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was to have been recommended to. your attention by a preacher of consummate ability, whose name stands high in the records of literature, and whose life was one continued course of ardent benevolence and usefulness to his fellow-creatures. The place now filled by his unworthy substitute on this occasion, he had for a considerable time before his departure from this life, and while totally unconscious of the arrow that flieth in darkuess, consented to occupy. But that Almighty Providence, to whose decrees all things in heaven and earth do bow and obey, thought proper, after a brief warning, to remove him from this state of existence to that reward, as we have reason to hope, which is reserved for those who have walked humbly and piously with their GOD, and enjoyed an unwearied delight in advancing the moral and intellectual happiness of their species. To him who has been appointed to supply the place of so eminent a pleader in the cause of charity, much indulgence is therefore necessary. He pretends neither to talent nor celebrity, and is content with simply expressing his hope that little needs be added to induce you to assist a cause so truly valuable."

His funeral took place at Tunbridge, when the inhabitants of the town and neighbourhood spontaneously assembled on the occasion in a very numerous body, in deep mourning, to pay their last tribute of reverential regret.-Dr. Knox married the only daughter of Thomas Miller, Esq. formerly of Tunbridge ;-a lady not less distinguished for elegance of manners than mental endowments, and who died in 1809. His family who survive him, are his sons, Mr. Knox, the Barrister, and the Rev. Thomas Knox, the present Master of Tunbridge School; and two sisters, married to John Vade and William Child, Esqrs. of Loudon.

Such is the brief Biographical Sketch of an individual, who, however some persons might differ from him in political sentiments, was universally respected as a most valuable member of society; as discharging his professional duties with peculiar honour to himself and usefulness to the public; as a faithful Minister of his GoD, and a firm friend to the best interests of the rising generation; a warm philanthropist upon the purest principles of Christianity, and an ornament of the era in which he lived.


Elsing Hall, Norfolk,
March 12, 1822.


POST after post arrives, and brings no paquet: even my last exportation of choice Norfolk dainties, with sundry letters missive from Ellen, and our friend E. at whose hospitable mansion we are vegetating, and growing lusty, all remain unacknowledged. Were it not, therefore, for the half dozen newspapers, which garnish our friend's inimitable hams at our noontide breakfasts, I should positively know little or nothing of your great world, I mean London; nor of the follies, the glories, and the absurdities, which now form the "Town Talk" of the year 1822. Your usual excuses or palliatives will, I suppose, be as heretofore, resorted to; and therefore ye must admit "multiplicity of engage ments," constitutional love of idleness,"" public dinners,"-"official duties,”—and the end of the shooting

season, to be valid and undeniable, apologies for palpable neglect. There is, however, no being angry with you, and that's "the truth on't;" and the treat that you have afforded us, in the last two or three numbers of your Magazine, would smooth the wrinkled brow of care himself. Had you as many faults as the Hydra of old had physiognomies, we should look in their faces and forget them all. Why, our friend E. absolutely voted himself goutified to escape from coursing, and get a day to himself, to sob over the catastrophe of the "Walpurgis Night;" and Price,-you recollect Price, who used to hoax our old Doctor at Eton,swore there was no use in his double barrel, for shoulder it with what eloquence he might, he could never make half so good a shot as you have done, in bringing down to his proper level the author of Cain," by your point blank review of his ponderous tragedies.


By the bye, Alfred, I see that the resurrection man" Cobbett has got abroad again, after bothering the Sussex 'squires out of their senses, and getting his health drank by men, who in the palmy state of Rome, would rather have shook hands with death, than have submitted to such degradation. He would have eaten fire, and grinned through a horse collar, here, for the amusement of the natives, at a recent semi-radical, semi-agricultural meeting; but the characters were already admirably filled by native talent, and the non tali auxilio applied in it's full force, with reference to the mountebank in question; for the temperate, delicate, and effective performances of the select company I now treat of, could hardly have been surpassed by the most distorted exertions of the Jack Pudding himself. There is an old French proverb, my dear fellow, that in this instance I should hope has much of truth in it, "A barbe de fal, ou apprend a raire," men learn to shave on the chin of a blockhead, for on what other ground is it that this man is endured, and his tergiversations and cupidity forgotten, and his declamations listened to, in places and situations where he should sink abashed before integrity and real talent, however ill conceived, or foolishly exerted? The fact, however, I take it, is, that Foote's motto of "Quack! Quack! Quack!" applies ten thousand times stronger to all agricultural meetings of the calibre at which I have glanced, than to the more harmless M. D. to whom it was prescribed. He, "good easy man," could only destroy by units, whilst they, scattering their vulgas ambiguas over

a wider tract, become, like the mountain torrents of Indostan, dangerous for a season, and diffuse vapours and gloom over the else genial country; or like the Upas tree of the desart, destructive and poisonous to all who approach within their influence. I could almost exclaim with Burke, speaking of the French Revolution, that as "a Throne cannot be represented by a Prison, so the honour of a Nation cannot be represented by an assembly which degrades it;" and surely when we do see an assembly where it is,hey fellow! well met! between Cobbett and the British Peerage, we may well exclaim, Flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!"

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Our old acquaintance Sir Robert Wilson has been upon his legs again, I see; but this being a very sensitive sort of story, and the M.P. for Southwark, forgetting Lord Byron's observations, that "Self is a subject on which all men are fluent, and few agreeable," I waive discussing the unpleasant theme, till we once more fairly set in to talk it over, with the relief of some London particular to make it palatable:-Here break we off, then ;-indeed I must, for our friend Price, aforesaid, insists that I send you the following specimen of his poetical powers, which come not inaptly into this portion of my letter; he assures me that they were written on the spur of the occasion to which they refer; and adds, as well, that to be in your good books will give him more pride and pleasure, than having written the prime verse article in that too short lived, but really respectable, and evergreen little blossom of periodicalism, our "Etonian."

Oh! proud be our banner still, long may it wave
Unsullied and free in the grasp of the brave;
Far off be the day when it's pride is o'erthrown,
By the foemen abroad, or the rebel at home;
But still, and for aye let it's crimson cross be,
A dread to the slave, but a star to the free!

Shall the breast that was scarr'd by the lance of the foe,
Have it's wound fresh assailed by a countryman's blow?
Shall the heroes who war's sanguine horrors have known,
That the hearths of our cabins might blaze as our own,
From their proud neighing war-steeds, inglorious be cast,
That the rebel and caitiff may triumph at last?

No! my countrymen, no! 'tis the pride of our heart,
That gratitude, only with life can depart:
And our soldiers who bled in the war field afar,
Must not suffer in Britain a renegade scar;

But triumphant where'er they are destined to roam,
England's heroes abroad still be brethren at home!

Strange news has reached us here, Alfred, which, from the veracious channel through which it has been conveyed, we are bound to opine must be true; though it is none other than that, that hard hearted ex officio officer, Mr. Attorney General, has been, in our school boy phraseology, playing "old gooseberry" with certain Lord Lieutenant-dubbed knights over the water. In fact, he has found out that the chief Magistrate of the land of generosity and potatoes was totally in the dark, when he constituted Sydney Morgan's "little man" a Knight, et ex uno disce omnes. What will Mrs. Grundy say to this? To be cashiered, as it were, of one's fair proportions, or as my warm hearted, tall uncle M. from paddy's land has it, to advance, as it may be, like a crab, backwards; and to bow down to one's proper and original level, like a forced cabbageplant, before we have either heart or substance, is indeed malapropos, and in the words of our housekeeper, "wery overcoming." N'importe, however, exclaims her ladyship,-I beg pardon, she that was Lady Morgan, for she of the wake and fair, is now the lady ascendant,-N'importe, says Mrs. Sydney Morgan, "what's in a name! a rose by any other name would sinell as sweet," and so it certainly will, provided it be a rose, but for the thorn? pshaw! one loses labour in analysing such un-anglicised products of our soil, as the lady in question; who after all, I suspect, must be content to dole out almost unpitied, the very characteristic melody, which a certain noble admirer of her talents, is rumoured to have transmitted as 66 balsam to heal her sickness."


But to leave these things of earth. Did you see the King go to meet his Parliament, and spring the old Champaigne to his health afterwards? We had a glorious day here; for the old buck of fourscore and upwards" would be amongst us in his ancient hall and in his oaken chair, one of it's noblest appendages, with the family arms carved upon it's back, and the

eagle crest surmounting them, padded with pillows,and nothing could keep the two bumper glasses of twice voyaged Madeira from his lips, because he insisted on quaffing them to the memory of the oldest and best beloved King England ever knew, and to the health and prosperity, and long reign of his eldest son. Had you but seen, as I did, with what a preternatural fire as it were, the good man's eyes were lighted up, as he exclaimed God bless him!" you would have wondered, as we did, that “the old man could have now so much blood in him;" and when, with the voice of other days, he gave out to us

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"The health, our country! ever may she The rock of freedom! and may her brave prove


To distant ages emulate our zeal :-"

You would have fancied yourself another Hannibal swearing before the Patriarch of your country, to protect that country inviolate and free.

I was just folding up this bagatelle, when E. with a face, any thing but like the man's who drew "Priam's curtain in the dead of night, to tell him Troy was burned," slipped the following “dapper couplets" into the cover. They are from that saucy sister of mine, Ellen, and she insists that as you will receive this not above a month after the day of St. Valentine, she must, out of gratitude for your kindly notice of her dear relation Templeton, send some sort of acknowledgment to the Magazine. That is, she'll write at, if not to you. Girls will be girls, you see, and the snow wreaths of December ill assort with the blossoms of May, so if it be only for her gratitude to her more of a June cousin, we must forgive. The verses too for a Miss, are not amiss. The man, says Johnson, who could make such a pun would-but to the verses, and let us not, in this instance, regard what the crabbed. giant of literature thought and said about punning.

ST. VALENTINE. O NICHOLS! twine no wreath for me, From off thy withering church yard tree, Thy halcyon days are long since past,Thy leaves are scattering in the blast. Old maids, and eke the ancient blue, May still perchance, look kind on you But weak old soul, for me entwine, No wreath, I'm not thy Valentine,

Eur. Mag. Vol. 81. March 1822.


Thee too, SIR RICHARD, croaking chief!
Now sinking in the yellow leaf;

A woman's pride,-a loyal breast,
Discards thy colours from her crest;
The hand that lauded England's foes,
Shall never mine within it close,-
Then heartless woo'er, thou, nor thine,
Shall ever be my Valentine.

In vain may BALDWIN from his lair,
His Lion's Head hash up with Clare;
And COLBURN in his brownish cloak,
With CAMPBELL's strains my smiles invoke;
In vain they blow the trump of Fame,
To give their deeds and them a name..
To this nor that do I incline,
Nor that nor this my Valentine.

Let merry BLACKWOOD proudly rear,
His blended talents, bought so dear;
And let him shew his russet brown,

For right and might, and GOD and crown!-
And on his Scottish crest be seen,
The thistle wreath of evergreen,
Yet CHRISTOPHER cannot be mine,
A better still's my Valentine.
Then bring for me a true love bough,
To twine a garland for his brow,
Who, as the circling months fly past,
Proves each still better than the last :
While friends with ardent eyes shall view,
Their hopes all realized in you,
Dear ALFRED BEAUCHAMP thou art mine,
And ELLEN claims her Valentine.

And so ends my tale." How-
66 ere we shake hands
over, Alfred,
and part," may I venture to hope that
if you are not quite suffocated by gas,
or lost in the modern deluges which we
a month since encountered, that you
will either come or write.-In short,
may I, in very humbleness, entreat
that you will be so well pleased, as
to deign one little specimen of your
handy work in acknowledgment of
this seven leagued epistle. Ellen has,
as above, spoken for herself; and all
the rest beg me to express their desire
that you would curricle yourself to
this life-giving situation, and then they
will in propriis personibus, impart how
much they, one and all, Tray,
Blanch, and Sweetheart," join with
your old chum in wishing that you
may live a thousand years. In which
hope, I, as the amanuensis of the
party, subscribe myself,


Your's, ever and most truly,

P.S. Your letters of the 6th and 8th instant are this moment arrived, by which I perceive that you have finally cut all connection between the name of Asperne and your EUROPEAN ;-my opinions, as well as the public feelings upon that subject you are well acquainted with, and it were quite useless to repeat them. The accession of literary strength which you allude to is indeed most respectable, and you will doubtless now 66 command success" as well as " deserve it." Your Magazine will possess that distinc tion which it has every right to claim, and even Ellen's amour propre will be something more than a female predilection. While I can wield a pen in the good cause, you well know how confidently you can rely upon my unwearied exertions, whenever, and wherever Ican be serviceable. Expect a longer epistle very speedily; and for the present, once more adieu! A. M. T1

ALFRED BEAUCHAMP, ESQ. EDITOR, European Magazine Office, London,


No. II.

"Three poets in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn :
The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd,
The next in majesty, in both the last.
The force of nature could no further go,
To make a third, she join'd the former two."

IN this celebrated epigram, Dryden describes the genius of Milton, and attempts to distinguish it from that of Homer and Virgil, by conferring upon him those high intellectual endowments which characterized the genius of his illustrious predecessors. The epigram itself has been so universally admired, that every reader imagines he perceives in it, as in a poetic mirror, the true and distinctive character of Milton's genius. The critics have not ventured to question the accuracy and fidelity of so imposing a portrait; and as it was deemed the most elegant of all the poetic tributes which had ever been paid to the memory of Milton, it appears under the head of the poet, engraved by R. White, and prefixed to the folio edition of Paradise Lost, in 1688. Mr. Todd, in his edition of Milton, has been led by it's celebrity to suspect, that it is too good for Dryden, and thinks he is indebted for the last sentiment to some of his predecessors. Mr. Todd, no doubt, thought so, because many thought so besides himself; but the Latin and French poets to whom he traces the origin of this sentiment, have never produced any thing that will bear a comparison with Dryden's Ode to St. Cecilia's Day, or many of his shorter poems. If the epigram, therefore, possess that great excellence which it is supposed to possess, there seems to be no sufficient reason for denying Dryden the merit of originality in composing it. To me, however, this portrait of Milton's genius appears to have more of speciousness and appearance, than of reality and truth. We are told, not only that Milton possessed the loftiness of Homer, and the majesty of Virgil, but that loftiness and majesty embrace every species of poetic excellence to which nature can attain. Loftiness and majesty, however, are far from comprising every species of

excellence which is placed within the expansive range of the poet, or the more unlimited career of universal genius. By loftiness of thought, Dryden obviously means, sublimity of thought, but a passage may be beautiful without being sublime; for all the writers who have treated on the sublime and beautiful admit, that beauty and sublimity, whether they be considered as attributes of sensible or intellectual being, are always distinct qualities, though they acknowledge the difficulty of determining what constitutes either. As, then, a passage may be beautiful without being sublime, and as the qualities which go to constitute beauty are extremely numerous, as simplicity, tenderness, harmony, refinement, delicacy, pathos, &c. it follows, that the means of attaining to poetic excellence are not confined to loftiness and majesty. There is nothing in Homer, Virgil, or Milton, nor indeed in the whole compass of the poetical works with which we are acquainted, that can be compared to the two first chapters of Solomon's Canticle of Canticles. Here we have the true spirit of poetry, the heart bounding with joy, rapture, and delight, and scarcely able to contain itself. It runs after the object of it's affections; it seeks him in all places, and melts in the softest languishments of love. What can be more exquisitely conceived, or where can we find such luxury of poetic description, as in the following sentiments, "I am black but beautiful, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, as the tents of Cedar, as the curtains of Solomon. I am the flower of tlie field, and the lily of the vallies. As the lily among thorns, so is my beloved among the daughters of Adam. Stay me up with flowers, compass me about with apples, because I languish with love. The voice of my beloved, behold he cometh, leaping upon the

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