your intemperate language concerning me, may render one more meeting necessary; and so, sir, here ends our acquaintance." After his high eulogium upon the cloth, I told him that it was not what he represented, and actually detailed the place at which he had Saying which, Sheringham, whose friend- bought it, and the name of the shopkeeper who ship even to my enlightened eye was nearly had sold it: this irritated the tailor, who be as sincere as any other man's, quitted my room, came extremely insolent, and our interview fully convinced of my meanness and unworthi- ended with my kicking him down stairs, from ness: my heart sank within me when I heard the bottom of which, he proceeded to the pothe door close upon him for the last time. I lice-office, in my own street, and procured a now possessed the power I had so long desired, warrant for the assault, by which I was comand in less than an hour had lost a valued pelled to appear before the magistrates on the friend and a faithful servant. Nevertheless, following day, knowing, before I went, the Barton had told me a falsehood, and Shering- whole course the case would take, and the deham was gazetted on the Tuesday night. cision they would make, in precisely the terms which they subsequently adopted. I proceeded to open Fanny Hayward's note; it contained an invitation to dinner with her mother, and a request that I would accompany them to the opera, it being the last night of the last extra subscription. I admired Fannynay, I almost loved her; and when I gazed on her with rapture, I traced in the mild and languishing expression of her soft blue eye, approbation of my suit, and pleasure in my praise. I took up my pen to answer her billet, and intuitively and instinctively wrote as follows: "Dear Miss Hayward, "I should have much pleasure in accepting your kind invitation for this evening, if it were given in the spirit of sincerity, which has hitherto characterized your conduct; but you must be aware that the plan of going to the opera to-night was started, not because you happen to have a box, but because you expect to meet Sir Henry Witherington, with whom you were so much pleased at Lady G.'s on Thursday, and to whom you consigned the custody of your fan, on condition that he personally returned it in safety at the opera to-night; as I have no desire to be the foil of any thing in itself so intrinsically brilliant as your newly discovered baronet, I must decline your proposal. "Your mother's kindness in sanctioning the invitation would have been more deeply felt, if I did not know that the old lady greatly approves of your new acquaintance, and suggested to you the necessity of having me to play propriety during the evening, call up her carriage, and hand her to it, while Sir Henry was making the aimable to you, and escorting you in our footsteps. Tell Mrs. Hayward that, however much she and you may enjoy the joke, I have no desire to be admitted as a 'safe man,' and that I suggest her offering her cotelette to Sir Henry as well as her company. With sympathetic regards, Believe me, dear Miss Hayward, This note I immediately despatched, overjoy. ed that the power I possessed enabled me to penetrate the flimsy mask with which Mrs. Hayward had endeavoured to disguise her real views and intentions, and had scarcely finished breakfast before Mr. Fitman, my tailor, was ushered in, in company with a coat of the prevailing colour, and the most fashionable cut: in less than five minutes it was on, and the collar, the cuffs, the sleeves, and the skirts, became at once the objects of the author's admiration. "Him is quite perfect, I declare," said the tailor, who, of course, was a foreigner. Still, however, I stood alone in power, unless indeed my old friend in green did actually share the talent I possessed; and not being able to make up my mind to put an end to the enjoyment of an object I had so long laboured to attain, I contented myself with resolving to be more cautious in future, and less freely or frequently exhibit my mysterious quality. After the little disagreeable adventure I have just recounted, I thought perhaps I had better proceed to the Temple, and consult my lawyer, who, as well as being professionally concerned for me, had been for a long time my intimate aoquaintance. I knew what the decision of the justices would be, but I thought the attendance of a legal adviser would make the affair more respectable in the eyes of the public, and I aocordingly bent my steps citywise. When I reached the Temple, my worthy Maxwell was at home; as usual his greetings were the warmest, his expressions the kindest. I explained my case, to which he listened attentively and promised his assistance, but in a moment I perceived that, however bland and amiable his conduct to me might appear, he had several times during the preceding spring told his wife that he believed I was mad. In corroboration of which, I recollected that she had on the occasion of my last three or four visits placed herself at the greatest possible distance from me, in the drawing-room, and had always rung the bell, to have her children taken away the moment I entered. In pursuance of my cautious resolution, however, I took no notice of this; but when I spoke of the length of time which had elapsed since I had seen Mrs. Maxwell, I found out, from what was passing in her husband's mind, that she had determined never to be at home when I called, or ever dine in her own house if I was invited. Maxwell, however promised to be with me in the morning, in time to attend the magistrates, and I knew he meant to keep his promise; so far I was easy about that affair, and made several calls on different acquaintances, few of whom were at home-some were -but as I set down the exclusion which 1 found so general as the result of the wild abstracted manner consequent upon my abstruse studies, and my heart-wearing anxiety, I determined now to become the gayest, most agreeable person possible, and, profiting by experience, keep all my wisdom to myself. I went into the water-colour exhibition at Charing-cross; there I heard two artists complimenting each other, while their hearts were bursting with mutual envy. There too, I found "Pray, nadam," said Sir Henry, "is this person's presence here disagreeable to you?" "Particularly so, Sir Henry," said the old lady, with all the malice of offended dignity. "Then, sir," said Sir Henry, "you must leave the box." "Must I, indeed, sir?" said I, becoming in turn much more angry than the old lady. "Pray! pray!" said Fanny. a mild, modest-looking lady, listening to the bewitching nothings of her husband's particular friend; and I knew as I saw her frown and abruptly turn away from him with every appearance of real indignation, that she had at that very moment mentally resolved to elope with him the following night. In Harding's shop I found authors congregated to "laugh the sultry hours away," each watching to catch his neighbour's weak point, and make it sub- "Be quiet, child," said her obdurate mother. ject matter of mirth in his evening's conversa- "Yes, sir," said Sir Henry, "must! and if tion. I saw a viscount help his father out of this direction is not speedily obeyed, the boxhis carriage with every mark of duty and vene-keeper shall be called to remove you." ration, and knew that he was actually languishing for the earldom, and estates of the venerable parent of whose health he was apparently taking so much care. At Howell and James's I saw more than I could tell, if I had ten times the space afforded me that I have, and I concluded my tour by dropping in at the National Gallery, where the ladies and gentlemen seemed to prefer nature to art, and were actively employed in looking at the pictures, and thinking of themselves. Oh! it was a strange time then, when every man's heart was open to me, and 1 could sit and see and hear all that was going on, and know the workings of the inmost feelings of my associates: however, I must not detain the _reader with reflections. On this memorable first day of my potency, I proceeded after dinner to the opera, to satisfy myself of the justness of my accusation against Fanny. I looked up to their box and immediately behind my once single-minded girl, sat Sir Henry Witherington himself, actually playing with the identical fan, of which I had instinctively and intuitively written without ever having seen it before. There was an ease and confidence about the fellow, and he was so graceful and good-looking, and Fanny gazed at him so long and so frequently, that I could bear it no more, and thinking that after our long intimacy my letter of the morning might have gone for nothing, I proceeded to their box, determined to rally. Of Sir Henry's thoughts about me, I was utterly ignorant, for he did not even know my name, so that I could have shared none of his consideration. I was aware, however, that the mother was downright angry, and Fanny just so much piqued as to make our reconciliation a work of interest and amusement. I certainly did not perfectly appreciate Mrs. Hayward's feelings towards me, for when as usual I entered her curtained territory, her glanee was instantly averted from me to Fanny, who looked grave, and I found was seriously annoyed at my appearance: however, I knew I had influence, and with my commanding power I resolved to remain. After a pause, during which Sir Henry eyed me, and the ladies alternately, he inquired of Mrs. Hayward if I were a friend of hers. "Assuredly not, Sir Henry," said Mrs. Hayward. "I did know the person, but his conduct renders it impossible that our acquaintance should continue." Fanny's heart began to melt; she would have caught me by the hand, and bid me stay. I relied on this, and moved not. "Sir Henry Witherington," said I, "the society you are in, seals my lips and binds my hands. I will leave the box, on condition that for one moment only, you will accompany me." "Certainly, sir," said Sir Henry, and in an instant we were both in the passage. I drew a card from my case, and putting it into his hand, said, "Sir Henry Witherington, your uncalled for interference of to-night must be explained; here is the card of one who has no other feeling for your insolence but that of the most ineffable contempt." Saying which, I walked out of the Opera-house, and he rejoined the ladies, who were in a state of serious agitation-Fanny on my account, and her mother on account of her. This affair ended, I returned once more to bed, and once more fell into a deep slumber, from which I was aroused by Barton, who informed me that Colonel MacManton was wait ing to speak a few words to me in the drawing-room. Of course I knew the object of his visit; he came to invite me to Chalk Farm, where, probably, he had already ordered pistols for two, and breakfast for four; and I hastened down stairs, rather anxious than otherwise to exhibit at once become the friend of the brave, and the my person in the field of honour, that I might idol of the fair. I entered the drawing-room, and found my visiter waiting. "Sir," said the colonel, "I imagine, after what past last night between you and my friend, Sir Henry Witherington, I need hardly announce the object of my visit. I will not offend you by mentioning the alternative of a meeting, but merely request you to refer me to some friend of yours, with whom I may make the necessary arrangements as speedily as possible." "Sir," replied I, speaking, as it were, not of myself, "1 must decline a meeting with Sir Henry Witherington; and I tell you in the outset of the business, that no power will induce me to lend myself to any arrangement which may lead to one." This is a most extraordinary resolution, sir," said the colonel. "I can assure you, although I have stated the matter as delicately as I could, that Sir Henry will accept of no apology; nor indeed could I permit him to do so, even if he were so inclined." "You have had my answer, sir," said I: “I refuse his challenge." "Perhaps," inquired the colonel, "you will be good enough to state your reason Precisely this, sir," I replied. "Our quarrel and rencontre of last night, arose out of the perverseness of an old lady, and the inconsiderateness of a young one: they both regret the circumstance as much as I do; and Sir Henry himself, in thus calling me to account, is obeying the dictates of fashion rather than those of feeling." "But that, sir," said the colonel, "is Sir Henry's affair. I must endeavour to extract some better reason than this." "Well then, sir," I rejoined, "if Sir Henry mects me he will fall-it must be so-and I will not consent to imbrue my hands in the blood of a fellow-creature in such a cause." "Is that your only motive, sir, for declining his invitation?" exclaimed the gallant colonel, somewhat sneeringly. "It is." "Then, sir, it becomes me to state, in distinct terms, that Sir Henry Witherington must in future consider you unworthy to fill the sta tion of a gentleman in society; and that he will, on the first opportunity, exercise the only means, left him under the circumstances, of satisfying his offended honour, by inflicting personal chastisement upon you wherever he meets you." Saying which, the colonel, believing me in his heart to be the arrantest coward alive, took his leave; but however annoyed I felt at the worldly consequences of this affair, I gloried in my privilege of prescience, which had informed me of the certain result of our hostile interview. I then prepared myself to receive my lawyer, and attend the magistrates:-that af fair was soon settled-the tailor entered into sureties to indict me at the sessions, and I knew that the worshipful personages on the bench calculated on no slight degree of punishment, as the reward of my correction of Fitman's insolence. The story of Sir Henry's challenge soon got wind. Those who had been my warmest friends saw something extremely agreeable on the other side of the way, if they met me walking; and remarks neither kind nor gentle assailed my ears as I passed the open windows of the club-houses in St. James's-street. Although I yet had not had the ill-fortune to meet my furious antagonist, I did not know how long it might be before he would return to town, I therefore decided upon quitting it; and driven, as it were, out of society, fixed my abode in one of the prettiest villages in the kingdom, between forty and fifty miles from the metropolis. How sweet and refreshing were the breezes which swept across that fertile valley, stretching to the feet of the lofty South Downswhat an expanse of view-what brightness and clearness of atmosphere-what serenity-what calm-what comfort! Here was I, domesticated with an amiable family, whose hearts I could read, and whose minds were open to me: -they esteemed, they loved me-When others would oppress and hunt me from the world, their humble home was at my disposal. My friends had been married many years, and one only daughter was their care and pride. She was fresh and beautiful as a May morning, and her bright eyes sparkled with pleasure as she welcomed me to the cottage; and then, I knew, what years before I had so much desired to know, but never yet believed, I soon discovered, however, that although Mary's early affection for me (for we had been much together in our younger days) still reigned and ruled in her heart, that I had a rival, a rival favoured by her parents, for the common and obvious reason, that he was rich; but the moment I saw him, I read his character, and saw the latent workings of his mindI knew him for a villain. The unaffected kindness of Mary for her old playmate, and the endearing good nature with which she gathered me the sweetest flowers from her own garden; the evident pleasure with which she recurred to days long past, and the marked interest with which she listened to my plans for the future, soon aroused in her avowed lover's breast hatred for me and jealousy of her; and although to herself and the family his manner remained unchanged, I, who could fathom depths beyond the ken of other mortals, watched with dreadful anxiety the progress of his passion; the terrible workings of rage, and doubt, and disappointment, in his mind. Mary saw nothing of this; and considering her marriage with him a settled and fixed event, gave him her society with the unreserved confidence of an affianced bride. And although I knew that she would gladly have left his arm to stroll through the mea. dows and the groves with me; that, which she considered her duty to her parents, and to her future husband, led her to devote a great proportion of her time to him. Still he was not to be satisfied with what, he could not but feel, was a divided affection; and gradually the love he once bore her, began to curdle on his heart, until it turned, as I at once foresaw, to deadly hate; and the predominant passion of his soul was revenge on me, and on the illfated innocent girl for whom he once would have died.. At length the horrid spectacle presented itself to my all-searching and all-seeing eye of two "minds o'erthrown." Mary, as the period fixed for their marriage approached, sickened at the coming event; and too sincere, too inartificial for concealment, owned to me the dread she felt of marrying the lover accepted by her parents:-there she paused, but I knew the rest; and pressing her to my heart, received from her rosy lips the soft kiss of affection and acceptance. She had resolved to fly with me from the home of her parents, rather than fulfil the promise they had made. My prescribed ignorance of my own fate, and of my own affairs, hindered my knowing that her intended husband had overheard this confession. We had fixed the hour for flight the evening following that, on which she owned her love, and preceding the day intended for his marriage. The blow was too powerful for him to resist: rage, jealousy, disappointment, and vengeance, occupied his whole mind; and the moment that my individual and particular conduct was disconnected from his proceedings, I discovered his desperate intention towards my poor Mary. That evening-the next she would be mine that evening we had agreed that Mary should take her usual walk with her lover; and although he had appeared gloomy during the day, I had detected nothing in his thoughts which could justly alarm me; but when the evening closed in, and he by appointment came to fetch her for their ramble, then my power enabled me to foresee the train of circumstances which were to follow. The weapon was concealed in one of his pockets, which was to give his victim her death-blow; its companion, which was to rid him of life, rested in the other. The course of his thoughts, of his intentions, was before me: the spot where he intended to commit the double murder evident to my sight. As she was quitting the garden to meet him, I rushed after her; I entreated, I implored her not to stir. I foretold a storm-I suggested a thousand probable ills which might befall her if she went; but she told me that she had promised to meet Charles, and go she must it was for the last time, she said she must go. Was I jealous of her? "No, no, my sweet girl!" said 1: "your life, dearer to me than my own, depends upon your compliance with my desire, that you will stay." "My life?" said Mary. "Yes, beloved of my heart!" exclaimed I: your cruel lover would be your murderer!" "Charles murder me!" said she, half wild, and quite incredulous: "you are mad." "No, no; I know it," said I, still holding her. "This is the height of folly," replied Mary, calmly: "pray let me go-I have promisedit will lull suspicions-am I not yours?" "Yes, yes, and go you shall not." "Tell me how you have gained this information," said she," and I will attend to it." "If you go, you perish!" said I. "Stay, and the rage which this desperate madman now would vent on you will turn upon him self." "What a thought!" said the half-distracted girl. "I'll go this instant." "No, no, my beloved! What shall I say to hinder you?" "Tell me how or by what means you have attained this knowledge, and, I repeat, I will stay." I had the power to save her; by confessing it, I should preserve her, but I should lose my envied faculty, the object of my life-was there a moment to doubt ? "Mary," said I, "I have a supernatural knowledge of events-I surrender it-stay!" At that instant the report of a pistol near the place of appointment roused our attention from ourselves; and running to the place whence the noise proceeded, we found the unhappy victim of jealousy stone dead, and weltering in his blood: the pistol intended to take my Mary's life, was yet clenched in his cold hand. From this moment my power was gone, and I began again to see the world as my fellowcreatures do. Mary became my wife with the consent of her parents; and as I was returning from church, I saw, amongst the crowd before the village inn, my old friend in green, who accosted me with great good-nature, and congratulated me upon my enviable situation. "Sir," said I, "I thank you; and I thank you for having, by some means inexplicable by me, gratified the ruling passion of my heart. In the ignorance of my nature, I desired to possess a power incompatible with the finite character of the human mind. I have now learnt by experience that a limit is set to human knowledge for the happiness of man; and in future I shall be perfectly satisfied with the blessings which a wise and good Providence has afforded us, without daring to presume upon the bounty by which we are placed so pre-eminently above all other living creatures." "A very moral and proper observation," said my friend, evidently displeased with my moralizing. “Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise." Saying which, he turned upon his heel, and was lost among the throng. I have several times since seen the old gentleman walking about London, looking as hale and as hearty as ever, but I have always avoided him; and although I have reason to believe he has seen me, more than once, by a sort of tacit consent we never acknowledge each other. I returned to my home, blessed with an affectionate wife; hoping for the best, profiting by the past, enjoying the present, and putting our trust in GoD for the future. From the London Weekly Review. SCENES OF WAR; and other Poems. By John Malcolm. Edinburgh, 1828. Oliver and Boyd. MR. MALCOLM has made himself already pretty well known by his poetical compositions; and the present volume will reflect additional credit on his name. It contains many sweet little poems, and some of a very superior order, that are distinguished by foree, beauty, and originality. We have received the volume too late in the week to enter into an elaborate criticism, and must content ourselves with two brief specimens, taken almost at random. Written in a Lady's Album. As sweeps the bark before the breeze, The beauteous visions of the mind And leave no trace behind. But the pure page may still impart Some dream of feeling, else untold,- E'en when that heart is cold: I ask not for the meed of fame, To think that o'er these lines thine eye Calm sleeps the sea when storms are o'er, Left floating on Time's silent tide,- suasion, we find them vague and indefinite, or even contradictory. To wave a thousand of others, Dr. Whately, in the work before us, insists upon the conviction of the understanding as "an essential part of persuasion;" and, on the other hand, the author of the Philosophy of Rhetoric is equally satisfied that there is no persuasion without an appeal to the passions. Here are two views. We, for our parts, have a third, which excludes both: where conviction begins, the field of rhetoric ends-that is our opinion and, as to the passions, we contend that they are not within the province of rheto [The Vesper Bell has been published in the ric, but of eloquence. Museum.] From Blackwood's Magazine. No art, cultivated by man, has suffered more in the revolutions of taste and opinion than the art of rhetoric. There was a time when, by an undue extension of this term, it designated the whole cycle of accomplishments which prepared a man for public affairs. From that height it has descended to a level with the arts of alchemy and astrology, as holding out promises which consist in a mixed degree of impostures and of trifles. If we look into the prevailing theory of rhetoric, under which it meets with so degrading an estimate, we shall find that it fluctuates between two different conceptions, according to one of which it is an art of ostentatious ornament, and according to the other an art of sophistry. A man is held to play the rhetorician, when he treats a subject with more than usual gaiety of ornament; and perhaps we may add as an essential element in the idea, with conscious ornament. This is one view of rhetoric; and, under this, what it accomplishes is not so much to persuade as to delight; not so much to win the assent, as to stimulate the attention, and captivate the taste. And even this purpose is attached to something separable and accidental in the manner. But the other idea of rhetoric lays its foundation in something essential to the matter. This is that rhetoric of which Milton spoke, as able "to dash maturest counsels, and to make the worse appear the better reason." Now it is clear, that argument of some quality or other must be taken as the principle of this rhetoric; for those must be immature counsels indeed that could be dashed by mere embellishments of manner, or by artifices of diction and arrangement. Hore then we have in popular use two separate ideas of rhetoric, one of which is occupied with the general end of the fine arts; that is to say, intellectual pleasure. The other applies itself more specifically to a definite purpose of utility. Such is the popular idea of rhetoric, which wants both unity and precision. If we seek these from the formal teachers of rhetoric, our embarrassment is not much relieved. All of them agree that rhetoric may be defined the art of persuasion. But if we inquire what is per Elements of Rhetoric. By Richard Whately, D.D. Principal of St. Alban's Hall, and late Fellow of Oriel College, Oxford. Oxford, 1828. In this view of rhetoric and its functions we coincide with Aristotle; as indeed originally we took it up on a suggestion derived from him. But as all parties may possibly fancy a confirmation of their views in Aristotle, we shall say a word or two in support of our own interpretation of that author, which will surprise our Oxford friends. * * [The argument upon the interpretation of Aristotle is omitted.] Whatsoever is certain, or matter of fixed science, can be no subject for the rhetorician: where it is possible for the understanding to be convinced, no field is open for rhetorical persuasion. Absolute certainty, and fixed science, transcend and exclude opinion and probability. The province of rhetoric, whether meant for an influence upon the actions, or simply upon the belief, lies amongst that vast field of cases where there is a pro and a con, with the chance of right and wrong, true and false, distributed in varying proportions between them. There is also an immense range of truths, where there are no chances at all concerned, but the affirmative and the negative are both true; as, for example, the goodness of human nature and its wickedness; the happiness of human life and its misery; the charms of knowledge, and its hollowness; the fragility of human prosperity, in the eye of religious meditation, and its security, as estimated by worldly confidence and youthful hope. In all these cases the rhetorician exhibits his art by giving an impulse to one side, and by withdrawing the mind so steadily from all thoughts or images which support the other, as to leave it practically under the pos session of this partial estimate. Upon this theory, what relation to rhetoric shall we assign to style and the ornamental arts of composition? In some respect they seem liable to the same objection as that which Aris totle has urged against appeals to the passions: both are extra-essential, or a Topalpatit; they are subjective arts, not objective; that is, they do not affect the thing which is to be surveyed, but the eye of him who is to survey. Yet, in a feast, the epicure holds himself act more obliged to the cook for the venison, than to the physician who braces his stomach to enjoy. And any arts, which conciliate regard to the speaker, indirectly promote the effect of his argument. On this account, and because, (under the severest limitation of rhetoric) they are in many cases indispensable to the perfect interpretation of the thoughts; we may admit arts of style and ornamental composition as the ministerial part of rhetoric. But, with regard to the passions, as contended for by Dr. Camp |