beautiful and true to Nature, if we examine it in all its details! Beatrice is a character of a very different stamp from Rosalind, although resembling her in some particulars. She has all her wit, but, it must be confessed, without her good humor. Her arrows are not merely piercing, but poisoned. Rosalind's is cheerful raillery; Beatrice's satirical bitterness. Rosalind is not only afraid to strike, but unwilling to wound. Beatrice is at least careless of the effect of her wit, if she can but find an opportunity to utter it. But Shakspeare has no heartless characters in his dramas; he has no mere 'intellectual gladiators,' as Dr. Johnson has well styled the actors in the witty scenes of Congreve. Beatrice has strong and easily-excited feelings. Love is called into action by the stratagem of the garden-scene; and rage, indignation, and revenge, by the slanders cast upon her cousin. We have heard the character called inconsistent: yet what is human nature but a tissue of inconsistencies? or rather are not our hopes, fears, affections, and passions, linked together by a thread so fine, that only the gifted eye of such a poet as Shakspeare can discover it? The changes of purpose and passion, as developed by him in the mind of Beatrice, are any thing but inconsistencies; abrupt and surprising they certainly are, but they are accounted for by motives of extraordinary weight, and feelings of singular susceptibility." We are surprised that our author, in speaking of Shakspeare's humorous characters, has not touched upon Falstaff; but he has pointed out Touchstone to our notice, as the first of all clowns, past, present, or to come.. This personage is, indeed, the best-tempered, pleasantest philosophical clown ever known. The remarks on various poets are curious. "Chaucer's versatility was most extraordinary. No English poet, Shakspeare alone excepted, exhibits such striking instances of comic and tragic powers united in the same mind. His humour and wit are of the brightest and keenest character; but then his pathos is tremendous, and his descriptive powers are of the highest order. "Spenser's hero is always honour, truth, valour, courtesy; but it is not man. His heroine is meekness, chastity, constancy, beauty; but it is not woman. His landscapes are fertility, magnificence, "Young's genius is only seen to advantage amidst charnel-houses and sepulchres. It seems as if, like the pictures of the camera obscura, it could not be exhibited but in an apparatus of darkness. His muse is a mummy, his Apollo a sexton, his Parnassus a church-yard. He drinks from the river Styx instead of Hippocrene, and mistakes the pale horse in the Revelations for Pegasus. The consequence is that, as far as a very large portion of his volume is concerned, it may be very good divinity, but it is not poetry. "Thomson is the first of our descriptive poets, yet a very bad versifier, “artificial and elaborate; timid and pompous; deserting simplicity, without attaining dignity.' His versification is, however, but the husk and stalk; the fruit which grows up is of a delicious taste and flavour." The observations on the nature of the drama are more fanciful than correct. "The drama is to epic poetry what sculpture is to historical painting. It is, per and make palpable to the touch, what the epic poet may steep in the rainbow hues of fancy, and veil, but with a veil of light woven in the looms of his imagination. The epic poet is the dramatic author and the actor combined." haps, on the whole, a severer art. It rejects many adventitious aids, of which the epic may avail itself. It has more unity and simplicity. Its figures stand out more boldly, and in stronger relief. But then it has no aërial back-ground; it has no perspective of enchantment; it cannot The characteristics of Neele's poetry draw so largely on the imagination of the are sweetness and delicacy. He thus despectator; it must present to the eye, scribes the gradual influence of love. "Love in the soul, not bold and confident, And, with faint flick'ring and uncertain beams, And rapturous sorrow. Then the world is nothing; Ambition, riches, praise, power, all are nothing; Love rules and reigns despotic and alone. Breathe of its sweetness, as the wind, that shakes THE STEP-MOTHER, a Tragedy, by Jacob praise. Such is their equality of merit,. Jones, Esq. 1829. MONTMORENCY, a Tragic Drama, by Par Nobile. ALL apprehensions of a decline of dramatic talent must now give way to the feelings of admiration, excited by the simultaneous appearance of two tragedies, pregnant with genius, and instinct with sublimity and passion!!! If an interesting plot, striking situations, a faithful adherence to nature, animated dialogue, and fine language, can recommend a dramatic piece to general approbation, each of these productions may claim exalted VOL. X. that we know not which to prefer. We therefore say, with the arbitrator in the case of Virgil's pastoral bards, that each poet is entitled to the prize-calf: Et vitula tu dignus, et hic. The Step-Mother displays a bolder spirit than Lady Macbeth; for, instead of employing an agent in the murder to which her ambition prompts her, she perpetrates the sanguinary deed with her own hands. But, as all women have some tender feelings, she finds it expedient to work herself occasionally into such a rage as may overpower he remains of humanity. She xclaims "Now, woman, timid woman, weak, vain woman! Should my transcendent crime shut Heaven against me, Is not this fine flight equal to any of Satan's tirades in the Paradise Lost? There is some novelty in the idea of providing the king of the rebellious spirits with a wife, after he had so long reigned without one; and the lady's high opinion of herself corresponds with her great soul, in banishing all doubt of Satan's acceptance of her hand. While the blood-thirsty lady is maturing her schemes, the plot proceeds in an interesting manner, and beauties dart upon the enraptured reader in every scene. But, passing over these incidental flashes of talent, let us hasten to the heroine's appalling act-the murder of her husband, the duke of Brabantia. ["The Siep-Mother rushes out of a chamber with an hysteric laugh, clenching a bloody dagger.] “Ha, ha, ha, ha! I've done it, look you hereFlinch not, 'tis I, not the dead, harmless duke; Rest him, the duke; by this he sups with Pluto. Let me compose myself-my dizzy brain Reels with the masculine effort of mine arm! Your talons are diminutive to gripe me.' When her criminality is discovered, she says to the duke's son Alonzo, -"Give your vengeance food, Now 'tis a-hunger'd; but, as you would shun The horrifying presence of my ghost, Vindictive, sleeplessly to haunt and harm you, Making your flesh to creep, your teeth to chatter, Your hair to bristle horrent on your head, And choaking shrieks to tear your throat for fright, Be nothing ignominious in my doom. Bertram, the son of the murderous woman, in the hope of saving her from an ignominious death, says to Alonzo, "Alas! she is my mother; she is guilty; Punish not, then, the innocent with the guilty, This, we may observe, is a refined idea-too philosophical, indeed, for the ordinary and straight-forward course of justice. What would a judge say, if the mother of a criminal, upon whom he is going to pronounce sentence of death, should make such a speech as we have quoted? He would answer, "Woman, your feelings may be hurt; but you are not punished." When a prior, the lady's accomplice, has re-produced the duke's first wife, who was supposed to be dead, and claims pardon from the new duke for his mother's sake, the enraged Step-Mother exclaims, "Thou thrice accursed traitor, to preserve When Alonzo has decreed that she should be imprisoned for life, she disdains such commutation for death. "I will not mope to death, dishonor'd thus, In the dwarf womb of some delirious cave, Though Heaven ordain it,-frustrating yon Heaven, Stand off; and plunging to the abyss beneath Ber. The light'ning swoops. [As she lifts her arm to stab herself, she falls suddenly to the ground. It strikes her to the earth, Oh! oh! alas! Oh me! the horrid sight! [duke's st. wife reviving 1st wife. I dream'd but now my lord, my life, was dead : Tell me, my son! the fatal trance is true? Alon. Be comforted, for they are dead who slew him." The reader, we doubt not, will readily acknowlege that poetical justice is thus properly inflicted. We cannot dismiss this tragedy without adverting to the author's assertion that it is, throughout, founded on fiction. This is, we venture to say, "above all Greek, above all Roman fame;" for the tragedies of the Greeks and Romans were founded on mythology or on history;-it is also above Shakspearian fame; for the bard of Avon condescended to borrow the subjects of all his plays from history or from romance. How pre-eminent, therefore, is Mr. Jacob Jones in that inventive talent which is the strongest proof of poetic genius!!! We now turn our attention to Mr. Montagu's drama, on which, however, we have not time to dwell so fully as its extraordinary merit deserves. Henry de Montmorency meditates an insurrection, not having the least doubt of its success, because daring, directed by honor and conducted with firmness, "may safely risk a rampant seat." His brother-in-law, the prince of Condé, remonstrates against his rash purpose, saying, "I have reflected much, my dear brother, on thy plans, and value to the full the high intentions which play around them; but now, to descend from the sky of theory, I much lament the temperament by which practically they shall be governed." The prince continues to urge various arguments; but the hero is inexorable, and will not be convinced, exclaiming, "I can no more Hold me within a tide of temperance: My blood mounts up, like lava in its womb." Being denounced as a traitor before he has actually rebelled, he consults his wife on the subject. Before us-and that which urges to its brink And-will not be opposed! Henry. Collect thyself, my wife;-how must I act ! Julia. Alas! I know not-think no more of 't—it may pass Oh!-my husband-our child—our child! Henry. Traitor! Sink that in dangerless obscurity? -Traitor! Julia. Oh! dreadful word!— Henry. How must I act? Julia. Burst my tortured heart !— 786865B Henry. How must Montmorency act? Julia. (In a stifled voice) I am faint-must leave thee-will return Come to me Henry. I will:-but Julia-the word Julia. (With dignity, after a severe struggle, and in a hoarse but significant undertone) Montmorency-must be-himself! [An attendant enters-Julia leans upon her, almost fainting, and erit. Henry. And shall be—himself!— Condé was an excellent prophet! Somewhat too close, though :-there is preknowlege Hired out to a gallows-butcher? and by these He then proceeded to action, and his fate was calamitous; but his memory triumphs in this noble record of his fame!!! The wonderful success of this literary pair in the arduous task of tragic com. position, reminds us of the prevailing opinion respecting the march of intellect; and, indeed, we ought no longer to consider that boast as little better than mere rhodomontade. When we have such masterly writers as those who illuminate every subject by their great talents and erudition, such theologians and moralists as the Methodists, such a philosopher as Sir Richard Philips, such an orator as Hunt, such a politician as Cobbett, such a schoolmaster as Hamilton, and such a physician as Eady, we may reasonably expect stupendous results; and it will be John Bull's own fault if he should not become a model of that absolute perfection which only weak minds deem unattainable. THOUGHTS ON THE FINE ARTS, by THIS great artist did not pretend to be a writer; but his remarks on art, in conversation, were frequently interesting and instructive. Some of his literary friends used to take notes of these hints and observations; and we have now an opportunity of communicating a few of them to our readers. "If you would save yourself (he said) much future trouble, and proceed always with confidence in your art, I will tell you the shortest way. Make yourself perfect, in the first place, in all the requisites of your art—as drawing, anatomy, a sense of the graceful and the dignified-understand and feel the beautiful; let your sensibility and imagination also be awakened and exercised. If you take care to do this, the first perception which strikes you of any object transcendently beautiful and graceful will serve your purpose: the other qualities you possess will be called into play in support of, and in accordance with, the sublime idea you have formed, and, harmonising with it, will produce a beautiful and perfect whole; but this, you say, is difficult, and so indeed I know it is, and therefore I point out the necessity of study and labor if you would become great: when these have produced their effects, it will no longer appear difficult to you. "The only important elements of sculpture (he said) are perfection of design and excellence of forms; a picture without these may still be good, in respect to colouring, invention, freedom of touch and effect; but, if you take away expression and form from sculpture, what is left?—a piece of marble. “It is, indeed, necessary (he observed to some young artist) to have a knowlege of anatomy; but an obvious display of it ought to be avoided, if it be true that art should imitate nature. Let us follow nature in this respect, which, in order to conceal the harsh, muscular parts of our frame, has admirably covered them with a soft clothing of flesh and skin, presenting only to the eye a smooth superficies, delicately moulded with rising and indented curves, wholly without harsh inequalities. "How fortunate it is (he often remarked) that few artists are able to express themselves with propriety and effect in writing! If they could all do so, what long and mighty wars should we have between the cultivators of the arts, and how |