look upon the Arts as a business only, nor can their benign influence affect these traffickers more than as relates to pounds, shillings and pence. With such men, a Collector must cautiously use his own judgment and experience, and it may be found difficult to establish a confidence with them. Yet I am well con

could hardly be furnished by the whole annals of roguery. But for the perusal of Mr. Smith's book, we might have continued, to the end of our lives, to consider the Avare' of the immortal Molière a highly coloured picture rather than a portraiture of real life :

'Before closing this unpleasant subject, it may not be considered altogether inappropriate to glance at a system of dealing in which a certain class of pictures is found to be a most convenient medium, on account of their indefinite value: the writer alludes to the traffic of bill discounting, and the purchase of post obits. The necessitous applicants to these unmerciful and ruinous accommodators are usually compelled to take a third, and sometimes one half, the amount of their bonds or bills in pictures, which, of course, are ascribed to the best masters, and valued accordingly at enormous prices. By this nefarious practice, some have enriched themselves, and are now living in affluence. An instance of this sort of dealing occurred very lately, in which a collection of pictures, valued to the needy gentleman at 5000%, did not net, at auction,

vinced that when such a confidence is placed in one of these men, he, as well as his more opulent fellow-trafficker, will rarely betray his trust. There are no doubt many individuals in this trade, like every other, who are unworthy of confidence; but I am induced to hope they are but few. Much also of what is attributed to the want of honesty in Picture Dealers, may be fairly attributed to their want of knowledge. I feel very often surprised when I reflect on what has been done and said both by myself and others respecting Pictures, from ignorance. It is a fruitful source of error; and when the intellectual qualifications and state of the understanding of some men who practise the calling of "Picture Dealers" are considered, it is not to be wondered at that both they and those who deal with them, suffer from the effects of ignorance as well as dishonesty. There is another source from which springs much of the chicanery and trick attributed to picture dealing-500.!' it is the consequence of gentlemen Collectors turning traffickers in Pictures. I have frequently found men professing to be Amateurs of the Arts, and who collect Pictures, endeavouring to over-reach a Dealer, by making deceptive, and to themselves, advantageous, terms of exchange, and by over-rating the price and value of their own Pictures, fancying that they improve their bargains to the prejudice of the Dealer. When men of opulence condescend to such transactions, they deserve to be the victims of a conduct of which they set the example, and to suffer by transactions in which they thus participate.'-Pp. 41-43.

Mr. Smith is less lenient towards the tricks practised by the lower class of persons who profess the same calling as himself, than Mr. Winstanley; probably because he has had more experience of their knavish proceedings: and he exposes the manoeuvres they are in the habit of resorting to for the purposes of deception more in detail. The following evidence is worthy of a report in a House of Commons Committee:

"In exhibiting the various deceptions and manœuvres of designing dealers, it will be proper to commence with that which is most common, namely, placing the name of a first-rate master upon a picture by an imitator, or on a copy which is frequently disguised by dirt or varnish, &c.; but a copy, if modern, may be easily detected by its newness, as on being pressed by the nail the colour will be found to be still soft. These fabricators disguise a copy by dirt and varnish, using especial care to have it painted on an old canvas or panel, to which seals and other documents are attached at the back, so that unguarded purchasers are often deceived by apparently the most authentic evidences of originality. Amateurs are frequently invited to look at cases of pictures, which are said to be just arrived from the continent. This imitation is accompanied by a plausible history of the collection from whence they are said to be derived, perhaps that of some "ancient family in Italy or Holland." These assurances are occasionally strengthened by invoices, letters, and other corroborative documents.

Another scheme is to place pictures in an auction, and to run them up to large sums, in order to give them a fictitious value, with the hope of entrapping some unwary bidder; should this fail, the picture is afterwards put up at some other auction, with an ob. servation that it was formerly sold for the sum at which it had been knocked down at a previous sale, and the sacrifice of half or two-thirds of that apparent purchase money, is perhaps an inducement to an unsuspecting spectator to become the unfortunate buyer.

'Another plan, very extensively practised by certain dealers, and by which one or two apparently knowing ones have been duped, as well as less cautious gentlemen, who do not buy with a view to profit, is the placing of old, or purposely dirtied, pictures at brokers, or old clothes and other shops, where the venders appear to know nothing whatever about them; but they tell some simple story of having bought them "at an old mansion in the country," or of "an antiquated

4,500l. extra procuration fee! A noble one truly! Such forced connoisseurship who shall counsel? Henceforth, we think, we must relent from our indifference to the lamentations of the victims of picture-jockeys.

A word or two, before we quit this subject, on the nature of the two books now under our consideration. Mr. Winstanley's, which we believe was prior in point of publication, is a small volume of 132 pages, duodecimo, and is well calculated to serve for a manual. Its contents may be summed up in a few lines, by giving the titles of its chapters, which are equally concise, judicious, and instructive. The following is a list of them: 'On the state of the arts in England as regards the works of Foreign Painters.'On purchasing Paintings.' On the means of acquiring the necessary knowledge of the works of Painters.' On copies.' 'On damaged pictures, and attempts at cleaning.'On the value of pictures, and on picture dealing.' On the Dutch and Flemish Schools.' 'On the German Schools.' 'On the French School.' 'On the Italian School.' These are accompanied by tables of the principal painters of the various schools and their imitators, arranged alphabetically, and by lists separately formed according to the subjects which the respective artists were in the habit of The advantage of this distinct classifitreating. cation according to subject, is too obvious to need to be pointed out. The date of the period at which each artist flourished is set opposite to his name.

Mr. Smith's work is of a different and more

elaborate kind. The introduction, from which the extracts already given have been taken, occupies only a few pages, and treats principally of the subject of picture-dealing. The rest of the volume is the commencement of a catalogue raisonné, (which the author, if he receive sufficient encouragement, proposes to carry through four more volumes) of the works of Dutch, Flemish, and French Painters. The artists whose works form the subject of the first volume, are Gerard Dow, Peter Van Slingelandt, (the limner who occupied three years in painting the portraits of the family Meerman, and who worked a whole month at a lace frill,) Francis and William Van Mieris, Adrian Ostade, Isaac Ostade,

is a boy with a mouse-trap in his hand, which he is holding up to the light of a large window, in order to see the little prisoner. This object appears to have drawn him from his studies, as he still holds a pallette of colours in his hand. On the opposite side (or left of the picture) is a hen-coop with a bright brass can

and a red cabbage on it, over which are a dead cock and some partridges and other objects hanging against the wall, and upon a shelf still higher, are some jugs and plates; various other objects are distributed about the room, and at the further end is seen an old man reading by candle-light. This is in every respect an admirable picture, both in composition and exquisite finish, and has, besides, the advantage of clearness throughout, it being illumined by two large windows."

The history of each painting is traced through the different collections into which it has passed, in the following manner :

'Collection of M. Jan Van Orvielle, Amsterdam, 1705, 1100 florins, 997.; of M. A. Bout, 1793, 2605 florins, 1861.; of the Widow Reuver Arnst, 1736; when it was sold, with the entire collection, to the Prince of Hesse, for 40,000 florins. From the latter gallery it was transferred, with many other fine pictures, by the chances of war, into the collection of Josephine, at Malmaison, at the distribution of which collection it was purchased by the present proprietor, M. Valdow, at Paris, and is now worth 1200 guineas.'

We beg leave to protest against the conclusion, from the manner in which we have introduced this description, that we are insensible to the merits of Gerard Dow. We have often dwelt on his exquisite works with true, but not exclusive, delight; and it is a satisfaction to us to find that Mr. Smith, whose elegant volume has inspired us with a sentiment of respect towards his person and character, although as a picture-dealer he has been obliged to cater for the public taste, and has been led to make the low school of art the object of his consideration and research, is far from being a sinker by nature, and insensible to the higher claims of the more elevated style of art. To prove this in his favour, we conclude our extracts and our article with the following significant passage from his introduction:

'Historic painting is acknowledged to be the brightest and noblest branch of the art: yet the difficulties opposed to its attainment appear to be too often overlooked, or not sufficiently understood; but it should be known, that the half of life is required to prepare the painter with the necessary knowledge and material, during which long period the artist must toil day and he reflect during his arduous studies upon his future night, silently, and, it may be, totally unknown. Should prospects, as to what are the rewards and honours that await him, and what are his hopes and support beyond the casual and uncertain orders of private individuals, -sources of support much too feeble and uncertain to keep alive the necessary energies of mind, and do justice to the merits of a first-rate historical painter. And what are the honours that await him? Perhaps an academical wreath; a poor encouragement to struggling genius, when the same reward may be obtained by the production of a few good portraits, and the suffrages of R. A.'s, too often acquired by obsequious solicitations. Let the munificent encouragement of the French Government be kept in mind; the rewards and honours it has bestowed upon artists in this branch, from the time of Louis XIII. to the present day, and more particularly under the reign of Napoleon, who well knew the value of great painters, as being one of the most effectual means of immortalising himself and his epoch.'

THE VISION OF NOUREDDIN.

Post 8vo., pp. 192. Hurst, Chance, and Co. London, 1829.

lady, in whose family they are said to have been forgives so decided and obstinate a preference. The

the last two centuries."'

The following paragraph exposes a system of cheating, and of evading the laws of the land, more villainous than any of those above-mentioned. Its parallel in effrontery and extortion

description is one of the principal pictures of Gerard Dow:

arched windows. An interesting old woman, habited I. Interior of a room with a ground cieling and in the costume of the time, stands in front, occupied in scraping carrots upon the top of a cask; at her right

THE author of these poems is apparently a man of considerable fancy and cleverness; and we regret, therefore, that, not daring to be original, he should have chosen the very worst models from which it is possible for a man to copy. We are not anxious to agitate again the question which has been so many times discussed in our poets of the highest order; but it is an acknowpages, whether Lord Byron or Mr. Moore are ledgment which we claim as much from their vehement admirers, as from those who agree in

our somewhat more moderate estimate of them, that it is impossible, in the whole hemisphere of poetry, to fix upon two stars whose light will be less brilliant when it is communicated to any surrounding satellites. To whatever cause this may be owing, to their mighty genius, which defies imitation, or to the essentially unnatural quality of their style, which made it a monopoly in the hands of those who had first the skill to devise it,—such is the fact, ascertained beyond all doubt, by a thousand courageous experiments, and as many unfortunate failures.

Moreover, it is generally the fault of those imitators, that they draw indifferently from either of these two models; which, though both, in our opinion, decidedly faulty, are yet quite different in the quality of their offences. It was said of Milton, that the English language sunk under him, because he imparted to it a strength and coherency which his commentator did not understand. An admirer of Byron may be disposed to catch at the strange compliment which Milton did not want, and to maintain that the English language was insufficient also for him, seeing that he entirely discarded it from his compositions. The dialect which he substituted in its room, was, we must own, far better contrived to express his thoughts, for it is broken, incoherent, lawless, a stream, not running onward with any steady deep current, but grating harshly against small pebbles which the foam that covers it prevents from being visible at the surface. Mr. Moore, on the other hand, is a very great master of English, the lower or conversational English; and that language, vastly superior for poetry to the language of almost any other country, and inferior only to the English of our old dramatists, and of one or two modern poets, he might have taught with infinite advantage to our young verse writers, and have been really a benefactor in his generation. But, afraid of enclosing his thoughts in such a very transparent case, through which, if they were faulty, their weakness must be at once discerned, he determined to change the nature of the entertainment altogether, and, instead of inviting his readers to look through the glass, to make them look at it,-for which purpose he painted it over with all the grotesque figures that a perverse Egyptian wit ever devised. Now the imitators blend both these strange poeticising schemes. They take, as a ground-work, Byron's knotty and opaque language, and upon this paint Moore's quaint devices: but this plan does not answer, the colours run; and, if there was much confusion in the original, there is not a distinct line in the copies.

We shall say no more of Noureddin and other poem s,' than that we think they illustrate the opinions we have just expressed, and that, nevertheless, we believe the author to be a man of considerable talent. Nearly every young Englishman has a period of Mooreism and Byronism; but various circumstances, such as the want of solitude or the want of association with higher minds, or, worst of all, the habit of writing verse, and the praise he receives in exchange for it, may keep him there beyond the natural time. But still his mind is not to be judged by its exercises while in the cave of the sorcerers. He may yet be disenchanted, and become as sincere and natural as he is now (unconsciously) artificial and affected. That this consummation may speedily happen to Sforza, is our earnest wish for him; in the mean time, we commend the following extracts to our readers, begging them to take our critical word for it, that, with all their faults, they do indicate powers worthy of a cultivation which they have never enjoyed:

"The Nymphs upon the banks are dancing
Of the placid, speckless lake,
And now in festive groups advancing,
For the groves its shores forsake:
But who is he that keeps so near

Young Amadis, that cheerful maiden?
Noureddin 'tis-what doth he here?
Does he not see the day-light fading-

Does he not hear the anthem stealing
In a slow and holy strain?
Thinks he not of the minstrel kneeling?
He does, he does, but all in vain—
And who is she they Rhoda name?
Does he not know her gentle frame?
Oh what could tempt him to prefer
The lightsome Amadis to her?
But where's Rosalba? many an eve

Hath passed since that he should have met her, Yet those who taught him to deceive,

Have not allured him to forget her;
Though gentle lips and radiant eyes
Sweet tones and looks of kindness bring him,
They cannot check the rising sighs,

Nor quell the inward griefs that sting him.
How gladly would he then have fled

To the appointed spot of meeting, But vainly had he thither sped,

For no one stayed to give him greeting ;Too oft in hope's reviving hour,

Already had he there resorted, To feel despair with deeper power,

And thence return more desert-hearted.
But yet he could not wholly keep

Away, for some seducing power,
Preserving hope from utter sleep,
Still cheered him at the evening hour;-
That hour at length was come again

And he upon his search was gone,
Lamenting, as he wandered on,
How oft that search had been in vain.
The well-known grove was now in view,
And softened by that hallowed hue
Which the sun's glareless light imprints,
In pensive rays and fading tints,
Gave to his breast a holy glow
Too soothing to betoken woe.
"The lute Rosalba there had left

Was hanging in her jasmine bower,
Yet, though of her sweet touch bereft,

Had lost not its enchanting power,
But plaintively kept throbbing on,
So soft, that as they streamed along,
Its sounds, at that faint whispering hour,
Seemed like the wings of angels flying,
At intervals, about the air,-
Or voice of one from heaven sighing

For errors that had lost him there ;-
But hush! Noureddin sweeps its strings,
Sad as the lay he sweetly sings.
The evening primrose has oped its leaf,

The sound of the vesper harp grows faint,
And the breeze seems whispering tales of grief,
As it goes thro' the air with a mournful plaint:
I know why sadness haunts this spot,
Rosalba hither cometh not.

Float on, ye zephyrs, and tell her how

I linger here in music and sorrow,
In the grove of lutes, where I keep my vow
From dying day till dawning morrow.
Oh! hear me, though she hears me not,
And bid her seek the appointed spot.
'Tell her with tears these eyes are wet-

Say with what pangs this heart is aching-
That heart, which, she knows, adores her yet,
And the fonder burns as 'tis nearer breaking.
Oh! love me still, or love me not;
Rosalba, fly to this desert spot.
'He ceased: a figure flitted by,

When turning on a sudden round,
Kneeling before him on the ground,
The form of Rhoda met his eye.

And who is Rhoda, that she now Should be so near Noureddin's side? What makes her thus before him bow, Can aught that she asks be denied?

"Rhoda!" impatiently he cried,

If thou hast tracked my footsteps here, Whether or not with love sincere, To try the magic of thy art

In aught that can seduce this heart, Thy hopes are vain, thou may'st depart!" """Tis as I feared," the maiden sighed,

Leaving the spot where she had knelt,""Tis as I feared, I am denied,

But still my heart would less have felt If there had been some softness thrown Into thy all-refusing tone

Language by which the heart is broken,
At least in pity might be spoken.

Perchance, had Amadis been nigh,
A kinder beam had lit thine eye;
No matter, I have learnt to brook
Ere this, the sternness of a look;
Sorrow and I too oft have met
For me to feel much new regret.
Ne'er did I cast a kindly eye

On any being that I loved,
That did not always frown or fly,

As if my look were disapproved: Ne'er did I feel affection's glow,

But just as it appeared returned, Another came to overthrow

The passion that for me had burned. Ne'er did my features wear a smile,

Ne'er did my bosom heave a sigh, But some one always seemed the while To mock them as they flitted byAs if it were my fate to be Ne'er blest with others' sympathy. But go, Noureddin ! join the throng

Of those who will not feel for me: Nay, look not so, I know ere long I shall but be despised by thee.

It is my doom to suffer so:
I feel that I must live apart:
There's none will e'er consent to know
The fondness of poor Rhoda's heart."
"Rhoda!" Noureddin wildly sobbed,
"Madden no more this burning brow,
Ne'er have before these heart-strings throbbed
With such contending pangs as now!
Call me the demon that I seem,

Think me unfeeling as thou wilt,
Curse me with hate's most deep extreme;
For, strange as thou this truth may deem,
It only lures my soul to guilt

To hear thy gentle voice complain

In such a sad and tender strain.

There's one to whom my vows are plighted,
Too long already hath been slighted,
Whose voice and form resemble thine
So much that, could ye both be mine,
Around ye both my arm should twine.
Yes, there is one-nay do not start,
It is not Amadis, I swear,
Though one whose image from my heart
Hath Amadis oft strove to tear.
But thou whose melting accents creep
Like poisonous sweetness through my veins,
Hast lulled my memory to sleep,

And loosened so my bosom's chains,
That, were Rosalba here to stray
All beautiful as first she shone,

I could not turn my eyes away

To gaze on her, till thou wert gone.
Oh that I could, with neither loth,
Give this divided heart to both!"
""Be it so, then," the maiden cried.

The Garden of Silence.
'EVENING was dying, but seem'd loth to die;
Beams of the lingering sun, still shining on,
Languid and lulling as love's parting glance,
Shed light upon the beauty of the scene:
For all was beautiful, as all was still;
The breeze had sighed and fainted, and the leaves
Lay on the air in placid, sleek repose,
Smooth as a silken eyelash when asleep!
'From verdant slopes, in ambient decline,
Came foamless waters gradually down,
Stealing without a murmur, soft and slow,
As tears down beauty's cheek, but pure and bright
As virtue's smiles, meandering o'er stones
Worn white as ivory by their kiss, until

The vales beneath shone surfaced with their flow
In streaks of liquid silver; whilst, from out
Founts in which angels might have bathed their lips,
Gushed falls of fragrant fluid, sparkling so,
And gliding down so mutely, that they seemed
More like the melting of those lucent gems
Of which their vase was modelled, than the rich
Effusion of its waters.

'Here and there, Mid groves of cypresses and olive trees, The rose and lily were together twined, Like lovers in each other's arms, as if Beneath the shade they had embraced to die : The sun-flower, gazing on his god so long, Drooped down his head abashed, and gazed no more; The primrose, that at eve expands its leaf, Was loth to waken, and remained unopened ;All, all was motionless, the trees, the flowers, In deep serenity of sleep; but yet

So delicately, sensitively tranced,

A fairy's tongue had almost feared to speak,
Lest it should shake the foliage from their boughs,
Or breathe the blossoms from their stems:-a hymn,
A kiss from holy lips-the Muezzin's strair.
From Mecca's wall-the sigh of penitence-
The nightingale's sweet note-the lute's soft sound-
Even the voice of love had been untimely
In that all-slumbering hour!'

TALES OF A PHYSICIAN.

12mo.,

from which we shall make an extract, contains a striking account of the visits of Mr. Everton, the exemplary rector of the parish in which our physician resided, to a poor girl of the town who had come back to her native village to die; these visits, which had produced the most happy effects upon the feelings of the girl, gave rise to the following dialogue between two of his parishioners and a bustling, virtuous, church-going, heartless scandal-monger, called Mrs. Crowfoot:

A Lady.-Well, Mrs. Crowfoot, what news have you for us? is there any thing stirring abroad this morning?

'Mrs. C.-News, indeed! what novelty is likely to find its way to a dull village like ours, and to me, of all others of its inhabitants, who trouble myself so little with matters which do not concern me?

'Miss M.-True, Mrs. Crowfoot, your domestic concerns, if properly attended to, as doubtless they are, must pretty fully occupy your time, and leave you little to throw away upon the affairs of others.

'Mrs. C.-By the by, Miss Meadowcroft, I have seen your servant walking about very frequently with a gay-looking fellow of a sailor.

'Miss M.-Poor girl! I don't wonder at it; she must find the house of an old maid dull enough, and I cannot blame her for picking up a beau if she can. I can mistress has ever been. only say that the maid is more fortunate than her

'Mrs. C.-But this man is a loose character, I am quite persuaded: I saw him with her but an hour ago, at the coach-office, and the fellow took her round the neck as familiarly as possible, and kissed her pre

Tales of a Physician. By W. H. Harrison.
pp. 248. Jennings. London, 1829.
THERE is no class of society which, of late
years, has made more valuable contributions to lite-
rature, than our provincial physicians. The text
of their works has been, for the most part, some
professional theory or observation, but they
have generally contrived to illustrate remarks
which proved a general knowledge at least as ex-
tensive as falls to the lot of most professed litte-
rateurs and men of science. Those who are ac-
quainted with society in the great towns of Eng-viously to his getting on the mail.
land, well know that the favourable estimate
which we form of them from their publications is
not at all abated by personal intercourse. They
furnish, we will say it boldly, almost the only
specimens of the professional character which we
can regard without disgust. They are free from
the pedantry and esprit du corps of their own class
in the metropolis; from the insolent ignorance
and grossness of conversation which distinguish
a large proportion of the gentlemen of the bar;
from the petit maître pretension, or solemn dul-
ness, which, alas the day! is too sadly character-
istic of the body which once reckoned South and
Butler among its members. They correspond
more nearly than any other men to the curates
in the novels of the last century-a class which,
owing to the greater estrangement of the clergy
in general from their flocks, and the assimilation
of manners between those who still reside with
them to those of ordinary guests, has ceased to
exist. With a little dash of stiffness, just enough
to be in harmony with their powder, and to pre-
serve them a distinct caste, the provincial physi-
cians constitute by far the most enlightened and
enlightening men whom it is possible to encounter
any where out of the metropolis, or, except rarely,
in it.

'Miss M.-Happy girl! how I envy her!

Mrs. C.-Nay, madam, if you choose to wink at such gross improprieties on the part of your servant, I have certainly nothing to do with it; but I thought it proper that you should be informed of it.

That those who have given such proofs of the extent of their extensive acquirements and superiority of mind should not now and then have favoured us with the result of that experience of human nature which they must have gleaned during their visits to patients in such a variety of mental and bodily temperaments,-may well be regarded as a misfortune. A few, probably, have been deterred by extreme delicacy of feeling; a few, by a somewhat rigorous notion that their professional duties ought to leave them no time for such observations; and a few, from being materialists, and therefore incapable of perceiving any thing which was not the result of physical causes. But, as none of these restraints can operate upon the majority of this amiable and educated class, we trust they will soon add to our reasons of gratitude to them, that of having made us better acquainted with the habits and feelings of our fellow-men. The present volume is a fair beginning in this line, if it be really from the pen of a physician, and we welcome it with pleasure. The stories are not very striking in point of incident, but they are told in a pleasant style, and with great feeling. One of them, 'The Gossip,'

Miss M.-For which I am infinitely indebted to you, madam: but unless the "impropriety code" has Petticoats, I apprehend that a brother kissing his sister been very recently amended by the Imperial House of is no offence in law; for precisely in that relation do the sailor and my poor Patty stand to each other.

A Lady. So our rector's lady has presented him with a son?

5 Mrs. C.-Ah, poor woman!

A Lady.-Why, what is the matter? she is doing well, 1 hope.

Mrs. C.-For aught I know to the contrary, she is 'Miss M.-Then, whence your pity, Mrs. Crowfoot? 'Mrs. C.-Poor woman!

'Miss M:-Poor, indeed! Now I think she is about the wealthiest woman I know of; she is rich in beauty, rich in graces, christian, moral, and personal; rich in health, a very monopolizer of the love of all around her; and, finally, rich in one of the kindest, most benevolent, and talented husbands in the world.

'Mrs. C.-Talented he is, no doubt; at least, so people say; but I am no judge in such matters.

'Miss M.-The breath of calumny has never rested upon his character either as a Christian or a man. 'Mrs. C.- Ah, madam! we are all frail mortals a the best.

your

'Miss M.-The maxim, coming from a lady of experience, madam, cannot be doubted for a moment.

'Mrs. C.-A Christian minister too! Oh! I have heard a story of him that has made my heart ache. 'A Lady.-"Tis said, that, to unburden our bosoms fiction. of the cause of a heartache, is one remedy for its af

'Miss M.-A consolation which will not be wanting to Mrs. Crowfoot upon the present occasion.

'Mrs. C.-I would not for the world that what I am about to mention should be repeated; but you most of you remember that impudent hussy, Hannah Clover, who thought so much of a pretty face that brought her to ruin. Well, do you know, she has had the assurance to return to her native place, and is actually residing, under a feigned name, in the Dark House?

'Miss M.-Poor deluded girl! I do well remember her, and my heart bled for her at the time. Her mother died, and her father, who had been educated as became involved in difficulties. Some say he was hardly a gentleman, with ideas of expense above his means, used; so, to avoid a prison, he fled to a foreign land, and left poor Hannah virtually an orphan, upon the

wide world, without a friend to help her. But what has this to do with our worthy pastor? You do not mean to say that he led her astray, do you?

Mrs. C.-No, but I mean to say, that, several times since her return to the village, Mr. Everton has been seen entering that house, where no person who had a character to lose would venture. His horse has been seen tied to the door-post for hours together. What think you of that, madam?

'Miss M.-Think! why that it was ten chances to one the poor horse caught cold.

Mrs. C.-It may be well for you to jest upon the matter, but I assure you it is a fact.

'Miss M.-May I presume to inquire what evidence you have of it?

'Mrs. C.-I had it, madam, be assured, from good authority.

'Miss M.-Then I must crave leave to doubt; for that same good authority," to my certain knowledge, is a common liar.

'Mrs. C.-Well then, madam, if I must speak out, I have had the evidence of my own senses, I followed him down the lane in which the house is situated.

'Miss M.-I am heartily rejoiced to find that you tread so closely on the steps of your minister. 'Mrs. C.-Nay, but I saw him enter the door with my own eyes.

Miss M.-Then, madam, I devoutly wish that your own eyes had followed him into the house; for, if they had, I am persuaded we should have heard little or nothing from you upon the subject.

'Mrs. C.-I follow him into such an abode of vice and iniquity! Upon my word, madam, you appear to have an exalted opinion of me.

'Miss M.-Why, upon your own showing, you were at the door; and there is an ugly proverb against those who venture on the threshold of vice.

'Mrs. C.-But let me ask you, madam, what motive but one, and that an evil one, could Mr. Everton have in visiting a girl of so notoriously abandoned a character?

'Miss M.-I grant you, that he could have had but one evil motive, but he might have had many good ones; of which, I presume, I have your permission to choose any, or all; and, yielding to you the undisputed possession of the bad one, I wish you a good morning. One word, however, before we part. This is not the first nor the second company in which you have sported versions of this story, with the benefit of your charitable inference. I warn you against a further repetition of it. Whatever purpose led Mr. Everton to that poor girl's dwelling, I will stake my life it was a charitable one; and, believe me, madam, they who report it otherwise will repent it in shame and degradation.'

The conclusion is equally striking in another

way.

It happened, upon most occasions, that Mr. Everton visited Hannah alone, although he was more than once attended by Mr. Blandford or myself; but in one instance, unaccompanied by us, he went not alone; for a dark figure traced his steps, and glided after him unperceived into the sick one's apartment, where he retired into a recess, and the minister proceeded in his duty unobserved, as he thought, by any other eyes than those of God and the penitent.

'After some conversation, in which the seriousness and sincerity of his manner were not less conspicuous than its soothing kindness, he read, as usual, to her, from the Scriptures, and then knelt by her bed-side to pray. He concluded his devotional exercise with the Lord's prayer; and the "amen," which was pronounced at its close, was echoed in a voice hoarse and from some person in the room. dissonant, which appeared to Mr. Everton to proceed He turned his head, and beheld the dark figure of Black Barnabas kneeling beside him. "Ruthless man!" said the minister, "is not the chamber of death sacred from your intrusion? Stand up, and tell me wherefore you are come." Barnabas remained kneeling, but, crossing his arms upon his breast, exclaimed, "Pardon me, in that I so lately presumed to arrest the minister of God upon his errand of peace."

"Kneel not," was the reply, " to a fellow-sinner. May God Almighty forgive thee all thy sins as freely as I have long since forgiven thine offence to me! But rise, and I will teach you how to implore His forgiveness, which alone can avail you."

"Reverend sir," said the intruder, "I will not disguise from you that my object in following you into this chamber was the gratification of a curiosity ex

cited by your frequent, and to me mysterious, visits to this house. I have been a witness of your pious labours. Believe me, the word of God was not always strange to my ears, nor foreign to my lips; but calamity (undeserved of men, though well merited of Heaven), which should have chastened my spirit, hardened my heart, and made me what you see, an outcast of the world, and an alien from my God.

"When you commenced the Lord's prayer, recollections of other days came upon me; my heart melted, and, yielding to an impulse mysterious but irresistible, I sunk upon my knees by your side."

'He had scarcely finished speaking, when the curtains were suddenly thrown aside, and Hannah, starting up in the bed, and fixing her eyes upon Barnabas, exclaimed, with a shriek, " My father! my father!" and sunk back, in a state of insensibility, upon her pillow. Barnabas rushed to the bed, and, parting the black locks which hung over his brow, he cried out, My Hannah! my child!" and cast himself beside her. As soon as the father and daughter had recovered from the shock of this mutual recognition, Mr. Everton departed, promising to see them again on the following day.

When Mr. Everton made the promised repetition of his visit to the Dark House, he found Barnabas sitting by the side of his daughter's bed. "Sir," said he, rising, "Hannah has been telling me all that you have done for her; that you have led her out of the dark labyrinth in which sin had involved her, making peaceful her last moments, and giving her a blessed hope of everlasting rest in that world whither she feels she is hastening. In all my wanderings, the misery of remorse which I have endured has been more on her account than on my own. I felt myself a devoted being; that my ruin was certain; but I could not endure the thought of my child's perdition. She will now be taken from me, and the eye which hath not wept for many a day will shed tears upon her early grave; but they will not now be bitter tears. And all this, Sir, I owe to you, and for this I am your bounden slave."

""You owe it to God," said the clergyman; "and to Him, and not to the frail instrument of His power, give the glory."

'He then approached the bed, and saw that nature, which had held out so long, was giving way at last, and, turning to her father, he said, "I should wish the physician to see your daughter; my horse is at the door, mount him, and go instantly for Dr. ****, and, if you find him not, bring Mr. Blandford." Barnabas departed on the instant. The clergyman then took the hand of the suffering girl, and inquired how she was. She replied, "Sir, I feel that I am going at last; but, blessed be God Almighty, who hath taken me 'out of the mire and clay, and set my feet upon a rock,' the prospect of death is not a gloomy one. I am going to that blessed country, whither you have directed my way, for which you have the dying thanks of a sinful, but, I trust, not ungrateful heart. May God bless you, Sir,-nay, He will surely bless you;-may he bless the wife of your bosom, and the child of your hopes. Pray, Sir, if they come not before I go hence, convey my humble, yet deep acknowledgments to those kind gentlemen, whose attention to the diseases of my perishing frame has given me time to profit by your instructions and prayers, and to make my peace with Him whom I have so wickedly offended. One thing only presses on my spirit in the hour of its departure. Alas, my father! his life has been a wild and a fearful one! He will listen to your voice as to that of an angel from heaven. Oh, Sir! do for him what you have done for his once wretched daughter." The minister promised that his endeavours should not be wanting. "May the spirit of God," said the poor rest upon your holy labours! and then, though girl, we have been widely separated on earth, we shall meet again in heaven. But my breath is fast fleeting, and I would that it may depart from me in prayer.' Mr. Everton read some sentences from the Bible appropriate to the solemn occasion, and then prayed fervently. Poor Hannah followed him with her lips, but her voice was not heard. There was a sudden lighting up of her countenance, as she raised her head a little; and uttering, in a low but distinct tone, "Into thy hands I commend my spirit, for thou hast redeemed me, O Lord God of truth!" fell back upon her pillow, and spoke not again. On that instant, there was a noise from without like the approach of a multitude, and, on the next, a loud thundering at the outer door of the building, accompanied by a cry from many voices of "Bring forth the hypocrite!" Mr. Everton rushed to the window in front of the house, and,

throwing up the sash, demanded the meaning of the tumult. He soon discovered, from the expressions which fell from the mob, (composed of the very dregs of the people,) that he was the object of their attack, and that his alleged offence was his frequent visits to poor Hannah. He said, " My friends, what have you ever seen in the conduct of your minister, that you should suspect him of so horrible a crime?" His voice was rendered inaudible by cries of "Unbar the door, or we will pull the house about your ears!"

"There was a struggle in Everton's bosom between his natural courage, which would prompt him to resist unlawful violence, and a feeling that a christian minister should, to maintain the influence so essential to the usefulness of his character, not only be, but appear to be, virtuous; and that, therefore, something should be yielded even to the prejudices of his parishioners. He walked deliberately from the window, and throwing open the door, he exclaimed, pointing to the room of the poor penitent : "There! you would not hear the living: let the dead speak for me!" The foremost of the rabble rushed into the apartment, where they found upon the bed their minister's hat, an open Bible, and a corpse. This appeared to have wrought conviction on the majority of the multitude, for many of them slunk from the spot, as if ashamed of the disgraceful part they had acted; but there were some who still gathered about Mr. Everton, crying out, "The dead tell no tales," and were proceeding to offer violence to his person. One of them, more audacious than the rest, advanced, and laid his hand upon the collar of the clergyman, who, disengaging himself, without a blow, threw his assailant at a considerable distance from him; an action which proved the signal for a general attack. The noise, however, of the trampling of hoofs, and the immediate appearance of three horsemen, for a moment, arrested the attention of the mob. The foremost

of the three dashed his horse into the crowd, and, clearing the way up to the minister, cast himself from the saddle, and, with one blow of his fist, laid in the dust a ruffian who was in the act of striking Mr. Everton; another, and another, shared a similar fate. The rabble, whose numbers were somewhat thinned by desertion, now fell back as Mr. Blandford and myself rode up

to the scene of action. He who had dealt about him such effective blows now advanced to the mob, who were gathered into a body within a few yards of the house. He cast off the slouched hat, which had thrown a deeper shade upon his dark brow, and exclaimed, "What would ye with this just man? Look upon my countenance! there are many among you who cannot have forgotten me; nay, I see that ye have not. Yes; I am indeed the father of that poor girl who has been plucked from ruin by the minister of whom this day has proved ye are not worthy. You know well, that, lawless as I have been, I am not a man to wink at the dishonour of my daughter, still less to defend the partner of her shame. Hence then, to your homes, for the first of you that shall raise his hand against the innocent object of your cowardly attack, I swear shall never lift it again.'

The rabble, finding that they were altogether in the wrong, and fearing the arrival of the magistracy, soon dispersed; and the minister, mounting his horse, immediately rode home, whither he arrived, providentially, before the tidings of the outrage which had been committed upon him.

'The circumstance, however, was soon generally known, and was taken up with much spirit by the neighbouring gentry; and the Earl of R**** came over to the village, for the purpose of aiding in bringing the offenders to punishment, and tracing the evil report to its source, which latter object was not difficult of attainment.

'Mrs. Crowfoot, to whom the circumstance of Mr.

Everton's repeated visits to the Dark House had been casually mentioned, without a hint to his prejudice, and who, by her own confession, had taken the trouble on one occasion to follow him thither, had reasoned upon it after the manner of her tribe, and had published as a fact her own charitable inference on the subject. The respectable portion of those to whom the story was repeated, treated it with the contempt it deserved, and even the gossiping part of the cominunity stood too much in awe of Mr. Everton's character to give currency to the report; but it had reached the ears of the lower classes, of whom there are, in every town or village, many who are eager to catch at the alleged delinquencies of their superiors. Hence, then, a result which had nearly proved of serious injury to Mr. Everton.

The worthy minister, however, could not be prerailed upon to take any steps against the offending

party; but such and so general was the indignation excited against the authoress of so scandalous a report, that Mrs. Crowfoot was compelled to quit the neighbourhood.

'Black Barnabas, as he was called, in consideration of the active part he had taken in defending Mr. Everton from the attack of the rioters, was given to understand, that, if he were willing to abandon the lawless course of life he had hitherto pursued, his past offences against the revenue should not be remembered to his prejudice.'

THE HAMILTONIAN SYSTEM.

The History, Principles, Practice, and Results of the Hamiltonian System, &c. By J. Hamilton, author of The Hamiltonian System. Sowler. Manchester, 1829.

IN our last number we stated what we conceived to be the ultimate object of our ancestors in fixing upon language as the basis of education in our public schools. We now proceed, according to our promise, to examine whether the same object, viz., that of forming a manly character, is professed by Mr. Hamilton and the advocates of his system.

Strange as the assertion may sound, we are convinced that there never was a time when wise inen had more temptation to publish one set of doctrines for the use of the public, and to retain another for their own, than in the present day, when all men are jumping at the fruit of the tree of knowledge. While the number of the disciples continues small, and they live together in joy and singleness of heart, that philosopher is a mean secretive Ananias who will not consent to hold his thoughts in common-who will keep back any portion for his solitary indulgence. But when thousands are crowding into the ranks without any temptation but the hope of bettering themselves by sharing in the general spoil,swine who, lie knows right well, infinitely prefer their husks to his pearls, he is not to be accused of unpardonable selfishness, if he dispenses only among the crowd the less costly part of his viands, and keeps what is most strong and nourishing for the support of that life which is fainting, and well nigh perishing, under the heat, and pressure, and suffocation. And certainly, if there be any convictions of his mind of which he is at liberty to suppress the utterance, he may most lawfully conceal from the knowledge of the society around him that which refers to projects for its own improvement. For how the world may allow the possessor of ideas in which they are not partakers to go at large, because they consider his madness of a kind which will injure nobody but himself, most assuredly the moment they discover that he is busy with plots for disturbing their quietness, that moment will they call aloud for a dark room and a straightwaistcoat. Perhaps, therefore, he is reasonable, certainly he is pardonable, who, having in an honest and true heart projected such a scheme, points not to the ultimate end, which is ever present to his own imagination, but only to some of those more direct predicate consequences which the world may be able to discern with no stronger telescope, and may strive to reach with no loftier ambition, than its own. Suppose, then, Mr. Hamilton, having strongly present to his mind the

conviction that his mode of education will be the means of strengthening and forming a manly character, but knowing also that the world cares nothing for this object, cares nothing for character at all, except so far as it tends to bring a direct return of its own commodities, we should not now blame him if he had not put this substantively forward as the motive of his undertaking, but had simply announced his intention of teaching languages in the best possible mode, and had trusted for the accomplishment of his nobler end to the sure working of the principle which he had discovered and revealed. We rest nothing, therefore, upon the fact of Mr. Hamilton's mode alluded to, nor to the possibility of his system, or