I have often wondered at nature's strange caprices in the formation of some of her favourites; the anomalies, however, in Robert Egremont's composition seem to be less natural than superinduced-though none, even of his friends, can do more than guess at their cause. His whole character is, in fact, one unmingled paradox. With an excellent heart, a mind far above the common, extensive information and shining accomplishments, he is prevented from making any adequate use of these advantages by an unaccountable something, which weighs upon his mind, and fetters him in the exercise of all his powers. Whether it is the effect of an early disappointment in love, or, as others conjecture, certain peculiarities of opinion; whether it is pure mauvaise honte, or depression, or a compound of both, I cannot tell; but a certain air of melancholy and a painful restraint, seems to accompany him in all he does. He speaks, moves, looks, and acts under control. In argument it is utterly impossible to elicit any thing like a positive opinion from him; he seems to have a downright horror of direct assertion. His happiest remarks are smothered under a load of qualifications, explanations, and limitations. He never appears to enter earnestly into any subject. His discourse, in this respect, is a striking contrast to Frank's; the cold over-caution of the one, opposed to the undoubting enthusiasm and voluble animation of the other, afford a fine field of speculation to the philosophical observer (myself, to wit), as shewing in what opposite lights the same subject may appear, and how differently it may be treated by two men, both of great powers and cultivated minds. It is only when he is fairly roused by obstinate opposition, or by some subject which addresses itself more than usually to his feelings, that he puts forth his whole strength, and shews himself as he really is, or rather as he ought to be. Wycliffe's conversation may be compared to a perpetual sunshine; Bouverie's to an uninterrupted succession of brilliant, alternating, many-shifting meteors; Egremont's, in these his best moments, resembles the transient, but intense and all-illuminating flashes of lightning "in the collied night."

That ere a man have time to say-Behold!
The jaws of darkness do devour it up.

But these are rare occasions. His mind is like a volcano, which, in the intervals of the eruption, is distinguishable only by the dense smoke which it emits. It is not that his faculties are flown; they are there, but he has not the power to exert them. It is (if so strange an illustration may be allowed) like an inward and invisible chain, binding the nerves and sinews, and paralyzing the whole frame, while to outward appearance the man remained undiminished in power and vigour. He reminds me of King James, of Scotland, who, in the midst of festivity, still

retained his belt of penance. If this description be unintelligible to the reader, I can only say, that its original is equally so to me, and that it is no wonder if the reflection of obscurity is itself obscure. His mind, as far as I am able to penetrate it, is a chaos of discordant opinions, all tinctured with the colours of genius, but none sufficiently matured-just and original principles ill-applied-and predilections and antipathies, such as are common in minds habituated to hover on the surface of truth, but without courage to penetrate into its depths. I had a thousand things more to say about him, but my article is already somewhat prolix, and therefore I must be content to leave the portrait unfinished; adding only the reflection which so often occurs to me, while in his company-What a wonderful man would this be, if he had but the use of his own powers!

Hitherto, I flatter myself, I have succeeded in giving my readers some idea, though an imperfect one, of the objects of my delineation. But how shall I describe Francis Bouverie, Esq., poet, critic, politician, philosopher, and theologian? I have not dipped my pencil in the rainbow, nor has Nature lent me the cunning hand with which she traces the changeful hues of the peacock's train, or the varying shades of an expressive countenance. It would require his own powers, or more than his own, to define him adequately. His talents are wonderfully various, and there is a spring of restless activity within him which keeps them continually in motion. His mind developes itself more in conversation than that of any man of genius of my acquaintance; he is an unwearied talker, and as his knowledge, though not accurate, is very extensive, he has something to say on every subject, raising lofty superstructures of argument on slender foundations of fact, and enveloping and almost burying his arguments themselves in the rich folds of his imagination. His powers seem to be constantly at play with one another; his understanding, his wit, his imagination, and his affections leading one another in a perpetual winding dance, fantastic, diversified, and delightful, even while it bewilders us; or rather they remind us of the juggler's three balls, which he tosses in the air, passing from one to the other alternately, but keeping them all in motion, to the wonder and delight of the spectators. There is more depth in his errors, than in the right opinions of other men. Even where he fails in the search of truth, he strikes out a thousand happy thoughts and original ideas by the way, like sparks from the ever-active furnace of his mind. His very deviations conduct him into green wildernesses and magical solitudes, incomparably richer and more beautiful than the highway of trite accuracy. He is, as I formerly intimated, a staunch Wordsworthian; and in this Egremont agrees with him, so far as he has any decided opinion; but in politics, the unceremonious heterodoxy of Frank's opinions, and his fondness for pro

mulgating them, occasion perpetual controversies between himself and Wycliffe, much to the annoyance of poor Egremont, who detests politics, and who, on one of these occasions, when the discussion had lasted for several hours, and there appeared no chance of its termination, fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and with a woful look of desponding expostulation exclaimed-“ I wonder who invented politics!"

And here I must stop. If, as I suspect, my characters are not drawn with sufficient clearness, I have only to request that the good-natured reader will complete them from his own imagination. I have several more portraits yet to come, but must defer them to some future occasion. My next paper (if circumstances permit me to continue my lucubrations, which is very uncertain,) will be one of pure sentiment, or, as Kirke White's friend calls it, Gothic arch.

SALOPIENSIS.

(Postscript to the Second Number of the Recluse.)

It may give my readers some additional insight into the peculiarities of the individuals, whose characters (or rather, a corner of whose characters,) I have been attempting to delineate, if I state their respective opinions of the Brighton Magazine. We all then agree in considering it a very mixed production; containing some very good, and some very bad things. Wycliffe thinks it the most amusing of the periodicals, except Blackwood, and the metaphysical parts of Ollier. His favourite papers are the "Pleasures of Winter," and the others by the same author. Luxmoore is most delighted with the "Waterparty." Egremont disapproves of the miscellany in general, but allows that there are some good things: he is most especially struck with the reverie in the Egyptian Hall. He wonders, by the way, how the learned writer on Heraldry happened to overlook the devices borne by the chieftains on their shields in the Septem Contra Thebas of Eschlyus. Frank thinks that G's. poetry would be better, if it were less egotistical. He considers the two first numbers as very poor, but observes, that the work begins to brighten. I forgot to mention, in my account of him, that he is an inveterate punster, and the only Wordsworthian I ever knew who was such. He has a better pun on the Edinburgh Review, which he calls the Caledonian Bore. All, except Luxmoore, join in condemning the jollities, and the political invectives.

REVIEW OF BOOKS.

Journal of a Visit to some Parts of Ethiopia. By George Waddington, A. M., Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge; and the Rev. Barnard Hanbury, A. M., of Jesus College. With Maps and Plates. 4to. Murray.

A MORE Wonderful country than Egypt never courted the attention of the traveller. Every step which is taken among its prodigious mounds, peculiar architecture, magnificent peristyles, and gigantic colonnades, the ruins of which cover the valley of the Nile, from Dongola to the Delta, increase our admiration of the extraordinary people who raised them. It is as if we are looking on the deserted cities of the primitive giants-giants the builders certainly were, in mind, in energy, and ambition. But the effect produced by these wonders has not always been commensurate to what might naturally be expected from the magnificence of the cause. Ages have rolled away in comparative apathy.

The deep interest created by all that is connected with Egypt, is modern, and one of the most striking phenomena which characterize this age of mental excitement, and literary enterprise. The circle, indeed, of that interest widens daily. When Shawe, and Pococke, and Norden, and the men of the preceding age, of which Greaves is decidedly the head, returned laden with the spoils of research, which they had collected, not only with great toil of body and mind, but with positive corporeal risk, the class of persons interested in their discoveries were too few to provide a fair remuneration. But now the newest accounts from Egypt are anticipated with eagerness, and devoured with avidity. There appears even a rivalry between literature and fashion, in procuring, as promptly as possible, the necessarily expensive works which throw a light upon the subject. And the most remarkable feature of this newly-created taste is, that the purveyors are able to contribute to its gratification, not only without risk, but with comparative ease. It is a triumphant and remarkable circumstance, that the respect attached to the name of England has allured its mere travellers of pleasure, to penetrate among barbarous nations, and in unexplored latitudes, where even professional enterprise at any former æra, dared not to set its foot. A more striking illustration of this was never furnished, than the celebrated "pink spencer" of Lady Belmore's lady's maid; the horrid familiarity of which, among scenes rendered sacred by the genius of antiquity, drove away Count Forbin from the Thebaid. In fact, the whole position of Lord Belmore's party was a phenomenon. It was an amateur party, consisting of male and female members of the aristocracy, and accustomed to all its delicacies, luxuries, and comforts. It was a party of Christians, in the midst of a fierce and warring population, the despot and the slave alike adverse to their creed. Within view were the mighty ruins of "hundred-gated Thebes,"-ruins in the "high

and palmy state" of Rome, and ruins even in the earlier periods of Greek curiosity and enterprise; and the spectators, were members of a country, perhaps unpeopled when those wonderful relics were set up. They were accompanied by their ordinary household, provided with wine and provisions of the best class, and surrounded with all the niceties of plate and glass, and table-linen, which characterize an establishment in Portman-square.

Mr. Waddington, indeed, attests the same encouraging circumstance of the facility with which travels into the most unbeaten tracks of Egypt may now be made. "Inconveniences," he says "difficulties, and dangers, occurred seldom, and passed quickly; the employment, interest, and gratifications, were perpetual."

Now, both the interest excited by Egyptian researches, and the facility by which it can be gratified, are, to our minds, auspicious omens for the great cause of man's moral and intellectual improvement. For we are firmly persuaded, that to Egypt we may safely look for all the corroboration requisite to those inspired books, on which the Christian establishment is founded, which may at once gratify scientific curiosity, promote religious belief, and confirm religious hope.

We pass over the early part of Mr. Waddington's narrative, as offering no circumstance of novelty. It appears, that arriving in August, 1820, at Alexandria, with the intention of proceeding through Dongola to Merawe, the ancient capital of Ethiopia, Mr. W. and his fellow-traveller, Mr. Hanbury availed themselves of an expedition which left Cairo, for the purpose of reducing the countries beyond the Second Cataract, to proceed in that direction. Following the tracks of the lamented Burckhardt, they reached Wady Halfa on the 10th of November, 1820, and having joined the army, quitted Dongola with the troops of Ishmael Pacha, and entered the territory of the Dar Sheygy'a, against which the expedition was directed. The detail of the atrocities committed are heart-sickening; the Turks exterminated the inhabitants, who appear to have deserved a better fate, without remorse. Indeed the courage of this unfortunate people is described as exhibiting features of the sublimest character, and reminds us of the same characteristic traits of the native Arab, recorded in the singular romance of Antar:

"They are singularly fearless," says Mr. Waddington, "in attack, and ride up to the very faces of their enemy with levity and gaiety of heart, as to a festival; or with joy, as to meet friends from whom they have been long separated. They then give Salem Aleikom,' 'Peace be with you!'the peace of death, which is to attend the lance which instantly follows the salutation; mortal thrusts are given and received, with the words of love upon the lips. This contempt of life, this mockery of what is most fearful, is peculiar to themselves the only people to whom arms are playthings, and war, sport; who, among their enemies, seek nothing but amusement, and in death, fear nothing but repose."

On their way, the travellers were encountered by men carrying mountains of ears, "and returning to Cairo with these opima spolia of barbarous victory; a fact, which furnishes another proof of the inveteracy of national custom, for the counting of ears, hands, &c., is frequently portrayed as a memento of victory among the pictorial triumphs of the Egyptian temples and palaces. During the journey, Mr. Waddington met with