rienced artist may consult them in the composition of his subjects; the simple observer may spend many hours in contemplating objects, which, for centuries, have inspired universal admiration.

A vast collection of antiquities of every kind is still expected from Italy, among which are the Venus of Medicis and the Pallas of Veletri, a finely-preserved statue, classed by artists among those of the first rank, dug up at Veletri, in 1799, in consequence of the researches made there by the French commissioners. Upwards of five hundred cases were lying on the banks of the Tiber, at Rome, ready to be sent off to France, when the Neapolitans entered that city. They carried them all away: but, by the last article of the treaty of peace with the king of Naples, the whole of them are to be restored to the French. For verifying their condition, and taking measures for their conveyance, two commissioners have been dispatched to Italy: the son of Chaptal, and Dufourny the architect. On the arrival of these cases, even after the fifteen departmental museums have been supplied, it is asserted that there will yet remain antiquities sufficient to form a museum almost from Paris to Versailles.

The Central Museum of the Arts is open to the public on Saturdays and Sundays; the other days are appropriated to the study of young pupils: but a foreigner has only to produce his permis de sejour to gain admission gratis every day, from the hour of ten o'clock to four. To the credit of the nation, I must observe, that this exception in favour of foreigners excites no jealousy whatever.

For the Literary Magazine.

ON ANNOUNCING MARRIAGES WITH CLERGYMEN'S NAMES.

YOUR readers must long ago -have noticed the custom of publish

ing marriages with the name of the officiating clergyman: many of them, indeed, may have furnished examples of this custom in their own ease. The practice with us no doubt originates in servile imitation of English customs; but I am a good deal puzzled to conceive how it originally came into fashion.

When the performer is a bishop, the vanity of the parties or their friends will easily account for it, but when he is a simple clergyman, the reason is not quite so plain. In similar cases, as that of naming the physician under whose auspices a cure has been effected, the record is intended as a compliment to the skill of the agent; but it is not, at first sight, very obvious that any extraordinary praise can be due to the act of reading the marriageservice. There is, indeed, a story of a clergyman's having found a child very hard to christen: but in that case, it is suspected, that the difficulty arose from his own situation, and not from any peculiarity in the patient. Yet I cannot but think that it is no uncommon circumstance to find couples hard to marry, and that there is often a sufficient degree of effort in performing this feat, to apologize for the seeming vanity of making public the name of the clerical practitioner. I do not exactly know to what defect in the marriage-rites the melancholy Jacques alludes, when dissuading the clown from suffering sir Oliver Martext to couple him and Audrey, he tells him, "This fellow will but join you together as they join wainscot; then one of you will prove a shrunk pannel, and, like green timber, warp, warp." The law, at present, seems to have determined, that if the union be but made, the manner of doing it is of no consequence. But the task of bringing the parties together, may be a serious labour indeed. A sly old batchelor has lived a score of years with a kept madam, who has a great desire at last to be made an honest woman of. What a trial of skill to a confidential divine to work

through the medium of commerce all the productions of nature and art may be procured with ease, yet does he endeavour to introduce the theory and practice of their culture and manufactures into his own country. It may be alleged, that this proceeds from pride, a pride which disdains to receive from others those things which our own resources can furnish. Suppose it granted: yet, that pride originates from the sentiment in question; for would the same man endeavour to introduce them into any other country, unless urged by motives of interest? A moment's reflection is sufficient to enforce a negative answer. It is not sufficient that the wants of life, the means of enjoyment, or the unbounded desires of grandeur may be supplied; no: they must be derived from our own resources, and be the productions of our own industry. When man dwells where tyrants sway the sceptre of despotic power, if he groans under all the miseries of a bad government of any form whatever, though he knows there are places where liberty has established her reign, though he knows there is sufficient room there to accommodate him, and that he will receive a hearty welcome and every encouragement, yet all this is not sufficient for the patriot; it is not the freedom of another land he wishes to enjoy, it is the emancipation of his own; it is not liberty alone which he wishes to enjoy, for the means are within his reach, he wishes to enjoy it with his countrymen, and in the land which gave them birth; he would be happy, not in his own enjoyment, but by beholding the happiness of his fellows. This end accomplished, he is ready to exclaim with the prophet, " Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation."

Where the love of our country is fondly cherished, no other passion dares dispute with it the empire of the breast; it reigns alone, unrivalled, and supreme; all other passions must be subservient to its will.

At

IN my first number, I quoted that line of Terence which is applied as a motto to the present, in order to prepare the reader more readily to pardon any inadvertent and unconscious plagiarisms. The bare task of writing in prose is not difficult; it is a talent which may be acquired by industry, and even made easy by habit: but to be original in expression and idea requires qualifications gifted by nature, and which art and education cannot acquire.

That the efforts of modern writers are greatly defective, in these points, the examination of their works will fully prove. When I look back upon the works of many of the writers of the last century, and see the ease and elegance of their style, the sublimity of their ideas, and the novelty which distinguishes their thoughts, I regret that so few are to be found who can rival them with success. Many are the obstacles which obstruct the passage of those who wish to attain literary celebrity; and he that overcomes them must indeed be industrious, he must be learned, he must possess genius.

Ah! who can tell how hard it is to

climb

How few are they in number, to whom nature has allotted superior talents, and persevering, ardent minds, to enable them to make a proper use of her bounty! But how still more rarely are they to be found, in whom great endowments are not counterbalanced by passions which destroy them! Human nature degraded, and man pitied by the good, and despised by the malevolent, for its degradation, is a sight as common as deplorable. Add to these, minds glowing with all the enthusiasm caused by a fertile imagination and powerful genius, combating with weak and delicate bodies, which early sink into the grave, and how few are there whose abilities are not, by some untoward cause, rendered useless to them!

Thus, in youth, fell Clifton, as sweet a poet as America ever could boast of; whose strains are charming, and therefore please; few, and therefore rendered more estimable, particularly when we consider their author was an American, born and cultured beneath our native sky. Thus, too, fell Linn, and much about the same age, who did honour to his country, as a man of letters, a poet, and a divine. Among modern poets, he had already attained a conspicuous station, and would have arisen to greater excellence, had not death asserted his claim, and stopped his "tuneful breath" for ever. Genius, whose powers he has so ably described and illustrated, was his, in the strictest sense, nor could sickness or debility destroy its force, or deaden its energy.

Though both these poets discovered a considerable degree of originality, the difficulties in their way to fame were great. Disease, with which they were so much afflicted, whilst it weakens the body, is but too well calculated to depress the mind. Few are possessed of minds which retain their native elasticity, when health no longer gives vigour to the body. Linn and Clifton may be considered as exceptions, and cited as instances which do not often occur in literary history. Of the

celebrated Farquhar we are told, that he wrote his excellent comedy, "The Beaux Stratagem," while oppressed with illness; and Michael Bruce, whose history none can read without emotion, wrote his poem of "Loch Leven," as he informs us, "while slow disease preyed on his vitals," and whose life terminated soon after its completion; and the latter days of Linn were employed on a poem, which his speedy dissolution prevented him from giving to the public.

There is now no description of writers to whom want of novelty may more correctly be ascribed than the poets, whose works are frequently as destitute of merit as they are numerous. The ease and elegance of Pope, the fervour and sublimity of Gray, the tenderness of Collins, are seldom to be found. Never more in number than now, never did fewer attain to extraor dinary excellence: paltry imita, tions, dull, insipid, drawling sonnets, rhymes jingling without sense or meaning, now aping the ridiculous style of Wordsworth, and now the luxuriance of Darwin.

Nor is this the worst. We behold some prostituting their pens on that kind of poetry which should only accompany the volume of Ro chester. The most indelicate allusions, on subjects on which the pen should for ever be silent, are dressed up in the garb of the muses, and sent forth, to the destruction of good morals, and the annihilation of modesty. With all the captivations of elegant poetry, the ideas they constantly excite are such, that, while they corrupt, they (to use the words of Blair) lay the foundation for lasting bitterness of heart.

Still, however, " in these degene rate times," poets are to be found who deserve that name, who satirize the follies and vices which are seen around them with justice, and who please and instruct. Many have heard of and read the productions of Walcott (Peter Pindar), and have laughed at his merry tales and witty remarks. Though his strokes are