^'^■:^ ^m UC-NRLF ^';v'?^K^> $B 2S2 57 '^ ^^^:^. .. ..r-uir^ ,>A^&f X, : #/7.^^ _._ iJBsSiJiUJiiJSijSiXiaBJi&S&iiiiii&SBsliB^ ENGLISH LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. No. ^ ■ -^ ' Mr-J ! j-J ! r^''!b-l f i-J S i-J f rT! ! n.< i f^ Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/englishamericanpOOboylrich THE ENGLISH AND AllEEICAN POETS AND DRAMATISTS OF THE VICTORIAN AGE; WITH BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. BY GEORGE BOYLE, Sometime Professor of Modern Languages in the Royal Belfast Academical Insuiution : Teacher of the English Language in the Royal Prussian School of Artillery. Poets are all who love, who feel great truths and tell them. — Bailey (F. stus). •TTbra^ UNIVERSITY FRANKFORT o. M. PUBLISHED BY ADOLPHUS GESTEWITZ 1886. Gegen Nachdnick geschutzt. — Uebersetzungsrecht vorbehalten. Entered in the Ministerial Registry for the Protection of Oopj^-Right. Entered according to act of Congress in the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. Printed by Knauer brothers, Frankfort o. M. PREFACE r or some years past the conviction has been gra- dually^ gaining ground in Germany, that a knowledge of the English language, as well as of the England and the Englisliman of our times, is only to be acquired by a study of the popular literature of the present day. Germans who have visited England relying on their acquaintance with the writers of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, have found themselves in a world where everything was strange to them. They daily heard a language in many respects unlike that of the authors with whom they were familiar : they mis- understood the greater part of what was said to them, were misunderstood in their turn, and saw themselves at last necessitated to apply themselves seriously to the acquisition of a tongue, of wliich they had imagined themselves to be perfect masters. From this it by no means follows, that a study <.»f the older English writers is valueless, for the man who can trace the language back to its sources possesses an immense advantage, other circumstances being equal, over the less deeply read student. We merely mean IV t^ say, that as the purpose of school education is to fit us for some particular career in life, common sense would seem to suggest, that young' people should be- gin by learning what is likely to be of service to them in after -years. In our bustling, w^ork- day world, how few comparatively have leisure to devote themselves to pure philological research! We live in an age of eager competition, one in which much must be learned before a young man is thought capable of filling the most modest position; and we hear con- stant complaints of the overtasking of youthful minds. Is it not then the part of wisdom, in the study of lan- guages, to proceed with as little delay as possible to the practically useful? In tliis concise handbook the student will find the English of our day both in its most elegant and its most familiar form. And here it will not be out ot place to observe, that the language of recent English poetry does not materially dilfer from that of good prose. In the older poets "vve meet with a superabun- dance of metaphors, conceits, quips, and pedantic classical allusions, wliich have no place in the poetry of the Victorian Age. When William Cobbett said, that if a man wrote a letter in the style of Paradise Lost, liis relations would put him in a madhouse, and take his estate, he showed his ludicrous want of all poetical feeling; still the caustic pleasantry is not de- void of a grain of truth. Hut a man might compose an epistle in the language of Tennyson, without any risk of losing either his personal liberty or his perso- nal property. The production of the present volume has been truly, on the part of the author, "a labour of love", and it has been his endeavour to make it as complete as he could. He believes that he has not passed over a single name worthy of mention, and in choosing the extracts it has been his constant aim to introduce the reader to the real beauties of each writer. Many of these selections are true gems, which will be perused with delight, and always remembered with pleasure, for, to quote the words of Keats: A thing of beauty is a joy for ever. CONTENTS. I. POETS. Page Miss Landon 4 The Pole-star 4 T H. Bayly 5 She wore a Wreath of Roses 6 Isle of Beauty 6 W. M. Praed 7 Arminius 8 Allan Onnningham .... 9 A wet Sheet and a flowing Sea t 9 Thomas Hood 10 Love thy Mother ... 12 The Deathbed 13 The Dream of Eugene Aram 13 Truth in Parentheses. . 19 I'm going to Bombay . 21 Faithless Nelly Gray. . 23 Rev. R. H. Barham ... 24 The JackdaAv of Rheims 25 The Confession .... 29 H. Coleridge 30 Address to certain Gold- fishes 30 W. Wordsworth 31 The Rainbow 32 Pa^e Early Morning in London 32 Prison Thoughts of Mary Stuart . 33 Milton 33 Early Spring 33 James Montgomery ... 34 The Nautilus 34 Extract from G r e e n 1 a n d 35 Night 35 John Wilson 36 A sleeping (Jhild ... 37 Mrs. Southey 38 Once upon a Time . . 38 T. N. Talfourd 39 The Poet and the (^hild 39 Lord Macaulay 41 Nasebv Battle 42 I^Ty : 43 Albert Smith 44 Science and the Fairies 44 The Foreign - Office Clerk . .' 46 Mont-Blanc 46 A. H. Clough 48 The latest Decalogue . 48 W. M. Thackeray . . . .49 Napoleon 49 Peg of Limavaddy ... 50 vm Page Samnel Lover 53 The Land of the West 53 \\^illiam Carleton .... 54 Sir Turlough, or, the Churchyard Bride. . 55 The native Glens ... 59 Rev. F. Mahony .... 60 The Flight of the Swal- lows 61 Edward Lord Ljrtton (E. L. Bulwer Lytton) . . 61 Extract from Milton 62 Extract from the New Timon 63 Song: 65 The Flower-girl ... 65 Knowledge 66 The New Timon and the Poet 67 Rev. Charles Kingsley . 68 Three Fishers .... 68 The Day of tlie Lord . 69 Lord Houghton (R. Monck- ton Milnes) 69 Long ago 70 W. and M. Howitt ... 70 Away with the pleasure 70 Alas ! what secret tears 71 Alaric A. Watts .... 72 Ten years ago .... 72 Philip James Bailey . . 74 Quotations from F e s t u s 74 Hon. Mrs. Norton. ... 75 Love not! 76 On Suicide 78 The Marchioness's Letter 79 Eliza Cook 79 ('hristmas 79 The Welcome back . . 81 The happy ]\Iind ... 81 Frances Brown 82 The last Friends ... 82 Lord Tennyson 83 The Miller's Daughter . 86 The Brook ...... 87 ^om (to diva. . . . 89 „ Locksley Hall 90 „ theLotos-eaters 91 the Princess. 93 Page From In Memoriam 95 „ Maud 97 , Idylls of the King .... 99 „ Enoch Arden 106 Lady Clara Vere de Vere 109 Charge of the Light Brigade Ill Rohert Browning .... 113 Pied Piper of Hamelin 116 From Prince Hohen- stiel-Schwangau . 119 From Fifine at the Fair .... 122 „ the House- holder ... 124 How they brought the good News from Ghent 125 Mrs. E. B. Browning . . 128 A vision of Life and Death 128 Earth 131 From the Drama of Exile. ... 133 „ Aurora Leigh 135 Robert Lord Lytton . .141 From Fables in Song 142 „ Orval .... 144 Algernon C. Swinburne . 146 To Victor Hugo ... 148 Dante G. Rossetti ... 148 The Sea-limits .... 149 William Morris 150 Matthew Arnold . . . .150 Alfred Austin 151 Martin F. Tupper . . . .151 Honest fellow , sore beset 151 I love to linger . . .152 Never go gloomily . .152 Other Poets . . . 153 Poet Translators . . . .153 From Lord Derby's Iliad .... 154 , Wright's Iliad 155 Mountain Song . . . .156 Don Roderick after his Defeat 157 Fount of Freshness ! .158 TX II. DRAMATISTS. I'age Page James S. Kiiowles . . . 159 From the Falcon . . 205 Frojii V i r i; i n i u ?5 , . 160 , Becket . . . . 207 , William T ell 163 Robert Browning .... 210 :. the Hunchback 169 Douglas Jerrold ... 211 „ the Wife. . . 176 From Black- c y e d theLove-Ch fise 178 Susan . . . 212 Edward Lord Lytton . . 179 , Bubbles of the From the Lady of Day . . . . 215 L y u s . . . 179 „ Retired from the Duchess dp Business . . 217 la Valliei e . 184 John Poole 220 „ Richelieu . . 186 Charles Reade 222 „ Money . . . . 190 Tom Taylor 222 „ Walpolf* . . . 191 From the contested T. N. Talfourd . . . . . 191 Election . . 223 From Ion . . . . . . 195 „ an unequal „ G 1 e n e . . . 198 Match . . . 226 Lord Tennyson . . . . 199 Thomas W. Robertson . 228 From Harold . . . . 200 Fi'om Society . . . 228 » „ Queen Mur y . 204 Other dramatic Writers . 230 AMERICAN POETS AND DRAMATISTS. Page Page Edgar A. Poe. . . . . . 234 The Light of Stars . . 259 The Bells .... . . 235 Mrs. Osgood 260 Annabel Lee . . . . . 238 The Child playing with H. R. Dana . . 239 a Watch ...... 260 The Power of the J >oiil 240 Lady Jane 261 0. W. Holmes . . . . . 241 C. F. Hoffmann 262 Old Ironsides. . . . . 241 What is Solitude? . . 262 The Steamboat . . . . 242 E. F. EUet .' . 263 Our Yankee Giils . . 243 The Burial 263 Contentment . . . • . 244 A. C. Lynch 264 Bayard Taylor . . . . . 246 Thoughts in a Library 264 From Faust . . . . 247 J. G. Percival 265 W. C. Bryant .... . . 248 Poetry 265 The Antiquity of Freedom 249 G. Morris 265 H. W. Longfellow . . . 250 Woman 265 From Hiawatha . . 252 E. Jndson 266 Footsteps of Angels . . 256 My Bird 267 Written in Italy . . . 257 Charles Sprague . . . . 267 The Ladder of St. J From Curiosity . . 267 Augustine . . . . . 257 j The Brothers 268 Truth . . 258 i Ode on Art 268 X Page J. G. Whittier 269 The Burning of Chicago 270 J. R. Lowell ...... 271 The Rich Man^s Son and the Poor Man's Son 271 Mrs. L. H. Sigourney . . 273 The thriving Family . 273 Niagara 274 Indian Names .... 275 Joaqnin Miller 276 Dead in the Sierras . . 277 J. K. Paulding 277 Down the Ohio .... 277 Page H. T. Tnckerman .... 278 Give me the Boon of Love 278 Tribute to Lucy Hooper 280 Mrs. Welby 280 To a Sea-Shell .... 280 Mrs. E. 0. Smith .... 282 Flowers 282 Mrs. Lewis 283 Gibraltar 283 Other American Poets . 283 Man (anonymous) . . . 284 Vocabulary (English and German) 286 { ywiv THE ENGLISH POETS AND DRAMATISTS OF THE VICTORIAN AGE. If we may be permitted to draw so bold a parallel, we should be tempted to compare the Victorian Age of English literature to some one, who, by a freak of fortune, finds himself the heir to a noble inheritance and an illustrious name, and who is painfully con- scious, that he must spare no eiforts, and shirk no la- bour, to prove himself worthy of such a succession. The marvellous events of the preceding half-century — the French Revolution, the dazzling, meteoric career of Napoleon, and all the strange episodes with which these were associated — had stirred up the dullest minds, and awakened slumbering genius throughout Europe. In England, the spirit of the age embodied itself, and found a vent, not only in the enthusiastic earlier poetry of Southey, Shelley, and Wordsworth, but more or less in the leading prose -writers of the day. One great theme absorbed the universal interest — the wonderful present, with its inscrutable but inevitable influence on the future destinies of the human race. Such were the times that Avitnessed the amazing outburst of genius which forms the chief glory of the reigns of George III. and George IV., and was not quite exhausted till to- wards the close of the short reign of William IV. — a period which we shall hereafter distinguish by the simple general designation of "the Georgian Age." The Victorian Age, on the other hand, opens with eleven years of profound peace. These, it is true, were years of great commercial activity, and till then unex- ampled industrial progress, but they were no less 1 — 2 — distiiigiiislied by a remarkable dearth of stirring public events. Even wlien, in 1848, nearl}^ the whole of the Eu- ropean continent was convulsed by revolutionary move- ments, England remained a passive and impassionate, though not an indifferent spectator; and the same re- mark applies to the Italian war of 1859, the political changes in Germany in the year 1866, and to the French campaign of 1870—1871. In the long interval of forty-five years, between 18B7 and 1882, only two public events of immediate national importance to Eng- land can be recorded : the Crimean war and the Indian Mutiny ; and strongly as both of these affected contem- porary English literature, their influence, like the events themselves, was of brief duration. In the literary aspect of the period now under consideration, we shall consequently find no traces of any influence from without, irresistibly stimulating un- conscious talent to preternatural fertility and preco- cious ripeness. The age is not given to enthusiasm, and is rather one of sober, toilsome, and tranquil re- search. Hence it is, that the Victorian poets, aban- doning the older models, have mostly followed in the path marked out for them by Wordsworth in his later style of poetry, seeking their subjects mainly within themselves, and uniting them with just so much action, and so much of external life, as they considered necessary to illustrate their meaning and secure the reader's attention. This leaning towards philosophical poetry will hardly surprise us when we recollect, that at the accession of Queen Victoria, in 1837, Wordsworth was the only great living poet, who still continued to write. John Keats had died in 1821, Shelley in 1822, Bloomfield and Wolfe in 1823, Byron in 1824, Bishop Heber in 1826, Crabbe in 1832, Sotheby in 1833, Coleridge and Lamb in 1834, Mrs. Hemans and Hogg in 1835. Southey, it is true, lived till 1843, but the latter years of his life were clouded by hope- less idiocy. Campbell survived till 1844, and Moore till 1852, but for a long time before their death, the chief labours of both liad" been biogi*aphical, critical, or historical. Rogers lived till 1855, but lie produced nothing of importance after 1822; and among the few other poets, whose life was prolonged into the Victo- rian Age, there was not one whose intellectual caliber equalled that of AVordsworth. The three pre-eminent dramatists of the Victorian Age are Knowles, Talfourd, and Lord Lytton. In the two former we discover a decided tendency to return to the great masters of the English and the Greek stage ; while Lord Lytton seems more ambitious of emu- lating the flowing and musical diction of Byron's dra- mas. Mr. Knowles, it is true, produced a great deal previous to 1837, but as he lived for twenty-five years after the accession of Queen Victoria, and during this time his pieces, in which for several years he continued to perform liimself, attained the acme of their populari- ty, we have not hesitated to assign him a place among the Victorian dramatists. If it be asked : what is the great characteristic of the Victorian literature in general? we shall reply: its infinite variety, and its Avideness of range. It can- not, indeed, boast of a dramatist like Shakespeare, a poet like Milton, or a philosopher like Bacon, but it has left no department of learning untouched, no sort of elegant writing unattempted. With rare exceptions, too, the literature of the period respires a genial, hu- manizing spirit which in the older literature we should seek in vain. Even the satire of the Victorian Age, when most pungent, will compare most favourably with the scathing sarcasm of Swift, or the acrimonious venom of Churchill. We now proceed to our task of enumerating the English Poets and Dramatists of the Victorian Age, who can justly lay claim to literary distinction. We shall begin with the small band, who, like setting stars sparkling in the dawn, form a connecting link between the Victorian and the Georgian era, and then pass on, to reach gradually, and without abrupt transition, the writers who have shed on this age the full and continuous lustre of their genius. 1* POETS. Miss Landon. Letitia Elizabeth Landon [1802— 1838], born at Hans Place, Chelsea, published her earliest poetical compositions in the Literary Gazette with the sig- nature L. E. L. Her most important work was the Improvisatrice. In 1838 she married Mr. George Maclean, governor of Cape Coast Castle, and accompa- nied her husband to Africa, but about four months later was found dead in her room, in consequence, it was believed, of taking an overdose of prussic acid. Her last verses, addi'essed to the Pole-star, which she had watched on her voyage till it sunk below the liorizon, cannot fail to awaken a tender and melan- choly interest in the bosom of every reader: THE POLE-STAR. A star has left the kindling sky — A lovely northern light; How many planets are on high, But that has left the night. I miss its bright familiar face, It was a friend to me; Associate with my native place, And friends beyond the sea. It rose upon our English sky. Shone o'er our English land, And brought back many a loving eye, And many a gentle hand. It seemed to answer to my thought, It called the past to mind, And with its welcome presence brought AU I had left behind. The voyage it lights no longer, ends Soon on a foreign shore; How can I but recall the friends That I may see no more? Fresli from the pain it was to part — How could I bear the pain? Yet strong- the omen in my lieart That says — We meet again. Meet witli a deeper, dearer love. For absence shows the worth Of all from which we then remove, Friends, home and native earth. Thou lovely polar star, mine eyes Still turned the first on thee, Till I have felt a sad surprise That none looked up with me. But thou hast sunk upon the wave, Thy radiant place unknown; I seem to stand beside a grave. And stand by it alone. Farewell! ah, would to me were given A power upon thy light! What words upon oiu' English heaven Thy loving rays should write! Kind messages of love and hope Upon thy rays should be; Thy shining orbit should have scope Scarcely enough for me. Oh, fancy vain as it is fond, And little needed too; My friends! I need not look beyond My heart to look for you. T. H. Bayly. The most successful of modern song- writers, if we except Thomas Moore, was ThomasHaynesBayly, a native of Bath, who was born in 1797, and died in 1839, at the comparatively early age of forty-two. His songs, Td he a Butterfly; Oh, no, we never mention her; Isle of Beauty; the Soldier's Tear; We met — 'twas in a crowd; She wore a wreath of Roses, long maintained, and some of them still maintain, their popularity. Though educated for the church. Mr. Bayly adopted literature as a profession, and the last years of his life were years of constant care and struggle. SHE WORE A WREATH OF ROSES. She wore a wreath of roses, The night that first we met; Her lovely face was smiling Beneath her curls of jet. Her footstep had the lightness, • Her voice the joyous tone, The tokens of a youthful heart ^Vliere sorrow is unknown. I saw her but a moment, Yet methinks I see her now, With a wreath of summer flowers Upon her snowy brow. A wreath of orange blossoms When next we met she wore; Th' expression of her features Was more thoughtful than before; And standing by her side was one. Who strove, and not in vain. To soothe her leaving that dear home She ne'er might view again. I saw her but a moment. Yet methinks I see her now, With the wreath of orange blossoms Upon her snowy brow. And once again I see that brow, No bridal wreath was there; The widow's sombre cap conceals Her once luxuriant hair. She weeps in silent solitude, And there is no one near To press her hand within his own, And wipe away the tear. I saw her broken-hearted, Yet methinks I see her now In the pride of youth and beauty, With a garland on her brow. ISLE OF BEAUTY. Shades of evening! close not o'er us. Leave our lonely bark a while ; Mom, alas! will not restore us Yonder dim and distant isle. Still my fancy can discover Sunny spots where friends may dwell; Darker shadows round us hover: Tsl.. of beauty, fare thee well! — 7 — Tis the hour when happy faces Smile around the taper's lig'ht ; Who will till our vacant places? Who shall sing- our songs to-night? Through the mist that floats above us Softly chimes the vesper bell, Like the voice of those that love us, Breathing fondly, fare thee well! Round our ship the waves are breaking. As I pace the deck along, And my eyes in vain are seeking Some green leaf to rest upon. What would I not give to wander Where my lovVt companions dwell! Absence makes the heart grow fonder: Isle of beauty, fare thee well ! W. M. Praed. Winthrop Mackwortli Praed [1802 — 1839] was born in London, and educated at Eton and Cam- bridge. He was called to the bar in 1829, and ob- tained a seat in Parliament in the following year. About the same time his health began to fail, and he died of consumption at the early age of 37. His poems were collected, and published in 1864, preceded by a biographical notice by the Eev. Derwent Coleridge. From his numerous poems we select one which must stir the heart of every German reader. The subject is the last interview of Arminius [Hermann der Deutsche] and his unpatriotic brother Flavins, as he had chosen to call himself, on the opposite banks of the Weser, some time after the defeat of Varus, and subsequent to the capture of Thusnelda. We learn from Tacitus [Annals II. 9, 10] that at first each of the brothers en- deavoured to gain over the other to his own party, but as the arguments and persuasions on both sides proved equally unavailing, they parted in resentment, but not before Arminius had overwhelmed his recreant brother with reproaches such as Praed has here attributed to him. The indignant patriot is supposed to speak at — 8 — the moment when Flavins, calling- alond for his horse and his arms, made a show of crossing the river, to inflict a chastisement on his fraternal foe. Back, back! he fears not foaming flood Who fears not steel-clad line: No warrior thou of German blood, No brother thou of mine. Go, earn Kome's chain to load thy neck, Her gems to deck thj'^ hilt; And blazon lionour's hapless wreck With all the gauds of guilt. But would' st thou have me share the prey? By all that I have done, The Varian bones tliat day by day Lie whitening in the sun, The legion's trampled panoply, The eagle's shattered wing, I would not 1)6 for earth or sky So scorn'd and mean a thing. Ho, call me here the wizard, boy. Of dark and subtle skill, To agonise but not destroy, To curse, but not to kill. When swords are out, and sliriek and shout Leave little room for prayer, No fetter on man's arm or heart Hangs half so heavy there. I curse him by the gifts the land Hath won from him and Eome, The riving axe, the wasting brand. Rent forest, blazing home; I curse him by our country's gods. The terrible, the dark. The breakers of the Roman rod. The smiters of the bark. Oh, misery! that such a ban On such a brow should be; Why comes he not, in battle's van His country's chief to be? To stand a comrade by my side. Tlie sharer of my fame. And worthy (.f a brotlier's pride, And of a brother's name? 9 But it in past! — where heroes press, And cowards bend the knee, Anniiiius is not hrotlierless. His brethren are the free. They come around: — one hour, and light Will fade from turf and tide, Then onward, onward to the fij2:ht. With darkness for our guide. To-night, to-night, when we shall meet In combat face to face. Then only would Arminius greet The renegade's embrace. The canker of Rome's guilt shall be Upon his dying name; And as he lived in slavery. So shall he fall in shame. Allan Cunningham. Allan Cunuiiigliam, born in Dumfriesshire in Scotland, in the year 1784, lived till 1842. He wrote poems and songs, chiefly but not exclusively in the Scottish dialect, and a drama with the title: Sir Mar- maduke Maxwell One of his finest effusions is the sea-song\ A wet sheet and a flowing sea: A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast. And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free. Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee.*) Oh for a soft and gentle wind! I lieard a fair one crj'^ ; But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high; And white waves heaving high, my boys. The good ship tight and free — The world of waters is our home, And merrv men are we. *) The lee side of a ship is the side opposite to that against which the wind blows. — 10 — There's tempest iu you horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark the music, mariners, The wind is piping loud; The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashing free — While the hollow oak oui* palace is, Our heritage the sea. Thomas Hood. We now come to a poet whose merits are so manifold and strangely diverse — we mean Thomas Hood [1798 — 1845] — that we feel puzzled to know whether we should call him a serious or a Comic writer. Perhaps no man was ever at once such a^con- summate master of the art of provoking immoderate laughter, of eliciting sympathy with the unfortunate, and of melting his readers into tears. His friend, Charles Lamb, described him admirably in his pun- ning application of the popular phrase, that he carried two faces [a serious and a comic one] under one hood. This remarkable man was born in London, though his father was a native of Dundee in Scotland. Young Hood was first sent to a private school kept by two maiden sisters with the strange name of Hogs- flesh, and then transferred to a "finishing school" in the neighbourhood of London. His father died in 1811, and the boy's health becoming delicate, his mother sent him to his relations in Dundee, where he remained two years. On his return to London he was sent to his maternal uncle, Mr. Sands, to learn the art of engi-aving; and he made such good progress that he afterwards usually furnished the illustrations for his own poems ; but it was not long till he resolved to maintain himself exclusively by his pen. His ear- liest productions were contributions to the London Ma- gazine, in which journal the first series of his Whims and Oddities originally appeared. A second and a third series were given to the world between 1826 and 1828; and in 1829 he commenced the Comic Annual, which contiiin<"1 for nine years, and was very profi- — 11 — table. He next edited an annual called the Gem, and for this work be wrote the Dream of Eugene Aram, appending to it as an explanatory note: "The late Admiral Burney went to school at an establishment where the unhappy Eugene Aram was usher subsequent to his crime. The admiral stated that ilram was gene- rally liked by the boys ; and that he used to discourse to them about murder in somewhat of the spirit which is attributed to him in this poem." In 1843 Hood became editor of the New Monthly Magazine. His last periodical was Hood's Magazine, which he continued to conduct till within a few weeks of his death. Of Hood's serious poems the most important are the Plea of the Midsummer Fairies, which he dedicated to Charles Lamb, and his Hero and Leander, dedicated to S. T. Coleridge. In the first of these it was his design, he tells us, to celebrate, by an allegory that immorta- lity which Shakespeare has conferred on the fairy my- thology by liis Midsummer Night's Dream. "It would have been a pity," he adds, "for such a race to go extinct, even though they were but as the Butterflies that hover about the leaves and blossoms of the vi- sible world." The subject of the second is of course borrowed from classical antiquity. The Bridge of Sighs tells its own story. In Lycus the Centaur, a water- nymph, by whom the hero is beloved, desiring to render him immortal, has recourse to Circe, but the treache rous sorceress gives her an incantation to pronounce which should change him into a horse. The horrible effect of the charm causes the nymph to break off in the midst, and Lycus becomes a Centaur. Hood's last serious production was the Song of the Shirt, which appeared in the London Punch, and was intended to awaken public sympathy for the over -worked and ill- paid sempstresses of London. This now celebrated poem begins as follows: With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread. — 12 — Stitch — stitch — stitch! In poverty, hunger and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sung the Song of the Shirt ! Work — work — work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work — work — work! Till the stars shine through the roof! It's oh! to be a slave, Along with the barbarous Turk! ^Vhere woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work! The forlorn needle-woman longs for the fresh air, for a brief respite from her monotonous toil: Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet. For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want, And the walk that costs a meal! Oh! but for one short hour! A respite however brief! Xo blessed leisure for love or hope. But only time for grief! A little weeping would ease my heart. But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread. Tlie remaining verses are almost too painful for quotation. We prefer giving a few other specimens of Hood's serious style. TO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS MOTHER. Love thy mother, little one! Kiss and clasp her neck again, — Hereafter she may have a son Will kiss and clasp that neck in vain. Love thy mother, little one! (laze upon her living eyes. And mirror })ack her love to thee, — Hereafter tliou may'st shudder sighs To meet tiiem when tliey cannot see. (iaze upon lier living eyes. — ]■) — Press her lips, the while they glow With love that the.y have often told, — Hereafter thou may'st press in woe, And kiss tliem till thine own are cold. Press her lips tlie wliile they glow ! Oil! revere her raven hair! Although it he not silver grey; Too early Death, led on by Care, May snatch save one dear lock away. Oh! revere her raven hair! Pray for her at eve and morn That Heaven may long the stroke defer, — For thou may' St live the liour forlorn Wiien thou wilt ask to die with her. Pray for her at eve and morn! THE DEATHBED. We watch'd her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seem'd to speak, So slowly moved about; As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out. Our very hopes belied oiu' fears. Our fears our hopes belied — We thought her dying when she slept. And sleeping when she died. For when the morn came dim and sad. And chill with early showers. Her quiet eyelids closed — she had Another morn than ours. THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 'Twas in the prime of summer time, An evening calm and cool. And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school: ' There were some that ran and some that leapt, Like troutlets in a pool. 14 Away they sped with gamesome minds, And souls untouched by sin. To a level mead they came, and there They drave the wickets in. Pleasantly shone tlie setting sun Over the town of Lynn. Like sportive deer they coursed about, And shouted as they ran. — Turning to mirth all things of earth, As only boyhood can; But the Usher sat remote from all, A melancholy man! His hat was off, his vest apart, To catch heaven's blessed breeze; For a burning thought was in his brow, And his bosom ill at ease: So he leaned his head upon his hands, and read The book upon his knees. Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, Nor ever glanced aside, For the peace of his soul he read that book In the golden eventide: Much study had made him very lean, And pale, and leaden-eyed. At last he shut the ponderous tome, With a fast and fervent grasp. He strained the dusty covers close, And fixed the brazen hasp: "0 God! could I so close my mind, And clasp it with a clasp!" Then leaping on his feet upright. Some moody turns he took, — Now up the mead, then down the mead, And past a shady nook, — And lo! he saw a little boy That pored upon a book. ''My gentle lad, what is't you read — Romance or fairy fable? Or is it some historic page Of kings and crowns unstable?" The young boy gave an upward glance. "It is, the Death of Abel." — 15 — The usher took six hasty strides. As sinit with sudden pain, — Six hasty strides beyond the place, Then sh)\vly back again ; And now he sat beside tlie lad, And talked with him of Cain ; And, long- since then, of bloody men. Whose deeds tradition saves; Of lonely folk cut off unseen, And hid in sudden graves; Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn. And murders done in caves. And how the sprites of injured men Shriek upward from the sod. — Ay, how the ghostly hand will point To show the burial clod ; And unknoMTi facts of guilty acts Ai-e seen in dreams from God I He told how murderers walk the earth Beneath the curse of Cain, — With crimson clouds before their eyes, And flames about their brain. For blood has left upon their souls Its everlasting stain! "And well", quoth he, "I know for truth Their pangs must be extreme, — Woe, woe, unutterable woe, — Who spill life's sacred stream! For why? Methought last night I wrought A murder, in a dream! One that had never done me wTong — A feeble man and old; I led him to a lonely field, The moon shone clear and cold: Now here, said I, this man shall die, And I will have his gold! Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, And one with a heavy stone. One hurried gash with a hasty knife. And then the deed was done: There was nothing lying at my foot But lifeless flesh and bone! — 16 — Nothing" but lifeless flesh and bone! That could not do me ill; And yet I feared him all the more, For lying there so still: There was a manhood in his look, That murder could not kill! And lo! the universal air Seemed lit with ghastly flame; Ten thousand, thousand dreadful eyes Were looking down in blame: I took the dead man by his hand, And called upon his name! God! it made me quake to see Such sense within the slain! But when I touched the lifeless clay. The blood gushed out amain! For every clot, a burning spot Was scorching in my brain! My head was like an ardent coal, My heart as solid ice; My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, Was at the Devil's price: A dozen times I groaned: the dead Had never groaned but tAvice. And now, from forth the frowning sky From the Heaven's topmost height, 1 heard a voice — the awful voice — Of the blood-avenging sprite : Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead. And hide it from my sight. I took the dreary body up. And cast it in a stream, — A sluggish Avater, black as ink, The depth was so extreme: My gentle boy, remember this Is nothing but a dream. Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, And vanished hi the pool; Anon I cleansed my bloody hands. And washed my forehead cool, And sat among the ui-chins young That evening in the school. — 17 — Heaven! to think of their white souls, And mine so black and g^rim! 1 could not share in childish prayer, Nor join in evening hymn : Like a devil of the pit I seemed With holy cherubim! And peace Avent with them one and all, And eacli calm pillow spread ; But (xuilt was my grim chamberlain That lighted me to bed; And drew my midnight curtains round With fingers bloody red! All night I lay in agony. In anguish dark and deep, 31y fevered eyes I dared not close, But stared aghast at Sleep: For Sin had rendered unto her The Keys of Hell to keep ! All night I lay in agony. From weary chime to chime, With one besetting horrid hint That racked me all the time ; A mighty .Yearning, like the first Fierce ilnpulse unto crime! One stern tyrannic thought that made All other thoughts its slave ; Stronger and stronger every pulse Did that temptation crave, — Still urging me to go and see The dead man in his grave ! Heavily I rose up as soon As light was in the sky, And sought the black, accursed pool With a wild misgiving eye; And I saw the Dead in the river bed, For the faithless stream was dry. ]\Ierrily rose the lark, and shook The dew-drop from its wing; But I never marked its morning flight, I never heard it sing: For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing. — 18 — With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran; There was no time to dig- a grave Before the day began: In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves I hid the murdered man! And all tliat day I read in school. But my thoughts were otherwhere, As soon as the mid-day task was done. — In secret I Avas there: And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, And still the corse was bare! Then down I cast me on my face, And first began to weep, For I knew my secret then was one That earth refused to keep : Or land or sea, though he should be Ten thousand fathoms deep. So wills the fierce avenging Sprite, Till blood for blood atones! Ay, though he's buried in a cave And trodden doA\Ti with stones, And years have rotted off his flesh, The world shall see his bones! God! that horrid, horrid dream Besets me now awake! Again — again, with dizzy brain The Imman life I take. And my right hand grows raging hot, Like Cranmer's at the stake. And still no peace for tlie restless clay. Will wave or mould allow; The horrid thing pursues my soul — It stands before me now!" The fearful boy looked up, and saw Huge drops upon his brow. That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin-eyelids kissed, Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walked between With gyves upon his Avrist. — 19 — Anioiio* Hood's humorous and satirical poems, none gives us a better idea of his man3^sidedness and the ver- satility of his genius, than the story of Miss Kilmansegg and her precious Leg; the intention of wliich is to ridicule purse-pride and vulgar love of display. The heroine fractures her leg badly when out riding, and the injured limb being amputated, she insists on repla- cing it by a golden leg, as a means of advertising her great wealth, and at the same time of attracting sui- tors. She finds a husband, but soon discovers that riches are not necessarily allied with domestic happiness ; and one day the gentleman, in a violent passion, seizes the costly limb, and knocks out her brains with it, while she is lying in bed. Impossible as it is to give, by a brief extract, any adequate idea of the wit, the odd fancies, and we will even add, the philosophy of this pretty long poem, we cannot refrain from quoting the description of Miss Kilmansegg's happy parents, as they appeared at her christening: To paint the maternal Kilmansegg- The pen of an Eastern Poet would beg, And need an elaborate sonnet; How she sparkled A\ith gems whenever she stirr'd And her head niddle-noddled at every word, And seem'd so happy, a Paradise Bird Had nidificated upon it. And Sir Jacob the father strutted and bow'd, And smiled to himself, and laughed aloud, To think of his heiress and daughter; And then in his pockets he made a grope, And then, in the fulness of joy and hope, Seem'd washing his hands with invisible soap In imperceptible water.*) In one of Hood's minor poems, he humorously ex- poses some of the petty hypocrisies of social life. It is called Domestic Asides, or Truth in Parentheses: I really take it very kind. This visit, Mrs. Skinner! I have not seen you such an age — [The wretch has come to dinner!] *) Humorous description of his rubbing his hands together to express his delight. 2* — 20 — Your (laughters, too, what loves of girls! What heads for painters' easels! Come here, and kiss the infant, dears — [And give it perhaps the measles.] Your charming boys, I see, are hpme From Reverend Mr. Russell's; 'Twas very kind to bring them both — [What boots for my new Brussels!] What! little Clara left at home? Well now I call that shabby: I should have loved to kiss her so — [A flabby, dabby babby!] And Mr. S. I hope he's well; Ah! though he lives so handy, He never now drops in to sup — [The better for our brandy!] Come, take a seat — I long to hear About Matilda's marriage; You're come of course to spend the day! [Thank Heaven! I hear the carriage.] What! must you go? next time, I hope, You'll give me longer measure; Nay — I shall see you down, the stairs — [With most uncommon pleasure!] Good-bye, good-bye, remember all, Next time, you'll take your dinners! [Now, David, mind I'm not at home In future to the Skinners!] Many of Hood's shorter effusions, such as, rm going to Bombay, were prompted by the passing incidents of the day. A letter under a pseudonym had appeared in the Times newspaper, in which the writer, a lady and a mother, complained of the ever increasing diffi- culty of marrying young ladies at the present day. She had herself three very accomplished daughters, she added, but could find no chance of disposing of them in marriage, and was thus compelled to solicit good advice. Advice soon came , in the form of a reply from a gentleman who had just returned from India, and the counsel he gave to her and to - 21 — all mothers similarly circumstanced was, to sliip off their daughters to that country, where European ladies were at a premium. I'M GOING TO BOMBAY. My hair is browii, my eyes are blue, And reckoned rather bright; I'm shapely, if they tell me true, And just the proper height; My skin has been admired in verse, And called as fair as day — If I am fair, so much the worse, I'm going to Bombay. At school I passed with some eclat; I learn'd my French in France; De Wint gave lessons how to draw And D'Egville how to dance; Crevelli taught me how to sing, And Cramer how to play — It really is the strangest thing, I'm going to Bombay! By Pa and Ma I'm daily told To marry now's my time, For thougli I'm very far from old, I'm rather in my prime. They say while we have any sun We ought to make our hay — And India has so hot a one, T,m going to Bombay! My cousin writes from Hydrapot My only chance to snatch, And says the climate is so hot, It's sure to light a match.*) She's married to a son of Mars, With very handsome pay, And swears I ought to thank my stars I'm going to Bombay! She says that I shall much delight To taste their Indian treats, But what she likes may turn me quite, Their strange outlandish meats. *) Pun on m a t ch, in German Streichholzchen, and match, Heiratspartie. — 22 — If I can eat rupees') who knows? Or dine, the Indian way, On doolies and on bungalows — I'm going to Bombay! She says that I shall much enjoy — I don't know what she means — To take the air, and buy some toy In my own palankeens. I like to drive my pony chair, Or ride our dapple grey, — But elephants are horses there — I'm going to Bombay ! That fine new teak-built ship, the Fox, A 1*) Commander Bird, Now lying in the London docks, Will sail on May the third. Apply for passage or for freight. To Nichol, Scott, and Gray; Pa has applied, and sealed my fate — I'm going to Bombay! 3Iy heart is full, my trunks as well, My mind and caps made up; 3[y corsets, shap'd by 'Mrs. Bell, Are promised ere I sup; With boots and shoes, Kivarta's best, And dresses by Duce, And a special license in my chest, I'm going to Bombay! Hood's Up the Rhine is brimful of broad humour, and reminds us strongly of Smollett's Humphrey Clinker, The travellers are respectively , the hypochondriac Uncle Orchard ; Mrs. Wilmot, his recently widowed sister, who wishes to be thought a very interesting personage ; her talkative "woman", Martha Penny, and the sprightly nephew, Frank Somerville. Like Smollett, Hood has *) The young lady is mistaken in supposing the rupee to be a sort of pea. It is a silver coin worth about 2 s. sterling. The d 1 y and the i)alankeen, or palanquin, are two forms of a bamboo carriage, bonie by four men on their shoulders. The bungalow, properly speaking, is a small one-story house; but it sometimes means a small inn or refreshment station for tra- vellers. *) A ship is classed A 1 when built of the best materials, and not more than five years old. ^* 'III III ■■jawi- "" liere adopted the epistolary form, and the letters are in prose, but almost continually interspersed with incidental verses. As the reader will guess, the subject is the tour of an eccentric English family on the continent. We shall conclude our notice of Hood's poetical works with a specimen of his punning style: FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. Ben Battle was a soldier bold, And used to war's alarms; But a cannon-bail took off liis legs, So he laid down his arms!') Now as they bore him off the field, Said he, "Let others shoot. For here I leave my second leg*, And the forty-second foot."*) Now Ben he loved a pretty maid. Her name was Nelly Gray; So he went to pay her his devours [devoirs] When he'd devoured his pay; But when he called on Nelly Gray, She made him quite a scoff ; And when she saw his wooden legs. Began to take them off!*) Nelly Gray! Nelly Gray! Is this your love so warm? The love that loves a scarlet coat, Should be more uniform!*) She said, "I loved a soldier once. For he was blithe and brave; But I will never have a man, With both legs in the grave! Before you had those timber toes. Your love I did allow, But then, you know, you stand upon Another footinof now!" *) Arms; in German, Arme, or Waffen. *) Foot or infantry regiment. ^) To take off; in German, abnehmen, or sich iiber etwas lustig machen. •) U n i f r m ; in German consequent, or Regimentsuniform. — 24 — "0 NeUy Gray! Nelly Gray! For all your jeering speeches, At duty's call I left my legs In Badajos's breaches. false and fickle Nelly Gray, I know why you refuse ! Though I've no feet, some other man Is standing in my shoes ! ^) 1 msh I ne'er liad seen your face! But now a long farewell! For you will he my death; — alas! You will not be my Nell!" (knell) ^) So round his melancholy neck A rope he did entwine, And, for his second time in life, Enlisted in the Line. One end he tied around a beam. And then removed his pegs, And, as his legs were off, of course He soon was oif his legs. And there he hung till he was dead As any naU') in town; For though distress had cut him up. It could not cut him down! A dozen men sat on his coi*i)se. To find out why he died — And they buried Ben in four cross-roads,*) With a stake in his inside! R. H. Barham. The Rev. Richard Harris Barham (1788 — 1845), poet and humorist, furnishes us with a striking example of cheerfulness and the love of innocent mirth co-existing with the exercise of one of the gravest pro- ') T stand in one's shoes is, to take one's place (Jemand aus.stechen). ') Todtenglocke. ') Alluding to the popular simile: "as dead as a nail in a door ." *) This was fonnerly the usual punislinieut of suicides. There h a pun in the last line on a stake of wood and abeafsteak. — 25 — fessions. Mr. Barliam was a royal chaplain and a minor canon of St. Paul's, and no man was more assi- duous or earnest in the discharge of his clerical duties, but this nowise detracted from the pleasure he took in the society* of Theodore Hook, the elder Charles Matthews, and the other wits and literary celebrities of the day. Nor is this an isolated example. Dr. South, Sterne, Swift, Churchill, Sydney Smith, Whately, were all, like Barham, men distinguished for wit and humour, and all were clergymen of the Church of England. Mr. Barham has left us a novel, entitled My Cousin Ni- cholas; but his reputation is based on his inimitable Ingoldshy Legends, which he contributed to Bentleys Miscellomy, under the signature of Thomas Ingoldshy. These legends, a number of which are in prose, are in part humorous versions of old stories, and in part the invention of the author. One of the most amusing, founded on a legend existing among the Cistercian monks, is called THE JACKDAAV OF EHEIMS.*) The Jackdaw sat on the Cardmal's chair! Bishop and abhot and prior were there! Many a monk and many a friar, Many a knight and many a squire With a great many more of lesser degree, In sooth a goodly company; And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee. Never, I ween, Was a prouder seen, Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams, Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims! In and out Through the motley rout, That little Jackdaw kept liopping about; Here and there, Like a dog at a fair. *) Tunc miser Corvus adeo conscientiae stimulis compimctus fuit, et execratio eum tantopere excarneficavit, ut exinde tabes- cere inciperet. nee amplius crocitaret Tunc abbas sacerdotibus mandavit ut rursus furem absolverent; quo facto, Corvus, omnibus mirantibus, propediem convaluit, et pristinam sanitatem recuperavit. — De Illust. Ord. Cisterc. 26 Over comfits and cates, And dishes and plates, Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall, 3Iitre and crosier! he hopp'd upon all! With saucy air, He perch'd on the chair Where, in state the ^reat Lord Cardinal sat, In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat; And he peered in the face Of his Lordship's grace, With a satisfied look, as if he would say, •"We two are the greatest folks here to-day!" And the priests with awe, As such freaks they saw. Said, "the Devil must be in that little Jackdaw!" The feast Avas over, the board was clear'd, The flawns and the custards had all disappear'd, And six nice little singing-boys — dear little souls! Li nice clean faces, and nice white stoles. Came, in order due. Two by two, 3Iarching that grand refectory through! A nice little boy held a golden ewer, Kmboss'd and fill'd with water, as pure As any that flows between Rheims and Namur, Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch In a fine golden hand-basin made to match. Two nice little boys, rather more grown. Carried lavender-water and eau-de-Cologne ; And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap, AA^orthy of washing the hands of the Pope. The gTeat Lord Cardinal turns at the sight Of these nice little boys dress'd all in white: From his finger he draws His costly turquoise; And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws, Deposits it straight By the side of his plate, While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait; Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing, That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring! There's a cry and a shout, And a deuce of a rout, And nobody seems to know what they're about, But the monks have tlieir pockets all turn'd inside out. The friars are kneeling, And hunting, and feeling - 27 — The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling. The Cardinal drew Off each pluni-colour'd shoe, And left his red stockings exposed to the view; He peeps, and he feels In the toes and the heels; They turn up the dishes — they turn up the plates — They take up the poker and poke out the grates. They turn up the rugs, The}' examine the mugs : But, no! — no such thing; — They can't find the Ring! The Cardinal rose with a dignified look. He call'd for his candle, his bell, and his book! In holy anger, and pious grief. He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed; From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head; He cursed him in sleeping, that every night He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright ; He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking, He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking ; He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying; He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying; Never was heard such a terrible curse! But what gave rise To no little surprise, Nobody seem'd one penny the worse! The day was gone, The night came on. The monks and the friars they search'd till dawn; When the Sacristan saw. On crumpled claw, Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw! No longer gay. As on yesterday; His feathers all seemed to be tum'd the wrong way; — His pinions droop'd — he could hardly stand, — His head was as bald as the palm of your hand ; His eye so dim, So wasted each limb. That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, "That's him! That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing! That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's ring!" The poor little Jackdaw, When the monks he saw. Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw; And tum'd his bald head, as much as to say, "Pray, be so good as to walk this way!" — 28 — Slower and slower He limp'd on before. Till the}' came to the back of the belfry door. Where the first thing they saw, Midst the sticks and the straw, Was the ring in the nest of that little Jackdaw! Then the gi'eat Lord Cardinal call'd for his book. And off that terrible curse he took; The mute expression Served in lieu of confession. And, being thus coupled with full restitution. The Jackdaw got plenary absolution! When these words were heard, That poor little bird. Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd. He grew sleek and fat; In addition to that, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! His tail waggled more Even than before; But no longer it wagg'd with an impudent air. No longer he perch'd on the Cardinal's chair. He hopp'd now about With a gait devout; At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out; And, so far from any more pilfering deeds. He ahvays seem'd telling the Confessor's beads. If any one lied — or if any one swore — Or slumber'd in prayer-time and happen'd to snore. That good Jackdaw Would give a great "Caw!" As much as to say, Don't do so any more! While many remark'd, as his manners they saw, That they never had known such a pious Jackdaw! He long lived, the pride Of that country side. And at last in the odour of sanctity died. Mr. Barham possessed such a fund of drollery, that even his ordinar}^ correspondence overflowed Avith it. On one occasion he sent his friend. Dr AVilmot of Ashford, an invitation to dinner in four stanzas, forming an exact counterpart to Dr Percy's ballad, "0 Nancy, wilt thou go with me?" Dr Percy's first stanza is: Nancy, wilt thou go witli me, Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town? Can silent glens have charms for thee. The lowly cot and russet gown? — 29 — No longer drest in silken sheen. No longer decked with jewels rare, Say, can'st thou quit eacli courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? Barliam's imitation is : Doctor ! wilt thou dine with me, And drive on Tuesday morning down? Can ribs of beef have charms for thee — The fat, the lean, the luscious brown? No longer dress'd in silken sheen, Nor deck'd with rings and brooches rare, Say, wilt thou come in velveteen. Or corduroys that never tear? Nothing gave this genial humorist more amusement than to read aloud, in a circle of friends, some serious verses ending with an attrappe, which left his auditors staring at the reader in blank amazement. One of these pieces he calls THE CONFESSION. There's something on my breast, father. There's something on my breast! The livelong day I sigh, father, And at night I cannot rest. I cannot take my rest, father, Though I would fain do so; A weary weight oppresseth me — This weary weight of woe ! 'Tis not the lack of gold, father. Nor want of wordly gear; My lands are broad and fair to see. My friends are kind and dear. My kin are leal and true, father, They mourn to see my grief; But oh! tis not a kinsman's hand Can give my heart relief! 'Tis not that Janet's false, father, 'Tis not that she's unkind; Tho' busy flatterers swarm around, I know her constant mind. — 30 — 'Tis uot her coldness, father, That chills my labouring breast. It's that confounded cucumber I've eat and can't digest. A memoir of the Rev. Richard Harris Barham has been written by his son. H. Coleridge. Samuel T. Coleridge's three children, Hartley, Der- toent and Sara Coleridge, all distinguished themselves as writers. Hartley, the eldest (1796 — 1849), was not only a poet, but an essayist, a critic and a biographer. His poetry, as might be expected, is of the school of Wordsworth, or to use the popular designation, the "Lake School." It is very sad that all the efforts of this ta- lented man to gain a position in society were frustrated by his fatal propensity to intemperance. He gained a fellowship at Oxford, but soon lost it in consequence of his irregularities, and his career as a schoolmaster at Ambleside was equally brief. Of Hartley Coleridge's gi^aceful poetry the following lines will give a good idea : ADDRESS TO CERTAIN GOLD-FISHES. Kestless forms of hving Ught, Quivering on your lucid wings, Cheating still the curious sight With a thousand shadowings; Various as the tints of even, Gorgeous as the hues of heaven, Reflected on j'our native streams In flitting, flashing, billowy gleams! Hannless warriors, clad in mail Of silver breastplate, golden scale; Mail of Nature's own bestowing. With peaceful radiance mildly glowing — Fleet are ye as fleetest galley Or pirate rover sent from Sallee; Keener than the Tartar's arrow, Sport ye in your sea so narrow. Was the sun himself your sire? Were ye born of vital fire? — 31 — Or of the shade of golden flowers. Such as we fetch from eastern bcnvers, To mock this murky clime of ours? lIpAvards. downwards now ye glance, Weaving many a mazy dance, Seeming still to grow in size When ye would elude our eyes — Pretty creatures! we might deem Ye were happy as ye seem — As gay, as gamesome, and as blithe, As light, as loving, and as lithe. As gladly earnest in your play, As when ye gleamed in far Cathay. And, yet, since on this hapless earth There's small sincerity in mirth. And laugliter oft is but an art To drown tlie outcry of the heart; It may be that your ceaseless gambols. Your wheelings, dartings, divings, rambles. Your restless roving round and round The circuit of your crystal bound — Is but the task of weary pain. An endless labour, dull and vain; And while your forms are gaily shining. Your little lives are inly pining! Nay — but still I fain would dream That ye are happ}' as ye seem. Derwent Coleridge entered the church, and for some time instructed a small number of hojs, among whom was young Charles Kingsley, the future poet and novelist. Besides writing a memoir of his brother Hartley, and a series of sermons, he annotated some of his father's works. His sister Sara published a fairy tale called Phaniasmion, and some other instructive works for the young. She married her cousin, Henry Nelson Coleridge, a Chancery barrister, and died in 1852. William Wordsworth. William Wordsworth (1770 — 1850) was born at Cockermouth in Cumberland. In 1798 he published the Lyrical Balla-ht. And I would he the necklace, And all day long- to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom, With her laughter or her sighs. And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. Another of these early poems, the Brook, tells us of a lovers' quarrel and reconciliation, followed by emigration to Australia and return to England; while all this time the ]3rook, the work of the eternal God, still sweetly murmured its unclianging lay. We (juote the verses that more immediately refer to the stream: I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To loicker doAvn a valley. By thirty hills I liurry down, Or slip between tlie ridges. By twenty thorps, a little town. And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river. For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I chatter over stony ways. In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go. But I go on for ever. — 88 — I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing. And here and there a lusty trout. And here and there a grayling, And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak' Above the golden gravel. And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river. For men may come and men may go. But I go on for ever. » I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel-covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. I skip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows. I murmur under moon and star.s In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses; And out again I curve and flovv- To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go. But I go on for ever. The Talking Oak is a graceful poem, with a some- what fantastic subject. A lover converses with the oak on the charms of a certain Olivia, and the tree relates, with what rapture the lady, on visiting the park, had read her name carved on its trunk by the hand of the lover. Hereupon, the youth, who is likewise a poet, vows he will make the tree no less famous than its historical brother oak, Wherein the younger Charles abode Till all the paths were dim; And far below the Jloundhead rode, And ImmmVl a surly \\ym\\. For descriptive force, the last two lines are perhaps unrivalled. 89 — Godiva is the well-known legend of ('oventry. Her husband, the Lord of Mercia, having laid a very heavy tax upon the then poor town, Lady Godiva remon- strates with him; but he will only consent to rescind his resolution on terms which he believes she cannot accept: She sought her lorrl. and found him Avhere he stood About the hall, among his dogs alone. She told him of their tears, And prayed hmi: "If they pay tliis tax, they starve." Whereat he stared, replying, half amazed, "You would not let your little linger ache For such as these." "But I would die," said she. He laughed, and swore by Peter and by Paul, Then lillipped at the diamond in her ear: "Oh ay, Oh ay, you talk!" "Alas!" she said, "But prove me what it is I would not do." And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand. He answered: "Ride you naked through the tOAvn, And I repeal it;" and nodding as in scorn, He parted. The lady takes him at his word. On learning this, the authorities of the town decree that — as they loved her well. From then till noon no foot should pace the street. No eye look down, she passing; but that all Should keep Avithin, door shut, and window barred. This order being strictly obeyed by tlie citizens, Lady Godiva "rode forth, clothed on with chastity," through all the town, and back to the castle. Only one irreverent and inquisitive wight, the "Peeping Tom" of the popular legend, disobeyed the prohibition, and met with a signal punishment: One low churl, compact of thankless earth. The fatal byAvord of all years to come. Boring a little auger-hole in fear, Peeped; but his eyes, before they had their will. Were shrivelled into darkness in his head. And dropped before him. So the powers Avho wait On noble deeds cancelled a sense misused. — 90 — None of Teimysoii's poems lias been more praised than Locksley Hall. It is tiie complaint of an unfortu- nate lover, who has first been encouraged, and then jilted, b}^ his cousin Amy. Tennyson is fond of making his principal personages tell tJieir own story. After dwelling upon the happy past, when "Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands;" when for him every thing was bright in nature, even the most uninviting landscape — for Amy was there beside him — he turns with bitterness of soul to the present, when every illusion is gone , and he exclaims : *'0 the dreary, dreary moorland ! the barren, barren shore!" Not only has Amy forsaken him, but she is •'mated with a clown," one who regards her as "Some- thing better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse." He continues: Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, In the dead, unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. Like a dog, he hunts in dream.s. and thou art staring at the wall, Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, To thy widowed marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. Thou shalt hear the Never, never, wliispered by the phantom years, And the song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears. And an eye shall vex thee looking ancient kindness on thy pain: Turn thee, turn thee, on thy pillow, get thee to thy rest again. In his disappointment and despair, he forms several wild projects for tlie future. Among others, he proposes to wander: On from island unto island at the gateways of the day ; and there to seek a compensation for what he has lost in Europe: I will take some savage woman; she shall rear my dusky race. But on reflexion he abandons this insensate scheme: Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay; and he resolves to grieve no longer for the faithless Amy, but to go among his fellow-men, who have achieved great things, and yet consider "that which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do." — 91 — The often-quoted complaint of the Latin poet: Eheii! qiiaiii iiifortuiiii miserrimum est fuisse felicem, has been repeated both by Dante and by Tennyson in Locksley Hall. The Italian poet's version is, Nessuii mag'g'ior dolore Che ricordarsi del tempo felice Nella miseria! George Eliot gives the preference to Tennyson's rendering of the same idea: This is truth the poet sings, That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. In the following lines, Tennyson shows a keen and truly poetical appreciation of the beauty of the southern heavens : Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade, Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. In the Lotos-Eaters, we are introduced to an ideal world — to the imaginary region in northern Africa, where Homer locates that dreamy, tranquilly happy race of men. About the design of the poem opinions are divided. While some look on it as merely a para- phrase of a passage in the ninth book of the Odyssey, others find in it a warning against wasting our lives in inglorious repose. The poem opens with the arrival of a crew of w^earied seamen in this pleasant land: "Courage!" he said, and pointed towards the land, "This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." In the afternoon they came unto a land, In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coasts the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. Full-faced above the valley shone the moon; And like a downward smoke the slender stream Along the cliff' to fall and pause and fall did seem. A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke. Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, Rolling a slumberous sheet of foam below. — 92 — They saw the gleamiug river seaward flow From the inner laud: far oif, three mountain tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow. Stood sunset-flush' d: and dew'd with showery drops. Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. The charmed sunset lingered low adown In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale Was seen far inland, and the yellow down Border'd with palm, and nian}^ a winding vale And meadow, set witli slender galingale; A land where all things always seem'd the same! And round about the keel with faces pale, Dark faces pale against that rosy flame The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, Laden with flower and frait, whereof they gave To each, but Avhoso did receive of them, And taste, to him the gusliing of the wave Far, far away did seem to mourn and rave On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake, And music in his ears his beating heart did make. The seamen then burst into a Choric Song, ex- pressive of the charms of an existence in this enchanted land, and their resolution to live and die there. Hateful is the dark-blue sky Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. Death is the end of life; ah, why Should life all labour be? How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream. With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half-dream! To di'eam and dream, like yonder amber light Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; To hear each other's whisper'd speech; Eating the Lotos day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray; To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of mild-minded melancholy! To muse and brood and live again in memory, With those old faces of our infancy, Heap'd over witli a mound of grass. Two handfuls of white dust, sliut in an urn of brass! — 93 — No reader of Thomson can fail to notice the strong resemblance of the Lotos- Eaters to tlie Castle of Indolence. It is no easy matter to characterize the Princess. Tennyson calls it a medley j and as it is a strange mixture of the serious and the grotesque, the romantic and the prosaic, we may admit the accuracy of the designation. It was evidently written to cast ridicule on the sticklers for the pretended "rights of women," but it is disappointing, and owes any popularity it possesses to two beautiful lyrics, which are incidentally introduced. The story is incongruous, not to say, absurd. The Princess Ida, who has been betrothed in infancy to a Prince she has never seen, is no sooner of marriageable age than she takes refuge in* a palace given her by her father King Gama , and with the aid of two widow ladies. Lady Psyche and Lady Blanche, founds there a blue - stocldng university, from wiiich men are to be rigorously excluded. The poet observes a propos of this singular academy: Pretty were the sight If our old halls could change their sex, and flaunt With prudes for proctors, dowagers for deans, And sweet girl-graduates in their golden hair. I think they, should not wear our rusty gowns. The betrothed Prince, chagrined at the flight of the Princess, persuades two friends, Florian and Cyril, to accompany him to the university, all three being disguised as women. They are admitted as students, but soon detected through the indiscretion of Cyril. After a number of minor incidents of no great impor- tance, Arac, the Princess's valiant brother, challenges the Prince to meet him in mortal combat. There are to be fifty combatants on each side, and the lists are prepared. Ida watches the combat with composure from a tower, but when the Prince at last falls dange- rously wounded, her real or assumed indifference is overcome. She stanches the blood of her all but lifeless lover, tends him till his recovery, and comes to the conviction that the sphere of woman in life is quite different from what she had supposed: — 94 — For woman is not imdevelopt man. But diverse: could we make her as the man, Sweet love were slain: his dearest bond is this, Not like to like, hut like in difference. Yet in the long years liker must they grow; The man he more of woman, she of man; He gain in sweetness and in moral height, Nor lose the Avrestling thews that throw the world: She mental breadth, nor fail in childward care, Nor lose the cMldlike in the larger mind; Till at the last she set herself to man, Like perfect music unto noble words. We subjoin the Iavo h^ics already mentioned I. The splendour falls on castle walls, And snowy summits old in story; The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying; Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. hark, hear! How thin and clear. And tliinner, clearer, farther going; sweet and far, from cliff" and scar. The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying; Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill, or field, or river; Our echoes roll from soul to soul. And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow; set the wild echoes flying; And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. II. Home they brought her warrior dead; She nor swooned, nor uttered cry: All her maidens, watching, said, She must weep or she will die. Then they praised him, soft and low, Called him worthy to be loved, Tniest friend and noblest foe; Yet slie neither spoke nor moved. — 95 — Stole a maiden from her place. Lightly to the warrior stept, Took the face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept. Eose a nurse of ninet}' years, Set his child upon her knee — Like summer-tempest came her tears — Sweet my cliihl. I'll live for thee! The most characteristic of all Tennesson's poems is In Memoriam, which overflows with the tenderness that is the prominent feature of the poet's character. Passion Tennyson seldom attempts to depict. His friend, Arthur Hallam, died at Vienna in 1838, and his remains were brought to En^iand b.y w^ay of Trieste, and interred in a spot overlooking- Bristol Channel: Fair ship, tliat from t]ie Italian shore Sailest the placid ocean plains With my lost Arthur's loved remains, Spread thy full wings and waft them o'er. So draw him liome to those that mourn In vain: a favour-able speed Paifile thy mirrored mast, and lead Through prosperous floods his holy urn. The Danube to the Severn gave The darkened heart that heats no more Tliey laid him by the pleasant shore, And in the hearing of the wave. The path by which we twain did go, Which led by tracts that pleased us Avell, Tlirough four sweet years arose and fell, From flower to flower, from snow to snow: But where the path we walked began To slant the fifth autuninal slope. As we descended, follov/ing hope. There sat the Shadow^ feared of man ; Who broke our fair companionship. And spread his mantle dark and cold; And wrapt thee formless in the fold. And dulled the murmur on thy lip; — 96 — And l)ore thee where I could not see Nor follow, though I walk in haste; And think that, somewhere in the waste, The Shadow sits and waits for me. * * * Calm is the morn, without a sound, Calm as to suit a calmer grief, And only through the faded leaf The chestnut pattering to the ground: Calm and deep peace on this high wold, And on these dews that drench the furze, And all the silver gossamers That twinkle into green and gold; Calm and deep peace in this wide air, These leaves that redden to the fall; And in my heart, if calm at all, If any calm, a calm despair: Calm on the seas, and silver sleep, And waves that sw?iy themselves in rest, And dead calm in that noble breast. Which heaves but with the heaving deep. The last line of course refers to the motion of the ship at sea. In this fine poem we find occasional ob- scurities, arising sometimes from the want of close connexion between the sonnets of wliich it is composed, and sometimes from over-polish, for Tennyson kept the manuscript many years by him before sending it to the press. The following verses, however, welcoming in the new year, leave nothing to be desired in point of clearness: Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let liim die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind. For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. — 97 — Ring out a slowl}' dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land; Ring in the Christ that is to be! In Maud, we again find a hapless suitor, who this time has been rejected by the maiden's family, in favour of a wealthier lover, a new-made lord. While the father is entertaining a number of political friends at. dinner — "a gathering of the Tory" — the lover seeks an interview with the daughter: Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown. Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the roses blown. For a breeze of morning moves. And the planet of Love is on high Beginning to faint in the light that she lovea On a bed of daffodil sky. To faint in the light of the sun that she loves, To faint in his light and to die. The concluding lines of the invocation, though a little hyperbolical, possess great beauty : She is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat. Were it earth in an earthy bed; — 98 — M3' dust would hear licr and beat. Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red. Maud obej^s the summons, but . their interview is rudely interrupted by the lady's brother, who favours the lordly wooer. A duel ensues, in which the intrusive brother falls, and the lover is obliged to take refug:e in France. Here he depicts the sad condition to which he has been reduced by unmerited misfortune: Half the night I waste in sighs, Half in dreams I sorrow after The delight of early skies; In a wakeful doze I sorrow For the hand, the lips, the eyes, For the meeting" of the morrow, The delight of happy laughter, The delight of low replies. Remorse, and the pangs of an eternal separation, at last drive him mad, and we are startled by the strange delusion under which he labours, that he is dead and buried Dead, long dead. Long dead! And my heart is a handful of dust, And the wheels go over my head, And my bones are shaken with pain. For into a shallow grave they are thnist, Only a yard beneath the street. And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat, xVnd the hoofs of the horses beat, Beat into my scalp and brain! Fortunately, while in this deplorable state, he hears that England and France have declared war with Russia. These tidings arouse him from his lethargy; "It is time, it is time, passionate heart," said I — For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to be pure and tnie — "It is time, passionate heart and morbid eye, That old hysterical mock-disease should die;" and he goes to enrol himself as a volunteer in the ranks of his countrymen. We have already observed, that Tennyson thought very highly of Maud; but none — 99 — of his poems has been so rigorously judged by the reviews, nor has it ever been a favourite with the English public. Tennyson's most ambitious poem, the Idylls of the King, as published in 1859, contains four books, of which the first three are entitled Enid, Vivien, and Elaine, the names of three ladies at King Arthur's court, the companions, or favourite attendants of Queen Guinevere. The last book is devoted to the Queen herself. In the first of these Idylls, the gentle Enid, daughter of Earl Yniol, who had been won from many rivals and wedded by Geraint, Prince of Devon, at the first report of Queen Guinevere's guilty love for Lancelot du Lake, withdraws with her husband from the Court. Geraint, who loves her tenderly, misinterpreting some disconnected words that had fallen from her, comes precipitately to the conclusion that he has some way or other lost her love, and being desirous of convincing her that he is not unworthy of it, rides forth to seek chivalrous adventures, taking Enid with him. On this expedition Enid's fidelity is put to nearly as many and as cruel tests as that of Chaucer's patient Griselda. At length, in an encounter with the formidable and gigantic Earl Doorm, "the Bull", Geraint is struck bleeding and senseless to the ground. The Earl, who believes him to be dead, struck with Enid's beauty, as she sitting weeping beside her lord, "propping Ms head, and chafing his faint hands", vainly invites her to eat and drink with him. Nowise dismayed by a first repulse, he offers her his hand in marriage, and when the lady refuses him point-blank, he commits the un- knightly offence of smiting her on the cheek: Then Enid, in her utter helplessness, And since she tlioiight he had not dared to do it, Except he surely knew my lord was dead, Sent forth a sudden sharp and hitter cry As of a wild thing taken in a trap. Geraint, however, has recovered from his swoon in time to hear the Earl's proposal, and witness the insult; and starting up he puts an end to Doorm's — 100 — matrimonial projects by striking- off his head at a single blow. Being now convinced of Enid's continued affection for him, he leads her home in triumph, and they enjoy all imaginable domestic felicity, till — he crown'd A happy Hfe with a fair death, and fell Against the heathen of the Northern Sea In battle, fighting for the blameless King. Vivien, the heroine of the second Idjdl, is a beautiful, but worthless woman, who by the power of her personal charms fascinates the great enchanter Merlin, the ideal representative of intellect and knowledge; and having drawn from him the secret of his most powerful spells, seeks an opportunity of turning them against himself. One day, when she is conversing with him, this chance occurs. A thunderstorm comes on, and — out of heaven a bolt (For now the storm was close above them) struck Furrowing a giant oak, and javelining With darted spikes and splinters of the wood The dark earth round. , The fair, though ungrateful sorceress, now employs a sort of mesmerism against her instructor in magic, for we are told, she —put forth the charm Of woven paces and of waving hands; and when he has fallen into a deep sleep, she imprisons him in the tree; so that In the hollow oak he lay as dead. And lost to life and use, and name and fame. How many Viviens, since the days of Merlin, have taken the most gifted and the most distinguished in their toils, the history of nations can tell! The subject of the third Idyll is the unrequited love of Elaine J "the lily maid of Astolat" for Lancelot. She first sees him at the annual tournament in Camelot, where desiring to remain unknown, he intrusts his shield to her care, and agrees, in return, to wear her colours. When the tournament is over, King Arthur returns home, and relates unsuspiciously to tlie Queen how Lancelot had worn —against Ids wont, upon his lielm A sleeve of scarlet, broidered with great pearls. Some gentle maiden's gift. This awakens the jealousy of Guinevere. Turning, to hide her emotion, she Moved to her cliamber, and there flung herself Down on the great king's couch, aiul writhed upon it. And clench'd her fingers till thej^ bit the palui, And shriek'd out Traitor to the unhearing wall. Then flasli'd into wild tears, and rose again, And mov'd about her palace, proud and pale. Lancelot, victorious but grievously wounded, has in the mean time been watched over and healed by the devoted Elaine; but he has no love to give her, and as soon as he feels himself strong enough, he sets out for the court, to lay his prizes at the feet of Queen Guinevere. This breaks Elaine's heart; and on her death-bed she desires that her corpse, dressed in her richest robes, should be placed in a black barge; and rowed down the river to the palace of the queen. Lancelot's fidelity to Queen Guinevere is ill rewarded, for she rejects his peace-offering, and dismisses him with contumely. Then, while Sir Lancelot leant, in half disgust At love, life, all things on the window-ledge, Close underneath his eyes, and right across Where these had fallen, slowl}^ past the barge, Whereon the lily maid of Astolat Lay smiling, like a star in blackest night. Li the last of the Idylls, Guinevere's guilt has been discovered. Lancelot has withdrawn from the court; and the Queen, under a false name, has taken refuge with the nuns of Almesbury. Arthur, "the blameless King", imagines at first that she has fled with Lancelot, and, after appointing Sir Mordred regent in his absence, pursues her vainly, but finally discovers where she is, and wends his way thither; not to — 102 — reproach her, but to bid her farewell for ever. Before he reaches the convent, he learns that vSir Mordred has rebelled, and that lie must collect his forces, and march against the traitor forthwith. It is with a presenti- ment that he is going to his last of fields that Arthur addresses his parting words to Guinevere : Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes ; I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, I whose vast pity almost makes me die To see thee laying there thy golden head, My pride in happier summers, at my feet. Lo! I forgive thee, as Eternal God Forgives: do thou for thine own soul the rest. But how to take last leave of all I loved? golden hair! With which I used to play Not knowing! imperial-moulded form. And beauty such as woman never wore, Until it came a kingdom's curse with thee. * * * Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul, And so thou lean on our fair father Christ, "We two may meet before high God, and thou Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know 1 am thy husband. The order in which Tennyson has taken up the Arthurian legends is not a little bewildering; for he began with the end, and ended with the middle: but they have been re-issued by the publishers in their correct chronological order, and with some alterations in the titles. In their completed form, they now stand as follows: the Cominq of Arthur, Gareth and Lynette, Geraint and Enid, Merlin and Vivien, Lancelot and Elaine, the Holy Grail, Pelleas and Ettarre, the Last Tournament, Guinevere, the Passing of Arthur. Of these, the Coming of Arthur, "the approach to the edifice", as it has been called, relates how young Arthur came to the court of King Leodogran, where he so greatly distin- guished himself in every knightly accomplishment that he gained the heart and hand of the King's fair daughter, Guinevere. The Holy Grail treats of the successful quest of the sacred vessel, out of which ord had eaten tlie Last Supper with his disciples, by the stainless knight, Sir Galahad, to whom and the saintly Sir Percivale it is exclusively vouchsafed to view the object itself ; while the less iri-eproachable knights, Sir Lancelot included, have to withdraw baf- fled from the enterprise. It is, however, a nun as holy as beautiful, Sir Percivale's sister, who incites Sir Galahad, and the other knights of the Round Table, to undertake the quest, by her relation of a blessed vision accorded her through the special favour of Heaven. This is the most exquisite passage in the poem: Sweet brother, I have seen the Holy Grail: For, waked at dead of night, I heard a sound As of a silver horn from o'er the hills Blow]i, and I thought— "It is not Arthur's use 'J'o hunt by moonlight," and the slender sound As from a distance beyond distance grew, Coming upon me. Oh, never harp, nor horn, Nor aught wo blow with breath, or touch with hand, Was like that music as it came; and then Stream'd through my cell a cold and silver beam, And down the long beam stole the Holy Grail, Kose-red, with beatings in it, as if alive, Till all the white walls of my cell were dyed With rosy colours leaping on the wall; And then the music faded, and the Grail Pass'd and the beam decay'd, and from the walls The rosy quiverings died into the night. The wiiole tone of this poem is austere and ascetic. Pelleas and Ettarre is a trivial episode. Pelleas, one of those who received the honour of knighthood to flU up the gap in the Round Table left by the quest of the Holy Grail, when on his way to Caerleon meets wdth Ettarre in the forest, and chooses her as the lady of his love. He distinguishes himself in the Tourna- ment of Youth; but after a time, Sir Gawain, the "gay Lothario" of Arthur's court, presents himself to Ettarre, and pretending that he has killed Pelleas in single combat, supplants him in her lavour. The lady, it is true, on discovering the deception, experiences a revulsion of feeling in favour of Pelleas, but the disgusted knight seeks an honourable but disastrous — 104 — encounter with Lancelot. Thus tlie end is sad. Still sadder is the entire tone of the Last Tournament, which serves to prepare us for the coming catastrophe. The scene is the royal residence, Camelot, and Lancelot presides at the joustiugs, the King having undertaken an expedition to punish some robbers in the North. On the occasion the first prizes are borne away by the famous Sir Tristram of the Woods, who had married Isolt the White in Brittany, and was now on his last and fateful journey to behold once more the other Isolt, the lady with the "black-blue Irish hair and Irish eyes", whom some time before he had fetched from Ireland to be the bride of his jealous uncle, King Mark, "in lonely Tintagil". The Passing of Arthur, as may be guessed, is the former Morte d' Arthur. Gareth and Lynetie differs in many respects from the other Idylls, and the character of the heroine is as peculiar as her personal appearance is singular, Gareth was "the last tali son of Lot and Bellicent", and consequently King Arthur's nephew, for his mother, Queen Bellicent of Orkney, was the King's half-sister. His aged father having sunk into second childhood, and his two brothers being at Arthur's Court, his mother desired to keep Gareth at home, in spite of his continual entreaties to be allowed to join his brothers in Camelot. Wearied at last with his importunity, she gives a reluctant consent, but, ho})ing to disgust him with the Court, makes it a condition that he shall go there disguised as a peasant, and "serve for meats and drinks among the scullions and the kitchen-knaves". Gareth accepts these hard conditions, and on reaching his destination is engaged as a scullion by Sir Kay, the seneschal of the palace, but he soon finds an opportunity of making himself known to the King, who secretly dubs him a knight, and promises him the first quest. On this he has not long to wait, for That same clay there past into the hall A damsel of hii?,h lineao;e, and a brow May-blossom, and a cheek of apple-blossom, Hawk-eyes; and lig:litly was her slender-nose Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower. — 105 — The young- lad}% who announces herself as Lj-nette, has come to crave the aid of the brave Sir Lancelot for the rescue of her sister, the Lad}^ Lyonors, just then besieged by certain ruffian knights in C'astle Peri- lous. Gareth reminds the King of his promise, and to the great disgust of Sir Kay, demands the quest: "Yea, King, thoii knowest thy kitchen knave am I, "And mighty thro' thy meats and drinks am I, "And I can topple over a hundred such. "Thy promise, King;" and Arthur, glancing at him, Brought doAvn a momentaiy broAV. "Rough, sudden, "And pardonable, worthy to be knight — "Go, therefore," and all hearers were amazed. Gareth looses his cloak, and reveals himself fully equipped as a knight. A horse alone is wanting, and this he obtains from Lancelot. But Lynette feels her- self at first disappointed and insulted, when Gareth presents himself to her as her champion: She thereat, as one That smells a foul-flesh' d agaric in the holt, And deems it carrion of some woodland thing, Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender nose With petulant thumb and finger, shrilling "Hence! Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen grease." As Sir Gareth, however, successively conquers the three hostile knights, who call themselves respectively "the Morning Star", "the Sun", and "the Evening Star", she confesses that the smell of the kitchen grows more faint; her heart melts, and she sings: morning star, that smilest in the blue, star, my morning dream hath proven true, Smile sweetly, thou! my love hath smiled on me. sun, that wakenest all to bliss or pain; moon, that layest all to sleep again, Shine sweetly; twice my love hath smiled on me. dewy flowers that open to the sun, dewy flowers that close when day is done, Blow sweetly; twice my love hath smiled on me. — 106 — birds that warble to the morning sky, birds that warble as the day goes by, Sing sweetly; twice my love hath smiled on me. trefoil, sparkling on the rainy plain, rainbow, with three colours after rain, Shine sweetly; thrice my love liath smiled on me. At the conclusion, we learn that Gareth, according to some, married the Lady Lyonors, but according to others, who seem better informed, his bride was Lynette. The Idylls of the King, with all their merits, are somewhat too long and diifuse, and we cannot help thinking that the poem would have gained, as a whole, by the omission of some of the less interesting episodes. We have still to say something about another poem, to which no such objections can be made. We mean Enoch Arden; which, as the Quarterly Review observes, "bears evident marks of being a cherished work, per- fected by untiring and affectionate care." It is a simple story. The hero, "a rough sailor's lad", the miller's son Philip Ray, and Annie Lee, were playmates in childhood; and Annie was "little wife" to both the boys; but in maturer years, when Annie had to make a - Hill," and the burghers laugh in their sleeve at the simplicity of the Piper, to think that a troop, which included so many very young children, could climb the mountain. Congxatulating themselves on getting rid so cheaply of an importunate creditor, they every moment expect to see the children, who in the mean time have reached the foot of the hill, pause in their march and turn their faces homewards, When lo, as they reached the mountain's side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced, and the children followed. And when all were in, to the very last, The door in the mountain-side shut fast. In the poem, Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau^ we have a ''Saviour of Society" in the style of the late Emperor of the French. Though not published till 1871, there is internal evidence that it was written soon after the Italian war of 1859, and before the decline of the Second Empire had began. "The poem," observes the Spectator, "is not in any sense a portrait, real or ideal, of the personality of the Carbonaro-Conservative, the Imperial adventurer, the star-ruled gambler, the superstitious sceptic, the enthusiastic cynic, though for this we had ventured to hope ; it is solely an exposition of the public motives, good, bad, and ambiguous — clear, questionable, and confused — which probably asserted themselves in his mind by way of justification of, and criticism on, his ow^n public acts. We are a little disappointed that there is not more of the individual portrait, and less of the general criticism on a policy; but that is perhaps the more in accordance with the — 120 — conception of the soliloquy — a dream in which the only-in-imagination- dethroned and exiled ruler makes a clean breast of his general designs" to an imaginary sympathetic member of London society. We quote a few striking passages. The position of man in the creation is here defined: I'll tell you: all the more I know mankind, The more I thank God, like my grandmother, For making- me a little lower than The angels, honour-clothed and glory-crowned. This is the honour, — that no thing I know, Feel or conceive, but I can make my own Somehow, by use of hand or head or heart: This is the glory, — that in all conceived, Or felt or known, I recognise a mind Not mine but like mine, — for the double joy, — Making aU things for me and me for Him. There's folly for you at this time of day! In the next passage we have a description, too enthusiastic to be altogether truthful, of tlie French people : The people here. Earth presses to her heart, nor owns a pride Above her pride i' the race all flame and air And aspiration to the boundless Great, The incommensurably Beautiful — Whose very faulterings groundward come of flight Urged by a pinion all too passionate For heaven and what it holds of gloom and glow: Bravest of thinkers, bravest of the brave Doers, exalt in Science, rapturous In Art, the— more than all — magnetic race To fascinate their fellows, mould mankind Hohenstiel-Schwangau-fashion. The following lines evidently refer to the ambiguous language habitually used by the government of the Second Empire ; in which professions of an ardent love of peace were neutralized by assurances of readiness for war; and likewise to the policy of keeping the working classes quiet by furnishing them with constant employment at the public cost: — 121 — You come i' the liappy interval of peace, The favourable weariness from war: Prolong it!— artfully, as if intent On ending peace as soon as possible. Quietly so increase the sweets of ease And safety, so employ the multitude, Put hod and trowel so in idle hands. So stuff and stop the wagging jaws with bread, That selfishness shall surreptitiously Do wisdom's office, whisper in the ear Of Hohenstiel-Schwangau, there's a pleasant feel In being gently forced down, pinioned fast To the easy arm-chair by the pleading arms 0' the world beseeching her to there abide Content with all the harm done hitherto, And let herself be petted in return. Free to re-wage, in speech and prose and verse, The old unjust wars, nay — in verse and prose And speech, — to vaunt new victories, as vile A plague o' the future. — so that words suffice For present comfort. Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau is not over-clear ; still an attentive and patient reader may generally hope, with some trouble, to discover the meaning. This is not so easy with Browning's next poem, Fifine at the Fair. Comparing this production with his enigmatic Sordello, the Saturday Review caustically observed: "Neither Oedipus nor Daniel could have interpreted Sordello J unless they had consulted the same books, whatever they may be, from ^vhich Mr. Browning must have derived his knowledge of an obscure passage in Italian history; but a reader wiio should combine the energy of youth with the tolerance of age, and the sagacious industry of Scaliger or Bentley with the microscopic acuteness of a modern German metaphy- sician, might perhaps after ten readings comprehend the purpose and the language of Fifine" The poem consists of a Prologue (entitled Amphibian), a long pliilosophical monologue, or series of reflexions, uttered by the husband of a certain Elvire, whether for her edification or simply as a relief to himself is not very clear, and an Epilogue, called the Householder. Fifine, or Josephine, who has almost nothing to do with the — 122 — poem to which she gives a title, is a dancing-girl in a mountebank's show at the fair of Pornic in Brittany, and unwittingly suggests to Elvire's philosopher-hus- band, either directly or indirectly, that stream of reflexions which he continues to pour out for about two thousand lines. The Prologue, which is much more readable than the rest of the poem, describes a swimmer floating in a tranquil sea, and looking up at a butterfly hovering above him, while he reflects that neither could abide in the other's sphere without something which, like death, should entirely change their being. The sea here represents the region of passion and thought, the true element of the poet, intermediate between earthly and spiritual life, and tlie butterfly is an emblem of the disembodied soul: Can the insect feel the better For watching the uncouth play Of limbs that slip the fetter, Pretend as they were not clay? Undoubtedly I rejoice That the air comports so well With a creature which had the choice Of the land once. Who can tell? What if a certain soul Which early slipped its sheath, And has for its home the whole Of heaven, thus look beneath, Thus watch one who, in the world, Both lives and likes life's way, Nor wishes the wings unfurled That sleep in the worm, they say? But sometimes when the weather Is blue, and warm waves tempt To free oneself of tether, And try a life exempt From worldly noise and dust, In the sphere which overbrims With passion and thought, — why, just Unable to fly, one swims! — i2n ~ By passion and thougiit ui)borne, One smiles to oneself,— 'They fare Scare better, they need not scorn Our sea, who live in the air!' Emancipate through passion And thought, with sea for sky, We substitute, in a fashion, For heaven, — poetry : Which sea, to all intent. Gives flesh such noon-disport As a finer element Affords the spirit-sort. Whatever they are, we seem: Imagine the thing they know; All deeds they do, we dream; Can heaven be else but so? The whole of the poem (including the Prologue), we are told by a critic, is an illustration of Mr. Brow- ning's text, ^that the life of man is a life of error lived by the help of truth, a life of falsehood which implies the need and capacity for reality, a life of illusion grounded and fulfilled in some ultimate per- ception of true being, a life of endless yearning after that which always eludes and yet always inspires us." Accepting this interpretation, we proceed to add, that Elvire and her husband go forth, arm in arm, to visit the fair, where besides a "chimneyed house on wheels" and sucli like, they see an Ape of many years and much adventure, grim And grey, with pitying fools who find a joke in him. Or, best, the human beauty, 3Iimi, Toinette, Fifine, Tricot fines down if fat, padding plumps up if lean, Ere shedding petticoat, modesty, and such toys. They bounce forth, squalid girls transformed to gamesome boys. Fifine is presented to us as a type of the sensual earthly Avoman, as Elvire is the impersonation of intel- lect, refinement, and mortality struggling on to immor- tality. But Fifine, mean as she is, "the Pariah of the North, the European Nautch", has her place in creation; for just as a grain of sand at a given angle may reflect the rays of the sun, — 124 — No creature's made so mean But that some way it boasts, could we investigate Its supreme worth. Fifine's raison d'etre being thus established, the tolerant philosopher-husband continues : Well then, thus much confessed, what wonder if there steal Unchallenged to my heart the force of one appeal She makes, and justice stamp the sole claim she asserts? So absolutely good is truth, truth never hurts The teller, whose worst crime gets somehoAv grace, avowed. To me that silent pose and prayer proclaimed aloud "Know all of me outside, the rest be emptiness For such as you. I call attention to my dress. Coiffure, outlandish features, and memorable limbs. Piquant entreaty, all that eye-glance overskims. Does this much pleasure? Then repay the pleasure — put The price i' the tambourine. Do you seek farther? Tut! I'm just my instrument — sound hollow, mere smooth skin Stretched o'er gilt framework, I rub-dub, nought else within — Always for such as you. If I have use elsewhere, If certain bells, now mute, can jingle, need you care? Be it enough, there's truth i' the pleading, which comports With no word spoken out in colleges or courts, Since all I plead is, "Pay for just the sight you see, And give no credit to another charm in me." The Epilogue to this strange, enigmatical poem is called the Householder; and here the house stands for the human body or earthl}'" life. The householder is dispirited and discontented, when a woman - spirit announces herself, and gently rebukes his impatience and petulance. The reader will be surprised to find, that this part of the poem can be regarded as no more than half-serious : Savage, I was sitting in my house, late, lone: Dreary, weary with the long day's work: Head of me, heart of me, stupid as a stone: Tongue-tied now, now blaspheming like a Turk; When, in a moment, just a knock, call, cry, Half a pang and all a rapture, there again were we — "What, and is it really you again?" quoth I. "I again; what else did you expect?" quoth She. "Never mind, hie away from this old house, Every crumbling brick embrowned with sin and shame. Quick, in its corners ere certain shapes arouse — Let them, every devil of the night, lay claim. — 125 — Make and mend, rap and rend, for me — Good-bye! God be their guard from disturbance at their glee. Till, crash, comes down the carcase in a heap," quoth I. "Nay, but there's a decency required," quoth She. "Ah, but if you knew how time has dragged, days, nights. All the neighbour talk with man and maid — such men! All the fuss and trouble of street sounds, window sights; All the worry of liapping door and echoing roof; and then All the fancies. . . . Who were they had leave, dared try Darker arts that almost struck despair in me! Jf you knew but how I dwelt down here!" quoth I. '^And was I so better off up there?" quoth She. "Help and get it over! Reunited to his wife, (How draw up the paper lets the parish people know?) Lies M. or N. departed from this life, Day the this or that, month and year the so and so. What i' the way of final flourish? Prose, verse? Try! Affliction sore long time he bore, or what is it to be? Till God did please to grant him ease — Do end," quoth I. "I end with — Love is all and Death is nought," quoth She. The study of Fifine at the Fair lias been recom- mended by one reviewer as a species of mental gym- nastics. ''The stimulus to thought", he says, "is in itself valuable, as a difficult or inaccessible Alpine summit furnishes an attraction to mountain climbers." It is with a deep feeling of relief, that we turn from Fifine and Prince llohenstiel-Schwangau, to show what Browning can do as a lyrical poet, when he chooses to descend from his shadowy Pegasus, and adapt himself to the comprehension of ordinary readers : HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS*) FEOM GHENT TO AIX. I sprang to the stin-up, and Joris, and he, I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three: Good speed! cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; Speed! echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. ') Probably the news of the revolution of 1539. — 126 — Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place: I turned in ray saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit. Nor galloped less steadily Eoland a bit. 'Twas sunset at starting; but while we drew near Lockeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; At Diiffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be ; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, So Joris broke silence with. Yet there is time! At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past, And I saw my stout galloper Roland, at last, With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluft" river headland its spray. And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence— ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. By Hasselt, Dirck gi'oaned; and cried Joris, Stay spur! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, We'll remember at Aix: — for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered, and sank. So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till »jver by Dalhelm a dome-spire sprang white. And Gallop! gasped Joris, for Aix is in sight! How they'll greet us— and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-socket's rim. — 127 — Then I cast loose iiiy buff-coat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up ill tlie stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland liis pet-name, my liorse witlumt peer, Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good:— Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And all I remember is, friends flocking around, As I sat with his head tmxt my knees on the ground, And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine. As I poured dovvTi his throat our last measure of wine. Which — the burgesses voted by common consent — Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. Ill 1873 Mr. Browning' produced a strange poem, with a still stranger title: Red Cotton Night-cap Country; on which our space forbids us to dwell. We have still a few words to say about Mr. Browning's style. Some of his shorter poems, on wiiicli he has evidently ex- pended a certain care, are smooth and melodious, but the greater part of what he has written is irregular, jerky and unmusical. A critic in the Times lately ob- served, with a covert allusion to Browning, that the blank verse of the period creates a sensation some- thing like that experienced in a drive over a rutty road. His habitual obscurity we have already to some extent excused, the subjects themselves being often little known, and his mode of handling them being very peculiar. Still, much of that want of perspicuity, of which every reader complains, is chargeable on the unwarrantal3le liberties which Browning takes with the language. "It is all right, no doubt," ironically ob- serves the above-mentioned critic, "to take any unoffen- ding substantive and enlist it by force in the army of verbs, or, with the addition of one or two letters, in a regiment of adjectives and participles ; but just at first the appearance of such a phenomenon is apt to excite prejudice, to provoke an exclamation, as at a sudden shock". Not only does Mr. Browning do tliis, but he often darkens the riddle by the omission of the article and the sign of the infinitive. A single example will suffice : WTiat sound out-warbles brook, while at the source it wins That moss and stone dispart, allow its bubb lings breathe? — 128 — Here we have hrook, instead of a brook: breathe instead of to breathe; and a conjunction is wanting* between dispart and allow. It is nowise surprising that when Douglas Jerrold, on recovering from a dangerous illness, took up Browning's Sordello, and found it quite unintelligible, the alarming suspicion should have flashed on him, in regaining his health he had lost his reason ; and it was only when Mrs. Jerrold, having read a page or two at his request, threw down the book, exclaim- ing, "Bother the gibberish!" that he was able to say, with a sigh of relief: "Thank heaven! then I am not an idiot." Of late years Mr. Browning's readers have no doubt increased in number, but in our busy nine- teenth century very tew have leisure and inclination to search for the clue to these poetical enigmas; and many a reader who opens one of his books from curiosity, will replace it on the shelf, and never again dream of disturbing the dust in which it slumbers. Mrs. E. B. Browning-. Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning was born in London, in the year 1809 ; and in 1826, when in her seventeenth year, she published a volume anonymously, entitled An Essay on Mind, and other poems. In 1833 appeared her translation of the Prometheus Bound of Aeschylus ; which she afterwards re-published in a greatly improved form, with some fugitive pieces. The Essay on Mind was a sort of satire in heroic verse, possessing little merit, and in riper years the author herself judged it so unfavourably that she expressed a hope it "might only be remembered against her by a few of her per- sonal friends." Several of the pieces in the Prometheus volume, however, deserved to live, and gave a high promise of future fame. Two of these we subjoin: A VISION OF LIFE AND DEATH. Mine ears were deaf to melody, My lips were dumb to sound: Where didst thou wander, oh my soul, Wlien ear and tongue were bound? — 129 — "I wander'd by the stream of time, Made dark by human tears: I threw my voice upon the waves. And they did throw me theirs. '' And how did sound the waves, my soul? And how did sound the waves? "Hoarse, hoarse, and wild!— they ever dush'd 'Gainst niin'd tlirones and graves." And what sight on the shore, my soul? And what sight on the shore? " Twain beings sate there silently, And sit there evermore." Now tell me fast and tnie, my soul; Now tell me of those twain. " One was yclothed in mourning vest. And one, in trappings vain. " She, in the trappings vain, was fair, And eke fantastical: A thousand colours dyed her garb; A blackness bound them all. "In part her hair was gaily wreath' d. In part was wildly spread: Her face did change its hue too fast. To say 'twas pale or red. "And when she look'd on earth, I thought She smiled for very glee: But when she look'd to heav'n, I knew That tears stood in her ee. " She held a mirror, there to gaze : It could no cheer bestow; For while her beauty cast the shade. Her breath did make it go. " A harper's harp did lie by her. Without the harper's best; A monarch's crown did lie by her. Wherein an owl had nest: "A warrior's sword did lie by her. Grown rusty since the fight; A poet's lamp did lie by her: — Ah me! — where was its light?" — 130 — And what didst thou say, 0, my soul. Unto that mystic dame! " I ask'd her of her tears, and eke I ask'd her of her name. " She said, she built a prince's throne : She said, he ruled the grave; And that the levelling worm ask'd not If he were king or slave. "She said, she form'd a godlike tongue. Which lofty thoughts unsheathed; Which rolled its thunder round, and purged The air the nations breathed. " She said, that tongue, all eloquent. With silent dust did mate; Whereon false friends betray'd long faith, And foes outspat their hate. "She said, she warm'd a student's heart, But heart and brow 'gan fade: Alas, alas! those Delphic trees Do cast an upas shade! " She said, she lighted happy hearths, Whose mirth was all forgot: She said, she tuned marriage bells, Which rang when love was not. " She said, her name was Life ; and then Out laugh'd and wept aloud, — What time the other being strange Lifted the veiling shroud. "Yea! lifted she the veiling shroud. And breathed the icy breath; Whereat, with inward shuddering. I knew her name was Death. "Yea! lifted she her calm, calm brow, Her clear cold smile on me: Whereat within my deepness, leapM Mine immortality. "She told me, it did move her smile, To witness how I sigh'd, Because that what was fragile brake. And what was mortal died: — 131 — " As if that kings could grasp tlie earth, Who from its dust began; As if that suns could shine at night, Or glory dwell with man. " She told me, she had freed his soul, Who aye did freedom love; Who now reck'd not, were worms below. Or ranker worms above! ^ She said, the student's heart had beat Against its prison dim; Until she crush' d the bars of flesh, And pour'd truth's light on him. " She said, that they who left the hearth. For aye in sunshine dwell; She said, the funeral tolling brought More joy than marriage bell! "And as she spake, she spake less loud; The stream resounded more: Anon I nothing heard but waves That wail'd along the shore." And what didst thou say, oh my soul, Upon that mystic strife? " I said, that Life was only Death, That only Death was Life." EARTH. How beautiful is earth! my starry thoughts Look down on it from their unearthly sphere, And sing symphonious — Beautiful is earth! The lights and shadows of her myriad hills; The branching greenness of her myriad woods : Her sky-affecting rocks; her zoning sea; Her rushing, gleaming cataracts; her streams That race below, the winged clouds on high: Her pleasantness of vale and meadow! — Hush! Meseemeth through the leafy trees to ring A chime of bells to falling waters tuned; Whereat comes heathen Zephyrus, out of breatli With running up the hills, and shakes his hair From off his gleesome forehead, bold and glad With keeping blythe Dan Phoebus company;—^ And throws him on the grass, though half afraid; First glancing round, lest tempests should be nigh And lays close to the ground his ruddy lips, 9* — 132 — And shapes their heauty into sound, and calls On all the petall'd flowers that sit beneath In hiding-places from the rain and snow, To loosen the hard soil and leave their cold Sad idlesse, and betake them up to him. They straightway hear his voice — A thought did come, And press from out my soul the heathen dream. Mne eyes were purged. Straightway did I bind Round me the garment of my strength, and heard Nature's death-shrieking — the hereafter cry. When he o' the lion voice, the rainbow-crown'd. Shall stand upon the mountains and the sea, And swear by earth, by heaven's throne, and Him Who sitteth on the throne, there shall be time No more, no more! Then, veil'd Eternity Shall straight unveil her awful countenance Unto the reeling worlds, and take the place Of seasons, years, and ages. Aye and aye Shall be the time of day. The wrinkled heav'n Shall yield her silent sun, made blind and white With an extenninating light: the wind. Unchained from the poles, nor having charge Of cloud or ocean, with a sobbing wail Shall rush among the stars, and swoon to death. Yea, the shrunk earth, appearing livid pale Beneath the red-tongued flame, shall shudder by Fi'om out her ancient place, and leave — a void. Yet haply by that void the saints redeem'd May sometimes stray; when memory of sin Ghost-like shall rise upon their holy souls; And on their lips shall lie the name of earth In paleness and in silentness; until Each looking on his brother, face to face. And bursting into sudden happy tears (The only tears undried), shall murmur — "Christ!" In 1838 and 1839 Mrs. Browning gave to the world several otlier poems, including the Seraphim, the Romant of the Page, and the Drama of Exile. The subject of the latter is the fall of man, or rather, to quote her own words, "the new and strange experience of the fallen humanity, as it went forth from Paradise into the wilderness". Of course it is chiefly the dialogues between the erring first parents of the human race that awaken our sympathies; but the reader cannot fail to be struck with the beauty of such passages as — 133 — the farewell greeting of the spirits to the hapless fugitives, as they leave their blissful abode with the haste of conscious guilt: Hark! tlie Eden trees are stirring Soft and solemn in your hearing! Oak and linden, palm and fir, Tamarisk and juniper, Each still throbhing in vibration Since that crowning of creation When the God-breath spake abroad, Let us make man like to God! And the pine stood quivering As the awful word went b3\ Like a vibrant music string Stretched from mountain-peak to sky, And the platan did expand Slow and gradual, branch and head; And the cedar's strong black shade Fluttered brokenly and grand. Grove and wood were swept aslant In emotion jubilant. Hearken, oh hearken! ye shall hearken surely For years and years. The noise beside you dripping coldly, purely, Of spirit's tears. We shall be near you m your poet-languors And wild extremes, What time ye vex the desert with vain angers. Or mock with dreams. And when upon you, weary after roaming. Death's seal is put. By the foregone ye shall discern the coming, Through eyelids shut. Of Mrs. Browning's minor poems, her beautiful lines on Cowpei^'s Grave, Lady Geraldines Courtship, the story of a peasant poet who loves and wins an earl's daughter, the Cry of the Children, a pathetic pleading for the children of the poor toiliifg for their bread in unwhole- some factories, and Bertha in the Lane, are the chief favourites. In the last-named poem, two orphan sisters live together; and the elder is happy in the affection of a lover, till he at length becomes estranged from — 134 — lier, overcome by the superior charms of the younger girl. The elder sister, mindful of the vow she had made her dying mother, to guard and watch over Bertha, struggles hard to hide her sufferings, but "blood runs faint in womanhood", and the effort undermines her strength and wears her out. On her deathbed she ac- knowledges all to Bertha, and finds nothing unnatural in the transfer of her lover's affections: When he saw thee who art best, Past compare, and loveliest, He but judged thee as the rest. Then she makes the touching request: And, dear Bertha, let me keep On my hand this little ring, Which at night, when others sleep, I can still see glittering. Let me wear it out of sight, In the grave — where it will light All the dark up, day and night. The Sonnets from the Portuguese are in the style of Shakespeare's sonnets, and passed at first for trans- lations from Camoens; but nothing at all resembling them has been discovered in Portuguese literature. While engaged in the composition of a large portion of these poems, Miss Barrett — for she was not yet Mrs. Browning — lived as an invalid in a darkened room, and for several years she remained in a highly precarious state of health. Convalescent at last, if not physically strong, she gave her hand to the poet Eobert Browning, who took her to Italy to recruit her shat- tered constitution; and while residing at Florence, in 1848, she was a witness of the revolutionary outbreak in that city. This furnished the subject of lier poem, Casa Guidi Windows, in which she narrates what she saw from the windows of her residence, and describes the impressions made on hereby these stirring popular movements. Every line is instinct with the love of Italy and the passion for political freedom. By an allusion in this poem to her "young Florentine, not two years old", we learn that there was now a new i:i5 — link to unite lier at once to her husband, and to the hind which they had chosen as their home. Aurora Leigh (1856) is the most ambitious of Mrs. Browning's poems, and she herself called it "the most mature" of her works. It is the first attempt ever made to write a novel in blank verse — a bold attempt, and only partially successful; for we find in it the poetical and the prosaic so strangely mixed up together that we are often mystified and irritated by the amal- gamation. Aurora is the daughter of a learned English father and a Florentine mother; and on the death ot the latter, four years after the child's birth, her father becomes her tutor: My father taught me what he had learnt the best Before he died and left me, — grief and love. And, seeing we had books among the hills, Strong words of counselling souls confederate With vocal pines and waters, — out of books He taught me all the ignorance of men. And how God laughs in heaven when any man Says "Here I'm learned; this, I understand; In that, I am never caught at fault or doubt." He sent the schools to school, demonstrating A fool will pass for such through one mistake, AVhile a philosopher will pass for such. Through said mistakes being ventured in the gross And heaped up to a system. Her father dies, and she is sent back to England, to her father's sister: — (she was not old .Although my father's elder by a year) A nose drawn sharply, yet in delicate lines; A close mild mouth, a little soured about The ends, through speaking unrequited loves Or peradventure niggardly half-truths. This elderly lady had seen but little of the world, for She had lived A sort of cage-bird life, born in a cage. Accounting that to leap from perch to perch Was act and joy enough for any bird. Under her aunt's care, Aurora receives a curiously as- sorted education, comprising languages, science, theology, — 136 — topography, statistics, drawing, dancing, and needlework : but at length tired of a formal curriculum, she begins to read in a desultory and promiscuous way: I read books bad and good — some bad and good At once; (good aims not alwaj^s make good books: Well-tempered spades turn up ill-smelling soils In digging vineyards even) books that prove God's being so definitel}^ that man's doubt Grows self-defined the other side the line, Made atheist by suggestion; moral books, Exasperating to license; genial books, Discounting from the human dignity; And merry books, which set you weeping when The sun shines, — ay, and melancholy books, Which make you laugh that any one should weep In this disjointed life for one wrong more. Here she meets with her cousin, Romney Leigh, a scholar, enthusiast and philantlu^opist : We read, or talked, or quarrelled, as it chanced. We were not lovers, nor even friends well-matched. He thinks that in many respects the world "went ill"', but "his brow would soften", i^urora tells us, when — breaking into voluble ecstasy I flattered all the beauteous country round As poets use, the skies, the clouds, the fields. The happy violets hiding from the roads The primroses run down to, carrying gold; The tangled hedgeroAvs, where the cows push out Impatient horns and tolerant chuniing mouths 'Twixt dripping ash-boughs, — hedgerows all alive With birds and gnats and large wMte butterflies Which look as if the May-flower had caught life And palpitated forth upon the wind; Hills, vales, woods, netted in a silver mist, Farms, granges, doubled up among the hills; And cattle grazing in the watered vales. And cottage-chimneys smoking from the woods, And cottage-gardens smelling everywhere, Confused with smell of orchards .... And ankle-deep in English grass I leaped And clapped ray hands, and called all very fair. This description of an English landscape is, we believe, the finest passage in the entire poem. Romney loves his cousin, and would fain make her a fellow^- worker — 137 — ill his great task of ameliorating the condition of the suffering portion of the human race ; but Aurora declines the offer, regarding his aims as too frigidly material for a truly poetical soul. She tells him: What you love, Is not a woman, Roraney, but a cause: You want a helpmate, not a mistress, sir, A wife to help your ends — in her no end. Your cause is nohle, your ends excellent, But I, being most unworthy of these and that, Do otherwise conceive of love. Farewell. Aurora's aunt dies, and she comes to London, with the intention of earning her bread by her pen. AVliile one day seated in her "chamber up three flights of stairs" in Kensington, she receives a visit from Lady Waldemar, the female Mephistopheles of the story, who, after making Aurora the confidant of her love for Romney Leigh, surprises her with the intelligence that the philanthropist is about to marry A girl of doubtful life, undoubtful birth, called Marian Earle, living in St. Margaret's Court. Lady Waldemar's language in this interview is not of the most delicate, as she acknowledges, when she says : "I'm talking garlic." The visitor at length takes her leave: Aurora forthwith resolves she will go to see this Marian Earle; and she finds her lodged in a garret in one of the worst quarters of London. On her way to the house she has to run the gauntlet through a shower of insults and imprecations from the wretches dwelling in the Court. This scene is simply disgusting. Surely, there are two things Mrs. Browning might have known ; first, that poor seamstresses do not necessarily live among thieves and burglars; and secondly, that abandoned women are more disposed to slink away from the presence of refined and virtuous women than to vituperate them in the open street. Marian makes a favourable impression on Aurora, and proceeds to relate her brief but sad history: how she had run away from her drunken, poacliing father and worthless mother, and after undergoing much suffering was found — 138 — by Romney in an hospital. This is the bride the philan- thropist has chosen. He says: I take my wife Directly from the people, — and she comes As Austria's daughter to imperial France, Betwixt her eagles, blinking- not her race, From Margaret's Court, at garret height, to meet And wed me at St. James's, nor put off Her gown of serge for that. The parallel between Marian Earle and Marie Louise seems to ns singularly infelicitous. The wedding -day comes ; the church is partly filled with elegant wedding- guests from the aristocratic West-End, partly with the worst refuse of the metropolis — "half St. Giles in frieze." The bride has not yet appeared, and the im- patience of the rabble finds vent in colloquies which sound very strange in blank verse. A letter from Marian is at last brought to the impatient bridegroom by a ragged child; and Romney finds in it the fatal words: I never could be happy as your wife, I never could be harmless as your friend, I never will look more into your face Till God says. Look! Marian has disappeared; she has been deceived and entrapped by the cunning intriguer, Lady Waldemar. who has resolved on her ruin, to prevent her from marrying Romney Leigh. Of this the benevolent philo- sopher has no suspicion, and he habitually speaks of Lady Waldemar as "good", an epithet which furnishes Mrs. Browning with the text of a furious homily: In the middle age, I think they called malignant fays and imps Good people. A good neighbour, even in this, Is fatal sometimes, — cuts your morning up To mince-meat of the very smallest talk, Then helps to sugar her bohea at night With your reputation. I have known good wives, As chaste, or nearly so, as Fotiphar's; And good, good mothers, who would use a child To better an intrigue, good friends, beside, (Very good) who hung succinctly round your neck ^ — 139 — And sucked your breath, as cats are fabled to do By sleephii^ infants. And we all have kno\vn Good critics who have stamped out poet's hope, Good statesmen who pulled ruin on the state, Good patriots who for a tlieory risked a cause, Good kings who disembowelled for a tax, Good popes who brought all good to jeopardy. Good Christians Avho sate still in easy chairs And damned the general world for standing up — Now may the good (Jod pardon all good men! Time passes on. Aurora Leigh is in Paris. She lias never given up her search for Marian; and one day, when least expecting it, she finds her in the French capital. Marian has again a sad story of treachery and cruelty to tell — the wrong -doer, this time, of course being Lady Waldemar — and Aurora, convinced of the purity of Marian's soul, though she has a baby at her breast, resolves to take her with her to Italy. A railway journey is generally con- sidered a matter prosaic enough, but in Mrs. Brov\'- ning's hands it acquires a tinge of poetry: I just knew it when we swept Above the old roofs of Dijon : Lyons dropped A spark into the night, half trodden out Unseen. But presently the winding Rhone Washed out the moonlight large along his banks WTiich strained their yielding curves out clear and clean To hold it, — shadow of town and castle blurred Upon the hurrying river. Such an air Blew thence upon the forehead, — half an air And half a water, — that I leaned and looked, Then, turning back to Marian, smiled to mark That she looked only on her child, who slept, His face toward the moon too. So we passed The liberal open country and the close. And shot through tunnels, like a lightning- wedge By great Thor-hammers driven through the' rock, Which, quivering through the intestine blackness, splits. And lets it in at once: the train swept in Athrob with eifort, trembling with resolve, The fierce denouncing whistle wailing on And dying oif smothered in the shuddering dark, — 140 — While we, self-awed, drew troubled breath, oppressed As other Titans underneath the pile And nightmare of the mountains. Out, at last, To catch the dawn afloat upon the land! In the mean time Eomney Leigh has been rewarded for all his benevolent schemes with foul ingratitude. The ruffians he intended to benefit burned down the building he had erected as an asylum and a reformatory ; and though he escapes with his life, he loses his eyesight. On learning that Marian has been found, he is still quite willing to marry her ; but she resolves to live henceforth only for her child. His heart broken, and his illusions gone, he is just going to take leave of Aurora for ever, when she acknowledges her love for him, and consents to become his wife. We cannot refrain from quoting a few lines of that very fine passage, which describes Aurora's feel- ings on revisiting the home of her childhood: I knew the birds And insects, — which looked fathered by the floAvers And emulous of their hues : I recognised The moths, with that great overpoise of mngs Which make a mystery of them how at all They can stop flying: butterflies that bear Upon their blue wings such red embers round, They seem to scorch the blue air into holes Eacii flight they take: and fire-flies that suspire In short soft lapses of transported flame Across the tingling Dark, while overhead The constant and inviolable stars Outburn those light-of-love : melodious owls (If music had but one note and was sad, 'Twould sound just so); and all the silent swirl Of bats that seem to follow in the air Some grand circumference of a shadowy dome To which we are blind: and then the nightingales. Which pluck our heart across a garden-wall (When walking in the town) and carry it So high into the bowery almond-trees We tremble and are afraid, and feel as if The golden flood of moonlight unaware Dissolved tlie pillars of the steady earth And made it less substantial. — 141 — By some critics Aurora Leigh has been most extra- vagantly praised. In this poem, declares one writer, she has proved herself the greatest of English poetesses ; another says, the greatest female poet on record. Cooler- headed judges have found that the poem possesses both great beauties and serious blemishes. The metaphysical disquisitions and rambling common-place conversations, which so largely enter into it, ''have more than once reminded us", says Mr. Robert Chambers, "of the descriptions of the retreat from Moscow, where tlie French soldier might be seen dipping his gold cup into muddy ponds for drink, or eating the meanest viands off porcelain and silver." The plot, too, has been by many authorities pronounced to be unnatural or absurd. Though intended to be a philosophical poem, it is written at a passion-heat from beginning to end; and there is no lack of vehement denunciations, not un- frequently of doubtful justice. With all these defects, it must be conceded, that Aurora Leigh is one of the most remarkable poems of modern times. The moral it teaches is succinctly enunciated in these words: No earnest work Of any honest creature, albeit weak, Imperfect, ill-adapted, fails so much, It is not gathered as a grain of sand To enlarge the sum of human actions used For carrying out God's ends. Mrs. E. B. Browning died in 1861. Robert Lord Lytton. Lord Lytton's only son, Robert Lord Lytton, pub- lished in 1855, under the name of "Owen Meredith" Clytemnestra and other PoemSj followed by the Wanderer in 1859, and a poetical tale, Lucile in 1860. In 1868 appeared, under his own name, his romantic, half- Byronian Chronicles and Characters^ and in 1874 his Fables in Song. On the whole, we rather prefer the poems of Owen Meredith, which unite fancy with good sense, and simplicity with smoothness, to those of later — 142 — date. With one passage we have been particularly struck. A wife and mother excuses the faults of her sex by reminding' us that in love and marriage women have no choice, or, to give her own words : "we women cannot choose our lot:" But blame us women not, if some appear Too cold at times; and some too gay and light. Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to bear. Who knows the past? And who can judge us right? Ah, were we judged by what we might have been, And not by what we are, too apt to fall! My little child — he sleeps and smiles between These thoughts and me. In heaven we shall know all. In the Fables in Song, the stories, simple as they generally are, show no want of invention, and are well told; but though we have been long accustomed in fables to find birds and beasts, and even trees, con- versing freely, it rather takes away our breath to read of the different parts of the engine in a steamboat caballing together against the oil, and by their con- spiracy bringing about an explosion. It is likewise our opinion that the following soliloquy is at once too poetical and too philosophical for the solitary eagle who utters it: To what end, Time, dost thou from bright to sable turn The restless spheres of thy revolving hours? Whence slide the silver twilights in between, Dreamily shuddering? Say, what is't ye roll. Night-wanderers mute, in mystic vapour veil'd. That linger laden on the lone hill-tops, And pass, like sorrows with a tale untold? Who wrought the unimaginable wrong Thou callest upon ruin to redress, Thou moaning storm that roamest heaven in vain. Triumphant never, never long subdued? Beautiful anarch ! Answer, morn and eve. Why to your coming and departing kiss Blush, wrapt in rosy joy, the mountains old? What happens nighest heaven, and unbeheld, To speed thee headlong from thy native haunts, Wild torrent cradled in the tranquil cold? — 143 — One peculiarity of these fables is a curious blending of different stj^les, which almost produces the effect of a medley. There are passages which remind us of Tennyson, others of Browning, and the following lines, the reader Avill perceive, are quite in the early style of Wordsworth: A little child, scarce five years old. And blithe as bird on bough; A little maiden, briglit as gold, And pure as new-fall'n snow. Things seen, to her, are things unknown: Things near are far away: The neighbouring hamlet, next our own, As distant as Cathay! It must not, however, be supposed that we do not sometimes meet with fine — we will even say, very fine passages — in the Fables in Song; and as an example we will quote from the second volume the description of a sculptor's studio: Large was the chamber; bathed with light serene And silence tuned, not troubled, by the sound Of one cool fountain tinkling in the green Of laurel groves that girt the porches round. And in that chamber the sole dwellers were Ideas, clad in clear and stately shape; Save one, a prisoner, huge, uncouth, and bare, Hung fast in fetters, hopeless of escape. And broken at the heart, — a Marble Block. Even as a hero, in base ambuscade Fallen; so, fall'n, and from his native rock Borne here in chains, the indignant Marble made No moan; but round, in dumb remonstrance gazed; And, gazing, saw, surprised, all round him stand The images of gods. With right arm raised, Jove launch'd the thunders from his loaded hand: A light of undulating lovelinesses. Rose foam-born Venus from the foam; and, dread With dismal beauty, by its serpent tresses Did sworded Perseus lift Medusa's head: Tliere paused a-tiptoe wing-capp'd Mercury: Apollo, pensive smiling, linger'd here: There stately Pallas stood, with brooding eye, FuU ami'd, and grasp'd the segis and the spear. — 144 — Besides a number of imitations and free translations from the Italian, Danish, Servian, and other languages, Lord Lytton produced, in 1869, under the name of Orval; or, the Fool of Time, a paraphrase of the very remarkable dramatic poem, the Infernal Coinedy, of the Polish poet. Count Sigismund Krasinski, who, in the early part of 1859, died at Paris. We are informed by Lord Lytton, that he himself had long contemplated a poem, based on the French Revolution, the object of which, however, "was not to depict, in historical detail, any particular series of events, but to give, if possible, imaginative forms to those abstract ideas and general conceptions, from which both the character and occasion of the events of 1789 were derived." In this work he had already made some progress, when, becoming acquainted with Count Krasinski's poem, he was struck with the curious though accidental resem- blance, of his own three principal characters to the three leading personages of the Polish poet. In conse- quence of this discovery, he threw aside his manuscript, and undertook a paraphrase of the Infernal Comedy; replacing the Polish names of the three chief actors by the more pronounceable ones of Orval, Veronica, and Muriel. The poem is divided into five epochs, in the first two of which Orval is presented to us as a sort of Faustus, deserting his home and his young wife, Veronica, to seek unholy communion with the world of spirits ; in the sequel he becomes a revolutio- nary chief, but finally falls a victim, together with his son Muriel, to the anarcliist insurrection wliich he has aided in evoking. All through the piece the supernatural accompanies the action, and the spirit of the neglected Veronica, after her decease, continually hovers about her son, till he, in the last scene but one, falls struck by an anarchist ball. Of tlie merits of the Polisli poem we are not competent to speak; but a couple of extracts from Lord Lytton's paraphrase will show in what a mas- terly manner his own task has been executed. In the first, Orval, climbing a rugged mountain above a stormy — 145 — sea, in pursuit of an evil spirit by whose spells he is enthralled, pauses and soliloquizes: Where am I? Have they a name for uien to know them by, Tliese desert steeps Calpe or Caucasus, Atlas, or utmost Tliule's mountain tops Mark'd on no mariner's chart? One thing is sure; That never, even in dream, I trod, before, The dreadful pavement of this dizzy path That winds I know not where: never beheld The broken margent of that savage sea That in his beached basin, far below, Boils like HelFs caldron; nor yon livid peak Peering and disappearing through those gaps Of restless cloud, tormented by the wind. How horribly the huge stone's solid bulk Seems hovering in the gust above my head! Already have I cross'd the groaning tract Of thunder, that with dense blue drench blots all The blighted plain out. Far beneath me, borne About these fang'd and crooked crags, I hear Faint noises only, as ever and anon Between black sullen shores of gulfy cloud There runs, and breaks, and falls, a pallid sea Of momentary fire. Still on! still on! The few" lean firs, and solitary pines. That struggled, few and fewer, as on I pass'd, To keep pace with me, all have fallen away Nature's self cried "Halt! I can no turther go!" Yet on went I, And still must on, — still on, while aught is left. Above me where man's foot may tread. Still on! The moral degradation of woman — one of the earliest consequences of the anarchist triumph — revolts the mind of Orval, and obtrudes itself on him as a menace and a foretaste of new and ineffable evils. In his despair he exclaims: women! women, "Whom we have loved, and honour'd, ay ! and served, — Loved with the loyal heart of honest man. That fears no falsehood where he trusts all truth ! Honour'd on knightly knee, with tender homage, Half deified with holy poesies, And held unsullied in the secretest shrine Of things divine within us ! . . . Served, ah God ! 10 — 146 — Served with tlie soldier's sword, the poet's pen, And all the thousand nameless services Of silent adoration, that make strong The better portion of men's days and deeds ! Were ye not mothers, daughters, sisters, wives? Our mothers, and our daughters, and our sisters? And we almost have worship'd you. as angels! Robert Lord Lytton was Governor-General of India, under Lord Beaconsfield's administration (1874 — 1880). A. C. Swinburne. Algernon Charles Swinburne, born in 1843 at Hobn- wood in Surrey, belongs to a noble family, his mother being a daughter of Lord xishburnham, and his uncle a baronet of ancient descent. The poet received his earl}^ education in France, and afterwards studied at Eton and Oxford. When at the university, he highly distinguished himself as a Greek scholar. In 1860 he published two plays in verse, the Queen-Mother and Rosamond, which attracted no attention, but about the same time he became known as the author of some poetical contributions to the London Spectator, wliich were looked on as a sort of protest against the pueri- lities of the "good boy" school of poetry. It was in the spring of 1865 that he produced his drama, Atalanta in Calydon, and, like Byron, he awoke one morning, and found himself famous. The Athenaeum said that "no one since Keats could touch him" ; the Saturday Review declared that "we were listening to one of the contem- poraries of Euripides, who sought to copy the manner of Aeschylus" ; and the other reviews and journals bestowed on it unstinted praise. Chastelard, a traged}^ in the style of the Elizabethan school, the subject of which was the passion of the young French poet for the unfortunate Queen of Scots, appeared in the folloAv- ing year, but met with a very different reception from that of the classical Atalanta. The warmth of its colour- ing gave great scandal to sober-minded readers, and it was denounced as "morally repulsive", "licentious", and "overladen with sensuous images." By one section — 147 — of the reading public, indeed, who longed for something beyond feeble imitations of Wordsworth, Chastelard was hailed as the welcome harbinger of a new era of vigorous and masculine English poetry; but in 1866, on the appearance of the Poems and Ballads, in which all the faults of Chastelard were repeated in an exag- gerated form, the apologists were fain to subside into silence. So loud an outcry was raised against the im- morality and aggressive atheism ' of the new volume, that the publishing house of Moxon expunged the book from their list; and the author had to look for a new publisher. The London Punch changed the name of the poet into Swine-born, and the joke was everywhere repeated with laughter and applause. Swinburne remon- strated in his Notes on Poems and Reviews; urging that he did not write for mere boys and girls, but for men ; and that there is a higher class of literature than the bread-and-butter and pinafore school. In 1867 he gave vent to his republican sympathies in his Song of Italy, dedicated to Mazzini; and again in 1870, in his Ode on the Proclamation of the French Republic, which he dedicated to Victor Hugo. In 1871 he gave to the world his Songs before Sunrise, in which, mixed up with much extravagance, we find some of his finest verses. His later published productions are : A Midsummer Holi- day, Les Casquets^ an incident connected with the light- house rock olf Guernsey, Ode to Victor Hugo, Cradle Songs, Five years old, and In Sepulcretis, a poem in which he castigates those indiscreet admirers of eminent men, who publish, after thfir death, what was never intended to see the light. Mr. Swinburne is not only a great poetical genius, notwithstanding all his blemishes, but also no ordinary prose-writer. In 1872, he and his friend, Mr. Eossetti, were violently attacked by Mr. Robert Buchanan, the author of Napoleon Fallen, a lyrical drama (1871), in a magazine article, afterwards reprinted in a separate form, with the title : the Fleshly School of Poetry and other Phenomena of the Day; to which Mr. Swinburne wrote his able reply, Under the Microscope, This time 10* — 14vS — the public generally took the side of Swinburne and Rossetti, thinking that a rival poet could hardly be looked on as an impartial critic. From these observations it may be gathered, that in Swinburne's poetry there is very little whicli we should feel justified in quoting in such a work as the present. One of his least objectionable pieces, his Ode to Victor Hugo, will give some idea of his poetical powers : Thou art chief of us, and lord ; Thy song is as a sword Keen-edged and scented in the blade from flowers; Thou art lord and king; hut we Lift younger eyes, and see Less of high hope, less light on wandering hours; Hours that have borne men down so long, Seen the right fail, and watched uplift the wrong. But thine imperial soul As years and ruins roll To the same end, and all things and all dreams With the same wreck and roar Drift on the dim same shore. Still in the bitter foam and brackish streams Tracks the fresh water-spring to be And sudden sweeter fountains in the sea. In Swinburne, says Mr. Justin M'Carthy, we find everywhere "the same cry of rebellion against esta- blished usage, the same hj^sterical appeal to lawlessness in passion and art." t D. G. Rossetti. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, the poet and painter, is of Italian origin, but was born in London in 1828. As an artist, he belongs to the pre-Raphaelite school, and in 1857 he supplied the illustrations for an edition ot Tennyson's poems. His principal literary productions are, his Early Italian Poets, from Civollo d' Alcana to Dante (1861) ; his Translation of Dante's VitaNuova (1866); and his Poems (1870). Mr. feossetti's poetry is noted both for sweetness and power, but as has been hinted, — 149 — it possesses many of the defects, as well as the merits of SAvinburne. From his House of Life we select some stanzas, which will give an idea of the height and sublimity Mr. Rossetti is capable of reaching: THE SEA-LIMITS. Coiifiider the sea's listless chime: Time's self it is, made audible, — The murmur of the earth's own shell. Secret coutiuuance sublime Is the sea's end: our sight may pass No furlong further. Since time was, Tliis sound hath told the lapse of time. No quiet, which is death's, — it hath The mournfulness of ancient life, Enduring always at dull strife. As the world's heart of rest and wrath, Its painful pulse is in the sands. Last utterly, the whole sky stands. Grey and not knoMm, along its path. Listen alone beside the sea, Listen alone among the woods; Those voices of twin solitudes Shall have one sound alike to thee: Hark where the murmurs of thronged men Surge and sink back and surge again, — Still the one voice of wave and tree. Gather a shell from the strown beach And listen at its lips: they sigh, The same desire and mystery. The echo of the whole sea's speech, And all mankind is thus at heart Not anything but what thou art: And Earth, Sea, Man are all in each. The Rossettis are a highly gifted family. Grabriele Eossetti, the poet's father, who left Naples and settled in London in the year 1871, was himself a poet and a Dante commentator. Mr. William Michael Rossetti, the poet's brother, translated Dante's Inferno into Eng- lish blank verse. Miss Maria Rossetti, the poet's elder sister, published not long ago an elucidation of the Divina Commedia; and Miss Christina Rossetti is the author of the Prince's Progress, Goblin Market, and — 150 — some tales for cliildren. The mother of this talented progeny was an English lady of Italian descent. W. Morris. William Morris (born in 1834), is usually classed among the poets of the new or Swinburne school, but his colouring is rarely so vivid, or his language so passionate, as that of Swinburne or Rossetti. His earliest poetical effusion appeared in 1858, under the name, Defence of Guinevere, and other Poems, and was followed, in 1867, by his great poem, the Life and Death of Jason. In 1868, he published the Earthly Paradise, and in 1872 Love is enough. Professor M. Arnold. Matthew Arnold (born in 1822), Professor of Poetry in the university of Oxford, and son of the late highly popular Dr. Thomas Arnold (1795—1842), Head-master of Eugby School, is a poet who has nothing in common with the Swinburne school. Mr. Arnold published Crom- well, a prize poem ; the Strayed Reveller, and other Poems, in 1848; Empedocles on Etna in 1853; Poems in 1854; Merope, a tragedy in 1858; besides a great number of prose- works on various subjects. In the following elegant lines, the poet reminds us that man — especially tlie young man — must be always up and doing, and that life is essentially active and unquiet: Ah, no! the bliss youth dreams is one For daylight, for the cheerful sun; For feeling nerves and living breath — Youth dreams a bliss on this side death! It dreams a rest, if not more deep, More grateful than this marble sleep. It hears a voice within it tell: Calm's not life's crown, though calm is well. 'Tis all perhaps which man requires, But 'tis not what our youth desires. — lol — Mr. Arnold advises .yt)img* poets to avoid modern innovations in poetic style and diction, and to seek tlieir models in classic antiquity. His own poetical productions all evince a liigiily cultured taste. A. Austin. Alfred Austin began his poetical career by the publication of the satirical poems, the Season, and the Golden Age; but he is not exclusively a satirist, and he has since then produced the Human Tragedy/, Savo- narola, Soliloquies in Song, and at the Gate of the Con- vent. From one of his later works we extract a few characteristic lines, instinct with a pleasing hopeful feeling : I feel no more the snow of years, Sap mounts and pulses bound; My eyes are filled with happy tears, My ears with happy sound. My manhood keeps the dew of mom, And what I have I give; Being right glad that I was born. And thankful that I live. M. F. Tupper. Martin F. Tupper, born in 1810, the author of Proverbial Philosophy and Geraldine, a sequel to Cole- ridge's Christabel, has likewise written Ballads for the Times, many of which have been set to music, and they are all recommended by the hopeful and manly senti- ments they express. Among the most popular are the following : HONEST FELLOW, SORE BESET. Honest fellow, sore beset. Vexed by troubles quick and keen, Thankfully consider yet How much worse it might have been. Worthily thy faults deserve More than all thine eyes have seen; Think thou, then, with sterner nerve, How much worse it might have been. — 152 — Though the night be* dark and long, Morning soon shall break serene; And the burden of thy song, How much worse it might have been. God, the Good One, calls to us, On his Providence to lean. Shout, then, out, devoutly thUs, How much worse it might have been. I LOVE TO LINGEE. I love to linger on the track Wherever I have dAvelt, In after years to loiter back, And feel as once I felt. My foot falls lightly on the sward, Yet leaves a deathless dint; With tenderness I still regard Its unforgotten print. Old places have a charm for me The new can ne'er attain; Old faces! how I long to see Their kindly looks again! NEVER GO GLOOMILY. Never go gloomily, man with a mind, Hope is a better companion than fear; Providence, ever benignant and kind. Gives with a smile what you take with a tear. All will be right, look to the light, Morning is ever the daughter of night All that was black will be all that is bright. Cheerily, cheerily, then cheer up! Many a foe is a friend in disguise, Many a sorrow a blessing most true, Helping the heart to he happy and wise, Bringing true love and joys ever new. Stand in the van, strive like a man, This is the bravest and cleverest plan — Trusting in God while you do what you cau: Cheerily, cheerily, then cheer up! Mr. Tupper is certainly not one of the great poets of the Victorian Age, but he is always clear; and pos- — 158 — sessing the valuable secret* of popularity, has a large circle of admirers. Among the remaining poets of this period we may mention Dr. C. Mackay (Egeria, etc.), Mr. D. F. M' Car thy , author of the Poets and Dramatists of Ireland, and the translator of several of Calderon's dramas; George Eliot (Spanish Gipsy); Miss Procter, (daughter of B. W. Procter, better known as Barry Cornwall), author of Legends and Lyrics; Eev. William Barnes (Poems in the Dorset Dialect); Rev. John Kehle (the Christian Year, Lyra Innocentium, etc.^ Mr. C Patmore (the Angel in the House); Mr. Charles Swain (Metrical Essays^; Mr. Francis Davis^ the "Belfast Man" (Lisping s of the Lagan, etc.) ; and Mr. John W. Pitchford (Bramble Clois- ters) from whose Idyll of the Dawn we give a brief extract, not unworthy of the author of the Seasons: Now shoot o'er dewy hedge, Through openmg woods, the sun's first rays, lleddening and warm; and with a thrill of life All things awake ; the hum of hees is heard About the garden hives, and round the elms The buzz of darting flies; chirp, twitter, song. Glad flit of hasty wing, the upward soar Of joyous-throated lark, the blackbird's song. Warbled in rounded tones, make sweet the hour. Sparkles the hoary dew upon the grass; The trailing mists drift from the shining woods. From out whose dark blue depths come gentle sounds Of cooing doves, happiest of happy birds. Cutting and driving through the freshened blue Of cloudless heaven, the arrowy swallows dart. Ere pale blue wreaths of climbing smoke arise Above the garden trees, from cottage roofs, The satchelled labourers come, with tools in hand, Bound for the hay-fields or the distant woods. Poet -Translators. Among the very numerous poet- translators of the present period, it is impossible for us to notice any but the most eminent; and one of the first of these is Edward Earl of Derby, the author of an admirable translation of Homer's Iliad, in English blank verse, — 154 — which appeared in 1864. Of the many existing English translations of the Iliad it is generally considered the most perfect. Chapman's version, in fourteen - syllable metre and in rhyme, is now out of date, though it was a wonderful work for the Elizabethan age; Pope's celebrated translation, in the English heroic metre, how- ever brilliant and harmonious, is rather a paraphrase than a translation; Cowper's version is accurate, but dull. In Lord Derby's translation we find accuracy and elegance most happily combined; as may be seen by his rendering of the well-known moonlight scene in Book VIII: Full of proud hopes, upon the pass of war All night they camped, and fi'equent blazed their fires : As when in heaven around the glittering moon The stars shine bright amid the breathless air, And every crag and every jutting peak Stands boldly forth, and every forest glade. E'en to the gates of heaven is opened wide The boundless sky; shines each particular star Distinct; joy fills the gazing shepherd's heart; So bright, so thickly scattered o'er the plain Before the walls of Troy, between the ships And Xanthus' stream, the Trojans' watchfires blazed. A thousand fires bm-nt brightly, and round each, Sat fifty warriors in the ruddy glare; With store of provender before them laid, Barley and rye, the tethered horses stood Beside the cars, and waited for the mom. The attack of Hector on the Achaean camp, in Book XII., shows us that Lord Derby is as much at home in depicting a warlike scene as a peaceful one: Close to the gate he stood, and planting firm His foot to give his arm its utmost power, Full on the middle dashed the mighty mass. The hinges both gave way: the ponderous stone Fell inwards: widely gap'd the opening gates; Nor might the bars within the blow sustain. This way and that the severed portals flew Before the crashing missile. Dark as night His lowering brow, great Hector sprang within; Bright flashed the brazen annour on his breast. As through the gates, two jav'lins in his hand, — 155 — He sprang-: the gods except, no power might meet That onset; blazed his eyes with lurid fire. Then to the Trojans turning, to the throng He called aloud to scale the lofty wall. Another translation of the Iliad, not quite so equable, but in other respects hardly inferior to that of Lord Derbj' , lias been made by the philologist, critic and historian, Mr. Wright. We subjoin Mr. Wright's rendering of the indignant rejoinder of Achilles to the taunts of Agamemnon, in Book I. : clothed with insolence, rapacious chief. What Greek henceforth will prompt obedience yield, March at thy word or strenuous urge the fight? 1 came not to avenge a private wrong. I have no quarrel with the Trojans: they Ne'er drove away the herds or steeds of mine, Nor roamed injurious o'er my fruitful fields In fertile Pythia, for between us lie For shadowing mountains and the roaring sea. Thy cause espousing, and at thy behest We came to Troy. most unblushing chief, Not on our own behalf, but to redress Wrongs suffered by thy brother and by thee, Thou dog in shamelessness. Mr. W. E, Gladstone, the late Premier (author of Studies on Homer) has published a translation of the first book of the Iliad in the trochaic measure of Tenny- son's Locksley Hall. So far as the translation goes, it is pleasant enough reading; but we scarcely think the fifteen-sj'^llable metre could have been maintained without wearisome monotony in so long an epic as the Iliad. Mr. Worsley has undertaken, and very creditably executed, the difficult task of adapting the Odyssey to the English Spenserian stanza. With regard to most of the other Greek and Roman poets, the English versions of Dry den, Rowe, and Moore are still the best. Dr. William Maginn (1793—1842), the poet and critic, who spoke fluently and wrote in six languages, produced some admirable translations from Lucian, and a series of lays, called Homeric Bal- lads, in the style of Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome, In modern literature, the translations from the German — 156 — by Scott, Coleridge, W. Taylor, Carlyle, Lord Lytton, and Professor Blackie, still maintain their reputation. Sir Theodore Martin (born in Edinburgh in 1816), who at the request of Queen Victoria edited the Life of the Prince Cbnsort, besides several metrical translations from Horace and Catullus, has published an English version of Dante's Vita Nuova, the Poems and Ballads of Goethe, and Faust. In translating the Poems and Ballads, he was aided by his friend, W. E. Aytoun (1813 — 1865), Professor of Ehetoric in the University of Edinburgh, and author of the Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers. Another translation of Faust, made by the American writer, Mr. Bayard Taylor, we shall notice hereafter. Most of the French works which of late years have appeared in an English dress are — if we except some of Victor Hugo's poems and Beranger's ballads — novels, comedies and farces. Elegant English versions of the Italian poets have been made by Mr. Leigh Hunt, the two brothers Rossetti, the Eev. H. F. Cary, and Mr. W. S. Rose. To Sir John Bowring we owe many spirited translations from the Russian, Magyar, Polish, and many other languages. One department of literature, long neglected in England, has received in this period extraordinary attention, in consequence of the movemoit initiated by Byron and some other poets, and since then so ably continued by Frere, Wiffen, Bowring, and Lockhart: we mean the canciones or ballad poetry of Spain. Of these graceful versions we give a few specimens. The first is by Mr. Wiffen : MOUNTAIN SONG. I ne'er on the border Saw girl fair as Rosa, The charming milk-maiden Of sweet Finojosa. Once making a journey To Santa Maria Of Calataveno, From weary desire Of sleep down a valley I strayed, where young Rosa I saw, the milk-maiden Of lone Finojosa. — 157 — In a pleasant green meadow '^[idst roses and grasses, Her herd she was tending With other fair lasses; So lovely her aspect, I conld not suppose her A simple milk-maiden Of rude Finojosa. I think not primroses Have half her smile's sweetness. Or mild modest beauty; (I speak with discreetness). Oh, had I beforehand But known of this Rosa, The handsome milk-maiden Of far Finojosa. Her very great beauty Had not so subdued, Because it had left me To do as I would. I have said more, oh, fair one! By learning 'twas Rosa, The charming milk-maiden Of sweet Finojosa. Tlie next is by Mr. Lockliart: DON RODEEICK AFTER HIS DEFEAT. (A.D. 711.) The hosts of Don Rodrigo were scattered in dismay, When lost was the eighth battle, nor heart nor hope had they; He, when he saw the field was lost, and all his hope was flown, He turned him from his flying host, and took his way alone. His horse was bleeding, blind and lame, he could no farther go; Dismounted, without path or aim the king stepped to and fro: It was a sight of pity to look on Roderick, For sore athirst and hungry, he staggered faint and sick. All stained and smeared with dust and blood, like to some smoul- dering brand. Plucked from the flame, Rodrigo showed ; his sword was in his hand ; But it was hacked into a saw of dark and purple tint; His jewelled mail had many a flaw, his helmet many a dint. He climbed into a hill top, the highest he could see; Thence all about of that wide route, his last long look took he; He saw his royal banners where they lay drenched and torn, He heard the cry of victory, the Arab shout of scorn. — 158 — He looked for the brave captains who had led the hosts of Spain, But all were fled except the dead, and who could count the slain? Where'er his eye could wander, all bloody was the plain; And while thus he spoke, the tears he shed ran down his cheeks like rain "Last night I was the king of Spain — to-day no king am I; Last night fair castles held my train — to-night, where shall I lie ? Last night a himdred pages did serve me on the knee, To-night not one I call my own — not one pertains to me. "Oh, luckless, luckless was the hour, and cursed was the day, When I was born to have the power of this great seignory! Unhappy one, that I should see the sun go down to-night! Death! why now so slow art thou? why fearest thou to smite?" The third is by Sir John Bowring: Fount of freshness ! fount of freshness ! Fount of freshness and of love ! Where the little birds of spring-time Seek for comfort as they rove: All except the widowed turtle — Widowed, sorrowing turtle-dove. There the nightingale, the traitor! Lingered on his giddy way; And these words of hidden treachery To the dove I heard him say: "I will be thy servant, lady! I will ne'er thy love betray." "Off! false-hearted! vile deceiver! Leave me, nor insult me so; Dwell I then 'midst gaudy flow'rets? Perch I on the verdant bough? Even the waters of the fountain Drink I dark and troubled now. Never will I think of marriage — Never break the widow-vow. "Had I children, they would grieve me, They would wean me, from my woe: Leave me, false one; — thoughtless traitor Base one! — vain one! — sad one! — go! I can never, never love thee — I will never wed thee — no!" — 159 — II. I>i'aiiiatists. Notwithstanding the reiterated lamentations about the gradual decay of the stage in England, the Victorian Age can still boast of a few dramatic writers, who would have done honour to any period of English literature. Among these the first place, both in seniority and merit, indisputably belongs to James Sheridan Knowles (1784—1862). Of this eminent writer the Edinburgh Review declared, that he "is, indeed, the most successful dramatist of this day; and, apart from his other eiforts, the Hunchback and the Wife deserve a permanent station in our drama, having combined the greatest literary merit Avitli the most unequivocal success upon the stage." Mr. Knowles, who was related to the Slieridans, was born in Cork, of which city his father, James Knowles, author of an excellent Dictionary of the English Language^ was like- wise a native. So early as 1820, he had began to write for the stage : when his first considerable piece, a tragedy called Cains Gracchus, was produced at Belfast, and subsequently performed at Drury Lane theatre, London. Mr. Knowles wrote altogether sixteen principal plays, tragedies, and comedies, which, how^ever, were not all equally successful. Towards the close of his life, he obtained from Government a pension of £ 200 a-year, and withdrawing from all connexion with the stage, joined the sect of the Baptists, and became a popular preacher. "His works", says an able dramatic critic, "are without a spot; they breathe the noblest senti- ments, the purest morality. His characters do honour to human nature. Of filial duty, love of country, inde- pendence, liberty, the social virtues, and all the charities that bind man to man, they are bright examples! The female parts are particularly attractive; combining delicacy, firmness, and a high-wrought enthusiasm. . . . Take him for all in all, he is a noble poet, and would have cast a lustre upon any age." — 160 — Of Mr. Knowles's tragedies, perhaps the finest is Virginius, founded on the well-known old Roman story. It was first produced at Covent Garden, the original Virginius being Mr. Macready. The gloomier features of the tragedy are judiciously relieved by the intro- duction of the sarcastic old veteran Siccius Dentatus, whose caustic pleasantry never degenerates into buf- foonery. One of the most touching scenes is that in which the centurion discovers the concealed, but not unrequited love of his daughter for young Icilius — a discovery, as we learn, neither unexpected by the father, nor unwelcome to him: Vh. — Icilms loves my daughter — nay, I know it ; And snch a man would challenge for her husband, And only waited, till her forward spring- Pat on, a little more, the genial likeness Of colouring into summer, ere I sought To nurse a flower, wliich, blossoming too early. Too early often dies; but if it springs Spontaneous, and uulook'd for, wooes our hand To tend and cherish it, the growth is healthful; And 'twere untimely, as unkind, to check it. Icilius appears; and the father, with faltering voice, commits to him the care of his child's future happiness : Icihus. — All that man sliould be To woman, I wUl be to her ! Virg. The oath Is registered. Didst thou but know, young man. How fondly I have watch'd her since the day Her mother died, and left me to a charge Of double duty bound — hoAv slie hath been My ponder'd thought by day, my dream by night, My prayer, my vow, my offering, my praise, My sweet companion, pupil, tutor, child! — Thou would'st not wonder that my (h'owning eye. And clioking utterance, upbraid my tongue, That tells thee, she is thine! On the development of the infamous plot of the Decemvir Appius and his creature Claudius, to obtain possession of the person of the young girl, under the false allegation that she was the daughter of Claudius's — 161 — slave, and purchased in infancy from the niotlier by the childless wife of Virginias, the unhappy father makes an appeal which must have convinced any less interested tribunal : A p pins. — Yoiir answer now, Virgmms. V^irginius. — Here it is! Is this the daughter of a slave? I know 'Tis not with men as shnibs and trees, that by The shoot you know the rank and order of The stem. Yet who from such a stem would look For such a shoot? My witnesses are these — The relatives and friends of Numitoria, Who saw her, ere Virginia's birth, sustain The burden which a mother bears, nor feels The weight, with longing for the sight of it. Here are the ears that listened to her sighs In nature's hour of labour, which subsides In the embrace of joy — the hands, that when The day first looked upon the infant's face. And never looked so pleased, helped her up to it, And blessed her for a blessing. Here, the eyes That saw her lying at the generous And sympathetic fount, that at her cry Sent forth a stream of liquid living pearl To cherish her enamelled veins. The lie Is most unfniitful then, that takes the flower — The very flower our bed connubial grew — To prove its barrenness! Finding this eloquent pleading disregarded, Virginius, as a last favour, intreats permission to take leave of her whom at least he had always looked on as his daughter : \ irginius. — Appius, I pray you wait! If she is not My child, she hath been like a child to me For fifteen years. If I am not her father, I have been like a father to her, Appius, For even such a time. They that have lived So long a time together, in so near And dear society, may be allowed A little time for parting. Let me take The maid aside, I pray you, and confer A moment with her nurse; perhaps she'll give me Some token will unloose a tie so twined And knotted round my heart, that, if you break it, My heart breaks with it. Appius. — Have your wish. Be brief! Lictors, look to them. 11 — 162 — Virginia. —Do you go from me? Do you leave? Father! Father! Virginius. — No, my child. — No, my Virginia — come along with me. Virginia. — Will you not leave me ? Will you take me with you ? Will you take me home again ? Oh, bless you, bless you ! My father! my dear father! Art thou not My father? It is at this moment that Virginius discovers, in the immediate neighbourhood, a butcher's stall, with a knife upon it. Vir. — This way, my child — No, no; I am not going To leave thee, my Virginia! I'll not leave thee. A pp. — Keep back the people, soldiers! Let them not Approach Virginius! Keep the people back! [Virginius secures the knife. Well, have you done? Vir. — Short time for converse, Appius, But I have. A pp. — I hope you are satisfied. Vir. — I am — I am — that she is my daughter! A pp. — Take her, lictors! Vir. — Another moment, pray you. Bear with me A little — 'Tis my last embrace. 'Twon't try Your patience beyond bearing, if you're a man ! Lengthen it as I may. I cannot make it Long. My dear child! my dear Virginia! [Kissing her. There is one only way to save tliy honour — 'Tis this. [Stabs her. Lo, Appius. with this innocent blood I do devote thee to the infernal gods! Make way there! A pp. — Stop him! Seize him! Vir. — If they dare To tempt the desperate weapon that is maddened With drinking my daughter's blood, why, let them : thus It rushes in amongst them. Way there! Way! [Exit through the soldiers. Mr. Knowles's William Tell differs very widely in its treatment from Schiller's tragedy of the same name. The work of the great Gennan poet may be said to be more historically correct ; that is. he describes Tell — 168 — as he would have been, had he really lived; as the honest, simple-minded German-Swiss j^eoman, little con- versant with abstract notions of liberty, and only stimu- lated to action by a keen sense of personal wrongs. Knowles. on the contrary, believing himself perfectly justified in idealizing a hero, who never existed save in poetic legend, portrays liim as an ardent patriot, continually brooding over the wrongs of his degraded and enslaved country, and who, to quote the words of George Daniels, "feels that to submit to oppression without murmur or resistance, would be to throw away his birthright, and prove himself unworthy of those high immunities that belong to him as the last, the noblest work of the Creator." Mr. Macready, for whom, indeed, Knowles wrote most of his principal characters, was the original William Tell ; but it was subsequently performed with no less success by the American tragedian Forrest. The following scene is from Act I. : Tell. Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again! I hold to you the hands you first heheld, To show they still are free. Methinks I hear A spirit in your echoes answer me, And bid your tenant welcome to his home. Again! sacred forms, how i)roud you look! How high you lift your heads into the sky! How huge you are! how mighty and how free! How do you look, for all your bared brows. More gorgeously majestical than kings Whose loaded coronets exhaust the mine! Ye are the things that tower, that shine — whose smile Makes glad — whose frown is terrible — whose forms, Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear Of awe divine — whose subject never kneels In mockery, because it is your boast To keep him free! Ye guards of liberty, I'm with you once again ! — I call to you With all my voice! I hold my hands to you To show they still are free! I rush to you As though I could embrace you! Albert enters, toith his hack to Tell, not seeing him^ and aiming at his mark, Albert. I'U hit it now. {shoots.) Tell. That's scarce a miss, that comes so near the mark! Well aim'd, young archer! With what ease he bends The bow! To see those sinews, who'd believe 11* — 164 — Such strength did lodge in them ? {Albert shoots.) Well aim'd agam There plays the skill will thin the chamois' herd, And hring the lammer-geyer from the cloud To earth. Perhaps do greater feats — perhaps Make man its quarry, when he dares to tread Upon his fellow man. That little arm, His mother's palm can span, may help, anon, To pull a sinewy tyrant from his seat, And from their chains a prostrate people lift To liberty. I'd he content to die, Living to see that day. — What, Albert ! Albert. Ah! My father! {running to Tell, who embraces him.') Emma, (running from the cottage.) William! — Welcome! welcome, William! I did not look for you till noon. Joy's double joy, . That comes before the time: it is a debt Paid ere 'tis due, which fills the owner's heart With gratitude, and yet 'tis but his own! And are you well? And has the chase proved good? How has it fared with you? Come in; I'm sure You want refreshment. Tell. No; I did partake A herdsman's meal, upon whose lonely chalet I chanced to light. I've had bad sport; my track Lay with the wind, which to the start'lish game JBetray'd me still. Only one prize; and that I gave mine humble host — true that scaling yonder peak, I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow: O'er the abyss his broad expanded wings Lay calm and motionless upon the air. As if he floated there without their aid. By the sole act of his unlorded will. That buoy'd him proudly up. Instinctively I bent my bow; yet kept he rounding still His airy circle, as in the delight Of measuring the ample range beneath And round about: absorb'd, he heeded not The death that threaten'd him. I could not shoot — 'Twas liberty! I turned my bow aside, And let him soar away. The incident he has just mentioned recalls to TeU the happy period of his marriage, and the days when his country was still the land of freemen. Tell. When I wedded thee, The land was free. Oh! with what pride I used To walk these hills, and look up to their Maker, — 165 — And bless Him that it was so. It was free — From end to end, from cliff to lake 'twas free! How happy was I in it then! I lov'd Its very storms! Yes, Emma, I have sat In my boat at night, when, midway o'er the lake, Tlie stars went ont, and down the mountain gorge The wind came roaring — I have sat and eyed The tlmnder breaking from his cloud, and smil'd To see liim shake his lightnings o'er my head, And think I had no master save his own. You know the jutting cliff, round which a track Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow To such another one, with scanty room For two a-breast to pass? O'ertaken there By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along, And wliile gust followed gust more furiously, As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink; And I have thought of other lands, whose storms Are summer flaws to tliose of mine, and just Have wished me there — the thought that mine was free, Has check'd that wish, and I have rais'd my head, And cried in thraldom to that furious wind, Blow on! This is the land of liberty! Old Melctal soon after this appears, blinded as he is by the cruel orders of Gesler. Enter Old Melctal, a bandage round his eyes, led by Albert. Old M. Where art thou, William? Tell. Who is't? Emma. Do you not know him? Tell. " No!— It cannot be The voice of Melctal! Albert. Father, it is Melctal! Emma. What ails you, Tell? Albert. Oh, father, speak to him. Emma. What passion shakes you thus? Tell. His eyes — where are they? — Melctal has eyes. Old M. Tell! Tell! Tell. 'Tis Melctal's voice. Where are his eyes? Have they put out his eyes? Has Gesler turned the little evening of The old man's life to-night before its time? To such black night as sees not with the day AU round it! Father, speak! pronounce the name Of Gesler! Old M. Gesler! Tell. Gesler has torn out The old man's eyes! Support thy mother! (Albert goes to Emmu. — 166 — Erni? .Where's Erni? Where's thy son! Is he alive? And are his father's eyes torn out? Old M. He lives, my William, But knows it not. Tell, When he shall know it! — Heavens! — When he shall know it! — I am not thy son, Yet- Emma. {alarmed at his increasing vehemence) William! - WUliam! Alhert. Father! Tell. Could I find Something to tear — to rend, were worth it! — something Most ravenous and hloody — something like Gesler! — a wolf! — no, no! a wolfs a lamb To Gesler! 'Tis a natural hunger makes The wolf a savage: and, savage as he is, Yet with his kind he gently doth consort. 'Tis hut his lawful prey he tears; and that He finishes — not mangles, and then leaves To live! He hath no joy in craelty — hut as It ministers to his most needful want, — I would let the wolf go free for Gesler ! — Water ! Water \ My tongue cleaves to its roof! (Emma goes into cottage. Old M. What ails thee, William? I pray thee, William, let me hear thy voice! That's not thy voice! Tell. I cannot speak to thee! Emma, {returning, with water) Here, William! Tell. Emma! Emma. Drink ! Tell. I cannot drink! Emma. Your eyes are fixed. Tell. Melctal! — he has no eyes! {bursts into tears. The poor old man! {/alls owMelctal's neck. Old M. I feel thee. Tell! I care not That I have lost my eyes. I feel thy tears — They're more to me than eyes! When I had eyes, I never knew thee, William, as I know Thee now without. I do not want my eyes! In the plot Mr. Knowles has pretty closely fol- lowed the French writer Florian, in his Guillaume TelL As originally composed, the tragedy contained five acts, but Mr. Macready, thinking it too long for the some- what meagre incidents, cut it down to three acts, altoge- ther suppressing an ingenious and amusing underplot. In this underplot, two young patriotic citizens of Altorf, 107 Jaglieli and Michael, who love respectively the Sene- schal's daughter and niece, obtain admission by a stra- tagem into Gesler's castle, and not only succeed in carrying off the fair ones, "notliing loath", but facilitate the capture of the stronghold by Tell and his Swiss bands. The annexed scene, in wliich Michael surprises Jagheli rehearsing a serenade to liis mistress, will show that Mr. Macready's excision has sacrificed much good and humorous dialogue: SONG. Lady, you're so heavenly fair, Though to love is madness, still Who beholds you can't forbear, But adores against his will. Reason warns the heart in vain Headlong passion won't obey; Hope's deceived, and sighs again! Love's abjured, yet holds its sway! Michael. — I pray you, have the ditty o'er again! Of all the strains that mewing minstrels sing The lover's one for me. 1 coiild expire To hear a man, with bristles on his chin, Sing soft, with iipturn'd eyes and arched brows. Which tell of trickling tears that never fell, And through the gamut whine his tender pain ; While A and B and C such anguish speak As never lover felt for mistress lost. Let's have the strain again! Jagheli. — To make thee mirth? When I'm thy lackey, honest Michael, I'll Provide thee music. I'm not in thy pay. M. No, but I mean To take thee into it. Wilt thou hire with me? Nay, hang thy coyness, man! Why, thinkest thou Thou art the only man in Altorf knows The Seneschal has a fair daughter? J. Fair Or not, she's nought to me. M. Indeed? Oh, then, I'U tell her so. J. You do not know her? M. No; For any profit it can bring to thee. I pray thee, tell me, has she not black teeth? J. Thou know'st 'twould take the pearl to challenge them. __ 168 — M. Her nose, 1 think, is somewhat set awiy? J. It sits like dignity ou beauty's face. M. Her hair is a dull black? J. 'Tis shining gold. M. Her figure's squat? J. Between the full and slim — A mould where vie the richest channs of both! M. Well, then, she hobbles in her gait? J. She moves, the light and flexible chamois, — If you could lend the chamois her beauty, And add to that her modest stateliness. M. You are a hopeful painter, sir! How well You've drawn the daughter of the Seneschal! J. Good Michael, thou'rt a jester : but thou'rt kind. Thy mirth doth feed at every man's expense; Yet with such grace of frankest confidence, That none begrudge thee. Wilt thou be my friend? I love the daughter of the Seneschal. Help me to see her. M. Come to church with me Next Sunday. J. I was there last Sunday, Michael — And Sunday before last — and Sunday, too, Preceding that. I ne'er miss church, for there I see the daughter of the Seneschal. M. How wondrously devout thou'rt grown of late ! They say there is a young man in the church That has Ms prayers by heart — unless, indeed. He reads them in a certain angel's face; On which he looks, and says them word for word, From end to end, nor e'er is seen to tiu*n To other page. Can it be thou they mean? Thou'lt have a name for most rare sanctity! J. Good Michael, can'st thou help me? M. If I knew The lady. J. What! dost thou not know her then? With what impediments is love envii-on'd! M. Why, that's love's gain! It would not else be love. Or wherefore sing it, as your poets do, A thing that lives in plots and stratagems? They know not love who need but woo to wed, But they who fain would wed, but dare not woo! That's to be sound in love — to feel it from The heart's deep centre to the fingers' ends! As sweetest fi'uit is that which is forbid. So fairest maid is she that is withheld. Whene'er I fall in love, I'll pick a maid Whose sire has vow'd her to a nunnery; And she shall have, moreover, for her wardens, — 169 — Two maiden aunts past wooing, and to these I'll add an abigail, who has stood bridesmaid To twenty younger cousins, yet has ne'er Been ask'd herself; and under her I'll set A male retainer of the family, For twenty years or more, as surly as A mastiff on the chain; and, that ray fair May lack no sweet provocative of love. Her tempting lattice shall be grated, and Her bower shall be surrounded with a wall Full ten feet high, on which an iron row Of forked shrubs shall stand and frown on me ; And then I'll be a lover! ^The Hunchback", says Mr. Daniels, "is a noble play. Massinger might have written it, and lost no reputation by the authorship" Mr. Knowles himself, who was, like Shakespeare, a respectable, though not « gi^eat actor, was the original Master Walter, the Hunchback. In the last scene of the play we discover, tliat Master Walter was the eldest son of the Earl of E,ochdale, but disowned from infancy, and disinherited by liis father, who — would not have a Hunchback for his sou; and though this deformity, adds Master Walter, — was no act of mine, Yet did it curdle nature's kindly milk E'en where 'tis richest in a parent's breast — To cast me out to heartless fosterage, Not heartless always, as it prov'd — and give My portion to another! The Hunchback finds a wife, notwithstanding, who dies early, leaving him a daughter, and this daughter he resolves to bring up in retirement, as his ward: for, as he subsequently tells her, — jealousy of my misshapen back Made me mistrustM of a child's affections — Who doubted e'en a wife's — so that I dropp'd The title of thy father, lest thy duty Should pay the debt that love could solve alone. All this we learn only at the close of the fifth act ; and till then must be satisfied with believing Julia to be merely the ward of simple Master Walter, Lord — 170 — Rochdale's steward. In the first act we find Julia in her country-house, witli her cousin Helen as a visitor. Helen loves the town, as Julia loves the country ; and this difference of character gives occasion to a playful discussion between the two young girls. Helen. The town's the sun, and thou hast dwelt in night E'er since thy birth, not to have seen the town! Their women there are queens, and kings their men: Their houses palaces. Julia. And what of that? Have your town palaces a hall like this? Couches so fragrant? walls so high adoruM? Casements with such festoons, such prospects, Helen, As these fair vistas have? Your kings and queens! See me a May-day queen, and talk of them ! Helen. Extremes are ever neighbours. 'Tis a step From one to the other. The odds are ten to one, that this day year Will see our May-day queen a city one, Julia. Never! I'm wedded to a country life. 0, did you hear what Master Walter says! Nine times in ten, the town's a hollow thing, Where what things are, is nought to what they shew; Where merit's name laughs merit's self to scorn ! Where friendship and esteem, that ought to be The tenants of men's hearts, lodge in their looks And tongues alone. Where little virtue, with A costly keeper, passes for a heap; A heap for none that has a homely one! Where Fashion makes the law— your umpire, which Yon bow to, whether it has trains or not. Where Folly taketh off his cap and bells, To clap on Wisdom, which must bear the jest! Where to pass current, you must seem the thing, The passive thing, that others think; and not Your simple, honest, independent self! The Hunchback arrives, and introduces vSir Thomas (.'liff'ord, a young gentleman whom Master Walter highly esteems ; nor is it long till Sir Thomas proposes in due form to Julia; but the young girl hesitates to give an answer, and inquires: Julia. You're from the town; How comes it, sir, you seek a country wife? Cliff. In joining contrasts lieth love's delight. Complexion, stature, nature, mateth it. — 171 — Not with their kinds, but with tlieir opposites. Hence hands of snow in palms of russet lie ; The form of Hercules affects the sylph's; And breasts that case the lion's fear-proof heart Find their loved lodge in arms where tremors dwell! So with degrees. Rank passes by tlie circlet-graced brow, Upon the forehead bare of notelessness l.\) print the nuptial kiss. As with degrees. So is't with habits; therefore I, indeed A gallant of the town, the toAvn forsake, To win a country wife. Julia accepts Sir Thomas ; and in the next act we find the whole party in London, whither they have come to procure the trousseau of the bride, and make the other wedding purchases. But Julia, once immersed in the dissipation of polite London life, becomes completely metamorphosed, and can speak and think of nothing but the brilliant and fashionable life she intends to lead as the wife of a wealthy baronet: Julia. Helen — I shall be A happy wife! What routs, what balls, what masques. What gala days! Think not, when I am wed, ^ I'll keep the house as owlet does her tower, Alone, — when every other bird's on wing. I'll use my palfrey, Helen! and my coach; My barge too, for excursion on the Thames; What drives to Barnet, Hackney, Islington! What rides to Epping, Hoimslow, and Blackheath! What sails to Greenwich, Woolwich, Fulham, Kew ; I'll set a pattern to your lady wives! And what a wardrobe ! I'll have change of suits For every day in the year! and sets for days! My morning dress, my noon dress, dinner dress, And evening dress! then will I show you lace - A foot deep, can I purchase it; if not, I'll specially bespeak it. Diamonds too! Not buckles, rings, and ear-rings only, — but Whole necklaces and stomachers of gems! I'll shine! be sure I will. I will be known For Lady Clifford all the City through. And fifty miles the country round about. Wife of Sir Thomas Clifford, baronet, — Not perishable knight! who, when he makes A lady of me, doubtless must expect To see me play the part of one. — 172 — This programme is accidentally overheard by Sir Thomas, who somewhat hastily assumes that Julia accepts him solely on account of his wealth; hence he coldly informs her, that he will keep his word and wed her ; that she shall be Lady Cliiford, but also that they shall part at the altar. This proposal Julia treats as an insult, and the marriage is broken oif. A new suitor for Julia's hand now presents himself — no other, in fact, than Master Wilford, who, on the death of the late Earl of Rochdale without issue, had succeeded to the title and property, in spite of his distant relation- ship. Julia, in a moment of pique, and ignorant of the just claims of Master Walter to the earldom, signs a marriage contract with the new Lord; but she has scarcely done so when all her tenderness for Cliiford revives, and she intreats the Hunchback to save her from the detested union. Master Walter assumes an austere demeanour, and declares that his word has been given, and the marriage contract signed. The wedding- day at length arrives, and only then does the Hunch- back reveal himself as Julia's father and the rightful Earl of Rochdale; hence Wilford's signature as Earl was valueless, and the marriage contract null and void. While Julia has thus become an earl's daughter, Clifford has suffered a reverse of fortune, but she proves her affection and disinterestedness by becoming his wife. One scene in the Hunchback is always sure of a good reception from an English audience. The sprightly Helen is loved by her bookworm cousin. Modus, who can never muster courage to woo her, so that she has to meet him more than half way. Julia and Master Walter are both out, and Helen, in wandering through the house meets Cousin Modus, with a book in his hand: Helen. What's that you read? Modus. Latin, sweet cousin. Helen. 'Tis a naughty tongue I fear, and teaches men to lie. Modus. To lie! Helen. You study it. You call your cousin sweet, And treat her as you would a crab '). As sour *) The crab-apple, or wild apple, which is extremely sour. — 173 — 'Twould seem you think her, so you covet her! Why how the monster stares, and looks about! You construe Latin, and can't construe that. Modus. I never studied women. Helen. No: nor men. Else would you better know their ways: nor read In presence of a lady, (strikes book from his hand.) Modus. Right you say, And well you served me, cousin, so to strike The volume from my hand. I own my fault; So please you, — may I pick it up again ? I'll put it in my pocket! Helen. Pick it up. {aside) He fears me as I were his grandmother! What is the book? Modus. 'Tis Ovid's Art of Love. Helen. That Ovid was a fool! Modus. In what? Helen. In that. To call that thing an art, which art is none. Modus. And is not love an art? Helen. Are you a fool, As well as Ovid? Love an art! No art But taketh time and pains to learn. Love comes With neither. Is't to hoard such grain as that You went to college? Better stay at home, And study homely English. Modus. Nay, you know not The argument. Helen. I don't? I know it better Than ever Ovid did. The face — the form — Tlie heart — the mind we fancy, cousin ; That's the argument. Why, cousin, you know nothing. Suppose a lady were in love with thee, Couldst thou by Ovid, cousin, find it out? Couldst find it out, wert thou in love thyself? Could Ovid, cousin, teach thee to make love? I could, that never read him. You begin With melancholy; then to sadness; then To sickness ; then to dying — but not die ; She would not let thee, were she of my mind; She'd take compassion on thee. Then for hope; From hope to confidence; from confidence To boldness; then you'd speak; at first entreat; Then urge; then flout; then argue; then enforce; Make prisoner of her hand ; besiege her waist ; Threaten her lips with storming; keep thy word And carry her! My sampler 'gainst thy Ovid! Why, cousin, are you frighten'd, that you stand As you were stricken dumb? The case is clear, — 174 — You are no soldier. You'll never win a battle. You care too much for blows! Modus. You wrong me there. At school I was the champion of my form. And since I went to college — Helen. That for college ! {snapping her fingers.) Modus. Nay, hear me! Helen. Well? What, since you went to college You know what men are set down for, who boast Of their own bravery. Go on, brave cousin. What, since you went to college? Was there not One Quentin Halworth there? You know there was, And that he was your master! Modus. He my master! Thrice was he worsted by me. Helen. Still was he Your master. 3[odus. He allowed I had the best! AUow'd it, mark me! nor to me alone, But twenty I could name. Helen. And master'd you At last! Confess it, cousin, 'tis the truth. A proctor's daughter you did both affect — Look at me and deny it! Of the twain She more affected you ; — I've caught you now, Bold cousin! Mark you? Opportunity On opportunity she gave you, sir, — Deny it if you can ! — but though to others, When you discours'd of her, you were a flame ; To her you were a wick that would not light, Though held in the very fire! And so he won her — Won her, because he woo'd her like a man. For all your cuffings, cuffing you again With most usurious interest. Now, sir. Protest that you are valiant! Modus. Cousin Helen! Helen. Well, sir? Modus. The tale is all a forgery! Helen. A forgery! Modus. From first to last: ne'er spoke I To a proctor's daughter while I was at college — Helen. 'Twas a scrivener's then — or somebody's. But what concerns it whose? Enough, you'lov'd her! And, shame upon you, let another take her. M d u s. Cousin, I tell you, if you'll only hear me, I lov'd no woman while I was at college — Save one, and her I fancied ere I went there. Helen. Indeed! {aside) Now I'll retreat, if he's advancing. Comes he not on! what a stock's the man? Well, cousin? — 175 — Modus. Well! What more vvould'st have me say, I think I've said enough. Helen. And so think I. I did but jest with you. You are not angry? Shake hands! Why, cousin, do you squeeze me soV Modus. {Utting her go) I swear I squeezed you not! Helen. You did not? Modus. No! I'll die if I did! Helen. Why then you did not, cou.sin. So let's shake hands again — (he takes her hand timidly; she loohs at him for a minute, then pettishly strikes his hand down) 0, go and now Bead Ovid! {going off, but returns) Cousin, will you tell me one thing. Wore lovers niifs in Master Ovid's time? Behov'd him teach them, then, to put them on ; — And that you have to learn. Hold up your head! Why, cousin, how you blush. Plague on the ruff! I cannot give't a set. You're blushing still! Why do you blush, dear cousin? So! — 'twill beat me! I'll give it up. Modus. Nay, prithee don't — try on! Helen. And if I do, I fear you'll think me bold. Modus. For what? Helen. To trust my face so near to thine. Modus. I know not what you mean. Helen. I'm glad you don't! Cousin, I own right well behaved you are, Most marvellously well behaved! They've bred You well at college. With another man My lips would be in danger! Hang the ruff! Modus. Nay, give it up, nor plague thyself, dear cousin. Helen. Dear fool! (throws the ruff on the ground) I swear the ruff is good for just As little as its master! There! — 'tis spoiled — You'll have to get another. Hie for it. And wear it in the fashion of a wisp, Ere I adjust it for thee ! Farewell, cousin ! You'd need to study Ovid's Art of Love. Exit Helen. The Wife, a Tale of Mantua, seems to have been suggested by Massinger's Duke of Milan, though the two pieces differ widely in the details. Leonardo Gonzaga, the rightful Duke of Mantua, when wandering through Switzerland, was rescued "from beneath an avalanche, the sole survivor of a company", by Mariana's father, and the young girl, ignorant of his rank, and knowing — 176 ~ only that he had come from Mantua, learned to love him while attending his sick-bed: Mariana. I loved indeed! If I but nursed a flower Which to the ground the wind and rain had beaten. That flower of all our garden was my pride: What then was he to me, for whom I thought To make a shroud, when, tending on him still With hope, that, baffled still, did still keep up; I saw, at last, the ruddy dawn of health Begin to mantle o'er his pallid form, And glow and glow — till forth at last it burst Into confirmed, broad, and glorious day! The traveller, restored to health, returns home, and leaves for Mariana an aching void behind: Mar. Cot, garden, vineyard, rivulet, and wood, Lake, sky, and mountain, went along with him! Could I remain behind? My father found My heart was not at home; he loved his child, And asked me, one day, whither we should go ? I said: ''To Mantua". I followed him To Mantua! to breathe the air he breathed. To walk upon the ground lie walked upon. To look upon the things he looked upon, To look, perchance, on him! percliance to hear him, To touch him! never to be known to him. Till he was told I lived and died his love! Mariana meets with her princely lover in Mantua, and is made by him the sharer of his ducal tlirone, to the great chagrin of his cousin, Fernando Gonzaga, the heir to the ducal dignity. Taking advantage of the absence of the Duke on a warlike expedition, the un- worthy Fernando attempts to blast, by a vile machi- nation, the fair fame of the young Duchess. For this purpose he throws in Mariana's way a handsome young Swiss adventurer, whom he has made his secretary, and who, though now calling himself Julian St. Pierre, finally turns out to be Mariana's brother Ambrose, a wild youth, who had left his home when Mariana was still a child in the cradle. The young man half suspects who Mariana is, but she has no recollection of him; and attributes the pleasure she finds in her intercourse with him to the reminiscences of her native land which he awakes: 177 — .iuliau St. Pierre. — It is The land of beauty, and of grandeiu', lady, Where looks the cottage out on a domain The palace cannot boast of. Seas of lakes, And hills of forests ! crystal waves that rise 'Midst mountains all of snow, and mock the sun, Retuniing- him his flaming beams more thick And radiant than he sent them. — Torrents, there. Are bounding floods! And there the tempest roams At large, in all the terrors of its glory! And then our valleys! Ah, they are the homes For hearts ! Our cottages, our vineyards, orchards ! — Om* pastui'es, studded with the herd and fold! Our native strains, that melt us as we sing them I A free — a gentle — simple — honest people ! Julian is plied by Fernando with intoxicating- drinks, and then carried, in an unconscious state, into a chamber adjoining that of the Duchess, where he is discovered by the household servants the next morning. But the I'uin of Mariana is not yet secured, in spite of this accusatory discovery, and Fernando summons Julian to his presence to give him his further instructions. These Julian desires to have in writing, pleading the weakness of his memory, and at length, partly by address, partly by intimidation, obtains from Fernando what is equi- valent to a confession of his guilt, signed by his own hand. Duke Leonardo is still with his army, and Fer- nando carries off the Duchess as a prisoner to the encampment, where, in the presence of the Duke, lie endeavours to substantiate against her the charge of infidelity. Leonardo refuses to admit the truth of the accusation: and a moment afterwards Julian arrives hot and dusty, places in the Duke's hand the papers proving Fernando's treachery, and then falls to the ground mortally wounded by a thrust of the traitor's sword. Before he dies, he has still strength left to make himself known to Mariana as her brother Ambrose. Of Mr. Knowles's comedies, the most successful is the Love- Chase. The scene is London, and the leading characters are Constance and Wildrake, a pair of lovers, who, like Beatrice and Benedick, affect a mutual aversion, but are at last brought to understand themselves and 12 — 178 — each other by a friendly stratagem on the part of Trueman, who explains in the following terms to Con- stance's father, how he proposes to proceed: UnUke other common flowers, The flower of love shows various in the bud; 'Twill look a thistle, and 'twill blow a rose! And with your leave, I'll put it to the test; Affect, myself, for thy fair daughter love — Make him my confidant — dilate to him Upon the graces of her heart and mind. Feature and form — that well may comment bear ~ Till — like the practised connoisseur, who finds A gem of art out in a household picture The unskill'd owner held so cheap he grudged Renewal of the chipp'd and tarnish'd frame, But values now as priceless — I arouse him Into a quick sense of the worth of that Wliose merit hitherto, from lack of skill, Or dulling habit of acquaintanceship He has not been awake to. The comic effect of the piece is greatly heightened by the scene, in which the elderly Widow Green, im- agining that young Waller's attentions to her humble companion, Lydia, are addressed to herself, tries to make him jealous of the antiquated beau, Sir W. Fond- love, who, on his side, is equally certain that the Widow is pining for him. Of Mr. Knowles's other plays, Alfred the Great^ and John of Procida (based on the Sicilian Vespers), obtained a certain, though an inferior degree of success ; and the same may be said of his two comedies. Love, and the Secretary, in both of which the subject is the love of a humble subordinate for his patroness. The Beggar of Bethnal Green, founded on the old popular ballad, was an acknowledged failure; di>Yi& the Daughter, a tale of the wreckers of Cornwall, as the inhuman wretches were called, who made a trade of plundering and sometimes murdering shipwrecked voyagers, though containing some very effective scenes, could not keep its place on the stage. Another piece, the Rose of Arragon, resembles rather too closely the Wife; and Woman s Wit; or, Love's Disguises, the idea of which — 179 — i^eems borrowed from Mrs Centlivre's Bold Stroke for a Wife, is decidedly too full of masquerading. Of Mr. Knowles, the Athenaeum (Feb. 1847) says, that he is "a writer as full of individuality as of ge- niality, who has been popular without coarse conception, and received as a poet without making any extra- ordinary pretensions. The first and last cause of his well-deserved popularity, as a dramatist, is the hearti- ness of his writings. The heart which Mr. Knowles puts into his work lays hold of the hearts of his public ; and this is his secret." Among the dramatists of the period, no mean place must be assigned to Lord Lytton. Lord Lytton's most popular play is unquestionably the Lady of Lyons, founded on the old French story of Perourou, or the Bellows- Mender. Claude Melnotte, the hero, though only a well-to-do gardener's son, loves Pauline Deschapelles, a rich merchant's proud daughter, and in "the ambition to be worthier" of her, makes himself master of several accomplishments usually looked on as the appanage of the wealthier classes. He sends the lady his rarest flowers, and encouraged by observing that she wears them, though ignorant of the quarter whence they come, he ventures to address her in some verses signed with his name. In one of the early scenes, his friend and messenger, Gaspar, returns to report how this tribute of devotion has been received: {Enter Gaspar). 3Felnotte. Welcome, Gaspar, welcome. Where is the letter? Why do you turn away, man? Where is the letter? {Gaspar gives him one). This ! this is mine, the one I intrusted to thee. Didst thou not leave it? ( i a s p a r. Yes. I left it. Mel. My own verses returned to me. Nothing else! G a s. Thou wilt be proud to hear how thy messenger was honoured. For thy sake, Melnotte, I have borne that which no French- man can bear without disgrace. Mel. Disgrace, Gaspar! Disgrace? Oas. I gave thy letter to the porter, who passed it from lackey to lackey till it reached the lady it was meant for. 12* — 180 — HpI. It reached her, then; — you are sure of that! It reached her, — well, well! (las. It reached her, and was returned to me with blows. Dost hear, Melnotte? with blows! Death! are we slaves still, that we are to be thus dealt with, we peasants? Mel. With blows? No, Gaspar, no; not blows! Gas. I could show thee the marks if it were not so deep a shame to bear them. The lackey who tossed thy letter into the raire swore that his lady and her mother never were so insulted. What could thy letter contain, Claude? M e 1. Not a line that a serf might not have written to an empress. No, not one. (i U.S. They promise thee the same greeting they gave me, if thou \vilt pass that way. Shall we endure this, Claude? M (' 1. Forgive me, the fault was mine, I have brought this on thee ; I will not forget it; thou shalt be avenged! The heartless in- solence ! (las. Thou art moved, Melnotte; think not of me; I would go through fire and water to serve thee; but, — a blow! It is not the bruise that galls, — it is the blush, Melnotte. Mei. Say, what message? How insulted? — "WTierefore ? — What the offence? ( i a s. Did you not write to Pauline Deschapelles, the daughter of the rich merchant? Mel. Well? - Gas. And are you not a peasant — a gardener's son? that was the offence. Sleep on it, Melnotte. Blows to a French citizen, blows ! While Melnotte is tliirsting for revenge, but still v^truggKng with love, a letter reaches hiin from Beaii- seant, a rejected suitor of Pauline's, in which he hnds the mysterious words: I can secure to thee the realization of thy most sanguine hopes: and the sole condition I ask in return is, that thou shalt be steadfast to thine own ends. I shall demand from thee a solemn oath to marry her whom thou lovest; to bear her to thine home on thy wedding night. I am serious — if thou wouldst learn more, lose not a moment, but follow the bearer of this letter. In the next act, we find Melnotte an honoured guest in the Deschapelles family, to which he has been in- troduced by Beauseant as the Prince of Como, having been previously furnished by him and his friend Glavis, another luckless lover of Pauline's, with everything necessary to support the assumed dignity. He now wooes and soon wins Pauline. On one occasion she desires to hear from him a description of his palace by tlie — 181 — Lake of Como. Evading her request, while he ap- pears to fulfil it. Melnotte seizes the opportunity, to discover what are lier real feelings towards him: Mel. Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me paint The home to which, could love fulfil its prayers, This hand would lead thee, listen! — A deep vale Shut out hy Alpine hills from the rude world Near a clear lake, margin'd hy fruits of gold And whispering myrtles; glassing- softest skies. As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows As I would have thy fate! Taul. My own dear love! Mel. A palace lifting to eternal summer Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower Of coolest foliage musical with birds, AVliose songs shall syllable thy name! At noon We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder Why Earth could be unhappy, while the Heavens Still left us youth and love! We'd have no friends That were not lovers; no ambition, save To excel them all in love; we'd read no books That were not tales of love — that we might smile To think how poorly eloquence of words rranslates the poetry of hearts like ours! And when night came, amidst the breathless Heavens We'd guess what star should be our home when love Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light Stole through the mists of alabaster lamps. And every air was heavy with the sighs Of orange-groves and music from sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth I' the midst of roses! Dost thou like the picture? I'aul. Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hang Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue! Am I not blest? And if I love too wildly. Who would not love thee like Pauline? Mel, (Utterly). Oh, false one! It is the prince thou lovest, not the man: If in the stead of luxiuy, pomp, power, I had painted poverty, and toil, and care. Thou hadst found no honey on my tongue; — Pauline, That is not love! Paul. Thou wrongest me, cruel Prince! At first, in truth, I might not have been won, Save through the weakness of a flatter'd pride; But now, — oh, trust me, — could'st thou fall from power And sink — Mel. As low as that poor gardener's son, Who dared to lift his eyes to thee? — 182 — Paul. Even tlien, Methinks thou would'st be only made more dear By the sweet thought that I could prove how deep Is woman's love! We are like the insects, caught By the poor glittering of a garish flame; But, oh, the wings once scorch'd, the brightest star Lures us no more; and by the fatal light We cling till death! Mel. Angel! (Aside). conscience! conscience! Though now tortured by remorse, Melnotte fulfils the conditions of his oath, and conducts his young bride, not to the imaginary palace on the Lake of Como, but to the humble cottage of his mother. Of his authority as a husband he makes no other use than to protect her from the triumphant insults of Beauseant, and having announced to the injured Pauline his firm resolution to restore her to her father on the morrow, he confides her for the night to the care of his mother: Paul. No, touch me not! I know my fate. You are, by law, my tyrant; And I — Heaven! a peasant's wife! I'll work — Toil — drudge — do what thou wilt — but touch me not: Let my wrongs make me sacred! Mel, Do not fear me. Thou dost not know me, madam; at the altar My vengeance ceased — my guilty oath expired! Henceforth, no image of some marble saint, Niched in cathedral aisles, is hallow'd more From the rude hand of sacrilegious wrong. I am thy husband — nay, thou need'st not shudder; — Here, at thy feet, I lay a husband's rights. A marriage thus unholy — unfulfiU'd — A bond of fraud — is, by the laws of France, Made void and null. To-night sleep — sleep in peace. To-morrow, pure and virgin as this morn I bore thee, bathed in blushes, from the shrine, Thy father's arms shall take thee to thy home. The law shall do thee justice, and restore Thy right to bless another with thy love. And when thou art happy, and hast half forgot Hira who so loved — so wrong'd thee, think at least Heaven left some remnant of the angel still In that poor peasant's nature! Ho! my mother! Melnotte sets out for the army, in company with the eccentric old officer Damas, a connexion of the Deschap- — 183 — pelles family, who becomes the friend of the gardener's son, though he had been the enemy of the Prince; and for two years and a half nothing is heard of either of them. In the mean time the merchant Deschappelles lias met with heavy losses, and on the day that Damas returns as General, and Melnotte as Colonel, they learn that Pauline, to save her father from bankruptcy, is about to give her hand to Beauseant, who exacts this sacrifice as the price of the pecuniary aid he offers. Damas, being invited to the wedding, takes Melnotte with him, under the name of Colonel Morier, and apprises Pauline, in a whisper, that Morier is Melnotte's intimate friend. AVhile the others are engaged with the marriage contract, she approaches the stranger, who turns from lier with averted gaze: Paul. Thrice have I sought to speak; ray courage fails me. Sir, is it true that you have known — nay, are The friend of — Melnotte ? Mel. Lady, yes! — Myself And misery know the man! Paul. And you will see him, And you will bear to him — ay — word for word, All that this heart, which breaks in parting from him, Would send, ere still for ever? Mel. He hath told me You have the right to choose from out the world A worthier bridegroom; — he foregoes all claim. Even to murmur at his doom. Speak on! Paul. Tell him for years I never nursed a thought That was not his; — that on his wandering way. Daily and nightly, pour'd a mourner's prayers. Tell him ev'n now that I would rather share His lowliest lot, — walk by his side, an outcast, — Work for him, beg with him — live upon the light Of one kind smile from him — than wear the crown The Bourbon lost! Beauseant, with the bank-notes in his hand, ad- vances to Deschappelles , and informs him , that they are his the moment his daughter signs the marriage- contract. The Notary is about to hand the paper to Pauline, when Melnotte seizes and tears it: Beaus. Are you mad? Deschap. How, sir! What means this insult? — 184 — Mel. Peace, old man! I have a prior claim. Before the face Of man and Heaven I urge it; I outbid You sordid huckster for your priceless jewel. (Giving a pocket-book). There is the sum twice told! Blush not to take it: There's not a coin that is not bought and hallow'd In the cause of nations with a soldier's blood! Beaus. Toi-ments and death! Paul. That voice! Thou art — Mel. Thy husband! {Pauline rmhes into his arms). The Duchess de la ValUere, as the title implies, is founded on the history of the least unworthy of the numerous mistresses of Louis XIV., who, overcome by shame and remorse, withdrew from court, and closed her life in a Carmelite convent. This piece obtained only a partial success on the stage, though it can boast of at least one highly elfective scene — that in which the King encounters Bragelone, the Duchess's former lover, whom grief and despair have driven to renounce the world, and to become a monk: Louis. Save you, father! Bragelone. I thank thee, son. Louis. He knows me not. Well, monk, Are you her gTace's almoner? Brage. Sire, no! Louis. So short, yet know us? Brage. Sire, I do. You are The man — Louis. How, priest! — the man! Brage. The word offends you? The king, who raised a maiden to a duchess. That maiden's mother was a stainless matron: Her heart you broke, though mother to a duchess. That maiden was afiianced from her youth To one who served you well — nay, saved your Hfe: H i s life you robb'd of all that gave life value ; And yet — you made his fair betroth'd a duchess! You are that king. The Avorld proclaims you "Great;" A million warriors bled to buy your laurels; A million peasants starved to build Versailles: Vour people famish; but your court is splendid! I'riests from the pulpit bless your glorious reign; Poets have sung you greater than Augustus; And painters placed you on immortal canvass. — 185 — Limn'd as the Jove whose thunders awe the world: ]>ut to the humhle minister of Heaven, You are the king who lias betraj^'d his trust — Beggar'd a nation but to bloat a court. Seen in men's lives the i)astime to ambition, Look'd but on virtue as the toy for vice; And, for the first time, from a subject's lips, Now learns the name he leaves to Time and God! Louis. Add to the bead-roll of that king's offences, That when a foul-mouthed monk assumed the rebel, The monster-king forgave him. Hast thou doner Brage. Your changing hues belie your royal mien; 111 the high monarch veils the trembling man! Louis. Well, you are privileged! It ne'er was said The Fourteenth Louis, in his proudest hour, BoAv'd not his sceptre to the Church's crozier, Brage. Alas! the Church! 'Tis true, this garb of serge Dares speech that daunts the ermine, and walks free Where stout hearts tremble in the triple mail.j But wherefore? — Lies the virtue in the robe, Which the moth eats? or in these senseless beads? Or in the name of Priest? The Pharisees Had priests that gave their Saviour to the cross! No! Ave have high immunity and sanction, That Truth may teach humanity to Power, Glide through the dungeon, pierce the armed throng, Awaken Luxmy on her Sybarite couch, And, startling souls that slumber on a throne, Bow kings before that priest of priests — the Conscience! Louis (aside). An awful man ! — unlike the reverend crew Who praise my royal virtues in the pulpit, And — ask for bishoprics when church is over! Brage. This makes us sacred. The profane are they Honouring the herald while they scorn the mission. The king who serves the Churcli, yet clings to Mammon: Who fears the pastor, but forgets the flock; Who bows before the monitor, and yet Will ne'er forego the sin, may sink, when age Palsies the lust and deadens "the temptation. To the priest-ridden, not repentant, dotard, — For pious hopes hail superstitious terrors, And seek some sleek Iscariot of the Church. To sell salvation for the thirty pieces! Louis (aside). He speaks as one inspired! Brage. Awake! — awake! Great though thou art, awake thee from the dream That earth was made for kings — mankind for slaughter — Woman for lust — the people for the palace! Dark warnings have gone forth; along the air Lingers the crash of the first Charles's throne : — 186 — Behold the yoimg, the fair, the haughty king! The kneeling courtiers, and the flattering priests; Lo ! where the palace rose, behold the scaffold — The crowd — the axe — the headsman — and the victim! Lord of the silver lilies, canst thou tell If the same fate await not thy descendant! If some meek son of thine imperial line May make no brother to yon headless spectre ! And when the sage who saddens o'er the end Tracks back the causes, tremble, lest he find The seeds, thy wars, thy pomp, and thy profusion, Sow'd in a heartless court and breadless people. Grew to the tree from which men shaped the scaffold, — And the long glare of thy funereal glories Light unborn monarchs to a ghastly grave! Beware, proud King! the Present cries aloud, A prophet to the future! Wake! — beware!. [ExU.) Richelieu; or, the Conspiracy, is another historical piece , which closes with the so-called Day of Dupes, or the day of Richelieu's triumph over all the enemies who had plotted his ruin. An increased interest is lent to this drama by the introduction of Julie de Mortemar, Eichelieu's ward; and its success on the stage was insured by the admirable performance of Mr. and Miss Vandenhoif, in the respective characters of Richelieu and Julie. The mixed character of the }>Teat Cardinal, with all its bright and dark traits, is skilfully portrayed in the soliloquy at the beginning of the third act. We quote a few of the most striking passages : Richelieu. "In silence, and at night, the Conscience feels That life should soar to nobler ends than Power." So sayest thou, sage and sober moralist! But wert thou tried? Sublime Philosophy, Tliou art the Patriarch's ladder, reaching heaven, And bright with beck'ning angels — but, alas! We see thee, like the Patriarchs, but in dreams, By the first step — dull-slumbering on the eartli. I am not happy! — with the Titan's lust, I woo'd a goddess, and I clasp a cloud. * * O ye, whose hour-glass shifts its tranquil sands Ih the unvex'd silence of a student's cell; Ye, wliose untempted hearts have never tossM Upon the dark and stormy tides where life — 187 — Gives battle to the elements, — and man Wrestles with man for some slight plank, whose weight Will bear but one — while round the desperate wretch The hungry billows roar — and the fierce Fate, Like some huge monster, dim-seen through the surf. Waits him who drops; — ye safe and formal men, Who write the deeds, and Avitli unfeverish hand Weigh in nice scales the motives of the Great, Ye cannot know what ye have never tried! History preserves alone the flesh less bones Of what we are — and by the mocking skull The would-be wise pretend to guess the features! Without the roundness and the glow of life How hidecms is the skeleton! Without The colourings and humanities that clothe Our errors, the anatomists of schools Can make our memory hideous! I have wrought Great uses out of evil tools — and they In the time to come may bask beneath the light Which I have stolen from the angry gods, And warn their sons against the glorious theft. Forgetful of the darkness which it broke. I have shed blood — but I have had no foes Save those the State had — if my wrath was deadly, 'Tis that I felt my country in my veins, And smote her sons as Brutus smote his own. And yet I am not happy — blanch'd and sear'd Before my time — breathing an air of hate. And seeing daggers in the eyes of men. And wasting powers that shake the thrones of earth In contest, with the insects — bearding kings And braved by lackies — murder at my bed; And lone amidst the multitudinous web. With the dread Three — that are the Fates who hold The woof and shears — the Monk, the Spy, the Headsman. And this is power? Alas! I am not happy. Richelieu's chief enemies, the favourite Baradas, and Gaston of Orleans, the King's brother, while bent on removing the Cardinal by any means, assassination not excepted, are at the same time endeavouring, by tampering mth the army and confederating secretly with the Spanish enemy, to depose the King, and to proclaim Gaston regent of the kingdom. These manoeuwes are well known to Richelieu, but for the time being, the conspirators have gained the ear of the weak and iickle Louis, and it is only under the pretence of — 188 — resigning his office, and taking leave of the King, as a "dying servant" that he is allowed to appear in the royal presence. Once here he soon finds an opportunity of exposing the incapacity and treason of Baradas and his accomplices: Richelieu. You would consign your armies to the baton Of your most honoured brother. Sire, so be it! Your minister, the Count de Baradas; A most sagacious choice! — Your Secretaries Of State attend me, Sire, to render up The ledgers of a realm. I do beseech you. Suffer these noble gentlemen to learn The nature of the glorious task that waits them Here, in my presence. Louis. You say well, my lord. The Secretaries advance to read their reports; while Baradas and Orleans observe the seemingly moribund Richelieu with ill concealed triumph: First Sec. The affairs of Portugal, Most urgent, Sire: One short month since the Duke Braganza was a rebel. Louis. And is still. First Sec. No, Sire, he has succeeded! He is now Crown' d King of Portugal — craves instant succour Against the arms of Spain. Louis. We wUl not grant it Against his lawful king. Eh, Count? Bar. No, Sire. First Sec. But Spain's your deadliest foe: whatever Can weaken Spain must strengthen France. The Cardinal Would send the succours: — balance. Sire, of Europe! Louis. The Cardinal! — balance! — We'll consider. — Eh, Count? Bar. Yes, Sir; — fall back! First Sec. But — Bar. Oh! fall back, Sir. Second Sec. The affairs of England, Sire, most urgent: Charles The First has lost a battle that decides One half his realm, — craves moneys, Sire, and succour. Louis. He shall have both. — Eh, Baradas? Bar. Yes, Sire. Rich, {feebly, but with great distinctness.) "My liege. Forgive me — Charles's cause is lost! A man, Named Cromwell, risen — a great man! — your succour Would fail — your loans be squander'd! — Pause — reflect! Louis. Reflect — Eh, Baradas? Bar. Reflect, Sire. — 189 — Louis [aside). I half repent! — No successor to Kichelieu! — Round me thrones totter! — dynasties dissolve! — The soil he i^uards alone escapes the eartliquake! While the third Secretary produces t li e s e c r e t c o r r e- spoudence, and alarms Louis witli accounts of schemes against himself, Richelieu's faithful page, Francois, is introduced by the Cardinal's confidant, the Capuchin Joseph, and places in Richelieu's hands a document, which lie had taken by force from De Beringhen, one of the conspirators. The Secretary continues his report : Third Sec. Sire, the Spaniards Have reinforced their army on the frontiers. The Due de Bouillon — liirh. Hold! — in this department — A paper — here, Sire — read yourself — then take The Counts advice in't. Louis {reading}. To Bouillon — and sign'd Orleans! — Baradas, too! — league with oiu' foes of Spain! — Lead our Italian armies -- what! to Paris! — Captui'e the King- — my health requires repose — Make me subscribe my proper abdication — Orleans, my brother, Regent! Saints of Heaven! These are the men I loved! (Baradas attempts to rush outj is arrested.) L ou i s (rtishing to RicheUeu). Richelieu ! — Lord Cardinal ! — 'tis I resign ! Reign thou! Rich, (feebly). With absolute power? Louis, Most absolute! — Oh! live! If not for me — for France! Rich. France! Louis. Oh! this treason! — The army — Orleans — Bouillon — Heavens! — the Spaniard! — Where wiU they be next week? Rich, (starting up.) There, — at my feet! To First and Second Secretaries.) Ere the clock strike! — the Envoys have their answer! (To Third Sec, with a ring.) This to De Chavigny — he knows the rest — No need of parchment here — he must not halt For sleep — for food. — In my name — mine! -— he will Arrest the Due de Bouillon at the head Of his army! — Ho! there, Count de Baradas, Thou hast lost the stake! Away with him! Of Lord Lytton's comedies. Not so bad as we seem is by far the least pleasing and interesting. The scene is London, and the date the reign of George I. There — 190 — are two peers in the piece, who are engaged in intrigues for the restoration of the Stuarts; but the principal character is Lady Thornside, a married woman, who has left her husband in consequence of his groundless jealousy, and rather strangely taken refuge in an ill- famed street, called Deadman's Lane. At the end of the piece, the lady is reconciled to her husband by the instrumentality of her daughter Lucy. Perhaps the best thing in the comedy is young Lord Wilmot's account of how he had obtained from Sir Robert Walpole, the famous Whig minister and zealous picture - collector, a place in the Treasury for his friend Hardman, by bribing the great man with a Murillo. A vastly superior dramatic work in all respects is Money; in which the author illustrates, by the contemptuous neglect shown the eccentric but thoroughly estimable Evelyn when a poor man, and the flattering consideration of which he becomes the object as a rich one, how powerfuUy most men are influenced, in their estimate of others, by affluence and the social position it confers. In the opening scene we are introduced to Sir John Vesey, a baronet not wealthy, but very desirous of being thought so, and his daughter Georgina, who is supposed, though erroneously, to be the heiress of an uncle recently deceased in India. {Georgina, and Sir John Vesey.) Geor. And you really feel sure that poor Mr. Mordaunt has made me his heiress? Sir J. Ay, the richest heiress in England. Can you douht itV Are you not his nearest relation? Niece by your poor mother, liis own sister. All the time he was making this enormous fortune in India, did we ever miss sending him little reminis- cences of our disinterested aifection? When he was last in England, and you only so high, was not my house his home? Didn't I get a surfeit out of complaisance to his execrable curries and pillaws ? Didn't he smoke his hookah — nasty old — that is, poor dear man — in my best drawing-room? And did you ever speak without calling him your "handsome uncle?" — for the excellent creature was as vain as a peacock, — (re or. And so ugly, — Sir J. The dear deceased! Alas he was, indeed. And if, after all these marks of attachment, you are not his heiress, why — 191 — then the finest feelings of our nature — the ties of blood — the principles of justice — are implanted in us in vain. ( J e r. Beautiful , sir. Was not that in your last speech at the Freemasons' Taveni upon the great Chimney-sweep Question? Sir J. Clever girl! — what a memory she has! Sit down, Georgj'. Upon this most happy — 1 mean melancholy occasion, I feel that 1 may trust you with a secret. You see this fine house — our fine servants — our fine plate — our fine dinners: every one thinks Sir John Vesey a rich man. < J e o r. And are you not, papa ? S j r J. Not a bit of it — all humbug, child — all humbug, upon ray soul! As you liazard a minnow to hook in a trout, so one guinea thrown out with address is often the best bait for a hundred. There are two rules in life — First, Men are valued not for what they are, but what they seem to be. Secondly, If you have no merit or money of your own, you must trade on the merits and money of other people. My father got the title by services in the army, and died penniless. On the strength of his services I got a pension of 400 L. a-year — on the strength of 400L. a-year I took credit for 800 L. : on the strength of 800 L. a-year I married your mother with 10,000 L.: on the strength of 10,000 L., I took credit for 40,000 L., and paid Dicky Gossip three guineas a -week to go about everywhere calling me "Stingy Jack!" Geor. Ha! Ha! A disagreeable nickname. Sir J. But a valuable reputation. AVhen a man is called stingy, it is as much as calling him rich; and when a man's called rich, why he's a man universally respected. On the strength of my respectability I wheedled a constituency, changed my politics, resigned my seat to a minister, who, to a man of sucli stake in the country, could offer nothing less in return than a patent office of 2,000L. a-year. That's the way to succeed in life. Humbug my dear! — all humbug, upon my soul! Geor. I must say that you — S i r J. Know the world, to be sure. Now, for your fortune, — as I spend more than my income, 1 can have nothing to leave you ; yet, even without counting your uncle, you have always passed for an heiress on the credit of your expectations from the savings of "Stingy Jack." The same with your education. I never grudged anything to make a show — never stuffed your head with histories and homilies ; but you draw, you sing, you dance, you walk well into a room; and that's the way young ladies are educated now-a-days, in order to become a pride to their parents, and a blessing to their husband — that is, when they have caught him. A propos of a husband : you know we thought of Sir Frederick Blount. Geor. Ah, papa, he is charming. S i r J. He w a s s , my dear, before we knew your poor uncle was dead; but an heiress such as you will be should look out for a duke. — Where the deuce is Evelyn this morning ? — 192 — Geor. I've not seen him, papa. What a strange character he is — so sarcastic; and yet he can be agreeahle. S i r J. A humorist — a cynic ! one never knows how to take him. My private secretary, — a poor cousin, — has not got a shilling, and yet, hang me , if he does not keep us all at a sort of a distance. (re or. But why do you take him to live with us, papa, since there's no good to be got by it? Sir J. There you are WTong; he has a great deal of talent: pre- pares my speeches, writes my pamphlets, looks up my calculations. My report on the last Commission has got me a great deal of fame, and has put me at the head of the new one. Besides, he is our cousin — he has no salary : kindness to a poor relation always tells well in the world; and Benevolence is a useful virtue, — particularly when you can have it for nothing ! With our other cousin, Clara, it was different: her father thought fit to leave me her guardian, though she had not a penny — a mere useless incumbrance; so, you see, I got my half-sister, Lady Franklin, to take her off my hands. Geor. How much longer is Lady Franklin's visit to be? Sir J. I don't know, my dear; the longer the better, — for her husband left her a good deal of money at her own disposal. Ah, here she comes. In another scene we find the poor relation Evelyn, his cousin Clara Douglas, and the aristocratic Sir Frederick Blount, a gentleman speaking that lisping dialect, so much affected by fashionable young men, in which the letter r is alwaj's superseded by a w. Blount. No one in the woom ! — Oh, Miss Douglas! — Pway don't let me disturb me. Where is Miss Vesey — Georgina? {Taking Claras chair as she rises.) Eve. {looking up, gives Clara a chair and re-seats himself.) [Aside.] In- solent puppy! Clara. Shall I tell her you are here, Sir Frederick? Blount Not for the world. Vewy pwetty girl this companion! Clara. What did you tliink of the Panorama the other day. Cousin Evelyn? Kve. {reading). — I cannot talk with civet in the room, A fine puss gentleman that's all perfume! Rather good lines these. Blount. Sir! Eve. {offering the book). Don't you think so? — Cowper. Blount, {declining the book). Cowper! Eve. Cowper. Blount, {shrugging his shoulders, to Clara). Stwange person, Mr. Evelyn ! — quite a chawacter ! — Indeed the Panowama gives you no idea of Naples — a delightful place. I make it a wule — 193 — to go there evewy second year. I am vewy fond of twavelling Yon'd like Wome {Rome) — bad inns, but vewy fine wuins gives you quite a taste for that sort of thing ! K V e. {reading). How much a dunce that has been sent to roam Excels a dunce that has been kept at liome! Blount, {aside). That fellow Cowi3er says vewy odd things! — Humph! — it is beneath me to quawwel. {Aloud.) It will not take long to wead the will, I suppose. Poor old Mordaunt! — I am his nearest male Avelation. He was vewy eccentwic. By the way, Miss Douglas, did you wemark my cuwickle? It is bwingiug cuwickles into fashion. I should be most happy if you will allow me to dwive you out. Nay — nay — I should upon my word. (Trying to take her hand). K V e. (starting up). A wasp ! — a wasp ! — just going to settle. Take care of the wasp, Miss Douglas ! I'.lount. A wasp! — where? — don't bwing it this way, some people don't mind them! I've a particular dislike to wasps; they sting damnably. Eve. I beg pardon — it's only a gadfly. (Enter Servant). 8 e r. Sir John will be happy to see you in his study, Sir Frederick. Blount. Vewy well. Upon my word, there is something vewy nice about this girl. To the great disappointment of nearer relations, it turns out that the deceased nabob has made poor Evelyn his residuary legatee ; and now Sir John forms all sorts of schemes to bring about a marriage between Evelyn and his daughter. Though the real object of Evelyn's attachment is Clara, he seems to meet Sir John half-way; and this he does all the more readily, as he has had a misunderstanding with Clara. Suspecting, however, the disinterestedness of Sir John and Georgina, he pretends to lose the greater part of his property at the gaming-table, and the young lady forthwith jilts liim, and accepts the hand of the elegant Blount. Clara, too, has heard of Evelyn's reverses, but on the contrary hastens to place her small fortune at his disposal. The sequel may be guessed. EveWn assures his future bride, that she has succeeded where wealth had failed; for she has reconciled him to the world and to mankind. In 1869 Lord Lytton surprised the literary world with a comedy in rhyme, entitled Walpole; or, Every 13 — 194 — Man has his Price, a well-constructed and amusing piece in the dashing anapaestic metre. The principal personages, besides Walpole himself, are the fashionable Sir Sydney Bellairs, his charming sister Lucy, and Mr. Selden Blount. In the form of a soliloquy he ingeniously makes the Minister describe his own character: I wonder what lies the historians will tell "When they habble of one, Robert Walpole! Well, well; Let them sneer at his blunders, declaim on his vices, Cite the rogues whom he purchased, and rail at the prices: The}- shall own that all lust for revenge he withstood; And, if lavish of gold, he was sparing of blood ; And when England was threatened by France and by Rome, He forced Peace from abroad and encamped her at home; And the freedom he left, rooted fiim in fair laws. May o'ershadow the faults of deeds done in her cause! Lord Lytton, at his death, left a tragedy in manu- script behind him, founded on the legend of Lucretia and Tarquin, and entitled "Brutus." As two English plays on the same subject already existed (Nathaniel Lee's Lucius Junius Brutus, and Payne's Brutus, or the Fall of Tarquin), the piece was successively declined by Mr. Phelps of Sadler's Wells Theatre, and by Mr. Irving of the Lyceum , but was at last brought on the stage, with considerable applause, on Feb. 26, 1885, by Mr. Wilson Barrett of the Princess's Theatre, under the name of Junius, or the Household Gods. Most of the critical periodicals, however, reserved their judgment till the piece should have appeared in print. Thomas Noon Talfourd. Mr. Talfourd has left us four tragedies. Ion, the Athenian CaptivCj the Massacre ofGlencoe, and the Castilian. Ion, the hero of the first-named piece, is a foundling youth, educated in the temple of Apollo, in Argos, by the High-Priest Medon; and, exemplified in him, the reader of Euripides will soon detect the overruling influence of "Destiny, apart from all moral agencies, combined with the idea of fascination, as an engine by which Fate may work its purposes on the innocent mind." Argos — 195 — is devastated by a plague, and it has been announced by the oracle of Delphi that nothing less than the utter extirpation of the royal race of Adrastus will appease the wrath of the Gods; that misrule must terminate before the pestilence shall be stayed; for Argos ne'er shall find release Till her monarch's race shall cease. A conspiracy is formed for the assassination of Adrastus; lots are drawn, and Ion is fated to strike the blow. He obtains admission to the presence of the King', and a number of his friends have been posted in the precincts of the palace, ready to take advantage of the consternation caused by the death of the despot. Ion holds Adrastus at his mercy, and his dagger is already uplifted, when the High-Priest Medon throws himself between them, and sternly commands him to desist. The old man has accidentally discovered, that Ion is the son of Adrastus, lost in infancy, whose supposed death, by imbittering the rest of his days, had changed his character, and plunged him into crime and debauchery. Father and son are locked in a tender embrace, when the impatient conspirators invade the apartment, separate them by force, and murder the King. This act of violence, however, makes Ion the sovereign of Argos, and so great is his popularity that no one dreams of disputing his right to the throne; but the young King ponders the announcement of the oracle, and knows well, that as one of the royal race of Argos, he too is destined to yield up his life, a sacrifice to the implacable Gods. In tender, but ambiguous words, he takes leave of his loved Clemanthe, the High-Priest's daughter : Ion. Dark and cold Stretches the path which, when I wear the crown, I needs must enter: the great gods forbid That thou should'st follow in it. Clem. unkind! And shall we never see each other? Ion. {after a pattse). Yes! I have asked that dreadful question of the hills That look eternal ; of the flowing streams 13* — 196 — That lucid flow for ever; of the stars, Amid whose fields of azure ray raised spirit Hath trod in glory: all were dumb; but now, While I thus gaze upon thy living tace, I feel the love that kindles through its beauty Can never wliolly perish : we shall meet Again, Clcmauthel Ion, of course, refers in this speech to a meeting in a future state of existence ; for he is convinced that the salvation of Argos is contingent on his death. The day fixed for his installation in the royal dignity arrives : and he seats himself on the throne. Ion. Argives! I have a boon To crave of you. Whene'er I shall rejoin In death the father from whose heart in life Stern fate divided me, think gently of him! Think that beneath his panoply of pride Were fair aifections crushed by bitter wrongs Which fretted him to madness; what he did, Alas ! ye know ; could you know what he suffered. Ye w^ould not curse his name. Yet never more Let the great interests of the state depend Upon the tliousand chances that may sway A piece of human frailty; swear to me That ye will seek hereafter in yourselves The means of sovereignty : our country's space. So happy in its smallness, so compact, Needs not the magic of a single name Which wider regions may require to draw Their interest into one; but, circled thus. Like a blest family, by simple laws May tenderly be governed — all degrees. Not placed in dexterous balance, not combined By bonds of parchment, or by iron clasps, But blended into one — a single form Of nymph-like loveliness, which finest chords Of sj'mpathy pervading, shall endow With vital beauty, tint with roseate bloom In times of happy peace, and bid to flash With one brave impulse, if ambitious bands Of foreign power should threaten. Swear to mv That ye will do this! Med on. Wherefore ask this now? Thou shalt live long; the paleness of thy face. Which late seemed death-like, is grown radiant now. And thine eyes kindle with the prophecy Of glorious years. - 197 — ](>ii. The gods approve me then! Yet I will use the function of a king, And claim obedience. Swear, that if I die, And leave no issue, ye will seek the power To govern in the free-born people's choice, And in the prudence of the wise. Medon and others. We swear it! Ion. Hear and record the oath, immortal powers! Now give me leave a moment to approach That altar unattended. {He goes to the altar.) Gracious gods! In whose mild service my glad youth was spent, Look on me now, and if there is a power, As at this solemn time I feel there is, Beyond ye, that hath breathed through all your shapes The spirit of the beautiful that lives In earth and heaven; to ye I offer up This conscious being, full of life and love, For my dear country's welfare. Let this blow End all her sorrows. {Stabs himself.) The Athenian Captive, likewise a classical drama, nowhere reaches the imposing dignity of Ion. Thoas, the Athenian, is brought as a prisoner-of-war to Corinth, where he forms a friendship with King Creon's son, Hyllus. This Hyllus is hated by the King's second wife, the Athenian Ismene, who instigates Thoas to murder the King her husband to recover his liberty, but her main object is to fix the crime on Hyllus. At an assembly of all the principal personages in the temple of Jupiter the Avenger, the spiteful Queen boldly accuses Hyllus of parricide; but Thoas, whom she discovers to be her son, confesses his guilt, and then prays for and receives his death from the hand of Hyllus. In the character of Ismene there are some traits that remind the reader of Gulnare in Byron's Corsair, Glencoe, a drama founded on the terrible massacre of the MacDonalds of Glencoe on 13th Feb. 1689. presents more features of interest to the general reader than the preceding tragedy. The leading characters are : Maclan, chief of the MacDonalds of Glencoe; his sons. John and Alaster; his nephews Halbert and Henry, sons of Lady MacDonald; Helen Campbell, an orphan adopted by Lady MacDonald, and niece to Captain — 198 — Robert Campbell of Glenlyon, the officer commanding' the soldiers, on whom the execution of the cruel sen- tence devolved. At the date of the massacre Helen Campbell was really the wife of Alaster MacDonald, but it suited Mr. Talfourd better to make her the betrothed bride of the fictitious Halbert. As might be expected, the drama is almost too sombre and distres- sing for representation on the stage, though the preva- lent tone of gloom is occasionally relieved by such exquisite descriptive passages as we find in the follow- ing scene: Helen Campbell, Lady MacDonald. Helen. So early raised to meet the morning's frost? Lady M. I feel no frost; the ecstasy within me Clothes all without with summer; you shall share In joy which seldom visits these old walls. Helen. Oh, say not so; there's not a day but bears Its blessing on its light. If nature doles Her gifts with sparing hand, their rareness sheds Endearments her most bounteous mood withholds From greenest valleys. The pure rill which casts Its thread of snow-like lustre o'er the rock, Which seems to pierce the lowering sky, connects The thoughts of earth with heaven, while mightier floods Roar of dark passions. The rare sunbeam wins For a most light existence human care, While it invests some marble heap with gleams Of palaced visions. If the tufts of broom Whence fancy weaves a chain of gold, appear, On nearer visitation, thinly strewn, Each looks a separate bower, and offers shade To its own group of fairies. The prized harebell Wastes not its dawning azure on a bank Rough and confused with loveliness, but wears The modest story of its gentle life On leaves that love has tended; nay, the heath, Which, slowly, from a stinted root, unfolds Pale lilac blossoms, — image of a maid Rear'd tenderly in solitude, is bless'd Instead of sharing with a million flowers One radiant flush, in offering its faint bloom To loving eyes. Say not again, dear lady. That joy but seldom visits these old walls. Mr. Talfourd's posthumous and rather duU tragedy, the Castilian, has as yet attracted but little notice; — 199 — but his prose -works, Vacation Rambles, a series of continental tours in 1841 — 43, and his Letters and Memorials of Charles Lamb, have added much to his reputation. Lord Tennyson. The Laiu-eate, Lord Tennyson, has also competed with some success for the bays of the dramatic poet. Tn our notice of the dramas he has hitherto produced, we shall begin with Harold, which we look on as the first of his dramatic productions in the order of merit. Harold is a five-act historical tragedy. In the first act we find King Edward the Confessor old and feeble, and vague fears prevail that his dissolution will be the prelude to some national disaster — an apprehension intensified by the sight of Halley's comet flaming over- head. Harold alone seems to enjoy an immunity from the superstition of the age; for when Stigand, the archbishop of Canterbury, apostrophizing the comet, in- quires: "Is that the doom of England?" he contemp- tuously replies: — Why not the doom of all the world as well? For all the world sees it as well as England. These meteors came and went before our day, Not harming any: it threatens us no more Than French or Norman. War? the worst that follows Things that seem jerk'd out of the common init Of Nature is the hot religious fool, Who, seeing war in heaven, for heaven's credit Makes it on earth. Harold solicits the permission of the king to go on a hunting expedition to Normandy; and when Ed- ward, in his distrust of the "fox-lion," Duke William, refuses his consent, Harold announces his intention of taking his hounds and hawks to Flanders. In the second act, we find him, notwithstanding, shipwrecked on the coast of Normandy, and a prisoner in the hands of the astute Guy of Ponthieu, who demands a ransom for his liberation. This ransom is paid by Duke William, who brings Harold to his court, with the intention of ~ 200 — inducing him, the brother in-law and probable heir of the childless Edward, by force or by fraud, to pledge himself, by a solemn oath, to support William's preten- sions to the throne of England, on the death of the king. Overcome by the vehement entreaties of hh youngest brother Wulfnoth, then a hostage at the Nor- man court, who dreads the consequences of his brother'.^ contumacy for them both, persuaded by the friendly Norman noble Malet, and urged by his own longing to return to the fair Edith, King Edward's ward, Harold consents to take an oath, which he does not regard as binding. William begins his manoeuvres by sounding Harold, and inquires: "the heir of England, who is lie?'' whereupon the dialogue proceeds: Harold. The Atheling is nearest to the throne. William. But sickly, slight, half-witted, and a child, Will England have him king? Har. It may be, no. Will. And hath King Edward not pronounced his heir? Har. Not that I know. Will. When he was here in Normandy, He loved us and we him, because Ave found him A Norman of the Normans. Har. So did we. Will. A gentle, gracious, pure, and saintly man! And grateful to the hand that shielded him, He promised that if ever he were king In England, he would give his kingly voice To me as his successor. Knowest thou this? Har. I learn it now. Will. Thou knowest I am his cousin. And that my wife descends frora Alfred? Har. Ay. Will. Who hath a better claim then to the crown So that ye will not crown the Atheling? Har. None that I know ... if that but hung upon King Edward's will. Will. Wilt thou uphold my claim? Malet {aside to Harold). Be careful of thine answer, my good friend. Wulfnoth {aside to Harold). Oh! Harold, for my sake and for thine own! Har. Ay ... if the king have not revoked his promise. Will. But hath he done it then? Har. ' Not that I know. Will. Good, good, and thou wilt help me to the crown? Har. Ay . . if the Witan wiU consent to this. — 201 — Will. Thou art the mightiest voice in England, man, Thy voice will lead the Witan — shall I liave it? VV u 1 f 11 1 li (aside to Harold^. Oh ! Harold, if thou love thine Edith, ay. Har. Ay, if — Malet {aside to Harold). Thine " if s'' will sear thine eyes out h.v. Will. I ask thee, wilt thou help me to the crown? And I will make thee my great Earl of Earls, Foremost in England and in Normandy; Thou Shalt be verily king -— all but the name — For I shall most sojourn in Normandy; And thou be my vice-king in England. Speak. Wulfnotli (aside to Harold). Ay. brother — for the sake of Eng- land — ay. Har. My lord ~ Malet (aside to Harold). Take heed now. Har. ^ Ay. Will. I am content. For thou art truthful, and thy word thy bond. To-moiTow will we ride with thee to Harfleur. (Exit William). Halet. Harold, 1 am thy friend, one life with thee. And even as I should bless thee saving mine, I thank thee now for having saved thyself. (Exit Malet). Har. For having lost myself to save myself, Said ''ay" when I meant "no," lied like a lad That dreads the pendent scourge, said ''ay" for "no"! Ay! No! — he hath not bound me by an oath — Is" "ay" an oath? is "ay" strong as an oath? Or is it the same sin to break my word As break mine oath? He calFd my word my bond! He is a liar who knows I am a liar, And makes believe that he believes my word — The crime be on his head — not bounden — no. In the tliird act Harold is again in England, but his beloved Edith is withheld from him by the King, and he reluctantly marries Aldwyth, the widowed Queen of Wales. The terrible comet is still visible: It glares in heaven, it flares upon the Thames, The people are as thick as bees below, They hum like bees — they cannot speak -— for awe ; Look to the skies, then to the river, strike Their hearts, and hold their babies up to it; and other portents announce an impending catastrophe. In the presence of the dying King, Aldred relates how a wayfarer passing by Senlac hill, had heard — 202 — A ghostly horn Blowing continuall}', and faint battle hymns, And cries, and clashes, and the groans of men; And dreadful shadows strove upon the hill, And dreadful lights crept up from out the marsh — Corpse-candles gliding over nameless graves. The name Senlac is caught up by Edward in his troubled sleep, and making a grim play on the word, he murmurs: A lake, A sea of blood — we are drown'd in blood — for God Has filled the quiver, and Death has drawn the bow — Sanguelac! Sanguelac! the arrow! the arrow! And with these words in his mouth he dies. Harold now becomes king, and the first exercise of his royal power is to crush the rebellion excited by his turbulent brother Tostig, with the aid of the Nor- wegian King, Harold Hardrada, in the principality of Northumberland. The insurgents are totally routed at Stamford Bridge. Particularly vigorous is the description of the King of Norway's death on the battle-field: — when all was lost, he yell'd, And bit his shield, and dash'd it on the ground, And swaying his iwo-handed sword about him. Two deaths at every swing, ran in upon us, And died so. But in the mean time the Normans under Duke William have landed, and King Harold must gather all his forces without delay, and march southwards to oppose them. When the fifth act opens, the rival armies stand face to face at Senlac or Hastings. In a dream, the night before the battle, Harold is visited by the ghosts of those whose destiny in life has been in some way or other mixed up with his own, including his brother Tostig and his youngest brother Wulfnoth, though we liad supposed the latter to be still a living man. Like Richard III. he suddenly awakes, and springs from his couch, defiantly exclaiming: — 203 — Away ! My battle-axe against your voices. Peace! The king's last word — "the arrow!" I shall die — I die for England then, who lived for England — What nobler? men must die. I cannot fall mto a falser world — I have done no man wrong. Tostig, poor brother, Art thou so anger' d? Fain had I kept thine earldom in thy hands Save for thy wild and violent will that wrench'd All hearts of freemen from thee. Is it possible That mortal men should bear their earthly heats Into yon bloodless world, and threaten us thence Unschool'd of Death? Thus then thou art revenged — I left our England naked to the South To meet thee in the North. The Norseman's raid Hath helpt the Norman, and the race of Godwin Hath ruin'd Godwin. No — our waking thoughts Suifer a stormless shipwreck in the pools Of sullen slumber, and arise again Disjointed: only dreams — where mine own self Takes part against myself! Why? for a spark Of self-disdain born in me when I sware Falsely to him, the falser Norman, over His gilded ark of mummy-saints, by whom I knew not that I sware, — not for myself — For England. During the battle the stage is occupied by Stigand and Edith, and it is only from the disjointed description of the archbishop that we can glean the incidents of the light, and the fall of Harold. William at length enters victorious; and Edith, after acknowledging her- self to be Harold's wife — which is rather puzzling after the marriage with Aldwyth — dies, as it appears, of a broken heart. Though we may find, scattered through this tragedy, many happy ideas elegantly expressed, yet something more is necessary to meet the requirements of dramatic art; and perhaps a reviewer did not say too much when he averred, that the failure of Harold to satisfy these exigencies does more than prove that Lord Tenny- son has no great aptitude for dramatic composition. Queen Mary (originally named Mary Tudor), met with a very cold reception on the stage. Though the — 204 — Intiire Queen Elizabeth is one of the dramatis personae, and the most is made of Wyatt's rash rebellion, the piece from beginning to end is dull. We feel but small sympathy with a fanatical, unlovable woman wedded to an atrabilious, unloving Spanish husband, and vainly sigliing for the joys of maternity. The finest thing in the drama, in our opinion, is the fifth scene of the fifth act, where Mary complains with indignant bitterness of Philip's indifference, and bewails the loss of the old English stronghold Calais, which had been sacrificed to the crooked and selfish policy of Spain : Alice. Madam, who goes? King PhiUpV Mary. No, Philip comes and goes, but never goes. Women, when I am dead. Open my heart, and there you will find written Two names, Philip and Calais; open his, — So that he have one, — You will find Philip only, policy, policy, — Ay, worse than that, not one hour true to me! Foul maggots crawling in a fester'd vice! Adulterous to the very heart of Hell. Hast thou a knife? A. Ay, Madam, but o' God's mercy — M. Fool, think'st thou I would peril mine own soul By slaughter of the body? I could not, girl, Not this way — callous with constant stripe, TJnwoundable. Thy knife! A. Take heed, take heed! The blade is keen as death. M. This Philip shall not Stare in upon me in my haggardness; Old, miserable, diseased, Incapable of children. Come thou down. (Cuts out the picture, and throws it dotcn.) Lie there. (Wails). God, I have kill'd my Philip. A. ~ No, Madam, you have but cut the canvas out, We can replace it. 31. All is well, then; rest — I will to rest; he said, 1 must have rest. The Falcon is a trifling one -act piece, founded on the nintli tale of the fifth day in Boccaccio's Deca- merone. A young Florentine, called Federigo degli Alberighi, the Italian story-teller relates, loved a certain Madam Giovanna. and spent his whole moderate fortune — 205 — in procuring her vsucli diversions as balls, tilts, and pleasure-parties, and in making her elegant and costly presents. Reduced to poverty, he withdraws to the country, where he finds himself entirely dependent for sustenance on the booty made by his well-trained hawk. After some time, the lady, now a widow, goes into retirement with her son ; and as she has settled in the same neighbourhood, the young lad often meets Fe- ilerigo, and cannot enough admire his wonderful bird. The child falls dangerously ill, and all the remedies of the doctor avail nothing, for the little patient pines for the much -prized hawk. Alarmed at the critical condition of her darling, Madam Giovanna pays a visit to Federigo, with the intention of begging him to give lier the falcon. She is received with due respect by the young gentleman, who desires to offer her a col- lation, but having nothing else at hand, the poor fellow, at his wits' end, makes up his mind to sacrifice his priceless feathered friend. When the lady has finished iier meal, she brings forward her request ; which Federigo of course is unable to grant, but the lady, on learning the truth, is so touched that when her son soon after- wards dies , she marries Federigo , who , we are told, lived very happily with her, and became a good manager of the considerable property brought him by his wife. Such is Boccaccio's story, but is has been a good deal modified by Lord Tennyson, who still leaves Count Federigo two domestics in all his indigence ~ Ms old nurse Elisabetta, and his serving-man and foster-brother, Filippo. This Filippo is a half-comic character, con- tinually indulging in jokes about the poverty of the household; as he does in the following dialogue: Count. Come, come, Filippo, what is there in the larder? Filippo. Shelves and hooks, shelves and hooks, and when I see the shelves, I am like to hang myself on the hooks. Count. No bread? Filippo. Half a breakfast for a rat! Count. Milk? Filippo. Three laps for a cat! ('ount. Cheese? Filippo. A supper for twelve mites. — 206 — Count. Eggs? Filippo. One, but addled. Count. No bird? Filippo. Half a tit and a hern's bill. The Lady Giovanna arrives, and the Count wel- comes her with the words: Lady, you bring your light into my cottage Who never deign'd to shine into my palace. My palace wanting you was but a cottage; My cottage, while you grace it, is a palace. In the course of the ensuing conversation we find some lines that merit quotation. Thus, he assures the lady: You can touch No chord in me that would not answer you In music; and referring to a warlike exploit in which he wore her wreath, he declares: I wore the lady's chaplet round my neck; It served me for a blessed rosary. On her side, the Lady, returning some diamonds he had presented her with, in more prosperous days, exclaims : No other heart Of such magnificence in courtesy Beats — out of heaven. At the end of the piece the child still lives, and Federigo addresses the Lady, now his betrothed bride, in these words: We two together Will help to heal your son — your son and mine — We shall do it — we shall do it. The purpose of my being is accomplished. And I am happy! Another version of this same story, the Falcon, may be found in Longfellow's Tales of a Wayside Inn, as the Student's Tale- and it likewise forms the subject of Gounod's opera, La Colombe. Of the two-act tragedy, the Cup, it will suffice to say, that the heroine, Gamma, wife of Sinnatus, Tetrarch i — 207 — of Galatia , after the murder of her husband by the ex-Tetrach Synorix, at once revenges herself on the assassin, and puts an end to her own existence, by inducing Synorix, under pretence of a marriage between them, to partake with her of a cup of poisoned wine. More interesting, in all respects, is the five-act tragedy, Becket, The list of dramatis personae includes King Henry II., Queen Eleanor, Becket, Eosamund Clilford, and most of the other historical personages who at that time played a part of any importance on the political stage. In a Prologue, which is itself as long as an ordinary act, Becket and the King are in- troduced to us, seated at chess, and the impatient and choleric temper of Henry, manifested by the rashness of liis moves, is skilfully contrasted with the calculating coolness of his antagonist, who wins the game. On the whole, Lord Tennyson in his tragedy respects the facts of history, if we except the scene in the fourth act, where Becket rescues Rosamund Clifford out of the murderous hands of the vindictive Queen Eleanor, and the last scene of the fifth act, when Rosamund, in her turn, endeavours though unsuccessfully to repay the obligation by shielding the life of her benefactor. The last-mentioned scene is the most stirring and ex- citing in the tragedy. Becket, who had been the friend and servant of the King as Chancellor, becomes as Archbishop a dangerous competitor for popularity and power. Out of favour at Court, he sullenly retires to liis see of Canterbury, whither he is pursued by four knights, devoted partisans of Henry, who have vowed the death of the audacious priest. How they discharged this rash vow we shall leave the poet himself to tell. The scene is the North Transept of Canterbury Cathedral : Monks. Oh, my lord Archbishop, A score of knights all arra'd with swords and axes — To the choir, to the choir! {Monks divide, part flying by the stairs on the right, part by those on the left). Becket. Shall I too pass to the choir, And die upon the Patriarchal throne Of all my predecessors? — 208 — John of Salisbury. No, to the crypt! Twenty steps down. Stumble not in the darkness. Lest they should seize thee, (irirn. To the cryi)t? no — no, To the chapel of St. Blaise beneath the roof! John of S. {pointing upward and doiimward.) That way, or this! Save thyself either way. Becket. Oh, no, not either way, nor any Avay Save by that way which leads thro' night to light. Not twenty steps, but one. And fear not I should stumble in the darkness, Not tho' it be their hour, the powers of darkness, But my hour too, the power of light in darkness! I am not in the darkness but the light. Seen by the Church in Heaven, the Church on earth — The power of life in death to make her free! (Enter the four Knights. John of Salisbury Jlies to the altar of St. Benedict.) Kitzurse. Here, here. King's men! {Catches hold of the last flying Monk.) Where is the traitor Becket? Monk. I am not he! I am not he. my lord. 1 am not he, indeed! Fitzurse. Hence to the fiend! \Fmhes him away.) Wliere is this treble traitor to the King? l)e Tracy. Where is the Archbishop, Thomas Becket? Becket. Here. No traitor to the King, ])ut Priest of God, Primate of England. I am he ye seek. What would ye have of me? Fitzurse. Your life. De Morville. Save that you will absolve the bishops. Becket. Never, — Except they make submission to the Church. You had my answer to that cry before. De Morville. Why, then you are a dead man; llee! Becket. I will not. f am readier to be slain, than thou to slay. Hugh, 1 know well thou hast but half a heart 'I'o bathe this sacred pavement with my blood. (iod pardon thee and these, ])ut God's full curse Shatter you all to pieces, if ye harm Une of my flock! Kitzurse. Was not the great gate shut? *. They are thronging in to vespers — half the town. We shall be overwhelm'd. Seize him and carry him! Come with us — nay — thou art our prisoner — come! De M-orviUe. Ay, make him prisoner, do not harm the man. — 209 — Becket. Touch me not! De Brito. How the good priests gods himself! He is not yet ascended to the Father. Fitzurse. I wUl not only touch, but drag thee hence. Becket. Thou art my man, thou art my vassal. Away! (Flings him off.) De Tracy. Come; as he said, thou art our prisoner. Becket. Down! {Throws him headlong.) Fitzurse {advances with drawn sword.) I told thee tliat I should remember thee! Becket. Profligate pander! Fitzurse. Do you hear that? strike, strike. [Strikes off the Archbishop's mitre, and loounds him in the forehead.) Becket. I do commend my cause to God, the Virgin, St. Denis of France and St. Alphege of England, And all the tutelar Saints of Canterbury. {Qrim wraps his arms about the Archbishop.) Spare this defence, dear brother. {Tracy approaches hesitatingly). Fitzurse. Strike him, Tracy! Rosamund {rushing doum from the choir). No, no, no, no! Fitzurse. This wanton here! De Morville, Hold her away. De Morville. I hold her. liosamund. Mercy, mercy, As you would hope for mercy. Kitzurse. Strike, I say. (Trim. God, noble knights, sacrilege! Strike our Archbishop in his own cathedral! The Pope, the King, will curse you — the whole world Abhor you; ye will die the death of dogs! Nay, nay, good Tracy. {Lifts his arm.\ Fitzurse. Answer not, but strike. De Tracy. There is my answer then. {Sword falls on Grim's arm.) (Trim. Mine arm is severd. I can no more — fight out the good fight — die Conqueror. (Staggers into the chapel of St. Benedict.) Becket (falling on his knees). At the right hand of Power — Power and great glory — for thy Clmrch, Lord — Into Thy hands, Lord — into Thy hands! — (Sinks prone). De Brito. This last to rid thee of a world of brawls! (Kills him). The traitor's dead, and will arise no more. If we carefully compare the dramas of Lord Tennyson with those of Lord Lytton, candour we be- 14 — 210 — lieve will compel us to acknowledge, that whatever superiority the fonner may justly claim over his old rival, as a poet, is strictly limited by the line which divides the realm of lyrical from that of dramatic poetry. Beyond that boundary Lord Lytton's pre-emi- nence is unquestionable. Robert Browning. We have already mentioned Mr. Browning's two early tragedies, Strafford and the Blot on the Scutcheon. The subject of the first is of course historical. In the second, a proud and punctilious nobleman, Lord Thorold Tresham, accidentally discovers that his sister Mildred accords secret nocturnal interviews to his friend, Earl Mertoun, and the consequences are fatal to all parties. The frigid reception both these tragedies found on re- presentation would have deterred almost any other man from making fresh attempts of the same kind, but BroAvning, nowise dismayed, subsequently produced: King Victor and King Charles, a tragedy; Colomhes Birth- day^ a play; a Soul's Tragedy; the Return of the Druses, a tragedy; and Luria, a tragedy. No attempt has been made to bring any of these on the stage. In the first- named piece, the principal personages are the first King of Sardinia, Victor Amadeus, and his son Charles Emmanuel; and the main incident is a pretended ab- dication on the part of the father in favour of his son. Victor afterwards resumes his royal dignity, but only to die as king. There is much in the drama that is anything but clear. Colombe is a German princess, Duchess of Juliers and Cleves, and here we have to do with a real abdication, prompted by the Duchess's love for the humble Valence, in favour of the claimant, Prince Berthold. The plot of a Soul's Tragedy is rather ingenious. Luitolfo commits a political murder, and is forced to fly. His friend Chiappino, desirous of favour- ing his escape, and moved by the despair of Luitolfo's betrothed. Eulalia. takes the crime on himself, and is — 211 — ready to mount the scaffold; but to his great surprise he is not only publicly thanked for the deed by his fellow - citizens , but elected provost in the murdered man's place. He soon becomes corrupted by prosperity, and thinks no more of the fugitive Luitolfo, who after a time returns to find his faithless friend a suitor for Eulalia's hand. As may be supposed, the catastrophe is highly tragic, l^he scene of the Return of the Druses is an isiet of the southern Sporades colonised by Druses of Lebanon, and garrisoned by the Kniglits-Hospitallers of Rhodes. An unpopular Prefect is assassinated, and the colonists are only saved from the vengeance of the Knights by the intervention of the Venetians, who transport them back to their own country. The romantic part of the intrigue is represented by the maiden Anael and her two rival lovers, the Druse Djabal and the French Loys. Luria, who gives his name to the next tragedy, is a Moorish general in the service of the Florentine Eepublic, then at war with Pisa. Being wrongfully accused of treason, he is urged by his fair friend Domizia to revenge himself by marching with his mercenaries against the ungrateful Florence, but he prefers death to dishonour, and stabs himself. These later dramas of Browning's are even less suitable as acting plays than the two earlier ones : but amid their prevalent obscurity, their strange phraseology and their bewildering inversions, the patient reader may find many beauties. In fact, they are rather dramatic poems than dramas. The dialogue produces the effect of a series of monologues pronounced by each of the characters in turn, and we miss that rapid interchange of thought which is so indispensable to excite the interest and secure the attention of the reader or the listener. Douglas Jerrold. Besides two or three novels, and his famous con- tributions to the London Punchy Mr. Jerrold (1803 — 1857) has written some excellent comedies and farces. Of 14* — 212 — these, one of the best, Black-Eyed Susan, is founded on John Gay's well-known ballad: All in the Downs the fleet was moored; and such was the popularity it attained that Mr. T. P. Cooke, the original WilKam, appeared no less than four hundred times successively in the same character, partly at the Surrey Theatre in London and partly in the provinces. William, a sailor aboard a man-of-war, is Susan's husband; and his captain, whose name is Crossti-ee, having one day when intoxicated insulted Susan in the public street, William sees himself com- pelled to strike him in defence of his wife. For a sailor, however, to strike his captain, even under the greatest provocation, is a most serious offence, and it results in the arrest of William, and his trial before a court-martial presided over by the admiral. Witnesses are called, who make their depositions, and the case is submitted to a jury of captains for their decision: Admiral. Gentlemen, nothing more remains for us than to con- sider the justice of our verdict. Although the case of the unfortunate man admits of many palliatives, still, for the up- holding of a necessary discipline, any commiseration would aiford a dangerous precedent, and I fear cannot be indulged. Gentlemen, are you all determined in yoiu* verdict? Guilty or not guilty? — Guilty? {after a pause ^ the Captains how assent.) It remains then for me to pass the sentence of the law? (Cap- tains how.) Bring back the prisoner. Re-enter William and Master-at-arms, A dm. Prisoner — after a patient and impartial investigation of your case, this Court has unanimously pronounced you — Guilty 1 (patise.) If you have anything to say in arrest of judgment — now is your time to speak. William, In a moment, your honours. — My top-lights ^) are rather misty. Your honours, I had been three years at sea, and had never looked upon or heard from my wife — as sweet a little craft as was ever launched — I had come ashore, and I was as lively as a petrel in a storm; I found Susan — that's my wife, your honours — all her gilt ^) taken by the land-sharks,^) but yet all taut,*) with a face as red and rosy as the King's head on the side of a fire-bucket. Well, your honours, when *) My eyes (Mastlichter). ^) Money. ^) Knavish creditors, swindler.'^. *) In good order, neat. — 213 — we were as merry as a ship's crew on a pay-day, there comes an order to go aboard; I left Susan, and went with the rest of the liberty men to ax leave of the first lieutenant. I hadn't been gone the turning of an hour-glass , when I heard Susan giving signals of distress , I out with my cutlass , made all sail, and came up to my craft — I found her battling with a pirate — I never looked at his figure-head, never stopped — would any of your honours? long live you and your wives say I! — would any of your honours have rowed alongside as if you'd been going aboard a royal yacht? — no, you wouldn't; for the gilt swabs') on the shoulders can't alter the heart that swells beneath ; you would have done as I did ; — and what did I? why, I cut him down like a piece of old junk;^) had he been the first lord of the Admiralty, I had done it! {overcome with emotion.) A d m. Prisoner, we keenly feel for your situation ; yet you, as a good sailor , must know that the course of justice cannot be evaded. Wil. Your honours, let me be no bar to it; I do not talk for my life. Death! why if I 'scaped it here — the next capful of wind might blow me from the yard-arm. All I would strive for, is to show I had no malice; all I wish whilst you pass sentence, is your pity. That, your honours, whilst it is your duty to condemn the sailor, may, as having wives you honour and children you love, respect the husband. A dm. Have you anything further to advance? Wil. All my cable is run out^) — I'm brought to. A dm. {and all the Captains rise.) Prisoner! it is now my most pain- ful duty to pass the sentence of the Court upon you. The Court commiserates your situation, and, in consideration of your services, wil see that every care is taken of your wife when deprived of your protection. Wil. Poor Susan! A d m. Prisoner ! your case falls under the .twenty-second Article of War. {reads.) "If any man in, or belonging to the Fleet, shall draw, or offer to draw, or lift up his hand against his superior officer, he shall suffer death." (putting on his hat.) The sentence of the Court is, that you be hanged at the fore-yard- arm of this his Majesty's ship, at the hour of ten o'clock. Heaven pardon your sins, and have mercy on your soul ! This Court is now dissolved. William, condemned to death, bids a tender farewell to his unhappy wife: but he ultimately escapes, being- at the last moment saved by the timely intervention of the now penitent Captain Crosstree: *) Officer's epaulets. *) Old cable or cordage. ^) I have told my .story. — 214 — WilUam and Susan. Wil. Oh Susaul Well, my poor wench, how fares it? Susan. Oh, William! and 1 have watched, prayed for your return — smiled in the face of poverty , stopped my ears to the re- proaches of the selfish, the worst pity of the thoughtless — and all, all for this! ' W i 1. Ay, Sue, it's hard ; but that's all over — to grieve is useless. Susan, I might have died disgraced — have left you the widow of a bad, black-hearted man; I know 'twill not be so — and in this, wliilst you remain behind me, there is at least some comfort. I died in a good cause; 1 died in defence of the virtue of a wife — her tears will fall like spring rain on the grass that covers me. Susan. Talk not so — your gravel I feel it is a place where my heart must throw down its heavy load of life. Will. Gome, Susan, shake off your tears. There, now, smile a bit — we'll not talk again of graves. Think , Susan , that J am a going on a long foreign station — think so. Now, what would you ask — have you nothing, nothing to say? Susan. Nothing! oh, when at home, hoping, yet trembling for this meeting, thoughts crowded on me, I felt as if I could have talked to you for days. Stopping for want of power, not words. Now the terrible time is come — now I am almost tong^le-tied — my heart swells to my throat, I can but look and weep, {gun fires.) That gun! oh, William! husband! is it so near! — You speak not — tremble. Wil. Susan, be calm. If you love your husband, do not send him on the deck a white-faced coward. Be still, my poor girl, I have something to say — until you are calm, I will not utter it; now Susan Susan. I am cold, motionless as ice. Wil. Susan! you know the old aspen that grows near to the church porch ; you and I, when children, almost before we could speak plainly, have sat and watched, and wondered at its shaking leaves — 1 grew up, and that tree seemed to me a friend that loved me, yet had not the tongue to tell me so. Beneath its boughs our little arms have been locked together — beneath its boughs I took the last kiss of your white lips when hard fortune made me turn sailor. I cut from that tree this branch (produces it). Many a summer's day aboard, I've lain in the top and looked at these few leaves, until I saw green meadows in the salt sea, and heard the bleating of the sheep. When I am dead, Susan, let me be laid under that tree. Gun fires. — Slow Music. — William gives Susan in charge of Seaweed, kisses her, and she is carried off. Last Scene. The Forecastle of the Ship. — Procession along the starboard gang^way. Master- at- Arms. Prisoner, are you prepared? Wil. Ble.ss you! Bless you all — (mounts the platform). ^ 215 - Captain Crosstree (rushes on from gangway). Hold! Hold! A dm. Captain Crosstree — retire, sir, retire. C'ross. Never! if the prisoner be executed, he is a murdered man. I alone am the culprit — 'twas I who would have dishonoured him. A dm. This cannot plead here — he struck a superior officer. Cross. No! All. No? Cross. He saved my life; I had written for his discharge — vil- lainy lias kept back the document — 'tis here dated back; when William struck me he was not the king's sailor — I was not his officer. .\dni. {taking the paper Music). He is free! Bubbles of the Day, said Charles Kemble the actor, has vnt enough for three pieces. A few extracts will suffice to prove that this is a well-earned eulogium. Sir Phenix Clearcake and Lord Skindeep. ►Sir Phenix. My lord, 1 come with a petition to you — a petition not parliamentary, but charitable. We propose, my lord, a fancy fair*) in Guildhall: its object so benevolent, and more than that, so respectable! Skindeep. Benevolence and respectability! of course, I'm with you. Well, — the precise object? Sir Ph. It is to remove a stain — a very great stain from the city; to exercise a renovating taste at a most inconsiderable outlay; to call up as it were the snowy purity of Greece in the coal-smoke atmosphere of London ; in a word , my lord — but as yet 'tis a profound secret — it is to paint St. Paul's! Skind. A gigantic effort! Sir Ph. The fancy fair will be on a most comprehensive and philanthropic scale. Every alderman takes a stall; — and, to give you an idea of the enthusiasm in the city ~ but this is also a secret — the Lady Mayoress has been up three nights making pincushions, Skind. But you don't want me to take a stall — to sell pincushions ? Sir Ph. Certainly not, my lord. And yet your philanthropic speeches in the house, my lord, convince me that to obtain a certain good you would sell anything. Skind. Well, well; command me in any way; benevolence is my foible. I tell you what; I've some splendid Chinese paintings on rice-paper. They're not of the least use to me, so you may have them for the charity. Another projector, Captain Smoke, who has served, as he says, in the "Madras Fusileers," now enters, and *) A temporary bazaar, conducted by ladies, for some charitable object. — 216 ~ introduces another ingenious scheme, for which he solicits the co-operation of his Lordship's friends. Mr. Brown and Mr. Chatham Brown: Smoke. Our family was always military — always distinguished. But now I 've cut up my sword into steel pens and flourish the weapons in the cause of commerce. We are about to start a company to take on lease Mount Vesuvius for the manufactory of lucifer-matches. S i r P h. A stupendous speculation ! I should say , that when its countless advantages are duly numbered, it will be found a certain wheel of fortune to the enlightened capitalist. Smoke. Now, su', if you would but take the chair at the first meeting {Aside to Chatham) Ave shall make it all right about the shares , — if you would but speak for two or three hours on the social improvement conferred by the lucifer-match, with the monopoly of sulphiu" secured to the company — a monopoly which will suffer no man, woman, or child to strike a light without our permission Brown. He '11 do it, of course he *11 do it. Chat. Truly, sir, in such a cause, to such an auditory — Smoke. Sir, if you would speak well anywhere, there 's nothing like first grinding your eloquence on a mixed meeting. Depend on 't, if you can only manage a little humbug with a mob, it gives you great confidence for another place. Skind. Smoke, never say humbug; it 's coarse. Sir Ph. And not respectable. Smoke. Pardon me, my lord: it was coarse. But the fact is, humbug has received such high patronage, that now it "s quite classic. Chat. But why not embark his lordship in the Inciter question? Smoke. I can't: I have his lordsliip in three companies already. Three. First, there's a company — half a million capital - for extracting civet from assafoetida. The second is a company for a trip all round the world. We propose to hire a three- decker of the Lords of the Admiralty, and fit her up with every accommodation for families. AVe 've already advertised for wet-nurses and maids-of-all-work. Sir Ph. A magnificent project! And then the fittings-up will be so respectable. A delightful billiard-table in the ward-room;*) with, for the humbler classes, skittels on the orlop-deck.^) Swings and archerj' for the ladies, trap-ball and cricket for the children, whilst the marine sportsman will find the stock of gulls un- limited. Weippert's quadi-ille band is engaged, and Smoke. For the convenience of lovers, the ship will carrj' a parson. C'hat. And the object? Smoke. Pleasure and education. At every new country we shaU drop anchor for at least a week, that the children may go to ') Officers' mess-room. *) Upper deck in trading vessels. — 217 — school aud learn the language. The trip must answer: 'twill occupy only three years, and we 've forgotten nothing to make it delightful — nothing, from hot rolls to cork jackets. Brown. And now, sir, the third venture? Smoke. That, sir, is a company to buy the Serpentine River for a (irand Junction Temperance Cemetery. Brown, ^^^lat! so many watery graves? Smoke. Yes, sir, with floating tombstones. Here 's the prospectus. Look here; surmounted by a hyacinth — the very emblem of temperance — a hyacinth flowering in the limpid flood. Now, if you don't feel equal to the Inciters — I know his lordship's goodness, — he '11 give you up the cemetery. {Aside to Chatham) A family vault as a bonus to the chairman. Sir Ph. Wliat a beautiful subject for a speech! Water-lilies and aquatic plants gemming the translucent crystal, shells of rainbow brightness, a constant supply of gold and silver fish, with the right of angling secured to shareholders. The extent of the river being necessarily limited, will render lying there so select, so very respectable. In Retired from Business, we have an amusing picture of a shopkeeper colony in the village of Pump- kinfield. Mr. Pennyweight, a retired gi^een - grocer in comfortable circumstances, on settling down in the village with his family, is informed, by Mr. Puffins, -the great Russia merchant," that society in Pumpkin- field consists of two classes, the billocracy and the tillocracy, the former comprising the aristocratic traders who had enjoyed a bank-credit and drawn bills of ex- change, the latter including the plebeian retailers who had no other bank than the till, or money -drawer in the shop-counter. "The counting-house," says Mr. Puf- fins, "knows not the shop. The wholesale merchant never crosses the till." In spite of this strict line of demarcation, however, there are presumptuous persons, like the retired pawnbroker Jubilee, who are always pushing themselves in the circle of the billocrats, and are too cool and self-possessed to be easily snubbed. Mr. Jubilee one day takes occasion to tell his acquain- tances, how hard he finds it to forget the palmy days when he dwelt beneath the shadow of the golden balls: Jubilee. Beg pardon, but the shop will rise. Though we are retired from business, business wiU come back to us. I dare say now, on winter nights, when you 're looking at the candles, — 218 — your thoughts will smell the dear old Russia tallow, eh? And you, Mr. Creepmouse; when in your walks you see the bright poppies among the corn, doesn 't your heart melt again towards the soldiers' coats — the scarlet cloth you 've made your money on? To be sure; nature, even in an army tailor, will work. I know by myself. — For, last week there was a party at the Sycamores. — Very fine folks. Breaking up -- night air cold: a lady — sweet woman — gave me her shawl to wrap about her: such a lovely cachemere! Took my thoughts back in a minute behind the counter. Well, still looking at the shawl, the lady still waiting, and never dreaming where I was. would you think it, I asked — ''What on this?" Poor Mr. Jubilee is persecuted by the attentions of Miss Chipp, an elderly milliner, who aspires to be the second Mrs. Jubilee. Having caught a glimpse of the recalcitrant lover at the Pennyweights' door, Miss Chipp resolves on a visit to the new-comers. Mrs. Pennyweight, or as she now aspii^es to be called, Mrs. Fitzpenny weight, receives the milliner very coldly, but all the ice soon thaws, when Miss Chipp proceeds to speak of the distinguished families, with whom she represents herself as on terms of intimacy: Miss Chipp. Happy, me'm, to meet you. {Aside.) He 's in the garden. Mrs. Penny. You 're very good, ma'am. (Aside.) She talks retail; her mouth looks like a till. But no — tmst me! -- she doesn't sit down in my house. Miss Chipp. Nice place, Pumpkinfield; the name odd. flight be prettier with another name. Mrs. Penny. Yes, Miss Chipp; perhaps some places, like some people, would be very glad to change their names. Miss Chipp. He! he! Change? No doubt; and some people do change — do — do — Mrs. Fitzpennyweight. Mrs. Penny. [Aside.) Oh! if she 's coming to insinuations, I should think I could match her there. (Aloud.) The fact is, ma'am — Miss Chipp. I ought to apologize. But I thought, as there was a slight tie between us — I may say, a little cobweb tie, that Mrs. Penny. I for myself, ma'am, don't encourage cobwebs. Miss Chipp. You see, my dear friend, Lady Buckle — Mrs. Penny. Who? Miss Chipp. Lady Buckle, the cousin of the charming Countess de Crochet, whose niece, the Marchioness of Odonto — the sister- in-law of that sparkling creature, the Duchess of Macassar - — 219 — Mrs. Pennj'. [Who has drawn down a chair.) And I vow, you 're standiiio! l^ray take a cliair. Miss Chipp, >[i8S Chipp. You 're very good. {They sit) I vras about to say — hid! where did I begin? Mrs. Penny. At the tie between us, at that dear little cobweb. Miss Chipp. Tme. Well, Lady Buckle has a little jo^rl at Calais, at the same school with your Kitty; and hearing that your daughter was come home, I wished to enquire about the child, because I promised to write to poor Lady Buckle, who is anxious that the countess should communicate with the marchioness, in order that her grace the duchess may have the first intelli- gence. And I thought that — pray pardon me, the tie — the — he! he! — the — excuse me — the cobweb — Mrs. Penny. A cobweb, ma'am, I 'm proud to be in. Miss Chipp. Already my friends have heard of your sweet child, Miss Pennyweight — pardon me — Miss Fitzpenny weight : — by the way, you 've lately had an increase in your family name? Mrs. Penny. Ye — es. Miss Chipp. Have you not j^et been in the Gazette? Mrs. Penny. 3Ia'am! Miss Chipp. xUways done. To pass a new name without the cro>Mi stamp, isn't a bit more reputable than to pass counter- feit money. Mrs. Penny. {Aside.) La ! I shall never hear the name without thinking myself a pocket-piece. I '11 stop this. {Aloud.) Pray,, ma'am, do you know a person called Jubilee — a pawnbroker? Miss Chipp. I knew his wife. And though she did marry a tradesman, I must say it, I stood by her to the last. Mrs. Penny. Really? Miss Chipp. For Emma was such a fairy: but, dear Mrs. Fitz- penny weight, can you imagine a fairy at a pawnbroker's? Mrs. Pen n y. I shudder at the recollec — at the idea of it. One of the best characters is Lieutenant Tackle, an old sailor who has taken to gardening. Though not very successful in his new pursuit, he gives young Woodburn his notion of what an average crop of fruit should be: Tackle. Do you know what I 'm on the look-out for? Woodburn. Snails? Tackle, Snails! No — though they 're the plague of my heart. Snails ! I don't grudge 'em what they eat, for we all must live — but, damn 'em, it 's what they spoil. Wood. And how thrives your garden, Lieutenant? Tackle. Capital! In another year or two I shall eat my own radishes. And what a season we shall have for cherries, to be sure! Wood. Enough, eh? — 220 — Tackle. Why, in the matter of cherries, plums, apples, and such like, enough isn't enough — if it isn't enough three times over. Wood. Three times? Tackle. Yes. Enough for the birds, enough for the boys, and enough for the master. That 's what 1 call an average crop. In his youth, Mr. Jerrold was for some time a midshipman aboard the Ernest gun -brig, which will partly explain the happy knack he possessed in di-awing sailors' characters. Among his other successful pieces we shall mention, Nell Gwynne, the Rent Day (founded on Sir David A¥ilkie's two celebrated pictures), the Prisoner of War, Time works Wonders, and Heart of Gold. All these are rich in shrewd drollery and pungent wit, dashed here and there with a flash of poetry. Thus, in the Prisoner of War, Captain Channel, reproving his daughter for wasting her time in reading trashy, sensational novels, says: When I was young, girls used to read Pilgrim's Progress, Jeremy Taylor, and such books of innocence ; now young ladies know the ways of Newgate as well as the turnkeys. These books gave girls hearty, healthy food; now, silly things, like larks in cages, they live upon hemp-seed; and in Time woi^ks Wonders we find: Florentine. Oh, sir, the magic of five long years! We paint Time with glass and scythe — should he not carry harlequin's own wand? for, oh, indeed. Time's changes! Clarence. Are they, in truth, so verj^ great? Flor. Greater than harlequin's; but then Time works them with so gTave a face, that even the hearts he alters doubt the change, though often turned from very flesh to stone. Clar. Time has its bounteous changes too; and sometimes to the sweetest bud will give an imimagined beauty in the flower. John Poole. Mr. Poole, the popular dramatist, was born in 1792, and his first piece, entitled Who's who ? was performed at Drury Lane Theatre so early as 1815. From that year till the time of his death (about 1871) he produced, besides numerous contributions to the Magazines, a large number of dramatic pieces, including i)eaf as a Post, — 221 — Paul Pryy Simpson and Co., Turning the Tables, Patrician and Parvenu, Matchmaking , and 'Twixt the Cup and the Lip. The two iirst-named pieces belong- to the greatest theatrical hits of the day, and their success was con- finned by the admirable acting- of Mr. liston in the respective characters of Tristram Sappy and Paul Pry. YroTSL tlie New Monthly Magazine we learn that the idea of the caracter of Paul Pry was suggested to Mr. Poole by an intimate friend, the original being an idle and inquisitive old lady living in his neighbourhood, but the dramatist, wishing to avoid personalities, decided on taking a man as the representative of a class. The plot to a certain point is the same as that of the Vieux CMibataire of Collin Hai'leville ; and, like the hero of the H'rench piece, Witherton the old bachelor is governed and bamboozled by two tyi-annical and artful domestics, who intercept his nephew's letters. vSo far only does Mr. Poole follow the French writer; for lie brings about a satisfactory denouement at last exclusively by means of the continual intrusions and indiscretions of Paul Pry. Mr. Poole says of the piece : "it is original in stmcture, plot. chara(;ter and dialogue, such as they are. The only imitation 1 am aware of, is to be found in part of the business in which Mrs. Subtle (the house- keeper) is engaged." Simpson and Co. is a highly amusing piece. The senior partner, a steady -going elderly business man, has a wife who is jealous without a shadow of reason, while the junior partner, a gay, flirting young husband, is blessed with a most confiding and unsuspicious con- sort. An accidental exchange of pocket-books between the partners, and the discovery of a woman's portrait by the jealous elder lady in the one which is moment- arily in possession of her husband, gives rise to the most comic situations and the drollest quiproguos. In Patrician and Parvenu, two characters are pre- sented to us in strong contrast with each other, the real man of quality. Sir Osbaldiston de Mowbray, Bart., and the former cheesemonger. Sir Timothy Stilton, Knight. The plot is made up of a series of amusing — 222 — misunderstandings, which for a time create inextricable confusion, and cause a constant and lively though accidental, and on the part of the baronet displeasing intercourse, between the refined Patrician and the ig- norant and presumptuous Parvenu. Of Paul Pry there is another version, which has appeared under the name of Douglas Jerrold, but it diifers considerably from the original piece by Mr. Poole. Charles Reade. - Tom Taylor. Charles Reade, the novelist, has dramatised two of his own novels, It*s never too late to mend, and Put yourself in his Place. Mr. Reade was born at Ipsden House, Oxfordshire, in 1814, and after studying at Cambridge, was called to the bar in 1843, but soon abandoned the law to devote himself to literature. When the first of these pieces, in which the author exposes the cruelties inflicted on prisoners by tyrannical governors of gaols, was produced at the Princess's Theatre, a dramatic critic, called Tomlins, rose and protested against the exaggeration of the play, a step which led to a violent discussion between him and Mr. Reade in the newspapers. The other piece, Put yourself in his Place, depicts the struggles of a skilled workman to rise in the world, and the persecution he suffers from certain Trades' Unions, to which he has become ob- noxious. Both these dramas were successful on the stage. Mr. Reade likewise wrote several dramatic pieces in conjunction with Mr. Tom Taylor, the best of which was entitled Masks and Faces. He died in 1884. Mr. Tom Taylor, born in Sunderland in the year 1817, is the author of the dramas: Joan of Arc, 'Twixt Axe and Croum, and the FooVs Revenge; besides the amusing comedies, the contested Election, an unequal Match, Still Waters are deep, the Overland Route, and some other pieces. A parlamentary election in the little town of Flamborough forms the subject of the first- i' — 223 — named of these comedies. Mr. Honeybim, a retired grocer, fond of liis ease, is pushed forward as a can- didate, very much against his will, by his ambitious wife and the intriguing attorney Dodgson. Perhaps the best scene is where two deputations — one from each of the two political parties that divide the borough — arrive at the same moment to worry the perplexed Honeybun with teasing and embarrassing questions ; but Dodgson with great dexterity always intervenes to spare him the necessity of attempting explanations: (Enter the two deputations. Spitchcock heads the one, Gathercole the other, /oUotced by Cratcley, Coppertkwaite, Oldwinkle. and Electors, shown in by James and another Servant, who place chairs on each side of stage.) I'odc^son. Pray be seated, gentlemen. Chahs for the deputation, James, (introducing) Mr. Honeybun, Mr. Gathercole — the enlightened editor of the Flamborough Beacon; Mr. Spitchcock, editor and proprietor of the Flamborough Patriot; Mr. Copperthwaite , Mr, Crawley. Mr. Oldwinkle, and other influential members of the constituency (they all sit). Mr. Honeybun is most anxious to give the fullest explanation in answer to any questions you may put to him; at the same time, he claims the right to maintain that reserve which befits one about to enter on the arduous and responsible duty of legislation. Now, gentlemen. pitch. At the same time, Mr. Honeybun can scarcely deny that to put an end to the sports of the field would be to discourage manly activity; to remove a great inducement to resident owner- ship ; and to largely diminish a wholesome, a favourite, and a succulent article of culinary consumption. Do>d. Ml*. Honeybun would be the last man to deny conclusions which, thus stated, must commend themselves to the meanest capacity. Hon. To the meanest capacity. Cop. How about Church-rates? Craw. Ought refreshments to be allowed to voters? Dod. Really, gentlemen, Mr. Honeybun cannot be expected to answer you all at once ; but one of your questions he did catch distinctly: whether refreshments ought to be allowed to voters? a question he is prepared to answer with equal dis^tinctness, by requesting that you will do him the honour of partaking of lunch, which you will find ready in the dining-room. Omnes. Hear, hear. Gather. He's very kind, I'm sure. What do you say, Spitchcock ? ISpitch. With all my heart. Political differences should never narrow the field of social intercourse. C'raw. Well, I must say, Mr. Honeybun, you've met us as fair and pleasant as any gentleman could, and we shall be proud and happy to drink your very good health, sir ; and success to your election, sir. (They all rise.) Cop. And I only wish I could be a deputation every day of the week to hear such a werry satisfactory statement of opinions as you've guv' us this morning. Dod. (showing them out.) This way, gentlemen — (Exit deputatioUy Dodgson rmhing hack to Honeybun.) My dear sir, you managed them beautifully. The subject of "An unequal Match" is the marriage of a man of rank, Sir Harry Arncliffe, with Hester 15 — 226 ~ Grazebrook, a blacksmith's handsome daughter, and the intrigues of Mrs. Montressor, an envious coquettish widow, to mar their domestic happiness. Sir Harrj* is for a time deceived by the artifices of the widow, whom he takes for his sincere friend, but Hester is more clear-sighted. The following encounter between the two ladies will remind the reader of that "thrust-and- parry" wit, of which Sheridan was such a master: Mrs. M n t r e s s or. Oh, my dear Lady Arncliffe, I should apologise for playmg truant so long- this morning; but I find that you have been very naughty, too. Hester. Did Sir Harry complain of me to you? Mrs. M. Oh, no; he knows I always take your part. Hester. You take my part! Mrs. M. Yes; men are so unreasonable, they never will make allowances. Hester. Few women like to admit that they require them. Mrs. M. As I tell him; when he has picked a cowslip, it is most mifair to be angry that it is not an exotic. You wild flowers have quite advantages enough over us poor sickly products of the conservatory without insisting on adding our cultivated graces to your native freshness. For my part, I adore wild flowers. I dare say now, my dear Lady Arncliffe, you wouldn't believe me if I confessed to you that I envy you terribly. Hester. You could tell me few things, Mrs. Montressor, that would less surprise me. Mrs. M. Satirical, eh? Oh fie! Pray, my dear, don't try to teach that innocent little tongue of yours the art of stabbing; leave that to women of the Avorld. Hester. I know I am no match for you in the power of inflicting pain. M r s. M. Take care ! Tliat's an admission of inferiority. The power of inflicting pain is generally proportionate to the capacity for giving pleasure. Hester. Then you must have a good deal of that capacity, Mrs. Montressor. Mrs. M. Well, I think, without flattering myself, I have a fair share; that is, if the lords of the creation may be believed. Hester. Even I have heard of the numbers you have enslaved. Mrs. M. You are complimentary. I suppose Sir Harry has given you a sad idea of me. But a rejected admirer, you know, dear, is not always to be relied on. Of course, you are aware 1 refused him? Hester. I have heard so. Mrs. M. By -the -by, it was just before we met him at your father's. Hester. And when my father saved your life. — 227 — Mrs. M. Precisel}^; your family is so muscular. By-the-way, I hear the worthy old man has paid you a visit. How delighted Sir Harry must be to see him. What a refreshing contrast to everything- round about him; and how amusingly embarrassed he'll be in the midst of your new splendour ! Hester {rising.) My father, Mrs. Montressor, is a homely, but an honest man: if he is embarrassed, it must be from contact with hypocrisy, heartlessness, and affectation. Mrs. M. (rising.) Our friends in the breakfast -room may share that amongst them. But I admire you firing up for your father, and I'll take care to remember that pretty sentence of yours in case Sir Harry should appeal to me on the subject. Hester. My husband appeal to you! Mrs. M. Poor fellow! old associations are so strong. He will not forget that I've no longer any right to be his confidante. Hester. Have you done your best to make him forget it? Have you not rather tried to bring him once more to your feet? to rivet afresh the broken chain? Mrs. M. That metaphor is too strong of the forge for you to venture upon, my dear Lady Arncliffe. As for my influence with Sir Harry, it's perhaps lucky for you that I'm not quite so eager for conquest as you fancy. Did I rate my own fascinations so highly I might be tempted to hold up my finger and see if he would follow. A man must have some woman who understands him and the way of his world. There are social as well as personal sympathies ; you know he cannot find both in you. Hester (loitk a strong effort.) All that woman can contribute to man's happiness I claim to give my husband, and I alone. I was happy till you came here; my husband never blushed for me till you taught him, but now there is a cloud between us that darkens our happy home — it is you who have raised it. Mrs. Montressor, there must be no disguise between us now — this house is no place for you and me together. I am its mistress ! Mrs. M. Unluckily it was Sir Harry who invited me. You had better ask him to give me my conge, and tell him the reason. Hester. Take care! Shall I tell him that the woman he had invited here to be his wife's friend and example had used her time to poison the wife's faith, to undermine the husband's love? He might blame me for being jealous; he must despise you, because you are treacherous and base. Mrs. M. And yet you fear me. Hester. Only while you wear your mask. If I tear it off you are harmless. Mrs. M. Lady Arncliffe, is this defiance? Hester. No, Mrs. Montressor; it is detection! {Exit Hester.) 15* 228 Thomas William Robertson. Mr. Robertson, born in 1839 at Newark-on-Trent, Nottinghamshire, the son of an actor and an actor himself, is the author of Ours, Society, School, Play, Caste, and some other pieces, which are all neatly and ingeniously constructed, but not remarkable for strength, pathos or humour. Mr. Eobertson, who is married to a German lady, spent some time in Germany, and it was from a play then popular on the German stage, called Aschenbrodel, that he got the first idea of School. When the last-named piece was produced in London, the author was assailed in an angry letter in the Tiines as a plagiarist; but his defence was undertaken by Mr. John Oxenford, who showed that the piece had been so much altered and made so thoroughly English, by Mr. Eobertson, that it had just claims to be con- sidered a new play. Ours (that is. Our RegimentJ has a plot based on the Crimean War, and was made po- pular by the three leading characters: Mary Nesley, a light-hearted young girl, strong in her own innocence; Hugh M'Alister, an amiable male flirt, given to verse- making ; and Sergeant Jones, the honest and affectionate soldier. But Mr. Eobertson's most popular production is his three-act comedy. Society. We subjoin the capital scene, in which the vulgar but wealthy upstart, Mr. John Chodd, does his utmost to entice the impecunious young barrister, Sidney Daryl, to introduce him into the circles to which his riches have hitherto proved no passport: Chodd, jmi. Business is business — so I'd best begin at once. The present age is, as you are aware — a practical age. I come to the point — it's my way. Capital commands the world. The capitalist commands capital, therefore the capitalist com- mands the world. Sidney. But you don't quite conmiand the world, do you? Chodd, jun. Practically, I do. I wish for the highest honours — I bring out my cheque-book.*) I want to get into the House of Commons — cheque-book. I want the best legal opinion in the House of Lords — cheque-book. The best house — ') A book containing blank money-orders on a bank. — 229 — cheque-book. The best turn-out — cheque-book. The best friends, the best wife, the best-trained children — cheque-book, cheque-book, and cheque-book. Sidney. You mean to say with money you can purchase any- thing ? C h d d , jun. Exactly. This life is a matter of bargain. Sidney. But "honour, love, obedience, troops of friends." Chodd, jun. Can buy 'em all, sir, in lots as at an auction. Sidney. Love, too? Chodd, jun. Marriage means a union mutually advantageous. It is a civil contract like a partnership. Sidney. And the old-fashioned virtues of honour and chivalry? Chodd, jun. Honour means not being a bankrupt. I know nothing at all about chivalry, and I don't want to. Sidney. Well, yours is quite a new creed to me, and I confess I don't like it. Chodd, jun. The currency, sir, converts the most hardened sceptic. I see by the cards on your glass that you go out a good deal. Sidney. Go out? Chodd, jun. Yes, to parties {looking at cards on table.) There's my Lady this , and the Countess t'other , and Mrs. somebody else. Now that's what I want to do. Sidney. Go into society? Chodd, jun. Just so. You had money once, hadn't you? Sidney. Yes. Chodd, jun. What did you do with it? Sidney. Spent it. Chodd, jun. And you've been in the army? Sidney. Yes. Chodd, jun. Infantry? Sidney. Cavalry. Chodd, jun. Dragoons? Sidney. Lancers. Chodd, jim. How did you get out of it? Sidney. Sold out.*) Chodd, jun. Then you were a first-rate fellow, till you tumbled dowTi ? Sidney. Tumbled down! Chodd, jun. Yes, to what you are. Chodd, jun. As I was saying, you know lots *) of people at clubs, and in society. Sidney. Yes. Chodd, jun. Titles and Honourables, and Captains, and that. Sidney. Yes. *) English officers were formerly permitted to sell their com- missions on retiring from the service. *) A familiar word, meaning ''a great number." — 230 — Chodd, jun. Tiptoppers*) [after a pause.) You're not well off? Sidney (getting serious.) No. C h d d , jun. I am. I've heaps of brass. ^) Now I have what you haven't, and I haven't what you have. You've got what I want, and I've got w^hat you want. That's logic, isn't it? Sidney (gravely.) What of it? C h d d , jun. This : suppose we exchange or barter. You help me to get into the company of men with titles , and women with titles; swells,^) you know, real uns, and all that. Sidney. Yes. Chodd, jun. And I'll write you a cheque for any reasonable sum you like to name. * * * Sidney. Mr. Chodd, I cannot entertain youi* very commercial pro- position. My friends are my friends; they are not marketable commodities. I regret that I can be of no assistance to you. With your appearance, manners, and cheque-book, you are sure to make a circle of your own. Chodd, jun. You refuse, then — Sidney. Absolutely. Good morning. Other dramatic Writers. Mr. Leigh Hunt produced, in 1840, a play called a Legend of Florence, in which the part of the heroine — a wife buried while in a trance , who , on escaping* from the tomb, is disowned by her husband — was performed with great applause by Miss Ellen Tree (afterwards Mrs. Charles Kean); and in 1858, a year before the author's death, another piece of his, called Lovers Amazements, was brought successfully on the stage. Several dramas have been also written by Dr. Westland Marston. One of these, the Patricians Daughter, a love-tale, in which the hero is a poor but rising young politician, and the heroine the daughter of a nobleman and minister of state, was brought into high favour with the public by the admirable acting of Miss Helen Faucit. The Heart of the World, and a tragedy called Strathmore, obtained, on the other hand, a very moderate success. In his latest dramatic work. Under Fire, Dr. ') Slang for "people of rank." ^) Slang term for "money." ') Dandies, or people in good society. — 231 — Marston introduces us to a lady in liigli life, who having begun her career as a public concert-singer, is morbidly sensitive to the faintest allusion to professional musi- cians, and this is the pivot on which a rather meagre plot turns. Mr. Mark Lemon, Mr. Gilbert Abbot a Beckett, and Mr. Shirley Brooks, all wrote farces and little comedies, but they gained their literary laurels chiefly as contributors to the London Punch. Mr. Wilkie Collins produced two sensational dramas, the Light -house and the Frozen Deep. The last-named piece, in which a young naval officer, who has joined a polar expedition, discovers in a sick and helpless comrade his detested, though till then unknown rival, but overcome by pity and a sense of duty, rescues him from certain death at the cost of his own life, met with an enthusiastic reception from the public; to which, it must be con- fessed, such accessories as the grand and wonderful Arctic scenery, with its glaciers, icebergs, and snow- peaks, not a little contributed. Mr. Blanche has wiitten some good pieces, particularly an historical comedy, called Charles XIL The scene is the island of Rligen, and the date is the time of Charles's hasty return, under a borrowed name, from Bender in Turkey. Mr. Pinero's principal work is the Money - Spinner , a piece wdth two interesting and amusing characters, a French detective officer and the eccentric Baron Croodle. Mr. Buckstone, Mr. Charles Matthews the younger, Mr. Howard Paul, Mr. Dion Bourcicault, and Mr. J. Oxenford, have successfully imitated or adapted several pieces by French dramatists. The two last -mentioned writers have also produced in collaboration the text of a highly successful opera, entitled the Lily of Killamey^ founded on Gerald Griffin's fine novel, the Collegians, and set to music by the late Sir Julius Benedict. Mr. Brough, Mr. Leman Rede, Mr. Fitzball, Mr. Coyne, and Mr. Sul- livan have likewise written several dramas, comedies or farces greeted with an ephemeral success, but of which very few seem likely to secure a permanent place on the stage or in the annals of English literature. AMERICAN POETS AND DRAMATISTS. In every work on English literature in the Victorian Age. an honourable place must be assigned to those American writers who during the same period have so well sustained the poetical reputation of their country. Not only are their productions English, in the sense of being composed in the English language, but some of them were originally published by their authors in Lon- don, while many others appeared simultaneously in England and America ; hence no mean portion of modern American literature has been, so to speak, naturalized on English soil. The most esteemed American poets belong to the lyrical school. Didactic poetry is less cultivated in America ; and though a few poems — especially Long- fellow's longer ones — have been called epics, nothing as yet has been produced in America which European critics would regard as a true epic poem. In dramatic composition, too, America has achieved but little. Hill- house, Longfellow, Bayard Taylor, and some other poets, have no doubt written dramas, but still America cannot yet boast of a great dramatist, and the repertoire of the American theatres is on the whole identical with that of the English stage. In the space at our disposal, we cannot pretend to do more than offer the reader a summary of the most noted American writers, in tliis department of literature, who were still writing in 1837, or have since then appeared, giving at the same time a few selected specimens from their works. We shall begin with 234 E. A. Poe. The unfortunate genius, Edgar Allan Poe, was born in Baltimore, in January 1811. His father, David Poe, was for some years a law-student, but having made the acquaintance of a young English actress, called Elizabeth Arnold, he married her, and became an actor himself. About seven years later, they both died, within a few weeks of each other, leaving three children quite unprovided for. Edgar, the second of the family, was adopted by a wealthy and benevolent merchant, Mr. John Allan, who was married but childless. In 1816, this gentleman took young Poe with him to Eng- land, and put him to school at Stoke Newington, near London. When the lad returned to America in 1822, he for some time attended an academy in Richmond, and then went to the University at Charlottesville, where he fell into that dissipated course of life, from which he never afterwards could be reclaimed. Manners at Charlottesville were generally dissolute, but of all the students Poe was the wildest and the most reckless. Being desirous of embracing the military profession, he was sent by his kind patron, Mr. Allan, to West Point Academy, but though at first a favourite with the professors and the other cadets, he soon renewed his irregularities, and ten months after his matriculation was expelled from the institution. In the mean time Mr. Allan had re-married, and when he died in 1834, he left three children to inherit his property, and bequeathed nothing to his former proUge. From 1834 to 1837 Poe wrote for the Southern Literary Messenger in Richmond, and during this time he married his cousin, Virginia Klemm. She was as poor as himself, but he was warmly attached to her, and by her patience and tenderness she exercised a salutary influence on lier unfortunate husband till her death in 1846. The poet lias immortalized her in his beautiful poem, Annabel Lee. 'I^hree years later — on the 7 th Oct. 1849, Poe died of delirium tremens in a Baltimore hospital, at the age of thirty-eight. The most characteristic of Poe's poems is probably the gloomy and fantastic Raven, though we confess we have never read it with pleasure. Sitting alone in his chamber in "bleak December," the poet hears a tapping at his window lattice, and on opening tlie shutter there steps in "a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore." This "ebony bird" perches on a bust of Pallas, and in reply to the questions or thoughts of his host, croaks forth the same ill-omened reply, "Nevermore!" Passing over these sombre verses, we select as our specimens one of Poe's most varied and powerful poems, and the sweet and tender lines to which we have already alluded; both of which have been set to music by Balfe, the composer of the Bohemian Girl. THE BELLS. Hear the sledges with the bells — Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme. To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells — From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 11. Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens while she gloats On the moon! — 236 — Oh, from out the soundings cells, What a gush of euphony voluptuously wells! How it swells How it dwells On the Future! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the beUs, bells, bells, bells, BeUs, bells, bells ~ To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! III. Hear the loud alarum bells — Brazen bells! What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells ! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the mad and frantic fire Leaping higher, higher, higher. With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavour Now — now to sit or never. By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of Despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar. What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear it fully knows By the twanging. And the clanging. How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells In the jangling, And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells Of tlie bells — Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells — In the clamour and the clangour of the bells! 237 IV. Hear the tolling of the bells — Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of tlie night, How we shiver with aftright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust witliin their throats Is a groan. And the people — all, the people — They that dwell up in the steeple All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone. Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone — They are neither man nor woman — They are neither brute nor human — They are Ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls. Rolls A paean from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells ! And he dances, and he yells; Keeping time, time, time. In a sort of Runic rhyme To the paean of the bells — Of the bells: Keeping time, time, time. In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells — Of the bells, bells, bells. To the sobbing of the bells ; Keeping time, time, time. As he knells, knells, knells. In a happy Runic rhyme To the rolling of the bells — Of the bells, bells, bells — To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells — To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. — 238 — ANNABEL LEE. It was many and many a year ago. In a kingdom by the sea/) That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea: But we loved with a love that was more than love — I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her high-born kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me — Yes ! — that was the reason, (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we — Of many far wiser than we — And neither the angels in heaven above. Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea, ti^ In her tomb by the sounding sea. ') Virginia, or "the Old Dominion," originally colonized under the auspices of Queen Elizabeth, is here poetically called "a king- dom by the sea." — 239 — Notwithstanding his infirmities, Poe had many warm and staunch friends, among whom were Mr. N. P. Willis (author of Pencillings by the Way) ^ and the poetess, Mrs. Frances Osgood. This lad}^ said of him. in a letter to a friend, "I can sincerely say, that al- though I have frequently heard of aberrations on his part from 'the straight and narrow path,' I have never seen him otherwise than gentle, generous, well-bred, and fastidiously reiined. To a sensitive and delicately nurtured woman, there was a peculiar and irresistible charm in the chivalric, gi'aceful, and almost tender reverence with which he invariably approached all women who won his respect. It was this which first commanded and afterwards retained my regard for him." H. R. Dana. Henry Richard Dana (1787 — 1879), born at Cam- bridge, Massachusetts, is the author of the Buccaneer and other poems. The hero of the Buccaneer is a certain Matthew Lee, whose evil conscience continually conjures up before his mental vision the phantoms of the victims of his avarice and cruelty. In all proba- bility the poem was suggested by Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, to which it has many points of resemblance. At the end of the poem the pirate is carried away b}' a spectre horse, which he feels himself mysteriously impelled to bestride, and from whose nostrils "streams a deathly light," which — lights the sea around their track — The curling comb and dark steel wave; There yet sits Lee the spectre's back — Gone! gone! and none to save! They're seen no more; the night has shut them in; May Heaven have pity on thee, man of sin! As a more pleasing specimen of Mr. Dana's poetical style, we shall quote his verses on — 240 — THE POWER OF THE SOUL. ' Life in itself, it life to all things gives; For whatsoe'er it looks on, that thing lives. Becomes an acting being, ill or good; And, grateful to its giver, tenders food For the Soul's health, or suffering change unblest, Pours poison down to rankle in the breast. As is the man, e'en so it bears its part And answers, thought to thought, and heart to heart. Yes, man reduplicates himself. You see In yonder lake, reflected rock and tree. Each leaf at rest, or quivering in the air, Now rests, now stirs, as if a breeze were there, Sweeping the crystal depths. How perfect all! And see those slender top -boughs rise and fall; The double strips of silvery sand unite Above, below, each grain distinct and bright. — Thou bird, that seek'st thy food upon that bougli, Peck not alone; that bird below, as thou, Is busy after food, and happy too; — They're gone! Both, pleased, away together fleAv. And see we thus sent up, rock, sand, and wood, Life, joy, and motion, from the sleepy flood? The world, man, is like that flood to thee: Turn where thou wilt, thyself in all tilings see Reflected back. As drives the blinding sand Round Egypt's piles, where'er thou tak'st thy stand. If that thy heart be barren, there will sweep The drifting waste, like waves along the deep, Fill up the vale, and choke the laughing streams That run by grass and brake, with dancing beams. Sear the fresh woods, and from thy heavy eye Veil the wide-shifting glories of the sky. And one still, sightless level make the earth, Like thy dull lonely, joyless Soul, — a dearth. The rill is tuneless to his ear, who feels No harmony within; the south wind steals. As silent as unseen, amongst the leaves. Who has no inward beauty, none perceives. Though all around is beautiful. Nay, more, — In nature's calmest hour he hears the roar Of winds and flinging waves, — puts out the liglit. When high and angry passions meet in flight, And, his own spirit into tumult hurled, He makes a turmoil of a quiet world: — 241 — The fiends of his own bosom people air With kindred fiends, that hunt him to despair. Hates he his fellow-men? Why, then he deems 'Tis hate for hate. — As he, so each one seems. Soul! fearful is thy power, which thus transforms All things into its likeness: heaves in storms The strong, proud sea, or lays it down to rest, Like the hushed infant on its mother's breast, — Which gives each outward circumstance its hue, And shapes all others' acts and thoughts anew, That so, they joy, or love, or hate impart. As joy, love, hate, holds rale within the heart. 0. W. Holmes. Oliver Wendell Holmes was born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1809. After studying first law and then medicine at Harvard University, he visited Europe in 1833. In 1840 he obtained the chair of anatomy and physiology in Cambridge. "His fancy teems," says the North-American Review j "with bright and appropriate images, and these are woven into his plan usually witli exquisite finish and grace. His artistic merits are very great; his versification is never slovenly, nor his diction meagre or coarse; and many of his shorter pieces are inwrought with so much fire and imagination, as to rank among our best lyrics." Between 1843 and 1850 Mr. Holmes published three poems, respectively entitled Terpsichore, Urania, and Astraea, the Balance of Allu- sions; and in 1858 he produced a series of agreeable and humorous essays, with the title, the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. Of his more serious style of poetry we give two samples, the first of which was written at a time when it was proposed to break up and sell the materials of the old frigate Constitution. OLD IRONSIDES. Ay, tear her tatter'd ensign down! Long has it waved on high; And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; 16 — 242 — Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon's roar; — The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more! Her deck, — once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, And waves were wMte below, — No more shall feel the victor's tread Or know the conquer'd knee; The hai-pies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea! Oh! better that her shatter'd hulk Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave: Nail to the mast her holy flag. Set every threadbare sail; And give her to the god of storms, The lightning and the gale! THE STEAMBOAT. See how yon flaming herald treads The ridged and rolling waves. As crashing o'er their crested heads. She bows her surly slaves! With foam before and fire behind, She rends the clinging sea. That flies before the roaring wind. Beneath her hissing lee. The morning spray, like sea-born flowers, With heap'd and glistening bells. Falls round her fast in ringing showers, With every wave that swells; And, flaming o'er the midnight deep. In lurid fringes thrown. The living gems of ocean sweep Along her flashing zone. With clashing wheel, and lifted keel, And smoking torch on high, When winds are loud, and billows reel She thunders foaming by! A\Tien seas are silent and serene, With even beam she glides. The sunshine glimmering through the green That skirts her gleaming sides. — 243 — Now, like a wild nymph, far apart She veils her shadowy form, The beating of her restless heart Still sounding through the storm; Now answers, like a worthy dame, The reddening surges o'er, With flying scarf of spargled flame, The Pharos of the shore. To-night yon pilot shall not sleep, Who trims his narrow'd sail; To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep Her broad breast to the gale; And many a foresail scoop'd and strain'd. Shall break from yard and stay Before this smoky wreath has stain'd The rising mist of day. Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud, I see yon quivering mast; The black throat of the hunted cloud Is panting forth the blast! An hour, and whirl'd like winnowing chaff, The giant surge shall fling His tresses o'er yon pennon-staif, "White as the sea-bird's wing. Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep; Nor wind nor wave shall tire Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap With floods of living fire; Sleep on — and when the morning light Streams o'er the shining bay, Oh, think of those for whom the night Shall never wake in day! To his lighter style belong the verses: OUR YANKEE GIRLS. Let greener lands and bluer skies, If such the wide world shows, With fairer cheeks and brighter eyes Match us the star and rose: The winds that lift the Georgian's veil Or wave Cir cassia's curls Waft to their shores the sultan's sail, — Who buys our Yankee girls? 16* — 244 — The gay grisette, whose fingers touch Love's thousands chords so well; The dark Italian, loving much, But more than one can tell; And England's fair-haired, blue-eyed dame» Who binds her brow with pearls ; — Ye, who have seen them, can they shame Our own sweet Yankee girls? And what if court or castle vaunt Its children loftier born? Who heeds the silken tassel's flaunt Beside the golden com? They ask not for the dainty toil Of ribboned knights and earls, The daughters of the virgin soil, Our free-bom Yankee girls! By every hill whose stately pines Wave their dark arms above The home where some fair being shines, To warm the wilds with love; From barest rock to bleakest shore Where farthest sail unfurls. That stars and stripes are streaming o'er — God bless our Yankee girls! Of Holmes's humorous poetry, the following is a good specimen: CONTENTMENT. Little I ask; my wants are few; I only wish a hut of stone, (A very plain brown stone will do), That I may call my own; — And close at hand is such a one, In yonder street that fronts the sun. Plain food is quite enough for me; Three courses are as good as ten; If Nature can subsist on three. Thank Heaven for three Amen! I always thought cold victual nice, — My choice would be vanilla-ice. I care not much for gold or land; — Give me a mortgage here and there. Some good bank-stock, some note of hand,') Or trifling railroad-share, — ') In German, Schuldschein. -> 245 — I only ask that Fortune send A little more than I shall spend. Honours are silly toys, I know, And titles are but empty names; I would, perhaps, be Plenipo — But only near St. James;*) I'm very sure I should not care To fill our Gubemator's chair.*) Jewels are baubles; 'tis a sin To care for such unfruitful things; One good-sized diamond in a pin, Some, not so large, in rings, A ruby, and a pearl, or so, Will do for me; I laugh at show. My dame should dress in cheap attire (Good, heavy silks are never dear); I own perhaps I might desire Some shawls of true Cashmere, — Some marrowy crapes of China silk. Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk. Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn, Nor ape the glittering upstart fool; Shall not carved tables serve my turn. But all must be of buhl?») Give grasping pomp its double care, — I ask but one recumbent chair. Thus humble let me live and die, Nor long for Midas' golden touch; If Heaven more generous gifts deny, I shall not miss them much, — Too grateful for the blessing lent Of simple tastes and mind content! ^) Plenipotentiary to the Court of St. James (the English Court) ; one of the highest and best paid of American diplomatic posts. *) The president of the United States has only the moderate yearly salary of 25,000 dollars, though his expenditure is necessarily large. ') Buhl-work , introduced by the Frenchman, Charles Boule , who died in 1732, is ebony or tortoise-shell, ingeniously inlaid with figui'es mostly of gold or brass. 246 Bayard Taylor. Mr. Bayard Taylor (1825 — 1878), for some years l3efore his death American ambassador in Berlin, wrote Poems and Ballads, Poems of the Orient ^ and several other works in both prose and poetry, but his principal glory will always be his unequalled translation of Goethe's Faust, of which the first part appeared in the autumn of 1870, and the second part in the spring of 1871. Poetical translation is never easy, and previous translators of Faust, while indulging in a certain peri- phrastic diffuseness, and allowing themselves conside- rable latitude both in diction and metre, found they had undertaken a very serious task. But Mr. Taylor aspired to render the exact meaning, while he preserved the form and rhythm of the original. "It is useless to say," he remarks, "that the naked meaning is independent of the form ; on the contrary, the form contributes es- sentially to the fulness of the meaning." Describing the method he had followed in his translation, he says : "The feminine and dactylic rhymes, which have been for the most part omitted by all metrical translators, except Mr. Brooks, are indispensable. The characteristic tone of many passages would be nearly lost without them. They give spirit and grace to the dialogue, point to the aphoristic portions (especially in the second part), and an even-changing music to the lyrical passages. The English language, though not so rich as the German in such rhymes, is less deficient than is generally sup- posed. The difficulty to be overcome is one of con- struction rather than of the vocabulary." We regret that our limited space forbids us to quote largely from this admirable translation, but we give a few passages as specimens, merely reminding the reader how difficult it is to judge of such a work by fragments. The two last stanzes of the Dedication (Sie horen nicht die folgenden Gesange, etc.) are rendered by Mr. Taylor as follows: i — 247 — They hear no longer these succeeding measures, The souls to whom my earlier songs I sang: Dispersed the friendly troop with all its pleasures, And still, alas, the echoes first that rang! 1 hring the imknown multitude my treasures; Their very plaudits give my heart a pang. And those beside, whose joy my song so flattere^l, If still they live, wide through the world are scattered. And grasps me now a long-unwonted yearning For that serene and solemn Spirit-land: My song, to faint Aeolian murmurs turning, Sways like a harp-string by the breezes fanned. I thrill and tremble; tear on tear is burning. And the stem heart is tenderly unmanned. What I possess, I see far distant lying, And what I lost grows real and undying. We pass on to the passage beginning with: Nun komm' herab, krystallne reine Schale, when Faustus resolves to put an end to his existence: And now come down, thou cup of crystal clearest! Fresh from thine ancient cover thou appearest, So many years forgotten to my thought! Thou shon'st at old ancestral banquets cheery, — The solemn guests thou madest merry, ^Vhen one thy wassail to the other brought. The rich and skilful figures o'er thee wrought. The drinker's duty, rhyme-wise to explain them. Or in one breath below the mark to drain them. From many a night of youth my memory caught. Now to a neighbour shall I pass thee never. Nor on thy curious art to test my wit endeavour; Here is a juice whence sleep is swiftly born. It fills with browner flood thy crystal hollow; I chose, prepared it; thus I follow, — With all my soul the final drink I swallow, A solemn festal cup, a greeting to the morn! The unversified scene, near the end of the first part, in which Faustus bitterly reproaches Mephistopheles with concealing from him the imprisonment and misery of Margaret, is finely translated in a rhythmical prose which approaches equally near the original. To the cynical reply of Mephistopheles : Sie ist die erste nicht, Faustus makes the indignant rejoinder (Hund, abscheu- liches Unthier!): — 248 — Dog! abominable monster! Transform him, thou Infinite Spirit ! transform the reptile again into his dog-shape, in which it pleased him often at night to scamper on before me, to roll himself at the feet of the unsuspecting wanderer, and hang upon his shoulders when he fell! Transform him again into his favourite likeness, that he may crawl upon his belly in the dust before me, — that I may trample him, the outlawed, under foot! Not the first! woe! woe. which no human soul can grasp, that more than one being should sink into the depths of this misery, — that the first, in its writhing death-agony under the eyes of the Eternal Forgiver, did not ex- piate the guilt of all others ! The misery of this single one pierces to the very marrow of my life; and thou art calmly grinning at the fate of thousands! We give Mr. Taylor's translation of the Konig in Thule: There was a King in Thule, AVas faithful till the grave. To whom his mistress, dying, A golden goblet gave. Nought was to him more precious ; He drained it at every bout: His eyes with tears ran over As oft as he drank thereout. When came his time of dying. The towns in his lands he told : Nought else to his heir denying Except the goblet of gold. He sat at the royal banquet With his knights of high degree; In the lofty hall of his fathers In the castle by the sea. There stood the old carouser, And drank the last life-glow; And hurled the hallowed goblet Into the tide below. He saw it plunging and filling, And sinking deep in the sea; Then fell his eyelids for ever, And never more drank he! In the still more arduous task of translating the second part of Faust, Mr. Taylor has acquitted him- self with equal honour and success. Three poems in drama-form have been written by Mr. Bayard Taylor : the Prophet , the Masque of the Gods, and Prince Deukalion; but they were never designed for representation on the stage. W. C. Bryant. William Cullen Bryant (1794 — 1879), one of the finest of the American poets, was the son of a physician in Cummington, a small place in Massachusetts. In his sixteenth year he entered Williams-College, and in 1815 settled in Great-Barrington, as a solicitor. But he soon — 249 — gave up the uncongenial practice of the law, went to New -York, and made literature his profession. His most successful poems are: Thanatopsis (the View of Death), written in his eighteenth year; the AgeSj a poem in wliich he traces the gradual intellectual deve- lopment of the human race; the Forest Hymn, Song of the Stars, the Fountain, and the Lapse of Time, Bryant particularly excels in painting American scenery; and his poetry is elegant, forcible, and remarkably lucid. Passing over such of his verses as have been often re-printed, and are well known, we select as a specimen his exquisite lines on THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. Here are old trees, tall oaks and gnarled pines, That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground Was never trenched by spade; and flowers spring up Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet To linger here, among the flitting birds, And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds That shake the leaves, and scatter, as they pass, A fragTance from the cedars, thickly set With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades, — Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old, — My thoughts go up the long dim path of years, Back to the earliest days of Liberty. Freedom! thou art not, as poets dream, A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, And wavy tresses gushing from the cap With which the Roman master crowned his slave When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, Armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailed hand Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow. Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs Are long with struggling. Power at thee has launched His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee; They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven. Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep. And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires. Have forged thy chain; yet, while he deems thee bound, The links are shivered, and the prison walls Fall outward; terribly thou springest forth. As springs the flame above a burning pile, And shoutest to the nations, who return Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. — 250 — Thy birthright was not given by human hands: Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields, While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him, To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars, And teach the reed to utter simple airs. Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, His only foes; and thou with him didst draw The earliest furrows on the mountain side. Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself, Thy enemy, although of reverend look, Hoary with many years, and far obeyed. Is later born than thou; and as he meets The grave defiance of thine elder eye. The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. Oh! not yet May'st thou unbrace thy corselet, nor lay by Thy sword; nor yet, Freedom! close thy lids In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps. And thou must watch and combat till the day Of the new earth and heaven. But wouldst thou rest A while from tumult and the frauds of men, These old and friendly solitudes invite Thy visit. They, while yet the forest-trees Were young upon the unviolated earth. And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new, Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced. H. W. Longfellow. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807—1882), the best known in Europe of all the American poets, was born at Portland, in the State of Maine. He studied at Bowdoin College, in which, a few years later, he obtained the chair of modern languages; but on the resignation of Mr. Ticknor, in 1835, he accepted the same professorship in Harvard College, Cambridge. His principal poetical works are: Voices of the Night (IS39), Ballads and other Poems (1841), Poems on Slavery (1842), the Spanish Student, a play (1848), Evangeline (1847), the Golden Legend (1851), the Song of Hiawatha (1855), Miles Standish (1858), and Tales of a Wayside Inn (1863). His numerous translations from the Spanish, Italian, — 251 — German, Danish, and other European languages, are generally excellent, though his Dante is not looked on as a success. Three of Longfellow's poems have been dignified witli the name of epics: Evangeline , Hiawatha, and Miles Standish. Evangeline is the story of the destruction by British and colonial troops, in war-time, of a village in Acadia, or Nova Scotia, inhalDited by French emigrants. The incidents and characters are of course fictitious, and the original facts greatly exaggerated, to serve the purposes of poetry. Much finer and more thriving villages have been destroyed in many a European war than the group of rude log-huts known in their time as Grand-Pre. On the publication of the poem, it was regretted, in England, that Longfellow should have chosen the cumbrous hexameter measure, which Southey had already attempted, with very ill success, to adapt to English poetry. For a page or two, the hexameter sounds not amiss, and in the following lines it is pleasing enough: This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic Stand Uke harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest; in so long a poem as Evangeline, however, this measure makes reading a real labour. The poem abounds in beauties; and we shall rarely find a sentiment and a simile so aptly joined, and so happily expressed, as in the passage we next quote: Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted; If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment ; That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. Patience, accomplish thy labour; accomplish thy work of affection! Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike. The poem concludes with a picture of the final resting-place of the two lovers in a small churchyard in the city of "Penn the apostle": — 252 — Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them, Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest for ever, Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy. Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labours, Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have ceased from their journey. "The Song of Hiawatha' — says the author, "this Indian Edda, if I may so call it — is founded on a tradition prevalent among the North-American Indians of a personage of miraculous birth, who was sent among them to clear their rivers, forests, and fishing-grounds, and to teach them the arts of peace. The scene of the poem is among the Ojibways, on the northern shore of Lake Superior." Such is the statement of the poet in his introduction, but in the poem itself he particu- larizes more fully the sources of the legend: Should you ask me, whence these stories? Whence these legends and traditions With the odours of the forest With the dew and damp of meadows. With the curling smoke of wigwams, With the rushing of great rivers, With their frequent repetitions, And their wild reverberations. As of thunder in the mountain? I should answer. I should tell you, "From the forests and the prairies. From the great lakes of the Northland, From the land of the Ojibways, From the land of the Dacotahs, From the mountains, moors, and fenlands. Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, Feeds among the reeds and rushes. I repeat them as I heard them From the lips of Nawadaha, The musician, the sweet singer. All the wild-fowl sung them to him In the moorlands and the fenlands. In the melancholy marshes; Chetowaik, the plover, sang them, Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, Wawa, The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, And the grouse, the Mushkodasa. A little farther on, we learn that Hiawatha was the son of Wenonah, the daughter of Nokomis, who — 253 — was daughter of the moon, and that his father was Mudjekeewis, the West- Wind, a very fickle husband, as it appears: Thus was born my Hiawatha, Thus was born the child of wonder; But the daughter of Nokomis, Hiawatha's gentle mother, In her anguish died deserted By the West- Wind, false and faithless, By the heartless Mudjekeewis. Hiawatha was consequently reared by his grand- mother, Nokomis, whose abode is thus described to us : By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big Sea- Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. Dark behind it rose the forest, Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, Rose the firs with cones upon them; Bright before it beat the water. Beat the clear and sunny water, Beat the shining Big Sea- Water. Hiawatha becomes a hunter, a warrior, and a traveller; and in one of his adventures he meets with Minnehaha, or Laughing Water, who awakens new feelings in his bosom, and leads him into new ponderings : "As unto the bow the cord is, So unto the man is woman; Though she bends him, she obeys him, Though she draws him, yet she follows." Thus the youthful Hiawatha Said within himself and pondered. Much perplexed with various feelings, Listless, longing, hoping, fearing. Dreaming still of Minnehaha, Of the lovely Laughing Water In the land of the Dacotahs. Hiawatha marries Minnehaha, is converted to Christianity by the "Black Eobe" or missionary, and at last sails aw^ay in a boat, like King Arthur, and is heard of no more : Westward, westward Hiawatha I Sailed into the purple vapours, Sailed into the fiery sunset, | Sailed into the dusk of evening. — 254 — On Hiawatha's childhood, his visit to Mudjekeewis, his fasting, his friends, his sailing, his fishing, his wooing, his combat with the great magician, Pearl-Feather, and his wedding-feast, we have no space to dwell. About the merits of the poem opinions are greatly divided. While it is cried up by some as the "great epic of America," it has been ridiculed and drolly parodied by others. It is said, that in the first year of its publication no less than thirty editions were sold; but it is impossible to decide whether curiosity or admiration had the greater share in its commercial success, for every one admitted that it was a most remarkable poem. The Courtship of Miles Standish, the epic of New England, as it has been called, is again a poem in hexameters: a measure which in such a simple every- day story seems still more unsuitable than in Evangeline. We are at once introduced to the hero: In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth, the land of the Pilgrims, To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling Clad in doublet and hose, and hoots of Cordovan leather, Strode, vv^ith a martial air, Miles Standish, the Puritan captain. The soldier loves a maiden, called Priscilla, but not possessing himself the gift of eloquence, he seeks, and readily obtains the advocacy of his trusted friend, John Alden. Still Miles Standish's suit does not prosper, and one day, when Alden is unusually earnest and pressing, Priscilla, who has been compared to Anne Page, pettishly asks him, why he does not speak for himself. This question, or rather hint, is an unexpected revelation for Alden, and the end of the matter is, that he marries Priscilla himself. Miles Standish is, of course, at first highly incensed, but in time, some accidental circumstances aiding, he consents to forgive and forget. It is inte- resting to know that Miles Standish really existed, and that the poem is founded on fact. Longfellow's Tales of a Wayside Inn are written in imitation of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. They con- sist of seven stories in all; namely: 1. the Landlord's Tale; 2. the Student's Tale (Boccaccio's Falcon); 3. the Spanish Jew's Tale; 4. the Sicilian's Tale; 5. the — 255 — Musician's Tale (the Saga of King Olaf); 6. the Theo- logian's Tale (Torquemada) ; 7. the Poet's Tale (the Birds of Killingworth). As in Chaucer, the story-tellers meet accidentally Cue Autumn evening in Sudbury town (in Massachusetts.) The tales are interesting, and the individuality of the different personages is well maintained. Of Longfellow's dramas, the Spanish Student, in three acts, seems to us the only one at all fitted for the stage. The hero is the student Victorian, and the heroine the gypsy girl, Preciosa. The dialogue is lively, the situations ingenious, and the interest well sustained till the last moment. In the Golden Legend we at once recognise an imitation of Goethe's Faust. Prince Henry corresponds pretty closely to Faust himself; Elise, in many if not in all respects, resembles Margaret, and Lucifer is Mephistopheles. The piece is in six parts, and the scene is successively Strasburgh, Genoa, Devil's Bridge, and some other places. Between the third and the fourth part a miracle play, the Nativity, is introduced; and there is an epilogue, with the two recording angels, the respective registrars of good and evil deeds, ascending to heaven. It is the most ambitious, but the most ob- scure of all that Longfellow has written, and we think he acted injudiciously in provoking a comparison with Goethe. In the New England Tragedies, which concern the persecutions of the Quakers and the cruel prosecution of supposed witches b}^ the Puritan settlers in the seven- teenth centur3^ he is more at home. Still, as an English critical writer observes, in none of these pieces "has he been able to fulfil the main condition of dramatic interest;" in other words, to create "such entire indivi- dual personalities, each with an independent capability of existence and with a spring of action in himself, as the drama essentially requires." After all, it must be admitted, that Longfellow's genius shines with the greatest brilliancy in his shorter poems and lyrical pieces. The subjoined selections may, we believe, be classed among the very finest of his compositions : 256 — FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. When the hours of Day are numbered, And the Voices of the Night Wake the better soul that slumbered, To a holy, calm delight; Ere the evening lamps are lighted, And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows from the fitful fire-light Dance upon the parlour wall; Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door; The beloved, the true-hearted, Come to visit me once more. He the young and strong, who cherished Noble longings for the strife By the road-side fell and perished, Weary with the march of life ! They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore. Folded their pale hands so meekly. Spake with us on earth no more! And with them the Being beauteous. Who unto my youth was given More than all things else to love us. And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine. Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand on mine. And she sits and gazes on me With those deep and tender eyes. Like the stars, so still and saintlike, Looking downward from the skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended. Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air. Oh, though oft depressed and lonely. All my fears are laid aside; If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! 257 WRITTEN IN ITALY. Bright star! whose soft familiar ray, In colder climes and gloomier skies, I've watched so oft when closing day Had tinged the west with crimson dyes ; Perhaps to-night some friend I love. Beyond the deep, the distant sea, WiU gaze upon thy path ahove, And give one lingering thought to me. THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE. Saint Augustine! well hast thou said. That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread Beneath our feet each deed of shame! All common things — each day's events. That with the hour begin and end; Our pleasures and our discontents Are rounds by which we may ascend. The low desire, the base design. That makes another's virtues less; The revel of the giddy wine. And all occasions of excess The longing for ignoble things. The strife for triumph more than truth, The hardening of the heart, that brings Irreverence for the dreams of youth! All thoughts of ill — all evil deeds, That have their root in thoughts of ill, Whatever hinders or impedes The action of the nobler will! All these must first be trampled down Beneath our feet, if we would gain In the bright field of fair renown The right of eminent domain! We have not wings, we cannot soar But we have feet to scale and climb By slow degrees — by more and more — The cloudy summits of our time. 17 — 258 — The mighty pyramids of stoue That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, When nearer seen, and better known, Are but gigantic flights of stairs. The distant mountains that uprear Their frowning foreheads to the skies Are crossed by pathways that appear As we to higher levels rise. The heights by great men reached and kept, Were not attained by sudden flight; But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upward in the night. Standing on what too long we bore With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, We may discern, unseen before, A path to higher destinies. Nor deem the in-evocable past As wholly wasted, wholly vain. If rising on its wrecks at last, To something nobler we attain. TRUTH. holy and eternal truth! Thou art An emanation of the Eternal Mind! A glorious attribute, — a noble part Of uncreated being! Who can find. By diligent searching who can find thee. The Incomprehensible, — the Deity! The human mind is a reflection caught From thee, a trembling shadow of thy ray. Thy glory beams around us, but the thought That heavenward wings its daring flight away. Returns to where its flight was first begun Blinded and beneath the noonday sun. The soul of man, though sighing after thee. Hath never known thee, saving as it knows The stars of heaven, whose glorious light we see — The sun, whose radiance dazzles as it glows; Something, that is beyond us, and above The reach of human power, though not of human love. 259 Vainly Philosophy may strive to teach The secret of thy being. Its faint ray Misguides our steps. Beyond the utmost reach Of its untiring wing, the eternal day Of truth is shining on the longing eye Distant, — unchanged, — changeless, pure and high! And yet thou hast not left thyself without A revelation. All we feel and see Within us and around, forbids the doubt, Yet speaks so darkly and mysteriously Of what we are, and shall be evermore, We doubt, and yet believe, and tremble and (vdore. THE LIGHT OF STARS. The night is come, but not too soon, And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven But the cold light of stars; And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars. Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? Oh, no! from that blue tent above A hero's armour gleams. And earnest thoughts within me rise When I behold afar Suspended in the evening skies The shield of that red star. star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain; Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, And I am strong again. Within my breast there is no light But the cold light of stars; 1 give the first watch of the night To the red planet Mars. The star of the unconquered will, He rises in my breast. Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm, and self-possessed. 17* — 260 ~ And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, That readest this hrief psalm, As one by one thy hopes depart. Be resolute and calm. Oh, fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know ere long Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong. "About Longfellow," says an American writer, "there is never any mawkish sentimentality, no ver- sified cant, no drivelling, no diabolic gloom. His bold, broad brow catches the sunlight from the four points of heaven, and disperses it, glittering and fructifying through the homesteads of his readers. Longfellow is the healthiest, the heartiest, and the most harmonious of all the American poets." Mrs. Osgood. Mrs. Frances Osgood (Miss Locke) was born in Boston in the year 1816. In 1834 she married the painter, Mr. Osgood, and after travelling with him for some years in Europe, she returned to America in 1843, where she continued to reside till her death in 1850. She has been called "the American Hemans;" and it is true that her poems display much of the elegance and feminine delicacy of the English poetess, though, we think, with less warmth of feeling. We give two specimens of her poetry: the first entitled, the Child playing toith a Watch; the other, an ode on a favourite horse, called Lady Jane. THE CHILD PLAYING WITH A WATCH. Art thou playing with Time in thy sweet baby-glee? Will he pause on his pinions to frolic with thee? ' Oh, show him those shadowless, innocent eyes. That smile of bewildered and beaming surprise ; Let him look on that cheek where thy rich hair reposes, Where dimples are playing "bopeep" with the roses: — 261 — His wrinkled brow press with light kisses and warm, And clasp his rough neck with thy soft wreathing arm. Perhaps thy bewitching and infantine sweetness May win him, for once, to delay in his fleetness — To pause, ere he rifle, relentless in flight, A blossom so glowing of bloom and of light : Then, then, would 1 keep thee, my beautiful child. With thy blue eyes unshadowed, thy blush undefiled — With thy innocence only to guard thee from ill; In life's sunny dawning, a lily-bud still! Laugh on, my own Ellen! that voice, which to me Gives a warning so solemn, makes music for thee; And while I at those sounds feel the idler's annoy, Thou hear'st but the tick of the pretty gold toy; Thou seest but a smile on the brow of the churl — May his frown never awe thee, my own baby-girl. And oh, may his step, as he wanders with thee. Light and soft as thine own little fairy tread be! While still in all seasons, in storms and fair weather, May Time and my Ellen be playmates together. LADY JANE. Oh, saw ye e'er creature so queenly, so fine, As this dainty, aerial darling of mine; With a toss of her mane that is glossy as jet, With a dance and a prance, and a sportive curvet She is off — she is stepping superbly away, Her dark, speaking eyes full of pride and of play. Oh! she spurns the dull earth with a graceful disdain, My fearless, my peerless, my loved Lady Jane. Her silken ears lifted when danger is nigh, How kindles the night in her resolute eye; How stately she paces, as if to the sound Of a proud, martial melody pealing around — Now pauses at once, mid a light caracole, To turn on her master a look full of soul — Now, fleet, as a fairy, she speeds o'er the plain, My dashing, my darling, my own Lady Jane. Give her rein — let her go! like a shaft from the bow, Like a bird on the wing she is glancing, I trow, Light of heart, lithe of limb, with a spirit all fire Yet swayed and subdued to my idlest desire; Though daring, yet docile — and sportive, but true. Her nature's the noblest that ever I knew: Oh! she scorns the dull earth in her joyous disdain, My beauty, my glory, my gay Lady Jane! — 262 — Charles Fenno Hoffman. Mr. Hoffman was born in 1806 in the City of New York, and was admitted to practise at the bar when only twenty -one; but his natural tastes were altogether literary, and he soon began to furnish con- tributions to the magazines and newspapers, using a star as his signature. As a song-writer, he shares the popularity of Morris. Among his most admired poems and songs, we may instance Moonlight on the Hudson, Love and Politics^ the Myrtle and the Steely and the fine verses — WHAT IS SOLITUDE? Not in the shadowy wood, Not in the crag-hung glen, Nor where the echoes hrood In caves untrod by men; Not by the bleak sea-shore, Where loitering surges break, Not on the mountain hoar, Not by the breezeless lake, Not on the desert plain, Where man hath never stood, Whether on isle or main — Not there is solitude! Birds are in woodland bowers, Voices in lonely dells. Streams to the listening hours Talk in earth's secret cells; Over the gray-ribb'd sand Breathe the ocean's foaming lips. Over the still lake's strand The flower toward it dips; Pluming the mountain's crest Life tosses in its pines; Coursing the desert's breast, Life in the steed's mane shines. Leave — if thou wouldst be lonely — Leave Nature for the crowd; Seek there for one — one only — With kindred mind endow'd! There — as with Nature erst Closely thou wouldst commune — The deep soul-music, nursed In either heart, attune! — 263 — Heart-wearied, thou wilt owu Vainly that phantom woo'd, That thou at last hast known What is true solitude! Elizabeth F. EUet. This lady, whose maiden name was Lummis, married at the age of seventeen Dr. W. H. Ellet, Pro- lessor of Chemistry in Columbia College. In 1833 she published a translation of Silvio Pellico's Eufemia di Messina, which was followed in 1835 by a tragedy of her own, Teresa Contarini, founded on Nicolini's Antonio Foscarini. Among her shorter poems few or none are sweeter or more touching than — THE BURIAL. We laid her in the hallowed place Beside the solemn deep, Where the old woods hy Greenwood's shore Keep watch o'er those who sleep: We laid her there — the young and fair, The guileless, cherished one — As if a part of life itself With her we loved were gone. Like to the flowers she lived and bloomed. As bright, as pure as they; And like a flower the blight had touched, She early passed away. Oh, none might know her but to love, Nor name her but to praise. Who only love for others knew Through life's brief vernal days. Mrs. EUet's principal prose works are: the Characters of Schiller (1841), and Women of the American Revolution (1848). — 264 — Anne Charlotte Lynch. Miss Ljrnch belongs to an Irish family, her father having been a United Irishman, who emigrated to America after the failure of the Irish Rebellion in 1798. In 1841 she published in her native place, Pro- vidence, the Rhode-Island Booky a selection from Rhode- Island writers, including several poems by herself. Since that time she has given to the world sonnets and short poems, distinguished by their graceful style and easy flow. One of the most striking of these bears the title: THOUGHTS IN A LIBRARY. Speak low — tread softly through these halls; Here Genius lives enshrined; Here reign, in silent majesty, The monarchs of the mind. A mighty spirit-host they come, From every age and clime; Ahove the buried wrecks of years. They breast the tide of Time. And in their presence-chamber here They hold their regal state. And round them throng a noble train, The gifted and the great. Oh, child of Earth! when round thy path The storms of life arise. And when thy brothers pass thee by With stem, unloving eyes — Here shall the poets chant for thee Their sweetest, loftiest lays; And prophets wait to guide thy steps In wisdom's pleasant ways. Come, with these God-anointed kings Be thou companion here; And in the mighty realm of mind Thou shalt go forth a peer. — 265 — J. G. Percival. James Gates Percival was born in 1795 at a small place, called Berlin, in Connecticut. He has written Prometheus, the Prevalence of Poetry, Consumption, Morning among the Hills, and other poems, besides a tragedy called Zamor. Of poetry be elegantly says: The world is full of poetry — the air Is living with its spirit; and the waves Dance to the music of its melodies, And sparkle in its brightness. Earth is veiled And mantled with its beauty; and the walls That close the universe with crystal in Are eloquent with voices that proclaim The unseen glories of immensity In harmonies too perfect and too high For aught but beings of celestial mould, And speak to man in one eternal hymn Unfading beauty and unyielding power. Mr. Percival died in 1857. George Morris. General Morris (born, according to Griswold, in New York, in the year 1800) is hardly less popular, as a song -writer, in England than in America. In 1823 he founded the New York Mirror, in conjunction with Mr. Samuel Woodworth. Among his numerous poetical effusions we select one, which is as yet but little known in Europe: WOMAN. Ah, woman! — in this world of ours. What boon can be compared to thee? How slow would drag life's weary hours Though man's proud brow were bound with flowers, And his the wealth of land and sea, If destined to exist alone And ne'er call woman's heart is own! — 266 — My mother! at that holy name Within my bosom there's a gush Of feeling which no time can tame, A feeling which for years of fame I would not, could not crush! And sisters! ye are dear as life But when I look upon my wife My heart-blood gives a sudden msh, And all my fond affections blend In mother, sisters, wife and friend! Yes, woman's love is free from guile, Ajid pure as bright Aurora's ray. The heart will melt before her smile, And base-bom passions fade away! Were I the monarch of the earth, Or master of the swelling sea, I would not estimate their worth, Dear woman, half the price of thee. Emily Judson. Mrs. Judson is still better known under her noni de plume of Fanny Forester. In 1846 she married the missionary, Mr. Judson, and accompanied him to Bur- mah. Two years before her marriage she published a poem in four cantos, called Astaroga, or the Maid of the Rock. As a specimen of her poetical style we sub- join her verses, My Bird, on the birth of a child in Jan. 1848, at Maulmain, in India: Ere last year's moon had left the sky, A birdling sought my Indian nest, And folded, oh! so lovingly. Its tiny wings upon my breast. From morn till evening's purple tinge, In winsome helplessness she lies; Two rose-leaves, with a silken fringe, Shut softly on her starry eyes. There's not in Ind a lovelier bird; Broad earth owns not a happier nest; God, thou hast a fountain stirred, Whose waters never more shall rest! 267 - This beautiful, mysterious thing, This seeming visitant from Heaven, This bird v^^ith the immortal wing To me — to me, thy hand has given. The pulse first caught its tiny stroke. The blood its crimson hue, from mine This life, which I have dared invoke, Henceforth is parallel with thine! A silent awe is in my room — I tremble with delicious fear; The future, with its light and gloom. Time and eternity are here. Doubts, hopes, in eager tumults rise; Hear, my God! one earnest prayer: Room for my bird in paradise. And give her angel-plumage there! Charles Sprague. Mr. Sprague has been called "the American Pope," and in fact, both in his odes and his satires we may find much to remind us of the poet of Twickenham. He was born at Boston in 1791, and was for several years cashier in the Globe Bank in that city. The pungent satirist is a man of warm affections, so strongly attached to his family and . his friends , that he has seldom been able to leave them for even a brief ab- sence. Besides his fine Ode on Shakespeare^ his minor poems, the Brothers, I see thee stilly the Family Meeting, and other poems and odes, he has written a satire, entitled Curiosity, in which he more especially lashes that pedantic school of critics, who, blind to the beauties of an author, are constantly hunting for obscure and insignificant allusions to annotate and explain. On this subject he writes: How swells my theme! how vain my power I find, To track the windings of the curious mind; Let aught be hid, though useless, nothing boots, Straightway it must be plucked up by the roots. How oft we lay the volume down to ask Of him, the victim in the Iron Mask; — 268 — The crasted metal rub with painful care To spell the legend out — that is not there; With dubious gaze o'er mossgrown tombstones bend To find a name — the heralds never penned; Dig through the lava-deluged city's breast, Learn all we can, and wisely guess the rest; Ancient or modern, sacred or profane, All must be known, and all obscure made plain; If 'twas a pippin tempted Eve to sin; If glorious Byron drugged his Muse with gin; If Troy e'er stood ; if Shakespeare stole a deer ; If Israel's missing tribes found refuge here. *) We add one of his domestic pieces, and one of bis odes: THE BROTHERS. We are but two — the others sleep Through death's untroubled night; We are but two — oh, let us keep The link that binds us bright. Heart leaps to heart — the sacred flood That warms us is the same; That good old man — his honest blood Alike we fondly claim. We in one mother's arms were lock'd — Long be her love repaid; In that same cradle we were rock'd, Round the same hearth we play'd. Our boyish sports were all the same, Each little joy and woe; Let manhood keep alive the flame, Lit up so long ago. We are but two — be that the band To hold us till we die; Shoulder to shoulder let us stand, Till side by side we lie. ODE ON ART. When, from the sacred garden driven Man fled before his Maker's wrath, An angel left her place in heaven, ^ And crossed the wanderer's sunless path. *) Alluding to a theory, that the American Indians are tht descendants of the ten lost tribes of Israel. — 269 — 'Twas Art ! sweet Art ! new radiance broke Where her light foot flew o'er the ground; And thus with seraph voice she spoke, — "The Curse a Blessing shall be found." She led him through the trackless wild, Where noontide sunbeam never blazed; The thistle shrunk, the harvest smiled, And Nature gladdened, as she gazed. Earth's thousand tribes of living things At Art's command, to him are given; The village grows, the city springs, And point their spires of faith to heaven. He rends the oak, — and bids it ride, To guard the shores its beauty graced; He smites the rock, — upheaved in pride, See towers of strength and domes of taste. Earth's teeming caves their wealth reveal, Fire bears his banner on the wave, He bids the mortal poison heal, And leaps triumphant o'er the grave. He plucks the pearls that stud the deep, Admiring Beauty's lap to fill; He breaks the stubborn marble's sleep, And imitates creating skill. With thoughts that swell his glowing soul, He bids the ore illume the page, And proudly scorning Time's control, Converses with an unborn age. In fields of air he writes his name. And treads the chambers of the sky; He reads the stars, and grasps the flame, That quivers round the Throne on high. In war renowned, in peace sublime, He moves in greatness and in grace; His power, subduing space and time, Links realm to realm, and race to race. J. G. Whittier. John Greenleaf Whittier, the New-England quaker- poet and moralist, born in 1807, has written Mogg Megone, a story in verse of the struggles of the early settlers with hostile Indian tribes; Maud Miiller, a sad but very popular poem, and a vast number of short — 270 — poems and verses on the Secession War and other public events. His lines on the great fire in Chicago (Oct. 8, 1871) are, we think, among his best: Men said at vespers: "All is well!" In one wild night the city fell; Fell shrines of prayer and marts of grain Before the fiery hurricane. On three score spires had sunset shone, Where ghastly sunrise looked on none, Men clasped each other's hands, and said: "The City of the West is dead!" Brave hearts who fought, in slow retreat, The fiends of fire from street to street. Turned, powerless, to the blinding glare. The dumb defiance of despair. A sudden impulse thrilled each wire That signalled round that sea of fire; Swift words of cheer, warm heart-throbs came ; In tears of pity died the flame ! From East, from West, from South and North, The messages of hope shot forth. And, underneath the severing wave, The world, full-handed, reached to save. Kise, stricken city! — from thee throw The ashen sackcloth of thy woe; And build, as to Amphion's strain, To songs of cheer thy walls again! How shrivelled in thy hot distress The primal sin of selfishness; How instant rose, to take thy part, The angel in the human heart! Ah! not in vain the flames that tossed Above thy dreadful holocaust. The Christ again has preached through thee The Gospel of Humanity! Then lift once more thy towers on high, And fret with spires the western sky, To tell that God is yet with us, And love is still miraculous! — 271 — J. R. Lowell. James Russel Lowellj author of tlie Indian Summer Reverie^ Rosalinej and the Biglow Papers^ is often classed among the American humorists and satirists, but it would be doing him scanty justice to treat him as nothing more. Besides the above-mentioned productions he published, in 1868, Under the Willows and other Poems; in 1870 Essays on Dry den, Shakespeare, Lessing, Rousseau, etc.; besides an interesting work on witch- craft in New-England, two centuries ago. Of his vigorous and pregnant style the following verses will give some idea : THE RICH MAN'S SON AND THE POOR MAN'S SON. The rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick, and stone, and gold ; And he inherits soft, white hands. And tender flesh that fears the cold; Nor dares to wear a garment old. A heritage, it seems to me, One would not care to hold in fee. The rich man's son inherits cares ; The bank may break, the factory bum ; Some breath may burst his bubble shares. And soft, white hands would hardly earn A living that would suit his turn: A heritage, it seems to me. One would not care to hold in fee. What does the poor man's son inherit? Stout muscles and a sinewy heart; A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; King of two hands ; he does his part. In our useful toil and art: A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. What does the poor man's son inherit? — Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things; A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit; Content that from employment springs; A heart that in his labour sings; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. — 272 — What does the poor man's son inherit? — A patience learned by being poor, Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, A fellow feeling that is sure To make the outcast bless his door: A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. Oh, rich man's son, there is a toil That with all others level stands: Large charity doth never soil, But only whitens soft, white hands: This is the best crop fi'om the lands: A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being rich to hold in fee. Oh! poor man's son, scorn not thy state; — There is worse weariness than thine. In merely being rich and great; Work only makes the soul to shine. And makes rest fragrant and benign: A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee. Both heirs to some six feet of sod. Are equal in the earth at last; Both children of the same dear God; Prove title to your heirship vast, By record of a well-filled past: A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee. The Biglow Papers consist of a series of humorous pieces in the American dialect and in rhyme, directed against the Mexican policy of the then existing Ad- ministration. Mr. Lowell is a native of Cambridge, Massachusetts, and was born in 1819. In 1879 he was appointed American Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary in London. Mrs. Maria Lowell (Miss White) born at )Vatertown, Massachusetts, married Mr. Lowell in 1844. She has published several trans- lations, besides some original poems, among which the Morning Glory and the Maidens Harvest have found many admirers. Mrs. Lowell died Feb. 19, 1885. 273 Mrs. Sigourney. Miss Lydia Huntley, born in 1791 at Norwich, Connecticut, gave early proofs of genius, for she be- gan to wiite verses, when only eight years of age. In 1819 she married Mr. Sigourney, a merchant in Hart- ford, Connecticut, and for that time forward devoted all her leisure hours to literary pursuits , in which she was encouraged by her husband. After producing several small works, in the summer of 1840 she visited England and Scotland, and passed the winter in Paris. While in London she published a volume of poems, and soon after her return to America in 1841, the most elaborate of her longer poems, Pocahontas, appeared in New York. In 1842 she gave, under the title : Pleasant Memories in Pleasant Lands, an account in prose and verse of her wanderings abroad. This was succeeded by Myrtis in 1846; and in 1848 appeared a volume of her poems, with beautiful illustrations. She died in 1865. Of Mrs. Sigourney's simpler style, the following may serve as a specimen: THE THRIVING FAMILY. Our father lives in Washington, And has a world of cares, But gives his children each a farm, Enough for them and theirs. Full thirty well-grown sons has he, A numerous race indeed, Married and settled all, you see. With hoys and girls to feed. So, if we wisely till our lands, We're sure to earn a living, And have a penny too to spare For spending or for giving. A thriving family are we, No lordling need deride us; For we know how to use our hands, And in our wits we pride us. Hail, brothers, hail! Let nought on earth divide us. 18 — 274 — Some of us dare the sharp north-east, Some clover-fields are mowing; And others tend the cotton-plants That keep the looms a-going; Some huild and steer the wliitewing'd ships, And few in speed can mate them, While others rear the corn and wheat, Or grind the corn to freight them. And if our neighbours o'er the sea Have e'er an empty larder, To send a loaf their babes to cheer Will work a little harder. Hail, brothers, hail! Let nought on earth divide us. Some faults we have, we can't deny, A foible here and there; But other households have the same, And so we won't despair 'Twill do no good to fume and frown, And call hard names, you see, And what a shame 'twould be to part So fine a family! 'Tis but a waste of time to fret, Since Nature made us one. For every quarrel cuts a thread That healthful Love has spun. Then draw the cords of union fast, Whatever may betide us. And closer cling through every blast. For many a storm has tried us. Hail, brothers, hail! Let nought on earth divide us. Of course, the "Family" here means the American people; and the "full thirty well-grown sons" are the 38 states of the American Union. The subjoined verses contain much beauty and sublimity : NIAGARA. Flow on for ever, in thy glorious robe Of terror and of beauty! Yea, flow on Unfathomed and resistless! God hath set His rainbow on thy forehead: and the cloud Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give Thy voice of thunder, power to speak of Him Eternally, — bidding the lip of man Keep silence, and upon thy rocky altar pour Incense of awe-struck praise. — 275 — Ah! who can dare To lift the insect trnmp of earthly hope, Or love or sorrow, 'mid the peal sublime Of thy tremendous hymn? Even Ocean shrinks Back from thy brotherhood; and all his waves Ketire abashed. For he doth sometimes seem To sleep like a spent labourer, and recall His wearied billows from their vexing play And lull them to a cradle calm, but thou With everlasting-, undecaying tide. Dost rest not night or day. The morning stars. When first they sang o'er young creation's birth, Heard thy deep anthem ; and those wrecking fires That wait the archangel's signal to dissolve This solid earth, shall find Jehovah's name Graven as with a thousand diamond spears, On thine unending vohmie. Every leaf. That lifts itself within thy wide domain, Doth gather greenness from thy living spray Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo! — yon birds Do boldly venture near , and bathe their wing Amid thy mist and foam. 'Tis meet for them To touch thy garment's hem, and lightly stir The snowy leaflets of thy vapour wreath. For they may sport unharmed amid the cloud, Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven Without reproof. But, as for us, it seems Scarce lawftil, with our broken tones, to speak Familiarly of thee. Methinks to tint Thy glorious features with our pencil's point. Or woo thee to the tablet of a song. Were profanation. Thou dost make the soul A wondering witness of thy majesty; But as it presses with delirious joy To pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step. And tame its rapture with the humbling view Of its own nothingness ; bidding it stand In the dread presence of the Invisible, As if to answer to its God through thee. In the verses, Indian Names, Mrs. Sigourney reveals her sympathy with a too often wronged and defamed race: INDIAN NAMES. Ye say that all have passed away, That noble race and brave; That their light canoes have vanished From off the crested wave; 18* — 276 — That, 'mid the forests where they roamed, There rings no hunter's shout; But their name is on your waters — Ye may not wash it out. 'Tis where Ontario's hillow Like Ocean's surge is curled; . Where strong Niagara's thunders wake The echo of the world ; Where red Missouri bringeth Kich tribute from the west; And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps On green Virginia's breast. Ye say their conelike cabins, That clustered o'er the vale. Have disappeared, as withered leaves Before the autumn's gale: But their memory liveth on your hills, Their baptism on your shore, Your everlasting rivers speak Their dialect of yore. Old Massachusetts wears it Within her lordly crown. And broad Ohio bears it Amid his young renown; Connecticut has wreathed it Where her quiet foliage waves, And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse Through all her ancient caves. Wachusett hides its lingering voice Within its rocky heart, And Alleghany graves its tone Throughout his lofty chart. Monadnock, on his forehead hoar. Doth seal the sacred trust: Your mountains build their monument, Though ye destroy their dust. Joaquin Miller. Joaquin Miller, the poet of the Far West (born in Indiana in 1841), has published Songs of the Sierras, a collection of songs or short poems, written in simple and unpretending, yet often touching language. One of these bears a title which tells its own story: 277 DEAD IN THE SIERRAS. His footsteps have failed us, Where berries are red, And madronos*) are rankest. The hunter is dead! The grizzly may pass By his half- open door; May pass and repass On his path, as of yore : The panther may crouch In the leaves on his limb; May scream and may scream, — It is nothing to him. Prone, bearded and breasted, Like columns of stone; And tall as a pine — As a pine overthrown! His camp-fires gone, What else can be done Than let him sleep on Till the light of the sun? Ay, tombless ! what of it ? Marble is dust, Cold and repellent; And iron is rust. James Kirke Paulding. Mr. Paulding was born in 1778, at a place called Pleasant Valley, in the State of New York; and he died in 1860. He has written a good deal of both prose and poetry ; the scenes in Kentucky, in his West- ward Hoi in particular, are very ably sketched. We give an extract from liis Backwoodsman: DOWN THE OHIO. As down Ohio's ever-ebbing tide, Oarless and sailless silently they glide. How still the scene, how lifeless, yet how fair, Was the lone land that met the stranger there! The arbutus or strawberry-tree. — 278 — No smiling villages or curling smoke The busy haunts of busy men bespoke; No solitary hut, the banks along. Sent forth blithe labour's homely, rustic song; No urchin gamboll'd on the smooth, white sand. Or hurl'd the skipping stone with playful hand, While playmate dog plung'd in the clear blue wave, And swam, in vain, the sinking prize to save. Where now are seen, along the river side Young, busy towns in buxDm, painted pride, And fleets of gliding boats, with riches crown'd. To distant Orleans or St. Louis bound. Nothing appeared but nature unsubdued. One endless, voiceless, woodland solitude. Or boundless prairie, that aye seem'd to be As level and as lifeless as the sea; They seem'd to breathe in this wide world alone. Heirs of the earth — the land was all their own! Mr. Paulding was one of the contributors to Washington Irving's humorous periodical Salmagundi. H. T. Tuckerman. The accomplished scholar and critic, Henry Theodore Tuckerman^ has written some poetry of a pleasing and graceful, if not of a very vigorous character. He was born in the city of Boston in 1813, and after completing his collegiate studies, travelled for some years in Europe, whence he returned to America in 1838. From this time he was constantly occupied with literary labours till his death in 1871. Among his poetical effusions the most popular are Mary, the Ringlet, and the verses : GIVE ME THE BOON OF LOVE. Give me the boon of Love ! I ask no more for fame; For better one unpurchased heart Than Glory's proudest name. Why wake a fever in the blood, Or damp the spirit now, To gain a wreath whose leaves shall wave Above a withered brow? — 279 — Give me the boon of Love! Ambition's meed is vain; Dearer Affection's earnest smile Tlian Honour's richest train. I'd rather lean npon a breast Responsive to my own, Than sit, pavilioned gorgeously, Upon a kingly throne. Like the Chaldean sage, Fame's worshippers adore The brilliant orbs that scatter light O'er lieaven's azure floor; But in their very hearts enshrined, The votaries of Love Keep e'er the holy flame which once Illumed the courts above. Give me the boon of Love! Renown is but a breath Whose loudest echo ever floats From out the halls of death. A loving eye beguiles me more Than Fame's emblazoned seal, And one sweet tone of tenderness Than Triumph's wildest peal. Give me the boon of Love ! The path of Fame is drear. And Glory's arch doth ever span A hill-side cold and sere. One wild flower from the path of Love, All lowly though it lie, Is dearer than the wreath that waves To stern Ambition's eye. Give me the boon of Love! The lamp of Fame shines far, But Love's soft light glows near and warm, A pure and household star. One tender glance can fill the soul With a perennial fire; But Glory's flame burns fitfully, A lone, funereal pyre. Give me the boon of Love! Fame's trumpet-strains depart, But Love's sweet lute breathes melody That lingers in the heart; — 280 — And the scroll of fame will burn, When sea and earth consume; But the rose of Love, in a happier sphere, Will live in deathless bloom! On the death of the young and promising poetess, Miss Lucy Hooper, in 1841, at the age of twenty-four, Tuckerman paid the following tribute to her memory: And thou art gone! sweet daughter of the lyre, Whose strains we hoped to hear thee waken long; Gone — as the stars in morning's light expire, Gone like the rapture of a passing song; Gone from a circle who thy gifts have cherished With genial fondness and devoted care, Whose dearest hopes with thee have sadly perished, And now can find no solace but in prayer; Prayer to be like thee in so meekly bearing Both joy and sorrow from thy Maker's hand; Prayer to put on the white robes thou art wearing, And join thy anthem in the better land. Mrs. Welby. Mrs. Amelia B. Welby (Miss Coppuck) was born in 1821 at St. Michael's, Maryland, and was married, in 1838, to Mr. B. Welby of Louisville, Kentucky. Her first poems appeared in 1844. Of all she has written we give a decided preference to her exquisite lines: TO A SEA-SHELL. Shell of the bright sea-waves ! What is it that we hear in thy sad moan! Is this unceasing music all thine own? Lute of the ocean-caves! Or does some spirit dwell In the deep windings of thy chambers dim, Breathing for ever in its mournful hymn, Of ocean's anthem-swell? Wert thou a murmurer long In crystal palaces beneath the seas, Ere from the blue sky thou hadst heard the breeze Pour its full tide of song? — 281 — Another thing with thee: Are there not gorgeous cities in the deep, Buried with flashing gems that brightly sleep, Hid by the mighty sea? And say, lone sea-shell! Are there not costly things and sweet perfumes Scattered in waste o'er that sea-gulf of tombs? Hush thy low moan and tell. But yet, and more than all — Has not each foaming wave in fury tossed O'er earth most beautiful, the brave, the lost, Like a dark funeral pall? 'Tis vain — thou answerest not! Thou hast no voice to whisper of the dead; 'Tis ours alone, with sighs like odours shed. To hold them unforgot! Tliine is as sad a strain As if the spirit in thy hidden cell Pined to be with the many things that dwell In the wild, restless main. And yet there is no sound Upon the waters, whispered by the waves, But seemeth like a wail from many graves. Thrilling the air around. The earth, moaning shell! The earth hath melodies more sweet than these - The music-gush of rills, the hum of bees Heard in each blossom's bell. Are not these tones of earth. The rustling forest, with its shivering leaves, Sweeter than sounds that e'en in moonlight eves Upon the seas have birth! Alas! thou stUl wilt moan — Thou'rt like the heart that wastes itself in sighs, E'en when amid bewildering melodies, If parted from its own. — 282 Mrs. E. 0. Smith. Mrs. Elizabeth Oakes-Smith (Miss Prince), born near Portland, Maine, married at the ago of sixteen the poet and humorist, Mr. Seba Smith (Jack Downing). Her most popular poems are, the Acorn, the Sinless Child, the April Rain, the Water, and the Brook. Her finest lines are perhaps those on flowers in the Sinless Child: Each tiny leaf became a scroll Inscribed with holy truth, A lesson that around the heart Should keep the dew of youth; Bright missals from angelic throngs In every by-way left — How were the earth of glory shorn, Were it of flowers bereft! They tremble on the alpine height; The fissured rock they press; The desert wild, with heat and sand, Shares, too, their blessedness. And wheresoever the weary heart Turns in its dim despair, The meek-eyed blossom upward looks, Inviting it to prayer. Mrs. E. 0. Smith has produced two dramas: the Roman Tribute j the subject of which is the ransom of Constantinople, by a tribute paid to Attila by the Emperor Theodosius; the other, Jacob Leisler, a tragedy founded on an episode in American history about two centuries ago. The last-mentioned piece contains some powerful though painful scenes, particularly that in which the heroine, Elizabeth Howard, who had fled from a cruel and worthless husband in England, and then married Leisler, the New -York Masaniello, is obliged to confess her bigamy to her second husband; and again, when after the collapse of Leisler's revolution, she intreats her first husband, now a man of authority in America, to spare Leisler's life. — 283 — Mrs. Lewis. Mrs. Estella Anna Lewis (Miss Robinson) is a native of Baltimore. In 1846 she published a volume of poems, witli the title, Records of the Heart, some of which are of considerable length. In 1848 appeared the Child of the /Sea, in which, among other fine passages, we find the following description of the Bay of Gibraltar: Fresh blows the breeze o'er Tarick's burnished bay, The silent sea-mews bend them through the spray; The beauty-freighted barges bound afar To the soft music of the gay guitar The sentry peal salutes the setting sun, The haven's hum and busy din are done, And weary sailors roam along the strand. Or stretch their brawny limbs upon the sand, Feast, revel, game, engage in sage dispute. Unthread the story, sound the tuneful lute; Or humming some rude air that sths the heart, Clue up the sails, or spread them to depart. Mrs. Lewis died in 1880. The other principal American poets, verse-writers, and dramatists are: William Gilmore Simms (Atlantis, a story of the sea, etc.) : Mrs. Mary H. C. Booth (Way- side Blossoms among Flowers from German Gardens, etc.) ; Miss L. H. Hooper (translations from Geibel and Heine, etc.): Miss E. Frothingham (translation of Goethe's Hermann and Dorothea); Washington Allston (Sylphs of the Seasons, etc.) ; J. Pierpoint (Airs of Palestine, etc.) ; J. A. Hillhouse (dramas: Hadad, Percy s Mask, Demetria); F. Bret Harte (songs and poems on the Civil War, the Heathen Chinee; drama: Two Men of Sandy Bar); Charles G. Leland (translations from the German; Hans Breit- manns Ballad's, etc.); E. C. Stedman (the Diamond Wedding, Sumter, etc.); Richard H. Stoddard (Footprints, etc.); Ch. G. Halpine, (various poems on the Civil War); Geo. H. Boker (dramas: Calaynos; Anne Boleyn; Fran- cesca da Rimini); Henry Ware, jun. (Ursa Major, etc.); Ch. W. Everett (Agriculture, etc.); Ed. Everett (Dirge of Alaric, etc.) ; Epes Sargent (tragedy : Velasco, etc.) ; Mrs. Sawyer (the Valley of Peace, etc.); Mrs. A. C. — 284 — Mowatt (plays: Gulzare, the Persian Slave; Fashion; Armandj the Child of the People); Sara J. Clarke (Ari- adne, etc.) ; Miss Alice Carey (the Handmaid, etc.) ; Miss Phoebe Carey (Light in Darkness, etc.) ; the sisters, Mrs. Cather Warfield and Mrs. Eleanor Lee (the Indian Chamber, etc.); Mrs. J. W. Home (Wordsworth, etc.); Mrs. Maria Brooks (Zophiel, in six cantos). To these names we should perhaps add that of Walt Whitman (Leaves of Grass), though we confess we feel puzzled to decide whether his strange hybrid literary productions should be classed as prose or poetry. Before we con- clude, we have a word to say about the anonymous poets. That much poetical talent exists among educated Americans is proved by the appearance, every now and again, in the newspapers or literary magazines, of verses possessing great merit, wliich are read, admired, and if not soon after re -published with the author's name, forgotten. To one of these anonymous poetical effusions, which appeared in a New York periodical, we should desire to give further publicity. The subject is that grand and comprehensive one, which Alexander Pope recommended as the proper study of mankind:" MAN. The human mmd, — that lofty thing! The palace and the throne, Where reason sits a sceptred king, And breathes his judgment tone. Oh! who with silent step shall trace The borders of that haunted place, Nor in his weakness own That mystery and marvel bind That lofty thing — the human mind! The human heart, — that restless thing! The tempter and the tried; The joyous, yet the suffering, — The source of pain and pride ; The gorgeous tlironged, — the desolate. The seat of love, the lair of late, — Self-stung, self-deified ! Yet do we bless thee as thou art, Thou restless thing, — the human heart! — 285 — The human soul, — that startling thing! Mysterious and sublime! The angel sleeping on the wing Worn by the scoffs of time, — The beautiful, the veiled, the bound, The earth-enslaved, the glory-crowned, The stricken in its prime! From heaven in tears to earth it stole, That startling thing, — the human soul! And this is man : — oh ! ask of him The gifted and forgiven, — While o'er his vision, drear and dim, The wrecks of time are driven, If pride or passion in their power (^an chain the time, or charm the hour, Or stand in place of heaven? He bends the brow, he bows the knee, — "Creator, Father! none but thee!" VOCABULARY. (English and German.) A. Abdication, Abdankuiig*. aberrations, Verirrnngen. abigail, Kammerjungfer. abreast, neben einander. accessories, Nebensachen. achieve (to), voUenden, zu Stande bringen. acrimonious, beissend, bitter, adamantine, demanten. addled, faul, verdorben. adulterous, ehebrecherisch. aerial, atlierisch. affect (to), [S. 174] lieb gewnnen. affianced, verlobt. agaric, Pilz. aghast, erschrocken. ain't, vulgar fiir isn't, ajar, angelehnt. akin, verwandt. alderman, Stadtaltester. allegation, Behauptung. almoner, Almosenspender. amalgamation, Mischung. a-maying (to go), Maiblumen sammeln. amber, Bernstein, ankle, Fussknbchel. anon, in Kurzem. antagonist, Widersacher. anthem, Chorgesang. appanage, Vorrecht. approve (to), auf die Probe stellen, billigen. aptitude, Fahigkeit, Begabung. archery, das Bogenschiessen. armorer, Waffenschmied. articles of war, Kriegsgesetze. aspen, Espe. assafoetida, Teufelsdreck. astute, schlau, hinterlistig. athirst (poetisch), durstig. athrob (poetisch), zitternd. a-tiptoe, auf den Zehenspitzen. atrabilious, schwermiitig. attune (to), in Einklang bringen. auger-hole, Bohrloch. aught, etwas. avalanche, Lawine. aver (to), beteuem. average, Durchschnitt. aversion, Abneigung. ax (to), vulgar fur ask. aye, immer. Babble (to), schwatzen. bait, Imbiss, Lockspeise. ballot, die geheime Abstimmung. balls (golden), Schild des Pfand- verleihers. bamboozle (to), hintergehen. ban, Fluch. bandbox, Putzschachtel. bantling, Kindlein. bar, Hinderniss, Sandbank an der Mundung eines Flusses. (To be called to the bar, Advokat werden.) barge, Barke. 288 bask (to), sich sonnen. baton, Kommandostab. battle-axe, Streitaxt. beach, Strand, Ufer. (Beached, vom Strande einge- schlossen.) bead-roll, Rosenkranz, Liste. beads, (Glas-) Perlen. beaker, Becher. beam, Lichtstrahl; (von einem Schiff, with even beam, ganz gleichmassig). bearer, Ueberbringer. Beatrice and Benedick: vergl. Shakespeare's "Much Ado about Nothing." beckon (to), zuwinken. befit (to), anstehen, beguile (to), betriigen. bellow (to), briillen. bellows, Blasebalg. bequeath (to), vermachen. beset, bedrangt. betrothed, verlobt. bewail (to), beweinen. bewilder (to), verwirren. bicker (to), rauschen, zanken. billow, Welle, Woge. bit, Gebiss, Bischen. blacksmith, Hufschmied. blade, Klinge. blaspheme (to), verfluchen. blast, Wind, Sturm, blast (to), austrocknen, be- schimpfen. bleak, kalt, unfreundlich. bleat (to), bloken. blemish. Mangel, Fleck, blight (to), verderben, zu Grunde richten. blink (to), verheimlichen. blues, Blaustriimpfe. blunder (to), eineuFehler raachen. blurred, verschwommen. bohea, eine Sorte Thee. Bohemian Girl (Oper), die Zigeu- nerin. bolt (thunder-), Donnerkeil. bonnie, schon, freundlich. boon, Gunst, Gefallen. boots (nothing), es hilft nichts. bopeep, Versteckenspiel. borough, Wahlflecken. bother the gibberish! der Henker hole das Kauderwalsch. bothie (schottisch), Wirthshaus. boundary, Grenze. bounden, verpflichtet. bowery, laubreich. brackish, salzig. brae (schottisch), Anhohe. braid, Gewebe. brake, Farrnkraut. brand, Scliwert, Fackel. brandy. Cognac, brawl, Zank, Aufruhr. brawny, muskulos. bribe (to), bestechen. bridesmaid, Brautjungfer. bristles, Borsten; (S. 167), Bart, brittle, zerbrechlich. broom, Ginster. brow, Augenbraue, Stimrunzeln, Eand. browse (to), weiden. bruise, Wunde, Schlag. Brussels (carpet), Brusseler Teppich. buckle, Schnalle. bud, Knospe. buff-coat, Bliffelwamms. bugle, Jagdhorn. bump along (to) , auf holprigem Wege fahren. bumper, Humpen. buoy up (to), schwimmend erhalten. burden, Biirde, Refrain, burglar, Einbrecher. burnished, glanzend. bustling, Gewiihl. buxom, frohlich. by-the-by, beilaufig gesagt. c. Cabal (to), sich gegen etwas verschworen. callous, abgehartet. cancel (to), vernichten, aus- streichen. ORO canker (to), verderbeu (bei Rosen, anfressen). cant (S. 260), Heiichelei. canto, Gesang. canvass (to), erortern. cap, Mutze. carcase, Leiche. carnage, Bhitbad. carol, Gesang. carrion, Aas. casement (poetisch), Fenster. castigate (to), zlichtigen. ("athay, China. caw (to), krachzen. cemetery, Gottesacker. cerulean, himnielblan. chaff, Spren. --?■ -n^'*' ^ • ^ -Sf.^ ■> XT :• i>' k