1829.] 
must be extremely annoying and confounding 
—first, to those who build a reputation upon 
what does not belong to them ; and next, to 
those who know what every body writes, espe- 
cially in periodicals, and venture at a glance, 
to name the scribbler. This will soon be- 
come a very hazardous speculation. 
The collection before us, for the most 
part, has appeared, partly in our own excel- 
lent miscellany, and partly in the New 
Monthly and a Weekly Review, and is, on 
the whole, certainly, as deserving of this 
' species of conservation, as any of the small 
curiosities usually locked up in amber. 
They consist chiefly of rough and striking 
incidents, ambitiously, but not unsuccess- 
fully detailed. The wonderful is the writer’s 
point, and surprise the immediate aim, and 
this occasionally at the expense of all proba- 
bility, or the pretence of it. The “Strange 
Ormonds”’ is an attempt to raise an interest 
in a family succession, where the proprietors 
succeed each other, allofthesame qualitiesand 
characters—pursuing the sdme career, and 
terminating the same way—so as to produce 
the effect of a marvellous identity upon the 
minds of the neighbourhood. The “ Last 
of the Ormonds”’ is scarcely intelligible— 
and, we shall only blunder by attempting 
to detail it. ‘“ The Midshipman’’ has a 
veal ghost in it. Occasion is sometimes 
taken from actual occurrence, as the narra- 
tive of “John Williams,” supposed to be 
one of the persons buried alive in the ruins 
of the Brunswick Theatre, carrying with it 
au air of reality, enough almost to confound a 
reviewer. But the “ Life of Allen Grey,” 
is, in this respect, perhaps the most success- 
ful. He isa Scotch peasant, who took to 
rhyming—fell in love with a lady, who 
admired his verses—slighted for her a simple 
maiden of his own cast—was jilted by the 
patrician—fled to sea, as a refuge from 
misery—cooled back to his senses—returned 
home to marry Mary—found her dead of 
neglect—and then ran mad, anddied. His 
-verses are shortly to be published. Here is 
no bad specimen, sung by the widow of 
a drowned fisherman :— 
Oh saftly sleep, my bonnie bairn, 
Rock’d on this breast 0’ mine ; 
The beart that beats sae sair within, 
Will not awaken thine. 
Lie still, lie still, ye canker’d thochts 
That such late watches keep, 
Alv if ye break the mother’s heart, 
Yet let the baby sleep. 
Sleep on, sleep on, my ae, ae bairn, 
Nor look sae wae on me, 
As if ye felt the bitter tear, 
That blins thy mother’s e’e. 
Dry up, dry up, ye saut, saut tears, 
Lest on my bairn ye dreep, 
An’ break in silence, waefw’ heart, 
An’ let my baby sleep. 
But among the most appalling are the 
** Confessions of William Jones.” He was 
Domestic and Foreign. 
309 
a Welch grocer, well to do in the world, 
whose wife being in ill-health, was indulged 
with a cottage at some distance from home, 
where, by degrees, she became too inti- 
mately acquainted with an idle neighbour. 
Taffy’s suspicions were awakened, and 
more than once expressed ; but, being pre- 
sent once at the representation of Othello, 
he took a vigorous resolution to shake off his 
own, perhaps unfounded suspicions, confess 
his folly, and offer reconciliation. Unluckily, 
on his arrival at home, he deteeted the 
parties in each other’s arms. In the frenzy of 
his rage, he seized the wife, beat her violently, 
and drove her, more than half naked, out of 
doors, in the middle of the night, in the most 
inclement season of the year—which severity 
was quickly the death of her. The grocer sold 
off, and quitted the neighbourhood. But 
revenge was rankling—duelling was not to 
his taste—assassination was , perilous—but 
the offender was a gentleman, haughty, fas- 
tidious, and sensitive; and the Welchman, 
with a sort of Medea-like malignity resolved 
to strike where he was most vulnerable—he 
determined upon disgracing him. He found 
him at Bristol; and contriving to put the 
plate of the house into the gentleman’s 
trunk, he left the thing to work its own 
effect. The gentleman was arrested, tried, 
condemned, and brought to the scaffold. 
The Welchman presented himself, and 
whispered in his ear, “‘ This is my doing— 
I am William Jones.” The victim shouted 
out to seize him; but the cap was over his 
eyes, and he could not identify the man. 
The grocer still looked calmly on, and en- 
joyed his sensations, till the last moment, 
when, suddenly, by a violent revulsion of 
feeling, he screamed out, “ Stop !—stop— 
he is innocent.”? The cords which bound the 
arms of the unhappy man burst like a thread, 
and he tore off the cap from his head ; 
but on the instant the drop fell—the body 
swung round, and the eyes glared on the 
demon. 
Autographs, by John Gough Nicholls ; 
1829.—This is a very complete collection— 
comprising most of the royal, noble, learned, 
and remarkable personages of English his- 
tory, from the reign of Richard IT. to that 
of Charles I1.—including also some illustri- 
ous foreigners, as the title page has it. The 
editor accompanies the autographs with 
brief sketches of the characters and circum- 
stances of the individuals ; and, occasionally, 
whole letters are inserted; and pains have 
been taken to select such specimens as are 
characteristic of the writers; or, he says, 
from having been penned at remarkable 
periods in their lives, exhibit the influence 
of some extraordinary mental excitement. 
We have no doubt the collection will prove 
an acceptable present to many curious per- 
sons; and, at all events, will admirably suit 
a drawing-room table—calculated as it is to 
suggest topics for chit-chat, where they are 
often most wanted. We do aot ourselves 
