a quarter which added ridicule to danger. In the territory of the prince of Marwar, near the city of Nagur, there lived an old woman, who was arrived at the eightieth year of her age. She possessed a considerable hereditary estate, and had accumulated, by penury, a good sum of money. Being seized with a fit of enthusiasm, she became all of a sudden prodigal of her wealth. Fakirs and sturdy beggars, under a pretence of religion, to the number of five thousand, gathered round her castle, and received her bounty. These vagabonds, not satisfied with what the old woman bestowed in charity, armed themselves, and, making predatory excursions into the country, returned with spoil to the house of their patroness, where they mixed intemperance and riot with devotion. The people, oppressed by these sanctified robbers, rose upon them, but they were defeated with great slaughter.

Repeated disasters of the same kind were at last attributed to the power of enchantment. This ridiculous opinion gaining ground, fear became predominant in the opponents of the fakirs. The banditti, acquiring confidence from their success, burnt and destroyed the country for many leagues, and surrounded the castle of the pretended enchantress with a desert. The raja marched against them with his native troops, but was defeated; the collectors of the imperial revenue attacked them, but they were forced to give way. A report prevailed, and was eagerly believed by the multitude, that, on a certain day of the moon, the old lady used to cook, in the scull of an enemy, a mess composed of owls, bats, snakes, lizards, human flesh, and other horrid ingredients, which she distributed to her followers. This abominable meal, it was believed by the rabble, had the surprising effect of not only rendering them void of all fear themselves, and inspiring their enemies with terror, but even of making them invisible in the hour of battle, when they dealt their deadly blows around.

Their numbers being now increased to twenty thousand, this motley army, with an old woman at their

head, directed their march towards the capital. Bistamia, for that was her name, was a commander full of cruelty. She covered her route with murder and devastation, and hid her rear in the smoke of burning villages and towns. Having advanced to Narnoul, about five days' journey from Agra, the collector of the revenue in that place opposed her with a force, and was totally defeated. The affair was now become serious, and commanded the attention of the emperor. He found that the minds of the soldiers were tainted with the prejudices of the people, and he thought it necessary to combat Bistamia with weapons like her own. Sujait was ordered against the rebels. The emperor, in the presence of the army, delivered to that general, billets written with his own hand, which were said to contain magical incantations. His reputation for sanctity was at least equal to that of Bistamia; and he ordered a billet to be carried on the point of a spear before each squadron, which the soldiers were made to believe could counteract the enchantments of the enemy. The credulity which induced them to dread the witchcraft of the old woman, gave them confidence in the pretended charm of Aurungzebe; and the result of the confidence was their complete success.

SINGING AT SIGHT.

"When Handel went through Chester in the year 1741," says Dr. Burney, "I was at the public school in that city, and very well remember seeing him smoke a pipe, over a dish of coffee, at the Exchange Coffee House; for being extremely curious to see so extraordinary a man, I watched him narrowly as long as he remained at Chester; which, on account of the wind being unfavourable for his embarking at Parkgate, was several days. During this time, he applied to Mr. Baker, the organist, my first music-master, to know whether there were any choir-men in the cathedral who could sing at sight, as he wished to prove some books that had been hastily transcribed, by trying the choruses which he intended to perform

in Ireland. Mr. Baker mentioned some of the most likely singers then in Chester, and, among the rest, a printer of the name of Janson, who had a good bass voice, and was one of the best musicians in the choir. A time was fixed for this private rehearsal at the Golden Falcon, where Handel was quartered; but, alas! on trial of the chorus in the Messiah, And with his stripes we are healed,' poor Janson, after repeated attempts, failed so egregiously, that Handel, after swearing in four or five different languages, cried out in broken English, You shcaun trel! tit not you dell me dat you could sing at soite?'- Yes, sir,' said the printer, and so I can, but not at first sight.'

STUDIES OF A YOUNG REVIEWER.

[The following fragments were found among some loose papers accidentally left on the table of a coffee-house. They are perhaps the exercises of some young Aristarchus, preparatory to his engaging in the regular fields of criticism. The writer seems to have studied the modern system with success, and to have caught some of the more common beauties which distinguish the periodical works of the present day. It must be allowed, however, that he has addicted himself to the contemplation of one side of the question only, and has not ventured on the laudatory style, in which it is at least necessary to understand some of the better qualities of the author reviewed.]

MACBETH, WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

QUARE. Tragedy or melodrame ?

It consists of a dance of hobgoblins-the murder of a Scotch king-the elevation of a murderer to the throne a ghost with his throat cut from ear to ear-a lady walking in her chemise-and the murderer's death!This last is good: poetical justice. The following are pleasant specimens of the style. We select them sincerely from the first page alone:

"Hurly-burly"-vulgar-but we have too much respect for ourselves to utter a word against it; even to express our indignation, &c. As to the second, let the paradox speak for itself-if it can. Good-But we must proceed with this heavy performance. [Here say, if your readers knew, &c. all we have to go through, &c. they would compassionate us.]

First Witch. I come, Grimalkin.

Second Witch. Paddock calls-Anon, &c.

over

This seems to be neither more nor less than the flowing drivelling nonsense that streams occasionally from the crazed heads of poor old imbecile women. It would be cruelty towards them to utter a single invective against it.

68

Doubtfully it [the battle] stood,

As two spent swimmers that do cling together,
And choke their art, &c.

We shall be happy to offer a moderate reward to any young gentleman who will come forward and furnish us with a reasonable explanation of this riddle. It is utterly beyond our simple comprehension; and with respect to a passage that occurs shortly afterwards, about a woman sailing to Aleppo" in a sieve, "like a rat without a tail," it absolutely confounds our critical faculties. It probably relates to some northern superstition, and may be imposing and original to many; but to us we confess that it appears to be a simple lump of nonsense beaten out and dilated into six lines by a heavier hammer than that of Thor.

Macbeth is a king of Scotland; and among other valuable sayings we have the following. We are told that it has been admired-in Scotland we suppose:

I dare do all that may become a man;

Who dares do more, is none.

If kings ever spoke thus, we may congratulate ourselves on the improvement of royal intellects. We need only refer our readers to the excellent speeches pronounced on the opening of parliament to satisfy them

(by contrast) how perfectly barbarous and absurd were the colloquies of these earlier chieftains. Do but observe the miserable vanity of the first line, and the utter nonsense of the last. So, because a man does more than becomes him, he becomes-no man: he changes his sex, we suppose, or turns beast or blockhead, or something equally curious.

* * * * * * * * * *

Mem.-Macbeth contrives to see a dagger floating about in the air-talks to it by the hour-follows it about as though it were a jack-o'-lantern; and in the end sticks his knife into his master's throat, in compliance with the hints of three old women with beards, whom he sees through the suspicious medium of a Scotch mist. Quære, if whiskey was made in those days? On how small a foundation a tragedy may be built!-Quære, may not the caldron have been a private still, and Macbeth an officer of the revenue?

Well, (here plead fatigue), at last Macbeth gets the crown-stalks about with it on his head like a man in Bartholomew fair, and, in order to keep his hand in, cuts his friend Banquo's throat, and moralizes thereupon.Note; Banquo's ghost appears, but he, (Macbeth) doesn't see it until after he has been drinking freely: sees a wood move, 66 we suppose," under the same multiplying and fallacious influence. "We suppose," the 'last syllable of recorded time' must mean something or other; but quære, what?-Congratulate ourselves and our readers on coming at the end of the tragedy. Too ridiculous for a nursery story: altogether bad: admonish the author, and compliment ourselves on our candour. Usual termination.

Hamlet, by the same author, is merely the story of an unhappy young gentleman, who is allowed (very improperly) to walk about without his keeper. He raves and utters the most incoherent absurdities in the funeral tone of an undertaker. We despair of giving even an outline of the tale: indeed, it is out of the reach of common perseverance to get through the story at a sitting.