beth. It is pretty evident that he did keep up a correspondence with her, and did advise her on all important occasions; and if all this intercourse did not escape the notice of the court, as we can scarcely imagine it could, then the fair inference is, that he was playing a double and a triple game, and we must admire the good luck with which he finally fell on his legs.

But if we cannot concur entirely and absolutely with the biographer in his admiration, and even veneration for his very distinguished subject, we can well appreciate his own merits -they are of the very highest order. His work exhibits great research, great honesty, powerful statement, good feeling, liberal interpretations, and no little ingenuity; and no man, be he king, priest, or minister, need wish for a gentler chronicler.

From the London Magazine.

THE EDITOR'S ROOM.

THE season is begun-not the parliamentary or the fashionable season-but the booksellers'. This season is in some sort a campaign; but a campaign in very odd weather. It commences in November, and it lasts till July. The Longmans take the field with the heavy horse, the Murrays with the dragoons, and the Colburns with the light infantry. Heavens! what bloodless battles of the books, and what Buonaparteish bulletins of the booksellers. Volume after volume perish in the affray-"they course each other down like the generations of men, and after a moment's space are hurried together to oblivion." We delight in the excitement. We love to mark the progress of the strategy. We can trace the genius of the commander, from the insinuating paragraph in the "Morning Post," to the elaborate praise of all magazines (we had forgotten our own and one or two others). It is a stirring time; and to us the peculiar happiness is that we look upon the bustle and the brain-sinashing with the same satisfying composure with which Campbell looked upon the fight of Hohenlinden.

But we have our own work to do; and certes light reading is the heaviest work in the world. The annuals have well nigh killed us. In the days of folios reviewing must have been a treat. We should have delighted to have grappled with the Cudworths and Barrowsthe Hobbes' and Lockes of the old glorious times. Grotius and Puffendorf would have furnished recreation for a year, after the toil of novel-reading and essay-writing upon passing things. There are no such books now published. Even the lawyers and doctors are labouring to make their enigmas popular.

The Americans have begun to turn their thoughts to this all-engrossing manufacture of literary sweetmeats. Have they no more woods to clear? What have they to do with art or literature (by literature we mean those useless dishes of whipt cream which every body with us writes as well as reads) for a century at least? Can they not republish what we per

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petrate in this way, till there is a surplus quantity of labour that may be removed from profitable occupations? There should be an express law of congress to prevent any citizen indulging in the luxury of romance composition while there was a slave in the land. At any rate they should write history. Five years ago, who would have dreamt of seeing a Philadelphia Annual?

But it is a pretty Annual, this same "Atlantic Souvenir;" and comes forth with as jaunty a new coat as the best of the family. The engravings are, of course, inferior to ours; for England possesses the finest engravers in the world; but they are exceedingly creditable to the artists of the West. The best plates of this little book are after Newton (we recant all that we profanely hinted about American art), and Farrier, and Corbould. Mrs. Hemans has sent a contribution all over the Atlantic. Her industry is beyond all praise. Blank verse is a tempting instrument for aspirants; but it is like the violin-very easily tortured into most execrable noise. We must try a specimen which is meant to be funny:

May give a surfeit and the appetite
Sicken and die-the Irish way, perhaps,
The poet meant to live a little longer.
If some have died for love, 'tis probable
Not over-eating, but the lack of food
Led to such sad catastrophes. The limners
Have sometimes made this Love a chubby
child,

Like Clara Fisher, (who's a little love,
Par parenthese,) in Gobbleton. But who
Would think of Cupid, as of one o' the quorum,
(Not but that aldermen can love, however,)
Dying of calipash and calipee!-
Yet music is the food of love, nay more,
It is the vital air of love, its soul,
Its very essence, love is harmony
Or nothing; love's the music of the mind-
(Perhaps that thought is stolen from Lady
Morgan,

Whose books I read with pleasure notwithstanding

Some pigmy critics here, and those they ape,
Those barbarous, one-eyed Polyphemuses,
The Cyclopes of the English Quarterly.)
But to return from rambling-Cupid's move-

ments

Are the true " poetry of motion," (that
I'm sure belongs to Lady Morgan,) full
We must confess of strange variety,
From epic down to ballad.

The tales are too long for quotation; but several of them are exceedingly interesting. Of the poems we shall give one which we think far above mediocrity, a character indeed which belongs to a great part of the book; and truly, since we have looked into the matter, we have no objection that the Americans do proceed with song and sentiment after the fashion of their own honourable ambition :-

FUNERAL RITES.

O BURY not the dead by day,

When the bright sun is in the sky,
But let the evening's mantle gray

Upon the mouldering ashes lie,
And spread around its solemn tone,
Before ye give the earth its own.

The gaudy glare of noon-day light

Befits not well the hour of gloom, When friend o'er friend performs the rite That parts them till the day of doomOh, no-let twilight shadows come, When heaven is still and nature dumb. Then, when the zephyrs in the leaves Scarce breathe amid their mazy round, And every sigh that air receives

Is heard along her still profound-
Then at night's dusky hour of birth,
Yield the lamented dead to earth.

Yield him to earth-and let the dew
Weep o'er him its ambrosial tears,
And let the stars come forth and view

The close of human hopes and fears-
Their course goes on-he ne'er again
Shall tread the walks of living men.

Far in the west the ruddy glow

Of sunset clouds is lingering yet,
And with its brightness seems to show
The relics of a "golden set"-
But soon the fading grandeur flies,
And sadden'd night assumes the skies.

It is an holy hour of quiet,

By which the softened heart is woo'd
To thoughts that in the time of riot

Are rarely welcome to intrude-
To thoughts which evening's balmy kiss
Will often bring-nor bring amiss.

No sound awakes through all the sky,
Save the small voice of summer-bird,
That chants his little note on high,

So distant that it scarce is heard,
And yet comes floating softly by,
As 'twere a parted spirit's sigh.
A little cloud of snowy whiteness

Is sailing through the fields of air,
And seems with all its fleecy lightness,
Like a bright angel wandering there-
That little cloud so calmly stealing,
Brings to the heart a saddened feeling.
A spell of silence breathes around,
Or if a single voice is shed,
It is a soft and stilly sound-

Oh! what an hour to quit the dead! Choose not the day-take twilight's tone, And let the earth receive her own.

Apropos of America, we are really grieved that the tariff, which must prove for half a century imbelle telum as regards this country, should be likely to become the apple of discord to the United States. We extract the following passage from the last Southern Review, which looks rather belligerent. We should be truly sorry to see any rupture in that greatest of republics. The very existence of its power and political energy is a standing reproach to all worn-out governments.

"In closing these remarks upon the consti tutional jurisprudence of the United States, we repeat what we said at the beginning of them. We think the course which things are taking in this country, must lead to a passive and slavish acquiescence under usurpation and abuse. Liberty is a practical matter-it has nothing to do with metaphysics-with entity and quiddity. It is a thing to be judged of altogether in the concrete. Like the point of honour, or the beauties of art, or the highest perfection of virtue, it addresses itself to the common sense and feelings of mankind. There is no defining it with mathematical exactnessno reducing it to precise and inflexible rules. What, for instance, does it signify, that a skil ful disputant might possibly prove the tariff law to be within the words of the constitution; would that prevent its being a selfish and oppressive, and, therefore, a tyrannical measure? Is there any practical difference whatever, between the usurpation of a power not granted, and the excessive and perverted exercise of one that is? If a man abuses an authority of law under which he is acting, he becomes a trespasser ab initio-and if it be an authority in fact, he is a trespasser for the excess. The master of a ship and other persons in authority, have a right to correct those who are subject to their control-is an act of immediate severity less a trespass and an offence on that account? What, if the government should suspend the habeas corpus act, without such an overruling necessity as could alone excuse the measure, and the courts would not control its discretion, would not the people, with reason. laugh at the man who should talk of such an outrageous abuse of power as constitutional, because the judges did not pronounce it otherwise? Nor does this depend upon the express provision in the constitution. Not at all. In a free country, every act of injustice, every violation of the principles of equality and equity, is er vi termini a breach of all their fundamental laws and institutions. In the ordinary administration of the law, indeed, the distinction between usurpation and abuse may sometimes be important, but in great questions of public li berty, in reason, and in good faith, it is wholly immaterial. The moment that this sensibility to its rights and dignity is gone, a people, be its apparent or nominal constitution what it may, is no longer free. A quick sense of injustice, with a determination to resist it in every shape and under every name and pretext, is of the very essence and definition of liberty, political as well as personal. How far, indeed, this resistance is to be carried in any particular instance, is a question of circumstances and discretion. So dreadful are all revolutions in their immediate effects-so uncertain in their ultimate issues, that a wise man would doubt long -that a moderate and virtuous man would bear much-before he could be prevailed upon to give his consent to extreme measures. We would be any thing rather than apostles of discord and dismemberment, sorely as the government to which South-Carolina, and the south in general, have been so loyal and devoted, is beginning to press upon all our dearest interests and sensibilities. But we feel it to be our duty to exhort our fellow-citizens to renewed

exertion, and to a jealous and sleepless vigilance upon this subject. The battle must be fought inch by inch-no concession or compromise must be thought of. The courage and constancy of a free people can never fail, when they are exerted in defence of right. It is, indeed, an affecting spectacle, to look around us at the decay and desolation which are invading our pleasant places and the seats of our former industry and opulence-there is something unnatural and shocking in such a state of things. A young country already sinking into decrepitude and exhaustion-a fertile soil encroached upon again by the forests from which it has been so recently conquered-the marts and sea-ports of what might be a rich country, depopulated and in ruins. Contrast with this our actual condition, the hope and the buoyancy, and the vigour and the life that animated the same scenes only twenty-five years ago, and which have now fled away from us to bless other and more favoured regions of this land. scarcely less discouraging to reflect upon the probable effects which the admission of an indefinite number of new states into the union, with political opinions, perhaps, altogether unsettled and unsafe, will produce. But we are yielding too much to feelings, with which recent events have, we own, made our minds but too familiar, and we will break off here.

It is

"We take our leave of Chancellor Kent, in the hope of soon meeting with him again. We have generally given him, throughout this article, the title which he honoured far more than it honoured him, and which it is an everlasting disgrace to the greatest state in the union, that he does not still bear. What a mean and miserable policy! Lest it should have to pay their paltry salaries to a few superannuated public servants, to deprive itself of the accumulated learning, the diversified experience, and the ripe wisdom of such a man at the age of sixty! A commonwealth, flourishing beyond example or even imagination, wantoning and rioting in the favours of fortune which have been poured upon it without stint, chaffering and haggling in by far the most important concern of society, like an usurious pawnbroker, for a few thousand dollars. In some of the poorer states, such stupid economy would be more excusable, or ra. ther less unaccountable, for nothing can excuse it. The rarest thing in nature-certainly, the rarest thing in America-is a learned and able judge, at the same time, that he is not only, in the immediate administration of justice, but still more, if possible, by his immense influence over the bar and the community at large, beyond all price. But we Americans do not think so, or rather we act as if we did not. The only means of having a good bench, is to adopt the English plan-give liberal salaries to your judges, let them hold their offices during good behaviour, and when they begin to exhibit symptoms of senility and decay, hint to them that their pensions are ready to be paid them. The last is a necessary part of the system-but it is what the American people can never be brought to submit to. They are economical, (God save the mark!) and, therefore, will not spend money without a present and palpable quid pro quo-they are metaphysical, and, therefore, they will not violate what is called, Museum.-VOL. XIV.

we know not why, principle. They deem any thing preferable. Extinguish the light of a Kent or a Spenser-submit to the drivellings of dotage and imbecility-nay, even resort to the abominations of an elective judiciary system-any thing rather than adopt the plain, manly, and only sure means of securing the greatest blessing, but liberty, which civil society can attain to, the able administration of the laws."

*

Lord Lyttleton's Letters.-Upon the last mentioned book we have an amusing communication from a bencher of the Inner Temple, which we shall now print:

"I think this book is sufficient to shake all faith in what is called internal evidence' in literary disputes. That these letters are not written by Lord Lyttleton proves to what a degree of perfection literary simulation can be carried. I was familiar with the letters long before I ever heard a doubt as to their authenticity. When I first was told that they were by another hand, I said, 'If that be so, I will never believe in the internal evidence of a book; and, now that the truth (which, I believe was always currently reported, but which I had never chanced to hear) is become fully known to me, I certainly never will trust to such evidence, unless corroborated by extraneous circumstances. The letters bear, to an extraordinary degree, the character of being the easy, unpremeditated talk of an acute and cultivated mind. There is not the slightest trace of effort or restraint of any kind. It is true that ordinary letters have more (though in these there is a good deal) of merely passing and insignificant topics; but this never shook my faith in them; for, I concluded, that (as ought always to be the case) the majority of such parts had been omitted in arranging them for publication. Setting the question of authorship aside, it is impossible that there can be more delightful reading than these celebrated letters. They are always lively, always acute, displaying great knowledge of the world, and of human nature, and, here and there, making a remark of a depth beyond what, from their general lightness of style, would be anticipated. They are a little wicked, occasionally, it is true; but that is the more in character, and they are never offensive. The vice is that of an accomplished, not of a coarse, profligate. Nor is the profligacy wholly unredeemed. There is occasional indication both of generosity of feeling and of goodness of heart, seldom possessed by men of dissolute manners. Such men are often careless and good-humoured, but rarely good-natured, in its truer and higher sense. When they are so, the union is, generally, very fascinating; and, certainly, in this case, a strong feeling of favour towards the party is the result of (that which appears to be) the exhibition of his mind and heart in porfect undress.

"There is also a very great quantity of something between wit and humour, though not exactly either, in these letters. The story of the King of the Cats, and, still more, the History of the Plum Pudding, are admirable. The latter, also, has the merit of being the best receipt for a plum pudding extant. The reaNo. 82.-2 F

sons too, which he gives for the severity of his father's anathemas against his intriguing' with two ladies of quality at once'-how fine and keen the satire! The first Lord Lyttleton was a good man, and an affectionate father; but he was an egregious twaddler; and that in itself was enough to counteract all his usefulness in the education of his son. Although, writing to you, I do not profess to give quotations, I cannot resist transcribing the following remarks, for the sake of their extreme justice, force, and truth: I do not mean to write disrespectfully of my father, but he was very ignorant of mankind;-though an able writer, with considerable understanding and knowledge, he was almost childish in his management of domestic parental concerns. He wanted that necessary discernment which enables a father to read the character of his child, to watch its growing dispositions, and gently mould them to his will. I have been sacrificed to family vanity, and at a time when I was not sensible of it. There is a good deal of difference between a good man and a good father. I have known bad men who excelled my father as much in parental care, as he was superior to them in real virtue. Being the only boy, and only hope of the family, and taught almost before I could understand it, that I had an hereditary and collateral right to genius, talents, and virtue, my earliest prattle was the subject of continual admiration; as I increased in years, I was encouraged in boldness, which partial fancy called manly confidence; while sallies of impertinence, for which I ought to have been scourged, were fondly and fatally considered as marks of an astonishing prematurity of abilities. . . . After travelling, without any control in point of expense, and gratifying every excess and every passion, at my return, because I made a bold flowery speech in Parliament, I was received at home with a warmth, and delight, and triumph, which were due to virtue alone. To give solidity to my character, and to correct youthful inexperience, a rich and amiable young lady was chosen for my wife. I confess she was handsome, and had many good qualities; but she was cold as an anchorite, and though formed to be the best wife in the world to a good husband, was by no means calculated to reclaim a bad one.'-These are among the more sober reflections; and are, I think, admirable. The chief fire, however, of the book lies in the invectives against the sycophants who abandoned, and affected to censure, Mr. Lyttleton, when he lay under the ban of his father's displeasure. There is a vein of this in the following letter, (which purposes to be) written immediately on hearing of his father's death: but there are other qualities in it also:- And I awoke, and behold I was a Lord! No disagreeable change from infernal dreams, and an uneasy pillow, from insignificance and desertion, to a peerage, with all its privileges, and a good estate! The carriage of those about me is already altered, and I shall now have it in my power to look down on those who have pretended to disdain me; my coronet shall glitter scorn at them, and insult their low souls to the extreme of mortification. I have received a letter from that dirty parasite - full of

condolence and congratulation, with a my lord in every line. I will make that rascal lick the dust, and when he has flattered me till his tongue is parched with lies, I will upbraid him with his meanness and duplicity, and turn my back upon him for ever. May eternal ignominy overtake me if I have not ample revenge on him, and a score or two more of reptiles of the same character! I will make the tenderest vein in their hearts ache with my reproach!" Who would think that this was not written by the person into whose mouth it is put ? How exactly it speaks the feelings of a man of great vices and abilities, but not of great mind, who was suddenly become possessed of the power to revenge and return the indignities shown him by persons he despised!

"The more I dwell upon this charming little book, the more its authorship is to me matter of wonder. Nay, its authorship, as regards talent, as well as in the view in which I have hitherto considered it, surprises me. It is the work of Mr. Coombe, a literary gentleman of the last age, who lately died very far advanced in years. He wrote in his youth a book called the Diaboliad,' which I have never seen, and in his old age, a work very widely known, The Tour of Dr. Syntax.' Of this, Rowlandson's prints for.n the chief attraction. It is vain to seek in the grotesqueness of this work, sometimes funny, but more often feeble, the fine irony and wit, the force, or the delicacy, of the fascinating book upon which I have been remarking. In every point of view, it is a literary phenomenon, of a very extraordinary kind."

From the Monthly Review.

SYDNEY'S LETTER TO THE KING; and other Correspondence, connected with the reported exclusion of Lord Byron's Monument from Westminster Abbey. 12mo. pp. 56. London: Cawthorn. 1823.

"SIRE, THE hand of Death has laid its sceptre on the Poet's head! His laurelled brows are trailed along the dust, like Hector's corse, insulted, not dishonoured. A mighty aspirant appears before Your Majesty, and appeals to your benevolence and justice. The remains of Genius, cry out, Sire-from the tomb. A voice is in its ashes, which invokes Your Majesty to spare the living and protect the dead!"

*

"The chains of Superstition are unloosed; -The empire of Idolatry is at an end; and forth has rushed one universal and Angelic shout, proclaiming loud:- Peace upon earth -Grace and good will to men!`

"But there are Household deities which still survive, and find a temple and a shrine in the breast of every faithful Englishman. Among the holiest and the first of these are Civil and Religious Liberty.'

"Between these deities we place your Royal bust, the tutelary genius and the guard of both."-p. 8.

Such is the opening of this farrago of prose run mad-and it is quite enough, we think, to