This love, which lives over all, determines her in making a last effort to regain his lost affections by a letter, beseeching of him a last interview, if it be but to say it is the last.

The letter is an affecting appeal, and has many beauties; among them, this simile, describing the progress of her passion: "In thy smile I grew,

Like the fond sun-flower in her monarch's view."

Leontio decides upon seeing her again; and midnight witnesses his departure. The solemnity of the hour, the lonely solitude of the place, and the sadness of his purpose, all prepare his mind for unpleasing reflections; and the desolate grandeur of the apartments through which he passes, where no sound greets his ear, but the echo of his own unsteady footstep, have half unmanned him; when led on by the reflection of a light from a distant chamber, he enters a saloon, where nature and art have strived together in adorning its lofty apartment, and dressing forth the table in regal luxury; a magnificent girandole illumines the chamber, and discovers to his horror-struck eye an elevated dome in the distance, under the canopy of which sit enthroned two figures; one of them bears the likeness of Helena, the other is the image of her father. In an instant, the latter is hidden by a falling curtain, and Helena rises, "sable robed and pale," to fall with excess of emotion into the arms of Leontio;-for a moment he is subdued; she seizes the opportunity of assailing his heart by drawing aside the curtain, and showing him the battle-scene in which her father died; at the same time reproaching him gently, as she directs him to the semblance of her sire, for withholding the parent's blessing. Then, appealing to his affections, he basely justifies himself, and blames her too softly yielding: and, attempting to clasp her in a wanton embrace, swears that he loves her still: but she springs indignant from his arms, and disclaims his love for ever. Then he who never yielded in battle-field, shrinks beneath the vengeance of a woman's eye.

"Never before he'd faced a woman's hate:

And that subdued him."

She snatches a dagger from her sable vest, and is in the act of striking the perjured villain, when her woman's heart o'ercomes her, and she falls senseless at his feet.

"The thought was murderous, but she could not kill."

The description of night in a licentious city, and its contrast with the innocence of the same season in the unpolluted village, with which the third canto is ushered in, is, perhaps,

the best passage in the poem; and we are half prepared for the recital of some dreadful crime, when the mangled body of the proud and beautiful Leontio, Velasco's future heir, comes like a blight upon our vision. Who has done it? The boatmen acknowledge having rowed the hapless Leontio for double fare across the river, and suspicion lights upon Helena. The unfortunate daughter of Don Miguel is dragged through the streets of Seville: all lips are mute, or say, "it cannot be !"

"So splendid her attire, the moving scene

Was most like Roman pageant,- she that queen
Who graced the triumph of Aurelian."

With downcast eyes, she stands before the cold, ostentatious dignity of official importance; the letter and dagger are shown to her-what, though it be bloodless?-it is her's. She stands condemned; and the poor ill-fated daughter of Don Miguel, pleading nothing but innocence, is hurried to the damp and loathsome walls of the dungeon, which shall only open to enclose her in one that none can open.

The anxious suspense of the gentle Inez, cautiously kept from the dreadful path, and her consequent distraction, when, by a careless menial 'tis broken to her, are pathetically conceived; as is the prison-scene between the poor condemned one and her aged confessor, who has left the walls of his convent to administer consolation to her parting spirit. But the day of execution comes-the signal for silence in Seville:

"From San Paolo's neighbouring spire there stole
One deep bell's long and melancholy toll:
As tho' it would not with a louder chime,
Tell forth the' doomed one's infamy and crime:

*

She kneel'd to pray:

Then saw they her with flowing hair uprise,
Like some fair vision on their wondering eyes;
One look upon the splendid sun she cast,-
An aching look-she knew it was her last:
Then kiss'd the crucifix and stooped her brow,—
There was no whisper in the crowd below:
Then saw they nothing-only heard the stroke,
As it fell dead and heavy on the block:

And silence reign'd, and horror all around,

Nor sought one voice to break the hush profound."

We had almost forgotten a passage describing the funeral procession of Leontio, which deserves considerable admiration; it is full of solemnity, breathed in a tone of feeling we had hardly expected from a female pen.

The sequel of the story relates the confession of a dying man to the aged priest of Helena, confirming the innocence of the hapless victim of a misplaced passion. He had been a favoured suitor at Velasco's house, till the coming of Leontio, -he saw their mutual passion, and vow'd revenge.

"'Twas done-not by this hand, but by this heart,

I 'scaped the vengeance of the law,-one fell

Of my foul crime, the victim innocent."

Having already exceeded the limits we had prescribed to ourselves, in our notice of the first and larger poem, we must be brief with the remaining.

Sappho, a dramatic sketch, like almost all poems of that kind, has much that looks like poetry; but we are happy to say, that Miss Garnett's has something more. We have only room to extract one or two examples.

Describing the moon setting in the western main, she has this beautiful simile:

"Where in the ocean's haze, her blushing brow,

As in a bridal veil she did conceal."

In the speech of Megara, speaking of the contemptuous reception of Sappho by Phaon

"And yet the while

He look'd so beautiful in his high scorn,

Bearing him like to a triumphant god,

That I did fear to love while I abhorr'd him."

SAPPHO.

Give me the lily,-'tis a flower I love;

For it seems to me, 'midst its bower of leaves,
Like a pale pensive spirit who doth hide
Her sorrow from the gorgeous and the gay:
And when the zephyrs with their prying touch,
Profane the crystal chalice, doth shed tears."

But to make Sappho speak in every thing like herself, were a dangerous talent; and one, which we congratulate our authoress on not possessing.

Timon and Diogenes are well blended in the character of Hipparchus, the misanthrope.

We cannot help letting him speak a little.

Interior of the Cavern.-HIPPARCHUS, alone.

"This seems thee well, stern monarch, now thou speak'st
Unto the heedless in a voice which they,

E'en they, must hear.
Thou glorious furnace!

Flame on-flame on,

vomit forth thy fires

Puff from thy nostrils pestilence and plagues,
And with thy vast disgorgings purge the earth.
Thy pangs do make sweet music in my ears:
I joy to hear thy mighty depths resound
With their internal ragings; and I fain

Would have them mingled with the dying groans
Of perishing thousands. Strike him on the plain,
Who tarries mindful of his numerous flocks-
Him of the city, ere he reach his home-

The sinner, and the wretch who would have siun'd;
And oh! that thou would'st crush the despot's throne,
And smite him midst the scorpions that surround him;
The sycophants, the courteous, courtly things,

*

That lick the dust of thrones, themselves more servile.
Smite them amidst their purple and their gold,
Their revel, and debauch, and midnight treason,
And let then stand enchased in molten dross,
Eternal monuments of courts and crimes."

In another scene, Sappho admires his courage that can sit down unavenged.

HIPP.

"All things avengé me.

Time, in bis sullen course,men's crimes, which roll

Back on themselves; my heart which never plays

The traitor to itself, but curses all

Bearing similitude to him that wrong'd me,

With never ceasing and relentless hate.

And I have made a solemn league with him,
Who rules the burning fount, and sends e'en now
Congenial signs.-

A few miscellanea wind up the volume: but we must here dismiss our notice of Miss G.'s book; which, particularly in the sketch, evinces considerable poetical fertility of mind; and we could not help, as we closed the pages, ejaculating with a bachelor-like tenderness, "when shall we two meet again?"

Description of a Railway on a new Principle; with Observations on those hitherto constructed, and a Table, shewing the comparative Amount of Resistance on several now in use: also an Illustration of a newly-observed Fact relating to the Friction of Axles; and a Description of an improved Dynameter, for ascertaining the Resistance of Floating Vessels, and Carriages moving on Roads and Railways. By Henry R. Palmer, Civil Engineer. With Plates. Second Edition, revised.-J. Taylor. 1824.

Remarks on Steam Navigation, and its Protection, Regulation, and Encouragement; in a Letter to the Right Honourable William Huskisson, Treasurer of the Navy, and President of the Board of Trade. By Thomas Tredgold, Civil Engineer.-Longman, Hurst, and Co. 1825.

HAVING observed the favourable mention of Mr. Palmer's railway, in a treatise on Railroads and Carriages, by Mr. Tredgold, which we reviewed in our last Journal; and Mr. Tredgold having made several quotations from the experiments therein detailed, we were induced to procure the work, that, from a careful perusal, we might form an opinion of its merits. The passage alluded to, is the following:

"The railroad invented by Mr. Palmer is of a novel and ingenious kind. The carriage is drawn upon a single rail, the surface of which is raised about three feet above the level of the ground, yet is supported by pillars placed at equal distances the average distance apart being about nine feet. The carriage consists of two receptacles or boxes, suspended one on each side of the rail, by an iron frame, having two wheels of about thirty inches diameter. The rims of the wheels are concave, and fit to the convex surface of the rail; and the centre of gravity of the carriage, whether loaded or empty, is so far below the edge of the rail, that the receptacles hang in equilibrium, and will bear a considerable inequality of load, without inconvenience, owing to the charge of fulcrum from the breadth of the rail, which is about four inches. The rail is also made capable of adjustment, so that it may be kept straight and even. The advantages of this arrangement consist in its being more free from lateral friction than even the edge rails; and, the rail being raised higher above the ground, it is much less liable to be covered with dust or any extraneous matters likely to affect the motion of the carriages. Also, where the surface of a country undulates considerably, a rail-way of this kind may be made without cutting to level the surface, except so far as is necessary to make a track that a horse can travel in.

"When horses are employed, a track-rope is required, which ena