small, and all that he had ever realised by trade hav-cution is as good as ordered; for already, hear the trum- prisoner's counsel, Mr Mantrap, I see the finger of ing been spent in works of religion and charity. In pets! Hark! how they bray forth the dread approach heaven in this trial: the question you have so admirably, London, he took an active share in the business of the of Baron Sus-per-coll! so pithily put to the witness, was at the very moment evangelical societies, and in the dissemination of re- The Baron, unlike many men of worldly fame, deserved passing through my brain.' Still, the witness scratched his head: when the judge, turning from him with someligious knowledge. He started a penny religious his reputation. To hang was with him not so much a monthly magazine for children, entitled the "Teach-duty as a passion. Early in life he had been possessed thing like a contemptuous glance, said to the jury, "Genwith the solemn impulse: when at school, all his pocket- tlemen, the prisoner must be discharged: there is no ers' Offering," of which, in a short time, between money was expended to purchase dogs and cats, to be case.' The late prisoner readily taking the judge at his forty and fifty thousand were sold. "This astotreated according to his early principles of justice; in word, was for running out of the dock, when he was nishing circulation the publisher rather boastingly familiar phrase, hanged. His tree of social liberty was solemnly addressed by Mr Baron Sus-per-coll. Christoannounced on the cover. On reading it," says Mr the tree that grew at Tyburn; the Gordian knot of policy, pher Snub, you have had a most fortunate escape: Campbell, "I went to him, and pointing to the ad- a nice new hempen halter. The black cap was the cap whether or not you stole this good man's ducks, is the vertisement, said, 'There is a stick you have made to he would have always worn; he never felt so easy, warm, inscrutable secret of your own breast. However this may break your own head (for he was proprietor-I was and truly comfortable, as when it graced his head. He be, you owe the deepest debt of obligation to the wisdom, only editor); and notice what I say before six months could have gone to bed in it. Strange it was, that the the forethought, the admirable sagacity of your counsel. elapse there will be six new penny magazines for cap, like the hidden spring in some garden statues, no It might have gone far otherwise with you: and when I children.' Exactly that number started before the sooner touched the Baron, than it drew water down his consider the frequency of these attacks upon the sanctity six months expired. So many competitors coming cheeks: though seemingly only a piece of stone before, of private property-when I feel the imperative call of into the market, of course clipped our wings consider- Baron Sus-per-coll played from the bench on the pri- society for some example, it becomes my painful duty' ably; but a very respectable number of subscribers soner in the dock a very fountain of sympathy. He never and at these words Baron Sus-per-coll, by the mere force hanged but he cried; and, as he never lost an opportu- of custom, began to weep-to implore you to make the continued for years." nity of hanging, we may conclude that, like ladies in most of the time allotted to you; to intreat you to lay hysterics, crying did him a world of good. The end of aside all earthly hope, and to trust only for-eh ?-oh! poor Baron Sus-per-coll-for he died (for a judge) at the-ha! bless me, I'd forgot!'-and the baron hastily dried untimely age of eighty-four, and really in the full pos- his streaming eyes, remembering that Christopher was session of all the faculties left him-was hastened by his not to be executed, but discharged. In an instant, all aqueous feelings. He had passed sentence on a miscreant, the native terrors of the judge returned, and, in a voice of a famishing weaver, who had stolen a dish of giblets from thunder, Baron Sus-per-coll exclaimed to Snub, Fellow a poulterer's, and the Baron had wept exceedingly. you have had a narrow escape; don't come here again!'" Unfortunately, he had come on the circuit with a new servant, and the domestic had failed to dry his lordship's ermine for the next day's business. The robe was, as usual, drenched with tears; it was the winter circuit, and the damp struck to the Baron's chest. It was plain that he was about to depart for a world which he had done all in his judicial power to render populous. Still, he rallied nobly; but happening, in the same circuit, to have a maiden assize, the unexpected blow concluded the work. With a sickly, mortal smile, Baron Sus-per-coll received the white gloves, and immediately took to his bed. For an hour or two before his death, his senses wandered; for he insisted upon having the black cap brought to his bedside, then put it upon his head, sat bolt upright, and commenced, in the most pathetic terms, passing sentence upon himself. He first began by condemning himself as an old and hardened offender; congratulated himself that he had been tried by an inthat he himself would be hanged, for he was a pest, a flexible and enlightened jury; congratulated the country blot, an ulcer to society; and then conjured himself to make the most of the time that remained to him, forbidding himself to hope for the least mercy in this world, but to trust only to the mercy of the next. He then, wiping his eyes very often with the sheet, said, that nothing more remained to himself but to pass sentence upon himself; that the sentence was, that he should be taken to whence he came, and hanged by the neck until he was dead. And Mr Baron Sus-per-coll,' these were the Baron's last delirious words, may the Lord have mercy on your soul! Saying this, the judge laid himhead, died! To our story. In 1812, the London Missionary Society found it necessary to send a person of experience and high character to superintend their mission in South Africa, in place of Dr Vanderkemp, recently deceased. The society pitched upon Mr Campbell, who was now arrived at a mature period of life, but still possessed of all his early activity. With the concurrence of his fleck, he proceeded to the Cape of Good Hope, and entered upon an arduous range of duties, in the course of which he traversed vast and pathless regions, where no European had ever been before; often in danger from wild beasts, savages, and lack of physical necessaries, yet never for a moment losing spirit, or slackening in his efforts to accomplish the ends of his mission. It is impossible to read even an outline of the doings and sufferings of John Campbell in Africa, without feeling, with great force, how wretched is all the greatness achieved in the ordinary ways of the world, compared with that which arises from pure well-doing towards God and man. His exertions to extend the gospel in this region were attended with a success which must be immediately traced to his singular sagacity and energy. After a stay of about eighteen months, he returned home; but in 1818, he was sent a second time to the same country, on which occasion he was also absent about two years. The volumes in which he afterwards detailed his proceedings in Africa made a deep impression on the public mind; and he was ever after, to use a common phrase, alion at all public meetings for religious objects, and wherever he pleased to preach. His biographer mentions, that the African sun had added considerably to the natural darkness of his complexion. In the course of a speech at Liverpool, "he acted as well as told the surprise of the Hottentots when they first saw in him a white man! The joke was irresistible. We all langhed outright, and he joined us heartily, turning itself upon his pillow, and, the black cap still upon his off by saying, 'I have long dwelt in tents of Kedar." It was not till this latter part of his life that Mr Campbell thought of taking to himself a wife: it is pleasant to record, that the step added to his happiness. As old age drew on, he itinerated less; but still, wherever he went, he was the delight of all who met him in private, and an unfailing attraction to the muit-itude. After a brief period of decline, Mr Campbell died tranquilly on the 4th of April 1840, aged seventy-four, leaving behind him a name as free from reproach, and as deserving of honour, as that of any man, we seriously believe, who lived in his own time.* CHRISTOPHER SNUB. [From Douglas Jerrold's "Cakes and Ale."] CHRISTOPHER was an unlucky varlet who got into all sorts of mischief, and at length was taken up on a false charge of duck-stealing, the real perpetrator being a companion, who had fled. "It was particularly fortunate for Christopher that the assizes were near at hand: we say fortunate, for he was spared a dull, heavy season of doubt; and as he was charged with an atrocious offence, with a crime rendered more iniquitous by the late frequency of its commission, Snub was in that post of danger occupied at times by a culprit who is to be manufactured into an example. To steal a certain number of ducks is, it must be allowed, a wrong done to society; but to commit the theft after many other like robberies by other folks, is, it would seem, a still greater wrong: hence, when six pickers and stealers of ducks are merely transported, the seventh robber of the like domestic fowl shall be hanged. If it be asked, wherefore, the philosophy of the law answers -Because the thief came late into the field: had he been only the sixth robber, he had been a transported felon; being the seventh, he must be a throttled example. Now, Christopher Snub was at least the seventh. It was clear that he was born to be hanged-that is, born for an example. Still, Christopher had a chance of escape. The great point of danger to be considered by himself and friends, was, not the wickedness of the culprit, but the judge who was to try him. If Justice Butter, a short imprisonment and whipping might be the worst, if, on the other hand, Mr Baron Sus-per-coll, then was Christopher Snub no better than an example-that is, a dead thief. Luckless Christopher! To be sure thou wilt but fulfil thy destiny; thou wert born to be hanged, and thy exe The stolen ducks, or rather the heads of some of them, The trial of the prisoner approached. Kit was placed face assumed the most solemn aspect; and the silent Christopher, as the writer observes, was dismissed "with the bloom of the county jail on his name ;" and, like other unhappy beings in like circumstances, was rendered an outcast of society. LITERARY FUND DINNER. THIS festival, which, according to annual custom, took place on the 11th of May, is described in an interesting manner in the following column from the Inverness Courier:-"We had yesterday a great field day with nobles and authors, poets and their patrons, and all that numerous class of titled and illustrious personages who court distinction among the admirers of genius. Prince Albert had consented to preside at the annual festival of the Literary Fund Society, and great was the stir in Freemason's Tavern. The attendance was nearly four hundred. The room in which the dinner took place is large and splendid, finely lighted with chandeliers, and on this occasion its galleries were graced with a number taken their seats. Campbell, the poet, and Sergeant of ladies. Before six o'clock, most of the company had Talfourd, were among the first of the stewards that joined the party, and they kept together during the evening. The former, though enjoying general good health, is evidently much touched by time and infirmity: his eye retains traces of that keen sensibility and mental energy characteristic of the poet; but his step and frame speak plainly of the ravages of threescore and four years. Talfourd is an active bustling man. About half-past six, Prince Albert, accompanied by a party of friends, entered the room. The individual next in popularity to the Prince seemed to be Tom Moore; and the moment that his bald and shining head and sparkling features were recognised, the cheers burst forth from all parts of the hall. He is an exceedingly little man, grey haired but fresh-coloured and lively, enjoying, apparently, like Falstaff, a latter spring. He has an appearance of restless and inexhaustible vivacity; and when, in the course of the evening, one of his own beautiful melodies was sung, the following verse was so like the man, and might be applied to him with such felicity and truth, that every person turned towards him with a glow of satisfaction and pleasure: 'Though haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine, The snow-fall of time may be stealing, what then? Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine, We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again.' Hallam, the historian, and Washington Irving, the American writer, were also greeted with a cordial welcome. Both are simple unaffected-looking men, the accomplished American being not unlike a respectable farmer or a plain stout gentleman,' in a brown wig, averse to all parade and display. When the great business of dining was over, the prince gave the health of the queen, adding a few words as to the interest her majesty took in the institution. Then followed an appropriate air from the band, after which was the national anthem. The speechifying was on the whole but so-so. Many of the orators were indifferently heard, and when they did reach the ear, their observations were often common. place, and destitute of all appearance of preparation. The following is a verbatim report of the terms in which Prince Albert gave the toast of the evening: The toast I am now to propose is 'prosperity to this institution.' It stands unrivalled in any country and ought to command our warmest sympathies in providing for the exigencies of those who, feeling only the promptings of genius, and forgetting every other consideration, pursue the grand career of the cultivation of the human mind, and the promotion of the arts and sciences. It is surely proper gratefully to remember the benefits we have derived from the disinterested exertions of these great and good men, and cheerfully to contribute to their want and aid their necessity. I conclude with a warm wish that the object, for the promotion of which we have met, may be answered in the most ample and generous manner. I propose, Prosperity to the Literary Fund.' (Cheers.) This little speech was well delivered: the prince had plucked up courage; his manner seems always calm and subdued, but his voice was now bold and clear, and singularly harmonious. Campbell proposed the health of Henry Hallam and the historians in a liberal and manly little speech, in which he said that Hallam stood at the the historian was inaudible to all but about a dozen head of English historical literature. In returning thanks, people around him. Moore was rather better heard: his health was proposed by Lord Mahon in a flowery yet effective address. The poet's reply was short, and as hisback was turned to the great body of the audience, it lost much of its effect. There were traces of his brilliant fancy in the few observations he offered; and the following passage is as completely Moore-ish as any of the Irish Melodies: • There is one reflection which cannot but arise on such an occasion, and that is, how few have been the instances, in all times and climes, of that rara avis in terris, a rich poet. Poet and rich! 'tis solecism extreme!' So sung Shenstone, the bard of the Leasowes, who was yet himself more opulent than most of his fellows; who could boast of his hills white over with sheep,' and his banks all furnished with bees; while bards in general have quite as little to do with banks of bees as they have, God help them, with any sort of banks whatever. Of course, under the head of poets' I rank all great workers in the world of imagination, whether the medium through which their wonders shine upon us be prose or verse; and we have had, in our own time, one illustrious instance, where wealth seemed to spring up under the steps of the enchanter as rapidly as the successive miracles of his own matchless genius. But, alas! not even here has there been exemption from the common lot. The works themselves are for all time; but that structure of wealth which they called up, and which seemed to rise higher and higher at each new spell of the magician, has even already, I fear, vanished; adding one more to the many fulfilments of that beautiful but melancholy presage, that Where such fairies once have danced, no grass will ever grow." How true, and at the same time touching, is this allubeen all his life a hard-working litterateur. Like Dogberry, he has had his losses' and his full share of the cares of the world; but his happy temperament has enabled him to bear them all with equanimity, and his poetical fancy still flows on in light and sunshine. Sergeant Talfourd spoke at some length on the subject of the drama; but it was so rapidly, and in so high a tone, that few understood what he said, and the reporters, I see, have made no attempt to transfer his golden thoughts' to their folio of four pages. The Marquis of Lansdowne was the most rhetorical and distinct of the speakers; and the feeling manner in which he alluded to the distresses of authors and the calamities incident to genius, was loudly applauded. Two of the queerest speeches were delivered by Chevalier Bunsen, the Prussian ambassador, and Baron Brunow, the Russian ambassador. The sentiments they delivered were just and liberal, but their broken English, their foreign manner and gesticulation, were so different from those around them, that it was scarcely possible not to feel ludicrous associations, or to preserve a becoming gravity. The only other person to whom the anxiety of the meeting was much turned was Washington Irving. So popular are the writings of this gentleman, and so admirably has he drawn the traits of old English character and feelings in his Sketch-book, that he is regarded by most readers with a sort of affectionate attachment, as if he were personally identified with all that is amiable, interesting, and venerable, in our national character and rural tastes. He revived the style of Addison-its higher graces, sportive gaiety, and tenderness; but added a dash of romantic feeling, derived from sympathy with the rude but eloquent tribes of Indians, the huge primeval forests, and wild traditions of his native country. When Mr Irving rose, there was an immense clapping of hands and waving of handkerchiefs. He simply, in a few words, returned thanks. There is little else to record excepting that about eleven hundred pounds were subscribed to the funds of the society, including a donation of a hundred pounds each from Prince Albert and the King of Prussia. The decayed authors may now rejoice in the eclat which has attended the anniversary of the society, since it will tend to mitigate some of those numerous ills to which they are peculiarly subject from the caprice of the public or the unavoidable reverses of fortune. The various subscriptions were read aloud by the secretary; and there was a titter round the room when he announced that the Archbishop of Dublin had assigned to them a per centage on the profits of his works. As the reverend author's calculations of these anticipated profits might sion to the fate of Sir Walter Scott! Moore himself has poor be like Parson Adams's estimate of the value of his sermons (of which he reckoned every parish in England would buy a copy), the bequest was considered a very doubtful one. The archbishop, however, is an able philosophical writer, and his works are of high value. He is a fine jolly-looking churchman, and on this occasion he returned thanks for the Church in a plain and sensible speech. About half-past eleven o'clock Prince Albert took his leave, and immediately the whole party broke up, and a scrambling for hats, great-coats, &c., took place in the ante-room, in the midst of which the bustling anxiety and shrill tone of Mr Moore -half hid among big crowding men, and faithfully attended by his friend, Washington Irving, who had no American scruples as to the right of search'-were ludicrously conspicuous. The poet was about the last to quit the place; and then, to use his own words, the banquet hall was deserted.' The glittering pageant had melted into thin air, but its effects will be felt not only, as Mr Campbell eloquently remarked, as a token of amity between the sceptre and the free press of England,' but in soothing the distresses of those literary veterans who may be struggling with difficulty and distress." [We observe, from an advertisement, that the committee of the Literary Fund Society has, up till the present time, distributed the sum of L.27.828 in 1985 grants to distressed authors, their widows and orphans.] THE MANSIONS OF PARIS. It was common in those times for many of the best and most splendid mansions in Paris to be divided amongst all the classes of society, though the arrangement of the tenants, indeed, was very different from that which existed in the social world. Lowest of all, we are told, except the rats and bottles that occupied the cellars, generally lived the proprietor of the house. He might be some avaricious or some decayed nobleman, whose health, purse, or inclination, rendered him unwilling to climb even a single flight of stairs. Then came the gay, the luxurious, the fashionable, the man of the court and of society, inhabiting the wide and lofty rooms of the first floor. The entresol above gave accommodation to the smart young secretary of some public office, some foreign baron, or some of the numerous counts and princes that swarm in Germany and Italian courts. The second floor received the respectable merchant, or banker, who had his offices and business in another part of the city; the widow lady, possessing affluence but not riches; and all that numerous class, by no means the least happy or the least estimable, who are known by the name of very respectable persons. Above that, again, on the third, came the highest grade of men of letters, the academician, the celebrated professor, the philosopher in vogue, the great artist. On the fourth, for there was a fourth, ay, reader, and a fifth and a sixth also-were people still at ease, and possessing all the necessaries of life, but possessing them not only with the slight inconvenience of daily climbing up long flights of stairs, but often with serious anxiety of providing for children for whom fortune had assigned no fund but the labour of a parent. Above these, again, came the poor artist, struggling forward with zeal and industry to make his merit known. The deep-thinking man of science, the result of whose investigations made or saved the fortunes of thousands, without giving him a sous; the moralist, the teacher, the man of letters, who disdained to pander to the bad taste of a licentious public, or to employ the arts of the quack to gain fame, or wealth, or honours. Above these, again, was want, misery, and destitution, the never-ceasing toil of all the various artists and artisans, the productions of whose hands ornamented the palace, the church, and the saloon-such men, in short, as our filigree-worker-who were brought too closely in contact with the dwellings of wealth, luxury, and vice, not to feel an additional pang amidst all the miseries of their own station, and to murmur at that social arrangement which allotted to them the whole of the dark side of life, and gave to beings often less worthy all that was bright and sunshiny. The vices of the higher class of the Parisian people, their intemperance, their debauchery, their infidelity, their contemptible frivolity, were all indulged, enacted, and displayed under the very same roofs where dwelt misery, penury, and labour; and yet they wondered that there came a revolution!-- The Ancient Regime, by G. P. R. James. FOSSIL PLANTS. Fossil wood, fossil leaves, fossil bones, and fossil infusoria-all these things we have long heard about; but M. Goeppert, who, being a botanist, naturally seeks for flowers, has had the rare good fortune to detect the blossoms of the world before the flood. This is true to the very letter; he has gathered him a bouquet of these more than patriarchal flowers; he has seen their buds, their corollas, their propagation; nay, he has gone near to perceive their perfumes. And much more than all this: M. Goeppert has set himself to detect the mode in which nature has so wrought as to turn these most delicate of all substances into stone; thus perpetuating that which a breath of wind is sufficient to destroy, and moulding into a geological specimen what a finger's touch will fade. So patient, so sagacious is he, that he has caught the secret of this mechanism, and thus enables us to discern the transformation of the temporal to the eternal, and the metamorphosis of what is fragile into what is durable; he has actually made fossil plants! This is the man who might be expected to enter a drawing-room wearing a fossil rose like a badge in his buttonhole; and if ever such an order of savans be instituted, M. Goeppert is the person to be made its president. Let us cast a glance on the apartment where our Breslau professor passes many hours in meditation. There are 236 fragments of transition rocks, such as we tread upon in the Ardennes and on the banks of the Meuse; 1548 pieces of coal, similar to what you would burn any day and perceive nothing remarkable in; 35 blocks of variegated freestone, of the same kind as served to build the cathedral of Strasburg, and those churches in Mayence where M. Victor Hugo could see nothing but plaster-of-Paris monuments; 122 specimens of lias from the coasts of Britain, in which English ladies have detected real antediluvian monsters; 242 heaps of green sandstone and of chalk; 742 portions of lignite and of turf; and 259 of those small flat slabs which, on the banks of the Rhine, are employed for the purpose, when put into the hogsheads, of giving fresh spirit to wine which is a century old. Such is M. Goep pert's museum. In the coal of Silesia and of other countries, M. Goeppert has discovered and obtained several plants still flexible, and which admitted of his dissecting their epidermis and organs of evaporation; and he has thus been enabled to ascertain how subterranean combustion has destroyed the tissue in other plants found in the same formation. He detected, in the Keuper formation, the branches of a tree analogous to the birch, on which the flowers and pollen were still perfectly preserved; and some fir-trees presented him with a similar phenomena. It is well known that in the north of Europe there occasionally falls from the skies an enormous quantity of a yellow powder, which was once supposed to be sulphur, but which savans have pronounced to be the pollen of the fir-blossom. Now, in Westerwald, Finland, Bohemia, and even in New York, this floral substance has been discovered in such great quantities deposited between layers of earth, and mingled with fossil infusoria, that M. Goeppert is enabled to pronounce that the antediluvian world must have also possessed its enormous forests of gigantic pines, whose yellow dust could not but obscure in its fall the light of day, since the masses of it are so thick and close pressed as even to raise the soil many feet. We have already said that M. Goeppert makes fossil plants; and to prove how fossilisation has actually taken place, this ingenious man so works with clay, fire, and water, on a given plant (and chiefly with the ferns, those vegetables of which the geological productions of our globe present the most perfect specimens), that he produces in the course of one year, by this moist process, such samples, and so admirably imitated, that even a connoisseur, if not forewarned of the deception, might mistake them for genuine fossils. Antiquaries, we know, will sometimes manufacture fictitious medals; at Baix, the poorest blacksmith sells his yesterday's productions for Roman antiquities; art may imitate art, but imitation must have reached its utmost perfection when it can simulate antediluvian nature. In the cabinets of the curious we often see flies and other insects enclosed in amber. M. Goeppert has examined the amber of various lands, and has detected not only animals, but mosses, fungi, hepaticæ, ferns, flowers, and fruit, imbedded in it; and on these flowers the minutest organ is preserved, as in a mummy balm; nay, he has actually discerned those microscopic hairs which adorn the velvety substance of flowers similar to those of our heartsease.-French Newspaper. CITIZENS ENNOBLED, &C. The following notice of citizens who have been en nobled will probably be considered interesting at the present moment. John Coventry was an opulent mercer descended the present Earl of Coventry. Sir Stephen of the city of London, and mayor in 1425. From him is Brown, mayor in 1438, and again in 1448, was a grocer, and gave to us another peer, in the person of Sir Anthony Brown, created Viscount Montague by Philip and Mary in 1554. The Legges rose to be Earls of Dartmouth. The gallant sea officer George Legge was the first who was nobilitated, created Earl of Dartmouth in 1682. He was descended from one who was Lord Mayor of Lon don in 1347, and in 1354 having, by his industry as a skinner, attained to great wealth. Sir Geoffrey Bullen, mayor in 1458, was grandfather to Thomas, Earl of Wiltshire, father of Anne Bullen, and grandfather to Queen Elizabeth, the highest genealogical honour the city ever Campden; he was a mercer. The Capels, Earls of Essex, possessed. Sir Baptist Hicks was created Viscount are descended from Sir William Capel, draper; he was Lord Mayor in 1503. Edward Osborne, cloth-worker, was Lord Mayor in 1502; he gave origin to the Dukes of Leeds. From Sir William Craven, merchant tailor, Mayor in 1661, sprung the Earl Craven. Lord Viscount Dudley and Ward is descended from William Ward, a wealthy goldsmith of London, and jeweller to Henrietta Maria, Queen of Charles I.-Newspaper paragraph. NOBLE BANKERS. Apropos of Coutts and the Duchess of St Albans, it should be added, that, a short time ago, two of the richest bankers in London were peeresses; the Duchess, namely, and the Countess of Jersey, who, as the heiress ladies were at one time said to be in the habit of paying of Josiah, is still the principal partner at Child's. Both periodical visits to their respective establishments, and to have been distinguished by the affability and good sense with which they sustained their positions, inspected the books, and entered into general details. But this report was true, and that in part only, of the late Duchess of St Albans. Her grace was certainly fond of showing herself at the bank in the Strand, and peering questions at the partners and clerks, with whom she was no favourite, being, in truth, somewhat of a bore. Lady Jersey, as the representative of Sir Josiah Child's interest, only attends the bank once a-year, when the accounts are balanced and the profits struck. On this occasion the partners dine together at the bank, and the countess, as the principal partner, takes the head of the table.-Hardcastle's Banks and Bankers. LENGTH OF DAYS. At St At Berlin and London, the longest day has sixteen and a half hours. At Stockholm and Upsal, the longest has eighteen and a-half hours, and the shortest five and ahalf. At Hamburg, Dantzic, and Stettin, the longest day has seventeen hours, and the shortest seven. Petersburg and Tobolsk, the longest has nineteen, and the shortest five hours. At Torneo in Finland, the longest day has twenty-one hours and a-half, and the shortest two and a half. At Waudorbus, in Norway, the day lasts from the 21st of May to the 22d of July, without interruption; and in Spitzbergen, the longest lasts three months and a half.—Newspaper paragraph. DINBURGA CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, EDITORS OF "CHAMBERS'S INFORMATION FOR THE PEOPLE," "CHAMBERS'S EDUCATIONAL COURSE," &c. NUMBER 545. APPROBATION. To obtain praise, distinction, eclat, in some of their many forms, is unquestionably one of the most prevalent motives of human action, although, in the judgment of the moralist, a secondary one. Undoubtedly, while the value of higher motives may be fully acknowledged, this one has not been created without a wise and good purpose. At least, we may see very clearly that it daily and hourly acts beneficially, where, apparently, no higher motive would operate at all. It is, besides, one of the strongest of the social impulses, helping to make men mutually dependent, and to excite their affections towards each other. I am afraid it would be rather an unamiable world, albeit a virtuous one, where no one courted or cared for the good opinion of his neighbour. It is necessary, however, to discriminate, by nice and rigid limits, the legitimate sphere of praise in the social scene. To be animated in all doings and sayings, all outgoings and incomings, merely by a calculation of the effect which each movement will have in securing the approbation of mortal men, would be deplorable. The conduct of any one so animated would be utter hollowness and imitation; and in the garden of his mind the hardy plants of sterling integrity and honour, to speak of nothing else, would find not one particle of congenial soil. It is even necessary to be able to act, not only without any view to the praise of men, but with the deliberate expectation of exciting their suspicion and disapprobation-for many occasions arise in life where we only can act well incurring these disadvantages. The difficulty is to know when, and how far, acting under the influence of love of approbation is allowable, and to distinguish the proper occasions when higher principle demands that that object be thrown aside. We often see individuals acting in such a way as to excite derision and blame, in matters perfectly indifferent - martyring themselves, in short, for a caprice or a chimera. Or they are so anxious to avoid the appearance of caring for the good opinion of their fellow-creatures, that they habitually, in all things, important and unimportant, take some absurd way of their own, merely because it is their own. These are follies which the considerate man holds at a distance from him. On the other hand, those who act too exclusively for praise are equally liable to both censure and ridicule. There is, in the first place, the fawning and fussy manner, the too much bowing, and smiling, and wringing of the hands, the over-eagerness to give satisfaction-all conveying the impression of a want of manliness, natural dignity, and independence. Then there is the utter inability of such a person to face any matter of principle that is unpopular, or perhaps that has popular support only. The perfection of conduct in this respect would be to entertain a moderate wish to stand well with the world, and to act generally with a regard to its opinion, particularly in all minor matters, and where no important principle is concerned; but to be ready, when any occasion arose, to act independently of a regard to the immediate approbation of the world. Some persons have, from nature or the conditions in which they live, so active a love of approbation that it may almost be said to amount to a torment. It will scarcely be believed, yet I know it to be strictly true, that a man high in function and public respect was liable to be disconcerted for a day, if by chance any stranger whom he met cast what he thought a discourteous or supercilious look at him. This individual shrunk from society, for no other reason that could be observed than that he did not in general SATURDAY, JULY 9, 1842. obtain that flattering attention which was necessary to put him at ease with himself. He was mistaken by half of his fellow-townsmen for a proud and distant man, when his misfortune was only the want of a self-sustaining pride. There are professions peculiarly calculated to nourish this slavish dependence on praise and admiration, particularly those which may be called artistic, as that of the painter, the literary man, and, more than all, of the actor. Love of approbation is unquestionably a powerful prompter towards these professions, so that it may be presumed of most men who adopt them, that they begin with a stock of the feeling above the average. To this the actual dependence of their status and bread on popular applause, and their constantly acting with a view to obtain it, give an unusual degree of exercise. It is thus brought to be the masterfeeling of their character. They gloat upon laudatory criticisms, and sicken at a paragraph insinuating the least censure. A hiss goes to the player's heart like a death-blow; and the poet's soul, that fiery particle, is, strange to say, "snuffed out by an article." Hence that irritability of poets which has become proverbial, but which might be extended to all kinds of men who present fine intellectual productions to the public, with a view to obtaining praise. Worst of all, the excessive keenness of each man for praise to himself is very apt to raise a jealousy as to the praises bestowed on his brethren in art. Hence the dreadful wars which sometimes take place amongst musicians, the quarrels of authors, and so forth. It is painful to think of the bad feelings which have been called forth, first and last, amongst men of the highest intellectual attainments, through this cause. It is a cause which may be received as some apology to the rest of mankind for the horrible contentions of the ingenious; but the ingenious should also be aware that talents may be exerted for reasons superior even to a generous love of praise. The practice of the art itself-the high privilege of being able to excogitate fine thoughts and beautiful forms that may hap to live for everthe sense of being able to contribute in some small degree to the improvement of mankind, or to the alle viation of the sick and weary days which many are destined to endure-may be mentioned amongst these reasons. Akenside has expressed the love of the artist (using this word in an extensive sense) for glory, in two stanzas shot like bolts straight from the heart, on hearing a sermon against that favourite object of human wishes : "Come, then, tell me, sage divine, As one approving word of her delightful voice. Be the passport to thy heaven, Than Timoleon's arms require, Or Tully's curule chair, or Milton's golden lyre!" Here speaks the true poet. Such earnest and such natural feeling must everywhere meet sympathy. Yet if the divine only placed this said love of the "approving word" below some higher motives, we cannot but acknowledge, in sober reason, that he was right. It is almost as nice a matter to know how, when, and in what measure to give praise, as to act upon the just medium with respect to looking for and receiving it. Some never give any praise: that is unamiable. : PRICE 14d. Others give a great deal too much that may be something as bad. The characters of both the party who is in the way of praising and the party who is in the way of being praised, call for consideration before we judge of either. The habit of never or rarely giving praise, even where it is due, and might do good, may proceed from a coldness of nature, and will then be justly censurable; but it may be only the result of reserved and diffident habits, in which case it is to be excused; or it may be the effect of a deliberate conviction that all praise does harm, when, of course, we must set it down as only an error in judgment. The opposite extreme of too much and too frequent praise -in short, flattery, detested as the word is-is also not to be at once and conclusively condemned. When it arises from directly interested views, or aims only at playing on a weak point in the character of a fellow creature, there is not a word to be said in arrest of judgment; but flattery sometimes proceeds from a benevolent, although it may be injudicious, wish to give pleasure; sometimes it is the genuine result of a venerative over-estimation of its object, or an exaggerated notion of the merits to which it refers. Here there may be error, but there is not ill intention; and flattery given under such circumstances is obviously a very different thing from the flattery which aims at betraying or turning into ridicule. There is also a flattery which persons of a social disposition, and who themselves love praise, give to others, in order to be on good terms with them, and obtain a good opinion and effusion of friendly sentiment in return. Here the motive is not so good, but still it is far short of the depravity of a treacherous and derisive flattery. When we are, then, the objects of flattery, or witness its being administered to others, we would require to examine and consider well the character and circumstances of the person offering it, in order to judge if the act be an offence against good morals; and if so, how far it is so. If it appear to proceed from base motives, let it be treated with open contempt; if from the wish for a return, pass it as a weakness; if from good nature or excessive veneration, excuse it for the sake of its amiable source. But to praise or not to praise, when praise is deserved, there is the great question. It has of late been the favourite doctrine not to praise, or to praise little, as presuming that all, young and old, should be left to the approving voices of their own consciences, or the reward which good acts and performed duties are to themselves. Good-breeding also forbids all approach to direct compliment, probably because it is so apt to pass for flattery, which is so bad a thing. It is rather startling that these maxims are not consistent with much of the practice of the world. Every day we see knighthoods and peerages given for good state service. Successful authors are treated to sheets of incense in the reviews, and to public dinners at which praises are poured on their meek heads like the oil on Aaron's beard. If a policeman shows unusual cleverness in tracking out a culprit, or a preventive service boat in capturing a smuggler, or a post-captain in seizing a slaver, the virtue of the case is not left to be its own reward. Medals, prizes, and terms of honour abound in our schools; and even divines are not unwilling to receive a title to certain mystic initials showing degrees of proficiency in their sacred science. When all these things are so open and palpable, when, indeed, it is so clear that most public affairs are moved by considerations of honour to individuals, it seems a strange thing, little better, I fear, than a piece of affectation, to declare against all use of praise in private life. There is always something calling for suspicion in maxims or systems which altogether condemn and put aside some great and conspicuous feature of human nature. This maxim as to praise bears strong marks of being of that character. Praise is confessedly a universal object, and has been so from the beginning of the world. Why should it be considered wrong to give that which every body is more or less anxious to receive? There may be something in the manner, no doubt; and yet what can be grosser in point of taste, when it is seriously reflected on, than to bring a man to a public dinner, plant him beside the chairman, open out a cascade of flattery upon him, and expect him then to rise up and task his ingenuity in at once explaining away the attributed merits, and seeming sufficiently grateful for the compliment which has been paid to him? to man. The true rationale of the question seems to be this: With the generality of netures, a moderate use of praise, as an incentive to duty and reward for its performance, appears to be quite proper. There is a vast class of acts and duties which, though good, are not to be accomplished and attended to without laborious exertion and some degree of self-denial. To sustain and carry out one's self in these matters, one's own approving conscience is all very well; but though a good, it is a solitary and unsocial feeling. Man dearly loves to find that he is of some consequence He likes to take men along with him in his own approbation. He feels in their praise the bond of a common nature press delightfully upon his heart. How, otherwise, should we see persons in independent circumstances "shun delights and live laborious days," only, perhaps, that they may produce some literary work which will have its little hour of eclat, or possibly only a paper to be read at a meeting of twenty persons calling themselves a philosophical society? This cheap means of causing people to do what it is desirable that they should do, surely has its legitimate place in the arrangements of human society, and is capable of being used without necessarily producing harm. Perhaps there is not any one feeling of our nature which more effectually binds us together, or figures more largely in the hourly familiar pleasures of life. It is necessary, however, to study character very carefully, in order to give due praise without doing harm, and even to know how to use it for the production of positive good. A proud person requires little or none at any time. Sufficient for him is his own self-satisfaction. There are many whom praise would easily corrupt, and to whom it should therefore be sparingly administered, even when their acts are most laudable. Others, again, whose confidence in themselves is infirm, may need the administration of an occasional word of approbation to encourage them in their duties, and even to maintain the equable flow of their spirits. There is a class of such persons, who have the ability and inclination to do all that is good, but are liable to become dispirited if they do not now and then receive an encouraging word from those about them. For such persons, an occasional compliment is an aliment as necessary as daily bread. The world would to them be totally cheerless without it. Here it would evidently be as fatal to withhold praise altogether, as in other cases it would be to give it. NORTHERN COLLIERIES. FIRST ARTICLE.* THE Coal-field of Northumberland and Durham commences near the mouth of the river Coquet on the north, and extends nearly to the Tees on the south. As far as Shields, the sea is its boundary on the east; from that point it leaves a margin of a few miles between it and the sea, and extends about ten miles west from Newcastle. Its greatest length is fiftyeight miles, and its greatest breadth about twentyfour. Geologically speaking, the coal measures of this field repose upon the series of strata called millstone grit and shale, and in the southern portion, under the magnesian limestone, the northernmost point of which is near the mouth of the river Tyne. The beds of these measures dip towards the east, and crop out towards the west, the deposit thus assuming the form of a basin. In consequence of this disposition, the coal is in some places near the surface, while in the neighbourhood of the centre of the basin it lies at great depths. In one colliery, Jarrow, situated about five miles from the mouth of the river Tyne, one of the thickest and most valuable seams, called the High Main, is 960 feet from the surface. The beds of these coal-measures are eighty-two in number, and consist of alternations of coal, sandstone, and slate clay, forming an aggregate thickness of 1620 feet. There are numerous obstacles in the way of a determination of the exact number of beds, or seams of coal, but it would seem that the number of workable seams is seventeen; and four or five seams are the chief sources of the best coal. The actual quantity of coal in the Newcastle coal-field does not amount to more than 4 per cent. of the whole mass of strata, of which mass various kinds of sandstone form about 36 per cent., and strata in which siliceous earth predominates about 44 per cent. It is probable that more accurate knowledge and investigation would establish the identity of several seams now differently denominated. After suitable deductions, it does not *The writer of these articles has to acknowledge himself considerably indebted to the Report on the Newcastle Coal Mines, &c., by J. R. Leifchild, Esq., lately presented to both Houses of Parliament. at twelve feet thick. appear that the available beds exceed thirty feet in natural inclination of the strata subservient to their purposes-namely, so that mining operations may be carried on towards a higher level, and facility be thus afforded for the descent of water, and the ready transit of the coal in the working of the mine. It is always desirable, for the perfection of ventilation, to sink two shafts, one for the entrance, and another for the exit, of the air-the former called a "downcast," and the latter an "upcast," shaft. But although extremely desirable, it is not always practicable, to open two shafts; for where the coal lies deep, or difficulties are rife, the sinking of one shaft is an affair of such magnitude, in point of expense, that few persons enter into it alone: hence, a colliery is commonly the property of a company, or of several partners or shareholders. The capital required for the establishment of a first-rate sea-sale colliery, including winning, machinery, houses, waggons, &c., is very large, varying from L.40,000 to L.150,000. The expense of sinking a single shaft, including outfits and machinery, varies from L.10,000 to L,40,000. The expense of opening a colliery upon a scale to work 100,000 Newcastle chaldrons annually, from two seams of coal, one lying at forty and the other at seventy fathoms below the surface, inclusive of the machinery, colliery-houses, &c., has been estimated at L.50,000. When, however, mining difficulties occur, the expenses are fearfully increased. The arch-enemy of coal-winning is water, and there are some mines from which a much larger quantity of water is raised than of coal. One chief use of the large assemblages of steam-power in several of the northern collieries is for pumping water. The occupation assigned, according to ancient mythology, to the fifty truculent daughters of Danaus, was scarcely more interminable than that of many pumping engines at collieries. In the sinkings at the Great Hetton colliery, there were three principal feeders met with; the first issuing 2000 gallons of water per minute, the second 1000 gallons, and the third 1600 gallons per minute. It is generally supposed that this water is originally derived from the surface, inasmuch as at great depths the "feeders" are much less abundant and much less formidable, and the main body of water issues at not more than forty or fifty fathoms from the surface. It is not, however, by percolation that much of the water penetrates to the mine; for although the "posts," or sandstones, are porous, and admit the passage of water, yet the shales are compact and impervious to it. The numerous cavities and fissures in the strata become extensive reservoirs for the accumulation either of water or inflammable gases, and these are often let out unwittingly by a single blow of a pick. The dykes," or "faults," which traverse the field are very numerous. The most important is called the Great Ninety Fathom Dyke, since the beds on the north side of it have been thrown down 90 fathoms by its intrusion, and in some instances even 170 fathoms. Your non-geological readers may not be aware of the nature of a dyke, and it will be desirable for their information to explain, that it is a considerable dislocation or interruption of the continuity of the seams of coal, sometimes caused by the intrusive interference of foreign matter, as basalt. I do not know that a better illustration of its effects can be given than by supposing some of the printed lines, in which these sentences are exhibited, to be broken and thrown up or down in the page. By an unlucky crease in the paper, we sometimes observe in the leaf of a book, that when this crease is unfolded, a white space of blank paper provokingly intervenes, vertically or obliquely, across the printed lines, and thus destroys their continuity and regularity. Now, this white space may very well represent the contents of a dyke, and the dislocation of the printed lines will indicate the up and down throw of the strata. If we suppose a dozen long consecutive lines of a broad page in a quarto book broken in half a dozen places, and so thrown up and down that a part of the fifth and sixth lines, for example, shall be thrown into juxtaposition with a part of the second and third, and so on, we shall have some idea of a series of "faults" presented by a section of the strata commencing at Sheriff Hill near Newcastle, where they are intersected by five dykes, or faults, elevating and lowering the strata, in various degrees, from ten to twenty-five fathoms. There are several kinds of dykes-as whin-dykes and basalticdykes. The marks of fusion near the latter are presumed to be clearly indicative of their volcanic origin. The dislocations resulting from dykes are frequently very trifling, and appropriate and significant names, chiefly local, exist for these interruptions in proportion to their extent. “Dykes” and “faults" are the terms used as expressive of the greater dislocations, and "troubles,"" hitches," "slips," "baulks," &c., are the technical denominations of the different degrees of lesser, though often considerable, interruptions. The word "dyke" is radically the same as ditch, and is more correctly employed to signify the intrusion of some heterogeneous matter into the coal, sometimes without an elevation or depression of the seams. The expression "slip dyke" would be more properly used to designate such dykes as actually dislocate and It has happened in sinking a shaft, where all had raise or lower the strata; the terms dyke and fault proceeded favourably for many fathoms, that, on comappear to be frequently used as synonymous. These ing to the next fathom, the privacy of some too fertile disturbers of the order of coal-seams are very impor-feeder has been intruded upon; and, to complete the tant in two opposite points of view. They sometimes successful passage through that one enemy's domains, defeat the hopes of the capitalists who engage in sink- a pumping engine has been necessary, which, upon ing for coal, by throwing it down to an enormous advancing to the next fathom, could be dispensed depth; and they also sometimes confirm those hopes, with. It is generally found essential to line the shafts; by bringing within reach beds of coal which could not and formerly wooden casing, or “tubbing," as it is otherwise have been worked without a largely in- called, was employed, but of late years a great and creased expenditure. They act, moreover, as coffer necessary improvement has been introduced by the dams in stopping the passage of water, and they sepa- adoption of cast-iron tubbing. rate the coal into districts. They have been the preservers of many valuable seams of coal, by depressing them below the action of those causes of waste which have worn away so many outcropping strata, and denuded to so great an extent the surface of our globe. The alteration of level occasioned by these intruders is by no means the same at all points of intersection; on the contrary, it is extremely irregular. Many of them commence with a simple crack in the roof, and progressively increase until their "throw" amounts to many fathoms, so that the producing cause appears to have acted upon particular points. In mining occupations, the contact of a fault, or dyke, is carefully avoided, as the penetration of this natural barrier would often admit the rush of waters from the other side, and cause the inundation of the mine. At Gosforth colliery, two or three miles from Newcastle, while standing nearly over the Ninety Fathom Dyke, the manager informed me, that, about the year 1825, a winning was attempted on what turned out to be the wet side of this great dyke, but was speedily abandoned in consequence of the inundations. They then crossed the dyke, and sank the present shaft but a few yards from the former one, and were compelled to descend nearly 200 fathoms to reach the coal; which they succeeded in doing, without any impediment from water. To sink to the seams of coal is called "winning" a colliery; and after having bored and satisfactorily ascertained the presence and depth of coal, the first object of the adventurers is so to dispose the shafts as to make the The water of the coal-pits is frequently much purer than might be imagined, although it usually holds some foreign ingredients in solution, such as sulphate of iron. It is a very remarkable fact that some of these waters are salt, and, what is still more remarkable, salter than sea-water. This is sensibly demonstrated, not only by the taste, but by the smarting occasioned upon the falling of any of this water upon any part of the body where the skin is rubbed. At one pit, a feeder was pumped not long since which was estimated to be three times salter than the sea. The abundant supply, indeed, of these "brine springs" at three contiguous places, suggested the erection of salt works. The concentration of steam-power for pumping is enormous at some of the pits; as at those of the new winning of the South Hetton Company at Datton, which is affirmed to be nearly the largest now existing in so small a space. During the progress of the attempted winning of a pit at Haswell, through the sand beneath the magnesian limestone, the engine-power erected pumped feeders to the amount of 26,700 tons per diem. At Friar's Goose colliery, near Gateshead, the feeders require three columns of pumps, each 161 inches in diameter, raising upwards of 1000 gallons per minute, or above 6000 tons per day, whilst the weight of coals drawn varies from 250 to 300 tons per day. Thus it will be seen, that it is not merely during the sinking of the pits, but also very frequently during their future existence as working mines, that pumping power must be employed. Upon the pulsations and vibrations of those ever-beating engines depend the freedom of the mine and the security of the miners. Engines of 200 horse-power are not unusual for this purpose. At the Percy Main pits, which produce that valuable coal known in the market by the name of Bewicke and Crastor's, of the 586 horse-power in operation for various purposes, 440 are working for pumping, one of these engines rating at 250 horse-power. At the Eppleton Jane pit, of the Hetton Company likewise, the pumping engine is of 250 horse-power. At the new winnings at Seaton Delaval, too, are two or three very powerful engines, of beautiful workmanship, which, as far as water is concerned, are perhaps not likely to be "out of work" for some time to come. In addition to steam-engines for pumping water, there are those for "winding" or raising the coals, which also serve for lowering or raising the men and boys; occasionally small steam-engines are erected under ground for the working of inclined planes, and above ground, for saw-mills and other similar purposes. At the collieries of the Great Hetton Coal Company there are eight shafts and eight winding engines, four of which are each of 100 horse-power. In the Hetton pit there is a subterranean steam-engine in use of 60 horse-power, calculated to draw a load of 7 tons 4 cwt. up a bank of 570 yards in length. At the Eppleton pit, which I descended, I was informed that they drew or raised, upon an average, 50 score of tubs of coals per diem, or 333 tons 18 ewt., the winding engine being of 100 horse-power. At the Ellemore pits, again, they raise 80 score of tubs, each weighing 8 cwt. 1 qr. 14 lbs. per diem from each of the two pits. At another pit it is reckoned that they raise in twenty-four hours 5040 corves up 100 fathoms. The technical mode of estimating the power or duty of these engines, is to calculate the number of pounds lifted one foot high by the expenditure of one ton of coal in the fire-box of the engine; and at Hetton, this number of pounds was found to be 40,642,560 Ibs. The steam-engines for coal-pits are generally manufactured at some of the large engine foundries in Newcastle and its neighbourhood. In a few instances, at the largest collieries, they are made on the premises of the company. In these cases there is a large establishment of smiths, wrights, and carpenters kept up; and a large piece of ground, denominated a "raffyard," is appropriated to the different species of work in operation. The raff-yards at Hetton and Seaton Delaval collieries are fitted up with every convenience for the manufacture and repair of all that is needed for these extensive concerns, and of themselves resemble engineering establishments. Such is the amount of wear and tear constantly occurring at the large pits, when in full work, that these raff-yards are generally scenes of active business. GOSSIP RESPECTING SELF-EDUCATED POETS. No mourning weeds, no sound of wail, And through the fields of ether sped, Lamartine was so much moved by the beauty of "My first thought on arriving at Nimes was-Reboul. A young man conducted me to his shop, at the corner of a narrow street. I knew that I was to meet one whom I may call a distinguished poet; but I did not know whether I should find him simple and natural, or the reverse. I went in. Is it M. Reboul whom I have the honour of addressing?' 'Himself. A letter from M. Taylor.' 'Oh! how is he?' 'Perfectly well;' and he began to read. In the meantime, I examined him. He is a man from thirty to thirty-seven years of age [in reality, he was then forty], rather above the middle height, with a dark African complexion, black shining hair, and beautiful white teeth. When he read my name, he looked at me once more, and bowed a second time. This look was rapid and profound; and I only then perceived that he had a splendid pair of eyes, with that oriental THE French have latterly come to have their self-expression at once powerful and soft, made to express Jean Reboul is the son of a poor man, and was reared in poverty by a widowed mother. He enjoyed no regular education. The death of a wife, to whom he had been only married a few months, first awakened poetry in his breast. His verses were all of a tender and elevated cast, strikingly different from the style of his ordinary conversation. He first drew public attention in 1828 by the publication, in the Quotidienne (now the well-known Carlist newspaper), of a short piece entitled "The Angel and the Child," of which our esteemed contemporary, The Athenaeum, lately gave a translation so just and beautiful, that we gladly spare ourselves the trouble of attempting a version ourselves :- An angel form, with brow of light, For earth is all unworthy thee. Fear stalks amidst the gorgeous shows; When I returned at five, Reboul met me at a door in a lane, adjacent to his shop, which was still open, but confided to the care of others. He had changed his working-clothes for a suit of great neatness but rigid simplicity. Mounting a stair, and passing through amongst some sacks of wheat, we came to the door of a room, where nothing, he said, but prayer and poetry ever entered. It was a neat small apartment, furnished with a bed, a writing table, a few wicker chairs, a crucifix, and a library consisting of the Bible and Corneille. 'I now see,' said I, that yours is a double life.' He explained that it was well to make the limbs work while the brain rested, and the limbs again rest while the brain worked. But what made you a poet?' 'In one word, misfortune.' From my look round his neat and cheerful apartment, he saw that I was puzzled. Have you never,' said he, passed over a grave without knowing it? A tear came into his eye, and I held out my hand to him. When a great sorrow befell me,' he said, the commonplace though well-meaning people around me endeavoured to give me consolation. This only turned the stream of grief back into my heart. I could find no vent for it but in addressing God; and when I did this, I found that I was creating poetry. Afterwards came the desolation of the throne and the fall of political and religious principles, in which I found new matter for lamentation and for verse. So I may say that my own and the public misfortunes together have been my inspiration." It will from this be readily inferred, that Reboul is a friend of the exiled royal family. M. Dumas goes on to state that he caused Reboul to read his poems, which were then unpublished, and that he thus spent the whole evening in a most delightful manner. The compositions of the baker-poet have since been presented in a small volume, which has already gone through five editions. It is remarkable of them that they show no trace of the personal circumstances of the author. The whole are conceived in a strain of exalted and beautiful sentiment, which would give delight from whomsoever it might be supposed to proceed. Neither is there any false taste to be ex cused on account of the poet's occupations and deficient education. The only thing that strikes us unfavourably on a perusal of the volume, is the resemblance of one or two of the pieces to well-known productions of the British muse-a fact not very easily accounted for, if it be true, as given out, that Reboul does not read English. We must content ourselves with attempting a version of one further specimen : THE CASTLE OF THE MENDICANT. A dun and barren mount there is, upon whose sloping base When the long watch of those within, upon tempestuous nights, If some poor wanderer from afar, attracted by the glare, One eve, a being wild and strange came thither, it is said, His forehead, ample, bald, and with full many a wrinkle scored, car; The lake lies sunken gloomily in silence sad and deep, "Forgive me, if my prayer be rude," then answer'd the "But long ere I could reach the skirts of yonder nearest town, Then all at once the mendicant erectly raised his head, And as the screech-owl stretches out its dark and ominous That it may scatter far and wide the news of fatal things, And yawningly a fearful cloud of mist gave forth to view, Not long thereafter did the lord of that cold lonely tower And oft belated shepherds see shades bleeding, grim, and And still they name the place the CASTLE OF THE MEN DICANT. Jasmin, the hair-dresser of Agen, resembles Reboul in history, circumstances, and personal character. A friend of ours paid him a visit two years ago in the him living contentedly, like Reboul, in his little shop, course of a tour of the south of France, and found although almost daily visited by distinguished persons, who are attracted by the fame of his works. He is a simple and unpretending man of genius, respecting himself too much, we presume, to be affected for the worse by the flatteries of those who are his superiors in worldly rank. Our friend purchased several volumes of his poetry, and submitted them to us; but they are composed in a patois so different from classic them. We have been furnished, however, with a verFrench, that we were baffled in an attempt to read sion of one piece, which may serve as a specimen :— FIDELITY. Now nature all lies free from care, And all is calm beneath the heaven; I smile no more beneath the sky, Oh! moon of love, droop down the sky, |