Alexander Tilloch was a native of Glasgow, where he was born on the 28th of February, 1757. After receiving that liberal education which in Scotland is so much more accessible than in England, inured from his earliest life to a habit of thinking for himself, possessing an inquisitive mind, and imbibing an ardent thirst for knowledge, he devoted much of his attention to the art of printing, in which he conceived much improvement remained to be made. As he was not bred a printer himself, he had recourse to Mr. Foulis, printer of the University of Glasgow, to whom he applied for types to make an experiment in a new process, and that nothing less than the art of stereotype printing: the experiment succeeded, and Mr. Foulis, who was a very ingenious man, became so convinced of its practicability and excellence, that he entered into partnership with him in order to carry it on. They took out patents in both England and Scotland, and printed several small volumes from stereotype plates. A few years afterwards Dr. Tilloch discovered, that he was but a second inventor, and that the art had been exercised by a Mr. Ged of Edinburgh, jeweller, nearly fifty years before. This circumstance, if it did not disgust Dr. Tilloch, made him think less of his discovery; and soon after he left Glasgow for London, where he became one of the proprietors of the Star evening newspaper. But even the avocations of a daily journal, and the political vortex into which all who are so connected are unavoidably driven, could not divert his mind from his favourite pursuits. He therefore projected and commenced the Philosophical Magazine, which, although there are now several works of a similar description, continues to maintain its high character. To this, the philosophical acquirements of the Editor, who possessed an extensive knowledge of many departments of physical science, were, in a great degree, conducive; and various papers by himself, in the earlier volumes, are by no means the least interesting of their contents. During the last three years, however, the ravages of the disorder which has terminated in his death, disabled him from taking an ac tive part in conducting the work.

Dr. Tilloch devoted much of his valuable time to the Steam engine, and had a large share in suggesting and maturing the improvement on what is called Woolf's engine. The ruling passion may be said, in Dr. Tilloch, to have been strong almost even in death; for he had entered a new patent for a steam-engine only a fortnight before death closed his eyes, and the world lost a man who had devoted a long life to the advancement of science. This melancholy event took place at his house in Barnsbury-street, Islington, on the 26th of January last.

In private life, Dr. Tilloch was amiable; in conversation, acute, intelligent and communicative; few persons possessed a clearer understanding, or a warmer heart. We have already stated that Dr. Tilloch was one of the proprietors of the Star newspaper, and for many years he took an active share in its management; for the last five years, however, the editing has been confided to other hands, and the opportunities which a long and protracted sickness enabled him to devote to study were appropriated to science, in the promotion of which he was always ardent and persevering.

Dr. Tilloch was a member of several literary and scientific societies, and few individuals had stronger claims to such distinction.

Literary Intelligence.

Mr. Campbell's Last Man.-Mr. Campbell, it seems, has been thrown into an extreme agitation by an observation in the Edinburgh Review, that his Poem, The Last Man, was apparently suggested by Lord Byron's Darkness. Nothing could be more unlucky or more galling to the poet, as it turns out, than this remark of the Edinburgh Critic; for it appears that Mr. Campbell has for fifteen long years been big with a secret trouble touching this very poem, which he now publicly vents in a letter of explanation and affliction to the reviewers. The substance of the grievance is briefly this-About fifteen years ago (a commencement always ominous of a tale of wo), Mr. Campbell called on Lord Byron at his lodgings, near St. James-street, and confided his conception of a Last Man to his Lordship, with. out reflecting, as Sir Fretful Plagiary would have done, that Lord Byron wrote VOL. VI. No. 36.-Museum. 4 E

himself. Many years afterwards he met his Last Man in Lord Byron's Darkness, and knew him to be the very man-child he had brought to light at his Lordship's house near St. James-street. However, he did not claim his man at the time, because he had not made a poem of him, and he did not at that period think he should ever do a Last Man. For a great many years, therefore, the world's end slumbered in the poet's brain, till one day, as bad luck would have it, Mr. Barry Cornwall hied him to Mr. Campbell, and informed him that an acquaintance of his intended to bring out a Last Man, and not only a Last Man, but a long Last Man. Poetic patience could not stand this shock, and Mr. Campbell emphatically observes "I thought this hard," what votary of the Muses could indeed endure to be thus plundered right and left of Last Men? For fifteen years (a proper period of gestation for so very late a subject) Mr. Campbell had been big with this Last Man, and even Lord Byron, as he observes, had spared the title to him, how then could he bear to see another poet enjoying the priority of Last Man-publication-how could he submit, in short, to produce a last Last Man, when the first conception was his? The very antithesis speaks the wrong. Such usage could not be borne, and therefore, Mr. Campbell wrote his poem and sent it to the press: thus it at present stands the Last Man but one.

Poets are very apt to go into frenzies on very slight occasions, and we know that nothing offends them so much while the paroxysm holds, as to assure them that there is no ground for their unspeakable vexation of spirit; nevertheless we must observe, that it appears to us in this case, that the Edinburgh reviewer is the only person to blame. The critical discovery that the "go on, I'll follow thee," of Hamlet was a plagiarism of the "I præ, sequar," of Terence, is scarcely more ridiculous than the observation that the Last Man of Campbell seemed to have been suggested by the Darkness of Byron; the idea of the Last Man being most particularly obvious, or rather absolutely common-place, and a book under the taking title of Omegarius, or the Last Man, having gone the rounds of all circulating libraries for years past. This fact must, we apprehend, wrest from poor Mr. Campbell, even the honour of the title which Lord Byron had spared to him. Had the idea in question been that of a Last Poem, indeed the originality of so extravagant a thought might perhaps have been worth discussing, but the very pot-house signs of the World's End might suggest the fancy of which Mr. Camp. bell makes so much. In a word, the Edinburgh critic found a mare's nest, and thus Mr. Campbell wrangles for the eggs-we give his letter to his reviewer.

To the Editor of the Edinburgh Review.

My dear Friend-The criticisms in your Review of my last volume of Poems can form no proper subject for any printed animadversions of mine; but I hope the readers of this letter will excuse me for answering one of your observations, which relates rather to a matter of fact than to a matter of opinion.

You say that my Poem, the Last Man, seems to have been suggested by Lord Byron's Poem, Darkness. Now the truth is, that fifteen, or it may be more, years ago, I called on Lord Byron, who at that time had lodgings near St. James'sstreet; and we had a long, and to me, a very memorable conversation, from which, I have not a doubt, that his Lordship imbibed those few ideas in the poem, Darkness, which have any resemblance to mine in the Last Man. I remember my saying to him, that I thought the idea of a being witnessing the extinction of his species and of the Creation, and of his looking, under the fading eye of nature, at desolate cities, ships floating at sea with the dead, would make a striking subject for a poem. I met those very ideas, many years afterwards, when I read Lord Byron's poem Darkness. It may be asked why I did not then appeal to Lord Byron about the originality of those few ideas? As circumstances have turned out, I now wish that I had done so. Lord Byron's most attached friend has given me his opinion, that if his Lordship had not forgotten the conversation, and was conscious of using an idea which I had suggested to him, he did so, prepared to give me credit for the suggestion whenever I should claim that credit. Had I taken this view of the case, and had I also then finished my little poem, I should in all probability have written to Lord B. But I had not written the piece, and at that time thought I never should write it. Unimportant as the leading idea was, I was discouraged by its being taken from me. There seemed to me to be no use in setting on foot a correspondence with Lord Byron, merely to dun him for an acknowledgment of my right to a stray idea. He might, or he might not, have recollected our conversa.

tion; but if he had forgotten it, his telling me so would have only increased a petty mortification.-Then, as for ascertaining the matter by proofs, after years had past, how was I to rake up the recollections of those persons, to whom I might have long ago mentioned the design of my poem?-One might be dead; a second might be uncertain as to dates; and a third certainly had so domestic a relation to me, that the evidence was no better than my own. In reality, I abandoned, for a great many years, the idea of fulfilling my sketch. But I was provoked to change my mind, when my friend Barry Cornwall informed me that an acquaintance of his intended to write a long poem, entitled the Last Man.-I thought this hard! The conception of the Last Man had been mine fifteen years ago; even Lord Byron had spared the title to me: I therefore wrote my poem so called, and sent it to the press; for not one idea in which was I indebted to Lord Byron, or to any other person.

Had I foreseen events, I should have communicated with Lord Byron, during his lifetime, on this subject; but I could no more than any one else foreknow the loss of his mighty genius to the world.

If it should be alleged that this declaration of mine implies a reflection on Lord Byron's memory, I have to answer, that it by no means necessarily does so. His glory goes against the supposition that he was a conscious plagiary from me; and I am only affirming what i feel to be true, that I could not be either consciously or unconsciously a plagiary from him. There are really not many ideas in the two pieces which are similar. But supposing my statement to be true, do I depre ciate Lord Byron?-No! He either thought my suggestions "fair game," or forgot that it was not himself who had started them. A poor man easily remembers from what quarter he has received each of his few pieces of money or bank-notes; but a rich man easily forgets where he got this or that coin or bank-note amidst his accumulated thousands! In like manner, Lord Byron was the most likely person in the world to forget the sources of his ideas.

For the acceptance of what I have declared, I have nothing more to rely upon, than my own character and credibility. It would be attaching a ludicrous importance to this matter, for me to offer any stronger affirmation than my word of honour. How few or how many will believe that word, must depend on the common notions of my veracity; but supposing me conscious that this is truth, I ask if I have not a right to state it?

London, Feb. 28, 1825. 10, Upper Seymour-street West.

I am, yours, very truly,

T. CAMPBELL.

Paris, March 18, 1825.

The most remarkable volume which has appeared this month is, unquestionably, the one containing the three speeches pronounced by M. Benjamin Constant, General Foy, and M. de Girardin, against the projected law, by which the emigrants are going to put above four millions sterling into their pockets. You will frequently find in the speech of M. de Girardin the pungent irony of Voltaire, and the caustic sarcasm of Pascal. The following sentence may be regarded as the text or ground-work of the masterly harangue of the pupil of J. J. Rousseau. "What, Gentlemen, in this Chamber, composed of four hundred and thirty members, three hundred and seventy of whom are emigrants having claims on the proposed indemnity, have you the effrontery to brave every sentiment of honesty or of decency which enjoin upon you a self-challenge, when called upon to vote above forty millions sterling to the emigrants?"

The speech of General Foy was admirable to hear. This copious and eloquent speaker rose to the level of Mirabeau, whom I remember to have seen in the last year of his life. Unfortunately, the whole speech of General Foy rested on a supposition too obviously false he ascribed some generosity and some small remnant of honour to his hearers. True eloquence becomes ridiculous when it is addressed to utter and immovable selfishness. The existing Chamber is composed of old men of sixty-libertines in their youth; now stupid and selfish bigots, incapable of acquiring a single new idea. It is obvious enough that the sublime and potent eloquence of Demosthenes or of Mirabeau would be totally inapplicable to such an audience. It implies almost a want of sense to address them in a lan

guage so utterly inappropriate. This reflection, which suggested itself to every mind, destroyed the effect of General Foy's speech.

If, in this open struggle for pre-eminence between three men of the greatest talents, M. Benjamin Constant carried off the palm, it may be wholly attributed to his having assumed the tone suited to his audience. Addressing himself both to them and to the whole nation, by which his speech would be read on the following day, he found the secret of making them swallow contempt under all its forms. [You must know we have a proverb which says, Contempt may be swallowed, but cannot be chewed] M. Benjamin Constant had the art of overwhelming with ridicule the three hundred and seventy wigged heads which decide the destiny of France; and, to complete the triumph of the most subtle wit and the most consummate address which have for a long time been exhibited to the world, he never once allowed them time to interrupt him. These unfortunate men did not begin to comprehend the bitter sarcasm of one sentence until the orator had reached the middle of the succeeding one. The Constitutionel was obliged on that day to print a second edition, (a thing which does not occur three times in the year,) and it was eagerly sought for by all Paris, as containing a faithful report of that tremendous passage in which M. B. Constant replied to the hacknied declamations about their heroic fidelity, so constantly paraded by the emigrants. He proved in the clearest manner that, after having returned under Buonaparte in 1801-after having vied with each other in crowding to his anti-chamber-after having sworn allegiance to him, they cannot boast of their fidelity, and still less of their heroism; but simply of their prudence. This passage, which it is impossible to read without laughing, and which I do not quote because it is too long, and too closely connected with what precedes it, is unquestionably equal to the finest parts of the Provincial Letters of Pascal. Happy would it be for the public, and for M. B. Constant himself, if his works on religion were written with the same fervour and the same talent!

The striking merit of these three speakers has set the public on examining the merits of this individual Chamber of Deputies. The result of this investigation is, that it is, without any exception, the most stupid Chamber that has any where existed for the last thirty-five years. They are the strongest; they plunder the nation of four or five millions, and they actually do not know how to divide the spoil. For full three weeks they have not known what they are about. Three or four times in the course of a debate M. de Villele or his aid-de-camp, M. de Martignac, are obliged to mount the tribune, to prevent their deciding the same question in two opposite ways. In one of their late debates they persisted, for three whole hours, that it was expedient to decree a consequence of an article of a law, BEFORE the article itself was adopted. M. Ravez, their president, Messrs. de Villele and de Martignac, could not by any means make them hear reason. At last these gentlemen, fairly worn out in the conflict, were obliged to break up the sitting, and to adjourn the discussion till the following day. M. de Talleyrand, whose old age was enlivened and rejoiced by this farcical exhibition, said in his drawing-room, in the evening, "they are savages who have killed a hare, but can neither skin it nor cook it. Every savage, in his turn, approaches the defunct hare, turns it over from head to tail, looks at it for some time, and at last goes away, not knowing what to do with it." All the deplorable absurdities of the Chamber, said M. Seguier, (a peer of France, and first President of the Cour Royale of Paris, and what is more, a man of talent,) are calculated to produce a second edition of the list of emigrants. If you, in England, are curious to know the extent of the absurdity of the Chamber, you may read the History of the Emigration, one vol. octavo, by M. de Montrol. It is correct, impartial, and perfectly devoid of

talent.

I shall conclude this long political gossip, by a reflection of a literary cast. If Voltaire could return to life, he would not write tragedies, he would try to get chosen a deputy, for there is not a village in France in which General Foy and Benjamin Constant have not adınirers.

Apthorp's Discourses on Prophecy, 405. Fauriel's Songs of Greece, 465.

Charles's, Prince, Journey into Spain, Italian Novelists, 425.

Campbell on a London University, 499. || Irving's, W., Tales of a Traveller, 83.