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imports, as the measure of a nation's prosperity. The internal trade of all countries is alone the surest measure of national wealth. It is not the custom-house returns, but those of the excise, which shew whether the state of a people is really progressive, and therefore it is that I say, capitalists embarking in undertakings which propose to facilitate the introduction of emigrants into the colonies, should not look for their returns to the produce which the emigrants may raise from the soil, but to the general result of an increasing population, with increasing comforts and increasing wants. This is the true and proper basis for considering the object in view, with respect to Canada, not because there

are not many sources of return, in the produce of the soil, in the timber and in the pot-ashes, perhaps also in ores and minerals, but these belong to the range of commercial views, and mercantile speculation; they form no part of any plan which capitalists, who are seeking for a solid and permanent investment of their funds, should consider as primary.

But I have already occupied so large a space in your columns, and the subject requiring to be yet discussed in detail, I shall therefore conclude for the present, with the intention of taking an early opportunity of again addressing you.

Glasgow, 2d April, 1821.

BANDANA.

A RUNNING COMMENTARY ON THE RITTER BANN. A FOEM.

BY T. CAMPBELL, ESQ.

THERE is, we must say, a dirty spirit of rivalry afloat at present among the various periodicals, from which ours only, and Mr Nichols', the two Gentleman's Magazines, are exempt. You never see the Quarterly praising the lucubrations of the Edinburgh-far less the Edinburgh extolling those of the Quarterly. Old Monthly and New Monthly are in cat-and-dog opposition. Sir Richard exclaims that they have robbed him of his good name-while Tom Campbell is ready to go before his Lordship of Waithman to swear that that was an impossibility. There is, besides, a pair of Europeans boxing it out with most considerable pluck; and we are proud to perceive our good friend Letts of Cornhill bearing himself boldly in the fight. The Fancy Gazette disparages the labours of the illustrious Egan-and Pierce is equally savage on the elegancies of Jon Bee. A swarm of twopennies gallops over the land ready to eat one another, so as, like the Irishman's rats in a cage, to leave only a single tail behind. We, out of this turmoil and scuffle, as if from a higher region, look down, calm and cool. Unprejudiced by influence, and uninfluenced by prejudice, we keep along the even tenor of our way. We dispute not, neither do we quarrel. If the golden wheels of our easy-going chariot, in its course, smooth sliding without step, crush to atoms any person who is unlucky enough to come under their precious weight, it is no fault of ours. Let him blame destiny, and bring his action against the Parcæ.

So far are we from feeling anything like hostility, spite, envy, hatred, malice, or uncharitableness, that we rejoice at the rare exhibition of talent whenever it occurs in a publication similar to ours. We do our utmost to support the cause of periodical literature in general. But for our disinterested exertions, the Edinburgh Review would have been long since unheard of. For many years we perpetuated the existence of the old Scots Magazine, by mentioning it in our columns. Finding it, however, useless to persevere, we held our peace concerning it; it died, and a word from us again restored it to life and spirit, so that Jeffrey steals from it all his Spanish literature. We took notice of the Examiner long after every other decent person said a word about it. Our exertions on behalf of the Scotsman were so great, that the learned writers of that paper pray for us on their bended knees. But it would be quite useless, or rather impossible, for us to go over all our acts of kindness. We have, indeed, reaped the benefit, for never since the creation of the world was any Magazine so adored by everybody as ours is. It is, indeed, carried at times to an absurd, nay, we must add, a blameable length, for we must exclaim with the old poet :

"If to adore an idol is idolatry,
Sure to adore a book is bibliolatry."

An impiety to be avoided.

In pursuance of our generous system, we here beg leave to call the attention of our readers to a poem in the last New Monthly Magazine, written by the eminent editor of that celebrated periodical, and advertised, before its appearance, with the most liberal prodigality of puffing, in all the papers. Mr Campbell is advantageously known to the readers of poetry, a very respectable body of young gentlemen and ladies, as the author of the Pleasures of Hope, Gertrude of Wyoming, Lochiel's Warning, O'Connor's Child, and other pleasant performances, which may be purchased at the encouraging price of three and sixpence sterling, at the stalls of the bibliopolists of High Holborn. But the poem which he has lately contributed to the pages of the New Monthly, outshines these compositions of his more crude and juvenile days,

"Velut inter ignes

Luna minores."

It is entitled the Ritter Bann, and we do not know how we can bestow a more acceptable compliment on our readers, than by analysing this elegant effusion.

What the words Ritter Bann mean, is not at once open to every capacity, and they have unfortunately given rise to the most indefensible puns and quizzes in the world. But we, who despise such things, by a due consultation of dictionaries, lexicons, onomasticons, word-books, vocabularies, and other similar treatises, discovered that Ritter, in the Teutonic tongue, as spoken in High Germany, signifies Rider, or Knight-Bann is merely a man's name, the hero being son of old Bann, Esq. of place, Glamorganshire. Why a Welsh knight should be called by a German title, we cannot immediately conjecture; but suppose it adopted from euphonious principles of melting melody. Let the reader say the words-Ritter Bann-Ritter BannRitter Bann-to himself, with the assistance of a chime of good bells, such as those of Saint Pancras, Saint Mary Overey, Saint Sepulchre's, opposite Newgate, Saint Botolph's, Aldgate, Saint Clement Dane's, Saint Dunstan's, in Fleet Street, not to mention various provincial utterers of Bob Majors; and he must be struck with the fine rumbling clang, and sit down to drink his Burton at 3d. the nip, with increased satisfaction.

So far for the title.

in what? Surtout?

frock? wraprascal?

Listen now to the exordium.
"The Ritter Bann from Hungary

Came back, renown'd in arms,

But seorning jousts of chivalry,
And love and ladies' charms.

While other knights held revelry, he
Was wrapt"-

Roquelaure? Poodle Benjamin? bang-up? doblado
No, no! What then? Sheet? blanket? quilt? coverle

counterpane? No. What then? Why

"in thoughts of gloom,

And in Vienna's hostelrie

Slow paced his lonely room.'

This is a very novel and original character in our now-a-days poetry
"There enter'd one, whose face he knew,

Whose voice, he was aware,

He oft at mass had listen'd to,

In the holy house of prayer."

Who is this fine fellow? Wait a moment and you will be told.
"Twas the Abbot of Saint James's monks,

A fresh and fair old man."

Fresh no doubt, for you will soon learn he comes in good season.
"His reverend air arrested even

The gloomy Ritter Bann;

But seeing with him an ancient dame,

Come clad in Scotch attire,

The Ritter's colour went and came,

And loud he spoke in ire:

Ha! nurse of her that was my bane—””

Here Campbell's Scotticism has got the better of him. The lady of whom the Ritter speaks is his wife, who, in Caledonia's dialect, is said to be bane of a man's bane; but in England we always say, bone of my bone. We hope Thomas the Rhymer will anglicise the phrase in the next edition.

"Name not her name to me,

I wish it blotted from my brain :
Art poor? take alms and flee !"

A very neat and pretty turn-out as any old lady would wish of a summer's morning; but it won't do. For

"Sir Knight,' the Abbot interposed,

This case your ear demands!'

And the crone cried with a cross enclosed

In both her trembling hands-"

Read that second last line again. "The Crone Cried with a Cross enClosed!" Oh! Pack: send the Razor Grinder. What do you say to that? We can only match it by one passage of Pantagruel. Lesquelles the frozen words] ensemblement fondues, ouysmes hin, hin, hin, hin, his, ticque, torche, longue, bredelin, bredelac, frr, frrr, frrrr, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, trace, trr, trr, trr, trrr, trrrr, trrrrr, on, on, on, on, ouououounon, goth, magoth. And the Crone cried with a cross enclosed,

66

"Remember each his sentence waits,

And he who would rebut!!

Sweet Mercy's suit, on him the gates
Of Mercy shall be shut!"

The Abbot proceeds to give our friend Ritter some novel information.

"You wedded, undispensed by church,
Your cousin Jane in spring;"

Pretty colloquial style!

"In autumn, when you went to search
For churchmen's pardoning,

Her house denounced your marriage-band,
Betrothed her to De Grey;

And the ring you put upon her-"

Her what? Finger, perhaps. No

"her hand

Was wrench'd by force away."

Here commences a pleasant familiar prose narration. We like this manner of mixing prose with verse, as Mr Stewart Rose has done in his translation of Boiardo. Campbell, in imitation, proceeds. "Then wept you, Jane, upon my neck, crying, Help me, Nurse, to flee to my Howel Bann's Glamorgan hills?? But word arrived, ah me! you were not there;

And 'twas their threat, by foul means or by fair,

To-morrow morning was to set the seal on her despair.

I had a son," says Nurse, after this little triplet, "a sea-boy, in a ship at Hartland bay by his aid, from her cruel kin I bore my bird away. To Scotland, from the Devon's green myrtle shores, we fled; and the hand that sent the ravens to Elijah, gave us bread. She wrote you by my son; but he, from England, sent us word you had gone into some far country; in grief and gloom, he heard. For they that wronged you, to elude your wrath, defamed my child.” -Whom she means here is not quite evident at first sight, for she has been just speaking of her son, for whom the Ritter, we opine, did not care a button, whether he was famed or defamed; but it will be all clear by and by.-" And you-ay, blush, sir, as you should,-believed, and were beguiled." In which last sentence the old lady is waxing a little termagantish on our hands. She proceeds, however, in a minor key.

"To die but at your feet, she vowed to roam the world; and we would both have sped, and begged our bread; but so it might not be ; for, when the snowstorm beat our roof, she bore a boy"-a queer effort of a snow-storm, entre nous-" Sir Bann, who grew as fair your likeness-proof as child e'er grew like man." A likeness-proof! Some engraver must have been talking to Tom about proof-impressions of plates, and he, in the simplicity of his bachelorship, must

have imagined that there were proof-impressions too of children. Let us, however, permit Madame la Nourice to proceed.-" "Twas smiling on that babe one morn, while heath bloomed on the moor, her beauty struck young Lord Kinghorn, as he hunted past our door. She shunned him; but he raved of Jane, and roused his mother's pride; who came to us in high disdain, and 'Where's the face,' she cried, has witched my boy to wish for one so wretched for his wife? Dost love thy husband? Know my son has sworn to seek his life.'

وو و

Poetry breaks out here again in the following melodious lines:

"Her anger sore dismayed us,

For our mite was wearing scant;
And, unless that dame would aid us,

There was none to aid our want.

"So I told her, weeping bitterly, what all our woes had been; and, though she was a stern lady, the tear stood in her een. And she housed us both, when cheerfully my child [that is not her son, the cabin-boy, but her bird Jane,] to her had sworn, that, even if made a widow, she would never wed Kinghorn. "Here paused the Nurse;" and, indeed, we must say, a more pathetic, or original story, or one more prettily or pithily told, does not exist in the whole bounds of our language. The Nurse mistook her talent when she commenced the trade of suckling weans. She should have gone to the bar, where, in less than no time, she would have been a pleader scarcely inferior to Counsellor Phillips himself.

After the oration of the Nurse, then began the Abbot, standing by-" Three months ago, a wounded man to our abbey came to die."-A mighty absurd proceeding, in our opinion. Had he come there to live, it would have been much more sensible." He heard me long with ghastly eyes," (rather an odd mode of hearing,)" and hand obdurate clenched, speak of the worm that never dies, and the fire that is not quench'd.

"At last, by what this scroll attests,

He left atonement brief,

For years of anguish, to the breasts

His guilt had wrung with grief.

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"There lived,' he said, a fair young dame
Beneath my mother's roof-

I loved her'

Not his mother, we hope.—

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"but against my flame

Her purity was proof.

I feign'd repentance-friendship pure;

That mood she did not check,

But let her husband's miniature

Be copied from her neck.'

Her husband's miniature in the days of jousts and chivalries! But great poets do not matter such trifles. We all remember how Shakespeare introduces cannon into Hamlet. Pergit Poeta.

"As means to search him, my deceit took care to him was borne nought but his picture's counterfeit, and Jane's reported scorn. The treachery took: she waited wild! My slave came back, and did whate'er I wish'd: She clasped her child, and swoon'd; and all but died."

The pathos and poetry of this beautiful grammatical, and intelligible passage, is too much for us. We cannot go on without assistance. We shall, therefore, make a glass of rum grog, for we are writing this on a fine sun-shiny morning. As we are on the subject of grog, we may as well give it as our opinion, that the young midshipman's method of making it, as recorded by the great Joseph, is by far the most commodious. Swallow we, therefore, first a glass of rum-our own drinking is Antigua-and then, baptizing it speedily by the affusion of a similar quantity of water, we take three jumps to mix the fluids in our stomach, and, so fortified, proceed with the contemplation of the Ritter Bann. We get on to a new jig tune

Oh !

"I felt her tears

For years and years,

Quench not my flame, but STIR!"

"The very hate

I bore her mate,

Increased my love for her.

"Fame told us of his glory: while joy flush'd the face of Jane; and while she bless'd his name, her smile struck fire into my brain, no fears could damp. I reached the camp, sought out its champion; and, if my broadsword (Andrew Ferrara would be a much more poetical word, Mr Thomas,) failed at last, 'twas long and well laid on. This wound's my meed-My name is Kinghorn-My foe is the Ritter Bann.

"The wafer to his lips was borne,

And we shrived the dying man.

He died not till you went to fight the Turks at Warradein; but I see my tale has changed you pale.-The Abbot went for wine, and brought a little page, who poured it out and smiled."

How beautiful! and how natural at the same time!" I see," says the old Abbot, who, we warrant, was a sound old toper, a fellow who rejoiced in the delightful music of the cork, "the curst stuff I have been talking to you has made you sick in your stomach, and you must take a glass of wine. What wine do you drink, Hock, Champagne, Sauterne, Dry Lisbon, Madeira, Black Strap, Lacryma Christi ?-my own tipple is Rhenish. See here, I have some Anno Domini, God knows what. Pleasure of drinking your good health in the meantime."

"The stunn'd knight saw himself restored to childhood in his child, and stooped and caught him to his breast-laugh'd loud, and wept anon; and, with a shower of kisses, pressed the darling little one."

و.

The conversation soon becomes sprightly. Nothing can be better than the colloquial tone of the dialogue.

"Ritter Bann. And where went Jane?

"Old Snoozer. To a nunnery, sir,-Look not again so pale:-Kinghorn's old dame grew harsh to her.

"Ritter Bann. And has she ta'en the veil ?

"Old Snoozer. Sit down, sir. I bar rash words.

6

"They sat all three, and the boy played with the Knight's broad star, as he kept him on his knee. Think ere you ask her dwelling-place,' the Abbot father said; time draws a veil o'er beauty's face, more deep than cloister'd shade: Grief may have made her what you can scarce love, perhaps, for life.' -Hush, Abbot,' cried the Ritter Bann, (on whom, by this time, the tipple had taken considerable effect,) or tell me where's my wife."

What follows? Why

"The priest UNDID!-(Oh, Jupiter !)

Two doors that hid

The inn's adjacent room;

And there a lovely woman stood,

Tears bathed her beauty's bloom.

One moment may

With bliss repay

Unnumber'd hours of pain;

Such was the throb,

And mutual sob,

Of the Knight embracing Jane."

And such is Mr Tom Campbell's poem of the Ritter Bann!!!

Need we add a word? Did anybody ever see the like? What verse, what ideas, what language, what a story, what a name! Time was, that, when the brains were out, the man would die; but on a changè tout cela. We consign Campbell's head to the notice of the Phrenologicals.

Let us sing a song. Strike up the bagpipes while we chaunt

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