tragedy has none of these inequalities; the English too many of them, and too strong. The one is uniformly declamatory, and magnificently monotonous,―the other too often absurd, low, and disgusting. Those whom the prejudices of education, and long habits, have reconciled to either of these defects, are the more incapable of tolerating the contrary ones; and it would be in vain to try to bring them to the same opinion. If, however, the two nations receive similar impressions from their respective tragedies, dissimilar as they are; if the same effect is produced by different means, they may be allowed to feel and enjoy in their own way. The human heart is accessible by more than one avenue. "Quand une lecture vous élève l'esprit," says La Bruyere, " et qu'elle vous inspire des sentimens nobles et courageux, ne cherchez pas une autre règle pour juger de l'ouvrage, il est bon, et de main de maître."

Criticism on objects of taste is, after all, little more conducive to a higher relish of their beauty than dissection is to a higher relish of the beauty of the person. I do not know whether the ignorance of every language, every literature, or every poetry, but one, is not necessary to preserve in all its energy the relish of that one, and to prevent any part of the happy delusion from being dissipated. As the amor patria, in its full force, exists only for those who never travelled,

there is generally some pleasure lost by being too wise.

There is, in the play of Henry the Eighth, something about imprisonment in the Tower, and about the Guards. The public caught the allusion to Sir F. Burdett's situation, and there was a good deal of clapping and hissing. The former had the advantage; but I cannot tell whether it was for or against Sir Francis. I had the honour of dining, a few days ago, with a lady, a great oppositionist, and even a reformist, who admires, of course, Sir Francis, and has paid him a visit in the Tower. One of the guests, a dignitary of the established church, and anti-reformer par metier, out of patience with all this tenderness for Sir Francis, attacked him violently, and his talents, as well as political principles and motives. He said, among other things, that Sir Francis had been his pupil at college, and a great dunce; that, however, after he was grown up and married, he had bethought himself of his own ignorance, and taken the desperate resolution of returning to school, or at least resuming his studies. He took for that purpose a preceptor, a Frenchman of some literary reputation,* to

The author is informed that Mr Chevalier, well known in France by his literary talents, his respectable character, and

whom he allowed L.500 sterling a-year, as a remuneration for all the political philosophy he acquired under him, and of which he has since made such a splendid display. He owned, however, that the patriot was mild and benevolent,-a generous landlord, and good master. As an orator, Sir Francis is acknowledged to have considerable talents. As a statesman, his zeal is certainly more conspicuous than his prudence or judgment. By aiming at too much, he will do nothing; and, wasting his means in skirmishes, he will never achieve a great victory.

We have been frustrated in an attempt we made to see the Tower, a deputation of the livery of London having, unfortunately for us, taken the same day to present an address to the suffering patriot. The concourse of people was prodigious; and, far from being able to penetrate, we thought ourselves fortunate in extricating ourselves from the crowd without accident.

particularly his royalism, manifested throughout the French revolution, was the person chosen by Sir Francis Burdett to direct his studies at the period alluded to, and that, notwithstanding the wide difference of political opinions which seems to exist between the master and the pupil, they have preserved a mutual esteem and attachment for each other. Sir Francis allows, at this moment, fifty pounds a-year to Mr Chevalier. This the author understands to be the correct fact to which the above anecdote must be reduced.

This Tower appears a confused heap of roofs and chimnies, surrounded with a wall and a ditch, broad, deep, and full of water. We shall choose a better time for another visit.

Returning, we stopped at St Paul's. My admiration of this magnificent temple is not diminished.* Its interior is thought naked and unfinished. I was nevertheless struck with its greatness, which loses little by the want of minute ornaments. Naval trophies hang down from the inside of the dome. I do not know whether these sort of ornaments are very appropriate to the spirit of Christianity; but what religion loses in purity, public spirit gains in enthusiasm; and, in this age, the exchange may be necessary. Through an iron grate in the pavement under the dome, we observed a light. It is a sepulchral vault, where the remains of the naval hero of England have been deposited. Workmen were preparing a place by the side of Nelson, for his friend and companion in arms, Admiral Collingwood. The thought of being buried in Westminster Abbey

St Paul's, built by Sir C. Wren, finished 1710, was 35 years in building, and cost L.736,752 sterling. It is 500 feet long, 250 wide; the summit of the dome is 340 high; its external diameter 145 feet. St Peter's of Rome was 135 years building; it is 729 feet long, 364 wide, and 437 feet high to the summit of the cross.

seems to have occupied some of the last moments of the hero; instead of that, he is made here the founder of a new dynasty of the dead. A great name was necessary to consecrate St Paul'snone could be better for the purpose,

The excessive vanity of Lord Nelson, and some other errors, tarnished a little the glory of his last years. He loved to shew himself all over ribbons, and orders, and wounds, and revelled in popular acclamations. It was the salary of his labours, and he was not ashamed to stretch out his hand to receive it. What avail, after all, crosses, and ribbons, and glorious wounds, if not to be shewn? That pleasure is felt by all men ; it springs equally from the weakness of our na ture, and from its greatness; and it may be more estimable to own the feeling than to disguise it. Lord Nelson was thus decorated, resplendent with the outward badges of greatness, when he received his mortal wound on the deck of the Victory at the battle of Trafalgar. It made him conspicuous, and probably caused his death. He had been warned and knew the danger, but would have it so. He had sacrificed his limbs and his health to win the prize, and now, at the peril of his life, he would show it to the enemy,—a mag. nanimous sort of vanity!

The following day we went again to St Paul's, to hear a grand oratorio for the benefit of the