The Selector; and Literary Notices of New Works.
Reading edition
RIENZI.
In No. 335, we gave the outline of the story of Rienzi, principally from Gibbon, but interspersed from other authorities. Miss Mitford's tragedy has since been represented with considerable success, and published. In the preface, we are told, that in addition to the splendid narrative of Gibbon, recourse has been had to "the still more graphical and interesting account of Rienzi's eventful career," contained in L'Abbé de Sade's Memoirs of Petrarque; and that, "as far as the female characters are concerned," the materials are entirely from invention. All this may appear well enough for the construction of the drama, and the female characters are drawn with peculiar grace and feeling; but we do not see why the character of Rienzi should be so essentially altered from history as it has been; neither do we think that any desirable effect has been gained by this change. In history, Rienzi is a master-spirit of reckless and atrocious daring, but in the drama, he is softened down to a fickle liberty brawler, and the sternest of his vices are glossed over with an almost inconsistent show of affection and tenderness. As he there stands, he is rather like an injured man, than one who so liberally dealt oppression and injustice around him.
PROGRESS OF RIENZI'S DISAFFECTION.
Claudia. He is changed, Grievously changed; still good and kind, and full Of fond relentings—crossed by sudden gusts Of wild and stormy passion. Then, he's so silent— He once so eloquent. Of old, each show, Bridal, or joust, or pious pilgrimage, Lived in his vivid speech. Oh! 'twas my joy, In that bright glow of rapid words, to see Clear pictures, as the slow procession coiled Its glittering length, or stately tournament Grew statelier, in his voice. Now he sits mute— His serious eyes bent on the ground—each sense Turned inward. Rienzi. Claudia, in these bad days, When man must tread perforce the flinty path Of duty, hard and rugged, fail not thou Duly at night and morning to give thanks To the all-gracious power that smoothed the way For woman's tenderer feet. Colonna. He hath turned A bitter knave of late, and lost his mirth, And mutters riddling warnings and wild tales Of the great days of heathen Rome; and prates Of peace, and liberty, and equal law, And mild philosophy, to us the knights And warriors of this warlike age, who rule By the bright law of arms. The fool's grown wise— A grievous change. Hatred— And danger—the two hands that tightest grasp Each other—the two cords that soonest knit A fast and stubborn tie: your true love-knot Is nothing to it. Faugh! the supple touch Of pliant interest, or the dust of time, Or the pin-point of temper, loose, or not, Or snap love's silken band. Fear and old hate, They are sure weavers—they work for the storm, The whirlwind, and the rocking surge; their knot Endures till death.
RIENZI'S TRIUMPH.
Hark—the bell, the bell! The knell of tyranny—the mighty voice, That, to the city and the plain—to earth, And listening heaven, proclaims the glorious tale Of Rome reborn, and Freedom. See, the clouds Are swept away, and the moon's boat of light Sails in the clear blue sky, and million stars Look out on us, and smile. [The gate of the Capitol opens, and Alberti and Soldiers join the People, and lay the keys at Rienzi's feet.] Hark! that great voice Hath broke our bondage. Look, without a stroke The Capitol is won—the gates unfold— The keys are at our feet. Alberti, friend, How shall I pay thy service? Citizens! First to possess the palace citadel— The famous strength of Rome; then to sweep on, Triumphant, through her streets. [As Rienzi and the People are entering the Capitol, he pauses.] Oh, glorious wreck Of gods and Caesars! thou shalt reign again, Queen of the world; and I—come on, come on, My people! Citizens. Live Rienzi—live our Tribune!
CLAUDIA'S LAMENT FOR HER HUMBLE HOME.
Mine own dear home! Father, I love not this new state; these halls, Where comfort dies in vastness; these trim maids, Whose service wearies me. Oh! mine old home! My quiet, pleasant chamber, with the myrtle Woven round the casement; and the cedar by, Shading the sun; my garden overgrown With flowers and herbs, thick-set as grass in fields; My pretty snow-white doves: my kindest nurse; And old Camillo!—Oh! mine own dear home!
AMBITION.
Alas! alas! I tremble at the height, Whene'er I think Of the hot barons, of the fickle people, And the inconstancy of power, I tremble For thee, dear father.
RIENZI'S WRONGS.
One of the Ursini is condemned to death—his brother intercedes. Rie. And darest talk thou to me of brothers? Thou, Whose groom—wouldst have me break my own just laws, To save thy brother? thine! Hast thou forgotten When that most beautiful and blameless boy, The prettiest piece of innocence that ever Breath'd in this sinful world, lay at thy feet, Slain by thy pampered minion, and I knelt Before thee for redress, whilst thou—didst never Hear talk of retribution? This is justice, Pure justice, not revenge!—Mark well, my lords, Pure, equal justice. Martin Ursini Had open trial, is guilty, is condemned, And he shall die! Colonna. Yet listen to us— Rie. Lords, If ye could range before me all the peers, Prelates, and potentates of Christendom,— The holy pontiff kneeling at my knee, And emperors crouching at my feet, to sue For this great robber, still I should be blind As justice. But this very day a wife, One infant hanging at her breast, and two, Scarce bigger, first-born twins of misery, Clinging to the poor rags that scarcely hid Her squalid form, grasped at my bridle-rein To beg her husband's life; condemned to die For some vile, petty theft, some paltry scudi: And, whilst the fiery war-horse chaf'd and sear'd, Shaking his crest, and plunging to get free, There, midst the dangerous coil, unmov'd, she stood, Pleading in piercing words, the very cry Of nature! And, when I at last said no— For I said no to her—she flung herself And those poor innocent babes between the stones And my hot Arab's hoofs. We sav'd them all— Thank heaven, we sav'd them all! but I said no To that sad woman, midst her shrieks. Ye dare not Ask me for mercy now.
THE USURPER.
He bears him like a prince, save that he lacks The port serene of majesty. His mood Is fitful; stately now, and sad; anon, Full of a hurried mirth; courteous awhile, And mild; then bursting, on a sudden, forth, Into sharp, biting taunts. New power Mounts to the brain like wine. For such disease, Your skilful leech lets blood.
RIENZI ON HIS DAUGHTER'S MARRIAGE.
A bridal Is but a gilt and painted funeral To the fond father who hath yielded up His one sweet child. Claudia, thy love, thy duty, Thy very name, is gone. Thou are another's; Thou hast a master now; and I have thrown My precious pearl away. Yet men who give A living daughter to the fickle will Of a capricious bridegroom, laugh—the madmen! Laugh at the jocund bridal feast, and weep When the fair corse is laid in blessed rest, Deep, deep in mother earth. Oh, happier far, So to have lost my child!
FICKLE GREATNESS.
Thou art as one Perched on some lofty steeple's dizzy height, Dazzled by the sun, inebriate by long draughts Of thinner air; too giddy to look down Where all his safety lies; too proud to dare The long descent to the low depths from whence The desperate climber rose.
RIENZI'S ORIGIN.
There's the sting,— That I, an insect of to-day, outsoar The reverend worm, nobility! Wouldst shame me With my poor parentage!—Sir, I'm the son Of him who kept a sordid hostelry In the Jews' quarter—my good mother cleansed Linen for honest hire.—Canst thou say worse? Ang. Can worse be said? Rie. Add, that my boasted schoolcraft Was gained from such base toil, gained with such pain, That the nice nurture of the mind was oft Stolen at the body's cost. I have gone dinnerless And supperless, the scoff of our poor street, For tattered vestments and lean, hungry looks, To pay the pedagogue.—Add what thou wilt Of injury. Say that, grown into man, I've known the pittance of the hospital, And, more degrading still, the patronage Of the Colonna. Of the tallest trees The roots delve deepest. Yes, I've trod thy halls, Scorned and derided midst their ribald crew, A licensed jester, save the cap and bells, I have borne this—and I have borne the death, The unavenged death, of a dear brother. I seemed, I was, a base, ignoble slave. What am I?—Peace, I say!—What am I now? Head of this great republic, chief of Rome— In all but name, her sovereign—last of all, Thy father.
CIVIL WAR.
The city's full Of camp-like noises—tramp of steeds, and clash Of mail, and trumpet-blast, and ringing clang Of busy armourers—the grim ban-dog bays— The champing war horse in his stall neighs loud— The vulture shrieks aloft.
FEAR.
Terror, not love, Strikes anchor in ignoble souls.
THE CAPITOL BELL. 3
It is the bell that thou so oft hast heard Summoning the band of liberty—"the bell That pealed its loud, triumphant note, and raised Its mighty voice with such a mastery Of glorious power, as if the spirit of sound That dwells in the viewless wind, and walks the waves Of the chafed sea, and rules the thunder-cloud That shrouded him in that small orb, to spread Tidings of freedom to the nations."
RIENZI'S FALL.
And for such I left The assured condition of my lowliness,— The laughing days, the peaceful nights, the joys Of a small, quiet home—for such I risked Thy peace, my daughter. Abject, crouching slaves! False, fickle, treacherous, perjured slaves! Oh, had I laid All earthly passion, pride, and pomp, and power, And high ambition, and hot lust of rule, Like sacrificial fruits, upon the altar Of Liberty, divinest Liberty! Then—but the dream that filled my soul was vast As his whose mad ambition thinned the ranks Of the Seraphim, and peopled hell. These slaves! These crawling reptiles! May the curse of chains Cling to them for ever.
LIBERTY.
For liberty! Go seek Earth's loftiest heights, and ocean's deepest caves; Go where the sea-snake and the eagle dwell, 'Midst mighty elements,—where nature is. And man is not, and ye may see afar, Impalpable as a rainbow on the clouds. The glorious vision! Liberty! I dream'd Of such a goddess once—dream'd that yon slaves Were Romans, such as rul'd the world, and I Their tribune—vain and idle dream! Take back The symbol and the power.
We can well imagine the effect which Mr. Young gives to some of these eloquent passages. They are full of poetical and dramatic fire. Indeed, we know of no professor of the histrionic art who could give so accurate an embodiment of Rienzi—as Mr. Young, the most chaste and discreet, if not the most impassioned, actor on the British stage. Again, we can conceive the force of these lines in the manly tones of Mr. Cooper:
I know no father, save the valiant dead Who lives behind a rampart of his slain In warlike rest. I bend before no king, Save the dread Majesty of heaven, Thy foe, Thy mortal foe, Rienzi.
In reprinting Rienzi, we suggest a larger size; we fear people in a second row of either circle of boxes, will find the type of the present edition too small; besides, they do not want to be checking the performers, or to be puzzled with "stage directions."
THE BOY'S OWN BOOK.
The sight of this little book, as thick as, and somewhat broader than, a Valpy's Virgil, will make scores of little Lord Lingers think of "bygone mirth, that after no repenting draws." It is all over a holiday book, stuck as full of wood-cuts as a cake is of currants, and not like the widely-thrown fruit of school plum puddings.
To begin with the exterior, which is one of the most ingenious specimens of block-printing we have yet seen. The medallion frontispiece contains the Publishers' Dedication to "the young of Great Britain," in return for which their healths should be drunk at the next breaking-up of every school in the empire.
As it professes to be a complete encyclopaedia of the sports and pastimes of youth, it contains, 1. Minor Sports, as marbles, tops, balls, &c. 2. Athletic Sports. 3. Aquatic Recreations. 4. Birds, and other boy fancies. 5. Scientific Recreations. 6. Games of Skill. 7. The Conjuror; and 8. Miscellaneous Recreations. All these occupy 460 pages, which, like every sheet of the MIRROR, are as full as an egg. The vignettes and tail-pieces are the prettiest things we have ever seen, and some are very picturesque.
In our school-days there was no such book as this Justinian of the play-ground, if we except a thin volume of games published by Tabart. Boys then quarrelled upon nice points of play, parties ran high, and civil war, birch, and the 119th psalm were the consequences. A disputed marble, or a questioned run at cricket, has thus broken up the harmony of many a holiday; but we hope that such feuds will now cease; for the "Boy's Own Book," will settle all differences as effectually as a police magistrate, a grand jury, or the house of lords. Boys will no longer sputter and fume like an over-toasted apple; but, even the cares of childhood will be smoothed into peace; by which means good humour may not be so rare a quality among men. But to complete this philanthropic scheme, the publishers of the "Boy's Own Book," intend producing a similar volume for Girls. This is as it should be, for the Misses ought to have an equal chance with the Masters—at least so say we,—plaudite, clap your little hands, and valete, good bye!
THE NEW YEAR'S GIFT AND JUVENILE SOUVENIR.
The editor, or editress, (for we doubt whether the former is epicene,) of this elegant little volume is the lady of Mr. Alaric A. Watts, the editor of the Literary Souvenir. It is expressly designed for the perusal of children from six to twelve years old, and is, we think, both by its embellishments and literary contents, calculated to attract hundreds of juvenile admirers. Indeed, we are surprised that the children have been so long without their "Annuals," whilst those of "a larger growth" have been supplied in abundance; but, as Sir Walter Scott has set the example of writing for masters and misses, we hope that our nursery literature will rise in character, and it will not henceforth be the business of after-years to correct erroneous ideas imbibed from silly books during our childhood. In this task much time has been lost. Mrs. Watts is of the same opinion; and with this view, "the extravagances of those apocryphal personages—giants, ghosts, and fairies—have been entirely banished from her pages, as tending not only to enervate the infant mind, and unfit it for the reception of more wholesome nutriment, but also to increase the superstitious terrors of childhood,—the editor has not less scrupulously excluded those novel-like stories of exaggerated sentiment, which may now almost be said to form the staple commodity of our nursery literature."—(Preface.) Accordingly, we have in the New Year's Gift three historical pieces and engravings, illustrating the murder of the young princes in the Tower; Arthur imploring Hubert not to put out his eyes; and another. There are from thirty to forty tales, sketches, and poems, among which are a pretty story, by Mrs. Hofland; a Cricketing Story, by Miss Mitford, &c. There are two or three little pieces enjoining humanity to animals, and some pleasing anecdotes of monkeys and tame robins, and a few lines on the Reed-Sparrow's Nest:—
Only see what a neat, warm, compact little thing! Mister Nash could not build such a house for the king; Not he, let him labour his best.
Among the poetry are some graceful lines by Mr. Watts to his son; but our extract must be "The Spider and the Fly, a new version of an old story," by Mrs. Howitt. It is a lesson for all folks—great and small—from the infant in the nursery to the emperor of Russia, the grand signior of Turkey, and the queen of Portugal—or from those who play with toy-cannons to such as are now figuring on the theatre of war:—
"Will you walk into my parlour" said a spider to a fly: "'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy. The way into my parlour is up a winding stair, And I have many pretty things to show you when you are there." "Oh, no, no!" said the little fly, "to ask me is in vain, For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again." "I'm sure you must be weary with soaring up so high, Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the spider to the fly. "There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin; And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in." "Oh, no, no!" said the little fly, "for I've often heard it said, They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!" Said the cunning spider to the fly, "Dear friend, what shall I do, To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you? I have, within my pantry, good store of all that's nice— I'm sure you're very welcome—will you please to take a slice?" "Oh, no, no!" said the little fly, "kind sir, that cannot be, I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see." "Sweet creature!" said the spider, "you're witty and you're wise. How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes! I have a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf, If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself." "I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased to say, And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day." The spider turned him round about, and went into his den, For well he knew the silly fly would soon come back again: So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner, sly, And set his table ready to dine upon the fly. Then he went out to his door again, and merrily did sing, "Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and silver wing; Your robes are green and purple—there's a crest upon your head— Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead," Alas, alas how very soon this silly little fly. Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by; With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew, Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue; Thinking only of her crested head—poor foolish thing!—At last Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast. He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den, Within his little parlour—but she ne'er came out again! —And now, dear little children, who may this story read, To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed: Unto an evil counsellor close heart, and ear, and eye, And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly.
Among the more serious pieces, we notice a beautiful lament of childhood by Mrs. Hemans, and a hymn by Mrs. Opie.
The engravings, twelve in number, with several little wood-cut tail-pieces, are beautifully executed; and altogether, the New Year's Gift deserves a place on the cheffonier shelf of every nursery in the kingdom.
We have received several other "Annuals," which we shall notice in an early Supplementary Number.