the deep internal sense of what is good and amiable. Selfishness, detestable hard selfishness, is the cause of this. All polish on the surface, which has not benevolence for the material, is hollow and superficial. Do not suppose I mean this to be always, or even generally the case. On the contrary, as my acquaintance extends, I meet with those, particularly in one highly favoured family, who, with perfect good breeding and thorough knowledge of the world, are kind-hearted, genuine, and full of truth and good feeling. But what strikes me forcibly is, that when all outward means and appliances are used to produce refinement ;-when people are well educated, and live in good company, and still retain this underground of hardness, I cannot help thinking how inveterately vulgar the mind must be, that all these advantages cannot sweeten or soften. I feel angry at being deceived at first by the simulation, perhaps scarce voluntary, that has misled me. Dearest Flora, do not be angry at me. But you surely remember Werter's wooden hand, that used to repel and mortify him when he stretched out his in the spirit of amity. Often do I meet the wooden hand, and sorry should I be if I could meet it with indifference, for in that case my own would soon grow as hard as Daphne's of old. Now I do not wish to be too classical. Only to soothe your mild displeasure by reminding you, that nothing less than arriving at the same cold region can make one satisfied to witness the encounter of two dog-apes, which you know, or ought to know, Jacques talks of as an illustration of unmeaning compliment. I should like, in the meantime, to know what dog-apes are. I am glad you begin to relish Shakespeare. Read and re-read him. You will always grow to like him better. And let fashions and opinions change as they may, you will there find original unchangeable nature, which must in its elements be always the same; and then such poetry, such music! What unspeakable delight has the twentieth, I may safely say fortieth, reading of the Midsummer's Night's Dream afforded me? There are many persons, the depth of whose stupidity I have never sounded till I witnessed the apathy with which they witnessed all the doings and sayings of my ex

cellent friends Wall and Moonshine, not to mention the gentle Bottom, who was so much afraid of frightening the ladies. How you would have doated upon him! I am not sure either. You timid people, born to be controlled, would perhaps prefer a Hotspur, who seemed very fond of his gentle Kate, though he did not admit her into his counsels. I forgive people for not feeling the exquisite beauty of the poetry, which has so transported me, that I have, in very early days, almost wished myself" a mermaid on a dolphin's back," to have the power of uttering such "dulcet and harmonious sounds." I can forgive people for not listening to the harmony, or appreciating the beauty of the language in the poetical parts of this poem, for so I feel inclined to call it, because it is actually sermo ad clerum, poetry for poets. But why do they not laugh when the comedy is so palpable, so obvious? Now I know you are going to say that I include myself among the poeticaltribe. If you had furnished me with any of your surplus modesty, I should deny this. To you I do not. I plead guilty to an ear for the melody of verse which I possess in a still greater degree than that for the concord of sweet sounds, which is quite a different thing. I acknowledge, too, as much imagination as, added to the aforesaid faculty, might have made me a dabbler in verse, if I had less good taste and common sense. would be shocking to any one else, but it is to you, and you only. The same strong comprehension of the sublime and beautiful, which enables me to draw so much delight from the purest sources of poetic inspiration, has set my taste so high, that it is revolted by mediocre poetry, even with the powerful recommendations of being my very own. Even the moonlight lines on the lovers of St Kilda owe their preservation to you, else they should have been purified by fire like the rest of my metrical follies. Now as you must needs know everything, you are going to ask what has common sense to do in the matter? A great deal, for if any of these rhymes, pretending to be verses, should be handed about, our good unlettered friends would think me some strange animal, like a she unicorn; and better judges would think

This

me both mean and silly, if they saw me sitting on the lowest step of the ascent to "Fame's proud temple," begging a pittance of praise from those who pass by." I would not have others think of me what I think of mere versifiers. All this appears to you very bold and hardy. But this decision fits me for travelling, and for that same world which people are always railing at, and clinging to nevertheless.

waves.

Your super-delicacy would be hurt every moment if you were here, and your super-modesty would be insulted every hour by people who think they know every thing, because they have dwelt in cities, and that you know nothing, because you have been reading, thinking, and conversing among wild rocks that echo to wilder Leisure for reflection is never taken into their calculations. We differ from them as ruminating animals do from those that were forbidden to the Jews, for no reason that we can understand, but that they did not ruminate. This is what your favourite poet so finely, yet simply calls chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy." Can any one chew this cud under the paws of a hairdresser, or amid the squalling of an opera? From habit I do sometimes, and find it bitter enough in such circumstances. Reflections crowd upon me so much when writing to you, that I, the sworn enemy of selfishness, am becoming the greatest of egotists, constantly telling you what I think of this and that, not even saying, like Wolsey, with his Ego et Rex meus, Ego et Allan meus; he being at present sovereign of my time and actions. Who, indeed, would not give up every thing to a brother about to cross the burning line,-and such a brother too? But you are the last who should hear Allan's praises from me, if I could possibly help it. Of him I say much to myself that I do not say to you, because I need not; though sometimes it would relieve my over-burdened heart to do justice to his worth, where I feel that it is known and appreciated. I should be distracted if I heard of his being appointed to some dull inland fort, such as I have heard of, where he would languish for want of communication, and all his fine talents not merely bloom in the desart, but wither in

the sultry air, unseen and unregretted. Why should so much of all that would adorn, and even improve society, be thus banished from all who understand and love the owner of these goodly gifts? There are so many things that one looks forward to as necessary, and so seem endurable, that grow terrible when they come near! I grow irritable and nervous with constant suppressed suffering. Be charitable, and impute to this state of mind the unkind views I take of things and people about me; they appear to me living on the surface, and engrossed with frivolous cares and pleasures, because I feed in secret on sorrows too deep for utterance.

You know too well what a dark shade a departure of this kind and its results have thrown over my existence. I smile, and at times am lively as before, and should be sorry by betraying my own secret to extort a stinted alms of sympathy; I can never believe that those who complain much feel deeply. It is not our fellow mortals that can give the aid we want; I shall never seck it, nor ever mingle in society when I am unable to act my part in it. I should not to you say this, and yet you are the only person to whom I would say it, because you only can fully understand my feelings, and you only are not deceiv ed by the assumed cheerfulness by which I endeavour (and sometimes with partial success) to lull sensations that wake from short repose in pristine freshness of anguish. Allan, I see by the size of his packet, speaks fully for himself; he will say to you as he does to me, all that can alleviate the parting pang. The star of hope seems to lead him on with confidence. I cannot talk of this without tormenting myself and you. I will speak of our friend over whose darkened path you lament so feelingly. He has done all for Allan that a man with little interest and less wealth can do, and it is one of the things that embitter my spirits in this great theatre of human life, to see him act a part so subordinate, while his inferiors in every thing that is worthy of distinction, are wallowing in ill used wealth, or shining in undeserved honours. To give you a distinct idea of this eclipse would be difficult, and require a history too long for me to tell, or you to hear at present. It has been his fate

before, and more particularly since he swayed the deserted sceptre of the gorgeous East, to be surrounded with worthless satellites, cherished from the purest motives of compassion, but absorbing his lights and excluding more suitable associates, without making even the due returns of gratitude. When he returned first from India, we all know with what judicious liberality his little annuities were distributed among all the friends of his family who needed his aid, and how shamelessly his nearest connections wasted in coarse and tasteless luxury the munificent allowance he allotted to them, after repeatedly paying debts which it ill became them to incur. When the rule of India fell by a kind of accident into his hands, he on system made no friends of the mammon of unrighteousness. He refused presents, allowed no partialities to influence his distribution of offices, and in particular forbid his numerous relations, whom the fame of his success had attracted there, to come near him, or expect any favour from him in the infancy of his administration, thinking, no doubt, that if he were once established, and prior claims satisfied, he might attend to them at leisure. The clamour then recent against a Scotch administration at home warned him against the jealousy which a throne surrounded with Highland cousins would excite in the East. Thus betwixt real feeling of that virtue" the sons of interest call romance," and the prudence that dictated safe measures to preserve his authority, he went on in the slow but sure road to permanent distinction. Very unpopular for the time among his own friends, who thought him the most unpopular of governors, to still their murmurs his purse was ever open, and they found in the cousin what they missed in the governor in this unseen kindness.

But while he thought, good easy man, full surely

His greatness was a ripening,

comes a blast bearing on its wings another governor appointed to supersede him!

After this he could not with dignity, or indeed credit, accept of any inferior office where he had been supreme,

• Deserted by the return of Hastings to Europe.

and thus returned at an early age for a man who had climbed so high, and with a fortune rather I think diminished than increased by the high station he had filled. Being in the prime of life, and at perfect leisure, he tra velled abroad to add to his stores of knowledge, for you know he had not only a classical education, but the advantage of being educated under the auspices of a father who was an elegant and profound scholar. Here began the connections which have involved his remaining life in comparative obscurity. He was fond of the French manners and society. This was just before the breaking out of the Revolution, when the Anglomania and the passion for thinking were prevalent in France. His noble appearance, pleasant manners, and easy con versation, made him not only welcome but admired wherever he appeared, aud no doubt he might be considered as a kind of fallen star still retaining some faded splendour from his late high office. That he could not be much pleased with the hasty summons which had dispersed all his dreams of honourable ambition is to be presumed, and well as we like him, we shall not presume that he was unsusceptible of flattery, especially that administered by dukes and princes, not to mention the famed historian of the Declining Empire, who, during his too long residence at Lausanne, obtained more sway over his mind than might have been expected. Well, he returned to England full of the honours, the hospitalities, and the praises which had been poured upon him by the most pleasing and plausible of high born flatterers. That he had not, however, been an inattentive observer of the passing scenes and the characters concerned in them, is evident from some very well wrote letters to be found in that volume of Gibbon's works which contains his correspondence. Very soon after our friend's return to England, the storm broke out by which all that was noble, royal, or sacred in France, was overwhelmed in one common ruin. And when England became the refuge of the expatriated nobility, they found no door so open to them as of their late guest, so admired and caressed among them. Having spent most of his time in the East, where. he was almost worshipped, or abroad, where he was scarcely less attended

to, he had formed no intimacies in the higher ranks of life at home. And the dignity of his mind, as well as that derived from the station he had filled, forbid his forming a humbler association. His house being the known haunt of the emigrant nobility, was on that account rather avoided by those who chose to form no connection with these people, for it was now the fashion to look upon them as persons who had forsaken their king and country in the hour of distress, to seek inglorious safety among strangers. Living in an atmosphere of deceitful hopes, fed by false intelligence, this patron of the unfortunate was, in spite of his own better sense, persuaded that better days awaited his friends, and daily made advances for their support that would have been imprudent in a man of much larger fortune. Success sways the opinion of the world. Had the hopes of these exiles been realized, his praise would have resounded from all quarters as the generous friend of the distressed. As it was, after giving much, he met with ingratitude and reproach in many instances for not giving more, while more prudent people exulted over him as a dupe, and thought meanly of his abilities, because he could not see accomplished persons to whom he owed much kindness, perish for want, and because, like many others, he was deceived in his views of contingencies upon which no one could decide.

Thus the moderate ambition of his life, that of purchasing an estate in his native Highlands, has been disappointed. No other view has opened to him worthy of the acceptance of the ex-ruler of the East, and he is waiting to receive from his many masters some remuneration long withheld, to enable him to live in moderate comfort, and continue what he has never yet withheld, his annual benefactions to the poor of his father's parish, and small annuities to other individuals. I meant to be brief, but found it impossible. What a volume of reflections will this suggest to you who think more than any body, and how dark is the view when one looks intimately into the paths of ambition thus checked in its progress. But he has made others prosperous, and done good with very pure intentions.

Do not think I shall write such long letters when I have spirits to amuse or

be amused. Writing is my refuge just now, and only to you can I bear to write. Yes, do read Cowper, and do not listen to any one that tells you the fervour of his piety was tinctured with insanity. He had, like many others, a constitutional tendency to despond. Looking back to a youth of culpable idleness, and forward to an employment which he found himself incapable of doing justice to, while threatened poverty, disappointed love, and the displeasure of a set of heartless friends, stood up in terrible array before him, aided by the reproaches of a wounded conscience: Such an accumulation of misery was enough to shake the firmest nerves, and overwhelm a heart less tender. Religion had nothing to do in the matter, but as it came a solace and a cordial to a wounded spirit. But he was one of those persons not framed for neutrality. He always in some measure suffered when he did not enjoy. His enjoyments were of the most vivid nature, and his sufferings of proportioned acuteness. It was not religion in itself that occasioned his second fit of depression, but the monotonous life he led, without any change of society or amusement, as is evident from the manner in which he was cheered up by the society of Lady Austin. The privation he endured from Mrs Unwin's illness appears to have been the cause, with the sinking feebleness of age, of the melancholy that pre

ceded his death.

Where this unhappy predisposition exists, every engrossing passion or habit feeds it. And though religious melancholy excites a sort of triumph among the enemies of religion, depend upon it, the same feebleness of nerves or of mind that yields to visionary terrors, would equally yield to the ordinary calamities of life. Time presses, and I must defer saying all I wish on this most important subject, on which I have often and deeply reflected. Your religion is too mild and pure to darken your views of life, or produce an uncharitable spirit. It is not a gourd suddenly sprung up to be as suddenly blasted, but an evergreen which will shelter you with unfading verdure till it is succeeded by the palm of immortality. What a refuge is yours when the storms beat on those poor pensioners of a day, who have no higher hopes than those bounded by the narrow

horizon of time! I have many things to tell you that this outpouring of thought has delayed. My visit to Windsor, which takes place,-must I say before the fleet sails? Your dormant courage rises with the occasion, and I have seen you act nobly, when I with so much more seeming energy could not act at all. Need I remind you of the parents that must be comforted and supported in my absence? They have ever been as much yours as mine, and I know you so esteem them. This is the time to show the strength of your character, supported as it is by aid of which the world knoweth not.

I must dress, and when I go down to dinner no one will suspect that I have been pouring forth the lamentations of Christina. I should be sorry they did. What have they to do with

the heart that knoweth its own bitter

ness, and why should I cloud with unavailing and visible regret the little time that I have to spend with one so very dear to me? Do not believe a word you hear of my conquests; I shall be permitted to walk on, "in maiden meditation, fancy free," finding no one disposed to interrupt my cogitations. Depend upon it, that if my attractions had been as powerful as you imagine, I should have given you a much better account of the taste and discernment of the southrons than I have yet done. Commend me to your foster father. I have made provision for the mull, that will keep him in good humour for a year after my return. I am going to see the Court on a birth-day, and am predetermined to admire all I see, particularly if I am put into good humour by seeing something resembling your fair self. I am not fastidious, I am only fretful, sore with the disturbance that triflers occasion to a heart ill at ease. Tears would help to wash it away, but these come not often. Adieu, my dearest.

TO J. H. WIFFEN, ON RECEIVING FROM HIM A COPY OF HIS " AONIAN HOURS AND OTHER POEMS."*

[Mr A. A. Watts, author of the following elegant tribute to the genius of a friend, favoured us on a former occasion

Aonian Hours, a Poem, in Two Cantos, with other Poems. By J. H. Wiffen. Longman and Co. 1819.

was,

(in our Number for June 1818) with a copy of verses addressed to Octavia, which, although published with his name, somehow or other were ascribed to Lord Byron in several London Journals, into which they soon found their way. This one of his poems had thus been given to Lord Byron, it was supposed to be all fair, that he should be employed to vamp up the Vam pyre into a resemblance of the manner of that noble author. This, however, he positively refused to do, and of course retired from the conduct of the Magazine in which the Polidorian forgery made its first appearance, and of which he had till then been editor. We understand that a detail this mysterious transaction, (so murderous will soon be given of all that is known of to the literary name of the poor Doctor)and we fear we may apply to its guilty author the prophetic words of Virgil, Fas omne abrumpit: Polydorum obtrun

Mr Watts, but as no doubt, a great compliment to

cat, et auro

Vi potitur. Quid non mortalia pectora cogis,

Auri sacra fames?]

Would wish that tenderer gloom away?— Not I, in sooth,-thy pensive numbers,Than Joy's light music sweeter far,Can rouse my bosom's deepest slumbers;

Or when its inmates wildly war,— On my world-vexed, turbulent spirit break Soothing as bells on a twilight lake!

Lover of rivers, woods, and mountains !Haunter of Nature's green recesses!-When sparkles in eve's glassy fountains The light of Luna's silver tresses, Companionless 'tis thine to wander,

And watch the starry host assembling; On scenes, above-around to ponder;

"Till every pulse with love is trembling For HIM-who from darkness called up light,

And wrought from Chaos a world so bright!