ART. XVII. Revelations of Austria. By M. Koubrakiewicz, ExAustrian Functionary. Edited by the author of "The Revelations of Russia." In 2 vols. London: Newby, 1846.

WE confess to a certain prejudice against this work, derived from its very appellation, lowering the Austrian empire to a level with its barbaric and Sclavonic neighbour, Russia. For ourselves, we have passed some years in the Austrian capital, and have truly seen nothing whatever in the internal regulations of that empire to justify the furious onslaught which is here made upon it. We have no love for despotism or despotic government: we are free to confess that these, from their very nature, involve a system of more or less profound obscurity, of "espionage," and of occasionally easy but ever perceptible servitude. But we were not prepared for accusations which, if but in a very small degree true, would involve in one general condemnation all this empire's officers of state as wholesale scoundrels and assassins. This is strong language; but our readers will not wonder at it, when they learn that the author of these volumes accuses Prince Metternich, and the other members of the Austrian executive, of invariably dispatching, by poison, or whatsoever murderous means may appear expedient, every individual who may fall under the penalty of their displeasure, and yet be too well known to be more openly got rid of. He says,

"The Austrian government is master of the art of all kinds of poisoning, and no people lend themselves with more sang froid, devotion, and fidelity to similar crimes, than the Austrian Germans.” (vol. ii. p. 124.)

Will our readers, will any one, swallow these preposterous calumnies? The author of this precious work is a Galician; and since he professes himself to be an ex-employé of the Austrian government, we can have very little doubt that he has been deprived of his office for some grievous misconduct, which has induced him to retire to exile, and pen these outrageous calumnies against his former employers. We do not mean to deny that Galicia ever has been far less happy than it might be, under the Austrian sway. We shall most closely investigate the judicial proceedings, which will enter into the real history of the barbarous butchering of the Polish nobility in that country. Setting a price on heads we thought had passed from civilized communities, but Austria shows the negative to this idea. We know that the Austrian government is compelled to watch closely the movements of the disaffected population, as every other despotic power would be, if placed in a similar position. have little doubt that a great many instances of petty oppression, and even of needless cruelty, can be commonly proved against the government's officers. This is the curse of despotic empire, this odious bureaucracy, which fills the offices of our juries and country justices, and which, even under the most paternal influences from above, never fails to exasperate where it should only check, and to stimulate into

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open insurrection what by wise management and a little benevolent blindness might have been suffered to die away into a quiet oblivion. The work before us purports to be "Revelations of Austria," and yet it almost exclusively deals with Galicia alone, although its author most absurdly suggests that this province should be regarded as a type of the general condition of the empire. How totally void of even the slightest semblance of probability M. Koubrakiewicz's statements are when he alludes to Austria Proper, may be inferred from this one amusingly ignorant assertion ::

"In Austria there is no aristocracy that can properly be so called. At present it is Metternich, Schwarzenberg, Lichtenstein, and a few others, who are the Kaiser's principal instruments; but at their death their children may be nothing more than beggars.” (vol. ii. p. 57.)

A Schwarzenberg's, a Lichtenstein's children may be nothing more than beggars! Two of the most ancient and powerful families in Europe! What trash is this? And again: Austria has no aristocracy. No aristocracy! when for entire centuries the same two or three hundred families, with few or no accessions to their ranks, have for ever formed the élite of Austrian society, and thronged the palace halls of Vienna! What, shall the existence of an aristocracy be denied, which is not only the proudest and most exclusive, but one of the wealthiest in Europe? Who, we ask again, who is to swallow these statements? In another place a charge is brought against Metternich for arriving at his present high position because, although of an ancient and noble family, he was not born a prince. It is by such egregious absurdities as these that the author of the work before us has repelled all sympathy from his narrations of Galician wrongs. There is much truth in these; but we cannot in one and the same moment believe and despise statements issuing from the same lips. We are really astonished that the author of "Revelations of Russia," with whom this Review has so frequently expressed its sympathy, should have given his countersign to such a work as this. There is indeed a partial disclaimer in his Preface, but this does not suffice to excuse him. To return to M. Koubrakiewicz. What can we think of the sense or veracity of an author, who could pen such miserable balderdash as the following:

"There are those who pretend" (the writer means to imply that he is amongst the number)" that the Popes, Kaisers, and Kings, only introduced celibacy for the priests in the fourteenth century in order to stupify, fanaticise, and brutalize them, by generating secret vices; and that the use of wine in the sacrifice of the mass was only introduced from southern countries in order to facilitate the exportation of their wine, to make commerce prosper, and to banish sobriety." (vol. ii. p. 20.)

So the Popes introduced celibacy to stupify their clergy, not to establish the supremacy of their spiritual dominion over the minds of men; and the Kings and Kaisers lent a helping hand to this erection everywhere of an imperium in imperio, with the object of brutal

izing the priesthood. Extremely probable! And better still: the rightful use of the wine in the sacrament, which had been abused to excess in the days of Saint Paul, was introduced for the sake of southern commerce, and to banish sobriety! Can stupidity reach a wilder climax than this? Criticism were indeed lost upon such stolid ravings. In a word, if there be any truth in the allegations here brought against the Austrian government, their editor ought to have felt that they must be scorned when introduced in connexion with such absurdities. In this case there are few men who will have inflicted more injury on Austrian Poland, than this individual with the unpronounceable name of Koubrakiewicz. We must insist on the production of far more competent witnesses, before we involve in one general condemnation many men who have been ever noted throughout Europe for private honour and amiability of feeling.

ART. XVIII.—The Life of a Beauty: a Novel. By the author of "The Jilt," "Cousin Geoffrey," &c. London: Newby, 1846. A CLEVER, sketchy, somewhat bitter and satirical novel, which is likely to have much vogue. The author, or rather authoress, for we have no hesitation in attributing this production to some practised female pen, certainly cannot be said to see things "couleur de rose." She draws a striking, and alas! too accurate delineation of modern fashionable life, in a work which, both in subject and treatment, bears no slight affinity to Miss Pardoe's very clever "Confessions of a Pretty Woman," reviewed in our number for July last. Here, too, we have a mother and a daughter, with whose private histories we are in succession favoured. In both cases the ladies are beauties, and more or less fashionable beauties. In both cases they are exposed to certain disagreeables, resulting from the intervention of unpleasant Scotch friends and relations. In both cases flighty wives and ill-used husbands are introduced, and the same moral is inculcated, that without strong religious principles to guide and uphold her, a beauty in the fashionable world will be sure to lead an unhappy life herself, and make every one else unhappy who is in any way connected with her. Perhaps Miss Pardoe's novel has more decided and more continued interest. "The Life of a Beauty" is flighty and occasionally ill-natured; but it always amuses. If its caricatures appear occasionally rather too broad, they are at least too piquant" to bore us, and thus we soon run on to the end of the three volumes, almost wondering that we should arrive so speedily at the goal, but prepared perhaps to start anew on some other novelistic course with few hours' interim; for if "The Life of a Beauty" amuses, it can scarcely be said to excite, and the sympathy it awakens is not trying to delicate nerves. Still, despite this, we have read few fashionable novels written with more purpose, tact, and cleverness

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than this production from the authoress of " Cousin Geoffrey." One extract will we give our readers, as a specimen of the satire of this work. Alas! that, in this instance, such satire should be founded on reality :

"L'ami de la Maison!-an expressive name, and one very appropriate to Colonel Fitzgeorge, and all those idle hangers-on known in common parlance by the vulgar but appropriate title of cupboard lovers. This ami de la maison, or 'friend to the house' and its comforts, its table, and its fireside, is often the worst of enemies to its mistress and its master, and the worst of bores to the other members, and the servants of an establishment. In ménages where the husband indulges in long absences, (either on pleasure or on business); where disparity of years or incompatibility of temper prevents an entire union; where the husband is old, callous, indifferent, ill, and the wife young, weak, vain, headstrong, and full of life and its follies,-there l'ami de la maison is almost sure to flourish, supposing that the smiles of fortune atone to the pair for the frowns of hymen and of love. For it is a remarkable thing, that among those of very small, or even of moderate fortune, l'ami de la maison is not often found. L'ami de la maison does not like walking, except a little on Sunday, in the Zoological or in Kensington Gardens; so he is generally seen lolling in the chariot, britskha, or barouche, of the two fools who encourage him to make their home and their equipage his own, and who in the eyes of the world appear equally ridiculous, though from different causes,-the husband from indifference or blind confidence, the wife from vanity, coquetry, or almost childish simplicity. The latter fault (if fault it be) is however, in these days of universal precocity and the power of steam, almost obsolete. L'ami de la maison is generally between thirty and fifty, handsome, (usually much taller than the husband); though when the husband is burly and overgrown, l'ami is sometimes slender, and what others call a small, but himself a neat compact figure. L'ami de la maison is generally a great bon vivant, at once an epicure, a gourmand, and a gourmet. He is equally an authority and a referee in the case of the husband's wines, and the wife's tea and coffee, the husband's horses, and the wife's dress, jewels, operabox, and flowers. He is certainly a little opinionated, not to say conceited; but as his own comfort depends in a great measure on the excellence of all the appointments of the establishment, he takes some pains to find out the best way of doing and getting things, and as he is generally rather a clever, resolute fellow, he succeeds à ravir. He is generally an adept at small-talk and light accomplishments to please madame, and a showy politician and tolerable sportsman to make him agreeable to monsieur. He is, or appears to be, fond of children, even babies, whom he handles and dandles adroitly, and has a clever way of amusing and quieting."

Does our experience recognise or not recognise the justice of this portraiture? We shall leave the reply to the consciences of all our female readers.

ART. XIX.—The Westminster and Foreign Quarterly Reviews, and their Union. October, 1846.

OUR ancient foeman, the "Westminster," who so long ago threatened us of the "New Quarterly" with a speedy dissolution, and descent to the shades of Hades, has virtually yielded up the ghost. At least he has yielded all claim to a separate and independent existence, and

has merged with the "Foreign Quarterly," which he extolled of old as so infinitely superior to ourselves. We do not wish to exult in his downfall. We only seize this opportunity to vindicate ourselves from the charge brought against us of unpleasant belligerent propensities of old. Now, to the best of our knowledge, we have been only at war as yet with one contemporary periodical; viz. the then independent, now defunct Westminster aforesaid. On that occasion we took up the cudgels in behalf of sense against nonsense, of knowledge against ignorance, of merit against folly; and were a similar provocation to present itself to-morrow, we should act upon it after precisely the same fashion. We do not wish to say more on this unpleasant subject, but cannot draw these few remarks to a close without expressing our fervent hope, that the writers, who by their flippancy and ignorant self-sufficiency have disgraced the Westminster in by-gone times, may no longer be suffered to thrust their impertinences on the public through any medium, at least not through that of the United Westminster and Foreign. Unless this line of just exclusion be adopted, we fear that the thus Janus-faced periodical may remind us but too closely of the old Norwegian rhyme,

"Dulness itself is simply evil,

But Dulness doubled is the Devil!"

Yet let us hope for the best. Perhaps the looked for amelioration may be realized; if not, it is very certain that even this dubious halfexistence will not be permitted much longer to these unhappy periodicals. They will both sink into the night of hopeless obscurity together: the night of a " Chiappino," not a "Luria."

ART. XX.-Father Darcy.

A Romance. By the author of Mount Sorel. 3 vols. London: Chapman and Hall. 1846. A NOBLE work is this, replete with the most truthful and the most beautiful historic pictures, pathetic in parts almost to painfulness, profound in moral and religious bearings, altogether interesting and natural in the extreme: not equal perhaps for sustained excitement to the same author's tales of mere domestic life, a "Mount Sorel,” or an "Emilia Wyndham;" yet distinguished by a more parti-coloured, a more animated life, than these, more important in an historical point of view, and perhaps altogether of more enduring value. We review it here, and recommend it to the study of our readers, principally for these two reasons: first, because it will tend to open their eyes to the true nature and machinations of the execrable Jesuit order; and secondly, because it chivalrously and admirably pleads the cause of one who has been too long the prey of the Jesuitic slanderer and maligner; we mean the glorious Elizabeth of England, our famous and our good Queen Bess.

With respect to the wiles of the Jesuit order, we refer our readers