The Margravine of Anspach, so long known not only to fashionables, but the public in general, as the presiding genius of Brandenburgh House, tells us, in her Memoirs, that she is a strict lover of truth,' and follows up this statement with an assertion that she held modesty in high esteem.' The woman that surrenders her chastity,' continues she, 'is universally despised.' This book is made up, for the most part, of stale apothegms, anecdotes which have repeatedly run the gauntlet of the periodical press (witness the story of Sheridan and his wine-merchant) and scraps of scandal, which as they have not the slightest shade of probability to recommend them, may, for ought we know to the contrary, be original. Her Serene Highness boasts almost as much of her style as her chastity; but such a tissue of vulgar slip-slop has seldom fallen under our observation. If her morals were no purer than her style, they must have been of a very unequivocal order. The following is one of innumerable samples of a similar character which might be extracted from her Memoirs. Having described the Marechal de Broglio as reduced to a proscription,' the titled Malaprop goes on to say :If my occupations and the clearness of my ideas produced delight to all who knew me, and became the cause of the comfort of both my husbands, and the primitive source of my common sense; I also considered that to these circumstances the method in which I was nursed contributed, in a great measare, to produce these original causes.

The impression which this book is calculated to create is, by no means, favourable to its pretensions of authenticity.

A Collection of French poetry is about to appear in volumes, under the title of 'Poets of the Nineteenth Century.'

Mr. Southey's vindication of his Book of Church, and Mr. Butler's vindication of his, are, we perceive, advertised for publication on the same day.

The Dwarf of Westerbourg, from the German, is nearly ready for publication.

We understand that Mr. John H. Brady, author of Varieties of Literature,' has made great progress in a work on The Derivation of the Names of the Principal Market Towns and Remarkable Villages in every County in England; with Notices of Local Antiquities, Historical and Topographical Anecdotes.'

Biblical Researches and Travels in Russia, including a Tour in the Crimea, and the Passage of the Caucasus; with Observations on the State of the Rabbinical Jews, the Mahomedans, and the Pagan Tribes, inhabiting the Southern Provinces of the Russian Empire, is announced by Dr. Henderson, author of A Residence in Ireland,' as being in the press.

Major Denham's African Travels are now expected to be among our early publications.

To Readers and Correspondents.

If the writer of the letter dated Tooley-street, who has assumed the initials of J. P. G., does not send an apology to the gentleman to whom the low stuff lately forwarded to the Editor of the Magnet would seem principally to refer, we shall take the liberty of addressing him a few words of wholesome advice in our next publication, which will, we rather apprehend, astonish him not a little; and as he has made so unceremonious a use of the name of an individual whose principal offence is his having contributed to our pages, we shall not only mention that of his reviler, but explain briefly the motives by which he appears to have been actuated. Had the services of this illuminatus' been retained for the Magnet, all would, no doubt, have been right. It will mortify him, we dare say, to learn, that since the work has fallen into the hands of its present proprietor (within these last two months), its circulation has increased in the proportion of nearly one half. The assertion which this person has made, that Mr. A. A. Watts has allowed us to insert articles in the Literary Magnet, intended for the Literary Souvenir, without the consent of the authors, is a malignant falsehood. But we shall return to our disappointed scribbler in our next, unless he adopts the course we have suggested in the outset of this notice.

We are really surprised that Mr. Richards should send us pieces as original which he cannot but be conscious he has either himself printed before, or has transcribed from other publications. Some time ago he favoured us with a beautiful copy of verses, which we had seen repeatedly in print with the name of the Rev. W. B. Clarke attached to them; and several sketches in prose which we have recently met with in various periodical publications; all of which he endeavoured to palm off upon us as original communications. This species of imposition is really very

unpardonable, since (unless an Editor has waded carefully through every periodical publication for the last five or six years) it is next to impossible that he should always discover the trick which has been put upon him. Another person has been at the pains of transcribing and paying the postage of a little apologue, entitled 'Rabbi Meir,' from a work just published, which he has sent us as an original communication. We did not meet with the book from which it has been extracted until after the article was in the types, which will account for its not appearing in the letter in which our extracts are usually printed.

Our Friend at Brasenose' shall hear from us in a few days; as also shall T. G. Will C. D. M. mention in his next communication where a note will find him? His beautiful lines, entitled the Farewell of Summer,' have been mislaid, or they would have appeared in our January number. We shall publish them in our next. The proposition of Q. Q. Q. has really amused us. We should be sorry to inflict his Cypress Leaves' upon our readers, even though he were to pay us twice the sum at which he has the modesty to estimate them.

6

We are confidently assured by a friend, that we were wrong in attributing the poetry in the Literary Gazette, under the signature of Iole, to L. E. L. It cer tainly bears no comparison, in point of merit, to the more successful productions of the gifted authoress of the Improvisatrice, although it is a successful imitation of some of her slighter pieces.

We ought to have mentioned that the poem from the pen of Mr. Bowles, in our first number, was written to form part of a series of hymns for the children of a school in his neighbourhood. This explanation is necessary, in order to account for the obvious simplicity of the language and ideas. It is not often that we see men of genius adapting their productions to the comprehensions of the youthful and the poor, from the abstract love of doing good. Yet this is the man whom Mr. Roscoe, and the people afflicted with the Pope mania, would accuse of falsehood, malignity, and the Lord knows what else beside.

We have to apologize to our readers for having been guilty of a very palpable, but unintentional plagiarism. The tale inserted in our last number, entitled Retribution,' has, we find, already appeared, with some alterations, in a highly popular annual volume. The manuscript, communicated by the author, was in our possession long before its publication in the work in question; but the blame rests with us, and not with him, for having printed it after so great a delay, without first communicating to him our intention. The best proof that we had no intention of deceiving our readers, is to be found in the great popularity of the volume in which the story made its debut. The amiable correspondent who signs himself J. P. G., and to whom we have already paid our respects, informs us, that the Scottish tradition in our last number, entitled "The Death Wrestle,' has also been printed before. We therefore admit our readers to the full benefit of the discovery, although the authority for it is not quite so good as that of the gentleman who sent it us.

The Lines on visiting Westminster Abbey,' in our next.

We commence this month a series of poetical' waifs and strays,' with the title of 'The Album.' The articles under this head will not profess to be always original; but where they are not, they will consist of such productions of modern poets as are little known to the public.

A few words on the admirable volumes, entitled 'Greece in 1825,' by Messieurs Emerson Humphries, and Count Pecchio, in our next.

The British Institution of the present season contains so little that has not been repeatedly exhibited elsewhere, and has already been so minutely criticised by the daily and weekly prints, that we have been induced to omit a long article furnished for our pages on this subject.

;

A correspondent asks why we give Leigh Hunt the preference over Joanna Baillie, in our announcement of our intended series of Essays on the Living Poets. To this we rejoin, we never meant the 'order' at which he cavils, to be an order of merit but simply one of chance or convenience. We may probably pay our respects to the last poet of the list in our next. The less invidious plan would, perhaps, have been to have taken them alphabetically.

THE

LITERARY MAGNET.

APRIL, 1826.

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE EXCURSION AND THE LYRICAL BALLADS.*

BY MRS. HEMANS.

I.

THINE is a strain to read among the hills,
The old and full of voices; by the source
Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills
The solitude with sound; for in its course
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.

II.

Or its pure spirit fitly may be taken

To the calm breast, in some sweet Garden's bowers,
Where summer winds each tree's low tones awaken,
And bud and bell with changes mark the hours;
There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day
Sinks with a golden and serene decay.

III.

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet,

When night hath hushed the woods with all their birds,
There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet
As antique music, linked with household words;
While in pleased murmurs Woman's lip might move,
And the raised eye of Childhood shine with Love.
IV.

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews

Brood silently o'er some lone burial ground,
Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse
A breath, a kindling, as of Spring, around,
From its own glow of Hope, and courage high,

And steadfast Faith's victorious constancy.

We have great pleasure in presenting to our readers this exquisite address to the Poet Wordsworth, with which we have been kindly favoured by its distinguished author. Those who are acquainted with Mr. W.'s writings, will readily feel and appreciate the truth and beauty of the tribute. ED. Lit. Mag.

V.

True Bard and Holy!-Thou art even as one
Who by some secret gift of soul or eye,
In every spot beneath the smiling sun,

Sees where the springs of living waters lie!

Thou mov'st through nature's realm, and touched by thee,
Clear healthful waves flow forth, to each glad wanderer free.

THE INFANT AND WATCH.

BY ALARIC A. WATTS.

I.

WHAT's Time to thee, my merry Boy,

That thus thou feign'st to mark his measure;
Thine infant hours are hours of joy,

And who would note the lapse of pleasure!
What recks it where he points his finger,
Morn, noon, or night's the same to thee;
With thee, dear babe, he scarce may linger,
Then give that golden toy to me!
II

As yet, thou canst not know its worth,
And idler-like, perchance may'st lose it;
Or, in some freak of boisterous mirth,
Some mischief-working mood misuse it!
What!-would'st thou ope Time's inmost shrine,
And gaze upon each secret spring!

Go to! Thou might'st not then divine
What stays his course, or speeds his wing!
III.

But let a few short years depart,

Of hope and fear, of joy and woe,—

And he will then, unasked, impart

Far more than 'twill be bliss to know!

The hidden springs that stir mankind,

That wring the heart, and rack the frame,

The Fury Passions' of the mind,

Thou dost not even know by name!

IV.

Long may'st thou be unwise as now,→
For who would learn the way to weep!-
Long sparkle thus that sunny brow,—
Those eyes their playful vigils keep!
Nay, struggle not, my merry Boy,
Time hath not aught to do with thee!
"Twere vain to count thy hours of joy;

Then yield that glittering toy to me!

MANCHESTER, March 16, 1826.

THERE is, perhaps, no period of life attended with so many interesting circumstances as that of leaving school; none, certainly, that is looked forward to with more impatient anxiety. We are then, indeed, about to take upon ourselves our share of the cares and anxieties of the world; we are then about to bid adieu to the scenes of our childish pastimes; perhaps to take a last farewell of some dear companion, whose future occupations will separate him from us for ever; and yet, freedom from the restraints of school, and the pleasure of being, in some respects, our own masters-the natural elasticity of the youthful mind, which care and sorrow cannot long depress; and novelty, the great charm of all mankind, the influence of which is at this age peculiarly strong;-combine to dispel the clouds of sadness, and to call forth the sunshine of mirth and happiness.

At this period, we have just closed one volume of the Book of Mankind, and though Memory may drop a tear of regret as it recalls departed moments of unalloyed delight, young Hope soon veils the past in shadow, spreads before us a smiling future, and, with magic power, imbues with the glowing tints of joy the anticipations of coming years. If such be not the case with mankind in general, it certainly was with me. I had received the elementary part of my education in a secluded country town. I was to finish it at Oxford. With what feelings of delight then did I find myself within a few miles of that far-famed University! I had been employed during the whole journey in one long day-dream, and though I was perfectly sure that a very few hours would unfold the reality of the objects of my musings, my restless imagination conjured up a thousand fantastic ideas, which, in many instances, afterwards proved to be most erroneous, mere airy nothings, having neither a local habitation nor a name.' We drew near to the end of our ourney,

Tandem Tritonida arcem

Ingeniis opibusque et festâ pace virentem.

Oxford is situated in a valley in the midst of the richest meadow-lands, and nearly surrounded by hills, partly wooded and partly cultivated, to the distance of about two miles. The silvery streams of Isis and Cherwell pursue their winding way through this classic soil, and vegetation seems to flourish without the walls of Alma Mater as much as learning does within. As the coach rolled over the top of Headington-hill, a multitude of spires, pinnacles, and towers, arose upon my view in poetical confusion, and set off by the full-grown trees interspersed throughout the scene, raised my expectations to a very exalted pitch. They were however more than equalled on our approaching the High-street, which some of our tourists, have, I think denominated the finest street in the world; if there is a finer one, it must, indeed, be magnificent. The tower of Magdalen College, 'plain in its neatness,' just beyond the elegant bridge to which it gives name, affords a remarkably strong illustration of the argument that the beauties of graceful proportion far surpass any thing which the most splendid ornaments could produce without it. From this point the street rises gently towards its farther extremity, and, forming a gradual curve, presents, as you advance, a successive and unexpected