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wards found by his former captain in In- 
dia, entirely changed—not in intellect, for 
he was still as imbecile as ever, but in 
appearance and behaviour, and no longer 
the general laughing-stock.. The cause 
appeared, to be his attachment to a little 
child, who returned his attentions, with the 
most passionate fondness. This had en- 
grossed and steadied him—he had found— 
what he had never found before—some- 
thing to love him.—The memoirs of a young 
sculptor, is a very touching little narrative— 
a true story. Proctor, from a boy, had a de- 
cided bent for the art, but was forced by the 
inflexibility of his friends, to a linen draper’s 
shop. Once released from the counter, he flew 
back to his old pursuit, and finally succeeded 
in modelling a group, of Diomedes torn in 
pieces by his horses, which was exhibited 
conspicuously at Somerset House, and ad- 
mired by every body, but at the end of the 
-season returned unsold, to the disappointed 
artist. In a fit of desperation he smashed it 
to atoms with a hammer, and was fast sink- 
ing into a state of entire apathy—_when West 
heard of his condition, and kindly procured 
‘from the Academy a grant of a hundred a 
year, for three years, to enable him to visit 
Rome—the joy of which, by the sudden re- 
vulsion it occasioned, killed the poor fellow 
in a few days. Lady Anne Carr, by the 
author of May you like it—how excessively 
troublesome these pariphrases are—is in that 
writer’s best and very amiable manner ; Les 
Contretemps, half-French, is well told—and 
Audubon’s Journey up the Mississippi, is a 
very agreeable sketch. The poetry, though 
exhibiting many specimens of very graceful 
yersification—has nothing lofty or stirring in 
it. The editor’s own epilogue may serve as a 
specimen. When speaking of his own diffi- 
culties in selecting, he says— 
Nor bolder his attempt to judge the prize, 
When the three goddesses stood all revealed, 
And gave their beauties to his dazzled eyes, 
Than mine, to cull amidst the spacious field, 
Where flowers of every scent their fragrance 
yield, 
A garland which shall blend the fairest hues ;— 
For still the sweetest lie the most concealed, 
And numerous charms each dubious sense con- 
fuse, 
Bafling his anxious care, who seeks the best to 
choose, &e, 
Here is something very youthful in Mr. 
Roscoe’s Sonnet :-— 
TO THE CAMELIA JAPONICA. 
Say, what impels me, pure and spotless flower, 
To view thee with a secret sympathy ? 
Is there some living spirit, shrined in thee, 
Endows thee with some strange, mysterious 
power, 
Waking high thoughts? As there perchance 
might be 
‘Some angel-form of truth and purity, 
+ Whose hallowed presence shared my lonely 
- hour? 
Domestic and Foreign. 
That, as thou bloom’st within my humble bower, 
533 
Yes, lovely flower! ’tis not thy virgin glow, 
Thy petals, whiter than descending snow, 
Nor all the charms thy velvet folds display ; 
’Tis the.soft image of some beaming mind, 
By grace adorned, by elegance refined, 
That o’er my heart thus holds its silent sway. 
Of the engravings, The Scotch Peasant 
Girl, perhaps, is distinguishable—and, cer- 
tainly, The Sailor Boy ; but ail are of the 
highest order of execution. The View near 
Windsor is beautiful; and the Fire-works 
at St. Angelo has a very good effect. 
Forget-me-not ; 1829.—This is the an- 
nual which had the merit of introducing 
this class of publications ; and, though now 
completing its sixth year, shews no symp- 
toms of degenerating. The contributions 
are, for the most part, the handy works of 
well-known scribblers, and few compara- 
tively are anonymous ; but, again, the prose 
carries it decidedly against the poetry. Miss 
Mitford appears again with her Sketches, 
and more cricketing—which is really"a very 
odd fancy of her’s. Several stories are told 
in a very agreeable, light-hearted manner: 
—The Red Flag at the Nore—One Hour 
too many—and a piece of Irish extrava- 
‘gance, like Croker’s. Hogg has some of his 
‘best prose and verse too. 
‘the ladies and the clergy predominate—and, 
Among the poets, 
among the latter, one “ B. D.”? We do 
not, however, discover the literary pre- 
eminence above its competitors, of which the 
editor talks. Take, however, some of the 
best :-— 
‘LAST LINES BY C.B. SHERIDAN, ESQ. 
By affection’s torturing power 
In that fatal, final bour— 
By my waking on the morrow 
To the consciousness of sorrow ; 
Grief, which far exceeded sadness; 
Love, which still approaches madness ;— 
By the tones which, as thou speakest, 
Make the firmest heart the weakest ; 
Charms, too fatally beguiling ; 
Pensive grace, or playful smiling, 
Looks with which thou still delightest, 
All expressions best and brightest ;— 
By my tears, represt, but starting, 
At the moment of our parting— 
By the love which yet adores thee— 
By the pride which thus implores thee— 
Pangs that torture, cares that fret me, 
Doubly loved and lost—/orget me. 
Delta’s Blind Piper is too long for quota- 
tion; but we may give a scrap ;—there is 
no accounting for taste :— 
I love to bear the bagpipe sound ; 
The tones wind magically round 
The heart, which they subdue 
To pain or pleasure; yes, they raise 
Deep memories, and departed days 
Glide sweetly in review. 
