with some forcible remembrance; and heroes, poets, statesmen, patriots,
legislators, philosophers, and the historical events connected with
their names, must congregate before us in sublime and touching
similitude. "Alas, poor country!"--On those shores the monuments of
science and of art, which drew admirers from the remotest corners of the
earth, are now demolished by the savage and cowardly slaves of a despot,
who is himself a slave; the eloquence which swayed the passions of
applauding multitudes is dumb; the pencil of Appelles that breathed over
the canvass, and the chisel of Praxiteles that gave life and animation
to shapeless blocks, are now no more; and the all-powerful lyre, whose
sweeping chords would rouse the soul to rage or melt it into pity, is
now, and perhaps FOR EVER, mute and unstrung!

These observations, which you may think too enthusiastic, were elicited
by the perusal of an article in your No. 388, entitled "A Desultory
Chapter on Localities." Your Correspondent states, that "it is needless
to travel to foreign countries in search of localities. In our own
metropolis and its environs a diligent inquirer will find them at every
step." The following Collection will serve to confirm the truth of his
statement, and should you deem it worthy "a local habitation" in your
excellent journal, I doubt not it will prove interesting, if not quite
new to many of your readers.[1]

[1] Is not this very interesting extract by Leigh Hunt?--We have
not his _Indicator_ at hand for reference.

C.E.

"In St. Giles' Church lie Chapman, the earliest and best translator of
Homer; and Andrew Marvell, the wit and patriot, whose poverty Charles