A world's proud monarch and the lothliest wretch

That gleans subsistence from the fetid dunghill,

Would tempt me to embrue my hands in murder.

[Speaking these last words loud and vehemently.

Count. Hush! speak not thus! thou'lt be o'erheard: some list'ner Is at the door. I thought I heard a noise. [Going to the door, opening it, then shutting it softly and returning. No; there is nothing: 'twas my fears deceived me.

Gar. And dost thou fear for me? Is there within thee

Still some remains of love for one so guilty?

Thou wilt not then, in utter detestation, Heap curses on my head.

Count. Guilty as thou hast been, I cannot curse thee.

Oh, no! I'll nightly, from my cloister'd cell,

Send up to pitying Heaven my prayers for thee.

Gur. Thy cloister'd cell! What mean
those threat'ning words?
Count. Garcio, we must part.
Gar. No-never! Any punishment

but this!

We shall not part.

Gar. And canst thou be so ruthless?
No, thou canst not!

Let Heaven in its just vengeance deal with me!

Let pain, remorse, disease, and every ill
Here in this world of nature be my portion!
And in the world of spirits too well I know
The murd'rer's doom abides me.
Is this too little for thy cruelty?
No; by the living God! on my curs'd head
Light every ill but this! We shall not part.
Count. Let go thy desp'rate hold, thou
desp'rate man!

Thou dost constrain me to an oath as dreadful;

And by that awful name.

Gar. Forbear, forbear! Then it must be; there is no mitigation. [Throws himself on the ground, uttering a deep groan, when ROVANI and SOPHERA burst in

upon them from opposite sides. Rov. (to the COUNTESS). What is the matter? Hath he on himself Done some rash act? I heard him loud and stormy.

Soph. She cannot answer thee: look to the count,

And I will place her gently on her couch; For they are both most wretched.

[SOPHERA Supports the COUNTESS, while ROVANI endeavours to raise GARCIO from the ground, and the scene closes."

But

The conclusion of this splendid play is worthy the commencement. we must refer our readers to the work itself. We cannot indulge ourselves by quoting any further from it, as by doing so we should not leave ourselves room for noticing the subsequent contents of these most attractive volumes.

The next play in the collection is "The Stripling." It is a tragedy in prose, and was written for young Betty. Why, in the name of common sense, was it not produced? It would have sustained his popularity for at least another season, and turned both to the advantage of himself and the managers.

But we proceed to "The Phantom." This play is an especial favourite of ours; and we had intended to quote very largely from its pages. But, on turning back to look at the passages we had marked for citation, we found they could not be printed apart from the scenes in which they are placed without injustice to the authoress. The beauty, the exquisite beauty, of this work, is diffusive over the whole composition, in a manner that will not admit of separation or division. It is quoh a play as any man would have

been proud to write, but as only a woman could have written. The main interest of the work is involved in the patience and the sorrow of the sweet, lovely, neglected, affectionate, gentle, broken-hearted Alice; and to attempt, by any extracts short of half the play, to make the reader acquainted with the matchless skill displayed in the invention and embodiment of this character, would be to imitate the folly of the pedant in Hierocles, who, when he offered his house for sale, carried a brick in his pocket as a sample. To our minds, Alice, in "The Phantom," is far superior as a poetic creation, and beyond measure more touching in interest, than either Penthea in the Broken Heart of Ford, or Aspatia in the Maid's Tragedy of Beaumont and Fletcher, the characters to which, without imitation, she bears most resemblance, from the situation she is placed in, and the nature and colour of her distress. There is, perhaps, no grief more real, more poignant, and more enduring, than that of unrequited love in woman; and yet there is certainly none for which, except under the most peculiar circumstances, our sympathies are so little apt to be excited. If, in the course of our every day existence, we discover by any accident that a girl loves, and is not loved again, we are infinitely more inclined to laugh at than to feel for her. We are far more shocked by the want of proper respect for herself and for her sex, which is exhibited by such an irregular affection, than moved by any commiseration for the sufferings it entails. But in the case of Alice, so skilfully is her attachment touched, and so admirably are the circumstances in which she is presented to us arranged, that no feeling is awakened for a moment in the reader, but one of deep, lively, and increasing interest. She moves in the most difficult situation in which a woman can be placed, without incurring the slightest diminution of the reverence which is due to her sex. Taught from her earliest childhood to look on Malcolm as her affianced husband, her love for him is another virtue in her character; and there is diguity in its hopeless constancy, and delicacy in its uncomplaining tenderness. She loves and suffers; but she never repines. Words of kindness from another may draw tears from her; but unkindness is not followed by any reproaches. The father

VOL. XIII. NO. LXXIV,

I weep,

In saying that I love her, aught lurks here, Begrudging her felicity. Oh, no!"

The person to whose merits Alice is thus alive is Emma Graham, the lovely rival who has supplanted her in the affections of Malcolm. The whole play is inimitable. We must not omit mentioning the songs introduced in this drama: they are quite charming. We give one, taken at random, as a specimen.

"The sun is down, and time gone by,
The stars are twinkling in the sky,
Nor torch nor taper longer may
Eke out a blithe but stinted day;
The hours have pass'd with stealthy flight,
We needs must part: good night, good
night!

The bride unto her bower is sent,
And ribald song and jesting spent;
The lover's whisper'd words and few
Have bade the bashful maid adieu;

The dancing-floor is silent quite,
No foot bounds there: good night, good
night!

The lady in her curtain'd bed,
The herdsman in his wattled shed,
The clansmen in the heather'd hall,
Sweet sleep be with you, one and all!
We part in hopes of days as bright
As this gone by: good night, good night!
Sweet sleep be with us, one and all!
And if upon its stillness fall
The visions of a busy brain,

We'll have our pleasures o'er again,
To warm the heart, to charm the sight,
Gay dreams to all! good night, good
night!"

We delight in Rory's ballad of "The Lowland Bride and Highland Lover;" and we are much mistaken if Joanna Baillie will not thank us more for our admiration of those bold stanzas, than for all the enthusiasm we feel, and have expressed, for the more elaborate efforts of her genius. It is a tale full of life and spirit, and rich in a rapid succession of pictures, of which each is drawn with a few strong masterly touches. It must evidently have been written in a happy hour, con amore, exulting as she wrote, with a smiling eye, and a glowing heart, and a quickly moving hand.

"Enthusiasm" is a most amusing comic sketch. We are, of course, perfectly convinced that our authoress could have had no particular individual in her eye, when she drew the principal character of this play; but there is a certain lady, who sometimes honours us, and, we believe, every other man or woman, bearing on the thumb and middle finger of the right hand that deeply-dyed inky symbol of their literary propensities, which no ablutions can ever thoroughly efface-there is a lady, not only of our acquaintance, but of the whole literary population of London, so like Lady Worrymore, that, had she sat for the portrait, the resemblance could not have been more accurately drawn, or more truly coloured to the life.

The third volume opens with a prose tragedy, entitled "Witchcraft.' It is very effective; but might have been rendered much more so, by representing the persons obnoxious to the accusation as really in communion with Satan. There is quite evidence enough of the existence of witches to give them dramatic probability, and warrant their

our interest of Violet Murray, the innocent and almost orphaned girl, who, by a strange concurrence of circumstances and the stratagems of a rival, has become exposed to the mortal imputation, would necessarily have become more intense in proportion as the nature of the crime attributed to her was darkened, and the persons with whom she was arraigned and associated were shewn as certainly and appallingly guilty. Besides, as the case now stands, there is a divided interest; and it is impossible not to feel more compassion than is of advantage to the play for the poor infatuated old woman who is led out for execution along with the heroine.

We wish we could afford room for some extracts from "The Homicide." It is a very powerful play, and will, we suppose, be acted.

"The Bride," like "The Martyr,” the last play of the first volume, has been published before. It was written at the request of a gentleman, who is very anxious for the improvement of the condition of the inhabitants of Ceylon, with a view to its being translated and acted in that island. The moral object of the piece is to inculcate the beauty of the Christian duty of forgiveness of injuries. There is a great deal of merit in the play; and the early scenes, in which the wife of Rasinga is informed of his infidelity, and presents herself with his children before him, are as beautiful as any in the volumes.

"The Match," the last piece of the collection, is a comedy in three acts. The characters of Sir Cameron and Miss Vane are well imagined and delineated. The first scene with the phrenologist is very amusing.

We had nearly forgot to mention that there is a paper on the modern religious and moral objections to dramatic representations in the beginning of the third volume, which is very well deserving the serious attention of the reader. It is more than probable that we shall take an early opportunity of recurring to it. The question on which we are at issue with the puritanical party, who would pull down the theatres, and silence the actors, is argued by our authoress most fairly and fully, and with a force of reason which must convince every one but a bigot of the lawfulness of the

We are told that poetry of every description has of late become no better than a drug; that no body reads it; that no publisher who is not willing to break himself as a martyr in its cause ought to think of venturing on the production of any of the higher works of the imagination; and that the taste for them has passed irrecoverably away. We have always doubted the truth of these assertions. We have always most confidently maintained that, matter-offact and unimaginative as the world has to a certain degree become, the public mind is not yet so thoroughly materialised by long dealing with no

thing but the exact sciences, and radical politics, and the hard business of life, as to be dead to the charms of a fine poem, or a fine tragedy, if fairly brought before it. We trust that these volumes will establish that fact, and prove our views of the temper of the times to be correct. We are quite sure that, from their various and distinguished merits, they ought to be popular; and, if they do not become so, the genuine poetic feeling of the country must be extinct, and the souls of its inhabitants become morbidly insensible to the highest order of poetic beauty.

Ir happened, not very long since, that the want of a new church was strongly felt, in a place lying in the neighbourhood of two great landed proprietors. One of these was a nobleman of Conservative polities, and whose expenditure on political objects is generally believed to be munificent. His lordship, however, to this far higher purpose, refused to contribute even a single hundred pounds. He thus threw the burden of the work on his neighbour, a man, perhaps, of equal wealth, but a staunch Whig. In this quarter the application was successful; and by a most liberal and honourable exertion, the want was supplied. And will it be believed, that this rich Conservative (!) actually felicitated himself, and that openly, and in the hearing of others, that he had thus saved the money he might have been expected to expend,— for future efforts in the Conservative cause!

do

In giving this anecdote, we should great injustice to both parties if we did not state our conviction, that, far from being a fair example of the general principles and conduct of the Conservative body, it is rather a solitary exception to both. Taking the whole country through, and looking at the vast exertions which are now making in a multitude of places, we feel no hesitation whatever in affirming that the far greater proportion of those efforts are making by the Conservatives; and that though here and there an opulent Whig is seen honourably distinguishing himself in this work, on the whole it may be charged upon that

party that they are not contributing any thing approaching to their fair quota.

If we refer to this single fact, then, it is not by any means to draw an inference to the prejudice of the Conservative party. But we gather from it, too clearly, that in some few quarters, even among our own friends, there may and does prevail a species of misapprehension and of miscalculation the most extraordinary and the most lamentable.

Among Whigs of the lower class, such as the noble contriver of Belgrave Square, whose very dreams are of new streets, ground-rents, and buildingleases; or the recently gazetted lordlieutenant of Gloucestershire, who drives up to the door of a dissenting meeting (on political business) with an actress in his curricle-among Whigs of this class it can be no matter of surprise if the welfare of the Established Church is seen to occupy the lowest possible place in their minds. A juster cause for surprise would it be, if, among such men, a spark of real interest in such an object should shew itself. But among Conservatives the case is very different. One who really deserves the name, one who has arrived at an understanding of the principles he professes, ought to know that no object, and most unquestionably no merely political object, can with the least rationality be put into serious competition with this. To save the cost of building a church, in order to spend it on an election, is quite as absurd as it would be for a fariner to

reduce his expenditure on seed-corn, in order to be able to conduct his harvest-home with more liberality. In either case the connexion between cause and effect is obviously quite misunderstood.

The main object of attack with the Destructive party, at the present moment, is the Church. Their late burst of fury against the Lords-though their animosity to that body is implacable and incurable -- arose chiefly from finding that the Lords stood between them and the Church of Ireland. They act wisely and rationally in this matter. Their ultimate object is, the destruction of the monarchy and the abolition of the aristocracy, as well as the overthrow of the Church. But their main attack is directed against the Church, because they have sagacity enough to perceive, that while the Church stands, there is small hope of subverting the crown and the peers; while, only let the Church be first got out of the way, and, as in 1640, the Lords and the King will have scarcely a twelvemonth's tenure of their seats and dignities.

There is one plain but fundamental truth, which some of our politicians seem, in their eager pursuit of elections and cabinet intrigues, to have lost sight of, to wit, that Religion is the only secure foundation on which a commonwealth can rest, and the only effectual amalgamation by which society can be bound and united together. It used to be an old prejudice, even with infidels, that Religion was necessary to keep the multitude in order. This prejudice, like many others, had its foundation in truth, though it presented that truth in a maimed and mutilated form. The French Revolution gave the world a memorable instance of what sort of order would exist among a multitude without religion.

So entirely convinced are we of this fact that in so far as our population is irreligious, just in that degree our condition as a nation is perilousthat we have not the slightest hesitation in averring, that rather than the people should be left in a state of involuntary heathenism, we would infinitely prefer a vast and rapid increase of the Methodists and Dissenters among us. If churches are wanted and cannot be built, rather than the population should be left in paganism, we would say

that raised its head in the streets and lanes of our crowded cities.

London, at this present moment, has about a million of inhabitants unprovided with church-room. Manchester has about 150,000, Birmingham 90,000, Leeds 80,000, Liverpool 80,000; and in a score of other large towns there is not provision for one-fifth of the inhabitants. Now, suppose for a moment that the Church cannot, or will not, supply this deficiency, and nothing can be more evident than that one of two prospects must be realized within a few years. If this vast and perpetually augmenting population, excluded by no fault of their own from the Established Church, shall continue in a state of deprivation of all religion, the end will be an atheistic revolution, like that of France in 1793. If, on the other hand, these masses shall be supplied with instruction by the Methodists and Dissenters, then the result will be a sectarian revolution, as in England in 1640. We need scarcely say that the latter is, of the two, infinitely to be preferred.

The Establishment remaining inert, -other bodies of Christians making but small exertions,-the population of our manufacturing districts doubling itself every five-and-twenty years,— and the apostles of anarchy and atheism being diligently employed upon this mighty mass, would produce at last a result very similar to that described by Dr. Dwight, when he speaks of the French revolution.

"In the history of the globe there is recorded but one attempt, seriously made, to establish a free government without religion. From this attempt has sprung new proof that such a government, stripped of this aid, cannot exist. The government, thus projected, was itself never established, but was a mere abortion -exhibiting doubtful signs of life at its birth, and possessing this dubious existence only as an ephemeron. During its diurnal life it was the greatest scourge, particularly to those for whom it was formed, and generally to the rest of mankind, which the world has ever seen. Instead of being a free, just, and benefi cent system of administration, it was more despotic than a Persian caliphate, -more wasteful of life and all its blessings than an inundation of Goths and Vandals. Those who lived under it, and either originated or executed its measures, were the authors of more crimes