The usual lot of buffoons was, at length, that of poor Querno. The applause of one moment was often effaced by the insults of the next; and we are told that some pointed witticisms did, on one occasion, so irritate the feelings of his patron, as to earn for the protégé very violent marks of his displeasure. An additional mortification was provided for him in the great superiority of Marone, who was universally acknowledged to be the first Improvisatore of his time; and between the caprice of the Pontiff and the occasional outrages of his company, he retired from Court in disgust.

BAGDANOVICH.

HIPPOLITUS BAGDANOVICH has obtained the title of the Russian Anacreon, and his productions appear fairly to have merited this honourable distinction. His most celebrated performance is the "Dushenka," a lovely and graceful Poem, formed on the model of La Fontaine's "Psyche," and so popular among his countrymen, that Karamsin enthusiastically exclaims, "Where exists the Russian who has not read Dushenka?" In selecting from the Russian Anthology the following simple and beautiful song,

we cannot refrain from expressing the pleasure which we have derived from this and other similar works of Mr. Bowring, who, to an unbounded command of the beauties of his own tongue adds the most extensive acquaintance with almost every European language, and who, in the various selections which he has given to the world, combines more than the usual fidelity of a translator, with all the graces of poetry, and with all the ease and spirit of original genius.

THE INEXPERIENCED SHEPHERDESS.

"I'M fourteen summers old, I trow,

"Tis time to look about me now :
'Twas only yesterday, they said,

I was a silly, silly maid ;

"Tis time to look about me now.

The shepherd-swains so rudely stare,
I must reprove them, I declare;
This talks of beauty-that of love—
I'm such a fool I can't reprove—
I must reprove them, I declare.

'Tis strange-but yet I hope no sin;
Something unwonted speaks within :

Love's language is a mystery,
And yet I feel, and yet I see,-

O what is this that speaks within ?

The shepherd cries, "I love thee, sweet;" "And I love thee," my lips repeat :

Kind words, they sound as sweet to me
As music's fairest melody;

"I love thee," oft my lips repeat.

His pledge he brings,—I'll not reprove;
O no! I'll take that pledge of love;
To thee my guardian dog I'd give,
Could I without that guardian live:

But still I'll take thy pledge of love.

My shepherd's crook I'll give to thee;

O no! my father gave it me

And treasures by a parent given,

From a fond child should ne'er be riven

On no! my father gave it me.

But thou shalt have yon lambkin fair—
Nay! 'tis my mother's fondest care;
For every day she joys to count
Each snowy lambkin on the mount;
I'll give thee then no lambkin fair.

But stay, my shepherd! wilt thou be
For ever faithful-fond to me?

A sweeter gift I'll then impart,

And thou shalt have-a maiden's heart,
If thou wilt give thy heart to me."

REV. R. C. MATURIN.

THIS singular individual, whose poetry and eccentricities have latterly excited so much public attention in Dublin, was undoubtedly a man of genius, though it manifested itself, even in his most successful efforts, more in the play of imagination, than in the refinements of a correct taste or the coherency of intellectual power. His conduct and deportment as a man corresponded with his character as an author. Both were strongly marked with the same mixture of folly and inspiration-or, perhaps, we ought rather to have said possession: for there was a sort of bewilderingness even in the brightest sallies, whether in his intercourse with mankind or with the Muse.

Before the tragedy of Bertram was produced at Drury-lane Theatre, and received with such distinguished approbation, Mr. Maturin was the humble, unknown, and unnoticed curate of St. Peter's, Dublin; from which he derived a stated income of £70, or at the utmost £100, per

annum. In the same unostentatious corner of the prodigal Church-Establishment of Ireland, he died. Mr. Maturin, however, was at no period entirely dependent upon the emoluments of his curacy. He had published one or two novels; and he, besides, prepared a few young gentlemen to pass the entrance examinations of Trinity College, who for that purpose resided with him in his house, York-street, Dublin. But, notwithstanding these resources, Mr. Maturin's aspirations surpassed them; and, like men of talent in general, whose purses are mostly disproportionate to their desires, he was constantly beset with difficulties.

The curate of St. Peter's was exceedingly vain both of his person and accomplishments; and as his income would not allow him to attract attention by the splendour of his dress and manners, he seldom failed to do so by their singularity. Mr. Maturin was tall, slender, but well-proportioned, and, on the whole, a good figure, which he took care to display in a wellmade black coat, tightly buttoned, and some odd light-coloured stocking-web pantaloons, surmounted, in winter, by a coat of prodigious dimensions, gracefully thrown on, so as not to