Lynch 1. with us, has often punished the gamester and the rob. ber, whom it was impossible to convict by the usual legal process; the evil in it is, that it cannot be depended upon, but, while with one hand it punishes a villain, administers with the other as sum. mary judgment on the philanthropist, according as the moral sen timent or prejudice may be roused in the popular breast. We have spoken disparagingly of the capacities of the drama for representing what is peculiar in our own day, but, for such a work as this, presenting a great crisis with so much clearness, force, and varied beauty, we can only be grateful, and ask for more acquaintance with the same mind, whether through the drama or in any other mode. Copious extracts have been given, in the belief that thus, bet ter than by any interpretation or praise of ours, attention would be attracted, and a wider perusal ensured to Mr. Sterling's works. In his mind there is a combination of reverence for the Ideal, with a patient appreciation of its slow workings in the actual world, that is rare in our time. He looks religiously, he speaks philosophically, nor these alone, but with that other faculty which he himself so well describes. You bear a brain Discursive, open, generally wise, But missing ever that excepted point That gives each thing and hour a special oneness. The little key-hole of the infrangible door, The instant on which hangs eternity, And not in the dim past and empty future, Such is the demonology of the man of the world. It may rule in accordance with the law of right, but where it does not, the strongest man may lose the battle, and so it was with Strafford. DIALOGUE CONTAINING SUNDRY GLOSSES ON POETIC TEXTS. SCENE is in a chamber, in the upper story of a city boarding house. The room is small, but neat and furnished with somno taste. There are books, a few flowers, even a chainber organ. On the wall hangs a fine engraving from one of Dominichino's pictures. The curtain is drawn up, and shows the moonlight falling on the roofs and chiunies of the city and the distant water, on whose bridges threads of light burn dully. To Aglauron enter Laurie. A kindly greeting having been interchanged, Laurie. It is a late hour, I confess, for a visit, but coming home I happened to see the light from your window, and the remembrance of our pleasant evenings here in other days came so strongly over me, that I could not help trying the door. Aglauron. I do not now see you here so often, that I could afford to reject your visits at any hour. L. (Seating himself, looks round for a moment with an expression of some sadness.) All here looks the same, your fire burns bright, the moonlight I see you like to have come in as formerly, and we,—we are not changed, Aglauron ? A. I am not. L. Not towards me ? A. You have elected other associates, as better pleasing or more useful to you than I. Our intercourse no longer ministers to my thoughts, to my hopes. To think of you with that habitual affection, with that lively interest I once did, would be as if the mutilated soldier should fix his eyes constantly on the empty 14* (161) A. Surely not. No one is to blame; if either were so, it would be I, for not possessing more varied powers to satisfy the variations and expansions of your nature. L. But have I not seemed heartless to you at times? A. In the moment, perhaps, but quict thought always showed me the difference between heartlessness and the want of a deep heart. Nor do I think this will eventually be denied you. You are generous, you love truth. Time will make you less restless, because less bent upon yourself, will give depth and steadfastness to that glowing heart. Tenderness will then come of itself. You will take upon you the bonds of friendship less easily and knit them firmer. L. And you will then receive me? A. I or some other; it matters not. L. Ah! you have become indifferent to me. A. What would you have? That gentle trust, which seems to itself immortal, cannot be given twice. What is sweet and flower-like in the mind is very timid, and can only be tempted out by the wooing breeze and infinite promise of spring. Those flowers, once touched by a cold wind, will not revive again. L. But their germs lie in the earth. A. Yes, to await a new spring! But this conversation is profitless. Words can neither conceal nor make up for the want of flowing love. I do not blame you, Laurie, but I cannot af ford to love you as I have done any more, nor would it avail either of us, if I could. Seek elsewhere what you can no longer duly prize from me. Let us not seek to raise the dead from their tombs, but cherish rather the innocent children of to-day. L. But I cannot be happy unless there is a perfectly good understanding between us. A. That, indeed, we ought to have. I feel the power of understanding your course, whether it bend my way or not. I need not communication from you, or personal relation to do that, "Have I the human kernel first examined, I have known you too deeply to misjudge you, in the long run. L. No, I do not understand being both friendly and cold. A. Thou wilt, when thou shalt have lent as well as bor. rowed. I can bring forward on this subject gospel independent of our own experience. The poets, as usual, have thought out the subject for their age. And it is an age where the complex and sub. tle workings of its spirit make it not easy for the immortal band, the sacred band of equal friends, to be formed into phalanx, or march with equal step in any form. Soon after I had begun to read some lines of our horoscope, I found this poem in Wordsworth, which seemed to link into meaning many sounds that were vibrating round me. A COMPLAINT. There is a change, and I am poor; Your Love hath been, nor long ago, A Fountain at my fond Heart's door, Whose only business was to flow; And flow it did; not taking heed Of its own bounty, or my need. What happy moments did I count, Blest was I then all bliss above; Now, for this consecrated Fount Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, What have I shall I dare to tell? A comfortless and hidden WELL. A Well of love, it may be deep, I trust it is, and never dry; What matter? if the Waters sleep In silence and obscurity, Such change, and at the very door Of my fond heart, hath made me poor. This, at the time, seemed unanswerable; yet, afterwards I found among the writings of Coleridge what may serve as a suf. ficient answer. A SOLILOQUY. Unchanged within to see all changed without Hadst thou withheld thy love, or hid thy light O wiselier, then, from feeble yearnings freed, While, and on whom, thou mayst, shine on! nor heed A. I do not expect so Olympian a calmness, that at first, when the chain of intercourse is broken, when confidence is dismayed, and thought driven back upon its source, I shall not feel a transient pang, even a shame, as when "The sacred secret hath flown out of us, And the heart been broken open by deep care." The wave receding, leaves the strand for the moment forlorn, and weed-best rown. L. And is there no help for this? Is there not a pride, a prudence, identical with self-respect, that could preserve us from such mistakes? A. If you can show me one that is not selfish forethought of neglect or slight, I would wear it and recommend it as the desired amulet. As yet, I know no pride, no prudence except love of truth. Would a prudence be desirable that should have hindered our intimacy? L. Ah, no! it was happy, it was rich. A. Very well then, let us drink the bitter with as good a grace as the sweet, and for to-night talk no more of ourselves. L. To talk then of those other, better selves, the poets. I can well understand that Coleridge should have drunk so deeply as he did of this bitter-sweet. His nature was ardent, intense, variable in its workings, one of tides, crises, fermentations. He was the flint from which the spark must be struck by violent col. lision. His life was a mass in the midst of which fire glowed, but needed time to transfuse it, as his heavenly eyes glowed |