PETRARCH'S INKSTAND.

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to her by a lady.

By beauty won from soft Italia's land,
Here Cupid, Petrarch's Cupid, takes his stand.
Arch suppliant, welcome to thy favorite isle,
Close thy spread wings, and rest thee here awhile;
Still the true heart with kindred strains inspire,
Breathe all a poet's sofiness, all his fire;

But if the perjured knight approach this fount,
Forbid the words to come as they were wont,
Forbid the ink to flow, the pen to write,
And send the false one baffled from thy sight.

MISS EDGEWORTH.

FROM THE "TABLE BOOK," BY WILLIAM HONE; LONDON, 1827. Miss Edgeworth's lines express her estimation of the gem she has the happiness to own. That lady allowed a few casts from it in bronze, and a gentleman who possesses one, and who favors the "Table Book" with his approbation, permits its use for a frontispiece to this volume. The engraving will not be questioned as a decoration, and it has some claim to be regarded as an elegant illustration of a miscellan hiscellany, whi which draws largely on art and literature, and on nature itself, towards its supply.

delight," says Petrarch, in my pictures; I take great pleasure also in images; they come in show, more near unto nature than pictures,

esteemed above all handy-crafts, and the chief of all the liberal arts. How great the dignity hath been of statues; and how fervently the study and desire of men have reposed in such pleasures, emperors and kings, and other great personages, nay, even persons of inferior degree, have shown, in their industrious keeping of them, when obtained." Insisting on the golden mean, as a rule of happiness, he says, "I possess an amazing collection of books, for attaining this, and every virtue: great is my delight in holding such a treasure." He slights persons who collect books for the pleasure of boasting they have them; who furnish their chambers with what was intended to furnish their minds, and use them no otherwise than they do their Corinthian tables, or their painted tables and images, to look at.He contemns others who esteem not the true value of books, but the price at which they may sell them-"a new practice" (observe it is Petrarch that speaks) " crept in among the rich, whereby they may attain one art more of unruly desire." He repeats, with rivetting force, "I have great plenty of books; where such scarcity has been lamented, this is no small possession: I have an inestimable many of books!" He was a diligent collector, and a liberal imparter of these treasures. He corresponded with Richard de Bury, an illustrious prelate of our own country, eminent for his love of learning and learned men, and sent many precious volumes to England to enrich the bishop's magnificent library. He vividly remarks, I delight passionately in my books;" and yet he who had accumulated them largely, estimated them rightly: he has a saying of books worthy of himself: "a wise man seeketh not quantity but sufficiency."

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Petrarch loved the quiet scenes of nature; and these can scarcely be observed from a carriage, or while riding, and are never enjoyed but on foot; and to me-on whom that discovery was imposed, and who am sometimes restrained from country walks, by necessity-it was no small pleasure, when I read a passage in his "View of Human Nature," which persuaded me of his fondness for the exercise: "a journey on foot hath most pleasant commodities, a man may go at his pleasure, none shall stay him, none shall carry him beyond his wish, none shall trouble him; he hath but one labor, the labor of nature -to go."

In "The Indicator," there is a paper of peculiar beauty, by Mr. Leigh Hunt, on receiving a sprig of myrtle from Vaucluse," with a paragraph suitable to this occasion: "We are supposing that all our readers are acquainted with Petrarch. Many of them doubtless know him intimately. Should any of them want an introduction to him, how should we speak of him in the gross? We should say, that he was one of the finest gentlemen and greatest scholars that ever lived; that he was a writer who flourished in Italy in the fourteenth century, at the time when Chaucer was young, during the reigns of our Edwards; that he was the greatest light of his age; that although so fine a writer himself, and the author of a multitude of works, or rather, be

cause he was both, he took the greatest pains to revive the knowledge of the ancient learning, recommending it every where, and copying out large manuscripts with his own hand; that two great cities, Paris and Rome, contended which should have the honor of crowning him; that he was crowned publicly, in the metropolis of the world, with laurel and myrtle; that he was the friend of Boccaccio, the father of Italian prose; and lastly, that his greatest renown, nevertheless, as well as the predominant feelings of his existence, arose from the longlove he bore for a lady of Avignon, the far-famed Laura, whom he fell in love with on the 6th of April, 1327, on a Good Friday; whom he rendered illustrious in a multitude of sonnets, which have left a sweet sound and sentiment in the ear of all after lovers; and who died, still passionately beloved, in the year 1348, on the same day and hour in which he first beheld her. Who she was, or why their connexion was not closer, remains a mystery. But that she was a real person, and that in spite of all her modesty she did not show an insensible countenance to his passion, is clear from his long-haunted imagination, from his own repeated accounts, from all that he wrote, uttered and thought. One love, and one poet, sufficed to give the whole civilized world a sense of delicacy in desire, of the abundant riches to be found in one single idea, and of the going out of a man's self to dwell in the soul and happiness of another, which has served to refine the passion for all modern times, and perhaps will do so, as long as love renews the world."

At Vaucluse or Valchiusa, "a remarkable spot in the old poetical region of Provence, consisting of a little deep glen of green meadows surrounded with rocks, and containing the fountain of the river Sorgue," Petrarch resided for several years, and composed in it the greater part of his poems.

The following is a translation, by Sir William Jones, of an ODE to the Fountain of Valchiusa.

Ye clear and sparkling streams!
(Warm'd by the sunny beams)

Through whose trasparent chrystal Laura play'd;
Ye boughs that deck the grove,
Where spring her chaplets wove,
While Laura lay beneath the quivering shade;
Sweet herbs; and blushing flowers!
That crown yon vernal bowers,

Forever fatal, yet forever dear:

And ye, that heard my sighs
When first she charm'd my eyes,

Soft breathing gales, my dying accents hear.
If heav'n has fix'd my doom,
That love must quite consume

My bursting heart, and close my eyes in death,
Ah! grant this slight request-
That here my urn may rest,

When to its mansion flies my vital breath.

This pleasing hope will smoothe

My anxious mind, and soothe

The pangs of that inevitable hour;

My spirit will not grieve

Her mortal veil to leave,

In these calm shades, and this enchanting bower.

Haply, the guilty maid
Through yon accustomed glade

To my sad tomb will take her lonely way;
Where first her beauty's light
O'erpowered my dazzled sight,

When love on this fair border bid me stray;
There, sorrowing, shall she see,
Beneath an aged tree,

Her true but hapless lover's bier;
Too late her tender sighs
Shall melt the pitying skies,

And her soft veil shall hide the gushing tear.
O! well remember'd day,
When on yon bank she lay,

Meek in her pride, and in her rigor mild;
The young and blooming flowers,
Falling in fragrant showers,

Shone on her neck, and on her bosom smil'd:
Some on her mantle hung,
Some in her locks were strung,

Like orient gems in rings of flaming gold;

Some, in a spiry cloud
Descending, call'd aloud,

"Here Love and Youth the reins of empire hold."

I view'd the heavenly maid;
And wrapt in wonder said,

"The groves of Eden gave this angel birth;"
Her look, her voice, her smile,
That might all heaven beguile,

Wafted my soul above the realms of earth:

The star-bespangled skies
Were open'd to my eyes;

Sighing I said, "whence rose this glittering scene?"

Since that auspicious hour
This bank and odorous bower,

My morning couch and evening haunt have been.
Well may'st thou blush, my song,
To leave the rural throng,

And fly thus artless to my Laura's ear;
But were thy poet's fire
Ardent as his desire,

Thou wert a song that heaven might stoop to hear. It is within probability to imagine, that the original of this "Ode" may have been impressed on the paper, by Petrarch's pen, from the inkstand of the frontispiece.

From the Saturday Evening Post.

A FRAGMENT.

Soon will the roses of the spring
In virgin beauty wave,

And sweetly bud and blossom o'er
My early welcome grave.

And gay birds sing their joyous songs,

Their joyous songs of love,

And earth be seen in garb of green,

And skies be blue above.

And balmy winds will breathe upon

My low and lonely bed,

And through the long bright days, the sun

A flood of glory shed.

And Cynthia, through the evening hours,

With all her glittering train,

Fling her soft silvery rays on it,

And light it up again.

OSCAR.

RICHMOND THEATRE.

From a history of the American Stage, by Mr. Dunlap, just published, we copy the following account of the burning of the Richmond (Va.) Theatre, on the 26th December, 1811.

The house was fuller than on any night of the season. The play was over, and the first act of the pantomime had passed. The second and last had begun. All was yet gaiety, all so far had been pleasure; curiosity was yet alive, and further gratification anticipated: the orchestra sent forth its sounds of harmony and joy, when the audience perceived some confusion on the stage, and presently a shower of sparks falling from above-some were startled, others thought it was a part of the scenic exhibition. A performer on the stage received a portion of the burning materials from on high, and it was perceived that others were tearing down the scenery. Some one cried out from the stage there is no danger. Immediately after, Hopkins Robinson ran forward and cried out, "the house is on fire"! pointing to the ceiling, where the flames were progressing like wildfire. In a moment all was appalling horror and distress. Robinson handed several persons from the boxes to the stage, as a ready way for escape. The cry of "Fire, Fire!" ran through the house, mingled with the wailings of females and children. The general rush was made to gain the lobbies. It appears from the following description of the house, and the scene that ensued, that this was the cause of the great loss of life.

The general entrance to the pit and boxes was through a door not more than large enough to admit three persons abreast. This outer entrance was within a trifling distance of the pit door, and gave an easy escape to those in that part of the house. But to attain the boxes from the street, it was necessary to descend into a long passage, and ascend again by an angular staircase. The gallery had a distinct entrance, and its occupants escaped. The suffering and death fell on the occupants of the boxes, who, panic-struck, did not see that the pit was immediately left vacant, but pressed on to the crowded and tortuous way by which they had entered. The pit door was so near the general entrance, that those who occupied that portion of the house gained the street with ease. A gentleman who escaped from the pit, among the last, saw it empty, and when in the street, looked back again upon the general entrance to the pit and boxes, and the door had not yet been reached by those from the lobbies. A gentleman and lady were saved by being thrown accidentally into the pit; and most of those who perished would have escaped if they had leaped from the boxes, and sought that avenue to the street-but all darted to the lobbies. The stairs were blocked up. All was enveloped in hot scorching smoke and flame. The lights were extinguished by the black and smothering vapor, and the shricks of despair were appalling. Happy, for a moment, were those who gained a window, and inhaled the air of heaven. Those who had issued to the street cried to the sufferers at the windows to leap down, and stretched out their arms to save them. Some were seen struggling to gain the apertures to inhale the fresh air. Men, women, and chit- |

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dren precipitated themselves from the first and second stories. Some escaped unhurt-others were killed or mangled by the fall. Some with their clothes on fire, shrieking, leaped from the windows to gain a short reprieve and die in agonies.

"Who can picture," says a correspondent of the Mirror, "the distress of those who, unable to gain the windows or afraid to leap from them, were pent up in the long, narrow passages. The cries of those who reached the upper windows are described as being heart-sickening. Many who found their way to the street were so scorched or burnt as to die in consequence, and some were crushed to death under foot, after reaching the outer door.

"Add to this mass of suffering, the feelings of those who knew that they had friends or relatives who had gone to the house that night. Such rushed half frantic to the spot, with the crowds of citizens from all quarters, while the tollingbells sounded the knell of death to the heart of the father or mother, whose child had been permitted to visit the theatre on that night of horror.

"As my father was leading me home," said Mr. Henry Placide, "we saw Mr. Green, exhausted by previous exertion, leaning on a fence, and looking at the scene of ruin. For all was now one mass of smoking destruction. Thank God!" ejaculated Green, 'Thank God! I prohibited Nancy from coming to the house to-night. She is safe.'"

Nancy was his only daughter, just springing into womanhood, still at the boarding school of Mrs. Gibson, and as beautiful and lovely a girl as imagination can picture.

Mrs. Gibson and the boarders had made up a party for the theatre that evening, and Nancy Green asked her father's permission to accompany them. He refused-but, unfortunately, added his reason-"the house will be crowded, and you will occupy a seat that would be otherwise paid for." On these words hung the fate of youth, innocence, and beauty. "I will pay for your ticket," said the kind instructress, "we will not leave you behind." The teacher and pupil were buried in the ruins on which the father gazed, and over which he returned thanks for the safety of his child. He went home and learned the truth.

An instance of the escape of a family is given. The husband, with three children, were in the second boxes, his wife, with a female friend, in another part of the house. The wife gained a window, leaped out, and escaped unhurt. Her friend followed, and was killed. The father clasped two helpless girls to his breast, and left a boy of twelve years of age to follow; the boy was forced from his father, ran to the window, sprang out, and was safe. The parent, with his precious charge, followed the stairway, pressed upon by those behind him, and those who mounted on the heads and shoulders of the crowd before them, he became unconscious, but was still borne alone; he was taken up and carried to his bed, and opened his eyes to see all his family safe.

On the contrary, Lieutenant Gibbon, of the Navy-as exemplary in private life as heroic in the service of his county, and on the brink of a union with Miss Conyers, the pride of Richmond

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into eternity while exerting himself to do all that man could do in such trying circumstances. He was with his mother at the theatre, and carried her to a place of safety; then rushed back to save her in his arms; had borne her partly down the staircase, when the steps gave way and a body of flame swept them to eternity.

Friday, the 27th of December, 1811, was a day of mourning to Richmond. The banks and stores were closed. A law was passed prohibiting amusements of every kind for four months. A day was set apart for humiliation and prayer. A monument was resolved on to be erected to the memory of the dead and the event.

[From the New Monthly Magazine.]

FERRALL'S RAMBLE IN THE U. STATES. Another work on America! Well, the subject is not yet exhausted. America opens stilla wide field. In the researches of the naturalist and the speculations of the philosopher, it is a new world, and it must be traversed again and again, and by men of different habits, manners, and pursuits, before it can be correctly and extensively displayed in this far distant hemisphere. We could well dispense with all the trash that for the last ten years we have been doomed to wade through, in the form of travels, narratives, histories, and treatises, purporting orting to throw light upon the present state, prospects, and destinies of America. It is a comfort, however, to know that it no longer incumbers the public; nobody reads it, and it has been long since forgotten. There are a few valuable works which hold their place in public estimation, and we should be glad to see their number increased. Mr. Ferrall's" Ramble" is a light production, offering no great pretensions, if it does not instruct, it will please-it is the lively narrative of what passed under the author's own view. If it does not always display accuracy or extent of information; if, in a few instances, we detect prejudice, and if sometimes opinions are volunteered which are not proved by fact or reason; the deficiencies and the faults are redeemed by the general good sense, good nature, and liberal notions which characterise it as a whole.

We give the following for the amusement of the few Conservatives who may honour our pages with an occasional glance:

"An account of his late Majesty's death was inserted in a Philadelphia paper, and happened to be noticed by one of the politicians present, when the landlord asked me how we elected our kiag in England? I replied that he was not elected, but that he became king by birthright, &c. A Kentuckian observed, placing his leg on the back of the next chair, That's a kind of unnatural. An Indianian said, '1 don't believe in that system myself." A third, ' Do you mean to tell me, that because the last king was a smart man and knew his duty, that his son or his brother should be a smart man and fit for the situation?' I explained that we had a premier, ministers, &c. when the last gentleman replied, Then you pay

half a dozen men to do one man's business.

Yes.

yes, that may do for Englishmen very well-but I guess it would not go down here-no, no; Ame

that kind of wiggery.' During this conversation a person had stepped into the room, and had taken his seat in silence. I was about to reply to the last observations of my antagonist, when this gentleman opened out with 'Yes, that may do for Englishmen very well-but it won't do here. Here we make our own laws, and we keep them, too. It may do for Englishmen very well to have the felicity of paying taxes for the support of the nobility. To have the felicity of being incarcerated in a jail for shooting the wild animals of the country. To have the felicity of being seized by a press-gang, torn away from their wives and families, and flogged at the discretion of my lord Tom, Dick, or Harry's bastard.' At this the Kentuckian gnashed his teeth, and instinctively grasped his hunting knife; an old Indian doctor, who was squatting in one corner of the room, said slowly and emphatically as his eyes glared, his nostrils dilated, and his lip curled with contempt - The Englishman is a dog'-while a Georgian slave, who stood behind his master's chair, grinned and chuckled with delight as he said-Poor Englishman, him meaner man den black nigger.' 'To have, continued the radical, who was an Englishman, 'the liberty of being transported for seven years for being caught learning the use of the sword or the musket, -to have the tenth lamb and the tenth sheaf seized, or the blanket torn from off his bed to pay a bloated, a plethoric bishop or parson, to be kicked and cuffed about by a parcel of Bourbon gendarmerie.'-Liberty!-why hell sweat-here 1 slipped out at the side door into the water-melon patch."

A Duel between Friends. "They had been schoolmates at Eaton; very early in life they both entered into a celebrated Irish regiment: and here a circumstance occurred, not unknown to the world, that rivetted their friendship. One day, after dinner, at the mess, some badinage took place between them, which certainly was not so far removed from school familiarity, nor so sufficiently adapted to the precision of military punctilio, as by some of the company was considered absolutely necessary.-Two officers well known for their love of duelling took up the subject, and at length gave them to understand that they must have a shot or two at one another, or leave in disgrace the regiment. The two officers were a major and a celebrated captain, both natives of the sister kingdom. The fate of the young friends was inevitable, and their very kind instructors in the necessity of the measure, voluntarily offered their services as seconds in the affair. As they walked to the field of blood, without a grain of animosity against one another, but of no little displeasure against their friends upon the occasion, who would listen to no excuse, apology, or explanation. Calamy, having ment's opportunity of speaking to Trollope apart, whispered-'I'll fire at your second, if you'll fire at mine.' 'Agreed,' replied Trollope. When they came upon the ground, and all due preliminaries had taken place, off went their pistols together in a straight line at their seconds. The major and the captain were startled, and were found very ready to settle the affair without further proceedings."

This superb work of modern art stands in one of the finest squares of St. Petersburgh, and of Europe, according to Sir Robert Ker Porter. It was erected by command of the Empress Catherine, and, like all her projects, bears the stamp of greatness. The name of the artist is Falconet: "he was a Frenchman; but," adds Sir R. K. P. "this statue, for genius and exquisite execution, would have done honour to the best sculptors of any nation. A most sublime conception is displayed in the design. The allegory is finely imagined; and had he not sacrificed the result of the whole to the prominence of his group, the grand and united effect of the statue and its pedestal striking at once upon the eye, would have been unequalled in the works of man. A mass of granite, of a size at present most immense, but formerly most astonishing, is the pedestal. A steep acclivity, like that of a rugged mountain, carries the eye to its summit, which looks down on the opposite side to a descent nearly perpendicular. The figure of the hero is on horseback, supposed to have attained the object of his ambition, by surmounting all the apparent impossibilities which so arduous an enterprise presented. The victorious animal is proudly rearing on the highest point of the rock, whilst his imperial master stretches forth his mighty arm, as the father and protector of his country. A serpent, in attempting to impede his course, is trampled on by the feet of the horse, and writhall the agonies of expiring nature. The

Emperor is seated on the skin of a bear; and habited in a tunic, or sort of toga which forms the drapery behind. His left hand guides the reins; his right is advanced straight forward on the same side of the horse's neck. The head of the statue is crowned with a laurel wreath." It was formed from a bust of Peter, modelled by a young

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