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tween the finger and thumb of each hand, the intermediate part may be drawn out to the requisite fineness previous to the twist, by separating the hands during the act of pinching. Every rational process of invention must consist, in the first place, in a careful analysis of the operations meant to be performed. The objects of Arkwright's improvements were carding and spinning. To do this by machinery, it was required either that the usual manœuvre of the carder should be performed with square cards, or that cylinders, covered with the kind of metallic brush-work, before described, should be made to revolve in contact with each other, either to card or to strip, accordingly as their respective velocities, directions, and inclinations of their wires might be adjusted. With regard to spinning, it would become an indispensible condition, not only that the raw material should be very nicely prepared, in order that it might require none of that intellectual skill which is capable of separating the knotty or imperfect parts as they offer themselves, but also that it should be regularly drawn out by certain parts representing the fingers and thumbs of the spinner. The contrivance by which this last means was represented consisted in a certain number of pairs of cylinders, each two revolving in contact with each other. Suppose a very loose thread or slightly twisted carding of cotton to pass between one pair of cylinders, clothed with a proper facing to enable them to hold it; and let it be imagined to proceed from thence to another pair, whose surfaces revolve much quicker. It is evident that the quicker revolution of the second pair will draw out the cotton, rendering it thinner and longer when it comes to be delivered at the other side. This is precisely the operation which the spinner performs with her fingers and thumb; and if the cotton be then delivered to a spinning apparatus, it will be converted into thread. Simple as these notions of

a rotatory carding engine and a spinning engine, of which the chief organ consists of two pair of cylinders, may appear, they are subject, in the practical detail, to all the difficulties which usually present themselves to be overcome by inventors. An account of this would certainly form an interesting narrative in the history of the arts. Sir Richard Arkwright succeeded in making these engines go by horse, by water, and by steam as first movers, and the saving of labour, together with the advantages of a patent monopoly, were sufficient to render him one of the most opulent of the British manufacturers.

For the Literary Magazine.

ON ANECDOTES.

ANECDOTES are literary luxuries. The refinement of a nation influences its literature; we now require not only a solid repast, but a delicious desert. A physician, austere as Hippocrates; a critic, rigid as Aristotle, are alike inimical to our refreshments. We will not be fooled into their systems. We do not dismiss our fruits and our wines from our tables; we eat, and our health remains uninjured. We read anecdotes with voluptuous delight; nor is our science impaired, or our wit rendered less brilliant.

It is not just to consider anecdotes merely as means of improvement. They serve also the purposes of utility, and deserve to be classed higher in the scale of study than hitherto they have been.

All the world read anecdotes; but not many with reflection, and still fewer with taste. To most, one anecdote resembles another; a little unconnected story that is heard, that pleases, and is forgotten. Yet when anecdotes are not merely transcribed, but animated by judicious reflections, they recal others of a kindred nature, and the whole series is made to illustrate some topic that gratifies

curiosity, or impresses on the mind some interesting conclusion in the affairs of human life.

History itself derives some of its most agreeable instructions from a skilful introduction of anecdotes. We should not now dwell with anxiety on a dull chronicle of the reigns of monarchs; a parish register might prove more interesting. We ought not to be now solicitous about battles fought a hundred years ago, or sieges which can destroy none of our own towns, or storms which can never burst upon our own shores. We may reasonably turn with disgust from fictions told without the grace of fable, and from truths uninteresting as fables told without grace.

Romancers have existed in all nations, under the names of historians, from the notorious Geoffrey of Monmouth to Jean le Maire, who, in his Illustrations of Gaul, makes the French nation descend from the fugitive princes of Troy. This is not quite so marvellous as the eccentric follies of several modern Irish antiquaries. Col. Valencey has pushed his national researches as far back as the time of the deluge. Since he was so employed, he might have gone farther; for an old writer has even favoured us with the names of the seven Irish kings who flourished before Noah.

Thomas Warton, in his observations on the Faery Queen, notices one of Geoffrey's fables. This monk, in his account of the original state of Albion, has these words: "Erat tunc nomen insula Albion que a nemine nisi a paucis gigantibus inhabitabatur." A few giants, in that historian's opinion, were but of little consideration.

Our hearts should learn to sympathize; and we should consult the annals of history as a son and a brother would turn over his domestic memoirs. We should read history, not to indulge the frivolous in quisitiveness of a dull antiquary, but to explore the causes of the misery and prosperity of our country. We ought to be more interested in the

progress of the human mind than in that of empires.

A Hearne would feel a frigid rapture if he could discover the name of a Saxon monarch unrecorded in our annals; and of whom as little should remain, as of the doubtful bones of a Saxon dug out of a tumulus. Such are his anecdotes! A Hume or a Robertson is only interested with those characters who have exerted themselves in the cause of humanity, and with those incidents which have subverted or established the felicities of a people.

There will always be antiquaries to solace themselves with the hope, that industry will compensate for a total want of genius. Such will not discern when enquiry dwindles into minute trifling. The genuine historian is regarded with contempt by these unenlightened students. They condemn Hume precisely for what he is most to be commended-for not wasting his pages on researches that resemble conjectures into Sax. on annals, which, if they could be known with accuracy, would not be more interesting than the annals of the Abyssinians, over which many a reader of taste has groaned in the bulky volumes of Bruce. On the subject of such remote antiquities, take here a conversation recorded by Boswell. On antiquarian researches Johnson said, "All that is really known of the ancient state of Britain is contained in a few pages. We can know no more than what the old writers have told us; yet what large books have we upon it, the whole of which, excepting such parts as are taken from those old writers, is all a dream, such as Whitaker's Manchester. I have heard Henry's history of Great Britain well spoken of; I am told it is carried on in separate divisions, as the civil, the military, the religious history; I wish much to have one branch well done, and that is, the history of manners, of common life." Robertson answered, "Henry should have applied his attention to that alone, which is enough for any man."

Hence the history of manners has

38

become the prime object of the re-
searches of philosophers. How is
this prominent feature in history to
be depicted? The artist must not
here draw at fancy a beautiful or
fantastical line. He must regard
his object with minute attention, and
reflect long on a thousand little
strokes, which are to give the faith-
The historian
ful resemblance.
should assiduously arrange the mi-
nute anecdotes of the age he exa-
mines; and oftener have recourse
to the diaries of individuals than to
the archives of a nation. Nothing
should escape his researches, though
every thing he finds is not to be re-
ported.

Antiquarian studies begin of late
to rank high. They seem to be di.
rected to the illustration, not merely
of obliterated inscriptions, but of
ancient manners. We may observe
of what importance, in this interest-
ing subject, are the memorandums
of an individual, from the recovery
of the book of the Master of the
Revels, which Mr. Malone has been
so fortunate as to obtain. We enter
more fully into the genius of those
times from such publications than
from the superficial accounts and
fanciful conjectures of any modern
writer. He who would penetrate
further into these amusing research-
es must apply himself to a close ex-
amination of old plays; to a patient
perusal of innumerable MSS.; and
to the collecting matter from the
printed books of the times. We are
still in want of a work similar to
St. Foix's Essays on Paris, one of
the most agreeable anecdotical pro-
ductions which the philosopher and
the antiquary has yet produced.

To inform the world, that, in the
sixteenth century, bishops only were
permitted the use of silk; that prin-
ces and princesses only had the
scarlet
prerogative of wearing
clothes, either of silk or of wool;
and that only princes and bishops
had a right to wear shoes made of
silk, would appear trivial in the
hands of a mere antiquary; but they
become important when touched by
On these little
a true historian.

«All

particulars Voltaire says,
these sumptuary laws only show,
that the government of these times
had not always great objects in
view; and that it appeared easier
for ministers to proscribe than to
encourage industry."

Had I to sketch the situation of the Jews in the ninth century, and to exhibit, at the same time, the character of that age of bigotry, could I do it more effectually than by the following anecdote?

A Jew of Rouen, in Normandy, After sells a house to a christian. some time, a storm happens, lightning falls on the house, and does damage. The christian cites the Israelite into court for damages. His eloquent counsellor hurls a philippic against this detestable nation, and concludes by proving, that it was owing to this house having been the property of an Israelite, that a thunderbolt fell upon it. The judges, as may be supposed, are not long in deciding. They decree that God had damaged this house as a mark of his vengeance against a Jew, and therefore it was just the repairs should be at his cost. The sentence was hard upon the Jew. To be condemned to rebuild a house is, however, better than to be burnt with some of its old wood.

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X.

DE

THE French nation, before their displayed a singular revolution, splendid scene of refinement, luxu ry, and frivolity, which perhaps was never before presented on the theatre of the world. In reading the secret memoirs of that country, a scandalous chronicle, carried on for thirty years, we gather many curious particulars, only to be found in these fugitive leaves. Religion was for. bidden by the philosophers, and politics by the government. They ex.

hausted their active and volatile genius on subjects of taste; taste that, like religion and politics, had its heresies and parties. The theatre and the bookseller's shop formed the great concerns of the idle Parisian. Voltaire was more dreaded than the prime minister; and Clairon, their celebrated actress, enjoyed the sovereignty of Paris.

Sometimes we see a publication agitate the town for a week; the author is sent to the bastile for a month: the book is publicly burnt, forbidden to be sold, and every body has it by heart. The police sometimes puts an embargo on all MSS.; imprisons censors of books, because they suffered passages to be printed which were offensive to the court; in fine, several printers are compelled to sell their fonts, and a dismal barrenness appears in the literature of France.

Sometimes theatrical representations are the objects of ministerial vengeance. They forbid a particular play, whose subject might be applicable to the moment; or even a particular passage of a play, which the malicious actor pronounced with emphasis.

In February, 1762, in playing Tancred, Mad. Clairon, when she came to these verses,

"On depouille Tancrede, on l'exile, on

l'outrage,

C'est le sort d'un heros d'etre persecuté; Tout son parti se tait; qui sera son appui?

Sa gloire

Un heros qu'on opprime attendrit tous les cœurs."

This sublime actress made such inflections of her voice, so noble and so penetrating, that all the audience recollected the event of that day, which was a lettre de cachet the marquis de Broglio had received. His name flew from mouth to mouth, says my reporter, and the representation was frequently interrupted by loud applauses, which were continually renewed.

The next day the house was for bidden to act the tragedy of Tan

cred, in consequence of what had passed on the preceding representation.

Molé, a favourite actor, is taken ill. This is announced from the stage. The gaiety of Paris is suddenly obscured. Next day his door is besieged by enquiring crowds; his health is the enquiry of all companies. It appeared as if Scipio lay sick, and the virtuous Romans passed their hours in melancholy fears for the life of their protector. The physicians find Molé in an exhausted state, and prescribe a free use of wine. This prescription is soon every where known. Molé finds two thousand bottles of the finest Burgundy sent to his house from various quarters. He at length recovers; all Paris rejoices and rushes to his benefit. Such was the public ar dour, that it produced him the amazing sum of 24,000 livres (4000 dollars). Molé gratefully receives the tribute of their applause; he was in debt, and the benefit formed all his fortune. How then does Molé apply his sudden wealth? An Englishman would have purchased an annuity, or perhaps have paid his debts. Mo lé runs to the jeweller, takes its amount in brilliants, and gives them to his mistress, who boasts that she wears all the honours of the public.

Here is displayed at once the frivolity of the nation and the individual. All Paris is concerned for the

indisposition of an actor, and all terminates in giving diamonds to an impudent prostitute.

The recently published life of Marmontel affords the finest specimen imaginable of the French character, and the finest picture of Paris before the revolution. Rousseau, in his Confessions, is a more accurate painter of the nation than any I have met with. "The French," says he, " do not smother you with protestations and professions, as some people tell us they do. Those they make are generally sincere and honestly intended; but they have a manner of interesting themselves in your favour, which deceives you much more than words. The French

manners are seductive, because they have candour and simplicity in them. You think they do not tell you all they intend to do for you, merely that their unlook'd for beneficence may surprise you the more. The people are naturally officious, kind, and, whatever their enemies may say to the contrary, more candid and open than other nations: but then, and that's the rub, they are more volatile and fickle. They believe all they say. They feel all they express: but, unluckily, they believe they feel only for the moment. While with you, they are full of you. They think of nobody else. Turn your back, and you are forgotten. All their sympathy they transfer to their next companion, who, in like manner, is thought of only while present. Nothing is fixed. A mournful recollection will call forth their tears; but the image is easily supplanted by a merry one, and they will weep passionately and laugh heartily in the course of a few mi

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Of the eminent personages in his tory, there are many differing characters. We know well how the object will appear when seen through the coloured telescope of a prejudiced historian. The most impartial may not always be successful in his delineations. An intelligent reader frequently discovers traits before concealed. He does not perceive these faint touches in the broad canvas of the historian, but in those little portraits which have sometimes reached posterity. He acquires more knowledge of individuals by memoirs than by histories. In histories there is a majesty which keeps us distant from great men; in memoirs there is a familiarity which

invites us to approach them. In histories, we appear only as one who joins the crowd to see them pass; in memoirs, we are like concealed spies, who pause on every little circumstance, and note every little expression.

It is thus that such works as Plutarch's Lives, Froissart's Chronicle, the Memoirs of Comines and Brantome, Burnet's and Clarendon's Histories of their own Times, have ever allured curiosity and gratified inquiry. There are indeed readers who, when they turn over the pages of history, indulge in the marvellous of romance. A visionary perfection darts from their imagination, and throws around a brilliant delusion. Their heroes are Arthurs; their heroines Unas; their statesmen Merlins. As history is frequently composed, there are sufficient reasons for such a system. The most natural events, with such writers as Tacitus, Strada, and Mariana, are derived from some profound policy, or intricate deception. The historian frequently seems ignorant of that spontaneous ardour with which the most splendid actions are performed, and discovers a regular plot in the accidental combinations of fortune. Every statesman who comes down to us as a Nestor, I doubt was not the sage we believe him; nor every general the Hannibal he seems. The most eminent personages are not so remote from the ordinary level of humanity, as the vulgar conceive. Transcendant powers are rarely required; tolerable abilities, placed conspicuously, appear to great advantage; as a torch in a watchman's hand is little, compared with one gleaming from the top of a sea-girt tower. I am much more inclined to search for the characters of eminent persons in their domestic privacies, than in their public audiences, and would prefer the artless recitals of the valet de chambre of Charles I, to the elegant narrative of his apologist Hume, as I prefer the tale of honest Clery, concerning Louis XVI, to any formal history.

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