the force of magic. If Rochefoucault had lived in India we should readily have excused his sarcastic remark (so humorously illustrated by Swift in his verses on his own death) that in the misfortunes of our best friends we always find something that does not displease us.

But let us return to our drive upon the Course. The lady in the elegant barouche that has just passed us, has a face as bright as the sun-but even as that impartial luminary it shines on all alike. Her radiant glances are not concentrated on a few objects. She has called up an equally gracious look for every. carriage-full of acquaintances from the Fort to the Esplanade. Is there any individual amongst them for whom she cares a straw? Not one-the sudden death of any of them would not occasion an hour's void in her heart, nor damp her appetite for a single meal. The loss of a Delhi Shawl, or a rent in her blond lace dress would infinitely more affect her spirits. Her own calamities would make as slight an impression upon her acquaintances. There would be little love lost between them. A few cold exclamations of surprize or pity would be all the tribute that would be paid to her by the most indulgent or sentimental, while those who are wise in their own conceit would lament their rejected advice, or talk knowingly of their realized prognostications. The advice-bestowers who shake their heads so solemnly as if there were really something in them and busy themselves so anxiously about other people's affairs, have always an ill-dissembled. satisfaction at any fresh proofs of their sagacity, and would rather that their friends

"should die

Than their predictions prove a lie."

The Lady we have been alluding to, is guilty of no flagrant vice and has no flaw in her reputation. She is polite and accessible to all, and dwells ever in proprieties. Her only fault isa want of heart! She will pressingly invite her friends to her agreeable and fashionable parties, and most condescendingly greet them in public places, but let any of them fall into distress and difficulty and solicit her protection or assistance and the spell departs, the charm is broken.

"Favors to none, to all she smiles extends."

But though she is so generally gracious and polite in her reception of visitors or in her recognitions on the Course, her friends are scarcely out of hearing before she ridicules and scandalizes them in the presence of others, who in their turn become the objects of her satire. Let the candid and acute observer of Indian Life deny if he can, that nothing is more common in our society than characters of this description.

As the double range of Carriages moves slowly along the bank of the river it is curious to notice the different appearances and manners of those seated within them. Though some look gay and others grave, though some affect a careless air and others are as stiff as buckram, they are almost all under the influence of the same feelings, are conscious of their own vast importance, and look as if they thought themselves the observed of all observers. The spinsters cast sidelong glances at the young men who pass them to discover in their eyes a tribute to their charms, and their admirers on horseback or in carriages with an impudent under-look or a modest assurance return the compliment. The vanity of the women is far less ludicrously and prominently displayed than that of the men. There is something at once laughable and vexatious in the undisguised foppery of the latter.

We are wonder-struck at the blind folly of a person whose air, dress and manner are so palpably puppyish that a child of five year's old could scarcely meet him without remarking "how fine he thinks himself!" Now the chief aim of one who wishes to make an impression should be to conceal by every artifice in his power, his conceit and coxcombry, and to let it seem as much as possible that notwithstanding the fashion of his dress and the notice he supposes it to attract, that he is perfectly at home and is indifferent to the opinion of the world. His finery should not appear too much for him. A vulgar coxcomb or a Sunday beau betrays by his manner that he is by no means at his ease when "he is drest all in his best." A true gentleman and a man of sense is too proud to be vain and always looks independent of his garments, however elegant or costly. Nothing is so truly contemptible and even loathsome to the better part of mankind than a person who publishes his own overweening self-importance. If fops could only know themselves and see the figure which they really cut in the eyes of others, how speedily they would change their game and direct their ambition to nobler objects. The egotism of a man who assumes an air of superiority and advances an ostentatious claim upon our admiration on account of a well-twisted mustachio or a fashionably cut coat excites our spleen and derision at the egregious absurdity of his pretensions. His folly is as vexatious as his presumption is offensive. He who demands a tribute to his intellectual triumphs, though egotism of any kind is always unpleasing and implies an imbecility of mind, is less repulsive as he is more reasonable. A fop's frivolous pretensions are an outrage on common sense and in direct opposition to all our notions of propriety and justice.

But if the vanity of the young, of both sexes, who play their fantastic tricks at the evening rendezvous be a fit subject of reprehension, the silly hauteur and supercilious manners of their elders are still more obnoxious; inasmuch as the follies of youth are more excusable than those of manhood or maturer years. Married ladies whose husbands hold "good appointments," sometimes look as if their dignity had turned them into stone; and a half-batta Subaltern, to whom nature has been more liberal than the Company, should be cautious how he presumes too much upon their acquaintance, for their public acknowledgment is often more offensive than agreeable to an independent spirit. As to the males of some standing, their grave bows and big looks, as they stretch their important limbs in an aristocratical manner over their vehicles, one feels more inclined to kick than to describe them.

This article may seem outrageously sweeping and severe, but the writer acknowledges that he has confined himself to the darker objects of the picture. There are many brilliant details that he has left untouched that would form striking and delightful contrasts to its sombre tone. These on a future occasion it is his intention to delineate with truth and good humour, when the reader who may now consider him a bitter cynic, will perhaps acknowledge that he has something of the milk of human kindness in his nature. X. Y. Z.

MELROSE ABBEY.

What Spirit fills this holy place?
Is it Religion's mystic torch
That sheds a more than mortal grace
On fractured arch and ruin'd porch?

Beneath this sky-like dome have pray'd
The heroes of the stormy ages,
And here their noble dust is laid
Commingled with the saint's and sage's.

Untold thy strongest charm remains—
A poet found thy secret powers,
Rebuilt thee by his heavenly strains,
And wrapt in glory all thy towers.

Now see we but what he hath told:

His spirit fills this mighty shrine

Restores the lost, renews the old-
His immortality is thine.

ITALY, A POEM.

BY SAMUEL ROGERS.

This is truly the most splendid edition of a modern Poet that has issued from the English Press. It is embellished with upwards of fifty Vignettes, engraved in the line manner. The greater number of these illustrations may be characterized without exaggeration, as perfect gems, and are very greatly superior to most of the engravings in the London Annuals. Almost all the original paintings are by Turner and Stothard, whose very different styles diversify the character of the treat which every genuine lover of art may derive from an inspection of this elegant publication.

The first engraving in the work is also one of the most beautiful. It is a delightful view of the Lake of Geneva. Notwithstanding the countless pictures that have been published of this charming piece of water, we are never weary of the subject. "Custom cannot stale its infinite variety." Those who are acquainted with the power of Turner's pencil, and the force, delicacy and brightness of Goodall's burin, may form some conception of the effect of a combination of their skill and genius in this exquisite little scene. The water is as calm and clear as water can be; a boat crowded with a cheerful group of human beings, is floating in strong relief on its smooth and radiant surface, and clouds and mountains are mingling gloriously in the distance. But if we have been thus pleased with The Lake of Geneva, in what words could we express our admiration of the sun-lit Lake of Como by the same artist and engraver. There is a faery-like spirit of conception, and a magical delicacy of execution, in many of these miniature-landscapes, that compel us to acknowledge at once the poverty of language and the power of art.

In thus confessing our inability to convey an adequate impression of the nature of many of the embellishments before us, we should observe that our passionate admiration has been excited solely by Turner's productions, for though several of Stothard's works have very considerable elegance, they would by no means justify the enthusiastic praise to which the former artist is so indisputably entitled. With the exception of The Canterbury Pilgrims we have seen nothing of Stothard's of which a great artist might be proud, and we have often wondered at the popularity of his book-embellishments. His designs show little invention, and his figures, though apparently the result of most laborious study, and an intense desire to produce graceful and classical effects are often very deficient in truth and nature. He is not without a fine sense of beauty, but he overworks his own

conceptions. He has a nervous horror of all ordinary departures from the rules of art, yet is betrayed into errors more flagrant if less vulgar than those he would avoid, by his effeminate fastidiousness and morbid sensibility. In his abhorrence of strait lines and sharp angles, and his love of swelling curves-in his anxiety to avoid the former, and preserve the latter, he exaggerates a perfection into a caricature, and makes his figures unnaturally round, and fantastically elegant. His ultra-refinements, however, are not out of keeping with the poetry which he has been called upon to illustrate. The author of the Pleasures of Memory, and the work before us, has fallen into similar errors, from similar causes; and we have little doubt, but that a congeniality of feeling suggested the connection of the drawings of Stothard with his own compositions in a sister art.

That the feeble, cautious, and prosaic blank verse of Rogers, should be illustrated by the vigorous, bold and poetical productions of Turner is not very consistent with our notions of fitness and propriety and though Stothard's drawings, as we have before admitted, relieve and diversify the embellishments, we could have wished Turner a more worthy companion and competitor. If the poetry of this volume had been Byron's, and Turner had been associated with an equal in his own line, with what deep and long lingering delight, we should have turned over its brilliant pages and revelled in the charms of the sister arts? Even as it is, we must not be ungrateful for the enjoyment it has afforded us. The poetry though not of a high order, is often pleasing, and is interspersed with prose fragments of great interest and beauty. We should remember that whatever may be the defects of the poetry before us, it is the production of an author, whose earlier effusions were distinguished for their amenity and grace, and who has a strong claim upon our kindliest feelings. Stothard too, with all his faults, is not to be despised, and even when he is least successful, serves at all events as a foil to the happier works of his brother artist. Perhaps, also, our judgment is too severe, or our taste at fault, or some ill-founded prejudice or unfortunate association may have rendered us unconsciously unjust in our estimate of Stothard's labours, and many may regard them with greater indulgence or less qualified admiration. The typography of the volume (no trivial consideration) is quite exquisite and invites the eye to the perusal of the work. If the reader finds reason to regret this temptation, he has only to turn to the sparkling day-scenes or shadowy moonlights of our English Claude.

In passing from one to another of these delightful productions, our enthusiasm is puzzled how to wreak itself on expression. There are two moonlight Landscapes in the book which are not