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In the morning, after three nights of travel over the dusty roads of this sun-burnt country, our author found himself at the Fonda de Commercio, the principal inn in Grenada. We feel it to be utterly impossible in our limited space to do justice to the glories of Grenada, upon which the author rings no less than nine chapters. Mateo Ximines, whom Geoffrey Crayon has celebrated, came and offered his services, which were of course accepted. We have first a chapter on the city, then a chapter on the city and the Alhambra, then a chapter on the palace, then another on the Alhambra again, then one on the Generaliffe, then separate chapters on the Albaycin, the Alamedas, and after a magnificent excursion to the Sierra Nevada, a wind-up chapter on the city again. With all these things the public are tolerably familiar; and we can only refer to them as by far the cleverest portions of the work. We had marked a score of passages for quotation.

From Grenada to Malaga, by Velez ; Malaga to Rondo, Gibraltar, and back to Cadiz, we cannot accompany our traveller. In following him throughout we have sadly felt the want of a map of the province. Instead of these paltry sketches, let us have, in common courtesy, a decent map in the next edition.

The concluding chapter contains a summary of the Andalucian character, which would appear to be a veritable compound of the satyr and tiger. Liberty has sprung up here, after ages of tyranny; but destruction not reconstruction, seems her present work throughout Spain; and until this preliminary business be accomplished we shall look in vain for the development of its vast internal resources. The prospect, however, is not so cheerless as the retrospect; but

'What are monuments of bravery
Where no public virtues bloom?
What avails in lands of slavery
Trophied temples, arch, and tomb?
Pageants! Let the world revere us,
For our people's rights and laws!'

We cannot conclude this brief and imperfect notice, without again congratulating the author on his performance, and once more commending the work to the attention of our readers.

572

Art. VII. 1. The Drawing Room Scrap-Book. MDCCCXL. With Poetical Illustrations. By L. E. L. and MARY HOWITT. London: Fisher, Son, and Co.

2. The Juvenile Scrap-Book. By Mrs. ELLIS. MDCCCXL. London Fisher, Son, and Co.

THE

HE general character of the former of these elegant volumes is well known to our readers, and we may therefore spare ourselves the labor of sketching it. As a collection of beautiful, and for the most part highly-finished engravings, illustrated by appropriate poetry and prose, it has long been a favorite with the public, and has consequently held on in its course while many of its rivals have passed into oblivion. The present volume, which constitutes we believe the tenth, brings with it some melancholy associations, arising from the premature and tragical death of the accomplished lady whose peculiar sentiments and graceful poetry' have contributed so largely to the past popularity of the work. We little thought when announcing last year, the departure of L. E. L. from England, that the volume for 1840 would contain a touching allusion to her melancholy death, and a warm-hearted though brief tribute to her genius. But so it is, and were we to give utterance to the feelings which are uppermost in our hearts, we should moralize on the delusive aspect of surrounding things, and the folly of permitting our confidence to rest on any thing below the skies. Neither youth, nor beauty, the force of genius, nor the bright visions of a poet's eye, can avert the fate which impends alike o'er all. At a moment when we think not, the summons comes, and to obey-and only to obey-is ours. must not, however, be diverted from our proper object, and hasten, therefore, to notice the volume itself. The Messrs. Fishers have done wisely in engaging Mrs. Howitt as the successor of L. E. L. They could not have made a more becoming selection, or one in better keeping with the nature of their work. Those who are acquainted with the productions of this lady will need no evidence of the correctness of our statement, and others will be of the same mind with ourselves on closing this volume. I feel,' remarks Mrs. Howitt, 'that a responsible and somewhat 'difficult duty has been laid upon me, less from the intrinsic na"ture of the work itself, than from being the successor of the former editor. The pleasant custom of nine years had so associated her name, and her peculiar sentiments and graceful poetry, with 'these volumes, that, even though it had been possible for me to 'perform the task more ably, it must take some time to accustom the public to the difference.'

We

Miss Landon, it appears, had prepared eight poems for the present volume, which, says her successor, 'for noble sentiment,

'she never surpassed.' These are, of course, inserted, and are referred to by Mrs. Howitt in the following touching and beautiful lines.

L'ENVOI.

Farewell, farewell! Thy latest word is spoken;
The lute thou loved'st hath given its latest tone;
Yet not without a lingering, parting token

Hast thou gone from us, young and gifted one!
And what in love thou gavest, here we treasure,

Sweet words of song penned in those far-off wilds,
And pure and righteous thoughts, in lofty measure,
Strong as a patriot's, gentle as a child's.
Here shrine we them, like holy relicts keeping,
That they who loved thee may approach and read
May know thy latest thoughts; may joy in weeping
That thou wast worthy to be loved indeed!
Farewell, farewell! And as thy heart could cherish
For love, a flower, the sere leaf of a tree,-

So from these pages shall not lightly perish

Thy latest lays-memento flowers of thee!

;

The following stanza is by L. E. L., and accompanies a beautiful engraving entitled 'Kate is Craz'd.' It is preceded by an extract from Cowper, well known to all his admirers, in which he paints with such graphic truth the picture of a serving maid' whose lover went to sea and died. The beauty of the poetry is lost sight of under the melancholy associations which it recalls to mind.

'How wonderful! how beautiful! these words
Are but the usual recompense assigned

To usual efforts of the human mind.
And yet how little jars these mighty chords!
How soon but one uneasy hour affords
Space for disunion and for disarray,
To mar the music of an earlier day!
It is a fearful thing to live, yet be
That which is scarcely life-the spirit fled-
Death at the heart-our nobler self is dead—
The reasoning and responsible, while we
Live, like the birds around, unconsciously.
God! in thy mercy keep us from such doom,
Let not our mind precede us to our tomb!

Such were the musings of L. E. L. a short time prior-perhaps only a few days or hours-to the melancholy termination of her life. They forcibly remind us of her own words, assigned to her first heroine.

'Sad were my shades; methinks they had
Almost a tone of prophecy-

I ever had, from earliest youth,

A feeling what my fate would be."*

We pass over the stanzas on Lord Byron at Newstead Abbey, as well as those on the Shrine and Grotto of Santa Rosalia, in both of which the distinctive features of Miss Landon's muse are conspicuous, united in the case of the former with more than her usual power, to make room for the following accompaniment to an engraving of Thomas Clarkson, Esq., the friend of Africa and of

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If they are children, let them have
A child's imploring claim.

'The husband parted from the wife,
The mother from the child-
Thousands within a single year,
From land and home exiled.
For what?-to labour without hope
Beneath a foreign sky;

To gather up unrighteous wealth-
To droop-decline and die!

'Such wrong is darkly visited;
The masters have their part-
For theirs had been the blinded eye,
And theirs the hardened heart.
Evil may never spring unchecked
Within the mortal soul;

If such plague-spot be not removed,
It must corrupt the whole.

The future doth avenge the past—
Now, for the future's sake,
Oh, England! for the guilty past

A deep atonement make.

The slave is given to thy charge,

He hopes from thee alone;

And thou, for every soul so given,

Must answer with thy own.'

We must restrict ourselves to one more extract, which will furnish no unfavorable specimen of the versification of the present editor.

A CITY STREET.

'I love the fields, the woods, the streams,

The wild-flowers fresh and sweet,

And yet I love no less than these,

The crowded city street;

For haunts of men, where'er they be,

Awake my deepest sympathy.

'I see within the city street

Life's most extreme estates,

The gorgeous domes of palaces;
The prison's doleful grates;

The hearths by household virtues blest,

The dens that are the serpent's nest.

'I see the rich man, proudly fed
And richly clothed, pass by;

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