A still more remarkable instance was that of Lieut. Bissett, of the Royal Marine Artillery, who went out, in 1816, to Algiers, in His Majesty's bomb Infernal. He over and over again stated, even before the fleet got to Gibraltar, that he well knew he should" be one of the first;" and after sailing from that place, passed his time principally in devotions, audible outside his cabin. Latterly he said but little to any one, and on the morning of the battle, he several times repeated that he knew he should" be one of the first." With the exception of this, he hardly spoke on that day, unless to give the necessary directions at the mortars. The action began at about two o'clock in the afternoon, and he was in the act of aiming either the fourth or fifth shell, when the fatal shot struck him!

Before this she had been a good deal cut up; she had had her springs shot away, boats swamped, and was severely raked for some time. During all this, he seemed calmly waiting for death with the cool yet determined resolution of a gallant spirit who knows his last hour is come. I never could imagine what sort of a missile it was that ended his mortal career. He was cut in three pieces. One leg went forward on the gangway; and the other, and part of his body, remained nearly where he had been standing; and his upper works went overboard-certainly on that day the Algerines threw about some queer articles, such as crow-bars, iron bolts, hand-spikes, glass bottles, bags of nails, &c. &c. ad libitum.

A lance corporal, named Polter, fired all the other shells from the Infernal during that action. Where is he? What has been done for that man? They were well thrown, that every body allowed.

I was told too, that poor Bissett was the only support of his sisters and an aged mother. What has been done for them? Where was our famed "Patriotic Fund," &c. in 1816? Alas! how true it is, that not even half the horrors of war are confined to the field of battle. 人

PADDY M'GUIRE.

Some years ago I was escorting a lady across the Place du Carrousel, at Paris: there had been some rain, and the pavement was extremely dirty. As we passed near the triumphal arch, I heard a voice, deeply tinged with a rich Cavan brogue, exclaim, "Dirty weather, your honour, for a lady's coloured shoes." I turned round, and perceived that the observation had proceeded from one of the cavalry sentries under the arch. The contrast between the Irish brogue and the uniform of the Second Regiment of Grenadiers à Cheval of the French Royal Guard, struck me forcibly, and excited my curiosity to learn something of this fine-looking Irishman. When I returned to my hotel, I asked my servant, (who had been attending his mistress when Paddy accosted me that morning, and who was an old soldier himself, and well acquainted with the English and Irish men in many of the regiments in the French army,) if he knew anything of the Irish sentry who was on duty that morning at the triumphal arch. "Oh! Sir," said he," that was Paddy M'Guire, a well-known character both in Paris and Versailles. He makes very free with the English gentleI remember when we lived in Versailles, there was an inspection of the Garrison, and Paddy was orderly upon the General. He observed Major Jones and several other English officers on the Place

men.

d'Armes, and without the least ceremony he asked the Major, if he thought the Enniskillen Dragoons would be a match for the Cuirassiers then on parade?'"

Paddy commenced his military career in the grenadier company of the Cavan Militia, and shortly afterwards volunteered into the 11th Foot. He served several campaigns in Portugal and Spain, and deserted to the French, preferring their service to the severe flogging which he expected to receive for having got drunk upon his post. When he arrived at the French chain of videttes, he was made a prisoner, and conducted to head-quarters: there Paddy was asked a number of questions, but he could not give much information respecting either the position or strength of the Duke of Wellington's army: he could tell pretty nearly the number of the rank and file of his own regiment, but he knew nothing of the rest of the troops, except that the Spaniards and Portuguese were a dirty, cowardly, beggarly set of spalpeens, who ran away upon the first shot being fired. Paddy was placed in a regiment of Cuirassiers, and on the subsequent formation of the Royal Guard, he was drafted into the Grenadiers à Cheval. It appears that in the early part of his French military service, he was frequently subjected to sneers and ridicule, on account of his Irish accent and love of brandy. This he bore with a good deal of composure, until he had acquired a tolerable proficiency in the use of the small sword, when he retorted with both tongue and foot upon his adversaries. A challenge was the immediate consequence, and Paddy was not long in measuring swords with his antagonist; and being strong, active, and a pretty good fencer, he soon obtained the victory. He was now treated with more respect, but his attachment to brandy led him into frequent quarrels, and as perverse disputes are always decided in the French army by the sword, Paddy killed four of his comrades in single combat, together with an imprudent gendarme, who, not aware of Paddy's skill and prowess with the sword, had met him at a cabaret at Versailles, and ventured a sneer at the boxing system of the soldiers of the English army. Such is the high estimation in which personal courage and prowess are held in the French service, that Paddy became a prime favourite in the regiment. Three times he was made a non-commissioned officer, but the love of brandy constantly occasioned his being as often reduced to the ranks.

In the affray which took place about three years ago at a féle at the village of Vereflay, near Versailles, between a party of the Swiss Guard, and some men of the Second Grenadiers à Cheval, of whom Paddy was one, several lives were lost; and when questioned as to his share in the business, he modestly acknowledged that he had only killed and wounded seven of the Swiss soldiers. At that period I was residing at Versailles, and wishing to improve myself in fencing, I desired my servant to inquire of Paddy, who was the best teacher of the art in town, when he naively replied, "Sure I killed the fellow about six months ago!" With all poor Paddy's skill and courage, brandy was too strong for him, and ultimately prevailed. About eighteen. months ago he got drunk, fell from his horse, and received such a serious injury as occasioned his death; and his strong, manly, and active form, was committed to the grave in Versailles, lamented by a handsome young woman, who is often observed to visit the place of his interment, and strew it over with laurel and flowers.

REVIEWS AND CRITICAL NOTICES.

CAVENDISH;

OR, THE PATRICIAN AT SEA.

"Te fingente nefas, Pyladen odisset Orestes,
Thesea Pirithoi destituisset amor.

Tu Siculos fratres, et majus nomen Atridas,

Et Ledæ poteras dissociare genus."

Under the title with which we have headed this article, a novel has appeared, which, although destitute of skill, management, or strength, puts forth high pretensions. Yet it forms but a sorry work; as a narrative it is uninteresting, the characters are unnaturally monstrous, and the adventures utterly deficient of that dramatic effect which assails the passions and lends reality to fiction. Though some of the pages are sprightly, they are absurd; nor are there sufficient even of such passages to redeem the general flippancy of the style. That those who are guiltless of having " done the state some service," should inflict their anabases upon the public, is sufficiently provoking; but that such writers should pander to the prurient appetite which exists for literary garbage, deserves the severest reprehension. Something more than a mere cacoethes must have given birth to this abortion; from the slander which it broaches, and its intemperate vituperation of public men, it seems to have originated in the two-fold stimulus of political purpose, and the low emotions of private hatred: objects as illiberal as the terms in which they are couched are intemperate. It is true that some cases of personality are not merely defensible, but laudable; men should be told their faults in order to their amendment, as Cicero declaimed against Verres, and as Catullus sang the vices of Cæsar. But detraction is base in its nature, and baneful in its effects,—and we would recommend Mr. Cavendish, instead of biting the heels of his betters, magnifying and aggravating mere failings, and turning motes into beams, to look to the eighteenth verse of the tenth chapter of Proverbs: we would also counsel him to recollect that a "knowledge of vice is not a knowledge of human nature;" that slander is not argument, nor calumny discussion; and that personal enmity has been pronounced a motive "fit only for the devil." As to the recital of his amours, we are at a loss to know why they are introduced, being destitute of that wit or novelty which delight those who fatten upon the topic; but still they are sufficiently disgusting to make us almost wish the writer the fate of Titus Etherius.

The trite but homely proverb of the bird which befouled its nest, does not apply to the author before us, for he nowhere breathes the devotion, patriotism, or feeling of the British sailor. As to who this would-be author is, we know not, and we care not; it is uncertain what the spear of Ithuriel might detect, for though the flippant style savours of the superciliousness of an assistant clerk, or an officer's servant, the strange jumble may possibly have been indited by one of those happy "slips" of nobility, who deign to receive commissions and pensions, for their four years amusement in the ships of our country. Yet it is hardly to be presumed, that a gentleman

should dabble in so impure a stream, and indulge in imputing improper motives to other persons, with a scurrility which is in admirable unison with the march of wanton liberalism, burkism, incendiarism, and other cowardly innovations upon British character.

The story of Cavendish opens with just such an undutiful, silly, and heartless interview, between the hero and his father, as we should expect from a cub nourished on the refuse of Modern Philosophy. The dialogues would in general be more revolting, but that they are so palpably untrue, and exhibit, like Anaximenes, an ocean of words to a drop of understanding." In the outré dragging-in of the Duke of Newcastle and Sir C. Wetherell, we discover nothing but virus of hatred prepense. The description of a dinner at Sir T. Maitland's, is given with a gross ignorance of the mind, person, and talents, of that celebrated governor: we can, of our own knowledge, say that he was neither "bloated," nor of "vulgar ideas;"-on the contrary, he possessed a firm and well-stored mind, and even his brusquerie was often merely assumed to ease the moments he was obliged to lose in the company of the numerous slips" and "sprigs," who pestered him with letters of introduction, or as they are more properly termed, dinner tickets. We can also add, that Sir Thomas was not wont to reside at Floriana, nor could he have been grumbling there when the Naiads arrived, because he had been in his grave some time before that period. As to the alleged foolery of Capt. Spencer picking up rope-yarns to make "watch-strings," we know enough of him to doubt whether his quarterdeck would have furnished the supply, or that a ship which he commanded could exhibit such a scene as, "The lieutenant of the watch was asleep,-the midshipmen were skulking,-the look-outs were drunk, the man at the helm foolish,-and the old quarter-master blind." In the nonsensical denouement of the tale, the writer clearly shows that he knows nothing of the characters which he asperses, for to impute meanness, cowardice, and fear to the gallant Capt. Corbett, is a monstrous absurdity: a mistaken view of discipline was the only drawback upon the character of otherwise one of the ablest naval officers of Great Britain.

The candour of Mr. Cavendish seems to have conquered his courtesy, for no Bristol rioter could manifest a more vindictive contempt of public worth. The illustrious Duke of Wellington and his "brummagem coronet," seems a particular object of hatred. A drunken and sentimental midshipman is made to demand, "What made Cæsar master of the world? Napoleon its Emperor? Alexander its bully? Washington its admiration? W- its scorn ?"

Mentioning an officer of the Cambrian, under the thin disguise of the Hon. Willslay, it is said, "He possessed some goodnature, and more malice; moreover, he was an insufferably arrogant, overbearing blockhead, in order to account for which I need only say, that he was somewhat connected with the great artful prince of Waterloo, the redoubted and licensed killer of dog's-meat to the government blood-hounds." Speaking of the despotism of the late minister, and deriding his not rushing to war for immaculate Greece, he asks, "Who could expect a dolt to own a kindred sympathy with science? Who could expect a mere passing nine-days wonder, a man who has

outlived his transient reputation, to feel any thing but jealousy for the shades of heroes, whose existence is now and ever?" And in some mischievous doggrel, the immortal warrior is thus stigmatized :

"Come, hither, ye buffers, who sail on the main,

Here's news from Auld Beakie, the lobster of Spain;
The Bermugian-built beggar that fled in Ingee,
And then, true dunghill, crowed over Bonapartee."

An arrant reformer, Mr. Cavendish possesses the noted Joseph Hume's antipathy to our gallant army. Napoleon, "the martyr of St. Helena," is the idol of his mind, although there has scarcely existed a greater enemy of humanity than this same product of the French revolution. Can the scribbler, or any other ejusdem generis, deny that his whole energies were employed in selfish views, and the destruction of those gleams of freedom which had brought him to light? We scruple not to assert, that Napoleon was a man to whom magnanimity was unknown, and of whom it has been truly said, that he could touch nothing without leaving on it the polluting mark of despotism." Under his iron sceptre, the Liberty and Equality which decorated all the documents of the Republic, were obliterated in Force and Espionage; and the best interests of nations were slavishly sacrificed to vanity by France,--the eternal manufactory of constitutions.

It is difficult to know whether Buonaparte, or the "injured" Byron, occupies the first place in the affections and apostrophes of Cavendish. It appears that the poet was a persecuted man! and Napoleon's companion in glory!! years of whose lives were lied away!!! Now we profess to admire the undoubted genius of Byron, but we cannot disregard his own forcible words,-" Imbecility may be pitied, or at worst laughed at, and forgotten: perverted powers demand the most decided reprehension." That he smarted under this consciousness, few who have met him, and were heralds enough to blazon his passions, would doubt; for that scornful lip betrayed the inquietude of the inner man, and accounted for the gloomy asperity of the hero personified through all his poems. One who knew him intimately has summed up his character in a few words" To the heart of a good hater he united the pen of a most mellifluous execrator," qualities which have gained him a mob of admirers, who are mostly insensible to his poetical powers. This is a point, however, on which we suspect our author plumes himself, as various lines, which jingle at the ends, are scattered through the work. But, in sober truth, the "Patrician" is neither a poet nor even a tolerable artist in words; he is a mere dealer in turgid pleonasms and tuneless lays, and is always more sensual than sentimental.

The battle of Navarino is the grand episode of the novel; but, supposing the writer to have been on board the Talbot, he weakens that which he wishes to magnify. A ship, brought up as he describes, must have been sunk in a second had the enemy possessed common sense or common talent. According to his statement, there was a fifty-two gun frigate at four hundred yards distance on the starboard beam, abreast was a corvette, on her quarter a fifty-gun