NOTES OF A READER.

BRITAIN'S HISTORICAL DRAMA.

We understand Mr. Pennie's design, in this volume, to be the chronological arrangement of certain incidents of each king's reign in a series of National Tragedies. There are four such tragedies in the present portion, commencing with Arixina in which figure Julius Caesar, Cassfelyn, and Cymbaline, and extending to Edwin and Elgiva: the titles of the intervening pieces are the Imperial Pirate and the Dragon King. There is much wild and beautiful romance in the diction, but we take the most attractive portion to be the lyrical portion, as the Chants, Dirges, and Choruses. We recommend them as models for the play-wrights who do such things for the acting drama, and if the poetship to a patent theatre be worth acceptance, we beg to commend Mr. Pennie to the notice of managers. The poet of the King's Theatre figures in the bills of the day, and yet he is but a translator.

It is difficult to select an entire scene for quotation, so that we take a specimen from Arixina:

CHORUS OF BARDS.

DIRGE.

SEMI CHORUS.

GRAND CHORUS.

SEMI-CHORUS.

GRAND CHORUS.

The Notes to each Tragedy are very abundant. Indeed, they are of the most laborious research. We quote an extract relative to "grinning skulls" as terrifically interesting:

"The British warriors preserved the bones of their enemies whom they slew; and Strabo says of the Gauls (who were, as he informs us, far less uncivilized than the Britons, but still nearly resembled them in their manners and customs,) that when they return from the field of battle they bring with them the heads of their enemies fastened to the necks of their horses, and afterwards place them before the gates of their cities. Many of them, after being anointed with pitch or turpentine, they preserve in baskets or chests, and ostentatiously show them to strangers, as a proof of their valour; not suffering them to be redeemed, even though offered for them their weight in gold. This account is also confirmed by Diodorus. Strabo says that Posidonius declared he saw several of their heads near the gates of some of their towns,—a horrid barbarism, continued at Temple-bar almost down to the present period."

Lastly, Speaking and Moving Stones:

"Girald Cambrensis gives an account of a speaking-stone at St. David's in Pembrokeshire. 'The next I shall notice is a very singular kind of a monument, which I believe has never been taken notice of by any antiquarian. I think I may call it an oracular stone: it rests upon a bed of rock, where a road plainly appears to have been made, leading to the hole, which at the entrance is three feet wide, six feet deep, and about three feet six inches high. Within this aperture, on the right hand, is a hole two feet diameter, perforated quite through the rock sixteen feet, and running from north to south. In the abovementioned aperture a man might lie concealed, and predict future events to those that came to consult the oracle, and be heard distinctly on the north side of the rock, where the hole is not visible. This might make the credulous Britons think the predictions proceeded solely from the rock-deity. The voice on the outside was distinctly conveyed to the person in the aperture, as was several times tried.'—Arch. Soc. Ant. Lond. vol. viii.

"The moving stones, or Logans, were known to the Phoenicians as well us the Britons. Sanconiatho, in his Phoenician History, says, that Uranus devised the Boetylia, Gr.; Botal or Bothal, Irish; Bethel, Heb., or stones that moved as having life.—Damascius, an author in the reign of Justinian, says he had seen many of these Boetylia, of which wonderful things were reported, in Mount Libanus, and about Heliopolis, in Syria."

The volume, a handsome octavo of more than 500 pages, has been, we perceive, published by subscription: the list contains about 400 names, with the King at the head. This is sterling patronage, yet not greater, if so great, as Mr. Pennie deserves. The Preface, we think, somewhat unnecessarily long: it needed but few words to commend the drama of our early history to the lovers of literature, among whom we do not reckon him who is insensible to the charms of such plays as Cymbeline, Julius Caesar, the Winter's Tale, or Macbeth. Mr. Pennie mentions the popularity of Pizarro, "which faintly attempts to delineate the customs of the Peruvians" as a reason for "the hope that is in him" respecting the fate of his own tragedies. To our minds, Pizarro is one of the most essentially dramatic or stage-plays of all our stock pieces. It is of German origin, though Sheridan is said to have written it over sandwiches and claret in Drury Lane Theatre. The country, the scenery, and costume have much to do with this stage effect, and even aid the strong excitement of conflicting passions which pervades every act. Its representation is a scene-shifting, fidgeting business, but its charms tempt us almost invariably to sit it out.

Returning to Mr. Pennie's Tragedies, we must add that a more delightful collection of notes was never appended to any poem. Would that all commentators had so assiduously illustrated their text. Here is none of the literary indolence by which nine out of ten works are disfigured, nor the fiddle-faddle notes which some folks must have written in their dreams.

SNATCHES FROM EUGENE ARAM.

A Landlord's Benevolence.—No sooner did he behold the money, than a sudden placidity stole over his ruffled spirit:—nay, a certain benevolent commiseration for the fatigue and wants of the traveller replaced at once, and as by a spell, the angry feelings that had previously roused him.

A "Rich" Man.—One who "does not live so as not to have money to lay by."

An old Soldier.—Set me a talking, and let out nothing himself;—old soldier every inch of him.

A Scholar.—A man not much inclined to reproduce the learning he had acquired:—what he wrote was in very small proportion to what he read.

Study of Mankind.—There seems something intuitive in the science which teaches us the knowledge of our race. Some men emerge from their seclusion, and find, all at once, a power to dart into the minds and drag forth the motives of those they see; it is a sort of second sight, born with them, not acquired.

Happiness.—No man can judge of the happiness of another. As the moon plays upon the waves, and seems to our eyes to favour with a peculiar beam one long track amidst the waters, leaving the rest in comparative obscurity; yet all the while she is no niggard in her lustre—for the rays that meet not our eyes seem to us as though they were not, yet she, with an equal and unfavouring loveliness, mirrors herself on every wave: even so, perhaps, Happiness falls with the same brightness and power over the whole expanse of life, though to our limited eyes she seems only to rest on those billows from which the ray is reflected back upon our sight.

Influence of Cities.—When men have once plunged into the great sea of human toil and passion, they soon wash away all love and zest for innocent enjoyments. What was once a soft retirement, will become the most intolerable monotony; the gaming of social existence—the feverish and desperate chances of honour and wealth, upon which the men of cities set their hearts, render all pursuits less exciting, utterly dull and insipid.

Love.—There is a mysterious influence in nature, which renders us, in her loveliest scenes, the most susceptible to love. * * In all times, how dangerous the connexion, when of different sexes, between the scholar and the teacher! Under how many pretences, in that connexion, the heart finds the opportunity to speak out.

Passion—The doubt and the fear—the caprice and the change, which agitate the surface, swell also the tides of passion.

Poverty—makes some humble but more malignant.

Want.—How many noble natures—how many glorious hopes—how much of the seraph's intellect, have been crushed info the mire, or blasted into guilt, by the mere force of physical want?

Benevolence.—How poor, even in this beautiful world, with the warm sun and fresh air about us, that alone are sufficient to make us glad, would be life, if we could not make the happiness of others.

Eloquence.—The magic of the tongue is the most dangerous of all spells.

Genius.—There is a certain charm about great superiority of intellect, that winds into deep affections which a much more constant and even amiability of manners in lesser men, often fails to reach. Genius makes many enemies, but it makes sure friends—friends who forgive much, who endure long, who exact little; they partake of the character of disciples as well as friends.

Experience.—'Tis a pity that the more one sees, the more suspicious one grows. One does not have gumption till one has been properly cheated—one must be made a fool very often in order not to be fooled at last!

Cat-kindness.—Paw to-day, and claw to-morrow.

London at Night.—One of the greatest pleasures in the world is to walk alone, and at night, (while they are yet crowded) through the long lamp-lit streets of this huge metropolis. There, even more than in the silence of woods and fields, seems to me the source of endless, various meditation.

How easy it is to forget!—The summer passes over the furrow, and the corn springs up; the sod forgets the flower of the past year; and the battlefield forgets the blood that has been spilt upon its turf; the sky forgets the storm; and the water the noon-day sun that slept upon its bosom. All Nature preaches forgetfulness. Its very order is the progress of oblivion.