LITERARY NOTICES.

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Messrs. Hurst and Blackett have just issued The Life of Marguerite D'Angoulême, by Miss Freer. The authorities from whence it has been compiled are sufficient vouchers for its accuracy. We may refer to this book more fully on another occasion. Meanwhile, Miss Pardoe's Life of Marie de Medicis has deservedly reached a second edition.

VOYAGES AND TRAVELS.

The Mediterranean: a Memoir, Physical, Historical, and Nautical, is the title of a book by Admiral Smyth, for which he has been rewarded by the Royal Geographical Society with a gold medal. A great portion of it is of more interest to the professional and scientific man than to the general reader, though it contains much information useful to all.

For clever graphic sketches of people and scenery in our possessions at the antipodes, with much valuable information as to the present condition of New Zealand and Australia, we commend Mr. R. Edmund Malone's Three Years' Cruise in the Australian Colonies (Bentley).

Those who are satisfied to read nothing that does not concern, directly or indirectly, the present great question, will find much to interest and instruct them on the subject of Russia's Botany Bay, in Mr. L. S. Hill's Travels in Siberia.

Evenings at Antioch; with Sketches of Syrian Life, by T. A. Neale, Esq., (Eyre and Co.) is really a charming book: not the work of a mere traveller passing through the scenes he describes, but of one who resides among them, and has made his homé with the people whose lives he sketches so pleasingly.

FICTION.

More than one publisher has assured us that so bad a season for the "novelmarket" as the present has scarcely been known. Yet a few aspirants for public favor still appear, and as the season of Ramsgate, Margate, Ryde, and Cowes, is approaching, young ladies who sit on the sands, with green "pokes" hiding their pretty faces, will naturally want the inevitable three volumes.

Wilkie Collins comes out with Hide and Seek (Bentley) for their delectation; while Mrs. Marsh, the talented authoress of "Emilia Wyndham," has published Aubrey (Hurst and Blackett). Mr. Collins's work appears too late for us to notice it this month; but, for unflagging interest and beautiful delineation of character, we yield warm praise to Mrs. Marsh's three volumes. Think of twin brothers, in love with the same young lady! Imagine the "situations" arising from such a state of affairs, and worked up by so skilful a hand as that which has penned Aubrey !

Julie, or Love and Duty, by Emilie Carlen (Bentley), would never have been issued by so good a judge of literary merit as Mr. Bentley but for the popularity of the authoress's name. It is milk-and-water, with an unreasonable proportion of the weaker fluid.

Not so Angelo; a Romance of Modern Rome, which the same publisher has given to the world. It is a story to make the heart throb, the cheek pale, the hair stand on end in the true "Castle of Otranto" style, and as cleverly done, be it added, as the very best of such romances.

The Hero of our Days, translated from the Russian of Michael Lermontoff, has found no less than three publishers to give it to the reading public at the same time---Ingram and Cooke, Bohn, and Hodgson. The last charges the moderate sum of One

Shilling only for his edition, which is done by Madame Pulsky. It is the story of a very heartless, unprincipled, and not very entertaining Muscovite roué.

A contrast to it is The Great Highway: a Story of the World's Struggles, by W. S. Fullom (Longmans), written with a purpose, and in a sincerely religious spirit.

Edward Willoughby, by the author of "The Discipline of Life," (Hurst and Blackett) is a well-told tale of true love; but it wants incident, and the author wants more fire and vivacity.

POETRY.

We have noticed a batch of poets elsewhere, which relieves us from the necessity of saying much under this head, except to recommend to all who love fun as well as poetry a little book issued by Saunders and Otley, called Flotsam and Jetsam: a Cargo of Christmas Rhymes, by Hookanit Bee, Esq.

RELIGION.

If the demand equal the supply of books issued on the subject of religion, decidedly we live in a religious age. It would be impossible for us to chronicle the mere titles of one-half of these works-far less to read them, or to obtain such an insight into them as would guide others in estimating their nature and contents. We can only select one or two of the most noticeable.

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Sermons on National Subjects, by Charles Kingsley (Griffin and Co.), at once attract attention. The author is well known for his tales of "Alton Locke," "Yeast," and Hypatia," and still more admired by ourselves for his "Saints' Tragedy." He has the reputation of being an exemplary parish priest; and, certainly, more admirable sermons, taking into consideration the audience to whom they were addressed, we have seldom read than these.

Consecrated Heights, or Scenes of Higher Manifestation, by the Rev. Robert Fergusson, LL.D. (Ward & Co.), is a work which will be admired and appreciated by every reader of cultivated understanding; for not only is the subject one of deep interest, but it is treated with a degree of enthusiastic eloquence, as far removed from rant as it is from common-place.

The indefatigable Dr. Cumming gives us Sabbath-morning Readings on the Old Testament, and The Great Sacrifice, or the Gospel according to Leviticus (Shaw): two works written in his usual lucid style; while the latter is especially valuable for the many clear expositions it affords of Mosaic "types."

A little volume, called Religion and Business, by Mr. Morris, is a sincere and wellwritten work.

A Narrative of the Persecution of the Madiai will be read by those who are not tired of this unhappy subject.

Mr. Westerton has printed his Correspondence with the Bishop of London, on the subject of the Puseyite practices at St. Paul's, Knightsbridge. We regard these squabbles as a melancholy scandal to our Church; but this much may, certainly, be said in favor of Mr. Westerton——that he has the popular feeling on his side.

MISCELLANEOUS.

Musings of a Musician is the rather alliterative title of a work, by a Mr. Lunn, which (while we distrust our ability to do justice to it professionally) we can recommend as an agreeable little pocket volume, for readers in general.

A Handbook to the Library of the British Museum, by Richard Sims, of the MSS. department (J. R. Smith), will, at least, be valued by literary men, and by all readers in the National Library.

REMAINDER OF THE CHAPTER ON

THE ORIGIN OF GREAT NAMES.

LORD RAYLEIGH.

(Concluded from page 171.)

Northward of Lucerne, about a mile distant, lies a long and narrow sheet of water, known by the name of the Red Lake. Hills, more or less precipitous, and in most places covered with thick woods, rise directly from its banks, flinging a constant shadow and gloom across it. Its depth is unknown; but there is a tradition of a whole forest of firs having slid down, and settled, and taken root, at its bottom-stately, subaqueous, thriving trees. Fish, of prodigious magnitude and of many varieties, wander in its waters. Pike, of the size of a Welsh coracle; carp, as fat, and lazy, and mud-loving as so many swine; slimy tench; white, woolly, worthless perch; and a fish unknown to English anglersflat, round, shiny, scaly, and rough to the finger as a file. This lake, worthy to have washed the margin of a Druid grove, and reflected from its depths the smoky flames of altars whose sacrifices were human victims, is regarded by the neighbouring peasants with similar feelings to those with which the Calabrian fisherman still looks down, from the gloomy groves around it, on the mysterious waters of Avernus. Even persons of a higher class in life speak with a sensation of awe of its unfathomable profundity and its black and solemn surface. This was a favorite haunt of ours, and many a pleasant hour did we spend there, roaming round its silent shores, watching the great pike splashing after their prey, or the graceful heron stalking among the rushes. Then we would stretch across the hill, which intercepts the view of it from the lake, to the ancient and lonely Convent of Rathhausen, once of the strictest order of Saint Bernard. Here we would linger, deep into the night, while the moon shone upon the lofty walls and its quaint and spacious gardens: living in the fancy, as we heartily wish we had lived in the flesh, three or four centuries ago; for we are not, we shrewdly suspect, very much fitted for the present age.

We would go a mile out of our way, at any time, were we ever so late or weary, to see a crumbling old castle of the middle ages, though we had not the slightest knowledge of its name and by whom it was

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anciently inhabited. Here we were exceedingly fortunate in the opportunity which we enjoyed of recalling to mind those old times, which it would be foolish to call either good or comfortable, but when men at least wore their true colours-before civilization, like an elaborating painter, had smoothed down everything salient and startling, making people, we solemnly believe, infinitely worse and more murderous in their hearts, from the very necessity which it imposes upon them of concealing their feelings. Within a mile, or little more, of the town-leaning over the lake, by the village of Meggen, almost under the mighty shadow of Righi—stands a shattered tower, surrounded by a few broken walls, which was as replete to us with interesting associations as the finest ruins of Greece and Rome. This was the castle of New Hapsburg, the last Austrian stronghold in the canton, which was besieged and taken, and dismantled, by the Lucernois, in 1352. But it had other, and—we are almost ashamed to say-more engrossing reminiscences to our minds, than those connected with Swiss valour and patriotism. Within these walls was spent the youth of one of the bravest, wisest, and most fortunate of men-the great Rodolph, Emperor of Austria. The turf now covers what was once the floor of a stately hall, every yard of which had been paced by his heroic feet. There was not a fragment of those ivied battlements but we loved to think he had leant against it, revolving those vast schemes which found their fulfilment thirty years afterwards upon the imperial throne, which is still occupied by his descendants-though Heaven only knows how much longer they will sit there—while the Plantagenets and Tudors, and Stuarts, of England, the Valois of France, the Jagellons of Poland, and many another renowned dynasty, have disappeared from the face of the earth. Happy, assuredly, was that famous Emperor, with a double and most rare happiness. Happy in the prophetic and far-seeing ambition of his youth. Happy in living to accomplish dreams which it had made his cheek tingle with shame and confusion if anyone could have peeped into his breast and seen them fermenting and cherished there, so improbable and utterly extravagant must they have appeared.

Another lion of the place-to condescend upon a most vile term, worthy the dictionary of a new Meursius, which amused us through many an hour—was that most picturesque of all old bridges which spans the river in an oblique direction, as it issues roaring from the lake. There was not one of the seventy-and-odd pictures upon the compartments of its roof, historical or legendary, which did not in its turn occupy our attention, and set us upon making enquiries about it. Quite as much too to our taste as anything else was the ample library of the canton, upwards of eighty thousand volumes strong, so rich in the learning of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and open, so praiseworthily, to the

public upon every day of the year-Sundays themselves not excepted, after the hours of divine service. Every morning, during the remainder of our sojourn, we spent, at least, an hour in its quiet little reading-room; and on no occasion were we ever there that some eight or ten persons did not enter it, frequently of a very humble appearance, to seek for and carry away some book. The latter invaluable privilege, that of reading the books at home as well as of studying them in the library, is not, we gratefully and admiringly record it, denied even to strangers within the gates. These have only to comply with the easy condition of getting some resident in the place-the proprietor of the hotel they are staying at will do as well as anybody-to become responsible for them, in case they should be guilty of the very worst species of literary larceny, that of walking off with the volumes themselves instead of the contents of them, and they are at liberty to take away with them any reasonable number of books, and detain them any time not exceeding a week.

Lastly-in the order that we visited it, but by no means last in attractiveness—was the Arsenal; not a mere collection of swords and muskets primly arranged in fanciful figures, very little more ornamental and suggestive of much less pleasant thoughts than a set of stew-pans on a kitchen shelf, though swords and muskets were not wanting, but abounding with trophies of one of the most glorious of the many glorious victories of the Swiss-the battle of Sempach. Here were the wooden bucklers of the Italian mercenaries, iron-plated, like the strong shield of Telamonian Ajax; each with its blazonry and device, like those of the seven famous Æschylean warriors that fought against Thebes. Here were the long lances of the Austrians, some of which, for aught that we knew or anyone could gainsay, had been wetted with the blood of Winkelried. Here were the iron collars, many pounds weight, with padlocks and sharp spikes in the inside of them, destined for the necks of the expected prisoners; with an especial one, more ponderous and torturing than the rest, for that of the Scultheiss or Burgomaster. While at one end of the room, looking down for ever on the shameful memorials of his defeat, hung a portrait of Duke Leopold, stolid, sullen, and malignant, and only not contemptible (the original of it), because he died upon the field that he had lost. In the centre, from the ceiling, was suspended a mighty banner, twenty feet long at the least, which was taken by the Knight of Sonnenburg-a native of Lucerne, whose descendants still inhabit a stately castle in the neighbourhood-from the Turkish admiral, at Lepanto. Embroidered upon it, in golden letters, was an inscription to the effect that "Providence ordains all things for the best:" a truth which we would wager a penny the unlucky Moslem was much more disposed to believe in the day before the battle than the day after.