of the cabins no longer as an indulgence but a right; ceased to return the slightest acknowledgment for any kindness or presents; became listless and inattentive in unravelling the meaning of our questions, and careless whether her answers conveyed the information we desired. In short, Iligliuk in February and Iligliuk in April were confessedly very different persons; and it was at last amusing to recollect, though not very easy to persuade one's self, that the woman who now sat demurely in a chair, so confidently expecting the notice of those around her, and she who had at first with eager and wild delight assisted in cutting snow for the building of a hut, and with the hope of obtaining a single needle, were actually one and the same individual." Who can answer for long continued and equable intercourse with the sex? Capt. P. seems really to have expect ed more from a woman than human nature, in any quarter of the globe, warrants. But critics have nothing to do with these niceties, changes of the wind, and such like matters; we return to the Esquimaux generally :- "The Esquimaux went out to endeavour to catch seals as usual, but returned unsuccessful after several hours' labour. As it was now evident that their own exertions were not at all times sufficient to procure them food at this season, and that neither indolence nor any idea of dependence on our charity induced them to relax in those exertions, it became incumbent on us carefully to attend to their wants, and by a timely and judicious application of the slender resources we had set aside for their use, to prevent any absolute suffering among them. We therefore sent out a good meal of breaddust for each individual, to be divided in due proportion among all the huts. The necessity of this supply appeared very strongly from the report of our people, who found some of these poor creatures actually gnawing a piece of hard seal-skin with the hair on it, while few of the huts had any lamp "On the 13th our friends at the huts were fortunate in procuring three seals, an event that created great joy at the village. Mr. Allison, who happened to be there when these prizes were announced, informed me that there was a general outery of joy; all the women hurried to the doors of the huts, and the children rushed to the beach to meet the men dragging along the prize. One of these little urchins, to complete the triumphant exultation with which this event was hailed, instantly threw himself on the animal, and, clinging fast to it, was thus dragged to the huts. Each woman was observed to bring her ootkooseek, or cooking-pot, to the hut where the seal was dissected, for the purpose of receiving a share of the meat and blubber." ! SICILIAN DWARF. (Lond. Lit. Gaz.) SEEING is believing," and upon my conscience, unless I had seen the Sicilian Dwarf with my own eyes, I could not have credited so extraordinary a variety in human nature. This creature is a female, and of the name of Cramachi; a Sicilian by birth, and now within a few months of being ten years old. But it is impossible to describe the miracle of her appearance, or its effect upon the mind. To see rationality, sportiveness, and intelligence, all the faculties of humanity, in a being so inconceivably below the standard at which we have ever witnessed them, so overturus all previous impressions, that, even with the fact before us, we doubt the evidence of our own senses. A tolerable sized doll, acting and speaking, would not astonish us so much-for nature is, in this instance, far more wonderful than art could be. Only imagine a creature about half as large as a new-born infant; perfect in all parts and linea ments, uttering words in a strange unearthly voice, understanding what you say, and replying to your questions: imagine, I say, this figure of about five nineteen inches in height and pounds in weight, and you have some idea of the most extraordinary phenomenon. And the more you look, the more you reflect, the more incredible it appears that this can be real. But true it is here is the fairy of your superstition in actual life; here is the pigmy of ancient mythology brought down to your own day. The expression of her countenance varies with whatever affects her mind (for, : on my faith, there is a mind and soul in this diminutive frame!); her beautiful tiny hand (for the fore-finger of which, the ring of a very small shirt button would be much too wide a round) has all the motions and graces which are found in the same member of a lovely woman; she laughs, she threatens, she displays her fondness for finery, she likes her drop of wine, she shows her displeasure, she chooses and rejects; in fine, she is as perfect as a common child of the same age. Her walk is rather tottering, and her voice (as I have said) very remarkable. Her general appearance is not unpleasing, though there is a little of the simia in the form of the features: her health is good, and her body, limbs, &c. are complete. I shall visit her again and again, for she is to me the wonder of wonders. I took her up, caressed and saluted her; and it was most laughable to see her resent the latter freedom, wiping her cheek, and expressing her dislike of the rough chin. But her great antipathy is to Doctors; these have offended her by examining her too minutely, and whenever they are mentioned she doubles her filbert of a fist, and manifests her decided displeasure. Of her trinkets she seems very proud, taking off her ring to show it, and pointing to her ear-rings, with the joyous exclamation of "Very pretty,"-for she has already learnt a little English. But, go and see her, or you never can conceive the true meaning of Milton's phrase (Lon. Mag.) INCUBATION. The process of hatching ducklings and chickens by artificial means was not long since forced upon public notice by some other process before the Lord Mayor. Like all novelties this furnished matter for pleasantry at the time; but we are informed, that the person who brought forward this scheme really succeeds in putting his theo ry into practice ;-and not only produces the young birds in the way stated, but even "Minim of nature." surpasses all Egyptian example. For we are assured, that, in order to show the progress of incubation, he has been led to try the experiment of removing the egg from the shell, and enclosing it in glass to be hatched; and that he has succeeded!! Thus the entire progress of incubation, like the working, &c. of bees, is exposed to constant and visible observation. BIOGRAPHY. MRS. SOPHIA MRS. Sophia Lee, the author of that excellent historical tale The Recess, the comedy of the Chapter of Accidents, the Hermit's Tale a poem, Almeyda a tragedy, the Life of a Lover a novel,&c.&c. died on the 13th March. In an age and country distinguished for valuing literary talents, we feel that the name of this lady ought not to pass with that brief notice of her death and writings, to which our limited space, in the first instance, confined us, and therefore devote a column of our Gazette to such particulars concerning her, as we have been able to collect, and which, we have no doubt, will be interesting to our readers. She was daughter of Mr.John Lee, a performer at Covent Garden Theatre, and eldest sister of the equally celebrated Harriet Lee, author of the Canterbury Tales, &c. &c. Educated strictly in all the habits of domestic life, SOPHIA LEE, if we are rightly informed, devoted her attention, at an early age, to the education and welfare of the younger branches of the family, to whom after the premature death of their mother, and the subsequent one of their father, her prudence became eminently useful-Thus sacrificing to affection and duty, somewhat of that celebrity which she might have increased by the exclusive culti vation of her talents. Yet few writers had more allurement at their outset to pursue the path of fame. The come dy of the Chapter of Accidents, which was offered anonymously to the elder Mr. Colman, a man of approved taste and genius, was received by him with an immediate request to know the author; and its success fully justified his high opinion of it. The talents of Ed LEE. win were never better displayed than in that original, true, Somersetshire clown, Jacob Gawky; and our Bridget became the phrase of the day for comic vulgarity. The interesting Novel of the Recess next appeared, and was the first English work of merit, in which historical characters were made the ground-work of fictitious events. It presented the writer in strong contrast with herself, both as to subject and diction, and was so extremely popular, that, after the publication of the first volumes, which came out singly, Mr. Cadell desired the author to name her own terms for the remainder, inclosing a bank note of value as a compliment. She now, however, devoted only her leisure hours to her pen, and produced her succeeding works at intervals, having established a seminary for young ladies at Bath, which her name rendered distinguished and flourishing. From this situation she retired about twenty years since, to close an active and well spent life in family association, privacy and content. As a writer, her distinguishing characteristics were originality, pathos, and that rarest of gifts, fertility of invention, sometimes even approaching to exuberance. But it is not merely as a writer that we have considered her-our encomium is of a higher nature, and includes a numerous circle; since it may be both generally and justly observed (and it gives us heartfelt pleasure to make the observation,) that the women most admired for talent in the present day, perform every relative duty in life with as much correctness and fidelity, as if they classed with the best gifted of their sex. ORIGINAL ANECDOTE. THE English frigate Minerve, commanded by Capt. Brenton, unfortunately run ashore near Cherbourg. A sailor, who had both his legs shot off while endeavouring to heave her into deep water, was carried into the cockpit. Waiting for his turn to be dressed, he heard the cheers of the crew on deck, and eagerly demanded what they meant. Being told that the ship was off the shoal, and would soon be clear of the forts, (Lond. Lit. Gaz.) "Then d― the legs," exclaimed the poor fellow; and taking his knife from his pocket, he cut the remaining muscles which attached them to him, and joined in the cheers with the rest of his comrades. When the ship was soon afterwards taken, he was placed in the boat to be conveyed to the hospital; but, determined not to outlive the loss of his liberty, he slacked his tourniquets and bled to death. SIR THE SPIRITS OF THE AGE. (New Mon.) SIR WALTER SCOTT. IR WALTER SCOTT is undoubtedly the most popular writer of the age-the "lord of the ascendant" for the time being. He is just half what the human intellect is capable of being; if you take the universe, and divide it into two parts, he knows all that it has been; all that is to be is nothing to him. He is a mind "reflecting ages past"-he scorns "the present ignorant time." He is "laudator temporis acti"-a "prophesier of things past." The old world is to him a crowded map; the new one a dull, hateful blank. He dotes on all well authenticated superstitions; he shudders at the shadow of innovation. His retentiveness of memory, his accumulated weight of prejudice or romantic association, have overlaid his other faculties. The cells of his memory are vast, various, full even to bursting with life and motion; his speculative understanding is rather flaccid, and little exercised in projects for the amelioration of his species. His mind receives and treasures up every thing brought to it by tradition or custom-it does not project itself beyond this into the world unknown, but mechanically shrinks back as from the edge of a precipice. The land of abstract reason is to his apprehension like Van Diemen's Land, barren, miserable, distant, a place of exile, the dreary abode, of savages, convicts, and adventurers. Sir Walter would make a bad hand of a description of the millennium, unless he could lay the scene in Scotland five hundred years ago, and then he would want facts and worm-eaten parchments to support his style. Our historical novelist firmly thinks that nothing is but what has been; that the moral world stands still, as the material one was supposed to do of old; and that we can never get beyond the point where we are without utter destruction, though every thing changes, and will change, from what it was three hundred years ago to what it is now-from what it is now to all that the bigoted admirer of the "good old times" most dreads and hates. It is long since we read, and long since we thought of our author's poetry. It would probably have gone out of date with the immediate novelty, even if he himself had not made the world forget it. It is not to be denied that it had great merit, both of an obvious and intrinsic kind. It abounded in vivid descriptions, in spirited action, in smooth and flowing versification. But it wanted character. It was poetry "of no mark of likelihood.' It slid out of the mind, as soon as read, like a river; and would have been forgotten, but that the public curiosity was fed with ever-new supplies from the same teeming, liquid source. It is not every man that can write six quarto volumes in verse, that shall be read with avidity, even by fastidious judges. But what a difference between their popularity and that of the Scotch Novels ! It is true, the public read and admired the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," "Marmion," and so on; and each individual was contented to read and admire because the public did but with regard to the prose-works of the same (supposed) author, it is quite anotherguess sort of thing. Here every one stands forward to applaud on his own ground, would be thought to go before the public opinion, is eager to extol his favourite characters louder, to understand them better than every body else, and has his own scale of comparative excellence for each work, supported by nothing but his own enthusiastic and fearless convictions. It must be amusing to the Author of Waverley to hear his readers and admirers (and are not these the same thing ?†) Note by the Editor.-The writer of this paper, and not the Editor, must be considered as here preetry. A journal such as this cannot be supported suming to be the critical arbiter of Sir Walter's po without the aid of writers of a certain degree of talent, and it is not possible to modify all their opin ions só as to suit every body's taste. No! For we met with a young lady who kept a circulating library and a milliner's-shop in a watering-place in the country, who, when we inquired them, said they were "so dry she could hardly get for the "Scotch Novels," spoke indifferently about through them," and recommended us to read would venture to lay a wager that there are many "Agnes." We never thought of it before; but we other young ladies in the same situation, and who think "Old Mortality" "dry." quarrelling which of his novels is the best, opposing character to character, quoting passage against passage, striving to surpass each other in the extravagance of their encomiums, and yet unable to settle the precedence, or to do the author's writings justice-so various, so equal, so transcendant are their merits! His volumes of poetry were received as fashionable and welldressed acquaintances: we are ready to tear the others in pieces as old friends. There was something meretricious in Sir Walter's ballad-rhymes; and like those who keep opera figurantes, we were willing to have our admiration shared, and our taste confirmed by the town: but the Novels are like the mistresses of our hearts, bone of our bone and flesh of our flesh, and we are jealous that any one should be as much delighted, or as thoroughly acquainted with their beauties as ourselves. For which of his poetical heroines would the reader break a lance so soon as for Jeanie Deans? What "Lady of the Lake" can compare with the beautiful Rebecca ? We believe the late Mr. John Scott went to his death-bed (though a painful and premature one) with some degree of satisfaction, inasmuch as he had penned the most elaborate panegyric on the Scotch Novels that had as yet appeared! The Epics are not poems, so much as metrical romances. There is a glittering veil of verse thrown over the features of nature and of old romance. The deep incisions into character are "skinned and filmed over" -the details are lost or shaped into flimsy and insipid decorum; and the truth of feeling and of circumstance is translated into a tinkling sound, a tinsel common-place. It must be owned, there is a power in true poetry that lifts the mind from the ground of reality to a higher sphere, that penetrates the inert, scattered, incoherent materials presented to it, and by a force and inspiration of its own melts and moulds them into sublimity and beauty. But Sir Walter (we contend, under correction) has not this creative impulse, this plastic power, this capacity of reacting on his materials. He is a learned, a literal, a matter-of-fact expounder of truth or fable :† he does not soar above † Just as Cobbett is a matter-of-fact reasoner. |