there was a dark line, apparently less the effect of nature than of climate. The swarthy hue of his countenance was relieved by a red tinge on either cheek; but a second glance might have served to convince the gazer that it was the consequence of unchecked dissipation, not a token of ruddy health. Indeed, notwithstanding the fine and manly character of his form and countenance, both conveyed an idea of a mind ill at ease, of a conscience smitten by the past and apprehensive of the future, yet seeking consolation in the knowledge of good that had been effected, and of more that remained to be done. Years of crime had not altogether obliterated a natural kindness of heart; he appeared as one who had outraged society and its customs in a thousand forms, yet who knew there was that within him by which he was entitled to ask and expect a shelter within her sanctuary; and when a deep flush would pass over his features, and his blood grow chill at the recollection of atrocities at which the sufferers in a score of lands had shuddered as they talked, he endeavoured to still the voice that reproached him, by placing to the credit of his fearful account some matters to which we may hereafter more distinctly refer."

There are many pretty verses scattered about the volumes: the following cannot but please many readers :

O'er the clear quiet waters
My gondola glides,
And gently it wakens

The slumbering tides.

All nature is smiling,

Beneath and above;

While earth and while heaven
Are breathing of love!

In vain are they breathing
Earth, heaven-to me,
Though their beauty and calmness
Are whispers of thee:

For the bright sky must darken,
The earth must be grey,

Ere the deep gloom that saddens
My soul, pass away.

But see, the last day beam

Grows pale, ere it die;

And the dark clouds are passing

All over the sky!

I hear thy light footstep,

Thy fair form I see;

Ah! the twilight has told thee
Who watches for thee.

The loves of Robin Hays and Barbara are scattered over the work, and must be read with the narrative, to be properly felt, we must quote nevertheless a few passages:"Barbara, did you ever hear tell of a country they call the East?'

"A country!' repeated Barbara, whose knowledge of geography was somewhat more extensive than that of Robin, although she had not travelled so much, I believe there are many countries in the East.'

"Well, I dare say there may be, Mistress Barbara : you are going to chop scholarship with me: but yet, I suppose, you do not know that they have in that country a new way of making love. It is not new to them, though it is new to us.'

"Oh, dear Robin! what is it?'

Why, suppose they wished you, a young pretty maiden as you are, to understand that I, a small deformed dragon, regarded you, only a little, like the beginning of love, they would-' Robin stooped as he spoke, and plucked a rosebud that had anticipated summer-they would give you this bud. But, suppose they wanted you to believe I loved you very much indeed, they would choose you out a full-blown rose. Barbara, I cannot find a full-blown rose; but I do not love you the less for that.'

"Give me the bud, Robin, whether or no; it is the first of the season:--my lady will be delighted with it—if, indeed, any thing can delight her!'

"I will give it you to keep; not to give away, even to your lady. Ah, Barbara! if I had any thing worth giving, you would not refuse it.'

"And can any thing be better worth giving, or having, than sweet flowers?' said the simple girl. Only it pains me to pull them-they die so soon-and then, every leaf that falls away from them, looks like a reproach!' "Should you be sorry if I were to die one of these days, Barbara,' inquired the Ranger, like one of those flowers?'

"Sorry! have I ever appeared ungrateful, Robin? When first I came here, you used to be so kind to me :-indeed, you are always kind -only I fear lately you are displeased with me about something or other. You have avoided | me-are you angry, Robin?'

"Indeed I am not; nor do I forget how often you have driven away the "shadows" that

used to come over me.'

"And do you-I mean, do you esteem me as much as ever?'

"Robin looked earnestly into her face, and then taking her hand, gently replied:

666

'I do esteem you, as you term it, more than ever; but I also love you. When a little helpless thing, I took you from your father's arms: I loved you then as a parent would love a child. When Lady Cecil took you under her care, and I saw you but seldom, my heart leaned towards the daughter of my best friend with a brother's love. And when, as I have just said, the sunlight of your smile and the gentleness of your young girlish voice dispelled much melancholy from my mind, I thought-no matter what. But now the case is altered-you see in me a mere lump, a deformed creature, a being unseemly to look upon, a wretch-!'

"Robin Hays, you wrong yourself,' interrupted Barbara; 'I do not see you thus, nor think you thus. The raven is not a beautiful bird, nor hath it a sweet voice, yet it was welcomed and beloved of the prophet Elijah!'"'

sensations so new, so undefinable, that he doubted if the air he breathed, the earth be trod on, was the same as it had been but an hour, a moment before--yet suffering still from previous agony, and receiving back Barbara as an offering from the grave, that might have closed over her; as the Ranger approached the Buccaneer, in a frame of mind which it is utterly impossible to define, Dalton threw upon him a look so full of contempt, as he glanced over his diminutive and disproportioned form, that Robin never could have forgotten it, had it not passed unnoticed in the deep feeling of joy and thankfulness that possessed his whole soul. He seized the Skipper's hand with a warmth and energy of feeling that moved his friend again towards him. The generous heart is rarely indifferent to the generous-hearted. Dalton gave back the pressure, although he turned away the next moment with a heavy sigh."

This work is advertised as the production of Mrs. S. C. Hall, whose 'Sketches of Irish Character' have raised her high among the novelists of the age. We could have allotted The Buccaneer' to her without this intimation it has all the merits and some of the defects of her other compositions; and shows a

knowledge of character, and an acquaintance with the female heart more varied and extended. She excels in drawing Irish characters, and we looked for such as we hurried on with her narrative; she has however made an excellent tale without them.

rage

for

Memoirs of Louis XVIII. Written by Himself. London: Saunders & Otley. SUCH, of late years, has been the memoirs in France, that they have almost superseded every other kind of literature. Since the appearance of the voluminous A shot meant for another, had wounded 'Mémoires d'une Contemporaine,' in which Barbara her father is watching over her a certain Madame de Sainte-Elme comes when Robin Hays enters in great affliction, forward, and lays before the public a disgustfor rumour had made her wound mortal. ing account of intrigues with eminent indi"Robin grasped his hands convulsively toge-viduals, which for the most part are pure ther-shook back the hair that curled over his fictions, the mania for private biography has forehead, as if it prevented his seeing clearly increased. We have seen successively ap -his breathing became still more painfully distinct-large drops of moisture burst upon pear, Memoirs of Cardinal Dubois, the Duc his brow-his tongue moved, but he could utter de Richelieu, Madame Dubarry, Robespierre, no sound-his under lip worked in fearful con- and many others, all got up by the Parisian vulsion-and, despite Dalton's efforts to re- booksellers, to satisfy the craving appetite strain him, he sprang to the side of the couch of the public. Almost the only genuine with the bound of a red deer, and falling on his Memoirs we know of, that have appeared knees, succeeded in exclaiming, in France within the last six or eight years, are those of Ouvrard, and the Duchess of Abrantès; both filled with interesting and original matter-both containing excellent materials for history.

"She lives! she lives!'

"The sweet sleeper at once awoke; the long dark lashes separated, and the mild hazel eye of Barbara turned once more upon Robin Hays; a weak smile separated lips that were as white as the teeth they sheltered, as she extended her hand towards the Ranger. But, as if the effort was too much, her eyes again closed; and she would have looked as if asleep in death, but that Robin kissed her hand with a respectful feeling that would have done honour to men of higher breeding. The maiden blood tinged her cheek with a pale and gentle colour-the hue that tints the inner leaves of a young white

rose.

On the death of Louis XVIII., several volumes of Memoirs were published under the name of Madame la Comtesse du C****, evidently leading the public to infer that they were written by the too celebrated Countess Du Cayla, whose intimacy with the voluptuous old monarch was known to every body. As Madame du Cayla meddled with state affairs, and actually brought the Villèle administration into office, much interesting information was anticipated from this work; and no doubt it would have had an extensive sale, had not the lady published a statement disclaiming all knowledge of it.

The Buccaneer had been a silent spectator of this scene, and it had taught him a new lesson-one, too, not without its bitterness. When Robin, with more discretion than could have been expected from him, silently withdrew into the outer room, he beheld Dalton standing in The Mémoires de Louis XVIII.' have an attitude of deep and painful thought near been manufactured after the same fashion; its furthermost entrance. As the Ranger ap- and the author has taken good care to leave proached, his heart swelling with an overflow-off at the French revolution, lest he should ing of joy and gratitude-his head reeling with nvolve himself in statements, upon the ac

6

the theory of his art, medicine, as he was far from lucratively prosperous in its practice. He had produced upon it a didactic poem, The Art of Preserving Health,' which young Burney considered to be as nervous in diction as it was

enlightening in precept. But Dr. Armstrong, though he came from a part of the island whence travellers are by no means proverbially smitten with the reproach of coming in vain; nor often stigmatized with either meriting or being addicted to failure, possessed not the personal skill usually accorded to his countrymen, of adroitness in bringing himself forward. Yet he was as gaily amiable as he was eminently learned; and though, from a keen moral sense of right, he was a satirist, he was so free from malevolence, that the smile with which he uttered a remark the most ironical, had a cast of good-humoured pleasantry that nearly turned his sarcasm into simple sport."

The mother of Mad. D'Arblay, Esther Sleepe, is delineated very gracefully:"Esther Sleepe-this memorialist's mother

-of whom she must now with reverence, with fear-yet with pride and delight-offer the tribute of a description-was small and delicate, but not diminutive, in person. Her face had that sculptural oval form which gives to the air of the head something like the ideal perfection of the poet's imagination. Her fair complexion was embellished by a rosy hue upon her cheeks of Hebe freshness. Her eyes were of the finest azure, and beaming with the brightest intelligence; though they owed to the softness of their lustre a still more resistless fascination: and they were set in her head with such a peculiarity of elegance in shape and proportion, that they imparted a nobleness of expression to her brow and to her forehead, that, whether she were beheld when attired for society; or surprised under the negligence of domestic avocation; she could be viewed by no stranger whom she did not strike with admiration; she could be broken in upon by no old friend who did not look at her with new plea

sure."

There is something in these volumes about all men of eminence, and ladies of mark and distinction; of Mrs. Montague, there is a little and to the purpose: we see her before us in the clear painting of Mad. D'Arblay : "Her conversational powers were of a truly superior order; strong, just, clear, and often eloquent. Her process in argument, notwithstanding an earnest solicitude for pre-eminence, was uniformly polite and candid. But her reputation for wit seemed always in her thoughts, marring their natural flow and untutored expression. No sudden start of talent urged forth any precarious opinion; no vivacious new idea varied her logical course of ratiocination. Her smile, though most generally benignant, was rarely gay; and her liveliest sallies had a something of anxiety rather than of hilarity-till their success was ascertained by applause.

"Her form was stately, and her manners were dignified. Her face retained strong remains of beauty throughout life; and though its native cast was evidently that of severity, its expression was softened off in discourse by an almost constant desire to please."

Here is the character of Horace Walpole in four lines had it extended to thirty pages the delineation could not have been more satisfactory:

66

Here, also, the Honourable Horace Walpole, afterwards Lord Orford, sometimes put forth his quaint, singular, often original, generally sarcastic, and always entertaining powers."

Her portrait of Sir Joshua Reynolds is little inferior to some of his own: we can make room but for the head and shoulders:

"There was little or no play of countenance, beyond cheerfulness or sadness, in the features of Sir Joshua; but in his eyes there was a searching look, that seemed, upon his introduction to any person of whom he had thought be fore he had seen, to fix, in his painter's mind, the attitude, if it may be so called, of face that would be most striking for a picture. But this was rarely obvious, and never disconcerting; he was eminently unassuming, unpretending, and natural."

The authoress relates an interview, which laid down his head to die; we have read it Dr. Johnson indulged her with after he had with deep interest: his words are well worth remembering. His course to the latest was bright.

"I gave him concisely the history of the Bristol milk-woman, who is at present zealously patronized by the benevolent Hannah More. I expressed my surprise at the reports generally in circulation, that the first authors that the milk-woman read, if not the only ones, were Milton and Young. I find it difficult,' I added, 6 to conceive how Milton and Young could be the first authors with any reader. Could a child understand them? And grown

persons, who have never read, are, in literature, children still.'

"Doubtless,' he answered. 'But there is nothing so little comprehended as what is Genius. They give it to all, when it can be but a part. The milk-woman had surely begun with some ballad-Chevy Chace or the Children in the Wood. Genius is, in fact, knowing the use of tools. But there must be tools, or how use them?

A man who has spent all his life in this room, will give a very poor account of what is contained in the next.'

666

Certainly, sir; and yet there is such a thing as invention? Shakspeare could never have seen a Caliban?'

'No; but he had seen a man, and knew how draw a monstrous cow, must know first what a to vary him to a monster. A person, who would cow is commonly; or how can he tell that to give her an ass's head, or an elephant's tusk, will make her monstrous? Suppose you show me a man, who is a very expert carpenter, and that an admiring stander-by, looking at some of his works, exclaims: 'O! he was born a carpenter! What would have become of that birth-right, if he had never seen any wood?'

on.

you in the world. And we are told you are very ill. But we can't spare you.-Besides, Madam, I want your Johnson's letters for my book!'

"Then, stopping at once himself and his hearer, by spreading abroad both his arms, in starting suddenly before her, he energetically added, For THE BOOK, Madam! the first book in the universe!'

“Swelling, then, with internal gratulation, yet involuntarily half-laughing, from good-humouredly catching the infection of the impulse which his unrestrained self-complacency excited in his listener, he significantly paused; but the next minute, with double emphasis, and strong, even comic gesticulation, he went on: I have every thing else! every thing that can be named, of every sort, and class, and description, to show the great man in all his bearings!-every thing,-except his letters to you! But I have nothing of that kind. I look for it all from you! It is necessary to complete my portrait. It will be the First Book in the whole universe, Madam! There's nothing like it-' again half-laughing, yet speaking more and more forcibly; 'There never was, and there never will be!-So give me your letters, and I'll place them with the hand of a master!""

These volumes surpass in interest and in value most of the reminiscences of these our latter days: the authoress moved in the scenes which she describes; was the companion or the friend of almost every person she mentions; and as she is a lady of unquestioned veracity, as well as talent, we put full confidence in her communications. Moreover, a large portion of the work was written while Johnson scattered his wisdom and his wit, and Burke displayed his eloquence. Fortunately for us, Mad. D'Arblay wrote regular accounts of all that she imagined would be amusing or interesting to a man of education and sense, and addressed them to her friend Mr. Crisp, who living at a distance in the country, opened his ears to whatever was related of poets, actors, painters, and orators.

Works of Lord Byron. Vol. XII. With Illustrations. London: Murray.

ON opening this beautiful volume we see a fine view of Florence, and another of Venice; and, as we proceed, we find many noble poems and numerous notes from the pens of such critics as Jeffrey and Lockhart. The principal poems are 'The Doge of Venice, and "The Vision of Judgment': but Francesca of Rimini' will be read with interest by all who wish to see how such an original genius figures in translation; while the two literary Eclogues cannot fail to excite a smile in some, and displeasure in others, who happen to find their names where no one could well wish to be mentioned. There is one noble poem-not so much known now as it will be it

which we gladly transfer to our pages; was written about the middle of April, 1819, while the poet was sailing on the river which lends its name to the verses. Such is the story told by the Countess Guiccioli, and the letters of Byron might be quoted in corroboration.

To the Po.'

River, that rollest by the ancient walls,

Where dwells the lady of my love, when she Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls A faint and fleeting memory of me; What if thy deep and ample stream should be A mirror of my heart, where she may read The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee, Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed! What do I say-a mirror of my heart? Such as my feelings were and are, thou art; Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong! And such as thou art were my passions long.

Time may have somewhat tamed them,-not for ever;
Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye
Thy bosom overboils, congenial river!

Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away.
But left long wrecks behind, and now again,
Borne in our old unchanged career, we move;
Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main,
And I-to loving one I should not love.

The current I behold will sweep beneath

Her native walls and murmur at her feet;
Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe
The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat.
She will look on thee-I have looked on thee,

Full of that thought; and, from that moment, ne'er Thy waters dream of, name, or see,

Without the inseparable sigh for her!

Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream;
Yes! they will meet the wave I gaze on now:
Mine cannot witness, even in a dream,

That happy wave repass me in its flow!
The wave that bears my tears returns no more:
Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep?
Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore,
I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep.
But that which keepeth us apart is not
Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth,
But the distraction of a various lot,

As various as the climates of our birth.
A stranger loves the lady of the land,

Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood Is all meridian, as if never fann'd

By the black wind that chills the polar flood. My blood is all meridian; were it not,

I had not left my clime, nor should I be, In spite of tortures, ne'er to be forgot,

A slave again of love,-at least of thee.

'Tis vain to struggle-let me perish youngLive as I lived, and love as I have loved; To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved. There are many curious notes on the literary Eclogues, The Doge of Venice,' and "The Vision of Judgment: we wish we had room to quote some of the angry passages between Byron and Southey: it appears that part of the poetic attack on the latter was written before the article appeared, for which the lord challenged the commoner. The message was, it seems, sent by too kind and prudent a hand to be delivered-that of Douglas Kin

naird.

hovel! I can never sleep here! What a horrible house!'

"And yet I built it myself,' exclaimed a deep, sepulchral voice. It proceeded from a man near me, who held a lamp in his hand.

"This man spoke French. I looked at him, and beheld a dreadful countenance. I was at first horror-struck, but I took courage and addressed him :

"Good God! how came you to leave your country to inhabit this savage desert?' And I added, internally, 'This man must be an infamous villain, who has fled from the galliesperhaps from the guillotine.'

"And, in truth, all this was expressed in the dark, sinister, and murderous countenance of the host.

"I determined not to sleep in the house myself, but, fearful that the confined air of a carriage might be prejudicial to my child, I selected the best room, had the window opened, juniper berries burned, and a brasero put into it, with the charcoal extinguished. Then, leaving the child there with her nurse, I went with Junot back to the carriage, in which we passed the night. "I had then with me an Italian woman, the wife of my husband's first valet-de-chambre, and who acted as my housekeeper. She was extremely pretty, very much attached to me, and I was very partial to her. She belonged to that race of good servants, now extinct. She would not remain in my daughter's carriage, in which she travelled, but preferred sleeping in one of the rooms of this horrible casa. Leaving, therefore, her husband to watch over the luggage, and keep the escort in order, she took up her quarters in the apartment next to my daughter's.

"The latter had been asleep some time, when Madame Heldt entered the room, and appeared before Fanchette (the nurse) with a pale and horror-struck countenance. Fanchette, who was naturally no Bayard, trembled dreadfully on seeing the fright of her companion. My own maid had preferred sleeping in the carriage; therefore these two were alone.

WE shall conclude our translations from the present volumes with the following description of a Spanish inn, which, with a little dash of romance to give it effect, would make a good scene in a melo-drama.

"We next slept at San-Pedro, a place still more horrible than I had yet seen. We arrived late in the evening; the weather was cloudy, and it was dark when our carriage stopped at the door of the house which was to afford us shelter for the night. I was almost asleep from fatigue, arising more particularly from the attention with which I had, as we passed along, examined the trees and bushes in the forest, to see if I could perceive any suspicious looking people on the watch for us. Junot, who, as a measure of precaution, chose to walk by the side of the carriage, reached the house before I

did.

"Do not be frightened at your possada,' said he to me, laughing. Your bed-room is certainly not elegant, but if we find no toads it we shall do very well.'

in

"As he spoke, I roused myself, got out of the carriage and entered the house....House indeed!....Let the reader imagine a hut of clay, divided into two or three holes, scarcely more than five feet high, which were termed rooms. And from each hole exhaled a dreadful stench!

"Ah!' cried I, drawing back, 'what a

Junot had so strong an antipathy to a toad that the sight of one almost made him faint.

has been murdered.'

"Fanchette uttered a piercing cry. "Peace! for God's sake, hold your tongue! we shall share the same fate else. There is also a huge instrument of torture in the room.'....

"Fanchette easily believed all this, and her faith would even have gone much further. She however determined to verify the fact, and taking the lamp with a trembling hand, carried it into Madame Heldt's room, the latter having, in her terror, upset her own and extinguished it. Fanchette then looked under the housekeeper's bed. At first she saw only fresh straw chopped, such as is used in Spain.... But on bringing the lamp down, she perceived the two naked feet of a man, and above them two legs which seemed to belong to a body.

"The two women, dreadfully agitated, were very near falling by the side of the corpse. Fanchette, braver than her companion, perhaps because she had a greater responsibility, said that they must leave the room and call for assistance.

Madame Heldt then made her observe the instrument of torture, which was discovered next But Fan

day to be a flail for thrashing corn.

fears made them imagine, and that was of the chette and the housekeeper only saw what their

most horrible kind.

his rounds. The night was 'fine, and in his uneasiness-for everybody was uneasy in this dreary place-he had preferred not to go to bed; but had taken up his bivouac upon two bundles of fresh straw which he quitted every now and then to see if all was safe. On hearing the noise of his cavalry boots upon the little stones with which the court was paved, Fanchette called to him. In an instant the brave and excellent young man was in Madame Heldt's room, when the first words he heard were corpse and murder. On perceiving the naked feet. under the bed, and not having the same fear of a dead man as the women had, he pulled at the feet and dragged from the straw in which it was enveloped, the naked body of a man, who seemed to have died recently, but whose corpse exhibited no marks of violence. Without however giving himself time to examine the state of the body, he told one of the women to call the master of the house. But the moment he had seized the dead man by the heels, both had run into the other room and taken their station near my daughter's cradle, as if to ask protection from this dear child, whose beautiful head, covered with auburn tresses, rested upon one of her arms as she slept the sleep of angels. M. Laborde, unwilling to give the alarm, called one of the soldiers of the escort, then, taking the lamp, he went to the kitchen where he found the host in a sound sleep upon the floor, near the remains of a fire round which the muleteers had supped.

"This man is not a murderer,—at least,

he has not been so to-night,' thought M. Laborde; but no matter, we must know what that

corpse means.'

"He pushed the man rudely with his foot, and on his awaking, held a pistol to his head. The poor wretch thought his last hour was come, and uttered the most doleful cries.

"Peace!' said M. Laborde, or I will blow your brains out. What is it I see in one of the bed-rooms, thou atrocious murderer!'

"Good God! Sir, I am no murderer,' said the man, falling on his knees and clasping his hands. I will tell all. But do not acquaint his excellency the ambassador with it. You will see that I am guiltless of any crime.'

"M. Laborde looked sternly at him, and the poor man, though with the air and face of a determined villian, was so frightened that he could scarcely tell his story. It seems that one of his ploughboys had died that morning, and was to be buried next day. Our arrival had caused the removal of the corpse, because the room in which it lay was one of the best in the house. If the ambassador or his lady had done me the honour to sleep in my house,' said the man, I would have had the body removed in a sheet without its being perceived. But as only one of their attendants. occupied the room, I thought that the remains of poor Garcia under the bed, would not be in her way, more particularly as she appeared so much fatigued, that I thought she would not perceive the body. It seems I was mistaken. But, colonel, if I had committed a murder, I certainly should not have put any one to sleep in that room, until I had made every trace of it disappear.'

"He was right; M. Laborde inquired who would answer for his respectability; and he referred to the priest and the Sangrado of the village.

"Lock me up till the morning, Sir, if you think I have not told you the truth, and then I shall be able to prove my innocence.'

"No sooner said than done; and the poor man was locked in one of his own dark rooms. Two soldiers were then despatched to put the body upon the bed it had previously occupied ; and M. Laborde advised the two women to carry my daughter to the carriage, as the

ploughboy might have died of an infectious disease, the yellow fever being then at Cadiz. Next morning I thanked M. Laborde for this kind thought; but Junot had no intention of thanking the host, whom he swore he would send to the other world after the ploughboy. The poor wretch had hid himself, fearful of encountering the anger of the great lord, as he termed Junot.

"I am no great lord, thou villain!' said Junot; but I am a father, and a humane master. And I cannot conceive how you could have thought of making two women and a child-and my child too-sleep in a room, not only impregnated with the fetid and pestilential air of a dangerous disease, but containing also the corpse of one who had fallen a victim to that disease!'

"Junot's anger rose so high that he was about to seize the poor fellow by the throat, when the priest and the village doctor arrived. They certified that the neighbourhood of the corpse was not dangerous. The ploughboy had died of pleurisy. The priest had administered the extreme unction to him; and as for the doctor, if there were murder in the case, it concerned him more than any one else.

"Neither Madame Heldt nor Fanchette would however admit, that this corpse had died like other corpses; and this impression has remained so strong, that Madame Heldt, who mentioned the circumstance within the last fortnight, still maintains that a murder had been committed, and that, without the help of Colonel Laborde, she and her companion would have shared the same fate, as well as my daughter Josephine. 'Poor little innocent angel,' added Madame Heldt."

4

The Family Library, No. 36.—Six Months
in the West Indies.
Edinburgh Cabinet Library, No. 10.—Baron
Humboldt's Travels.

Two delightful volumes, that will recommend themselves. Mr. Coleridge's is one of the most entertaining, and Baron Humboldt's one of the most valuable works of our modern literature ;-the former is a republication without omission, and with trifling additions: the latter is a condensation, but done with that care which has always distinguished the Edinburgh Cabinet Library.

The Classic Wreath. No. I. WE noticed, not long since, two modest little periodicals, the one emanating from St. Paul's School, the other from Christ's Hospital; here is a third, written by the pupils of the King's College. We thank our young friends for their courtesy in sending us this early copy of their first and forthcoming number, and heartily wish them success.

Polonia. No. IV. London: Fox.

The Polish Record. Nos. I. & II. Hull: Wilson. THESE works have been projected by the friends of liberty, to preserve in the minds of Englishmen a lively and lasting interest in the condition of unfortunate Poland. They are both conducted with talent-both contain papers of stirring interest-and we wish them both that success which the disinterested exertions of the projectors so well deserve.

OUR LIBRARY TABLE.

have been well had it shown some years earlier. The first of the Sermons contained in this number, is, we suspect, from the Bishop of London's pen; and if all which succeed approach it, in piety and excellence, the publication will be of great value to the christian world.

'Prose, e Carmi, del Luogotenente C. Galli.'Much ingenuity is displayed in this little volume; and if any of our readers are desirous of seeing how an observant, moralizing mind, may give a voice to inanimate things, they cannot do better than read the fables of Lieutenant

Galli. He has laid whatever exists under contribution to his fancy, and the brevity of his narrations will recommend them to many who would not endure wise lessons of greater length.

'Christmas Tales, by W. H. Harrison.'-These tales might have passed among the common-place, but for the illustrations, which were, it is acknowledged, originally designed to illustrate Scott's novels; so that, while reading, we are constantly reminded of what is most excellent, and are obliged to institute a comparison, which we should have imagined Mr. Harrison would willingly have avoided.

'The Excitement, for 1833.'-There are, in this little volume, a great variety of moving incidents by flood and field, and we think the work likely to interest young people, which was the object with the compiler.

'The Infant Annual, for 1833.'-This we knew was a precocious age, but we were not aware that infants patronized Annuals. It is a pretty little book, but written too much in the good boy and bad boy style to be quite to our taste.

'The Sacred Offering, for 1833.'-A very tasty and beautiful little volume, full of gentle feeling; and though the poetry is not of a very high order, it is often touching, and always graceful and pleasant.

"Tales of Animals, by Peter Parley.'-This is a republication of a very successful American work; but we incline to believe, from our knowledge of American typography and wood engraving, that Peter Parley will hardly recognize himself in his beautiful costume. We have not seen a work better suited for a Christmas pre

sent.

'Abbott's Elements of Plane and Spherical Trigonometry.'-The writer of this useful treatise has greatly simplified the science, and rendered the labour of the student lighter and more pleasant by using none but the most plain and familiar language. Were we inclined to be captious, we should object to the extreme meagreness of the chapter on geodesiacal operations; the subject should either have been omitted or treated at greater length.

'Jamieson's Arithmetical Tables.'-A judiciou compilation; the introduction of tables of ancient coins is a decided improvement.

The Family Temperance Meeting.-There are conversations on frugality and temperance, in this small book, which may be read with ad vantage, by young and old.

COUSIN, WHEN THE SPRING SHALL FALL
COUSIN, when the spring shall fall,
Where wilt thou be straying?
When the early linnets call,
Where wilt thou be Maying?
When the winter snows dissolve,

And bear off cold weather,
Wilt not quit thy cold resolve,

And let all fade together?

Seest thou her?-seest thou the glow
Near her temples playing?
And those smiles that come and go ?---
Now, wilt thou go straying?

If thou must be gone, when spring
Bear away cold weather,
Ah, take up yon trembling thing,
And begone together!

LIVING ARTISTS.-No. XVII. C. R. LESLIE, R.A.

LESLIE stands high in the rank of our painters of domestic scenes, or subjects connected with life and manners. He is all naExercises adapted to Hiley's English Grammar.' ture, not common, but select-all life, not ed in this compilation; the exercises not only lineament and hue to the graceful duties of -Great skill and judgment have been display-muscular, but mental. He delights in delineating the social affections, in lending admirably illustrate the several rules, but also convey much valuable information. Mr. Hiley the fire-side. No one sees with a truer eye has subjoined a brief system of teaching the art the exact form which a subject should take; of composition, which possesses some origi- and no one surpasses him in the rare art of nality, and great merit. inspiring it with sentiment and life. He is always easy, elegant, and impressive: be studies all his pictures with great care, and, perhaps, never puts a pencil to the canvas till he has painted the matter mentally, and is full of quiet vigour : he approaches Wilkie can see it before him shaped out of air. He loveliness, and has a tenderness and pathos in humour, Stothard in the delicacy of female altogether his His action is easy: there without seeming to know it, and his women is no straining: his men are strong in mind, have sometimes an alluring naïveté, and unconscious loveliness of look, such as no other painter rivals.

The Anatomy and Physiology of the Organ of Hearing with Remarks on Congenital Deafness, the Diseases of the Ear, some Imperfections of the Organ of Speech, and the proper Treatment of these several Affections, by David Tod.'-This is an

excellent work. It contains many interesting original views, not only on the anatomy, but also on the physiology of the ear, and is well worthy the attention of the medical profession.

'Animal Mechanics, applied to the Prevention

and Cure of Spinal Curvature, and other personal Deformities, by T. Sheldrake.'-Mr. Sheldrake's name has been so long and so favourably known in connexion with the treatment of diseases of the spine and personal deformity, that we do not think it necessary to say more than that his work is the result of extensive and scientific practice.

'Gibson's French, English, and Latin Vocabulary.'-The design of this little work is to combine the study of French and Latin. It is compiled with great care, and is well worthy the

attention of teachers.

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That

own.

It is so easy to commit extravagance-to make men and women wave their arms like windmill wings, and look with all their might -nay, we see this so frequently done by artists who believe all the while that they are marvellously strong in things mental-that we are glad to meet with a painter who lets nature work in a gentler way, and who has the sense to see that violence is not dignity, nor extravagance loftiness of thought. We could instance many of the works of Leslie in confirmation of this: nor are his pictures