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Herc. Some day thou'lt praise me: only now comply
Herc. Then keep it, and some day
(Taking off her veil.)
Herc. It is not so I thou dost behold thy wife.
Adm. Oh form and face of wife to me most dear,
HERC. Thou dost ! far hence be envy from the gods !
ADM. O noble scion of supremest Jove,
Herc. I stood in fight against the king of shades.
HERC. E'en at the tomb I seized him with mine hand 1255 From ambush.
Adm. But my wife : why stands she mute?
HERCULES. It is not right that thou shouldst hear her voice, Till from devotion to the gods beneath She 'scape by cleansing : and the third day dawn. But lead her in: and henceforth, as 'tis meet, Still keep, Admetus, thy regard for guests. And now farewell. For I shall go perform The task in hand for Sthenelus' proud son.
ADM. Nay bide with us; be partner of our hearth,
ADM. Good luck go with thee! and mayest thou return !
Shapes of heaven-directed things;
Schemes despaired of oft prevail,
Mark the upshot of my tale.
LITERATURE.—NoticES OF New Books. Six Weeks in Corsica. Illustrated with fourteen highly-finished
etchings. By William Cowen. Dedicated, by permission, to the Right Honourable Earl Fitzwilliam. London: Thomas
Cauntley Newby. In 1840, Mr. Cowen visited the island of Corsica,—the country of Paoli, of Napoleon, of Fieschi,—having been informed that no English artist had previously visited it. With his visit he was well pleased, as he found the scenery there as sublime as any to be found elsewhere, and the people to be hospitable and brave. The result we have in the volume before us, which contains much interesting matter. Many of the engravings, also, represent objects of great interest.
An Official and Statistical Account of the Bermudas, from their
Discovery to the Present Time. By William Frith Williams. London: Thomas Cauntley Newby, Mortimer-street, Caven
dish-square. Not much is known of the Bermudas. Indeed, were it not for Andrew Marvel's well-known couplet, we question whether any thing would be known of them at all. They are, however, a part of that vast empire on which, our orators tell us, the sun never sets. Those who would know more, we refer to Mr Williams. They will find in his work all the information they need.
Ruins of Many Lands; with Illustrations. A Descriptive Poem,
by Nicholas Michell.
It is in vain we attempt, at a respectful distance, to keep up with the press, that ever pours forth its productions with unceasing energy; we give up the effort in despair ; and as to poetry, it is long since we were poetical—We now shudder at the name. Nevertheless we do,-being, like Pickwick and the brothers Cheeryble, of a benevolent turn of mind,-now and then find time to bespeak for our young poets such attention as their worth may claim. For ourselves, in the poets of an earlier day, we find all of inspiration and of truth we require. To many, however, novelty itself is a charm, – to such, we commend the “Ruins of Many Lands."
Mr. Michell, author of “The Traduced,” “The Eventful Epoch, &c., is already known to the readers of the “Metropolitan,” from the many pleasing descriptive poems which have graced our pages from his pen. His Introductory Stanza will best explain his purpose to the reader. “ Ye who, fond musing, love to wander back,
With pensive step, o'er time's dim shadowy track;
The themes are worthy of a poet—they are Babylon, Nineveh, Petra, the temples and pyramids of Egypt and Nubia— the ruined cities of America, the rock temples of Ellora, Elephanta, etc., in India, etc., etc. The design is good, nor is the poetry without real merit. The
poems are illustrated by notes that evince a complete knowledge of the historical and mythological part of the subject. There are engravings, which, however, do in no degree add to the merit of the work. With that exception, Mr. Michell's publication has our praise,—we wish him every
Bonneville to St. Martin.
“ There is an order
die ere middle age,
from its rays.
When at Contamines, a small village near Bonneville, De Saussure met with a trait of character in a peasant which he relates with much naïveté. He says, that the sun being all powerful, he and his companion turned into an orchard to seek shelter
They had no sooner seated themselves in a comfortable spot than they espied some ripe pears, which thirst and the heat rendered to their eyes doubly delicious, and to which they immediately began to help themselves. But, in the midst of their depredations, who should appear but the mistress of the orchard. One of De Saussure's companions ran forward to meet her, and to console her for the loss of her fruit by the assurance that she should receive the full value in money.
“Eat on,” replied she. “'Tis not for that I am come. He who made those pears, did not make them for one alone.”
What a contrast, adds the ingenuous De Saussure, between this woman's ideas and the egotistical ones of towns !
What a contrast, add I, to the present ideas of the peasants in Savoy and Switzerland. These reflections of mine were verified in the course of the day.
It was yet early when we alighted before the principal hotel in Bonneville, and ordered breakfast; but as the horses required
* Continued from page 373, vol. liii. March, 1849.-VOL. LIV.--No. ccxv.
food and repose after their journey from Geneva, as well as ourselves, we found the hour anything but too early. Mine host appeared before the door in his slippers, and welcomed us with smiles. None of his household were up, however, unless we may include a crooked-back lad who served as ostler among that pany, so it was a good hour ere we sat down to breakfast. The parlour was all in confusion, probably as it had been left the night before, for the table was covered with candles, bottles, and ends of cigars. Mine host—a stout, jovial, sleek-faced, rubicundnosed, fellow, with a considerable degree of corporation and respectable importance to match, as all “mine hosts” are—seemed half ashamed of this disarray of furniture and tokens of idle habits, if not of worse, and stammered forth an apology.
“The hour is so early for travellers arriving, though welcome as you are, gentlemen, and the fete of St. Evremond being held yesterday, has caused perhaps rather more indulgence than is usually allowed with us. Then the English are so active! No nation so industrious and so early as yours, gentlemen. But you shall not be kept waiting long, I'll away and bestir the folks.” Bowing, he retreated as nimbly as his dignity would allow, and we soon after heard his voiee, in an authoritative tone, calling upon his daughter Clarissa to descend quickly and to come and boil the eggs. Leaving him to prepare the meal with as much dispatch as possible, we sauntered forth to view the good old town of Bonneville, capital of that important province, Faucigny.
The Arve plunges past the end of the main street with its accustomed fury, and is crossed by a good stone bridge. On the opposite side a monument tells us that Charles Felix, the last duke of Savoy, did much for the peace and security of the inhabitants of this part of his dominions by raising dikes along the banks of the Arve, so effectually as to prevent its waters from overflowing, and that his subjects in gratitude for the same had erected this memorial of his munificence. It is not often that we hear of dukes of Savoy doing such useful acts, and the monument is all the more memorable on that account.
There is nothing very attractive in Bonneville itself for the passing stranger. As a summer residence it is agreeable enough, whether from the salubrity of its air or the interesting excursions in the neighbourhood, to which it forms a convenient starting post. Its proximity to Geneva causes it to be much frequented by the citizens of that republic, when they desire a change, and its position on the high road to Chamounix serves to enliven its otherwise deserted appearance. To one thing about Bonneville I can bear most unequivocal testimony, and it is the excellence of its breakfasts, which we now returned practically to enjoy.