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Many persons have sneered at the conduct of the worthy Baronet, on the occasion of the king's late Scottish excursion, as being too officious. Sir Alexander Keith certainly has some reason to be obliged to him for relieving him of a portion of his official duty as knight-marechal.

Abbotsford, the country residence of Sir W. Scott, is situated on the banks of the Tweed, a few miles above Melrose, and exhibits a curious mélange of Gothic architecture—monastic, castellated, and domestic. Whether the thefts supposed in the text have been actually committed, I will not avouch, but certainly the idea irresistibly struck me on beholding the building. The robbery may possibly have the same excuse as Lord Elgin's Grecian depredations, viz. that of its being the means of rescuing a portion of the remains of antiquity from utter destruction—as it is unnecessary to observe that the ruins of Scotland and England, as well as those of Turkey, have always been considered fair game; and whilst a Turkish builder makes lime of the marble taken from the one, the British peasantry scruple not to erect their fences by means of stones purloined from the other.

Abbotsford is a pretty name; certainly much superior to the one originally possessed by its scite of—chuckle, oh! ye preferers of the “sweet south” to

Halidon Hill, though pretty in parts, is far below the fame of Sir Walter Scott. It wants substance.

Some person—a gentleman and a scholar into the bargain— has actually addressed a volume of letters to Mr. Heber, the lately elected member for the University of Oxford, for the purpose of proving Waverley and its followers to be by the same author as Marmion, &c. How this must amuse the real author!

Olivia Wilmot, alias Serres, alias the Princess of Cumberland, alias whatever-she-pleases, wrote a book to prove Dr. Wilmot (who is or is not her father) to be the author of Junius. I never read it, nor do I intend to do so, as too much appears to have been said on such a subject. I beg leave, however, most respectfully to recommend it to the attention of Mr. J. W. Parkins, ci-devant (or to use Mr. Alderman Wood's gallicism), feu-sheriff of London, once a patron of the princess, but now, alas! ungallant enough to pronounce her a deceiver.

This is the age of slang. We have slang-legal—slang-medical—slang-theological, of which more anon—slang-vital, by which I mean the jargon of “the Fancy,” or those enjoying “Life in London;”—slang-mercantile, in which a correspondent will acknowledge the receipt of your esteemed favour with one hand, and instruct his attorney to arrest you with the other—and, though last not least, slang-literary, of which the term in the text is by no means a bad specimen. For other instances of slang-literary. I refer my reader to any review or magazine that happens to be within his reach.

I would not wish to be thought severe on Mirandola, but it hath not poetry enough for the closet, nor action sufficient to render it a favourite on the stage.

One person, at least, will understand this line.

The first time that I read Barry Cornwall's Dramatic Scenes, appears like a delicious day-dream; one of those rosy moments which we occasionally enjoy amidst the thorny paths of life. Their author has certainly deteriorated since their publication. His Poems do not deserve to be mentioned in the same breath, nor is it easy for me to conceive them the offspring of the same mind.

What are called Musical Dramas appear now the chief favourites with an English audience. The music in most of them is the only bearable part.

Milman can write with feeling—for instance, read one or two passages in his Martyr of Antioch, and one, nearly at the commencement of his Jerusalem; but the gener ality of his productions partake too much of the stiffness of Grecian and French tragedy, without the excellencies of either.

Let it not be supposed that I would have a clergyman damned for writing a play or a novel. Such a notion might pass in the days of Home, but in the nineteenth century is certainly out of date. What I would insinuate is, that I should be sorry to see our clergy generally devoting their time to such productions, and that, inasmuch as they did so, they should never lose sight of the sacred duties of their profession. See the next note.

In the preface to his Melmoth, Maturin laments that he is obliged to gain that by novel-writing which his profession denies to him. It is certainly to be regretted that a man of his abilities, and, as I have every reason to believe, unim-peachable private character, should remain at the bottom of his profession—but let me ask him, is his publishing the blasphemous thoughts of a demoniacal madman, like “the Wanderer,” likely to improve his clerical prospects?

Novelty, novelty, novelty, is the cry of the day. The prevailing epidemic is a most ravenous cacoethes after whatever is strange or outrée. Byron is head caterer-general.

Lady C. Lambe has lately, by her “Graham Hamilton,” somewhat relieved the world of the apprehensions for her sanity, excited by her former novel.

Godwin is a complete veteran in literary annals. His Caleb Williams appears like an old friend, and recalls a thousand thoughts to the imagination; and his St. Leon—who can read it unmoved? His last production of the novel species, Mandeville, is an able description of the disorder of a diseased mind. But who is there that does not regret that powers of such first-rate order should be devoted to such worse than unprofitable subjects?

So much has been written and said about Byron, that I shall not enlarge upon my text, farther than by saying, that, if he continue to inundate us with his mysteries, and heavy tragedies, it will require something even beyond the name of Byron to enable him to maintain his place in the scale of public opinion.

Craigcrook is the name of Mr. Jeffries' country-house a few miles from Edinburgh. It is a picturesque old building, finely sheltered by thriving plantations, not far from the range of Pentland Hills; though I believe those forming a part of the domain are called the Costorphine.

The late Mr. Horner, M. P. for Saint Mawes, was a considerable contributor to the Edinburgh Review in its better days. He died at Pisa in Tuscany, and is, I believe, buried there.

Mr. H. is undoubtedly possessed of considerable talents, and can write in a lively, amusing style.—An additional recommendation—where his jokes fail to excite a laugh, his self-conceit is sure to elicit a smile.

Leigh Hunt has been voted by common consent chief of a knot of author's christened in Blackwood's Magazine, the Cockney School. We are threatened with a periodical miscellany from the pens of Hunt and Byron, in which the prematurely cut off Shelley was to have taken a part. The morality of Childe Harold, and the politics of the Examiner will be well met.

Since the text was written, “the Liberal” has made its appearance. I will not say that “the Licentious” would be a more appropriate title, but cannot help thinking there is yet principle and good sense enough left in England for that to be the general opinion. In point of literary merit the number that has been published is greatly below mediocrity, and, unless the succeeding ones improve, it will most probably die a natural death. If to endeavour to bring into contempt all institutions, sacred and political, be wise; if to abuse the living and vilify the dead, be liberal; if to swear at revelation, and make a jest of religion be judicious, I shall admire the work; but till this be the case, I shall not hesitate to pronounce it a production as impious and disgraceful in its principles, as it is contemptible in a literary point of view.

Vide the egotistical dedication of Hunt's Rimini to Lord Byron. “Foliage” is the affected title of a volume of poems by the former.

The Examiner Office is in Catherine-street; and so are sundry and divers of those houses of a certain description, generally found in the vicinity of a theatre, and not the least in that of Drury Lane.

Who will not recognise under this title the weekly miscellany entitled the Indicator, now, alas! defunct? It was certainly an unique production, and contained a convenient code of morality. The expression “boy Johnnys” may possibly remind the reader of a sublime poem of Mr. Leigh Hunt's addressed to his son, and commencing somewhat in the following strain:—

The “Sketch-book” of Geoffrey Crayon is undoubtedly one of the best works of a light nature that the press has produced for some years; and its successor, “Bracebridge Hall,” is heir to many of its merits.

Wordsworth's “little boat” must be fresh in the recollection of all who have read his “Peter Bell.” The exultation he expresses on acquiring it is truly worthy of the subject.

Coleridge's Christabelle is—what I am unable to describe. Well does it deserve the definite article bestowed upon it by its author, as it certainly is an unique production, unlike any thing “in the heavens above, or in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth.” The following lines will be understood by those who have perused it, and the “curiosities” at the end of it.

Let it not be supposed that I have a mean opinion of Mr. Lloyd's genius, or the offspring of his muse; it is his mannerism to which I object. His translation of Alfieri is certainly one of the best translations into our own or any other language.

Lambe is also a pleasing writer, but egregiously affected. His “Mr. H.” possesses excellencies as a farce, that induce me to wish its author would devote himself to such a species of writing, instead of mawkish tales, or such vapid and thoroughly ridiculous articles as most of those “Elia” writes in the London Magazine.

Wilson's muse is agreeable, but not of the first order. Let us hope that in his future productions he will be less profuse of vulgar oaths, than in his “City of the Plague.”

The anecdotes of the powers of fascination possessed by many of the serpent tribe, are too incredibly authenticated to be doubted.

Wiffen's “Aonian Hours” is a pleasing imitation of the milder parts of “Childe Harolde's Pilgrimage.” Some of the odes of Bernard Barton (one “To the Gallic Eagle,” in particular) are worthy of being mentioned along with those of the authors I have named, and this is no mean praise.

The primitive air, and what I can call by no milder name than apparent total absorption of the warmer feelings of the heart, visible in most Quakers, have often struck me as matters of surprise; more especially as I have not unseldom found the direct opposite of the last quality in the female part of their community, under whose modest garb often beats a heart alive to every tender sensation, softened down by a mildness of behaviour irresistibly attractive.

The Quarterly and Edinburgh Reviews may be considered respectively as at the head of the ministerial and opposition sides of the periodical press.

Blackwood's Magazine has effected quite a revolution in the stile of our magazines, inasmuch as it has engrafted the chit-chat familiarity of our older English essayists on the grave stock of magazines in general. It is to be regretted that its conductors sometimes value their joke more than their friend, and too often suffer their pages to be polluted by articles more fit for Billingsgate than Parnassus.

Constable's Magazine is a sort of preparatory school for the writers in the Edinburgh Review. It is a harmless work, tinged pretty deeply with the œrugo of the old Scot's Magazine: in short, an excellent soporific.

It is to be regretted that Campbell devotes himself to a task for which he is evidently but indifferently qualified— that of editor of a magazine. The politics of the New Monthly Magazine can hardly be said to wear a decided tone, and hence the remarks in the text.

Sir Richard Phillips is certainly a bold man in literary warfare, aad puffs himself and his publications in a stilc worthy of Mr. Bish, or Messrs. Day aad Martin. It is, perhaps, not generally known that he is endeavouring to promulgate a system of the universe, by which Sir Isaac Newton is proved—a dunce, and Sir Richard Phillips—a philosopher!

The London Magazine is a most unequal work, containing a few pieces of real excellence amidst the vilest trash, insomuch that I am induced to presume the selection of articles from the contributors' box is left to the printer's devil, or the under-porter of Messrs. Hessey and Taylor. It is reported, (for I am not behind the curtain), that Barry Cornwall has a share in its editorship, or at least is a frequent contributor to its pages. For an elucidation of line 569, I refer the reader to a passage in one of the essays contained in the second volume of Hazlitt's “Table-Talk.” The elaboratory where the London Magazine is concocted is, I believe, in the ward of Farringdon Without, and, this being the case, it is presumed the epithet Train-Bands is not inappropriate.—Allan Cunninghame and John Clare, also, I am informed, contribute to its pages. Of the one it may be said he is a real poet— of the other, a neat stitcher together of rhimes, and certainly, considering circumstances, a surprising man.

I might have brought many more periodicals into the field, of various degrees of merit—magazines, reviews, registers, gazettes, councils of ten, &c. &c. &c.—from Pall-Mall, the Strand, Cornhill, Threadneedle Street, and other resorts of the Muses; but I was afraid of crowding my field of battle with raw recruits and undisciplined troops—so let them rest in peace, as, I pray the gods, they will permit me and mine!