its fellow-citizens. In vain the unhappy Protestants invoked its aid; no arm was stretched out to shelter, or to save them!-their property was devastated without resistance, and their murderers were undisturbed.' After such testimony, it is unnecessary to offer any arguments; we shall therefore conclude by an extract, which, though sufficiently bombastic, will prove that Miss Williams differs as much from the apologists of persecution in this country, on the character and conduct of the Dissenting Ministers, as on the nature of those evils which they have laboured to arrest. The high-toned and generous resolves, proceeding from the three denominations assembled in London, and which were reechoed by all other denominations, were not unheard in France. This intervention was the calm commanding voice of a great people lifted up against persecutors, and claiming kindred with the persecuted. Its sound in Paris was noble and persuasive; and it glided over the South like that sacred harmony of the heavenly host, which spoke to the watch of shepherds "of peace and of goodwill." Art. XII. The Journal of Llewellyn Penrose, a Seaman. 4 vols. f.cap 8vo. pp. xvi. 872. Price 24s. Murray. 1815. I Sit true? is generally the first question that a child asks respecting any story that interests him. And though the feeling that prompts this, is lost as we grow older; and we are content, in proportion as interest grows at the same time more necessary and more rare, to take what we can find upon any terms; yet, when any thing depends upon the truth of the narrative, when it involves anecdotes and assertions, of consequence only as they are trust-worthy, it becomes necessary to enquire into the authenticity of what we are required to believe. The book before us is of this kind. It purports to be the journal of another Robinson Crusoe,-a real and true one; a man who was thrown on an uninhabited shore, and passed there the remaining eight and twenty years of his life. He had great opportunities of observing the lives and manners, and dispositions of savages; for he did not live in solitude. A girl and boy were accidentally cast upon the same shore; the girl he married, and the boy settled with him, and in process of time obtained a wife also from among his own people. Other Indians also came to live with them, and they were frequently visited by large parties, who staid with them for several days together. The internal evidence is, on the whole favourable, we think, to the authenticity of the story. Some of the traits of character are so naive, some of the expressions so natural, the whole course of the story so matter-of-fact, so utterly unlike a made tale, that, if it be a fabrication, it is, to say the least, an uncommonly skilful one. The natural history too is just such as might be expected from a man in Penrose's situation ;-not a set of curious anecdotes, diligently compiled from all American travellers, and artfully disposed in commodious places, but sometimes common-place, sometimes original, Sometimes perhaps erroneous. The gentleness of the natives, their docility, their delicacy towards the women, their easy acquiescence in every thing Penrose proposed like civilization,—are not, perhaps, what we should have looked for among them. At the same time, it must be acknowledged that any general account, like Robertson's, of uncivilized manners, must necessarily be found erroneous, in many particular cases. Cook found gentleness among the South-sea islanders; and Parke gentleness and delicacy among the negroes. If, however, internal evidence were sufficient, Robinson Crusoe would probably by many readers be judged authentic: not but that there is in Robinson Crusoe a much more novellike concatenation of story, than in the work before us. Still, it is absolutely necessary to inquire into the external evidence of the work and this, we are compelled to say, completely fails. The advertisement is simply signed John Eagles.' It states that Some years since an old man, who had apparently seen better days, applied to my father for charitable relief. His language and address bore a character of interest, that must have struck the least minute observer. My father was, however, a man of discrimination as well as feeling, who seeing how ill the superior cultivation of his mind adapted him for the common receptacle of paupers, which was his object) supplied his immediate wants; which benevolence continuing from time to time, he was so much charmed with his good sense and conversation, that he became much attached to him. He supplied him with the necessaries of life, and after a time, was enabled to place him comfortably in the Merchants' Alms' Houses in this city, endowed for the reception of decayed mariners, where, with some weekly addition to the allowance of the charity, he was placed much above want. Here he enjoyed several years of tranquillity. He was beloved by all our family; and such was the kindness with which my father treated him, that I have often, when a boy, seen the old man sit at our table with the familiarity of an old friend. In this asylum he died, and left to my father all he was possessed of. And let not the reader smile at his legacy; for it was not to be despised; it consisted of many volumes of books, collections of prints, MSS., in particular the following Narrative. It was not in my fa ther's disposition to make inquiries into the details of private history, especially where it is probable they would excite painful sensations; it is not o be wondered at, therefore, that he did not make himself acquainted with circumstances, the knowledge of which would now be so interesting,' p. v-vii. This old man, we are left to collect, was Llewellyn Penrose. But further: Mr. (now Sir B.) West stated to Mr. Eagles, that he was acquainted with the man; that he knew him at Philadelphia, previously to which he considers him to have met with the adventures recorded in the Journal. How this could be, is not very apparent the Journal is carried on by Llewellyn to his last illness, and then continued by his son Owen, who relates the death and burial of his father. Yet after this Mr. West sees him in America and England. The name of the man too, whom Mr. West knew, was Williams. Mr. Eagles supposes that, he assumed the name of Penrose; but of this there is no hint in the Journal, (minute enough too in other respects,) though Penrose is more than once in circumstances in which it was impossible he should have concealed such a thing, had it really been the case. Lastly, the account given of the MS. in the beginning of the first volume, is utterly inconsistent with that given at the end of the last. We shall give this as we find it. The following Letter gives some account how and by what means this Journal was conveyed to Europe. The address is unfortunately wanting: MR. PAUL TAYLOR'S ACCOUNT OF THE Journal. < Being mate of a large brig, commanded by one Captain Smith, and lying at the Havannah, anno 1776, it happened that at the same time a Spanish sloop, late from the Main, lay near to us. Having 'some knowledge of the Spanish tongue, I became acquainted with ⚫ the mate. He asked me one day to come on board and spend an hour or two with him, as he had something to shew me. The next day being Sunday, and nobody on board but himself and an old 6 negro, I accepted his invitation We had not been long together, before he unlocked a cedar chest, and took out a bundle of old papers; he desired me to look at them, saying they were English. I • asked him by what means they came into his hands; he said they were given to him by two Indians who spoke good English; and that one of them told him in Spanish, that the whole was written by his 'father, with a small addition by himself: that his father had lived there for many years, and had died there; making it his last request, 'that these papers should be put into the hands of the first person 'who would promise to deliver them to some trusty and good Englishman, to be by him conveyed to his native country. They made me swear, said he, that I would execute this commission justly and truly, ' and then gave me fifty pieces of eight, as a reward for undertaking it. Vol. IV. 193-5. These two accounts the Editor makes no attempt to reconcile; he does not even hint at their discrepancy. As the case stands at present, therefore, we do not see how the book can be looked upon in any other light than that of an interesting story. Interesting it certainly is ;-to children, in a very high degree. The interest is of the same romantic cast as in Robinson Crusoe; though the work is by no means a copy from that ingenious tale. 66 Llewellyn Penrose" may be safely recommended to every juvenile library. The scissars and the pen must indeed be applied to some few half-pages and individual words; but of how few books must not this be said? Art. XIII. The Deserted Village Restored. The Blind Beggar of Bethnal Green, in three Cantos. Pastorals, &c. By Arthur Parsey. 12mo. pp. 237. Price 6s. Nunn, 1815. THIS Enubilous scen❜ry and emphatic spring, Can pierce thy breast, and make superb each shade, The secret, deep, immortal part of man.' p. 4. Aurora rise! and rouse the slumb'ring day, I wait impatient at the long delay. Display thy charms, and hail the tinctur'd east, TO THE SOUL. • And wilt thou go, And leave below Thy prison and thy cage? Which bound within its crimes the vital spark, Now for the Author's modest preface. p. 151. Fully conscious am I of the difficulties under which an Author ranges the literary world, but more particularly I feel the awkward situation of his "entrée ;" all eyes upon him, and eager either to approve or to condemn. How can I, thus situated, but experience a bashful, palpitating anxiety for my fate: though I feel myself conscious of intending only to gratify the Reader, whose delight and approval are the consecutive reasons for publishing. Among the numerous and deservedly popular productions, I do not expect to range with the foremost, nor is it any part of my design to enter the list of competition; contenting myself merely with the hope of seeing my productions moderately spread among the collections of British poetry; and, should I deserve the name of a Poet, I shall gain the consummation of my hopes.' Poor Arthur Parsey!! 'IN Art. XIV. Leaves. 8vo. pp. 184. Price 9s. Longman and Co. 1816. N seeking an appropriate title for these little poems,' says the Author, I have feared to imply too much; I have called them Leaves.' But what leaves are they? Rose-leaves, of faint but undecaying fragrance, fit for a lady's dainty apparel; or bay leaves, or myrtle leaves, such as may form an evergreen chaplet for the bard? Or are they such leaves as nobler trees in the exuberance of their strength put forth in honour of the spring, and shed with the changing season to the passing breeze,-leaves whose only value was their freshness, and which we tread upon in soberer age, and moralize on their decay. Our Author has taken for the motto on his title page, They are leaves that have fallen, we suppose, in the silence of contemplative solitude. The Volume consists, in fact, of a series of poems, of very unequal merit; some of them are imitations from the Italian; others reminded us of Gessner's Idylls: none of them display any considerable degree of energy of mind, or originality, but they are for the most part highly elegant and pleasing. They are such productions as would never confer distinction on their Author's name, but yet they afford no reason for concealing it. Children' are the subjects of most of them. Beauty,' 'Attachment,'' Sensibility,'' Evening,' are the titles of others. The Author scarcely attempts any thing of a higher character. They are what the title designates them,-leaves. We select the following as no unfavourable specimen. |