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Ah! hapless country! by commotions torn,
Deform’d by blood, by long afflictions worn,
At length succumb’d by strong oppression trod,
And torpid sleeping 'neath a stranger's rod:
As some fair bark by furious tempests tost,
Her masts, and sails, and helm, and rigging lost,
For shelter looks, with terror and dismay,
And moors in Algiers' or Morocco's bay.

Sometimes, when sinking in unwary rest,
Rise to my view, my countrymen oppress'd;
Unnumber'd wretches seem to wave their hands,
Invoking Heaven to right afflicted lands.
In restless murmurs speak the phantom train,
And clustering round, repeat one constant strain :
Thus, alien, does thy gratitude requite,
Thus bless when lifted to the sovereign height?

Ah! could but France recall those happy days,
When sov’reign splendour shed benignant rays,
And
power

extended o'er the realm its arm,
To shield, not crush, embolden, not alarm;
See o'er the vales untouch'd its harvest wave,
Its natives walk uninjur'd to the grave;
See o'er the main unnumber'd vessels ride,
And feel once more enraptur'd peace enjoy'd.

ON THE PROPRIETY OF GIVING PERFECT CHARACTERS IN

NOVELS.

Quo virtus -?

Hor. Now say, where virtue stops. It is with some a very strong objection against our

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author (Mr. Richardson), that he proposes to our imitation, what they call a perfect character in the person of Clarissa. Clarissa's character is indeed exalted, but is not humanly perfect; and in proposing a character something more than humanly perfect to our imitation, I cannot at present discern any absurdity; for is it not recommended to those who study to excel in any art or science, that they form themselves after the most perfect models, even although it be morally impossible for them ever to attain the perfection of these models ? Does not the celebrated judge of the sublime very strongly recommend this rule, when he proposes for the imitation of those who would attempt epic poetry and oratory, no less perfect patterns than Homer and Demosthenes ? Nay, if we may, without profanation, use this other illustration, does not the Scripture enjoin us to imitate the great original of all perfection? This rule is founded in nature and reason. If the model be imperfect, the copies must of consequence be more imperfect; and so liable to error is the human mind, that we are as prone to initate the faults as the excellencies of what is proposed for an original to us. Now, shall this rule be allowed to every other science, and not to the most important of all sciences, the science of life and manners? I know the grand objection is, that to give a man or woman a perfect character is out of nature. A character absolutely perfect does not, we acknowledge, belong to man.

But what height of excellence even a human soul may arrive at, we cannot ascertain, till we have left no experiments untried. One, who had never seen the tricks of a wire-dancer, would be apt to ridicule as fabulous the first accounts he should hear of those astonishing feats, of which long application and unwearied industry, make these performers capable. Who can tell what happy, what glorious effects might be produced, were an equal proportion of industry applied to the regulation of the passions, and the strengthening and improving the reasoning powers ? Let not then the novelist be censured, if his hero or heroine be possessed of a proportion of virtue superior to what we have discovered in our acquaintance with mankind; provided the natural genius inherent in the hero or heroine, assisted by the improvements of the happiest education, be sufficient to render their virtues at least probable. Nature, we must remember, had endued Clarissa with a genius of the most exalted kind, and a temperament of soul formed to receive the impressions of virtue. This genius, and this disposition, improved by the culture of a liberal and strictly virtuous education, amid the simplicity of a country life, could not fail to produce an admirable character ; nor do I think this character (all circumstances considered) stretched beyond the limits of humanity. Clarissa's external conduct was indeed unblameable (and I hope, for the honour of mankind, there are many to be found whose external conduct is unblameable), but she often acknowledges her heart was not so. She owns she was conceited and puffed up in her happy days, and not entirely proof against the suggestions of chagrin and

despondency in her adversity. If, then, her character be perfect, we must call it (as we before called it), humanly perfect.

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Jack Ketch, worn down with

age

and sin,
And half burnt out with stinking gin---
Stretch'd on his bed of hay and straw,
With whining tongue and feeble jaw,
Gave vent at length to all his grief,
In words like these---" There's no reprief---
The warrant's sign'd, and Sheriff Death
Will soon demand my fleeting breath.
Adieu to halters now, and fees,
To lanterns dark and picklock keys,
And all such windfalls, thrice farewell,
Soon shall I sleep in my cold cell.
Ye Resurrection-men, lament,
And if you've time, like me, repent---
Lament, I say,---and on my bier,
In pity drop an iron tear.
I've sold you bargains at prime cost,
By which you know yourselves I've lost :---
As I'm reduced to skin and bone,
I hope that you'll let me alone---
There's not a surgeon in the town
I'm sure would give you

half-a-crown; I say again, not any one

For my poor carcase, when I'm gone.
My son lies heavy on my breast,
Of all my breed I lov'd him best---
I thought to teach him all my arts,
And fondly hop'd that he had parts:
But all his parts are gone to pot---
The running noose, the artful knot,
Which I with flying fingers ty’d---
Were lost on him---he had no pride,
As my suceessful heir to shine,
The first of artists in my line.---
My fame is known to old and young,
Nay, 'twas a pleasure to be hung
By one like me, that had the knack
To do my business in a crack---
My customers in Thieving-lane,
Will never see my like again,
But woe is me! my stupid son,
I plainly see that he's undone;
The dunce will die not worth a groat:---
If he had talents, as I thought,
He might have liv'd in ease and fame,
And left like me, a glorious name.”

ACCOUNT OF THE FRANCISCAN CONVENT IN THE ISLAND

OF MADEIRA.

FUNCHAL, the capital of the island of Madeira, like other towns and cities of Roman Catholic countries, bas, no scarcity of churches and couvents; but we

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