II. and grandson of Edward I. who was grandson of king John. John was son of Henry II.; it was with extreme satisfaction the English beheld Henry on the throne, who was descended from their ancient line of kings, his mother, Matilda, being daughter of the virtuous Matilda, wife of Henry I. son of William the conqueror. The last mentioned Matilda was daughter of Margaret of Scotland, who was grandaughter of Edmund Ironside, the son of Ethelred, the son of Edgar, the son of Edmund I. who was grandson of Alfred the Great, and Alfred was grandson of Egbert the Great, the first king of England. It would be tedious and uninteresting to trace the genealogy from Egbert through all its intricacies up to Cerdic, the first king of Wessex, suffice it to say, this brave and warlike prince having acquired great renown in his own country, resolved to seek his fortune in Britain, where, after a long and hardly contested struggle with the rightful inhabitants, the Britons, he founded the kingdom of Wessex, in the year 519, to which in the end all the kingdoms of the Heptarchy became subject. According to Tyrrel and Rapin, the Heptarchy of the AngloSaxons was abolished, and their seven kingdoms became subject to Egbert, king of Wessex, (who gave his newly ac quired dominions the name of England,) in the year 827; thus the English monarchy will this year have completed a grand circle of one thousand years! What a subject of reflection for a thinking mind! Our forefathers on many occasions evinced a strong nationality of spirit with respect to their ancient race of kings, particularly on the marriage of Henry I. son of William the conqueror, with Matilda, (mentioned above) when they are said to have exceeded all bounds in their rejoicing. Again on the marriage of Henry VII. with Elizabeth, eldest daughter of Edward IV. England saw "the winter of her discontent made glorious summer," and the people were so extravagant in their joy, that the king was greatly offended thereat, for as he had been almost forced to marry his queen to satisfy his subjects, so he knew these great rejoicings were more in compliment to her than to him. Those who remember the poignant grief which pervaded the nation on the death of the princess Charlotte, will not doubt that this national spirit is still cherished by Englishmen. I am, Sir, Most respectfully, yours, ON POETRY, AND THE REQUI SITES FOR ENJOYING IT. (To the Editor of the Mirror.) SIR,-I trust you will not refuse a coJumn of your instructive miscellany to the following observations on a paper inserted in No. 217 of the MIRROR, entitled, "The Adventitious Requisites to Poetical Feeling." The writer of the remarks alluded to appears to have mistaken not only the faculties necessary to the enjoyment of poetry, but the very nature and aim of poetry itself. The latter he seems to imagine consist mainly in submitting to the mental eye (chiefly by comparison and allusion) accurate descriptions of the external world; and the foriner in a perfect acquaintance with the prototype or original of such descriptions. And by a ratural consequence of these suppositions, he argues that many are incapacitated for poetical feeling, on account of peculiarity of station or circumstances. This might be true were it the purpose of poetry to detail mere matterof-fact. But such is not the case. Poetry is the language of imagination and exalted feeling. It is not, therefore, conversant solely or principally with objects of sense, nor does it appeal so much to the understanding as to the fancy-to the heart. If it delineates the scenes of nature, it is to invest them with the pure and glorious hues of its own creation. If it occasionally sketches with the minute fidelity of a Teniers, it as often paints with the bold romantic dashes of a Salvator Rosa. It selects not the accidental concomitants of time or place, but the common and unvarying traits which have distinguished in all ages and in all regions, man, and the earth he inherits. In short, its province is to awaken those emotions which dwell more or less in every bosom, by depicting objects and sentimentsmoral, material, and intellectual--which all may conceive without having seen, and enjoy without having experienced. In support of the positions here laid down, and as a proof that none are precluded by situation in life or any accident of fortune from a full and complete enjoyment of the beauties of poetry, I am happy in being able to adduce the testimony of Dr. Johnson. "The business of a poet," says this great critic in his Rasselas, "is to examine not the individual, but the species; to remark general properties and large appearances; he does not number the streaks of the tulip, or describe the different shades in the verdure of the forest. He is to exhibit in his portraits or nature such prominent and striking features, as recal the original to every mind; and must neglect the minuter discriminations which one may have remarked, and another have neglected, for those characteristics which are alike obvious to vigilance and carelessness." Were it true that we could not appreciate the merit of a poet's images without having viewed the objects of which they are descriptive, how lamentably contracted would be the sphere of our poetic enjoyments. What pleasure could we derive from the perusal of Homer and Virgil, Theocritus and Tasso, or, indeed, of any who have written at a period, in a land, and on subjects of which we can have no personal knowledge? To refute this hypothesis, therefore, we need but refer to the continued celebrity of the poets above mentioned, and to the experience of every lover of metrical composition. Does Lord Byron's description of Lake Leman, or Sir Walter Scott's of Loch Katrine fail to delight those who have not wandered among the mountains of Switzerland or Scotland? Do we admire the bard less when he takes an eagle's flight and soars to other worlds, peopled with different beings, than when swallowlike he skims along the surface of our own terrestrial ball, and employs his mighty talents in portraying earthly things and earthly inhabitants? agreeable objects, that the very exercise of those powers requisite to comprehend the author's meaning in its full force, inspires a delight of the most rational and rewarding kind. In fact, all poetry is addressed to the imagination. Whether the poet describes the workings of the human heart or the vicissitudes of human life, the actual existencies of this world, or the possible nature of another, whether he recals the past, arrests the present, or anticipates the future, an effort of the imagination is still required to enable us to enter, at all, into his conceptions, to see what he hath seen, and feel as he hath felt. It consequently follows that the degree of enjoyment to be derived from poetry is not proportioned to the distinctness or extensive range of past perceptions, but rather to vigour of imagination and refinement of intelleet. It is not the soldier, the sailor, or the traveller, who has visited perhaps every corner of the globe, and whose mind is therefore stored with a variety of images, that possess the most exquisite relish for the charms of immortal verse. It is he who has given scope to the wanderings of fancy, who has cultivated his understanding and refined his heart, and who has habituated himself to the contemplation of those bright and breathing creations of the soul, which the poet displays, robed in the divine colours of harmonious and enduring beauty. I am, yours, &c. R. W. B. LINES TO THE MEMORY OF HIS ROYAL (For the Mirror.) HARK 'tis the dismal death-bells' solemn knell Hath lain her noble-minded Frederick low. But, it may be said, the advocates of the opinion here opposed, do not assert that poetry imparts no gratification to those who are unacquainted with what it delineates; but that such gratification is trivial in degree and feeble in kind. Even this may be questioned. The pleasures of imagination are perhaps, the most delightful in which the soul is capable of indulging. Nor are these pleasures procured at the expense of such mental labour as your correspondent appears to believe. The mind compares and compounds its simple ideas with the greatest How the grim, never sated Tyrant's blow facility. On what other principle can we explain the doctrine of association, by which the bare mention or presentment of Yes, it is past-he sleeps to wake no morethe connecting link, induces, instantaneously, a series of recollections arranged as they arise with perspicuity and precision. So is it with poetry; the principal enjoyment it confers is caused by the superior beauty, harmony, and ease, with which it enables us to combine our ideas, so as to create from them a picture, at once vivid, original, and pleasing. Were it needful to cite an example, I might refer to Thomson's Castle of Indolence, a poem allegorical throughout, and therefore appealing altogether to the imaginative powers of the reader, yet presenting to the mind a landscape so lovely, and adorning it with so inany Inexorable Fate has seal'd his doom; And pitying thousands wail around his tomb; Britannia heaves an unavailing sigh, grave, Ah, well may they lament his mournful end, And to his memory drop the grateful tear! Exulting ages shall with pride proclaim Pays a sad tribute to his slumbering shade, Clings to his marble bust, o'erwhelm'd with grief, And decorates it with the laurel leaf. And see where generous Sussex too comes forth, The vain, but hallow'd sigh so justly due: A scene at which surrounding nations grieve, Oli, no-the universal tear that's shed, Lamented son of Freedom, fare thee well! Yet none can be more heartfelt or sincere ; THE TOWN-CRLER. J. E. S. A TOWN-CRIER walking one morning about, Was asked why he did not, as usual, cry out; O, yes," he replied, "I've enough, be it said, UTOPIA. Arts and Sciences. A NEW HYGROMETER. A NEW instrument to measure the de- mensions. In rainy weather, this pyra Select Biography. No. L. MISS ELIZABETH BENGER. ON Tuesday morning, January 9, 1827, died, after a short illness, deeply regretted, Elizabeth O. Benger, author of several interesting and popular works, chiefly biographical and historical. This admirable and excellent woman, a rare instance of female genius struggling into day through obstacles which might well have daunted even the bolder energies of manly enterprise, was born in the city of Wells, in 1778. Her father, late in life, was impelled by an adventurous disposition to enter the navy, and ultimately became a purser. The vicissitudes of his fortune occasioned, during many years, a distressing fluctuation in the plans and prospects of his wife and daughter; and his death abroad, in 1796, left them finally with a slender provision. For some years after this event, Miss Benger resided with her mother in Wiltshire, where she had many affectionate friends and relations who never lost sight of her. An ardour for knowledge, a passion for literary distinction, disclosed itself in her early childhood, and never left her. Her connexions were not literary; and her sex, no less than her situation, debarred her from the means of mental cultivation. The friend who traces this imperfect In a white flint bottle is suspended a sketch has heard her relate, that in the piece of metal, about the size of a hazel want of books which she at one time suf nut, which not only looks extremely fered, it was her common practice to beautiful, and contributes to the orna- plant herself at the window of the only ment of a room, but likewise predicts bookseller's shop in the little town which every possible change of weather, twelve she then inhabited, to read the open pages or fourteen hours before it occurs. As of the new publications there displayed, soon as the metal is suspended in the and to return again, day after day, to exbottle with water, it begins to increase in amine whether, by good fortune, a leaf bulk, and in ten or twelve days forms an of any of them might have been turned admirable pyramid, which resembles over. But the bent of her mind was so polished brass; and it undergoes several decided, that a judicious though unlearned changes, till it has attained its full di- friend prevailed upon her mother at length to indulge it; and about the age of twelve, she was sent to a boy's school to be instructed in Latin. At fifteen she wrote and published a poem, in which, imperfect as it necessarily was, marks of opening genius were discovered. At length, about 1802, she prevailed upon her mother to remove to London, where, principally through the zealous friendship of Miss Sarah Wesley, who had already discovered her in her solitude, she almost immediately found herself ushered into society where her merit was fully appreciated and warmly fostered. The late Dr. George Gregory, well known in the literary world, and his valued and excellent wife, were soon amongst the firmest and most affectionate of her friends. By them she was gratified with an introduction to Mrs. Elizabeth Hamilton, of whom she gave, many years afterwards, so interesting a memoir, and soon after to Mrs. Barbauld, and the late Dr. Aikin, with the various members of whose family, and especially with her who now inscribes, with an aching heart, this feeble record of her genius and virtues, she contracted an affectionate intimacy, never interrupted through a period of more than twenty years, and destined to know but one termination. Another and most valuable connexion which she soon after formed, was with the family of R. Smirke, Esq. R. A., in whose accomplished daugh ter she found a friend whose offices of love followed her without remission to the last. Many other names, amongst which that of Mrs. Joanna Baillie must not be forgotten, might be added to the list of those who delighted in her society, and took an interest in her happiness. Her circle of acquaintance extended with her fame, and she was often able to assemble round her humble tea-table, names whose celebrity would have attracted attention in the proudest saloons of the metropolis. Early in her literary career, Miss Benger was induced to fix her hopes of fame upon the drama, for which her genius appeared in many respects peculiarly adapted; but after ample experience of the anxieties, delays, and disappointments which in this age sicken the heart of almost every candidate for celebrity in this department, she tried her powers in other attempts, and produced first her poem on the Abolition of the Slave Trade, and afterwards two novels published anonymously. All these productions had great merit, but wanted something of regular and finished excellence; and her success was not decided till she embarked in biography, and produced in succession her "Memoirs of Mrs. Elizabeth Hamilton," "Memoirs of John Tobin," and "No tices of Klopstock and his Friends," prefixed to a translation of their Letters from the German; and finally rising to the department of history, her "Life of Anne Boleyn," and "Memoirs of Mary, Queen of Scots, and of the Queen of Bohemia." All these works attained deserved popularity; and she would probably have added to her reputation by the "Memoirs of Henry IV. of France," had longer life been lent her for their completion. But to those who knew her and enjoyed her friendship, her writings, eloquent and beautiful as they are, were the smallest part of her merit and her attraction. To the warmest, most affectionate, and grateful of human hearts, she united the utmost delicacy and nobleness of sentiment, active benevolence which knew no limits but the furthest extent of her ability, and a boundless enthusiasm for the good and fair wherever she discovered them. Her lively imagination lent an inexpressible charm to her conversation, which was heightened by an intuitive discernment of character, rare in itself, and still more so in combination with such activity of fancy and ardency of feeling. As a companion, whether for the graver or the gayer hour, she had few equals; and her perfect kindness of heart and universal sympathy rendered her the favourite of both sexes, and all classes and ages. With so much to admire and love, she had every thing to esteem. envy or jealousy there was not a trace in her composition; her probity, veracity, and honour, derived, as she gratefully acknowledged, from the early precepts or an excellent and meritorious mother, were perfect. Though free from pride, her sense of dignity was such, that no one could fix upon her the slightest obligation capable of lowering her in any eyes; and her generous propensity to seek those most who needed her friendship, rendered her in the intercourses of society oftener the obliger than the party obliged. No one was more just to the characters of others; no one more candid; no one more worthy of confidence of every kind. Of Lamented as she must long and painfully be by all who truly knew her excellencies, they cannot but admit that their regrets are selfish. To her the pains of sensibility were dealt in even larger measure than its joys: she was tried by cares, privations, and disappointments, and not seldom by unfeeling slights and thankless neglect. The infirmity of her constitution rendered life to her a long disease. Old age would have found her solitary and unprovided; now she has taken the wings of the dove, to flee away and be at rest.-Literary Gazette. SPIRIT OF THE Public Journals. HINTS ON THE SCIENCE OF DREAMING. APART front any of the solemn, though albeit moral, reflections with which a contemplation of sleep very naturally inspires us, it has been my design to view it in relation only to our present comfort, to the positive pains and pleasures we are involuntarily called to undergo, by that mental operation and play of the fancy, called Dreaming. It cannot, by any thinking man, be considered as a trifling matter, or as one with which we have no other concern, than to speculate upon the causes, and laugh at the effects. I have now been a dreamer for fifty years, man and boy, and what have I not endured, what misery have I not been called upon passively to suffer, what horrors of the Inquisition have I escaped? Moreover, what delights have not refreshed my soul, during the thirty years of that time, which have been passed in sleep? Devoured by lions-danced with angels-roasted by cannibals-revelled with princes-fire-witchcraft flying-paradise-sorrow-marriage and death! I have no intention to explain my views of the metaphysical part of this subject, which I have for years endeavoured to analyze, and reduce to rules by personal experiment; whether dreams are to be accounted for by the ordinary laws of imagination and association; or whether the theories of Hobbes, Hartley, or bishop Newton, be the more correct, or agreeable to my experience, I need not now explain. It is sufficient for my purpose, that we do dream, and that all agree, that these phantasms are intimately connected with our physical and corporeal sensations. By a liberal and philosophical attention to my hints, I do not hesitate to affirm, that you, or any of your readers, may control the character of your dreams, rendering them agreeable, or at least neutralize them, thus freeing yourselves from the bondage and despair of resigning your bodies and souls to your beds, uncertain of the tortures and exasperations of the coming night. Some half-informed physiologists, with whom my experience is entirely at variance, have attributed much of our unpleasant kinds of dreaming to repletion of blood in the sinuses of the brain, and other gabble of the like kind. I say, after experience without end, it has no more to do with disorganization of the circulation of the brain, than with any other bodily ailment. The chief cause, on the contrary, of all this imagery, being a derangement of the sinuses of the stomach and digestive organs, or all or any of the untold sinuosities of our alimentary canal. What! am I to be told of blood in the brain, when a veal cutlet in the stomach will any day cast me down, and raise twenty devils on my ruins? Am I to be referred to phrenological circulation, when a basin of mock turtle soup, half an hour before going to bed, will raise, as if in revenge, a thousand sires of the calves from which it was made, by whom I am hunted and gored, breathless and agonized, until day break? All the worst kinds of dreamings which occur to persons not absolutely racked by a fever, are, as my experience tells me, the results of indigestion, and of overloaded viscera; dulcia se in bilem vertent. Only call to mind your last touch of incubus. You had dined at eight; you never had a better dinner; the removes good-the dishes various-the sauces-how blest was your friend in his cook! You got into bed. Do you remember the hag, whose rags and bones weighed at least a thousand stone, how relentlessly she perched on your breast? Of what avail were your sighs, your groans, your guttural exorcisms? There vanquished soup, there shone the glory of paté a la perigord-there lobster sauce triumphed. Oh for blue pill, as a physical, as well as moral, antithesis to blue devil! Let every man who has the nightmare, eat less, and sleep on his side. If he already eats little, and has it, be he assured he eats too much, or wants salts. I, who know these truths, have not had the night-mare these ten years; but set me down the last thing at night to a venison pasty, and for four hours after I got to bed, I should literally have to fight for breath and temporal salvation! What sometimes happens in very great degrees, happens more commonly in less. Nature, Providence, Abernethy, and Dreaming, are all against clogging and turnpiking the interior. People, in general, really have no idea at what a sacrifice they guttle; I mean, even in what is called moderation. Let every gentleman, and every lady too, when they arise after anxieties and terrors of the night indescribable, fevered and distracted, let them cultivate the grace of self-examination, on the subject of cooks, cookery, and eating. Let them honestly ask of themselves, with the fear of the night before their eyes, what did I eat, what did I drink, yesterday? Multitudes, I have no doubt, in bitterness of heart, have been led to |