The czarina Catherine II. is infamous in history as "The Semiramis of the North." Her apologists, for this bold, bad woman, has found defenders,-assert that in the commencement of her black career, her choice of characters was limited to two-the assassin, or the victim of her husband. This is by no means improbable; but Catherine was as yet young in crime. Her next state atrocity was the murder of the half imbecile Ivan VI., who died, however, like a hero in his prison-house, sword in hand, resisting bravely to his latest gasp-" as full of valour as of royal blood."

Well had it been for this great empress, for Russia, and for the world, had humbler fortune circumscribed the sphere in which she exercised her vast abilities

"Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind." Christian Europe shrunk with horror, civilized Europe with a shuddering disgust, from her wide, wasting carnage in the battle-field, her bloody massacres upon the scaffold, and her shameful profligacies at home, chequered occasionally it must be allowed by splendid outbursts of capacity little less than god-like, and sparkling flashes of a spirit not altogether evil. Catherine loved, and liberally patronized, the fine arts, literature, and science; and void alike of fear and superstition, she, first of all crowned heads, personally braved the perils which in her day ignorance and fanaticism had ascribed to inoculation. Her death, in 1796, was sudden, like that of her late grandson Nicholas I., who, without her private vices-a candid enemy must confess thus much-inherited her daring enterprise, deep dissimulation, and undaunted courage, with, alas! her utter disregard of human life or suffering, her reckless, boundless, pitiless, and insatiable ambition.

From 1796 to 1801 ensued an interval of savage despotism, and more savage cunning, unredeemed by courage, vigour, or sagacity. Paul I., infirm of purpose, and constant only in his cruelties, whom all men stared or shuddered at as a ferocious lunatic, long endured as he inflicted the agonizing fears of Damocles, and at length died, struggling desperately with the midnight murderers, on whom his son and suc

The reigns of Alexander and of Nicholas we forbear to enter upon they have absorbed no trifling portion of the world's wonder during the last fifty years; but we live much too near their age to write its history. Both, however, formed rare exceptions to their imperial race, for it is believed, at least,—both emperors died unmurdered.

Here we pause unwillingly; yet, ere we close our retrospect, would invite attention to the consequences, direful alike to potentates and people, of irresponsible, unbounded sway. The mythic choruses of the old Greek tragedy bewailed with tears the kindred homicides which desolated the royal halls of Edipus or Pelops. Fate, stern, impassive, inexorable, irresistible, impelled their frantic, often their unconscious hands. Ambition, savage, fierce, insatiable, prompted, the filial, paternal, or parental slaughters of the proud race of Ruric or of Romanoff. Their shuddering chroniclers may record in blood

"How some have been deposed, some slain in war; Some haunted by their ghosts whom they deposed; Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed— All murdered!"

For the people, nations, languages, and tongues, debased and brutalized, crushed soul and body beneath the iron despotism of centuries, could a wish, one single aspiration burst their fetters, benignant wisdom might forbear

to breathe it. To break at once the bonds of

this gigantic tyranny, were but to let loose fifty millions of untutored fanatics to uproot and trample down civilization through the world. We may not suddenly emancipate the helots from his thraldom. Education, morals, a pure faith, and manly self-respect, must prepare the slave by slow degrees for liberty, as the voice crying in the desert heralded the gracious advent of the divine Redeemer. a life-and-death England has entered on struggle with a ferocious and wide-wasting despotism; it may-it must-tax our energies as a nation to the utmost; but we know we battle in a holy war, for peace, for order, and wellregulated freedom, and with God's blessing, brave allies, and a right royal Queen"A Queen who loves our laws, respects their bounds, And reigns content within them; whom we serve Freely and with delight;-who leaves us free." Tyrants and slaves are alike incapable of appreciating our glowing rational and enlightened patriotism. Would that, as bidden guests, the Russian autocrat and his counsellors could have witnessed recently our own Victoria, encircled with her island beauty and her island chivalry, dispensing smiles, rewards, and sympathy impartially, to her her kindred princes, her brave nobles, and her

A BOY'S ADVENTURES IN AUSTRALIA. By W. Howitt. (Boston: Ticknor and Co.This is the American edition of one of the most charming books for boys, that even the facile pen of William Howitt has produced. Already it has passed through a second edition at home, and we doubt not will be equally popular in America. The illustrations of this transatlantic edition are (as our juvenile friends would pronounce them) FIRST RATE. The artist has caught the graphic spirit of the text, and has transferred the scenes and groups to his blocks with great vigour and character, while the type and binding are equally creditable to the Boston press, and lose nothing by comparison with the craftsmanship of the Row. Ever at home with nature, Mr. Howitt's descriptions of the birds, and flowers, and animals of Australia, are as happy as those which have made his name so familiar to old and young, in his charming "Book of the Seasons." Every page is redolent of the wild fresh fragrance of the bush, birds unseen before, animals of a distinct type, flowers exquisite in odour, and dyed in deeper tints than those at home, are described with a facility that brings them almost before us, and makes us better acquainted with them for life. The feathered tribes of Australia are so numerous, that many pages are filled with descriptions of them; at the end of which our author tells us, that were he to write about all the birds of the country, he should never be done; but many of the animal denizens of the scrub and gum-tree woods are gradually decreasing before the advances of the colonists, to yield their places to the domestic animals of Europe. Where the kangaroos leaped with grotesque bounds across the plains, thousands of sheep are pasturing, unscared by the wild dogs of the country, which are daily becoming more scarce; the kangaroo rats and mice are also rare; and though wombats, flying opossums, squirrels, and other Tasmanian animals abound, the love of the chase, and fire-arms, which seems inherent in the Saxon and Celtic races, will no doubt in a few years thin their numbers, and leave the marsupial animals of Australia little more than the almost traditional existence of the wolves and wild boars of Arboreal Britain. Before passing on to the events and personages brought before us in these pages with all that vigour of description which is characteristic of our author, we must just glance back to his pleasant gossip of the numerous birds.

"But of all the birds, the most amusing are the piping crow, the leatherhead, and the laughing jackass. These three birds are the universal companions of travellers. Everywhere they greet you,

and everywhere are most amusing. There is a piping crow and a laughing jackass in the Zoological Gardens in London; and I used to hear the latter ha, ha, ha-ing! when I crossed the Regent's Park. But it is only in the Australian woods that and full of fun. There you see their antics, and one hears them in perfection. Then they are jolly, hear their merry quaint voices, in all their fulness and variety. These birds awake you at the earliest peep of day, and by the time the sun rises there is a general chorus of them all around you. The piping crows, or, as they call them here, the whistling the magpie but their pied feathers about them— magpies-though to my eyes they have nothing of whistle away like a lot of schoolboys, only with much deeper and more musical tones. Their warbling is the oddest thing in the world; part of it is so rich, so mellow, so melodious; and then again such an outbreak of croaks, and screeches, ana crowish noises! But they seem delighted with their own music, and do not sing like our birds, only while the hen-bird is sitting, but all through whole year. There are thousands of them all over the long summer, and, as I am told, through the the colony, and their black and white colours give a liveliness to the dim woods."

Here is a description of the leatherhead :

notes.

"It is as large as a fieldfare, with ash-coloured back, and whitish stomach; but the singularity of it lies in the head, which is distitute of feathers, and covered with a brown skin resembling leatherwhence its name- drawn tight on its skull. As you see it sitting, its head and beak look like a brownpointed stick, and it opens its beak wide, and makes the oddest gestures, when it utters its various strange It is evidently a bird of imitative powers, and the variety of its notes is endless. Near Kilmore you hear it continually crying, Kilmore! Kilmore!' a word that it must have picked up there, from constantly hearing it. You never hear the leatherhead say Kilmore anywhere else. At Spring Creek, at the Ovens there was one that was constantly crying, 'Quite well! quite well!' It said this as distinctly as you could do, and another answered, Quite! Quite! One day we heard one there trying to say Quite Correct,' but it did it with difficulty-' Quite Cor-Cor-Quite Correct!""

In the meanwhile, the unconventional gipsy-like life of the wanderers; the strange pilgrims met with by the way; the rough, wild roads through ing in the shape of bush-rangers, and snakes, in unpeopled districts; the probable dangers, lurkthe close-growing scrub; and lonely rocky gullies-give just that air of romance and adventure that we love in fiction, and doubly enjoy when real. Many besides ourselves will be glad to have met with the Popkins' party; the grandfather, son, and grandson, are each a separate study of human nature: the positive, self-willed disposition of the old man, whose mode of putting "steel, stamina, and pluck" into Phineas, rough as it is, proves after all the right one-the same positive nature showing itself by right of heritage, but " with a difference" in the good-natured, bold, light-hearted Jonas, and exerting itself in his case rather in the matter of words than things-contrast amusingly with the timid, nervous, gentle temperament of the grandson and nephew, Phineas, who loves the hut

readers the delight and information they are sure to glean from such a reading-mise en action-of this fine play as has been placed before us by Mr. C. Kean. In this (evidently with him) "labour of love" he has deviated widely and wisely from all precedents; he has gone to original sources at once, without being fettered by the traditions of his predecessors; and a printed copy of the play, as now acted at the Princess's, contains, in the form of annotation, all the authorities by which he has been guided in his task. The whole strength of his company are employed, and new supporters called in, to complete the effect; whilst the scenery and costume are what may have been expected from the same taste and judgment that marked the representation of "Sardanapalus." After an absence from severe indisposition of nearly eighteen months, the appearance of Mrs. C. Kean as Queen Katharine was the signal for an ovation. Her acting of that part may well bear comparison with that of the first actresses of the day, Miss Cushman and Miss Glyn; and both in the trial and death scenes we saw an origin- | ality of method which stamped the personification with uncommon merit. Mr. Charles Kean played Cardinal Wolsey with an intensity which proved how deeply he had studied its most earnest points. He was ably supported by Mr. Ryder (as Buckingham), Walter Lacy (as the King), and Mr. Cooper (as Griffiths). Miss Heath looks very lovely as Anne Boleyn-once (be it noted) played by sweet Mrs. Inchbald; and for the duet in the scene of Katharine's room, "Orpheus with his lute," the services of the Misses Brougham were secured. In conclusion, we may assert without fear of contradiction that as many were turned away from the doors as were admitted, during every night on which "Henry the Eighth" has been performed. There is, in fact, no half-price!

THE HAYMARKET.

When it is considered that Mr. Buckstone has added an operatic company to his corps dramatique already enriched by Miss Cushman, with Helen Faucit and Barry Sullivan in perspective-the public cannot be backward in applauding his exertions to provide them with fitting and varied entertainment. The wretched system of "starring," which limits each individual theatre in the metropolis to two or three first-rate actors, at most, rendering each company dependent for success on the attractions of the few, is the only cause of that want of completeness which is too lamentably apparent on the London stage at the present moment. The critic's labours therefore end in the amount of praise he can honestly afford to the "Stars"whilst alas! too often honesty compels him to silence regarding the subordinates. During the month, we have witnessed at this theatre the production of "The Actress of Padua," a play in in four acts, adapted by Mr. Buckstone from Victor Hugo's "Angelo;" a piece which some years ago created a considerable sensation in Paris, owing to the powerful acting of Mdlle.

Rachel in the character here personified with scarcely diminished power by Miss Cushman. Our contemporaries have coincided in condemning the play as extravagant in its incidents, unnatural in its characters, and unwholesome in its tone. We advance no arguments of denial touching these demerits; but we frankly admit that the play deeply interested us from beginning to end, and if we heard no magniloquent moral proclaimed at the tag of the last speech, we at any rate found a voice within us which eloquently enough whispered the lesson that was conveyed in the dreadful story. That story is as follows: A celebrated actress, named Tisbe (Miss Cushman), resides in great magnificence at Padua, where the governor of the city, Angelo (Mr. Howe), is her lover, though married to a lovely woman, Catarina (Miss Reynolds), who had been compelled to wed him, and to abandon her early lover, Rodolpho (Mr. W. Farren). Rodolpho, who had been banished, is, however, in Padua, disguised as the brother of Tisbe, who passionately loves him in spite of his neglect and coldness. In the actress's train is also a Venetian spy who has discovered their secrets, and for some occult reason plots their destruction. He manages to introduce Rodolpho into the chamber of Catarina at night; he informs Tisbe of Rodolpho's falsehood, and offers to give her ocular proof of it--and he succeeds in bringing her there, but not ere Catarina (innocent though loving) receives her lover, and hides him in a closet. But Tisbe, in the fury of jealousy, menaces-and just as her rival is at the point of despair, the actress discovers by a certain crucifix that her mother had been saved from death by Catarina, and relents. She then hears that Rodolpho and Catarina have long loved, and her noble nature decides on saving them. She gives Rodolpho the means of escape, remains in his place, and is there found by Angelo, who has discovered the love of Rodolpho for his wife, and believes her guilty. Appearing to enter into his plans of revenge, Tisbe provides him with two phials-one containing poison, the other a narcotic-misinforming him as to their contents. He forces his wife to swallow the supposed poison, and Tisbe has her conveyed away to her own house, whilst Angelo, unable to rest or sleep, takes the narcoticwhich is really the poison. Rodolpho hears that Catarina is dead through the artifice of Tisbe, and is about to sacrifice her to his vengeance, when she seizes his poniard, and stabbing herself, tells him how she saved his beloved. They are interrupted by news of Angelo's death; Catarina is discovered in a recess reviving from her sleep, and Tisbe expires in their arms-a sacrifice! Miss Cushman exhibited much tragic power as Tisbe. There is something very touching in her fond devotion to the memory of her mother; a pure and holy feeling amidst a mind laid waste by stormy and ill-regulated passions. Miss Reynolds, perfectly competent for genteel comedy, was not equal to the exigencies required by the personator of Catarina. Mr. Howe played the part of Angelo; and perhaps