the writer may compete for the highest rank in this species of composition. The first is the song of Edah, the Indian girl, in the 'Pirate ;' sung in a grotto in the island, as she fans Albert with a plume of feathers while he sleeps. Little waves upon the deep Murmur soft when thou dost sleep; Sing their sweetest songs for thee; And the earth in plant and tree, Bring forth fruits and flowers for thee; All things love thee, so do I' p. 82. The next is sung by one of the sailors, in the Pirate ship, when their apprehensions begin to be awakened, and his comrade asks for a good hymn, or a song set to a hymn tune.' L Who was the first sailor?-tell me who can; Old father Neptune ?-No, you're wrong; There was another ere Neptune began; Who was he? tell me. Tightly and strong Who was the first sailor?-tell me who can; Who was he? tell me. Tightly and strong Who was the first sailor?-tell me who can; Don't be a blockhead, boy! Tightly and strong Over the waters he went. Ha! 'tis nought but the poor little Nautilus- p. 76. The solemn strain which follows, is introduced at a scene of revelry, after a bacchanalian lay, with a dramatic effect for which we must refer the reader to the work. 'She stood before our Lady's shrine, And hid her face with both her hands, Like an archangel's trumpet voice, That shakes the earth and sky.. "Give back my wanderer unto me, But the hills of heaven they answered her, "Give back," she cried, "mine only one, But the depths of hell made answer low p. 70. The purity of sentiment, the truth of description, the melody of versification, the amiable, holy, and beneficent spirit, by which these dramas are pervaded, will have been anticipated by those who had read and loved the former productions of the writer. But many will be taken by surprise in the high and bold qualities which they also exhibit. There is, however, across the Atlantic, a critic of a kindred spirit, whose philosophical and far-seeing mind had already taught the harmony of such attributes, and shown the natural compatibility of the gentleness of religion with the power of dramatically developing the darkest deeds and passions. We cannot better embody our own view, and conclude this notice, than by appending what we may almost term an anticipatory criticism by Dr. Channing on the Tragedies of Mary Howitt. The quotation is from his Remarks on the Character and Writings of Fenelon,' published in the Christian Examiner for March, 1829. 'We believe that the union of religion with genius, will favour that species of composition to which it may seem at first to be least propitious. We refer to that department of literature which has for its object, the delineation of the stronger and more terrible and guilty passions. Strange as it may appear, these gloomy and appalling features of our nature may be best comprehended and portrayed by the purest and noblest minds. The common idea is, that overwhelming emotions, the more they are experienced, can the more effectually be described. We have one strong presumption against this doctrine. Tradition leads us to believe, that Shakspeare, though he painted so faithfully and fearfully the storms of passion, was a calm and cheerful man. The passions are too engrossed by their objects to meditate on themselves; and none are more ignorant of their growth and subtile workings than their own victims. Nothing reveals to us the secrets of our own souls like religion; and in disclosing to us, in ourselves, the tendency of passion to absorb every energy, and to spread its hues over every thought, it gives us a key to all souls; for in all, human nature is essentially one, having the same spiritual elements, and the same grand features. No man, it is believed, understands the wild and irregular motions of the mind, like him in whom a principle of divine order has begun to establish peace. No man knows the horror of thick darkness which gathers over the slaves of vehement passion, like him who is rising into the light and dignity of virtue. There is indeed a selfish shrewdness, which is thought to give a peculiar and deep insight into human nature. But the knowledge of which it boasts is partial, distorted, and vulgar, and whollyunfit for the purposes of literature. We value it little. We believe that no qualification avails so much to a knowledge of human nature in all its forms, in its good and evil manifestations, as that enlightened, celestial charity which religion alone inspires; for this establishes sympathies between us and all men, and thus makes them intelligible to us. A man imbued with this spirit alone contemplates vice, as it really exists, and as it ought always to be described. In the most depraved fellowbeings, he sees partakers of his own nature. Amidst the terrible ravages of the passions, he sees conscience, though prostrate, not destroyed nor wholly powerless. He sees the proofs of an unextinguished moral life, in inward struggles, in occasional relentings, in sighings for lost innocence, in reviving throbs of early affections, in the sophistry by which the guilty mind would become reconciled to itself, in remorse, in anxious forebodings, in despair, perhaps in studied recklessness and cherished self-forgetfulness. These conflicts between the passions and the moral nature, are the most interesting subjects in the branch of literature to which we refer, and we believe that to portray them with truth and power, the man of genius can find in nothing such effectual aid, as in the developement of the moral and religious principles in his own breast.' NOTES ON SOME OF THE MORE POPULAR DIALOGUES OF PLATO. No. II. THE PHEDRUS. This is the most miscellaneous of all the longer dialogues of Plato. The subjects on which it touches are very numerous, and are held together by a very slight thread of connexion. It is not a controversial dialogue, part of it being in long discourses, while even in the part which consists of conversations, Socrates does not combat the opinion of Phædrus, but states his own. None of the works of Plato tends more strongly to confirm the opinion, that the design of his speculations was rather to recommend a particular mode of inquiry, than to inculcate particular conclusions. Whatever in this dialogue has reference to methods of philosophizing, (which is the case with a great and the most instructive portion of it,) appears perfectly serious and in earnest, while in the remainder there is an appearance of sportiveness, and sometimes almost of mockery. The dramatic merits of the Phædrus are very great. It may be pronounced a model of lively and familiar conversation between two intimate acquaintances, Athenian gentlemen in the best sense of the term, accomplished up to the highest standard of their age. The dialogue derives an additional interest, from its containing, in the form of an allegory, those doctrines, or rather ideas, on the subject of love, which, by giving rise to the vulgar expression Platonic love,' have made the name of Plato familiar to the ear of thousands, who otherwise might probably never have heard of his existence. Socrates meets his friend Phædrus, coming from a visit to Lysias, the celebrated orator, and going out to walk. He asks Phædrus, what was the subject of discourse between him and Lysias; and Phædrus promises to give him an account of it if he will accompany him in his walk. Socrates having complied, Phædrus tells him that Lysias had read to the company a written discourse on the subject of love, reipuμévov τινα τῶν καλὼν, οὐχ ὑπὸ ἐραστοῦ δέ, i. e. a letter, or speech, (whichever we choose to call it,) containing a proposal, of a nature which would commonly be called an amatory one, but without professing to be in love. This last circumstance, continues Phædrus, is the cream of the matter; for he maintains, that one who is not in love ought to be preferred, as to the matter in question, to one who is. He is a fine fellow, said Socrates: I wish he would maintain that a poor man should be preferred to a rich man, an old man to a young, and so on, going through all the qualities which I and most others possess: his discourse would then be of great public utility. He then presses Phædrus very earnestly to relate the discourse: Phædrus pretends want of memory, and coquets a little, whereupon Socrates rallies him, and says, that he knows he is dying to relate it, and sooner than lose the opportunity would end by compelling him to listen. Phædrus was preparing accordingly to give an account of the discourse, when Socrates asks him to let him see what he has got under his cloak; which turns out to be the very discourse itself. When the mirth and pleasantry excited by this discovery have subsided, they agree to read the manuscript together, as soon as they can find a convenient place for sitting down. As they are walking along the banks of the Ilissus in quest of such a spot, Phædrus asks Socrates whether this is the place from which Boreas is said to have carried off Oreithya. No, replied Socrates, it is a little lower down. Do you believe this story, asked Phædrus, to be true? It would be nothing extraordinary, said Socrates, if, like the wise men, I disbelieved it. I might then say, that the north wind blew this girl over the adjoining rocks while she was diverting herself in the meadows, and that for this reason she was said to have been carried off by Boreas. According to my notion, however, all these things are very entertaining, but they would make life exceedingly laborious and troublesome for one would next have to explain the Centaurs, and then the Chimæra, and a whole crowd of Gorgons and Pegasuses; which if one were to disbelieve, and attempt to bring back to probability, it would be the business of a life. I have not leisure for these things, and I will tell you the reason: I am not yet able, according to the Delphic injunction, to know myself; and it appears to me very ridiculous, while ignorant of myself, to inquire into what I am not concerned in. I therefore leave these things alone, and believe with the vulgar; not searching into such matters, but into myself, and inquiring whether I am a beast, of a more complicated structure and more savage than Typhon, or a tamer and simpler animal, whose nature partakes of divinity. Saying these things, they arrive at the spot which Phædrus had selected for sitting down to read the manuscript. Socrates begins to look about him with wonder, and praises the beauty of the place. Phædrus laughs at him, and tells him that he is more like a stranger than a native, and never goes out of the town at all. Socrates begs to be pardoned for the omission; for, says he, I like to learn: the fields and trees cannot teach me any thing, the men in the town can. But you have found a cure for this fault of mine: for, as they lead hungry cattle by carrying a branch of a tree before them, so, by holding a book in your hand, you might make me follow you all over Attica. After these preliminaries Phædrus reads the discourse; which is in in the form of a love-letter, if that can be called a love-letter which disclaims love. The following is the substance, and almost an exact translation:: You know how it is with me, and that I think this affair would be advantageous to us: but I claim, not to be rejected because I do not love you. A lover, when his desire ceases, repents of all that he has done for you: the other has no cause for repentance, for the good he does you was not done from irresistible impulse, but from choice, and deliberation. A lover, too, reckons up the benefits he has conferred upon you, the trouble and anxiety he has undergone for your sake, the damage which he has suffered in his private affairs by reason of his love, and thinks that by all this he has long ago made a sufficient return to you for your favours; but he who does not love, can neither pretend to have neglected his own concerns on account of his love, nor to have undergone labour or anxiety, nor to have quarrelled with his relations, so that nothing is left but to be eager and assiduous in doing whatever will give you pleasure. Again, if it is a reason for valuing a lover, that he is more attached to the person whom he loves than to any person else, and is ready both by word and deed to incur the enmity of others, in order to gratify the object of his love, it clearly follows that if he should afterwards love another, he will do as much for that other, and will be willing, for the gratification of the other, to quarrel with his first love. And how can it be reasonable to grant such a favour to one who is under a calamity, which they who know what it is will not even attempt to cure? for the men themselves confess that they are in an unsound state of mind, and know their own folly, but cannot conquer it. How then can they, when they come to their senses, judge that to be well done which they determined upon when in such a state? Further, if you select from among your lovers even the very best, your choice must be made from a small number; but if you choose from among all persons whatever, except lovers, the one who is most suitable to yourself, there is a much greater chance of your finding a person deserving of your attachment. |
