They dealt with passions, not with manners, and awoke the higher feelings and sensibilities of our nature. Good plays were also mingled with the bad: if Kotzebue was acted, Goëthe and Schiller were studied. The Wallenstein was translated by Coleridge, and the influence of the German drama was felt by most of the young poets. One of those who imbibed a taste for the marvellous and the romantic from this source was MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS, whose drama, The Castle Spectre, was produced in 1797, and was performed about sixty successive nights. It is full of supernatural horrors, deadly revenge, and assassination, with touches of poetical feeling, and some wellmanaged scenes. In the same year Lewis adapted a tragedy from Schiller, entitled The Minister; and this was followed by a succession of dramatic pieces -Rolla, a tragedy, 1799; The East Indian, a comedy, 1800; Adelmorn, or the Outlaw, a drama, 1801; Rugantio, a melo-drama, 1805; Adelgitha, a play, 1806; Venoni, a drama, 1809; One o'Clock, or the Knight and Wood Demon, 1811; Timour the Tartar, a melo-drama, 1812; and Rich and Poor, a comic opera, 1812. The Castle Spectre is still occasionally performed; but the diffusion of a more sound and healthy taste in literature has banished the other dramas of Lewis equally from the stage and the press. To the present generation they are unknown. They were fit companions for the ogres, giants, and Blue-beards of the nursery tales, and they have shared the same oblivion. JOANNA BAILLIE. The most important addition to the written drama at this time was the first volume of JOANNA BAILLIE's plays on the passions, published in 1798 under the title of A Series of Plays: in which it is attempted to Delineate the Stronger Passions of the Mind, each Passion being the subject of a Tragedy and a Comedy. To the volume was prefixed a long and interesting introductory discourse, in which the authoress discusses the subject of the drama in all its bearings, and asserts the supremacy of simple nature over all decoration and refinement. Let one simple trait of the human heart, one expression of passion, genuine and true to nature, be introduced, and it will stand forth alone in the boldness of reality, whilst the false and unnatural around it fades away upon every side, like the rising exhalations of the morning.' This theory (which anticipated the dissertations and most of the poetry of Wordsworth) the accomplished dramatist illustrated in her plays, the merits of which were instantly recognised, and a second edition called for in a few months. Miss Baillie was then in the thirty-fourth year of her age. In 1802 she published a second volume, and in 1812 a third. In the interval she had produced a volume of miscellaneous dramas (1804), and The Family Legend (1810), a tragedy founded on a Highland tradition, and brought out with success at the Edinburgh theatre. In 1836 this authoress published three more volumes of plays, her career as a dramatic writer thus extending over the long period of thirtyeight years. Only one of her dramas has ever been performed on the stage: De Montfort was brought out by Kemble shortly after its appearance, and was acted eleven nights. It was again introduced in 1821, to exhibit the talents of Kean in the character of De Montfort; but this actor remarked that, though a fine poem, it would never be an acting play. The author who mentions this circumstance, remarks:"If Joanna Baillie had known the stage practically, she would never have attached the importance which she does to the development of single passions in single tragedies; and she would have invented more stirring incidents to justify the passion of her characters, and to give them that air of fatality which, though peculiarly predominant in the Greek drama, will also be found, to a certain extent, in all successful tragedies. Instead of this, she contrives to make all the passions of her main characters proceed from the wilful natures of the beings themselves. Their feelings are not precipitated by circumstances, like a stream down a declivity, that leaps from rock to rock; but, for want of incident, they seem often like water on a level, without a propelling impulse."* The design of Miss Baillie in restricting her dramas each to the elucidation of one passion, appears certainly to have been an unnecessary and unwise restraint, as tending to circumscribe the business of the piece, and exclude the interest arising from varied emotions and conflicting passions. It cannot be said to have been successful in her own case, and it has never been copied by any other author. Sir Walter Scott has eulogised Basil's love and Montfort's hate' as something like a revival of the inspired strain of Shakspeare. The tragedies of Count Basil and De Montfort are among the best of Miss Baillie's plays; but they are more like the works of Shirley, or the serious parts of Massinger, than the glorious dramas of Shakspeare, so full of life, of incident, and imagery. Miss Baillie's style is smooth and regular, and her plots are both original and carefully constructed; but she has no poetical luxuriance, and few commanding situations. Her tragic scenes are too much connected with the crime of murder, one of the easiest resources of a tragedian; and partly from the delicacy of her sex, as well as from the restrictions imposed by her theory of composition, she is deficient in that variety and fulness of passion, the form and pressure' of real life, which are so essential on the stage. The design and plot of her dramas are obvious almost from the first act —a circumstance that would be fatal to their success in representation. The unity and intellectual completeness of Miss Baillie's plays are their most striking characteristics. Her simple masculine style, so unlike the florid or insipid sentimentalism then prevalent, was a bold innovation at the time of her two first volumes; but the public had fortunately taste enough to appreciate its excellence. Baillie was undoubtedly a great improver of our poetical diction. [Scene from De Montfort.] Miss [De Montfort explains to his sister Jane his hatred of Rezen. velt, which at last hurries him into the crime of murder. The gradual deepening of this malignant passion, and its frightful catastrophe, are powerfully depicted. We may remark, that the character of De Montfort, his altered habits and appearance after his travels, his settled gloom, and the violence of his passions, seem to have been the prototype of Byron's Manfred and Lara.] De Mon. No more, my sister, urge me not again; From all participation of its thoughts My secret troubles cannot be revealed. My heart recoils: I pray thee be contented. Jane. What! must I, like a distant humble friend, Observe thy restless eye and gait disturbed In timid silence, whilst with yearning heart I turn aside to weep? O no, De Montfort! A nobler task thy nobler mind will give; Thy true intrusted friend I still shall be. De Mon. Ah, Jane, forbear! I cannot e'en to thee. Jane. Then fie upon it! fie upon it, Montfort! There was a time when e'en with murder stained, Had it been possible that such dire deed *Campbell's Life of Mrs Siddons. Could e'er have been the crime of one so piteous, De Mon. So would I now-but ask of this no more. All other troubles but the one I feel I have disclosed to thee. I pray thee, spare me. It is the secret weakness of my nature. Jane. Then secret let it be: I urge no further. The eldest of our valiant father's hopes, So sadly orphaned: side by side we stood, Like two young trees, whose boughs in early strength I have so long, as if by nature's right, Thy bosom's inmate and adviser been, I thought through life I should have so remained, Nor ever known a change. Forgive me, Montfort; A humbler station will I take by thee; The close attendant of thy wandering steps, This is mine office now: I ask no more. Feel like the oppressive airless pestilence. O Jane! thou wilt despise me. Jane. Say not so: I never can despise thee, gentle brother. De Mon. A lover's, say'st thou ? No, it is hate! black, lasting, deadly hate! Which thus hath driven me forth from kindred peace, Jane. De Montfort, this is fiend-like, terrible! Of flesh and blood, created even as thou, Could in thy breast such horrid tempest wake, Unknit thy brows, and spread those wrath-clenched hands. Some sprite accursed within thy bosom mates To work thy ruin. Strive with it, my brother! De Mon. Oh, Jane, thou dost constrain me with thy Strive bravely with it; drive it from thy heart; love Nor from the yearnings of affection wring Or nobler science, that compels the mind Till thou, with brow unclouded, smilest again; Jane. Ah! say not so, for I will haunt thee too, That, though I wrestle darkling with the fiend, De Mon. Thou most generous woman! Jane. What sayst thou, Montfort? Oh! what words are these! They have awaked my soul to dreadful thoughts. By the affection thou didst ever bear me; Ha! wilt thou not? More rightful power than crown or sceptre give, De Montfort, do not thus resist my love. De Mon. [Raising her, and kneeling.] 'Tis the degrader of a noble heart. Curse it, and bid it part. De Mon. It will not part. I've lodged it here too long. With my first cares I felt its rankling touch. Jane. Whom didst thou say? E'en in our early sports, like two young whelps It drove me frantic. What, what would I give- Jane. And would thy hatred crush the very man Who gave to thee that life he might have taken? That life which thou so rashly didst expose To aim at his? Oh, this is horrible! De Mon. Ha! thou hast heard it, then! From all the world, But most of all from thee, I thought it hid. Didst thou receive my letter? De Mon. I did! I did! "Twas that which drove me hither. I could not bear to meet thine eye again. Jane. Alas! that, tempted by a sister's tears, Returned the forfeit sword, which, so returned, De Mon. When he disarmed this cursed, this worthless hand Of its most worthless weapon, he but spared Until that day, till that accursed day, I knew not half the torment of this hell Which burns within my breast. Heaven's lightnings blast him! Jane. Oh, this is horrible! Forbear, forbear! Lest Heaven's vengeance light upon thy head For this most impious wish. De Mon. Then let it light. Torments more fell than I have known already What all men shrink from; to be dust, be nothing, Jane. Oh! wouldst thou kill me with these ful words? De Mon. Let me but once upon his ruin look, Then close mine eyes for ever! Shall, thundering loud, strike on the distant ear Shall have its suited pastime: even winter [Fears of Imagination.] Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast, Or boatmen's oar, as vivid lightning flash Ha! how is this? Thou'rt ill; thou'rt very pale; I meant not to distress thee-O, my sister! De Mon. I have killed thee. Turn, turn thee not away! Look on me still! Jane. Thou, too, De Montfort, In better days was wont to be my pride. De Mon. I am a wretch, most wretched in myself, And still more wretched in the pain I give. O curse that villain, that detested villain! He has spread misery o'er my fated life; He will undo us all. Jane. I've held my warfare through a troubled world, And borne with steady mind my share of ill; For then the helpmate of my toil wast thou. But now the wane of life comes darkly on, And hideous passion tears thee from my heart, Blasting thy worth. I cannot strive with this. De Mon. What shall I do? [Female Picture of a Country Life.] Even now methinks Each little cottage of my native vale And with green trail-weeds clambering up its walls, I'll gather round my board One hasty glance in mockery of the night Closing in darkness round it? Gentle friend! Chide not her mirth who was sad yesterday, And may be so to-morrow. [Speech of Prince Edward in his Dungeon.] Do the green woods dance to the wind? the lakes Do the flocks bleat, and the wild creatures bound [Description of Jane de Montfort.] [The following has been pronounced to be a perfect picture of Mrs Siddons, the tragic actress.] Page. Madam, there is a lady in your hall Who begs to be admitted to your presence. Lady. Is it not one of our invited friends? Page. No; far unlike to them. It is a stranger. Lady. How looks her countenance? Page. So queenly, so commanding, and so noble, I shrunk at first in awe; but when she smiled, Methought I could have compassed sea and land To do her bidding. Lady Is she young or old? Page. Neither, if right I guess; but she is fair, Lady. The foolish stripling! She has bewitched thee. Is she large in stature? 75 Page. I cannot well describe the fashion of it: Lady. Thine eyes deceive thee, boy; Freberg. [Starting from his seat, where he has been sitting during the conversation between the Lady and the Page.] It is an apparition he has seen, Or it is Jane de Montfort. WILLIAM GODWIN-WILLIAM SOTHEBY. MR GODWIN, the novelist, attempted the tragic drama in the year 1800, but his powerful genius, which had produced a romance of deep and thrilling interest, became cold and frigid when confined to the rules of the stage. His play was named Antonio, or the Soldier's Return. It turned out a miracle of dulness,' as Sergeant Talfourd relates, and at last the actors were hooted from the stage. The author's equanimity under this severe trial is amusingly related by Talfourd. Mr Godwin, he says, 'sat on one of the front benches of the pit, unmoved amidst the storm. When the first act passed off without a hand, he expressed his satisfaction at the good sense of the house; "the proper season of applause had not arrived;" all was exactly as it should be. The second act proceeded to its close in the same uninterrupted calm; his friends became uneasy, but still his optimism prevailed; he could afford to wait. And although he did at last admit the great movement was somewhat tardy, and that the audience seemed rather patient than interested, he did not lose his confidence till the tumult arose, and then he submitted with quiet dignity to the fate of genius, too lofty to be understood by a world as yet in its childhood.' The next new play was also by a man of distinguished genius, and it also was unsuccessful. Julian and Agnes, by WILLIAM SOTHEBY, the translator of Oberon, was acted April 25, 1800. 'In the course of its performance, Mrs Siddons, as the heroine, had to make her exit from the scene with an infant in her arms. Having to retire precipitately, she inadvertently struck the baby's head violently against a door-post. Happily, the little thing was made of wood, so that her doll's accident only produced a general laugh, in which the actress herself joined heartily.' This 'untoward event' would have marred the success of any new tragedy; but Mr Sotheby's is deficient in arrangement and dramatic art. We may remark, that at this time the genius of Kemble and Mrs Siddons shed a lustre on the stage, and reclaimed it from the barbarous solecisms in dress and decoration which even Garrick had tolerated. Neither Kemble nor Garrick, however, paid sufficient attention to the text of Shakspeare's dramas, which, even down to about the year 1838, continued to be presented as mutilated by Nahum Tate, Colley Cibber, and others. The first manager who ventured to restore the pure text of the great dramatist, and present it without any of the baser alloys on the stage, was Mr Macready, who made great though unavailing efforts to encourage the taste of the public for Shakspeare and the legitimate drama. 8. T. COLERIDGE. The tragedies of Coleridge, Scott, Byron, Procter, and Milman (noticed in our account of these poets), must be considered as poems rather than plays. Coleridge's Remorse was acted with some success in 1813, aided by fine original music, but it has not since been revived. It contains, however, some of Coleridge's most exquisite poetry and wild superstition, with a striking romantic plot. We extract the scene in which Alhadra describes the supposed murder of her husband, Alvar, by his brother, and animates his followers to vengeance. [Scene from Remorse."] The Mountains by Moonlight. ALHADRA alone, in a Alhadra. Yon hanging woods, that, touched by As they were blossoming hues of fire and gold; [She fixes her eyes on the earth. Then drop in, one after another, from different parts of the stage, a considerable number of Morescoes, all in Moorish garments and Moorish armour. They form a circle at a distance round ALHADRA, and remain silent till the second in command, NAOMI, enters, distinguished by his dress and armour, and by the silent obeisance paid to him on his entrance by the other Moors.] Naomi. Woman, may Alla and the prophet bless thee! circle.] We have obeyed thy call. Where is our chief! Naomi. Where is Isidore? Alhad. [In a deep low voice.] This night I went from His children all asleep; and he was living! All Morescoes. Perished? One Moresco to another. Did she say his murder! Alhad. Murdered by a Christian! [They all at oncE Alhad. [To Naomi, who advances from the circle.] 514 Alhad. Yes, the mouth of yonder cavern. He flung his torch towards the moon in sport, Alhad. I crept into the cavern 'Twas dark and very silent. [Then wildly.] What saidst thou? No, no! I did not dare call Isidore, Came from that chasm! it was his last-his death groan! Naomi. Comfort her, Alla. Alhad. I stood in unimaginable trance, And agony that cannot be remembered, Listening with horrid hope to hear a groan! But I had heard his last, my husband's death-groan! Naomi. Haste! let us onward. Alhad. I looked far down the pit My sight was bounded by a jutting fragment; And it was stained with blood. Then first I shrieked, All Away, away! [She rushes off, all following. The incantation scene, in the same play, is sketched with high poetical power, and the author's unrivalled musical expression: Scene-A Hall of Armory, with an altar at the back of the stage. Soft music from an instrument of glass or steel. And lower down poor Alvar, fast asleep, Alv. My tears must not flow! I must not clasp his knees, and cry, My father! Enter TERESA and Attendants. Ter. Lord Valdez, you have asked my presence here, Ord. Believe you, then, no preternatural influence! A possible thing: and it has soothed my soul On such employment! With far other thoughts Ord. [Aside.] Ha! he has been tampering with her? I swear to thee Hear our soft suit, and heed my milder spell: So may Cease thy swift toils! Since haply thou art one Who in broad circle, lovelier than the rainbow, Ye, as ye pass, toss high the desert sands, VALDEZ, ORDONIO, and ALVAR in a Sorcerer's robe are dis- By sighs unquiet, and the sickly pang covered. Ord. This was too melancholy, father. My Alvar loved sad music from a child. Of a half dead, yet still undying hope, [Song behind the scenes, accompanied by the same Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell, |