صور الصفحة
النشر الإلكتروني
[ocr errors][ocr errors]

very likely to lead to a just appreciation. It must have a character of its own, and may claim, in justice, to be tried by its own standard. A dove is not an eagle; the “forget-me-not" is not a rose: yet each and all of these have independent and valid claims on our admiration or affection. On this ground, we would deprecate the style of criticism which has been applied to Mr Smith's romances in a quarter where we would have looked for better things. Although Mr Smith is not Sir Walter Scott, that is no reason why his pleasing, although less powerful, works should be ruthlessly condemned, and held up on all occasions as a mockery and a by-word.

The novel now before us is a production differing considerably from its predecessors. Instead of calling up before us the pageantry of other times, and seeking to add an interest to his writings, by evoking the phantoms of those great names which are familiar in our mouths as household words, the author has, in the present instance, ventured on a tale which, professing to pourtray the lineaments of our contemporaries, can be judged as far as its faithfulness is concerned-by all; and which, taking no borrowed lustre from its connexion with some great public event, stands on its own merits. He has not even condescended to cater for applause by the fashionable claptrap of introducing on his stage some celebrated literary or political character of the day.

Mr Smith has thus attempted an arduous task; for the domestic events of the present day do not afford many materials for the novelist. Every thing is so fashioned to the rule and line, that an interesting plot is almost out of the question. If any one, from depravity of character, er transient impulse of passion, commit a crime, the police get hold of him, the jury try him, and the judge condemns him—there is an end. The very affairs of the heart, broken plight, disregard of the marriage vow, are submitted to our courts of law, and reduced to a calculation of pounds, shillings, and pence. Nay, the times are even unfavourable for a painter of manners. Nobody has a character of his own now-a-days. We have all been sent to the school at the proper time, and taught to read. We support those characters into which education has drilled us, or which have struck our fancies in the course of our reading, and awakened our imitative faculties. Life itself is a hollow theatrical pageant, and its image in a book is the shadow of a shade-the vision of a dream. Our very oddities and eccentricities (we have them as well as our forefathers) are of that broken discontinuous kind, which may form tolerable subjects for a lively essay, but which do not bear to be grouped into a novel. To attempt uniting them into a continuous work, is like twisting a rope of sand. In addition to this, Mr Smith's mind is not well fitted to supply these deficiencies. It wants intensity. He does not bear you on with one irresistible torrent of interest. His works are more like some river which has widened to a lake. You walk along its banks admiring the reflected mountains and woods, the rich hues cast upon its breast from the evening clouds, scarcely sensible that it has an onward progress.

We hardly know how to give an abstract of the story. The hero (one of the most perfect of human beings, and whom, therefore, we have the author's express permission to call a prig) arrives at the village of Thaxted, in the first volume, in a stage-coach. He comes partly to seek for a relative of the widow of his adopted father, and partly to get a peep at the lady of his love, who lives immured with a hypochondriacal and miserly father. He takes a sentimental walk round her house and sees nobody. He afterwards meets the gentleman he is in search of, who proves to be an ex-smuggler turned mineralogist in his old days, and married to a young wife of somewhat questionable character. In company with him he stumbles upon a consultation of the neighbouring dignitaries, anent the best measures for putting down a fair, whose periodical celebration is approaching. He thus gets introduced to the parish clergyman, weak, pompous, and good-natured;

to the Frampton family, consisting of a rich gouty West Indian, with a titled wife, a puppy of a son, one daughter, a huntress after peers, and another, a light-hearted romp; to a squire such as we could wish all English gentlemen to be; and to one or two nondescripts.

Our hero finds, on returning to his inn, the whole rustic population met in solemn conclave, to deliberate on the measures best calculated to repel this threatened war on their festivities. We are here introduced both to the village-landlord, a great frequenter of scientific lectures; and to the great chief of all the smugglers of the New Forest. The first appearance of this important personage is thus described :—

"The first, who had dismounted from a beautiful bloodmare, which appeared to have travelled far and fast, and which he himself had carefully installed before he entered the house, was of rather short stature, but of remarkably broad, muscular, almost Herculean frame, with a face of very singular and striking appearance. In shape it was nearly triangular, the broad chin and jowl forming the widest part. The forehead was narrow, the round, black, sparkling bold eyes were set close together, the nose was saately wide, while the lines, or rather the cordage that drew lient and well-formed, but the mouth was disproportiondark hue of his muzzle, well-shaven as it was, and a prohis face in deep furrows all around it, together with the fusion of black, thick-curling hairs falling down to his shoulders like a mane, gave his whole physiognomy a pointed resemblance to that of a lion. Free from any fell or savage expression, his countenance, indeed, exhibited much of the calm, noble, imperturbable courage observable in the look of that king of the forest. He wore a frock and waistcoat mous fisherman's boots, reaching half-way up his thigh. of dark-coloured velveteen, blue cloth trowsers, and enorA rare India shawl was tied round his throat, and when his waistcoat and shirt were blown open, it might be seen that his breast was as shaggy as that of the animal which he so much resembled in his visage. In his hand he carried a rich meerschaum-pipe, which he immediately began to smoke; nor did any one care to tell him of the chairman's while a buz of "the Capt'n, the Capt'n! make way for interdict, all making respectful way for him as he entered, the Capt'n!" ran round the room, and continued till he seated himself, and pursued his smoking, which he did without uttering a word."

The fair is held in despite of opposition, and Melcomb (the hero) has an opportunity of displaying at it his prowess and generosity. He afterwards saves the life of “the Capt'n's" daughter, and of a sort of Lord Byron smuggler, her lover. He performs, in due time, sundry and divers acts of benevolence, which gain him the esteem of the whole peasantry. At the same time, the vanity of the mineralogist and his wife has induced them to represent him as a man of fortune, wishing to settle in these parts, and all the mammas being anxious to secure him for their daughters, he becomes in like manner a pet of the higher classes. He brings his adoptive step-mother (a riglar Virginnay woman) down to the country, and he and she establish themselves in the mineralogist's house.

He has succeeded, by this time, in getting himself introduced to his innamorato's father, whom he finds a rich old hunks, with some unrevealed crime preying on his conscience, soothing himself by the conscientious discharge of the magisterial duties, and the perusal of the old English dramatists. Our hero ingratiates himself into the good graces of this strange personage; and the consequence of his admission to the run of the house, is a ripening of the affection between him and the young lady. So far all has gone well with him, but now disasters come crowding upon him. The frail rib of his friend conceives an affection for him, and receiving a repulse, accuses him of an attempt upon her virtue. He quits the house, and the married pair blacken his character through the whole country. His poverty is discovered, and his summer friends fall off from him. He proposes marriage to the Justice's daughter, and is ordered to quit the house by the old gentleman. He receives a challenge from Captain Frampton, and with true philosophy refuses to fight him.

Finally, he is arrested and lodged in jail.

Very few adhere to him in his reverses, but he bears every thing with the same equanimity that he bore his good fortune. When things are at the worst, an old companion in iniquity of the Justice appears most opportunely to set matters to rights. It turns out that the old gentleman's undivulged crime was the doing away with the infant heir of an estate, in order to secure it to himself. It is next satisfactorily established that Melcomb is that heir, who has been providentially preserved. He pardons the wrong, and in order to secure his own happiness and the old sinner's reputation, marries the daughter, and receives his own estate as a dowery. There are some subordinate plots connected with this main one, which we have not time to particularise.


There are many bold and vivid sketches of character in this book, as well as some beautiful descriptions of natural scenery, and some bursts of elegant, if not very powerful poetical feeling. The individuals most successfully brought out are a negro servant of Frampton, the Smuggler, and his crew, and old Welbeck, the Justice. is an unwonted power displayed in the passions which convulse the shattered frame of the latter at the denouement, and in his transition under their influence from a stern and energetic man, to a fond superannuated imbecile. We are somewhat uncertain what we ought to select as a specimen of the work. We are strangely tempted with some of the merry freaks of black Pompey, who is every way worthy of the author of Winky Bass. But we prefer dwelling on the declining days of the old smuggler, "with him our song begun, with him shall end."

On the whole, Mr Smith's hero is a sort of Hugh Trevor, though with more human interest about him. His book, too, as regards the delineation of manners and character, intimates more acquaintance with the world than Holcroft's.

Discourses on some important Subjects of Natural and
Revealed Religion, &c. Second Edition. By Dr Scott,
Minister of Corstorphine. Adam Black, Edinburgh;
and Longman and Co. London.

THERE is something singular attending the fate of sermon-writing. It is a species of composition which ought to be the most popular of any, because the subject-matter of sermons comes the closest of any to man's " business and bosoms;" and it might seem, that the views and expositions of almost every intelligent and thoughtful man upon the great points of faith and of practice, would meet a corresponding chord in the minds of many readers. The fault no doubt may lie a good deal with the writers of sermons. The very best are apt to fall, every now and then, into the established phrases and language of religious meditation, when it is evident that there is very little thought and heart in the business ;—

"'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more."

But, in return, there is scarcely a volume of sermons so
indifferent in which an attentive reader, interested in the
mighty themes discussed in them, would not find some
apposite illustrations which had never occurred to him
before, or some felicitous or unctious expressions warm
We by
from the conviction and feelings of the writer.
no means wish to encourage, from these remarks, the
hasty and inconsiderate publication of sermons, either
by clergymen themselves, or by their families after their
death-a practice of which the respectable writer before
us, in his preface, remarks with some humour, that it
"is most hurtful to the author, whatever benefit it may
be to his family." But, on the other hand, we should
wish readers in general not to be so fastidious with re-
spect to sermon-writing; and if they should not find ex-
actly their own thoughts and sentiments returned upon
them, or should happen to plunge into some uninteresting
passage of common-place, not therefore to conclude that
there is nothing in the volume that can tend to edifica-
tion, or which would not greatly repay the attentive per-

"In a small parlour of this farm, which Mary appropriated to her father as his smoking room, the old man might frequently be seen sitting by the fire, or at the open window, according to the season, with two fair curly headed, beautiful grandchildren climbing up his knees, and forming a group that forcibly recalled Cipriani's picture of Cupid's sporting with a lion; while their infant prattle contrasted strikingly with the gruff voice of their grandsire, as, in words of menace, though with a look of the most affectionate tenderness, he growled now and then, "Hallo! 'vast there, you youngsters! Start my timbers! if you touch my pipe, I'll sarve it out to you-give you a taste of the rope's end; so down with you, Harry; down, I say, Poll!" His favourite haunt when he left home was the bow-windowed room of a public-house beside the quay at Southampton, where, until very lately, the original from whom we have drawn our portrait, might be seen three or four days in the week, sipping his strong punch, plying his in-usal of it. separable meerschaum, and gazing complacently down the water. Hence, after emptying his bowl, he would sally forth to the quay, take his stand against the old capstan, criticise the sailing of every vessel that passed up or down Southampton water, and as he became gradually surrounded with a little knot of eager listeners, it was here that he loved to crack of the immense sums for which he had been exchequered; of the crops that he had formerly worked in his lucky little lugger the "Ax about!" of the money he had made, and the enterprises he had achieved, in his celebrated fast-sailing cutter the Longsplice; of the services rendered to him by his sagacious black mastiff Belzebub; and the hairbreadth escapes to which he was indebted for the fleetness of his favourite mare, who, now that she was past labour, was turned out to graze upon his son-in-law's farm, where a day seldom elapsed without her being visited and caressed by her old master. The Captain, for by this epithet he still continued to be known, becoming as he waxed older a praiser of the bygone time, in disparagement of the present, was accustomed to talk with great contempt of modern smugglers and their paltry adventures, though he candidly confessed that the difficulties with which they had to contend were materially increased. As he was, in every other respect, a most loyal character, it grieves us to add, that in adverting to this fact, he would occasionally speak in the most irreverent terms of the government, questioning their right to establish either cus

The volume before us has suggested this train of thought. It is very unequal, and savours of a defect to which many men of ability are liable, the want of perception of what is good and what is bad in their own writings. At the same time, we are aware that it is a very disagreeable thing to submit our own compositions to the criticism and selection even of a judicious and candid friend; men especially of retired and studious habits, who the most require to pass through such an ordeal previous to publication, are naturally the most averse to it. The learned author of this volume is one of the first scholars in sacred literature of whom the Church of Scotland can boast, and any imperfections which may be found in it are to be ascribed mainly to an unacquaintance with the book-making art, in which those who are more occupied with solid learning than with the manner of putting it forth, are not apt to be great adepts. There are several of the sermons, accordingly, in this collection, that both in point of interest and composition, might have been left out without any loss to the reputation of the author. But, again, there are several admirable, both in matter and expression, and just as good as any that are to be found upon the same subjects. There are two excellent on "The fitness of the time at which Christ ap

toms or excise in the first instance, stigmatizing the Pre-peared upon earth," not so eloquent or splendid as Dr ventive Service as a rascally innovation, and condemning Robertson's famous sermon on the same subject, but conthe Coast Blockade altogether as a monstrous act of tyranny and oppression, which hardly gave the honest free-trader taining much excellent remark, conveyed in very lively a chance of working a crop once in a twelvemonth." and precise language. We may also particularize two

Unless we are told how the Duchess
Conversed with her cousin, the Earl.
"Our dialogues now must be quite full
Of titles, I give you my word;-
My Lady, you're looking delightful;'
Indeed! Do you think so, my Lord?'
You've heard of the Marquis's marriage,
The bride with her jewels new set,
Four horses, the new travelling carriage,
The dejeuné a-la-fourchette?

other excellent sermons,-one on "The greatness and dignity of Christ during his abode upon earth ;"--and another, on "The Socinian, Arminian, Calvinistic, and Antinomian Theories of Justification," in which, in a very few pages, more is stated clearly, and to the purpose, and a more correct judgment formed upon these thorny discussions than will be obtained from many volumes of controversy.

We do not promise, however, that these Discourses are ever destined to be popular; but their learned and ingenious author may find much consolation for any public neglect within the precincts of his own parish, an important station for ministerial usefulness-where the genius of Burn has lately converted the old ruinous church into one not less commodious than beautiful, at the same time that it retains its antique interest and character, and where in the schools for the rising generation of both sexes, the foundation seems to be laid of living temples still more interesting and attractive.

The Adventures of a King's Page. "Almack's Revisited." 3 vols. Colburn. 1829.

By the Author of
London. Henry

In a

As to the "Adventures of a King's Page," we are authorized most positively to state, that it is not "from the pen of a foreign prince, long a resident at this court,"— nor does it contain "the private history of one of the most leading members of the world of fashion,"-nor is there any "key" to the novel "in private circulation, and immense demand,”—nor is it altogether true, that "the whole of the first edition was sold off within fourOH! these endless, fashionable novels! Sorely do we and-twenty hours." But though we are enabled to conrue the day that gentlemen took it into their heads to tradict these ingenious reports which have so much agiprint. No two professions can be more distinct than tated all classes of society, we shall not attempt to deny those of an author and a gentleman. The difference is as that this novel is the production of a Captain White, (the great as between a regular-bred actor-a Garrick or a advertisements in the newspapers called him a colonel for Kemble and a mere amateur of private theatricals--an a long while, but this was antedating his promotion,) and Honourable Mr Stapleton, or an Augustus Horatio Man- that he formerly wrote an unfashionable fashionable nodeville. The former stands upon his merits alone; the vel, called "Almack's Revisited," or "Herbert Milton," latter trusts to the indulgence of friends, and the astonish- which, we presume, nobody ever read. To do it justice, ing fact that he should be able to perform at all. the "Adventures of a King's Page" is a little better, and fashionable novel the author commonly votes all literary is three volumes' worth of rather respectable dulness. merit-vulgar; but expects that his lucubrations will be We daresay Captain White is a good deal of a gentleman received with gratitude and applause, because he intro- "about town;" goes to a tolerably fashionable party when duces the most soap-boiling or sugar-selling reader into he is asked; dresses fully as neatly and genteelly as an the first circles, and gives us a glimpse of at least three officer on half-pay can be expected to do, (few officers Dukes, half-a-dozen Marquises, a score of Lords, and know how to wear plain clothes ;) leaves his card in a Baronets ad infinitum. He undertakes, too, to paint their becoming manner for several lady dowagers; takes his manners and modes of life; that is to say, he is pleased beefsteak and his half-bottle of port with much thankto inform us that they rise at two, go to the Park till fulness at the club; and drops into a box at Drury Lane seven, dine at eight, lounge through evening parties till just about a quarter of an hour after “half-price." With cock-crow, and then return to bed. This might become such qualifications as these, he is admirably calculated to a little monotonous; and therefore the more able and write a fashionable novel, in the course of which he inimaginative writer of a fashionable novel introduces a troduces George III., his Queen, and all the Royal Faduel, a tour to the continent, and a marriage, to make mily, together with the greater portion of the aristocracy of the whole as complete and interesting as possible." Oh England, who, for the most part, according to the great honochrie! oh honochrie !"--the wearisome inanity of a moral law of fashionable novels, are presented to us under whole cart-load of these three-volumed books! Would the agreeable aspect of heartless votaries of pleasure and to Heaven that we could make one vast bonfire of them, intrigue. We are not quite sure that Captain White has as the Doctors of the Church at Constantinople once did always preserved the exact phraseology of fashionable of all the Greek poets. We should thus give, in the life; at least we almost fancied ourselves in a barrackwords of a French writer, "une grande preuve d'in-room when we found Lord Roxmere (in vol. iii. p. 219) tégrité, de probité, et de religion." Mr Haynes Baylley, saying to his wife the Marchioness, "D-n you, madam, who has written so many excellent songs, has written one you shall suffer properly for this when you get home.” against fashionable novels, which is so very pat to our But the author of " Almack's Revisited" must, of course, purpose, that we cannot deny ourselves the pleasure of be better versed in these things than we are. giving it a place here,-the more especially as we believe it is not generally known to our readers :

We have spoken slightingly of the "Adventures of a King's Page," because we hate the class of works to which it belongs, and because the author, though possessing a certain facility in the use of his pen, appears to us entirely destitute of that genius, the presence of which, in a literary composition of any kind, always covers a multitude of sins, and the absence of which we can scarcely forgive.

"Haut ton finds her privacy broken,
We trace all her ins and her outs,-
The very small talk that is spoken
By very great people at routes
At Tenby, Miss Jinks asks the loan of
The book from the innkeeper's wife,
And reads till she thinks she is one of

The leaders of elegant life."

"Lord Harry has written a novel,
A story of elegant life;
No stuff about love in a hovel,

No sketch of a clown and his wife;
No trash such as pathos and passion,
Fine feelings, expression, or wit;
But all about people of fashion,-

Come, look at his caps how they fit.
"Oh, Radcliffe, thou once wert the charmer
Of girls who sat reading all night;
Thy heroes were striplings in armour,
Thy heroines damsels in white.
But past are those terrible touches;
Our lips in derision we curl,

The New Monthly, and London Magazine, No. CIII.
The Westminster Review, No. XXI.

We speak it not in vanity; but it does appear to us that the stars of the earth, as well as those of the heavens, are colder and more languid in proportion to the length of the period they require to complete their revo

lutions. Thus, the Westminster is neither so bright nor so lively as Blackwood or the New Monthly, and neither of them can be for a moment compared with a publication, which modesty forbids us to name, but which every reader will readily do for us. The Quarterlies and Monthlies are, nevertheless, deserving works upon the whole, and may rely upon our countenance and protection.

ous notes, and ending, on all occasions, with a mournful cadence. Ask the Hungarian why this is so, and he will tell you that it suits the state of his country,—that all her sons should have "tears in their eyes, and sabres in their hands." Bowring is the best translator living, and to him we are indebted for many little poetical gems, collected from all nations, which might otherwise never have been known in this country. We give one specimen from the Hungarian :



Enthusiast. "Is it thus?
And if not thus, say how?


For a wild fire is burning in my bosom,
strive to build the fair-to build the fairest
Which I can quench not-which I cannot guide;
the wise as thou wouldst teach me: I
Would blend my spirit and my heart in one,
Making my hymn both beautiful and strong;
That it may teach-and teaching, may transport
With ecstasy. I ask with prayerful tear
My way to fame's bright goal: thou hast the crown,
With passionate longings, I beseech thee-say,
Teach me to win and wear it-I beseech thee,
Say-thus. Ah, no, 'tis sweet-but not successful—
I cannot reach the bourn-and life to me
Is melancholy waste of life!

The broad stream of the New Monthly has just re-
ceived the tributary waters of the London into its bo-
som. To speak without metaphor, (for we like to adapt
ourselves to the most Cockney capacities,) the London Ma-
gazine has been incorporated into Mr Colburn's, or Mr
Campbell's, the reader may designate the publication
as the offspring of either of these great men, accord-Upon
ing as he inclines to attribute more importance to the
Editor or the Publisher-to the leading Orator of the
House, or the first Lord of the Treasury. The conse-
quences of this new Holy Alliance we leave to time to
determine; but the first-born of the nuptials (we beg
pardon for changing the metaphor) is a spirited and pro-
mising bantling. It stretches its little legs in the nurse's
lap vigorously, and squalls with energy. It is redolent of
London associations, as a work published in the Metro-
polis ought to be. As we sipped our coffee, and read
"Londoniana," our youth came back upon our memory
-the Temple Gardens and St James's Park were green
as in its halcyon days the rattle of drays and waggons
was in our ear-Westminster-bridge at early dawn---Bond-
street in its mid-day glow—and Drury with her cresset
lamps, were bodily before us. Still more to our taste
was that morsel of profound philosophy, so accordant to
the rapid march of intellect," The Toyman is abroad."
-"The Saison in Dublin" is, no doubt, amusing to those
who understand its allusions; and the Edinburgh Re-
miniscences of "The young Surgeon" are as harmless as
could be desired. The serious articles are no after-din-
ner business, and we have, therefore, postponed them.
Did we not know the staid and proper habits of the
Editor, we should suspect, from his review of "Geral-
dine of Desmond," that he longed to be munching crum-
pets. The only real objection, however, that the most
fastidious could find to the interesting child we are
now dandling on our knee, is its teasing and tiresome re-
semblance to its hundred and two predecessors who have
"gone to the tomb of all the Capulets," or, in plain Eng-
lish, been placed on the shelf.

"Yet of en in his maddest mirthful mood,

Strange pangs would flash across Childe Harold's brow;" we know not how it is, but let us be as merry as crickets, if the Westminster Review but appears, we become as serious as itself. Its approach has the same effect upon our spirits as the teacher's on a parcel of noisy schoolboys. It is a sort of respectable old pedagogue, who inevitably gives the conversation a serious and instructive turn. He is this time, however, in a gayer mood than usual: his taws are in his pocket, and he flourishes his silver-headed cane with rather a degagé sort of air. The articles on poor Clapperton's last expedition, and on modern Italy, will be read with interest. The article on Cobbett's Indian corn is positively amusing, which shows what a clever man may do with a bad subject. The paper on Paul Louis Courier, is a spirited sketch of one of the most honest and reckless characters that ever existed. Mr Bowring holds forth to good purpose on the Hungarian poets. If the specimens he has given us convey an accurate notion of them, it must excite some surprise to find that their sentiments and imagery are of that highly polished and delicate kind, which are now common to all the educated nations of Europe. We discover in them no traces of the fierce and varied character of the tribes which compose the population of Hungary. We believe, however, that the general character of their minor effusions is like that of their national music-commencing with gentle voluptu

Philosopher. "Give thy feelings ample room,
Time shall soon disperse their gloom.
When bound in snows the wild stream leaves its bed
Murmuring, and as it maddens, bears along
Young flowers, and the blue heaven upon its face?
Rocks, mud, and forest-branches, canst thou see
Thou turn'st away in sadness from its waves
So troubled-for 'tis purity that charms
And quiet. Think on this-and be at rest.
The muse is a soft maiden, whose bright wand,
Whose odorous ringlets, flinging light around,
Thy lips may kiss. She is not wooed by fierceness,
But turns, deep blushing, to her own sweet self,
From the wild turbulent grasp of stormy thought."

There is, in the present Number of the Westminster a learned and able article on the Peruvian Quipoes, to which we refer such of our readers as may be curious about these matters. The only remaining article of interest is the last, on what is called the Greatest Happiness Principle, in which it is noised abroad Jeremy Bentham takes the field in person against the Edinburgh Review. We decline the honour of entering into the controversy.

Sharpe's London Magazine; The Three Chapters for
July 1829. J. Sharpe, London.

WE have already announced this new periodical, which, to a certain extent, combines the advantages of a Magazine and an Annual, possessing the variety of the former, with the beauty of decoration and elegance of printing of the latter. It is called "The Three Chapters," because it is divided into three parts, each of which at the end of a year is to be bound up separately into volumes. The first of these parts, which is entitled "Poetry and Romance," will make a volume similar in size and appearance to the "Anniversary." The second division consists of Essays, Criticisms on New Works, the Drama, Fine Arts, &c.; and the third, under the title of "The Monthly Club," is a dialogue, à la Noctes Ambrosianæ, de omnibus negotiis et quibusdam aliis. Allan Cunningham and Theodore Hook act as Editors, and there can be no doubt that if two such men exert themselves, the one with so much genius, and the other so much cleverness and savoir vivre, the "Three Chapters" must succeed. The first Number is a very favourable augury of what is to follow. It opens with a lively humorous sketch by Hook, entitled "The Splendid Annual," videlicet, a Lord Mayor of London. Four poems follow, the first by L. E. L., the second an excellent ballad by Southey, the third a sweet little thing by G. Darley, and the fourth another piece by Southey. An able prose article by Allan Cunningham, entitled "The Pen and the Pencil," concludes the


"Poetry and Romance" department. The remaining contents are equally interesting, though for the most part of a more ephemeral nature. We must not omit to mention the fine engraving by H. Rolls, from one of the paintings Wilkie brought home with him lately from the Continent-The Calabrian Shepherds singing their evening hymn to the Virgin. This embellishment is itself worth more than the price of the Number. We have seldom seen in any of the Annuals an engraving we admired more; it is redolent of all the fine genius of Wilkie, and all the admirable tact and finish of Rolls.

joy on every green bank, and in each quiet sequestered glade! Hark! the music of universal nature rings through the air! There is a voice in every fleecy cloud— an unseen spirit of melody in every passing zephyr. The lakes, the rivers, and the seas, lo! they are liquid light! Saw you that unforgotten sunset-those purple gleams upon the mountain-those rainbow streaks through all the glowing west! Then the soft soothing of the twilight-hour-when the bee is asleep in his honied cell, and the imperial butterfly rests on the bosom of the dewgemmed flower-when not a sound steals on the rapt ear but the beating of the sleepless heart, and the wordless aspirations of the invisible soul, conscious of its immortality! Hail to thee, loveliest June! Thy smile Dis-awaited me at my birth; may it rest upon me at the hour of death-may it cast its sunshine into my grave as my coffin descends into the earth, and the few who loved me look upon it for the last time!

Evidence of the Truth of the Christian Religion, derived from the literal fulfilment of Prophecy; particularly as illustrated by the History of the Jews, and by the coveries of recent Travellers. By the Rev. Alexander Keith, Minister of the Parish of St Cyrus. Fourth Edition. Edinburgh. Waugh and Innes.


THIS is the learned and able work of a learned and able man. It is as creditable to the readers as to the author, that it has already reached a fourth edition. The question which Mr Keith has considered at length, and with great talent, is, "Whether there be any clear predictions, literally accomplished, which, from their nature and their number, demonstrate that the Scriptures are the dictates of inspiration, or that the spirit of prophecy is the testimony of Jesus?" It is impossible to follow his reasonings and illustrations, without feeling imperatively called upon to pronounce with the author an answer in the affirmative,

A Brief Memoir of the Life of James Wilson, (late of Edinburgh,) with Extracts from his Journal and Correspondence, written chiefly during a residence in Guatemala. London, A. Panton. Edinburgh, J. Boyd.


THIS is a posthumous compilation from the papers of an amiable and deserving young man, who, being left an orphan in early life, was educated at that valuable institution, the Orphan Hospital of Edinburgh. He was of religious habits, and died at the early age of twenty-eight, after visiting, as an emigrant and missionary, several interesting parts both of North and South America. The extracts from his Journal and Correspondence form the best part of the present volume, which, we believe, is published for the benefit of his surviving relatives.

AWAY with thee, blithe April! away with thee into the green churchyard of the past! Thou art of those whom we love, yet can part from with scarce a sigh! | Thou art the young Aurora of the year that comes to tell of brighter hours, and even as thy soft voice whispers of their coming, they steal upon thee, and thou art forgotten in their effulgence.

Away with thee, bright May! I am an angler, and I love thy glancing streams winding down the hills, where not a lingering snow-wreath dares to tempt the sunbeams of the bright blue skies. I am an angler, and I owe thee, sweet May! many an hour's forgetfulness of all the world-many a waking dream and glorious vision wherein hope was truth, and life eternity! Away with thee, deceiver!

The fruits the luscious ruby fruits-are swelling into ripeness. I know nothing of the fruits of the south I talk of those of my own country. I have a thorough contempt for Italy with its grapes!-I detest Spain with its oranges!-I should be happy to annihilate Turkey and Asia with their olives and citrons!—I am writing and thinking only of Scotland. I was a child once ;reader! so were you. Do you recollect the day and the hour when the blessed influence of strawberries and cream first flashed on your awakened mind, and you felt that life had not been given you in vain? I was just seven years old-my previous existence is a blank in memory when I spent a June in the country. I may have picked before, in the blind ignorance of infancy, some little red pulpy balls, which may have been presented to me on a little blue plate by my aunt or grandmother,— but never-never till my seventh year was I aware, that in the melting luxuriance of one mouthful, so large a share of human happiness might be comprised. Sugar, cream, and strawberries! Epicurean compound of unimaginable ecstasy! trinity of excellence! producing the only harmo

nious whole known to me in all the annals of taste! The

fresh vigour of my youthful palate may have yielded somewhat to the deadening effect of time, but the glorious recollections of those profound emotions, excited by my first intoxicating feast on strawberries and cream, is worth every other thought that memory can conjure up. Breathes there the man who presumes to smile at my enthusiasm ? Believe me, he is destined to pass away and be forgotten, as the insect upon which you tread. He is a measurer of broad-cloth or a scribbler of juridical technicalities.


Such is not the destiny awaiting yonder rosy group of smiling prattlers. I love the rogues for the enlarged and animated countenances with which they gaze upon the

"FRUITS IN THEIR SEASONS,”—“ STRAWBERRIES red spoils before them. Never speak to me of gluttony.


By Henry G. Bell.

It is a natural and a noble appetite, redolent of health and happiness, and I honour it. There is genius in the breathing expression of those parted lips which, now that the good dame is about to commence her impartial division, seem to anticipate, in a delightful agony of expectation, the fulness of the coming joy. Observe with how much vigour that youthful Homer grasps his silver spoon! Would you have thought those rose-bud lips could have admitted so vast a mouthful of strawberries? ---Yet, down they go that juvenile æsophagus, and, as Shakspeare well expresses it, "leave not a wreck behind!" Turn your gaze to this infantine Sappho. What unknown quantities of cream and sugar the little cherub consumes! Cold on the stomach! Phoo! the idea is worthy of a female Septuagenarian, doomed to the horrors of perpetual celibacy. If she speak from experience, in heaven's name, give her a glass of brandy, and let her work out her miserable existence in fear and trembling.

If there be a merrier party of bon-vivants at this moment in Christendom, may I never enter a garden again!

June, unequalled June, is blazing full in the meridian. See, how the old ancestral woods extend in gladness their ambrageous arms! See, how the golden flowers in count-Yet, at this very moment, there are prime ministers sitless millions spring up with a sudden impulse of life and ting down to cabinet dinners, and seeing in every guest

« السابقةمتابعة »