distinguished in the extreme distance a dark speck, which he took to be a sail. He gazed at it most intensely, but it did not seem to move, and he concluded it was a rock; in order to be convinced he lay down, and brought the stem of a small tree to bear upon the distant object, which he now perceived moved along the level horizon. It must be a ship, but she was passing the island, and he kept anxiously looking, in the expectation of her fading from his view. In a short time she loomed larger, and he could now perceive her to be a vessel of some size, but his heart sank within him when he observed soon afterwards that she hauled her wind, and stood away upon a different tack. In about half an hour she tacked again, and it now became evident that she was making for the island, as she stood directly in for the bay. The extreme joy of the poor sufferer at this welcome sight broke out in sundry raptures and transports. He rushed down the mountain with such little caution, that he stumbled over the broken rocks, and pitched headlong down the broken and rugged descent. This fall almost rendered him helpless, he received a severe cut above the ancle, besides other bad contusions; but the idea of losing this only chance inspired him with fresh energy, and he made his way down, after many painful efforts, staggering from the woods upon the sea shore; and when he beheld the ship come fairly into the bay and anchor, a boat hoisted up, and pull with long and rapid strokes towards him, he fell overpowered upon the sand. On the boat reaching the shore, the poor fellow appeared at his last gasp, and all he could articulate was 66 water, water!" One of the sailors brought some in a can, and suffered him to drink his fill; soon afterwards he again swooned away, and in this state they carried him alongside, where he became sensible, but unable either to speak or move. His helpless condition rendered it necessary to hoist him on board. Nothing could exceed the kind and humane treatment which he received from Captain Cook, and the surgeon of the ship, to whose skill and attention may be attributed his ultimate recovery, as from the quantity of water the sailor had suffered him to drink, (which the surgeon succeeded in dislodging from his stomach) in his miserable and emaciated state, the medical gentleman, when he first saw him, had but faint hopes of his surviving; indeed, this gentleman declared that he could not have lived upon the island many hours longer. In a short time he was well enough to leave his cot, when he was informed by Captain Cook, that about a week's sail from the Gollapagos, he had luckily fallen in with the ship by which Lord had been left, when the master told him, that a youth had been missed, and was left upon the island; this induced the Captain to bear up to the place, otherwise he had no intention of making it. This individual is at present master's BY HORACE GUILFord. I have heard and experienced much of the wonderful power of the drama, of the epic, of the ballad, and of the romance, in startling the passions and awakening the sympathies of human nature; but I know not the tragedy, however powerful, or the novel or the poem, however pathetic, that possesses the spell of that little sheet, with its waxen lock, called a LETTER. How frequently and how variouslyI may add how deeply-do letters affect us! For some we sicken with delayed hope,- others we tremble to unseal when we see them; some blight us by the disappointment of anticipated good, others shock us with unexpected evil; some we devour as the most delicious food,-over others we linger ere we summon courage to peruse them, doubtful whether they bring us tidings of grief or joy. No work is there of that improver of the shining hour, the bee, destined to so high a use as the sealing wax; no gem is there, however precious, privy to such passions, such reverses, such mysteries as THE SEAL. Not the cabalistic jewels of King Solomon boasted more dark sayings than the various sigillary impresses, that with their mystic motto or device form at once the clasp and frontispiece to this volume of a single sheet. What joys and loves-what upbraidings and endearments do we find at once poured forth by the permission of this many coloured warder. The virgin's secret sigh-the anguish of the neglected wife-the child's affectionthe mother's care--the dependent's just, the patron's protracted, evasions; the guilty flame of the seducer-the calcu lating greediness of the usurer-the glad summons to hospitality-the harsh menaces of a gaol. The advice of those we love, given but to be slighted-the anger of those we fear, inflicted to be defied the betrayal of secrets-the detection of crimes-the warning, the disgust, and the final abandonment-the tidings of death, or (worse!) of sins that are the sting of death,-are among the million stirring topics of a letter!And the productions of the sublimest or most pathetic genius that ever wasted the midnight lamp in devising incidents of pity, of horror, or of marvel, are outdone by these unpremeditated effusions. While their prodigies task the toil of months or years, these spring forth the spontaneous produce of every day, nay, every hour-breathing ages of anguish in a sentence, and committing ruin and even treason itself to the guardianship of a bit of pretty smooth innocentlooking wax! Fair bee that singest in thy threepiled livery of black and tawny velvet, thou lover of the bright hour, thou artisan of the garden, how art thou the manufacturer of a material that imprisons the earthquake and lets loose the whirlwind! How was thy delicious labour-pursued in the straw hive amid its yew hedge, and marigold and thyme and lavender, by the calm cottage at the forest side, how was it made the minister of tidings that plunge the palace in dismay, and fill the prison with unheard groans! Notices of New Books. A Narrative of the Captivity and Adventures of JOHN TANNER, during thirty years residence among the Indians in the interior of North America. 426, p.p. 8vo, Ward, London. THIS is a curious narrative of a most curious being, prepared for the press, as the title intimates, by Dr. James, a gentleman well known in American literature. If this account be found not quite so classical as the narratives of other travellers,-if it does not relate to the curiosities of past ages, like the records of Bruce and Belzoni, it will, nevertheless, be found replete with interesting matter. John Tanner, whose narrative is here arranged and modified, was carried off by the Shawneese Indians before he was eleven years of age. He encounters many dangers while among these savage tribes, many of whom have good cause to hate their white neighbours, but is saved by an old Indian, and becomes, after a time, completely reconciled to their wild habits. We have not room for an elaborate review of this interesting volume, and must therefore be content to make a few extracts, illustrating the habits of the singular people among whom the author so long resided. "Suicide," he says, "is not very unfrequent among the Indians, and is effected in various ways; shooting, hanging, drowning, poisoning, &c.The causes, also, which urge to the desperate act, are various. Some years previous to the time I now speak of, I was with Net-nokwa, at Mackinac, when I knew a very promising and highly respected young man of the Ottawwaws, who shot himself in the Indian burying ground. He had, for the first time, drank to intoxication; and in the alienation of mind produced by the liquor, had torn off his own clothes, and behaved with so much violence, that his two sisters, to prevent him from injuring himself or others, tied his hands and feet, and laid him down in the lodge. Next morning, he awoke sober, and being untied, went to his sister's lodge, which was near the burying ground, borrowed a gun, under pretence of going to shoot pigeons, and went into the burying ground and shot himself. It is probable, that when he awoke and found himself tied, he thought he had done something very improper in his drunkenness, and to relieve himself from the pressure of shame and mortification, had ended his days by violence. Misfortunes and losses of various kinds, sometimes the death of friends, and possibly, in some instances, disappointment in affairs of love, may be considered the causes which produce suicide among the Indians." The following anecdote shews that our author was not deficient in invention. "It happened, one morning, that I went to hunt with only three balls in my pouch; and finding a large buck moose, I fired at him rather hastily, and missed him twice in succession. The third time I hit, but did not kill him, only wounding him in the shoulder. Í pursued, and at length overtook him, but having no balls, I took the screws out of my gun, tying the lock on with a string, and it was not till after I had shot three of them into him, that he fell." With the subjoined account of a buffalo hunt, we conclude our notice of this very curious and original volume, strongly recommending it to the notice of our readers. It bears the stamp of truth on every page, and must be read by every one with delight. "By the end of the second day after we left Pembinah, we had not a mouthful to eat, and were beginning to be hungry. When we laid down in our camp at night, and put our ears close to the ground, we could hear the tramp of buffaloes; but when we sat up we could hear nothing, and on the following morning nothing could be seen of them, though we could command a very extensive view of the prairie. As we knew they must not be far off, in the direction of the sounds we had heard, eight men, of whom I was one, were selected and despatched to kill some, and bring the meat to a point where it was agreed the party should stop next night. The noise we could still hear in the morning, by applying our ears to the ground, and it seemed about as far distant, and in the same direction, as before. We started early, and rode some hours before we could begin to see them, and when we first discovered the margin of the herd, it must have been at least ten miles distant. It was like a black line, drawn along the edge of the sky, or a low shore seen across a lake. The distance of the herd from the place where we first heard them, could not have been less than twenty miles. But it was now the rutting season, and various parts of the herd were all the time kept in rapid motion, by the severe fights of the bulls. To the noise produced by the knocking together of the two divisions of the hoof, when they raised their feet from the ground, and of their incessant tramping, was added the loud and furious roar of the bulls, engaged as they all were in their terrific and appalling conflicts. We were conscious that our approach to the herd would not occasion the alarm now, that it would have done at any other time, and we rode directly towards them. As we came near, we killed a wounded bull, which scarce made an effort to escape from us. He had wounds in his flanks, into which I could put my whole hand. As we knew that the flesh of the bulls was not now good to eat, we did not wish to kill them, though we might easily have shot any number. Dismounting, we put our horses in the care of some of our number, who were willing to stay back for that purpose, and then crept into the herd to try to kill some cows. I had separated from the others, and advancing, got entangled among the bulls. Before I found an opportunity to shoot a cow, the bulls began to fight very near me. In their fury, they were totally unconscious of my presence, and came rushing towards me with such violence, that in some alarm for my safety, I took refuge in one of those holes which are so frequent where these animals abound, and which they themselves dig to wallow in. Here I found that they were passing directly upon me, and I was compelled to fire to disperse them, in which I did not succeed until I had killed four of them. By this firing the cows were so frightened that I perceived I should not be able to kill any in this quarter; so regaining my horse, I rode to a distant part of the herd, where the Indians had succeeded in killing a fat cow. But from this cow, as is usual in similar cases, the herd had all moved off, except one bull, who, when I came up, still kept the Indians at bay. "You are warriors," said I, as I rode up, "going far from your own country, to seek an enemy, but you cannot take his wife from that old bull, who has nothing in his hands." So saying, I passed them directly, towards the bull, then standing something more than two hundred yards distant. He no sooner saw me approach, that he came plunging towards me with such impetuosity, that knowing the danger to my horse and myself, I turned and fled. The Indians laughed heartily at my repulse, but they did not give over their attempts to get at the cow. By dividing the attention of the bull, and creeping up to him on different sides, they at length shot him down. While we were cutting up the cow, the herd were at no great distance, and an old cow, which the Indians supposed to be the mother of the one we had killed, taking the scent of the blood, came running with great violence directly towards us. The Indians were alarmed and fled, many of them not having their guns in their hands; but I had carefully re-loaded mine, and had it ready for use. Throwing myself down close to the body of the cow, and behind it, I waited till the other came up within a few yards of the carcass, when I fired upon her; she turned, gave one or two jumps, and fell dead. We had now the meat of two fat cows, which was as much as we wanted; accordingly, we repaired without delay to the appointed place, where we found our party, whose hunger was already somewhat allayed by a deer one of them had killed." Cumberland's British Theatre. Some few years ago, to obtain a single new play, the purchaser must have expended some three shillings, and frequently more money; but since this elegant little work has been in being, the same amount will nearly purchase an entire volume, containing upon an average eight or nine dramas, most of which are new, neatly printed and spiritedly embellished. This is exactly the case with the volume under notice, which contains nine pieces, six of which are recent popular productions, and must have cost to possess the copyright of them a good round sum. Such liberality in a publisher is deserving of the highest praise, and we trust a widely extended patronage will reward the proprietor of the British Theatre for combining novelty with economy. or visible images, but directly where she has her full residence-in the heart of man, in the actions and sufferings of the greatest minds." The other two productions are by Nathaniel Field, and bear the following quaint titles, "Amends for Ladies," and "A Woman is a Weathercock." In the first of these comedies is the curious character drawn from life of Moll CutPurse, of whom we derive the subjoined particulars from the introductory matter. "Mary Frith, alias Moll CutPurse, the Roaring Girl, was a woman dressed like a man, and challenged several male opponents, bearing, during her life, the character of a bully, a thief, a bawd, a receiver of stolen goods, &c. She appears to have been the daughter of a shoemaker, born in 1584, died in 1659, and buried in what is now In Febcalled St. Bride's Church. ruary, 1611-12, she did penance at Paul's Cross; but the letter mentioning this fact, which is in the British Museum, does not state for what offence. Among other daring exploits, she robbed, or assisted in robbing, General The Old English Drama, Parts V. Fairfax, on Hounslow Heath, for which VI. VII. White, London. We are pleased to see this work progressing with success, and we hope it will continue to do so. The plays that delighted our forefathers ought not to be neglected; they are mementos of human life and manners, which display the customs and amusements of our ancestors in the olden time; and as such pictures are valuable, even were they not so strongly recommended by the racy humour, and brilliant wit which abounds in them. To the old dramatists, we owe much for the entertainment bequeathed by them to posterity, and if the proprietor of this series of old plays completes his task, we shall be more than a little indebted to him for collecting in a cheap form the scattered labours of some of the brightest geniuses that adorn England. Since we last noticed this collection, the following pieces have been added: "The Broken Heart," by John Ford. Charles Lamb, one of the best dramatic critics we have, says of this drama, "I do not know where to find in any play a catastrophe so grand, so solemn and so surprising as in this ;" and of the author, who was contemporary with Shakspeare, he entertains the following opinion: "Ford was of the first order of poets; he sought for sublimity, not by parcels, in metaphors, she was sent to Newgate, but afterwards liberated without trial. The immediate cause of her death was a dropsy, and she seems then to have been possessed of property; she lived in her own house in Fleet Street, next the Globe Tavern, and left £20 that the Conduit might run wine on the expected return of Charles II. Besides the comedy by Middleton and Dekker, (Dodsley's Old Plays, VI.) John Day wrote a book of the mad pranks of Merry Moll of the Bankside." It was entered at Stationers' Hall in 1610, and perhaps the play of which she is the heroine was founded upon it. Another account of her life was printed in 1662, shortly after her decease. She is supposed to be alluded to by Shakspeare in Twelfth Night, A. i. S. 3. and obtained such bad eminence' in point of notoriety, that it is not surprising, (according to the evidence of the authors of The Witch of Edmonton, A. v. Sc. 1.) that some of the dogs at Paris Garden, used in baiting bulls and bears, were named after her." She is the "honest Moll alluded to by City-wit in R. Brome's Court Beggar, A. ii. S. I. to whom he is to go for the recovery of his purse, after he had had his pocket picked while looking at the news in the window of that she "deals in private for the recovery of "the Coranto shop." He afterwards states such goods." even Instructions for the Piano Forte, &c. By J. Clarke. R. Cocks & Co. London. In the present state of musical science, when treatises without number have each and every of them endea voured to simplify more than their predecessors the study of music; when combination of notes, hitherto deemed too discordant for christian ears, are no longer inadmissible; when even consecutive fifths, those monstra horrenda of former times, have ceased to be anomalous; it is no easy task for an experienced person, as Mr. Clarke professes himself to be, to improve upon the labours of Cramer, Jousse, &c., and we think that to endeavour to teach the Piano-forte without impressing the necessarily antecedent instruction well on the mind, independent of the instrument, is like the prevailing method of setting boys to read Homer without teaching them the Greek grammar, and the consequences will in both cases be similar; a mere mechanical acquaintance with the subjects in hand, without that mental influence which alone can make the study of either the one or the other pleasing. Indeed, a person who has adopted this superficial mode of instruction, can never experience that intellectual enjoyment of the beauties of Mozart, Beethoven, or the other scientific masters, which marks the more refined taste. It is a very mistaken notion, that a student of the Piano-forte can ever attain to any thing beyond a mere common-place mediocrity, while he confines his attention solely to the practice and not to the theory of music; not that we would uphold theory without practice, but we maintain that theory and practice must go together to form the finished musician. It is true, a boy may be taught to repeat the propositions of Euclid by rote, but, unless he understand the connexion between them and the diagrams, and their combined utility, he will never become a mathematician. There is no royal road to music any more than to other sciences, and the traveller may as well expect to reach his destination by telegraph, or Fortunatus's cap, as the learner of music to become perfect without devoting the mind, as well as the fingers, to his purpose. We have been led into this (perhaps premature) dissertation by a perusal of Mr. Clarke's preface, in which he advocates the method of which we have above expressed our disapprobation. After noticing the position at the instrument, Mr. Clarke proceeds to explain the names of the keys; and this he does in a manner which will certhan the usual method; however, this tainly cost the learner more trouble is comparatively immaterial. The primary exercises for the formation of the hand to the instrument are good, although sufficient instruction is not given to enable the pupil to make the most of them. But the grand defect is the neglect with which the practice of the scales, the very ground work of execution, is treated. This defect is not confined to Mr. Clarke's treatise, but extends to most others; and we are sure that no exercise is equal to the regular practice of the scales, in the major and minor keys, for the formation of the hand to the instrument. In conclusion, we may remark that Mr. Clarke's treatise may answer its purpose with the constant explanatory assistance of the master, but we certainly cannot extol it as an improvement on former trea tises. The Note Book. KING'S CROSS. Suburban Improvements. Gray's Inn Lane is classic ground in the eyes of the true cockney. It is the main outlet from Holborn to the rural retreats of Copenhagen House, and leads to the 'People's Ancient Concert Room,' at Bagnigge Wells, and the sylvan groves of the aperient Saint Chad, the Cheltenham of Clerkenwell. Here, too, in the bosom of the vale of Pancras, stood the Ossa and Pelion of the dust contractors, those immense mounds of cinders, to which "ashes to ashes, dust to dust" were added as fast as the dead carts brought their putrid loads to the church-yard-pits in the time of the great plague. But the dust heaps have been carted off; St. Chad no longer attracts the votaries of health, who once made weekly pilgrimages to the groves, there to pour out saline libations and perform their peripatetic devotions; Bagnigge Wells is voted wulgar; and the pale star of Copenhagen fades before the rising glories of the sun of White Conduit. Pentonville looks down upon Pancras; Brunswick Square catches up her skirts from the contagious approaches of Battle-bridge; and the Small Pox Hospital is vaccinated. A new locality is being created; and the |