Clifton, in vain thy varied scenes invite-
The mossy bank, dim glade, and dizzy height;
The sheep that starting from the tufted thyme,
Untune the distant churches' mellow chime;
As o'er each limb a gentle horror creeps,
And shake above our heads the craggy steeps,
Pleasant I've thought it to pursue the rower,
While light and darkness seize the changeful oar,
The frolic Naiads drawing from below

A net of silver round the black canoe,
Now the last lonely solace must it be

To watch pale evening brood o'er land and sea, Then join my friends, and let those friends believe My cheeks are moistened by the dews of eve. 'The Maid's Lament' is a short lyrical flow of picturesque expression and pathos, resembling the more recent effusions of Barry Cornwall:

I loved him not; and yet, now he is gone,
I feel I am alone.

I checked him while he spoke; yet could he speak,
Alas! I would not check.

For reasons not to love him once I sought,

And wearied all my thought

To vex myself and him: I now would give
My love could he but live

Who lately lived for me, and when he found
'Twas vain, in holy ground

He hid his face amid the shades of death!
I waste for him my breath

Who wasted his for me; but mine returns,
And this lone bosom burns

With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,
And waking me to weep

Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years
Wept he as bitter tears!

'Merciful God!' such was his latest prayer,

'These may she never share!'

Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold

Than daisies in the mould,

Where children spell athwart the churchyard gate
His name and life's brief date.

Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be,

And oh! pray, too, for me!

own professed opinions may be consistent with each other: hence he contradicts himself almost as often as any other body. Jeffrey, in one of his most brilliant papers, has characterised in happy terms the class of minds to which Mr Landor belongs. The work before us,' says he, is an edifying example of the spirit of literary Jacobinism-flying at all game, running a-muck at all opinions, and at continual cross-purposes with its own. This spirit admits neither of equal nor superior, follower nor precursor: "it travels in a road so narrow, where but one goes abreast." It claims a monopoly of sense, wit, and wisdom. To agree with it is an impertinence; to differ from it a crime. It tramples on old prejudices; it is jealous of new pretensions. It seizes with avidity on all that is startling or obnoxious in opinions, and when they are countenanced by any one else, discards them as no longer fit for its use. Thus persons of this temper affect atheism by way of distinction; and if they can succeed in bringing it into fashion, become orthodox again, in order not to be with the vulgar. Their creed is at the mercy of every one who assents to, or who contradicts it. All their ambition, all their endeavour is, to seem wiser than the whole world besides. They hate whatever falls short of, whatever goes beyond, their favourite theories. In the one case, they hurry on before to get the start of you; in the other, they suddenly turn back to hinder you, and defeat themselves. An inordinate, restless, incorrigible self-love, is the key to all their actions and opinions, extravagances and meannesses, servility and arrogance. Whatever soothes and pampers this, they applaud; whatever wounds or interferes with it, they utterly and vindictively abhor. A general is with them a hero if he is unsuccessful or a traitor; if he is a conqueror in the cause of liberty, or a martyr to it, he is a poltroon. Whatever is doubtful, remote, visionary in philosophy, or wild and dangerous in politics, they fasten upon eagerly, "recommending and insisting on nothing less;" reduce the one to demonstration, the other to practice, and they turn their backs upon their own most darling schemes, and leave them in the lurch immediately.' When the reader learns that Mr Landor justifies Tiberius and

a charlatan, declares Alfieri to have been the greatest man in Europe, and recommends the Greeks, in their struggles with the Turks, to discard fire-arms, and return to the use of the bow, he will not deem this general description far from inapplicable in the case. And yet the Imaginary Conversations and other writings of Mr Landor are amongst the most remarkable prose productions of our age, written in pure nervous English, and full of thoughts which fasten themselves on the mind, and are 'a joy for ever.' It would require many specimens from these works to make good what is here said for and against their author; we can afford room for only one, but in it are both an example of his love of paradox, and of the extraordinary beauties of thought by which he leads us captive. It forms part of a conversation between Lords Chatham and Chesterfield:

Chesterfield. It is true, my lord, we have not always been of the same opinion, or, to use a better, truer, and more significant expression, of the same side in politics; yet I never heard a sentence from your lordship which I did not listen to with deep attention. I understand that you have written some pieces of admonition and advice to a young relative; they are mentioned as being truly excellent; I wish I could have profited by them when I was composing mine on a similar occasion.

Chatham. My lord, you certainly would not have done it, even supposing they contained, which I am far from believing, any topics that could have escaped your penetrating view of manners and morals; for your lordship and I set out diversely from the very threshold. Let us, then, rather hope that what we have written, with an equally good intention, may produce its due effect; which indeed, I am afraid, may be almost as doubtful, if we consider how ineffectual were the cares and exhortations, and even the daily example and high renown, of the most zealous and prudent men on the life and conduct of their children and disciples. Let us, however, hope the best rather than fear the worst, and believe that there never was a right thing done or a wise one spoken in vain, although the fruit of them may not spring up in the place designated or at the time expected. Chesterfield. Pray, if I am not taking too great a freedom, give me the outline of your plan.

Chatham. Willingly, my lord; but since a greater man than either of us has laid down a more comprehensive one, containing all I could bring forward, would it not be preferable to consult it? I differ in nothing from Locke, unless it be that I would recommend the lighter as well as the graver part of the ancient classics, and the constant practice of imitating them in early youth. This is no change in the system, and no larger an addition than a woodbine to a sacred grove.

Chesterfield. I do not admire Mr Locke.

Chatham. Nor I-he is too simply grand for admiration-I contemplate and revere him. Equally deep and clear, he is both philosophically and grammatically the most elegant of English writers.

Chesterfield. If I expressed by any motion of limb or feature my surprise at this remark, your lordship, I hope, will pardon me a slight and involuntary transgression of my own precept. I must intreat you, before we move a step farther in our inquiry, to inform me whether I am really to consider him in style the most elegant of our prose authors?

Chatham. Your lordship is capable of forming an opinion on this point certainly no less correct than mine.

Chesterfield. Pray assist me.

Chatham. Education and grammar are surely the two driest of all subjects on which a conversation can turn; yet if the ground is not promiscuously sown, if what ought to be clear is not covered, if what ought to be covered is not bare, and, above all, if the plants are choice ones, we may spend a few moments on it not unpleasantly. It appears then to me, that elegance in prose composition is mainly this; a just admission of topics and of words; neither too many nor too few of either; enough of sweetness in the sound to induce us to enter and sit still; enough of illustration and reflection to change the posture of our minds when they would tire; and enough of sound matter in the complex to repay us for our attendance. I could perhaps be more logical in my definition and more concise; but am I at all erroneous?

Chesterfield. I see not that you are. Chatham. My ear is well satisfied with Locke: I find nothing idle or redundant in him.

Chesterfield. But in the opinion of you graver men, would not some of his principles lead too far?

Chatham. The danger is, that few will be led by them far enough: most who begin with him stop short, and, pretending to find pebbles in their shoes, throw themselves down upon the ground, and complain of their guide.

Chesterfield. What, then, can be the reason why Plato, so much less intelligible, is so much more quoted and applauded?

Chatham. The difficulties we never try are no difficulties to us. Those who are upon the summit of a

mountain know in some measure its altitude, by comparing it with all objects around; but those who stand at the bottom, and never mounted it, can com pare it with few only, and with those imperfectly. Until a short time ago, I could have conversed more fluently about Plato than I can at present; I had read all the titles to his dialogues, and several scraps of commentary; these I have now forgotten, and am indebted to long attacks of the gout for what I have acquired instead.

Chesterfield. A very severe schoolmaster! I hope he allows a long vacation?

Chatham. Severe he is indeed, and although he sets no example of regularity, he exacts few observances, and teaches many things. Without him I should have had less patience, less learning, less reflection, less leisure; in short, less of everything but of sleep. Chesterfield. Locke, from a deficiency of fancy, is not likely to attract so many listeners as Plato.

Chatham. And yet occasionally his language is both metaphorical and rich in images. In fact, all our great philosophers have also this property in a wonderful degree. Not to speak of the devotional, in whose writings one might expect it, we find it abundantly in Bacon, not sparingly in Hobbes, the next to him in range of inquiry and potency of intellect. And what would you think, my lord, if you discovered in the records of Newton a sentence in the spirit of Shakspeare?

Chesterfield. I should look upon it as upon a wonder, not to say a miracle: Newton, like Barrow, had no feeling or respect for poetry.

Chatham. His words are these:-'I don't know what I may seem to the world; but as to myself, I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the sea-shore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of Truth lay all undiscovered before me.'

Chesterfield. Surely Nature, who had given him the volumes of her greater mysteries to unseal; who had bent over him and taken his hand, and taught him to decipher the characters of her sacred language; who had lifted up before him her glorious veil, higher than ever yet for mortal, that she might impress her features and her fondness on his heart, threw it back wholly at these words, and gazed upon him with as much admiration as ever he had gazed upon her.*

EDWIN ATHERSTONE.

EDWIN ATHERSTONE is author of The Last Days of Herculaneum (1821) and The Fall of Nineveh (1828), both poems in blank verse, and remarkable for splendour of diction and copiousness of description. The first is founded on the well-known destruction of the city of Herculaneum by an eruption of Mount Vesuvius in the first year of the Emperor Titus, or the 79th of the Christian era. Mr Atherstone has followed the account of this awful occurrence given by the younger Pliny in his letters to Tacitus, and has drawn some powerful pictures of the desolating fire and its attendant circumstances.

* A very few of Mr Landor's aphorisms and remarks may be added: He says of fame- Fame, they tell you, is air; but without air there is no life for any; without fame there who distinguishes the boundary between desire and delight, is none for the best.' The happy man,' he says, is he and stands firmly on the higher ground; he who knows that

pleasure is not only not possession, but is often to be lost, he observes-Quickness is amongst the least of the mind's and always to be endangered by it.' Of light wit or sarcasm, properties. I would persuade you that banter, pun, and quibble are the properties of light men and shallow capacities; that genuine humour and true wit require a sound and capacious mind, which is always a grave one.'

There is perhaps too much of terrible and gloomy painting, yet it enchains the attention of the reader, and impresses the imagination with something like dramatic force. Mr Atherstone's second subject is of the same elevated cast: the downfall of an Asiatic empire afforded ample room for his love of strong and magnificent description, and he has availed himself of this license so fully, as to border in many passages on extravagance and bombast. His battle scenes, his banquets, flowering groves, and other descriptions of art and nature, are all executed with oriental splendour and voluptuousness-often with dazzling vividness and beauty and true poetical feeling. The failure of the author to sustain the interest of the reader is owing, as a contemporary critic pointed out, to the very palpable excess in which he employs all those elements of pleasing, and to the disproportion which those ornaments of the scene bear to its actual business-to the slowness with which the story moves forward, and the difficulty we have in catching a distinct view of the characters that are presented to us, through the glare of imagery and eloquence with which they are surrounded.' This is the fault of genius-especially young genius and if Mr Atherstone could subdue his oriental imagination and gorgeousness of style, and undertake a theme of more ordinary life, and of simple natural passion and description, he might give himself a name of some importance in the literature of his age.

The following passages, descriptive of the splendour of Sardanapalus's state, have been cited as happy specimens of Mr Atherstone's style :

The moon is clear-the stars are coming forth-
The evening breeze fans pleasantly. Retired
Within his gorgeous hall, Assyria's king
Sits at the banquet, and in love and wine
Revels delighted. On the gilded roof
A thousand golden lamps their lustre fling,
And on the marble walls, and on the throne
Gem-bossed, that high on jasper-steps upraised,
Like to one solid diamond quivering stands,
Sun-splendours flashing round. In woman's garb
The sensual king is clad, and with him sit
A crowd of beauteous concubines. They sing,
And roll the wanton eye, and laugh, and sigh,
And feed his ear with honeyed flatteries,
And laud him as a god.

*

Like a mountain stream,
Amid the silence of the dewy eve

Heard by the lonely traveller through the vale,
With dream-like murmuring melodious,
In diamond showers a crystal fountain falls.

Sylph-like girls, and blooming boys,
Flower-crowned, and in apparel bright as spring,
Attend upon their bidding. At the sign,
From bands unseen, voluptuous music breathes,
Harp, dulcimer, and, sweetest far of all,
Woman's mellifluous voice.

Through all the city sounds the voice of joy And tipsy merriment. On the spacious walls, That, like huge sea-cliffs, gird the city in, Myriads of wanton feet go to and fro: Gay garments rustle in the scented breeze, Crimson, and azure, purple, green, and gold; Laugh, jest, and passing whisper are heard there; Timbrel, and lute, and dulcimer, and song; And many feet that tread the dance are seen, And arms upflung, and swaying heads plume-crowned. So is that city steeped in revelry.

*

Purple and edged with gold; and, standing then
Upon the utmost summit of the mount-
Round, and yet round-for two strong men a task
Sufficient deemed-he waved the splendid flag,
Bright as a meteor streaming.
At that sight

;

The plain was in a stir: the helms of brass
Were lifted up, and glittering spear-points waved,
And banners shaken, and wide trumpet mouths
Upturned; and myriads of bright-harnessed steeds
Were seen uprearing, shaking their proud heads
And brazen chariots in a moment sprang,
And clashed together. In a moment more
Up came the monstrous universal shout,
Like a volcano's burst. Up, up to heaven
The multitudinous tempest tore its way,
Rocking the clouds: from all the swarming plain
And from the city rose the mingled cry,
Long live Sardanapalus, king of kings!
Thrice the flag
May the king live for ever!'
The monarch waved; and thrice the shouts arose
Enormous, that the solid walls were shook,
And the firm ground made tremble.

Amid the far-off hills, With eye of fire, and shaggy mane upreared, The sleeping lion in his den sprang up; Listened awhile then laid his monstrous mouth Close to the floor, and breathed hot roarings out In fierce reply.

He comes at length-
The thickening thunder of the wheels is heard :
Upon their hinges roaring, open fly

The brazen gates: sounds then the tramp of hoofs--
And lo! the gorgeous pageant, like the sun,
Flares on their startled eyes. Four snow-white steeds,
In golden trappings, barbed all in gold,
Spring through the gate; the lofty chariot then,
Of ebony, with gold and gems thick strewn,
Even like the starry night. The spokes were gold,
With felloes of strong brass; the naves were brass,
With burnished gold o'erlaid, and diamond rimmed;
Steel were the axles, in bright silver case;
The pole was cased in silver: high aloft,
Like a rich throne the gorgeous seat was framed ;
Of ivory part, part silver, and part gold:
On either side a golden statue stood:
Upon the right-and on a throne of gold-
Great Belus, of the Assyrian empire first,
And worshipped as a god; but, on the left,
In a resplendent car by lions drawn,
A goddess.

*

*

Behind the car, Full in the centre, on the ebon ground, Flamed forth a diamond sun; on either side, A horned moon of diamond; and beyond The planets, each one blazing diamond. Such was the chariot of the king of kings.

[The Bower of Nehushta.] 'Twas a spot Herself had chosen, from the palace walls Farthest removed, and by no sound disturbed, And by no eye o'erlooked; for in the midst Of loftiest trees, umbrageous, was it hidYet to the sunshine open, and the airs That from the deep shades all around it breathed, Cool and sweet-scented. Myrtles, jessamineRoses of varied hues-all climbing shrubs, Green-leaved and fragrant, had she planted there, And trees of slender body, fruit, and flower; At early morn had watered, and at eve, From a bright fountain nigh, that ceaselessly Gushed with a gentle coil from out the earth, Its liquid diamonds flinging to the sun

65

With a soft whisper. To a graceful arch
The pliant branches, intertwined, were bent;
Flowers some, and some rich fruits of gorgeous hues,
Down hanging lavishly, the taste to please,
Or, with rich scent, the smell-or that fine sense
Of beauty that in forms and colours rare
Doth take delight. With fragrant moss the floor
Was planted, to the foot a carpet rich,
Or, for the languid limbs, a downy couch,
Inviting slumber. At the noon-tide hour,
Here, with some chosen maidens would she come,
Stories of love to listen, or the deeds

Of heroes of old days: the harp, sometimes,
Herself would touch, and with her own sweet voice
Fill all the air with loveliness. But, chief,
When to his green-wave bed the wearied sun
Had parted, and heaven's glorious arch yet shone,
A last gleam catching from his closing eye-
The palace, with her maidens, quitting then,
Through vistas dim of tall trees would she pass-
Cedar, or waving pine, or giant palm-
Through orange groves, and citron, myrtle walks,
Alleys of roses, beds of sweetest flowers,
Their richest incense to the dewy breeze
Breathing profusely all-and having reached
The spot beloved, with sport, or dance awhile
On the small lawn to sound of dulcimer,
The pleasant time would pass; or to the lute
Give ear delighted, and the plaintive voice
That sang of hapless love: or, arm in arm,
Amid the twilight saunter, listing oft
The fountain's murmur, or the evening's sigh,
Or whisperings in the leaves-or, in his pride
Of minstrelsy, the sleepless nightingale
Flooding the air with beauty of sweet sounds:
And, ever as the silence came again,
The distant and unceasing hum could hear
Of that magnificent city, on all sides
Surrounding them.

In 1833 appeared two cantos of a descriptive poem, The Heliotrope, or Pilgrim in Pursuit of Health, being the record of a poetical wanderer in Liguria, Hetruria, Campania, and Calabria. The style and versification of Byron's Childe Harold are evidently copied by the author; but he has a native taste and elegance, and a purer system of philosophy than the noble poet. Many of the stanzas are musical and picturesque, presenting Claude-like landscapes of the glorious classic scenes through which the pilgrim passed. We subjoin the description of Pompeiithat interesting city of the dead :Pompeia! disentombed Pompeia! Here Before me in her pall of ashes spreadWrenched from the gulf of ages--she whose bier Was the unbowelled mountain, lifts her head Sad but not silent! Thrilling in my ear She tells her tale of horror, till the dread And sudden drama mustering through the air, Seems to rehearse the day of her despair!

Joyful she feasted 'neath her olive tree,
Then rose to dance and play :' and if a cloud
O'ershadowed her thronged circus, who could see
The impending deluge brooding in its shroud?
On went the games! mirth and festivity
Increased-prevailed: till rendingly and loud
The earth and sky with consentaneous roar
Denounced her doom-that time should be no more.

Shook to its centre, the convulsive soil
Closed round the flying: Sarno's tortured tide
O'erleapt its channel-eager for its spoil!
Thick darkness fell, and, wasting fast and wide,
Wrath opened her dread floodgates! Brief the toil
And terror of resistance: art supplied

No subterfuge! The pillared crypt, and cave
That proffered shelter, proved a living grave!

Within the circus, tribunal, and shrine,
Shrieking they perished: there the usurer sank
Grasping his gold; the bacchant at his wine;
The gambler at his dice! age, grade, nor rank,
Nor all they loved, revered, or deemed divine,
Found help or rescue; unredeemed they drank
Their cup of horror to the dregs, and fell
With Heaven's avenging thunders for their knell.

Their city a vast sepulchre-their hearth
A charnel-house! The beautiful and brave,
Whose high achievements or whose charms gave birth
To songs and civic wreath, unheeded crave
A pause 'twixt life and death: no hand on earth,
No voice from heaven, replied to close the grave
Yawning around them. Still the burning shower
Rained down upon them with unslackening power.
"Tis an old tale! Yet gazing thus, it seems
But yesterday the circling wine-cup went
Its joyous round! Here still the pilgrim deems
New guests arrive-the reveller sits intent
At his carousal, quaffing to the themes
Of Thracian Orpheus: lo, the cups indent
The conscious marble, and the amphora still
Seem redolent of old Falerno's hill!

It seems but yesterday! Half sculptured there,
On the paved Forum wedged, the marble shaft
Waits but the workman to resume his care,
And reed it by the cunning of his craft.
The chips, struck from his chisel, fresh and fair,
Lie scattered round; the acanthus leaves ingraft
The half-wrought capital; and Isis' shrine
Retains untouched her implements divine.

The streets are hollowed by the rolling car
In sinuous furrows; there the lava stone
Retains, deep grooved, the frequent axle's scar.
Here oft the pageant passed, and triumph shone;
Here warriors bore the glittering spoils of war,
And met the full fair city, smiling on
With wreath and pæan!-gay as those who drink
The draught of pleasure on destruction's brink.
The frescoed wall, the rich mosaic floor,
Elaborate, fresh, and garlanded with flowers
Writ with the name of their last tenant-towers
Of ancient fable:-crypt, and lintelled door
That still in strength aspire, as when they bore
Their Roman standard-from the whelming showers
That formed their grave-return, like spectres risen,
To solve the mysteries of their fearful prison!

The author of the Heliotrope' is DR W. BEATTIE,
a London physician of worth, talent, and bene- |
volence, who is also author of Scotland Illustrated,
Switzerland Illustrated, Residence in the Court of Ger-
many, &c.

CHARLES LAMB.

CHARLES LAMB, a poet, and a delightful essayist, of quaint peculiar humour and fancy, was born in London on the 18th February 1775. His father was in humble circumstances, servant and friend to one of the benchers of the Inner Temple; but Charles | was presented to the school of Christ's hospital, and from his seventh to his fifteenth year he was an inmate of that ancient and munificent asylum. Lamb was a nervous, timid, and thoughtful boy: 'while others were all fire and play, he stole along with all the self-concentration of a monk.' He would have obtained an exhibition at school, admitting him

to college, but these exhibitions were given under the implied if not expressed condition of entering into the church, and Lamb had an impediment in his speech, which in this case proved an insuperable obstacle. In 1792 he obtained an appointment in the accountant's office of the East India Company, residing with his parents; and on their death,' says Sergeant Talfourd, he felt himself called upon by duty to repay to his sister the solicitude with which she had watched over his infancy, and well, indeed, he performed it. To her, from the age of twenty-one, he devoted his existence, seeking thenceforth no connexion which could interfere with her supremacy in his affections, or impair his ability to sustain and to comfort her.' The first compositions of Lamb were in verse, prompted, probably, by the poetry of his friend Coleridge. A warm admiration of the Elizabethan dramatists led him to imitate their style and manner in a tragedy named John Woodvil, which was published in 1801, and mercilessly ridiculed in the Edinburgh Review as a specimen of the rudest state of the drama. There is much that is exquisite both in sentiment and expression in Lamb's play, but the plot is certainly meagre, and the style had then an appearance of affectation. The following description of the sports in the forest has a truly antique air, like a passage in Heywood or Shirley :

To see the sun to bed, and to arise,
Like some hot amourist with glowing eyes,
Bursting the lazy bonds of sleep that bound him,
With all his fires and travelling glories round him.
Sometimes the moon on soft night-clouds to rest,
Like beauty nestling in a young man's breast,
And all the winking stars, her handmaids, keep
Admiring silence while these lovers sleep.
Sometimes outstretched, in very idleness,
Nought doing, saying little, thinking less,
To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air,

Go eddying round; and small birds how they fare,
When mother Autumn fills their beaks with corn,
Filched from the careless Amalthea's horn;
And how the woods berries and worms provide,
Without their pains, when earth has nought beside
To answer their small wants.

To view the graceful deer come tripping by,
Then stop and gaze, then turn, they know not why,
Like bashful younkers in society.

To mark the structure of a plant or tree,
And all fair things of earth, how fair they be.

In 1802 Lamb paid a visit to Coleridge at Keswick, and clambered up to the top of Skiddaw. Notwithstanding his partiality for a London life, he was deeply struck with the solitary grandeur and beauty of the lakes. Fleet Street and the Strand,' he says, are better places to live in for good and all than amidst Skiddaw. Still, I turn back to those great places where I wandered about participating in their greatness. I could spend a year, two, three years among them, but I must have a prospect of seeing Fleet Street at the end of that time, or I should mope and pine away.' A second dramatic attempt was made by Lamb in 1804. This was a farce entitled Mr H., which was accepted by the proprietors of Drury Lane theatre, and acted for one night; but so indifferently received, that it was never brought forward afterwards. 'Lamb saw that the case was hopeless, and consoled his friends with a century of puns for the wreck of his dramatic hopes.' In 1807 he published a series of tales founded on the plays of Shakspeare, which he had written in conjunction with his sister, and in the following year appeared his Specimens of English Dramatic Poets who lived about the time of Shakspeare, a work evincing a

thorough appreciation of the spirit of the old dramatists, and a fine critical taste in analysing their genius. Some of his poetical pieces were also composed about this time; but in these efforts Lamb barely indicated his powers, which were not fully displayed till the publication of his essays signed Elia, originally printed in the London Magazine. In these his curious reading, nice observation, and poetical conceptions, found a genial and befitting field. They are all,' says his biographer, Sergeant Talfourd, carefully elaborated; yet never were works written in a higher defiance to the conventional pomp of style. A sly hit, a happy pun, a humorous combination, lets the light into the intricacies of the subject, and supplies the place of ponderous sentences. Seeking his materials for the most part in the common paths of life—often in the humblest-he gives an importance to everything, and sheds a grace over all.' In 1825 Lamb was emancipated from the drudgery of his situation as clerk in the India House, retiring with a handsome pension, which enabled him to enjoy the comforts, and many of the luxuries of life. In a letter to Wordsworth, he thus describes his sensations after his release :-'I came home FOR EVER on Tuesday week. The incomprehensibleness of my condition overwhelmed me. It was like passing from life into eternity. Every year to be as long as three; that is, to have three times as much real timetime that is my own-in it! I wandered about thinking I was happy, but feeling was not. But that tumultuousness is passing off, and I begin to understand the nature of the gift. Holidays, even the annual month, were always uneasy joys, with their conscious fugitiveness, the craving after making the most of them. Now, when all is holiday, there are no holidays. I can sit at home, in rain or shine, without a restless impulse for walkings. I am daily steadying, and shall soon find it as natural to me to be my own master, as it has been irksome to have had a master.' He removed to a cottage near Islington, and in the following summer, went with his faithful sister and companion on a long visit to Enfield, which ultimately led to his giving up his cottage, and becoming a constant resident at that place. There he lived for about five years, delighting his friends with his correspondence and occasional visits to London, displaying his social racy humour and active benevolence. In 1830 he committed to the press a small volume of poems, entitled Album Verses, the gleanings of several years, and he occasionally sent a contribution to some literary periodical. In September 1835, whilst taking his daily walk on the London road, he stumbled against a stone, fell, and slightly injured his face. The accident appeared trifling, but erysipelas in the face came on, and in a few days proved fatal. He was buried in the churchyard at Edmonton, amidst the tears and regrets of a circle of warmly attached friends, and his memory was consecrated by a tribute from the muse of Wordsworth. complete edition of Lamb's works has been published by his friend Mr Moxon, and his reputation is still on the increase. For this he is mainly indebted to his essays. We cannot class him among the favoured sons of Apollo, though in heart and feeling he might sit with the proudest. The peculiarities of his style were doubtless grafted upon him by his constant study and life-long admiration of the old English writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger, Jeremy Taylor, Browne, Fuller, and others of the elder worthies (down to Margaret, Duchess of Newcastle), were his chosen companions. He knew all their fine sayings and noble thoughts; and, consulting his own heart after his hard day's plodding at the

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