'It being asked, "Supposing a widowed woman to be very poor and destitute, might she in such a case take a second husband." It was answered, "This notion arises merely from the fear of cold and hunger: but to be starved to death is a very small matter compared with the loss of her respectability."'

We question whether the hundred and forty-third observation be rightly translated, and incline to think that the rendering ought to have been,

Those promote disputes who live by the quill," &c.

In the hundred and forty-fifth sentence the Mow-tan is mentioned; and a note should have been appended to supply the Linnéan name of the plant. Is it the Anana?

The following satire on asceticism is probably just:

'If a horse goes slowly, it is only because he is weak: if a man is not luxurious, it is only because he is poor."

Table-talk is surely a little over-valued in the assertion,

'A single conversation across the table, with a wise man, is better than ten years' mere study of books.'

With the concluding maxim we will conclude our extracts. Prudence will carry a man all over the world; but the impetuous find every step difficult.'

As a man's conversation is the mirror of his thoughts (to quote one of the sayings before us), so the proverbs of a nation may be considered as reflecting, with tolerable accuracy, the leading features of its opinions and manners. The philosopher, therefore, may infer much concerning the state of culture and morality in China from this short collection of their favorite adages. Some allowance, however, must always be made for the usual exaggeration of precept. Speculation every where goes farther than practice. Generosity is taught to produce justice; and even the following Gospel-precept may be thought to recommend improvidence, "Take no thought for the morrow," &c., though its object is merely to inculcate liberality.

On the whole, this is a valuable addition to the list of pithy sayings, some of which well deserve transplantation into our own moral discourses. Wisdom in a narrow com

pass is like a distilled perfume, gathered from an extensive surface of garden-ground, which remains to be applied when the flowers are gone, and their fragrance has been exhaled.

ART.

ART. X. The Story of a Life, by the Author of "Scenes and 2 Vols. Post 8vo. 18s. Boards.

Impressions in Egypt, &c.'

Longman and Co. 1825.

VARIOUS as are the tastes which the novel-writer has to gratify in order to come 'off with any thing like success, there is in these volumes sufficient to charm every kind of appetite. The enthusiast in romance, the cool observer of character, the connoiseur in human nature, the sanctified, even, who look for earthly excitement to please the fancy, -may each and all confidently open The Story of a Life' without fear of disappointment. The author is, indeed, a reckless out-pourer of the stores of an ardent and well-cultivated mind. If his detail be at all embarrassed, it is in consequence of too rich a fund of materials, the choice and arrangement of which may well prove a task of difficulty. His varying scenes and incidents have all the effect of a gallery of fine pictures, we know not where to fix, —

"We gaze, and turn away, and gaze again,

Dazzled and blind with beauty."

If the calm repose and unpresuming beauty of an English country-house delight us, it is here. Would we view the ocean in its hour of raving and of storm, here may we listen to its" fierce, wild, and fearful voices." The song of the gondolier is here brought to lull us, the bright dark eye of the Venetian dama, to warm and melt us. The joyous revel, and the pangs of the silent hour of remorse, the captivating power of novelty, and the moody listlessness of satiety, - the gnawing desire to roam, and the equally corrosive sighings after the nest of peace and love, these and a thousand other sorrowings and sufferings, preyings and passions, are here distinctly and daringly exemplified: not, however, by the uncontrolled pencil of juvenile ardency, but by the cautious hand of experienced genius. Having awaked our sympathies we involuntarily follow, and smile, and weep, and recover again, and pause in wonder at the skill of the magician whose wand has such strange influence over our faculties.

Osman Beavoir, whose history is related in the first person, is awakened by accident to a thirst for enterprize; and for a more extended field of knowlege than that in which he had been living in calm seclusion with his parents; who, after many misgivings and much reluctance, consent to his visiting Lisbon; and which is granted in the hope that its dirt, discomfort, and the ignorance of its natives, would thoroughly surfeit the appetite of the young hero with travelling. The

parting,

parting, → a storm, Osman's escape, and arrival at Lisbon, with his reception there, are all glowingly described. His minute account of the manner in which his chamber is fitted up serves to shew that, though capable of the highest flights, the writer disdains not trifling particulars which, to many, he conceives may be interesting. He hears music, and becomes enamoured of the unseen performer. She is discovered to him, as it were, by incantation; and thus pourtrayed:

Her form was tall and majestic, but yet femininely so; she had that ample bosom of matronly beauty, where the breasts are widely parted, and swell to a gentle fulness: the white and rounded arm of perfect proportion. Her graceful neck rose stately from fine-falling shoulders, a faint carnation hue just tinged a cheek, the complexion of which was pale and transparent. Her nose had that delicately marked prominence, those thin nostrils, and that flexible expression, so rare and so admired. Her eyes were dark, large, lustrous, and yet languid, veiled by white blueveined lids, and fringed with such eye-lashes as I never saw on any other; around her beauteous mouth there were no smiles, but you could trace where, in youth, there had been.

'Her robe was white; the folds of the drapery large; above her high pale forehead her dark hair was smoothly parted, without a curl; and she wore round her head a wreath of black laurelshaped leaves; her long, white mantle-like veil hung down from the back part of her head, and fell carelessly and gracefully over her shoulders, giving an air of inexpressible dignity to her whole figure.

She looked like the sad priestess of some ruined temple of Hymen, in which the altar had been overthrown and broken, and the torch extinguished for ever: and it was so. Her husband, a nobleman of Sicily, had married her for her beauty; a stern guardian was said to have planned, and compelled her to this marriage. Two children she had borne her unworthy lord, but they were dead. Twelve years she had been married. Her husband thought of nothing but the gaming table, and she was an admired, pitied, secluded, neglected woman.'

No longer heart-free he returns home: but, instead of his couch, seeks the terraced roof to watch the windows of the chamber in which he imagines this enchanting being to be dwelling. The picture of his solicitude is very finely worked up in the narration. He soon discovers that the lady is the unhappy wife of one who neither appreciates her beauty nor her worth. By one of those chances to which fiction has often recourse, he preserves the life of her lord; and becomes a constant guest at Belmonte palace. The virtues and charms of the lovely Signora render themselves daily more and more conspicuous. His passion for her increases: he

declares

declares it; and every one who reads the disclosure will admire the force and delicacy with which the scene is managed.

Among the many powerful efforts of language with which these volumes abound, few exceed the description of an earthquake and its awful effects, which are made to interrupt the celebration of the festival of "All Saints," involving, at the moment of universal hilarity, all the inhabitants in death, or in the depth of consternation and horror.

--

All of a sudden I felt a slight rising in my breast as of sickness-I deemed that I had gently staggered, or was giddy; but no every sound became (on the instant) hushed or broken, like the fear-checked laugh of the menaced idiot; - another sound arose - a dull, low rumbling-low, but every ear heard it, and then upheaved the solid earth, and terribly shook: and the bells rung fearfully to hear, a people's knell; the ruin, the awfully terrific rain, rushed, rattling close upon that wild peal; towers and lofty palaces toppled and fell the huge stones clanged clear and frightfully, then thundering tumbled heapingly below. Darkness arose. A ruin-cloud, thick and earthy, that might be felt. Bodies were crushed-flights stopped- fears ended cries stifled; but I - I amid these terrors, how shall I paint me? Methought that it was me the destroying angel sought me first, and more than all; it seemed that I was the sole cause of the dread judgment. The wailings and the cries sounded horrible in my ears; the staring eyes, dilated wide by terror, all seemed to look on me I had filled up the measure of men's crimes: for me, for me the world's end was sooner come; the trumpet, the trumpet, it would sound, now,

-

-

now the last vial of wrath was to be poured out, and the throne set, and the books opened. My heart failed me for fear, and I rushed franticly about to find where I might shelter me- ward off my fate for one, one little moment, and plead on mercy's ground. I ran into a church-the crowded supplicants knelt, groaned, and beat their bosoms - the roof yawned, and fell, and crushed, and buried them. I hurried after a flying crowd towards the river bank. A stone cross fell from a chapel front on a young mother (in my path) and slew her: her babe fell in its swathings unharmed at my feet - I stooped and caught it up in my arms, that its innocence might plead for me at the awful bar. I flew onwards to the river. Strange Providence, or fate, or destiny! Before my eyes, within three the small square paces of me, quay, and the closely clinging crowd upon it were swallowed up quick. A mighty rolling volume of black water burst roaring on the fatal spot, and heavily subsided with a loud, mournful sound of stifling absorption. I turned, and fled across and out of the perilous ruins; far and rapid was my course. I paused not among those crowds, who, having gained the open fields, had thrown themselves down on their knees, on their faces, and on their bellies, in every attitude of terror, agony, and prayer. I stood not among those, who, in a fondness struggling with their fear, turned their pale gaze upon their vanishing homes.

. I thought

"I thought not of aiding any human being: it seemed to me at once a wild and a vain presumption;-as soon might one hope to touch the hand of Lazarus lying in the bosom of Abraham, as succour, serve, or approach even the good, as avert the fate of the evil and the sinner. Something, indeed, of a different momentary impulse, had moved me to lift the fallen infant, and still I pressed it closely to my panting bosom. On, on I fled, till, passing with a quick, hesitating fearfulness, under the lofty central arch of the Lisbon aqueduct, I found myself alone alone on the bank of a clear, shallow rivulet, which, in peaceful murmurs, flowed gently over its rocky bed, and glistened to the sunbeams, and watered the roots of flowers where bees were humming over their honey-yielding treasures.

I threw myself down on the grassy bank. I did not thank, or praise, or supplicate my God; but I seemed to ask, and find security in the sight of the water and the flowers, and a companionship in these sweet, natural sounds. Wrath was on the city; but here, even I should be spared here, for the very bees' sake.'

Agatha, the fair and sad idol of Osman's disordered imagination, expires in pining, cloistered seclusion; and she being lost to him, he is lost to the world; or rather, the world is gained by him; for he becomes its joyless, loveless, hopeless wanderer. The shade of Agatha follows wherever he roams,

waits on his nightly pillow, and darts upon his waking glance. There is something in this story which elicits our deepest sympathy. We entertain the admiration of Osman; and mourn with him the destiny of the dignified, the resigned, the charming object of his affections.

Being summoned home by his friends, the disconsolate traveller tardily obeys, and sails for England. He is captured by a French frigate, and taken into Brest, where we behold him partaking his repast with the French officers; quaffing plentiful libations of brisk Champagne; and drowning in every bumper some petty enmity or national prejudice. He is removed to Blois, a provincial town, where he is the only prisoner. The spirit of restlessness still prompts; he breaks his parole; provides a false passport; and flies to Savoy under the name of Alvarez. Had we room here to quote we should be glad; and particularly the rich and sparkling pages which relate to Venice. Gianetta's tale, which may be ranked among the best of the author's many pleasing episodes, is an agreeeble digression from the main story. Quitting Venice he resorts to Rome, that city of sorrow, where ruin frowns, and the dark cypress waves.' Here he feels and meditates much; and his language becomes sometimes poetical, — sometimes even sublime. Here he is influenced, by a spirit of Catholicism, to make confession of

what