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must go on. We must not be left at the mercy of the deluding powers of attornies, who may lose our causes and pocket our money ; or of physicians, who may display their ignorance upon our bodies; or of false teachers, who may mislead our souls. We must be prevented from spending our money for any thing that is not money's worth.

But to be serious a moment, if possible. Is it credible that, at this. time of day, a tradesman of the city of London, a man who has had opportunities of seeing the vigour, the skill, the success with which new undertakings—undertakings for the most part of the nature of experiments—are carried on in England, and of comparing them with the very inferior degree, or the total want, of those qualities exhi'bited in other countries, never asked himself the cause of this ? Precisely Mr. Alderman Waithman, because such matters are left to people who must use their wits, or take their chance of being “ deluded.”. Precisely because there is more capital than in any other country, and an universal avidity to make the most of it. Whether this be a good or an evil we do not now mean to inquire. We ourselves hold rather to the lazzaroni sect, and like to bask in the sun, and sleep or laugh, and let the deluder and deluded scramble. But this would be a damnable heresy in a representative of the most bustling and moneygetting of cities. Taking it for granted that the high degree of cultivation, (in the widest sense of the word,) and of commercial prosperity, to which this country has attained, are desirable, Mr. Waithman ought to regard the speculators in untried and uncertain schemes, as so many Curtius's, willing to devote themselves for their country and posterity. We know that they have no such “ foolish and visionary ” notions, and that they generally mean, if they can, to make money ; but the country, which would not have the improvements if there were not sanguine and “speculative ” men, is not the less served when they are served too. When they are ruined, one may pity them if the evidence they went upon has crumbled under their feet, or blame them if they went on none; but all this affords no reason for Mr. Waithman to foam at the mouth, and throw insinuations to the right and left against all who have combined with others to attempt a scheme either requiring too much capital, or too doubtful in its issue, to be risked by one or by half a dozen men.

Doubtless this form of commercial undertakings has been turned to tolerable account by certain skilful and provident individuals, who took care of themselves in time; but it is really a farce, which people not educated in habits of trade cannot keep their countenances at, to see the prudish airs which are every now and then assumed by the body of those whose education, whose faith and hope it is, to buy for as little as they can, and sell for as much as they can. We always regretted that the bravest man of the age dirtied his hands with Stock Exchange business; but that was a matter of sentiment with us a chivalrous feeling that a hero ought to know nothing of such matters. The rout that was made about it,-asif that specific act in the appropriate place, and among the appropriate people, was any thing to be shocked at,was ludicrous in the extreme. Mr. Ricardo and his commission, for instance : who wonders, who blames, who thinks it very shocking ? Nobody who is above eighteen in knowledge of the world.

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“ Il est du metier;" are by no means awake and alive on the subject of the lofty punctilios, honour, or the generosity of that brotherhood.

Exquisite is the exhibition of elevated feeling now making by the commercial Times ;-the Times which sells itself (we do not adopt a Gallicism unadvisedly) among the merchants, and stockbrokers, and tradesmen of the city of London. We wish that Mr. Hume had not been so very prudent, because when people set themselves on a pedestal, they should take care and not do as other men do ; but to affect that other men—all men who are in the moneygetting line-would not have tried, not only not to lose money, but to get it, whether by Jew, Greek, bond or free, exceeds the limits of digestible humbug. A word more as to “ delusions." We remember that some months ago a drunken fellow, named Dobell, went to the late Lord Mayor, complaining of having been defrauded by the Real del Monte Company, and giving a most deplorable account of mines, within two hundred miles of which, as it afterwards came out, he had never been. His story, to any body not armed in ignorance, was, on the face of it, a gross and absurd lie. However the worthy chief magistrate thought proper to let fall sapient remarks, doubts, and forebodings as to the “ wild and speculative, &c. &c.” and concluded with the following most enlightened and useful observation: That when these schemes were first broached, the public were “ deluded" with representations, &c. &c. by which they were led to hope that they had nothing to do but to get hold of mines in Mexico, to acquire immense wealth, and that he had heard that bars of gold had been brought as samples (quere, of ore ?) of what might be expected. We cannot swear to the words ; but to the sense, or rather nonsense, as reported in the papers, we can. worthy Mayor actually spoke as if he had been informied, and had believed, that the Real del Monte Company really expected to dig up bars of gold as fast as they could put in a pick, and seemed to think it hard that he and other intelligent persons had been so grossly “ deluded.” But, if nobody connected with the Real del Monte Company, or any other company, ever dreamt of finding gold in silver mines, much less gold in that form which few mineralogists would venture to look for, whose fault is it if lord mayors and aldermen sat over their turtle, and suffered themselves to be hoaxed by any body who had no better joke in hand, with stories of bars of gold? Information imperfect, indeed, but sufficient to guard against gross “ delusions” '-was to be had by any man who would take the trouble to inquire. Of the difficulties and risks attending all deputed works, and of the degree to which these diffculties and risks are increased by the circumstances of a remote and unsettled country, every man of ordinary understanding was competent to judge. If people will not examine nor reflect, the Lord help 'em, for we are sadly afraid Alderman Waithman cannot. Mining cannot be done well or profitably, for any length of time, on a small scale. Few men have the capital requisite to get a deep mine into full working; and no man would choose to risk it if he had. A sum, which it would be madness to stake on one mine, is pretty sure to give a fair return when scattered over many. But of all the facts connected with this matter, Mr. Waithman is obviously in deep and dark igno


rance. As to the small fry of Milk Companies, &c. &c. who did not see and predict their fate? When the field is open to competition, what *do the individuals or the public want more? Mr. Waithman would render his constituents a greater service by circulating a few cheap tracts on the elements of political economy, (and reading them himself,) than by decrying that spirit of co-operation, for the purpose of enhancing the advantages and mitigating the calamities of society, which is perhaps the greatest discovery of modern times. His attempt to isolate every man, and to throw him upon his own resources, is a proof of barbarian ignorance. He disclaims it in his reply, and loudly declares that it is impossible any such inference can be drawn from his speech; but here again Mr. Waithman is mistaken. Mr. John Smith, a man whom one blushes to see thus attacked by implication, drew the fair and legitimate conclusion, and the one which every body but Mr. Waithman will draw. If Mr. Waithman has a mind to expel the knaves from the Honourable House, we wish him success, but also wish the business in better hands.


Allan CUNNINGHAM.—This very clever writer, whose grand sin is that he never knows when to have done, has published a never-ending novel. For certain extended narratives, written in a certain periodical, he some time ago acquired the name of the long-taled Cunningham. His novel is only in three volumes of the usual size, and yet it is the longest we ever read. This author has, we would swear, the bump of space—he gives extension to every thing he touches. It is only this unfortunate faculty which prevents Mr. Cunningham from writing works of imagination of great value. He is full of poetical feeling, and of a warm love of nature, and a hearty sympathy with his fellow men; but there is no following him through his “ winding bout” “ long drawn out.” The other failing of the Paul Jones is extravagance. In a dream you are at one moment fighting a duel, at the next picking blackberries under a bush, and almost at the same instant ascending in a balloon. It is thus with all Mr. Cunningham's heroes ; you never know where to have them. It is like hunting a butterfly-you attempt to put your hand upon a personage in Europe -presto he starts up in America, and back again to Europe via Africa, before you can make a stroke at him. Nevertheless, and notwithstanding, we recommend Paul Jones to our readers, especially to those who are enamoured of prose far gone with poetry.

MAJOR SNODGRASS's NARRATIVE OF THE BURNESE WAR.-In our last Number we regretted the paucity of military memoirs. Major Snodgrass has added another very able narrative to the few we had before. It is a clear, plain, and sensible description of the proceedings of the invading army: it is morcover well written, amusing, and instructive. As it is confined, however, almost strictly to military affairs, we trust some other officer will follow his example, and give us some sketches of manners, scenery, and character. Much information of this kind is to be found in Symes's mission, but more is desired. The Burmese are, in many respects, a very singular people. Among other curious things they have a real Order of architecture. Each rank or class has its peculiar class of house assigned to it; and it is death to dwell in a house which deviates in the slightest particular from the one according with your rank. No house must be in infra dig.; on the contrary, a pillar or cornice, a story too many might cost a man his life. Hence the necessity the great lie under when travelling of sending workmen in advance to build an appropriate house. Instead of despatching a courier forward to order post-horses, the Woondocks and Wongees of Ava dispatch a courier to run up a house against the time of their arrival.

ROSSETTI'S ODE TO A RIVULET. The following Ode to a Rivulet,” says a correspondent, is the work of Gabrielle Rossetti, and has formed the basis of two rather remarkable Odes or Sonnets; the one written by Mr. T. Moore, the other by Lord Byron ; which I subjoin for the amusement of those of your readers who take any interest in tracing the stream of Helicon to its fountain. The poem, or song of Mr. T. Moore, embraces but a sınall part of Mr. Rossetti's ideas; that of Lord Byron is a more important and brilliant achievement. It is to be found in Medwin's Conversations. The noble poet has possessed himself of the Italian's thoughts and images, as it were by conquest rather than by plunder; as if he had taken possession of a pretty territory, and rendered it, by his dominion, more happy, more fertile, and more tourishing,

I have also added a more literal translation of the original, taken from the Album of a gentleman, who has favoured me with the information I have communicated above.

Ilore is, first, the Ode of Gabriele Rossetti

Ad un Ruscello.
Rio felice, che declini
A irrigar la valle aprica
Dove sta la mia nemica

Consigliandosi con te,
Questo pianto or tu raccogli
Ch'io quì verso a te d'accanto,
E in passar con questo pianto

Bacia a Clori il bianco piè.
Trasportar così potessi
Questa immagine languente,
E con gemito dolente

Implorar da lei pietà :
Mai chi sa che allor l'altera
Nel mirar l'immagin mia
L'onde tue non turberia

Con novella crudeltà.
Rio pietoso, allor che passi
Con sussurri lenti lenti,
D'imitare i miei lamenti,

Flebil rio, non ti scordar:
Dille tu: Ti muova, o bella,
Un amor ch'è puro in tutto,
Com'è puro questo flutto

Che in tributo io porto al mar.

Che se intenta ai proprii vezzi
Non udisse i sensi tuoi,
Mentre pasce i guardi suoi

Di segreta vanità ;
Dille allor : superba ninfa,
Che mi vieni ognor d'intorno,
Come io passo, e più non torno,

Passa ancor la tua bettà.

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For our parts we do not know the chronology of these poems; but the fact we believe to be, that Rossetti, who is now in England, is a much younger man than either Byron or Moore, and it may very well be, that he had them in bis mind, and not they him. This is Mr. Moore's Song :

Flow on, thou shining river ;

But ere thou reach the sea,
Seek Ella's bower, and give her

The wreaths 1 fling o'er thee :
And tell her thus, if she'll be mine,

The current of our lives shall be
With joys along their course to shine,

Like those sweet flowers on thee.
But if in wandering thither

Thou find'st she mocks my prayer,
Then leave those wreaths to wither

Upon the cold bank there :
And tell her thus, when youth is o'er,

Her lone and loveless charms shall be
Thrown by upon life's weedy shore,

Like those sweet flowers from thee.
The following is a tolerably literal translation of Gabrielle Rossetti's Ode :-

River, that downward rollest thy glad waves,

To bathe the sunny valley, where my love,
The haughty beauty who my heart enslaves,

Along thy shores delights to muse and rove:
Take thou my tears, the tears which here I shed

Upon thy brink, and bear them down thy stream;
And where her fairy feet are wont to tread,

Kiss thou that shore, ah, kiss her feet with them.
Would thou could’st on thy chrystal waters bear

This image of my grief as well—impart
My sighs, and even murmur my despair,

To wake the flame of pity in her heart.
Yet if thy glassy mirror could retain,

And bear this fading image to hor view,
Her scorn would kindle at the sight again,

Scorn that would vex thy placid waves anew.
Yet, roll on, gentle river, roll along,

And let my sorrows be a theme for thee:
With thy sweet murmurs echo thou my song,

Mourn, gentle river, and remember me.
Ah! tell her in thy passage that her heart

Might yet be moved by passion such as mine,
A passion deep and constant, as thou art,

And pure as each transparent wave of thine.
Thy tribute's to the ocean-mine to her-

But if enamour'd of herself alone,
She scorns to lend thy gentle voice an ear,

And seeks in thee no image but her own ;


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