The literary student-the real lover of books, who worships their essence with a pure spiritual adoration-will agree with us, that life has few delights comparable with the acquisition and first tasting of a great new book. But by literary student and real lover of books we do not mean him who reads for any worldly purpose, however admirable this in itself may be; who "crams" for some peculiar case of specific disgorging; or who uses a capacious and retentive memory as a safe yet accessible store-houseremembering that

"When lands and money all are spent,

Then learning is most excellent."

We do not mean one who droops his eye from the page to calculate the money-value of his knowledge; who turns from the sweet spiritvoice that was singing, to fancy the "jingling of the guineas" that is to be the music of his future; who dreams of fame and fortune, and sees distinctly the work that is to be done, and the path which he has to tread; or of any one indeed who is able clearly to analyze the purpose of his pursuits. For our noblest faculties and emotions are precisely the ones which defy the ladder of reason to reach.

The real student seeks books from an impulse, which, if more noble, is almost as blind as that by which the thirsty hart glides to the clear stream, without calculating on the strength and refreshment which are to ensue; either that in peace and enjoyment he may lift his crowned head with more adoring grace towards heaven, or alas! alas! be braver and fleeter to outstrip the cruel hunters. Such literary students are not always found belonging to the privileged class, who, lapped in the luxury of leisure, seem to the care-worn and world-wearied such favoured mortals. But whatever his position, he is the true student, to whom literature is the solace and the recreation, not the business of life; the ark into which he steps at will, and is safe among storms and tempests; an oasis in the desert, where grow divine fruits and undying flowers, and whence, perhaps half unconsciously, he brings back to the dull world and his daily toil the strength which is bestowed by his ambrosial food, while the perfume of the flowers clings about him, and marks him from commoner clay.

We are strongly of opinion that these real students are the only appreciators of Poetry. History, Biography, and the whole uncatalogued miscellany of books are devoured by thousands of readers of different tastes, and for different purposes, but—and it is no use disguising the

THE ANGEL WORLD, AND OTHER POEMS. By Philip James Bailey, author of "Festus." -(Pickering.)

fact-cui bono? is too often the question when the divinest gift of God to man is brought under discussion. One could be fiercely angry on these occasions, but that just indignation is drowned in pity. Perhaps one argues, and discovers, that an ascertained fact (favourite word)-such as that a king who has been dust for centuries died from repletion and not from old age; or that his wife's hair was brown, not auburn; or that a certain people permitted the exportation of olive oil and figs-is knowledge to be revered, and for which reverently to thank the historian. But the truths of the Poet which might teach kings to govern, and men and women through all time to live, slip through the coarse meshes of these dull brains, and leave no influence behind.

"If, now," says another, "your poets could perfect the steam-engine, or lay us down a railway to Hindoostan, these would be facts and truths we could understand; but look here! what does all this mean?" Mean-it means the prophet preaching which you with your steam-engines and railroads, and minds suffocated with materialism, can neither hear, nor see, nor understand. What science owes to poetry, is not very easily to be described; yet here the obligation is mutual, for modern poetry is immeasurably indebted to the exact language, the grand ima gery, and glowing associations of what may not inaptly be called its majestic spouse: while the instances in which the poet has prophesied the triumphs of science and almost their identical manner, are countless.

But the divinest prophets are not those which imitate a vulgar conjurer, and please the vulgar ear by their utterance, promising and foreshow. ing material circumstances, as many a mere shrewd observer and clear thinker might do. Tried by the severe test of their true spirituality, the real Poet is the millionth man in a throng; but rhymers, pleasant versifiers, are almost as abundant as roses in June, and out of their productions not a few have been lifted up and set upon pedestals, and preserved-as we do cut flowers by excluding the atmosphere for a time. But woe to them when the fresh air of our true test rushes in, for they lack a root of vitality. Their authors called themselves poets-honestly too, for they thought they were bards divine; and the public, grateful as it is ever is for the good it can understand, echoed the cry. And no wonder, for the time was not ripe for a great subjective poet to appear. The glowing descriptions, the didactive common-place, the eloquent prose which combined to make up what was called poetry belonged to the time; this nameless literature doing good service in its day, for perfection comes by progression, and there must be many intervals between a street ballad and an oratorio of Mendelssohn's. Had Tennyson, Longfellow, or Philip James Bailey, lived in the

last century, they would probably either have been mute, or have sung in the same note as their cotemporaries. Byron seems to us the connecting link between the old Exoteric and the new Esoteric schools. He took the ancient instrument, added some new strings to it, and shook the world with its vibrations; and yet how often do the notes jar, how often do we feel that his lyre only gives forth a hopeless wail! Shelley came next, and though he tuned to a higher pitch, some notes, which might have made his sequences clear, seemed absolutely wanting. Keats, etherial Keats! Of him, mown down in the very bud of promise, we may surely say no poet ever left us so much that was so precious, and died so young. One can weep at the mere recollection of that early Italian

grave.

These were the lyres which foreshadowed what sort of unsounded music there still was for the true poet to awaken. And now, in speaking of "The Angel World," we shall not suppose our readers to be unacquainted with the author's grand poem, "Festus." Yet it may be that many have read it without quite discovering that clue to its mystery which only constant study of the poem itself can indeed afford that clue which shows us it is a myth of pure undefiled Christianity. If we compare "Festus" to a mighty diamond, we may call "The Angel World" a fragment splintered from it in the shaping; but still, though of lesser size, of beautiful proportions and finest water. As in "Festus," the author trembles not to tread on the dizziest, holiest heights of space. The first scene is

"In one

Of those most pure and happy stars which claim
Identity with heaven, high raised in bliss,
Each lofty spirit luminous with delight.'

To this blest abode comes 66 a young and shining angel." We have not space for the description of his seraphic nature; but he is travel-stained, and at the bidding of the "cherub chiefest of them all,” he speaks

"How shall ye hear or I relate the griefs
Of orbs disrupted and of spirits dyed
In blackest sin-of God's high rule reject-
His own deputed, exiled-rudely thrust
From ancient throne and old dynastic calm,
Thought stedfast and eterne-and through the blank
Of lifeless night compelled to wander; where
But that afar he caught the friendly glance
Of your extreme and most felicitous star,
He might perchance have wandered still."

The following is a fragment of the exquisite description before its fall of the ruined world, which had been the allotted heritage of the "shining angel."

"A land It showed of fountains, flowers, and honied fruits, Of cool green umbrage, and incessant sun; The rainbow there in permanent splendour spanned The skies by ne'er a cloud deformed, of hue Sterner than amber; while on every hand The clear blue streams singing and sparkling ran

Their nature, and their loveliness; in one
A soul of lofty clearness, like a night
Of stars, wherein the memory of the day
Seems trembling through the meditative air-
In whose proud eye, one fixed and arklike thought
Held only sway; that thought a mystery:
In one, a golden aspect like the dawn-
Beaming perennial in the Heavenly east-
Of paly light; she ever brightening looked
Of some supreme perfection; in her heart
As with the boundless promise unfulfilled
That promise aye predestinate, alway sure,
Her breast with joy suffusing, and so wrought,
Her sigh seemed happier than her sister's smile :
Yet patient she and humble."

not indulge in long quotations from the opening
Our space, however, warns us that we must
of the poem only. We take it that these two
sisters typify Human Nature and Faith; at
least this solution agrees with our reading of the
poem.
The elder, who has been from all time
betrothed to the " Shining Angel," is tempted,
seized by the longing for " pure and mere
autocracy," disdains her appointed spouse, con-
demns her sister, and in the poet's deathless
words, has

"Fallen from service to a throne."

In that one line there seems to us an epic of spiritual degradation, to which amplification were an injury. But the repentance, the redemption, come; and though "sin, serpentlike, fanged, her," we have the divine lesson shown us of purification through suffering.

"Be sure the Great Perfector hath well earned
All that He gladdeneth over, as. His own,
Throughout the threefold world; though Him it
wrought

Measureless dole, for the Divine is born
Ever of bitterness; and well I ween,
Where sacrifice is not is never fire."

We will not deny that there is obscurity in the Poem of which we are treating; but it is the obscurity of a summer twilight; when fragrance from flower and herb steals across our senseswhen even half-defined shapes are forms of beauty, and, chief of all, where, if we look up, and gaze for a little while on the silvery sky, we shall see the bright stars come out in clear and radiant lustre. The seventy pages covered by this poem are a galaxy of brilliant imagery,

R

which seems to shine with additional lustre the longer we examine them; the luxuriance of fancy, the vigour of imagination, and the gorgeousness of language, are alike deathless, because beneath all there is ever to be found the spirit of truth.

In our opinion, no poet has so successfully treated of the spiritual world as the Author of "Festus;" and we say this with the reservation of believing that it is beyond the reach of human art, by pen, pencil, or chisel, quite to satisfy the floating dreams which come with hardly more shape or substance than a sunbeam. Even Milton's creations are not more than spiritualmaterial beings-but at his lowest range we will allow that the living poet never fails to set before us materialized spirits-but spirits stillluminous with delight"-halo crowned, and with only enough of matter to make them palpable to our coarse senses. Take for example the following:"Then worship before rest; as was the wont In every alternation of the day, Ere action or refreshment or repose. Last, on their happy couches, odorous all Of flowery incense, lay the angels down; Shading their faces with the plumy gold Of their space-searching pinions; sacred sleep Stealing the starry wonders of their eyes, And with divinest visions hallowing all.

Morn, like a maiden glancing o'er her pearls,
Streamed o'er the manna-dew, as though the ground
Were sown with star-seed; and the angels rose,
Each from his hallowed couch, and-duly made
The sole oblation of the heart to God-
Stood ready for departure; taking leave,
For a brief space, of their beloved compeers;
With many an ardent longing for the way,
As yet untried-'neath such sweet leadership."
And yet more beautiful is the following, about
which there literally does not seem to cling one
thread of earth :-

"A crescent-boat, translucent as a star,
Wherein they all embarked, in godly dread.

If lightning were the gross corporeal frame
Of some angelic essence, whose bright thoughts
As far surpassed in keen rapidity
The lagging action of his limbs as doth
Man's mind his clay; with like excess of speed
To animated thought of lightning, flew
That moon-horned vessel o'er life's deeps divine;
Far past the golden isles of memory
Where only names exist and things are not;
Mingled wherewith a cloudy counterpart
Mocks every islet, and therein are lost
Those upon whom the bright seductive sea
Smiles wreckful; and sincerest smoothness feigns."
We must make room for a passage which be-
longs to an earlier page-the description of the
land of "fountains, flowers, and honied fruits,"
after the erring sister has wrought its ruin :-

Prevailed continuous night, and all things died
"Meanwhile, in that wretched orb
That drew their life from light; the flowers their

life

Breathed out in incense, and the trees laid down
Their leafy crowns, forlorn; the herbal earth
In withered, barren, senseless nakedness,
Lay like a clayey corpse."

We are humbly conscious of the little justice we have done to this noble poem; but we ap proached it with reverence, and we leave it with regret. The short poems included in the volume are what might be expected—the lighter and graceful fancies of a great mind; we may possibly refer to them on a future occasion. In conclusion, we commend the volume to our readers, as one which will lift them quite out of the track of ordinary story-tellers and poetasters. It is true that this great poet teaches from a height, and that we sometimes need strong wings of our own to come within distinct hear ing; but these spirit-wings are of the kind which grow by exercising; and in every flight, even in the attempt to mount, clods of earth are cast away, and purer air is breathed!

C. C.

BROWN.

Forest Hill.

MY DEAREST, EVER DEAR ANNABELLA, I must really make every appology for not writing before; but my time has been very much engaged and in my Gustavus's company I scarcely know how the hours slip away. Oh, Annabella, he is such a good figure, and I am so excessively happy! He wears the sweetest French boots and gloves, and altogether has quite a dis

1

|ship will pardon the egotism of love! That Sunday came, and I saw his mother and sister, who were very high in their manners, but never having been connected with trade, they naturally look down on us, though now retired from busi ness. Gustavus belonging to a profession, I have been compelled to cut many old acquaint ances, but without regret, for his sake. He is now absent from his studies, by a physician's orders, as he has overworked his brain. Poor fellow! In the agony of parting he forgot to

soon.

give me his address, but I think will write very | Suppose Gustavus should some day be Lord Chancellor, dearest! I am sorry his Lordship is obliged to wear such an ugly wig! but perhaps that would be excused in consideration of his distinguished talents.

SO

The Miss Greens over the way are still enrious as ever. Gustavus does laugh at them so; especially at Elizabeth. They are shabby in their dress, wearing those old pelisses! (which you know, I dare say). Gustavus declares they were made after the pattern of dress on the women in the toy Noah's Arks! But he is so sarcastic, one must not notice all his clever remarks! I think he writes for Punch: but he always shakes his head when I ask him about it. I do not forget that Monday will be your thirty-third birthday.

Ever, with fond love, my Annabella's

ELIZABETH.

No. VII.-FROM MISS BROWN TO MISS SMITH.

66

Clodpole Lodge.

Do

DEAR ELIZABETH, Your foolishness quite provokes me, my love: I am really angry with you, my dear. Do you forget there is only one "p" in "apology?" Dictionaries are sufficiently cheap, my darling ignoramus! pray keep one in your desk. you remember looking for "cauliflower" under the letter K? And recollect, love, that so many italics add nothing to the value of the letters you send your friends. I must decline the favour of your correspondence, unless you leave off your trivialities.

I have renewed my acquaintance, by letter, with Elizabeth Green, who, however shabby she may appear, has great good sense.

Depend on it, Elizabeth, your absurd ambition is leading you astray. Lord Chancellor, forsooth! A pretty Lord Chancellor's wife you would make, writing "apology" with a double "p!"

I am reading such a delightful work on "silicious deposits," that I am compelled to conclude my note, being anxious to resume my studies.

Your faithful and candid friend,

GUS. FOG.

No. X.--FROM MR. G. FOGTHORPE, to Mr.
SMITH.
REVERED SIR,

In pressing for an early union with my Elizabeth, I trust I shall have your most indulgent consideration. Why should the best years of our life slip away in desolate unwedded misery? The joys of home would incite me only to greater industry in my arduous profession. My studies now claim all the time that is not spent at Forest Hill with Elizabeth, and I really need some society. Will you give me your best consideration and an early answer? Believe me to be, Revered Sir,

Your most obedient, GUSTAVUS FOGTHORPE,

I recd. yrs., but not exactly according to yr. intentions. Who or what Green-Cheese may be I know not; I have heard that the moon is made of green cheese, but don't believe it. Since my suspicions were aroused, have made inquiries; find your habits are far from business-like. Your studies absorb you, do they? What branch of law do you study in the pit of the Opera? There is also too much of your paper, sir, in the market, sir, to please me: I hate men who have anything to do with bills: it is not at all fit for you, at any rate. And you depend on poor Betsy's money, do you? I shall not trouble you with her or the money either. Grimins and Bradshaw's eldest son stands a much better chance, though poor Betsy did cut her old sweetheart in a shabby way, I must own; but since I have told her your character, she recd. a note from him, much to her surprise; but I advised him to write, and all is made up. Never wishing to see you again, Your obedt. humble servant, JNO. SMITH.

No. 12.--FROM MISS SMITH TO MISS
BROWN.

DEAREST ANNABELLA,

Though I entirely broke off with you, it was owing to feelings connected with your opinions about Gustavus, who has turned out quite a light

so let us make it up. As for Gustavus, I hate the name, and therefore beg no mention of it. John Smith Bradshaw, Pa's god-son, my old lover, has made another offer, which has been accepted by Pa and myself. He has a share in the candle-trade now, and we are to be married in two months. You must come up, and be bridesmaid, and though we are to live near the business in Whitechapel, I hope you will come and stay with us. Pa is going to let the villa he built himself, where we now live, and reside with me and John, when he says he

he shall look after the melting. He has never been quite happy since he left the shop, I know. John is very short and stout, and rather too florid in complexion to be delicate-looking. What a pity he has not somebody else's figure! But he is honest and straightforward, and will make a good plain husband. I shall depend on your company, dear Annabella. John will give the bridesmaids their dresses and bonnets, which shall be very pretty. Your affectionate, ELIZABETH.

They

Not a sweeter spot was there in the far-famed dales of Yorkshire than the small, retired hamlet of Meadowholm. It stood at the bottom of two rich valleys, in a thickly wooded hollow, where their waters united, and pursued a winding course through an open, but finely cultivated plain. Above it rose several huge crags, so high that they almost seemed to mingle with the sky; broken in many places by rough gorges, between the jagged and broken sides of which, skirted with hanging wildwood, the mountain-streams rushed down in foaming cascades like a silvery thread.

Many a bright summer afternoon have I spent in wandering through the deep old groves, and by the crystal streams of Meadowholm; stopping half an hour, now and then, to gather, from some ancient sire of the village, some of the old legends with which the neighbourhood abounded. There were, perhaps, many more complicated, but few more interesting, than the story of Henry Morland. His grave is still pointed out beneath the ivy-mantled tower of the old parish church, and many a youth and maiden of the valley dwells with sorrow on the story of his hapless love and untimely death.

Henry Morland was the son of a wealthy, but old-fashioned yeoman of Meadowholm. Being an only child, he was the pride and joy of his doting parents; and, indeed, there were few with whom Henry was not a favourite. Possessed of a fine and engaging person, light of heart and lithe of limb, his step was first in the exhilarating dance, his wit the first to suggest a frolic for himself and his companions, and not a right hand in hearty old Yorkshire grasped that of a friend with a heartier shake.

Henry Morland arrived at early manhood, and he began to see his old companions and friends married and settled in the world. Yet never a thought of marriage entered his head; which was the more wonderful, as he was young, rich, and handsome; and many a comely maiden would have thought herself fortunate in receiving his addresses. His heart, however, seemed inclined alike towards all womankind, and he was set down for an obdurate and irreclaimable bachelor. Notwithstanding all that was said, however, he continued the same handsome, merry fellow that ever he had been; till, at length, a sudden and mysterious change took place in his person. His once strong and hardy frame became thin and emaciated; his fine blue eye stared wildly from beneath his hollow eyebrows; his cheek was pale and blanched, and the once social youth now seldom was seen beyond his father's lands. His manners altogether became strangely altered, and his mind seemed totally abstracted from the world, for his look was vacant, and he seldom spoke to any one, except in answer to a question. Vainly did his anxious and broken-hearted parents implore him to reveal to them the secret sorrow that seemed eating away his heart; his answers were evasive and unsatisfactory, and if a smile lighted his features for a moment, while speaking to them, he soon again relapsed into his former gloom and abstraction.

It was on a beautiful moonlight night in the month of May, that a serving-man of Farmer Morland's was returning home rather late, and after the family had retired to rest. On going near the front of the old grange, he perceived his young master issue from the door, and wander