Volume 1 — MISCELLANY.

THEOBALDUS SECUNDUS, OR SHAKSPEARE AS HE SHOULD BE.

NO. III.

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, continued.

Marcellus invokes the ghost almost in the words of Charon, who, too charitable to suffer a man to go to the devil in his own way, thus addressed the son of Anchises:

The sybil in Virgil gives a civil answer to a civil question, and narrates the birth, parentage, and education of her protegé. Not so "the buried majesty of Denmark." Disdaining to be tried by any but his peers, he withholds all parlance till he commences with his son, and having entered O. P. (signifying "O Patience," to the inquisitive spectator) makes his exit P. S. (signifying poor spirit). Marcellus, hereupon, moralizes after the following fashion:

Why this dead hour? hours never die. In Ovid they are employed as grooms in harnessing Apollo's steeds, and if there be any faith in tempus fugit, how can the dead fly? to be sure, Marcellus was a sentinel, whose duty it is to kill time: but I prefer dread hour! Now for jump—Mr. Malone says, that in Shakspeare's time, jump and just were synonimous terms. So they are in our time. Two men of sympathetic sentiments are said to jump in a judgment. We have also a sect of just men in Wales called jumpers. Strange that the same motion that carries a man to heaven should carry a Kangaroo to Botany Bay!

I do not think that the modern actors who personate the ghost, pay a proper attention to the text. It is evident from the above passage, that the ghost in crossing between the speakers and the audience, should give a jump, taking special care to avoid both traps and lamps, otherwise he may "fast in fires," a little too fast. "Gone by our watch," should be divided thus, "Gone—by our watch;" meaning at this hour, as we compute the time. Marcellus should here pull out his watch. A man will never make an actor unless he is particular in these little matters. Horatio continues thus:

Johnson will have it that "gross and scope," mean general thoughts and tendency at large. Alas! that all the scope of his gross frame should contain so small a meaning! I prefer guess and skip of my opinion; that is a random notion hastily entertained.

As for the eruption in the state, the reader will bear in mind the jump of the ghost, and coupling it with the aforesaid eruption, will no longer wonder that a modern writer couples the word jump with the Norman invasion:

O'Keefe has a character in his farce of The Farmer, called Jemmy Jumps, but I cannot with all my diligence, discover that he takes his name from a love of jumping. Molly Maybush, indeed, gives us a hint of his fondness for that recreation in the following distich:

But if his own evidence is to be believed, (and according to some recent suggestions, that is the only evidence which ought to be received) he has no penchant for it. The farmer asks him to join the village dance, whereupon he indignantly exclaims, "What! I sport a toe among such a set of rustics!" Upon the whole I am inclined to believe that as a manufacturer of stays he takes his name from a part of those modish ligatures called jumps.

A figure of the very first water and magnitude, now makes his entré—the ghost of the late king! and here I must digress awhile, and like a raw notary's clerk, enter my feeble protest against the tame and unimpressive manner in which that supernatural personage is permitted to make his appearance. It should seem that our managers reserve all their decorations for the inexplicable dumb show of the Wood Dæmon (that diphthong is my delight), the Castle Spectre, &c. &c. The Bleeding Nun in Raymond and Agnes is ushered in with a pre-scent-iment of blue flame and brimstone. Angela's mother advances in a minuet step, to soft music, like Goldsmith's bear, and is absolutely enveloped in flames—none but a salamander, or Messrs. Shadrach and company can enact the part with safety. But when we are presented with a dead Hamlet, Banquo, or lady Anne, those impressive non-naturals of the poet of Nature, they walk in as quiet and unadorned as at a morning rehearsal; marching like a vender of clumsy Italian images, "with all their imperfections on their head," and an additional load attributable to the imperfect head of the manager. Remember the lines of the poet:

And let us in future see Shakspeare's ghosts adorned with the proper paraphernalia and (impernalia) of thunder, hautboys, and brimstone. But to return—For "eruption to our state;" some people prefer reading corruption, alleging that most states are corrupt (England, as one of the present company, of course excepted) but that eruptions are confined to the towns that border on Mount Vesuvius. But surely, allowing the observation its full swing, eruption is here the right reading. The ghost, in a subsequent scene, expressly informs us that he is "confined to fast in fires," and from his underground repetition of the word "swear," it is clear that those fires were immediately under Hamlet's feet. Yes, sir, this identical ghost was the Guy Faukes of Denmark, and but for the vent he discovered in a cranny near Elsinore enabling him to take a peep at the "glimpses of the moon," would doubtless have blown the crown prince, and all his court into the air, and thus have rendered unnecessary our late expedition for that purpose.

I find nothing upon which to animadvert till the re-entry of the ghost. He has evidently something upon his mind, which he wishes to communicate; but with the heart of a lion shows that he also possesses the fears of that royal beast, for upon the crowing of the cock (a sound most injudiciously omitted, since the death of the bantam Roscius) the spirit evaporates as quickly as from a glass of champagne, in the drinking of a health.

Here performers, who move like blind asses in the manager's mill, usually raise the right arm, as though partisan meant the instrument in their grasp. O lame and impotent! As if a little bit of a truncheon could bruise a ghost! What says Ossian, speaking of a ghost? "The dim stars twinkled through his form." A plain proof of his want of substance. So of Pope's sylph:

Some fanciful persons will have it that partisan signifies companion, as though Marcellus should say, "shall I strike at it with the assistance of Bernardo?" Listen to the real original meaning:

In plain English, "shall I throw a cheese at its head?" This agrees with what was before advanced relative to beef, and shows that the sentinels of those days antedating the couplet in the Bath Guide,

never mounted guard without a havresack well stuffed with eatables.

Coffee and Chocolate.

Coffee is the seed of a tree or shrub of the jessamine species, originally a native of Arabia, but now thriving in the West Indies, where it is become an important article of English commerce.

The flower is yellow, and the berry juicy, containing two seeds: these when gathered have a ferinaceous bitter taste, but are wholly without that peculiar smell and flavour imparted to them by fire, and for which an infusion or decoction of them is so much admired.

This fashionable beverage, almost a necessary of life to the merchant, the politician, and the author, on its first introduction in Asia, caused a violent religious schism among the Mahometan doctors, almost as early as the thirteenth century, although it was not till towards the middle of the sixteenth, that a coffee-house properly so called, was established at Constantinople: its discovery was announced by a miraculous legend which each sect relates in its own way.

A dervise, says a certain heterodox rational mussulman, if such there be, "a dervise overflowing with zeal or with bile, was sorely troubled on observing that his brethren were not animated by a spirit active as his own: he saw, with concern, that they were listless and drowsy in the performance of their religious exercises, their ecstasies, their howlings, their whirlings round, their vertigoes, their bellowings, and laborious breathings.

"The dissatisfied dervise, taking a solitary walk to sooth his disturbed spirits, or cool his heated imagination, observed that the cattle became suddenly and remarkably playsome and lively, after feeding on a certain leaf; judging, by analogy, that the same effect might be produced on other animals, he gave his companions a strong infusion of it; their heaviness and torpor were almost instantly removed, and they performed the parts allotted to them with exemplary activity and vigour; the leaf so powerful in its effects proved to be the shrub from which coffee berries afterwards were gathered."

"Listen not to such profane heresies," says an orthodox doctor of Mecca, "it was in the six hundred and sixty-sixth year of the Hegira (about the middle of the thirteenth century of the Christian era) that Abouhasan Scazali, on a pilgrimage to the tomb of our most holy prophet, sinking under fatigue, extreme heat, and old age, called unto him Omar, a venerable Scheick, his friend and companion, and thus addressed him:

"Teacher of the faithful! the angel of death hath laid his hand upon me; cleansed from my corruptions in the waters of Paradise, I hope soon to be in the presence of our prophet; but I cannot depart in peace, till I have done justice to thy zeal, thy faith, and thy friendship; persevere in the path thou hast so long trod, and rely on him, who drove the infidels like sheep before him, to extricate thee from all thy difficulties: farewell, sometimes think of Abouhasan, pity his errors, and do justice to his good name:" he would have spoken further, but his breath failed, his eyes became dim, and pressing that hand he was to press no more, he expired without a groan.

"Having performed the last office of friendship, Omar pursued his way: but, a few days after, lost in devout contemplation, or overwhelmed with sorrow, he wandered from his associates in the caravan, and was not sensible of his situation, till involved in one of those whirlwinds, which, raising into the air the sandy soil of that country, generally prove destructive. Falling on his face, the fury of the blast, and the thick cloud of sand passed over him: almost suffocated with dust, notwithstanding the precaution he had taken, separated from the companions of his journey, without water to moisten his parched mouth, and fainting for want of sustenance, he gave himself up for a lost man, the stream of life was propelled with difficulty, perception and sensation began to fail, and believing himself in the agonies of death, he poured forth a mental ejaculation to Allah.

"An angel of light immediately stood before him, waving his hand thrice towards the holy city, and pronouncing deliberately three mysterious words; a limpid stream suddenly gushed from the ground, and a luxuriant shrub sprung forth from the barren sand of the desert; bathing the temples, the eyes, and the lips of Omar, with the refreshing fluid, the celestial messenger disappeared.

"The cool stream, and the berries plucked from the miraculous tree, soon recovered the sinking man; he poured forth his soul in thanksgiving, and sunk into a deep sleep, from which he awoke in full vigour and spirits.

"Omar, with renewed strength, soon rejoined the caravan, and relating the supernatural circumstance, a mosque was erected on the spot, by the zeal and contributions of true believers; coffee, that wonderful shrub, the peculiar gift of our prophet, and more particularly the produce of his favourite country, still continues the solace, cordial, and comforter of his devoted followers."

This singular specimen of Turkish superstition, in which the Mahometan appears to have encroached on the prerogatives of the Vatican, is taken from a curious book, which, previous to the Gallic revolution, was in the library of the king of France, and presented to Louis the fifteenth, by Said, an ambassador from the Porte to the court of Versailles.

It is called in the title page, Dgihan Numa, that is, a description of the world, and was printed at Constantinople, in seventeen hundred and thirty-one, adorned with plates and illustrated by maps; the author, or rather the compiler, was Keatib Cheleli, a learned doctor of the Turkish law.

"Coffee," says this enlightened mussulman, who shaking off the stupidity and indolence of his countrymen, assumes the character of a medical inquirer, after he had quitted that of an implicit believer, "coffee is a rejoicer of the heart, an enlivener of conversation, a sovereign restorative after the fatigues of study, of labour or of love; its peculiar characteristic is, to comfort the stomach, nourish the nerves, and to protect the frame against the debilitating effects of a hot climate and a fiery atmosphere.

"Taken an hour after dinner, it prevents an accumulation of crudities in the first passages, is an infallible remedy for the horrors of indigestion, and the megrims."

It was not probable that so wholesome and agreeable an article of diet would be long confined to Asia; it is said to have been introduced to the fashionable circles of Paris by Thevenot, in 1669, but had been made use of in London as an exotic luxury before that time.

The first coffee-house opened in the British metropolis, was in George-yard, Lombard-street, by Rosqua, the Greek servant of a Turkey merchant, in the year 1652; its flavour was considered so delicate, and it was thought by the statesmen of those days (no very reputable characters) to promote society and political conversation so much, that a duty of fourpence was laid on every gallon made and sold.

But Anthony Wood earnestly insists, that there was a house, for selling coffee, at Oxford, two years before Rosqua commenced the trade in London; "that those who delighted in novelty, drank it at the sign of the angel, in that university, a house kept by an outlandish Jew."

In another part of his works, he says that Nathaniel Conapius, a native of Crete, and a fugitive from Constantinople, but residing in the year 1648, at Baliol college, Oxford, made, and drank every morning, a drink called coffey, the first ever made use of in that ancient university.

This popular beverage is mentioned in a tract published by judge Rumsey, in 1659, entitled "Organum Salutis, or an instrument to cleanse the stomach; together with divers new experiments on the virtues of tobacco and coffee."

It is observed in this work, by a correspondent of the author, "that apprentices, clerks and others, formerly used to take their morning draught in ale, beer or wine, which, by the dizziness they cause in the brain, make many unfit for business; but that now they may safely play the good fellow, in this wakeful civil drink, for the introduction of which first in London the respect of the whole nation is due to Mr. Muddiford."

Chocolate, then, is a preparation from the seeds of a small American tree, called by botanists Cacao Guatimalensis, bearing a large red fruit in the shape of a cucumber, which generally contains twenty or thirty of the nuts, boiled and prepared according to art.

This highly nutritious, agreeable, and, to many, wholesome drink, became on its first introduction, a subject of strong agitation, and warm contest, with many conscientious and scrupulous catholics.

Approaching in its original form, and in its alimentary properties, so nearly to solid diet, it was doubted by the timid and the devout, whether enjoying so delicious and invigorating a luxury in Lent, and other seasons appointed by the church for fasts, was not violating or eluding a sacred and indispensable ordinance.

That party which was unwilling to resign their chocolate, quoted the words of St. Thomas, who repeatedly asserts, that it is by solid food only that a fast can be properly said to be broken; that if it is unlawful to drink this liquor on fast days, because of the portion of solid cocoa contained in it; by the same rule, wine and beer, which on these occasions have never been interdicted, might be forbidden, as the first contains a large proportion of the saccharine substance of the grape, and the latter suspends rather than dissolves the whole of the farina of the grain.

The chocolate drinkers were opposed by a powerful party of rigid disciplinarians, and austere devotees; a Spanish physician wrote a Latin treatise, expressly against what appeared to him so impious a practice on a fast day; his book, entitled "Tribunal Medico-Magicum," exhibits much zeal and some learning; that he was strongly attached to the luxury against which he declaims, is a strong presumption in favour of his sincerity.

The Spaniard's book was answered, by a cardinal of the catholic church in a candid and agreeable way; it was the opinion of the ecclesiastic, supported, indeed by reason and experience, that neither chocolate nor wine taken in moderation could, strictly speaking, be construed into breaking a fast; yet, he hoped, that such a concession, would not be made a pretext by sensuality and wickedness, for using them to excess, by which some of our greatest blessings are converted into curses; as whatever tempts or occasions us to overstep the bounds of nature and of temperance, can never be defended by the canons of the church.

The Roman prelate concludes his rational and truly pious book, written in Latin, not unworthy of the Augustan age, with the following words, which ought to be written in letters of gold, in some conspicuous part of every eating-room in Europe:

"The infidel and voluptuary may ridicule the idea of the Almighty Creator of the universe, being pleased, or displeased, with a man for having a full or an empty stomach; but whatever tends directly or remotely, to subdue rebellious passions, and subject a creature like man to the restraints of reason and religion, cannot fail being a matter of the highest importance to our well-doing, and our everlasting destiny hereafter."

MONUMENT IN HONOUR OF THE LATE DUKE OF BEDFORD. ERECTED IN RUSSELL SQUARE, BY R. WESTMACOTT, ASSOCIATE OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY.

This monument consists principally of a colossal statue of the late Duke of Bedford, habited in his parliamentary robes. At the feet of his statue, or rather around the fragment of rock on which it stands, are "the seasons personified by genii, or children in playful attitudes."

"This group surmounts a pedestal composed of granite; the sides of which are embellished by bassi-relievi of pastoral subjects. On the angles are bulls heads; the intermediate friezes being occupied by bassi-relievi of groups of cattle. The whole composition is about twenty-five feet in height."

The latter part of this general description, which we have marked as quotation, is taken from Mr. Westmacott's own modest account of his work, in the 'Academic Annals.'

The whole forms an imposing, and, in some degree, magnificent pile of sculpture, and seems the worthy ornament of a great metropolis; yet it has such defects as inform us that it has not fallen from Heaven. The statue is doubtless meant to be stable, manly, easy, and dignified; yet it is not perfectly these, though perhaps no other words could be so nearly used with propriety in describing its first bold impression on the mind of the beholder, as he approaches from Bloomsbury square along Bedford-place.

A noble and sedate simplicity characterizes the general style of Mr. Westmacott's sculpture, and is conspicuous in the tout ensemble of the pile before us. The proportions of the statue and its ornamental accompaniments, to the pedestal and double plinth basement, are well regulated, and are the evident and successful result of study. The bronze, of which the statue and bas-reliefs are composed, being covered with a fine green patina (which has apparently been superinduced), would have assimilated very well with the sort of grave, negative colour of the Scotch granite, of which the pedestal is formed, had the rock on which the Duke stands been of bronze, as well as the statue and personifications of the seasons which are designed to group with it. This rock ought certainly not to have been of Scotch granite. The pedestal alone should have been of this material, and all that surmounts it of bronze. Beside that real rock is almost as unscientific in this place, as would have been the real ermine on the Duke of Bedford's robes, or a real wig on his head; it is almost as destructive too of the chastity of sculpturesque effect. It gives a meager effect to the seasons, while it mars the simplicity of what would else have appeared a grand connected mass of imitative art. The granite and green bronze, if kept in broad and distinct masses, would have harmonized extremely well with the verdure of the pleasure ground in which it is placed; yet, as it is, the whole composition, when viewed from any station near the south end of Bedford-place, detaches with effect from the air-tint of the distant country, excites a classic and elevated feeling, and invites the steps of the tasteful to a nearer view.

The figure of the Duke, in allusion, presumptively, to the firmness of his character, stands on a rock, with his right foot somewhat advanced. His right hand is also advanced, and rests on the shaft of the plough, while his left arm, which is somewhat too short for the figure, hangs perpendicularly, forming a line exactly parallel to the outline of the drapery on this left side of the statue. One side of the figure is thus perfectly tranquil, while the other is in gentle action. What the sculptor may conceive he has gained in effect, by thus contrasting one side of his statue to the other, he appears to us to have lost, in losing that more easy contrast and graceful equilibrium which distinguishes the best single figures of the ancients, and which should not, we think, be absent from those of the moderns. If, however, grandeur by these means be substituted for gracefulness, art and the public are amply compensated, and the sculptor should be honoured for a successful deviation from ancient authority and established principle. We are only sorry to add, that in our opinion it is not.

The features of the Duke's face are very judiciously generalised, or idealised (as is the phrase among artists) to that degree which raises the mental character of the head, and while it retains all those peculiarities which are essential to portraiture, renders an individual countenance more fit for the purpose of the sculptor, and perhaps impresses a likeness more forcibly than minute finishing, especially at a height of eighteen or twenty feet from the eye of the spectator. The neck is increased in thickness, so as to give an Herculean air and character to the bust: which yet, on the whole, so strongly resembles that of the original, that it is immediately recognised by all who remember the Duke of Bedford's person.

Of the drapery, the general style is broad, square, and masterly. The peculiarities of the English ducal robes are sufficiently attended to, and sufficiently simplified; but the ermined part we esteem unfortunate (as much of it at least as is seen in the front view of the figure) as it disturbs the contour of the folds, and has a clumsy and unsculpturesque appearance.

Proceeding downward in our remarks, we now arrive at Mr. Westmacott's personification of the seasons, where we find he has departed in some measure from former analogies, without, in every instance, substituting better.

We have already remarked that these genii have a meager effect, and have endeavoured to account for it by supposing it to be principally owing to the ill-judged mixture of materials and colours, of which this part of the pile consists. Yet beside this defect, in every view but that from the westward, these figures appear to want grouping and connexion. Seasons, which are blended in their real existence, should probably not be disconnected, nor thrown out of their natural order, in their allegorical representation. No man desires to see the backside of Spring unless Summer follow; and had Summer and Autumn been visible from the principal approach, an association of ideas would have been excited, more genial and more appropriate to the agricultural character of the monument, if not to the known bounty of the late Duke of Bedford, than by the presence of Winter and Spring. By placing the two former behind his Grace, and turning one of them away from the eye of the spectator, the sculptor has even left it so doubtful whether he has or has not taken the liberty of changing the natural course of the seasons in order to effect this, or some other purpose, that we have known some persons mistake—unless we are ourselves mistaken—Summer for Autumn and Autumn for Summer; and others puzzled between Summer and Spring. It is true, the seasons in our climate, are sometimes so strangely disordered and confused, that if Mr. Westmacott should plead that in this part of the design, he has chosen rather to imitate nature than the antique, and English nature rather than the nature of any other climate, we should probably be silenced.

It may also be pleaded with great truth in favour of the artist, that in consequence of the arrangement which he has adopted, there is in every view of the monument, something of merit and importance to gratify public attention. In front, there is the statue itself contrasted by the plainness and simplicity of the unadorned side of the pedestal. On the east side there is the most beautiful of the bas-reliefs: on the west, the most interesting view of the seasons, and what there is behind, God knows. The public are not yet permitted to walk round it.

We will now endeavour to explain the symbols and metaphors which Mr. Westmacott has invented or adopted, as well as we are able, in the order in which they present themselves on the monument. Spring is very properly represented as rising a wreath of blossoms and other early flowers, among which the lily is distinguishable; the genius of Autumn is pouring forth her abundance of English fruits and vegetables (for there is nothing exotic) from a cornucopia; Summer, as far as can be seen from without the enclosed area of Russel-square, has a butterfly perched on his hand, intimating that this is the season when this beautiful insect bursts from its chrysales into new life; and Winter sits shrunk and sheltered by drapery from inclemencies of which, to be strictly correct, it should appear to have been the cause.

The character and style of Mr. Westmacott's boys or genii, are something between that of Fiamingo, and real life. Those of Summer and Autumn especially, possess much of infantile grace; but the genius of Winter appears disproportionably small, and the space left for his chest so small, when compared with his limbs, that the Hibernian punsters will be in some danger of thinking it is meant for a personification of—nobody. What those may be tempted to think of it who are conversant with Dr. Hunter's principal anatomical work, we shall not presume to say.

The bulls heads on the angles have a new and not unpleasing effect, and are executed in a grand style; their horns are short and bound for sacrifice as in the antique. And the frieze which runs round the top of the pedestal is enriched, the East side with two sheep, a lamb, and an ox; the West side with two swine and a cow; and the South side, or front of the monument with a horse, all sculptured in low relief, and in a style partaking partly of the antique, and partly of English nature. Immediately above this frieze on the south side, and in the interval between Winter and Spring, the artist has placed a lamb, which is perfectly in season.

Of the bas-reliefs which adorn the sides of the pedestal, and which are in conception and composition, if not of execution, the finest part of the whole pile, one represents the season of ploughing, the other that of harvest; and both are so classical in their appearance, and in design so abstracted from localities, that could they have been discovered in Sicily, the cognoscenti would, perhaps, have sworn that Theocritus had seen and studied them when he wrote his Idyllia.

As associated with, and calculated to call up, ideas of humble, innocent and laudable occupation, these sculptured pastorals are of high moral value in such a metropolis as this, where guilty dissimulation and insidiousness so much abound—independent of their merit, and consequent value as works of fine art. Why do we contemplate the innocent occupations of children, and rural life, with sentiments of the purest complacency? Why, but because the soul is revived as it recognises its own nature through the disguise of society, and springs back with ardour toward a state of things on which our ideas of Paradise itself have been rested.

Perhaps no works of art, and no poetry extant, will more forcibly recall what we have read and fancied of the golden age, than these bas-reliefs. They are delightful both in design and execution. To imagine the art as co-existing with these in such an age of happy innocence as is here suggested, raises cold criticism itself almost to rhapsody.

In the first, which occupies the western side of the pedestal, peasants are resting from the labour of the plough; a yoked ox shows the nature of their employment; a ploughman takes a refreshing draught, from his wooden bottle, while a youth blows a horn to call his fellow labourers to an humble repast, which a female is busily engaged in preparing.

In the other relievo, which decorates the eastern side of the pedestal, reapers and other peasantry are conversing and reposing from the toils of the field. The group consists of a mower, a reaper, a harvest man stooping to bind a sheaf, a shepherd and his dog. The principal and central figure is that of a young female laden with corn, and holding a sickle in her right hand, and is a most exquisite, and, we had almost said, unparalleled piece of sculpture in its kind. In truth, the unsophisticated, self-willed, easy, rustic, grace, of this figure, is raised by the art of the sculptor into intellectual existence—

and all the characters are simple; yet free from any alloy of grossness, while the grouping and drawing are excellent in a very high degree. Modern art, excepting it be in the principal figure of Barry's Grecian Harvest-home, has produced nothing of the kind, which can be compared with this reaper, or which is so perfectly the vigorous offspring of Poetry and Sculpture, generated in their happiest moments.

Mr. Westmacott has wisely chosen to display the most prominent and distinguished trait of the Duke's character, and to that he has confined himself. He has not frittered attention as a common-minded statuary would have done, by endeavouring to make the subject of his chisel appear to have been every thing that is great and good: he does not compliment the Duke of Bedford, by surrounding him with various virtues, and representing him as having been a great statesman, philosopher, patron of art and literature, orator, agriculturist, &c. &c. but by seizing the principal feature of his mental character, and representing him simply as a great agriculturist, or patron of agriculture, he powerfully impresses one important truth, which no spectator will forget, and all who possess the means, may learn to emulate.

The Duke of Bedford's agricultural, is probably the most permanent, as well as honourable and prominent, feature of his character. In his politics, like a large majority of statesmen, he attached himself too much to persons, and attended too little to the ascertainment of principles. As a politician, he might soon have been forgotten, or have been remembered with little interest, while as an agriculturist, posterity for many a century, may with pleasure view the seasons playing round the foot of his statue.

The statue is in fact as much a monument in honour of agriculture as of the late Duke of Bedford; and, observing the public interest which this excites, we cannot but think it would be well if our public ways were adorned with statues to other noblemen and noble propensities.

To agriculture, undoubtedly, in every country, the first of arts, in point of time, and perhaps of importance, the first honours may be allowed; but we deem that a sufficient portion of the attention of our nobility and great landed proprietors has already been attracted toward this pursuit; and among the various arts and sciences, we should not forget that though the iron arts are more useful, the golden are more precious. A taste for fine art, moreover, has a certain grace of disinterestedness, which does not attach to an agricultural duke or great landed proprietor, constantly employing himself in endeavours to increase the produce of his lands.

Wherefore, though the statue to agriculture and the late Duke of Bedford, be extremely fit and proper in point of moral social influence, it makes other statues or other moral works of art yet more necessary than they were. Britain may boast of many a Cornelia, but where is the monument to the maternal character? Many a Brutus and many a Mæcenas, but where are the public enticements to disinterested patriotism and the patronage of art?

O! NEVER LET US MARRY.

TO ROSA.

THE SABLE APPARITION, OR MYSTERIOUS BELL ROPE.

An extract from a Manuscript Novel.

"'Twas nothing more, indeed my dear uncle! No, indeed, 'twas nothing more! Dear, dear, how could I suppose it to be any thing more? And yet I even tremble now," exclaimed Miss Godfrey to her astonished uncle, as he entered the house. "For heaven's sake, my beloved Frances what has thus dreadfully alarmed you?" returned the old gentleman. "Tell me I beseech you! I'm on the rack till I know what could possibly have the power of alarming you to this dreadful degree. Come my sweet girl, compose yourself and relate to me this "soul harrowing" tale; for I'm half inclined (seeing you smile) to suppose it some imaginary evil." It is indeed, sir, an imaginary evil, and a very foolish fear: I am very, very angry with myself, and am seriously apprehensive, that in disclosing to you my weakness, I shall draw down your very just animadversion; but if you will give me a patient hearing, and not think me too circumstantial in my narrative, I will give you then the seeming cause for the disorder in which you found me." Do not fear censure from me my dear Frances, we all have our weak moments; and I am convinced, a girl with my Fanny's understanding, could not be so alarmed at a very trifling circumstance; therefore proceed, my love; I will promise not to fall asleep over the recital."

"Sitting in my dressing room at work, I was surprised by a very hasty tap at the door, which I opened, when Monsieur l'Abbé appeared before me, with his hair erect, his eyes starting from their sockets, and his whole frame so convulsed with terror, that I momentarily expected the wax taper which he bore in his hand would make a somerset on my muslin dress. I begged him to inform me if he was ill? whether any thing had alarmed him? if I should ring for his servant? He shook his head in token of disapprobation of my last interrogatory, and in broken and almost inarticulate accents, begged I would indulge him with a moment's hearing. He then, with much difficulty, addressed me as follows:——

"You know Miss Godfrey, I am the last man in the world to be frightened at bugbears, or in other words, superstition and I were ever sworn enemies: I think, then, after reprobating this weakness in others for fifty years, I have this evening become its victim; for to that alone must I ascribe my fears. Listen then to the cause of this weakness in me. I was deeply immersed in Horace, when I heard a knocking against the partition that separates the rooms. I paid little or no attention to it at first, when a second time the knocks were repeated with more violence. I then arose, and proceeded to the room where the noise issued; and directing my eyes towards the bed, to my infinite surprise I perceived the bell-rope making rapid and extensive strides from one side of the partition to the other. After viewing it for a moment, I thought I would take the liberty of stopping the marble breasted gentleman's progress; I grasped the bell-rope, it yielded to my embrace, and became quiescent; I sat a moment to observe it; it remained quiet, and I returned to my studies. The instant I was seated, the same noise was repeated with increased violence; I entered the room a second time, and a second time saw the bell-rope in rapid motion. I then examined every corner of the room, without discovering the least trace by which I might elucidate this singular appearance. I again grasped the rope, and again it was motionless: I sat two or three minutes in the room, I believe, during which every thing was perfectly quiet. I returned to my room, when scarcely had I seated myself, ere the same noise met my ear, with a sort of hard breathing. This was more than even my philosophy could bear at that moment, and must plead my excuse for appearing before you in the disordered state which you have just witnessed." "You must pardon me, my good sir, for smiling," I remarked, but I really have scarcely had patience to hear you out, so anxious am I to be introduced to this ghost in the shape of a bell-rope! lead me to the haunted room, and you will gratify me beyond measure!"

"Magnanimous courage! exclaimed Monsieur, with such a guide, I'd face e'en Beelzebub himself;" when each embracing our taper, we proceeded to the mysterious room. My eager eye sought the bell-rope; but no sooner did I perceive its motion (for it was moving as Monsieur had described) than all my boasted philosophy forsook me. Ashamed to confess as much, I begged my companion to once more stop its progress, and suppressing my emotions, I assisted Monsieur in searching the room. Nothing, however, which possessed animation could we discover, (ourselves excepted) and indeed we could scarcely be said to possess it. Monsieur prevailed on me to retire to his sitting room, when perhaps, he observed, we should hear the noise repeated. I acquiesced, when to my inexpressible horror our ears were assailed by a tremendous knocking, accompanied by a terrific scream. This was more than human nature could bear. I rang the bell with unusual violence, which brought up two of the female servants. Without communicating my fears, I requested that the groom might be called: he came, and thus, in a body we once more ventured to enter this terror striking room, every corner of which was searched without success; when the groom accidentally moving the bed, out sprung our—black cat! She had so completely concealed herself in the head curtain of the bed, that all our endeavours to discover anything were fruitless; and each time we left the room, she amused herself with patting the pull of the bell, which occasioned its motion to the infinite terror of a French philosopher, and an heroic maiden.

"The 'terrific scream,' was a faint groan, proceeding from a servant who was ill in the house."