SOUTHERN'S TRAGEDY OF ISA statesman than an orator; but the BELLA. • THE tragedy of Isabella is rath, er of the common kind, except as to the plot, which is good. The incidents are of a very interesting nature, and are certainly well arranged. The distress of Isabella is awful, and her madness is pathetick; bat in the language there is no flow of verse; in the sentiment there is no burst of mighty mind; in the morals there is something faulty. Nor do I like the introduction of such comick beings as the nurse. If Southern introduced these in imitation of Shakespeare, he was grossly mistaken; for why should a poet imitate what at least is doubtful as to merit. The world and the criticks are not perfectly reconciled to the fools, the coxcombs, and the Falstaffs of the serious plays of Shakespeare, and shall Southern attempt to make that critically good, in which the all-powerful spirit of the great magician did not perfectly succeed? The tragedy of Isabella has little of the sentiment of Otway, and nothing of the elegance of Rowe. I have seen Southern somewhere called tragick, but in İsabella I can observe nothing tragical, but the horrid combination of heart-rending incidents, which is to be ascribed to the plot, and not to the play. I have never seen Mrs. Siddons in Isabella; but she has been described to me, as being wonderfully great. Her manner is majestick, and her looks are the most expressive; her tones are sometimes soft, like the south wind blowing over the grove, and sometimes deep, like the bursting of revengeful thunder. wonderful collocation of words to give richness and effect to his sen fence, is remarkable. He loves a full close on the ear, and I should think, delighted like Gibbon to mark the musical pauses and dying conclusion of elaborate sentences. Yet in these orations he is short, vehement, and abrupt. He was master of every style, from the swelling Asiatick luxuriance, to the pithy conciseness of Tacitus, and used them as suited his particular purpose. If he thunders against Cataline, he is short, quick, attentive to his ideas, and sometimes careless of har mony; but if he praises Pompey in the Manilian, or courts Cæsar in Marcellus, his words are long, and his periods remarkably har monious. The whole language of compliment and courtesy is open to his delicate powers of selection, and the force of the Roman tongue rolls on the ear of the auditor with such amplitude, dignity, and grace, that no one can deny its charms, or resist its application. We regret to see the encomiums lavished on himself in the third oration. For the services Cicero had rendered his country, he had a right to general congratulation and civ ick honours, but I could have wished he had been less frequent and diffuse on his own merits. - He needed not to have proved the day of conservation more illustrious than that of creation, nor have thought himself more deserving of renown, than Romulus the founder of the city. He affects to disdain all honours, all decorations, signs of greatness, and marks of superiority, as inferior to the merits of his achievements, and as insufficient to reward him for the benefits he had rendered his country. MILTON. Milton is one of the English authors, who will probably last as long as the English language, not merely on account of his original, unrivalled excellence in the sublime, but because national pride is interested in his preservation. The Greeks boast of their Homer; the Romans of Virgil; the Italians of Tasso; the Portugese of Camoens; the Spaniards of Ercilla; the French of Voltaire; and the English of Milton. Besides this last, the nation does not pretend to boast of any other epick; for whatever may be the merits of Blackmore, Pye, Ogilvie, Glover, or Southey, neither has produced a national epick. Of course the English from honest, honourable pride, will always justly extol their Milton, as equal to any, and superiour to most of the the heroick poets of ancient or modern times. His delight was to sport in the wide regions of possibility; reality was a scene too narrow for his mind. He sent his faculties out upon discovery, into worlds where imagination only can travel, and delighted to form new modes of existence, and furnish sentiment and action to superiour beings; to trace the counsels of hell, or accompany the choirs of heaven.' Milton's character of Satan exhibits wonderful powers of mind. The English poet paints him as the genius of destruction, but gives him form and substance. He is not a metaphysical, abstract being, as the French poets would have made him, talking about atheism, &c. He is an arch fiend, the enemy of God and man, walking to and fro the earth, seeking whom he may devour, whose real existence is acknowledged by all christians, for whom Milton wrote his poem. He is the the ancient Lucifer, who, according to the language of the prophets, would have ascended to heaven, and exalted his throne above the stars of God, who has fallen as the star of the morning, and whose pride precipitated him to hell. This arch rebel overcome, who bears on his front the marks of thunder, does 'not repent or change, though changed in outward lustre. In the last degree of abasement and wretchedness, he retains the memory of his ancient glory, and meditates on new vengeance.Some trait of his celestial nature may yet be perceived in his infernal soul. His pride alone triumphs over his remorse. He rallies his desponding legions, and infuses into them his audacity and fury. Ancient prophets had foretold that man was to be created to take the rank, which he had formerly held. He conspires to defeat this favourite object of Jehovah; he arrives in the midst of dangers at the confines of the universe; he sees a glimpse of that light which he had abandoned, and whose splendour he had attempted to efface; His -horror and doubt distract troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir The hell within him.' It is then that he exhales so naturally all his despair, in that admirable apostrophe to the full blazing sun, which is, or ought to be, well known to our readers. When Paradise Lost was translated into the French language, the judicious Rollin, Louis, Racine, and Despreaux all admired the wonderful genius of the English poet. Voltaire was not less delighted; until his mad zeal against christianity warped all his literary opinions. Thus the same Voltaire who, writing of epick poets, had said, and religion were mere names, or not better than superficial science or hateful superstition. The use of arms was fully allowed, by which means alone the poor were protected and provided for, and the female sex defended from insult, or their dishonour revenged.The robbers in this play are eager to sacrifice the infamous Charles, and in fact he is buried in the tomb he had prepared for his father. How do they catch every word of Kozinki's tale, and how do they burn for revenge on the villanous prince, the possessor of his Amelia. Indeed our state of civ. ilization is no standard, by which the feudal ages are to be tried. To me it appears, that the crimes of the robbers were the common disorders committed by the strong, and so universal were the ravages of a similar nature, that I rather consider the actions and bloody thoughts of the robbers as necessary consequences of barbarism, than criminal aberrations from moral virtue. The language of the play is generally natural. It is strong in a high degree, and powerfully impresses the dictates of revenge, the emotions of terror, and the sentiments of pity." THERE is no doubt some raving and theatrical declamation in the tragedy of the Robbers, but I do pity the soul, that is not melted with its tenderness and roused by its energies. Perhaps, in the whole fairy-ground of fiction, a character like Moor cannot be found. His revenge is of the most natural kind, always uniform, and wonderfully great. The kind feel ings are not buried nor destroyed... they only slumber in temporary torpor. Sentiments the most manly, and perceptions which savour of true greatness, are often expressed in language the most forcible and sublime. As for Francis, he has the form, the features, and the folly of a villain. Great art is clearly exhibited in his manner of ELEGIES OF PROPERTIUS AND TIdeceiving his father, and his subsequent conduct makes him the finished hero of vice. Who does not love Amelia? so constant in her affection, so great in her hatred. As for the robbers, how nicely are their characters and dispositions marked! all are criminal, yet some are perhaps to be pitied, and others are downright offenders, with blackest hearts and hands full of shameful vice. But if we consider the state of society at that time, they will not appear so very detestable. Knowledge BULLUS. PROPERTIUS is one of the writers of antiquity, who was the latest discovered; and who has not been transmitted to us without great mutilations. The criticks have not been able to establish his text but by much conjecture; they have transposed his elegies, and intermingled the lines, so that there is much reason to believe that this labour has not been always successful, and that the beauties of this writer has suffered much depreciation in the hand xding Propertius we are dusted with the Milton is 5.79 authors, wh long as the merely on unrivaller lime, bu interest The G the R ians / Cam cill an si P cur in almost every fn often profusion of Line,and which die dier some persons pre have lost will be restored, and or affection will be as pure and a lasting, as the paradise, which w which are now withered and gone, mythical allusion, which oc- shall inhabit. The lovely flowers, of passion. Quinahan declared, ty; no more will the lily and the is so opposed to the language will be revived with increased bear he evidently gives the palm to the sorrowing virtue; for every gale ferred Propertius to Tibullus, but morning dew, be an emblem of Jast, and I believe that every man will waft happiness, and every ze of taste will be of the opinion of phyr fragrance. Quintilian It is not that Proper ties has not beauties of the first brder: he has more force and than Tibullus; a sensibility penetrating, and more of but nothing can exceed energy more passion; rose, when sparkling with the PICTURE Of a wife. THE wise Theognis told his countrymen, that that man was the richest and most happy, who had found an amiable and virtuous the grace, the sweetness, that wife. Socrates, however, was of charm so irresistible, those verses so tender and melodious, of the lover of Delia. a very different opinion. A young man once consulted him to know, whether he would advise him to marry or not; to whom Socrates thus replied, Young man, whichever of the two evils you choose, you will most certainly have cause for repentance. If you should prefer celibacy, you will be soiitary on the earth, you will never enjoy the pleasures of a parent; with thee will perish thy race, and à stranger will succeed to thy pro perty. If you marry, expect con stant chagrin and quarrels without end. Your wife will be constantly reproaching you of the dower she brought thee; the pride of her par ents and the garrulity of her mother will become insupportable. The gallantries of your wife will torment you with jealousy, and you will have reason to doubt the fa ther of your reputed children. Now, young man, divine if thou canst, and choose if thou darest.' This anecdote of Socrates I give on the authority of Valerius Maximus. Socrates was probably suf fering from the stings and arrows of outrageous Xantippe, he was writhing under the pangs of des. DISAPPOINTMENT AND HOPE. THE morn of my life was cheerful as the singing of birds, and lovely as the opening of spring; not a cloud arose to mar its beauty, or obscure the bright sun of innocence and youth; every sense was gratified, every flower was sweet, and every rose without a thorn. Every kiss was a pledge of affection, and every friend was true. My cheeks were then blooming with health, and my eyes glistened with happiness. But, alas! the charm is broken, the scene is changed, the flowers have lost their fragrance, and on every rose I have found a thorn. Friends, who were dear have departed, and nothing is left me, but the melancholy recollection of joys that are fled. Grief has stolen the rose from my cheek, and my eyes overflow with tears. But a little while, and my sorrows will be over and forgotten; my heartstrings, which are now touch ed with anguish, will then thrill with rapture; my friends which I pised love, when the young man unfortunately went to ask his opinion, and therefore it is not entitled to much respect. We agree with the wise Theognis and acknowledge, that in the wide range of the bounties of heaven, there is no gift, bestowed on man, deserving so much thankfulness, as that of a good wife. But what do you call good? Here is the difficulty-this is the knot this the perplexity. I cannot tell what you and other men would like, but know exactly what would please such a curious kind of being as myself. I would never marry for money; for contracts of bargain and sale in matters of matrimony were invented by infernals for the deep damnation of man; they are legislations of wrong, and indentures of infamy. I should like well enough that my wife might be handsome, though this is a minor consideration; for real beauty is not to be found, and I care not to be hunting for it through city and country all the days of my life. The mild lustre of Phosphor is not seen in the face of the daughters of Eve, and where is the being who sheds soft beams from her eye, like those of the planet of evening? Let her per son have the form of elegance, and the sweetness of purity; her dress should be full of taste, and let her manners be those of a gentlewo man, for country simplicity is mere country awkwardness, and that I cannot away with. If her ancestors were not illustrious, I should hope that her family name might be respectable.. Her disposition, I insist on this, must be gentle and soft, like the dew in the vallies of Languedoc; like the midnight musick of romance from the battlements of Udolpho. She shall not be churlish, and peevish, and fretful, and scolding; but let her have good nature in full abundance, and kind words, looks, and smiles, plentiful and pleasant, as thick, ripe wheat in autumn. Then her mind must be cultivated. This too is essential. She must love to read; she must be able to think, and have opinions of her own. I wish that she may relish the poets of England, love the morality of Johnson, the courtly sense of the Spectator, and that her soul may be attuned to the sweetest melody, by the wild warbling of the bard of Avon. She should read and remember the historians of GreatBritain, and know what may be easily known of her own country. Lastly, and above all, she must study her bible, be a christian, and reverence her God. POETRY. EXTRACTS FROM "THE SPIRIT OF DISCOVERY," A LATE PUBLICATION BY REV. W. L. BOWLES. [Except Burns and Cowper, no poet of the present day has been so generally admired as Mr. Bowles. The beautiful imagery and natural feeling, with which his poems abound, have found their way to the heart of those for whom poetry was written. The poem opens with the resting of the ark upon Aratat.] ALL WAS ONE WASTE OF WAVES, that bury'd deep Earth and its multitudes: the ark alone, High on the cloudy van of Ararat, Rested; for now the death-commission'd storm Sinks silent, and the eye of day looks out Dim through the haze, while short suc cessive gleams |