I perch at the right hand of Jove on his throne,

And the thunderbolt launch when his signal is shown,

And my heavy wings droop, when in slumber I lie,

O'er the sceptre that sways the wide earth from on high !

THE SWAN.

Me charms the heaven's blue arch, serene and bland,
And odorous flowers attract me to the land

While, basking in the sun's departing beams,

I stretch my white wings o'er the purpled streams!

THE EAGLE.

I exult in the tempest, triumphant and bold,

When the oaks of the forest it rends from their hold,
I demand of the thunder-the spheres when it shakes-
If, like me, a wild joy in destruction it takes!

THE EAGLE.

The soul, like the phoenix, springs forth from the pyre,
All free and unveiled, to the skies to aspire,
To hail the bright vision that bursts on its view,
And its youth at the dark torch of death to renew !

ETA.

EXHIBITION NOVELS.

ALTHOUGH literature has been necessarily excluded from the Crystal Palace, there are at this moment lying before us specimens of industry in the lighter department of letters, which, as such, would unquestionably have commanded the approbation of a discerning public. Unfortunately, but unavoidably it happens, that the merit of a literary work cannot be decided upon without taking a most unconscionable liberty with Time; and the old scythe-bearer would doubtless, in every case, insist that he had not been brought to Hyde Park for any such purpose. If the multitudes who flock to the Great Exhibition were called upon to climb another tower of Babel, before they could see the Amazon, or to descend a coal-mine before they could take a glance at the Koh-iNoor, we suspect that very few would consent to go up or to go down for purpose of viewing either of those attractive objects.

the

Yet, on second thoughts, there are works-and by living authors too -which, had they been admitted, would have furnished forth such examples of industry as would have challenged admiration upon merely looking at them. Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton and Mr. James might have contested the palm with Alexander Dumas and Paul de Kock; but we are not sure that, to blight their hopes of triumph, some German commentator, followed by sundry porters, would not have shot his multifarious productions into the building, and claimed the prize out of hand from the astounded Commissioners. But enough of this.

We take it for granted that the various novels with which our table groans (perhaps had it "discourse of reason it would rejoice to bear so precious a weight) we say, we take it for granted that these novels have been written for the express purpose of showing the myriads of all nations now assembled in London what may be effected in the realms of fiction by certain romance-writing natives of these isles. That each has done his or her best could be hardly a question at any time, but on an occasion like the present, it must be taken for granted that all have put forth their utmost strength. Let us see the result in each case, and proclaim it as briefly as possible.

And first we take "Clare Abbey," by the author of "The Discipline of Life." This is an extremely interesting story, our sympathies being concentrated in three characters. Camilla, the heroine, who for a time has been inthralled by the personal advantages and superficial qualifications of the scoundrel, Frank Hargrave, is drawn with extreme delicacy and skill; with so much of the latter, indeed, that we are almost tempted to wonder how it comes to pass that the young lady, having formed such a passion, and encouraged it so far that she is about to elope with the miscreant, does not sink irretrievably in our esteem, and that we can unhesitatingly give our consent, with a full assurance that she is worthy of him to her marriage with Ernest De Grey, a character admirably delineated, as is that of the brother of the heroine, the proud but noble-minded Reginald St. Maur.

This novel is alike honourable to the heart, and intellect, and taste of Lady Emily Ponsonby. It conveys a valuable lesson of self-denial, and inculcates the importance of moral restraint in a manner which is not the less forcible because the exhortation is gently and gracefully

commended to the reader. An air of tenderness, sincerity, and truth pervades this work, and contributes to make it a very charming performance.

But what have we here? "The Lady and the Priest," by Mrs. Maberly. A strange title, this! What should be the argument of the story? We have it :

"This is some satire, keen and critical."

Miss Louisa Talbot is about to run through three volumes, pursued by Drs. Hendren and Doyle, who in their turn are pursued, although at a lagging pace, by Lord Truro. We open the book. Never was selfthought sagacious reviewer more egregiously mistaken. This is an historical romance of the twelfth century. The " lady" is Fair Rosamond, a very different lady from Miss Talbot; and neither Dr. Hendren nor Dr. Doyle will stand for a likeness of " the priest," who is no less a personage than Thomas à Becket. But let us apply ourselves to this "historical romance." There are good materials here, which, elaborated by a skilful hand, may make a stirring story. First, however, let us remind our reader of what materials such a story must be composed.

Fair Rosamond has been invested with a romantic charm; but sober truth-mongers can place no faith in the bower, the clue of silk, and the bowl of poison which the fell Eleanor, we are told, compelled her to drain. Rosamond was the daughter of one De Clifford, a Baron of Herefordshire. She must have been very young when she became the mistress of Henry II., for the younger of her two sons was born some few months after the marriage of Henry to his queen, the monarch being at that time somewhere about nineteen years of age. Rosamond was Henry's first love. He could not marry her, for royal alliances at that period were of far greater political, or rather, national importance than they are in these days; but he was ever kind to her, and before she retired to die, to the nunnery at Godstow, he had at various times, and at her request, enriched that institution by many donations. So much for "the lady," whose story has ever awakened sympathy and silenced condemnation.

Now for "the priest." Becket was the son of a citizen of London, and received a good education. He studied at Merton Abbey, London, Oxford, and Paris, at which last city he acquired a perfect mastery of the French language. While yet a young man he had an employment in the office of the Sheriff of London, where he took the attention of no less a person than Theobald, Archbishop of Canterbury, who sent him to complete his study of the civil law at the then celebrated school of Bologna. In Burgundy, he afterwards attended the lectures of a famous professor of law. On his return, his powerful patron gave him a valuable church preferment-some say he was Theobald's archdeacon— and recommended him (after he had successfully concluded some important diplomatic negotiations at the court of Rome) to the notice of Henry.

The good Theobald recommended a practised, sagacious, accomplished man of the world, verging upon forty, to a monarch who, although of no ordinary capacity, was only about three-and-twenty years of age, and who required a councillor in the full vigour of extraordinary faculties.

Now let us see how Mrs. Maberly has dealt with these materials.

At the commencement of her story, when Becket is introduced to the king, the priest is represented as the young man, Henry as verging upon forty, long married to his queen, and with a family, and Rosamond is an unspotted maiden. Rosamond, the beloved and sought of the Barons De Essex and De Montfort, the betrothed of a knight, De Broc, a young gentleman of extraordinary personal advantages, and of unblemished honour, rejects these barons, "flies in the face" of her father as to the knight, becomes attached to the Court, and is eventually the king's mistress. Is not this shocking? What occasion for it? Had not the authoress done better if she had adhered to history?

Then, was it necessary to falsify history for the purpose of representing a middle-aged king in want of a young adviser, or, at least, willing to take one? Does not Mrs. Maberly know that Henry II. was one of the acutest men of his age, and that when he failed, as he sometimes did, it was from an over exercise of caution? But then, as though to fill the cup of absurdity to overflowing, this young manthis juvenile Becket, is represented as a prior of Severnstoke, who had been brought up in seclusion, and since his elevation to the office he held, had applied himself with extraordinary perseverance to the duties that lay before him: so that, when he comes forth into the world, and we find what a graceful rider he is, how unmatched in hawking, how accomplished every way, incredulity is succeeded by laughter, and laughter followed by indignation.

And this is an historical romance! What infatuation possessed Mrs. Maberly to outrage history that she might write a wretched romance, when, by respecting it, she might have given us a good one, we cannot, of course, conceive. Becket persecutes Rosamond: he never did so in reality; but it might have been, so that might have passed. But the worst of it is, so far as this romance is concerned, that the authoress has taken good care that nobody shall care a rush for Fair Rosamond, out of whom all the romance has been most effectually extracted.

But such tampering with history, were it skilfully done-the story being the better for it-is unjustifiable. We have said enough of this sad blunder.

Let us now turn to "Percy Hamilton," by Lord William Lennox. This work contains, as we are informed on the title page, the adventures of a Westminster boy; but the reader is not to suppose that it confines itself to a recital of the freaks and extravagances of a scapegrace lad. There are stirring scenes enacted in the Peninsular war and at Waterloo, which will interest those who delight in military adventure; and of love and sentiment, which we are not so certain the reader will like; for Lord William, truth to say, does not shine in the pathetic and the tender. Percy Hamilton tells his own story, and a very sprightly and amusing gentleman he is. The work is full of scenes of fun and frolic; and many eccentric and interesting characters are introduced amongst them Lord Byron, Kean, and Theodore Hook. It is quite clear that the greater part of the work is a record of what really has been done, suffered and enjoyed. But what gives almost a value to the book is, that it conveys an accurate picture of London life-from Carlton House to Whitechapel-as it was to have been seen forty years ago. “Percy Hamilton" will be read with pleasure.

It must not be supposed, because we can bestow only a few words on "First Cousins," that we have not a very high opinion of its merit. An

extract taken from any part of the book, would at once convince the reader that it is a work to be read. Its object is to show the awful consequences that may ensue from the marriage of two persons who stand towards each other in a near degree of relationship. But there are scenes that lighten the more sombre portions of the narrative, and the whole is executed with extraordinary force. So well written a book has not come under our notice for a long time. The style is so agreeable, so sustained-so self-possessed, if we may use the phrase-that it would impress with reality a story containing far more improbable events. is worthy of Godwin, as we see him in "Caleb Williams."

It

To those whose delight it is to mingle in stirring scenes, and after these have spent their force, to sit down with a grim determination to unravel mysteries whose solution confounds the guilty, and gives virtue and beauty their long-withheld reward, let us recommend "Arthur Conway," by Captain Milman. The Carib chief will call forth due admiration, and the wily Jesuit will stimulate the resentful feelings of the reader's nature. There are some really well-drawn and powerful scenes in the tropics, and on the whole, "Arthur Conway" may be pronounced a very readable romance.

We have now to bespeak the special attention of the public, to a work which has met with a brilliant success in Germany-" The Morning Land, or a Thousand and One Days in the East;" by Frederick Bodenstedt. This is one of the most original and delightful works that has come into our hands for many a long day, and fully makes good the attractive promise of its title. It tells of Caucasus and of the Black Sea, the Cossacks and the Turks; of the beautiful Georgian women, and of Ararat and Armenia. Such a life and bloom are imparted to the scenes through which the author takes us what is brought before us is so new and strange-that we are lost in wonder and admiration. But we are not always on the move. The sojourn at Tiflis is one of the most delightful parts of the book.

Whether Mirza Schaffy, the wise man of Gjändsha, is veritably a man, or a myth, we know not; but a more amusing, instructive, and philosophical fellow than this bald-pated Anacreon cannot be conceived.

Nothing can be better than the translation by Mr. Richard Waddington, so far as the prose is concerned. We do not quarrel with his translation of the Russian Lay. He has adopted the right method-the literal one-in rendering that; but Mirza Schaffy's songs, and some of the other poems, might have been transferred into English with more elegance. This part of the work ought to have been confided to a poet.

We think we may affirm with truth that Mrs. Norton has sustained her well-earned and graceful reputation by her "Stuart of Dunleath." Her story is highly interesting, because it has chiefly to record the trials and sufferings of one of the gentlest and sweetest creatures that was ever conceived by a poetical mind, informed and directed by a most warm and womanly heart. The character of Eleanor sustains the work; and for her sake, and her sake alone, it deserves to be read. But there is a great blemish in "Stuart of Dunleath." There never was novel written without a scoundrel in it; but it has rarely happened that an author has drawn a scoundrel under the fond belief that he has portrayed a highly respectable and interesting individual. But this Mrs.