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practised upon us, mingles with the nobler pain arising from the contemplation of perverted and degraded genius-to make us wish that no such being as Byron ever had existed. It is indeed a sad and an humiliating thing to know, that in the same year there proceeded from the same pen two productions, in all things so different, as the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold and this loathsome Don Juan.

Lady Byron, however, has one consolation still remaining, and yet we fear she will think it but a poor one. She shares the scornful satire of her husband, not only with all that is good, and pure, and high, in human nature, its principles and its feelings; but with every individual also, in whose character the predominance of these blessed elements has been sufficient to excite the envy, or exacerbate the despair of this guilty man. We shall

not needlessly widen the wound by detailing its cruelty; we have mentioned one, and, all will admit, the worst instance of the private malignity which has been embodied in so many passa

part of our readers. As it is out of the
question for us to think of analyzing
the story, we must quote at the haz
ard of some of our quotations being
very imperfectly understood.
"Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,
Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel,
Howe,
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,
And filled their sign-posts then, like Wellesley now;
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk,

Followers of fame, "nine farrow" of that sow:
France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier,
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.
"Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,

Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette,
Were French, and famous people, as we know;
And there were others scarce forgotten yet,
Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Dessaix,

Moreau,

With many of the military set,

Exceedingly remarkable at times,
But not at all adapted to my rhymes.

"Nelson was once Britannia's god of war,

And still should be so, but the tide is turned;

There's no more to be said of Trafalgar,
'Tis with our hero quietly inurn'd;
Because the army's grown more popular,
At which the naval people are concern'd:
Besides, the Prince is all for the land-service,
Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.

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"Young Juan now was sixteen years of age,
Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit he seem'd
Active, though not so sprightly, as a page;

And every body but his mother deem'd
Him almost man; but she flew in a rage,

And bit her lips (for else she might have scream'd),
If any said so, for to be precocious

"Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all
Selected for discretion and devotion,
There was the Donna Julia, whom to call
Pretty were but to give a feeble notion
of many charms in her as natural

As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean,
Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid,

(But this last simile is trite and stupid.)

"The darkness of her oriental eye

Accorded with her Moorish origin;

(Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by:
When proud Grenada fell, and, forced to fly,

In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin.)

ges of Don Juan; and we are quite Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious.
sure, the lofty-minded and virtuous
men whom Lord Byron has debased
himself by insulting, will close the vo-
lume which contains their own inju-
ries, with no feelings save those of
pity for Him that has inflicted them,
and for Her who partakes so largely in
the same injuries; and whose hard
destiny has deprived her for ever of
that proud and pure privilege, which
enables themselves to despise them.
As to the rest of the world, we know
not that Lord Byron could have in-
vented any more certain means of
bringing down contempt inexpiable
on his own head, than by turning the
weapons of his spleen against men
whose virtues few indeed can equal,
but still fewer are so lost and unwor-
thy as not to love and admire.

The mode in which we have now expressed ourselves, might be a sufficient apology for making no extracts from this poem itself. But our indignation, in regard to the morality of the poem, has not blinded us to its manifold beauties; and we are the more willing to quote a few of the passages which can be read without a blush, because the comparative rarity of such passages will, in all probability, operate to the complete exclusion of the work itself, from the libraries of the greater VOL. V.

Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin
Some went to Africa, some staid in Spain,
Her great great grandmamma chose to remain.
"She married (I forget the pedigree)
His blood less noble than such blood should be;
With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down

At such alliances his sires would frown,
In that point so precise in each degree

That they bred in and in, as might be shown,
Marrying their cousins-nay, their aunts and nieces,
Which always spoils the breed, if it increases.
"This heathenish cross restored the breed again,
Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh;
For, from a root the ugliest in Old Spain

Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh;
The sons no more were short, the daughters plain:
But there's a rumour which I fain would hush,
'Tis said that Donna Julia's grandmamma

Produced her Don more heirs at love than law.
"However this might be, the race went on

Improving still through every generation,
Until it center'd in an only son,

Who left an only daughter; my narration
May have suggested that this single one

Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion
I shall have much to speak about), and she

Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three.

"Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes)
Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire
Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise
Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire,
And love than either; and there would arise
A something in them which was not desire,

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"And if she met him, though she smiled no more,
She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile,
As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store
She must not own, but cherish'd more the while,
For that compression in its burning core;

Even innocence itself has many a wile,
And will not dare to trust itself with truth,
And love is taught hypocrisy from youth."
"But passion most dissembles yet betrays
Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky
Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays

Its workings through the vainly guarded eye, And in whatever aspect it arrays

Itself, 'tis still the same hypocrisy; Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate, Are masks it often wears, and still too late. "Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression, And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft, And burning blashes, though for no transgression, Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left."

Speaking of moonlight, he says: "There is a dangerous silence in that hour,

A stillness, which leaves room for the full soul To open all itself, without the power

Of calling wholly back its self-control; The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower, Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole, Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws A loving languor, which is not repose."

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"Tis sweet to hear At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep The song and oar of Adria's gondolier,

By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep; 'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear;

'Tis sweet to listen as the nightwinds creep From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. ""Tis sweet to hear the watchdog's honest bark Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home;

'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come; 'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark,

Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, The lisp of children, and their earliest words. "Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth Purple and gushing: sweet are our escapes From civic revelry to rural mirth; Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps, Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth, Sweet is revenge-especially to women, Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. "Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet

The unexpected death of some old lady Or gentleman of seventy years complete,

And life yields nothing further to recall
Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown,
No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven
Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven.

The conclusion of the history of this passion is, that Don Juan is detected in the lady's chamber at midnight by her husband. Thinking her lover effectually concealed, Donna Julia rates her Lord in a style of volubility in which, it must be granted, there is abundance of the true vis comica.The detection which follows almost immediately after the conclusion of the speech, gives much additional absurdity to the amazing confidence of the lady.

"During this inquisition Julia's tongue

Was not asleep- Yes, search and search,' she cried,

Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong!
It was for this that i became a bride!
For this in silence I have suffer'd long

A husband like Alfonso at my side;
But now I'll bear no more, nor here remain,
If there be law, or lawyers, in all Spain.
"Yes, Don Alfonso! husband now no more,
If ever you indeed deserved the name,
Is't worthy of your years?-you have threescore,
Fifty, or sixty-it is all the same

Is't wise or fitting causeless to explore

For facts against a virtuous woman's fame?
Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso,
How dare you think your lady would go on so?
"Is it for this I have disdain'd to hold
The common privileges of my sex?
That I have chosen a confessor so old
And deaf, that any other it would vex,
And never once he has had cause to scold,
But found my very innocence perplex
So much, he always doubted I was married-
How sorry you will be when I've miscarried!
"Was it for this that no Cortejo ere

I yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville? Is it for this I scarce went any where,

Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and revel? Is it for this, whate'er my suitors were,

I favour'd none-nay, was almost uncivil?
Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly,
Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely?
"Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani

Sing at my heart six months at least in vain?
Did not his countryman, Count Corniani,

Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain? Were there not also Russians, English, many? The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain, And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer, Who kill'd himself for love (with wine) last year. "Have I not had two bishops at my feet?

The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez,
And is it thus a faithful wife you treat?

I wonder in what quarter now the moon is:
I praise your vast forbearance not to beat
Me also, since the time so opportune is—

Who've made us youth" wait too-too long Oh, valiant men! with sword drawn and cock'd

already

For an estate, or cash, or country-seat,

Still breaking, but with stamina so steady, That all the Israelites are fit to mob its

Next owner for their double-damn'd post-obits.

""Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels
By blood or ink; 'tis sweet to put an end
To strife: 'tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels,
Particularly with a tiresome friend;
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels;

Dear is the helpless creature we defend
Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot
We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot.
"But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,
Is first and passionate love-it stands alone,
Like Adam's recollection of his fall;

The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd-all's known

trigger,

Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure?

"Was it for this you took your sudden journey, Under pretence of business indispensible

With that sublime of rascals your attorney,
Whom I see standing there, and looking sensible
Of having play'd the fool? though both I spurn, he
Deserves the worst, his conduct's less defensible,
Because, no doubt, 'twas for his dirty fee,
And not from any love to you nor me.
"If he comes here to take a deposition,
By all means let the gentleman proceed;
You've made the apartment in a fit condition:-
There's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need-
Let every thing be noted with precision,"

I would not you for nothing should be feedBut, as my maid's undrest, pray tum your spies out." "Oh!' sobb'd Antonia, I could tear their eyes out.""

"There is the closet, there the toilet, there The anti-chamber-search them under, over; There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair,

The chimney-which would really hold a lover.
I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care

And make no further noise, till you discover
The secret cavern of this lurking treasure-
And when 'tis found, let me, too, have that pleasure.
"And now, Hidalgo! now that you have thrown
Doubt upon me, confusion over all,
Pray have the courtesy to make it known

Who is the man you search for? how d'ye call
Him? what's his lineage? let him but be shown-
I hope he's young and handsome-is he tall?
Tell me-and be assured, that since you stain
My honour thus, it shall not be in vain.
"At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years,

At that age he would be too old for slaughter,
Or for so young a husband's jealous fears-

(Antonía! let me have a glass of water.) I am ashamed of having shied these tears,

They are unworthy of my father's daughter;
My mother dream'd not in my natal hour
That I should fall into a monster's power.
"Perhaps 'tis of Antonia you are jealous,

You saw that she was sleeping by my side
When you broke in upon us with your fellows:
Look where you please-we've nothing, sir, to

hide;

Only another time, I trust, you'll tell us,
Or for the sake of decency abide
A moment at the door, that we may be
Drest to receive so much good company.
"And now, sir, I have done, and say no more;
The little I have said may serve to show
The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er
The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow:-
I leave you to your conscience as before,

"Twill one day ask you why you used me so?
God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief!
Antonia! where's my pocket-handkerchief?'
"She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow; pale
She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their tears,
Like skies that rain and lighten; as a veil,

Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears
Her streaming hair; the black curls strive, but fail,
To hide the glossy shoulder, which uprears
Its snow through all;-her soft lips lie apart,
And louder than her breathing beats her heart." -

In consequence of this intrigue, Don Juan is sent on his travels; and the lady, who is shut up in a convent, takes leave of him in a beautiful letter, of which this is a part.

"Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,

"Tis woman's whole existence; man may range
The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart,
Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange
Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,

And few there are whom these can not estrange;
Men have all these resources, we but one,
To love again, and be again undone.
"You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride,
Beloved and loving many; all is o'er
For me on earth, except some years to hide

My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core;
These I could bear, but cannot cast aside

The passion which still rages as before,
And so farewell-forgive me, love me-No,
That word is idle now-but let it go.
"My breast has been all weakness, is so yet;
But still I think I can collect my mind;
My blood still rushes where my spirit's set,
As roll the waves before the settled wind;
My heart is feminine, nor can forget-

To all, except one image, madly blind;
So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole,
As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul,
"I have no more to say, but linger still,
And dare not set my seal upon this sheet,
And yet I may as well the task fulfil,

My misery can scarce be more complete:
I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill;
Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would

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"This note was written upon gilt-edged paper
With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new;
Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper,
It trembled as magnetic needles do,
And yet she did not let one tear escape her;

The seal a sunflower; Elle vous suit partout,'
The motto, cut upon a white cornelian;"
The wax was superfine, its hue vermillion."

Perhaps there are not a few women
who
may profit from seeing in what a
style of contemptuous coldness the
sufferings to which licentious love ex-
poses them are talked of by such
people as the author of Don Juan. The
many fine eyes that have wept dan-
gerous tears over his descriptions of the
Gulnares and Medoras cannot be the
worse for seeing the true side of his
picture.

"Alas! the love of women! it is known

To be a lovely and a fearful thing;
For all of theirs upon that die is thrown,
And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to bring
To them but mockeries of the past alone,

And their revenge is as the tiger's spring,
Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet, as real
Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel.
"They are right; for man, to man so oft unjust,
Is always so to women; one sole bond
Awaits them, treachery is all their trust;
Taught to conceal their bursting hearts despond
Over their idol, till some wealthier lust

Buys them in marriage-and what rests beyond ?
A thankless husband, next a faithless lover,
Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all's over.
"Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers,
Some mind their household, others dissipation,
Some run away, and but exchange their cares,
Losing the advantage of a virtuous station;
Few changes e'er can better their affairs,

Theirs being an unnatural situation,
From the dull palace to the dirty hovel:
Some play the devil, and then write a novel."

The amour with this Spanish lady
is succeeded by a shipwreck, in which
Juan alone escapes. He is dashed on
the shore of the Cyclades, where he is
found by a beautiful and innocent girl,
the daughter of an old Greek pirate,-
with whom, as might be supposed, the
same game of guilt and abandonment
is played over again. There is, how-
ever, a very superior kind of poetry in
the conception of this amour-the de-
solate isle the utter loneliness of the
maiden, who is as ignorant as she is
innocent-the helpless condition of
the youth-every thing conspires to
render it a true romance.
How easy

for Lord Byron to have kept it free from any stain of pollution! What cruel barbarity, in creating so much of beauty only to mar and ruin it! This is really the very suicide of gcnius.

"Then was the cordial pour'd, and mantle flung

Around his scarce-clad limbs; and the fair arm
Raised higher the faint head which o'er it hung;
And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm,
Pillow'd his death-like forehead; then she wrung
His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm;
And watch'd with cagerness cach throb that drew
A sigh from his heaved bosom-and hers, too.
"And lifting him with care into the cave,
The gentle girl, and her attendant,-onc

Young, yet her elder, and of brow less grave,
And more robust of figure,-then begun
To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave
Light to the rocks that roof'd them, which the sun
Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er
She was, appear'd distinct, and tall, and fair.
Her brow was overhung with coins of gold,

That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair,
Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll'd
In braids behind, and though her stature were
Even of the highest for a female mould,

They nearly reach'd her heel; and in her air
There was a something which bespoke command,
As one who was a lady in the land.

Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyes

Were black as death, their lashes the same hue,
Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies
Deepest attraction, for when to the view
Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies,

Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew;
"Tis as the snake late coil'd, who pours his length,
And hurls at once his venom and his strength.
Her brow was white and low, her cheek's pure dye
Like twilight rosy still with the set sun;
Short upper lip-sweet lips! that make us sigh
Ever to have seen such; for she was one
Fit for the model of a statuary.

(A race of mere impostors, when all's doneI've seen much finer women, ripe and real, Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal.)

I'll tell you why I say so, for 'tis just

One should not rail without a decent cause: There was an Irish lady, to whose bust

I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was A frequent model; and if e'er she must

Yield to stem Time and Nature's wrinkling laws They will destroy a face which mortal thought Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel wrought. And such was she, the lady of the cave:

Her dress was very different from the Spanish,
Simpler, and yet of colours not so grave;

For, as you know, the Spanish women banish
Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave
Around them (what I hope will never vanish)
The basquina and the mantilla, they
Seem at the same time mystical and gay.

But with our damsel this was not the case:
Her dress was many-colour'd, finely spun;
Her locks curl'd negligently round her face,
But through them gold and gems profusely shone;
Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace

Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone
Flash'd on her little hand; but, what was shocking;
Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stocking.
"And forth they wandered, her sire being gone,
As I have said, upon an expedition;
And mother, brother, guardian she had none,
Save Zoe, who, although with due precision
She waited on her lady with the sun,

Thought daily service was her only mission,
Bringing warm water, wreathing her long tresses,
And asking now and then for cast-off dresses.

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"It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded
Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill,
Which then seems as if the whole earth it bounded,
Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and stil!,
With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded
On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill
Upon the other, and the rosy sky.

With one star sparkling through it like an eye.

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"Haidee was Nature's bride, and knew not this:
Haidee was Passion's child, born where the sun
Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss
Of his gazelle-eyed daughters; she was one
Made but to love, to feel that she was his

Who was her chosen: what was said or done Elsewhere was nothing-she had nought to fear, Hope, care, nor love beyond, her heart beat here. "And now 'twas done-on the lone shore were plighted

Their hearts; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed

Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted:

Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed,
By their own feelings hallow'd and united,
Their priest was Solitude, and they were wed:
And they were happy, for to their young eyes
Each was an angel, and earth paradise."

But the best and the worst part of the whole is without doubt the description of the shipwreck. As a piece of terrible painting, it is as much superior as can be to every description of the kind-not even excepting that in the Eneid-that ever was created. In comparison with the fearful and intense reality of its horrors, every thing that any former poet had thrown together to depict the agonies of that awful scene, appears chill and tame.

"Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell,
Then shrieked the timid-and stood still the
brave-

Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave:
And the sea yawned around her like a hell,

And down she sucked with her the whirling wave-
Like one who grapples with his enemy,
And strives to strangle him before he die.
"And first one universal shriek there rushed,

Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
Of echoing thunder. And then all was hushed
Save the wild wind, and the remorseless dash
Of billows; but at intervals there gushed,
Accompanied with a convulsive splash,

A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony."

But even here the demon of his depravity does not desert him. We dare not stain our pages with quoting any specimens of the disgusting merriment with which he has interspersed

"And thus they wander'd forth and hand in hand, his picture of human suffering.

Over the shining pebbles and the shells,
Glided along the smooth and harden'd sand,
And in the worn and wild receptacles

Work'd by the storms, yet work'd as it were plann'd
In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells,
They turn'd to rest; and, each clasp'd by an arm,
Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm.
"They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow
Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright;
They gazed upon the glittering sea below,
Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight;
They heard the wave's splash, and the wind so low,
And saw each other's dark eyes darting light
Into each other-and, beholding this,
Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss;
"A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love,
And beauty, all concentrating like rays

He

paints it well, only to shew that he
scorns it the more effectually; and of
all the fearful sounds which ring in
the ears of the dying, the most horri-
ble is the demoniacal laugh with which
this unpitying brother exults over the
contemplation of their despair. Will
our readers believe that the most in-
nocent of all his odious sarcasms is
contained in these two lines?
"They grieved for those that perished in the cutter
And also for the biscuit, casks, and butter."

EMIGRATION TO THE CAPE OF GOOD hope.

We shall not here enter at large upon the question, whether the superabundant population of this country may be employed on the waste lands, as proposed by Alderman Wood, or subsisted in villages, as attempted to be practised by Mr Owen. We cannot however help thinking and saying, that somewhat more is required to compose human happiness than bare existence, whether that existence arise from the enclosure and cultivation of fens and mountains, or from pauper and extra-parochial republics. It is useless to lay down maxims, that will be slighted by those whose wants are pressing and immediate. Poverty has neither time nor temper to reason upon remote advantages. Doubtless, plans may be proposed which, with wisdom and economy, might ultimately support the surplus population of Great Britain; but while so much distress prevails, and emigration has become the passion of our restless and dissatisfied poor, it behoves the practical philanthropist, while he pities the one, to convert the other to the best advantage. The evil of mendicity exists to an unquestionable and alarming extent; and we have seen with what avidity adventurers have left their native shores for the wilds of America. It is too late in the day, to talk of giving to each individual his acre of land. The growth of trade and wealth forbids such Utopian divisions. Extent, or, if you please, monopoly of property, is the natural consequence of commerce and civilization, and the few rich must make the many poor. The poor, however, will increase in numbers, if not in wealth, and swarms of the enterprizing indigent are ever found ready, in over-grown countries, to exchange the certainty of want at home for the chance of abundance abroad. We need scarcely appeal to history in attestation of these truths. We would not be understood to discourage the efforts of philanthropy, to retain and employ the poor in their own country. Every possible exertion should be made to alleviate their wants and stimulate their industry. To this we are urged no less by moral than political duty. Idleness is the mother of want, and the nurse of vice and sedition. An unemployed and licentious VOL. V.

poor is the deadliest cancer of a state. But to our subject.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer has submitted to Parliament the expediency of voting £50,000 towards the encouragement of emigration to the Cape of Good Hope. Let it be remembered, once for all, that it is not because that colony is too thin of inhabitants, but that the mother country is too full, this plan is suggested. The question is not, how you may maintain a surplus peasantry in the land that gave them birth, but, whether you will stop emigration to the frozen shores of Canada, and to the United States, or divert and encourage it to the finest colony in the world. We surely have learnt enough of North America to convince us of the degraded and miserable condition of its people. South Africa, on the other hand, has every advantage to repay the sacrifice of quitting the land of our forefathers.

The more fully to understand and appreciate these advantages, we shall set before our readers a short view of the condition and facilities of the colony in question.

The spring, from September to December, is the most agreeable season. The summer, from December to March, is often intensely hot. The autumn, from March to June, is generally fine and pleasant. The winter is rainy and stormy, and for the most part so cold as to make fires very comfortable during the months of July, August, and September. Most of the diseases that appear amongst the natives proceed rather from their gross and indolent mode of living, than the unhealthiness of the climate. The scarcity of water in summer is unfavourable to cultivation; and for want of industry or materials this defect is not remedied, as it is in India, by artificial tanks or reservoirs. Where, however, irrigation can be employed, either from wells or rivers, the most abundant vegetation ensues. Good and abundant water has always been found by digging wells in Cape Town and the vicinity. In the whole colony there is scarcely a river that can be called navigable. Though swollen into torrents during the winter, most of them dry up during the summer.

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