200

LONG AND SHORT;

OR, THE HYMENEAL HIGH-MAN.

Oh! Susan Jones !-'tis hard that you
My love with coolness treat;
And so set down a faithful swain,
Because he stands six-feet!

'Tis Nature's fault that I'm too high, To reach that heart of stone; Sighs wo'nt reduce a man of size,

Nor groans-the over-grown!

That I'm so big-this galling truth But aggravates distress;

I feel in vain I've loved too long, Yet cannot love you less!

Except indeed I hang myself,
And so avert your frown;

For that would prove the only chance,
I have to be-cut down!

Oh! much I fear so rash a deed

In deed would please you most,— Say, can you choose no other line,

But one" dropped by the post ?"

Nay, Susan Jones !-from doubts and fears,
Pray let this heart live free;

You know with grief I must "bow down"
Till you smile up-on me!

My means are slender, I confess,

But love despises pelf;

That maid, 'tis plain, needs never stoop,

Who weds above herself!

Then smile consent-become my bride-
Content shall make us laugh;
Though I am twice as tall, yet you
Will be my better half!

H. W. C.

THE CHAUNT OF THE CHOLERA.

[It was Mr. Banim, we think, who, on the eve of the Cholera's appearance in this country, perpetrated a volume bearing the above title. We do not know how that was received among the intellectual circles into which that gentleman's productions are usually welcomed; but we know that the following "Chaunt of the Cholera," which was sung in the streets, about the same time, was so unpopular, that, after a small impression had been got rid of, it was never reprinted. The poorer classes, the real patrons of penny poetry, deemed the Cholera an unfit subject for a jest, and this song which, whatever may be the taste it shews is far better than street ballads, in general, found no favor in their eyes. We had great difficulty in procuring a copy, but, the Cholera having left the metropolis, we have ventured to publish it as a specimen of London Ballad Poet ry in the Nineteenth Century.]

SIR CHOLERA MORBUS.

A hideous giant stalks abroad,
By whom all Europe's overawed;
His hands and feet are harpy-clawed,

They call him the Cholera Morbus.
This monster holds his head so high,
He strikes his head against the sky,
He drinks the Baltic when he's dry,
And swears he'll smite us hip and thigh;
His ugly lineaments we trace

In Charley Wetherell's grimace,
Who wears, in miniature, the face

Of grim Sir Cholera Morbus.

Scourge 'em, purge 'em, fee-faw-fum—
Lo! he approacheth gruff and glum,
But baccy, brandy, gin, and rum,
Will stifle the Cholera Morbus.

Quoth he, "Upon the winds I'll reach
The Russian chief, and on him pitch,
And when I say the words' Die Bitch,'
He'll fall by the Cholera Morbus.
I'll wrap me then in Riga's rags,
And sail for England's chalky crags,
And when amongst her merry wags,
They may mistake me for Old Bags,
Whose friend the Marquis still complains
Of broken glass in doleful strains,
But I can soon restore his pains,

Or I'm not the Cholera Morbus !"

Old Hydrophobia sinks with shame,
For we have now a greater name,
Whose terror makes our mad dogs tame,
I mean the Cholera Morbus.
Our skilful doctors all conspire
Against the devastation dire,
For they can kill enough for hire,
And therefore beg him to retire ;
But he, despising their intrigues,
And quite refreshed from late fatigues,
Stalks on in boots of seven leagues,
Terrific Cholera Morbus !

'Tis said for next election's stir, Newcastle's duke and Exeter, The bold reformers to deter,

Have hired the Cholera Morbus ; Who grumbling swears, by gosh or goles, 'Tis then he will attack the Polls,

He'll drag Lord Durham o'er the coa's,
And play with Whigs' heads 'stead of bowls,
For he is of the Tory race,
For ever seeking power and place-
And ruin in the track we trace

Of fierce Sir Cholera Morbus.

I've heard that he has bet a guinea
He'll prove himself (though not so skinny)
Far handsomer than Paganini,

Coxcombical Cholera Morbus.

not object to employment as a cutter-out in a first-rate Tailoring Establishment.-N. B. He has served his Articles to several of the Magazine Publishers.

AS TUTOR IN A FAMILY, a Gentleman who, having had a University Education, has much Latin and more Greek. He hopes that English will not be particularly insisted on.

AS LIGHT COACHMAN, a Young Man of fair complexion' who has been used to the Road. If required, he can offer the best Security, never having overturned an Employer.

AS COMMANDER OF A Smack, a Person who has held the situation of Schoolmaster, and been used to ruling.

AS SINGER AT A COUNTRY CHURCH, a Young Man who has belonged to an Amateur Society in Leicester-square.N.B. Has an extensive range of voice, and being of a very obliging disposition, would take at a moment's notice tenor, counter-tenor, or bass, and make nothing of them.

As BAR-MAID, a Married Woman, who has long been used to every thing in the liquor line, and has formerly been in the Family of Dr. Lushington.

As POST-BOY, a middle-aged Man, who can be well recommended.-N.B. He is one of the light weights, and has formerly worked as a Journeyman Baker. Address to Bob Short, at the Feathers, Edmonton.

As FOREMAN in a Water-Works Company, a respectable Person, who has formerly driven the Bath Mail, but has not succeeded in making a provision against a rainy day.

AS UPPER FOOTMAN, a respectable Person of accommodating disposition, who has served under the Duke of Wellington.

WANTED, a "Free Admission to the Boxes" of an EatingHouse, by a Walking Gentleman of extensive appetite but incommensurate means, who has been struck off the "Free List" at the principal Houses. Address, post paid, to Mr. Dando, Twopenny Post-Office, Swallow-street.N. B. The Advertiser would have no objection to give personal security for the plate and glass, if particularly insisted on.

SOME OBSERVATIONS

UPON "MILTON," A POEM BY EDWARD LYTTON BULWER.

This is a very beautiful poem, which is not nearly so well known as it deserves. Mr. Bulwer's is a name named by talkers of all descriptions, great and small, high and low, fair and frightful; but it is as the author of "Pelham," or "Paul Clifford," or " Eugene Aram," or some other of the inany novels which his active pen hath indited, that he takes his stand. And all these are, on the whole, goodly works. Mr. Bulwer is a man of the world, and of the gay worldbut he is also something infinitely better-he is a bold and acute thinker. And it is the union of these two characters which constitutes the charm of his novels-and indeed, their faults too, in great measure. The actors in his works are often too metaphysical; by which we mean, they appear rather the embodied ideas of a lively and speculative mind, delighting thus to utter, or throw out, its conceptions, than real flesh and blood mortals like ourselves. He is a quick observer, and given to note, with great minuteness, the nicer varieties of character, and the many inconsistencies of each individual with himself; and, being a metaphysician to boot, he broods intently over these subtleties, and the result is, that in the men whom he draws, they are brought somewhat too prominently forward, and are made to form the rule rather than the exception of their conduct. The general bearing of some of his characters is conceivable, but hardly possible. Another fault is, that with much wit, he has but little humour-his would-be humourists, indeed, are bores of the first magnitude; bear witness that enormous and neverto-be-forgotten twaddler, "the Corporal." But these blemishes are as nothing to the beauties of his delightful productions and were it otherwise, what is that to us, who are concerned now only with the "Milton ?"

We have said it is a beautiful poem; and so it is. But were it named to any average eighteen admirers of " Pelham," we will be bound that sixteen would answer, Yankee-like, by a question-"Milton a poem-by whom?" Nor is this to be wondered at. The multitude are genuine lovers of one kind of poetry. They admire they must, as men, admire - that which strongly and plainly expresses strong and plain feelings; that, in short, which engraves, in characters which he who runs may read, those sentiments which appeal to the universal heart of man: and "Milton" is not precisely a poem of this kind.

Lord Byron, mighty minstrel as he was, has done much to corrupt and render callous the taste of his age. He administered, in fact, a dram to his readers. All his sketches are strong exaggerations of strong passions, dashed off with the energy of his wonderful genius in breathing thoughts and burning words. The whole spirit, moreover, of his works, is eminently adapted to the "captandum vulgus" object, inasmuch as a dignity is given to vice, and a tame garb thrown over virtue, so as highly to flatter the vanity of the base, and the wicked. This is, no doubt, one reason why his writings were so universally read and admired, and the effect for a time has been that plain nature and honest and healthy thoughts have lost all zest-they are milk and water. Therefore, when his idolators meet with a poem which requires for its due appreciation quiet thought and deep attention-especially if there be no “story" in it-they turn away with a yawn, and vote it confoundedly dry. And certainly “Milton" is not adapted to rouse from their opiate torpor such readers as these.

What then is it? To express the infinite variety of things,

how few and poor are words! But, by way of illustration, we will refer our readers to the impression made upon them while beholding one of Claude's beautiful paintings. That soothing sensation of dreamy delight, resulting from the soft and exquisite harmony of the whole, and which seems to increase gradually till pleasure almost amounts to pain--so intense does that become, which was at first so calm-this, or something like this, will be experienced, we think, on the perusal of Milton." There is nothing strained about it; its prevailing characteristic is a certain repose which is to the mind what green is to the eye. There is a sustained and classic dignity about it from the first to the last. Not that there is any common-place Cockney prate about Apollo or the Muses, but it is instinct with the "classic" soul. The author has imbibed deeply the

"Spiritum Graiæ tenuem Camœnæ,"

and has transferred it to the pages of his poem.

Then the subject! If there be one man who, above all the rest, deserves the love and admiration of his countrymen, and of the world, surely it is John Milton. The startling inconsistencies of human nature too often, indeed, render the study of a great man a melancholy work. The mixture of wisdom and folly, of strength and weakness, of good and evil, in the same being. perplexes and dissatisfies. The young and ardent, especially, to whose nature it is more acceptable to love warmly, or to hate cordially, than to weigh and discriminate, are incensed at the contradiction. The head, indeed, they see, is solid metal; but the feet are of clay! The more depraved feel a secret delight in these faults of their superiors; they justify their own deeds to themselves, or perhaps in their hearts cry out with the fool in Scripture, "There is no God!" But Milton was a being of a far nobler mould. There were in him no dazzling errors-no splendid crimes. He was "simply and severely" good, as well as 66 great." There was a uniform self-consistency in him, which almost reached the purity of an ideal-and this, whether we regard him morally, intellectually, or physically -for he was in person "fairer than the children of meu." His life, from youth to age, was direct and one. As he began, so did he end: his principles were fixed: he had a clear head to discern the right, and an honest heart to pursue it. There was no double-mindedness about him. Blessed with a capacity of the finest order, granted by the Creator to that man whom he made in his own image

"His soul was like a star-and dwelt apart!" Yet that "soul"—what a lesson to meaner spirits, who think themselves above the "petty" details of life-that same "soul"

"The humblest duties on itself did lay."

Under what circircumstances, too, was that great work wrought, which has transmitted his name to the nations? "It was achieved"-we quote Hume-" during a state of poverty, blindness, disgrace, danger, and old age." Yes, thus was produced that" Paradise Lost" which procured for its author twenty-cight pounds sterling of money, and an immortality of fame!

Mr. Bulwer has undertaken a bold task. He has founded his poem on a youthful love-dream, real or supposed, of this majestic being. We know indeed, in point of fact, that Milton was thrice married. We can well conjecture, too, that a mind such as his must have been susceptible of loveof the most fervent, lofty, and refined passion which passes by that name. Still, to represent him while under its influence, is a bold, a very bold attempt, such as success only can justify. We think, however, Mr. Bulwer has succeeded. The tale is founded on the well-known story of the Italian

lady who accidentally came upon the youthful poet in his sleep, and left near him some verses expressive of her admiration of his surpassing beauty. This scene is described. Some interval of time is supposed to elapse, and then, during his tour in Italy, he again meets her who has long been the object of his dreams. Their second meeting is dwelt on, their attachment, and their sudden, and unexplained, and abrupt parting. Another interval is supposed, and a short sketch is given of Milton, the stern and active patriot-the Milton of middle age. Again, a third interval takes place, and we see the aged, blind, persecuted, unshaken Milton, on the verge of death. We follow him to the grave, and "an aged woman" is the companion of our grief. And soit ends. Our readers will readily perceive that in this fragment, or collection of fragments, there is vastly little regularity, and a glorious contempt of the unities. But, never mind; the unity of purpose is preserved-and it is one and the same Milton. But let the poem speak for itself. We will give part of the opening scene.

"It was the minstrel's merry month of June;
Silent and sultry glowed the breezeless noon;
Along the flowers the bee went murmuring:
Life, in its myriad forms, was on the wing,

Broke through the green leaves with the quivering beam,
Sang from the grove and sparkled on the stream:
When-where yon beech-tree broke the summer ray-
Wrapt in rich dreams of light-young Milton lay-
For him the earth beneath-the Heaven above,
Teem'd with the earliest spring of joyous youth;
Sunshine and flowers-and vague and virgin Love,
Kindling his tenderest visions into truth,
While Poesy's sweet voice sang over all,
Making the common air most musical.

Alone he lay, and to the laughing beams

His long locks glittered in their golden streams;
Calm on his brow sat wisdom-yet the while
His lips wore love, and parted with a smile ;
And beauty reigned along each faultless limb→
The lavish beauty of the olden day,

Ere with harsh toil our mortal mould grew dim ;
When Gods, who sought for true love, met him here,
And the veiled Dian lost her lonely sphere,

And the proud name of chaste, for him whose sleep Drank in Elysium on the Latmos steep.

Silent-in wonder's speechless trance-she stood,
With lifted head, and lips apart, and eye.
Gazing away the rich heart as she viewed ;
Darker than night her locks fell clustering

O'er her smooth brow, and the sweet air just moved
Their vine like beauty with its gentle wing;
The earliest bloom of youth's Idalian rose
Blushed thro' the Tuscan olive of her cheek-
(So thro' the lightest clouds does morning break)
And there shone forth that hallowing soul which glows
Round beauty, like the circling light on high,
Which decks, and makes, the glory of the sky.
Breathless and motionless she stood awhile
And drank deep draughts of passion-then a smile
Played on her lip—and bending down, her hand
Trac'd on her tablet the wild thoughts which stole

Like Angel-strangers o'er her raptured soul;
For she was of the poet's golden land,
Where thought finds happiest voice, and glides along
Into the silver rivers of sweet song.

O'er him she leant enamoured, and her sigh
Breath'd near, and nearer to his silent mouth
Rich with the hoarded odours of the south.
So in her spiritual divinity,

Young Psyche stood her sleeping Eros by ;-
What time she to the couch had daring trod,
And-by the glad light—saw her bridegroom God!"

203

He wakes, and she flies, but not her remembrance with her. Soon after this

"For the shrine of Rome
A Pilgrim bound, he left his father's home.
With a deep heart he drank the mighty love
That floateth o'er the saddened Clime of Song,
Beheld the Starry Sage what time he bore
For Truth's dear glory the immortal wrong, &c.

Here he meets again his unknown innamorata. But though intimacy soon ripens into the warmest love; there is ever a mystery hanging over her not to be dispelled. He never even knows her name. Our readers will, we think, agree with us in admiration of the following exquisite passage, and particularly of the lines in italics.

"They met again, and oft! What time the star
Of Hesperus hung his rosy lamp on high,
And the Witch Night shook from her solemn car
A liquid magic o'er the breathless sky :
And mystery o'er their lonely meeting threw
A charm Earth's common ties can ne'er bestow-
Her name her birth-her home-he never knew!
And She-his love was all she thought to know.
And when, in anxious or in tender mood,
He prayed her to disclose at least her name,
A look from her the unwelcome prayer subdued.
So sad the cloud that o'er her features came:
Her lip grew blanch'd as with an ominous fear,
And all her heart seem'd trembling in her tear,
So worshipped he in silence and sweet wonder
The unknown Egeria of his haunted soul;

And Hope-life's chequering Moonlight-smiled asunder)
The doubts that cloud-like o'er him sought to roll.
And thus his love grew daily, and perchance
Was all the stronger circled by Romance.

He found a name for her, if not her own,
Haply as soft, and to her heart as dear→
His life-his' Zoe'-Ah! of all names none
Makes so divine a music to the ear

As that by lovers coin'd-the child-like art

That breathes to vulgar words the fond thoughts of the heart! Creep slowly on thou grey and wizard Time

Thou grey and wizard Time creep slowly on—

Ev'n I would linger in my truant rhyme,

Nor tell too soon how soon those hours were gone.
Flowers bloom again-leaves glad once more the tree-
Poor life, there comes no second spring to thee!"

Of these lines the first please us the least. We have no great liking for the image of Hesperus as a lamp-lighter, hanging out his "rosy" lamp. Poets should never forget that the change of times and of manners involves a change of

204 associations. The lamp now conveys no dignified idea, whatever it might have done in the days of old-unless it be the Lamp of Truth. Nor can we tolerate the "Witch Night." Our English notion of that term is inseparably connected with a broom-stick. Many a fair girl has doubtless danced at the Witches' Sabbath, on the Valpurgis Eve still a witch, though neither old nor ugly, is certainly a lady of doubtful reputation-while "Night," we will be sworn, though she witness deeds of darkness enough, and tell no tale-is above all suspicion, herself. But can any any thing be more beautifully expressed than the three first lines in Italics? And how solemaly sad is that repeated appeal to Time!

The two continue awhile to meet amid the fairest scenes of Italy.

"For them there was a glory in the night-
A whisper in the forest, and the air!
Love is the priest of Nature, and can teach
A world of mystery to the few that share

With self-devoted faith the winged Flamen's care."

At last the time comes when they must part-at least it seems she must part from him. But when she hints, fearfully and sorrowfully, this necessity to him, the "Milton" within him bursts out, and in a strain of passionate eloquence, he lays before her the long-cherished yearnings of his heart towards that loved country in which his prophetic eye already perceives the approaching struggle. We heartily wish that our limits permitted us to give the scene entire, for it is remarkably fine-but that is quite impossible. We must, however, at the risk of garbling, extract, "bit by bit," some parts of it. He thus begins: "List to me, Zoe:-in my father's laad

For ages have our bold race bowed the knee

To false gods, fed on that idolatry

Which maketh what it worships.-It is given,
The Mighty Hour in which our hearts shall leap,

As at a trumpet, from their Pagan sleep;
And light shall burst into our souls, that we

May know the faith which bids God's images be free!

*

-ere I asked

Yea, ere I loved thee, Zoe,-
Ev'n if the love of women were for me,
There was one shape, one queen for whom I tasked
The powers and prowess of my infancy.
Still, shining, pure, and circumfus'd in all
The calmness and the glory of old days,
Oft (as in loneliest cell) in haughtiest hall,
Unseen by others, gleamed she on my gaze.
And when I asked the name on which to call,
When, chaf'd beneath the pomp, the power, the gaud,
Which the duped many deck with hollow laud,
My deep soul sickened that fair face to see,—
Truth, from the womb of time, did answer Liberty !"

These are lines of pith and spirit indeed—as is the idea which concludes them-though the metaphor converting Father Time into cne of the "fair sex," is a medium desperately bad, and vulgar to boot.

The youth continues his address, and vehemently importunes "Zoe" to share his fortune in his native England:

and then

"He ceas'd; and drew her closer to his breast;

Wildly her bosom heav'd beneath his own;

From her sweet lips, beneath his kisses prest,
Gush'd her heart's fulness, in a murmur'd tone:
And o'er her bent her lover; and the gold
Of his rich locks with her dark tresses blended;
And still and soft, and tenderly the lone
And mellowing night upon their forms descended:
And thus amid the ghostly walls of old,
And curtain'd by the blue and starry air,
They seem'd not wholly of an earth-born mould,
But suited to the memories breathing there,―
Two genii of the mixt and tender race,

From fairest fount or tree, their homes who singled-
Last of their order, doom'd to haunt the place,
And bear sweet being interfus'd and mingled,
Draw through their life the same delicious breath,
And fade together into air through death!"

This thought, by the bye, strongly reminds us of the conclusion of Shelley's "Arethusa :"

"And at eve they sleep

On the rocky steep,

Beneath the Ortygian share ;

Like the spirits that lie

In the axure sky,

Where they love—but live no more."

A sound is heard-what, we know not; she utters a cry-why, we know not-they part on rhe sudden, and the first fragment ends.

"Long years have flown !—and where the minstrel now? Manhood hath set in clouds upon his brow!

Midnight is past—the solitary lamp

Burns in his cell; and o'er his cheek the ray
Doth like the dim smile of a sick man play ;
Pale is his lordly front, and toil, and thought
Have darkly there their furrow'd witness wrought."

But of the whole Poem the finest to us is, beyond comparison, the last part-the Milton in his old age. And this, no doubt, partly arises from the subject itself. If doting old age be pitiable-if licentious old age be disgusting-if querulous old age be contemptible;-an old age that is neither of these, an old age that has seen, and suffered, and been tried much, and is therefore tolerant; that can draw comfort from the past, and hope from the future, and is therefore cheerful; that has used its experience well, and has kept pace with the moving intelligence around it, not morosely contemning the added stores of a younger generation, and is therefore wise; an old age such as thiswhat is it but a prelibation of Heaven?

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of glory in the grass, of splendour in the flower,
It will not grieve, but rather find

Strength in what remains behind!

What then must have been the old age of Milton? of him whose life, sternly pure, had been passed in the active service of his fellows, or in the highest contemplations of an intellect only not all divine; whose inner eye," perhaps, saw the more clearly for the "ever during dark" which quenched the light of day? Surely youth with all its high hopes, and its vivid day dreams, and its pride, and its self-confident exultation, is as nothing to such an old age as this! For-putting out of sight the splendid imaginations of Plato-youth is at best a gigantic Titan, whose strength is borrowed from the earth. But age's reliance is