The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1842-07-12 00:00:00

Foreign Review, or European Quarterly
on : Richard and John E. Taylor, Red

of this able periodical is full of various

r, and more than sustains its past repu-
• the article entitled, " The Church and
the most closely-reasoned and able es-
•ecently met with upon a most difficult

It contains, too, what is most

oduction, sound views and just princi-
the character of Daniel Webster is, in
ar relations with the Republic, of which
especially interesting. It is ably and
ings into prominent view the lights and

,ch belong to its immediate subject
as to the American people and in-

raphy of Heinrich Steffens," of

t of the Gipsies of Spain ;" the notice of
n of the Life of Pope Boniface the
article entitled " Lady Travellers," are
iously written ; and the whole will amply

. ~
cal reader, or the mere searcher

ity Magazine. July, 1842. William
Dublin ; W. S. Orr and Co..

to the proprietors of the Dublin
; our crowded columns must
In truth, however, our friend Harry
ttle recommendation from us to the favour
ic, which is ever ready to welcome his

late notice

bow whether as Jack Hinton, or in the character of
r portraiture of bis vivid pen—to enjoy his " Nuts
trackers," to be delighted alike by the racy humour,
mind and healthy politics—the wit or the wisdom-
-the literature or the historical

I which run through and diversify his pages. The
f the Portrait Gallery this month is Admiral the
r Robert Stopford, G.C.B.—an officer whose
gard of a British public on the score not only
but of those, as well, of a long life of
it is peculiarly fitting should be brought
at the present moment, when a flighty
ugh brave junior, has so lately and so
I to engross to himself a portion of his

Is. We have also as the commencement of a
:tches of Public Men ;" an excellent notice of
and career of Sir William Follett. The Re-
41's Life of the Duke of Wellington is con-
inmber. We have been somewhat startled
le entitled " Medical Charities of Ireland."

Harry I

luer must watch those grasping gen-
law Commissioners. They have none of
le of the channel, and are well inclined, it
;arn the well-merited dislike of our Irish

ish for ever

am Yonall. Part I. London : Chap-

and Hall

this interesting and iustrue-

and, his profession nece
LITERARY MAN

'ssarily abandoned

It is beautifully got up, with numerous

be one of the most complete

history, characteristics, and treat-

CHAPTER WI

of the noblest animals subjected to the uses of
The preient number contains the early history of

t and accoutrements by ancient
is—as the Grecian, the Roman, the

iployrc

ian, &c.—and enters upon the history of
breed of the present English horse. We
,ominend the work, which is published
) all lovers of this noble animal.

)rd Edition of the Waverley Novels,l to 6. Ro-
, Edinburgh ; Houlston and Stoneman, London.
_ •

numbers of this splendidly illustrated edition
our great novelist are now before us, and we
'y, that for beauty of typography and paper,
Ice of the multitude of illustrations by which
t has not thus far been excelled by any of the
tl publications which have lately issued from
es. Independent, however, of mere adorn-
Pe have no doubt, be prized by the public as
ete and unique collection of these admirable
is hitherto been, or probably ever will be

have now become, in every sense of
ks—a portion, and a noble portion,
re. In what library are they not
ion, from the gallery of the noble, to
humblest admirers of their gifted
'uture be ranged? Surely, in none;
raagemen ts of their publishers, an
which is adapted to the means of
now " The People's Edition"—a

little more than the cost of the penny trash
blic mind is from week to week inundated

a the Abbot
apleted, ma

:sford Edition, we have a

placed side by side

ductions of typographical art, and
the price which we give readily tor
interest, and far inferior value.

id this edition to our readers,

thor arid of Lila age

ogate in 1841. By a Citizen of the World
Liverpool : T. Bean.

ritten sketches in this little

?alien will be read with satisfaction by those who
labit of visiting Harrogate. The picture will be
the opinions and sentiments will
Every visiter to Harrogate
.5 with him, or read them ere

this period of his career, " were half of study and half of
dreams. I read, inspired by passionate longings for distinc-
tion ; but the recoil of my overtasked energies was dreadful.
Then it was that I sunk into the lethargy of despair ; then
it was that my better angel abandoned me, and I became—
need I say what, to one who knows already the weaknesses
of my nature? Remorse preyed upon my awakening hours,
and, to still the goadings of conscience, I fell again and
again, and was alternately the studious anchorite and the
maddened hunter after oblivion of self and the world."

Still it is probable that even in this profession Melton
might have ultimately succeeded to the utmost of his ambi-
tious drearnings ; but fate had a darker lot in store for him.

He was summoned from the scene of his struggles and his
errors to attend the bedside of a dying parent ; and he ar.
rived at the home of his youth only to stand by and weep
over the lifeless remains of that beloved one, and to know
that, with a pale and feeble girl, worn with watching and
scarcely a week removed from that last sleep enjoyed by him
whose parting hours she had tended so assiduously, he was
now alone in the world.

The presence of death is ever a stern and certain monitor

that we live amidst the realities of an exacting, though a
fleeting world. Can the dreamer look upon the pallid cheek
and the speechless lips of a cherished object and still dream
on 7 Can the worldling ii,ig his pleasures, the lover cling to
his love, the miser gloat upon his hoard, whilst his gaze is
upon that curdling evidence of the vanity of all things ? No,
no ! At such an hour, the vainest, the most thoughtless,
the most reckless amongst us, is ever stirred, as if the icy
hand of the pale monarch were busy tracing his warnings
upon that seared heart ; and Henry Melton, as he gazed upon
that form around which he had hung in childhood and in
boyhood—upon those lips which had so often breathed words
of love, of counsel, of hope, and of warning upon his young
ear—upon those closed eyes which had beamed upon him in
gladness and affection—upon that form once glowing in
health and strength, and yet now so shrunk, so strangely
still—felt in that one moment the►goading memoirs, the wild
dreams, which had haunted him for years, pass from him,
like guilty spirits from the bursting light of the judgment-

seat, and stood up before his own soul an awakened, a
thoughtful, though a suffering man.

"If ever," he told me in one of our interviews—" if ever,
during ten years of a chequered, a wearisome, and I fear, a
guilty career, there was a hope for me in the world, it was
when, standing by the cold remains of that good old man, I
felt that I had at once become a father and a protector to the
frail being who knelt by his bedside, and bathed his wasted
cheeks with her blinding tears. I could have led an honour-
able career to shelter that dear sister in her almost etherial
beauty. Her blue eyes beam upon me now with the same
appealling look which they wore when we returned at last
from the grave of the departed, and in our lone dwelling,
she murmured that we were then to be every thing to each
other. Her form is still before me as she trod for a time
those loved scenes which her calm, quiet smile made a heaven
to one passion-tossed as I had been. But the dream—and it
was but a dream—an oasis in the desert of my existence—
passed by, melted from my grasp. But why describe its
passing? A month, a short month, beheld her borne to her
last sleep, with the loved ones who had gone before, and I
was abandoned to the world, and oh—worse than all !—to
ersity improves as it progresses—tires t mY3el-1"

Melton returned to London with the wreck of the humble
home, which was now become desolate, his only patrimony.

The prospect—the actual pressure of poverty—was nov
added to the other difficulties with which he had to struggle

, he became—

With that title, " a literary man," what erronious at-
tributes a thoughtless world has associated ! We contemplate
the career of successful authorship ; we picture to ourselves
the gifted poet, the admired novelist, the historian, the
philosopher, the political essayist, or the dramatist, as the
centre of worshipping throngs, the spoiled children of flattery
and fortune. We have before us, too, the career of him who
has worn away the last hours of his earthly existence in ob-
scurity and penury, to be rewarded in after years with fame
and almost idolatry ; but little know we how many thousands
of gifted, wayward beings sink down in the struggle, with-
out either a present reward to smooth the ruggid path of
life, to protect them from the approaches of care and even
of want, or the confident assurance of future immortality to
cheer them in their last miserable hours. Let the man of
talent or the man of genius, even, who has not fortune to
austain him in his ambitious longings ; who has not friends
to cheer him on ;—above all, let him who has not that best
gift of Heaven—a happy heart—or who is cunt with that

Seek
worst possession of man—dispiriting or remorsoeufuldl memories
—shun, as he would a pest house, or as he w
rugged and heart-wearying career of authorship.
rather the drudgery of the meanest employ 6 of commerce;
seek the dingy atmosphere of the merchant's counting-
house
; plunge into the busy whirl of every day life ; forget
the wild aspirings of youth ; escape from the haunting
dreams and fairy memories of boyhood ;—do this, and, by
the blessing of a merciful creator, there may still be peace,
and even a calm and reasonable sum of earthly happiness,
for the wounded and sunken heart.
There may appear something sordid—something humiliat-
ing to the character of man—in this advice. And yet it is but
too well justified by numberless melancholy experiences. I
may be asked the question "is there no hope on earth for
man once fallen? Do the withered hopes of boyhood
blight the whole after life? Do the dead leaves of the first
summer still linger round the tree in its maturity ? Is there
a warm sun and a vivifying soil for the flower or the shrub
which the tempest has trampled, and is there no hope for
the bowed down spirit of a being created only a little lower
than the angels, and moulded in the express image of his
Maker ?" There is all this. In life it is not said to us, as
in death,
Where the tree falls there must it lie." There
is hp
gladness and consolation for " the broken and
•" but let them not be sought for except from
oe,
and' ‘
contrite heart ,
their heavenly fountain—above all let them not be sought
for amidst the dreamy intoxication of the poets imaginings—
let, them not be sought for in the career of authorship ! The