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have contributed ; and report bears us out in this idea. That the authors are of the gentler sex, is also very apparent, from the tone of sentiment and feeling with which the different subjects are handled. This is most prominent in the three tales; “Emily Butler,” which is a narrative of deep and unfortunate love, managed with considerable delicacy and pathos; “ The Outpost," founded on an anecdote, bearing the stamp of truth, and intended to illustrate at once the barbarous situation of Hibernian manners, and the feudal bonds which still subsist between lord and vassal; and, “ The Widow's Nuptials,” a somewhat harrowing recital of the operation of unhallowed passion, meeting with virtuous resistance, long sustained, till borne down by the force of maternal affection; though ending at length in joyless decay, and an unhallowed death.

The translations from the German, which, allowing for the exaggerated state of northern continental feeling, possess very considerable interest—and the three stories, the “ Miller of Doune,” “ Mynheer Dodimus Doolittle,” and “ Beware of what you say before Children,” bear the impress of a more masculine intellect, and appear to have proceeded from the same pen; though, strange to say, the best story in the work, “ Mynheer Dodimus," and the worst, “ Beware of what you say before Children,” are of the trio.

The fair writer will doubtless be a little surprised at the decision on the tale which winds up the volume; as, from its station there, and some passages of the writing, she certainly must have reckoned it one of the most forcible and effective. The incident on which the story hinges, is unquestionably horrible and striking; and, brought in episodically, must have passed with eclat in this age of strong emotion; but the circumstances, added to give effect, only operate as water, in diluting the strong essence of the anecdote; and throw over it an air of ridicule, conjoined with a feeling quite unpleasant and disagreeable. If French critics stigmatise Shakspeare for the barbarity of smothering Desdemona on the stage, what can be said, even by a rougher British critic, in defence of a minute and particular account of the atrocities committed at the incremation of an insane woman, whose broken thigh-bone rattles on each step of the prison stair as she is dragged down, and who is at last mercifully rendered senseless among the excruciating flames, by receiving on her head an immense stone, thrown by a horrified byestander.

We have said enough, and perhaps more than enough in censure; but, had the stories been more full of blemishes, one to pounce on, would not have appeared so prominent. We would fain give an extract from the “ Miller of Doune,” throughout which the olden Doric dialect of Scotland is admirably sustained; but find we cannot detach a passage with effect, without entering into the minutiæ of the story, the agreeable task of which we would rather leave to our readers, assuring them of very considerable amusement.

Of the other tales, which make up the volume, several of which contain considerable interest and entertainment, our limits preclude us from making particular mention; indeed they will be more or less relished, according to the taste of the reader. To conclude, we wish the fair writers every success in the walk of literature they have chosen. As to their elegant accomplishinents, the translations from the German and Italian, and more especially the original music to which several lyrics in the book are set, allow only of one opinion being formed; though we admit they might have selected some more noted poets to illustrate, than Costello, or T. Č. Smith, neither of whom are likely to be very familiar to the public.

Should they again think of presenting themselves at the bar of public favour, we would advise them, as true observers of society and manners, to adhere to their own deductions therefrom; and banish all novel-writing sentimentality from their pages. The late period of the month at which this interesting volume was received, as precluded us from giving some of the many favourable specimens we should otherwise have presented to the notice of our readers; but this omission shall be atoned for in our next publication.

THE MORAL CHARACTER of Lord Byron.* This pamphlet is a metaphysical inquiry into the moral character of Lord Byron, with many of the sentiments of which we entirely disagree. It would be unjust to withhold from the author our praise for the ingenuity of some of his arguments and the vividness of his perception; for he seems to have found morality in productions that could never have been intended to convey moral instruction to mankind. In this liberal spirit, he discovers that in Don Juan there is “ a total freedom from grossness of sentiment and language.” In his anxiety to promote the cause of morality, our author deplores the destruction of Lord Byron's autobiography, and calls poor Mr. Moore all kinds of uncivil names for having given the precious manuscript out of his possession ; accusing him of baseness, treachery, and dishonour, faithlessness and ingratitude; as well as of having acted from paltry temporary considerations, in his concession to the friends of Lord Byron, as it regarded the posthumous production of which he was the depository. So far from sympathising with Mr. Simmons, in his rhapsodical invectives, we are of opinion, that Mr. Moore rendered an acceptable service, not only to Lord Byron's fame, but to society in general, in suppressing the noble poet's account of his own life, filled as it would seem to have been with personalities and indecencies, of the most disgusting description. To speak seriously, Mr. Simmons' pamphlet is a very flimsy and absurd attempt to inquire into the merits of a question which has long been decided. The Monody subjoined to the essay, contains some very pleasing lines, but is on the whole extremely rhapsodical and extravagant.

OLD ENGLISH PROVERBS, EXPLAINED AND ILLUSTRATED, BY WILLIAM Carpenter. This small, but neatly printed volume, contains a selection of English proverbs, from Ray, Dyke, Bailey, &c., with illustrations of their meaning and applicability. The author of these comments does not however give his readers credit for quite as much intelligence as we conceive to be the average possessed by all decent people at this time of day, for he is sometimes at much pains to explain what needs no explanation at all. The book is, however, on the whole, both useful and pleasant; and is calculated to form an acceptable present to young people. It is a cheap and pretty publication.

The Poor Man's FRIEND. This is a very useful and entertaining little brochure, and forms the best exposition of the almost incredible enormities of William Cobbett, we eyer remember to have met with. There is scarcely an opinion on any subject of importance, in which the turn-coat of the Register has indulged, to which we are not here furnished with a counterpart. “ Out of thine own mouth shalt thou be judged,” would have formed an appropriate motto for this pamphlet, the author of which has rendered an acceptable service to the poor desuded creatures, who have been cajoled by this most inconsistent, shameless, and unprincipled of politicians. Those merchants and manufacturers who are in the habit of employing large numbers of the lower orders, would do well to circulate the “Poor Man's Friend” among their dependants. The exposure of old Cobbett's tricks is so complete, that it can hardly fail of producing a very sensible effect in the minds of his admirers, if any yet remain to him.

* An Inquiry into the Moral Character of Lord Byron. By J. W. Simmons. Cochran, pp. 98. + Old English Proverbs, Explained and Illustrated, by W. Carpenter, 24mo. Booth.

| The Poor Man's Friend; or, the Companion of the Working Classes : being the system of moral and political philosophy, laid down by W. Cobbett. Stedman, pp. 32.

CHIT-CHAT; LITERARY AND MISCELLANEOUS.

RIER, &c.

We scarcely ever remember a period of such extraordinary dulness in the literary world, as the last few weeks. If we except Captain Parry's Third Voyage, there has scarcely been a single work of importance published. The shops of the London wholesale booksellers resemble so many cemeteries, or catacombs, where nothing is to be seen but“pile upon pile of the hapless remains of defunct and unsaleable authors.

A report has been most industriously circulated, that the failure of Messrs. Hurst and Robinson will operate to the prejudice of Mr. Alaric Watts's Literary Souvenir for 1827. We are requested to state, that there does not exist the smallest ground for such an assumption. The forthcoming volume is in a state of considerable forwardness, and will be published along with the other annuals. Some idea of the character of its embellishments may be formed from the fact, that they are all engraving, or engraved (in the line manner, in the most finished style of the art) by CHARLES HEATH, WILLIAM and EDWARD Finden, Rolls, ENGLEHEART, Romney, WALLACE, MITCHELL, HUMPHREYS, &c., after subjects painted, in some instances, expressly for the work, and in others, selected from celebrated pictures, never before engraved, in the possession of various distinguished collectors,—by HOWARD, NEWTON, TURNER, MARTIN, EASTLAKE, GREEN, COPLEY, FIELDING, W. E. West, Far

Among these illustrations are the well-known “Girl in a Florentine Costume of 1500," by Howard, a female face of exquisite beauty ; a Spanish Lady singing and playing upon a Guitar, after a study by Newton, and the last and most authentic Portrait of Lord Byron, from a picture painted by Mr. W. E. West, in Italy, in 1822. Of this portrait, Mr. Hobhouse, Mr. Leigh Hunt, and many other gentlemen who saw his lordship during his residence in Italy, have said, that the likeness is admirably preseryed; and that it is, in fact, the only authentic resemblance of Lord Byron extant. So greatly did Lord B., and the friends immediately about him, prefer this portrait to the many which had already been painted of him, that he authorised Mr. West to get it engraved for him by Raphael Morghen, at his own price. This price was four thousand dollars ; but as Morghen would not promise to execute it in less than three years, the idea of getting it engraved by him was abandoned. In Paris, the artist was offered six hundred guineas for this picture; but refused it, as he wished to reserve it for an introduction in this country. It is now being engraved for the Literary Souvenir, in the line manner, by Engleheart. It is, says the New Monthly Magazine, (in an interesting article

upon Mr. West's portrait), far from our wish to underrate the picture of Lord Byron by Phillips, or the drawing of him by Harlow, nor, indeed, were it possible that it could be like any thing that ever existed, would we deny the accuracy of the attempt by Westall

, exhibited last year, in Somerset House. But these were all made in the outset of his career, when the novelty of reputation transported him to an affectation of singularity in his appearance, and he chose to be represented in nothing but corsairs; long too ere the troubles of life had blanched a hair of his head, or added a line to his countenance. What we have wanted of Lord Byron, is a resemblance of him at a period when his variable character had gone its utmost length towards being fixed. The writer in the New Monthly then goes on to mention, that the deficiency of which he complains has been supplied by Mr. West's Portrait. So much for the illustrations of the forthcoming Literary Souvenir. It is hardly necessary to add, that the Literary portion of its contents has been furnished by a host of the most distinguished writers of the age. The kindness of Mr. Secretary Peel, Mr. Ridley Colborne, and several other distinguished collectors, has afforded

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the Editor a choice of some of the most splendid specimens of modern art extant for the purposes of his work.

'Set a beggar on horseback and he will ride to the devil,' is a proverb, to the truth of which most men's experience will bear abundant testimony. The case to which we are about to refer, will add another to the innumerable confirmations of this trite truism already upon record. Anxious to taste a breath of fresh air towards the close of last month, we entrusted our editorial reigns to a young Phæton-like contributor of genius during our absence, strictly limiting his vagaries to the small print in the last few pages of our Magazine. Here, thought we, he cannot fall far, if fall he should. Alas, how sadly did we reckon without our host! Under the pretence of correcting one of our slips, he fell with his whole weight on all the morning newspapers, in a yein worthy of “ Herc'les” himself; calling one dull, another vulgar, and another brazen, and finally gathering up his slashing epithets and throwing them in the faces of newspaper editors in general, (ourselves among others, for we have the honour to belong to that highly respectable fraternity), with surprising coolness and nonchalance. We should, however, have pocketed the affront as far as we were concerned; but the vagabond had positively the impudence, not only to bespatter one or two of the ablest and most respectable of our contemporaries, but actually those of them who happen to be more particularly after our own heart: to wit, The New Times and Morning Post, two of the ablest and most interesting papers published. (We speak of the former from our knowledge, and the latter from general report). If our calumniated contemporaries had not abounded in the milk of human kindness, or what is more probable seen through a very dull joke upon Mr. Hazlitt's principle, (who, in his Essay on Comic Humour, declares that lying is the soul of wit), we should have been impaled alive ere this, for the impertinence of our deputy. He tells us, in extenuation, that he wrote the paragraph when half-seas over; but, as we cannot think of encouraging people who write in their cups, we have dismissed him from our little cortege, with the memorable address of Othello to his drunken lieutenant-“Cassio, be thou no more an officer of mine."

Our correspondent, W. S. S., informs us, that he has in the press three Fairy Tales, from the German of L. A. Grimm, which he proposes to publish at Christmas. They are entitled “ The Three Brothers,” “The Foundlings of the Spring,” and “ The Black Guitar.” From the specimens which we have already perused of the productions of the Messrs. Grimm, we doubt not that our young friends will find these tales amusing.

We have heard of actors, on state occasions, dying twice for the amusement of the public, but have rarely met with periodicals equally accommodating. The “ News of Literature,” however, has had the goodness (for the edification of the public of course) to come to life again, since our last, and die over again. Requiescat in pace.

Another“ Life of Napoleon,” a political one, is announced.

In a clever article in the last “ Monthly Magazine,” entitled “ Fashionable Novels,” and attributed to the pen of Mr. Croly, we are glad to find an echo of our opinions of “ Vivian Grey” and its author.

“ Vivian Grey,” says the critic of the “Monthly Magazine,” is “immeasurably the most impudent of all feeble things; begot in puppyism, conceived in pertness, and born in puffing : whether the writer be any thing above a collector of intelligence in servants' halls, and billiard rooms, no one, of course, can tell, as no one ever heard his nange before ; but the graces of a tavern-writer, and the knowledge of a disbanded butler, are but sorry things, after all, to trade upon. His only chance of escaping perpetual burlesque, is to content himself with wearing violetcoloured slippers," "slobbering his Italian greyhound,” and“ sinking suddenly and finally into total oblivion.

We are happy to hear that a second yolume of Miss Mitford's “Our Vil

lage” is on the eve of publication. It has been reserved, with other good things, until the latter end of the autumn.

A Mr. Shea, of Cork, announces a volume of Poetry, which, to judge from some extracts which have met our eye, in a respectable provincial print, is likely to be of a very respectable order.

Mr. Colburn does not seem to act quite as liberally, on some occasions, as one might reasonably expect from a person of his celebrity. Because our last month's publication announced an exposé of Mr. D'Israeli, the author of “ Vivian Grey," he refused to allow an advertisement of it to appear on the corner of his Magazine. Another bookselling firm, who appropriated to themselves certain remarks in an article on the book trade in our last Number, refused to send such of our Magazines as had hitherto been conveyed through their medium, any longer. Yet the article in question was, on the whole, exceedingly complimentary to booksellers, and merely deprecated those customs of the trade, which seem to bear so heavily upon authors as a body. That our readers may see all that is to be said on the other side, we have given place to a bookseller's reply to our remarks, in our present Number. It will be seen, that like most controversialists who have only half a leg to stand upon, he has imputed to us sentiments and opinions to which we never gave expression, for the purpose of appearing to rebut them most triumphantly. We shall have a word or two with this veteran in our next.

Messrs. Hunt and Clarke are collecting and publishing, in a cheap form, all the most interesting specimens of auto-biography that have been written. The numbers already published contain the Lives of Colley Cibber, Hume, Voltaire, Lilly, Marmontel, &c.

Mr. John Taylor, late of the Sun Newspaper, is, we hear, about to publish a volume of Poems, by subscription. The villainy of a person with whom he was connected in business, has, we regret to hear, conduced to render this measure in some degree essential to his future comfort. Why does not Mr. Taylor write his Reminiscences, we are quite certain they would be extremely amusing, and find a liberal purchaser.

Harriette Wilson has, we are told, written to a respectable bookseller at the west end of the town, to offer him the refusal of her husband's trayels in India. The favour has been declined.

We are particularly anxious to direct the attention of our readers to an interesting little volume, which has just issued from the press, and which we propose noticing more at length at some future opportunity. It is entitled “ The Song of the Patriot; Sonnets and Songs, by Robert Millhouse.” The author is a weaver of Nottingham, and the brief sketch of his life prefixed, by his brother, describes the many and severe difficulties and privations under which he has laboured. The volume contains a great deal of very pleasing poetry. If some of our fashionables, with whom money is even in these times plentiful enough, knew how greatly they might help to ameliorate the condition of an amiable writer and his distressed family by the purchase of a small volume like this, they would, we are sure, need no stronger inducement.

The Literary Chronicle, in a flattering notice of our last month's Magazine, informs us that Linn Clouden Abbey, the poem ascribed to Robert Burns, was written, several years ago, by a J. T. Walter. According to the testimony of one of our valued correspondents, it is in parts a close imitation of a ballad in the Border Minstrelsy, by Sir Walter Scott. We mentioned the source from which we had derived it, and did not pretend to vouch for its authenticity. Our contemporary of the Literary Chronicle is, however, quite wrong in his assertion, that Mr. D’Israeli, junior, was not the editor of the Star Chamber. We happen to know that he was. One or two of our newspaper friends have been extremely critical, on the subject of a misprint in the Bulls of Genius in our last number, and have condescended to inform us, that the tragedy of

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