acquainted with. I have never been able to procure any account of the mode of teaching the deaf and dumb in other parts of Europe, but I presume it has kept pace with the improvements of the Abbe Sicard, many of whose scholars would, from the facility with which they comprehend, the readiness with which they answer in their way, and the correctness of their information, do credit to their instructor, had they enjoyed the use of all their faculties: in addition to the language of signs and gests, they are attentive to the motion of the lips, and not only learn to distinguish words and sentences in that manner, but also by applying their fingers in the dark, to the mouth of the person speaking. That wonderful machine, the human hand, which serves as an eye to the blind, serves in this instance as an ear to the deaf and dumb. I have explained to you in a former letter how the blind are taught to write sentences so as to be read by others who are also blind, and the same mode of communication has been practised with success between them and the deaf and dumb, two sorts of human creatures between whom Providence had placed, what might have seemed, an insurmountable barrier: they have, I was told, something like an antipathy to each other, and the children of the two schools would be always quarrelling in their way, if permitted to intermix; they feel perhaps, that neither class is at the head of the human scale, and are doubtful about precedence. We should be, I think, extremely embarrassed to choose between the two situations, if it were possible that we could be called upon to decide, and to say whether we had rather be deaf and dumb, or blind; these last have great advantages in the facility with which they may acquire knowledge, but are much more dependent in common life, and infinitely more circumscribed in the choice of a profession or a trade; their external appearance too is against them; they are extremely awkward in their gait and gestures, and betray in every motion almost the want of the sense they are deprived of: the deaf and dumb, on the contrary, know the value of a good appearance, and live so much in the constant exercise of their hands and arms, as to become graceful in the use of them, their eye too is all quickness and penetration, it is the eye of a poet or a painter, and illumines their countenance. They have, besides, the inestimable advantage of reading for amusement: their mode of conversing by signs and gestures is limited indeed, but less so than you would imagine, and they have a method of aerial writing like the Chinese, who are accustomed, when the sense of a word they make use of is doubtful, to draw the root or character of it in the air with the finger. The Sourd-muets trace words in the same manner far more rapidly than we do with a pen, those to whom they address themselves, being in the habit of reading backwards, as the blind do with their fmgers. The misfortune of the Abbe Sicard had not finished with his escape. from the murderers of the 2d of September; he had been once more arrested and then enlarged, and after two years of distress was again a third time imprisoned, and on the point of being separated forever from his pupils. The intention was, it appears, to send him at a proper opportunity to Cayenne, and it was during the long and tedious hours of confinement, and of cruel suspense, that he composed his course of instruction for the deaf and dumb, of which I have endeavoured to give you some idea. A change of measures however took place, he was released, and had his property restored to him: he is now assisted and patronized by the government, and the most rigid Carmelite, (if any yet remain of those pious sisters) will not think her convent profaned by the residence of such a man, or by the use it is put to. Massieu whom I have mentioned to you, who is the wonder of the Abbe's school, has published an account of himself: it is a history of his feelings, and if we may suppose (as I presume we may) that he never deceives himself and mistakes imagination for memory, it is one of the most interesting compositions that exist, and adds a valuable chapter to the history of mankind. His ideas of right and wrong were taught him, he says, by his father's applauses and by a cane, which stood in the corner of the room. From seeing the family at times ontheir knees, with uplifted hands, he had conceived there was something greater beyond the clouds, and this it was, he supposed, that descended at night and drew towards it the plants and grains which were committed to the earth. Animals he thought, were produced, and grew like plants. He perceived that other boys were in possession of some faculty that he had not, and thought that it might be acquired at school, where they regularly assembled, but he found (and it made him weep) that he gained nothing by going there. He learned to count ten in taking care of his sheep, and would then notch down one upon his staff, and begin counting another ten, but that was the extent of his acquirements. When first brought to Bourdeaux, he was every day in expectation of seeing the new flock he was to take care of, and fearful in the meantime of some evil intention in those about him, and of some mischief in every motion, and was trying to get back to his sheep again, when the Abbe Sicard commenced his education. It must seem almost incredible to you, that this poor lad should have so rapidly become what I have described him, and that he should astonish the audience, as he frequently does at the exhibitions of the Abbe Sicard, by answers to such questions as people frequently come prepared to make him. What is eternity? It is a day without yesterday, or tomorrow; It is a never-ending time of which we know not the beginning. What is a revolution? It is a tree, the roots of which have shot up in place of the, stem. What is gratitude? It is the memory of the heart. Such are the answers which Massieu gives, and you will agree with me, that it would be scarcely possible to give better, or to express them more happily. From Le Beau Monde, or Literary and Fashionable Magazine for April, 1809. FINE ARTS-BRITISH REMAINS, Let laurels, drenched in pure Parnassian dews, COWPER. MONUMENT TO GENERAL ABERCROMBIE. It seems destined for the most illustrious of our modern generals to conclude their glorious career in countries distant from their own, and to entrust their remains to the lands of strangers. While we rear monuments to their memory, we are denied the solemn privilege of sacredly preserving the last vestiges of their humanity! If the spirit be present with us, still the body is absent. We can secure the sad relics of a Nelson; but those of an Abercrombie, or a Moore, are com signed to the custody of their enemies. Grave-the guardian of their dust! Grave!-the treasury of the skies! Every atom of thy trust Rests again, in hope, to rise? MONTGOMERY. How fair was the course, how bright the close, of the career of Abercrombie! His honourable activity was recompensed with unfading glory. A life exhausted in the most arduous services to his country, and pure from even the suspicion of unworthiness, was, after be ing happily protracted to the full limits generally alloted to human existence, meritoriously yielded up, an acceptable sacrifice, on the holy altar of patriotism. Beloved by his compatriots, idolized by his soldiers, and respected by his enemies, it was the enviable destiny of Sir Ralph Abercrombie to expire in the arms of glory, and at the moment - VOL. II. G of victory! He fell, as it will be remembered, in the battle of Alexandria; and his body was afterwards removed from Egypt to Malta, where it is now interred. He was succeeded in command by the present Lord Hutchinson. Excepting the recollection of his military character, the present Monument, erected by the vote of Parliament, in grateful acknowledgment of his public services, is all that remains to us of the immortal Abercrombie. What an illustrious depositary, however, will our metropolitan cathedral one day offer to contemplation! A revolution, if so it may be termed, has now taken effect as to the place in which we are to rear the sepulchral memorials of British worthies; and many of these memorials, it is also to be remarked, have already arisen out of the most eventful revolution of the modern ages. The cathedral of Saint Paul seems more than likely to vie with the abbeychurch of Saint Peter. If the latter treasures the remembrance of the great men of the old age, the former will preserve the fame of the great men of the new age; and, if Westminster abbey, among some intrinsically eminent personages, records the names of numbers who were indebted to others for their apparent importance in society, perhaps it is destined for St. Paul's to swell the catalogue of those, not less to be distinguished characters, who appear to owe their individual magnificence to their personal superiority! Mr. Westmacott, the artist to whom the execution of the Monument to General Sir Ralph Abercrombie (which is shortly to be opened for inspection in St. Paul's cathedral) has been entrusted, will acquire considerable reputation from this exertion of his abilities. He judiciously selected the most affecting incident in the fate of his hero, for the display of his own powers. Mr. Westmacott has chosen for this purpose, the exact instant of time when General Abercrombie, after receiving his death wound, no longer able to support himself, is sustained by one of his soldiers. The face of the General possesses actual likeness; and the figure of the Highlander, by whom his body is supported, is highly impressive. Here is the sublime effect of the present sculptural composition. The slain man, however, greatly heightens the feelings of the spectator. This object, so natural in the circumstances intended to be commemorated by the monument, is very properly introduced, and is admirably disposed. So far from objecting to the practice of representing modern persons in modern attire, which reason requires and custom sanctions, we formerly expressed our approbation of this conduct by the rising race of artists. We must nevertheless regret that, in the present instance, such practice entirely deprives us of those picturesque appearances, which embellish and dignify the monumental achievements of antiquity. THE NATURALIST No. II.-FOR THE PORT FOLIO. AN inhabitant of the northern states, on his first visit to the lower Countries of the Carolinas and Georgia, is struck with the unexpected appearance and novelty of the scenery, of their less inhabited or unsettled parts; the chief characteristics of which may be given as follows: A thick flat wilderness of pines, through which the narrow road, skirted with myrtles* and gull-berry bushes,† winds through immense dreary solitudes, with sometimes only one or two huts in a whole day's journey. Marshes, branches or watery tracts, covered with loblolly bays, so closely crowded together as to shut out the light of day; dead stagnating ponds, seen through among the crowded pines, sending forth noxious exhalations, fevers, and pestilence; and prodigious cypressswamps, where a growth of timber, far surpassing in magnitude all others on the continent, rises from an ocean of reeds, having their leafless branches loaded with such vast quantities of moss, that 40 or 50 men might easily conceal themselves on one tree. It hangs waving in the wind from 3 to 12 and 15 feet long, and looks as if every tree were covered with wagon loads of tow; but what form the most disagreeable part of the features of this country, are, the dark sluggish streams which perpetually intercept the road, and are the gloomy haunts of multitudes of hideous alligators. From Newbern, in North-Carolina, along the whole low countries and coast, to the mouth of the Mississippi, and up that river as far as New-Orleans, there is scarce a creek, pond, or swamp, that is not infested with these disgusting and voracious animals. At every stage you listen to narratives of the depredations committed, at one time or other, by the alligators. The principal sufferers on these occasions are, hogs, who have ventured down to the river's side to wallow in the mud, where they are sprung upon, and soon dragged into the river. Dogs are also a very favourite morsel ; and the very howling of one, on the shore, will, in a few seconds, bring 20 or 30 alligators to the surface. On a deer taking the river, the alligators have been known to allow him to pass unmolested; but to seize every dog that followed. Some of these, after having been for a minute or two under water, have disengaged themselves, and rising to the surface, have succeeded in reaching the shore, sorely gashed and mangled by the teeth of the alligator. Some dogs, however, fearlessly take the river, and when attacked, as they generally are, from behind, boldly face round, and engage the enemy in his own element; barking and snapping, and generally forcing him to disappear; for, like all tyrants, he is as cowardly as cruel. The dog then again makes for shore, and |