* On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire MILTON. Literary Pocket Book. I HAD been for some time ill of a low and lingering fever. My strength gradually wasted, but the sense of life seemed to become more and more acute as my corporeal powers became weaker. I could see by the looks of the doctor that he despaired of my recovery; and the soft and whispering sorrow of my friends, taught me that I had nothing to hope. One day towards the evening, the crisis took place.-I was seized with a strange and indescribable quivering,—a rushing sound was in my ears, I saw around my couch innumerable strange faces; they were bright and visionary, and without bodies. There was light, and solemnity, and I tried to move, but could not.For a short time a terrible confusion overwhelmed me,-and when it passed off, all my recollection returned with the most perfect distinctness, but the power of motion had departed. I heard the sound of weeping at my pillow-and the voice of the nurse say, “He is dead."-I cannot describe what I felt at these words.-I exerted my utmost power of volition to stir myself, but I could not move even an eyelid. After a short pause my friend drew near; and sobbing, and convulsed with grief, drew his hand over my face, and closed my eyes. The world was then darkened, but I still could hear, and feel, and suffer. When my eyes were closed, I heard by the attendants that my friend had left the room, and I soon after found, the undertakers were preparing to habit me in the garments of the grave. Their thoughtlessness was more awful than the grief of my friends. They laughed at one another as they turned me from side to side, and treated what they believed a corpse, with the most appalling ribaldry. When they had laid me out, these wretches retired, and the degrading formality of affected mourning commenced. For three days, a number of friends called to see me.-I heard them, in low accents, speak of what I was; and more than one touched me with his finger. On the third day, some of them talked of the smell of corruption in the room. The coffin was procured I was lifted and laid in-My friend placed my head on what was deemed its last pillow, and I felt his tears drop on my face... When all who had any peculiar interest in me, had for a short time looked at me in the coffin, I heard them retire; and the undertaker's men placed the lid on the coffin, and screwed it down. There were two of them present-one had occasion to go away before the task was done. I heard the fellow who was left begin to whistle as he turned the screw-nails; but he checked himself, and completed the work in silence. 1 I was then left alone,-every one shunned the room.-I knew, however, that I was not yet buried; and though darkened and motionless, I had still hope ;-but this was not permitted long. The day of interment arrived-I felt the coffin lifted and borne away-I heard and felt it placed in the hearse. There was a crowd of people around; some of them spoke sorrowfully of me. The hearse began to move-I knew that it carried me to the grave. It halted, and the coffin was taken out I felt myself carried on shoulders of men, by the inequality of the motion-A pause ensued I heard the cords of the coffin moved-I felt it swing as dependent by them-It was lowered, and rested on the bottom of the grave -The cords were dropped upon the lid-I heard them fall. -Dreadful was the effort I then made to exert the power of action, but my whole frame was immoveable. Soon after, a few handfuls of earth were thrown upon the coffin-Then there was another pause-after which the shovel was employed, and the sound of the rattling mould, as it covered me, was far more tremendous than thunder. But I could make no effort. The sound gradually became less and less, and by a surging reverberation in the coffin, I knew that the grave was filled up, and that the sexton was treading in the earth, slapping the grave with the flat of his spade. This too ceased, and then all was silent. I had no means of knowing the lapse of time; and the silence continued. This is death, thought I, and I am doomed to remain in the earth till the resurrection. Presently the body will fall into corruption, and the epicurean worm, that is only satisfied with the flesh of man, will come to partake of the banquet that has been prepared for him with so much solicitude and care. In the contemplation of this hideous thought, I heard a low and undersound in the earth over me, and I fancied that the worms and the reptiles of death were coming-that the mole and the rat of the grave would soon be upon me. The sound continued to grow louder and nearer. Can it be possible, I thought, that my friends suspect they have buried me too soon? The hope was truly like light bursting through the gloom of death. The sound ceased, and presently I felt the hands of some dreadful being working about my throat. They dragged me out of the coffin by the head. I felt again the living air, but it was piercingly cold; and I was carried swiftly awayI thought to judgment, perhaps perdition. When borne to some distance, I was then thrown down like a clod-it was not upon the ground. A moment after I found myself on a carriage; and, by the interchange of two or three brief sentences, I discovered that I was in the hands of two of those robbers who live by plundering the grave, and selling the bodies of parents, and children, and friends. One of the men sung snatches and scraps of obscene songs, as the cart rattled over the pavement of the streets. When it halted, I was lifted out, and I soon perceived, by the closeness of the air, and the change of temperature, that I was carried into a room; and, being rudely stripped of my shroud, was placed naked on a table. By the conversation of the two fellows with the servant who admitted them, I learnt that I was that night to be dissected. My eyes were still shut, I saw nothing; but in a short time I heard, by the bustle in the room, that the students of anatomy were assembling. Some of them came round the table, and examined me minutely. They were pleased to find that so good a subject had been procured. The demonstrator himself at last came in. Previous to beginning the dissection, he proposed to try on me some galvanic experiment-and an apparatus was arranged for that purpose. The first shock vibrated through all my nerves; they rung and jangled like the strings of a harp. The students expressed their admiration at the con vulsive effect. The second shock threw my eyes open, and the first person I saw was the doctor who had attended me. But still I was as dead: I could, however, discover among the students the faces of many with whom I was familiar; and when my eyes were opened, I heard my name pronounced by several of the students, with an accent of awe and compassion, and a wish that it had been some other subject. When they had satisfied themselves with the galvanic phenomena, the demonstrator took the knife, and pierced me on the bosom with the point. I felt a dreadful crackling, as it were, throughout my whole frame-a convulsive shuddering instantly followed, and a shriek of horror rose from all present. The ice of death was broken up-my trance ended. The utmost exertions were made to restore me, and in the course of an hour I was in the full possession of all my faculties. * Edinburgh Magazine. SHAKSPEARE AND CORNEILLE COMPARED; WITH A DEFENCE OF THE FORMER. VOLTAIRE'S comparison of Corneille to our Shakspeare, is neither judiciously nor fairly drawn. He does justice to neither. He is unable to disguise a peevish envy at his countryman's great fame, and a remarkable partial prejudice against the English poet. It is evident that he did not sufficiently understand the language, and consequently could not discern the beauties of Shakspeare; yet he pronounces many intolerable censures on him, in the tone of an absolute and authorized judge. It seems clear that if Corneille had been able, from the nature of his language, and the taste of his cotemporaries, to disengage himself from rhyme, and rigid critical rules, he would have resembled Shakspeare more than he does. If Shakspeare had laboured under the " prodigious constraint of rhyme,"* had he been constrained by a systematical art of poetry, as it is called, he would greatly have resembled Corneille. But there is a force of genius in Corneille, which * As Voltaire expresses himself. often surmounts the derangements of rhyme and rule. Then he is the great dramatic poet, and perfectly resembles Shakspeare, who subjected himself to no rules but such as his own native genius and judgment prescribed. To this auspicious liberty we owe the singular pleasure of reading his matchless works, and of seeing his wonderfully various and natural characters occasionally performed by excellent comedians of both sexes. It is very remarkable, that a player never fails to acquire both fame and fortune, by excelling in the proper and natural performance, even of low parts, in Shakspeare's capital plays; such as from Simple, the Grave-diggers, Dogberry, the Nurse in Romeo, Mrs. Quickly, Mine Host of the Garter, down to Doll Tearsheet, Bardolph, and Pistol; because true pictures of nature must ever please. The genius of a great painter is as much distinguished by an insect as a hero; by a simple cottage as by a gorgeous palace. In the course of reading Corneille's plays, I have been repeatedly struck with a pleasing recollection of similar beauties in Shakspeare. Of these I shall mention an example: after two of the three Horatii were killed, the surviving brother's dexterous retreat was reported at Rome as an inglorious defeat and flight. Old Horatius pours forth his rage and maledictions against the degenerate boy, in high strains of poetry, and in the true character of an heroic Roman father. A friend offers rational apologies for the young man, and concludes with saying, "What could he have done against such odds?" The noble answer is, "He could have died." Voltaire informs us that this passage is always received by the audience at Paris with bursts of applause, much to their credit.-The just admirers of Shakspeare may certainly find similar beauties in his plays. One occurs to me at this moment: it is in one of his least esteemed pieces," Henry the Sixth," Part ii. scene 2. Lord Somerset, in company with other leaders, finding their friend, the gallant Warwick, mortally wounded in the field of battle, exclaims, "O Warwick, Warwick! wert thou as we are, We might recover all our loss again. The queen from France hath brought a puissant pow'r; |