This patent lay for years neglected among some papers, which tumbling over one day in company with a friend, he observed, "You did not know I was a noble," and so saying, he flung the patent back to its old hiding-place, where it remained.

This is unquestionably the golden age of the stomach, the era in which it receives that apotheosis against which St. Paul warned the ancient Philippians, and exercises a more direct and decided influence upon human affairs, than at any former period in the whole history of the world. Many men live exclusively for it, and not a few die in its course. It is the great universal source of corruption, moral as well as material; for when Sir Robert Walpole maintained that every man had his price, he admitted that the great paramount temptation of money was, its power of ministering new stimulants to the pleasures of the table. Epicurism and its results seem to constitute the great leading objects of modern occupation and inquiry. Intellects of the first order are devoted to the composition of cookery books; the public become, in consequence, more luxurious and profound in their banquets, a new set of talents is called into exercise, and a new series of books written to remedy the increasing diseases occasioned by good living; and both sets of authors run through numerous editions, and make rapid fortunes. Mrs. Rundle's "Domestic Cookery" was a larder of wealth to the publisher; Dr. Kitchiner's Peptic Precepts have made his pot boil for the remainder of his natural life; and Accum's publication would have answered the same purpose, had he not incautiously put poison in his own pot. Never was our culinary literature so rich; and as to medical works upon bile, indigestion, flatulency, heart-burn, and stomach complaints in general, the press groans with them. The gormandizers, who are apt to be in the same predicament as the press, buy them, and consult their authors, and get relief, and then perform a da capo. Does any young aspiring surgeon, or patientless physician, wish to ride in his carriage, let him write a book upon the diseases of the stomach, and his fortune is made. His subject comes home to the business and bosoms, or rather the bowels, of the whole community,-for we are all enjoyers of good cheer, and all sufferers in some way or other from its consequences.

There is nothing more injurious to the real interests of a theatre, than what is vulgarly called a row. It may crowd the pit and galleries for a few nights; it may even fill the boxes: but it dissipates the enchantment we have struggled to maintain for years. Actors about whose names a dream and glory hovered, are brought in their own persons before the audience, and prove themselves but ordinary mortals. The business of the scene is reduced to a mockery; passion becomes ridiculous; and the noblest passages of the poet are only watched to be degraded by an application to the paltry affair of the hour.

Sir R. C. Hoare's Library—Maturin—Mrs. Tone.

459

Sir R. C. Hoare, has recently given to the British Museum his splendid collection of Books, relating to the history and topography of Italy, collected between the years 1785 and 1791, during two excursions into that country. It consists of seventeen hundred and thirty-three articles, arranged according to the ancient divisions of Italy, namely: General History of Italy; City of Rome, &c.; Ecclesiastical States; Piedmont, Savoy, Sardinia, Lombardy, Milanese, Mantua, Parma, Placentia, &c.; Venitian States; Republic of Genoa; Republic of S. Marino; Republic of Lucca; Etruria and Tuscany; Kingdom of Naples; Island of Sicily; Mountains of Ætna and Vesuvius. No fewer than three donations, of the highest importance, have been lately bestowed upon the British Museum; a collection of pictures, of extraordinary value, from Sir George Beaumont; a collection of coins, medals, bronzes, gems, and drawings, worth more than fifty thousand pounds, from Mr. R. P. Knight; and the present library of Italian history.

It is said that upon hearing of the premature death of the late Rev. C. Maturin, and learning that he had left a widow but ill provided for, and some unpublished manuscripts, Sir Walter Scott wrote to the unfortunate lady a letter of condolence, in which, among other kind expressions of respect for the genius of the departed author, he gratuitously offered his editorial services, for the purpose of giving his works to the world in a form the most likely to be productive to her of profit.

As we approached the gate Mrs. Tone suddenly stopped"Ah," said she, "here it is that the Emperor was so kind to me." The circumstances of the interview as she repeated them to us at the moment, were exactly these-Young Tone had found leisure to write an essay for the prize of history and literature, proposed by the Institute. The subject was the following, resolved into three questions-"What, under the government of the Goths, was the civil and political condition of the people of the different states (des peuples) of Italy? What were the fundamental principles of legislation of Theodoric and his successors? And more particularly, what were the distinctions which it established between the victors and the vanquished?" Tone's essay fell short of the prize, but received the honourable mention of the Institute. It was printed, and regarded as a work of extraordinary research and talent for one so young. He was absent at the time with the army, and his mother, in the natural pride of her heart, determined to present, with her own hands, a copy of it to Napoleon. She chose for this purpose the occasion of his hunting in the forest of St. Germain, and waited, outside the gate, the approach of the imperial cortège when the chase was over. Napoleon appeared, and Caulincourt, duke of Vicenza, who attended him as equerry, asked her what she wanted. She replied, merely to present what she held (the Essay) in her hand. He took and looked at it, allowed her to approach, and Napoleon instantly ordered his carriage to stop. She declared who

she was, and presented the book to him. "Ah! Madame Tone," said he, receiving it, "I do not forget you. Are you in want of any thing-of extraordinary succour?"" No, Sire, my pension is sufficient if the arrears were paid." "They shall be-Let me know when you want any thing.-Does your son?"-"He is in your Majesty's service, and can want nothing," was her reply. "Tis well, 'tis well-I'll think of him;" and with these words he drove off reading her son's essay and leaving her delighted. It should not be omitted, that he scrupulously kept his word.

There the rich and lofty trees welcome us with their noble shadows: there the ground is thick set with grass, and variegated with a thousand flowers: there the limpid fountains, and rivulets of silver, sliding down out of the fertile abundance of the mountains, talk to us with a pleasant murmur: there the painted birds carol; the leaves whisper with every little air; the small deer play about; flocks and herds are in repose. There we light upon the cottage of the shepherd, the narrow cabin which we fancy without care: every thing is tranquil and full of silence; our eyes and ears are not only satiated, and the mind so lapped into enjoyment, but the spirits gather their scattered forces; the genius, if by chance it is tired, rises again upon its innermost energy, and incites us to the loftiest meditations: so that we long greedily to compose noble things, being wonderfully moved to that end by the society of our books, and by sweet visions of the Muses leading round about us their choral hymns. All which things, who that is given to study, and rightly turneth in his mind, would not prefer solitudes unto cities.

The London Magazine contains an article called "Reflections in a Pillory;" but of so good a subject nothing is produced worth reading.

SONNET ON A YOUTH WHO DIED OF EXCESSIVE FRUIT-PIE.

Currants have check'd the current of my blood,

And berries brought me to be buried here;

Pears have pared off my body's hardihood,

And plums and plumbers spare not one so spare.

Fain would I feign my fall; so fair a fare

Lessens not fate, yet 'tis a lesson good;

Gilt will not long hide guilt; such thin-washed ware
Wears quickly, and its rude touch soon is rued.
Grave on my grave some sentence grave and terse,
That lies not as it lies upon my clay,

But, in a gentle strain of unstrain'd verse,
Prays all to pity a poor patty's prey:

Rehearses I was fruit-ful to my hearse,

Tells that my days are told, and soon I'm toll'd away!—N.

On a report made to the King of France by the Duke de Doudeauville, minister of the household, his Majesty has granted a pension of 2000 francs in favour of the descendants of the great Corneille. The above sum is to be placed annually in the hands of the

perpetual secretary of the Academie Française, his Majesty leaving to the Academy the care of distributing it among those descendants of Pierre Corneille, who shall appear to the Academy most worthy of participating in the advantages of the royal bounty.

Whatever may be the diversity of opinion entertained on some points respecting the writings of Lady Morgan, there is one on which all parties seem of late to have been brought nearly to agree: we mean, the abundant evidence of talents which is conspicuous throughout the whole of them. Her most decided enemies,-and enemies she may boast of the highest order in various parts of Europe, have borne ample testimony to her merits by their fears, and by their consequent proscription both of her person and her works throughout their despotic dominions. No greater compliment could have been afforded to a free and enlightened spirit, and to the land which gave it birth, than such a declaration of hostility by the high allied powers against the circulation of any degree of truth, or freedom of inquiry, even connected with past history and the arts, in their legitimate territories. Such an exercise of arbitrary and intolerant sway in most instances fortunately defeats its own end; and, instead of exciting in this country a more earnest opposition to the principles maintained by Lady M., it has undoubtedly had the effect of allaying party feelings and asperities, and of producing a general sentiment not only of indignation at the glaring tyranny and injustice which it exhibits, but of increased respect for the opinions of the object of its persecution.

"Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more."

"Sweet as that hour, when light descends
To Earth on golden wings from Heaven,

Is that first moment Woman bends,

And trembling sues to be forgiven.
Oh! He that view'd her uplift eye,
That, tearful, pity did implore,
And marked each sad repentant sigh,
In mercy bade her 'Sin no more!'
"Then, shall vain man the mourner spurn,
Leave her a prey to grief and care,
When in her heart each sigh shall turn
To true and rich repentance there?
Oh! let him think on Christ's decree,
When she forgiveness shall implore,
Nor chide her in her misery,

The fattest mutton-flaps at dinner,
Yet sometimes the audacious sinner,
Asserting his marital rights,
Would on the wages-paying nights,
Betake him to the public house
To smoke, and tipple, and carouse;
And as, with each new dram and sip, he
Still more and more pot-valiant grew,
At last he fairly braved his spouse,

Call'd her a vixen and a shrew,
A Jezebel, and a Zantippe.

Returning home one night, our varlet
Bold with his wife compelling liquor,
Rattled the knocker quick and quicker,
When with fierce eye, and face of scarlet,
His tender spouse appear'd, and shrilly
Vented reproaches on her Willy :-
"So, jackanapes, you're come at last!
No doubt the evening has been past
In tippling purl, you drunken sot,
Mull'd ale and amber, hot and hot,
While your poor wife is left to slave,

-

And drink cold water from the can,-
Cold water, ye remorseless knave!"
"Cold!" cried the husband, who began

In turn to wrangle and to storm it,
"Cold! ye poor lazy slattern, cold!
Then why ye good-for-nothing scold:
Why don't you warm it?"

THE PASSION FLOWER.

CAST not, dear maid, the flower away,
That shrinks from evening's chilling dew:
Soon, trust me, shall the morning ray
Its leaves unfold, its bloom renew,

Say, dost thou ne'er in life behold

An heart that like this timid flower
Droops, when the withering world is cold,
And clouds invade, and tempests lower?
That heart is mine-from crowds I fly,
To shun their tumults vain and loud;
And all believe that apathy

Enthralls me in its fetters proud.
But Innocence and Truth like thine,
With magic spell can burst the chain;
Shed o'er my path their rays divine,

And wake my heart to warmth again!

M. A.

Soxe, to the Air of" Lord Lennox."
WHEN the glen all is still, save the stream from the fountain;
When the shepherd has ceased o'er the heather to roam;
And the wail of the plover awakes on the mountain,
Inviting his love to return to her home;
There meet me, my Mary, down by the wild-wood,
Where violets and daisies sleep saft in the dew;
Our bliss shall be sweet as the visions of childhood,
And pure as the heavens' own orient blue.

Thy locks shall be braided with pearls of the gloaming;
Thy cheek shall be fann'd by the breeze of the lawn;

The Angel of Love shall be 'ware of thy coming,
And hover around thee till rise of the dawn.