deter from vice, it will be impossible to bestow it in an exclusive, or even, I think, in a pre-eminent degree, on Hogarth; though it must be allowed that, in his pictures, the utility is more obvious and direct.

"Observations somewhat similar may be applied to Miss Edgeworth's fictions. In my first enthusiasm of admiration, I thought that she had first made fiction useful; but every fiction since Homer, has taught friendship, patriotism, generosity, contempt of death. These are the highest virtues; and the fictions which taught them, were, therefore, of the highest, though not of unmixed utility. Miss Edgeworth inculcates prudence, and the many virtues of that family. Are these excellent virtues higher or more useful than those of fortitude and benevolence? Certainly not. Where then is Miss E.'s merit? Her merit-her extraordinary merit, both as a moralist and as a woman of geniusconsists in her having selected a class of virtues far more difficult to treat as the subject of fiction than others, and which had, therefore, been left by former writers to her. **

"The same circumstances at the same time directed both the pencil and the pen to common life. Hogarth arose

with Richardson and Fielding. The 'Rake's Progress' is a novel on canvas. The Dutch painters had before painted familiar and low scenes; but they were without any particular moral tendency; and it was scenery, rather than the history of ordinary life, which they represented. They were masters of the mechanism of their art, in which Hogarth was totally deficient.

"" Hogarth had extraordinary vigour of sense, and a quick perception of the ridiculous, with somewhat of that coarseness and prejudice against sensibility or refinement, which men of that character are apt to entertain. Horace Walpole brought him to dine with Gray, and complained that he was seated between Tragedy and Comedy. They did not talk to each other, which he ought to have foreseen. Gray must have shrunk from Hogarth, and Hogarth must have laughed at Gray. Hogarth and Johnson suited each other better. Both had most powerful and independent understand. ings; neither had poetical sensibility. Both endeavoured to spare themselves the pain of knowing, and the shame of owning, that they were inferior to others in sensibility to the higher perfections of art, by professing a contempt for such

of them, as were not too formidably guarded by ancient fame and general re

verence.

Hogarth objected to the Royal Academy. In a letter to Lord Bute, he represents the art to be in a good-enough state, or at least, in as good a state as it was capable of being. He thought it useless for students to go to Rome to study the antique. If hereafter,' says he, the times alter, the arts, like water, will find their level.' This is the text, on which has been founded all the coarse and shallow declamation against patronage by governments of the fine arts.'

NELSON.

"HE (Nelson) says Sir James Macintosh, seems to have been born with a quick good sense, an affectionate heart, and a high spirit; he was susceptible of the enthusiasm either of the tender or the proud feelings; he was easily melted or inflamed; to say that he was fearless, seems ridiculously unnecessary; he was not merely averse to falsehood or artifice, but he was in the highest degree simple and frank. These qualities of his heart are not mentioned for the idle purpose of panegyric; however singular it may sound, I will venture to affirm that they formed no small part of the genius of Nelson they secured attachment and confidence, and they revealed to him the feelings of other men-that great secret in the art of command, which reason alone can never disclose. His understanding was concentrated on his profession; and as danger must always excite where it does not disturb, it acted on his mind, in the moment of action, with the highest stimulant power, and roused his genius to exertions greater than the languor of tranquillity could have produced. Still, Windham certainly, and perhaps Fox, met Capt. Nelson, at Holkham, without suspecting that he was more than a lively and gallant officer.

Why is it not possible to wipe out from history the scenes in the bay of Naples ? I read over the passage which respects them three or four times, in hopes of discovering a vindication; but, alas! it is impossible. It might be thought affectation, but it is true, that I have read them with no small pain. The breach of faith to the garrisons of the two castles is too certain and too atrocious. The execution of Caraccioli is an act which I forbear to characterise. The writers admit, that at this execution was present that ferocious woman who lowered the illustrious name of an English

matron to the level of a Parisian fish woman, and who made our chosen hero an instrument in deeds of cruelty and dishonour. The contrast between these horrible executions and the profligate splendour of Palermo in the autumn of 1799, as it appears by Sir T. Trowbridge's letters, reminds the reader of that union of effeminacy and barbarity which marked the worst of the Roman emperors.

"From this moment the charm of the kind and honest Horatio Nelson is gone. His correspondence with his poor wife becomes cold and rare. She, the companion of his poverty and obscurity, entirely loses him, at the moment when he became the most celebrated man in Europe. His excellent father, notwithstanding the virtues and the glory of his son, seems nobly to have joined his injured wife. What excites the most bitter regret is, that he who was seduced into barbarity, and public as well as private perfidy, had a soul full of honour and humanity; that he was the same who never punished a seaman, and whose nerves were convulsed at seeing him punished; that he was the very same, whom the sailor's called Nel, bold as a lion, and mild as a lamb.'

"Nelson had gone from his parsonage to sea; where, in five years he had become the greatest of Englishmen. Art, politeness, flattery, magnificence and beauty, acted upon his unworn sensibility. The daughter of Maria Theresa was on her knees to him as a deliverer. Meretricious beauty poured all its blandishments on the uncultivated sailor. The arts, in the degraded state when they ceased to deserve the name of liberal, and become the wretched slaves of sense, were still the land of prodigies to him. He had a just indignation against the crimes of his enemies, and, more especially, the dastardly treason of the Neapolitan nobility. He had not been taught to value, nor accustomed to consider the forms, without which the substance of justice cannot be preserved. He believed the prisoners, or their ringleaders, to deserve death; and he thought that the existence of the government required a terrible example; and, perhaps, in themselves both these opinions were right. From a just detestation of that irresolution which had ruined so many governments, he fell into the prevalent error of supposing that nothing deserves the name of energetic policy but undistinguishing violence; and thus by errors in judgment, by the excess of justifiable feelings,

by the drunkenness of guilty passion, and the maddening power of political fanaticism, he was driven into these deplorable acts. I shall not even extenuate them. I hope there is no creature who has a greater abhorrence of perfidy and cruelty than I have. I verily believe that there is no character in history, but that of Nelson, which I should love, after imputing to it such crimes."

ANTIQUE RELIC.

A most elegant relic of the time when Ebor owned the Roman's sway, was recently turned up between York and Dringhouses, a site rich in Roman remains. It is a signet of iron contained in a case of silver, or some mixture of which silver constitutes the principal part. Its form is as near as possible that of the fashionable eyeglass of the present day, neatly engraven, and the rivets are of brass. It has a ring at the top, by which it has in all probability been attached to a chain, and thus worn as an ornament upon the person. the obverse is a striking profile of Flavius Domitian, with the inscription

On

FLAVIUS DOMI.,' and on the reverse is a man on horseback, the animal in a trot, and the man elevating a whip, seemingly in the act of urging it forward, with the motto 'HOMO ET EQUUS. Flavius Domitian was the second son of Flavius Vespasian, who reigned from A.D. 81 to 96, in which year he was assassinated; so that the signet, it is likely, is between 1700 and 1800 years old, and yet the letters and every part of the engraving are distinct and perfect. This singular state of preservation is doubtless to be attributed to the superior state of the workmanship, and the exactness with which the iron was enclosed and protected by the less corrosive and more precious metal of which the case is composed.

[The foregoing is from a recent York paper, and has gone the round of all the London journals, literary and political, without a single comment. There is no making "head or tail" of the description, which is doubtless as correct as such accounts generally are. The thing is evidently a medal of the Emperor Domitianus, mounted in a circle of metal, and worn as an ornament. The Cabinet of Vienna contains many fine specimens of very large size, and in gold, which were found some years since in Hungary. These notices of antiquities in the provincial papers constantly betray the grossest ignorance, and we are therefore

warranted in being a little sceptical as to the accuracy of the description above quoted. It is only a few days since that we saw in all the papers, a paragraph relating to the discovery of an ancient vessel at Calais, together with a coin bearing the date 1219! The sage who wrote the account was of course utterly ignorant of the fact that dates on coins are not found at that early period, and that the custom of marking the year in which the coin was struck is a comparatively modern practice. This is the vulgarest of all the errors upon which our would-be antiquaries are constantly stumbling. Will the possessor of the Roman relic oblige us with an impression? If so, we will venture to tell him something ED. PARTErre.

about it.

SLANDERS AGAINST HUMAN NATURE.

Poetry abounds in errors. It is generally the language of feeling; and who feels as he reasons? Even our received system of morality frequently wanders from the truth. History is often turned into fiction by the discovery of a coin, or a half defaced inscription on a monument. The theory of the philosopher, however ingeniously contrived, is overthrown by some simple experiment, or accidental phenomenon of nature; and I am convinced that biographers ofttimes give faithful narratives of the adventures of their heroes, yet, by applying erróneous motives to their actions, metamorphose the whole into mere romance. One of the most eloquent men I ever heard address a public assembly, exercised the most extraordinary, and, indeed, magical influence over his hearers, while engaged in confuting the ordinary calumnies against human nature, and in delineating its affections, its genius, and its virtues. It was impossible to listen to his exalted and generous descriptions without feeling the bosom beat high with noble and pure emotions. If I was ever capable of a Roman virtue, it was while thrilling and glowing in the state of calm excitement produced by one of these discourses with the tones of that inspired speaker yet dwelling in my ear, and in my heart. Poetry is often made the vehicle for conveying false opinions of human na

ture.

"Ah, what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep; A shade that follows wealth or fame, But leaves the wretch to weep?" This is a pretty sentimental slander, which, although not expressing the real sentiments of the poet, is much quoted as authority.

PYRAMIDS OF MEROE.

As

“THESE pyramids," says Mr. Hoskins, "are of sandstone, the quarries of which are in the range of hills to the east. The stone is rather softer than the Egyptian, which, added to the great antiquity, may account for the very dilapidated state of most of these ruins; and also for the sculpture and hieroglyphics being so defaced. Time, and the burning rays of a tropical sun, have given them a brownish red tint, in some parts nearly black. the operation of many ages is required to make this change on a light-coloured sandstone, a further proof is afforded of the great antiquity of the monuments. The stones being small, and easily removed, it is fortunate that the chief group of pyramids is so far distant from the Nile; otherwise, like those on the plain, near the river, a great proportion of them might have been carried away as materials for the erection of more modern edifices."

A PURSUIT.

No human being, however exalted his rank and fortune, however enlarged and cultivated his understanding, can long be happy without a pursuit. Life is a ladder, on which we climb from hope to hope, and, by expectation, strive to ascend to enjoyments; but he who fancies he has reached his highest hope, is miserable indeed, or who enjoys the utmost of his wishes: for many who have been most successful in their respective undertakings, have given the gloomiest description of the emptiness of human pleasures. The pursuit alone can yield true happiness; and the most trifling object that has power to fascinate the hopes of man, is worthy his attention.

The bliss we covet seems, at distant view,
To all superior, but when once possess'd,
It cloys, we spurn it,-and another call.

THOUGHTS AND MAXIMS.

J. P. JUN.

IT is the property of sorrow to draw bitterness from all things. When it sees fellow sorrow by its side, it is pained by the parallel. When all around is gaiety and gladness, it is still more pained by the contrast.

The river of time has its cataracts and falls-and these are revolutions.

Ladies and sovereigns enchain their admirers with smiles and ribbons.

A true believer, when blessed with a smiling imagination, is the happiest of mankind.

THE GREAT PRINCIPLE.

BY THEODORE S. FAY.

ONE of my peculiarities is a strong tendency to differ in opinion from other people upon almost every possible subject. I never mouth the matter-I come out roundly.

I have no doubt the reader is fond of roast-beef and plumb pudding. Now I detest them. Nothing could be more gross, earthly, stultifying. Besides, no man fond of such stuff does, ever did, or ever can sit down to a meal without running into excess. Then come custard, ice-cream, fruit, almonds, raisins, wine. You rise with a distended stomach and heavy head, and stagger away with brutish apathy. I am for light diet-milk, rice, fruit-sweet, harmless things of nature. No lamb bleeds for me. No stately ox is slain that I may feast. Old mother earth supplies my slender appetites. The deep, deep spring, clear as crystal-the innocent vegetables-ethereal food. Thus I am light as air. I am keenly susceptible to every moral and natural beauty, which few enthusiastic beef-eaters are.

I differ from everybody in another thing. I believe in love at first sight. We ought to be able to tell in a week whether a woman would do for a wife. The judgment of true love is intuitive; a glance, and it is done. A man of genius has in his own imagination a standard of the object of his love-an unexplainable model-the prototype to which exists somewhere in reality, although he may never have seen or heard of her. This is wonderful, but it is true. He wanders about the world, impervious to all the delicious, thrilling, soul - melting beams of beauty, till he reaches the right one. There are blue eyes they are tender, but they touch not him. There are black-they are piercing, but his heart remains whole. At length, accident flings him into contact with a creature-he hears the tones of her voice-he feels the warm streams of soul shining from her countenance. Gaze meets gaze, and thought sparkles into thought, till the magic blaze is kindled, and-they fall in love.

It sometimes happens, that for one model in the imagination of this man of genius, there are accidentally two or

three prototypes in real life; or rather, he has two or three different models.

It is a great misfortune for a man to have more models than one. They lead him astray. They involve him in difficulties. They play the very devil with him.

And yet metaphysicians and phrenologists ought to know, that it is no affair of his. If a schoolboy have the organ of destructiveness, you may whip him for killing flies, but you must not wonder at him. If a youth- But this brings me back again to my subject.

I never could tell how many of these models Fred. had; a great many, no doubt. He was a sad dog-a Don Juan-a sort of Giovanni in Londonand he bade fair to be a Giovanni inbut that was his business.

Oh, the sweet women! It is almost incredulous. He must have dealt in magic. It was a perfect blessing to be near him; to catch the light and heat of the thousand glances which fell upon him, and of which you caught a few stray ones, though only by accident. Lovely women fell into his mouth like ripe plumbs. He had clusters of them. They all loved him, and he loved them all. His soul was as large as St. Peter's.

"What are you thinking of, Fred?" said I.

"Caroline," he answered.

"She who sailed yesterday for England?"

"Yes I love her."

"And she?"

He rose and opened an escritoire. "Is it not perfectly beautiful?” The sweet relic of golden sunshiny hair lay curled charmingly in a rosecoloured envelope. It did look pretty. But

"Has Caroline B such light hair?" asked I. "I never knew-I always thought-I was observing only yesterday that-surely, surely you have made some mistake-see, what is that written in the bottom of the paper? 'Julia!""

Fred. hastily looked again in the little pigeon hole, and drew forth another rose-coloured envelope another and another.

I smiled-so did he. "What a vile, narrow prejudice it is,"

said Fred.

"What?"

have loved twenty-fifty-nay, a hundred times. I always love some one. Sometimes two at a time-sometimes twenty."

"This

Heartless!" exclaimed I. is not love! Love is sole, absorbing, pure, constant, immutable."

"Hark ye," said Fred. "I seldom cease to love. Adding another angel to the list does not infer the striking out any of the others. There is no limit. A man of soul loves just as he happens to be placed in relation to women. I am warmed by them as I am when I stand in the sunshine. Because I have a garden here, when the beams of the god of day fall on my shoulders with a pleasing ardour-must I not feel the warmth when I stand in your garden yonder? It is the great principleshould the object of my early love die, must I be ever thereafter dead to the most exquisite of human passions? Death is only absence. I know twelve pretty women. They are better than men. Nature made them so. They are all different-all excellent-all divine. Can I be blind? Can I be deaf? Shall I deny that their voices are sweet-their hearts tender-their minds clear and intelligent? No. I love them allJulia, Mary, Fanny, Helen, Henrietta, Eliza. I never think of them without sensations of delight."

Frederick felt a hand upon his shoulder. He looked up. It was Mrs. B., his wife.

"The d-l!" said he.