Or all the children of the elements, snow is surely the most graceful-the most gentle-the most courtly. Wind beats him in variety-he is up to any music from a lullaby to a grand chorus! One night, he will moan like any delicate and tender hearted lover-on the next he will roar as if he had an army at his back, and wanted only the least in the world more of provocation to crush your house down to the ground, with one of his gigantic gusts-and even in his better humors, when he is neither melancholy nor mad, the audacity of his conduct is proverbial: think of the ships that he has wrecked-the venerable fruit and forest trees that he has blown down, the corn he has prostrated-the houses he has unroofed-the lips of coy young maidens that he has kissed! Rain-why, for rain there is not one simple good word to be said, save by some discontented farmers or on some very dusty day-and then, one may compound for a thunder-shower, but nothing more, and that, half for the sake of the spectacle. Hailcleaner than rain, but shrewd and biting past endurance. Thunder and lightning, too startling for people of sensibility-no one likes to be come over on a sudden with a loud lumbering peal, and a fierce flash of fire, which, for aught you know, may carry away the use of eyes, ears and hands. Frost, is so cold and stern! the miser of the elements who locks up everything beautiful and given to motion with his key of adamant, and would fain starve you into the uncomfortable belief that flowers are dead for ever, and that brooks will run no more: albeit, it must be said of frost, that like other misers, he can sometimes do magnificent things, and treat you to such a raree-show, as there is nothing else in nature to compare with-changing scrubby sere trees into enchanted pillars of diamonds, and making hedges of dry sticks outvie the far-famed grotto of Antiparos. Thaw, is too dirty for decent company; but snow-(by the way, his only failing is a propensity to appear at the same time with that most slovenly personage)-snow is a gentleman born; his easy exquisite descent shames the VOL. II.-No. 6.

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best executed flights of the peerless Taglioni herself; and then he is as quiet as he is elegant; as pure, until the earth hath soiled him, as if he were a creature formed of the down dropped from angels' wings. How beautifully, in the space of one short hour, has he strewn the vista before us-canopying the houses as with a silver mantle, and spreading beneath our feet a carpet so delicate, that it almost goes against our consciences to tread upon it!

FEBRUARY.

"FEBRUARY," says Gilbert White, "may well be called the dawn of spring, because, within its course, vegetation visibly begins to revive. The Saxons named it Sprout Cale, from observing that in this month their cale or cabbage began to make shoots. Not that this month is exempt from severe weather, for the frosts of January often extend into it; but yet, such is the influence of the approaching sun, that they seldom maintain their rigor for any time. A February is hardly known without a fine, soft, still season, attended by a high barometer, and a heavy, thick, dark sky, lasting often for several weeks without either sun or rain, during which the lover of a garden has an opportunity of adjusting his beds and borders, to examine each budding root, and to transplant such flowers as want removing. At times, this month is very wet and floody, hence the countrymen call it 'February fill dyke.'

Towards the end of this month, it will be worth a walk from town into the country, a few miles off, if the only object be to hear the cheerful song of the skylark; -the skylark poised upon his wings, high aloft in the air, and sending down his long-continued and varied song to charm the ears of his mate, and every other creature that loves the melody of nature. We shall, as the Spring advances, often call the attention of our readers to the "beauties of nature." The late severe frost has paved the way for the enjoyment of them in all their varieties.

The present number keeps pace with its predecessor in merit,-nay, it is, if possible, more varied and sparkling. "Homeric Ballads," by Dr. Maginn, is a bright gem. The "Blue Friar Pleasantries," too, are continued with much humor; and the "Yellowplush Correspondence" is again irresistibly droll. The illustrative engraving is capital; the gentleman in the background being evidently intended for George Cruikshank, whose sinister optics the sly wag of an artist has delightfully portrayed. The "Newspaper Press of Paris," No. 2, will be perused with considerable interest,-so also will the admirable paper on the "State of the Stage," from which we copy some remarks relative to Mr. Macready's campaign at Covent Garden Theatre:

"Mr. Macready's old novelties deserve the very highest commendation; and we have been gratified to see, in two or three visits to his theatre, how warmly the vulgar public has welcomed good tragedies, well and carefully performed: we say the vulgar public, for the polite world has treated him shamefully ill; and while the pit was completely full, and the lower gallery (a place loved by old playgoers) was very well attended, the boxes were not a quarter filled. Othello has been got up with great care and excellent effect; and Macbeth which we have twice had the pleasure of seeing at Covent Garden, is given as we hardly ever saw a piece given on the English stage. Locke's noble old music, and the magnificent choruses (which are a wonder for the time for which they were composed, and as powerful and melodious as those of Fidelio), were given with an effect and precision quite extraordinary; the first performers taking parts in the choruses, the humblest joining in them in a manner which showed how well the manager of Covent Garden knows how to produce a piece, and to drill the troops under his command,-no small merit,-for our plays are often ruined by the absurd freaks of the great actors, and the carelessness shown in managing the small ones. In the play, likewise, the same excellent system was kept up. Mr. Anderson (who personifies the "genteel comedy" of the theatre, and is what the French would call a "jeune premier") filled the disagreeable part of Malcolm with great effect and modesty; and Mr. Warde's Banquo was really as good a piece of acting as we have seen on the stage. Of the performance of the principal character we do not speak-we cannot here afford room for all the praises which we would write of it: that awful ghastly look of the murderer, stealing into the king's chamberthat noble picture of death and defiance, when the hero 'falls under the doomed sword of Macduff-are as difficult to forget as to describe. But we are only writing here of the minor matter and business of the theatre.

"With regard to the revival of Virginius, great praise has been deservedly bestowed upon the costumery and grouping of the piece, and the accuracy of all the dresses therein worn. This at least, is not the case with Henry V., a very dull and meagre representation of that most picturesque tragedy, where the English gentlemen were habited in those suits which used to be called Spanish dresses thirty years ago, but which never were worn in any age or country; and the French courtiers,

by way of contrast, appeared in suits of the time of Francis I. It is too bad; and Mr. Planche would have committed suicide had he witnessed the play. Now in Othello, a directly contrary system was pursued, and Titian levied under contribution to afford dresses for the Venetian senators and nobles. The Moor himself, throwing off that barbarous masquerade which was only adopted by Kean, and by the little statue Moors, which decorate the front of snuff-shops, appeared as a Venetian general, as he has been drawn by Vecellio. The Council was likewise excellent, and closely copied from Titian's picture, the Doge in his robes of state, the council of Ten, and the Forty, being habited just as the reader may see them in a little picture by Titian, at the Louvre. Of the cut of people's coats in the time of Macbeth, we can know but little; at any rate, Mr. Macready's Scotchmen were splendidly and richly dressed, and the effects and business of the scene most carefully rendered. "Shall we speak of the Queen's visits to the theatres, and the manner in which the people received her? GOD bless her sweet face! 'A sight of it,' writes a correspondent, who was at Covent Garden, 'seemed even to make Lord Durham look rosy and good-humored, as he glowered at her from the opposite boxes. Such a tumult was never heard! Sir William Molesworth and Mr. Charles Buller joined in GoD save the Queen,' and gave the refrain with astonishing harmony and effect; Joseph Hume was seen in tears, hanging on Mr. Roebuck's neck, as each, with his hat off, stood in one of the slips, and joined in the thundering chorus; Bulwer was so affected by it, that he fainted clean away: he was dragged ont of the pit-his stays undone-his dickey and shirt-collar removed-restoratives were appliedand he afterwards drank two glasses of half-and-half at the Albion, with tolerable equanimity.' Are these facts? We vouch not for them; but her majesty's visits to these places of entertainment, though they work good; they can scarcely be too often repeated, for they no such miracles, must do them nevertheless great bring good houses, they repair old losses, and they encourage the public taste for the most wholesome amusement which the public well can have. With the pantomimes at either house we have no wish to meddle; children, young and old, are the best critics on them; but Stanfield's Diorama must be mentioned with praise, if only as a tribute to exertions professedly made for the salvation of the stage."

Bentley's Miscellany.

We do not consider this work half so interesting as it ought to be, seeing that it is professedly edited by Mr. Charles DICKENS. To one good article, there are at least three bad ones; which, to say no worse of it, evinces a great error in judgment. Perhaps, however, all articles that are sent in, are inserted; which will, as once, account for the strange medley. Oliver Twist is again resumed this month, and is, of course, the best thing in the number : we therefore detach an interview between Mr.

Bumble, the beadle, and Mrs. Corney, the matron, whose soliloquy was broken in upon by the entrance of the official,' announced by a tap at the door :

"The night was bitter cold; the snow lay upon the ground frozen into a hard thick crust, so that only the heaps that had drifted into by-ways and corners were effected by the sharp wind that howled abroad, which, as if expending increased fury on such prey as it found, caught it savagely up in clouds, and, whirling it into a thousand misty eddies, scattered it in air. Bleak, dark, and piercing cold, it was a night for the well-housed and fed to draw round the bright fire, and thank God they were at home; and for the homeless starving wretch to lay him down and die. Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our bare streets at such times, who, let their crimes have been what they may, can hardly open them in a more bitter world.

"Such was the aspect of out-of-door affairs when Mrs.

Corney, the matron of the workhouse to which our readers have been already introduced as the birth-place of Oliver Twist, sat herself down before a cheerful fire in her own little room, and glanced with no small degree of complacency at a small round table, on which stood a tray of corresponding size, furnished with all necessary materials for the most grateful meal that matrons enjoy. In fact Mrs. Gorney was about to solace herself with a cup of tea; and as she glanced from the table to the fireplace, where the smallest of all possible kettles was singing a small song in a small voice, her inward satisfaction evidently increased-so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Corney smiled.

"Well,' said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table, and looking reflectively at the fire, I'm sure we have all on us a great deal to be grateful for-a great Ideal, if we did but know it. Ah!'

"Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the mental blindnes of paupers who did not know it, and thrusting a silver spoon (private property) into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin tea-caddy, proceeded to make the tea.

"How slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds! The black teapot, being very small and easily filled, ran over, while Mrs. Corney was moralizing, and the water slightly scalded Mrs. Corney's hand.

"Drat the pot!' said the worthy matron, setting it down very hastily on the hob; 'a stupid little thing, that only holds a couple of cups! What use is it of to any body?-except,' said Mrs. Corney, pausing,—' except to a poor desolate creature like me. Oh dear!'

With these words the matron dropped into her chair, and, once more resting her elbow on the table, thought of her solitary fate. The small teapot and the single cup had awakened in her mind sad recollections of Mr. Corney (who had not been dead more than five-andtwenty years), and she was overpowered.

"I shall never get another!' said Mrs. Corney, pettishly, 'I shall never get another-like him!'

"Whether this remark bore reference to the husband or the teapot is uncertain; it might have been the latter, for Mrs. Corney looked at it as she spoke, and took it up afterwards. She had just tasted her first cup, when she was disturbed by a soft tap at the room door.

'O, come in with you!' said Mrs. Corney sharply. Some of the old women dying, I suppose ;-they always die when I'm at meals. Don't stand there, letting the cold air in, don't! What's amiss now, eh?'

"Nothing, ma'am, nothing,' replied a man's voice. "Dear me !' exclaimed the matron in a much sweeter tone, is that Mr. Bumble?'

"At your service, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble, who had been stopping outside to rub his shoes clean, and shake the snow off his coat, and who now made his appearance, bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a bundle in the other. 'Shall I shut the door, ma'am?'

"The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should be any impropriety in holding an interview with Mr. Bumble with closed doors. Mr. Bumble, taking advantage of the hesitation, and being very cold himself, shut it without further permission.

"Hard weather, Mr. Bumble,' said the matron. "Hard, indeed, ma'am,' replied the beadle. 'Antiparochial weather this, ma'am. We have given away, Mrs. Corney-we have given away a matter of twenty quartern loaves, and a cheese and a half, this very blessed afternoon, and yet them paupers are not contented!'

"Of course not; when would they be, Mr. Bumble?' said the matron, sipping her tea."

"When, indeed, ma'am !' rejoined Mr. Bumble. 'Why, here's one man that, in consideration of his wife and large family, has a quartern loaf and a good pound of cheese, full weight. Is he grateful ma'am,-is he What grateful? Not a copper farthing's worth of it! does he do ma'am, but ask for a few coals, if it's only a pocket-handkerchief full, he says! Coals!-what would he do with coals?-Toast his cheese with 'em, and then come back for more. That's the way with these people, ma'am:-give 'em an apronfull of coals to day, and they'll come back for another the day after to-morrow, as brazen as alabaster!'

"The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible simile, and the beadle went on.

"I never,' said Mr. Bumble, 'see anything like the pitch it's got to. The day afore yesterday, a man-you have been a married woman, ma'am, and I may mention it to you-a man with scarcely a rag upon his back, (here Mrs. Corney looked at the floor,) goes to our overseer's door when he has got company to dinner, and says he must be relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he would'nt go away and shocked the company very much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and a pint of oatmeal. My God!' says the ungrateful villain, 'what's the use of this to me?' You might as well give me a pair of iron spectacles.' 'Very good,' says our overseer, taking 'em away again, 'you won't get any thing else here.' 'Then I'll die in the streets!' says the vagrant. 'Oh, no, you won't!' says our overseer.

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"Ha! ha! that was very good!-so like Mr. Grannet, wasn't it?' interposed the matron. 'Well, Mr. Bumble?

"Well, ma'am,' rejoined the beadle, 'he went away and did die in the streets. There's an obstinate pauper for you!'

"It beats anything I could have believed!' observed the matron, emphatically. But don't you think outof-door relief a very bad thing any way, Mr. Bumble? You're a gentleman of experience, and ought to know. Come.'

"Mrs. Corney,' said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious of superior information, 'outof-door relief, properly managed-properly managed, ma'am-is the parochial safeguard. The great principle of out-of-door relief is to give the paupers exactly what they don't want, and then they get tired of coming.'

"Dear me!' exclaimed Mrs. Corney. Well, that is a good one, too!'

"Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma'am,' returned Mr. Bumble, that's the great principle; and that's the reason why, if you look at any cases that get into them owdacious newspapers, you'll always observe that sick families have been relieved with slices of cheese. That's the rule now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, however,' said the beadle, stooping to unpack his bundle, 'these are official secrets, ma'am-not to be spoken of, except, as I may say, among the parochial officers, such as ourselves. This is the port wine, ma'am, that the board ordered for the infirmary-real, fresh, genuine port wine, only out of the cask this afternoon-clear as a bell, and no sediment.'

"Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to test its excellence, Mr. Bumble placed them both on the top of a chest of drawers, folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped, put it carefully in his coat pocket, and took up his hat as if to go.

"You'll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble,' said the matron.

"It blows, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat collar, 'enough to cut one's ears off.'

"The matron looked from the little kettle to the beadle, who was moving towards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to bidding her good night, bashfully inquired whether-whether he wouldn't take a cup of tea?

"Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again, laid his hat and stick upon the chair, and drew another chair up to the table: as he slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady; she fixed her eyes upon the little teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled.

"Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she sat down, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle; she colored, and applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again Mr. Bumble coughed-louder this time than he had coughed yet.

Sweet, Mr. Bumble?' inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin.

"Very sweet indeed, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs. Corney as he said this; and, if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was that beadle at that moment.

Mr.

"The tea was made and handed in silence. Bumble, having spread a handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the splendor of his shorts, began to eat and drink, varying these amusements

occasionally by fetching a deep sigh, which, however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, seemed rather to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department.

"You have a cat, ma'am, I see,' said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one, who, in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; and kittens, too, I declare!'

"I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think,' replied the matron. They're so happy, so frolicsome, and so cheerful, that they are quite companions to me.'

"Very nice animals, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; so very domestic.'

"Oh, yes!' rejoined the matron with enthusiasm; so fond of their home, too, that it's quite a pleasure,

I'm sure.'

"Mrs. Corney, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, 'I mean to say this, ma'am, that any cat or kitten that could live with you, ma'am, and not be fond of its home, must be an ass, ma'am.'

"Oh, Mr. Bumble !' remonstrated Mrs. Corney."

MUSIC

MUSICAL CHIT-CHAT.

The Sacred HARMONIC SOCIETY, Exeter Hall, selected for their Wednesday's concert The Fall of Jerusalem, composed by Geo. Perry; this is the second new oratorio the Society have brought out within twelve months, and it excited as much interest as Mendelssohn's St. Paul.

HUMMEL AND BERLIOZ.-Among the papers of the celebrated Hummel, whose,recent loss Germany so much deplores, a manuscript score of a grand mass in C major, has been found. It has been performed at a concert given in the theatre at Vienna, for the benefit of an institution established in aid of the musicians of the chapel belonging to that court. This composition has been deemed worthy to take a high place among the noblest works of its author. Another composition, brought forward at the same concert, created considerable sensation; viz., the overture to Francs Juges, by M. Berlioz. -Musical World.

MUSICAL WONDER.-A new musical star has appeared in Florence under the name of Napoleone Moriani. His voice is said to be a tenor of the richest and most flexible kind-it speaks to the soul, and obeys all the expressions which its owner wishes it to convey. It is reported that Laporte has made brilliant proposals to him, and that he is coming to London with Madame Tacchinardi-Persiani.

The Ploughshare of Old England; a National Song. Written by Eliza Cook; the Music by Nelson.-Purday.

Both the words and the music of this song are excellent. The former we subjoin, that our readers may judge for themselves :—

"The sailor boasts his stately ship, the bulwark of our isle,

The soldier loves his sword, and sings of tented plains the while;

But we will hang our ploughshare up, within our fathers' halls,

And guard it as the deity of plenteous festivals.

We'll pluck the brilliant poppies, and the far-famed

barleycorn,

LOVE!

Joy! thy smiles are sweet,

But the smiles of Love are sweeter; And Time! thy wings are fleet, But the wings of Love are fleeter!

Mirth! thy heart is light,

But the heart of Love is lighter; And Wit! thine eyes are bright, But the eyes of Love are brighter!

Truth! thy voice is clear,

But the voice of Love is clearer; And Hope! thy dreams are dear, But the dreams of Love are dearer!

ARCHERY

Under this head it is our intention to record the various fetes and contests that take place among our British bowmen in the course of the season, in all parts of the country. From intel

versal favorite.

promise a rare treat to the lovers of this manly and womanly, amusement, which is now becom