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On entering the area, or Ballium, there appear no vestiges of additional buildings, that I could trace; bat only a large space for encampment, with two Tittle square turrets, and the keep itself.

The whole is represented in No. 1, as it appears to the eye, with sufficient accuracy to convey a tolerably exact idea of the whole. I will not indeed be answerable for every set-off, or projection, or curvature, in the outward walls; nor will I presume to say whether the area ought not to be represented rather larger every way, in proportion to the dimensions of the keep but I will venture to affirm, that the situation of the keep itself, and its plan, is most accurate; that the account of the interval between

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it and the Southern wall is most faithful (having examined it with the utmost care;) and that there is no imperfection which can materially affect the

general idea of this fortress.

(fghik 1) represent the base of the rock and the castle-walls (m n o p q) nearly cover the summit. (a) was the place where stood the great gate, with its towers, now destroyed.

(b) was the keep, or great tour of residence. (e) is the situation of the great cavern Peak-Hole beneath, at a most tremendous depth (clk); being one continued perpendicular precipice, of at least 87 yards, or 261 feet in height.

(d) is one of the small towers, with a window looking outwards; which might safely be allowed, as there was no danger of any near approach over the precipice, and it was therefore as well protected as any window in the upper apartments of a keep. (e) is the other small tower.

(trs) is the place where appear remains of the ancient approach to the great portal of the tower. (gh) is an exceeding narrow valley, or rather a cleft between the rocks, near 200 feet in depth, with a mountain rising on the opposite side; which valley is also continued to the south of the rock, and there hemmed in with broken crags.

After climbing the steep ascent, and traversing a small part of the brink of the precipice, in order to arrive at the great portal at (a), the whole area of the castle was next to be passed through, before the keep (or tower of residence) could be approached; which stands at the remotest, and best protected corner of the area; and bears evident marks of the highest antiquity.

Its dimensions within are small; being only 21 feet by 19, or a very little more: but the walls are near eight feet in thickness.

It had no entrance on the ground, unless it was by a very narrow winding passage, where you, now enter (a b) No. 2, by the side of which was a steep winding stair-case marked (c): and whether there was any original entrance even here is perhaps to be doubted.

At (d) is a small loop to the east ; and at ( e ), another to the north: but there was no loop towards the outside of the castle, except one at a great

height, nor to the south; nor does the accurate mode of constructing loops, nor the use of the portcullis, nor the invention of wells within the wall for drawing up the beam's of military machines, appear to have been understood, when this castle was constructed.

In the room above, No. 3, was the ancient great entrance at (g); to which it seems exceedingly probable (from some small fragment of ruins still remaining on the outside of the building, there was an ascent, by a flight of steps, that led first to the top of a low wall, built across the space from ( r) to (t) No. 1 ; and from thence along a platform to the great portal; having most likely a draw-bridge, placed above the erown of the little arch of entrance ( a ) beneath, Many circumstances lead to this conclusion: for in the first place, that the arch at (g) No. 3, was the grand entrance, is obvious from its being originally level with the floor; whilst the other two great arches, manifestly designed for windows, were not so: and the places where the beams of the floor were laid sannot be mistaken. Moreover, both the crown of

this arch, as well as the bottom part of the portal, is

lower than those of the windows.

And yet, although the state portal must have been here, and is, indeed, a very magnificent one, nothing

can be more evident, than that a flight of steps could hardly, with any degree of possibility, be made to ascend to it, between the outward wall of the castle, and that of the keep itself, without blocking up the lower arch of entrance at (a) No. 2, (at whatever period of time that was made); unless by some means or other they were so constructed, as to be carried over the top of it. Nor indeed would there be sufficient length for the flight of steps, unless they ran out sideways into the area before the building towards the East, or were made to wind round the South East corner of the castle.

I conceive, therefore, the grand approach to have been as represented, No. 5. The steps first ascending from (x) to (r), where was a considerable platform; after which the passage went directly over the top of a wall, at (r t), to a draw-bridge at (z), and thence, by a continuance of platform, to the portal (g), in which case the approach to the steps would be thoroughly well commanded (as in point of security it ought to be) both by the lower loop at (d), and by the great window above at (k). And, this will account for the loop at (d) being placed so irregularly, near one corner of the room, instead of being placed in the middle, as the window above is. Supposing also the great entrance to have been in this manner, it will allow the lower lesser entrance, at (a), to have been approached by some small postern arch, in the cross wall, under the platform (r t), not very unlike the method that was afterwards adopted in castles of much better and more skilful

construction.

Let us now return to the examination of the first grand apartment, No. 3.

At (g) was the grand entrance we have been describing.

At (k) was a large window, which, however, no weapon, shot from the outside of the castle walls, could possibly reach.

And at (1) was another window, in a situation equally guarded.

But on the west side, impending over the precipice,

and exposed to the country, was no window at all; nor any opening whatever, unless it was, a very narrow loop near the top.

In one of the corners, at (h), is a narrow passage, to a small closet in the wall, which served for a having the usual kind of outlet through a loop. And at (i) is another very similar passage, and closet, supposed (by the guide who went with me) to have been used for the same purpose; but where I rather suspect was the well: unless the well were in the centre of the building. Whichever place it was in, it is now so completely filled up, that nothing can be ascertained with certainty relating to it; every one therefore is at liberty to form his own conclusions: but no one acquainted with these kind of buildings can have any doubt as to there once having been a well in this tower.

THE AUGUSTAN AGE IN ENGLAND.

(See page 219.)

In addition to this mighty brotherhood of poets, of whom we have endeavoured to give some idea, this age boasts of the name of BACON. His powers are, perhaps, the noblest sample of human intellect which the world has seen. Never, we believe, were united to such a degree as in him, profundity of reasoning thought with the most vivid and boundless imagination. His works present the singular-(we use this word in its strict sense)— spectacle of the most severe accuracy of philosophy being clothed in all the beauty of poetical imagery, and explained with the analogies of poetical illustration. His reason held onward her undeviating way, while his fancy shone round her, and illumined her course. Bacon was the fountain-head from which has flowed all the streams of our modern philosophy. He has been said, and most truly, to have marked out the map by which the traveller amid the mazes of the human mind should guide his course. land-marks for his successors on his way. He pointed out, as Cowley has said, the promised land of philosophy from the Pisgah of his intellect. In common with all minds of mighty order, he has generated a host of fol lowers mighty in themselves. Like the Indian banian-tree, he has struck branches into the earth, which have taken root, and flourished almost to the rivalry of the stem which gave them birth. It were vain, in the limits to which we are confined, to attempt to give any thing like even a general character of Lord here only as one of the great names belonging Bacon's writings. We have mentioned him

He raised

to the era of which we were treating. We may conclude our notice of him, by quoting what was said of another in a later day"He might have been the first poet of his age, had he not rather chosen to be the first philosopher."

These are the only two great eras of literature which precede our own time—that is, they are the only periods at which any great number of distinguished writers lived toge ther. Single stars there have been of the first magnitude, but no constellations. Milton, Dryden, Young, Thomson, Hume, Gray, Collins, Johnson, Goldsmith, Bolingbroke, Cowper-all these are names which have a but scarcely any two of them wrote at the high rank in literature-some the very highest same time, and none were surrounded by a By this stair-case the ascent was, from the room crowd of contemporaries almost as distinI have been just describing, to the upper state apart-guished as themselves; as was the case with ment; the entrance to which was at (m) No. 4. And over the top of the stairs is a sort of arched dome of stone, very odd, yet very neat. In this room was a large window, facing the South, at ( n ).

At (f) is the communication with the stair-case. secured here, as below, by being very narrow, and having also a sharp turn.

But the most remarkable thing here is a large nich in the wall, at (o), with a singular kind of canopy, or ornament, at top; which having no window be longing to it, nor any flue above, nor any outlet that could possibly induce the least suspicion of its might have been designed for the idol cell, or little idolaserving for a chimney, leaves us room to suspect it trous chapel, in Pagan times. A circumstance, which if it be connected with that of the digging up small idols themselves, in this neighbourhood, a few years ago, will still add further strength to our conclusion, that this castle was of the highest antiquity.'

certain

To be continued next week, with an account of Peverel of the Peak.

the ages of which we have spoken, and with that to which we are now coming. Milton stood quite alone; for an exception can scarcely be made in the favour of Waller, whose sweetness of verse was the sole cause of his fame, which has, consequently, long since totally withered away. Cowley undoubtedly wrote at the same time as Drydenand so did Buckingham and Rochester; but the multitude of obscene wits, and of "genthe literary peopling of Charles the Second's tlemen who wrote with ease," who make up reign, cannot, neither have they ever, given

• We have not included in this list Massinger, Shirley, or Ford, who are generally spoken of among the writers of this period. They, in fact, belong to the succeeding age, and can no more be considered the contemporaries of Shaks peare, than Byron and Moore are those of Burns and Cowper.

it the shadow of a claim to intellectual preeminence. The time of George II. was occupied by the imitators of the wits of Queen Anne, to whom all the objections which are made to them will apply, and very few of the praises. There are certainly exceptions, such as Hume, Bolingbroke, Fielding, Gray, and, we may add, Walpole, but these cannot be considered as forming a body of sufficient merit to be separately discussed-more especially as our limits are but scanty. The reign of George III.,-we mean up to the end of the last century-boasts of many high names; but, considering its length, it cannot be regarded as very distinguished in literary genius. No critics, that ever we heard of, have attempted to give it pre-eminence ;-indeed the eras of Elizabeth and Anne have always divided the suffrages between them; till, of late days, the present time has been considered by many to surpass them both. We confess, that we strongly incline to this opinion. There never was, in our estimation, a period at which so many distinguished authors lived and wrote at one time;-but as this is a doctrine hitherto but little treated of, we must be allowed to discuss it a little in detail.

In assigning to the present day the first rank among all the eras of our literature, we must protest, once for all, against the power which the prestige of a name commonly possesses. The names which have been handed down to us as holding undoubted pre-eminence, have, in the ears of many, an holy sound, which those of modern date can never attain, however superior they in truth may be. The reputations which have risen up within their recollection have difficulty in coping with those which they have been accustomed blindly to reverence from childhood. Works of the most transcendent merit are, by this class, considered light in the scale, when compared with productions of established reputation-let the superiority of the more modern composition be ever so apparent to unbiassed judgment. Against this prejudice-and a most blind and gross prejudice it is-we beg leave most strongly to except. We claim, that all works may be judged according to their merits, not by the factitious reputation which the mere lapse of time has given to authors of older date that picturesque in crustation with which age adds extrinsic beauty to the building.

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In looking on our present literature, one cannot but be forcibly struck with the beauty and wonderful abundance of our poetry. Never did England-never, we believe, did any country-possess so splendid a galaxy of living poets. To so great a degree, indeed, does this overflowing fertility extend, that it now tends to repress the developement of poetical genius. We mean that poets are so many and so excellent, that a new one has small chance of success, whatever his merit may be. Poems, which twenty years ago would have been reckoned of the first order, now sink unnoticed into oblivion,-smothered amid the superabundant excellence of this class of writing. And yet we hear people complaining of the want of living genius, and extolling the pre-eminence of ancient intellect. Let us come a little to the proof.

First, in the splendid list of our living poets, stands LORD BYRON. If we were to cite any person as the personification of Genius, it would be him. Not the fantastic, dreamy, half-effeminate order of mind, which

to coincide in this accusation, is sufficiently apparent from the terms of unreserved praise, in which we have spoken of Lord Byron's poetry. We should scarcely hold up to admiration productions which we considered of so deadly a nature as they have of late been represented to be. No effort has been spared to make Lord Byron's works appear the manual of vice-the effect, at once, and the cause of licentiousness and sin. Those who have been outstripped by his success, or who have smarted under the lash of his satire, have now burst forth against him with all the virulence of long-delayed revenge-have showered upon him the accumulated venom of years. Feeling the hopelessness of any attack upon his literary fame, they have endeavoured to impugn the moral tendency of his writings. They have aroused the prejudiced and frightened the weak, by trumpeting forth that he is the apostle of hell-the disciple of the devil. They have made sweeping assertions, and confirmed them by partial and perverted facts. They have cited every passage from his works confirmatory of their accusation, but have made no mention of those by which they are so completely outnumbered and counteracted. They have displayed the poison, and concealed the antidote. We had hoped, however, that the origin and object of these attacks were sufficiently apparent to the world. We trusted, that there was no necessity for shewing, that they were but the envy of disappointed rivalship, or the turning of the worm against the foot which had crushed it. But there has very recently appeared a condemnation of Lord Byron's writings from a quarter against which no such imputation can be urged from those who are, as they have hinted, his natural defenders' who have ever raised their voice in support and extension of his fame, and have taken pride in the splendour of his glory. It will be seen, that we allude to the paper in the last number of the Edinburgh Review on Lord Byron's late volume of Tragedies; which concludes with a philippic against the tendencies of his writings in general. He is accused of bringing into contempt and disbelief all noble and tender feelings in a word, all virtue, whether pure or lofty. We must say, we never met with any charge more strikingly unjust. Where is there to be found such love of generosity and devotedness-such sympathy with the wronged

it has been usual to ennoble with this name,
-but the union of sublime and imaginative
thought-of intensity, majesty, and passion.
His works, accordingly, have more power
over the mind of his readers than we usually
allow any fictitious composition to acquire.
Our memories are peopled with the images of
his poetry-our hearts commune with the
beings of his creation. We now leave totally
out of view the hackneyed and unpleasant
subject of his personal character. We speak
of his works as they appear in his printed
volumes, and put aside entirely, and at once,
the mass of folly, vulgarity, and ignorance,
which the discussions on his private conduct
present. In this view, we look on Lord
Byron as standing at the head of the poets of
his own age-almost of any. He has at-
tempted nearly every style of poetical writing,
and has transcendently succeeded in all. His
Manfred is one of the sublimest pieces of me-
ditative composition which ever was embodied
in verse. His tales-more especially the
Giaour and Parisina-are the most exquisite
specimens of burning rapidity and passion.
Childe Harold is a magnificent union of both
these styles; its usual tone of fine contem-
plation is varied by occasional bursts of ener-
getic and enthusiastic poetry. But it is, per-
haps, in Don Juan, that Lord Byron has most
shewn the wonderful extent of his powers.
He has there displayed an union of all the
beauties of poetry with humour and wit of the
very first order,-to a degree which has been,
perhaps, unknown since the days of Shakes-
peare. There is a laughing exuberance of
wit-a careless squandering of his riches
which seem the unrestrained overflowings of
the poet's mind, and give a verve to the whole
performance, which is one of the highest at-
tributes of poetical composition. The passing
from ludicrous images to the most splendid
manifestations of touching or intense poetry,
are among the finest parts of this work.
They exhibit the progressive kindling of the
author's mind, from the brilliant play of his
wit to the lightning-like flashes of poetic fire.
The transitions from these heights of poetry
have not nearly such successful effect. Lord
Byron has indulged in them, we think, for the
mere purpose of shewing his power-but even
his power is not equal to reconcile the excited
mind to such violent and degrading changes.
Lord Byron has been accused of too little
sympathy with human nature. We do not such indignation against the wronger-
think this reproach at all well founded on such scorn of the base-such admiration of
the contrary, he has the most intimate know- the aspiring and the exalted-as in Lord
ledge of all its workings, and has drawn them Byron's burning pages?-Where do we see
with anatomical precision. When he does rise such feeling expressed for the degradation of
above the common concerns of humanity, it the great-the enslavement of the free-the
is in that superiority of genius, which all sinning of the virtuous? Where does the
poets who deserve the name sometimes feel-mean spirit meet with such crushing contempt
and none so often or so much as Lord Byron.the noble one with such vigorous excite-
On these occasions, indeed, his spirit, like
the eagle, soars above the clouds which en-
velop our baser earth, and gazes undazzled on
the mid-day sun. Like that king of birds, he
wings his flight alone, and dwells amid the
mountain and the storm. The tempest, in-
deed, whether of inanimate nature, or of the
human heart, is the atmosphere in which he
delights-the object which he loves most to
paint, and succeeds best in painting.

We must be permitted to say a few words here concerning the moral tendency of Lord Byron's writings :-so great a cry has of late been raised against it, that we cannot well make notice of his works without alluding to this subject. That we are not at all disposed

ment?

We are free to admit, that among Lord Byron's numerons and most miscellaneous writings, there are some voluptuous pictures too attractive-some delineations of passion too highly wrought; but how much more frequent is the portraying the terrible and never-failing consequence of sinful indulgence? This we consider the staple of Lord Byron's poetry. The mention of the enjoyments of vice is short and unfrequent; while the whole force of his mighty powers is employed in painting the utter wretchedness of that heart which has been blasted by indulged passion. The regretful lookings-back of error-the agonizing remorse of deep crime-occupy,

we will venture to assert, three-fourths of Lord Byron's writings; and yet they have been charged with wicked intention-with evil tendency. We look on that book as dangerous, which is likely to lead to sin. Now can any one, we must ask, be attracted by the withered and terrible state of mind of which we have been speaking? Can any one be led by these portraitures to act in a manner which would place him in a like condition ?-Surely, no-surely it must be a mind unreasoning indeed, which can see only the brief passages of sinful pleasure, and feel not a safeguard in those delineations of awful pain, from which the human heart almost shrinks shudderingly.

Our limits have necessarily confined us to a very brief defence-but the principle on which it has been made, we trust, is just; and we leave to our readers themselves more fully to develop it.

POETRY.

TO E**** S********

Go, go not yet! I prithee stay,

The morn in tears forbids thy journey: Why wilt thou snatch thyself away,

And leave me here alone to mourn thee?

The sandy beach, depriv'd of thee,

Will have no charms to soothe my anguish, No more will please the rolling sea;

Whilst sad, alas! for thee I languish. No! joy will flee this barren shore,

When thou'rt no longer near to cheer me; Whilst o'er my head the night-winds roar, I'll think of thee, and wish thee near me.

Then fare thee well, where're you go

Oh! think of one that loves thee dearly; Whose heart is bursting now with woe, Because he can't be always near thee.

TO THE SAME.

Good bye, did'st say! ah, sure, good bye
Ne'er sounded half so sad before,-

I ask my aching bosom, why?
It answers; thou art gone, and I

Am left, but to adore.

Where once my gay, and throbbing heart
Beat light, and free from care;

E'en free from Cupid's fatal dart!
I now can feel his keenest smart,
But-ah! no heart is there.

No! from my bosom rent it flew-
I tried not to reclaim it!
Alas! sweet maid, it went with you,
The first that ee'r could tame it.
'Tis gone! then gentle charmer say
Thou wilt not adverse frown:

And for the heart thou stol'st away,

I ask in pledge thine own.

Then fare thee well love! though our meeting of plea

sure

Is render'd severe by a parting of pain; Yet the woe and the joy are so equal in measure, Perchance they may soothe till our meeting again. Southport. R. W. A.

LOVE AND FOLLY.

"As Love and Folly rambled on,
O'er many a mount and garden gay,
Time's brightest hours still flew on,

And noon and twilight pass'd away;
The night came down, Love loudly knock'd
At Wisdom's gate, who from within
Exclaim'd, My doors are safely lock'd,
And Love and Folly can't get in.'

"Love came to me, and told his tale,

And I resolved—beyond all doubtTo save him from the midnight gale,

And-cruel case-shut Folly out; But Prudence then stood by my side, And said if Love his way could win, He is to Folly near allied,

And soon the boy would let her in.
"Ah, Prudence, you have rightly told,
The boy has let her in of late,
And both are grown so vain and bold,
They frighten Wisdom from my gate.
With silken cords they bind my hands,
In vain their mercy I beseech,

I tremble at their dire commands,
And am by turns a slave to each."

ΤΟ ΑΝΝΑ.

O! dearest Anna, must we part!
And shall it be for ever!-
The keen emotion thrills my heart,
And fond affection whispers "never!"

But yet, alas! that anxious sigh

Which heaves thy virgin breast; The tear which glitters in thine eye;

The thoughts which lall thy tongue to rest :

Are too prophetic of our fates :

The purest omens sent,

To curb the mind that overrates
The bliss to mortals lent.-

My soul's with deepest sorrow rife,--
By bitter anguish riven :-

And what can calm the impassion'd strife,
Save hope from yon all-bounteous heaven!
In virtue's path (resign'd to fate,)
My life shall pass untainted;
And in a pure and heavenly state
Of bliss, I'll meet my Anna sainted!
August 19, 1822.
J. EGBERT.

SONNET

TO A DYING INFANT.

Sweet patient sufferer! - alas! thy fragile bark
No sooner's launched on life's eventful sea,
Than storms assail it,-and with direst force
Sickness even unto death attends on thee.
Thou pretty innocent! whose smiling looks

And dimpled face, which erst such pleasure gave,
Are now quite vanished-and thy shrunken form
Will soon be hearsed in the silent grave.
Unconscious thou what sorrow thrills the soul
Of thy pale Mother, with affection wild,--
Thou faintly smilest, whilst she, poor wretch,
Bends in mute anguish o'er her dying child.
Sweet flow'ret! tho' doom'd to perish thus beneath
our skies,

By death thou'lt gain th' immortal bloom of Paradise.

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VARIETIES.

Mr. Betty, the ci-devant Young Roscius, has again assumed the sock and buskin; he opened at the Cheltenham Theatre on Tuesday week, in the character of the Earl of Essex, and was received (says the Bath Journal) throughout the part with reiterated plaudits.

ANOTHER ANN MOO E.-There is a young woman, about 19 years of age, at Prestwich, near this town, who has been confined to bed by sickness for the last sixteen months. Her parents say, that no food, liquid or solid, has passed her stomach during that period; and that she has not spoken one word for the same length of time. She is literally worn to a skeleton.

THE CHESNUT." This fruit," says Mr. Savage, in his amusing collection of curious and instructive facts, entitled Memorabilia,—" is a native of the South of Europe, and is said to take its name from Castanea, a city of Thessaly, where anciently it grew in great plenty. Gerard says, that in his time there were several woods of chesnuts in England, particularly one near Feversham, in Kent. This tree grows sometimes to an amazing size. There is one at Lord Ducie's, at Portworth, iu the county of Gloucester, which measures 19 yards in circumference, and is mentioned by Sir Robert Atkyns, in his History of that County, as a famous tree in King John's time; and by Mr. Evelyn in his Sylva, to have been so remarkable for its magnitude in the reign of Stepben, as then to be called the great chesnut of Portworth;' whence it may be reasonably supposed to have been standing before the Conquest. Formerly great part of London was built with chesnut and walnut timber."

A curious anecdote is recorded of Charles, second Duke of Marlborough, and one of his neighbors :-The park-wall of Althorp, on the south side, divides the properties of the Andrews and the Spencer families. In the time of Charles, some hounds of Squire Andrews broke loose, and trespassing upon the premises at Althorp, the Duke ordered his gamekeeper to shoot one of them. A short time after, the Duke, riding upon a grey horse, was met by the Squire, who, presenting a pistol towards the horse, addressed him thus: Duke, dismount-otherwise I may shoot you as well as your horse. A horse for a dog, as long as your grace pleases' The Duke, as may be naturally supposed, dismounted quickly, and his horse was as quickly shot dead. Its noble owner. being struck with the decisive method, as well as the just cause, of retaliation, turned round and addressed the Squire thus: Mr. Andrews, you are a gentleman, and I have done wrong: give me your hand'— and ever after, the closest intimacy subsisted between them.

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The following curious passage is from a dedication of & Bile to Edward VI. by Edmund Becke:—

Let this book be a perpetual president and a patron of all laws and lawyers; a Jewel of Joy for all that by your grace's commission are constituted and placed in office or authority. Then will they of good will, and not for love of Incre and great fees, execute their rowmes minister Justice, bear the small as well as the great, the cause of the orphan, the widow, and the poor, should come before them. Then should the overlong and great travail, the immoderate expenses and costs, which the poor man daily sustaineth in his endless suits, pierce and move their story hearts with pity and compassion. Then should neither God's cause, nor the poor man's matter, have so many put-offs, so many put-bys and delays. Then

if there were any bribing, or bolstering, bearing of naughty matters, it should shortly surcease. Then your Grace's Chancellors, Judges, and Justices, and such as intermeddle with the lucrous law, would despatch more matters in one term-time, than they have done heretofore in a dozen.' A little belowhe hopes that the better classes of society would willingly vouchsafe to suffurate, and spare an hour or two in a day, from their worldly business, employing it about the reading of THIS BOOK, as they have been used heretefore to do in CHRONICLES and CANTERBURY TALES, &c.

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At the celebrated 'institution for the Deaf and Dumb, at Paris, one of the élèves was asked the meaning of the word "gratitude:" he immediately took his pen and wrote "The memory of the heart."

As we entertain a very favourable opinion of the art of criticism, we have witnessed, with sorrow, its frequent prostitution and debasement. We shall not generally find in our periodical Reviews, a just and able estimate of Copy of a letter from a Churchwarden in Surrey, to a new publication. The periodical works of an Antiquarian, who had requested the loan of a brass the present day are, most of them, mere vehimonumental plate in his church to make a drawing of cles for the promulgation of party principles; it ;-"Sir, I am sorry I can't be agreeable to what and hence, we need only be acquainted with an you ax me to do, but by the canonicall laws nobody author's religious or political tenets in order to must not presume to let nothing out of the church, know whether he will be extolled or depreparticularly the sacred utensils, under pain of blas-ciated in a particular review. How rarely, for phemy; therefore cant let you have the brass tombstone you desire, but you are welcome to come into example, does the Edinburgh Review bestow commendation on an advocate of the ministry, or the Quarterly do justice to the works of an opposition writer! When did the Monthly Magazine find any thing to admire in the productions of an evangelical divine, or the Methodist Magazine in those of a free-thinker? Many of our periodical reviewers are the mere instruments of party. They make a trade of the art, and eulogize or defame an author, not so much according to the dictates of their own judgment as the direction of their employers. Of these persons it may literally be said, that they exist by the destruction of other people's reputation.

the church and draw it as much as you please.-I am, Sir, &c."

There is now living at Felicianow, in Poland, a man named Jabkowski, who is 138 years of age. It was not till his 100th year that he determined to marry a widow aged 50, with whom he is living con. tented and happy.-French paper.

FAMILY OF MR. EMERY.-Mr. G. H. Robins, the active Chairman of the Committee of Management, announces that the subscription is going on well, and that the late benefit was productive to an unparalleled degree. The sum raised, up to the 14th inst. amounted altogether to £2,000.

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ALTHOUGH it may be questioned whether the author of a piece lately copied into the Iris, is right in supposing that the present is the Augustan age of England, as respects the merits of our authors, there can be no doubt of its being an age which has abounded more than any other with critics. Attorney's clerks, tailor's apprentices, and similar personages, who might be decent members of society by following the pursuits for which their wiser parents had designed them, often appear ridiculous by neglecting those pursuits, to assume the character of arbiters of literary merit. There are instances known, we doubt not, to some of our readers, in which schoolboys, who are often corrected themselves on account of the incorrectness of their regular themes, are frequent contributors to the critical department of some of the periodical publications.

There is another class of reviewers who are sometimes equally mischievous, with better intentions; who mislead less from design, than from want of judgment. We have instances in the many juvenile censors who, having no talents to produce an original paper, have no other way of gratifying their vanity of appearing in print, than by publishing indiscriminate praise or censure on works which they know not how to appreciate. The Schoolmaster when speaking on this subject, a short time ago, assured us that, finding one of his boys particularly dull and very much accustomed to neglect his exercises, he determined, if possible, to ascertain the cause which retarded his progress; when, to his great surprise, he detected the delinquent, who knew nothing of Greek, and very little more of English composition, preparing a review of a translation of Sophocles for a certain Magazine, to which our friend discovered that he was a frequent contributor.

Reviewers of this kind freely borrow from the labours of some of the more able of the fraternity. An original article serves as a foundation for innumerable others. Sometimes the alteration does not extend farther than the expunging of a paragraph, or the changing of an extract. Goldsmith tells us that some of his essays were pilferred by his shameless contemporaries, and that these As the art of reviewing has often been spo-pieces appeared several times as original, with ken of at the Club, we have determined to make it the subject of our present specula

tion.

A good review is certainly an interesting, and, in some cases, a useful production. It has a tendency to improve the taste of general readers, and to enable them to estimate truly the beauties and blemishes of our best authors. It gives a reader a tolerably good idea of the work under examination, and enables him not only to determine whether it is deserving of perusal, but also to know, beforehand, which passages in it require his most particular attention. In no country has the art of reviewing, which is now so much abused, been carried to greater perfection than in our own. The critical essays of Addison and Johnson, not to mention others, are certainly some of the finest specimens ever produced, of this species of writing.

no other alteration than a change of signature. This practice is quite as common in the present day, as it was at the time of Goldsmith.

It is in reviews, still more than in conversation, that disappointed authors endeavour to reduce the reputation of their rivals to a level with their own. They can in this way throw in concealment those arrows which they dared not use under other circumstances. Indeed an author's fate is almost as hard as that of the flying fish; which is in continual danger, though it has the range of two elements: while it is darting through the air, it is often devoured by birds of prey; and, when in the water, incessantly pursued by the monsters of the deep.

Authors frequently retaliate upon one another, through the medium of reviews; and, in some instances, which from motives of delicacy we refrain from mentioning, this species

of warfare has been carried to a very great extent.

From such modes of reviewing, many serious consequences necessarily result.

Of the author reviewed it may, with truth, be said that he is seldom benefitted by the castigation of his reviewer. If he, like Hazlitt or Cobbett, has a contempt for his reviewers, he writes on in the same strain as before; and if, like Newton or Pascal, his feelings are hurt by public animadversion, the world is obliged to wait longer than necessary for the appearance of a valuable discovery, or in some instances to lose it.

The latter consequence is not, however, the only one in which the public are the principal sufferers. All criticism which is not just, and especially that pseudo criticism which is now so general, by which works of genius are sometimes caricatured, and the efforts of stupidity often raised to a temporary popularity; this criticism, alike worthless and mischievous, has a powerful tendency to vitiate public taste. The perusal of such reviews, like the practice of taking drams, excites at first feelings of aversion; by repetition it becomes less disagreeable; until, at last, habit produces a relish for it; and, as in the one case, the bodily powers are impaired, so in the other, the mental faculties are depraved.

The author of a valuable work should regard reviews of this nature with indifference. They are unworthy of his notice. The praise or blame which flows from ignorance or malice, ought to affect him in no other way than as a source of amusement. If a man has merit he cannot but know the fact; and he must be weak and irresolute, indeed, if any person can persuade him of the contrary. It is impossible to avoid the censures of the flippant or the envious; let us, therefore, as well as we can, endeavour to benefit by their remarks, and, in that way, resemble the chemist, who sometimes extracts a sweet matter out of a better substance.

THE DRAMA.

C. L.

On Thursday evening, an operatic drama, in five acts, was produced at the English Opera House, under the title of Gil Blas. The avowed object of the attempt was to dramatise the entertaining hero of Le Sage, in three different stages of his existence, as a youth, a young man, and a veteran; that is to say, at the ages of 17, 25, and 52. In the first and second acts, Miss Kelly personates Gil Blas, whose journey from Oviedo, rencontre with the banditti, and scene at the inn of Pennaflor, where he is cheated of his supper, and laughed at by Picato, are very amusingly represented. In the third act, Mr. Pearman sncceeds to the vacated part of Gil Blas, and sings a few pretty songs, and marries Donna Mencia (Miss Carew). The opera, which has not, hitherto, adhered rigidly to Le Sage, now quits him altogether. Mr. Bartley becomes the portly Gil Blas of fifty-two, with a daughter old enough to marry, and that daughter is Miss Kelly, the Gil Blas of Seventeen. These two acts are a sort of episode, iu which Philip IV. puts the honour and integrity of Gil Blas to a severe test; and, failing in seducing Autonio, gives her hand to her lover, Don Gaston.

The great fault of this piece is its extreme length. It commenced at seven o'clock and was not over until a quarter before twelve: the music possesses considerable merit, particularly the overture; the scenery is uncommonly beautiful. The piece met with some disapprobation; but, when Mr. Bartley came forward to announce that, after the obviously

necessary curtailments were made, the piece would be repeated,' the ayes were evidently in his favour.

WEEKLY DIARY.

AUGUST.

REMARKABLE DAYS.

WEDNESDAY, 28.—Saint Augustine. Augustine was born at Thagaste, a town in Numidia, in the year 354. He early applied himself to the study of polite literature, and became a professor of philosophy and rhetoric, first at Rome, and afterwards at Milan. He next diligently studied theology, in which he was instructed by St. Ambrose, with whom he contracted an intimate acquaintance. In the year 388, he returned to his native country, and, three years afterwards, was chosen Bishop of Hippo. Augustine was a judicious divine, and the most voluminous writer of all the Fathers. He died in 430, at the age of 77. THURSDAY, 29.—John Baptist Beheaded. This day was formerly denominated Festum Collectionis Sancti Johannis Baptista; or the feast of gathering up St. John the Baptist's relics but afterwards, by corruption, Festum Decollationis, the festival in remembrance of his being beheaded. His nativity is celebrated

on the 24th of June.

BIOGRAPHY.

(From the Literary Chronicle.)

THE MARQUIS OF LONDONDERRY, K. G. We know of no condition in life less to be envied than that of the statesman. It, as is generally the case, the rank and influence of his family are sufficient to fix his destination, at an early age, all his studies and pursuits are directed to the favourite object, and when he is old enough to mount ambition's ladder, from that moment he knows no longer rest. But this is not the worst of it; in a life of unceasing toil and anxiety, he finds himself labouring for an ungrateful world, who repay his exertions with indifference, or, perhaps, with censure and insult; and when he dies he is forgotten among surfeit-slain fools, the common dung of the soil.'

In the whole history of the British government we know but one popular ministerpopular while living, and whose memory is still revered without the alloy of party feeling We allude to the great Earl of Chatham. His son, Mr. Pitt, though living in more eventful times, and possessing talents and integrity equal to his father, was, during the whole course of his long administration, continually assailed, and every act and measure of his life severely canvassed and disputed; and, although the asperities against him have considerably diminished, yet the policy of his administration is as much disputed as ever. Mr. Fox stood the chance of being ranked as a popular statesman; but he became a minister, and that spoiled his popularity. So, indeed, has it been with almost every person who has ostensibly guided the reins of government.

We have made these remarks as some apology for the unpopularity of the Marquis of Londonderry; it must, however, be confessed that his lordship had suffered materially in this respect before he became a minister. There are, however, some situations in which an honest and a virtuous man may be placed, of such great difficulty as renders it impossible to

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escape from them without reproach; this, we certainly conceive, was the case with Lord Castlereagh while Irish Secretary, during the rebellion in that country. Loudly, however, as his character has been arraigned, and deeply as it has suffered on that occasion, it is believed by those who have had the best means of ascertaining the truth, that the tortures and severities exercised during that period were rather owing to the subordinate agents, who gratified political malignity and private revenge, than to the Irish government. As to his conduct as an English minister, it is too closely identified with the history of the government to be separated from it, and he was not singly amenable for its acts. The subject is one which politicians may hereafter discuss; but it would lead us too far from the even tenor of our way to enter upon it.

Robert Stewart, Marquis of Londonderry, Viscount Castlereagh, is said to be of Scottish descent; not, however, from the royal house of Stewart, as the name might seem to import, but from the clan Macgregor. He was the eldest son of the late Marquis of Londonderry by his first wife, a sister of the late Marquis of Hertford; and was born June 8, 1769. His lordship distinguished himself when a boy for great decision and intrepidity of character. It is recorded of him, that in a boating excursion with his tutor, to whom he was much attached, the latter having fallen by accident into the water, careless of danger he plunged in after him, and was the happy means of rescuing the unhappy man perhaps from death. Early in life his lordship shewed a desire to engage in political affairs. His noble father determined to afford a youth of so much promise the amplest opportunities of displaying his talents, and he was scarcely twenty-one years of age when he was elected member of the Irish Parliament for the county of Down. The election was fiercely contested, and the success of the Hon. Mr. Stewart cost his father no less than £30,000. The young member ranged himself with the popular side of the House, and spoke, for the first time in Parliament, in support of the right of Ireland to trade with India on free principles. This debut is noticed by the late Lord Charlemont in terms of approbation. The opposition in the Irish House congratulated themselves on the accession of so much strength, and did not fail to pay proper compliments to his talents and character. However, we find him, soon after, one of the most important supporters of the government. Lord Camden was appointed Viceroy of Ireland in 1795; Mr. Stewart declared absolutely in favour of his lordship's administration. The sister of Lord Camden became the second wife of the then Lord Londonderry, a circumstance that tended much to strengthen the political alliance of the parties. Mr. Stewart succeeded Mr. Pelham as secretary to his excellency, and had of course a seat in the Cabinet. From that period to the completion of the Union, the administration of Ireland was a succession of difficulties, which nothing but wisdom and firmness could enable it to overcome. The part he took in bringing about the Union of his native country with Great Britain is well known. Shortly after the Union, Lord Castlereagh distinguished himself as an important auxiliary in support of the measures of Mr. Pitt. He was appointed a Privy Councillor, and President of the Board of Control.

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ment and, when Lord Sidmouth retired a second time, he was nominated to one of the highest offices of state, that of Minister at War. On this occasion he was obliged to vacate his seat, and failed, after a long and expensive contest with Colonel Mead, in his re-election for the county of Down. He was, however, returned to Parliament soon after for Boroughbridge, in the room of the Honourable John Scott, deceased; but on the demise of his friend, Mr. Pitt, he finally retired, and was succeeded by Mr. Windham in the war department.

Soon after this (April 1806), during a debate on Mr. Windham's bill relative to the army, Lord Castlereagh observed, that the new ministers would find the revenue productive, and every thing in such a state, that they might be said comparatively to be on a bed of roses.' This was denied by Mr. Fox, in respect to every department of the state, the Admiralty only excepted.

On the 8th of April, 1805, his Lordship divided with the minority on Mr. Whitbread's criminatory motion against Lord Viscount

Melville.

When a committee was balloted for (April 26), to examine the Tenth Report of the Naval Commissioners, the name of this nobleman was returned as one of the twenty-one selected for that purpose. He was, however, objected to by Mr. Whitbread, who proposed to expunge it, and insert that of Mr. Baker, M. P. for Herefordshire, in its stead; but, în a division, the question was lost by a majority of 133, the ayes being 86, and the noes 219.

On the question relative to the Irish Catholics, introduced by Mr. Fox, May 14, 1805, his Lordship divided with a majority of 212.

When the adjourned debate took place on the motion of impeachment (June 12), Lord Castlereagh spoke at length against this mea

sure.

Having opposed the American Intercourse Bill,' in the spring of 1806, his lordship received the thanks of the ship-owners of the port of London, and, on the meeting of the new Parliament, (Monday, December 15), he animadverted at length on the King's speech.

On the retirement of the Grey and Grenville administration in 1807, he resumed his former administration of Minister of War. The remarkable events which followed are fresh in public recollection. After being some time out of office, the death of Mr. Percival, in 1812, opened to his lordship that high station in the cabinet which he has ever since retained.

His lordship, during the last session of Parliament, appears to have sunk under the weight of his labours, and insanity was the consequence. He took leave of the King on Friday, previous to his Majesty's embarking: and then retired to his seat at North Cray, in Kent. It is said that his Majesty discovered symptoms of mental derangement in his lordship's conduct; and the Duke of Wellington was so sensible of it, that he wrote a letter to the Marquis's physician, stating his fears and begging him to attend him. On Monday morning, his lordship rose early, and ordered Dr. Bankhead to attend him; the doctor, who had slept in the house, repaired to his lordship's bed-room, but too late, his lordship having severed the carotid artery with a penknife, apparently at the moment of his entering the room, as he was still standing; the Marquis fell into the doctor's arms and died

In 1805, when Mr. Pitt returned to power, and resumed his former seat on the treasury bench, Lord Castlereagh retained his appoint-in less than a minute.

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