In tragedy, indeed, the diction and poetry of our authoress are sometimes sufficient to redeem her defects. She has steered equally clear of the exaggeration and the monotonous pomp of the artificial style, and the mawkish simplicity and prosaic ecstacies which the imitation of Kotzebue brought so much into fashion. Her dialogue is evidently formed on the model of the finest productions of Shakspeare, and she has, in a great measure, adopted his words. She has succeeded, oftener than the critics are willing to admit, in imitating the manner of the great poet, in those passages which require animation and vigour; but she is less happy in the familiar style.

The Edinburgh reviewers were by no means indulgent towards the labours of their fair country-woman, and, on the appearance of her third volume, Miss Baillie seemed to have abandoned her favourite system. The critics, however, were only the more severe, and she returned to her original plan. Her tragedy of " De Montfort," is the only one which has met with any degree of success on the stage, and for that it was indebted to the masterly acting of John Kemble.

The hatred which rages in De Montfort's breast, is only to be extinguished by the blood of his enemy. Having been disarmed by Rezenvelt every time he challenged him to combat, he, at length, waylays, and murders him in a forest. This crime is accompanied by circumstances of so horrible a nature, that it is difficult to imagine how they could have had birth in a female mind. Gene

rally speaking, Miss Baillie delights in scenes of bloodshed, and excels in painting that superstitious terror which precedes and follows the commission of great crimes. She introduces a new species of actor at the commencement of the fourth act; viz. an owl, whose dismal cries make the murderer and the victim tremble, successively. Rezenvelt's assassination does not take place on the stage. The authoress transports us, in the mean time, into the gothic chapel of a convent, which is feebly lighted by two torches, placed over a recently erected tomb; the long fretted windows rattle in the wind; the organ plays a solemn prelude, and some nuns, advancing in slow procession, gather round the tomb, and chaunt a funeral hymn, their last farewell to one of their departed companions. A lay sister suddenly rushes in, and with haggard eye, dishevelled hair, and trembling voice, informs them that she has heard the cries of a man perishing by the hand of a murderer. The abbess attributes her distracted manner to the effect of some frightful vision, and directs the holy sisters to continue their chaunt; but they are again interrupted by a loud and repeated knocking at the gate of the monastery. A monk is admitted into the chapel, and he exclaims with horror, that he has just beheld a dead body weltering in blood. Presently another arrives, still more agitated and alarmed; he informs them, that as he was coming homeward, struggling against the fury of the

storm, he perceived by the dim light of his lantern, the features of a man, who fixed on him a ghastly look of despair. All are convinced that this must be the murderer. A party of the monks go out in quest of him, and meet with a man whose every feature bears the hideous stamp of guilt; his hands and garments are stained with blood. This is De Montfort. They ask his name; he replies, that he has no name, and preserves a sullen silence. The sister who overheard the dying voice of his victim, gazes upon him with horror, and exclaims :

"O holy saints! that this should be the man
Who did against his fellow lift the stroke,
Whilst he so loudly call'd-

Still in mine ear it sounds: O murder! murder.

DE MONTFORT. (Starting.) He calls again!
SISTER.

No, he did not call; for now his voice is still'd
'Tis past!"

De Montfort, in a tone of deep anguish, repeats, "Tis past," utters a groan and falls senseless. Whilst the monks are raising him, the dead body of Rezenvelt is brought in and uncovered. De Montfort is struck motionless with horror. An awful scene succeeds; he is left alone with the dead body of his victim, and he consigns himself to the most violent remorse. He is driven to such a pitch of phrenzy, that at last he dashes his head against the wall. This frightful spectacle is

relieved by the arrival of De Montfort's sister, whose touching and generous affection soothes the last bitter moments of his life.

The long tragedy of " Ethwald," of which the subject is ambition, is no less terrible in its details. This piece, perhaps, bears too strong a resemblance to Shakspeare's " Macbeth ;" but it is a brilliant historical picture of the heptarchy. The two tragedies, founded on fear, are less effective. One of them presents a picture of female madness, a favourite subject with English poets; and, in this, Miss Baillie has displayed great power of conception, and uncommon vigour of style. But the most elegant, if not the most faultless of her compositions, is, a sort of serious opera, founded on hope; the extreme simplicity of its subject is elevated by the beauty and freshness of its poetic details, charms of which no description can convey any idea.

But there is not one of Miss Baillie's'works that does not deserve to be read and studied. It is to be regretted that her dramas are not more decidedly adapted to scenic representation. She herself very candidly regrets the want of popular applause. In France, the theatre is still the capitol in which our poets receive the laurel which is most gratifying to their ambition. In England, on the contrary, the stage is now consigned to the triumphs of the scene painter and machinist, and men of real talent disdain to enter the lists of dramatic composition. Yet Miss Baillie wrote with the intention of having her dramas performed, with

some slight alterations. She obtained the applause she confesses she wished for, on the representation of her national piece, entitled, "The Family Legend," at Edinburgh. Sir Walter Scott wrote the prologue to that pleasing picture of Scottish manners in the middle ages.

Many English poets have adopted the dramatic form for their productions, while at the same time they affect to decline the jurisdiction of the people in the only department of literature which, notwithstanding the progress of information among the lower classes, has continued to engage their attention.

LETTER XLII.

TO M. VILLEMAIN.

THE modern poets of Great Britain may frequently be charged with yielding too much to imagination, and neglecting to observe the limits which good taste prescribes; but the weeds which mingle with the good seed, are here regarded only as a proof of the richness of the soil.

Among those writers who are less distinguished for the judicious treatment of their subjects, than for a superabundance of ideas and splendid imagery, Mr. Millman is, perhaps, least sparing in the use of metaphors, epithets, and all those orna