Imatges de pàgina
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tending to throw light upon a subject hitherto too vehemently neglected by the learned. We are informed by Plinius, Nat. Hist. vol. ii, 59, that barbers were first brought from Sicily into Italy by P. Ticinius Mena in the year A.U.C. 454-B.c. 300. Moreover, he telleth us that the first person who was wont to be shaved daily was Scipio Amilianus Africanus, the Minor: which information is confirmed by Aulus Gellius (Noct. Attic. Lib. III, c. IV). So great a reformation did they elaborate upon the manners of the nation, so bright a halo of illumination did their arts of refinement fling around the Mistress of the World, that the tonsus Romanus exults with enthusiasm in his polished head, his unencumbered chin, and his exquisitely wellpared nails; and sneers with the energy of conscious superiority while he contumeliously denominates his shaggy grisly bearded ancestor intonsus otque barbatus ! All their importance at last finally disappeared when mankind learned the art of getting shaved by steam, a discovery which was made in the 19th century."

"1. 5.-The Cupboard was bare.] Bare. Empty, not absolutely, but comparatively; so we have to bare the head,' an expression used not to signify the stripping away of the scalp, (a practice usual only among the Dog-ribbed and Copper-bottomed Indians,) but merely to remove the external tegument or capital embellishment, denominated the hat."

"1. 30.—He was smoking a pipe.] It was a custom among the ancients to inhale the fumes of tobacco and other nauseous weeds, in order to excite vomit, and comfort the intestines when they had been overcharged with their large and plenteous meals. This habit seemeth to have been a particular favourite with coachmen and charioteers when driving in rural districts; as doth appear from Dryden :

'Arentinus drives his chariot round;

Proud of his steeds, he smokes along the field;

His father's hydra fills his ample shield.'

From this passage we also conclude that the hydra, or tobacco, was inserted into a receptacle or bowl denominated a shield, the fume of which was conveyed thence into the mouth of the smoker through the pipe. As to the hydra, we infer that it was a species of tobacco, as were returns, bird's-eye, and so forth. But Bitadonki proposeth to read,

'His father's bird's-eye fills his ample shield,'

for he asserts that the bydra was a mythological monstrosity of the ancient Greeks and Romans. This question we leave to the decision of the learned. As a similar passage we may quote Ovid. (Met. II. 323, 4.): —

That is to say:

Quem procul a patria diverso maximus orbe
Excipit Eridanus, fumantiaque abluit ora.'

Far from his native land he tumbled is
Into the Po, which laves his smoking phiz.

From which we may infer that Phaeton, while in the regions of the air, solaced his drives with a pipe, unless peradventure it was a cigar: this point being still unascertained."

We cannot forbear to quote a most ludicrous example of learned extravagance :

"1. 39.-She went to the Shoe-shop.] Reader! admire, we entreat thee, this egregious specimen of alliteration, which was so delightfully euphonious to the ears of the ancients. Other examples, which have not as yet been observed, we do purpose here to present to thee. In Bombastes Furioso, we read,

And with this wicked wanton world, a woful war we'll wage.'

Take next a line from an erudite old book intituled, The Eton Latin Grammar:'

'Vo fit vi, ut volvo volvi; vivi excipe vixi.'

which, as the great Bilitinka hath established by most elaborate discussion, and most incontrovertible proofs, the ancients would thus read :

Wo fit wi, ut wolwo wolwi; wiwi excipe wixi.

Bat the most elegant instance of alliteration is a line of Aristophanes, which being translated is

Mu mu mu mu mu mu mu mu mu mu mu mu."

We close our extracts with a small specimen of Critical-irritability:— "1. 46.—He was feeding the Cat.] Fizgi readeth

Oh! the idiot!"

'He was a feeding of the cat.'

We have devoted more space to this little work than we anticipated when we began, but we have found it so rich in humour, that we could not help making copious extracts. We had intended to remark with some severity upon a few incautious indecencies, which, however they may be tolerated in ancient writers, are quite insufferable now-a-days, but the racy wit which sparkles throughout have so utterly disarmed our displeasure, that we feel almost willing to grant them absolution. We do not for a moment, as the reader will have seen, disapprove of the use to which the author has applied bis satirical powers, for we are of opinion that ridicule is the most efficient corrective of such absurdities as those to which he refers; and while we believe that the "Mudfog Association" of Boz can never do the slightest injury to true philosophy, we are equally confident in expecting no danger to classical literature from the application of just and moderate satire.

A Manual of Electro-Metallurgy: By GEORGE SHAW.
London: R. Groombridge.

In these days of many books-how few of the volumes one meets with are what they profess to be-how rarely it is the case that the contents agree with the title-page! This, however, does not apply to the little book before us; it is just what it pretends to be; it is truly a "Manual of Electro-Metallurgy." It gives a clear and concise history of the science of Voltaic Electricity, from Galvani's discoveries in 1790, down to the most recent improvements. The gradual alterations in the Voltaic Apparatus-tracing Cruik shank's, Babbington's Wollaston's, Kemp's, Daniell's, Grove's, and Smee's modifications, are also well described and illustrated. The chief business of the work is, of course, to exhibit the effect of Voltaic Agency in the precipitation of metals, and we feel bound to say that Mr. Shaw has accomplished his task in a very creditable manner. We have not space to follow him in his experiments, which are exceedingly interesting and lucid, but the volume is not a very large one, and therefore we recommend our friends to get the book and read it for themselves.

The Storm, and other Poems: By FRANCIS BENNOCH. London: William Smith, 113, Fleet Street.

Ir is the fate of all great poets to have imitators-imitators of style, manner and sentiment; and there never was a poet who had so many imitators as William Wordsworth. Many-indeed most-of these personages catch the faults, mannerisms, peculiarities of their original, but not the beauties nor the inspiration. It happens, however, that there are amongst these imitators some who deserve rather the appellation of scholars; some who investigate the principles as well as copy the peculiarities of their prototype, and who, whilst they have as it were received from him, as from a teacher, the knowledge they possess, have been conducted by him to the great fountains from whence he has drawn his inspiration, and have imbibed largely from the same sources. Such an one seems, to us, the author of the little volume before us. It is impossible not to see that Mr. Bennoch is a disciple of the great writer to whom we have alluded; but one cannot read his book without feeling that he is not a scholar who learns by mimicry or rote, but a thorough, careful, earnest learner-one who catches the spirit as well as the mantle of his original.

It would be absurd to place Mr. Bennoch's Poems by the side of Wordsworth's, and subject them to a critical comparison, indeed it would be most unjust; for Mr. Bennoch does not pretend to emulate the bold flight of his prototype; and an author should always be judged of by his aims. Mr. Bennoch modestly says of his Muse, in the beautiful words of Coleridge-

"Though no bold flight to thee belong,
And though thy lays, with conscious fear,
Shrink from Judgment's eye severe,
Yet much I thank thee, Spirit of my song,
For, lovely Muse! thy sweet employ
Exalts my soul, refines my breast,

Gives each pure pleasure keener zest,
And softens sorrows into pensive joy."

But we take the liberty to say to Mr. Bennoch's Muse, that she needs not thus to shrink from Judgment's eye. There is much real poetry in the bookmuch that is simple, beautiful and touching. Take the following " Reflections :"

How calm-how still my spirit feels
Within this quiet wood,

Where scarce a hum or passing breeze
Awakes the solitude!

This footpath winding down the bank,
That health-restoring spring,
These overhanging leafy trees,
Sad thoughts upon me bring.

Each bough's the home of many a sigh,
Each flower of many a tear;

When absent to the longing eye,
My thoughts will wander here.

For here, on such a sunny day,
I with my brother walk'd;

Of that glad day, when far away,
Perhaps his memory talk'd.

Who knows?-perchance our thoughts have met
In this delightful scene,

Though parted, and ten thousand miles

Of ocean roll between.

Where art thou now, my brother?—where?

The echoing woods repeat;

Far o'er the sea thy lonely grave

Is trod by strangers' feet.

Upon this elm, a sapling then,

But now a stately tree,

His name was carved;-where is it now?

No trace of it I see.

Grave lesson here for all who woo

Ambition, power, or fame;

The name had long outlived the man

The tree outlives the name!

There are touches, in the above lines, of which any poet might be proud. Our author writes with considerable power too, at times; here is an extract taken at random :

But, ah! how vain the wish of man!
His fairest hope-his dearest plan-
Just when it seems within his power,
Will vanish like that faded flower
Whose beauty charms the human eye,
But at a touch will fade and die!
So on that eve,-too bright indeed,
Old shepherds weather-wise could read,
By some faint streaks that cross'd the sky,
A storm-a dreadful storm was high.

And scarce had Maurice pass'd the mill,
And clomb the breath-suspending hill,
When through the glens on every side
The gusty wind moan'd like a tide,
And clouds began to overcast
The sky-and then in bitter blast
The Spirit of Winter arose on the air
With shivering limbs all naked and bare!
Born in the depths of an Iceland cave,
Cradl'd and nurs'd on a stormy wave,

He slumber'd a season and then came forth;
His steeds were the bitterest winds of the North;
A frozen cloud was his whirling car;

Darkness and Fear were his heralds of war;
His icicle teeth did rattle and shake

Like a hurtling stone on a frozen lake,

Or the clattering bones of a gibbeted form,

That is driven about by the merciless storm;
His long skinny arms he wav'd in the breeze,
And stripp'd of their verdure the plants and the trees.
Wherever he snorted, his withering breath

All delicate beings crumbl'd in death!

Loud, loud were the shouts of his boisterous mirth,
As he scatter'd dismay o'er the smiling earth;
The clouds were rent as the storm was driven;
He howl'd and laugh'd in the face of Heaven!
From the hills came volumes of drifted snow,
Choking the rivers and streams below,

Which gasp'd for breath, as they slowly ran,
With gurgling sounds like a dying man!

We look on this book rather as an earnest of what is to come from the author, than as a performance by which to measure his full powers. His first flight is a good one; of his second we predict much greater things.

The Ruined World: a Missionary Poem; By WILLIAM TAGG.
London: J. Mason; T. Ward and Co.

THE author of this brief but truly beautiful poem, takes occasion, in his preface, to apologise for making his work longer than he originally intended; but he may rest satisfied that the only reproaches he will meet with will be for writing too little. More, however, we hope to have from him before long.

This poem is in two parts; the first describing, with much pathos and power, the abject and fallen condition of the world; and the second pointing to missionary labour as the great means by which the world's redemption is to be achieved. The language is throughout chaste, elegant, and expressive, and the versification-which introduces a new stanza with excellent effectis very superior.

We quote one or two specimens of Mr. Tagg's poetical power :

Where the lone marble column rears its form

In solemn grandeur, and with every gust

Droops towards its kindred ruins, which the worm

Corrodes and crumbles; and the polished bust,

Defaced and broken, mingles with the dust;

Or by Euphrates, where the famished beast
Prowls nightly round some vast and dreary heap;
And Desolation, glutted with her feast,
Rests on her prey; there meditate, and weep
O'er Splendor's fallen home, and Might's eternal sleep.

The following is exceedingly beautiful :

Whence art thou gentle youth with thoughtful eye?
Why leave the endearments of thy childhood's home?
Why tempt the terrors of another sky?

Why trust thee on the ocean's fearful foam
Friendless o'er untried continents to roam ?
-Bid him farewell; for him no more prepare
The blazing hearth, or his accustomed place:

A father's smile no more shall greet him there,
Or mother's tears shed o'er his altered face,
Or brother's eager hand, or sister's fond embrace.

Dost thou seek fame? alas, her eagle ken
Disdains to pierce the tangled forest's shade:
She loves to note the deeds of mighty men,
And bids her trumpet's voice the throng pervade,
But wakes no echo in the distant glade.

Go, work in secret; toil and pain are thine;
Go, sow thy seed in tears and deepening gloom;
And if upon thy labours heaven shall shine,
And thy field brighten with luxuriant bloom,
Hope here for no reward but some forgotten tomb.
Emerging slowly from its ocean-bed,
The isle of corals to the sunbeams gave

A soil where now the forest rears its head,
While the weak architects but gained a grave
Within the pile they reared to breast the wave.

Thus polished nations yet unborn may owe
Their rise, their wealth and power, their fame to thee;
And empires, which their healthful shade may throw
O'er half the world, thy monuments may be,

Whilst thou shalt rest unknown 'neath time's deep-rolling sea.

But shall none other guerdon wait for thee?

O yes; where'er thy weary footsteps tend

Shall Horeb's living stream flow clear and free.
Through darkness heavenly glory shall descend,
And on thy tears the bow of promise bend.

And round thee oft shall beaming faces meet
To call down richest blessings on thy head,

Who hast for them life's bitter cup made sweet,
Their famished souls with angels' manna fed,
With joy lit up despair, and called to life the dead.

And thou shalt have deep communings with Him
Whose mercy flows eternally the same;

And rapture in thy lifted eye shall swim
To hear THE HOLY call thee by thy name,
And feel his arm around thy feeble frame.

And when thy spirit shall have claimed the skies;
He to whom all thy zeal and works belong,

Smiling, shall bid the applausive chorus rise
Throughout the limitless triumphal throng,

And heaven's eternal arch shall thunder with the song.

In these days of poetical degeneracy, such a poet as Mr. Tagg is most welcome, and we care not how soon we again have the privilege of criticising his productions. We wish we could devote a larger space to him now.

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