I detest hypocrites in morality, and coxcombs in virtue; but cold and insensible hearts pleased me as little. I had now one of the latter class before me. It was as smooth and as hard as stone; and had never been moved by any generous sentiment. It was not the heart of a Jew of the Hebrew race (for they are no worse than other people, and do not deserve the insults that are directed against them), but of a Christian Jew, a money-lender and bill discounter.

It may naturally be supposed that in so brilliant a party, some distinguished literary characters were present. There was one author, with whose sentimental verses the company were delighted. He was an elegiac poet. I promised myself much gratification in observing of what elements his impassioned, delicate, and tender heart, was composed. But I could discover nothing remarkable. Indeed, it cost me some trouble to find out whether or not he really had a heart.

I turned to another, who was not a writer of poetry, but who took upon himself to judge of the productions of others. He was a critic by profession. I observed on his heart only a few livid spots, like those which are produced by envy; and some drops of gall were emitted on every motion of the organ.

But though I was unfortunate enough to meet with so many black and impure hearts, it must be acknowledged that there were among the company some of a very opposite stamp.

One person in particular deeply excited my interest, and whose heart I was for some time afraid to look at, lest it should not prove as amiable as I wished. She was a young lady about seventeen years of age, beautiful as an angel, and as modest as she was beautiful. She had not yet uttered a word. What was my joy and astonishment! Her heart was the purest and most candid of any one present. It scarcely appeared to throb, yet it was evident, that when the young lady opened her mouth, it would fly to her lips. I watched the motion of her eyes, and they at length met mine. I was young,

for we are always young in our dreams. She blushed, and at that moment an arrow, darting from I know not whence, struck her heart, and inflicted a deep wound. It was the first she had ever received. The blood which flowed from it was like that of the goddess wounded by Diomede. I wished to examine what was passing in my own heart, for I thought I felt the counter-stroke of the dart which had pierced hers. I looked in vain through the little window in my own breast-the glass was obscure and tarnished-a thick mist seemed to be before it. Thus no mortal can read his own heart.

This reflection vexed me: I became irritated: I awoke, and had the mortification to find that with my dream had vanished the sweetest illusion of my whole life!

ELEGY IN A LONDON THEATRE.

NOT BY GRAY.

THE curtain falls—the signal all is o'er,
The eager crowd along the lobby throng,
The youngsters lean against the crowded door,
Ogling the ladies as they pass along.

The gas-lamps fade, the foot-lights hide their heads,
And not a soul beside myself is seen,

Save where the lacquey dirty canvas spreads,
The painted boxes from the dust to screen,—

Save that, in yonder gallery enshrined,
Some ragged girl complains in angry tone

Of such as, sitting in the seat behind,

Had ta'en her shawl in preference to their own.

There where those rugged planks uneven lie,
There on those dirty boards-that darken'd stage
Did Kean and Kemble fill the listener's eye,
And add a lustre to the poet's page.

But they are gone—and never, never more
Shall prompter's summons, nor the tinkling bell,
Or call-boy crying at the green-room door,

"The stage waits, gentlemen !"—their dreams dispel.

For them no more the coaches of the great
Shall stop up Catherine Street-for them, alas!
No more shall anxious crowds expectant wait,
Or polish up the gilded opera-glass.

Oft did the vicious on their accents hang,
Their power oft the stubborn heart hath bent,
And, whilst the spacious house with plaudits rang,
They sent the harden'd homewards to repent.

There, in that empty box, perchance hath swell'd
A heart with Romeo's burning passion rife,
Hands that "poor Yorick's" skull might well have held,
Or clutch'd at Macbeth's visionary knife.

Full many a pearl of purest ray serene
The rugged oyster-shell doth hold inside,
Full many a vot'ry of the tragic queen
The dingy offices of London hide.

Some Lear, whose daughters never turn'd his head,
Nor changed to gall the honey of his life;
Some white Othello, who with feather-bed
Had smothered not, his unoffending wife.

The applause of listening houses to command,
The critic's smile and malice to despise,
To win reward from lord and lady's hand,
And the approval of the thundering skies,

Their parents hindered, and did thus o'erthrow
The brilliant hopes that in their bosom rose,
To tear Macready's laurels from his brow,
And put out Charley Kean's immortal nose.

Of one of these I heard a drummer say,
"Oft have I seen him from the muddy street,
Across the crimson benches make his way,
To gain his well-loved and accustomed seat,
66 There, where yon orchestra uprears
its rail,
On which I hang my drumsticks, many a night
I've seen him, with a dirty shirt, and pale,

Watching the motley scene with wild delight.
"There, upon yonder seat, which now appears
To have rent its robe for grief he is not here,
Oft have I seen him sit, dissolved in tears,

Veiling his grief in draughts of ginger-beer.
"One night I missed him from his favourite seat.
I wondered strangely where the boy could be.
Another night-I gazed-in vain my gaze-

Nor in the pit, nor in the house was he!

"Come here! I saw him carried to that tomb,
With drunken mutes, and all their mock parade.
Just read-I've left my spectacles at home-
The epitaph a friend has kindly made.”

THE EPITAPH.

"Here lieth one beneath the cold damp ground, A youth to London and the stage unknown, Upon his merits stern Macready frowned,

And 'Swan and Edgar' marked him for their own. "Large was his bounty, unto aught wherein The stage did mingle, and the cost was sweet. gave the drama all he could-his 'tin,'

He

And gained 'twas all he could-his favourite seat.

"No father had he who could interfere To check his nightly wanderings about,

And from the best authority we hear,

His mother never dreamt that he was out!"

(From "The Bentley Ballads." By permission of Richard Bentley, Esq.)

129

DARKNESS.

LORD BYRON.

I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless and pathless, and the icy earth.

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went-and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in their dread

Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires-and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed,
And men were gathered round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanoes, and their mountain-torch :
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire-but hour by hour
They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash-and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits

The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest

Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled;

And others hurried to and fro, and fed

Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up

With mad disquietude on the dull sky,

The pall of a past world; and then again

With curses cast them down upon the dust,

And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd,

And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,