Religion that there may be a mode of religious exercise, which may serve both to relieve the exercise of mere feeling, and serve as a kind of substratum and arena, on which those feelings may find matter, range, and variety. "The ancients either let the passions run wild, or confined them like wild beasts in their cages, where they were kept muttering in their cells; but, Christ has taught them their legitimate exercise. "The question whether the passions are to be admitted into Religion-divides itself into two: First, whether the passions are unreasonable in themselves? -Secondly, whether they are misplaced in Religion? The first is a piece of Stoicism, that is too absurd and ridiculous to be maintained. "The second divides itself also into two: First, whether the affections are misplaced in Religion, generally?-Secondly, whether our Saviour is the proper object of them? "First, generally:-It is a great presumption against it, that it proposes at once to exclude from Religion so grand a part of the composition of man.—It is to be supposed that as the organs of the body, so the original passions of the mind were given for some valuable purposes by the Creator.-They are now in perpetual rebellion; and reason alone would presume that it would be the effect of Revelation, completely to repair the consequences of this corruption. This indeed had been tried by human systems in vain. Epicurus confirmed the usurpation of the passions; the Stoics attempted to extinguish them; but, it is the peculiar office of Christianity to bring all the faculties of our nature into their due subordination that so the whole man-complete in all his functions, -may be restored to the true end of his being, and devoted, entire and harmoni ous, to the service and glory of God.'" The second volume consists entirely of Sermons. They are short, sensible, simple, earnest, and fervent. Mr Wolfe had certainly the powers of a preacher; and some of his appearances in Dublin were most effective. We should think that these sermons could not fail to interest and instruct, if read aloud to any family on Sabbath evenings. They are never prolix-and prolixity, if a slow, is a sure opiate. They are not paradoxical-and paradoxes are most repulsive in the simple religion of Christianity. They do not perplex by subdivision and endless practical conclusions-but are, generally speaking, breathed out, almost prayer-like, in one pleasant and pious strain. They are admirably adapted for young people. In conclusion, how could Mr Russell publish the celebrated lines on the Death of Sir John Moore (or, as Medwyn absurdly calls them, the Ode) as the production of Mr Wolfe, without giving us any proof whatever that they are so? What signify long rigmarole letters in newspapers? Mr Russell is called upon to do this in the next edition of his admirable friend's Remains. For our own parts, we at this moment know nothing of the evidence on which Mr Wolfe's claim to the authorship of these fine lines is founded. Did he ever say he was the writer? If so, that is enough. But prove that. It may be proved; print the proofs, then, in the preface. How so intelligent a man as Mr Russell could have had the folly to quote Medwyn's belief that the "Ode".was Wolfe's, surpasses our power of conjecture. Medwyn knew no more of the matter than any coalporter on Dublin Quay. That Mr Wolfe had feeling and genius to write the lines, we believe, for they are merely somewhat more felicitous than some of his other best compositions, and the subject, too, is universally affecting. But we have our doubts, and now assert them, in a spirit which Mr Russell cannot, after this article, misunderstand. Will he favour us with the proofs, and, short or long, we shall with pleasure insert them in this Magazine ? BYRON PAPERS. LORD BYRON is not forgotten-no-that will never be till England is no more an island; but we have heard little about him for some months, and perhaps it was better so than to suffer, as we did about a year ago, from the shoals of shallow shilly-shallys, that tried all to have their say on his character and genius. It is pleasant to think, that the ninnies are all dead and buried now-from Dallas to Medwyn. Whatever was worth hearing, in their drivellings, attached itself to the memories of all men-the chaff was given to the winds. The editors of the thousand-and-one newspapers of Great Britain and Ireland sagaciously seized on the devourable parts, and gave both islands a feast. Observe how books now-a-days are torn to pieces, gutted, cooked, and served up to the table of the reading public! On the very morning of the birth of a fine, promising book, the great press-gang of the united kingdoms surrounds the gates of its nativity. In four-and-twenty hours time, all the crack-chapters are in half the news-rooms of England. Triple the time, and they are delighting an old gentleman in Orkney. Then those winged weeklies, the various Literary Gazettes, who, by a single stamp of their foot, are wafted a hundred miles in ten hours, are all let loose on the vol, and scatter the leaves over all the drawing-room rosewood tables, from St Michael's Mount to Cape Wrath. The hundred Magazines, after the storm is somewhat abated, are heard pattering, and rustling, and spouting away over town and country. In a few weeks all is hushed, except when some laggardly editorless, or ten-editor'd periodical, gives the view-hollo long after the death, and seems astonished to find that the public, like one pack, are all off on another scent, while the welkin rings again to their fervent clamour. By the way, of all earthly exhibitions, what is so absurd as a periodical making his bow to the public a year after the fair? It is like sending sudden news by the heavy waggon, after twenty blood-expresses have radiated, like sunbeams, from centre to circumference of our free and happy country. Let half-a-year go by now-a-days, and any book whatever has acquired an antideluvian appearance. It disturbs you with thoughts of another world—and you wonder who may have been the author-NoahAbraham-or Adam. Nay, some volumes appear to be Preadamites, and to have been written previous to the Tree of Knowledge. Consequently, a periodical that neglects to take Time by the forelock, plumps into eternity. Did you ever, gracious reader, see the St Leger start at Doncaster? Thirty of the noblest descendants of the "Desert-born" all off like thunder and lightning, in one flash and roar.-So, on the first of the month, start the Magas from the Row-and surely there is no need to tell you who is the MEMNON. To return to Lord Byron. For the information of such of our subscribers as live, like their ancestors the Picts, in caves and earthen holes, we beg to mention, that the Representative is a new daily Paper, set up by Mr Murray, Albemarle-street, London; and, in several of the very earliest numbers, it has given the world some most interesting and characteristic extracts from a diary kept by Lord Byron. Of course, these extracts are all copied next day (without acknowledgement) into all the London newspapers, and thence into all the provincial ones-so that, most probably, they have been seen by a great majority of our readers. But a newspaper is more fleeting than a shadow-try to recover last Wednesday's Times, and you will sigh,-“ Irrevocabile Tempus!" Maga may get musty in a month-but she takes not wings to herself, nor flies away. You get her bound; and although laid on the shelf, still is there something sweet in the old virgin's smile. Therefore, all of us editors are now busy in stealing from the Representative. Some of usfor there are sad scamps in the squad-will abuse the said Representative, while they are picking his pocket-others will sham ignorance of his very local habitation and name. Why-could you believe it-there is the Courierand there is the New Times-two as gentlemanly newspapers as ever were typified and always found on the right side-staunch men and true-yet both of them sneering in illiberal and selfish apprehension at their new competitor. Such editors should have been far-far above such conduct. The Whig and Radical press are entitled to elect their own representative; and let them abuse every Tory member. But unless the Times and Courier dislike the principles of the new Paper, their opposition to its success will be attributed to motives unworthy the character of Dr Stoddart and Mr Mudford. Should the Representative be, like many of his brethren, in and out of the House, neither an orator nor a man of business, why then his constituents will not return him to next Parliament. Should he prove a fine eloquent fellow, and acute on committees, why then his constituents will return him for next Parliament; but in neither case will they be influenced by the Times or the Courier, who are not electors, nor can they legally have a vote. There, now, is that most spirited, and intelligent, and independent paper, the St James's Chronicle. He alone, of all we have seen, extended his hand like a man to the Representative-civil, polite, courteous, and at the same time caring no · more about him than one gentleman cares for another, when mutually saluting, because living next door, or being of the same profession, or sitting in the same church. No more is expected on either side-it is no friendship-mere acquaintanceship-and if the one dies or goes to the devil, the other is as merry as May-day; but still laments, in all due degree, the death of so very well-dressed and regular a subscriber to the social compact. Let no ass bray that we ourselves have often abused all the Magazines, for that case is out of point. All the other Magazines commenced their brilliant career by taking advantage of our well-known Mosaic meekness. What sarcasms passed over our unruffled skin, unruffled as the smooth expanse of ocean, whose foam disdains to whiten but in a storm! But let us, if possible, return to Lord Byron. Here, there is something genuine. Take the bottle into your own hand-apply the machinery-bring out the wasp-waisted cork-what a sweet-scented savour-gurgle and glow alike prove its descent from the Byron Bink. The peerless spirit, flowing fresh from the fount of Aganippe, is not diluted here with the soft water caught in a tub from the spout of a Grub-street garret. The god himself speaks from his own immortal lips-and not through the slimy slaver of either priest or priestess. Three images in as many lines! what a style for a periodical! Yet we have a deep design in this proemium, as indeed we have in all we write. We are skilfully bringing your mind into the right mood, for enjoying the bold bright balderdash of Byron. Would it be egotistical to hint, that Byron formed his prose-style on that of Maga? We confess, that we cannot help thinking that he did—and, indeed, his continual study of us, in spite of his strong originality, could scarcely fail to beguile him unconsciously into imitation. It is true, that we have given a tinge to the style of the age-but what we speak of now, is much more than a tinge-it is a permament dyea characteristic colour. The subscriber says to himself, is this Byron or Blackwood? He perpends, and twenty to one his reply is a blunder. Nay, such blunders are not confined to the subscriber, nor even to the contributor. The editor ourselves of this Magazine, would not swear, ad aperturam libri, to the authorship of any paragraph, without his own signature, or that of his Lordship. He has been deceived before now, and nothing short of the most perfect reliance on the honour and sincerity of the proprietor and conductor of the Representative, could have persuaded us that the "Byron Papers" were not written by Christopher North. Here they are. No. I. I HAVE been thinking since the other day on the various comparisons, good or evil, which I have seen published of myself in different journals, English and foreign. This was suggested to me by accidentally turning over a foreign one lately-for I have made it a rule latterly never to search for anything of the kind; but not to avoid the perusal if presented by chance. To begin then-I have seen myself compared personally or practically, in English, French, German, (as interpreted to me,) Italian, and Portuguese, within these nine years, to Rousseau, Goethe, Young, Aretine, Timon of Athens, an Alabaster Vase, lighted up within, Patan, Shakspeare, Buonaparte, Tiberius, Eschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Harlequin, the Clown, Sternhold, and Hopkins to the Phantasmagoria, to Henry the Eighth, to Chemiur, to Mirabeau, tó young R. Dallas, (the school-boy,) to Michael Angelo, to Raphael, to a Petit-Maitre, to Diogenes, to Childe Harold, to Lara, to the Count in Beppo, to Milton, to Pope, to Dryden, to Burns, to Savage, to Chatterton; to "Oft have I heard of thee, my Lord Byron," in Shakspeare; to Churchill the Poet, to Kean the Actor, to Alfieri, &c. &c. &c. The likeness to Alfieri was asserted very seriously by an Italian who had known him in his younger days. It of course related merely to our apparent personal dispositions. He did not assert it (for we were not then good friends), but in society. The object of so many contradictory comparisons must, probably, be like something different from them all; but what that is, is more than I know, or anybody else. My mother, before I was twenty, would have it that I was like Rousseau, and Madame de Stael used to say so too in 1813; and the Edinburgh Review has something of the sort in its critic of the fourth Cantò of Childe Harold. I cannot see any point of resemblance. He wrote prose, I verse he was of the people, I of the aristocracy he was a philosopher, I am none-he published his first work at forty, I mine at eighteen -his first Essay brought him universal applause, mine the contrary-he married his housekeeper, I could not keep house with my wife-he thought all the world in a plot against him, my little world seems to think me in a plot against it, if I may judge by the abuse in print and coteries. He liked botany, I like flowers, and roots, and trees, but know nothing of their pedi grees-he wrote music, I limit myknowledge of it to what I catch by ear. I never would learn anything by study, not even a language it was by rote, and ear, and memory I had, at least, an excellent one, (ask Hodgson the poet, a good judge, for he had an astonishing one.) He wrote with hesitation and care, I with rapidity, and rarely with pains. He would never ride nor swim, nor was cunning of fence. I am an excellent swimmer, a decent, though not at all a dashing rider, (having stoved in a rib at eighteen, in the cause of scampering,) and was sufficient of fence, particularly with the Highland broadsword, when I could keep my temper, which was difficult, but which I strove to do ever since I knocked down Mr Purling, and put his knee-pan out, (with the gloves on,) in Angelo's and Jackson's rooms, in 1806, during the sparring; and I was besides a very fair cricketer-one of the Harrow eleven when we made play against Eton in 1805. Besides, Rousseau's way of life, his country, his manners, his whole character, were so very different, that I am at a loss to conceive how such a comparison could have arisen, as it has done three several times, and all in a remarkable manner. I forgot to say that he was also short-sighted, and that hitherto my eyes have been the contrary to such a degree that, in the largest theatre of Bologna, I distinguished and read some busts and inscriptions painted near the stage, from a box so distant, and so darkly lighted, that none of the company, (composed of young and very bright-eyed people, some of them,) in the same box, could make out a letter, and thought it was a trick, though I had never been in the theatre before. Altogether, I consider myself justified in thinking the comparison not at all well founded. I don't say this out of pique, for Rousseau was a great man, and the thing, if true, was flattering enough; but I have no idea of being pleased with a chimera. NOTE.-Yet deducing all that is deducible, which consists chiefly of extrinsic circumstances, there is a resemblance, and a strong one, between the high genius, profound sensibility, and wayward and morbid sensations of these two great men. But Rousseau was a bundle of affectation, and was vain of his singularities; Byron was too proud to be vain, and when we have heard stories of his affectations, we think we could always perceive that he was gulling or cramming some lion-worshipper-an exercise of which he was very fond. A. D. We cannot say that this note was worth the ink either of pen or press. What the wiser can any man be of being told that Rousseau and Byron resembled each other" in high genius," and "profound sensibility?" These are VOL, XIX. 2 U words equally applicable to all writers of the first order. "Wayward and morbid sensations" are expressions somewhat more characteristic, but not very original at this time of day. If Rousseau had "wayward and morbid sensations," and he had them miserably and immeasurably, he cannot, justly, be called " a bundle of affectation." As to the remark about Byron, that "he was too proud to be vain," and yet fond of " gulling or cramming some lionworshipper," it is no great shakes. A wayward man would have found some other employment. But, pray, why should Byron not be occasionally proud, and occasionally vain, and occasionally neither, just like other men of mortal mould? His birth and fame made him the focus of fashion. What was he to do, think, feel, say, or look? Sometimes, it would appear, he was as sulky as a bear with a sore head-occasionally a lion rampant-now a hissing serpent -then a laughing hyena. One day he would sport eagle, and outstare the sun in the front of heaven-at night he would put on the owl, and skim mousing over the bosom of the earth. At one time you might behold him leaning against a pillar in a peer's palace, with his arms folded across his breast-at another, sparring with Mr Purling in John Jackson's rooms, and knocking down that hapless wight (is there or was there ever a gemman so surnamed?) with the gloves and a put-out knee-pan. To-day he would lie for an hour dissolved, like Sardanapalus, in that voluptuous dreamery, a hot-bath; and to-morrow, like another Cassius, buffet the Tiber. Now, place the point of your fore-finger on the organ of causality, like a good phrenologist, and tell us what you have discovered of the wonderful, or the wild, or the miraculous, in all this? Is there a man of genius, or no genius, of sensibility, or no sensibility-either, or neither high, or, or nor profound-shepherd, peasant, artisan, shop-keeper, manufacturer, merchant, banker, barrister, bishop, "prince, Condè, or grandee"-yea, Kaisar, or King,-who does not play the self-same part in that tragic-farce of "life?" Nay, take a tailor-(Flint or Dung)—and watch him from sunrise to sunset, from the moment that glorious luminary shows his nose on the eastern horizon, till the topmost curl of his wig sinks into the western ocean-and you will be amazed at the developement of Snip's character. With respect to "wayward and morbid sensations," even Byron and Rousseau will, in comparison to him, be hot and heavy as his own goose. From his sky-lighted strip of tenement he descends, like lightning along a rod, down to the very cellar where he dines on parsnips. In Rousseau or Byron, what profounder bathos? Ninth part of a man as he is, he is nevertheless the father of sixteen children-and has buried three absolute wives. Nay, read the Morning Herald of the 10th of December 1824, and you will see him examined on a charge of bigamy, and confronted by two furies, one from DyotStreet, St Giles', and the other from Gorbals of Glasgow-yet "Though round his base the rolling clouds be spread, 66 He too, like Byron, can spar a bit, and perhaps may have put out the kneepan of an opposition apprentice at Bittoone's or Ned Stockman's. Why, what think, when I tell you that he was a pall of Ings the Butcher, that Ings who was to have headed the Cato Street conspirators against Wellington, and that, on Christmas-day last, in a fit of drunken or philosophic mania, so morbid and wayward were his affections," that he leapt from a lighterman, with his pockets as full of stones as those of a mineralogist, and then walked along the bottom of the Thames like a mud-lark, knee-deep in sludge, "slick away" into eternity. Yet in two words was his decease dismissed-" Found drowned." Of the distinction between pride and vanity, we pretend to know nothing permanently satisfactory. We possess both-or rather both, as ruling passions, possess us. You who are now reading us, are a modest, humble young or old gentleman, and are surprised, perhaps offended, at our weakness, so unbecoming our time of life. "The fient a pride, nae pride hae ye." Yet hark ye, "young 'un," why that tie o' neckcloth? That cost you a good half-hour's work, I'll warrant it—and as we believe you don't keep a body servant, confess how long you were occupied to-day, before effulging into Bond Street, in brushing |