an assistant-surgeon, the only one in the vicinity, was sent for, who bled him; and his excellency found apparently so much relief from it, that he rose early the next morning, and proposed walking through Richmondwood to the new settlement of that name. He had, in his progress through the wood, started off, at hearing a dog bark, and was with difficulty overtaken; and, on the party's arrival at the skirts of the wood, at the sight of some stagnant water, his Grace hastily leaped over a fence, and rushed into an adjoining barn, whither his dismayed companions eagerly followed him. The paroxysm of his disorder was now at its height. It was almost a miracle that he did not die in

the barn. He was with difficulty removed to a miserable hovel in the neighbourhood: and, early in the morning of the 28th, the Duke of Richmond expired in the arms of a faithful Swiss, who had never quitted his beloved master for a moment. Whilst in this miserable log-hut reason occasionally resumed her empire; and his Grace accordingly availed himself of these lucid intervals to address a letter to Lady Mary Lenox; in which he reminded her that a favourite dog, belonging to the household, being in a room at the Castle of St. Louis, at a time (five months before) when the duke, shaving, cut his chin, the dog was lifted up in order to lick the wound, when the animal bit his chin. The recollection of this circunstance gave him but too sure a presentiment(the dog having subsequently run mad) of his approaching fate; therefore, in his letter to Lady Mary, he expressed his conviction (which indeed appears an irresistible conclusion) that his disorder was hydrophobia. His Grace recommended the line of conduct to he observed by his children, in the painful situation in which they would be

placed at his death: and, it is said, requested to be buried in Quebec on the ramparts, like His Grace's sufa soldier, there to remain. ferings were extreme; yet his mind soared He directed Colonel Cockabove agony. burne not to attend to his orders any longer; "For you see," said the great man,"the state I am reduced to;" and, during a paroxysm of pain, he exclaimed, "For shame, Richmond: shame, Charles Lenox: bear your sufferings like a man!"

SAGACITY OF A BEAR.

A bear which had stolen a sheep, being closely pursued by several dogs, promptly resorted to a most ingenious expedient. He tore the sheep in pieces, and threw the dogs one of the binder legs; and while they were partaking of this repast, had full time to escape.

This fact is formally certified, 'by a game-keeper in Transylvania, where there are a great many bears. The most remarkable circumstance was, that from that time the dogs would never attack any of these animals, but on the contrary, received them in the most friendly manner, as if they expected a dinner. The owner of the flock was obliged to have the dogs shot, that he might not have those hungry guests always about him. German Paper.

That lifts in sport his mantle's drooping fold,
Proud to display that form of faultless mould.
Mighty Ephesian !† with an eagle's flight
Thy proud soul mounted thro' the field of light,
View'd the bright conclave of Heaven's blest abode,
And the cold marble leapt to life a God:
Contagious awe thro' breathless myriads ran,
And nations bow'd before the work of man.
For mild he seem'd as in Elysian bowers,
Wasting in careless ease the joyous hours;
Haughty, as bards have sung, with princely sway
Curbing the fierce flame-breathing steeds of day;
Beauteous as vision seen in dreamy sleep

By holy maid on Delphi's haunted steep,
Mid the dim twilight of the laurel grove,
Too fair to worship, too divine to love.

Yet on that form in wild delirious trance
With more than rev'rence gaz'd the Maid of France.
Day after day the love-sick dreamer stood
With him alone, nor thought it solitude;
To cherish grief, her last, her dearest care,
Her one fond hope-to perish or despair,
Oft as the shifting light her sight begail'd
Blushing she shrunk, and thought the marble smil'd:
Oft breathless list'ning heard, or seem'd to hear,
A voice of music melt upon her ear.

+ Agasias of Ephesus.

TO NEA.

WELL-peace to that heart tho' another's it be,

And health to that cheek, tho' it blooms not
for me!

To-morrow I sail for those cinnamon groves,
Where nightly the ghost of the Carribee roves ;
And far from thine eye perhaps I may yet,
Its seduction forgive, and its splendor forget.
Farewell to Bermuda! and long may the bloom
Of the olive and citron its vallies perfume,
May Spring to eternity hallow the shade
Where Ariel has warbled and Waller has stray'd.
And thou, when at dawn thou may'st happen to

roam

Thro' the lime-covered alleys which lead to thy home,

Where oft when the dance and the revel were done,
And the stars were beginning to fade in the sun,
I have led thee along, and told by the way
What my heart all the night had been burning to

say,

Oh! think of the past, give a sigh to those times, And a blessing for me to that alley of limes! THOMAS MOORE.

WINTER.

THOUGH now no more the musing ear
Delights to listen to the breeze
That lingers o'er the greenwood shade,
I love thee, Winter! well.

Sweet are the harmonies of Spring,
Sweet is the Summer's evening gale,
Pleasant the Autumnal winds that shake
The many-coloured grove ;

And pleasant to the sobered soul
The silence of a wintery scene,
When Nature shrouds her in her trance,
In deep tranquillity.

Not undelightful now to roam

The wild-heath sparkling on the sight;
Not undelightful now to pace

The forest's ample rounds;
And see the spangled branches shine,
And snatch the moss of many a hue
That varies the old tree's brown bark,
Or o'er the grey stone spreads.

'The clustered berries claim the eye,
O'er the bright holly's gay green leaves;
The ivy round the leafless oak

Clasps its full foliage close.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

The foregoing fact is related in the work of Mons. Pinel sur Insanite.

THE CARRIER'S ADDRESS

TO THE

PATRONS OF THE ATHENEUM.

287

Lone on the midnight steep, and all aghast,
The dark way-faring stranger breathless toils,
And, often falling, climbs against the blast.

THOMSON.

THE seed-time has past, and the harvest is o'er ; The voice of the reaper is mute in the dale The horn of the huntsman awakens no more The silver-ton'd echo that sleeps in the vale; The blushes of Spring have long faded away, Her evergreen laurels hang frozen around ;The" last rose of Summer" has sunk to decay, And Autumn's grey foliage lies mix'd with the ground. The call of the sky-lark now ceases to hail And greet with his whistle the morning's first ray; No longer the ring-dove is heard to bewail, And pour forth her grief in her heart-broken lay. Now stalks in his hunger the wolf on the hill, His howl o'er the mountain is hollow and long; The owl from her darkness screams dreary and shrill, And hoots thro' the desart her desolate song. Hark! thro' the deep forest the woodcutter's stroke!The glens and the lowlands redouble the blow, And, lo! the proud maple and fast-rooted oak Like overthrown giants lie prostrate below! In his ice-crusted Car with hailstones emboss'd, Lo! WINTER has harness'd his silver-shod steeds; The storm-beaten Monarch, bespangled with frost, Up the slopes of the north triumphantly speeds :His lances are flying all polish'd and bare, Their wing o'er the ridges is eager and swift ;-And oft as his arrows entangle the air, The ARCHER is seen in the terrible drift! The Demon now rides in his hurricane wrath, Is bending his bow in the strength of his might; Lo! tempest and shipwreck are yok'd in the path On the right and the left of his meteor flight! Begot in the whiff of his merciless blast, The whirlwinds contending in rivalry fly; The petrified traveller, benumb'd and aghast, Asks shelter in vain of the pitiless sky. As the flakes in dark volumes confusedly roll, A feeble petition is wrung from his heart ; His home and his children ali rush on his soul, And strike thro' his breast like an icicle dart! The mists as they thicken and smother the air, Bewilder his footsteps, and madden his brain; Distracted and dizzy, he sinks in despair, And fainting, he cries out for succour in vain. Ensnar'd in the pitfall, no longer be tries, With bosom unshrouded, and uncover'd head; Outstretch'd and unpillow'd behold where he lies; The night-winds his requiem, the show-drift bis bed! How happy is he, who in safety within Above and below hears the storm beat about ;He heaps on his fuel, nor fears the dread din That clamours defiance. d threatens without. In vain thro' his casements the wintry-winds roar, Regardless around him the tempests descend ;In vain on his roof the big torrent shall pour, And rush in a deluge his shelter to rend! But lo! up his knet, each in turn for the kiss, In playful contention his little ones try; Behold! what a sunshine of fatherly bliss Illumines his features, and lightens his "ve!

Now may he forget not the houseless and poor,
But think on the wretches of want and of woe;
Now may he forget not what numbers endure,
Unfed and bare-headed, the cold and the snow!

And now, gentle PATRON, the Carrier would fain
His pittance too crave from your bountiful store;
Let not his petition be offered in vain

O turn him not empty away from your door;
Remember how often for you he contends
With winter's rough edges and sharp-pointed sleet;

Fifty-nine editions of the Scriptures, consisting of 270,000 copies, are now printing by the Bible Society.

Accounts, we understand, have been at length received of the expedition, consisting of the Hecla and Griper, now on a voyage of Discovery to the North Pole. It had proceeded as far as the 86th degree of latitude, which is we believe, as far as Captain Ross was able to penetrate. In Baffin's Bay they had fallen in with an immense mass of ice, which appeared to be formed upon a solid rock in the Bay. The sea on the northern side of this huge mass presented the singular appearance of a lake perfectly free from ice. Such of the native inhabitants of those regions as they had met, did not appear to have ever seen or heard of the former expedition under Captain Ross. It seemed to be the opinion of the present voyagers, that there is no passage out of Baffin's Bay.

NEW WORKS.

Boston, January 1, 1820.

POETRY PUBLISHED.

Paternoster-row.

is

Illustrations of the Novels and Tales of the Author of "Waverly." In Twelve Prints, after Original Designs by William Allan, and engraved in the first style of the Art. Tales, by "The Author of Bertram," &c. 4 vols 12mo.

The concluding volume of Dr. Clark's northern travels, containing a description of St. Petersburgh, during the tyranny of the Emperor Paul.

In our last, we announced Ivanhoe and the Monastery, by the author of Waverly. A London bookseller, Mr. Fearman, has since announced a third work, by the same author, under the title of "Pontefract Castle." This announcement, in which we see nothing remarkable, considering the character of our modern Proteus, has occasioned a literary war, between Mr Fearman and the Regent's bookseller, for Scotland.

Memoirs of the Life of the late Richard Lovel Edgeworth, esq. are announced, being partly written by himself, and continued by his Daughter, MARIA EDGEWORTH, in 2 vols.

A Second Series of Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk, in three volumes, is preparing for publication.

Memoirs of the Life of John Wesley, the founder of the English Methodists, by RoBERT SOUTHEY, esq. in two volumes octavo, illustrated by portraits of Wesley and Whitfield, will appear in a few days.

The Fudger Fudged; or the devil and T***y M***e. By the Author of New Bath Guide. A Satirical Poem, with illustrative Notes, on a modern Bard not more remarkable for

his talents than occasionally for his gross misapplication of them.

"A ballad singer, who had long
Strumm'd many a vile lascivious song,
Such as unwary youth entice
To follow in the paths of Vice,
Worn out, and impotent become,
Beats as he can Sedinon's drum-
To feed his appetite for evil,
And gratify his patron Devil."

NOVELS.
Varieties in Woman. 3 vols.

The History of Little Bob, with Memoirs of the Camelford Family. By Mrs. TAYLOR. Forman, a Tale. 3 vols.

The Munster Cottage Boy, a Tale. By MARIA REGINA ROCHE. 4 vols.

Earl Osric; or, the Legend of Rosamond, a Romance. By Mrs. ISAACS. 4 vols.

Eveleen Mountjoy, or Views of Life; by Mrs. Robert Moore. 4 vols.

Any thing but what you can expect; by Jane Harvey. 3 vols. 12mo.

The Highlander; a Tale of my Landlady. 2 vols.

VOYAGES AND TRAVELS.

No. IX. of the Journal of New Voyages and Travels: containing Dumont's Narrative of thirty-four years' slavery in Africa; Pottinger's Shipwreck on the Western Coast of the RedSea; Burckhardt's Travels in Egypt,

ter of regret that the form of the piece, as a work of art, should have been such as it is—and that, therefore, the masterpiece of Lessing should have failed to be a German tragedy. In like manner, the greatest of all Goethe's works, the Faustus, although it exhibits, in the highest degree, almost every power necessary for the construction of perfect dramatic poetry, is, after all, a mere sketch, or rather a mere fragment of a mystical romance. The poet himself never dreamt of its being brought upon the stage and, indeed, without the magic rod of Faustus himself, it would be utterly impossible to bring even any two or three consecutive scenes of it upon any theatre in the world. But Goethe has made many attempts to produce true acting dramas-he has tried every thing from pure imitation of the highest Greek tragedy in his Iphigenia, down to the almost prosaic delineation of domestic manners in his Stella and Clavigo-and at last he seems to have given up the attempt partly from total dissatisfaction with the result of his own endeavours, and partly, no doubt, from observing the much more triumphant effect produced upon the public mind by those almost boyish works which first made known the name of Schiller, That fiery genius, however, was destined to prove, in the end, nothing more successful than his great master and rival. He has produced no works more perfect or satisfactory in form than Goethe's and while neither the Wallenstein, nor the William Tell, nor the Mary Stuart, can be placed above the Egmont -nor the Bride of Messina above the Iphigenia-it must be confessed, that among the whole creations of his genius, he has left nothing that can sustain, for richness of invention, for purity and va riety and strength of language, any comparison with the Faustus. By that most untranslateable of all works, we think the great problem has been effectually solved,and for the first time-of the possibility of possessing and exercising even in immediate juxtaposition, nay, almost in perpetual interfusion with each other, the utmost powers both of clear speculative understanding and mysterious su

perstitious enthusiasm. If any man living can give any thing like a translation of it, it must be Coleridge-but with all his majestic dreams of imagination, and all his sway of sweet and awful numbers, we fear even he would fail to do for Faustus the half of what he has done for Wallenstein.

Since the death of Schiller, and silence of Goethe, the German drama does not seem to have produced any thing worthy of being named along with their master-pieces. Imitation is more a passion among the modern German writers than even among our own--and, in general, it may be said, that the stages of Vienna, Berlin, and Weimar have been supplied with little more than caricature regenerations of The Robbers and the Götz of Berlichingen, and still more offensive, because more tame, stale, and spiritless copies of the more sustained and regular productions of the same mighty hands. There is much genius, no doubt, and much fine passion in some of Henry Collin's plays, particularly, we think, his Coriolanus, which bears reading after Shakspeare's a thousand times better than Voltaire's Brutus does after theJulius Cæsar; but that poet wanted both originality of invention and command of expression to be a founder of any thing, far less to be a founder where such men as his great predecessors had failed. As yet the chasm remains unfilled-but after the extracts we are about to lay before them, our readers may, perhaps, be inclined to hope, that the rising genius of Adolphus Müllner may be destined, if wisely directed by himself, and sustained by the favour of his countrymen, to do much for the removal of the reproach. What would we not give to see such a genius among ourselves bestowing all the fine and tree energies of his youth upon our own dra

ma.

It is true we have not so much to wish for in this department as the Germans, but then, we also would indeed have high hopes, and he that might fulfil them, would indeed have high honours.

This tragedy, which is the first dramatic piece of regular length and construction that has proceeded from its