friendship, not in ill-nature, having virtue based upon its true foundation -religion as the source of human happiness. Many new faces are rising up around-many despisers of old things springing from the earth. Their views and plans are different from ours; their aims the same. Right that they should have a trial. To them, the rule of the literature of Renfrewshire we leave; but in this we trespass on the province of our editor-a sacred province. In conclusion, let us hope that, long after our name is disregarded and forgotten, there may exist a memorial in these pages of an effort for the happiness of the rising generation of our birth-place.

L. T.

THE DRAMA-ITS USES AND ABUSES.

Φεῦ, φεῦ, τῶν ανθρωπῶν του νὺν γένος.—Diog. Laert.

Free Translation-"What a set of humbugs men are now-a-days!"

WE think the time has most assuredly come, when the Drama needs some champion to assert its rights, and some skilful physician to administer to its weakly state. Nobody, who surveys the space of dramatic action at the present day, can hesitate to agree with us in this opinion. Whosoever is possessed of ordinary observation, and endowed with reflecting faculties, cannot fail to discover that a worm gnaws at its vitality; and he alone may turn a deaf ear to the cries which ascend upwards from the wronged Genius of the Drama, whose element is apathy, and whose taste is blunted.

Capable of refining the mind, of elevating the morals, and of informing human nature under every circumstance, and in the most varied aspects of life-the treasury of much that is valuable, and the repository of many a gem, sacred by the lapse of centuries, and hallowed to the imagination through the associations of revered names, the Drama is so intimately bound up with our very existence, that we owe it a peculiar obligation, and endanger the safety of our social welfare if we suffer it to decline. From time immemorial, an instinctive passion for it inhabited the breast of collective human nature: none cared to withstand its syren influence, because none doubted the purity of its system, or disbelieved its efficacy in the cause of education. When the votaries of the god of wine bedaubed their faces with the lees of the wine-press-when the buskined hero first trode the classic stage, the Drama was an essential part of popular liberty, if not of popular religion. The creed of pagan antiquity recognised its claims to the sanction of the state, and it became a pensioner on its ærarium. It was the vehicle of public admonition, and the lash of enormous vice. Its power at length became so firmly established, that the highest in the commonwealth cowered before its frown, and trembled at its irony. Avarice stood abashed, tyranny quailed, ambition was hurled down from its lofty seat; whilst corruption was so thoroughly anatomised, that its inmost foulness and rank decay were made clear as the noon-day light. Subsequently, it embodied so much vigour of thought, philosophy of idea, and elegance of expression,

NO. XII.

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that it was the mould in which the poet formed his choicest lays, the satirist thundered his keenest invective, the philosopher presented to his race the finest axioms of an ennobled and ennobling system. With the downfal of ancient grandeur came the decline of dramatic splendour. When the mistress of the world could no longer cast around her a triumphant look of conscious eminence, the Dramatic Muse hied her to her secluded retreat, where she might bewail the fate of tottering empires. In vain the Dryads chanted some consolatory hymn, whilst Apollo fingered his lyre, and the sea-nymphs, with their laughing blue eyes, rose midway from the silvery main, eliciting sweet melody from their conches, the weeping maid would not dry up her pearly tears of woe. Great Britain, too, has had her palmy days of dramatic glory. The pride of her literature was a dramatic writer. A sun in himself, he kindled the torch of enthusiasm in kindred bosoms; so that Germany can boast no higher luminary than the philosophic, deep-souled, eloquent author of Faust. France becomes comparatively insignificant, in point of literature, without her Racine, and her Corneille. What more choice has Italy to offer to the world of letters than the productions of her Metastasio? Thus, we see that every great nation has possessed some mind who ranked foremost in dramatic writing, or who, in other words, could depict with a master-pencil the passions which agitate the human bosom, and delineate in natural and graphic colouring the every-day scenes of life. And what a matchless treat must it not have been to have witnessed the personification of some of these passions by a Garrick, Mrs. Siddons, Miss O'Neill, Kean! as it now is to listen with breathless attention to Macready, Mademoiselle Rachelle, Helena Faucit, Mrs. Warner, Laura Addison! Why have we not in the ranks of the Drama such a galaxy as Grisi, Jenny Lind, Persiana, Lablache, Corbary, Alboni? The answer is: "There is something rotten in the state of Denmark." The error is radical, and can only be cured by a total reform in the Drama. The management are the party from whom this remedy must emanate. They cater to public taste; and if the banquet they present be not healthy and choice, they cannot expect any who are nice in taste or habits to come and partake of it. If the representations selected be of a doubtful cast of morals, they have a right to expect only those visitors whose morals are equally pliant and accommodating. Hence the scruples entertained by so large a majority of the respectable public on the subject of theatres-hence the despotic restriction which warns young ladies, who value their unblemished reputation, from going to such places of amusement. The same argument which denounces the tone of the representation, applies to the character of those who frequent the scenes of such exhibitions. The "Jack Sheppards," "Dick Turpins," nay, the "Oliver Twists," and, worse than all, the "gay Lotharios," are heroes not at all calculated to elevate the morals, or refine the intellect, of any class of society whatsoever. Songs of a certain description must likewise be banished from the stage, ere it can hope to receive the sanction or the patronage of the virtuous. Would it not be the extreme of madness to venture into an element of corruption, as pernicious to the healthy tone of action in this world, as it must be fatal to that divine part of us which survives the influence of time? We have no

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doubt whatever that the only point which a manager keeps steadily in view is that borne in mind by most speculators ere they risk their money, viz. "Will it pay?" That answered satisfactorily, and all other questions dwindle into nothingness. The manager regards his "company," like the merchant his bales, or the showman his performing monkey, as so much the more valuable in proportion to the money they draw. He treats them, in nine cases out of ten, as so much machinery which must be regulated by his hand, and ought to consider itself fortunate if it always obtains as much oil as will keep it in motion. This latter is not indeed always the case: we have known instances where managers have sternly refused to pay for a night's performance, on the ground of its not being a bona fide engagement; and the poor actor has thus been driven, by an act of wanton cruelty or pinching avarice (it may be called either), to sufferings too dreadful to describe. The comedian, who by turns delights and astonishes by his antics, could perhaps scarcely stand up in the "green-room," through excess of pain; yet he must appear before the audience, and must excite their laughter. The actor-king," who struts upon the stage for an hour in all the insignia of regal splendour, has most likely not broken his fast that day; though he has been obliged to learn eight or ten "lengths" (each length is 42 lines) at twenty-four hours' notice! These will appear startling revelations to many persons, but they may be relied upon implicitly: we have them on "unquestionable" authority. That the Drama cannot much longer survive such a state of matters, is easily foreseen. It is already rapidly hastening to decline, and a crash may soon be expected. Men of sterling talents, and good education, pause before they enter the ranks of dramatic art; for they are aware of its impurity, and its scanty patronage. The result is, that those only enlist under its standard who have nothing to lose, and everything to gain-those whose name and fortune are alike shattered; whose constitution is unable to bear much physical exertion, and whose mental powers have been prostrated, if not paralysed by the giant that stalks over the length and breadth of the land: need we name him? Deplorable as the picture is, we are not altogether inclined to despond, inasmuch as we think that in the womb of time there lies an embryo of reformation. Just as the bankrupt proceeds with increased caution, and sometimes augmented success, when reinstated in a position to repair his fallen fortunes; as the atmosphere is purified by the burst of the electric thundercloud; and the brook meanders more clearly after having deposited its secretion of mud; so we would augur well of the future condition of the Drama, should it experience a sufficiently violent shock. Buffoonery and libertinism would be for ever consigned to their legitimate homes-the circus and the cockpit; and then the Muse of Dramatic Art might again appear unabashed by the presence of vice and ribaldry; whilst the loud Poean, resounding from afar, vox populi, vox Dei, would celebrate the restoration of the virgin Muse to her rightful throne.

If these scattered remarks should avail aught in the great cause of emancipating the Drama from the vile chains by which it is fettered and kept down, it will be a source of much gratification to

ADOLPH.

THE ROVER'S LAST VISION.

AGAIN I had as tight a bark

As e'er skimm❜d fleecy foam,

With as wild a crew as ever own'd
Old Ocean for their home.

And we had sworn for aye to roam,
And live on the sparkling wave;

Our path through life, the deep, deep sea-
In death, our only grave.

Then away, on her snowy pinions, flew

Our bark, at a snoring rate;

And the fulmar scream'd, and the dolphin play'd

In the stream of her hissing wake.

We saw far lands, where Nature gleams

In her richest, loveliest dyes;

And we linger'd long by the fair green isles

That sleep 'neath the Indian skies.

And ships of every nation pour'd
Their riches in our hold:
None could withstand my sceptre-flag,
When its death-black folds unroll'd.

And the sweetest music I loved to hear,
Was the roar of my bright long Tom,
When, flashing forth his charge of death,
The shot went crashing home.

And, oh! the shout of my merry men,
As they leapt on the stranger's deck,
And swept the cowards down below,
To sink with their pillaged wreck.

And dark, black eyes, and a noble heart,
Were mine that never quail'd

Nor winced whilst whistling 'thwart our deck
The foeman's broadside hail'd.

She was one the dull earth seldom knows

My loved, my peerless bride!

And, though her soul was as wild as mine,
She pled on mercy's side.

Methought we had roam'd the wide world o'er,

Our bark scoured every sea,

When a storm arose, and our track we sped,

With an iron coast on our lee;

And the tempest howl'd, and the rough waves leapt;

But our bark was strong, I trow;

She was built of the oak that long had dared

The gale on the mountain's brow.

"'Bout ship! quick, quick! case the head-sheets off!" Cried my pilot stout and true;

For a roaring reef was close ahead,

O'er which the wild spray flew.

In vain-she struck! Through my burning brain
Rang my loved one's drowning scream:
She was borne away on a crested wave:
I awoke 'twas all a dream!

And thou art here-a priest, forsooth!
Of mercy to prate, and faith.

What's man's? By the boom of the evening gun,

He will still this living breath.

My bark! oh, on thy deck once more,

My brave men in their strength,

And that English ship, with her hated crew,
Broadside, half-cable length.

I'd chance my life, my soul, my all,
Ere one short hour sped o'er,
My raven flag o'er the union-jack
Triumphantly would soar.

She crept by night-my men on shore-
Fighting, my watch were slain;

And my noble bark a king's prize named

Myself a prisoner ta'en.

Would I had reached, and flashed a shot
Right in the magazine;

And strewn my ship with her victor foes,
In atoms o'er the brine!

But no! a gibbet-death is mine!

Oh! rather the dancing wave,

With the shark below, and the steel behind,
Than my bones in a felon's grave.

A word, old man! In Albion's isle,
Where the wintry winds rave wild,
Lives a mother who, perchance, would learn
Of her long-lost wandering child;

Who taught me to lisp, with a sister fair-
Oh, God! that we e'er did part,—

A prayer at eve, that e'en now falls
In balm-drops o'er my heart.

Father, this packet get borne to her;
Here's gold to reward your care:
She may for me-it can do no harm-
Breathe on high a mother's prayer.

Away! I hear the guard's dull tramp:
One last look to the sky:

Now to where the gaping throng will see
How a buccaneer can die!

ARIEL.