lude to a little avalanche, a thing which we had at that time no reason to desire, standing, as we did, upon an exposed and precipitous slope. -Happily, after half an hour's scrambling, we regained the path without any accident, and then sat down to regale ourselves with some coarse bread and cheese. We could have drunk a glass of aqua vitæ at that moment, much as we usually dislike it; it could not be obtained; but we were consoled for our involuntary temperance, by the Pittore's assurance, that spirits of all kinds made the legs and hams weak, and that for that reason the mountaineers always refrained from them, when they had to walk far. We looked round for a moment; a few cottages lay near, at that time deserted, and when or why inhabited I know not: far, far below us were the outposts of a troop of scattered and dwarfish firs, the last impotent effort of vegetation; the stream which lower down had poured its tides in mimic thunder, now shrunk to a brawling brook, flowed in a slender and arrowy current, its waters clear as the air of the hills, and cold as their icy channel. We drank of this stream, to which we now bade farewell; and after this refreshment resumed our walk. The same wild and barren waste held us for some. time, but at length we reached the new road, and soon after the second Hospice. Our fellow travellers refreshed themselves with whatever the house afforded, gratis, and our host would willingly have refused our money also. On hearing that we were Englishmen, his surprise exceeded description; he invited us to stop with many pressing instances, offering to make up a bed for us, and assuring us of its excellence. He was no doubt extremely surprised at the phenomenon of two Englishmen travelling on foot, and in such humble guise. We remarked the fine breed of dogs which is derived from that at St. Bernard's, and possesses the same virtues; we saw several of them marching about among the snows with a most indiscribably grave and business-like air. On leaving the Hospice we proceeded by that fine work of art the Strada Nova: I have no wish to fill up my letter with what you may find in books, and shall, therefore, not attempt to give any description of this road; I shall content myself with saying we trudged on through the deep snow, comforted by finding ourselves at length on the descent: height after height shot up behind us, the snow grew thin, and we reached the Simplon. A sort of general council was called, in which it was resolved, that we should proceed six miles farther, in order to be enabled to pass the barrier early in the morning: we saw no particular advantage in the arrangement, at that time; but the next morning we were convinced that the measure was especially judicious. In consequence of the resolution which had been taken, we advanced on our way, and entered that awful gorge, by which this road is discharged into Italy. This tremendous defile was wrapped in the shadows of evening or of morning when we passed, and consequently we could not estimate it very accurately; but the exaggera tion of darkness gave a poetical character to its horrors, its midnight caverns, its impending rocks, its galleries, its precipices; and never may we forget the hoarse voice of that rushing stream that rolled darkly and turbulently below. We stopped at a mean and solitary Auberge; a coarse but plentiful supper was spread before us, and here we had for the first time those delightful loaves which are made of wheat and chesnut flour. One of the poor boys who had come with us, was utterly spent with fatigue; he refused his meal and sat down by the fire sad and silent; there was a burning blush upon his cheek, and tears rolled from his half-shut eyes. We persuaded him to take some warm wine and go to bed; in the morning the poor lad was better. Before it was light the next day, we were awaked by the Pittore, and we left our warm beds to gape and shiver in the mountain mist: we had not been long on the road before the Pittore entered very closely into conversation with us, expatiating at some length on the disagreeableness of having to pass a frontier town, "where one is detained sometimes for hours, if any little foolish thing has by chance got into one's knapsack; it is very disagreeable, it is really a very disagreeable thing indeed," said he now our friend had a knapsack at his back which reached from the nape of his neck down to his haunches; we thought it was extremely probable that some little foolish thing had by chance insinuated itself into that, and being therefore convinced that his uneasiness was not groundless and unreasonable, we lent a willing ear and he proceeded. "To be sure 'tis very dark, and we might pass, if we liked, without disturbing any body; not that I have got any thing to be affraid of; but tis so disagreeable, so, so- -hush! stop! tie up the dog's bell, for God's sake! softly, softly, there's the gate." We passed on tiptoe: I saw a man conceal himself behind some pillars, which could be dimly descried through the darkness: he was, as I understood afterwards, a traveller, who, like our friend, had reasons for wishing to avoid particular publicity. In ten minutes we were out of danger; the Pittore began to dance and sing, and proposed of his own free motion a bottle of wine and something to eat at the first house which we found open. In another hour we reached the base of this enormous mass; we were in Italy, we saw the vines hanging in festoons, the villages thicker in the mountains, black eyes, swarthy skins, and gaudy attire; but we also saw those rude crosses, stuck in the ground, which tell of guilt, and injury, and vengeance. I perceive I am drawing my letter out to an immoderate length, and I shall, therefore, hasten as fast as possible to a close. We met with a very agreeable companion at Domodessola; who accompanied us the whole day, and helped us to spend it pleasantly.-At night we had a plentiful supper, and some six or seven pitchers of excellent wine, and we retired to bed—at least, I believe so, in high good humour with all the world. The next morning proved rainy; our new friend wrapped himself up in his cloak, and the Pittore unfurled and hoisted an immense oil-skin umbrella, making many sagacious remarks upon the advantages of that instrument, and the folly of travelling without it; he observed also, that as he had almost 5 reached his home he should need his no longer, and should have no objection to sell it for a moderate price. We listened in inflexible silence until he began to make a particular application of the foregoing reflections, and even quoted us as obnoxious to censure, on account of not being provided in the way which he chose to think necessary. We then interrupted the course of his remarks, and soon convinced him he had little chance of taxing us for the reversion of his worn out trumpery. We took leave of our other companion, who left us to pursue his way to Genoa alone, and in about an hour more reached Fariola, on the shore of the Lago Maggiore; and stopped to dry our clothes, and to procure some breakfast. In this instance we acted contrary to the wishes of the Pittore; who advised us to take a boat immediately and go to Intra, from which place we might proceed by the common ferry to Lucarno. We, however, wished to see the Isole Belle, although he assured us they were not at all worth seeing; and on finding we could take a boat for the day, visit the islands and cross to Lavano, for about the same money that it would have cost us to accompany our companion to Lucarno, we determined upon that plan, to his great discontent, as he had hoped to accompany us to his own door at our expence. He had tried several ways to turn our company to some account, and was much mortified at his repeated failures: when he found we had paid for his breakfast, his discontent was somewhat appeased, and he took his leave of us with tolerable propriety. We then engaged a boat and prepared to examine this scene of mingled beauty and magnificence. At present I stop: in my next letter you may expect some account of our further progress. I hope I have amused you for half an hour, in which case my trouble will not have been bestowed in vain. Do not let slip any opportunity of giving me an account of any peregrination that you may undertake, and excuse me for assuring you of the lively interest which I take in your welfare, and the constant sincerity with which I am, &c. THE COLLECTOR. I will make a prief of it in my note-book. No. IX. THE LATE MR. WEST AND NAPOLEON. Merry Wives of Windsor. rectors with his judgment as to their DURING the short peace of 1802, when Buonaparte was first Consul of the French Republic, the late President of the Royal Academy of England was amongst the crowd whom curiosity prompted to visit the gay metropolis of France. His eminent talents, however, and the distinguished character which they had so deservedly acquired, did not suffer him to remain long amid that crowd unnoticed. He was visited by every man of rank, or literature; and, amongst the rest, by those ministers who were most in the confidence of the first Consul. Mr. West had determined before his departure from England, for some private reasons of his own, to decline any presentation at the Court of St. Cloud, to which he was given to understand he would have been a very welcome visitor. Before he was long in Paris, this determination was assailed by an host of polished and flattering remonstrances. The ministers were "sure that such a man as the English artist could not fail to meet from such a patron of the arts as Napoleon, a distinguished reception," and obscure hints, and complimentary insinuations, equally unavailing, were followed by a declaration, that the great Napoleon had condescended to express a wish upon the subject. Mr. West, however, re-produced to its astonished author. mained inflexible, alleging some polite excuse for his non-compliance, and evading the request as dexterously as possible. Solicitation at length became weary, and Mr. West appeared relieved from an embarrassment which some personal and prudential considerations had rendered sufficiently perplexing. The affair died away, and in about a week afterwards, he was surprised, while at breakfast, by a visit from one of the directors of the Louvre. After some desultory conversation, he was invited to be present at the gallery of the institution upon that day, to inspect some busts, which were about to be erected, and to favour the di Buonaparte enquired whether that sketch was ever to be completed on the scale it deserved, and for whom it was intended-on being informed it was for the late King," Ah, said he, the King of England is a good man-a very religious man." They then proceeded through the Louvre, and when they arrived at the busts intended to be erected on that day, Buonaparte paused, folded his arms as he is represented in his statues, and after appearing to contemplate one of them with peculiar thoughtfulness, he turned to the English visitor-" Mr. West, if I had my choice, I would sooner be the original of that bust, than any man I ever heard or read of."-"I was burning (said Mr. West, relating the anecdote to the writer,) to tell him that he had it at that moment in his power by sacrificing his ambition, and establishing the liberties of his country to be the very man,"-it was the bust of Washington. Napoleon no doubt did not forget that the English artist was himself an American. Such were the arts by which this extraordinary individual drew a circle round him wherever he moved, which none ever entered without being fixed as by fascination. WILLIAM PENN'S DEED FROM THE INDIANS, IN 1685. This indenture witnesseth, thatwe Packenah, Jarekhan Jikals, Partquesott, Jervis Essepenauk, Felktroy, Hekellappau, Econus, Machloha Metheonga, Wissa Powey, Indian kings, sachemakers, right owners of all lands from Quing Quingus, called Duck Creek, unto upland, called Chester Creek, all along by the west side of Delaware river, and so between the said Creeks, backwards, as far as a man can ride in two days, with an horse, for and in consideration of these following goods to us paid in hand, and secured by William Penn, proprietary and governor of the province of Pensylvania, and territories thereof: viz. 20 guns, 20 fathoms matchcoat, 20 fathoms Stroud-water, 20 blankets, 20 kettles, 20 lbs. of powder, 100 bars of lead, 40 tomahawks, 100 knives, 40 pair of stockings, 1 barrel of beer, 20 lbs. of red lead, 100 fathoms of wampum, 30 glass bottles, 30 pewter spoons, 100 awl blades, 300 tobacco pipes, 100 hands of tobacco, 20 tobacco tongs, 20 steels, 300 flints, 30 pair of scissars, 30 combs, 60 looking glasses, 200 needles, 1 skipple of salt, 30 lbs. of sugar, 5 gallons of molasses, 20 tobacco boxes, 100 Jews harps, 20 hoes, 30 gimblets, 30 wooden screw boxes, 100 strings of beads, do hereby acknowledge, &c. &c. Given under our hand, at New Castle, 2d day of the 8th month, 1685. (A true copy taken from the original, in December, 1813, by Ephraim Morton, of Washington, Pensylvania, formerly a clerk in the land of fice.) MR. CHARLES LLOYD'S POEMS.* THERE is no more remarkable instance of the "cant of criticism,' than the representation currently received as distinctive, whereby several authors, chiefly residing in the neighbourhood of the lakes, were characterised as belonging to one school of poetry. In truth, propinquity of residence, and the bonds of private friendship, are the only circumstances which have ever given the slightest colour to the hypothesis which marked them out as disciples of the same creed. It is scarcely possible to conceive individuals more dissimilar in the objects of their choice, or in the essential properties of their genius. Who, for example, can have less in common than Wordsworth and Coleridge, if we except those faculties which are necessarily the portion of the highest order of imaginative minds? The former of these has sought for his subjects among the most ordinary occurrences of life, which he has dignified and exalted, from which he has extracted the holiest essences of good, or over which he has cast a consecrating and harmonizing light "which never was by sea or land." The latter, on the other hand, has spread abroad his mighty mind, searching for his materials through all history and all science, penetrating into the hidden soul of the wildest superstitions, and selecting the richest spoils of time from the remotest ages. Wordsworth is all intensity--he sees no thing, but through the hallowing medium of his own soul, and represents all things calm, silent, and harmonious as his own perceptions. Coleridge throws himself into all the various objects which he contemplates, and attracts to his own imagery their colours and forms. The first seizes only the mighty Desultory Thoughts in London, Titus and Gisippus, with other Poems. By Charles Lloyd, author of Nuga Canoræ, and translator of Alfieri's Tragedies, 12mo. 1821. and the true, with a giant grasp; -the last has a passionate and almost effeminate love of beauty and tenderness which he never loses. One looks only on the affections in their most home, while the other perceives them in the lightest and remotest tints, which they cast on objects the strangest and most bar barous. All the distinction, in short, between the intense and the expansive-the severe and the lovely the philosophic and the magicalreally separates these great poets, whom it has been the fashion to censure as united in one heresy. If we cast the slightest glance at Southey's productions, we shall find him unlike either of these, his associates-offering a child-like feebleness in contrast to Wordsworth's nerve-and ranging through mythologies and strange fantasies, not only with less dominion than Coleridge, but merely portraying the shapes to which they gave existence, instead of discovering the spirit of truth and beauty within them. Nor does the author before us, often combined with these by the ignorance or the artifice of criticism, differ less widely from them. Without Wordsworth's intuitive perception of the profoundest truths, or Coleridge's feeling of deep beauty, he has a subtle activity of mind which supplies the place of the first, and a wonderful power of minute observation, which, when directed to lovely objects, in a great degree produces the effect of the latter. All these three rise on some occasions to the highest heaven of thought and feeling, though by various processes-Wordworth reaching it at once by the divine wingedness of his genius-Coleridge ascending to it by a spiral tract of glory winding on through many a circuit of celestial light-and Lloyd stepping thither by a firm ladder, like that of Jacob, by even steps, which the feet of angels have trodden! The peculiar qualities of Mr. Lloyd's genius have never been so clearly developed as in the chief poem of the work before us. In his "Nuga Canore," all his thoughts and feelings were overcast by a gentle melancholy, which rendered their prominences less distinct, as it shed over them one sad and sober hue. Even, however, in his most pensive moods, the vigorous and restless activity of his intellect might be discerned, curiously enquiring for the secret springs of its own distress, and regarding its sorrows as high problems worthy of the most painful scrutiny. While he exhibited to us the full and pensive stream of emotion, with all the images of soft clouds and delicate foliage reflected on its bosom, he failed not to conduct us to its deep-seated fountains, or to lay open to our view the jagged caverns within its banks. Yet here the vast intellectual power was less conspicuous than in his last poems, because the personal emotion was more intense, single, and pervading. He is now, we rejoice to observe, more "i' the sun," and consequently, the nice workings of his reason are set more distinctly before us. The "Desultory Thoughts in London" embrace a great variety of topics, associated in the mind of the author with the metropolis, but many of them belonging to those classes of abstraction which might as fitly be contemplated in a desart. Among these are " Fate, free will, foreknowledge absolute," -the theories of manners and morals the doctrines of expediency and self-interest-with many speculations relating to the imaginative parts of literature, and the influences of religion upon them--all of which are grasped by the hand of a master. The whole range of controversial writing scarcely affords an example of propositions stated so lucidly, qualified so craftily, and urged with such exemplary fairness and candour, as in this work. It must, indeed, be admitted, that the admirable qualities of the argument render it somewhat unfit for marriage "with immortal verse." Philosophical poetry, when most attractive, seizes on some grand elemental truths, which it links to the noblest material images, and seeks rather to send one vast sentiment to the heart through the medium of the imagination, than to lead the mind by a regular process of logic, to the result which it contemplates. Mere didactic poetry, as Pope's Essay on Man, succeeds not by the nice balance of reasons, but by decking out some obvious common place in a gorgeous rhetoric, or by expressing a familiar sentiment |