The Drama. Damon and Pythias. This seems. The style of this play is uncouth and harsh, and yet there is something of character in one or two of the dramatis personæ. Carisophus, the parasite, is a fair specimen of a spy, and seems to understand surveillance, and how to swear away a man's life; and Aristippus," a pleasant gentilman," as he is called, argues himself pleasantly enough into his own good graces. "To some," he says, Perhaps it seems strange That I, Aristippus, a courtier am become, Lovers of wisdom are termed philosophers. But Stephano, Damon's serving man, does not relish philosophy. In the boldness of his hunger, he says: Surely, for all your talk of philosophie, On which his master remonstrates, and he replies: Dam. Ah! Stephano, small diet maketh a fine memorie. Steph. I care not for your craftie sophis trie, You two are fine, let mee be fed like a grose knave still. Damon consoles himself with this reflection: 83 Ah! train up a bondman never to so good Yet, in some point of servilitie, he wyll saa behaviour, vour: As this Stephano, trustie to mee his master, Yet, touching his belly, a very bondman I lovyng and kinde, him finde. It would be tedious to the reader, this dialogue; but, unpolished and were we to favour him with much of rugged as these lines are, there are ably soft and musical. Here is a one or two lyrics which are remarkstanza from one of them. The losse of worldly wealth Then what a death is this to heare! and proceed to the new one. We will now leave the old drama, mon and Pythias" is written partly by a Mr. Banim, and partly by Mr. "Da Shiel, the amiable author of Evadne. We do not think this play so good as the last production of Mr.Shiel; some of the situations are striking and dramatic, but the dialogue is by no means equal, we think, to many passages which might be quoted from Evadne. It would be, perhaps, authors by this their joint performscarcely fair to judge either of the ance, notwithstanding the success with which Beaumont and Fletcher are known to have written together. thus, because we know what Mr. We are the more induced to think and Mr. Banim, is, we believe, the Shiel has done, and can do singly; author of an interesting poem, called "The Celt's Paradise.' We must not be understood, however, to speak. of this tragedy as one at all void of merit; on the contrary, there are many pleasing passages, and some good ones. There is something hearty hails Calanthe on her wedding day: and fine in the way in which Damon A dell, made of green beauty; with its but we did not see either of those clad In the green sandals of the freshful spring; There is also a really pathetic scene between Damon and his wife Hermion, in the fourthi act; though that is laboured too much, in our opinion: yet it opens well. Dam. Have I in all my life Given thee an angry look, a word, or been An unkind mate, my Hermion? Herm. Never, the gods know, never. And had all been thus simple, we could have given the play far more praise than we have now done. On the whole, "Damon and Pythias" betrays evident marks of real dramatic skill, in the situations, in the conduct of the plot, (excepting only Nicias, who is superfluous altogether), in the way in which the interest is suspended, and frequently in the dialogue: indeed, there is too much of abruptness (or transition) in the speeches; for though that has its effect on the stage, it looks but ill in print, and should be used sparingly at all times. Macready and Charles Kemble played excellently well in this tragedy though the first gentleman has, beyond doubt, the most difficult and important part; and Miss Foote looked and played like an angel. We did not like Miss Dance. Mr. Abbot topped his part pleasantly in Dionysius. There was no new scenery. Although we heard talk of Etna, we did not see it. DRURY LANE. There has not been any novelty here worth recording. Mrs. Glover, indeed, has played Hamlet!! and Mr. Elliston has given a masquerade, entertainments. We forbore going to see Mrs. Glover entirely out of a tender consideration for her, (yet we hear that she played well,) and Mr. Elliston's tickets were one pound five shillings each:-we drank our coffee at a cheaper house. His brilliant illumination we saw for nothing, and his Blue Devils' we had witnessed before. The farces which are acted at this theatre are generally good and well got up,'-better perhaps, than at the other house. Harley is good, and Knight is good,— A lass is good, and a glass is goodMiss Kelly is good also, and Munden is the hero of Afterpiece. As we have said that a good tragedy is difficult to achieve, so will we say that a good farce is not easily to be accomplished. Last month, the Queen descended upon the theatres, veiled in a shower of shadowing roses,' (or feathers) to the astonishment of the managers, who knew not how to receive her. At Drury Lane, she was greeted by the audience, we are told, but received with moderate ardour by Mr. Elliston. At Covent Garden (where we saw her) the audience certainly felt a divided duty, some shouting the King,' and others the Queen, while Mr. Harris and Mr. Fawcett, profound in politics, docti magistri, were entirely quiescent.— For our own parts, though we meddle but little with politics, (hating the heated and perilous atmosphere that surrounds them), we felt that the queen presented a melancholy spectacle. She went to Covent Garden, without having given previous notice of her intention, and consequently no preparation had been made to receive her. She was poorly attended, and sate on the front seat of one of the common boxes:- she sate alone, without any of the marks or distinction of a queen, like a person cut off from society, but without the advantages of illustrious birth. Her's was the solitude of royalty without the splendour that flatters and deceives it. We hate, we repeat it, politics of all sorts;—we are To Hope. not radicals, nor tories, nor even whigs; but we are men with some pity in our constitutions, and we were absolutely sickened at the obstreperous folly of some of our neighbours, who were shouting “ The expression of popular feeling is a king,-king." fine thing, and should never be controlled-in the street; but it is pain VOL. IV. 85 ful to witness such a din as arose Garden, where even the magician within the courtly walls of Covent Prospero was forgotten; and the exquisite beauty of the delicate Ariel, of Miss Foote) was utterly disre(who had cunningly stolen the shape garded. TO HOPE. O! TAKE, young Seraph, take thy harp, For grief is dark, and care is sharp, Oh! sing as thou wert wont to do, That flutter'd round, Had floated over Lethe's stream! By all those bright and happy hours We spent in life's sweet eastern bow'rs, Tho! Hood Where thou would'st sit and smile, and show, Ere buds were come-where flow'rs would blow, And oft anticipate the rise Of life's warm sun that-scal'd the skies, By many a story of love and glory, And friendships promis'd oft to me, By all the faith I lent to thee, Oh! take, young Seraph, take thy harp, And play to me so cheerily ; For grief is dark, and care is sharp, And life wears on so wearily. O! take thy harp! Perchance the strings will sound less clear, In sorrow's misty atmosphere It ne'er may speak as it hath spoken, Such joyous notes so brisk and high ; Are there not some, though weak and low, But thou can'st sing of love no more, For Celia show'd that dream was vain And many a fancied bliss is o'er, That comes not e'en in dreams again. How pleasures pass, And leave thee now no subject, save H Then be thy flight among the skies; Another life-spring there adorns LAMB'S TRANSLATION OF CATULLUS.* "Well, let me tell you," said Goldsmith, "when my tailor brought my bloom-coloured coat he said, Sir, I have a favour to beg of you. When any body asks you who made your clothes, be pleased to mention John Filby, at the Harrow, in Water Lane." "Why, Sir," said Johnson, "that was because he knew the strange colour would attract crowds to gaze at it; and thus they might hear of him, and see how well he could make a coat even of so absurd a colour." Mr. Lamb's Translation of Catullus appears much to resemble the blossom coloured coat of Poor Goldsmith. It comes forth with Mr. Davison's name on the title page, and the ingenious printer seems only desirous of showing how goodly a book he can make out of the most inappropriate materials. The paper of the pretty book before us is as yellow and sleek as heart could wish; the type and ink are an ode of themselves; the title page buds with promises; yet with all these, never, in all our critical experience, has it fallen to us to meet with so weak and valueless a publication,--so miserable a marriage of paper and ink. Catullus has been nibbled at by many poets, but we know of no regular translation, except one published by Johnson, in 1795, and said to be the work of a Dr. Nott. There is considerable force, and unaffected truth in the Doctor's version, that makes it very pleasant to the English reader; and to the scholar, the notes are pregnant with great classical knowledge, and the expression of a plain and vigorous judgment. The Doctor does not catch many of those sweet, honied expressions, which are the charm of the love poems of Catullus;-nor has he the general freedom, the soft grace, the curious felicity of his original; but he translates as nearly to the life as is, perhaps, possible, and often points out in the notes a beauty of thought or language, which he cannot exactly hit in his translation. It seems to us a very lamentable thing that a dead poet cannot, like a live bishop, have some voice in his own Translation :-we are quite sure, that if such a power could have been attained, Mr. Lamb would not have been permitted to traduce into English some of the sweetest and most natural poems in the Roman language. He would have been enjoined to silence by the poet himself— and would certainly never have heard those flattering words, which, by dint of ingenious prompting, he gets the shade of Catullus to utter. Mr. Lamb, indeed, appears to be a straightforward, pains-taking, sensible gentleman, with a very fair stock of prose ideas upon poetry; and it is not at all improbable, that he relishes The poems of Caius Valerius Catullus translated, with a Preface and Notes, by the Hon. George Lamb, 2 Vols. 12mo.-Murray, 1821. the original version of Catullus, but he catches none of its spirit and nature,-none of its terseness and enchanting beauty of expression. Take, for instance, that exquisite passage in the Address to the Peninsula of Sirmio. Cum mens onus reponit, ac peregrino Labore fessi venimus larem ad nostrum, Desideratoque acquiescimus lecto. Mr. Lamb thus hammers out the lines: Then when the mind its load lays down; And with long ceaseless travel tired, The well known bed, so oft desired; The fatigue of travel seems here to have passed into the very verse; for never did poetry so tediously and tamely address itself "unto our gentle senses." Now, really we do think that a translation of Catullus should be something beyond a spiritless paraphrase, or a schoolboy version. The words should burn into English, should flash into a new tongue, with new light,—should be all full of life, -of graceful joy, and happy tenderness! Mr. Lamb is a kind of resurrection man about Parnassus; he goes about in the dark, digging up a dead language, and exposing the remains to sale; but he does not, like the celebrated sexton, that "fortutunate youth" of churchyards, find a gem on the finger; he reminds us rather of Cobbett's bringing into England a negro's bones for those of his hero. If he were in the east, the inhabitants would look upon him as a vampire, from his fatal propensity to suck the life out of the fair, the tender, the beautiful! the muse feels the sickness of his eye, and pines away under his sombre fascination. Catullus is of all poets perhaps the happiest, in expressing home feelings naturally, and tender feelings tenderly. A word with him, is continually like a sweet note in music, and thrills on the heart strings. His conciseness is matchless,-and his repetitions of melodious words are ever the most pleasant and felicitous. Dr. Nott, whom Mr. Lamb just quietly alludes to as "the prior English translator,” speaks of the success of Catullus in severe verses: 66 a clean well pointed satire was his forte," says the doctor; "but we fear that he more often used the bludgeon than the sword." In the poetry of manly friendship, and social kindliness, Catullus was eminently happy; and here, as Mr. Lamb speaks to the purpose, we will select what we think the only good passage in the preface. There remain some poems to be spoken of, not usually erected into a distinct class, but which may well justify such an arrangement, namely, the poetry of friendship and affection. This is a strain in which only a genius originally pure, however polluted by the immorality of its era, could descant with appropriate sentiment; which speaks with all the kindly warmth of love, while it refrains from its unreason ing rage; that adopts all its delicacy, without any tinge of its grossness. In this style Catullus has written more in proportion, and more beautifully, than any author. The lines to Hortalus, the Epistle to Manlius, to Calvus on the death of Quintilia, and the Invocation at his brother's grave, show how warmly his heart beat with this refined impulse. These are only the more touching compositions of this kind; on the other hand, in such poems as Acme and Septimius, and the Epithalamium on the marriage of Manlius and Julia, we behold with what pleasure he witnessed, and with what zeal he celebrated the happiness of his friends. Several are of a light and frolicsome character, such as those to Fabullus, to Flavius, and to Camerius: still all of this class, however uninteresting the subject, breathe an engaging kindness of heart; and, however trivial the occasion, it is still ornamented by the poet's natural felicity of expression; which is, alas! of all merits the one most likely to evaporate in translation. The heart-soothing address to Sirmio, the dedication to Cornelius Nepos, and that of the Pinnace, and the lines to Himself on the approach of Spring, speak those more placid feelings of content that, perhaps, give the most unalloyed happiness, and evince a social and amiable disposition that harmonizes well with warmer affections. The preface of Mr. Lamb's work is not ill-written, but it is liberally taken from the Introduction to Dr. Nott's book, and not as liberally acknowledged. The life of the poet is inwoven into this preliminary essay, and also relishes strongly of the Doctor. Mr. Lamb quotes some observations of Walsh, at the beginning of his preface, which appear to us |