but it was too late to retreat; one false step, far less an attempt to turn, would have precipitated borse and rider down the abyss. Just as he reached the middle of the ledge the moon shone forth. The clear light revealed a terrific view to man and horse. The animal paused, and its startled rider looked around him. Far down the precipice, the light shone on a black narrow stream; tufts of furze loaded with snow; trees hanging for ward on their strained roots that the sparkling icicles mingled with; and lower down sharp points of rock, which the river mists had prevented the snow from lying on, chequered the sides to the right and left. The long yawning abyss seemed in the distance to join the irregular gradations of the lonely hills, now white, and glancing coldly in the moonbeams. "Gerald hastily removed his eyes from the depths immediately beneath him, for the sight made him dizzy, and urged on the horse again. But now the animal refused to stir. With its fore legs planted firmly before it, its nostrils distended, and its ears pressed back, it seemed under the influence of panic, and its head only obeyed the raised bridle. The animal would not budge. The thick crowding clouds at that moment came over the moon again, and the drifting snow began to fly across the hills. Gerald stuck his spurs to the horse. The animal slightly swerved, and the rider, by a sudden movement of the bridle only prevented them both falling down the precipice. The ledge here was not two feet wide. The horse became restive, and attempted to turn. Maddened by this new danger, Gerald spurred the animal again. The horse reared, and when the startled rider, bending forward, slackened the bridle, the animal attempted once more to turn. Its hind feet slid on the icy path, and its haunches seemed sinking, but suddenly regaining its footing, the young man tried to urge it on by gentle means; but the terrified horse reared more violently than before. A desperate blow between the ears from the rider's heavy whip alone prevented the animal from falling backward over the cliff; but its panic increased, and Gerald, as the last chance for his life, now attempted to throw himself from the saddle, the horse swerved suddenly, and lost its footing, the rider fell forward, and grasping the ground, saved himself from falling over the cliff. Not so the horse; for a moment or two it clung with its fore feet to the ledge, pawed wildly to regain a footing, then rolled down the precipice." Yet even this miraculous escape, which comes upon one as a merciful warning and interposition of Providence, fails to prevent the duel; Gerald's adversary falls dead on the spot, for he had fired so quickly on the signal, that his ball wounded Gerald's wrist, thus frustrating his pacific intention, for the pistol goes off from some convulsive movement of the hand before it is sufficiently raised. Then come the tragic elements of the plot-secrecy -remorse, and—the broken vow-for Jessie weds him nevertheless. We shall not attempt to follow out the events by which the curse works; it is enough to say that in simple heart-reaching pathos, we think few writers, if any, have surpassed the | | author of the "Young Widow." We may add that there is not an improbable event in the book— an assertion which we intend as very high praise. The second volume is painfully touching-but most wholesome reading to rich and poor. The former it may instruct in many things they ought to know; the latter it may console, by teaching them where to look for something more sure than any earthly hope. Our readers, however, must not suppose that there is nothing but tragedy around "The Young Widow" (who is no widow at all): not so; for besides that the curse does pass away at last, there are many most amusing characters drawn to the life, and with the fidelity of a Dutch painting. Indeed, we are inclined as a whole to consider this novel as the best of the season. Not excepting 66 Coningsby," which, notwithstanding its temporary popularity and notoriety, will by and bye take its right place, as the least worthy of its talented author's many productions; or the much vaunted "Whitefriars," which appears to us a sort of patchwork of many authors showing fragments, neither bound together by any steadfast aim nor unity of purpose. To return, however, from odious comparisons to the widow. Mr. Potter and the tiger, the good-natured Brantome, with his poison plant conservatory, and Cosmo Pittenween, will not easily be forgotten. The villanous old lawyers are powerfully drawn; and as for Rebecca File, we can only say she is own sister to Sally Brass of immortal memory. GERMAN GRAMMAR, WITH A COURSE OF LITERATURE; by Madame Flohr (D. Nutt, Fleetstreet; Hatchard and Son, Piccadilly.) This work, which has been published in the German language, is so truly excellent and talented that we should feel criminal towards the public did we not hasten to declare its merits. To study any language is a serious attempt in England, where scarcely a foreign sound reaches the ear. Though when we travel abroad, the very air seems to echo strange words, the imagination becomes free, and the spirit is warmed to learn new vocabularies of words, and to tutor the tongue to pronounce new vocables. Yet ever in travelling, a good guide is necessary; and whatever language is attempted, that difficult ladder, the grammar, must be ascended, probably by slow and painful climbing. We ourselves are so fully aware of all the difficulties attending the German language, even in Germany itself, that now in these days of the march of intellect, when every one in a certain sphere (gentleman or lady) must know and speak pure Hanoverian, we consider it no little merit to be able to give to the public an easy and yet perfect instruction in that language. Such a work lies before us now in Mad. Flohr's "German Grammar." Being written in German, with only the first pages translated at the very beginning; it is, perhaps, not a work to enable a person to be selftaught; but such an attempt in German we deem useless. Some living guide is required at the first. The sounds must be taught orally, and the leading difficulties explained by word of mouth. But with a master or mistress, we unhesitatingly เ affirm this Grammar to be the very best one that has yet been written or that can be used. We shall be called upon to state our reasons. First, we may be able to adduce practically, that here and on the continent, wherever it has been tried, its effect has been almost miraculous, enabling a person utterly ignorant of the language, to read, write, and think in it, in a few months. Secondly, the great stumbling blocks of all German grammars have been successfully avoided. The scylla and charybdis of grammarians are tedious ness, confused explanations, and obscure definitions. The length of grammars frightens and exhausts the patience of students, and the innumerable exceptions to all given rules seem to render the difficulty insurmountable and almost disgusting. Learning German in Germany, with the best master and with the then best written grammar, how well do we remember the mist of darkness which seemed to envelop us for at least six months before one distinct principle of the language could become visible to our view! Had Mad. Flohr's work been at hand, one look would have sufficed to roll away that mist of obscurity. The victory that she has won is that of using synoptical tables, by which the student, by a glance, sees the point of union in the different cases as well as the point of divergence. All the rules of union are brought to one point, all the exceptions to another. The rules are short, simple, and distinct; and the grammar so well reduced to a small clear number of definitions and explanations, that it is all compressed within one-third of the work. This alone makes it a masterpiece. The other two-thirds of the book are admirably well chosen extracts of the best writers--proving the taste to appreciate whatever is pure and beautiful in the diction of German authors. Madame Flohr has arranged it admirably in a course of lectures, 32 in number. Each one conquering one grand difficulty of the language; and ascending gradually from the articles to the crowning point of composition. Perhaps we ought to add she had a diploma presented to her in Berlin, as master or professor, on her work being examined in the university there; and she is now seeking to give courses of lectures in private houses, on the plan stated in her work. We recommend its purchase and its use in all seminaries and in all houses where that deeply thoughtful language is studied or appreciated. GEMS OF EUROPEAN ART. Edited by S. C. Hall, F.S.A., &c., &c.—(Virtue.)—A few numbers of this delightful work are before us; a work whose comprehensive title will allow it to fulfil its promise of presenting "the best pictures of the best schools." While the taste, judgment, and critical acumen of the experienced editor, must alone be an earnest of the manner in which his part has been and will be conducted. In fact, a liberal appreciation of styles the most opposite seems a characteristic of the numbers to which we allude. The so-called classical "Eneas and Dido," from a painting by Guerin, is a favourable specimen of the French school in the eighteenth century, and contrasts herewith the romantic or melo | dramatic "Poison Cup," from the hand of a living artist, J. R. Herbert; and "A Sunny Day," from Cuyp, neighbours "The Covenanter's Marriage," engraved by Lightfoot, from a painting by Alexander Johnston. The last, to which we shall refer again presently, is our favourite of all, if we can really quite determine to have a choice among so many "gems." How these folio numbers, each containing three splendid engravings, with descriptive letter-press, are ever got out at the low price of five shillings, must remain among the miracles of modern publishing. In describing the "Covenanter's Marriage" we will borrow the eloquent words of the editor: "The story of Scottish persecution has been seldom more emphatically told than it has here been by the painter. The inhabitants of a village are supposed to have assembled to witness the ceremony. It is to take place in a small glen among the mountains, where to all human calculation there is security from the intrusion of enemies; each man, however, has his trusty broad-sword at hand, and watchers have been placed about the hills adjacent-not without cause; for ere all the words have been spoken, before the final blessing of the pastor has completed the solemn service, while the elder is preparing to write the names in 'the book,' and the merry bridesmaid is ready with her greeting, the alarm is given, a voice from a neighbouring rock conveys the warning of danger, and the fierce dragoons of Claverhouse are seen galloping over the not distant hill. It is easy to guess the melancholy issue. The tale is admirably illustrated, not only in its leading points, but in all its minor details. How skilfully do these groups contrast at opposite sides of the picture; on one, the young yeoman soldier woos a coy maiden; on the other, sits a widow with her orphan child; while, standing beside her, is the father of her husband, slain." We will extract from the same pages a few lines by Camilla Toulmin, suggested by the poetry of the picture : "They stand not in a proud cathedral fane, Where mellow'd light streams through each brighthued pane; Nor in the village church, whence haply mount wrong, Resistance-force to some of them belong, "Yet softer thoughts this hour their spirits steep, Than the parch'd dust, whence passion's common flower, Sown but by fortune, withers in an hour. Yes, thou may'st trust him; henceforth ye are known As streams that meet, to one bright river grown. "Twere sweet to dream oppression's clouds must part, And peaceful days shed sunshine on each heart; Yet ye are bless'd e'en now-by Heaven above, By elder's sanction, and by mutual love. Childhood is witness, and perchance shall dwell, In garrulous age, on tales it loves to tell How in those awful days the people knelt Amid the heather; how for long they dwelt Among the friendly hills; and how the dead Were buried there, and youthful pairs were wed.' Yea, in the temple that true hearts could frame, Where two or three were gather'd in His name!" MUSIC. A SET OF WALTZES ON FAVOURITE THEMES FROM THE OPERA OF SEMIRAMIDE. Arranged for the piano-forte by S. S. (Holloway.)-Some of Rossini's most favourite airs, from his popular opera of Semiramide, are here very tastefully adapted as waltzes. We are sure they deserve to be extensively known, played, and danced to; and will, we have little doubt, although the season of the Polka's triumph is anything but a favourable one in which to offer an addition to our stock of pleasant waltzes. AMUSEMENTS OF THE MONTH. THE ITALIAN OPERA. The opera season, which must we suppose be called a brilliaut one, ended on the 17th ultimo. We mean that was the last of the subscription nights; but according to olden custom, an extra farewell night was appointed for the following Tuesday, when a medley selection, one can call the one act performances nothing else, took place from Rossini's "Barbière," and "Cenerentola," varied by the third act of Donizetti's "Lucia di Lammermoor." This arrangement presented a blaze of talent, a constellation of stars seldom con gregated-Grisi, Lablache (father and son), Persiani, Moriani, Mario, and Fornasari; and in the ballet, Fanny Elssler, Cerito, and St. Leon, once more indulged in the " poetry of motion" before their London patrons. 66 Early in the month, Cerito's benefit took place, when more even than the ordinary share of enthusiasm was evinced by the audience, and the celebrated revolving step was encored. In fact, we have a strong suspicion that the ballet is often, to say the least, an equal attraction with the Opera" itself, though it may not be quite the fashion to own it. On the 10th was produced Ferdinand Ricci's long promised "Corrado d'Altamura," an Opera which first became known at Milan, about four years ago, and was afterwards played at several Italian cities with varied success, From thence it reached Paris, where it became a favourite, and now transferred to the soil of the Haymarket, it may keep its place among those lyric dramas, which please without astonishing their hearers, or kindling much enthusiasm. We must not attempt to describe the somewhat complicated plot. Grisi was the heroine, and she both acted and sang with her usual passionate expression of feeling, and was pre-eminently successful in the aria Forse ah forse," as also in "Raggio di contento." Mario, Fornasari, and Favanti supported the other principal characters, and were, with the prima donna, loudly called for at the fall of the curtain. It was certainly a generous thing of the manager to provide a new Opera so late in the season, for the varietyloving public. SADLER'S WELLS. If we except Macready's chivalrous attempt to revive something like that intellectual, poetical, and thoroughly English taste, which we are accustomed to call "a taste for the legitimate drama," we know of no undertaking connected with theatricals so interesting and deserving of general patronage as the recent and present achievements of Mrs. Warner and Mr. Phelps. It would take a volume, instead of the narrow limits of a magazine column, to enter on a subject which we think has been hitherto more fruitful in words than thoughts, we mean the "decline" of the drama; and yet most people have some pet theory of their own on the subject. Music, sculpture, painting, (and dancing, if you will) are but so many languages by which to express or embody the poetry of human emotion; to which must be added and placed first on the list the poet's deathless verse, especially that of the dramatic one. And as the interpreter of his great gift, as one who must meet the poet more than half-way, would we place the great actor as second among the glorious band whose mission is to humanize, elevate, and refine. The decline of the drama is a national disgrace, however coldly we may talk about it; there "is something rotten" in the state, depend on it. Some people, we believe, think it rather "fine" to be indifferent to a good play; it is more" genteel" to push for a place in the Opera pit, or even to sit out a succession of burlesques-and both are excel lent things in their way, as we have always had the | tentatious display, but from a sincere wish to rouse liberality to own, dearly as we love the "legitimate up the dormant energies of writers-for I will not drama," than to throw their human sympathies believe that dramatic talent is dead amongst usout at the most natural of all art's wondrous ex- and to endeavour to bring new blood into the vein pressions of human emotion. This, however, we of wit and humour, which was wont to make these do believe, that among the most gifted in the land, walls to ring again with mirth and laughter. From among the many poets of our day (do not start, the tried hands of dramatic authorship during gentle reader, if you have heard it said that we the last three years I could not obtain the shadow have not one), among those real senators of the of a comedy, either for love or money. The result land who rule through the pen, the cause of the has not been commensurate with my hopes; but drama is still warmly cherished; and with such still, while honoured with such liberal and constant friends, though it may flag and faint, it cannot supporters, I do not despair of yet producing surely die. something worthy of your encouragement, and the high character of the British. The revivals of the works of past dramatists have met with distinguished approbation; and the highly successful production of Shakspere's "Taming of the Shrew,” unmutilated and unaided by scenic effect, gratifyingly prove the public mind is still warmly alive to a fine writing and a well-wrought play. With feelings of the deepest gratitude, and on the part of my brother and sister actors, until the 30th of September next, I most respectfully, Ladies and Gentlemen, bid you farewell." This is a long preamble to what after all can be little more than a warm congratulation of the gifted and accomplished managers of Sadler's Wells. They have had faith in the people; at an avowedly unfashionable quarter of the town have they offered the healthy intellectual feast of fine plays, fittingly performed, and this at that low scale of admission, that the very humble classes are bidden to the banquet. It is no common gratification to meet an audience so well conducted-so full of just appreciation and hearty enthusiasm, as that we have encountered here; and which, night after night, has crowded this small theatre to overflowing. The philosophic Hamlet has here found eager listeners, and is at present advertised for twice a week. Macbeth, and other of Shakspere's master-pieces, are here familiarized to the people, (a great act of benevolence; for though "everybody talks Shakspere," how few read and study him!) "The Wife," by Sheridan Knowles, has also been produced, affording Mrs. Warnerin Marianne, the opportunity of realizing by far the most exqui site of all this author's creations. It was a most finished performance; more admirable, we believe, than it could have been in one of the large theatres, where a certain degree of rant and straining have so often appeared unavoidable. But every word was heard, and all the fine shades appreciated. Mr. Phelps was also most successful in St. Pierre and Mr. Henry Marston and Mr. G. Bennett sustained the characters of the Cousins most effectively. HAYMARKET. The "little theatre," where so many "great" people have often appeared, has also closed its doors during the last month. We present our readers with Mr. Webster's parting address: "Ladies and Gentlemen-In times when it is supposed the drama is in the last stage of decline, it is with more than ordinary feelings of pride that I have to thank you for the patronage which enables me to close a most profitable season, extending to upwards of four hundred nights, not having had occasion during the period to mulct the performers of one night's salary, even for a rehearsal; and I should confidently proceed without the slightest interval, but for the necessary repairs and cleansing consequent upon the length of the season, unparalleled in the annals of legitimate theatres. The offer of a prize of £500., with large contingent advantages, for a comedy illustrative of modern English manners, was made from no os LYCEUM. Burlesque has been for a long time the order of the day (sometimes when people did not quite suspect it, though of course we put this in a parenthesis to be left out at pleasure); and undismayed by the clever and successful" Aladin," at the Princess's, Mr. and Mrs. Keeley have brought out a rival one here. It is full of smart puns and comical rhymes, is assisted by beautiful and even wonderful scenery, and has all the advantages of a powerful cast. CORK THEATRICALS. Miss Helen Faucit so completely belongs to a London audience, that we may be permitted to go somewhat out of our way to follow her to Cork, and record her triumphs there. During the past month she has delighted her Irish friends by her exquisite delineation of some of her most favourite characters. Not the smallest proof of Helen Faucit's exalted genius is her wonderful versatility. Who that witnesses ber "Pauline, the Lady of Lyons," which she has made completely her own, and with which she must always be identified by those who have once beheld her impersonation of the character, can imagine by what spell it is that she lends herself to the terrible embodiment of Lady Macbeth? And surely most powerfully are contrasted Shakspere's Juliet and Rosalind? Marston's beautiful play of the Patrician's Daughter has also been revived for the purpose of Miss Faucit representing the heroine. She has the poet's heart herself, and thus it is she can so marvellously embody the different conceptions of different dramatic writers. Some remarks, however, in the Cork Examiner are so much to the purpose, that we must find space for a few of them:-" She has realized, in a full maturity, the lavish promise of her early years; and now, crowned by the approval of the empire, she revisits the scene of her former triumphs. But oh, how changed! what a glorious transition, from the clever yet inexperienced girl, to the enchantress who wields every passion of the human breast, and holds men spell-bound by her genius, for it is that. Her voice alone is a whole choir of instruments; at one time soul-searching in its whisper, thrilling in its delicious tenderness; at another, impetuous in the wild hurricane of the stirred heart's emotion. Every tone is music, every gesture eloquence; yet so unstudied, so inartificial; no rule to guide, save the inward spirit, and that is the spirit of genius. "We said before, that Miss Faucit was to make her first appearance in the character of Pauline, the fairest creation of Bulwer, that sweet blending of many virtues with one, only one alloy, pride." Scarcely in the whole range of the English drama is there one character more "beautiful, in its truth and naturalness, than Pauline, the fair, proud girl of Lyons whose single imperfection draws her the nearer and closer to our human sympathies. With a heart gushing with womanly tenderness, yet unstirred in its rich depths, and a brow gay with the innocent, playful carelessness of youth, the mind, not the heart, is tainted with that which dragged down angels from the heights of heaven. Bitter was the fall; beautiful is the repentance of Pauline, when at last, chastened and purified by sorrow, she reaps the reward of her self-sacrifice and truth. In the play of Monday night, the spirit of the author blended with the soul of the woman, to embody forth a graceful and beautiful conception. We cannot criticise the acting-must we call it so ?-of Miss Faucit; and we envy not the dull wight who could. Nature, so wayward in its beauty, and so full of change, cannot be described in the same cold, precise phrase as things merely artificial, of art. Thus it is with the acting of Miss Faucit. But can we call that acting, where the voice, obedient to every motion of the heart, wails with sorrow, and thrills with agony, or dies away in love's softest cadence? Is that acting, where the brow flushes, the bosom heaves, the mouth quivers, and the eye blazes with light or melt with tenderness? Can that be artificial, which hurries grave men, of sober judgment, into all the rash enthusiasm of boyhood? that which brings the dimning tear to the eye, and the choking gasp to the throat? If it be, then was Miss Faucit acting on Monday night, when every bosom throbbed with sympathy in the sorrows and joys of Pauline. The charm by which Miss Faucit moves the heart is not the exquisite correctness of her declamation, the varied music of her voice, the undulating grace of her movements, or the expressiveness of her gesticulation. All these, more or less physical advantages or artistical qualifications for an accomplished actress, she possesses in an eminent degree; but these, though they must please the ear and satisfy the eye, leave the heart untouched, the sympathies unawakened. What then is it? It is the gift of feeling strongly, and the power of expressing vividly." Speaking of Lady Macbeth, the same authority says "This character is, to an actress, what Macbeth or Hamlet is to an actor. Its just performance sets the seal upon her excellence. It is a difficult character, and for this reason—that a young, gentle female can have no sympathy with a terrible being, unsexed, and a monster. We can well understand how an actress, full of sensibility and womanly tenderness, made up of the weakness and strength of our common nature, can personate the proud, passionate, true-hearted Pauline, the wayward Julia, the graceful Rosalind, or the love-sick, trusting maiden of Verona; but, when a gentle girl embodies forth, in look, air, carriage, with stern eye and bold bearing, the murderous soul of Lady Macbeth, then we say, and with justice, that the actress has achieved the greatest triumph of her art. So complete was Miss Faucit's adaptation to the character, that she seemed no longer the same person. Her very features were altered.” And again "From the first sudden murderous impulse to the last scene, in which remorse achieves its victory over her undaunted soul, the character was sustained boldly, powerfully, truthfully. It was a grand performance. We cannot, however, avoid Miss Faucit. In the last scene, where Lady mentioning one fact, creditable to the fine taste of Macbeth walks in her sleep, revealing her bloodstained soul, Miss Faucit totally avoided "points," even where they could have been terribly effective; and perhaps it was this chasteness of delineation which so chilled the horror-stricken audience. For ourselves, we felt as if a being of another world stood before our corporeal senses; and we acknowledged its presence by a universal chill, as if a cold wind passed through the very heart." THE BURNS FESTIVAL. At the season when London begins to emptywhen its fashionable hundreds and well-to-do thousands and tens of thousands flit few know precisely whither, evaporating as it were from the metropolis-no small band, of all denominations, was congregated on the banks of "bonnie Doon," to offer, what after all such homage is, but a feeble tribute to departed genius. In one of the several eloquent orations the occasion called forth, the term "repentant Scotland" was appropriately used; but while Scotland and England-for surely Burns belongs to both-allow the justice of the phrase, let us feel an honest satisfaction that it is a new generation repenting of the errors of the old one. The nucleus of the never-to-be-forgotten meeting of the 6th of August originated, we believe, in the desire of a few individuals to welcome the three sons of Burns, who have long been separated by rolling oceans, once more to their native land, near the spot hallowed by the memory of their glorious father-that GREAT POET, unquestionably our truest and greatest of the century in which he lived, who was so much in advance of his age, that perforce he paid the penalty of his genius, and met with slights, neglect, and misapprehension. To be sure it was |