The Sun.
London, England, 1850-07-08 00:00:00

THE MYSTERY OF TIME.

Fancy a small duodecimo pamphlet stitched up in
a fly cover of crimson paper, consisting altogether of
sixty-eight pager, and purporting to be a poem un-
der the above appalling title, in four cantos ! Fancy,
all this in blank verse, very blank verse indeed, be-
ginning with a conjunction, ending with a sudden
" pull up," split into divisions with little clusters of
asterisks, and preceded by the subjoined announce-
ment :—" Notice to the reader ! The reader is re-
quested to observe, that wherever asterisks occur an
indefinite period of time is supposed to have elapsed."
Fancy all this, and you may have some idea of the
" Mystery of Time. We know very well that not
only did Milton write a poem on " Paradise Lost,"
but that Blackmore wrote one also on the " Creation ;"
and we remember, too, that Dr. Johnson preferred
the " Creation "to " Paradise Lost." That was
going far enough in all conscience ; yet we wonder
if any Johnson of our generation will prefer the
author of the " Mystery of Time" to Blackmore!

VERITAS. A Poem.

Whoever may have written this anonymous poem
has poetic feeling, what though he is guilty through-
out it of many unpoetic extravagances. " Veritas"
is dedicated to Thomas Carlyle, and to Thomas Car-
lyle it will have come commended quite as much by
its eccentricities as by its excellences. Of the better
powers of our author let as at once,in all truthfulness,
afford a good and golden specimen. Here is his gra*-
phic and sententious delineation of the woman of his
affections—
" He said—the maid I love is she whose mind
Is gentle, prudent, and sincerely kind,—
Whose life is always constancy and love,—
Whose modest eye is never prone to rove,—
Whose equal conscience is serenely right,—
Whose breast is free of jealoury and spite,—
Whose thoughts are not too much of the ideal,—
Whose feeling., though acute, are always real,—
Whose judgment in advance is of her years,—
Whose genuine sense in every act appears,—
Whose cautious tongue from slandering is free,—
Whose soul despises all iniquity,—
Whose fsce is lighted with a graceful smile,—
Whose conduct is incapable of guile,—
Whose rtady laugh is not the laugh of folly,—
Whose mancer is untouched by melancholy,—
Whose chiefest joy is in her neighbour's weal,—

Whose tender heart reciprocal c,n fed,—
Whose hopes are always longing for the best,—
Whose wishes are but simple in request,—
Who knows herself—a knowledge too uncommon!
And ne'er forgets the character of Woman."
Hear him again descanting more briefly, but not less
eulogistically upon the delights of domesticity :
Home, all endearing haven to the 3oring I
Thy accent melts like honey on the tongue—
The weary exile wandering far away
Through tears looks back; the schoolboy at his play
Reckons his dearest joys at Christmas times,
When by his friends his village belfry chimes;—
The youthful mariner, afar at sea,
Looks to his ship, but always thinks of thee;—
The distant lover, gazing on the skies,
Hopes that the moon is seen by brighter eyes!"
Elsewhere his phrases are equally worthy of commen-
dation, as where he apostrophizes poesy (p. 45) as
the " sweet manna of the mind," or where he ex-
claims (p. 57)
" Friendship we long have reckon'd second love,
A sort of hallow'd feeling from above."
Others of his expressions are rather wire-drawn, and
verging too much upon the grotesque. In one place,
he calls truth very admirably (p. 65), "the power of
reason in its prime," while in another he
speaks of it most outrageously as (p. 66), " the
backbone of the human race." That is one of the
absurdities of the volume. Now fur more of them.
Slang phrases and vulgarisms are never thought too
mean for poetry by the writer of " Veritas :" and thus
we find him complaining at one instant, (p. 74)
" How many hopeful specs in life give way," &c.
and at another protesting that (p. 43)—
"Poor artifice and etiquette but school
Into obedience every verdant fool."
Then his rhymes ! Hear them
" Perhaps to pawn a watch, perhaps a coat—
If more than one the wretched man has got.

You only cast your pearls t) the swine,
Aid do the act perhaps at the wrong time.

Tbis man was fl ►tler'd daily by his friends—
Ile liked it, but to likings there's nc. end.

•
The walls were wood, the dwelling quite compact,
With luxury of window front and back."
As to his metre, our author must have some odd
notions, as also in his mode of pronunciation. For
instance, " world" must be to him as it is to Mr.
Peggotty, 'a dissyllable, wurreld, in order to make
the second line -in- the following completely correct
(p. 50) :
"Even from the Transatlantic side they come
To set the Wiser world in a hum."
Yet, with all these blemishes and extravagances,
" Veritas," as we have already intimated and even
shown, is not without its beauties. To ourselves
there is something. very graceful in the thought
Struck out by the author, where he is describing him-
self at the time when he (p. 39) -
" Wrote sonnets, too, on lovely woman's eyes—
Warm from the heart, and free of all disguise,
With thoughts, mysterious in their varied strains,
As frozen dreams upon Me windoin panes t"
Speaking of the vernal season; he describes it (p. 65)
as the time—
" When birds begin to sing;
When woods are yellow with the buds of spring."
Of jealousy, especially in its evidence towards all
would-be poets, he says (pp 92, 93), with much of
his own veritas:—
" But be it understood, there is a thing
Callel envy, with a hidden; hideous sting;
Always desirous to bring others down
To a dull level equal to its own.
And poets get enough of this to quaff—
The scorner's censure and the idiot's laugh;—
The secret whisperings of lesser men,
Who loathe the effusions of a friendly pen.
Thus jealousy, fiend of the eye-ball queen,
Sister of fear, and demigod of spleen!
Sean in the lover's trembling form to swell,
And in the warrior's savage breast to dwell—
'Turning to trustless meanings—loads with blame
Those most who with it have an equal fame,—
R-proves, finds faults, and while it calls you friend!
Would laugh with silent joy to see your end."
Alluding to the assertion that the age of poetry is
gone by, his vindication is altogether too good to be
passed over unnoticed. " What ! " he exclaims
(pP. 91, 98)—
" Did Alexander—Philip's conquering son—
Leave no campaigns for great Napoleon?
Did Homer write what Virgil since has done?
Did Virgil pen what Sbakspere's tame has won?—
Or Shakspere pen what Byron, Cowper, Young,
Have strewn among creation, nobly sung?
Did MiLon live of old? is Moore yet dead?
Or waves the grass o'er Wordsworth's aged head?"
To the last inquiry the answer is, unhappily, by
this time in the affirmative. The argument is
good ; but we very much fear, with all its merits,
whether the illustration will be found in " Veritas."

ANONYMOUS POEMS.
Forty years have been consumed in the composition
of-this rolaoae, which uevertheleps; after. all) ckeiliot

I extend beyond sixty pages, and presents altogether
a remarkable illustration of Sheridan's sarcasm about
" a rivulet of rhyme running through a meadow of
( margin." Several of the pages contain no more than
l four lines--the entire moiety of a capacious leaf being
dedicated to an epigram. As to the period occupied
by the anonymous bard in the travails of metrical
composition, we learn its exact duration from a state-
ment very explicitly given to that effect in the pre-
face. IVe complain not of the paucity of verses—
heaven forfend we should be afflicted with more
of a comparable mediocrity. There are enough
of them and to spare, few though they
are numerically. But what excites our sur-
prise in reference to them is the length of time ab-
sorbed in their production and its hardy acknowledg-
ment. To us it appears like the antithesis to Byron's
propitiatory note to the " Hours of Idleness," inform-
ing the critics that they were the effusions of a
"minor." Several of the fragments from Camoens
and Petrarch aro ingenious—some of them felicitous.
But what shall we say of the "Fragments intended
for a copy of verses to be spoken at Oxford in 1814,
after the visit of the Allied Sovereigns," for example ?
In one part of it we have—
"He flies—a refuge Elba's rocks aff,rd,
And the Weak isle receives her f lun lord."

Then come a number of asterisks ; then—
'• A narrow speck amid the dreary main"—
Then more asterisks. Why, after thirty-six years,
preserve that fragment? Why print it, and correct
the proof-sheet of it, and publish it ? To be brief,
the author of " Anonymous Poems" is a scholar, but
not a poet.

THE MINISTRY OF THE BEAUTIFUL.
By H.. 1. Slack, F.G.S.
" A thing of beauty is a joy for ever" is an
opinion which has received an unanimous assent, but
the chief value of beauty and of joy is their powerful
efficacy in producing and promoting good, and this
beautiful ministry of the beautiful is the theme
of Mr. Slack's little work. "The Ministry of
the Beautiful, as endeavoured to be set
forth in the following pages," he tells us, " consists
chiefly in its omnipresent power of stimulating the
fancy and the heart to join the intellect in adoration of
the good and true." This most truthful and beautiful
definition is enoughof itself to predispose all who read it
to turn with interest to the work itself, from the
perusal of which they cannot fail to derive pleasure.
In two respects, however, we are somewhat dissatis-
fied with the manner in which Mr. Slack has set forth
his very delightful subject-matter. He has adopted
the form of a dialogue between two persons of the
names of Edith and Lyulpk, but these individuals are
introduced to us without being invested with any in-
dividual interest whatsoever ; and, again, the style of
their discourse is at times deficient in that
simplicity which renders conversation so charm-
ing. These two drawbacks we mention
frankly, because we so greatly sympathise with
Mr. Slack's sentiments and with his enthusiasm
for his subject. The volume is rich in beautiful
pictures and beautiful thoughts. Turning over the
pages at random we read:—

Life should be measured by time wisely employed,
and not by periods unprofitably spent. He is the
oldest who has thought and felt the deepest and the
the most. . . What efforts should not woman
make to preserve in maturity the sim-
plicity of the child. When that is lost, the
sunlight of her being is sadly over-clouded, if not
wholly gone. . . . The human soul should receive
from all directions, and harmoniously weave together
the filaments of truth which float like gossomer-threads
throughout the universe. . . . Those who love
most know most. To the true worshipper, nature ex-
hibits beauty and sublimity, while to the irreverent is
barrenness and vacuity. . . . In proportion as a man
develops beauty within, does he find it without," &c., &c.

POPULAR HISTORY OF MAMMALIA.

By Adam White.
VOICES FROM THE WOODLANDS. By
Mary Roberts.

The-publications of Messrs. Reeve and Benham
are, in their peculiar style, unequalled. Again and
again have we had occasion to commend the excellent
and very attractive manner in which works of science
or natural history are issued from their establishment.
The two works above mentioned are interior to none
of their predecessors in external advantages. Two
thick square volumes, handsomely bound, beau-
tifully printed, and embellished with from
ten to twenty brilliantly-coloured lithographs.
The history of Mammalia is by Mr. Adam White, of
the zool.gical department of the British Museum.
It comprises a familiar account of the classification
and habits of the most numerous and important divi-
sion of the animal kingdom. For the young espe-
cially this volume, with its brilliant pictures and in.
teresting anecdotes, will be an invaluable acquisition.
" Voices from the Woodlands," similar in
character is totally dissimilar in style. By
a graceful kind of ;poetic licence, the
authoress has literally put " tongues in trees."
The dwellers of the-wbOdiands, from the stately oak
to the modest lichen, have here found a voice, and,
in simple but most attractive language, have indivi-
dually recorded their _natural peculiarities and their
family associations. In this sultry season it is quite
refreshing to turn over the pages of this volume, em-
bellished'as it is With a pictorial abundance of verdant
foliage. • ' •

MAGAZINES, &c.—(CONTINUED.)
BENTLEY.

The "Ladder of Gold" is the chef d'aurre of
Robert Bell ; whether we regard it as a novel of
manners or as a novel of character it is equally
great; the manners of this our day are portrayed
with a Watteau-like taste and fidelity, while the cha-
racters are accurate studies of human nature. In
the present instalment the sacrifice is completed ;
the stern, cold-hearted Rawlings has forced Margaret
to become the wife of Lord Charles Eton. He has
now ascended the ladder of gold, and the perilous
descent, we imagine, is about to commence ; the
railway panic looms gloomily in the distance ; we
are at the beginning of the end. Mr. Bell, as usual,
embraces every opportunity of inculcating the neces-
sity for practising that virtue which is the very
foundution of Christianity itself—charity. At the
commencement of Chapter VI. he says—
" People who show au eagerness to condemn the con-
, duct of others in situations in which they were never
placed themselves, are apt to lay the flattering unction to
their souls that they would have acted differently in
similar circumstances. We are all wise and judicious
and self-possessed after the event. And very virtuous
are we who are out of the reach of temptation, and un-
scathed by the sore trials of the world. This is the
virtue which looks out from its draperies and carpets
upon the bleak wintry lanthcape, anti hugs itself upon
its honest comforts; the virtue of the coward who,
secure from danger, boasts of his courage; of the shrew
who, after an unlovely and unsolicited youth, casts her
scorn upon the blight of pcur beset and suffering beauty;
of the rich man, to whom w ant is an allegory, and who,
when he denounces the famishing wretch that has stolen
a loaf, is quite confident that he would rather starve
than do such a thing himself. Alas! for all our self-
rel,ance, none of us know what we should do till we are
trit d. If our virtues were to be measured by the loud-
ness of our protests against the vices, what an angelic
world it would be! But virtue is not the negation of
evil, it is the practice of good; and the most practical,
and saving, and sweetest c f all the virtues is charity!"
The author of " Reminiscences of a Gaol Chaplain"
'gives us an interesting account of a visit to Bishops-
thorpe during the reign of the courtly but kind-
hearted Archbishop Harcourt, and an equally amus-
ing sketch of high doings in society, of an altogether
opposite complexion, is an account of a " Dignity Ball
at the Seychelles." The " Inedited Letters of Cele-
brated Persons" this mouth consist of the first instal-
ment of Mrs. Piozzi's correspondence with Lysons
immediately after her marriage, during her tour on
the continent. These letters represent both Mr. and
Mrs. Piozzi in a most amiable light, while the be-
haviour of Johnson appears to have been not only
overbearing and tyrannical, but intensely selfish. An
article on La Tempesta does full justice to "an
opera which combines a wider field of artistic combi-
nation than has ever before been embraced in a single
production." After going into-a detailed criticism of
the opera, in which honour due is paid to the " elo-
quent pantomime," the " graceful and expressive
action," and the " floating steps" of Carlotta Grisi as
Ariel, to the Caliban of Lablache, " the supreme
monster of all earth's dire chimeras," who " when he
gets drunk among the sailors" feels his " humanity
dilating in its passions under the influence of that
fierce excitement, and rises to the climax of his
savagery,
_beyond which it is impossible to conceive
any impersonation more grand and perfect," to the
liquid, clear, and fluent melody, and felicitously per-
fect singing of Madame Sontag as Miranda, and to
the spirit and gusto of Mademoiselle Parodi as Ste-
phan°, the writer thus concludes:—
" To the enterprise and liberality of Mr. Lumley we
~re indebted for a lyrical drama which marks an im-
portant cra in the history of the Italian Opera in this
country. Instead of exclusively relying upon the
repertoires e'f the Continent, we have here originated a
great production upon our own stage ; and it will be a
lasting reproach to the amateurs and patrons of high art
In England if our spirited entrepreneur be not cheered
onward in rte arduous course he has so auspiciously
Commenced, and encouraged to persevere in the same
ambitious direction."
There are two illustrations to the present number of
Bentley, the first is to "The Ladder of Gold," the
second is a portrait of the Duke of Wellington by
Alfred Crow quill.

DAVID COPP.ERFIELD.—Nos. XIV. and

XV. By Charles Dickens.
Within these two latest instalments of the auto-
biography of " David Copperfield," the narrative has
become surprisingly developed. David has not only
obtained the sanction of the Misses Spenlow to his
suitrbut through the instrumentality of Traddles has
greatly propitiated the favour of those ladies in his
behalf. It is true that much difficulty has been_
perieuceci brvoloy tictue-wsutug of time atone.