"Oh, say nothing, dearest Herbert!" exclaimed Helen, throwing herself between them. "I have brought this on you: I alone am to blame. Sir, do not believe him," she continued, turning to Snaply Singleton. "I would not deprive him of your friendship; I am ready to make any sacrifice for him.”

"I am sure you are, my dear; and it is my turn to beg forgiveness now," said Singleton, smiling; and then (in a tone very different to the sharp one he had been speaking in) he continued. "Give me your hand, Herbert, I love you; and though I may have spoken some home truths, I will be your friend; and your's too, my little cousin, if you will admit a crabbed old bachelor to that privilege." And forthwith Singleton kissed the glowing cheek of Helen, who despite that her lawful lord and master was present, was almost ready to embrace the good old soul.

"Well, I've managed famously to find out if you really loved each other. Eh? Heard from the agent of your taking this house; sent old Sally my cook here to look after you; and I know every thing that has happened to you."

"Is it possible, my dear sir."

"To be sure it is; did you ever know me undertake anything I didn't go on with? You'll give me a welcome now, I hope, and we'll talk over business after tea; but ever whilst you live, remember the first unhappy month of your union."

"Oh, no! not unhappy!" they both exclaimed.

66

Well, then, not unhappy, only very near being so. Remember it, and advise your young friends to steer clear of hasty marriages, even though it should be a love match."

Many years have passed since Herbert Dalton became literally his cousin's clerk. They did not reside quite as far east as Clerkenwell, but took up their abode with Mr. Singleton, in a handsome well appointed house, in the vicinity of Cavendish Square. Strict attention to business soon made Herbert a useful and excellent assistant. To be sure his fashionable friends cut him, when they found that he went into the city

by the nine o'clock omnibus, and no longer sported a cab. Helen's acquaintance were on the point of disowning her, till it was reported that she had the bestbuilt carriage in town, a good house, and good table at her command; thanks to the kindness, generosity, and friendship of one, whom his proud relations had been ashamed to call " My Cousin the Stockbroker."

REVIEWS.

Memoirs of the Princess Daschkaw, Lady of Honour to Catherine II, &c. Written by herself. Colburn.

Two volumes, published with all the éclat that usually accompanies the début of a work from the establishment of Mr. Colburn, and bearing the title of "Memoirs of a Lady of Honour to Catherine II," have led to expectations which the perusal of them will not fulfil. An accumulation of letters, the majority from parties totally uninteresting to the English reader, an elaborate compilation of the flatteries addressed to a woman, whose position at the Court of the Throned Messalina of the North, was at least of dubious character, form the leading topics which it is expected will compensate the reader, and leave him in the conviction that the intriguante attacheé to the throne of the usurper of her husband's crown-the blind tool of office accessary to the crime-was, as she "complacently would inculcate in these volumes" with such witnesses as the servile flattery of slaves-the set phraseology of circumstance and fashion would prove 66 a woman of incomparable virtues." The English reader should beware of trusting to the loyalty of Russian praise. The naïf unstudied expression of attachment to the Princess in her exilethe village pope's benediction on her arrival at an obscure village-the speech where he pronounces "in seeing you we behold our guardian angel," should be taken at its sterling value. The Russian village pope has a price for elocution. We have seen the needy brotherhood heap blessings on occasions of ceremony, till the amount of remuneration deemed adequate was extorted, and their retreat bargained for. The custom reminded us of the "Maledetto Seccatore," in the Barber of Seville. We turn from the stale, flat and unprofitable records of a woman, whose confidential position at the Court of Catherine was a disgrace to her sex, to the lively letters illustrative of a visit to the Princess Daschkaw, Daschkoff, as it is sometimes spelt, or Daschcow, as it should be, to approximate to the Russian. These letters, written by a sister of the editor close the work; would they had constituted it. They make some amends to the reader for the deceptive bulk of beautiful and inviting type, which illusorily has led him on in expectation of the development of the arcana of a fearful epoch in the annals of Czarsko Czelo, and the Hermitage.

The Gift for All Seasons: Edited by WILLIAM ANDERSON, Esq. A book in the form of an Annual, but, as its name imports, no way ephemeral in its nature. We are happy to learn that a Second Edition has been demanded by an approving public, which we hope soon to see responded to. The contributors both of the poetry and prose are various

The volume commences with an ingenious and patriotic address in blank verse to the Queen; this is followed by a religious tale from the pen of Miss Pardoe, which is forcibly written, and possessed of very considerable tragic power and interest. The next prose piece is a critique on the character and poetry of Shelley, by an anonymous writer, composed with the charitable desire of rescuing from the ban of moral reprobation that great and extraordinary genius; and while it holds him up as an object of grateful admiration, it exhibits a spirit as free from the infidelity which receives no evidence short of sensible demonstration, as it is from the bigotry which so far dims the light of reason, as to obscure the eye of the understanding. Two ably written ecclesiastical articles, the introductory one by Mr. Hunter Gordon, direct the attention of the reader to various interesting points in the History of the Church, and are well worthy of consideration. Of the tales, the two that please us most are, the "Little Italian Boy," by the Editor, which is somewhat in the style of Mackenzie, and possesses much affecting interest in the story; and the "Student of Heidelburg," by the romantic and accomplished authoress of "Seymour of Sudeley," written in her truly ladylike style of classic purity and ease, and true appreciation of nature, For poetical prose, nothing can exceed in freshness and dignity the "Autumnal Sketches," by Dr. Morehead, or in graphic and familiar poetry his "Scenery of the Yorkshire Coast." An engagingly written article, containing some clear argument and interesting observation, on the "Sabbath in France," by the Rev. H. D. Ryder; and a well-infermed Essay upon Easter, by Mr. Anderson, nearly complete the prose contents of the volume. The contributors, although their names in other departments of literature are for the most part familiar to the public, are not generally among the hackneyed writers in the annuals; and this in our estimation adds greatly to the attractions of a work, the aim of which we are told is "to unite entertainment with instruction, to give an impulse to the powers of reflection, to improve the mind, and afford a recreative enjoyment to the faculties." A short poem, by W. Danby, Esq. is so good, that it induced a friend of ours to seek every where for his published poems, which we regret to find are out of print. The poetry of the volume is generally pleasing and simple, inartificial, and sacred in its feeling, and varied in interest as the incidents of life. We quote two pieces as specimens :

BORN OF THE SPIRIT.

BY THE REV. H. K. CORNISH.

"So is every one that is born of the Spirit." John iii. 8.

BORN of the SPIRIT! like the breath

Of Music that around the Eolian strings

Floats softly beautiful

And tells delicious things;

Whether they be of hope, or memory, or faith,

The charmed listeners ear not saith

Servant of CHRIST, hold on thy way,

Mid hearts unquiet through life's vanity,
In strain angelical,

In power of harmony,

To calm, to nurse, to lead the restless soul

To contemplation's blest control.

Born of the SPIRIT! like the gale

That loves through piny forest free to stray,
Pouring his rifled sweets

All on the traveller's way,

And whispering the secrets of the wind

In balmy fragrance to his mind

Go to the pilgrim that in pain,
Through devious paths of life, incessant plies
His weary-wandering foot;

A breath of Paradise

Be thou, to strengthen, to refine ;-
A whisper soft of love divine.

Born of the SPIRIT! like the breeze

That from its home of Zephyr's wandering
Into the dying flowers,

Instils a buoyant spring

Of health and motions that in gaiety
Of lightsome hearts they seem to be-
Go, child of Heaven, 'mid the throng

Of fainting hearts, o'er whom the sultry power
Of bitterness and woe

Hath freely revelled long,

And be, while faithlessly they quail and bow,
A breath of inspiration thou.

Fresh as the gale of morn, that wakes
The mountain lark to his exulting song;
Or, like the sea-born air
That, as it wafts along

Consumptions languid cheek, the fairest hues
Of health and beauty seems to infuse-

Born of the SPIRIT! hearts that sleep;

Or timeless be thy visitation need,

That heaven-ward strains may prove
Them born of heavenly seed.

They need who pine with sin's consuming stealth,
Thy pleasant voice of joy and health.

Born of the SPIRIT! canst thou tell

Where sleeps the wind that thus o'er lute and flower,
That o'er the vocal pine

Hath swayed its mystic power,

Or woke the mountain lark, ere light began;

Or, o'er the troubled soul of man,

Hath passed in music and perfume,

In health and beauty! No, 'tis not in thee
To say-but thou, thy course,

In perfect charity

And faith completed, shalt, in perfect rest,
Be gather'd to thy father's breast.

The subjoined Sonnet, translated by the Rev. H. D. Ryder, from the Polish of Adam Michiewicz, whose poetry deserves to be better known than it is to all who feel an interest in his devoted and dismembered country, is introduced by the following note. Near the palace of the Khans of the Tartars, there is a tomb, in the eastern style, with a round cupola, which is supposed to be that of a Polish lady of the House of Potocki, who was carried off by the Tartars, and with whom Kerdin Geraz, one of the Khans was desperately in love.

ON THE TOMB OF A POLISH LADY IN THE CRIMEA.

Mid beauteous gardens in the land of spring,

Young Rose! thou fad'st, because receding times

Deserting thee, like golden butterflies,

In thy deep heart have germs of memory sown.

Towards Poland, northward, there beam troops of stars;

Why glimmer they so many on that road?

Was it thy fire-full gaze, ere dampt i'th'grave,

E'er flying there, that burnt that track of fire?
Here I too, mourning love, shall die, fair Pole!
And friendly hands their passing tribute yield;
Thy grave beside the travellers oft converse;
My native accents then shall strike mine ear,
And some bard chanting lonely strains o'er thee
A fresh grave nigh will see, and chaunt for me.

The volume is embellished with nine engravings, of these, the landscapes are the most pleasing; the least so, the portrait of the Queen, Which forms the frontispiece.

Excursions in Denmark, Norway, and Sweden, &c. By ROBERT BREMNER, Esq. Colburn.

Mr. Bremner's Russia led us by no means to the judgment we have formed of the present volumes. Though written as a sequel, this work is entirely free from prejudice and partiality. This may be accounted for by the difference in the political nature of the Countries described. "So far shalt though go, and no further we hear Nesselrode proclaim, and the explorer of Russian dominions moves on, surrounded by the myrmidons of policy. Mr. Bremner, as his predecessors, (since Clarke and Lyal) has become the narrator of that only which he was allowed to know; for the insidious power of espionage is immeasurable, and the bonhommie of the English public, a tempting experiment to the agents of diplomacy, and the mere mechanism to which book-making is now generally reduced in this country, a likely speculation for controul by Russian influence. When we view the character of the book-machinery of the time, the voluminous system, it is no longer authorship, it is publishership that rules the taste of the day, and drugged with these masses of printer's labour the columns of needy reviewers are commanded and bound to give a quid-pro-quo for monster advertisements, by exalting the puerilities of literature. The system cannot last; the intellectual classes still pant for food, which is ever held in perspective; but which, like the feast before Sancho Panza's eyes, vanishes and leaves hunger unsated. Exceptions, however, occasionally present themselves, which chance may have cast in the way of unlettered arbitrators of the press, and of such is Mr. Bremner's account of Denmark, Norway, and Sweden. Truth pervades it, and his descriptive powers are of no mean order. A racy style with which we travel on without a moment's ennui from place to place, conjuring up a panoramic view of interesting spots, and blending admirably the pathetic and gay of character and story, accompanies us to the close, and we part company with Mr. Bremner, as if we had ourselves been there, and he with us, our lively Cicerone.

The Angelicon; a Gallery of Sonnets, on the Divine Attributes, and the Passions, the Graces, and the Virtues. By the Rev. H. D. RYDER, M.A., late of Oriel College, Oxford, Author of "The Temple in the Wilderness," &c. London: William Smith. 1840.

THE sonnet in English, from its comprehensiveness, and the strictness of the rules by which it is guided, is one of the most difficult measures of poetical composition; and therefore to excel in writing it, requires the highest order of genius. Nevertheless, it is, and always has been, a great favourite with many of our secondary poets, simply because rhymes are much more readily found than ideas; and if the verse throughout harmonizes well in point of metre and rhythm, the aspiring poetaster fancies that he has succeeded skilfully in his task. In the whole range of English verse, there are very few writers who have excelled in this peculiar species of poetry. An enumeration of the names of the most successful cultivators of the sonnet will be sufficient to prove this; Shakspeare, Milton, Drummond of Hawthornden, Warton, Wordsworth, Bowles, and Coleridge, we think, make up the list of really good sonnet writers. There have been many essayists-their name in fact is legionbut though some of these have produced passable sonnets of their kind, we know not one who deserves to be singled out as in anything superior to the general multitude who have failed in the attempt. The sonnet is generally considered to be of Italian origin, owing, no doubt, to the perfection to which it was brought by Petrarch, who founded his style mainly on that of the Provençal bards, the original cultivators of the