"Nonsense, Whibby!" "Nonsense, mother, as Cobden said to the protectionist,-but don't let's get into politics-an horrible suspicion darts across my mind-perfectly tragical, I assure you. Is it, can it be, after all our trouble, that the Bradshaw we have consulted is the one for last month, because if so, of course they have altered all the trains!" Positively we must pull down the curtain for the present by main force, for we can see that Whibby will talk till all is blue, if we don't, and since the bed-chamber of a young bachelor, with its confusion, its boots on chairs, and coats on the floor, its pistols in alarming juxta-position with Rowland's Macassar, and shaviug soap wrapped up in a page of Byron's Corsair,-its ends of cigars and dirty white kid gloves,-since all this would prove desperately uninteresting, we will leave the sapient youth to snore and snooze, according to his own sweet will, and not recur to him again until the time approaches for his departure by the Eastbourne train, in company with those hitherto sadly neglected characters, the charming Rosa and the intelligent Robert Buggins, all three bound on a voyage of discovery to the Sussex coast. Grant us patience, gentle readers, on the journey, and be on the platform to see the train depart, next month!

(To be continued in our next.)

REVIEW S.

THE DRAMA OF A LIFE AND ASPIRANDA. BY JOHN ALFRED LANGFORD. London: J. Hughes. 1852.

MR. LANGFORD is now well known to the public as a writer possessed of some degree of literary standing, having done good service in several contributions that have from time to time been published in divers of our cheap popular serials. It is, therefore, with very great pleasure that we contemplate the little work on our table, and we cannot but regard it as another proof of the spread of sounder knowledge and manlier feeling amongst the people.

Time was when the columns of our cheap magazines were reeking with trashy novels and sentimental doggerel, where Chloes walked forth amid the gardens of literature, in lace frills and purple stomachers, and sighed of love in soft embowering shades to the mellow warblings of sundry imaginary nightingales. That time, happily, thanks to the improved facilities for the spread of popular education, has passed away, and our cheap serial literature has assumed a healthy and vigorous tone, whilst popular teachers are arising from the popular ranks, amongst whom not the least known, nor the least meritorious, is Mr. Longford.

And yet we cannot hail this little book with feelings of altogether unmixed delight; we cannot help thinking Mr. Langford has overrated his powers in undertaking the composition of this drama of a life. In our opinion he has not the concentrative and sustentative power necessary to write a dramatic poem possessed of the first order of poetic or dramatic excellence; neither was it necessary for his own fame as a popular literary writer, that he should attempt any such herculean task.

Mr. Langford is undoubtedly possessed of talents of no mean order, and so long as he limits himself within the range of his capabilities, he may write verses of vigorous import and beautiful metrical proportions, that will always be read with enthusiasm and studied with delight; but so soon as he attempts a loftier range, and would fain soar on the pinions of genius, so sure is he to experience a humiliating failure, as in the case of the "Drama of a Life" before us. The moral is good, the purpose is excellent, the structure of the verse is without a blemish, yet we feel that it wants the je ne sais quoi of grace, and the fine bold sweep of genius, and we cannot help thinking that it would have read far better in the shape of a simple prose story. Indeed, now and then we feel inclined to laugh in our own despite, as in the following passage, where a workman talks commonplace in elaborate blank verse -All this is talk,

Mere talk and nonsense, may be something worse.
Where is our money to begin the work?

And who would buy our goods when made? How live
When we have spent our all in useless things.
Can we succeed when wealthy men have failed,
With all the markets at their own command?
'Tis moonshine madness to believe we can.

Then let us strike. Let's go and stop the mills.
Our masters then will soon be glad to give
The wages we demand.

We have already said that we believe this dramatic poem would have read better as a simple prose story, and we think that had it been presented in such a shape it could not have failed to prove in a very high degree both interesting and intructive. There is something very noble and true about the manner in which our author describes the varied phases of thought and feeling which occur to the hero of the story, as well as a very useful lesson read to the working men of our land regarding the folly of their present strikes, and their utter inutility when opposed by the men of wealth and capital. We could wish that the working classes might take a leaf out of Mr. Langford's book, and learn that, rather than waste their resources upon useless strikes, which can only terminate in their own discomfiture, they should combine together those resources in a spirit of Christian trade, and thereby raise a strong opposing barrier to the great enemy of all real and Christian progress—COMPETITION.

We believe that Mr. Langford's poem will help the good work of Association, which has been so well commenced by Professor Maurice and his worthy associates, though as a prose story the help might have

been tenfold. We would not urge Mr. Langford to discard the muse entirely, for his Lyrics of Life are always stirring things; but we would aim at convincing him that it is rather in that of a prose writer that his mission consists, and did we want any stronger proof of this, than in the case of his present failure, we should find it in that magnificent History of Religious Scepticism, published by him some two or three years ago, as well as in his new work on Religion and Education, two books which should lie on the table of every studious working man.

Fortunately, this "Drama of a Life" only occupies the few first pages of Mr. Langford's volume, and it is quite refreshing to turn to the "Miscellaneous Poems," which he has designated by the somewhat extraordinary title of "Aspiranda," from North Wales. Here our author has limited his muse within her proper bounds; he climbs the rocks just high enough to still maintain a firm stronghold, and does not mutilate his energies by extraordinary attempts to gain the pinna cles which lie beyond the reach of his capability. Hence he hymns forth a series of clear, fresh, aspiring songs, partaking of all the characteristics of their native regions; indeed, they remind us of the breezes of their own native mountains.

Very touching and simple is this of "Bala Waters:"
Sweet Bala Waters, at my feet

Oh earth thou art a jewelled bride,
So wonderously fair,

The rich gems hang about thy side,

The diamonds in thy hair,

And from thy brow a ruby crown,

Is shooting rays divine,

And though no yard of land I own,

I feel God's earth is mine.

We cannot close our brief review of this work (which we shall, probably again have occasion to refer to,) without directing attention to "Helen; a Romance in Four Verses," which is perhaps the most beautiful poem recurring in the whole volume, and we regret that want of space precludes the possibility of an extract.

THE AGE OF GOLD, AND THE GOLDEN AGE. BY CHRUSOS. London: F. Pitman, Paternoster Row.

THIS is an unpretending little pamphlet, in blank verse. The title is so suggestive that it attracts attention, and we are happy to state, attention so given will be anything but misplaced,-without being able to share in all the anticipations of the author as to the golden age, and the signs of its approach, we can yet cordially agree with that saying of St. Simon, "L'age d'or, qu'une aveugle tradition a place jusqu'ici

dans de passe, est devant nous!” and that is going a long way with him, Chrusos, on the other hand, has well pourtrayed the feelings with which many thoughtful minds regard the " Age of Gold," and he can hardly be called too severe in saying,

"I tell you, friend, could we draw down the stars,
And forge them into coin, it would be done,—
Their burning beauty preaching, aye of God,

Would waste its lessons on our deafened ears; &c.

The picture of "Love bartered as 'twere a thing of 'Change" is true to the life, more the pity that it is so. The meannesses and degradations to which men will stoop, bowing before the golden calf, can hardly be too often shown up, but it is seldom that we find them so fearlessly and delicately pourtrayed as in this short poem, which we hesitate not to say was specially wanted in the present day. The principal, and in fact almost the only defect is that the subject is not carried out sufficiently—which is to be regretted, since it is evident that Chrusos possessess the full power to do so. It is an elegant, and in some instances, deeply thought out conversation between two friends, the one almost hopeless as to the gradual improvement of the race, on the verge of total disbelief of the redeeming points in human nature,— the other hopeful-poetical-looking forward with roseate visions, saying

The world is full of beauty, Percival,

Which only the self-blinded cannot see,-
Your doubts help to perpetuate the ills

Of which you so complain. Have faith in God,
And with it faith in man.

The true to God, is ever true to man,

The sceptre of his race is void of faith

As any who deny the great I AM!

So get you to the hills, and fields and vales,

Where you may converse face to face with God,

As did the holy ones in olden time,

Then will you find I have not only dreamed,

The vision of the glory of the day,

On which humanity shall lay aside

The burden of its sin, will dawn on you.

This reminds us of that beautiful expression of Frederica Bremer— "Nature shall one day be exhibited in her aureola ;" and the inspired authority which teaches that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth for a higher manifestation. The difficulties and reasonings of Laurence as to the evil and sorrow that he meets with daily, and the objections of his cynical friend, who throws a wet blanket, metaphorically, over his enthusiasm, will be familiar to many minds, but they are clearly and forcibly expressed. There are so many paasages deserving notice, that we regret space should inexorably prevent further comment. May the author's prophecies be realized, for who would object to join in

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The strain, that men and women, and their blissful children sing,

While in an Eden-unison all nations' voices ring;

For now the soul has found in the beauteous world a home;

The long deferred, the striven for, the golden age is come?"

[This pamphlet, we understand, is from the pen of Mr. Langford, whose "Life Drama, and other poems," we have above reviewed.

SYMPATHY.

Soft compassion's feeling soul,
By the melting eye express'd;
Sympathy, at whose control,

Sorrow leaves the wounded breast.

JANE TAYLOR.

In one part or other of our lives, we most of us require sympathy, however much we may, as some do, affect to despise, and be beyond wishing for it. It is difficult to imagine a man, however high his career or his aspirations may be, however successful in his desires, or prospects, that has no secret happiness in feeling that he is justly appreciated by those around him, that he is honored for the good he may have effected, and sympathised with in his yet unfinished projects and tastes; one's individuality is otherwise apt, with most minds, to weigh too heavily,-one sees with pleasure, one's thoughts and desires, mirrored in another mind,—a reflex of one's own disposition, proving that we do not stand alone in life,that notwithstanding dissimilarity of personal appearance there is a mysterious tie which binds us together in mind, so that men of even different races and widely different experience may harmoniously agree in sentiment and in opinion, on some of the deepest and most interesting subjects.

Nay, sometimes these subjects or topics themselves create sympathy. It is Novalis, I think, who has the remark-" When I can convince another mind of my belief, instantly I feel stronger therein, and gain an infinite confidence." How true this is, let all those speak who have experienced it. The very process of convincing, or being convinced, generates sympathy in many instances, if the argument be worth anything,

And what delights can equal those

That stir the spirits inner deeps,

When one that loves, but knows not, reaps
A truth from one that loves and knows!

If I was inclined to place myself en-rapport with the philosophic reader, I should now inform him respecting the "source" of sympathy,- —a source much more easily found out than that celebrated one of the Niger, which caused its unfortunate would-be discoverer to be gobbled by a tiger; but this is a matter of history, the other a matter, perhaps, of metaphysics. For the fountain head, doubtless we must allow a certain model of beauty and agreeableness, which consists in a certain relation between our own nature and the thing with which we are affected. Whatever

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