The tired mechanic at his lecture sighs; And of the learned, which, with all his lore, Has leisure to be wise?" With some verses from a poem called "St. Helen's Auckland" we close our extracts. The author revisits the home of his boyhood: "How much is changed of what I see, "The sounds that round about me rise "In every change of man's estate Are lights and guides allowed; The fiery pillar will not wait, But, parting, sends the cloud. "Nor mourn I the less manly part Of life to leave behind; My loss is but the lighter heart, Poetry is no longer the most popular form of literature amongst us, and the drama is understood to be the least popular form of poetry. If this be the case, Mr. Taylor has the additional merit of having won his way But, in truth, such poetry as Mr. Taylor's to celebrity under singular disadvantages. But, in truth, such poetry as Mr. Taylor's could never appeal to the multitude. Literature of any kind which requires of the reader himself to think in order to enjoy, can never be popular. It is impossible to deny that the dramas we have been reviewing demand an effort, in the first instance, on the part of the reader: he must sit down to them with something of the spirit of the student. But, having done this, he will find himself amply repaid. As he advances in the work, he will read with increased pleasure; he will read it the second time with greater delight than the first; and if he were to live twenty years, and were to read such a drama as Philip Van Artevelde every year of his life, he would find in it some fresh source of interest to the last. As we have not contented ourselves with selecting beautiful passages of writing from Mr. Taylor's dramas, but have attempted such an analysis of the three principal characters they portray as may send the reader to their reperusal with additional zest, so neither have we paused to dispute the propriety of particular parts, or to notice blemishes and defects. We would not have it understood that we admire all that Mr. Taylor has written. Of whom could we say this? We think, for instance, that, throughout his dramas, from the first to the last, he treats the monks too coarsely. His portraiture borders upon farce. His Father John shows that he can do justice to the character of the intelligent and pious monk. Admitting that this character is rare, we believe that the extremely gross portraiture which we have elsewhere is almost equally rare. This last, however, is so frequently introduced, that it will pass with the reader as Mr. Taylor's type of the monkish order. The monks could never have been more ignorant than the surrounding laity, and they were always something better in morals and in true piety. We are quite at a loss, too, to | understand Mr. Taylor's fondness for the introduction into his dramas of certain songs or ballads, which are not even intended to be poetical. To have made them so, he would probably contend, would have been a dramatic impropriety. Very well; but let us have as few of such things as may be, and as short as possible. In Edwin the Fair they are very numerous; and those which are introduced in Philip Van Artevelde we could gladly dispense with. We could also very willingly have dispensed with the con versation of those burgesses of Bruges who entertained the Earl of Flanders with some of these ballads. We agree with the Earl, that their hospitalities are a sore affliction. Tediousness may be very dramatic, but it is tediousness still-a truth which our writer, intent on the delineations of his character, sometimes forgets. But defects like these it is sufficient merely to have hinted at. That criticism must be very long and ample indeed, of the dramas of Mr. Taylor, in which they ought to occupy any considerable space. From the Edinburgh Review. THE METAMORPHOSES OF APULEIUS. ON inquiring lately at an old book-shop for an Apuleius, we were told by the bookseller that since the appearance of this translation, he had disposed of many copies of the original which had long been a dead weight on his shelves. Sir George Head has recalled his author to the attention of scholars, and may, with good reason, feel flattered by this success, even if disappointed in his expectation that readers will resort to the book for "the light and amusing qualities of a romance. The Metamorphoses of Apuleius are not suited to modern taste, though they well deserve notice. Cervantes probably drew from them a hint for Don Quixote's adventure with the wine-skins; Boccaccio undoubtedly had read them; and the legend of Cupid and Psyche furnished subjects for the frescoes with which Raphael adorned the walls of the villa at Rome, which is now called the Farnesina. The structure of the story is like that of Gil Blas. In both the adventures of the hero form the groundwork; but in both also, more than half the book consists of stories and incidents from their own lives, told by the different personages. This resemblance is probably due to the fact, that Apuleius, like Le Sage, worked up into his book materials provided by preceding novelists. The Metamorphoses of Apuleius. Translated from the Latin by Sir GEORGE HEAD. London: 1851. There existed at that time a class of liter He was ary compositions, called Milesian Tales, the character of which we are at no loss to determine from incidental notices, though no specimens are now extant. Aristides of Miletus, an author whose date is not precisely known, first composed them, and to him they owe their designation. followed by other writers, whose names the curious may find preserved in the Bibliotheca Scriptorum Græcorum. The only circumstance worth our observing is, that this species of literature sprang up at the point of meeting between the Grecian and Eastern worlds. Owing partly to their adoption of Persian habits, and partly also to their p litical insignificance, the Greeks of Asia Minor turned their attention more and sooner than the Athenians to pursuits which minister to the refinement and elegance of life. We have a curious proof of this in the impression produced in Athens at an earlier period, by the accomplishments of the ladies of Ionia. Aspasia was a native of Miletus, and not only was her house the resort of the philosophers of the day, but according to Plato, she even gave lessons in rhetoric to Pericles and Socrates. We do not suppose he is to be taken to the letter, but the story shows that education in Ionia was less exclusively directed than in Athens towards public life, in which men alone could engage; but embraced within its sphere a dilettante study of morals, unaccompanied by the severity of practice, and also of philosophy clothed in that light and graceful drapery in which eloquence can disguise it. To this same turn of mind we attribute the productions of which we are speaking. They first appear in Greek literature at a time when all interest in politics had died out, and men, instead of living in public, as their forefathers had done, courted retirement and privacy. In many cases, such a life was one of voluptuous indulgence; in most, a life of intellectual poverty; and these tales became popular, because they relieved the ennui of idleness. This sufficiently explains their character. They were familiar, trifling compositions, containing descriptions of the laughable incidents of life, amusing pieces of fiction, and adventures in love and intrigue, mixed with great licentiousness. The Romans first became acquainted with them during their campaigns in Lesser Asia. Plutarch tells us that the officers of Crassus's army carried the novels of Aristides in their knapsacks. Their popularity induced Sisenna, the historian of the expedition, to translate them into Latin; but though Ovid mentions the fact of their publication, we hear no more of them during the golden period of Roman literature. In the next century, however, they again came into vogue, and must have been well known to the readers of Apuleius; for in his preface, he promises to string together his stories in the Milesian strain, and charm their ears with a merry whispering. He has kept his promise. His story contains a pleasant account of the habits, the follies, and even the vices of his contemporaries. He had enjoyed extensive opportunities for observation, for he spent his early years in Africa, studied at Athens, and, for some years, practised at the bar in Rome; and as the result, he exhibits to us a collection of portraits taken from different classes of society, sufficiently resembling the sketches made by the satirists of the preceding century, to convince us of their truth, but less harshly drawn. There is the usurer, the enchantress taking vengeance on her lover,— the harsh stepmother, the hectoring soldier, the oppressed provincial,-the Christian woman, the interior of a workshop, and the juggling priests of the Syrian goddess. Every picture tells its own date; the gallery was made under the Empire. But Apuleius was a philosopher as well as a satirist, and desired, in portraying, to reform his generation. We are aware that this has been denied by many critics, both in ancient and modern times; but on any other supposition a large portion of the book is unintelligible, and inconsistent with what we know of his character. Our best plan will be to tell the story, and then give the explanation; following his own words as far as possible, though at the risk of falling into his faults of style. It is but fair to add, that in our quotations we have taken great liberties with Sir George Head's translation. Lucius, the hero of the novel, is introduced to us mounted on a milk-white steed, upon a journey from Corinth to Thessaly. In the way he overtook a commercial traveller, engaged in earnest conversation with a friend. The subject of their discussion was suited to the spot in which they were travelling, for they were discussing the pretensions of magic on the borders of Thessaly,-the chosen home of witchcraft from the days of Medea even to the present hour. Lucius overheard the loud laugh with which the friend scouted the merchant's story, and was tempted, by his thirst for the marvellous, to introduce himself to them as a man cager for information. He reproved the unbelieving listener in words, which, though intended to convey to us the real skepticism of the novelist, flattered the speaker into repeating his tale. It related the untimely death of an acquaintance, brought about by the incantations of a hag,—a fact of which the merchant had been himself a witness on some former expedition into Thessaly, to procure the honey and cheese for which the district was famous. The story was good enough to be guile the remainder of a toilsome journey, but is not worth our repeating. It is enough to say, that, though supported by the devout belief of the narrator, and the common talk of all the people of Thessaly, it failed to convince the skeptical companion, while the cautious Lucius, when appealed to, gave his verdict that nothing is impossible, but all things proceed according to the decree of fate; "for," continued he, occurrences happen in the experience of us all, so wonderful, as to have been within an ace of never happening at all." The tale thus ended, Lucius parted company at the entrance of Hypata, and inquired for the house of Milo, to whom he had a letter of introduction. Milo was one of a numerous and powerful class, which owed its origin to the imperfect state of commercial credit, and the difficulty of finding secure and ready investment for capital under the Roman Empire; he was a miser and a money-lender. The influence and extortions of his order had more than once invited the interference of stringent laws, and exposed its members to popular hatred; and the old inn-keeper, who directed Lucius, did not miss the opportunity of speaking an ill word of her wealthy neighbor, who kept one maid for himself and his wife, and dressed like a beggar. The door of the house was bolted fast; but, after a parley with the maid, who mistook him for a customer come to borrow, Lucius was admitted to see Milo. The money-lender was reclining upon a tiny couch, on the point of beginning his evening meal. His wife was sitting at his feet, and before them was a bare table, to which he pointed, and said, "You see all we have to offer." Then, bidding his wife rise, and dragging his unwilling guest into her place, he apologized for the want of furniture, on the ground of his dread of robbers, and, after a compliment on the handsome figure of Lucius, and his almost feminine delicacy of manners, invited him to occupy a nook in his cottage. Lucius accepted the invitation; but, observing Milo's parsimonious style of living, determined to forage for himself on his way to his evening bath. Accordingly he went to the market, and bought a basket of fish. Just then he was recognized by an old friend, named Pythias, whose dress and retinue showed him to be a magistrate. The two had not met since their school-days at Athens, and Pythias had now become an ædile and an inspector of the market. He caught sight of the basket, and inquired what had been given for the bargain. The price was exorbitant; and, on hearing it, he grasped Lucius by the hand, and leading him back to the stall, in the harshest tone which the majesty of the ædile could assume, threatened to show the fishmonger how rogues should be treated. Then, emptying the basket in the middle of the road, he ordered one of his attendants to trample upon the fishes; and, satisfied with his own sternness, advised his friend to come away, adding, "The disgrace is punishment enough for the old fellow." Lucius stood aghast at this rigorous system of administration; but there was no help for it; so, deprived alike of his money and his fish, and wearied by his long journey and an evening without any supper, except Milo's conversation, he betook himself to rest. We will take this opportunity of making our readers more intimately acquainted with the female portion of Milo's household Pamphile and Fotis. The popular belief of Hypata represented the former as a noto rious witch-the mistress of every sepulchral incantation. By the slightest puff of her breath upon a branch or a stone, or any other inanimate object, she could extinguish the light of the heavenly bodies, and plunge the world in the darkness of chaos. She became enamored of every handsome youth she met, and if he refused to gratify her passion she changed him into some brutish form. Fotis was her mistress's confidante, and herself an adept in magic; but her knowledge was not accompanied by the impatience and dark temper which characterized Pamphile. On the contrary, she was pert and coquettish, and readily responded to, if she did not anticipate, the advances of Lucius. His fancy was taken by her elegant figure, her graceful motions, and, above all, her luxuriant and unadorned tresses, to the praises of which he has devoted a chapter; and he determined to follow up an intimacy, which, besides its own attractions, promised him an opportunity of gaining the knowledge he was in search of. We shall presently see what were its consequences. One incident during his stay in Hypata is too important to the plot to be omitted. There was a noble and virtuous matron, named Byrrhæna, who took a deep interest in him, and warned him against the dangerous company he had fallen into. It chanced that this lady gave a magnificent entertainment, at which all the fashion of the place was to be present, and she invited Lucius to join the party. Fotis, though unwillingly, gave her consent, on condition that he would return early, for fear of the madheaded band of young nobles who infested the streets and massacred the passers-by. The supper was excellent; the wine flowed freely; one of the guests told how he had lost his ears and his nose, owing to a witch; jokes were bandied from side to side, and it was late before Lucius, with dizzy head and uncertain step, returned to Milo's house. There he saw three tall figures, to all appearance robbers, dashing against the door with the utmost violence. Without a moment's delay he charged into the midst of them, and engaged each in turn, till all three fell, pierced with wounds, at his feet. Aurora was already shaking her rosy arm above the glowing trappings of her horses, -the fine writing is Lucius's, not ours,-and mounting towards the top of heaven, when night restored him to day. His mind was agitated by the remembrance of the last night's deed. With his legs bent under him, his hands clasped and resting on his knees, he sat up in bed, and wept abundantly, I kissed the box several times; and, uttering rewhile his imagination pictured a court, a peated aspirations in hopes of a prosperous flight, I trial, a conviction, and the executioner. At stripped off all my clothes as quick as possible, this moment the lictors arrived to arrest him dipped my fingers greedily into the box ; and havon a charge of murder, and conducted him ing thence extracted a good large lump of ointment, rubbed it all over my body and limbs. to the theatre, the only place large enongh When I was thoroughly anointed, I swung my to accommodate the crowds assembled to arms up and down, in imitation of the movement witness the trial. The prefect of the night- of a bird's pinion, and continued to do so a little watch stated the charge, and Lucius was while, when, instead of any perceptible token of called upon for his defence. He admitted feathers or wings making their appearance, my the fact, but repeating word for word the covered with bristly hair, my fingers and toes disown skin, alas, grew into a hard leathern hide language of their leader, which left no doubt appeared, the palms of my hands and the soles of of their intentions, and describing the vio- my feet became firm solid hoofs, and from the end lence of their attack on himself, and the of my spine a long tail proceeded. My face was deadly grip he had felt, he asked for a tri- enormous, my mouth wide, my nostrils gaping, umphant acquittal. By a procedure allowed my lips pendulous, and I had a pair of immoderin Greek courts, the widow of one of the ately long, rough, hairy ears. In short, when I deceased, with an infant in her arms, was now came to contemplate my transformation to its full produced, in order to excite the commisera-extent, I found that, instead of a bird, 1 had become changed into an ass." tion of the judges, and, at her instance, the accused was compelled to lift the sheet which covered the corpses. Beneath it lay three wine-skins, slashed with gaping holes, which his recollection told him corresponded with the wounds inflicted on the robbers. The laughter, which had been with difficulty suppressed during the trial, now burst into the loudest peals of merriment. The day was the festival of the Lord of Laughter -the patron saint of Hypata-and required annually for its celebration the invention of some new amusement. For this purpose the trial had been devised. Lucius received the explanation with all the composure he could muster; but was hardly appeased even by the honor of a statue, and being enrolled among the patrons of the city. Fotis, in tears, accounted for the rest. She had been sent to the barber's shop for some of the hair of a young man with whom her mistress was in love; but the barber threatened to inform against her; so, fearing to return empty-handed, she picked up the hair from some wine-skins hanging in the street. Her mistress was taken in by its flaxen color; the sorcery worked its effect, and the wineskins, animated with a transient vitality, presented themselves at her door instead of the youth. And now the opportunity for which he was waiting arrived, when he was admitted by Fotis to see Pamphile transform herself into an owl, and fly to her lover. The sight excited his desire to follow, and at length Fotis, yielding to his entreaties, produced a box of ointment from her mistress's cabinet. Lucius shall describe the scene himself: "Elated at the sight of the precious treasure, I Our readers must not expect the fairy fancy of the Midsummer Night's Dream in what follows. Fotis, in her eagerness, had mistaken the box; and, though a compound of rose-leaves would have reversed the transformation, she had neglected to weave for her lover his evening chaplet, and he must take his place in the stable till they can be gathered at dawn of day. But at midnight Milo's house was sacked by a band of robbers, and long before morning Lucius, laden with the spoils of his late host, was far on the road to their cave in the mountains. The the corresponding scene in Gil Blas. "Holds his dear Psyche sweet entranced, The lady listened, and was soothed; and Lucius, forgetting his transformation, regretted that he had not his pen and tablets, to note down every word. Relief, however, more substantial was at hand. The robbers |