페이지 이미지

and tears of exulting tenderness swell into cry with spite at the idea of her being a my eyes, when I think of the brilliant countess. establishment you have secured for her.

Our long intimacy, my beloved friend, You can't hobble, to court on your and my maternal affection for the dear crutches, 80 I, forsooth, shall be asked to creature, are pleas which I shall urge in present her Ladyship-and I must do it, claiming the delightful office of presenting though I know I shall expire with vexation her. With what pride shall I see the at seeing the V— diamonds in her odious superb V- diamonds in her lovely auburn red hair. lock3.

Soon, very soon, friend of my heart ! One comfort is, you'll never be able to may I have to congratulate you on some get off that little humpbacked thing Anna equally advantageous establishment for Maria; and you know well enough there's your sweet delicate Anna Maria.

no hope of it, so hate to be talked to

about her. I earnestly hope that foolish story You won't care much about it, even if (which you have heard of course) about it were true : but I can think of nothing Lord V.'s keeping an opera girl at Paris, else to plague the old cat. I'll take care and having lost £10,000 at the Salon, at the young one shall know it somehow. one sitting, will not reach the ear of our sweet sensitive girl. But people are so malicious.

Where are your two lovely boys? We I'd as lieve have a couple of wild-cats have not seen them since they came from turn'd loose into my drawing-room as Eton, and you know how I delight in their those two riotons cubs. But I've nine charming spirits.

girls to bring out yet, and the young M.'s will be tolerable catches, though only

honourables. &c. &c. &c. &c. &c.

Fudge, fudge, fudge, fudge, fudge! And remains ever,

I think I have given you enough for one With the most inviolable attachment, dose, though I am afraid you're up to me. My dearest Lady D.'s

I hate you cordially; that's certain. Most truly affectionate,

M. G. M.G. This is very clever and spirited; but after all, the portion of the volume which is most to our taste, is the poetry. There, indeed, we meet with several compositions, of the authorship of which known and established writers might justly be proud. To prove to our readers, that we are quite in earnest in this expression of our opinion, we shall lay before them the following exquisitely touching and beautiful poem :

Sleep, little baby! sleep!

I've seen thee in thy beauty,
Not in thy cradle bed,

A thing all health and glee ; -116 Not on thy mother's breast

But never then, wert thou : Henceforth shall be thy rest,

So beautiful, as now,
But with the quiet dead.

Baby! thou seemest to me.
Yes, with the quiet dead,

Thine upturned eyes glazed over
Baby! thy rest shall be-

Like harebells wet with dew
Oh! many a weary wight,

Already veiled and hid
Weary of life and light,

By the convulsed lid,
Would fain lie down with thee.

Their pupils darkly blue.
Flee, little tender nursling!

Thy little mouth half open,
Flee to thy grassy nest

The soft lip quivering,
There the first flowers shall blow,

As if, like summer air,
The first pure flake of snow

Ruffling the rose leaves, there
Shall fall upon thy breast.

Thy soul were fluttering.
Peace?-peace! the little bosom

Mount up, immortal essence !
Labours with shortening breath.

Young spirit! hence-depart!
Speaks his that tremulous sigh And is this Death Dread thing!
departure nigh-

If such thy visiting,
Those are the damps of death.

How beautiful thou art!

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors]

Oh! I could gaze for ever

Upon that waxen face,
So passionless! so pure !
The little shrine was sure

An angel's dwelling place.
Thou weepest, childless mother!
Ay, weep-'twill ease thine

He was thy first-born son-
Thy first, thine only one-

"Tis hard from him to part. 'Tis hard to lay thy darling

Deep in the damp cold earth,
His empty crib to see,
His silent nursery,

Late ringing with his mirth.
To meet again in slumber

His small mouth's rosy kiss,
Then—wakened with a start,
By thine own throbbing heart-

His twining arms to miss.
And then, to lie and weep,

And think the live-long night, (Feeding thine own distress With accurate greediness),

Of every past delight.
Of all his winning ways,

His pretty, playful smiles,
His joy at sight of thee,
His tricks, his mimickry,

And all his little wiles.
Oh! these are recollections

Round mothers' hearts that cling!
That mingle with the tears
And smiles of after years,

With oft awakening.

I look around, and see

The evil ways of men,
And oh, beloved child !
I'm more than reconciled

To thy departure then.
The little arms that clasped me,

The innocent lips that prest,
Would they have been as pure
Till now, as when of yore

I lulled thee on my breast!

Now, like a dew-drop shrined

Within a chrystal stone,

ou'rt safe in heaven, my dove! Safe with the Source of Love,

The everlasting One!

And when the hour arrives,

From flesh that sets me free,
Thy spirit may await,
The first at heaven's gate,

To meet and welcome me.'

This poem might have been written by Wordsworth, in one of his tea. derest moods of inspiration. Nor are others in the volume less deserving of commendation. Witness the charming Lyrical Ballad, Sunday Evening,' . It is not Death,' 'Autumn Flowers,' &c.: we can only afford room for the last.


Those few

pale Autumn flowers !
How beautiful they are !
Than all that went before,
Than all the summer store,

How lovelier far!


Pale flowers !Pale perishing flowers !

Ye're types of precious things;
Types of those bitter moments,
That flit like life's enjoyments,

On rapid, rapid wings.
Last hours with parting dear ones,

(That time the fastest spends)
Last tears, in silence shed,
Last words, half-uttered,

Last looks of dying friends!

And why ?-They are the last

The last !-the last the last! O, by that

little word, How many tlaoughts are stirred !

That sister of the past !

Who but would fain compress

The saddest ! sweetest! dearest!
A life into a day;

Because, like those, the nearest
The last day spent with one,

Is an eternal close.
Who, e'er the morrow's sun,
Must leave us, and for aye?

Pale flowers ! Pale perishing flowers !

I woo your gentle breath; 0, precious, precious moments!

I leave the summer rose
Pale flowers! ye're types of those For younger, blither brows,

Tell me of change and death! * An Essay on Childhood, full of truth and feeling, we had half forgotten to notice; but there is so much that is deserving of approbation in the volume, that we can only now refer our friends to its pages, for a confirmation of all that we have said in its behalf. Who the fair author is we know not; but rumour states her to be a relation of the Rev. W. Lisle Bowles, of Bremhill. Be she who she may, she has no reason to be ashamed of acknowledging her literary offspring.


Mr. Gifford's edition of Shirley is, we are confidently informed, nearly ready for publication.

Mr. Charles Knight, of Pall Mall East, has commenced a very talented and spirited weekly periodical, under the designation of · The Brazen Head.'

A Military Sketch Book is, we perceive, preparing for publication.

Illustrations of Anglo-Saxon Poetry, by the Rev. J. Conybeare, will be published in a few days.

The Biographie Moderne, edited by Messieurs Jouy, Arnault, &c. is just completed, in twenty volumes.

An extensive auto-biographical work is announced in parts: the first number will contain the life of Colley Čibber by himself.

A version of the Lay of the Last Minstrel, in the Russian language, has been published at Moskow.

The Sheridiana, recently published by Mr. Colburn, is a mere scissors and paste affair, manufactured, like the Percy Anecdotes, from newspapers and periodicals.

A work is announced for early publication, entitled Spirits of the Olden Time,' their Sayings and Doings.'

Mrs. Peck, authoress of a bushel of bad novels, is about to publish the · Bard in the West,' another work of fiction.

Mr. Martin has nearly ready for publication, a splendid mezzotinto engraving of his Belshazzar's Feast.

Miss Stephens has made her appearance in an opera, founded on the Eastern story of the Wonderful Lamp, as Aladdin-A-lad-in-breeches ! We cannot admire the taste which has led to her debut in this character.

The Journal of the Two Sicilies declares there is no foundation for the statement given by several journals of the discovery of a fresco painting at Pompeii, représenting an irruption of Mount Vesuvius.

Ports of England. ---No. 1. Containing two plates, Whitby and Scarborough, in highly-finished mezzotinto, from drawings by J. M. W. Turner, R. A. are announced as nearly ready for publication. The work will embrace all the licensed chartered Ports of England.

Mr. Frere has nearly ready for publication a corrected edition of "A Combined View of the Prophecies,' in which he states, that he has availed himself of the advantages for perfecting this subject, which have been afforded by the late expiration of another grand prophetic period

the 1290 years of Daniel.

Mr. Milman's Anna Boleyn would seem to have occasioned the public some little disappointment. It is not, say our periodical critics, a drama, but a series of disjointed dialogues, in blank verse. Ifthis be the whole ground of their complaint; we like the poem the better for it. Besides, it does not pretend to have been written for thestage, but to be merely a dramatic poem; it is, therefore, the extreme of hypercriticism to accuse the author of not having written with dramatic effect. Those who pine for good dramatic situations and bad verse, should go to Counsellor Shiel for a sample.

Professor Rezzi, the keeper of the Barberini Library, has just discovered a manuscript copy of the Divina Comedia of Dante, with Landino's Commentary, full of notes in the hand-writing of Tasso. These notes display great learning and taste, and shew the attention with which the illustrious author of Jerusalem Delivered had studied Dante's poem. M. Rezzi has made a present of this valuable manuscript to Professor Rosini, of Pisa, for the purpose of enriching his edition of the complete works of T'asso.

Another accession is about to be made to the treasury of the National Gallery. It is said that the king has presented to it his own private collection of pictures, which is rich in works

of all the old masters, but is unrivalled as far as regards the Dutch and Flemish schools. It is said that the Royal Donor, with a delicacy which does him at least as much honour as his munificence, declined sending these pictures until after Sir George Beaumount's collection had been hung up, Iest they should obtain an undue preference of situation. Many of them will be previously seen at the ensuing exhibition at the British Gallery.

Gifford's long talked of edition of Ford is at length possitively announced as “ nearly ready." A first rate poet, and a first rate editor are planets that are so seldom seen in conjunction, that when such an event happens, we hail it with heartfelt delight. To Mr. Gifford we are already deeply indebted for his labours in restoring the text and illuminating the obscurities of Jonson, of Massinger and of Shirley. As to the author upon whose works he is now engaged, he cannot be better characterised than in the words of Charles Lamb; « Ford was of the first order of poets. He sought for sublimity not by parcels in metaphors or visible images, but directly where she has her full residence in the heart of man; in the actions and sufferings of the greatest minds. There is a grandeur of the soul above mountains, seas, and the elments."

The Royal Society of Literature has lately held its general anniversary meeting, when after the reading of the report, and other push-pin play, the address of the president—the Magnus Apollo of the Institution--the Bishop of Salisbury (late of St. David's) was delivered. His lordship professes himself of opinion, that the work lately published as a posthumous production of the Poet Milton, was not written by him. The editor of the Literary Gazette trusts the illustrious president will be prevailed upon to publish his address. Of course he will. It was, no doubt, conceived and concocted with a view to publication. The gold medals for the present year have been voted by the council to Dugald Stewart, late Professor of Moral Philosophy in Edinburgh, an author of eminent abilities,—and to Professor John Schweighauser, of Strasburgh, whose editions of Appian, Polybius, Athenæus, Herodotus, &c. &c. prove him to be one of the most learned classical scholars and acute critics in Europe.

An interesting little volume of poetry has just made its appearance, from the pen of Miss E. W. Mills, from which an extract will be found (Lines on the Endymion of Albano) at page 304 of our present number. The poems contained in this firstling of a youthful muse, are all what are usually denominated occasional verses.' Miss Mills appears to be a great admirer of L. E. L.; and some of her productions, without being imitations, bear a considerable resemblance to the amatory effusions of that brilliant and fanciful writer; not only in their style, but in their train of feeling and idea. Witness the beautiful lines, “'Tis now the secret hour,' 'Yes, well I know,' the poem we have given, as a specimen of the volume, On being told I must not sing of Love,' •The Stolen Kiss, An Impromptu, p. 131. We would caution our fair novice against writing too much about love, for, although it is una doubtedly a perfectly legitimate subject for any pen, whether male or female, is one which, from its very sweetness, soon palls upon the taste of the reader, if too often repeated. Even the genius of L. E. L. has not availed to save her poetry from this reproach.

The Ass, a three penny publication, which recently commenced its career, is said to be the production of Mr. Mudie, (not him of the Sun), the author of the Modern Athens,' and Babylon the Great.

M. Mazurier, of Strasburg, has found out a remedy for intoxication; and this recipe, capable of yielding us so much delight, is acetate of potass, which, the author says, will make a drunken man sober in five or six minutes. He states that it will also cure the gout.

Messieurs Galignani of Paris, have just published an edition of all Lord Byron's Works, including his parliamentary speeches, and suppressed poems, in one volume, price one Louis. It is printed by Didot, and the type, although exceedingly small, is clear and distinct.

A public meeting took place a few weeks ago, at the rooms of the Horticultural. Society, at which about a hundred persons were present. Sir Stamford Raffles was called to the chair, and read an address recommending the formation of a society, the object of which should be to import new birds, beasts, and fishes, into this country from foreign parts.

The University of Cambridge has conferred the degree of Master of Arts by deploma, on the Rev. Joseph Blanco White, “in consideration of his eminent talents and learning, and of his exemplary conduct during his residence in Oxford; but more especially on account of those able and well-timed publications by which he has powerfully exposed the errors and corruptions of the Church of Rome.”

The Chevalier Arrighi, in a little pamphlet, published some months ago at St. Petersburgh, states that he is in possession of a very beautiful manuscript of Petrarch's Sonnets, in the hand-writing of Petrarch himself. This manuscript will furnish the means of correcting several defective passages in the texts which have hitherto been followed, and of expunging several sonnets which have been erroneously attributed to Petrarch.

The Astronomical Society has presented gold medals to Mr. Herschell, and Mr. South, and Professor Struve, as a public expression of their opinion and approbation of the uncommon zeal and energy with which these distinguished members of their body have prosecuted their inquiries relative to double stars. A most suitable address on the occasion was delivered by the President of the Society.

An admirable little volume has just made its appearance, entitled "Tales in Verse,' illustrative of the several petitions of the Lord's Prayer. By the Rev. H. F. Lyte. The tales are very much in the style of Crabbe, sometimes, indeed, in his best manner. The most successful tale is The Widow;' but the entire volume is every way entitled to public patronage, not less on account of its intrinsic merits, than for the excellent principles it inculcates.

Among the historical relics of M. Denon's cabinet, are a great many of the im" plements which belonged to the Inquisition at Valladolid ; the ring of Jean-sansPeur, Duke of Burgundy, who was assassinated on the bridge of Montereau ; plaster casts of the faces of Cromwell and Charles 12th; fragments of the bones of the Cid, found in his burying-place at Burgos ; fragments of the bones of Abelard and Heloise, taken out of their tomb at Paraclete ; the hair of Agnes Sorel, who was buried at Loches, and of Ines de Castro, who was buried at Alcaboca ; part of the mustachio of Henry 4th, king of France, found entire, on the exhumation of the bodies of the kings of France, at St. Denis, in 1793; a fragment of Turenne's shroud; some of Moliere's and La Fontaine's bones; one of Voltaire's teeth; an autograph signature of Napoleon ; with a piece of the shirt that he wore at the time of his death, a lock of his hair, and a leaf of the willow under which he lies at St. Helena.

Among the not very prominent sights which, at this busy period of the year, court the visits of the curious, we (the editor of the Literary Gazette) went a few days ago to Mr. Kleft's, in High Holborn, to look at a model of St. Peter's, Rome. It is of papier mache, and remarkable for the labour bestowed upon it, the accuracy, multitude, and minuteness of its details, and the general effect produced by so per. fect a miniature, of so inagnificent a structure. The interior, into which the lamp is put, is finished with the same regard to resemblance as the exterior ; and the whole furnishes a complete idea of one of the greatest buildings in the world. The model is stated to be of considerable antiquitv, and being brought to this country by Sir Thomas Liddell, has been entirely restored by Mr. Kleft.


« 이전계속 »