The Sun.
London, England, 1829-09-22 00:00:00

FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE.

CHANGES.
The Princess Augusta, yesterday, at her seat, Frogmore Lodge,
'Joni the Duke of Clarence's, Bushy-park ; the Earl and Conn-
sa SPencer, at their scat, Althorpe, Northamptonshire, from
17ffordshire ; the Earl of Stamford and Warrington, from En-
i! le Halt, in Staffordshire, for Dunham Hall, Cheshire; Earl
at Wentworth Rotherham, from a tour; the Count
Moutrond (nephew to the Prince of Benevento), in Albemarle_
fir, from Doncaster; Mr. Thomas Hope, in Duchess-street,
I;_°nl a tour; Captain Latour and the Baron Litchenstein, in
rer.street, from Berlin ; Dr. Tayleur, from Worcester, in
Surrey-street ; the Hon. William Lambton, from Burlington
reet, for Brighton ; Major and Mrs. Peel, for ltamsgate ; the
t• "Francis„". ancis Annesley for Eydon Lodge, near Banbury ; Lieut.-
Colonel Elliott, from Rochester, for Paris; Mrs. and Miss
• -ne from Brighton, for Bath; Mr. and Mrs. Angerstein
Cor thel •
h r seat in Norfolk; Captain and Mrs. Douglas, from Man-
f„ester, for Bath Captain Drummond for Ramsgate ; Captain
,°nside and Major Frederic Sayers, in Waterloo-place, from
litbraltar ; Mr. Hely Hutchinson on a tour; Mr. Niel Malcolm,
Z°2ll his seat in 'h°,ll- Kent, for Dunstroon Castle, in Argyleshire
S able George Compton for Jecino, in the Canton of Gene,hwitzerland ; Major and Mrs. Dalton, from Dublin, for Chelten-
Zb ; Mrs. General Smith, from Knightsbridge, for the Castle,
Btin ; Captain and Mrs. St. Ledger, in Wellington-crescent,
sgate, from Paris ; Captain L'Estrange, from Hounslow, for
ghton; the Bishop of Salisbury, at Warren's Hotel, Regent-
stre
, et, from the Palace, Salisbury; S:r Davidge and Lady Gould,
a 4 the Brunswick Hotel, Jerrnyn-street, from a tour; Sir Wm.
and Lady Jane Houston, at their seat, Avesford, Sussex, from a
wUr.-

The Princess AUGUSTA took her leave yes-
terday morning of the Duke and Duchess of CLARENCE,
With Whom her Royal Ilighne,s had been staying on a
visit at their residence in Bushy Park, and returned to
I"rnenore Lodge.
The Duke and Duchess Of CUMBERLAND
took an
airing yesterday, in an open carriage, to Kew.
The Earl of ABERDEEN and the CHANCEL-
tiIk of the EtCHEQUEII visited the Duke of WELLINGTON
Yesterday, at the Treasury.

The Prussian Minister, the Spanish 'Moister,
ana COMA MATUCEWITZ had interviews with the Earl of
ilaanarN yesterday, at the Foreign Office.
n Sir HOWARD DOUGLAS (the Lieutenant-
'iarernor of New Brunswick), transacted business yester-
-14, at the Foreign Office.
One of the Secretaries to the Embassy at
iserlin- arrived in town on Sunday night from that capital
vrith despatches from Sir ROBERT GonuoN, our Alphas-
lour at Constantinople.
The Duke of WELLINGTON having resolved
to make Walmer Castle an occasional residence, several
Healthy individuals have been induced to enter upon
it Plan for augmenting the quiet village of Widmer, by
building a number of houses of the first class, for the con-
teuienee of persons of fashion who may be inclined to re-
aide there during the summer season.
Captain TAAFFE, of Cappacada, in the
tl'unty of Roscommon, has a valet whose height, by the
airest measurement, does not exceed 34 inches, and whose
age la 24 years. His weight in full dress, with hat, spurs,
and t"P-boots, is precisely two stone and ten pounds; and,
to
add to the singularity of his appearance, be can boast of
Perfect symmetry of form.
We are truly sorry to announce the demise of
Sir w
d. Artstmter, Bart., who died suddenly on Fri.
-"Y. About two p.m. he entered the Trustees' Office,
;PParently in his usual health, and immediately went into
STUART'Sti C.
apartment, where he remained for a short
.and then proceeded to his own. He bad not been
:lany minutes there when he was suddenly struck with
PleaY and fell from his seat on the floor. Dr. THOM..
Was immediately sent for, and on his arrival bled the
patient, but without any visible effect—for, after lingering
r about an hour and a half in a state of insensibility, he
etPired.— Caledonian Mercury.

t A Company is ccming out, under the au-
jiees of Lord CLIVE and Sir Wm. KYNASTON, to form
function Canal between London and Birmingham, which
wil embrace a very populous trading district. It will
:4.41 the country throujb Coventry. The landed pro-
.Vetors and canal directors are anxious to have it imme-
h luelY carried into effect, as it will facilitate the convey-
te "f goods in that great trading country. Mr. TELFORD,
Ile eminent engineer, has proposed the plan. It will not
roteeed 20 miles in length, and is, therefore, expected to
ha..44.t but little, and it will employ many of the unemployed
until business improves."
kiss Q
;,,, --S QTEPIIENS has been in Paris for some
rue, accompanied by her brother and sister ; she is shortly
meted 7 to return. It is not true, that she is at present
• engaged by Mr. PRICE for Druty-lane Theatre, neier is
CA' BEAHAM actually engaged ; hut we learn there th
is an
,„11‘lerstanding between him and the Manager that be shall
-lea!' after Christmas.
• Yest4dy the Duke of BEDFORD sent a do-
hAtio •• •
n of 2001. towards oeifayu;g the expellees of opening
,„,)v,tnt-garden theatre. It is said that the theatre will
iti"lY open on the sth of October.
IThe younger GRIMALDI is engaged by the
tiqkee at Drury-lane, and will make his fost appearance in
• 'e Pantomime, which has been in preparation all the
VTer, at Christmas ; and in aid of which the pencil of
441.41-41-P. i 3 4;01 employment.
PROVINCIAL THEATRICALS.---LIVER-
"001---1lladanae MALIBRAN GARCIA sang at the theatre
Saturday, the 12th, and attracted an overflowing
44dience. Several of the crack London perfortners have
Peep delighting the good people of Liverpool for some time.
Among the greatest favourites are Miss Fonn, BRAIIAM,
4,113E13E0RD, GREEN, MEADOWS, BhOWN, HARLEY,
Iti'Le BLANCH.% RD. Miss SMITHSON is at Manchester ;
:vhime Vxsrais at Leamington, from whence she goes to
ientrY, Manchester, Scarborough, Richmond, and Shell.
A.llBl FOOTE has been playing at Cambridge.
ki4ltort is at Tunbridge Wells, and goes next week to Bir-
lititgliam, %there MEADOWS, HARLEY, Miss LACEY, and
thti° Jaatuari, are engaged for a few nights, previously, to
t return to the London boards.

LITERATURE.

FAIIILX LIBRARY.

HISTORY OF THE Jiws, VOL. IL-LONDON. W 9.

The present volume of this varied and in-
structive history is worthy the well-known ta-
lents of the author of the " Fall ofJerusalem."
It displays great research, and frequently upon
points which have hitherto been little understood,
or appreciated, such, for instance, us the do-
mestic history and political qualities of Herod.
King of Judea, a Statesman and warrior of
whom, though his name has passed into a pro-
verb, comparatively little is known : his suc-
cessful intrigues ; first with Antony, secondly
with Augustus, and, above all, the temper and
quality of his connexion with the celebrated but
ill-starred Asmonean Princess, Mariamne. Few
histories are more entertaining, more dignified,
or more fraught with materials for instruction
than the Jewish, and by none could greater jus-
tice have been done to it than by Mr. Millman,
The style of this gentleman is elegant but vi-
gorous, and flows on in a rapid, easy current, so
much so, that his present history may be perused
with advantage, not only for the correctness and
spirit of its details, but as a model of sound
English composition, which is seldom or never
the case with the popular miscellanies of the day.
We subjoin a favourable specimen of the style :

" Thus, abroad, success seemed to wait on all the de-
signs of Herod : the neighbouring kings might admire
and envy the good fortune, or rather the consummate
ability, with which he extricated himself from all his
difficulties, and continued advancing in the career of pros-
perity and power; but at home the most miserable peasant
might compassionate the wretchedness which filled his
palace with dissension, crime, and bloodshed. The mag-
nificence of Ilerod'a public life is strangely contrasted
with the dark tragedy of his domestic history. Mari-
amne bad again extorted the fatal charge entrusted to
Soemus; and indignant at the jealous determination of
her husband, that she should not survive him, she met him
on his return with repulsive indifference, and even with
undissembled dislike. Herod struggled between his love
and his indignation ; till one (lay, instead of submitting
to his caresses, in the height of her passion she reproached
him, in terms of the utmost bitterness, with his barbarous
conduct to her relations. The envious Salome watched
every opportunity of inflaming the resentment of her
brother; and suborned his cup-bearer to accuse Hari-
amne of having bribed him to administer a poisonous
philtre, or love-potion, to his master. Herod commanded
her favourite eunuch, to whom all her secrets were en-
tru.ted, to be put to the rack. The tortured man denied
all knowledge of the poisen, but exclaimed, that the con-
duct of his mistress was entirely owing to the information
she had received from Soemus. Furious at this new
proof of her infidelity, he ordered Soemus to he dispatched
at once, and summoned Alariamne before a Itibunal of
judges, who were too much in dread of his power not to
pass the sentence of death. Still Herod hesitated ; he
had no immediate intention of proceeding further than im-
prisonment; but his mother and sister so worked on his
moody and violent temper that he at length issued out the
fatal orders for her execution. To the horror of the
spectators, her mother Alexandria assailed the wretched
Mariamne, as she went to death, with a violent invective
against her ingratitude to so gentle and affectionate a hus-
band, loudly declaring that she deserved the fate she was
about to suffer. The Queen passed on in silence with the
dignity of conscious virtue ; though deeply wounded at
this disgraceful and hypocritical conduct of her mother,
who thus sought to avert the suspicions of Herod from
herself, and to save her own life at the sacrifice of her
daughter's honour, she would not condescend to betray
her emotion. She met her death with tie calm intrepidity
of innocence, and died worthy of the noble house of
which the last blood flawed in her veins. She was a
wetnan of unrivalled beauty and a haughty spirit : un-
happy in being the object of passionate attachment,
which bordered on frenzy, to a man who had more or less
concern in the murder of her grandfather, father, brother,
and uncle, and who had twice commanded her death in
case of his own. Strange conflict of duties! who shall
decide, what ought to have been her feelings and her
conduct?

" All the passions, which filled the stormy mind of
Herod, were alike without bound : from violent love, and
violent resentment, he sank into as violent remorse and
despair. Everywhere, by day and night, he was haunted
by the image of the murdered Mariamne ; he called upon
her name ; he perpetually burst into passionate tears. In
vain he tried every diversiou,—banquets, revels, the ex-
citement of society. A sudden pestilence broke out, to
which many of the noblest of his court and of his own
personal friends fell a sacrifice; he recognised, and
trembled beneath the hand of au avenging Deity."

CONSTABLE'S MISCELLANY.—No. XLV.

NATURAL HISTORY OF SELBORNE.--EDINBURGH, 1829.

There are few more entertaining studies in the
world than natural history, few of which the ten-
dency is more uniformly beneficial. Properly
directed—and it is one of those particular pur-
suits which can scarcely take an improper direc-
tion—it improves and enlarges the mind, refines
its sense of beauty, extends the range of its
ideas, and by inducing it to dwell on, and minutely
survey, the varied wonders of creation, familia-
rizes it with the matchless arrangement and har-
mony of its phenomena, and thereby gives to
philosophical reflection additional reason for
admiring the power, wisdom, and beneficence of
him who, to adopt the sublime language of sacred
writ, " holds the sea in the hollow of his hand,
and fills worlds with the surpassing grandeur of
his presence. Natural history is the finest of all
possible remedies for a sceptical turn of mind. It
leads to conviction and belief by the silent but
expressive process of thought, and so truly is
this the case, that we never vet heard of a man
who made natural history his study for any
length of time, who did not draw from that very
pursuit his chief arguments for the belief of a
superior Being. The well-known anecdote of
the German metaphysician, who one day in a
wood beheld by chance the skeleton of a dog, is
an eminent instance in point. He took up the
framework of the animal, he surveyed it in de-
tail, he examined its uses and its properties,
and was so struck with its exquisite arrangement,
that he became at once convinced that none but
some superior intelligence of a nature incompre-
hensible to man, but who spoke to the reason in
his works, could have composed so matchless a
piece of mechanism.
The work before us is the production of a
man who argues and believes upon similar prin-
ciples. It is imbued with a strong devotional
feeling, and is so simple in its style, so amiable
in its turn of thought, so gentle and benign in its
philosophy, that it cannot fail to afford general de-
light. Its simplicity, however, and this quality it
shares in common with old Isaac Walton's Guide
to Angling, is its chief recommendation. Like
the Tottenham angler, Mr. Gilbert White is
perpetually vaunting the picturesque beauties of
his native village. The fields, the flowers,
the cuckoo that sings in the woods, and the
lark that makes vocal the shies of Selborne, each
and all meet with marked attention in his pages,
and are expatiated on as if they were so many
dear friends whose praises he could never be tired
of rehearsing. At times this simplicity is pushed
to the most amusing degree—we will not say of

absurdity, for that is an unkind phrase to use,
but—of quaintness. The author talks in one
place with a diverting air of seriousness, of
" those vast mountains, the Epsom Downs
in another, of the " rugged and gloomy scenery
of the Glens," which glens consist of a cross-
road, seven feet deep, and overgrown with a few
wild blackberries ; in a third, " of the Royal
Forest of Wohner, which is seven miles in length
by two and a half in breadth ;" in a fourth, of
" those majestic mountains, the Sussex Downs ;"

in a fifth, of " three considerable lakes" in his
darling parish, each of which is of the size of an
ordinary village pond; and in a variety of other

places, " of those matchless scenic attractions in
which Selborne is confessedly pre-eminent." It
is this unique simplicity, this amusing and harm-
less grandiloquence, this perfect conviction on
the part of the author, that no parish on earth
equals his idolized Selborne, that forms the
charm of his present volume. But another fea-
ture, scarcely less attractive, is the graphic power
of his description. The fresh woodland air
breathes, the stream sparkles, the fOrest leaves
rustle in his pages ; every word almost is in itself
a picture,—as for instance, where he talks of the
" hungry lean sand of the forest," of the little
golden-crowned wren, " that shadow of abird,"—
and brings the image it would represent full and
vigorous before the reader's eye. We give a spe-
cimen of this power, it is the opening account of
the village of Selborne :

" The parish of Selborne lies in the extreme eastern
corner of the county of Hampshire, bordering on the
county of Sussex, and not far from the county of Surrey:
is about fifty miles south-west of London, in latitude 51,
and near midway between the towns of Alton and Peters-
field. Being very large and extensive, it abuts on twelve
parishes, two of which are in Sussex, viz., Trotton and
Rogate. If you begin from the south and proceed west-
ward, the adjacent parishes arc Etnshot, Newton, Va-
lence, Faringdon, Harteley, Mantilla, • Gre.tt Wardleham,
Kingsley, Hadleigh, Bramshot, Trotton, Rogate, Lysse,
andGreatham. The soils of this district are almost. as
various and diversified as the views and aspects. The

high part to the south-west consists of a vast hill of chalk,
rising 300 feet above the village ; and is divided into a
sheep down, the high wood, and a long hanging wood
called the Hanger. The covert of this eminence is alto-
gether beech, the most lovely of all forest trees, whether
we consider its smooth rind or bark, its glossy foli,ge, or
its graceful pendulous boughs. The down or sheep-walk,
is a pleasing park-like spot, of about one mile by half that
space, jutting out on the verge of the hill country. where
it begins to break down into the Alai as, and commanding
a very engaging view, being an assemblage of hill, dale,
woodlands, heath, and water. The prospect is bounded
to the south-east and east by the vast range of mountains
called The Sussex Downs, by Guild-down near Guild-
ford, and by the Downs round Dorking, and nyegate in
Surrey, to the north-east, which altogether, with the
country beyond Alton, and Farnham, form a noble and cx•
tensive outline.

" At the foot of this bill, one stage or step from the
uplands, lies the village, which consists of one single
straggling street, three quarters of a mile in length, in a
sheltered vale, and running parallel with the Hanger.—
The houses are divided from the bill by a vein of stiff
clay (good wheat land), yet stand on a rock of white stone,
little in appearance removed from chalk, lint seems so far
frogn being calcareous, that it endures extreme heat.—
Yet that the freestone still preserves somewhat that is
analogous to chalk, is plain from the beeches, which de-
scend so low as those rocks extend, and no farther, and
thrive as well on them, where the ground is steep, as on
the chalks.

" The cart-way of the village divides, in a remarkable
manner, two very incongruous soils. To the south-west
is a rank clay, that requires the labour of years to render
it mellow ; while the gardens to the north-east, and small
enclosures behind, consist of a warm, forward, crumbling
mould, called black maim, which seems highly saturated
with vegetable and animal manure; and these may per-
haps have been the original site of the town, while the
woods and coverts might extend down to the opposite bank.
" At each end of the village, which runs from south-
eaSt to north-west, arises a small rivulet; that zit the
north-west end frequently fails—hut the other is a fine
perennial spring, little influenced by drought or wet sea-
sons, called Well-head. This breaks out of some high
grounds adjoining to Nore-hill, a noble chalk promon-
tory, remarkable for sending forth two streams into
two different seas. The one to the south becomes a
branch of the Arun, running to Arundel, and so falling
into the British Channel ; the other to the north. The
Selborne stream makes one branch of the Wey—and,
meeting the Black-down stream at ifedleigh, and the Al-
ton and Farnham stream at Tilford-bridge, swells into a
considerable river, navigable at Godalming ; from whence
it passes to Guildford, and so into the Thames at Way-
bridge ; and thus at the Nore into the German Ocean."

The historian of this secluded village was a
clergyman of the Church of England, who
was born at Selborne in the year 1720, and after
taking his degree at Oxford, " fixed his residence
in his native parish, where he spent the greater
part of his life in literary occupations, and es-
pecially in the study of nature." He died in
1793, respected and beloved by all who had the
good fortune to know him. His disposition
was naturally unambitious; he had no hankering
after church preferment, no desire for splendour,
no thirst for notoriety ; but glided noiselessly
along the stream of time from youth to age,
unruffled by any of those shifting gales which
beset more adventurous navigators. Though he
lived during periods of extraordinary public ex-
citement ; though he witnessed the rebellion of
'45, and the American and French revolutions,
they had not the slightest effect on his mind,
which seems to have been impassive to all but
the sylvan charms of Selborne. On this village
he has accordingly conferred no fleeting popu-
' larity ; he has registered its every glen, heath,
meadow, oak, and streamlet, and commemorated

the sweet music of its birds in a style of rustic
simplicity that few English writers can equal.
In addition to this he has had the rare merit of

drawing forth and fixing the pastoral genius of
Miss Mitford, whose sylvan sketches, sometimes
even her very words, have been manifestly
modelled on the " natural history of Selborne."

CAIN, THE WANDERER; AND OTHER POEMS.

LONDON, 1829.

'e noticed at more than our usual length, a
few days since, the leading poem in this intelli-
gent collection, mentioning at the same time
that we should take an early opportunity of re-
verting to the subject. This promise we shall
here proceed to fulfil, moved thereto by our ad-
miration of the extraordinary spirit, eloquence,
and impassioned character of the author's mind.
To say, however, that he is decidedly original,
would be to say of him what can be said but of
few, if any of the poets of the present day. One
thing, however, we may venture to observe, that
the thoughts and images of others assume new
forms, are instinct with new beauties, in his hands.
Byron, for instance, is manifestly one of those
master minds, to whose transceintant powers of
thought and expression he has delighted to ley
himself under obligation ; yet the imitation is of
so generous, so poetic, so independent a charac-
ter, so perfectly free from servility, that it scarcely

deserves the name of imiLtion. What, for in-
stance, can be more spirited, at the same time
more just, than the. annexed definition of imagi-
nation ? The hint—which is there crude and
unformed enough—is taken from " Childe I-la•
road," but the filling up, clothing, and enriching
with language and sentiment,is the author's own.
He is speaking, we should premise, of man :
" In thyself the cause is of the happiness,
The imagivative faculty, that draws
And moulds creation subject to its laws;
That toakc,s itself the central, like the san

Hueing and quickening all it looks upon;
That sees eternity its ken surround ;
That feels God throned i' the infinite around ;
His visual Presence in the lightning path,
And in the clouds his ministers of wrath,
Or Lye ; and in the stars sphere music, and
Visions come to him from the unknown land
Of the Dead, and voices answer from the wood,
And the Airs talk to him in solitude

And thou bait shaped, or host, in thine own breast,
A power to meet these separate, cr compressed
Intensely upon each, or freed from thrall,
A spirit, feeling, hearing, answering all!"

In the same poem, " On Deity," our author
has worked out an idea given him by Words-
worth, in that mildly thoughtful and philosophi-
cal poem, " The Banks of Wye," where he
alludes to the different feelings with which he
looked on nature in youth, and in more matured
manhood, with very poetic effect :
" Still let me buoy myself with dreams of Thee :
Though like all others based on phantasy.
I know thee not, I feel thee not; for those
Thrillings with which my ardent being glows
When struggling from its clay, are my own hopes,
That sink again, as thought all vainly copes
With the infinity that overpowers.
And gone for ever are those happy hours,
When faith was certainty to youth's quick ken;
0 how my spirit mounted to thee then !
I sought thee not amon, the haunts of men,
My heart yearned towardsb Nature, for I felt
Intelligence between us, and love dwelt,
That drew me to her as is drawn a child
To its natural mother ! by the grey crag wild,
In the solemn forest, by the rushing sea,
I heard the sounds that spoke to me of thee !
0 how my heart its full idolatry poured
Then to the setting suns ! yea, half adore?,
Forgetting them thy symbols—soul was full—
All eye, all feeling of the beautiful !
That was my natural life, though false, a dream,
But one most blessed ; we can not redeem
The past, and regret were weak : our days roll on,
And with them those wild impulses are gone;
And time and grief and passion change us so,
That even our very selves we should not know,
But by sad memories; the nerves are dead
That once thrilled feeling, and the glory shed,
Haloing all objects with its light, is o'er;
The imaginative eye awakes no more !"

he chief fault of the poem " On Deity," from
which the above are brief extracts, is its meta-
physical character. It is clouded with affected
mystery, as if the author knew more than he
chose to communicate, and this vague, indefinite
aspect, gives it a very ungracious appearance. It
is besides too ambitious, the gnat strives too
openly to swallow the camel. Now, these are
defects, and no slight ones ; the subjects of all
poetry, like the language, should be simple ;
whatever is harsh and crude and mysterious
in conception must necessarily be the same in
expression. " The Deity," notwithstanding it
has many grand ideas, comes particularly under
this head. Of the poem, however, on " The
Naiad," we can speak in the most unqualified
terms of praise. It is, in fact, an exquisitely
poetic little gem, conceived and brought forth
from the rapturous union of feeling with fancy.
The idea itself is happy, full of classic beauty,
and is no less worthily wrought out :
" It was a vale most rich in shadow ; winding
Like the bright stream which threaded it through trees
Thick clustering, or at intervals revealing
Through the dim vistas glimpses of bright haunts
More lovely from their distance : shutting out
All, save delicious airs which bore on wings
Odours of hidden flowers. Sun and shade
Stole over it by turns like changing dreams :
Now brightening spots steeped in most living hues,
Now throwing deeper softness over that
Which lay before so witchingly in quiet !
Far off, remote on the horizon's verge,
Rose the blue hills girding the azure sky,
Leaving the vale in commune with its heaven.
It was a spot such as the mind shapes forth
When revelling in dreams of old romance;
Or picturing those haunts of leafy shadow
Wheee the daughters of the earth might slumber, when
The angels left their heaven to kneel to them.
This is the Naiad's haunt : and lo ! beside
The root of that grey tree, o'ercanopying
With its woven branch the stream, and veiling it
In slumber and in coolness from the sun,
She stands half leaning. eyeing the dark water."
" She stood by the c-,treine brink of that blue stream :
The image of herself so standing was
Reflected to the lightest hair escaped
From the braid of her redundant tresses, parting
Over her glossy shoulders, tangling down
Her neck and bosom. She looked on the water,
And saw her visible self returned : the same
In hue and stature, and each rounded limb
Swelling with breathing life—and yet a shadow !
The sky loooked in behind her, anti they were
Alone together ! What were then her thoughts ?
For her eye is'lighted up, and a faint smile
Is on her parting lips : and then a shade
Stole over them but slight, so slight, as scarce
' Perceptible. Perchance she saw and felt
How beautiful she was ; that she stood there,
The form all would resemble, the embodied
' Being all dream of, sighing to possess.
, That consciousness gave light to her dark eye,
. And the faint dimpling smile on her soft cheek ;
And then, it may be, a shade of sadness, mindful
Of all she bad heard of love, yet loving none:
For she had seen none like herself :—a leaf
Fell lightly down by her and startled away
The halfformed rising sigh !"
l The Naiad's half-formed consciousness of her

beauty, which lit up her face with a smile, is no
less archly than gracefully and naturally imagined,
while the falling leaf that startled her, conveys
a fine idea of the fairy fragility of the sylph,
such as Ovid has painted her. We proceed:—
" She looked around—
But who e'er yet profaned that sanctuary ?
She was there as atone as is the star
In the solitudes of heaven ! To her hair
She raised her slender fingers, and unloosing
The silk knot, down it fell, even to her knees,
In rich profusion, like the ripened tendrils
Of the purple glowing vine. Then, bending graceful,
She drew the golden sandal from her foot,
And stept upon the green moss among flowers,
As p:le and azure as their veins ! The zone
She unclasped, and her white robes fell flora her,
As lightly as the silver shading flakes
From the front of the orbed moon ! And she stood there
In all the unveiled majesty of beauty:
A form shaped from the finest of earth's element,
And breathing with a soul and life from heaven !"
Oue more extract, and we must take our leave
of the « Naiad ;" the author is speaking of
woman and her power :
" Our earliest dreams of beauty are from her,
Their archetype : she is love's visible image,
And when man kneels, 'tis not idolatry,
For site is fairest purest symbol of Him
Who made her and the world around in love,
The source of all our gentler feelings whence
They are drawn, that humanise us from the hrutes.
The only prop (weak though she be) who stands
Firmest in sickness, and sorrow, yea, in guilt,
When man, and all have left us, even our God.
But still she standeth by car conch like to
The Angel of Charity, or Mercy's self!
And smiles on, and doth close the dying eye,
And dead—becomes our living monument."
The sentiment conveyed in the .last line is

exquisitely beautiful. " London at 11lidnight,"

is a stbinn expressive poem, full of lofty thoughts
and natural images. Its only failing is, that here

trki there time author has thro4 in a few of his
Irftcaphyical s;:ectdations, ~vl.leh do any thi:tg but
lireit:ie the graceS of Stiljcet. The follow-
ng war sung will speak for itself:—
" Where, whin the freeman hail struck his last stroke,
Anti the laud of his fathers is bow,-(1 to time yoke,

Is the hist spot of refuge ...Acre cannot rlav ?
On that field where lie conquered, his home is the &Nave!
O tl en though the tyrant should build there his throne,
And look round a chtspr, anti call it his own:

Though the yokes of toitouph be heard on the air,
He shall look on that grave and frel freedom is there !"

Before taking leave, we cannot, highly as we
value the strength, tendernes,,, and richness of
the author's imagination, allow ourselves to be
blinded to his defects. Of two things then we
would here warn him ; they are the quick-
sands on which many a fine mind (Coleridge's
for inst•zace) has split. The first especially, is
the most dangerous, as it is the most alluring ;
we mean tl►e introduction of trite metaphysical
theories which mar the progress of the poem,

throw a coldness and conceit over is s beauties,
and encumber and mystify its style. he se-
cond is a less hazardous defect certainly, but still
unworthy of one who desires to assume high
station as a poet ; it is a culpable affectation of

negligence in the structure and mechanism of
verse. in this defect, the author of " Cain,"
unfortunately for himself abounds ; he spins bad
lines, and thinks he is imitating the free dashing
ease of Dryden. , Now nothing can be more
mistaken than this notion, and in his future poems
we hope he will be prevailed on to correct it.