given the animal a superior degree of action in the back; this is more particularly observable in the vertebræ of the neck, which give it the appearance of being very short. The two posterior vertebræ adjoining the os sacrum are united in one, which appears to have given the back more elasticity. The ribs are remarkably slender and short in proportion to the size of the animal, and have had a great deal of cartilage attached to them: the six first are the strongest, and all have the singular peculiarity of standing half reversed in the body; that is, the edge of the rib bends in towards the intestines, and the opposite edge outwards, showing great lateral action." M. Koch concludes the Missourium to have been an inhabitant of rivers and large lakes, as is proved by the formation of the bones, and webbed feet; and in habits, M. Koch considers the Missourium to have assimilated to the hippopotamus. The vastness of the skeleton has led some persons to impugn its authenticity; or rather to question whether all the bones contained in it belonged to the animal; and this idea is favoured by the imperfect manner in which the bones are articulated. However, this is a point for the scientific to settle; and as the skeleton has been visited by Professor Owen, Dr. Buckland, and other distinguished comparative anatomists and geologists, a more distinct illustration of this wonder may be shortly expected. Of this there is allowed to be no doubt that the skeleton in question is the genuine fossil relic of some gigantic animal of other ages. Near the skeleton, M. Koch discovered an arrow-head of rose-coloured flint, in form resembling those used by the American Indians, but of a larger size. "If this arrow be the production of human agency," says the Times, "it will overturn the generally received notion entertained by geologists, that the antediluvian animals existed and became extinct prior to the creation of man," though this is a point open to much dispute. M. Koch compares the Missourium with the leviathan of Scripture; and the coincident characteristics are very remarkable. He likewise relates some interesting traditions of the Indians in connexion with "the Big Bone river," in the same locality as the Pomme de Terre. two and a half feet. extent, unprofitable. Yet, unimportant as many of these Who, for example, can imagine a May-pole upon the site of St. Andrew Under-shaft, in Leadenhall Street, and the apprentices' riot there on Evil May-day; although this portion of London abounds in overhanging and gabled house-fronts, of considerable antiquity or who May-pole nearly on the site of St. Mary-le-Strand church, can imagine May-day games in the Strand, and the replaced in 1713 by a new pole opposite Somerset House, with two gilt balls and a vane on the summit, decorated on rejoicing days with flags and garlands. Newton, we know, begged this pole, in 1718, as a stand for a telescope -an omen of the decline of mirthful pastime beneath the rod of science. What have we left of this carnival of Flora-this feast of Nature and the Poets-this carmen triumphale of rustic life-this gay livery of the country, its powdered bushes and hedges, the spangles of its meads, and the early glories of its gardens, borne into the very heart of London. Then, in May-fair, what relic is there of these festive customs? for who can associate the highfield houses, with the sports of the people on May-day; walled gardens of Devonshire, Lansdowne, and Chesteror see their beauties in the dingy shrubs of BerkeleySquare, which, to paraphrase a piece of City wit, seem to Who can trace a blade of grass on Hay-hill, or any want painting as much as the railings which enclose them. rusticity in Farm-street? Who can people Curzon-street with Maying groups, or mistake the aristocratic rattle of visitors, for the grotesque car and its flower-crowned "a town-built chariot," with its gaily-dressed dinner queen; or gas lamps and carriage lights for bonfires? Would Park-lane be a shade more rural than St. Swithin's or Ivy lanes, in the City, had not the Royal domain on its western side preserved it from the encroachments of the Corinnas of May-fair, or the housemaids of Grosbrick and mortar? Yet who, in these days, can imagine Venor-square, sallying forth into Hyde Park to wash their the gates locked, and next, their poetic enthusiasm would, faces in May-dew before sunrise ? first, they would find probably, be chilled by the rigour of the New Police act. In our day, Corinna has just fallen into her first sleep, after returning from a late rout, and the roses that have fled from her cheek are to be recalled by Rowland's In general character, the skeleton in question reminds the spectator of that of the Mammoth, or fossil elephant, found in the ice in Siberia early in the present century. This framework is, however, only nine feet four inches high, and sixteen feet four inches long; whereas the Missourium is fifteen feet in height, and thirty in length; the tusks are horizontally placed, while those of the Mam moth are vertically disposed. The Madras elephants, we know, have been described as from seventeen to twenty feet high; but, upon admeasurement, have proved not to exceed ten feet in height. The Iguanodon, we learn from Kalydor; and Mollidusta, too, sleeps, and, perchance, Dr. Mantell, measured from the snout to the extremity of snores: and, though the May-dew ablution may have been the tail seventy feet, and fourteen and a half feet in cir-duce the maidens to attend to the wholesome observances of an allegory, by which some village Zadig attempted to incumference of body; but of this length, the tail was fifty early rising and exercise-its virtues, real or pretended, are lost, and the sisterhood of fashion and all-work substitute Vegetable Balsam and Life Pills. There was by royal and noble personages, as well as the vulgar. We a time, however, when these May customs were observed must be content with the May-day milk-pail, the bedizened. sweeps, and here and there a pair of omnibus horses with a bunch of flowers or penny ribbon in their heads. Strutt tells us that, in his time, the Mayings were, in some part, kept up by the milk-maids of London, who went about the streets with their garlands and music, dancing; but this tracing is a very imperfect shadow of the original sports; for may-poles were set up in the streets, with various martial shows, morris-dancing, and other devices, with which, and revelling and good cheer, the day passed away; at night the people rejoiced, and lid up their fires. "The puritans," we are told, "fought a stubborn battle The Missourium is mounted upon a slightly raised platform in the largest apartment of the Egyptian Hall, so that the upper ridge is nearly upon a level with the gallery around the room. In the same apartment is a very interesting fossil collection of remains of the Mastodon, Tetracaulodon, &c. the inspection of which will amply repay the naturalist and lover of nature. LONDON GAMES. How strange it is to look through the loopholes of time at the changes in manners which a few whirls of the earth bring about, among those who people its surface! Endless would be the labour of chronicling these shiftings of the sands of life; and the task would be, to a certain 66 with the May-poles-those heathenish vanities of superstition and wickedness;" and the poles never held up their heads again. In the good old honest times, wealthy persons lent their plate to decorate the milk-maids' May green;" but we would not press the revival of this practice. How the Saturnalia of the sweeps lasted till our day, we are at a loss to devise, since a century since it was accounted vulgar: at length, it has been abolished, among the respectability of soot, the scions of which dine together yearly, at some large tavern, whose chimneys they, probably, have swept. This may be preferring the substance to the shadow, and is, certainly, no amendment of "the schoolmaster's;" since he would have substituted for Jack-in-the-Green a lecture upon Animal Mechanics, with peculiar illustrations of the inclined plane for the edification of refractory "climbing boys." By the way, who can forget the London chimney-sweepers' May-day festival, formerly given by the amiable Mrs. Montague, at her mansion and grounds at the north-west angle of Portman-square, with the intention that "they might enjoy one happy day in the year:" these festivities have long been discontinued, though Montague House has never since been so joyful: it is now, in appearance, a dreary and neglected pile, very much in need of "the shovel and brush." There is, by the way, one more relic of May-day, which is not generally recognized: this is the bouquet laid in court before the Lord Chancellor and other judges, which is the representation of the column of May (whence our May-pole), or great standard of justice, in the eye commons or fields. Thus, we keep May-day in Chancery, a position which does not say much for its extensive enjoyment. Yet We have lost nearly all our suburban Fairs. That at West End became a nuisance from its ruffianism; Camberwell is only just tolerated; and Greenwich fair would be unendurable, were it not for the beautiful park which tempts thousands to its picturesque shades, from the stifling heat and glare of "the fair," in order to enjoy the lovely in nature. The Lady-fair of Southwark lives in the genius of Hogarth's print; but Tothill-fields fair has not been so far preserved from oblivion. May-fair, formerly held near Hyde Park, under the authority of a grant to the Abbot of Westminster, is alike forgotten. Fairlop fair has become a scene of plunder, and never did the foresters of old strip the wayfarer more neatly, than the lads of the present day; the spolia opima are even brought away by cart-loads. Of Bartholomew fair, stat nominis umbra, after an existence of many centuries. It was, for a time, tolerated to the extent of fourteen days, though for the purpose of paying the swordbearer and other City officers, from the revenues yielded by the tolls, &c. this fair was patronized by the wealthy and high-born; for we read of the Ladies Russell, Northumberland, and Shaftesbury returning from Bartholomew Fair in 1670, loaded with fairings for themselves and children. In 1760, when an attempt was made to restrict the fair to three days, the deputy City marshal lost his life: the license of those days was terrific; gambling-houses were freely licensed, disgusting scenes of all descriptions were publicly exhibited, and profligacy of every kind was openly practised; whilst the violence of Lady Holland's mob often broke out in frightful excesses, and spread consternation and terror around. These enormities have been abated; and such is the apathy as to the fair, that in 1839, the City solicitor recommended the corporation rather to allow it to die a natural death, than abolish the fair by any formal proceeding; and it has declined accordingly. Of Smithfield, the arena of Bartholomew fair, we had almost said, E'en in its ashes live its wonted fires, | but this may be a dangerous quotation; for where martyrs suffered at the stake, open-air preachers are now allowed to collect crowds. The equine notoriety remains, though the chivalry of our times is a sad falling-off from the tourneys of the middle ages, and even from the equestrianism of the Anglo-Norman "Londiners." Nevertheless, Giltspur-street denotes the ancient chivalrous celebrity of the neighbourhood, when gallant knights rode this way to the tourney in Smithfield. This place is one of the few olden areas which have been spared to our time, to the decrease of which may be attributed the diminution of our number of field sports. Thus, in a map of London, three hundred years ago, we find the Spitel Fyeld" for archers; "Fynsburie Fyeld," with "Dogge's House," for the citizens to hunt in; "Moore Fyeld," with marks as if used by clothiers; "The Banck," by the side of the river; "the Bolle Bayting Theatre," (near "the Beare Batynge House,") near where the bridge now commences; and on the opposite side, houses and trees, named "Paris Garden." แ In Vertue's Plan of London, date about 1560, the last houses seen are those of the village of St. Giles, then, indeed, in the Fields: and the only building between this spot and Primrose Hill is the little solitary church of Tybourn, (Marylebone), at the end of the present High-street. The first church, taken down in 1400, stood in a lonely place near the highway, on or near the site of the present court house, corner of Stratford-place; so that it was often plundered of its images, bells, and ornaments. Again, the neighbourhood of London was admirably adapted for field sports. A vast forest spread over the north side, abounding with many of the large animals of the chase, among which were wild boars. Probably, the thicket now called Hornsey Wood, formed part of this forest; the frequenters of which, instead of valorous hunters, are now tea-drinking and pic-nic parties of citizens. Hampstead, too, abounds with oaks and aged thorus, which indicate native forest. BLANCHE HERIOT. A LEGEND OF OLD CHERTSEY CHURCH. CHAPTER II. "Hark! how they knock!-Who's there? arise, arise,Thou wilt be taken."-Shakspere. How Neville Audeley returned from the wars. REDWYNDE COURT, the abode of Sir Mark Heriot, was, at the period we are writing of, a large cluster of irregular buildings, situate on the south bank of the abbey river, within three hundred yards of the monastery, and adjoining the causeway marked in the Exchequer ledger, from which it derived its name. Surrounded by broad and goodly pastures, except where the turrets of the abbey and the habitations of the village interrupted the panorama, its upper stories commanded an extensive prospect over the adjoining country; and in the early feudal times it had ranked between a house and a castle, the entire edifice being encircled by a deep narrow fosse, crossed by a drawbridge. These defences had, however, been long neglected; and the ditch was dry and choked up with weeds, whilst the bridge, devoid of chains and levers, formed the permanent means of access to the mansion. The aspect of the whole range was somewhat dilapidated; for the owner, possessing an inherent dread of innovation, could ill afford, from severe and continued losses in the civil wars, to keep up the necessary establishment commensurate with the size of the house; and now that he was continually absent, taking his share in the troubles of the epoch, the place was falling piecemeal to decay-a sad emblem of the kingdom in general. But if the greater part of the Court was thus old and time-worn; if the rafters of the great hall were black and worm-eaten, and the tapestry discoloured by damp, or falling from the bare walls which it was intended to conceal-there were still some of the apartments that retained their pristine beauty, and were even decorated with the choicest articles of such rude luxury as the age produced. In one of these smaller rooms, which was fitted up as a private oratory, on the evening subsequent to the opening of our legend, a fair girl was kneeling on a prie-Dieu before a small shrine in a recess of the chamber. The light of a solitary taper fell upon her features, which were of rare beauty; and partly divested of her day attire, as her long chestnut hair fell in heavy and unconfined curls over her white neck and shoulders, she appeared the living copy of one of those glorious impersonations of the Madonna, which the old Italian masters delighted to produce. Her prayer concluded, she arose, and seating herself at one of the small open casements of the room, gazed long and anxiously upon the country beneath her. It was a calm evening, and the moon was throwing the gothic spires of the abbey into softened relief against the sky; whilst the only sound that broke the stillness, was the occasional burst of revelry from a party of late roysterers, or the solemn peal of the organ, as its tones floated on the breeze from the monastery. "Alas! he comes not yet!" she murmured in accents of despair, as she strained her eyes over the surrounding tract. "Neville-you have deceived me, or perhapsand bending down, she covered her fair face with her hands, as if ashamed that even the stars should watch her weeping. An hour passed by, and still she remained at the window in patient expectancy. At length, as the last chimes of midnight from the abbey clock died away, the clatter of a horse's hoofs, apparently progressing at a furious rate, sounded amidst the general quietude. The noise approached and now the rider and his steed were discernible on the causeway before the house. They thundered over the old timber of the bridge, and entered the court yard. Here the horseman sprang from his saddle, as he checked the beast almost upon his haunches; and clamoured violently at the gate, until the aged and drowsy porter timidly admitted him, when rushing upstairs, he flew along the old corridor, and entered the oratory. "My own dear Blanche!" was all he could utter, as the next instant he clasped her to his heart. "Oh, Neville!" cried the fair girl, throwing her delicate arms around the mail neck-piece of her lover; "I feared that you would not come back. We have heard sad rumours here of Margaret's losses, and I dreaded lest you should have fallen amongst her other hapless followers. But you are returned again, and I am happy.-And the Queen-how fares it with her?" "Blanche!" exclaimed the young man, wildly, in breathless accents; "all is lost! We have been miserably defeated at Tewkesbury, and even now a price is upon my head, and the hounds are upon my track.-Devonshire, Beaufort, Whittingham-all are slain, and Somerset has been dragged from the sanctuary of the Abbey church, and foully murdered. I must leave you, or my life is forfeited." "Leave me!" ejaculated his fair companion, starting from his embrace, and gazing at him for an instant, as if bewildered at the intelligence; "oh, no, no-it may not be: you know not what you say, or you are trifling with me. In our Lady's name what mean you, Neville?" "I have told you but too true," replied Audeley. "My wretched comrades in arms have been hunted down like dogs, and they are pursuing me also. I came but to bid you farewell, dearest, before leaving for the continent. A vessel leaves to-morrow for Ostend, and if I can reach her, I am safe." "You shall not go," cried Blanche, clinging to him in the vain attempt to arrest his departure. "There are secret places and cellars in this house, where you can remain, and you shall be my prisoner. Neville-I implore you-do not leave me !" 66 "Tempt me not, Blanche," returned Audeley, "or you will plunge us both into one common ruin. Hark!" he continued, as he drew her towards the casement; do you hear that noise? It is the bay of the bloodhounds, crossing Laleham pasture, and the ruffians have discovered my route! Nay, cling not so tightly-you know how precious each instant is to me. Farewell, dearest— perhaps for ever;" and kissing her pale cheek, as he disengaged himself from her embrace, he rushed from the oratory. For one instant after his departure, Blanche remained fixed, as if bereft of consciousness, with quivering lip and vacant eye: then, uttering one shrill cry of agony, she fell senseless upon the oaken floor of the chamber. With the swiftness of lightning, Audeley flew down the staircase, and, well acquainted with the numerous passages of the house, made his way to the court yard. But some of the royalist troops, including the two soldiers whom we left at the hostelry, were already there. A yell of triumph broke forth from the party, at the sight of their prey; and Neville had barely time to retire within the porch, and close the massy door after him, when they reached the house. Aware that resistance was useless, with the paucity of means of defence at his disposal, and that his only chance of safety remained in flight, he hurriedly drew one of the bolts to cause a trifling delay, and again rapidly ascended the staircase. Turning to the left, on the first landing, he pushed back a small panel, and entered the gallery that ran round the upper part of the hall, just as his pursuers broke open the door. A moment of keen suspense followed. He heard their heavy and confused tramp, as they followed his course up-stairs, and was for an instant in hopes that they would overlook his refuge, and give him time to gain the court yard, whilst they were searching the other rooms of the house; nor was he less anxious on Blanche's account, fearing that she might receive some insult from the rough marauders. But as the party ascended, the hound that preceded them stopped short at the panel by which Neville had entered the gallery, and set up a deep continued howl. The royalists were not long in sounding the wainscot with their partizans, and discovering the sliding door, soon demolished it. "Keep back the dog, Evered," cried one of the soldiers, "or he will tear him to pieces, and we would rather But before the speaker could conclude, Neville discharged his petronel, and the soldier fell back dead among his comrades. The dog, at the same moment, flew towards Neville, and attempted to fasten on his shoulder. But the armour was proof against his teeth, and, with an effort of gigantic strength, he threw him over the gallery into the hall beneath, with such force, that after a few convulsive throbs, the beast lay dead upon the floor. The soldiers, who had fallen back at the death of their comrade, now pushed forwards again through the panel, and Neville darted along the gallery to the other end of the hall. To the middle of the ceiling a long chain was attached, to suspend the lamp from; and this, for the convenience of lighting, was drawn towards the side of the gallery, and there fastened. Desperate with the impending danger, he seized the chain firmly, and cutting asunder the thong that tied it, with his poignard, laid hold with both hands, and swung boldly into the centre of the lofty hall, just as the Yorkists filled the gallery. Gliding swiftly down the chain, he dropped upon the table of the hall, in the midst of a shower of bullets from the arquebusses above, which, however, flew harmlessly around him. To gain the court yard was the work of an instant, and darting along the bridge, he fled in the direction of the monastery, guided by the lights in the windows, which showed that the monks were then celebrating the nocturnal mass. On perceiving that Neville had eluded their grasp, the soldiers immediately retraced their steps; and, on emerging from the house, caught sight of him as he fled towards the abbey. A shout of encouragement was again raised, and the party was once more engaged in a hot pursuit. The light chain mail which Neville wore gave him some small advantage over the heavy-armed soldiery, and he had placed a good hundred yards between him and his pursuers, when he reached the holy edifice. But the entrance was still separated from him by a high wall, which it was impossible for him to scale, and only one resource was left. Climbing up the fretted gothic carving of the buttress, he contrived to gain a footing in the recess of one of the windows; and clinging to the heavy mullion, he beat down, with his mailed arm and foot, the leaden casement, which fell inwards upon the floor of the chapel, shivered into a thousand pieces. "A sanctuary! a sanctuary! for the love of the Virgin!" cried the breathless fugitive to the monks, who, petrified with astonishment at his unexpected apparition, had clustered around the abbot at the grand altar. "You know me, Father Angewin,' ,"* he continued, as he leaped down into the transept, crushing the glass beneath his feet; "you know me, and I claim the protection of the Holy Church-it will not, I trust, be refused to a soldier of the ill-fated house of Lancaster." "You are welcome," replied the abbot, calmly, recovering from his surprise, as he led Neville within the rails of the shrine. "Pray, my son-pray, that the hearts of those who oppress you may be turned to mercy." The asylum gained, Audeley sank exhausted at the foot of the altar. The swell of the organ again rose through the lofty aisles of the chapel, and the monks were about to recommence the service, which the intrusion had interrupted, when a fresh clamour was heard without, and a man-at-arms appeared directly afterwards in the window by which Neville had entered. "Father abbot," cried the soldier, "you harbour a rebel to our liege sovereign. I call upon you, in the name of King Edward, to deliver him into our hands." "He has thrown himself upon the church, and claimed a sanctuary," replied the abbot. "I care not," rejoined the soldier, bluntly. "The abbey church of Tewkesbury afforded no protection to the Grand Prior of St. John, nor shall the monastery of Chertsey harbour a rebel of inferior rank. Restore him, or we will drag him from the altar." "Hold, infidel!" cried Neville, as he advanced into the body of the church. "It would be a grievous thing were the sanctuary of Chertsey Abbey to be violated, and its power mocked, upon my account. I ask your assurance for my safety until the curfew rings to-morrow night. If Thomas Angewin was, according to Tanner's Notitia Monastica, abbot of Chertsey monastery, A. D. 1458, and was re-elected, A. D. 1465. you have not then received a royal message to the contrary, I will accompany you to execution." The soldier turned to confer with his comrades, who were clustered outside the window where he stood. After a few minutes' delay he rejoined; "Let it be so, then: but remember-if by to-morrow's curfew you have no warrant of the king's mercy, your head rolls upon the abbey mead. Farewell, holy fathers," he added, with careless levity, as he turned to depart; "shrive your new inmate anon, for his fate is well-nigh sealed." And in five minutes more the Yorkists had departed and the monks proceeded with the service which had been thus strangely interrupted. A. S. LOVE AND THE NYMPHS. An Anacreontic. FROM THE FRENCH OF CARDINAL DE BERNIS. LOVE, by a gentle streamlet's bed, And went to sleep among the reeds. Advanced with footsteps soft and coy, "Sister, how sweet he smiles!" cried one; And straightway planned a base deceit. The arch dissembler strove to please Those timid nymphs, who, grown less shy, Took the young flatterer on their knees. Naïs, Cleanthe, Eucharis, Entwined with flowers the boy's bright tresses; While Cupid with a smile and kiss Returned to each her fond caresses. But Love replied, "Cease, Naiads, cease, I light the flame whene'er I please, THE LITERARY WORLD. NEW-YEAR NOVELTIES. G. WE resume our glimpses at the great world of letters, from The Mirror, vol. xxxvii.; in the persuasion that their piquancy may gratify the readers of The London Saturday Journal, as we have reason to believe it did the supporters of the first-named miscellany. F The New Year opens new prospects to every one swimming in stately pride, or struggling with adverse circumstances, in the varied stream of life. People shake off the plethora of Christmas, and open widely their eyes to see what is next to be done. Pleasure-hunters and sight-seekers sigh for new worlds; and men of business set about new projects with a zest which no other season could inspire. The publishers are especially busy in their imaginative craft; and poor authors, who rarely suffer by Christmas excesses, sharpen their wits into desperate anta gonism with the gravities and ills of life; for to them publishers' gold is "all things by turns, and nothing long." Perhaps, new year's gifts are not so common as they were thirty years ago; and people button up their pockets and hearts closer than formerly: still, in this intellectual age, books are more commonly presented to young persons than ever,-so that we find even the publisher to the Useful Knowledge Society descending from the stilts of science, and treating the little folks with A New Chapter of the Kings of England; next we have A New Jack the Giant Killer; and a tiny magazine, The Child at Home, where it, doubtless, always wishes to be. These are juvenilia, "trifles light as air," but they are seasonable trifles, as well as the "Ginger Liqueur Brandy," which, the advertisement tells us, no family in the kingdom should be without." But to more sober matters. 66 The Times journal, in the plenitude of its eight-andforty daily columns, can afford to be more literary than of old; and right well does it wield its power. Its reviews of new books are as gladiatorial as its political leaders; and they are alike in masterly keeping. In a late number, we were equally struck with the vigour and justice of the following remarks: "We are gradually becoming inoculated by the French and German taste for cheap bibliopolism. Perhaps, our fresh issues of books of sterling and recognised merit are almost as cheap as they could be made, consistently with careful production, with the supply of a serviceable paper, and with the excessive duty to which that article (of downright necessity) is in this country ridiculously subject. But the prices of all new books amongst us are perfectly enormous, compared with those which prevail on the continent. Every one who has been to Germany knows what the fair of Leipsic produces. In France, the business of publication is carried on with, perhaps, still less expense to the public; immense editions are sold, and author and bookseller are both of them well remunerated. Facts in these cases are the only arguments. During the last 18 months a series of little works, entitled Physiologies, as Physiologie du Tailleur, Physiologie de l'Etudiant, Physiologie de l'Homme à Bonnes Fortunes, has issued from the Parisian press; not very voluminous, certainly, but excellent in quality, and copiously illustrated by Gavarni and all the most eminent caricaturists of France. For these little works, for which a crown at least would be charged in London, with, probably, some lying nonsense in the trade puffs about unprecedented cheapness,' a single franc is charged in Paris. Let the London trade look to this. If they are not prepared to treat the public with liberality, with what face do they complain of want of encouragement? So long as they publish their books at unpurchaseable prices, that they should break by dozens is only a natural consequence. A Bibliothèque Française is now being published in Paris, in 30 volumes, presenting, for three or four francs a volume, the works of the most celebrated writers of France, illustrated by learned notes, and a selection of the most esteemed commentaries. The publisher (it is no fulsome falsehood to call him 'spirited") deals with nothing but chefs-d'œuvre, and has literally realized his promise that 'leur extrême modicité de prix' would place these volumes in a state of the most satisfactory completeness, 'à la portée de toutes les fortunes.' There is a splendid work called Le Jardin des Plantes, with richly-coloured engravings of the highest excellence, zoological, floricultural, and botanical; portraits of Cuvier, Buffon, and the other naturalists of France, views and plans of the gardens, &c., now going through the press, in thick and voluminous parts, for 30 centimes (3d.) each! If it must be our fate (which seems extremely probable) to be speedily outstripped in information and intelligence by our neighbours of the Outre-Manche, let the shame rest upon monopolizing, money grinding book sellers. Let not Penny Magazines and Cyclopædias for the diffusion and confusion of useful knowledge' be flung in our teeth as an answer to these remarks. They are no answer. Letterpress and illustrations are both the work of inferior men, incapable of awaking the popular mind, or inspiring popular interest. But the illustrations of animal and vegetable nature to which we have alluded above, are both the productions of the first artists of France; and elegance and exactitude of outline are rendered complete, by the most magnificent colouring after nature-what a contrast to the stark and staring woodcuts, by which foreigners are so much diverted in our penny literature!' "In addition to the vast fecundity of the Parisian press, in novels, romances, and tales interminable, bristling in feuilletons, and packed into library volumes, there is, likewise, a translation factory from the English kept pretty briskly at work. The lingual steam engine is driven by M. Defauconpret, who has translated the works of Sir Walter Scott for the Cabinets de Lecture. This gentleman has also translated several copies of Cooper's novels, and some of Captain Marryatt's, the preference of selection being unquestionably accorded to them, in consequence of their naval' character, These translations, as may well be conceived, are truly a school of art in which France is extremely backward. Frenchified affairs; even the very names being curiously and ridiculously metamorphosed; thus we have Monsieur le Midshipman Easy' for one title, 'Le Marin à Terre' ('the Middy Ashore') for another, and the last issued figures as Joseph Rushbroock.' But no Frenchman ever yet could spell an English name. "The most noticeable thing about these publications is the remarkably cheap price at which they are sold. Each volume is charged only 3f., while the paltriest translated trash that goes into our circulating libraries here, is impudently priced at half a guinea a volume. The most splendid works of origi. nal fiction, witness Eugene Sue's Mathilde, are published at the same price as Defauconpret's translations. Observe how, by this liberal arrangement, author and public (and the bookseller himself in the long run) are benefited. Cheap reprints of standard' English works, from French presses, abound; and Galignani's establishment has been cut out in some directions, and forced in others to reduce its expensiveness, by which it rivalled even London humbug. There is scarcely a short book of acknowledged merit in the circle of English literature, that you cannot purchase, reprinted in Paris by Frenchmen, yet with great accuracy, for 8d., 10d., or, at the very utmost, 15d. In this most astonishing activity of the publishing world, a very marked preference is given to English literature, the German being little cultivated." We have only glanced at England in the Nineteenth Century, Part I. of the Northern and Southern Division, respectively; and, if fine printing, excellent paper, and profuse illustration, can attract the public to the staple, topography, this work will receive a very large share of attention. The general character of the work is that of an itinerary; pleasantly written, but treating more of living manners and characteristics than antiquities. Probably, this is politic; for the mantle of Leland finds comparatively few wearers, and his fate is not encouragement. By the way, he presented his scheme for a topography of England and Wales, under the title of A New Year's Gift," to Henry VIII.; but the poor antiquary lost his patron, and next the favour of the court, and so slackened. Happily, in our times, literature does not rest upon any such patronage; and England in the Nineteenth Century needs no such passport to public favour. Of its extrinsic merits-fine paper and printing-we have spoken; its embellishments, maps, plates on steel, and wood cuts to be read with the text, of which they are, indeed, part and parcel, are very satisfactory: one of the plate views, St. Michael's Mount, by Creswick, is admirably drawn; throughout the cuts there is artistical feeling in the picturesque subjects, and accuracy in those illustrating the details of the Cotton Manufacture, which is "the feature" of Part I.-Northern Division-Lancashire; the vignettes of towns and coast scenery in Part I.Southern Division-Cornwall, are also very pleasing. The letterpress demands closer examination; meanwhile, |