And far up in heaven near the white sunny cloud,
The song of the lark was melodious and loud,

And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, lengthened and deep,
Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep.

And Wellwood's sweet valleys breathed music and
gladness,
The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness;
Its daughters were happy to hail the returning,
And drink the delights of July's sweet morning.
But, oh! there were hearts cherished far other feelings,
Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings,
Who drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow,
For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-

morrow.

'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were lying,

Concealed 'mong the mist where the heathfowl was crying,

For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering,

classes. The increased competition in business has also made our nation of shopkeepers' a busier and harder-working race than their forefathers; and the diffusion of cheap literature may have further tended tainment for the masses at home at a cheaper rate to thin the theatres, as furnishing intellectual enterthan dramatic performances. The London managers appear to have had considerable influence in this matter. They lavish enormous sums on scenic decoration and particular actors, and aim rather at filling their houses by some ephemeral and dazzling display, than by the liberal encouragement of native talent and genius. To improve, or rather re-establish the acted drama, a periodical writer suggests that there should be a classification of theatres in the metropolis, as in Paris, where each theatre has its distinct species of the drama, and performs it well. We believe,' he endeavour of managers to succeed by commixing says, that the evil is mainly occasioned by the vain every species of entertainment-huddling together tragedy, comedy, farce, melo-drama, and spectacleand striving, by alternate exhibitions, to draw all

And their bridle reins rung through the thin misty the dramatic public to their respective houses. Imcovering.

Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed,

But the vengeance that darkened their brow was un-
breathed;

With eyes turned to heaven in calm resignation,
They sung their last song to the God of Salvation.
The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing,
The curlew and plover in concert were singing;
But the melody died 'mid derision and laughter,
As the host of ungodly rushed on to the slaughter.
Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were
shrouded,

perfect-very imperfect companies for each species are engaged; and as, in consequence of the general imperfection, they are forced to rely on individual excellence, individual performers become of inordinate importance, and the most exorbitant salaries are given to procure them. These individuals are thus placed in a false position, and indulge themselves in all sorts of mannerisms and absurdities. The

public is not unreasonably dissatisfied with imperfect companies and bad performances; the managers wonder at their ruin; and critics become elegiacal over the mournful decline of the drama! Not in this way can a theatre flourish; since, if one species of performance proves attractive, the others are at a discount, and their companies become useless burdens; if none of them prove attractive, then the loss ends in ruin.'* Too many instances of this have occurred within the last twenty years. Whenever a play of real excellence has been brought forward, the public has shown no insensibility to its merits; but so many circumstances are requisite to its successful repre

Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded, Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, firm and unbending, They stood like the rock which the thunder is rending. The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming, The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was stream-sentation-so expensive are the companies, and so ing,

The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling, When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling.

When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was
ended,

A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended;
Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness,
And its burning wheels turned on axles of brightness.
A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining,
All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining,
And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation,
Have mounted the chariots and steeds of salvation.

On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding,
Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are
riding;

Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before ye,
A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory!

DRAMATISTS.

Dramatic literature no longer occupies the prominent place it held in former periods of our history. Various causes have been assigned for this declineas, the great size of the theatres, the monopoly of the two large London houses, the love of spectacle or scenic display which has usurped the place of the legitimate drama, and the late dinner hours now prevalent among the higher and even the middle

capricious the favourite actors that men of talent are averse to hazard a competition. The true dramatic talent is also a rare gift. Some of the most eminent poets have failed in attempting to portray actual life and passion in interesting situations on the stage; and as Fielding and Smollett proved unsuccessful in comedy (though the former wrote a number of pieces), so Byron and Scott were found wanting in the qualities requisite for the tragic drama. It is evident,' says Campbell, that Melpomene demands on the stage something, and a good deal more, than even poetical talent, rare as that is. She requires a potent and peculiar faculty for the invention of incident adapted to theatric effect; a faculty which may often exist in those who have been bred to the stage, but which, generally speaking, has seldom been shown by any poets who were not professional players. There are exceptions to the remark, but there are not many. If Shakspeare had not been a player, he would not have been the dramatist that he is.' Dryden, Addison, and Congreve, are conspicuous exceptions to this rule; also Goldsmith in comedy, and, in our own day, Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer in the romantic drama. The Colmans, Sheridan, Morton, and Reynolds, never, we believe, wore the sock or buskin; but they were either managers, or closely connected with the theatre.

* Edinburgh Review for 1843.

In the first year of this period, ROBERT JEPHSON (1736-1803) produced his tragedy of The Count of Narbonne, copied from Walpole's Castle of Otranto, and it was highly attractive on the stage. In 1785 Jephson brought out another tragedy, The Duke of Braganza, which was equally successful. He wrote three other tragedies, some farces, and operas; but the whole are now utterly neglected. Jephson was no great dramatic writer; but a poetical critic has recorded to his honour, that, at a time when the native genius of tragedy seemed to be extinct, he came boldly forward as a tragic poet, and certainly with a spark of talent; for if he has not the full flame of genius, he has at least its scintillating light.' The dramatist was an Irishman by birth, a captain in the army, and afterwards a member of the Irish House of Commons.

associates! partners of my toil, my feelings, and my fame! Can Rolla's words add vigour to the virtuous energies which inspire your hearts? No! you have judged, as I have, the foulness of the crafty plea by which these bold invaders would delude you. Your generous spirit has compared, as mine has, the motives which, in a war like this, can animate their minds and ours. They, by a strange frenzy driven, fight for power, for plunder, and extended rule. We, for our country, our altars, and our homes. They follow an adventurer whom they fear, and a power which they hate. We serve a monarch whom we love-a God whom we adore! Where'er they move in anger, desolation tracks their progress; where'er they pause in amity, affliction mourns their friendship. They boast they come but to improve our state, enlarge our thoughts, and free us from the yoke of error. Yes, they will give enlightened freedom to our minds, who are themselves the slaves of passion, avarice, and pride. They offer us their protection; yes, such protection as vultures give to lambs-covering and devouring them! They call on us to barter all of good we have inherited and proved, for the desperate chance of something better which they promise. Be our plain answer this: the throne we honour is the people's choice; the laws we reverence are our brave fathers' legacy; the faith we follow teaches us to live in bonds of charity with all mankind, and die with hopes of bliss beyond the grave. Tell your invaders this, and tell them, too, we seek no change, and least of all such change as they would bring us.'

The stage was aroused from a state of insipidity or degeneracy by the introduction of plays from the German, which, amidst much false and exaggerated sentiment, appealed to the stronger sympathies of our nature, and drew crowded audiences to the theatres. One of the first of these was The Stranger, said to be translated by Benjamin Thompson; but the greater part of it, as it was acted, was the production of Sheridan. It is a drama of domestic life, not very moral or beneficial in its tendencies (for it is calculated to palliate our detestation of adultery), yet abounding in scenes of tenderness and surprise, well adapted to produce effect on the stage. The principal characters were acted by Kemble and Mrs Siddons, and when it was brought out in the season of 1797-8, it was received with immense applause. In Animated apostrophes like these, rolled from 1799 Sheridan adapted another of Kotzebue's plays, the lips of Kemble, and applied, in those days Pizarro, which experienced still greater success. In of war, to British valour and patriotism arrayed the former drama the German author had violated against France, could hardly fail of an enthusiastic the proprieties of our moral code, by making an in- reception. A third drama by Kotzebue was some jured husband take back his guilty though penitent years afterwards adapted for the English stage by wife; and in Pizarro he has invested a fallen female Mrs Inchbald, and performed under the title of with tenderness, compassion, and heroism. The obtru- Lovers' Vows. 'The grand moral of the play is sion of such a character as a prominent figure in the to set forth the miserable consequences which arise scene was at least indelicate; but, in the hands of Mrs from the neglect, and to enforce the watchful care Siddons, the taint was scarcely perceived, and Sheri- of illegitimate offspring; and surely as the pulpit dan had softened down the most objectionable parts. has not had eloquence to eradicate the crime of The play was produced with all the aids of splendid seduction, the stage may be allowed a humble enscenery, music, and fine acting, and these, together deavour to prevent its most fatal effects.' Lovers' with its displays of generous and heroic feeling on Vows also became a popular acting play, for stage the part of Rolla, and of parental affection in Alonzo effect was carefully studied, and the scenes and and Cora, were calculated to lead captive a general situations skilfully arranged. While filling the audience. Its subject was also new, and peculiarly theatres, Kotzebue's plays were generally condemned fortunate. It brought the adventures of the most by the critics. They cannot be said to have proromantic kingdom of Christendom (Spain) into pic-duced any permanent bad effect on our national turesque combination with the simplicity and super-morals, but they presented many false and pernicious stitions of the transatlantic world; and gave the imagination a new and fresh empire of paganism, with its temples, and rites, and altars, without the stale associations of pedantry.' Some of the sentiments and descriptions in Pizarro are said to have originally formed part of Sheridan's famous speech on the impeachment of Warren Hastings! They are often inflated and bombastic, and full of rhetorical glitter. Thus Rollo soliloquises in Alonzo's dungeon: O holy Nature! thou dost never plead in vain. There is not of our earth a creature, bearing form and life, human or savage, native of the forest wild or giddy air, around whose parent bosom thou hast not a cord entwined of power to tie them to their offspring's claims, and at thy will to draw them back to thee. On iron pinions borne the blood-stained vulture cleaves the storm, yet is the plumage closest to her heart soft as the cygnet's down; and o'er her unshelled brood the murmuring ring-dove sits not more gently.'

Or the speech of Rolla to the Peruvian army at the consecration of the banners:- My brave

pictures to the mind. There is an affectation,' as Scott remarks, 'of attributing noble and virtuous sentiments to the persons least qualified by habit or education to entertain them; and of describing the higher and better educated classes as uniformly de ficient in those feelings of liberality, generosity, and honour, which may be considered as proper to their situation in life. This contrast may be true in particular instances, and being used sparingly, might afford a good moral lesson; but in spite of truth and probability, it has been assumed, upon all occasions, by those authors as the groundwork of a sort of intellectual Jacobinism.' Scott himself, it will be recollected, was fascinated by the German drama, and translated a play of Goethe. The excesses of Kotzebue were happily ridiculed by Canning and Ellis in their amusing satire, The Rovers. At length, after a run of unexampled success, these plays ceased to attract attention, though one or two are still occasionally performed. With all their absurdities, we cannot but believe that they exercised an inspiring influence on the rising genius of that age.

They dealt with passions, not with manners, and
awoke the higher feelings and sensibilities of our
nature. Good plays were also mingled with the
bad: if Kotzebue was acted, Goëthe and Schiller
were studied.
The Wallenstein was translated by
Coleridge, and the influence of the German drama
was felt by most of the young poets.

One of those who imbibed a taste for the marvellous and the romantic from this source was MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS, whose drama, The Castle Spectre, was produced in 1797, and was performed about sixty successive nights. It is full of supernatural horrors, deadly revenge, and assassination, with touches of poetical feeling, and some well-each to the elucidation of one passion, appears cermanaged scenes. In the same year Lewis adapted a tragedy from Schiller, entitled The Minister; and this was followed by a succession of dramatic pieces -Rolla, a tragedy, 1799; The East Indian, a comedy, 1800; Adelmorn, or the Outlaw, a drama, 1801; Rugantio, a melo-drama, 1805; Adelgitha, a play, 1806; Venoni, a drama, 1809; One o' Clock, or the Knight and Wood Demon, 1811; Timour the Tartar, a melo-drama, 1812; and Rich and Poor, a comic opera, 1812. The Castle Spectre is still occasionally performed; but the diffusion of a more sound and healthy taste in literature has banished the other dramas of Lewis equally from the stage and the press. To the present generation they are unknown. They were fit companions for the ogres, giants, and Blue-beards of the nursery tales, and they have shared the same oblivion.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

The most important addition to the written drama at this time was the first volume of JOANNA BAILLIE's plays on the passions, published in 1798 under the title of A Series of Plays: in which it is attempted to Delineate the Stronger Passions of the Mind, each Passion being the subject of a Tragedy and a Comedy. To the volume was prefixed a long and interesting introductory discourse, in which the authoress discusses the subject of the drama in all its bearings, and asserts the supremacy of simple nature over all decoration and refinement. Let one simple trait of the human heart, one expression of passion, genuine and true to nature, be introduced, and it will stand forth alone in the boldness of reality, whilst the false and unnatural around it fades away upon every side, like the rising exhalations of the morning.' This theory (which anticipated the dissertations and most of the poetry of Wordsworth) the accomplished dramatist illustrated in her plays, the merits of which were instantly recognised, and a second edition called for in a few months. Miss Baillie was then in the thirty-fourth year of her age. In 1802 she published a second volume, and in 1812 a third. In the interval she had produced a volume of miscellaneous dramas (1804), and The Family Legend (1810), a tragedy founded on a Highland tradition, and brought out with success at the Edinburgh theatre. In 1836 this authoress published three more volumes of plays, her career as a dramatic writer thus extending over the long period of thirtyeight years. Only one of her dramas has ever been performed on the stage: De Montfort was brought out by Kemble shortly after its appearance, and was acted eleven nights. It was again introduced in 1821, to exhibit the talents of Kean in the character of De Montfort; but this actor remarked that, though a fine poem, it would never be an acting play. The author who mentions this circumstance, remarks :'If Joanna Baillie had known the stage practically, she would never have attached the importance which she does to the development of single passions in

single tragedies; and she would have invented more
stirring incidents to justify the passion of her cha-
racters, and to give them that air of fatality which,
though peculiarly predominant in the Greek drama,
will also be found, to a certain extent, in all success-
ful tragedies. Instead of this, she contrives to make
all the passions of her main characters proceed from
the wilful natures of the beings themselves. Their
feelings are not precipitated by circumstances, like
a stream down a declivity, that leaps from rock to
rock; but, for want of incident, they seem often like
water on a level, without a propelling impulse."*
The design of Miss Baillie in restricting her dramas
tainly to have been an unnecessary and unwise re-
straint, as tending to circumscribe the business of
the piece, and exclude the interest arising from
varied emotions and conflicting passions. It cannot
be said to have been successful in her own case, and
it has never been copied by any other author. Sir
Walter Scott has eulogised Basil's love and Mont-
fort's hate' as something like a revival of the in-
spired strain of Shakspeare. The tragedies of Count
Basil and De Montfort are among the best of Miss
Baillie's plays; but they are more like the works of
Shirley, or the serious parts of Massinger, than the
glorious dramas of Shakspeare, so full of life, of in-
cident, and imagery. Miss Baillie's style is smooth
and regular, and her plots are both original and
carefully constructed; but she has no poetical luxu-
riance, and few commanding situations. Her tragic
scenes are too much connected with the crime of
murder, one of the easiest resources of a tragedian;
and partly from the delicacy of her sex, as well as
from the restrictions imposed by her theory of com-
position, she is deficient in that variety and fulness
of passion, the 'form and pressure' of real life, which
are so essential on the stage. The design and plot
of her dramas are obvious almost from the first act
-a circumstance that would be fatal to their suc-
cess in representation. The unity and intellectual
completeness of Miss Baillie's plays are their most
striking characteristics. Her simple masculine style,
so unlike the florid or insipid sentimentalism then
prevalent, was a bold innovation at the time of her
two first volumes; but the public had fortunately
taste enough to appreciate its excellence.
Baillie was undoubtedly a great improver of our
poetical diction.

[Scene from De Montfort.]

Miss

[De Montfort explains to his sister Jane his hatred of Rezen

velt, which at last hurries him into the crime of murder. The
gradual deepening of this malignant passion, and its frightful
catastrophe, are powerfully depicted. We may remark, that the
character of De Montfort, his altered habits and appearance
after his travels, his settled gloom, and the violence of his pas-
sions, seem to have been the prototype of Byron's Manfred and
Lara.]

De Mon. No more, my sister, urge me not again;
From all participation of its thoughts
My secret troubles cannot be revealed.
My heart recoils: I pray thee be contented.

Jane. What! must I, like a distant humble friend,
Observe thy restless eye and gait disturbed
In timid silence, whilst with yearning heart
I turn aside to weep? O no, De Montfort!
A nobler task thy nobler mind will give;
Thy true intrusted friend I still shall be.

De Mon. Ah, Jane, forbear! I cannot e'en to thee.
Jane. Then fie upon it! fie upon it, Montfort!
There was a time when e'en with murder stained,
Had it been possible that such dire deed

*Campbell's Life of Mrs Siddons.

De Mon. Oh, Jane, thou dost constrain me with thy Strive bravely with it; drive it from thy heart; love

Shall, thundering loud, strike on the distant ear Of 'nighted travellers, who shall gladly bend Their doubtful footsteps towards the cheering din. worth-Solemn, and grave, and cloistered, and demure We shall not be. Will this content ye, damsels ? Every season

Jane. Oh! wouldst thou kill me with these dread-Or lonely tower, from its brown mass of woods,