bad, if not worse, they are allowed misapplication of fair talents, and to go hand in hand. We do not the mal-appropriation of precious speak of those works which merely time. draw upon history for the staple of their material-these are harmless. But it will be found, that our histories are things got up like melo-dramas-for effect. The romantic points are polished and brought undeservedly into prominence; while the sobriety of details and the philosophy of conduct are utterly overlooked or forgotten. Is this not a proof of an unsound literature, so far as history is concerned? It would be unfair to urge so strong an objection, were the practice not so universally prevalent, that when posterity comes to settle the difference betwixt the romance and history of the present day, they will, in all likelihood, set down the former as belonging to truth, the latter to fiction. Again, there are our novels; and here we do not mean to allude to the works of Sir Walter Scott. We must really declare, that, as a nuisance, they have become intolerable. Not one of them can survive the year of its nativity. Yet, who or what was it that has caused the many thousands of such works to go into eternal slumber? Had the critics anything to do with this consummation? Oh no. The affairs sank of their own weight, or evaporated of their own inanity. The critics puffed; but the public got wearied. Now, that novels, or at least the particularly flimsy class of books which assumed so respectable a name, and were devoted to the insignificant cant, and flash, and slang of a sort of life and society which had nowhere existence save in the giddy heads of ladies' maids and gentlemen's valets; now that this spurious class of novels have partly, perhaps chiefly, by our efforts been laughed out of popularity, we must regret that so much good paper and print as they must have wasted, was not expended upon worthier matters. And, not only this, but, in cases not a few, we have to lament the A considerable impression is thought to have been made on the tone and purposes of our current literature, by the publication of popular works on history and science, in the cheap and catching libraries of the time. This mode of publication is certainly preferable to the former system; and, accordingly, it has had not only the advantage of being a "new idea," but, in point of usefulness, it presents a decided superiority, and consequently a greater chance of being permanent. In so far, however, as literature abstractedly is concerned, no such remarkable change has taken place upon the matter as upon the form and price of books. The same resources, the same ability, the same information, were all previously in existence, though concealed in reviews or locked up in encyclopædias. The whole affair, as regards the cheap library system, may be said to be the result of a mere bookseller's speculation. The article created the demand, as much as the demand created the article. Still it is sufficiently obvious that this species of literature has produced, and is producing, its effects, which, though yet not very apparent, will gradually unfold themselves in the course of time. The results will be seen in the habits and opinions of the rising generation. We do not hesitate to say, that the cheap libraries will operate as a substantial blessing. But, at the same time, they can be easily perverted to pernicious and unworthy purposes. Let them be watched, else their character may suffer as much depreciation as the "novel" has experienced, simply because the name has been appropriated by pretenders and incapables. If criticism has been slow on other occasions, we must, however, permit ourselves to say, that it has not lagged behind popular opinion in exploding the religious poetry of our current literature. The nui sance had grown too serious to be longer borne. In our opinion, however, this class of poets were brought into existence, almost of necessity, after the libertinisms and merry-makings of Don Juan and its imitators. It would be scarcely worth while, at this time of day, to attempt analyzing the properties of the religious poetry which has just been abolished from our current literature. But as this has never been done, that we are aware of, such an attempt may not be altogether useless in our present notice. Our opinion of this class of poetry or verse has already been laid before the public. We never gave the slightest encouragement to its cultivation; and now that the seeds have only given birth to rubbish, we are the less inclined to extend our countenance even to fair and respectable efforts in the same way. The truth is, that although the Holy Bible is one mass of sublime and affecting poetry ("the eloquence of truth") from beginning to end-from Genesis to Revelations even in the best hands it must lose by transplantation. No one will assert that Milton himself has improved upon or added a single beauty to the Word of God. Every effort to adorn the imagery, or the facts contained in that BOOK, must prove at best a failure; and, putting aside the blasphemy of the thing, we hold such efforts, in a literary point of view, to be nothing better than heresy. Let those who would dispute the point, prate of Milton and Isaac Watts as they will the genius of the former only succeeded, strong as it was, when in its prime; the skill of the latter extended no farther than putting the same idea in different words, without looking out of the original. Our modern poetasters are, however, on the one hand, destitute of the mind of Milton, though we do not deny some of them a degree of fancy; and, on the other hand, they have none of the industry, and humility, and learning of Watts. Their works speak a kind of unknown dialect, which, though made up of English vocables, are so idealess and sounding, that they fall flat on the ear, like so many bladders of India-rubber. If we were anxious to show a goodly collection of specimens in the bathos, we need only refer to the religious poetry of the times, where that sort of rarity is quite indigenous. In short, the writers of such stuff think to make up in sound what they want in intellect; or, it may be, perhaps, that they mistake the sonorous and the "long nebbit" for the sublime and beautiful. Again, we are not to look for nature, or any natural working, either of passion or thought, in such" chimeras dire." They seem to have a notion that the Bible is merely a collection of wonders, and miracles, and extravagances. The beautiful episodes of the New Testament never strike their perceptions; neither are they affected by the characteristic and national traits to be discovered in the Old. The mighty, the magnificent, and the awful, exist only for them, simply because the mongrel language which confuses their brain is more easily adapted to such a class of subjects. The Cocknies have, in fact, been bit and bewildered by Martin's pictures; and they must scribble and dribble about them. Now, we are no admirers of Martin's slap-dash style of painting; yet we confess that they ought to have produced better poets than the ones we have been noticing; and we are happy to think that they run every chance of being remembered long after our religious poetry has been swept even from the shops of the cheese-monger and the tobacconist. As to efforts either in comedy or tragedy, it is in vain to talk of these, so long as there is no adequate prospect of remuneration held out for the exertion of genius and the expenditure of time. A great deal has been said on the decline of the drama in England, and not a few have More particularly the works of R. Montgomery, "The Age," and " Cain the Wanderer." 15 ATHENEUM, VOL. 5, 3d series. attributed it to the very cause we have pointed out. We do not, however, say, that encouragement to writers of successful dramas would be alone sufficient to propagate a better state of things. The writers for the French stage are a living proof of the contrary. their sources of benefit they are With all worthless; and their efforts, speaking generally, a disgrace to the age and country in which they live. But whose is the fault? Why, it is that of the press. The press encourages the vaudevilles, and flummery, and their authors. It is for the critics of this country to act otherwise. They are, in fact, the public mind; and if they were to labor properly, our stage, under better laws, might be made to mirror forth the genius and the mind of Britain, as it does at present the mere nothings of our French neighbors, so badly Anglified, that they are only redeemed by their absurdity. But, in truth, we have first to set encouragement before the eyes of our writers, ere we can expect them to contend for the golden guerdon of public opinion; but, were this accomplished, we doubt not, judging from the state of feeling manifested by our brother critics, that, for men of talent, there would be a clear stage, and no favor; and, for men of straw and pretension, the birch and the bastinado. It is indeed pitiful to look around and observe the sort of persons who do the drama of this country-men of little or no imagination, of less learning and literary attainmentswhose powers of speech are compressed within a French mot, and whose powers of observation are confined to the green-room of a play-house. The ingenious gentlemen, famed in the days of the Minerva press, have all turned dramatists and doggrel writers; and, as they live moderately, it is all one to them whether they gain five pounds by writing three volumes of a novel or three acts of an opera. Now, all this sort of vileness must be done away; other men must step for ward; and the public must do their duty. Let explicit laws be made; let actors be reduced to their proper level; let the managers look to their authors as well as to themselves; and we have no doubt, a bright morn will yet shine on the degraded drama of England. enter upon the theatrical part of the It is not our intention here to matter. made subject of dispute or doubt. That is too clear to be Tact in a manager is everything; and he finds that tact in the present day, is only successful when it explores unknown tribes, or unheardof absurdities. He works for children alone. He has yet to learn that the stage is a field for the display of mind and nature. much abused term), we are induced Turning from the drama (that poetry of the times. Of late years to throw a glance upon the fugitive it has fallen greatly in the estimation of the reading public. The most frequent phrase that crosses the critic's lips is-"Poetry is a drug." of a bookseller's creed. The meIt is the thirty-nine articles tropolitan and provincial scribe exclaim, "Mene, Tekel, UpharsinPoetry is a drug !" denied " It cannot be world over. poetry is a drug" all the to? There must be some undiscoWhat is this owing vered cause to which common sense verse, and, what is more, with immay assign it. Everybody writes punity. We see so much of poetry, that we never think of reading any at all; and, of course, we come to the natural conclusion, that what is without examination. common is valueless. We decide Now, for deal of fugitive poetry in our day; our own part, we have read a good and we do not, for a moment, hesitate to say, that there has been a greater quantity of good verses given and lost to the world, in a quiet way, during the last fourteen years, than ever was before in the same space of time since the springs of Helicon were discovered. is a fact; yet poetry has been callThis ed a drug. It has been sneered out of fashion; and we are in some degree glad of this, for it has induced people to think of concentrating their powers, or of directing them into a more convertible form. We are satisfied that the lyrical and fugitive poetry of the present day, when the genius for its production has departed, will be looked upon as one of the brightest and best features of our literature. It is entirely characteristic of the age, energetic, striking, versatile, and often highly original; while it is by no means deficient in grace, harmony, pathos, and simplicity. Akin to the fugitive poetry which we have noticed, is the miscellaneous prose which yet so much abounds. This kind of writing, even in its meanest form, has acquired a very high character. It is far above the generality of such things, as they came forth under the early patronage of Sylvanus Urban. The tale and the sketchour magazine literature-in short, none of these have been so ably cultivated as in our day, and none so plentifully. Criticism, too, has long held a high place in the scale of our good points. But these are matters which do not require more especial observation at our hands. Whatever other conclusion may be drawn from the slight glance at our current literature which we have just taken, one thing is obvious, that we are a writing generation. We believe that this is a point generally settled as orthodox; and it is too plain to be denied. We are convinced, however, that we will not long remain a scribbling generation. We are too much of a politician to think otherwise; though we do not mean to enter upon an exposition of our views. Men will soon begin to act; and, as the wheel of time circles upon its axle, turning up our children, we will be viewed on the descending side, as a set of prodigals and visionaries, whose lot it was in life and death never to have known our own minds. TO THE EARTH. My mother! from whose fostering breast, This weak and fleeting substance came, And where these limbs are doom'd to rest When thou reclaim'st the dying frame; Within thy regions lone and deep What wild and sullen horror dwells, And how doth shapeless Mystery keep His watch beside those viewless cells! There slumber they, the sons of might- man. There in its tideless fury shed Forever on those steadfast shores, Bituminous and darkly spread, The aye enduring ocean roars; And mutters, bound and fetter'd fast, The earthquake in its sullen ire; And lurks the power whose sulph'rous blast Enrobes the rending mount with fire. Thou hast thy treasures, jewel'd caves, And diamond rocks like veins of light, And sapphires whose unshaded blue Seems drank from summer's cloudless skies, And opals, as the iris hue, Where morn's deep tinctured glances rise. Thou hast thy beauties-realms unknown, Where murmuring music soft and low, O'er onyx, and the sardine stone, The cold petrific waters flow; And sparry chambers dimly lit, And shining groves and fretted bowers," Where dreamy Silence loves to sit, And Fancy proves her myriad powers. Thou hast thine habitants-the horde And black-wing'd dreams whose legions 124 Yet not for these thy sacred name Time hallow'd aid and home of all! And blessest, in thy bounteous mirth, The meanest hand that waits on thee. The shades which mark this fleeting lot, Thou callest, and our feverish woes, The weary and the worn in heart. And who shall view thee, even as now, With verdure on that sunny brow, In that stern hour of good or ill, THE CONDEMNED. "The block, the axe !-God knows I've not deserved them." CONDEMNED to die !-What a rush of sickening recollections swept across my soul as I turned from the gaze of a crowded court, where I had heard pronounced against me the doom of a murderer-death by the block and axe. Condemned to die! Years of sorrow and suffering, such as mankind feel and repine at, might have been concentrated into the briefest space, and yet fallen far short of the unutterable agony of that moment. Stunned and dead to everything external, I followed the jailor, whose office it was to lead me from the court to my dungeon. "This way, master, this way," said he at length, as he turned into a low vaulted passage, which I knew conducted to the cell where condemned criminals were immured: way, master; you will soon be in a "This lodging where you will be allowed to pass the night without farther molestation, I warrant you." Scarcely conscious of what he said, I followed him in silence to the end of the passage, which was terminated by a low, massy, ironbound door. Giving me in charge to two assistant officials who follow ed, my rough guide took from a bunch suspended at his girdle a large and ponderous key, which, after a few attempts, accompanied with as many fearful execrations, he succeeded in inserting into the keyhole, and soon threw open the door. my frame as it recoiled upon its A convulsive shudder ran through grating hinges; and I entered, preceded by the jailor, and followed by his attendants. could see, the walls appeared to be As far as I constructed of rough black stone; the whole range of which seemed unbroken and solid, except a narrow aperture at the farther extremity, from which streamed a dull and uncertain light that did not nearly rently of no great extent; and so illumine the dungeon, though appahigh in the wall, that it was next to impossible that the wretched inmate could reach it. ty of the dungeon, while his followThe jailor walked to the extremirattling noise I heard I was sure ers stood beside me. From the that he was handling iron fetters. In a moment or two my suspicions me, bearing in his hand a chain and were confirmed. He came towards intended as a means of securely massy iron ring, which I saw were confining my person. criminal might be sufficiently pu"The vilest nished by confinement in this horrible place. You will not surely use these to confine me!" cried I, eyeing what he carried; "for I am incondemned to suffer." nocent of the crime for which I am enough, master," said the wretch, "Likely with a cold chuckle. my lodgers when they take up their "So say all quarters in this place; they are all |