expressive, his countenance was pale through sickness, but his eyes had an uncommon vivacity and fire, he received ne with great politeness, and lamenting his illness, which prevented his rising, he requested me to be seated.

We immediately entered on the subject which had brought me there. I said, that in the course of my studies at the University, and since my leaving, my attention had been directed to more severe subjects, and that I now wished to study the French and Italian languages, and the polite literature of each country, with a more critical attention than the cursory manner in which, from my chief time being otherwise employed, I had hitherto regarded them, and that it was on this account that I had sought bis assistance. He said, he should be most happy in furthering my intentions, but that his illness, although he felt himself recovering, would, he feared, prevent him from waiting on me; this difficulty with great eagerness obviated, and proposed that I would visit him at bis own house for the purpose of receiving his instructions. He appeared gratified at what he called my kindness in preventing him so much trouble; and after some general conversation on the literature of the day, in which I found he was extremely well versed, and having arranged the order of my future visits to him, I took my leave.

Upon reflecting on the events of this visit, although much disappointed at not having seen the lady who was the object of it, my vanity consoled me by suggesting that I had made as great a progress in the Abbe's favour as could be expected from so short an acquaint

ance.

a

After I had regularly visited the Abbé for several days, and had at each time been grievously disappointed by not seeing the lady, I was one morning fortunate enough to find her with him, when he introduced her to me as Mademoiselle Jacqueline de Montville; general conversation ensued, and I found her manners as engaging as her person was lovely. I prolonged my stay as much as was possible, and took leave of her with those sentiments of respect and love which I had before entertained, perfectly confirmed. Not to dwell longer upon these circumstances, the more I saw of the young lady, the more I loved her; and at au interview which I had shortly after with her, when I found her alone, I disclosed those sen

timents to her, and without any more coyness than gave a lustre to her modesty, she referred me to the Abbé.

immediately went to him, and explained to him the state of affairs, adding, that Mademoiselle Jacqueline bad referred me to him.

My dear sir," said he, " as the only living protector of that amiable girl, you may suppose that I feel much anxiety as to her welfare, and I will confess to you, that I know no one to whom I would more willingly confide her happiness than yourself; but there are considerations which should prevent your rashly engaging in such a connexion as that which you now contemplate; you are nearly related to a noble family, who will perhaps offer some objections to your alliance with Jaequeline, on account of the adverse circumstances in which she is placed, although in point of birth, she may equal the proudest."

I here interrupted him, by saying, that the situation in which I stood with my family, was not of that nature which made it necessary for me to consult them upon such a subject.

But, said the Abbé, it is at all events necessary that you should make your intentions known to them, and in the event of their disapprobation, you can only act as you would have done before. "but

Yes, Monseiur," I replied; shall I not in some degree forfeit that independeuce which I have most coveted to preserve uninfringed, by asking permission to do that which a refusal cannot prevent my doing."

The Abbé said that he thought in this instance the objection could not hold, and that he thought it would shew a respectful attention which was due to Lord Trevayne.

As I saw that he particularly wished it to be done I resolved to sacrifice my own scruples to those which he enter tained, of course, considering it only as a compliment to be paid to Lord Prevayne, but not by any means a request which he could refuse.

I then took leave of Jacqueline and the Abbê, and retired to consider in what way I should make my applica tion to Lord Trevayne; about which I felt some perplexity. However, 1 determined not to delay, and the next day I waited on him.-After some prelimi nary conversation, I said that I resolved to marry, and that previously to my

doing so I thought proper to acquaint him with my intention.

His Lordship, fixing his eyes on me, appeared not to understand what I had been saying, and asked me what I meant; I instantly comprehended that what I had said did not meet his approbation; and this stratagem, which, perhaps, was intended to terrify, and certainly to confuse me, had quite a contrary effect, for, perceiving he wished to exert an authority to which I was by no means inclined to submit, I calmly and deter. minedly repeated my former conversa. tion.

"And pray, sir," said his Lordship, "who is this person to whom you are going thus suddenly to ally your self."

"She is," I said, " of the French no. blesse; her parents are both dead. She, with her mother, took refuge in this country soon after the commencement of the French Revolution; in fortune she is certainly deficient, but to that I have no right to object; and, in point of birth, she is, I conceive, unexcep tionable."

"Perhaps, sir," said his Lordship, I may be of a different opinion; but has she no name: for, in these times, when the Revolution is used as a pretext for the creation of imaginary no blemen, it may be necessary to know something of her title."

." She is the only child,” I said, “of the Comte de Montville, who fell in the French Revolution. Her mother has died very lately, and she is under the protection of a clergyman who was of the establishment of her father's family, and who accompanied the Comtesse into England."

And may I ask you, sir," said his Lordship, "if you have thought of the means you will possess of maintaining a wife and the expenses of a family."

"Yes, my Lord," I said, "my professional exertions yield me a som which, with economy, I consider quite ample to those purposes, and this I may very reasonably suppose will not de

crease."

"Mighty well," said his Lordship, “but listen to me; I had expected better things from your good sense and prudence, than to be thus led away by the artifices of the first woman who has caught your fancy; eyen if the tale you have been led to believe should prove true; but which you will allow me to

doubt, she is still beneath you, who, with your own abilities and my influence may reasonably look much higher-but, sir, there are more weighty considerations; the honour of your family is not to be sacrificed to your romantie feelings; it has already suffered enough in your unhappy father's imprudence, whose fate may read you the consequences of such rashness. I must hope that you will think better of it, and give up your present purpose."

I had restrained my feelings during his Lordship's speech, and when he finished, with as much coolness as I could summon, I said to him—“ You are not acquainted with the lady whom I have bad the hononr to mention to you, or you could not have implied to her any thing like artifice; and, as to the fate of my revered father, it was such as I contemplate with very differ eut feelings from those of regret; be died gloriously in the service of his country; and, had he lived, the society of his amiable wife (whose birth and virtues rendered her in every respect a suitable alliance for him, and one in which the honour of this family could not be said to be sacrificed), would have rendered his life as happy as he deserved. But," I added, "I fear your Lordship has mistaken the purpose for which I came to you; it was not to ask your permission on a subject which I have already well-considered, and on which I have fully determined, but it was to acquaint you of au event of importance to me, and which I therefore held it right that you should be informed of."

During this latter part of the conversation his Lordship had been several times on the point of interrupting me, and his eyes shewed the passion with which he was agitated on a sudden, however, he seemed to grow calm, and without making any direct reply to me, he said, "At all events, it will be proper for me to make some enquiries about this lady, and I will, therefore, trouble you for her address. This I immediately gave him, and desiring to see me the next day, he abruptly withdrew. (To be continued.)

To the Editor of the European M¢gdz3ně. SIR, Queen-street, Feb. 20, 1818. READ an article in your Magazme of last month, under the head of

"Southwark Bridge," containing a stricture upon that erection, and as you kindly stated that you would insert any answer to that paragraph, I now send this for your perusal, which, if you think worthy being placed in your Miscellany, I shall be obliged thereby.

In the first place, then, he says, that the Southwark-bridge is built on the same principle as that at Boston, "with all its faults"-that it is built on the principle of the Boston-bridge is true, but that it is with all its faults" I deny, and the only reason on which he rests his assertion of its being so, is, because it was built by the same persou. A very foolish reason, as he must know, that since that bridge was built, that person has had great experience in the art of bridge building, which has improved so much within these few years: experience makes even fools wise; what must it then do with such an able architect as the one in question? He next says, of this I am certain, that both structures are hanging their dread ful heavy weights of iron on their but tresses, and should this weight thrust them away, they must inevitably fall into the river, as did Staines-bridge into the river Thames, &c. &c. Of course, no one need be told, that if the support of any structure or thing whatever is taken away, that it must fall; but it is not to be supposed, that in such an undertaking as the Southwark-bridge, when it was well known that the weight of the iron must be immense, but that the most serious attention would be, and has been paid in that respect, both for the interest of the proprietors, and the reputation of the architect; there fore the iron-work is constructed for one part of it to support the other, and even supposing that the whole weight of the iron was to rest on the buttresses, they are so stupendous as to be well able to resist the weight great as it is. To proceed to the next statement: "Another disadvantage is this, the contraction and expansion of the iron by heat and cold, when confined between buttresses which is found very sensibly to affect bridges with small arches, how much more must it then large ones?" I answer, that as the disadvantage consts, as he says, in the iron being confined between buttresses, as it is in small arches, it is of course lessened in larger ones, as it has not so much confinement. He next states, that a decep

tive idea has been held out as an apology for the Southwark-bridge; viz. that when completed, London-bridge will be removed, but this as a citizen he denies; what will then become of the property on Fish-street Hill, &c. &c. No, no, says he, London-bridge, bad as it is, must be patched up and rebuilt, with a temporary bridge alongside of it. I must acknowledge, he proceeds, the bad state of London-bridge, neither can any person deny it, who will look at the engraved plan made by W. Dodd, engineer for the Select Committee of the House of Commons, &c. &c. Now, again, he is positively wrong in saying, that a deceptive idea has been held out as an apology for the Southwark-bridge; for, in the first place, no apology is necessary for it, and in the second place, it is not a "deceptive idea" that something must be done with Londonbridge, for he himself seems to know in what a wretched state it is, and if London-bridge is closed up but for a few months, (a temporary bridge that would bear the crowds of men, coaches, carts, &c. &c. which pass over Londonbridge hourly, would cost as much as in fact would build a new bridge), it will amply remunerate the subscribers to the Southwark; not that I think it will not do so without that help, but only state that as an additional reason for my thinking it likely to be a very profita ble, as well as a very useful structure, and does not require (as "a citizen" states,) a direct north or south road to be made to make it answer; it has an excellent road already made on the Middlesex side, without "pulling down our ancient Guildhall of London," as we are in the very heart of the City when we get to the top of Queen-street, and as to its being within a quarter of a mile of two free bridges, I think very few people would consider that, when it will not only save their time, but add to their comfort in walking; for any person who is in the habit of going over London-bridge, must know how excessively crowded it is at all hours of the day, and from that reason how very unpleasant is the walking there both on the bridge and the road from it (the Borough).

I am, Sir,

Your very obedient Servant, A PROPRIETOR OF THE SOUTHWARK BRIDGE. C. R..

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1

THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN.

No. III.

"And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eye-brow."

T appears to have been the object

And yet we must allow that the very feeling we applaud may be easily converted into a dangerous and detestable vice for should his aspiring mind resolve to soar beyond the height to which his talents, his perseverance, and his integrity, can elevate him, virtuous emulation is abandoned for lawless

celebrated picture of human life, to place each character in the most unfavourable light, and the most ridiculous attitude. It would have furnished an excellent subject for the pencil of Hogarth, had he delineated on canvass the humorous group which Shakspeare has so admirably depicted in poetry. After exhibiting the infant and the school-boy under circumstances sufficiently ludicrous, his peculiar felicity of description is strikingly displayed in this facetious representation of a youth whose ardent passion has kindled so fierce a flame, that reason and judgment, unable to extinguish or to moderate it, become the unfortunate victims of tis fury.

Among the various passions which agitate the soul of man, there are many which greatly contribute to his happi34 Bess, and without which his existence would be scarcely tolerable. But these are no longer conducive to his welfare than while they are under the dominion of reason; for whenever they usurp an undue ascendancy over the mind, folly or crime is the inevitable consequence. Every thought and every desire pursuing the same direction, and fixed upon the same object, whatever lies beyond the boundaries of this narrow path will be either unnoticed or imperfectly attended to. And while there exists so irresistible a determination in the breast to accomplish its purpose, the purity of the motives and the propriety of the means will be often disregarded, esteeming the preservation of virtue an inferior consideration, if success can be ensured by its sacrifice. Thus the man who can declaim against the appearance of deception and artifice while his understanding leads his opitions, will not scruple at the prac tice of vile bypocrisy and intriguing kaavery when passion takes the reins. We should be far from condemning the noble emulation of that youth who is seeking the summit of his profession, and, while he envies not the superiority of others, is unwilling to be inferior to any in prowess, in skill, or in learning Europ. Mag. Vol. LXXIII. Feb. 1818.

遷

!

nence by treading upon its innocent victims.

Who does not admire the calculating prudence which provides in the sunshine of prosperity against the storms of adversity? Or who can calumniate the rigid economy which prevents the cravings of penury by withholding the superfluities of extravagance? Yet those are virtues which border closely on a sordid appetite, which grows more keen the more it is pampered, and increases as life advances, when the certain approach of death might furnish a plausible excuse for prodigality, and the prospect of dissolution should withdraw the affections from the expiring vanities of time, and fix them on the opening realities of eternity.

But there is a passion which more frequently acquires a despotic sway over the mind than either ambition or avarice. Some are too indolent, others are too volatile, to be remarkably eager in the pursuit of power or of riches, and the attention of a few is bestowed upon superior objects. But we should discover a moral phenomenon, could we find a heart so cold as to be totally insensible to the feeling of love. This passion, being amiable in its nature, and universal in its operation, often exercises its influence upon those whose principles it cannot shake, though it sometimes overpowers their understandings. There are some men so circumspect in their conduct, that they seldom act without deliberation; and the mental vision of others is so disordered by self-conceit, that they generally admire whatever they perforin; yet there are few situations in which any man can acquit himself entirely to his satisfaction. Reflection will discover either an omission or an error. If then the wise, with all their foresight, cannot escape the imperfections of their nature, and the partial eye of self-opinion can only perceive its more glaring defects, love may surely find some apology in its blindness for the faults it is guilty of, as well as its ignorance of those faults

S

"Love is blind, and lovers cannot see The pretty follies they themselves commit

If we may form a correct opinion from the epistolary and poetical productions composed under the influence of this passion, and submitted to the inspection of the public, we should presume that few married men could review themselves in the character of lovers with any great degree of selfcomplacency. When the mind has subsided into the delightful tranquillity of domestic happiness, it wonders that love was not always a sentiment rather than a passion. The misjudging partiality of friends, or the necessitous indigence of relatives, has often exposed to the observation of the world what was intended for the perusal of a single individual; and thus bas moral or literary reputation been frequently tarnished or considerably qualified. After admiring the inagnanimity of the hero whom no difficulty could inti midate and no accident surprise, we are disappointed to hear him " sighing like furnace" at the fancied indifference or caprice of his favourite. Having observed the poet ascend the summit of Parnassus, and immortalize his name by a subject worthy of his genius, and in strains that emulate the dignity of his theme, we regret to find him at its base addressing a woeful ballad to his mis tress' eye-brow." These dolorous sighs may awaken the sensibility and excite the compassion of their object, and these ingenious addresses may flatter her vanity if her good sense do not despise them, but the dispassionate multitude will smile at the former and ridicule the latter.

Though these remarks may be considered just, yet there is a danger of their being attributed to a stoical apathy, which expels every noble virtue from the bosom in its attempt to subdue the insurrections of passion. Or perhaps they may be thought to proceed from a cynical moroseness, which shuns society at first because it deems all men its inferiors, and afterwards despises it because no man can discover its superiority; which originates in pride, and terminates in misanthropy. But had the dictates of feeling been attended to, instead of pursuing the path in which we were placed by our author, we should have been led to expatiate on the purity of the source from whence this passion flows, the

amiable effects it is calculated to produce, and the interesting connexions to which it leads. Violence of emotion and extravagance of expression are always to be dreaded when the soul is elevated above its ordinary sphere; yet this enthusiasm is less culpable than that repulsive indifference which obstructs the current of the affections, and drives it back to its polluted fountain; the one exhibits the weakness of the judgment, but the other exposes the deformity of the heart.

Though the sacred historian has touched but slightly on the character and condition of the first man, before his moral perfections were sullied by transgression, and his happiness destroyed by the fall, yet he has minutely recorded his beautiful and animated expression excited by the creation of the first woman

"The world was sad, the garden was a wild,

And man, the hermit, sighed—'till woman smil'd."

The sinless nature of both kindled a holy flame in the breast of each; the one who excited it, and the other who felt its power, being alike immaculate. Every circumstance also conspired to render the passion as ardent as it was innocent. Though Adam appears to have been occasionally favoured with the immediate presence of the Deity, and surrounded by the most pleasing combinations of animate and inanimate nature; though the lively sensations of wonder and gratitude must have filled his soul with ineffable delight; yet there was none to participate the enjoyment of these divine interviews, no conpanion to admire the beauty of these lovely scenes, no kindred mind to feel the transport of these sublime emotions -"but for Adam there was not found an helpmeet for him." This temporary solitude must have given an additional warmth and interest to the social intercourse by which it was succeeded. Yet even the peculiarly appropriate time at which Eve was created could not have afforded so powerful a stimulus to affection as her remarkable origin. The identity of person which had once subsisted was well adapted to produce a correspouding unity of heart; and this intimacy of connexion was awfully exemplified in their simultaneous disobedience and concurrent ruin. Though these extraordinary incitements to a pure and genuine passion no longer