cheaper rate hereabouts, than the marble from the more distant side of the peninsula of Italy. In the small picture gallery are some of the finest paintings in the world! The Domenichinos are indeed sublime! Who has not admired that old grenadier, in the "Adieux of Fontainbleaux," hiding his face to hide his emotion at the downfall of his emperor? But who must not see and feel how much more admirable is that weeping angel, (weeping in heaven!) over a model of the hateful cross! or that younger cherub, who has wounded his finger in hand ling the " crown of thorns," amidst a group that is all tenderness and love! Shall we confess it, we admire less cordially that other, yet more celebrated picture by Guido, the "Massacre of the Innocents;" those young mothers are too like picked Prima Donnas, who open their mouths à la Grisi, and pour forth, in modulated soprano, the music of the stage. Poussin may be less flattering to the sex, but he is more true. If those sweet young women were wailing their lapdog, or their sparrow, or any other little family pet, Guido's picture had been perfect; but their first-born!!— oh, no; they are not half unhappy enough for us! The most afflicted is she whose hair yonder soldier has seized from behind, and her exclamation amounts to no more than an expression of sharp physical pain.No! the wailing for children, and the refusing comfort "because they are not," is nowhere seen in this beautiful assemblage of lovely females. moderate is their grief, that one's first impression and one's last, is positively of gallantry-to give them a kiss all round, and then to ask what has occurred! So THE PEAK OF DARRA. BY B. SIMMONS. PART I. GAUNT Peak of Darra!* lifting to the sky Thy height scorch'd barren by the howling North- From that jagg'd rampart scornfully forth! Still let the growing Thunder o'er thee brood, Gath'ring from each stray cloud its sulphurous food, Till in some midnight of oppressive June, When under Clare affrighted drops the Moon, Fair be the memory of that dreaming Valley! Of one abounding streamlet's silver surf That crag-girt valley like an infant smiled Wedging the sky, thy Peak, huge Darra wild! * An incident resembling that versified in the following stanzas has been related in some of the Ana-amongst others, in one published a few years ago by Mr Charles Knight. Oh, soaring Peak! as now I watch at eve The rising stars rest on thee one by one, The track-ways of a past and pleasant time, A gentle pair-The little Maiden's eyes Borrowing the blue of their unclouded gleam: The Boy, his laugh of beautiful surprise, From that deep Valley's ever jocund stream. To weave together wild-flower coronals, The nearest to the moon; then crouching, weary, Till evening's breeze blew chillingly and dreary. Months roll'd to years, and still the girl and lad Sought in their constancy the cliff's huge crest. (That star of noontide with the glistening breast!) Turning in comment to the horizon's brim ; Within the shelter of that sterile hill Nor shadowy bower nor arching grove was seen, Their only song the warbling of the rill, The bank that border'd it their only green; And so their childhood, ripening into youth, Made play-ground, bower, and trysting-place, in sooth, Until the stars from ocean's azure field Familiar friends to PAUL and BERTHA grew- Gentle but wealthless was their parents' lot, And youth's gay idlesse may not always last; The Boy has vanish'd from his native cot, The Maiden's shadow from the stream has past. To them the records of Life's early day, Hast left a shade that shall not pass away. VOL. L. NO. CCCXIV. 3 с PART II. The day is burning over India's land! Lo, tall white fane and colonnaded hall, No breezy balm as yet is floating there, The palms that lift their light green tufts so high No sound is heard that Land's luxuriance through; Through whose silk screens and open lattices While on her broad and yet unwrinkled brow, And purest cheek consuming fast away, Keen Fever redden'd and Delirium now. Oh, who could mark, untouch'd by grief and fear, Its large full orb, unmoisten'd by a tear, Fix'd wide and sleepless upon vacancy. The last paroxysm of that fiery mood Had pass'd and left her-Strength and Sense subdued- No quick restorative-no subtle skill Of Leech or Pharmacy remain'd untried Their art exerted to be baffled still, The smooth physicians even had left her side. 'Twas then, when fail'd all wealth and life afford, A Hindoo Girl stood forth that hopeless hour, Proclaim'd the Prophet's sanatory power; †) A traveller he, now waiting to depart With the first sail that swell'd for Europe's shore, No voice responsive a reproval show'd E'en as she spoke a messenger had flown (The sorrowing slaves of that serene abode Their early-widow'd mistress served, alone;) It is the practice in parts of India to enclose the verandahs of some dwellings with a peculiar kind of fragrant matting, which being kept carefully wet, imparts an agreeable coolness and odour to the apartments. t2 King, v. 3. The summon'd stranger came, a grave-eyed man, To the sick chamber guiding him, he made, On the hot azure of her aching eyes His shadow fell, but she regarded not,- Nor stirr'd its drooping from that downy spot,- As if some potent spell-word he would speak, "Dear one!" he said, in tend'rest accents clear "Rememberest thou cold Darra's distant Peak? Some change like that which shakes an exile's sleeping Was seen to lighten through that Lady's frame, Sweeps in an instant the collected rain, Rush'd in wild tears from her long-clouded brain. Mysterious Memory !—by what silver Key, Through years of silence tuneless and unshaken, Can thy sweet touch, forgotten melody In the dim Spirit once again awaken? Long fell the freshness of those tears, and fast, So waned the night, and with the morning came Healing and hope to her recruited frame, Day after day health's roses round her head More brightly bloom'd beneath the STRANGER's care, Who, though for Europe many a sail was spread, In the stern shade of Darra's northern peak From whose white porch, when Evening's rosy cheek And PAUL and BERTHA therefore come to bless, PHILOSOPHIC NUTS. PHILOSOPHY is an excellent thing in its proper place, shape, and season. Nuts also are in themselves admirable, particularly the small Highland nutthe sweetest of its species. But “philosophic nuts" is an ominous combination, and sounds mightily like philosophic nonsense. As the inscription of a book, it bespeaks a vain effort to reconcile the utile and the dulce; and already, before we try them, we pronounce the philosophy to be dull, and the nuts to be deaf. Whether a modest assurance is to be reckoned a fault or a virtue in the writer of the work we are now to notice, the candour of his avowals is at least meritorious. With laudable frankness he reveals in his preface the aspirations of his self-complacency, while describing one of his main inducements to undertake this monthly publication. By "Another motive was to supply a light, yet useful and philosophical, reading for those who have not time for much continuous study, and who, though perfectly competent and even anxious to understand philosophical subjects, would be frightened at the sight of a ponderous volume. I hoped a work of this kind might advantageously supply the place of the Pickwick and Nickleby literature of the present day. For this reason I publish it periodically in parts, and in the light unrestrained form of conversation, as best adapted for the convenience of those who can only read at odd hours during the cheese parings of time. these means I venture to hope the 'Philosophic Nuts' may afford occasional morsels of food, on which the mind may chew the cud while the hands are otherwise employed. Papers like the Pickwick, &c, though excellent of their kind, can only afford a half-hour's amusement, and are useless for the rest of the month, and indeed for the rest of life. But I trust the present papers will be taken up and laid down, over and over again, till they shall have been read through many times, and thoroughly digested. It is to be hoped, too, that they will offer many subjects for little fire-side discussions, du ring which little bursts of light will every now and then unexpectedly flood the mind, illuminating many objects before wrapt in darkness; just as the solution of an enigma, jumping into the mind all at once, suddenly dispels the darkness, and makes all so clear and intelligible, that the puzzler wonders how it happened that he could not make it out before. But the solution would never have jumped into his mind if he had not talked about it, and thought about it. "Thus it is hoped these papers, unlike those above mentioned, will afford continual amusement during the whole of each month, and knowledge which shall be useful for the rest of the reader's days. If I might presume so far, I would have the reader look upon each paper as a sort of monthly study,” The announcement thus made in the end of last year of a periodical work, or, in technical terminology, a "serial" from the pen of "Edward Johnson, Esq. Author of Life, Health, and Disease," which was "advantageously to supply the place of the Pickwick and Nickleby literature of the present day," came like a thunderbolt upon more persons than one. Every species of light periodical scrip became immediately heavy, and stood at a discount. The issue of Humphrey's Clock fell off, we believe, 50,000 in one forenoon, and on the principle that "tua res agitur paries quum proximus ardet," we ourselves trembled lest our circulation should lose the odd half-million, and had serious thoughts of allowing "Ten Thousand a-Year" to remain in the state in which Milton laments that "the story of Cambuscan Bold" was left by Chaucer. We felt that a moral Father Mathew was arisen among us to enforce a system of total abstinence more ruinous to us, if not to the excise, than that which has appeared across the channel; and we saw no remedy but to rummage our balaam-box for any neglected articles on metaphysics, and include them in our monthly bill of fare as a counterpoise to the " Philo Philosophic Nuts; or, the Philosophy of Things as developed from the Study of the Philosophy of Words, by Edward Johnson, Esq., Author of "Life, Health, and Disease," No. 1-9. London and Ipswich, 1841. |