The Butler has two score and ten pounds a year,
The key of the cellar and cock of the beer,
A hard-working man you may solemnly swear,
For he stands every day at his master's chair,,
And, after such labour, how hard is his fate,"
He must lock up the bottles and count the plate;
Ah! truth to say, he's the worst used of men,
His pounds should be double of two score and ten.
The Lady's-Maid! she's to be pitied too,
She has twenty pounds, and so much to do,
To curl up her mistress's hair night and morning-
It leaves so little time for her own adorning;
And just when dear Jenkins is saying sweet things,
To be off in the midst, if her lady's bell rings--
In short, she's surrounded with toils and woes,
And wears all her mistress's cast-off clothes.

Besides tinging her cheek with rouges and plaster,
And listening nonsensical tales from her master;-
With labour and cares her position abounds,
And all for a trifle of twenty pounds!
Rumour asserts,-but then Rumour 's a liar,—
That the Butler's first-born will resemble the Squire.
Come! let us off to the sign of the Flail,
You have fairly lost me a flaggon of ale.

The rich and the titled would do well to

look at the passage with which we must conclude; it contains a true unvarnished picture of human wretchedness, drawn by the hand of one who knows humble life and high :

With spade on shoulder, toil-bespent,
A workman crosses o'er the stile,-
Within his eye ye read content,
And happiness in every smile.
Hark! is he singing ?-No such thing,
His heart is much too full to sing.
Is he weary ?-thirsty ?-cold?
All day long, since morning's peep,
He's been ditching in the mould,
In mud and water ancle deep.

Home that happy man's returning-
Doubtless there's a bright fire burning;
Thirsty from his toil severe-

Doubtless there's some home-brew'd beer.
Happy man! how blest is he!

How much more happy than the bee!

A fire ?-No wood has he to burn

No tankard foams at his return:

Off to his pallet let him creep,

And sink reality in sleep.

But, ere to slumber he is past,
What's the sound that meets him last?
Is it children's gentle voices?
(To father's ear most blest of noises,)
Children laughing loud and long,
Or bursting into joyful song?
Laughing they are not-nor singing,
Yet their voices loud are ringing;
They have gathered round his bed,
They have been but scant'ly fed,-
They are asking him for bread.
Oh lullaby, supremely blest!

What dreams must beautify his rest!

There's a mountain of beef, and a river of ale,
And a fiddle is sounding all over the vale;
Oh! what a beautiful vision to see,
For the man is as hungry as hungry can be;

He has cut a huge slice from the mountain's fat side,
He has dipt a huge bowl in the river's brown tide,
He has opened his mouth, he has muttered a grace,
When a crowd rushes in, and he's push'd from his
place!

The mountain's devoured by a grim tax receiver,
A pot-bellied parson drinks up all the river;
A gaunt overseer clutches hold of his slice,
And empties his brown brimming bowl in a trice,-
And, presto! begone! for the mountain and stream,
And the fiddle's gay notes, disappear from his dream.

There is something of an original air about these scenes, and others with which this small volume abounds, which shows they come from one who has studied the subject. The reckless glee, and devil-may-care sort of complexion, which some of the pages exhibit, would half persuade us that the author is of the laity; on closer inspection, however, we are disposed to believe that he assumed this costume, for the sake of making a stronger impression, and arresting the notice of the careless. Be that as it may, there is much talent in the poem, and we hope that it will attract the attention of "the first in talents, first in honour, and first in the hearts of his countrymen-Lord Brougham," to whom it is addressed.

Lights and Shadows of American Life. | Edited by Mary Russell Mitford. 3 vols. London. Colburn & Bentley.

"Ir is a fact," says Sir Walter, in the introduction to the new edition of the Betrothed,' "that publishers and authors, however much their general interests are the same, may be said to differ so far as title-pages are concerned; and it is a secret of the tale-telling art, if it could be termed a secret worth knowing, that a taking title, as it is called, best answers the purpose of the bookseller, since it often goes far to cover his risk, and sells an edition, not unfrequently, before the public have well seen it.' This secret, a secret no longer, will explain the title given to this work, which is a selection from native American Tales, two collections of which Miss Mitford has already published the lady herself contributing nothing but her name, and a preface of three pages. We mention this that our readers may understand clearly the nature of the work-not disparagingly, for, to us, American tales have great interest, and from them may be gained a better insight into the manners, customs, and feelings of the people,

than from all the volumes of travels that were ever written. Of the general merit of this selection we are hardly competent to offer an opinion-many of the pieces we were before acquainted with-two, indeed, are from the Tales of the North-west,' reviewed a short time since in this papert-the work is of varied interest and character, but we greatly prefer such tales as are local, graphic, and strong in American feelings. For this reason we shall make our present extracts from a very clever story-The Young Backwoodsman,' in which the removal of a clergyman's family from New England to the Mississippi-with the first difficulties of location, and all the anxious thoughts and hopes of the settlers, are pictured with great truth and power-the following is a clever sketch of

Settlers on their March.

"I need not describe the departure of this family from their New England home. ** Many tears were shed upon all sides. Mr. Mason himself found it was a different thing from his imaginings to break away from such a place, where he had so long identified his feelings with the joys and sorrows of the people. *** His fair and loved wife, pale, shrinking, and in tears, kissed her mother. The children kissed their schoolmates. Old people said, 'Good by, Mr. Mason; pray for us; we shall never see you again.' The children, their eyes red and swollen with weeping, were packed, along with Mrs. Mason and the bulky baggage, into a two-horse waggon. Young George sat in front as driver. Amidst suppressed weeping, and almost inaudible farewells, with his hat drawn over his eyes, George started his team. The family dog saw that matters went wrong, and whined piteously, as he followed the lingering steps of his master, who walked behind the waggon, to indulge in spire, glittering in the sun-beams of a bright the sad luxury of the last look at his churchmorning in autumn.

"I trust there are few readers who cannot fill out the picture of the feelings, trials, and accidents, of such a family, in their journey to the western hills. They can imagine how often the horses were knocked up, the harness broke, and the carriage escaped upsetting. They can imagine, how often the children cried with

+ See Athenæum, No. 235.

fatigue and sleepiness at night; and how fresh, alert, and gay, they were, when setting out, after a full breakfast, on a bright sunny morning; how often they were brought in contact with rough and unfeeling people; how often, in their tavern bills, and bills for repairs, they dealt with harpies, eager to wrest from them a portion of their scanty pittance. But, if they met with many painful occurrences on this long route, there were many pleasant ones too. If the gullied road or the rain-washed precipices rendered the way almost impassable to their waggon, in other places they found many miles in succession of pleasant travelling. On the whole, there were many more fair days than stormy ones. George proved himself, for a boy of his years, a firm and admirable driver. While he was whistling on the front of the waggon, and cheering his horses, and the children were asleep among the baggage, the husband and wife walked many a pleasant mile, seating themselves occasionally for rest on the breezy side of a hill or mountain, and tracing back, as on a map, the dusty road, the river, villages, spires, mansions, and groves, which they had passed. Nor will the feeling and experienced traveller in this emigrating march fail to add to the picture, the dog, reposing at their feet, whenever they rested." duties of his new situation, and the following is an affecting picture of

The husband sinks under the laborious

A Funeral in the Mississippi Forest. "There was no white person at that time within thirty miles, who was accustomed to perform the usual religious duties on that occasion. This circumstance was stated to Mrs. Mason. It aroused her feelings from the stupefaction of her distress to think that the remains of her dear husband, who had so many hundred times uttered the voice of prayer over the lifeless bodies of others, should be carried to his long home without prayer. Pompey, a converted methodist slave of Mr. Garvin's, was in the habit of preaching to the negroes, and of praying at their funerals. Mrs. Mason very properly preferred that he should perform the funeral solemnities of her husband, rather than have none on the occasion. Through a pardonable relic of former passions, and the feelings which had been nurtured in another country and another order of things, Mrs. Mason chose that the body of her deceased husband should be. placed in the coffin, robed in the gown and bands, the insignia of his former office and standing.

"I should be glad to give the reader as distinct an image as I have myself of this rustic funeral in the Mississippi forest. I see the two solitary cabins standing in the midst of the corn, which overtopped the smaller cabin. I see the high and zig zag fence, ten rails high, that surrounds the field, and the hewn puncheon steps in the form of crosses, by which the people crossed over the fence into the enclosure; the smooth and beaten foot-path amidst the weeds, that leads through the corn-field to the cabins. I see the dead trees throwing aloft their naked stems from amidst the corn. I mark the square and compact enclosure of the deep green forest, which limits the prospect to the summits of the corn-stalks, the forest, and the sky. A path is cut through the corn a few feet wide to a huge sycamore, left in its full verdure in one corner

of the field, where Mr. Mason used to repose with George when he was weary, and where he had expressed a wish, during his sickness, that he might be buried. Under that tree is the open grave. Before the door of the cabin, and shaded by the western slope of the sun behind it, is the unpainted coffin, wanting the covering plank. In it is the lifeless form of the pastor, the cheek blanched to the colour of the bands about the neck, and contrasting so strongly with

the full and flowing black silk robe, in which, in the far country of his birth, he had been accustomed to go up to the house of the Lord. I see the white mothers, their children, and a considerable number of blacks, who had been permitted to attend the funeral, in consideration of the service which was to be performed by one of their number. I see the tall and swarthy planters, with the sternness and authority of the rude despotism which they exercise over their slaves, and their conscious feeling of their standing and importance impressed upon their countenances. I see the pale faces of the little group of mourners, struggling hard with nature against lamentation and tears. They could not have, and they needed not, the expensive and sable trappings, which fashion has required for the show of grief. Their faded weeds and their mended dresses were in perfect keeping with the utter despondency in their countenances, and their forlorn and desolate prospects.

"The assembled group was summoned to prayer. The black, who officiated, was dressed, by the contributions of his fellow-servants of the whole settlement, in a garb as nearly like that of the methodist ministers, who were in the habit of preaching in the settlement, as the case would admit. The position was to him one of novelty and awe. His honest and simple heart was affected with the extreme distress of the mourners, and the trying position in which he was placed. He began at first in awkward and unsuccessful attempts to imitate the language and manner of educated ministers. He soon felt the hopelessness of the effort; and poured out the earnest, simple, and spontaneous, effusions of real prayer, in the tones of the heart, and in language not less impressive from being uttered in the dialect of a negro. He dissolved into tears from his own earnestness; and, while the honest and sable faces of his fellow-servants were bathed in tears, the contagion of sympathy extended through the audience, producing a general burst of grief. I should despair of being able at all to catch the living peculiarities and dialect of the discourse, or exhortation, which followed.

anew into tears, as he proceeded; and those of Mrs. Mason, and those of her children who were able to comprehend, were tears of resignation and religion.

"When the hymn was closed, the man, who officiated as master of ceremonies on the occasion, proposed to those who wished to take a last look at the deceased to come forward. * Mrs. Mason walked firmly to the coffin, and all her children came round her. They looked long, and without tears, at the pale and careworn countenance and the deep and sunken eye of the husband, the father, the being who had been, next to God, their stay and their dependence. The look of unutterable thoughts and feelings was over. The unpainted cover was applied to the coffin, and the nails were driven. Twelve of the most substantial planters were the bearers. The mourners walked directly behind the coffin, and the whole mass followed through the corn-field in a crowd. The coffin was let down into the grave, and the fresh and black soil was heaped upon it. According to the affecting and universal custom of that region, each one present took up a handful of earth, and threw it into the grave. A couple of stakes were planted, the one at the head, and the other at The foot; the neighbours dispersed to their several abodes; and the widow and her children returned to their desolate dwelling."

We must relieve this melancholy story with the maiden speech of an American

senator-the greatest triumph of eloquence ever witnessed in the state:

Sir-r-r!-If I possessed the power to flash conviction, as the lightning does upon the bosom of the thunder-cloud, redundant with fire and brimstone: Sir-r-r, if I could wrest from the sceptre-I mean, if I could wrest the sceptre from reason, and rob the spheres of the music of their voices: Sir-r-r, if I could, by any effort of this feeble hand and tremulous body, pour the tremendous and overwhelming flood of conviction like a wall of adamant over your souls, until they melted in the red hot embers of conviction: Sir-r-r, if I could freeze your hearts till they offered an icy barrier to the intrusion of all selfish considerations, and reared the massy column of their waters up to the topmost pin. nacle of the arching skies: Sir-r-r, if I could swallow up, at a single effort of my imagination, the possibility of believing it possible that the cries of the orphan, the bewailings of reckless and wretched poverty-the exhortations of the halt, the dumb, and the deaf-the mother's groans the weeping stones - the orphan's

moans--"

Here, it appears, the orator was interrupted by a burst of hysterical tears from the beautiful blue eyes of the widow of the honourable Roger Pegg, who was carried home fainting.

OUR LIBRARY TABLE.

IN spite of the political tempest which, for these ten days, has "hurtled in the darken'd air," the muses of literature have not neglected to bring their offerings to our Library Table. Though none of the dignitaries in either verse or prose have been coquetting with the public just now, we must not look lightly on humbler or unknown names: out of such recruits must the ravages of time, in the disciplined ranks of literature be supplied; we therefore welcome, with much cordiality, all hopeful adventurers in that "land of dread"-the domains of verse and prose.

'Scenes from the Belgian Revolution, by C. F. Henningsen. In the Last of the Sophis,' by this author, there were many striking passages, and the same may be said respecting the 'Scenes in Belgium.' What we like least is that kind of feverish flow of words which, like a disturbed stream, allows no image or thought to be seen distinctly. There is much said, and little done -a fault from which the best authors are free. We could easily select a few clever passages from this poem. The entry of the Prince into Brussels is well described :

Yet on, as fearless and as bold,
He dashed amid the double row
Of human faces, stern and cold,
Or glaring hatred from the brow
That bent to see the chieftain pass,
Where undisguised stood many a foe,
Amid that armed and lawless mass;
The boldest might have quaked to go,
And trembled with a hundred lives.
Yet he who hath been seen to ride
Through battle-amid butchers' knives,
And pikes waved threatening by his side,
Where fancy might have thought to see
The streaming blood and gory head,
Now took his way as fearlessly,
As if mid forest branches spread;
And only smiled when, menacing,
Their taunts and scorn around him grew,
As the vile rabble gathering
Come densely round him as he flew.
Perchance, indeed, that hour he thought
On the red plain of Waterloo;
Where, bartered for his blood, he bought
The freedom of that thankless crew.

This author is no admirer of the "brave Belges" we cannot say that they are much to our own liking: we, however, cannot join in all his commendation of the Dutch, though we believe their prince is a benevolent and good

ruler.

Mr. Joplin's Analysis of the Currency Question' is rather a curious work, inasmuch as it shows how very grievously the load of that question has been laid on Mr. Joplin's shoulders, and how little the parliament and the public have listened to his groaning under it. It is very true that everybody could not at once state in set terms anything like a theory of currency; but it by no means follows that people do not, on that account, understand it practically; and therefore, though we sympathize with Mr. Joplin, as we would do with any other man in affliction, we think he is grieved without much cause. There are some subjects so very well known, that nobody thinks of writing about them, or otherwise noticing them: for instance, when the sun is shining, nobody sits down to demonstrate that it is light. There are also some subjects so very minute, that, though curious, nobody thinks of adverting to them: for instance, Mr. Joplin on the top of St. Paul's, as compared with Mr. Joplin in the vaults below (in equal health and spirits in both cases), would make some little alteration in the length both of the day and the year. When aloft he would raise the centre of gravity, and alter the centrifugal force, both in the rotation and the revolution of the earth. We have only to weigh Mr. Joplin, and determine the relative distances of the centre of gravity, in order to be able to calculate with perfect accuracy the effect which his elevation would produce, on the solar system; but, truly, the calculation would be a most unprofitable expenditure of time and mathematics. We know not on which horn of that dilemma the 'Analysis' will be put, but we have our fears that it will get entangled somewhere between them.

'Hawes's Lectures to Young Men.' This is a Glasgow reprint of an American book; and such a book as should be studied, and its precepts practised. Joel Hawes is an author whom we love; he knows the world; he gives plain, clear, manly, pious, and practicable advice: we recommend all young men to put the little volume in their pockets, and read it at their leisurethey cannot fail to profit by it.

'Huisean Lectures for the Year 1831.' The object of these Lectures is to prove the veracity of the Five Books of Moses; and there is no doubt that the Rev. J. J. Blunt, of Cambridge, has shown both learning and talent in their composition. We are not quite sure that such vindication was either necessary or desirable: the ingenuity of Stackhouse sometimes raised objections to Scripture, which his answers failed fully to solve infidelity loves to find its wea pons in the armoury of the Christian.

:

little

The Youth's Cornucopia.' This compact book treats of many things which it is proper for youth to know;-first, we have the Fine Arts; second, Natural History; third, English History; fourth, Early Voyages; fifth, Manners and Customs; sixth, Manufactures; and, seventh, Sports and Pastimes. The instruction is conveyed in conversations, and the whole is illustrated by cuts, some of which are well executed.

'Paternal Advice.' The author of this Lilliputian volume seems an earnest and pious man. His counsel concerning books contains much in small compass; but the portion most to our liking is that which records the opinions and quotes the lives of eminent men. He has less originality of thought than he has skill to avail himself of the knowledge of others: he cannot be compared for a moment with Hawes; yet his work may be nearly as beneficial.

'On the Pursuit of Knowledge.' This address was delivered to the law students in the Uni versity of London, where it was received with much approbation; nor can the public fail to acknowledge its value. All those who are de

taining Moses and bequeathing his Milesian | name to the Nile—that is, all three approach the very consummation of human absurdity: and if the Roman people cared one jot for the tale, they must have been more insane than the Irish and Scotch antiquarians who professed to give up the contention respecting Ossian, lest it might occasion a civil war. Romulus might have been the hero of a Roman national poem, as he was of the national ballads; but the selection of Æneas was only dictated by a predetermination to rest his fame on plagiarism.

There is an anecdote, preserved on good authority, respecting this national poem, which deserves to be mentioned: we are told, that Virgil at one time designed to embody some of the most interesting periods of the Roman history in a heroic poem, but was disgusted by the harsh names of the persons and places that he would be obliged to mention. This is rather a whimsical parallel to Miss Landon's complaint of her trouble in finding pretty titles for her fictitious peers, and Captain Hamilton's apology to the late Chancellor for having anticipated his title in the novel of Cyril Thornton;-certain ungallant critics who have assailed the lady for her attachment to the sound of names should have mentioned the high authority she could quote for her caution. But the excuse assigned by Virgil for neglecting the legends of Latium is a very strong proof of his incapacity to write a truly epic poem; it is, in terms, a confession that he deemed diction a matter of more importance than the subject -that he regarded the drapery more than the figure-and that he deemed adjuncts of greater value than the principal.

We must, however, be understood as speaking of Virgil now merely in his capacity of an epic poet. As a writer of pastoral poesy, we hold him unrivalled. Horace himself would not more readily have acknowledged the merit of the Georgics and Eclogues than we do; but powers of a far different kind are required in epic poetry— powers so different indeed, that the possession of one almost precludes the possibility of sharing the other; and of this Virgil himself was so conscious, that, on his death-bed, he ordered the Eneid to be destroyed.

Why, then, is Virgil so much admired? Simply because it is through him alone that nine-tenths of the world are acquainted with Homer. By an exquisitely-absurd arrangement, not only is Latin taught before Greek, but it is taught almost to the exclusion of that far more noble language. Take a boy about to enter the University, you will find that he has learned the Latin authors directly from the originals, but he is acquainted with the Greek only through the medium of barbarous Latin interpretations, GræcoLatin Lexicons, and, in no despicable number of instances, Græco-Latin Grammars. In consequence, he can read Latin at first sight, and with pleasure; but to read the Greek authors is a painful task, which only a chosen few venture to encounter; and even many of these unconsciously prefer the Latin writers on account of the greater facility of their perusal for ease is loved by the learned as well as the unlearned. The Dutchman, unused to the sight of rivers, delights to contemplate his own canals; and those who are too lazy to seek the pure Homeric streams, still admire the beauty of the waters

:

when he sees them flowing in the artificial | lished some works when a very young man; channels of imitators. but the first of any celebrity, was the 'Vindiciæ Gallicæ,' a defence of the French Revolution against Burke and others; a work highly commended, and indeed, much overrated. He also distinguished himself as counsel for Pelletier and since by his speeches

It forms no part of our subject to justify our preference of Lucan; but a few words in behalf of that ill-treated author may be pardoned. He is, we grant, far less correct, less polished, and less refined than Virgil; his Pharsalia displays many traces of an unregulated mind-many excrescences arising from a boyish taste for tawdry ornamentmany descriptions more declamatory than poetical; but still we firmly believe that the Pharsalia, with all its faults, displays, in any single book, more poetic conception, more power of thought, and more vigour of imagination, than the whole neid from beginning to end. The characters of the Pharsalian heroes are delineated with great strength; to borrow an illustration from painting, the figures seem to start from the canvas. Rowe's version of the Pharsalia is so very loose and inaccurate, that an extract from it would convey a very imperfect notion of Lucan's style. We subjoin a more literal, but far less spirited translation of his comparative analysis of the characters of Pompey and Cæsar, hoping that, amid all its defects, some portion of the innate beauty of the original may be perceptible;--as the image of the sun retains a share of its lustre, even when viewed through an imperfect or distorted medium :

You, Pompey, fear lest modern deeds efface
Your ancient triumphs o'er the pirate race.
You a long series of heroic deeds,
And fierce impatience of a greater, leads;
Pompey no rival, Cæsar brooks no lord-
Yet who more justly drew the hostile sword
We dare not know-Cato and heaven divide-
It chose the victor's, he the vanquish'd side.

Ill were they match'd-the one now aged grown,
Unlearn'd the warrior in the peaceful gown;
He courts the praise that follow'd him so long,
And buys the plaudits of a hireling throng:
Pleased with the venal shouts, no triumphs now
Replace the laurels withering on his brow;
His sole reliance is his former fame,
He stands the shadow of a mighty name,
Like the proud oak, that in a fruitful field
Sustains the rusted casque and mouldering shield-
The faint memorials of forgotten days,
Chieftains unknown, and unremember'd frays-
Whose perish'd roots no more the trunk sustain,
Fix'd by its weight, still triumphs in the plain;
Still are its leafless boughs to heaven display'd,
The naked trunk alone extends a shade.
Yet though it quivers in each passing breeze,
Ready to fall-though round it younger trees,
In all the pride of youthful bloom, are shown,
It stands unrivall'd, honour'd, and alone.

Cæsar relies not on an empty name-
War his delight, defeat his only shame;
Tameless and fierce, as hope or anger burns,
The impatient warrior with fresh vigour turns.
Conquest impels him to more glorious deeds,
Believing fate his friend; whate'er impedes
His proud career soon owns the victor's sway;
He views with triumph ruin mark his way.
Thus bursts from angry clouds the flashing levin,
Rushing in thunders o'er the startled heaven,
The echoing globe reverberates the crash;
Its pale inhabitants are dumb-the flash,
Darting athwart, closes each eye in pain-
Its own wild flames consume its own proud fane.
No fence restrains it, and no limits bound,
It spreads a waste of ruin all around;
Then to its clouds on wings of flame retires,
And bears to heaven its re-assembled fires.

in the House of Commons.

Sir James was a Whig, and came forward at a time when political discussions

were

mere gladiatorial displays - when oratory was the fashion, and the battle was for place and power rather than for right, and truth and justice; and he was overshadowed at his outset, by established fame and greater talent. Of late years, opposition has been more resolute and determined-principles and not party, have been the watchword-a resolved body of sincere men have grown into strength, by uncompromising integrity of purpose-eloquence has been silenced by dates and facts; and we fear, we must, for truth sake, add, that Sir James has never realized the promise of his early life. His fame, indeed, has been throughout, rather of promise than performance. From our earliest recollection, the literary public have been expecting from his pen, some great work or other-his' History of England' was for many years talked of in the coteries, as the glory and triumph of the age-it was to be an everlasting monument of his genius and his labours-yet we all know, that this sounding promise ended in a contribution to The Cabinet Cyclopædia,' of a few passable volumes, such as hundreds of living men might have written. The truth we suspect to be, that Sir James was first trammelled and then trumpeted by a party, which found him a useful auxiliary, either for a set speech, a party pamphlet, or a political paper in the Edinburgh;-but though a man of undoubted talent, of great eloquence, and of varied attainments, he was not an original or powerful thinker; he was not one to whom the is at all indebted; he was not a great age man, in any sense of the word-equally in politics and in philosophy,† he took up his position on the neutral ground between honest differences of opinion, and was content to display his power, without reference to the great cause of man's happiness and progres

sion.

OUR WEEKLY GOSSIP ON LITERATURE
AND ART.

Beauty and fashion are, we hear and see, to be ministered to, in literature, by gentler hands than heretofore-by ladies who wear perfumed gloves, and gentlemen whose pens are dipped in odours, and not in ink. The wide empire of fashion is to be divided into three kingdoms; at the head of one, a queen in the guise of Mrs. Norton will reign; the throne of a second will be filled by the late editor of La Belle Assemblée; while a sort of committee of taste, will guide, we hear, the third. Authors and authoresses, skilful in the fashionable, and deep in the ways of the genteel, are employed as auxiliaries on all sides. Of new announcements in literature, we see few which we have left in other numbers unmentioned. A flood of magazines has come in upon us. Blackwood has one or two articles from the hand of Wilson,

+ See Athenæum, No. 153, for review of the Preliminary Dissertation to the Encyclopedia Britannica.

band, and the principal male singers, Mes-, sieurs Nonrrit, Damoreau, Giubilei, and Levasseur. The professors were quite delighted with their distinguished guest, and parted from him with three hearty cheers-wishing him a safe voyage, and a speedy return to this country.

The Germans continue to attract full houses; the enthusiasm with which their performances are received, has given these strangers a more favourable opinion of English musical taste, than they were inclined to entertain the truth is, the English are a reflecting people, and German music improves on consideration; it is true to nature, and always appeals to the understanding.

in his usual dashing and vigorous mannerfull of spirit and poetry. Fraser has several sarcastic and amusing things: the 'Letters on English Manners,' by the American Colonel Hiccory, of Cedar Swamp, United States, are capital. The New Monthly has the attractions of short articles, and some pleasant writing; 'Our Present State,' is temperately written, and with a full knowledge of the subject; and the article, entitled 'Vernacular Literature,' will be found instructive by many, who think themselves overflowing with knowledge. Tait has an article on Goethe, by one who understands his character as a man and a genius. The Fourth Estate,' and other papers, are clever; theNotes on the Crisis,' are too political. The last number of the North American Review has found its way to our hands: the article on Indian Biography' is very interesting. We, however, care not two-pence about the authorship of Junius; we wish men would let the clever and sarcastic libeller's dust alone. We love Bryant, and have shown it; but we cannot place him so high as our American friend does; nor can we join with him respecting Burns--with him, genius atones not for all defects; he is one of the most compact and nervous writers; we know of no one, who puts more meaningley, F.G.S., F.L.S.

into his lines, and from whom so little can be taken without injury-that he wrote from the immediate impulse of nature, without effort or premeditation, we know of our knowledge; but that is his highest praise. In the United Service Journal, though neither soldier nor sailor, we always meet with something which we like; so do we in the Gentleman's Magazine-there we have, generally, an antiquarian dish or two, such as 'Ancient Archery in England,' and Notices of Old Verulam,' worth our time and money. The Sporting Magazine, too, deals in amusing and profitable things: feats of old sportsmen and exploits of the young; pedigrees of fleet horses, and descents of greyhounds and slow hounds, and pointers, and lurchers. We hear, with concern, that the Exhibition of the Royal Academy is not so profitable this season, as it has been heretofore; the same may be said of all other Exhibitions: we believe, the agitation of the public mind is such, that few care for aught but the news of the hour.

SCIENTIFIC AND LITERARY

GEOLOGICAL SOCIETY.

May 30.-Roderick Impey Murchison, Esq., President, in the Chair.-A paper was first read describing a large Boulder Stone, which occurs on the shore of the Appin, in Argyleshire, by James Moxwell, Esq., and communicated by William Smith, Esq., F.G.S., F.R.S., &c.

A paper was next read on bones of rhinoceros and hyena, found in Cefn Cave, in the valley of Cyffredan, by the Rev. Edward Stan

A third paper was read on the basalt of the Titterstone Clee Hill, in Shropshire, being the concluding part of a memoir on the Ludlow district, begun at a former meeting, by J. Robinson Wright, Esq., employed on the Ordnance Trigonometrical Survey.

ROYAL COLLEGE OF PHYSICIANS.

May 28.-Sir Henry Halford, Bart., President, in the chair.-A paper by Dr. M'Gaffog, Physician to the embassy at Constantinople, Cholera,' (communicated by Sir Robert Goron Blood-letting, as a certain Remedy for don.) was read by the registrar. Also, an unpublished paper on 'Perspiration,' by the late celebrated Dr. Heberden.

MEETINGS FOR THE ENSUING WEEK.

MONDAY,

TUESDAY,

{

WEDNES.

The Benefit Concerts this season, have not been quite so numerous as last, yet they have not proved so profitable. Mrs. Anderson, Madame Dulcken, and Mori, particularly the latter, can, we fear, testify to the truth of this. Bochsa has had the fullest attendance; the extensive circulation of his harp music, and the monopoly which he enjoys, as the only resident harpist of fame FRIDAY, in London, naturally excites great interest to hear him. F. Cramer and Vaughan have had their annual share of the patronage of the Antient Concert audience.

THURSD.

SATUR.

The stage preparations for 'Robert le Diable,' are in arrear, so that the opera will not be produced on Monday next, as was expected; after so many postpone-in ments, it is to be hoped that, on the night of performance, the whole will be perfect. Meyerbeer attended six full rehearsals of his opera, and on the day of his departure, partook of a dinner with the manager of the King's Theatre, the conductors of the Italian and German operas, and about thirty of the

EXHIBITION AT SOMERSET HOUSE.

[Fourth Notice.]

WE have been accused of too much clemency our critical strictures on the works in the Exhibition; it is as well to lean to the side of notice such as demanded attention on account mercy: we have, however, only selected for of their merits: we shall find time to characterize, in a general way, the leading faults of the mass of pictures which we pass over without particular examination. The collection is, on the whole, a motly and a curious one.

Had the Academy flourished in the days of Spenser, we might have imagined that he wrote the following verse of his 'Faery Queene,' after the excitement of a visit:

His chamber was despainted all within
With sundry colours, in the which were writ
Infinite shapes of things dispersed thin:
Some such as in the world were never yet,
Ne can devised be of mortal wit:
Some daily seen and known by their names
Such as in idle fantasies do flit:

Infernal hags, centaurs, fiends, hippodames,
Apes, lions, eagles, owls, fools, lovers, children, dames.

Nor will we disguise from ourselves, that the image in the succeeding verse may be looked who swarm in the rooms, and who, we are afraid, upon as figurative of the spectators and critics sometimes make sad noises, and delight in " idle thoughts, and leasings, tales, and opinions un

sound."

215. The Destroying Angels and Demons of Evil interrupting the Orgies of the Vicious and Intemperate;' ETTY, R.A.-This, the painter informs us, belongs to that class of compositions called visions by the Romans, inasmuch as they had no origin either in history or poetry. We are not sure that the artist is right in making the Demons of Evil do an ill turn to their friends, the Vicious and Intemperate: they ought rather to encourage such goings on; but, instead of this, they are reading them a great moral lesson in the midst of fire and tempest, by pulling their house about their ears. There is much unbridled imagination-much fine, free drawing, and much good colouring, in this singular sketch. Such scenes are not, however, of this world, nor for the people who are in it; and where one will reckon it ridiculous. will feel the poetry of the work, a thousand

239. The Saint Manufactory;' UWINS.-This picture embodies a scene at Naples: an artist's shop where Madonnas, saints, angels, are manufactured: two friars are bargaining for a bunch of cherubs; and some ladies have brought their household images to be repaired and repolished. There is not much humour in the composition; and it is rather curious than excellent: we once saw, we scarcely know where,-a sketch from these lines in Prior:

And Romish bakers praise the deity, They whilome chipt in his panisty. One of the men of crust and crumb who adored, had evidently put saw-dust into the bread, for we never saw such a hypocritical-looking scoundrel in the world.

250. Portrait of a Lady;' SIMPSON.-There is something very pleasing in the looks of this lady; and we observed several damsels, skilful in matters of dress, bestow approving glances on her hat and feather.

256. The Three Children and the Fiery Furnace;' JONES, R.A.-This we look upon as one of the finest pieces of the poetic kind in the Exhibition. The artist has skilfully selected the time when, on the commands of Nebuchadnezzar being fulfilled, he beheld four figures loose, walking unharmed amidst the fire, and his counsellors told him the form of the fourth was like the son of God. The startled kingthe awe-struck counsellors, and the dim-seen but majestic shape of the releasing spirit, are of a character which dwells on the mind; we feel Scripture to be realized. We hope Jones will give us many more such works: the picture is of a size which suits the walls of ordinary houses-a matter which our artists seldom attend to.

257. Mathews as Mons, Mallet, in Moncrieff's

Drama;' CLINT, A.-As a painter of nature as she stands up before him, Clint has great power. He can catch the wayward looks of a favourite actor in a fancy part, and place his characters before us in all the hues and lineaments of truth; but then his nature is that of the stage, where looks are put on, and all is assumed and artificial. He is great here and it is but jus