calm; his friends became uneasy, but still his optimism prevailed; he could afford to wait. And although he did at last admit the great movement was somewhat tardy, and that the audience seemed rather patient than interested, he did not lose his confidence till the tumult arose, and then he submitted with quiet dignity to the fate of genius, too lofty to be understood by a world as yet in its childhood.' The next new play was also by a man of distinguished genius, and it also was unsuccessful. Julian and Agnes, by WILLIAM SOTHEBY, the translator of Oberon, was acted April 25, 1800. 'In the course of its performance, Mrs Siddons, as the heroine, had to make her exit from the scene with an infant in her arms. Having to retire precipitately, she inadvertently struck the baby's head violently against a door-post. Happily, the little thing was made of wood, so that her doll's accident only produced a general laugh, in which the actress herself joined heartily.' This 'untoward event' would have marred the success of any new tragedy; but Mr Sotheby's is deficient in arrangement and dramatic art. The tragedies of Coleridge, Scott, Byron, Procter, and Milman-noticed in our account of these poets-must be considered as poems rather than plays. Coleridge's Remorse was acted with some success in 1813, aided by fine original music, but it has not since been revived. It contains, however, some of Coleridge's most exquisite poetry and wild superstition, with a striking romantic plot. We extract one scene : Incantation Scene from 'Remorse. Scene-A Hall of Armoury, with an altar at the back of the stage. Soft music from an instrument of glass or steel. VALDEZ, ORDONIO, and ALVAR in a Sorcerer's robe, are discovered. Ordonio. This was too melancholy, father. My Alvar loved sad music from a child. Some strangely moving notes; and these, he said, His head upon the blind boy's dog. It pleased me Alvar. My tears must not flow! I must not clasp his knees, and cry, 'My father!' Enter TERESA and Attendants. Teresa. Lord Valdez, you have asked my presence here, And I submit; but-Heaven bear witness for meMy heart approves it not! 'tis mockery. Ord. Believe you, then, no preternatural influence? Believe you not that spirits throng around us? Ter. Say rather that I have imagined it To traffic with the black and frenzied hope That the dead hear the voice of witch or wizard. [To Alvar.] Stranger, I mourn and blush to see you here Hear our soft suit, and heed my milder spell : Who in broad circle, lovelier than the rainbow, Ye, as ye pass, toss high the desert sands, [Here, behind the scenes, a voice sings the three Soul of Alvar! Pass visible before our mortal sense! So shall the church's cleansing rites be thine, Her knells and masses, that redeem the dead! Song behind the scenes, accompanied by the same instrument as before. Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell, Shall the chanters, sad and saintly, Hark! the cadence dies away On the yellow moonlight sea: [A long pause. Ord. The innocent obey nor charm nor spell! My brother is in heaven. Thou sainted spirit, Burst on our sight, a passing visitant! Once more to hear thy voice, once more to see thee, Oh, 'twere a joy to me! Alv. A joy to thee! What if thou heardst him now? What if his spirit Re-entered its cold corse, and came upon thee With many a stab from many a murderer's poniard? What if his steadfast eye still beaming pity Ord. [Struggling with his feelings.] Yes, my father, He is in heaven! Alv. [Still to Ordonio.] But what if he had a Who had lived even so, that at his dying hour Vald. Idly prating man! Thou hast guessed ill: Don Alvar's only brother Alv. [Still to Ordonio.] What if his very virtues [Music again. Yet Alvar's memory! Hark! I make appeal 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 appearintroduced in 1821, to exhibit the talents of Kean ance, and was acted eleven nights. It was again 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 characters, 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 successful 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 each to the elucidation of one passion, appears certainly to have been an unnecessary and unwise restraint, 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 That voice which whispers, when the still heart listens, Montfort's hate' as something like a revival of the Comfort and faithful hope! Let us retire. 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 thirtyfourth 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 inspired 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 incident, and imagery. Miss Baillie's style is smooth and regular, and her plots are both original and carefully constructed; but she has no poetical luxuriance, 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 composition, 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 success in representation. Scene from De Montfort. De Montfort explains to his sister Jane his hatred of Rezenvelt, 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 his settled gloom, and the violence of his passions, seem to have De Montfort, his altered habits and appearance after his travels, been the prototype of Byron's Manfred and Lara. De Montfort. No more, my sister; urge me not My secret troubles cannot be revealed. 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 Could e'er have been the crime of one so piteous, De Mon. So would I now-but ask of this no more. All other troubles but the one I feel I have disclosed to thee. I pray thee, spare me. It is the secret weakness of my nature. Jane. Then secret let it be: I urge no further. The eldest of our valiant father's hopes, So sadly orphaned: side by side we stood, Like two young trees, whose boughs in early strength I have so long, as if by nature's right, Thy bosom's inmate and adviser been, I thought through life I should have so remained, De Mon. O Jane, thou dost constrain me with thy love Would I could tell it thee! Jane. Thou shalt not tell it me. Nay, I'll stop mine ears, Nor from the yearnings of affection wring What shrinks from utterance. Let it pass, my brother. Or nobler science, that compels the mind Till thou, with brow unclouded, smil'st again; Fane. Ah! say not so, for I will haunt thee too, And be to it so close an adversary, That, though I wrestle darkling with the fiend, De Mon. Thou most generous woman! Jane. What say'st thou, Montfort? Oh, what words are these! They have awaked my soul to dreadful thoughts. By the affection thou didst ever bear me ; Ha! wilt thou not? More rightful power than crown or sceptre give, I do command thee ! De Montfort, do not thus resist my love. Here I entreat thee on my bended knees. Alas, my brother! De Mon. [Raising her, and kneeling.] Thus let him kneel who should the abased be, And at thine honoured feet confession make. I'll tell thee all-but, oh! thou wilt despise me. For in my breast a raging passion burns, To which thy soul no sympathy will ownA passion which hath made my nightly couch A place of torment, and the light of day, With the gay intercourse of social man, Feel like the oppressive, airless pestilence. O Jane! thou wilt despise me. Jane. Say not so: I never can despise thee, gentle brother. De Mon. A lover's, say'st thou ? No, it is hate! black, lasting, deadly hate! Which thus hath driven me forth from kindred peace, From social pleasure, from my native home, To be a sullen wanderer on the earth, Avoiding all men, cursing and accursed! Jane. De Montfort, this is fiend-like, terrible! Could in thy breast such horrid tempest wake, Unknit thy brows, and spread those wrath-clenched hands. Some sprite accursed within thy bosom mates To work thy ruin. Strive with it, my brother! Strive bravely with it; drive it from thy heart; 'Tis the degrader of a noble heart. Curse it, and bid it part. De Mon. It will not part. I've lodged it here too long. Jane. Whom didst thou say? E'en in our early sports, like two young whelps Each 'gainst the other pitched his ready pledge, It drove me frantic. What, what would I give- Jane. And would thy hatred crush the very man To aim at his? Oh, this is horrible! De Mon. Ha! thou hast heard it, then! From all But most of all from thee, I thought it hid. Didst thou receive my letter? De Mon. I did! I did! 'Twas that which drove me hither. I could not bear to meet thine eye again. Jane. Alas! that, tempted by a sister's tears, I ever left thy house! These few past months, These absent months, have brought us all this woe. Had I remained with thee, it had not been. And yet, methinks, it should not move you thus. You dared him to the field; both bravely fought; He, more adroit, disarmed you; courteously Returned the forfeit sword, which, so returned, You did refuse to use against him more; And then, as says report, you parted friends. De Mon. When he disarmed this cursed, this worthless hand Of its most worthless weapon, he but spared Until that day, till that accursed day, I knew not half the torment of this hell Which burns within my breast. Heaven's lightnings blast him! Jane. Oh, this is horrible! Forbear, forbear! De Mon. Then let it light. Torments more fell than I have known already It cannot send. To be annihilated, What all men shrink from; to be dust, be nothing, Were bliss to me, compared to what I am! Jane. Oh, wouldst thou kill me with these dreadful words? De Mon. Let me but once upon his ruin look, Then close mine eyes for ever! Ha! how is this? Thou 'rt ill; thou 'rt very pale; I meant not to distress thee-O my sister! De Mon. I have killed thee. Turn, turn thee not away! Look on me still! Jane. Thou, too, De Montfort, In better days was wont to be my pride. De Mon. I am a wretch, most wretched in myself, He has spread misery o'er my fated life; Jane. I've held my warfare through a troubled world, And borne with steady mind my share of ill; Picture of a Country Life. Even now methinks Each little cottage of my native vale Swells out its earthen sides, upheaves its roof, And with green trail-weeds clambering up its walls, The flowers grow not too close; and there within I'll gather round my board All that Heaven sends to me of way-worn folks, And noble travellers, and neighbouring friends, Shall have its suited pastime even winter Fears of Imagination. Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast, Or boatmen's oar, as vivid lightning flash One hasty glance in mockery of the night Speech of Prince Edward in his Dungeon. Do the green woods dance to the wind? the lakes Do the flocks bleat, and the wild creatures bound Description of Jane de Montfort. The following has been pronounced to be a perfect picture of Page. Madam, there is a lady in your hall Page. So queenly, so commanding, and so noble, I shrunk at first in awe; but when she smiled, Methought I could have compassed sea and land To do her bidding. Lady. Is she young or old? Page. Neither, if right I guess; but she is fair, Lady. The foolish stripling! She has bewitched thee. Is she large in stature? Page. So stately and so graceful is her form, I thought at first her stature was gigantic ; But on a near approach, I found, in truth, She scarcely does surpass the middle size. Lady. What is her garb? Page. I cannot well describe the fashion of it: She is not decked in any gallant trim, But seems to me clad in her usual weeds Of high habitual state; for as she moves, Wide flows her robe in many a waving fold, As I have seen unfurled banners play With the soft breeze. Lady. Thine eyes deceive thee, boy; It is an apparition thou hast seen. Freberg. [Starting from his seat, where he has been sitting during the conversation between the Lady and the Page.] It is an apparition he has seen, Or it is Jane de Montfort. This is a powerful delineation. Sir Walter Scott conceived that Fear was the most dramatic passion touched by Miss Baillie, because capable of being drawn to the most extreme paroxysm on the stage. REV. CHARLES ROBERT MATURIN. The REV. CHARLES ROBERT MATURIN, author of several romances, produced a tragedy named Bertram, which, by the influence of Lord Byron, was brought out at Drury Lane in 1816. It was well received; and by the performance and publication of his play, the author realised about £1000. Sir Walter Scott considered the tragedy 'grand and powerful, the language most animated and poetical, and the characters sketched with a masterly enthusiasm.' The author was anxious to introduce Satan on the stage-a return to the style of the ancient mysteries by no means suited to modern taste. Mr Maturin was curate of St Peter's, Dublin. The scanty income derived from his curacy being insufficient for his comfortable maintenance, he employed himself in assisting young persons during their classical studies at Trinity College, Dublin. The novels of Maturin— which will be afterwards noticed-enjoyed considerable popularity; and had his prudence been equal to his genius, his life might have been passed in comfort and respect. He was, however, vain and extravagant-always in difficulties (Scott at one time generously sent him £50), and pursued by bailiffs. When this eccentric author was engaged in composition, he used to fasten a wafer on his forehead, which was the signal that if any of his family entered the sanctum they must not speak to him! The success of Bertram induced Mr Maturin to attempt another tragedy, Manuel, which he published in 1817. It is a very inferior production; the absurd work of a clever man,' says Byron. The unfortunate author died in Dublin on the 30th of October 1824. Scene from Bertram? Apassage of great poetical beauty,' says Sir Walter Scott, in which Bertram is represented as spurred to the commission of his great crimes by the direct agency of a supernatural and malevolent being.' PRIOR-BERTRAM. Prior. The dark knight of the forest, So from his armour named and sable helm, He dwells alone; no earthly thing lives near him, Save the hoarse raven croaking o'er his towers, Pri. Thou 'rt mad to take the quest. Within my memory One solitary man did venture there Dark thoughts dwelt with him, which he sought to vent. Unto that dark compeer we saw his steps, In winter's stormy twilight, seek that pass- Pri. The manner of his end was never known. Horrors to me are kindred and society. Or man, or fiend, he hath won the soul of Bertram. Bertram is afterwards discovered alone, wandering near the fatal tower, and describes the effect of the awful interview which he had courted. Bert. Was it a man or fiend? Whate'er it was, The invisible blast to which the dark pines groan, These sounds, of which the causes are not seen, I love, for they are, like my fate, mysterious! gloom, How spoke the eloquent silence of its motion, Forgotten thoughts of evil, still-born mischiefs, To bide the eternal summons I am not what I was since I beheld him- Enter two of his band, observing him. First Robber. Seest thou with what a step of pride he stalks? Thou hast the dark knight of the forest seen; For never man, from living converse come, Bert. [Turning on him suddenly.] Thy hand is |