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and it was ordered, therefore, that he should be kept in solitary confinement; from this, by another effort of ingenuity, he got liberated, repaired to France, and died in Paris, in 1639. If the conspiracy had not been so timely discovered, it would, most probably, have succeeded, and the Spaniards would have been driven from the kingdom; for on the 14th of September, but a few days after measures to defeat them had been carried into effect, a powerful Turkish fleet, according to the agreement made with Campanella, appeared off the coast; but not finding the co-operation which was expected, and, indeed, learning at length the failure of the plan, it sailed away.

In 1636, during the government of the Viceroy, Count Monterey, another conspiracy was detected, at the head of which was an Augustine monk, called Frate Epifanio Fioravanti of Cesena. When arrested, and put to the torture, he confessed that he had been long in correspondence with the French, and that he had formed a large party who had intended to seize the strong posts of the kingdom, and open the way for the entrance of the troops of France. His principal coadjutor was one

Pietro Mancino, (Peter the left-handed,) a notorious captain of banditti. The Frate Campanella, before-mentioned, was then residing at Paris, and took an active part in the same affair.

In the revolution of Mas' Aniello, the person of most importance, after the surprising leader, was a priest: this was Don Giulio Genoino, who at the time the disturbance broke out was in prison, in consequence of having been engaged in a prior conspiracy: he was old and infirm, but his faculties were by no means impaired, and he still retained all the energy of his character. Almost the first person to whom Mas' Aniello disclosed his designs, was a Carmelite monk, Frate Savino, who furnished money to arm the Lazzaroni, and children with sticks, &c.

During the ill-fated republic of 1799, many of the patriotic clubs were headed by priests: the person who produced the counter-revolution was Cardinal Ruffo, who put himself at the head of the Calabrese, and fought battles, and laid sieges; so that Europe, (as Count Orloff observes,) heard, with surprise, of an army led by a priest at the close of the 18th century.

ON IMITATION.

THE eccentric Lord Monboddo once endeavoured to prove that men were a species of untailed monkeys; and would, perhaps, have established his hypothesis, if he had not been his own contradiction. He was too much of an original to be classed with natural mimics-instinctive imitators-as those animals are charactered. He would have been a man amongst monkeys, or a monkey amongst men.

But there is much plausibility in his Lordship's whimsical theory, for a well dressed monkey, with his posterior appendage in his pocket, might almost be taken for a man-a descendant perhaps of the pilose Esau-and as readily preferring his pottage to his primogeniture.

If I were not to be a man I would rather become one of these-the most homogeneous of animals, than any other: for I could almost persuade myself-as they seem to do-that I was

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only a second-hand Adamite. change would not be the most abrupt of transitions. There is M-, who, if it could take place in the dark, would scarcely be conscious of his transmigration.

M. is one who passes amongst his friends and acquaintance for the greatest original; but, in verity, he is only the best of mimics. He will quote the trick of an eye-the habit of a lip-and the posturing of an eyebrow; he will dash you off a flesh-and-blood likeness of a man, till it be absolutely "more like than the original." But here his talent ends: out of himself he is every thing, and any thing, but of his own he hath no character. He cannot take himself off.

It must be flattering to the monkeys, as it is mortifying to men, that we partake so much of their spirit-but they must laugh still more in their sleeves (when they have them) at our unintentional and un

conscious habits of imitation. Originality only takes a tithe of mankind-the rest are mere homographs -men that only multiplicate each other. Their manners, sentiments, and opinions, or rather themselves, are but casts of some original: there go nine of them to a character.

Next to a man with a soul, I like a man with a self: not always the same, but changing colours, like a cameleon, in different lights;-a man that is shot,-like my aunt Tabitha's twi-coloured gown; not dyed, but tinted in the warp and woof of his original fabric.

As for L he is but a semioriginal; for he is always making fac-similes of himself. If you see him once you never see him again, or you seem never to have lost sight of him. He is like a man upon canvas: his very action is like a painted motion-a bird flying-or a gun going off-which are the same when ever and all the while you look at them as if time were at a stand. They who frequent the public meetings in the metropolis will easily recognise L. by his habitual exordium: "Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking." I remember once losing a day and a dinner through him and it would have been the only time that I dipped my hand in the dish with a nobleman. I had engaged myself to his lordship's viands on Friday, (a red-letter day in my cardrack calendar) and his hospitality was to be on table at seven for eight, and at eight, as I understood, for ten of us.

On Thursday afternoon I had seen L. at his own office, at which time he was performing a kind of regular drill exercise, which always preceded his departure for his country seat at Hampstead.

On Friday at the same hour I was at the same spot, and the scene had not varied by so much as the twist of a finger. Time ebbed back with me to Thursday. I went to the tavern -thence to the theatre-to bed at twelve, and rose the next morning at nine o'clock on Saturday.

I believe I as seldom repeat myself as most persons, but I may not be assoiled from the charge of a worse and wilful kind of imitation of others, if not in matter, at least in manner. There was one especial oc

casion (would that I could forget it) when I endeavoured to supply my ingenious and respected friend R.-Vain thought! as if by becoming, as it were, his material ghost, I could be his joyous, witty, and excellent spirit! When I dined with him, I believe for the first time, at a friend's table, I was delighted with his right merrie conceites, and the happy tone of his conversation; and I wished, which has since been realized, that the born friendship of that night might be of age in somewhat less than twentyone years. After the cloth was removed, he read to us a copy of verses so lively and humorous, that the very table vibrated to our mirth, and the purple-faced wine, as if in sympathy with our merry cheeks that wrinkled over it, kept

Verging in successive rings.

I think I am sure I did not envy him these tokens of applause, for there is no genius of the present day whom I more sincerely admire-but I believe I longed for his manner of making so many persons happy.

That very night I invoked the muses in my night cap, and at two o'clock in the morning I found myself at the fag-end of five stanzas, each of which was wound up by some inversion of meaning approaching to a pun. I had nothing left, therefore, but to wish for the day-not the dawn-but the day which was to bring me an occasion of repeating my verses; and it came, I remember, in less than a fortnight, as if on purpose. It brought me to the same table, and the same party-with the exception of R. or rather of myself; for, on this occasion, I intended to supply him. At the same time, that is to say, just after the second circumambulation of the decanters, I pulled forth my paper, and began to read; but, alas! the points were only greeted with meek and melancholy smiles, and if I was indeed like R. I read to other guess sort of people. Perhaps they were too original to laugh twice at the same kind of thing; but they certainly did not at all repeat themselves; and I learned, what I should have known before-that we have more chance of our own than of any other man's originality. COGIN.

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DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.

Fie upon't.

All men are false, I think. The date of love
Is out, expired, its stories all grown stale,
O'er-past, forgotten, like an antique tale
Of Hero and Leander. JOHN WOODVIL.

ALL are not false. I knew a youth who died
For grief, because his Love proved so,
And married with another.

I saw him on the wedding day,

For he was present in the church that day,
In festive bravery deck'd,

As one that came to grace the ceremony.

I mark'd him when the ring was given,

His countenance never changed;

And when the priest pronounced the marriage blessing,

He put a silent prayer up for the bride,

For so his moving lip interpreted.

He came invited to the marriage feast

With the bride's friends,

And was the merriest of them all, that day:

But they, who knew him best, call'd it feign'd mirth;

And others said,

He wore a smile like death upon his face.

His presence dash'd all the beholders' mirth,
And he went away in tears.

What followed then?

Oh! then

He did not, as neglected suitors use,
Affect a life of solitude in shades,

But lived,

In free discourse and sweet society,

Among his friends who knew his gentle nature best.
Yet ever when he smiled,

There was a mystery legible in his face,

That whoso saw him said he was a man

Not long for this world.

And true it was, for even then

The silent love was feeding at his heart

Of which he died:

Nor ever spake word of reproach,

Only he wish'd in death that his remains

Might find a poor grave in some spot, not far

From his mistress' family vault, "being the place

Where one day Anna should herself be laid."

AUTHENTIC ANECDOTES OF THE LATE REV. DR. BARRETT, VICE-PROVOST OF TRINITY-COLLEGE, DUBLIN.

THE object of this memoir was born in Dublin, in the year 1753, and was the son of a clergyman in rather confined circumstances. After receiving the usual rudiments of a classical education, he entered college about the year 1773, as a nondecremented pensioner; and passing through the usual routine of prelimiVOL. V.

nary instruction, he obtained a fellowship in 1778. In 1791, he became a member of the senior board, and in 1792, librarian, having enjoyed the office of assistant during the preceding eight years. His habits, at all times retired, became decidedly cenobitical before he had passed his prime. Until the last twenty years,

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however, he occasionally ventured beyond the walls of the college, to dine with a gentleman of the Irish bar to whom he was much attached, but always on the express condition that there should be no ladies present. The following was a favourite question of his, and was proposed by him to my self at one Hebrew examination:"What other mainin," (meaning) "has rosh besides caput?

Why it means pison (poison); and there's a passage in Scripture which is translated what head's above the head of a woman—but it ought to be -what pison's above the pison of a

woman.'

After he relinquished this anti-ascetic indulgence, he became a voluntary prisoner, never passing the college gate, except when he happened to be appointed one of the Lent preachers, and when he went to the Bank to receive the interest on his myriad of debentures. These were, indeed, so numerous, that the clerks, relying on his integrity, and shrink ing from the Herculean task themselves, gladly allowed him to mark them himself. One of the junior fellows (at present in the enjoyment of a college living) has been known to borrow a debenture, in order to have an excuse for accompanying the Doctor to the Bank, and witnessing the operation. Once, and once only, was he known to undertake a long journey; and that was on the occasion of a law-suit relative to college property, which obliged him to transplant himself to the county of Kerry, one of the most remote parts of Ireland, and to him an ultima Thule. Many stories are in circulation relative to his progress, such as his mistaking geese for swans, and not knowing what pigs were. But these, or the most of them, I regard as mythical. Whatever may be said of the goose and swan story, the other is evidently overstrained, for he had a most retentivememory, and had seen pigs in his boyhood.

He usually walked in the Fellows' garden, the park, or the courts of the college, encumbered with the weight of his entire wardrobe, consisting of a coat, vest, and breeches (brown in reality, but by courtesy black), a shirt (black in reality, but by courtesy white), hose, and no cravat. At home he sat constantly without the

coat, the waistcoat being furnished with sleeves. On the occasion of a fellowship examination, his appearance was very remarkable, and it was no easy matter to become convinced of his identity; for he never failed to wash his hands and face on such occasions, and vacancies occur in Dublin College almost every year, or at least every two years. This phenomenon, added to the assumption of a clean gown (which, however, he always exchanged for the old and unctuous one on removing from the theatre or examination-hall to the Commons' hall), improved his exterior so much, that he might actually have passed for a handsome old man. But the disposition of his locks was not unlike the radiation of a bunch of radishes, and such curls as fell off (for his hair had in latter years but a precarious tenure,) he always attached with hair-pins to the back of his head.

It was once well-said and feelingly deplored in one of our most cele-. brated journals, that we cannot

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quote a nose, hitch a note of admiration upon a lady's cheek, or put the turn of a countenance between inverted commas." This inconvenience bears hard upon one who attempts to record the jests of the late Vice-Provost of Trinity College. The necessity of expressing (if it were practicable) the vultum habitumque hominis comes with full force upon his mind, when he essays to commit to paper a biography which should be declaimed, not written. For, besides the impossibility of delineating in cold black and white the dwarfish figure of the doctor, and the beaked nose of his face, (not very unlike the print of Gray, and therefore bordering somewhat on the parrot cast,)-by what witchery of the goose-quill could that voice be heard by the eye through the medium of a piece of paper, - that dry, gritty, angular voice, which was so essentially and intimately grotesque, that the utmost rigidity of muscle was hardly proof against the effect it produced in uttering the most indifferent sentences? And how shall I succeed in conveying even the most remote idea of that peculiar articulation, interrupted, yet continuous, often hurried, but always emphatic, with which the sentences which I shall have occa

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sion to cite impinged upon the tympanum of the auditors? I must at least avail myself of whatever compromise the compositor will be kind enough to afford in the way of dashes and dots (as substitutes for crotchets and semibreves,) and also beg that he will scrupulously adhere to the orthography (if it be not a misnomer), by which I shall endeavour to picture forth the doctor's malpractices in pronunciation.

From a host of anecdotes, many true and many false, it shall be my care to cull a few of those (quorum pars magna fui) which best tend to exhibit the peculiar features of his mind, and the leading characteristics of his disposition; and I shall conscientiously separate truth from fiction, and, as it were, filter away every thing equivocal or overcharged. And I must in the outset protest against the immoderate and unjustifiable use of the expression "do you see me now?" with which most retailers of those anecdotes, tinctured as it would seem with too much of an improvisatore style, interlard the phrases attributed to him. I was, during one period of my college life, obliged to confer much with the ViceProvost as librarian, and I have never heard him utter the phrase in question. Nor have I ever heard him swear, although I have no doubt of the veracity of those who have at times assured me that they had heard him. That which was truly unique in his diction, (which was by no means felicitous), was a habit he had acquired of assigning a reason for every thing." Put" (the u being pronounced as in but), "Put," said he one day to one of the porters who were attending at table, "the-coverupon-the-cowled-mutton.. keep-it-from-gettin-cowled .... because-its-cowled-already. . . . but-tokeep-the-flies-from- it." "You're Sir K.... said he, addressing a bachelor of arts, "because-you'vetaken your degree."

...

not-to

His ruling passion is alleged to have been the love of money, with what truth I shall not here enquire; for this is no time to scrutinize his foibles, when his bones are scarcely yet settled within the grave. It is certain that he was no stranger to those kindlier feelings of which the mere miser is incapable. I have seen

his cats, and cocks, and hens, passing out of the hall-door before him in the morning, and himself patting them, and giving directions to his collegewoman about them. When his former and favourite old woman, Catty, was on her death-bed, nothing could exceed the humanity with which he provided for her necessities. It is even said, that he complied with her request of having masses said for her soul, and that he paid for them out of his own pocket.

....

That the erudition of Dr. Barrétt should be almost without a parallel might be expected from his habits of complete seclusion, added to a memory of a power little short of miraculous, even in matters the most trivial. The following anecdote I had from the mouth of Sir Charles Ormsby, a barrister, some years deceased. This gentleman, having occasion to call upon him after a lapse of twenty years, during which the doctor had never seen him, was not only addressed by name, but by his college designation: "Ormsby-primus.... how-do-ye-do?" Another gentleman, who had entered college on the same day, nearly forty years ago, took occasion, although unacquainted, to visit him during his last illness, and was immediately accosted with"Aye, you're Ĥ******* you enthered college-the same day with me..1-got-first-place, and-you-goteleventh.' The following instance exhibiting quickness of perception, in addition to memory, was communicated to me by a friend eminently skilful in numismatic affairs, and one of those least likely to be obliged to have recourse to extraneous aid in décyphering coins. The piece of money and the interpretation, with the remark annexed in the doctor's handwriting, are now lying before me. "The affair of the coin was this," writes my friend, "I could not decypher it, nor could any of the friends who understood the Greek character in which the "epigraph was given, and whom I consulted. W******** however, offered to consult Barrett, and went down at the moment to College: he met Jack in the square, who, on the instant that he glanced his eye on the piece, which is by no means in good conservation, strung off the inscription:"-" Inscription,

ΑΥΤΟΚΡ· Μ· ΙΟΥΕΙ ΦΙΛΙΠΠΟΣ ΣΕΒ

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