are stale we really know not how we shall get over them. Sir Joseph's interposition used to give the lagging debate a fillip which made it trundle on for a couple of hours in comparative comfort. There is a plentiful stock of logic in the house; some eloquence, though of a bitter bad school-the Irish; but of plain blunt John Bull humour, now that good old Yorke is gone, as far as we can at present recollect, not a particle. THE POLES.-The successful stand of the Poles against their brutal oppressors, bids fair to place the great powers, as they are called, in a dilemma. The Congress of Vienna, in 1814, little imagined, when they were parcelling out states and kingdoms, giving a province to this, and taking a province from that, creating a monarchy in one quarter, and annihilating a republic in another, that they were cutting out for themselves and their successors so much tough work as they have done. It will not have escaped the recollection of our readers, that in 1814, there was as great, if not greater, jealousy entertained of the aggressive designs of the Czar than there is in 1831. Lord Castlereagh was not the most foresighted of all ministers, but he seems to have seen that it would be necessary to make some provision against a power, which might, if not checked, more seriously endanger the liberties of Western Europe, than ever Napoleon did. In this provident spirit the concessions to the Poles were insisted on, and the constitution which they now claim, and which up to this day has been a mere mockery, was guaranteed. Forms are good things; they constitute a kind of frame-work round which substance may be readily accumulated; they are the stone which catches the straws. The Poles have the form of a constitution, a form agreed on by the assembled powers of Europe; they call on these powers for the reality. How they are to resist the call it is not easy to perceive, backed as it is in the present instance by the same fears of barbarian domination which first influenced them to offer the guarantee which they are now solicited to make good. The Poles have appealed to Europe and its courts, in a very sensible and well-argued paper, in which they press their claims in a way that will hardly admit of denial. France is every way inclined to aid them; England is their fast friend; Prussia may fear, and so may Austria, the contagion of their example, for if Polish Russia is to be emancipated, it is not easy to see why Polish Prussia and Polish Austria should remain enslaved, but though they dread their own serfs much, we suspect they dread the serfs of Nicolas more. If Poland can continue to withstand her gigantic foe for three months longer,— and his blunders and the cholera are a powerful diversion in its favour,-the land of Kosciusko will again be free, and freedom's shriek of woe, be converted into a shout of triumph. THE NILE.-Among the announcements of the day, the most interesting is the solution of that long contended problem, the true course of the Niger. Most of our readers are aware that Mr. Lander, whose very interesting narrative was, a considerable time ago, submitted to the public, has been, for several months past, engaged in an attempt to complete the discoveries which Lieutenant Clapperton, his former master, began. A letter from Fernando Po, which appeared in the Literary Gazette of Saturday se'nnight, states that he had at length happily succeeded. Having reached Yaowri, he and his companions embarked in a canoe on the Joliba, which bears at Yaowry the name of Quolla, or Kowara. Their passage down the stream was long and difficult; they were at one period of it taken prisoners by a petty prince who commanded its banks, but happily obtained their freedom through the means of the king of Brasse, who happened to be in the neighbourhood. Thus released, they once more set out on their seaward voyage, and at length reached the mouth of the river in the bight of Biafra, thus identifying it with a stream hitherto but little noticed, which falls into the bight a short way to the east of Cape Formosa. Lander afterwards sailed to the settlement of Fernando Po, where, having waited a month for a passage to Europe, he grew impatient of the delay, and left the island in a vessel bound for Rio Janeiro, whence he proposed to seek a passage to England. Soon after his departure, a vessel touched at Fernando Po, bound for England direct, and the correspondent of the Literary Gazette seized that opportunity of communicating the fact of Mr. Lander's discovery. The theory of Reichard was, that the Niger, after passing Yaowry, turned south, and fell either into the bight of Benin by the river of the same name, or into the old Calabar river in the bight of Biafra. Parke was induced by the imperfect information derived from the native merchants, to identify the Quolla with the Bahr Kulla, which again he conceived to be the principal branch of the Zahir or Congo river. Lander's discovery shews that if Reichard's guess was not exactly true, it was yet not far removed from it. The stream which Lander descended lies about mid way between the river Benin and the old Calabar river. NEW PEERS.-Among the expedients for procuring an easy majority in the House of Peers, for the passing of the reform measure, it is said that forty-some accounts say seventy-eldest sons of Peers will be immediately elevated to the dignity of Peers of the Realm. By this ingenious contrivance, the Upper House will have a large infusion of spirit and intelligence poured into it; and yet its numbers will remain without permanent increase. Other theories have created an entire new batch of Peers in the persons of Sir Francis Burdett, Mr. Coke, Mr. John Smith, and several other distinguished commoners. The only actual accession which the House has yet received, has been the eldest son of his Majesty. Colonel Fitzclarence is now Earl of Munster. The creation seems to have given dissatisfaction to none, and will probably be followed by the ennobling of all the male branches of his Majesty's family. The Earl of Munster is said to be a brave man, of great talent, and his character is irreproachable. His fatherin-law, the Earl of Egremont, has given him a fortune suitable to his rank, which there seems not a doubt he will adorn as much as if no bend sinister had ever figured in his escutcheon. CAUTION.-Beware of tight laces, eat no roast beef, eschew spinach, come not near ale. We offer these brief, but well-considered, rules to our female readers. We recommend them to write them in their prayer-books, at the commencement of the marriage service, and to read them every morning before dressing, and every day before dinner. To young ladies, who follow the fashion of Nora Creena, and make use of no laces at all, we do not altogether interdict beef in moderate quantities—perhaps, even a little spinach may, in such instances, be tolerated. We dare not go any further. Those who dispense with the spinach, may indulge in half a glass of ale; but those who will torture nature into fashion, must, seduously, abstain from beef, spinach, and ale equally. The annals of the month offer a melancholy proof of the danger of combining external and internal pressure. Miss H. was young, handsome, witty-every thing, but she was addicted to beef and tight-lacing. The consequences were not long in being perceived. In proportion as the beef enlarged the diameter of Miss H.'s waist, in a similar proportion were the laces of her corset called into action, to repress its extension; in the interior, contended nature; on the exterior, art; expansion here, compression there; centrifugal force, in the one case, centripetal in the other; the laces were stubborn, the beef and spinach equally so. How long the well-balanced contest might have been sustained no mortal can tell; but, one unhappy day, the more solid viands were reinforced by a glass of ale-whether Wiltshire, or Burton, or Edinburgh, we have not been able, notwithstanding the most earnest inquiry, to ascertain. "The form sustained is but the essence died!" Miss H., who was at that moment, in the most interesting of employments, standing at the parlour window, contemplating the moon, fell back, and, though her laces were instantly cut, and a doctor sent for, both scissors and lancets proved equally unavailing. To each and to all, therefore, of our female friends, we say if you will squeeze, squeeze; if you will fill, fill; but think on Miss H. and the moon, and avoid squeezing and filling at the same time. JOURNAL OF LITERATURE WE commence our Literary Register by introducing to the notice of our readers a work in itself highly interesting, and calculated in an especial manner to gratify the feelings of an Englishman. It is a garland of song entwined at Calcutta, and is entitled "The Shaïr and other Poems," The author is by Kasiprasad Ghosh.* a young and respectable Hindu, the first of his countrymen "who has ventured to publish a volume of English poems." He was initiated in our tongue at the AngloIndian College of Calcutta, and this tribute to the genius of our language, affords decided proof that he profited by the instruction he received. It is, indeed, an astonishing production, proceeding, as it does, from so singular a source. The volume contains about two hundred pages, of which the poem called "The Shair," the Persian term for bard, occupies nearly eighty. There are, in addition, eleven poems on the Hindu Festivals, and a variety of minor pieces on miscellaneous subjects. The Shair is comprised in three cantos. Of plot, or incident, it is almost entirely destitute. Hassan, a Mussulman, sitting with his "Zeeran dear" in a "delightful rosy vale," recals the memory of a sweet, but unfortunate, minstrel once known to him. He relates how passionately he loved and was beloved, and how, after death had bereaved him of his Armita, he flung himself from a rock into the ocean. As might be expected, imperfections appear both in the versification and the application of words, still they are wonderfully few, and a very trifling measure of emendation would give the book, even in point of phraseology, a fair claim to naturalization in Britain. It is not in his principal poem that our Oriental minstrel has acquitted himself best. He is most at home in the Hindu Festivals, and his local and amatory verses. The song to Night (p. 21) is tender and elegant; it commences thus: "Sweet hour to soothe the soul's distress! To tempt the heart-delightful night!" timents of the latter as pure and elevated "Gold River! gold River! how gallantly now prow In the pride of her beauty how swiftly she flies, Like a white-pinioned spirit o'er topazpaved skies. Gold River! gold River! thy bosom is calm, And o'er thee, the breezes are shedding their balm : And Nature beholds her fair features pourtrayed In the glass of thy bosom-serenely displayed. Gold River! gold River! the sun to thy waves, Is fleeting, to rest in thy cool coral caves; And thence, with his tiar of light, in the morn, He'll rise, and the skies with his glory adorn. Gold River! gold River! how bright is the beam, That lightens and crimsons thy soft-flowing stream; Whose waters beneath make a musical clashing, Whose waves as they burst in their brightness are flashing. Gold River! gold River! the moon will soon grace The hall of the stars with her light-shedding face; The wandering planets will over thee throng, And seraphs will waken their music and song. Gold River! gold River! our brief course is done, And safe in the city our home we have won, And as to the bright sun now dropped from our view, So Ganga, we bid thee a cheerful adieu." Verses like these require no extenuating plea. Which of our erudite orientalists could fabricate equally good in Hindos all-important topic of education; learned and apparently unprejudiced Reviews of Classical and Mathematical Treatises, and a large body of extremely interesting miscellaneous information respecting British and Foreign Seminaries of learning, and the general state of national literature on the Continent. We can safely recommend it, therefore, to the attention and patronage of our readers. We shall only make one short, though we think exceedingly instructive, quotation. In our last number we hazarded some, we trust not uncandid, remarks on the present fallen state of literature in the University of Oxford. One of the brightest luminaries of the existing system was the late, and, in domestic life, amiable Dr. Alexander Nicol. He was a man of trifling and common-place conversation, but he luckily possessed great powers of silence, and a countenance which might have been mistaken for the index of either wisdom or weakness. He had shrewdness enough to depart from the ordinary walks of learning, and to devote himself entirely to the Oriental languages; in the study of which no competitor then existed in the University, and where envy and emulation, therefore, could never sit in judgment upon his attainments. The result was, a reputation which every man could afford to increase by his praise, without in the slightest degree endangering his own, or wounding his feelings of selflove. The Doctor was accordingly appointed, when little more than thirty years of age, to a Canonry of Christ Church, and to the Professorship of Hebrewsituations which yielded, in money, fully 1500. per annum, in addition to a mansion, such as learning has rarely the good fortune to inhabit. His friends intimated, from time to time, that his classic pen was about to perpetrate some work of surpassing erudition, but years passed away, and no such Sybilline volume delighted the eyes of an anxious world. It was next mysteriously hinted, that his time was engrossed with perusing and arranging the Oriental MSS. in the Bodleian Library, and a portion of a Catalogue which he published-similar to those which Booksellers and Auctioneers are wont to issue, though immeasurably more bulky and insignificant in its details, -gave some credit to a rumour which every lover of general knowledge was willing and happy to believe. But alas! the hopes of all were again disappointed, for he died and made no sign." Per adventure the "pawky" Canon had infinitely better reasons for not submitting the extent of his eastern acquirements to the test of public criticism, than his admirers, in the confidence of their enthusiastic ignorance, were prepared to imagine, or disposed to admit. At all events, the following extract from the Journal before us, being a translation from the preface of the learned Augustus W. Schlegel, to the lately published ancient Epic, entitled " Ramayana," will place Dr. Nicol's information respecting the subjects to which he latterly devoted himself, in a much more questionable position than could have been readily conceived. "I myself found moreover," says the indefatigable German, "a tattered fragment of the last books of the Ramayana at Oxford, but it is worth while to relate how this happened. I was informed by the celebrated Charles Wilkins, that the Arabic, Persian, and Sanscrit books had been sent thither, which James Fraser collected in the East in the middle of the last century, and enumerates at the end of his life of Nadir Shah; and my learned informant assured me that he had himself seen them at Oxford about twenty years before. I wrote to Alexander Nicholl, a professor at Oxford; his answer was, that he knew nothing of these MSS.; if they ever were in existence, they had doubtless been lost long ago. The learned professor of Oxford certainly speaks of the loss of MSS. quite as a matter of course: codices istos ipsi plane ignotos esse; si unquam exstiterint, sine dubio dudum deperditos.' I consequently gave up almost all hopes of finding them," Schlegel continues, "nevertheless I went to the very famous seat of learning. I was kindly received by the celebrated Alexander Nicholl, whose recent death is a misfortune to Oriental literature; he conducted me to the Bodleian library, of which he then had the care, and shewed me a single volume, containing some mythological fables and a medical treatise, and he declared that there were no other Sanscrit MSS. there. Notwithstanding his declation, I relied upon the distinct and important testimony of Charles Wilkins, and persisted in urging and questioning him for some time, when he at last thought of the Ratcliffe library. He accordingly hunted out his colleague, the librarian of that collection, who well remembered Fraser's Arabic and Persian MSS., but as for the Sanscrit he had totally and entirely forgotten them We commenced a diligent search: at last we drew forth from a press, which had long been unvisited, the separate and torn portions of MSS., covered with dust and dirt, and leaves rolled up to. gether promiscuously. Oh! what destruction did I then see! Nothing was ever scattered more confusedly from the Sybil's cave into every quarter of the heavens, when the leaves on which she used to write her oracles, were carried away by a sudden storm. I was not able to examine them all, for I was in haste to return home, it being late in the autumn, and winter was approaching. I selected, however, from the midst of that disgraceful confusion a fragment of the Ramayana, and I put together almost the entire MS. of the 'de Crishni èπipaveía (Sri Bhagavata poem Purana),' and I re-arranged as many of the leaves as I could find in their order. I had already noticed the unusual antiquity of the writing, and I read with no small astonishment these dates at the end of the books, Samvat, 1461-1463, i. e. A. Chr. 1405-7.' The most ancient in the king's library at Paris is a MS. of the same poem, which was written sixty-five years after, Samvat, 1528, A. Chr. 1472.' The University of Oxford, therefore, although still ignorant of its wealth, possesses a MS. which is most rare and indeed unique in Sanscrit literature." We are very much pleased with ATHERTON, A TALE OF THE LAST CENTURY, It has the stamp of a vigorous mind about it, and displays a close observation of ordinary life. The humorous scenes are generally very good, but the author's forte, when he chooses to exert his strength, lies in the powerful and the gloomy. His villain is such a villain as a gentleman ought to conceive; a creature who, like Milton's devil, retains our respect by the unappalled grandeur of his wickedness. Major Martin is a very powerful creation, something between Lucifer and Thurtell, while Nicholson, a diabolus of an inferior grade, is one of the paltrier denizens of the lower region, who would have submitted to have had his nose pulled by Saint Dunstan, or any other saint, and not have felt himself degraded by the indignity. In our limited space we can do little more than express a general opinion, but that opinion is highly favourable. There is no straining after effect. People-good, quiet, decent people—are brought before us, and think, speak, drink their rum and water, and go to bed, as good, quiet, decent people ought to do. The author, however, has tried the hazardous experiment of introducing wellknown characters upon his scene; but though, in general, we protest against the practice, as aiming at exciting an interest by means which we hardly consider to be fair, in this instance the difficulty is very well overcome. Although Wilkes and Dr. Johnson are introduced amongst the personages of the tale, they are not brought prominently forward; and the little we do see of Dr. Johnson strikes us to be in remarkably good keeping with his character. His style is well hit off; but at the same time we cannot avoid putting in a word or two in arrest of judgment upon the sobriety of our dear, gossiping, vain, delightful Bozzy. He confesses, indeed, * Atherton, a Tale of the last Century, by the author of Rank and Talent. 3 vols. 8vo. London Simpkin and Marshall. in his Life of the leviathan, that he is fond of wine; he even says, if we recollect right, too fond; but that confession is not to be taken against him in the general sense, that he was frequently drunk. His expression must be viewed more leniently; and we, therefore, object to our favorite biographer being presented to us in a state of hiccuping intoxication, more especially in the presence of the Doctor himself. This, however, is no great macula on the story, and we conclude by recommending it heartily to our readers, as a novel of deep interest and great acuteness of observation. If it were the fashion to judge of an author's pretensions by the number of books he writes, John Galt would rank, we believe, second only to one even in this productive age. Notwithstanding his frequent appearance, however, we should hold ourselves ungrateful did we not ever welcome him with unaffected sincerity, as the author of many lively and popular works, which have contributed, in no small degree, to our amusement. We can well remember with what exquisite delight we enjoyed the rich and racy humour, interspersed with traits of sly and sarcastic sagacity, so abundant in the "Annals of the Parish," and the "Ayrshire Legatees :" nor should we do Mr. Galt justice, did we not affirm, that it was from the admirable sketches of his pen, we first acquired an intimate knowledge of the middling and lower orders of Scotland, and of those homely and pathetic touches in their character, which he has, in his earlier works, so beautifully harmonized, by truth to nature, and an acute sense of national peculiarity. The chronicle of "Parish Annals," recorded by the humble, contented, and sincere minister of Ayrshire; the characteristic proceedings of the family club in the "Ayrshire Legatees;" and the peculiarities of the worthy "Provost;" are the products of a mind full of striking originality, and exquisite discrimination of character, and conversant with much worldly knowledge of the modes and manners of life. It may be said, indeed, without disparagement to Sir Walter Scott, that these works fully equalled the humorous and less dignified passages of his own novels; and that they supplied a vacancy in Scottish literature, which even that great novelist had not attempted to fill, by sketching in the principal characters, that peculiar vein of humour which, some northern critic remarked, depends on the combination of great naiveté, indolence, and occa |