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TO CORRESPONDENTS.

We had intended to give a Preface this month to the volume, but so many subts of discussion arose in our mind when writing it, connected with the state of public celing relative to PERIODICAL LITERATURE, that we found it absolutely necessary to desist, but hope to treat all of them fully, and in detail, in regular essays in the body of our Work.

We had resolved not to publish any verses on the late national calamity, for we found it impossible to select from the great number of poems (many of them of much merit) sent to us on that mournful event. We have however broken our resolution. Our readers will find in this Number a beautiful Elegy, by the elegant and accomplished author of " Greece," and "The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,” two compositions imbued with the genuine spirit of classical poetry.

“ On Truth, a Reverie, by an Enthusiast,” is received and approved.

“ Time's Magic Lanthern, No IV. Lord Bacon and Shakspeare,” in our next. We need use but few words to this valued Correspondent.

H. A.'s manly and spirited paper “ On the qualifications of a Speaker of the House of Commons” in our next.

Our Aberdeen Correspondent will be attended to. What is become of Eremus? Has his muse felt the influence of the late cold weather ? late probably in our next. We wish to send a private letter to our clever young friend. What is his address ?

J. F. at Paisley has our thanks for his curious communication. “ The Dying Indian” probably in our next. It

possesses much vigour. Our Dundee Correspondent ought to remember, “ To R" “ is human, to forgive divine.”

A. H. D.'s imitation of a certain modern poet is clever, and he will hear from us soon.

Our Limehouse Correspondent, G. will be attended to ere long. We often regret being obliged to delay our attention to those for whom we entertain the most friendly feelings.

“ Memoirs of Roderic Milesius O'Donaghue, late of Tralee, county Kerry, Ireland, first cousin to Ensign and Adjutant Morgan Odoherty,” are received, and will follow the life of his illustrious kinsman, which we hope to conclude in a few more Numbers.

We are not in the practice of publishing that which is intended for several journals at the same time, unless when we are apprised of the author's intention. Mr F.'s Report of the Mineralogy of Edinburgh is known here, and, we understand, is incorrect. The public still want a statement from Mr Smith himself.

Our London Correspondent's interesting paper “ On the Schools in Newgate” has been received.

We return our best thanks to G. W. for his friendly hints, and though the plan of our Miscellany may prevent their being adopted, yet they shall not be lost sight of.

Want of room prevents us from acknowledging many other favours.

Poetical Notices will be given in the concluding Number of each volume. Therefore, on the 21st of September, our friends may expect to be addressed in an Irregular Ode, after the manner of Pindar, and probably in Greek, in which case there will be a free translation, with notes, illustrative and explanatory.

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TIME'S MAGIC LANTHERN.

Monk. No; for the Scripture meni No II.

tions no such thing. But what then

Galileo. Why then, you must admit Galileo in the Inquisition. that time teaches things which were

unknown before. Galileo. So you are come to close the Monk. That is possible enough. shutters of my window before night- But now things are different; for my fall. Surely these bars are strong head is gray, and I have no faith in enough. I would fain have the con new discoveries. solation of viewing the heavens after Galileo. We know not what time it is dark. My sleep is unquiet and may bring about. Perhaps the earth short, for want of exercise; and when may yet be weighed. I lie awake, the roof of

my prison pre Monk. Go on-you shall receive no
sents nothing but a sable blank. Do interruption from me. You perceive
not, I beseech you, conceal from me that I only smile gently and gooda
the blue vault, and those hosts of naturedly when you talk in this man-
light, upon which I still love to gaze
in spite of all my
troubles.

Galileo. What is the matter? what
Monk. You must not see the stars. makes you look so wise ?
It is the stars which have put you

Monk. Never mind. Go on.
wrong. Poor man ! to think the earth Galileo. What is the meaning of
was turning round.

this extraordinary look of tenderness Galileo. Alas! alas ! Is it for this and benignity, which you are attempte that I have studied ?

ing to throw into your features. Monk. Do you suppose, that if the Monk. When I consider what is earth had been turning all this while, your real condition, it moves my pity. the sea would not have drowned every For iny part, when the Cardinals made living soul? I put this to you, as a so much ado about your writings, I simple question, and level with the always thought they were trifling

with most ordinary capacity.

their office. Galileo. My good friend, you know Galileo. I wish you would convince that I have recanted these things, and them of that; for all I desire is, to therefore it is needless for me to dis- have the privilege of looking through pute farther upon the subject. my, telescopes, and to live quietly

Monk. Your books were burnt at without doing harm to any mari. I Rome, which, in my opinion, was an pray you, allow the window to remain idle business. In a few years they open; for darkness is gathering, and would have turned to smoke of their Jupiter already blazes yonder through own accord. 'Tis the way with all the twilight. So pure a sky and to new discoveries, for I am an old Chris- be debarred from my optical contriva tian, and have seen the fashion of the ances, world before now.

Monk. Study the Scriptures, my Galileo. Do you suppose that glass son, with care and diligence, and you windows were used in the time of will have no need of optical contriva Adam?

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Galileo. I am well acquainted with suitable for the habitation of an ima the Scriptures; but as I do not sup- mortal spirit. pose they were meant to instruct man Monk. My son, my son, beware of kind in astronomy, I think there is no futile conjectures! You know not sacrilege in attempting to discover upon what ground you are treading. more of the nature of the universe Galileo. Does not the galaxy shed than what is revealed in them. forth a glorious light? How gorgeous

Monk. So you believe yourself ca is its throng of constellations !--To pable of succeeding in the attempt ? me it seems like a procession of innuGalileo. Perhaps I do.

merable worlds, passing in review beMonk. Would not your time before their Creator. better employed, my son, in perusing

Monk. If the galaxy moves, why some rational book of devotion? Do may not the sun ? not allow yourself to be led away by Galileo. My judgment is, that they the idle suggestions of self-conceit. may both move, for aught I know, What is there to be seen about you, although at a very slow pace. which should enable you to penetrate

Monk. Now you speak sense. I farther into the secrets of the universe knew I should bring you round; for, than me or the rest of mankind ? I do to say the truth (and I say it between not ask this question with a view to you and me), if it had not been for wound your pride, but with a sincere my enemies, whom Heaven pardon, I wish for your good.

should have been wearing a red hat Galileo. Upon my word, you are too before now. Good night: and I shall kind to me. Pray, father, is there any immediately bring the book, which book of devotion which you would re will help to put your thoughts in a commend in particular ?

proper train again. Monk. Recommend in particularThere is a book which it would not become me to-but no

No III. mend in particular !-Hum-I know

Rembrandt's Work-shop. not.

Galileo. Something trembles at your Rembrandt solus. Too much light tongue's end. Have you yourself write here still. I must deepen the shade ten any book of devotion ?

ows even more, until the figures begin Monk. Far be it from me to speak to shine out as they ought. And now of my own writings. Of all books of for Pharoah's Baker, whose dream is devotion, my own was the remotest not yet interpreted ; so that he looks from my thoughts. But since you de- up earnestly in the face of Joseph, and sire to see it

receives a strong gleam through the Galileo. What are the subjects treata iron bars. Somand again-so. Now ed of in it?

for the shadows again. To talk to me Monk. Life, death, and immortali- of Guido, with his shallow, gray,

and ty. There is also a treatise upon the trivial open-lights ! Ah ha ! 'tis I who habitations of good men after death, am Rembrandt—and there is no other. and the delights to be found there. (a knock at the door.) Heaven send

Galileo. Your notions concerning a purchaser ! Come in. these subjects must be in a great Dutch Trader. Good morrow, friend. measure fanciful.

I wish to have a picture of yours to Monk. By no means. Good reasons leave to my wife, before I go to sail the are given for every tittle that is ad- salt seas again. vanced..

Rem. Would you have your own Galileo. And where do you suppose face painted ? the habitations of good men to be ? Trader. My face has seen both fair

Monk. Why, in heaven, to be sure. and foul, in its time, and belike it may

Galileo. Is it not possible that their not do for a canvass, for I am no fresh abode may be situated in some of the water pippin-cheek. constellations ? When gazing, as I was Rem. Bear a good heart. Your face wont to do, at midnight, upon Arc- is of the kind I like. There is no turus, or the brilliant orbs of Orion, I room-for tricks of the pencil upon too have sometimes thought, that in the smooth a skin. blue depths there might exist worlds Trader, By this hand, I know nc

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my funeral.

thing of these things; but my wife tainly fall, for you had too many o shall have a picture.

hand. Rem. A large hat would serve to Rem. My market shall not fall. shadow your eyes; and there should will see this collector at the bottom be no light till we come down to the the ocean first. But come now, l point of your nose, which would be us be reasonable together. I wi the only sharp in the picture. No- paint your portrait for thirty. Tak thing but brownness and darkness your seat. every where else. Pray you, sit down Trader. Not so fast. My wife mus here, and try on this great hat. be conferred with, and, if she approves

Trader. Nay, by your leave, I will perhaps I may come back. Mean look at these pictures on the wall first. while, good morning. (Exit.) What is this?

Rem. A curse on these picture Rem. It is a Turk whom I have dealing babblers. How shall I be re seen in the streets of Amsterdam. I venged on them? My pictures ar like to paint a good beard ; and you as good as the oldest extant, and, if see how angrily this man's beard is were dead, every piece would sell fo twisted.

as much gold as would cover it. But Trader. A stout Pagan, and a good see what must be done. Come hither fighter, I warrant you. I feel as if I wife, and receive a commission. G could fetch him a cut over the crown; straight to the joiners, and order hin for my ship was once near being run to prepare

for down by an Algerine.

Rembrandt's Wife. What is th Rem. Look at the next. 'Tis the meaning of this ? Are your wits turn inside of a farmer's kitchen.

ed? Trader. Nay, I could have told you Rem. My wits are turned toward that myself; for these pails of milk money-making. I must counterfei might be drunk; and there is an old myself dead, to raise the price of m grandam twirling her spindle. When works, which will be valued as jewels next I go to live at my brother Lucas's when there is no expectation of any farm, I shall persuade him to buy this picture. It shews the fat and plen Wife. Now I perceive your drift. teous life which he lives, when I am Was there ever such a contrivance sailing the salt seas.

You mean to conceal yourself, and Rem. Here is a sea-piece.

have a mock funeral ? Trader. Why, that is good also; Rem. Yes; and when my walls are but this sail should have been lashed unloaded I shall appear again. So to the binnacle ; for, d’ye see, when that after the picture dealers have & vessel is spooning against a swell, been brought to canonize me for a she pitches, and it is necessary to dead painter, and when they have

Rem. You are right; I must have fairly ventured out their praise and it altered. How does this landscape their money, they shall see me come please you?

hands

upon

both. Trader. Why, it is a good flat Wifé. How will it be possible for country; but exhibits none of those me to cry sufficiently, when there is great rocks which I have seen in fo- no real death? reign parts. I have seen burning Rem. Make good use of the present mountains, which would have made occasion to perfect yourself in your the brush drop from your hand. I part, for you may one day have to rehave sailed round the world, and seen peat it. the waves rising to the height of Haerlem steeple, and nothing but cannibals on shore to make signals to.

Rem. Well--and which of the pictures will you have you shall have

A voice of weeping heard, and loud layour choice of them for forty ducats.

MILTON. Trader. Nay, now you are joking:

1. Who will give you forty ducats ? When at dinner with the burgo-mas- Each mien, each glance, with expectation

MARKED yethemingling of the City's throng, ter lately, I heard a collector putting

bright ?-prices on your works. He said, if we would wait, your market would cer * This was a fact. See Rembrandt's Life.

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Prepare the pageant and the choral song,

6. The pealing chimes, the blaze of festal light! Now hathone moment darkened future years, And hark! what rumour's gathering sound And changed the track of ages yet to be! is nigh?

Yet, mortal! midst the bitterness of tears, Is it the voice of joy, that murmur deep ?- Kneel, and adore th' inscrutable decree ! Away, be hushed, ye sounds of revelry! Oh! while the clear perspective smiled in light, Back to your homes ye multitudes, to weep! Wisdom should then have tempered hopes Weep! for the storm hath o'er us darkly past,

excess; And England's Royal Flower is broken by And, lost One! when we saw thy lot so bright, the blast!

We might have trembled at its loveliness! 2.

Joy is no earthly flower-nor framed to bear, Was it a dream ! so sudden and so dread In its exotic bloom, life's cold ungenial air. That awful fiat o'er our senses came ! So loved, so blest, is that young spirit fled,

7. Whose bright aspirings promised years of All smiled around thee-youth, and love, fame?

and praise ; Oh! when hath life possessed, or death de. Hearts all devotion and all truth were thine! stroyed,

On thee was rivetted a nation's gaze, More lovely hopes, more cloudlessly that

As on some radiant and unsullied shrine. smiled ?

Heiress of Empires ! thou art passed away When hath the spoiler left so dark a void ?

Like some fair vision, that arose to throw, For all is lost the mother and her child ! Bright o'er one hour of life a fleeting ray, Our morning.starhath vanished, and the tomb Then leave the rest to solitude and wo! Throws its deep-lengthened shade o'er dis- Oh! who shall dare to woo such dreams again? tant years to come.

Who hath not wept to know that tears for

thee were vain ? 3. And she is gone-the royal and the young!

8. In soul commanding, and in heart benign; Yet there is one who loved thee- and whose Who, from a race of kings and heroes sprung, soul, Glowed with a spirit lofty as her line. With mild affections nature formed to melt; Now may the voice she loved on earth so well, Hismind hath bowed beneath the stern control Breathe forth her name unheeded and in vain; Of many a grief-but this shall be unfelt ! Nor can those eyes, on which her own would Years have gone by—and given his honour. dwell,

ed head Wake from that breast one sympathy again: A diadem of snow-his eye is dimThe ardent heart, the towering mind are fled, Around him Heaven a solemn cloud hath Yet shall undying love still linger with the

spread dead.

The past, the future, are a dream to him ! 4.

Yet, in the darkness of his fate, alone Oh! many a bright existence we have seen He dwells on earth, while Thou, in life's Quenched in the glow and fullness of its prime; full pride, art gone! And many a cherished flower, ere now, hath been

9. Croptere its leaves were breath'd upon by time. The Chastener's hand is on us we may weep, We have lost heroes in their noon of pride, But not repinefor many a storm hath past, Whose fields of triumph gave them but a bier; And, pillowed on her own majestic deep, And we have wept when soaring genius died, Hath England slept unshaken by the blast! Check'd in the glory of his mid career ! And war hath raged o'er many adistant plain, But here our hopes were centered—all is o'er, Trampling the vine and olive in his path ; ; All thought in this absorbed-she was, and while she, that regal daughter of the main, is no more !

Smiled in serene defiance of his wrath !

As some proud summit, mingling with the sky, 5.

Hears calmly, far below, the thunders roll We watched her childhood from its earliest

and die. hour, From every word and look bright omens

10. caught,

Her voice hath been th' awakener, and her While that young mind developed all its power,

The gathering word of nations, in her might, And rose to energies of loftiest thought ! And all the awful beauty of her fame, On her was fixed the Patriot's ardent eye, Apart she dwelt in solitary light ! One hope still bloomed-one vista still was High on her cliffs alone and firm she stood, fair ;

Fixing the torch upon her beacon tower; And when the tempestswept the troubled sky, That torch, whose flame, far streaming o'er She was our day-spring--all was cloudless the food, there !

Hath guided Europe thro’ her darkest hour. And oh, how lovely broke on England's gaze, Away, vain dreams of glory-in the dust E'en through the mist and storm, the light Be humbled, Ocean Queen ! and own thy of distant days.

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