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"Popular Tales of Hareff," little known in England, and in poetry translations of Ballads and Songs from Schiller, Uhland, Bürger, Goethe, Körner, Becker, Fouqué, Chamisso, &c. All these in nine small volumes, abounding in interest, comprising that portion of the German series which has gone to press up to the present time.

Of English origin there are here the "Twelve Nights' Entertainments," "Household Tales and Traditions," "Ancient Moral Tales," in the series of fiction, together with "Marco Visconti," from the Italian of Manzoni, and "Prasca Loupouloff" from the Russian. In the British poetical series we have "Ballads and Metrical Tales" from Percy, Ritson, Evans, and others; "Ballads from English History," and "Select Specimens of Scottish Songs; " in biography, "The Lives of Alfred the Great, Sir Thomas Moore, John Evelyn, and several bishops," in one volume, with those of Walton, Wotton, Fanshaw, Earl of Derby, Lord Collingwood, Sir T. Raffles, Lord Exmouth, George Herbert, Dr. Donne, and Bishops Ken and Sanderson, in a second; and in a third volume Selections from the Lives of celebrated Greeks. There is also one volume devoted to a new edition of Poole's treatise on "Churches, their structure, arrangement, and decoration."

We thus particularise, because the present series of works issues from a quarter which we suspect is influenced by certain theological tendencies. A peculiar party is up and stirring in this matter, active, anxious to be foremost in the field, and leaning upon a creed of tradition, mouldering amid moss-clad ruins of gothic barbarism. We infer this from

the tendency displayed in this work, in a solitary volume or two it is true, for the majority are of a character which will not admit of the introduction of those flashes from the guiding spirit which are seen here and there when opportunity proffers. It will be right to particularise. To the German series, every way excellent, we do not make reference, nor, in fact, to either of these works, except the biography. Here we see the leaning to which we allude. In the life of the Rev. John Evelyn are recorded, among other things, his idea of a species of monastic brotherhood. This is given with the preface-"Now that the thoughts of English churchmen are turned towards the revival of the monastic system, purged of its corruptions, &c." What English churchmen are thinking of re-establishing monasteries! None, we boldly assert, except the small party that, addicted to the more objectionable tenets of Romanism, has not the honesty to declare itself Roman, while from the English church it stands wide apart. In the same life we have found carefully recorded the cure of a decrepit and sick child by the rite of baptism, and the cure of the blind by the blood of the holy martyr, Charles I.! The king, who rode through Leicester streets, commanding his soldiers to cut down the people; the paternal monarch, who raised a bloody war to enforce his privilege of taxing the people without a parliament; the monarch, whose word could not be trusted; the haughtiest prince as a man, and the greatest double-dealer of his time. In these days it were better, in making selections, to omit such passages,

when writing works to the young, as can now only provoke a laugh of contempt from sane persons, unless the object be to enforce the principles of superstition and tyranny, which the new sect so strongly favours, with whom Charles is both a hero and a martyr. The political measures, of late years-all that has a tendency to produce the abandonment of the bad and untenable things of the past, and to enlarge the mental vision, and elevate the mind-all that is favourable to the cause of the people is evidently viewed in these biographies with intolerance. The "Life of Lord Exmouth” furnishes a text book for the compiler in this regard, as if that gallant officer were any authority upon civil or religious questions. Lord Exmouth was a true seaman; of a narrow capacity, ever meaning well; of whom it was observed by a naval officer, that he would have fought the battle of Trafalgar as well as Nelson, as far as the fighting part was concerned, but he would never have shown Nelson's previous strategy. Both Pellews were truly brave and kind men, but not of the wise out of their profession, as is well known. The biographical part of the present series is tinctured with a spirit we cannot commend, and we observe somewhat of the same in "Poole's volume on church decorations." Bad enough, we agree, are most of the new churches that have been recently constructed; but we can see no reason for reviving Gothic ornaments and imagery, with their carved inelegancies, not to say gross indecencies in some cases, merely because they are old. Some of the noblest churches in the world are Greek and Roman in architecture. Our old edifices derive half their charm from the associations of age, which cannot accompany new buildings in the same style. The adoption of the Gothic in all cases, in preference, only shows a craving after what is part and portion of the days of spiritual despotism, poli tical tyranny, and deplorable popular ignorance. Hence the least elevated minds now among the higher classes go back to dark ages in all their imaginings; feudality is their idol, and the glorious advancement in science and popular power-our might as a nation, our arm of rule, that some portion of every region and climate of the earth confesses —our advanced progress and tremendous energies, are all innovations upon the era when, at intervals, breaking each other's witless heads in the tilt, or seeking Quixotic glories in Palestine, in border feuds, and boar hunting, lay the glories of the aristocracy. At that time they could scarcely scrawl their names on paper, but abandoned the unenvied empire of mind to bishops and clerks, who knew pretty well how to turn it to their own profit. Hence the ecclesiastics of the new class extol the Beckets and Lauds of departed years. We state these things more in sorrow than in anger, on viewing the tendencies of several recent works, though in the present series they are manifested but in a solitary instance or two.

DOUGLAS JERROLD'S

SHILLING MAGAZINE.

THE HISTORY OF ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.*

BY THE EDITOR.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

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AND now is Snipeton widowed. Yes: with a living wife, damned to worst widowhood. It would have worn and tortured the spirit within him sometimes to wander from the desk to the churchyard, and there look down upon Clarissa's grave. To have read, and read with dreamy, vacant eyes, the few tombstone syllables that sum up-solemnly brief-the hopes, and fears, and wrongs, and wretchedness; the pleasant thoughts and aching weariness that breath begins and ends. Clarissa, wife of Ebenezer Snipeton, died -.' Words to dim a husband's eyes; to carry heaviness to the heart; to numb the soul; and for a time to make the lone man, with his foot at the treasure-holding grave, feel the whole world drifted from him, and he left landed on the little spot he looks on. And then breaks small, mournful music from those words: pleasant, hopeful sounds, that will mingle her name with his; that will make him own the dear, the still incorporate dead. The flesh of his flesh, the bone of his bone, is lapsed into the disgrace of death it is becoming the nourishment of grass; and still his heart yearns to the changing form: still it is a part of him; and his tender thoughts may, with the coffined dead, love to renew the bridal vow the dead absolves him of. And Snipeton, his wife in her winding-sheet, might so have solemnised a second wedlock. For surely there are such nuptials. Yes; * Continued from page 395, Vol. IV. I I

NO. XXIV.-VOL. IV.

second marriages of the grave between the quick and the dead, with God and his angels the sole witnesses.

And Snipeton was denied such consolation. His widowhood permitted no such second troth. Living to the world, his wife was dead to him; yet though dead, not severed.-There was the horror: there, the foul condition of disgraced wedlock: the flesh was still of his flesh, cancerous, ulcerous; with a life in it to torture him. By day, that flesh of his flesh would wear him; by night, with time and darkness lying like a weight upon him, would be to him as a fiend that would cling to him; that would touch his lips; that would murmur in his ear. And let him writhe, and struggle, and with a strong man's strong will determine to put away that close tormentor, it would not be. The flesh was still of his flesh, alike incorporate in guilt and truth.

But Snipeton is still a happy man. As yet he knows not of his misery; dreams not of the desolation that, in an hour or so, shall blast him at his threshold. He is still at his desk; happy in his day-dream; his imagination running over, as in wayward moments of half-thrift, half-idleness, it was wont to do, upon the paper on his desk before him.-Imagination, complete and circling; and making that dim sanctuary of dirty Plutus a glistening palace! The pen the ragged stump, that in his hand had worked as surely as Italian steel, striking through a heart or so, but drawing no blood-the pen, as it had been plucked from the winged heel of the thief's god, Mercury, worked strange sorcery; crept and scratched about the paper, conjuring glories there, that made the old man sternly smile; even as an enchanter smiles at the instant handiwork of all-obedient fiends. Reader, look upon the magic that, cunningly exercised by the Snipetons of the world, fills it with beauty; behold the jottings of the black art that, simple as they look, hold, like the knotted ropes of Lapland witches, a power invincible. Here they are; faithfully copied from that piece of paper; the tablet of old Snipeton's dearest thoughts, divinest aspirations:

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"£70,000 "-" £85,700 "—" £90,000 "-" £100,000"“£150,000 ”—“ £1,000,000!

In this way did Snipeton-in pleasant, thrifty idleness-pour out his heart; dallying with hope, and giving to the unuttered wish a certain sum in black and white; running up the figures as a rapturous singer climbs the gamut, touching the highest heaven

of music to his own delight, and the wonder of the applauding world.

In this manner would Snipeton take pastime with his spirit. In this manner was the paper on his desk writ and over-writ with promised sums that, it was his hope, his day-dream, would surely some day bless him. And the numerals ever rose with his spirits. When very dumpish-with the world going all wrong with himhe would write himself down a pauper; in bitterness of heart loving to enlarge upon his beggary, as thus: 000,000,000,000. But to-day, he had ridden with Clarissa; she had looked so lovely and so loving; he was so re-assured of her affection; could promise to himself such honied days and nights that, dreaming over this; smiling at her flushed face; and with half-closed eyes, and curving mouth, gazing in fancy at her dancing plume,-he somehow took the pen between his fingers, and made himself a paradise out of arithmetic.--Thus he laid out his garden of Eden, circling it with rivers of running gold! How the paradise smiled upon paper! How the trees, clustered with ruddy bearing, rose up; how odorous the flowers-and what a breath of immortality came fluttering to his cheek! Snipeton had written—

"£1,000,000;"

and then he sank gently back in his chair, and softly drew his breath as he looked upon what should be his, foreshadowed by his hopes.

Now, at the very moment-yes, by Satan's best chronometerat the very moment, Clarissa was lifted from her horse, placed in a carriage, and whirled away from home and husband. And he saw not her face of terror-heard not her shriek for help. How could he? Good man! was he not in Paradise? Let us not break in upon him. No; for a while, blind and innocent, we will leave him there.

The reader may remember that Mr. Capstick was threatened with an ignominious dismissal from the British senate, as having, it was alleged, bought an honour that, like chastity, is too precious to be sold. The misanthropic member for Liquorish, in his deep contempt of all human dealings, took little heed of the petition against him; whilst Tangle called it an ugly business, as though in truth he secretly rejoiced in such uncomeliness. Snipeton, too, looked grave; and then, as taking heart from the depth of his pocket, said he would "fight the young profligate to his last guinea;" (and when the weapons are gold, how bloody oft the

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