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must not omit also to notice that Mr. Bamford writes his native dialect with admirable precision; with no less skill, in our opinion, (and we consider ourselves judges in this matter,) than the great classic of Lancashire, Mr. Timothy Bobbin; and that whenever he introduces it, it adds much to the raciness of his narrative.

In conclusion, we cordially recommend Mr. Bamford's two little volumes to the perusal of our readers. Nothing is more difficult than to obtain correct information as to the thoughts and feelings of the working classes; they seldom meet the middle and higher ranks, except in a position of antagonism; there is something to be hoped or feared from the superior in wealth, station, and education, and either category is equally unfavourable to a candid and frank exposition of thoughts and opinions. When an intelligent and well-informed member of that class comes forward, and gives an account of what has been passing in his own mind, and what he has observed of others, from a point of view in which we seldom have an opportunity of regarding them, he renders a valuable service to all ranks and classes, and deserves our respectful attention and gratitude.

J. P.

Whilst these sheets have been going through the press, events have taken place which call upon us to modify the hopeful tone of some of our observations. A bill has been introduced into the House of Commons, containing provisions violating the first principles of free government, in a manner as shameless as any of the atrocious acts which disgraced the administration of Sidmouth and Castlereagh.

The Irish Arms Bill, should it become the law of the land, in the shape in which it has been introduced by the government, will place the liberties, nay, the very lives, (for how, in a country. whose lawlessness is the pretended justification for the introduction of this measure, can the life of any man be safe when he is denied arms to protect it?) at the mercy of irresponsible justices of the peace. His house, which is to be no longer an: Irishman's, castle, may be broken open at any hour of the night to search for arms, which may or may not be there. The discovery of a pikehead (or anything that a police-officer pleases to call so,) stuck into a haystack or thrown behind a pigsty, will subject the unhappy owner of the premises where it is found, to seven years' transportation, unless he can prove that it was there without his knowledge.

The Irishman's horse is to go unshod, unless a licensed black

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smith can be found to hammer out a shoe at a licensed forge; and the rocks of Ireland are to remain unblasted, (the only thing in that unhappy land that is so,) unless the necessity of the operation is certified by two justices of the peace, (admirable Engineers!) when it is to be performed by a certificated miner, with licensed powder bought of a licensed dealer.

The machinery of this hateful and tyrannical bill is to be worked by the magistracy, and the spirit in which its enactments will be carried out, may be augured from the fact, that cotemporaneously with its introduction into the House of Commons, the Lord Chancellor of Ireland, by an exercise of prerogative worthy of the days of the Stuarts, has dismissed from the Commission of the Peace a considerable number of gentlemen, on the sole and avowed ground of their having attended meetings to petition for a repeal of the union,-an object as strictly legal and constitutional as a repeal of the Corn laws. And for what is this arbitrary measure introduced?—this irresponsible power given?-this galling tyranny imposed? Does Lord Eliot or Sir Robert Peel imagine that a coach and six may not be driven through the bill, even should it pass? Have they forgotten the atrocities of the Peep of Day boys? and do they suppose that this bill can have any effect, but that of again disarming the peaceable and well-disposed, and leaving them at the mercy of the lawless ruffians whom it cannot reach? Do they not know that it will be received with one indignant shout of execration from Fairhead to Cape Clear, which will syllable itself into "Repeal?" and that however mistaken that cry may be, its already fearful power will be terribly increased by giving a semblance of justice to the demand? Let Sir Robert Peel take warning in time;That cry may gather strength from insult, injustice, and oppression, until it becomes a blast before which, not the Union, (the severance of that we consider as impossible as we think it undesirable for the best interests of Ireland,) but the incongruous and undigested materials of which his administration is constructed, may crumble and burst asunder as the walls of Jericho fell down flat at the sound of the trumpets of Joshua, and the great shout of the Children of Israel.

ART. IV.-SELECTIONS FROM THE DRAMAS OF GOETHE AND SCHILLER, translated, with Introductory Remarks, by ANNA SWANWICK.-Sold by John Murray, Albemarle-street. London, 1843.

THE Madonna of the painter, the Venus of the sculptor, Heroine of the poet,-the universal voice,-has decided that Woman, in her every relation, is the true poetry of life, and it is in vain that the critic calls us to dwell on the more perfect form of man,-in vain that he compels us to admire Romeo, -our thoughts ever turn to Juliet. It is true that Goethe, an oracle on most subjects of this kind, has represented the ladies of the emperor's court as unable, from envy, to appreciate the perfect beauty of Helen, when, together with Paris, she was summoned by the mighty wand of the enchanter, to gratify an idle curiosity; but the poet has here left the source of personal experience and deep-sighted observation, whence he habitually drew his inspiration.

Innumerable instances might be brought forward to prove that women show themselves fully able to appreciate the beautiful in their own sex, whether it consist in external graces, or internal worth; but, for the present, we choose one which has recently fallen under our observation, in the Selections from the Dramas of Goethe and Schiller, where the translator seems to have been unconsciously guided in her choice of subjects by a deep and true admiration of the most perfect female characters delineated by the greatest dramatists of Germany. The volume consists of Goethe's "Iphigenia in Tauris;" of the first act, and the first scene of the second act, of "Torquato Tasso," by the same author; and of Schiller's "Maid of Orleans,” in which every part of the drama is given which has relation to the Heroine, the passages "omitted being employed, for the most part, in pourtraying the hopeless condition of the French court, before the appearance of the Maiden, or in detailing the mili tary operations of the French and English armies." To each is prefixed an historical notice, in which such information is given as seemed necessary to "enable those unfamiliar with Grecian literature, or with the biographies of Tasso and Joan of Arc, to enter at once into the spirit of each drama."


The plot of Goethe's Iphigenia in Tauris is very simple. When the play opens the heroine is Priestess of Diana, in the barbarous region of Tauris, whither she was conveyed by the

goddess from the altar on which she was about to be sacrificed, and Thoas, king of the Taurians, is vainly endeavouring to persuade her to be his wife. She pleads her foreign and fatal origin in excuse for her refusal. The king, irritated, commands. her to put two newly arrived strangers to death, in accordance with a law hitherto suspended at her entreaty. In them she recognises her brother Orestes, pursued by the Furies, and sent by Apollo in quest of his sister, and his faithful friend, Pylades. Iphigenia, overpersuaded, delivers to them reluctantly the image of Diana, of which they are in search, and promises to fly with them; but afterwards confesses the whole to the king, and entreats him to allow her to depart openly with her brother to her native land. Her eloquence and truth move the noble, though uncivilized monarch, and he allows her to depart with Orestes, whom the Furies have ceased to haunt, leaving with the Taurians the image of Diana, the event having proved that the ambiguous oracle referred to the sister, not of Apollo, but of Orestes. From this slight sketch it will be seen that, as a French critic has observed, the form only of the play is antique, while the admirable sentiments are those of Goethe, and of a Christian age.

We will now quote from the introductory remarks :

"The drama of Iphigenia in Tauris' has been considered Goethe's masterpiece; it is conceived in the lofty spirit of Greek ideality, and is characterized throughout by moral beauty and dignified repose. Schlegel styles it an echo of Greek song,-an epithet as appropriate as it is elegant; for, without any servile imitation of classic models, this beautiful dramą, through the medium of its polished verse, reproduces in softened characters the graceful and colossal forms of the antique." But while "in the drama of Euripides we are chiefly interested in the generous friendship of Orestes and Pylades, in that of Goethe the character of Iphigenia constitutes the chief charm, and awakens our warmest sympathy. While contemplating her, we feel as if some exquisite statue of Grecian art had become animated by a living soul, and moved and breathed before us: yet, though exhibiting the severe simplicity which characterizes the creations of antiquity, she is far removed from all coldness and austerity; and her character, though cast in a classic mould, is free from that harsh and vindictive spirit which darkened the heroism of those barbarous times when religion lent her sanction to hatred and revenge. The softened character which Goethe has attributed to his heroine appears justified by the peculiarity of her position. The poetry of antiquity has been characterised as having its foundation, for the most part, in the scene which is present; but Iphigenia, an exile in a foreign land, cherishing with fond regret the memory of her distant home, and ardently longing to return thither, is in harmony with the poetic spirit of more modern times,

which, deeply earnest in its character, has been described by Schlegel as hovering between recollection and hope."

The exquisite beauty and pathos of Iphigenia's character are heightened by her noble moral attributes, qualities which are reflected to the reader from the increasing love, admiration, and reverence of those around her. Even when she consents to fly with her brother, and bear with her the sacred image, her judgment is dimmed for the moment,-not her feelings perverted; for she replies to the urgent reasoning of Pylades, "I cannot argue, I can only feel." The purity and delicacy of this character, its perfect humanity, and yet freedom from all earthborn passion, make it an unrivalled creation of the author's mind; so that we are particularly fortunate in having a record of the manner in which the image of it was cherished, if not formed and we find that, like Milton, Shelley, and many other poets, he derived aid and inspiration from the painters of Italy; for among some notes, dated Bologna, Oct. 19th, 1786, after describing the very mixed feelings with which he had contemplated some pictures, more admirable in execution than subject, he thus continues:-" But if a work of Raphael, or at least one that can be ascribed to him, meets the eye, there is instantly a feeling of refreshment and delight. So have I felt with regard to the St. Agatha, a truly valuable painting, though not in very good preservation. The artist has represented her as a noble virgin, bright with health, refined without coldness. I gazed long upon her, and shall in spirit read my Iphigenia to her, and not allow my heroine to say anything which this holy one would not wish to have spoken."


Most amply is the pledge here given redeemed: the opening soliloquy reveals the whole character.

A Grove before the Temple of Diana.


Beneath your leafy gloom, ye waving boughs
Of this old, shady, consecrated grove,
As in the goddess' silent sanctuary,

With the same shuddering feeling forth I step,
As when I trod it first, nor ever here

Doth my unquiet spirit feel at home.

Long as the mighty will, to which I bow,

Hath kept me here conceal'd, still, as at first,
I feel myself a stranger. For the sea
Doth sever me, alas! from those I love,
And day by day upon the shore I stand,
My soul still seeking for the land of Greece.
But to my sighs, the hollow sounding waves
Bring, save their own hoarse murmurs, no reply.

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