And mark how tamely the hero is introduced : Enter Ion. "Ion.-I seek thee, good Timocles, to implore Timocles. If I have ventured with unmanner'd zeal Leave thy care. If I am weary of the flutterer life, Is mortal bidding thus to cage it in ?" Observe how the elegant lawyer dilutes a common thought-can anything be more undramatic and school-boyish :-— ""Tis a little thing To give a cup of water: yet its draught The finest specimen of bathos we have ever read occurs in this play it is in one of the most emphatic of the crisis that Ion thus speaks to his own beautified Clemanthe. "Ion. Heaven has called me, And I have pledged my honor!" The celebrated inscription on the great Boyle, which states on his tomb that "He was the Father of Science, and Brother to the Earl of Cork," is very tame after the poet's pledging his honor to the Almighty. The second act commences with another little bit of atmospheric observation: the author seems quite an Englishman by his favorite topic of conversation, viz. the weather "The air breathes freshly after our long night Of glorious revelry.” It is the convincing sign of an undramatic mind to begin by some rhapsody on natural scenery, an address to a mountain, or, we were indeed going to add, a mouse, in order to diversify the subject and throw an air of novelty over it, is generally the refuge of the destitute playwright: but it is men, and not mice or mountains that constitute a drama, and human passions working out the catastrophe, not abjurations to romantic scenery. Passion and action are the elements, not description and reflection. The opening of the second scene in act second, is another instance of this total want of dramatic thought. [Clemanthe seated-Abra attending her.] "Abra.-Look, dearest lady!-the thin smoke aspires But the full measure of absurdity is piled up in the fourth act, where Ion enters with a knife to murder the king; the veriest tyro must know a catastrophe cannot happen in the beginning of the fourth act; and mark how very novel is the author's way of evading the difficulty. It must be borne in mind that Adrastus, the ng, is on a couch, asleep. Enter Ion, with a knife, to kill him y Divine command, he having pledged his honor to Heaven to o it, made it, in short, a debt of honor, which even gamblers espect, but not so heroes. Ion wakes his victim, and coolly informs im he has come to kill him. After some curious specimen of lialogue Ion persuades the king to let him kill him. Like the lamb of Pope, "And licks the hand that's raised to shed his blood." The tyrant says, "No: strike at once,-my hour is come-in thee I recognise the minister of Jove, And, kneeling, thus submit me to his power." [Adrastus kneels.] Ion, not accustomed to the lamb-killing business, says in a most unbutcher-like style, "Avert thy face." Adrastus says, "No. Let me meet thy gaze;" and so on: Ion, however, must proceed, and the learned Sergeant actually saves the life of the king by placing Medon in a convenient position, where he can rush in, and call out as the knife of Ion is about to fall on the tyrant's heart, "Ion forbear; behold thy son, Adrastus!" The heroic Ion swoons, as a matter of course. But it is in the love passages that the poet particularly shines. Can anything be more modernly classical than the following plan of asking questions, without the slightest chance of getting a reply: "Clemanth. O, unkind, And shall we never see each other?" [Ion, after a pause.] "Yes. I have asked that dreadful question of the hills Amid whose fields of azure my raised spirit Of course, this is just what a man might expect when he put the absurd question: he might just as well have questioned Lord Palmerston on the state of Hungary! Joking apart: this is the fine milliners' trash that takes the stage from the men of genius, and by supplying a perpetual succession of common places, keeps the drama of the present day at the lowest ebb. The closing conduct of Ion, although of a more heroic cast, is, however, so totally at variance with his whole previous career as to produce what ever it has of effect by a violence to consistency of character which is not credible for an instant. We have done Talfourd the justice to select his best play for our examination. “Glencoe" and "the Athenian Captive" are, confessedly, so far inferior to his first production, as to render any account of them unnecessary. We shall conclude our sketch by contemplating him in a character in which he is, and must be, admired by all observers. Few men enjoy so large a circle of acquaintance as the “Genial Sergeant❞—at his luxurious dinners assemble all the most distinguished men of the day, without reference to their politics or religion. There, conversation, grave and gay, circulates with the glass, and the hospitable presider is never so happy as when surrounded by a large party of friends, except, perhaps, when sitting in a private box, he enjoys the inexpressible privilege of hearing his own verses recited by some clever performer. ERNEST JONES. This author (unfortunately now distinguished as a Chartist leader, and imprisoned for the offence,) is a barrister of the Middle Temple, and was early noted for the violence of his political opinions. His first poem was called "The Wood Spirit," which contained some fine passages, but the design was faulty, and the execution too feeble to warrant a hope that the writer was anything but a clever versifier. His second work, "My Life,” was better, and evinces passion and beauty. His best poems, however, are those entitled "Chartist Lyrics:" into these he has thrown considerable force, and shows great skill in rousing the feelings of the multitudes. The following poem of "Onward and Upward" is spirited : "Right onward the river is rolling, Right onward the freeman may ride it, Right onward the oak tree is growing, |