But

lunatics, with an equal chance of being respectable; for we are by no means free from the superstition which would denominate every lunatic a demoniac, and only to be cured by supernatural agency. let recovery be as common as it might be made, the claims of lunatics to justice, and proper treatment, would be more recognized, and better established. We should not then hear of commissions of lunacy, before means had been used, or the patients had been permitted time for recovery. It is not long since, that I had to expostulate in strong language, with a party, who had, as I was told, intentions of obtaining a commission in the case of a person then under my care, from the idea that he was not likely to recover;but I had the pleasure, a few days since, of discharging him perfectly recovered.

For more than fifty years I have particularly attended to the private history of persons suffering under mental afflictions, and I can safely say, that the ill-treatment and sufferings of lunatics have been trifling in any regular asylums, compared with what they have been in private families, under the idea, that once a lunatic and always a lunatic; and therefore, that any advantages which avarice or sinister designs should suggest, might be taken of them with impunity, and no means of recovery used. And too often, if these unfortunate beings are sent to a proper place for cure, it is not until it is too late, and they can be no longer managed at home, and then their not being cured, is laid to the charge of the asylum to which they are sent.

No doubt, many thousands of unfor. tunate lunatics, whose friends were respectable in life, have been kept from the timely means of cure, by the dread of exposure; but many more by avarice, and the want of proper feelings in those having the power over them. I received a letter three days ago from a man that I know to be opulent, who has a daughter a lunatic. Ile seems fully aware of the necessity of her removal from home, and says that he wishes to give me a preference, but he will only agree to certain terms, and those terms are below what her actual expenses would be at my house, and less than they would be at home, if she were properly treated. Of course his offer was declined. It is astonishing what letters I receive, postage not paid, the evident object of which is, only to inquire after cheap living for lunatics, and sometimes for idiots, though I have taken pains to have it known that I do not take idiots.

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But I have been still more astonished and amazed at the great numbers who have been inquired after as patients, who never were at Spring Vale; their friends having reported that they were here, when otherwise disposed of. What could these falsehoods be for, but to cover some disgraceful practice?

Some time ago a very respectable looking old gentleman drove up to the door, to inquire after a lady, who, he said, was a near neighbour, when at home, and a particular friend. Upon my assuring him that no such person was here, and never had been here, he expressed his astonishment, for said he, her Own mother told me she was here, only a few. days ago, and I have come many miles out of my way, to inquire how she was going on.' But what was become of the lady?—why, most likely shut up for life in some dark closet, there to live "alike unknowing and unknown." I knew a case of a poor object, being kept for fourteen years unknown to the next neighbours, who thought he had died from home.

What is done within the circle of my knowledge, is no doubt done elsewhere, and within that circle many acts have been done in the treatment of lunatics, that are too shocking to relate, and which could not take place in any private asylum, without detection and exposure, and the ruin of the keeper. But if the aggregate of the sufferings of those afflicted with mental disorder, in different situations, were fully known, there surely would be less of that apathy I have so often lamented, and more of those exertions I have so often in vain solicited, from noblemen, statesmen, and public orators, in private letters. The subject did not interest their feelings, and the writer was, no doubt, thought an intrusive enthusiast. THOMAS BAKEWELL. Spring Vale, near Stone, Dec. 15,1829.

P.S. Since writing the above, I have seen the report of the commission of lunacy, in the case of Mr. Davis. The termination of it has given me great pleasure, and I trust that this, and the one which preceded it, with a different result, will convince the world of the necessity of better provision in our laws, for the protection of those to whom lunacy is imputed. In cases of real lunacy, time should surely be given, and the means of recovery used, before a commission of lunacy issues.-May we not hope that the time will arrive, when mad doctors may be reputed honourable?

J. B.

As thus the cheerless wild I sadly pass,
My strength I try, with many an effort vain,
And wrestle with the storm ; but ah! full oft,
Compell'd to yield, reluctantly I turn
Unwilling feet obliquely from the path.
But, persevering still, at last I reach,
With joy, the lane that to yon village leads;
And tho' fatigued, with quick'ning steps I haste,
And soon repass the well-known, ancient tow'r,
That many times bath stood the mighty force
Of many a brother storm, that seem'd in rage
As tho' twould hurl destruction on its head,
And turn it tottering from its solid base !--

Lo! now, the busy villagers I see,
In wild confusion, hurrying to and fro,
Eager to save their little cottages

From fearful ruin. Some, with hasty steps,
The trembling ladder climb, with cord in hand,
To bind the shatter'd roof; while some below,
With anxious looks, oft warn them to beware,
Lest, in unguarded moment, from the top,
They headlong tumble down, and meet their fate!-

But now, as if in pity to mankind,
He who commands the storm, and with a nod
Can bid it rage, or make its raging cease,
Displays at once his over-ruling pow'r ;
For, lo! the tempest ends; th' obsequious wind
Breathes forth a gentler breeze,which sinks at last
Into a perfect calin. The happy change
Fills ev'ry breast with gratitude and joy.

And now in peace each to his home retires,
Where, seated snugly by his little fire,
He ponders o'er the hidden ways of fate;
Or to his family, perhaps, recounts,

In simple narrative, a sad detail

Of hair-breadth 'scapes from late impending danger;
While ev'ry one, with truly grateful heart,
Directs his thoughts to heaven, nor forgets
The friendly hand of Providence divine,
Who led them all in safety to their homes,
And bade them live to see the close of day!
Near Kingsbridge, Feb.

THOS. JARVIS.

STANZAS TO AN INFANT. SHALL death inspire the bard to write The mournful elegy,

And may 1 not, dear child, indite
A simple strain to thee?

More pleasure too methinks the strain
To celebrate thy birth,

Than sing of that dread monarch's reign,
Whose arm depeoples earth.
Serenely calm thy morning sky,
As mildly breaks the day,

On the pale iris of thine eye,
Which shuns the dazzling ray.

How indistinct must things appear
To thy weak infant gaze;
What trifles too excite thy fear,
And strike thee with amaze.
But not alone, poor helpless boy,
In groundless hopes and fears;
Even folly is pursued for joy

By men of riper years.

Just launch'd upon time's ebbing tide,
And reckless of all danger:

To all the yawning gulf's of pride,
To vice an utter stranger.

And reckless, too, what storms may rise
To agitate the air:

Oft fortune's trackless passage lies
Through whirlpools of despair.

Where countless numbers have been cast

Upon the rocks of fate,

The few who have escap'd the blast,
May envy not their state.

Dark clouds may overspread their skies,
Eclipse life's brightest sun;

And few may be accounted wise,
Until their course is run.
Experience keeps a costly school,
And teaches by reflection;
In which, the proverb says, a fool
Grows wiser by correction.

If other's faults will nought avail
To set us on our guard,
Too late we may our own bewail,
And reap the same reward.

But if our hearts we cannot trust,
No wonder should we find,

To friendship's claims few true and just,
And constant 'mongst mankind.

Scarce wilt thou find one faithful friend 'Mongst all the sons of men, Should Providence thy life extend

To fourscore years and ten.

Of this vain world to thee so new,

Sad picture have I given;
But much I fear 'twill prove as true,
As if 'twere said by Heaven.

Yet may existence prove to thee
Less cloudy and more fair;
From all tormenting discords free,
And few of evils share.

Such is the wish, poor helpless child,
Which innocence may claim;

In manhood's bloom that passions wild
May never stain thy name.

Grimsby.

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G. HERRING.

ON THE LATE MRS. PIGOT.

(St. Helen's, Lancashire.)

BREATHE Softly o'er this grave, O gentle wind,
For here the gentlest of the human kind
Is laid-lamented by the bitterest grief
That e'er gave sorrow's scope a full relief.
Conscious we feel, the tears that now are shed,
Mix with no murm'ring for the silent dead,
Whose spirit soaring to the blest abode,
Attains new life transcendently in God.
The gazing rustics saw the funeral train
Of her they lov'd, ne'er to behold again;
Amazed that youth and innocence should die,
Or matron beauty in a tomb should lie.
Eight sons bereft of fond maternal cares,
That tomb will visit in succeeding years,
The altar of their father's ceaseless love
To her who lives in purer realms above.
A parting picture of the mother's grace,
Left in the infant daughter's dimpled face,
Sheds on the solitary parent's saddest year
A pleasing light, such as from his loved Mary
never fail'd to cheer.

ON JUDAS.

(From the Italian of Gianni.) GOADED by frenzy, Judas now had sprung From the dread fatal branch; when onward came, Careering on his wings of lurid flame,

The tempter Fiend,-to where the traitor hung: With hideous fangs the rope he seized, and flung The felon down into the realms of shame, And liquid fire, which roll'd around bis frame, And to his hissing bones and marrow clung. Amid the horror of this vast abyss, Smoothing his haughty front, the Foe of Heaven Was seen to grin a smile of happiness, When seizing in his arms the traitor craven, He with his sulphur lips gave back the kissThe traitor kiss-which he to Christ had given

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REVIEW.-Letters and Journals of Lord By Byron, with Notices of his Lije. Thomas Moore, Esq. In two Vols. 4to. Vol. I. pp. 678. Murray. London.

1830.

OF Lord Byron's powerful intellect, commanding talents, and superlative genius, but one opinion can be entertained; and it is to be regretted, that his friends have not been spared the mortification of palliating in his morals, what they can neither deny nor honourably excuse. He is, however, gone before another tribunal, to which all, whether they applaud his talents, or condemn his principles and conduct, are alike amenable, and the curtain which divides time from eternity is too awful to be drawn aside by mortal hands.

This volume is dedicated to Sir Walter Scott; and in a short, but modest, preface, we are told, that in Lord Byron "the literary and personal character were so closely interwoven, that to have left his works without the instructive commentary which his life and correspondence afford, would have been equally an injustice both to himself

and to the world."

The work commences with some historical notices of the Byron family. These were originally of Normandy, and the branch from which the noble poet is descended, came into England with William the Conqueror. The narrative is briefly pursued, until it reaches the birth of his Lordship, "in whose character the pride of ancestry was one of the most decided features."

In tracing Lord Byron from his infancy to schools and college, Mr. Moore loses no opportunity to "catch his manners living as they rise;" and if on many occasions the picture is not pleasing, we have no reason to doubt its accuracy. Pride, passion, sullenness, irritability, self-will, and an impatience under all control, appear to have

dawned almost in his cradle, and to have followed him to maturer years. The irritable portion of this unamiable assemblage, he seems to have inherited from his mother, who took charge of him during his infant education, and, unhappily, interfered with the management of the preceptors to whose care he was afterwards consigned.

Between Lord Byron and his mother, we are introduced to a review of many petty quarrels, which sometimes descended to disgraceful personalities. It is well known that, through some accident at his birth, he received an injury in one of his feet, which finally induced lameness, and a settled deformity. On this personal defect he was always remarkably sensitive, nor could his

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whole life furnish a sufficiency of philosophy to counteract the vexation, which a reflection on it never failed to occasion. Of this his mother was well aware, and in one of her fits of passion, calling him "a lame brat," he, in return, upbraided her with having "given birth to a monster.”

In running through the characteristics of his lordship's ancestors, Mr. Moore has noticed their more striking peculiarities; among which, dissoluteness and wild excesses rarely fail to appear remarkable. These he does not attempt to conceal; and in associating with his family the subject of his biographical notices, he has inserted the following paragraph :

"In reviewing thus cursorily the ancestors, both near and remote, of Lord Byron, it cannot fail to be remarked, how strikingly be combined in his own nature some of the best, and, perhaps, worst qualities that lie scattered through the nerosity, the love of enterprise, the high-mindedvarious characters of his predecessors,-the ge

ness of some of the better spirits of his race, with the irregular passions, the eccentricity, and daring recklessness of the world's opinion, that so much characterized others."-p. 5.

In confirmation of the preceding opinion, many anecdotes are recorded of his Lordship's ungovernable passions while a child, and when farther advanced in life; but the amusement which a perusal of them affords, is more than counterbalanced calculated to excite. To think, to act, by the pity which some among them are and to be thought different from others, happily, this singularity rarely enlisted was to him a source of delight, but unitself on the side of sobriety and virtue, his mind seems to have found its principal Constitutionally gloomy and misanthropic, gratification in the indulgence of romantic thought, traversing the regions of terror in quest of the dark and the mysterious, the awful and the sublime. With wine, women, pistols, pugilism, and midnight revels, he was in his element; and an indefinite notion of fatality presiding over his actions, frequently associated with singularities and omens, gave a colouring and observations. of superstition to many of his thoughts

"In reference to the circumstance of his being an only child, Lord Byron, in one of his journals, mentions some curious coincidences in his family. which, to a mind disposed, as his was, to regard every thing connected with himself as out of the ordinary course of events, would naturally appear even more strange and singular than they are. 'I have been thinking,' he says, 'of an odd circumstance. My daughter (1) my wife (2) my half sister (3,) my mother (4,) my sister's mo ther (5,) my natural daughter (6,) and myself (7,) are, or were, all only children. My sister's mother (Lady Conyers,) had only my half sister by that second marriage, (herself too an only child ) and my father had only me, an only child by his second marriage with my mother, an only child too. Such a complication of only children, all