Mr. Milman's Anna Boleyn would seem to have occasioned the public some little disappointment. It is not, say our periodical critics, a drama, but a series of disjointed dialogues, in blank verse. If this be the whole ground of their complaint, we like the poem the better for it. Besides, it does not pretend to have been written for the stage, but to be merely a dramatic poem; it is, therefore, the extreme of hypercriticism to accuse the author of not having written with dramatic effect. Those who pine for good dramatic situations and bad verse, should go to Counsellor Shiel for a sample.

Professor Rezzi, the keeper of the Barberini Library, has just discovered a manuscript copy of the Divina Comedia of Dante, with Landino's Commentary, full of notes in the hand-writing of Tasso. These notes display great learning and taste, and shew the attention with which the illustrious author of Jerusalem Delivered had studied Dante's poem. M. Rezzi has made a present of this valuable manuscript to Professor Rosini, of Pisa, for the purpose of enriching his edition of the complete works of Tasso.

Another accession is about to be made to the treasury of the National Gallery. It is said that the king has presented to it his own private collection of pictures, which is rich in works of all the old masters, but is unrivalled as far as regards the Dutch and Flemish schools. It is said that the Royal Donor, with a delicacy which does him at least as much honour as his munificence, declined sending these pictures until after Sir George Beaumount's collection had been hung up, lest they should obtain an undue preference of situation. Many of them will be previously seen at the ensuing exhibition at the British Gallery.

Gifford's long talked of edition of Ford is at length possitively announced as "nearly ready.' A first rate poet, and a first rate editor are planets that are so seldom seen in conjunction, that when such an event happens, we hail it with heartfelt delight. To Mr. Gifford we are already deeply indebted for his labours in restoring the text and illuminating the obscurities of Jonson, of Massinger and of Shirley. As to the author upon whose works he is now engaged, he cannot be better characterised than in the words of Charles Lamb; "Ford was of the first order of poets. He sought for sublimity not by parcels in metaphors or visible images, but directly where she has her full residence in the heart of man; in the actions and sufferings of the greatest minds. There is a grandeur of the soul above mountains, seas, and the elments."

The Royal Society of Literature has lately held its general anniversary meeting, when after the reading of the report, and other push-pin play, the address of the president-the Magnus Apollo of the Institution the Bishop of Salisbury (late of St. David's) was delivered. His lordship professes himself of opinion, that the work lately published as a posthumous production of the Poet Milton, was not written by him. The editor of the Literary Gazette trusts the illustrious president will be prevailed upon to publish his address. Of course he will. It was, no doubt, conceived and concocted with a view to publication. The gold medals for the present year have been voted by the council to Dugald Stewart, late Professor of Moral Philosophy in Edinburgh, an author of eminent abilities, and to Professor John Schweighauser, of Strasburgh, whose editions of Appian, Polybius, Athenæus, Herodotus, &c. &c. prove him to be one of the most learned classical scholars and acute critics in Europe.

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An interesting little volume of poetry has just made its appearance, from the pen of Miss E. W. Mills, from which an extract will be found (Lines on the Endymion of Albano) at page 304 of our present number. The poems contained in this firstling of a youthful muse, are all what are usually denominated 'occasional verses.' Miss Mills appears to be a great admirer of L. E. L.; and some of her productions, without being imitations, bear a considerable resemblance to the amatory effusions of that brilliant and fanciful writer; not only in their style, but in their train of feeling and idea. Witness the beautiful lines, "Tis now the secret hour,' 'Yes, well I know,' the poem we have given, as a specimen of the volume, 'On being told I must not sing of Love,' "The Stolen Kiss, An Impromptu, p. 131. We would caution our fair novice against writing too much about love; for, although it is undoubtedly a perfectly legitimate subject for any pen, whether male or female, is one which, from its very sweetness, soon palls upon the taste of the reader, if too often repeated. Even the genius of L. E. L. has not availed to save her poetry from this reproach.

The Ass, a three penny publication, which recently commenced its career, is said to be the production of Mr. Mudie, (not him of the Sun), the author of the 'Modern Athens,' and 'Babylon the Great.'

M. Mazurier, of Strasburg, has found out a remedy for intoxication; and this recipe, capable of yielding us so much delight, is acetate of potass, which, the author says, will make a drunken man sober in five or six minutes. He states that it will also cure the gout.

Messieurs Galignani of Paris, have just published an edition of all Lord Byron's Works, including his parliamentary speeches, and suppressed poems, in one volume, price one Louis. It is printed by Didot, and the type, although exceedingly small, is clear and distinct.

A public meeting took place a few weeks ago, at the rooms of the Horticultural Society, at which about a hundred persons were present. Sir Stamford Raffles was called to the chair, and read an address recommending the formation of a society, the object of which should be to import new birds, beasts, and fishes, into this country from foreign parts.

The University of Cambridge has conferred the degree of Master of Arts by deploma, on the Rev. Joseph Blanco White, "in consideration of his eminent talents and learning, and of his exemplary conduct during his residence in Oxford; but more especially on account of those able and well-timed publications by which he has powerfully exposed the errors and corruptions of the Church of Rome."

The Chevalier Arrighi, in a little pamphlet, published some months ago at St. Petersburgh, states that he is in possession of a very beautiful manuscript of Petrarch's Sonnets, in the hand-writing of Petrarch himself. This manuscript will furnish the means of correcting several defective passages in the texts which have hitherto been followed, and of expunging several sonnets which have been erroneously attributed to Petrarch.

The Astronomical Society has presented gold medals to Mr. Herschell, and Mr. South, and Professor Struve, as a public expression of their opinion and approbation of the uncommon zeal and energy with which these distinguished members of their body have prosecuted their inquiries relative to double stars. A most suitable address on the occasion was delivered by the President of the Society.

An admirable little volume has just made its appearance, entitled 'Tales in Verse,' illustrative of the several petitions of the Lord's Prayer. By the Rev. H. F. Lyte. The tales are very much in the style of Crabbe, sometimes, indeed, in his best manner. The most successful tale is 'The Widow ;' but the entire volume is every way entitled to public patronage, not less on account of its intrinsic merits, than for the excellent principles it inculcates.

Among the historical relics of M. Denon's cabinet, are a great many of the implements which belonged to the Inquisition at Valladolid; the ring of Jean-sansPeur, Duke of Burgundy, who was assassinated on the bridge of Montereau; plaster casts of the faces of Cromwell and Charles 12th; fragments of the bones of the Cid, found in his burying-place at Burgos; fragments of the bones of Abelard and Heloise, taken out of their tomb at Paraclete; the hair of Agnes Sorel, who was buried at Loches, and of Ines de Castro, who was buried at Alcaboca; part of the mustachio of Henry 4th, king of France, found entire, on the exhumation of the bodies of the kings of France, at St. Denis, in 1793; a fragment of Turenne's shroud; some of Moliere's and La Fontaine's bones; one of Voltaire's teeth; an autograph signature of Napoleon; with a piece of the shirt that he wore at the time of his death, a lock of his hair, and a leaf of the willow under which he lies at St. Helena.

Among the not very prominent sights which, at this busy period of the year, court the visits of the curious, we (the editor of the Literary Gazette) went a few days ago to Mr. Kleft's, in High Holborn, to look at a model of St. Peter's, Rome. It is of papier mache, and remarkable for the labour bestowed upon it, the accuracy, multitude, and minuteness of its details, and the general effect produced by so perfect a miniature, of so magnificent a structure. The interior, into which the lamp is put, is finished with the same regard to resemblance as the exterior; and the whole furnishes a complete idea of one of the greatest buildings in the world. The model is stated to be of considerable antiquity, and being brought to this country by Sir Thomas Liddell, has been entirely restored by Mr. Kleft.

The new Novel of Woodstock costs its publishers £6,000. in hard cash. We rather suspect that Sir Walter will have to lower his prices a little in future; for the difficulties which now overwhelm so many respectable bookselling firms must, of necessity, eventually extend to the manufacturers of books. It must require very excellent management to make Woodstock reimburse its publishers.

From papers which have been read by Mr. Ellis, of the British Museum, at the Antiquarian Society, and from other sources, we gain that Cromwell, heretofore the beau ideal of historical virtue, was the most artful of knaves; that Anna Boleyn's elder sister, was seduced by the licentious king, and that she absolutely lived in concubinage with him after his marriage with Anna. We have not heard the name of the work in which the proofs of the authenticity of these statements will eventually be published.

Mr. Boaden's Life of Mrs. Siddons is, we are informed, nearly ready for publication. There is something very indelicate in publishing a big volume of anecdotes of a woman still living. It must either be personally offensive to her, or else be filled with fulsome compliments, having neither truth nor impartiality to recommend them. There are thousands of incidents, trivial in themselves, which it cannot be pleasing to Mrs. Siddons to see blazoned forth in print; admitting, as we are most ready to do, the perfect respectability with which she has passed through three score years of active and most arduous exertion. Mr. Boaden is an inveterate gossip.

Among the private collections now open in London, there is none more interesting than that of Messrs. Woodburn's, in St. Martin's-lane, who have issued a select number of tickets of admission to it. It consists of about 70 pictures, by the first masters of the Florentine, Venetian, Roman, Dutch and Flemish schools; and of each school there are specimens from its earliest productions, down to the period of its utmost perfection and refinement, so as to form a complete history of the arts. The grand gem of the collection is a first-rate Leonardo de Vinci-a Holy Family. In colour, grouping, sentiment, every thing, it is absolutely perfection. There is also a fine historical picture by Albano, of the Marriage of Joseph with the Virgin Mary ; a matchless Jan Steen-Dives, and Lazarus; and numerous specimens of the finest class, of Claude, Titian, Poussin, Raphael, Wouvermans, Paul Potter, &c. Messrs. Whiting and Branston, printers, in the Strand, appear to have been impressed with the truth of Burke's definition of the sublime, and have accordingly commenced the largest newspaper ever printed,' under the very apposite nomenclature of the Atlas.' It is to be composed on the principal of a goose-pye, of which goose is often the least inviting ingredient. By a new plan, for which the proprietors would seem to have an exclusive patent, all the articles they select from other journals are (to employ the words of their prospectus) to have for each reader the value of originality. The Atlas guts new books on the most copious and approved principle, but has no politics of its own; in short, little or nothing of its own, save its plan and its professions. It is withal a very amusing journal, and will, we doubt not, succeed.

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There seems to be quite a mania for authorship now a days. The Hon. George Agar Ellis is among those fashionables who have been bitten, and he has accordingly just printed A true history of the Iron Mask,' which is, in short, nothing more than a translation and abridgment of a well-known French work, upon the subject. Coming, as the English version does, from such a source, it will, no doubt, be pronounced a work of great importance, labour and and research, and Mr. Murray will accordingly sell off the impression. The substance of the book will be found, in an excellent article, in a late number of the Monthly Review, the honestest and most impartial critical publication of the day.

The thirty-seventh anniversary of the Literary Fund, was celebrated on the 10th of last month, at the Free Masons' Hall. The attendance was slender, but the speeches were tolerable, the dinner better still, and the wine (for tavern wine) really excellent. Mr. Fitzgerald insisted on inflicting his annual dose of couplets on the much enduring company. The healths of the Poets of Great Britain were subsequently proposed, and after some very pretty coquetting between Mr. Moore, the Rev. Mr. Croly, and Mr. Sotheby, it was decided that there were no poets present who felt it incumbent upon them to return thanks for the toast. Mr. Moore's health was afterwards proposed, when the bard of kisses,' 'blisses,' 'flowers,' and 'bowers,' returned thanks in the following pretty Emerald Islander :-Mr. Moore,

commenced by declaring, that he felt that he ought to apologize for not having returned thanks when the health of the poets of Great Britain was drank; but it would not have become him to have intruded himself upon the company, when men of such eminence and distinguished talent as Mr. Croly, and Mr. Sotheby, whose translation of Oberon was as much distinguished by historical research as by true poetical taste, and who was second to no poet now living, were present. He could not but feel himself highly honoured by the distinguished mark of favour which had been bestowed upon him by such a company. No tribute was more grateful to the soldier than that which came from his brothers in arms. The sailor rejoiced in the applause of those who had shared with him the perils of the main, and the dangers of the battle; and the man of letters felt still more profoundly the praise of those who had laboured with him in the same vineyard; it was the highest honour and the most gratifying reward which he could receive. To the honourable baronet who had given his health in such a flattering manner, he knew not how to return his thanks. He was afraid that he owed much of the complimentary address with which it had been prefaced to the magical influence of the social glass. He did not mean, when he said this, that they had already arrived at that stage, when the exhilarating influence of the cup made those who had partaken of it see double; but it was universally acknowledged, that the cup could not long circulate with freedom without inclining those who paid their devotions to it, to assign a greater elevation to objects than properly belonged to them. There was a curious circumstance attending the history of printing, which connected conviviality with literature-the first printing types were afterwards formed into drinking cups, to celebrate the invention. There was also another cup, which had been described by a wicked wight, since deceased, as like those used by the warriors in the halls of Odin. He said that booksellers drank their wine out of the skulls of poets. But, to be sure, that observation did not apply at the present period, for the booksellers' banquet was over, and lately they had had the worst of it. Authors, however, were exposed to the ills and calamities of a more peculiar, trying, and melancholy nature. They became exhausted with time-their fine powers, like precious perfumes, in communicating delight to others, wasted themselves. Age, time, and sickness, dimmed the divine particle within them, and left them nought but the painful sensibility of the man of letters, which rendered them a burthen to themselves, and an object of compassion to all who could enter into their sorrows, or comprehend their griefs; and when to these were added a broken spirit, desolution, and indigence, from without, there were surely none to whom the helping hand of charity could be more properly extended. This was the object of the institution, whose anniversary they were now commemorating; and if it served to relieve but one case of that hopeless and melancholy termination of human genius to which he had adverted, it would call down a benediction on all who had been concerned in it. The high and the noble might praise the labours of the man of letters; the easy and the opulent might assist him; but there was no tribute so acceptable as that of him who had no other inheritance but that fatal spark of genius with which it had pleased God to endow him-and none half so heartily given as that of him who lives in the bitter uncertainty, that the miserable fate which he had been describing might not one day be his own. This oration called forth immense applause, and when it had subsided, Sir John Malcolm, we believe, proposed the health of the Rev. Mr. Croly, and complimented him on his dramatic powers. The reverend gentleman, who although a first rate poet is only a second rate dramatist, did not seem to relish this bye-blow overmuch. Considering the sum at present in the hands of the association, namely, £21,851, it is somewhat singular that they dribble out their tardy relief to distressed literary men, by five and ten pounds at a time. It is rarely that a literary person will consent to receive elemosynary relief, thus doled out in a paltry pittance by a public institution; and even when his distress does so far overcome feelings of shame, as to admit of his applying for it, he can derive but very little assistance from such a sum as it is their custom to advance. As a convivial meeting, the anniversary dinner of this institution is excellent; as for the charity we know but little of its benefactions, but they ought, if the subscriptions of the public are properly applied, to be splendid. There is, we fear, a good deal of humbug in the affair. We had nearly omitted to mention that the Duke of Somerset presided on the above occasion, supported by Lord Glenorchy, Sir John Swinburne, Sir John Malcolm, Sir J. Wrottesley, Lord Brandon, Sir William Clayton, Mr. T. Moore, Mr. Sotheby, Mr. Allan Cunningham, &c. &c. &c.

INDEX

TO THE

FIRST VOLUME.

NEW SERIES.