'Adam,' said he, You alone have
been kind to me, and therefore, to
you I shall leave all that I have; it is
all in "THE CHEST IN THE CORNER;"
take it-keep it—and be happy. As
for me, forget that ever I was in the
world. I am going to a place where I
shall be as happy, as I have been des-
titute here: he sunk down on his pil-
low, and -"Adam could not get
out the next word--" And died," said
I.-"Yes," said the old man, resum-
ing more fortitude, "poor fellow, he's
gone!"-"Well," said I, my good
old friend, I am much obliged to you
for your story."-"Stop," said he,
"I have a favour to request, and that
is, that you will go down to Oliver's
hut with me to-morrow morning,
when, as it is Good Friday, you will
have a holiday."-" True,"
," said I,
Adam; and so to-morrow morning,
about nine o'clock, I will go with you
to your friend's hut."

66

66

66

were alarmed. The soldiers rushed in, all was noise and confusion. I felt then compunction for what I had done, and endeavoured to stop the slaughter, but in vain. At a distance I saw Ulysses, with his troops, making tremendous havock. As he approached me, instead of the Ithacensian hero, it was Adam Earnest. "Adam," said I, as he hobbled by me, sheathed in armour, with a tall plume in his helmet, "What is the matter with you?" He made no reply, but by a stern look, and flourishing his sword, exclaimed to his soldiers, "Be men, O Grecians, and revenge the blood of the great Achilles, and of the heroes who have fallen in the war." So saying, he passed by me, and mingled in the crowd. As soon as I left him, I met Paris, "Villain Paris," exclaimed I, “turn and meet your fate." So saying, I struck him a violent blow with my sword, and awoke from fictitious war to real tumult. My little dog, upon hearing me call Paris, which is his name, had

discharged a violent blow on his head
with my pipe, which immediately
broke to pieces, and set my little
fellow barking. I soothed him, turned
him into his kennel, and snatching up
my candle, which was almost burned
to the socket, made off to bed.
(To be continued.)

During our conversation, we had left the ruin, and had by this time nearly got to the town, and after a few minutes more, we arrived at my apart-put his paws on my knee, and I had ments. I entered, and invited the old man in with me: we walked into my little parlour: the fire was burning bright, my candle lighted on the table, and my little dog lying on the hearth. I desired Mrs. Mannil, my landlady, to procure some ale for the old man, which he soon drank, and left me to my cogitations. I had long since given over suppers; in lieu of which, I gene- ON THE SHADES OF DIFFERENCE IN THE rally read some passages out of a good author, and digested them with a whiff of tobacco. I lighted my pipe, and stretching out my hand to my book case, took down my Virgil, and began to read that part of the Second Book of the Eneid, where Eneas describes the sacking of Troy. I had been very much engaged during the former part of the day, and I rather apprehend that this was the cause, that very soon after I had sat down, I fell asleep, and dreamt that the following curious occurrence happened to me.

HUMAN CHARACTER.

MR. EDITOR.

SIR,-I should be much obliged if you would insert the following Essay in your entertaining Magazine.

I am, Sir, &c.

HENRY JOHNSTONE.

IN characters that bear the greatest resemblance to each other, the skilful eye can easily trace well-marked and distinct features of difference. Consider the human species where we will, I thought that the eventful night, of we shall always observe a peculiar which I had been reading, was return- cast of mind distinguishing every part ed, and that I was a principal actor of it. The similarity of occupations in those scenes; I descended the and interests, which consolidates a wooden fabric, which looked to me number of persons into one plan of more like a ship than a horse. I action, cannot, even though it conlighted my torch; and, sheathed in re- tinues to operate for a considerable fulgent_armour, rushed to the first period, entirely efface the impression house I saw, and set it on fire. set upon us at our births by the formThe flames rose, and the inhabitantsing hand of nature. Were we to asso

ciate two children from their tenderest | pre-direction of our faculties which we years, in a fellowship of amusements cannot control. and pursuits, and constantly endeavour to induce a belief that they were to remain thus united throughout, there would nevertheless, I am persuaded, be found in the physiognomy of their souls a very perceptible contrast, both as to colouring and formation. Look as narrowly as we may among our fellow creatures, we shall find none of them twins in every circumstance; there may be a general, but there cannot be a perfect similitude.

Premising thus then, it should seem, that to a certain extent singularity forms a part in the composition

Born with us, our companions in the cradle and in the nursery, they must continue unconquerably active, even to the conclusion of our sojourning on earth. Arbitrary habits cannot destroy them, nor the attacks of adversity shake them off: we may strive to flee them, but they will follow us as the shadow the body; we may use efforts to dispossess them of our bosoms, but they will maintain their empire till the frail fleshy coil is mingled with the original dust.

MR. EDITOR.

Poetry."

SIR,-You will oblige one of the readers of your Magazine, by inserting the following Remarks on a paper that appeared in the number for April, 1822, (col. 338,) entitled "An Essay on Modern Poetry."

of us all. Indeed, were it otherwise, Remarks on "An Essay on Modern a disgusting sameness would prevail in every link of the mental chain. We should proceed from century to century in the dull and confined walk of our ancestors, without once desiring to deviate from the beaten track with the daring step of originality. Genius would then be fettered in its exercise; the charms of novelty would fail to give it expansion; and the yet unattained summits of glory, be barren of attraction. Now, as every soul is formed in a mould, in some particular peculiar to itself, there is, by consequence, an ardent inclination to fathom the unfathomed, and exceed the unexceeded, always active.

There is a predisposing impulse in every human breast, that will eventually conduct, though many stumblingblocks should intervene, to the point of its decision. It is in vain to attempt to alter the work of the Supreme Architect, for though it be possible to ruin it, it is impossible to reform or better its constitution. Education, it has been said, may effect much, and this I have never doubted. It can afford to uninformed genius, instruction as to the best route of that journey it thirsts to commence, by setting before it the collected labour of ages, the glorious results of foregone wisdom, and the inestimable treasures handed down to posterity from the ancient world. It can doubtless marshal its ideas, and give them a regularity essential to success; but I deny that it can at all amend the previous bias of the mind. The powerful prepossessions which we so tenaciously cherish the as powerful antipathies which we cannot overcome-prove a

Your's, respectfully,

Bucks, May 3d, 1822.

SIGMA.

То

IN offering a few remarks on the spirited paper referred to above, I shall begin by observing that I agree in general with G. M. in his sentiments respecting poetry. The present race of poets stands justly chargeable with the literary crime of sacrificing every thing to effect, or rather to eclat. startle, surprise, and astonish,-to torture the feelings with violent language, monstrous characters, and distressing accidents, and to lead the reader on in breathless expectation, from one scene to another, to some disastrous conclusion, seems to be the object of the fashionable bard, rather than to create what is beautiful and abiding, and which, like the harmonies of nature, is ever the same, but always lovely. Our contemporary poetical authors produce in the minds of their readers, strong sensations, which are directly forgotten; like some popular preachers, who stoop to vulgar tricks to excite the feelings of their auditors, without that genuine eloquence which wins over the understanding, and persuades the will.

I agree with G. M. in thinking that it requires more thought and more imagination to make common objects

'Tis thus he rides; though not with mighty

pomp,

No pageant bears his hideous consequence,
Or vain parade forewarns of his approach.
No herald blasts the clarion's hoarser notes,
To tell on whom he feasts his appetite,
Or where the dreary carnage rages most!

*

*

*
'Tis thus he drives-tho' silent as the forms
Of fairy apparitions play upon

The heated fancy of the fev'rish brain,
At the lone hour of night's dim murkiness-
Or as the quiet shadow dances o'er
The silent lake, unknown, unnoticed!

#

*

*

*

He mounts his winged Pegasus of fate,
Wand'ring in foaming majesty his course,
Unaw'd and unrestrain'd from the brow serene
Of heav'n's high top to the dark cave below,
Where nightly prowls the fierce banditti
forth.

Disease in palid state stalks out to bear

My soul then sicken'd, and I lost the gem
That sooth'd my sorrow, and that check'd my
fear.

Ah! when I turn with retrospective view
To years, to days, to moments, that I dread,
That, wing'd with pleasure, ever gaily flew,
When pass'd with him I now lament as dead;
When refer to ev'ry sanguine wish
That fir'd our bosom with unfading joy,
The birds we snar'd, or caught the tangled
fish,

And each enjoyment of the raptur'd boy;
Sudden a tear, that childish may be deem'd,
Starts as a tribute to an early friend,
Whose breast with gen'rous feelings always
teem'd.

Like his, perhaps my voyage soon will end;
Shortly, when number'd with the hallow'd
dead,

Freed from its shackles, my blest soul shall

soar

To realms whence sorrow has for ever fled,
Where pangs of parting will be felt no more.
Pupil of sorrow, though in years but young,
Vers'd in this school, and burden'd by a load,
Long have I listen'd to the syren song
That anguish still continues to forebode.

I lost my father when an artless child,
Too young to feel his value or his loss,
My ardent soul was then as nature wild,
And blest if mounted on a wooden horse.
Perhaps some gambols had engag'd my
thought,

Some pleasing bauble, or some pastime dear,
When the sad news some messenger had
brought,

And the eye glisten'd with a tender tear.
Perhaps I still continu'd at my sport,
And still was happy as I was before,
Nor knew the meaning of the dread report,
That my dear Alfred would return no more.
Oh! could his spirit in my sight appear,
And the lov'd shade but bless me with a smile,

His gloomy train, and Death, tho' last, not I'd freely tell my little history here,
least,

And ev'ry sorrow in this world of guile;
That those I valued and esteem'd as dear,
Had feign'd their friehdship with the vilest
art,

That ere my youth had reach'd its sixteenth
year,

It stung me deeply, and transfix'd my heart.
"Tis clear that, as the circling years proceed,

Written on the loss of a Friend, who died of the And roll their course o'er man's devoted

Yellow Fever, in the Havanah.

WHAT means this sad despondency of mind,
These languid feelings and this drooping heart;
That all my hopes are now as light as wind;
And nought of sunshine to my breast impart ?
Nature around in gayest vesture smiles,
And yields her roses to the breathing air;
The birds are cheerful, and with artless wiles
Indulge their feelings, and avoid the snare.
Then should not I by sympathy partake
The joys that fill the songsters of the spring?
Ah no, the grief with which our bosoms ache
Too deeply fester and too quickly sting.
Yet once, but ah! that once is distant now,
Tis lost like years beyond the whelming flood,
Each festive pleasure did my breast endow,
Quicken'd my spirits, revel'd in my blood.
But soon the flowers that grow on fancy's
stem,

Droop by degrees with every added year;

head,

Our former pleasures we no longer heed,
And scenes once valu'd with indifference
tread.

In verdant groves and ever-blooming vales,
I've oft in childhood pass'd my happy hours,
Play'd in the woodlands, sported in the dales,
Lain on the herbage and the fragrant flow'rs;
But now the scene of beauty is decay'd,
Lost is the lively verdure of the trees,
The charms of nature in my senses fade,
And my soul sickens at the passing breeze.
Nor can the prospects darting on my sight
Cheer the dark night that shades my gloomy
breast,

Though once, alas! they could bestow de-
light,

And yield to life a never-ceasing zest.
When sorrows press upon my drooping soul
With native ardour to that bourn it tends,