Our Yankee made a fair start, and had nearly completed his toilet, when he suddenly spied a tooth-brush and a box of tooth-powder in the dressing-case his companion had left open on the washstand. Upon these he pounced, and having made a liberal use of them, flung them back into the case, and sat down upon the only chair the room contained, in order to gratify his curiosity by watching how his sleeping partner went through the

same process.

Sir A -, greatly annoyed by the fellow's assurance, got out of bed, and placing the washhand basin on the floor, put his feet into the water, and commenced scrubbing his toe-nails with the desecrated tooth-brush. Jo

nathan watched his movements for a few seconds in silent horror; at length, unable to contain himself, he exclaimed

"Well, stranger! that's the dirtiest use I ever see a tooth-brush put to, any how."

"I saw it put to a dirtier just now," said Sir Avery coolly. "I always use that brush for cleaning my toes."

The Yankee turned very green, and fled to the deck, but his nausea was not sea-sickness.

This is not only a nasty story, but it is so old, so well known, and so popular among Transatlantic travellers, that we have heard at least half a dozen men tell it, and each constituted himself the witty hero of the anecdote.

"A Cruise in the Ægean," by Mr. Walter Watson, is a book we recommend to any bachelor who, at the commencement of the next autumn, may be meditating where he shall spend a couple of months. It contains just that practical information which is useful to a tourist; does not disdain to enter upon a consideration of pounds, shillings, and pence; and will be a very interesting companion in a "P. & O." or "Austrian Lloyd's" steamboat. It is occasionally a little ambitious in the descriptive style, but it contains sound useful facts, that will save money, time, and patience.

To the tourists who are just returned from Ireland, and have its scenery fresh in memory; we recommend a capital little book, called "Lake Lore; or an Antiquarian Guide to some of the ruins and recollections of Killarney." There is a great deal of learning and research in this guide-book on a new plan, and a fund of amusement brought together in a very unpretending manner. We cannot express any warm admiration of A. B. R's metrical legends; but every page of his prose gives some new point of interest to spots that have long been fixed in our memory.

Several writers follow in the wake of the Rev. Mr. Foster and others, in the somewhat dangerous task of bringing all the facts of modern discovery into exact correspondence with the records of Bible History. Of these, the principal is Mr. J. W. Bosanquet, who, in a work called "The Fall of Nineveh and the Reign of Sennacherib historically and chronologically considered," attacks Niebuhr for having taken his ideas of chronology from a

Pagan point of view, and insists that the history of Assyria will soon be as well known as the history of England. We give every credit to Mr. Bosanquet for his zeal; but before we commit the sacred historians to an identity with Colonel Rawlinson's interpretations, it would be well to wait until some formed opinion has been arrived at by the learned men of Europe as to the truth of the gallant Colonel's translations. At present there is a very general idea that Colonel Rawlinson knows nothing whatever of the Assyrian language, and that his versions of the really ancient inscriptions are nothing more than rash guesses.

The translations are, of course, very numerous, for the publishers get them at a very cheap rate. One of the most noticeable is that of M. de Saulcy's "Narrative of a Journey round the Dead Sea, and in the Bible Lands." Those who can do so should read this book in its original language; for although Count de Warren's translation is very tolerably executed, much of the freshness of his descriptions evaporates in the change of idiom. Perhaps the following account of the Dead Sea may be new to some of our readers.

From the summit of the mountain which we have just descended, this strange sea, which all writers describe as presenting the most dismal aspect, appeared to us as a splendid lake, glittering in the sunshine, with its blue waves gently breaking on the sands of the softest beach. Through the transparent water appeared a white tint which enlivened the shore. We guessed at once that this appearance was owing to the salt crystallized under the water, and, when near, we find that our conjecture is right. Are we now to be convinced that no living thing can exist on the shores of the Dead Sea, as has been so often repeated? We ascertain the contrary fact the very moment we touch the shore. A flock of wild ducks rises before us, and settles on the water out of gunshot, where they begin sporting and diving with perfect selves on the gravelly beach; rooks are flying and screaming among the rent cliffs of the steep hills which border the lake. Where, then, are those poisonous vapours which carry death to all who venture to approach them? Where? In the writings of the poets who have emphatically described what they have never seen. We are not yet five minutes treading the shores of the Dead Sea, and already all that has been said of it appears as mere creations of the fancy. Let us, then, proceed fearlessly forward; for if any thing is to be dreaded here certainly it is not the pestilential influence of the finest and the most imposing lake in the world."

unconcern.

As we advance, beautiful insects shew them

This work is really so valuable to the student of Biblical antiquities, that we regret the publisher should not have thought it worth while to go to the expense of an Index, in order to make its contents accessible. A cheap translation in one volume, with a good Index, would deserve, and would obtain, a very large sale.

Another translation is Miss Frederica Bremer's "Impressions of America," which would probably have had a very extensive popu

larity had it appeared in a shilling volume, but which is scarcely worth purchasing in the expensive three-volume form in which it is now produced. Gibbon spoke of the "Dublin Pirates" of his great work as "at once his friends and his enemies;" and there can be little doubt that Miss Bremer owes her wide popularity among us very much to the cheap price at which her tales were distributed by the pirates of Paternoster Row. We hope she will gain in purse what she loses in fame.

Come we now to the Essayists.

We are not sure that we do right in classing under this head Professor Creasy's announced exposition of the British Constitution. A A school-book on this subject is wanted. Delolme is become an absurdity; Blackstone's Commentaries on English law are too extensive, both in their subject and in their treatment; Mr. Hallam's Constitutional History of England is not digestible enough for childhood; Mr. Bowyer's Commentaries on the Constitution is an elaborate, learned work for men to study. But we want a book for boys. We have not yet seen the Professor's "Text Book," but we have every confidence, from what he has done before, that this will be worthy of his reputation, and equal to his purpose.

There is an opportunity for a brilliant article lost-lost, for ever, by that swathing-band rule of the NEW QUARTERLY REVIEW, which ostracises all controversy other than literary. Why might we not prove that Cardinal Wiseman was St. Augustine, or Dunstan, or Thomas à Becket? or why might we not prove that he is a failure, unequal to the occasion-according to our fancy or convictions? Well, we refrain; and we only dare remark upon the author of these essays, that although a cardinal and a bishop, he, upon the very head and front of every volume, reserves to himself the right of translation. Of the style of the essays we shall choose a little specimen-one which must be favourable to the author, because no Christian can refuse to go with him in the general scope of his argument. If any should differ from him, it must be a mere question of taste and style:

When Jesus was brought before Herod, he wished to see him perform a miracle, and Jesus refused to gratify his insolent curiosity. What fitting miracle could he have wrought under such circumstances? He might most justly have struck the profligate idiot with blindness, as St. Paul did Elymas; and it would have been a just judgment, as well as a true sign. [Wherein the Cardinal appears to differ from the Saviour.] Yet a sign was wrought before him, and a wonder that made angels weep

with amazement; and we see it, but that worthless infidel did not, &c. &c.

We shall not commit ourselves to any opinion as to the erudition displayed in these essays, for, in truth, we have not yet had time to test it. As a mere matter of scholarship we may perhaps deal more copiously with the Cardinal upon some future occasion.

"The Adventures of a Gentleman in Search of the Church of England" is of course a controversial squib. An individual comes back from the colonies, and looks about for the good old Church; tumbles among a low-Church family, and is stunned by the eloquence and energy of their favourite exciter; is puzzled by the learning and alarmed by the tendencies of the very gentlemanlike and profound Tractarian, Mr. Rubric; and at last finds, as he supposes, the real old Church in a country village, presided over by a country pastor.

"Church Experience," by the Reverend C. B. Pearson, is a religious pamphlet that must be considered as somewhat of the High Church school, since it recommends daily service and intoning the Liturgy. But the author also recommends an alteration in the Liturgy, so as to render the morning service shorter by the suppression of frequent repetitions. He moreover requires an improved education for the clergy, a greater number for the service of popular parishes, and an order of itinerant or home Missionary priests.

"Hebrew Politics in the Time of Sargon and Sennacherib" is a book we shall be cautious how we meddle with. Mr. Edward Strachey undertakes an inquiry into the historical meaning and purpose of the prophecies of Isaiah, and brings these historical meanings to bear on the social and political life of England. All the really sane portion of our readers

but, alas! how small a proportion of mankind are really sane-will already understand what sort of book this is. Perhaps, however, it will be as well to do here, as they do in certain inquiries at the Gray's-Inn Coffee-house, that is to say, allow the subject-matter of the inquiry to speak for himself. "Why," asks Mr. Strachey, "should Hebrew history alone depart from the law of all other histories, that the earlier events must be read in the light of the later, which are their necessary developments? Why should prophecy be honoured by making it out to be a mere verbal soothsaying? Let us entreat the reader-the Christian reader- and student of the Hebrew prophets, to dread neither of these bugbears, but to see and to reflect for himself, in the firm belief that reason and faith are ever in harmony, and that neither can ever be rightly possessed to the exclusion or neglect of the other. If the English poet of the 19th century claim

a vision and a faculty divine for his readers as well as himself, we need not hesitate to recognise a like power in ourselves for the better understanding Isaiah." (p. 106.) As we of the NEW QUARTERLY are conscious of no special inspiration, we of course feel a proper humility before such a teacher. It is, however, perhaps right to record, for the information of Colonel Rawlinson, that Mr. Strachey is of opinion that "the monuments we have from Assyria are couched in the very plainest and simplest language ;" and it is also proper to allow Mr. Strachey to state the purpose of his work in his own words-"To ascertain whether an English squire could find in the Bible any political instruction which might avail him at Union boards and County elections, and in his relation with the parson and the magistrate, was my purpose when I began the study of the writings of Isaiah many years since." Country squires should not become speculative upon prophecy-else they go mad.

We have a second volume of Lord Ingestre's "Meliora, or, Better Times to Come." It consists of twenty-one articles, descriptive of the evils existent in the condition of the working-classes. Such men as Sidney Godolphin, Osborne, Montagu Gore, and Dr. Guy, are the chief contributors; and Glasgow sewers, Paris lodging-houses, and the evils of almsgiving, are the chief subjects. The workingclasses themselves also contribute their papers; and we must say, that if the foolish people, who delude themselves that they are doing God service when they give a drunken beggar a penny, would read Dr. Guy's article, and act upon it, they would get rid of the guilt of maintaining a class of ruffians and reprobates, who, without their aid, would be obliged to become, if not honest, at least industrious.

Mr. James Hannay's "Sketches in Ultra Marine" would deserve our notice if they were

new.

The volumes, however, are but a reprint of articles that have appeared in the United Service Magazine, some of them so long as five or six years ago. In their collected form they are now dedicated to Mr. Thackeray, and are not very unlike, in their style, to that author's "Cornhill to Cairo "- lacking, of course, that quiet, subdued spirit of fun, and that oily satire, which are Thackeray's own, and which, though compounded of many imitations, are, in their compound state, inimitable.

Miss Catherine Sinclair, who plumes herself upon the authorship of "Beatrice" and "Modern Accomplishments," with a long sequel of et ceteras, has written a little book called "London Homes." We wish this lady would edit an edition of "Joe Miller" at once, and so make a clean breast of it. We do assure her

that every one of her anecdotes falls upon the ear like a grave intimation of the death of good Queen Anne. The

The novels are not very numerous. best are the shortest. Mr. Gwynn's "Silas Barnstarke" will be found reviewed hereafter. "Cranford," by the Author of Mary Barton, well deserved a special article, and would have received one, but that it has already been printed in "Household Words," and may be presumed to be extensively read and thoroughly known. Should, however, any of our novel-loving readers have missed this volume, we recommend them to send for it, and we are sure they will thank us for introducing them to Captain Brown and Miss Matty. We should be very glad if we could point out some neglected novel of undiscovered power and interest. Alas, they are all of the usual common-place. Even Comte de Jarnac's " Electra" is but a jumble of impossibilities: however, let the reader turn to the separate reviews, and see whether he can derive any promise from them.

Mr. Dickens' "Bleak House," which we have occasionally mentioned during its progress, is now completed. It is scarcely a subject for elaborate review in the NEW QUARTERLY. In the first place, it is now twenty months' old. Again, it has been read by probably every one who ever will read it; for the trick of writing, which sustains the interest of these number-published novels, renders them difficult to master in a finished form. “Bleak House" will not add greatly to the reputation of " Boz;" but there are scenes in the fortunes of poor Lady Dedlock equal to any thing the author has previously achieved; and we are not without a hope that Mr. Dickens' onslaught upon the Court of Chancery may be remembered by the wide public whom he amuses. It should not be forgotten that there are still in that Court suits more than thirty years old, and, notwithstanding all the socalled reforms, these suits seem to be as far from ultimate decision as ever.

There are, of course, multitudes of American reprints such as "Fern Leaves from Fanny's Portfolio," so fantastically feminine in its title and contents and "The Old House by the River," by the Author of the "Owl Creek Letters," a series of stories of a mediocre cast, but which have that general degree of interest that attaches to all wild tales of daring wherein wild beasts and American forests hold prominent place. There are also many such pièces de circonstances as "The Industrial Movement in Ireland" which is a very Irish account of the Cork Exhibition. But we think we have now mentioned, either in rapid review here, or more fully elsewhere, every little chick of the quarter that has had strength enough to break its shell.

THE time for an appeal on behalf of Benjamin Robert Haydon has been ill chosen. The present age has small toleration for the eccentricities of genius. There is no objection to a little peculiarity of costume; but the world expects that the tailor has been paid. You may turn down your shirt collar and shave your forehead, if it so please you; but society will not tolerate the bleat of an unpaid laundress, and the County Court will espouse the cause of the unremunerated barber. You may borrow money if you will; but your man of business will require security, just as in the case of an ordinary mortal, and your friend will expect to be as punctually repaid as if you had not an ounce of genius in your composition. Madness and genius are no longer thought to be so nearly allied as they were in the times of Democritus and of Dryden: even a poet must pay his wife her housekeeping money, or his neighbours will cry shame upon

him.

The world has become thoroughly convinced that the highest powers are quite consistent with all the household virtues. The law of Philip the Emperor is become the edict of modern society-"Poetæ nullâ immunitate donantur." As to that bona pars which

Non ungues ponere curat

Non barbam; secreta petit loca; balnea vitat― the British public is content to shun them as bad company. A modern man of genius is almost invariably a quiet-looking person, who makes close bargains with his publisher, has a balance at his banker's, and insures his life; he is seldom late for dinner, serves upon juries and parochial offices to avoid fines, and goes to bed as soon as he can persuade his daughters to leave off dancing. Such was Scott, such was Wordsworth, such emphatically Southey; despite his miserable failings, such in many respects was Moore, for he never borrowed in society, and he employed all the spare moments of his life in creating a sort of literary life insurance for the benefit of his family. Such are the men who live among us, and who will live after us-historians, novelists, painters, and poets, if any of the last there be.

was

Benjamin Haydon was precisely the contrary of all this. It is commonly said, and sometimes believed, that the Barebones Parliament entered upon the journals a syllogistic resolution, the major and minor whereof were thus expressed:

"Resolved-That the Lord hath delivered all things to the saints.

"Resolved-That we are the saints." Haydon had adopted a similar curt process of reasoning. He would have put it— "Resolved-That every thing is permitted to a man of genius.

"Resolved-That I am a man of genius." Having settled both these propositions entirely to his own satisfaction, Haydon started forth with all the single-mindedness of an apostle, making it a duty to disregard all human ties, and careless of what suffering he inflicted or endured so long as he preached his new religion-"There is but one school of art, and Haydon is its master." His father, a poor bookseller, worn down with sickness, and going back in the world, looked to his son for help; his mother, poor creature, depended upon her son for solace and protection. But the boy "would be a painter," chafed under their opposition, insulted the bookseller's customers, scorned the shop, preferred to be a burden upon the old age of his parents, and started for London.

A life thus begun in renunciation of the most sacred duties had its natural series of events, and its not unnatural conclusion. It was a constant war with every one who would not believe in Haydon. It was a constant course of victimizing every one who could be persuaded to believe in Haydon. It was a career of impudent assumption, importunate mendicancy, unmitigated selfishness, and heartless fraud. He contributed to the ruin of his father and to the misery of his mother; he robbed honest tradesmen; he fleeced and insulted his humble friends; he passed his days in writing begging letters to the rich and in staving off the just demands of the poor; he consumed his nights in querulous complaints to his Maker, which were rather the whine of the beggar than the prayer of the Christian (and which may all be summed up in one formula-" Pray God give Benjamin Haydon 3000l. a year"); he swindled his pupils by inducing them to sign bills; and having, by these and other means, extracted from the pockets of his countrymen a larger sum than was necessary to maintain himself and family in opulence-having twice passed through the Insolvent Court, and attitudinized on each occasion, without shame or contrition, as a great man borne down by misfortune, he forsook his duties as a father, as he had abandoned those of a son, and died a suicide.

It is a relief to be able to add, this Haydon was not a man of genius. His works, like those of Angelica Kauffman and Benjamin

West, afflict the beholder with a sense of ambitious mediocrity. His best picture is the His best picture is the "Judgment of Solomon," which was recently allowed a place in the British Institution, where, we presume, it was received rather as a curiosity than a masterpiece. His "Raising of Lazarus" is more properly placed upon the staircase of the Bazaar in Oxford Street. That the man has worked hard at his art can be seen at once; that there is some merit in the conception will be readily conceded; that the colouring is not very bad will also be allowed; but genius! there is not a spark nor a flash to vivify these sprawling exaggerations.

Yet Haydon was a man of very considerable talent, and people will read his book who will never care to look at his paintings. The portraits he draws with his pen are much better than those he painted. His energy was unconquerable, and forced him into all societies. His belief in himself was so sincere, that he thought the meanest act, if done for Benjamin Haydon's advantage, was a creditable action. He never felt humiliated. He would sit next a man at dinner whom he had never seen before, talk with him for an hour, and write him a note next day to ask him to lend him ten pounds. Yet he would meet the same man afterwards without a blush, praise his love of art if he had lent him the money, and perhaps

scold him if he had refused it. He had not an idea of the sensitiveness which accompanies real genius, so he pushed himself well in society, saw everybody, talked to everybody, and described everybody in his diary.

These sketches commence with his first arrival in London in 1804. Of course the ambitious student was anxious to become known to the notables of his art.

NORTHCOTE AND OPIE.

Prince Hoare called on me. I explained to him my principles, and shewed him my drawings. He was much interested in my ardour, and told me I was right, and not to be dissuaded from my plan. I flushed at the thought of dissuasion.

He gave me letters to Northcote and to Opie. Northcote being a Plymouth man, I felt a strong desire to see him first.

I went. He lived at 39 Argyle Street. I was shewn first into a dirty gallery, then up stairs into a dirtier painting-room, and there, under a high window, with the light shining full on his bald grey head, stood a diminutive wizened figure in an old blue striped dressing-gown, his spectacles pushed up on his forehead. Looking keenly at me with his little shining eyes, he opened the letter, read it, and, with the broadest Devon dialect, said, "So you mayne tu bee a peinter, doo-ee? what zort of peinter ?" "Historical painter, sir." "Heestorical peinter! why yee'll starve with a bundle of straw under yeer head!" He then put his spectacles down and read the note, again put them up, looked maliciously at me, and said, "I remember yeer vather and yeer grandvather tu: he used tu peint." "So I have heard, sir." "Ees; he peinted an elephant once for a tiger, and he asked my vather what colour the indzine

of's ears was, and my vather told un reddish, and your grandvather went home and peinted un a vine vermilion." He then chuckled inwardly, enjoying my confusion at this incomprehensible anecdote. "I zee," he added, "Mr. Hoare zays you're studying anatomy: that's no use: Sir Joshua didn't know it, why should you want to know what he didn't?" "But Michel Angelo did, sir." "Michel Angelo! What's he tu du here? You must peint pertraits here!" This roused me, and I said, clinching my mouth," But I won't." "Won't!" screamed the little man, "but you must: your vather isn't a monied man, is he?" "No, sir; but he has a good income, and will maintain me for three years." "Will he Phee'd better make 'ee maintain yeezelf!" A beautiful specimen of a brother artist, thought I. "Shall I bring you my drawings, sir?" "Ees, you may," said he, and I took my leave.

I was not disconcerted. He looked too much at my head, I thought, to be indifferent. "I'll let him see if he shall stop me," and off I walked to Opie, who lived in Berners Street. I was shewn into a clean gallery of masculine and broadly-painted pictures. After a minute down came a coarse-looking intellectual man. He read my letter, eyed me quietly, and said, "You are studying anatomy: master it. Were I your age I would do the same." My heart bounded at this. I said, “I have just come from Mr. Northcote, and he says I am wrong, sir." "Never mind what he says," said Opie, "he doesn't know it himself, and would be very glad to keep you as ignorant." I could have hugged Opie. "My father, sir, wishes me to ask you if you think I ought to be a pupil to any particular man." I saw a different thought cross his mind directly, as, with an eagerness I did not like, he replied, "Certainly; it will shorten your road. It is the only way." After this I took my leave, and mused the whole day on what Northcided in my mind that on these points both were wrong. cote said of anatomy, and Opie of being a pupil, and deThe next day I took my drawings to Northcote, who, as he looked at them, laughed like an imp, and, as soon as he recovered, said, Yee'll make a good engraver in

deed."

I walked away with my drawings up Wardour Street. I remembered that Berners Street had a golden lion on the right corner house, and blundered on till, without knowing how or remembering why, I found myself at Fuseli's door. I deliberated a minute or two, and at last, making up my mind to see the enchanter, I jerked up the knocker so nervously that it stuck in the air. I looked at it so much as to say, "Is this fair ?" and then drove it down with such a devil of a blow that the door rang again. The maid came rushing up in astonishment. I followed her into a gallery or show-room, enough to frighten any body at twilight. Galvanized devils-malicious witches brewing their incantationsSatan bridging chaos, and springing upwards like a pyramid of fire-Lady Macbeth-Paolo and Francesca -Falstaff and Mrs. Quickly-humour, pathos, terror, blood and murder, met one at every look! I expected