sibility of raising new taxes-the danger of perishing by famine, or falling by the sword-squandered resourcessullied fame and above all, the balance of power! fire and fury for the balance of power! neglected or misunderstood by a blind and bungling administration, who doubtless might have been illuminated, had they solicited light from the Edinburgh Reviewers, not in the form of that most obnoxious instrument, a treasury warrant, which would have been spurned at, but in forma pauperis, as best befitting them. Of all this dread catalogue of ills past, present, and to come, I am afraid the bulk of our countrymen have no adequate conceptionbuoyed up by the issue of a few skirmishes in the Peninsula which have been magnified into victories-by the chance-medley business of Waterlooby the restoration of three or four legitimate, mark that, legitimate crowns by the acquisition, at the peace, of certain cumbersome territories in Europe, Asia, Africa, and America-by the blockhead Wellington being selected to command the allied armyand by our mean turnkey triumph over a mighty but unfortunate monarch,

"The greatest man that ever was or ever

will be quite a jewel of a man,”

They rashly consider the nation as standing on a higher pinnacle of re nown than it ever attained in former times; whereas, were these unfortu nates capable of a moment's considera tion, and would they carefully read the Edinburgh Review, they could not fail to contemplate with horror the yawning gulf that is ready to devour

them.

One ray of comfort, however, has been kindly emitted by Mr Review, for it would seem that the conduct of a certain individual in the affair of Lavalette, has not only exalted his own character, but that of the British nation, in the eyes of all Europe. Here, along with a crumb of comfort, we have a display of the true art of damp ing; and it will doubtless have a salutary effect in subduing the pride and spirit of this once mighty nation, to have it established, that her degrada tion was sealed, unless it had been redeemed by Major-General Sir Robert Wilson. Yet this saviour of his country's fame has, O shame! been hunt

ed by the whole pack of treasury minions. The underlings of underlings, and all the ministerial toolsbitter words these have opened in full cry against the hero whose generous gallantry has redeemed the character of the Queen of the Ocean, merely because he had doubted the doctrines of legitimacy, and was an enemy to arbitrary power. How much are we indebted to Sir Robert Wilson, and how much more to Mr Review, for informing us of our high obligation, of which it is possible we might otherwise have remained an ignorant people.

I shall conclude with a proposal, which I hope will not be disagreeable to conversational dampers, that when any observation is made, with the obvious intention of correcting superabundant pride, or vanity, or even the excess of good humour and contentment (for every excess requires correction), some person in the company shall call out with an audible voice, A Damper, by which means the notice of all present will be immediately directed to the benevolent individual, thereby obtaining for him that tribute of respect to which he is so well entitled, and which I am positively determined, such amiable, useful, and well bred persons shall always receive from

AN OLD FELLOW.

P. S.-Being desirous of saving my friends unnecessary trouble, I hereby intimate to the fraternity of dampers, that when they meet with turtle and champagne at a friend's table, it is unnecessary for them to remark, that calf's head and perry are much better things, the observation having been often hazarded, but without the desired effect.

THE BATTLE OF SEMPACH.

SIR,

THE verses enclosed are a literal translation of an ancient Swiss ballad upon the battle of Sempach, fought 9th July 1386, the victory by which the Swiss cantons established their independence. The author, Albert Tchudi, denominated the Souter, from his profession of a shoemaker,

The Austrian Lion* 'gan to growl,
And toss his mane and tail;

And ball, and shaft, and cross-bow bolt,
Went whistling forth like hail.

Lance, pike, and halberd, mingled there,
The game was nothing sweet;
The boughs of many a stately tree
Lay shiver'd at their feet.

The Austrian men-at-arms stood fast,
So close their spears they laid;
It chafed the gallant Winkelried,
Who to his comrades said-

"I have a virtuous wife at home,
A wife and infant son;

I leave them to my country's care,
This field shall soon be won.

These nobles lay their spears right thick,
And keep full firm array,

Yet shall my charge their order break,
And make my brethren way.".

He rushed against the Austrian band,
In desperate career,

And with his body, breast, and hand,
Bore down each hostile spear.

Four lances splintered on his crest,
Six shivered in his side;
Still on the serried files he press'd
He broke their ranks, and died.

This patriot's self-devoted deed,
First tamed the lion's mood,
And the four forest cantons freed
From thraldom by his blood.

Right where his charge had made a lane,

His valiant comrades burst,

With sword, and axe, and partizan,
And hack, and stab, and thurst.

The daunted lion 'gan to whine,
And granted ground amain,

The mountain bull+, he bent his brows,
And gored his sides again.

with small chains. When they alighted to fight upon foot, it would seem that the Austrian gentlemen found it necessary to cut off these peaks, that they might move with the necessary activity.

* A pun on the Archduke's name, Leopold. A pun on the Unus, or wild bull, which gives name to the canton of Uri,

Then lost was banner, spear, and shield,

At Sempach in the flight,

The cloister vaults at Konig's field
Hold many an Austrian knight.

It was the Archduke Leopold,
So lordly would he ride,

But he came against the Switzer churls,
And they slew him in his pride.

The heifer said unto the bull,
"And shall I not complain;
There came a foreign nobleman
To milk me on the plain."
"One thrust of thine outrageous horn
Has gall'd the knight so sore,
That to the churchyard he is born,
To rule our glens no more."

An Austrian noble left the stour,
And fast the flight 'gan take;
And he arrived in luckless hour
At Sempach on the lake.

He and his squire a fisher call'd,
(His name was Hans Von Rot)
"For love, or meed, or charity,
Receive us in thy boat."

Their anxious call the fisher heard,
And glad the meed to win,
His shallop to the shore he steer'd,
And took the flyers in.

And while against the tide and wind
Hans stoutly row'd his way,
The noble to his follower sign'd
He should the boatman slay.

The fisher's back was to them turn'd,
The squire his dagger drew,

Hans saw his shadow in the lake,
The boat he overthrew.

He 'whelm'd the boat, and as they strove,
He stunn'd them with his oar,

"Now, drink ye deep my gentle sirs, You'll ne'er stab boatman more.

"Two gilded fishes in the lake

This morning have I caught,

Their silver scales may much avail,
Their carrion flesh is naught."

It was a messenger of woe

Has sought the Austrian land;
"Ah! gracious lady, evil news!
My lord lies on the strand.

"At Sempach, on the battle field,
His bloody corpse lies there :".
"Ah gracious God!" the lady cried,
"What tidings of despair!"

Now would you know the minstrel wight,
Who sings of strife so stern,
Albert the Souter is he hight,
A burgher of Lucerne.

A merry man was he, I wot,
The night he made the lay,
Returning from the bloody spot
Where God had judged the day.

THE PASSION.

[From the Old Spanish.]

EARTH and Heaven bewailing,
The Light at mid-day failing,
The sea, that sparkled cheerily,
Rolling back waves drearily;
It was an hour of dread,
When the Saviour said,
"Eli, Eli," from the tree,
“Lord, I yield my soul to thee."

It was an hour of grieving,
To angel and to man;
A quick convulsive heaving
Through nature's bosom ran.
Jehovah, the great Maker,
Of human pangs partaker!
The God that gave us breath,
For us to die the death!

It is a thought for gazing eyes,
But not for words, nor tears, nor sighs-
Jesu's dying agonies!

Mary, mother, humbly kneeling,
I see a smile of radiance stealing-
A holy smile, I see it break,
A moon-beam o'er thy pallid cheek.
O who may utter, who may think,

What joy is mingled with thy fears, While Golgotha's dry dust doth drink Jesu's blood and Mary's tears!

LINES,

From the German of the late Prince Louis of Prussia.

THE soul that inwardly is fed On solemn thoughts of sorrow bred, On aspirations pure and high, On wishes, that in breathing die, Like morning webs of gossamere, The mysterious hours that cheer, But when the day shines disappear The soul, that in its serious mood O'er melancholy dreams doth brood, And nourisheth the lonely eye With wells of untold miseryThe soul that, were it open laid, Would make the boldest heart afraid To think that woes so dark can rest Within a human brother's breastO how can such a spirit be Concealed beneath a mask of glee? A soul so stately, sad, and pure, How can it such a mien endure, Light, careless, airy, and secure? Alas! go ask why flowers unfold Their glories o'er the grave's black mould. Go ask, why the dark sea reflects The sky's bright beams and purple specks. Go ask, why man received so strange a birth, So near to heaven, and yet so bound to earth. A. W. S.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF AN IDIOT

GIRL.

(By a Lady.)

WHO, helpless, hopeless being, who
Shall strew a flower upon thy grave;
Or who from mute Oblivion's power
Thy disregarded name shall save.

Honour, and wealth, and learning's store,
The votive urn remembers long,
And e'en the annals of the poor
Live in the bard's immortal song.

But a blank stone best stories thee,
Whom wealth, nor sense, nor fame could find;
Poorer than ought beside we see,
A human form without a mind.

A casket gemless! yet for thee
Pity shall grave a simple tale,
And reason shall a moral see,
And fancy paint for our avail.

Yes, it shall paint thy hapless form,
Clad decent in its russet weed;
Happy in aimless wanderings long,
And pleas'd thy father's flock to feed.

With vacant, artless smile thou bor'st
Patient, the scoffer's cruel jest ;
With viewless gaze could pass it o'er,
And turn it pointless from thy breast.

Though language was forbid to trace
The unform'd chaos of thy mind,
And thy rude sound no ear could guess,
But through parental instinct kind,

Yet unto ev'ry human form
Clings imitation, mystic pow'r!
And thou wert fond, and proud to own
The school-time's regulated hour,

And o'er the mutilated page,
Mutter the mimic lesson's tone;
And e'er the school-boy's task was said,
Brought ever and anon thine own;

And many a truant boy would seek,
And drag reluctant to his place;
And oft the master's solemn rule
Would mock with grave and apt grimace.

And every guileless heart would love
A nature so estrang'd from wrong,
And every infant would protect
Thee from the trav'ller's passing tongue.

Thy primal joy was still to be
Where holy congregations bow;
Wrapt in wild transport when they sung,
And when they pray'd, would bend thee low.

Oh, Nature, wheresoe'er thou art,
Some latent worship still is there;
Blush, ye whose form, without a heart,
The Idiot's plea can never share.

Poor guileless thing! Thee eighteen years
Parental cares had reared alone;
Then, lest thou e'er should want their care,
Heav'n took thee spotless to its own.

For many a watching eye of love
Thy sickness and thy death did cheer;
Though reason weeps not, she allows
The instinct of a parent's tear.

Poor guileless thing! forgot by man,
The hillock's all remains of thee;
To merely mortal man it may,
But Faith another sight can see.

For what a burst of mind shall be,
When, disencumber'd from this clod,
Thou, who on earth could'st nothing see,
Shalt rise to comprehend thy God.

Oh! could thy spirit teach us now,
Full many a truth the gay might learn;
The value of a blameless life,
Full many a sinner might discern.

Yes, they might learn who waste their time,
What it must be to know no sin;
They who pollute the soul's sweet prime,
What to be spotless pure within.

Whoe'er thou art, go seek her grave,
All ye who sport in folly's ray;
And as the gale the grass shall wave,
List to a voice that seems to say-

""Tis not the measure of thy powers
To which the Eternal Meed is given;
"Tis wasted or improved hours
That forfeit or secure thy Heaven."

REMARKS ON THE LIVERPOOL ROYAL INSTITUTION, AND MR ROSCOE'S DISCOURSE.

NOTHING, we will venture to say, could be farther from the intention of Mr Roscoe, and nothing, we are quite certain, can be farther from ours, than to underrate in any way the two English universities. We are partial to our own system of education, but we have no disrespect for that of our neighbours. We venerate their noble institutions for preserving alive among their youth those branches of ancient and abstruse learning, from which all the master-spirits of England have derived their earliest and best nourishment, by which the genius of our Lockes and our Newtons has been

A Discourse delivered on the opening of the Liverpool Royal Institution, 25th November, 1817. By William Roscoe, Esq. 4to. 5s. Liverpool, 1817.

strengthened, and that of our Miltons, our Barrows, and our Johnsons, has been enriched and refined. Yet we think that no intelligent foreigner, in the present day, will question the justice of our opinion, that the position of these illustrious seminaries is exceedingly unfortunate; in little country towns, namely, where the teachers and the taught are obliged to converse entirely among themselves,where tutors and professors have no opportunities of mingling freely with men engaged in the active pursuits of professional, mercantile, and political ambition,-where the young men are withdrawn altogether out of the humanizing sphere of female society,where, in short, many of the worst abuses of monastic life are still kept alive with the most unremitting devotion.

But the great expense attending academical education in England (exceeding, in an enormous proportion, what is known in any other country) is perhaps the weightiest of all our objections to Oxford and Cambridge in their present state. We believe that things are not quite so bad as they used to be; but still the mode of life generally adopted in the English colleges is extravagant beyond all pardonable limit; and this circumstance, particularly in the remoter counties of Wales and the north, has long been felt by most parents as an insurmountable obstacle to giving their sons an

university education. A few years

ago, an attempt was made by the bench of bishops to refuse orders to all persons unprovided with degrees; but in the districts to which we have alluded, it was soon found that the measure was impracticable, and by far the greater proportion of the clergymen in those quarters are actually, at this moment, persons who never received any academical education at all.

The effect of this is, of course, extremely hurtful to these parts of the country, and is so considered by all those who are best acquainted with their interests. The present excellent bishop of St David's, Dr Burgess, has been engaged, ever since his accession to that diocese, in arranging plans for the establishment of a seminary which may supply the inhabitants of Wales with the opportunity of educating their children in their own province; and we rejoice to learn that his enlightened