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Galileo. I am well acquainted with suitable for the habitation of an imthe Scriptures; but as I do not sup- mortal spirit. pose they were meant to instruct man- Monk. My son, my son, beware of kind in astronomy, I think there is no futile conjectures! You know not sacrilege in attempting to discover upon what ground you are treading. more of the nature of the universe Galileo. Does not the galaxy shed than what is revealed in them. forth a glorious light? How gorgeous

Monk. So you believe yourself ca- is its throng of constellations To pable of succeeding in the attempt? me it seems like a procession of innu. Galileo. Perhaps I do.

merable worlds, passing in review beMonk. Would not your time before their Creator. better employed, my son, in perusing

Monk. If the galaxy moves, why some rational book of devotion? Do may not the sun ? not allow yourself to be led away by Galileo. My judgment is, that they the idle suggestions of self-conceit. may both move, for aught I know, What is there to be seen about you, although at a very slow pace. which should enable you to penetrate

Monk. Now you speak sense. I farther into the secrets of the universe knew I should bring you round; for, than me or the rest of mankind ? I do to say the truth (and I say it between not ask this question with a view to you and me), if it had not been for wound your pride, but with a sincere my enemies, whom Heaven pardon, I wish for your good.

should have been wearing a red hat Galileo. Upon my word, you are too before now. Good night: and I shall kind to me. Pray, father, is there any immediately bring the book, which book of devotion which you would re- will help to put your thoughts in a commend in particular?

proper train again. Monk. Recommend in particular! There is a book which it would not become me to but no- -recomm

No III. mend in particular !-Hum-I know

Rembrandt's Work-shop. not.

Galileo. Something trembles at your Rembrandt solus. Too much light tongue's end. Have you yourself write here still. I must deepen the shade ten any book of devotion?

ows even more, until the figures begin Monk. Far be it from me to speak to shine out as they ought. And now of my own writings. Of all books of for Pharoah's Baker, whose dream is devotion, my own was the remotest not yet interpreted ; so that he looks from my thoughts. But since you de- up earnestly in the face of Joseph, and sire to see it

receives a strong gleam through the Galileo. What are the subjects treate iron bars. So-and again—so.

Now ed of in it?

for the shadows again. To talk to me Monk. Life, death, and immortali- of Guido, with his shallow, gray, and ty. There is also a treatise upon the trivial open-lights ! Ah ha ! 'tis I who habitations of good men after death, am Rembrandt—and there is no other. and the delights to be found there. (a knock at the door.) Heaven send

Galileo. Your notions concerning a purchaser ! Come in. these subjects must be in a great Dutch Trader. Good morrow, friend. measure fanciful.

I wish to have a picture of yours to Monk. By no means. Good reasons leave to my wife, before I go to sail the are given for every tittle that is ad salt seas again. vanced.

Rem. Would you have your own Galileo. And where do you suppose face painted ? the habitations of good men to be? Trader. My face has seen both fair

Monk. Why, in heaven, to be sure. and foul, in its time, and belike it may

Galileo. Is it not possible that their not do for a canvass, for I am no fresh abode may be situated in some of the water pippin-cheek. constellations ? When gazing, as I was Rem. Bear a good heart. Your face wont to do, at midnight, upon Arc. is of the kind I like. There is no turus, or the brilliant orbs of Orion, I room for tricks of the pencil upon too have sometimes thought, that in the smooth a skin. blue depths there might exist worlds Trader, By this hand, I know nce

thing of these things; but my wife tainly fall, for you had too many on shall have a picture.

hand. Rem. A large hat would serve to Rem. My market shall not fall. I shadow your eyes; and there should will see this collector at the bottom of be no light till we come down to the the ocean first. But come now, let point of your nose, which would be us be reasonable together, I will the only sharp in the picture. No- paint your portrait for thirty. Take thing but brownness and darkness your seat. every where else. Pray you, sit down Trader. Not so fast. My wife must here, and try on this great hat. be conferred with, and, if she approves,

Trader. Nay, by your leave, I will perhaps I may come back. Meano look at these pictures on the wall first. while, good morning. (Erit.) What is this?

Rem. A curse on these picture. Rem. It is a Turk whom I have dealing babblers. How shall I be reseen in the streets of Amsterdam. I venged on them? My pictures are like to paint a good beard ; and you as good as the oldest extant, and, if I see how angrily this man's beard is were dead, every piece would sell for twisted.

as much gold as would cover it. But I Trader. A stout Pagan, and a good see what must be done. Come hither, fighter, I warrant you. Í feel as if I wife, and receive a commission. Go could fetch him a cut over the crown; straight to the joiners, and order him for my ship was once near being run to prepare for my funeral. down by an Algerine.

Rembrandt's Wife. What is the Rem. Look at the next. 'Tis the meaning of this? Are your wits turninside of a farmer's kitchen.

ed? Trader. Nay, I could have told you Rem. My wits are turned towards that myself; for these pails of milk money-making. I must counterfeit might be drunk; and there is an old myself dead, to raise the price of my grandam twirling her spindle. When works, which will be valued as jewels, next I go to live at my brother Lucas's when there is no expectation of any farm, I shall persuade him to buy this more. picture. It shews the fat and plen- Wife. Now I perceive your drift. teous life which he lives, when I am Was there ever such a contrivance ! sailing the salt seas.

You mean to conceal yourself, and Rem. Here is a sea-piece.

have a mock funeral ? * Trader. Why, that is good also ; Rem. Yes; and when my walls are but this sail should have been lashed unloaded I shall appear again. So to the binnacle ; for, d'ye see, when that after the picture dealers have a vessel is spooning against a swell, been brought to canonize me for a she pitches, and it is necessary to dead painter, and when they have

Rem. You are right; I must have fairly ventured out their praise and it altered. How does this landscape their money, they shall see me come please you?


both. Trader. Why, it is a good flat Wife. How will it be possible for country; but exhibits none of those me to cry sufficiently, when there is great rocks which I have seen in fo- no real death? reign parts. I have seen burning Rem. Make good use of the present mountains, which would have made occasion to perfect yourself in your the brush drop from your hand. I part, for you may one day have to rehave sailed round the world, and seen peat it. the waves rising to the height of Haerlem steeple, and nothing but cannibals on shore to make signals to. ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS

Rem. Well--and which of the pictures will you have? you shall have your choice of them for forty ducats.

“ A voice of weeping heard, and loud la. ment."

MILTON. Trader. Nay, now you are joking. Who will give you forty ducats?

1. When at dinner with the burgo-mas- Each mien, each glance, with expectation

MARKED ye the mingling of the City's throng, ter lately, I heard a collector putting prices on your works. He said, if we

bright ?would wait, your market would cera This was a fact. See Rembrandt's Life.

and lay my



Prepare the pageant and the choral song,

6. The pealing chimes, the blaze of festal light! Now hath one moment darkened future years, And hark! what rumour's gathering sound And changed the track of ages yet to be ! is nigh?

Yet, mortal! midst the bitterness of tears, Is it the voice of joy, that murmur deep ?- Kneel, and adore th' inscrutable decree ! Away, be hushed, ye sounds of revelry! Oh! while the clear perspective smiled in light, Back to your homes ye multitudes, to weep! Wisdom should then have tempered hopes Weep! for the storm hath o'er us darkly past, And England's Royal Flower is broken by And, lost One! when we saw thy lot so bright, the blast!

We might have trembled at its loveliness ! 2.

Joy is no earthly flower--nor framed to bear, Was it a dream ! so sudden and so dread In its exotic bloom, life's cold ungenial air. That awful fiat o'er our senses came ! So loved, so blest, is that young spirit fled,

7. Whose bright aspirings promised years of All smiled around thee-youth, and love, fame?

and praise ; Oh! when hath life possessed, or death de

Hearts all devotion and all truth were thine! stroyed,

On thee was rivetted a nation's gaze, More lovely hopes, more cloudlessly that

As on some radiant and unsullied shrine. smiled ?

Heiress of Empires ! thou art passed away When hath the spoiler left so dark a void ?

Like some fair vision, that arose to throw, For all is lost the mother and her child !

Bright o'er one hour of life a fleeting ray, Our morning-star hath vanished, and the tomb Then leave the rest to solitude and wo ! Throws its deep-lengthened shade o'er dis- Oh! who shall dare to woo such dreams again? tant years to come.

Who hath not wept to know that tears for

thee were vain ? 3. And she is gone—the royal and the young !

8. In soul commanding, and in heart benign; Yet there is one who loved thee—and whose Who, from a race of kings and heroes sprung,

soul, Glowed with a spirit lofty as her line.

With mild affections nature formed to melt; Now may the voice she loved on earth so well, Hismind hath bowed beneath the stern control Breathe forth her name unheeded and in vain; of many a grief-but this shall be unfelt ! Nor can those eyes, on which her own would Years have gone by—and given his honourdwell,

ed head Wake from that breast one sympathy again: A diadem of snow-his eye is dimThe ardent heart, the towering mind are fled, Around him Heaven a solemn cloud hath Yet shall undying love still linger with the spread dead.

The past, the future, are a dream to him ! 4.

Yet, in the darkness of his fate, alone Oh! many a bright existence we have seen He dwells on earth, while Thou, in life's Quenched in the glow and fullness of its prime; full pride, art gone ! And many a cherished flower, ere now, hath been

9. Croptereits leaves were breath'd upon by time. The Chastener's hand is on us we may weep, We have lost heroes in their noon of pride, But not repine--for many a storm hath past, Whose fields of triumph gave them but abier; And, pillowed on her own majestic deep, And we have wept when soaring genius died, Hath England slept unshaken by the blast! Check'd in the glory of his mid career ! And war hath raged o'er many a distant plain, But here our hopes were centered—all is o’er, Trampling the vine and olive in his path ; All thought in this absorbed—she was, and While she, that regal daughter of the main, is no more!

Smiled in serene defiance of his wrath !

Assome proud summit, mingling with the sky, 5.

Hears calmly, far below, the thunders roll We watched her childhood from its earliest

and die. hour, From every word and look bright omens

10. caught,

Her voice hath been th' awakener, and her While that young mind developed all its power,

The gathering word of nations, in her might, And rose to energies of loftiest thought ! And all the awful beauty of her fame, On her was fixed the Patriot's ardent eye, Apart she dwelt in solitary light ! One hope still bloomed-one vista still was High on her cliffs alone and firm she stood,

Fixing the torch upon her beacon tower ; And when the tempestswept the troubled sky, That torch, whose flame, far streaming o'er She was our day-spring-all was cloudless the flood, there!

Hath guided Europe thro’ her darkest hour. And oh, how lovely broke on England's gaze, Away, vain dreams of glory-in the dust E'en through the mist and storm, the light Be humbled, Ocean Queen !' and own thy of distant days.

sentence just !



fair ;


no more,

thus away.


But when 'tis past, that still and speechless Hark! 'twas the death-bell's note! which,

hour, full and deep,

Of the sealed bosom, and the tearless eye, l'nmix'd with aught of less majestic tone, Then the roused mind awakes with tenfold While all the murmurs of existence sleep,

power, Swells on the stillness of the air alone! To grasp the fulness of its agony ! Silent the throngs that fill the darkened street, Its death-like torpor vanished-and its doom, Silent the slumbering Thames, the lonely To cast its own dark hues o'er life and namart;

ture's bloom. And all is still, where countless thousands

16. meet, Save the full throbbing of the awe-struck heart! And such his lot, whom thou hast loved and

left, All deeply, strangely, fearfully serene, As in each ravaged home th' avenging one

Spirit ! thus early to thy home recalled ! had been.

So sinks the heart, of hope and thee bereft,

A warrior's heart! which danger ne'er apThe sun goes down in beauty_his farewell,

palled ! Unlike the world he leaves, is calmly bright; Mellow those pangswhich now his bosom rend;

Years may pass on-and as they roll along, And his last mellowed rays around us dwell

, And he once more, with life's unheeding Lingering, as if on scenes of young delight. They smile and fade-but, when the day is May, tho' alone in soul, in seeming blend :.

throng, o'er,

Yet still, the guardian-angel of his mind, What slow procession moves, with measured

Shall thy loved image dwell, in memory's tread ?Lo! those who weep with her who weeps

temple shrined.

17. A solemn train! the mourners and the dead ! Yet must the days be long, ere time shall steal, While bright on high the moon's untroubled Aught from his grief, whose spirit dwells ray

with thee, Looks down, as earthly hopes are passing Once deeply bruised, the heart at length may

heal, 13.

But all it was-oh! never more shall be ! But other light is in that holy pile, The flow'rs, the leaf, o'erwhelmed by winter Where, in the house of silence, kings repose ;

snow, There, thro'the dim arcade and pillaredaisle, Shall spring again, when beams and showers The funeral torch its deep-red radiance return; throws.

The faded cheek again with health may glow, There pall, and canopy, and sacred strain, And the dim eye with life's warm radiance And all around, the stamp of wo may bear ;

burn; But grief, to whose full heart those forms But the bright freshness of the mind's young are vain,

bloom, Grief unexpressed, unsoothed by them,-is Once lost, revives alone in worlds beyond the there.

tomb. No darker hour hath fate for him who mourns,

18. Than when the all he loved, as dust to dust But thou !-thine hour of agony is o'er, returns.

And thy brief race in brilliance hath been run; 14.

While faith, that bids fond nature grieve no We mourn_but not thy fate, departed One! We pity but the living, not the dead ; Tells that thy crown—though not on earth A cloud hangs o'er us," the bright day

-is won ! is done,-"*

Thou, of the world so early left, hast known And with a father's hopes, a nation's fled. Nought but the bloom of sunshine,-and for Ana be, the chosen of thy youthful breast,

thee, Whose soul with thine had mingled every Child of propitious stars ! for thee alone, thought;

The course of love ran smooth, and brightly He with thine early fond affections blest,

free.* Lord of a mind with all things lovely fraught, Not long such bliss to mortal could be given, What but a desert to his eye that earth, It is enough for earth, to catch one glimpse Which but retains of thee the memory of of heaven! thy worth. 15.

19. Oh! there are griefs for nature too intense,

What though as yet the noon-day of thy fame Whose first rude shock but stupifies the soul, Rose in its glory, on thine England's eye, Nor bath the fragile and o'erlaboured sense

The grave's deep shadows o'er thy prospect Strength c'en to fecl, at once, their dread

came? control.

Ours is that loss--and thou wert blest to die !


-" The bright day is done, And we are for the dark." SHAK.

• " The course of true love never did run smooth."





Thou mightst have lived to dark and evil years, to understand or develope his language To mourn thy people changed, thy skies and sentiments. Guided by this clue,

o'ercast; But thy spring-morn was all undimmed by forth the communications in two late

I receive the passage which has called tears, And thou wert lov'dand cherished to the last! numbers of your Magazine, verbatim And thy young name, ne'er breathed in ruder as it stands. To adopt the emenda

tion of your first correspondent, would, Thus dying, thou hast left to love and grief in my opinion, be to give a meaning alone.

altogether different from that which 20.

Shakspeare intended it should convey. Daughter of Kings ! from that high sphere in substituting the reading of J, H., look down,

I think we weaken the force, without Where, still in hope, affection's thoughts rendering the meaning of the passage may rise ;

more obvious. --The latter emendation Wheredimly shines to thee that mortal crown, Which earth displayed, to claim thee from certainly is, in my judgment, much the skies.

the less objectionable; and were there Look down ! and if thy spirit yet retain any necessity for exchanging fair for Memory of aught that once was fondly dear; frail, your correspondent is quite right Sooth, though unseen, the hearts that mourn

as to the sense in which he proposes in vain,

to use the word. It is the sense in And, in their hours of loneliness-be near! which Shakspeare again and again Blest was thy lot e'en here and one faint

uses it. It is the sense in which it is sigh,

still used. “ A frail one" is a phrase, Oh! tell those hearts, hath made that bliss I believe, perfectly well understood by Eternity!

F. D. H.

every one at the present day. But I Brownwhylfa, 230 December 1817. contend, that the passage does not re

quire any alteration to render it intelligible. I see not any difficulty as it now stands :

A fellow almost damn'd in a fair wife. “ A fellow almost damn'd in a fair wife." Let us follow J. H. in his examina

tion of the contest. Iago is relating MR EDITOR,

to Roderigo the causes of complaint I PERFECTLY agree with your corres- against Othello, in order to convince pondent J. H. that “ the commenta- him of his hatred towards him, and tor of Shakspeare will succeed but in- therefore of the improbability that he differently, who cannot identify him- should be privy to his flight with Desa self in some measure with the person- demona. Foremost on the list is the age whose language and sentiments he circumstance of Cassio's appointment would develope ;' nor can the cor- to the lieutenancy, whilst Iago remainrectness of this observation be more ed an ancient. Next, the character of apparent than when applied to a char- the man thus put over him, stings acter such as Iago,-a knave who was him as an indignity offered to his own always acting, wretch who per- superior military courage, skill, and formed his whole part, to the closing experience. And what was he? scene of his life, behind the mask of Forsooth, a great arithmetician; integrity, so successfully, as to be one Michael Cassio, a Florentine.” styled, almost proverbially, “ honest This contemptuous account of Cassio's Iago,"-one who says of himself- qualifications for the appointment he For when my outward action doth demonstrate has obtained, lights up at once all lago's The native act and vigour of my heart, hatred towards him as his successful In compliment extern, 'tis not long after, rival. For a moment he forgets his But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve,

first object, that of convincing RoderiFor daws to peck at: I am not what I am.

go that he was not privy to Othello's We do not expect a man such as this escape with Desdemona, and is hurried to speak as he thinks ; his words have away by the impulse of this more little to do with his real meaning; and newly awakened feeling. After enit is only by endeavouring to discover deavouring to make Cassio appear rihis exciting motive to action, and to diculous as a soldier, by stating him trace the crooked associations of his to be a mere arithmetician, he suddepraved mind, that we are able at all denly recollects the account he has

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