UNCERTAINTY OF LITERARY DISTINCTION.

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towards securing literary immortality. The poems of Nero, though lord of the majestic world," perished with him. Those of Homer, though an indigent itinerant bard, are transplanted into every polished language, and will live as long as ideas are by language communicated. The copious works of the British Solomon, who, "trowed himself to be the oldest and the wisest king in Christendom," though bound in purple morocco, stamped with letters of gold, and embellished with clasps of silver, lie worm-eaten and cobwebmantled even in the tory's garret; whilst the profane vulgar deem them of little other use than to inclose the trifling merchandize of the confectioner or haberdasher. Sometimes

perhaps, ignorantly flagitious, they kindle their tobaccocharged pipes with those very pages in which he fulminated against the use of it, both as a king and a Christian.

Compare with them the works of the vagabond Shakspeare; I fear he scarcely deserved a better appellation in his youthful days. They were produced almost under every disadvantage. But how soon did the frigid beams of royal pedantry suffer an eclipse; whilst the flame of genius that inspired the other, not a spark of which, possibly, was noticed in his native Stratford, and which dimly shone, or irregularly blazed-as caprice or envy urged the gale-in his own days, kindled as it flew through the track of time, and now irradiates with permanent lustre the poetic hemisphere of Britain! How little did Sir Thomas Lucy suppose, when, in the pomp and plenitude of judicial authority, that he should be transmitted down to posterity by the same disorderly youth, under the humiliating appellation of " Robert Shallow, Esq. justice of peace and corum!"

It appears, therefore, that genius, whatever temporary depressions it may suffer, is superior to all human power. Kings may dignify, dishonour, or reward merit; heroes and statesmen may live awhile in the mouths of men; while the vulgar, like the foliage of the grove, drop unnoted. Literary genius alone can confer the unfading wreath of fame on itself and others; can bestow it alike on the prince or peasant; crown with deathless glory, or brand with eternal infamy. Thersites, in the page of Homer, will live as long

as the "king of men ;" and Hostess Quickly will be remembered till the victor of Agincourt is forgotten.

These ideas were more particularly suggested by perusing the historical dramas of Shakspeare. The wonder-working power of the poet's pen is there most eminently displayed. Airy nothings are employed; our ancestors start from their tombs, and participate a second existence. His characters, whether those of kings and nobles, of clowns, constables, or pick-pockets, Cade's licentious mob, or Henry's turbulent barons, are such genuine copies from life, that we must suppose the originals acted and spoke in the manner he represents them. Like Homer, and in that respect he is singular among our English bards, he has acquired both the credit of an historian, and the celebrity of a poet; the illusion, at least, is so powerful, that, whilst we peruse his account of persons or évents, we cannot easily disbelieve it. No man of a liberal taste, descended from, or related to, any of Shakspeare's historic characters, can avoid feeling, from that very circumstance, additional pleasure in reflecting on them. The natural existence of a Hotspur continued only a few years: the tempest of war soon quenched that "soul of fire;" but the pen of Shakspeare, potent as the magician's wand, has conferred on him an ideal existence, which will terminate only with the extinction of the English language, possibly of the universe itself.

THE LOST CHILDREN.

BY THE EDITOR.

It was near the close of a fine summer's day when I first entered the little village of Mouzon, on the confines of the forest of Ardennes; that spot of ancient chivalry and renown. Scarcely had I got within sight of its little white cottages, when I was accosted by a young peasant, who, apologising for his intrusion, asked me if I had seen two little children on my way. "No, my friend, I have not," said I. He shook his head, and with a look of despondency, said-more to himself than to me, "I fear the Bohemians have them." The strangeness of this remark led me to ask its meaning.

Why," replied the peasant, "there has been a gang of

vagabond Bohemians lurking about the neighbourhood for this week past, and there is no doubt they have the poor little creatures. But by the blessed virgin if they have gone this road, I'll meet them." Without another word, he darted like a shot towards the forest, and I lost sight of him in an instant. I need not say I had heard enough to raise my curiosity to learn more. I proceeded onwards, and entering the village, the first words that met my ears were "poor little dears, it is a sad affair, indeed." It now appeared very clearly to me, that two children were missing; but I could not comprehend what the peasant meant when he said "he feared the Bohemians had them." To satisfy my curiosity, I therefore approached the woman, whose words I had just heard, and appearing to know more than I actually did, I asked her if any trace had been discovered of the children. "No, sir, it's a sad affair, indeed," said she. "Pray, good woman, is there any suspicion of their having been decoyed away?"

Suspicion, sir? is there any doubt but that the wretches of Bohemians have them with their fortune-telling and nonsense, deluding a pack of silly boys and girls who put faith in their impious prognostics, just as if the Almighty gave the power of divination to such wandering vagabonds as those. Francis the First expelled them the country once; I wish we had a Francis to root them out now: not to let them go about deluding the credulous, and robbing the honest."

I had now heard enough to know that by Bohemians, they meant gypsies, and I then recollected having passed a troop

of them some miles off.

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"And whose children have they taken ?" said I. Why, honest Jacques Blaissot's, to be sure. If you know any thing of them you had better be looking after them, than gossiping here."

Truly, good woman, you are a philosopher, thought I, as she hobbled away on her crutch; for she was both lame and

old.

It now struck me as very likely that the Bohemians had got the children, and I instantly repaired to the first inn I saw, and ordered a horse immediately. told the landlady the purpose I wanted it for, and proposed that some others should accompany me; but I found that scarce a man was left in the village; such was the interest created by the lost children. I