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loose or severe, are the privileges of this stanza, on which Spenser has impressed the seal of his genius, and fixed our prejudices for ever. There is, besides, in its structure, a sort of quaint simplicity which humours the mock seriousness of the burlesque. Even the imperfections of this verse were favourable to the objects which this writer had in view. The prolixity of this stanza has a tendency to dilute its strength, and sometimes to produce a nerveless expletory line to make up the complement of the verse, which must, for the most part, sustain the thought unbroken to the end; and this is perfectly in harmony with that colloquial humour and familiar cast of expression which is so playful and pleasing throughout this little poem. Put feeling, and virtue, and the interests of human happiness, out of the question; assume the hypothesis of a world without souls; level man to the consideration of brutes; take him out of his moral state; set him at large the vagrant son of nature in full physical freedom to indulge his temperament; suppose all the enclosures of civilized life laid open, and family ties, and "relations dear,' and 'all the charities of father, son, and brother,' fairly out of the way, and then this little poem of Beppo, which it is said, but which we are slow to believe, lord Byron, an English nobleman, an English husband, and an English father, hath sent reeking from the stews of Venice, is a production of great humour and unquestionable excellence.

There is throughout the performance an evident care taken to make the ridicule fall not on the manner, or the sentiment, or the principles of lord Byron's poems, but upon poor unrespected virtuous love, and woman's honour, and rustic shame, and household joys, and hum-drum human happiness. We are quite sure that many a maiden and many a mother, British-born and Britishbred, will rise from the perusal of this little delightful display of Italian manners, this light and sportive raillery on the marriage vow, with many troublesome prejudices removed, an increased dread of being righteous overmuch, and a resolution, in spite of a prying and censorious world, to live in charity with her neighbours of the other sex, though it should be called facility or levity.

In all seriousness, then, we mean to say, that the way in which the writer of this bantering poem has treated the sin of adultery, and all the sanctions by which marriage is made holy and happy, designates it as the product of a mind careless, cold, and callous: for who but a man of such a mind, could, at a distance from his country and home, with a full knowledge of what makes that country great and prosperous, her families honourable, her sons manly and true, and her daughters the objects of delicate and respectful love, send among us a tale of pollution, dipped in the deepest die of Italian debauchery, relieved and recommended by a vivacity and grace of colouring that takes from the mischief its apparent turpitude, and disarms the vigilance of virtue.

Madame de Stael, who, amidst her eccentricities and varieties, seems to have possessed a good heart, and had certainly a perspicacious mind, has felt and described with great truth, in many places of her work on Germany, the dreadful force of ridicule as the aux

iliary of vice. In the language of that distinguished lady, this mischievous power has erected for itself a sort of republican government, which pronounces a sentence of ostracism on all that is strong and distinguished in human nature. It undermines love, religion, all things, except that selfishness which cannot be reached by irony, because it exposes itself to censure, not to ridicule. It was in this spirit that Voltaire composed his Candide, that effort of diabolical gayety, which appears to have been written by a being of a different nature from ourselves, insensible to our condition, well-pleased with our sufferings, and laughing, like a demon or an ape, at the miseries of that human species with which he has nothing in common. Candide brings into action that scoffing philosophy, so indulgent in appearance, in reality so ferocious.'

Such is the real character, and such the success of all these little facetious, frolicsome attacks upon the great pillars of human repose. These supports resist the storm and the tempest, the loud and boisterous agitation of those angry elements that vex the moral world; God's threatenings pass by and spare; but when a few human hands begin the work of undermining, with their little implements of mattock and spade, digging away the earth, until the foundation is laid bare, then the slightest impulse suffices to bring to the dust the fairest fabric of man's labour, and the monument of ages. Society reels and totters when its fastenings and stays are loosened, and the solid ground loses its tenacity, and forsakes the base; while civil commotions, and even revolutions, with all their dire concomitants, will often leave the moral structure fundamentally and vitally whole. There is but one way, says the ingenious lady from whom we have already quoted, of resisting this influence (speaking of the influence of French ridicule) and that consists in very decided national habits and character. And we are quite of the same opinion, only perhaps a little differing from her as to the extent and comparative dignity of the great formative principles of national character. We are not among those who rejoice in the cosmopolitan liberality, which has of late years become a marked feature in the system of British philosophy. If it arose from a Christian enlargement of sentiment, like that which animates our societies for carrying to foreign parts the blessings of God's Holy Word, it would at least have commanded our respect; but as, to speak the truth, we impute it rather to a growing indifference to the distinction of moral worth, than to any Christian expansion of benevolence, we cannot hold it in any high estimation. We dread an amalgamation with the continent: we feel quite persuaded that our nationality and our morality have so long mutually upheld each other that they cannot be separated without mutual injury. No one can have paid any attention to the aspect of society in this country, since the late revolution in France, and the gradual change in the colours of its fashions and habits, without marking the growing indications of denationalizing spirit, an unconcernedness about our honour, or exploits, our prosperity; and, worst of all, a decay of that masculine decency, and sobriety and soundness

of sentiment, which, about half a century ago, made us dread the contagion of French or Italian manners, and placed us in a proud security above the reach of their pollutions.

It is impossible not to see all this with hearts too serious to suffer us to read much of the best poetry of the present day, with pleasure or pride, the great aim of which is to shake the basis of that felicity, which is laid in female honour, and virtuous love. On various other occasions, and particularly in our remarks upon the poems of Mr. Moore, and the former productions of lord Byron, we have spoken out very decidedly on the scandalous objects to which some of the best efforts of the British Muse have been devoted; we shall, therefore, conclude our observations on this little piece of rhyming mischief, with an extract or two, in which such of our readers as have not had the work in their hands, may have a specimen of the spirit and tone in which it is written, without any sacrifice on our parts of the dignity and decency of our pages. The parts we shall select, to become intelligible, will not require the story to be told, which is, in truth, nothing but a trumpery narrative of a lady and her gallant, and a base acquiescing husband, who, nevertheless, is presented to us as a person of sense and worth. "England! with all thy faults I love thee still,"

I said at Calais, and have not forgot it;

I like to speak and lucubrate my fill;

I like the government (but that is not it):

I like the freedom of the press and quill;

I like the Habeas Corpus (when we have got it);
I like a parliamentary debate,

Particularly when 'tis not too late.

'I like the taxes, when they're not too many;
I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear;

I like a beefsteak, too, as well as any;

Have no objection to a pot of beer;

I like the weather, when it is not rainy,

That is, I like two months of every year.
And so God save the regent, church, and king!
Which means that I like all and every thing.

'Our standing army, and disbanded seamen,
Poor's rate, reform, my own, the nation's debt,
Our little riots just to show we are free men,
Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette,
All these I can forgive, and those forget,
Our cloudy climate and our chilly women,
And greatly venerate our recent glories,
And wish they were not owing to the tories.

'But to my tale of Laura-for I find
Digression is a sin, that by degrees

Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind,

And, therefore, may the reader too displease

The gentle reader, who may wax unkind,

And caring little for the author's ease,

Again,

Insist on knowing what he means, a hard
And hapless situation for a bard.

'Oh that I had the art of easy writing

What should be easy reading! could I scale
Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing
Those pretty poems never known to fail,
How quicky would I print (the world delighting)
A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale;

And sell you, mixed with western sentimentalism,
Some samples of the finest orientalism.

'But I am but a nameless sort of person,

(A broken Dandy lately on my travels)

And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on,
The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels,
And when I can't find that, I put a worse on,
Not caring as I ought for critic's cavils;
I've half a mind to tumble down to prose,
But verse is more in fashion-so here goes!'

(P. 23-26.)

The morning now was on the point of breaking,
A turn of time at which I would advise
Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking
In any other kind of exercise,

To make their preparations for forsaking

The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise;
Because when once the lamps and candles fail,
His blushes make them look a little pale.

'I've seen some balls and revels in my time,
And staid them over for some silly reason,
And then I looked, (I hope it was no crime),
To see what lady best stood out the season;
And though I've seen some thousands in their prime,
Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on,

I never saw but one, (the stars withdrawn),
Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn.
'The name of this Aurora I'll not mention,

Although I might, for she was nought to me
More than that patent work of God's invention,
A charming woman, whom we like to see;
But writing names would merit reprehension,
Yet if you like to find out this fair she,

At the next London or Parisian ball

You still may mark her cheek, out-blooming all.'
(P. 40-41.)

We wish we could have parted better friends with the author of Beppo, whoever he may be, for we cannot help respecting his genius. We rather hope that those will be found right in their conjecture who have ascribed it to lord Byron himself; for, under all circumstances, we do not wish for a duplicate of that eccentric nobleman.

ART. VIII.-Notoria; or Miscellaneous Articles of Philosophy, Literature and Politics.

On extinguishing Fires in Buildings.

By Mr. JOHN MOORE. SIR-Observing the destruction of property by fire, and the fright and inconvenience to families when it occurs in dwelling-houses, with sometimes loss of lives;-and after taking a survey of the progress of the arts, I am surprised, that recourse is not commonly had to the mixing of some ingredient with the water employed, (as there are many known,) for the more immediate extinguishing of that destructive element. The importance of the subject is so considerable, that I think it ought to have the most serious attention.

To the uninsured, a means of speedy extinction would be a happy resource, and to the public a great acquisition, provided the expense be but trifling. Now in order to stimulate others towards the obtaining so decisive an object, I take the liberty to state to you the ideas that have occurred to me, hoping that improvements on them, or the selection of some more effectual means, will be the result;-therefore, without further introduction, I beg to submit to your consideration what I conceive would be serviceable.

I would have every fire-engine provided with a few sacks of ground clay in powder; the clay to be ground after it is dry and then sifted, in order that no large fragments of it may lodge between the valves, so as to prevent the working of the engine. I doubt not but you will observe, that the greater the quantity of clay and water which passes through the pipes to the fire, so much the sooner the fire must be extinguished; because the clay contained by the water will form a crust, and act like an extinguisher; by which means the flames will not only be prevented from extending their destructive progress, but may, by a judicious application of this clay water, be easily brought under. For clay being uninflammable, wherever it falls in sufficient quantity, it will cut off the communication between the fire and air, and thereby exclude the accession of oxygen to support the flame, which will consequently go out.

Aluin is also an excellent ingredient to mix with water; because it has no

VOL. XII.

21

tendency to inflame, and will also form an extinguishing cap or crust like clay, with which I have no doubt most of your readers are well acquainted: but if any of them should not, let them throw a piece of alum on any common fire, and they will be convinced of the truth of the observation. There is, however, one objection to the employment of alum, namely, the expense; and this is likely to keep it out of use, though its efficacy were much greater.

But the best substance of any for this purpose, is, in my opinion, burnt lime, exposed to the atmosphere that it may absorb moisture, and thereby fall to powder. This, after sifting and be ing mixed with water, when thrown on fire will be found almost instantly to extinguish the flame. Indeed it has come under my notice more than once, that water impregnated with only the quantity of lime that it is capable of holding in solution, always had a very increased effect in extinguishing fire; for, at a fire that recently occurred, it was observed, that if any burning piece of wood was extinguished thereby, it would not rekindle. Since such was the effect of lime-water, which con. tains so small a quantity of lime, will it not immediately put out flame, when the lime is thrown in a larger body with the water? and will not each engine be enabled to throw its water a much greater distance, as its density will be much increased by the mixture of either of the foregoing substances?

If the dust of the turnpike roads was collected, and sifted from its grosser particles and kept for use, it would be found of great benefit; because, most stones that are used on the roads being of a limestone nature, the dust of them when thrown on the fire will become lime, and consequently have much the same effect. There is moreover a considerable advantage in the ease with which it may be procured*.

To show the utility of mixing some

*Where lime forms the principal ingredient in the materials employed for making and repairing the highways; the road-dust, as suggested by the author, might answer very well; but where siliceous ingredients form a portion of the materials, such dust would grind the pump-work of the engines to pieces in a very short time.-Edit.

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