can injure society, or disturb the harmony of the world. And, surely, to aim honestly at distinction is rather a virtue than a crime, even if our endeavours are without success; an emulation to arrive at eminence, in the more polished arts of life, is one of the most laudable pursuits of the mind; and it would be unreasonable not to esteem the learned, because their wisdom is sometimes tinctured with human frailties-frailties which we all participate, and weaknesses which are inseparable from mortality.

I cannot help thinking that every man of genius has in some sort a moral claim to our particular veneration for if we consider the rarity of real ability, the arduous toil of composition, and the hopes and hazards of publication; if we reflect upon the pangs which an author must indispensably feel in every laborious undertaking of literature; how, night after night, and year after year, his faculties are upon the stretch; how often his apprehensions and hopes are agitated—and if we farther reflect, that by the pain and study of the writer, the circle of our moral entertainments are enlarged, our intellects enlightened, and our ideas taught to flow in a more extensive channel; we shall kindly pass over the imbecilities of the man, and willingly pay our plaudit to the scholar.

The most ridiculous vanity is that which is built on the dignity of birth, which is commonly distinguished by the world under the title of family pride. It is frequently the source of matrimonial sorrow, and as often disunites the relation and the friend. To him who disregards the pomp of genealogy, it will be of little consequence whether a man was born yesterday or a thousand years ago; but estimating the principles of things not according to their age, but according to their real value, he looks back with horror on the massacres of Nero or the schemes of Catiline; and, if he finds him active for the welfare of the social world, is not solicitous to know whether his ancestors were dignified by blood or titles, whether they were conquerors or captives.

It would be a maxim equally amiable and wise, to scorn all praise but that which is the natural consequence of conscious desert, and neither to wish nor aim at any eminence that will not bring along with it an infallible compensation. A very superficial observation will serve to convince us that vanity, however artfully concealed or openly displayed, always counteracts its own purposes; virtue confers a bosom greatness that renders unnecessary such secondary and servile assistances. He who is truly sensible, just, or ingenious, need not have recourse to arts below

himself to signify his equity or his parts: for genius will inevitably incite the admiration of the wise; beauty recommends itself; and a benevolent heart will not solicit, but command our reverence and applause.

THE ART OF PUFFING." Sir Walter Scott.-We understand that Sir Walter Scott proposes to spend the ensuing winter at Naples, and will set out ere long. He is not complaining particularly, but finds the frailties of age stealing upon him, and has been advised by his friends to take this step. His absence will occasion no pause or delay in the publication of the new edition of his novels; for the preparation of the notes, prefaces, and corrections has been his employment for some years, and they are now completed." -Edinburgh Paper. The above is the last specimen that has come under our notice of a long series of recondite puffs, in which Sir Walter Scott has been, during many months, alternately killed and brought to life; the resuscitation being invariably accompanied with a literary announcement; not unmixed, occasionally, with an exclamation on the atrocity of the fabricator of the calamitous rumour which the betterinformed writer of the announcement is " happy to contradict." Messrs. Colburn and Bentley must blush for their inferiority in the art of puffing, to the modern Athenians. The puffs of the London booksellers are dismally threadbare and transparent. The masters of the art seem to have died with the lottery. But recondite as the Scotch system appears, we must vindicate the honour of its invention to our own countrymen. Many years ago (see the notes on Gifford's Maviad), the Minerva Press of the day did as much for Mr. Pratt. "A few days since, died, at Basle in Switzerland, the ingenious Mr. Pratt. His loss will be severely felt by the literary world, as he joined to the accomplishments of the gentleman the erudition of the scholar." This paragraph, having gone the round of the papers, was succeeded by the following:-"As no event of late years has caused a more general sorrow than the supposed death of the ingenious Mr. Pratt, we are happy to have it in our power to assure his numerous admirers that he is as well as they can wish, and (what they will be delighted to hear) busied in preparing his Travels for the press.'

OMISSIONS IN ROYAL BANQUETS.-That luxury may be purchased at the expense of comfort, has been more than once curiously exemplified in the omissions made at Royal banquets by attempts at ultra-refinement. At a splendid entertainment given by the civic authorities of the metropolis to the Allied Sovereigns during their brief sojourn in

England, the first thing which his late Majesty, then Prince Regent, called for, was not by any means to be procured-a glass of sherry! The most rare and expensive wines graced the banquet; but sherry had been purposely omitted, as too ordinary a beverage ever to be named in the presence of royalty. We believe it was at the same entertainment that, amidst a profusion of "all the good things of this world," two of the Royal Dukes were put out of countenance by a pine apple! In fact, when required to cut the tough-rinded Banana, although gold and silver knives abounded, yet of more officious steel there was not one upon the table nor in the Banqueting Hall, and sometime elapsed ere one could be procured. Upon another occasion his late Majesty, then, also, Prince Regent, threw the Lady Mayoress and suite, at an entertainment at the Mansion House, into the utmost perplexity, by requesting a cup of tea!

LORD BYRON.-The personal appearance of Lord Byron has been so frequently described, both by pen and pencil, that were it not the bounden duty of the biographer to attempt some such sketch, the task would seem superfluous. Of his face, the beauty may be pronounced to have been of the highest order, as combining at once regularity of features with the most varied and interesting expression. The same facility, indeed, of change, observable in the movements of his mind, was seen also in the free play of his features, as the passing thoughts within darkened or shone through them.

His eyes, though of a light gray, were capable of all extremes of expression, from the most joyous hilarity to the deepest sadness, from the very sunshine of benevolence to the most concentrated scorn or rage. Of this latter passion, I had once an opportunity of seeing what fiery interpreters they could be, on my telling him, thoughtlessly enough, that a friend of mine had said to me-" Beware of Lord Byron; he will, some day or other, do something very wicked."

"Was it man or woman said so?" he exclaimed, suddenly turning round upon me with a look of such intense anger as, though it lasted not an instant, could not easily be forgot, and of which no better idea can be given than in the words of one who, speaking of Chatterton's eyes, says that "fire rolled at the bottom of them."

But it was in the mouth and chin that the great beauty as well as expression of his fine countenance lay. "Many pictures have been painted of him (says a fair critic of his features) with various success; but the excessive beauty of his lips escaped every painter and sculptor. In their cease

less play they represented every emotion, whether pale with anger, curled in disdain, smiling in triumph, or dimpled with archness and love." It would be injustice to the reader not to borrow from the same pencil a few more touches of portraiture. "This extreme facility of expression was sometimes painful, for I have seen him absolutely look ugly-I have seen him look so hard and cold, that you must hate him, and then, in a moment, brighter than the sun, with such playful softness in his look, such affectionate eagerness kindling in his eyes, and dimpling his lips into something more sweet than a smile, that you forgot the man, the Lord Byron, in the picture of beauty presented to you, and gazed with intense curiosity-I had almost said-as if to satisfy yourself, that thus looked the god of poetry, the god of the Vatican, when he conversed with the sons and daughters of man!"

His head was remarkably small, so much so as to be rather out of proportion with his face. The forehead, though a little too narrow, was high, and appeared more so from his having his hair (to preserve it, as he said) shaved over his temples; while the glossy, dark brown curls, clustering over his head, gave the finish to its beauty. When to this is added that his nose, though handsomely, was rather thickly shaped, that his teeth were white and regular, and his complexion colourless, as good an idea perhaps as it is in the power of mere words to convey may be conceived of his features.

In height he was, as he himself has informed us, five feet eight inches and a half, and to the length of his limbs he attributed his being such a good swimmer. His hands were very white, and-according to his own notion of the size of hands as indicating birth-aristocratically small. The lameness of his right foot, though an obstacle to grace, but little impeded the activity of his movements; and from this circumstance, as well as from the skill with which the foot was disguised, by means of long trousers, it would be difficult to conceive a defect of this kind less obtruding itself as a deformity; while the diffidence which a constant consciousness of the infirmity gave to his first approach and address made, in him, even lameness a source of interest.— Moore's Letters.

THE HOUSE OF ESTE.-Near the Euganean Hills, between Verona and Padua, lies Este, a place of some account with the Romans, but better known for giving denomination to the House of Brunswick. In 1026, Azo, the fourth Marquis of Este, married Cunigunda, the Duke of Bavaria's only

daughter. By her Azo had a son called Welpho, who inherited all his grandfather's (the Duke of Bavaria's) territories, and gave the first rise to the most illustrious family of Brunswick Lunenburgh, which is thus descended from the family of Este. The Duke of Sussex married in Italy, and afterwards in England, at St. George's, Hanover-square, a daughter of Lord Dunmore, by whom he had issue a son and daughter, now living. This marriage was afterwards annulled under the severe provisions of the Royal Marriage Act, whereby the son and daughter of the Duke lost all claim to succession to the Throne of Great Britain, and the title of Prince and Princess of the Blood Royal. The Duke, for obvious reasons, refused to call this son and daughter by the name of “ Fitz-Sussex," and adopted instead the family name of the noble House of Este.

THE NATIVE LAND.

He who loves not his country can love nothing.-LORD BYRON.

THEY bore him from his barren shore,

The country of his birth

From leafless wastes and ice-fields hoar,
And all most loved on earth;

They asked him but to leave his tribe,
And then he should command

Riches and wealth-and for that bribe
He left his native land.

They shewed him sunny islands spread
Beneath unclouded skies,

Where orange groves waved overhead,
And glanced the bright fire-flies:
They carried him to beauteous bowers,
By fragrant breezes fanned:

What cared he for their trees and flowers?
'Twas not his native land.

On through the water flew the bark,
And Albion's white cliffs rose:

He would have been more glad to mark
The glare of his own snows.

And many a blithe and joyous sound
Came from the crowded strand;
But coldly glanced his eye around,-
'Twas not his native land!

They showed him many a princely dome,
And many a scene of mirth ;-
Oh! he had happier been at home
Beside his own loved hearth!