It is the only means of getting you a bit of bread, Johnny, since poor father left us. Don't cry, mother, said little Johnny, running towards her; but I do so wish that I could do something myself to earn money enough to keep you from sticking so close to that bur-bur-burring wheel; I mean something of real use to you, continued he, as his mother looked at the net which he had been mending; I wish I could do something better than mending the meshes of old nets. You do enough for your age, dear, said his mother, and we shall manage to go on quite well while the summer lasts; all I dread to think of is the winter. O, mother, if you should have your rheumatism come on then, what would you do? I wish I were older to work for you. I cannot bear to think of it, answered his mother, weeping; if I should have my old complaint come back, I should not be able to work any longer, and then who is to take care of my poor Johnny? I have not a friend in the world that I could send to for help, if I were ill. Don't you recollect, mother, the French gentleman you have often told me about? perhaps he would help you, if he could know you are so poor. But he lives in Paris, and I can't write, so how is he to know the state I am in? answered his mother; or else I am sure he would never suffer any one belonging to the deliverer of his child to die of want. Besides, I well remember, (for many's the time I have heard my dear husband tell me the tale), when the child fell over the side of the vessel which was just ready to sail, and your dear father, plunging into the waves, brought back his infant safe and sound, and smiling in his face, the gentleman, after bending his head for an instant over the dear dripping babe, to hide his streaming eyes, (for, let a gentleman be never so manly, it's more than he can do to keep from crying like one of us, when he sees his own flesh and blood saved from death), he turned to your poor father, and said, in a fluttering-like, yet grand kind of voice, too-" Barton, you have done more for me than if you had saved my own life; I can never hope to repay you for the happiness you have given me at this moment, yet"-Before he could finish what he was going to say, your poor father turned away, saying, "Lord bless your honour, don't thank me; it's no more than what you'd have done for my Johnny, I'll swear, if you had seen him drop overboard like your young thing there." Your father was proud enough, then, Johnny, and he told me that he guessed that the gentleman was going to reward him, so he jumped into his boat which lay alongside, and the vessel sailed away immediately, and he never heard anything more of the gentleman: but though your father didn't want anything at that time from any body, being able, as he was, to gain his own living comfortably and honestly, much less to have a reward for having saved an innocent fellow-creature's life, yet I can't help wishing he'd made a friend of the gentleman, who couldn't but be grateful. How long ago was this, mother? said John, after thinking a little while. It was eight years since, come Midsummer day; I should surely remember it, continued Dame Barton, for when my good John Barton came home with an honest flush on his brow, and first told me the story, I looked on the dear babe I held in my arms, and thanked God it was not my own dear Johnny which had run the chance of a drowning death, instead of the little stranger. You were then a little more than a fortnight old, for to-morrow's the third of June, you know, your birthday, Johnny; and then you will be exactly eight years old. Do you think the gentleman has forgotten what my father did for him, mother? asked Johnny, after another and a longer pause. I don't think he has, but I can't say, for gentlefolk are apt to be forgetful. Perhaps, however, he has never been to England since then. Little John said no more, but went on very busily with his work; so busily, indeed, that when his mother looked at him again, she saw that he had finished his job. Why, how quickly you have worked, Johnny, said she, you didn't think to have done that net till tomorrow morning, did you? No, mother, answered John, but when I am talking to you, and thinking hard, it's surprising how the work gets on; I'm glad I've done it though, continued he, rising to put by his mesh and twine, for I shall be able to take it to Bill Haul to-night, instead of to-morrow, as I promised him. But it's getting dark, dear, I'm going to put away my wheel, said his mother. Oh, it's not too late, mother, I shall be there and back before you have put by your spinning-wheel, and got the haddocks out ready for supper; so good bye, good bye, mother, added he, seeing that she did not prevent his going, and off he ran. He's a dear, good little soul, and that's the truth on't, said Dame Barton to herself, as she listened to the eager footsteps of the boy, which crashed among the shingles, growing fainter and fainter every minute, till at last their sound could no longer be distinguished from the restless washing of the waves on the beach. I'm sure I oughtn't to be the one to It was a beautiful evening, and as little John This air blows towards France, said he, half aloud, Yes, he's wanting father to buy a cargo of apples Did you say he was going to France at four o'clock to-morrow morning, Bill? interrupted little John. Yes, the tide serves then to make the harbour of Boulogne, I heard him say, so he wants to be off do but hear what a chattering the French mounseer makes, said Bill, who was about fourteen years of age, and thought it looked manly to ridicule a Frenchman. By this time the bargain was concluded between the fisherman and the apple-merchant, and, as the latter left the cottage, John Barton took rather a hasty leave of his friend, and ran after the stranger, whom he overtook just as he reached the beach. Sir, Mr Frenchman, said John, as he approached him, somewhat out of breath,-sir, I want to speak to you if you please. Heh, what you say, littel boy? said the man, turn- A'n't you going to France, sir? said John. Why, sir, I want very much to go to France, and Why, I can give you nothing for taking me, to be Stop, stop, stop, interrupted the Frenchman, I was not tinking of what you could give me, or what you could do for me, but I was tinking what should be the use if I was to take you in my bateau-in my boat. Oh, then, you will take me, sir! O, thank you, sir, said John, eagerly; what use did you say, sir? Oh, I want very much to go to France to find a gentleman who I hope will be a friend to my poor mother. Your moder, did you say, my littel friend-if you Oh, thank you, kind Frenchman, taking his hand Oui, yes, returned the Frenchman, you may come, but be sure you do not be too late after-you must be quite positivement a littel before four, because I would not lose de marais, dat is to say de what you call de tide, for de universe. So saying, he walked away in the direction of Dover town, leaving John to pursue his way home to the hut under the cliffs. By this time the twilight had gradually given way to the coming on of night; and John Barton had been so earnestly engaged in talking and arranging his plan of going to France, that he had not perceived the increasing darkness. The sea that lay calmly before him, and the wide heavens that were above him, were both so exactly the same deep blue colour, that they seemed to touch and be one vast space, except that the waters beneath now and then broke into little white sparkles on the tops of the waves, and the sky over his head was bright with many stars. The cliffs around, with their white fronts stretching down towards the beach, looked cold and ghastly, and there was scarcely a sound to be heard but the flapping wings of a solitary sea-gull and the distant cry of the sailors keeping time to their pulling altogether, as they hauled in their cables. Little John could not help stopping for a moment to look round upon a scene which, although seen by him every day, yet seemed now to look particularly beautiful, and, at the same time, of a kind of awful loveliness. Now that he stood quite alone, and had time to think, he felt that he had just done a very bold thing in undertaking to make so long a voyage of his own accord, and without having asked the advice of anyone, no, not even the advice of his own mother. And then came the thought of what she would say when she found what he had done. I know, thought he, I am doing right, for I am trying to do good to my mother, and perhaps if I had asked her leave first, she would have been afraid to let such a little boy as I am go all alone, and with strangers, too; but then no one would hurt such a little fellow as I, I am sure; and then she would think that I never should be able to travel in France, because I have no money, and I can't speak French, which I have heard everybody speaks in France, even the little boys and girls, and she would be afraid I should have no bed, and be obliged to lie in the fields, and then she would perhaps forbid me to go, which I should be very sorry for, because I should not like to disobey her, yet all the time I should know I ought to go; for though there will be a great many difficulties, to be sure, yet I feel that if I try hard and do my best to get through them and help myself, that God will be so good and kind as to take care of me. Little John, as he thought of all this, looked over the blue waters, and felt the tears come in his eyes, and a kind of swelling sensation come over his breast, and it seemed to him as if he had never prayed so earnestly in all his life, though he could not say a word. Just then he recollected that it must be very late, and that he had stayed away from home so long that his mother would be uneasy; so he ran as quickly as he could towards the hut, determining that he had better not mention his intention of going to his mother at all. Why, Johnny dear, said she, as he bounced into the cottage door quite out of breath, what a long time you have been away. I suppose neighbour Haul kept you? John felt inclined to say, yes, mother; but he knew it would not be quite the truth, so he said, I stayed a little time talking with Bill Haul, mother, and I stayed the rest of the time on the beach, but, if you please, mother, I would rather you wouldn't ask me what I stayed there for. Very well, dear, said his mother; no harm, I dare say. No, indeed, mother, answered John; and they sat down to their supper of dried fish, onions, and brown bread. What ails you, child, a'n't you hungry, said his mother, observing that he cut off his usual portion of bread and fish, but that, instead of cating it at once, he took only a small piece of cach, and put by the rest. Thank'ee, mother, I don't wish the whole of it to-night, said John, for he thought that he should want something to take with him the next morning, and he did not like to deprive his mother of any more than he could help, as she could so ill afford to spare it. And then he was still more glad that he had not told his mother of his intended voyage, for, even if she had allowed him to go, she would have given him everything that she had in the house, and left herself intirely without food. When the time came for going to bed, and little John wished his mother good night, as she placed her hand as usual on his head, and said, God bless you, my comfort, he again felt the swelling sensation at his breast, and was very much inclined to throw himself into her arms, and tell her all he had intended to do for her; but he checked himself, and saying, May He be a friend to us, kissed his mother fervently and tenderly, and ran hastily into his own little room, where he threw himself on his straw mattress, and was soon soundly asleep. The first thing when he awoke, he was alarmed to see that it was already light, and feared that the sun must be risen. He jumped up, put on his clothes as quickly as he could, put up his two remaining checked shirts in a bundle together, with two more pair of grey stockings, and tying his best handkerchief (which his mother had given him for a keepsake) round her spinning-wheel, as a sort of farewell remembrance, for he could not write, he left the cottage, and ran as fast as he could along the sea-beach, eating part of the remainder of his supper as he went. It was not until he had reached the harbour, that he found the sun was already up, for the cliffs hindered him from seeing it while he was on the beach underneath them; he was afraid it was very late, and asked a man who was standing with his hands in his pockets looking at a crab that lay kicking on its back among some sea-weed, what o'clock it was. man carelessly answered, without looking up, past four. The Oh, dear! I shall be too late; what shall I do? exclaimed little John. Master, continued he, turn ing again to the man, who was now scraping some sand with his foot over the sprawling erab, I say, master, have you seen a Frenchman about here this morning? The man stared for a moment full in little John's face, and said, Lord, how should I know! and then returned again to his stupid cruel amusement. Oh, dear me! what shall I do?-but I had better not stay here, thought little John, I must do as well as I can, and try to find him out for myself. He went towards a few aen whom he saw at a little distance, who seemed to be watching some fishing boats going out. As he pushed into the midst of them, he felt himself touched on the shoulder, and on looking round, he saw his friend, the Frenchman. Ah, my littel ami, my littel friend, said he, you are very good time here, I see. Oh, I am glad I have found you, I was afraid I should be too late, for a man told me just now, that it was past four o'clock. No, no such ting, answered the Frenchman, it is half a hour past tree only. Oh, I am so glad, for then there will be time for me to run and leave a message with Bill Haul for my mother, who, I am afraid, will be frightened, when she finds I have gone away. The Frenchman agreed, telling him to mind and be back in time, and so John went to Bill Haul, and told him all about his intended journey to France, begging him to go every day and see his mother, and be kind to her, for his sake, while he was away. Bill Haul promised all this, for he loved little John Barton for his good nature and obligingness, so that when John returned to the harbour he felt much happier than he did before, now that he knew his mother would know where he was, and that she would have some one to go and help her in his absence. At first, John Barton was very happy on board the Frenchman's boat, helping him and two other men who were aboard to work the vessel, but when he had been there about an hour and a half, he began to feel very sick at the stomach, and his head ached so much, that he had a great mind to ask Jacques Bontemps (which was the name of the captain of the little French vessel), if he might go into the cabin and lie down for a little while; but as he saw that he and the men were busy, he thought he would manage as well as he could for himself; so seeing a large boat-cloak in a corner, he threw himself upon it, and had not lain long there before he felt quite recovered, which perhaps would not have been the case if he had gone below, as the warm air of a confined cabin is more likely to bring on sea-sickness than to relieve it. The fresh air of the deck, and his being constantly at work, made him quite well; and when the Frenchman came to him to see if he wanted any breakfast, he found that he was very hungry. He produced a small bit of dried fish and some crust, which was all that was left of his provision, and began to eat it. Ah, my poor littel ami! What, is dat all what you have for your dejeuné?-for your breakfast. Stop, stop! Stay, let me see if I cannot give you something better. The kind Jacques went and fetched him some boiled eggs, wine, some bread, and something which he called fromage de cochon.* John thanked him, and eat it very heartily; but he mixed some water with the wine. Jacques Bontemps, who was watching him, said: Ah, ha! it is all very well dat you put de water to de wine now, but you will like it quite by itself when you have been a littel time in France. What for are you going to France? continued he, and for how long time? John answered that he did not know how long he should be there, but he was going to try and find out a gentleman who lived in Paris. And what name is de gentleman? and what street in Paris does he live in? asked Jacques. But when little John told him he knew neither, and that he had no money, nor could not speak a word of French, the good-natured Frenchman lifted up his hands and eyes in astonishment, and exclaimed: Bon Dieu, est il possible! My poor littel friend, how will you do to travel all dat way if you have no money? I would myself go wid you and show you de way, but I must not leave my mêtier-my trade; and I have very littel money to give away, but what I can give, I will. So saying, the good out a half-frane piece and fifteen sous,§ and gave them to little John Barton, who had scarcely ever had so large a sum in all his life. [To be concluded in our next Journal.] man took TABLE TALK. Benefits of Ventilation. For several weeks before the plague broke out in London, in 1665, there was an uninterruped calm, so that there was not even sufficient motion in the air to turn a vane. And at the season in which the last plague visited Vienna there had been no wind for three months. To produce agitation in the air, fires were formerly lighted, and pieces of artillery discharged, means altogether inefficient to cause a considerable commotion in the atmosphere at large, though a fire is extremely serviceable in renewing the air of apartments in houses: the only means adequate to this end are beyond our controul, though they frequently take place at the moments of the utmost need: these are storms and hurricanes which, however desolating in their immediate effects, are instruments of great, though less obvious good. After the hurricane which proved so destructive to the inhabitants of the West Indies, in 1780, less disease occurred than had been known before; even those who laboured under sickness at the time were benefited by it; fever, diarrhoeas and dysenteries, but, above all, disorders affecting the lungs, were cured. Cases of intermittent fever were observed to be cured by an earthquake at Caracas, in March, 1812. (See Brande's Quarterly Journal of Science for 1817, vol. II. p. 401.) After the expectation of a storm. plants give out more oxygen, which accounts for the delightful and life-giving freshness of the air, of which every one is sensible who walks out into the fields immediately afterwards.-One of the most convincing proofs of the different influence of foul and pure air is to be found in the Report of the Lying-in Hospital of Dublin.' In the space of four years, ending in 1784, in a badly ventilated house, there died 2944 children out of 7650. But after freer ventilation, the deaths in the same period of time, and in a like number of children, amounted only to 279. Attention to this point will prove a protection from numerous causes of disease. annual mortality of Manchester, in 1757, was 1 in 25, and in 1729, 1 in 28; but in 1811, it was 1 in 74; a charge mainly attributable to the improvements in ventilation effected by Drs Percival and Ferrier. 6 The Opinions of Aristotle.-The works of this philoso. pher (of which, however, only forty-eight exist, out of a multitude supposed to have amounted to four hundred) embrace nearly the whole range of human knowledge as it existed in his day. He was the inventor of the syllogistic mode of reasoning, the principles of which he lays down in his work on logic. In his books on rhetoric, he has investigated the principles of eloquence with great accuracy and precision, insomuch that they form the basis of all that has since been written on the subject. His work on poetics, or rather the fragment which has come down to us under that name, although almost intirely confined to the consideration of the drama, contains principles applicable to poetical composition in general, and is equally distinguished for precision and depth of thought. Those on ethics and politics are also remarkable productions; and although the former has been effectually superseded by a more perfect system, the latter contains much that is interesting, even at the present day. In his metaphysics, he expounds the doctrine of Being, abstracted from Matter, and speaks of a first mover-the life and intellect of the universe, eternal and immutable, but neither omnipresent nor omnipotent. When treating of physics, he does not in general lay down rules à priori, but deduces them from the observation and comparison of facts. This being the case, we might expect that such of his writings as relate to natural history should contain much truth. He holds that all terrestrial bodies are composed of four elements, earth, water, air, and fire. Earth and water are heavy, because they tend towards the earth's centre; while air and fire, which tend upwards, are light. Besides these four elements, he has admitted a fifth, of which the celestial objects were composed, and whose motion is always circular. He supposed that there is above the air, under the concave part of the moon, a sphere of fire to which all the flames ascend, as the brooks and rivers flow into the ocean. He maintains that matter is infinitely divisible; that the universe is full, and that there is no vacuum in nature; that the world is eternal; that the sun, which has always revolved as it does at present, will for ever continue to do so; and, finally, that the generations of men succeed one another without having had a beginning or foreseeing an end. the heavens are incapable of decay; and that although He alleges that sublunar things are subject to corruption, their parts nevertheless do not perish; that they only change place; that from the remains of one thing another is made; and that thus the mass of the world always remains intire. He holds that the earth is in the centre of the world, and that the First Being makes the skies revolve round the earth, by intelligences which are continually occupied with these motions. He asserts that all the globe which is now covered by the waters of the sea, was formerly dry land; and that what is now dry land will be again converted into water. The reason is this; the rivers and torrents are continually carrying along sand and earth, which causes the shores gradually to advance and the sea gradually to retire; so that, in the course of innumerable ages, the alleged vicissitudes necessarily take place. He adds that in several parts which are considerably inland, and even of great elevation, the sea, when retiring, left shells, and that, on digging in the ground, anchors and fragments of ships are sometimes found. Ovid attributes the same opinion to Pythagoras. Aristotle further remarks, that these conversions of sea into land, and of land into sea, which gradually take place in the long lapse of ages, are in a great measure the cause of our ignorance of past occurrences. He adds that besides this, other accidents happen, which give rise even to the loss of the arts; and among these the innumerable pestilences, wars, famines, earthquakes, burnings, and desolations, which exterminate all the inhabitants of a country, excepting a few who escape and save themselves in the deserts, where they lead a savage life, and where they give origin to others, who, in the progress of time, cultivate the ground, and invent or rediscover the arts; and that the same opinions recur, and have been renewed times without number. In this manner, he maintains that, notwithstanding these vicissitudes and revolutions, the machine of the world always remains indestructible.-Lives of Zoologists. A Lesson in Sentiment. The deeds of their ances tors are painted on the great bridge of Lucerne; and, poor as the pictures are, they gave me pleasure. They must not be considered as works of art, but, as records of memorable acts, are highly honourable, for they nurture a glowing love of freedom. I might reply to any unseasonable critic in the words of Shakspeare, when the courtiers, in the Midsummer Night's Dream,' were despising the rude dialogue of Moonshine and Wall; and when Theseus made them this remarkable answer,-" The best of this kind are but shadows, and the worst of them are not worse, if imagination amend them."-Matthison's Travels. ΤΟ CORRESPONDENTS. OUR best thanks to the Lady who forwarded us in so kind a manner the verses of Mr Landor, addressed to the President of the United States. We need not say how much we regret our inability to insert them in this unpolitical journal. We shall make ourselves and our readers amends however, by the further extracts we intend to give from his last volume of poetry. Z. Z. next week. Also H. S. VINDEX will see, by intimations to Correspondents in our two last numbers, that we mean to give no further occasion for the excitement of controversial topics. The author of the sonnet "To a Friend labouring under severe Indisposition," &c. writes with excellent good sense and feeling, but his style is hardly original enough to do him justice, except in the striking line in which he speaks of "Fortitude, the giant of the heart." We are not aware of any "cause of complaint" which our friend E. W. V. has with us, on the score of not answering Correspondents. We must really in that matter. say that we take ourselves to be very well-behaved The circumstance he notices with regard to some of the shops, has often astonished us; but we cannot discuss the subject in this Journal, the object of which is to point out the beautiful, and not to contend with the deformed. H. R.'s feelings are genuine; and his love of poetry worth cultivating, at his leisure. He, and our other young friend TENTATOR, should read the old English poets, that they may learn to care less for conventional styles, and the mere fitting of one line to another. We will endeavour to do what F. H. wishes. Thanks to F. Sr JNo. N., for his pleasant letter. We shall be happy to hear from him on the subject he speaks of. Meantime, a letter containing a query is left for him at Mr Hooper's, if he will be good enough to apply for it. Also another for our esteemed the same trouble. Correspondent, PEREGRINE REEDPEN, if he will take In consequence of a letter we have received from the fair writer, it is proper to state that the verses to Flowers, inserted a few weeks back from her pen, were not intended by her to be signed with her name at length, but only with the initials I. J. T. It was our own doing, the putting the name at length. We wished to let the reader know that they were written by a lady, and did not consider that one of the Christian names would have been sufficient. LONDON: Published by H. HoOPER, 13, Pall Mall East. From the Steam-Press of C. & W. REYNELL, Little Pulteney-street. LONDON JOURNAL. TO ASSIST THE ENQUIRING, ANIMATE THE STRUGGLING, AND SYMPATHIZE WITH ALL. WEDNESDAY, Nov. 5, 1834. OF PETER WILKINS AND THE FLYING WOMEN. As we mentioned this book in our last, and our readers (to judge from those who have expressed any opinion on the matter) appear to like the articles we have given them on imaginative beings, we will devote the present paper to some account of our old friend Peter Wilkins and his bride; and then quit, for the present, this tempting class of subjects, in behalf of the variety expected of us. The Adventures of Peter Wilkins' is a book written about a hundred years back, purporting to be the work of a shipwrecked voyager, and relating the discovery of a people who had wings. It is mentioned somewhere, with great esteem, by Mr Southey, if our memory does not deceive us; and has been altogether so much admired, and so popular, that we are surprised Mr Dunlop has omitted it in his History of Fiction.' The name, Peter Wilkins,' has, to the present perplexed and aspiring generation (not yet knowing what to retain and what to get rid of) a poor and vulgar sound. It is not Montreville, or Mordaunt, or Montgomery. "Peter" is not the name for a card. "Wilkins" hardly announces himself as a diner with dukes. But a hundred years ago people did not conceive that a gentleman's pretensions were nominal. What novelist now-a-days would call his hero "Tom Jones?" Yet thus was his great work christened by Fielding, a man of noble family. However, there is a "preferment" in the instinct of this aspiration. Society has had a lift, No. 32. with a prophecy important to their well-be- kind. But his lords, his architects, and his miners, The author of this curious invention must have PRICE THREE Halfpence. being the author of this delightful invention. Even the miners seem to belong to the author of the Bermuda scheme; and he had traversed the seas, and been conversant with all honest paths of life. There would also have appeared to him good reason for not avowing the book, how Christian soever, when he came to be a Bishop. But these inquiries are foreign to our pages. A peacock, with his plumage displayed, full of "rainbows and starry eyes," is a fine object; but think of a lovely woman set in front of an etherial shell, and wafted about like a Venus. This is perhaps the best general idea that can be given of Peter Wilkins's bride. In the first edition of the work, published in 1751 (at least we know of none earlier), there is an engraved explanation of the wings, or might be called a natural webbed-silk. rather drapery, for such it was when at rest. It We are to fancy a nymph in a vest of the finest texture and of the most delicate carnation. On a sudden, this drapery parts in two and flies back, stretched from head to foot behind the figure like an oval fan or umbrella; and the lady is in front of it, preparing to sweep blushing away from us, and "winnow the buxom air." It has been objected, that the wings of Peter's woman consist rather of something laced and webbed than proper angelical wings, that this something serves her also for drapery, that the drapery therefore is alive, and that we should be shocked to find it warm and stirring. The objection is natural in a and is inclined to take everything for an advantage is to Elizabeth, Countess of Northumberland; the merely animal point of view; and yet, speaking for and an elegance which it sees in possession of its new company. By and bye, it will be content with the real elegancies, and drop the pretended. It is a great honour to a writer to invent a being, at once new and delightful; and the honour is not the less, for the apparent obviousness of the invention. Let any one try to make a new combination of this sort, and he will find how difficult it is. We will venture to say, that besides genius in the ordinary sense of the word, there is a faith in it, and a remoteness from things worldly, that implies a virtue and a child-like simplicity, not common but to minds of the higher order. Some writers would think they were going to be merely childish; and would very properly desist. Others would be apprehensive of ridicule; and would desist with like reason. that everybody would succeed, who fancied he should. Taste and judgment are requisite to all good inventions, as well as an imagination to find them; and there must be, above all, a strong taste for the truth; Not verisimilitude, or the likeness of truth, being the great charm in the wildest of fictions. It is very difficult to unite the imaginative with the worldly; and men of real genius sometimes make mistakes, in consequence, fit only for the most literal or incoherent understandings. We have headed our article Flying Women,' instead of the Flying People, because, though the beings dicovered by our friend Peter are of both sexes, we could never quite persuade ourselves that his males had an equal right to their graundee. All how ever, that he says about the Flying Nation as a people is ingenious. He has escaped, in particular, in a most happy manner, from the difficulty of introducing his plain-backed hero among them without lessening his dignity, by means of implicating him rom the Steam-Press of C. & W. REYNELL, Little Pulteney-street.] lady to whom Bishop Percy dedicated his Relics of Berkeley. It has all the ease and the cordial deli- fancied that Abraham Tucker wrote it, or Bishop The Bishop is said to have been asked by the flighty the moon were to manage for "baiting-places?" to which We ourselves, we confess we have been so accustomed to idealities, and to aspirations after the predominancy of moral beauty in physical, that it is with an effort we allow it to be so. Supposing it, at first, to be something to which we should have to grow reconciled, we conceive, that pity for the supposed deformity would only endear us the more to the charming and perfect womanhood to which it was attached. have often thought, that real tenderness for the sex would not be so great or so touching,-certainly it could not be so well proved,—if women partook less than they do of imperfection. But the etherial power as well as grace belonging to our flying beauties could not long permit us to associate the idea with deformity. Our admiration of beauty, as it is (unless we hold with some philosophers, that it is a direct ordinance of the Divine Being) is the effect of custom and kind offices. It is true, there is something in mere smoothness and harmony of form, which appears to be sufficient of itself to affect us with pleasing emotions, distinct from any reference to moral beauty; but the last secrets of pleasures, the most material, are in the brain and the imagination. The lowest sensualist, if he were capable of reflection, would find that he was endeavouring to grasp some shadow of grace and kindliness, even when he fancied himself least given to such refinements. The worst like to receive pleasures from the best. The very seducer, in the sorry improvidence of his selfishness, seeks to be mistaken for what he is not; to enjoy innocence instead of guilt; to read in the eyes of simplicity what a transport it is to be loved; and to piece out the instinctive consciousness of his own want of a just moral power by the stealing of one that is unjust. Being a man, he cannot help these involuntary tributes to the soul of beauty. If it were otherwise, he would be an idiot, or a fly on the wall. We think it, therefore, perfectly natural in our friend Peter, seeing of what lovely elements the mind as well as the body of his new acquaintance is composed, to feel nothing but admiration for an appendage which doubles her power to do him good, and which realizes what it is natural for us all to long for in our dreams. The wish to fly seems to belong instinctively to all imaginative states of being-to dreams, to childhood, and to love. The furious driving of royalty is an unconscious parody on it. Flying seems the next step to a higher state of being; and if we could fancy human nature taking another degree in the scale, and displacing the present inhabitants of the world by a new set of creatures, personally improved, the result of a climax in refinement, what we should expect in them would be wings to their shoulders. We proceed to lay before our readers, from the complete edition of this romance,* the passages describing our hero's first knowledge of the flying people, and the account of his bride and her behaviour. As I lay awake, says our voyager, one night or day, I know not which, I very plainly heard the sound of several human voices, and sometimes very loud; but though I could easily distinguish the articulations, I could not understand the least word that was said; nor did the voices seem at all to me like such as I had anywhere heard before, but much softer and more musical. This startled me, and I arose immediately, slipping on my clothes, and taking my gun in my hand (which I always kept charged, being my constant travelling companion), and my cutlass. I was inclined to open the door of my anti-chamber, but I own I was afraid; besides, I considered that I could discover nothing at any distance, by reason of the thick and gloomy wood that inclosed me. I had a thousand different surmises about the meaning of this odd incident; and could not conceive how any human creatures should be in my kingdom (as I called it) but myself, as I never yet saw them or any trace of their habitation. These thoughts kept me still more within doors than before, and I hardly ever stirred out but for water or firing. At length, hearing no more voices, nor seeing any one, I began to be more composed in my mind, and at last grew persuaded it was all a mere delusion, and only a fancy of mine without any real foundation; so the whole notion was soon blown over. I had not enjoyed my tranquillity above a week, before my fears were roused afresh, hearing the same sound of voices twice in the same night, but not many minutes at a time, and I was resolved not to venture out, but then I determined if they should come again any thing near my grotto, to open the door, see who they were, and stand upon my defence, whatever came of it. Thus had I formed my scheme, but I heard no more of them for a great while, so that at length I became tranquil again. fresh I passed the summer (though I had never yet seen the sun's body) very much to my satisfaction; partly in the work I had been describing, (for I had taken two more seals, and had a great quantity of oil from them,) partly in building me a chimney in my antichamber of mud and earth burnt on my own hearth into a sort of brick; in making a window at one end of the above-said chamber, to let in what little light would come through the trees when I did not choose to open my door; in moulding an earthen lamp for my oil; and finally in providing and laying stores, and salt (for I had now cured and dried many more fish) against winter. These I say were my summer employments at home, intermixed with many agreeable excursions. But now the winter coming on and the days growing very short, or indeed there being no day, properly speaking, but a kind of twilight, kept mostly in my habitation, though not so much as I had done the winter before, when I had no light within doors, and slept, or at least lay still, great part of my time; for now my lamp was never out. I also turned two of my scal-skins into a rug to cover my bed, and the third into a cushion which I always sat upon, and a very soft warm cushion it made. All this together rendered my life very easy, nay even comfortable; but a little while after the darkness or twilight came on, I frequently heard the voices again; sometimes in great numbers. threw me into new fears, and I became (as uneasy as ever, even to the degree of growing quite melancholy. No earnestly to be either delivered from the uncertainty When I laid her down, I thought, on laying my I then spoke to her, and asked her divers questions as if she understood me; in return of which she uttered language I had no idea of, though in the most musical tone, and with the sweetest accent I ever heard. You may imagine we stared heartily at each other, and I doubted not but she wondered as much as I by what means we came so near each other. I offered her everything in my grotto which I thought might please her: some of which she gratefully received, as appeared by her looks and behaviour. But she avoided my lamp and always placed her back towards it. 1 observed that, and took care to set it in such a position myself as seemed agreeable to her, though it deprived me of a prospect I very much admired. After we had sat a good while, now and then, I may say, chattering to one another, she got up and took a turn or two about the room. When I saw her in that attitude, her grace and motion perfectly charmed me, and her shape was incomparable; but the straightness of her dress put me to a loss to conceive either what it was, or how it was put on. Well, we supped together, and I set the best of everything I had before her, nor could either of us forbear speaking in our own tongue, though we were sensible neither of us understood the other. After supper I gave her some of my cordials, for which she showed great tokens of thankfulness. When supper had been sometime over, I showed her my bed and made signs for her to go to it; but she seemed very shy of that till I showed her where I meant to lie myself, by pointing to myself, then to that, and again pointing to her and to my bed. When at length I had made this matter intelligible to her, she lay down very composedly; and after I had taken care of my fire, and set the things I had been using for supper in their places, I laid myself down too. I treated her for some time with all the respect respect, striving all I could to imitate her. With After my new love had been with me a fortnight, At length one night, or day, I cannot say which, hearing the voices very distinctly, and praying very • The latest was published in 1816, by Allman. It was followed by an abridgment, purporting to be the intire work, but affording almost as inadequate an idea of it in spirit as in letter. I took my boat, net, and water-cask, as usual; desirous of bringing her home a fresh-fish dinner, and succeeded so well as to catch enough for several meals, and to spare. What remained, I salted, and found that she liked that better than the fresh, after I must here make one reflection upon our conduct which you will almost think incredible, namely, that we two, of different sexes, fully inflamed with love to each other, and no outward obstacle to prevent our wishes, should have been together under the same roof alone for five months, conversing together from morning till night (for by this she pretty well understood English, and I her language), and yet I should never have clasped her in my arms, or have shown any farther feelings to her, than what the deference I all along paid her could give her room to surmise. Nay, I can affirm that I did not even then know that the covering she wore was not the work of art, but the work of nature, for I really took it for silk. Indeed, the modesty of her carriage and sweetness of her behaviour to me, had struck into me such a dread of offending her, that though nothing upon earth could be more capable of exciting passion than her charms, I could have died rather than have attempted to salute her only, without actual invitation. When the weather cleared up a little, by the lengthening of day-light, I took courage one afternoon to invite her to walk with me to the lake, but she sweetly excused herself from it, whilst there was such a glare of light; but told me, if I would not go out of the wood, she would accompany me; so we agreed to take a turn only there. I first went myself over the stile of the door, and taking her in my arms, lifted her over. But even when I had her in this manner, I knew not what to make of her clothing, it sat so true and close; but I begged she would let me know of what her garment was made. She smiled, and asked me if mine was not the same under my jacket? No, lady, answered I, I have nothing but my skin under my clothes. Why, what do you mean? she replied, somewhat tartly; but indeed I was afraid something was the matter, by that nasty covering you wear, that you might not be seen. Are not you a glumm? Yes, fair creature. continued she, I am afraid you must have been a very bad glumm, and have been crashee, which I should be very sorry to hear. I replied, I hoped my faults Then, had not exceeded other men's; but I had suffered abundance of hardships in my time, and that at last, Providence having settled me in this spot, from whence I had no prospect of ever departing, it was none of the least of its mercies to bring to my knowledge and company the most exquisite piece of all his works in her, which I should acknowledge as long as I lived. She was surprised at this discourse, and said, Have not you the same prospect that I or any other person has of departing? You don't do well, and really I fear you are slit, or you would not wear this nasty cumbersome coat (taking hold of my jacket-sleeve), if you were not afraid of showing the signs of a bad life upon your natural clothing. I could not for my heart imagine what way there was to get out of my dominions; and as to my jacket, I confess she made me blush; and, but for shame, I would have stripped to my skin to have satisfied her. But, madam, said I, pray pardon me, for you really are mistaken; I have examined every nook and corner of this island, and can find no possible outlet. Why, replied she, what outlets do you want? If you are not slit, is not the air open to you as well as other people? I tell you, sir, I fear you have been slit for your crimes; and though you have been so good to me that I can't help loving you heartily for it, yet, if I thought you had been slit, I would not stay a moment longer with you, though it should break my heart to leave you. I found myself now in a strange quandary, longing to know what she meant by being slit. But seeing her look a little angrily upon me, I said, Pray, madam, don't be offended, if I take the liberty to ask you what you mean by the word crashee, so often repeated by you? for I am an utter stranger to what you mean by it. Sir, replied she, pray answer me first how you came here? Madam, replied I, if you will please to take a walk to the verge of the wood, I will show you the very passage. Well, replied she, now this odious dazzle of light is lessened, I don't care if I do go with you. When we came far enough to see the bridge, There, madam, said I, there is my entrance, where the sea pours into this lake from yonder cavern! It is not possible, answered she; this is another untruth; and as I see you would deceive me, and are But not to be believed, farewell; I must be gone. hold! let me ask you one thing more, that is, by what means did you come through that cavern? You could not have used to come over the rock! Bless me, madam! said I, do you think I and my boat could fly? Come over the rock, did you say? No, madam; I sailed from the great sea, in my boat, through that cavern into this very lake. What do you mean by your boat? said she; you seem to make two things of your boat you sailed with and yourself. I do so, replied I, for I take myself to be good flesh and blood, but my boat is made of wood and other materials. Is it so? And pray where is his boat that is made of wood and other materials? under your jacket? Lord, madam! said I, what! put a boat un der my jacket! No, madam, my boat is in the lake. What, more untruths! said she. No, madam, I replied, if you would be satisfied of what I say (every word or which is as true as that my boat now is in the lake), pray walk with me thither, and make your own eyes judges what sincerity Í speak with. pleasure of looking eagerly on you, it conceals my blushes from your sight. In this manner, exchanging mutual endearments and soft speeches, hand in hand we arrived at the grotto. ti The author here proceeds to give an account of his nuptials, which, though given in the very best ste of the time, and evincing great purity as well as pleasurability of nature, is better left in its place than brought forw. which invest it. ard out of the other circumstances did not know But are not such of our readers, a To this she agreed, it growing dusky; but assured me if I did not give her good satisfac- her before, glad of their new acquaintance? tion, I should see her no more. We arrived at the lake; and going to my wetdock, Now, madam, pray satisfy yourself whether I spoke true or no. She looked at my boat, but could not yet frame a proper notion of it, till I stept into it, and pushing from the shore, took the oars in my hand and sailed along the lake by her as she walked on the shore. At last she seemed so well reconciled to me and my boat, that she desired I would take her in. I immediately did so, and we sailed a good way; and as we returned to my dock I described to her how I procured the water we drank, and brought it to the shore in that vessel. Well, said she, I have sailed, as you call it, many a mile in my life-time, but never in such a thing as this. I own it will serve where one has a great many things to carry front place to place; but to be labouring thus, when one intends pleasure in sailing, is in my mind most ridiculous. Why, pray, madam, how would you have me sail? for getting into the boat only will not carry us this way or that, without using some force. But pray where did you get this boat, as you call it? O, madam! I answered, that is too long a story to begin upon now; but I will make a faithful relation of all to you, when we get home. it I now perceived, and wondered at it, that the later grew, the more agreeable it seemed to her; and as I had now brought her into a good humour again by seeing and sailing in my boat, I was not willing to prevent its increase. I told her if she pleased we would land, and when I had docked uy boat, I would accompany her where and as long as she liked. As we talked and walked by the lake, she made a little run before me, and sprung into it. Perceiving this, I cried out; whereupon she n terrily called on me to follow her. The light was then so dim, as prevented my having more than a confused sight of her when she jumped in; and, looking earnestly after her, I could discern nothing more than a small boat on the water which skimmed along at so great a rate that I almost lost sight of it presently; but running along the shore for fear of losing her, I met her gravely walking to meet me; and then had intirely lost sight of the boat upon the lake. This, accosting me with a smile, is my way of sailing, which I perceive by the fright you were in, you were altogether unacquainted with; and as you tell me you came from so many thousand miles off, it is possible you may be made differently from me; and I suspect from all your discourse, to which I have been very attentive, it is possible you may no more be able to fly, than to sail as I do. No, charming creature, that I cannot, I'll assure you. She then stepped to the edge of the lake, for the advantage of a descent before, sprung up into the air, and away she went, farther than my eyes could fol low her. I was quite astonished; but I had very little time for reflection; for in a few minutes after, she alighted just by me on her feet. Her return, as she plainly saw, filled me with a transport not to be concealed; and which as she afterwards told me was very agreeable to her. Indeed I was some moments in such an agitation of mind from these unparalleled incidents, that I was like one thunderstruck; but coming presently to myself, and clasping her in my arms with as much love and passion as I was capable of expressing, Are you returned again, kind angel, said I, to bless a wretch who can only be happy in adoring you! Can it be, that you, who have so many advantages over me, should quit all the pleasures that nature has formed you for, and all your friends and relations, to take an asylum in my arms! But I here make you a tender of all I am able to bestow-my love and constancy. Come, come, replied she, no more raptures; I find you are a worthier man than I thought I had reason to take you for; and I beg your pardon for my distrust, whilst I was ignorant of your imperfections; but now I verily believe all you have said is true; and I promise you, as you have seemed so much to delight in me, I will never quit you, till death or some other fatal accident shall part us. But we will now, if you please, go home; for I know you have been for some time uneasy in this gloom, though agreeable to me: for, giving my eyes the Peter subsequently learns that in the regions of the Flying People, it is always twilight; and makes them tender-eyed in places where the day is brighter. MEMOIRS OF ANTOINETTE A VERY unchristian Christian was Antoinette Bou- she was an honest woman, too, after her fashion, and an extraordinary instance of self-delusion. The following account of her is taken from Miss Hays's Female Biography.' This singular enthusiast (says the fair biographer) was born at Lisle, in Flanders, January 13, 1616. She appeared so much deformed at her birth, that it was debated for some days, in the family, whether the infant ought to be permitted to live. But as she grew older, her figure improved. She gave early indications of an extraordinary character; at four years of age she was disturbed by the immorality of the people of Lisle, and desired to be carried into a country of Christians, for she could not be persuaded that persons, whose conduct was so opposite to the precepts of Jesus Christ, had a title to be called by his name. Her father and mother had frequent domestic disagreements; the little Antoinette, on these occasions, soften her father, whose temper was harsh and severe, took the part of her mother, and endeavoured to by her infant caresses. From these scenes, which made a strong impression on her mind, she conceived an aversion to marriage. My God, grant that I may gusted with the world, she threw all the ardour of never marry! was her daily prayer. Thus early dis her mind, as she advanced towards maturity, into devotion, in which she became an extravagant fanatic. finements, and desirous of establishing his daughter Her father, incapable of entering into these rein life, promised her in marriage to a Frenchman, ho demanded her hand, and, without considering t be consent of Antoinette as essential to the engagement, appointed Easter-day, in 1630, for the celebra tion of the nuptials. The young lady fled to avoid a measure so coercive, disguised in the habit of a hermit; but was stopped at Blacon, a village of Hainault, on suspicion of her sex, An officer of the guards had seized her, from whom she was delivered by the Curate of the place, who, observing in her son ething extraordinary, mentioned her to the Archbishop of Cambray, by whom she was sent back to her father. She She Being persecuted soon after with new proposals of matrimony, she absconded a second time, to avert a compulsion that appeared to her so odious. once more made a visit to the Archbishop, and obtained his permission to form in the country a small community of young women, who, like herself, should determine to abjure the nuptial tie. had conceived an aversio." to a cloister, having early learned, that the spirit of the Gospel must not be sought for in convents. The Archbishop afterwards retracting the licence he had granted her, Antoinette retired to Liège, whence she returned privately to Lisle, where she resided many years in great privacy and simplicity. Her patrimonial estate at length falling to her, she determined at first to reject it; but afterwards altered this resolution, for which she gave the following reasons:-First, that it might not come into the hands of those who had no right to it. Secondly, that it might not possessed by those who would make an ill use of it. Thirdly, that God had shown her she should have occasion for it for his glory: This patrimony, which she wisely resolved to accept, was somewhat considerable. Her habits were simple, and her wants but few; she bestowed no charities; her wealth, therefore, daily accumulated. John de Saulieu, the son of a peasant, became enamoured of the lady's riches, and resolved to address her. With this view, he assumed the prophetic character, but, like the oracles of old, with great wariness; and insinuated himself into the confidence of the pious Antoinette, by discourses of refined spirituality. At length he drew off the mask and avowed more earthly motives: his suit was listened to with little complacency, and somewhat severely checked. On finding his fair mistress intractable, the lover grew desperate, and obliged her to apply to the magistracy for protection. This furious inamorato threatened, if denied admission, to break the doors and windows of his dulcinea, and to murder her, though he should be hanged for it in the market place of Lisle. The Provost, to whom the distressed damsel had recourse for protection, sent two armed men to guard her house. Saulieu, in revenge, basely attempted to blast the reputation of the woman who had despised alike his arts and his menaces; he reported in the town that she had promised him marriage, and that she had even suffered him to attempt its privileges. A reconciliation was, however, soon after effected between them: Saulieu was persuaded to retract his slanders, and to leave Mademoiselle Bourignon at liberty; when a young tee, more complaisant, consoled him for his dev ment. disappoint... se had not yet come to the end of phew of the curate of St But our fair reci... her persecutions. The Andrew's conceived a passion for or and, as he resided od to force in her neighbourhood, frequently attemp an entrance into her house. Antoinette threatened to abandon the place, if she were not relieved from the presumption of this new and adventurous lover, whose uncle, on her complaints, drove him from his house. The passion of the young man was, by the cruelty of his mistress, converted into rage, and, in a fit of desperation he discharged a musket through her chamber window; while he affirmed among the neighbours that she was his espoused wife. The devotees, offended by this report, threatened to affront Mademoiselle Bourignon, should they meet her in the streets; the preachers were obliged to interfere, and to publish from the pulpit the innocence of the injured lady. The Some time after these adventures, Antoinette was elected governess of an hospital, in which having taken the habit and order of St Augustin, she shut herself up in 1658. In this situation a new calamity befel her, not more horrible than strange. hospital was infected with sorcery; all the girls who inhabited it having made a contract with the devil. The governess was taken up on this extraordinary occasion, and examined before the magistrates of Lisle; nothing however was proved against her, but to prevent further persecution, she wisely determined to abandon her station. She then retired to Ghent in 1662, where God discovered to her some great secrets. About this period she acquired a faithful friend who remained attached to her through life, and who left her at his death a good estate. This gentleman, whose name was De Cort, was one of the fathers of the oratory, and their superior; he was also director of an hospital for poor children. M. de Cort was the first spiritual child of Madame Bourignon, of which the following quotation may afford an explanation. "It is certainly known by all who are acquainted with Antoinette Bourignon (let wicked and impious scoffers say what they please), that when any persons received, by her conversation or writings, light and strength to forsake the world, and give themselves to God, she felt pains and throbs similar to those of a woman in child-birth, as it is said of her whom St John saw in the 12th of the Revelations. She experienced these pains in a greater or smaller degree, in proportion as the truths she had delivered, had more or less strength in their operation on the souls of these her spiritual offspring." M. de Cort was twice successively divinely warned and threatened, to lend his property to some relations, who were endeavouring to drain an island, which the sea had overflowed in the country of Holstein, where he determined to prepare a retreat for the persecuted disciples of God. He sold a seat in this island to his spiritual mother, Madame Bourignon, who, when she had published at Amsterdam her book intitled The Light of the World,' prepared to retire thither in 1668. She also wrote at Brabant several treatises and epistles, and, after her persecutions at Lisle, engaged in the disputes of the Jansenists and Molinists. She made a longer stay at Amsterdam with her proselyte, than she had She was here visited by all descriptions of persons, particularly by prophets and prophetesses; the popularity of her discourses inspired her with sanguine hopes of effecting a reformation in this nation of traders; but, commerce prevailing, among this phlegmatic people, over spiritual motives, her expectations ended in disappointment. Her books and sermons were more umerous than her disciples; but even in Holland not without admirers. The celebrated Labaie, with his disciples, became desirous of forming community with Antoinette, at Noordstrandt, the newly-recovered island. at first intended. she was Labadie had offered to M. de Cort a large sum of money for the purchase of the whole island, but Antoinette prevailed on her proselyte to reject this proposal. Should you determine to accept it, said she, you must leave me behind you; because I perceive and know that we can never agree together. Their opinions and the spirit that governs them, are altogether contrary to my LIGHT, and the spirit that |