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known character in almost every town in Scotland. journies he is frequent and regular as the tides-that is to say, he always makes his appearance among the customers on the day announced in the circulars of the house he represents: and, though sometimes peevish in his manner, and eccentric in his ideas, yet his convivial talents, his varied collection of amusing stories, and marvellous relations of hair-breadth escapes which he has experienced in his various journeyings, have rendered him so great a favourite among the friends of the house, that his arrival is look forward to as a sort of a festival. It must, however, be allowed that, like most of the votaries of Momus, his stories and personal adventures are told at a discount something similar to that at which he sells certain descriptions of his goods, varying from 5 to 25 per cent. on his stories, while his adventures may be fairly entitled to an abatement equal to that made on Paisley thread, viz. 50, 60, 75, or what you please. But let it be mentioned to his credit, that in all relations where confidence is implied, integrity requisite, or the character of a gentleman concerned, the terms are NETT. Possessed of a sound discriminating mind, aided by the advantages of education, and improved by continual intercourse with the world, with all his petty humours, his predilection for throwing the hatchet, and his little unmeaning expletive of Holy Moses, with which he interlards his conversation, he is a very decent, companionable sort of fellow.

To my enquiries after dinner respecting his peregrinations, he gave me, among other little stories, the following, which, as it is in some degree illustrative of the Highland character, as well as of the class of anecdotes that form honest Pat's collection, I shall give it as nearly in his own words as possible, leaving the reader, however, to put in the expletive we have alluded to where he feels disposed:

"You may think it a lie," said he, "but I have scarcely had any rest these six nights. Two nights ago, I was at Ardrisaig, where I expected to have slept like one of the seven; but just about day break, I was waked by a yell that might have raised the dead. Starting up, I made one jump from my bed into my trousers, and hastened down to the kitchen, where I found a great yahoo of a Highlandman standing on the middle of the floor, in a state of nudity, with his hair erect, his teeth chattering, and I every member of his body shaking as if he had the ague. snatched up a petticoat that lay on a chair (Highlanders of his grade seldom sleep in their shirts), threw it over his head, and enquired the cause of his alarm. By this time the kitchen was crowded, and all the answer we could get, was something which he mumbled in Gaelic, with the look and tone of a maniac, that served rather to puzzle than explain the affair. After a good deal of investigation, however, the mystery was unravelled. The poor fellow, it seems had come from the braes of Lochaber for the purpose of emigrating to Canada, and being tired, had gone to bed at an early hour. It happened that a merchant, who was proceeding to Oban, or some other town in that direction, with a general assortment of goods in order to open shop, had arrived by one of the Inveraray boats, and being obliged to wait for a northern conveyance, he had his goods taken to the Inn. Among the various articles which composed the miscellaneous collection, was a carved head of a Blackamoore, which he intended to put over his door as a sign, to attract the snuff and tobacco fanciers of his neighbourhood. It chanced, either by accident or design, that the ominous head was taken to the bedroom of the poor emigrant, and placed on the top of a chest of drawers, where blackey had a full view of the unconscious sleeper. In the dusk of the morning, when every object assumes a dubious appearance, the eyes of the shirtless Celt, who had never beheld a sable complexion before, were fixed in horror on the awful apparition; and he gazed in silent agony on what be reasonably believed to be the grand enemy of his soul. At last, raising himself on his hands and knees, and keeping his eyes immovably fixed on the object of his terror, he crawled, crab-like, over the opposite side of the bed, and continued his judicious method of retreat, till his hand came in contact with a heavy poker; this he grasped as a drowning man would a straw -and, making a rush at the foe, he, in the desperate energy which his fear inspired, let fall a blow which sent the demon in splinters about the room. Without waiting to renew the conflict, he sprung screaming from the room down stairs to the kitchen, at a hopskip-and-leap pace, clearing a distance that would have gained the

prize at any of the Strathfillan games. His mumbling now became intelligible-and his exclamation "Mharbh mi an diabhol" (I have killed the devil) was perfectly understood, and excited roars of laughter from the byestanders. How the merchant and he settled about the damage, I did not wait to enquire; but I thought to myself, what consternation would have taken place among the English Bishops, if Donald had turned out a man of his word. They would no doubt have thought the tithe question had been set at rest, and Othello's occupation gone.'"


EVERY person who has visited Paris must remember the Morgue, the place where so many unfortunates, who either commit suicide or are found dead in the streets, or drowned in the Seine, are carried, and exposed for the purpose of being claimed by their relatives or friends. M. Leon Guzlan has lately given the Parisians a powerful picture of this melancholy place, and we feel inclined to transfer it to our columns. The author, after describing the exterior-the "Salle de l'Exposition," which is the only portion of the building with which the public are acquainted, conducts us into the inner recesses of this house of death, the apartments of the superintendent:—

M. Perrin is a little old man, who coughs incessantly.


I explained to him the object of my visit, he very politely offered to show me all the details of his administration, regretting much, as he said, that there was not so much variety as could be desired. "But I will show you what I have-be pleased to walk up.”

As we were climbing the narrow stairs, and he was informing me that his establishment was connected both with the prefecture and the police, with the one on account of the local expenses, with the other from its connection with the public health, we were obliged to stand close against the wall to allow a troop of young girls to pass, well dressed, gay, but shivering with the cold, which blew from the river through the chink which lighted the stair.

"These are four of my daughters. I have eight children. François, the keeper, has had four, and he has had the good fortune to get them all married. François is a kind father."

"So," said I, "twelve children then have been born in the Morgue. Dreams of joy, and conjugal endearments, and parental delights, have been experienced in this chamber of death. Marriage with its orange flowers, baptism with its black robed sponsors, the communion and the embroidered veil, love, religion, virtue, have had their home here as elsewhere. God has sown the seeds of happiness everywhere."

"Papa, we are going to a distribution of prizes. My sisters are sure to get a prize. Don't weary, we will be back in good time."

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"This is the apartment of François." nours with the activity of a man who is not ashamed of his establishment. His room is comfortably furnished; two modern pendules mounted on bronze, a wardrobe with a Medusa's head, a high bed, and a handsome rose-coloured curtain. If the room was not over-burdened with furniture, if there was not much of luxury, yet, to those not early accustomed to superfluities, it might even seem gay. It represented the tastes, opinions, and habits of its master. Vases of flowers threw a green reflection on the curtains, for Francois is fond of flowers. Among his gallery of portraits were those of Augereau and Kleber, both in long coats, leaning on immense sabres, with peruques and powder. Napoleon is there three times.

"Look at these jars," said François, "these are sweetmeats of my wife's making; she excels in sweetmeats." I read upon them, "gooseberries of 1831." We left Francois's apartment, which forms the right wing of the Morgue, while the clerk's house is on the left, and entered the cabinet of administration of M. Perrin. If François is fond of flowers, M. Perrin has the same penchant for hydraulics and the camera obscura; he draws, he makes jets from the Seine, by an ingenious piece of machinery of his own invention; while he was retouching his syphon, I asked permission to turn over the register, where suicides are ranged in two columns. The fatal "unknown" was the prevailing designation; "brought here at three in the morning, skull fractured, unknown;”"brought at twelve at night, drowned under the Pont des Arts, cards in his pocket, unknown ;"-"young woman, pregnant, crushed by a fiacre at the corner of the Rue Mandar, unknown ;”—“ new born child found dead of cold, at the gate of an hotel, unknown.” I said to M. Perrin that he must weary here very much occasionally during the long winter nights.

"No," replied he, good humouredly, "the children sing, we all work, François and I play at draughts or piquet; the worst of it is, we are sometimes interrupted; a knock comes, we must go down, get a stone ready, undress the new comer and register him: that spoils the game; we forget to mark the points."

"And is this the way you generally spend your evenings?"

"Always, except when François has to go to Vaugirard at four o'clock; then he must go to bed earlier. Perhaps you do not know that our burying ground is at Vaugirard: as that burying ground is not much in fashion, we have been allowed to retain our privilege of having a fosse to ourselves."

"I understand—it is a fief of the Morgue."

"You saw that chariot below near the entrance gate, in which the children were hiding themselves at play-that is our hearse." "And rich or poor, all must make use of your conveyance? If for instance a suicide is recognised, his relations or friends may reclaim him, take him home, and bestow the rites of sepultre on him at his own house?"

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No, the Morgue does not give back what has been once deposited here. It allows the funeral ceremonies to be as pompous as they will, but they must all set out from hence; one end of the procession perhaps is at Notre Dame, while the other is starting from the Morgue. The Archbishop of Paris may be there; but François' place is fixed. It is the first."

"And the priests of Notre Dame, do they never make any difficulty about administering the funeral rites to your dead?" Never!"

"Not even to the suicides?"

"There are no suicides for Notre Dame; one is drowned by accident, another killed by the bursting of a gun, a third has fallen from a scaffold. I invent the excuse, and the conscience of the priest accepts it. That's enough.'

So, thought I! Notre Dame, which formerly witnessed the execution at the stake of sorcerers, alchymists, and gypsies on the Grande Place, has now no word of reprobation for the carcase of the suicide, once allowed to rot on the ground, or be devoured by birds. She asks not here what was his faith. The priest says mildly, "Peace be with you."

We walked down, and François opened the first room, that which contains the dresses; habits of all shapes, all dimensions, hideously jumbled together; gaiters pinned to a sleeve, a shawl shading the neck of a coat; dresses of peasants, workmen, carters and brewer's frocks, women's gowns, all faded, discoloured, shapeless, flap against each other in the current of air which entered through the windows. There is something here appalling in the sight and sound of these objects, souless, bodyless, yet moving as if they had life, and presenting the form without the flesh. Your eye rests on a handkerchief, the property of some poor labourer, suddenly seized with the idea of suicide, after some day that he has wanted work.

François, who followed the direction of my eyes to see what impression the picture produced on me, sighed heavily.

"Does it move you too," said I? "Are you discontented with your lot.-Unhappy?"

"Not exactly! But, sir, formerly, you must know, the dresses, after being six months exhibited, became a perquisite of ours; we sold them. Now they talk of taking the dresses from us.”

I reassured François as to the intention of government, and assured him there was no talk of taking away the dresses.

The second room, that which adjoins the public exhibition room, is appropriated for the dissection of those, the mode of whose death appears to the police to be suspicious. Its only furniture is a marble table, on which the dissections take place, and a shelf on which are placed several bottles of chlorate. This room

is immediately above the room of M. Perrin. The dissecting table above just answers to the girls' piano below.

In this room, which I crossed rapidly to avoid as much as possible the sight of a body extended on the plank, I saw the little girl, who had been stifled the night before in the diligence; she was a lovely child. The other figure was frightfully disfigured; scarcely even would his mother have recognised him.

There remained only the public room. It is narrow, ill-aired; ten or twelve black and sloping stones receive the suicides, who are placed on it almost in a state of nudity; the places are seldom all occupied, except perhaps during a revolution. Then it is that the Morgue is recruited; two more days of glory and immortality in July, and the plague had been in Paris.

"It is true," said M. Perrin, "we worked hard during the three days, and we were allowed the use of two assistants. Corpses every where, within, without, at the gate, on the bank."

"And your girls?"

"During these days they did not leave their apartment, nor looked out to the street, nor to the river; besides, you are mistaken if you think the spectacle would have terrified them.Brought up here, they will walk all night without a light in front of the glass, which divides the corpses from the public, without trembling; we become accustomed to any thing."

Methought I heard the poor children, so familiar with the idea of death, so accustomed to this domestic spectacle of their existence, asking innocently of the strangers whom they visitedas one would ask where is your garden, your kitchen, or your cabinet "where do you keep your dead here?"

These were all the facts I could gather with regard to the establishment. I was opening the glass door to breathe the fresh air again, when the entrance of the crowd drove me back into the interior; they were following a bier, on which lay a body, from which the water dripped in a long stream. From one of the hands which were closely clenched, the keeper detached a strip of

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HORACE IN GLASGOW.-The Odes of Horace, done into English Verse, with Critical Remarks on his Writings, a Short Account of his Life, and also Notes, and an Index. Glasgow, pp. 58, 1832.

THIS amusing work, with a few sheets of which we have been favoured, will notbe published before October, and we therefore congrat ulate ourselves that we are able, at this early period, to present our readers with a portion of its contents. As far as we have examined this production, we consider it worthy of approbation. The union of the odes with the names of our citizens, seems happy and appropriate, and they are occasionally adapted with a spirit which, if not Horatian, at least, shows our author possesses discrimination of character, and that he is capable of a judicious management of his subject. "Horace in London," published some years ago, by the authors of "The Rejected Addresses," was not the first attempt to apply the odes of the Augustan to the eminent men of a more recent age, and when we find the names of Milton, Dryden, Cowley, Congreve, Otway and Temple, all appended to imitations of a similar character with those of our author, we not only consider him as following an excellent example, and his attempt as highly laudable, but we think the field he has chosen affords sufficient variety of talent and character to exhaust, in dedications, more of the odes of the original, than be has been pleased to select. In a mercantile community, characters are more easily marked, and may be more faithfully delineated than in society where fashion and literature are the only objects of attraction. In such society, the graces of the man of fashion may be as easily imitated as the style of his dress, or the formality of his bow, but, in the pursuit of wealth, character cannot be concealed-pounds, shillings and pence at once discover the man under whatever mask. Self-interest never will be silent. Some men may appear less solicitous than others in the auri sacra fames, but the student of character will never want subjects, either for preservation or dissection, where shops line every street, and the idol of wealth is surrounded with devotees at every corner, and in every situation.

Our merchants have also, in many instances, assumed characters, peculiar to those who have had much intercourse with foreign society. Many of them having, at one time, been abroad, they have insensibly acquired peculiarities and prejudices which make them stand out from those by whom they are surrounded, whilst others, by their success, and others, by their want of it, display various points which the acute observer at once perceives, form so many aspects of character, calculated to excite his interest, his imitation or dislike. Those, therefore, who suppose that Glasgow does not present a field sufficiently extensive for such a work, as our author's, are mistaken. There are abundance of names in Glasgow, and its vicinity, that may, and ought to be thus immortalised, names that would add respectability to any community, and which are admired and honoured in their own, and although, in some instances, we think he has dedicated his odes to persons who, although highly respectable, in their own circle, are, notwithstanding, almost unknown to the public-yet, upon the whole, his selection is judicious, and the most of the citizens, to whom odes have been appropriated, are not unworthy the distinction.

The introductory chapter of the work before us, may, perhaps, form an article on another occasion. It contains a short, but comprehensive life of the Roman poet, and then introduces us to "Scenes in the Shades." Here, Horace and Virgil are represented conversing together on various topics, when Virgil suddenly enquires why Horace has been so frequently absent of late, and, at length, Horace informs him that, so many eminent characters were continually arriving from the Venice of the West, he had been induced to visit it, and having gained Pluto's permission, by the dedication of some very exquisite lines to him, he had ranged the surface of the earth, until he arrived in Glasgow; that, astonished by the magnificence of the city, and the multitude of its

inhabitants, and not a little gratified with their hospitality and good cheer, he had mingled long enough amongst them to form a just estimate of their characteristics, and applying himself to the muse, she had smiled propitiously-during his absence, he had written above fifty odes, aud the manuscript was, by the liberality of his bookseller, to be printed immediately, after the demand for "Henderson's proverbs" had subsided. After this explanation, Virgil enquires the name of his new work, and being informed that its title is Horace in Glasgow, he then requests a specimen of the composition, which is immediately given, accompanied with some notes from the Latin work of the same author, as well as others of an original character. Horace then reads as his odes are arranged in his Latin edition, but we give the following at random :


AD MAECENATEM.-To James Oswald, Esq. of Shieldhall.

Vile potabis modicis Sabinum,

Ode xx. Book i.

When next you with our Council" dine, Pray, do not criticise the wine

Our friend abroad had mark'd it "fine"And we believed it true.

Proud to see one whose generous name, Lov'd by all parties, free from blame, Lives in the records of fair fame,

Rivall'd indeed, by few.

When late amongst reformers' ranks,
They moved to you, a vote of thankst
Applauses shook the Clyde's green banks,
Even where Shieldhall's in view.

No claret yet, "The Day" can boast, Our cellar would not stand the cost; But, if you wish good wine, with roast, Just bring champaigne with you.


AD SEPTIMIUM.-To James Ewing, Esq. L. L. D. Lord Dean of Guild of the city of Glasgow.

Septimi gades aditure mecum,

Ode vi. Book ii.

Oh! go with me to that sweet shore,
Beyond the angry billow's roar,t
Recalling peace, we've known before-

There, come and dwell with me.
Where rear'd by serfs of proud Argyll,
Rises yon venerable pile,
There, on past days, we'll calmly smile,
From every suffering free.

Where Dunoon's ruin'd castle stands,
Freed from my toils, by seas and lands,
And fearless of all hostile bands,

I'll trace the rill§ with thee.
Upon the fields, in heathery bloom,
We'll range about, in coarse costume,
Tending the flocks amid the broom-
Oh, days, all free from pain!

Dunoon is sweeter to my eye
Than palaces of luxury--
Before the spring, each storm shall fly,
And peace and joy shall reign.

The hills of Arran in our view-
The Cloch and Kelly lovely, too!
Such scenes, so sweet, make days too few-
Shall I see them again?

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FROM MY THEATRICAL NOTE BOOK.—NO. V. THE spirit of rivalship between the separate interests of DruryLane and Covent-Garden was never more formidable than at the time when Kean and Kemble were the leading attractions of the two theatres. Each was considered the master, if not the founder, of a distinct school of acting; consequently, each had his admirers. Each was, besides, the object of adulation, sufficiently obsequious at times, to the proprietors and retainers of the respective establishments, who were ready, on every possible occasion, to blazon forth the comparative strength or weakness of the rival houses. It is known to many that, after the death of Kemble, Kean was weaned over from Drury to the service of the enemy. About this time, several others of the same company, also received engagements at Covent-Garden; and, it was no uncommon occurrence, to witness, at rehearsals, some dozen, or more, of the old and new members of the company discussing, apart from the public gaze, the respective merits of Kean and Kemble, and endeavouring to draw a nice distinction betwixt the peculiarities of each other's style of acting.

One day, while a controversy of this sort was in progress, Kean happened to be a near by-stander. The wing screened him from observation, while the loud and interested tone in which the different speakers delivered themselves, caused them to be overheard.

"Look at Kean's Overreach, or his Richard," says one. "Ay," says another, "or his Othello, the third act of which is admitted, by all critics, to be the finest specimen of acting the present generation has ever seen. And, then, his Shylock-where

will you see a character so unique and masterly throughout? Why, he's the only Shylock upon the stage."

"Well, but," rejoins his opponent, "think of Kemble's Brutus, or his Cato, or his Coriolanus-he was the only Roman we ever saw, solemn and dignified. Kean never succeeded in his Roman pictures. He wants the height and portliness of person, necessary to make them effective. And, think of Kemble's Macbeth, a character in which Kean never could be tolerated by the critics, notwithstanding the eclat given to his performance of that character, by the sword which the Celtic Society of Edinburgh presented to him, in token of their approbation."

"No man who has witnessed Kean's Othello," retorted the former speaker, "will say that his deportment is destitute of dignity, while it must be acknowledged by all who can distinguish genius from mere talent and industry, that, in the quality of mind, he as far surpassed Kemble as the sun, in magnitude, does the satellites of Jupiter."

At this moment, Kean stepped out from his concealment, and, walking in amongst them, said, "My good people, why will you indulge in those invidious comparisons? John Kemble was a great man, a very great man. His ability was never disputed. His style of acting was chaste and classical, and, although his rash attempt to establish a new and finical pronounciation of inmu-ache, called forth the severe reprobation of every English scholar, still did he leave the stage with the well-earned appellation from all of 'glorious John.' But, I will shew you one thing he could never do."

Upon which, in the centre of the stage, and surrounded by nearly the whole company, he threw a succession of beautiful summersets, to the inexpressible astonishment of all, adding, when he had finished, "Now, Kemble never did that."


We have the melancholy task to announce, that this distinguished politician and literateur bade adieu to this life on Wednesday, the 30th May.

Sir James was, at the time of his death, in the sixty-seventh year of his age. Born in the parish of Dores, in the county of Inverness; he was educated, first, at the school of Fortrose, afterwards at King's College, Aberdeen, and the University of Edinburgh. He was originally intended for the medical profession, and took his degree of M.D. in 1787; but, on the death of his father, Captain Mackintosh, he adopted a pursuit more congenial to his turn of mind, and entered himself a student of law at Lincoln's Inn. This was at the time when the beginning of the first French Revolution was arousing, in every country, the sanguine hopes of the young, the high-minded, and the ardent. Their ex

pectations were first clouded by the appearance of Burke's celebrated "Reflections;" the arguments of which at first sight seemed irresistible, and were supported with the most overwhelming eloquence. That Mackintosh ventured to assail them in his "Vindicia Gallica," was a proof of no ordinary daring; that he was in a great measure successful, was a proof of no ordinary talent. Amongst the number of those who, in consequence, sought his acquaintance, was the present Sir James Scarlett, who introduced him to a debating society, of which Percival, afterwards the minister, was a member. Fox quoted the Vindicia in Parliament, and if, as has been said, Mackintosh was in early life a reporter to the public papers, he may have enjoyed the pleasure of noting down his eulogies. The young lawyer was now regarded as a "public man." He ventured to deliver, at Lincoln's Inn, a course of Lectures on "The Law of Nature and of Nations," and Pitt was present at the introductory discourse. The course was throughout attended by the most brilliant audiences, and received with the most flattering approbation; but that "introductory discourse" has alone been printed, and reprinted again and again. It raised the fame of Mackintosh, who, though, like Brougham, he never enjoyed such extensive practice as a lawyer as men far his inferior in abilities and reputation, was thenceforth regarded as, of all the men of his time, the best acquainted with the general history and the whole extent of law.

In these lectures, however, Mackintosh, whose zeal as a revolutionist had become somewhat cooled by farther acquaintance with the subject, used some expressions which were highly distasteful to his associates, by some of whom he was denounced as an “ apostate" and a "renegade." In company with Dr. Parr, the young lawyer one day expressed a strong detestation of the principles of O'Quigley, the Catholic priest, who was executed for high treason, observing that he could hardly conceive a character more hateful. "Sir," replied the doctor, anxious for an opportunity of venting his wrath, "he was a priest, he might have been a lawyer; he was an Irishman, he might have been a Scotchman; he was a

traitor, he might have been an apostate." This was pointed, but it was unjust; and the doctor lived to recognize its injustice.

During the short peace of Amiens, Mackintosh found an opportunity of at once defending the persecuted, and spreading his reputation throughout Europe. The prosecution of Peltier by the English government, at the instance of Napoleon, attracted the attention, not only of England, but of the continent. Mackintosh, it is said, solicited the task of defending the accused. At all events he was engaged, and his speech on this occasion is one of the proudest monuments of his talents. Peltier, however, complained that his advocate was more intent on displaying his eloquence than on protecting his client. It is certain, that while the orator shone, the prisoner was found guilty. But Buonaparte found the spoken "libel" pronounced against him at the bar, far more effective than the written libel he had prosecuted. It was universally spread, and universally read, and wherever it was read it could not fail to be admired. The conclusion is worthy of the very highest name in eloquence. "In the court where we are now met," said Mackintosh, "Cromwell twice sent a satirist on his tyranny to be convicted and punished as a libeller; and in this court, almost in sight of the scaffold streaming in the blood of his sovereign, within hearing of the clash of his bayonets which drove out Parliaments with contumely, two successive juries rescued the intrepid satirist from his fangs, and sent out with defeat and disgrace the usurper's attorney-general from what he had the insolence to call his court. Even then, gentlemen, when all law and liberty were trampled under the feet of a military banditti,— when those great crimes were perpetrated on a high plan, and with a high hand against those who were the objects of public veneration, which more than any thing else upon earth overwhelm the minds of men, break their spirits, and confound the moral sentiments, obliterate the distinctions between right and wrong in the understanding, and teach the multitude to feel no longer any reverence for that justice which they thus see triumphantly dragged at the chariot wheels of a tyrant,—even then, when this unhappy country, triumphant indeed abroad, but enslaved at home, had no prospect but that of a long succession of tyrants, wading through slaughter to a throne,—even then, I say, when all seemed lost, the unconquerable spirit of English liberty survived in the hearts of English jurors. That spirit is, I trust in God, not extinct, and if any modern tyrant were, in the drunkenness of his insolence, to hope to awe an English jury, I trust and believe that they would tell him-' Our ancestors braved the bayonets of Cromwell, we bid defiance to yours!' Contempsi Catilinæ gladios, non pertimescam tuos.


Shortly after this splendid speech, and, it is said, in consequence of it, Sir James Mackintosh was appointed to the office of a judge in India, (Recorder of Bombay,) and to that part of the empire he accordingly removed for the space of several years. To Sir William Jones a similar situation was the very one most congenial to his taste and pursuits, but Sir James Mackintosh was no student of Sanscrit and Persian, and though it was reported that in India he employed his leisure time in the composition of a History of England, from the Revolution of 1688, which he intended to supersede that of Smollett as a continuation of Hume's, he considered the time spent there as lost to his literary life. In May, 1812,-twenty years ago to a month,-he returned to England and literary society again.

The professorship of moral philosophy, in the University of Edinburgh, now held by the poet Wilson, was, on his return, offered to Sir James's acceptance, and declined. This he afterwards regretted, for the parliamentary career which he immediately afterwards commenced, did not prove so satisfactory as both himself and his friends had anticipated. His eloquence was, in the House of Commons, considered too savour to much of the lecture room-but, as a compensation for this, he carried the philosophy of the lecture room into the House of Commons. In conjunction with Romilly, he laboured with more energy and ability than success, for the improvement of the criminal law, and the future historian will transfer to the brows of these two illustrious men no small share of the laurels which those who succeeded them have too easily earned by merely adopting their principles, without professing any great respect for their persons. Sir James, however, lived to see his friends in power, and some of the measures he had long so eloquently advocated, in a fair way of being called into action. He lived to see Catholic Emancipation carried by his political adversaries, and the Reform Bill brought forward by his political friends. These measures he had long advocated with the full force of his abilities, and he might also be expected, at their production, to join in a "Nune dimittis."

In his early life, Sir James was a contributor to The Monthly Review, which then, with the Critical, occupied nearly the same place in the literary world as the modern Edinburgh and Quarterly. In that periodical he reviewed Burke's "Thoughts on a Regicide Peace," and the "Miscellaneous Work" of Gibbon. More recently he was one of the great supporters of The Edinburgh Review, and in the selections which are about to appear from that celebrated periodical, the precise extent of his contributions will perhaps be indicated.

In conversation, Sir James Mackintosh was captivating, though to the last he still retained something of the Scottish accent. In personal appearance he was plain, and of the middle stature. There are numerous portraits of him in existance-amongst others, one of considerable merit in "The Percy Anecdotes."



THIS accomplished actress has been performing here during the week, and commenced her engagement in one of her very best parts, that of Donna Violante in the Wonder, which she supported with her usual good taste and lady-like dignity. It would be but needless repetition, were we to descant on this lady's merits. The longer we see her, the stronger is our conviction that she has not her equal in the profession. Mr. Alexander has this week introduced two or three new performers to his visitors-Mr. Edwards from the Dublin Theatre, and a family of the name of Emley. Mr. Edwards has evidently studied in a good school, and, from the little we have seen of him, we expect he will prove an acquisition to the company. His Don Felix was a very respectable performance, and reminded us a good deal of Charles Kemble. We fear we cannot speak so highly of Mr. Emley—of his personal appearance we shall say nothing- —we always feel a degree of delicacy on this point-his voice is coarse and disagreeable, and he rattles through those passages which require force and pathos, as if some inducement had been held out to him for their rapid dispatch. We observe Mr. Alexander has announced three performers:-Mr. Waylett, Mr. Hughes, and Mr. Lindsay. We would once more direct the Manager's attention to the annoyance occasioned by the admission of the half-price during the middle of an act.-The other evening, while the most interesting scene in the Provoked Husband was going on, that in which Lady Townly repents of her folly, and is forgiven, the gallery doors were opened, and a rush for places accordingly took place, by which not a word was heard for five or ten minutes. We are confident the public would feel obliged, if, Mr. Alexander would obviate this defect, which, as a servant of that public, he is in duty bound to do.

Mr. Alexander deserves much credit for the very respectable manner in which he has got up the piece of the "Evil Eye." The last scene, which requires a deal of stage effect is admirably managed. The part of Helena was beautifully performed by Miss Jarman, and Mr. Alexander was excellent as Zaine Kebabs, and kept the audience in a continual roar of laughter.


A WOMAN of high rank and fashion was implicated in a conspiracy under the consulate, by the selfish thoughtlessness of a young hairbrained coxcomb, who asked her for an asylum. I forget whether it was in the affair of the infernal machine, or that of Chevalier; but it is certain, that the lady had no concern whatever with the plot, of which she was totally ignorant. The young man was a lieutenant in Colonel Fournier's regiment. He was deeply implicated; and instead of giving a candid explanation to the person to whom he applied for concealment, and whom his application might involve in serious difficulties, he concealed from her the political motive of his proscription. The gendarmerie, who traced him closely, soon found him out, and took him from under the protection of Madame Montesson; for his benefactress was no other than that distinguished lady. As soon as she knew the truth, she sent to request that Junot would come to her. The first Consul had the highest esteem and regard for this lady; Madame Bonaparte was much attached to her; she was herself deserving of the high consideration she enjoyed; and the idea of her name appearing in any judicial proceedings, was in the greatest degree painful to her. Junot immediately perceived that she was in no way to blame; the report was altered, and the name of Madame Montesson did not appear in it, because it was unnecessary. Some time after this, the first Consul said to Junot:

"In whose house was the young lieutenant of the twelfth arrested?"

Junot was at first taken by surprise, but, soon recovering his presence of mind, he recollected that he had made the police officers put in the report, that the lieutenant was apprehended in the Champs-Elysees. He made the same statement to the first Consul; the latter began to laugh.

"Thy memory is none of the best, friend Junot," he said, pulling Junot's ear. This caress, a strong voucher for the absence of angry feelings, tranquillized Junot. "Thou hast forgotten he was taken at Madame Montesson's." Then, looking serious, Napoleon added:

"My dear Junot, thou didst well to comply with Madame Montesson's request; for she is a woman for whom I entertain the highest respect. Thy conduct was, therefore, very proper, in causing her name to be omitted in the report; but thou shouldst have communicated it to me verbally."

Here we have a specimen of that peculiarity of Napoleon's temper, which made him desirous of knowing EVERYTHING, and evince displeasure at the least mystery. Junot begged to know the name of the secret informer-it was Fouche.


As we turned through the lodges, the old house appeared at the end of an avenue of scrubby and weather-worn trees. It bears the exterior of a respectable farm-house, but is now fast running to decay. On entering a dirty court-yard, and quitting our horses, we were shown by some idlers into a square building, which once contained the bed-room, sitting-room, and bath of the Empereur des Françoise. The partitions and floorings are now thrown down and torn up; and the apartments occupied for six years by the hero before whom kings, emperors, and popes had quailed, are now tenanted by cart-horses! Passing on, with a groan, I entered a small chamber, with two windows looking towards the north. Between these windows are the marks of a fixed sofa: on that couch Napoleon died. The apartment is now occupied by a threshing-machine;-" No bad emblem of its former tenant!" said a sacrilegious wag. Hence we were conducted onwards to a large room, which formerly contained a biliardtable, and whose front looks out upon a little latticed varanda, where the imperial peripatetic-I cannot style him a philosopherenjoyed the luxury of six paces to and fro—his favourite promenade. The white-washed walls are scored with names of every nation; and the paper of the ceiling has been torn off in strips, as holy relics. Many couplets, chiefly French, extolling and lamenting the departed hero, adorn or disfigure (according to their qualities), the plaster walls. The only lines that I can recall to mind-few are worth it—are the following, written over the door, and signed “ *** ***, Officier de la Garde Impériale:"

"Du grand Napoléon le nom toujours cité Ira de bouche en bouche à la postérité." The writer, doubtless, possessed more spirit as a sabreur than as a poet. The emperor's once well-kept garden,—

"And still where many a garden-flower grows wild," is now overgrown and choked with weeds. At the end of a walk still exists a small mound, on which it is said the hero of Lodi, Marengo, and Austerlitz, amused himself by erecting a mock battery. The little chunamed tank, in which he fed some fresh water fish, is quite dried up; and the mud wall, through a hole in which he reconnoitered passers-by, is, like the great owner, returned to earth! Captain Mundy's Sketches.



Oh, if in this wide world there be a spot
Lovely, and lone, where seldom human tread
Startles to sudden trill the wild bird's note,

And blooming flowers uncourted fragrance shed,——
With grey robed twilight, I would wander there,
To seek sweet Innocence, thy simple shrine,
Of dark green moss, enwove with balmy thyme,
For I am wearied of this scene of care;
And fain would linger where the wild winds sigh
The vesper hymn of Nature o'er mine ear,
To waft on them my grateful spirit high,

To Him who governs o'er each boundless sphere; Yet hears with list'ning love, the humble plaint Drawn from a heart contrite-in breathings faint.

ON MEETING. The tear drop trembles in your eye,

So like that tear when last we parted, And, oh! you breathe the very sigh,

I echoed, sad and broken hearted.

But for that smile, I might forget,

(Or deem a vision mock'd me only,) Might fancy we were parting yet,

Tho' years have passed so long, so lonely. Thy smile-like light-upon my heart,

Falls with such soft and kindly greeting; That I could almost wish to part,

To feel again the bliss of meeting. For, oh, that smile beams hope and joy, And hours of pure and tranquil feeling, Days spent in virtue's sweet employ, While through life's vale we're calmly stealing. And now it wears a holier glow,

As if from Heaven a seraph bending; Would tell how transient all's below,

And point to pleasures never ending.

On our return from the beast fight, a breakfast awaited us at the royal palace; and the white tablecloth being removed, quails, trained for the purpose, were placed upon the green cloth, and fought most gamely, after the manner of the English cockpit. This is an amusement much in fashion among the natives of rank, and they bet large sums on their birds, as they lounge luxuriously round, smoking their houkahs.—Mundy.

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