pounds." He was really childish, affectedly a protector of arts and sciences, fond of displaying what he knew: a mimic, the Lord knows what a mimic!of the celebrated Duke of Orleans, in imitation of whom he wrote two or three silly French songs. His best quality was generosity; his worst, insincerity, and indifference to truth, which appeared so early, that Earl Stanhope wrote to Lord Sunderland from Hanover, what I shall conclude his character with, "He has his father's head, and his mother's heart."

He sent

The princess staid four hours in the room after he was dead, before she could be quite convinced of it. At six in the morning they put her to bed; but she rose again at eight, and sent for Dr. Lee, and burnt, or said she burnt, all the prince's papers. As soon as he was dead, Lord North was sent to notify it to the king, who was playing at cards. He immediately went down to Lady Yar. mouth, looked extremely pale and shocked, and said, "Il est mort!" a very kind message to the princess, and another the next morning in writing by the lord in waiting, Lord Lincoln, She received him alone, sitting with her eyes fixed; thanked the king much, and said she would write as soon as she was able in the mean time recommended her miserable self and children to him. The king and she both took their parts at once; she, of flinging herself entirely into his hands, and studying nothing but his pleasure, but winding what interest she got with him to the advantage of her own and the prince's friends: the king, of acting the tender grandfather; which he, who had never acted the tender father, grew so pleased with representing, that he soon became it in earnest. When he was called the morning after the prince's death, they found him drest, walking about his room, and extremely silent. Princess Emily, who had no great reason to flatter herself with much favour if her brother had lived to be king, sent immediately for the Duke from Windsor, who, on receiving the news, said to Lord Sandwich with a sneer, "It is a great blow to this country, but I hope it will recover it in time!" He little thought that himself was to receive the greatest shock from it! He sent a compliment by Lord Cathcart to Prince George, who cried extremely. As soon as the prince's death was published, elegies were cried

about the streets, to which they added,

Oh, that it was but his brother!" and upon Change and in the city, "Oh, that it was but the butcher!" In short, the consternation that spread on the apprehensions that the Duke wonld at least be regent on the king's death, and have the sole power in the mean time, was near as strong as what was occasioned by the notice of the rebels being at Derby.

(To be continued in our next.)

LIFE OF WILLIAM HEY, Esq.
Late of Leeds, F. R. S.
(CONCLUDED FROM OUR LAST.)

Mr. Hey's belief of the constant superintendance of a beneficent and almighty power, which governs and directs all things, was a source of support and encouragement to him under all his afflictions. In 1773 he received a contusion on the knee against the side of a bath; shortly afterwards the injury was increased by a fall of his horse; and in 1778 he was struck on the injured thigh by another. This confined him some time, and threatened to entirely preclude the possibility of his continuing his profession. Surely to a man of his active mind, at the time he was about becoming the parent of his eleventh child, this must have been a severe and almost unbearable situation! Yet he is said to have replied to the condolence of an intimate friend-" if it be the will of God that I should be confined to my sofa, and he command me to pick straws during the remainder of my life, I hope I should feel no repugnance to his good pleasure." We will not question the veracity of this "intimate friend,”— we will not douht Mr. Hey's sincerity at the moment he uttered this expression we will not dispute but that Mr. Hey could have picked straws" as well as any man living: but, we mistake Mr. Hey's native character, if with a mind vigorous and active as his was-ever seeking knowledge and doing good,he could have sat down in such employ, without " repuguance" and without the severest agony. He was in conse. quence obliged to make his visits in a carriage, being unable to ride on horseback more than a few minutes or to walk more than the length of a room without the support of a crutch. He was obliged to have recourse to these

aids to the end of his life: but in other respects he knew little of personal affliction. The great sources of his sorrow werethe successive losses of many of his children: yet even here he did not sorrow as one without hope," or forget that he should yet meet them to be separated no more-and he softened down the intensity of his agonised feelings by the consolations offered by the sacred pages.

In his friendships he was sincere, but select. He knew enough of human nature to see that a congeniality of mind was not, in general, sufficient to constitute a permanent friendship-be knew that a congeniality of feeling was also essential. He knew too that Young said truly

"A foe to God is never true to man,
Some sinister design taints all he does,
And in his kindest actions he's unkind."

:

Hence it was that he sought his friendships amongst men of congenial religious feeling and on his list of such friends he had many names enrolled which ornament not only the page of the "book of eternal life," but also the most sublime pages of human science.

He also maintained an intimacy with the amiable and philosophic Doctor Priestley that does mutual honour to their hearts and judgments; and he is mentioned by the Doctor as "the only person in Leeds (his own society at Mill-Hill, of course excepted) who showed him any kindness." They performed their experiments together, and discussed the various systems of philosophy with a candour that can only be equalled by that magnanimity which kept every thing metaphysical and theological completely out of the question. It was at the Doctor's recommendation that Mr. Hey was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society.

In 1761 he was elected surgeon to the workhouse, and from observing the inadequacy of the provision made for certain cases of human misery in that place, he was induced to exert himself in establishing the infirmary; and he had the pleasure of seeing this building not only erected, supported, and rendered useful to hundreds, but to see it enlarged three times, and to be senior surgeon to it for upwards of forty years. Indeed, so`much interest did he take in this philanthropic work, that it was unanimously agreed by the different members of the building committee, that they "could not do

without him." Can a brighter star sparkle in the biographical coronet of any of "nature's true nobility," than such a one as this "he went about doing good?" and can any man lay more undisputed claim to such a coronet than Mr. Hey?-We think not.

His conduct as a magistrate was truly upright and patriotic. To lessen vice, he was well convinced, was to lessen the sum of human misery. His measures were taken with certainty, and were attended with good effect. When he was called to his first mayoralty, he found much to do, and much to encounter. Indeed, when we look at the vicinity of the town on a sabbath-day, and the heart of it in the evening of every day, we regret the loss of such a man, and the consequent prevalence of immorality and prophaneness. The establishment of Sunday-schools and associations for the suppression of vice, will ever be found ineffectual when unsupported and unaided by the civil power of a place of such magnitude. Mr. Hey had many expensive and tedious law suits to encounter in cases where he had extended his magisterial power beyond what his predecessors had done; but he uniformly had for his opponents the vicious and the unprincipled, and his measures were so consistent with the laws of the country that he came through all with brightened honours. In short, as a magistrate, he united the stern and unbending justice of an ancient Roman, with the pitying feelings of the experimental Christian, and set an example of perseverance in a just and patriotic cause, which we trust will not be lost upon his successors in the mayoralty of this town.

He pursued his unvarying course with the same assiduity to the latest of years his life, praying that he may

"His body with his charge lay down And cease at once to work and live." On the of March, 1819, he visited a patient several miles from the town, and in the evening found that he had received the miasmata of the complaint under which his patient was suffering. He lingered on for a few days, alternately better and worse: but all along exemplifying the utility and blessedness of that religion he so long had tried and enjoyed, till he quietly resigned his soul into the hands of his Maker; surrounded by his family and friends, and leaving a bright example to his townsmen and professional brethren.

Original Poetry.

SPRING FLOWERS.

No. 3.

"Oh it is spirit stirring to behold,
The crimson garment waving in the dust,
The banners glancing in the clouded sunshine!"
Milman.

"Oh grief beyond all other griefs, when fate Hath left the young heart lone and desolate !"

Moore.

A grave was in that valley, and so calm
Was all around, the Pilgrim's heart might envy
That still and quiet grave. A simple wreath
Of cypress and of laurel round its urn,
Was all that spoke of mortal's footstep there.
The sun in its ineridian, faintly shone
Through the thick boughs; and matted lichen
hung,

In dark and wild luxuriance from the rocks,
O'ers hadowing the deep valley, as it lay
In all its deep green verdure its still,
Unbroken calmness 'tween the rifted rocks
Like some fair spots the mountain demon's power
Had raised amid the wilderness, for some
Fair spirit, who has even slumber'd there
And calmed him by her presence. Often there
Was heard a sound of music, low and sad,
The wailing dirge of sorrow; as the sweet
Yet melancholy sounds came on the wind,
The wandering hunter breathed a fervant prayer
And shuddering hasten'd by the "Deinon's
glen."

That sound was in the gale; the pilgrim paused
And listened to the wild and fitful strain;
The war-song of Helvetia's free-born sons,
Was heard in that dark valley, then again
It sank to wailings and to silence. Forth
From the dark ravine came a lonely girl,
To weep upon that grave, and aye she wove
Some wither'd flowers, amid the laurel wreath,
And pluck'd a lingering weed from that low
grave,

And yet she did not throw that weed away
But hid it in her bosom. Beauty once
Had glowed upon her cheek, but tears had
dimm'd

And wither'd up the flower; her large dark eye,
Had yet the wild and liquid glance" that

seized

On the young heart, and backwards as she shook
Her long dark tresses, you might see a brow
As white and cold as marble. So unearthly
Seemed that fair being in that lonely glen,
The Pilgrim paused to gaze. Her peasant garb
Was fancifully wreathed with faded flowers,
And round her slender waist was loosely twin'd
A torn and bloodstained scarf. Oh he who slept
In that calm grave, had worn that scarf in
battle,

And it was dear to that young mourner's heart.
The war-cry rose amid Helvetia's vale's

And "Wilhelmes" heart sprang at the glorious sound:

It was his bridal day and "Blanche" in tears And blushes clung around him, yet he left His bride for glory, and for liberty,

(That spell word of the soul,) for liberty,
To come again with triumph, and to leave
A name within the vales, where he is now
Forgot by all. The war song and the sound
Of martial music was in that deep vale,
And the bright banners, and the glancing spears
Flash'd in the sunlight as the thousand plumes
Floated in gay confusion on the gale,

That now sighs lonely through the darkening boughs,

And weaves the Cypress wreath upon his grave. Oh! who to gaze upon that lonely Glen, Would think that War had stain'd its stream with blood,

Or death-groans waked its echoes

hosts

Banner'd

The banners are waving
Oh wilt thou not stay?
The war-cry is sounding,
My Wilhelme away 1.

Shall the land of thy fathers
Be sold to the slave?
Shall the sun of their freedom
Be quenched in the grave?

Thy fathers have died in
The light of their fame,
Shall the blight of dishonour
Then fall on thy name?

In the heart of my lover
Their glory decay?
Oh no! to the battle
My Wilhelme! away!
Oh wilt thou not look on
Thy love and thy bride?
There are many who told me
My warrior had died.

They tell me, he slumbers
So still and so deep,
That the cry of the hunter
Ne'er breaks on his sleep.

That the Chamois is couching
My warrior beside,
And yet he awakes not!
Thy love and thy bride,

Sighs lone in the valley,
At sunsetting hour
Oh Wilhelme my lover!
Return to my bower.

་

Oh, I fain would chase from me, The dream of despair,

That I saw the blood dark on

Thy forehead so fair,

That the hoofs of the war-horse. Had over thee past,

The day was closing, and the pilgrim might
No longer linger, so he breath'd a prayer
For that deserted one; and hurried on

His lonely pilgrimage. A few short months,
Returning from Rosolia's hallowed shrine,
He paused in that deep valley; sound or step
Broke not upon that silence; she, the lone
And wilder'd minstrel of the demon's glen,
Had past away from earth. The laurel wreath
Had shrunk and wither'd, and its faded leaves
Lay undisturbed upon the dark grey stone;
As if the spirit of the mountain wind,
Passed over them in silence, nor profaned
The last sad relics of her deathless love.

GENIUS! thy burning breath,
Like the volcano's blaze,
Scorches the wretched heart beneath,
While round the head it plays;
Admiring thousands hail the sight,
But he they envy feels its blight.
"Tis his to wander on,

'Mid uncongenial mindsShunning and shunn'd:-a lonely one, No fellowship he finds;

All men look on him with distrust,
And he turns from them in disgust.

Scorning to hoard up wealth,
Want oft his steps attends;
Daringly prodigal of health,

Beneath disease be bends;

He groans and weeps and none is nigh
His wounds to heal his tears to dry.

Pain, and neglect, and wrong,
His quivering spirit goad,

Till his brain maddens into song,
And some complaining ode

Lightens his heart, and sheds a ray
Of rapture 'er his dreary way.

Or if a brighter gleam

Of fortune shine around,

It lights him but to ruin's stream
Thio' pleasure's treach'rous ground.
He ventures-struggles-sinks-is lost,
On passion's stormy billows tost.
Loathing, he turns from earth:
Despairing, curses heaven:

Makes hell's dread flame the theme of mirth
And smiles by furies riven,

To see what multitudes his song
Can lure his horrid path to throng.
Genius, I shudder, for

I feel thy influence here,
Dragging to guilt which I abhor,

Or wretchedness I fear

I shudder-but I would not part
With that which scorches up my heart l
Though passion's child I be,
And passion's children feel
Doubly temptation's witchery,
And stern affliction's steel;
For them do streams of rapture flow,
No duller souls must taste below.

Then deeper, Genius, pour

The burning tide within-
Let misery's blackest tempest lower,
Plunge me in all but sin,

Let me but wear this glorious wreath
Form'd by thy devastating breath.

Price 3 d.]

[No. 22. Vol. I.

REPORTS and rumours are as numer

ous as, the birds of the air; and they are handed about with as much unconcerned velocity as the lottery puffing schemes of Bish or Sivewright. Nature certainly gave us tongues, with which to speak; but men will not be satisfied with indulging their loquacity alone on topics of which they hold just and correct notions, but when they run short of this kind of food for conversation, they indulge in fabrication and falsehood rather than be found wanting in sociable chit-chat.

Man is partial to novelty; and will grasp it in his eagerness whether or not it has good or bad qualities. To satiate the cravings after new and unused subjects, whether they be intended for conversation or to please the passions by shew and blazonry, he will strain every nerve, and will rouse his sleeping energy in the pursuit. He listens with avidity to every idle tale of the times; and turns round to stare at every object, however monstrous and absurd, if any one informs him that such thing is in existence. He is vain, fickle, and soon tires; he requires a vortex of events to keep him from ennui; he would have the world to resemble a kaleidoscope, VOL. I. 2 X

Virg.

whose figures may be as often varied, as the mind shall desire a change. It is to this thirst for novelty that I would attribute his readiness to grasp at phantoms and vanities, and imagine them to be of substance and reality.. He will even forego a certainty for an uncertainty; because in running after the latter he indulges his restless and ever-prying disposition. The one is solid, the other is ideal,-yet his inclinations are prone to pursue a volatile fiction of the mind in preference to acting on the suggestions of truth and actual observation. Every hour is fraught with rumours and replete with reports; and as they are wafted abroad, man is ever on the alert to catch. at them. No sooner does he tire of one, than he may feed upon another; and thus are his yearnings after novelty in some degree, though never totally appeased.

Amongst the great body of individuals, those persons are in general of most repute, who are well informed and have the greatest power of conversation: his company, on the contrary, is never admired or courted, which is not made up of these requisites. To be mute and. worldless is deemed next to a vice; but to be open, loquacious, and volatile, it