society doubly; you shrink to think of the littleness and helplessness of solitary man; you startle at his power and daring, where minds and bodies aid each other, and fill the world with wonders of a creation within, and from its fair self,

which, to the eye of the untutored savage,

would all be miracles.

I like the black and monumental cy

presses, which on the hills round this city seem to grow as mourners, and darkly wave their spiral tops above this spot, this grave of glory and of empire. How strange mirth seems in Rome! yet here it is loud, healthy, happy. Beneath a lofty mound of broken sherds and ancient pottery, without the city, there are some rustic taverns, and there are trees near, and grass grows round them: here you may see the people. The women in their black hats, with flowers in them, and bouquets in their hands and bosoms, and the laced corset, and the velvet jacket, nine crowded in one open carriage, all smiles and glowing with rude health, arrive and sit down with men of their own class, at open tables, and feast and dance to the lute and tambourine, and spend the long holiday in merriment. The forms and features of the Roman women are very handsome; they are all

on the large scale, but have astonishingly fine profiles, and eyes of the brightest lustre. They still call these festivals Bacchanalian, and crowd to them, if the weather is fine, in great numbers.

The remainder of the volume is

occupied with cursory descriptions of he passed in his rout home, particuthe principal cities through which larly Florence, Bologna, Padua, Venice, Verona, and Milan, from which one ignorant of the state and character of these places would certainly derive some useful information, but to those already familiar with their history, local curiosities, and the manners of their inhabitants, we fear these descriptions would add but little to their stock of knowledge.

It must be allowed, however, that our author is an accurate and shrewd

observer of men and manners; and it is obvious, from the general character of his writings, that he possesses a heart fitted to sympathise with their feelings and fortunes, and a head capable of communicating to others what he has felt and seen.

Mazy as Error is thy course; yet they Who dwell upon thy brink behold a stream,

Like Chastity or Truth, whose pure

depths seem

Of crystal, flowing rapidly away,
Or ling ring to bathe the daisy on its way.
The pale white weed, whose flow'ry
cov'ring hides

Thy shallows, when thy shrunken current glides

A stream of Summer, laughing to the day That gilds thee, and so sweetly o'er thy bed

Mosaic murmuring, becomes thee well. The fairest maid, that seeking, where remote,

The primrose, on thy bank, and violet, shed

Their odour, looks into thy silvery swell

Of waters, each sweet line of beauty there may note.

Such streams as thine of old Diana lov'd To bathe in with her nymphs; but these are fled

From earth the etherial bands that nightly led

The dance by moonlight on the sward,

or rov'd

With zephyr 'mong the closing flow'rs, or mov'd

Sleepily with the twilight wave adown The river flowing soothingly, or, with

a crown

Wov'n of the setting sun's last beams remov'd,

Just ere they melted, from the moun. tain height,

Sat by the glassy stream, weeping to see Its brightness die away; these too are gone,

Or only on the dreamer's vision light,

Else might I deem thy lovely vale to be Haunted at eve, when day's bright hours of joy are done.

Nor is thy winding loveliness unsung.

Oft, where the slanting birch its tresses dips

To kiss thy limpid wave, and wild-briar sips

Nurture from thee, and woodbine wreaths are hung

Fantastically the dark elms among, The praises of thy "dimpling course" are heard,

And yon grey column, near the village rear'd,

Tells, on its broken tablature, who flung His "rural pipe's" young music o'er

thy tide,

A mighty name! yet, while the wildnotes sank,

Blent with thy murmur o'er the silent

dale,

A tone imbued his soul that did abide, And oft recall'd his fancy to thy bank, And claim'd his sweetest numbers to thy stream and vale.

Flow on for ever in thy purity!

And, while thy many-sweeping turns disclose

New beauties, varying as the season throws

Its changeful mantle o'er the scene, still be

Image of stainless faith, simplicity,

And purity of soul, in those who dwell
Upon thy banks: still may thy clear

stream tell,

Coming in sunshine on, the sweet felicity
That gilds their hopes, and thy bright
current past
Picture their bygone days.
Levenside, 1821.

THIS day came on, before the Lord Chief Commissioner, Time, a trial, in which Shakespeare was pursuer, and the Author of Waverley defender. As the case excited considerable interest in the literary world, the court was unusually crowded. On the bench, beside the Judge, we observed Homer, Sophocles, Eschylus, and the laughterloving Aristophanes. The Earls of Essex and Southampton, the munifi

cent patrons of the bard of Avon, were present, and seemed to interest themselves much in the proceedings. The jury was composed partly of the gentlemen of former days, and partly of those of the present. Counsel for the pursuer, Lord Chancellor Bacon, &c.; for the defender, Dr Dryasdust, Messrs Gifford, Jeffrey, and the other celebrated critics of the day. Among the various personages who crowded, or, we may say, liter◄

the pursuer. He felt considerable diffidence, he said, considering the high merits of the subject, to appear before such a learned and venerable assembly as the champion of his celebrated client in the present case, more especially, as his pursuits and studies might seem to have lain in a different tract. "But I consider, my Lord," he continued, "that the man who unfortunately has not a relish for, or he who lets other occupations entirely alienate his taste from such productions, is deprived of many of the most delightful and exhilarating pleasures of a refined mind. I reflect with singular complacency on the many times, when, unbending my mind from severer studies, I have luxuriated on the vivid sallies of imagination, the touching pathos, the poignant wit, and pure morality, contained in the volumes of my illustrious client. I need scarcely enlarge on the fame of this celebrated author; he has received the united and enthusiastic admiration of his own countrymen, and of all those of other countries who are capable of approaching his excellencies. It has been beautifully observed by one of his admirers, that if it should so happen that the race of men became extinct, a being of another species would have a sufficient idea of what human nature was, from Shakespeare's works alone. Every shade of character,-every amiable propensity,-every dark, gloomy, and turbulent passion, is pourtrayed with such singular truth and minuteness

An objection was made to the trial going forward, on the ground that the parties did not come before the court on an equal footing; in respect that the one was a writer of dramatic works, and the other of novels, or prose tales and histories; and that therefore a comparison could not properly be drawn between the two. But it was argued, that the two species of composition bore a close resemblance to each other. That both depicted natural incidents and manners, and both dealt in the passions, and feelings, and foibles of humanity. That, in Shakespeare's time, the spirit of the age, and the habits and tastes of the public, had, perhaps, an effect in directing his attention to dramatic works; that the spirit of chivalry, then in its height, made the people delight in tournaments, public shows, and theatrical spectacles: whereas now the sentiments of the public had changed, and their amusements were diverted into other channels. They still retain their taste for the spirit of such works, but their habits have become more domestic, more retired and sedentary, and their minds less enthusiastic, stirring, and chivalrous: they now prefer reading in their closets such works as the novels in questionwhere the dialogues are so interspersed with description, as to bring the scene in a pleasing manner before the fancy-to witnessing all the pomp and circumstance, and the action and expression of a mimic representation. That, under these circumstances, the Author of Waverley had but adapted his productions to the prevailing taste; and that it is probable, had he written in Shakespeare's time, his pieces would have assumed a similar form to his.

The objection was over-ruled, and Lord Bacon rose to open the casc for

Each change of many-colour'd life he drew,

Exhausted worlds, and then imagin'd

new:

Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,

And panting Time toil'd after him in vain !'

Thus has his name floated down the stream of public opinion, emblazoned by the applauding voice of successive ages, without a rival, or even an approach of a competitor; till at last one has arisen, who, similarly gifted in many respects, treads close in his path, and in the eyes of many seems to proceed with equal footsteps. Far be it from me to at

tempt to underrate the merits of the defender. I admire and honour his genius; but still that genius may be great, without being the greatest; he may shine a star of the first magnitude, without rivalling the sun in his splendour. In fertility and vigour of imagination, in felicity of painting to the life, in simple and natural pathos, and almost in humour and wit, he is little, if at all, inferior to his rival. He paints a variety of characters with true consistency and originality; so distinctly are they brought out, that we seem to recognise them as individuals, and in time come to reckon them in the list of our acquaintances. So far as he depicts, he does so with life, and the pictures please and amuse us. But we in vain look for those awfully-deep portraitures of humanity, those sympathetic delineations of feeling, and gradual risings, insidious changes, and tempests and whirlwinds of passion, coming so closely home to men's business and bosoms, which are to be found in Shakespeare. If we come to consider the language in which the respective authors clothe their ideas and descriptions, we will find an immense superiority on the side of the dramatist. There is an indescribable charm in the flow and harmony of measured lines, which much enhances the sentiments they express; together with a dignity and conciseness of expression, which prose can never equal, and never approach. Shakespeare's volumes teem with passages of beauty, in which are crowded and concentrated maxims, reflections, and turns of expression, which have become incorporated with our very thoughts, and which we borrow like a second language, on all occasions, either of seriousness or levity. His works can bear to be perused again and again, and always with renewed or additional pleasure."

The illustrious counsel, after observing that it was almost needless to call any witnesses on the part of his client, although hosts of them were in attendance, concluded a learned and eloquent speech, by craving from the jury a verdict in his favour.

The counsel for the defender now rose. When the question was first agitated, he said, it was not with the

view of making invidious comparisons. His client had not the presumption to attempt to be thought to excel the great master-spirit of his age, Shakespeare. The present discussion was forced upon him, and he hoped it would not be considered as arrogance on his part if he attempted to defend his client. Comparisons of all kinds, but especially of literary merit, were often very vague and inconclusive. Of two persons attempting the same walk, one might excel in qualifications of one kind, and one in another, and it was a matter of much nicety to adjust the balance between them. The noble and learned counsel on the other side, with much candour, had admitted, that in what must be considered the essentials of genius, the author of Waverley was little or nowise inferior to his great prototype-in imaginative power, in felicity of description, and in depth of feeling. That he had not pourtrayed many of the passions and feelings, which are most remarkable, and most prevalent in humanity, may perhaps be owing to the circumstance that Shakespeare lived before him. The great minds of the days that are past have seized upon the most striking and most important subjects, and have left little to their successors but imitation aud amplification. There is no farther room to paint the workings of ambition, leading on to guilt and cruelty, after the characters of Macbeth and King Richard. Groundless jealousy, revenge, and the love of malice, purely for its own sake, is already depicted in Othello and Iago,-the melancholy wreck of a noble and sensitive mind in Hamlet,-and youthful passion in the loves of Romeo and Juliet. It may perhaps be said, that, striking out new paths, and seizing on incidents not obvious to the common eye, and therefore not suspected to exist, is a principal characteristic of genius. But human nature, though diversified, is not inexhaustible, the general properties, and primitive passions and affection, have already been sufficiently pourtrayed. The Author of Waverley then, to be original, had to take these general passions of our nature, and represent them when under peculiar circumstances, situations, and states of ci

vilization; as is exemplified in the Covenanters, under the sway of religious enthusiasm,-the Celts in a semi-barbarous state, &c. These characters, then, being peculiar, and confined to a sect or nation, though they may not be so generally or individually interesting, display not the less art and power in their construction. In his historical characters, the Author of Waverley will bear an equal comparison with Shake speare, in his truth of painting, and power of illustrating and amplifying the conceptions of history. In pathos, the history and trial of Effie Deans, the catastrophe of the Bride of Lammermoor, and several other passages, vie with the finest scenes of Shakespeare. The ludicrous humour of Bailie Jarvie has few counter parts in the pages of the other; and the cavalier, Dugald Dalgetty, need not be ashamed to shake hands with the sack-loving Sir John Falstaff. Rebecca in Ivanhoe, and the sisterly affection of Minna and Brenda in the Pirate, equal the most lovely creations of Shakespeare. In short, there would be no end to enumerating his various beauties; and we shall now proceed to bring forward proofs of the universal admiration in which the works of the defender are held.

Here a motley crowd of witnesses were examined, consisting of all ranks, degrees, ages, and professions,-oldmaids, bachelors, grave doctors, and philosophers-striplings and young misses, who all bore unequivocal testimony of the pleasure they had derived from the author's works. After these, Voltaire, and some others of his countrymen, his disciples, were brought forward, in order to give their opinion against the dramas of Shakespeare. But Voltaire's evidence was so contradictory, and so plainly shewed that he was unacquainted with the spirit, and prejudiced against the plan of the author's works, as to render his testimony of no weight.

Here the pleadings closed, and the venerable Judge summed up the evidence in a clear and masterly manner. He left the decision entirely to the impartial verdict of the jury; and if they should give it in favour of the pursuer, in his opinion, it would rather be an honour than a disappointment for the Author of Waverley to be thought worthy of competing with the immortal Shakespeare.

The jury, after retiring for some time, gave a verdict in favour of the pursuer, on both issues. C.

THE landlord received me with a smile, but the evening was wet, and my parlour contained nothing in the shape of amusement, except an odd volume of Hume's History of England. I was on the point of becoming melancholy, when the door opened, and my old friend Dickson held out his hand to me. I had written him a note about an hour before, mentioning the circumstances which would oblige me to pass the night at the village, on my way to the metropolis; but I had scarcely hoped that it would have found him disengaged. We were both, you may be sure, heartily glad to meet, for we had been separated for some time. We pulled our chairs nearer the fire, filled our glasses to the brim, and prepared to make the most of our time.

Dickson and I had been school

fellows, and both of us had spent a great part of our early life at Edgefield, he with his father and mother, and I, being an orphan, with my uncle and aunt. We both left the village about the same time; Dickson sailed for the West Indies, and I for the East. Our youthful friendship was thus entirely broken off, and many years elapsed before we again met by accident in Paris. We had both made independent fortunes, and were on our way back to our native country. Circumstances, however, kept me for some time on the continent, and Dickson set off by himself for Edgefield, where, he said, all his ambition was to end his days as happily as he had begun them. I promised to see him, if ever I happened to revisit the scenes of my childhood; but fate made it necessary for me to reside in a very different part of the