so dear to euphony and orthography, is a large, well-printed book, of 327 pages; its name is "Frontenac.' It is written by a gentleman who glories in the name of STREET, and who, on that account alone, cannot object to be "walked into." In sober seriousness, a more curious book than this we never opened; curious for the hallucination of mind under which it must have been written; since, from the gravity of the author's preface, it is plain, that he expected his most extraordinary vocabulary of names would have produced a serious effect upon the reader, instead of the convulsions of laughter they assuredly will bring on any person who attempts their pronunciation. We shall presently give abundant instances of this peculiarity, even at that risk to our readers and ourselves. The subject of the poem is the invasion of the Iroquois territory, by the French Canadians, under Count Frontenac, in the year 1696, with all the horrors and atrocities that produced that invasion and accompanied it. There is very considerable power in parts, but there is far too much scalping, even for Indian warfare, and disgust, consequently, takes the place of terror. The redeeming portions of the book are occasional descriptions of the strange animal and vegetable life, and the sudden revival of nature in the Canadian forests, a few of which are really beautiful; some of these, at least, we shall extract. But his enthusiasm for Indian nomenclature, indulged in the way he has indulged it, would have destroyed the work even of a true poet, if we can imagine any one so constituted giving way to such absurdity. What can we say to a man who calls the vine "sa-ha-we," and a wolf" ta-yo-nee;" a crow, "kah-kah;" and a kettle, "kun-a-tah?" Is it to make us shun the evil spirit the more that we are obliged to speak of him as "Hah-no-gah-ate-gah, a word to make his brother imp, the printer's devil, go mad? Has "Yu-we-lon-doh ' the swiftness of the wind; or "Tah-wonne-whus, the rapid flash of the lightning, both of which objects he informs us they express. Would we recognise our old cunning friend the fox, under the appellation of "ska-nux-heh," or 64 aurora under the disguise of "thuren-se-rah?" And yet, these names, and many more, glare on us from every page, like the fiery glances of his own Indians from the thick jungle of his lines. It is really the most uncomfortaable book that in all our critical explorings we have ever met with, often as we have attempted to penetrate the boundless wilderness of verse, in the hope of meeting with the faint trail of the true poetical moccasin somewhere on its surface. What critic, however courageous, would venture to express an unfavourable opinion of this book, if his fancy pictures to itself, the offended poet brandishing a remorseless goose quill over his head, and singing the following "war song,' which he fears is addressed to him. self: "Hooh! hooh! how the panther springs, As flies the deer on affrighted wings!" (We have winged bulls and lions from Nineveh. Why not winged deer from Canada?)— "Hooh! hooh! how he rends his prey! So will the On-on-dah-gahs slay! Hooh! whoop! how he rends his prey! So will the On-on-dah-gahs slay! "Hooh! hooh! how the eagle screams, As the blood of the fawn from his talons streams! Hooh! hooh! how the woods ring out! p. 61. Lord save us! we feel a cold shudder run through us, the light leaves our eyes, and it is only by applying our finger to the "ambrosial curls" with which we "nod" (too often, we fear), that we satisfy ourselves that our "dome of thought" does not bear a close but disagreeable resemblance to “the scalp.” We have said, that our author gives occasionally a pleasing description of the sights and sounds that gladden "the emerald woods" of Canada, in early summer. Here is one:— Frontenac, a Poem." By Alfred B. Street. London: Richard Bentley, New Burlington-street. "With plumes were tipped the beechen sprays; The birch long dangling tassels showed; Of gorgeous red the maple glowed; Like spots of snow the boughs among; Where day its kindliest glances flung, The 'customed roof and porch to greet; Her limping lure the partridge tried; Was the rich hummingbird descried." But his descriptions are not always so successful, as in the following in stance : "So still the scene, the river's lapse Or the important incident which is Within a watery streak was steering, Dipping his green head in the flood, When, quick his bill of yellow rearing, With a loud whiz he flew away."—p. 72. We have not yet introduced our Indian warriors, of whose names we are tempted to make a litany, after the manner Southey availed himself of the Russian generals' patronymics, in his "March to Moscow." The achievement, however, is not worth the trouble, slight and easy though it would be. For we have "Sa-ha-wee" and "To-yo-nee," And "Non-yon-de-yoh,” and “Hah-wen-ne yo," And On-on-dah-gah" and "Co-ha-ta-te yah, And "At-o-tar-ho" and "Icar-jis-ta-yo," And "Hah-yah-do-yah" and "To-ne-sahha," And "Oawah-nah-dah-gah" and "Hahyah-do-yah," And "Nu-sill-i-mak-i-nak" (With which we haven't the knack And there we will find "Ad-in-on-dack,” For that, and for this we have "Ho-nontkohs." That our readers may not imagine we are attempting to impose on them by fictitious names, we beg to present them with the following exact quotations, with which we shall conclude: "Brave Skan-an-do-ah, at a stride, Stood by the Atotarho's side; 'Ho-nont-kohs! Brothers!' shouted he, 'Peal out your whoops!' And loud and free The brothers swelled the piercing sound, Crowding the Atotarho round. Ye-an-te-kah-noh sent his cry; Shrill echoed Yu-we-lon-doh's by, And Ka-i-na-tra pealed his high, All, save Ska-nux-hah."-p. 210. Or this, which we find a few pages farther on : "Shame, warriors of the Long House! Shame! Scorn Yon-non-de-yoh's thunder flame. Have you forgot that here is burning The pure Ho-de-no-sonne fire? Rather than, from its splendour turning, Leave it to Yon-non-de-yoh's spurning, Around it glad should all expire." p. 203. We could multiply examples, but they are unnecessary. The only slight glimmering conception the author seems to have had of the terrible effect of his proper (?) names steals out in the last line of the following quotation. It is the only true and honest confession in the whole book: "Then towards the earth, and then around in air, The first imploring Ha-wen-ne-yo's care, The next to soothe dark Ha-ne-go-ate-geh, The last to make all evil Genii flee !" p. 200. AND ALL GOOD GENII, TOO, IF SUCH THERE BE, SAY WE, LEAVES FROM THE PORTFOLIO OF A MANAGER. NO. VII. A PEEP BEHIND THE SCENES DURING THE REHEARSAL OF A PANTOMIME. GENTLE reader, I take it for granted you are theatrical. That you love Shakspeare, Otway, Goldsmith, Sheridan, Knowles, and Bulwer; and that you repudiate Collier, Bedford, Styles* et id genus omne. That you consider a comic pantomime as the first of human inventions, and the humours of the Clown and Pantaloon as the climax of earthly ingenuity. That you invariably accompany your thirteen children on the juvenile night, and that until the recurring anniversary, your ears are tingling, and your heart glowing with the recollection of the unsophisticated shouts of ecstacy, proceeding from the thousand and one urchins congregated together on that memorable occasion. That you look back on it as a green oasis in your pilgrimage through life's desert, and that you compassionate, with gentle benignity, those mistaken ascetics who hold it for a sin and a shame to laugh or be amused. These postulata being duly required and accorded, we shall understand each other perfectly, and travel merrily together through this article. Without them, all that follows will be unto you a sealed book, even as an original chapter from the "ShahNameh of the illustrious Ferdusi." "Have you ever witnessed the rehearsal of a pantomime?" You answer, "No." "Would you like to be present (or in Anglo-Gallic, to assist) at this operation?" Undoubtedly you would. Well then, make interest with the manager (I will impart to you privately how this is to be effected), and the next time a full rehearsal occurs, having possessed yourself of an "open sesame," enter by the mysterious portal called the stage-door, which, being opened, discloses a dingy, darksome, cavernous-looking aperture, unconscious of paint or whitewash within the memory of that still more mysterious personage, the oldest living inhabi tant. You will find this passage guarded by an official janitor or Cerberus, whose orders are to admit none but the duly qualified, and to reject all intruders firmly, but with the most perfect politeness. The last clause in his instructions he interprets much after the fashion of soldiers, when told to be particularly civil to suspicious looking gentlemen in red waistcoats, faded leathers, and shabby tops,† who are sometimes observed prowling about the barrack square. Look well before you as you ascend a flight of time-worn, discoloured stairs, long innocent of soap or scrubbing brush. There are generally loose pieces of timber, with ragged ends and many protruding nails, scaffold poles, trestles, and stage boxes, with a barrel or two of whiting blocking up the way. They were placed there by nobody, but came of their own accord, or by vis inertiæ, or in the lapse of ages, or by some geological phenomenon, similar to that which transports boulders of granite from the fells of Cumberland to the alluvial flats of Yorkshire; or perhaps by magic, as (according to Geoffrey of Monmouth) Merlin whisked over the huge blocks of Stonehenge from Ireland to Salisbury plain. But no matter through what agency, there are these gentle impediments to your onward progress, glowing with malice prepense, and ready to break your shins or your neck, for aught they know or care to the contrary. You will pass through several cross doors, constructed to exclude killing draughts, and peremptorily ordered to be kept shut under dismal penalties, for which reason they are always left open, more particularly in winter. If any of the self-acting springs should happen not to be broken, these doors • Three well-known anti-dramatists, of whom more on a future opportunity. This used to be the distinguishing uniform of the sons of Agrippa, but in imitation of their betters, and following the march of improvement, they are beginning to abolish peculiarity of costume. Two are held forcibly back by large stones, or the hinges are taken off, or some other diabolical contrivance is hit upon to save the carpenters time and trouble in bringing up heavy pieces of machinery from the lower tier or hold of the vessel. In passing up this perilous defile, you may chance to hear strange noises and see unwonted sights. or three savage looking dogs who bite nobody, a harmless cat or so, and some sleek, plumpish rats who creep lazily away. Your safest course is to follow the example of the Princess Parizade— stuff your ears with cotton, look neither to the right nor the left, but go steadily on till you have gained the top. So far all is well, but now your dif ficulties and dangers seriously increase. In crossing the stage, be cautious lest you should disappear into the cellar, through a vampire, a scruto, a counterpoise, or an unclosing slider; or through the large gruve-trap, which is wide open, and yawning for its prey. Be ware of passing under heavy weights suspended by imperceptible wires. Tread not on platforms, and other deceptions made of treacherous hollow canvass, but painted to resemble solid rocks, substantial bridges, green banks, garden seats, and other seductive resting-places, with such unprincipled fidelity, that even Zeuxis himself would have been tempted to lay down on one of these back-breaking unsubstantialities. Every thing around, above, below, before, behind, and on each side of you, is as completely an optical delusion, as the mirage in the Arabian Wilderness, or the Fata Morgana, which Swinburne, Brydone, and others have described, but which no traveller ever saw, in the Straits of Messina. Take care not to tread on the tail of a dragon, the belly of a boa constrictor, or the legs of a bull. Each contains an experienced human artist, engaged expressly for the occasion, and who has been long celebrated for interpreting his role with singular ability. If you lame either of them inadvertently, the pantomime will halt along with the injured individual, and the authorities will bless your awkwardness in complimentary exclamations. To escape safely from these and many other similar perils, you require the clue of Ariadne, which you cannot borrow; but you may remember and avail yourself of the injunction de livered to Fitzjames in the Lady of the Lake : "On Heaven and on your lady call, Then pass on boldly, and when by good luck or dexterity you have steered through these quicksands without collision or casualty, ensconce yourself snugly in the corner of a private box, and watch the proceedings. You are as completely in a new world as Columbus and his companions were when they first set foot on the shore of Guanahani. In half an hour you will say to yourself, as Macbeth does : "Can such things be, And overcome us like a summer cloud, Without our special wonder !" You shall see greater marvels than were seen by Astolfo, when, mounted on his Hippogriff, he fled up to the moon to search for the wits of Orlando, and came back again to tell of what he saw, with no one to contradict him. You shall behold a host of people dressed in the most fantastic habits, and performing the most unaccountable evolutions. You shall hear your own language so smothered up under incomprehensible technicalities, that you try in vain to recognise it. You shall listen to many jokes, good and bad, old and new, conventional and traditionary, studied and extemporaneous. You shall witness feats of activity, which cause your own eyes to turn round and look at you, and acts of stupidity which would have rendered the great patriarch impatient. You shall see twelve supernumeraries with thirteen steps, a thing supposed hitherto to be physically impossible. You shall perceive much time lost in waiting for effects which are never produced, a vast expenditure of lungs which might have been spared, with some fearful explosions of passion, which do no good. Your ears may be occasionally shocked by an objurgatory expletive, and now and then relieved by a general burst of merriment, when the manager has said something which all are obliged to consider funny. Woe be to the subordinate, whether actor, musician, chorus-singer, supernumerary, or scene-shifter, who laughs not, as in duty bound, at the smart sayings of his employer. Finally, you will go away in a state of bewildered excitement, perhaps, as the poet says, "in spir'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd," but certainly convinced that a pantomime is the most impossible of all impossible undertakings; that it never was, is, or can be ready, and that its arriving on the first night at the last scene, can only be brought about by a monster miracle. And now, having played away the overture, "up with the curtain," as Mr. Puff says in the Critic, "and let us see what the scene painters have done for us." The prompter rings the bell, the curtain rises, and discovers the front of the stage entirely covered with huge heads, grotesque helmets and turbans, nondescript weapons of every shape and size, wings large and small, vases of flowers, wedges of precious metals, trophies, banners, clusters of rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and diamonds, each twenty times larger than the Koh-i-noor, with monstrous images of Fo, Buddha, Vishnoo, Brama, Arimanes, Ashtaroth, Thabeck, Izrafil, and many other imaginary eastern deities or dæmons, in solid gold, with twenty legs, four faces, a dozen arms, and eighteen pair of eyes. Behind, are standing, in an irregular mass, the "ladies and gentlemen," waiting to receive their properties, as they are called, and then to be marshalled into an interminable procession, winding out of the back scene room, with slow, majestic movement; in number, splendour. and novelty of arrangement, far excelling any thing of the same kind ever before attempted in any theatre. The manager stands in the front, and looks and feels as important as Napoleon on the eve of Austerlitz, or Wellington on the morning of Waterloo. "Let all take their properties and go to their places!" In a few moments the stage is cleared, and nothing remains but a stray head or so, belonging to a careless supernumerary, who, after much shouting of "Whose head is this?" comes forward and acknow. ledges it for his own. Now all appears ready for a start. The rehearsal was called at ten for half past, and we have got on to half past twelve. The manager evinces symptoms of impatience. "If we don't begin," says he, "we shall never end." This being joke the first, and also a self-evident truism, the gentlemen of the orchestra laugh immoderately, which puts every body in spirits. first scene, on which so much depends? Where's the haunt of the fairies, the magician's cave, the transparent lake, and the fountain of despair? Where's the floating island, drawn by dolphins, to change into the car with flying dragons?" "Not ready yet, sir," says the prompter, who has been bustling about to expedite matters. Mr. Sloman says you must give him ten minutes more, and he'll have all right." "Ten minutes! I know what his ten minutes are; he promised to be ready by eleven, and it's now close on one. But we must give him the time, because he'll take it, which comes to the same end by a dif. ferent road." Joke the second, which goes off rather flatly. "In the meanwhile we can go through the procession, the double combats, and the dances. Are all your dancers here?" "No, sir, Mademoiselle Pirouette has sent an apology." "What's the matter with her? "She has got a bad thumb." "A bad thumb! Humbug! She doesn't dance with her thumb; send and tell her she must come here directly." Joke the third, on the thumb, makes a decided hit, and produces a general roar, All that has been proposed, to fill up time, is gone through with indifferent success. In the combats, three swords are shivered, and two heads are cut open; but as stage swords are blunt, and theatrical craniums are tolerably hard, the wounded are still fit for duty. The dancers are packed off to the saloon, to leave room for the procession, which is repeated seven times, each repetition being so much worse than the former one, that at last the manager is worn out; he gives up in utter hopelessness, and says, "it must take its chance." It is now two o'clock, and neither scene nor mechanist have yet made their appearance. "Where is Mr. Sloman? roars the manager. "Mr. Sloman! Mr. Sloman!" echoes the prompter, and the name is reiterated all round the theatre, for several minutes. At last, a voice from the cellar, in faintish accents, respondsComing, sir, in a moment.” “What are you doing there, when we want you here?" "I am fixing the sloats and counterweights, for the last scene." "Hang the last scene!" "That's exactly what I am doing, sir!" This ap posite reply produces a general laugh. "How shall we ever get to the last, if 66 |