to raise another; but we can say, that had the defect which we have alluded to, never existed, it seems very probable that his poem would never have been charged with this last mentioned fault, or if so, that the charge would have been without a proper foundation. What we would next object to, is a frequent want of connexion between the lines of the couplet. Pope has been censured severely by the critics for mostly closing every couplet or two lines of his elaborate poetry with a period; and whilst Mr. Montgomery seems to have carefully avoided this studied defect, he has unfortunately, and we believe unwittingly, fallen into one not less serious,-that of making such a pause at the end of the first line of the couplet as completely bars the progress of its natural flow into the second, and consequently ruins its best effect. As this is a defect of some moment, and not unworthy the observation of both the critic and the poet, we shall endeavour to exemplify it more clearly by an instance of it from the work. We give the four first lines of that beautiful passage descriptive of the forest, and which has been already quoted.

"Steep the descent, and wearisome the way;

The twisted boughs forbade the light of day;

No breath from heaven refresh'd the sultry gloom,

The arching forest seem'd one pillar'd tomb.

Did Mr. Montgomery leave it in our power to point out ten times the number of such faults as we have now shown, his beauties are still so great and so many, that we can suppose they would be more than amply sufficient to remove every evil prejudice that these imagined defects might create, on first consideration, towards the real merits of his poem. Was the "World before the Flood" the production of a juvenile poet, we would have shown more of its beauties than we have, and been less attentive to its blemishes; yet when it is viewed in the light of what it really is,-a poem universally read and admired, and from the pen of him whose fame has been long established as a poetit will be found on consideration more E. M. January, 1825.

essential to show how it might have been still more beautiful, than to tell the world merely what they know already that it is a work of superior merit. It cannot, therefore, be prejudicial to the character of such a production, that our limits will not admit us to lay before our readers the merits of its parts when combined and forming a whole, as we have done in viewing them separately. We can only find space, in concluding, to make one brief allusion to the great disparity between Montgomery and a living poet of his own country-not in their writings, but in the difficulties they had to surmount, on attaining the eminence of their present popularity. The cotemporary of our author has always had the good fortune to have many friends among the reviewers; and from the appearance of his first poem to that which he produced about two or three months ago, he has been applauded and encouraged by them on every occasion, though, strange to say, this has not produced a wonderful effect, since the difference between his first and last performance, is, in point of merit, difficult to observe, though neither, notwithstanding all the labour and time employed in the execution, rises in a very conspicuous manner above mediocrity. A picture entirely the reverse of this must be drawn, in order to show what Montgomery had to encounter: to the number of friends which his cotemporary had in the literary world, he seems to have had as many enemies over whom his genius had to gain undoubted victories ere the prejudices excited to his disadvantage were removed, and his merits as an amiable, but injured poet, universally acknowledged. That this required a mind endowed with superior strength and talent cannot be denied, and particularly when it is recollected that such harsh treatment has been the means of precipitating a Kirke White, and a Keats, to an early grave, and that modern days afford but two instances only in which it has been victoriously trampled upon. Every reader acquainted with the particulars of the literary career of Byron and Montgomery, need not be told the names of the individuals we allude to in this exception.

D

NEVER was the theatre in higher fashion than at the present moment; its excellence, its attractions, its expence, its increase in numbers, all conspire to prove this fact. We not only often borrow our characters from the stage, making our whole life a scenic representation, but we take our companions, nay, even our wives, from the pupils of Thalia and Melpomene; it is, therefore, certainly the proper time to analyze its merits and demerits, to examine its improvements, to correct abuses which may have crept into it, as much in the audience as in the performers, and to select from it the useful and instructive, the graceful and elegant, leaving its levities, trivialities, and tendency to enervate and promote idleness to the herd, to those gregarious animals of our population, who collect in our theatres merely to kill time, to satisfy curiosity, to see and be seen, or for more criminal purposes of appointment or speculation.

There are those who deny the improvement of the stage, either in acting or in composition; in the latter it is true that we have no second Shakspeare; but in the former, added delicacy, better style, chaster costume, multiplied auxiliaries, in scenery, decorations, music, &c. &e., must be allowed by every one who is not an old, cold, and disappointed being, and à “laudator temporis acti." Never had we more lovely women, nor more able and sensible actors; never a greater variety of style, the taste of the foreign and true British drama in our first theatres, with all the talent of the Continent, in every department of the vocal and instrumental; of the dance, the pantomime, and pageantry, in our opera house and winter theatres; together with the equestrian, gladiatorial, and the gymnasia of the ancients, on our summer and minor theatres; the vast addition of which, in numerical

strength, evinces national wealth and prosperity (the olive being the tree under which the Graces repose), and afford a bill of fare for every palate, whilst no expence is spared to delight the public: thus far is undeniable.

We now come to an examination of the influence which the stage has on our manners, and to its growing popularity. That "all the world's a stage," is a maxim of the immortal bard of England, and this position is strengthened by Voltaire, who asserts that kings, ministers, generals, and civilians, the grave professions, and the votaries of pleasure, are acting all their life; even on the scaffold, a part of heroism, doing violence to nature, has been, and continues to be performed, the object popular applause, the approbation of men; such is the poet's and the player's recompence— the meed of praise, a name whilst living; a tablet, a bust, statue, or column, when no more!-but that these ends should be attained, the drama must adhere to its first institution, it must embrace the first objects for which it was created; it must be faithful to nature and to them; it must be, according to our device, borrowed from the theatre itself, the mirror of the mind, the glass reflecting the passions, the manners, the follies of mankind

"Unmix'd with baser matter." Those passions, manners and follies must not grovel, they must soar above hideous vice, low corruption, abject depravity, and stultified mummery; the scene must be ever above such disgusting figures which disgrace the respectable part of society, and are only fit for booths in fairs; it ought to be always as dignified as possible, except in familiar comedy, where private life more closely touches our sympathies and speaks to every heart; the main

object then of the stage is, to laud virtue, to hold up vice to horror, to elevate the sentiments of the spectators, and to warn them against the deceits and tricks of nature, by the mask of satire and the exhibition of vanity and folly, in their appropriate garb; the more faithful the picture therefore is, the greater its attraction and effect: to caricature, needs much skill and management, since over painting and over acting defeat their purpose, bɔth off and on the stage. Plays were formerly rhapsodies, but as the more enlightened ages beamed upon us, they assumed a nobler character, and the less rhapsodical they are, the more in union, harmony and good keeping with true representation and genuine taste. Tragedy stepped forward first in splendid garb, with noble sentiment and noble deed, with actions suited to the mighty subject, and skilful contrivance to captivate the mind; the lighter fascinations were given to comedy, but Horace very sensibly tells us, that she may borrow the elevation of sentiment, and charms of sensibility.

"Intendum tamen et vocem comœdia tollit,

Tratusque chræmes, tumido delitigatore."

In sentimental comedy, or tragic comedy, we have delicate specimens of this kind of performance, and abundance of actors and actresses to do justice to their parts; genteel comedy is of more modern date, but it is exquisitely entertaining, of high. utility, and we deeply regret to see its decline; have we not a number of subjects which might yet inspire the pen in this way, although the great Sheridan is no more. In the ages of war and chivalry, the praises of living heroes were subjects for the drama; in those of the sciences and of a more polished era, the historic page, whether remote or proximate, ancient or modern, became matter for representation; but Shakspeare, taking distance and time in his own hands, has delineated the feelings and passions of every clime, and every breast, where he could do so effectively and becomingly, and, since his day, we have attained to an excellence almost unequalled in all the polished globe; far be it from me to remove the bays from the venerable brows of Racine, Corneille, Boileau and Voltaire, their

productions will always be admirable, but we are no where outdone by them; and our present borrowings of light matter from the French school, encourages light taste and morals, and betrays a poverty engendered by idleness, for there is no dearth at home, no want of a creative power, but a fashion has crept in, which ought to be weeded from our dramatic garden, at least sufficiently to admit only the flowers from the Paris market, without its wild plants and poisonous herbs far from the British stage and British fair, from the ear of modesty and the eye of immaculacy be all the flippant illusions, warm fallacies, double entendres, and obvious obscenity, of the Boulevards and elsewhere. We have pruned the redundancies of the bard of Avon, those wild shoots that suit not modern taste, and why should we admit them of foreign growth? Many of our finest tragedies, and best comedies, (and amongst the former, Romeo and Juliet) would not be listened to as first written-yet we tolerate indelicacies of continental form and fashion. Having now established our superiority, one word on the ascendancy of the stage over our conduct and inclinations. The fascinations of the stage are many and powerful; from the stage-box to the greenroom, every thing is seen in the most favorable light, youth embellished by dress, not confined to the mere mode of the day, but taking from Greece and Rome, from fiction and reality, from the description of the poet and the painter, whatever of beauty and of grace is most calculated to increase the power of pleasing, and giving to lovely originals the form and pressure of the finest models; thence it is that our senses are taken by surprise, and that the captivations of the heart produce so many matches in high life, with those who having played the heroine, the spirit, genius, or sylph upon the dramatic boards, are promoted to act in the representations of high life; the stage too, has become like a bazaar of ornamental attire, from whence all may learn, from the prince to the barrister, the gracefulness of folds, the management of rich flowing drapery, the sweep of trains and the most becoming adjustments of costume, and it is from thence, together with the best pictures, that female irresistibility acquires its

last arrow, and that a little stage-effect may be stolen to exhibit in private life. Of the theatres and performers, who are closely followed by the amateur corps, enough has been said: we will now come to some abuses to be reformed, to some fashionable transgressions of the audience, and to a comparison betwixt our London theatres and those on the Continent.

The noise of our houses is one annoyance; it proceeds, I allow, mostly from the lower classes; but there are flirts and exquisites, idlers and insipids, who sin in this way, also beaux who, affecting to be tired of all amusement, and to whom nothing is new, drawl, and lisp, and talk, if not loud, sufficiently audible to disturb the attention of others; tittering young ladies, and coquettes more advanced in life, who make a whispering buzz, and by their telegraphic signs to the beau monde in other boxes, and all the manœuvres of eyes, and fans, and French gesticulation in their manners, draw off the interest which would otherwise be given to the drama itself. Some of these aimables not unfrequently between the acts, turn their backs upon the spectators; then again, the animalculi which peep in from box to box, level their glasses at all around, strive for a seat in the stage box, and articulate as loud as possible, “There's not a soul here that one knows;" this addressed to a brother exquisite ; or "Where's lady Mary? did not the countess say she'd be here to night? Box keeper, let me into that box where the three ladies are in front." All this is insufferable. I know that it will be objected to me that abroad, the play houses are converted into coffee houses; that ices, coffee, and even suppers, are taken in them; that a blind is occasionally drawn over the front in Italy, for a party eating as unconcernedly as if they were at an hotel; this I have been eye-witness to, and have seen countesses and baronesses smoking in Germany during a greater part of the evening's entertainment; but, in the first instance, their boxes are their property, they are hired like their lodgings, they may eat, drink and sleep in them, transact business in a tone of voice decently low, make engagements, or what they please, and they are paid as little attention to, as

they heed those around them, the thing being tolerated there, which we should think abominable here; and why? because we are a thinking people, a people to whom appearance and decorum are every thing; because, free as we are, we owe much to the community and much to ourselves; levity in public would tarnish reputation at once, and be put down by the middle rank of life, who would consider themselves insulted by it; nay the actors could not play to audiences thus conducting themselves; there is with us no transition from the eccentricities above named, to bravo! divine! admirable! bravissimo! (naming the performer) bravi tutti. This suits not the steady character of our nation, and although we do not see the trances and raptures, the languishings and closing of eyes, nor all the demonstration of feeling and virtue, we have the reality of them, and it will be marked in becoming bright eyes, gentle female smiles, added gravity and impressive silence, the favorite of the public will be received with heart and hand, and broad humour will call forth broad grins. Another abuse which demands reforming, is the encores, and, above all, the struggle for mastery as to carrying them; admiration becomes selfish when we fatigue a performer with it, the exertion of repetition is often too much for the singer, or other performer, and when of the softer sex, it becomes cruel to expect it; besides it seldom Occurs that the second effort equals the first, an alteration painful to all parties generally ensues; fortunately for the spectators, scenes, and scenic events or effects cannot be repeated, (save only in the case of an amateur actor who died twice) otherwise they would lose all their agency on the senses; in vocal and instrumental music, the same thing occurs, the ear should seem as if its enjoyment could only flow from reflection, and it was the practice of an exquisite judge of music, abroad, to place himself near the box door, towards the moment when a conclusive touch of harmony was about to meet his ear, and, gently stealing away with the dying sound, he would retire unperceived to digest the melodious banquet in solitude and retirement. Such is true taste; such conduct, although not exactly applicable in that way at all times, may