genius which bursts upon us in every page of those matchless Tales, were to assume a dramatic form, we apprehend that even Shakspeare himself might tremble on his throne of supremacy.

In this necessarily very brief review of the more prominent tragedies of late date, we are quite aware that we have omitted the mention of many, which, in more ample space, we should have been glad to notice, Among these, we would cite one entitled "Conscience, or the Bridal Night"-as possessing great power of pathos on the stage, and very considerable beauty as a poem. It will be seen, that we have confined ourselves to acted plays-as it is with reference to the stage that the whole of our argument has been conducted;—and at the present moment, when so many poems are thrown into dialogue, it would be endless to give specific consideration to each *. We regard Lord Byron's tragedies

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* We wish to make one exception to this, and to say a few words concerning a very remarkable production of this sort, which has lately appeared, entitled, The Bride's Tragedy." We call it a remarkable performance, from its being the work of a very young man, (he states himself, in his preface, to be a minor,) and as conjoining very striking poetical merits with what we consider the greatest dramatic faults. It is "brimmed up and running over" with poetry of the wildest imagination and most beautiful fancy-but we have devoted great part of this article to prove that such writing is out of place in a play. The management of the plot is very inartificial and unskilful, as might be expected from so young a writer,-and the dialogue, as we have said, is nearly all entirely inappropriate, as regards the situation of the speaker; but regarded as poetry alone, it is (with the pardonable exception of occasional unsuccessful daring, and, here and there, of a little downright extravagance,) of a degree of originality and beauty which even these most poetical days rarely present. We cannot forbear, long as this article has already stretched, transcribing the following passage, which will serve also to prove that the praise we give to the poetry of this piece is by no means overcharged. It is in a love scene, in which Floribel thus describes her dream :

'Twas on a fragrant bank I laid me down, Laced o'er and o'er with verdant tendrils, full Of dark-red strawberries. Anon there came

wholly in that light-as neither intended nor fitted for the stage. It would have been as fair to act a canto of Childe Harold, as it was to do Marino Faliero. It is

On the wind's breast a thousand tiny noises,
Like flowers' voices, if they could but speak;
Then slowly did they bend in one sweet strain,
Melodiously divine, and buoyed the soul
Upon their undulations. Suddenly

Methought a cloud swam swanlike o'er the sky,
And gently kissed the earth, a fleecy nest,
With roses, rifled from the cheek of Morn,
Sportively strewn; upon the ethereal couch,
Her fair limbs blending with the enamoured mist,
Lovely beyond the portraiture of words,

In beauteous languor, lay the Queen of Smiles :
In tangled garlands, like a golden haze,

Or fay-spun threads of light, her locks were floating,
And in their airy folds slumbered her eyes,

Dark as the nectar-grape that gems the vines
In the bright orchard of the Hesperides.

Within the ivory cradle of her breast,
Gambolled the urchin god, with saucy hand
Dimpling her cheeks, or sipping eagerly
The rich ambrosia of her melting lips:
Beneath them swarmed a bustling mob of loves
Tending the sparrow stud, or with bees' wings
Imping their arrows. Here stood one alone,
Blowing a pyre of blazing lovers' hearts,
With bellows full of absence-caused sighs:
Near him his work-mate mended broken vows
With dangerous gold, or strung soft rhymes together,
Upon a lady's tress. Some swelled their cheeks,
Like curling rose-leaves, or the red wine's bubbles,
In petulant debate, gallantly tilting

Astride their darts. And one there was alone,
Who with wet downcast eyelids threw aside
The remnants of a broken heart, and looked
Into my face, and bid me 'ware of love,

Of fickleness, and woe, and mad despair.

This is the perfection of graceful and poetical fancy. If Mr. Beddoes would write a poem instead of a play, we have no doubt that he would realize all the expectations which this brilliant first performance has excited.

true that Halidon Hill has never been played; but we suspect, from a passage in the preface, that the author wished gentle violence to be done him, and that, to use his own expression, his "nineteen naysays made half a grant." Moreover, the dramatic expectation excited by the Author of Waverley naturally came into our subject, and Halidon Hill was a fair peg to hang it on.

We have scarcely left ourselves space to consider Ancient and Modern Tragedy in reference to each other. Perhaps, indeed, this paper should rather have been headed, "On Tragedy"-for we are, as may be supposed, more anxious to see tragic writing again successfully cultivated among ourselves, than to revive the often-mooted question of the relative degree of ancient and modern excellence. We think, indeed, that it is more the genius of the different writers which should be debated, than the actual merits of their works for these merits are influenced by circumstances with which the powers of the authors' minds have no connection. It were strange, indeed, if, with all the advantages which are derived from long lapse of time, the advancement of art, science, and society, and the concomitant expansion of the human intellect, we could not produce dramas of greater scenic effect than the ruder early state of ancient manners would permit ; but we should reflect how much fewer were the materials -how much more limited were the means-of Eschylus and Sophocles, than were those of the poets of revived letters. It is, as we have before noted, matter of astonishment, that those writers should have so speedily and so early reached a degree of skill in dramatic combination, beyond which we have, even to this day, not very far (though we have in some degree) advanced. From hence, argument has been drawn in favour of the

doctrine of the inferiority of modern genius-but it should be recollected, that if the ancient tragic writers established a dramatic form nearly approaching to what is perfect, they left no room for the exercise of later skill in that particular respect. It argues no inferiority in the moderns, that they should have left what was excellent untouched. Again, it has been said, that in poetry, both general and dramatic, we have never gone beyond the ancient works. How should we? The principles of poetry do not depend on the change of manners on the undulations of the fluctuating surface of society. They are planted in human nature; in those feelings and passions which, to use the words of a great writer to whom we have already referred more than once in this paper, are common to men in all stages of society, and which have alike agitated the human heart, whether it throbbed under the steel corslet of the fifteenth century, the brocaded coat of the eighteenth, or the blue frock and white dimity waistcoat of the present day*." The classic habits might be added to the list. Hence is it that the Greek tragedies are so much on a par with our own ;-the fount from which Shakspeare drew was equally free to Eschylus.

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We do not wish to dilate on a subject which has been so much discussed-may we not sum our parallel in one sentence? That in all things which are influenced by social causes, we necessarily are far beyond what the ancients could by possibility be-while those emanations of genius which depend on Nature alone-and Tragedy is assuredly one of these are common to all eras of the world. Such things, indeed, "are not of an age, but for all time."

* Introductory Chapter to Waverley.

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FIGHTING REMINISCENCES.

(BY A LOVER OF THE FINE ARTS.)

IF fighting is not one of the Fine Arts, it is as good a thing-as deservedly dear to all lovers of real refinement in manners and real purity in morals-as essential to the march of national prosperity, and as ornamental to the fabric of national greatness; and that its pro-. gress runs in a parallel line with all these,-stopping when they stop, and turning aside or retrograding when they do so, will not for a moment be doubted by those who have duly considered its nature, origin, tendency, and effects!

Though not a little fond of an argument, and (with due modesty be it spoken) not meanly skilled in carrying one on, I decline to do so with regard to the above propositions; on the contrary, though I am in no degree dogmatical myself, and despise dogmatism in others, I venture to assert these propositions flatly; because, to do more, would doubtless be deemed superfluous, not to say impertinent, by those for whom I am writing! The readers of the Album, if I do not mistake them greatly, are not persons who require to be schooled or disciplined into a knowledge of the nature of things in general, or a perception of the results of different modifications and combinations of them. But, however this may be, if we writers of the Album do not give our readers some credit for their sagacity, how can we expect them to deal with the like generosity by us? For my part, I know the respect that is due to my betters (for what author will deny that his readers are his betters ?), and would on no account attempt to convince such betters of