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by the sly pull at the ragged skirt and a few by the coward stone-and the loud shout of triumph the little mob will give, when they succeed in making the poor creature turn and stand at bay; or run after them in fierce, but, happily for them, in impotent anger. Such a sight is not uncommon, and, to a man of thought and feeling is very humiliating and affecting.

"the little dogs and all,

Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me"

cries Lear in his mad misery. "Is there any cause in Nature that makes these hard hearts?" Ah me! 1 fear there is. Kit Wallace, I call thee up from thy grave. Let me paint thy portrait; record thy wrongs; and relate thy death. It may be some poor, feeble-minded being shall be treated the better for this sketch of thy inoffensive life-some stick shall be raised in defence of a mobbed miserable-some word of kindness be spoken into an ear accustomed only to reviling and reproach.

I remember, in the ardent and joyous days of my early military life-when my laughter was like the crackling of thorns under a pot" -a poor, half-witted man, who had enlisted into the regiment; I know not when or how.

He was certainly, poor fellow, to use the favourite phrase of the drill-sergeant, one of his Majesty's hard bargains. He was not crazyhe was not an idiot-so that there was no way of getting him discharged-for, at that period, inspecting generals were very strict about discharges; but he was a simpleton of the silliest. The intelligence of a child was greater. It was well for him, perhaps, that he had been driven to enlist by ill treatment at home; or inveigled by some adroit recruiting sergeant, who wanted to pocket the bringing money;for in a regiment he was sure to be clothed, fed, taken care of, and governed. Poor Kit, to make a soldier of him was impossible. However he had eyes, arms, and legs; and as he would not use these last to desert, to get rid of him was impracticable. He had a slouch; and he was a sloven. He never stood in the proper position of a soldier; nor did he ever put on his clothes and appointments like one. Offcers and drill-sergeants gave him up in despair. He sunk into a sort of privileged character; one who was

"Unapt to learn, and form'd of stubborn stuff."

Kit was in the company of which I was the Lieutenant; for awhile my pupil, but soon, and for years, my torment and my plague; and oftentimes-I write it with a blush-oftentimes my jest. Upon inspection and review-days, I hid him as well as I could; put him on a rearguard, or in an awkward squad of lately-joined recruits; employed him for the day as a cook, or on fatigue duty, or as a line or barrack Orderly; some out-of-the-way post or corner was found, in which to conceal Kit; but if, owing to untoward circumstances, such an arrangement could not be effected, I would get him well cleaned, and his appointments well put on, by one of the smartest of my corporals;-and then place him in the rear rank, and a clever sergeant behind, with his eye constantly on

him, to prevent him from discrediting the company by his blunders.

It may be supposed, that such a subject soon became the butt of his comrades; they never wanted a joke, when he was by-they tormented him incessantly. They played him tricks, at which sometimes he himself gave the laugh of silliness; while at others, he would blubber like a baby :-on these last occasions, I would rebuke him, and punish the men :-but I often, too often, shared in the laughter. Poor Kit-he went with us to the Peninsula: I remember him well in our marches there. My old captain, who was one of the best-tempered men I ever met with, would sometimes be provoked into a violent passion with him; and while he punished half the company for teazing him, would threaten, in a voice of thunder, "to ride down Kit's throat!" the only threat that ever effectually silenced him when he was in the mood to blubber and bellow ;-and the only punishment, if a threat be a punishment, he ever received.

The silliness of the poor fellow was incredible. I remember on one occasion, when the regiment was drawn up, expecting to be immediately engaged, and I was in charge of the company; as a simple act of duty, I placed him in the front rank; lest, by his extreme awkwardness, he might do some injury, in firing, to the man who would otherwise have stood in front of him. It is a ludicrous fact, that the poor fellow complained to the colonel, as he was riding down the line, that I had placed him in the front rank to get him killed. "Is he not in the front rank himself, you fool!” was the colonel's reply. This shows, first, alas! that poor Kit regarded all the world, and me amongst them, as his enemies-next, that he had not much of the hero in his composition. This little incident was never forgotten hy the men of the company; and they plagued him about it to the end of the war: but many a voice that gibed and jeered him was, in succession, silenced in death. He was one of the few survivors in the company, at the termination of those memorable campaigns. He was present in every battle, and on every march. The handsome, and the happy, and the hardy fell around him: Kit lived on. At the close of the bloody battle of Albuera, when I saw him safe upon that field of carnage, I was glad in my very heart; and felt that "I could have better spared a better man." I have said truly that Kit was no hero, as his complaint to the colonel on a former occasion had proved; yet he had apparently no fear of death. He stood in his place-had a pouch full of ball cartridges, and fired them away in the battle; whether guilty or innocent of blood, he could not on that occasion know, and little heeded.

How strange to think of such a man receiv. ing THE THANKS OF PARLIAMENT; as he did in common with the army many times; and was perhaps sent to drill by the commanding of ficer or adjutant, at the very Parade when they were read to him, for some awkwardness or irregularity;-shared perhaps in victory in the morning, and was for some offence put on extra fatigue duty the same evening. What a strange and complicated machine is an army! How much of "the common" enters into it!

Hurrah for liberty and Old England! is the cheerful cry of men, enlisted for life, rushing into battle to deal out, and to meet the deathstroke. The victory is won: then again ATTENTION! WORD OF COMMAND AND EXERCISE OF ARMS-L'étrange chose que la vie!

comes

At the conclusion of the war, and upon the return of the regiment home, the battalion was reorganized; Kit was no longer in the same company with me, and, except being occasionally thrown on duty near him, I almost lost sight of the man. At length, after a lapse of years, he fell again under my notice in India. I observed about him a very remarkable change an evident improvement. He was far cleverer than he was ever wont to be: his awkward gait remained, but his look was no longer the same. His eye, once so restless, that used to be looking on every side, as if constantly expecting either reproof or ridicule, was now still and placid; and a beam of contentment shone in it. He always saluted me with a look of kind and familiar recognition; and if I occasionally stopped and said a word to him, replied as if pleased at the notice.

I was much puzzled and perplexed at first about this change in a man, whose imbecility of mind I had once regarded as alike painful and hopeless. Upon making a more particular inquiry, I found that, in the company to which he belonged, he had become attached to the little child of one of his comrades, of whom he took as much care as if it had been his own: that he spent all his spare pay upon it: that he did his duty quietly, was regular, and neither troubled his fellow soldiers, nor was troubled by them: and that he never associated with the men, but was always with this little child, who was exceedingly fond of aim.

Here was the secret. I more particularly observed him ever after:-I often met him with the child in his hand:-a little commonlooking child-just old enough to trot by his side, and stammer out its liking-with eyes that to him had beauty, for they looked up to him with affection. Here was the secret: he had never hitherto found in the cold world any thing to love him, any thing he could love;here was a Heaven-sent object exactly suited to his heart's want;-a little stranger in this earth, too young to know, and to take part with, those who despised him. A little thing, which perhaps had first attracted his notice when, in the chance absence of its parents, it stood terrified and helpless, crying in a tumultuous barrack-room. Poor Kit, who had been buffeted with roughness from his very cradle, had been frightened or laughed out of his wits, and then scorned for having none; had been the sport of the lane or alley in which he was born, and then been driven from the haunts of home-first to be the butt of his fellow workmen, and next of those, amongst whom he had cast in his lot "to mend his fate or be rid on't"-had now found something to love him.

Oftentimes now, as I met him and the child together, and mused upon this sweet mystery of mercy, did I repent in my heart for the many sharp words I had once given him; and for my many thoughtless and unfeeling smiles at his folly. I saw, however, by the very expression

of his complacent eye, that I was fully forgiven. He had no hate, no malice, no memory for wrong; he was peaceful and gentle; and passed whole days, playing with a child. Kit too was now elevated to the dignity of an instructor. He was still simple, but he was no longer silly. He could not read: yes, he could -one of God's books, for he could see; could see the high Heavens, and the starry firmament; the sun by day, and the moon by night. I have seen him with his little comfort, walking on the ramparts of Fort St. George in the cool evening; and calmly looking up at the bright sky, and out upon the glittering ocean; and pointing to the white sail and to the anchored vessel, and teaching the child to stutter out the names of these objects.

The suffering of those, who are looked upon as half-crazed or fools, has in it this most bitter ingredient: they have no mate in their sorrow. They suffer alone, apart; with a consciousness that they are degraded. Kit's suffering was now all at an end: he was no longer alone in the world. But I knew not at this time that he had gotten a higher consolation. I will, some day, said 1 to myself, speak to him about his immortal soul, and his hopes of an hereaf ter. It chanced a few weeks afterwards, that, as I was visiting some men of my own company in the hospital, in passing down the ward I observed poor Kit, lying in bed, sick. I sat down by him-took his hand, and spoke to him with tenderness; he was very ill. I named the Redeemer; he knew the sound-knew it, not perhaps as some would have wanted him to know it but as a sound that had already touched a chord his humble heart. He had heard that all his sins would be forgiven, and how; he had simply believed the message, and gratefully accepted the pardon. He had gotten wisdom, not knowledge. There was peace, hope, and the joy of a simple confiding trust in his Redeemer.

I visited him again: again the same was his enviable state of mind: The next, and last time I saw him, he was dying and speechless. I whispered in his dulling ear: he opened his eyes-he knew me-he looked pleased and happy; he tried to return the pressure of my hand. I placed it on his forehead. The death damps were already on his brow. "He is pleased," said the Orderly, "to see you, Sir; he knows you." "He was pleased, Friend," said I," to hear the word of promise in his ear -to hear the sound of his Redeemer's nameto hear the word Christ."

From the London Weekly Review. MONTGOMERY'S NEW POEM.*

[Unpublished.]

THE author of the present work has already been noticed pretty frequently in our columns;

*A Universal Prayer; Death; a Vision of Heaven; and a Vision of Hell. By Robert Montgomery, author of the "Omnipresence of the Deity," &c. &c. 4to. London, 1828.

Maunder.

and we have had occasion to speak of him in terms of great severity. Bad taste and malignity of feeling were the charges we brought against him. But though we considered it our duty to expose his faults, our readers must have perceived an equal readiness on our parts to do justice to his merits. Several passages were quoted from his poem, entitled the "Omnipresence of the Deity," with very handsome commendations, though we at the same time smiled at the folly of some of his critics, who placed him on a level with the first poets of the world. We think that he is more accurate, and less bombastic, in the present volume than in the poem just mentioned; and there is certainly little trace of that uncharitable spirit that was so obvious in his " Puffiad" and his "Age Reviewed." It would be strange, indeed, if such a disposition were so conspicuously displayed in a work of this nature, though we are compelled to confess that in the poem entitled a Vision of Hell," the subject, though not the form, of which must have been suggested by Southey's "Vision of Judg ment," there is something of that daring presumption and virulent bigotry with which the Laureate has pretended to dive into the hidden councils of the Almighty, and denounce eternal damnation to such of his fellow creatures, whose religious or political opinions were different from his own. Notwithstanding this, there is a great deal both of pious and poetical feeling in the volume; and as we are weary of pointing out his faults, as a poet, which, though less numerous in the present instance, are of the same description as those we have already brought fully home to the author, in our notices of his former works, we shall select a few of the best passages in the book, and make better use of our space, than by appropriating any portion of it to unfavourable specimens. The first poem in the volume, entitled the "Universal Prayer," is the last in merit. It a very feeble echo of the "Omnipresence of the Deity," in blank verse instead of rhyme. With all its numerous faults, that poem had considerable spirit and harmony, while there is little of either in the "Prayer." The following lines, however, are pleasing.

And let the young on whose delighted gaze
The dream of life in hopeful beauty dawns,
In their unspotted bosoms treasure thoughts
Of Thee, to guide them through the cloudy

years;

And may the old, upon whose gray-worn heads Past Time has placed an honourable crown, When earth grows dim, and worldly joys de

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Our next extract is a touching description of a female dying of consumption.

A year hath travell'd o'er the sea of time; And now the shadows of the grave grow dark Upon the maiden; yet no mournful wail, Or word abrupt, betrays unlovely thoughts Of gloom and discontent within; she dies As gently as delicious sound; not false To present scenes, and yet prepared to die. Beautiful resignation, and the hopes That well from out the fountain of her faith, Have breathed around her a seraphic air Of wither'd loveliness. The gloss of life And worldly dreams are o'er; but dewy Morn, And dim-eyed Eve, and all the inward gleams Of rapture, darted from regretted joysDelight her still: and oft when twilight comes, She'll gaze upon the damask glow of heaven With all the truth of happier days, until A sunny fancy wreathes her faded cheek ;'Tis but a pleasing echo of the past, A music rolling from remembered hours.

p.

The following picture of virtuous old age pleasing.

How pure,

61.

The grace, the gentleness of virtuous age! Though solemn not austere; though wisely

dead

To passion, and the wildering dreams of hope, Not unalive to tenderness and truth,

The good old man is honoured and revered, And breathes upon the young limb'd race around,

The gray and venerable charm of years:
Nor,-glory to the Power that tunes the heart
Unto the spirit of the time! are all
The fancy and the flush of youth forgot:
The meditative walk by wood or mead,
The lall of streams, and language of the stars,
Of all that beautified or graced his youth,
Heard in the heart alone,-the bosom-life
Is still to be enjoy'd, and hallow'd with
The feelings flowing from a better world.

p. 77.

The author next presents us with some reflections upon his own youth.

I sing of Death; yet soon, perchance may be A dweller in the tomb. But twenty years

Have wither'd, since my pilgrimage began,
And I look back upon my boyish days
With mournful joy; as musing wand'rers do,
With eye reverted, from some lofty hill,
Upon the bright and peaceful vale below.-
Oh! let me live, until the fires that feed
My soul, have work'd themselves away, and
then,

Eternal Spirit, take me to Thy home!

For when a child, I shaped inspiring dreams,
And nourish'd aspirations that awoke
Beautiful feelings flowing from the face
Of Nature; from a child I learn'd to reap
A harvest of sweet thoughts, for future years.
p. 78, 79.

The "Vision of Heaven" is the next poem, which is succeeded by the "Vision of Hell.' Both these poems have passages worthy of quotation, but our space this week is limited. Then comes a poem entitled "Beautiful Influences," which proves that the author can feel deeply the attractions of external nature. The verses "On seeing a celebrated Poet" (who it could have been we cannot easily imagine,) which, though sometimes fervent and impassioned, have too many of the author's peculiar faults to allow of our reading them with pleasure, conclude the volume. Whatever the author may think, we have perused his work, and written this brief notice of it, in the most indulgent spirit; and shall be glad to convince him, or any other person who may have been surprised at our differing so prodigiously from some of his silly eulogizers, that no personal feelings have influenced our criticism. This has never yet been the case, and never will be = in this publication.

From Friendship's Offering. MUSIC OF YESTERDAY.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

As the murmur and the plaint, and the exulting swell, and the sharp scream, which the unequal gust of yester day snatched from the strings of a wind-harp.-Coleridge. THE chord, the harp's full chord is hushed, The voice hath died away, Whence music, like sweet waters, gushed, But yesterday.

The wakening note, the breeze-like swell,
The full o'ersweeping tone,

The sounds that sighed "Farewell! farewell!"
Are gone all gone.

The love, whose burning spirit passed
With the rich measure's flow,
The grief to which it sank at last,-
Where are they now?

They are with the scents, by Summer's breath
Borne from a rose now shed,

With the words from lips long sealed in

death

For ever fled!

The sea-shell, of its native deep A thrilling moan retains; But earth and air no record keep Of parted strains.

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From the London Weekly Review.

LONDON UNIVERSITY.

of this infant Institution. We shall now, for In our last we noticed the auspicious opening the benefit of our country readers, attempt such a description of the Buildings as will enable them to appreciate the admirable arrangements by which in their erection economy has been made to go hand in hand with utility, and former experiences rendered subservient to the mutual accommodation of teachers and pupils.

The chief access to the University is by Gower Street, Bedford Square, but there are approaches from the New Road and Tottenham Court Road.

The elevation of the principal or western front, which is wholly of Portland stone, exhibits a chaste and most beautiful example of the Corinthian order. It extends (including the wings, which when built will project 210 feet towards Gower Street,) 450 feet. The central compartment is devoted on the ground floor to a magnificent staircase, composed of several flights at right angles to each other, and above, to a portico consisting of ten coiumns in front and two in flank, supporting a plain but well proportioned pediment. The façade on each side displays a range of characteristic pilasters above, and a happily applied specimen of horizontal rustic work below. A very effective series of wreaths and gutta enriches, and lends relief to the space between the tiers of windows. The whole is surmounted by a circular dome 36 feet in diameter and 52 feet high, supporting a peristyle of the order, and terminated by a cross. The wings when finished will each be furnished with a similar portico, and with a dome of the same description but of inferior dimensions.

The principal entrance to the building is through the portico; the ascent to which (18 feet) is made by the great staircase alluded to. Entering the vestibule, which is octagonal, the effect is remarkably imposing. Immediately opposite, and jutting 90 feet from the back wall, a most splendid saloon, called par excellence The Hall, attracts the attention of the visiter it is intended for public examinations

and meetings of ceremony. On the right ap

pears the Great Library, 120 feet by 50, with a gallery round, supported by cast iron pillars, enveloped in imitation Scagliola. Besides the windows on each side, this magnificent apartment is furnished with lanternal lights from the roof, or rather from the ceiling, there being horizontal pannels of ground or frosted glass, so arranged as to harmonize with the plaster decorations. There is a small Library at the further end of this, calculated to contain 12,000 volumes. On the left is the Museum of Natural History, similar in all respects to the Library, but terminated by the Theatre of Anatomy, in place of the small Library. The doors presented by the other sides of the octagon lead to staircases or form the entrances to professors' rooms.

On the ground floor, immediately beneath the Hall, and entering from the North Court, are two Class Rooms, each 44 feet by 38, and containing 12 rows of seats for the classes of Roman and Greek Language and Literature, Mathematics, and English Language. Besides the principal entrance by the staircase, there are two others on the ground floor on each side of the portico; those nearer the centre lead each to two Class Rooms and Cloisters, and the

others to apartments for the accommodation of the professors, and to the offices of the Institution. The rooms in the north range are respectively appropriated to Italian Language and Literature, French Language, Spanish and English Literature, and Jurisprudence and English Law, and to the Nature and Treatment of Diseases, Physiology, Comparative Anatomy and Zoology, Clinical Medicine, Surgery, and Clinical Surgery. The corresponding rooms in the south range accommodate classes for Political Economy, German Language and Literature, and the Hebrew, Spanish, and Italian Languages. Each of these rooms (46 by 24) is furnished with six rows of ascending seats, with book-boards, and a raised platform for the professor. Behind are Cloisters for the use of the students during the intervals of lectures, and in inclement weather. There are also on this floor appropriate apartments for the use of the professors, the Chemical Laboratory and the Museums of Botany and Materia Medica.

The Theatres of the Institution are provided for in back wings at each end of the building, and have access from the courts. In the first floor of the north wing lectures are delivered on Midwifery, and on Anatomy and Operative Surgery: those on Materia Medica and Chemistry, in the Theatre immediately below. The south wing is appropriated above, to Natural Philosophy and Astronomy, and below to Botany, Geology, &c. These Theatres are 65 feet by 50, with semicircular ends, and are fitted up with ten rows of concentric benches rising sixteen inches above each other, and with such accommodation for the professors as the respective subjects of lecture render necessary.

The basement floor contains two spacious apartments fitted up as Common Rooms with tables, &c. for the use of the students; Refreshment Rooms for the accommodation of such as reside at a distance; apartments for the steward and housekeeper and the domestics of the

establishment; and rooms for the Anatomical School.

An insulated building, separated from the north court by a high wall, is (together with apartments in the basement just referred to,) appropriated to that department of anatomical instruction, more immediately under the direction of the Demonstrator.

The whole of the building is well ventilated, and most liberally supplied with stairs and the other means of transit, by which extensive establishments are rendered commodious. The Theatres and Class Rooms are well lighted and furnished with heating apparatus. In the former a precaution is taken to preserve the bookboards and benches from the knife, which is worthy of general adoption. A coating of paint is laid over when wet, with fine sharp sand and allowed to dry; when sufficiently indurated, the particles which have not adhered are swept from the surface, and the wood painted wainscot or whatever colour may have been determined on. No boy having the least respect for his knife will, we are persuaded, after one trial and having examined its edge, be hardy enough

to venture on a second.

Besides the Cloisters there are two Courts

for exercise; but they are, we are certain, by

no means of the dimensions that would have been chosen had the limits of the ground permitted their extension.

The Grand Entrance, when completed, will be one of the most magnificent in the metropolis. The staircase and portico above are such as Mr. Martin delights to honour and to introduce into his splendid and unrivalled examples of architectural perspective. We cannot but regret, however, that Mr. Wilkins has adopted the Corinthian for his order: he has evidently given it the preference for the purpose of introducing his staircase, and of enabling him to throw the principal entrance on the first floor, objects which he could not have attained had the massive proportions of the Doric been employed. The voluptuous Corinthian is indeed as inuch from home in the portico of a building such as this, as are the gravity and grandeur of the Grecian Doric in the decorations of a Theatre, such as Convent Garden. We are afraid, besides, that in straining at his favourite objects, Mr. Wilkins has sacrificed architectural proportions in his intercolumniations. The courons are three feet in diameter, and ten diameters high; while from centre to centre the distance is only 8 feet 4 inches, or two diameters and three quarters, where it ought to have been three diameters at least.

We cannot conclude this notice without ex

pressing our admiration at the manner in which the operations have been conducted and brought to their present state of forwardness. Here, indeed, and at St. Katharine Docks, there must have been some systein of co-operation pursued by employers, architects, and contractors, fundamentally different from that by which, during the last five years, the New Post Office has been made to drag its slow length along.

Though comparisons are generally odious, we cannot resist enabling the "gownmen" of Oxford and Cambridge to compare their rates of provende with those of Mr. Stuckey, the

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