Haply we shall both be useful,

And, perchance, more useful thou, If their full degree of merit Unto other moods of spirit

Thou wilt cheerfully allow.

As for me, I fear no scorning,

And shall speak with earnest mind What is in me-self-rewarded If I aid, though unregarded,

The advancement of my kind."

THE OUT-COMER AND THE IN-GOER.

For Ernest was a palace built,

A palace beautiful to see;

Marble porched, and cedar chambered,
Hung with damask drapery;
Bossed with ornaments of silver,
Interlaid with gems and gold;
Filled with carvings, from cathedrals
Rescued in the days of old;
Eloquent with books and pictures,
All that luxury could afford;
Warm with statues that Pygmalion
Might have fashioned-and adored.
In his forest glades and vistas
Lovely were the light and gloom;
Fountains sparkled in his gardens,
And exotics breathed perfume.

With him to that lordly palace
Went the friend who loved him best,
In good fortune unexalted,
In misfortune undepressed.

Little recked that friend of grandeur;
Dearer far to him than all

Wealth could offer, were the rose-buds
Growing on the garden-wall.
Dearer far were simple pleasures,
And the charms by Nature spread,
Than all gauds of power and splendour,
Heaped upon their favourite's head.
Plain was he in speech and raiment,
Humble-minded, and imbued
With a daily love of virtue,
And a daily gratitude.

Ere these palace-halls received them,
Stedfast was the faith they bore;
No estrangement came between them,
Darkening their study door.
Ernest in his friend's communion
Loved himself and all his kind,
Cherishing a loving nature,
Tutored by a happy mind.

Rich and poor were equal brothers,
In that heart, too pure to hold
Pride of lineage or of station,
Or the vanity of gold.

Never chanced it, in that season,
That he formed a thought unjust
Of the meanest fellow-mortal
Fashioned of a common dust.

But his palace somewhat changed him;
Rose-buds gathered-early walks-
Sunset roamings-nightly musings-
Mystic philosophic talks-

Nothing as of old engrossed him;
And the promptings of his friend
Fell upon his sated spirit,
Not to guide him, but offend.

Daily grew the chilling coolness,
Till, ere many months had flown,
Ernest shut his door upon him,
And resolved to live alone:
And retreating 'mid his splendour
Rooted out all love he bore
For that friend, so true, so noble,
Banished, lost for evermore.

Scarcely had that friend departed,
Pained and pensive, but resigned,
When another sought the palace,
More accordant to his mind.
He in Ernest's lordly chambers
Sat, and called him first of men;
Praised his pictures and his statues,
Flattered him with tongue and pen;
Pressed the milk of human kindness
From his bosom cold and sere,
Taught him to be harsh and cruel,
Proud, disdainful, and austere
Filled him up with vain inflation,
And contempt for meaner clay,
As if he were born to govern,
It to flatter and obey.

Sometimes on his lonely pillow,
When his conscience showed the truth,
He deplored his blind estrangement
From the comrade of his youth;
But the daylight chilled the current
Of that feeling, and it froze
Hard enough to bear the burden
Of such memories as those.
And all day, in gloomy grandeur,
In his corridors and halls,
Looking at his old escutcheons,
And the portraits on the walls,
He and his companion wandered,
Calm of eye, with lips upcurled,
Aliens to the worth and goodness
And the beauty of the world.

Wintry winds of human anguish,
Blowing round them day and night,
Never moved them-never clouded
Their serenity of light.

They were made of choice material,
Tempest-proof, from lightning free,
And the world, its joys and sorrows,
Was to them a shipless sea,
Dark, unfathomable, trackless,
Far beyond their care or ken,
Save at times, when ostentation
Brought them to the gaze of men ;
But ev'n this was painful to them :
Man was cold, and earth was wide-
They preferred the warm seclusion
Of their apathy and pride.

Who was he, the first out-goer ?
He was HUMAN SYMPATHY;
And the in-comer that displaced him?
He was WORLDLY VANITY.
With the first Religion vanished,
Charity, and Faith in Man,
And the genial Love of Nature,
Boundless as Creation's plan.
With the second entered Hatred,
Harsh Intolerance, and Scorn:
Ernest in his life's cold evening
Saw the error of his morn→→

A HISTORY OF SERVIA, AND OF THE SERVIAN REVOLUTION. Translated from the German of Leopold Rauke, by Mrs. Alexander Kerr. 1 vol., 8vo., pp. 477. (London: John Murray.)-In this periodical we always have satisfaction in noticing the successful efforts of women to assist in the diffusion of knowledge the true aid to progress, social, literary, religious, moral, and political. We are glad that, in the present instance, we can report very favourably on a work of considerable importance, which Mrs. Alexander Kerr has brought before English readers. Professor Rauke, some of whose historical writings are well known in this country through the medium of Mrs. Austin's excellent translations, has been equally fortunate with this, his " History of Servia." In truth, it does not read like a translation, and perhaps this is the best compliment we could give the accomplished lady who has transfused his work into our own language.

The "History of Servia" is sketched with a free pencil; that of the Servian revolution is given more in detail, and is very interesting. Of Servia, as a country, and of its inhabitants, very little is known in England. There, on the border land between Christendom and Turkey, live a nation of Christians who have passed beneath the Moslem yoke, and have asserted and obtained their freedom. Servia, once a kingdom-next a Turkish province-and now an independent state, under a native prince, has had a long and desperate struggle for freedom, and the history of this struggle is full of deep and touching interest. It is clearly narrated; neither too briefly nor too diffusely.

The general reader, who may not have time nor inclination to study this episode in modern history, will gain instruction and amusement from the fourth chapter, which embraces "the condition, character, and poetry of the Servians." We regret that we have not space for extracts.

EDUCATION; OR, THE GOVERNESSES' ADVOCATE. By Augusta M. Wicks, author of "Scriptural Musings," &c. (Houlston & Stoneman). -The author of this little brochure is evidently a sincere and a very earnest writer; therefore do we heartily wish that we could agree with all her opinions (meaning of course that we should desire to convert her to our way of thinking!) The article from her pen, which appeared in these pages many months ago—and which, among others, she now republishes-we found it necessary to qualify before sending to press; and because she has been a contributor, and because she prints some courtesy to ourselves, we are unwilling to be severe in our judgment. But candour compels us to say that the premises for several of her arguments appear to our poor judgment wrong, and therefore superficial. Social evils, and the false position either of classes or of individuals, have a deeper root than can be easily tracked, and arise often from causes the least apparent. The whole pith of the mat

ter on which Miss Wicks writes, rests in that want so admirably expressed in an aphorism which is so often called to mind, that we are ashamed to have forgotten the author, namely, that "philosophers are not mothers, and mothers are not philosophers." From the hardships of governesses, Miss Wicks proceeds to descant on the indulgences and (over!) education of servants; now, so far from sharing any dread of the sort she feels, we would-might we dare to entertain so Utopian a dream—not only have "mothers philosophers," but even cooks and abigails, and most especially nurse-maids! We devoutly believe that the mischief rests in the world not having enough of the light of knowledge; and it is the aim of our life to pull down and break away every dead wall that shuts out the blessed sunshine. We should have rejoiced at the incident which shocked Miss Wicks-rejoiced that our humble friend had a sufficiently fine and cultivated ear to recognize "correct time," or the reverse, in a "young lady's" playing. For our own part,

every book in our library is free for the use of these "humble friends;" and, from a system which has become habit, we take every opportunity of opening a chink, if we cannot altogether tear down the wall. We do not believe that the ignorant are the most "obedient and humble to those over them:" we know the contrary we know that these are the false and the cunning, the pilferers and the prying. Knowledge it is which will inspire obedience and humility; and knowledge of every sort is but one mighty chain, of which poor mortals cannot see all the connecting links: but not the less is it true that, even for our own benefit and comfort, it is best to have well-informed servants about us. It is very possible that some out-of-theway bit of "book learning," which the author under our notice deprecates, might actually do service to cook or laundry-maid, in the preparation of an enticing edible, or the clear starching of a pet pelerine !

PORTRAIT OF PRINCE CHARLES. BY VELASQUEZ. (Snare, Reading.)—This production is a capital illustration of the Natural History of the Man with a Hobby. It relates to the Velasquez portrait lately exhibited, about the identity of which there have been so many conflicting opinions. The possessor has now taken to pub

lishing, thereby to establish the fact. He is a Mr. John Snare, a provincial bookseller, with a taste for pictures, or, rather, picture-dealing ; and in one of his various researches accidentally met with this work, which he determined in his own mind, rather than proved, to be the portrait of Prince Charles, afterwards Charles the First, supposed to be painted by Velasquez, when the young scion of royalty, with his fidus Achates, Buckingham, came to woo the Infanta of Spain. Most art-historians have imagined, nay, declared for a certainty, that there was no picture painted at all-only a sketch taken; but this Mr. Snare controverts by an ingenious and very probable alteration in the received translation of a Spanish word. Assuming thus far, he traces the picture, entirely by conjecture, to the gallery of the Earl of Fife, whence, by a curious chain of evidence, he proves it to have come down to his own hands. Now whether the painting be by Velasquez or not seems to us a matter of extreme indifference, provided it is a good picture in itself. But this book is amusing as a specimen of a man's whole energies devoted to one pet idea, be it true or false. Mr. John Snare seems no grasping picture-dealer, wilfully deceiving everybody; but a sincere, honest man, whose whole aim appears to be to deceive himself.

SADLER'S Wells.

The dead season makes the so-called minor

66

theatres the only places of amusement which we have to chronicle this month. We begin with the eastern Refuge for the Destitute, as some wag entitled this last abode of the Shaksperian drama. Mr. Phelps has re-opened his house as successfully as he closed it. The first play was Cymbeline," with Miss Laura Addison as Imogen. Imogen is essentially the character of the play, Posthumus being one of secondary importance, which even in Phelps's hands can never be made the hero. Therefore " Cymbeline" we may consider as put forward to test the powers of this rising young actress. She made an exquisite Imogen - truly one of Shakspeare's women.' Her scene with Iachimo (Mr. H. Marston) was well conceived, and her acting in the assumed boy's attire was beautiful. Imogen is a character which demands all the refinement, taste-in truth the soul of acting, in which all clap-trap effects are utterly useless; and therefore Miss Addison's success in it speaks well for her powers. The "Provost of Bruges," and "Feudal Times," revived from last season, have drawn crowded houses. The former, Lovell's earliest, and by many thought his best play, seems never to weary, however frequently it may be repeated, in theatre after theatre. Lord Byron's "Werner"-that grand mono

دو

MONTH.

logue of a tragedy-served well to display Mr. Phelps. As the character of Werner is the only one to which the smallest interest attaches, it requires an impersonation of the highest merit to make the play endurable. Mr. Phelps sustained it with wonderful power throughout: in the higher scenes of the tragedy his acting rose to a terrific grandeur. The scene in which the miserable father discovers the guilt of his darling son was finely pourtrayed, save that in one instance only did Phelps" overstep the modesty of nature," and by an hysterical scream nearly spoiled the sublimity of the scene. Still, to have done this only once in a character which throughout the whole play borders on the melodramatic, shows a first-rate actor. Mr. George Bennett, as Gabor, was quite in his element, and acted exceedingly well; but Mr. H. Marston's Ulric was really tantalizing the very antipodes in voice, manner, and appearance, to the Ulric of "Werner." His solemn port, and constrained voice, spoke in everything of the boards, and contrasted painfully with Phelps, whose greatest merit consists in the natural-toned voice, low and expressive, and the easy manner, which makes us forget the actor. Latterly, Mr. Phelps has revived the "Patrician's Daughter," which ran its successful career some time since at one of the larger houses. It now comes fresh again upon the mind of an audience, and is found equally beautiful. It is one of the few plays in

which poetic thought and diction are combined, with dramatic interest. Now and then one almost wonders that an audience, so mixed as that of Sadler's Wells, should listen so breathlessly to such long speeches, in which the highest elements of a poet's mind are given forth in language of the noblest kind. And yet it proves how the poet may speak and be understood by the people, not by sinking himself to their level, but raising them to his own, through his knowledge of the universal heart of man. The "Patrician's Daughter" is brought out with every care-the two principal characters being of course sustained by Phelps and Miss Addison. It was indeed a relief to find Mr. H. Marston not included; we wish most heartily that Mr. Phelps would engage some one else to "do the lovers." We have never seen the fair Laura in any character that pleased us better than Lady Mabel. Her acting when she rejects her secretly-beloved Mordaunt; her resolute calmness as she listens to his impassioned reproaches in which Phelps acted most exquisitely-and the wild gesture with which she exclaims, "He is deceived!" and betrays the love which he who had gone away in anger could never know--all was most beautiful! Beautiful also was the scene where Mabel is brought in almost dying, to hear her aunt's confession of the deceit which parted true love. Miss Addison's acting throughout this was of the highest order; and her extreme gracefulness gave to the eye a succession of attitudes worthy of the sculptor's art. She is certainly-next to Helen Faucit-the most graceful actress we have, whether at rest or in motion; and her very entrance on the stage shows that she is the Countess Hahn-Hahn's rarest ideal—a woman who knows how to walk. Mr. Phelps's Mordaunt was very pleasing: the part is one which does not require impassioned acting; but his delivery of the many fine speeches was the perfection of dramatic oratory. Lord Lynterne is hardly a character of George Bennett's stamp, but he made as much of it as he could; and so did Mrs. H. Marston of Lady Lydia. As a whole, we have never seen a play more beautifully acted than in this revival of Marston's "Patrician's Daughter."

Among the after-entertainments, which at Sadler's Wells are rarely of high order, is a capital two-act farce-"Court Favour "-illustrative of the machinations of a young damsel, who contrives to send away the Dutch ambassador, declare war against Holland, and effect a grand political bouleversement, and all for the sake of her swain, David Brown; the scene being laid in the time of Kate Sedley and the second Duke of Albemarle. Miss Cooper's acting, as this ingenious fair one, is very naive and pleasant; and Mr. Hoskins, as David Brown, is perfection. He convulses the audience with his solemn gaucherie-he is verily and indeed David Brown-one can never imagine him as anything else.

In the absence of operas and first-class theatres, we have thus devoted a tolerable space to the doings of the worthy Thespians at the

east end. In every respect, Sadler's Wells does honour to both manager, company, and audidience; and sincerely we hope the latter will continue to show their taste in upholding a stage which, without pretension, is essentially good, and conducive both to intellectual amusement and the cause of morality.

MARYLEBONE.

Mrs. Warner has carried out her project thus far with the greatest success. An exceedingly pretty little theatre, well lighted and commodious, a good band, and scenery of a very creditable kind, constitute the outward adjuncts of this place of amusement, which is intended to be to the denizens of the Alpha-road, Bayswater, and Regent's-park, what Sadler's Wells is to the eastern dwellers. The speculation is certainly a promising one; for to many who would eschew a long journey to the Haymarket or Drury, a theatre close at home would prove attractive. And to judge by the appearance of Mrs. Warner's little house, she is likely to have many such cosy parties of bonnetted or bonnetless visitors to her comfortable boxes, where the two circles are thrown into one, and where a family or friendly set can relish a good play in the easy fashion which is-parodying Henry Phillips's quaint title to his book-"the true enjoyment of acting."

The "Winter's Tale" was the opening play. Mrs. Warner's impersonation of Hermione is too well known to need criticism: she has established this long neglected play as one of the most actable, as well as beautiful of Shakspeare's minor works. In the trial scene, which may vie with the celebrated one of Queen Katherine, which Mrs. Siddons made her own, Mrs. Warner is unsurpassed. The Winter's Tale introduced many of the new company, which the manageress has collected chiefly from the provinces. Miss Angell, the Perdita, is a graceful and pleasing actress, and will no doubt become excellent as what the Italians call seconda donna. Florizel was played by Mr. G. Vining, a very young actor, who bids fair to do the "walking lovers" excellently; his personal appearance, his sweet-toned voice and general bearing, being in every way satisfactory. Then there is Mr. Webb, first comedian, who made his debut in Autolycus with good success; and lastly, Mr. Graham, who, in Leontes, proved that he possesses fine tragic capabilities. As a whole, we may congratulate Mrs. Warner on the very efficient company she exhibited in the "Winter's Tale." Sheridan Knowles's ever-welcome "Hunchback" has likewise tested their powers. Miss Angell made a charming Helen to Mrs. Warner's Julia, and Mr. G. Vining took the part of Clifford; for this he is hardly sufficiently advanced, the stage being a profession in which long experience is required almost as much as talent; and to act up to Mrs. Warner's excellent Julia would be no trifling matter; but he certainly made no failure. Another of the revivals has been the "School for Scandal." Here again

Mrs. Warner's Lady Teazle is a standard dramatic performance, which needs no comment. But on the whole, we had rather see her in some highly tragic part, like Hermione, where her deep expressive tones (she is the very contralto of actresses-a regular Alboni!) and her dignified carriage tell so well. All the range in which the Siddons delighted are Mrs. Warner's own, and we hope this winter to see her in a long list of her favourite Shakspearian characters, such as Queen Katharine and Lady Macbeth, in which no living actress excels her.

ADELPHI

Completes the triad of theatres now open; there Lover's serio-comic affair, "Rory O'More," is running its race, and very successfully, exhibiting all the Adelphi favourites, Wright, Paul Bedford, O. Smith; pretty, lively Miss Woolgar, and sentimental Miss Marian Taylor. Stirling Coyne, that indefatigable farce writer, may see two of his late productions producing continued laughter night after night. "How to Settle with your Laundress," is a most comic affair, the plot of which it is vain to unravel, or even to make the attempt; Wright and Miss Woolgar sustain the chief comicalities therein, and certainly it is irresistible. The other farce is one called forth by the passing talk of the day, and entitled "This House to be Sold--the Property of the late William Shakspeare." A rich Cockney goes to buy the contested house, takes possession, and on the first night has his slumbers broken by the spectral apparitions of various characters of Old Will, who are henceforth determined to trust no more to the chance of actors, but to set up for themselves: Othello turning Ethiopian Serenader, and Macbeth, by virtue of his deeds, taking in mangling. This broadest of extravaganzas is a capital hit for the ever comical Adelphi.

MUSIC.

MUSICAL BOUQUET. Part XXXVIII. Edited by G. J. O. Allman. (Office, 200, High Holborn.)-We notice, monthly, this periodical, because it is the best of the various musical publications intended for the million; the best in its selections, and decidedly the best in its "getting up" as regards outward ornament. The illustrations of this month show a decided improvement: the sketch of Jenny Lind and Staudigl, as Alice and Bertram, and a moonlight landscape prefixed to a Swedish melody, being very creditable specimens of art. We may consider this number in the light of an ovation to Jenny Lind. Two sets of quadrilles, selected from the operas she has made her own, and four Swedish melodies, being ri-faccimenti of the beautiful national airs which are becoming deservedly popular through Jullien's edition. The words arranged to two of these are by Charles Swain and the authoress of "Azeth, the Egyp

tian," both equally beautiful; but we must protest against the poetry appended to the exquisite air, "Tierran i skog," as decidedly bad in itself and injuring the rhythm of the melody. We should also extremely like to know the meaning of Mr. Adams's lines to the air "Jung Hellevi;" "Oh! tell me not the gentle flowers." The musical arrangement of both is too good to be spoiled by such nonsense-verses.

"OUR COTTAGE VINE." Composed by Albert Dawes. (Wessel & Co.)—A pretty simple ditty, the work of an organist, as the style would at once show, for organ-playing naturally produces a tendency to grave and unembellished music. The simplest of simple accompani ments-a pleasing melody, quite in the olden style, and graceful words by Mary Bennettunite in making a song as good, perhaps better, than the many hundreds that yearly come out and are cast into oblivion.

"THE WIDOW'S STORE." Composed by R. Charlton. (Published at Lincoln.)—A hymn, which bears on its face the tokens of amateur composition.

MADEMOISELLE ALBONI.

We extract the following from a French journal, but cannot pledge ourselves to its veracity. "Alboni never solicits an engagement: managers are compelled to apply to her on all occasions. An unexpected application and agreement seem to please her, as they dispense with any preliminary reflections. She loves not to ponder, the evening previously, on what will happen the next day. When travelling, and that she is desirous of singing in a town where she is unknown, she either hires the theatre, or sings for nothing the first night. Whenever she sings, without being heralded by the trumpets of praise, her marvellous talent creates a furore, and instantaneously Renown comes and takes her by the hand. A year since, when M. Persiani wished to engage her for the Royal Italian Opera, London, he dispatched an emissary into Italy to seek her. He sought her a long time in vain. By the merest chance a German journal informed him that she had gone, after her season at St. Petersburg, to repose herself in quietude and obscurity in an humble habitation on the banks of the Rhine. Alboni refused to sign any treaty with Persiani's employé; but pledged her word that she would be in London in the month of March; which promise she observed with exactitude.

"It is related of the great contralto, that passing through Venice some time before she appeared at the Scala, she wished to make an essay at the Fenice. The impresario, who did not know her, refused her even a hearing. Alboni would not be defeated. There was then at Venice a small theatre in a complete state of dilapidation, which served as an asylum for a