The celebrated inscription on the great Boyle, which states on his tomb that

"He was the Father of Science, and

Brother to the Earl of Cork,"

is very tame after the poet's pledging his honor to the Almighty. The second act commences with another little bit of atmospheric observation: the author seems quite an Englishman by his favorite topic of conversation, viz. the weather

"The air breathes freshly after our long night

Of glorious revelry."

It is the convincing sign of an undramatic mind to begin by some rhapsody on natural scenery, an address to a mountain, or, we were indeed going to add, a mouse, in order to diversify the subject and throw an air of novelty over it, is generally the refuge of the destitute playwright: but it is men, and not mice or mountains that constitute a drama, and human passions working out the catastrophe, not abjurations to romantic scenery. Passion and action are the elements, not description and reflection.

The opening of the second scene in act second, is another instance of this total want of dramatic thought.

[Clemanthe seated—Abra attending her.]

"Abra.-Look, dearest lady!-the thin smoke aspires
In the calm air as when in happier times

It show'd the gods propitious!"

But the full measure of absurdity is piled up in the fourth act, where Ion enters with a knife to murder the king; the veriest tyro must know a catastrophe cannot happen in the beginning of the fourth act; and mark how very novel is the author's way of evading the difficulty. It must be borne in mind that Adrastus, the

king, is on a couch, asleep. Enter Ion, with a knife, to kill him by Divine command, he having pledged his honor to Heaven to do it,-made it, in short, a debt of honor, which even gamblers respect, but not so heroes. Ion wakes his victim, and coolly informs him he has come to kill him. After some curious specimen of dialogue Ion persuades the king to let him kill him. Like the lamb of Pope,

"And licks the hand that's raised to shed his blood."

The tyrant says,

"No: strike at once,-my hour is come-in thee

I recognise the minister of Jove,

And, kneeling, thus submit me to his power."

[Adrastus kneels.]

Ion, not accustomed to the lamb-killing business, says in a most unbutcher-like style,

"Avert thy face."

Adrastus says,

"No. Let me meet thy gaze;"

and so on: Ion, however, must proceed, and the learned Sergeant actually saves the life of the king by placing Medon in a convenient position, where he can rush in, and call out as the knife of Ion is about to fall on the tyrant's heart,

"Ion forbear; behold thy son, Adrastus!"

The heroic Ion swoons, as a matter of course. But it is in the love passages that the poet particularly shines. Can anything be more modernly classical than the following plan of asking questions, without the slightest chance of getting a reply:

"Clemanth.

O, unkind,

And shall we never see each other?"

[Ion, after a pause.]

"Yes.

I have asked that dreadful question of the hills
That look eternal: of the flowing streams
That lucid flow for ever: of the stars,

Amid whose fields of azure my raised spirit
Hath trod in glory :—all were dumb !”

Of course, this is just what a man might expect when he put the absurd question: he might just as well have questioned Lord Palmerston on the state of Hungary! Joking apart: this is the fine milliners' trash that takes the stage from the men of genius, and by supplying a perpetual succession of common places, keeps the drama of the present day at the lowest ebb. The closing conduct of Ion, although of a more heroic cast, is, however, so totally at variance with his whole previous career as to produce whatever it has of effect by a violence to consistency of character which is not credible for an instant.

We have done Talfourd the justice to select his best play for our examination. "Glencoe" and "the Athenian Captive" are, confessedly, so far inferior to his first production, as to render any account of them unnecessary. We shall conclude our sketch by contemplating him in a character in which he is, and must be, admired by all observers.

Few men enjoy so large a circle of acquaintance as the "Genial Sergeant"—at his luxurious dinners assemble all the most distinguished men of the day, without reference to their politics or religion. There, conversation, grave and gay, circulates with the glass, and the hospitable presider is never so happy as when surrounded by a large party of friends, except, perhaps, when sitting in a private box, he enjoys the inexpressible privilege of hearing his own verses recited by some clever performer.

ERNEST JONES.

This author (unfortunately now distinguished as a Chartist leader, and imprisoned for the offence,) is a barrister of the Middle Temple, and was early noted for the violence of his political opinions. His first poem was called "The Wood Spirit,” which contained some fine passages, but the design was faulty, and the execution too feeble to warrant a hope that the writer was anything but a clever versifier. His second work, "My Life," was better, and evinces passion and beauty.

His best poems, however, are those entitled "Chartist Lyrics:" into these he has thrown considerable force, and shows great skill in rousing the feelings of the multitudes.

The following poem of "Onward and Upward" is spirited :—

Right onward are rising the nations,
With high throned corruption to cope,
Preparing for fresh generations,

This Earth for the Harvest of Hope.

Right onward the breezes are blowing,
The life of the forest and wave;
Right onward the great thoughts are going,
Upkindling the hearts of the brave.

Right upward the Eagle is winging-
Leave serpents to crawl on the sod;
Right upward the spirit is springing

From Priestcraft-to Nature and God!"

There is, however, in all Mr. Jones' effusions a restlessness and turbidity which betrays the transition state of his mind: there is nothing fixed :—one instant hope, the next defiance; the words govern the man, instead of the man the words; all this shows the existence of the lower subjective mind, and disqualifies him from holding a high rank in the scale of poets. This ignorant impatience led him to rush into the schemes of that foolish, brawling demagogue, Fergus O'Connor, who has managed most admirably to lead others into evils he himself ran away from.

Mr. Jones, who had only been recently married, was so incautious as to join the Chartist demonstration, and, in consequence of his violent speeches, was indicted by the government for sedition, and condemned to a heavy fine and two years' imprisonment. However tedious and painful they may prove, they, nevertheless, may not be lost, but produce the same good effects on his fiery and undisciplined nature which the author of Rimini declared his imprisonment had worked in him.

We may as well seize this opportunity of giving Mr. L. Hunt's own account of his affront to the Prince Regent, and his apology on his deliverance from prison.

It is well known that the luckless wit was prosecuted for cer