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The annexed will be interesting to all who have read · Kenilworth :'

“ Kenilworth Castle - a very majestic ruin; the whole not in such good preservation as Conway, or Caernarvon; but particular parts, ranges, and windows, much more perfect. It is curious that Leicester's part, the latest built, is in the most ruinous condition. The lake is drained, and the towers of the gateway, by which Elizabeth entered on the great occasion of her celebrated visit to the Earl of Leicester, are fallen. It was not the principle gate of entrance; but was chosen that she might pass by the lake and receive the homage of the fantastic water gods. This lake was on the west sidesinall stream now flows through its bed — and with that to diversify the scenery, it must, in that quarter, have presented a noble landscape. The park was formerly twenty miles round; but is now pasture and ploughed fields.

The walls of the buildings left standing are very lofty; but the ivy creeps to the very top, surmounts the loftiest towers, and spreads its living screen and soft curtaining over the richly carved windows. The banqueting hall was eighty-four feet long by fortyeight broad, and its windows twenty-seven feet high. Alas! the feast and the song are gone; the gathering of nobles and the flourish of trumpets are here no more; but instead of them, I heard a single bugle horn at a distance that came softly up arnong the crumbling walls and mouldering arches, as if to wail over their desolations; and here and there, in the court-yards, I saw pic-nic parties, carelessly seated on the grass, as if in mockery of the proud and guarded festivities and grandeur of former days. Í thought with myself, that they must be more familiar with the spot than I was, to be able to sit down, and 'eat, drink, and be merry.'

Equally vivid and interesting is the picture of sepulchral Waterloo :'

“We arrived at the field of Waterloo, nine miles from Brussels, after sunset. We ascended the mound raised in commemoration of the great engagement of June 18th, 1815. It is two hundred feet high, and has a monument on the summit

, consisting of a high pedestal, on which reposes the British lion, a colossal figure, and finely executed. From this elevation, every point in the position of the armies and the field of battle, is easily comprehended. It is now a ploughed field, with nothing remarkable about it; but bare and naked as it is, of every thing but the interest which the great action gives it, I would not but have seen it. We descended and passed through the very centre of the field – the road to Genappe leading in that direction; yes, we rode quietly through that peaceful field, where, eighteen years, ago on a summer's night -- the same moon shining that now lighted our way thousands lay in the sleep of death, and thousands more lifted up, on every side, faces marked with the death agony, and uttered wailings that measured out the long, long hours of that dreadful night. As if to complete the contrast, we heard the sound of a violin as we drove off from the battle field, and turning aside to the quarter from whence it came, observed a dance before the door of one of the cottages.

“At Genappe -- a few miles distant - beneath the window of the chamber where I slept, was the street where the retreating French raised the last barrier against the pursuing Prussians and Brunswickers. Along that street sounded the fearful .hurrah' which, as Prince Blucher's report says, drove the panic-struck soldiers of Bonaparte from their post. By the very window from which I looked, rushed the furious Prussian cavalry, which swept away the feeble barricade like chaff; and on every stone of that pavement blood – human blood had flowed. Yet now, what but these dread recollections themselves could be more thrilling than the awful stillness, the deep repose, which settled down upon that fearful spot – the moonbeams falling upon the silent walls, and upon pavements which no footstep disturbed, and seeming to consecrate all nature to prayer and love, not to wrath and destruction."

No prose pictures of Alpine scenery that we have ever seen from the pen of any traveler, English or American, stand out in bolder relief than those of Mr. Dewey. Switzerland, surely, was never better depicted. A single birds-eye passage will serve as a specimen:

"I thought it quite unfortunate as I rose this morning, that the day was overcast with clouds, and threatened rain; but the bright, fantastic mists that floated around the tops of the mountains soon presented aspects that afforded compensation for the want of a clear sky. Indeed, I had not seen the Alps before, under these aspects; for at Grindelwald it was a close and heavy veil that settled down upon them. But here nothing could be more light and airy. There was no wind sensible to us below, and it seemed as if the mist were moved by some power within itself. Now it sailed along with a majestic sweep around the mountain's brow; then it plunged down into some profound abyss, as if, like the furies, it bore a victim to the dark prison below; and again it rose up, disclosing, but shadowing, the awful depths - as it were the foundations of the world. Other clouds

floated along the mountain sides, attracting, repelling, passing and repass

ing, mingling and parting, like the skirmishing forces of an army; and sometimes meeting, they held a momentary conflict, and then mounting up, carried the aërial war into the region of clouds - unveiling, at the same time, some stupendous precipice, dark and awful, as if it had been blasted and blackened by the thunder of heaven.

How strikingly beautiful are the impressions of our traveler upon coming in sight of the eternal city :'

“On the eighth day of November, from the high land near Baccano, and about fourteen miles distant, I first saw Rome; and although there is something very unfavorable to impression, in the expectation that you are to be greatly impressed, or that you ought to be, or that such is the fashion, yet Rome is 100 mighty a name to be withstood by any such, or any other influences. Let you come upon ihai hill in what mood you may, the scene will lay hold upon you, as with the hand of a giant. I scarcely know how to describe the impression – but it seemed to me, as if something strong and stately, like the slow and majestic march of a mighty whirlwind, swept around those eternal towers; the storms of time that had prostrated the proudest monuments of the world, seemed to have left their vibrations in the still and solemn air ; ages of history passed before me; the mighty procession of nations – kings, consuls, emperors

, empires, and generations, had passed over that sublime theatre. The fire, the storm, the earthquake had gone by; but there was yet left the still small voice — like that, at which the prophet ‘wrapped his face in his mantle.'"

The reader will scarcely agree with our author that he has not described the Coliseum, and most vividly too, in the annexed paragraph :

“This evening I went to see the Coliseum by moonlight. It is indeed the monarch, the majesty of all ruins, there is nothing like it. All the associations of the place too, give it the most impressive character. When you enter within this stupendous circle of ruinous walls, and arches, and grand terraces of masonry, rising one abore another, you stand upon the arena of the old gladiatorial combats and Christian martyrdoms; and as you lift your eyes to the vast amphitheatre, you meet, in imagination, the eyes of a hundred thousand Romans, assembled to witness these bloody spectacles. Wha: a multitude and mighty array of human beings, and how little do we know in modern times of great assemblies ! One, two, and three, and at its last enlargement by Constantine, more than three hundred thousand persons could be seated in the Circus Maximus!

“But to return to the Coliseum — we went up, under the conduct of a guide, upon the walls, and terraces, or embankments, which supported the ranges of seats. The seats have long since disappeared ; and grass overgrows the spots where the pride, and power, and wealth, and beauty of Rome sat down to its barbarous entertainments. What thronging life was here then! what voices, what greetings, what hurrying footsteps up the staircases of the eighty arches of entrance! and now, as we picked our way carefully through decayed passages, or cautiously ascended some mouldering flight of steps, or stood by the lonely walls — ourselves silent, and, for a wonder, the guide silent too — there was no sound here but of the bat, and none came from withoui, but the roll of a distant carriage, or the convent bell, from the summit of the neighbouring Esquiline. It is scarcely possible to describe the effect of moonlight upon this ruin. Through a hundred rents in the broken walls — through a hundred lonely arches, and blackened passage-ways, it streamed in, pure, bright, soft, lambent, and yet distinct and clear, as if it came there at onoe to reveal, and cheer, and pity the mighty desolation. But if the Coliseum is a mournful and desolate spectacle as seen from within without, and especially on the side which is in best preservation, it is glorious. We passed around it; and, as we looked upward, the moon shining through its arches, from the opposite side, it appeared as if it were the coronet of the heavens, so vast was it - or like a glorious crown upon the brow of night.

"I feel that I do not and cannot describe this mighty ruin. I can only say that I came away paralyzed, and as passive as a child. A soldier stretched out his hand for 'un dono,' as we passed the guard ; and when my companion said I did wrong to give, I told him that I should have given my cloak, if the man had asked it. Would you break any spell that worldly feeling or selfish sorrow may have spread over your mind, go and see the Coliseum by moonlight.”

Some notion of the interest thrown around that portion of these volumes which relates to the scenes of Rome, may be gathered from a single paragraph, showing how the writer was affected by them :

"Nothing specially worthy of note calls for a record this evening. I have passed the day mostly in-doors, as it is one of the many that go to make up the very large pro

portion of the damp, cloudy, and disagreeable ones we have here. Yet every day passed in Rome seems memorable. What an event should I not have thought it, at any former period of my life, to have passed a day in Rome! I think it such still. I do not see how life can ever be common life, on such a spot. In truth, it seems as if one had no right to enjoy the common comforts of life amidst such ruins. the ruins of a world passed away — the mighty shadows of ancient glory spreading over every hill — the very soil we tread upon, no longer the pathways of the old Roman masters of the world, but the mouldering rubbish of their temples, their palaces, their fire-sides — the yet almost breathing dust of a life, signalized beyond all others in the world's great history. One feels that it would be an appropriate life here, to sit down like Marius on the ruins of Carthage -- or to burrow in the Coliseum - or to pitch one's tent alone, in the waste and silent fields, amid the rank grass or the thick and towering reeds that have overgrown so large a portion of the ancient city."

The very existence of such monuments of the past as are described below, take from such passages as the above every thing that might seem to savor of extravagance or enthusiasm :

“ As to these Egyptian obelisks, of polished granite, pointing up to the sky from almost every square and open space in Rome, and with that hand-writing of mysterious and yet unexplained characters upon their sides — what could be more striking? The antiquities of Rome are young, by their side. Some of them were built by Sesostris, by Rameses, between three and four thousand years ago. They saw ages of empire and glory before Rome had a being. They are also in the most perfect preservation. So beautifully polished, and entirely free from stain, untouched by the storms of thirty-five centuries, it seems as if they had not lost one of their particles, since they came from the quarries of Egypt. That very surface, we know, has heen gazed upon by the eyes of a hundred successive generations. Speak, dread monitors! as ye point upward to Heaven – speak, dark hieroglyphic symbols! and tell us – are ye not yet conscious, when conscious life has been flowing around you for three thousand years ? Methinks it were enough to penetrate the bosom of granite with emotion, to have witnessed what ye have witnessed. Methinks that the stern and inexorable mystery, graven upon your mighty shafts, must break silence, to tell that which it hath known of weal and wo, of change, disaster, blood, and crime!"

A passage from the description of an ascent to Vesuvius, must close our quotations:

“The guide took me to two places on the side of the mountain, where were openings, two feet in diameter, into the molten and fiëry mass of lava. It was really fearful to look down into it. There it was, within two or three feet of you, a mass like molten iron, flowing down the side of the mountain; and yourself separated by a crust of lava, not more than a foot thick, perhaps, from the tremendous fires of Vesuvius! - fires that you had read of with a sort of dread and horror, at the distance of four thousand miles from them ; fires that were burning, for aught you knew, to the centre of earth. And here you stand directly over them, and feel their heat burning your very cheek! There was another opening were the hissing was so loud and sharp that I could hardly stand by it. Smoke ascended from various points around us; and the smell of the gas that escaped from these places was extremely pungent, and almost suffocating. It seemed as if it cut the very lungs, it was so sharp. For my part, I was glad to get down ; and felt as if it were almost a tempting of Providence to be there, from motives of mere curiosity.

“I understand, this evening, that since I was there, the lava has overflowed a part of the very path on which I went up; and that the celebrated guide Salvatore has given notice, that it is not safe at this moment to attempt the mountain at all. If so, the moment of my going up was fortunate. I observe this evening, that the stream of lava is brighter and more distinct than I have seen it any evening before. It is, indeed, and without any exaggeration, a river of fire, flowing down, for the distance of a mile or two, from the top of the mountain."

In taking our leave of these volumes, we do not promise our readers that it shall be final. We have but touched a few of their prominent points, and feel that we have scarcely done them justice. The remarks in relation to religious establishments – the comparative health of England and America — the reflections regarding a proper observance of the Sabbath— the Catholic system, right of suffrage, and numerous other incidental topics, we have been obliged to pass entirely by. These portions of the work are marked by just and profound thinking, and by a spirit of Christian charity, as rare as it is edifying.

Bible Psalms. HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL Songs : adapted to Public, Social, and Family

Worship. By Subscription.

The author of this proposed work — for the pamphlet before us is but its avant courier — appears before the public in the modest capacity of corrector of abuses in sacred psalmody - in other words he has taken upon himself to improve upon Isaac Watts, whom he seems to consider a very indifferent poet, unfaithful to his text, etc. He entertains, however, quite another opinion of his own performances: his hymns are

• Marked where the soft pathetic strain

Is breathed in sighs and groaps,
And where the chorus wakes amain

It loud and cheerful tones :'
Moreover, they are

To all who sing

Messiah's King,
Inscribed by Abner Joncs.'

The author affinns that it

• Is plainly wrong

In books of song,
To have them made in prose;'

We are not disposed to dispute this point with him; and we are therefore compelled to judge him with his own judgment. Many of his lines appear to have been made by two persons playing at crambo - - a game wherein one furnishes a word, and another a fellow rhyme to it. In his preface, Mr. Jones has some sensible remarks concerning a faithful translation of the Psalms into verse; and we agree with him, when he says, with his accustomed felicity,

“That scores of stanzas might be named,

Which such copfusion bring,
They can't as Psalms be justly claimed,

Though good enough to sing :'

At the same time, it seems to us that in his attempts at sacred verse he has not vastly improved upon those whom he so sturdily condemns. Indeed, some of his emendations are divertingly impudent. Take the following for example:

''0! may my heart in tune be found,

Like David's harp of solemn sound,' might have been written as follows: the sentiment, as far as I can see, would still be the same :

'0! may my heart be tuned within,

ike David's solemn violin!')

Now and then Mr. Jones gives the thoughts of the psalmist in nervous stanzas; and there are occasional unexpected jerks of peculiar sublimity, that are quite edifying. Such is his simile, when reprehending alteration of the Psalms in paraphrasing:

* For who to paint this carthly ball,

And draw it on a map,
Would set Niagara's water fall

On Alpine's hoary cap?
Or face the rivers half about,

Invert the Northern pole;
Or leave the burping mountains out,

Wbere liquid lavas roll ?'

In general, however, he is prosaic and cacophanous; and if we might be thought worthy to advise, we should certainly suggest to Mr. Jones the propriety of abandoning his project of superseding Dr. Watts as a sacred melodist ; for with some few exceptions, we cannot better describe the choice specimens with which he has favored the public, than in his own words:

"Such vain displays of wit and skill

Are certainly most sad.'

Visit to CONSTANTINOPLE AND ATHENS. By Rev. Walter Colton, U. S. N., author

of 'Ship and Shore.' In one vol. 12mo. pp. 348. New-York : LEAVITT, LORD AND COMPANY.

Our opinion of the merits of Mr. Colton, as a gifted and graceful writer, was recently expressed at some length in a notice in these pages of his ' Ship and Shore.' In the volume before us, we find abundant proofs of the correctness of our former impressions ; indeed we consider the present in many respects superior to that delightful and popular work. It is written in much the same style; and though invariably smooth and flowing in diction, its excellence in this regard is very evidently not the result of repeated touches and perpetual pruning, but the exuberance of a full and poetical mind. The work was written, as the writer informs us, at sea, from hasty notes taken at the places of which it treats, without any aid from the observation of other travelers, or the assistance of a common guide-book, or any access to historical records — ' amid the careless noise and systematized confusion which prevail on board a man-of-war; the lively conversation of the ward-room officers in one ear, the prattle of the pantry boys in the other; the echoing tread of sailors overhead; on a table lashed down to prevent its being capsized, in a chair secured with lanyards against the force of the ship's lurch, and with the manuscript tacked to its place to escape the fate which befel the Sybilline leaves.'

Gushes of true poetry occur at not distant intervals throughout the volume; and by these we do not mean the occasional stanzas wherein the author is constrained to burst forth into song, but the deep and passionate feeling with which the prose is so often imbued. We shall not attempt a regular analysis of a book, which is but a series of random and desultory, though evidently faithful sketches, but proceed at once to justify our encomiums by liberal extracts — commencing with the annexed picture in little' of Constantinople:

“The night soon came on, attended by a silence that one could hardly expect to realize in the tumultuous heart of a mixed and crowded city. Of the thronging multitudes scarcely a footstep lingered in the streets; a deep slumber seemed to hover at once upon each habitation ; not a voice of wrangling or revelry was to be heard; and nothing remained to disturb the stillness of the place, except the startled howl of the watch-dog at the gloomy gate, and the wail of the mourner over some fresh couch of death. ascended to the terrace, which commanded a wide and diversified prospect, and there spent a solitary hour in gazing at a scene that cast on my feelings the most brilliant and mournful 'images. Beneath me flowed the Bosphorus, in a broad stream of liquid silver, and mingling its glittering line with the rich flow of the Golden Horn, as it swelled down with a bolder circle from the distant valley of Sweet Waters. Farther on rose the domes of the vast city, lifting themselves, in magnificence and beauty, into the soft light of the evening sky; while beyond slumbered the Marmora, enshrining in its pure bosom the subdued splendors of the mirrored heaven; while less remote, and in a different range, stood the long and dense grove of the Cypress, casting its solemn shadows over the turbaned tombs of thousands who had sunk to their latest rest. In that populous solitude not a bird broke into momentary song, and even the moonbeams seemed timidly still, as they stole through the darkering foliage, and faintly gleamed on the marbles of the dead. Around me lay, in unconscious sleep, multitudes for whom the insidious pestilence was preparing a hurried grave; and all, in their deep unbroken repose, were so like to that which they must finally become, that life scarcely appeared to survive in this map of death. It was as a peopled and voiceless barque, floating on VOL. VII.

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