nour and manhood, in the rank of Major-General of his army, and as a knight (proh pudor) of the royal and honourable order of St. Louis. As for the Legion of Honour, it is at once good policy and strict justice that men who resemble its founder should continue to fill its ranks.'

After reading these extracts from General Pillet's work, we may believe the assertion of the Reviewer, that he had repeatedly broken his parole of honour while a prisoner, and for which he was confined during the greater part of his residence in England, to a prison ship in the River Medway, and was therefore admirably calculated to give a description of the manners of the country. We agree in covering him with all the opprobrium and infamy that he deserves; but we must place under the same mantle the Quarterly Review.

We are ready to agree that his work is, with one exception, the most base, most absurd, most infamous libel on a whole nation, that has been produced in modern times-the exception is the article on Inchiquin's Letters in the Quarterly Review.

Manners of the people of the United States.

A writer in one of the French journals lately imported, inquires what can be the reason, why the opinions formed on the manners of the Anglo-Americans, should be so contrary as they are among the French and English writers?-meaning travellers who have visited the country of America. The French, who pique themselves on the sociability of their national manners, express themselves as if they were highly delighted with the manners of America, which it is well known are almost anti-social; while the English, whose national manners are certainly somewhat blunt, are little less than disgusted with the manners of America, which are somewhat less refined than their own. A solution of this contradiction is desired by the Journalist alluded to: it is at least a curious problem. LIT. PAN.

Strength of different Wines.

An article in Ackerman's Repository for January, on the subject of Wine, contains the following:

The wines of Portugal which are mostly red, differ very much from all other wines, in containing besides the usual ingredients, a considerable portion of tan; and hence they have a rough and astringent taste. The quantity of tanning matter may readily be ascertained, from the quantity of a solution of isinglass or glue, which they are capable of decomposing. From this fact we might be led to suppose, that those who drink large quantities of port wine, stood a chance of having their stomachs tanned, or more or less converted into leather. Indeed it is not impossible that the coats of that organ may become, in some measure, hardened by the constant use of this liquor. From an extensive series of experiments made, the following facts have been ascertained.

Table shewing the quantity of highly rectified spirit of wine, or alcohol, contained in various kinds of wine.

100 parts of Port Wine afforded upon an average 21.50 parts of alcohol. Ditto, highest

Ditto, lowest

32.46

16.25

18.00

21.81

16.75

Some doubt may perhaps be excited of the accuracy of this statement, by a reference to the comparative intoxicating effects of wine when compared with the same quantity of alcohol or brandy.-But let it be remembered, that in wine the alcohol exists in a state of chemical combination with other substances, which necessarily diminishes its activity on the animal system.

FOR THE NORTH-AMERICAN JOURNAL.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF THE PENOBSCOT.

WITH rapture fair river, I'd gaze on thy stream,
And mark its smooth current fast-gliding along;
With fancy enraptur'd, and love for my theme,
I'd revel unbounded, in regions of song.

When the moon on thy bosom reflected appears,
And darts thro' the forest a flickering ray :
Sweet emblem of hope,—thro' the vista of years,
Alone I would wander, alone I would stray.

The days that are perish'd, I fain would recall,
And catch the last echo that hangs on the breeze :
I'd tread on the site of yon desolate ball, *

Where beauty once loiter'd in elegant ease.

Here bloom'd fair as nature, the rose of the wood,

And blushing with fragrance, enliven'd the scene;
Here a garden of flowers, once enchantingly stood,
But memory weeps where their odours have been.

Forgetfulness shroud's in the mansions beneath,
The hero whose record of fame is unknown,
Whose spirit undaunted look'd smiling on death,
And flew to the realms where his fathers had gone.

While musing thus fondly on scenes that are past,
So dear to the fancy and sweet to the soul,
I'd willingly fly on the wings of the blast,

And sleep where the billows incessantly roll.

There peacefully slumber o'erwhelm'd in the wave,
No friend near the spot my short story to tell,
Deep, deep in the caverns of coral my grave,

The pearl for my pillow, the surge for my knell.

B.

* Alluding to the mansion of the celebrated chief Castine, whose haram, it is recorded, would rival that of a Turkish Sultan.

FOR THE NORTH-AMERICAN JOURNAL.

THE SURGEONS.

A TALE FOUNDED ON FACT.

ONCE in December's cold and bitter night,
When the chill tempest rag'd with boldest flight,
And chain'd in frost the spirit of the flood;
A wight who fear'd nor storm, nor winter's sway,
Along the dreary city took his way,

Not shunning harm, or ineditating good.

Long time he rang'd, but nought of sport had found,
Till slow returning from his nightly round,

A grave physician meets his eager eyes,
One who was much in thought, but seldom spoke,
And "fine, he cries, 'twould be to pass a joke,
“On one so philosophick, and so wise.'

Light as a spectre at his side he stands,
With doleful accent, and imploring hands :
"To Dr. Wiseman, I am sent in haste,
"From Mrs. Comic,---sbe whose lone abode,
"Is five miles out upon the northern road,
"Just in the eye and forehead of the blast,

"In stepping from a coach, it was her fate "To fall,--you know, Good Sir, her size and weight. "A fractur'd limb was seen, in crimson dyed; “And though I grieve to name so hard a task, "Yet to a heart like your's 'tis but to ask,

"And Sorrow's claims can never be denied."

The Doctor paus'd,-some treaty to conclude,
Between his Conscience, and the wintry feud :
Turn'd to the north,—receiv'd the nipping air,-
His thoughtful finger on his forehead laid,
Shorten'd his rein,-applied his spur,-and said,

Like Hamlet to the Ghost-" Ill meet thee there."

And now the wag another Surgeon spies,
Who to his lov❜d abode, impatient flies,
Exulting in the hope once more to find,
As cordial for the perils of the storm,-
A fire-bright-blazing, and a supper warm,
And the fond welcome of affection kind.

"Doctor!—pray stop!" but swifter flew his steed,
"Good Doctor Euston !"-not a whit his speed

Was staid,---for now his pleasant court he gains:
But as he thought to close his swift career,
The wily wag his unclos'd gate drew near,

And seiz❜d with quick and fearless hand, the reins.

"It is a case of great distress,”--- he cries.
"I cannot help it :"- -the tir'd man replies,

Jerking his bridle with a face of wo

"These fourteen hours I've brav'd the tempest shock,
"I have not tasted food since eight o'clock,
"Or slept in quiet since three nights ago."

"Your dear friend Comic's wife, it is who lies "Fractur❜d and bruis'd,---in frightful agonies,--

Nought else could move me to so bold a strife, ""Tis five miles out of town ;---the storm is flying, “I tell you man,---tho' all the world were dying, "Still 'tis my duty to prolong my life."

"I hop'd your long acquaintance there might move,
"So warm a heart to do this deed of love;
“ Beside,—all other Surgeons she forbade;
"But if you still refuse,-then be it so-
"And though I much regret it, I must go,
“And quick solicit Dr. Wiseman's aid.”

"Solicit Wiseman!-Better seek a rope !—
"Trust Mrs. Comic with that stupid mope !—

"She'd die ten times while he was creeping there :"
Then turning round his horse in angry plight,-
Cries" I will perish in the storm to night,

"Rather than she his blundering hand should bear.”

And as the mists of snow, and driving sleet
Against his breast and purple forehead beat,

He hoarsely murmur'd like the troubled sea,
“Oh!—let no future wretch select the strife,
"That waits the Esculapian's luckless life,-

"Toil, toil,-age premature-and misery."

The rattling hail that from the tiles did bound,
The torrents dashing on the frozen ground,

The horse, whose clattering hoofs the pavement spurn'd, The roaring of the winds in moody fit,