bears a considerable resemblance to that of Moore; but the similarity goes no farther. In one instance only did we recognise either the images or language of any other poet; but that one we deem singularly unfortunate, as it is of a passage which none can expect to excel, few hope to equal. It is of the picture given by Aspatia of Ariadne, in the Maid's Tragedy. We can readily conceive how she was led, by her intense admiration of the original, to introduce it; but we say again, that it was unfortunate, as giving rise to a comparison which, straining as it is to our gallantry to admit it, must terminate to the disadvantage of the lady. But dismissing this, let us give an analysis of the principal poem, and proceed to lay some specimens before our readers. The thread of narrative which pervades it is slight, and consists of the history, given by herself, of a young Florentine girl, of exquisite sensibility, and high poetic feeling, powerfully operated upon by external causes. She gives us an account of the effect which the circumstances in which she was placed had upon her mind. The description of Italy, with which she introduces herself, we consider eminently beautiful : I am a daughter of that land, Where the poet's lip and the painter's hand I am of Florence. 'Mid the chill From the fairy tints in the rainbow wrought; Music, whose sighs had a spell like those That float on the sea at the evening's close; Language so silvery, that every word Was like the lute's awakening chord; Skies half sunshine, and half starlight; Flow'rs whose lives were a breath of delight; Leaves whose green pomp knew no withering; Fountains bright as the skies of our spring; And songs, whose wild and passionate line Suited a soul of romance like mine. without any connection, but merely Ballads and songs are introduced · as the breathings of her muse in her solitude. think will bear a comparison with The following song of Sappho we Mr Croly's picture of Sappho in his Gems from the Antique: Sappho's Song. Farewell, my lute! and would that I Had never wak'd thy burning chords! Poison has been upon thy sigh, And fever has breath'd in thy words. Yet wherefore, wherefore should I blame Thy pow'r, thy spell, my gentlest lute ? I should have been the wretch I am, Had every chord of thine been mute. It was my evil star above, Not my sweet lute that wrought me wrong; It was not song that taught me love, But it was love that taught me song. If song be past, and hope undone, And pulse, and head, and heart are flame; It is thy work, thou faithless one! But no! I will not name thy name! Sun-god, lute, wreath, are vow'd to thee! Want of room prevents us from noticing all the tales woven into this poem; we therefore pass on to a circumstance of great interest in the history of the heroine. One evening, as she was pouring forth her soul in song, she was overheard by a young man, Lorenzo, who was so struck with the beauty of her performance, so soul-centred in her song," that his appearance made a deep impression on her, and she became in love. Unfortunately he was engaged, and was soon after married to the lady to whom he was so bound. From this time the Improvisatrice began rapidly to decline in health. "Songs which only told of love" disappointed were her sole amusement. In one of these she gives the following exquisite picture of a young girl pining away for her absent lover: It is most sad to watch the fall Of autumn leaves !-but worst of all Its summer light and warmth forget; To watch the banner-rose of health Pass from the cheek!-to mark how plain, Upon the wan and sunken brow, Become the wanderings of each view! The shadowy hand, so thin, so pale! The languid step! the drooping head! The long wreaths of neglected hair! The lip whence red and smile are fled ! And having watch'd thus, day by day, Light, life, and colour pass away! To see, at length, the glassy eye Fix dull in dread mortality; Mark the last ray, catch the last breath, Till the grave sets its sign of death!" The health of the lady whom Lorenzo had married soon became such that it was necessary to remove her to the Azores, where she shortly died. Lorenzo, mindful of the minstrel he had heard, hastened to Italy, and sought her hand. But, Oh! mockery of happiness! and she expired in his arms. This, then, is a sketch, with a few specimens, of the principal poem. Its fault, if fault it be, is, that though Lines written beneath a Picture of a Girl all beautiful, no part rises decidedly superior to the rest, but is throughout one table-land of fine poetry. Of the shorter poems, we are almost puzzled to say which of them are the most pleasing; but if called upon to decide, we would say Rosalie, and the Minstrel of Portugal. In them, as well as in the longer poem, thoughts and expressions are often to be met with of great poetic beauty, greater than are to be found in any works, save those of the elder dramatists. Several of the minor pieces bear a considerable resemblance to the style of Wordsworth, but without any of those instances of bad taste, and obscurity of expression, which are occasionally to be met with in his burning a Love-Letter. "The lines were fill'd with many a tender thing, All the impassion'd heart's fond communing." I took the scroll: I could not brook To dwell upon one thought of thine. I held thy letter to the flame, Soon the light from the embers past, I fear'd it was love's history. GAFFER GRABBLE, DEALER AND CHAPMAN; A PAROCHIAL FARCE. On the evening of Tuesday last, when rummaging my locker in quest of antidotes against ennui, a malady that afflicts men who have little to do and less to think of, I cast my eye on a tolerably-sized parcel, bound with red tape, and labelled thus," Gaffer Grabble, an Afterpiece, in three Acts, by Jeremy Suckbut, Esq. of the Inner-Temple," and instantly called to mind the odd circumstance that deterred me from giving it a place in the Albion Literary Museum. Mr Sackbut's accompanying note contained many well-coloured encomiums on my Editorial prowess, which were all palatable enough, and his very high opinion of the Museum was also taken in good part; but when he proceeded to say that his performance had been rejected by all the loggerheaded playhouse-managers, newspaper-manufacturers, magazine-editors, &c. &c. in London, and that the only remaining hope he entertained of presenting his literary bantling to the public rested entirely on my well-known discrimination, goodness of heart, loving-kindness, and so forth-" Ho, ho!" said I to myself, "this won't do, Mr Jeremy-all gammon-sheer blarneycan't digest it." So saying, I gently gave the neck of his note a bit of a twist, and slipt it between the grate rib. Having thus far manifested my dislike to fudge, flummery, and evil-speaking, I forthwith proceeded to examine Mr Sackbut's manuscript, and certainly felt myself much in love with the prologue, until three crack-jaw words, all in a row, made their appearance, which decided the fate of his piece. Ever since the merciless threshing I received per the hands of Dominie Gordon, because of my incapacity to articulate that frightful name, Mahershallalhashbash, to his liking, have I shuddered at the sight of a kittle syllable, cursed the inventors of cramp words from the innermost chamber of my heart, and even wished the poor printers in Beelzebub's bosom for committing them to types. No wonder that Jeremy's farce was consigned to the waste locker. "But," saith the wise man," there is a time for every thing;" and even so say I; a time to condemn and a time to approve, a time to d- -n plays and a time to save them. I cast my eye on Jeremy's parcel as aforesaid, and remembered the sentence passed upon it. Curiosity whispered in mine ear, "Take another look," and Prudence said, "Beware of the prologue-pass it without halting," which accordingly was done. In a word, which, amongst our modern phraseologists, implies many, I fell upon Mr Jeremy Sackbut's Afterpiece, and perused it with the greatest care imaginable, not having met with a single kittle word throughout the whole performance. With respect to its intrinsic worth, I beg leave to decline giving any opinion thereon, least said being soonest mended; the reader of course must judge for him or herself, as the case may be. vehicle).-Hop, skip, and leap-there they go, sure enough, jolly dogs all. By gowls, Neddy, the parish upholds thy deputy chin, or else many a weary tongue wags untruly. Blessed is he whom a select vestry delighteth to honour. Dingle. Didn't I say, when the old boy was chosen overseer, that his house and the work house were too near by a bow-shot? Only think of the slender fence between Dame Dorothy's back court and Ned's garden. Why, I've seen three magpies breakfasting on the bits o' raw flesh that stuck to the rails. Aye, aye, Neddy, many a jolly good sticking-piece, and prime mouse-buttock, hast thou trailed over since Dame Dorothy became matron. Wiggins-No doubt of it. Dingle.- -What a bare-faced shame it was, to send his old aunt into the house, and have her appointed stewardess of the parish-store, with such a ricketty partition between them, when all the parish knew that Ned Clench had four fingers and a thumb on each hand, every one o' them furnished with a hook ready baited to catch ! Wiggins. All true, Jem, and fairly told; but you and I must pick our words very carefully indeed, when speaking o' Mr Clench. He's the acting overseer, you know, and helps us to a slice o' parish business now and then. Why, I should think our coffin score, for the current year, will amount to-let me see. (Enter Mrs Mabel Wiggins.) Dingle. One o'clock, as I'm a sinful man, and not a turned hair on my hide. Stars and garters, how the time slips away! Mabel. A sprinkling o' thy sweat, Jem, wou'd cleanse the leper, and wash the Blackamoor white; but we have no time to talk. Come, folk, come along. All's ready, roast and boiled, dumplings and green pease. Marry and grace, (looking earnestly at Jem's patient,) when did Ned's barrow come to the hospital? Dingle (scratching his head as if groping for an answer).-Why, I suppose it might be about-some time in the morning. Wiggins.-Morning! with a witness. The clock struck nine just as Ned's lad began to deliver his master's compliments. Dingle.-Yea, and verily, master, thy memory's made o' better stuff than mine. Mabel. Compliments, indeed! My sooth, when the like o' Ned Clench begin to use compliments, it's high time they were out o' fashion. Guess what old Skip-nose was after last night? Dingle. Wheeling cheese, to be sure. Mabel. Freely spoken, Jem. Did ye espy him? was ye on the watch? Dingle.-Not I, faith. My belief in Neddy's carnal knowledge o' double Glo'ster is founded on the testimony of living witnesses-there they are (pointing with both his fore fingers). Mubel. (Carefully inspecting the wheel-barrow.)-Cheese-born, to a certainty. My stars! they've been in fat quarters, every mother's son o' them, and really the poor forlorn creatures seem conscious o' what has happened. Only see how they jump and tumble, cursing the hour, no doubt, that Ned's barrow broke down. What d'ye think Goody Grannum says? Dingle. God knows. Goody's a queer wife, and tells queer stories. Mabel. This blessed morning, when I was shelling the pease, in came Goody Grannum, and said unto me, "Mother Wiggins, can ye keep a secret ?" "Lord love the woman," quoth I, "when was my tongue known to tattle? I marvel to hear ye speak." Then mark my words," said Goody, lifting her eyes to the ceiling, and clasping her hands in so fashion, "there isn't a lustier rogue than Ned Clench in fifty parishes. Last night, my gudeman was grievously afflicted with his old complaints a violent wheezing and shortness o' breath-Lord help me with him, for he's a sore, sore handful!-so up got I, and opened our back wicket. The night was cloudy, the wind abroad, and every earthly thing wrapt in utterd arkness; but just as I put my hand to the fastening, a sudden glimpse o' moonshine brightened Dame Dorothy's back court, and there I beheld madam handing something bulky over the rails." Dingle. You don't say so! Mabel. These are the woman's own words, Jem; as I've a soul to be sav'd, not one o' them was coin'd by me. Dingle. Well sped, Goody Grannum -go it, Mother Wiggins. What next? Mabel. She declared to her God, in my presence, that she saw Ned Clench wheeling a heavy-laden barrow down the dark walk; but before he got half way, a kind o' crashing noise, mingled with bitter curses, induced her to keep a sharp lookout, and presently she espied a jolly cheese trundling away to Ned's back door. Wiggins. Primely watched, Goody Grannum, cleverly wheeled, Neddy Clench. Was there ever a parish so abominably rogue-ridden! Overseer, indeed! the mean, filching, velvet-tongued son of a, curse me if I know where to find a dad for him; and his long-headed, fly. away son-in-law, Bill Quirk o' Lankyleggan, vestry-clerk and undertaker, he's what ye may call Dingle. No great things-another o' the same. Bill's clerkship never upheld Madam Quirk's genteelity at Brighton, nor paid for her box-tickets to the Opera, nor edged her caps with French lace-neither did the profit o' his trade, since he commenced undertaker, find him in boots and spurs, horse and gig, town-house, country-house, and so on. As for the Secretaryships he holds in ten or a dozen societies, we'll pass them by-tongues will wag, but there's wheels within wheels, take my word for it. Mabel. Wheels here or wheels there, Ned's ways, and Bill's means, appear as plain to me, Jem, as the nose on thy face. Mr Overseer Clench and his well-beloved son, Billy Quirk, and his fair-faced aunt, Mrs Matron Dorothy, can live very well without their mothers. Don't ye see how the game goes? Ned fills the workhouse with parish poor, Dorothy puts them on slack-belt allowance, Bill stands in the back-ground with his death-board ready to Wiggins.-Mabel, Mabel, that tongue o' thine wags most unconscionably. Speak within bounds, for Heaven's sake, and call not the devil worse than he really is. Mabel.-Dan Wiggins, that tongue o' thine wags most unreasonably-I merely meant to say, that the parish poor seldom sit down to tight-belt allowance, notwithstanding the heavy rates levied every quarter, and then pass sentence on the free-fingered manner in which Dame Dorothy fills Ned's basket and Bill's store -that's all. As for mortality, there isn't a workhouse within fifty miles of ours that keeps the sexton's spade freer of rust. Dingle. — Bravely spoken, Mother Wiggins. Thy words are all full grown, and fairly feathered-not a gosling amongst them. But Clench and Company have more bones to pick than come from the parish work house. Annual requests, Christmas benefactions, casual gifts, and other benevolences, all through Neddy's hands in due form, because it's the fashion now-a-days for ladies and gentlemen to be charitable by proxy. Mabel.-There's the evil, Jem. Would charitably-inclined folk only take the trouble o' looking on distress with their own eyes, and relieving it with their own hands, in place o' deputising the like o' Ned Clench and Bill Quirk Wiggins.-Softly, Mabel-not so fast. Only consider how very industriously the two worthies propagate stories of beggar men and beggar women, making what is called a good thing of it, in less time than trades-folk usually reckon upon; disposing of the walks and avocations by private contract, like newsmen and milkmongers, and then retiring from business altogether-stories that induce many good hearted people to leave their mites at Ned's disposal, because of his local knowledge and apparent sanctity. Dingle. Very justly observed — all feasible enough; and now when I think on't, didn't young Ned, at the last vestry but one, deliver a lecture on sham cripples, blind fiddlers, mock dumbies, and imposition in general, that made every body stare. Such plausible tales and well-coloured orations naturally incline our wealthy parishioners, and others unacquainted with low life, to distrust their own judgments, and rely on the more experienced discrimination of Clench and Company. Wiggins. Exactly so, and really it is grievous to see such a couple of Dingle (looking cunningly out at the shop-door).-Hush, hush; here they come full drive, rag, tag, and bobtail. Dumpling and green pease, did ye say? Mabel (following Jem's example.)— Generation o' vipers! What a pair o' white-livered Pharisees! Yes, lad, we've a rare boiling. (Enter Ned Clench and Bill Quirk.) Clench.-Good morrow, Mr Wiggins. Wiggins. Your servant, Mr Clench. Quirk (casting his eyes about Dan's shop).-Tidy little box, well stocked, and full of conveniences. 'Pon my honour; Wiggins, you've got a snug birth of it. Mabel.-Yes, the place is pretty tolerable, considering; but we've had a sore struggle, and many difficulties to over come. Clench. Honest endeavours are blest, Mrs Wiggins, and he that sets a stout heart to the steep hill seldom fails, through grace, of gaining the summit in a reasonable space of time. It rejoices me to see the industrious man prosper. Wiggins. Why, Mr Clench, we've reason to be thankful that all our endeavours have hitherto been rewarded, and every reasonable expectation fully realized. Jem and I keep driving away at something or other, and seldom see the heels o' a job out at the door before another pops in. What with Squire Gewgaw's whims, parish work, and odds and ends picked up here and there, we make a bold shift to keep the wolf at bay. Clench. And heartily glad am I to hear of it. The sober, attentive, cleanhanded tradesman, that demeans himself in a business-like manner, and keeps his eye on the Scripture-saying, "Do unto all men as you'd have all men do unto you," will find friends, and step into the way of well-doing sooner or later. My custom, Mr Wiggins, such as it is, may be relied on, and what little influence I possess in the way of recommendation is heartily at your service. Wiggins. For which, Mr Clench, I beg leave to return my very best acknowledgments. The chair and wheel-barrow may be expected home. When shall we say, Jem? Dingle. They'll be ready for a march, I should think, by this time to-morrow. Clench. Any time to-morrow will do extremely well; but lay them aside for the present. We've a bit of a job that must be got on with in preference. Fall to, Mr Wiggins, and make a coffin five feet ten and a quarter. Quirk.-Eleven and a-quarter. |