depravity. This little miscreant had received, punishment, with less danger to his person or to his fame: for where could the bircling be found to fling contumely or ingratitude at his head, whose private distresses he had not laboured to alleviate, or whose public condition he had not laboured to improve?"

a box on the ear from Mr. Curran, for some alleged misconduct a few days before-The Moor's blow did not sink deeper into a mind more furious for revenge, or more predisposed by nature for such deadly impressions, He was in the bed-room by mere chance, when Mr. Curran entered. He immediately hid himself in the curtains, till he observed him too busy with his portmanteau for observation. He then levelled at him the old blunderbuss which lay charged in the corner, the stiffness of whose trigger, too strong for his infant fingers, alone prevented the aim, which be confessed he had taken, and which bad so nearly terminated the occupations of the cobler."

"One day, previous to his trial, as the governor was going his rounds, he entered Emmett's room rather abruptly; and observing a remarkable expression in his countenance, he apologized for the interruption. He had a fork affixed to his little deal table, and appended to it, there was a tress of hair. DESCRIPTION OF MR. ROWAN-(EXTRACT-cently I am occupied. This little tress has 'You see,' said he to the keeper, how inno

ED FROM MR. CURRAN'S ADDRESS TO
THE JURY ON ROWAN'S TRIAL.)

"I will venture to say, there is not a man
in this nation more known than the gentle-
man who is the subject of this prosecution,
not only by the part he has taken in public
concerns, and which he has taken in common ||
with many, but, still more so, by that extra-
ordinary sympathy for human affliction, which,
1 am sorry to think, he shares with so small
a number. There is not a day that you hear
the cries of your starving manufacturers in
your streets, you do not also see the advocate
of their sufferings-that you do not see his
honest and manly figure, with uncovered head,||
soliciting for their relief; searching the frozen
heart of charity, for every string that can be
touched by compassion; and urging the force
of every argument, and every motive, save
that which his modesty suppresses the au-
thority of his own generous example. Or if
you see him not there, you may trace his steps
to the abode of disease, and famine, and des-
pair; the messenger of Heaven; bearing with
him food, and medicine, and consolation.
Are these the materials, of which we suppose
anarchy and public rapine to be formed? Is
this the man, on whom to fasten the abomi-
nable charge of goading on a frantic populace
to mutiny and bloodshed? Is this the man
likely to apostatize from every principle that
can bind him to the state; his birth, his pro-
perty, his education, his character, and his
children? Let me tell you, gentlemen of the
jury, if you agree with his prosecutors, in
thinking there ought to be a sacrifice of such
a man, on such an occasion, and upon the
credit of such evidence, you are to convict
him. Never did you, never can you give a
sentence, consigning any man to public

long been dear to me, and I am plaiting it to wear in my bosom on the day of my execution.' On the day of that fatal event, there was found sketched by his own hand, with a pen and ink, upon that very table, an admirable like. ness of himself, the head severed from the body, which lay near it, surrounded by the scaffold, the axe, and all the frightful para. phernalia of a high treason execution. What a strange union of tenderness, enthusiasm, and fortitude, do not the above traits of character exhibit! His fortitude, indeed, never for an instant forsook him. On the night previous to his death, he slept as soundly as ever; and when the fatal morning dawned, he arose, knelt down and prayed, ordered some milk, which he drank, wrote two letters (one to his brother in America, and the other to the secretary of state, inclosing it) and then desired the sheriffs to be informed that he was ready. When they came into his room, he said he had two requests to make,—one, that his arms might be left as loose as possible, which was humanely and instantly acceded to. I make the other,' said he, not under any idea that it can be granted, but that it may be held in remembrance that I have made it

A

it is, that I may be permitted to die in my uniform.** This, of course, could not be allowed: and the request seemed to have no other object, than to shew that he gloried in the cause for which he was to suffer. remarkable example of his power over himself and others, occurred at this melancholy moment. He was passing out, attended by the sheriffs, and preceded by the executioner -in one of the passages stood the turnkey, who had been personally assigned to him

*The colour of the rebel uniform is green.

during his imprisonment: this poor fellow
loved him in his heart, and the tears were
streaming from his eyes in torrents. Emmett
paused for a moment; his hands were not at
liberty-he kissed his cheek-and the man,
who had been for years the inmate of a dun-
geon, habituated to scenes of horror, and
hardened against their operation, fell senseless
at his feet. Before his eyes had opened again
upon
this world, those of the youthful sufferer
had closed on it for ever. Such is a brief
sketch of the man who originated the last
state trials in which Mr. Curran acted as an
advocate."

EXTRACT FROM AN APPEAL TO THE PEOPLE

OF IRELAND, AS TO WHAT THEY COULD
HOPE FROM THE PERSONAL APPEARANCE
OF BUONAPARTE.

would feel any kind-hearted sympathy for you?
Answer yourselves, by asking, what sympathy
does he feel for Frenchmen, whom he is ready
to bury by thousands in the ocean, in the
barbarous gambling of his wild ambition ?
What sympathy, then, could bind him to you?
He is not your countryman; the scene of
your birth, and your childhood, is not endeared
to his heart by the reflection, that it was also
the scene of his. He is not your fellow-chris-
tian: he is not, therefore, bound to you by
any similarity of duty in this world, or by any
union of hope beyond the grave."

MELANCHOLY OF MR. CURRAN IN THE DE-
CLINE OF LIFE.

"The gloom of his own thoughts discoloured every thing; and from calamity to calamity he would wander on, seeing in the "Are your opinions of modern and subfuture nothing for hope, and in the past, jugated France the same that you entertained nothing but disappointment-You could not of popular and revolutionary France fourteen recognize in him the same creature, who, but years ago? Have you any hope if the First an hour preceding had set "the table in a Consul got possession of your island, he would roar"-bis gibes, his merriment, his flashes of treat you half so well as he does those counwit were all extinguished. He had a favourite tries at his door, whom he must respect more little daughter, who was a sort of musical than he can respect or regard you? And do prodigy. She had died at the age of twelve; you know how he treats those unhappy and he had her buried in the midst of a small nations? You know that in Ireland there is grove just adjoining his garden. A little little personal property to plunder; that there rustic memorial was raised over her, and often are few churches to rob. Can you, then, and often have I seen him, the tears "chasing doubt, that he would reward his rapacious each other" down his cheeks, point to bis generals and soldiers, by parcelling out the daughter's monument, and wish "to be with soil of the island among them, and by dividing her, and at rest." Such, at times, was the you into lots of serfs to till the respective man before whose very look, not merely lands to which they belonged? Can you sup- gravity, but sadness has often vanished-who pose that the perfidy and treason of surren has given birth to more enjoyment, and dering your country to an invader, would to uttered more wit, than, perhaps, any of his your new master be any pledge of your alle. cotemporaries in any country,who had in giance? Can you suppose that, while a single him materals for social happiness, such as we French soldier was willing to accept an acre of cannot hope again to see combined in any one; Irish ground, he would leave that acre in pos- and whose death has cast, I fear, a permanent session of a man who had shewn himself so eclipse upon the festivities of his circle. Yet, wickedly, and so stupidly dead to the sug even these melancholy bours were not without gestions of the most obvious interest, and to their moral. They proved the nothingness of the ties of the most imperious moral obliga- this world's gifts-the worse than inutility of tions? What do you look forward to with res this world's attainments-they forced the pect to the aggrandizement of your sect? mind into involuntary reflection-they showed Are you Protestants?—He has abolished Pro- a fellow-creature enriched with the finest testantism and Christianity. Are you Catho-natural endowments, having acquired the lics? Do you think that he will raise you to most extensive reputation, without a pecuniary the level of the Pope? Perhaps and I think || want, or a professional rival; yet, weighed he would not; but if he did, could you hope more privilege than he has left his holiness? And what privilege has he left him?-He has reduced his religion to be a mendicant for contemptuous toleration; and he has reduced his person to beggary, and to rags. Let me ask you a further question: do you think he

down with a constitutional depression, that left the poorest wealthy, and the humblest happy in the comparison."

LAST MOMENTS OF MR. CURRAN. "His short stay in Cheltenham could scarcely be called existence. He constantly

fell asleep in the day time, and when he awoke, it was only to thoughts of sadness. He was perpetually fancying things which never had existence, and misinterpreting those which had. He told me he was dying; and indeed, to show how firmly the prophetic presentiment was impressed upon his mind, the very night preceding his departure, he handed Lady Faulkner the following melancholy impromptu, written in pencil, on a blank leaf of paper,|| which lay accidentally before him:— ·

For welcome warm-for greeting kind, "Its present thanks the tongue can tell ; "But soon the heart no tongue may find—

Then thank thee with-a sad farewell? "Poor fellow! little did I think that in a

few days afterwards, I was to see him sadly verifying his own prediction! The heart, indeed, was beating, but the tongue was mute for ever. On Wednesday, the 8th of October, I called on him at his lodgings, No. 7, Amelia Place, Brompton. He asked me to dine with him on the following day, to meet Mr. Godwin: at eleven o'clock at night, however, he wrote the annexed note to me, the last he ever wrote to any one. It is remarkable that there is not a superfluous word in it. In fact, he was struck with apoplexy in two hours

after.

"Early on Thursday, I was, of course, informed of the melancholy circumstance of the preceding night. I found him only just breathing-one eye closed, and one side quite inanimate. I asked him to take me by the hand, if he knew me he took it, and faintly squeezed it—in a day or two after, he similarly recognised his old and attached friend Serjeant Burton, and this was the only symptom of intelligence he exhibited during his illness. I saw him at seven o'clock in the evening of the 13th, and at nine he died."

BEAUTIFUL REFLECTION BY THE AUTHOR

"Such men need not the ceremonials of

the tomb-history is their natural monument, and their country the most honorable mourner: -to their care, with a melancholy confidence, I now consign him, fully assured, that when the slaves who revile him, shall be neglected dust, the wisdom of posterity will respect the name, and its patriots weep over the memory of CURRAN."

MEMOIRS OF MRS. HAMILTON.

Memoirs of the late Mrs. Elizabeth Hamilton. By Miss Benger. 2 vols. 12mo. Longman and Co.

local circumstances, yet it was what stamped the future high celebrity of its writer the work was an elucidation of that mania, which was so prevalent for a short

"As our work is peculiarly addressed to, and patronized by the female sex, so, it ever gives us sincere pleasure to record their virtues, their talents, and that peculiar ease, and elegance, which always charac-period during the eighteenth century. We terize their writings. Interested alike, therefore, for the inestimable deceased, who was an honor to literature, and for her fair biographer, we revise these memoirs with double satisfaction; from whence, after a few cursory remarks, we shall present our readers with some select extracts.

Mrs. Hamilton obtained a very high and just celebrity for her novel of Modern Philosophers, and also, by her letters supposed to be written by a Hindoo Rajah; these works were sufficient in themselves to establish her fame, as a female author of the very first class; and, though the success of Modern Philosophers depended much on

shall not dwell upon the wonderful talent displayed in this performance; it has been too generally read, and too justly admired, for us to attempt offering any thing new on the subject.

The memoirs of Mrs. Hamilton are more interesting, in one respect, than those of literary persons in general; because they represent a female writer overcoming all the disadvantages of feminine education, and the prejudices of society; offering a striking proof of energy, firmness, and unrivalled perseverance: yet, all this effort was made without ever swerving in the smallest instance, from those habits and

the ease and elegance of Miss Benger's style.

INDISPOSITION OF MR. HAMILTON.

"To her other regrets, Miss Hamilton now added the reflection, that she had prematurely deprived herself of his society. The approach of Christmas increased ber dejection: in surveying her desolated home, she was painfully reminded of the cherished objects she had lost, and instead of looking to the future for hope and encouragement, was led, by an involuntary impulse, to contrast her present with her former situation. This melancholy seemed prophetic of the calamity that awaited her. Mr. Hamilton had long ceased to be robust in his last journey from Scotland, he contracted a cold, which produced alarming

:

Customs imposed on her sex: no woman was more endowed with all the tender affections; as a friend, a sister, and a daughter, she shone pre-eminent. She was placed, in early youth, in a situation, by no means favourable to literary exertion, or to intellectual improvement. Her family was illustrious, but her father had no inheritance; and his sudden death prevented his providing in any way for his family. Assisted by her brother, his widow was enabled to give her children a good education. Elizabeth, the subject of the memoirs before us, was adopted by a paternal aunt, who resided with her husband in Stirlingshire at a proper age she was sent to school, and was educated after the manner of females in general. The improve-pulmonary symptoms. A voyage to Lisbon ment of her natural abilities was all her own. Her reading was confined, and of the few books she had perused, she was charged not to speak, least she should appear like a female pedant, amongst a contracted and prejudiced society. Her correspondents, however, consisted of her elder brother, who united together the characters of a brave soldier, and a most accomplished scholar, and gentleman, and an affectionate elder sister. During the long residence of her brother in India, they kept up a regular epistolary correspond-rived; but the object of their mutual solici

ence: from this correspondence Miss Benger has selected some very pleasing extracts.

Miss Hamilton's first literary essay appeared in the Lounger: but, on her brother's return to Europe, she paid very seri ous attention to literature. An early disappointment in the tender affections, caused all the attachment of a susceptible heart to be absorbed in sisterly regard. After the death of her uncle, she resided with Mr. Hamilton, and her sister, Mrs. Blake; till her brother was obliged to prepare for a return to India, on which occasion Miss

being recommended by his medical friends, he invited his elder sister to be the companion of his voyage, whilst, with mistaken tenderness, he endeavoured to disgiuse from the other the extent of his malady,"

DEMISE OF MR. HAMILTON.

"Touched, even to agony, with the allusion to her brother's exhausted constitution, she conceived an alarm that was not to be repressed, and instantly commenced her journey. On reaching Mr. Hamilton's lodgings at Hampstead, she found her sister already ar

tude was no longer in a state to leave England. During some weeks of this mournful reunion, the patient continued to linger, and his friends to fluctuate between doubt and despair. On the 14th of March, 1792, the conflict ended, when, in the prime of his ambitious hopeswith the prospect of realizing all his early dreams of distinction, Charles Hamilton expired, preserving, to his last moment all the sensibilities that endear the man or exalt the christian."

LITERARY PURSUITS OF MISS HAMILTON
AFTER THE DEATH OF HER BROTHER.
"The outline she had traced under his im-

proving eye, remained a blank; still she was

unable to force her thoughts from the only object that appeared worthy to engage them, and was thus insensibly led to conceive the design of writing the Hindoo Rajah, in which she was not only permitted to recal the ideas she had acquired from her brother's couver

Hamilton again took possession of her house in Stirlingshire: on the 14th of March, 1792, however, this excellent brother expired; and the loss was to Miss Hamilton irreparable; her grief, somewhat abated by time, felt solace in literary pursuits. She resided at Edinburgh, and during her staysation, but to pourtray his character, and there, was a subject of distinguished attention and general esteem.

The following extract is a specimen of No. 119.-Supplement.

commemorate his talents and virtues. When she had written a few sheets, she submitted to her chosen friend, (Mrs. G.) the plan of her SS

is solemn and imposing; the wit is often ele◄ gant; the satire grave and severe; the writer sometimes affects to smile, yet, has obviously forgotten to laugh: her individual feelings are embodied in Charlotte; and a beautiful tribute is offered to her lamented brother, in the delineation of the character of Percy, who is not introduced to the scene as a living actor, but as one already reposing in the grave.”

work, but with a diffidence that betrays the the melancholy that pervaded the author's dejection of her spirits. I am afraid, she mind: at the commencement, the style is apobserves,' to inquire what you will say to mypropriately figúrative and poetical; the irony black baby: I had no sooner given it out of my hands, than I passed sentence of condemnation on it myself, and was almost ashamed of having exposed it even to your eye: but there is one thing of which I must beg leave to assure you, and that is, I have so little of authorship about me, that there is no occasion for the smallest degree of delicacy in pointing out its defects, or, indeed, in con. demning in toto, any child of my brain, towards whom I am so unnatural a parent, that I have hitherto seen them smothered without remorse. That which has been done by my own diffidence, will be still more easily accom. plished, when aided by the judgment of a friend, on you, then, my dear madam, it will depend, whether my poor Rajah shall sleep in peace on his native mountains, or expose himself to the dangers of criticism, by a trip to England; if you think him too weak to stand the dangers of the voyage, he shall never move a step further.'

"The fiat of this intelligent friend decided the Rajah's destiny."

STYLE AND CHARACTER OF THE HINDOO

RAJAH.

"The Hindoo Rajah bears many traces of

We shall conclude these remarks and extracts, with those beautiful lines, written by Mrs. Hamilton, on the social pleasures by which she once found herself encircled.

In one alone I saw, Oh! pleasing sight!
'The mind's first gifts,-the heart's best
virtues blend-

In a lov'd brother saw them all unite,
And mine the pride to call that brother
friend!

'Such were thy early scenes, deceitful year!
From these thy closing hour beheld me

torn;

'Condemn'd to leave whate'er my soul holds dear,

'Reluctant, sorrowing, hopeless, and forlorn.'

LIFE AND ERRORS OF JOHN DUNTON.

Life and Errors of John Dunton, Citizen of London. 2 vols. 8vo. Nichols.

THIS work, besides its series of confessions, gives the characters and biographical sketches of more than a thousand cotemporary divines, and other persons of literary eminence.

readers, "the great patron of hackney authors."

In 1685, he went to New England, where the books he had formerly published, being adapted to the taste of the puritans there, he met with considerable success. On his return to England, he was loaded with family debts and contentions; and after enduring a confinement of ten months, he departed for Germany and the Low Countries. When William III. arrived in London, Dunton again opened a shop at the Black Raven, opposite the Poultry Compter, where he continued in trade for ten years, meeting, alternately, success and disap

John Dunton was the son of the rector of Aston Clinton, in Buckinghamshire; he was born in the year 1659, and intended for the church; but at the age of fourteen, he evinced a disposition too volatile for the sacred profession; and when he had nearly attained the age of fifteen he was bound apprentice to Mr. Thomas Parkhurst, an eminent bookseller of the Presbyterian persuasion. Here he evinced a conduct, not ́the most regular, and when his term ex-pointment. In 1692, he was chosen liverypired, he gave an entertainment to one hundred apprentices, to celebrate what he styled his funeral. He soon after set up for himself, and became, as he informs his

man of the company of stationers; and, after having been twice married, he died at the age of 74, in a state of obscurity, and almost insane: this latter assertion will be