Obrazy na stronie
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The genial night, wi' balmy breath, gars verdure spring

anew,

And ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

Sae, lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel owre proud and hie,

And in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's e'e,

Some wee dark clouds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or how,

But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

When the Glen all is Still.

[By H. S. Riddell.]

When the glen all is still, save the stream from the fountain;

When the shepherd has ceased o'er the heather to

roam;

And the wail of the plover awakes on the mountain,
Inviting his love to return to her home;
There meet me, my Mary, adown by the wild wood,
Where violets and daisies sleep saft in the dew;
Our bliss shall be sweet as the visions of childhood,
And pure as the heaven's own orient blue.

Thy locks shall be braided with pearls of the gloaming;
Thy cheek shall be fanned by the breeze of the lawn;
The angel of love shall be 'ware of thy coming,

And hover around thee till rise of the dawn. O Mary! no transports of Heaven's decreeing Can equal the joys of such meeting to me; For the light of thine eye is the home of my being, And my soul's fondest hopes are all gathered to thee.

Florence Nightingale.*
[By F. Bennoch.]

With lofty song we love to cheer

The hearts of daring men,
Applauded thus, they gladly hear
The trumpet's call again.
But now we sing of lowly deeds
Devoted to the brave,

When she, who stems the wound that bleeds,
A hero's life may save:

And heroes saved exulting tell

How well her voice they knew; How sorrow near it could not dwell, But spread its wings and flew.

Neglected, dying in despair,

They lay till woman came

To soothe them with her gentle care,
And feed life's flickering flame.
When wounded sore on fever's rack,
Or cast away as slain,

She called their fluttering spirits back,
And gave them strength again.
'Twas grief to miss the passing face
That suffering could dispel;
But joy to turn and kiss the place
On which her shadow fell.

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They knew that they were cared for then,
Their eyes forgot their tears;
In dreamy sleep they lost their pain,
And thought of early years—
Of early years when all was fair,
Of faces sweet and pale;

They woke the angel bending there
Was-Florence Nightingale!

DRAMATISTS.

Dramatic literature no longer occupies the prominent place it held in former periods of our history. Various causes have been assigned for this declineas, the great size of the theatres, the monopoly of or scenic display which has usurped the place of the the two large London houses, the love of spectacle legitimate drama, and the late dinner-hours now prevalent among the higher and even the middle classes. The increased competition in business has also made our nation of shopkeepers' a busier and harder-working race than their forefathers; and the diffusion of cheap literature may have further tended to thin the theatres, as furnishing intellectual entertainment for the masses at home at a cheaper rate than dramatic performances. The London managers appear to have had considerable influence in this matter. They lavish enormous sums on scenic decoration and particular actors, and aim rather at filling their houses by some ephemeral and dazzling display, than by the liberal encouragement of native talent and genius. To improve, or rather re-establish the acted drama, a writer in the Edinburgh Review for 1843 suggests that there should be a classification of theatres in the metropolis, as in Paris, where each theatre has its distinct species of the drama, and performs it well. We believe, he says, 'that the evil is mainly occasioned by the vain endeavour of managers to succeed by commixing every species of entertainment-huddling together tragedy, comedy, farce, melo-drama, and spectacle-and striving, by alternate exhibitions, to draw all the dramatic public to their respective houses. Imperfect-very imperfect companies for each species are engaged; and as, in consequence of the general imperfection, they are forced to rely on individual excellence, individual performers become of inordinate importance, and the most exorbitant salaries are given to procure them. These individuals are thus placed in a false position, and indulge themselves in all sorts of mannerisms and absurdities. The public is not unreasonably dissatisfied with imperfect companies and bad performances; the managers wonder at their ruin; and critics become elegiacal over the mournful decline of the drama! Not in this way can a theatre flourish; since, if one species of performance proves attractive, the others are at a discount, and their companies become useless burdens; if none of them prove attractive, then the loss ends in ruin.' Too many instances of this have occurred within the last thirty years. Whenever a play of real excellence has been brought forward, the public has shewn no insensibility to its merits; but so many circumstances are requisite to its successful representation-so expensive are the companies, and so capricious the favourite actorsthat men of talent are averse to hazard a competition.

Bulwer Lytton-elsewhere noticed in this volumeThe tragedies of Miss Mitford and Sir Edward were highly successful in representation, but the fame of their authors must ever rest on those prose fictions by which they are chiefly known. Sir

Edward's Lady of Lyons is, however, one of our most popular acting plays; it is picturesque and romantic, with passages of fine poetry and genuine feeling.

THOMAS NOON TALFOURD.

Two classic and two romantic dramas were produced by THOMAS NOON TALFOURD, an eloquent English barrister and upright judge, whose sudden death was deeply lamented by a most attached circle of literary and accomplished friends, as well as by the public at large. Mr Talfourd was a native of Reading, in Berkshire, born in 1795. His father was a brewer in Reading. Having studied the law, Talfourd was called to the bar in 1821, and in 1833 got his silk gown. As Serjeant Talfourd, he was conspicuous for his popular eloquence and liberal principles, and was returned to parliament for his native town. In 1835, he published his tragedy of Ion, which was next year produced at Covent Garden Theatre with success. His next tragedy, The Athenian Captive, was also successful. His subsequent dramatic works were The Massacre of Glencoe, and The Castilian, a tragedy. Besides these offerings to the dramatic muse, Talfourd published Vacation Rambles, 1851, comprising the recollections of three continental tours, a Life of Charles Lamb, and an Essay on the Greek Drama. In 1849, he was elevated to the bench, and in 1854 he died of apoplexy while delivering his charge to the grand jury at Stafford. Ion, the highest literary effort of its author, seems an embodiment of the simplicity and grandeur of the Greek drama, and its plot is founded on the old Grecian notion of destiny, apart from all moral agencies. The oracle of Delphi had announced that the vengeance which the misrule of the race of Argos had brought on the people, in the form of a pestilence, could only be disarmed by the extirpation of the guilty race, and Ion, the hero of the play, at length offers himself a sacrifice. The character of Ion-the discovery of his birth, as son of the kinghis love and patriotism, are drawn with great power and effect. The style of Mr Talfourd is chaste and clear, yet full of imagery. Take, for example, the delineation of the character of Ion:

Ion, our sometime darling, whom we prized
As a stray gift, by bounteous Heaven dismissed
From some bright sphere which sorrow may not cloud
To make the happy happier! Is he sent
To grapple with the miseries of this time,
Whose nature such ethereal aspect wears
As it would perish at the touch of wrong!
By no internal contest is he trained
For such hard duty; no emotions rude

Hath his clear spirit vanquished-Love, the germ
Of his mild nature, hath spread graces forth,
Expanding with its progress, as the store
Of rainbow colour which the seed conceals
Sheds out its tints from its dim treasury,
To flush and circle in the flower. No tear
Hath filled his eye save that of thoughtful joy
When, in the evening stillness, lovely things
Pressed on his soul too busily; his voice,
If, in the earnestness of childish sports,
Raised to the tone of anger, checked its force,
As if it feared to break its being's law,
And faltered into music; when the forms
Of guilty passion have been made to live
In pictured speech, and others have waxed loud
In righteous indignation, he hath heard
With sceptic smile, or from some slender vein
Of goodness, which surrounding gloom concealed,

Struck sunlight o'er it: so his life hath flowed
From its mysterious urn a sacred stream,
In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure
Alone are mirrored; which, though shapes of ill
May hover round its surface, glides in light,
And takes no shadow from them.

[Extracts from Ion.']

[Ion being declared the rightful heir of the throne, is waited upon by Clemanthe, daughter of the high priest of the temple, wherein Ion had been reared in obscurity.]

Ion. What wouldst thou with me, lady?
Clemanthe. Is it so?

Nothing, my lord, save to implore thy pardon,
That the departing gleams of a bright dream,
From which I scarce had wakened, made me bold
To crave a word with thee; but all are fled-
Ion. 'Twas indeed a goodly dream;
But thou art right to think it was no more;
And study to forget it.

Clem. To forget it!

Indeed, my lord, I will not wish to lose
What, being past, is all my future hath,
All I shall live for; do not grudge me this,
The brief space I shall need it.

Ion. Speak not, fair one,

In tone so mournful, for it makes me feel
Too sensibly the hapless wretch I am,
That troubled the deep quiet of thy soul
In that pure fountain which reflected heaven,
For a brief taste of rapture.

Clem. Dost thou yet

Esteem it rapture, then? My foolish heart,
Be still! Yet wherefore should a crown divide us?
O, my dear Ion! let me call thee so

This once at least-it could not in my thoughts
Increase the distance that there was between us
When, rich in spirit, thou to strangers' eyes
Seemed a poor foundling.

Ion. It must separate us!

Think it no harmless bauble; but a curse
Will freeze the current in the veins of youth,
And from familiar touch of genial hand,
From household pleasures, from sweet daily tasks,
From airy thought, free wanderer of the heavens,
For ever banish me!

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And shall we never see each other?
Ion. [After a pause.] Yes!

I have asked that dreadful question of the hills
That look eternal; of the flowing streams
That lucid flow for ever; of the stars,
Amid whose fields of azure my raised spirit
Hath trod in glory: all were dumb; but now,
While I thus gaze upon thy living face,

I feel the love that kindles through its beauty
Can never wholly perish: we shall meet
Again, Clemanthe!

Clem. Bless thee for that name;

Pray, call me so again; thy words sound strangely,
Yet they breathe kindness, and I'll drink them in,
Though they destroy me. Shall we meet indeed?
Think not I would intrude upon thy cares,
Thy councils, or thy pomps; to sit at distance,
To weave, with the nice labour which preserves
The rebel pulses even, from gay threads

Faint records of thy deeds, and sometimes catch
The falling music of a gracious word,
Or the stray sunshine of a smile, will be
Comfort enough: do not deny me this;
Or if stern fate compel thee to deny,
Kill me at once!

Ion. No; thou must live, my fair one:
There are a thousand joyous things in life,
Which pass unheeded in a life of joy

As thine hath been, till breezy sorrow comes
To ruffle it; and daily duties paid

Hardly at first, at length will bring repose
To the sad mind that studies to perform them.
Thou dost not mark me.

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Then he has cast me off! no-'tis not so;
Some mournful secret of his fate divides us;
I'll struggle to bear that, and snatch a comfort
From seeing him uplifted. I will look
Upon him in his throne; Minerva's shrine
Will shelter me from vulgar gaze; I'll hasten
And feast my sad eyes with his greatness there. [Exit.

[Ion is installed in his royal dignity, attended by the high priest, the senators, &c. The people receive him with shouts.]

Ion. I thank you for your greetings-shout no more, But in deep silence raise your hearts to heaven, That it may strengthen one so young and frail As I am for the business of this hour.

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Rise tranquil from her griefs--'twill not be long, If the great gods smile on us now. Remember, Meanwhile, thou hast all power my word can give, Whether I live or die.

Agenor. Die! Ere that hour,

May even the old man's epitaph be moss-grown!
Ion. Death is not jealous of the mild decay
That gently wins thee his; exulting youth
Provokes the ghastly monarch's sudden stride,
And makes his horrid fingers quick to clasp
His prey benumbed at noontide. Let me see
The captain of the guard.

Crythes. I kneel to crave

Humbly the favour which thy sire bestowed
On one who loved him well.

Ion. I cannot mark thee,

That wakest the memory of my father's weakness,
But I will not forget that thou hast shared
The light enjoyments of a noble spirit,
And learned the need of luxury. I grant
For thee and thy brave comrades ample share
Of such rich treasure as my stores contain,
To grace thy passage to some distant land,
Where, if an honest cause engage thy sword,
May glorious issues wait it. In our realm
We shall not need it longer.

Crythes. Dost intend

To banish the firm troops before whose valour Barbarian millions shrink appalled, and leave Our city naked to the first assault

Of reckless foes?

Ion. No, Crythes; in ourselves,

In our own honest hearts and chainless hands
Will be our safeguard; while we do not use
Our power towards others, so that we should blush
To teach our children; while the simple love
Of justice and their country shall be born
With dawning reason; while their sinews grow
Hard 'midst the gladness of heroic sports,
We shall not need, to guard our walls in peace,
One selfish passion, or one venal sword.

I would not grieve thee; but thy valiant troop-
For I esteem them valiant-must no more
With luxury which suits a desperate camp
Infect us. See that they embark, Agenor,
Ere night.

Crythes. My lord

Ion. No more-my word hath passed.
Medon, there is no office I can add

To those thou hast grown old in; thou wilt guard
The shrine of Phoebus, and within thy home-
Thy too delightful home-befriend the stranger
As thou didst me; there sometimes waste a thought
On thy spoiled inmate.

Medon. Think of thee, my lord?

Long shall we triumph in thy glorious reign.

Ion. Prithee no more. 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 affections crushed by bitter wrongs Which fretted him to madness; what he did, Alas! ye know; could you know what he suffered, Ye would not curse his name. Yet never more Let the great interests of the state depend Upon the thousand 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 sympathy 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 me
That ye will do this!

Medon. 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.

Ion. 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,

and the scene is laid in Flanders, at the close of the fourteenth century. The second, Edwin the Fair, 1843, relates to early English history. Though somewhat too measured and reflective for the stage, the plays of Mr Taylor contain excellent scenes and dialogues. The blended dignity of thought, and a sedate moral habit, invests Mr Taylor's poetry with a stateliness in which the drama is generally deficient, and makes his writings illustrate, in some degree, a new form of the art-such a form, indeed, as we might expect the written drama naturally to assume if it were to revive in the nineteenth century, and maintain itself as a branch of literature apart from the stage.' Besides these works Mr Taylor has written The Eve of the Conquest, and other Poems, 1847; Notes from Life, 1848; Notes from Books, 1849; and The Virgin Widow, a poem, 1850. Eloquent, thoughtful, and learned, all the writings of Mr Taylor are of a high intellectual order. MR LEIGH HUNT, in 1840, came before the public as a dramatic writer. His work was a mixture of romance and comedy, entitled A Legend of Florence: it was acted at Covent Garden Theatre with some success, but is too sketchy in its materials, and too extravagant in plot, to be a popular acting play. Athelwold, a tragedy by WILLIAM SMITH, 1842, is a drama also for the closet; it wants variety and scenic effect for the stage, and in style and sentiment is not unlike one of Miss Baillie's plays. The

Beyond ye, that hath breathed through all your shapes following Christian sentiment is finely expressed:

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!

CLEMANTHE rushes forward.

Clem. Hold!

[Stabs himself.

Let me support him-stand away-indeed
I have best right, although ye know it not,
To cleave to him in death.

Ion. This is a joy

I did not hope for-this is sweet indeed.
Bend thine eyes on me!

Clem. And for this it was

Thou wouldst have weaned me from thee!
Couldst thou think

I would be so divorced?

Ion. Thou art right, Clemanthe-
It was a shallow and an idle thought;

'Tis past; no show of coldness frets us now;
No vain disguise, my girl. Yet thou wilt think
On that which, when I feigned, I truly spoke-
Wilt thou not, sweet one?

Clem. I will treasure all.

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Joy is a weak and giddy thing that laughs
Itself to weariness or sleep, and wakes
To the same barren laughter; 'tis a child
Perpetually, and all its past and future
Lie in the compass of an infant's day.

Crushed from our sorrow all that's great in man
Has ever sprung. In the bold pagan world
Men deified the beautiful, the glad,

The strong, the boastful, and it came to nought;
We have raised Pain and Sorrow into heaven,
And in our temples, on our altars, Grief
Stands symbol of our faith, and it shall last
As long as man is mortal and unhappy.
The gay at heart may wander to the skies,

And harps may there be found them, and the branch
Of palm be put into their hands; on earth
We know them not; no votarist of our faith,
Till he has dropped his tears into the stream,
Tastes of its sweetness.

DOUGLAS JERROLD.

This popular humorist and satirist (1803-1857) finds his place more appropriately in our list of miscellaneous writers, but his first grand success was in the character of a dramatist, and his comedies and other pieces for the theatre fill two volumes of his collected works. After some obscure theatrical labours for the Coburg Theatre, Mr Jerrold produced his nautical and domestic drama, Black-eyed Susan, which was brought out at the Surrey Theatre in 1829, and had prodigious success. It had a run of above three hundred nights, and produced many thousands to the theatre, though to the author it brought only about £70. The sailor hero of the piece was admirably repre[Dies. sented by Mr T. P. Cooke, and the other characters and situations in the piece were managed with great skill and effect. The other dramas of Jerrold areThe Rent Day, 1832; Nell Gwynne, and The Housekeeper, 1833; The Wedding Gown, 1834; The School-fellows, and Doves in a Cage, 1835; Prisoner of War, 1842; Bubbles of the Day, and Time Works Wonders, 1845; The Catspaw, 1850; Retired

Ion. [Springs to his feet.] Do ye not hear?
Why shout ye not? ye are strong-think not of me;
Hearken! the curse my ancestry had spread
O'er Argos is dispelled! My own Clemanthe!
Let this console thee-Argos lives again-
The offering is accepted-all is well!

HENRY TAYLOR-LEIGH HUNT-WILLIAM SMITH.

Two dramatic poems have been produced by HENRY TAYLOR, Esq., which, though not popular, evince high genius and careful preparation. The first, Philip van Artevelde, was published in 1834,

622

from Business, 1851; St Cupid, 1853; Heart of Gold, 1854. The plays of Jerrold, like all his other writings, abound in pointed and witty sayings and lively illustration. His incidents and characters are also well contrasted and arranged for stage effect, yet there is a want of breadth and simplicity

Douglas Jerrold,

about most of his dramas that renders them unattrac

Lord Skin. Well, well; command me in any way; benevolence is my foible.

[Companies for leasing Mount Vesuvius, for making a Trip all round the World, for Buying the Serpentine River, &c.]

Captain Smoke. We are about to start a company to take on lease Mount Vesuvius for the manufacture of lucifer-matches.

Sir P. 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, sir, if you would but take the chair at the first meeting-(Aside to Chatham: We 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 sulphur secured to the company-a monopoly which will suffer no man, woman, or child to strike a light without our permission.

Chatham. Truly, sir, in such a cause, to such an auditory-I fear my eloquence.

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.

Lord Skin. Smoke, never say humbug; it's coarse. Sir P. 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 lucifer question?

Smoke. I can't: I have his lordship in three comtive in the closet. We dip into them occasionally panies already. Three. First, there's a company-half for a sentiment or piece of satire tersely expressed, a million capital-for extracting civet from asafoetida. yet we cannot read them continuously as we do the The second is a company for a trip all round the world. comedies of Goldsmith or Sheridan. Perhaps the We propose to hire a three-decker of the Lords of the most artistic and most interesting is Time Works Admiralty, and fit her up with every accommodation for Wonders, but the simple pathos and plot of Black-families. We've already advertised for wet-nurses and eyed Susan will always render it a greater favourite on the stage. The following extracts from Bubbles of the Day ridicule the prevailing rage for new schemes and companies:

[Fancy Fair in Guildhall for Painting St Paul's.] Sir Phenix Clearcake. I 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. Lord Skindeep. Benevolence and respectability! Of course, I'm with you. Well, the precise object?

Sir P. It is to remove a stain-a very great stain from the city; to give an air of maiden beauty to a most venerable institution; to exercise a renovating taste at a most inconsiderable outlay; to call up, as it were, the snowy beauty 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! To give it a virgin outside-to make it so truly respectable.

Lord Skin. A gigantic effort!

Sir P. 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 of the city-but this also is a secret-the Lady Mayoress has been up three nights making pincushions.

Lord Skin. But you don't want me take a stall-to sell pincushions?

Sir P. 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.

maids of all work.

fittings-up will be so respectable. A delightful billiardSir P. A magnificent project! And then the table in the ward-room; with, for the humbler classes, skittles on the orlop-deck. Swings and archery for the ladies, trap-ball and cricket for the children, whilst the marine sportsman will find the stock of gulls unlimited. Weippert's quadrille band is engaged, and

Smoke. For the convenience of lovers, the ship will carry a parson.

Chat. And the object?

Smoke. Pleasure and education. At every new country we shall drop anchor for at least a week, that the children may go to school and learn the language. The trip must answer: 'twill occupy only three years, and we've forgotten nothing to make it delightfulnothing 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 Grand Junction Temperance Cemetery. Brown. What! 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 lucifers-I know his lordship's goodness-he'll give you up the cemetery. (Aside to Chatham: A family vault as a bonus to the chairman.)

Sir P. What 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.

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