Ellen opened her eyes, beheld at her feet the man whom her heart had selected; and, absorbed in her passion, unconscious of the presence of those who stood around, she murmured, in a feeble voice"Yours! Yours alone! yours!" ever "Sir," said Malthus to Mr Müller, my proposal comes rather late; but I hope you will be so good as to take it into consideration." In the Jew's manner there was the dignity of a man in a position to dictate conditions. Ellen had recovered herself. As to Mr Müller, there had not been time for his habitual phlegm to become disturbed; but his wife could not restrain a smile at this dramatic complication, whose denouement remained in suspense. "Mr Y.," said she to me, somewhat maliciously, "do you not feel the effect of example?" 66 Perhaps I might have been unable to resist," I replied, "had not Mr Malthus declared himself before me." Ellen blushed, and the Jew pressed my hand. Just then Werter reentered the room, pale and downcast, like a man who comes to hear sentence passed upon him. was profound silence, which lasted several minutes, or at least seemed to me to do so. At last Mr Müller broke it. There "Gentlemen," he said, "I am much flattered by the honour you have done me " He paused, and seemed to be recalling past events to his mind. During this short silence, Werter gazed at us in turn with an air of astonishment, and I doubt not that he included me in the number of his rivals. "I have something to tell you," continued Mr Müller, "which will perhaps modify your present intentions. About ten years ago I had to visit Berlin, where my father had just died. The winding up of his affairs proved complicated and troublesome, and I was obliged to place my interests in the hands of a lawyer who had been recommended to me as extremely skilful. The business at last settled, I found myself entitled to about forty thousand florins, which I proposed to embark in trade. I was happily married, and Ellen was seven years old. Our little fortune had been greatly impaired by a succession of losses, for which this inheritance would compensate. "One day I went to my lawyer's to receive the money. He had disappeared, taking it with him. Despair took possession of me; I dared not impart the fatal news to my wife, and, I confess it with shame, I determined on suicide. All that day I rambled about the country, and at nightfall I approached the banks of the Spree. Climbing upon the parapet of a high bridge, I gazed with gloomy delight into the dark waters that rolled beneath. On my knees upon the stone, I offered up a short but fervent prayer to Him who wounds and heals; I commended my wife and daughter to His mercy, and precipitated myself from the bridge. I was struggling instinctively against death, when I felt myself seized by a vigorous arm. A man swam near me, and drew me towards the shore, which we both reached. "It was so dark that I could not distinguish the features of my preserver. But the tones of his voice made an impression upon me which has not yet been effaced, and I have met but one man whose voice has reminded me of that of the generous unknown. He compelled me to go home with him, questioned me as to my motives for so desperate an act, and, to my extreme astonishment, handed me a portfolio containing forty thousand florins, on the express condition that I should take no steps to find him out. I entreated him to accept my marriage-ring, at sight of which I promised to repay the loan, as soon as it should be possible for me to do so. He took the ring, and I left him, my heart brimful of gratitude. "I will not attempt to describe to you the joy with which I once more embraced my wife and daughter. God alone can repay my benefactor all the good he did us. I arranged my affairs, and we set out for Vienna, where I formed this establishment, of which I cannot consider myself as more than the temporary possessor. You perceive, gentlemen, that Ellen has no dowry to expect, and that we may at any moment be reduced to a very precarious position." Ellen's face was hidden by her hands. When Mr Müller ceased speaking, we still listened. Presently the Jew broke silence. "I have little," he said, “to add to your narration: the man who was so fortunate as to render you a service, remained a cripple for the rest of his days. When he plunged into the Spree, he struck against a stone, and since then he limps, as you perceive." We were all motionless with surprise. Then Malthus drew a ring from his finger and handed it to Mr Muller. The countenance of the latter, generally so cold in its expression, was suddenly extraordinarily agitated; tears started to his eyes, and he threw himself into his preserver's arms. "All that I possess belongs to you," he cried," and I have the happiness to inform you that your capital has doubled." "Of all that you possess," replied Malthus, "I ask but one thing, to which I have no right." The worthy German took the hand of his daughter, who trembled with happiness and surprise, and, placing it in that of the Jew “Sir," he said, addressing himself to me, “you who have seen the world, and who are disinterested in this question, do you think that I could do better?" THE TWENTIETH OF SEPTEMBER, EIGHTEEN-HUNDRED FIFTY-FOUR. As Written and Sung by CORPORAL JOHN BROWN, Grenadier Guards, when the Men got some Drink for the first time at Balaclava, September 28, 1854. [We have great pleasure in presenting our readers with the following genuine effusion from the Crimea. It has been rumoured that the Poet Laureate, as well as several other bards of renown, are presently engaged in the task of commemorating the great campaign. With all respect for their genius and accomplishments, we doubt much whether any of them will exhibit more graphic power than the gallant Corporal, who certainly bad the advantage of witnessing what he sings. We hope that his services, towards doing for his military comrades what Dibdin did for the Navy, will not be overlooked in the proper quarter.] AIR-The British Grenadier. COME all you gallant British hearts, that love the red and blue, We sailed from Kalamita bay, and soon we made the coast, We marched along until we came upon the Alma's banks, We scrambled through their clustering grapes, then came the battle's brunt ; The French they had the right that day, and flanked the Russian line, We gave three cheers, which stunned their ears, amidst the cannons' roar, A pic-nic party Menschikoff had asked to share the fun, They found the day too hot to stay, and the Prince felt rather sore, For when he called his carriage up, the French came up likewise, A letter to old Nick they found, and this was what it said, Here's a health to noble Raglan, to Campbell and to Brown, One more toast we must drink to-night,-your glasses take in hand, And now God bless our gracious Queen, and all her royal race; PROSPECTS OF THE MODERN DRAMA. Ir has lately been maintained, by several ingenious writers, that the literature of the present day has a strong dramatic tendency; and that our poets and novelists are gradually approximating to that form of composition in which brevity and concentration are the leading qualities. If the fact were so, we should be but too happy to bail it as a favourable omen; but we really are not able to discover any grounds for entertaining such an opinion. The greater part of a novel may be thrown into the shape of dialogue; but it does not thence follow that it becomes essentially dramatic. Action-well regulated, designed and culminating action-not talk, is the real soul of the drama; and what ever tends to impede the course of that action, or to interfere with the progress of the plot, has, and must have, a deleterious and positively weakening effect. The writings of Mr Dickens have been referred to as eminently dramatic, and there can be no doubt whatever that they abound in brilliant and effective dialogue. But for all that they are not dramatic, in the proper sense of the term. They are exceedingly diffuse; the plots are loosely and ill constructed; and the tendency of the author towards episode is so strong, that he very often allows a subordinate part of the action to overshadow and conceal the main incidents of the story. Of all modern writers he is the most deficient in concentration; the least able to practise self-denial in the selection and arrangement of his ideas. Perhaps, if it were otherwise, his novels might not be so attractive as they are; for many of his characters would appear meagre and frivolous if divested of the superabundant garb of humour with which the peculiar whimsical genius of the author has invested them. Almost equally deficient in dramatic power is Mr Thackeray, who occupies much of his space in philosophising-admirably we admit-upon the incidents of his story, and in the laboured anatomy of his own charac ters. Indeed we are utterly at a loss to know in what quarter we ought to search for manifestations of the alleged dramatic tendency. We find it not in the novelists-we cannot descry it even in the writers of plays. Several years have gone by since even a tolerable drama has been written for the stage. Since Mr Troughton brought out his Nina Sforza, an admirable, effective, and powerful tragedy, we have had nothing in the higher walk of the drama worth listening to. From time to time we hear a great bluster about some forthcoming Cockney comedy, and are told, on the autho rity of the literary confidants of the scene-shifters, that nothing comparable to it has been seen since the days of Sheridan. It appears; and after two or three representations is withdrawn, because the public, however sentimentally inclined, cannot stomach the mawkish platitudes of its pathos, and refuses to accept its dull buffoonery as wit. Not much better are the vaudevilles which the less inventive of our playwrights purloin from Paris, and equip in an English dress. Time was when really good and lively vaudevilles were as plentiful as peaches in the French capital, but now they are scant and poor. We need not stop to inquire into the causes of this decline, which may arise either from the lack of competent artists, or from that practice, always destructive to the drama, which has become prevalent, of composing for the deliberate purpose of suiting the histrionic accomplishments of some favourite actor or actress of the day. From whatever cause it may arise, it is indisputable that this light and popular species of dramatic entertainment, which was so well suited to the genius of the French language, and to the taste of our volatile neighbours, has become much deteriorated; and, as a matter of course, the clumsy English adaptations have suffered in proportion. Very gladly, indeed, would we Correggio: a Tragedy. By ADAM OehlenschlägeR. Translated with Notes, by THEODORE MARTIN. London. 1854. hail the appearance of a tearing melodrama, with its proper complement of robbers, skeletons, bravos, and pilgrims. So wearisome is the drivel that we are now invited to listen to in the theatres, that we would cheerfully exchange five scenes of maudlin sentiment for one terrific combat with broadswords; and we would have no objection to pay double price in order to witness the explosion of a powder-mill towards the termination of the third act. But even our melodramas have become insipid. The old stage ruffian has degenerated into a whimpering poltroon who has hardly pluck enough to draw his whinger; and our hair has become perceptibly grey since we beheld a heroine leap from the summit of a precipice. As for the dramatic mysteriessoul-dramas-night-dramas-thoughtdramas, and such-like pleasant carols with which the press has been lately teeming, we may put them out of sight altogether. The authors may flatter themselves that they have written dramas, but their works are no more dramatic than Johnson's Dictionary. Possibly they never were intended to be such, and we ought to consider them simply as poems. So be it; but why then, in the name of common sense, do they give them an appellation, to which, in the ordinary acceptation of the term, they are not entitled? Most of them are under a gross mistake if they think they can shelter themselves by pleading the example of Lord Byron. In Manfred and in Cain there was some obvious meaning, even though the scenes were loosely thrown together -some semblance of a denouement to which each step insensibly led; but the majority of our young friends and bardlings appear to us to be utterly guiltless of any meaning whatever-at least of any comprehensible scheme of action. Their productions are not half so dramatic as either Wordsworth's Excursion, Blair's Grave, or Young's Night Thoughts; and in saying so, we hope they will be grateful to us for mentioning them in such distinguished company. Rollicking fellows they are, we doubt not, over oysters and ale; but, on paper, they are woefully weak in action, and oftentimes singularly absurd. Therefore let them VOL. LXXVI.—NO. CCCCLXX. eschew the dramatic form. The whole field of verse, from epic to elegy, lies before them; and all we ask is that they will abstain from writing dramas which are not dramatic, inasmuch as the greater bulk of these consists of soliloquies of some thirty or forty pages, which absolutely lead to nothing, but are merely intended to express the peculiar state of the author's mind under physical circumstances which may be distinctly traced to an abuse, on the previous evening, of the creature comforts of a Welsh rabbit, moistened with a superfluity of Younger's undeniable brewage. It seems to us very obvious that we are not likely, for many years to come, to behold a resuscitation of, or fresh impulse given to, the British drama. The public has gradually withdrawn its support from the theatres, not because the relish for histrionic performances had decayed, but because the new plays brought forward were, in the great majority of instances, insufferably bad. It is all very well to talk about the everlasting charm of Shakespeare; but even Mr Collier himself would hesitate before he went for the thirtieth time in his life to see Hamlet, or Othello, or Macbeth acted; and the same feeling influences every one who has a decided prepossession for the theatre. After one or two representations, the real interest which the spectator feels in the scene wears off. He becomes simply a critic, not of the play, but of the actors. He contrasts the man before him with Macready, or Kean, or Kemble, or any other great luminary of the stage whom he may have seen in the same part; and, knowing beforehand every word which is to be uttered, and every situation which is to occur, he can feel no decided interest in the play. The spell has lost its charm; it is not the poetry which affects him now-it is the mere art of the delivery. Had we a succession of Shakespeares, or even of men of far less genius, the British drama would still have been in high favour and request; and in proof of that position we adduce the instances of such modern plays as Sir E. B. Lytton's Lady of Lyons and Richelieu; Knowles' Wife of Mantua, perhaps the best of his contributions to the drama; and 2 z |