Clerk, however, even when, in a later edition of his work, he comes to discuss the manœuvre of breaking the line, does not perceive the universality of the principle on which it depends, nor state the conditions necessary to ensure its success. The manœuvre of breaking the line is, per se, of no avail whatever it is, in fact, just as broad as it is long: for if the headmost ships of the line, part of which is intersected, are immediately wore and tacked, the ships which have pierced the line, may be doubled upon in their turn, and overpowered by the repetition of their own manœuvre. In judging of the expediency of having recourse to this manœuvre, the first question to be settled, is a question of time alone. Before the head most ships of the enemy's line can wear and execute the inverse manœuvre, will there be sufficient time to disable and subdue the ships which have been cut off? And this can only be solved by the assailant having his fleet so disposed as to enable him to fall upon a portion of the adverse line with the whole, or at all events the greater part, of his force; in other words, to operate, with the greatest possible amount of force, a combined effort on a decisive point. The conditions essential to success in every case, are time, and a superior force capable of being immediately directed against the point of attack. To neglect these conditions, is to expose one's self to almost certain destruction; while, on the other hand, when duly calculated and observed, the result can scarcely fail to prove decisive. It has been said, that there is nothing invariable in the art of combats. But this is a great mistake. Circumstances change, and the modes of application vary along with them; but the principle is immutable; and no great result can ever be obtained where it is departed from. Compare the battles which have proved decisive, and influenced or determined the fates of nations and empires, with those bootless butcheries which have produced no other result but carnage and bloodshed, and it will be found that, in the one case, the principle was more or less acted upon, and in the other totally neglected. In the early campaigns of the French Revolutionary war, for instance, the most sanguinary combats were fought, and the contest was carried on with the utmost acharnement and ferocity; but no decided advantage was gained on either side, because the true principles of military tactics were not then understood. Instead of concentrating their masses for a great effort on a given point nearest to the enemy's line of communica tion with the base of his operations, generals then divided and dispersed their forces into cordons, penetrable at every point, or into detached portions, equally incapable of giving or receiving timely support; and hence battles at this period were nothing more than a series of affairs of posts, in which success generally alternated from side to side-one part of an army perhaps pursuing while the other was retreating, and of course were productive of no definite or decisive result. But when Bonaparte appeared upon the scene, and at once modelled his operations on the true principles both of strategies and tactics, war assumed a totally different character, and victory seemed to attend upon his standards. In like manner, while the old system of fighting at sea continued to be followed, and fleets met and passed on opposite tacks, battles had no result, and victory was little else than a name. But when the principle of operating a combined effort, with a superior force, upon a decisive point, was once recognised and acted upon, then commenced the epoch of our naval glory, and then naval battles led to important results. The principle was not new in military tactics; for both Marlborough and Frederick were familiar with it, and obtained their most glorious successes by its practical application. But it was new in its application to naval tactics at the period of the change of system to which we have already referred; and if Clerk had really any share in bringing about this change, he would be entitled to the distinction of having deserved well of his country; for, assuredly, next to the merit of original discovery, which was here wholly out of the question, is that of having pointed out a new application of an old and wellknown principle. We are free to confess, however, that we have as yet met with no evidence to induce us to award to our countryman even this secondary bonour. On the contrary, our opinion is, that the revolution in naval tactics, which proved the forerunner of so many triumphs, was in a great measure, if not altogether, attributable to a fortunate accident—an opportune shift in the wind, and a tempting opening in the enemy's line. If Rodney had left England impressed with the importance of this manœuvre, would he not have tried it in the previous battles off Martinico and St Lucia, on both of which occasions he had the advantage, as it was then considered, of the weathergage? And, if he had understood it, even when he did attempt it late in the action of the 12th April, 1782, would he have contented himself with merely passing through the French line, and engaging their rearmost ships to leeward? But be this as it may, Rodney's practical exemplification of some of the advantages of the manœuvre directed the attention of naval men to the subject, when all the theoretical speculations of philosophers would have been disregarded; and it was reserved for his illustrious successors not merely to reap the full benefit of the discovery which he had opened up, but likewise to show within what limits, and upon what conditions, it could safely be executed. These, we repeat, are time, and a disposable superior force ready to act against a given portion of the enemy's line. Villeneuve's skilful disposition at Trafalgar shows, however, that even these conditions may, in certain circumstances, be in a great measure neutralized; and that superior discipline, courage, and pertinacity, are, after all, among the surest guarantees of victory. THE FLOWER-GATHERER. RESUMING Our delightful avocation, we feel inclined to loiter a little longer in the gardens of the sunny south. There is a warmth of passion in the natives of these regions—less enduring perhaps than what is felt by us Northmen-but so intense while it lasts as almost to bestow a moral character upon the mere promptings of sense. We cannot fancy that a thing of such sovereign mastery is to pass away like a summer's cloud. We involuntarily attribute to it "strength and length of days." Alas! the same glowing temperament which gave it birth destroys it next moment, by yielding to a new impulse. It is only in the passionate outpourings of the poet that these visitings find the eternity which seems their due. Here is at least one strain which breathes the very fever-fit of love, and communicates its own heat to the cool atmosphere: O, balmy air! Thou murmurer, Go, balmy air, and gently blow, O seek that I her favour share; Let thy pinions close now. Weary wind, who wanderest Mournest through yon willow Cease thy sorrow! cease, oh, cease! Lest thy song my sighs increase; Whisper nought but calm and peace To her lowly pillow. Gentle, wanton, frolic air, Flitting, sighing everywhere, To judge from a great proportion of the poems of Italy which have been translated into our language, we might almost be led to suppose that this passionate earnestness was their sole characteristic. Even the stern Dantehe who had more of" the ancient Roman honour in him than any he that breathed in Italy"-yields to the "soft impeachment." What a glow there is in the following sonnet! and withal what a gentle and stately grace! It is like the silver swan gliding majestically along the surface of the lake. "Negli occhi porta la mia Donna Amore.” But even in these hot climates there are cool shades, where refreshing sentiment, and more lofty reflection flourish luxuriantly. In our last number we showed Calderon, in stately verse, moralizing the stars into ephemeral existences. To-day we show him, with the beautiful perversity of imagination, endowing with enduring life the flowers which bloom and wither in a day. THE FLOWERS. These flowers which now their glowing pomp unfold, Waking beneath the eyelids of the morn, Shall, when day sets, with drooping leaves forlorn, Sleep in embraces of the midnight cold: These gorgeous tints, which shine like heaven adorning Bright Iris, freak'd with purple, jet, and gold, Shall be to mortal life a symbol warning How much of change doth one brief day behold. The rose, she greets the morning but to bloom, And blooms, but soon to fade in lonely bowers— A tomb and cradle for her brief perfume One bud:-And such, man's fleeting fortune towers, Which in a day is born, and meets its doom In woe-for ages past were once but hours. Camoens saddens yet more his melancholy imaginings, by calling to his aid the recollections of the Jewish captivity. "Em Babylonia sobre os rios cuando De ti Siao sagrada nos lembramos." In Babylon, by streams unknown forlorn We sat, and wept when Zion we thought on, In other measures now were made to mourn ; MARGARET SIMSON was the daughter of humble parents, in the county of Ayr. With a comely figure and pretty face, she had her share of vanity; and, like her betters, could mock at the pains and anxieties of her rustic suitors. In the bloom of womanhood, however, but gay and light of heart as in her most girlish days, she was united to John Rouat, a thriving fisherman. John's fortune consisted of his coble, three oars, his fishing gear, a moderate sum gradually saved, and the health wherewith Providence had blessed him. Margaret's former gaiety gradually subsided into a cheerful care for her husband's comfort, and John's habits of industry became strengthened by Contented with increasing occasion for their exercise. their allotment of worldly substance, all things went well. John's musings, however he might have been engaged, were turned homewards. The wind might blow, the rain pelt, or fish be scarce,—he thought of the clean blazing hearth of his home, with the beaming faces around it, and cared not. Twenty years had passed away, leaving John Rouat somewhat less active, with here and there a broad furrow traced by time or care, but still vigorous, and assisted by two stout, well-favoured youths, his only surviving children. The lads were of restless dispositions, thoughtless, and self-willed. They early evinced dislike to their father's calling, often hazarding, while yet mere boys, their lives in some crazy yawl, with rude sail and rudder, far upon the waters in the most boisterous weather. Their father looked upon their frowardness with painful anxiety, and strove to check its growth; persuasions failed-hot expressions were used, and blows bestowed— yet all would not do. John, the oldest, was the first openly to throw off his obedience. A revenue cutter, stationed on the neighbouring coast, was in use to anchor at stated periods in the bay; and, despite of his parents' remonstrance, he engaged himself as one of its crew. His father, provoked at his obstinacy, struck him when they met, and angrily forbade him ever to return home. The eutter soon sailed on her accustomed cruise; and father south-west, were gradually swelling into thick murky and son parted in bitterness. James Rouat, because of his brother's behaviour, and as having often betrayed similar inclinations, was treated with greater rigour than before. It happened about this time, that a young man belonging to a war-brig came, after three years' absence, on a visit to his mother and friends in the village. James and he had been intimate from earliest boyhood, and now their old acquaintanceship was warmly renewed. Robin told him "How sailors lived like kings," what sights they saw, and wonders they performed, how happy at sea, and how jovial on shore; till his enraptured friend resolved to go and be a sailor. When Robin Blair, therefore, returned to his duty, James Rouat, with out his parents' leave, and scarcely with their knowledge, bore him company, with the intention of entering into the same service. volumes, that drove heavily athwart the firmament. A stiff gale set in; the sun emitted a filmy light, and intermittent half-formed waves lashed along the beach. These were succeeded by greater, spurting their spray high over opposing fragments of rock; and soon the white surf of a thousand heaving billows speckled the dark waters. All appeared gloomy and sad, save the sea-birds careering on the blast, as if delighted with the conflict of elements. The storm arose so suddenly, that it had attained its greatest violence ere any of the fisherboats could be descried on their return to the bay of the village. Wives and mothers watched for their coming, crowded together upon a little eminence. At length one boat was seen striving through the deep, and the sight was hailed with something like joy, although they knew not whose it might be. Others were soon observed rising and falling on the distant waves. By much exertion, they successively but slowly neared the shore; their little parties were recognised and welcomed by hearts bounding with gratitude, and for a space all seemed joy and giadness in the hearty expression of mutual congratulations; but one John Rouat became morose and fretful, and his countenance wore an expression of settled gloom, while a sulky reserve in his whole demeanour made his acquaintance shun though they pitied him. He pursued his occupa-boat was still awanting-it was John Rouat's. tion as formerly, but without the same spirit, and his fishing seemed never so successful as it used to be when his lads were with him the thought of their desertion, just when increasing years most required their help, shed a deadening influence over all his efforts. His wife saw his unhappiness, and, stifling her own sorrow, strove to inspire him with that comfort which she herself did not feel; but John Rouat would not be comforted. Margaret had stood apart, no one speaking comfort, so busy was each bosom with its own fears and emotions. Often she strained her gaze over the turbulent waters, but her eyes were dimmed by the breeze, and deceived her. When the last boat touched land, and she saw not the old coble with its single occupant, a feeble cry broke from her throbbing breast, and rushing to those who had escaped from peril, she wildly demanded her husband. The poor fellows she addressed, wet and worn with fatigue, were stunned by her call, as if it brought some dreadful occurrence to their recollection. Some answered not, and others spoke evasively, or made signs to their companions. Margaret riveted her eyes upon the men One day, while he sat on the stone bench at his door, mending his lines, a ship letter was put into his hands by the village postman. At first he thought it must be from one of his sons; his heart softened, and in the moment their disobedience was forgotten: but it seemed not the writing of either. Entering into his house, he open--she knew that her husband was lost. ed the letter and read, in large uncouth characters, as follows: of them. "I hav no more to say at presen but remains Your afekshonate jack's Friend, JHON DEMPSTER." The wretched father read the letter aloud; towards the close his voice became tremulous; as he finished, a heavy groan escaped, and he covered his face with his hands. Margaret listened with that pain which only a mother can feel. She watched in silence the motions of her husband, but without venturing to speak ; for of late he had been unkind even to her. He sat for hours gazing on the embers, his rough hand pressed against his cheek; and no sound, but the shivering burst of sorrow, passed his lips. John Rouat had that morning, before daybreak, rowed off to the accustomed fishing-place, distant about three miles, whither he was gradually followed by the other boats belonging to the village. In his sad humour, John held no communication with the rest; when the sound of voices, or morning's dawn, informed him of their proximity, he rowed farther away. Lonely and abstracted, he thought not of the gathering storm, nor of danger, till the waves lipped over his boat's edge. As the threatening aspect of the heavens became more apparent, the different fisherboats moved together, that they might return in company for mutual protection. John Rouat sæt, unmoved. Again and again they hallooed, and called him by name; at last, seeing him raise his grapnel, and dip his oars in the water, they steered for the bay. In returning, the chief danger lay where the Frith is open for more than a mile to the swell of the broad ocean. John Rouat's boat was the last that essayed to cross this "wild commotion." The storm continued to rage, and huge frothy billows swept fearfully along. Awhile he succeeded but by efforts that exhausted his strengthin keeping to the wind. He felt his coming weakness, and fear assailed his heart,--still he clutched the oars, and, by habit, drew them through the brine; but his strokes were nerveless, and suddenly his boat wheeled round, exposed to the influence of the tempest. Bareheaded and aghast, he gasped for breath. His grizzled locks stood erect, and wildly he stared upon the waves dashing over his frail boat. Still he tugged; till one whelming billow, "mightier than the rest," came heaving onward, now rising in a turgid mass, now subsiding deep and hollow, to rise again with added force. Autumn had nearly reached its close, when one day He knew his doom-his bloodless lips quivered—the cold the sky became suddenly overcast, and to those accustom- sweat of agony stood upon his wan forehead-the oars ed to judge of such signs, portended a storm. The day escaped his grasp, and he clung convulsively to his bark, had been beautifully calm, but already could be traced on now cumbered with water. There was brief but awful the smooth surface of the bay, the rippled course of shift- suspense. Heavily man and boat descended in the deepsing gusts; and long streaks of fleecy clouds which lined theening gulf-rising, it encountered the briny wall—a gush In a few days, John Rouat again plied his fisherboat; but the death of one son, and uncertainty as to the other's fate, bowed down his spirit. He became more sullen and distant in his manners than ever; the condolence of kind neighbours was hardly acknowledged, while their offered assistance was uncourteously rejected. of waters broke over it-one gurgling yell was heard, louder than the storm. The billow rolled onwards. EDINBURGH DRAMA: We have passed many a delighted hour within the walls of our Edinburgh Theatre, but never one of deeper feeling than was spent in witnessing the animated Tableaux from Shakspeare's plays, introduced into the slight dramatic sketch entitled "Shakspeare's Dream." Let our readers who have not yet witnessed this spectacle, fancy to themselves the stage, and the body of the house, reduced to a kind of mysterious twilight. You can scarcely distinguish the company, but you are kept aware of their presence by a low anxious murmur of expectation. At the extremity of the stage is seen the glittering of a large, massive, richly-gilded frame. But within it, there is only a black space. Two shadowy figures-Oberon and Titania-are flitting about the stage, waving their magic wands in mystic circles. Titania evokes the phantasm of Juliet. Low, tremulous music rises on the ear, gradually swelling to an expression of intense passion; the black space disappears, and in the bright but uncertain light of the moon, we see the gentle girl leaning on her balcony, with upturned look, absorbed in love's reverie. The first impulse is a hushing sense of wonder the next is to give vent, in clamorous applause, to our feelings of admiration, and the whole house resounds with clapping of hands, bravos, and loud hurrahs. But the blackness creeps again over the beatific vision. The music is changed. A less passionate and somewhat stately air is heard, and the enchanted island of Prospero bursts upon the view. The fair Miranda is seated before a globe, upon which she rests one hand, while with the other she endeavours to raise a huge book. Her look is bent upwards, as if following the direction of her father's hand, who, propped on his wand, points to the skies. Ariel, with folded wings, reposes in a corWhat a severe grandeur there is in the arrangement and attitudes of the group! ner. The music now expresses horror and dismay. In the uncertain glimmering of a huge hall stands the guilty queen of Macbeth, essaying to wipe from her hands that blood which never can be hid from the mind's eye. Scarcely visible through the thick gloom, we see the anxious faces of the attendants infecting the spectators with contagious horror. The white drapery of the agonized dreamer has a spectral and unearthly appearance. Hark, to "the startling burst of the trumpets' blare!" Amid a glare of light, and elevated on the kingly dais, the princely Edward and his brother York are enfolded in the warm embrace of boyhood's affection. Their dark uncle, in feigned humility, and devotion to their service, bends the knee before them. The scene needs but the applause of surrounding multitudes to make it right royal, and there with a wish it comes thundering from pit, boxes, and gallery at once. "A solemn, strange, and mingled air, By fits 'twas sad, by starts 'twas wild." Whom else could it herald but the moody Prince of mark? There he stands, “as Kemble stood and Lawrence drew," wrapt in his inky cloak, and inkier thoughts, in a dim and blasted light, which seems as if it were a parcel of his fortunes. That pensive, upturned look, that finger pointing at the skull in his hand, betoken the long-drawn, shuddering sigh with which he exclaims, "Alas, poor Yorick!" How well does the picture harmonize with Shakspeare's poetry! At first all seems darkness and woe, but there are gentle silvery glances of the moon, which steal soothingly over us as we gaze. unrelenting hatred at his successful rival, who stands over him, directing his sword point for the last deadly thrust. How easy with a poet is the transition from sternness to gentleness! Did ever even Shakspeare's mind conceive any thing more lovely than that sweet and gentle girl, who stands, gazing heavenward in her sorrow, allowing her last floweret to drop unremembered from her hand?" They all withered when my poor father died.” But more startling yet is the transition when, from the depths of woe, we pass in an instant to a subject provo king the most side-rending mirth. See there, beneath the oak of Herne the Hunter, Falstaff, with antlered brow, sinking in terror to the earth, at the shouts of the Welsh fairy and his goblin crew, while the Merry Wives of Windsor, two portly and comely dames, huddle their biting jeers upon him "with the most impassable conveyance." What! is the base-string of humanity to be sounded yet deeper? See the overstrainedly careless mien of Gadshill, as he seeks to persuade the carrier to lend him his lantern. One of the "hempen homespuns" draws back in stupified astonishment at his forwardness, but the other, of a "prettier wit," points with his fingers at the unreasonable beggar, as if replying with the biting sarcasm, "Lend thee my lantern, quotha? Marry, I'll see thee hanged first." We wonder whether a man could ever hold up his head again after such a retort. Last scene of all is Romeo dead beside Juliet's bier, and the distraught maiden impatiently waving off the importunate friar. Nay, not the last scene; for, at the waving of King Oberon's wand, the whole crowd of phantasms which have passed before our eyes troop together upon the stage the black curtain disappears—the statue of Shakspeare stands bathed in light, and all the shadowy beings point to him as theirs. Pritchard has made us his own for ever by the manner in which, in his character of Shakspeare, he greeted this apparition on the first night of the representation of the Tableaux. He rushed forward, and prostrated himself before the image of his future self. We know that these pieces of dumb-show are generally left to the actor's discretion; and we believe that this action was hasty and unreflected on Pritchard's part— but it was exactly what he ought to have done. It was the passionate yearnings of youth bowing down, in no ignoble idolatry, before its own perfected genius. It was like frail mortality paying the homage of mingled awe and delight to that more glorious state which itself is afterwards to attain. But the green curtain has fallen, the lamps are rekindled, and the audience are either departing, or busied in the momentous arrangement of shawls and cloaks. All are busy exchanging remarks on the delightful vision they have seen. Have we indeed been slumbering among so much good company? We felt as if in the dim cavern of the weird sisters, beholding the dim phantasmata of future and contingent existence floating before us; and here we are in a moment, amid a gay and brilliant assembly. But the impression left by these transitory glimpses of beauty shall not thus pass away. Among the performers in the Tableaux, Miss Jarman is entitled to our warm thanks for her Juliet-Mrs StanDen-ley for her Lady Macbeth and Statue of Hermione. Miss Turpin was the truest Ophelia we have seen, either on the stage or upon canvass-delicately beautiful, and overflowing with feeling. The Manager's Garrick, in the tent-scene in "Richard III."—a representation which has since been replaced by one of more bustle and incident— was the most startling piece of personation we have seen. It was the very picture. We have here specified a few of those who did best where all did well. Our best thanks are due to Murray, and to the eminent artist who assisted him, for this rich treat. It is introducing an entirely new source of delight upon the Edinburgh stage, and one which is susceptible of infinite variety. We should like to see some of the best works of the Italian But it is in vain that we endeavour, within our narrow limits, to do justice to them all. See there, amid the din and confusion of battle, Richard casting his last look of school thus embodied; and we know that some of our first artists are both able and anxious to lend their aid towards effecting this wish. The Manager may rest assured, that such exhibitions will answer in a financial point of view-that they will give a tone of elevated feeling to his establishment and help to disperse many honest prejudices. They will also have a good effect in forming the taste of the actors. ALFRED. ORIGINAL POETRY. TO A FRIEND. O Gioventu! O Primavera! gioventu dell' anno, YES! years have pass'd, and many more may be, Yet, oh! beloved friend, the thought of thee Still lives, and leaves my faithful spirit never! My soul-none reads; thy name-I breathe it not; But thou wert with me in that vernal time When childhood's dreams made summer in the heart, And who that shares with us life's early prime, But claims remembrance never to depart! We ne'er may meet again!-yet is it nought That we have met in that bright fleeting spring Oh! is it nought to think that we have trod For ever, and for ever in my mind, With all youth's brightest and most glorious things, Thy name is link'd, thy memory is enshrined, Nor time, nor change, can loose the golden strings! Whene'er I look upon the sunset skies, Whene'er I catch the breath of mountain flower, The summer morning, full of dews and light, All speak of thee! and oft unconscious tears, Not sorrowful, but sweet, will gently start, We ne'er may meet again! yet do I love A thousand blessings crown thee from above- FAREWELL. By John Malcolm. FAREWELL!-Oh! what a countless hoard Farewell!-the sound bath never slept, LITERARY CHIT-CHAT AND VARIETIES. THE Rev. J. T. Becher is about to publish "A System of En. dowment for the Provident Classes in every station of Life, exemplified by the rules of the Southwell Endowment Society." In the press-A Picturesque Pocket Companion to Margate, Ramsgate, &c., with 120 Engravings on Wood, including every object of interest on the river. OUR STUDY TABLE is ornamented at present with a new series of Mrs S. C. Hall's Irish Tales. Beside them lies Fitz-Raymond. A little further over is the second edition of Ellis's Polynesian Researches. There lie Fuseli and Davy, looking a mild reproach upon us, as if they feared we were neglecting them. The Pulpit is here, too, preaching to no unwilling ears. A new volume of Oliver and Boyd's Cabinet Library beckons us away to Egypt, the land of solid structures and shadowy legends. POPULAR SCIENTIFIC LECTURES.-Mr W. Rhind will commence, early next month, a course of popular lectures on Natural History, in the George Street Assembly Rooms. In his introductory lec. ture, he will explain the object of the science, illustrate its importance and utility, and give a sketch of its progress. He will, in his subsequent lectures, lead his audience from the history of unorganic matter, through the vegetable and animal kingdoms, up, finally, to man. The lectures will be illustrated by numerous specimens of objects in natural history. We know Mr Rhind to be a man of talent. Indeed, we are happy to see so many young men of abilities and acquirements striking into this path.-Mr Cheek, the able editor of the Edinburgh Journal of Natural and Geogra phical Science, contemplates delivering, this summer, a course of lectures on Practical Anatomy.-Dr William Gregory has produ ced a favourable impression by his Chemical Lectures; and Mr Russell, by his course upon Mechanical Science. BENTLEY v, HORACE.-(From a Correspondent.)-The critics seem to have agreed in exploding Dr Bentley's arbitrary substitution of "ter natos," for "tornatos," in the following verse of Horace : "Et male tornatos incudi reddere versus." DE ARTE POETICA, V. 441. That is, gentle reader, or is supposed to be" And to send the illturned verses back to the anvil."-" What an absurd mixture of metaphors !" exclaims the doctor; "a turner's lathe and a smith's anvil!" &c. &c. Even the defenders of the old reading-and the oldest is generally the best, especially if old enough to be the author's own-admit that there is a little confusion of metaphor Gesner admits it. Hunter, by quoting him without any remark, seems to homologate the charge. But Baxter had shown, more than a hundred years ago, that there is no confusion,-that the metaphor is quite unique. That tornus is a "minter's die”— forma monetaria. What, then, is more common than to return the ill-coined pieces to the anvil? Critics appear not to be ac quainted with a most excellent work on the "Connexion of Roman, Saxon, and English Coins," by the Rev. W. Clarke-grandfather of the celebrated traveller, Dr Clarke-to which Cowper acknowledges himself indebted for the rectification of what had been absurdly rendered the Two Bottoms of Nestor's Cup. They were two vine branches, upon which the doves were perched. Mr Clarke's note is too long for me to transcribe at present; but he clearly proves, from Bentley's own quotations, particularly Propertius "angusto includere torno," that tornus must have been used to denote a die. Such as have access to the book, will find the passage by the Index, under "Bentley." E. T. LONDON. We venture, without leave asked or given, to print part of a letter we have just received from one of our most valued correspondents one of those pleasing acquaintances whom we know better, and esteem more, without ever having seen their faces, than most of those with regard to whom we have enjoyed that privilege :-" Our town just now is quite alive with literary stars. Wordsworth appears in sound health, and though his hair is grey, and his noble brow wrinkled, yet his poetic feeling and |