in

one by Mr. Bautine, an excellent little work, recently noticed in our pages, and the other, forsooth, by Cicero! If other subjects were as sparely written upon, we should soon have a cry of distress in the Row, and the able editor of Macmillan's Magazine could not speak of the seven thousand works of fiction which have appeared since the Waverley novels. We have always regarded with interest works on this much-neglected subject, and we desire to extend to the last arrival the consideration of our benevolent regard. The directions for acquiring the art of public speaking, so far as we can judge, may be acted upon with advantage by all persons of average ability, especially if they believe in the old saying, "Orator fit, poeta nascitur." In the busy world around everything seems to come up and pass on before us in living forms, rather than in abstract teachings. The traveller's carriage is filled with patterns. The manufacturer's catalogue is not only priced, but often profusely illustrated; and yet where is the work on public speaking which is embellished with instances of the way which the growth of this power in orators was developed? We should be sorry to be understood to find fault with this book, for it contains more of a practical and suggestive character than anything of the sort we know; but we should have preferred "Public Speakers, and how they became such," on the self-help principle. Examples of this sort would strike out and traverse the globe, carrying with them an influence far more weighty than mere precepts. Those who have neglected this matter will do well to act upon the suggestion, "Never too late to mend ;" and we can promise them that, by following out the excellent counsel here given in so accessible a form, they will cease to be startled at the sound of their own voice, and will no longer be unable to utter six consecutive words when they assume the perpendicular before an audience. Had these things been attended to earlier, it would not now be true that Englishmen, so universally brave, should be so frightened at a few of their fellow-countrymen. Is it because we are so brave, that we are frightened at each other?

Fate and Discoveries of Sir John Franklin. By CAPTAIN MCCLINTOCK, LL.D. London: Murray. 1859. Price 16s.

FROM the time when, 300 years ago, John Cabot and his son, Sebastian, set forth in search of a North-West Passage, the subject of Arctic explorations has not failed to excite the interest of men of science, nor have those daring seamen, who have conducted them, lacked the sympathy and the admiration of a people with whom "pluck" is no "vanishing quantity." Other nations, however, have manifested a practical interest in these discoveries; for the voyage of the Russian navigator, Behring, in 1741, was not without its use in clearing up what had been attempted, and preparing the way for still more daring ventures.

Early in the reign of George III. (1773), an expedition was sent out under Captain Phipps (in which served Lord Nelson, then a

youngster); but this failing, Captain Cook was chosen for the endeavour to effect a North-East Passage from the Pacific to the Atlantic Ocean, which was also without the desiderated result. Fifty years now passed without any further attempt; and Sir John Ross, in April, 1818, sailed from the Thames, to return in October of the same year, scarcely having effected anything. His young lieutenant, Parry, took up the enterprise in the same year, and held on bravely, till his course was arrested by an immense body of immovable ice. The next year, finding further progress impossible, Parry returned to England, and his crew became entitled to the Government reward of £5,000. In the same year in which he started (1819), Franklin first undertook his terrible journey to the northern shores of America. He was three years absent, having endured unparalleled hardships, and travelled between five and six thousand miles. In this voyage he established the existence of an Arctic Ocean, which was apparently impassable for all purposes of navigation. Happy for Franklin would it have been had the subject of Arctic discovery never again been mooted; but in 1845, a long peace having closed almost every avenue to fame or promotion, public attention was once more directed to the Arctic voyages, and no sooner was it known that such an expedition was contemplated, than volunteers pressed forward eager for employ. ment. The gallant veteran, Sir John Franklin, undertook the command, and the ill-fated Erebus and Terror left England, to become, with their heroic freight, frozen evidences of the severity of the climate. Since 1845, nearly thirty vessels, of various sizes and descriptions, fitted out by private and public means in England and America, have been sent forth in search of them.

This brief résumé of Arctic enterprise will show that the subject has not been over-estimated by a generous public, who are now rewarded by a narrative of the successful cruise of the gay little yacht Fox. Lady Franklin, than whom a nobler-hearted woman never lived, originated this last expedition, and may, indeed, be said to have the honour of the discovery of the North-West Passage, as but for her unshaken perseverance it would not have been satisfactorily ascertained that her husband had discovered it. It is a remarkable fact, that although the sterile and hopeless nature of Arctic voyages has long been known, they seem to have acquired a fascinating power over those who project or engage in them, which is heightened by the contest with almost insuperable obstacles. Captain McClintock, referring to his appointment to the command of the last expedition, says :-"As a post of honour and of some difficulty, it possessed quite sufficient charms to a naval officer who had served already in three consecutive expeditions, from 1848 to 1854. I was thoroughly conversant with all the details of this peculiar service; and I confess, moreover, that my whole heart was in the cause."

This spirited language is a fair specimen of the entire work, which gives one the impression that McClintock is a man of unos

POETIC SECTION.

tentatious valour, stedfast energy, and substantial capacity. He writes in the easy and natural style of an honest, open-hearted man, on excellent terms with everybody. Throughout his book he distributes, with no stinted hand, high praise to his brother adventurers, and compliments to those who have preceded him in other expeditions. That success should attend the heroism of this Havelock of the ice and his brave band is not to be wondered at, sustained as they were by the nobleness of their enterprise, and a chivalrous devotion to Lady Franklin, which is quite affecting; for with sailorly frankness and simplicity our author narrates how enthusiastically they drank her health, and talked of her, while they were fast locked in the icy jaws of the Arctic. The substance of the discovery now made is an important documentary record, picked up by Lieutenant Hobson in a cairn at Cape Herschel, a fac-simile of which accompanies the volume. Under date May, 1847, is a satisfactory statement of the success up to that time; but around the margin is written a very different tale. The ships had been beset in September, 1846, and Sir J. Franklin had died in June, 1847. Doubtless the writer of this sad story was one of those who subsequently succumbed to the same fate, or "dropped by the way, as they walked along."

The work has the literary merit of freshness, and its “ does credit to the house of Murray, from which it emanates, being illustrated with a good map and many excellent wood engravings. get-up" Those of our readers who may not be able to see the work will find a graphic and ably written account in the Cornhill Magazine, No. 1, from the pen of an officer of the Fox, and some pleasing articles on the same subject, by Captain Sherard Osborn, in Once a Week.

The Dead of 1859.

MACAULAY, JAMES, HUMBOLDt, stephenson, DE QUINCEY,
BRUNEL, HUNT, IRVING.

OUR comrades are promoted-wherefore grieve?
The dead are always with us in our hopes,
But these are pulsing in our living hearts.

Their footprints lie eternal on our souls,

And where they trod, bright flowers shall ever grow,
On Time's pale brow a crown doth henceforth rest,
Flaming with stars, their names, -Futurity
Owning them all her chiefest ornainents.

They have dropt down into the lake of Death,

But the ripples shall go widening evermore;
And the music of their fall go ringing on
For aye!

God's noblemen were they. So leal
To nature, man, and heaven, that we do blush,
And pale, and quiver, whilst love-wrapt we gaze.
Oh, but our world is glory-clad! Our earth,
Suffused with tears, yet throbbing with proud joy,
Still sends some grand memorial up to God!
The great man dies, and finds a double life-
The mantle falls to earth, the prophet soars!-F. G.

IN MEMORIAM.-WILLIAM THRELKELD EDWARDS.
(ACCIDENTALLY DROWNED IN THE CAM.)

CHANGE! change! How all things change in and around!
Life is all furrow'd o'er with Sorrow's lines,

Its glory, or its glow, no longer shines.

My pilgrim-thought still at some grave is found.
THRELKELD-that brother of my soul, is gone,
Lapp'd by the greedy waters of the Cam

Into the maw of Death. Could no one stem
Their current ere they vanquish'd such a one?
Vain thought! and wrong as vain. All-knowing God
To him the gradual lapse of years denied;

Gave Death in one, Life in another tide,

And early access into heaven bestow'd:

That from the common lot-" Do and endure'

He might be freed-because in Christ made pure.-N.

SONNET.

BESIDE the lake we stray'd; the air was sweet,
With quiet warmth, the sun had scarcely set,
Flinging up wreaths of golden glory yet
Upon the floating clouds so soft and fleet.
The mountains were in shadow, but the lake,
Sparkling and dancing, flash'd out in the light
Of the rich sky, and the spray glitter'd bright
From plashing oars of gliding boats, that wake
A living beauty in the picture fair

That smiled before mine eyes on that calm eve,
Set in a frame of branches arch'd, that leave

No space to let the eye rove here and there,

In fairy prisonment to see the rare

And glowing vision, through the boughs that interweave.

A VALENTINE TO "SOMEBODY."

WHEN I wander alone down the violet lanes,

And daintily scent the sweet breath of the pansies,

When the voices of song that so haunt our sweet earth

J. M. S. T.

Fill my heart with strange joy, and my soul with weird fancies

I think of thee.

When I combat alone with the sin-gilded world,
And fight for my life with its false and cold-hearted,
When I yearn all in vain for one brotherly glance,
And sigh lest the angels from earth have departed—

When I sit so alone by my bachelor fire,
And long to look out on the life of "to-morrow,"
When I parley with Fear, and weep welcomes to Hope,
And would rainbow my heart o'er the flood of its sorrow-
I think of thee.

And my thoughts ever circling around thy dear name,
Grow purer and fairer, even as thou art fairest,
And when heaven whispers," He that would know truest fame
Must link Life most earnest with Love that is rarest "-

The Inquirer.