We beg to assure "Publius," that we are not in the secrets of the Royal Society. It is certainly an unfortunate circumstance, that not one of the compositions, hitherto sent in, appears to have deserved either of the prizes, which have been offered. Upon the general question of "The Influence of such Institutions, historically and philosophically considered," we may offer our opinion at some future opportunity.

Where is the utility, we would ask "A Constitutional Whig," of bringing the case of Messrs. Abercrombie, Hope, and Menzies, again upon the carpet? Their conduct in the particular transaction appears to us to reflect honour upon all the parties concerned. They have individually acted as it was natural for gentlemen and men of spirit to act. An article upon the privileges of Parliament would be acceptable; but we cannot promise it a very speedy insertion.

The monopolies and adulterations, of which "a gentleman with a small independence" complains, shall not escape us.

We will keep an eye upon Lord Byron, Mr. Shelley, and Mr. Hunt. We still hope, that his lordship will not commence a periodical publication with coadjutors, such as the writer of Queen Mab, and the editor of the Examiner. He has every thing to lose; and he can gain nothing. If he suffers himself to forget the simple circumstance, that he is a British nobleman, the nation also may be induced to forget it.

"Justus" is informed, that we have by no means done with the Reviews. We had heard before of some of the instances of their unfairness, which he adduces. We will add them to our catalogue; and, some day or other, "Justus," the public, and ourselves, shall have a laugh over them together.

We are much obliged to E. B.

We have already had the pleasure of an interview with J. J. and his friend. We have here only to add, that we shall be at all times happy to see them, or hear from them.

LINES ON THE MONASTERY OF THE GREAT

ST. BERNARD.

The following lines have been put hastily together, in consequence of an account which has appeared in the public prints, that the southern front of the monastery of St. Bernard is falling to decay; that the erection of new stoves is absolutely necessary to keep out the cold and damp from the inhabited part of the building; and that, although these circumstances have been made known, and a subscription set on foot, yet a sufficient sum of money has not hitherto been raised. For a general description of the Monastery and its inmates, the reader may be referred to Ebel's, or any other Guide through Switzerland; if he wishes to acquaint himself accurately with its present, unhealthiness and dilapidation, he can look at the statement of Professor Pictet. The distinguished author of "Italy, a poem," has taken notice of this Hospital. It was impossible to avoid all similarity in writing upon the same subject, in the same metre.

Can it then be ?-Has the appeal been made
To Europe, and made vainly? Shall men say,
In after ages, speaking of St. Bernard ?
"Here once an ancient Monastery stood,
A shelter to the wanderer-to the poor,
Pale, shivering wretch, a hospitable home-
A refuge to the tempest-beaten outcast,
Benighted midst the snows-it stood ;--but now-
Its halls are tenantless, its hearths are cold,
As the white crags around them—they are gone,
And scattered, those devoted monks: for when

The wants, they quell'd in others, pressed themselves,
The fountains of sweet charity were dry,
And that old structure, and those holy men,
Found none to succour them in their distress."

Just Heav'n! shall that sad brotherhood be forc'd
From roofs by them made sacred, when the tithe
Of what the sons of pleasure cast away
In riot and debauch, in buying aches,
Disgusts, and unavailing long regrets-
Ay, cast away e'en on some single night-
Might cheer, relieve, restore them? shall they sink
Unmourn'd, unfriended at their utmost need;
When they, who sooth'd their sorrows, not alone
Would drink the pure delight, that virtue gives;
But save some fresh affliction to themselves,

Some added pang of sickness and remorse?

Shall they, who waste the wealth, their fathers earn'd,
In shameful revels, and licentious feasts,

Which, ere as the cup is wholly quaff'd, turns gall

And poison to the taste; with niggard hand
Withhold the bounty, which might half redeem
Their crimes, and be recorded in the page
Of human worth? oh! prodigal at once
And mean! at once penurious and profuse !
To wisdom blind, as slow to virtuous deeds!
Awake! escape, such infamous reproach,
Ye minions of proud affluence, luxury's slaves,
Fortune's soft favourites! while yet ye may
Avert the load of shame! lend now your aid—
These holy men demand it :-at this hour
The sturdy frame of that hoar edifice
Is hurrying to decay; the massive strength
Of wall and ponderous buttress, tho' it mock
The puny structures of more modern days.-
For there the snow of centuries has fallen,
There play'd the lightnings of a thousand years
At last has yielded to the ceaseless strokes
Of time and tempests,-clefts are in its front;
The fierce eternal battery of storms

Has made wide breaches through the mouldering stones :

Within, a chilly dampness ever reigns,

And noxious mildew; frequent moisture hangs
On the worn roof, and drips along the sides
Of halls yet tenanted; the midnight blast
Howls through unnumber'd crevices, and shakes
The doors, and creaking casements, as in scorn.
There fails the fuel brought from far, to shed
A kindly, comfortable warmth; but they
Who loll upon their couch, in some gilt chamber
Where not a rain-drop, not a breath of air,
Or touch of cold can enter, never dream
Of these self-banish'd brothers, who have fix'd
Their heav'n-ward dwelling on St. Bernard's height.
What have they done to merit this neglect ?
They have surrendered up the common joys
That lend to life its sweetness; have employ'd
Their youth in nobler purposes, than sage,
Saint, moralist, or patriot e'er devis'd,-
In pray'r to heav'n, and charity on earth,
Service to God, and to their fellow men!

Go there, thou scoffer at a faith, which cloth'd
Perchance in Superstition's idle garb,
Shines radiant yet with its own loveliness;
More radiant far than man's delusive rules,
Mere shallow systems of a sophist's brain !
Go there, thou fool, that talk'st of lazy monks,
Sunk in dull apathy, and dreamy sloth;

Pamper'd in sensual self-indulgence; sleek,
And fatt'ning on mankind's credulity :-

:

Who prat'st of ravenous priest-craft, holy cheats,
And Christian faith, that has not charity:
Go there, and view St. Bernard's brotherhood!
Methinks no consecrated drones are they,
No hooded slumberers, just without reproach,
Mechanically pious, as the bell

Summons to mass or vesper; who will scarce
Permit the offices of heartless pray'r

To break their calm monotonous repose!

No: tho' remote and lonely, distant far

From the world's comforts, and the world's intrigues,

And the world's vanities, they still retain

Their nature's kindliest feelings, nor forget

That men are still their brothers! Then with thought's
Excursive swiftness, to that sacred spot

Ye unbelievers, ye blasphemers, go!
Ye, who deride religion's present pow'r
To raise and purify the soul; go there,
And see what Christian charity can do.
Tell me, ye self-deluders, puff'd with pride,
Wrapt in your theories of perfect truth.
And trite dull rules of ethics; tell me when
Your high philosophy has done as much?
When has philosophy through treach'rous snows
And trackless desolation, where the frost
Lays its benumbing hand upon the limbs,
And grasps, and paralyzes every joint,
And curdles up the stiff and stagnant blood;
Rush'd with substantial aid? She rather walks,
With flowing robe, in some delicious grove,
As Plato lov'd at Athens ;-or she sits
Secure and listless, lull'd on the soft lap
Of elegant, luxurious, learned ease;
Framing her codes of moral discipline ;-
For poor, plain monks to practise.

They alone,
They in th' inclement midnight, when the blast
Howls long and loudest on the mountain-top,
Responsive to the lean and shivering wolf,
As some lost wanderer's prophetic dirge;
When momently the lanwines thunder down;
And nature trembles with the violence

Of her own elements; and wreaths of snow
Are whirl'd about as the October leaves
In deadly sport; still dauntless walk abroad
Braving the persecutions of the sky,

As guardian angels mid that hideous scene
Of horror and destruction. They alone !—
No: not alone-for when from Alp to Alp
The spirit of the tempest lifts his voice,
And hurls around a thousand forms of death,
And sends his whirlwinds onward, fierce and fast ;
While, with the swiftness of convulsive fear,
The wary traveller falls upon his face,
And lets the storm sweep o'er him ; as in life
The cautious crouch and bow them to the stroke,
Which they cannot resist―e'en in that hour
That wild, that terrible disastrous, hour,
With their brave masters are the faithful dogs,
Whose keen sagacious instinct far excels
Vain reason's proud supremacy. They first
Trace out the fatal spot, by sight or scent,
Where lies some wretch bewildered :—with their feet
See, how they dig th' incumbent mass away,
And call, with sharp, continuous, eager howl
Their human sharers in that dreary toil;
Who instant haste to save the wanderer's life
Regardless of their own! There, there he sleeps
Buried beneath the everlasting snows,

Insensible, and stiff, and ghastly blue,

Sunk in a death-like trance. They bear him thence
With kindest care, and rub, and chafe, and warm
Before their blazing hearth; he sits awhile
Torpid and mute, benumb'd, and motionless;
Next feels by piercing aches, in joint and limb,
The vital heat returning: then awakes
To dizzy recollection, and stares round him,
Yet shudd'ring with the perils he has 'scap'd,
And death that seem'd inevitable; then
Cheer'd by their converse, by their food reviv'd,
Sense, animation, spirit, joy, return;
The blood's free current rushes uncongeal'd,
And with unfetter'd tongue he pours his thanks
To his preservers, and invokes from heav'n
Perpetual blessings on their holy heads :-
Then journeys forth in safety, and forgets them.
Forgets them!-how forget them ?-but for them
The snow had been his winding-sheet and tomb ;
His dirge the moaning of the mountain-blast ;
And his expectant wife, and helpless babes,
Had watch'd for his return—and wept in vain.
He was a stranger, and they took him in ;
Cold, and they cherish'd, hungry, and they fed;
Dying, and they restor❜'d him unto life.