And there were cars-steeds with their proud necks bent Tower,-and temple,-and broken continent: In the blue ether floated silently. I lay upon my bed and sank to sleep: First-I saw a landscape fair Like Ida's woody summits, and sweet fields, Flourishes. Three proud shapes were seen, Like Olympian queens descended. With simple flowers; the third was crowned, -Not one of those figures divine But might have sate in Juno's chair, On Jove, though the blue skies were shaken; From Hebe's hand nectarian wine. And towers that touched the stars, and halls And over all rich gardens hung, Where, amongst silver waterfalls, And sweet winds playing with all the flowers Walked princely shapes: some with an air In supreme magnificence. -This was famous Babylon. That glorious vision passed on. And then I heard the laurel-branches sigh That still grow where the bright-eyed muses walked: And there I saw, piercing the deep blue sky, Went rolling onwards through the sunny calm, And, with rich noises, broken The silence which that holy place had bred. And how she smiled, and kissed his willing hands, Has one, and never more Shall one like thee tread on the Egypt shore, Never shall one laugh, love, or die like thee, And, brave Mark Antony, that thou could'st give With that enchantress, did become thee well; Queen and thou, lofty triumvir, fare ye well. In the sea-caverns, moved by those fierce jars, Came up like phantoms from their coral halls, We take our leave of this promising writer, with two other quotations, both of which speak well of his heart as a man, and of his fancy as a poet. He looks on the feelings of our daily human life through the soft light of imagination, rendering them dearer, tenderer, and lovelier to his human heart. TO A CHILD. Fairest of Earth's creatures! All thy innocent features Moulded in beauty do become thee well. Be free from pains and fears, False love, and others envy, and the guile That lurks beneath a friendlike smile And all the various ills that dwell In this so strange compounded world; and may Thy look be like the skies of May, Supremely soft and clear, With, now and then, a tear For joy, or others sorrows, not thy own. Like a stream afar Flow in perpetual music, and its tone Be joyful and bid all who hear rejoice. And may thy bright eye, like a star, Shine sweet and cheer the hearts that love thee, And take in all the beauty of the flowers, Deep woods, and running brooks, and the rich sights Which thou may'st note above thee At noon-tide, or on interlunar nights, Or when blue Iris, after showers, Bends her cerulean bow, and seems to rest On some distant mountain's breast. Surpassing all the shapes that lie Haunting the sun-set of an autumn sky. Upon what pleasant slope, or sunny field, Yet wherefore wish I the dim veil unfurled? NOTICES OF THE ACTED DRAMA IN LONDON. No. X. We are acquainted with an excellent old lady, whose invariable feeling with respect to every ill that befals herself, or any one else in this life, is, "Well-'tis a mercy it's no worse!" In fulfilling our task, (we are fain to confess, that for this once it is a task) of giving a retrospect of the acted drama for the last two months, we cannot help feeling that it is a "mercy" the novelties which have been brought forward during that time are so intolerably bad—for if their quality had borne any sort of proportion to their quantity, we must either have thrown up our office in despair, or what would have been a great deal worse -"Blackwood's Magazine"-that new Aurora Borealis, must have made its monthly appearance in the sky of periodical literature, with its till then infinitely various, sparkling, and plea sant face, changed into one huge flat feature, like the moon at the full That liveliest star in the northern hemisphere must have looked, for one whole month, like a "swart planet in the universe of deeds." Twelve new dramas-hear it ye shades of the contented audiences and economical managers of three hundred years ago! Twelve new pieces" with entirely new scenery, dresses, and decorations!" -Hear it, strong but slow-paced spirit of Old Ben!-Twelve new and successful dramatic "works," in little more than half as many weeks!-Two regular Tragedies, as many Comedies, an Opera, four Melodramas, a Farce, an Interlude, and a Ballet !-All, according to the play-bills, entirely successful, with one exception; and yet all, like the flowers of this prolific season, doomed to perish in their pride: for, at this present writing, they are all more or less dead, and most of them quite so-sudden death being a disease that modern dramas, like the man in the farce, are "very subject to," in spite of the favourable bulletins that are daily issued by the stage managers, those quacking doctors, backed by their subservient apothecaries, the daily critics. Notwithstanding the length to which our dramatic article has sometimes extended, the reader need not be appalled at the foregoing list; for we shall not attempt to do more than give a slight retrospective glance at such parts of its items as we have not yet forgotten :-and this, without much regard to dates or merit, but in the order or rather, "the most admired disorder,"-in which they have chosen to arrange themselves in our memory. The Carib Chief is a drama written by Mr Horace Swiss. It lays claim to the rank of a regular tragedy; but though it does not make good its pretensions to that title, it is not without merit as an acting piece. The construction of the plot of this play is much too artificial and complicated to permit the mind to embrace it at one view; and the tone of sentiment which pervades it is not elevated or impressive enough to entitle it to the character of tragic: and they both want that unity and simplicity of purpose without which tragedy cannot exist. But the Carib Chief is still a clever and interesting piece; and if Mr Twiss had had the resolution to call it a melo-drama instead of a tragedy, we should have liked it much better, and he might have claimed the merit of producing perhaps the best piece of its kind.-But his ambition appears to be of a very sober and well regulated description. He is not one of those who think it "better to reign in hell than serve in heaven." We shall, however, venture to elevate Mr Twiss to the supremacy in the hell of melodramatic literature, whether he will or no. He sometimes indulges in theatrical critiques himself, and will, therefore, the better know how to bear with us. His piece is a melodrama, and nothing else; but it is a very good one-for we really think that a melo-drama may be a good thing, just as a reformer may be a good man. The chief interest of the piece depends on the hatred of Omreah (Mr Kean) to European sway in his native land; and on his unquenchable thirst of revenge on Montalbert, the French governor of Gaudaloupe, for the supposed murder of his wife and child. Omreah is son to the late king, and has been for eighteen years 319 Notices of the Acted Drama in London. in slavery and exile; but at the period of the play he returns, at the head of a powerful party of his friends and countrymen, and just at a juncture when the European power in the island is endangered by the quarrels of the English and French. Omreah reluctantly agrees to join the English forces against the French; but, before their arrival, he contrives by a stratagem of his own, to make himself master of the French citadel, and in it, as he supposes, Montalbert and his young bride-both of whom he exultingly determines to sacrifice in revenge for the loss of his own wife and child. Montalbert, how ever, has escaped; and his bride is nowhere to be found-till a female among the captives offers to discover her, on condition of having conceded to her the life of another prisoner who is also condemned to suffer death. Omreah grants her condition-she unveils-she is herself Montalbert's bride-wedded to him against her will, and loving another Trefusis whose life she has gained by this sarifice of herself. Omreah, without hesitation or remorse, offers up her life to the manes of his own wife and child-but when she is on the point of expiring, he discovers that she is herself that child-his own long-lost and too late found daughter!-The last scene, in which this discovery takes place, is extremely well-written, and altogether well-conducted; and the acting of Kean-for whom the part of Omreah is expressly adapted, is in the deepest degree pathetic and beautiful. The numerous incidents and details by which this main plot is brought out, and connected with the other parts of the play, are very skilfully arranged; and the whole forms a very interesting exhibition; but we must repeat, the work is not a Tragedy. Of tragic conception, power, sentiment, interest, there is no thing. If the language of the Carib Chief scarcely ever rises above mediocrity, it as seldom sinks below it. If it displays little poetry, it evinces consider able taste and judgment; and it never offends by extravagance or bombast which is something more than a negative praise, when it is considered that this is the author's first dramatic attempt. We sincerely congratulate Mr Twiss [June on his complete success; and we fairly confess that his work exhibits much more talent than we could have expected from him in this class of writing. Why we should say or feel this is, perhaps, more than we can tell-or why we were, as was the case, more than commonly pleased at learning that he was the author of it; (since we only know that gentleman by reputation):-unless it be that we have a lurking kindness for authors who begin their literary career by scrib bling dramatic critiques. We have next to speak of the two comedies, Wanted a Wife! or a Check on my Banker, and Arrivals from Oxford. Juliet says "What's in a name?" She was a delightful lover, but a very indifferent casuist. There may be "much virtue" in a name, as well as much vice. The latter is the case in the comedy of " Wanted a Wife." It is called "a comedy," and therefore it completely wearied and disgusted us; whereas, had it been brought forward as a farce, it would, undoubtedly, have amused and gratified us. It is, perhaps, not going too far to attribute this change of effect entirely to the misnomer of the piece. The com parative coarseness and absurdity, and the continued equivoque of which it consists, are not bad in themselves; but they are totally bad in comedy, because totally out of place. A gentleman advertises for a wife, and his discarded servant for a place; and the advertisements are answered by an antiquated virgin who wants a husband, and a beautiful girl who wants a servant. Each, however, reciprocally mistakes the views of the other-the would-be wife hiring the footman as a husband, and the young lady taking the master home with her as a footman: while the master thinks he has found a rich and beautiful wife, and the man that he has got into an excellent place. This, expanded into one huge equivoque, forms the whole "comedy in five acts;" at the end of which the master marries the young lady, and the servant the old one!-Many of the incidents arising out of this mistake are exceeding ly ludicrous; but we repeat, what might have been an admirable farce was an execrable comedy. The other comedy, "Arrivals from Oxford," had the merit of being more dull and stupid than we had previous ly conceived it possible for the wit of man to construct one; and, what is very singular, we sincerely believe that it succeeded (for it did succeed to a certain degree) solely on that account. The dialogue between the different characters consisted of precisely such things as the same class of persons would have put forth at an evening party in Finsbury-square-at some of which, it is probable, the author picked it all up. There is no controverting what is said at these kind of meetings for it is all entirely true, and has been so from time immemorial. There is no turning it into ridicule for to admit of that it must put forth some tangible points-it must be either good or bad, no matter which; and to abuse or laugh outright at it, would be cruel and ill-mannered; besides the difficulty of knowing where to stop or to begin. Thus it was with this comedy. It succeeded, because nobody knew when or where to find fault with it. The next day the daily critics praised it to the skies,-though we are not at a loss to guess why-for they might have done quite as well themselves. But the second night things were as they should be, for the author and actors were left to enjoy the performance by themselves. And perhaps this, after all, is the most appropriate way of getting rid of plays of this kind, for by this means the profits of the first night are swallowed up in the loss of the second. When this is not the case, the obnoxious piece may be said to be "damned," only after the manner of poor Corin, "like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side;" for the cunning managers pocket the profits of the first nightwithdraw their piece "in compliance with the wishes of their patrons, the public," and then bring forward a worse the next week. Heart of Mid-Lothian. The opera which we have now to notice is partly founded on the Heart of MidLothian, and it bears the same name. From the following sketch of the plot, however, the reader will see that it varies considerably from the novel. It opens with a representation of the rioters clamouring and exulting in the recent murder of Porteous. Dumbiedikes coming in their way, is only savVOL. V. ed from being made another victim to their fury, by the sudden appearance and interposition of George Robertson, under the disguise of Madge Wildfire. The two sisters, Effie and Jeanie Deans, now appear, and disclose the misfortune and disgrace of the former, with the loss of her infant. Dumbiedikes, on his return from Edinburgh, is met by Robertson, who terrifies him into delivering a message to Effie to meet him at twelve at night at Muschat's Cairn. Meantime Effie has been arrested and conveyed to prison, on a charge of infanticide. Jeanie, learning the communication from her sister's supposed seducer, resolves to meet him at the place appointed. Dumbiedikes sets out to the same place, for the purpose of affording her protection, should she need it; and Sharpitlaw also proceeds to the same place with a guard of soldiers, under the guidance of Ratcliffe and Madge Wildfire, for the purpose of seizing Robertson. While the latter is engaged in explaining to Jeanie the difficulties of her sister's situation, and the means of extricating her, he is alarmed by the significant hints afforded him by Madge Wildfire, and effects his escape. The interview of the sisters in the tolbooth now takes place, during which Ratcliffe suggests the means by which Jeanie may save Effie's life; and Lord Oakdale arrives from London as commissioner, with full powers to put in execution the extraordinary and severe law in cases of infanticide. In an interview between him and old Deans, Lord Oakdale also appears to hint at a means of saving her life, which the old man indignantly rejects, as inconsistent with his duty and with the truth. The culprit, with her sister, are then brought before the commissioner, and while Jeanie is hesitating whether she shall positively deny that Effie had disclosed her situation before the birth of the child, (a circumstance on which the law has made her life to depend) the father rushes forward, and conjures her to declare the simple truth, whatever may be the event. As the judge is about to pass the fatal sentence, Robertson rushes in and declares Effie to be his lawful wife, and justifies his connexion with the Porteous mob, by proving that he had joined them in order to effect the safety of their victim, rather than his de2 S struction; he also proves to be the son of the judge. In the mean time Ratcliffe, conjecturing from some incoherent language of Madge Wildfire that it was she who had either concealed or destroyed Effie's child, succeeds in gaining from her a knowledge of its place of concealment, and restores it to the happy and exculpated mother. Robertson avows his determination to join his fate with that of Effie, whatever may be the consequence. Lord Oakdale takes this as a proof of his intention to reform his life, and is reconciled to him, and the piece ends happily to all parties. From this sketch, it will be seen that Mr Terry, the author of the piece, has entirely differed from the story in many essential parts; and always, as it appears to us, injudiciously. He has likewise altered the features of many of the characters, till there is no recognizing them. Jeanie Deans, in particular the honest downright, and sensible the true-hearted and roundfaced Scotch lassie, he and Miss Brunton together, have converted into a pretty little mincing, affected London Miss. Mr Terry himself acted the sturdy covenanter—the rough old "presbyterian true-blue ;" and nothing could be finer, in its way, than his performance-but it was less adapted to the stage than the conventicle out of which (perhaps the more's the pity,) such a character is not now to be found. The songs in this piece are said to be by Walter Scott; and they are, certainly, much above the usual style of opera poetry. But what shall we say to the singing of them by Miss Stephens, in the character of Effie Deans?-Nothing! It is idle to at tempt to characterise it by words. But we really do think, that to hear this lady sing a beautiful old Scotch air, in its pure and unadorned simplicity, as she did these, and to appropriate words, engenders feelings which reach the height of human enjoyment. In conclusion, we are at some loss to know whether to congratulate or condole with Mr Terry on the kind and degree of his success in adapting these Scottish tales to the stage. If he has been merely desirous of producing acting dramas that shall possess a collateral attraction, arising from their connection with the works from which they take their titles, and independent of their own intrinsic merits; and, by this means, to “ put money in his purse;" his choice has been fortunate. But if he was ambitious of acquiring the fair fame of a dramatist, it has been most unhappy. These tales have created an era in our national literature. There is nothing like or equal to them, in our own or any other language. And as they are of a kind, too, that every body reads and is capa ble of enjoying, comparisons must be made, and they must be ruinous to his pretensions as an author. Of the four melo-dramas, we shall run the risk of being as dull as they, if we venture to say a word. As to The Jew of Lubeck, and Swedish Patriotism, they are wearisome enough, to be sure; but all they harm they do is to put to sleep our recollections of all kinds, good and bad. They merely induce a sort of restless repose, which is very disagreeable while it lasts; but when its exciting cause is at an end, there is also an end of the effect; and cause and effect are alike forgotten forever: for nobody has any very ro→ mantic or interesting associations connected with German Jews or Swedish patriots. But it is not so with the other two-Fortunatus's Wishing-Cap, and The Merchant of Abudah, or the Talisman of Oromanes. They are founded on tales in the Arabian Nights; and, accordingly, they interfere, in a most impertinent and troublesome manner, with some of the very best associations of the best years of our life. They come floundering, with their clumsy and unhallowed realities, into an ideal world, that our imaginations had built up and peopled in childhood, and disturb the whole fabric and its inhabitants-changing them into something even less fanciful and wondrous than the actual forms by which we are surrounded. But the attempt to realize or recal, in any adequate manner, the feelings with which we peruse the Arabian Nights, must always be unsuccessful. These delightful fictions are never read but in early youth, and never forgotten afterwards. They are the paradise of our boyhood. We talk about them all our lives; but it is then, and then only, that we enjoy their charms. After fifteen or sixteen years of age, we begin to cherish a kind of contempt for what then appear to be such monstrous fictions. We learn to "know better" than to be delighted with them; and, besides, our associations with them begin to stand in the way of our |