their neighbours. We may add to this the very curious fact that the Irish people, though certainly not less superstitious than the inhabitants of other parts of the kingdom, appear never to have been subject to that ferocious witch mania which in England, in Scotland, and in most Catholic countries on the Continent has caused the deaths of hundreds, if not thousands, of innocent women."

Nearly a quarter of a volume is occupied with an excellent account of Ireland. In the course of the book, Mr. Lecky notes some curious facts: as for instance that with the coming of the Hanoverian period, Englishmen gave up beer for gin, and that thereupon births decreased, whereas there was an increase in deaths, in poverty, crime, and dropsy. Mr. Lecky has his own opinions of many famous men, and says of Frederick the Great that he was "hard and selfish to the core, and without a spark of generosity or of honour."

"The Land of Bolivar (Venezuela)." By J. M. Spence.-Popular ignorance respecting Venezuela is described by Mr. Spence as being so universal, that the capital has hitherto been known to the average Englishman only "by the advertisements of 'Fry's Caracas Cocoa,' whilst a British Minister once accredited there is said to have spent two years in a vain search for his destination." Yet of its size Mr. Spence tries to give us a notion, by telling us that Venezuela covers the same extent of superficial area as France, Holland, Belgium, Denmark, Switzerland, Portugal, and the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. Its coast-line extends over 1,000 miles, it has three mountain systems, it is bountifully watered, it has two magnificent lakes. A drawing, in the book, of Maracaybo, gives a notion of an extremely beautiful scene. It is divided into cold, temperate, and warm districts, and into agricultural, pastoral, and forest lands. The personal narrative is interesting, and the sketch of the career of the "Illustrious Liberator," Simon Bolivar, is written with an almost infectious enthusiasm.

"The Laws of Fésole." By John Ruskin.-This pamphlet of fifty pages is only the twelfth part of a projected work. The title is thus explained: "In the centre of Florence the last great work of native Etruscan architecture, her Baptistery, and the most perfect work of Christian architecture, her Campanile, stand within a hundred paces of each other; and from the foot of that Campanile, the last conditions of design which preceded the close of Christian art are seen in the dome of Brunelleschi. Under the term 'Laws of Fésole,' therefore, may be most strictly and accurately arranged every principle of Art, practised at its purest source, from the twelfth to the fifteenth century inclusive." The system Mr. Ruskin would teach "differs in many points from, and in some is directly adverse to, that which has been for some years instituted in our public schools of art." The two charges which he brings against the Art schools are-first, their forbidding accuracy of measurement; and second, the enforcement of finished drawings in light and shade, before the student has acquired delicacy of sight enough to observe their gradations. Mr. Ruskin wishes to substitute, as elementary exercises, the drawing of elaborately divided squares, ellipses, and circles with rulers and compasses.

"Gerrit Smith: a Biography." By O. B. Nottingham.-This famous American Abolitionist, unlike most of his fellow-workers, was a rich man from his birth. His father, Peter, had been partner with John Jacob Astor

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in the fur trade, in the conduct of which they used to visit the Indian territory, which then ran up to the suburbs of Albany, the State capital of New York. He was not among the earliest Abolitionists, perhaps because his father had held slaves, and his wife was from Maryland, but contented himself with supporting the "American Colonisation Society" of Clay and his friends, till 1835. In that year he attended an anti-slavery meeting at Utica, which was broken up by rioters. Gerrit Smith and his wife went home staunch Abolitionists. He summoned a convention at once at Peterborough, and threw himself into the conflict with his usual energy. He spent untold sums in fighting the battle in the Law Courts and the Press, in buying the freedom of many slaves, and assisting the escape of many more. He broke open the prison of Syracuse, at the head of a mob, to rescue a slave named Jerry, who had been captured without a warrant ; started at two hours' notice from Toronto to act (successfully) as counsel for Anderson, a fugitive slave who had stopped at his house, and whom his master was claiming in Canada, under the Ashburton Treaty; and was the warm friend and munificent supporter of John Brown, in the Free-soil war in Kansas. So when at last, in 1852, he was elected to Congress as an Independent, beating both Whigs and Democrats, he was welcomed by Sumner, Seward, Jay, and the whole anti-slavery party as a new tower of strength. Their disappointment was proportionately great when he refused to join the opposition to allowing a vote to be taken on the Nebraska Bill, on the ground that it was a breach of principle for a minority to thwart the will of the majority (though he went with them on the final and unsuccessful division), and supported the slaveowners' proposal to annex Cuba, on the ground that annexation would be the easiest way to emancipation in the island. Moreover, he kept open house at Washington, inviting every Member of the House, Whig, Democrat, Republican, Pro-slavery man, and Abolitionist in turn, to his temperance dinners. What could be done with such a man? As the New York Times and other journals wrote, it was "mere wantonness," to send such a man to take part in practical legislation. So Gerrit himself seems to have felt, for he resigned at the end of his first year, and went back to the home where he could go to bed at nine or ten and rise with the birds. He ended his life on good terms with all parties; but "went for conciliation and reconstruction, and stood bail for Jeff. Davis."

"The Sonnets of Michael Angelo, Buonarotti, and Tommaso Campanella." Translated by J. A. Symonds.-Mr. Symonds's judgment of Michael Angelo recalls that of Wordsworth's: "His poetry," Wordsworth observes, "is the most difficult to construe I ever met with, but just what you would expect from such a man, showing abundantly how conversant his soul was with great things. I can translate, and have translated, two books of Ariosto at the rate nearly of one hundred lines a day; but so much meaning has been put by Michael Angelo into so little room, and that meaning sometimes so excellent in itself, that I found the difficulty of translating him insurmountable."

Campanella's name, unlike that of Michael Angelo, is scarcely known in England as that of a poet, and Mr. Symonds states that "until the year 1834 his poems were wholly and entirely unknown in Italy." The introduction, therefore, describing the recovery of the poems, will be found to contain much that is new to most readers. Twenty-five years of Campanella's

life were spent in imprisonment at Naples. Mr. Symonds's judgment of
Campanella as a poet is a very high one. "Between Dante and Alfieri," he
observes, "no Italian poet except Michael Angelo expressed so much deep
thought and feeling, in phrases so terse and with originality of style so
daring, and even Michael Angelo is monotonous in the range of his ideas
and uniform in his diction when compared with the indescribable violence
and vigour of Campanella." The following is termed by the translator, "in
some respects the most sublime and most pathetic of Campanella's sonnets :"-
"I fear that by my death the human race

Would gain no vantage. Thus I do not die.
So wide is this vast cage of misery,

That flight and change lead to no happier place.
Shifting our pains, we risk a sorrier case :
All worlds, like ours, are sunk in agony :
Go where we will, we feel; and this my cry

I may forget like many, an old disgrace.

Who knows what doom is mine? The Omnipotent
Keeps silence; nay, I know not whether strife

Or peace was with me in some earlier life.

Philip in a worse prison me hath pent

These three days past—but not without God's will.

Stay we as God decrees; God doth no ill."

"Charles Bianconi: a Biography," 1786-1875. By his daughter, Mrs. Morgan John O'Connell.-A very good biography indeed. The writer has her own recollections to draw upon, and she has used the greatest diligence to collect materials from other sources. Of such she has found abundance. Few men in Ireland have been better known and more respected than Charles Bianconi. He was brought over from Italy-Tregoso, near Como, was his native place-by an entrepreneur, who employed him and his companions to sell cheap pictures. At the end of eighteen months he started on his own account with a fair sum of money. After some years of a pedlar's life, he set up in business as a carver and gilder in " the Corner Shop," in Clonmel. In 1815 he started a car, the first of the numerous race afterwards so well known as 66 Bians," to run for the conveyance of passengers between Clonmel and Cahir. Fifty years afterwards, when he transferred the business, he had more than a hundred, and by that time, it must be remembered, the palmy days of coaching had long past. This was his chief ambition in life, but he had other interests. He was a fervent "O'Connellite," and as strong a patriot as if he had been a born Irishman. He did not disdain civic honours, and after the Catholic disabilities had been removed was for two years in succession mayor of Clonmel. Perhaps the most amusing chapter in the book is the account of his mayoralty. He was no roi fainéant, but carried into his office something of the energy, perhaps, it may be said, the despotism, with which he ruled his posting establishment. He had the distinction of being the first Roman Catholic mayor who ventured to wear his insignia at the Mass. We cannot resist pointing out a charming little instance of the national figure of speech. The author speaks of her husband having gone to the county of Kerry in 1868 to "rally round his nephew, The O'Donoghue, at Tralee."

"Foreign Classics for English Readers-Pascal." By Principal Tulloch.

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"Voltaire." By Col. Hamley.-Principal Tulloch gives us an able summary of the views he has derived from the best French critics about Pascal, and adds able remarks of his own. Pascal's great charm-his sincerity, is well brought out. Colonel Hamley has not the opportunity to say the same of Voltaire, of whom his account is entertaining as a short biography.

"Count Moltke's Letters from Russia." Translated by Robina Napier. From a few of the pages of this little volume we can draw a biography. Helmuth von Moltke was born in 1800, the third son of a General in the Danish service, and went with his brother Fritz as pupils to Pastor Knickbein, at Hohenfeld, in 1811. Their favourite amusement was kriegspiel, and commanding the peasant boys in mimic battles. On one occasion, Helmuth, defeated by his brother Fritz, withdrew his forces, himself covering their retreat, into a small island in the pastor's garden, which he had himself prepared with great labour, and drawing up the single plank, he was declared the victor by his father and the pastor, who had just come up in time to enjoy the manoeuvre. The good pastor preserved and planted the small fortress which is known to this day as "Moltke's Island," in memory

of the first feat of arms of the great Field-Marshal.

Six years spent under the too severe discipline of the Cadet School at Copenhagen followed, from which Von Moltke tells us he got no good, except the early habit of "accustoming himself to privations of every kind,” but his comrades testify to his diligence and power of mastering everything he attempted, and that "his zeal for duty was untiring, and his power of attaining knowledge quite unequalled." After serving as a page at the Danish Court for a year, and four in the Danish army, he followed his brothers, and became a lieutenant in the Prussian army. His parents had been ruined by the great war, and could not allow him a penny; but out of the poor pay of a lieutenant he managed "to spare enough to get myself instructed in foreign languages. But this was a very difficult operation. The lot of a poor lieutenant is indeed unenviable."

From the campaign of 1866, "a campaign," as he himself prophetically says, "which for Prussia, for Germany, and for the whole world, has an importance which it is impossible to measure,' "Moltke came back-the acknowledged first soldier in Europe. Four years later the King of Prussia had to spend the night, when the French had been driven into Metz, on the battle-field of Rezenville. "All the houses were filled with wounded; only one small room could be found for the King; and here a camp-bed was brought for his Majesty. And where is Moltke, where is Bismarck, to be quartered?' asked the King. 'Nowhere at present,' said the adjutant. 'Fetch them here,' said the King, sending away the camp-bed for the use of the wounded, and ordering some straw to be brought, of which a bed was made, on which the King, Moltke, and Bismarck slept all three together." The long years of stern self-denying work, done "cautè et candidè,” according to his family motto, had left the poor lieutenant the bed-fellow and peer of Kings. "Yes, indeed," he writes in 1866, "it is beautiful when God lights up the evening of a man's life as he has done that of King William and many of his Generals. I, too, am sixty-six years old, and I have received a reward of my life's labours such as very few attain. However hard may have been the struggles of our early life, yet verily after this campaign we old people may boast ourselves the darlings of fortune."

"Letters of John Keats to Fanny Brawne," 1819-20, by H. B. Forman.

-A book which had in some respects been better unpublished, the matter being private. But the subjoined letter, as Keats's, is worth quotation and harmless :-" Winchester, August 17th. [Postmark, 16th August, 1819.]My dear girl,-what shall I say for myself? I have been here four days and not yet written you-'tis true I have had many teasing letters of business to dismiss-and I have been in the claws, like a serpent in an eagle's, of the last act of our tragedy. This is no excuse; I know it; I do not presume to offer it. I have no right either to ask a speedy answer to let me know how lenient you are— e-I must remain some days in a Mist-I see you through a Mist; as I daresay you do me by this time. Believe in the first letters I wrote you: I assure you I felt as I wrote-I could not write so now. The thousand images I have had pass through my brain-my uneasy spirits—my unguessed fate-all spread as a veil between me and you. Remember I have had no idle leisure to brood over you-'tis well perhaps I have not. I could not have endured the throng of jealousies that used to haunt me before I had plunged so deeply into imaginary interest. I would fain, as my sails are set, sail on without an interruption for a Brace of Months longer-I am in complete cue-in the fever; and shall in these four Months do an immense deal. This page as my eye skims over it I see is excessively unloverlike and ungallant-I cannot help it-I am no officer in yawning quarters; no Parson-Romeo. My Mind is heaped to the full; stuff'd like a cricket ball-if I strive to fill it more it would burst. I know the generality of women would hate me for this; that I should have so unsoften'd, so hard a Mind as to forget them; forget the brightest realities for the dull imaginations of my own Brain. But I conjure you to give it a fair thinking; and ask yourself whether 'tis not better to explain my feelings to you, than write artificial Passion.-Besides, you would see through it. It would be vain to strive to deceive you. 'Tis harsh, harsh, I know it. My heart seems now made of iron-I could not write a proper answer to an invitation to Idalia. You are my Judge: my forehead is on the ground. You seem offended at a little simple innocent childish playfulness in my last. I did not seriously mean to say that you were endeavouring to make me keep my promise. I beg your pardon for it. 'Tis but just your pride should take the alarm seriously. You say I may do as I please-I do not think that with any conscience I can; my cash resources are for the present stopp'd; I fear for some time. I spend no money, but it increases my debts. I have all my life thought very little of these matters-they seem not to belong to me. It may be a proud sentence; but by Heaven I am as entirely above all matters of interest as the Sun is above the Earth-and though of my own money I should be careless; of my Friends' I must be spare. You see how I go on-like so many strokes of a hammer. I cannot help it-I am impell'd, driven to it. I am not happy enough for silken Phrases, and silver sentences. I can no more use soothing words to you than if I were at this moment engaged in a charge of Cavalry. Then you will say I should not write at all.-Should I not? This Winchester is a fine place; a beautiful cathedral and many other ancient buildings in the enviThe little coffin of a room at Shanklin is changed for a large room, where I can promenade at my pleasure-looks out on to a beautiful—blank side of a house. It is strange I should like it better than the view of the sea from our window at Shanklin. I began to hate the very posts therethe voice of the old lady over the way was getting a great plague. The

rons.