gentle and loving spirit seems to have been hovering over and around her whilst breathing forth the following sweet poems of "Better Times," and "Our early loved," which we have selected as fair specimens of the tone and talent of the book.

BETTER TIMES.

"Better Times!" said the desolate chief, as he
drained,

From the clear gushing spring of the cleft,
One cup to the land where his memory remained,
And the friends whom his fortunes had left.

"Better times!"-'tis the hold of each storm-beaten

heart,

That hopes against hope as it climbs ;

OUR EARLY LOVED.

Our early loved-how their memory clings

To the hearts that love no more!
Like a rose that still in its sweetness springs,
Where a garden's pride is o'er;

Though the weeds and thorns may have long defaced
The place of the perished flowers,
Yet that lingerer gladdens the cheerless waste
With the bloom of its brighter hours!

Our early loved-hath their after path
From our steps far parted been?

Hath the hand of power, or the flame of wrath,
On life's barriers risen between ?

Yet still, in our dreams, their shadows come,
O'er the parting waste of years,

Though the signs of their coming grow faint and Though the path is marked with many a tomb,

depart,

Yet the watchword is still-" better times!"

The young and the fearless, what temples of trust
They build on the promise of years!

It may bring them but wrecks-it will bear them to
dust,

Yet how radiant the prospect appears!

And its sands are wet with tears!

They come, with a light left far behind
On the distant mountain's brow,

Where the sunrise shone on the waking mind
That is dark with shadows now;

But ever as the morning star returns
To brighten the evening shades,

There are honours to win-there are love-tones to The lamp of their memory brighter burns,
hear-

There are homes beneath leaf-laden limes;
And some in the future may find them-but ne'er
What they dreamed of in those "better times!"

The Patriot believes-though the land of his pride,
In whose triumphs he trusted, hath found
How wisdom grows feeble, and brothers divide,
When days of disaster abound;
But concord and victory rise to his sight

Through the deluge of tears and of crimes,
And he sees his hope's banner still float in the light
Of those future and far better times !"?

66

Our friends-has their love grown forgetful and far
From the hearts that remember them thus ?
Let us hear of their weal-it will shine like a star
Through the clouds that close darkly o'er us:
We speak of them often; and yet there are names
Never uttered, though heard like far chimes,
Or voices that come in the silence of dreams:

To our love, and their faith, "better times!"

Our foes, have we found them, whose fortunes or fears,

Met ours, in the struggle of life;

And tasted the wormwood, it might be the tears
That blend with those waters of strife!

Was the hand armed with hate grasped in friendship

of old,

Against tried and true love were its crimes-
Let the olive grow green where the lava hath rolled,
To our memory and theirs," better times!"
"Better times!"—we have watched for their march
to begin,

When the skies were as wintry as now;
But it may be the world was less weary within,
And the toil-marks less deep on the brow.
Better times!"-we have sought them by wisdom's

calm ray;

We have called them with folly's gay chimes;

But they came not, and hope by the watch-fire grows grey,

Yet to each and to all-" Better times!"

As the spirit's daylight_fades.

Our early loved-have we found them changed
In the gloom of our winter days,

And their bright looks blanched, and their looks
estranged,

Till they scarce returned our gaze?
But far in the land where storms or time
Can no longer sear or chill,

In the light of our memory's cloudless clime
We shall find them changeless still!

Hath the grass on the grave grown rankly green
Where we laid, so long ago,

Our first affections, all unseen

In their deep and quenchless glow?
Alas! for the dust so darkly piled

O'er the bright but buried gem;

But safe are the treasures Death hath sealed-
"For there comes no change on them!"

We may love again--and the later ties
Of life may be bright and strong-

But if broken, never in memory's eyes

Will their fragments shine so long:
And the shrines of our childhood's stainless faith,
We may leave them far and cold-

But the heart still turns to the stars of youth
With a love that ne'er grows old!

There is much of sweetness, though the
sweetness of melancholy, in these lyrics and
poems in them we can discern the shadow that
hath fallen upon the gentle writer, and dark-
ened the brightness of her young life; but be-
neath the shadow is a true and loving heart,
to guide and direct her in her onward path
through faith and hope, to those truths which
are eternal.
M. T.

PARLOUR LIBRARY. "Rosa and Gertrude," &c. By Topffer.—(Simms and M ́Intyre.)

This volume of the Parlour Library introduces for the first time to the English reader a new writer, one of those who spring up in the

*These were the words of Bonaparte when drink- nooks and corners of the world, live and pass

ing from a small spring in the Isle of Elba.

away, and no one knows them except through

the writings they leave behind. Such was Rodolph Topffer, only a poor artist, and afterwards a teacher of literature in Geneva; yet in him was as true a poet-soul as ever lighted mankind. Our heart warms to him as we read-it is like meeting some dear unknown friend-and our notice of this volume is indeed a labour of love. A French writer says, "The story of Rosa and Gertrude is one of the sweetest, most fascinating, and improving, that ever was presented to the public." In this we do not agree. It is a tale pleasing on account of its simplicity, and the way in which the character of its supposed relator-a country pastor-is kept up throughout. It is something like the "Vicar of Wakefield," but it is a French edition of the sameverging towards the prosy and the sentimental. "Rosa and Gertrude" is far inferior to the second story in the volume" My Uncle's Library." Here is indeed what we never expected to see again-a really original tale; so true to nature, yet so beautiful-in style somewhat Bremer-ish; but no copy of the "best Frederika," except so far as two similar minds are apt to think and write alike." My Uncle's Library" is, in fact, the outlines of the life of a dreaming boy, from school-days to manhood; sketching boyish loves, ideas, and pursuits, with a pencil so true, that we cannot but think it is a real life-perhaps the writer's own. It excites one's mirth by touches of nature, irresistible because they are so real. Take a passage. Young Jules, a boy of fifteen, is at his solitary lessons, awaiting his tutor.

nib-dips his proboscis in the ink. Quick! a sheet of white paper-it is the moment of a most important discovery!

The proboscis reaches the paper, deposits the ink upon its track, and lo! the most admirable designs! Sometimes the May-fly, whether from a flight of its proboscis, and lets it fall again on the paper withgenius, or that the vitriol annoys its organs, raises out ceasing its onward march. The result is, a series of dots of the most exquisite delicacy. At other times, changing his mind, he turns back; then a new idea seizes him, he resumes his course againit is an S! At this sight a light flashes across me.

I deposit the astonishing animal on the first page of my copy-book, his proboscis well charged with ink; then, armed with a straw, to direct his labours and bar his passage, I force him to walk in such a manner as to write my name! It required two hours noblest conquest," says Buffon," that man has ever to accomplish it--but what a chef d'œuvre ! "The made is"-is most certainly the May-fly!

But, reader, listen to the catastrophe! Master Jules is interrupted in his "pursuit of natural history under difficulties." After the lapse of a short time he returns to his studies-i. e. his May-fly.

I am certain I must have turned pale. The mischief was great-irreparable. A long black mark, commencing from the fourth chapter of the Bello Gallico, proceeded in a straight line to the margin on the left; there the animal, finding the descent too steep (ye students of Livy, mark our author's exquisite imitation of his style), had wheeled about and marched towards the margin on the left; then ascending to the north, he had decided on passing from the book to the margin of the ink-bottle, from whence, by a gentle and easy slope, he had glided into the abyssinto the ink for his misfortune and my own.

Once there, the May-fly having unfortunately per

a retreat, and penitentially clad in a suit of the deepest sables, he had emerged from the ink in order to return to the fourth chapter of the Bello Gallico, where I found him puzzling over the contents. It was one scene of monstrous blots, lakes, rivers, and a whole series of catastrophes unmarked by delicacy or genius-a black and hideous spectacle! Now the book was an Elzevir of my master's, a quarto Elzevir -rare, unpurchaseable, and entrusted to my respon sibility with the gravest injunctions. Evidently I

It was the season of May-flies. They used formerly to amuse me, but I was already commencing no longer to take pleasure in them. How age creeps on! Nevertheless, when alone in my chamber, Iceived that he had lost his way, had resolved to beat fought stoutly against mortal ennui; I did not disdain the company of one of these little animals . . . I held one imprisoned under a glass. It painfully climbed its prison walls, only to fall back again immediately. Sometimes it fell upon its back-that, you are aware, is a very serious misfortune for a May-fly. Before coming to its assistance, I contemplated its equanimity of temper in slowly waving its six arms around it, in the hope-always frustrated-of meeting some object which did not exist. "May-flies are certainly stupid animals," thought I. Most frequently I extricated it from its painful situation, by holding out to it the end of my pen-a piece of good nature which led me to a most important and fortunate discovery, insomuch that I might say with Berquin, good action never goes unrewarded." My May-fly had caught hold of the feather of the pen, and I

"that a

allowed it to recover its senses there, whilst I wrote a line or two, more attentive to its actions and gestures than to those of Julius Caesar, whom I was translating at that moment. Would he take flight? or creep down the whole length of the pen? On what trifling circumstances do discoveries depend! If he had ⚫ taken the first course, my discovery was lost, and I should never have got a glimpse of it! Most happily he commenced to descend. When I saw him approach the ink, I had a sort of mysterious presentiment that important events were about to take place. In like manner Columbus, before he saw the shore, had a presentiment he should reach America. Behold the May-fly-arrived at the extremity of the

was lost!

Is not this comical and rich-irresistible? enough to give young people a fit of the merriest, heartiest laughter? But Topffer can be tender, mournful, touching, even so much as to draw tears. Take this passage: the boy's early love, one of the dream-like loves of youth, is a young Jewess, to whom he has only spoken once, though he has watched her come daily to his uncle's library. She suddenly ceases to come she is dead:

A young man loses her whom he loves; he knows he can never see her more; he meets her funeral procession; he knows that she is there-under that wooden lid beneath that mound of earth; but it is still herself, ever lovely and pure, with her modest smile, her timid look, her sweet and penetrating voice.

He loses her whom he loves, and his heart bleeds silently, or gives vent to its anguish in Lurning sobs;

he seeks, he calls her who was snatched from him;, are not to be swept away in a day; but happy he speaks to her, he breathes into this shadowy form are we to feel, that every year more ard more his own life, his own love: he sees her still before voices are raised to proclaim the truth, and him, still the same, ever lovely and pure, with her make the workers in the great cause more conmodest smile, her timid look, her sweet and pene-fident, that the time will come when War will trating voice.

MUSIC.

MUSICAL BOUQUET. Parts XLII. and XLIII. Edited by G. J. O. Allman.-The second of these is a treat to instrumental performers-as well as to dancing-feet-inasmuch as it gives the charming overture to "Semiramide," of which one never tires; the "Swiss Quadrille" and "Bridal Polka," both most seasonable at this time of "evening parties," chronicled in Albert Smith's "Physiology." The art-embellishments consist of a very good engraving of Semiramide-we suppose meant for Grisi in her grand character, though not bearing much likeness to the Diva; however, it is a good design of its kind, and we have still cause to repeat what we have often said about the union

of art and music in the "Bouquet." Part XLII. contains Bellini's song, "L'amo! l'amo!" arranged to Byron's words, "Farewell, if ever fondest prayer!" This is a plan we cannot too much commend. Why should good Italian music be spoiled by the detestable English words one too often sees? It is positive sacrilege. "Dark day of horror," in this same number, very nearly deserves this reproach. To be sure, it is difficult to find good words for the "Giorno d'orrore," our harsh English grates after the liquid Italian; but we think something better than this might be done. The " British Army Quadrilles" make an amusing set for little feet and little fingers. Altogether the "Bouquet" is going on well, as we like to see it.-D.

AMUSEMENTS

HAYMARKET.

be said of her little roly-poly husband-no term will fit him personally like this baby-word. "The World Underground" still maintains its place in the bills, and by occasional representations amuses many stray visitors who have not seen it; and others, who have, can well endure it a second time. It has been one of the best of those capital olla podridas of wit, burlesque, and song, which have of late years been standing dishes in Christmas theatrical fare-the extravaganzas.

OLYMPIC.

The "Wife's Secret" has, throughout the month, drawn crowded houses, and will most likely be the play of the season, and have a marvellous run. It has tempted even royalty to the abode of the English drama. A new afterpiece, "Dearest Elizabeth," said to be from the pen of Mr. Oxenford, has also taken the popular taste amazingly. Though it is in construction decidedly French, and moreover, the moral savours rather too much of the lightness attributed to our neighbours across the Channel. The piece hinges on the wandering affections of a Mr. Mr. Brooke has appeared in a second characLionel Lax (Mr. Keeley), who has written to ter-Sir Giles Overreach, in Massinger's "New a fair widow as "Dearest Elizabeth," which Way to pay Old Debts." This has not been letter falls into the hands of Betsy, the servant such a triumphant success as his "Othello." (Mrs. Keeley). To prevent Betsy's revealing It may be that the public, dazzled by his first the secret to Mrs. Lax, her master makes love marvellous outburst, looked for too much-for to her, and succeeds in persuading the vain something above perfection. However, the lists damsel that "Dearest Elizabeth" is no other are nearly equal, and the critics are fairly dithan herself then, by various unlucky contre-vided for and against Mr. Brooke. One thing temps, Humphrey (Mr. Clark) Betsy's concealed husband, and Winch (Mr. Rogers), the concealed husband of the bewitching widow, are made desperately jealous, so that a grand embroglio ensues. At last, by some various manœuvres, everybody finds out that everybody else is married, and the matter is cleared up to all, except poor Mrs. Lax. However on this lady's entrance, her repentant spouse ingeniously lights his cigar with the unlucky letter, observing that "there is an end to Dearest Elizabeth." The moral (if there be any), we suppose, may run thus: Husbands, write no love-letters-except to your wives! Maids, widows, and bachelors, never get married in a corner, but in open day, for fear of misadventures. The acting of this piece is thoroughly Keeleyan; the maid-servant, especially, was acted by Mrs. Keeley in that comical, low-life style which makes her seem the very perfection of servant-hood. In her own peculiar line there is no one like Mrs. Keeley; and the same may

is certain, that, whether his Sir Giles is or is not equal to his Othello, it is in itself a great performance. An actor of true genius-as we uphold Mr. Brooke to be-may have various degrees of merit in his characters; but he can never utterly fail. In Sir Giles, Mr. Brooke has all the wild, almost savage earnestness of Edmund Kean: there is less of intellectual power and more of physical vehemence. Now both these styles of acting have their extremes. The purely intellectual delineation of a part is apt to become so undemonstrative, as to lose force, and be almost monotonous at last. Whereas the actor who constantly appeals to the audience with energetic points, and gives the whole outward strength of his conception, very often sinks into a melodramatic ranter. That power which made Edmund Kean-as Kemble himself acknowledged-" so terribly in earnest," becomes in the younger Charles Kean a storm "full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." The man of mere ordinary talent cannot tread after the

play was splendid: in particular we may notice the storm, which was as finely executed as any stage-storms that we have ever witnessed. The farces at Marylebone are generally good; one of the latest, "Invisible Green," is a very amusing trifle, in which Mr. Cooke enacted Hawkseye-a cunning creditor, who is hunting out his victim-with good success. Mrs. Warner's edition of the ever-attractive "Lady of Lyons" runs its race; but, except the "Wrecker's Daughter," we have no further novelties to chronicle.

DRURY LANE.

man of genius; he is like a dwarf retracing the foot-prints of a giant. Now, all we object to Mr. Brooke is, that he seems in Sir Giles to cling too much to this ultra-vehemence of style, which is as inferior to the pure classic drama as the rude boors of Teniers are to the lofty ideal of Greek art. Powerful as his acting undoubtedly is, it is stretched a little beyond the "modesty of nature," which the great oracle of the drama so wisely inculcates. In the last scene his exquisite voice becomes overstrained-a point which he should never sacrifice, as his organ is undoubtedly the finest on the tragic stage. Before this notice appears, Mr. Brooke will have sustained the part of Gloster in "Richard the By the time our notice appears, M. Jullien's Third"-a choice which proves his adherence to reign at Drury-lane will be over. It has ended the line of art in which Kean excelled. Let him unfortunately, both for the projector and the follow it, but carefully avoid those melodramatic public. The failure of M. Jullien's spirited and faults on which it verges. Miss Glyn, a young deserving undertaking_will deter others from and much-talked-of actress, a pupil of Charles attempting to revive English opera. We are Kemble, has appeared here. As a novice she now beginning to learn that no large theatre merits the most lenient criticism; much can be supported except by a first-rate opera of her power has yet to be developed; company. The expenses of Drury-lane have, but her first attempt, though not positively suc- doubtless, been enormous; and though M. cessful, is yet by no means a failure. The part Jullien has done his very best, so far as he she chose was Lady Macbeth-one most critical was able, we have had but one English opera for a young actress; and during the first scenes of merit-" The Maid of Honour," and but her nervousness was almost painful. Gathering one really successful new English opera-singer strength, she went on; and her sleeping scene-Mr. Reeves. He now is going back to Italy; was excellent. Miss Glyn has every physical and we must give up one who might ere long capability for an actress-an appearance noble have rivalled Mario. Madame Dorus Gras and pleasing, and a good voice. There is, too, will hardly be remembered with pleasure. Exin her style a refinement and delicacy which cept herself, all Jullien's company have stood prove that she aims at the pure intellectual ideal, by him bravely to the last-a circumstance rather than the points which "take" the gallery. creditable to all parties. He deserved far better This is good, and we augur well for her future success: but there seems a fatality hanging over career. She may not gain "the top of the tree" Drury-lane, which has ruined almost every at once; but she will ascend branch by branch, manager who has courted fate there, for the last in a quiet, steady fashion. It must be a hard-twenty years. We sincerely hope that this dishearted critic who could pull the fair aspirant down.

MARYLEBONE.

appointment will not damp Jullien's efforts in making good music popular, and that in some line less arduous than opera he will be repaid for the disappointments of the past season.

HER MAJESTY'S THEATRE.

We are already at press while the curtain rises, and the opera season at the old Opera House commences. Stars, however, of the first magnitude, do not rise in our musical hemisphere so early in the year; and though we should like to have been able to report on present performances and promises for the future, we must wait until next number, by which time a more positive opinion may be set forth, and the rival Royal Italian Opera at Covent Garden will also demand our attention. We have just time to add that Mademoiselle Cruvelli has achieved a decided success.

A rival Sir Giles Overreach has been found here in Mr. Graham. He is good-very good; but he is not, and probably never will be, such an actor as Brooke. Still, to him is owing much of the good fortune which has attended Mrs. Warner's chivalrous attempt to plant the legitimate drama in the Alpha-road. Among the revivals has been Sheridan Knowles's play of the "Wrecker's Daughter." It is long since this was acted, and it is not one of Knowles's best; still its striking situations, and continuous dramatic interest, were sure to tell with the generality of an audience. Mrs. Warner acted Marian with nice feeling. In the scene where she dissuades her father from joining the wreckers-by far the best written in the playshe was eminently successful. Mr. James Vining, in the part of Wolf, proved himself This last month has been rich in revivals: the an actor. In the last scene-the only one first was "Twelfth Night," which we have heard in which the character comes prominently for-pronounced to be, in the getting up and acting, ward-he was really great. Mr. Graham, in the melo-dramatic character of Black Norris, was well suited; and Mr. Johnston was above mediocrity in Robert. The getting-up of the

SADLER'S WELLS.

most thoroughly Shakspearian; in short, a very dream of fancy, in which Viola and Olivia and Malvolio, and all those creations which come down to us as realities, live and move again.