and steersmen of steamboats, who are the chief authorities consulted by travellers. The antiquities of the Highlands are of the most interesting character. Passing by the many grey castle turrets" that have for so many ages frowned on now deserted villages and abandoned harbours, each of which has a story to tell of power, and of those over whom that power was weilded; passing by the still older subterranean dwellings to be met with in so many parts of the country, Iona itself affords a most instructive subject for the study of the historian and the antiquary, of all interested in the progress of society, which, like the tide of the ocean, seems ever advancing, and yet as regularly retrograding; or, like the alternations of day and night, shining only to be again obscured. Iona was, beyond question, “the luminary of the Caledonian regions," and more than this, extended the "benefits of learning, and the blessings of religion" to countries far beyond the utmost borders of Caledonia-to England and often to France and Italy, where many pupils of St. Columba became distinguished teachers of science and of religion. But while these facts are matters of history, there is really very little known hitherto of the College of Iona, except that it sent forth many learned and pious men; or of the subsequent condition of the island, except that, like so many places in the east, and in the west, the glory gradually departed from it, and that poverty, ignorance, and desolation covered it with the pall of forgetfulness. It is with pleasure, then, we hail this attempt to direct attention to a subject interesting to every scholar, and more especially to every British scholar; and Mr Maxwell " deserves well of the commonwealth for his contributions to this object. He does not enter extensively, or minutely into the questions which we would wish to see discussed, but the notices are interesting, and well fitted to suggest further thought and inquiry. There are two points belonging to the present to which Mr Maxwell calls attention, and on which we trust his voice will be heard by those who have the power to remedy the grievances which he so properly denounces,-First, The utterly mean, beggarly spirit displayed by the ragged urchins of Iona, who carry their clamorous importunity for the sale of their pebbles, or for "bawbees" without any exchange, so far, as to be a thorough pest to all visitors; Second, The neglected state of the Cathedral, and more especially of the tombs, which is a reproach, not only to the proprietor of the sainted isle, but to the whole of Scotland. Glad as we are, however, to see any intelligent work on Iona, we must speak in condemnation of one habit indulged in in these pagesthe applying Scripture phraseology to the most common and trivial subjects, a practice involving as great an offence to good taste, as it is painful to true religious feeling; and we trust when the book reaches a second edition, this will be remedied. We can speak of the numerous etchings that illustrate the work, in terms of unqualified commendation. Their fidelity of outline, and neatness of execution are admirable. Then the whole "getting-up" of the work-paper, type, etc., is most creditable to the taste of the highly respectable publishers, who are doing much to illustrate the various scenes of interest visited by travellers to the Highlands. This little work will prove a most interesting companion to all who wish to become acquainted with the ruins of Iona. RECOLLECTIONS OF A VISIT TO PORT-PHILIP, AUSTRALIA, IN 1852-55. By William Wilson Dobie. Glasgow: Thomas Murray & Sons. THIS interesting book opens with a description of the voyage from this city to Melbourne, and pictures very vividly, and often with a good deal of humour the scenes on board. Melbourne is described as it was during the Australian mania. There is a picture of Bush life, and a sketch of the appearance of the country during the different seasons. The great attraction of the book, however, is the very striking delineations of character which it contains. The auther has evidently been an attentive observer of what he saw. The Bushranger, the Squatter, his workmen, the "Angels," the little doctor, the aboriginal blacks; and, in short, every character or class whom the author meets with, is sketched off in a very graphic manner. The description which he gives of the mode of life in our rising colony, is certainly very far from enticing, and we fear, that if put into the hands of intending emigrants, would induce many of them to reconsider their purpose. It seems, however, to contain evidence of being a faithful representation of the real state of the country. The literary merit of the book is considerable. There are some dashes of genuine humour, but there is likewise a straining after witty sayings, and some wretched attempts at punning, which detract very much from the esteem we would otherwise accord to it. We regret that our space does not permit us to extract a number of the interesting sketches of life and manners, but we must refer to the book itself. We select one. DR. SYNTAX AND SIR ASTLEY COOPER. "The black fellows had to be coaxed into working humour. One of them, called Dr. Syntax, was my head-man; and it was only by means of donations and of tobacco and old clothes, and the promise of big one money,' that I could get him on with the work. He would philosophise on the inutility of the work in which he was engaged, and, with all my reasoning, I could scarcely bring him to admit that white fellow was not big one stoopid to plenty work like it that along o' garden.' The prospect of money was the Doctor's most convincing argument for digging up the weeds. He would sometimes suggest a little grog as a great stimulus to active exertion, and would suck over any quantity, with sparkling eyes and the most profound relish, making the spade move in double quick time while the exhilaration lasted. While Dr. Syntax was engaged in his horticultural labours, he was visited by numbers of his sable friends, who came to help him to do nothing, for whenever they appeared the Doctor_dropped his spade like a hot potato. Among others came Dr. Cooper, or, as I used to call him Sir Astley Cooper. His salutation to me was always, 'Well, ma boy!' which he accompanied with a laugh that opened his mouth from ear to ear, and showed a good set of grinders. To a question which he was not ready with an answer, he would reply, with an air of easy indifference, I din know,' and upon receipt of a bit of baccy he would express his complete satisfaction by the flattering compliment meant for my brother and myself, that there was no gammon along o' two fellow Dobie.' POEMS AND LOVE LYRICS. By Robert W. Buchanan. Glasgow: Thomas Murray & Son. This little volume of poems is by a young man belonging to this city, and he states in the preface that, with one or two exceptions, the contents were penned before he was sixteen years of age. We think his friends committed an error in allowing him to publish his book at the present time, as it contains but too many things which ere long he would of his own free will have obliterated. Among the recent productions of our minor bards generally there is one feature which we have noticed, and which seems to us a very objectionable one. We mean the custom of writing chiefly about women who have "loved not wisely but too well." This seems to be the staple article of manufacture with our young poets, and we can scarcely light upon any of their books which does not contain some spasmodic pieces of this kind. That a young man under sixteen should make use of such materials so freely seems to us very objectionable and improper. Passing over this, however, and the occasional use of too strong language, we find some very good poetry in Mr. Buchanan's book, and had he only been judicious enough to wait a few years, we doubt not he would have sifted the good from the bad, and presented us with a very acceptable volume. As it is, the book gives promise of something yet to come which will be highly creditable to the young author. He has evidently a good imagination, and a power of expression which will do him service. Several of the pieces are expressive of the genuine fire, and in such of them as contain a plot, it is good. We shall look with some degree of interest for Mr. Buchanan's next effort. A CITY SONG. 1. Nature speaks when no one heedeth in the traffic-crowded street, Nature speaks not in the city by the voice of wood and river, But she speaks by human spirits, in their torment that do quiver In their hard ignoble labour, with a respite never-never Hark! she speaks. That groan which issued from some heart, that passed me by, Was her voice of indignation, rising ere the poor heart die. Tush! 'twill be cold stone to-morrow, then 'twill toil without a sigh. II. Night is standing in the city, like a preacher darkly dress'd, Lo! they hurry on their victims to their hideous sacrifice. III. Nature speaks and no one heedeth, for she speaks in groans so quiet. Glasgow, 1857. W. D. |