revenge. His verses on the PrinCharlotte weeping, and his other merciless satire on her father, begot him no friends, and armed the hatred of his enemies. There was, indeed, something like ingratitude in the attack on the regent for his royal highness had been particularly civil; had intimated a wish to have him introduced to him; and Byron, fond of the distinction, spoke of it with a sense of gratification. These instances, as well as others, of gratuitous spleen, only justified the misrepresentations which had been insinuated against himself; and what was humor in his nature, was ascribed to vice in his principles. Before the year was at an end, his popularity was evidently beginning to wane of this he was conscious himself, and braved the frequent attacks on his character and genius with an affectation of indifference, under which those who had at all observed the singular associations of his recollections and ideas, must have discerned the symptoms of a strange disease. He was tainted with an Herodian malady of the mind; his thoughts were often hateful to himself; but there was an ecstacy in the conception, as if delight could be mingled with horror. I think, however, he struggled to master the fatality, and that his resolution to marry was dictated by an honorable desire to give hostages to society against the wild wilfulness of his imagination."

His Grecian expedition "Had Lord Byron never been in Greece, he was undoubtedly one of those men whom the resurrection of her spirit was likeliest to interest; but he was not also one fitted to do her cause much service. His in nate indolence, his sedentary habits, and that all-engrossing consideration for himself, which in every situation marred his best impulses, were shackles upon the practice of the stern bravery in himself which he has so well expressed in his works. It was expected when he sailed for Greece-nor was the ex

pectation unreasonable with those who believe imagination and passion to be of the same element-that the enthusiasm which flamed so highly in his verse was the spirit of action, and would prompt him to undertake some great enterprise. But he was only an artist; he could describe bold adventures and represent high feeling, as other gifted individuals give eloquence to canvass, and activity to marble; but he did not possess the wisdom necessary for the instruction of councils. I do, therefore, venture to say, that in embarking for Greece he was not entirely influenced by such exoterical motives as the love of glory or the aspirations of heroism. His laurels had for some time ceased to flourish,-the sear and yellow, the mildew and decay, had fallen upon them; and he was aware that the bright round of his fame was ovaling from the full, and showing the dim rough edge of waning."

On his religion:

"Lord Byron had but loose feelings in religion-scarcely any. His sensibility and a slight constitutional leaning towards superstition and omens, showed that the sense of devotion was, however, alive and awake within him; but with him religion was a sentiment, and the convictions of the understanding had nothing whatever to do with his creed. That he was deeply embued with the essence of natural pietythat he often felt the power and being of a God thrilling in all his frame and glowing in his bosom-I declare my thorough persuasion; and that he believed in some of the tenets and in the philosophy of Christianity, as they influence the spirit and conduct of men, I am as little disposed to doubt; especially if those portions of his works which only tend towards the subject, and which bear the impression of fervor and earnestness, may be admitted as evidence.

But he was not a member of any particular church, and, without a reconstruction of his mind and temperament, I venture to

not in consequence, as too many have represented, of any predilection, either of feeling or principle, against Christianity-but entirely owing to an organic peculiarity of mind. He reasoned on every topic by instinct, rather than by induction or any progress of logic; and could never be so convinced of the truth or falsehood of an abstract proposition, as to feel it affect the current of his actions. He may have assented to arguments, without being sensible of their truth; merely because they were not objectionable to his feelings at the time. And, in the same manner, he may have disputed even fair inferences, from admitted premises, if the state of his feelings happened to be indisposed to the subject. I am persuaded, nevertheless, that to class him among absolute infidels were to do injustice to his memory, and that he has suffered uncharitably in the opinion of the rigidly righteous,' who, because he had not attached himself to any particular sect or congregation, assumed that he was an adversary to religion. To claim for him any credit as a pious man, would be absurd; but to suppose he had not as deep an interest as other men in his soul's health' and welfare, was to impute to him a nature which cannot exist. Being altogether a creature of impulses, he certainly could not be ever employed in doxologies, or engaged in the logomachy of churchmen; but he had the sentiment which at a tamer age might have made him more ecclesiastical. There was as much truth as joke in the expression, when he wrote,

'I am myself a moderate Presbyterian."" We should do scant justice to Mr. Galt were we not to quote a few passages more especially his own. Each of the ensuing little extracts has struck us as possessing either some original thought or some beauty of expression.

"A few traces of terraces may

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"The genii that preside over famous places have less influence on the imagination than on the memory. The pleasures enjoyed on the spot spring from the reminiscences of reading; and the subsequent enjoyment derived from having visited celebrated scenes, comes again from the remembrance of objects seen there, and the associations connected with them.

"I passed through the ruins of a considerable Turkish town, containing four or five mosques, one of them a handsome building still entire. About twenty houses or so might be described as tenantable, but only a place of sepulchres could be more awful. It had been depopulated by the plague-all was silent, and the streets were matted with thick grass. In passing through an open space, which reminded me of a market-place, I heard the cuckoo with an indescribable sensation of pleasure mingled with solemnity. The sudden presence of a raven at a bridal banquet could scarcely have been a greater phantasma. *

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out the heavens as a curtain, and laid the beams of his chambers in the waters ?" It is not easy to collect and enumerate all the grand representations of God in Scripture. "He is the high and lofty one that inhabiteth eternity," in whose sight a "thousand years are but as yesterday;" so pure and holy, that "the very heavens are unclean before him; so powerful, that "he killeth and maketh alive; " of such omniscience, that he "knoweth the thoughts of man afar off;" and of such mercy and goodness, that "he waiteth to be gracious and to forgive." In this presence as it were of the true and living God, how does the whole system of Pagan superstition melt away as mist before the morning sun! These descriptions of him as far transcend the descriptions of Jupiter and Olympus, which the poets give us, as the thunder and lightning of the heavens do the rattling and flashes of Salmoneus.

and figures, are his truly sublime and vigorous ideas habited! Eschylus is no longer bold and daring in his expressions, when compared with Isaiah, who rolls them on in rapid and continued succession, whilst the other at intervals only breaks forth into them and what are they in the Grecian, but faint and sickly glimmerings of light, that cast a transient gleam over the sky, before the sun arises upon the morn? But the Jewish writer, like the noon-day sun, shines forth in full brightness and splendor; nor need we look further than to the difference of their subjects, in order to see the reason why that fire of imagination, which has subjected the tragedian to some censure, blazes out in the prophet with so general applause and approbation: it is because the sense of the one seems often overstrained, and will not bear the image applied; whereas so great and glorious is the matter of the other, that to treat it in a less exalted manner would be to disgrace it,-and the only danger was, lest throughout the whole range of diction no words could be found strong enough to convey an adequate sense of his conceptions.

WE select the following anecdotical reminiscences from "Bernard's Retrospections of the Stage," just published in London.

"In 1778," says Mr. Bernard, "I became acquainted with the celebrated Dr. Jackson, and commenced an early and lasting intimacy with that 'son of song,' Charles Incledon; an intimacy continued in England twenty, and renewed in America forty years afterwards. Incledon was at this time a thin, lanky youth, giving some promise of his future powers, but more noted for a disposition like that of a Newfoundland dog-compounded of courage, gratefulness, and love of the water. All the sto

ries in circulation respecting him were illustrative of one or the other of these qualities. The best known features of his early life, I believe, are his rumpus at school, and departure to sea; over which I willingly pass, to record a circumstance more in honor of his character, and neither well known nor insignificant. Some aquatic sportsman of Exeter had offered a considerable sum to any man who would swim down the river a certain distance, to a boat moored, with a rope round his middle, and bring back to his startingpoint another. Several had attempted this feat, and failed. Young Incledon accomplished it; but this was not his ground of glory: he

took the entire amount of his reward to a poor widow in the city, who had occasionally been kind to him, and was now fallen into distress. When Dr. Jackson heard of the circumstance, he was naturally alarmed lest his pupil should have contracted a cold which might injure his voice; but when Incledon explained the manner in which he had appropriated the money, the benevolent man was immediately subdued, and dismissed him with these words—'Well, Charles, I'm not angry at what you've done; for if your lungs should be affected, your heart's in good order.' The companion of Incledon, as all the world knows, was Davy the composer. Davy, it appears, was an orphan child, left to the care of a poor relative, a weaver, at Crediton. This man was a humble musician, teaching the science of psalmody to the village, and playing the bas-viol at church. He had an old spinet in his house, (the gift of a wealthier relative,) upon which he used to practise his tunes. Young Davy was always by his side on such occasions, and whenever he went away would mount his stool, and strike the instrument, in the endeavor to distinguish the notes. This amusement, however, not benefiting the spinet, it was locked up; and the young musician, thus thrown upon his own resources, invented an instrument. He was at this time about six or seven. Next door to the weaver's was a blacksmith's shop, into which young Davy was continually running to watch the operations of the modern Cyclopides. He was thus enabled, unperceived and unsuspected, to convey away at different periods a number of horse-shoes, which he secreted in the unoccupied garret of the weaver's dwelling. Then procuring a piece of wire (from the same magazine), he attached it to two cross-beams, and on this suspended the shoes, assigning each its place in succession, and graduating a correct scale by the strength of

his ear. He then obtained two sticks to strike them with, in imitation of the hand-bells which he had no doubt seen, as they were very prevalent in that part of England. So engrossed did he become in this new employment, that he not only gave up all his customary sports, but neglected his lessons and the family errands. He had sagacity enough, however, to keep the cause a secret, and fortune assisted him, till one day the weaver's wife going up stairs to search among the lumber that the upper room contained, heard musical sounds, and stopping to listen, distinguished the outline of a psalm tune. However extraordinary the diversion, she could only attribute it to the presence of the devil, and her fright had nearly the effect of precipitating her to the bottom of the stairs. Her husband was at home, and to him she descended and made known this mysterious circumstance. He had less superstition than herself, and ascended the stairs more boldly. The same sounds were audible, and peeping up, he perceived the young musician perched on a rickety, ken-backed chair, with his legs tucked under him, and his tiny hands thumping the horse-shoes, in the endeavor to form the same tunes he had heard his relative play. The weaver was too pleased and astonished at this discovery either to chide or disturb him, but retired with his wife, and, after some cogitation, determined to go over to Exeter and tell Doctor Jackson his boy's story, presuming that if he had abilities for music, that would be a better business for him than weaving, and knowing the doctor's character to be as eminent for rosity as musical science. following day was accordingly devoted to the walk. The doctor heard his narrative with mingled pleasure and surprise, and agreed to ride over to Crediton and witness the phenomenon. He did so, and was introduced by the weaver to his house and stair-case, where the

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