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Williams, and they resided for some time at Great Marlow, in Buckinghamshire, much respected for their charity. In the meantime, his ir religious opinions had attracted public notice, and, in consequence of his unsatisfactory notions of the Deity, his children, probably at the instance of his father, were taken from him by a decree of the Lord Chancellor an event which, with increasing pecuniary embarrassments, induced him to quit England, with the intention of never returning.

Being in Switzerland when Lord Byron, after his domestic tribulations, arrived at Geneva, they became acquainted. He then crossed the Alps, and again at Venice renewed his friendship with his Lordship; he thence passed to Rome, where he resided some time; and after visiting Naples, fixed his permanent residence in Tuscany. His acquirements were constantly augmenting, and he was without question an accomplished person. He was, however, more of a metaphysician than a poet, though there are splendid specimens of poetical thought in his works. As a man, he was objected to only on account of his speculative opinions; for he possessed many amiable qualities, was just in his intentions, and generous to excess.

When he had seen Mr. Hunt established in the Casa Lanfranchi with Lord Byron at Pisa, Mr. Shelley returned to Leghorn, for the purpose of taking a sea excursion; an amusement to which he was much attached. During a violent storm the boat was swamped, and the party on board were all drowned. Their bodies were, however, afterwards cast on shore; Mr. Shelly's was found near Via Reggio, and, being greatly decomposed, and unfit to be removed, it was determined to reduce the remains to ashes, that they might be carried to a place of sepulture. Accordingly preparations were made for the burning.

Wood in abundance was found on the shore, consisting of old trees

and the wreck of vessels: the spot itself was well suited for the ceremony. The magnificent bay of Spezia was on the right, and Leghorn on the left, at equal distances of about two-and-twenty miles. The headlands project boldly far into the sea; in front lie several islands, and behind dark forests and the cliffy Appenines. Nothing was omitted that could exalt and dignify the mournful rites with the associations of classic antiquity: frankincense and wine were not forgotten. The weather was serene and beautiful, and the pacified ocean was silent, as the flame rose with extraordinary brightness. Lord Byron was present; but he should himself have described the scene, and what he felt.

These antique obsequies were undoubtedly affecting; but the return of the mourners from the burning is the most appalling orgia, without the horror of crime, of which I have ever heard. When the duty was done, and the ashes collected, they dined and drank much together, and bursting from the calm mastery with which they had repressed their feelings during the solemnity, gave way to frantic exultation. They were all drunk; they sang, they shouted, and their barouche was driven like a whirlwind through the forest. I can conceive nothing descriptive of the demoniac revelry of that flight, but scraps of the dead man's own song of Faust, Mephistophiles, and Ignis Fatuus, in alternate chorus.

"The limits of the sphere of dream,

The bounds of true and false are past;

Lead us on thou wand'ring Gleam;
Lead us onward, far and fast,
To the wide, the desart waste.

But see how swift, advance and shift,

Trees behind trees--row by row, Now clift by clift, rocks bend and lift,

Their frowning foreheads as we go; The giant-snouted crags, ho! ho! How they snort, and how they blow.

Honor her to whom honor is due,

An able sow with old Baubo upon her Is worthy of glory and worthy of honor.

Old mother Baubo, honor to you.

The way is wide, the way is long,
But what is that for a Bedlam throng?
Some on a ram, and some on a prong,
On poles and on broomsticks we flutter along.

Every trough will be boat enough, With a rag for a sail, we can sweep through the sky,

Who flies not to-night, when means he to fly?”


How a certain disposition of certain sounds should, through the medium of the ear, raise, depress, or tranquillize the spirits, is a problem difficult to be solved; yet, in a greater or less degree, all are convinced of its truth; and, to gratify this universal feeling, Nature seems to have mingled harmony in all her works. Each crowded and tumultuous city may properly be called a temple to Discord; but wherever Nature holds undisputed dominion, music is the partner of her empire. The lonely voice of waters," the hum of bees, the chorus of birds; nay, if these be wanting, the very breeze that rustles through the foliage is music. From this music of Nature, solitude gains all her charms; for dead silence, such as that which precedes thunder-storms, rather terrifies than delights the mind :

On earth 'twas all yet calm around,,
A pulseless silence, dread, profound--
More awful than the tempest's sound!

Perhaps it is the idea of mortality thereby awakened, that makes absolute stillness so awful. We cannot bear to think that even Nature herself is inanition; we love to feel her pulse throbbing beneath us, and to listen to her accents amid the still retirements of her desarts. That solitude in truth, which is described by our poets, as expanding the heart, and tranquillizing the passions, though far removed from the inharmonious din of worldly business, is yet varied by such gentle sounds as are most likely to make the heart beat in unison with the serenity of all surrounding objects. Thus Gray

Now fades the glimmering landscape on my sight,

And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds!

Even when Nature arrays herself in all her terrors, when the thunder roars above our heads, and man, as he listens to the sound, shrinks at the sense of his own insignificance -even this, without at all derogating from its awful character, may be termed a grand chorus in the music of Nature.

Almost every scene in the creation has its peculiar music, by which its character, as cheering, melancholy, awful, or lulling, is marked and defined. This appears in the alternate succession of day and night. When the splendor of day has departed, how consonant with the sombre gloom of night is the hum of the beetle, or the lonely, plaintive voice of the nightingale. But more especially, as the different seasons revolve, a corresponding variation takes place in the music of Nature. As winter approaches, the voice of birds, which cheered the days of summer, ceases; the breeze that was lately singing among the leaves, now shrilly hisses through the naked boughs; and the rill, that but a short time ago murmured softly, as it flowed along, now, swelled by tributary waters, gushes headlong in a deafening torrent.

It is not, therefore, in vain that, in the full spirit of prophetic song, Isaiah has called upon the mountains to break forth into singing; "the forests, and every tree thereof." Thus we may literally be said to "find tongues in trees-books in the running brooks ;" and, as we look upward to the vault of Heaven,

we are inclined to believe that-
There's not the smallest orb which we behold,
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim :
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.


admiration awakes to excellence which is dimly apprehended, but not manifested to our eyes.

VARIOUS states of the soul are in which it belongs; and our forward themselves so excellent-and so ready for the reception of Virtue such, for example, as self-command, patience, and steadfastness of purpose that to the Imagination, which conceives not merely what is, but what is possible to be, which can hardly represent to itself the soul so full of powers, without supposition, at the same time, of their noble application, these very powers themselves receive a part of that esteem which is due to them only when they are applied in the service of Virtue. Now, may we not, without violence, extend the spirit of this remark to those intellectual powers and dispositions which we are always accustomed to contemplate with a feeling resembling that of moral approbation? They belong to the highest state of the soul; to the exaltation of that spirit, of which the highest exaltation is Virtue. How much of that nature, which is indeed moral, must be unfolded in him, in whom either the creative or meditative powers of the mind have attained to great perfection! They are not, strictly speaking, moral indeed; for they may exist apart from all morality. But they have prepared so many faculties of the whole being to be in harmony with Virtue, that we can scarcely regard them without something of the reverence which is justifiable only towards Virtue itself.

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Is it not in this way, we ask, that we look upon the highest genius, imaginative or meditative, as kindred to the highest virtue? When we think of Newton in the silence of midnight reading the radiant records of creative wisdom in the sky, and with something of a seraph's soul, enjoying a delight known but to intellect alone, we cannot but transfer the admiring thoughts with which we have regarded the contemplative philosopher, to what we feel to be the virIt is the tue and piety of the man. will of God for which he is searching among the stars of heaven. In the laws which guide those orbs along in their silent beauty, he feels still the presence of the one Great Spirit; so that with the name of Newton are not only associated ideas of vastness and sublimity in our imagination, but thoughts of divine love and mercy in our hearts. Thus everything low and earthly is dissevered from that majestic name. It rises before us pure and beautiful as a planet; and we may be almost said to feel our own immortality in the magnificent power bestowed by the Deity upon a child of dust.

So, too, when we think on the highest triumphs of imaginative Genius, and see it soaring on its unwearied wings through the stainless ether. The innocence of a yet unfallen spirit, and the bliss of its yet unfaded bowers, as breathed upon us in the song of Milton, seems to consecrate to us that great Poet's heart; and we feel the kindred nature of the intellectual and moral spirit of Genius and Virtue, when shown by his sacred power the image of a sinless world, or, mixed with human, celestial shapes,

"Crowning the glorious hosts of Paradise."


On thy vow of love was breathed to me

In yon myrtle bower, whose blossoms crown'd us.
While moonlight slept on the tranquil sea,

And the heavens and earth were still around us;
Dark storms shall rise on the troubled main,
The bower shall droop, and the moon shall wane,
But my faithful heart shall never slight
The sacred vow of that moonlight night.

Thy vow was breathed in the summer time,

When the fields were rich in flowery treasures,
And the valleys smiled in their blushing prime,
And the birds pour'd forth their warbled measures;
Cold winter soon shall its snows impart,
The flowers shall fade, and the birds depart,
But Love, in its own warm genial clime,
Shall nurse that vow of the summer time.

Thy vow was breathed in the morn of youth,
When thy step was gay in springing lightness,
And thy open brow spoke joy and truth,

And thy dark eye laugh'd in merry brightness;
Oh thy brow the shades of care shall borrow,
And thine eye shall float in the tears of sorrow,
But my heart, with fond unchanging truth,
Shall dwell on the vow of thy early youth.

Thy vow was breathed in the glow of hope,

When thy ear drank in Fame's flattering story,

And the path of life seem'd a sunny slope,

And thy pulse throbb'd high with thoughts of glory;
The dream of thy pride shall fade away,
And thy spirit mourn its dull decay,
But a love like mine with ills shall cope,
And shed new life on thy dying hope.

Yes, trust me, yes, when the spell is gone

Of the fairy scenes that now invite thee,

And thy young heart turns in bitter scorn

From the false, false world that dares to slight thee;
One radiant light shall desert thee never,

One hope shall cling to thy path forever,

And I feel that light, that hope, shall be

The vow thou hast breathed this night to me.




A HIGH dress composed of India muslin, corsage en chemisette, but with very little fulness, which is arranged in a broad band of rich embroidery round the top; a similar embroidery marks the centre of the bust before. Sleeve à la Montespan, with an embroidered epaulette; the trimming of the skirt consists of a worked flounce, placed close to the border, above which is a rich embroidery surmounted by


another flounce, and that headed also by embroidery. Pink crape hat elegantly trimmed with an intermixture of blond lace, flowers, rosettes of ribbon. Scarf of pink gauze terminated by nœuds of ribbon to correspond.



A satin dress, the color is Clarence blue of the highest shade. The corsage is cut low and square, and

made with a pointed white satin stomacher richly ornamented with large pearls; a string of pearls encircles the waist, and terminates by a tassel which descends from the point. Short full white satin sleeve, over which is one in the form of a shell, composed of three falls of white tulle, embroidered in blue silk of a lighter shade than the dress. The skirt is made considerably shorter than the white satin slip worn under it, and is trimmed with a deep flounce of tulle richly embroidered in blue silk. Tulle apron, also embroidered. The

hair is dressed in full curls on the forehead, and low at the sides of the face; it is turned up in one large bow on the summit of the head, by a jeweled comb; an ornament resembling a tiara, composed of blond net, intermixed with pearls, and surmounted by bows of gauze ribbon to correspond in color with the dress, is placed immediately over the forehead, and a tulle scarf embroidered to correspond with the trimming, thrown gracefully over the back of the head. Necklace and ear-rings of large pearls. Gold bracelets.

THE GATHERER. "Little things have their value."

A Benevolent Man.-The grandfather of the present Earl of Balcarras was a benevolent man, with more of what the French call bonhommie, than most men, as the following fact will show. His lordship was a skilful agriculturist, and, among other fruits of his skill, he was particularly proud of a field of turnips, which were of unusual size. One day, his lordship was walking in this field, and admiring its produce, when he discovered, close to the hedge, a woman, who was a pensioner of the family, but who, forgetting her duty and her obligations, had stolen a large sackful of the precious turnips, and was making the best of her way home, when she was thus caught in the manner, as the lawyers would say. The worthy nobleman very justly reproached the woman with her dishonesty and ingratitude, reminded her that she would have received a sackful of turnips had she asked for it in a proper way, instead of stealing his favorites. The woman silently curtsied at every sentence, and confessed her offence, but pleaded her large family. The good man was at last mollified, and was leaving the field, when the woman, who had dropped her prize on his lordship's first accosting her, and was now with difficulty endeavoring to lift it on her back again, called to hin-" O, my lord, my lord, do gie me a haund,and help the poke on my back, for it's unco heavy, and I canna get it up by mysell." Thus she bespoke the earl, who actually turned back, and did assist the woman to load herself with the stolen turnips!

Imitation. A silk-mercer had associated with Shuter till he caught, not only all his best jokes and ditties, but the very manner in which they were given. The latter hearing this, determined to visit a club one evening which this gentleman frequented, and see what would be the effect of his

good things at first hand, which had told so well at second. He did so; but soon lost both humor and temper, at hearing the worthy cits, whenever he attempted to be funny, respond with mingled wonder and delight, "How like Tom Bennet!

Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress.-When Cowper composed his Satires, says Mr. Southey, he hid the name of Whitefield "beneath well-sounding Greek ;" and abstained from mentioning Bunyan, while he panegyrised him, "lest so despised a name should move a sneer.' In Bunyan's case this could hardly have been needful forty years ago; for, though a just appreciation of our older and better writers was at that time far less general than it appears to be at present, the author of the Pilgrim's Progress was even then in high repute. His fame may literally be said to have risen; beginning among the people, it had made its way up to those who are called the public. In most instances, the many receive gradually and slowly the opinions of the few respecting literary merit; and sometimes, in assent to such authority, profess with their lips an admiration of they know not what they know not why. But here, the opinion of the multitude had been ratified by the judicious.

The people knew what they ad

mired. It is a book which makes its way through the fancy to the understanding and the heart; the child peruses it with wonder and delight; in youth we discover the genius which it displays; its worth is apprehended as we advance in years; and we perceive its merits feelingly in declining age.

An Outline.-When the Duke de Choiseul, who was a remarkably meagre-looking man, came to London to negociate a peace, Charles Townshend being asked whether the French government had sent the preliminaries of a treaty, answered,

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