: unfortunate thing, when valuable and respectable beings are wanting in every popular quality. "Will my friend risk his life, upon occasion, for mine will he be perfectly just, steady, and to be depended upon?"-all these are very essential questions;-but " Will he condescend to be agreeable?" is another, which I must ask, before I can look forward to much improving intercourse with him. Is he thinking about himself continually-about his own mindabout some one object of pursuit?-in other words, is he an entirely preoccupied man-if so, he is not the companion for me. Again, is ho a man of sects and parties? I have no ambition to associate with one who has never felt, nay, intensely felt, the high claims of religion, the blessings of liberty, the glories of a noble name:-but I cannot bear the principled blindness of those who have taken their part, and are determined never to bestow another honest look upon the other side of the question. What is it that constitutes the power, which some few favoured individuals possess, of conciliating the most unpleasant tempers, and uniting the suffrages of the most agreeable and disagreeable people in the world in their favour? It is not good temper only; nor hilarity, nor sensibility,-nor is it even benevolence, for very benevolent persons may be deficient in tact-nor is it mere good sense; though sensible people will be, on the whole, more likely to obtain affection, at last, than those kind-hearted, ill-judging souls, chiefly known by their good intentions and practical uselessness. It is very difficult, in short, to say what a pleasant companion is; but not so hard to tell what he is not. An A "pleasant companion" is not often one who has lived much in solitude. Reflective habits and depth of information are valuable; but a slow man is not an agreeable man. hour after the party is broken up, such an one will have framed an excellent reply to an argument; but we wanted entertainment, and wit, and spirit; and cannot wait for the full development of every rising idea. We do not like to be always learners or teachers-though, in due season, we are willing to be both. A far more unpleasant character, however, is often reared up in solitude. A pedant, for ever endeavouring to lead conversation into one particular track,—if unsuccessful, looking with angry contempt upon the little minded beings before him. It matters not what the pursuit may be, to which he has devoted his exclusive attention. He may be an antiquarian, or a geologist; a Spurzheimite, a Wordsworthian, a radical reformer, or a speculative Theologian. Whatever it may be, his looks, his whole manner testify, that if that one thing be not valued by his associates, he regards them and their pursuits as unworthy his attention. "Pleasant companions" are not those, who, brought up in a small and literary circle, have low creatures to it; seeing that they must for ever remain strangers to the true spirit of society. accustomed themselves to an uncommon degree of correctness and finish in speaking and thinking;-who talk, as it were, "out of book," and appear ever on the watch for ungrammatical, inappropriate expressions: make you blush for your carelessness fifty times in an hour. Such people are "like the frost, which blights what it cannot produce." Every warm feeling, or gay flight of fancy, is checked in their presence;-sacrificed to the dread of failing in He is not a jester. Professed jokers are weasome trifling turn of expression. It is so imrisome company. They have, of all people, the possible for any but consummate assurance, or least real knowledge of the human hearta hardiness acquired by long habit, to pass though they often make it their boast, that through such an ordeal with credit, that I realthey know human nature thoroughly; the leastly pity the persons who can subject their feltenderness for those little infirmities which cling to the best of human beings; the least sympathy in bodily or mental afflictions; the least reverence for the image of God in the mind of man. When once the spirit of ridicule has taken possession, thenceforth farewell high and noble feeling; arewell all hopes of partaking with such an one any of that deep com. munion which exalts and refines the human character. Serious, even these jesters must sometimes be; but their seriousness is not improving. So accustomed are they to irony, that they can never again regard life in a calm and philosophic spirit. It is still a jest, though a bitter one. But suppose that the banterer never had a mind, and that no regrets are called forth for the blight which has passed over it, still he might have been an inoffensive companion. But now he is the scourge of every company into which he enters;-and will spoil the most refreshing conversation, by filling up every pause with a joke. We often feel affection for the individual who has extorted from us tears; but he, who drags forth, hour after hour, unwilling laughter, is never regard ed with complacency. "With limbs of British oak and nerves of wire, Some feeling of equality is requisite to make you enjoy the company of others. Hence, people of rank or talent, who do not possess the art of raising their associates to their own level, cannot be "pleasant companions." You do not wish them to let themselves down to you; that is a humiliation: you like to feel elevated to their station, and then you are disposed to give and receive pleasure. There are some individuals who in common society are not unpleasant, but who are indescribably annoying in certain states of the mind and affections. These are common-place characters; people without imagination, who therefore form no conception of what will be soothing or wounding to other persons. They have regular rules for every thing. They may have kind and affectionate natures; but having settled it with themselves that grief and joy have established modes of exhibiting themselves, they are apt to resent all departures from these, as something very like a departure from principle. They wonder, are alarmed, and endeavour to bring back the wan derer into the beaten track. As life cannot always present one fair and pleasant prospect, I tremble at the idea of sharing it with those, who cannot leave me the liberty of taking my own measures, when storms and difficulties arise. The companion I love will always allow me independence. Upon the whole, it seems that we want a little more of the spirit of a chivalrous age. Selfishness is at the root of the evil. We have no business to rely upon our own intentions merely; but should endeavour to take cognizance of another's mind before we spread before him our own; to get an insight into his feelings before we hazard the expression of such as may be painful or unpleasant to him. I am not fond of the fashionable world, and its levelling habits; it seems difficult to rise above its standard of good-humoured pleasantry, or to think deeply and soberly when we mingle much in it; but yet it is pleasant to see the ease and refinement which pervade a truly polite circle; to see how agreeably the actors in the drama play into one another's hands, and how complete is the avoidance of, at least, the appearance of selfish and monopolizing habits. Such people may not be actuated by a deep spirit of Christian benevolence, they may not be thus agrecable on the highest principles, but agreeable they are; and let those, who profess to be guided by higher motives, be watchful, and not suffer themselves to be outdone by those, over whom fashion, and the desire of distinction, may exercise the principal dominion. Polite conversation, it is true, is apt to take a turn in which no one possessing kind and ge nerous feelings can follow it. Poignant and satirical remarks on individuals are never to be justified; but in the best society, things are always preferred to persons, as the subjects of lively remark. Upon these to talk, and to talk well, is an accomplishment no one need disdain; and he, whose motives of action are the most exalted, whose politeness approaches the nearest to philanthropy, and whose philanthropy loses itself in the clearer and more distinguishing benevolence of Christianity, may, and ought to be the pleasantest of companions. From the London Weekly Review. E. T. THE SOUVENIR, FOR 1829. Edited by Alaric A. Watts, Esq. London: Longman and Co. Ir is seldom, indeed, that we have had a more agreeable occupation than in wandering through the pages of the work before us. The critic, in a case of this kind, has a double pleasure he has all the gratification of the ordinary reader, with the comfortable consciousness that he will be able to present an attractive report to the public, and do justice to the writers to whom he is indebted for so much enjoyment. The freshness, variety, and elegance of the brilliant little works among which the Souvenir holds so prominent a station, are peculiarly striking and acceptable at this dull season of the year, when publications of any interest are extremely scarce. The excellent taste and indefatigable industry evinced in the editorial management of the former volumes of the Souvenir, are still more obvious in the present instance. The prose articles, with but few exceptions, are of a very superior order, and the poetry is often exquisitely beautiful. The embellishments we have already noticed with the commendations they deserve. They are alone worth more than twice the purchase money of the volume.* It would be needless to attempt an elaborate criticism of the numerous contents of this varied little work, and we shall therefore chiefly confine ourselves to the more easy and pleasant task of presenting specimens to our readers. To begin with the poe. try, which is perhaps superior to the prose, we extract the following very beautiful stanzas by the editor: ON BURNING A PACKET OF LETTERS. Relics of love, and life's enchanted spring, tears With trembling hand do I unloose the string, Twined round the records of my youthful years. Yet why preserve memorials of a dream, Too bitter-sweet to breathe of aught but pain! Why court fond memory for a fitful gleam Of faded bliss, that cannot bloom again! The thoughts and feelings these sad relics bring Back on my heart, I would not now recall: Since gentler ties around its pulses cling, Shall spells less hallowed hold them still in thrall? Can withered hopes that never came to flower, Match with affections long and dearly tried! Love, that has lived through many a stormy hour, Through good and ill,-and time and change defied! Perish each record that might wake a thought That would be treason to a faith like this! Why should the spectres of past joys be brought To fling their shadows o'er my present bliss! Yet,-ere we part for ever,-let me pay A last, fond tribute to the sainted dead; Mourn o'er these wrecks of passion's earlier day, With tears as wild as once I used to shed. What gentle words are flashing on my eye! What tender truths in every line I trace! Confessions-penned with many a deep-drawn sigh, Hopes-like the dove-with but one resting place! How many a feeling, long-too long-represt, Like autumn-flowers, here opened out at last! * It is stated in the preface to the Souvenir, that such is the expense of the publication, that "a circulation of less than from eight to nine thousand copies would entail a loss upon the proprietors ;" and it is added in a note, that if the copyright and copperplate printing be taken into consideration, 100 guineas was the lowest cost of each of the engravings, and that some of them indeed were from 150 to 170 guineas each. How many a vision of the lonely breast Its cherished radiance on these leaves hath cast! And ye, pale violets, whose sweet breath hath driven Back on my soul the dreams I fain would quell; To whose faint perfume such wild power is given, To call up visions-only loved too well;Ye too must perish!-Wherefore now divide Tributes of love-first-offerings of the heart; Gifts-that so long have slumbered side by side; Tokens of feeling-never meant to part! A long farewell:-sweet flowers, sad scrolls, adieu! Yes, ye shall be companions to the last :So perish all that would revive anew The fruitless memories of the faded past! But lo! the flames are curling swiftly round Each fairer vestige of my youthful years; Page after page that searching blaze hath found, Even whilst I strive to trace them through my tears. The Hindoo widow, in affection strong, Dies by her lord, and keeps her faith unbroken: Thus perish all which to those wrecks belong, The living memory-with the lifeless token! Mr. Watts's verses "To the Echo of a Seashell," in imitation of Mrs. Hemans, are imbued with the genuine spirit of that chaste, pathetic, and harmonious writer. His stanzas, entitled "King Pedro's Revenge," are remarkably free and spirited, and the prose introduction to them is very interesting and well written. His address to "The Youngling of the Flock" has some of those exquisite touches of domestic tenderness which come home to the hearts of all men. There is a poetical" Epistle from Abbotsford," apparently from the pen of Mr. Lockhart, which we should like well enough to extract, but its length prevents us. As it describes some of the personal habits of the northern Ariosto, it will be read with peculiar interest. The following poem by Mr. John Malcolm, entitled "The Ship at Sea," contains images of much truth and beauty: A white sail gleaming on the flood, Of the circling sea and sky;- Yet not alone;-on ocean's breast, Nor rock, nor hill, nor tower, nor tree, No! not alone;-her beauteous shade The stars their vigils keep. And not alone;-for hopes and fears And bright eyes watch, thro' gathering tears, And prayers for her at midnight lone And not alone; with her, bright dreams And o'er its moan-earth's woods and streams And not alone;--for round her glow Barry Cornwall has contributed his usual quantity of verse. His "Invocation to Birds" is written in a loose and irregular kind of blank verse, and has very little merit. His lines to Madam Pasta are sufficiently absurd. After stating that she has given him such "an endless rapture," that with infinite good sense and propriety, "In places lone He shouts it to the stars, and winds that flee;" he concludes with saying, that "The critic brings her praise, which all rehearse; And I, alas! I can but bring my verse!" he could offer her. -in our opinion, one of the very worst things We are surprised to meet with such stuff as this in a book where there is, in other respects, such a constant evidence of rigid taste and discrimination on the part of the editor. That Barry Cornwall has occasionally written some agreeable poetry, we do not mean to dispute; but of late he has only insulted the public by his negligence, nonsense, and affectation. We have no wish to be unfriendly to him, and should be glad if he would change his tone, and give us an opportunity to praise him. Our next extract shall be some very exquisite verses by Mrs. Hemans: TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT. From the bright stars, or from the viewless air, Or from some world, unreached by human thought, No. 79.-C By our last hope, the victor o'er despair; Speak-if our souls in deathless yearnings meet, Answer me, answer me! The grave is silent-and the far-off sky, Answer me, answer me! ple had a wake before a funeral, and a dinner after it, and there was an end of the affair.But with the march of mind comes trouble and vexation. A man has now-a-days no certainty of quietness in his coffin-unless it be a patent one. He is laid down in the grave, and the next morning he is called upon to demonstrate an interesting experiment." Most of the stories are clever, but some of them are a little forced and extravagant. The longest, and one of the best in the volume, is "The Rock of the Candle," by the author of "Holland-tide." This, though also somewhat Germanic, is a very superior production. The following remarks are from "A Chapter on Portraits," by Barry Cornwall, which, though flat and commonplace in some parts, is occasionally fresh and interesting. The Portrait of Sir Walter Scott, to which the author alludes, is an exquisite work of art, and is engraved with extraordinary delicacy and effect by a Mr. Danforth, who is, we believe, an American. "We can scarcely imagine a thing much more pleasant indeed, to an artist, than to be brought face to face with some famous person, and permitted to examine and scrutinize his features, with that careful and intense curiosity, that seems necessary to the perfecting a likeness. It must have been to Raffaelle, at once a relaxation from his ordinary study, and a circumstance interesting in itself, thus to look into faces so full of meaning as those of Julius and Leo-and to say, 'That look-that glance, which seems so transient, will I fix for ever. Thus shall he be seen, with that exact expression (although it lasted but for an instant), five hundred years after he shall be dust and ashes!' "This was probably the feeling of Raffaelle; and it must have been with a somewhat similar pride that our excellent artist, Mr. Leslie, accomplished his portrait of Sir Walter Scott, which the reader will have already admired in this volume. It is surely a perfect work. No one, who has once seen the great author, can forget that strange and peculiar look (so full of meaning, and shrewd and cautious observation -so entirely characteristic, in short, of the There are several beautiful contributions mind within) which Mr. Leslie has succeeded from the pen of Mr. T. K. Hervey. The anoin catching. One may gaze on it forever, and nymous poem of "Mary Queen of Scots" is contemplate an exhaustless subject-all that spirited and harmonious. Miss Mitford's the capacious imagination has produced and is "Young Novice" is pleasing, but rather fee-producing, the populous, endless world of ble. Hofer," by C. R.; "Zadig and Astarte," by Delta; a Sonnet or two by H., and one by Mr. Thomas Roscoe, are all deserving of commendation. We could also conscientiously praise many other pieces in the volume, but must close our notice of the poeti cal department, or we shall have no room left for the prose. Of the prose articles, the most striking is the "MSS. found in a Mad-house." Though too full of horror, it is very strongly written, and the interest is deep and stirring. The story of "The Sisters" is powerful and pathetic. The "Vision of Purgatory," by Dr. Maginn, is extremely clever, and has a good deal of humour. We were amused with the following allusion to galvanism and the resurrection system:In former times," says the writer, "the peo fancy. "Let the reader look, and be assured that there is the strange Spirit that has discovered and wrought all the fine shapes that he has been accustomed to look upon with wonderClaverhouse, and Burley, and Bothwell,-Meg Merrilies and Elspeth-the high and the low -the fierce and the fair-Cavaliers and Covenanters, and the rest-presenting an assemblage of character that is absolutely unequalled, except in the pages of Shakspeare alone. There is no other writer, be he Greek, or Goth, or Roman, who has ever astonished the world by creations so infinitely diversified. The mind of the author appears so free from egotism, so large and serene, so clear of all images of self, that it receives, as in a lucid mirror, all the varieties of nature. It was thus that the greatest and rarest of all poets was enabled to perform his wonderful task. Thus free from egotism and turbid vanity was Shakspeare himself. And thus, we may prophecy, must every author be, who shall succeed in stirring the hearts of men by dint of example only."-p. 353-355. We must now conclude our notice of the Souvenir. It would be idle to recommend this delightful publication to our readers, for its own merits, and the reputation of the editor will secure its popularity. From the Literary Souvenir. SECOND SIGHT. A MOURNFUL gift is mine, O friends! Ye smile to view fair faces bloom Of a home whence all are fled. While the lamps yet burn, and the dancers fly Through the ringing hall of mirth. I see the blood-red future stain On the warrior's gorgeous crest, And the bier amidst the bridal train, When they come with roses drest. I hear the still small moan of Time Through the ivy branches made, Where the palace, in its glory's prime, With the sunshine stands arrayed. The thunder of the seas I hear, The shriek along the wave, When the bark sweeps forth, and song and cheer With every breeze a spirit sends A mournful gift is mine, Ŏ friends! Oh, prophet heart! thy grief, thy power, The shadow in the sunny hour, Their piercing thoughts repose not here, From Friendship's Offering. NATURE. BY JOHN CLARE. How many pages of sweet Nature's book Hath Poesy doubled down as favoured things: Such as the wood leaves in disorder shook It bounces forth in airy ups and downs That meet the Poet's never weary eyes, STANZAS. BY T. K. HERVEY, ESQ. "Oh! that I had wings like a dove!" On! for the wings we used to wear, When the heart was like a bird, And sung to all it heard! Oh! for the wings with which the dove It may not-oh! it may not be ! I cannot mount on Fancy's wing, A lost and perished thing! And far beyond the farthest sea, |