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it not make with the most effective passages of our best tragedies? Look at the most inward and searching passages of the old English Drama, and it will be found that their effects ⚫ result from this happy mixture of the familiar with the poetical.-Hear Desdemona :

"My mother had a maid, call'd Barbara ; She was in love, and he she loved proved mad,

And did forsake her. She had a song of 'willow,'

An old thing 'twas, but it express'd her fortune,

And she died singing it. That song, to-night,

Will not go from my mind.Again Lear:

"Fair daylight?

I am mightily abused. I should e'en die with pity

To see another thus. I know not what

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Never, never, never, never, never!
Pray you undo this button-thank you, sir.
Do you see this?-Look at her-look-her
lips-

Look there-look there

Or look again at that scene in Webster's "Duchess of Malfy," when the Brother and Bosola contemplate the dead body of the Duchess; and read the convulsed ejaculation of the former, when choked with a sudden rising of remorse, he gasps out,

"Cover her face-mine eyes dazzle— She hath died young,'

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have provoked one less had these highflown idolaters of poetical dignity and poetical omnipotence been consistent with themselves. If men will be transcendently poetical, so let them be. But for Heaven's sake, if we are to have nothing but creams and whiptsyllabubs, don't send them up to us upon a wooden platter. It is odd that at this time of day any set of people should be found foolish enough to stick to the narrow doctrine of the "Unities;" but thrice marvellous is it that such a doctrine should be held by the poetical par excellence, the haters of everything prosaic. This is almost beyond a joke. We are to swallow without a strain tomes of stately highflown blank verse, from the mouths of persons who, judging by appearance, could never be suspected of speaking anything above decentish linseywoolsey." Not a prosaical word or syllable are we to hear, so tenacious are we of the elevated. But let us once be requested to let the pit of Drury Lane be supposed to be removed from Rome to Brundusium; or let us be asked, as a particular favour, to let four hours stand for four days; and

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Plump down we drop,
Ten thousand fathom deep,'

to the flat region of matter of fact and reality. Oh no. It is easy enough to take a parcel of fellows, every one of whom we know as well as our grandfathers, to be Greeks and Romans, talking ten syllable blank verse; but to imagine a change of place or time to hurry the mail-coach, or set the clock forward-monstrous!-To proceed, however.

Many people, especially those of a romantic and metaphysical turn, dislike plain, straightforward, homely reasons for things. They affect the recondite and mysterious, and do not love to have the "ghost" turn out to be only a turnip-lantern. But now and then there is no alternative; and the explanation of the causes of the decline of the English drama must, it is to be feared, partake a little of the spirit of Burns's solution of the origin of Scotch courage:

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ence.

Monopoly" happens to be Greek ready-made, and that is all the differIt is an amusing thing to read the heavy dolours and laments that are every day poured forth over the decay of British dramatic taste, especially as contrasted with its flourishing state amongst our refined neighbours in France. "Go and see (sob they) Talma play in a tragedy of Corneille or Voltaire, and you shall hear a pin drop, so hushed is the audience. Nay, so saturated is the pit with the dramatic spirit, that the smallest deviation from the true text of the author is sure to draw down a correcting hiss of disapprobation. Whilst in Drury Lane or Covent Garden-But we can no more."

Lackadaisy! now let us pick up our senses a little, and try to look this astounding difference plainly in the face. Don't let us be spouted, and mouthed, and whimpered out of our understand ings. Let us inquire into the facts; for upon an appeal to sheer common matter-of-fact must the decision of this apparent paradox hinge at last. Let us request this Jeremiah of a Cockney to drop his lamentations for a little, and condescend to answer a couple of brief and simple questions. Pray, now, tell us how many theatres for the enactment of regular tragedy, comedy, and farce, have you 'in Lunnun,' as you call it ?" "Two."- "How many are there in Paris, do you reckon ?" "Can't say precisely, 'pon honour; may be two-and-thirty." Very well, good gentleman of the press; now, in the difference between two and two-and-thirty lies this mystery; and, in the difference between thirtytwo and two, its development.

If we make a sort of rough calculation of the different grades of a population, enlightened, half enlightened, and unenlightened, we shall, of course, find the whole to comprehend a huge diversity of folks of different hues and shades of intellect; and amongst these must be, of course, as many various and opposite reasons for going to a playhouse, as for going to a church or conventicle. Here, a grave-looking man goes, because he likes "a laugh at a good comedy;" and there, a well-fed-looking merry little grig has a strong propensity to shed Hogarthian tears over a "tradesman's tragedy." This bushy-eyed blackletter can away with nothing but old

plays; that dirty-cravated little Cockney can relish nothing but new ones. Old Rosy-gills "likes nothing (puffing and blowing) equal to a good farce." Miss Melesindar, his daughter, (" Fie! pa! what a taste !") doats upon the Stranger and Lovers' Vows. Master Caleb insists upon Perouse, or Mother Goose; whilst their uncle by the mother's side, Peter Squeak, affects a musical entertainment, the Haunted Tower, or the Cabinet. Tim Stay-tape goes every other night to see "the 'orses;" whilst John Lump divides his affections between "the quadrupeds" and "Grimaldi." Old Lady this is rapturous upon "young Roscii," and patronises "Miss Mudie." Lady the other betrays a preference for Signor Richer, the tightrope dancer. The "dandies" d-n the play altogether, and go to look at the girls: the girls go to be looked at by the dandies. The "light-finger'd gentry" go to look after other people's pockets; the sellers of ices, jellies, liqueurs, and play-bills, to look after their own. The loungers look at the ices and jellies, or at nothing at all. Now, without taking the trouble to count fingers, here are enumerated, perhaps, some dozen and a half of different motives for going into a playhouse. Suppose, then, at any theatre, on any given night or nights, (as Mr. Coleridge would say) the performance be predicated to be of any given species, say a tragedy or a comedy, it follows, there being only two theatres, that upon a calculation of chances, only one-ninth of the audience will be interested by the performance per sc, besides the collateral consideration that, of that ninth perhaps a third are, from the size of the house, too far off to hear what is going forward. "They manage (certain it is) these matters better in France." Contrast this hotch-potch with the state of matters at Paris. Likely enough there may be at the "Théâtre Français" a genteel audience, the parterre a hotbed of critics, with cambric handkerchiefs, applauding Talma and Voltaire in the same breath, with all the energy of Puff himself. But be it recollected, that at one and the same moment of time, there is a second set of merry grigs enjoying the broad-farce and burlesque of the "Porte St Martin;" a third pastoralising over the little mu

sical pieces of the "Vaudeville;" a fourth, amusing themselves at the Variétés ;" a fifth, listening to pleasant airs at the "Opéra Comique;" and a sixth, weeping over pathetic ones at the "Académie Royale de Musique," or the "Théâtre Italien;" besides hundreds more gabbling and grimacing at the "Salle Favart," the "Odéon," or some place or other of dramatic or semi-dramatic entertainment, in every street and fauxbourg of Paris, as each shall happen to be honoured, on each night, with the patronage of Madame and Monsieur. Now here is a very different state of affairs. Every one has a theatre according to his taste, and thither accordingly he hies, and is tolerably quiet and rational when he gets there. But cram these heterogeneous materials, per force, into a great overgrown "patent" playhouse, where ninetenths of them either do not hear, or do not care about the matter in hand, and what wonder that the whole should become a rank and seething mass of noise, heat, and dissipation, vice, and folly; and that those for whose especial benefit the place was intended, should especially - keep away?

That any one should suppose the English nation indifferent to its better dramas, seems very ridiculous. Yet such things have been asserted, and the most precious proof was to be the practice of those bloated hotbeds of all that is weak, worthless, and exotic-the London Theatres ! What a conclusion to draw from such premises! Good God! The French more regardful than the English of their

dramatic authors!-when the editions of Shakspeare alone, taking number, costliness, and elaboration into the account, would perhaps equal, if not exceed, all the editions of all their dramatic poets that the French ever produced. Do we not see edition after edition of our older dramatic poets undertaken, published, and sold? Do we not see their lines quoted, their style imitated, and their example followed, by the best writers of the age? And, after all this, we are to be told that dramatic taste is extinct in England? No, no. Dramatic taste is upon the revival in England. There is more and better Dramatic taste now in England than there was a century ago. Let our monopoly-hating Ministers only break up the most barefaced and wanton of all monopolies. Let them pack off the pickpockets and prostitutes to the Opera-house, the Argyle-rooms, or the Pavé. The dandies to Bond-Street or Tattersall's, and the Cockneys to Vauxhall: the jockeys to Astley's; and the painters to the Diorama. Let the lovers of noise and nonsense go to the Concert of Ancient Music; and the lovers of nonsense without noise, to the Fantoccini exhibition, or the next Quakers' meetingbut let the lovers of the genuine English Drama have a theatre of their own. Let it be moderately sized, moderately lighted, with moderate hours, fair scenery, good actors, and excellent management, and it shall be seen whether Shakspeare cannot draw as attentive an audience as Punch, the Oratorios, or the Rev. Mr Irving.

T. D.

TRIALS OF TEMPER.

BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.

"I SAY she is neither handsome, nor comely, nor agreeable, in any one respect, Mr Burton; and I cannot help considering myself as rather humbugged in this business. Do you account it nothing to bring a man of my temperament a chase of three hundred miles on a fool's errand ?"

"My dear sir, I beg a thousand pardons. But really, if you esteem Miss Eliza Campbell, your own relation as well as mine, as neither handsome, beautiful, nor accomplished, why, I must say you have lost, since you went abroad, every sense of distinction; every little spark that you once possessed of taste and discernment in female accomplishments. Why, now, I suppose, a lady, to suit your taste, Doctor, must be blackas black as a coal, and well tatooed over the whole body?"

"None of your gibes and jeers with me, Mr Burton. I did not, and do not, mean to give any offence; but it is well known to all your friends, and has been known to me these thirty years, what a devil of a temper you have. As to my taste and discernment in female beauty, I have seen too much of life to be directed in these by a petty dealer in Galashiels greycloth, corduroy breeches, and worsted stockings,-ay, even though he add Kilmarnock bonnets, pirnie caps, and mittens, to the inventory. And if

you had any degree of temper, I would tell you, that your niece, Miss Campbell, is one of the worst-looking, worstconditioned middle-aged women, that I ever looked on!"

"Temper! I short of temper? Why, I must say, sir, that I would not be possessed of a temper as irritable as yours, to be made owner of all the shops in this street, as well as the goods that are in them. You are a very nettle, sir,- -a piece of brown-paper wet with turpentine,-a barrel of gunpowder that can be ignited by one of its own grains, and fly in the face of the man who is trying and exerting himself to preserve it. I am a clothier. I do not deny it; and think no shame of my business. But though I have not poisoned so many Pagans and Ma

hometans as you have done, nor been paid for so doing, by a thousand lacs of rupees, I can nevertheless keep the crown of the causeway, and look all my creditors in the face. Ay, and moreover, I can kneel before my Maker, sir, and entreat his blessing on myself and others, with a clear conscience, and that is more than some of your Nabob sort of people can do! Miss Campbell is too good-much too good-for you, sir; and I must say, that I regret exceedingly having invited you so far to come and insult her-in my presence, too, her nearest relation! I must say, sir, that you had better take care not to say as much again as you have said, else you may chance to be surprised at the consequence."

"Why certainly the devil has entered personally into this retailer of grey-cloth and carpets! There, he would persuade me, that I am irritable and passionate, and he the reverse; while, in the meantime, here has he got into a violent rage, and chafing like the vexed ocean, and I as cool as a summer evening in Kashmere!"

"Cool?-you cool, sir? Why you are at this moment in a furnace of a passion! Wherefore else should you knock on my counter in that way? You think to intimidate me, I suppose; but you shall neither fright me out of my reasonableness nor equanimity."

"Your equanimity! St Patrick save the mark! How long is it since you were sued at law, and heavily fined, for knocking down your shopman with the ell-wand? And how many honest customers have you threatened across that counter with the same infernal weapon, before you could bring your reason to control your wrath? And when we were at school together, how often did the rest of the boys combine to banish you from all their games, calling you the crabbed tailor,' and pelting you without mercy? And what was worst of all, how often did I get my head broken in your defence?"

"It is too true,-perfectly true!— I remember several of the circumstances quite well. Give me your hand, my old and trusty friend, and come

and dine with me to-morrow; for my heart warms to you when I think of our early friendship, and the days of our youthful enjoyments."

"And well may mine warm to you, for you assisted me out, when no other friend would venture, and, I had reason to fear, put your little credit right hardly to stake on my account. And do you know, Burton, that when I left Scotland, and took leave of all my friends, with much probability that it would be for the last time, not a man or woman amongst them shed tears at parting with me but yourself. That simple circumstance has never been erased from my memory, nor ever will. And before I left India I made a will, which is safe in the Register-Chamber of Fort William, and whereby, in the event of my dying without a family, you will find yourself entitled to the half of my fortune."

"My dear sir, that little pecuniary matter has been doubly repaid long ago; and as for that part of the will which is deposited at Fort William, and that devises to me, I shall do all in my power to render it of none effect. Come and dine with me to-morrow."

“I will, with all my heart."

"That's well. And we will have some conversation about the exploits and joys of our youthful years; for, though much has past over our heads, as well as through our hands and our hearts, since that period, still one single reminiscence of it is like a warm blink of sunshine in a winter day. I have often wondered, Doctor, what it is that makes the recollections of youth so delightful; for, as far as I remember my sensations at that time, they were anything but desirable, my joys being transient, and wofully mingled up with vexations and disappointments."

"There is something in the buoyancy of youthful spirits so akin to happiness, that the existence of the one almost implies the presence of the other. The ardency of hope, the first breathings of youthful affection, all render that a season to be thought on with delight. Have you not some daughters of your own, Mr Burton ?"

"I have two very amiable girls, and one of them marriageable, too; but, after hearing your opinion of the most accomplished young lady of the realm, I dare not submit them to your VOL. XXIII.

scrutiny. You shall not meet them at dinner to-morrow."

"I insist on meeting them at dinner-What! shall I not be introduced to the daughters of my best friend?"

"Your taste has become so horribly sophisticated, and then you speak out your sentiments so plainly, that no girl is safe from insult with you. Remember, my girls are not blackamoors any more than Miss Campbell is."

"There the bad temper flies out again! This Miss Campbell is a sore subject. Would that I had never seen her! The truth is, I must speak my sentiments, and, with regard to her, they are anything but those of approbation."

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Why, sir, you're not only blind, but utterly perverse and obstinate. Miss Campbell is the most approved beauty in Edinburgh at the present time; but she is an orphan, and has no fortune—there your antipathy lies! Money is your object! money, money!-that is manifest. Pray, could you not have got a blackamoor, with a camel's load or two of rupees, for a spouse, and so saved the expense of a journey to Britain ?"

"I will tell you what, friend-I have a great mind to break your head, and so save the expense of a rope to hang you in. A piece of presumption, indeed, to think to dictate to my tastes, or analyse the springs of my affection and dislike!"

Here the clothier seized his massy mahogany ellwand, and his friend the Doctor, having heard of the feats of arms performed by that unlucky weapon, thought proper to decamp, which he did with a kind of forced laugh, half in wrath at the ridiculous exhibition the two had made. Nevertheless, he returned, after walking about thirty paces, and, setting his head over the half-door, said, emphatically —

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Now, after all, you must be sensible that she is very homely, vulgar, and disagreeable; and confoundedly affected?" Then, perceiving the ellwand once more emerging from its dark corner, he made a hasty retreat, desecrating, all the way, the misfortune of a bad temper.

That evening Mr Burton got a note from Miss Campbell, which puzzled him a great deal; it ran thus:

"MY DEAR UNCLE,

"I am quite delighted with your friend

F

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