however, that it is scarcely equal to the conception. The calm and settled melancholy which has taken possession of the fiery and turbulent spirit of De Bourbon is happily imagined, as well as the deep tenderness with which he dwells upon the recollection of Margaret, now lost to him for ever. His reply to Lautrec, who, in revenge for the ruin and death of his sister, proposes to join De Bourbon, to surprise and assassinate the king, is in this solemn tone:— Fair sir, Care, and her sister Thought, have been And furrow'd o'er my brow. But I have thought, There is, among the scornful eyes, that look And therein merit all the rest do say.'-pp. 120, 121. The fatalist drama of modern Germany would have delighted in the opening for preternatural effect, at this part of the tragedy. It would have obscurely shown the spirit, the avenging Ate, of Françoise de Foix, hovering over the battle-field, or at least present to the fancy, and hanging heavy on the soul' of the guilty and conscience-stricken king. Some such imagination seems to have entered into the thought of the authoress, but it has been rather ineffectively wrought out. Even in this latter part of the piece there are, no doubt, many redeeming traits of fire and spirit. The introduction of poor Tri boulet boulet the jester, his devotion of his life for that of his master, would, what is technically called, tell upon the stage; nor could the closing scene in the church, the monks singing de profundis, while Francis is led in wounded, and is recognized by De Bourbon, be wanting in stately and picturesque effect. Taking this fifth act as a whole, however, we suspect that, in spite of many isolated beauties, it would drag heavily before the spectator, since, even to the reader, it is hardly sufficiently stirring, after the more empassioned termination of that part of the complex plot which is too important for an episode, and, towards the close of the fourth act, has certainly assumed the interest and dignity of the main design. We must acknowledge, that, while reading the tragedy, of which we have spoken thus freely, we have frequently paused to ask whether this could be the conception or the writing of a young girl, hardly ripening into womanhood. How far the talent of Miss Kemble as a dramatic writer, as well as an actress, will be able to arrest the fate of the sinking drama, we presume not to prognosticate; but in both she is full of golden promise. Should she continue to write for the stage, she will derive some advantage from her intimate and experimental acquaintance with scenic effect, with the power of situation on the minds of the audience, with the style of language best suited to find its way to the heart. In this respect she will perhaps become less uniformly sustained, more simple and condensed, than she appears in her first effort. She will discover how far she may follow, in the conception and conduct of her plot, the bold irregularity, the free historic outline of the 'chartered libertines of our drama,' and beyond what limits she may endanger her command over the attention of her audience. She will judge of scenic effect, though with the fine tact which can only be acquired by familiarity with the stage, by no means on those narrow and technical rules which have made the judgment of the actors as to the success of a play proverbially fallible. If we remember right, it is in Gil Blas that an author expresses his innocent surprise, that when the actors foretell the failure of a piece, it is sure of success,-if its success, it is as certain to fail. She will preserve the independence of a poetic mind, and with that intuitive perception of the essentially dramatic, which cannot be acquired but by practice on the stage-she will retain that higher sense of tragic excellence which belongs exclusively to the poet-she will never condescend to sink the tragic poetess in the actress. Above all, she must set herself above her audience; she must not consider what has pleased, but what, according to her own genuine feeling of the noble, the pathetic, ought to have pleased. She must aspire to give the tone, not condescend to take it from the noisy and capricious arbiters of theatric taste. Miss Kemble, in short, must not disguise from herself the plain truth, that her situation as a popular actress, if it may contribute to her success as a tragic dramatist, has more than countervailing dangers and disadvantages. Of all marvellous anomalies in the history of the human mind, nothing is more singular than the contrast between the careless, probably dissolute, town life of the actor-poets of our older drama, and the deep, and, we should have supposed, the studied moral as well as poetic dignity of their nobler pieces. The exquisite sense of the beauty of external nature-the pure and freely breathing imagination, as though it had never been in populous city pent' the piercing insight into the deeper mysteries of the human heart-the developement of the higher passions-the intuitive knowledge of the philosophy of man; these we should have supposed the fruits of patient thought, of retirement, if not from the world, within the depths of their souls,-of minds free at least from the petty cares of stage-sweeping and scene-shifting, from squabbles with poor or frugal managers, from wants and distresses, debts and dunnings. From men who led such lives we should have expected clever painters of manners, but scarcely sublime moral teachers; and, undoubtedly, with these examples it is impossible to judge beforehand from under what difficulties genius, like the palm-tree, may arise, or in what situation the richest fruits of the human intellect may ripen. Yet whoever would now unite the poet and the actor, must be on his guard against dangers which, without sharpening the powers of the mind, like the alternate narrow commons and feastings at the Mitre,' of our older dramatists, may distract them still more and divert them from their high end and purpose. Poverty may chill, but it likewise braces the mind; popularity will warm those who bask in its pleasant radiance, but it may likewise enfeeble. In this case there is a double temptation to seek after and be content with rapid and immediate and superficial effect, rather than to appeal to the more profound emotions, which can only be commanded by poetry into which the whole soul of the writer is transfused. A fatal propensity is engendered to lay the main strength in passages suited to develope the powers of acting and call down thunders of applause, rather than to rest on the less tumultuous but more heartfelt and permanent impressions, which are made by the general harmony and grandeur of the composition, by the high-wrought passion, which, however struck out in the heat, and flowing from the pregnant mind with the utmost rapidity, can only flow from that mind which is concentrated upon upon itself, and is abundantly stored with treasured thought, with knowledge of nature and of the human heart. How high Miss Kemble's young aspirings have been-what conceptions she has formed to herself of the dignity of tragic poetry-may be discovered from this most remarkable work; at this height she must maintain herself, or soar a still bolder flight. The turmoil, the hurry, the business, the toil, even the celebrity of a theatric life must yield her up at times to that repose, that undistracted retirement within her own mind, which, however brief, is essential to the perfection of the noblest work of the imagination-genuine tragedy. Amidst her highest successes on the stage, she must remember that the world regards her as one to whom a still higher part is fallen. She must not be content with the fame of the most extraordinary work which has ever been produced by a female at her age, (for as such we scruple not to describe her Francis the First,) with having sprung at once to the foremost rank, not only of living actors but of modern dramatists; she must consider that she has given us a pledge and earnest for a long and brightening course of distinction, in the devotion of all but unrivalled talents in two distinct, though congenial, capacities, to the revival of the waning glories of the English theatre. ART. IX.-1. Souvenirs sur Mirabeau et sur les deux Premières Assemblées Législatives. Par Etienne Dumont (de Genève), Ouvrage posthume publié par M. J. L. Duval, Membre du Conseil Représentatif du Canton de Genève. Paris. 8vo. 1832. 2. The Progress of the Revolutions of 1640 and 1830. London. 1832. 3. On the Present Balance of Parties in the State. By Sir John Walsh, Bart., M.P. London. 1832. 4. Some Reflections of a Church of England Man, on the Conduct of the Chief Secretary for Ireland. London. 1832. 5. True Causes of Riot and Rebellion; or, a Petition to the King on behalf of the Prisoners convicted under the late Special Commissions at Bristol and Nottingham. London. Svo. 1832. WE have never seen a more remarkable instance of the blind ness with which a rhetorician will pursue a flowery topic at the expense of his argument, than in the references made by Mr. Macaulay, in two successive declamations on Parliamentary Reform, to the revolutions which brought Louis XVI. and Charles I. to the scaffold. On both occasions he was answered by a statement of facts, which he had either forgotten, or, in his somewhat juvenile eagerness for the gaudier ornaments of diction, neglected, neglected. On both occasions his discomfiture was complete; nor could it lessen the pain of the overthrow that, as all perceived, the ministerial champion's allusions were the result of previous consideration and selection, while the reply was the production of the moment, from the recollections which happened to present themselves to the memory of his antagonist. In adverting to the advice given to the House of Lords, to reject the Bill, the Hon. Member for Calne is represented as having said, I cannot but wonder that such advice should proceed from the lips of men who are constantly lecturing us on the duty of consulting history and experience. Have they ever heard what effects counsels like their own, when too faithfully followed, have produced? Have they ever visited that neighbouring country, which still presents to the eye, even of a passing stranger, the signs of a great dissolution and renovation of society? Have they ever walked by those stately mansions, now sinking into decay, and portioned out into lodging-rooms, which line the silent streets of the Fauxbourg St. Germain? Have they ever seen the ruins of those castles whose terraces and gardens overhang the Loire ? Have they ever heard that, from those magnificent hotels, from those ancient castles,-an aristocracy as splendid, as brave, as proud, as accomplished as ever Europe saw, was driven forth to exile and beggary,-to implore the charity of hostile governments and hostile creeds,-to cut wood in the back settlements of America, or to teach French in the school-rooms of London? And why were those haughty nobles destroyed with that utter destruction? Why were they scattered over the face of the earth, their titles abolished, their escutcheons defaced, their parks wasted, their palaces dismantled, their heritage given to strangers ?-Because they had no sympathy with the people-no discernment of the signs of their times; -because, in the pride and narrowness of their hearts, they called those whose warnings might have saved them, theorists and specula tors;-because they refused all concession till the time had arrived when no concession would avail. I have no apprehension that such a fate awaits the nobles of England. I draw no parallel between our aristocracy and that of France. Those who represent the Lords as a class whose power is incompatible with the just influence of the middle orders in the State, draw the parallel, and not I. They do all in their power to place the Lords and Commons of England in that position, with respect to each other, in which the French gentry stood with respect to the Tiers Etat; but I am convinced that these advisers will not succeed.'Mirror of Parliament, Sept. 20. The author of these elegant paragraphs was forthwith answered by one whom, unlike most of the orators on either side of the House, we may characterise in the words of Horace as |