Yes; would that this gifted crowd could behold their cherished offering bound together with one kindred sole intent-to bedeck the Book from which they drew their inspiration and their love! All honour, then, to the architect who has thus brought from far and near the material for so rare a structure,-honour most cheerfully accorded, though not unmingled with regret that upon the sportive waves of chance the book is thrown, and that, mayhap its boundless worth be cast upon some foreign shore, some thoughtless avaricious hand to seize the laden prize and ruthlessly scatter the sacred spcil-to mutilate its holy unity!

Here would be a vital thrust at a nation's pride. Here is evidence strong of a nation's art-paralysis.

But we will hope a better fate for a casket so replete with unselfish sympathies. Its security would have done honour to a British Museum. A temple erected for its especial reception might have been amongst the patriotic boasts of the future historian. But we have to deal with facts as we find them, with the knowledge that by the payment of a trifling sum a chance is at once insured of becoming the owner of what would render the most insignificant of consequence to his fellow man-attract the society of the connoisseur-raise the envy of the mere collector, obtain for him the intimacy of artists, and a wide-spread interest amongst the truly devout.

As only one, however, can become the envied possessor of so unappreciable a treasure, Mrs. Parkes has providentially made preparation against utter disappointment. No one subscriber can lose. Besides there being several other prizes of great value, encased in richly-carved cabinets from the designs of some of our first artists, every donor receives a self-selected number of high-class engravings equal to the amount of his monetary offering, thus carrying away, at the period of his becoming a member, a guarantee against the slightest positive deprivation.

It may be added that the galleries in Golden-square are thrown gratuitously open to the curious, and that a reception is insured free from offensive solicitation; and that, more over, names of enlightenment and moral worth bear spontaneous testimony to the probity of so interesting a movement in art.

SERIES OF ETCHINGS BY EDWIN LANDSEER, R.A.

Edwin Landseer is the most sincere of painters. Truth is his artistic idol; and to her his whole professional life has been earnestly devoted. In the series of etchings which a fortunate accident has added to the cabinets of the connoisseur, this fact is unmistakably manifest. It is now nearly a quarter of a century since the master hand conveyed these evidences of a master mind to the enduring copper, and each and all bear witness to the strong devotedness of the artist to perpetuate that which should have truth as one of its valuable elements. Thus early a close adherence to nature is evinced. After years have but served to bring her painter-worshipper yet nearer. It is no marvel that some of the single impressions of these plates, stamped as they are by the impress of genius, should have been the cause of anxious competition for possession amongst the conversant in art, and that sums equal to what have been given for scarce old etchings should have been -cheerfully accorded for these. Now that they are published by M. Gambart they are no less intrinsically valuable, whether as a school for the guidance of the young aspirant who would assay his talents by the aid of the etching point, or as an acquisition to the portfolio of the man of elegant discernment. To enter fully into the merits of each of the set of twelve would occupy a very extended space; but it may be enough to say that the greater portion of them, were they the production of Landseer but now, instead of so many years agone, would not be other than honourable to his more matured and highlygifted powers. We would en passant especially point out the singularly successful attempt to give to the dead eye of the stag in the etching of The Eagle the colour of film. Such and similar daring do most of these gems exhibit, and the result, in nearly every case has been equally happy.

LITERARY MIRROR.

ROSE, BLANCHE, AND VIOLET. By G. H. Lewes. In three volumes. London: Smith and Elder, 1848.

The novel before us is one which could not have been the production of an ordinary mind; full of passion, thorough acquaintance with the human heart, of a deep-seated philosophy, it bears upon it the stamp of genius, and could have been conjured into existence only by a master hand. Our author displayed in his first work of fiction considerable powers, but the promise budding in the pages of "Ranthorpe" has been inore than fulfilled in the novel before us. The characters are all real, and evidently have been sketched from actual life. There seems indeed, to have been a type for every one of the individuals who enact a part in this deeply-interesting narrative. There are incidents of many kinds, scenes of a startling character, highly-graphic groupings following closely one upon another. But that which will recommend it most strongly to the class which support novels, is the fact that it is essentially a love story; not false love, not the high-flown, unreal attempt at love dwelt upon in the pages of the ordinary novelist, but such love as one meets with in life. Mr. Lewes displays an intimate acquaintance with the human heart, and therefore possesses that command over his materials without which no startling novel can be written, none which will be lasting in its effect upon the mind. Few novels of the present day aim at producing anything beyond a mere passing effect; but the influence of the work before us will not pass as we close upon the last page. We are induced by it to reflect and moralise upon our condition in this life, and to ask ourselves the question, how can it be bettered?— how can we turn it to most advantage? Mr. Lewes has three heroines to deal with, the daughters of a gentleman, who after his first wife's death, thinks fit to marry again, thus placing his children in the enviable position of step daughters. Mrs. Meredith Vyner is a young woman of extraordinary fascination, though by no means faultless beauty. Slightly deformed, she yet exercises the most dangerous power upon men. Towards her husband she affects to display the utmost tenderness, and treats his children with apparently great kindness. The two elder daughters are completely blinded by her attentions, and think that no person on earth is more amiable than their mamma, but Violet, the youngest, the most splendid character in the novel, sees through her and strives to reveal her in all her hideous moral deformity to the eyes of her sisters. This, however, she cannot at once accomplish-time performs for her what persuasion cannot do, and at length Mrs. Meredith Vyner falls in the estimation of all. This is an entirely original creation; she is unlike other novel heroines, unlike them in her conception and carrying out. Her very wickedness is original and striking, and the gradual rise and fall of the woman from her youth to her more mature age is ably imagined and conceived. An irrevocable destiny pursued her, and overwhelms her at last, but irrevocable only because she braves and beckons it on. With all the elements for achieving good in her hands-she yet wilfully persists in error, with no cause, no palliative to make us sympathise with her. Violet is a very splendid creation. In her are developed a fine, noble-spirited woman, who will sacrifice, if necessary, all the dearest impulses and affections of her heart before the shrine of virtue, and what appears to her a stern necessity. Blanche is a sweet girl, as gentle, as loving, and as amiable as can well be conceived; but a doubt arises in our mind whether such a girl, loving Cecil as she did, would have afterwards consented to marry Captain Heath. Cecil is a weak, vicious man, whom we pity, nevertheless, in his misfortunes, and sympathise with his fate. Under better circumstances, he might have been a better man. The scene detailing his death is one of the finest in the book. The horror of the catastrophe creeps through every line. We know that the anxious wife in vain will count the hours and watch for his return, and our deepest anxiety and interest is created for her. Captain Heath is a noble, disinterested man-noble in his very imperfections. We may endeavour to particularise scenes and characters, but our words will but feebly convey our ideas of the novel. To say that it is the most striking of the season is to say nothing. It sur

passes in interest any that has been written for years, and will, therefore, be eagerly sought and read when the time usually allotted to the life of a novel is past-the season. It will be read again and again for its beauty, its interest, and the intimate knowledge it conveys of the human heart, its inmost workings, its hopes and fears, its secret thoughts and hidden mysteries. The stride which Mr. Lewes has taken from "Ranthorpe" to "Rose, Blanche, and Violet" is such as could only have been taken by a man of genius. We strongly recommend this novel to our readers as one which will amply repay a most careful perusal.

HOURS OF RECREATION. A Collection of Poems. By Charles S. Middleton. London: Smith, 1848.

No one could peruse the modest and unpretending preface prefixed to the volume before us without entertaining a profound sympathy with the young poet whose productions we are now called upon to notice. He does not affect to assume to himself any position as a right; he only asks to be judged without those bitter and envenomed remarks which the thoughtless critic sometimes so unsparingly scatters, in order to repress the ambition of those aspiring spirits who aim at securing a place in their country's annals. But let our author take courage. Let him remember that the shafts of criticism assailed Byron in his earlier days. But what did they do? They did not crush his spirit, or disincline him from pursuing his noble task; they only aroused his ambition, and made him turn upon his adversaries such a fire of sarcasm and reproach as made them tremble. His ardour was roused to the highest pitch, and he afterwards proved that he was capable of high and noble undertakings. Let, then, our poet, we repeat, take courage, nor suffer himself to be cast down, should he meet with disapproval at the outset. The poet's nature is highly sensitive and nervous; it is the very attribute of his inspired genius which renders him so. Living in that world which their imagination conjures up, and which is peopled with beings of a finer mould than they jostle against in their contact with the busy practical throng, poets are sensitively alive to the smile of ridicule or the curl of scorn, which proceeds from envy oftener than from real contempt. But our author must remember that it is only by the exercise of our own will, or that moral power within us which never deserts us upon an emergency, that we can overcome the obstacles which oppose our progress in this world. The inert and those content with mediocrity calmly stand behind the stumbling-blocks which lie in their way, and make no effort to rise, and overcome them. The great and the noble boldly leap, and venture. They look calmly in the face of fortune, and scare her by the steadfastness of their gaze, until, abashed and crest-fallen, she opens for them a way to the goal whither their aspirations tend. Our author, then, must rely firmly upon his moral courage, and must, by degrees, seek to shake from his mind the conviction that haunts it, that because he does not now occupy a proper position, or the one destined for him by fortune to occupy, he will not meet with the success he deserves. Merit WILL be recognised, such is its overwhelming force, in spite of all obstacles, and Mr. Middleton may therefore hope courageously. It is not because we do not love poetry that its voice is silent amongst us, but because there are few poets existing. It is absurd and discouraging to say that because this is a practical age men must repress their poetical genius. Let it be ever so practical, there are still moments when the soft voice of poesy lends a charm to our spirits, and serves to soothe us into oblivion of many sorrows.

If, indeed, Mr. Middleton should be so unfortunate as to find a few critics inimical to him, he must, imitating the example of his predecessor, Byron, bear up manfully against them. The same energy which assists him in moulding the music of his soul into verse, and fashioning those poetic whisperings of his fancy into form, must teach him to stand unshaken against the shafts aimed at him by the critic. He must remember that he is yet young, that the time for the full development of his genius is not yet arrived. As there must be a beginning in everything, so must there be in poesy. The volume before us, full as it is of beautiful imagery and sweet touches, is not the best thing Mr. Middleton will produce. He has a life before him, and his gifted spirit will teach him how to employ it. Let him subdue those anxious and corroding fears which act as a blight to his imagination, and suffer his soul to unshackle itself entirely from its trammels. There are thousands who will appreciate his productions, thousands whose hearts will be warmed by the lessons of love which he inculcates. We shall be delighted to learn that Mr. Middleton's object has been gained, and that he has obtained some po sition which, by releasing him from his present too arduous labours, may, while it elevates him in the social scale, leave him abundance of time to pursue at intervals those studies in which he is by nature peculiarly fitted to shine. "The Poet's Vision" is a

very fine piece, full of the finest imagery and the deepest feeling. We cannot extract part without spoiling the piece; but as the volume is within the reach of every one, we recommend it to our readers, assured that they will find in the poems of Mr. Middleton a depth of soul and profundity of thought which a much abler man might with reason envy. Many other shorter poems in the volume are exquisitely beautiful.

BORNEO AND THE INDIAN ARCHIPELAGO.

With Drawings of Costume and Scenery. By Frank Marryatt. Longman.

The present work is one which will doubtless meet with the success it deserves. Its author lays claim to no profound knowledge of the politics of insular Asia, no deep research into its history. The book is simply a narrative, written in a dashing and vigorous style, of amusing and novel adventures met with during the cruise of her Majesty's ship Samarang in those seas, and embodies at the same time much interesting and often original information. The ground gone over is immense, as the author carries us from Portsmouth harbour to the Cape; from thence to Singapore and on to Borneo, where we are presented with a detailed account of Mr. Brooke's new settlement; after which we accompany an expedition up the Sarawak river and across a large portion of that province. Many characteristic traits of Bornean manners are here described. Mr. Marryatt, being young and fond of adventure, mixed freely with the natives, and observed many new features in their customs and mode of living, collecting by the way much valuable information concerning the produce of the country. His affable and goodnatured manners gained him much pleasant attention during his stay in the settlement, which was prolonged on account of an accident which happened to the Samarang, which vessel, unfortunately running on the rocks, sank, and it required the utmost exertion to get her up again. Mr. Brooke entertained the whole crew at his own dwelling. From Sarawak our traveller proceeded to Borneo Proper; after which we find him running through the Sulu group, sailing along the coast of China-at Pootor; then at Ningpo, at Quelport's Island, beating off the shores of Japan, and then threading the intricate channels of the Philippine islands.

Near Gillolo a most spirited and exciting conflict took place between one of the Samarang's boats and a large number of pirate prahus, in which desperate havoc was made among the crews of the latter vessels. Some little discussion was made as to which was the aggressive party, and we must say it bore the appearance of a somewhat equivocal proceeding.

Variety forms one of the most prominent characteristics of the present work. Events on events follow each other in rapid succession, related in a dashing and vigorous language, bearing testimony to the ability, acuteness, and intelligence of our young author. We shall say nothing of Mr. Marryatt's unfortunate misunderstanding with Sir Edward Belcher; perhaps a little more forbearance and equilibrium of temper would have prevented matters from resulting in so disagreeable an issue. However, we may remark that we are sorry her Majesty's navy has lost the service of Mr. Frank Marryatt, whose volume is by no means the least interesting of the numerous works on Borneo and the Indian Archipelago generally which have recently appeared before the public. It will be read with interest by many; while the beautiful plates with which it is profusely embellished add much to the value of the book. Seldom have more highly finished drawings come under our notice. If Mr. Frank Marryatt be as skilful in all other respects as he is in the use of the pencil and the pen, we may fearlessly predict a brilliant career for him.

POEMS. By W. C. Bennet.

The productions of this writer are full of nature, and contain some exquisite touches. Those which appeal to the sympathies of the world in general, those based upon the political events which have been lately passing around us, are, though bold and stirring, not by any means so much to our taste as those short pieces, which reveal, as it were, the whole up-wellings of a father's love to his child. They are inspired by his affection, and have the stamp of reality affixed to them. The first piece, entitled "Baby May," reveals his pride and delight in the little being which constituted his treasure upon earth, and around whom all the tenderest feelings of his nature expand. We know not if we be right, but it seems to us as though in the second piece, a sort of indistinct foreboding of evil is shadowed forth; and in the third surpassing all the others in beauty, the father seems to allude to the loss he has sustained. In this volume Mr. Bennet has fully established for himself the true character of a true poet; and we hope ere long to have another opportunity to review more of his productions.

THE MIRROR MONTHLY MAGAZINE

FOR JUNE, 1848.

EUPHONIA;

OR, THE MUSICAL CITY.

BY HECTOR BERLIOZ.

(FIRST PART.)

The Scene passes in Italy, near the year 2344.

XILEF TO SHETLAND.

SICILY, JUNE 7TH.

I COME from bathing in Etna! Oh, my dear Shetland, what a delicious hour have I passed, swimming in this pure, serene, and lovely lake! It is immense, and from its circular form and rocky margin its surface is rendered so sonorous that my voice travels without effort to the midst of the distant shores. I heard the applause of some Sicilian ladies who were coursing in a balloon across the meadows, more than half a mile from the spot where I was sporting like a frolicsome dolphin. I had been singing, while floating, a melody I had composed that morning, to an antique French poem by Lamartine, which the aspect of the neighbourhood recalled to my memory. These verses fascinated me. Thou shalt judge for thyself, for Enner has promised to translate "The Lake into German. Wherefore art thou not here? We rode together the fleetest steeds. I feel myself full of blooming youth, strength, intelligence, and rapture! Nature is so beautiful around me! This plain, where was Messina, is an enchanted garden; everywhere flowers, orange groves, and palms bending their graceful heads; 'tis the odorous crown of the divine cup, in the depth of which now slumbers the victorious lake of the fires of Etna. Strange and terrible must have been this struggle! What a spectacle! the earth shuddering in horrible convulsions, the great mountain sinking into itself, the snows, the flames, the boiling lava, the shrieks, the death rattle of the volcano in its agony, the hissings of the tide that gushed from a thousand subterranean issues, pursuing its enemy, grasping it, binding it, stifling it, slaying it, and suddenly calming, ready to smile in the gentlest breeze. Well, would'st believe that this spot, formerly so terrible, now so exquisite, is all but deserted? The Italians hardly know it-it is no where spoken of mercantile speculations so absorb the inhabitants of this beautiful land that they interest themselves not in the sublime scenes of nature, commercial questions agitate them day and night. Hence Etna to the Italians is but a great hole filled with sleeping water, which is good for nothing. From one end to the other, this land, recently so rich in poets, in painters, in musicians, which, after Greece, was the second VOL. III.-No. 1,394. 3 B