interesting little dramas !-racks, cords, wheels, and thumbscrews, have gone to the regions of Jack the Giant-killer and Tom Thumb, to whom the last-named instruments of diversion legitimately belong. You may even spell a newspaper, or read a book that has never had mother Church's imprimatur on it; or say something of what you think about kings and queens (and knaves?) nay, actually assert your soul is your own, without being nabbed by any polite familiar, or compelled, whether you will or no, to enlighten the world in an auto-da-fé. And we that have come four hundred and thirty-nine miles British for the express purpose of being astonished, frightened to death, locked up and let out again, run to within an inch of our lives-amused, in short! It is too provoking!" There is more of this, and more equally good of its kind; but we are compelled to pause. We had marked various passages for quotation, and especially intended to give one most graphic description of Tangiers, but we have not space. Be it only remarked in conclusion, that this most amusing book is composed in the form of letters, and that we trust other works of the same nature, may yet emanate from the same clever authoress. ART. XI.-Diary of Travels in France and Spain. By the Rev. Francis Trench. In Two Vols. London: Bentley. 1845. We have here a work of a graver order, also deserving of much commendation, chiefly from the beautiful Christian spirit which seems to animate all the thoughts and direct all the steps of the reverend author. He evidently belongs to what is generally considered the evangelical party in the Church; yet is there such gentleness, such Christian moderation, such sweetness of disposition evident throughout these pages, that we think the staunchest high churchman may read his work with pleasure. Mr. Trench's chief desire appears to have been an examination into the state of the Roman Catholic churches of France and Spain, as well as of the Protestant communities in the former country. The ignorance and superstition of the lower orders. in some parts of the country appear to be most marvellous. Witness the story of the origin of the bear, supposed to have been originally a blacksmith, until transformed by the "Bon Dieu," the which story is first recounted by a boy of sixteen, but afterwards confirmed by a young man of three-and-twenty as absolutely true! The illustrations which are interspersed throughout the two volumes are very clever, and proceed from Mrs. Trench. They certainly increase the value of the work. Altogether, we can heartily recommend this Diary to our readers. ART. XII.-Dramatic Sketches and other Poems. By the Rev. A MIND of a highly cultivated order has evolved this unpretending volume. The minor poems have little real value, though there is gentle sweetness in "The Wild Flower" (p. 289), and "The Breeze" (p. 295), which ought not to pass unnoticed. Far more merit, however, have the three dramatic sketches. The first of these, "The Court of Darkness," is a fine conception; some of the thoughts in which are also finely embodied. Witness the chorus on pp. 14 and 15, commencing, "Taunt not thy slaves, lord of the burning throne." The "Last Days of Nero" will probably please many readers. They want however vigour, both of design and execution, and remind one of the colourless paintings of" Poussin," or reflections cast on a world of shadows from that of reality and beauty. The third sketch, "The Daughters of Time," is by far the most valuable contribution to this volume. It is also the most original in its tone, and shows a power of philosophical observation which proves the author an acute reasoner, if not a highly imaginative poet. The arguments of Change and Custom, who appear here as wordy disputants, are characteristic and admirable of their kind. This eclogue is well worthy of the attention of our readers. We may observe, in conclusion, that most of the works in this volume have appeared already in Blackwood's, the Dublin University, and other established periodicals. ART. XIII.—Lectures delivered at Literary and Mechanics' Institutions. By William Henry Leatham. London: Longmans'. THERE is good feeling and good sense in these lectures, though we cannot see any great utility in their publication. The History of Wakefield and its Antiquities is decidedly the most valuable. The author appears to have Whig tendencies. At least he extols Oliver Cromwell at the expence of Charles the First, belauds Mr. Macaulay to the skies, underrates Southey as a poet, and uses some of the "liberal" cant of the day. Still these signs may deceive. For it is difficult for those even who entertain correct opinions to maintain an equal correctness of expression, uninfluenced by the party jargon which they hear incessantly jabbered around them. ART. XIV. Memoirs on Syria, &c., &c., &c. By Charles Fiott Barker, formerly Secretary to Mr. Consul General Barker. London: Madden & Malcolm. HERE is a short pamphlet with a gigantically long title, containing, however, valuable matter, and giving us much useful information. The apparent object of the author is to induce Europeans to settle in Syria, which he describes as "a terrestial paradise.' 245 ART. XV.-Ein und zwanzig Bogenaus der Schweiz. Herausgegeben von Georg Herwegh. Zurich. THE vapid insolence of Young Germany was never more conspicuously developed than in the volume now before us. The attacks on Christianity contained in it would be indescribably absurd were they not appallingly blasphemous. We will not contaminate our readers' minds by more than an allusion to these sillinesses. Everywhere, throughout this species of Review, the assumption is put forward that no man ever knew what freedom meant, or, indeed, ever wished for freedom, before its authors. The indignation expressed by one gentleman against some unfortunate Christian who has dared to express a wish for liberty is perfectly laughable. "You, indeed!" he exclaims: "you shall not be on our side. You must be for tyranny, and you shall be!" Who remembers not Göthe's delightful song for the triumphant Radicals? "Nun sollte keiner mucken, Der nicht so denkt wie wir !" Enough of such trash. Sallet, who has put Hegelian nonsense into the most halting and vulgar verse, is extolled as a second Shelley. Fools! Shelley was a poet. Your Sallet is not worthy even to be called a rhymester, despite his glorious self-assertion: "Und vor der Menschheit schreit ich gross, Noch durch Jahrhunderte daher." "Armer Wicht!" This fool is dead-thanks be to Providence! but he has left his like behind him. However, the stupidity of this party has reached a climax at which it cannot long maintain itself. Can we wonder that the existence of such opinions should make the King of Prussia very cautious in his advances towards Constitutional Government? We are unwilling to give him advice, yet we cannot but consider him mistaken. Let him give Prussia an Upper House, by distinguishing the mediatised Princes and oldest Nobility, and confining their titles to their sons, adding to these the heads of the bureaucratic body and the dignitaries of the Church, and a Lower House may follow as of course. Ay, but the Church ?-There lies the difficulty. Had Prussia Christian faith and discipline, it would have long ago received a constitution. To leave this subject, turn we to Herwegh who has given us some furious songs in this volume. After all he is no poet. Freiligrath, whom he reviles so furiously, has tenfold more of the true bardic fire. Herwegh's present productions are inferior to his earliest. They go over the same ground again, and try to make up in violence what is wanting in freshness and poetic VOL. VI. NO. I. S vigor. Still we remain grateful to this youth for the exposure of our favourite aversion, Prince Puckler Moskau. Of him wrote he, in allusion to his "Letters of a Deceased," (Briefe eines Verstorbenen,) we render freely And again, "Dead Knight and soulless Spectre, Couch, couch thy lance on high, Yes, croaking mortal raven, Thy fame all tongues entrammels, The woes of Egypt's nation "To river Pleisse turn thee, This is neat, pointed, truly stirring of its order. First rate, too, were the "Reiterlied" and "Protest" in the old collection. There is nothing so good in this. Still Herwegh is very superior to a vulgar blusterer like Prutz, a dull rhymster like Seeger, or a silly versifier of the order of Hoffmann von Fallersleben. ART. XVI.-Edwin the Fair and Isaac Comnenus. By Henry Taylor, Author of Philip Van Artevelde. Moxon. THERE is a certain dull propriety of style, a respectable slowness, which excites the admiration of many kindred minds, and generally meets with loud and earnest praises from a special class of wordy critics. Envy is no doubt a very general, if not an universal passion: and what is usually called cleverness, that is, a certain capability of entertaining and expressing commonplace thoughts, combined with some amount of knowledge, are extremely calculated to work envy of genius in their less fortunate possessors. This genius they never can obtain. They have toiled for years, they have thought and read, and written; and now in the end of their labours, appears a young aspirant who by one single effort attains a height which they had never even dreamt of. Is it not natural that they should feel anger at this? It is so! How admirably has Göthe illustrated this in his immortal Tasso, when he makes the angry bard exclaim "That, that, which Nature only can bestow; Which ever unattainable must rest For labour, for endeavour; neither gold Rather than that high power which yon divine ones Genius then excites the envy of mediocrity, at least in its dawn. When once established, of course, such critics know no worthier duty than to bow the knee before it. But, by a parity of reasoning, mediocrity we know revels in the triumphs of sober hardworking dulness. To this pitch of excellence under favouring circumstances it might itself attain. It seems to applaud itself whilst it extols its representative. To this natural sympathy may be attributed the loud acclaim which has hailed the appearance of Mr. Taylor's works. They were in sooth the very sublime of mediocrity. Here was an opportunity for the everyday critic that was not to be lightly let slip. That opportunity was seized accordingly. Quarterlies, monthlies, weeklies, and dailies joined in the chorus of eulogy. Nothing but this absurd excess indeed (a writer in the Edinburgh declared Mr. Taylor the first poet of the day)-nothing but this, we say, could justify the severity of our present tone. For in general we declare ourselves most decisive opponents to the negative style of criticism. We hold that praise can rarely do much harm even when undeserved, and may tend to develope latent faculties in the author's mind yet unknown or undreamt of. There is, however, an exuberance of eulogy which requires castigation, when it tends to the injury of literature. Mr. Taylor's books are very dull, but they are written in a poetical form and declared by the critics most admirable. The reader accordingly takes them up, studies them perseveringly for some time, and then finally throws the book aside as dull, because poetical, since its excellence has been already guaranteed to him; and thus poetry loses in his estimation through Mr. Taylor's attempts at it. Now this is a serious and not at all imaginary evil. Nothing is so injurious to poetry as the general eulogy and dissemination of works which everybody is taught to believe admirable, but which everybody in heart considers dull. So much in explanation of our self-inflicted task. Now to the works |