be accurate in his descriptions, that it would be endless to point out his errors: here are a few specimens taken at random. It was new to us, and will be to most people, to hear, that the Guadalquivir is navigable for boats with passengers from Cordoba to Seville there is not, and never was, a Bishop of Ronda-Valenzuela belongs to the crown, and not to a nobleman-the Carthusian friars are never confessors to Intendentes, for this simple reason, that they never perform their ecclesiastical functions out of their convents -and, lastly, not to be tedious, should any Spaniard ever read this New Gil Blas, he will laugh outright, when told, that "young persons who are betrothed, are not permitted to see each other alone but once, and that in most of the Spanish cathedrals it is forbidden for any man to speak to a woman." The custom of introducing foreign words and expressions, where our own English will answer equally well, has always appeared to us exceedingly absurd: why, for instance, quote the proverb, that says, "necesidad carece de ley," and favour us, in a note, with a translation, "necessity has no law"? but the usage is something worse than foolish, when it serves only to prove how little the person making this display of knowledge really understands the language. But for this folly, we should not have known how imperfectly Mr. Inglis is acquainted with the genders of nouns-an Andalusian woman, for instance, is not a fair Andaluz, but a fair Andaluza; a mule is not coronel, but coronela; Torre viejo should be Torre vieja. Even the title of his book is badly spelled; Penaflor should be Peñaflor. We at first supposed that the printer had no such letter as ñ, but in the third volume we had sad proof to the contrary, for there sardiñas is printed for sardinas, and Fontaña for Fontana. Again, Habemos morir is not Spanish; the Spaniards now say tenemos que morir, or hemos de morir, and, formerly, habemos de morir. Seville is not Seviglia, but Sevilla; and wonder is not maraviglia, but maravilla; and there is no such word in the language as carba.

It would be an idle waste of time to proceed further after this fashion-indeed, it has been most painful to us to say thus much; but, after the monstrous blunderings of the Edinburgh Review, we hold it absolutely necessary to justify one English journal from the charges preferred against all by Mr. Obaso's apuntes, who observes, "The English, French and American Journalists have shown such utter ignorance of the laws, customs and habits of Spain, that a collection of their reviews and original papers on the subject, would exhibit the most extraordinary collection of blundering nonsense that was ever seen. The more absurd the trash put forth, by the authors of Travels, Rambles, and Histories, the more sure are they of being praised; and one is perplexed which most to wonder at, the bold daring of authors in writing about things of which they are utterly ignorant, or the impudence of the reviewers in praising and puffing what they do not understand."

We have now done our duty-let us with

the same justice say what we can in favour of the work; and it must not be forgotten, that many of the objections we have pointed out, will not offend the mere English reader. The stories, though generally improbable, are many of them interesting-some are excel

The Miracle.

"The friar explained to me, how that the finances of the convent were miserably low,that a new organ for the chapel, and many ornaments for the major altar were wanted; and that on the occasion of the approaching festival, when it was always the custom for the devout to lay some little offering upon the altar of the saint, it was intended to warm devotion by some striking display of the saint's gratitude; and, finally, I was made to understand, that if I would consent to personate the saint, by wearing his garments and crown-to hold a silver salver in my hand, to receive the offerings; and to bow my head, whenever the donation exceeded a duro, I should be rewarded with a thousand reals-but upon condition that I should immediately afterwards quit Valencia, and reside in

some other town.

"Nothing could be more agreeable to me than this proposal; my devotion did not stand

in the way of its acceptance, for firmly believing in the augury that ensured to me timely preparation, and the assistance of a holy man, in quitting the world, I resolved that all my peccadillos should be rubbed out at the same time; and as for the condition imposed upon me, of living elsewhere than in Valencia, I had already resolved upon quitting that city, and only lacked the means of carrying my design into effect; for knowing that the prediction could not be accomplished in France, where the office of my friend Querubim is performed in another fashion, I had determined upon leaving Spain for that country.

"Upon the day appointed for the celebration of the festival, I was received by the Superior, whom I found to be the same individual who had formerly spoken with me, and who, with two or three others, was alone in the secret of the pious fraud in which I was to be an actor. By this,' said he, 'we confirm the wavering, and strengthen the faith of the true Catholic,

and thus, the end justifies the means.' The

habiliments of the saint were ample, and the image having been removed, I easily slipped into its place, divesting myself only of my cloak, and found room enough within the foldings of the cloth of gold that covered my tarnished dress; the crown was placed upon my head, a well-contrived mask upon my face, and a massive salver in my hand, which, somehow or prepared, the chapel railing was thrown open, other, seemed to grow to my fingers. Thus and the matin bell began to chime.

"And now the devout Valencians poured in; and crowded into the chapel, where I stood beneath a silver-gilded canopy. The wants of the convent had been industriously circulated by the friars nor had less pains been taken to encourage a belief, that some visible manifestation of the saint's good-will and gratitude might be expected. The first that entered, were some beggars, with little more than their tattered brown cloaks to cover them; and a few quartos

dropped upon the salver,-larger offerings succeeded,-pesetas, half and whole duros, but no sign of gratitude or good-will yet escaped from

the saint. At length, a gold piece rung upon the salver, and forthwith the saint bent his head. The miracle was seen by all; a thousand thumbs had in an instant performed the sign of the

garments, and again extended the vessel to the

awe-struck devotees.

"The throng that had poured into the chapel, at length began to lessen; and mass having begun at the major altar, all hastened to place themselves before it, so that the chapel of the miraculous image was left for a time without a worshipper. Now, thought I, is the moment,slipping my arms out of the wide sleeves of the saint, I disentangled myself from the cumbrous garments, which were stiff enough to stand erect without the help either of an image or its representative; the mask, I left propped in its place, and the salver also I would have left in the hand of the saint, had this been possible; but I was compelled to dispose of it otherwise; it followed its contents within my girdle; and having stealthily descended from the canopy, I threw my old cloak, which I had laid behind it, over my shoulders, and drawing my hat over my brows, I walked leisurely out of the chapel, and through the church, and soon found myself in the Calle de Alboraya, and crossing the bridge of the Holy Trinity."

Byron's Life and Works. Vol. IX. London: Murray.

THIS is the ninth volume of the 'Life and Works of Lord Byron,' and the third of his poetry. The praise which we bestowed on its brethren might be reprinted for this: there is equal elegance of exterior and beauty of embellishment: the notes, too, are numerous and instructive, and some of the variorum readings of great value. To be more particular, there is a view of Petrarch's Tomb, and a sketch of Seville, both, but the latter espe cially, of great picturesque beauty; there are notes which restore the bitter point and personal severity of some of his sarcastic verses, or throw light upon whatever is dark and mystical; and there is moreover a stanza of Childe Harold-a fac-simile of the poet's handwriting, which the world will consider as a curiosity. It was, we find, dashed off in cursions on the lake of Geneva: the lines June 1816, during one of Byron's night exare as rough as the storm the stanza describes, and the words seem put on in splashes, as if daubed amid the terrors of a thunder-burst.

The sky is changed !-and such a change! Oh night, And storm and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along From peak to peak the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps who call to her aloud.

These are the words penned on that wild night, but the reader must see the fac-simile judge of the sort of feverish inspiration the bard was under when he wrote.

to

The Hints from Horace'- The Curse of Minerva'-The Waltz''The Giaour

"The Bride of Abydos' and 'The Corsair,' are the chief poems in the volume. The 'Hints from Horace' is a curious performance nor is it at all that inferior sort of work which some of his friends represent it. In truth, it is as sarcastic, and witty, and personal, as the English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.' There are, however, many attacks on ordinary authors, who could never have, we think, offended him, and some abuse of bright ones, whom his good taste should have whispered him to spare: while we dislike much of it for a want of feeling, we admire more of it for the vigour and the wit. Had Byron lived, he would have seen the folly and the danger too, perhaps, of thus running a-muck at all mankind: one man can no more help being dull, than another can avoid being bright; and, had the poet's sympathy with human nature been equal to his other powers, he would not have spoken and written with such general contempt for mankind. The poet was altogether a singular man-one of the greatest curiosities of his day. If you spoke to him as a poet, he retreated back upon his title, and confounded all men of yesterday by talking of his descent from some one in the days of William the Conqueror and if you addressed him as a nobleman, he took his position on Parnassus, and put on the haughtiness of an heir "o' the forked hill." He was desirous of being thought everything, and even held out hopes of becoming one, "whom blood might not turn aside," worthy of being blazoned in history

With the worst anarchs of the age.

He was, by turns, rake, scholar, hermit, boxer, sailor, soldier, politician, traveller, critic, poet, and patriot. When in the patriotic vein he got three brazen helmets made, properly blazoned with Crede Byron in front; we despaired of his generalship ever after.

Tables of Arithmetic, for the Use of the Junior Pupils of King's College School. By F. Ribbans. London: Fellowes.

A judicious compilation, with notes containing incidental information likely to attract the attention of youthful students.

The Art of Preventing the Loss of Teeth, &c. By Joseph Scott, Dentist. London.

A brief and intelligible work, containing very useful information.

OUR LIBRARY TABLE.

OUR shelves are literally encumbered with volumes of varied shapes, sizes, and colours, designed for the instruction of the rising generation; and three-fourths of them, at least, relate to the French language. We have resolved to make a clearance of them, and beg therefore to be excused if we are, on this occasion, a trifle more instructive than entertaining. It seems to be now the established rule of the gentlemen who have crossed the straits of Dover for the purpose of instructing British youth, to advertise their existence by the publication of a book, and, strange to say, the tragedy of Theodore (Théodore: tragédie en cinq actes, par Jeannet des Jardines, S.M. P.F.')-is avowedly printed for that special purpose. The author declares his intention in publishing the drama to be, "to prove to the English that he can do what very few of his countrymen engaged in the profession of

languages can do,"-"he gives it out as a mere specimen of ability."-"If something similar were required from all teachers, there would not be so many dunces spoiling the trade." We hope that M. des Jardines possesses more ability as a teacher than he has shown as a dramatist, for his "trial-shot" is one of which the report must be very indifferent.

'Introduction aux Annuaires de la Société des Professeurs de la Langue Française en Angleterre,' &c.-The formation of a society by the professors of the French language resident in England, for the purpose of ascertaining the capacity and respectability of the teachers of their language, and raising a fund for the support of distressed members, promises to have a better effect in "keeping dunces from spoiling the trade," than the plan which M. des Jardines so simply recommends. We cannot, however, advise the publication of an Annual, for though the pieces collected in this publication possess cations which make the best contributor to a no ordinary merits, we doubt that the qualifiperiodical, are also those that best fit a man for discharging the duties of an efficient instructor. We heartily wish the society all the success that it so amply merits; but we hope, for the sake of the important objects it was formed to achieve, that its Annual will be discontinued.

Thurgar's Systematic Arrangement of French Nouns.' This little work contains at once the most philosophical and practical rules for overcoming the great difficulty of the French language, determining the gender of the nouns, that

we have ever seen.

'Merlet's French Accidence.'-We cannot discover in this work any peculiar merit to distinguish it from the "thousand and one" treatises on the same subject.

little work, drawn up with more care than is usually bestowed on the construction of similar dialogues. The author has adapted both the ideas and language to the capacity of the young, without sinking either into tameness or vulgarity.

'Grandineau's Conversations Familières.'-A

"The Art of Reading and Translating French at sight, by M. de Rudelle.'-This is an extension of the Hamiltonian system, but we more than doubt the utility of the additions. It is a great mistake to suppose that removing all necessity for exertion would benefit students.

'De Porquet's English and French, and French and English Dictionary.'-This dictionary is portable, accurate, useful and cheap; no more need be said in its praise.

'Peithman's French Grammur.'-Of French grammars we have already more than enough; Mr. Peithman's has, however, the rare merit of directing the pupil's attention from the outset, to the different anomalies that result from what, for want of a better name, is called the genius of each language. His arrangement is lucid, his rules clear, and his explanations full and satisfactory.

'Gillespie's Formative French Grammar.'-The author of this, the second French grammar on our list, justly lays claim to originality for his systematizing the anomalies of the French verbs. Though brief, this grammar has much merit, and seemsespecially well adapted for the use of adult students.

'A course of French Literature, by A. J. Doisy.' -The author of this work is the professor of the French language in that excellent seminary, the Belfast Institution; and it embodies the substance of his lectures on the French authors of

the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries. There is no work, within our knowledge, of the same size, that contains so full and accurate an account of the history of French literature; and there are few works of any size

that display so much independence of judgment, depth of thought, and soundness of criticism. We dissent from many of Mr. Doisy's opinions; he seems to us to have over-rated Corneille, and to have misapprehended Voltaire, but our respect for his talents is by no means diminished by our difference of opinion. Mr. Doisy has selected his extracts with great taste, and on the whole we cheerfully recommend his book to the patronage of the public.

'Newton's Astronomy.'-Not Sir Isaac's-but a very useful introduction to the study of the globes, affording the youthful student as much scientific information as will make "the use of the globes" something more than a twirling of the spheres, and a mechanical performance of problems. It is amply illustrated by wood-cuts, and is, on the whole, a valuable addition to our works on education.

'Cobbin's Classical English Vocabulary.-The author of this work has supplied us with a pretty accurate vocabulary of the words in our language derived from the Greek and Latin; he has be

stowed, manifestly, great pains upon the work, but we cannot discover its practical utility.

'The Conversational Method of Teaching Languages.'-The enthusiasm with which the author speaks of his new method, shows that he at least appreciates its importance; and the arguments he urges in its favour are sufficient to show that it ought not to be rejected, as an impracticable scheme, without some consideration.

'The Leeds Magazine of Education.'—A useful little work, containing much valuable information, and honourably conspicuous for a total absence of ambitious pretension.

'Hiley's English Grammar.'-Though we cheerfully acknowledge the great merits of this grammar, and confess its superiority to Murray's, we must not altogether withhold censure from an author who has meddled with matters beyond his reach. Mr. Hiley is a good grammarian-but of rhetoric, eloquence and poetry, he is not the best of judges; and as they are but remotely connected with his principal subject, we recommend him to omit these topics altogether in his next edition.

'A Treatise on Languages, by the Rev. Alfred Jenour.'-When an author opens his work by an honest confession of ignorance respecting one half of the subjects he intends to discuss, he at least recommends himself by candour. Had the writer gone a little farther, and acknowledged that his acquaintance with the other half was superficial and limited, we should have hailed him as a paragon of ingenuousness. The plan of the book is excellent, but the execution was beyond the writer's power; which we regret the rather as the author is manifestly a man of considerable talents. In the work he designed, the extent of his information was of more importance than the soundness of his judgment; but, by his own confession, he wants the qualifications most necessary to the completion of his task.

'Prize List of the Edinburgh Academy.'-This pamphlet contains specimens of the prize essays composed by the students of the Edinburgh Academy, and they are very creditable to the institution.

'The Arithmetical Text-Book, by Robert Cunningham.'-The great blunder of all the treatises on arithmetic commonly used in our schools is, that they do not explain the nature of numbers, but merely teach the use of figures; the student is instructed to conjure with the signs, but left to acquire knowledge of the things signified as best he may. Nature is the best lecturer on the subject of education; and it would be well if the body corporate of teachers would attend to her lessons. We learn numbers by counting sensible objects, and the longer we

use their aid, the more accurate and definite are our conceptions. It would equally benefit pupil and tutor, if the first operations of arithmetic were performed palpably, so that the student should have the evidence of his senses for every step that led to the final result. In our present mode of teaching, we demand from children a conception of several abstractions before they are acquainted with the primary ideas from which the abstractions are formed. The pupil who once perfectly understands the process of numeration, has mastered the chief difficulty in arithmetic, but this is precisely the topic on which he receives little if any information; in the books designed for his use, the subject is dispatched in a couple of pages of scientific aphorisms, about as intelligible to the child as the propositions of the Principia. A handfull of pebbles or counters was the introduction to arithmetic used by the ancients, and the moderns have not substituted anything half so good. Mr. Cunningham's work is lucidly written, and superior in arrangement to most of the treatises in common use.

The Pilgrim of Erin.'

"Oh! Erin my country, the hour

Of thy fame and thy splendour hath pastIf such as this be the bards that sing thy transient glories and permanent sufferings." Such was the exclamation of an Irish friend to whom we showed this abortive attempt to advocate the repeal of the union-in-what shall we say? poetry? no;-verse? scarcely ;-well then-in prose with bad rhymes tacked to every ten syllables. The author says, that he is prepared for unpopularity-it is well that his mind has been fortified for what it must necessarily meet -but he says, that this unpopularity will be the consequence of his having reproached the English with the wrongs of Ireland-let him not lay that "flattering unction to his soul;" the English people are by no means insensible of the compensation for misgovernment that they owe to the sister-kingdom. The just claims of the Irish people have been long and ably advocated by the most popular and influential portion of the British press-we ourselves have not been silent, but have gone in the cause as far as we could without treading on the forbidden ground of politics. But when we receive in our critical capacity a composition equally conspicuous for bad temper and bad taste, we are not to be deterred from pronouncing condemnation by the insinuated threat, that mortified vanity will ascribe our sentence to national antipathy. The note on Trinity College is very like the effusion of some disappointed candidate for collegiate honours with all the faults of that institution,

:

and it has many-with all the follies of some of its political professors, and truly they would fill a long chapter in the history of absurdity-the Dublin University affords the means of efficient education to all who labour to avail themselves of the opportunity, in an equal degree to any university in Europe. We suppose that the pilgrim is young: we hope so: after a few years he will himself assent to our criticism, and agree that anger and disappoinment are the worst sources of poetic inspiration.

'Four Gospels, Greek, Griesbach's text.'-In this edition, the variations between Griesbach and Mill are carefully marked, references to parallel passages are added in the margin, and a decided improvement made in the mode of reference, by making a distinction between the parallelisms in phrase and those in subject. Though primarily designed for the use of schools, the work will be found a very useful acquisition to students in divinity.

ORIGINAL PAPERS

SONNET.

ON THE MOSES OF MICHAEL ANGELO.
From the Italian of Zappi.

Quoted by Lord Byron in the Prophecy of Dante.'
WHO-what is this? no statue-yet of stone,
That sits a giant-wonder-work of art!
It breathes: there's life upon its lips-they part
With a most vital utterance. Well is known
That form-'tis Moses; for divinely beaming
The honours of his prófuse beard—the rays
Of twofold glory from his brow up-streaming,
As from the Mount he comes-his look displays
More than a reflex of the Deity.

He comes, as when the sea was made a bier
Unto his foes, suspending the career
Of its wild waves. An image such as he
Might well have awe-struck an idolatrous crowd;
Less sin had they to him adoring bowed.

THE COLISEUM.
A Fragment.

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.†

Ar the hour of noon, on the feast of the Passover, an old man, accompanied by a girl, apparently his daughter, entered the Coliseum at Rome. They immediately passed through the arena, and, seeking a solitary chasm among the arches of the southern part of the ruin, selected a fallen column for their seat, and, clasping each other's hands, sate in silent contemplation of the scene. the eyes of the girl were fixed upon her father's lips: his countenance, sublime and sweet, but motionless as some Praxitelian image of the greatest of poets, filled the air with smiles reflected from external forms.

But

dent had conducted the father and daughter to the spot immediately on their arrival.

A figure, only visible at Rome in night or solitude, and then only to be seen amid the desolated temples of the Forum, or gliding among the galleries of the Coliseum, or the ruined arches of the Baths of Caracalla, crossed their path.

tures. He avoided, in an extraordinary degree, what is called society, but was occasionally seen to converse with some accomplished foreigner, whose appearance might attract him in his solemn haunts. He spoke Italian with fluency, though with a peculiar but sweet accent. There was no circumstance connected with him that gave the least intimation of his country, his origin, or his occupations. He was for ever alone.

Such was the figure which interrupted the contemplation (if they were so engaged) of the strangers, in the clear and exact, but unidiomatic phrase of their native language.

"Strangers, you are two-behold the third in this great city, to whom alone the spectacle of these ruins is more delightful than the pageantry of religion."

66

I see nothing," said the old man. "What do you hear, then?"

"I listen to the sweet singing of the birds, the humming of the bees, which, and the sound of my daughter's breathing, compose me like the soft murmur of waters; and this sun-warm wind is pleasant to me."

"Wretched old man! know you not that these are the ruins of the Coliseum?"

66

like mournful music: "speak not so, my Alas, stranger!" said the girl, in a voice father is blind."

with tears, and the lines of his countenance The stranger's eyes now suddenly filled

became relaxed.

"Blind!" he exclaimed, in a tone of suffering which was more than an apology, and seated himself apart in a flight of shallow and mossy steps, which wound up among the labyrinths of the ruin.

'My sweet Helen," said the old man, "you did not tell me that this was the Coli

seum.

"How should I tell you, dearest father, what I knew not? I was on the point of inquiring the way to that building when we entered the circle of the ruins; and until the stranger accosted us, I remained silent, subdued by the greatness of what I saw."

66

'Tis your custom, sweetest girl, to describe to me the objects that give you delight; you array them in the soft radiance of your words; and whilst you speak, I only feel the infirmity which holds me in such dear diffidence as a blessing. Why have you been so long silent?"

"I know not. First, the wonder and the pleasure of the sight; then, the words of the stranger, and then thinking on what he said, and how he looked; and now, beloved father, on your own words."

"Well, dearest, what do you see?"
"I

His form, that, though emaciated, displayed the elementary outline of exquisite grace, was enveloped in an ancient chlamys, which see a vast circle of arches built upon half concealed his face. It was a face, once seen, never to be forgotten. The lips and arches, and stones like shattered crags, so vast are they, and walls giddily hangingthe moulding of the chin resembled the eager and impassioned tenderness of the totteringly-on walls. In the crevices and in the vaulted roofs, grows a multitude of shapes of Antinous; but, instead of the effe-shrubs, the wild olive, the myrtle, and the minate sullenness of the eye, and the narrow

smoothness of the forehead, shone an expres-gled weeds, and strange feathery plants, like jasmine, and intricate brambles, and entansion of profound and piercing thought. His dishevelled hair, such as I never saw before. brow was clear and open, and his eyes deep, The stones are immensely massive, and they and like two wells of crystalline water which jut out from each other like mountain cliffs. reflect the all-beholding heavens. Over all There are terrible rifts in the walls and high windows, through which is seen the light of the blue heavens. There seem to me more than a thousand arches, some ruined, some entire,

was spread a timid expression of diffidence and retirement, which intermingled strangely with the abstract and fearless character which predominated in his form and ges

+ This is the fragment referred to by Capt. Medwin in the Memoir-see Athena um, p. 503.

and they are all immensely high and wide.

There never was drawn a more perfect portrait of Shelley himself,

Some are broken, and stand forth in great heaps, and the underwood is tufted in their crumbling fragments. Around us lie enormous collections of shattered and shapeless capitals and cornices, loaded with delicate sculpture."

"It is open to the sky," said the old man. "We see the liquid depth of heaven above, and through the rifts and the windows, the flowers and the weeds, and the grass and creeping moss, are nourished by the unforbidden rain. The blue sky is above-the wide bright blue sky; it flows through the great rifts on high, and through the bare boughs of the marble-rooted fig-tree, and through the leaves and flowers of the weeds, even to the dark arcades beneath. I feel, I see it its clear and piercing beams fill the universe and impregnate the joy-inspiring wind with warmth and light and life, and interpenetrate all things, even me, father. And through the highest rift, the noonday waning moon is hanging, as it were, out of the solid sky: and this shows that the atmosphere has the clearness which it rejoices me that I feel." "Dearest child, what else see you?" "Nothing." "Nothing?"

"Only the bright, green, mossy ground interspersed with tufts of dewy clover-grass that run into the interstices of the shattered arches, and round the isolated pinnacles of the ruins."

"Like those lawny dells of soft short grass which wind among the high forests and precipices of the Alps of Savoy."

"What are they?"

"Things awe-inspiring and wonderful are they not caverns such as the untamed elephant and tigress might choose amid the Indian wildernesses where to hide her cubs such as, were the sea to overflow the earth, the mighty monsters of the deep would change

|

"It was such, Helen-what sound of wings is that?"

"It is of the wild pigeons returning to their young. Do you not hear the murmur of those that are brooding in their nests?" "It is the language of their happiness."

A DAY IN A STAGE COACH.

Ir is early, and a spring morning: the streets of the good town of together with most of their inhabitants, are yet in a state of repose. The Eagle and Child, however, a place where stage-coach travellers congregate, is all life, noise, and bustle;— porters in their dog-skin caps-coachmen and guards receiving emphatic orders from passengers, or answering importunate questions-luggage of all denominations, trunks, bags, boxes, hampers, bundles, baskets, like men's minds in the present era, in a state of transition-last words passing between the departing and their friends-a cur or two barking, and an official or two swearing-no one perfectly at ease, or self-possess ed, save the book-keeper, to whom the din and bustle of such a scene is an avocation

that has a da capo every hour. He, waybill in hand, and with his fancy muslin cravat confined by a mock topaz brooch, enacts the superior genius-the guardian angel of seats and squabbles: the coach, the coach horses, and the very coachman, who, on the road, will be absolute as ten autocrats, Indeed, father, your eye has a vision more cannot stir till he has given the word. The serene than mine.' passengers, who, when landed at their jour“And the great wrecked arches, the shat-ney's end, may be all and sundry "people of tered masses of precipitous ruin overgrown consequence," are, whilst he holds the waywith the younglings of the forest, and more bill under his thumb, at his command; like chasms rent by earthquakes among the that pretty young lady must have the box, mountains, than the vestige of what was hu- containing the identical ball-dress in which man workmanship." she is to captivate a cornet of dragoons, slung under the coach-and if the cord should break! At his frown, that choleric old gentleman, with a gouty toe, must suffer the fat woman beside him, with her bundle, her umbrella, her poke bonnet, and her peppermint drops;-it rests with him, now in the distance, who approaches in the chaall are ready to start, whether the passenger racter of "panting time," or rather past time, shall win or lose his place: he, for the occasion, is omnipotent, and consequently not very civil: but he is calm, and therefore has an aspect of dignity. What to him are the hopes, aims, and feelings of the multitudinous inhabitants and onhabitants of his coaches? They pay their fare, and if they reach their journey's end they have had fair play: he feels a sublime contempt for their parlous anxiety about coats, cloaks, and umbrellas; and nothing short of news of an overturn can withdraw the pen from his mouth. The whirl around his office is to him quiet as the mountains: the coming and going of the coach, which, to apply Shelley's line,

into their vast chambers?"

Father, your words image forth what I would have expressed, but could not.” "I hear the rustling of leaves, and the sound of water-but it does not rain-like the faint drops of a fountain among woods."

"It falls from among the heaps of ruin over our heads. It is, I suppose, the water collected in the rifts by the showers."

"A nursling of man now abandoned by his care, and transformed by the enchantment of Nature into a likeness of her own creations, and destined to partake their immortality. Changed to a mountain cloven into woody dells, which overhang its labyrinthine glades, and shattered into toppling precipices, even the clouds, intercepted by its craggy summits, supply eternal fountains with their rain."

"By the column on which we sit, I should judge that it had once been crowned with a temple or theatre, and that in sacred days

Shelley on visiting Meillerie, says, "Groves of pine, chesnut, and walnut, overshadow it; magnificent and unbounded forests, to which England affords no parallel. In the midst of these woods are dells of lawny expanse inconceivably verdant, adorned with a thousand of the rarest flowers, and odorous with thyme."

Brought pleasure there and left passion behind, stirs not his sympathies: it is a piece of he himself is a mechanical arrangement; business-a mechanical arrangement-and like the clock in his office he thinks only of keeping time. Yet I like stage-coaches and stage-coach travelling,-presuming the first to be moderately respectable, and the latter only moderately continued. One hears of

stage-coach is the high place of selfishness, or of real in-bred politeness; the stage-coach breakfast or dinner is a great revealer of secrets, touching temper and disposition;— and if you change your passengers often, and find out their subjects of interest, you may pick up the history of half a county, or at least become acquainted with its opinions. The most instructive and entertaining companions are not the most genteel: those so called par excellence are apt to be sulky; or having led as conventional a life as yourself, have as little free, fresh, racy character -you talk over the metropolitan world, but you learn nothing peculiar of the country you are passing through. I love the homely, respectable passengers; such as presume you to be acquainted with, and interested in their sayings and doings: farmers' wives who get in for ten miles, on their way to see 'my daughter as is just married;" or "my two grandsons as has got the measles," and who will give you valuable information relative to the management of a dairy farm, with a slight philippic against the nearest and greatest land-owner; or the "young lady" who has been visiting her friends, some other "young ladies," at the Coach Inn, where you take her up, and who rides six miles home she will yield a very fair complement of topographical talk, for opposite her is a good-looking young farmer, returning from market, and their discourse initiates you into the gossip of their metropolis, the last market town in half an hour you know

Who is born, and who is dead,

And who is broke, and who is wed.

You discover how parties stand,-not on the Reform question, but as to whether Mrs. John Smith, an independent widow, will listen to the wooing of Mr. James Brown, a thriving maltster; you have no word of Wellington or Wilkie, of Sir Walter Scott or Taglioni; but you learn what kind of sermons the curate preaches, and the true and particular reason why Mr. Hopkins did not get the grammar school. The place of the young lady, when vacated, is more than filled by a facturer, on his way to the great mart in passenger from the outside, a flannel manuNorth Wales: he is a proye-a perfect golden fleece: he grumbles into your ear, the evil days on which flannel manufacturers are fallen-the feud that exists between the old and new flannel halls-the rate of profit-the style of finishing-and the reasons why flannel, and not bread, ought to be called "the staff of life.' You bid your temporary companion farewell, with an interest in the wool trade that your bosom was formerly a stranger to; but he is succeeded by another traveller, a Manchester tradesman; and his equal eloquence concerning cheap prints and ginghams, rather weakens the impression left by the flannel merchant. Being from so important and busy a place, your present companion is more generally intelligent, and he discusses the state of public opinion like an century, in which a lady may buy an eleincipient member of parliament. Wonderful gant-looking dress for five and ninepence, and nations have constitutions made as fast as buttons! Now, having derived all, and much more than all, the above interesting knowledge from a day in a stage-coach,

would it not be ungrateful to remember that, owing to the absence of opposition, and the part of the kingdom being somewhat remote, one had to suffer from an influx of supernumerary children and market baskets within ; and from being top-heavy without, liable to be overturned! Neither is a night at an inn other than a luxury-if it be like With the greenest of tea, the tenderest of chickens, illustrations of Shakspeare's 'Seven Ages' adorning the walls, who may not take his ease at his inn?

the one at

SONNET.

ON ITALY.

From the Italian of Felicaja. Paraphrased by Lord Byron, in the 4th Canto of 'Childe Harold.' ITALY! my own dear Italy! thou who hast That fatal boon, beauty, to all below

Who, basking in thy beams of loveliness,
Doom them to perish daily-ray by ray.
Then, not as now, in torrents down would pour
Armed multitudes from thine Alps; nor should

we see

Quaffed by fierce Gallic hordes, nor run with gore

The Po; nor in the stranger's hand would be The sword, not thine, nor to defend thee, nor Conquer'd or conqueress, wouldst thou hug thy slavery.

VISIT TO THE EDYSTONE LIGHTHOUSE.

I had read Smeaton's account of the Edystone, and the difficulties and dangers he encountered while superintending its construction, and I felt an ardent desire to visit a spot where the genius and indefatigable zeal of a great man so happily combined at once to bestow a valuable blessing on posterity, and leave a lasting monument of his own fame. I arrived at Plymouth early in August, a season in which a tranquil sea may be expected: yet the weather had been for some time boisterous, and I was fearful of success in attempting an excursion to the Edystone. The position of the rock, exposed as it is to the unbroken swell of the Atlantic, renders it extremely difficult to land at the house; and a traveller who is intent on visiting this solitary abode, may perform many unsuccessful voyages, even when the weather is most serene; for the swell at the lighthouse is frequently an undulation proceeding from causes not apparent on the spot, and often depends more on the winds that may chance to prevail at a distance in the channel, or even in the Atlantic, than on the state of the weather near shore. It may appear strange to a person who has never been at sea, that there should ever be rough water without wind; but the fact is, that in the ocean, or any open sea, the undulation produced by a distant gale extends far beyond the region of the wind that causes it; and it frequently happens that a gale is preceded by a heavy swell for twenty-four hours or more. Thus it is that the fineness of the weather in the neighbourhood of Plymouth is often no criterion by which the tranquillity of the sea at the Edystone can be ascertained.

It is necessary, in visiting the lighthouse, to be conducted by persons who are well ac

The boats employed about the harbours of Plymouth are badly calculated for anything beyond the limited service for which they are destined; and as it would not have been agreeable to have proceeded so far to sea in a small open boat, I took the opportunity of going out by the Edystone Tender, a sloop of thirty tons, kept for the service of the lighthouse, with orders to supply the inmates with fresh provisions, at least twice a week, whenever the weather is sufficiently fine to allow a boat to land. This service is, however, chiefly confined to the summer months; and such is, at times, the difficulty of access to the house, that, in the winter of 1828, thirteen weeks elapsed without a single opportunity of communicating with the light-keepers. I left Catwater at seven o'clock, on a morncursion; and though our little vessel appeared to sail tolerably well, it was afternoon before we had a distinct view of the lighthouse. The gentle breeze, though contrary to our course, would long before have brought us to the object of my curiosity, but for a long groundswell, that rolled towards shore, not like the ruffled surface of a narrow channel, but the lengthened undulation of an ocean. As we proceeded slowly onwards by short tacks, the sea opposing the bows, and the rolling of the vessel shaking the little wind there was out of her sails, I thought of Smeaton, and the many tedious voyages he performed, when carrying on a work for which his name will ever be illustrious in the annals of science, philanthropy, and courage; and if one day seemed tiresome to a traveller whose only interest was to gaze at the production of so great a genius, how much more tedious must have appeared the many weeks, and even months, lost by its founder in his protracted, and often fruitless excursions to the then houseless rock. It was past four when we arrived within half a mile of the rocks, and the swell had abated to a degree I could not have imagined possible in so short a time. It was nearly flood, and the long chain of rocks which forms the principal reef was all above water. On the highest rock, at some distance from this chain, stands the house, and beyond it a smaller reef, with a conical detached rock between them. Smeaton's description of the spot had indeed delighted me; but the Edystone must be seen before one can fully feel the merit of its founder. The distant land was obscured by heavy rain, and the sharp blue line of the horizon everywhere defined and void of objects, save where the lighthouse rose, in solemn majesty, from the very surface of the sea. On a rock scarcely larger than its base, and entirely covered at high-water, with eleven miles of sea between it and the nearest land, exposed to all the fury of Atlantic seas, yet firm as its rocky foundation, in proud defiance of its powerful assailant, stands the graceful building! Painting may represent the scene in part, but what art can portray the wide expanse that everywhere surrounds the spectator?

The tide had now turned favourable to our

course, and we rapidly advanced towards the house. When within two hundred yards, the boat was brought alongside, and, the casks of water and provisions being put into it, we rowed off.

The light-keepers had for some time per

We proceeded to the channel at the back or land side of the rock. The short ladder was fixed to irons placed for the purpose, and we ascended to the flat surface by the side of the house. A narrow slippery path, not a foot broad, cut into steps, leads round the rock to the ladder of the door, with an ascent of about eight feet more. The ladder itself is thirteen feet long, and is jointed, so that, when pulled up, it lies in the narrow passage to which it leads. The reason for placing the door so high appears to have been to provide a mass of solid masonry at the bottom of the building, and perhaps to prevent the possibility of invasion by pirates, who might be anxious to recruit their stock of provisions. The arrangement of the house itself is so completely detailed in Smeaton's work, that any description would be superfluous; and I shall confine myself to such observations as conduce, either to confirm the just conceptions of its founder by the silent testimony of years, or relate to alterations which experience has suggested.

Three men constantly reside in this place of true retirement. The eldest, who is styled Captain, has been there seventeen years; and it appears that, though they have liberty to remain on shore each a month at a time at intervals in the year, they gradually lose all inclination to leave the house, and feel that their residence on shore constantly makes them ill-an effect probably arising from the irregularities of living, scarcely separable from a removal to the pleasures of society after extreme retirement. Each man has a salary amounting to nearly 801. a year, besides provisions and a bottle of porter every day. The house is constantly furnished with three months' provisions of salt meat, biscuit, and water, and an additional supply of one hundred pounds of beef. There is likewise a stock of five hundred gallons of oil for the lights. When the house was first built, the light consisted of twenty-four tallow candles, placed without reflectors. It must have been a very inefficient light, and extremely troublesome to the men, who were required to snuff the candles every half hour; but as candles were found to yield less soot than common lamps, they proved the best method of lighting then known. The invention of the Argand lamp was a valuable discovery for lighthouses; and about thirty-eight years ago that lamp was introduced in the Kdystone, the North and South Forelands, and many other lights. The lamps were placed in the focus of a parabolic reflector of twenty-one inches diameter, plated with silver, which projects a cylinder of light with surprising intensity. At first, a lens of the same diameter as the reflector was placed opposite each light in the window of the lantern; but subsequent experience proved, that though in certain points of the horizon the light was more intense, yet it was less generally diffused, so that it often happened that a distant vessel, unless in the axis of a lens, did not see the light at all: the lenses have been