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from them, farther than a laugh at our expence, that would be the proper treatment to give them. But the propagation of such notions keeps alive those feelings of mutual contempt, hatred, and animosity, which prepare the population of both countries to rush again with eagerness into hostilities, and to embrue their hands in each other's blood. Were it possible to make us believe that virtue, genius, and amiable feeling, may be found among the French, and to make the French believe that civilized, polite, intelligent, and upright men may be found in Britain; in short, were it possible to give the two nations a mutual esteem for each other, more would thereby be done towards preserving the peace of Europe than is likely to be accomplished by the Holy Alliance itself. The feelings of the people, in this country at least, have still some influence on the government; and, could we happily be brought to perceive, that there is nothing in the French character so very offensive to God or man, as to make it either very meritorious or very glorious for us to take the ships, bombard the towns, and cut the throats of that nation, perhaps one day we might save ourselves many hard blows on our own heads, and avoid many bitter groanings under a load of taxation, the sure accompaniment of the pastime of war. He, therefore, who wantonly exasperates the feelings of national hostility between us and France, has to answer to a heavy charge at the bar of reason and morality; and he who endeavours, without flattering either, to allay these animosities, has at least the merit of attempting to do a service to both.

A Narrative of the Case of Miss Margaret M'Avoy, with an Account of some Optical Experiments connected with it. By THOMAS RENWICK, M. D. Physician to the Liverpool Infirmary. 4to. London, 1817.

WHEN We first heard of this wonderful lady, in the tea-table gossip of this city, and her extraordinary powers, we must confess that we could not help suspecting her to be another edition of the fasting-woman, or of Caraboo, the late celebrated Princess of Japan. Our suspicions were not en

tirely removed by the letter of the Rev. Thomas Glover, nor do we feel perfectly convinced by the quarto volume of the Physician to the Liverpool Infirmary. We have read the whole of the Doctor's preface, narrative, and appendix; and the conclusion at which we have arrived is, that the powers ascribed to Miss M'Avoy are altogether miraculous, not to be accounted for by reference either to experience or analogy, and unparalleled by any of those singular deviations from the established laws of nature which sometimes baffle the wisdom of the wise, while they afford abundant matter for the wonder, credulity, and exaggeration of the vulgar.

Before, however, proceeding to shew, from Dr Renwick's own statements, the grounds which we have for coming to such a conclusion, it may be necessary to inform such of our readers as are not acquainted with the circumstances, that this is a narrative given in the form of a journal of a medical case;-that Miss Margaret M'Avoy is a young lady of Liverpool, who entered the eighteenth year of her age on the 28th of last June; and that, from nine months upwards, she has always been in bad health. Her first ailment appears to have been some affection of the brain or its membranes, as her recovery was owing to a discharge of thick matter from her ears and nostrils. She next had the scarlet-fever and hooping-cough, which last was succeeded by a violent inflammation of her eyes. "When the eyelids were raised up," says Dr Renwick, "the eye-balls appeared as one mass of blood.' They were cured by Johnston's golden ointment. In October 1814 she caught a violent cold, attended with cough, loss of appetite, and great debility. In February 1815 her thighs became edematous, and 4th of June 1816, Dr Renwick rethe body was much swollen. On the ceived a message to visit her early next morning; and he describes the condition in which he found her, in a report on the 5th, from which we extract the following particulars. She had taken little or no food for the last three weeks. The bowels were habitually costive; pulse varied from 84 to 140. There had been no appearance of the menses for three months. She complained of cough, pain in the right side, tightness of

the chest, dyspnoea, and palpitation of the heart; also of violent pain in the fore and back part of the head, with a throbbing and beating sensation. The vessels of the coats of the eye were filled with red blood, but she suffered very little uneasiness from the action of light. She was much affected with giddiness; was nearly blind of the left eye; and, for some days, every object she had seen with the right appeared white if at a distance; if near, it appeared double. On the 7th she appeared totally blind. On the 9th she was seized with convulsions. About three o'clock on the afternoon of the 12th she was observed to gasp for breath, and complained of a sense of suffocation from something passing down her throat that was very offensive in taste and smell. The convulsions ceased from the time of the discharge taking place; but the beating complained of in the back part of the head did not subside until the 17th. She then felt a soreness over the whole body. The top of the head became peculiarly sensible. Her hearing, which had been dull from childhood, was now very acute. On the 2d of August she had become very expert in sewing, although she was said to have been blind from the 6th or 7th of June.

It was

now that her wonderful powers began to be developed. She was able to thread her needle frequently at the first effort. Early in September she pointed out to her father-in-law a particular passage in a book that was put into her hands, and read part of it. This induced them to try her with another book, and on presenting her with a large folio bible she read several verses. She felt the letters with her fingers before she pronounced the word, and had she stopped here we might have been inclined to give some credit to her powers; for we know that the sense of touch is often most astonishingly acute, and she might be able to discover the form of a letter by the finger passing over it. Nay, we will even allow, that it was possible for her to acquire the faculty of distinguishing colours in the same way, by touching the object; but when we are told, that she can tell the hour of

the day, by placing her finger upon the watch-glass; that she can tell the number of persons in the street, their dress and occupation, by placing her fingers on a pane of the window-glass in the inside of the room, we cannot avoid taking refuge from the painful influence of those overwhelming mys◄ teries in the retreats of stubborn scepticism.

January 17, 1817.-" This day she not only declared the colour of different cloths, cotton and silk, but several pieces of silk that were inclosed in a small phial bottle!"-" A watch was given into her hands, she felt the surface of the glass, and soon named the hour!"

June 28.-"Traced and told several colours of silk inclosed in a glassbottle!"

Experiment 19.-" With her hands upon the window perceived two newly cut stones of a yellow colour, lying one on another against the wall on the other side of the street, distance about 12 yards!" August 4th.-" With her hand placed behind her upon the window, opposite to the communion end of the church, she told the figures of different people passing, and sometimes named the colour of their clothes. She told also the position of four different workmen in the church-yard, one by one as they sat down, and then of the four she stated one to be reading a paper or book, the second to have his hands folded across his breast; the third with his hands in his breeches pocket, and so on."

We have not space for more of these wonders; but enough we hope has been said to excuse our incredulity. On a future occasion we may try even to justify it; and to shew, from the Narrative itself, that it is at least as probable that Miss M'Avoy is not altogether blind, as that she is endowed with the capacity of perceiving the forms, and colours, and locality of distant objects, by passing her fingers along the panes of a window. There is here, indeed, as Hume might have said upon reading the evidence of such learned, and, we make no doubt, honourable men, a terrible conflict between probabilities. We already anticipate on which side victory will rest.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

MOHALED-a Tale.

THE Moon leans o'er the groves of pine That crown the cloudless Appenine, And from the bosom of the night The vales burst with their rills of light, That slide down grassy slopes, or spring From rocks, with ceaseless murmuring. The Var beneath her paly glow Reposes, white as desart snow Between his level banks, that gleam In dew resplendent as his stream. There the soft moonlight sleeps, and fair Each diamond star is twinkling there. So bright the glittering pictures lie, Earth smiles like an inferior sky; Prepared for pure and sainted things To worship in, while living strings, Instinct with music's spirit, move, And feed their burning hearts with love. Are these of heaven that slowly glide Beside the Var's unconscious tide, Twin forms in loveliness, bedight In shining robes of virgin white? Their flaxen locks in masses rolled, Fall clustering o'er their zones of gold; Half-veiling polished arms of snow, That join in loving folds below. A swelling brow, an eye of blue, Beam those ungathered tresses through; And bosoms 'neath that lucid skreen In bud-like purity are seen: So stands an angel, when he springs To earth, and folds his spangled wings.

Onward the cloud-like creatures float; The flowers spring as they felt them not; And from the grass no rustling sound Tells that their small feet press the ground; Till, where a lonely oak hath laid Across the flood his tower-like shade,Whose head, in the blue depth afar, Is diademed with many a star,Their motions cease. A tear, a sigh, The bosom lifts, and gems the eye, As on their heaven-ward faces streaming The downy light is softly beaming. Alas! sad stream, a human tear Is trembling in thy mirror clear; And in a bosom crushed and torn That long despairing sigh was born! Behold, beside thy starry water, Alveni's bleeding-hearted daughter! And one whose sympathetic ear, Alone her tragic tale must hear, While with the eloquence of woe, Broken with sobs, her sorrows flow; Now scarcely audible, and drowned In tears, half sinking to the groundAnd now rekindles in her face The high-ton'd spirit of her race,

Indignant as her tale proceeds
Through ruthless and oppressive deeds;
She waves her hand with threatening air,
As if her father's might were there;
And such a curse was in his eye,
When fierce he thrust, and thundered,
"Die !"

But quickly past the tempest sweeps ;
Again the woman melts and weeps-

Thus the pent torrent jets and roars
Between its strait and ragged shores,
Or shoots the headlong gulf amain
Impatient of its mountain chain;
Then soothed the meads and groves among
In flowers and music glides along.

Sweet childhood's vermeil scenes arise
In sun-tints laughing to the skies;
And long enamoured memory plays
Infantine, in the thornless maze;
When safe the modest floweret lay
A bud of promise on the spray.

This vision fades, and upward springs
Glad youth with glory on his wings.
Joys more intense, but less sincere,
Urge their magnificent career;
And pleasure in the bounding vein
Defiance pours to grief and pain.

"Now from this summer hill of bliss,
Look forward. From the drear abyss
The soul turns gloomily, for there
The shadows frown of my despair.
O! Anna, can I breathe that name
Which comes across my soul like flame,
Straining to madness every cord-
That name beloved-accurst-adored!
His image rises in my brain;
He looks, he speaks, he loves again;
And, spite of nature's partial will,
He reigns within my bosom still.

His honours fresh, and sweetly worn,
Lovely he came-as summer's morn
Leaps o'er the dew-bright hill, and gives
Delight to every thing that lives!
Though young in arms, his deeds were
told

In bower and hall by warriors bold;
Who dropt the old heroic story

To kindle at my hero's glory.

His birth unknown,-but you might spy
In his clear front, and lofty eye,
Native nobility,--a claim

Felt and confessed where'er he came.-
Oft by Alveni's side he stood
In rugged hours of strife and blood,
The pillar of our house, and far
Roll'd danger from the banks of Var.

In gratitude my friendship sprung-
On friendship love his blossoms hung,
And sweet the fruit. Why should I tell
How first the blushing secret fell

In music from his lips? 'Mid fears
And doubts our passion grew for years;
Till on a field his valour won
My sire triumphant hail'd him son!
And said the noblest of the land
Should yield to him his daughter's hand,
If he would deign-He clasp'd his knee,
And owned he fought and bled for me!
"For her, and not for fame, or spoil,
In war's determined ranks I toil.
For who Alveni's child would won,
Must prove himself a soldier's son !"
The bridal feast is drawn. The voice
Of music bids the heart rejoice.
Springs the light dance, the spirits rise
In throbbing veins and glancing eyes;
And in the many-tapered hall
One face of gladness smiles o'er all!
But what is mortal mirth? A gleam
Of star-light on a turbid stream,
Vivid-but in a moment gone-
And dark the sounding flood rolls on.
Sudden, amid the glittering crowd,
An unrejoicing stranger stood :
His sun-scathed brow a turban crowned,
A daggered sash his tunic bound;
But, soiled and dim, his arms and dress
Bespoke a recreant's wretchedness.
As one, he seemed, in battle crossed,
His honour, cause, and courage lost;
But breathing still, in low estate,
An inextinguishable hate,
Feeding on desperate thoughts that burn,
Like watch-fires, till the day return.
Alone he stood, with gloomy air,
A statue 'neath the torches' glare ;
For all with secret awe inspired
From the mysterious guest retired.
But as I gazed a flickering train
Of phantoms moved athwart my brain,
Confused with dreamlike reveries
As when a breath disturbs the trees,
Sun-glimpses down the fluttering glade
In busy fragments sport with shade.
And when he raised his turban's fold,
And down his auburn tresses rolled,
Curling around his cheeks and brow,-
The tongue needs not interpret now!
Nor words express a brother's claim,
Or tell Correglia Lodi's name.
"My brother!"-"Oh my son !"-We
flew

To clasp him-but he backward drew
Disdainful, while a hasty streak
Of anger flushed his marble cheek,
Leaving it paler, and his eyes

Shot lightning" Touch me not," he cries,

"I cannot feign. This heart can feel No more--its cords are cold as steel. Forget me, as you had forgot,

Or seemed to do. It matters not.

"Have chains, and insults, and disgrace, Worn child and brother from my face! And disinheriting despair Cast Lodi from Alveni's care,

That in his arms my deadliest foe,
The veriest fiend that breathes below,
Mohaled-hath a welcome found!"
(And threw a savage glance around.)
"Him I demand," Alveni cried;
"Who told thee so, by heaven! hath lied!
And thou dost wrong me to give place
Within thy soul to thought so base."
Dubious he hears, and wavering seems
Shrunk in himself like one who dreams.
Then yielding with a generous tear,
"Forgive me Sire! Correglia dear!
Pardon a wretch who never knew
One love sincere-one friendship true;
Whose very blood severe distress
Hath turned to gall and bitterness.
This kind embrace renews the chain
Of filial sympathies. The pain
Of utter loneliness departs,
To feel I live in human hearts!
Even now thy renovating power
Hath half restored the gracious hour
Of youth, when, winged with buoyant minds,
We played 'mong flowers like summer winds.
Since then, alas! what woe, what pain
Hath wrung my heart, and parched my
brain!

An exile, a dishonoured slave!
I've courted like a bride, the grave;
But heaven denied, and urged me still
Through each vicissitude of ill.
Or must I say in that dark strife
Hate was the principle of life,
Which linked my soul and stubborn frame,
Till I had washed in blood my fame!
Lest proud Mohaled-Wretch accurst!"
He cried, and sternly from us burst.-
And where his fiery glances fell
Stepped forward my betrothed Gobell.

He raised his stately head: "Beware!
I spared, but may not always spare!
Enow have bled-let those who live
Think of the present, and forgive.”
"Traitor!" said Lodi," thou dost well
Reminding me of those who fell!
Now let their spirits joy to see
Due vengeance done their wrongs by me!
And this arm like a withered bough
Shrink if it play the stripling now!”-
And struck with all his force, but erred;
Gobell unwounded grasped him hard
With circling arms,-through back and
breast

His cruel steel the murderer prest!
Then to the floor, with haughty swing,
He threw him like a loathsome thing.
My eyes grew dark-a shrilly cry
Of grief and horror rung on high;
But motionless each coward hand,
And sheathed each slow and worthless
brand,

Till through the ring, with dauntless stride,
Passed the tremendous homicide,
And far behind him threw the tower
And pursuit of Alveni's power."
(To be continued.)

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On receiving the Scenes of Infancy from a
Lady.

DEPARTED patriot of the Border land,
Leyden, I love thy animated lay,

That swell'd, tho' mouldering fast into decay,

The magic harp of ancient Teviot's strand; Which, tun'd to harmony at thy command, Flings its wild notes by glen and flow'ry brae,

Then sweeps along the wold, and dies away

In solemn cadence by the breezes fann'd. But O! if e'er I loved these strains of thine,

I love them more that thou'rt forever gone To worship at a pure and heavenly shrine; Yet more I love them, being the gift of one To me a friend, of all friends most sincere, And dearer even than thy Aurelia dear!

H.

OLD AGE, AND DEATH OF THE POOR. A Fragment, in Imitation of Crabbe. THE frugal widow, who, for many a mile, To market long has trudged, by path and stile,

With hat of black, and cloak that once was red,

And basket cramm'd with eggs upon her head,

Or ducks or chickens her own hands had fed;

For every sore 'tis said there is a salve; "They help'd to honour whom they help'd to starve."

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one,

To help her needs,-for comforts she had none!

Alas! what comfort waits life's latest stage, When poverty contends with trembling age?

The good old dame this bitter potion tried, In patience tasted,-and in patience died! Helpless,-alone,-without one stander by To wet the lip, or close the glazing eye; Unknown,-until, the day's long labour sped,

Some dropping neighbour called, and found that she was dead.

Summoned in haste, her nearest kindred come,

Unpaid, to bear her to her latest home. Hopeless of scarf or gloves to smooth his toil, His thoughts on hunting all intent the while,

(For it might chance, when to the grave` was borne

The dame, it might be a clear scenting

morn,

And tempting in his ear might sound the echoing horn.)

The mutter'd prayers in haste the parson read;

In haste, the surly sexton raised his spade,

And on the human earth the covering

earth was laid.

The mute attendants, eager all to go,
Hear the last blessing, pay the parting bow;
Full of life's various cares, they quit the

scene,

And scarce remember here that death has been;

All, save the son, who, as he home returns, Thinks of the coffin yet unpaid,and

mourns.

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