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Clay, of Clay-Hall, is the best of it's kind, or, at least, had from the best hand in England. Every thing about him is English; but I don't know whether this arises from love of his country, or contempt of his brother. English Clay is not ostentatious of that which is his own, but he is disdainful of all that belongs to another. The slightest deficiency in the appointments of his companions he sees, and marks by a wink to some by-stander, or with a dry joke laughs the wretch to scorn. In company, he delights to sit by silent and snug, sneering inwardly at those who are entertaining the company, and committing themselves. He never entertains, and is seldom entertained. His joys are neither convivial nor intellectual; he is gregarious, but not companionable; a hard drinker, but not social. Wine sometimes makes him noisy, but never makes him gay; and, whatever be his excesses, he commits them seemingly without temptation from taste or passion. He keeps a furiously expensive mistress, whom he curses, and who curses him, as Buckhurst informs me, ten times a day; yet he prides himself on being free and unmarried! scorning and dreading women in general, "he swears he would not marry Venus herself unless she had £100,000 in each pocket, and now, that no mortal Venus wears pockets, he thanks Heaven he is safe-Buckhurst, I remember, assured me, that beneath this crust of pride there is some good nature. Deep hid under a large mass of selfishness, there may be some glimmerings of affection. He shows symptoms of feeling for his horses, and his mother, and his coachman, and his country. I do believe he would fight for old England, for it is his country, and he is English Clay.-Affection for his coachman did I say?—He shows admiration, if not affection, for every whip of note in town. He is their companion... no, their pupil, and, as Antoninus Pius gratefully prided himself in recording the names of those relations and friends from whom he learnt his several virtues, this man may boast to after-ages, of having learnt how to cut a fly off his near leader's ear from one coachman, how to tuck up a duck from another, and the true spit from a third-by the by, it is said, but I don't vouch for the truth of the story, that this last accomplishment cost him a tooth, which he had drawn to attain it in perfection.-Pure slang he could not learn from any one coachman, but from constantly frequenting the society of all. I recollect Buckhurst Falconer's telling me, that he dined once with English Clay, in company with a baronet, a viscount, an earl, a duke, and the driver of a mail-coach, to whom was given, by acclamation, the seat of honour. I am told there is a house, at which these gentlemen and noblemen meet regularly every week, where there are two dining-rooms divided by glass doors. In one room the real coachmen dine, in the other the amateur gentlemen, who, when they are tired of their own conversation, throw open the glassdoors, that they may be entertained and edified by the coachmen's wit and slang; in which dialect English Clay's rapid proficiency has, it is said, recommended him to the best society, even more than his being the master of the best of cooks, and of Clay-Hall.'-p. 362.

The accounts of the ball, and of the private theatricals at Fal coner Court, are extremely well done, but too long for extracts

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from a book in such general circulation. In the fourth volume Lord William is introduced. It is a remarkably well drawn picture of a person labouring under that morbid shyness which is so common in England, so rare out of it. The passage is not long, and we copy it with pleasure. It is in a higher style than Miss Edgeworth generally aims at, but she is quite successful in the attempt.

Lord William had excellent abilities, knowledge, and superior qualities of every sort, all depressed by excessive timidity to such a degree as to be almost useless to himself and to others. Whenever he was, either for the business or pleasure of life, to meet or mix with numbers, the whole man was as it were snatched from himself. He was subject to that night-mare of the soul who sits himself upon the human breast, oppresses the heart, palsies the will, and raises spectres of dismay which the sufferer combats in vain-that cruel enchantress who hurls her spell even upon childhood, and when she makes youth her victim, pronounces, Henceforward you shall never appear in your natural character.-Innocent, you shall look guilty-Wise, you shall look silly— Never shall you have the use of your natural faculties.-That which you wish to say you shall not say that which you wish to do, you shall not do-you shall appear reserved when you are enthusiastic-insensible when your heart sinks into melting tenderness. In the presence of those whom you most wish to please you shall be most aukward-and when approached by her you love you shall become lifeless as a statue, and under the irresistible spell of" mauvaise honte."

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Strange that France should give name to that malady of mind which she never knew, or of which she knows less than any other nation upon the surface of the civilized globe!

'Under the spell of" mauvaise honte" poor Lord William-laboured -fast bound-and bound the faster by all the efforts made for his relief by the matrons and young damsels who crowded round him continually. They were astonished that all their charms and all the encouragement they held out to him, failed to free this young nobleman from his excessive timidity.

'What a pity! it was his only fault, they were sure.-Ten thousand pities he could not be made to speak-they were certain he had a vast deal to say. And he could be so agreeable, they were confident, if he would. Most extraordinary that a man of his rank and fortune, whom every creature admired, should be so timid.

'True-but the timid Lord William all the time esteemed himself more highly than those ladies affected to admire him. Mixed with his apparent timidity was a secret pride.-Conscious of the difference between what he was and what he appeared to be, he was at once mortified and provoked, and felt disdain and disgust for those who pretended to admire his outward man, or who paid to his fortune that tribute which he thought due to his merit. With some few-some very few, by whom he was appreciated, his pride and timidity were equally at ease, his reserve vanished in an astonishing manner, and the man came out of the marble.'

It would be easy to multiply extracts, if it were necessary, or if our limits allowed it. But we must make an end. We take leave of Miss Edgeworth with feelings of undiminished respect. Patronage' is certainly not equally well written, nor equally entertaining with some of her other works: but neither is it so much inferior to them as unreasonable disappointment founded upon expectations, perhaps, as unreasonable, would suggest. The source of its fault is its length. Miss Edgeworth's manner is not adapted to what the French call les ouvrages de longue haleine.' Sketches and morality will not carry us through four volumes. There must be strong passion-which she has voluntarily renounced-or an interesting plot, with which her invention has not supplied her. the same time it would be most unjust to call a work of so much merit as this a failure. Judging from our own feelings, we should say that the languor of some parts is amply compensated in others, by nature, vivacity, and good sense-good sense which every body imagines himself to possess-of which so many people have not one particle and which, in the degree in which Miss Edgeworth possesses it, is a rare and admirable quality.

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Her friends will, of course, tell her that this work is, what all authors wish their last works to be, better than any that preceded it; and, on the other hand, she will hear, indirectly, from ill-natured critics, from those that hope to do themselves honour by condemning loudly what they hear it is not the fashion to praise, and from those that are tired of her reputation, and think that the time is come for reducing it to more proper boundaries, that it is altogether unworthy of her. Both judgments are alike unsound. Patronage is not so good as Ennui' or the Absentee,' but it would have been vastly more admired if, in them, she had not recently exhibited models which she now finds it hard to equal. We are not afraid that she should be elevated by undue praise, but she is more likely to feel unjust censure; and if we thought that our advice would not be quite surperfluous, for the purpose of bringing an understanding like her own to a wise decision, we should, above all things, desire her not to be discouraged by the less brilliant success of this work from again appearing before the public. This wave has not reached the mark that was left by the preceding one, the next may perhaps overflow it. It may be difficult to add to the reputation which she had already acquired, but, at any rate, we will 'venture to predict,' with as much confidence as can properly belong to southern soothsayers, that she will never write without adding to the stock of public amusement, and strengthening those impressions that are favourable to virtue. If in our remarks upon some parts of this work we have shewn any thing like asperity, it is because they appear tinctured with prejudices unworthy of their author.

ART.

ART. II.-Letters written in a Mahratta Camp, during the Year 1809, descriptive of the Character, Manners, Domestic Habits, and Religious Ceremonies of the Mahrattas. With Ten coloured Engravings, from Drawings by a Native Artist. By Thomas Duer Broughton, Esq., late Commander of the Resident's Escort at the Court of Scindia. 4to. London; Murray, Albemarle-street. 1813.

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HERE is little to admire in the style, and not much in the composition of these Letters. But as the writer lived three years in the midst of a Mahratta camp and, in consequence, must have had abundant opportunities of studying the character, manners, and customs of this singular people; it is next to impossible that he should be able to fill up three hundred and sixty quarto pages, without throwing in such a number of facts and observations as, by selection and arrangement, might convey to the reader both instruction and amusement. In the present state of the book, however, few will probably find themselves disposed to search for either. We are not sure that the compass of a few pages will enable us to apply a remedy; but we will at least endeavour, by lopping off redundancies, and by confining our operations to what relates to the character of Scindia and his subjects, to embrace the main points of Mr. Broughton's epistolary volume. The part which this chief has acted in the wars and politics of India, and the power which the people, as a distinct tribe, still possess on the Peninsula, will always command an interest in this country; and Mr. Broughton thinks, that, as the intrigues of a Mahratta durbar are matters of public notoriety and discussion, he shall be able to convey a tolerably correct idea of that policy and faith which have become as proverbial in modern India, as those of Carthage were among the ancient Romans,' and probably with somewhat more justice.

We shall first give a sketch of a Mahratta camp, and the component parts of a Mahratta army. On the ground where the troops are to encamp, a small white flag is planted to mark the spot where the Maha Raja (the great prince) purposes to pitch his own tents, and those of his family, his ministers, &c. which, collectively, are called the deoorie. The flags of the bazars or markets are placed in straight lines, parallel to one another, and forming streets, from the front to the rear of the army, extending sometimes three or four miles. The chief officers encamp on the right and left of the principal street, generally in the neighbourhood of some particular bazar.

'Their respective encampments are made without the smallest attention to regularity, cleanliness, or convenience; men, horses, camels, and bullocks, are all jumbled together in a mass; which mass is sur

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rounded on all sides by others of a similar nature, in a continued series ́of comfortless confusion.'

The shops of the bazars consist, generally, of a blanket stretched over a bamboo, which is supported at each end by a forked stick, fixed in the ground: they are from three to nine feet high, and proportioned, in size, to the circumstances of the proprietors.

Under these miserable coverings, not only are the goods exposed for sale, but the family of the shopkeeper resides, thoughout the year, and for many years together. The wealthiest merchants in the bazar use these tents.'

The military chiefs of the highest rank inhabit ruoters, a species of tent covered with two or three folds of cloth, closed at one end, and having a flap at the other, to keep out the wind and rain. These are somewhat more sheltered from the weather, but the inhabitants of every description appear to pass a wretched kind of life.

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They never feel even the solid and cheap comforts of a snug room, or the light of a candle; but in cold weather huddle round a miserable fire, made of horse or cow dung, or dirty straw, collected about their tents; and wrapping themselves up in a coarse blanket, or cotton quilt, contrive, with the aid of a pipe of bad tobacco, to while away a few hours of listless indolence. In this manner do the more sober of them pass their evenings; others however, it seems, retire, at the approach of evening, to the rack shop, or the tent of the prostitute, and revel through the night in a state of low debauchery, which could hardly be envied by the keenest votary of Comus and his beastly crew. these scenes of mirth and jollity are enacted in such tents as have already been described, and are exhibited to the eye through the medium only of half a dozen wicks immersed in thick gross oil, arranged in a dirty brass cruise, and which, together, scarcely afford as much light as a common English rush-light."

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Of the heterogeneous mass which composes Scindia's force, one of the most noted corps is a risalu, or troop, called the baruh bhaees, or twelve brothers, from the number of leaders which originally commanded them; they are reckoned the most licentious part of the army, hardly excepting the pindaras who support themselves entirely by plunder; whereas the bhaees receive pay, and plunder into the bargain.

Another very distinguished corps in this motley camp, though not, strictly speaking, a military one, is that of the Shohdajs; literally, the Scoundrels. They form a regularly organized body, under a chief named Fuzil Khan, to whose orders they pay implicit obedience. They are the licensed thieves and robbers of the camp, and from the fruits of their industry, their principal derives a very considerable revenue. On marching days they are assembled under their leader, and act as

porters

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