Fitzurse. No, not a word. "Tis likely that the King
Would give his friends to your revenge!

Archbishop Becket. Oh, what a thing is truth! we're apt to think
That 'tis an easy matter to speak truly,
And well enough for simple folk to do it.
Bnt the first intelligence, the noblest soul,
That dwells in flesh, accomplishes the first
Of ends; if, while fulfilling some mean drudgery
In life, it holds its course, deceiving no one.
I see for men there is but one ambition-
One simple end-to speak, to act, to think,
The truth.

Fitzurse.

A homily, my Lord.

We are not here to undergo

Hugh de Tracy (addressing the Archbishop's Attendants.) If he
escapes, you answer for it.

But you,

Archbishop Becket. Escapes! who dares to talk of such a word?
I came not here to fly, but to endure
The utmost malice of ungodly men,
And all their insolence may dare.
You are the very last man who should come
To threaten me, and in my own house too:
For each of you in my prosperity
Swore fealty to me of your own accord.
Is it your lord you come to murder?

[Exeunt Knights and Attendunts.

John of Salisbury. Oh, my good lord, why did you thus rebuke

them,

Whetting their rage against you? Had you now

Consulted us before you spoke—

Archbishop Becket.

There is

No need of counsel: what I ought to do

My Lord, they arm!

Archbishop Becket.
What matters it?
Michael. Methought they were quite armed enough before.
[The Ecclesiastics of his Household surround the Archbishop,
crying, The Church, my Lord; fly there, my Lord.”
I will:

Archbishop Becket.
It is a noble place for martyrdom.

[Exeunt omnes.

We cannot dismiss this volume without quoting a most touching passage, in which Henry addresses his son; it is full of poetry and pathos :

King Henry. Henry, what had I done to thee, unless

I made thy greatness grow too soon, and thus

Prepared thy fall? Oh, child, when I am gone,
And those sad days come on thee when one thread
Of memory, uncoiling from the rest,

Shall surely show thee all that may have happened
Between thyself and me-trust me, not all
The fawning tribe of courtiers can efface
One word of the imperishable records
Of the brain-and when in agony too late,
You look along this sentient, quivering line
Of conscience-stricken recollection;

What words of fire will this unholy war

Make known itself in? Oh I could weep for thee,
My son!

We now take our leave of the author, wishing him-not inaptly, we hope-a "fair stage"-he will need " no favour."

Modern Painters; their Superiority in the Art of Landscape Painting to all the Ancient Masters, proved by Examples of the True, the Beautiful, and the Intellectual, from the Works of Modern Artists, especially from those of J. M. W. Turner, Esq., R.A. By a GRADUATE OF OXFORD.

-

The object of this work is amply set forth in this somewhat lengthy title. The writer, it is very evident, is an enthusiastic admirer-nay, worshipper is not too strong a term of the artist whose name stands so conspicuously in the title-page; and, like a true idolator, he can see no faults in his divinity-Turner. Perhaps there never was a painter, in respect of whose works such extreme opinions were entertained; some inveighing against them as the wild extravagances of a madman, and others holding them up as the perfection of art. Now, it is said that the truth lies between the two extremes; but, in our opinion, the truth in this instance is far more on the side of his admirers than his revilers-for reviled he is. While we assert this, we are ready to admit that there are some of Turner's paintings, the prologue and epilogue to the Deluge, for instance, which are utterly beyond the reach of our comprehension. We have always held that the taste necessary to the appreciation of works of art is a kind of second sight, and it is not the gift of every man; but we can account for the admiration which many express of these two pictures, on no other theory than that of the existence of a third sight, a faculty denied to ourselves, in common with the great majority of those who lay pretensions to taste. And yet we have seen many of Turner's works which, though they have puzzled our philosophy as drawings, have produced magnificent engravings; hence we argue, that if the translations be so beautiful there must be, at least, equal beauty in the originals, if we were only learned enough to find it out. If, therefore, there be any truth in this test, we should pause before we attribute the blame to the artist which may belong to ourselves.

The author of the work before us, however, transcends in the measure of his praise all the admirers of Turner whom we have ever met with or heard of. "He is above all criticism," says our Graduate, "beyond all animadversion, and beyond all praise. His works are not to be received as in any way subjects or matters of opinion, but of faith. We are not to approach them to be pleased, but to be taught; not to form a judgment, but to receive a lesson." Now, it would be absurd to attempt to reason with one who takes up a subject under the influence of an enthusiasm such as is here displayed. It shuts out all argument.

While, however, we feel called upon to enter our caveat against this sweeping assumption of Turner's infallibility-assuredly a divine, August 1843.-VOL. XXXVII.-NO. CXLVIII.

and not a human attribute-we cannot refrain from pronouncing this to be a most extraordinary book. It is the work of a poet as well as a painter and could have been written by no man who is not, in the full sense and meaning of the words, both the one and the other. We never, until we had the pleasure-and an exquisite one it has been to us of reading this work, were so thoroughly convinced of the twin sisterhood of the two arts. It is the most eloquent, because it is the most poetical, volume of prose we ever read; in fact, it cannot be called prose: it is the pure gold before it has been fashioned by the artificer; it is poetry without the fillagree work of rhyme and

metre.

It is impossible for us, in our allotted space, to go fully into the merits of a volume of more than four hundred pages, on such a subject; the utmost we can attempt is, by an example of the startling éloquence of the work, to justify the eulogium we have ventured to pronounce upon it.

The author, in justification of his preference of modern over ancient landscape painting, says:

"And if, in the application of these principles, in spite of my endeavour to render it impartial, the feeling and fondness which I have for some works of modern art escape me sometimes where it should not, let it be pardoned as little more than a fair counterbalance to that peeuliar veneration with which the work of the older master, associated as it has ever been in our ears with the expression of whatever is great or perfect, must be usually regarded by the reader. I do not say that this veneration is wrong, nor that we should be less attentive to the repeated words of time: but let us not forget, that if honour be for the dead, gratitude can only be for the living. He who has once stood beside the grave, to look back upon the companionship which has been for ever closed, feeling how impotent there are the wild love, or the keen sorrow, to give one instant's pleasure to the pulseless heart, or atone in the lowest measure to the departed spirit for the hour of unkindness, will scarcely for the future incur that debt to the heart, which can only be discharged to the dust. But the lesson which men receive as individuals, they do not learn as nations. Again and again they have seen their noblest descend into the grave, and have thought it enough to garland the tombstone when they had not crowned the brow, and to pay the honour to the ashes, which they had denied to the spirit. Let it not displease them that they are bidden, amidst the tumult and the dazzle of their busy life, to listen for the few voices, and watch for the few lamps, which God has toned and lighted to charm and to guide them, that they may not learn their sweetness by their silence, nor their light by their decay."

Our readers will perceive that we have dealt with this volume as a work of literature and not of art; in fact, it could only be dealt with in the latter point of view by an artist, and one of no mean grade. We have not allowed our admiration of the author's powers of the pen to betray us into any recognition of his opinions on the subject of painting; our sole object being to invite attention to a volume of what we hold to be true poetry in the garb of prose.

Felix Summerly's Hand Book for the City of Canterbury; its Historical Associations and Works of Art; with Illustrations, and a Map of the City.

In these days of Hand Books and Guides, it is impossible, go to what quarter of the world you will, to miss your way, and it will be your own fault if you do not see all that is to be seen. Mr. Felix Summerly, of happy name, is a most agreeable travelling companion, and his ubiquitous faculty is quite wonderful; we meet him at Hampton Court, Westminster Abbey, the Temple Church, and the National Galleries, and find him a most useful and intelligent cicerone. Our author appears disposed to take the good citizens of Canterbury to task for their non-appreciation of the treasures by which they are surrounded, and opens his work by an earnest appeal to the authorities" for the protection and preservation of the still existing noble antiquities of Canterbury." He suggests, and with great point and propriety, the formation of a "Canterbury Camden Society," whose object should be the protection of the remaining specimens of ancient art in the city.

The Illustrations are numerous, and exceedingly well executed.

Poems. By HENRY H. METHUEN, Esq., B.A.

Ushered in by a somewhat awkward preface, we have here a volume of poems, which, in these prosaic and utilitarian days, springs up before us like a fountain in the desert. There is much graceful thought and poetical vigour in many of the specimens here given of the author's powers; but they bear not the stamp of equal merit, and one can scarcely imagine some of the feebler pieces to have been from the pen which could produce the following.

"Some glimpses of a paradise will shine,

Like the first streak of morning on the heart;
O Slumber, when thine arms a babe entwine,
That smiling sleeps, how beautiful thou art!
How pure must be the dreams that float across
Their youthful minds, as fair winged insects fly
Above a sunny lawn of turf and moss,
And pass life's troubled sea without a sigh:
But yet how dismal to an o'erwrought mind
Are visions of the night, which like a train
Of furies to the wheel their victim bind,
Peering their phantom faces o'er the brain;
And tearing from each other sleep and rest,
As heat from light, till death again shall link
The two together, when the labouring breast
Into its last low bed of dust shall sink.
And Music! yes, thou art of heavenly birth,
So magic are thy workings on the soul;
Pilot of human passions! sure not earth
Could give to thee that wonderful control!
Which for each end can pour some thrilling tone,
For mirth and sorrow, as for peace and war;
And softly make the doubting heart thine own,
The peasant's cottage and the warrior's car

All nature has its melody; the breeze
That whispers softly, and the lowly rill,
The thrush amid its canopy of trees,

With their wild music each our bosoms fill;
Then there are loftier sounds; the bursting storm,
When wind and thunder in loud concert speak,
With angry waters, and a chorus form

So terrible that few its grandeur seek :
Such things arouse the mind as from a sleep,
(Though sleep can never stay its wand'ring course,
As the volcano rages 'neath the deep,

Which quenches not its fire but checks its force.)
They rouse the mind, and wake a holy fear,
A feeling, as it were a voice from God,
Who speaks by nature's wonders to the ear,
And o'er the vengeful tempest holds his rod.
The body may awake, yet like a dream
The workings of the soul be wild and fierce,
When madness to the eyeball gives a gleam,
Which lights not up the soul its rays may pierce;
But scorches, as a raging fire at night

Scours o'er the waving crop, and leaves a wreck;
For a short space the darkness yields to light,
Then double gloom atones for that brief check.
O'er the calm mind what happy thoughts will glide,
Like messages of hope which mercy gave,

As stars at night lie mirrored on the tide,
And make a heaven beneath the silver wave.
My couch! on thee in silent solitude

What fairy scenes have shone, and passed away;
What visionary joys and hopes have stood
Before me, like the meteor's glancing ray,
Which vanishes in heaven's depths, nor leaves
A trace of what it was; thus o'er the dream,
Which may not be recalled, the spirit grieves,
Rememb'ring still how brilliant was its beam.
When all beside are sleeping, then I love
To wake amid the gloom, and let my mind
Be wafted from this earth to things above,
And 'mid futurity a pathway find:
There is a feeling in the midnight hour,
Which rouses in the breast a holy awe,
As there were present then an unseen power,
Whose influence made our icy hearts to thaw:
'Tis then that anguish, like a coiled snake,
Darts from her lair, and plants her venomed fang,
And conscience on her gloomy throne will wake
In guilty bosoms then her sharpest pang:
There days of bliss in mem'ry smile again,

With all the charms recalled which once they wore,
As cheering and as light as summer rain,

Upon the mind their happy thoughts will pour:

Till sleep steals softly o'er us, as a cloud

Floats o'er the moon, and each fair scene retreats,

As ships grow faint on ocean's circling shroud,
Till one unruffled sea the vision meets."

There is also much spirit, beauty, and harmony of versification in the poem entitled "Babylon," which we cannot refrain from quoting.