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When Adam delved, and Eve span,
Where was then the gentleman?

Mark here the import of this last line. Where was then the gentleman, is a question which we set at rest by answering, Adam was a boor, and never made any pretensions to those qualities which, in modern times, are compromised under the name of gentility. His wife, however, was a far different being, as superior to him in her manners as Venus to Vulcan; and we are not therefore saluted with the question, where was the lady? Eve was a lady from top to toe, and though we saw her among a group of dowdies at the Glasgow fair, we could distinguish her at once by her elevating mien. She was not indeed a fine thing, made up of caps and laces, and ribbons and brocades. Nevertheless, we are morally assured, that she had a true spice of native dignity about her, and could have outshone all the Duchesses of Almack's with as much ease as she made her husband's breeches.

To proceed with our task. We presume then, that the first occupation of woman was that of a milliner or tailor. It is perhaps difficult, amid the obscurity of early chronicles, to trace the history of the profession in the first nations of the world, but we have little doubt, that among the rudest tribes of the Persians, Egyptians or Greeks, while the males of the family were engaged in the strife of battle, or the labours of the harvest, the ladies kept their shops in the bazars, and vended commodities of their own manufacture over their clean-swept counters. Elderly bachelors, and the younger sons of large families, would probably have no other means of providing themselves with articles of raiment, or the other necessary comforts of life. Besides this, we know, that the women in ancient times used to adorn, with their handiwork, the statues and temples of their gods, and there is no absurdity in supposing, that if one had inscribed over her door, "breeches-maker to Apollo," another might tempt the notice of a customer, by writing herself "patent boot maker to the king." We hazard these remarks chiefly because we do not see what other use women could have served among a people whose habits soon emancipated them from the controul of a mother, and never inclined them to spend much time in the enjoyment of connubial happiness. As the history of the world becomes less obscure, however, we have better means afforded us of tracing the progress of the sex, and can distinctly perceive higher, and more refined employments, taking the place of those which first occupied their attention. There is no doubt that the needle and the distaff long continued to be their characteristic implements, and do in fact remain to this day connected with most of their pursuits. Ere long, however, a complete change came over the condition of female society, proceeding from the gradual operation of a natural cause.

The flood and the fall of Babel are two great events, the effects of which upon the aggregate intellect of mankind philosophers have often puzzled themselves to no purpose toexplain. What influence these might produce upon the weaker portion of our race we presume not to conjecture, farther than by advancing the opinion, that the first reduced their numbers, and that the other multiplied their lingos. Without recurring to such extraordinary explanations, but following the usual course of things, we come at once to the conclusion, that, among the ladies of the ancient world, a habit of talking succeeded to the habit of sewing. It is obvious, that in their acts of barter, whereby they excambioncd wearing apparel for precious metals, or any other medium of exchange, a great fluency of speech would be one of the first acquirements. To set off their bargains to the best advantage, they would describe the qualities of the stuffs, and praise the fashion of a suit, and maybe now and then mix in a word or two to depreciate the value of their neighbour's commodities. Hence was derived that faculty of speech, which still continues to be employed with success for so many different pur

poses; nor need we wonder, considering the circumstances of rivalry in trade from which it took its rise, if it has since frequently assumed the shape of scandal. Thus it was that woman became a talking, from being a breeches-making, animal, by a process which has been to this hour developing itself, in results increasing in their importance, according to a geometrical progression, and threatening to reach an indefinite magnitude, which will propel the existing state of society onwards to the crisis of destiny, like a powerful lever, and give birth to a new state of things, defying human calculation to foresee either their nature or tendency.

This distinguishing element of the female character, we mean the habit of loquacity, arrived early at a very advanced stage of improvement, but did not attain its full maturity till the era of a discovery which stands in the same relation to the history of woman, that the invention of printing does to that of mankind. It was the importation of tea from China that gave stability to that faculty, which before had been exercised only in a desultory and ineffective manner. By the inducement which it afforded for the cultivation of social habits among the sex, and the fashion of evening parties, which it introduced, this invigorating stimulant furnished, like the ale house of the other gender, the means for refining intellect, for exercising talent, for propagating subjects of discussion, and for managing the intrigues and stratagems of private life. The matron no longer confined her gossip to the tired ears of a patient husband orsubmissivedomestic, but sought amid congenial spirits the occasion of indulging more freely her favourite inclination. The young maiden, kindly invited to the soiree of an aunt or cousin, left her quiet home to mix in the busy politics of a circle of friends; and, above all, the time-worn spinster, whose shaking teeth had ceased to utter any sound but what was derogatory to her neighbour's fame, sought to mask her intentions along with her tea, and to infuse into her guests a steam of groundless insinuations, at the same time that she infused the decoction of the leaf. Thus tea parties grew apace; and thus the gossiping habits to which they led strengthened and confirmed the garrulous inclination which had been produced by former associations and events. And, having now brought down our sketch to this stage, beyond which the female mind has never progressed, we shall close it for the present with a brief moral observation.

It has been a disputed question with those who have written upon this subject, whether society, since the creation of the world, has been progressive, stationary or retrograde. We regard this, however, as a foolish discussion, and shall not trifle our time by entering upon it, in reference to that which is the more immediate matter of this treatise. We wish just to advert to one point, in which we think mainly consists the distinction between the advancement of man in the scale of civilization and the advancement of woman— and that is, that while the former has passed through his different stages in succession, without preserving in each the characteristics of that which went before—but has been in turn a hunter, a shepherd, an agriculturist, and so on—we find that woman does not, upon acquiring a new qualification, forget those by which she was previously distinguished, but has been at one and the same time, and still continues to be, eminent for all the three branches of science, needle work, gossiping and tea drinking.

Now then, we have finished our task, and shown how woman became first a breeches maker from interest, a scandal dipper from jealousy, and a tea biber from necessity. We might proceed farther, and point out in what manner she acquired the fashionable accomplishments of life, such as dancing, which she practised from levity, and the art of decoration which she was taught by vanity; but we consider that we have writ enough, and wish it were worthier. And now, nncourteous reader, thou that Idlest thy big wise eyes, and turnest up thy conceited uose, as if thy head were the storehouse of wisdom, and pronouncest that we have been committing folly in penning this our treatise, we leave thee for the present to thy own selfsatisfied reflections, purposing to provoke thy spleen in another chapter, where we shall in like manner detail the Prospects of Women.



Rothesay, Wth June. Dear Brt,—I am afraid by this time you will be thinking I have forgot the promise I made you of sending you an account of our trip here, and how we got fixed in our new lodgings; but really, my dear girl, I have been in such a bustle since I came, about one thing or another, that I may truly say I have not, till this moment, had a minute to spare; what, with bathing and walking, and riding and sailing, while, to crown all, cousin Lucy has, for these few days past, been complaining of a pain in the breast; and, between ourselves, I do not like to hear of young ladies of her age having such ailments. The cunning little minx is very shy of my enquiries about her case; for do you know, I think it infectious, and that she caught it from some of the young officers that used to visit us while in town? but I may be wrong, so as it is a tender subject, you will please say nothing about it to any one at present: for if auntie Wet hears of it, she will be saying we have all got the same complaint, and what a shocking thing that would be. But what do you think of Bob? I must tell you about Bob. You know he is very fond of a shine, so the other day he got a party made up to go to Inverary, and though I kept myself perfectly disengaged, he never once mentioned the subject to me. Now, you know how often he has been with us at tea, which he might have very easily cleared off by a kind invite. But it does not matter. Quadrille nights will be on by and bye, and I will then screw a pin in master Bobby's nose. I think he will look rather queer, Miss Betsey, when he gets the go-bye from us upon our great occasions. The wretch justly deserves it, from the manner in which he spends his time; for he is either drinking cold punch, and smoking cigars in M'Corkindale's, or beauing about a great monster in blue, who happened to make one of the party in the late pleasure trip—pleasure trip, indeed! it's a trip that has set all the people here laughing at them, for the gentlemen got tipsy, and the ladies could got nothing to eat; besides, the number of tales that are going about, makes me quite happy that I was not among them. What do you think of a Rothesay Doctor, dressed in a complete suit of tartan, with kilt and short hose, being of the party? (I am sure you will blush when you read of it, as much as I am doing just now while writing it;) and a tall carroty-headed youth, entertaining the company, by imitating the noise of a hog? Really, I wonder Mr. Denoon does not speak to such people. Neither was this all: when they got to Inverary, they had every one of them to be carried ashore. Now figure the elegant and accomplished Miss P , (she was of the party too) a calefourchon, on the

back of a man. I declare I almost fainted when I heard of it. Ihope, my dear Bet, you will keep this circumstance from the ear of a certain gentleman, as much as ever you can, for I have known of much smaller improprieties, on the part of a lady, being the means of breaking off a connection. By the bye, the lady that we met last Christmas in your aunt's; her, you know, whose singing made such an impression on your cousin Ned, has taken the garret above us, and evening and morning, and, indeed, at all hours of the day, she keeps singing aud glngling away atan old ricketty piano, in such a manner, that we really can't hear ourselves speak. We call her "the lady of many airs;" and I can assure you, it is a nick-name she very well deserves, in more respects than one; for when she appears on the street, she is so gaudily dressed, and so highly civited or perfumed, call it which you will, that she puts one in mind of a tulip which has just been dipped in essence of roses; and then she affects to be so graceful in all her motions, that we cannot help thinking she has come down here on a spec, (as that wretch Bob says,) because she found herself on her last legs in Glasgow. You will excuse legs, my dear Bet. You know it is only with a bosom friend, like you, I would take the liberty of using the term, so don't think me more vulgar than when you last

saw me. Mr. and Mrs. are down here at present enjoying

the fortune that was lately left them. What a deal of fuss some people make about trifles; but, my dear Bet, how you would laugh, if you only saw them at what seems to be their enjoyment: their whole time is spent looking over the quay, and seeing the crabs fight. Now, as it's well known, they have plenty of crab-fyjhting at home, I cannot see what advantage they can have in such spectacles here, unless they are taking hints that may be useful when they open the winter champagne in town. Good gracious! it is enough to make any young lady's hair stand on end, to think what a life some married folks lead. Oh, Bet, dearest Bet, what is to become of us? Write me a long letter on this subject, and say what you think of Bob. Is he not a shocking monster? But stop, I see him coming up the street just now. I wont speak to him, however, till I hear from you. I am sure I shan't: so write me in all haste, and believe me, dearest, your ever faithful

Lucretia Virginia Bam.




The beginning of wisdom is the fear of God.


A man of learning, in the land of bis birth, is like gold in the mine.


Whoever holds himself forth as a man of intelligence, God and men hold him as a fool.


Whoever has a desire to excel in wisdom, women shall have any power over his mind.


It is easier to withdraw the mischievous from mischief, this to withdraw the melancholy from sadness.


Be on thy guard with him whom thou knowest not. 7.

Whoever has covetousness for his chariot, has poverty for his companion.


Whoever conceals his own secret, attains what he desires 9.

The surgeon uses the head of the orphan in the way of practice. 10.

Whatever you shall plant in your garden will do you good; bat if you plant one of the souls of men, he will eradicate you.


Thine own keeping is more requisite for thy secret, than the keeping of any one besides thyself.


Whoever flatters thee to thy face, most certainly detests thee. 13.

Whoever brings any thing to thee, takes also something free thee.


The learned man knows the ignorant man to be ignorant; but the ignorant man does not know the learned man to be unlearned. M.

The ignorant man is an enemy to himself; how then can he be a friend to any other person?


The mind never goes out of hope till it enters into death. 17.

Whoever engages much in business, rides upon the seas. 18.

The lengthening of experience is the increasing of intelligence. 19.

If all men were to become wise, the world would be a desert. 20.

Debauchery destroys much wealth.


Laziness and much sleep withdraw men from God, and cast them to inherit poverty.


Enquire about your neighbour before your house, and your companion before your journey.


Do good if you wish to be well dealt with.


Reprove thyself in the same way as thou reprovest another.


The beginning of anger is madness, but the end of it is repentance.


When ability is at an end, desire is vain.


Whoever allows lust to get the better of his understanding, perishes.


Devotion slays covetousness.


An intelligent enemy is better than a foolish friend. 30.

Whoever abstains from covetousness is rich.


There is no wisdom equal to prudence, and no caution equal to abstaining from what is forbidden; there is no goodness like good nature, and no wealth equal to contentment.


Poverty is better than unlawful wealth, or the gain of injustice. 33.

The tongue of the dumb is better than the tongue of bim that speaketh falsehood.


The basest of mankind is the learned man who does not put his learning to a good purpose.


There are two people that are never satisfied, the seeker ■ knowledge, and the seeker of wealth.


A person void of education is like a body without a soul.

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Jeremy Bentham is no more! In him the world has lost the great teacher and patriarch of his time; the man who of all men who were living on the day of his death, has exercised and is exercising over the fortunes of mankind the widest and most durable influence; and who is even now in some sort governing the world, although not yet recognized and looked up to as their leader by those who are daily obeying the impulse which he gave; no unusual fate of the real guides and rulers of mankind, especially in these latter days.

Had such a man died at an earlier period of his life of usefulness, when much of his task yet remained for him to perform, and many years of possible existence to perform it in, there would have been room for sorrow and lamentation. It is one of the evils of the untimely death of a great man, that it mixes other feelings with those with which alone the thought of a departed sage or hero ought to be associated—joy and pride that our nature bas been found capable of again producing such a man, and affectionate gratitude for the good which we and our posterity have received from him. Such feelings only can find a fitting place near the tomb of Jeremy Bentham ; nor know we, since all must die, what happier or more glorious end could have been desired for him, than to die just now, after living such a life. He has died full of years, and (so far as regards all minds throughout the world, which are yet fitted for appreciating him) of honours. He has lived to see many of the objects of his life in a train of accomplishment, and the realization of the remainder rendered certain at no remote period. He has achieved the hardest, but the noblest of problems, that of a well-directed and victorious existence, and has now finished his work and lain down to rest.

This is not the time for a complete estimate of the results of his labours. He is not like one of those who go to their grave, and are no more thought of. The value of such a life to mankind, which is even now insensibly making itself acknowledged, will be felt more and more, as men shall become more capable of knowing the hand which guide them. Nor need we fear any lack of opportunities for commemorating what philosophy owes to him, when all which has been doing for ten years in English politics and legislation, and all which shall be done for twice ten more, proclaims and will proclaim his name and merits in no inaudible voice, to all who can trace the influence of opinion upon events, and of a great mind upon opinion. These things, however, are worthy of notice at the present hour, chiefly as they conduce to a due appreciation of his life; and under this aspect also, as under so many others, will they continue value, not for to-day or tomorrow only, (but so far as eternity can belong to any thing human) for ever.

Mr. Bentham was the son of Mr. Jeremiah Bentham, and was born at a residence of his father, adjacent to Aldgate church. He was remarkably precocious as a child, and soon after he was three years of age he read Rapin's History of England as an amusement. At seven years of age he read Telemaque in French. At eight he played the violin, an instrument on which, at a subsequent period of his life, he became remarkably proficient. He was very distinguished at Westminster School, and at thirteen years of age he entered the Univerity of Oxford.

Many incidents of his early life mark the extent of his connection with the last century. He was accustomed to relate with great pleasure, that when he was a boy, he was taken to drink tea with Hogarth, whose works he greatly admired. He was one of the class who attended the lectures of Sir William Blackstone, when they were delivered at Oxford, and, young as the mind of Bentham was, it even then revolted at the reasoning of the proAs a law student, Bentham took notes of the speeches of

Mansfield; and he was a member of the club, ruled by Johnson, whom he never liked, considering him to be a gloomy misanthropist.

He entered upon his profession with a prospect, amounting almost to a certainty, of the highest success. His father's practice and influence as a solicitor was considerable, and his (the son's) draughts of bills in equity were at once distinguished for their superior execution. In one of his pamphlets (Indications respecting Lord Eldon,) Bentham thus notices the circumstances which led to his retirement from the bar.

"By the command of a father, I entered into the profession,

and, in the year, 1772, or thereabouts, was called to the bar

Not long after, having drawn a bill in equity, I had to defend it against exceptions before a Master in Chancery. 'We shall have to attend on such a day,' said the solicitor to me, naming a day a week or so distant, 'warrants for our attendance will be taken out for two intervening days; but it is not customary to attend before the third.' What I learnt afterward was—that though no attendance more than one was ever bestowed, three were on every occasion regularly charged for; for each of the two falsely pretended attendances, the client being by the solicitor charged with a fee for himself, as also with a fee of 6s. 8d. paid by him to the Master: the consequence was—that, for every attendance, the Master, instead of 6s. 8d. received £1,; and that, even if inclined, no solicitor durst omit taking out the three warrants instead of one, for fear of the not-to-be-hazarded displeasure of that subordinate judge and his superiors. True it is, the solicitor is not under any obligation thus to charge his client for work not done. He is, however, sure of indemnity in doing so: it is accordingly done of course. «*•• These things, and others of the same complexion, in such immense abundance, determined me to quit the profession; and, as soon as I could obtain my father's permission, I did so: I found it more to my taste to endeavour, as I have been doing ever since, to put an end to them, and to profit by them."

In the year 1825 he went over to France for the benefit of his health, and was received with all the respect and enthusiasm which the French people always pay to men of superior mind. His jurisprudential works had had a very considerable circulation in France, and have obtained a very considerable influence over the minds of the professors, although they are, probably, more than English lawyers, under the influence of the vague generali ties which it was the tendency of his writings to expel. On one occasion, whilst he was in Paris, he casually visited one of the supreme courts. He was known on his entrance, when the whole body of the advocates rose and paid him the highest marks of respect, and the court invited him to the seat of honour.

He corresponded with nearly all the most able statesmen of his time. We understand that he has left all his correspondence, and a considerable portion of his auto-biography, for publication, to Dr. Bowring, his chief executor, to whom he also committed the whole of his manuscripts, with the charge of giving to the world a complete edition of all his works, including those which are yet in manuscript.

Few persons have ever lived whose lot in life, viewed on the whole, can be considered more enviable than that of Mr. Bentham. During a life protracted far beyond the ordinary length, he enjoyed, almost without interruption, perfect bodily health. In easy circumstances, he was able to devote his whole time and energies to the pursuits of his choice, those which exercised his highest faculties, moral and intellectual, and supplied him with the richest fund of delightful excitement. His retired habits saved him from personal contact with any but those who sought his acquaintance because they valued it. Few men have had more enthusiastic admirers; and if the hack writers of his day, and some who ought to have known better, often spoke of him with ridicule and contempt, he never read them, and therefore they never disturbed his tranquillity. Along with his passion for abstruser studies, and the lively interest which he felt in public events, he retained to the last a childlike freshness and excitability, which enabled him to derive pleasure from the minutest trifles, and gave to his old age, the playfulness, lightheartedness, and keen relish of life, so seldom found except in early youth. In his intercourse with his friends he was remarkable for gaiety and easy pleasantry; it was his season of relaxation; and in conversing he seldom touched upon the great subjects of his intellectual exertions.

His principal works are his " Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation;" the "Fragment on Government," already referred to; the " Rationale of Judicial Evidence," in five volumes, including a very full examination of the procedure of the English courts; *' the Book of Fallacies;" the "Plan of a Judicial Establishment," one of his most finished productions, printed in 1792, but never regularly published; his "Defence of Usury;" u Panopticon," an admirable work on prison discipline; and many others; besides the excellent treatises edited in French by M. Dumont, from the above works and various unpublished manuscripts, and containing all his most important doctrines, well stated and illustrated, though with little piquant criticism on existing institutions with which they were always interspersed in his own writings.

It being part of the will of the late Mr. Bentham, that his body should be devoted to the purpose of improving the science of So determined was he on this point, and BO resolved to secure its execution, that he expressly warned the three friends to whom he intrusted this delicate matter of the difficulties they would have to encounter, and then asked them if they would undertake the task? They pledged themselves to see his Intentions carried into effect, and the result was, that on Saturday the body of this philosopher wus laid on the table of the anatomical school, Webb Street, Borough. His friends—those who knew him best, and had enjoyed most happy hours with him—might not have been displeased, though affected, by the sight. He looked calm and serene, presenting, as Dr. Southwood Smith observed, an appearance that might reconcile those who have the most horror of a dead body to the aspect of death. It was one of the first "Dark days of nothingness, The last of danger and distress— Before decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines were beauty lingers." Manly and venerable beauty in this case, but enough of it remained to make the object soothing to behold. Taken, indeed, in conjunction with the fact that Mr. Bentham devoted his life to the improvement of mankind, and gave up his body to the same benevolent end, there was much in the appearance, combined with the reflection, to excite admiration. In compliance with Mr. Bentham's wish, Dr. Southwood Smith delivered a lecture over the body on the usefulness of anatomical knowledge to the community. On this occasion no demonstration of any of the parti were given. Dissection was not actually begun—even the brain had not been removed; and Mr. Bentham was as is in life, except that the living spirit had departed. Dr. Southwood Smith profited by the occasion to pronounce a spirited eulogium on Mr. Bentham, praising his integrity, his benevolence, his cheerfulness, and, above all, his devotion to the improvement of jurisprudence. Dr. Smith then adverted to the source of those prejudices which the last act of Mr. Bentham is so well calculated to remove, and ascribed them chiefly to the aversion men have to behold a corpse, particularly the corpse of a friend. The best remedy, he seemed to think, was to induce them for once steadily to look on the face of a dead friend, when all that was turbid in the passion had fled, and there was beauty greater than the sculptor's art could achieve. A numerous and enlightened audience testified, by their deep silence, their just appreciation of the lecturer's appropriate address. Dr. Smith has since begun his demonstrations on the body, making it precisely as his friend wished—useful for instruction.


The following strange paper is from the pen of M. Arago, and was written, as lie himself informs us, whilst he was labouring under aberration of mind. It purports to be an account of the madhouse kept at Paris by Dr. Blanche, and in which the author was confined during his malady.

"The history of a madhouse, written by a madman, must be a curious production. I was mad when I wrote these pages. On the return of reason, I chose to read them. Every thing they contain is so accurately exact, that I thought it best to make no alteration in them; they form a likeness which I should spoil by retouching."


"I was arrested at six o'clock in the evening by four robust fellows, who seized me behind. I attempted resistance—I was powerless. In acute pain and almost dying, what could I do? *7n the King's name /'—could I withstand such authority as this? I was not delirious, and yet I tried to resist; but, with a couple of jerks, I found myself thrown into a coach which was waiting to receive me.

"The drive was long. The men who accompanied me, talked of the beauty of the city, the coolness of the night, and If I but sighed, advised me to call forth my courage and show that I was a man. Who could fancy lessons of courage given by a mouchard?* Does a mouchard ever come in contact with a man, except to arrest him from behind?

"Our progress was slow; and my heart, though horribly tortured by violent passion, had time to become full with another feeling, that of indignation. To be collared by a mouchard! What an outrage! During the disturbances, I had met with a similar affront. Tho mouchard, without moral existence, is the mere machine of power ;—a base coward, he is the agent of force. No, I am wrong: a mouchard is the most courageous of men, for he braves that which all other men dread the most—public contempt.

"We came at length to our journey's end. I remember the minutest circumstances of those heavy and eternal hours which tortured me so horribly. We have so many fibres alive to pain and grief! I thought I was entering the house of a judge of instruction, or a Procureur du Roi. I had been led to suppose so on the road, and had been told of daggers, and incendiarism, and murder. 1 bad listened to my conductors like a man who regrets not having done sufficient to justify the rigour inflicted upon him; and when I appealed to my confused recollections, I was almost furious at having possessed command enough over myself to refrain

* A mouchard if a secret spy of the French Police, generally a condemned thief, let loose upon the community, by the perfidious policy of the Prefect of Police, to pry Intu the secrets of families, and detect crime after seducing others to its commission.

from bursting every bond that attached me to society. Despair, like grief, has its distinct gradations.

"Having crossed a small court shaded by a few trees of sad ind sombre foliage, I entered a vast apartment almost filled by an iramense horse-shoe table. At first, I supposed it to be the ball ia which the question is administered, and with a shudder 1 looked

round for the instruments of torture I was politely to be

seated. • • •

*' What a picture was before me. Pain—stupidity—laughter without gaiety—weeping without tears—one single face of pity, that of Mad. Blanche ;—and, all this, agglomerated, as it were, in

a space scarcely ten feet square My brain turned I

thought I was dreaming;—I wanted to know, yet feared to learn.

"I had time for observation. The weakness of my body seemed to impart energy to my soul. A little man, round, red, and pimpled, was seated in an arm-chair, looking at me with stupid eyes, and laughing at my cadaverous complexion. How dared he laugh? I bad twice turned away from this face so stupidly Ironical, so ignobly sardonic; yet still be ogled me with his odious grin. I thought it a gross insult, and my fingers of iron were already hovering around his cheek, when a soft and compassionate voice bade me be seated. The voice of a woman

has alone power to calm the workings of my excited soul; I

obeyed, my ire evaporated, and I listened with tolerable patience to the conclusion of a sonata played on the piano forte by a female boarder about twenty years of age. Mad. B— was mad, as I afterwards learned, when not playing upon the piano forte.

"But the Procureur du Roi came not, and there was a profound silence in the next room, where, as I supposed, I should be subjected to a painful trial.

"' Show the gentleman to his room,' said the benevolent fairy to a servant, who had not left my side since my entrance. He led the way—I followed like an automaton. After threading two or three corridors, and ascending as many staircases, I was forcibly thrust into a room whose window was garnished with iron ban and lattice-work of the same metal. A sorry bed, two chairs, and a strait-waistcoat, composed the furniture of my apartment.

"My conductor had been joined by one of his comrades. 1 What are you doing? What do you want?' I said.—' We are to wait upon you, Sir.'—' 1 want nothing ; leave me.'—' We are ordered not to leave you, Sir.'—■ Will the Procureur du Pot soon come1' —' It will not be long—first, Sir.'—' He will do well to mate haste if he wishes to examine me, for I am losing my strength.'

"I went to bed only half undiessed. 1 If you please, Sir, we

have barley-water in that jug.'—'Why barley-water? 'Dr.

Blanche ordered it.'—* Where am I then :'—' At Dr. Blanche's.'

"The fillet fell from my eyes. I thought myself a conspirator, and now discovered that 1 was only a madman."


"The Doctor came in. I courageously prepared myself for the pump-bath; for bis language, far from coiasoling me, frozethe little blood that remained in my body. He talked to me of murder, assassination, incendiarism. These were the words fixed upon. I thought him mad, and I pitied bim—I, whom none seemed to pity!

"All night, a man bellowed in the next room. It was a maniac demanding his liberty. As for me, I contemplated in sullen despair, the walls and bars by which I was surrounded. I had a thousand lives for suffering, but not a single hand to strike with.

"Dr. Blanche returned. His urgings of reason quieted the effervescence of my ideas, and I thought no more of self'-destrnction. Wrapped in a brown cloak, a young man of fire and twenty stood by my side, in deep and sad meditation. The fire of two pistols had been unable to destroy him. Both balls had traversed bis upper jaw, and found an outlet between his eyes. Some beings are cruelly persecuted by fate! This unhappy man is still alive.

"Another well-dressed individual, with a smiling countenance, and gracious expression, sented himself next me, and politely inquired after my health. I know not what I answered; but he took a violin, and, with remarkable vigour and precision, played variations upon a well-known air. I think I paid bim some compliments. 'Oh! Oh!' replied he, * I have many other talents! I perfectly recollect being Gengis-Khan, Mahomet and Napoleon. Pray, Sir, do you remember what you have been? when the brain leaves the skull to pass into another ....' Mad. Blanche told him to be silent, and he obeyed, laughing.

"I had leave to walk in the court and garden. Here, I saw and studied; aud I can describe, because 1 am in full possession of my reason.

"On the summit of Montemartrc, upon a hillock, surmounted by the gigantic sails of several windmills, stands a large irregular edifice, whose white front, of rather elegant architecture, attracts the looks of the curious. A ground-floor, a first and second story, of fourteen windows each, some with iron bars, others with simple trellis-work, form the front of the mansion. Two small win:-, the left of which is inhabited by the Doctor and his family, seem to have been added to the building subsequently to its construction; there Is a little verdure between the house and iron-railings in front, which space is termed the court.

"At the back of the house are, also, two stories opening upon an English garden, small, but pretty. Sick, idiots and madmen, walk in it at their pleasure. They whose madness is dangerous, are separated from the others by high wooden palissades, which they can neither pull down, nor climb over. On one side is pain, on the other despair;—here, moral suffering, in the excess of its poignancy —there, physical pain, and mental affliction, in their most lamentable form ;—bitter tears are shed in the one enclosure—the other displays scenes of a more sombre, and more corrosive kind. I should prefer the affliction which annihilates reason!"


"Each of the rooms I visited, recall heart-rending dramas. In this cell was, and is still confined, a noble Portuguese, whose brother, only twelve years of age, was hanged at Coimbra, as the accomplice of a plan to overthrow the existing form of government. 'What shall we do with this child?' said the Chief Judge to a woman, 'he is only twelve years old.'—' Twelve years oldy she replied, < so much the better? Let him be hanged forthwith, he will sup with angels. And let hit brother, a little older, witness the execution from the foot of the scaffold.' The woman who thus commanded the cold-blooded murder of a child, was the mother of Don Miguel. The execution took place—and the brother, who witnessed this horrid spectacle, lost his senses. The care and ability of Dr. Blanche restored him to health; but, still pursued by the phantom of his brother's strangled corpse, he became mad a second time."


"Here, again, is a room connected with historical associations. Surrounded by these bare walls, a heroic female, whom joy had deprived of her senses, spent many a tedious day—many a long, interminably long night. Here, upon this very pallet, did the lovely and noble Mad. Lavallette shed many bitter tears of imaginary woe. Sir Robert Wilson, Bruce and Hutchinson, had rescued her husband from the royal murderer's power. Glory to them! The Count has since paid his last tribute to nature, not to kingly tyranny—and Mad. Lavallette owes to Dr. Blanche an almost miraculous cure."


The following lively sketch of the fair sex of the Peninsula is taken from Contarini Fleming, a singular work just published, and attributed to young D'Israeli :—

"The Spanish women are very interesting. What we associate with the idea of female beauty, is not perhaps very common in this country. There are seldom those seraphic countenances which strike you dumb, or blind, but faces, in abundance, which will never pass without commanding admiration. Their charms consist in their sensibility. Each incident, every person, every word, touches the fancy of a Spanish lady, and her expressive features are constantly confusing the creed of the Mosleim. But, there is nothing quick, harsh, or forced about her. She is extremely unaffected, and not at all French. Her eyes gleam rather than sparkle, she speaks with vivacity, but in sweet tones, and there is in all her carriage, particularly when she walks, certain dignified grace, which never deserts her, and which is very remarkable."

"The general female dress in Spain is of black silk, called a basquina, and a black silk shawl, with which they usually envelope their heads, called a mantilla. As they walk along in this costume in an evening, with their soft dark eyes dangerously conspicuous, you willingly believe in their universal charms. They are remarkable for the beauty of their hair. Of this, they are very proud, and, indeed, its luxuriance is only equalled by the attention which they lavish on its culture. I have seen a young girl of fourteen, whose hair reached her feet, and was as glossy as the curl of a Contessa. All day long, even the lowest order, are brushing, curling and arranging it. A fruit-woman has her hair dressed with as much care as the duchess of Osauna. In the summer, they do not wear their mantilla over their heads, but show their combs, which are of very great size. The fashion of these combs varies constantly. Every two or three months, you may observe a new form. It is the part of the costume, of which a Spanish woman is most proud. The moment that a new comb appears, even the servant wench will run to the melter's with her old one, and thus, with the cost of a dollar or two, appear the next holiday in the newest style. These combs are worn at the back of the head. They are of tortoise-shell, and with the very fashionable, they are white. I sat next to a lady of high distinction at a bull-fight at Seville. She was the daughter-in-law of the Captain-General of the province, and the most beautiful Spaniard I ever met. Her comb was white, and she wore a mantilla of blonde, without doubt, extremely valuable; for it was very dirty. The effect, however, was charming. Her hair was glossy black, her eyes like an antelope's, and all her other features deliciously soft. She was further adorned, which is rare in Spain, with a rosy cheek; for In Spain our heroines are rather sallow. But they counteract this slight defect by never appearing until twilight, which calls them from their bowers, fresh, though languid, from the late siesta."

"The only fault of the Spanish beauty is, that she too soon indulges in the magnificence of embonpoint. There are, however, many exceptions. At seventeen, a Spanish beauty is poetical. Tall, lithe and clear, and graceful as a jennet, who can withstand the summer lightning of her soft and languid glance? As she advances, if she do not lose her shape, she resembles Juno rather Venus. Majestic she ever is, and, if her feet be less twinkling than in her first bolero, look on her band, and you'll forgive them all.

THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. We lately had the pleasure of noticing the visit of the Ettrick Shepherd to London, and the hopes which he entertained of mending his fortune, by a republication of his works. We have now the pain of saying, that all his hopes are frustrated, by the bankruptcy of Mr. Cochrane, his bookseller, and that, in consequence, he is overwhelmed with difficulties, such as he could neither foresee, nor prevent. To relieve him from these, is the object of his friends; and, that it may be done with due delicacy, it is proposed to publish an edition of his chief poem, " The Queen's Wake," by subscription; and Mr. Murray, Albemarle Street, and Mr. Dancan, Paternoster Row, have generously undertaken to conduct the impression, so that the whole profits shall go to the aid of the poet at once. The matter will not, we fear, be mended, unless the work commences with a good list of subscribers, and, as the exigency of the case is great, it is hoped that the price of the volume, one guinea, will be paid on subscription, so that the Ettrick Shepherd may be released from the pressure of immediate distress. We earnestly entreat our friends to give the suffering poet all the help they can : the miseries which [men of genius, and the followers of the muse in particular, have to sustain, are many, and severe; and, it is enough, perhaps, to have starved Otway, Butler, Burns, and Bloomfield, without adding James Hogg to the number. We call on the titled and the wealthy, to think of the poet of Ettrick now; we call on London, on its citizens, its knights, its lords, its earls, nay, on its princes—on all, in short, who courted the company of the poet, and enjoyed his conversation, and the chaunting of his songs and ballads, to come forward with their guineas at this moment of crushing distress, and prove that their love of genius was real and not affected. It gives us sincere pleasure to add, that one of the first names on the as yet short list of subscribers is that of Samuel Rogers, and another, that of the Lord Chancellor Brougham.

COST OF PUBLISHING IN GERMANY. Tins is stated, by a bookseller of Berlin, to be composed of the undermentioned items; in so far as regards a work of twenty sheets printed to the extent of one thousand copies :— Printing, ..... £\3 10 0

Paper, . . . . . 16 10 0

Engraving or other minor expenses, . .10 0 0

Manuscript from 15 to . . . 70 0 0

Trade allowances, . . . 27 10 0

Guarantee and correction of the press, supervision, &c

where a thousand copies are sold, . 25 0 0

Discount and profit to the publisher, . . 53 10 0

.£216 0 0

Presuming these charges and profits to be correct, the remunerating sale price of a volume of three hundred and twenty pages appears to be somewhat less than four shillings and fourpence! We must, however, remark, that 70 pounds is far too high an average for the remuneration to German authors; it will not, in general, be found to exceed thirty; and this abatement will reduce the selling price of the volume to nearly three shillings and sixpence.

MISCELLANEA. Military Glory. —The habit of danger made us look upon death as one of the most ordinary circumstances of life. We pitied our comrades, when wounded, but, when once they had ceased to live, the indifference which was shewn to them amounted almost to irony. When, as the soldiers passed by, they recognized one of their companions stretched among the dead, they just said, "He is in want of nothing, he will not have his horse to abuse again, he has got drunk for the last time," or something similar, which only marked, in the speaker, a stoical contempt of existence; such were the only funeral orations pronounced in honour of those who fell in our battles —Bocca.


WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS. Oh, soft is the hour when the moon beams rest,

On the smooth wave, calmly sleeping; And soft is that hour for the weary breast, When the aching eyes, by grief opprest,

In slumber have quenched their weeping. Then, Memory, why at this soft hour,

When darkness all Nature is shading, Revivest thou thus with resistless power, Bright visions that fled like the bloom of that flower,

Which the sun-beams leave, drooping and fading? Oh, a bright hour comes, when the early dawn,

On the gem-sparkling violet is waking; Then Hope pours her holy and blissful balm, And breathes for a moment delicious calm,

O'er hearts that have long been breaking.
But thrice hallow'd the hour, when the soul-blessing ray

Of the day-spring from Heaven is revealing,
To dim-sighted mortals, the glorious way,
To that country where pleasure can never decay,

And which error and guilt had been veiling.

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