inserted in his two elaborate volumes, we are forcibly reminded of his own words with reference to them: "I must here avow and premise," says he, "that I regard the main body of these juvenile poems as being not only poorish sort of stuff, but absolute and heinous rubbish ;" and yet he prints any number of them, certainly with little consideration for the great poet, in whose works he professes so much interest. Again, we are bound to add that the biographical portion of his volumes is extremely careless in execution. Many new tales he tells are told without any authority for them; many old tales are so disfigured by bad telling that we scarcely recognize them again.

We have read the "Epic on Women," by A. O'Shaughnessy, with mixed feelings of admiration and regret-admiration at the exhibition of poetical powers certainly superior to those of most of the works of our modern poetasters, and of regret that Mr. O'Shaughnessy should have placed in his pages lines and sentiments worthy of some of the worst passages which disfigure the writings of Mr. Swinburne. It is a pity for a man to show such little feeling of delicacy, but it is far worse when he tries to make innocent and pureminded readers partakers of the delights of his own wits. If Mr. O'Shaughnessy will consent, should his volume attain a second edition, to cut out all the latter part of the "Creation of Woman," several passages in his 'Wife of Hephaestus," and one or two in his "Cleopatra," he will be read with pleasure and advantage by many who rightly shun him now. Let him recollect Byron's good advice in a not dissimilar case:

"Mend, Strangford, mend your morals and your taste;
Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but be chaste."

We regret to have to make a protest against another production of the "Satanic School," in the volume that old offender against ordinary ideas of morality, Mr. Algernon Charles Swinburne, has just perpetrated with the title of "Songs before Sunrise." On this occasion, Mr. Swinburne has not so thoroughly outraged good taste as he has before, and has shown that, if he accepts the well-known phrase, "Virginibus puerisque canto," he can do so in language which may be read aloud in the drawing-room. This is so far a gain ; but, does poetry-a sacred thing, if men could but be brought to think so-gain by being associated with such mad dreams as an Universal Republic, to be achieved and supported by men whose creed is a cold, miserable Pantheism? That Mr. Swinburne has considerable powers of language and expression we do not question; and, if he admires Mazzini so much that he must dedicate his writings to him, let him do so; but, as Carlyle has well said, “It is not a time for singing, it is a time for getting rid of delusions."

The "Gradus ad Parnassum," which, in our youth, still held its sway in most schools, in spite of the efforts of able masters to get rid of what was little better than a disgraceful crib, of use only to the idlest boys, has now, we hope, been finally discarded. We are rather sorry, therefore, that Mr. Tom Hood has thought it worth his while to publish "The Rules of Rhyme and Guide to English Composition," though we do not class his work with such an illiterate production as the "Gradus" aforenamed. The best part of his book is a sensible and well-written preface, which we should like to see printed as a separate paper or pamphlet. We doubt, however, whether the teaching boys the art of making glish verses, will do as much as Mr. Hood hopes towards a refined use of the h language in after life. In the case of the classical languages, the stands on very different ground; there, the highest and truest test of

profound scholarship is, unquestionably, shown by the power men, like the late Lord Wellesley, had of reproducing Latin verse, such as Ovid or Horace would not have despised.

"London Lyrics," by F. Locker. We hardly think that Mr. Locker can be called a poet, but he has certainly skill and facility in the manufacture of rhymes. He has also some sense of fun, reminding us a little of Moore's Twopenny Post Bag. Take the following, entitled an “ Old Buffer":—

"A knock-me down sermon, and worthy of Birch,"

Say I to my wife, as we toddle from Church:

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Convincing indeed," is the lady's remark;

"How logical, too, on the size of the ark!"

Then Blossom cut in, without begging our pardons

I

parry their blows and I've plenty to do

I think that the child's are the worse of the two!

My wife has a healthy aversion to sceptics,
She vows they're bad when they're only dyspeptics;
May Blossom prove neither one nor the other,
And do what she's bid by her excellent mother;

She thinks I'm a Solon-perhaps if I huff her,

She'll think I'm a-something that's denser and tougher.

MAMMA LOQUITUR.

"If Blossom's a sceptic or saucy, I'll search,

And I'll find her a wholesome corrective in Birch."

In another part of his little volume we find an equally amusing poem on Rotten Row, which, however, we have not space here to extract.

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But while Mr. Locker is fairly entitled to the claim of having written to amuse, we find it impossible to discern the value of a volume of Home Recollections and Village Scenes," by the Rev. Lisingham Smith, Rector of Little Caulfield. We can hardly imagine the brains of even the parish which has the happiness to have Mr. Smith for its "guide, philosopher, and friend," to be so absolutely empty as to derive pleasure from such a publication. Mr. Smith has, we think, but one claim to notice, that he has contrived to describe the most common-place and the most uninteresting subjects in the most common-place and uninteresting language.

"The Legend of Tubal," by George Eliot, is a successful specimen of this lady's poetical powers. Her description of life in "Cain's Young City," is vigorous; and the tale, how old Lameck slew his brightest offspring by the too

hasty exercise of the energies of an athlete, is happily conceived and well told Whether such writings will live, or ought to live, is another question. We may however, commend George Elliot's work, on the whole, as a well executed intellectual exercise. We are glad, further, to notice that, though treading on, dangerous ground, this lady does not-like the Swinburne-O'Shaughnessy school -forget what is due to the ordinary tastes of her readers, and, therefore, that there are few, if any, blemishes in her treatment of a curious and improbable story. "A Scholar's Day Dream, and other Poems," by A. S. Hill, will, we think, please a large circle, though doubtless his poems have not a very high order of merit. Their chief value is that they are no more than they really profess to be, happy, cheerful thoughts and genuine sentiments, clothed in graceful and elegant verse. We wish Mr. Hill well, and hope it may be our good fortune to meet with some other work of his ere long.

We cannot say so much for the "Ambrosia Amoris" of Mr. Edward Brennan, though his poetry is of a much higher style, and his language of a more elevated character than that of Mr. Hill. We regret that Mr. Brennan's poems are many of them of a voluptuous character, not far distant from sensuality, which gives no little piquancy to his motto-" Hòni soit qui mal y pense." some cutting down, we believe that Mr. Brennan has in him what his countrymen would call "the makings" of a poet.

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With

Other poetry, of more or less promise, may be found, in Mr. George Smith's 'Queen's Death, and other Poems;" in "Poems," by James Rhoades; in "Bible Story told in Verse," by W. P. Nimmo; and in "Wayside Warbles," by Edward Capern. None of these writers have as yet shown any great power, but there are individual poems in each of their separate books which are worthy of being printed. On the whole, we are inclined to believe that there is more of the real poet, in Mr. George Smith, than in the productions of the other writers whom we have grouped with him. His chief defect is an uncertainty about his rhymes, so that, in some instances, he has succeeded in avoiding rhyme altogether-a defect we hope he will have remedied when his little volume reaches a second edition. Mr. Smith writes clearly and well, and many will be glad to find his "fugitive" pieces collected from the magazines to which he first gave them.

II. ART.

We will commence our notice of the "Art" of 1870 with a brief account of some books on this subject, and take first "Specimens of the Drawings of Ten Masters, from the Royal Collection at Windsor," by the late B. B. Woodward. All must regret, and, especially, those who knew him best, that Mr. Woodward was not spared to complete, or rather to carry on, a work he has so well begun. We may well say carry on, as the Royal Collection contains at least 20,000 drawings, and is believed to be the third largest in the world, that of the Uffizzi, at Florence, being the largest, that of the Louvre the next. The Masters best represented in this posthumous volume are Leonardo da Vinci, Michael Angelo, Raffaelle, and Albert Dürer.

To the first great painter are devoted no less than twenty carbon photographs, which afford admirable specimens of his skill in the portraiture of heads and hands, while among those of Michael Angelo is the famous

one sometimes called Tireurs d'Arc, sometimes "I Bersaglieri,' 'which has been explained by Mr. Woolner, the sculptor, better than by any one else. One drawing there is in this volume, by Albert Dürer, which is certainly equal in interest, and, we think, in execution too, to that of any of the Italian Schools. It is called "An Allegory," and was found by chance among a mass of engravings by the same master, purchased by George III. This picture represents a pyramidal town (which Mr. Woodward assumes to be Nurnberg, though it is by no means certain he is correct in this idea), rising up to the top of the paper, with a fosse round it spreading out into a broad expanse. On this, a fish is swimming, bearing on his back a naked woman, two other women, scantily clad, bearing her company, and holding over her a swelling sail as a canopy. About the meaning of the Allegory, which bears attached to it two words in the artist's hand, with his usual monogram, a controversy of some interest has arisen-Mr. Woodward reading the words " Mein August," for Auguste, and connecting with the words a very pretty love story, if true; Mr. W. B. Scott, on the other hand, reading "Mein Angnes" (the name of Albert Dürer's wife) in the which he is confirmed by Dr. Wright, of the British Museum, who has some experience as a Palæographer. We are bound to say that, at the first glance, the disputed word does look much more like what Mr. Woodward took it for, "August." At the same time the learned Orientalist may be right, if, at the time of Albert Dürer "Angnes" was written for "Agnes." With regard to the town in the background, Mr. W. B. Scott, in the true critical spirit, denies that it is Nurnberg or Nuremberg; but as he gives no reason for his faith, Mr. Woodward may be as right as he. It seems, however, more likely that Albert Dürer had no particular place in his view at the time, the more so, that he used it again in, another drawing, of St. Anthony reading. Sundry errors have found their way into this first publication of the Windsor treasures, which we are willing to believe are due chiefly to the work not having been finally corrected for the press by its lamented author. We hope future editors will be more careful. "A Critical Account of the Drawings of Michael Angelo and Raffaelle, in the University Galleries, Oxford," by J. C. Robinson, is an excellent account of this noble collection, admirably drawn up by a man to whom South Kensington is indebted for many of its finest and most interesting works of Art. As such we hail it, not, however, without expressing our regret that Mr. Robinson should be no longer the active agent for South Kensington he so long was. This creation, however, of the Prince Consort does not, like Brentford, admit the presence of two kings. Mr. Robinson gives discriminating notices of no less than one hundred and forty-four drawings by Raffaelle, and of eighty-two by Michael Angelo, with a general history, so far as has been possible, of each specimen, and the statement for what pictures each has, in its turn, served as a study, together with a great amount of varied and curious information. Besides this, we find brief but good notices of several famous collections, such as those of Charles I., Lord Arundel, Marchetti, Reynolds, and Lawrence. Mr. Robinson had better not have quarrelled with the authorities of the Print-room at the British Museum, as he is wrong in his facts.

Sir Digby Wyatt's "Fine Art; a Sketch of its History, Theory, Practice, and Application to Industry; being a course of Lectures delivered at Cambridge in 1870," strikes us as weak, as did the extracts we had previously read at the time in the newspapers. Sir Digby is an excellent man for the offices he has held, of Secretary to the Exhibition of 1851, and as the Collector of a large Ал

number of the best casts now in the Crystal Palace at Sydenham. In the latter capacity, he has shown himself a thoroughly competent person, possessing, as he does, great energy, and a very considerable knowledge of what class of objects could be best represented by Plaster of Paris, for the instruction and pleasure of those who cannot visit the originals. But we do not think he was the man to have been selected as the First "Slade-Professor" at Cambridge. To deliver fit lectures on so wide a subject as Art, to such bodies as the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge, requires an amount of taste and training it is no discredit to Sir Digby Wyatt to say plainly he does not possess.

Far different in almost every quality are the "Slade Lectures" delivered at Oxford by John Ruskin, to the publication of which the Professor has now added an excellent "Catalogue of Examples arranged for Elementary Study in the University Galleries." The "Lectures" are among the most beautiful and the most eloquent which have ever been published, and fully maintain the reputation which Mr. Ruskin has enjoyed almost from the time of his first publication, "Modern Painters," as a handler of the English language second to none for his brilliancy and copiousness of diction. If ever there was an English writer who rejoiced in the "verborum curiosa felicitas" that writer is John Ruskin. So full, indeed, is every page of his works of beautiful and admirably selected thoughts, that his writings defy analysis and compression. We read and admire-read again, and admire the more-till we are carried away by an enthusiasm which is as delightful as it is real. No man ever took a higher or nobler view of the vocation of Art and of Artists than Mr. Ruskin, as witness the following passages :-"All the great Arts have for their object either the support or the exaltation of human life—usually both." "The great Arts forming thus one perfect scheme of human skill-of which it is not right to call one division more honourable, though it may be more subtle than another— have had, and can have, but three principal directions of purpose :-First, that of enforcing the religion of men; secondly, that of perfecting their ethical state; thirdly, that of doing them material service." Again, speaking of certain modern patrons of Art, he adds, with but too much truth, “There is no need for any discussion of these requirements (those of the classes occupied solely in the pursuit of pleasure) or of their forms of influence, though these are very deadly at present in their operation on Sculpture and on Jeweller's work. They cannot be checked by blame or guided by instruction; they are merely the necessary results of whatever defects exist in the temper and principles of luxu rious society; and it is only by moral changes, not by Art criticism, that their action can be modified."

EXHIBITION OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY.

We regret that many of the forebodings expressed in our notice of the Exhibition of 1869 have been, on this occasion, but too fully realized; for not only do we feel bound to say that, as a whole, the collection was of less than average excellence, but, what is much worse, many pictures were admitted which were quite unworthy of exhibition any where, while a number of inferior works have been hung in the best places and in the best lights, to the exclusion of others which every artist would have gladly examined more carefully, had he had the chance. We have, also, to regret the absence of more than one old friend-and the loss, by death, of one artist, Maclise, who to