Imatges de pÓgina

be immersed by the breaking of ice. The means generally used by the Royal Humane Society are ladders, boat-hooks, sledge-boats, or ropes; but the above invention combines all the utility of these, without their inconveniences. It is proposed to slide the boat upon the ice, with a mast to turn on a centre, having a doubleaction lever, which, with great ease, may be turned round to any side by guiding the lower lever. At the extremity of the long upper lever, is attached a rope, with a cross-piece of wood, where one or more cords may be fastened, having weights to sink in the water, when the boat is brought towards the hole in the ice; care being taken not to come too near the fracture, as the lever will be sufficiently long to reach over the hole, and be directed to any desired part: by letting down the crossspars perpendicularly, where the person is immersed, he may lay hold of them, or the ropes, and may then be raised out of the water; and, by turning the lever, be landed where the ice is safe. But, should the person be exhausted, or not be able to lay hold of the rope, there is provided a waterproof bag, into which an assistant may get, and proceed to the drowning person; around the top of the bag is an India-rubber air tube, for the purpose of floating it the man assisting is to be drawn forward over the spot, and let down into the water.

New Books.


[NOTHING can be in worse taste than the reprint of Captain Morris's Songs, political, amatory, and convivial, which have just re-appeared in the publishers' horizon. First, the original title has been dropped, for the very lackadaisical one of Lyra Urbanica; or, the Social Effusions of the celebrated Captain Charles Morris, of the late Life Guards, as runs the titlepage of the new edition. Secondly, the work is divided into a pair of volumes, instead of forming a handsome table-book, such as accords with the present taste of buyers and readers. Alack! what would 66 poor old Morris" have said to the classical affectation of Lyra Urbanica, the sucrée taste of which but ill bespeaks the rich and graceful imagery, the fertile fancy, the touching sentiment, and the "soul-reviving" melody, which characterize every line of these delightful lyrics. "Alas! poor Yorick! we knew him well:" well do we remember his "old buff waistcoat," his courteous manner, and his gentlemanly pleasantry, long after this Nestor of Song had retired to enjoy

the delights of rural life, despite the prayer of his racy verse:]

In town let me live then, in town let me die;
For in truth I can't relish the country, not I.
If one must have a villa in summer to dwell,
Oh! give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall.

[Again, there is no "biographical sketch of the author" prefixed to these songs, which we take to be an especial matter of regret, seeing that Captain Morris was born in the middle of the last century, and that he outlived the majority of the bon-vivant society which he gladdened with his genius, and lit up with his brilliant humour. Even "the sweet shady side of Pall-Mall" of his verse has almost disappeared; and of the princely home whereat he was wont to shine, not a trace remains. Half the present generation of readers may, therefore, with propriety ask, "Who was Captain Morris?"-an interrogative to which we will endeavour to reply, hoping for "the usual indulgence," &c. Charles Morris, then, was born of good family, in the celebrated year 1745, and appears to have inherited a taste for lyric composition; for his father composed the popular song of Kitty Crowder. At an early age, Captain Morris distinguished himself by his devotion to the muses. It is remarkable that no less than three generations of his family have served in the army, and were, by turns, in the same regiment. Captain M. afterwards exchanged into the Guards, where he was the contemporary of Captain Topham. His two sons are likewise in the army: the lady of one of them, Major Morris, descended in a diving-bell at Plymouth, about eighteen years since, on which occasion she penned some appropriate stanzas, while seated in the bell. For half a century, Captain Morris moved in the first circles of rank and gaiety: he was the Sun of the Table" at Carlton Palace, as well as at Norfolk House; and, attaching himself politically, as well as convivially, to his table companions, he composed the celebrated ballads of "Billy's too young to drive us," and "Billy Pitt and the Farmer," which continued long in fashion as the best satires upon the ascendant politics of the day. His humorous ridicule of the Tories was however, but ill repaid by the Whigs, upon their accession to office; at least, if we may trust the beautiful ode of "the old Whig Poet to his old Buff Waistcoat," already quoted in the Literary World. (See vol. i. p. 244.) We are not aware of this piece being included in any edition of the Songs: it bears date "G. R., Aug. 1, 1815;" six years subsequent to which we first saw it among the papers of the late Alexander Stephens, Esq. It was printed


in the Monthly Magazine, in 1821, and thence has been transferred to our pages. The "Songs " became very popular : in 1830, we possessed a copy of the twentyfourth edition; and we remember one of the ditties to have been "sung by the Prince of Wales, to a certain lady," to the air of "There's a difference between a Beggar and a Queen." Captain Morris's finest Anacreontic is the song Ad Poculum, for which he received the gold cup from the Harmonic Society; and it is one of the gems of this collection:]

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And, by blending light mirth with a moral-mix'd stave,

Won the smile of the gay and nod of the grave.
But, at length, the dull languor of mortal decay
Throws a weight on a spirit too light for its clay;
And the fancy, subdued as the body's opprest,
Resigns the faint flights that scarce wake in the

A painful memento that man's not to play
A game of light folly through Life's sober day ;
A just admonition, though view'd with regret,
Still blessedly offer'd, though thanklessly met.
Too long I, perhaps, like the many who stray,
Have upheld the gay themes of the Bacchanals' day;
But at length Time has brought, what it ever will

A shade that excites more to sigh than to sing.

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In short, all was dungeon within doors;
And yet, though so dark was my sight,
I durstn't go up to the windows,

Where oft we had sat through the night. Reflection, too, deaden'd my spirit,

I fear'd to look back on past joy,
(I found that my heart wouldn't bear it,)
And struggled all thought to destroy.
This leaden, disconsolate sinking,

No term of my rhyme can convey;
'Twas suspense of all sense and all thinking,
And closed were my eyes on the day.
I sought a dark hole of seclusion,

There droop'd down my head in despair; And, till Grief sent my eyes a suffusion, No sight in the house could I bear.

I know there's a price for all pleasure,
A penance for hours of joy;

That Fate hangs his scale for this measure,
And Time runs to give and destroy.

Things must be thus changed or inverted;
But, oh, may I never again
Be left in a palace deserted,

Where Friendship and Joy had their reign! [We have little to add, but that this reprint, notwithstanding its ill-assorted baptismal regeneration, will be acceptable to all who enjoy "the feast of reason and the flow of soul." It is embellished with a well-engraved portrait of the Captain, "from a picture in the possession of the family," and an excellent likeness it is.

Many years since, Captain Morris retired to a villa, presented to him, we believe, by the late Duke of Norfolk: it is named Brockham Court Lodge, and is situated a short distance from Dorking, and the foot of the noble range of which Box Hill forms the most picturesque point. Here the Captain "drank the pure pleasures of the rural life" long after many a bright light of his own time had flickered out and become almost forgotten. He died on July 11, 1838, in his ninety-third year: his illness, which was only of four days' duration, being internal inflammation. The attainment of so great an age, and the recollection of Capt. Morris's associations, will remind the reader that he must have

presented a rare combination of mirth and prudence, such as human conduct seldom presents for our imitation. He retained his gaieté de cœur to the last; so that with equal truth and spirit he remonstrated:]


THIS quarto of the play-room is illustrated with several clever designs, by Thomas Landseer. The birds tell their own stories to "the boy:" they are the skylark, puffin-auk, chimney-swallow, great tit, long-tailed tit, golden eagle, fish

[Really, we begin to believe the epitaph hawk, rook, little brown wren, willow at Siena, thus:]


wren, golden-crested wren, woodpecker, redbreast and cuckoo, fern owl, eider duck, and gyr falcon; and very neatly has Miss Taylor made these feathered folks narrate their history: they are, to use a theatrical phrase, up in their parts." As this is a new edition of the Boy and the Birds, we can but repeat that it is one of the best books of its excellent class, which we are inclined to rank as the best portion of literature for the young.

When life charms my heart, must I kindly be told,

I'm too gay and too happy for one that's so old?


"Vina dabant vitam-Mortem mihi vini dedere
Sobrius Auroram cernere non potui.
Ossa merum sitium Vino consperge sepulcrum
Et calice epoto-care Viator abi.

Valete Potatores."

'Twas rosy wine, that juice divine,

My life and joys extended;
But death, alas! has drain'd my glass,
And all my pleasures ended.

The social bowl, my jovial soul,

Ere morn ne'er thought of quitting; A jolly fellow, his wine, till mellow, To leave is not befitting.

My thirsty bones, oh! spare their moans,

Cry out for irrigation,


pray, then o'er my grave you'll pour
A copious libation.

Then fill a cup, and drink it up,

Pure wine, like ruby glowing,
This boon I pray, dear trav❜ller pay,
When from this tomb you're going.
Topers, farewell! where'er you dwell,
May wine be most abounding;
Be all your lays, of wine the praise,
In Pæans loud resounding.

[As pleasant news, at parting, we may add that Captain Morris has left his Autobiography in the possession of his family, which we do not despair of enjoying in print.]



THIS little book, of some fifty largeletter pages, sprinkled with attractive wood-cuts, is well calculated to aid the benevolent design for which it has been written, namely, the cause of humanity. The reader will recollect our commendatory notice of the Author's Memoirs of My Dog, and its amiable object of cherishing "in the youthful mind, kindly feelings towards the brute creation." In aid of this cause, we have ever been ready to lend our heart and hand; since we are persuaded that its success has considerably more influence upon society than unthinking persons are apt to imagine. In the present work, facts of Natural History are ingeniously interwoven with fictitious narrative, the precepts being printed in italics-as, "dogs feel as well as men." Of course, this book is a mere nursery trifle, where it must be regarded as a little packet of "good seed."



[THIS is, altogether, a Number of superior interest, with, perhaps, no more of the political leaven than is justified by the form and pressure of the time. The topics are Diet and Dyspepsy, being a review of Dr. Holland's Medical Notes of Reflections, published many months since. This paper wants freshness, both as regards subject and treatment, and is certainly not worthy of its prime place. We have already seen the topic much better handled in the Quarterly pages; and suspect the identical quotation from Dr. Prout, (p. 332,) to have before appeared in this journal; the story of Alexis St. Martin, and Dr. Beaumont's Experiments on the Gastric Juice, are some six years old, notwithstanding his "elaborate table of Digestibility" is very valuable. We are happy to perceive that our high estimate of Dr. Holland's work, (see Literary World, vol. i. p. 367,) is fully borne out by the Reviewer, who observes:]

Such is the variety of subjects handled, with more or less of detail, that few readers, professional or non-professional, can fail to be arrested by trains of observation and reflection which they will be happy to pursue under the guidance of so full and able a master as Dr. Holland. Throughout, we may add, they will find a high tone of moral sentiment, worthy of his noble profession-a generous contempt of all mean practices and compliances-the dignity of a philosopher combined with the graceful illustration and extensive sympathy of a scholar and gentleman.

[The following are excellent hints, especially at this dinner-giving season:]

Dr. Holland advises the dyspeptic to dine from a simple and discreet table, at regular hours; but he well adds, that "if this rule should bring him to a solitary meal set apart for himself, more of ill than of good results." When the stomach is full, the less the mind has to do with it the better-a lesson on which all who endeavour to digest at the same time tough chops and mental food of equal resistance, in the shape of reports legal and parliamentary, should ponder. There are few individuals more dyspeptic than those who pursue, day after day, the above regimen, and fewer who are not surprised at the effect of only two mutton chops and regular hours."

Baglivi, the celebrated Roman physician, mentions that in Italy an unusually large proportion of the sick recover during Lent, in consequence of the lower diet which is then observed as part of religious duty. We may take the liberty of adding, that the discipline of our own church, were it inculcated and practised more strictly, would leave little for the fashionable physician to do. Scarcely any combination of circumstances can be conceived more unfavourable to general health than that afforded by the dissipations of a London life during the season least propitious to it, namely, Lent, or, as the word itself signifies, the spring.

[The second paper is what we may term a splendid review of Mr. Hallam's Literature of Europe in the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth Centuries; in which especial justice is done to "the high places of literature," as the Reviewer phrases it. This article is, throughout, a masterly piece of criticism. On examining this work," the first great general map of the intellectual world attempted in this country," the reader will find that the puerilities of bibliomania receive no indulgence; the Reviewer observing :]

The bibliographers, who are apt to judge of the merits of a writer from the rarity of his book, will complain, that volumes over which the hammer of Mr. Evans has been suspended for many minutes of breathless anxiety, have received no more notice from Mr. Hallam than from their own age, which allowed them to sink into undisturbed obscurity; but bibliography, we apprehend, was not the object of our author. The searchers of the recondite treasures of the Bodleian and British Museum will look in vain, perhaps, to this work for its guidance in unearthing or undusting writers, not without merit or influence in their day, who were either unknown, or have been forgotten or disregarded by Mr. Hallam. But neither was this case, we conceive, contemplated in his design.

[The third paper, the Red Man, is an attractive article on the extermination of the North American Indians, the textbooks being Catlin's Catalogue of his Indian Gallery, and Dr. Morse's Report to the United States Government. The opening paragraph of this paper is a piece of sound truth and benevolent observation :]

There exists no trait more characteristic of that inate generosity which has always distinguished the British nation, than the support which an individual, in proportion as he is weak, friendless, and, indeed, notwithstanding his faults, has invariably received from it whenever he has been seen, under any circumstances, ruined and overwhelmed in a collision with superior strength. It little matters whether it be the Poles overpowered by the Russians, or merely a school-boy fighting with a man, for, without the slightest inquiry into the justice of the quarrel, the English public are always prone to declare themselves in favour of the "little one;" and this assistance is so confidently relied upon, that it is well known the basest publishers, when they find they can attract nothing but contempt, as a last resource wilfully incur a Government prosecution.

[By this article, we perceive that Catlin has offered his Gallery for sale to the British Government; in which case we hope the Reviewer's recommendation will be attended to :]

Leaving the worthy artist's own interests completely out of the question, and, in the cause of science, casting aside all party feeling, we submit to Lord Melbourne, to Sir Robert Peel, to Lord Lansdowne, to Sir R. Inglis, and to all who are deservedly distinguished among us as the liberal patrons of the fine arts, that Mr. Catlin's Indian collection is worthy to be retained in this country, as the record of a race of our fellow-creatures whom we shall very shortly have swept from the face of the globe. Before that catastrophe shall have arrived, it is true, a few of our countrymen may occasionally travel among them but it cannot be expected that any artist of note should again voluntarily reside among them for seven years, as competent as Mr. Catlin, whose slight, active, sinewy frame has peculiarly fitted him for the physical difficulties attendant upon such an exertion.

[The next paper, Journalism in France, is a very entertaining summary of the periodical press of France, occasionally in parallel with the press of our own country. Here are specimens :]

Literary Dinners.-Incredible as it may appear, we have heard it stated, very confidently, that English authors and actors who give dinners are treated with

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