EPISTLE TO TIME. TIME! thou rude relentless power, Thou heartless churl! perdition take thee! That once with such intenseness burned? Why leave the light of Myra's name To blaze o'er blighted charms inurned? Why her once magic form divest Of sceptred love's heart-thrilling power? And why, O Time! with scythe nublest, Cropp'st thou life's passion-flower? Why from the throbbing bosom take The aspiring hopes that revell'd there, And in their purple palace wake Pale thought and heart-corroding care? Why in thy reckless flight invade Youth's towering strength and beauty's bloom, And cast, while yet in light arrayed, The shadows of their coming doom? And is it thine, stern power, to wake The slumbering heart from dreams of bliss, And ere to other worlds we take, Blight every joy that beams on this? And tell me, tyrant, can it be That love's soft light on Ellen's brow, Or wax as dim as that is now? TIME'S ANSWER. VAIN mortal! cease thy idle strain; Where clouds and darkness lower. At my unceasing flight: A flight which e'en to thee may bring, Man's mortal race to Time must yield→ It is life's dark inglorious lot, And pass unfelt away. Earth's dreams of bliss, love, glory, power, What are they? pageants of an hour, Which touch'd, dissolve in gloom. All cower beneath my withering wings- The beautiful, the brave; The despot and the slave. O'er rolling worlds to man unknown ; E'en death before me bends ! Yet shall my course in heaven be run, This world shall press the funeral pyre, But o'er creation's smouldering pile, New York Mirror. REMARKABLE DREAMS. A THERE are various classes of dreams, which present interesting subjects of observation. One class includes those in which a strong propensity of character, or a strong mental emotion, is embodied into a dream; and by some natural coincidence is fulfilled. murderer, mentioned by Mr. Combe, had dreamt of committing murder, some years before the event happened; and Dr. Abercrombie received from a distinguished officer to whom it occurred, the following history; in which a dream of a very improbable kind was fulfilled, ten years after it took place, and when the dream was entirely forgotten. At the age of between fourteen and fifteen, being then living in England, he dreamt that he had ascended the crater of Mount Etna; that, not contented with what he saw on the outside, he determined to descend into the interior; and proceeded accordingly. About the top, there seemed to be a good deal of flame and smoke; but a short way down, all was quiet; and he managed to descend by means of steps, like the holes in a pigeon-house. His footing, however, soon gave way; and he awoke in all the horrors of having nearly suffered the fate of the philosopher Empedocles. In the year 1811, being then a captain in the British army, and stationed at Messina, he made one of a party of British officers, who proceeded to visit the top of Mount Etna. By the time they reached the bottom of the cone, several of the party became so unwell, that they could proceed no farther; but this gentleman, accompanied by two other officers, and two guides, proceeded upwards; and, after a severe scramble of several hours, they reached the summit, in time to witness the rising of the "After having rested for an hour," said the officer," and had something to eat, I said to my companions- We are now on the top of this famous crater; why should we not pay a visit to the bottom?" I was of course laughed at; and on applying to the guides to know if they would accompany me, they said- We have always heard that the English are mad; but now we know it.' I was not, however, to be put off; and, being strong and active, determined to go alone; but Captain M. at last agreed to go with me. The guides would not assist in any way. The circumference of the crater is about three miles outside; the interior is like a large amphitheatre; with an area of about an acre, I should say, at the bottom. It is only towards the upper lips of the crater, that sun. smoke now issues; no eruption having taken place from the bottom for very many years. At one particular part of the crater the matter had given way, and slid down; so as to form a sloping bank to the very bottom. To this point we proceeded, and found our descent easy enough; and without much difficulty, or any great danger, we stood in the course of an hour, to the no small astonishment of the guides, on the very lowest stone on the inside of the crater of Mount Etna. In the centre is a lage hole, like an old draw-well; partly filled up with large stones and ashes. Our ascent was tremendous, and the fatigue excessive. I suppose we were at least five hundred feet below the lowest part of the upper mouth of the crater; and as our footing was entirely on ashes, and stuff which gave way, the struggle upwards was a trial of bottom, which I believe very few would have gone through. We reached the top much exhausted, but very proud of our achievement; and we had the satisfaction to learn at Catania, that we were not only the first that ever went down, but the first who had ever thought of it. When in bed that night, but not asleep, the dream of ten years back came to my recollection for the first time; and it does appear to me remarkable, that I should have dreamt of what I never could have heard of as possible; and that ten years afterward, I should accomplish what no one ever had attempted, and what was looked upon by the natives as an impossibility." To this part of the subject we are to refer those instances, many of them authentic, in which a dream has given notice of an event which was occurring at the time, or occurred soon afterward. The following story has been long mentioned in Edinburgh; and there seems no reason to doubt its authenticity. A clergyman had come to this city, from a short distance in the country, and was sleeping at an inn; when he dreamt of seeing a fire, and one of his children in the midst of it. He awoke with the impression, and instantly left town on his return home. When he arrived within sight of his house, he found it on fire; and got there in time to assist in saving one of his children; who, in the alarm and confusion, had been left in a situation of danger. Without calling in question the possibility of a supernatural communication in such cases, this striking occurrence may perhaps be accounted for on simple and natural principles. Let us suppose that the gentleman had a servant, who had shown great carelessness in regard to fire, and had often given rise in his mind to a strong apprehension that he might set fire to the house. His anxiety might be increased by being from home; and the same circumstance might make the servant still more careless. Let us farther suppose that the gentleman, before going to bed, had in addition to his anxiety suddenly recollected, that there was on that day, in the neighbourhood of his house, some fair or periodical merry-making, from which the servant was very likely to return home in a state of intoxication. It was most natural that these impressions should be embodied into a dream of a house being on fire; and that the same circumstances might lead to the dream being fulfilled. For further information on this interesting subject, we refer to Dr. Abercrombie's able work on the "Intellectual Powers;" from which we have extracted the preceding anecdotes; and which we shall lay under contribution in our future remarks on this interesting department of science. N. R. Manners and Customs. SKETCHES OF PARIS. The Theatres. The uncom It is no wonder that the French are for the most part poor, and astonished at our wealth and luxury. Their whole minds are so wrapt up in an endless untiring pursuit of pleasure, that they make this the first occupation of their life; and if they earn enough in the morning to carry them to a café or a theatre in the evening, they are thought to be doing well, and think so themselves. fortable arrangements, and unsettled state of their own houses, drives them to places of public resort, and hence every species of amusement thrives at Paris, no matter how great the number of attractions for its idlers. There is likewise a frivolity in the generality of their pleasures which accords well with their light careless temperament-you could imagine that omelette soufflée and meringue à la créme were favourite dishes with them. They have little thought of to-morrow, but as long as they can dance and sing, and ride in roundabouts on the Sunday, that constitutes their happiness, and they think Monday may look after itself. This is the principal reason why there are so many theatres in Paris-why they all fill, and all pay. The French have little idea of amusement within themselves, and no domestic concerns to engage them: they require constant excitement, or their vivid spirits, which always seem up in balloons in their brains, react upon themselves, and engender a gloomy mood of sentiment, that finishes in the Seine or the Morgue. Something in Paris must be the rage-if the Opera does not produce a grand spectacle, with glittering processions and incidental ballets, they must have a revolution, which has the advantage of real horses, combats, and conflagrations; and if the Theâtre Français does not give birth to some new star to glitter in the dra matic hemisphere, they make a lion of their own in the first criminal that attempts to shoot the king, or declare himself to be the rightful heir to the throne of France. A new play with them is a matter of serious import, the newspapers fill their feuilleton for days with comments concerning it, and anecdotes connected with its representation and authorship; and the people forget their dinners, and go in shoals to wait hours at the doors, in order to obtain even standing room. There is no fuss about "the legitimate drama at Paris. The same crowd will sit with breathless attention during the performance of one of Moliere's comedies at the Theatre Français, and when it has finished, applaud it to the skies, (at least they would do so if the roof of the theatre did not intervene,) and then go and literally scream with delight and admiration at a féerie at the Porte St. Martin, wherein a wicked knight is turned into a cockchafer, and the good prince sticks a gigantic pin through him and sets him flying, to the air of Hanneton vole! vole! vole! the French version of our "Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home!" our own. There are, however, many arrangements in the manner of conducting the French theatres, which would be beneficially transferred to In the first place there is no pushing and crowding at the opening of the doors. All as they arrive are marshalled in pairs behind one another, by the Municipal Guard in attendance, and they sometimes form a tail of most imposing length. Then again, you may leave the theatre whenever you please during the performance, and your seat is sacred until your return; a glove or a handkerchief placed on it shows it to be engaged, and no one would think of occupying it, or appropriating what you have left to their own use. We do not think this custom is general in the continental theatres, at least we recollect having a serious riot with some Italians, in the pit of the great theatre La Scala, at Milan, who took the seats of some friends of ours during the interval between the opera and ballet, and on their return refused to give them up. So far, however, the French are honest-they will cheat you in dealing every way they possibly can, but they will not rob in the downright pick-pocket style of England. The finest theatre in Paris is the Operawe know it better by name in England, as the Academie Royale de Musique. It has long been famed for its costly decorations, and the superb style in which its pieces are brought out. La Muette de Portici, La Juive, Robert le Diable, Les Huguenots, Guido and Genevra, and Guillaume Tell, have been, and still are, amongst their most favourite operas, and Le Diable Boiteux, and La fille du Danube, are played as ballets. The scenery is also of the most exquisite kind, -the views of the Chateau of Chanonceaux, in les Huguenots, and the Ruined Convent, with the rising of the nuns in Robert le Diable, are admirable. But while we are writing, a gloom has been cast over the opera which will not easily be dispelled. Adolphe Nourrit, its most favoured singer, la plus belle voix de France, has committed suicide at Naples. Annoyed at the opposition which the authorities offered to Polyencte, an opera composed expressly for his fine powers by Donnizetti, and hissed after performing Pollio in Norma, he returned home and threw himself out of window. He was only six- and - thirty, handsome, accomplished, and amiable; beloved and admired by all who enjoyed the pleasure of his acquaintance. To give the reader an idea of the perplexity of choosing your place as a stranger in a French theatre, we add the name of the different parts of the house at the Opera, with the expenses of each-most of the other theatres of Paris follow the same plan. We are sure the French have no proper idea of Shakspeare, although they have translations and adaptations of his plays. A French gentleman, whom we were acquainted with in Paris, a talented and wellread man, who spoke English fluently, said to us one day, "You should go to the Ambigu-Comique; there is a play acting there now, quite in the style of your Shakspeare." Acting on his recommendation we went, but we will confess we did not see where the analogy lay. The name of the piece to begin with was not thoroughly legitimate: Les Chiens du Mont Saint-Bernard-a regular Adelphi melodrama, with real dogs of the Convent. The plot was very meagre, but the machinery extremely well arranged. The scenery was likewise good-the awful Gouffre du Diable on the Alps, and the Hospice itself, were the most effective we ever saw, and when, ten days afterwards, we stood amongst the eternal snows of the real Convent, we were forcibly struck with the fidelity of their views. There has been lately a singular number of plays performed in Paris founded upon English subjects. Amongst them are Le Sonneur de St. Paul, at the Gaité; Lady Melvil and La Popularité, at the Renais sance; Les Trois Dimanches, at the Palais Royal; Le Crasseur de Preston, at the Opera Comique, and some others.* Some of the mistakes committed in them are ludicrous enough, for there are not many French authors thoroughly conversant with English manners. They think if they make the principal character say "Goddem" two or three times, and speak of "rosbif" and horse-races, they have hit off a fine personation of English character. Poor fellows! we can afford to let them think so; indeed, we have laughed at their plays ourselves, quite as much as our neighbours. It is, however, singular how few of the inhabitants of Paris speak English-the majority do not know a single word, in consequence of which all our actions and sentiments are seen through an interpreting medium, which generally casts anything but a favourite light. In consequence of the destruction of the Italian Opera-house, which was burnt down about the same time as our Exchange, the company of that theatre have played this season at the Odeon, which is a fine house, and has been newly-decorated for their reception. It was a new scene for the Quartier Latin the first night the Opera opened such a string of carriages and lamps had not been recollected in the memory of the oldest student, and we doubt where the spectacle was most attractive-inside the house or out. The walls of the Luxembourg, and the quiet precincts of the Rue de Vaugirard, echoed with a ceaseless roar of carriages from seven to eight, which astonished even the very bricks; the cafés displayed their choicest luxuries, and their garçons had their heads arranged for the occasion. The stalls under the piazza of the Odeon glittered with attractive wares, which last preparation we thought the silliest of all, because people going to the play are not in the habit of stopping to buy bear's grease and skippingropes; at least not in London-in Paris they do anything. KNIPS. In Salzburg, nearly opposite to the University Church, is the house where Mozart was born, in 1756. Neither bust, inscription, or any other memorial of this great artist draws the eye of the passenger upon it. Two of these pieces, Le Sonneur de Saint Paul, and Le brasseur de Preston, have been played at the Victoria and Olympic theatres lately, under the names of The Bellringer of St. Paul's, and the Queen's Horse, THE NEW ART.-PHOTOGRAPHY. [THE fac-simile of the photographic drawing in our last number has produced a much but still we are not surprised at this excitegreater sensation than we had anticipated; ment, for the engraving gave a most accurate idea of the photogenic picture, which represents the fern with such extreme fidelity that not only its veins, but the imperfections, and accidental foldings of the leaves of the specimen are copied, the greater opacity on the folded parts being represented by the large white patches on our fac-simile.] Photography, or Lucigraphy, is the art of obtaining views from nature, copies of drawings, fac-similes of writings, &c., by the unassisted action of solar light upon paper which has been previously saturated with certain chemical substances, whose nature is to change in colour when exposed to it. That nitrate of silver becomes discoloured on exposure to the light, is a fact which has been known for many years to students and amateurs of experimental chemistry; and it is also well known that this metallic salt is the principal ingredient in what is called indelible, or marking-ink. But it is only recently that the world have been informed of that ingenious and valuable mode of applying its solar sensitiveness which constitutes the art of photography. The first public announcement of the art was made by M. Arago, on January 7, 1839, to the Academy of Sciences at Paris, when he entered generally into the process of M. Daguerre, a gentleman who has been long known as the artist to whom (conjointly with M. Bouton,) we owe the beautiful pictorial effects of the Diorama, and who, it appears, has devoted his attention, during many years, to the effects of light upon substances rendered sensitive to its action. It is to be regretted that an art so well deserving of immediate attention and of further philosophic investigation, should have elicited so much petty squabbling in the English and continental journals, as to whether M. Daguerre or Mr. Talbot is entitled to whatever merit may attach to priority of invention. It is more in the spirit of philosophy and philanthropy to "do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame," than to be gaping for praise or striving for a patent. It seems certain, however, that the processes and the results of M. Daguerre and Mr. Talbot, are totally different. The former is said to obtain light for light, and shadow for shadow in the most perfect manner; whereas in the process of the latter, shadow is substituted for light, and light for shadow,-a reverse effect, which he rectifies by placing his first impression over another piece of photographic paper, a flat plate of transparent glass pressing them close together, and then exposing the whole to the light. But what ever these gentlemen have done, neither of them can be recognised as the inventor, for it appears that more than twenty years ago M. Niepce (who himself derived the idea from a M. Charles,) made many experiments on, and produced several specimens of, the art; and in 1802, Sir Humphrey Davy and Wedgwood endeavoured, but unsuccessfully, to apply this well known property of the nitrate of silver to similar uses. The question should therefore be, whether M. Charles or Mr. Wedgwood are entitled to the credit of priority; but with so many claimants, and the ease with which fresh claims may be made and supported, it is not likely to be soon settled. In the meantime, while "the lion and the unicorn are fighting for the crown," the public will avail themselves of whatever benefits this modern and successful application of an old fact in chemistry can afford them. Mr. Talbot prepares his photographic paper by first saturating it with a solution of common salt, and afterwards with a solution of chloride of silver. It is then dried in the dark. When he wishes to obtain a view from nature, he places a sheet of the photographic paper at the back of a camera obscura, so that the reflection of the scene may fall direct upon the paper, which soon acquires a correct delineation of each object presented before it, however minute it may be, provided that it is still. To prevent the picture from being evanescent, it is again immersed in salt and water, whereby it becomes indelibly fixed. Sir John Herschell has exhibited some very curious results from substituting the light of the great galvanic battery of Professor Daniell; and Mr. Havell has produced very exquisite specimens of an unvarying character from a given design, (some of them tinted,) which will compete with lithography. In justice to M. Daguerre we must mention that the editor of the Athenæum, after an inspection of the photographic drawings obtained by Sir John Herschell, Messrs. Talbot and Havell, and others in this country, declares those of M. Daguerre to be far superior. It is curious that this invention (if we may so call it,) should have only excited general attention in England, in consequence of the announcement to the Academy in France, on the seventh of last January; for during the preceding year the following paragraph, equally calculated to make a stir among artists and experimentalists, was published in the second edition of a book, entitled Parlour Magic: "Light-a painter. Strain a piece of paper or linen upon a frame, and sponge it over with a solution of nitrate of silver in water: place it behind a painting upon glass, or a stained window-pane, and the light traversing the painting or figures, will produce a copy of it upon the prepared paper or linen, those parts in which the rays were least intercepted being the shadows of the picture," (p. 58.) And we shall have occasion to quote hereafter a passage of a similar nature, from a popular work published several years ago. With such facilities, almost everybody may furnish himself with a collection of copies from the best masters, or of original views of the scenery around him. The folio will be seen not only on the table of the affluent, but on that of the poor man, who shall no longer hope in vain to carry with him wherever he may go some sketch of the dear scenes of his boyhood or of his early love. (To be continued.) Public Exhibitions. THE NEW SOCIETY OF PAINTERS IN WATERCOLOURS, PALL MALL. [THE private view of the above gallery took place on Saturday, the 13th inst. There are many works of considerable talent, that do credit to the artists, and an honour to the country,-the proportion of first-rate works this year, bearing a great preponderance over the last; and among them we noticed :— No. 224. The Happy Valley. H. Warren.-This is a most beautiful picture; the harmony is well preserved throughout, and the colouring is vivid and brilliant. No. 207. Interior of the Town Hall at Courtray. L. Haghe.-We pronounce this specimen a masterpiece of art; perhaps, taking it as a whole, a little too black; the architectural parts are very minutely detailed, and the figures are well suited to the subject. No. 213. Granny's Specs. A. H. Taylor. -A humourous little picture. This artist has many similar productions in this Exhibition. No. 130. King Henry V. entering Lon don with his prisoners, &c., after the Victory of Agincourt, 1415. W. H. Kearney. -As a subject detailing a great historical event, it is highly valuable, and possesses considerable talent. St. John Street, during Bartholomew Fair. No. 111. A scene taken from a window in George Sidney Shepherd. For a close resemblance to nature, and a delightful harmony of colour, we think this artist excels. Mr. George Sidney Shepherd has many other works of considerable merit, particularly one of Berry Pomeroy Castle, No. 202. No. 216. Romeo and Juliet. L. Hicks. -A pleasing and beautiful picture, full of sentiment; and the story well told. The Foreign Quarterly Review observes," that by possibility, this art may not be altogether unknown to the Indian jugglers. It is many years since an offer was made, in our presence, by one of them, to show any gentleman his portrait, taken by a single look alone. The master of the house, how. ever, deeming the proposal an insult on the credulity of the company, ordered the man to be instautly expelled with the rattan. |