the same hope, the same love, the same faith in the beauty and goodness of nature and all her prospects, in space and in time; we could almost add, if a sprinkle of white Of all which his wealth could procure him, in the hairs in our black would allow us, the same youth; for shape of a real enjoyment of poetry, paintings, music,.whatever may be thought of a consciousness to that sculpture, and the million of ideas which they might effect, the feeling is so real, and trouble of no ordinary produce, he would know nothing. kind has so remarkably spared the elasticity of our spirits, that we are often startled to think how old we have become, compared with the little of age that is in our disposition and we mention this to bespeak the reader's faith in what we shall write hereafter, if he is not acquainted with us already. If he is, he will no more doubt us than the children do at our fire-side. We have had so much sorrow, and yet are capable of so much joy, and receive pleasure from so many familiar objects, that we sometimes think we should have had an unfair portion of happiness, if our life had not been one of more than ordinary trial.

cuckoo than about most birds, though its history, notwithstanding all that has been seen and imagined, and printed, and spoken, about it, is still as obscure as it is singular.

Every body has heard the note of the cuckoo, or the imitation of it by a Dutch clock, though domesticated in the most birdless part of the city; and in the summer, it is difficult to be in any part of the country without hearing the cuckoo, and even seeing the bird as it flies hurriedly, and to all appearance heavily, from one tree to another, with generally a few of the smaller birds in its train.

*

The bird has something the air of the hawk, but none of the powers, and it does not seem to have much of the disposition. Its food is insects and their larvæ, especially the larvæ or caterpillars of the lepidoptera; and, as many of these are highly injurious to trees, it is probable that the cuckoo is of great service, as it is with us at the very seasons when, if not thinned, these caterpillars would commit their depredations. It beats for its food in the trees, and it is probable that its pe culiar feet, its long wings and great tail, and its soft plumage, enable it to hunt among the leaves, especially on the under sides of them, in places which the smaller insect-hunting birds cannot reach.

"Considering the general distribution and the numbers of cuckoos, the eggs and young have been very seldom seen, probably not one to a million of the birds. When found, it has always been in the nests of other birds, at least in all those of the recorded instances that are received as properly authenticated; and little birds, pipets and others, have been observed most industriously feeding cuckoos, after these had acquired their young or hair-brown plumage, and could fly. But before the habit can be considered as general, there must be numbers of young observed, bearing some nearer proportion to the abundance of the old birds, than have yet been found, although the cases that are recorded appear to be too many to be considered accidental; and the accident, too, is of a kind that rarely happens in the case of any other wild birds-that is, birds in a state of nature. The disproval of the old theory, that the bones of the under part of the female cuckoo were such that it could not hatch, throws at least a doubt on the universality of the habit, which would demand some additional proor on the other side, more than three or four isolated cases in the season; and that is, perhaps, nearly the usual number of young cuckoos that are seen in the nest.

"Still, we may safely conclude that the absolvement of the cuckoo from nest-building and rearing young,

which are the severest labours of other birds, is meant to answer, and does answer, some very important purpose in the economy of nature; and that purpose can be accomplished only by employing in some other way that portion of time in the cuckoo, which, in other birds, is devoted to nidification and nursing. That is the grand point to be ascertained: it can be ascertained only by observation of the most careful nature; and till it is ascertained, the history of the cuckoo, unquestionably the most curious bird that visits the island, must remain imperfect and mysterious; as such, we shall not enter further upon it. Conjectures, in any quantity, may be had in the books."

The one I particularly allude to in Theocritus, is in his
Epigrams, I think in the fourth. Dryden has trans-
ferred the word merry to the goldfinch, in the Flower
and the Leaf, in deference, may be, to the vulgar error;
but pray read his description of the nightingale there
it is quite delightful. I am afraid that I like these
researches as much better than those that relate to
Shaftsbury, Sunderland, &c., as I do those better than
attending the House of Commons.
"Your's affectionately,

"C. J. Fox."

How pleasant it is to be enjoying this good-natured statesman's company, long after his death!

the virtues and amiabilities of private life, and freed by his pupil from that word-compounding, every-thing-stating, and all-possible-objection-anticipating style, which, though highly desirable for the deeper student as omitting nothing which passed through his mind, was not so well calculated to recommend his book to the general reader. It does not appear to us that Mr. Bentham always makes out his case when stating the grounds of some parts of his philosophy, and the extreme easiness of their practice. He makes too little allowance, we think, for natural impulses; assumes too much necessity for individual reasoning, where the improvement ought to result from the progress of government; and is too apt to take for granted that the reasoning would be conducted in a dispassionate manner. This is the more striking, inasmuch as he himself in this very book, just and amiable as it is, is strongly and strangely moved against a philosopher so remote as Plato; who even makes him forget himself so far, as to regret that there is no Index Expurgetorius-no list of forbidden

As to the question, however, respecting the mirth or melancholy of the nightingale, which he has here somewhat hastily discussed, and which of late years is supposed to have been settled in favour of the gayer side by some fine lines of Mr. Coleridge, it surely resolves itself into a simple matter of association of ideas, and those modified by the hour at which the nightingale is chiefly heard. The word merry, in Chaucer's time, as quoted by Mr. Fox, had not the specific meaning here implied by it, but signified something alive and vigor-books-prohibiting the perusal of certain philosophies! ous after its kind; as in the instance of " merry men," 'in the old ballads, and "merry England;" which did not mean a nation or set of men always laughing and enjoying themselves, but in good hearty condition; a state of manhood befitting men. This point is determined beyond a doubt by Chaucer's application of the word to the organ, as the "merry organ,"-meaning the church organ, which, surely, however noble and organic, is not merry in the modern sense of the word.

"

The whole matter we conceive to be this. The notes of
the nightingale, generally speaking, are not melancholy
in themselves, but melancholy from an association with
night-time, and the grave reflexions which the hour
naturally produces. They may be said to be melan-
choly also in the finer sense of the word (such as Milton
uses it in his Pensieroso), inasmuch as they express the
utmost intensity of vocal beauty and delight; for the
last excessive feelings of delight are always grave.

Levity does not do them honour enough, nor sufficiently
acknowledge the appeal they make to that finiteness
of our nature which they force unconsciously upon a
sense of itself, and upon a secret feeling of our capa-
bilities of happiness compared with the brevity of it.

Are not the birth-days of eminent men, and all other
anniversaries, previous to the alteration of the old style,
marked wrong in the calendars ? We fear so. At all
events, till we are shewn to be wrong in the opinion,
we must act upon it in what we have to date and to
state on these points, and, accordingly (to begin with
a pleasant name), instead of making Ovid to have been
born on the 20th of March, we put his nativity twelve

On the subject of the nightingale we think we cannot please the reader better just now, than with giving days forward, and make a welcome gift of him to

a letter written by Mr Fox to the present minister, Lord Grey. It is the more agreeable, inasmuch as it lets us into the privacies of these public men, and shews us how like they are to other men, and to very amiable ones too. The conclusion is particularly pleasant. Mr. Fox was, indeed, a man of such a genial nature, that there is reason to believe that his ascendancy over his friends and his disciples was quite as much owing to it, as to his sense and eloquence; and reasonably; for as social happiness, the kindly intercouse between man and man, is the only end of all politics and statistics, however deep, a man like this exhibits the means and the end together in his own instance, and so leaves no sort of convincing omitted.— But to the letter.

DEAR GREY,

In defence of my opinion about the Nightingale, I find that Chaucer, who of all poets seems to have been the fondest of the singing of birds, calls it a merry note; and though Theocritus mentions nightingales six or seven times, he never mentions their note as plaintive or melancholy. It is true, he does not any where call it merry, as Chaucer does, but by mentioning it with the song of the blackbird, and as answering it, he seems to imply that it was a cheerful note. Sophocles is against us; but even he says, lamenting Itys, and the comparison of her to Electra is rather as to perseverance by day and by night, than as At all events, a tragic poet is not half so good authority in this question as Theocritus and Chaucer. I cannot light upon the passage in the Odyssey where Penelope's restlessness is compared to the nightingale; but I am sure that it is only as to restlessness and watchfulness that he makes the comparison. If you will read the last twelve books of the Odyssey, you will certainly find it, and I am sure you will be paid for your treat whether you find it or not. The passage in Chaucer is in the Flower and Leaf, p. 99.

to sorrow.

April 1st.-Ovid born. So that the April Fools have
not all the days to themselves. His birth dates forty-
three years before the Christian era at Salmo, now
Salmone in the modern Neapolitan territory of Abrazzo.
He was the son of a Roman knight, had an easy for-
tune, and (to use a modern phrase) was one of the
gayest and most popular men about town in Rome for
nearly thirty years; till, owing to some mysterious
offence given to the court of Augustus, which still
forms one of the puzzles of biography, he was suddenly
torn from house and home, without the least previous
intimation, aud in the middle of the night, and sent
to a remote and wintry place of exile on the banks of
the Danube. Ovid was a good-natured man, tall and
slender, with more affections than the levity of his
poetical gallantry might lead us to suppose.
His gal-
lantries are worth little, and have little effect; but his
Metamorphoses are a store-house of beautiful Greek
pictures, and tend to keep alive in grown people the
feelings of their boyhood.

A health to Ovid, readers of the London Journal:
for immortal men never die. We must speak of them
as they still exist among us, and not of their memories.

NEWS FOR THE UTILITARIANS.
MR. BENTHAM'S TESTIMONY TO THE PLEASURES OF
DUTY
IMAGINATION, AND THE
OF CULTIVATING
AGREEABLE THOUGHTS.

We have been favoured with a copy of Mr. Bentham's
posthumous and unpublished work on Deontology, which
has been excellently well put together by Dr. Bowring
from the manuscripts of his illustrious friend. In a po-
pular point of view, it will be by far the most interest-
ing of the great jurist's productions, being his guide to

The world, however, will not love the Prince of Utilitarians the less for exhibiting these sallies of emotion; and they will love very much indeed, and be agreeably surprised, at the delightful, amiable doctrines laid down for their conduct in private life, and the advantage of general intercourse. From these we shall extract some excellent passages next week. Meanwhile, we surprise most of the philosopher's enemies, and not a present our readers with something which will still more few, perhaps, of his friends; namely, an enthusiastic desirableness of cultivating what we have been writing testimony borne to the utility of imagination, and to the

about in our first paper.

"In the pursuit of pleasurable thoughts (exclaims Mr. Bentham) what infinite regions are open to the explorer! The world is all before him; and not this world only, but all the worlds which roll in the unmeasured tracts of space, or the measureless heights and depths of imagination. The past, the present, the future-all that has been, all that is of great and good,

of beautiful and harmonious-and all that may be.
Why should not the high intellects of days that are gone
be summoned into the presence of the inquirer; and
dialogues between, or with, the illustrious dead be
fancied, on all the points on which they would have
enjoyed to discourse, had their mortal existence stretched
into the days that are? Take any part of the field of
knowledge in its present state of cultivation, and sum-
mon into it the sages of former times; place Milton,
with his high-toned and sublime philantrophy, amidst
the events which are bringing about the emancipation
of nations; Imagine Galileo holding intercourse with
Laplace; bring Bacon-either the Friar or the Chan-
cellor, or both-into the laboratory of any eminent
modern chemist, listening to the wonderful devolop-.
ment, the pregnant results of the great philosophical
mandate Experimentalize.' Every man pursuing his
own private tendencies, has thus a plastic gift of happi-
exercise will make less and less exhaustible all the com-
ness, which will become stronger by use, and which
binations of sense with matter, the far-stretching the-
ories of genius, the flight of thought through eternity-
what should prevent such exercises of the mind's cre-
ative will? How interesting are those speculations
which convey men beyond the region of earth into more
intellectual and exalted spheres.
endowed with capacities far more expansive, with
senses far more exquisite than observation had ever
offered to human knowledge, are brought into the re-
gions of thought. How attractive and instructive are
even some of the Utopian fancies of imaginative and
benevolent philosophy! Regulated and controlled by
the utiletarian principle, imagination becomes a source
of boundless blessings.'

Where creatures

"In all cases where the power of the will can be exercised over the thoughts, let those thoughts be directed towards happiness. Look out for the bright, for the brightest side of things, and keep your face constantly turned to it. If exceptions there are, those exceptions are but few, and sanctioned only by the consideration that a less favourable view may, in its results, produce a larger sum of enjoyment on the whole; as where, for example, an increased estimate of difficulty, or danger, might be needful to call up a greater exertion for the When the mind, getting rid of a present annoyance. however, reposes upon its own complacencies, and looks around itself for search of food for thought--when it seeks rest from laborious occupation, or is forced upon inaction by the pressure of adjacent circumstances, let all its ideas be made to spring up in the realms o pleasure, as far as the will can act upon the production.

"A large part of existence is necessarily passed in inaction. By day (to take an instance from the thou sand in constant recurrence), when in attendance on others, and time is lost by being kept waiting; by night, when sleep is unwilling to close the eyelids-the economy of happiness recommends the occupations of pleasurable thought. In walking abroad, or in resting

at home, the mind cannot be vacant; its thoughts may be useful, useless, or pernicious to happiness; direct them aright; the habit of happy thought will spring up like any other habit.

"Let the mind seek to occupy itself by the solution of questions upon which a large sum of happiness or misery depends. The machine, for example, that abridges labour will, by the very improvement and economy it introduces, produce a quantity of suffering. How shall that suffering be minimized? Here is a topis for benevolent thought to engage in. Under the pressure of the immediate demands of the poor, Sully is said to have engaged them in raising huge and useless mounds in his garden. Others have been found to propose the digging holes and filling them again, as meet employment for industry when ordinary labour fails. But what a fertile field for generous consideration is that, which seeks to provide the clear accession to the national stock of riches and happiness which all real improvements bring with them, at the least possible cost of pain; to secure the permanent good at the smallest and least enduring inconvenience; to inake the blessings that are to be diffused among the many, fall as lightly as possible in the shape of evil on the few! Perhaps when the inevitable misery is really reduced to the smallest amount, by the attentions of the intelligent and benevolent, the transition will become, in most instances, neither perilous, as it has often been made by riotous violence towards those who introduce it, nor alarming to those whose labour may be temporarily shifted by its introduction."

"It frequently happens, when our own mind is unable to furnish ideas of pleasure with which to drive out the impressions of pain, these ideas may be found in the writings of others, and those writings will probably have a more potent interest when utterance is given to them. To a mind rich in the stores of literature and philosophy, some thought appropriate to the calming of sorrow, or the brightening of joy, will scarcely fail to present itself, clothed in the attractive language of some favourite writer; and when emphatic expression is given to it, its power may be considerably increased. Poetry often lends itself to this benignant purpose; and where sound and sense, truth and harmony, benevolence and eloquence are allied, happy indeed are their influences."

THE LONDON JOURNAL,

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 2, 1834.

THE best things going forward in the poetical world are the play of the Blind Beggar of Bethnal Green, (not

one of the author's best, but Knowles, as Ben Jonson said of Cartwright, "writes all like a man,") and the editions, in monthly volumes, of the works of Burns and Crabbe. Our living poets just now, with the exception of Mr. Knowles, are as silent as birds in August. One of them, a warbler partaking of the mocking tribe, may be heard at intervals in the Times, imitating grave speeches with which we have nothing to do in these columns. Intimations, however, are given of something new from Miss Landon, who (to keep up our metaphor) is the very dove of the modern Castaly, giving out such a perpetual note of luxurious melancholy, that we know not whether to call it sorrow or love. And Elliot, in the magazines, occasionally beats against the iron bars of restriction, and utters his indignant cry. The best

collections. The First Book of a "Revolutionary Epick," or as he designates it, The Revolutionary Epick," has been published by Mr. D'Israeli, Junr. He says he conceived the idea of it on the "plains of Troy," and that the old opinion of a connexion between Epic poems and the spirit of their age, flashed across his mind "like the lightning which was then playing over Ida." There is more of the same magnificence of announcement, but it is suddenly checked by suggestions of modesty; and the author concludes his preface with humbly asking the public whether he shall proceed or not. It appears to us, from what we have seen of his poem, and of another work of his which we have lately read through, "The Psychological Romance," that Mr. D'Israeli has feeling, reflection, and imagination, the last in abundance but not of the subtlest or most poetical order; and that he too often takes splendid common-places, and the conclusions of other men's philosophy, for inventions of his own. His talents have gold in them, but mixed with alloy too obvious for currency, and are coarse in their "image and superscription." There is a sort of Oriental flare about him, which, with a little less thinking of his own glorification, and more of the inner man, would probably subside into a steady and shining light.

acquired knowledge, and his habits of reflection. Many Some of the letters, we should think, will get into the
years ago a celebrated public speaker, now living, told
us that he made a point of talking his best, to whatever
multitude were assembled; finding by experience that
the emotion and interest of the hearers always found an
understanding in themselves equal to the highest things
he could say. And since the lapse of that period, how
have not the means of knowledge encreased with the
cheapness of literature! About mid-way betwixt this
time and that, we heard a common working-man, as he
walked along a country road, say more sensible, su-
perior, and charitable things concerning a hare-hunt
that was going on before him, than would have entered
into the heads of the best educated men in his village
fifty years ago, or perhaps enters into them now; not,
of course, for want of equal natural faculties, but be-
cause his class have discovered that it is their interest
to know as much as they can; while, on the other hand,
the richest people are not always equally alive to the
necessity of being in advance of that knowledge.
In consequence of the universal reading of cheap
literature, Burns, perhaps does not require a glossary
for his finest English words with any of those among the
working classes in this country, who are respected
among each other for their intelligence; and when the
Scottish poet wrote English only, he sometimes affected
words fine enough. It was the only evidence of a de-
fective education betrayed by his style.

The reader will see in another place our opinion of Mr. Mudie's Feathered Tribes of England, and Mrs. Leman Grimstone's novel of Cleone. The new Review for the many, entitled the Printing Machine, full of sterling sense and acuteness, and admirably adapted to its purpose, requires no recommendation of ours. Mr. D'Israeli's second volume of his ninth edition of the Curiosities of Literature was published yesterday, and is still more entertaining than the first. Every body that can get it, should read the Bubbles from the Brunnens of Nassau, by an Old Man, for its sense, spirit, and humanity. But they say it is by Sir Francis Head, who scampered across the Pampas; and how can he be an old man? We cannot conceive of him in any such light. He must be riding and scampering still somewhere, and if he is not, must surely remain as young in his age as Lord Peterborough, who was the greatest poster of his time in Europe, and famous for his vivacity at seventy. Besides, they say that Sir Francis is not old: why then, should he call himself so? Is it his only affectation, and does he do it, like other middle aged seniors, only to make people protest against the epithet, and exclaim, “You old !”

The friends of the gentleman so long and so agree

poetry we have seen a long time is the prose of Pro- ably known to the circles of taste and literature by the

fessor Wilson's commentaries on Homer and the Greek Anthology, in Blackwood's Magazine. And this reminds us that there is a new poetess who writes in that magazine, and whom, in our ignorance perhaps of many of its former numbers, we never heard of till lately-Miss Hamilton. We know not who she is, except that she is one whom everybody ought to know. Her Muse is a kind of younger and less stately sister of Mrs. Hemans, with less command of images, and yet, we should guess, with a more universal sympathy.

It has been well observed by somebody, that Burns was not so uneducated a man as is supposed. He had Looks, and some good teaching, and was acquainted, at an early period, with some of the best writers. We notice the circumstance chiefly in order to observe, that the intelligent part of what are called the uneducated are apt to be better instructed than is supposed, and that many a workman and peasant would surprize people, if they talked with him, with the amount of his

title of "Conversation Sharp," (we believe the name is
to be, and can be, no secret with the public) will be glad
to find that a collection of his Letters and Essays in
Prose and Verse has appeared. It has this moment been
At the second page we meet
put into our hands.
with the following pleasant foretaste of the rest:-
"Utinam et verba in usu quotidiano posita minus timeremus."

"He that would write well," says Roger Ascham,
must follow the advice of Aristotle, speak as the com-
mon people speak, and think as the wise think."

In support of this opinion many of the examples cited by you are amusing as well as convincing. The following from a great author may be added —

"Is there a God to swear by, and is there none to believe in, none to trust to ?"

"What becomes of the force and simplicity of this short sentence, when turned into the clumsy English which schoolmasters indite, and which little boys can construe? Is there a God by whom to swear, and is there none in whom to believe, none to whom to pray?"

The whole of the volume is very sensible and elegant, and bears out the author's colloquial reputation.

Landscape and portraiture of a mediocre rate do not constitute an interesting collection for exhibition, and Suffolk Street has not much else to boast of this year. Not that there is an absolute destitution of talent, but. what there is lies chiefly among the young and unfinished, and what there is of mastery is mostly second or third rate. Still there are a few pictures worth seeing Hancock's "Old Squire," pleased us more than any of his that we have seen. Inskipp has some striking pictures. The last of his name is very pretty. Childe has many exceedingly good. The effect of night with the deep rich tone, in the moonlight picture, 353, could not be better. The Moorish Tower is a very lively painting, and also the splendid Interior of a Church, by D. Roberts. Holines's pictures are not his best; but they are clever as usual. Lance shews us some tempting fruit. His Lady and Gentleman, are not quite so happy Barrett also, and Allen, assist in brightening the walls. 676. Flowers, by V. Bartholomew, are amazing for their brilliancy. We must also mention an exceedingly clever picture by W. Derby, facetiously called Turkey in Europe, being a dead turkey and other articles in still life, admirably painted. This picture perhaps struck us more than any in the place, from its great reality. We trust that we shall not be thought availing ourselves of an undue opportunity, in stating that Mr. Lawrence, a young artist who promises to do honour to his name, has an excellent likeness of one of the daughters of the Editor of this Journal.

Mr. Huggins, upon his appointment as Marine Painter to the King, had a commission for three pictures commemorative of the battle of Trafalgar; and two of these pictures are now exhibiting at Exeter Hall. To all who are interested in the actions of Nelson, (and few can be otherwise) they are worth the visit. The first presents the state of the action about half an hour after its commencement, the ships still orderly and fresh, ranged side by side, packed together, pouring the heavy torrents of destruction close into each other's fabric. The Victory looks like the noblest personification of its name, for it is already battered, as though it had drawn to itself the fiercest danger, solely that it might satisfy the desire of power, and have more to conquer. Of all modern fighters Nelson is the one to whose person at taches our greatest sense of heroism. So brare, so

skilful, so eager -
with so much sentiment thrown into
his actions, he seems most to have emulated the ideal

fame of the knights of chivalry, or the early heroes of
Greece. His refusal to put on the cloak a little before
his death, was quite in the feeling of generous daring.
Glory being his mistress, he scorned not to partake her
perils. Not merely his pride and interest were in the
but his heart and all its passions. Thus, if the
importance of the events he brought about as are ad-
dition to his fame, his personal character in turn re-
flects a greater glory upon them, inasmuch as our sym-
pathies are more strongly excited by exalted human
nature, than by any political relations.

In naming Trafalgar, we think of Nelson, and more of the man than the victory. This is seldom the case with modern battles, and their colder regulators.

The other picture exhibited, represents the gale after the action, and we land lubbers have a few specimens of sea-signals, and a sample of nature's violence outdoing the human horror. The huge castle-like buildings which are toppling down into the openings of the flood, look as if they would pull into destruction with them the feeble boats, and the noble fellows who have ventured in them for the sake of their enemies.

As works of art the pictures are not without merit, though somewhat flat, and monotonous in colour; particularly the battle.

"You receive this as an acknowledgment of your
punctuality, as to the time and place of meeting on Sun-
day last, though it was owing to you that it answered
no purpose. The pageantry of being armed, and the
ensign of your order were useless and too conspicuous:
you needed no attendant; the place was not calculated
for mischief, nor was any intended. If you walk in
the west aisle of Westminster Abbey towards eleven
o'clock on Sunday next, your sagacity will point out
the person whom you will address by asking his com-
pany to take a turn or two with you. You will not
fail, on inquiry, to be acquainted with his name and
place of abode, according to which directions you will
please to send two or three hundred pound bank notes
the next day by the penny post. Exert not your cu-
riosity too early; it is in your power to make me
grateful on certain terms. I have friends who are
faithful, but they do not bark before they bite.-I am,
&c.
F."

The Duke had repaired to Hyde Park no otherwise
drest than persons of quality generally are; the only
part of the insignia of the order of the garter being the
star by his side; and the pistol holsters before were the
common horse furniture of a military officer high in com-
mand. He was naturally alarmed on receiving the
second letter, and consulted his friend; when after

* The late Duke, who died in 1817. He had, at the time of In the year 1758, a letter was found under the door this letter, just succeeded to the title.

"I am fully convinced you had a companion on Sunday. I interpret it as owing to the weakness of human nature; but such proceeding is far from being ingenuous, may produce bad effects; whilst it is impossible to answer the end proposed. You will see me again soon, as it were by accident, and may easily find where I go. wait on your Grace, but expect to be quite alone, and In consequence of which, by being sent to, I shall to converse in whispers. You will likewise give your honour, on meeting, that no part of the conversation shall transpire. These, and the former terms complied with, ensure your safety: my revenge, in case of noncompliance, or any scheme to expose me, will be slower, but not less sure; and strong suspicion, the utmost that can possibly ensue upon it; while the chances would be tenfold against you. You will possibly be in doubt after the meeting; but it is quite necessary the outside should be a masque to the in. The family of the Bloods is not extinct, though they are not in my scheme."

It was more than two months before the Duke beard any thing further of this extraordinary correspondent, when he was surprised by receiving the under-written letter by the penny-post, in a mean hand, but not in imitation of print like the other.

"To His Grace the Duke of Marlborough. May it please your Grace,

"I have reason to believe that the son of one Bar

nard, a surveyor, in Abingdon Buildings, Westminster, is acquainted with some secrets that nearly concern your safety; his father is now out of town, which will give you an opportunity of questioning him more privately.

"It would be useless to your grace, as well as dangerous to me to appear more publicly in this affair.

"Your sincere friend,- Anonymous." "He frequently goes to Story's-gate Coffee House." In the course of the week a messenger was sent to the coffee house who met Mr. Barnard there. peared much surprized when told that the Duke of Marlborough wished to speak with him, and said, "I is very odd, for the Duke addressed himself to me sometime ago in Hyde Park, though I never saw him before in my life?"' A day or two afterwards, according to appointment, he came to Marlborough House.

As soon as he made his appearance the Duke immediately recognized the face of the same person, whom he had before seen at Hyde Park and at Westminster Abbey. On asking him, as before, If he had anything to say?" he replied, "I have nothing to say.”

The several letters and circumstances were then re

capitulated by his Grace, particularly the last, which mentioned Mr. Barnard's knowing something that nearly concerned his safety. To these points be only replied, "I know nothing of the matter." The Duke then observed that the writer of the letters in question appeared to be a man of abilities and education; and lamented that he should be guilty of so mean an action." "It is possible to be very poor and very learned," was

his remarkable answer. On the duke's saying, there must be something very odd in the man, Barnard answered, I imagine he must be mad." "He seems surprized that I should have pistols," his Grace continued, to which he made answer, "I was surprized to see your Grace with pistols, and your star on." " Why were you surprized at that?" "It was so cold a day, I wondered you had not your great coat on," was his reply after a little hesitation.— On reading that part of the letter to him, which mentioned his father's being out of town, he remarked, "It is very odd; my father was then out of town."- This last circumstance struck the Duke more particularly, as the letter had no date. Before they parted, his Grace concluded with saying, 'If you are innocent, it becomes you, much more than me, to find out the author of these letters, as it is an attempt to blast your character." Barnard then smiled, and took his leave.

On the strength of these circumstances, it was soon after thought proper to take him into custody. He was indicted, tried on the Black Act, at the Session House, in the Old Bailey, in May, 1758, and after a long and patient investigation, of the circumstances, equally honourable to the candour and humanity of the Duke, and to the impartiality of the judges and jury, acquitted.-It appeared in favour of the prisoner, corroborated by respectable evidence, that, on the day he met the Duke in Hyde Park, he had been sent by his father on business to Kensington. As to his being in the Abbey, a Mr. Greenwood, a person of credit, who, as is before observed, was seen with him there, proved that, contrary to Mr. Barnard's wish he had, with some difficulty, persuaded him to walk with him from Abingdon Buildings to the Park, that morning: that they were going thither without passing through the abbey, but Greenwood recollecting a new monument he had not seen, insisted on his going that way.

Many persons of fortune and reputation appeared: some of whom had dined with him at Kensington on the day above mentioned. These, with many others, had repeatedly heard Mr. Barnard speak with wonder of having twice met the Duke of Marlborough, and the circumstance of his Grace speaking to him being very singular.

They all united in the most ample testimonies of his regularity, sobriety, and pecuniary credit, and his being in the habit of daily receiving considerable sums.

Our authority for the above curious story informs us, that certain circumstances afterwards occurred, particularly a transaction with an East India director, which rendered the guilt of Barnard highly probable. The circumstances are puzzling; but we believe him to have been the man, particularly as he was so brief in his replies, and showed no anxiety to bring the offender to light. A clever man, such as he evidently was, could easily have contrived to make Greenwood appear to have originated the wish to go into the abbey,

and even to have made him do so: and as to the inconsistency of the rest of his conduct, there is no end to such inconsistencies in men as at present educated. Barnard might even have been conscious of a touch of the madness, which he attributed to the anonymous person, and which his questions and his strange smile not a little resemble. At the same time it is, perhaps, not unlikely that he had accomplices; that either of them was prepared to come forward, as the case might require; and yet that neither would stir more in it, if unsuccessful, than their knowledge of each other's secrets would render advisable.

CLEONE.

THE NEW NOVEL. AN ENTIRE ABSTRACT.

THIS tale opens with the year 1810 during the assizes at Lancaster, where the hero, Sidney Mountwarren, a briefless barrister, is introduced to us. He is described as exhibiting by his general demeanour, the appearance of one who entertains a proud yet inoffensive consciousness of his own power, together with a disdainful sense of the neglect and privations which merit is ever fated to endure. While he is standing amid the crowd, musing upon his fortune, he excites the observation of an elderly person in the court, who, through a natural sympathy with the pensive melancholy of the young barrister, conceives a strong desire to effect a nearer acquaintance with him. The accident of a fall on the part of the old inan, as he approaches Mountwarren, facilitates this object by eliciting the polite assistance of the latter, and the conversation begun with the common-places of good breeding, is continued in the language of friendly feeling. Mountwarren finds in bis

new acquaintance a person of singular good humour and
affability: his name is Festus Felix Connor, of whom
we are told that his blood "was a compound of Irish
and Italian," so that the real place of his nativity is
left to surmise, though the Sister Isle, upon the whole,
seems to possess the best claim. The interrogations
of a personal kind which naturally arise in the early
stage of this acquaintance, gave occasion to many na-
serving of notice.
tional reflections, amongst which the following is de-

"Were I a North Briton," says Mountwarren, “I
should not stand alone as I do. He, no more than a
freemason, can remain unsupported among brethren.
The claim of common country is stronger with the
Scot than the claim of common blood with us. Eng-
land is sometimes called the stranger's home-it is a
pity she leaves so many of her own children shelter-

less."

This is so true. that the defect reflected upon is one of the most unfortunate from which we Englishmen suffer. An animated dialogue ensues which affords our authoress the opportunity of developing many features of her amiable philosophy.

upon

Festus Felix Connor, though having, according to his
own showing, long since lost the literal title to his two
first names, is yet one upon whom the hand of misfor-
tune is incapable of leaving any sensible imprint, and
he not only practices the philosophy of contentment
successfully in his own case, but is obviously bent
disseminating the principles of so admirable an art; and
impresses his doctrine so well upon the mind of his new
pupil, that before the conclusion of their journey
gloomy dissatisfaction he had hitherto permitted to cloud
Mountwarren is made sensible of the impropriety of the
his thoughts and looks.

They arrive upon the banks of Windermere, in which
beautiful situation is found the home of Felix Connor.
Here the reader is introduced to two other characters
the twin children of Connor, Cleone the daughter, the
heroine of the story, and her brother Leon a blind child
of peculiar intelligence and singularly affectionate dis-
position. The beauty of Cleone does not fail to make
impression on the susceptible heart of the young tra-
veller, whilst the extreme simplicity and unaffected
manners of the family excite in him feelings of growing
esteem. A Dutch footman and his wife conclude the
takes up his abode for the night with his hospitable en-
list, without adding to its attractions. Mountwarren
tertainer, who is neither sparing of his cheer nor his
philosophy, and both guest and host retire upon the
most agreeable terms with themselves and with one
another. Upon the day following, in the course of a
walk with Felix Connor, Mountwarren accidentally en-
counters two gentlemen and a lady on horseback whom he
immediately recognises as his old friends and former
neighbours, the Arfleurs. Sir Edward Arfleur is de-
well meaning but of no very enlarged views. Frank
scribed as a gentleman of the old school, hearty and
Arfleur, the son, is a person introduced for so little pur-
pose, and then so suddenly dismissed, as to render it a
pity that he should have been called into existence
at all; but Rosina his sister, the spiritual Rosina, is a
is as short as it was unexpected, admits us to a know-
character of more importance. This interview, which
ledge of some mutual sentiments of the tender kind
which formerly existed in the breasts of Rosina and
Mountwarren, but which a long cessation of intercourse
had interrupted. The love for Cleone, however, having
all the force of a new passion in its favour, predomi-
minates, and in a visit which our hero pays at the house
ing to Rosina the state of his affections; an avowal,
of Sir Edward Arfleur, he makes no scruple of unfold-
which is received by her with a composure very credit-
able to her understanding, but perhaps somewhat dis-
paraging to her sensibility. From the description which
Mountwarren gives of his new friends the Connors,
quaintance, a desire which she ultimately succeeds in
Rosina conceives a strong desire to cultivate their ac-
gratifying, though at first strenuously opposed by her
father, who with all the peremptory philosophy of a
country squire associates nothing but disaffection and
in answer to Mountwarren's encomiums upon his friend's
disloyalty with the known independence of Connor, and
natural nobility, talks of "levelling principles," and of
"standing by the institutions of one's country," &c.
But the principal objection entertained by Sir Edward
Arfleur, no doubt, is the inequality of fortune between
the two families. This "icy barrier" it is for the liberal
minded Rosina to dissolve by her free and open address.
She visits the Connors, finds in them all the excellent
and interesting qualities she has been led to expect, and
above all experiences a deep sympathy for the case of
the poor blind Leon. If sympathy is akin to love, so
is gratitude, and to the heart of the unfortunate sufferer,
feelings, arising from this evidence of a regard so new
to him in a stranger, are communicated, which rapidly
passing over the stages that lie between kindness and
passion, convert him from the humble object of Rosina's
pity to the ardent candidate for her love. Far from
meeting the repulses of prudery or the coquet's heartless
indifference, Leon's fate reserves him for the rare hap-
piness of an immediate and complete reciprocity of af-
fection, and though the lovers separate at this period
of their history, it is with that mutual declaration
which softens the pains of absence.

The Arfleurs' return home into Gloucestershire, and
Mountwarren's departure from the lakes, takes place
immediately afterwards. An erroneous impression in
the breast of the tender Cleone, from which much of
the interest of the storv depends, takes its rise from this

circumstance. Mountwarren's deliberations upon the prospects of his life conduct him to this resolution, viz. to repair to London forthwith, in the hopes of propitiating Fortune by well-directed exertions in his profession, so long supinely neglected by him, and with the further purpose of soliciting the assistance of his mother, a widow, who, together with his two sisters, is residing at Boulogne; then to return to Cleone on the wings of love, and ask her to share his fortune and his heart. How these schemes come to be concealed from the knowledge of her whom they most concern, it is not easy to suppose. It is a reservation, as it appears to us, more remarkable for its accommodation to the exigencies of the plot than for its consistency with probability. Cleone, in her ignorance of the intentions of Mountwarren, attributes his hasty departure to an impatience of the separation from Rosina Arfleur, whom she imagines him to regard with feelings of love, and to be now bent on pursuing. Her own feelings are those of the most poignant grief, which, the moment Mountwarren has left her is vented in floods of tears. The following pretty passage occurs in this place, and may convey some idea of the pleasing style in which these volumes are written.

"There is no pang like that of unrequited love-so many vulnerable portions of our nature are wounded by it; even pride, ever prompt at the call of offended selflove, brings but late relief, and comes rather to repair ruin than to avert it; while memory, like a very antiquary, picks up sundry little relics that were better left to be buried with subverted hopes."

A few days subsequent to the departure of the Arfleurs and Montwarren, an event transpires which alters the whole aspect of things. Intelligence of the failure of a bank in which was invested the moderate capital upon which Felix Connor maintained his little household, comes upon them like a death-blow, and beggary stares them in the face. The old man's philosophy is now brought to the test, and is happily found to be of no spurious growth; he bears his reverse like a stoic, or, which is better, like a man, and has the happiness to find his children not behind him in all the qualities that can adorn adversity. They relinquish their home and proceed to London, a movement rendered desirable by the complete state of a treatise on the Philosophy of Happiness" which Mr. Connor, the author, purposes to submit to a London publisher. Vandorf, the Dutch servant, not sorry to separate from his spouse, accompanies the expedition. Mr. Connor having taken up his residence at Islington, loses no time in seeking Mountwarren. The latter, however, has left his chambers, and is reported to have passed over to France, and Connor's inquiries can elicit nothing more satisfactory. The next object which occupies his mind is the sale of his treatise, and for this purpose he proceeds to various publishers, with whom the description of his interview disappointment and disgust. At length a bookseller of presents no novelty, for the reason that it only describes daring benevolence, goes the length of expressing his consent to see it. The expectation revived in the mind of Connor upon this hint. causes our authoress to exclaim, feelingly, "How little soothes the buoyant spirit of genius; and yet the world is so unwilling to yield that little!"

The wished for object is at last attained, and proof sheets and printer's devils come to gladden the heart of poor Connor. Anxiety, however, had enfeebled the old man, and he suffers a tedious illness. During her father's confinement, Cleone has to act upon her responsibility, and her management of the household affairs, youth and overwhelming poverty, exhibit her in a point under the combined disadvantages of inexperienced of view at once delightful and painful. In the meantime Leon, being able to contrive no other means of contributing to his sister's exertions, decides upon playing the savoyard. Disguised, with Vandorf for his treasurer, he allows himself to be conducted to the different squares, and there by his singing, an art in which he is represented as skilful, he succeeds in collecting something towards his father's subsistence. In the course of one of these peregrinations, having halted opposite to a handsome house, he hears a voice on the sina Arfleur. She is leaving the house; Leon entreats steps which he immediately recognized as that of RoVandorf to lead him in pursuit of her, that they may discover, if possible, the place where she is sojourning. They miss her, however, and Leon returns home under the influence of the most agonizing feelings. His evident sufferings excite the anxious curiosity of his father and sister; and, after much fruitless entreaty Cleone alone is successful in drawing the secret from him. The manner in which this is brought about, as well as the remarks which introduce the dialogue, deserve the utmost praise for delicacy of thought and feeling.

Cleone, with her own desire and her father's consent, now seeks a situation as governess. The scene with Mrs. Hawkins, the advertiser, and her five daughters, is so natural and so well sustained, that we are sorry our limits forbid its insertion. The following passage, how.ever, is short, and happily describes this elegant family

"In the masquerade of life, gravity is the garb in which imbecility loves to array itself; and it may generally be remarked, that those who have least in their own heads are most ready to shake them at others.

Mrs. Hawkins's five daughters, destined, probably, in after life, to luxuriate, like herself, into rotundity of form, were singularly spare, with shrewd severe faces. Already the frequent frown had antedated their brows the character of age by the agency of unkindness, was