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which intense cold causes. Without belonging to the school of fashionable literature, of which Colburn is the accoucheur, and the authors of “Tremaine” and “ Almack's," and Luttrell, are representatives, he is yet the arbiter literarium of watering places, mineral-spas, and the modest retirements of such spots as “ Hadleigh in Suf

* . * * * * * Bacon, had he been alive, would have advocated phré nology. It is a science founded upon his own principles. It had its origin in experience; and, while other sciences have only called in that to aid their progress, and approve and strengthen, or condemn and overthrow pre-conceived theories, phrenology owes its birth and existence to experience and observation, forcing their results on reasoning and deduction. It is unlike metaphysics, which can have little or no relation with actual experiment, and have seldom received aid from extensive observation. By these tests must the theory of Gall and his pupils stand or fall. Reasoning upon its consequences is idle. It is our business, and that of our posterity for generations, to become, instead of cavillers on its vocabulary and minute subdivisions, patient observers of the phenomena of nature, in those parts of the human frame regarding which it is conversant.

* * * * * * There is a species of writing, which, like the address of a well-bred gentleman, has an air of fashion, without affectation about it, and breathes of the bland familiarity and easy nonchalance observable in the polished young noble, and, at the same time, no inconsiderable mixture of profound thought and learned lore. It looks like the collegeroom of a tasteful “ Bachelor.” It has a little of the dusty classicallity of a folio and seldom used Homer; and, as it were, side by side, a head of Guido's, a Venus by Bartolozzi, or Strange from Titian, and a fine cast of the Apollo. Of this nature are the volumes of “ The English in Italy," by Lord Normanby. The travelled, fashionable, and the clever writer shine out in every page. Their most agreeable aspect arises from our recollecting the elevated rank of the writer, and reflecting how very few indeed of those whom fortune so favours, are found to possess a mind at once so well stored and elegant, united with a manner so degagée and polite. He observes men and customs at the moment he is busy sipping an ice at a caffé; and a restaurateur's is not merely a tart-munching retirement with him. While he takes

his soup, or drinks his wine, he does not forget that there may be those gazing on, with a hungry earnestness, even in their eyes, and a panting desire and longing in every deep-drawn breath, by which they inhale the savoury atmosphere of the kitchen. It is this feeling of kindly humanity which delights most in the perusal. Fashion does not seem to have withered that boyish tenderness of heart, which, when an old veteran would recount his feats to the eager auditors who crowded the play-ground, without a struggle or regret dropped the sixpence that had been intended for buns, into the tattered hat of the soldier.

THE SHEREEF SELIM.
Nay, curtain not that window's gleam!
“ Not yet, not yet the taper's beam,

“To tell day's gone! I loathe the night;
“ Too soon 'twill come with gloomy scowl,
« Darkening the blackness of my soul;

" But yet it is not. Give me light!"-
Thus, to the slaves that crowd his hall,
Fiercely doth Shereef Selim call;

The trembling throng, fear-taught, obey.
The setting sun's last beams shine cold,
And clouds, with sullen frown, enfold

Proud Selim's domes. “ On, slaves,-away!”
Who, when stern Selim gave command,
Durst brave the vengeance which his hand,
Quick as his thought, (in him its speed
Made slow his fleetest Arab steed,)
Poured on the lingering, as on those
Who dared defy as open foes ?
Few were his words--but deep their tone
-The sound-the accent--all his own:
Did his slaves pause, or seem to ask
Some clearer mandate for their task,
Then flushed his cheek, though late grown wan,
Then flew in ire his Attaghan!
-Stern was his rule-he was obeyed
With lightning speed, where all, afraid,
Strove to escape his glance: the few
He did not scorn did so-but deeply hated too!
“ Allah! by my plumed turban's sheen
“ Of thine own holy sainted green;
“ By Giaour's blood, in battle strife
“ Spilt in thy name, when round me rife
“ The coward crowds of Frankstaun prest,
" And sought, through my dark emerald vest,

“ To find a passage to the heart-
“ That nerved the arm whose strength they feared;
“ That lit the eye whose proud glance seared.

" By all the wiles of subtle art
“ That for thee, Allah! I have used,
“ Let not this boon be now refused !-
“ Blot, Allah! from this moment blot
" From memory the one poisoned thought

" That withers strength-that palsies power,
“ And makes me nerveless as a child,
« Yet racked by passions dark and wild,

When comes the calm of evening hour!
“ Or give me, Allah! when yon beam,
" That throws even now its latest gleam

6 In cloudless splendour o'er the plain;
-“Shall e'er I gaze on't calm again ?- 1

Give me, when o'er Bosphorus' tide
" Its setting glories slowly glide,
“ Like it, my fevered soul to steep
" In dreamless and unhaunted sleep;
" And with it when o'er Mecca's shrine
" At morn it hovering loves to shine-
" To rise! Or if, as Giaours say,
“ 'Tis with it one unsetting day;
“ One round of toilless glory-never
“ Its proud march pausing-radiant ever:
"Give me to follow that bright track,
" Oh, Allah! never looking back

« On shuddering night that dims my soul, “ And withers, with some star-shot charm, “ The might and vigour of my arm;

" While conscience revels like the Gowl! *

Oh! for a memory that would cast “ Its look, that calls to life the past, “On what I willed; but on my sight " Its horrid phantoms seem by night “ Like blood-gouts on the Pall of death.

-- Behold, they come. Give-give me breath!” “ I see Zerada, fairer far “ Than e'er my dreams of Houris were" I see her like the bending flower, “ Bathed in the morning's dewy shower! " Oh the dark eye of eastern clime " Hath in it something more sublime " Than sparkles in the fair Giaour's; « Zerada! their calm glance was yours! " But its wild ray of liquid fire “ Lit by, and kindling fierce desire;

Wakizy “ Though more than mortal, oft its spell “ Is like the gaze of Azrael. †

« But in the blue and heavenly orbs, “ Melting in liquid lustrous dew, “ Oh! fairer than the sapphire's hue

osob “ Of western maids of colder zones, “ There is a charm, like music's tones,

“That thrills the soul, its spell absorbs. " She comes ! that pale blue eye is there, “ Not with a high or haughty glare; " It smiles forgiveness of wrong, “ Which only stamps its curse more strong" More deep-upon my soul.-I come“ You beckon-on!-Be terror dumb; " I'll follow, since I cannot flee, “ Blest in the pang that draws to thee. " My heart-strings still are round thee. No!" Drag not so quick-I will not go!"Yet on went Selim, heedless of the gloom, To where, his footprints told, he met the doomed OLED That Destiny had fixed for two, whose fate In that resembled, that 'twas-desolate; He, in its hand, the tool that wrought the one, Conscience-the instrument by which was done The other. From yon toppling cliff That frowns terrific on the timid skiff Which scuds, beneath its shadow, o'er the wave That round it sleeps calm as an infant's grave,

NOSE
One reckless stride of mingled fear and wrath
On what he deemed the onward lengthening path,

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And he has sunk-with but few struggling vells
In the same gulf, where, still tradition tells,
In hour as bright as dismal was her fate
Years long bypast- a lone and desolate
But radiant one, a woman's form who wore,
But not the costume of that eastern shore,
Whom he did madly love, yet basely wrong:
Brave in despair, and in her weakness strong
Leaped at one bound, and found, within its wave,
Death for dishonour-freedom for a slave,
The worst of slaves-the serf of Selim's will-
Man can do wrong where mercy 'twere to kill!
And left him, passion's whirlwind passed away,
Of love all boundless and remorse the prey.
Years, years crawled on, and each its torture brought,
Undying memories and unquenched thought,
Till-but 'tis told-and Selim and his doom
Live yet recorded on a turban'd tomb,
Where, 'neath the shelter of its cypress shade,
The humble Moslem reads the text he made.
His life one comment on the words that, writ
By Allah, makes his epitaph most fit :
“ Climb to the clouds or soar beyond the sky,
“ Truth still o'ertops and God is still • Most High !""

Selim and thoughe brought,

THE HERON CORRESPONDENCE. No. XI. CHARLES HERON TO HENRY WHITE.

Hope-Street, Ist May, 1827. My Dear HAL,—You are pleased to be smart upon the printed account which I sent you of the laying the foundation stone of our “ St. Enoch's Redivivus," and ask, if the Town Officers, on that august occasion, did “ carry halberts," “ What else could they carry?" But although this may be deemed a home-thrust on your part, for the life of me, I can't see the wit of it. - Have you no magniloquent narratives of mighty little events in your all-important and self-sufficient city of sages? Why, there is your lofty Master Ryder, of the Theatre called Caledonian, for the sake of grandisonance, who thus spouts it, in King Cambyses' vein, in a letter to our friend, Mr. Curll, and his Editor of " The Ant,” because, forsooth, a “ Sight See-er" of their acquaintance did not esteem him the Venetian villain he sought to appear, or con. ceived Shakspeare's language improved by his emendations :

SIR,-Your remarks (not criticisms) in “ The Ant,” on my performance of Iago being false, (he being well-dressed, and perfect in his part, &c.] vindictive, Chow? there being no previous quarrel, and insulting, I should despise myself, if I did not hurl them back into your teeth. If you have temerity enough to assume the elevated station of Dramatic Censorship, the indisputable requisites for such station amount to no less than a classical knowledge of all the Arts and Sciences, [Mathematics, &c.!) of which the Drama is evidently the focus, (concentrating the rays of Hydrostatics and Algebra!!] illumined by the refinement of an unsullied taste. [&c. &c.]

I am told this poor blusterer is, in private life, respectable, and know nothing to the contrary, but his friends ought to withhold the use of pen and ink from him. “ The Ant” is in good company though, for your “ Observer” he tries to puff his spittle at, in the same letter; but the slaver falls

only on his own chin in the effort. « Let him have a clout to wipe his beard withal.”— Talking of the Minor Theatres : you must have noticed that they make up in activity what they lack in dignity or decorum. In ten days from the abstract of Sir John Malcolm's exquisite story of Ahmed, which you sent me, appearing in “ The Ant,” Alexander (who professes never to see that work, and issued a regimental order to his troop against ever peeping into its poisonleaves) had it dramatised and performed at his Caledonian, where, by the bye, a rather clever girl's benefit, and our friend Tom's first dramatic attempt, lately drew me, in spite of my dislike to the smoke of tobacco from the mouths of sweeps, bottleblowers, and such blackguards as' grudge the expense of soap.

The town has been devilish dull since my fast. Only five-and-twenty ladies appeared at the Assembly on the King's birth-night-the fair Tories disliking any petticoat influence but their own, and preferring an u to an a in the title of a premier. The night was snowy, too-and their flannel petticoats had been made up on a preceding warm day for the Bazaar Sale that affrighted the solemn book-shelves of Stirling's Library. Mr. Campbell and his lady attended it. The Magistrates, to their honour, invited him to dine with them on that day and at the public meeting in the evening, he sat on the right hand of the Provost. This was doubtless gratifying to him, as it was honourable to his Lordship. Somehow or other, (would you believe it, Hal?) I was overlooked in the invitation - The long-talked-of public dinner takes place on Friday. The idea of Tickel's, who published a pamphlet called “ Anticipation,” has been seized upon, and on Thursday we are to have an imitation of it. I fear, however, that its author will not, like his model, get a place of £500 a-year for the satire. I could not attend at the College to-day - but Mr. C.'s address to the students, I am told, was beautiful. To them his deportment has been most endearing. Are you to have Miss Graddon? We are—and you know I esteem ber next to the Stephens. After Kean was with you, he came back to us. His Shylock was calm, yet terrible, as the malice of a fallen angel. As Reuben Glenroy, it is the climax of praise to say, that he did what no one else could

made me sympathise with so unnatural a character. I have only been in the house once since, and, believe it or not, it was to see the “ Spectacle” of Valentine and Orson-and, betwixt you and me, with the gorgeous and dreamy grandeur of it I was as much delighted as the little urchins who could scarcely credit that the Wild Man was their dancing-master._ Talking of sights, some good pictures have recently brought such prices here, in Lamond's, as to threaten that, through the Dilletanti Society's influence, this will become a market for works of art. They meet on Monday. The Literary and

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