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I saw with surprise, in a few moments, an arc, almost continuous, of purple light, form itself, composed of small protuberances, just where the sun was about to appear. What surprised me more, was a beautiful red cloud, entirely detached from the protuberances, which was projected, and quite isolated, upon the white ground of the aureole, which was followed by two others, somewhat smaller. I could not refrain from remarking this to MM. Aguilar and Capeda, who were at my side, and whose observations confirmed it. The splendour of the corona, however, continued to augment on the side where the sun was to appear, and I plainly perceived the line upon which the white light of the photosphere rested, by a marked gradation against the red colour of the points. The arc bordered with red had then an extent of not less than 60°. Very soon after, the protuberances disappeared. I still followed the corona during 40 seconds. The solar light then shone like that of an electrical lamp, and projected undulating shadows. ,
"We were fortunate enough to fix photographically five phases of the totality. These images confirm what I have detailed. The light of the protuberances was so vivid, that it acted almost instantaneously. The corona was reproduced clearly in 30 seconds, but the radiations left no trace. The light of the exterior corona appeared to me to be polarised. The weather was splendid."
THE BRITISH VOLUNTEER.
[Sung by Sims Reeves.]
Let others long for sweet repose,
I'm never happy when at rest;
Your calm enjoyment I detest 1
Confinement is a plague I shun,
And thus you see my course is clear;
My cap I don, I mount my gun,
Brave hearts, by me example take;
Young swains, who woo some maiden dear: The lad will make his rivals quake,
Who once becomes a British Volunteer!
"Pis not the day for listless ease,
Let danger come when fate shall please,
Your Country and your Queen invite,
Well arm'd is he who's arm'd for right—
[Patriotic Song, by Alfred Tennyson.]
There is a sound of thunder afar,
Storm in the South that darkens the day,
Storm 1 storm ! Riflemen form!
Be not deaf to the sound that warns!
Be not gull'd by a despot's plea!
Let your Reforms for a moment go,
Look to your butts and take good aims, Better a rotten borough or so, Ttian a rotten fleet or a city in flames! Form ! form ! Riflemen form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!
Form ! be ready to do or to die!'
Form in Freedom's name and the Queen's! True that we have a faithful ally, But only the devil knows what he means: Form ! form ! Riflemen form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen ! riflemen ! riflemen form!
[From the " Oriental Budget of Literature."]
Summer Songs. By Mortimer Collins* 6*. ( Saunders, Otley, & Co.) It may seem to many, that we are exaggerating our appreciation of the author of these songs very transparently when we say that we know of no man whose muse so approaches the Laureate's as Mr. Collins'. We have watched him revelling in the midst of his crisp, and sparkling, and exuberant verse, for this many a long day past, and felt that there is not so great a gulf between him and Mr. Tennyson, as those who have only heard of the Laureate may imagine. Indeed, we remember to have read what both have written to fan the flame of volunteer patriotism, and it was the Bank of England to a groat in favour of Mr. Collins. Without being a copyist (Mr. Collins is entirely and wilfully original), his gifts, though his own, are essentially Tennysonian. Had they both written nameless upon one page, we should have said that they had been both reared at the same breast. Amidst the mass of poetry that issues from the press, poems even such as these, written in the very integrity of the purest poetry, the poetry of the soul, may inspire no one but the bookseller. It is because they are very fresh and beautiful indeed, that, at the risk of being written down as parasites', we have not hesitated to tell our readers, that as a poet Mr. Collins occupies a position which sooner or later must be recognised.
Lady Aubrey: or, What shall I do? By the Author of'Every Day.' 2 vols. 2U. (Saunders, Otley, & Co.) So many indifferent fictions see the light, and get a temporal hold of the public through the application of a false criticism, which is neither intelligible nor sincere, that the appearance of a novel so thoroughly conscientious, true to life, honest, and unpretending, and yet, from the mere absence of all pretence, so powerful, must not be catalogued or confused with the 'written to order' publications of the day. It has been the novel here thronghout September, and though very few things in this world meet with any success, when they should perhaps the most succeed, 'Lady Aubrey' has not only revived all the pleasing recollections of' Every Day,' but has secured for itself a popularity that is not awarded to all novels every day. If our friends across the seas will act on our advice, 'Lady Aubrey' will not lay long unread upon their table. It is a work which any mother may place in the hands of her daughter, and it is a work for which, when read, all daughters will be much beholden to their mothers.
The French under Arms. Being Essays on Military Matters in France. By Blakchard Jerrold. (Booth.) 3s. 6rf. This book is worthy of its ill-informed and flippant author. It is a libel on the British Army. Mr. Jerrold is a fair specimen of those dissatisfied critics, with whom nothing English can be good. He seems ignorant of the difficult examinations which candidates for commissions have to pass. He sketches a supposititious aristocrat, a Lord Tuppingham, who is of course a fool and a glutton, and, although not a coward, too stupid for his courage to be of use. He tells us there were one hundred and nine Lord Tuppinghams on the staff in the Crimea. We can only say that we should like to see Mr. Jerrold undergoing the examination which Lord Tuppingham had to pass. He sketches French officers in the rosiest colours he can command,- but only succeeds in showing that his ideal of an officer is a snob.
Ileligion in the East; or, Sketches, Historical and Doctrinal, of all the Religious Denominations of Syria. Drawn from original sources. By the Rev. John Wortabet, Missionary of the United Presbyterian Church, Aleppo. 7.*. 6rf. (Nisbet & Co.) Mr. Wortabet herein gives us much useful information about the Druses and Maronites. The book was written before the recent quarrel—which fact is in its favour. We learn from it, that there are in Syria about 250.000 Maronites, and about 50,000 Druses; that the Maronites are heretics, who follow the teaching of a monk called Maro,—that the Druses are the Unitarians of Mahomedanisin. and believe in a kind of millennium, with Egypt as the seat of government ; and
further, that the said Druses arc a sort of religious freemasons, who have kept their observances secret for eight hundred years. We presume the ladies of the Druse nation are left without religious instruction.
From London to Luchnow: with Memoranda of Mutinies, Marches, Flights, Fights, nad Conversations. To which is added, an OpiumSmuggler's Explanation of the Peiho Massacre. By a Chaplain in H. M. Indian Service. 2 vols. 14s. (Nisbet & Co.) A book of travel by a reverend gentleman, who has not learnt the modern cynical nil admirari style—the style of Kinglake and Thackeray. What the chaplain sees he believes. He enjoys the bath, the breakfast, the tiffin, the Hindustani lesson, the alligators,—everything but the mosquitoes. He joins a mutton-club with much gusto ; he sees with much horror a British regiment in retreat. Altogether his volumes are truthful, and worth reading.
The Past and Future of British Relations in China. By Captain Snerakd Osborne, C.B., Royal Navy, Author of' A Cruise in Japanese Waters.' 5s. (Blackwood & Sons.) Captain Osborne's brilliant style is familiar to all readers of Blackwood. He is a keen observer, and has had unusual opportunities of judging of the position occupied by the English in China. His opinion is, that satisfactory relations with China can only be maintained by force. The Chinese will not be bound by treaties ; nothing but dire necessity will keep them peaceable. They cannot understand that we are stronger than they, unless we prove it practically. Such are Captain Osborne's views: they deserve consideration.
My Wife's Pin Money, and the Emigrant's Daughter. By M. E. E. Nelson. (Dedicated, by permission,' to the Empress of Russia.) 5s. each. (Saunders, Otley, & Co.) Two little volumes that have excited a good deal of sympathetic attention, not only from their own merits, which would recommend them without any extraneous attraction, but as the works of the grand-niece of the great Lord Nelson, and from the high favour shown to the authoress by the Empress of Russia, who has permitted the dedication to herself, an honour entirely unparalleled; still, if the merit of the book at all decided the gracious accord, not undeserved. They are admirable additions to original literature.
Helen. A Romance of Real Life. 7.s. 6d. (Saunders, Otley, & Co.) There are so many romances which real life never begets in its life, that there is novelty in one so scrupulously carrying out what is proclaimed on the title-page. 'Helen' is a romance of real life. It is a pretty, simple story, not altogether perfect in every particular of construction, but so well-intentioned, so fresh, and withal so little failing in what it sets out to establish, that those who want a quiet hour passed, with a feeling of refreshment from first to last, may do worse than seek an introduction to 'Helen." It is thoroughly unexceptionable in its tone, and may challenge votaries from youth or age.
Alliance Press, Bombay : Chessom & Woodhall, Printers.
A MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
Part II.] BOMBAY: DECEMBER, 1860. [vol. I
Stonris* at Pahahntosltnrar.
[By the Author of "weeds Op Poesy." *]
Earth's face opaque, its shadowy transit run,
Had wheeled into the great light of the sun,
Where, like a God, with rays of glory crowned,
He gazed exulting on the orbs aroirnd,
Flashed on their mountains, filled their vales with light,
While all Heaven laughed in his effulgent sight.
Mute on the hills, in melancholy mood,
There was a time when aught of bright, or rare,
And yet, he sang, in ocean, air, and earth,