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by dropping from a very heavenly to a very earthly picture, though it be one still suspended in the air. It is that of the gallant footman in one of Steele's comedies, making love to the maid-servant, while they are both occupied in cleaning the windows of their master's house. He does not make love as his honesthearted brother Dodsley would have done (who from a footman became a man of letters); still less in the style of his illustrious brother Rousseau (for he too was once a footman); though there is one passage in the incident, which the ultra-sensitive lackey of the "Confessions," (who afterwards shook the earth with the very strength of his weakness) would have turned to fine sentimental account. The language also is a little too good even for a fine gentleman's gentleman; but the "exquisite" airs the fellow gives himself, are not so much beyond the reach of brisk footman-imitation, as not to have an essence of truth in them, pleasantly shewing the natural likeness between fops of all conditions; and they are as happily responded to by those of the lady. The combination of the unsophisticate picture at the close of the extract, with the languishing comment made upon it, is extremely ludicrous.

Enter Tom, meeting PHILLIS.

Tom. Well, Phillis!-What! with a face as if you had never seen me before ?-What a work have I to do now! She has seen some new visitant at their house whose airs she has catched, and is resolved to practise them upon me. Numberless are the changes she'll dance through before she'll answer this plain question, videlicit, Have you delivered my master's letter to your lady? Nay, I know her too well to ask an account of it in an ordinary way; I'll be in my airs as well as she. (Aside). Well, madam, as unhappy as you are at present pleased to make me, I would not in the general be any other than what I am; I would not be a bit wiser, a bit richer, a bit taller, a bit shorter, than I am at this instant. (Looking stedfastly at her).

Phil. Did ever any body doubt, Master Thomas, that you were extremely satisfied with your sweet self? Tom. I am indeed. The thing I have least reason to be satisfied with is my fortune, and I am glad of my poverty; perhaps, if I were rich, I should overlook the finest woman in the world, that wants nothing but riches to be thought so.

Phil. How prettily was that said! But I'll have a great deal more before I say one word. (Aside). Tom. I should perhaps have been stupidly above her had I not been her equal, and by not being her equal never had an opportunity of being her slave. I am my master's servant from hire,-I am my mistress's servant from choice, would she but approve my passion.

Phil. I think it is the first time I ever heard you speak of it with any sense of anguish, if you really suffer

any.

Tom. Ah, Phillis! can you doubt after what you have seen.

Phil. I know not what I have seen, nor what I have heard but since I am at leisure, you may tell me when you fell in love with me, how you fell in love with me, and what you have suffered, or are ready to suffer, for

me.

Tom. Oh the unmerciful jade! when I am in haste about my master's letter:-But I must go through it (aside). Ah! Too well I remember when, and on what occasion, and how I was first surprised. It was on the First of April one thousand seven hundred and fifteen I came into Mr. Sealand's service; I was then a little hobble-de-hoy, and you a little tight girl, a favourite handmaid of the house keeper. At that time we neither one of us knew what was in us. I remember I was ordered to get out of the window, one pair of stairs, to rub the sashes clean--the person employed on the inner side was your charming self, whom I had never seen before.

Phil. I think I remember the silly accident. What made you, you oaf, ready to fall down into the street?

Tom. You know not, I warrant you; you could not guess what surprised me-you took no delight when you immediately grew wanton in your conquest, and put your lips close and breathed upon the glass, and when my lips approached, a dirty cloth you rubbed against my face, and hid your beauteous form; when I again drew near, you spit and rubbed, and smiled at my undoing.

THE WEEK.

here give a specimen of their prototype, who has just
re-appeared with some congenial additions and elegant
designs; and shall annex to it with a sample or two of
his more poetical and lively followers. We regret that
we have not some more of them by us, that the reader
may see how luxuriantly the good seed sown by Dr.
Aikin has flourished. We have our own Calendar of
Nature by us; but its account of the month of August is
not a "favourable specimen," as the Reviewers say; so
we beg leave to withhold it. And if it were, the reader
might accuse us of immodesty in putting it cheek by
jowl with its handsome kindred. Mr. Howitt's is very
good, and requires any thing but an apology, though it
is but an extract from his month, and not the whole of
it, as in the Doctor's instance. The excellence of Mr.
Clarke's descriptions was seen by our readers the other
day in his account of the Rain-Storm. We have here
made him contribute to our variety, by relating a
harvest-joke; which, by the way, like most of the very
best of caricature jokes, has all the air of being a
matter of fact.

GENERAL ACCOUNT OF THE MONTH.

(From Dr. Atkin's Calendar of Nature.) August-so called in compliment to the celebrated Roman emperor Augustus; and by the Anglo-Saxons Arn-monat intimating that this was the month for filling the barns with the products of the land. Arn is the Saxon word for harvest.

In the beginning of this month, the weather is still hot, and usually calm and fair. What remained to be perfected by the powerful influence of the sun, is daily advancing to maturity. The farmer now sees the principal object of his culture, and the chief source of his riches, waiting only for the hand of the gatherer. Of the several kinds of grain, rye and oats are usually the first ripened; but this varies according to the time of sowing; and some of every species may be seen fit for cutting at the same time.

Every fair day is now of great importance; since,
when the corn is once ripe, it is liable to continual
damage while standing, either from the shedding of the
seeds, from the depredations of birds or from storms.
The utmost diligence is therefore used by the careful
husbandman to get it in, and labourers are hired from
all quarters to hasten and complete the work.

Poured from the villages, a numerous train
Now spreads o'er all the fields. In formed array
The reapers move, nor shrink for heat or toil,
By emulation urged. Others, dispersed,
Or bind in sheaves, or load, or guide the wain,
That tinkles as it passes. Far behind,
Old age and infancy, with careful hand,
Pick up each straggling ear.

This pleasing harvest-scene is beheld in its perfection
only in the open-field countries, where the sight can
take in at once an uninterrupted extent of land waving
with corn, and a multitude of people engaged in the
various parts of the labour. It is a prospect equally
delightful to the eye and the heart, and which ought to
inspire every sentiment of benevolence to our fellow-
creatures, and gratitude to our Creator.

Be not too narrow, husbandman! but fling
From the full sheaf, with charitable stealth,
The liberal handful. Think, oh! grateful, think
How good the God of harvest is to you;

Who pours abundance o'er your flowing fields.
In a late season, or where favourable opportunities of
getting in the harvest have been neglected, the corn on
the ground often suffers from heavy storms of wind and
rain. It is beaten to the earth; the seeds are shed, or
rotted by the moisture; or, if the weather continues
warm, the corn grows, that is, the seeds begin to germi-
nate and put out shoots. Grain in this state is sweet
and moist: it soon spoils on keeping; and bread made
from it is clammy and unwholesome.

Harvest concludes with the field peas and beans,
which are suffered to become quite dry and haid before
they are cut down. The blackness of the bean-pods.
and stalks is disagreeable to the eye, though the crop
is valuable to the farmer. In these countries they are
used as food for cattle only, as the nourishment they
afford, though strong, is gross and heavy.

The rural festival of harvest-home is an extremely natural one, and has been observed in almost all ages and countries. What can more gladden the heart than to see the long expected products of the year, which have been the cause of so much care and anxiety, now

From Wednesday the 20th to Tuesday the 26th August. safely housed, and beyond the reach of injury?

SUCCESSIVE WRITERS ON THE MONTHS.

THE sight of an old acquaintance in improved condition, after a long lapse of time, is doubly pleasant. Dr. Aikin's Calendar of Nature, published originally perhaps about forty years back, once set us upon writing a similar book, with the addition of what we conceived to be a little more poetry,-a greater sense of enjoyment. Our attempt was followed by a variety of the like publications, all adding beauty and luxuriance as they went, cropping fresh flowers and noticing new objects. We

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ness.

The jovial harvest-supper cheers his heart, and prepares him to begin, without murmuring, the labours of another year. About the middle of this month, the catkins of the hazel-nut make their appearance; these contain the male-blossoms, and by being born thus early acquire a firmness that enables them to resist the severity of the ensuing winter.

This month is the season for another kind of harvest in some parts of England, which is the hop-picking. The hop is a climing plant, sometimes growing wild in hedges, and cultivated on account of its use in making malt-liquors. They are planted in regular rows, and poles set for them to run upon. When the poles are covered to the top, nothing can make a more elegantly appearance than one of these hop-gardens. At the time of gathering, the poles are taken up with the hops clinging to them, and the scaly flowering heads, which is the part used, are carefully picked off. These possess a finely flavoured bitter, which they readily impart to hot water. They improve the taste of beer, and make it keep better. Kent, Sussex, and Worcester, are the counties most famous for the growth of hops.

The number of plants in flower is now very sensibly diminished. Those of the former months are running fast to seed; and few new ones succeed. The uncultivated heaths and commons are now, however, in their chief beauty, from the flowers of the different kinds of heath or ling with which they are covered, so as to spread a rich purple hue over the whole ground: meadow-saffron, and Canterbury-hells are in flower. Many of the fern tribe now show the rusty-coloured dots on the back of the leaves, which are their parts of fructification. The leaves of the beech-tree now assume a yellow tinge.

Some of the choicest wall fruits are now coming into

season.

The sunny wall
Presents the downy peach, the shining plumb,
The ruddy, fragrant nectarine, and, dark
Beneath his ample leaf, the luscious fig.
About the middle of August the largest of the swallow
tribe, the swift or long-wing, disappears.

On their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand,
And wait for favouring winds to leave the land.
As there can yet be no want of insect food, moths abound
in profusion at this time: the alderman and painted lady
butterflies are constantly on the wing, and the weather
is still warm-they cannot be supposed to retire to holes
or caverns, and become torpid for the winter, and as they
are so admirably formed for flight, it can scarce be
doubted that they now migrate to some distant country.
The wry-neck also departs, and the turtle dove. Starlings
congregate about this time. Nearly at the same time,
rooks no longer pass the nights from home, but roost in
their nest trees.

The red-breast one of our finest though commonest songsters, renews his music about the end of the month. The young ones, that are now full grown, give us a presage of their future familiarity with us, by hopping near garden. No bird shews so little fear of man as this, us, and as it were observing us, among the shrubs in the even when not pressed by hunger; and its confidence is rarely abused.

The bird whom man loves best,

The pious bird with the scarlet breast,
Our little English robin!

The bird that comes about our doors,
When autumn winds are sobbing.

CORN-HARVEST.

(From Mr. Howitt's Book of the Seasons.) The grand feature of this month is CORN-HARVEST. It is a time for universal gladness of heart. Nature has completed her most important operations. She has ripened her best fruits, and a thousand hands are ready. to reap her with joy. It is a gladdening sight to stand upon some eminence and behold the yellow hues of harvest amid the dark relief of hedges and trees, to see the shocks standing thickly in a land of peace, the partly reaped fields-and the clear, cloudless sky, shedding over all its lustre. There is a solemn splendour, a mellowness and maturity of beauty thrown over the landscape. The wheat crops shine on the hills and slopes, as Wordsworth expresses it, like golden shields cast down from the sun." For the lovers of solitary. rambles, for all who desire to feel the pleasures of a thankful heart, and to participate in the happiness of the simple and the lowly, now is the time to stroll abroad. They will find beauty and enjoyment spread abundantly before them. They will find the mowers sweeping down the crops of pale barley, every spiked ear of which so lately looking up bravely at the sun, is now bent downward in a modest and graceful curve, as if abashed at its ardent and incessant gaze. They will find them cutting down the rustling oats, each followed by an attendant rustic who gathers the swath into sheaves from the tender green of the young clover, which, commonly sown with oats, to constitute the future crop, is now shewing itself luxuriantly. But it is in the wheat field that all the jollity, and gladness, and picturesqueness of harvest are concentrated. Wheat is more particularly the food of man. Barley affords him a wholesome, but much abused potation; the oat is welcome to the homely board of the hardy mountaineers; but wheat is especially, and every where, the staff of life.' To reap and gather it in every creature of the hamlet is assembled. The farmer is in the field, like a rural king amid his people— the labourer, old or young, is there to collect what he

has sown with toil, and watched in its growth with pride; the dame has left her wheel and her shady cottage, and with sleeve-defended arms, scorns to do less than the best of them:-the blooming damsel is there, adding her sunny beauty to that of universal nature; the boy cuts down the stalks which overtop his head; children glean amongst the shocks; and even the unwalkable infant, sits propt with sheaves, and plays with the stubble, and With all its twined flowers.

Such groups are often seen in the wheatfield as deserve the immortality of the pencil. There is something too about wheat harvest, which carries back the mind and feasts it with the pleasures of antiquity. The sickle is almost the only implement which has descended from the olden times in its pristine simplicity-to the present hour neither altering its form, nor becoming obsolete amid all the fashions and improvements of the world. It is the same now as it was in those scenes of rural beauty, which the scripture history, without any laboured description, often by a simple stroke, presents so livingly to the imagination: as it was when tender thoughts passed

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

when the minstrel king wandered through the solitudes of Paran, or fields reposing at the feet of Carmel; or 'as it fell on a day that the child of the good Shunamite went out to his father to the reapers. And he said unto his father, My head, my head! And he said to a lad, Carry him to his mother. And when he had taken him, and brought him to his mother, he sate on her knees till noon, and then died.' 2 Kings, c. iv. 18-20.

Let no one say it is not a season of happiness to the toiling peasantry; I know that it is. In the days of boyhood I have partaken their harvest labours, and listened to the overflowings of their hearts as they sate amid the sheaves beneath the fine blue sky, or among the rich herbage of some green headland beneath the shade of a tree, while the cool keg plentifully replenished the horn, and sweet after exertion were the contents of the harvest field basket. I know that the poor harvesters are among the most thankful contemplators of the bounty of Providence, though so little of it falls to their share. To them harvest comes as an annual festivity. To their healthful frames, the heat of the open fields, which would oppress the languid and relaxed, is but an exhilarating and pleasant glow. The inspiration of the clear sky above, and the scenes of plenty around them, and the very circumstance of their being drawn from their several dwellings at this bright season, open their hearts and give a life to their memories; and many an anecdote and history from the simple annals of the poor are there related, which need only to pass through the mind of a Wordsworth or a Crabbe, to become immortal in their mirth or woe.

GENUINE CLOWNISH REGRET,

Or the Relics of the Pudding going away. (From Mr. Clarke's Adam the Gardener.) After passing the afternoon in the wheat field, the children amusing themselves with catching and examining the most curious butterflies and other insects that came under their notice, the whole party, harvestmen and all, when the last load of corn had been ricked, sat down to a famous old English supper, of beef, pudding, and home-brewed ale, that had been prepared for them in the barn. What a pleasure it was to see the tired, hungry, and red-faced labourers pegging away at their hunks of meat and brown bread! And how they laughed and quizzed each other!-One of the party, a long, bony old fellow, who had pitched many a sheaf from the cart to the rick, and who had eaten enough to choke a wolf, particularly excited the merriment of his comrades. Why, Jem,' said one, you pick your morsels loike a fine laady!-your stomich seems delicate to-day.' 'Oh! he's finikin,' said another; because he's invited out to supper. He wouldn't be so ongen-teel as to eat in our common way loike !' "It's quite pleasant to see him so perlite,' said a third. And how daintily he sips his liquor!-like a sparrow.' 'You shouldn't wipe your mouth with the back o'your hand afore coompany, Jem!' 'Where's your thing-umbob-your napkin?' I say-old fellow-you'll never be able to do a day's work if you play at knife and fork in that 'ere dandy way;-why, you'll never keep life and soul together. See there!-there's a little bit to put into a gentleman's mouth !-it aint so big as my fist.' The only answer Jem made to their jibes, (for he was too busy to talk much), were, I'll tell you what, young chaps eat as I may, I know you'd rather keep me a week than a fortnight. I don't get such a supper as this seven days in the week; and it's my maxim to make hay while the sun shines! As they were clearing the board of the provisions, a blubberly young lad at the further end, who had sate for some time quite silent, and with his mouth wide open, suddenly burst into tears. 'Hal-lo! what's the matter with you, Giles? My naame aint Giles-its Jowley-mother calls me Jowley for shortness!''Well, Jowley, what are you howling arter?'-'Why-why,' said he, sobbing, 'aint it enough to make any one roar to see all that nice pudding going away, and I can't eat no more?'

ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE.

XXX-A PERSEVERING IMPOStor.

WE had doubts whether the following story from an old magazine had "dignity" enough for our Romances of Real Life! But a falshood, however shabby, persevered in through the very solemnities of a death-bed, and investing itself with imaginary glories as it sets, even of name and estate, acquires a sort of astounding importance, however mixed with the trivial and absurd. poor wretch, who thus strangely died, had at least something of an imagination, and he could not bear to part with the flatteries of it, even in the shape of the greater simpleton whom he had deceived.

The

A good likely sort of man, that had been many years footman to Mr. Wickham, a rich gentleman at Banbury, in Oxfordshire, came to London, aud took lodging at a bakehouse, over against Arundel Street in the Strand. The baker being asked by his lodger what countryman he was, replied, "that he was of Banbury;" the other mighty glad to meet with his countryman, was wonderfully fond of the baker; adding, "that since he was of Banbury he must needs know Mr. Wickham, or have heard his name." The baker who, indeed, was very well acquainted with that gentleman's family, though he had been absent from Banbury fifteen or twenty years, was very glad to hear news of it, but was perfectly overjoyed when he heard that the man he was talking with was Mr. Wickham himself. This produces great respect on the side of the baker, and new testimonies of friendship from the sham Wickham. The family must be called up that Mr. Wickham might see them; and they must drink a glass together to their friends at Banbury, and take a pipe. The baker did not in the least doubt his having got Mr. Wickham for his lodger; but yet he could not help wondering that he should see neither footman nor portmantle. He therefore made bold to ask him, "how a man of his estate came to be unattended?" The pretended Wickham, making a sign to him to speak softly, told him, "that his servants were in a place where he could easily find them when he wanted them, but that at present he must be very careful of being known, because he came up to town to arrest a merchant of London who owed him a great sum of money and was going to break. That he desired to be incognito for fear he should miss his stroke, and so he begged he would never mention his name. The next day Mr. Wickham went abroad to take his measures with a comrade of his own stamp, about playing their parts in concert. It was concluded between them, that this latter should go for Mr. Wickham's servant, and come privately from time to time to see his master, and attend upon him. That very night the servant came, and Mr. Wickham, looking at his own dirty neckcloth in the glass, was in a great rage with him for letting him be without money, linen, or any other conveniences, by his negligence, in not carrying his box to the waggon in due time, which would cause a delay of three days. This was said aloud while the baker was in the next room, on purpose that he might hear it. This poor deluded man hereupon runs immediately to his drawers, carries Mr. Wickham the best linen he had in the house, begged him to honour him so much as to wear it, and at the same time lays down fifty guineas upon his table that he might do him the favour to accept them also. Wickham at first refused them, but with much ado was prevailed upon. As soon as he had got this money, he made up a livery of the same colour as the true Mr. Wickham's, gave it to another pretended footman, and brought a box full of goods as coming from the Banbury waggon. The baker more satisfied than ever that he had to do with Mr. Wickham, and consequently with the one of the richest and noblest men in the kingdom, made it more and more his business to give him fresh marks of his profound respect and zealous affection. To be short, Wickham made a shift to get of him a hundred and fifty guineas, besides the first fifty, for all which he gave him his note. Three weeks after the beginning of this adventure, as the rogue was at a tavern, he was seized with a violent headache, with a burning fever, and great pains in all parts of his body. As soon as he found himself ill he went home to his lodging to bed, where he was waited upon by one of his pretended footmen, and assisted in everything by the good baker, who advanced whatever money was wanted, and passed his word to the doctors, apothecaries, and everybody else. Meanwhile, Wickham grew worse and worse, and about the fifth day was given over. The baker, grieved to the heart at the melancholy condition of his noble friend, thought himself bound to tell him, though with much regret, what the doctors thought of him. Wickham received the news as calmly as if he had been the best Christian in the world, and fully prepared for death. He desired a minister might be sent for, and received the communion the same day. Never was more resignation to the will of God, never more piety, more zeal, or more confidence in the merits of Christ. Next day the distemper and the danger encreasing very much, the impostor told the baker that it was not enough to have taken care of his soul, he ought also to set his worldly affairs in order; and desired that he might make his will while he was yet sound in mind. A scrivener was therefore immediately sent for, and his will made and signed in all the forms before several witnesses. Wickham by this disposed of all his estate, real and personal, jewels,

coaches, teams, race-horses of such and such colours, packs of hounds, ready money, &c., and a house with all appurtenances and dependencies, to the baker; almost all his linen to the wife; five hundred guineas to their eldest son; eight hundred guineas to the four daughters; two hundred to the parson that had comforted him in his sickness; two hundred to each of the doctors; and one hundred to the apothecary; fifty guineas and mourning to each of his footmen, fifty to embalm him, fifty for his coffin, two hundred to hang the house with mourning, and to defray the rest of the charges, of his interment, A hundred guineas for gloves, hat bands, scarfs, and gold rings; such a diamond to such a friend, and such an emerald to t'other. Nothing more noble, nothing more generous. This done, Wickham called the baker to him, loaded him and his whole family with benedictions, and told him, that immediately after his decease he had nothing to do but to go to the lawyer mentioned in his will, who was acquainted with all his affairs, and would give him full instructions how to proceed, Presently after this, my gentleman falls into convulsions and dies. The baker, at first, thought of nothing but burying him with all the pomp imaginable, according to the will. He hung all the rooms in his house, the stair-case, and the entry with mourning. He gave orders for making the rings, clothes, coffin, &c. He sent for the embalmer. In a word, he omitted nothing that was ordered by the deceased to be done. Wickham was not to be interred till the fourth day after his death, and everything was got ready by the second. The baker having got this hurry off his hands, had now time to look for the lawyer before he laid him in the ground. After having put the body into a rich coffin covered with velvet and plates of silver, and settled everything else; he began to consider that it would not be improper to reimburse himself as soon as possible, and to take possession of this new estate. He therefore went and communicated this whole affair to the lawyer. This gentleman was indeed acquainted with the true Mr. Wickham, had all his papers in his hands, and often received letters from him. He was strangely surprised to hear of the sickness and death of Mr. Wickham, from whom he had heard the very day before; and we may easily imagine the poor baker was much more surprised, when he found that in all likelihood he was bit. 'Tis not hard to conceive the discourse that passed between these two. To conclude, the baker was thoroughly convinced by several circumstances, too tedious to relate here, that the true Mr. Wickham was in perfect health; and that the man he took for him was the greatest villain and most complete hypocrite that ever lived. Upon this he immediately turned the rogue's body out of the rich coffin, which he sold for a third part of what it cost him. All the tradesmen that had been employed towards the burial had compassion on the baker, and took their things again, though not without some loss to him. They dug a hole in a corner of St. Clement's Churchyard, where they threw in his body with as little ceremony as possible. I was an eye-witness of most of the things which I have here related, and shall leave the reader to make his own reflexions upon them. I have been assured, from several hands, that the baker has since had his loss pretty weil made up to him by the generosity of the true Mr. Wickham, for whose sake the honest man had been so open-hearted.

A PAGE FOR A NOVEL OUT OF REAL LIFE.

(For the London Journal.)

AFTER many years' separation, it is a great pleasure to meet, unexpectedly, with early acquaintances-to find those we thought dead to the world, or slumbering in our remembrance break upon our presence, like the April sun, once again in all their bloom of beaty, aided by the indiscribable charm of manner which education and the polish of refined society alone can give.

In meeting with Marcella, all former days and hours of happiness rushed to my imagination with renewed affection, when I found her, though improved in person, imposing in appearance, and more dignified in deportment, yet in manner to me still unchanged, rejoiced at the discovery, and that we breathed the same air once more. With a joyful heart I hastened to fulfil my promise to dine with her; so, having dressed myself, like a true patriot for the manufacture of my country, in the greenest of green tabinet-the whitest of Limerick gloves-Balbriggan stockings-Kerry kid shoes-a Londonderry lace tucker, fastened with three Irish diamonds, in the form of a shamrock-a Cork-made reticule, composed of cord, in which was a Belfast cambric pocket handkerchief, I was set down, precisely at four o'clock, at the mansion of Alfred Burgoyne, Esq. M. P., Merrion-square. This was a very early hour; few families dine till seven; but I hoped at least to have two hours' conversation with Marcella. She was dressing, so not choosing to encounter a host of strangers, who might arrive one after another, by waiting in the drawing-room, and as I saw one of the children peeping out of the study door, I preferred waiting there until Marcella descended. On entering, the governess, a middle-aged French lady, whom the servant addressed as Madame Perrier, introduced her pupils severallyGustavus Adolphus-Reginald-Oliver-Sylvia-and Pauline-all cailed after renowned people in war, wit, or wisdom; the eldest ten years of age, the youngest boy, as he said, "going of theven;" the two younger

girls passive little slaves to their brothers; and certainly no house could be dull with such a variety of noises, tones, and tempers. I had hardly been seated five minutes, when they broke through their shyness, and commenced a game at romps. Gustavus had transposed my swansdown boa into a bridle; Adolphus purloined my comb, while Reginald made a seizure of, and was exploring my reticule. In order to regain my stolen property, I began to remove the numerous books, dolls, toys, &c., with which their sisters had filled my lap, when the rebellious Master Oliver climbed on the back of my chair, and mounted himself on my shoulders; nor would he get down, until I had raced three times round the room with him. Madame scolded, I entreated, it was of no use, and as I had brought on the mischief by caressing them at first, I thought it best to comply to the delight of the urchin. I had nearly performed the third heat round the room, when the door opened, and a young cornet of dragoons entered. "Uncle, uncle!" all exclaimed. Bowing to me, he turned to Madame with this request,-" Permit me to make this a refuge for the destitute ?" "Certainly," replied Madame, "but what is your distress?" Why to tell you the truth, my sister is going to have some blue-stocking people here to dine, and as I hate blue belles, as intolerable blue-bores in society, I cannot tolerate their presence. So with your leave, I will make this my head-quarters, until dinner is announced."

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I The children now deserted me for their uncle, and I began to wonder what literary ladies Marcella had invited to meet me, when herself and family were all I wished to see. I thought of all the lady lionesses of literature I could in Dublin Lady Morgan, Lady Clarke, and many others; when Madame asked the martial man why he objected to them, and what reason he had to dislike learned women. "I do not like your pen and ink women," replied he. "This is some strange one my sister has caught, coming to-day. I have never seen her, but can well fancy what she will be like. I dare say she's a tall scarecrow of a Gorgon, with jet black hair, and ferocious black eyes, arrayed in rusty black velvet, preaching with the lungs of a Stentor in blank verse, and walking with a tragedy step-unmarried, save to the muses-I would not sit near her for the world; and," added he, with a wise shake of his empty head, "I would advise you, madame, to mind your p's and q's, or she will write you down."

I was a silent listener, and thought with Dogberry, what I could write him down :-" Shall quibs and sentences, and these paper bullets of the brain, awe a man from the career of his humour ?" It would have been wasting words to talk to such a popinjay, for thus speaking of his sister's guests; yet I could not help saying, that I thought he had caricatured a clever woman. "Pon honour," said he, "they are all abominable horrors." He was still indulging in this absurdity, when Marcella entered the study. She welcomed me kindly, saying, 'My dear Emily, why did you not come up to me?" And turning to her husband's brother, said, "Allow me to introduce my earliest friend, one whom you have heard me often speak of." The cornet bowed-stammered-coloured-hesitated-and

66

seemed in a very awkard predicament. "What is the matter?" asked Mrs. Burgoyne. " Captain Burgoyne is afraid to meet your blue-stocking visitors," replied Madame. "A soldier, and afraid!" said Marcella. "Well, Emily," continued she, "now your laurels are complete; you have appalled the victor-for it is to you and your pen and ink amusement, which have been so long known to me, I allude-you are the blue-belle at whom by brother is so terrified; not that I think there is any thing very ferocious in your appearance." "Why, no," I observed, "though fond of my pen, I am not tall enough for a scarecrow of a Gorgon,' have neither 'black eyes or hair,' nor wear rusty black velvet,' 'preach with the lungs of a Stentor in blank verse,' nor walk with a tragedy step." "For heaven's sake," cried the dragoon, "spare me! and I will henceforth become a convert to rationality, provided you will forgive me, and allow me to lead you to dinner." This effected a change in his opinions, and no one could be more agreeable, now that his prejudices were removed.

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Marcella, with all the pride of an affectionate wife, introduced me to her dear Alfred, one of nature's own noblemen a scholar, and a gentleman, combining every qualification in mind and manner, to give true dignity to a very handsome person. He kindly received me; complimented me on my good taste in encouraging the manufacture of his unfortunate country in my suit of green; condemned all French fashions; and on the arrival of other friends, he joined the six little representatives of the house of Burgoyne, in the dance and song, until a late hour. Thus I had the happiness to see my earliest friend, Marcella, as happy as I ever wished her to be, and she as deserving of all the blessings she possessed. Dublin.

Emily D

-n.

ANTHONY'S SPEECH OVER CÆSAR. (For the London Journal.)

APOLLO, having completed the business of the day, retired to rest, leaving his royal consort with her twinkling attendants, to "rule the night." At this time, all nature seemed as still and as silent as if she held in her breath, for fear of disturbing the sleep of her children. Every thing betokened tranquility and repose,-and therefore, taking leave of care for a period, I gradually,

and insensibly, fell into a state of unconsciousness;
little anticipating the Aeronautic Romance I was about
to enjoy. Soon however, I experienced the most in-
describable sensations,-for I felt as a new creature in
a new world. My soul was suddenly seized by two
gens'd'armes belonging to good Queen Mab, and
thrust into a nutshell carriage, drawn by six most su-
perbly caparisoned grasshoppers. Off I dashed through
the heavens, with a velocity the winds might envy ;-
clouds sank beneath in fleecy clusters, the terrestial
atmosphere looked from above, like a mantle of glass
just flung around the green earth to keep her from
cold,-planets, stars, and systems disappeared behind
in rapid succession, - - comets flitted and glimmered
around like playthings in invisible hands, and the
milky-way appeared at a distance, like a mighty
streamer of gauze unfurled to the boundless blue. By
some incomprehensible apotheosis, the totality of ex-
istence, seemed to be personified, and vivified with the
fire and brilliancy of poetry-breathing forth a grandeur,
beauty and glory; soothing, thrilling, ravishing, and
harrowing up the passions into such a pitch of inten-
sity, that the soul, but language fails me, for I was
completely overwhelmed by a whirlwind rush of splen-
dours, as the wheels of my chariot, and the hoofs of my
tiny steeds, clattered on the emerald pavement of the
grand emphyrean itself!

My reader must now take a ride on his Pegasus
over many weeks and months,-until at length, he can
fancy my being introduced by Minerva into the sanctum
sanctorum of the heathen mythology; where, after a
thousand preliminaries and preparatives, I received
from her hand three favorite instruments, by which I
was invested with an omnipotence over the worlds of
thought, and of feeling. Mortals," said the goddess,
"have no appropriate names for such articles,-so for
want of better, let them be called the critical microscope,
telescope, and kaleidoscope."

66

Enraptured with the boons so graciously conferred
I panted to bring them into immediate operation. Hav-
ing the fullest confidence in their wondrous virtue, I
scorned to apply them to an examination of mere me-
diocrity, and therefore resolved to begin, by levelling
the instruments divine, at what the most competent
judges have often pronounced to be the first and finest
specimen of human eloquence-namely, "The Speech
of Anthony over the dead body of Cæsar." This, I now
found to be glowing and burning with a living glory,
which I though always a most devoted admirer of
Shakespear-had never before been able to appreciate :
and I was hurried along into such an intensity of de-
light, by fresher and brighter discoveries of its excel-
lence every successive moment, that at length I pos-
sitively shrieked aloud, in something like an agony of
ecstacy!

But alas! alas! as easily could the sun be plucked
from the heavens, and transferred to the canvass-as
could those beatific and spiritual disclosures be ade-
quately represented upon paper. Yet, I would fain do
my best to give my reader a shadowy outline, of what
I then and there saw, and thought, and felt: premising,
however, that I can describe only successively what took
place simultaneously-and that my sluggish pen can
only crawl tardily and circuitously, while the realities
flashed full and at once upon my soul.

Allow me then to begin with the "microscopic" view of the inward workings of his mind, while the orator was addressing the assembled multitude. The object of Anthony was evidently to avenge the death of Cæsar, and to succeed him in his real though not nominal dominion over Rome: yet how that could be effected under the existing state of things, he felt to be a problem of the most exquisite complexity. He saw very clearly that the senate and the people were marshalled in direct opposition to his purposes, and that Brutus had obtained for himself almost universal respect and sympathy. Nothing therefore could be done before the most inveterate prejudices were eradicated, and the affections of the populace transferred to the opposite party. And hence the following play of thought and feeling which I observed in the spirit of Anthony as he slowly ascended the rostrum.

"Mankind are always envious of their superiors; they love those only between whom and themselves there is a community of sentiment and of interest. If therefore I assume an Egalitè with the audience, I may secure a reciprocation of their friendship. This must act upon them in two ways; it will indicate an attractive humility, by shewing that in my own estimation, I am but as one of themselves, having no object distinct from theirs, and having no wish to be separated from them; and, secondly, it will raise them in their own opinion, and thereby most effectually flatter their vanity. Such is the avidity with which the human mind snatches at every thing grateful to its pride, that I am persuaded, my hearers will not be so ready to think, that Anthony is a much less important personage than they had supposed, as that Anthony's philanthropy has invested them with a new and most unexpected importance. I shall therefore at once intimate that we are all on a social equality; and as this better accords with their feelings, they are much more likely to believe each of themselves to be an Anthony, than that the great Anthony has sunk to a level with them. Thus shall I make them fancy they have power,-fire them with an ambition to exert that power in some way or other; and gradually insiuuating myself into their confidence and esteem, I shall obtain a sovereign control over their passions." After this soliloquy Anthony stooped to conquer the mob by calling them "Friends!"

But the possession of their sympathies was intended merely as a preparatory measure. He did not aim at absolutely smothering their passions, but rather at blending their subserviency to some ulterior, but as yet, undiscovered purpose. Indeed, the more violent they might be, the better for him, provided they could be properly managed or directed. Accordingly, he thus reasoned within himself on the subject.-" Having happily succeeded to insinuate myself insensibly into their goodwill, I must next endeavour to kindle their rage, without neutralizing the conciliative influence of the former apostrophe; the demon of vengeance should uncoil himself in their souls, and thereby give augury that a tempest is brooding. Associations of war and of bloodshed must be excited, and their wrath must burn; but against whom it is to be directed they must not be able to guess, or else they will steel their hearts to conviction, and as an inevitable consequence, frustrate all my wishes. All this will be done by allusions to the martial deeds of their ancestors. Visions of national glory and bravery will fit before their eyes with a shadowy and yet impressive splendour, as soon as I invoke the mighty name under which they conquered the world. Strike that note, and all the furies of their nature will yell in responsive echo."-Anthony judged correctly; for violent convulsions shook the multitude, and frowns and scowls thickened on their angry countenances, as soon as he uttered the magic appellation, "Romans!"

It

This word, however, far overstretched the matter. conveyed a great deal too much; as, in addition to the sanguinary desires it excited, it indirectly raised a tempest of associations that recoiled with tremendous violence on the memory of Cæsar. The very word "Romans," was pregnant with anathemas against kings and tyranny: the simple expression seemed to justify Brutus, in emulating the haughty patriotism of his ancestor, and to call upon the people to rally still more closely and thickly around his standard; yet it would be impolitic to discard it, as no other could so effectually fire their souls with the spirit of revenge. The only remedy, then, was to employ another term, which should in a measure contain the force of both the former, and at the same time cause them to lose their offensive qualities by merging them in greater vagueness or obscurity. A momentary confusion of their ideas would render them more manageable. Such an expedient would increase their confidence, and foment their rage, while it might allay, or at least turn aside, their aversion to that supremacy after which Cæsar but too evidently aspired. Here, however, our hero felt the greatest perplexity, as the reader may see from the following soliloquy:-"Having secured their sympathies by the word

Friends,' it will be prudent to drop, as soon as possible, every idea of Egalitè,-for after all they are to be my tools and not my companions. And having infuriated their passions by the other word, 'Romans,' it is necessary to draw off their attention from the fact of their being bound in honour and consistency, as Romans, to punish every infraction of the laws of the Republic, lest they should become incensed against me as a covert apologist of tyranny, and as a consequence tear me to pieces, and give thereby an additional triumph to the conspirators. Now, then, for a word which shall accomplish both these ends, and concentrate all their remaining feelings as into a focus: all may be done by calling them-Patriots.'"

The Orator, having gone so far, thought it desirable, if possible, to bring his audience into a more immediate alliance with Cæsar and himself. The last term was of a somewhat exclusive character,-overlooking every thing that was common to them all; and therefore foregoing the benefits that might accrue from a contagion of sympathy. Under this conviction, he looked for a term which might supply the place of "Patriots," and superadd the advantage of referring to an intimate relation that subsisted between them, and thereby wreathe their sympathies yet more closely around the memory of him whose death they were doomed speedily to avenge; and to his rapturous astonishment he found all he desired, embodied with a living fervid potency, in the comprehensive but expressive epithet," Countrymen." heightened their regard for the speaker, screwed up their passions still more furiously against something (though as yet they scarcely knew against what), and identified them so completely with Cæsar and Anthony, that every heart forcibly received, and still more forcibly emitted, the deadly contagion of sympathy and vengeance. Now then the apostrophe was complete. The first word soothed them into the temper of lambs;-the second incensed them into tygers about to spring on their prey; and the third mastering their passions, held them by the leash, like rabid bloodhounds thirsting to tear to picces the first object that might be presented to them!*

This

Friends! Romans!! Countrymen!!! The microscope was now passed on to the following sentence, when it gave me this singularly complex view of Anthony's thoughts. "There is a principle in man, which revolts

N. B. It is particularly requested, that the reader will apply a similar process of criticism to the first sentence in Brutus's speech on the same occasion. Without this, it were impossible to appreciate the excellencies of either. His words, like his desigu, are almost the exact converse of Anthony's, "Romans, Countrymen, and Lovers!" We are not, of course, to suppose that Shakspeare reasoned thus about every word, but nature, faithful nature, taught him all as by inspiration. It is said of Newton that he understood most of the theorems of Euclid by simply reading the enunciations, withont any of the drudgery of demonstration:-so here, likewise, onr poet could feel with the rapidity and force of intuition, what ought to be put in the mouths of his heroes, whatever might be their character or their circumstances.

from the idea of being a mere tool in the hands of another. Marks of study therefore are always detrimental to a speech, as they put the hearers on their guard, by seeming to betray a scheme for the subjugation of their minds: whereas in what they believe to be extemporaneous, they almost take for granted, that the speaker can have no aim, but what is expressed; and therefore, cheerfully follow his suggestions without any misgiving or suspicion. They are appalled by the thought of falling victims to a previously concerted plot; yet they willingly give up their independence when led to it insensibly. The appearance of design is often more afilicting than the disaster it effected; and even our horror of the brute force of the public robber is surpassed by our hatred of the deliberate intrigue and coldblooded villainy of the more than doubly perjured assassin, who is designing our ruin, while calling us "Friends." It is necessary for me, therefore, as soon as possible, to use a sentence apparently incompatible with much preparation; its carelessness must be evident enough for all to feel it, and yet, it must be so delicate as not to offend the taste of even the most scrupulous. I must not, however, introduce it parenthetically, or else the object will be detected and frustrated;-but rather, the next sentence, whatever it may be, must be expressed so chastely as not to shock the audience,-and at the same time so clumsily as to persuade them that I speak spontaneously and not "advisedly"

Having thus determined on the style, he had next to ascertain what ought to be the matter of the forthcoming words. He knew it necessary as soon as he could, formally to arrest the attention of his hearers, for as yet, they did not seem anxious for much speechification. So Anthony thus continued his soliloquy. "We are alway's more ready to grant, what is begged as a favour, than what is demanded as a right: the latter comes like a challenge to our pride, but the former, is an irresistible appeal to our sensibilities. Although therefore, justice gives me a claim to be heard, it is better in this case to ask it as mercy; for in denying the right their vanity might be gratified, but they cannot reject my prayer without doing positive violence to their own feelings. If however, I have recourse to the phraseology commonly employed on such occasions, they may regard it as a matter of course, and overlook the extraordinary earnestness and humility, with which I implore their attention. Consequently I must use an expression which shall be so new and strange as to strike their minds with a sense of its peculiarity; and then I doubt not they will cheerfully listen to me 'till my aim is accomplished."

*

*

*

66

But it was further necessary, as soon as possible, to insinuate something (but very indirectly) against Brutus, and begin very cautiously, gradually to incense the populace against him, before any one could be aware of it. For want of room I must omit a great part of Anthony's meditations on this point, and give merely the conclusion. In the next sentence I have to effect a triple purpose; I must lead the people to think that I speak extemporaneously.—I must so pander their passions as to secure a protracted attention; and I must aim an envenomed shaft against Brutus, that shall do its work noiselessly and imperceptibly. Hence therefore it must be clumsy, pointed and sarcastic: and all I trust may be done by the circuitous, novel, and hesitating words, Lend me your ears.'"

Let the reader examine this sentence a little more deeply, and see how admirably it answered Anthony's "triple purpose." It most effectually does away with all marks of study, inasmuch as it is the very extreme of ambiguity, and a living caricature on all perspicuity! A wit might exclaim-" Does he mean to tell us, he has no ears of his own? Does he mean that we are wrong in supposing he is going to keep them for ever, as he is going to borrow them only for a short time? What can he do with our ears, unless we give him our minds and our hearts as well? If he takes our ears, how shall we be able to listen to his speech? &c. &c. &c." Indeed this sentence, being susceptible of so many ludicrous interpretations, is on the very verge of the absurd-and I hesitate not to say, that, but one man ever visited our globe, who could so filter a blunder, as to render it the very quintescence of eloquence and poetry!

It forcibly arrested attention by its singularity. A phrase so anomalous, appeared to be the effect of some very extraordinary cause; and that cause the people fondly ascribed to Anthony's deep and pervading consciousness, that he had no right or claim to be heard, by such persons as themselves. The words fell upon their hearts, like the humble and earnest entreaties of a child upon his father; and they felt proud and delighted, to respond with a father's tenderness and love!

And again, it embodied a strong insinuation that the audience were prejudiced against the speaker, and in favour of Brutus. He did not seem even to hope they would become his partisans, for he merely begged of them for a moment to "lend" him their ears. And above all, the phrase was the very antipodes of what would be expected from the bold and intrepid Anthony; it seemed to betray a want of confidence, or a lurking suspicion of something, and it was in every respect so very "unstraight-forward," as proved the speaker to be clogged and cramped by external circumstances. And they, whose passions had already began to sway their judgment, would at once ascribe it to a dread of Brutus' influence, so they immediately gathered more closely around him, that they might hear every syllable of his words, and catch all the sympathy of his action. The dead silence of their movements, and the intenseness of their gaze upon Anthony, showed they found a satis

faction in yielding up to him all the feelings of their nature, and that their hearts were beginning to throb with a wish to defend him against the world!

The writer may be mistaken, but to the best of his belief, there is not, within the whole range of literature, ancient or modern, a solitary sentence, which exhibits a more profound acquaintance with human nature, or a more complete sovereignty over language. It is the focus of a thousand rays. But its mystic elements are so refined, its bearings so vast and numerous, and its point so exquisitely well edged, that I had never been able to see them till I looked through the critical microscope!

In this exordium, however, the idea of Anthony had been intimately associated with all the excited feelings. It was time, therefore, for him to glide out of the minds of the people, so as not to intrude upon or interfere with the working of their passions. This could be done only by presenting an object that would be attractive enough to transfer their sensibilities, and concentrate them all upon itself. The all-absorbing name of Cæsar would fully answer the purposes; utter that but once, and they will think no more of the orator.

The people had already begun to sympathise very intensely with Cæsar; but the object was to make them so to sympathise as that they might be impelled to avenge his death. Ordinary speakers would here probably expatiate on the amiableness or valour, &c., of their hero; but Anthony well knew that the most fervent admiration kindled by such a detail would be entirely desociated from vengeance. Delightful themes tranquillize the mind, and the contemplation of the virtues of an individual yields a sweet and peaceful serenity. On the other hand, terrible themes impart their own character to the mind, and fill it with terrible feelings, or fit it for terrible resolutions. Nothing, therefore, could have been more impolitic in this instance, than to cajole the hearers into that mild and tender sorrow which would be satisfied with merely shedding a few tears. Hence, he boldly aimed at the deeper and darker elements of their souls, feeling assured that if these could be but once thoroughly agitated and roused, they would engross or sway all their thoughts and passions. The people, he knew, were not yet prepared for undisguised anathemas against Brutus, and, therefore, with a matchless adroitness, he ventures only casually and indirectly to allude to the catastrophe at the capital.

"I come to bury Cæsar," suggested most vividly all the circumstances connected with his death. Once more they saw the brandishing of swords-once more they heard et tu Brute ?-once more they felt the sickening shudder which always accompanies the sight of bloodshed-and once more they saw all the murderers in full array before them, and their souls began to experience the direct throes of rancour and remorse.

"I come to bury Cæsar," opened to their minds a vista into a long, dark, and cheerless futurity. He who was once the idol of his country and the pride of their hearts, has been suddenly hurled from his joys and his glory, beyond the reach of their sympathy or praise. The flowers of a thousand springs might bloom, or the sunbeams of a thousand summers play o'er his grave, but all in vain for to him, they could afford no delight; or a thousand tears might be shed, or a thousand songs be hymned, but all in vain; for they could never touch his heart, or awake a smile on his countenance. Cæsar was now to be no more; and as the only available means of testifying their gratitude, they determined to exterminate his murderers from the face of the earth.

:

"I come to bury Casar" threw a meretricious glow over the whole transaction. That principle in man, which leads him to magnify the excellencies of departed friends, gave a mournful sanctity to all the imaginary virtues once possessed by their hero. With a hallowed reverence, they enthroned him for ever in their hearts; their memories recalled all his stupendous victories, with all the brilliancy and spendour of his "triumphs," and their heated imaginations working on their patriotism, affrighted them with the belief that all was now lost, and lost for ever; as Cæsar, whose prowess alone could maintain the sovereignty of Rome over the world, was now more powerless than any of themselves. Hence, there took place a temendous reaction in all their sensibilities and sympathies: recoiling from Brutus, they wreathed around his victim, and decked it with countless irresistible attractions. Immediately, therefore, the people felt as if they were children of Cæsar, bound by all that was sacred, to avenge his untimely death.

"I come to bury Cæsar" struck a chord which vibrated through every heart. It is not in man, to rail at the dead. The bitterest enemy relents on the grave of his foe; and the most cold-blooded duellist weeps over the victim of his malice, when he sees him bleeding at his feet: he then grieves for the loss of an abused friend; but still more does he grieve, that he should ever have hated and abused him; and as the only possible reparation for his savage ferocity, he vows to revere his memory, and perhaps to avenge his death. principle operated in this intimidated mob:-they raged against themselves for having at first felt any exultation over the death of Cæsar--and fancied that by vengeance alone, could they make a satisfactory atonement.

The same

66 I come to bury Cæsar" fell on the audience with the force of a thunderbolt, and scared their inmost souls with the thought, that by the hands of assassins, the brave, the polished, and the brilliant conqueror and orator, was no more than mangled clay :-a mere wreck of his former glorious "self." A damp and hateful and horrifying chill ran through them all and they felt as

if their souls had been suddenly drenched in human blood and glutted with gore-were even now absolutely reeking from its hideous pollutions! The irritated multitude became restless, moving to and fro, from side to side, in dark and massy undulations,-like the ocean gradually lashed into fury by the storm :-- while their every effort to stifle their rising rage, tended only to give it a gloomier hue and a more deadly intensity.

"I come to bury Cæsar"-as soon as the doleful words were uttered, all the conspirators who were present involuntarily howled in chorus, long and dismal groans, "not loud" perhaps, "but deep." Anthony sobbed aloud-while the glance of his eye turned the attention of the people, to the dead body of Cæsar, as it lay beneath, ali bloody and torn. A wild and savage yell from the angry mob, immediately announced the brooding of the storm-the nearness of its approach and the dreadful havoc and desolation it was about to make. Under this deep gathering darkness, were let loose all the elements of destruction: every heart was maddened into a boiling vortex-and the fellest, foulest, fiercest purposes, rioted in every wish, and revelled with rabid ecstacy, in every feeling of their nature!

Having so far excited their passions, Anthony could now venture on a bolder allusion to Cæsar. But even here he durst not do so directly, for the people were still in principle as much opposed to him as ever; so that it was only by subduing or seducing their feelings, they could be enlisted in his cause. Already however, they mourned the loss of Cæsar;--and their grief would be immeasurably heightened by painting his excellencies to their minds. But the difficulty was, to execute a proper portraiture:-a detail of his many recommendations would have been tedious and useless; and a specification of any particular virtue would have been ineffectual-as it might be contradicted. Hence the irresistible force of "not to praise him." The words were so vague and mysterious as to admit of no contradiction, and yet so explicit and vivid, as to make themselves felt. The character of Cæsar was thus seen as through a prism, too shadowy to be defined, and yet too beautiful and bright, not to be attractive to every beholder.

"Not to praise him" intimated that he might have expatiated on his virtues and glories, for they were many and great; and their own excited imaginations would abundantly fill up the unfinished draught, and give it the deepest colouring.

"Not to praise him" assumed his virtues too well known to need a catalogue, and too universally confessed to require proof. His character appeared too plain for ornament, and too grand for illustration; thus equally by its humility and its majesty, leaving at a distance the most eloquent eulogium. The hearers became enamoured with the picture Anthony's skill had led them to form to themselves, and therefore stopped not to examine its fidelity. A meteor, as it were, flashed before their eyes, with such intensity, that they thought of nothing but its brilliancy and premature evanishment.

"Not to praise him"-intimated that the situation of the speaker was extremely perilous (and by a contagion of sympathy the hearers would fancy the same of themselves), inasmuch as he durst not give full expression to his feelings, lest Brutus should hurl him to destruction. The people therefore were delighted with the apparent fearless magnanimity, which, in such circumstances, could say any thing at all in favour of Cæsar, and their passions would violently rebound into a paroxism of agony and of rage against his opponents.

"Not to praise him"-above all, this might lead the hearers to suppose, that he forbore, from a dignified compassion for Brutus; and that from a contemptuous pity, he refrained from all such expressions as might impel them to vengeance. This gave them a higher confidence in the rectitude of his motives, and the leniency of his purposes; so that in listening to the words, they would exclaim of Anthony, "half his strength he put not forth, but checked it in mid volley." All this "infixed plagues into their souls," and plunged them into such an intensity and agony of fury that bloodblood-blood alone would assauge it; but who was to be the victim, the subsequent sentences was to decide. Every principle of their nature became as a separate burning centre of emanation of hatred and of scornevery passion became as a fatal blast, scorching and withering all around, and every individual hearer became a living focus of all that was terrible and destructive!

But I see, from my reader's gaping and yawning, that my story has already doubled the length of his patience. For the present therefore, I drop the curtain on the telescopic analysis of the speech, and forbear to inflict any description of its appearance in perspective, as seen through the kaleidescope, reserving those glories for such as have thoroughly understood and felt this first scene in the Aeronautic Romance.

MAGIC AND MAGICIANS.

F. F.

(From an interesting article in the sixth and last volume (just published) of Mr. D'Israeli's Curiosities of Literature.)

WHAT a subject, were I to enter on it, would be the narratives of magical writers! These precious volumes have been so constantly wasted by the profane, that now a book of real magic requires some to find it, as well as a magician to use it. Albertus Magnus, or Albert the

Great, as he is erroneously styled- for this sage only derived his enviable epithet from his name De Groot, as did Hugo Grotius-this sage, in his " Admirable Secrets," delivers his opinion that these books of magic should be most preciously preserved; for, he prophetically added, the time is arriving when they would be understood! It seems that they were not intelligible in the thirteenth century; but, if Albertus has not miscalculated, in the present day they may be! Magical terms with talismanic figures may yet conceal many a secret; gunpowder came down to us in a sort of anagram, and the kaleidescope with its interminable multiplications of forms, lay at hand for two centuries in Baptista Porta's "Natural Magic." The abbot Trithemius, in a confidential letter, happened to call himself a magician, perhaps at the moment he thought himself one, and sent three or four leaves stuffed with the names of devils, and with their evocations. At the death of his friend, these leaves fell into the unworthy hands of the prior, who was so frightened on the first glance at the diobolical nomenclature, that he raised the country against the abbot, and Trithemius was nearly a lost

man.

Cornelius

Yet, after all, this evocation of devils has reached us in his "Steganographia," and proves to be only one of this ingenious abbot's polygraphic attempts at secret writing; for he had flattered himself that he had invented a mode of concealing his thoughts from all the world, while he communicated them to a friend. Roger Bacon promised to raise thunder and lightening, and disperse clouds by disolving them into rain. The first magical process has been obtained by Franklin; and the other, of far more use to cur agriculturists, may perchance be found lurking in some corner which has been overlooked in the "Opus Magus" of our "Doctor Mirabilis.' Do we laugh at their magical works of art? Are we ourselves such indifferent artists? Agrippa, before he wrote his "Vanity of the Arts and Sciences," intended to reduce into a method and system the secret of communicating with spirits and demons. On good authority, that of Porphyrius, Psellus. Plotinus, Jamblicus-and on better, were it necessary to alledge it he was well assured that the upper regions of the air swarmed with what the Greeks called dæmones, just as our lower atmosphere is full of birds, our waters of fish, and our earth of insects. Yet this occult philosopher, who knew perfectly eight languages, and married two wives, with whom he had never exchanged a harsh word in any of them, was every where avoided as having by his side, for his companion, a personage no less than a demon. This was a great black dog whom he suffered to stretch himself out among his magical manuscripts, or lie on his bed, often kissing and patting him, and feeding him on choice morsels. Yet for this would Paulus Jovius and all the world have had him put to the ordeal of fire and faggot! The truth was afterwards boldly asserted by Wierus, his learned domestic, who believed that his master's dog was really nothing more than he appeared! "I believe," says he, "that he was a real natural dog; he was indeed black, but of a moderate size, and I have often led him by a string, and called him by the French name Agrippa had given him, Monsieur! and he had a female who was called Mademoiselle! I would ask how authors of such great characters should write so absurdly on his vanishing at his death, nobody knows how!" But, as it is probable that Monsieur and Mademoiselle must have generated some puppy demons, Weirus ought to have been more circumstantial.

Albertus Magnus, for thirty years, had never ceased working at a man of brass, and had cast together the qualities of his material under certain constellations, which threw such a spirit upon his man of brass, that it was reported his growth was visible; his feet, legs, thighs, shoulders, neck, and head expanded, and made the city of Cologne uncasy at possessing one citizen too mighty for them all. This man of brass, when he reached his maturity, was so loquacious, that Albert's master, the great scholastic Thomas Aquinas, one day, tired of his babble, and declaring it was a devil, or devilish, with his staff knocked his head off; and, what was extraordinary, this brazen man, like any human being thus effectually silenced, "word never spake more." This incident is equally historical and authentic; though whether heads of brass can speak, and even prophecy, was indeed a subject of profound enquiry, even at a later period. Naudé, who never questioned their vocal powers, and yet was puzzled concerning the nature of this new species of animal, has, no doubt, most judiciously stated the question, whether these speaking brazen heads had a sensitive and reasoning nature, or whether demons spoke in them? But brass has not the faculty of providing its own nourishment, as we see in plants, and therefore they were not sensitive; and, as for the act of reasoning, these brazen heads presumed to know nothing but the future; with the past and the present they seem totally unacquainted, so that their memory and their observation were very limited; and as for the future, that is always doubtful, and obscure even to heads of brass! This learned man then infers, that "These brazen heads could have no reasoning faculties, for nothing altered their nature; they said what they had to say, which no one could contradict; and having said their say, you might have broken their heads for anything more that you could have got out of them. Had they had any life in them, would they not have moved as well as spoken? Life itself is but motion, but they had no lungs, no spleen; and, in fact, though they spoke, they had no tongue. Was a devil in them? I

think not. Yet why should men have taken all this trouble to make, not a man, but a trumpet ?"

Our profound philosoper was right not to agitate the question, whether these brazen heads had ever spoken? Why should not a man of brass speak, since a doll can whisper, and a statue play chess? Another magical invention has been ridiculed with equal reason. A magician was annoyed, as philosophers still are, by passengers in the street; and he, particularly so, by having horses led to drink under his window. He made a magical horse of wood, according to one of the books of Hermes, which perfectly answered its purpose by frightening away the horses, or rather the grooms! the wooden horse, no doubt, gave some palpable kick.

The works of the ancient alchymists have afforded numberless discoveries to moder, chymists; nor is even their grand operation despaired of. If they have of late not been so renowned, this has arisen from a want of what Ashmole calls "apertness;" a qualification early inculcated among these illuminated sages. We find authenticated accounts of some who have lived three centuries, with tolerable complexions, possessed of nothing but a crucible and a bellows! but they were so unnecessarily mysterious, that whenever such a person was discovered, he was sure in an instant to disappear and was never afterwards heard of.

In the "Liber Patris Sapientiæ" this selfish cautiousness is all along impressed on the student, for the accomplishment of the great mystery. In the commentary on this precious work by the alchymist Norton, who counsels,

"Be thou in a place secret, by thyself alone, That no man see or hear what thou shalt say or done. Trust not thy friend too much wheresoe'er thou go, For he thou trustest best sometime may be thy foe;" Ashmole observes, that "Norton gives exceeding good advice to the student in this science where he bids him be secret in the carrying on of his studies and operations, and not let any one know of his undertakings but his good angel and himself: and such a close and retired breast had Norton's master, who,

"When men disputed of colours of the rose, He would not speak, but kept himself full close!" We regret that by each leaving all his knowledge to his "good angel and himself," it has happened that the "good angels" have kept it all to themselves.

gas,

It cannot, however, be denied, that if they could not always extract gold out of lead, they sometimes succeeded in washing away the pimples on ladies faces, notwithstanding that Sir Kenelm Digby poisoned his most beautiful lady, because, as Sancho would have said, he was one of those who would "have his bread whiter than the whitest wheaten." Van Helmout, who could not succeed in discovering the true elixir of life, however, hit on the spirit of hartshorn, which, for a good while, i e considered was the wonderful elixir itself, restoring to life persons who seemed to have lost it. And though this delightful enthusiast could not raise a ghost, yet he thought he had; for he raised something ærial from Spa water, which, mistaking for a ghost, he gave it that very name; a name which we still retain in from the German geist, or ghost. Paracelsus carried the tiney spirit about him in the hilt of his great sword! Having first discovered the qualities of laudanum, this illustrious quack made use of it as an universal remedy; and distributed it in the form of pills, which he carried in the basket-hilt of his sword; the operations he performed were as rapid as they seemed magical. Doubtless we have lost some inconceivable secrets by some unexpected occurrences, which the secret itself, it would seem, ought to have prevented taking place. When the philosopher had discovered the art of prolonging life to an indefinite period, it is most provoking to find that he should have allowed himself to die at an early age! We have a very authentic history from Sir Kenelm Digby himself, that when he went in disguise to visit Descartes at his retirement at Egmond, lamenting the brevity of life which hindered philosophers getting on in their studies, the French philosopher assured him that "he had considered that matter; to render a man immortal was what he could not promise, but that he was very sure it was possible to lengthen out his life to the period of the patriarchs." And when his death was announced to the world, the Abbé Picot, an ardent disciple, for a long time would not believe it possible, and at length insisted, that if it had occurred, it must be owing to some mistake of the philosopher.

The late Holcroft, Loutherbourgh and Cosway, imagined that they should escape the vulgar era of Christian life by re-organising their old bones, and moistening their dry marrow; their new principles of vitality were supposed by them to be found in the powers of the mind; this seemed more reasonable, but proved to be as little efficacious as those of other philosophers who imagine they have detected the hidden principle of life in the eels frisking in vinegar, and allude to "the bookbinder, who creates the bookworm!"

Paracelsus has revealed to us one of the grandest secrets of nature. When the world began to dispute on the very existence of the elementary folk, it was then that he boldly offered to give birth to a fairy, and has sent down to posterity a recipe. He describes the impurity which is to be transmuted into such purity, the gross elements of a delicate fairy, which, fixed in a phial, placed in fuming dung, will in due time settle into a full

grown fairy, bursting through its vitreous prison, on the vivifying principle on which the ancient Egyptians hatched their eggs in ovens. I recollect at Dr. Farmer's sale, the leaf which preserved this recipe for making à fairy, forcibly folded down by the learned commentator; from which we must infer the credit he gave to the experiment. There was a greatness of mind in Paracelsus, who, having furnished a recipe to make a fairy, had the delicacy to refrain from its formation. Even Baptista Porta, one of the most enlightened philosophers, does not deny the possibility of producing creatures, which "at their full growth shall not exceed the size of a mouse :" but he adds, "they are only pretty little dogs to play with." Were these akin to the fairies of Paracelsus?

They were well convinced of the existence of such elemental beings; frequent accidents in mines shewed the potency of the metallic spirits; which so tormented the workmen in some of the German mines, by blindness, giddiness, and sudden sickness, that they have been obliged to abandon mines well known to have been rich in silver. A metallic spirit, at one sweep, annihilated twelve miners, who were all found dead together. The fact was unquestionable; and the safety lamp was undiscovered.

Never was a philosophical imagination more beautiful than that exquisite Palingenesis, as it has been termed from the Greek, or regeneration; or rather, the apparitions of animals and plants. Schott, Kircher, Gaffarel, Borelli, Digby, and the whole of that admirable school, discovered in the ashes of plants their primitive forms, which were again raised up by the force of heat. Nothing they say perishes in nature; all is but a continuation, or revival. The seeds of resurrection are concealed in extinct bodies, as in the blood of man: the ashes of roses will again revive into roses, though smaller and paler than if they had been planted unsubstantial, and unodoriferous, they are not roses which grew on rose trees, but their delicate apparitions; and, like apparitions, they are seen but for a moment. The process of the Palingenesis, this picture of immortality, is described. These philosophers, having burned a flower, by calcination disengaged the salts from its ashes, and deposited them in a glass phial: a chemical mixture acted on it, till in the fermentation they assumed a bluish and spectral hue. This dust, thus excited by heat, shoots upwards into primitive forms; by sympathy the parts unite, and while each is returning to its destined place, we see distinctly the stalk, the leaves and the flower arise; it is the pale spectre of a flower coming slowly forth from its ashes. The heat passes away, the magical scene declines, till the whole matter again precipitates itself into the chaos at the bottom. This vegetable phoenix lies thus concealed in its cold ashes, till the presence of heat produces this resurrection; in its absence it returns to its death. Thus the dead naturally revive; and a corpse may give out its shadowy re-animation when not too deeply buried in the earth. Bodies corrupted in their graves have risen, particularly the murdered; for murderers are apt to bury their victims in a

slight and hasty manner. Their salts, exhaled in vapour by means of their fermentation, have arranged themselves on the surface of the carth, and have formed those phantoms, which at night have often terrified the passing spectator, as authentic history witnesses. They have opened the graves of the phantom and discovered the bleeding corpse beneath; hence it is astonishing how many ghosts may be seen at night, after a recent battle, standing over their corpses! On the same principle, my old philosopher Gaffarel conjectures on the raining of frogs; but these frogs, we must conceive, can only be the ghosts of frogs: and Gaffarel himself has modestly opened this fact by a "peradventure." A more satisfactory origin of ghosts modern philosophy has not afforded.

And who does not believe in the existence of ghosts? for as Dr. More forcibly says, "That there should be so universal a fame and fear of that which never was nor is, nor can ever be in the world, is to me the greatest miracle in the world. If there had not been, at some time or other, true miracles, it had not been so easy to impose on the public by false. The alchymist would never go about to sophisticate metals to pass them off for true gold and silver, unless that such a thing was acknowledged as true gold and silver in the world."

The pharmacopoeia of those times combined more of morals with medicine than our own. They discovered that the agate rendered a man eloquent and even witty; a laurel leaf placed on the centre of the skull, fortified the memory; the brains of fowls, and birds of swift wing, wonderfully helped the imagination. All such specifics have now disappeared, and have greatly reduced the chances of an invalid recovering that which perhaps he never possessed. Lentils and rape-seed were a certain cure for the small-pox, and very obviously, their grains resembling the spots of this disease. They discovered that those who lived on "fair" plants became fair, those on fruitful ones were never barren; on the principle that Hercules acquired his mighty strength by feeding on the marrow of lions. But their talismans, provided they were genuine, seem to have been wonderfully operative; and had we the same confidence, and melted down the guineas we give physicians, engraving on them talismanic figures, I would answer for the good effects of the experiment. Naudé, indeed, has utterly ridiculed the occult virtues of talismans, in his defence of Virgil, accused of being a magician: the poet, it seems, cast into a well a talisman of a horse-leech, graven on a plate of gold, to drive away the great number of horse

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