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BARYTHYMIA;

A POEM.-BY N. N.

Addressed to all the Sons and Daughters of Adversity.

(CONCLUDED FROM OUR LAST.)

illustrious persons nevertheless; and will not be forgotten while Fighting is remembered; the less, perhaps, that they mixed up something of the errors of humanity with those qualities which lifted them above it. At all events, there was no hypocritical pretension about either of them, and no cant. They professed to cultivate the arts of war, not of peace, and to be But what are chaplets! what the Poet's lays! fighters, not fine gentlemen; and they were as good as Or what the boast of never-fading bays! their words in this respect, whatever they might be in Ah, what is mortal life! search Nature round, others. If one of them offered bribes, and the other Where shall its strange similitude be found? took them; what then?-they at least confessed it-Tis like the bow that decks the humid sky, one when he was drunk, and the other when he was sober; and the confession of our sins every one admits to be a virtue! If they both broke treaties, it was doubtless because at the moment of making them they never meant to keep them any longer than they found it convenient. They made them to serve their own views, not those of other people; and if they had kept them any longer than was consistent with those views, they would have broke faith with themselves; and a thief that will rob himself, must be a thief indeed!—But I will run this parallel no further at present, or seek excuses for people who sought none for themselves. In fact, to complain of Buonaparte, because he was not Belisarius; or of Gas, because he was not Sir Charles Grandison, is a mere impertinence. They were all four models in their way; and what would we have more! Finally, they are gone to their long home; and peace be to their manes!-Album.

TO LAURA.

Through those eyes with sorrow streaming, Where a timid fire is beaming, In the tongue that dreads to tellEre we part, the sad farewell, In the cheek so pale with woe, In the pulse that beats so low, See a heart that loves thee more Than the Indian loves his shore,Brighter burns for thee, than e'er Burn'd the Persian's Eastern star! Thousand cares my thoughts distress, Thonsand fears my soul oppress: Much it fears, lest time should prove Foe perfidious to my love; And lest absence, more severe, Bid a rival triumph here: Yet when such attends thy path, Courts thy smile, and plights his faith, When his accents sooth thine ear, And his vows first seem sincere,Think that there is one, whose brain, Were he nigh,-'twould rack with pain: Think (as well as thou mayst) that he Perhaps is thinking then of thee; Think thou seest his hollow eye, And canst hear his bosom's sigh. Think, at eve, whene'er thy gaze Rests upon the moon's bright rays, That thy lover's eyes recline On the same pure orb as thine, And recalling when, by night, Last with thee he view'd her light, Strains his gaze, in her to see Some remembered form of thee.

As for him whose swelling breast, Trembling, dictates this request, Trust-where'er his footsteps bend, That to thee his thoughts still tend, O'er the bounds of hill and dale, Stretch'd across the interval.Prust-where'er on earth he goes, Though his fortune meet with those Who are set with charms as bright As the starry gems of night,Lips of coral-eyes of fireCheeks of most intense desire, Yet he turns from these, unmov'd, To the maid whom first he lov'd. All the beauties art can twine Tasteless seem, compar'd with thine; 'Tis for thee he keeps his love, And his hopes-if thou approve. Canst thon, gentle Laura, wait, While he runs the course of fate? Till he wins fair Fortune's smile, And improves in age the while? Till the years of trial o'er Make him worthier than before? Doubt not then his plighted troth Chang'd for Hymen's graver oath, And the visions, now so gay, Turn'd to never fading day; When so bright an age begins, Lighted with refulgent scenes, That our bliss will only prove An antepast of joys above!

Manchester, 1823.

J.

Chequered and changed with many a mingled die;
Which glows awhile, with all its colourings gay,
Then, unperceived and sudden, melts away.
Such, and so varied, is the life we lead,
Sorrow to joy, and smiles to tears succeed;
While Time each chance and change, with ceaseless
wings,
Wafts to the lumber of forgotten things.

Light are the passing sorrows of a day,
Which Love or Friendship sweetly smiles away;
Short are the pangs where sympathy remains,
Where Hope beguiles, or Pity sooths our pains;
But oh what consolation shall we find,
When Death has left no comforter behind!
When they who, once, in all our griefs could share,
Or with a smile dispel the clouds of care,
And pour sweet counsels on our listening ear,
In marble silence press the sable bier!
Yon church-yard mound, though wild and few its flowers,
Is sprinkled oft with more than vernal showers;
For there, beneath the yew-tree's awful shade,
The mother's hopes are with her infant laid;
There the lorn husband tells the Grave his pain;
There the fond lover beats his breast in vain ;
The orphan there, one well-remembered morn,
Saw his last friend, his widowed mother, borne ;
And oft returns to shed a filial tear,

And call on her who never more shall hear.
Ah! what can tears avail to them that sleep!
Though 'tis your mournful privilege to weep;
Yet, oh! be mindful in your bitterest grief,
There is a sacred source of pure relief!
There is a clime, where, wet with heavenly dew,
The flowers that withered here, shall bloom anew ;-
Removed from summer's heat, from winter's blight,
To one perennial spring, with skies for ever bright.
The Mourner heeds me not ;-I hear him say,
"Lost to all hope, bereft of every stay,

"Why should I bear of life this useless load,

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Weary, and faint, and sick of sorrow's goad?
"We travel all to death, be mine the shortest road!"
Christian, forbear! the Virgin's suffering Son
Sighed o'er the bitter cup," Thy will be done."

Oh happiest he, amid this changeful state,
Whose hopes are fixed above the reach of fate;
Whose views beyond this wilderness extend,
His refuge, Heaven, Omnipotence, his friend;
But hapless man, if guilt alarm thy fears,
If keen remorse be mingled with thy tears,
Ab, seek not thou to put aside thy woe,
But let thine eyes like ceaseless fountains flow;
If haply tears can wash away thy stains,
And sanctify what yet of life remains!
Let not thy soul's deceiver whisper peace,
Or dark depair;-but pray, and never cease!
Pray for thy spirit's everlasting weal,

Till be who bruised thee, shall in mercy heal;
He will not, wept, implored, besought, in vain,
A broken and a contrite heart disdain.

In that dread hour, when round thy dying hed,
The horrors of that unknown world are spread,
The Voice that bade the winds and tempests cease,
Shall bid thy troubled spirit rest in peace,
Till death's dim shadows shall bave past away,
Before the brightness of eternal day.
Thas some worn sea-man, on the foaming tide,
Whose wasted strength the storm has long defied,
While the strong mast beneath the whirlwind groans,
And night broods o'er him, and the tempest moans,
Weary at length of struggling with the deep,
Sinks feebly down in duil and deathlike sleep ;-
Nor wakes till when, before his raptur'd eyes,
The peaceful splendours of the morning rise.

ON NATURE AND ART IN POETRY. In the first place I hold, that, though the poetical objects in Nature and in Art heighten and assist each other, yet that Nature has few, if any, unpoetical objects, whereas many of those of Art are so ;-and secondly-That the most poetical objects in Nature are more poctical than the most poetical objects in Art.

With regard to the first of these positions-What object in Nature, unspoiled by man, and still existing as it came from the hand of God, is not highly susceptible of poetry?—I know of none.-There are, indeed, few things left with which man has not meddled. But still there are some ;-some which he has hitherto left untouched, others on which his touch is powerless. "Cette superbe mer, sur laquelle l'homme n'a jamais pu imprimer ses traces" still bears, and ever will bear, its own unchangeable aspect. The mountains which soar into the sky, and lift their heads far beyond the reach of man and his power, reign in the majesty of Nature,

"On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,
With a diadem of snow,"

Many parts of the American forests also are yet untrodden, at least unchanged, by man. And are not they poetical? Those vast woods which cover what in our smaller hemisphere would be the space of kingdoms-with all those sights and sounds which embellish and give a charm to forest scenery- fruits and flowers, and leaves of every shade of green, from the shadowy pine to the brilliant acacia-their birds of every conceivable variety of plumage, and modulation of songand those beasts which add to all these things the interest and the dignity of danger-are not, I again ask, forests in this primeval state, in the highest degree poetical? And what does art do here?-the axe resounds and the fire blazes, and the proud trees of the forest become blackened stumps the beautiful and varied glades are opened into unsightly clearings,—and the picturesque Indian, who pursues his enemy or his game through the almost trackless woods, is replaced by a back-woodsman—the brutal and dissolute savage of civilization, instead of the pure-minded and dignified savage of Nature.

But even the most unpromising things in Nature, such as leafless trees, stagnant pools, and barren heaths, may be adapted with the utmost advantage to the purposes of poetry.

The bleakest rock upon the loneliest heath,
Feels in its barrenness some touch of spring;
And in the April dew or beam of May,
Its moss and lichen freshen and revive.

Is not this poetry ?—and what is its subject ?The bleakest rock upon the loneliest heath. There are few things in Nature of more wretched appearance than a fen, and yet even this has given rise to writing truly poetical. The passage I allude to is in Crabbe's tale of a Lover's Journey-and it is so powerful and extraordinary, that it is well worth quoting:

On either side

Is level fen, a prospect wild and wide,
With dikes on either hand by Ocean's self supplied:
Far on the right, the distant sea is seen,
And salt the springs that feed the marsh between;
Beneath an ancient bridge, the straiten'd flood
Rolls through its sloping banks of slimy mud;
Near it a sunken boat resists the tide,
That frets and hurries to th' opposing side;
The rushes sharp, that on the borders grow,
Bend their brown flow'rets to the stream below,
Impure in all its course, in all its progress slow..
Here a grave Flora scarcely deigns to bloom,
Nor wears a rosy blush, nor sheds perfume;
The few dull flowers that o'er the place are spread
Partake the nature of their fenny bed;
Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom,
Grows the salt lavender that lacks perfume;
Here the dwarf sallows creep, the septfoil harsh
And the soft slimy mallow of the marsh;
Low on the ear the distant billows sound,
And just in view appears their stouy bound;
No hedge nor tree conceals the glowing sun,
Birds, save a wat'ry tribe, the district shun,

Nor chirp among the reeds where bitter waters run.--and what is the subject of this powerful poetry?—a marsh !—To this passage is appended a note, which, though of course in prose, is so picturesquely and vigorously written, that I shall copy it, and claim its evidence in my cause,-for writing need not be in verse to be poetry. "The ditches of a fen so near the ocean

are lined with irregular patches of a course and stained

Arrondis sans compas, et tournant sans pivot,

evidence. I do not ask, whether it can be possible
Ont à peine couté la dépense d'un mot.
for any one to give poetry to the commonest produc-
What is, I ask, the drawback from these fine
tions of mechanical art,-household utensils, for in-
stance, brooms, mops, pails, and warming-pans ;-but verses? why, the associating compasses and pivots,
objects of mechanical art, with the grandest ideas of
look at the attempts of persons of poetical genius con-
fessedly great,-of Mr. Coleridge and Mr. Words-Nature in all her pride. After the line,
Tirés du sein du vide, et formés sans matière,
worth,-to poetize these things ;-look at nine-tenths
of the lyrical ballads-above all, Mr. Wordsworth's it is, indeed, a falling off to speak of this magnificent
and miraculous heaven as being

lava; a muddy seddiment rests on the horse-tail and
other perennial herbs, which in part conceal the shal-
lowness of the stream; a fat-leaved pale-flowering
scurvy-grass appears early in the year, and the razor-
edged ball-rush in the summer and autumn. The fen
itself has a dark and saline herbage; there are rushes
and arrow head, and in a few patches the flakes of the
cotton-grass are seen, but more commonly the sea-aster,
the dallest of that numerous and hardy genus; a thrift," washing-tub," and his "Alice Fell,"-and say whe-
blue in flower, but withering and remaining withered ther it is possible for any genius to dignify objects like
till the winter scatters it; the salt-wort, both simple these.
and shrubby, a few kinds of grass, changed by their
soil and atmosphere, and low plants, of two or three
denominations, andistinguished in a general view of
the scenery ;—such is the vegetation of the fen, when
it is at a small distance from the ocean."

I will give another, perhaps still more striking, instance. It is a description in Rob Roy of a barren moor-of Nature in her very meanest aspect-where,

Far as the eye can reach, no tree is seen, Earth, clad in russet, scorns the lively green,and yet, see what, in the hands of a master, can be made even of a country like this:-" Huge continuous beaths, spread before, behind, and around us, in hopeless barrenness,-now level, and interspersed with swamps, green with treacherous verdure, or sable with turf, or, as they call them in Scotland, peat-bogs,and now swelling into huge heavy ascents, which wanted the dignity and form of hills, while they were still more toilsome to the passenger. There were neither trees nor bushes to relieve the eye from the russet livery of absolute sterility. The very heath was of that stinted imperfect kind which has little or no flower, and affords the coarsest and meanest covering which, as far as my experience enables me to judge, Mother Earth is ever arrayed in."

I have purposely cited nothing in support of the poetical susceptibilities of the higher orders of natural objects-I have confined myself to what relates to Nature's very lowest appearances and attributes, and yet I have, I trust, proved that even these can be, and are, poetical.

Now, that there are numberless objects in Art which cannot by any powers, however great, be made poetical, we bave in these days conclusive and most abundant

Allegretto.

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I have said, secondly, that the most poetical objects in Nature are more poetical that the most poetical objects in Art. Is not, for instance, mountain scenery, in sunshine, in moonlight, and perhaps still more in storm-is not the ocean in its boundless magnitude," whether in the heavy heaving of a dead calm, in the smiles and serenity of a light breeze, or in the appalling terrors of a tempest-are not, more than all, the heavens, with their sun and moon and stars, their clouds and winds, their rain and hail and snow, and all their infinite varyings of weather, and thence of atmosphere and appearance-are not these things-this earth and sea and sky-and last, not least, is not human heauty-more poetical than any objects of Art whatsoever?

I grant that many things in Art are highly poetical; -that Athens, Rome, the pyramids, the remains of ancient sculpture, the master-pieces of painting-I grant that these and numberless other objects of Art may be cited as breathing poetry-but are they as poetical as the splendid manifestations of Nature I have instanced above? Mr. Bowles says, finely and truly, that the one leads the thought to God-the other to man-that the imagination rises "from Nature up to Nature's God;" this alone, one would think, should decide the question-but let us take an instance.

One of the most beautiful and impressive objects in
Nature is the sky on a moonlight night.-What is the
blemish in the beauty of the following lines, composed
on contemplating the heavens in this state?-lines of
high power in themselves, and extraordinary as hav-
ing been written by Voltaire :-

Tous ces vastes pays d'azure et de lumière,
Tirés du sein du vide, et formés sans matière,

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PETITION OF THE PASSIVE PARTICIPLE.
O hear a passive participle's case!
And if you can, restore me to my place.-
Till just of late good English has thought fit
To call me written, or to call me writ.
But what is writ or written, by the vote
Of writers now, hereafter must be wrote;
And what is spoken now, hereafter spoke,
And measures never to be broken, broke.
I never could be driven but in spite
Of grammar, they have drove me from my right.
None could have risen to become my foes;
But what a world of enemies have rose!
Who have not gone, but they have went about,
And torn as I have been, have tore me out.
Passive I am and would be, and implore,
That such abuse may be henceforth forbore,
If not forborne; for by the spelling-book,
If not mistaken, they are all mistook;
And in plain English it had been as well,
If what had fallen upon me had not fell.
Since this attack upon me has began,
Who knows what lengths in language may be ran?
For if it once be grew into a law,

You'll see such work as never has been saw.
Part of our speech, and sense perhaps, beside,
Shakes when I'm shook, and dies when I am died.
Then let the preter and imperfect tense,
Of my own words, to me remit the sense,
Or since we two, are oft enough agreed,
Let all the learned take some better heed,
And leave the vulgar to confound the due
Of Preter tense, and Participle too.

THE MANCHESTER BELLES.-A FAVOURITE QUADRILLE.

(NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.)

JOHN BYROM.

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FIGURE.

Four ladies hands across-the eight set holding partners hands in form of a cross-the grand promenade the second and third couple set in a line-promenade half round-chassez across-cross over-allemande-the other party the same.

THE FATALIST.

The subject of the following melancholy tale has long ceased to exist, and there is not in the place of his nativity a being who bears his name. The recital will, therefore, wound the feelings of no one; nor will it disturb the ashes of the dead, to give the world the story of his madness, rather than his crime.

lisping his name as the weapon was at its throat, he would start with horror at his own tale and curse the destiny which had decreed it, but always spoke of it as a necessary deed. The time appointed for his trial approached; he contemplated it without dread, and talked of the fate that awaited him without a shudder. But his friend had exerted himself to procure such testimony of the state of his mind, previous to his The name of John Mackay appears on the committing the dreadful act, as to leave little criminal records of the town of Belfast, in the dread of the result; yet he feared to awaken north of Ireland. He was the murderer of his hopes in the unhappy prisoner which might be own child. It is unnecessary to dwell on the destroyed, and had never mentioned it to him. character of this unhappy man; suffice it that, The morning of his trial arrived; he was brought from early education and deeply rooted habits, to the bar; his hollow eyes glared unconsciously he was a fatalist. An enthusiastic turn of mind on his judge, and he gave his plea, as if the had been warped into a superstitious dread; and words not guilty' came from a being without the fabric that might have been great and beau- life. But his recollection seemed for a moment tiful, became a ruin that betokened only death to return, he opened his lips and gasped faintly, and gloom. Yet into his breast the Creator had as if he wished to recal them. The trial cominfused much of the milk of human kindness,menced, and he listened with the same apathy; and his disposition peculiarly fitted him to be at peace with all men. The poison had lain dormant in his bosom, but it rankled there. Domestic sorrows contributed to strengthen his gloomy creed; and its effects were darker as it took a deeper root. Life soon lost all its pleasures for him; his usual employments were neglected; his dress and appearance altered; his

once animated countenance bore the traces of shame or guilt; and a sort of suspicious eager ness was in every look and action.

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He had an only child; one of the loveliest infants that ever blessed a father's heart. It was the melancholy legacy of the woman he had loved; and never did a parent doat with more affection on an earthly hope. This little infant, all purity and innocence, was destined to be the victim of his madness. One morning his friend entered his apartment, and what was his horror at beholding the child stretched on the floor, and the father standing over it, his hands reeking with the blood of his babe. God of heaven!' exclaimed his friend, what is here?' Mackay approached, and calmy welcomed him, bidding him behold what he had done. His friend beat his bosom and sunk on a chair, covering his face with his hands. Why do you grieve?' asked the maniac; why are you unhappy) I was the father of that breathless corpse, and I do not weep; I am even joyful when I gaze on it. Listen, my friend, listen; I knew I was predestined to murder; and who was so fit to be my victim as that little innocent, to whom I gave life, and from whom I have taken it? He had no crime to answer for; besides, how could I leave him in a cold world, which would mock him with my name?' Even before the commission of the crime, he had sent to a magistrate, whose officers shortly entered and apprehended him. He coolly surrendered himself, and betrayed no emotion; but he took from his bosom a miniature of his wife, dipped in the blood of his babe, and, without a sigh or a tear, departed. It was this circumstance that made inany loath him, and created against him a sentiment of general abhorrence; but when he afterwards, in prison, declared to his friend the storm of passions to which that horrible calm succeeded that he had torn his hair until the blood trickled down his forehead, while his brain seemed bursting his scull; his friend was satisfied and still loved him. In the prison he was with him though all others deserted him, he pitied and wept. Still, even to the last, he believed he had but fulfilled his duty in the death of his child; and often when he described the scene, and told how the infant smiled on its father at the moment he was prepared to kill it,

but once betraying feeling, when he smiled on
his friend beside him. The evidence had been
heard; the jury had returned to their box, and
were about to record a verdict of insanity, when
a groan from the prisoner created a momentary
pause, and he dropped lifeless in the dock. He
had for some minutes shadowed his countenance
with his hand, and no one but his friend per-
ceived its dreadful alteration. He attributed it
to the dreadful suspense of the moment, the
agony between hope and despair. Its cause was
a more awful one;-he had procured poison,
had taken it, and, with an almost superhuman
strength, had struggled with its effects until he
fell dead before the court.

He was buried in the church-yard of his na-
tive village, where a mound of earth marked his
grave, but there was neither stone nor inscrip-
tion to preserve the name of one so wretched.

NATURE OUTDONE.

(From the Literary Chronicle.)

In common with almost every one, I have this year had to lament the untimely backwardness of the prevented Dame Nature (all-bounteous as she is) from Spring; Winter has extended his iron reign,' and so sending her buds and blossoms among us.

But, really, we cockneys have but little to regret in our rambles from London Bridge to Shoreditch Church, or from Whitechapel to Hyde Park Corner, thanks to the plastic hands of the artificial-flower makers, and the unbounded beneficence of our baberdashers, milliners, and other shopkeepers, who make gay partérres of their windows, and so take away the necessity of gardens altogether.

The other day, I saw, in one of the shops in Burlington Arcade, roses both red and white, such as Nature never made, and never can hope to make; so large, and so red, and so white, and, in short, so every way unlike to Nature's, that it was quite delightful; along with these were some lilies, finer by far, I should conceive, than those that Solomon made so much of; myrtles and vine-leaves on one hand, enough to tempt all the ladies to become Bacchantes; and on the other, beautiful wreaths of nondescripts, enough to tempt them all to return shepherdesses; indeed, to judge by some of the fair heads you meet, it would not require much temptation to induce them, for they seem to carry a whole flower garden on their bonnets, and look as if they belonged to a female horticultural society, and their respective bouquets were banches of prize flowers.

One lady looks as though she affected to be Flora, and is loaded with geraniums, pinks, bluebells, and heart's-ease; another is a would-be Ceres, and sports poppies and ripe corn in April; and another, Pomona, who is decorated with apple and peach blossoms; and all this show of nature's choicest productions is the work of art, and would look as divinely in the midst of a Siberian solitude. Who, then, ought to complain of backward springs, and late summers, when they

may buy a whole bunch of everlasting flowers for sixpence; nay, more, when they can buy scented artificial blooms even, with their native smells!--for some of these cunning rogues insert certain perfumes in their flowers, that would vastly puzzle many a rustic. Nature is thus outdone by art; the first, to be sure, works

'In fields, and woods, and by the fountain's side;' and the last, up in some garret in St. Giles's, probably; but, then, it must be recollected, that the latter enables us to anticipate Nature, and to look finer than Nature;-would that I could add, as happy. There, I fear, I must stop, and cockney as I am, confess, that along with our artificial flowers, we have also artificial hours, and habits, and pleasures, and vices too often, that are enough to make us turn to Nature, and wait her good time for sending us what is useful and proper, and not force her as we do in every way, but to remember, that

'God made the country, and man made the town.' CROCKERY, JUN.

BIOGRAPHY.

MR. EDITOR,-The following short tribute to the amiable and gentle virtues of the late David Whitehead, was written by Mr. William Newton, of Cressbrook, in Derbyshire-the aged and venerable Minstrel of the Peak.

Mr. Whitehead was some time a resident in Manchester, and his character, I should think, must be known and remembered by many who are still living. A biographical sketch of his life would doubtless be an acceptable present to many of your readers; and the elegant tribute now sent to you, may perhaps stimulate some of your correspondents to undertake the pleasing task of doing that justice to his memory, which his

talents and bis virtues seem to demand.

As a civil engineer,' Mr. Newton remarks, he bad few competitors; as a calculator, perhaps not an equal. He looked through a long train of figures, in all their multiform combinations, with an intuitive glance, and seemed to know their aggregate by inspection, and their results without the intermediate links of gradual approximation. His felicity of invention left him few rivals. He was fruitful in expedients, correct in design, and accurate in delineation. But though great and prominent were the qualities of his head, they were eclipsed and absorbed by those of his heart. No one ever sought the friendship of David Whitehead, and was disappointed. To the ignorant he was a kind instructor; to the friendless, a friend; and to the needy, he was a father. His mild and tranquil spirit was like that of the immortal Newton, whom an elegant and a nervous poet denominates a "childlike sage." To those who knew him, his memory will long be dear; and though they may not be able to rival bis abilities, they may at least imitate his virtues.' Yours, &c.

--

LINES

On the death of Mr. David Whitehead.
O'er the grave where Whitehead lies,
May the sweetest flowers arise;
On the turf which wraps his clay,
Pour thy richest treasures, May!
Summer's ardent stores be spread
On the sod which hides his head :
Autumn, long with lingering feet,
Guard each tributary sweet:

And, Winter! may a Poet's voice
Change thy mandates to his choice;
O! gently pass this hallow'd spot,
And all thy rigours be forgot!
Spare these sweets, thou hoary king,
Here be one eternal spring ;
Breathe ye vernal gales around
Soft on this Elysiam ground.
Kind was he the sod beneath,
As the gentlest airs that breathe;
Warm his heart that lies below,
As the Summer's warmest glow.
Autumn never shone more mild
Than his breast, "meek Nature's child!"
Then, Winter! spare this hallow'd spot;
Here all thy rigours be forgot.

S. X.

W. N.

CORRESPONDENCE.

MR. EDITOR,-If the following particulars of the birth-place of Sir Isaac Newton are worthy of becoming an appendix to your Anecdotes in Iris No. 68, they are CIVIS. at your service.

Some few years ago travelling with two friends towards the north, we dined at the Angel at Coltersworth, or, as it is commonly called, Colesworth. After dinner we walked to Woolsthorpe. In a small sequestered hamlet, exbibiting a scene of repose well fitted for the birth-place and residence of a philosopher, stands the manor house, with its blank side-wall close to the road; a plain regularly formed stone building, its front looking over a neat lawn, fenced along the road side by a cnt quickset bedge, and entered by a narrow wicket gate. To the right of the road are a few cottages, and a rivulet crossed by a wooden bridge. On the farther side of the lawn stands a dwarf pear tree whose branches are bowed down so as to forin an

alcove. This tree is said to have been planted by Sir Isaac; it was then in full bloom, and had a very pleasing effect. While we were contemplating the scene with feelings that could not but be common to every Englishman, the resident owner came from the house, and opening the wicket politely invited us in. The interior of the house is divided into two parlours in front, one on each side of the door way, the entrance about four feet in depth, faced by a dead wall, such as is seen in many dwellings in the country. Ascending a narrow staircase, we were ushered into the room in which the pride and glory of his country first drew that breath which only ceased to respire when he had enlightened the world with new and sublime philosophy: it is over the parlour next the road, square, very scantily supplied with old furniture and a four post bedstead-a well known print of him hangs on the wall, opposite the door; the fire place is in the front corner near the window-over it is placed a white marble tablet, on which is inscribed, as well as reminiscence supplies me,

"Sir Isaac Newton

Born in this room,

On Christmas Day, O. S.-1612.” Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in nightGod said let Newton be, and all was light.

THE CABINET.

VAUXHALL-GARDENS.

! were repeated in the course of the summer, and num-
bers resorted to partake of them. This encouraged
him to establish them as a place of musical entertain-
ment for every evening during the summer season.
To this end he was at great expense in decorating the
gardens with paintings. He engaged an excellent band
of musicians; he issued silver tickets for admission,
at a guinea each; and continuing to receive great en-
couragement, he set up an organ in the orchestra,
erected a fine statute of Handel in a conspicuous part
of the garden, and adopted such other improvements
as soon rendered them an object of general attraction.

ment of art,-painting, sculpture, architecture, and engraving,-when a society was instituted, and resolutions passed, declaratory of their determination to proceed on broad and liberal principles; their object being to give to the rising, as well as to the more advanced artists, the means of displaying their works for sale during the season, when the opulent patrons of art are usually resident in the metropolis; a desideratum which has long been required, and which the limited resources of the existing establishments, together with the increasing number of professors, have rendered indispensable.

CURIOUS REPETITION IN THE BURIAL SERVICE.

Of late years, Vauxhall had begun to sink in popularity. The last season, however, redeemed It may be remarked that the number three has ever its character, and the present one will confirm retained a certain mysterious preference; and as the it. The improvements consist in trees replanted earth was heretofore thrice cast upon the dead, to walks newly gravelled-boxes new painted-satisfy the gods below; injecto ter pulvere curras,'a new theatre for ballets-then for the ascent à having thrice thrown dust upon me, you may hasten on Blackmore scales, on the rope, to a tremendous perhaps, in the burial service, to the present day. la Saqui, we have a Moorish fortress, which Mr. your journey; so doubtless the same harmless, yet affecting custom has been preserved, inadvertently height. A musical temple, exhibiting the five When the coffin is lowered into the grave, the sexton orders of architecture, a mechanical theatre, sprinkles a small portion of soil upon it, three several cosmoramas, hydraulics, rope-dancing, fire- times, whilst the minister repeats the corresponding works, &c. &c. keep the visitors continually on expressions, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.' the alert, and continually gratified. The more Now every member of this sentence actually signifies substantial part of the entertainment-the wine the same thing; and though the beautiful effect of such and suppers to wit, are on the same liberal and a repetition may perhaps be thought ground enough for excellent style. the use of it; yet it is more than probable that these three tautological members were first introduced in order that the mysterious and propitious number might not escape. The word 'funeral' is derived from. 'funes accensi,'-lighted torches; because anciently a profusion of torches accompanied the corpse; and these were thought equally necessary, though the ceremony was performed at mid-day.-Blunt's Vestiges of Ancient Manners.

VARIETIES.

DR. JENNER.-The Society Arti Salutiferæ met at Amsterdam, May 14, to celebrate the anniversary of the discovery of Vaccine by the immortal Jenner. Mr. Van der Breggen, President of the Society, made an animated address, in which he did merited justice to the illustrious deceased, whose bust, covered with a veil, stood before him. In the middle of his discourse he took off the veil and placed on the bust the civic crown.

TESSELATED PAVEMENT.-On Wednesday se'nnight some labourers working in a field belonging to H. Noyes, Esq., of Thruxton, near Weyhill, discovered, about two feet under the ground, a most beautiful tesselated pavement, supposed to be the flooring of a tent used by some Roman general. The land is cleared away, and, with little exception, it presents a most It is not very generally known that Vauxhall-perfect picture of antiquity. The pavement is composed Gardens is one of the oldest places of amusement in London, and that the place is traditionally said to have been planted for public gardens as early as the reign of Charles I., but does not appear to have been used as such until some time afterwards :

About the year 1667, as Aubrey tells us in his "History of Surrey," Sir Samuel Morland, to whom they then belonged, gave them a considerable degree of celebrity by building here a fine room, "the inside of which," says he, "is all looking-glass, and fountains very pleasant to behold; and which is much visited by strangers. It stands in the middle of the garden, covered with Cornish slate; on the point whereof be placed a punchinello, very well carved, which held a dial, but the winds have destroyed it." In 1712, Addison, in his Spectator gives an account of a trip by water, from Temple Stairs, with his friend Sir Roger de Coverley, to these gardens; and later, we find, in No. 68 of the Connoisseur, a very humourous description of the behaviour of an old citizen, who, notwithstanding his penarious disposition, had treated his family here with a handsome supper. It was not until the year 1730, however, that these gardens were opened with the present sort of amusement; when they were taken by the eccentric Jonathan Tyers, who rebuilt, or much altered Sir Samuel Morland's mansion; and the gardens, which Sir John Hawkins describes as large, "planted with a great number of stately trees, and laid out in shady walks, obtained the name of Spring Gardens; and the house being converted into a tavern or place of entertainment, was much frequented by the votaries of pleasure." Tvers opened the gardens with an advertisement of a Ridotto al Fresco-a term which the greater part of the people of this country had, till that time, been strangers to. These entertainments

of small dyes, about half an inch square, of various
colours, and, according to the different compartments,
varying in size; the workmanship is beautifully shaded,
and the figures, which are mostly preserved perfect,
shew great art of delineation. In the centre is placed
the general, with the right arm extended, clasping a
goblet in the left is a spear-over his shoulder hangs
the skin of a wild beast, and his feet are resting on the
back of a leopard. The whole is delightfully orna-
mented, and certainly offers to the curious a choice
specimen of early days. The inscription, which is as
perfect as at first, is on the upper margin of the pave-
ment, and is as follows:-

QVINTVS NATALYS IVAIALINAS ET BODENI.

At the upper side of the square, indeed, just above the
letter Q, is a piece of free-stone about two feet square.

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REVOLUTIONARY ANECDOTE.-A man, who wished to pass one of the barriers of Paris, in 1793, was required to give his name, &c to the persons on duty. I am Monsieur le Marquis de St. Cyr.' ⚫ Citizen, there are no Monsieurs now.' Very well, then, le Marquis St. Cyr.' You ought to know, citizen, that there are neither nobles, titles, nor marquisats.' In that case, de St. Cyr, if you please.' De is not used now.' Then say simply, St. Cyr.' Ah! but all saints, you know, have been abolished.' Well, if it must be so, write Cyr.'No, citizen, there are no longer any Sires,' (the pronunciation is the same.) Thus, piece by piece, the unfortunate Marquis was stripped by the Revolution, till he found himself at the barrier of Paris without a name.

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FINE ARTS. A numerous and respectable body of artists met at the Freemasons' Tavern on Wednesday evening last, to consider the most eligible means of erecting an extensive suite of rooms for the exhibition and sale of the works of British artists in every depart

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SINGULAR ANECDOTE OF INTREPIDITY.-At the seige of Tortona, the commander of the army which lay before the town, ordered Carew, an Irish officer in the service of Naples, to advance with a detachment to a particular post. Having given his orders, he whispered to Carew, Sir, I know you to be a gallant man. I have therefore set you upon this duty. I tell you in confidence, it is certain death for you all. I place you there, to make the enemy spring a mine below yon." Carew made a bow to the general, and led on bis men in silence to the dreadful post He there stood with an undaunted countenance, and having called to one of his soldiers for a draught of wine, “ Here," battle." Fortunately, at that instant, Tortona capitusaid he, "I drink to all those who bravely fall in lated, and Carew escaped.-Boswell.

THE CORSICAN HANGMAN.-The hangman of Corsica was a great curiosity. Being held in the utmost detestation, he durst not live like another inhabitant of the island. He was obliged to take refuge in the castle, and there he was kept in a little corner turret, where he had just room for a miserable bed, and a bit of fire to dress such victuals for himself as were sufficient to keep him alive, for nobody would have any intercourse with him, but all turned their backs upon him. I went up, and looked at him; and a more dirty, rueful spectacle I never beheld. He seemed sensible of his situation, and held down his head, like an abhorred outcast. - It was a long time, it seems, before they could get a hangman in Corsica; so that the punishment of the gallows was hardly known, all their criminals being shot. At last this creature whom I saw, who is a Sicilian, came with a message to Paoli. The general, who has a wonderful talent for physiognomy, on seeing the man, said immediately to some of the people about him, "Behold our hangman." He gave orders to ask the man if he would accept of the office, and his answer was, My grandfather was a hangman, my father was a hangman, I have been a hangman myself, and am willing to continue so." He was therefore imme[diately put into office, and the ignominious death dis

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pensed by his hands, had more effect than twenty executions by fire-arms.

It is remarkable, that no Corsican would, on any account, consent to be hanginan-not the greatest criminals; who might have had their lives upon that condition. Even the wretch who, for a paltry hire, had strangled a woman, would rather suffer death, than do the same action, as the executioner of the law. Boswell.

THE EMPRESS MARIA LOUISA AND BUONAPARTE.While he was visiting the quays at Boulogne, the empress was taking an airing in a boat in the interior of the port she even went as far as the Estran. On her return, she perceived Buonaparte, who was waiting for her. On quitting the vessel, her foot slipped, and

she would have fallen down, if General Vandamme, who held her hand, had not supported her, by putting his arm round her waist. Buonaparte, who was about ten paces distant with the engineer, perceived the accident; he ran up, and said rather angrily," What! do you not know yet, madam, how to use your feet?" Maria Louisa, without being disconcerted at this apostrophe, looked at him steadily, and said jocularly,— "To hear you speak thus, Sir, would not one think you never made a false step in your life?" This reproach was made in that tone, mixed with sweetness and dignity, which can only be acquired by an union of the favours of nature and the benefits of superior education. Buonaparte felt how much he was in the wrong, and although little accustomed to such remonstrances, he replied very submissively, I beg, madam, you will excuse my abruptness, and only attribute it to the fear occasioned by the idea of the harm a fall might do yourself." "Since that is the case," said the empress, still smiling, "I forgive you; give me your arm."-Sarazine's Philosopher.

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UNUSUAL VISITANT.-A spotted cock-pheasant, of beautiful plumage and large size, has, during the last and present season, forsaken his own species in the woods, and attached himself to the domestic poultry of the Rev. George Bowness, at the Rectory, Rokeby, Yorkshire. It is seldom absent till the evening, when he generally walks off to roost in his native haunts, but returns to give the maids the benefit of his "clarion" in the morning. He is so tame as nearly to feed from the hand, and has occasionally ventured to enter the dwelling. During the heavy snow in the spring he was invisible, but reappeared with the thaw in full feather and beauty.

METHOD OF TAKING IMPRESSIONS-A very easy and elegant way of taking the impressions of medals and coins, not generally known, is thus described by Dr. Shaw: Melt a little isinglass glue with brandy, and pour it thinly over the medal, so as to cover its whole surface; let it remain on for a day or two till it is thoroughly dry and hardened, and then taking it off, it will be fine, clear, and as hard as a piece of Muscovy glass, and will have a very elegant impression of the coin. It will also resist the effects of damp air, which occasions all other kinds of glue to soften and bend, if not prepared in this way.

QUALIFICATIONS OF A COOK.-The qualifications of a cook are thus described in a scarce book, entitled "The English Housewife:""First, she must be cleanly, both in body and garments; she must have a quick eye, a curious nose, a perfect taste, and ready ear; she must not be butter-fingered, sweet-toothed, nor faint-hearted-for the first will let every thing fall; the second will consume what it should increase; and the last will lose time with too much niceness." In the same volume it is recommended, as a preservative from the plague,"To smell on a nosegay made of the tasselled end of a ship-rope."

RABBITS SUCKLED BY A FERRET.-A curious instance of the reconciliation of supposed natural antipathies in animals was witnessed by many persons in Shrewsbury last week. W. Jones, of Frankwell, having taken a nest of seven rabbits, in the Crowmere fields, Abbey Foregate, put one of the rabbits into a box in which he kept a female ferret, then rearing three young ones. Instead of instantly devouring the helpless young rabbit, the ferret carried it to her nest, and adapted it as one of her own family. The man put another rabbit into the box, which the ferret carried also to her nest! The other rabbits he gave to other

ferrets, which instantly devoured them. During five subsequent days the two adopted strangers were suckled by the ferret with the same kindness as her three legitimate offspring; but, either in consequence of the new sustenance, or the frequent handling, (to gratify the curiosity of strangers,) the two rabbits died. ternal affection, however, was not even then extinct in the ferret; for she repeatedly carried the dead bodies to her nest whenever they were removed, and betrayed to the last all the anxiety of a parent.

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Henri with great pathos, judgment, and discrimination; his performance throughout was replete with energy and feeling, and we are happy to say received, as it justly merited, the loudest approbation. On Tuesday Mr. SALTER made his second appearance as Hamlet; and his personation of that most difficult character (which has long been pronounced the touch-stone of histrionic genius), cannot fail to stamp him a favourite in this town. We have seen the part performed by the firstrate actors of the day, and we fear not to say, that it faded not in the hands of Mr. SALTER; in some passages, we were strongly reminded of our old favourite, Macready. To criticise throughout the excellencies of this performance, would exceed our limits; and we shall therefore confine ourselves to pointing out one or opening of the third act, "To be, or not to be," was two beauties. His delivery of the soliloquy at the impressive, dignified, and powerful; and in his following interview with Ophelia, his voice, countenance, and action, harmonized with perfect truth; and we think a finer touch of nature could not be displayed than the look of tenderness and pity he casts upon her ere he finally rushes from her presence. His acting, in the play-scene, before the King and Queen, was a high intellectual treat; the impetuosity and fire with which he burst forth, when the King, consciencestricken, rises from his seat, and calls for lights-had a striking and almost appalling effect upon the audience, and drew down the most enthusiastic applause. His interview with his mother was a most powerful and successful piece of acting."

LITERARY NOTICES.

Mr. Robert Meikleham, Civil Engineer, has in the press a Practical Treatise on the Various Methods of Heating Build

After a successful season, the Theatre-Royal closed on Saturday evening, the 24th instant; when Mr.ings by Steam, Hot-Air, Stoves, and Open Fires. With some Bass delivered the following farewell address to a brilliant and crowded house:LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,

This being the concluding night of the season, I am deputed to have the honor of addressing you on the occasion.

The Managers beg leave, most respectfully, to offer you their most grateful acknowledgements for your kind attention to their exertions during the season, with the assurance of their future efforts to ensure a continuance of your patronage.

On behalf of the Company, as well as of myself, Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to return you our most heartfelt thanks, for the uniform applause and encouragement you have bestowed on our professional labours; and at the same time to assure you, that our greatest pride will ever be to be found deserving of it.

In the name of the Managers, the Performers, and myself, Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me respectfully to say-Farewell.

MR. SALTER, who spends the summer season in Birmingham, returns at the next regular opening of the Theatre.

The amount of the Benefits as quoted by our contemporaries, being erroneous, we lay a correct statement before the public.—

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introductory observations on the combustion of fuel; on the contrivances for burning smoke; and other subjects connected with the economy and distribution of heat. With numerous explanatory engravings.

The Natural History of Meteonites, or of those remarkable masses of iron and of earthy and metallic compounds, which at different periods have fallen from the atmosphere, is in the press, from the pen of Mr. Brayley, junior.

Miss Aikin is preparing for publication Memoirs of her Father, with Original Essays and Miscellaneous Pieces, by the late Dr. Aikin.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

S. X. will find that both our compositor and reader were attentive to their copy.-In quoting from the ALBUM, particularity would be fastidiousness, and criticism not only supererogatory, but homeromastically preposterous.-Has Boswell ever yet been considered as an authority in orthography—if not, we see no reason why Tim Bobbin should not as well be contrasted with our great lexicographer-Johnson?

A Subscriber's first query cannot be replied to satisfactorily, as Johannes' two communications might have been mislaid and overlooked.-We will thank him to favour as with copies, which shall have immediate attention. Ignoto's queries are inserted in our present number. In reply to the note of M. R. we have only to say, that we should have much pleasure to insert a good translation of a few of Pascal's admirable Provincial Letters.-We have read the two English translations which our correspondent has alluded to; and we concur with him in opinion, that neither of them gives a correct idea of the point and spirit of the original.-We know of no French classical work which better deserves to be well translated.

Amicus is requested to favour us with the paper alluded to. Tyro would do well to cast off the mask, and show himself in

those better proportious which are so awkwardly concealed; we wish to hear from him in a different style.

R. O. shall not slip through unnoticed;-he is not one of that class, upon which we should merely drop a few words by way of chastisement-we are more inclined to encourage than to animadvert-and, although the subject is somewhat out of our province, we cannot but recommend a judicions prosecution of its leading features.-It will do credit to its author.

L. M.; J. O. G.; Veritas; R.; and Osmond, are received.

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