teriously came back to him, the reader must go, The perfection of the plot, however, is not mere mechanical perfection. The reader never feels that sense of general bondage which very cleverly-conceived stories sometimes excite. Incidents and characters are not seen to be working, under stress of hidden springs and wheels, to an inevitable goal. The author does not think it necessary to bring the whole of her characters on the stage, each with his bow and couplet, before the falling of the curtain. Thus the Lantern Yard episode remains dark to the reader, as it does to Silas. William Dane and Sarah pass out of sight. We have no retribution cunningly introduced as falling upon the false friend, though nothing would have been more easy than to bring William Dane again upon the stage by such an artifice. Silas makes a pilgrimage to Lantern Yard, and finds the whole place swept away, and a great factory built in its stead. We want no thunder-stroke, no gibbeting in the sight of Heaven and earth, to point the moral. The characters of the book, if we find among them none that stand forth so prominently as certain in Adam Bede, yet show, from the highest to the lowest, that originality of real nature which George Eliot never fails in seizing. What character can there be more truly humorous than that of Dolly Winthrop? Her deep, heartfelt religion and never-failing faith, with her dense ignorance of the meaning of habitual religious forms and ceremonies; her opinion of the men-"God help 'em!"; her early rising, and consequent long mornings, whereby "the clock seems to stan' still tow'rt ten;" her voluntary office of village-nursetrait after trait develops itself in her talk, and she grows into a person whom we know well. Compare her with any of Dickens's facetious characters, and mark how Dolly thinks as a woman, while Sairey Gamp, or whoever it may be, speaks, as an actress, the clever words put into her mouth. The "Saturday Review," I see, dares to liken George Eliot in some degree to Shakespeare. Surely, since Shakespeare, no one has ever had, in like fulness the divine gift of creating human creatures. Then, pretty Nancy Lammeter, in her "drab joseph and drab beaver bonnet," or in her "silvery twilled silk and lace tucker," rises before us, neat as a little bird, prim and innocent as a daisy. We see, in the firm lips and honest eyes of the little Puritan, the precision that rules her life from the smallest to the greatest matters. She has her own code-a most narrow, a most unreasonable code-of what is right. It is right for sisters to dress alike; it is not right to adopt a child when God takes away your own. She is obedient to the will of heaven; and finds that will in oracles of showers of rain. Speaking of retribution, we may make a If George Eliot's sex were not already known, passing observation on the kind of retribution if it had not been before this discernible in the which falls upon Godfrey Cass. His worship treatment of some of her male characters, I of "Favourable Chance," his creed of "Some- think no one could have failed to discover it in thing may happen," bring him, beyond all hope, the passages about the child in this book. Its safely and triumphantly out of his difficulties. happy occupation "with the primary mystery of His youthful crimes and follies pass away un-its own toes," its "wide-gazing calm," and expiated. He has his wish. He is delivered such-like matters, are "open secrets" which a from the secret torment which clung about his blind male creature could never have had the life; he is delivered from his brother; he is sense to see. free to marry Nancy Lammeter, though she had been utterly out of his reach; he does marry" Nancy Lammeter, and leads the happy, quiet, domestic life for which he is fitted. But for all this, he suffers due retribution. In the necessity for duplicity and cruelty, abhorrent to his nature; in the knowledge of the wrong that he is doing, in the keeping of the secret from his wife; in the enforced childlessness of his hearth; in his ever-increasing longing to own that which he dare not own; and, finally, in the rejection of him by the person whom he has wronged for so long, and whom at length, with contrite and humble confession, he would right-here we have the true retribution which follows his evil deeds, in the simple sequence of effect and cause, In making some observation in these pages upon Adam Bede" when that novel first appeared, we drew attention to. the author's dramatic similes. Not only Mrs. Poyser, but all the rest of the characters sprinkled their conversation with similes drawn from the objects of their daily life. In "Silas Marner" we have the same peculiarity. The butcher says, "Some are for cutting long ribs-I'm for cutting 'em short, myself;" and again," He's no meat o' mine, nor none o' my bargains." The parish-clerk says, "I was worreted as if I'd got three bells to pull at once;" and again, "There's windings i' things as they may carry you to the fur end o' the Prayer-book afore you get back to 'em." Housewifely sister Priscy says to Nancy, "You're the colour o'cream;" and again, with regard to Nancy's constancy in love affairs, "I haven't a bit o' patience with you-sitting on an addled egg for ever, as if there was never a fresh un in the world." At first sight these similes appear the most natural that could be. From whence should people take their similes, if not from the most familiar things? But in reality, I think, similes thus made are very rare. People generally do not take their similes from familiar things. The gift of seeing analogies is by no means an ordinary gift; to see them requires a mental power of abstraction which ordinary people do not possess. The truth is that, as a rule, we use none but stock similes. Clever people no doubt originated the popular sayings, "As dead as a door-nail;" "As blind as a bat;" "As clear as a bell;" "As green as grass," and suchlike; but they are commonly uttered by rote, without any sense of analogy. When people turn their attention to making similes, as Mistress Margaret does in "The Fortunes of Nigel," their first care is generally to make them, not familiar, but pretty. An ordinary ignorant person would, I think, use none but stock similes; an ordinary person sufficiently educated to set knowingly to work to discover analogies would, I think, invent pretty similes. It is evident in the narrative portion of George Eliot's books that she has naturally the gift of seeing analogies. Her similes are neither of the stock kind nor of the pretty kind. "The long pipes gave a simultaneous movement like the antennæ of startled insects;" the child gurgles before the fire "like a new-hatched gosling beginning to find itself comfortable"; the child's garments which Dolly brings to Silas are "clean and neat as fresh-sprung herbs." When we do get a pretty simile it is not introduced solely for the sake of its prettiness, as in the passage where Eppie's hair, contrasting with her white bridal dress, is said to look "like the dash of gold on a lily." George Eliot allows to her characters the gift which she herself possesses, only modifying it according to the different circumstances in which different characters are placed. Perhaps, however, those shrewder northern folks have other lights in this matter than have the dull southrons, from whose habits we form our judgment. It is to be noted that the greater the education of our authoress's characters, the less are they addicted to metaphor. We may remark, too, that Silas Marner utters no simile from beginning to end. April 18th, 1861. PERIODICALS, J. A. ENGLISH WOMAN'S JOURNAL. (London: 19, Langham Place, Regent Street; W. Kent and Co., Paternoster-row.)-The April number of this periodical is full of interesting matter. The summary of Emille Souvestre's memoir of "Bianca Milesi Mojon" is completed; so is the Editor's account of "Gheel." "Fruits in their Season" is continued, and reads as freshly and pleasantly as ever. 'High Living with Low Means" directs attention to an evil dominant in these times, and points to the common-sense modes of dealing with it. Other papers, excellent in their character, complete this very capital number. THE ODD-FELLOWS' QUARTERLY MAGAZINE. (Judd and Glass, New Bridge-street, London.)-A paper on the "Progress of Provident habits amongst the People," by Charles Hardwick, is full of hopeful and suggestive matter. Speaking of the wholesale depreciation of the working-classes, so frequently heard in what is called good society, he pertinently inquires From whom have sprung the numerous manufacturing and mercantile class that within the past three-quarters of a century has added so enormously to the wealth of this country, and the members of which now make their influence felt with singular potency in every department of social and political body, notwithstanding its respectability, has never life? Not from the aristocracy, certainly. This been remarkable for provident habits. On the contrary, it has generally contributed its fair share toward the national per-centage of spendthrifts and reckless livers. No: a large proportion of the enormous commercially-acquired wealth of England is held by men who either were in their youth themselves working men, or whose immediate progenitors earned their bread by direct manual labour. But certain gentlemen, who find agreeable employeffort of the provident operative to improve his ment in depreciating nearly every self-sustained condition, have a very convenient method of absorbing into their own class all the providentworking men who, by industry and forethought, raise themselves to the position of capitalists. They, in their nomenclature, cease to be working-men when they become pecuniarily respectable, and they reflect their virtues not upon the class from which they sprung, but upon the class to the level of which they have risen. The truth involved in these sentences adds all the more force to their quiet irony. Always practical, Mr. Hardwick enters into the statistics of savings'-banks, to show that the majority of the depositors are poor men, whose savings vary from a few shillings to fifteen pounds deposits, which have increased from fourteen millions in 1828 to forty-one millions at the present time. The author repudiates, and very justly, the too common injustice of including the whole criminal population amongst the operative classes. The article is throughout forcibly and fairly written. A pleasing sketch by Y. S. N. follows, and the Editor (Mr. George Frederick "What Pardon) supplies an essay, entitled, makes a Gentleman;" and a very interesting resumé of M. C. Cook's "Seven Sisters of Sleep." Altogether the number is a very fair one. MAGNET STORIES: "NOT CLEVER." By Frances M. Wilbraham. (London: Groombridge and Son.)-This series of juvenile tales, far from falling off in interest as they proceed, appear in an ascending scale of excellence. This story illustrates very sweetly that there are better qualities for home-wear than brilliant talents -that kindness of disposition, good sense, energy, self-command, and self-sacrifice are far more loveable and useful gifts. The character of Elsie Micklathwaite, let us be thankful, is by no means an imaginary one: many an eldest daughter in our English homes might have sat for the portraiture; but the type is worthy of universal emulation, and its value can never be too much insisted on. No girl, or boy either, but must admire and love such a sister as Elsie, whose practical sound sense is always to be depended on, and whose cheerfulness and patience, order and industry, more than compensate for the absence of showy accomplishments and ready wit. The story is an interesting one, well written, and truly excellent in purpose. JOURNAL OF THE WORKHOUSE VISITING SOCIETY. (Longman, Green, and Co., London.)-The efforts of this association have been productive of so much good in improving the condition of the inmates of our workhouses, that the journal which records its doings has a special and growing interest. We are glad to see that the condition of workhouse incurables has been considered by many influential and philanthropical persons, and a subscription opened to meet the pressing needs of this section of workhouse inmates. Through a communication from Miss Cobbe, we drew the attention of our lady-readers some months since to this subject.* and asked from them a trifling expenditure of time and money to afford a little physical relief to the sick and bedridden in these dull and unchanging wards. The need, like the poverty of the patients, is ever with us—the help will be most gratefully received. * See the February part of the publication. AMUSEMENTS OF THE MONTH. Easter has at length brought various novelties | to the metropolitan theatres. Crowded houses have repaid the endeavours of the managers, and a great variety has been presented to playgoers. Not altogether new pieces, however, have been brought forward; but, in some cases, revivals, the most admirable of which will be hereafter described. At the ADELPHI A melodrama from the French, entitled "Magloire, the Prestigiator," has been splendidly put on the stage, and is graced by Mr. Webster's fine acting. The plot is briefly this: The daughter of a Frenchwoman, Marie Duval, is adopted by the Comtesse d'Arcy. Her name is Cécile (Miss H. Simms), and she is beloved by Albert de Viellecour (Mr. W. H. Eburne). One Lanières (Mr. David Fisher), the "villain of the piece," professes to love the girl; but learns that she loves Viellecour, and that she is not the daughter of Madame d'Arcy. To prevent her marriage he bribes Magloire (Mr. B. Webster), who is a conjuror, to personate Cécile's father, which he does; but eventually discovers that the girl is really his own daughter. A burst of passionate remorse on his part follows and he defies Lanières. Cécile pines away, and is only restored by the presence of Madame d'Arcy and Albert, who have been sent for by Magloire, who restores his daughter into their hands, and prepares to resume his old occupation. The Comtesse, however, promises that he shall return to his daughter after the marriage; and thus all ends happily. Mr. Webster's performance throughout is marked with that impassioned energy which characterizes him. Mr. Toole, as Riggleboche the jester, evoked peals of laughter by his song and dance, and exuberance of fun throughout. Mr. Fisher's acting, as usual, is most excellent. A little ephemeral trifle called "The Census," has been produced, with great success. Going westward, we arrive at the HAYMARKET, Where has been revived a famous melodrama of former generations of playgoers-"The Miller and his Men." The dresses are splendid, the scenery exquisite, and the music all Bishop's original compositions. The Miller (Mr. Howe), Lothair (Mr. Farren), Karl (Mr. Compton), and Friberg (Mr. Villiers), all pourtray their several parts with energy and excellence. Miss F. Haydon and Mrs. Poynter fill the respective parts of Claudine and Ravena. Altogether it is a most attractive and capital performance. At THE PRINCESS'S, "Hamlet" has still been playing three days a week, Mr. Fechter's original and successful impersonation drawing crowded houses. We adhere to the opinion that it is a brilliant but unequal performance. On the off nights "The Hunchback," "Rent Day," and other sterling English pieces have been presented, forming a strong contrast to many other houses where French adaptations alone flourish. At the ST. JAMES'S THEATRE There has been no alteration in the bills except the production of a little extravaganza called "The Pacha of Pimlico," and a three-act comedy called "A Scrap of Paper." This house shows every sign of brilliant success under Mr. Alfred Wigan's excellent rule. Going very eastward we come to the GREAT NATIONAL STANDARD, Where Mr. and Mrs. C. Kean have been "starring," going through their usual répertoire. The night we were present "Hamlet" was played, and we are firmer than ever in our opinion that Mr. Charles Kean's personation is a most splendid, even, and incomparable performance. His soliloquies, ghost scene, and closet scene are marked with depth of thought, and impassioned strength, which never fail to elicit thunders of applause. At THE OLYMPIC, The "Chimney Corner" has been running, and producing very large audiences. In a farce called "The Little Rebel," an adaptation from the French, Miss Louise Keeley sustains the principal character with much talent. At the STRAND, Has been produced a new Easter burlesque, entitled "Aladdin ;" and as the adventures of that youth form the ground-work of the plot, we need scarcely describe it. It is full of puns and good parodies, and in that respect merits praise; but as regards plot, construction, and stronglymarked character, very little can be said. It is written by Mr. H. J. Byron; but the present school of burlesque writers is a very different one to that of Planché, and some others. Puns and dances are paramount in the former; in the latter, neatness of plot and polished wit are regarded as indispensable. With respect to scenery, dresses, and music, "Aladdin" is excellently produced. MRS. LES DERNIER'S W. R. READINGS: tertainment most likely to awaken comparison, and in which the reader exhibited the only symptoms of trepidation visible through the evening; and her admirable reading of Edgar Poe's "Raven," which followed, with its variations of feeling and paramount suggestions of hidden anguish and supernal terror, resulted in spontaneous and deserved applause, and at once set the reader right with her audience. Again : "The Bells," by the same author, with all its changeful harmonies and inflections, was deliciously rendered; while nothing could be more forcefully pathetic than this lady's declamation of Sydney Dobell's sad poem, "How's my Boy?" or more sweet and spirited than the silvery clarion of Tennyson's "Bugle Song," as her recitation of it realized the scene, and almost awoke the sounds to the senses of her audience. Her comic reading is clever, but not equal to her capabilities for giving expression to the Beautiful or Pathetic, which are further increased by the intellectual expressiveness of her looks, and the naturally plaintive cadence of her voice. Mrs. Les dernier has evidently studied the best models; and, with a little attention to the minuter points of gesture, &c., promises to become a popular exponent of the poets. VOCAL ASSOCIATION, The third concert of the season took place on POETIC the 17th ult., and, in addition to the attractions of the choir and of the singing of Miss Louisa Pyne and other soloists, had the merit of reintroducing M. Ole Büll, the Scandinavian violinist, after an absence of more than twenty years, to a London audience. The aria from Bellini's ever-favourite "Sonnambula," "Come per me," was very sweetly given by Miss Horder, one of the ladies of the choir, possessing a voice of considerable promise. Meyerbeer's grand "Pater-noster" followed, and was very finely sung. The choir have at last almost mastered the difficulties of this composition, which has always been a favourite at these concerts. Miss Louisa Pyne's singing requires no comment, especially in a song which she has made so completely her own as "The Power of Love." But the grand event of the evening was the performance of Ole Büll. The hall (which was in an uproar of acclamation on his entrance), at the first note of his violin became so quiet that had a feather fallen it could almost have been heard, so intently was he listened to. To the majority of the audience the artist's playing must have been a wonder and surprise; while to others, who had heard him while yet Paganini reigned supreme, and admired the disciple sub rosa almost better than that king of melody-runmad, it was like an hour of enchantment, taking them back to the days of their young manhood; the spell ceasing only with the last touch of the Every little while America sends us a representative of the talents of her children, to prove her inheritance of the best gifts of the motherland, and to seek amongst us that sympathy and encouragement which she so generously lavishes on English visitors of genius. Now it is a novelist who enchants us; now a poet; anon, a sculptor surprises us, or a histrionic genius, or a band of sweet singers from the "Old Granite State"; or, as in the present instance, a professor of that charming art which Mrs. Fanny Kemble, and Miss Glynn, and, yet more recently, Miss Amy Sedgwick, have so charmingly illustrated-the art of declamatory reading. To come before a London audience after these ladies is to hazard a severe test; yet Mrs. Lesdernier has accepted the ordeal, and in her first essay has exhibited unimpeachable evidences of dramatic power, pure enunciation, and poetic feeling of no ordinary quality. The programme on the evening of the 10th ult. had the usual mingling of pathetic and comic subjects. It would perhaps have been better had the selections from "Romeo and Juliet" been given later in the evening, instead of at its commencement. This was precisely the part of the en wand-like bow; for we noticed that many grave- | masterpiece "Cattle leaving a Farm-yard." looking gentlemen left the hall as soon as the virtuoso's part in the programme ended. In originality, expressiveness, versatility of manipulation, and exquisite harmonies, M. Büll fully realizes all we had heard of his wonderful performance, and surpasses our conceptions of it. To return to the other marked features of the concert: Bishop's part-song, "Sleep, gentle Lady," received the honour of an encore; and Mr. W. G. Cusins' brilliant performance of Thalberg's fantasia for pianoforte on themes from "Sonnambula," was enthusiastically applauded. Amongst the solo-singers were Miss Lascelles, and Miss Chipperfield, another member of the choir. Altogether, the concertwhich was very fully attended-was an exceedingly interesting one. FINE ARTS. Almost as soon as our magazine shall have reached the hands of its many subscribers, the fate of pictures forwarded to the Royal Academy for exhibition this year will have been sealed. We confess to some degree of interest concerning one work, though the painter is personally unknown to us, and his picture is only a portrait. But Mr. Walton's likeness of the Duchess of Wellington is no common production; nor should we have any doubt of its acceptance at the hands of the dread tribunal in Trafalgarsquare, but for the knowledge that this painter was last season the victim of a cabal. His portrait of the Duke of Malakoff was, after having been formally accepted, put aside, for no reason that the committee choose to assign. That an artist of high repute should have thus been sacrificed to what we can only surmise to have been an unworthy political feeling, is very far from creditable to his brethren in authority. This year Mr. Walton has painted the beautiful duchess whom the first portrait-artists of the day would consider it a privilege to paint; and it is the judgment of leading critics in art that his work is every way worthy the subject. We can only hope to see the graceful form and noble features of the Duchess of Wellington, as Mr. Walton has faithfully and artistically rendered them, exhibited to proper advantage in the Royal Academy. A knowledge of the modern continental schools of painting_has made some way in this country, since Mr. Lambart and others took up the subject. Among those foreign artists who are becoming familiar to the English public, none is likely to be more popular than the great Belgian cattle-painter, Eugène Verboeckhoven. We have looked with delight, on more than one occasion of a prolonged visit to Mr. Amos's Gallery, 3, Hanover-square, at Verboeckhoven's It really seems impossible to exhaust the interest of this charming representation of rustic life: since Landseer's "Halt of the Highland Drovers" there has been nothing in art that we can bring into comparison with it for a moment. Though the dimensions of the work are extraordinary, its measurement being ten feet by seven, there is not the least tendency to diffusion in the picture. Up to each of the four corners of its large extent of canvas and paint, it is so admirably thought out, that the idea of canvas and paint never presents itself at all. Nor is it in mere portraiture of human and animal form that the painting excels. The passing incidents are so linked as to give it the character of a subjectpicture. Taking, for example, the extreme right and left groups, we find a connection which may be carried through the whole assemblage of living objects. On one side a boy is playfully struggling with a female goat; and when we turn to the opposite direction, we see at once that his object is to divert the notice of the mother from her kid, which is being carried away to market. And, as in every great composition, while the whole story is treated as one subject, the episodes are numerous, and each perfect in itself. This picture, in fact, so wonderfully homogeneous, would cut up into about fifteen pictures, equally complete. There is the little subject of the boy and goat, already noticed;' there is the wooden bridge, and the brooklet beneath, on which is admirably grouped a lifelike brood of ducklings with their mother; there is the noble black bull, tossing up his broad head and eagerly drinking in the fresh morning air; there are the awkward cows, and the heifer meekly turning her head round the gate-post as she emerges from the yard; there are the sheep, and the two lambs striving with each other for the larger share of maternal caresses; there is the aged grandam with the baby in her arms; there is the young farmer, the maiden, the clod of a cowherd, the carter sitting on a large water-barrel, to which is yoked the most loveable grey Flemish horse ever painted. There is the silky little white dog jumping up at the side of the barrel, and a gem of pictorial art in himself; and there are more groups of poultry and of pigeons than we care to tire our readers' patience by enumerating. In fine, they must see the picture themselves. It is the last, we fear, that Verboeckhoven will ever paint. While engaged upon a cabinet-painting, the only work he has taken in hand since he completed the great picture we have imperfectly described, the artist was stricken with loss of sight. This calamity has caused universal sorrow in Brussels, where Eugène Verboeckhoven resides and is greatly respected; nor will the tidings be heard with indifference, we are sure, in this country, which at present contains the last and greatest work of the renowned painter. |