usual resting-place; and when he saw us draw aside the curtain, he looked at us so wistfully, that-no, I cannot go on ! There is a religion in a good man's death that we cannot babble to all the world!' This, I take it, is sufficient.' 66 The critic in the Examiner tells his readers, that by these two volumes (the Student) Mr. Liston Bulwer has shot an arrow at Posterity, which must of necessity reach that potentate. If so, it will be for Posterity to receive the same at his own good pleasure. For my own poor part, as one of the contemporaries of this publication, I must say I think it the most impudent appeal to the popular gullibility I have ever encountered-not excepting the volumes of Mr. Liston Bulwer's brother Resurrection-man,' Mr. Paul Pry Poole." Here the speaker resumed his seat, amid loud yawns, leg-stretchings, and other signs of sudden relief from the assembly. A general cry for Peter Robertson succeeded; but it was announced by the great OLIVER, that Professor Wilson had prohibited his departure from Drummond Place, by which act of despotism his brother contributors were deprived of the delight and instruction which he must bave shed around the debate. we beg par- "OLIVER YORKE! Gentlemen of A breath may make them, as a breath But a bold poetry, its country's pride, "Scarce any English reader of bio- do "It is said that Poetry is, at this may yet have its charm. They who Perhaps we may guess, that when though they may appear to the super- "I do not think that the public has "I am thus attempting to gain admission for a few sonnets, by inserting them in an article partly of prose. My own taste has always induced me I am deto like this intermixture. lighted with it in Cowley's Essays; and one always makes a good preparation for the other: the action and reaction are mutual. "Henry Hastings was son of an Earl of Huntingdon; he lived through the reigns of Queen Elizabeth, James I., and Charles I., and died on the verge Like of a hundred years of age. Claudian's Old Man of Verona, he did not trouble himself with affairs of state, but enjoyed his own country-life amid the woods and fields. "His father was George, fourth earl, who died in 1605; Henry died 5th October, 1650, aged ninety-nine, and was buried in the church of Horton, in Dorsetshire. A descent from him was attempted to be set up against the late successful claimant to the earldom, but on no probable ground. The present earl is descended from Sir Edward Hastings, younger brother of George, fourth earl, and uncle to this Henry Hastings of Woodlands. "There is something exceedingly picturesque in the account of this Harry Hastings's life; and I am willing to delude myself with the belief, that the following sonnets not unaptly describe it. On this subject, I think that poetry can do better than prose. "HASTINGS' SONNETS. SONNET I. “ Old Harry Hastings, of thy forest life But thy skill'd eye and long experience knew. And wood-nymphs from their bowery bed would rise; II. A century did not thy vigour pale, Nor war and rapine thy enjoyments cloud; And with responsive horns, in blasts as proud, And in the leaf-strown glades and yellow lanes Each for the kindly salutation strives, Which to their smiles the gladsome veteran deigns. Hark how, on courser mounted, in his vest Of green, the aged sportsman cracks his blithesome jest! III. "Then comes the rude and hospitable hall: Mark how abound the trophies of the chase! His sleeping hounds, round the hearth gather'd, wake And all, his joyous bounty to partake, Leap to his call, and round his table throng. IV. "To-morrow will the music of their cries Pierce through the shadowy solitudes again, 42 Report on Fraser's Magazine. Groans through the forest, echoes from the hills, And for another morning saves the game. V. "A hundred years to live, and live in joy! The blessed air, In all its purity of leaf and flower; The woodland peace, the contemplative hour; The gales that fragrance to the spirit bear; The scenes in nature's unstain'd brightness fair; The very health on forest-beauty's face; The form robust in woodland pastures bred; With what a tranquil and uncumber'd pace Might thus we reach the slumbers of the dead! VI. "But is congenial quiet, and of frame, Sound health sufficient? Does not Mind demand Busy within us, must fulfil its aim! Around us circles an aërial band, Which tells us spiritual labours to endeavour; As the pure channels of our earthly joy! "I hope, that in this imagery no "I do not quite approve of that exalted, more pure, and more tender. They are thoughts and feelings, with which Spiritual Genius is familiar. That in which we cannot believe is empty and childish. "It is the grand business of imagination to light up the distant past, in which others have acted, and bring it before us with all the freshness of life. "If I have taken a true view of the character of old Harry Hastings, then I have done a poet's work. In that case, I shall have brought him to life again in his most picturesque features. "I do not think that poetry is to represent what neither is, nor has been, nor can be, in select cases. If it does not elucidate psychology with philosophic correctness, it does nothing: it is not sufficient to portray what mere reason tells us we ought to be. "Of all the English poets of the French school, there are but two who may not be consigned to the fire Dryden and Pope. But even these depend upon their Anglicisms for their fame. "For me, who am a scribbler of verses, to be severe upon my brotherscribblers may seem very ungracious; but, much as I love poetry, I can say, without hesitation, that the larger part of the great body of English composition so called would, in my opinion, be a good clearance, were it turned into waste-paper. Of all reading, it fatigues and sickens the most: it contains no instruction and no pleasure. "To make mediocre verses is a mere piece of ordinary mechanism; it is a jeu de mots. I would rather read Cocker's arithmetic, as Johnson did, though I am no arithmetician. "I abhor the poetry of words: no language can be too plain, if it is not vulgar. Milton's grandeur is in his nakedness. Pope is often naked; but then he is flat also. Milton, in his nakedness, shews nerve, muscle, and magnitude of limb, a broad breast, and a capacious head. "I conceive, that to make a genuine poem there must be both ingredients of poetical essence and novelty of combination. Something must be brought out, which has not been brought out before; and something which adds to the stock of spiritual, moral, and philosophic knowledge. All which is vor et præterea nihil—all gaudy but hackneyed phraseology, cast into sounding metre all in which a predominant uniformity of imaginative thought does not transpire through the language all this is factitious and disgusting idleness. "Take Milton's L'Allegro and Il Penseroso; the images that belong to one would not suit the other, though both poetical in themselves. "It is the selection and just position which marks the poet; and this cannot be supplied by memory: we know only by the internal feeling, with which memory has no concern. Nothing is more easy than to bring together all sorts of rich words, which look like poetry to the eye: it is the breathing exhalation of the soul which is the easy and unsought touch can make genius communicative: when he goes out of his way he fails. What is good in Gray, Akenside, Shenstone, and Lyttelton, is only where they 'Snatch'd a grace beyond the reach While the themes of poetry seem to be exhausted, the parts yet untouched are beyond enumeration; and all this, because critical canons have misled attempts. Still the parrots cry, All that poetry can tell has already been told."" A deep silence prevailed after the eloquent tongue of Sir Egerton had ceased to speak. All sate, scarcely knowing what to say, when, from the midst of the company, a person caught the eye. He was a Biscayan, and no less a personage than the son of the renowned Zumalacarraguy. Delightedly did we admit the appeal of the illustrious stranger; and, at last, bowing benignly, he spoke as follows: "TOUCHING THINGS THEATRICAL. "May it please your Highness! the subject whereupon I have to treat is touching things theatrical. I have, in obedience to your sovereign mandate, diligently frequented the playhouses, and am now ready to lay before your highness, as succinctly as I may, the results of my observation and experience. "Speaking generally, theatrical affairs are in a most deplorable condition in this country. Liston lingers at a minor theatre-Jack Reeve has gone to America. With respect to the proprietary, whenever a gentleman or a capitalist happens to be engaged in it, he is sure to find that the speculation is desperately ruinous; and, really, the moral of the matter would seem to be, that in the desert of one of our large theatres wealth is an encumbrance, as the Roman sage of yore found it amongst the Egyptian sands; and that unencumbered wit' -to apply the word as a principle, after the fashion of Tom Moore, where he describes, in one of his songs, the contest between Wit and Wealth for the possession of Beauty unencumbered wit is the only thing which can keep a lessee buoyant, not to say (for that would be ridiculous) successful. Only observe the moral phenomena of managers we - have persons who contract for tens of thousands, and actually spend thousands, without having ever in their lives been possessed of one honest farthing. As to the players—I mean on the English stage-surely poor audiences were never yet in so lamentable a plight. There is only one man, and no woman, to enact tragedy. In comedy, there is only Farren; and we seldom see him now-a-days. In farce, it is true, we are more fortunate; for, somehow or other about the town, we have Liston, Power, Keeley, Vale, Mrs. Orger, Mrs. Keeley, and others, good in their department, though of inferior note. But of this more by and by. "Dramatic literature is, if possible, in a more degraded state than when the subject was last touched upon in this journal. The town has been invaded by the barbarian scissors-men from Lambeth Marsh -- by the poets of Astley's and the Surrey Theatre; and direful has been the infliction upon the unfortunate frequenters of the playhouses. The Coryphæus of this poetic crew would seem to be a Mr. Fitzball, who writes every thing to order,' from a tragedy to an interlude, with astounding rapidity and deadly execution. Certainly, his ideas of poetry and English are peculiar and original; but this is all that could be said in his commendation, even by a diurnal The regular critic profuse of praise. hands' for tragedy and comedy, such as Knowles, Miss Mitford, Planché, Morton, have not produced any thing (excepting Planché, who has written a melodrama); and I suppose there was no temptation held out to them on the part of the managers, who found that opera and spectacle are better suited to the taste of the modern public. Incidentally, however, I may remark, that a work of very high merit has been printed for circulation amongst the author's friends. I speak upon the faith of the Quarterly Review, and a deep sense of the beauty in thought and feeling displayed in the extracts given by the reviewer. If we are to judge of the whole performance by the exquisite specimens of poetry, in its highest and noblest form, which have been laid before us, I should hesitate not to say that, in our days, there is no dramatic work to be mentioned in comparison with Ion, excepting only "Ion is a tragedy in the strict sense of the word, and is calculated, I do well believe, to confer upon its author an undying name, and that pure honour which will not pass away. Mr. Sergeant Talfourd is the author; and, for my own part, I consider it delightful to see, as the result of innocent hours-hours of loving labour, taken from amidst the cares and duties of the world, the angry impulses of politics, the avocations of the noblest and most arduous profession -a monument, like this tragedy, of taste and industry, learning and genius, serene and kindly feelings, high aspirations, and a manly, upright heart. It should be regarded by all men as an example of the glorious purpose to which those tempora intercessiva, so often wasted, or worse than wasted, may be applied; and by every scholar, who has the good fortune and the honour to belong to a profession in which all manner of knowledge is useful, it should be hailed as an enas a frankcouragement, received pledge, that, contrary to the opinion of the ignorant, the dull, and the cold, the highest success in literature, whereby you live for all time, and the highest success at the bar, by which you may achieve all earthly honours to which a subject may attain, are not, to the man of Labour and of Will, things incompatible. "It is not likely that Mr. Talfourd's tragedy will be performed at the theatres -and why should he desire it? why should he wish to have his poetry marred in the delivery by stupid and incapable playactors? I could not, however, forbear to avail myself of the opportunity of saying something about so great a rarity in modern literature as a good tragedy. "I shall now, sir, proceed to speak severally of the theatres, and commence with the ITALIAN OPERA. "I always have been, and still am, a most passionate and devoted lover of music: At least one half my love, even of poetry, is for its music. But, I know not wherefore, last season I was by no means so constant an attendant of the Opera as during any preceding season of my London life. I say 1 know not wherefore, unless, indeed, it might be from some waywardness of feeling as to the trouble' of going; for, when once within the walls, it was |