Cabinet of Modern Arts with some exquisite Stanzas, as our only extract will show. We feel, however, that while it would give us pleasure to speak of each and all of these lovely embellishments, our utmost efforts would fail to do them justice or to convey any thing like a proper account to persons who have never beheld them. We therefore leave off, only specifying one other very remarkable production, by I. Martin. It is "Titus before Jerusalem." Here there is a world of elements and action brought within the compass of such a space as an octavo volume offers by one of its pages. There are myriads of troops, all the contrivances and engines of war, all the bold features of natural and magnificent scenery clearly and effectively represented. The production is incredibly fine and grand.

The literary department comprises sketches and poems from the pens of a variety of distinguished writers, but we miss much of the critical matter connected with the fine arts, which pleased us so highly in the previous volume. All of the papers, however, are good, several of them quite admirable. We may mention some of the popular names among the authors, and allude particularly to a few pieces. William Howitt, is like himself in his "Cottage Life." L. E. L. has "Two scenes in the Life of Anna Boleyn," that deserve a careful reading for the knowledge which they display of the human-the female heart. Mary Howitt, Miss Montagu, are also among the poets. But Mr. T. K. Harvey is the leading songster among the tuneful tribe. "The Painter's Page," by the author of the "Reformer;" and the "King's Fete" by the author of "Chantilly," are probably the best prose pieces in the volume. But to return to Mr. Harvey and to give the promised extract.

"Venice, the Bride.

"The old, wide world, amid her thousand tales,
Hath none like thine, and nothing like to thee !
A city rocking in the Ocean gales,

And sitting, like a swan, upon the sea!
Along whose star-lit domes and stately halls
Stole the strange echoes of the dim, deep caves,
While the green fairies by her marble halls,
In the still moonlight, wandered with the waves;
No whirl of wheel nor tramp of charger rang,
'Mid whispering voices and 'mid gliding feet,
The stars were lighted, and the sea-breeze sang,
And the wild wave went murmuring through her street;
And dream-like music, haunting heart and tide,
Filled all her happy nights-when Venice was a bride!
Venice, the Widow.

"And, still, that strange old city of the deep-
Paved by the ocean, painted by the moon-
Shows, like a vision of the haunted sleep,
Some heart was lulled to by a fairy tune!
But sorrow sitteth in its soulless eyes-
The same proud beauty with its spirit gone!

And-spanned to day by many a "Bridge of Sighs"-
The sea goes moaning through their flutes of stone-
Gone the glad singing in its lighted balls,

The merry masque, and serenade apart,

And o'er their own dark shadows brood its walls,
Like memories brooding in a broken heart!
And Venice hath the veil upon her brow,

Where sat, of old, the crown :-she is a widow now!"

Altogether the artists and authors who here figure, and most of whom contribute to various other Annuals seem to have outstript themselves, and to have felt inspired with the elevating and sustaining conviction that they were competing with many elegant and noble spirits,-nay, that they were called on to cope with the exalted character to which the Literary Souvenir" has attained.

66

We may remark that Mr. Watts himself has not shown himself this year as a contributor to his favourite work. He would have been welcome, in that capacity, we are sure. But, still he who has bestowed the pains and exhibited the taste, which he has done in the selection before us, has in reality been the most valuable labourer of the whole to the completion of" The Cabinet of Modern Art."

ART. XXI.-Rhymes for Youthful Historians, designed to assist the Memory in retaining the most important Dates in Ancient History, and the Principal Events in the History of England. With thirty-five portraits of Sovereigns. Fourth Edition. London: Wilson. MRS. CHAPONE has a suggestion, in her Chapter on Chronology, respecting the method of remembering eras, that has been adopted by the author of these rhymes; it is this, that "the best direction that can be given is to fix on some periods or epochas, which will at last be so deeply engraven on the memory, that they will be ready to present themselves whenever you call for them; these, indeed, should be few, and ought to be chosen for their importance; since they are to serve as elevated stations to the mind, from which it may look backwards and forwards upon a great variety of facts." And she quotes the following lines as having made a lasting impression upon her own mind :

"

Rome and Olympiads bear the same date,

Three thousand two hundred and thirty-eight.

In three hundred and sixty was Rome sack'd and torn,
Thirty summers before Alexander was born."

The author of the neat little work before us, proceeds in this fashion to make use of rhymes and dates.

There are short notes to every one of the pieces on English History, which are explanatory of the proper names used in the text. "Fourth Edition," is a notice sufficiently expressive to recommend the work to all instructors of youth.

ART. XXII.- Winkle's Cathedral Churches of England, Nos. 13 and 14. Ditto of the Continent, Nos. 11 and 12. London: Tilt. THE great recommendation of these views, besides their beauty and fidelity, is that they are by far the cheapest collection of the architectural remains of our ancestors and the middle ages that exists. In truth, they furnish not merely a splendid proof of the wonders in the art of engraving to which the intractable metal steel, has been made subservient, but an evidence that the taste and durable nature of many of the present and most magnificent works of our predecessors will continue to shed their influence upon posterity to the latest generations.

ART. XXIII.—The Daughter. A Play, in Five Acts. By J. SHERIDAN KNOWLES. London: Moxon. 1837.

"THE Daughter," partakes of the character of the melodramatic pieces, which have, of late years, composed so many of our theatrical representations; but yet it is immeasurably superior to them in point of careful construction and poetic expression. It is rather in plot and action than in poverty, feebleness, or extravagance of thought and language, that it belongs to the melodramatic school; for though the play will not rank with the highest orders of tragedy, it will add, rather than subtract from Mr. Knowles' fame as a dramatic writer. It would not be difficult to find grounds for some degree of critical severity upon the construction of the plot, and as regards the consistency of the characters; but there is far more cause for praise than censure-for admiration than punctilious correction.

The author's mannerism is very prominent in the dialogue and the poetry of" the Daughter;"-strength of thought, rather than harmony of verse distinguishes him. The heroine especially has obtained all his care, and much of the riches of his genius. The circumstances in which he places her, and the exquisite and natural expressions of woman's magnanimity, its power consisting in its tenderness, render Marian one of the finest creations of the poet's muse.

We will not attempt to give a summary or an analysis of the plot, which is rather complicate; or, at least it would require from us a sketch which would usurp the space we can afford to this notice, to the exclusion of certain extracts, which must be far more welcome. The title, "The Wrecker's Daughter," and the announcement that the scene of the whole piece lies upon the coast of Cornwall, will afford some clue to the story.

In the following dialogue, Robert, the wrecker, and the father of Marian, is preparing himself in anticipation of a storm, for his dreadful trade, when she endeavours to dissuade him from his intent.

Robert. I tell thee, Marian, not a soul can live

In such a sea as boils within our bay.

Marian. And shouldst thou therefore strip the drowned man?
O! at his death-bed, by the side of which
No friend doth stand, there is a solitude
Which makes the grave itself society !-
Helplessness, in comparison with which
An ordinary death is kin to life!-

And silence, which the bosom could fill up
With thoughts more aching, sad, and desolate
Than ever uttered wailing tongues of friends
Collected round the bier of one beloved!-
To rifle him!-purloin his little stock

Or gold, or jewels, or apparel!-take

And use it as thine own!-thou?-thou? whom Heaven
Permits to see the sun that's set to him;

Aud treasures ten times dearer than the sun
Which he shall never see!-O touch it not !
Or if thou touch it-drop it and fall down
Upon thy knees, at thought of what he was,
And thou, through grace, art still!

VOL. 1. 1837). No. 1.

K

Rob. Her mother's voice!

Her mother's words !-Here take the coil!-Put by

My boat-hook and my axe!-My Marian,

I'll not go to the beach!

Robert, on reaching the shore-his virtuous resolution having been overcome-finds a body, which he proceeds to rifle, when his daughter appears, and persuades him to renew his late promise to her.

Mar. Forswear this lawless life!-Thou wouldst not rob

A living man!-'Tis manlier to strip

The living than the dead!

Rob. This night's the last!

Mar. This night!-O, no!-The last night be the last!
Who makes his mind up that a thing is wrong,

Yet says he'll do that thing for the last time,—
Doth but commence anew a course of sin,
Of which that last sin is the leading one,
Which many another, and a worse, will follow!
At once begin! How many, at this hour,
Alive as thou art, will not live to see

To-morrow's light!-If thou shouldst be cut off
Should thy last sin be done, on thy last night!
Should Heaven avenge itself on that last sin
Thou dost repentingly!-My father, come !—
O! a bad conscience, and a sudden death!
Come home!-Come home!-Come home!

After the occurrence of this truthful and noble argument, she sees a man plunge a knife into the body, which her father has been about to rifle, and believing erroneously, that the murderer is her father, she will not say or swear to the contrary. He is arrested, committed for trial, and is condemned to die upon her mistaken evidence. Here is part of a scene that then follows:

Rob. Who gave thee

Those hands thou clap'st to me?

Mar. Thou!

Rob. I-Indeed!

And the rest of thy limbs ?-Thy body? and the tongue
Thou speak'st with-Owest thou every thing to me?
Mar. I do!-indeed I do!

Rob. Indeed! Indeed!

Thou liest! Thou wert never child of mine!

No! No!-I never carried thee up and down
The beach in my arms, many and many a day,
To strengthen thee, when thou wast sickly!-No!
I never brought thee from the market town,
When'er I went to it, a pocket load

Of children's gear!-No!-No, I ne'er was
Your play-fellow that ne'er fell out with you
Whate'er you did to him!-No!-Never! Nor
When fever came into the village, and

Fix'd its fell gripe on you, I never watch'd
Ten days and nights running, beside your bed,
Living I know not how, for sleep I took not.

And hardly food! And since your mother died-
Mar. Thou'lt kill me, father!

Rob. Since your mother died

I have not been a mother and a father
Both-both to thee!

Mar. Oh! spare me!

Rob. I was never

Any thing to thee !-Call me father!-why

A father's life is wrapp'd up in his child!

Was mine wrapp'd up in thee?-Thou know'st 'twas not!-
How durst thou call me father?-fasten upon me!-
That never gave the proof, sign, any thing

Of recognition that thou wast my child!

Strain'd thee to my heart by the hour!-parting thy hair
And smoothing it, and calling thee all things
That fondness idolising thinks upon

To speak its yearning love !-core of my heart!
Drop of my heart's blood, was worth all the rest!
Apple of mine eye, for which I'd give mine eyes,
Orbs, sockets, lids and all!--'till words grew sobs,
And love, o'er fraught, put what it lov'd away
To get relief from tears!-Never did I

Do this to thee !-why call me father, then,
That art no child of mine?

Mar. I am thy child?

The child to whom thou didst all this and more.

Rob. Thou stood'st not then, just now, in the witness box, Before the justice in that justice room,

And swor'st my life away.

Mar. Where thou dost say,

I stood !-What thou dost say, I did!—and yet,

Not in those hours thou nam'st of fond endearment,

Felt, as I felt it then, thou wast my father!

Rob. Well!-Justify it-prove thee in the right-
Make it a lawful thing-a natural thing-

The act of a child!-a good child!-a true child!
An only one!-one parent in the grave,
The other left-that other, a fond father-
A fond, old, doting, idolizing father!
Approve it such an act in such a child
To slay that father! Come!

Mar. An oath !—an oath !
Rob. Thy father's life!
Mar. Thy daughter's soul!
Rob. 'Twere well

Thy lip had then a little of the thing

The heart had over much of!