LITERARY CRITICISM. The New Bath Guide; or, Memoirs of the B-n-r-d Family, in a series of Poetical Epistles. By Christopher Anstey, Esq. A New Edition, with Biographical and Topographical Preface, and Anecdotal Annotations. By John Britton, F. S. A. Embellished with Engravings. London. Hurst, Chance, and Co. 1830. Post 8vo. Pp. 176. THE title "New Bath Guide" has become, as is indeed remarked by the erudite editor of this work, somewhat of a misnomer. More than half a century has elapsed since its first publication; and those who would seek, in the playful Alexandrines of Anstey, a picture of the modern frequenters of the springs of Bladud, might as well look for the age of the moon in one of Partridge's Almanacks, or consult the Directory of the year 1799 for the abode of a fashionable physician of the present day. In one sense, however, it certainly still is the New Bath Guide, --for it is the first work which proposed for its object to initiate the stranger, not merely into the localities, but into the society, of Bath; and it has remained the only one. There is no newer Bath Guide. Only, instead of being now a gossiping retailer of novelty, it has become a prater about the good old times. It is like a gazette of the last century, elevated to the dignified character of a history. The gay and romantic Miss Jenny,-the gallant Captain Cormorant,-the worthy booby Mr Simkin,— Prudence-and Tabitha Runt ;-where are they? "Gone glimmering through the mist of things that were." Their bag-wigs and solitaires, hoops and têtes-de-mouton, have vanished from the earth, though they drag on a shadowy existence" in the verse that immortally saves." We flatter ourselves that we cannot do a more acceptable service to the effeminate successors of the heroic supporters of these fearful encumbrances, than by devoting a column or two to the antiquities of fashion. England differs from France chiefly in this: that while our neighbours concentrate all that they have of rich and rare in one capital-assembling all the delicacies of their land into one huge ragout-we have a separate capital for every independent interest of the body politic. London is the capital of law and politics,-Oxford of learning, Manchester and Sheffield of different manufactures, Bath is the capital of fashion. We do not pretend that London does not contain, during the season, an equal, possibly a greater, number of fashionables. All that we mean to say is, that fashion occupies, in that busy mart, a subordinate position. In Bath, she is paramount. There is the throne of her empire. There people enact her behests by day, and dream of them by night. There delegated sovereigns have for ages swayed the sceptre of the goddess, and administered her equal laws to successive races of "a true, a happy, and a loyal people." The first monarch of this illustrious dynasty sprung from an unknown source, was called Nash before he ascended the throne, and, after that event, Richard I. He PRICE 6d. was worthy of the elevation to which he was raised by Him mourn'd all the Dryads on Claverton's mount; If life's occupations are follow'd below,— He died in 1761, at the advanced age of eighty-one, and was succeeded by Collett, whose name alone has been preserved by historians. This is not unfrequently the fortune of weak sovereigns, when they follow immediately upon a hero. They seem to be lost in his blaze, like the planets Mercury and Venus in their transit between us and the sun's disk. To him succeeded Samuel Derrick-a poet, critic, and coxcomb-concentrating in himself three diverse and brilliant excellencies of character, each sufficient to secure immortality for its possessor. In character, he somewhat resembled Charles II. of England. He closed a short reign, rendered troublesome by his lavish and indolent habits, in 1769; a reign, however, richer in materials for history than any other period of the Bathonian empire. This is owing to the industrious collections of Boswell, (Johnson's Boswell,) Smollett, and Anstey—all of whom were his contemporaries. The most remarkable incident in Derrick's personal history was his encounter with the lap-dog of Miss Tabitha Bramble, which, as Derrick was of small stature, might easily have proved fatal, but for the interference of Sir Ulic Mackilligut. His death gave occasion to one of those civil commotions so frequent in elective monarchies. Two candidates aspired to the vacant throne, whose claims were urged by their respective adherents with much clamour and violence. This civil war is remarkable as the first in which a foreign state arrogated to itself a right to interfere with the domestic arrangements of the kingdom of Bath. The Bristolians are said to have sent a remonstrance on the subject of the feud. It was at last ended by the exertions of a select band of patriots, who brought forward Captain Wade as a candidate, whose character conciliated for him the approbation of the two contending factions. accomplished artist. He has entered completely into the humour of Anstey. His first print is Simkin consulting a Bath physician on his arrival. The grim look of Death's doer contrasts admirably with the sheepish expression of the anxious patient. Prudence sits with a most perpendicular angularity opposite her brother, and Jenny, a fine figure of a woman, leans over the back of her chair, laughing at the whole. In print second w have the Doctors flying from their own physic. Three members of the faculty, with their fees in their pockets, have just issued from the house, the fat nurse is about to close the door behind them, while Miss Jenny, from a window above, dispatches, with the most graceful air in the world, pill-boxes, gallipots, and phials, on the heads of their astonished prescribers. We can compare the easy elegance of the lady to nothing but the calm dignity of the Apollo following with his eye the flight of the fatal arrow. The scramble of the three Doctors to escape this novel avalanche, their fear and their hurry, their awk ward contortions, are spiritedly and variously conceived. Simkin stands at Jenny's elbow with a face lustrous with We have now arrived at a period when those political unions, intrigues, and cabals, had their origin, which still guide the cabinet of Bath. As we have uniformly refrained from taking any active part in public business, we prefer eschewing the delicate task of recording contemporary history, and thus treading, to the infinite dan-delight. In print third, we see Simkin taking advantage of ger of our slippers, upon concealed ashes. Besides, we have already carried down the tale as far as is necessary to enable the reader to enter with the necessary preparation upon the perusal of Anstey's work. The Memoirs of the B-n-r-d Family were publishlished some six or seven years before Humphrey Clinker, and Smollett has evidently been indebted for some of his best Bath scenes to their pages. The adventures of the family at Bath may be briefly told. An only son, who has been crammed with good things by Lady Bountiful, his mamma, till his stomachic organization is somewhat deranged, arrives to try the waters, in company with an awkward chit of a sister, their cousin Jenny, and a dumpy maid, who has hurt herself by taking in succession, just to keep her well, every quack medicine she sees in the papers. Mr Simkin Bountiful is awkward, ignorant of the world, and sheepish, but at bottom a generous fellow, and endowed with a blundering kind of sense. His cousin Jenny is a plump, handsome girl, with a lively temper, and deep read in romances. Prudence, his sister, is one of those blanks which are ready to take any impression. This partie carrée consult the doctors, and enter into the amusements at Bath. Miss Jenny and Mr Simkin are kindly taken under the guidance of an accomplished gentleman, who cheats the latter out of his money at cards, and nearly succeeds in persuading the former to marry him. Prudence, and her maid, Tabitha Runt, are made the dupes of a pious Moravian, who lodges in the same house. In short, after a brief residence at Bath, during which they flutter through all the scenes of gay and pious life, the B-n-r-d family return home with increased experience, empty pockets, and one of the ladies a little singed in reputation. Miss Jenny's picture of her lover, Captain Cormorant, is most delicately drawn : "Well I know how Romeo dances, With what grace his gloves he draws on, The present edition of this edifying work-the prototype of the Twopenny Post-bag,—is got up with great elegance. There are five excellent illustrative engravings by George Cruikshanks. They have increased, if that indeed be possible, our admiration of the genius of this the city musicians, who have waited upon him to congra tulate his safe arrival, to rub up his dancing. There he is, capering in the foreground, with two chairs for partners. Rather behind him, in a recess on his right hand, an ætive and elegant flirtation is carrying on between Misi Jenny and her Romeo. Near them Prudence and the pious Nicodemus are reading together some edifying book. The maiden's eyes are fixed on the page, but those of her instructor are gloating on her countenance. To the left we catch through the half-open door, the battle between the musicians and the French footman of a surly invalid, who has been disturbed by their noise. We have never seen a picture in which a whole story was better told. In the fourth illustration, two sturdy chairmen are forcing into their chair Tabby Runt, who had bespoke their services the previous evening to carry her to the bath, but felt her courage sink in the morning. The fifth is a caricature of Patience, under the hands of a French perruquier. The frontispiece and fly-title are by Williams, and are cleverly executed. The only thing wanted to make this edition of the New Bath Guide perfect, was a livelier editor. Mr John Britton || is most insufferably dull. By the The Fortunes of Perkin Warbeck; a Romance. THIS is a talented work, but, at the same time, a little tedious and heavy. Mrs Shelley informs us in the preface, that she studied the subject originally with a view towards historical detail, but that, becoming aware of its romance, she determined not to confine herself to the mere incorporation of facts narrated by the old Chreniclers. A good deal of the leaven of history, however, still remains; and though several fictitious characters have been introduced, a calm straight-forwardness of style charac terises the whole book. The authoress sets out on the assumption that Perkin Warbeck was really the Duke of York, and consequently entitled to the throne of Eng land upon the death of his elder brother Edward the Fifth. Upon this disputed question it is unnecessary for us to enter farther, than to remark that sufficient plausibility attaches to Mrs Shelley's theory, to authorise her asa novelist to avail herself of it, although we are afraid that, in order to carry it through, she has been obliged, in more instances than one, to twist to her own interpretation the established facts of history. The chief fault we have to find with her production is, that it does not blend together with sufficient skill what is fictitious and what is true. The great use of an intermixture of fiction in an historical romance, is to relieve the reader from many dry details, and agreeably to fill up the interstices be- like her better in the narrative parts, interspersed as these tween those events which rivet the attention the more always are with her own observations on men and man, powerfully that they stand forth in bold and promi- ners, and coloured by her own peculiar imagination, feelnent contrast to the no less important occurrences of every-ings, and associations. We last week gave a short but day life. Mrs Shelley, however, is contented to follow favourable specimen of her style, and we shall now add one or two more. We like the following portrait of the companion of Perkin Warbeck's childhood-one who loved him deeply but hopelessly: her hero's fortunes through thick and thin; and instead into the fate and character of her hero with the same en- The following attempt, made by a creature of Henry the Seventh, upon Warbeck's life, is spiritedly told: "The breeze had rather sunk towards sunset, but it arose again with the stars; the vessel's prow struck against the light waves, and danced gaily on through the sea. One man stood at the helm; another, one of the Friar's hirelings, loitered near; the other kept out of the way. Still, beneath the thousand stars of cloudless night, the little bark hurried on, feeling the freshening of the wind; her larboard beam was deep in the water, and, close at the deck's leeward edge, Meiler and his intended victim paced. thoughtless boy, high among the shrouds, whistled in answer to the wind. There was at once solitude and activity in the scene. This is the hour,' thought Richard; surely if man's sinful heart was ever touched with remorse, this man's may now, God's throne visible in all its beauty above It is therefore to be regretted, we think, that Mrs Shelley has, in the present work, indefatigably gone through the whole of Perkin Warbeck's life. Many of the smaller adventures and unsuccessful attempts at rebellion should have been omitted, because they lead to nothing, and wear out without satisfying the mind; and because, moreover, they tend to diminish our respect for her hero, pointing him out as one continually borne down by adversity, and consequently one more to be pitied than admired. Had she, on the contrary, confined her story to one or two of the more striking parts of his career,such as his residence and marriage in Scotland, and subsequent fate, she would have greatly strengthened her narrative; and by contracting her details into a narrower compass, given a solidity and compactness to them, in which they are at present deficient. To speak in the language of painters, her novel has not a sufficiently power-us; beneath-around-the awful roaring waters, from ful middle-distance and foreground. The objects introduced are too much diffused and scattered. She has taken us to the top of a hill, and when we expected a broad and beautiful lake to burst upon us at once, we see nothing but the long line of a canal, which is equally broad at the one end as it is at the other. One which he lately so miraculously escaped! He began to speak of England, of his mother, of the hopes held out to him by his companion; eager in his desire of winning a traitor to the cause of truth, he half forgot himself, and then started to find, that, even as he walked, his companion got him nearer to the brink of the slant, slippery deck. Seized with terror at this manifestation of the worst designs, yet Though we have thus stated, pretty plainly, our ob- scarcely daring to credit his suspicions, he suddenly stopt, jection to Mrs Shelley's novel, we must at the same seizing a rope that hung near, and steadying himself by time state, no less plainly, that it unquestionably bears winding his arm round it-an act that escaped his enemy's :-Do you know, the stamp of a powerful mind, and that no one can read observation, for, as he did it, he spoke :it without feeling a conviction that the authoress need not Father Meiler, that I suspect and fear you? I am an inexperienced youth, and if I am wrong, forgive me; but you fear a comparison with even the most talented of her sex. have changed towards me of late from the kind friend you It is certain that Mrs Shelley is apt at times to be heavy, once were. Strange doubts have been whispered: do you and assuredly her " Last Man" is, in many parts, abun-reply to them! Are you my friend, or are you a treacherdantly so, yet we entertain a high respect for her abilities, ous spy?-the agent of the noble Yorkists, or Henry Tuand believe her worthy to have been the wife of the au- dor's hireling murderer?' thor of the "Cenci." There is much powerful writing "As he spoke, the Friar drew still nearer, and the Prince in her "Perkin Warbeck," and several of the characters recoiled further from him: he got on the sheer edge of the deck. Rash boy!' cried Frangman, know that I am no introduced--especially those of Sir Robert Clifford, Mo-hireling: sacred vengeance pricks me on! Son of the mur nina de Faro, and Catherine Gordon—are sketched with bold vigour and fine discrimination. It is not, however, in a facility of giving an intense individuality to the persons of her story that Mrs Shelley chiefly excels. We derer! tell me where is sainted Henry? where Prince Edward? where all the noble martyrs of his cause? Where my brave and lost sons? There, even where thou shalt be quick-Look back, thy grave yawns for thee!' "With these words he threw himself furiously on the Prince the stripling sprung back with all the force lent him by the rope he held, and pushed at the same time Frangman violently from him, as he cried aloud on the sailors, 'What, ho! treason is among us! A heavy splash of the falling Meiler answered his call; the strong man was cast down in his very pride; the waters divided, and sucked him in. In a moment the crew were on deck; Frangman's hireling, scared, cried out, He is King Henry's prisoner; seize him!' thus increasing the confusion. The Friar, his garments floating, now appeared struggling among the waves; a rope was thrown to him; the vessel sped on meanwhile, and it fell far short; Richard, horror-struck, would have leapt in to save his enemy; but the time was gone— one loud shriek burst on the ear of night, and all was still; Frangman, his misery, his vengeance, and his crimes, lay buried in the ocean's hoary caves.' We had marked other passages for quotation, but our space warns us that the above must suffice. We noticed briefly, about a fortnight ago, another novel which has just been published, bearing the same name; in nothing but the name, however, does it resemble that of Mrs Shelley, which is, in all respects, the superior of the two. dreamt in all ages is beyond calculation. Many extraordinary and well-authenticated instances are given in the volume before us. From these we extract a few : REMARKABLE DREAMS. "Numerous modern instances of prophetic dreams might be here recited, and those, too, well testified by credible witnesses. Monsieur Calignan, chancellor of Navarre, was esteemed a man of singular virtue; being at Berne, one night as he lay asleep, he heard a voice, which called him by his name, Calignan! Awaking, and hearing no more of it, he imagined it only a dream, and fell asleep again. A little afterwards, he heard the same voice calling him in the same manner: this made a greater impression on him than the former, so that, being awakened, he called his wife, who was with him, and told her what had happened. They both lay waking for some time, expecting to hear it a third time; at length, they went to sleep together, when the voice awaked him again, calling him by his name, and advising him to retire immediately out of the town, and to remove his family, for that the plague would rage horribly in that place in a few days. He followed the direction, and within a few days after, the plague began in the town, and destroy. ed a great number of people. "When the celebrated Dr Harvey, being a young man, went to travel towards Padua, he went to Dover with several others, and showed his pass, as the others did, to the know the reason, and what he had done amiss; he said it but he must keep him prisoner.' The Doctor desired to was his will to have it so.' The packet-boat hoisted sail in the evening, which was very clear, and the Doctor's com panions in it,—a terrible storm ensued, and the packet-boat, melancholy news was brought to Dover. The governor with all the passengers, was cast away. The next day the was a total stranger to Dr Harvey, but by name and by face: only the night before he had a perfect vision, in a dream, of Dr Harvey, who came to pass over to Calais, and an order to stop him! This the Doctor was told by the governor the next day, and he told the story again to his friends in London. The Royal Book of Dreams. From an ancient and curious Manuscript, which was buried in the earth during seve-governor. The governor told him that he must not go, ral centuries; containing one thousand and twenty-four Oracles, or answers to Dreams, &c. &c. By Raphael. London. Effingham Wilson. 1830. 18mo. Pp. 161. DREAMS are one of the most interesting phenomena connected with humanity. From Epicurus and Aristotle, down to Locke and Addison, innumerable theories have been broached concerning them; but there is not one that has yet laid open the heart of the mystery. The work before us, without seeking to enquire why we dream, limits itself to the question—are dreams prophetical? and, after leading a proof to show that they are, proceeds to furnish us with a method by which we may discover the secrets of fate portended by nocturnal visions. So far from attempting to ridicule those excellent old women who believe in dreams, and read fortunes in teacups, we have felt for them, from our youth upwards, the most profound respect. Are we not all "such stuff as dreams are made of?" and is it not delightful to be able to see with the eyes of our soul (for certes it cannot be with the eyes of our body, considering that they are shut at the time) a thousand immaterial shapes and prospects, which no waking eye ever beheld, yet with which we hold communion, as if suddenly carried into a new state of existence. We pity the man who is too grossly corporeal to dream, or too perfectly prosaic to believe in dreams. If he had dreamt the dreams that we have done, and watched the consequences with equal earnestness, he would have known, that to talk of the spiritual world of sleep as merely the offspring of toasted cheese, devilled kidneys, or red herrings, was the grossest profanity; and during the silence of the night he would have felt his nature cognizant "Of subtler essence than the trodden clod." "They have souls," says the learned Bishop Bull, 66 very much immersed in flesh, who can apprehend no. thing but what touches and affects their senses. And although I am no doter on dreams, yet I verily believe that some dreams are monitory above the power of fancy, and Impressed on us by some superior influence; for of such dreams we have plain and undeniable instances in history, both sacred and profane, and in our own age and observation. Nor shall I so value the laughter of sceptics, and the scoffs of the Epicureans, as to be ashamed to profess that I myself have had some convincing experiments of such impressions." With Bishop Bull we entirely agree, and also with Socrates, Plato, Xenophon, Cicero, Pliny, and Hippocrates, who thought similarly. The multitude of astonishing dreams that have been dreamed that the University of Oxford was robbed by five "Thomas Wotton, Esquire, a little before his death, men. He wrote to his son, who was then in Oxford, and told him the particulars of his dream. The University was robbed accordingly, the very night before the letter came to his son's hand! As soon as morning arrived, there was a great noise concerning the robbery; whereupon the young man showed his letter to the persons concerned, and all the five men were taken up and found guilty. "Doctor Pitcairne is said never to have related the fol lowing story, without some emotion of mind. His friend, Mr Lindsay, upon reading with the Doctor, when very young, the known story of the two Platonic philosophers, who promised to one another, that whoever died first should return on a visit to his surviving companion, entered into the same engagement with him. Some years after, the Doctor, Lindsay, who was then at Paris, came to him, and told him at his father's house in Fife, dreamed, one morning, that that he was not dead, as was commonly reported, but still alive, and lived in a very agreeable place, to which he could not as yet carry him. By the course of the post, news came of Lindsay's death, which took place, exceeding suddenly, the very morning of the dream. "Some years ago, the Lady of Colonel Gale, having lost her husband, was going to Kingston in Jamaica, to administer to his effects. In her way she stopped all night at a friend's house, intending to proceed on her journey the next morning; she accordingly ordered her coachman to be ready to set out at the appointed hour. Mrs Gale's waiting-weman, who accompanied her mistress, dreamed that night that her master appeared to her, and enquired where her mistress was; the servant told him that her lady was going to Kingston, and was now on her journey; the colonel re plied she must not go,-she must return with him, for he was come to fetch her; this the servant told next morning to the family where they were. Soon afterwards she went into her lady's room to call her up, but was told by her that she felt herself somewhat indisposed, and did not think she should be well enough to proceed on her journey that day. got ready, according to the order given to the coachman the She, moreover, desired the servant to forbid the carriage being night before. When the lady of the house perceived her friend very feverish and indisposed, the doctor was called in, but all to no purpose, for the fever increased upon her to such a degree, that she survived little more than a week or ten days. "In the night of the 11th of May, 1812, Mr Williams of Scorrior House, near Redneath, in Cornwall, awoke his wife, and exceedingly agitated, told her that he had dreamed that he was in the lobby of the House of Commons, and saw a man shoot with a pistol a gentleman who had just entered the lobby, who was said to be the Chancellor; to which Mrs Williams naturally replied that it was only a dream, and recommended him to be composed, and go to sleep as soon as he could. He did so; but shortly after he again awoke her, and said that he had, a second time, had the same dream; whereupon she observed that he had been so much agitated with his former dream, that she supposed it had dwelt on his mind, and begged of him to compose himself, and go to sleep, which he did. A third time the same vision was repeated, on which, notwithstanding her entreaties that he would lie quiet and endeavour to forget it, he arose, then be tween one and two o'clock, and dressed himself. At breakfast, the dreams were the sole subjects of conversation, and in the forenoon Mr Williams went to Falmouth, where he related the particulars of them to all his acquaintances that he met. On the following day, Mr Tucker, of Kematon Castle, accompanied by his wife, a daughter of Mr Williams, called at Scorrior House, when Mr Williams began to relate to Mr Tucker the circumstances of his dream, and Mrs Williams observed to her daughter Mrs Tucker, laughingly, that her father could not even suffer Mr Tucker to be seated before he told him of his nocturnal visitation; on the statement of which, Mr Tucker observed, that it would do very well for a dream to have the Chancellor in the House of Commons, but that he would not be found there in reality. And Mr Tucker then asked what sort of a man he appeared to be, when Mr Williams described him minutely; to which Mr Tucker replied, Your description is not at all that of the Chancellor, but is certainly very exactly that of Mr Perceval, the Chancellor of the Exchequer; and though he has been to me the greatest enemy I have ever met with through life,' (for a supposed cause, which had no foundation in truth, or words to that effect,) I should be exceedingly sorry indeed to hear of his being assassinated, or of any injury of the kind happening to him.' "Mr Tucker then enquired of Mr Williams if he had ever seen Mr Perceval, and was told that he had never seen him, nor had ever written to him, either on public or private business; in short, that he had never any thing to do with him, nor had he ever been in the House of Commons in his lifetime. At this moment, Mr Williams and Mr Tucker, still standing, heard a horse gallop to the door of the house, and immediately after, Mr Michael Williams of Trevince (son of Mr Williams of Scorrior) entered the room, and said he had galloped out from Truro, (from which Scorrior is seven miles distant,) having seen gentleman there who had come by that evening's mail from town, who said that he was in the lobby of the House of Commons on the evening of the 11th, when a man, called Bellingham, had shot Mr Perceval; and that, as it might occasion some great ministerial changes, and might affect Mr Tucker's political friends, he had come out as fast as he could to make him acquainted with it, having heard, at Truro, that he had passed through that place in the afternoon in his way to Scorrior. "After the astonishment which this intelligence created had a little subsided, Mr Williams described most minutely the appearance and the dress of the man that he saw in his dream fire the pistol at the Chancellor. About six weeks after, Mr Williams, having business in town, went, accompanied by a friend, to the House of Commons, where, as has been already observed, he had never before been. Immediately that he came to the steps, at the entrance of the lobby, he said, 'This place is as distinctly within my recollection, in my dream, as any room in my house;' and he made the same observation when he entered the lobby. He then pointed out the exact spot where Bellingham actually stood when he fired, and which Mr Perceval had reached when he was struck by the ball where he fell. The dress both of Mr Perceval and Bellingham agreed with the description given by Mr Williams, even to the most minute particulars. "The foregoing dream is the more marvellous and astonishing, on account of the striking conformity of its details to those of a contemporaneous event, which was performed nearly three hundred miles from the person of the dreamer. Moreover, to silence all those doubts, which those who fancy they can theorize upon dreams continually offer to the public, when any thing of the kind becomes realised, it must be stated, that the person who dreamed the dream is now alive; the witnesses to whom he made known the particulars of it at the time are also living; and the whole comes, therefore, under the denomination of a special and undoubted type or warning of what afterwards happened. The great respectability of the parties, who are ready (as they have assured the author) to make oath on the subject, sets aside every appearance of wishing to impose upon public credulity. It is here recorded as a matter of fact, which may cause the sceptic to pause ere he pronounces all dreams as the offspring of the imagination, or the effects of bodily infirmities."P. 30-5. 64 The question being then settled beyond a doubt that dreams are prophetic, what a treasure did not the Editor of this book discover when he found the ancient and curious manuscript, entitled The Regal Boke of Dreemes; a marvellous and faythefule expounder of npghte visiones." We have seen nothing like it. The oracles are the truest we ever met with. We have tried them again and again, and they have never yet deceived We consult the book the first thing we do every morning; and we advise all our readers to do the same, unless they have greater confidence in a tea-cup and saucer, which is an excellent invention also. us. The Undying One, and other Poems. By the Honourable Mrs Norton. London. Colburn and Bentley. 1830. We have not yet had time to prepare a review of this work. The following extracts from it, however, will be read with interest and pleasure. The two first are of a grave and sentimental character. "None remember thee! thou whose heart Thine old companions pass me by With a cold bright smile and a vacant eye, "None remember thee! thou wert not No glory beam'd upon thy lot, My pale and quiet star. Like a winter bud that too soon hath burst, Save me ! "None remember thee! they could spy "None remember thee! now thou'rt gone, Save me!" "We have been friends together, In sunshine and in shade; Since first beneath the chestnut trees In infancy we play'd; But coldness dwells within thy heart, A cloud is on thy brow: We have been friends together Shall a light word part us now? "We have been gay together; We have laugh'd at little jests; For the fount of hope was gushing Warm and joyous in our breasts. But laughter now hath fled thy lip, And sullen glooms thy brow; |
