added little or nothing to the language, they at least promoted its study.

The journey of Dante and his companions through hell, purgatory, and paradise, not only formed a topic of conversation, as it was expected, but his expressive and powerful language became general every where in Italy. Young men, in imitation of Petrarca, wrote sonnets, songs, and other kinds of composition to their mistresses. The language of conversation was judged by that of Boccacio. Adding to these causes, a people full of native genius, minds most ready to appreciate whatever is most amiable in nature, or worthy in art, we might easily account for such an astonishing progress of language under the most congenial sky of Italy.

Ever since the thirteenth century, Italian authors, notwithstanding many unfavorable circumstances, have been more numerous than those of any other country; and as they have found the language of Dante, Petrarca, and Boccacio, admirably adapted to every style of composition, they have used it without material alterations. In this they differ from those of other nations, whose languages are continually changing, and will change so long as their orthography is so irregular and inconsistent with the actual pronunciation. An Italian, acquainted with his own language, will be able to read and relish every author from Dante to Alfieri, and Monti, without meeting great difficulties: whereas the English and French writers of the fifteenth century, and even some of the sixteenth, are scarcely legible.

AN OLD STORY VERSIFIED.

When Oliver Cromwell and some of his saints
Were over a bottle, quite free from restraints,
The corkscrew by accident fell from the table,
And to find it at first the drunk guests were unable;
When, as Noll got impatient, and went on his knees,
A messenger entered, and said, "If you please,
The kirk's deputation would wish to be heard."

"Not at present," cried Noll," we are seeking the Lord." Then observed to his friends, They are not without merit, Who seek the means humbly to get at the spirit!"

T. W.

RECOLLECTIONS OF HORNE TOOKE.

Mr. Tooke was, in private company and among his friends, the finished gentleman of the last age. His manners were as fascinating as his conversation was spirited and delightful. He put one in mind of the burden of the song of "the king's old courtier, and an old courtier of the king's.' He was, however, of the opposite party. It was curious to hear our modern sciolist advancing opinions of the most radical kind without any mixture of radical heat or violence, in a tone of fashionable nonchalance, with elegance of gesture and attitude, and with the most perfect good humour. In the spirit of opposition, or in the pride of logical superiority, he too often shocked the prejudices or wounded the self-love of those about him, while he himself displayed the same unmoved indifference of equanimity. He said the most provoking things with a laughing gaiety, and a polite attention, that there was no withstanding. He threw others off their guard by thwarting their favorite theories, and then availed himself of the temperance of his own pulse to chafe them into madness. He had not one particle of deference for the opinions of others, nor of sympathy for their feelings; nor had he any obstinate convictions of his own to defend

"Lord of himself, uncumber'd with a creed!"

he took up any topic by chance, and played with it at will, like a juggler with his cups and balls. He generally ranged himself on the losing side, and had rather an ill-natured delight in contradiction, and in perplexing the understanding of others, without leaving them any clue to guide them out of the labyrinth into which he had led them. He understood, in its perfection, the great art of throwing the cnus probandi on his adversary, and so could maintain almost any opinion, however absurd or fantastical, with fearless impunity. He used to plague Fuseli, by asking him after the origin of the Teutonic dialects; and Dr. Parr, by wishing to know the meaning of the common copulative, Is. Once, at Gray's, he defended Pitt from a charge of verbiage, and endeavoured to prove him superior to Fox. Some one imitated Pitt's manner, to show that it was monotonous; and he imitated him also,

to show that it was not. He maintained (what would he not maintain?) that young Betty's acting was finer than John Kemble's, and recited a passage from Douglas, in the manner of each, to justify the preference he gave to the former. He argued on the same occasion, in the same breath, that Addison's style was without modulation, and that it was physically impossible for any one to write well, who was habitually silent in company. He sat like a king at his own table, and gave law to his guests and to the world. No man knew better how to manage his immediate circle-to foil, or bring them

out.

Porson was the only person of whom he stood in some degree of awe, on account of his prodigious memory, and knowledge of his favorite subject, languages. Sheridan, it has been remarked, said more good things, but had not an equal flow of pleasantry. As an instance of Mr. Horne Tooke's extreme coolness and command of nerve, it has been mentioned that once at a public dinner, when he had got on the table to return thanks for his health being drank, with a glass of wine in his hand, and when there was a great clamour and opposition for some time, after it had subsided, he pointed to the glass to show it was still full. Mr. Holcroft, the author of the Road to Ruin, was one of the most violent and fieryspirited of all that motley crew of persons who attended the Sunday meetings at Wimbleton. One day he was so enraged by some paradox or raillery of his host, that he indignantly rose from his chair, and said, "Mr. Tooke, you are a scoundrel!" The other, without manifesting the least emotion, replied, "Mr. Holcroft, when is it that I am to dine with you? shall it be next Thursday?" If you please, Mr. Tooke ;" answered the angry philosopher, and sat down again. It was delightful to see him sometimes turn from these waspish or ludicrous altercations with overweening antagonists, to some old friend and veteran politician seated at his elbow; to hear him recall the time of Wilkes and liberty, the conversation mellowing, like the wine, with the smack of age;assenting to all the old man said, bringing out his pleasant traits, and pampering him into childish self-importance, and sending him away thirty years younger than he came.

66

STANZAS.

BY JAMES KNOX.

I welcom❜d the morning, and hail'd the sun-rise
Majestic from out of the sea,

But clouds quickly shaded the face of the skies,
And hid all his glories from me :

I saw, and I inwardly cried, "this is life!
How bright on its course we begin;
We think it with chiefest of pleasures is rife,
But soon find it o'ershadow'd by sin."

I gaz'd on the rose, as she bloom'd in her pride
In the garden, the fairest of flowers!

I sought for her after, but found she had died
In the lapse of a few fleeting hours:
And, as by the side of the youthful and brave,
I stood, the tear rush'd to mine eye,

For I knew that one time we must sink to the grave,
Like the rose, we shall wither and die.

I wander'd, I carelessly wander'd till night,
Dark and misty, hung over the plain,

And I would have returned, but no star shed its light,
To guide my steps homeward again :

And I sigh'd, for in this, I, a likeness could trace
To the time when to sorrow we bend---
When prosperity ceases to show us her face,
How hard 'tis to find a true friend!

RECEIPT FOR A MODERN DUEL.

Two fools, with each an empty head
Or, like their pistols, lined with lead ;
Two minor fools to measure distance ;
A surgeon to afford assistance;
A paragraph to catch the fair,

And tell the world how brave they are!

STANZAS.

HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.

Henry I. (after the loss of Prince William,) entertained hopes, for three days, that his son had put into some distant port of England; but when certain intelligence of the calamity was brought him, he fainted away; and it was remarked, that he never afterwards was seen to smile, nor ever recovered his wonted cheerfulness,-Hume.

The bark that held a prince went down,
The sweeping waves roll'd on;
And what was England's glorious crown
To him that wept a son?

He lived-for life may long be borne,
Ere sorrow break its chain;

Why comes not death to those that mourn
He never smiled again!

There stood proud forms around his throne,
The stately and the brave;

But which could fill the place of one,
That one beneath the wave?
Before him pass'd the young and fair,

In pleasure's restless train;

But seas dash'd o'er his son's bright hair,—
He never smiled again!

He sat where festal bowls went round,

He heard the minstrel sing;

He saw the tournay's victor crown'd
Amidst the knightly ring.

A murmur of the restless deep
Seem'd blent with every strain,

A voice of winds that would not sleep,-
He never smiled again!

Hearts in that time closed o'er the trace

Of vows once fondly pour'd,

And strangers took the kinsman's place

At many a joyous board.

Graves, which true love had wash'd with tears,

Were left to heaven's bright train ;

Fresh hopes were born for other years,
He never smiled again!

F.