"What to my rightful claim, That I should not seize the bondsman, "The writing is confess'd ;- The forfeiture is mine, "Hold there!" cried Basil, with a voice When from the screen he would have swoopt "Hold there, I say! Thou canst not sue A sorry legalist were he "The deed is null, for it was framed A thing unlawful in itself; "This were enough; but, more than this, "The man, thou sayest, thy bondsman is : As a freedman to contract A marriage with this christian woman here, "That act being publicly perform'd "For, when they solemnly were then "Thy claim upon the man was by A marriage thus by thee procured In thine own snare art taken!" A sulphurous sigh for the Bishop's vocation, What a loss have I had in thee!" "That tie holds good; those rites "And now, methinks, thou seest in this And that thy ways were overruled, To work the will divine!" 'With rising energy he spake, It is nullified, as thou knowest well, "The Covenant of grace, "Were they as scarlet red In his All-mighty name "In token that against his soul "Angels that are in bliss above Will witness, and rejoice; A peal of thunder shook the pile; Had vanished from their sight. 'He fled as he came, but in anger and shame, And the impious scroll was dropt, a blank, 'The Pilgrim of Compostella' is not equal to its predecessor; for Mr. Southey never succeeds well without infernal assistance. There are, however, three or four miracles which, in some measure, atone for this deficiency. The story is very simple:-The pilgrims, a father, mother, and son, on their way to the shrine of Compostella, stop at an inn. At this inn is a female, whose dispositions are thus revealed to us by Mr. Southey : 'Now, the inkeepers, they had a daughter, Sad to say, who was such another As Potiphar's daughter, I think, would have been, If she followed the ways of her mother.' This naughty young lady, having in vain assailed Just then at table had sate down, About to begin his dinner. The dish before him then : 'In came the mother wild with joy; But that most hasty judge unjust "Think not," quoth he, "to tales like this, 'And pointing to the fowls, o'er which "As easily might I believe These birds should come to life!" 'The good Saint would not let him thus 'And when each would have opened its eyes, " Because, you must know, that that morning, A thing which they thought very hard, The cook had cut off their heads, And thrown them away in the yard. The hen would have pranked up her feathers, If the roasting she had had not warmed her. He thought it a very odd thing the virtue of the more youthful pilgrim, denounces And for want of them she would have shivered with cold, him to the Alcayde as a thief; the Alcayde condemns him, and he is hung; having first exacted a promise from his parents that they will proceed on their journey. They do so; and, on their return, they still find their son hanging in great comfort upon the gallows, and are consoled by his positive assurance, 'That he could not complain he was tired, And his neck did not ache in the least." The parents go to the Alcayde, who is at dinner, and mention the circumstance. He disbelieves it, and says, he could as soon believe that the fowls upon his dish would start to life as that Pierre was still breathing. The consequences of this rash remark are detailed in the following lines: 'Four weeks they travelled painfully, 'The mother would not be withheld, Where her poor Pierre was left to hang 'Oh tale most marvellous to hear, Eight weeks had he been hanging there, That his head and his voice were he did not know where, 'The gizzard got into its place, Did the liver and all the rest. " The heads saw their way to the bodies, In they came from the yard without check, And each took its own proper station, And in flew the feathers, like snow in a shower, And the cock and the hen in a trice were refledged, 'Cluck! cluck! cried the hen right merrily then, Full glad was he to hear again The rest of the poem is occupied with accounts of the canonisation of the Cock and Hen, and the fame of their posterity. THE MISFORTUNES OF ELPHIN. The Misfortunes of Elphin. By the Author of Headlong Hall. Hookham. London, 1829. "Mother," said he, "I am glad youre' wonted alacrity the great pleasure which we felt We have certainly not shown with any un return'd, It is time I should now be released : at receiving the first work which the author of 'Headlong Hall' has subjected to our criticism. If it were as easy to write a good as a bad novel, we might institute an unfavourable comparison between the indolence or sterility of this gentleman and the prolific industry of his contemporaries. That a novelist of considerable reputation should appear before us for the first time in the 18th month of our reign,and present us with a widely-printed duodecimo of 240 pages, is contrary to the spirit of the nineteenth century. In the same period of time, we have received more than one tribute of greater magnitude from most of his fellow-labourers. We have seen the rise, the progress, and even the fall, of romantic reputation. The one anonymous volume of a first publication has been expanded by a more practised dulness into three, or been dilated into a new being by the additional tedium of a fourth. The awkwardness of juvenile insipidity has not unfrequently, in the course of a year, ripened into the flippancy of anility; and the sentimentalist of January, after greeting us in the summer with the slang of fashion, has returned at Christmas to dogmatise in slip-slop on metaphysics and morality. The supply of light literature for the unrestricted demand for absurdity, has increased at a rate that gives us an astounding idea of the infinite deteriorability of the human wit. The splendid monuments of pejority which are daily evolved from the press, induce us to hope that we shall, ere long, realise the great ideal pessimum,' the object of so many labours. And it is with pleasure that we see our popular writers of both sexes working so heartily for this great object, and sharing the elephantine gestation of yore by the multiplicity of their auricular parturitions. The author of 'Headlong Hall' apparently labours for a different end. He has not those intellectual weaknesses which require the relief of such constant discharges: he appears to wish rather to fulfil his own idea of excellence than to be content with satisfying the moderate demands of a publisher. He is one, accordingly, of that rare class whom the facility of obtaining approbation in the present day has not rendered unmindful of deserving it. Hence, also, he is, of all contemporary novelists, the one whose general popularity bears the most insignificant proportion to the esteem in which he is held by the thinking portion of the reading public. His wit would be more admired, if it were employed on subjects of less philosophical speculation: his humour, to be popular, must be more gross; his knowledge more ostentatiously exhibited; and his fine imagination totally freed from the restraints which are imposed on it by a taste truly classical. As it is, he must consent that his writings should be praised more than they are read, and read more than they are understood. It is some excuse for this, that, in addition to his merits, the works of the author of Headlong Hall' have never developed, in any great degree, the quality which is the most essential to the success of a novel, and which is really that most requisite to constitute excellence. In none of his novels does the story excite our interest: the different incidents are well told, but their nature and connection are such that one seldom appears to have been produced by another, or excites any curiosity for that which is to follow. In that pleasing work, Maid Marian,' this fault is particularly obvious. It is a series of tales respecting the same persons, but with so little connection besides the identity of the actors, that we are actually annoyed very often that there is not some more formal mark of separation between the different stories. It is true, that from their peculiar merits these novels seldom suffer much from the want of a better constructed plot; but it is a deficiency which is, of all, the most likely to be perceived by the generality of readers. That the author might, if he chose, fully satisfy them, is obvious, because to compose a plot that shall interest is very easy. But we know not whether he possesses the power of composing a perfect story -a power which Aristotle justly considers the greatest excellence of a poet. It is very rarely that our author has had any opportunity of displaying any great degree of dramatic skill in the development of characters. The personages who appear in his novels are not introduced to express the feelings of human beings in particular situations, but merely to give utterance to particular classes of opinions. They are not men and women who act and feel-they merely think and talk. The whole duty of his man is to develop a system; and, if it is a man, it is Hume's man, a bundle of ideas and opinions. Now, though these are quite enough for the author's purpose, they do not satisfy the reader. We miss half of human nature in his human individuals who hold the same opinions; we lose, beings; we miss all the traits which distinguish in consequence, all the pleasure which is derived from forming distinct images of different personportraitures bear to the originals which we find in ages, and observing the resemblance which the nature. The beings whom he brings before us dwell not in our recollections as persons whose nature we have understood; they are alike imperfectly fashioned and unanimated boards, placarded with various systems, and distinguishable only by the difference of the doctrines which they expound. This fault is most obvious in that which is, perhaps, the best of his novels, Melincourt in Nightmare Abbey,' two or three of the characters are much more dramatically developed; and, indeed, the young Irish lady is a very nice person, and all but flesh and blood. Interest in the story and in the characters, are the two feelings which the readers of novels are most easily brought to entertain, and which, when successfully excited, are the most pleasurable. It is no wonder, therefore, that the reading public should find some difficulty in discovering the merits of novels in which they are disappointed of the very qualities which they consider most essential to their amusement. The ridicule of systems and opinions is intelligible to those only who are familiar with their nature, and capable of perceiving their absurdity. It is the delicate wit with which our author has satirised the follies of various systems, the skill with which he has exposed some of the most prevalent forms of cant, that have been most relished by the better classes of his readers. We think that Swift himself hardly ever showed more power of eliciting the full quantity of absurdity contained in any system, than has been displayed by our author in his representation of Lord Monboddo's ape in Melincourt,' his account of Cimmerian Lodge, and of the conversation between the partisans of things as they are, and his admirable description of the breaking of a country bank in the same work, the dialogues of Mr. Escot, Mr. Foster, and the churchman in Headlong Hall;' and the various arguments of Mr. Floskey, Mr. Too-bad, and Scythrop, in Nightmare Abbey.' We know not, however, whether this very prominent merit has not induced many of our author's admirers to overlook other excellencies, which, if less obvious, are at least of as high an order. His exquisite sense of the ridiculous and base is accompanied by an equally acute sense of the good and beautiful. Amid the constant wit and gaiety of his style, we can constantly discover an honest, manly, and truly moral strain of feeling, too much obscured sometimes by an unnecessary continuation of his usual irony, and perhaps intentionally disguised in order to avoid any semblance of ostentation and cant. That he has read much, and thought much and well, we can also perceive he never laughs ignorantly at what is good, but is always instructive while he amuses. He has a sincere and pure love of nature, and he is one of those rarely-gifted persons who can accurately describe nature, because he can explain the feelings which have been excited in him by her presence. Add to this a merit rarer than any in the present day, that of expressing his ideas in plain and yet forcible language. His style is never deficient in vigour; but its copiousness is at the same time restrained by a perfectly classical simplicity of taste. The different parts of Maid Marian,' in particular,are perfect models of narrative. The author has thoughts and feelings to express, yet he can express them without borrowing the style of any other person he can tell his story in language always adequately descriptive of his meaning, without adopting the simplicity of slip-slop, or the dignity of confusion and tautology. "The Misfortunes of Elphin' is a work less likely to please than any of his former novels. The story is fully as meagre, and rather less connect than its predecessors: the characters are imperfectly developed, and there is much less of that obvious and continued satire which formed to most readers the chief attraction of his previous works. The story is laid in Wales; and it is no small objection to the work, that his former admirable nomenclature, which so much resembled Bunyan's, is replaced by the unintelligible cacophonies by which those of the Cymry, who possessed the faculty of speech, distinguished names and places. The prosperity of the Plain of Gwaelod depended on an embankment, which was confided to the care of a High Commission of Embankment; and Elphin, one of the Kings of Gwaelod, being warned by mysterious voices of the danger of an inundation, walks with a friend to the castle of the Lord High Commissioner along the em bankment : The sea shone with the glory of the setting sun; the air was calm; and the white surf, tinged with the crimson of sunset, broke lightly on the sands below. Elphin turned his eyes from the dazzling splendour of ocean to the green meadows of the Plain of Gwaelod; the trees, that in the distance thickened into woods the wreaths of smoke rising from among them, marking the solitary cottages, or the populous towns; the massy barrier of mountains beyond, with the forest rising from their base; the precipices frowning over the forest; and the clouds resting on their summits, reddened with the reflection of the west. Elphin gazed earnestly on the peopled plain, reposing in the calm of evening between the mountains and the sea, and thought, with deep feelings of secret pain, how much of life and human happiness was intrusted to the ruinous mound on which he stood.'-Pp. 13, 14. 'The Drunkenness of Seithenyn. 'The sun had sunk beneath the waves when they reached the castle of Seithenyn. The sound of the harp and the song saluted them as they approached it. As they entered the great hall, which was already blazing with torchlight, they found his highness, and his highness's household, convincing themselves and each other with wine and wassail, of the excellence of lowing jovial chorus broke on the ears of the visitors : their system of virtual superintendence; and the fol 'The Circling of the Mead Horns. 'Fill the blue horn, the blue buffalo horn: Natural is mead in the buffalo horn: As the cuckoo in spring, as the lark in the morn, As the cup of the flower to the bee when he sips, The horn, the blue horn, cannot stand on its tip; gold: The wine, in the bowl by his lip that is worn, 'Elphin and Teithrin stood some time on the floor of the hall before they attracted the attention of Seith enyn, who, during the chorus, was tossing and flourishing his golden goblet. The chorus had scarcely ended when he noticed them, and immediately roared aloud, "You are welcome all four." two." "Two or four," said Seithenyn, "all is one. You are welcome all. When a stranger enters, the custom in other places is to begin by washing his feet. My custom is, to begin by washing his throat. Seithenyn ap Seithyn Saidi bids you welcome."-Pp. 15-18. phin and Teithrin, they armed themselves with spears, "Teithrin led the way, striking the point of his spear firmly into the earth, and leaning from it on the wind: 'Elphin answered, "We thank you: we are but Angharad followed in the same manner: Elphin followed Angharad, looking as earnestly to her safety as was compatible with moderate care of his own: the attendant maidens followed Elphin; and the bard, whom the result of his first experiment had rendered unambitious of the van, followed the female train. Behind them went the cupbearers, whom the accident of sobriety had qualified to march and behind them reeled and roared those of the bacchanal rout who were able and willing to move; those more especially who had wives or daughters to support their tottering steps. Some were incapable of locomotion, and others, in the heroic madness of liquor, sat down to await their destiny, as they finished the half-drained vessels. Seithenyn, on being informed of the dangerous state of the embankment, tells the alarmists that it works well; that parts are rotten and parts sound; and that the parts that are rotten give elasticity to those that are sound; in fact, that it works well. A storm, however, rises, the sea breaks over the mound, and the castle-wall is sapped by the waves. The retreat of Elphin and his companions over the broken mound is beautifully described: : "The bard, who had, somewhat of a picturesque eye, could not help sparing a little leisure from the care of his body, to observe the effects before him: the volumed blackness of the storm; the white bursting of the breakers in the faint and scarcely-perceptible moon'Another portion of the castle wall fell into the mining light; the rushing and rising of the waters within the waves, and, by the dim and thickly-clouded moonlight, mound; the long floating hair and waving drapery of and the red blaze of the beacon fire, they beheld a tor- the young women; the red light of the beacon fire fallrent pouring in from the sea upon the plain, and rushing on them from behind; the surf rolling up the side ing immediately beneath the castle walls, which, as well as the points of the embankment that formed the sides of the breach, continued to crumble away into the waters. "Who has done this?" vociferated Seithenyn, "Show me the enemy." "There is no enemy but the sea," said Elphin, "to which you, in your drunken madness, have abandoned the land. Think, if you can think, of what is passing in the plain. The storm drowns the cries of your victims; but the curses of the perishing are upon you." Show me the enemy," vociferated Seithenyn, flourishing his sword more furiously. 'Angharad looked deprecatingly at Elphin, who abstained from further reply. "There is no enemy but the sea,” said Teithrin, "against which your sword avails not." "Who dares to say so?" said Seithenyn. "Who dares to say that there is an enemy on earth against whom the sword of Seithenyn ap Seithyn is unavailing? Thus, thus I prove the falsehood." < And, springing suddenly forward, he leaped into the torrent, flourishing his sword as he descended. “Oh, my unhappy father!" sobbed Angharad, veiling her face with her arm on the shoulder of one of her female attendants, whom Elphin dexterously put aside, and substituted himself as the supporter of the desolate beauty. "We must quit the castle," said Teithrin, "or we shall be buried in its ruins. We have but one path of safety, along the summit of the embankment, if there be not another breach between us and the high land, and if we can keep our footing in this hurricane. But there is no alternative. The walls are melting away like snow." The bard, who was now recovered from his awen, and beginning to be perfectly alive to his own personal safety, conscious at the same time that the first duty of his privileged order was to animate the less-gifted multitude by examples of right conduct in trying emergencies, was the first to profit by Teithrin's admonition, and to make the best of his way through the door that opened to the embankment, on which he had no sooner set his foot than he was blown down by the wind, his harp-strings ringing as he fell. He was indebted to the impediment of his harp for not being rolled down the mound into the waters which were rising within. of the embankment, and breaking almost at their feet; Thus they began their march. They had not pro- Elphin marries Angharad, daughter of Seithenyn, establishes a fishery, and one day catches, nstead of a salmon, a boy, who turns out afterwards the famous Taliesin. The loves of Taliesin and Melanghel, the daughter of Elphin, the captivity of Elphin, and the exertion of Taliesin for his rescue, form the remainder of this small volume. The first chapter contains a description of the state of Wales at that time, full of our author's best style of satire on the manners of the present day. He thus defends the human sacrifices of the Druids: 'When any of the Romans or Saxons, who invaded tives in the flames shocked those of Cæsar; and it would, perhaps, have been difficult to convince him that paper credit was not an idol, and one of a more sanguinary character than his Andraste. The Druids had their view of these matters, and we have ours; and it does not comport with the steam-engine speed of our march of mind to look at more than one side of a question. The people lived in darkness and vassalage. They were lost in the grossness of beef and ale. They had no pamphleteering societies to demonstrate that reading and writing are better than meat and drink; and they were utterly destitute of the blessings of those schools for all, the house of correction, and the treadmill, wherein the autochthonal justice of our agrestic kakistocracy now castigates the heinous sins which were then committed with impunity, of treading on old footpaths, picking up dead wood, and moving on the face of the earth within sound of the whirr of a partridge.'-Pp. 89-93. Elphin comes on a party of Britons, who, under the command of King Melvas, had just taken the castle of Dinas Vawr. "The hall of Melvas was full of magnanimous heroes, who were celebrating their own exploits in sundry chorusses, especially in that which follows, which is here put upon record as being the quintessence of all the war-songs that ever were written, and the sum and substance of all the appetencies, tendencies, and consequences of military glory : 'The War-song of Dinas Vawr. His head was borne before us; the island, fell into the hands of the Britons, before the introduction of Christianity, they were handed over to the Druids, who sacrificed them, with pious ceremonies, to their goddess Andraste. These human sacriamongst us, who never practise them in the same way. fices have done much injury to the Druidical character They lacked, it must be confessed, some of our light, and also some of our prisons. They lacked some of coming, in great multitudes, with fire and sword, to our light, to enable them to perceive that the act of the remote dwellings of peaceable men, with the premeditated design of cutting their throats, ravishing their wives and daughters, killing their children, and appropriating their worldly goods, belongs, not to the department of murder and robbery, but to that of legitimate war, of which all the practitioners are gentlemen and entitled to be treated like gentlemen. They lacked some of our prisons, in which our philanthropy has provided accommodation for so large a portion of our own people, wherein, if they had left their prisoners alive, they could have kept them from returning to their countrymen, and being at their old tricks again immediately. They would also, perhaps, have found some difficulty in feeding them, from the lack of the county rates, by which the most sensible and amiable part of our nation, the country squires, contrive to coop up, and feed, at the public charge, all who meddle with the wild animals of which they had given themThe translations or imitations of Welsh poetry, selves the monopoly. But, as the Druids could neither we must own, we do not much like, with the exlock up their captives, nor trust them at large, the ception of the two songs which we have quoted. darkness of their intellect could suggest no alternative to But, on the whole, though we consider this work the process they adopted, of putting them out of the in most respects inferior to the previous works Angharad, recovering from the first shock of Seith-way, which they did with all the sanctions of religion of the author of ' Headlong Hall, we recommend enyn's catastrophe, became awake to the imminent like the seven sleepers of Ephesus, and awaked, in the and law. If one of these old Druids could have slept, it to every person who can relish wit, humour, danger. The spirit of the Cymric female, vigilant and energetic in peril, disposed her and her attendant and exquisite descriptions, as a work of a very nineteenth century, some fine morning near Newgate, maidens to use their best exertions for their own pre-gers might have shocked the tender bowels of his huthe exhibition of some half-dozen funipendulous for superior class to the popular novels of the day and one which every father of a family may safely servation. Following the advice and example of Elmanity, as much as one of his wicker baskets of cap-put into the hands of his children of either sex. Teithrin picked him up, and admonished him to abandon his harp to its fate, and fortify his steps with a spear. The bard murmured objections: and even the reflection that he could more easily get another harp than another life, did not reconcile him to parting with his beloved companion. He got over the difficulty by slinging his harp, cumbrous as it was, to his left side, and taking a spear in his right hand. Pp. 140-143. From Melvas, Taliesin finally recovers Gwenyvar, wife of Arthur, who consequently releases Elphin; who shows his gratitude by giving Melanghel to Taliesin. CANALS IN FRANCE. Dissertation on the Canal of Provence. By M. Jules Juliani, Merchant, forming the third part of the Letters on Marseilles. Paris, 1829. THE incalculable advantages of canals are become proverbial. Experience has long since proved them to us. We shall not, therefore, attempt to show how much they contribute to the glory and usefulness of nations; but we cannot refrain from recommending to our readers the above publication. After having traced the benefits of canals in general, and given an historical view of the ancient and modern canals of either hemisphere, the author goes into a detailed description of the works to be achieved in opening a canal to bring the waters of the Durance to Marseilles, and the immense advantages which the public will derive from it. This canal, which will necessarily have the greatest influence on the future condition of Marseilles, will commence at the rock of Canteperdrix, and fall into the sea at Aren, after having traversed in divers directions about 150 miles of country. It will serve the two-fold purpose of irrigation and navigation. The author, with equal profoundness and sagacity, makes it appear that this canal will treble the value of the surrounding districts, and will render Marseilles capable of being made a manufacturing town. It is surprising that the formation of this canal should have been so long delayed, considering the extraordinary profits that the capitalists who undertake it will derive; for, according to the calculations made, it will produce an annual sum of 2,700,000 francs, while the expense of making it will only be 15,150,000 francs, leaving more than seventeen per cent. We regret our inability to expatiate on a book which certainly does great honour both to the talents and the feelings of its author. It is an acknowledgment due to the city of Marseilles, which numbers among its inhabitants many men distinguished for their knowledge, their philanthropy, and their patriotism, among whom we instance with pleasure, M. Ant. Ancey, author of an excellent treatise on Infant Education, a work which should be in the hands of all classes of society, and of which an abridgment should be made whose moderate price would bring it within the reach of the poorest. THE FAMILY LIBRARY. The History of Napoleon Buonaparte, with Engravings in steel and wood. 18mo. vol. 1. Murray. London, 1829. THE getting up of this book, as of every thing which proceeds from the same quarter, is admirable, and augurs well for the series, of which it is the commencement. The life of Napoleon, also, must be considered a good specimen of the class of works to which it belongs, being vastly less pretending than the biographies of The Useful Knowledge Society,' and much more fair and moderate than those which have generally appeared in Constable's Miscellany.' The battle at Lodi Bridge offers a fair specimen of the author's talents at description, though we are doing him some injustice in quoting it, as it brings his work into comparison with one of the finest passages in that of Sir Walter Scott. The wooden bridge of Lodi formed the scene o one of the most celebrated actions of the war, and wilf ever be peculiarly mixed up with the name of Buona-1 parte himself. It was a great neglect in Beaulieu to leave it standing when he removed his head-quarters to the east bank of the Adda: his outposts were driven rapidly through the old straggling town of Lodi on the 10th; and the French, sheltering themselves behind the walls and houses, lay ready to attempt the passage of the bridge. Beaulieu had placed a battery of thirty cannon so as to sweep it completely; and the enterprise of storming it in the face of this artillery, and of a whole army drawn up behind, is one of the most daring on record. Buonaparte's first care was to place as many guns as he could get in order in direct opposition to this Austrian battery. A furious cannonade on his side of the river also now commenced. The General himself appeared in the midst of the fire, pointing with his own hand two guns in such a manner as to cut off the Austrians from the only path by which they could have advanced to undermine the bridge; and it was on this occasion that the soldiery, delighted with his dauntless exposure of his person, conferred on him his honorary nickname of The Little Corporal. In the mean time, he had sent General Beaumont and the cavalry to attempt the passage of the river by a distant ford, (which they had much difficulty in effecting,) and awaited with anxiety the moment when they should appear on the enemy's flank. When that took place, Beaulicu's line, of course, showed some confusion, and Napoleon instantly gave the word. A column of grenadiers, whom he had kept ready drawn up close to the bridge, but under shelter of the houses, were in a moment wheeled to the left, and their leading files placed on the bridge. They rushed on, shouting Vive la Republique! but the storm of grape-shot for a moment checked them. Buonaparte, Lannes, Berthier, and Lallemagne, hurried to the front, and rallied and cheered the men. The column dashed across the bridge in despite of the tempest of fire that thinned them. The brave Lannes was the first who reached the other side, Napoleon himself the second. The Austrian artillerymen were bayonetted at their guns, ere the other troops, whom Beaulieu had removed too far back, in his anxiety to avoid the French battery, could come to their assistance. Beaumont pressing gallantly with his horse upon the flank, and Napoleon's infantry forming rapidly as they passed the bridge, and charging on the instant, the Austrian line became involved in inextricable confusion, broke up, and fled. The slaughter on their side was great; on the French, there fell only 200 men. With such rapidity, and consequently with so little loss, did Buonaparte execute this dazzling adventure--" the terrible passage," as he himself called it, "of the bridge of Lodi." 'It was, indeed, terrible to the enemy. It deprived them of another excellent line of defence; and blew up the enthusiasm of the French soldiery to a pitch of irresistible daring. Beaulieu, nevertheless, contrived to withdraw his troops in much better style than Buonaparte had anticipated. He gathered the scattered fragments of his force together, and soon threw the line of the Mincio, another tributary of the Po, between himself and his enemy. The great object, however, had been attained: the Austrian General escaped, and might yet defend Mantua, but no obstacle remained between the victorious invader and the rich and noble capital of Lombardy. The garrison of Pizzighitone, seeing themselves effectually cut off from the Austrian army, capitulated. The French cavalry pursued Beaulieu as far as Cremona, which town they seized; and Buonaparte himself prepared to march at once upon Milan. It was after one of these affairs that an old Hungarian officer was brought prisoner to Buonaparte, who entered into conversation with him, he thought of the state of the war?" and among other matters questioned him "what he Nothing," replied the old gentleman, who did not know he was addressing the General-in-chief,-" nothing can be worse. Here is a young man who knows absolutely nothing of the rules of war; to-day he is in our rear, to-morrow on our flank, next day again in our front. Such violations of the principles of the art of war are intolerable !"'-Pp. 39-41. NEW MUSIC. 'La Petite Capricieuse,' Air Varice pour le Piano, et dedice à A. C. B. Par G. F. Kiallmark. Clementi and Co. A PLEASING and familiar Grazioso e Scherzando, in C, with five variations, respectively exhibiting the various styles, Legato, Scherzando, Delicatamente, Agitato, and Alla Marcia, quite teachable, and acceptable to pupils of moderate practice and acquirements. It is composed by the younger Kiallmark, who is a brilliant and excellent performer, as well as teacher, of his instrument, doing infinite credit to his preceptor, Moschelles. No. I. of the Gems of Melody for the Piano-Forte, with an Accompaniment for the Flute, (ad. hi.) Selected and Arranged by William Forde. Cocks and Co. THIS is the commencing number of a very trifling, but pleasing, adaptation of admired airs, published briefly upon two pages for only 18., and comprises Meyerbeer's' Giovinette Cavalier,' from his Crociato.' 'Trifles light as air are frequently highly acceptable for teachers and incipient performers. 'Rise, gentle Moon! sung by Miss Love, in the historical drama of Charles the Twelfth, or the Siege of Stralsund. Written by J. R. Planche, composed by John Barnett. Mayhew and Co. THIS graceful and admired ballad has become so well known, that it may be, in a great measure, a work of supererogation to offer remarks respecting it; but it has not been sent to us before the present period, although its date of publication is rather distant. To those who have not heard it sung by Miss Love, or who have not yet met with it, we beg to say, that it is a very pleasing allegretto in waltz time, published in the key of C, (but performed a semi-tone lower, to render it more particularly suitable to the countertenor part of Miss Love's voice.) It is within a very moderate number of notes, consequently very easy of performance, and decidedly the most popular thing going. Instructive Exercises for the Guitar, containing Twentyfour Progressive Lessons, composed by F. Horetzky, op. 15, in two books, each 3s. Boosey and Co. A SERIES of clever, well-arranged pieces, exhibiting a great variety of style and character, and in various keys; to a teacher of the guitar they must be peculiarly acceptable, and the author is evidently a talented musician and writer. My heart is with Thee.' A ballad, sung by Mr. Gibbon, at the London and Provincial Concerts. Written by a Lady, the Melody by Mr. Gibbon, the Symphony and Accompaniments by Mr. Coote. Dale. MR. GIBBON'S melody is common-place, but in a flowing good style. The harmonising and arrangement of Mr. Coote, proves him to be a very well-informed and clever artist, and the tout ensemble is altogether pleasing and desirable. Two wrong notes, accidentally engraved in the concluding chords on the first page, create a very mischievous error, as they form the passage into the harmony of A minor, instead of C major. Introduction, and the British Grenadier's March,' Arranged with Variations for the Piano-Forte, and inscribed to Miss Wright, by George Frederick Harris. Monro and May. A FLOWING and brief Siciliano of one page, (in the key of C,) forms the introduction to the old martial air, and the whole arrangement and character of the piece eminently resembles that of 'La Petite Capricieuse,' noticed above, and composed by another George Frederick. The variations are eight in number, and exhibit much pleasing variety in a very familiar form, without puerility; the fifth is very characteristic and is intended to imitate a drum. We cannot but notice the unusually superior manner in which it is brought out, especially as to the printing and paper. EDINBURGH LITERARY GAZETTE. A NEW rival of ours, to be ycleped The Edinburgh Literary Gazette,' is about to make its appearance in the north, on the 16th of the present month. The proprietors, we understand, have secured the co-operation of Professor Wilson, Mr. Lockhart, and we know not who besides. They have one contributor, who, if he really exerts himself for them, may well make us Southrons tremble for our reputation. If we had any jealousy of our brother periodicals, that one of them which should present its readers each twelvemonth with an article from the pen of Mr. De Quincey, would cause us more distress than one which should obtain, each week, all the fashionable intelligence that could be gleaned from all the discarded footmen in the metropolis. But when escaped from his clutches we hasten adown the old sheep-track. Would you be heard with delight, and be hearkened to willingly, you must Flatter. Whether you speak to the mob, or to nobles, or princes, You must tell them all stories that place, as though living, before them Just what they like, just what they themselves would wish to befall them. Think you that all would have listened to Homer,that all would have read him, Had he not smoothed a way into the heart, persuading his reader That he is just what he would be? and do we not in the high palace, Or in the chieftain's tent, see the warrior exult in the Iliad? While in the street, or the market, where citizens gather together, All far gladlier hear of the craft of the vagrant Ulysses. There, every warrior beholdeth himself in his helmet and armour; Here, in Ulysses, the beggar sees even his rags are ennobled. Thus was I walking one day on the well-paved quay of the city, Generous friend, thou hast so much at heart,-the Dearly beloved by old Neptune, in which winged lions good of mankind first, Then that of thine own countrymen, and, above all, of thy next-door Neighbour thou dreadest the mischief of mischievous books. We have seen such Often, alas! What, then, ought one to do? what might be accomplished, Would honest men knit firmly together! were princes in earnest ! It is a grave, a momentous inquiry, but happens to find me In an agreeable humour. The corn-clad country is smiling Under the warm bright sky, and the gentlest breezes are blowing, Cooling their wings in the waves, and gathering scents from the blossoms; And, to the cheerful the world has a face of gladness; afar off Care is seen floating away in thin clouds that are ready to vanish. All that my light slim pen marks down you may easily blot out; Nor are the traces of types much more enduring or deeper, Though it is said they defy eternity. True, the black column Speaks to a thousand at once; but anon, just as every one, after Seeing his face in the glass, forgets it, in spite of its sweetness, So words, too, are forgotten, although they be graven by iron. Speeches are tossed to and fro with such marvellous ease, when a number Talk away, each only hearing himself in the words that he pours forth, Yea, only hearing himself in the words that proceed from his neighbour. Just in the same way fares it with books; all, every reader Thus it is all lost labour, whene'er you endeavour, by writings, Man's preconceived inclinations and made-up likings to alter. But you may do thus much; you may strengthen him in his opinions, Or, if he be but a youth, this and that you perchance may inculcate. Shall I tell you my mind? it is life, life only, that fashions Men and that teaches and trains them; words mean little, do little. True, we readily listen to all that confirms our own notions, But what we hear never forms those notions. When we dislike aught, We may perhaps go along with its advocate, if he be clever, are worshipped Almost as though they were gods, when a tale was a telling. A circle, Close, thick, breathless, surrounded the voluble tatterdemalion. Once, so he sang, I was driven by storms on the shores of an island, Called by the name of Utopia. I wot not whether another Out of this company ever set foot there; it lies in the ocean, West of the Pillars of Hercules. There I was welcomed most kindly, Led to an inn hard by, had the best of both eating and drinking, and warmest. All were on tiptoe to serve me, my bed was the softest Thus did a month glide swift as a song. I had fully forgotten Cares grim looks and the furrows of want; when in secret this question 'Gan to disquiet me sore: What face will the reckoning put on, When thy meals are all done? There was not a doit in my pocket. Do not bring me so much, I cried to the host; but he brought me Still more dishes and more. This increased my distress, and I could not Eat any longer 'mid all my uneasiness: so I entreated, Pray, master host, let my bill be a fair one. At this he Sent for the host, who was now grown calm, and grave was his answer: 'So must it be unto all who outrage the laws of our island, Wronging a host whose rights are sacred, and wickedly asking After a bill from the man who has courteously treated and fed them: Was I then tamely to brook such an insult? in my own house too! No! I should have but a spunge and never a heart in my bosom, Had not my blood boiled over at such an offence to my honour.' Then said the Justice to me: 'Friend, think no more of your beating, For if you had your deserts your punishment would be much harsher. But if you choose to abide in this island and settle amongst us, You must prove yourself worthy and fit to be one of our body.' 'Oh !' I exclaimed, 'kind Sir, I have most unluckily never WHY may not I, lulled like that boat to sleep Why must I stem, with toil and harsh endeavour, The Exhibition of works of living British Artists, at the Gallery of the British Institution, we are informed, will close on Saturday next. FRANCE AND ENGLAND.-Dupin has calculated that the productive powers of France in 1780 were equal to the employment of 38,792,666 hands, and in 1826, to 48,814,889, showing an increase of productive power equivalent to the employment of 10,202,223 hands in forty-six years. For England he estimates the same power in 1780 at 31,281,052, and in 1826 at 60,206,311, showing an increase in the same period of time equal to 28,935,270 of new hands! Such have been the rapid strides made in the productive powers of both countries mainly by the extended use and growing perfection of machinery and the arts of industry. DENMARK VACCINATION.-The report of the 'Danish Council of Health' states, that 28,419 individuals were inoculated with the vaccine matter during the year 1828 within the territory of Denmark Proper; namely, exclusive of its German possessions, Greenland, the Faroe islands, and the colonies. We believe this to be the only country in which it is a law that no person can be received, confirmed, or employed in a public office, unless he produce a certificate that he has had either the small-pox or the cow-pox. |