We have already prefixed to our miscellany for August last, an engraving of that eminent hero, statesman, and patriot, the late general Henry Knox, accompanied with a sketch of his biography. Unfortunately, the plate was engraven from a portrait, which was taken many years since, and which of course did not give entire satisfaction to the friends and relatives of the decea sed. As they were desirous of perpetuating the memory of a man who shared the dangers and the confidence of Washington, both in the field, and in the cabinet, they have transmitted to us from Boston a more recent portrait, from the pencil of that eminent painter, our countryman Mr. Stewart. From this portrait, an engraving has been executed by Edwin in his best manner, and may fairly challenge a comparison with any work of a similar kind, excuted in this country or abroad.

VOL VII.

REVIEW.-FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

CUM TABULIS ANIMUM CENSORIS SUMET HONESTI.

Horace.

Tableau des Prisons de Lyon, pour servir à l'Histoire de la Tyrannie de 1792 et 1793, par A. F. Delandine, cidevant bibliothecaire à Lyon, l'un des prisonniers.

Picture of the Prisons of Lyons, forming materials for a history of the tyranny of 1792 and 1793, by A. F. Delandine, formerly librarian at Lyons, and one of the prisoners.

THE more prominent events of that disasterous period are sufficiently familiar to us all. But general description, however accurate, or highly coloured, excites only a feeble sympathy, compared with the minute detail of individual misfortune. Happily for human nature, our sensibility to the distress of others seems to weaken as its sphere enlarges-we may lament the misery of a nation—we may regret its ruin-but our tears are reserved for domestic sorrow; and, withdrawing our eyes from the loose indefinite gloom of public calamity, we fix them with an anxious interest on some wretched solitary victim, whose private wretchedness, or whose very name serves to render his situation more touching. With whatever vigour or brilliancy, therefore, the corruption of the cabinet, and the ravages of the army, the bloody scenes of the capital, and the devastation of the provinces may be depicted, it is from works like the present that the future Tacitus of France must draw his most afflicting representations. Composed in prison, with the objects described immediately before the writer, his work has every claim to authenticity, and we do not err in supposing that the interest which a perusal of it has inspired, will be equally felt by our readers, and by posterity. It will be remembered that in the year 1793, whilst the jacobin faction predominated in France, Lyons was besieged by the republican army on some pretence of loyalty; that at last, reduced by death, and exhausted by famine, the city opened its gates to the deputies of the government. Among these was a wretch named Collot d'Herbois, who having been once hissed from the stage in this city, determined to revenge himself amply for his disgraces. In the very theatre itself he established a ja

cobin club; a temporary commission of legal spies was created, and the persons denounced by them were carried before a tribunal of five members. An immediate proscription of all the respectable inhabitants, the clergy, the nobility, all who had taken a part in the sicge, now began; and it is of this scene that the author has given a description. He was denounced, and fled to the country; but was taken at night and carried to a prison called the Cloister with what anticipations we may collect from the following account, which gives a clear view of the summary judgments of this tribunal.

"On my arrival at the cloister, it was occupied by about twelve hundred inhabitants of Lyons, who had been arrested since the siege. Of these it was calculated that at least four-fifths would be put to death, so that it was scarcely worth the trouble to think of safety. This was indeed, less a common prison than a vast sheepfold, where the victims quietly waited for the day on which they were to be butchered by the government. The first with whom I conversed on our common lot, and their frail hopes, did not escape the fatal knife. Among these were the honest Jourdan, who, believing that he could have nothing to fear, had himself carried, although he was sick, to the tribunal, which sent him to the scaffold; the good Sémenol de Montbrison, who was saying to all of us, "I am not afraid, for out of prudence, and to ensure my safety, I went twice to the club." Bianchi, full of honour, Goyot of Villefranche, an interesting and learned old man; his countryman Girardet, who hoped soon to be free, and offered to every prisoner to execute his commands with zeal. They were part of a hundred prisoners who left the cloister at eleven o'clock, arrived at the town-house after twelve, and at half after twelve, seventeen of them were already condemned and executed. Fifteen days before another hundred had been led out on the first day, and by the tenth, all except three fell under the axe. It was here, too, that I saw Imbert Granier, a man of great acquirements, but now keeping a constant silence. The architect Dupoux, arrested for having extinguished the fire in his own house, when it had been in flames from a bomb thrown during the siege; the two brothers Perussel, the youngest of whom said to me, "They may do what they please with us now. My father, who was arrested, has been liberated; as for us, we are easy and can die without regret. They both were soon after put to death."

The feelings of the prisoners in such a situation are equally well drawn. "It is in the cloister that the days seem to consist of more than twenty-four hours. We read and wrote, and played but the continual images of ravage and destruction, the