THE FIRST DISCOVERY OF COLUMBUS.* The gallant leader heard, but he listen'd undismay'd, M. E. CHARACTERISTIC EPISTLES.-NO. V. We are now, for variety's sake, to present the reader with a few epistles which owe some portion of their attractions to the names they bear; for it must not be denied that there is more in "a name" than the philosophy of Juliet could make out. It is true the illustration was a sweet one, by which that lovely philosopher sought to prove her position, touching the nothingness of a name. But if " a rose would smell as sweet by any other name," it would still not be a rose," any more than "Romeo would be Romeo, call him what you will.” In fact, there is Midas-magic in a name, that can change in a moment all things to their opposites; nay, that can create all things for all the purposes for which they serve when created. There is nothing so powerful as an abstraction; and there is no abstraction like a name. What were those lovers themselves, but names? What was their passion, but a name? What their happiness, their misery, their life, their death, their story-what, but names ?-What, in a word, is any thing Friday, 3d August, 1492, Columbus set sail from Palos. They had high winds at first, which they considered ominous. On the 7th September they lost sight of land with sighs and tears, many fearing never to see it again after some days the crew began to murmur against that "bold Italian," his prayers and promises. Suddenly he called out 'Land! land!' but it proved but clouds. The murmurs were now very great, and the crew determined to wait but three days more before they would return; the first of those days he perceived by the sunset that land was near; in the night he spied light, and two hours after midnight Roderigo de Triana descried land on the 10th October. They went on land when it was day, and termed it St. Salvador: called by the inhabitants Guanahani, one of the Isles Lucayos, 950 degrees from the Canaries.-See PURCHAS HIS PILGRIMES. that we do not touch with our hands, or see with our eyes,-what but a name? The imagination of "Imperial Rome" fills the world;-yet what is it but a name? The thought of her Cæsar and his power, stirs our hearts like the sound of thunder; yet what is it but a name? "His very name Renews the springs of life, and cheers my soul." -that is to say, so wrapt in her name-for he was a thousand miles distant from her, and knew not that she was any thing else; or rather, she never was any thing else to him-nor was he to her, even while he lived but now that he is gone, and can be nothing else, his name will be her destiny while she lives, and the burthen of her epitaph when she dies. Oh, there is much in a name at least as much as Mr. Shandy himself supposed. But not the least power possessed by a name is that of changing a bit of blurred and worthless paper into a leaf more sacred than the Sibyl's, and words that were otherwise nothing worth, into spells and charms. But let us shew the reader what a name can do; which will be a shorter as well as a surer way of convincing him of its efficacy, than a score of rhapsodies. Let him peruse the following words, copied from the little soiled scrap of paper on which they are scribbled: Dear Eden,-I had promised Lord North for Hemsley before I received your letter; I tell you this because I would not make any false me.it with you; but I certainly should have done it at your recommendation if I had not promised it before I will contrive to call upon you soon, and talk over some of the other things in your letter. I am very sincerely yours. Saint James's, Aug. 27, 1783. The reader will find but little to interest him in this, as it now stands. The utmost he will even fancy is, that he detects the hand of some favoured dispenser of "places and pensions," exercising a piece of jesuitical candour in declining the credit that he does not deserve, but would fain appropriate. But we are greatly mistaken in our estimate of the value of a name, if, when he sees that of Charles James Fox affixed to the above, it will not be changed in a moment, into a pleasing and characteristic evidence of that amiable candour and unaffected simplicity, which was never elsewhere so intimately allied to true greatness. Again-what would the following be, without the knowledge that it proceeds from no less a person than him whom many consider to be the proved author of Junius's Letters? But with that knowledge it becomes curious at least; and, to our thinking, characteristic, --unless we are wrong in guessing that that very bitter person is fathering upon "her ladyship" the "risus sardonicus" which was so peculiarly his own property. Nov. 26, 1811. Your letters are very facetious and acceptable, at all of which her ladyship has been pleased to grin: a kind of risus sardonicus, to which she gives way when she does not know how to find fault. I shall be in town on friday, and I hope you have no thoughts of abandonning the peninsula. Your's, PHILIP FRANCIS. But we must have done with using our materials as mere proofs (at best superfluous) of the value of a name; and return to our plan of letting the epistles which we place before the reader, stand upon their own merits; first, however, begging a welcome for the two following, chiefly on the grounds just urged unless indeed we may offer them, together with the foregoing, as" characteristic" of privy counsellors generally-who seem to have little else to think about but providing for their adherents. Downing-street, Jan. 18, 1776. Dear Sir,-A_Lord of the Session in Scotland is dead. Be so good as to remember Mr. Ross and Mr. Mackensie-the former to be a lord of Session, and the latter a clerk of Session in the room of the other. My Dear Sir,-Upon coming home I found the answer to the letter I wrote to the Resident respecting Sir Robert Keith. I wish to show it to you, and likewise to Lord Suffolk, when I can most conveniently see him. Your's faithfully, Saturday morning. HENRY DUNDAS. P. S. My conscience has checked me all night for concurring in such nonsense as your Indemnity Bill. Why, after negativing the amendment on the preamble, did not we ourselves vote it out altogether upon the last question - that this bill do pass?' To have again negatived that question would have been a compleat commentary, and saved the house from the ridicule to which it is most perfectly open. The reader will find that our next specimens have the rare quality of rising in interest above the preceding, in proportion as their writers rise in rank. In fact, we are mistaken if the three following epistles, from royal hands, will not be read with more than common interest, short and simple as they are. The first is from the late Queen Charlotte, addressed to the Dowager Lady Elgin, on the marriage of her daughter, and is tinged with that mingled piety and bonhommie (or rather bonnefemmie, to create a word for the occasion) which together rendered the writer far from one of the worst queens that these realms have rejoiced in. To My Dear friend, Dowager Lady ELGIN. My dearest lady Elgin,-May every blessing attend your amiable daughter -believe me my true and fervent prayers attend her wedding, and I reflect with pleasure, that as you have been the means to make her happy by instil ling such Christian principles in her mind as to her happiness and felicity both here and hereafter, she will also render you happy by following those principles through life-in which none can ever more sincerely rejoice than Your affectionate friend, Windsor, 24 March, 1799. CHARLOTTE. The next is from the should-have-been successor of the above,no-queen Caroline. Its occasion makes it interesting, if there were nothing else to do so; since, though without date, it is evidently written almost beside the cradle of that infant who afterwards became the hope of England. The place, too, of which it bears the name fixes its date to within a few months; for only so long was this most unhappy of queens, of mothers, and of women, allowed to possess a home. The letter is addressed to one of the ladies in waiting, and displays evident symptoms of that good-nature which was the bane of the writer: for in a palace good-nature is not to be exercised with impunity in all others it covers a multitude of sins; but in a queen it includes them! We of course copy the letter verbatim et literatim, not presuming to meddle with the orthography or grammar of royalty; and moreover wishing to place on record one genuine and unstudied effusion of an anointed hand: for we know not where the reader can turn to another. Carlton House, 7 o'clock. Madam.-I was up stairs when my dear little Charlott was undressed, and stayed till she was in bed, and the dear little angle was remarkable well. I ani much obliged to you for your great attention to her, and hope you will not return at Eight o'clock if it is not convenient to yourself as I am quite alone with my ladies-so I can go upstairs if anything should be the matter, and then I will let you know. Hope to have the pleasure of seeing you much better tomorrow. I am, CAROLINE. The last of our royal epistles (for we must not tax the reader's loyalty too much) shall be from the pen of the royal infant herself, whom, in the last, we saw--not to speak it profanely-" muling and puking in its nurse's arms;" and whom, if Time had spared, we might have seen, among the greatest monarchs that these realms have known; and whose loss England cannot look forward to the day when she shall cease to deplore. There are two or three passages in this brief, yet we cannot but think most interesting epistle, which, if the reader's eyes are at all used to the melting mood, may chance to bring tears into them. It is written in a large, school-girl's hand, almost as large as text; and is addressed to the late Princess Royal of England, and Queen of Wirtemberg. My dear Aunt, I am very happy to find by Lady Kingston that you are so good to love me so much, and I assure you I love you very dearly-for I know a great deal about you from lady Elgin, who wishes me to resemble you in every thing. I am very anxious to write better, that I may let you know how Igu on in my learning. I am very busy, and I try to be very good. I hope to go to Windsor soon, and see my dear grandpapa and grandmama. I love very much to go there and play with my aunts. Mama comes very often to see me, and then we play at all merry games-Colin Maillard— I am much obliged to you for sending me so many pretty things, and wish you and the Elector were here, and would bring my cousin, Princess Theresa, with you. Adieu, my dear aunt, and believe me Your ever affectionate and dutiful niece, P.S. My duty to the Elector. Shrewsbury Lodge, August 17, 1804. CHARLOTTE. The names of "dear grandpapa and grandmama," the sportings with the aunts at Windsor, and the rompings and " merry games" with "mama" at home, carry us into the recesses of royal privacy pleasantly enough, and almost persuade us that happiness may be no greater stranger there than elsewhere. We shall now take an abrupt leave of greatness, and descend to some of the lower terraces on the hill of fame. There are kings who have never been crowned; and such, in his way, was honest Tate Wilkinson-the most morose of managerial monarchs. His person and manner are as familiar to the town by Mr. Mathews's personification of them in his "youthful days," as if they had not passed away. We shall, therefore, add to the interest and curiosity of the picture by connecting it with one or two of his official despatches-and the rather as they refer to the "youthful days" of other persons, about whom the town is, in the present day, still more interested. It will be seen by the following that there is no such thing as mounting the ladder of distinction without treading the lowermost steps of it, however soiled they may be. We here see the most successful actor of his day, at the beck and call of a man who now only lives in his personification of him. The address will remind the reader of what Mathews relates,—that Tate scarcely ever called a person twice by the same name. To Mr. MADDOX, or MATHEWs, Theatre, Carmarthen. Hull, Feb. 10, 98. Sir,-As a man in the mountains, and not known on change, added to your express desire of being here, convinces me you have misunderstood my meaning for engaging you in June next,-I shall want a comedian that can strike the audience well, as to say, "this will do," and then advance your situation. And as to coming out in a first situation, and the business you wrote for, no such thing can be complied with. Mr. Emery is in full possession of fame and characters-so suit your convenience as to staying away. If you are with me at York, 22d July, or Aug. 18, it will do. Mr. Emery will not quit me till the London theatre opens-therefore you can only play occasionally-but you will have full scope untill the end of October, and then I can judge of continuance or raising terms, according to your desert and success-for a good comedian only will do if I can get him. Your, &c. TATE WILKINSON. The following is from the same singular person; and to us it seems to present a no less curious than instructive picture of a half-broken mind in a body on the brink of the grave, but both still struggling on, and labouring in their vocation to the last. What can be more sad, at least, if not pathetic, than the passage about the "907. on Monday night at Leeds?" One would think that any body but a manager of a theatre, would have retired from the sight of "July Richards and Octavians," (even though they appeared under the form of Mr. Elliston himself,) and with the little he had saved by his life of labour, have betaken himself to some quiet corner, to "end his part in peace." But no-we are doomed, like hackney-coach horses, to die as we have lived, "with harness on our backs :"-with this difference against us, that we are willing slaves, and they are compelled ones. Dear Sir, I am truly pleased at your success, and think it a feather in the cap of the York Company-but you write to me as if I was in a recoverable state-instead of that, (to write) this is a violent fatigue. I had near 90l. monday night at Leeds-but I am not equal to be pleased, or to eat anything. am worse than ever. Your letter is now before me. I cannot get through it, yet you write to me as if I was as gay as yourself. I want to see no July |