(like all other petted people) will not easily bear the exhibition of anything which sacrifices any portion of their accustomed amusement to maxims of criticism, which they are unused to apply. A play which depends chiefly on dialogue for the unfolding of its plot, and for the interest which is to decide its fate, would be unintelligible to a great majority of the crowd who throng to a playhouse for entertainment, and yet from that majority it must receive its final, and usually its immediate doom. There is no appeal to those who listen and admire, from those who cannot hear, and who therefore condemn. If a writer consults his own taste, or that of the judicious critics who may chance to sit within hearing of his piece, he is sure to be reminded of the homage that he owes to those distant deities, who never speak their displeasure but in a voice of thunder, and to whose fiat, when they are verily in earnest, all below must bow. Of all the tortures of the mind, there is perhaps not one, (if we may judge from appearances,) which it is harder for poor human nature to bear, than that of a poet compelled to prune his best conceptions into a shape, which, to him, is all deformity, out of complaisance to those who possess the two formidable qualities, of being, in his opinion, tasteless and ignorant, and of holding the most absolute power over the fate of his productions. It is a species of humiliation to which a great genius seldom will, and perhaps never ought to bend. And it may be pronounced with certainty, that in any attempt to please all parties, a dramatic writer, in the present state of the public taste, must either wholly fail, or produce a work which, instead of establishing or upholding his fame, would sink him below his proper and merited level. The fate of Miss Baillie's plays will long serve as a warning to dramatic poets. Some of their finest passages are deformed by incidents, introduced for no other purpose than to gratify those who can be pleased only through the eyes. Yet notwithstanding these humblings of genius against its own enlightened sense, these dramas failed chiefly, because too much still remained, which spoke only to the ears and the affections. The necessity of consulting the whims of those who come to gaze at what they cannot hear, leads of course to an implicit deference towards certain regularly bred doctors, who spend their lives in feeling the public pulse, and, therefore, not without reason, deem themselves the persons best qualified to pronounce what treatment is calculated to excite or abate it. These are of course the Players. In their way, they are as absolute as the body whose humours they interpret; and the poet would be a madman beyond the reach of all the virtues of Ellebore itself, who would disobey their decrees. They are in the drama what your practical politicians are in Parliament. Rules and maxims of criticism they very properly disregard, as much as they do the mere promptings of the author's genius. Experience is their test; and it is a word as fatal to the dreams of the poet as it sometimes is to those of the political economist. If audiences usually judged with discrimination, and relished the beauties of a sterling play, perhaps the most enlightened critics might be found among the first rank of players. Even at this day, some of our best performers preach and practise what it is known that their taste and their judgment condemn. An actor who has studied his profession, and is ardent in its pursuit, acquires an habitual power of exactly estimating the temper, the partialities, and the sym pathies of his audience, somewhat similar to that which a public speaker attains by long practice in a popular assembly. But the same cause which makes him a safe guide to the securing of applause, disables him in general for sound criticism, when the public before whom his habits are formed indulge a vitiated taste. It is no wonder then, that most of our living poets whose powers might have restored the departed glories of the English Drama, have, like Byron, shrunk from the humiliating task, of thus working in chains under the direction of an actor. These are discouragements which would operate in any age or country, gifted with such audiences, playhouses, and critic players, as distinguish this present time, and this spectacle-loving people. But it is also true, not only that we are a nation of shopkeepers," but that one of the most valuable wares we buy and sell, is literary manufacture. The demand has increased so much upon the supply, that although the number of houses and hands engaged in preparing this sort of commodity for the market is immense, the belief is very general, and is becoming more so every day, that its quality does not at all improve as fast as its quantity enlarges. As buyers grow more greedy, and more numerous, articles of the best texture and finish must become prodigiously enhanced in price; and thus it is demonstrable, to the satisfaction of the Ricardo Lecturer himself, that authors will be tempted to vest their capital in those kinds of production which yield the largest profit. Poets are no longer led a dance after the bubble reputation, in which there is any probability that the object of their pursuit will burst before they catch it. They select those paths which lead to gold as well as honour, and as they have descended from garrets, and presume to seek the solid comforts of this eating, drinking, and sleeping world, they shun those modes of acquiring glory which require much labour, offer much hazard, and afford but scanty pay. Whether, therefore, the Author of Waverley be most actuated by the pride of genius, or the love of gain, or, (what is more probable, as well as more natural,) shares in a fair proportion both these very reasonable sentiments, it is probable that he may deem it a breach of the ordinary rules of prudence to try the hazards of a regular drama. He now rules sovereign in our literature,-I should say in the literature of this age. His supremacy is undisputed and unrivalled. And his revenues are as large as his dominion is glorious. It is almost superfluous to say, that the annals of genius afford nothing that bears comparison with the mine of wealth which he has found in the stores of an apparently exhaustless imagination. As far as we can judge, there seems no end to its riches; but it is not unnatural that he should be reluctant to leave those tracks in which he has wrought so successfully, and in which he is sure of succeeding still, for others in which his course must be less profitable, and may possibly be attended with humiliation and disappointment. He may reason thus: "If I write for the stage, I must either forfeit my own approbation, and trifle with my own renown, by adding to the number of those metrical prodigies that offend taste and disgrace genius, or I shall probably fail with a public who frequent theatres for wonder, not for criticism,-as spectators, not as hearers. At present, I am rewarded for my labours by wealth, still accumulating as I proceed in the work of my own selection, the contribution of admirers whom I cannot satiate. It would be unwise to fling away for new and uncertain trials, these sure and steady gains; nor have the public any title to expect that I shall abandon a pursuit which they requite so liberally. But, above all, I have built a fabric of fame which shall last for ages. I will not stoop to the writing of melodrames; and if I do not, and if I write for the stage in such á style as alone can satisfy and suit my conceptions,-what may be the fate of the Author of Waverley? His play, having occupied him for weeks or months which he might have devoted to other works that would secure him certain profit and renown,— having passed the vexations of managers and committees,—having undergone the stretchings and amputations of the players,-and even having at last travelled through the miseries of the rehearsals,-may yet die upon the very threshold of immortality, and may owe its death to the very qualities which ought to have made it immortal." THE MAN-OF-WAR'S-MAN. CHAP. XVIII. Though I'm roughish in my speech, and though I'm stern in my frown--- For there's one thing yet within me that is sure to put me down- THE fine elevated situation of Halifax Hospital was admirably adapted for the renovation of such a constitution as that possessed by our hero. Situated on the declivity of a hill, which, gradually rising, terminates in a battery and signal-post,-with a glorious arm of the ocean right in front, crowded with shipping and vessels of war of all shapes and sizesthe bustling town to the right of the as bustling dock-yard-and the heavy armed and beautiful fort of King George, standing in the centre, and breasting, like a determined line-ofbattle broadside on, the entrance of everything hostile or unfriendly,the whole formed, in association, as lovely a piece of animated landscape as Edward had ever beheld. The weather was delightfully serene and warm-the surrounding foliage luxuriated in the richest verdure-while the powerful orb of day, hung in the clear blue sky, shed down his fervid beams with all the steady vigour of a North American summer's sun. When it is also considered, that the principal doctor of the hospital and his medical assistants, were men eminent alike for their skill and humanity-that every indulgence was granted to its inmates which an enlightened benevolence could bestow, or a strict regard to returning health warrantand that the naval allowance of provisions and cordials was actually unbounded-it will excite little surprise that Edward recruited so amazingly fast, as in a very few weeks to be declared convalescent. His wounds were no doubt still delicate, and his body in a state of considerable exhaustion; but then his heart was whole, his hopes were high, his appetite sound and healthy, and his strength accelerating in vigour daily. He was no longer, therefore, confined to his ward; but, furnished with crutches, he used occasionally to swing himself along to the upper end of the hospital green, which was excellently furnished with benchVOL. XIX. es, and there seated, basking in the summer's sun, with the busy and beautiful scene before him, would he ruminate on the events of other years, or chat with such other of the invalids as chance led to the same quarter. Among these was a man-or rather the shell of a man-who, from his rude, unsocial, and unconciliating manners, had been dubbed by the very unpopular name of the Boatswain's Mate. He might be between forty-eight and fifty years of age, was remarkably tall and large boned, with a visage peculiarly forcible and striking, which, added to a stern voice, and a keen, sharp, cynical mode of converse, had long made him be dreaded by all the inmates of the hospital. Nobody knew what countryman he was very few his name and altogether there hung a sort of mystery over the old man, that was more than sufficient to excite the curiosity of a less attentive spectator than Edward. He had early attracted Edward's notice, from his frequently observing, that amidst all this apparent surliness and misanthropy, there appeared a strong dash of genuine feeling and generosity to those he thought more unfortunate than himself, which he in vain endeavoured to conceal. There was, therefore, altogether a something about his person, in despite of his bad temper, that gave Edward a great desire to be better acquainted with him; but how to bring this about he knew not, as any attempts he had hitherto made had been always repelled with the most surly indifference. Continually foiled, he had long given up any farther hope of an introduction to him, when a simple incident which happened one day, accomplished the business at once. Edward, whose present feebleness precluded him from all manner of exercise, being a tolerable proficient on the flute, was often in the habit of carrying along with him a small octave he possessed, with which, occa X sionally, he often found amusement in the conning over one or other of his native airs, either lively or slow, according to the feeling of the moment. One charming afternoon he was seated, as usual, on his remote bench on the hospital green, not a stone's throw from the edge of the water, when reflecting on a conversation he had heard in the early part of the day, where one of the hospital retainers told another, that he had been down at the quay that morning taking farewell of an old friend who had sailed for Greenock, he could not avoid indulging in a train of thought far from being pleasurable. Snatching out his octave, while the melancholy idea yet floated before him, he almost unconsciously commenced the plaintive and beautiful melody of Farewell to Lochaber. He had played a very short time, when he was startled by hearing an uncommon stern voice behind him demand, "what devil's country that cursed drawl came from?" Suddenly halting, and turning round his head, he was not ill pleased when he beheld the bulky frame of the veteran boatswain's-mate stuck up behind him but as he had often heard, that the best way to treat, and even win these surly people, was to serve them plentifully with their own sauce, he resolved to hazard the experiment. Darting, therefore, as furious a look at the veteran as he could muster, he surlily answered, " From a country you'll never have the honour to belong to." Then it must be a dd lousy one, young Mr Consequence," growled the old man, "for there's few countries worth speaking on but what I've been aboard." "That be d-d for a lie," said Edward, gruffly, "for there is one worth speaking on would suit the likes of you to a nicety. You were never in it, I'll be sworn, thof the sooner you are there the better, my heart ;and I hopes, once they get you, they'll keep you there till all's blue." 66 Ah, ha! I smoke you, my saucy Jack," cried the veteran ; 66 you mean Botany, don't you?" "What then?" "Why, that you're a dd uncivil, ill-mannered young dog; and were it not I despise to touch such a poor crippled reptile, I'd convince you in a brace of shakes, that you must talk to me in future in another manner." "You'd convince me, thou shadow of a man!" cried Edward, seizing and brandishing his crutch in his left hand with infinite dexterity;-" crippled as I am, but dare to elevate your arm to injure me, and I'll stave in these musty ribs of yours in a twinkling." The veteran started, and fell back at the threat; then surveying Edward from head to heel, with a countenance seemingly marked with the most inveterate malignity, was slowly retiring, when Edward, somewhat amused with the rencontre, as well as with the ease with which he had discomfited the terror of the hospital, once more laid hold of his octave, and struck up, The Ducks dang owre my Daddie. The sound caught the old man's ear at once; he halted and looked backthen hesitated-and at last once more approached Edward. "So, my young Master Saucebox," cried he sternly, "you not only laugh at me yourself, but make that yellow piece wattle of yours laugh at me also. Art not afraid to affront me so ?" "As for fear, old man," said Edward carelessly, "I've had too many hard blows in my time to fear anything now-a-days. Besides, my old boy, you'll please to remember that I belong, like my music, to what you are pleased to call the devil's country, and I dare say you know as well as I do, that it is the devil's proper vocation, and all that belongs to him, whether men, wattles, or music, to laugh at all manner of mischief.” "Ha, ha, ha!" burst out the veteran, seating himself down on the same bench; "Why, you're the devil's own bird sure enough, that's flat. Here am I, who have gone under a false character now nearly three months, all to save myself from being bored to death by a parcel of ignorant impertinent whip-jacks, brought to my marrowbones in as many minutes by two tunes and a broadside from a young raw Scotchman. Well, well, I can't help it, for the never an inch on me could hold out a moment longer.-Ay, man, so ye're a Scotchman, it seems," continued he smiling, and altering his voice, "and what part of Scotland d'ye come frae, if a body might spier?" "Hey day!" cried Edward, with Giff-gaff maks gude friends," said the old fellow laughing. "I put the question first, neighbour." "And shall have the first answer, undoubtedly," answered Edward in high glee; "for, thank God, I have no occasion for concealments.-I come from Edinburgh, and my name is Edward Davies." "Davies be d-d, you young wag!" rejoined the old man, laughing; "who the devil ever heard of a Scotchman of the name of Davies?-Ah ha, my young blade, you mustn't think to come over an old file like me in that manner. Come now, confess it honestly, isn't that a purser's name?" "Oho, if you begin to doubt me, old ship, I'm done with you at once, said Edward, somewhat testy." But before we begin to dispute any farther, do at least give me yours-giff-gaff, you know, as you said yourself.” -I "I meant no offence, young man," said the veteran, "and shall certainly keep my word to you, although it raises painful regrets within meentered the service also in Edinburgh, but my native place was Roslin.-D'ye know that little place?" "Know it, mate,-I believe few better; ay, and its chapel and castle too-the bonny bleachfield at the foot of the brae-the Esk that washes its castle wa's-and Dryden, and Hawthornden, and Lasswade, and Dalkeith, and Inveresk, and Musselburgh, and the sea. "Truce, truce," cried the old man, "you've gone far enough to make a Turk believe. I see you are a good sterling dollar-though there are too many counterfeits now-a-days." 63 Ay, but, my good old fellow, your name if you please?" asked Edward. The old man, after considerable hesitation, and a look of peculiar significance, answered "My name for the present, is Jack Scizzey." "A purser's, of course?" said Edward. The old man nodded assent; and added, while a faint smile crossed his pallid cheek," Belike, Ned, there was mighty good reasons for my adopting it, and the strange character you've knocked me out of; but what then? what objections have you to it? I'm certain there are as foolish surnames in England." "Oh, that's no doubt true, old ship," said Edward; "but the English, you know, are like no other people on the face of the earth, being, like the contents of their dock-yards, a medley of all sorts-As to what you were saying of my objections to your present name, why, I own I have no very material ones;-and yet Scizzey, Scizzey-why, that's the cant in Edinburgh for a sixpence." "I know it is, my brave lad," replied the old man, "and it was principally to keep me in mind of that dear quarter that I chose it.-Edinburgh!" continued he, becoming highly affected, "Lord help me, what would I not now give to be within hail of old St Giles's-or, rather, to be outside of the Grange-toll, on my way to the old ruins! Then, my dear fellow, you'd see whether these old shattered trotters of mine, hard-up as they are now, wouldn't do their duty. -But why do I talk nonsense, since that is now impossible; at least," added the old man, with a deep sigh, "it is more than poor old Jack expects. But God's will be done ;-if it is his good pleasure that this old weatherbeaten hulk shall founder and rot in a foreign land, who shall say him nay. Yet oh, Davies, it is a sad sad thought, and wrings this withered heart to splinters! D'ye know, my dear boy, that I'll be the first of my family, for scores of generations, whose carcase will miss muster in the little beautiful church-yard yonder that crowns the top of the wooded knoll." 66 Come, come, Jack," said Edward, eagerly interrupting the old man on a subject which he saw gave him pain, 'you get quite womanish now, piping in that silly manner; and did I not know how weak you are at present I'd hardly excuse you. But I've heard you were at one time a great deal worse-so bad, indeed, that old Jectionbag told me he thought you'd have kicked the bucket. You must be sensible, for I see it myself, how much you've improved everyway lately; so' why mayn't you not get on again, see |