itself, to explain satisfactorily the means that enabled him to compose such a quantity, since we know that the same habits have been persevered in by distinguished authors without leading to similar results. The truth is, that his mind was of vast capacity, his memory was of extraordinary tenacity, his fancy was elastic and restless, and he was so embued with traditions and lyrical relics, and fragments of historical legends, and family narratives, that the work which would have been to others oppressive and laborious, was to him light and fascinating. It was like story-telling, or talking upon paper. It did not fatigue him, nor make any new and troublesome demands upon his invention on the contrary, it was a relief to him— it took off a weight from his imagination, and left him free from day to day to embark in fresh ventures, and explore yet undiscovered regions.

We

Scott's political tendencies were much stronger than the public are generally aware of. They do not appear in his fictions, where, with admirable tact, he entered into all the prejudices of every party, and embodied them truly in character, without giving a triumph at the expense of dramatic vraisemblance to any; but in his private correspondence the deep interest he took in the progress of events breaks out with irrepressible ardour. We mention this without any desire to derive an inference from it unfavourable to the universality of his genius or his fame; but rather as a proof that he felt a decided sympathy in the affairs of this country, which it is gratifying to know that he regarded not rashly but judiciously, and with a full sense of the responsibilities of men in power. cannot, however, avoid observing that he sometimes carried his predilections-for he had predilections -a little too far on the occasion, for instance, of Lord Melville's acquittal from the impeachment brought against him by the Whig Ministers in 1806, Scott wrote a song which was sung by James Ballantyne at a public dinner given in honour of the event, and afterwards published by his permission in the newspapers. This song is a rough bold transcript of Scott's feelings as a politician, but betrays also his feelings as a Scotchman. Half of its energy may fairly be attributed to nationality and a personal regard for Lord Melville, but if we assign only the other half to party ardour, it will be enough to shew that Scott was much more earnestly impressed with prejudice than the world has been hitherto willing to believe. The publication of this song offended many of his friends in the antagonist section of politics.

We cannot dismiss this volume without alluding to the only circumstance in the life of Scott that darkens his memory, and that is likely to shake him in the love of mankind. His brother, Daniel Scott, was a man of dissipated habits, who, as an escape from the ruinous courses he was pursuing at home, was sent by his friends to the West Indies. His evil genius still clung to him, how. ever, in Jamaica; and once being employed in a service of some danger against a body of refractory negroes, he exhibited such a deficiency of spirit

that he returned to Scotland a dishonoured man. His mother received him with the forgiving tenderness of a mother's love, but Scott would not even see him. He always spoke of him as his relation in letters to his court friend Ellis, and never acknowledged him as his brother, which was a piece of poor pride unworthy of a lofty mind. But this was not all. When the unfortuate Daniel, broken down by indulgence and shame, gave way and died, as yet a young man, Scott refused to attend his funeral or to wear mourning for him! It is but just to add, however, that twenty years afterwards he expressed to the biographer his sorrow for the austerity with which he had treated his wretched and neglected brother. We admit that it was due to truth to place this fact before the world-but we wish the veil had been drawn by any other hand than that of his son-in-law.

Attila. By G. P. R. James, Esq.

THE last remnant of heroism in an expiring empire, the period where memory, not hope, inspires virtue, the struggle between reverence for "the shadow of a mighty name," and respect for the new power that threatens to plant a healthy sapling over the withering roots of the ancient tree, and draw from it all the moisture which enables it to preserve the semblance of vitality;-such appears to have been the intellectual germ that Mr. James has developed in these volumes. Though Rome trembled, and Constantinople shrank; though the western empire was sunk in senility, and premature debauchery prevented the eastern from ever acquiring the vigour of manhood; there were in some of the provinces a few bold spirits that struggled against the degradation of their age and country. The Dalmatian family, whose adventures the author delineates, are creatures of imagination that had living archetypes in every empire that sunk under the weight of its own vices. Those who paint vice

This

and virtue in masses, who describe one age as a Saturnian reign, and another as wholly demoralized, are ignorant both of history and of human nature. The darkest crimes sully the annals of the brightest periods; the noblest virtues lend a momentary beauty to the chronicles of demoralization. generic truth is the basis of the romance, and it is worked out with great effect; but we must not attend merely to the part that belongs to all ages and nations, we must examine the specialties by which this abstract truth is invested with vitality, and made to occupy a fixed time and a determined space.

his friendship nor his enmity is founded on calculation, and yet he is never the slave of caprice. He feels a secret consciousness of greatness, and this consciousness is at once his poetry and his logic. Such is the true conception of Attila as the representative of his age, and such was his first appearance in the mind of the author; but Mr. James subsequently softened some harsher traits, and though he improved the delicacy he also diminished the fidelity of the portraiture. We miss Honoria from the picture; we look in vain for the polygamy which the Huns practised, and the brutal Just that gave the worst honours to their career. It is probable indeed that the fiction would have lost in interest what it gained in accuracy, but we must note the omission, for this is not the only occasion on which Mr. James has shown reluctance to spread very dark shades on his canvass.

The change in the character of Attila marks the progress of time in the piece with accuracy and truth; Mr. James has shown considerable power of moral analysis in tracing the intellectual process by which suspicion is made the source of indecision, and cunning is super-added to obstinacy; and he has displayed great artistic skill in arranging the circumstances by which the change is developed. But the time in its origin and its progress has too much of the sun, it is not an age sufficiently dark for the Scythian conqueror.

The selection of place deserves much higher praise, there is scarcely a more exquisite bit of painting in words than the description of the Dalmatian landscape at the opening of the first volume, and few scenes of greater power than the earthquake at Salona.

The minor points of manner and costume are generally accurate, but they have been touched by too light a pencil. The Scythian village, the Hunnish encampment, the march of the barbarian armies, are free from the revolting circumstances that accompanied them in reality. With authors, as with men in ordinary life, good nature is a source of weakness; in the overflowing of his philanthropy Mr. James is reluctant to record anything that disgraces humanity; he gives the virtues of the period their full strength, but he hurries as fast as possible from the vices.

Notwithstanding this drawback Attila is a historical romance that merits, and will obtain, popularity; its pictures of domestic love, and family endearments, have a charm of truth and simplicity which touches our best feelings too deeply for the spell to be easily broken.

History, however, is compounded of lights and shadows; Mr. James must learn to give us more of the latter, before we can say that he has completed all his task. Perhaps it is a want of our nature to have something to hate as well as something to love; real life assuredly furnishes objects for both passions, and so we conclude should every fiction which professes to be a historical delineation of real life. The worst fault we find in Mr. James's romance is that it does not contain a character which we can bring ourselves to detest.

Arithmetic illustrated by wood-cuts; by which system the Principles of Calculation may be acquired as an amusement. Mounted and arranged by Arthur Parsey. Longman & Co., London, 1837.

MR. PARSEY is in error in claiming the merits of an invention in this brochure. This system of explaining arithmetic by models is one of those palpable methods of impressing the value and nature of quantities upon the young mind that people were in the habit of reverting to it before Mr. Parsey was born. It struck him, no doubt, as it struck others, but it was in existence and in use many years ago. It consists simply in explaining by separate models the value of progressive notation, and the operations of the different rules of arithmetic. Thus one block represents onetwo blocks two-three blocks three, and so on: they may be added or taken away in practical illustration of the rules, and by divisions in the surface, the nature of parts and fractions is at once rendered clear to the child. Mr. Parsey is entitled to credit for arranging this obvious method of instruction in a more regular form than, perhaps, it has hitherto taken; and his little work will be found very useful both to learners and teachers.

Woodland Gleanings. By the Editor of "The Sentiment of Flowers." C. Tilt, London. 1837.

THIS pretty volume, without much pretension to originality of design, and still less of matter, will be very acceptable to the lovers of nature, especially at this season of the year, and in the autumn, when those picturesque objects-trees-which it describes, assume their most beautiful hues and outlines. Trees form not only one of the most prominent features in a landscape, but they open an inexhaustible subject for contemplation to the naturalist, and are available for so many purposes of utility, that the interest they excite extends over a much larger space than any other production of the soil. The absence of foliage is the mark of sterility-its presence is an enduring bounty. What would the rock, the valley, the plain be, were it not for trees? naked, cold, and lifeless. The tree, too, is the type of the fertility or barrenness of the earth. In proportion to the depth and richness of its foliage is the luxuriance of the mould. Then, if we trace the various species through the different kinds of soil in which each most effectually takes root, we shall find an endless variety of harmonies in nature that escape observation in the surface enjoyment of cultivated scenery. The willow is, in particular, an instance of this kind. It loves to hang over the waters of a brook, where its fibres may dip into the stream, and its root be refreshed with perpetual moisture. Another peculiarity in trees, worth recollection for practical purposes, is that the time when the buds open and expand their leaves is the moment for the husbandman to sow. Ignorant farmers who, by the

force of habit, always prepare the earth at the same regular period, without thinking of the fluctuations of the seasons, ought to know that the budding of the trees is the certain herald of the spring, and that it is vain to cast seed into the soil until that

sign is visible. In the same way, the fall of the leaf is the signal for the winter seed. It is remarkable, however, that, although the time of the year when the trees bud varies year after year, the succession of trees undergoes no change whatever.

When they begin to bud, whether late or early, they always advance in the same order-beginning with the honeysuckle, which is some two months earlier than the gooseberry; then the currants, elder, birch, weeping willow, raspberry, &c.: the acacia and ash are amongst the very latest. The whole of this process of vegetation takes place, with the exception of the first few shrubs, within a single month-that month used to be April, but we are fortunate if we see the leaves of the last tree out in June. The compiler of this pleasant little volume-which bears a very graceful look, and which is written in a real spirit of admirationderives his materials chiefly from Gilpin and Evelyn, excellent authorities in their way. He gives a description of each tree, and an account of the purposes to which its timber is ordinarily applied so that in one view the reader has both the picturesque and the useful brought under his attention. The whole is illustrated by woodcuts of the trees, leaves, flowers, and fruits, to render the description still more intelligible. These cuts are generally well executed, but the engravers have not in all instances succeeded in bringing out the foliage, which is one of the greatest difficulties in their art.

Old Friends in a New Dress. By Rev. S. Sharpe. London, 1837.

SELECT fables from Æsop turned into familiar and agreeable rhymes. A proof both of the merit and the popularity of this pleasant volume is that it has run into a fifth edition. We do not know a publication of the kind better deserving of suc

cess.

A Guide for Invalids to the Continental Watering-places. By A.G. Horne, M.D., 2nd Dragoon-Guards. London, 1837.

In this little volume, which may be thrown into a corner of a valise, the tourist will find a brief note upon the principal watering-places on the continent. Some of them are treated in detail, others are merely pointed out, but on the whole the information collected into the book is of a useful character. It is to be regretted that the author was not frequently enabled to give analyses of the mineral waters, but he has done so in those places that are most numerously frequented, and the rest may be easily supplied by the traveller on the spot.

Illustrations of Human Life. By the Author of "Tremaine" and "De Vere." 3 Vols. H. Colburn, London.

MR. WARDE's reputation is high as a didactic novelist. He is at the head of a class in which he has few imitators, and into which none can enter but men of consummate ability and widereaching experience. His novels are not so much pictures of society, as practical expositions of human character. They have very little to do with modes of life, with mere conventions, forms, and manners; they anatomize the morale of society, exhibit men under its ordinary influences, and unveil their motives, and the action of their principles. In the process of this exhibition he is sometimes too exact and minute; he accumulates too many data; and occasionally becomes formal even to prolixity. But this is rather the necessity of the subject than the want of skill in the writer. Having once set in upon an abstruse delineation, it is not always possible to render it complete without sacrificing the minor interests of the fiction. Some parts of Mr. Warde's previous works have, on this account, been pronounced by many readers to be heavy and painfully elaborate. But that was because they took them up in an erroneous spirit, and anticipated a species of pleasure from them which they did not profess to realize. In their very excellence

the secret of their superiority-lay that very quality which light and superficial minds regarded with the least attention, and which appeared to them a blemish rather than a merit. But the materials of which Tremaine and De Vere are composed are durable; they will outlive the brilliant and artificial productions amongst which they appeared as certainly as the Arcadia will be read when the Euphuisms of Lylly shall be unknown-although we acknowledge that there is no sympathy in the comparison. The volumes before us contain three tales, Atticus, St. Lawrence, and Fielding, of which the last is, in every point of view, the best and most finished. They consist of the essence of acute observation on life thrown into narratives illustrative of human conduct. In Fielding we have a perfect picture of a profound thinker-the progress and history of his mind is a fine conception, admirably executed. It is the perfection of what may be supposed to be the confession of a man of reflection-and, indeed, that ideal runs more or less through all Mr. Warde's productions, while here it constitutes the main purpose of the story. In relation to his more important works, these tales are as busts to statues; but then they are full of truth, and are so replete with suggestions upon the business of life, and the formation of character, and, in consequence of their comparative brevity, contain so few desultory digressions, that we should not be surprised to learn that they had become more popular, in the general sense of the word, than either of Mr. Warde's preceding publications.

Scenes from the Life of Edward Lascelles, Gent. 2 Vols. Currie and Co., Dublin. 1837.

THE reminiscences of a life chiefly spent at sea, partly on shore, and full of accidents, shifts, and such adventures as befall only those who have spent one half of their time cruising from place to place. This work does not evince quite so thorough a nautical spirit as Tom Cringle's Log, or the Cruize of the Midge; but it exhibits, notwithstanding, an intimate acquaintance with the habitudes of the profession, and possesses all that freedom and breadth of colouring which gives such effect to strange stories, and to rapid transition of scenery. It is, perhaps, somewhat weakened in tone by a certain refinement of mind, which makes the author unconsciously suppress the bolder and coarser traits of his story; and, while there is something gained in good-taste by this suppression, there is, on the other hand, still more lost of the characteristic features of the narrative. We must observe, however, that if this be a fault it is a fault on the right side, and one which every educated mind will readily forgive. The story itself is full of interest, and it is written so truthfully that we are half tempted to believe it is, for the most part, a transcript from real life.

Mortality: a Poem sung in Solitude; with notes; to which are added Sonnets and Songs. By Thomas Cambria Jones. London, 1837.

WE have made several attempts to read this poem, and, case-hardened as we are, we could not accomplish the undertaking. We have no doubt that Mr. Jones was moved by the best possible motives in writing this strange incoherent poem ; that he believes it will be of service to the spiritual welfare of the reader, and that he is, without any vanity on the point, persuaded that he is inspired by a genius of no ordinary kind. But we assure him that these are delusions. He has fallen upon a wrong track, and if he do not abandon it he will lose himself, like a man in a wilderness. Never did enthusiast serve a more ungrateful mistress than Poesy she will lure him on, until he forsakes all useful employments to bask in her smiles, and then she will desert him to his fate. are altogether ignorant of the nature of the "illustrious patronage that has of late been so graciously showered" upon Mr. Jones, and of which he speaks exultingly in his preface, we are not prepared to say whether our advice to him is founded upon a true appreciation of circumstances. Perhaps the very production which is almost imcomprehensible to us, may have attracted notice in high quarters, and been rewarded by the fosterage of patrons better qualified than we are to penetrate its obscurities. If that be the case-if Mr. Jones's muse be really a profitable, as well as pleasurable

As we

Inspirer of course, our critical admonition goes for nothing. If

He leave no calling for this idle trade,

but, on the contrary, find the "idle trade" more advantageous than any other, he is right to persevere. The patronage that discerns the merits of this work must be of a most facile order, and Mr. Jones will do well to cultivate it earnestly, for it is more than doubtful, if he slighted it, whether he could ever again supply its place.

Piso and the Præfect; or the Ancients off their Stilts. 3 vols. London, 1837.

In this work an attempt is made to produce a Roman novel, in which the every-day manners and habitudes of the people should be familiarly shewn as our novelists show the tone of existing society in their shallow and flippant fictions. That the attempt is a failure cannot truly be attributed to any want of knowledge on the part of the author, because he affords intermittent evidences that cannot be disputed, of his intimate acquaintance with the history and literature of the Romans; but it is emphatically a failure, because his method of drawing the private life of the ancients is by the coarse and palpable process of infusing into it the humours and vulgarities of modern days. If we change the names, and transpose the allusions, then the novel will be a novel of to-day: it is not embued with the Roman spirit-all that is familiar in it is a graft on the old stock. This is hardly the way to shew the ancients off their stilts, or indeed to shew the ancients at all.

A Philosophical and Practical View of the social Bearings and Importance of Education. By J. Antrobus. London, 1837.

A WELL meant, but exceedingly inefficient treatise upon a subject of the highest importance to the best interests of mankind. The prevailing fault of this work is that it is theoretical. The whole of the actual information it conveys might with advantage be compressed into a tithe of the space. The style is too verbose and overruns the matter, which is lost in a cloud of words. The author, who states that he has conducted an establishment for youth during fourteen years, is of opinion that it is practical. If he will look over it carefully, and mark the really practical points, he will be sur→ prised at the very small portion they make of the whole. He maintains the necessity of basing education upon sound religious principles, which will be universally admitted: but when he supposes that in urging a system that shall bear reference to the human character, he is enunciating something new, he surely must forget the benevolent experiment that was tried some years ago by Pestalozzi in Switzerland.

DRURY LANE.-Duvernè has left, and Taglioni has revisited this national temple of the muses, where, as usual, Shakspeare keeps guard in the lobby, but, strange to say, they have forgotten to put a fiddle into his hands. For our part, we wonder how it happens that Mr. Manager Bunn has not taken unto himself the Opera House; his tastes are so decidedly foreign, that he would no doubt find himself much more at home in the Haymarket, amongst singers and dancers, than he is at Drury Lane amongst actors;-" what's Shakspeare to him, or he to Shakspeare?"-just nothing at all, and therefore he very properly trundles the poet out of doors and the comedians after him. But all wont do,-high prices or low prices, dancers or actors, the hard-hearted public avoid the pay-place of Drury, as if the yellow-fever abided there. Poor Bunn! he always reminds us of that ingenious gentleman, Triptolemus Yellowby, who was so exceedingly clever that he never succeeded in any thing. One of our cotemporaries talks of Taglioni drawing mints of money to the treasury; but then he adds, the sly rogue that she will take away as much as she brings. There again is another point of resemblance between the two Trips, Triptolemus Bunn, and Triptolemus Yellowby; for, what says the latter when complaining that, work and scheme as he will, he can never get a mouthful of meal from his own harvest? cart-avers," quoth the unlucky spectator," the cart-avers make it all, and the cart-avers eat it all." Now though Taglioni is the very reverse of a cart-aver,-Anglice, a cart-horse, yet she is just as likely to eat up the produce of the farm as the more clumsy quadruped. And who can blame her? All we wish is, that, when dancing off with the actor's gold, she would dance off with Mr. Manager Bunn also, which, to make a very indifferent pun, would be the best step she had ever taken. O Trip! Trip! great marvel and pity is it

"The

that the actors and authors do not combine and burn thee in effigy.

COVENT GARDEN.-Another new tragedy has been produced at this theatre, under the name of Strafford, for the benefit of Mr. Macready; and though with much in it for praise, it has not been, nor perhaps has it deserved to be, particularly successful. The author, Mr. Browning, is no doubt a man of talent, but it is very possible to have fairly earned that praise without being able to write a first-rate, or even a good tragedy. In the present case the difficulties naturally incident to this species of composition, were not a little enhanced by the subject, which was about as intractable a material as ever dramatist coped withal. The story of the unfortunate Strafford is too simple for five long acts, and much too familiar for any

ROYAL ACADEMY.-The academy has deserted Somerset House, and opened its sixty-ninth exhibition in the National Gallery, so that Art, after having been for so many years a mere lodger, may at last be said to have got a house of her own over her head-long may she retain it! for she gives good cheer and keeps good company.

In landscape and fancy paintings, this exhibition is inferior to none of its predecessors, and, inasmuch as Martin lends his aid, it may be deemed superior. Many techinal objections have been made to the peculiar style of this unrivalled artist, and, for ought we know or care, these judges by line and level may be right! Still Martin remains in the very first order of painters, and one who has carried the poetry of painting beyond any artist of ancient or modern times. Then we have Wilkie and Stanfield, each excellent in his own peculiar style, and Turner, who often offends the taste, but rarely fails to captivate the imagination. His powers are no doubt great, but all those powers are employed in flinging a false glare about nature that at once dazzles and confounds the judgment. It is as if he saw objects through a pair of spectacles, that, being themselves tinted, lent their own colour to everything within their focus.

With so little space upon our hands, we ought not perhaps to linger even a moment with the animals of Landseer; yet we cannot help it; there is not only a peculiar charm, but a strong moral influence about his works that the artist himself most

probably never contemplated. Oh, that dog, crouched beside the coffin of his peasant master! it is impossible for any one to see the poor beast in his patient, mournful watch, and not love the whole race of dogs the better even for his sake; many a four-footed dependent has, we suspect, reaped substantial benefit, for a week at least, from his master's visit to the exhibition; cuffs no doubt were fewer, and choice morsels more abundant.

Passing over some thirty or forty names, all deserving of favourable notice would our limits allow it, we come to the room of sculpture, wherein, as usual, Sir Francis Chantry shines in unquestioned and unquestionable superiority. His statue of Sir John Malcolm is a splendid work, and perhaps many will find, as we have done, even greater pleasure in contemplating the bust of Southey, a subject worthy of his genius. The marble seems literally to have softened into flesh under the touch