Bewitching me so deeply with his presence, I pray thee, my sweet boy, show me thy parents; Ang. I am not; I did never Know who my mother was; but by yon palace, Filled with bright heav'nly courtiers, I dare assure you, You and I both shall meet my father there, Dor. A bless'd day ! * some We had a great mind to conclude with this scene, but there is another in the same play which presents us with so beautiful a picture of the angel, what between the gorgeousness of the poets in general and the simplicity of the painters, --that we cannot resist copying it. Theophilus, the persecutor, who has been the cause of the martyrdom of Dorothea, and who is converted and becomes a martyr himself, is soliloquizing upon the torture he will wreak upon those who differ with him, when Angelo comes in with a basket of fruit and flowers. The Roman does not see him at first, and so continues talking. * "This scene," says an excellent critic, "has beauties of so high an order, that with all my respect for Massinger, I did not think he had poetical enthusiasm capable of furnishing them. His associate, Decker, who wrote Old Fortunatus, had poetry enough for anything. The very impurities which obtrude themselves among the sweet pieties of this play (like Satan among the sons of heaven), and which the brief scope of my plan fortunately enables me to leave out, have a strength of contrast, a raciness and a glow in them, which are above Massinger. They set off the religion of the rest, somehow, as Caliban serves to show Miranda."- Specimens of English Dramatic Poets, by Charles Lamb. Thus it is that fine natures know how to turn fugitive or imaginary evil to account, instead of thinking themselves called upon to show that they cannot think too much evil about it; as some critics have done, whom it were a poor thing to name in so sweet a place. Theoph. This Christian slut was well, A pretty one: but let such horror follow The next I feed with torments, that when Rome Shall hear it, her foundation at the sound Ang. Are you amazed, sir? So great a Roman spirit, and doth it tremble? Theoph. How cam'st thou in? To whom Thy business? Ang. To you: I had a mistress, late sent hence by you That when she came in to that blessed garden Theoph. Cannot I see this garden? Ang. Yes, if the master Will give you entrance. Theoph. 'Tis a tempting fruit [Music. [He vanisheth. ་ And the most bright-cheeked child I ever viewed, - Both. My lord. - Enter JULIANUS and GETA. Theoph. Are my gates shut? Geta. And guarded. Theoph. Saw you not a boy? Ful. Where? Theoph. Here he entered; a young lad ; A thousand blessings danced upon his eyes, A smooth-faced, glorious thing, that brought this basket. Geta. No, sir? Theoph. Away - but be in reach, if my voice calls you. [Exeunt. We need not point out to our readers the "brightcheeked child," the "smooth-faced glorious thing,' that brings a basket, -- a thousand blessings dancing upon his eyes; but we notice the words that we may enjoy them in their company. And so with this perfect taste of the angel and his Eden fruit, we con clude. CHILD-BED. A PROSE POEM. 1830. A ND is child-bed among the graces, with its close room, and its unwilling or idle visitors, and its jesting nurse (the old and indecent stranger), and its unmotherly, and unwifely, and unlovely lamentations? Is pain so unpleasant that love cannot reconcile it; and can pleasures be repeated without shame, which are regretted with hostile cries and resentment! No. But child-bed is among the graces, with the handsome quiet of its preparation, and the smooth pillow sustaining emotion, and the soft steps of love and respect, and the room in which the breath of the universe is gratefully permitted to enter, and mild and venerable aid, and the physician (the urbane security), and the living treasure containing treasure about to live, who looks in the eyes of him that caused it and seeks energy in the grappling of his hand, and hides her face in the pillow that she may save him a pain by stifling a greater. There is a tear for what may have been done wrong, ever; and for what may never be to be mutually pardoned again; but it is gone, for what needs it? Angelical are their whispers apart; and Pleasure meets Pain the seraph, and knows itself to be noble in the smiling testimony of his severity. It was on a May evening, in a cottage flowering with the green-gage, in the time of hyacinths and new hopes, when the hand that wrote this, took the hand that had nine times lain thin and delicate on the bed of a mother's endurance; and he kissed it, like a bride's. 1827-1837. WE ROUSSEAU'S PYGMALION. E are not aware that this piece of Rousseau's has hitherto appeared in English. It is a favorite in France, and very naturally so, on all accounts. To our countrymen there will perhaps appear to be something, in parts of it, too declamatory and full of ejaculation; and it must be confessed, that if the story alone is to be considered, the illustrious author has committed one great fault, which was hardly to be expected of him; and that is, that he has not made the sentiment sufficiently prominent. The original story, though spoiled by the rake Ovid, informs us, that Pygmalion, with all his warmth towards the sex, was so disgusted at the manners of his countrywomen, that instead of going any longer into their society, he preferred making images, in his own mind, and with his chisel, of what a woman ought to be; informing her looks, of course, with sentiment and kindness, as well as with the more ordinary attractions. It appears to us, therefore, that instead of making him fall in love, almost out of vanity, as Rousseau has done, it might have been better, in the abstract point of view above mentioned, to represent him fashioning the likeness of a creature after his own heart, lying and looking at it with a yearning wish that he could have met with such a living being, and at last, while indulging his imagination with talking to her, making him lay his hand upon hers, and finding it warm. The rest is, in every respect, exquisitely managed by Rousseau. But now we must observe, that while the charge of a certain prevailing air of insincerity over the French style in these matters appears just in most instances, a greater confidence is to be put in the enthusiasm of the Genevese; for he was a kind of Pygmalion himself, disgusted with the world, and perpetually, yet hopelessly, endeavoring to realize the dreams of his imagination. This, after all, is perhaps the most touching thing in his performance. Pygmalion's self predominates over the idea of his mistress, because the author's self pressed upon him while he wrote. The only actual difference between the fabulous solitary and the real one was, unfortunately, that Pygmalion seems to have been willing enough to be contented, had he found a mistress that deserved him; whereas Rousseau, when he was really beloved, and even thought himself so, was sure to be made |