Presently we were challenged by somebody just overhead, and I heard the click of fire-arms; we were close alongside the old I.

'Who goes there?' 'Friends.'

'Heave to, friends, and give the countersign.'

The sentry passed the word to a midshipman, the midshipman passed the word to the lieutenant of the watch, and the lieutenant of the watch, looking over the side, exchanged a whisper or two with Mr Seago, when all was pronounced right, and we were suffered to proceed on our dangerous mission. A minute afterwards, we found ourselves under the bows of one of the gun-brigs, and we were challenged again, but in a softer tone. We explained ourselves a second time, and continued to creep in shore. By and by we came to the mouth of a sort of creek, which led into the harbour where the French flotilla lay at anchor.

Now for it,' said Mr Seago; 'the tide is rising, Fouché, and will carry you up nicely; away with you!'

Fouché was a scoundrel-looking renegade Frenchman, and his plans of procedure were these: The catamaran-a long ugly thing, like a coffin, filled with combustibles-which we had in tow, was set adrift, and Fouché, lowering himself into the water, and taking the infernal machine by one end, pushed it along before him. In this way he was to approach one of the French vessels, where two or three lay together, and, silently fixing a screw into her side, attach the catamaran, set the machinery (a sort of clockwork) in motion, and then swim as fast as he could back to the mouth of the

creek, where we would wait to pick him up. Some minutes would elapse between his setting the clockwork in motion, and the explosion of the catamaran, so that, if Fouché was brisk in his movements, he would have plenty of time to get out of harm's way. We sat silently resting on our muffled oars. 'There it goes!' said Mr Seago, as a deafening report filled the air, and a sudden flash lighted up the harbour and whole line of coast; 'now, Fouché, I don't care how soon we pick you up, for the batteries will be opening upon us, if you are not quick;' and sure enough, presently, bang! bang! bang! went the great guns; pop! pop! pop! went the little ones; crack! crack! crack! went the musketry; and whiz! whiz! whiz! came the balls, pattering into the water all around us. The devil take you, Fouché, if he has not got you already; what do you keep us waiting here for?' muttered the lieutenant, beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. Give way, my lads, or we shall be regularly riddled in another minute; pull off a little; Saunders, you're hit!' Poor Saunders, a smart mizzentopman, said it was nothing, but he grew faint, and we had to lay him down in the bottom of the boat. Confound you, Fouché! how much longer are we to wait?' Fortunately for us, the darkness was intense, and we were quite invisible to the enemy; though they appeared to know pretty well where we lurked, for the shot continued to rain about us, and the shore seemed alive with boats and men. 'Give way, my lads!' cried Mr Seago, 'something has befallen him; he has exceeded his time by twenty minutes; Fouché is a good swimmer, and, if he lives, can reach the ship easily give way, all!'

Gibbon's Rome. Vol. II. London: H. G.

Bohn.

THE present edition of Gibbon is to consist of six volumes, of which the one before us is the second. What a boon to have this invaluable work, with numerous and learned notes, for one guinea, and in such clear and beautiful type, too! It is suited to any library, and doubtless will find its way into thousands throughout the land. A few weeks ago, a dread

ful onslaught was made upon this same volume by a London critic. The editor has replied to that attack; and, though he admits that some errors may have crept into the work (none of them, however, seriously affecting the sense), he satisfactorily shows, that the critic is more seriously at fault than the author he criticises so sharply, thus proving again the truth of the old adage, Those who live in glass-houses should not throw stones.'

We have no desire to mingle in the melee; but we cannot for a moment hesitate to say, that we consider Mr Bohn to have been ill-used. His works should and will retain the confidence of the public, notwithstanding this anathema.

cheered him very warmly. His reception confirmed all we had heard about the feelings with which he is regarded in the capital of the West, and particularly by the young, ardent, and progressive Christian spirits in that city. He bids fair, in other fifteen or twenty years, to take up

The eight lives contained in this volume are remarkably well written, and, both on account of the style and subjectmatter, will amply repay a careful perusal. The ladies are-Lady Russell, Madam D'Arblay, Mrs Piozzi, and Mary L. Ware, Mrs Hutchison and Lady Fanshawe, Margaret Fuller and Lady Sale. It is perhaps the highest praise that we can accord, when we affirm, that the author has proved herself equal to her subjects.

Our Refuge. By Rev. JAMES YOUNG,
Dunfermline.

The Present War. By the Rev. G. JEFFREY.
Glasgow: D. Robertson; and sold by all
Booksellers.

Concerning the multitude of war-sermons at present pouring from the press, we may use the language, 'their name is Legion, for they are many. Their character, too, is curiously diversified. Some are great guns, and no mistake; others are the smallest of small blunderbusses, Some, to vary the figure, are rams' horns of bold and martial blast; while others are silver trumpets, as small as sweet; and others still scarce attain higher than penny-whistles, or jew's-harps, piping, alas! to men, but they do not dance, or mourning unto them, but they do not lament. The two sermons, the titles of which we have put at the top of this notice, are about the best we have read on the subject of the present war. Young's discourse is highly useful, practical, and full of excellent thought, expressed in easy and elegant language. A quiet but deep vein of piety pervades it, and, altogether, it proclaims the author a refined, able, and accomplished man. Mr Jeffrey's, too, is quite worthy of his rising reputation. It is earnest, honest, graphic, and written with all that fervid eloquence, that hurrying rapture of feeling, so characteristic of its warm-hearted author. We had the pleasure, the other evening, of hearing him speak on the Hungarian question, in the Glasgow City Hall, to an enthusiastic audience, who

Mr

Dr William Anderson, as the leader of the Christian liberalism of the West.

Dante; Mantell's Geological Excursions, Isle of Wight. London: H. G. Bohn. Wright's 'Dante' is very well known, The present edition has the advantage of a brief memoir, and notes; and is copiously illustrated by Flaxman. It is one of the most valuable volumes of Mr Bohn's illustrated series, and merits an 'Mantell's Geoextensive circulation. logical Excursions' contains both an admirable description of, and furnishes a lively guide-book to, the Isle of Wight. Its appearance at this season is opportune.

The British Patriot, or the Song of Freedom. Glasgow: Thomas Murray.

This is a little poetical brochure, written, we understand, by a relative of the illustrious author of "The Course of Time.' It is evidently the production of a youth who has studied the 'Pleasures of Hope' still more carefully than the sombre strains of Pollok; but he is a youth of very considerable promise. Many passages in the 'British Patriot' are commonplace enough, and many good ones are spoiled by carelessness, but others are instinct with genuine spirit, and we give him a distinct Perge.

Life and Adventures of Joseph Spindle. Written by Himself. Cupar-Fife: Whitehead & Burns.

This memoir is not written by Joseph Spindle himself, but by a much cleverer fellow. We cannot, however, conscientiously rank it with his happier productions. Its wit and humour are abundant, but tainted too often with coarseness and levity. It wants the bonhommie, and pathos, and poetry of Galt and Delta, in their 'Annals of the Parish,' and 'Man

sie Wauch.'

History of the Anti-Corn-Law League. By ARCHIBALD PRENTICE. Vol. II. London: Leask.

A second of Mr Prentice's most interesting and carefully compiled volumes.

MISCELLANEOUS.

'The Dying Soldier' (London: J. Hatchard & Son), by the Rev. W. Sinclair, M.A., Leeds, is a tale founded on facts, and will be found very pleasant reading. A Manual of Family and Occasional Prayers,' by the same author, is published so cheaply, that it must be a great boon to those among the poor who require this kind of assistance.-'The Cyclopædia of Sacred Poetical Quotations (Messrs Groombridge & Sons, London). These Nos. are full of choice passages, culled from many writers.-'Summer Sketches and other Poems' (London: J. Chapman) contains some genuine poetry, couched in verse not always smooth.'Vital Statistics' (London: King), by Mr Jossling, F.S.S., is an able, curious, and valuable pamphlet.-'The case of the Manchester Educationists' (London: J. Snow) is a thick pamphlet, by Dr Hinton, showing great pains and great power on the part of the author; but of course we do not intermeddle with the controversy. -'The Tables Turned' (London: W. Walker) is a clever paper on table-turning, and provides some material for serious thought. Mr Edward Cheshire's 'Results of the Census' (London: J. W. Parker) has reached its fourteenth thousand, and deservedly so. It is a valuable paper, and should be extensively circulated.'New System Illustrated of Fixing Artificial Teeth' (London: Hope & Co.), by A. Fitzpatrick, surgeon-dentist, is a feasible thing, and is accompanied with a beautiful engraving, illustrative of the new as compared with the old system.-'The Leisure Hour' for April-June contains the usual well-selected variety of papers, and the continuation of the deeply interesting story, illustrative of Australian Life.

We observe that the London Religious Tract Society have commenced the weekly issue of a new penny journal, intended to supply Sunday reading especially. May such laudable efforts meet their appropriate reward-public support.-'The Doom of Popery' (Dundee: Middleton), by George Gilfillan, is a lecture characterised by the qualities that distinguish the author's best efforts.-'Debility of the Skin, Baths and Bathing' (London: Routledge), being No. I. of a series of essays on the decline and restoration of the general health, by Dr Piggott, is a sensible production, and especially suitable at the present time.-Mr C. Brady presents to the public a valuable pamphlet on the Improvement of the Dwellings of the Labouring Classes (London: Stanford). It was read before the Royal Dublin Society.-Dr Roth's 'Letter to the Earl of Granville on Gymnastics as a branch of National Education' (London: Groombridge & Sons), treats of a subject to which too little attention has hitherto been directed.—'Jesuits and Jesuitism' (London: H. Wooldridge) is an extract for the times, from Mr R. Montgomery Luther, by the hand of the author.-Mr Buckingham's 'Coming Era of Practical Reform, No. 4 (London: Partridge & Oakey), is a valuable history of the temperance reformation; and, but for certain extravagances (see p. 572), we should have given it our entire approbation.— Milloure, and other Poems,' by W. T. M'Auslane (Glasgow: J. M'Leod), is a creditable production. The sentiment is always good; some passages are fine.— 'Newcastle as it is' (Newcastle: T. P Barkas) is a most searching and masterly exposition of the social evils of that borough, and presents certain remedial measures on the basis of temperance.

Ir is curious to reflect, that while the respective supporters of the Ptolemaic and Copernican systems were rending each other-when Galileo was muttering, 'Still it moves,' and the faces of his priestly inquisitors were gathering a darker scowl -the old earth silently rolled on its everlasting way. In like manner, while our modern critics, dissatisfied with the definitions of Aristotle and Bacon, are making abortive attempts to declare dogmatically what poetry is, the orbs of song continue to rise and shine in primal beauty above the clamour and smoke of critical war. It is indeed a consoling thought, that poets cannot choose but sing; for were they to shut the floodgates of emotion, to fold their wings and possess their souls in patience, until all critics had agreed upon one grand comprehensive definition, poetry would soon be numbered among the extinct arts, the glory of man would decay, and the shrine of beauty become desolate. Had the world, in fact, suddenly stood still at midnight, and refused to move until Galileo and the anti-Copernican cardinals had settled their dispute, the darkness would not have been more dense, or the consequences more disastrous. But such a state of things, if not absolutely impossible, has happily at present no immediate chance of realisation. Ever and anon, we see a beautiful spirit emerging from the general mass, who is impelled by a power, seemingly superior to his will, to let his light shine before men, although none can analyse that light, or tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth. The elder orbs, whose spheral music murmurs in our dreams, and whose relict glory still irradiates our hearts, have been passing away in swift succession; and while we wave them a tender farewell, let us also welcome with joy the advent of new stars, fresh from the hand of God, tremulous with excess of beauty, and melodious as the far-heard hymn of the pulsing sea.

Among these rising poets Gerald Massey occupies a conspicuous place. He has sprung from the stern soil of poverty, and the dews of heaven have nurtured him there. Few English poets have been born in circumstances so unpropitious, have struggled so bravely in the 'world's VOL. III.-SEPTEMBER, 1854.

wrestling-ring,' or have attained such eminence at so early an age. The trials through which he has passed, and the sufferings he has endured, would inevitably have crushed down the energies of a less aspiring and passionate heart. He has already experienced greater hardships than Bloomfield, and at an earlier age. The life of a farmer's boy is pleasant, though laborious; but think of poor Massey toiling in a silk manufactory, at eight years of age, from five or six o'clock in the morning till half-past six in the evening, seeing nothing but dingy walls, and patches of yellow sky through dusty windows, while the splendour of summer was soaking the fields, and birds were merry in the old greenwood-hearing nothing but the grinding and groaning of iron wheels, while other children were 'murmuring near the living brooks a music sweeter than their own.' Well might the poet say of this period of his life:-'Having had to earn my own dear bread by the eternal cheapening of flesh and blood thus early, I never knew what childhood meant. I had no childhood. Ever since I can remember, I have had the aching fear of want throbbing in heart and brow. The currents of my life were early poisoned, and few, methinks, would pass unscathed through the scenes and circumstances in which I have lived— none, if they were as curious and precocious as I was. The child comes into the world like a new coin, with the stamp of God upon it; and, in like manner, as the Jews sweat down sovereigns, by hustling them in a bag to get gold-dust out of them, so is the poor man's child hustled and sweated down in this bag of society, to get wealth out of it; and even as the impress of the Queen is effaced by the Jewish process, so is the image of God worn from heart and brow, and day by day the child recedes devilward. I look back now with wonder, not that so few escape, but that any escape at all, to win a nobler growth for their humanity, so blighting are the influences which surround thousands in early life, to which I can bear such bitter testimony.' went up to London, at the age of fifteen, as an errand-boy. Bloomfield, at a similar age, was labouring along the alleys of

N

He

the metropolis, under packages of shoes. 'As an errand-boy,' continues Massey, 'I had, of course, many hardships to undergo, and to bear with much tyranny; and that led me into reasoning upon men and things, the causes of misery, the anomalies of our societary state and politics, and the circle of my being rapidly outsurged. New power came to me with all that I saw, and thought, and read. I studied political works, such as Paine, Volney, Howitt, Louis Blanc, which gave me another element to mould into my verse, though I am convinced that a poet must sacrifice much if he write party-political poetry. His politics must be above the pinnacle of party zeal-the politics of eternal truth, right, justice. He must not waste a life on what to-morrow may prove to have been merely the question of a day. The French Revolution of 1848 had the greatest effect on me of any circumstance connected with my own life. It was scarred and blood-burned into the very core of my being. This little volume of mine is the fruit thereof.' *

We are almost disposed to think, that were it not for revolutions and political commotions, poetry would lose all its power, and pine away into a mere amusement for the frivolous. It is the nursling of the storm; it flowers into richest beauty after a deluge of blood; it receives vigour and vitality from the agitations of the world. When we think of man, indeed, dwelling in a home that is hung amid the stars, with mysteries swimming around him of every form and hue, and himself standing there the consummate mystery of creation, we may deem it impossible that poetry, which alone gives adequate expression to the deepest emotions of the heart, can ever pine and die. Can poetry die, we exclaim, while love breathes and burns, hope waves her golden hair so beautiful, sorrow droops in gloom over the white embers of joy, death sits muffled and motionless in our summer-bowers, and brings all the daughters of music low? Can poetry die, while beauty bursts in flowers from immemorial burial-fields, floats amid the golden isles of sunset where no billows break on the tremulous strand, sings in the voice of valleys that make melody to God at dawn, and comes hand in hand with spring, leaping upon * The Ballad of Babe Christabel: with other Lyrical Poems. By GERALD MASSEY. London: David Bogue, Fleet Street. 1854. Third Edition.

Those

the mountains, skipping upon the hills? A single glance at the poetical literature of the last century will be sufficient to show that it is indeed possible for poetry, in certain periods of inaction, to lose all its noblest characteristics-its power, its pathos, its passionate utterance—to be no longer the oracle of beauty or the interpreter of truth. The poets of such eras, or those, at least, who possess the accomplishment of verse, live in a state of aimless and dreamful ease. They are destitute of the earnestness that is the lifeblood of poetry. They do not feel that they are alive in a living world, and trill their vapid songs, blind to the glories that girdle them around, deaf to the musical march of the everlasting stars. only attain the perfect stature of poetic manhood, and stand forth glittering in full poetic panoply, who have breathed the hot breath of political excitement, and received an irresistible impulse from the awakened soul of the world. The life surged into them from without, not only fills their hearts with a warmer blood, but intensifies the vision, and deepens the faculty divine. They acquire, consciously or unconsciously, a power and an insight impossible to those who are born in periods of comparative passivity. The genius of Milton, no one can doubt, was strengthened and sublimised by the commotions of the puritanic age, in which he acted so conspicuous a part. Goethe, too, owed much of his living power to the period of his birth, when the most momentous events were agitating the earth. In one of his conversations with the German Boswell, he showed that he was fully conscious of the many advantages, the results, and insight he gained by being a living witness of the Seven Years' War, the separation of America and England, the French Revolution, and the whole cometlike career of Napoleon, with the events that followed his downfal. It was the same revolution, and the same subsequent commotions, that gave an impetus to the noble band of British poets who arose about the beginning of the present century, and who went down among men with steps 'godlike to music, like the golden sound of Phoebus' shouldered arrows.' Those great movements which agitated every order of society, naturally imparted the largest amount of life and Vigour to the most impressible minds. Men are so closely connected together as parts of a whole humanity, that the effects