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gaging virtue appears in all his words and actions. Thus, when about to sing a catch, in which the words "hold thy peace, thou knave," occur, and the clown apologizes for using the opprobrious epithet, he remarks with interesting simplicity, "'tis not the first time I have constrained one to call me knave." No mention is made of his past life; but we should conjecture, from one sentence which escapes him, that he had been disappointed in love. When Sir Toby boasts that Maria adores him, Sir Andrew says disconsolately, "I was adored once too." I also was an Arcadian.

It is said to be the sum of human knowledge to know thyself, and that increase of wisdom bringeth humility. Both these virtues adorn the character of our knight. While listening to Malvolio's soliloquy, he instantly recognises his own likeness, though not drawn by a partial hand.

'Mal. Besides, you waste the treasure of your time upon a foolish knight. Sir And. That's me, I warrant you.

Mal. One Sir Andrew.

Sir And. I knew 'twas I, for many do call me fool.'

The knight is in love, and therefore jealous; for jealousy is ever the companion of love. The disguised Viola is the object of his suspicions; and his friends tell him he must redeem the lost favour of Olivia by policy or valour. His answer is a brave one :—“ An 't be any way, it must be with valour; for policy I hate: I'd as lief be a Brownist as a politician.' politician." Under the influence of this sentiment, he prepares a challenge and submits it to the judgment of his friends. Will our readers take the scene?

'Sir And. Here's the challenge, read it; I warrant there's vinegar and pepper in't.

Fab. Is't so saucy?

Sir And. Is't? I warrant him: do but read.

Sir To. Give me.

(Sir Toby reads.)

"Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow."

Fab. Good, and valiant.

Sir To. "Wonder not, nor adınire not in thy mind, why I do call thee so, "for I will show thee no reason for't."

Fab. A good note: that keeps you from the blow of the law.

Sir To. "Thou com'st to the lady Olivia, and in my sight she uses thee "kindly: but thou liest in thy throat, that is not the matter I challenge thee "for."

Fab. Very brief, and exceeding good sense-less.

Sir To. "I will waylay thee going home: where if it be thy chance to "kill me,'

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Fab. Good.

Sir To. "Thou kill'st me like a rogue and a villain."

Fab. Still you keep o' the windy side of the law: Good.

Sir To. "Fare thee well; and God have mercy upon one of our souls! "He may have mercy upon mine; but my hope is better, and so look to thy"self. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy, ANDREW "AGUE-CHEEK."

It has often been observed, that the courage of all men is subject to fluctuation. The general who would boldly meet his enemy, dreads to encounter the gentle waves of an undisturbed sea; a brave soldier has been known to tremble before a cat; and it is said of a modern hero, whose brows are encircled with a coronet, that when he first entered the list of fame, and heard the loud shout of angry battle, he trembled. We will therefore more readily excuse a transient failure in Sir Andrew's valour, when he hears such serious accounts of his opponent's skill.

'Sir Toby. Why man, he's a very devil; I have not seen such a virago; I had a pass with him, rapier, scabbard and all, and he gives me the stuck in with such a mortal motion, that it is inevitable: and on the answer, he pays you as surely as your feet hit the ground they step on; they say he has been fencer to the Sophy.'

Sir Andrew's reply, though not a very bold, is an extremely natural one, and contains a sentiment which many men in his situation, were they as candid as he, would express. "Plague on't an I had thought he had been so valiant, and so cunning in fence, I'd have seen him damned ere I'd have challenged him." The unwilling combatants, however, draw near; while, to inspirit Sir Andrew, Sir Toby assures him that his enemy has sworn not to harm him, to which the Knight most earnestly answers, Pray God he keep his oath." Officers of the law interfere, and prevent bloodshed; but when Viola is led off under arrest, Sir Andrew's fugitive courage returns, and he pursues his supposed rival on murderous deed intent. But alas for the rash Knight-he mistook his man, and lighted upon Sebastian, and the consequences he thus bewails. "He has broke my head

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across, and given Sir Toby a bloody coxcomb too: for the love of God your help: I had rather than forty pound I were at home," and thus discomfited in love and in battle, Sir Andrew takes his final leave.

But we cannot take our leave without trespassing further on the reader's attention, and turning a little aside from our subject, to indulge in some literary scandal. Every one must recollect Wamba, in Ivanhoe, and the artifice he uses to gain access into the castle of Front-de-Boeuf: where, in assuming the friar's cowl, he too evidently doffs the fool's cap and bells; and though he substantiates his fidelity as a friend, weakens his reputation as a true fool. No one has forgotten his "Pax vobiscum," or his too sensible remarks on assuming his disguise, or if they have, can fail to remember it, when they read the following scene from the Twelfth Night.

Maria. Nay, I prithee, put on this gown and beard; make him believe thou art Sir Topas, the curate: do it quickly, I'll call Sir Toby the whilst. Clown. Well, I'll put it on, and I will dissemble myself in it; and I would

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I were the first that ever dissembled in such a gown: I am not half fat enough to become the function well, nor lean enough to be thought a good student. Sir Toby. Jove bless thee, master parson.

Clown. Bonos dies, Sir Toby.'

The Clown wears his cowl as easily, though not in such peril, as his successor, Wamba: "The knave counterfeits well; a good knave." We do not remark this coincidence with any desire to depreciate the merit of the extraordinary genius who has added so much to the literary treasures of the age, but cite it as an instance of the felicity with which he adopts remote hints, and by making them his own, renders them more valuable.

ART. III.—Travels in France and Italy, in 1817 and 1818. By the Rev. WILLIAM BERRIAN, an Assistant Minister of Trinity Church, New-York. 8vo. pp. 403. T. & J. Swords.

We do not agree with those reviewers, who believe the day for the personal narratives of travellers to be past. It is true, that much idle and egotistical matter may be obtruded on our notice in this manner; yet we greatly prefer a lively detail of occurrences, which represents incidentally the customs of a people, to any formal and dull statistical account. The chance for novelty, at least, is on the side of the traveller; and we conceive there can be no safer method of forming our opinions of a people at a distance, than by listening to the relation of well chosen facts.

He who travels with a view to write, should seize every opportunity of coming in contact with the inhabitants he visits; and then nothing more is necessary than ability to discern and fidelity to record. We wish not to be understood as saying, that after hastily running over a certain district of country, a writer is always qualified to convey a just idea of the character of its people; but we wish every man to relate what he sees, as it occurs, and by so doing, he enables us to form a juster estimate of the value of his facts. But to explain ourselves more fully: Suppose two men undertake to give an account of any particular country, from the result of their own observations. One travels through it, sees the people as well as he can, collects what anecdotes he may, draws his own conclusions, and then, perhaps with the aid of a few books, communicates the result to the world, under the sounding title of Remarks, National Character, or perhaps Statistics. The other travels also relates, in the form of a personal narrative, every thing of moment which occurs-gives us his method of reasoning, it is true, but so closely connected with the facts that we are

at liberty to reason for ourselves; and carries us with him, as it were, to examine every witness on whose testimony he makes up his verdict. In the one case we are to yield implicit belief to the opinions of another man; and in the other, the reasons are given to us, and we are left to judge for ourselves. We very well know, this liberty to introduce their private adventures on our notice, is often abused by travellers; and we also know that many of the more pretending writers condemn us to wade through an equal quantity of misrepresentation, without giving us by way of compensation half the amusement. If we object to any particular fashion of recording travels, it is that which compels us to read, for the hundredth time, descriptions of the same places, and of things that cannot alter. We do most heartily wish we could have a good book of travels through modern Italy, that should say not one word about Mount Vesuvius, St. Peter's, nor the Venus de Medici. The first is a burning mountain, and has been so, and probably will continue to be so, for some thousands of years: and should it disappear, we make no doubt we shall obtain prompt notice of the event from the Neapolitans themselves; especially now that they are about obtaining the important privilege of the liberty of the press. When our brother reviewers vent a few official anathemas against these trite and worn out descriptions, we cheerfully respond to their denunciations; but still we must maintain the narrative to be the better book of the two; as it may at all events give us some insight into human nature.

Books of travels are much wanted in this country. It is of great moment, in a popular government like ours, and where the agency of the people in public measures is so direct, that just opinions should be entertained of foreign nations. It is the people we would know, and it is all important that we should see them with American eyes. For our part, we wish that no intelligent American who travels would forget to give his countrymen an account of what he has seen; and we would have this practice to continue, until we have at least collected enough of testimony to enable us to make our decisions unbiassed by the prejudices of European rivalry. We have so far spoken of what is best for ourselves. But cæteris paribus we believe an American better qualified to give an impartial account of the Christian world, than a man of any other nation of the earth. Comparatively speaking, as a nation we have nothing to hope for, and as little to fear, from any power; consequently, we are equally removed from prejudice and partiality. As a people, we are acute, discriminating and inquisitive. Common sense, and a rational manner of viewing the things of this life, are characteristics of our nation. It is the prevalence of this fastidious taste which represses among us the exuberance and exhibition of talent more than any

want of leisure or patronage; yet they are qualities which fit us admirably to judge of our neighbours. The scale of Christian morals among us is very justly graduated, being alike free from fanaticism and superstition. We are without hauteur and easy of access, qualities which help us wonderfully in our intercourse with strangers, and in which the English, as a people, are absolutely wanting;-in short, the reasons are numberless.

We read with pleasure any book, written by one of our own countrymen, which professes to give an account of a foreign nation. As yet the number of such works, compared with the multitude who travel, has been small indeed; but we hail it as a favourable symptom that, small as that number is, a majority of these works have appeared within a very few years. Silliman, White, Noah, James and Berrian are all recent travellers; and although, perhaps, neither of these gentlemen expects to be placed very high in the scale of this order of writers, we be lieve each of their books may be read with profit. Simond we class among the most pleasant and ablest of foreign tourists, when we consider the beaten path in which he trod; but Simond, although so long an inhabitant and a citizen of our republic, wrote more like a Frenchman than an American. Noah was very amusing and instructing until he began to be learned, when the character of his book changed.

But to turn our attention more particularly to the one before us:-The Rev. Mr. Berrian was, and still continues to be, Assistant Minister of Trinity Church in the city of New-York. Symptoms of a decline induced him, in 1817, to flee from the impending rigour of an American winter, to the milder climate of Italy. Accompanied by a friend, whose case was much more threatening than his own, our author embarked on board a ship bound to France. His voyage was short; but still it afforded enough of materials to occupy several pages of his book. He saw terrible sights-was in danger of shipwreck-finds great fault with his captain for carelessly sleeping through all the preparatory warnings of a Dutch boatswain, to a gale that, notwithstanding the captain's obstinate indifference, continued full three hours. In short, like most novices on the ocean, our author saw more than he relished, and less than he expected.

We believe, on the whole, the best course for landsmen to pursue, is always to act under the impression of the man, who said, 'he car'd not if the vessel did sink, he was nothing but a passenger: As we have a sly suspicion, that by recounting our adventures on the mighty deep, we only create amusement for those who know better. We will therefore leave our traveller until we have him on his own proper element, where he appears to much better advantage. He arrived at Rochelle, and gives us

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