The Press.
London, England, 1855-02-10 00:00:00

PERIODICAL LITERATURE.

Bentley's Miscellany under its new management
has assumed a higher tone than previously, and now
takes rank among our political reviews. The first
article, on "The Army before Sebastopol," is
vigorously written, and shows how the sufferings
sustained by our army might have been averted by
ordinary precaution. The want of an efficient
transport service for the seven miles between the
camp and harbour has been the source of innu-
merable evils, and to throw the blame on the army
itself is manifestly absurd, as it is truly stated here
that " every man and horse are worked to death with
" the arduous duties of the siege." Mr. Ainsworth's
new tale of " The Spendthrift" is in his best style of
domestic romance. Of other papers we may particu-
larly notice, the amusing gleanings from German
almanacs for 1855, the " Narrative of the Doings t.l*
the White Sea Squadron," from the journal of one of
the officers, and an amusing sketch by Mr. Dudley
Costello.
The New Monthly opens with a notice [of
M. Fieffe's work on the " Foreign Legions of
France." The mercenaries of old time were un-
doubtedly excellent soldiers, but often as dangerous
to their employers as their foes. In the wars of the
League they played a conspicuous part. At Argues,
when Henri IV. had prepared for the combat, " the
" lansquenets, as usual, asked for money on the eve
"of battle." The Swiss of the Leaguers came over
to Henri in the midst of the conflict. The article
has some good points, but a notice of modern
Foreign Legions would be much more welcome at
the present time. If it be true that the Zouaves have
revolted in the French camp—as it undoubtedly is
that numerous desertions have taken place from the
French Foreign Legion—it tends to show how little
this; kind of force is to be relied on in an obstinate
struggle. "Stray Letters from the Crimea" are a
mistake. Even were they genuine their jesting tone
would not be agreeable. The "Diary of a Winter in
Rome " is one of the best papers in the number.
The notices of the chief artists now in Rome are es-
pecially acceptable. We subjoin a brief sketch of
the two principal sculptors, Gibson and Crawford :
I shall never forget my first meeting with Gibson. It
was in a portion of his studio devoted to his pupil, a young
American lady of independent fortune and great talent,
enthusiastically devoted to the arts, who left America when
almost a child to place herself near him whose works she
so much admired. On her first arrival Gibson refused to
have anything to do with the romantic creature; but at last
her importunities overcame him, and she is now regularly
established in his studio, happy as a queen, her bright
eyes beaming with content under her jaunty little working•
cap, creating around her forms and faces of real classiest
beauty Gibson showed me over his studio, and un-
covered work after work of quite Grecian perfection, till
the dingy walls seemed radiant with immortal life and
beauty. Specially did he hang over his favourite work,
the coloured Venus, like a second Pigmalion, enamoured
of his deity ; and the sweet statue did look just bursting

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into life—but a life of pure, unsullied ideality, spotless as
the oceans foam that gave the goddess birth !
Crawford, the great American sculptor, is a genial,
large-souled man, full of life, energy, and power—the con-
densation of the finest national qualities. To his fiery,
active spirit nothing is impossible, and be is now working
con furore at a coluisal monument to be erected in Ame-
rica, sixty feet in height, with the fevered impetuosity of a
beginner. His works are the emblem of his mind—forcible,
free, full of movement and action, yet with thrilling
touches of true pathos, delicious remembrances of human
passion and domestic sympathies. The world goes well
with Crawford ; he lives in a grand villa hard by the baths
of Dioclesian, overshadowed by orange gloves and ilex
woods, and labouni within the sound of gushing fountains
and refreshing streams. He has a handsome wife and
charming family, and au open, hospitable board and ample
means, and hosts of friends. Long may this sou of gene-
rous hearted America live to enjoy his blessings !
The article on the " Manners of the Eighteenth
Century " contains some curious illustrations of the
literature and drains of the time. Mr. J. E.
Carpenter contributes several "Songs of the War."
One of these is the most touching ballad we have yet
seen. We must beg to transfer it to our columns, as
it will not suffer by comparison with the pathetic
lyrics which Campbell composed on incidents of the
last great war :

MOTHER CAN THIS THE GLORY BE ?--D ULT.
First Voice.
Mother, can this the glory be, of which men proudly tell,
When speaking of the tearless ones who in the battle fell?
Where is the light that cheered our home, its sunshine and
its joy ;
Ours was, they say, the victory—but, mother, where's thy
boy ?
Second Voice.
My boy ! I see him in my dreams—l heat his battle-cry,
I know his brave and loyal heart—he does not fear to die.
E'en now methinks 1 see him still his country's banner
wave :
On—on ! and win a deathless fame, my beautiful, my brave.
Both.
God of the Battle shield him still, and yet Thy will be
done,
A sister for a brother prays, a mother for her son;
We seek to share no glory now—Wk ask Thee but to save
The noble hearts of England, our beautiftd and brave.
First Voice.
- - -

Mother I I know thy courage well—thine is an ancient
race,
Yet while thy heart so proudly swells, a tear steals down thy
face ;
E'en now you guess the fearful truth—still, still our ban-
ners wave,
But on that dreadful battlefield where sleeps thy young
and brave ? _ _ .

Secolid Voice.

Yes—yes, I knew it must be so—l toll not all my dream,
I saw my gallant boy ride forth where crimson flowed the

stream ;
hear the shouts of victory—cease, cease those sounds of

joy,
They cannot glad a mother's heart, nor give me back my
boy !

Both.
God of the Battle hear us now, and yet Thy will be done,
A sister for a brother mourns, a mother for her son ;
We cannot share the glory now—but ask Thee Still to save
The noble hearts of England, the beautiful mid brave!
The other contents of the number are various, but
do not call for particular notice.
The current number of Fraser is chiefly made up
of reviews. Among the original papers is a pleasant
one, entitled " A Week in the Wolds of Lincoln-
shire," giving us a high notion of the agricultural
prosperity of the district. The tale of "Alwyn's
First Wife" Is original in style, and from its progress
thus far we conceive a good opinion of its merit.
the first part of another tale, " liinchhook," ap-
pears to us, as regards the character of the young
heroine, Helen, pitched in too high a key. The de-
scription at page 232 " as an angel nearly arrived in
Paradise," rk.c., is mere rhapsody. Of the reviews in
the number that entitled " North and South" is the
most lively. But these notices, it strikes us, are
somewhat out of place in a magazine with the cha•
racier of Fraser for original writing.

In the Rambler, a Roman Catholic organ, the
principal article is an earnest protest against the
miserable time-serving which has made Roman
Catholic grievances a stepping-stone to political
power. The following paragraph shows that the
high-spirited members of the Romish party are
thoroughly sick of the Whig alliance :
In this country, the accidents of political change had
produced a traditional but unrecognised league between the
natural secular leaders of Catholics and the Whigs,—a
party which of all others is most alien in its feelings to those
which Catholicism creates. Guided by such leaders, temp-
tations of the very worst kind were held out to us ; and it
was only by serving our haughty patrons with the abject
servility of Oriental slaves, that we could expect a relief
from the tyranny which Protestants exercised over us.
With rare exceptions, every Catholic of rank, fortune, of
education, was pledged to the Whigs. By intriguing with
the Whigs, or through the Whigs, we were to be allowed
to pick up the crumbs vouchsafed to us from the table of
our masiter‘. On condition of bartering our independence
for the wretthed wages, we were to be permitted toleration