated his dorman energies, and stirred up those resolves in his mind, which led to the great revolution of which he was eventually the victim.–“Yes”—he says in the language of Miss Mitsord's Tragedy,

Yes, I've trod thy halls, Scorned and derided midst their ribald crew,

A licensed jester, save the cap and bells ;
I have borne this—and I have borne the death,
The unavenged death of a dear brother.
1 seemed—I was, a base, ignoule slave.
What am I - peace I say what an I now :
Head of this great re-public, chief of Rome ;
In all but name her sovereign.

Even Bulwer, in spite of his admiration for the Tribune and all that he has said about patriotism, consesses in the very first chapter of his ltomance, that it was revenge which first incited Rienzi to action. When the spear of the ruthless Colonua passed through the body of Cola's brother, loud were the cries of Cola for justice. “See ye, Sirs, he was but too gentle; and they will not give us justice because his murderer was a noble and a Colonna. And this gold too, gold for a brother's blood Will they not,” and the young man's eyes glared like fire—“will they not give us justice Time shall show :” So saying he bent lis head over the corpse; his lips muttered as with some prayer or invocation, and then rising, his face was as pale as the dead beside him ; but it was no longer pale with gros t

“From that bloody clay and that inward prayer Cola di Rienzi rose a new being. With his young brother died his own youth. But for that event the future Liberator of Rome might have been but a dreamer, a scholar, a poet—the peaceful rival of Petrarch, a man of thoughts not deeds. But from that time all his faculties, energies, fancies, genius, became concentrated to a single point, and patriotism, before a vision, leapt into the life and vigour of a passion, as agly kindled, atubbornly hardened, and awfully consecrated—by revenge.”

This is historical, and both the Dramatist and the Romance writer have availed themselves of this pathetic incident in Cola Rienzi's life, making such fiequent allusion to it in their respective works, that the Trioune seems to think lar more of revenging his brother's blood than of liberating his fallen sellow-countrymen. The latter consideration appears more like an atterthought— a means—a sort of appendage to his pian of revenge. It was his scheme to crush the aristocracy; by crushing the aristocracy he consummated his revenge aud at the same time he liberated the people. “ Accade,” writes the contemporary historian, “che uno suo frate fu ucciso, e non ne fu fatta vendetta di sua morte : non lo potèo a jutare; pensa lungo usuuo rendicure 'i sanque di suo frate ; pensa lungo unano diri-sare la cetuate di Roma mule guidata.” Miss Milford, in the second act of her Tragedy, wherein Rienzi addresses the multitude thus beautifully in the person of the Liberator, alludes to this exciting cause

—I that speak to ye— I had a brother once, a gracious boy Full of all gentleness, of calinest hope— Of sweet and quiet joy–oh! how I loved That gracious boy!--younger by fifteen years, Brother at once and son In one short hour The pretty, harmless boy was slain ' I saw The corse, the mangled corse, and when I cried For vengeance –rouse ye Romans ! rouse ye slaves | Have ye brave sons ! look in the next fierce brawl To see them die. Have ye fair daughters ? look To see them live, torn from your arms, distained, Dishonoured—and if ye dare call fox justice Be answered by the lash.

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They who only know Rienzi in Mr. Bulwer's Ro: mance, and have delighted (as who has not t) in the stirring scenes of that touching story, will marvel at seeing so little in the drama, with which they have been previously acquainted. They will miss Nina (what hosts of pleasant memories that name awakens in our mind)—they will miss Nina altogether, and they will see Adrian Colonna under the title of Angelo Colonna, but oh not half so angelic as the Colonna in Bulwer's Romance. And Irene, the sister of Rienzi, they will not see in the play ; but in her place is Claudia, Rienzi's daughter, and the bride of Angelo Colonna. Mr. Bulwer, in the prefaces to his Romance, pays this fine tribute to the genius of Miss Mitford, “I cannot conclude without rendering the tribute of my humble praise and homage to the versatile and gifted author of the beautiful tragedy of Rienzi. Considering that our hero be the same, consideling that we had the same materials from which to choose our several stories, I trust that I shall be, found to have little, if at all, trespassed upon ground previously occupied. With the single exception of a love intrigue between a relative of Rienzi and one of the antagonist party, which makes the plot of Miss Mitford's Tragedy, and is little more than an episode in my romance, having slight effect on the conduct and none on the fate of the hero, I am not aware of any resemblance between the two works. And even the incident I could easily have removed, had I deemed it the least adviseable. But where there is so much it were an honour to imitate ; it would be almost a discredit had I nothing that resembled.” And if we consider the difficulties, under which the dramatist labours, but which the novellist has not to encounter, we should find it difficult to determine between the respective merits of the Tragedy and the Romance of Rienzi. The very nature of a romance gives a wise scope to the writer for illustrating the times, in which he lays the scene of his story, but a dramatist can scarcely be descriptive, and not at all discursive, and must confine himself to one particular epoch, unless he violates the unities most flagiliously. The career of Rienzi is better described in the Novel, but we doubt whether we can say the same of the character.

Thus far had we written, with the exception of a few introductory words, before witnessing the performance of Rienzi on Friday night. We have spoken at some length of the play ; it now becomes our duty to speak of the payers. We are truly sorry that we cannot do this in terms of very flattering eulogium. We love to praise far better than to censure, and Juder damnatur cum nocens absolvitur assuredly is not our motto; but praise becomes of little value, it is forthcoming upon every occasion, and We should be right glad to see a bolder tone of criticism introduced into our Indian literature. Nothing checks the advance of intellectual improvement, so much as indiscriminate praise. We shall never see really good acting upon the Calcutta stage until gentlemen are told when they play badly, especially, gentlemen who can play better if they please, but whom too much praise has rendered careless—careless from overconfideuce. It is not enough that an actor should know

the words of his part, he must comprehended, fully com. prehended, the individuality of the character he at. temps to embody; and this demands study, without which, be the natural talents of the actor what they may, he is sure to be proccipitated into a failure. We do not inter that the favorite amateur who represented Rienzi on Friday night did not understand the character of the hero ; we think that he understood it very well and that he was throughout the Tragedy the very Rienzi which we have depicted at the commencement of this article ; but he was not Miss Mitford's stienzi. He may have studied, and we doubt not but that he did, the character of Rienzi as pourtrayed in the pages of Gibbon and the co-temporary historians, but we can hardly think that he studied Miss Mitford's Tragedy, with any great degree of attention. We have no great objection to his preferring the authority of the historian to that of the dramatist, especially as in doing so his opinion coincides most entirely with our own, nor should we object to his calling in his historical knowledge to aid him in his stage representations, if the words that he is called upon to speak in the Tragedy could possibly have proceeded from the historical Rienzi–from the Rienzi as performed the other night. The words spoken, and the manner of speaking them, were in almost every instance utterly at discord. We saw two Rienzi's throughout the drama instand of one individual character. Young did not act this part in the least degree like Mr. , and Young was its original personator; indeed, we believe it was written for him. We were disappointed ; for we had studied the play and there were sundry favorite passages which we had marked, anxiously looking forward to their delivery with a vague impression of how they ought to be delivered, partly derived from our own knowledge of the subject, and partly from our recollection of Charles Young ; but we missed almost all these points. For example, in the passage to which we have alluded above in terms of especial commendation, when Rienzi is teling the history of his wrongs and breaks off abruptly from his narrative into an enrgetic appeal to his fellow citizens to bestir themselves from their slavish indolence, Mr. —, instead of pausing in the middle of the line and changing entirely the tones of his voice from the broken accents of sorrow awakened by the memory of the brother's death to the loud outburst of fiery indignation and revengeful craving at the thoughts of the injuries they had put upon him, ran on with the line as though there had been no stop at all, no sudden breaking off, no sentence unfinished, no change of feeling, delivering the latter portion of the line precisely in the same voice in which he commenced it –

And when I cried For vengeance–Rouse ye Romans! Rouse ye slaves'

became And when I cried,

"For vengeance, rouse ye Romans, rouse ye slaves,

as though the whole line had been a portion of the same sentence.

The scene with Claudia (Mrs. Leach) after the condemnation of Angelo Colonna, was far the best in the whole Tragedy. ; indeed a portion of it was admirably played. We did see a handkerchief or two uplifted seemingly to wipe away a tear ; indeed, we acknowledge, that though old play-goers ourselves, and upon all occnsions as worldly and callous-hearted as most people, we felt certain creepings of the flesh which told us that our feelings were harrowed to rather an unwonted degree. If the whole tragedy had been acted as well as this scene, we should have thought Rienzi a much better performance than Othello, as we now pronounce it to have been worse. We do not allude to the character of the hero, but to the entire representation of the play.

We need say nothine of the Messrs. Ryckman; they played as they always do, deliciously ; but of the Farce we must say a few words. It was well, though somewhat overacted, but it went off heavily enough—it not only wearied, but in some instrances it disgusted us. With all submission to the gentlemen who have the management of these things, we think it would be as well if they had passed their pens across sundry and divers passages of the farce, which in our opinion, and we are not very squeamish, were exceedingly indelicate and low. It should be remembered at these assemblages, in a crowded night, as it was on Friday, a great portion of the ladies of Calcutta are gathered together within the walls of the Chowringhee Theatre ; it should likewise be remembered that here we have no “gods” to whose vicious appetites unwholesome food is to be administered, and therefore we do not see any occasion for preserving these indecencies of an earlier age in the stage representations of the present

an audience consists almost exclusively of gentry wellborn and educated, and we should hope therefore refined. If may be said, that “to the pure all things are pure,” but this is no excuse whatever for indelicacy. We do not suppose that the double-entendres of last night were understood by half the people present; but we think it would have been far better if they had been, as Shakespeare says," reformed altogether.”

At the conclusion of the performances. Mrs. Leach delivered a valedictory address, written, we believe, by Capt. McNaughten. We have not seen it, but as far as we could judge from hearing it delivered, it was exceedingly well-written and appropriate ; as good and as little commonplace as it is possible to make these addresses got up for an especial occasion, where the subject of all others is the most hackneyed and the least poetical. It was spoken with much feeling and expression. The house was crowded throughout.—

day, at least let them be abandoned in Calcutta, where

Heruld, January 14.


Mrs. Leach took her Farewell Benefit last night to The elder Ryckman's Non Piu Mesta, was played

the fullest house we ever remember to have seen at the Chowringhee Theatre. Exclusive of the admirable se. lections she had made, the simple and much to be lamented circumstance of her last appearance was ample incentive for so full an assemblage. The house was literally crammed and more than once were apprehensions entertained by the denzens below of the unceremonious descent, per smash, of the Gods above. Those, however few, that were not present on this very interest. ing occasion, have to regret the richest treat ever afforded to the histrionic world of India.

Although we have had the pleasure of seeing Master Walter in a great variety of characters, we never saw him in finer feather and more at home than he was last night. The maintenance throughout of the fiery spirit and majestic deportment of the ambitious and the noble Tribune, his seditious address to the rabble, his subsequent defiance of their defection, his natural tenderness at the anguish of his daughter, &c., &c., &c., were of themselves sufficient to stamp him an actor of the highest class, and evinced a strict study of the very arduous part he had undertaken. This is but a cursory notice of one of the perfectest pieces of acting we ever witnessed on the boards of our Drury, and we can only repeat our consolatory comment to the absentees that

quite a la Nicholson. It struck us by the by (having handled a Rudall and Rose in our day) that his flute was a singularly small one, counter-balanced peradventure by the handu longitude of his digits which was equally conspicuous, his style of playing being, what Tom Hunter would call, high actioned 1 The Suonila Tromba of his son was decidedly the best spicimen of piano forte playing we ever heard. The exquisite maintenance of the air through the prestissimo variations and the astonishing velocity with which he rattles his fingers, which are also happily Brobdigo agian 1) over the keys, is perfectly wonderful. The last rose of summer and the duet with the basso-bassoon were also perfect chefs d'oeuvres. How proud must the sire feel at the rapidly culminating talent of his son. We venture to perdict that he may confidently rely on his soon attaining the very apex of his calling.

‘Te doctarum hederal praemia frontium
Diis miscent superis.

Love a la mode was very creditably done by all therein engaged.

Sir Archy was very good in his keen sarcasms although his Scotch, we thought, was far from genuine. Sir Callaghan O' Bralleghan labored slightly under the

they lost, that which we would not have lost for twenty catarrhs and all the “untellable tin' of Croesus !

Mrs. Leach, the elfin spirit, who by the magic of her matchless attractions and the tender appeal of her last appearance, summoned this marvellous congregation of Calcuttaites, was as usual, au fait throughout and more than once elicited the most rapturous and deserved applause, particularly in the graphic scene of Angelo Colonna's execution and her fall which, by the same token, we observed very nearly capsized her papa, albeit against all the scientific rules of gravitation, which, we have read in sundry abstruse Encyclopoedias, maintain, that the lighter body is hauled down by the heavier'

same disadvantage, but with that exception (and it is no easy matter, we beg to assure our readers en passant, for your John Bull to come the Tipperary) got through his part in right good style, Master Modus (as was his wont, in days of yore, when last we saw him) made a very happy (improvisatore) allusion to the heartless apathy which has of late been shamefully evinced on the subject of the Wellington testimonial.

The Beau Mordicai of “a debutant”, was a very successful performance indeed. With such an inauguration e may, we calculate (as Janathan would say) safely rely on his future Thespic prosperity. Squire Groom

was but so so and struited the boards backwards and forwards too often and too much after the fashion of a What Ursini, meant by making a sort of absurd clown at Astley's for our taste. His Roscian Pegasus badinage of a serious part, by uttering words in a comic has a deuced hard mouth and requires to be awfully hard strain that were evidently intended to be tragic, is to us, held in some of his dramatic handicaps ' Mrs. Leach's utterly incomprehensible. It is a mistaken notion to Charlotte (although a character by no means calculated imagin, that such travesties tell, and if he would take for the display of sock and buskin genius, if our readers our humble advice he would reform altogether that will allow us the masculine adjective) was in her usual system of ill-conceived pleasantry. style of excellence.

But let that pass.

We come at last to the painful portion of this our hasty critique, if so our indulgent readers will deign to dub it.

Malgré the immense crowd, the strictest silence was preserved (even by those Baeutian blockheads who delight at times in disturbing others and making themselves assininely conspicuous by their rude, untimely laughter and their imaginary wit) when Mrs. Leach came forward to falter her valedictory address which couched in the most apposite and touching terms, was delivered with the intensest pathos. There was no acting there, but the pure ebullition of the tenderest emotions of the heart, kindled by that relentless corroding and, alas ! inevitable word FA Rewell.


Though oft-times here, with anxious, faltering heart,
I've stood before you, in an acted part;
While yet the mind (by after kindness nerv'd)
Still fear'd the censure which it knew deserv'd ;
And eler, beneath your kindness, grown secure,
I banish'd doubt, and felt hope's visions sure :
Yet never, even in the earliest hours,
Of my young trials in these Thespie bowers,
Have I a task so hard and mournful known,
As this—where all the affliction is my own,
(Not, like the minck'd grief, alas ! to cease,
When the fall'n curtain ends the fictious piece)
As this, to speak that severing word of pain,
Which breaks a charm I ne'er can know again.
In you I've found, through many a happy year,
The fostering guardians of my stage career;
The patrons warm and constant in my cause,
Forbearing blame, but lavish of applause ;
Whose cheering smiles each humble effort paid,
And cast each fault (of many () in the shade.

Can I, then, hence, with light, ungrateful breast,
Unutter'd thanks, and feelings all repress'd,
Depart 2 from these our own dear Drury's walls,
Where to the last your praise upon me falls 2
Oh, no 1–oh, no though coll and faint appear,
The words which bear my anguish to your ear;
Not therefore less my sadden'd heart ov'rflows,
Not therefore less will memory fond repose
On your long-granted kin iness, which has cast
Its blessing o'er me, ev'n unto the last.
Where'er I drag this health-deserted frame,
Unchang'd by cline, my heart shall rest the same ;
Shall nurse the gratitude so feebly told,
Which time shall not impair, nor age make cold ;
And yield, if on me e'er grait's blight descends,
The whisper'd solace,—" there you still have friends.
That spell shall aweetly every fear allay,
Shall check despondence, when it else might sway :
To scenes of joy (and such may be in store)
From warm remembrance, and one rapture more ;
Hope's precious balm to fate's dark hour supply,
Or chase the tear from sorrow's trembling eye.
But wherefore, lingeting, in your presence keep,
With woe-traught breast, and struggling not to weep
Why check the word which must at last be spoken 2
Cling to the link which must to night be broken
O ! generous friends ! - Oh! patrons, firm aud dear !
Deem not my words, though feeble, insincere.
The heart o'er burden'd finds all language fail,
And feelings still o'er eloquence prevail.
But you, with lenient judgment to the last,
Will not pronounce me thankless for the past :
Nor turn, with harsh suspicion on your brow,
From the spoil'd child of your indulgence now ;
Whose lips and tears, heart-prompted, weakly tell,
The bitter pang with which she sighs—Farewell

[Oriental Observer, January 13.


We have been favoured by Major Sleeman, with a record kept by his orders of the number of suicides committed in the district under his charge, in the years 1834 and 35. The reports which were continually brought to him of the repeated acts of self-destruction, made him naturally anxious to discover the cause of the unusual frequency of this practice, and he directed the native officers to ascertain and place on record, whenever it could be discovered, the reason by which these victims had been actuated. It is singular to observe on how slight occasions many of these acts of suicide have been perpetrated ; sometimes for an attack of dysentery, at other times, for a pain in the intes. tines, and semetimes, through grief for bereavement. It is also worthy of notice, that out of forty cases that are thus reported, thirty were women.

England was for many years considered to be distin. guished above other countries, for the number of sui. cides cummitted in it; and this was attributed to the gloom of our climate. But those statistical researches which have given the present age so peculiar a charac. ter, have served to dispel this idea ; and it is now ascertained that the number of suicides in France, where the climate is so much more propitious and cheerful than in England, is greater in proportion to the population. But a farther corroboration of the fact, that climate has little to do with such acts, is found in the report we now ublish, which, in a climate, directly the reverse of Eng

and, gives us forty suicides in a population of two hun

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