the dread he always had, that the notion he loved to cherish of their perfection, and almost divine nature, might be disturbed. Having always been governed by them, it would seem that his very self-love was pleased to take refuge in the idea of their excellence; a sentiment which he knew how (God knows how!) to reconcile with the contempt in which, shortly afterwards, almost with the appearance of satisfaction, he seemed to hold them. But contradictions ought not to surprise us in characters like Lord Byron's; and then, who does not know that the slave holds in detestation his ruler? Without a Hero to expect him on the opposite shore, he swam across the Hellespont, with the sole view of putting an end to the controversy, whether or no it were possible; and, in the same manner, he also crossed the rapid, and, in that respect, more dangerous, Tagus, at the broadest part of the river-a feat on which he prided himself more than on the former; and, as part of the same subject, I may mention, that he was seen, on leaving a palace situated on the Great Canal, instead of entering into his gondola, to throw himself with his clothes on into the water, and swim to his house. On the following night, in order to avoid the risk he had the former evening run of being hurt by the numerous oars of the gondoliers, who, in their swift barks, were conveying home their masters-as one impatient of every obstacle, he was seen swimming across the same canal with his right arm, and holding, raised in his left hand, a small lamp with which to illumine his way. At the view of so strange a wanderer, it is not possible to describe what was the astonishment of the peaceable gondoliers, who, stretched along the decks of their barks, waited, singing the beautiful verses of Erminia and Brondina, until the watchful cock should salute the morn-the hour at which the night-wandering Venetian ladies are wont to betake themselves to their homes in suminer. With his domestics, from whom he exacted scarcely any thing, he was generous, good, and affable: amongst the rest, he always carried with him an old domestic, because he said he had been in the family when he was born. Lord Byron disliked his countrymen, but only because he knew that his morals were held in contempt by them. The English themselves, rigid observers of family duties, could not pardon him the neglect of his, nor his trampling on principles: therefore, neither did he like being presented to them, nor did they, especially when they had their wives with them, like to cultivate his acquaintance. Still there was a strong desire in all of them to see him; and the women in particular, who did not dare to look at him but by stealth, said in an under-voice, "What a pity it is!" If, however, any of his compatriots of exalted rank and of high reputation was the first to treat him with courtesy, he showed himself obviously flattered by it, and was greatly pleased with such an association. It seemed that to the wound which remained always open in his ulcerated heart, such soothing attentions were as drops of healing balm, which comforted him. Speaking of his marriage, a delicate subject, but one still agreeable to him-if it was treated in a friendly voice, he was greatly moved, and said it had been the innocent cause of all his errors, and all his griefs. Of his wife he spoke with much respect and affection. He said she was an illustrious lady, distinguished for the qualities of her heart and understanding, and that all the fault of their cruel separation lay with himself. Now, was such language dictated by justice or by vanity? Does it not bring to mind the saying of Julius, that the wife of Cæsar must not even be suspected? What vanity in that Cæsarean saying! In fact, if it had not been from vanity, Lord Byron would have admitted this to no one. Of his young daughter, his dear Ada, he spoke with great tenderness, and seemed to be pleased at the great sacrifice he had made in leaving her to comfort her mother. The intense hatred he bore his mother-in-law, and a sort of Euriclea of Lady Byron, two women to whose influence he in a great measure attributed her estrangement from him, demonstrated clearly how painful the separation was to him, notwithstanding some bitter pleasantries which occasionally occur in his writings, against her also, dictated rather by rancour than by indifference. His mind was so irritable and intolerant of censure, that he was heard to say of a lady, who had dared to criticise one of his lines, that he would have wished to drown her in the ocean, as if the Lake of Venice did not seem to him sufficiently deep. When he heard that any one was preparing to translate his poetry, he grew pale, and almost trembled for fear the translator should not prove capable of his task. His hand was ready to succour the wretched; but his severe compatriots accused him of not extending it sufficiently in private, as if the want of a second virtue could destroy the first. But then, if all that Lord Byron did was severely scrutinized, whose fault was it? A new Tyrtæus, he excited with his strains the regenerated Greeks to battle and to victory. He died amidst those whom he loved, and obtained from a nation which was conscious of his virtues alone, and of her own gratitude, pure, and deep, and generous commiseration. His country, highly honouring her poet, disputed with Greece the possession of his mortal remains. She had them. To the other remained that which more properly belonged to it-" My heart! Greece!" Such were his last words. THE ACTOR. (From the Monthly Magazine.-No. XXXVIII.) PERHAPS Fortune does not buffet any set of beings with more industry, and withal less effect, than Actors. There may be something in the habitual mutability of their feelings that evades the blow; they live, in a great measure, out of this dull sphere," which men call earth;" they assume the dress, the tone, the gait of emperors, kings, nobles: the world slides, and they mark it not. The actor leaves his home, and forgets every domestic exigence in the temporary government of a state, or overthrow of a tyrant; he is completely out of the real world until the dropping of the curtain. The time likewise not spent on the stage is passed in preparation for the night; and thus the shafts of fate glance from our actor like swan-shot must from an elephant. If struck at all, the barbs pierce the bones, and quiver in the marrow. Let us instance an author, who by the aid of pen, ink, and paper-implements for immortality-makes him a world of his own, peoples it according to. his desires, and lies basking beneath the sky of summer-blue. Let us take Milton, in his divine phrenzy, drawing" empyreal air;" let us contemplate him suddenly snatched from the heaven of heavens by a shrill warning from his landlady, that an unpoetic cobbler refuses to leave the newly heel-tapped shoes of "Mr. Milton," without the groat! Is not this a check? Is not our poet brought from his Pegasus with a jolt that threatens dislocation? We take it, the feeling of an actor, really awakened to worldly pressure, is, in some degree, the same. He descends from his throne, and the breath of assumed royalty is scarcely extinct within him, ere "our anointed self" may receive a no very ceremonious deputation from a petty creditor, or the personal attack of an enraged "cleanser of soiled linen." Our actor-mind, we are speaking of players in the mass-is the most joyous, careless, superficial flutterer in existence. He knows every thing, yet has learned nothing; he has played at ducks and drakes over every rivulet of information, yet never plunged inch-deep into any thing beyond a play-book, or Joe Miller's jests. If he venture a scrap of latin, be sure there is among his luggage a dictionary of quotations; if he speak of history-why, he has played in Richard and Coriolanus. The stage is with him the fixed orb around which the whole world revolves; there is nothing worthy of a moment's devotion one hundred yards from the green-room. Our actor is completely great-coated in self-importance-buttoned up to the throat in the impervious inch-thick vest of vanity. We never find his nature cold and shivering at the atmosphere of diffidence; no, it glows, cisely what an actor practises, only with an abstract truth A mackerel lives longer out of water than does an actor out of his element: he cannot, for a minute, "look abroad into universality." Keep him to the last edition of a new or old play, the burning of the two theatres, or an anecdote of John Kemble, and our actor sparkles amazingly. Put to him an unprofessional question, and you strike him dumb; locks his jaws. On the contrary, listen to the stock-joke; lend an attentive car to the witticism clubbed by the whole greenroom-for there is rarely more than one at a time in circulation-and no man talks faster -none with a deeper delight to himselfnone more profound, more knowing. The conversation of our actor is a fine " piece of mosaic." Here Shakspeare is laid under contribution-here Farquhar-here Otway. We have an undigested mass of quotations, dropping without order from him. In words he is absolutely impoverishable. What a lion he stalks in a country town! How he stilts himself upon his jokes over the sleek, unsuspecting heads of his astonished hearers! He tells a story; and, for the remainder of the night, sits embosomed in the ineffable lustre of his humour. An actor can always be recognised in the street; he seems at ease (for where is he not?) in the crowd, yet not one of it. The peacock, stripped of its feathers, will still maintain its strut: the actor has not forgotten the part of last night; his head, accustomed to the velvet cap, the overhanging plumes, and the sparkling gem, carries the meek beaver with a haughty, jerking air; his foot throws itself forth with determination, as though ambition, love, or tyranny It is odd to perceive how vanity haunts the tribe. There is now lying before us the address-caid of a On the reverse is the actor truly great tragedian. placed, like a naughty boy in the corner, with the cap on his head, and the following startling inteli gence: Alanienoudet, chier of Haroa tribe of Indians." yet burned in every toe; his hand still seems to grasp a hilt or cartel; the coat sets as though it knew it had usurped the place of tunic, vest, or robe; the very cravat dilates with the conscious pride of "station." He looks at the passers-by with the air of an old acquaintance-of one who has obliged them -suns himself in the fair eyes that have wept at his "serious business"-and bathes his spirit in the dewy lips that have tittered at his comedy. Verily, we have seen a successful actor air himself in the Park: we have seen him, while his inward man was wholly inebriated with the looks and gestures that he drew upon him! The vanity of our actor is never more apparent than in his benevolent custom of helping the ignorant dramatists whose creations he embodies: his philanthropy is unbounded. Even the bard of Avon's language sometimes gains correction and adornment. We once heard an actor tag the exit of the starved apothecary with an original interpolation. We should much like to have the measure of the importance of a popular actor as taken by himself: it would be a curiosity for the study of the contemplative. We remember one striking instance. A celebrated mimic, a few seasons since, modestly expressed his hope that he might be the means of conciliating one quarter of the world with England. Only think of the comfortable state of that man's mind, who, having rubbed a hare's foot over his cheek and nose, thinks himself sufficiently important to form a connecting link between Great Britain and America! This feeling may, however, be reasonably accounted for. The actor, unlike every other professional man, receives admiration through so violent and gross a medium-it comes with such a gust upon his senses, that he cannot maintain that equanimity arrived at by the poet, the painter, the sculptor. The man, accustomed to estimate his appearance as the signal of shouts and plaudits from congregated thousands, cannot soberly calculate his real importance, but is apt to confound his bearing in every other relation of life with his mere professional value. The admiration paid to men in other walks of art comes to them cooled, purified, and sweetened by distance-just as the voluptuous Turk draws the bounty of the weed through a dulcifying rivulet of rose-water. Now our actor has it hot-" burning hot"-and rolling up around him, eyes, mouth, nose, ears, all take in the intoxicating vapour, and a large monster of vanity is thereby generated. An actor, in the full enjoyment of his art, must experience the most intense and violent delight. He fairly bathes himself in the plaudits showered around him: he seems saturated with commendation. His person dilates, his eye lightens, all the cares of ex istence are lost, annihilated, in the brief rapture of the moment. The consciousness of self-importance knocks hardly at his heart; his pulses are at full gallop; his very being is multiplied. It is to this cause that an actor has less admiration for his author than has the uninitiated man. The actor loses all recollection of the dramatist in self: he is persuaded that he has snatched the unformed lump from the author, and, by his own feelings and emotions, given shape and beauty to the plastic mass! It is he who has made the part. The low, creeping envy of the actor is to be accounted for on the same principle as his conceit: the approbation paid to another reaches him as loudly as that awarded to self. Actors come in more direct collision with one another than any kind of men besides. Hence, there is more envy, more low, petty intrigues, in a green-room, than in a court of France. THE TREASURES OF THE WINE In this age of romantic investigation, it is not unusual to meet with those young philosophers, who are very fond of exploring subterraneous regions; whose gloomy and vague imaginations dwell only on dark caverns and funeral catacombs. I am fond, too, of going sometimes under ground, but it is not to hunt up the bones of my fellowmortals, or to cut off their heads to find out what bumps they had on them, in order to improve myself in craniology. No; I have not much taste for those objects which make humanity shudder; I love to walk under ground, but then it is between two ramparts, formed of vats of wine, well arranged, and well hooped with iron. Well do I love to wander beneath cavities, ornamented with bottles of divers forms, and distinguished by their seals. The most smiling ideas accompany me through these labyrinths, consecrated to Bacchus, and I meditate with pleasure in the midst of this subterranean collection, invented for the consolation of mankind. The dryness and neatness of these winding paths, where a skilful wine merchant has deposited liquid tributes from the four quarters of the world, forms a pleasure in itself to a true votary of the vine-crowned god, and bestows on him at once the most delightful sensations of remembrance of the past, and hopes of the future. A wine-cellar ought to be, at the same time, dry and cool. The air should not penetrate too strongly through its openings, and daylight must be shut out. The sun, whose glorious light merits all our homage without, and all our thankfulness; the sun, which ripens all the gifts of nature, is death to the wine-cellar. An experienced winedrinker knows this weil; and must ever exile this glorious luminary from his winecellar. The quantity of the different kinds of wine which the cellar of an amateur ought to contain is not limited; but a wise precaution ought in this to unite economy with riches. There are only some particular kind of wines which ought to be laid in, in large quantities. Several others may be amassed in sufficient number of bottles to last for some years. Woe to the uninitiated wine-bibber! who crowds his cellar with pipes of Burgundy and Champagne. These wines will keep but a very few years, and should always be drank as soon as they are ripe; for they degenerate very rapidly. Burgundy turns sour, and Champagne becomes thick. In general it is most difficult to preserve white wines; never more should be laid in than what is sure to be for immediate use. Claret, wines from the south, and Spanish wines, will keep, and ought to be kept long, because their age is their chief merit. Of these it is right to have some pipes in store; and those which contain new wine, should be concealed by those which are fit to drink, that they may not be broached till they have been, in a manner, forgotten; and after this wine has been thus laid by in bottles, it will come to table (the port of Portugal especially), with a triple coat of crust, with the corks blackened, and half consumed by time. If the giver of the feast, with noble pride, exclaims, "There is some wine of thirty years old," no sardonic smile is seen on the lips of any of his guests, for they find it is no vain boasting which he has been guilty of. A complete treatise on wines would fill a volume; I shall, therefore, confine myself to speak only of their different kinds, and to remark how they ought to be placed in the cellar. Spanish wines, the sweet ones especially, such as Malaga and Rota, should be placed, standing upright. Heat brings them to perfection, and they should be placed on shelves, as the coldness of the cellar hinders their ripening. Champagne, on the contrary, gains strength by the cold; but common wines only should be iced, and even they would be better if merely cooled with water, which always gives sufficient coolness to wine, even at the hottest temperature of the dogdays. But it is not only that we should avoid icing wines that are choice; every different kind requires a different degree of cold and warmth. Thus claret, coming immediately out of the cellar, has not that soft and delicious flavour which gives it its peculiar value. The bottle should be placed, before drinking, where it may imbibe a degree of warmth. In winter, wine-drinkers always place it before the fire; but Burgundy should be drank fresh from the cellar. The ordinary wines which are taken during dinner, though coming under that appellation, merit the attention of the votary of Pacchus. If the wines served after dinner are the more rare and exquisite, they cannot compensate for the detestable stuff that is often served during the repast, which, though they may be mixed with water, will destroy the nicest palate. Now, there are some light French wines, with some common ones from Spain and Portugal, particularly the white wine of the latter country, known amongst us by the name of Lisbon wine, which, if very good, and from being less in use than formerly, may be sometimes introduced with success; but it will suit but with few tastes, and is generally sported only by affected connoisseurs in wine, especially by men of small fortunes. Those of a superior order give among their French wines, Vin de Beaune, the best kind of Claret, and often red Champagne, with that safe and delightful beverage Vin de Grave. always to take after soup a glass of some The custom during the last century was sweet one; but now the experienced wineMadeira, or of Teneriffe. Common wines drinker takes either a glass of good old are only served with the roast meat, such as Sherry, &c. if French, the Vin de Beaune, is drank at the second course. The third course is exhilarated by Hermitage, Cote-roti and Champagne. After dinner-old Port, Musand Tokay; this last high-priced and powercadel, or Malmsey-Madeira, Cyprus-wine, ful wine, is served in very small glasses. Before I terminate these reflections, it may not be amiss to make some observations on the various kinds of wine. Burgundy and Claret will ever be eternal rivals in aspiring to the preference given each other by the winebibber. Red wine should never be preferred to white, say some, but the question is yet undecided as to which is the most wholesome. It is said that true connoisseurs in wine will not reject even those which are irritating and very heady; but as it is not possible to give any decided information on that head, it is the wisest part to refer to the old adage, which, however common, is nevertheless true. "It is not in the power of any one to decide on taste or on colours." ORIGIN OF AN INCIDENT IN "ZADIG." In the Alakeswara Kathá, a story of the Rajah of Alakapur and his four ministers, who, being falsely accused of violating the sanctity of the inner apartments, vindicate their innocence and disarm the king's wrath THE DEATH WATCH. by relating a number of stories, the following incidents are mentioned which show the (From the Technological and Microscopie origin of part of Voltaire's story of Zadig: In the reign of Alakendra Rajah, of Alakapuri, it happened that four persons of respectability were travelling on the high road, when they met with a merchant who had lost one of his camels. Entering into conversation with him, one of the travellers inquired if the camel was not lame in one of its legs; another asked if it was not blind of the right eye; the third asked if the tail of it was not unusually short; and the fourth de manded if it was not subject to the cholic. They were all answered in the affirmative by the merchant, who was satisfied that they must have seen the animal, and eagerly demanded where they had seen it. They replied they had seen traces of the camel but not the camel itself, which being inconsistent with the minute acquaintance they seemed to possess, the merchant accused them of being thieves, and having stolen his beast, and immediately applied to the rajah for redress. The rajah, on hearing the merchant's story, was equally impressed with the belief that the travellers must know what had become of the camel, and sending for them, he threat ened them with his extreme displeasure if they did not confess the truth. How could they know, he demanded, that the camel was lame or blind, or whether the tail was long or short, or that it was subject to any malady, unless they had it in their possession? On which they severally explained the reasons which had induced them to express their belief of these particulars. The first observed -I noticed in the foot-marks of the animal, that one was deficient, and I concluded ac cordingly that he was lame in one of his legs. The second said-I noticed the leaves of the trees on the left side of the road had been snapped or torn off, whilst those on the right side were untouched, whence I concluded the animal was blind in his right eye.' The third remarked-I saw a number of drops of blood on the road, which I conjectured had flowed from the bites of gnats and flies, and I thence supposed that the camel's tail was shorter than usual, in consequence of which he could not brush the insects away. The fourth said- I observed that whilst the fore-feet of the camel were planted firmly in the ground, the hind ones appeared to have scarcely touched it; whence I guessed they were contracted by pain in the belly of the animal.' The king, when he heard their explanations, was much struck by the sagacity of the parties, and giving the merchant a sum of money to console him for the loss of the camel, he made these four persons his principal ministers.”—Mackenzie Coll. Repository.-No. XX.) THERE are many persons of weak minds, who are in a continual state of alarm in consequence of prognosticating that evil is to befal them, from what they term signs and tokens. Among the most prevalent of these tokens, is the noise made by what they call the "Death Watch." But these fears will be dissipated when it is explained, that the singular noise in question, proceeds from natural causes, being produced by two different insects, one a caleopterous insect of a dark colour, about a quarter of an inch in length, the anobium tessellatum. Notwithstanding its smallness of size, however, as we have noticed above, this creature is often the cause of serious alarm from the noise that it makes; and which is considered as portentous of death to some one of the family in whose house it is heard. The philosopher and naturalist may smile at a superstition, thus absurd: yet the celebrated Sir Thomas Brown has remarked with great earnestness, that the man "who could eradicate this error from the minds of the people, might prevent the fearful passions of the heart, and many cold sweats, taking place in grandmothers and nurses." It is chiefly in the advanced period of spring that the insects in question commence their noise; and which is no more than the call or signal by which they are mutually attracted to each other, and may be considered as analogous to the call of birds. This noise does not arise from their voice, but from the insect beating on hard substances, with the shield or forepart of its head. The general number of successive distinct strokes, is from seven to nine or eleven. These are given in pretty quick succession, and are repeated at un. certain intervals; in old houses, where the insects are numerous, they may be heard, if the weather be warm, almost every hour in the day. The noise exactly resembles that made by beating moderately hard with the finger nail on a table. Mr. Stackhouse carefully observed the manner of its beating. He says, the insect raises itself upon its hinder legs, and with the body somewhat inclined, beats its head with great force and agility against the place on, which it stands. This insect, which is the real death-watch of the vulgar, emphatically so called, must not, however, be confounded with another minuter insect, not much unlike a louse, that makes a ticking noise like a watch; but instead of beating at intervals, it continues its noise for a considerable length of time without intermission. This latter insect belongs to a very different tribe; and is the termes pulsatorium of Linnæus. It is usually found in old wood, decayed furniture, museums, and neglected |