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Lyndsay, who has not the taint of Maga on her, absolutely draws floods of tears from the critics' eyes-Nothing can be more beautiful!-The very blazoning of Blackwood's name, so ostentatiously at the end of every book, is also a display of candour; he even puts it to Ringan Gilhaize, which was not from the officina Ebonensis. After all, what can be more indicative of public opinion as to the fairness of the Edinburgh, than the fact, that a favourable critique of books published by Blackwood appearing in its pages, should have been considered quite an unlooked-for occurrence! We should consider it as a gross affront if it were imagined that our criticisms were on the bookseller, not on the book. If a jack-ass brayed forth from Ebony's counter, we should destroy him mercilessly-[we have done so before-if a man of talent published with Constable or anybody else, a full and unsparing tribute to that talent should be cheerfully paid, as it has always been. We were ashamed of ourselves if it were otherwise. It may be objected, that we seldom praise Whig works-true-for the party is so awfully stupid, that they seldom give us anything worth reading. But Byron, Moore, Shelly, Luttrell, profess Whiggery, or something as bad; and we request our readers to revert to our remarks on their works. As for bibliopolic influence base, a figo for it-the fig of Spain.-M. ODOHERTY.

THE DIARY OF JOSEPH BURRIDGE, ESQ. OF MILLFORD HALL, ESSEX,
EDITED BY LORD FLANDERS.

We are inclined to consider this in teresting little book as the most important piece of biography which has appeared in our time. As the title implies, it consists of the diurnal observations of a private gentleman, of some style and figure in Essex-his name was never before heard of among authors; it is not in Sir Richard's Dictionary-and yet his works are in the hands of everybody, and constitute the brightest stars in the literary galaxy of the late reign. He was, without question, the greatest genius of the last century, but such was his invincible reluctance to be known as an author, that he rather chose to see the brows of others adorned by the wreaths he had himself won, than endure the maudlin compliments to which he observed all sorts of literary men subjected. Never was hoax so complete and perfect throughout-never was the gullability of the world so largely drawn upon, nor its credulity so thoroughly demonstrated. Who, before, questioned that Oliver Goldsmith was not the author of The Traveller, The Deserted Village, The Vicar of Wakefield? Who suspected that Dr Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides, was not the genuine work of the colossal Lexicographer? It is true, that doubts have before been surmised with respect to the authenticity of Sir Joshua

• London, Merry, 1823.

Reynolds's Lectures; but that of Gray's Elegy was never questioned; and a Mr Rogers has always been considered and esteemed as the author of the Pleasures of Memory. What shall now be thought, when we assure the public, that those justly celebrated works were all written by the late Joseph Burridge of Millford Hall, Essex; that Oliver Goldsmith and Samuel Rogers, are but two of the many names under which Mr Burridge published his elegant and beautiful productions; that Rasselas was also written by him, and that he paid ten guineas to Dr Johnson, to dispose of it to the booksellers as his own composition!

Mr Burridge insinuates that other members of "The Club," (query, Literary Club?) were in the practice of hiring needy and obscure scholars to father their books; but he observes, that "this is not always safe; when it happens that the work does not take, the wretches are sure to blab, and when it does, they run away with the praise. It is truly lamentable to observe the inward tortures which the poor Duke suffers, as often as Sheridan is spoken of as the author of the School for Scandal."

The Duke here alluded to, we believe, was his late Grace of Devonshire, whose brilliant wit still is re

4o. pp. 267, (Portrait.)

membered with such delight in the fashionable circles. The noble editor ought to have subjoined a few notes to those passages where individuals are thus spoken of without being named; we hope some such key will yet be supplied. In the meantime, it is pleasing to see the modesty of seques tered genius at last rewarded with the fame which it ought always to have enjoyed. We never could before understand how a low-born fellow like Sheridan should have acquired such a familiar footing with the aristocratic Whigs, but Mr Burridge explains it by the simple circumstance of Sheridan, "when a young man about the play-houses, having fathered the School for Scandal for the Duke of Devonshire."

There are some things in which we think Mr Burridge, with all his opportunities, must be mistaken; and he evidently has committed a gross anachronism in stating that Home's tragedy of Douglas was a juvenile work of the Right Honourable N. Vansittart, the late worthy Chancellor of the Exchequer. He has confounded two things-" The Wealth of Nations,"-commonly ascribed to Dr Adam Smith, and not the tragedy of Douglas, was the production of the Right Honourable Gentleman's early promise and youthful pen. That Lord Lauderdale may have had something to do with Henry Brougham's unknown work on Colonial Policy, we believe few are so sceptical as to doubt; but, when we are called to credit that Sir William Curtis, merely because, as it would seem, he happens to be a biscuit-baker and banker, as well as baronet, wrote those articles in the Edinburgh Review, on the Corn Laws and the Bullion question, which have been always ascribed to Frank Horner, we may be allowed to doubt.-In the first place, from the well-known political sentiments of the loyal alderman, we think the thing prima facie improbable-he would never have become a contributor to the Edinburgh Review; nor do we think, had he been so inconsistent as to have been willing, that Mr Jeffrey would have permitted any article from his pen to be inserted. When Mr Burridge speaks of the wits with whom he associated, when he tells us of what passed at "The Club," and when he alludes to the different negotiations with the booksellers for the sale of his own works, it is impossible not to feel and acknowledge,

that all he states is perfectly true; but in those things which took place after he had retired into the country, on succeeding to his maternal grandfather's estate, by the death of his cousin Sir Pard Petersham-there is not the same force of minute circumstance, and his information is manifestly, in many instances, incorrect. Such, for instance, as saying that Mr Towal Buxton, a hale and vigorous brewer, "is a poet of the most refined sensibilities, and is indeed, in piety and adventure, the very Thalaba of his own poem, which, for three hogsheads of entire, he persuaded Mr Southey to adopt."-We sincerely sympathize in the great alarm and anxiety with which Mr Buxton naturally looks forward to some resolution of the House of Commons, whereby Government is to be requested to use its utmost endeavours to oblige all brewers of ale and porter to divide their profits with their workmen; but to consider him as the wild and wonderful Thalaba-we honestly confess our inability-Besides, the very idea of a brewer, with a great foaming tankard of heavy wet in his hand, going forth to drown sorcerers, is too ridiculous-No, Mr Burridge, we cannot swallow that; but if Jeremy Bentham really wrote the Life of Lopez de Vega, which Lord Holland has been so good-natured as to father, we shall stretch a point; at the same time we are disposed to allow, that the poetical translations may have been from his pen. The whole of that work, however, has so much of the elegance and erudition peculiar to Mr Jerdan of the Literary Gazette, that we are much inclined to ascribe it entirely to him. Indeed, as we have already remarked, Mr Burridge, in those notes which relate to the history of literature subsequent to his departure from London, is not to be trusted-but still his information is occasionally curious—and we admit, that some of the anecdotes relative to the management of our own Magazine, are not without foundation. It may be that some allowance should be made for his great age; time may have impaired his memory and obscured his judgment. By a note of the 10th of September, 1822, it would appear, he had on that day attained his ninety-first year. His noble biographer informs us, that he died suddenly of apoplexy, on the 7th of October following, and that the late Principal Taylor of Glasgow, together

with the celebrated Dr Parr, were appointed his executors, by whom, at their joint solicitation, his lordship was induced to undertake the task of preparing "The Diary" for the press.

"The custom," says the editorial baron," so prevalent during the late reign, among men of parts and fortune, of publishing under fictitious names, has, in our own time, given way to the anonymous fashion, which, though, morally speaking, perhaps the more commendable of the two, is yet exposed to greater disadvantages. Sensible and well-bred people know, when an author withholds his name from the title-page of his works, it is an intimation to the world in general that he wishes not to be addressed concerning them. But low-bred and vulgar persons, by not understanding this, persecute the poor anonymous either with direct fulsome, or aside strictures."

We agree entirely with the noble editor; the life of an anonymous author would in mortal sufferance be far beyond any anguish which we who revel in celebrity, and have bragged ourselves into fame, can conceive, were it not happily ordered, that there are very few vulgar and impertinent persons in the world. And if it should so happen in an author's own time, that, like Mr Burridge, he sees others enjoying the honours and the homage which belong to himself, he has it always in his power to come forward and claim his right.

The anonymous system, however, has certainly been carried too far; and we take blame to ourselves for permitting it to grow to such a head. We say this the more emphatically, as we observe a dexterous use made of it, against ourselves, in the last Number of the Edinburgh Review. It is matter of universal renown with what success we have levelled that mighty and overweening journal to the ground. But, in a late article, Mr Jeffrey has classed all "the bailie's" novels, and more than the bailie's, together; and, without scarcely adverting to the existence of our triumphant Maga, has spoken of them in such a way, that many judicious persons consider it as a sort of handsome peace-offering. Now, what is the fact? Have we not, for the last five years, been playing off a thousand ingenious and clever jokes, ascribing books to different persons, who, as all the world knew, were utterly incapable of writing them ?

Was it not by our instrumentality that the morose Byron has obtained the praise due to the author of Beppo, a poem which, it is no longer necessary to conceal, was from the lively Christian muse of Mr Zachariah M'Aulay?—But did we anticipate that ever the editor of the Edinburgh Review would borrow a leaf from our hoaxing, and so seem to fall in with the erroneous opinions of mankind-opinions which we are in part the source of propagating—as to treat those works as if he was heaping coals of fire upon the guilty heads of the gentlemen to whom they are commonly ascribed?-We appeal to himself if he does not believe that some of his own correspondents had a hand in more than one of them? We ask Henry Cockburn to declare on his honour as a gentleman, whether or no he did not write "The Provost?" We ask the Rev. Mr Lapsley of Campsie, that egregious Whig, to say what part he did not write in " Adam Blair?" A recent elevation to the bench alone deters us from hinting at the author of the sweet and mournful "Lights and Shadows." But we look to the ambrosial chambers of Professor Sandford of Glasgow, for an answer with respect to "Valerius." Mr Jeffrey has judiciously abstained from saying anything of "Reginald Dalton.' He intends a separate article. It certainly would not be come himself to speak favourably of that work; and he cannot naturally have any desire not to see it applauded. We have heard of authors reviewing their own books. We shall not impute anything so derogatory to the character of the Editor of the Edinburgh Review. But to return to "The Diary."

It was our intention to have given a few extracts; these, however, we must for the present postpone, as Mr North has informed us that he intends to begin the ensuing year with a series of personal attacks, under the title of "The Volcano ;" and, in consequence, after due consideration, we have been induced to reserve them for that paper. They will come, perhaps, with more propriety, in some one of The Eruptions-not that they possess anything so particularly libellous as to raise the morbid appetite of the public to that state of ecstasy and excitement which some of our juvenile indiscretions produced, such as the Chaldee, for example; but still they are not without a currie, particularly those which relate to certain distinguished members of the English Bar.

WRESTLIANA, OR AN HISTORICAL ACCOUNT OF ANCIENT AND MODERN WRESTLING, BY WILLIAM LITT.*

Our literature is rich in British Sports, and this admirable little volume will be a valuable addition to the most bang-up library. The author is not only perfectly skilled in the theory of wrestling, but an adept in its practice. He has contended with the best men in the north of England-that is, the world, and has thrown, and been thrown, with the most distinguished applause. He has not been deterred by a false shame from alluding to his own triumphs in the ring; but, like most persons of real talent, he speaks modestly of his greatest achievements, and therein resembles Xenophon and Julius Cæsar. There is none of that bluster about William Litt which there certainly was about Napoleon Buonaparte; and we have no doubt whatever, that, had he stood second at Carlisle for the championship of the world, he would have entertained towards his conqueror none of those petty feelings of spite and envy with which the exile of Helena regarded the victor of Waterloo.

Mr Litt is a person in a respectable rank of life, and his character has, we know, been always consonant with his condition. He is, in the best sense of the word, a gentleman, and his name, "familiar as a household word" all over the north, is a sufficient pledge and proof of the perfect accuracy of all the statements in this "wrestler's manual." It was highly gratifying to the thousands collected round the ring at the last grand northern meeting, to see him honoured by the especial notice of the members of the most powerful noble family in England. He ought to be, indeed, from what we can learn, is, by the unanimous voice of the North,† elected umpire of the wrestling ring. John Jackson is not more a magnum et venerabile nomen in the pugilistic hemisphere, than William Litt in the other half of the gymnastic world. Both are as honest, upright, independent Englishmen, as ever floored or threw; and while either ring continues to enclose such sterling characters, we

need not fear for our country, notwithstanding the pressure of times, tithes, taxes, raw wet weather, and Joseph Hume.

It is impossible for a cold, dull, phlegmatic character, (but for such we do not write, "procul, procul, esto profani,") to conceive the intense and passionate interest taken by the whole northern population in this most moral and muscular amusement. For weeks before the great Carlisle annual contest, nothing else is talked of on road, field, flood, foot or horseback; we fear it is thought of even in church, which we regret and condemn ; and in every little comfortable " public,” within a circle of thirty miles' diameter, the home-brewed quivers in the glasses on the oaken table to knuckles smiting the board in corroboration of the claims to the championship, of a Grahame, a Cass, a Laugklen, Solid Yaik, a Wilson, or a Wightman. A political friend of ours, a staunch fellow, in passing through to the Lakes last autumn, heard of nothing but the contest for the county, which he had understood would lie between Lord Lowther (the sitting member) and Mr Brougham. But, to his sore perplexity, he heard the names of new candidates to him hitherto unknown; and on meeting us at that best of inns, White Lion, Bowness, he told us, with a downcast and serious countenance, that Lord Lowther would be ousted, for that the struggle, as far as he could_learn, would ultimately be between Thomas Ford of Egremont, and William Richardson of Caldbeck, men of no landed property, and probably radicals.

It is, in our opinion, and according to our taste, (and both our opinion and our taste are found to go a longer way with some people than they are aware of,) not easy, even to the most poetical and picturesque imagination, to create for itself a more beautiful sight than the ring at Carlisle. By altering one or two words, (eggs to men, and so forth,) Mr Wordsworth's lines on a hedge-sparrow's nest, become a

• Whitehaven: Printed by R. Gibson, 26, King Street, 1823. Price 2s.

+ North of England, our Contributor means; but we beg leave to add our own-NORTH.

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Fifteen thousand people perhaps are there, all gazing anxiously on the candidates for the county. Down goes Cass; Wightman is the standing member; and the agitation of a thousand passions, a suppressed shudder, and an under growl, moves the mighty multitude like an earthquake. No savage anger, no boiling rage of ruined black legs, no leering laughter of mercenary swells-sights and sounds which, we must confess, do sicken the sense at Newmarket and Moulsey-but the visible and audible movements of calm, strong, temperate English hearts, free from all fear or ferocity, and swayed for a few moments of sublime pathos, by the power of nature, working in victory or defeat.

We love pugilism and Pierce Egan, but in some respects they must yield the palm to wrestling and William Litt. All sorts of arguments, every thing bearing the most remote resemblance to abstract reasoning, is our abhorrence, and, unless we give up reading the Edinburgh Review entirely, will be our death. Therefore (confound that logical-looking pedant of a word with his formal phiz) we shall not follow Mr Litt through his "Philosophical Dissertation on Wrestling, compared with other amusements of the present day;" however, we have read it,and prefer it infinitely to Macvey Napier's" Dissertation on the Scope and Tendency of Lord Bacon." Mr Litt seems more master of his subject, possesses a clearer head and style, is fess assuming, although with every supposable reason to be more so, and brings to his task a larger mass of general erudition. If in any point he be inferior to Macvey, it is, we think, in the number of his authorities; yet, no doubt, many readers will prefer a writer who tells you what he knows, and has himself seen, to one who knows and has seen nothing, but endeavours to supply these deficiencies by quotations from the sundry languages of divers people.

The scope and tendency of Mr Litt's dissertation on the inductive philosophy of beans and bacon, (truly experimental,) is to prove that wrestling is superior, as a British field-sport, to pugilism, cock-fighting, horse-racing, foot-ball, running, leaping, and single-stick; to which may be added, nem. con., badger-drawing and bullbaiting. From the little we have said, it may appear that we are Littites; but we acknowledge frankly that our opi nion remains wavering between the comparative merits of the science of the Fist, of the Back-hold, and of the Quarter-staff; just as our opinion has long remained wavering between the comparative merits of Poetry, Painting, and Music. In these six sciences we excel; in pugilism, a Spring-in wrestling, a Tom Nicholson-in single-stick, a Wall-in"building the lofty rhyme," a perfect Pindar; as a limner, Haydon yields to us the title of modern Raphael; and on the violin, theorbo, and flageolet, we succumb only to Ballantyne.

But although candour constrains us to say that "this is a moot point," Mr Litt has certainly established the superior antiquity of his favourite science. Wrestling seems to be one of the few things not borrowed from the Egyptians; for says our author

"We find in the 32d chapter of Genesis, that Jacob, having passed his family over the brook Jabbok, was left alone. In its history of events at this early period of the world, with a brevity commensurate with its high importance, the Bible minutely relates only those particular occurrences which refer to some covenant, or promise, then made, renewed, or fulfilled. It narrates facts, without commenting upon them. Therefore, although Jacob's wrestling with the Angel was too remarkable an incident to be omitted, yet we are not told in what manner he came, nor of any preliminary conversation or agreement between them. It, however, appears very evident, that until the Angel manifested his miraculous power, Jacob believed his opponent was a mere mortal like himself; and on whichever side the proposal originated, it was acceded to by the other, either as a circumstance not unusual, or as an amicable amusement, which might be practised without the least infringement on cordiality. If it was not unusual, we are warranted in supposing it a common diversion antecedent to that period, and that Jacob was himself a scienti fic practiser of the art when he was the

In the original," See five blue eggs are shining there," &c.

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