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a Hayley or a Mason; on divinity, with a Hurd or a Porteus; on morals, with a Johnson; on history, with a Gibbon or a Robertson; on antiquities, with a Gough or a Whitaker; on anatomy, with a Sheldon; and, after having viewed the galleries of Reynolds,* might repair to the theatre of a Siddons."

For the Pocket Magazine.

THE dome of St. Paul's Cathedral, we are extremely sorry to hear-was drowned last week, whilst bathing in the Serpentine in Hyde Park.

A very long debate lately took place at the Society of Arts and Sciences, on the propriety of petitioning parliament for a new moon.

The Monument was, a few days since,-safely delivered of three fine boys, who, with the mother, we are happy to say, are doing as well as can be expected.

A fine horse, the property of a nobleman going abroad, will, some time in the month of October,stand in the pillory for defrauding his creditors.

It has been some time in contemplation to remove Fleet-market-to the Pavillion at Brighton, for the benefit of the air.

We are happy to inform the public, that the Royal Family will, some time in the month of October, according to ancient custom-be whipped in Smithfield at the cart's tail, pursuant to their sentence.

C. B.

* This essay was written as far back as the year 1791. The arguments of the author have acquired a great addition of strength in the quarter of a century, which has elapsed since they were first urged. In almost all the departments of art, science, and knowledge, which he mentions, a crowd of names might be produced, to which it would be difficult to find rivals, in any former period of our literary history.---ED.



By the late Mr. A. Walker.

THE cathedral is the grand lion of Strasburgh. This unfinished edifice is more like a cabinet cut in ivory, than a fabric of stone! Mosaic, I think they call that filligree work which stands off and decorates the supporting part of a gothic building, whatever name it goes by. The open work of this cathedral has a lightness and elegance in it, that exceeds York, Lincoln, Cologne, or any church I ever yet saw.

The tower and spire are the wonders of this church; the tower part is not an equal-sided parallelopiped, as towers generally are, but is wider from north to south, than it is from east to west; showing that its original design was, that two spires should have stood upon it, had it ever been finished: hence, beautiful as it is, it is like what we should call a pig with one ear. But, alas! to express the beauty of this tower and spire in drawing, would take a year, and the piece ought to be at least two yards square.

I confess, I was ready to fall down and worship this building, when I turned the corner of a street and saw it in full perspective; the contour is astonishing! and every foot square would supply matter for hours of study, wonder, and contemplation! Long before we reached this ancient city, we saw through and through this famous spire, as if it had been a bundle of reeds: but when we ascended the tower, and found the staircase not eight inches thick of stone, and many of the pillars not thicker than my leg, which seemed to have tons of weight upon them, by heavens! we could scarcely abstract our ideas from ancient witchcraft and miracle! My head was giddy long before we reached the top of the tower (and perhaps some tame reader may think it continued so while I wrote this) but at the top (I suppose it was something like what the aeronauts say of their elevation) it was so far above what one is generally used to, and comparison so far out of the question,

that we looked with tranquillity on the city, as on a map, and the Swiss and Lorrain mountains, as a picture; but at this time we were only about half-way to the top of this edifice; and where we met with a guard of soldiers, a comfortable coffee-house, and a man who blew us a born, which he is paid for blowing once every day and twice every night, in memory of a preservation which this city experienced by the blowing of this very horn. My son ventured into the spire, which contains a double spiral stair-case at each of its corners; but which shook so by the wind, that he only ascended about half its height.

The height of this spire is five hundred French feet, which, as near as a random calculation for the minute I have to bestow on it will allow, I suppose to be near one hundred English feet higher than St. Paul's cross.*

Our forefathers were certainly better practical geometricians than we are. The systematic combination of arches in this artful spire, the proportions of the pillars to the weights they have to sustain, the knowledge displayed in the strength and durability of the stone, and the comprehensiveness of mind, necessary to unite congeries of parts into one magnificent whole, is an effort of human genius, (that if the same motives to its exertions existed at this hour, which did in the eleventh century) I can scarce believe, with all our philosophy and mathematics, that we are equal to. How much is it to be lamented that the noble art of masonry has little left among us but its forms and ceremonies. The reason, no doubt, why these artists had their lodges and secret meetings, was for the wiset purpose of keeping their geometry and information a secret from the rest of the world.

To the top of the cross of St. Paul's is 404 English feet. As the Paris foot is eight-tenths of an inch longer than the English foot, the height of the spire of Strasburgh is 533 English feet, and four inches, and consequently it is 129 feet four inches higher than St. Paul's.-ED.

+ Instead of "wise," Mr. Walker should rather have said, selfish and narrow-minded. It may justly be doubted, whether men have a moral right to conceal from their fellow beings those things which are conducive to the extension of human knowledge and human happiness.-ED.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE POCKET MAGAZINE. SIR,-Should the following imperfect sketch be deemed worthy a place in the Pocket Magazine, its insertion would oblige your constant reader, VIATOR.


ON a delightful evening, in the month of June, I left the neat and pleasant town of Kendal to proceed to Ambleside after travelling about eight miles over an uneven road, I caught a partial view of Windermere, shining majestically at the foot of a lofty mountain, whose sloping side exhibited a pleasing mixture of woods and rocks. This beautiful lake, with its charming scenery, continued in view for a considerable distance, until, reaching Colgarth, the elegant seat of the late Bishop of Llandaff, the extensive woods shut out the prospect, and afforded only at intervals a glimpse of the surrounding scene. I soon, however, arrived at Low-wood inn, where the lake approaches the road, forming a spacious bay. This inn is beautifully situated on the margin of the water, over which it commands a delightful view; the opposite shore displays a noble range of hills, descending abruptly to the edge of the lake; on the left the prospect extends over an immense sheet of water, the shores of which are beautifully indented, exhibiting all the matchless variety of promontory and bay; turning to the right, the head of the lake appears full in view, encompassed with an assemblage of grand and lofty mountains, forming a most magnificent amphitheatre. A further ride of about a mile, along a shady road, brought me to the Salutation inn, at Ambleside, where I fixed my residence for the night. The following morning was occupied in visiting Curwen's Island, which contains about thirty acres of land, beautifully laid out, on which is a handsome house. This island affords some of the finest views on the lake; that from the south side, is over a noble extent of water, bounded by distant mountains; the shore on each side is much indented, and ornamented with woods; from the north side of the island the view is more sublime, extending over a reach of lake, six miles long, inter

spersed with picturesque islands, and bounded by a range of magnificent mountains, which form a most beautiful scene; its immediate banks are adorned with neat cots and handsome seats, amongst which that of Colgarth, mentioned above, stands conspicuous.


"THE state of Spain and Portugal, so far as regards the freedom of enquiry (and the consequences extend to every thing), may, with little hazard, be ascribed to a constitutional disease, not far removed from religious madness, in Isabel of Castile, which became hereditary in her descendants. Such is despotism! the state of one individual's stomach, or gall-bladder, affects the lives and destinies of unborn millions."

"Few of the French sermon writers deserve translation. Bossuet and Saurin have more of thought, argument, and of that sort of elegant decoration, which depends not on the language but the idea, than their competitors. Flechier is overrated in his country. Massillon has a brilliant oration on the consecrating of colours. Bourdaloue is ingenious and stately, but wants originality and feeling. For a patriot it is consolatory to observe, how inferior to the Jeremy Taylors, the Halls, the Barrows, are these continental orators; how much less of learning, of style, of argument, has hushed their doubts, has crowned their zeal, has winged their hopes. Well might infidelity triumph, where it had only to assail such ordinary intrenchments. Well might floundering piety despair, where it had only such wisps of straw to catch at.'

"Property usefully employed ought never to be driven from its destination by the persecutions of the tax gatherer. Property mischievously employed ought to be driven from its destination by the inroads of the tax gatherer. The purest title to property, as Mr. Burke observes, is the wise employment; and this is the title which the taxer ought to respect. He is not to burden equal property, equally in the hands of idleness and of industry. The idler, who lives a useless life, on the rent of his acres, houses, bonds, and funds, ought to pay

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