The Miller's Daughter. I met in all the close green ways, He looked so jolly and so good While fishing in the milldam-water, I laughed to see him as he stood, And dreamt not of the miller's daughter. I see the wealthy miller yet His double chin-his portly size; And who that knew him could forget The busy wrinkles round his eyes, The slow wise smile, that, round about His dusty forehead drily curled, Seemed half-within, and half-without, And full of dealings with the world? In yonder chair I see him sit Three fingers round the old silver cup: I see his gray eyes twinkle yet At his own jest-gray eyes lit up So full of summer warmth, so glad, How dear to me in youth, my love, The pool beneath that ne'er stood still. The mealsacks on the whitened floor, The dark round of the dripping wheel, The very air about the door Made misty with the floating meal! * Remember you that pleasant day Upon the slope so smooth and cool, It wandered like a floating light, A full fair form, a warm white neck, If you remember, you had set Upon the narrow casement-edge A long green box of mignonette, And you were leaning from the ledge. * In rambling on the eastern wold, When through the showery April nights Their hueless crescent glimmered cold, From all the other village-lights I knew your taper far away. My heart was full of trembling hope. The white chalk quarry from the hill I murmured lowly, sitting still While round my feet the eddy streamed: "Oh! that I were the wreath she wreathes, The mirror where her sight she feeds, The song she sings, the air she breathes, The letters of the book she reads." Sometimes I saw you sit and spin, And, in the pauses of the wind, Sometimes I heard you sing within, Sometimes your shadow crossed the blind. At last you rose, and moved the light, And all the casement darkened there. I loved, but when I dared to speak My love, the lanes were white with May, Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek Flushed like the coming of the day. Rosecheekt, roselipt, half-sly, half-shy, You would, and would not, little one, Altho' I pleaded tenderly, And you and I were all alone. Remember you the clear moonlight, That whitened all the eastern ridge, When o'er the water, dancing white, I stepped upon the old millbridge? I heard you whisper from above A lutetoned whisper, "I am here;" I murmured, "Speak again, my love, The stream is loud: I cannot hear." Come, Alice, sing to me the song Half-tearfully, and you were gay With brooch and ring: for I shall seem, The while you sing that song, to hear The millwheel turning in the stream, And the green chestnut whisper near. SONG. I wish I were her earring, Hid in her hair, all day and night, I wish I were the girdle Buckled about her dainty waist, That her heart might beat against me, I should know well if it beat right, I wish I were her necklace, So might I ever fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom With her laughter, or her sighs. I would lie round so warm and light, A trifle, sweet! which true love spells- Of his sweet eyes, that, day and night, You must blame love, whose early rage All yesternight you met me not. In idle sorrow set me not; Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife, Look thro' my very soul with thine. Till Charles's wain came out above the tall white chimneytops. There's not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pane: I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high I long to see a flower so before the day I die. The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elmtree, But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave o' mine, In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light, Ye'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool, On the oatgrass and the swordgrass, and the bulrush in the pool. Ye'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, And ye'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget ye, mother, I shall hear ye when ye pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. I have been wild and wayward, but ye'll forgive me now; About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette. Goodnight, sweet mother: call me when it begins to dawn. All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn: The poem of The Hesperides,' we confess, is beyond us, and we will at once hand it over to Christopher North. Neither do we greatly care if he take charge of the allego rical poem, The Palace of Art.' But we will, ourselves, call upon Mr. Tennyson to save himself the trouble (however small) necessary for penning such verses as those beginning, "O darling room";-and to give us, in their place, as many poems as he chooses, like the following: The Death of the Old Year. Full kneedeep lies the winter snow, And tread softly and speak low, Old year, you must not die. He lieth still: he doth not move : He gave me a friend, and a true truelove, So long as you have been with us, He frothed his bumpers to the brim; Old year, you shall not die. He was full of joke and jest, To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride posthaste, But he'll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, How hard he breathes! over the snow The cricket chirps: the light burns low: Shake hands, before you die. Old year, we'll dearly rue for you. His face is growing sharp and thin. Close up his eyes: tie up his chin: And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, There is fine dream-like poetry in the "Lotos Eaters'-and the lines To J. S.' are full of sweet and quiet beauty. But the poem of poems in this volume, is Enone;' wild -fanciful-chaste-and touching. And yet, from this poem we might extract the first twenty lines, as an example of the disagreeable effect produced by Mr. Tennyson's method of compounding his words, and writing down the compounds. But we prefer transferring to our pages some of its fine poetry, although it must be by snatches and lines, for our extracts are exceeding all reasonable length. First, the approach of Enone : Hither came My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, Here is the description of Venus, when great quantity of information which, howshe appeared before Paris : O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida, Fresh as the foam, newbathed in Paphian wells, Never, nevermore Shall lone none see the morning mist In reverence and respect for his genius, we have not hesitated to point out the errors of the poet-his beauties will speak for themselves, and apologise for the unusual length of this article. The Botanical Miscellany, containing Figures and Descriptions of such Plants as recommend themselves by their Novelty, Rarity, or History, or by the uses to which they are applied in the Arts, in Medicine, and in Domestic Economy. By William Jackson Hooker, LL.D. F.R.A. & L.S., and Regius Professor of Botany in the University of Glasgow. 8vo. London: Murray. ON a former occasion we spoke favourably of this work. It has since assumed a more definite shape, having reached its eighth part: and we are happy to find that the good opinion of it we at first entertained has been fully justified by the manner in which it has been continued. It is now a repository of a great variety of interesting and important papers upon a number of subjects relating, not only to pure Botany, but also to the effects of climate upon vegetation, and to the application of the science to subjects of importance both to commerce and agriculture. When the Annals of Botany' of Dr. Sims and Mr. König were discontinued, a great want was felt of some channel through which the discoveries of continental botanists, or the occasional brief but important memoranda of men of science in this country, could be brought before the public. The Linnæan Society received nothing but original communications, and the publication of even these was frequently so long delayed, in part from unavoidable circumstances, and in part from the dilatory habits of parties who shall be nameless, as to deter naturalists from making the Transactions of that learned body the medium of publication. The scientific journals afforded the only means that could be conveniently employed; but their contents, being necessarily of a mixed character, could only embrace a small portion of Botany; so that he who purchased them for the sake of the botanical papers only, was always obliged to pay for a ever valuable, was not what he wanted.. Dr. Hooker has therefore, in our judgment, conferred an important service upon the public in undertaking "The Botanical Miscellany," which, if only indifferently executed, would have been extremely useful, but which, brought out as it is with skill and talent of a very high order, has become a work that ought to be in the hands of every botanist and botanical amateur. The last part of this work contains, among other valuable papers, the commencement of a descriptive Catalogue of the plants that have been sent from the western coast of South America by the many English travellers and collectors who have of late years visited Chili and Peru for the purpose of enriching their native country with the vegetable productions of those distant regions. To the purchasers of the dried plants of the collectors, Cuming, Mathews, and Bridges, or to the possessors of the plants of Mr. Macrae, of Dr. Gillies, the enterprising but ill-requited philanthro pist, of Mendoza, and of Messrs. Caldcleugh and Cruckshanks, this catalogue will be invaluable, because it will be the means of ensuring a uniform nomenclature to some thousand species now dispersed throughout the Herbaria of all Europe. When we see such men as Dr. Hooker taking upon themselves the accomplishment of labours like this, in the midst of duties of no trifling kind connected look with something like indignation upon with his professional chair, we cannot but government collections have been falling for the fainéantise of those into whose hands the the last thirty years, for no earthly purpose, as far as the public is concerned;-of such nil patrium nisi nomen. men and such collections it may be truly said, One of the papers that will prove most interesting to the general reader, is a very curious account of the province of Emerina, în Madagascar, drawn up from the journals Messrs. Hilsenberg and Bojer, two German botanists, who resided there for a year. With some extracts from this we must conclude our notice: "The province of Emerina, which may be geographical situation is not correctly known, regarded as the centre of Madagascar, but whose is divided into several sub-provinces or depen dencies. It is the most elevated district of the whole of this vast island, and, for the same rea son, also the healthiest, being the only part where the life of an European is not in hazard. "Rice, the great object of Madagascar culture, and the principal article of their food, is well known to prefer marshy spots: consequently, the low-lying grounds, where the water does not run off, or the sides of the river, where inundation is easy, are preferred for this purpose. After having divided the plot into little squares with the spade, called Fangadi, the rice is thrown in, which soon germinates, and, after transplantation, yields a hundred-fold "After rice, manioc and batatas are the chief articles of food. The roots of manioc often acquire a monstrous size, and we have measured some which were fifteen feet long, and almost a foot in diameter. Then come maize, seasoned herbs, giromonds,' calabashes, earth-nuts fruit, and the vine: and among the articles of (itrachis), sugar-canes, pine-apples, breadmanufacture are cotton and hemp, &c.; potatoes, that Mr. Hastie introduced, have thriven admirably, and are of excellent quality, "Emerina is very productive in cattle, which are remarkably large and fat; there are, also, many sheep, differing little from goats, being covered with hair instead of wool. Their heads, however, are broader, and their tails so big, as frequently to weigh nine or ten pounds. Hogs and cabris also abound; but by an absurd command of the ancient kings, they are not allowed to come near the capital, and are kept at five or six leagues distance. "Notwithstanding the productions that we have enumerated, the inhabitants of Madagascar are but ill-fed for half the year-they prefer fried grasshoppers and silk-worms, esteeming the latter a great delicacy; but their principal dainty is the flesh of an unborn and but halfformed calf, to obtain which, they frequently destroy the cows;-an inhuman practice, which, since our visit to Emerina, has been forbidden by government. "The inhabitants of the province of Emerina call themselves Huwa or Ambaniandru, and ironically, Ambualambu, (dog and hog); a name originally conferred on them by their enemies, the Saccalawa, and under which they are known in the colonies. In person, they are about the middling stature of Europeans; their colour varies considerably, some being very black, others only swarthy, but the complexion of the greater number is olive brown. All those who are black, have woolly hair, like the negroes of the African coast; while those who resemble mulattoes or Indians in tint, have long hair like Europeans; their features are very regular, with fine eyes, and well-set teeth, which they have a custom of blackening at intervals with the root of a climbing plant, the Lingun, with the intention of rendering them whiter. In disposition, they are lively and obliging; but vain, capricious, revengeful, and avaricious. They are very ready in the use and application of their bodily powers; and in the great assemblies or Khabars, often exhibit much genius and natural eloquence." It appears, that these people are extremely superstitious. "The Skide, or oracle of the Madagasses, which is daily interrogated by them, consists in a very fine sand, which they put in a fan used for cleansing the rice, and make prayers over it; afterwards, they boil it several times, and, having traced an indistinct sort of writing upon it, they pretend to discover the past, present, and future, by these ceremonies. If sick or uneasy, or if they desire to be informed of the health of their friends who are absent at war, they instantly consult this divinity, and give implicit credence to the answers thus obtained. They never eat anything which the Skide has prohibited; the royal family especially, and the nobility, will not so much as touch the presents commonly brought by their subjects, till they are assured by the oracle, that no harm or danger will result from the use of them. "The Tangher (or Tanghina), which is the seed of a tree (Tanghinia) unfortunately too abundant throughout this vast island, and which is one of the swiftest and most deadly of vegetable poisons, is very often employed for the detection of theft, or as a test in any case where proof of a crime is wanting. This kernel is bruised on a stone, and infused in water, which the accused person is compelled to drink. If he maintains his innocence, and if he has no witnesses, then three bits of chicken skin are added to the dose, and he is compelled to swallow rice water, till the poison is rejected by the stomach." The greater part of the persons subjected to this ordeal, perish; the few only, whose stomachs quickly reject it, survive. The Magdalen, and other Tales. By James Sheridan Knowles. London: Moxon. We have been long acquainted with the genius of Sheridan Knowles; we admired it in those stern and stormy scenes of his dramas which caught the attention of the country; but far more in the domestic pictures and delineations of fireside affection and tenderness and love, which are, perhaps, more frequent in his works than in those of any other popular writer. To the first he may owe much of the applause which has been lately showered upon his plays; but to the latter he is indebted for that sure and permanent hold which he has taken of the heart of the country. In 'The Beggar's Daughter of Bethnal Green we perceived much of that loveliness to which we allude; his late admirable play is not without it; and we are glad to observe that it has flowed out of his poetry into his prose, and is to be found in its finest state in the little volume now before us. Of the Tales is called Love and Authorship;' there is which compose it, one, much to our liking, scarcely any story, and very little of authorship, but much true love; we shall give a passage or two; the following introduces us to the hero and heroine: "Will you remember me, Rosalie ?' "Will you keep your hand for me for a year?" "Yes!' "Will you answer me when I write to you?' "Yes!' "One request more-O Rosalie, reflect that my life depends upon your acquiescenceshould I succeed, will you marry me in spite of your uncle?' "Yes!' answered Rosalie. There was no pause-reply followed question, as if it were a dialogue which they had got by heart-and by heart indeed they had got it--but I leave you to guess the book they had conned it from. "'Twas in a green lane, on a summer's evening, about nine o'clock, when the west, like a gate of gold, had shut upon the retiring sun, that Rosalie and her lover, hand in hand, walked up and down. His arm was the girdle of her waist; her's formed a collar for his neck, which a knight of the garter-ay, the owner of the sword that dubbed him-might have been proud to wear. Their gait was slow, and face was turned to face; near were their lips while they spoke; and much of what they said never came to the ear, though their souls caught up every word of it. "Rosalie was upwards of five years the junior of her lover. She had known him since she was a little girl in her twelfth year. He was almost eighteen then, and when she thought far more about a doll than a husband, he would set her upon his knee, and call her his little wife. One, two, three years passed on, and still, whenever he came from college, and as usual went to pay his first visit at her father's, before he had been five minutes in the parlour, the door was flung open, and in bounded Rosalie, and claimed her accustomed seat. The fact was, till she was fifteen, she was a child of a very slow growth, and looked the girl, when many a companion of hers of the same age had begun to appear the woman. "When another vacation however came round, and Theodore paid his customary call, and was expecting his little wife as usual, the door opened slowly, and a tall young lady entered, and curtseying, coloured, and walked to a seat next the lady of the house. The visitor stood up and bowed, and sat down again, without knowing that it was Rosalie. "Don't you know Rosalie?' exclaimed her father. "Rosalie!' replied Theodore in an accent of surprise: and approached his little wife of old, who rose and half gave him her hand, and curt seying, coloured again; and sat down again without having interchanged a word with him. No wonder she was four inches taller than when he had last seen her, and her bulk had expanded correspondingly; while her features, that half a year before gave one the idea of a sylph that would bound after a butterfly, had now mellowed in their expression, into thesen timent, the softness, and the reserve of the woman." Tenderness, innocence, and affection, flow through the whole narrative. Theodore is present at a ball given by the mother of Rosalie; one with whom he had found favour watches his looks and motions: He came; she watched him; observed that he neither inquired after her nor sought for her; and marked the excellent terms that he was upon with twenty people, about whom she knew him to be perfectly indifferent. Women far more quick and subtle than we have. She have a perception of the workings of the heart, was convinced that all his fine spirits were forced-that he was acting a part. She suspected that while he appeared to be occupied with everybody but Rosalie-Rosalie was the only body that was running in his thoughts. She saw him withdraw to the library; she followed him; found him sitting down with a book in his hand; perceived, from his manner of turning over the leaves, that he was intent on anything but reading. She was satisfied that he was thinking of nothing but Rosalie. The thought that Rosalie might one day become indeed his wife, now occurred to her for the thousandth time, and a thousand times stronger than ever: a spirit diffused itself through her heart which had never been breathed into it before; and filling it with hope and happiness, and unutterable contentment, irresistibly drew it towards him. She approached him, accosted him, and in a moment was seated with him, hand in hand, upon the sofa. * "As soon as the dance was done,~'Rosalie,' said Theodore, ''tis almost as warm in the air as in the room; will you be afraid to take a turn with me in the garden?' another. "Rosalie !' at last breathed Theodore. 'Rosalie!' breathed he a second time, before the expecting girl could summon courage to say 'Well?' "I cannot go home to-night,' resumed he, without speaking to you.' Yet Theodore seemed to be in no hurry to speak; for there he stopped, and continued silent so long, that Rosalie began to doubt whether he would open his lips again. "Had we not better go in?' said Rosalie, 'I think I hear them breaking up.' "Not yet,' replied Theodore. 66 6 'Nay,' resumed the maid, 'we have remained long enough, and at least allow me to go in.' "Stop but another minute, dear Rosalie!" imploringly exclaimed the youth. "For what?' was the maid's reply. "Rosalie,' without a pause, resumed Theo dore, you used to sit upon my knee, and let me call you wife. Are those times passed for ever? Dear Rosalie!-will you never let me take you on my knee and call you wife again?' "When we have done with our girlhood, we have done with our plays,' said Rosalie. "I do not mean in play, dear Rosalie,' cried Theodore. It is not playing at man and wife to walk, as such, out of church. Will you marry me, Rosalie?" "Rosalie was silent. The first "Will you marry me?' repeated he. "Not a word would Rosalie speak. "Hear me!' cried Theodore. day, Rosalie, that I took you upon my knee, and called you my wife, jest as it seemed to be, my heart was never more in earnest. That day I wedded you in my soul; for though you were a child, I saw the future woman in you, rich in the richest attractions of your sex. Nay, do me justice; recall what you yourself have known of me; inquire of others. To whom did I play the suitor from that day? To none but you, although to you I did not seem to play it. Rosalie! was I not always with you? Recollect, now! Did a day pass, when I was at home, without my coming to your father's house? When there were parties there, whom did I sit beside, but you? Whom did I stand behind at the piano-forte, but you? Nay, for a whole night, whom have I danced with but you? Whatever you might have thought then, can you believe now, that it was merely a playful child that could so have engrossed me? No, Rosalie! it was the virtuous, generous, lovely, loving woman, that I saw in the playful child. Rosalie! for five years have I loved you, though I never declared it to you till now. Do you think I am worthy of you? Will you give yourself to me? Will you marry me? Will you sit upon my knee again, and let me call you wife?' "Three or four times Rosalie made an effort to speak; but desisted, as if she knew not what to say, or was unable to say what she wished; Theodore still holding her hand. At last,' Ask my father's consent!' she exclaimed, and tried to get away; but before she could effect it, she was clasped to the bosom of Theodore, nor released until the interchange of the first pledge of love had been forced from her bashful lips!-She did not appear, that night, in the drawing-room again." | green and gold. Let us, however, acknowledge at once that it does great credit to all parties; there are but two illustrations, but they are both good, and the 'View of Rokeby' is most elaborately engraved by Miller; the literature is throughout respectable, and some papers are excellent. The Howitts, Bernard Barton, Sarah Stickney, Amelia Opie, J. H. Wiffen, Thomas Doubleday, J. J. Gurney, and H. F. Chorley, are among the known contributors; but there are clever papers by persons unknown in the literary world, and we should refer in proof to 'A Day among the Alps,' by T. G. Ward, and 'Lord Dudley's Lime Quarries,' by P. M. James. There is one passage in George Fox and his Contemporaries,' by William Howitt, which we must extract: "The greatness of George Fox is of so striking and unequivocal a character, that whosoever has greatness in himself, cannot fail at once to discover and acknowledge it in him. For my own part, as a member of that religious society which was founded through his instrumentality, I may be considered as a partial judge; but I do not hesitate to avow, and they who know me will testify to the truth of the assertion, that I am, by no means, an admirer of any sect, as such. I am disposed rather to believe, that we carry our attachment to particular parties in the christian church, to an extent injurious to the interests of that universal church, and thus become habitually prouder of our particular badges and opinions, 'than zealous for the simple truth of Christ. I, for one, should rejoice to see the day when all sects should be merged in one wide and tolerant church, which should demand of its members no test, no title to admission, but an honest avowal of their belief in God, and in Jesus Christ, as his son, and the Saviour of the world; leaving to every one the same liberty of shaping his opinions on the doctrines of the New Testament, by the light of his own judgment, and by that of the Universal Spirit which dictated the sacred writings, as we claim in all other matters. This is my idea of the liberty of the Gospel. The christian world once arrived at this temper, we should see all sects and parties fade into nothing, and the cause of a thou. sand dissensions and heart-burnings annihilated We need not tell our readers that the for ever. With these views, I pride myself in lovers are crossed in their love, but that they overcome all difficulties, and are married and fortunate. We cannot, however, conceal from ourselves, that, much as we admire Mr. Knowles, he is a little too startling in his transitions, and abrupt in his dialogues. He is so fond of moving, that moving at last becomes painful. The Portrait,' the last story of the volume, is materially injured by a desire to astonish the reader by this highland-fling kind of vivacity; there is no repose anywhere, save in the description of the portrait of the heroine, which seems to have been well painted, and touched with a tranquil beauty of expression strangely at variance with the tale into which it is introduced. The Aurora Borealis, a Literary Annual. Edited by Members of the Society of Friends. Newcastle-upon-Tyne: Empson. London: Tilt. WE announced the promised appearance of this work some time since-and, in common, we suspect, with many others, have been rather curious to see what sort of a volume our "Friends" would produce. We certainly had not anticipated anything quite so gay as the principles of Friends, only in so far as they are the principles of christianity." This is admirable; but the philosophy of the rest of the paper is much less to our liking. Mr. Howitt overlooks one great and universal truth, that persecution and fanaticism are twin brothers. We shall conclude by transferring to our pages a sweet little poem by Mrs. Stickney. The Brook and the Bird. BIRD. Little brook that windest Where the woods are green, Thy bright waters foaming Flowery banks between? BROOK. No! through distant meadows BIRD. When the winds are howling Hast thou not a cavern BROOK. No! I never slumber, BIRD. When the tempest lowering On the distant hills, Sends the torrent pouring Down thy gentle rills; Art thou still believing Storms will cease to be, Never, never, grieving, O'er the change in thee? BROOK. No! and for this reason, Will I know no fear, Each returning season Comes with every year. Thus I'm never weary Of the sleet and rain; Winter winds are dreary, But summer smiles again. FAMILY CLASSICAL LIBRARY.-XXXIV. Euripides. Vol. I. London: 1832, Valpy. The publication of the thirty-fourth number of this interesting series has brought us to the third and concluding stage in the history of Grecian tragedy. The three great poets whose works have come down to us, we have regarded more as the representatives of classes, than as individual poets; we contemplated Eschylus as speaking in the name of an age and country, when everything was massive and stupendous; when men neglected the minute circumstances in gazing on mighty results; and when they necessarily did so, because the rapidity of the changes was as unparalleled as their magnitude. Again, we regarded Sophocles as the poet of a time when these tremendous revolutions had passed from the eye to the memory, and were the subject of reflection, not observation. There remained a third definite period in this march; that in which, from the reflections, practical rules of life may be deduced; when, after actual vision had roused the sterner emotions, and reminiscences had waked the softer feelings, philosophy should form both into a system that might serve at once to guide judgment and correct conduct. It is no forced analogy that compares these epochs in the history of Grecian tra gedy, with three definite stages in the intel lectual history of human life. Wonder is the characteristic of the boy: he delights even in the extravagant sublime; the terrible compensates for its horrors by gratifying his love of high excitement; the "shadows, clouds, and darkness" that veil from him the secrets of the invisible world, afford him more pleasure from the intensity of their gloom, than pain from the disappointing check they give his daring; for the finite and the bounded he cares nothing, his soul expatiates in the limitless and eter nal. The boy grows up to youth: his soul has been driven back from "the flaming walls that encircle space," and has learned that there are boundaries within which its flight must be confined; sympathies for the objects within grasp, become a source of con solation for the failure in the effort to attain what was beyond reach; the mind that was dazzled by sublimity derives pleasure from beauty; the heart is for the first time touched; | rance ever devised; and we record with and the world appears but a vast theatre affording countless opportunities of developing the best affections. "A change comes o'er the spirit of this dream"-alas! it is but a dream, or rather, in the words of the old poet Dream of a dream, and shadow of a shade. Ideality, with all its loveliness, yields to reality; the distant rainbow is found never to touch the earth; the remote landscape, so delightful in outline, becomes disgusting in detail, the Fata Morgana melt into air Even in its glory comes the fatal shade, And makes it like a vision fade away; Or stern misfortune takes a moisten'd sponge And clean effaces all the picture out. Then comes the day of sober manhood: the masses are broken, the groups separated, our mind individualizes objects, and examines them as they are. The rule and the square are applied, calculation is exercised, examination is a requisite for yielding to love or hatred,-we become practical-there is a volume of meaning in the term. Now we by no means pretend to assert that the two first stages of feeling are not essentially more poetical than the third; they are necessarily so, for ideality must be creative, reality gives the objects ready made. But we do assert, that the third class of feelings have also elements of poetry in their composition, neither so grand nor so beautiful as the former two, but yet yielding materials capable of receiving and retaining the stamp and impress of genius. And we deem it injustice to compare the poet who represents the third class with those who are personifications of the other two; to compare them, we mean, merely as poets, abstracted from all consideration of their peculiar position and their respective order. After having been the great favourite of the learned, the beloved of the age when "there were giants" in the land, when Milton sung, and Jeremy Taylor preached, Euripides has of late been hurled from his high estate, and the entire multitude of critics speed, like a Roman mob in the days of Tiberius, to have a kick at the fallen. Schlegel denounces him as the desecrator of tragedy; the daring sacrilegious, who dragged the deity from the shrine into the porch, who made the temple a thoroughfare for the vulgar herd, instead of reserving it as a sanctuary for the pure, and compelling the profane to worship at a distance. Every syllable of the weighty charge is of course repeated in the Edinburgh Review, by whose writers Schlegel is regarded as the legislator of the critical world; and they add the fresh gravamen, or rather the inexpiable sin, that Euripides was ignorant of Scotch philosophy, and had certain theories of his own not easy to be reconciled with the dogmas of Dugald Stewart. "When we critics agree, our agreement is wonderful." Unfortunately for the poor bard, that wicked wit Aristophanes called him in plain terms " radical" the mere insinuation would have been enough-but the charge in direct terms- a charge also to which poor Euripides should plead a Pudet hæc opprobria nobis, Et dici potuisse et non potuisse refelli, brought upon his head all the terms of vituperation that criticism in its wildest intole equal surprise and pleasure, that he was charitably allowed to be a poet of some merit. We think that one half of the discussions that have taken place on the subject and perhaps we could with truth assign a much larger proportion-have confused a class of poetry with an individual poet. We prefer regarding Euripides in relation to his own school of poetry, to entering into an estimate of his character, as compared to men with whom he had little, indeed almost nothing, in common. His first merit is an intimate knowledge of the workings of the human heart, a shrewd perception of the meaner motives that mingle with those which instigate to noble deeds, and a thorough contempt for all that was merely factitious and conventional. He is, in consequence, an instructive writer, and in his efforts to convey a practical lesson, he rarely feels any scruple about the means. His analysis of the workings of passion, is always powerful, and generally pleasing; but his examination of all the motives is sometimes tedious and even repulsive :-for, after all our experience, we wish to believe in the existence of pure virtue unalloyed by a particle of selfishness. But for this weakness, if it be a weakness, Euripides had no mercy: even the demi-gods and heroes could not escape his scrutinizing search after frailty: his Hercules is a little of the bully, and more than a little of the glutton; his Menelaus, "as pretty a scoundrel as we could desire to meet." For the legends of the olden time, he had no mercy; he pragmatized with a vigour which might have excited the envy of Rudbeck, and driven Keightley insane; his Myth had lost all the graces it derived from the supernatural, and was an anecdote or a history of men like ourselves. We have sketched rather the school to which Euripides belonged, than the poet himself. We readily confess, that it is a school of which the faults are, and must be, as striking as the merits; but we deny that it should be excluded from the sections of Parnassus. Of that school, Euripides was the best, not only of his own day, but of all that have since appeared. Compare him not with Eschylus and Sophocles, for the points of resemblance are few and indefinite, but compare him with Racine or Corneille, and we confidently anticipate a verdict. In one respect, he closely resembles our own Shakspeare; he is a faithful delineator of "a mind diseased," deeply skilled in the pathology of the soul; from the first movement of passion, to its reigning paramount in the breast, and thence to the period when it mounts to frenzy. His pictures of insanity, whether partial or total, have about them a reality which makes the blood run cold. Here, indeed, there could be no idealismhe describes the awful calamity best, who describes it in all its horrible minuteness. From nature, he inherited a feeling and tender heart, alive to every generous affection; in many instances, circumstances "check'd his noble rage," but they could not "freeze the genial current of his soul"; that still rolled on in light and loveliness, and lent a magic and soft grace to every object mirrored on its gentle surface. Nights of the Round Table; or, Stories of Aunt Jane and her Friends. By the Author of The Diversions of Hollycot,' &c. Edinburgh Oliver & Boyd; London: Simpkin & Marshall. THE remembrance of the first series, induced us to open the second with the hope of instruction and pleasure, and we have not been disappointed. The stories are not so numerous, nor so varied as they were in the other, but they take a wider range, and have rather a deeper interest. Those who wish to know how a family should be brought up-doing their duty alike to God and man, will find great profit in the account of 'The Quaker Family;' nor is the tale of 'The two Scotch Williams,' to be passed over, as some of our old writers say, with a dry foot; it is told with great ease and simplicity, as the following passage sufficiently shows: "In one of the most sterile, moorland parishes, a region of heather and moss, in the Upper Ward of Clydesdale, lived an honest, poor couple, who, among several children, had a son named William, a lively, intelligent, and active boy, whom his mother loved, and the neighbours He wrote not for the educated, but the general public; and there appears to be some ground for the suspicion, that he was anxious to inculcate democratic principles, and that there was a political design in his exposure of the faults and follies of greatness. From this, it follows almost as a necessary consequence, that many of his soliloquies are more rhetorical than poetical, and that his style must frequently descend from its tragic dignity, to the neutral ground where tragedy and the higher comedy meet. The management of his plots is not always felicitous; and the introduction of a prologue, to detail the preliminary action, is sometimes tiresome. He adopted this custom, we believe, to gratify the great mass of the spectators, for even an Athenian mob, with all its refinement, had not always a stock of patience sufficient to wait for the slow developement of the story. His choral odes have too much the character of independent lyrics: they possess more artificial and less natural beauty, than those of his predecessors. Like them, however, Euripides bears the impress of his own age; the age when battles had dwindled into skirmishes, when petty states contended instead of mighty nations, when the intrigues of fac-school, read Horace well, and Homer tolerably, tion were substituted for the display of statesmanship. He is the poet of real life, of the society in which he lived and moved; and to blame him for having neglected the ideal, is to blame him for having lived in a period of petty bustle, and incessant, though not very efficient activity. liked. When William had been at school for about five years, though occasionally away at herding, at peats, or harvest work, his parents, having other children to educate, began to grudge the expenses of William's learning, for what with one branch and another, he cost them nearly two shillings a quarter. It was fortunate that the schoolmaster's conscience compelled him, about this time, to declare, that he could do no more for William. He was Dux of the and his penmanship was a marvel in the Upper Ward, which, however, was not saying much. It would be a shame, and a sin, to consign such bright parts and high classical attainments to the plough-tail. William's parents were very willing to believe this; and as an opportunity offered to place him as an apprentice with a small surgeon apothecary, a friend of the schoolmaster's, |