strictly speaking, com= the surface then apxled in parallel lines, only they make angles 5 to each other; somerays proceeding from rcumference.

s been boiled freezes that which has not, on given to the fluid uses it to freeze more overed with olive oil ezes with considerable n it is has been covit requires a very to congeal it.

ble that water cooled of the freezing point, e farther condensed, ded by greater dimich expansion goes on shed, as long as the aid. It is also obhen water is above ansion is very conhe freezing point it

JACOBUS.

on evaporation, vide

ography.

IX.

FORD, ESQ. y character expir1st of December, mes-street, Bucknty years and nine

n in April, 1756, nshire. Little is

His creat crend

ས་བ་བབ་པ་

lowed her husband to the grave, and her two sons were left absolute paupers. The furniture of the mother was seized for debt by a remorseless creditor; who was afterwards stimulated by the reproaches of the town to put his godson, young William Gifford, to school. He was then thirteen; and the younger child, aged about two, was sent to the alms-house. But in three months, this godfather became tired of the expense of the lad's schooling, and he forthwith put him to the plough. From the plough he was removed to a small coasting vessel belonging to Brixham, in Torbay; and he was now not only a ship-boy on the high and giddy mast, but obliged to perform every menial office in the cabin. But the women who twice a week carried fish from Brixham to Ashburton, continually spoke of the denuded and wretched state of this unfortunate lad; and the reproaches of the inhabitants of Ashburton against the godfather, at length induced him once more to put the boy to school. His progress was now very rapid; and at the age of fifteen, the godfather told him that he had learned quite enough; and he accordingly took him from school, and apprenticed him to a shoe-maker. The apprentice possessed but one book in the world-a Treatise on Algebra; of paper, ink, slate or pencil, he was totally destitute, and without a penny to buy any. Being partial to the mathematical sciences, he sat up, night after night, at his studies, and beat out small pieces of leather to a smooth: surface, upon which he contrived to work his algebraic problems. But Crispin found out this practice, and conceiving it a loss both of time and of leather, he severely chastised the votary ot the sciences, and bade him mind his cobbling of shoes. But some doggerel verses of the lad had attracted the attention of a

purchasing the remainder of the time of William Gifford, and for enabling him to improve himself in writing and English grammar." Mr. Gifford now studied assiduously; and in two years, being then twenty-two years of age, he was pronounced fit for the University. A genileman of the county procured for him the place of Bible Lecturer of Exeter College, Oxford; and in 1781, Mr. Cookesley opened a subscription at Ashburton on his behalf for publishing a translation of Juvenal. Immediately after, this benevolent gentleman died, and Gifford was again left poor and unfriended. But a most happy accident shortly after made his fortune. He had acquired the acquaintance of a gentleman at Oxford, with whom he corresponded, directing the letters under cover to lord Grosvenor. One day, he had inadvertently omitted the direction upon the enclosed letter, and lord Grosvenor imagining it to be intended for himself, naturally opened and perused it. There was something in it which attracted his lordship's notice, and he begged of his friend that the writer might be introduced to him. The result was, that Mr. Gifford took up his residence with lord Grosvenor, and afterwards accompanied his lordship's son (lord Belgrave) in his tour of the Continent. To lord Grosvenor's patronage Mr. Gifford was subsequently indebted for the means of spending his life amidst every object of elegant enjoy

ment.

We have hitherto considered Mr. Gifford as a poor but honourable adventurer upon the stormy ocean of life; we are now to view him as an aspirant in the republic of letters. In 1794, appeared his first material work, the Baviad, being a paraphrase of the first satire of Persius.

In 1795, appeared the Maviad, in imitation of the tenth Satire of the first book of Horace. In 1800 he published his Epistle to Peter Pindar; and in 1802 appeared his long-promised Translation of the Satires of Juvenal. This last work was attacked by the Critical Review. Mr. Gifford felt himself sorely wounded by this critique, and in 1803 he put forth his Examination of the Strictures of the Critical Review upon Juvenal. In 1805, Mr. Gifford published his edition of Massinger, and in 1816 his edition of Ben Jonson. In 1821, appeared his translation of Persius, contemporaneously with the translation of the same author by Sir W. Drummond. Mr. Gifford now occupied himself in editing the works of Ford, in two volumes octavo; and those of Shirley, of which five and a half volumes had gone

through the press, when he was seized with his last fatal illness.

Contemporaneously with the publication of the Baviad and Maviad, Mr. Gifford became the editor of the AntiJacobin Review, an office which he was well qualified to fill. The Edinburgh Review had been published on a plan so dissimilar to that of the preceding critical works of the country, and the talents which it displayed and the success which it experienced were so decided, that Mr. Gifford conceived the design of instituting a periodical work upon the same plan, but of totally different party principles. The Critical and Monthly Reviews, the former originated by Smollett, and the latter boasting the contributions of the most eminent literary characters of England, had been supreme and without rivals for nearly half a century. So little idea was there of Mr. Gifford's design of publishing the Quarterly being attended with success, that when he offered the sale of it to the publisher of the Monthly Review, that bookseller refused the offer, replying that "he would not give up a certainty for an uncertainty." But so uncertain are all such literary certainties, and such was the rapid success of the Quarterly Review and the Edinburgh, that the old Reviews soon sunk to comparative insignificance.

Mr. Gifford wrote nothing original. His Baviad and Maviad were mere paraphrases of Persius and Horace. His life was spent in editing and translating. As an editor, he was acute and industrious; but in emendatory criticism, he had not the learning of Bentley, the sagacity of Porson, the patient research of Steevens, or that of the editors of the German school. But his editions of Massinger and Ben Jonson are valuable presents to English literature. Mr. Gifford's prin. cipal work, however, is his Juvenal. This consumed the greater part of his life, received the correction of his friends, and was sent into the world with every possible advantage.

To the translation of Juvenal is prefixed a memoir of himself, which is, perhaps as modest and pleasant a piece of autobiography as ever was written. It is from that memoir that the earlier part of the present biographical sketch is compiled.

In the reign of queen Mary, squaretoed shoes were in fashion, and the met wore them of so prodigious a breadth, that a proclamation is said to have been made, ordering that no man should wear his shoes above six inches square at the toes!

HUMBUG.

(For the Mirror )

MR. P― the celebrated barrister, who resides in Staffordshire, is a remarkably ugly man, with a large stock of vanity. Some months back an action was brought by an old lady, resident near his villa, against several persons, who having obtained possession of a house belonging to her, had refused to deliver it into her hands. In this case Mr. P— was retained for the defendants, and cross-examined the plaintiff with his usual dexterity.

"What motive do you suppose induced my clients to refuse giving you posses

sion ?"

"Why they wanted to humbug me," replied the old lady.

"To humbug you! what do you mean? I don't understand you-pray explain."

The plaintiff felt confused, and Mr. P-repeated his question triumphantly. After a pause, during which she had racked her brains to find out a suitable explanation of the word, the old lady said

66 Suppose, sir, I was to say that you were extremely handsome ?"

"Well, and what then ?" inquired the lawyer, his vanity whispering compli

ments.

PROGRESS OF THE ARTS IN FRANCE.

WITHIN these twelve years France has made immense progress in almost every branch of manufacture. Pins are now made at a single operation, the "heads and tails" being of a piece; so that the proverb, "As useless as a pin without a head," is likely to be soon lost, from the thing not being possible.

A new discovery has been made in printing, by which classical works used in every country need only be set up once thus, if an edition of the classics be printed at Paris, editions may be published in England, Germany, Holland, &c. without being at the expense of a new composition. Besides the advantages of cheapness, the text, once established, can never vary, and the type is always now. We have seen three volumes in 8vo, printed upon the new principle; they are beautifully got up, and sold to the public at less than 3s. the volume.

In the article of plated goods, the French seem even to surpass the manufacture of Birmingham. We have seen plated candlesticks of which the making only cost five sous the pair, and they are sold at twenty-pence in retail. The same manufacturer has discovered the method of making coffee-pots, tea-pots, &c. of one piece of metal, without soldering, and that too at a cheaper rate than by the old method; we have seen several articles of this kind, of very elegant forms.

The gilding of metals is now carried to a perfection unknown in England; and as the duty on importation amounts to a prohibition, one of the best French gilders is going to establish himself in London. Our dessert services may thus rival the French in elegance and cheapness; and it is to be hoped that we shall soon be delivered from the heavy tribute paid to France for all objects in or molu; it is a branch of industry which would be most lucrative, and which it would cost a mere trifle to create; whoever does it certain to realize an immense fortune. Literary Gazette.

SPECIFIC GRAVITIES.

PROFESSOR LESLIE, of Edinburgh. having invented an extremely delicate apparatus for ascertaining the specific gravity of powders, has deduced the following novel results. Charcoal, which, from its porosity is so light, that its specific gravity, as assigned in books, is generally under 0.5, less than half the weight of water, or one-seventh the weight of diamond; taken in powder by the above instrument, exceeds that of diamond; is one-half greater than that of whinstone; and, of course, more than seven times heavier than has usually been supposed. Mahogany has usually been estimated at 1:36; but mahogany saw-dust proves by the instrument to be 1.68. Wheat flour is 1.36; pounded sugar 1-83; and common salt 2:15; the latter agrees very accurately Writing

with the common estimate. paper rolled hard by the hand, had a specific gravity of 178, the solid matter present being less than one-third of the One of the space it apparently filled. most remarkable results was with an apparently very light specimen of volcanic ashes, which was found to have a specific gravity of 44; these results are, how. ever, given as approximations merely by the first instrument constructed.

Monument in the Forest of Harewood.

THE annexed sketch represents a monument lately erected by William Iremonger, Esq. to record an event said to have taken place on the very spot of ground where the cross is erected. The inscription on the base is as follows:About the year of our Lord 963, upon this spot beyond time of memory, called Dead Man's Plack, tradition reports that Edgar, surnamed the peaceable, king of England, in the ardour of youth, love, and indignation, slew with his own hand, his treacherous and ungrateful favourite, earl Athelswold, owner of this forest of Harewood; in resentment of the earl having basely betrayed his royal confidence, and perfidiously married his intended bride, the beauteous Elfrida, daughter of Ordgar, earl of Devonshire, afterwards wife to king Edgar, and by him mother of king Ethelred II., which queen Elfrida, after Edgar's death, murdered his eldest son, king Edward the martyr, and founded the monastery of Wherwell. This forest where the monument stands, now called Wherwell Wood, is of considerable extent, containing not less than three thousand five hundred acres, and is intersected with pleasant drives, which are kept in the highest order by the present owner, and are with the greatest liberality accessible to the public.

The cross is built of Portland stone, and in good proportion. Although lofty, it is not visible at any great distance, but will amply repay the curiosity of the traveller who might choose to deviate from

the great western road leading to Andover,

from which place it is distant about two miles and a half.

Edgar's name might, perhaps, have suffered in the estimation of posterity, had not this memorial of his peaceable character been erected. As the transaction took place beyond the memory of man, we cannot sufficiently estimate the liberality of the present possessor of Wherwell Forest, in perpetuating the recollection of so extraordinary a circumstance in the history of this country.

A VILLAGE in the south of England is one of the loveliest sights in nature; and it is what it seems, the very nestlingplace of poetry, love, and happiness. It glitters, with its white-washed cottages and garden-walls, among the green trees 'mid which it is embowered, like the golden fruits of Spain, peeping from beneath the rich foliage that does but partially conceal them. Its meadows, its stream, its tapering church-spire; its hedge-rows, its lanes of sweetbriar and wild-roses; its lattices, with their clustering jessamine and honey-suckle; its gardens, with their bee-hives; its orchards, with their odoriferous blossoms; and above all, its simple, yet cheerful inhabitants, ignorant of the great world, and unwilling to have that ignorance enlightened; all combine to render a village in the south of England the most delightful spot in the universe. How sweet to retire from the world to such a haven of repose, and there to cultivate only the purer affections of one's nature, and keep the soul divided, by a rainbow zone, from the grosser atmosphere of common existence. There are many little paradises of the kind I speak of, and I should be contented with any one of them; although, if I had my choice, I should perhaps fix upon Woodburn in preference to all the rest. My predilection is the more singular, as all my associations connected with the recollection of that village are of a peculiarly melancholy cast. Even there the spoiler, sorrow, had found an entrance; and his victims were not unknown to me. I will endeavour to recal their story; it

is a simple one, but it suits well the temper of my mind, and I shall therefore avail myself of this opportunity to narrate it.

Let me paint her as I first saw her. It was in her cottage-garden, on a bright summer morning, when the dew was still sparkling on the flowers. She held a book in her hand, but she was not read ing. She stood wrapped in a delightful reverie, with her eyes fixed on two young rose-bushes. I knew not then that she was my old friend's only child, yet I stopped involuntarily to gaze upon her. 1 had never before seen aught so beautiful; and that, too, without the shadow of pretence. I cannot describe her features, but their combined effect was irresistible. There was a world of expression, an unfathomable depth of feeling, in her dark blue eye. I saw a tear start into it; but the thought that called it up was merely transient, for a smile gathered upon her lips immediately afterwards, and chased away with its light the little harbinger of sorrow. At that moment the gate was thrown open, and a youth entered. He was her lover; I knew it at a glance. A deeper crimson spread itself over her cheek, and her smile kindled into one of more intense delight. They stood together; England could not have produced a nobler pair. They seated themselves in the sunshine; the youth took the book and read aloud. It was a poetic page over which they hung. She leant her white arm on her lover's shoulder, and gazed upon him with delighted and breathless attention. Who is it that has said there is no happiness on earth? Had he seen Edmund and Florence on that calm, blue morning, he would have confessed the absurdity of his creed.

Edmund was the eldest son of the village rector-a man "to all the country dear." Florence was the daughter of an old, respected soldier, who had served in many a campaign, and who now lived in retirement, upon the small pension which was given him by government, as the reward of his long and valuable services. She had lost her mother almost before she knew her, and all her filial affection was centred in her only surviving parent; her heart she had bestowed upon Edmund, and he was by no means insensible of the value of the gift. They had been companions from their infancy. All their recollections of times past were the same, for all their amusements and studies had been similar. But Edmund had made considerably more progress than Florence. Nature had heaped upon him all those mental endowments that consti

tute genius. She had given him a mind capable of the profoundest aspirations; a heart that could feel more deeply, a fancy that could wing a bolder flight, than those of most other youths of his age. He, as yet, knew nothing of the state of society beyond the limits of Woodburn. He had never been more than twenty miles from home during his whole life. But he was now eighteen, and Florence was only a year younger. They had ceased to be boy and girl. She, indeed, would have been contented to have continued as she was for ever, blest with her father's and her lover's affection; more than happy in the discharge of her domestic duties, in her summer evening rambles, in her books, her bees, her fruits, and her flowers. But Edmund, although he loved her with all the enthusiasm of a first love, had more ambition in his nature. He wished to mingle in the crowd in the pursuit of glory; and he had hopes that he might outstrip at least some of his competitors. Beside, he was not possessed of an independent fortune; and exertion, therefore, became a duty. His resolution was at once formed; he determined to fix his residence in London for at least a couple of years, and ascertain whether, in truth, ability was there its own reward. It was sad news to Florence; but on reflecting on the advantages which Edmund might derive from the execution of the scheme, she looked upon her grief as selfish, and endeavoured to restrain it. The evening before he left Woodburn, they took a farewell walk together in her father's garden. Florence had succeeded in keeping up a show of cheerfulness during the day; but as the yellow beams of the setting sun came streaming in through the poplars and elms that lined the wall, and as she thought how often they had seen the sun set before, and how long it would be ere they should see it set again, a chord was touched which vibrated through her heart, and she could no longer restrain her tears. Edmund besought her, with the utmost tenderness of manner, not to give way to emotions so violent; but she only locked his hand more firmly in her own, and, amid convulsive sobs, repeated again and again," Edmund! we shall never meet more ! I am not superstitious, but I know that I am right; we shall never meet more!" Her lover had recourse to every soothing argument he could think of; but though she at length became calm, a gloomy presentiment of future evil seemed to have taken possession of her mind.

A year elapsed, and Edmund's early dream had been more than realized. He