polito for declining to accompany him to Hungary, where the climate was unfavourable to his health and time of life, that what with this and other ill returns for the delight he was giving mankind, he took for his device a bee-hive set on fire for its honey, with the motto "Evil for Good." But the natural cheerfulness of his temper was a wealth of which nothing deprived him. Next to writing his poetry, he took delight in gardening and building He was plain and temperate in diet, but a most delightful companion, particularly in the society of the ladies, by whom he was proportionately beloved. The name of his favourite was Gineura. He was so attached to her, that in one of his sonnets he wishes to be known for a poet, not by a wreath of ivy or laurel, but by a crown of Juniper, Gineura, in Italian, resembling the word that signifies that tree. He was handsome both in face and person, though he latterly grew large like Boccaccio. His poetry (of which it is needless perhaps to inform our readers, that the translations give no idea) is exquisitely easy, natural, and full of a certain humanity in its wildest departures from it. He makes you feel a knight on horseback, and a magician on griffin-back, with an equal sense of reality; and carries you from story to story, and bower to bower, with a never-ending freshness and variety. But we must kill him, or we shall never have done. He died on the 18th June, (6th, O. S.) 1533. Following the "Calendar of Birthdays," is a" Diary" for appointments, and other memoranda, together with blank pages for general observations. This Diary differs in nothing from the common Diaries, except that wherever the birth-day of a celebrated man occurs, his name is put down, with the year in which he was born, thus reminding us pleasantly of great spirits, and affording us an opportunity of doing them honour. The "Miscellanies" consist of a very clever and interesting paper called "Walks round London ;" and various pieces of original poetry. From the Walks we select the following, (which is all that we can spare room for)-it takes us at once into the country, and is undoubtedly a very picturesque piece of writing. We understand that it is written by Mr., but perhaps he does not wish us to mention his name. We propose, then, to take a direction to the north-west of the great city, along the Edgeware-road, which becomes interesting soon after you have passed through Pad. dington, the road being less frequented It is than most of the others about town. bordered on one side by tall elms and undulating fields, and on the other by a fine series of meadows which still preserve their old character of simple open pasturage. Just before we reach Kilburn we shall be tempted to stop and look through an opening on the right into a complete landscape, cultivated and graceful in its effect without formality. The fields nearest to us seem to have burst into soft irregularities, as though the earth had made faint preludings to itself before it knew how to throw up the mountains. These hillocks mark the fore-ground; the middle distance is studded with trees and hedges, and the picture is shut in by peaceful hills. Passing through Kilburn, we continue in the same beautiful road for about half a mile, when we turn into a lane to the left, leading to Wilsden. Here we are perfectly retired and quiet, and may be as meditative as we please. The lane partakes of the unmodernized character of the whole neighbourhood: it is edged by strips of grass, and made especially picturesque by the capricious outline of its rich hedges, whose bases are embossed by large-leaved weeds and wild flowers breeding there in secure overgrowth. In this still situation, we shall soon come upon the gates of a mansion standing in the midst of spacious grounds, and having very much the look of an old chateau in a romance. Looking beyond the groups of graceful shrubs which are scattered about on this side the house, our view is bounded by deep groves and glades of large trees, nursing their own twilight. An hundred miles from town, in our opinion, we could not meet with any place more hushed and hidden, where the air could be freer, or the trees more solemn and umbrageous. The house is called Bramsbury, and is the seat of Mr. Coutts Trotter. The following Song, and Fragment entitled "Grief," are the production of Mr. Shelley, the author of that most powerful dramatic work The Cenci. SONG. On a faded Violet. The odour from the flower is gone Which like thy kisses breathed on me; The colour from the flower is flown Which glowed of thee and only thee! A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form, It lies on my abandoned breast, And mocks the heart which yet is warm, With cold and silent rest. I weep,-my tears revive it not ! I sigh, it breathes no more on me! Red rolls the Nith 'tween bank and brae, go and see my Nanie O. My Nanie O, my Nanie O, My kind and winsome Nanie O; She holds my heart in love's sweet bands, And nane can do't but Nanie O. In preaching time so meek she stands, I cannot get one glimpse of grace, My Nanie O, my Nanie O, The world's in love with Nanie O; My breast can scarce contain my heart, My Nanie O, my Nanie O, hair, And says "I live with Nanie O." Tell not, thou star, at gray day-light, To finish all, O gentle and royal tree, Thou reignest now upon that flourishing head, At whose triumphant eyes, Love and our souls are led. We must now shut up the Literary Pocket-Book, recommending it, however, to our readers, partly for its original matter, and partly for its Lists (of authors, &c.), which, (as we have before said), are really invaluable, and are to be found in no other publication whatever. We had intended to have given this little book a more laboured notice, but it has come rather late into our hands, and we can only submit to our readers the above short and imperfect account. Five shillings cannot well be laid out more advantageously for a Christmas present (to a man, woman, or child), than in the purchase of the Literary Pocket-Book for 1821. Town Conversation. No. I. MR. BARRY CORNWALL'S TRAGEDY. MANY complaints have been urged against our best poets for not directing their attention to the stage; but we are happy to learn that one of our best, has at length resolved to exonerate himself from any share of this blame. A more worthy object of ambition than the theatre presents to writers of genius and imagination, cannot be conceived; yet how few such have recently devoted themselves to its service! If there be any thing in the footing on which theatrical representations are now placed, that can account for this backwardness, it becomes pressing indeed that the cause, or causes, should be distinctly known, preparatory to being removed; for the actual degradation of our Dramatic Literature reflects shame on the country-shame, too, which cannot, by any means, be considered obliterated by excellence in other departments of composition. The Drama is, by distinction, the representative of the taste, attainments, and manners of society:-no vigorous people (unless accidentally, and for a short time) ever was without a flourishing theatre, reflecting back, on the public observation, lively images of the public feeling, habits, and accomplishments. To say, then, of a civilized nation, that it is totally destitute of a Drama proper to the day, is a reproach of a serious nature, bearing heavily against its intellectual claims.-It has certainly been but too applicable to England of late years: but symptoms have recently shown themselves of an awakening to a just sense of the animating invitation which the stage holds out, amongst those who are capable of doing honour to its call. The author of Virginius has proved that neither the size of the Houses, nor the disposition of audiences (as has been pretended) is necessarily fatal to the success of talent employed in dramatic composition. It would be strange, indeed, if a large theatre should be proved to be peculiarly favourable to nonsense, and hostile to sense and feeling: we have always doubted this, and now disbelieve it altogether. It may, indeed, hold many who cannot hear, and the theatres of the ancients must have done the same, but surely those who can, are left free to judge as correctly as if they were enclosed within the walls of a small building. As for the disposition of audiences, that we understand the accounts that NEW NOVEL BY THE AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY. Kennilworth Castle is the announced title; and we were in hopes that this first Number of the Third Volume of our Magazine would have been dise tinguished by an account of a work, the authorship of which is calculated to recommend criticism, more than the most favourable criticism can recommend it. Were we to say that its appearance has been delayed by an absolute difficulty experienced in transmitting to Scotland the requisite quantity of paper, however incredible such an assertion might apLORD BYRON'S This work, which is, we understand, rather in the nature of a Dramatic Poem than of an acting Tragedy, is just announced as being in the press. It is entitled "Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice." The story is, shortly, that of a Doge of Venice, who, on account of an insult offered to his wife, conspired with some malcontents to overturn the government of his country.-Venice was at that period governed by a council of ten, who discovered the conspiracy, and caused the Doge to be arrested. Faliero was sentenced to die, and behaved in the most abject manner in order to save his life: it was in vain, however, and he was finally executed. It is not a little curious to hear of a prince conspiring against the pear, we have good reason to believe we should be saying nothing but the simple fact. Kennilworth Castle will, it is understood, be more in the manner of Ivanhoe, than of the Scotch series; and from what we hear we are prepared to expect a very successful composition. It is said to be calculated even to rival the Ivanhoe in the public favour. NEW TRAGEDY. land of which he was himself the head? We are told that Signor Foscolo has spoken in warm terms of the mode in which Lord Byron has pictured the manners and customs of Venice: and we have heard also that the Editor of the Quarterly Review has pronounced this tragic Drama to be a fine specimen of English composition. If it be so (and we are not without our attention to his opinion) we may congratulate the noble author on an improvement which we could scarcely have expected from his Venetian sojourn. Lord Byron is a poet, and undoubtedly a powerful one; but he is not a writer whose correctness of style has hitherto particularly entitled him to our regard. MR. SHELLEY. A friend of ours writes to us, from Italy, that Mr. Shelley, the author of that powerful Drama, "The Cenci," is employed upon an English historical Tragedy. The title, we believe, is to be Charles the First; at any rate that monarch is the hero, or principal person of the story. We hear that Mr.Shelley has expressed his determination to paint a true portrait of the unfortunate English King (it may be made a very captivating one) and to exclude from his work all prejudice, political as well as moral. If so, the reader of poetry may calculate on being acquainted with a high and imperishable production. We differ entirely with the creeds of Mr. Shelley; but we do not on that account refrain from confessing, that he is unquestionably one of the very first of our now living English poets. We wish, most heartily, that we could bestow on his poetry our praise without qualification; but we cannot. MR. SOUTHEY. We understand that Mr. Southey is making preparations for a History of the Quakers, but that those pacific folks are not, at present, very forward in yielding to the wishes which the learned historian has expressed, of seeing the various documents in England belonging to the sect. We hope that this hesitation will not be persevered in. We have great regard for the honest dealings and primitive simplicities of these worthy people; and we verily believe, that their re spectability will not be endangered, nor their feelings outraged by their entrusting their papers to the inspection of Mr. Southey. Many facts will necessarily escape and find their way to him; and the chance is, that some of them may be distorted, if authorities cannot be referred to.. Will it not be wise, therefore, to guard against this possibility, by making the historian at once a friend? The Quakers are not a literary people, and they do not encourage let |