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accomplished, and even philanthropic gentleman. The profits of his school were devoted, to the highest extent commensurate with his means, to the collection of scientific apparatus. Periodically, just before the holidays, these were produced, and their effects displayed for our instruction and gratification. The wonders of chemistry, electricity, and optics, were then exhibited to us, and the phenomena of nature explained and illustrated, to our intense enjoyment, without the concurrence of that diabolic Cane. We thus obtained an intelligent knowledge of natural philosophy, small only when not compared with that of the general society of that day. The newest "experiments” were Mr. Blewitt's recreation among us upon such occasions. The rest of his system was merely the relic of his traditions of “the old school.” But he had been thrashed himself, and, most inconsequentially, thought it natural and proper, as the Times does still.
MAX “ SEA-SIDE STUDIES” will have been in the hands of many of our readers long before this notice appears ; but the book is not one of those delicacies of the season which go out before the critic has well had time to taste their mild-flavoured qualities. Blackwood's Magazine first gave these pages of biological gossip to the reading world; and Mr. G. H. Lewes reproduces in a handsome volume, with plates and an index, the articles which delighted us from month to month. He has also taken the opportunity of making several important additions to the scientific details. We admire Mr. Lewes more as a physiologist than as a metaphysician; and if, like him, we pretended to an extraordinary playfulness in addition to our well-known acquaintance with natural phenomena, nothing would be more probable than that our readers would die of laughing at our observations on that subtle argument of Mr. Lewes’s, to the effect that there are no snch things as animals, or vegetables either ; that nothing is, in fact, but what is not; that what is not and what is are alike arbitrary and subjective definitions of nothing; and that the milk in the cow and the milk in the
cocoa-nut are entities which may both be accounted for, in an abstract and provisional sort of way, by science, but which nature will not for any consideration be induced to look at, much less to swallow.
In the first flush of Mr. Charles Kingsley's fame—that is to say, directly after the publication of “Alton Locke' -some verses of his were brought to the notice of Leigh Hant, who then gave utterance to a hope that the writer would henceforward make verse his usual and frequent means of expression. The metrical productions of the Rector of Eversley, since that time, have not been numerous; but their quality has borne out Leigh Hunt's implied opinion, that the author of " Yeast is a poet, in that strictest and completest sense, by which we understand that his tendency is towards a rhythmical form of language. We have now before us Mr. Kingsley's new poem, “ Andromeda.” The hexameters in which it is written are surely some of the finest in the English language. When it is considered that this kind of metre has been vulgarized by countless burlesques of Longfellow's " Evangeline "-we will not say volgarized by the American poet himself, for we have a genuine love for the music of his “ clear harp,” though we certainly think that, of all his “divers tones,” the tone of “ Evangeline " is the least dulcet—when it is considered, too, how foreign the hexameter is to the genius of our language, we think that the passage descriptive of a procession of sea nymphs, beheld by Andromeda, from the rock to which she is chained, is nothing short of marvellous in its effect of beauty. The triumphal movement is perfect; beginning “far off, in the heart of the darkness," rising slowly, as the “ bright, white mists' of the sea rise, into life and joy, swelling into a proud delirium, and then dying gradually away, the strain fitly closing with a dirge for the sea-boys, whom certain of the nymphs, “pitiful, floating in silence apart," bear in their bosoms :
Slain by the wrath of the seas, swept down by the anger of Nereus ;
Several of Mr. Kingsley's true-hearted ballads, full of manly tenderness and manly strength, reappear in this book. Among them are the “ Three Fishers,” and that sweet piece of tragedy, the “ Sands of Dee.” We may be pardoned for quoting one entire poem, on the score of its excellence, as well as brevity :
No lark could pipe to skies so dull and grey :
For every day.
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long :
One grand, sweet song. There were reasons why we should look with more than common interest at the little volume of “ London Lyrics,” by Mr. Locker. Certain verses, published from time to time in the " TRAIN,” were written in a spirit near akin to that which the title of this book suggests. It did not surprise us to find many coincidences of thought and style ; as in the lines on "Old Letters," wherein we trace the same feelings which dictated a contributor's “Reflections of an Incomplete Letter Writer.” Some of Mr. Locker's verses we might have been proud to acknowledge; but, cockney though we may be in our view of things in general, we cannot go Mr. Locker's length of cockneyfying our expression ; so, for the sake of that intramural poetry which may be tolerated, if not encouraged (on the principle that a box of mignonette, or a geranium planted in a cracked ewer, is not the worst possible foreground to a view from a garret window), we advise him to renounce all such rhymes as “ Arthur” and “father,” or, “fawner” and “scorner.” This mating the close with the open sound may almost be said to be the only bad rhyme. Other false antiponents are simply no-rhymes, and their effect is immeasurably less horrible.
Dr. Doran’s book about “ Court Fools,” is, as any book by Dr. Doran must be, immensely clever and entertaining. We are glad to see that this volume, which follows in the same series as “Monarchs retired from Business," includes the immortal story of King Charles the Simple's jester, who, being asked by his royal master, what was his objection to their changing places, and whether it was that he (the fool) feared that he should be unable to act the king, replied, No; but that he feared he should have to put up with such a very bad fool.
Eighteenth-century literature is, from the historical point of view, curiously instructive. Our first historian and our greatest littérateur have both felt it to be so, and have instinctively preferred it, the one as a source of political study, the other as a field rich in the materials of social science and of personal satire. We may, indeed, regret that Mr., Thackeray should be won quite to the contemplation of those bag-wig times, so as altogether to abandon the times from which we can ill spare him. But we must acknowledge the greatness of the temptation, to one like him--a picturesque humourist, with not a little love of intrigue. The eighth volume of " Illustrations of the Literary History of the Eighteenth Century,” is now on our table, and completes the publication. Mr. John Bowyer Nichols, the editor of this copious and varied collection of memoirs and correspondence, has made many additions, and has ventured apologetically to include some illustrations of the early literary history of the present century. This final volume contains a Memoir of Mr. John Nichols, sometime editor of the Gentleman's Magazine. It has also a most valuable index to the whole work. Will anybody be so kind as to lend us the first seven volumes, just to read at our leisure ?
Mr. Newman (of Punch) is a bold man; a very bold man. The little book which, under the title of “Shadows,” helped so much to raise Mr. C. H. Bennett in the estimation of all lovers of artistic fancy, has been appropriated by Mr. Newman (of Punch) with a cool audacity which we believe to be unparalleled in plagiaristic annals. “Moveable shadows,” Mr. Newman of Punch) has the impudence to ticket his bundle of stolen goods; and that he has made a profitable mistake in treating Mr. Bennett's “shadows” as substance, and “moving" them in his own peculiar manner, we can testify; inasmuch as not a few cases are known to us in which the celebrity of Mr. Bennett's little book has induced a purchase of the wares brought into the market by this piratical Mr. Newman, whom we will take the liberty of describing, by a little addition to his own orthography, as being, and as having been for a number of years past, “off Punch.”
We are not, as a nation, intollerant of vice, but we like it to be respectable. We have no horror of whitened sepulchres—we rather like them—and we can pass by, and even patronize any amount of impurity, if it is only careful enough not to offend the eye. The lamented Dugdale, of Holywell-street notoriety, is now in prison, undergoing a sentence—not for selling improper books—but for carrying on his business in a low street, that has been forced for years
under the notice of the Society for the trimming of Vice. It is not difficult to perceive that the lamented Dugdale was a fool, incapable of discerning and accommodating himself to the altered tastes of the age in which he lived. If he had transferred his business to one of the elegant Arcades at the west-end, or had gone still further into the neighbourhood of Knightsbridge or Pimlico, he might now have been a prosperous tradesman-perhaps a payer of church-rates-instead of a convicted felon. If he had judiciously covered the outward grossness of his trade, with a thin, transparent coating of pretended science, and had delivered to a pruriant public, highly coloured studies from nature, upon photographic slides, with a stereoscope to aid in their development, he might have been the medium for furnishing the subjects for those orders for “something spicy,” which many large and respectable houses, connected with the publishing trade in India and the Colonies, receive every month without a blush, and proceed to execute faithfully without a twinge of conscience. But the lamented Dugdale was a fool, and was, therefore, selected to pacify for a time, the cries of outraged decency and virtuous indignation.
A LAWYER'S STORY.
IN TWO CHAPTERS.
-in after-dinner talk,
IIY don't I have chambers in the
“Fill your glass, Colonel, and pass the bottle. I daresay, when you parted from your boon companion some thirty years ago, to rejoin your regiment in India, you pictured to yourself his career in England-a continuance of madcap revelry for a certain time; then some affair of the heart,--marriage, and with it application to business, growing with family cares; or, failing marriage, the folly of youth, sobered by satiety into a sedate bachelorhood, the man of business united to the bon vivant, enjoying life to the utmost in a
cosy fitting manner-a love of art filling the space once occupied by the roystering buoyancy of youth. I know you never expected to see nie wizen-faced, with the hard eye of business and bent head. You did not recognize me at first, though I remembered
you, for all that Affghan scar, and those features bronzed by Indian sun.
“I'm rich, you will say_money enough for every possible luxury; why not cease from labour and enjoy ?—but now labour itself has become enjoyment. I see you don't understand me—have you never read of old Bank clerks, who languished and died when removed from their sphere of labour, Threadneedle Street ?—a man's pleasure in being transformed into an accurate calculating machine,-fascination in ponderous ledgers! It seems wonderful-doesn't it?—but so it is with me,my whole vitality is the routine of a lawyer's office-papers, dust, parchments, tape-my heart beats with the glorious uncertainties of law.
won't get tired with a longish yarn, I will tell you how all this has been brought about.
“I often sit here for hours of an evening musing over the past; and, with a very vivid recollection of what I was years ago, I must confess,