than the name of the eminent man who has made this touching contribution to the cause of humanity. Yet the name of the Honourable Charles Sumner is one of note amongst his compatriots, a name which, if not loved by the great majority of the citizens, stands high in the affectionate esteem of that increasing portion of them who hold slavery to be the curse and opprobrium of their glorious country. Looking at the geographical condition of the states of Barbary, where the slavery of Christian captives was formerly the source of such horrors, and looking then to the western side of the Atlantic, he finds the principal slave states of the American Union, and the ancient Christian slave states of Africa, occupying nearly the same parallels of latitude at opposite sides of the ocean. He then compares the climate and natural productions of the two regions; observing that "there are no two spaces on the face of the globe, of equal extent, which present so many distinctive features of resemblance;" and he appeals to all the better feelings of his fellow-countrymen whether they will continue to recognise the "peculiar institution" of the Moors and Moorish Turks, viz., that of Christian slavery, as the "peculiar institution" of a great, enlightened, religious, philanthropic, justiceloving community like that of the United States. Mr. Sumner argues the principle, and elaborates the comparison, with great zeal and eloquence-with a zeal, indeed, which will perhaps be considered, by the less enthusiastic class of abolitionists, rather to exceed the legitimate limits of strenuous advocacy of a good cause.

Memoirs, Journal and Correspondence of Thomas Moore. Edited by Lord JOHN RUSSELL. Vols. III. and IV.-LONGMAN and Co.

On the appearance of the first portion of this magnificent monument to the memory of a great poet, we took occasion to express our high sense of the value and interest of the work, and of the able manner in which Lord John Russell had acquitted himself of the somewhat limited amount of literary labour which he appeared to consider adequate to the fulfilment of the editorial duties he had undertaken. The present volumes contain a large quantity of the Diary, and little besides; for the noble editor has become yet more sparing of his exertions, whether in the way of classification or annotation. Anything written by Moore possesses an interest per se, so racy, pointed, and illustrative were all his thoughts and words. But it is exceedingly to be regretted that in a work of this grave nature-a work designed to endure, and to be read by future generations-Lord John Russell could only find time for a few brief and unimportant notes, and a single tolerably long one. This circumstance detracts from the value of that which, notwithstanding, is in itself very entertaining, and very likely to last after (possibly) even "Don Carlos " may be laid on the shelf. The society of which Moore was the idol was so preeminently of that caste which is conventionally termed "the best," and the persons he visits, dines with and describes are in general of such mark, that it would be difficult to open a page in which something inviting to perusal is not to be found. But the prominent point in the two volumes before us relates to the negotiations, misconceptions and mystifications connected with the suppression and destruction of Lord Byron's celebrated Autobiography-a subject which has excited, and will perhaps continue to excite, no little discussion in literary circles. In the concluding volumes we hope to hear more from Lord John. With sincere appreciation of his exalted position as a statesman, we would beg respectfully to assure him that the discharge of the duties involved in editing such a work, relative to such a man, would be a task not unworthy of that high position.

The Comets: A Descriptive Treatise upon these Bodies; with a Condensed Account of Discoveries. By J. R. HIND.-J. W. PARKER and SON. THE Comets! What a subject of precipitate terror to the worthy housewives and venerable philosophers of old-of sublime contemplation to the inquisitive, know. ledge-seeking speculators of later ages! How often has our poor little planet been threatened with approximate destruction by a whisk from the tail of one of these mighty wanderers through space-wanderers, however, not ad libitum or by chancework, but, probably, according to laws as fixed as those which govern the revolutions of the solar planetary system-no, not quite so fixed as these, for M. Arago terrifies us with the calculation that the probability as to our being consigned to everlasting smash" by one of these formidable visitants is only as 250,000,000 to one in our favour; and we are likewise informed that "the earth has had one or

two narrow escapes within the last two centuries." In fact, several of the huge bodies in question have approached unpleasantly close to the earth ere they have thought proper once more "to wheel about" and retrace their journey through illimitable space. Mr. Hind, whose astronomical eminence is well known to all. the world, has produced one of the best practical treatises which have yet appeared on the subject-a treatise which comprehends the largest body of facts and of definite theory, intelligible to general readers, who have neither time nor qualification for abstruse study. As a specimen of the happy perspicuity of his style, as well as of the incredibly extensive bases on which astronomical calculations are founded, we take the liberty of extracting one short passage:

"The tails of comets in some cases extend only a few hundred thousand miles from the nucleus, while in others they are projected to the astonishing distance of one hundred or one hundred and fifty millions of miles, or even more.

The train of the first comet of 1847 was 5,000,000 miles in length; of the beautiful comet of 1744, 19,000,000; of the comet of 1769, about 40,000,000. The third of 1618 had a tail more than 50,000,000 miles in length, when it crossed the plane of the earth's orbit about the 25th of November; and it was subsequently of greater extent. The great comets of 1680 and 1811 had trains considerably more than 100,000,000 miles long; and the second of the latter year was accompanied by a tail 130,000,000 in length. Even these comets, however, were surpassed by the grand one which attracted so much attention in 1843, and which exhibited a brilliant train that on different dates was found to attain the enormous distances of 150, 180, and 200 millions of miles from the head. If such a comet had been in the plane of the ecliptic, and close to the sun, the train would have extended far beyond the orbits of the Earth and Mars, terminating amongst those of the minor planets. Yet this wonderful appendage was formed in less than three weeks."

So that the fate of the world has been more than once almost decided by the power of "a tail." It used to be said, some years back, by Tory politicians, that England stood alone in that particular; but it now turns out that we only share the predicament in company with all our co-planetarians. Mr. Hind's book is essentially valuable-"popular" in the high and true sense of the term, and must tend to spread still further a reputation already great and extensive.

Personal Incidents of the First Burmese War. By T. R. CAMPBELL, late of the Bengal Civil Service.-R. BENTLEY.

No work relating to Burmah can fail to attract some degree of attention just now, when the "progress" (as it is termed) of the present unnecessary, unprofitable, and, in some respects, unjust war, causes so much discussion amongst the numerous persons who pretend to be well acquainted with the intricate "ins and outs" of the Oriental question generally. Indeed, the Burmese entanglement forms an essential portion, and is just at this moment one of the most pregnant illustrations, of the great controversy which embraces the entire scope and compass of our Indian policy. It is impossible to doubt that the policy of annexing foreign territory is as favourite a speculation with some well-meaning gentlemen amongst our Anglo-Indian brethren, as it is with Mr. President Pierce and the majority of our transatlantic cousins. There are men brought up in a "certain school"-men of good sense in many ways-possessed, too, of prolonged experience, and of integrity and honest principle in all matters where their prejudices are not involved, who consider that our mission in Asia will not have been accomplished until we have ape propriated the whole coast as far to the north-east as the Yellow Sea.

Whilst the destinies of 100,000,000 of human beings are awaiting the fiat of a virtually irresponsible body of officials residing 10,000 miles off, and scarcely one of whom has ever been farther south than the latitude of the Straits, we hail with pleasure the appearance of every book which, in a candid and intelligent spirit, touches, however cursorily, the high considerations of morality and duty involved in our dealing with the enormous population over which we rule in Asia. Mr. Robertson, when he alludes to this subject, usually does so with fairness and perspicuity, but it is to be regretted that he does not enter into the matter with the analytical precision which his knowledge and experience would enable him to apply to it. He might have occupied his pages much more usefully than in the relation of maudlin anecdotes concerning that most untrustworthy of all counterfeit heroes-Mr. Rajah Brooke-a person on whom such fulsome adulation was lavished some years since, when he "visited" England for the purpose of promoting his own selfish interests, but with whose practices and deservings we have been made pretty

well acquainted, thanks to the courageous truthfulness of three or four members of Parliament. Full of interest and instruction are the reminiscences of the political antecedents and consequences of the first Burmese war-full of hints usefully suggestive as to our future proceedings in that quarter.

Narrative of a Journey Round the World, with a Visit to the Gold Regions, &c. By F. GERSTAECKER.-HURST and BLACKETT.

A BOOK of wild and interesting adventure. M. Gerstaecker is an enterprising German, who, leaving home at an early age, found himself in the United States without any resources save those comprehended by a stout heart and elastic temperament. That his constitution was somewhat restless will be inferred from the fact that in the course of no long period he embarked in some dozen different callings. But his true disposition was that of travelling "to see the world," and this disposition he appears to have gratified, at no matter what amount of sacrifice of pecuniary considerations. The narrative of his journey across the continent of South America-including a winter passage across the Andes-is of the most exciting of its kind. Then we have accounts of the gold regions both in Australia and California, of a voyage amongst the South Sea Islands, and sundry other matters, comprising altogether a book eminently calculated to be read, if not quite so certain of being credited in every one of its particulars. Our traveller is positively a man of fertile fancy as well as of minute memory; and there are numerous passages which must be admitted to emulate anything "recorded" by the renowned Monsieur Violet himself. Nevertheless there is a considerable amount of really reliable information that may be profitably read by persons desirous to increase their store of facts with respect to what they may expect to gain, and what they must make up their mind to endure, in parts of the world which are at present attracting an unprecedented degree of attention. The verbal style is usually terse and lucid; and it is only fair to say that whilst, with regard to things not passing under his immediate observation, courteous credulity is now and then extensively taxed, there is much appearance of a regard for accuracy where the traveller gives us facts on his own direct authority.

Eighteen Years on the Gold Coast of Africa. By B. CRUICKSHANK. 2 Vols. HURST and BLACKETT.

MR. CRUICKSHANK's mind is evidently of that stamp which can convert the most unfavourable circumstances, and the most prostrating influences of climate and situation, into materials from which useful and improving knowledge may be derived. It was no small triumph over danger and difficulty to have passed eighteen years amid the horrors of such a climate as that of the Gold Coast-a triumph such as few men have had the fortune to accomplish and live to tell the story of their formidable experience. The amount of information-new, strange and startling, but bearing unmistakable indications of authenticity-which Mr. Cruickshank has been enabled to accumulate, proves him to be a man of observant and accurately critical genius; and it is moderate to affirm that no other writer has furnished the world with anything distantly approaching to the same amount of practical and valuable knowledge in connection with the country itself, and with the not unamiable tribes of savages who inhabit it. The evidently heartfelt earnestness with which, devoid of all pretentious ostentation, the author devotes himself to the advocacy of the interests of the aborigines, speaks abundantly of the sincere benevolence which actuates his pleadings on their behalf. On the plan which he propounds for the extinction of the slave trade, we do not feel our own knowledge of the subject sufficiently familiar to justify us in pronouncing a positive opinion; but we at once perceive him to be a writer whose integrity is entitled to implicit confidence, and whose every suggestion must command respectful attention. There are some profoundly interesting passages relative to the circumstances attending the death of Mrs. Maclean (the gifted and lamented "L. E. L."). All our readers will remember the sensation created in every literary, and indeed in every intelligent circle in Great Britain, when the news of that distressing event reached home, and the rumours circulated far and wide in relation to the alleged causes of the occurrence. The entire tone of Mr. Cruickshank's allusion to the subject is of the most generous kind.

USED-UP CLASSICAL ALLUSIONS.

A GREAT many of our daily and weekly writers are what is called classical scholars. They have been at public schools and universities, and their heads are crammed full with Grecian and Roman history and mythology—fuller, perhaps, than of the records of Europe in general and their own country in particular. They are fuller of Homer and Ovid and Tacitus and Livy than of Domesday Book and the venerable Beda, the Saxon Chronicler, and Geoffrey of Monmouth. The chances are ten to one that they know more of the contest of the Greeks and the Trojans than of the wars of the Roses, and they can tell you more of the Metamorphoses of Ovid than of the changes in the constitution and the condition of England. There may be some doubts in a few minds as to which sort of knowledge is the more useful; but as to the general opinion there cannot be any doubt. Classical knowledge is "respectable," and a little over. It shows, if not rank, at all events the breeding which belongs to rank; and he who can fish up a respectable comparison between the invasion of Britain by the Romans, or between Caesar's Commentaries and the Despatches of the Duke of Wellington, is likely to be looked on as a much more creditable authority than he who cannot draw analogies from the same source. A great many weekly writers, it is true, are not "classical," but the estimation to which we have alluded ensures that they shall follow in the wake of those who are more fortunate. If they cannot draw upon their own erudition for a stock of analogies, they can at least imitate those who can. If they have not been at "the feast of learning" themselves, they have at all events stood behind the table and "stolen the scraps;" and so it happens that we can scarcely take up a paper, or a magazine, without tumbling over some fragment of ancient lore, twisted fancifully to illustrate some event of modern times.

We are not at all learned ourselves, heaven knows. We picked up our education somehow and another in stray particles (not Greek particles). Voracious we are, indeed, after mental food of any kind; but there is just the same difference between us and a thorough-bred university scholar, as there is between the pig which pokes cabbage-stumps out of the gutter, in a miscellaneous and precarious fashion, and the porker which is regularly fed in its own proper stye. We feel our own inferiority deeply. We have quite as much reverence for the man who can tell us in the language of old Rome how the geese saved the Capitol, as we have for the geese who performed that important office; and he who can read in the words the ancient Greeks used how the Athenian mob ostracised Aristides the Just, takes almost as high a place in our thoughts as the ostracizers themselves. We bow down before such superior minds with all the timidity which so well becomes our own weakness. We are sensible, that destitute of their advantages, we can never hope to rival them. We dare scarcely venture to express a judgment as to either the matter or the manner of their lucubrations; but still, as connoisseurs who never handled a brush venture deeply into the mystery of light and shade and perspective, and are bold enough to criticise such great masters as Raffaelle and Titian, perhaps such tyros as we are in literature-the minnows of the ocean of thought-may be excused by the Tritons of the occan aforesaid if we venture upon an opinion about the classical allusions they make use of.

We do not know how it is-in our ignorance how should we indeed-whether it is that ancient history is deficient in available instances, or the acquaintance of those who refer to it is more limited than we dare to suppose; but it certainly does seem to us that a good many of these comparisons are growing wondrous stale. We have heard somewhere of a man of limited memory but keen appreciation of wit, who, when he heard a funny story, would laugh heartily at it first and then observe that he thought he had heard it before. We are constantly in the position of that man, when we perceive the efforts of the classical writers. We are always falling over something we have heard before. It has happened so often that now we decline to fall over them again. When we see one of the old stock-phrases in a column of print we have a knack of skipping it and passing on with a conviction that we know all about it. If familiarity does not breed contempt, it at all events kills curiosity. We have not much more liking for a threadbare thought than for a threadbare coat; and, however we may be forced into unwilling companionship with the last, we can at all events avoid the first. There is, for example, our old acquaintance Marcus Curtius, who every body knows jumped into the gulf to

VOL. III.

W

save Rome. We have positively a dread of that old friend. We have seen him so often that every feature seems present to our memory. We know him better than Brown or Jones whom we can see any day. It is all a mistake to suppose that Marcus Curtius disappeared for ever down that pit, that opened and could not be closed except upon very hard conditions. If his body did, and left not "a wrack behind," as Shakspeare has it; his spirit abides restlessly upon earth and is ever and anon evoked by one of our journalists to furnish forth a simile more or less apt. He is called up, as it seems to us, without due regard to the greatness of memory, indifferently alike upon small or great occasions. If a politician gives up place in order to conciliate two jarring parties, at once Marcus Curtius is brought into use to afford a parallel for the deed, and we have an article beginning, "When the abyss which threatened to destroy Rome yawned before the affrighted citizensthere was but one man who dared to sacrifice himself for his country's safetyMarcus Curtius," &c., &c. Poor Marcus Curtius! Why cannot they let him alone? It was a great deed of magnanimity to give his life for the salvation of his country; but the feat would have been greatly enhanced if he could have known that he was devoting his memory to such uses. We fear that Marcus Curtius, brave as he was, would have shrunk from becoming a stock comparison for modern hands. We think he is disgracefully ill-used and shamefully hacked about, and we entreat those who have so often routed him out of his grave to let him repose for a little while. in pity-if not for him, at all events for us. We are heartily tired of Marcus Curtius, or at all events of the use that is made of him, and we shall be glad to see him decently interred for a generation at least-after that period he may perhaps rise again like a giant refreshed, and give new strength to the writings of the year 2001.

When we get rid of Marcus Curtius, we hope to leave off passing the Rubicon. We are always passing the Rubicon, or being called upon to see somebody else pass it. Considering how often it has been passed, the Rubicon ought to be as well bridged as the Thames. Since Cæsar performed that feat, heaven alone knows how often his daring has been imitated. Looking back a few years, we find that that heaven-born minister, Pitt, crossed the Rubicon time after time; and while he was crossing it, Buonaparte was constantly crossing it also. Later, our Wellington crossed the Rubicon when he marched against the French in the Peninsula. Subsequently Peel crossed it in the course of a great many of his political acts. O'Connell was always going across the Rubicon, and back again. Lord John Russell has more than once ventured on the passage, and Cobden and Disraeli have followed the ancient example; and there is scarcely a man, who, if the journalists may be trusted, has not at some time or other waded through its waters. There positively seems no end to the wading; people in much lower spheres perform the same act. Johnson can't get married without somebody saying he has crossed the Rubicon; and Jackson cannot enter into business without some classically disposed friend making the same remark. If we might be so presumptuous as to risk a suggestion, it would be that the Rubicon has been crossed quite often enough. It ought to be let alone for a time. Its waters must be getting quite muddy with being so disturbed, and its bottom so thoroughly stopped up that gentlemen can hardly hope to get through it without muddy boots. That might be a small matter to the sandalled, bare-legged Romans, but in these days of trousers and patent leathers, it is a more serious consideration. We hope, for everybody's sake, that for a little while somebody may be allowed to do something without the passage of the Rubicon being called in question.

We should very much like to know why "the Ides of March" must always be supposed to be coming as a retributive era? Would not the critical division of the session do as well as "the Ides of March" for Ministers to dread-or the next election for representatives who have abused their trust-or quarter-day for the truant who has not got his rent ready-or the last of the three days of grace for the man who has been putting his name to a bill? All of these times may happen upon the Ides of March, but the chances are vastly against the contingency, and therefore we ask why the Ides of March always, and never any other time? We should prefer a new period for the good as the bad time coming, if allegory must be used, just for a change, if we may not have a more liberal and comprehensible mode of expression. We should be glad to be informed as well, why foes must always meet "at Philippi?" We question if half of them know where Philippi is or was. We should think Battersea Fields, now that the perennial fair which used to flourish there is cleared away-or Wimbledon Common, or Wormwood Scrubbs-much more appropriate and business like if their notions are warlike; or the Courts of Queen's