talent of the author, as a describer of manners and characters. But if this had been the only intent of this novel, it would merely have satisfied curiosity without exciting any interest. Every work must have an action, an object, and a catastrophe. The love of Florentius for Julia Severa is the subject of the romance. Both of them possess brilliant and noble qualities; but the father of Severa still adheres to the Pagan religion, and the bishop of Tours, who is ac quainted with this circumstance, endeavours to foment discord be tween the senator Severa and Clovis, and to prevent the marriage of Julia with Florentius, who appears to the Bishop already too powerful, from the great influence he had acquired over the Gauls. The happiness of the lovers is also a long time retarded by the intrigues of the monks, the schemes of the Archbishop, and by Julia being carried off and shut up in a convent. Not until after many vain efforts and painful researches, does Florentius find and release Julia. Every devise of hatred and superstition is employed to excite the Romans, and even the Barbarians against Florentius. Like a new Asmodens, the author has penetrated the secret dormitories and mysterious prisons of the monasteries; which gives rise to a great variety of descriptions and portraits; in which we are pleased and surprised to find the lively genius of a romance writer united to the sound judgment of an historian. } ENGLISH BOOKS. We believe, that the reputation of literary works more frequently depends upon the standard by which they are criticised, than upon their intrinsic qualities. Many a work of little merit enjoys at least a tem porary fame, whilst others, of considerable desert, are doomed to an abortive struggle for eminence, and simply from the degree of expectation or of indifference with which they are originally received by the critic, or by the public at large. The hereditary fame of the Rusself family, and the personal celebrity of the noble author of the work we are about to criticise, will naturally challenge a high standard as a test of its merits; but we are bound to confess our anticipation, that, after the severest ordeal, Don Carlos will be pronounced by the public worthy even of the pen of its distinguished author. Weighed in the balance, it will not be found wanting, but it will add a wreath to the brow which literature and eloquence have already crowned with laurel. At those Critical junctures, which so often determine the condition of society for after generations, it has been the enviable lot of many titled families to produce individuals, who, soaring above the spirit of the age, have stamped their genfus on the charac ter of their countrmen, have awakened in them exalted sentiments, or lead them to deeds of permanent utility or of the brightest heroism. From the great example of this character in the martyred Russell, it has been the peculiar privilege of this distinguished family always to take the lead of society, to exhibit to their country a spirit of freedom beyond the tenour of the times, to patromze its arts and to advance its literature, and to wean it from all that is degenerate, by an example of all that is disinterested and noble. The highest species of literary dom position, emanating from such a source, will naturally exoite expectations which few works would be found to gratify. In addition to this, we must observe, that Tragedy, always the most difficult spe cies of composition, except the Epopee, is now rendered more dif ficult than the Epic by the preoccupation of the best subjects, and, particularly, by the pre-occupation of those incidents of a nature to produce the highest degree of dramatic excitement, or calculated to exhibit situations of stage effect "Tout est dit," says La Bruyere, "et l'on vient trop tard, depuis plus de sept mille ans qu'il y a des hommes." To these circumstances, so appall ing to the aspirants of dramatic frame, we may be allowed to add, the unreasonable practice prevalent amongst our critics, who review the higher efforts of the drama.. The inimitable plays of Shakspeare are to be converted into the bed of Procrustes, to the dimensions of which every modern votary of. Thalia is to be tortured. But, not content with subjecting the modern dramatist to so discouraging a standard of comparison as the general productions of our unrivalled bard, they select from this great poet only his prominent excellencies, and establish these as the test of succeeding merit. One critic complains, that the modern tragedy has not the rich discursive dialogue of Shakspeare; another, that it is destitute of the felicitous creation of character, or of the accurate delineation of nature; a third laments the paucity of incident, or bewails the want of his rich and powerful vein of poetry; whilst all unite in the exclamation, that we have lost "the dramatic parlance of the Elizabethian period." It is to these absurdities that we may trace the fact, that, from the age of Shakspeare, we have not produced one single tragedian of any thing like acknowledged merit. Our greatest poets have tried the drama, and have failed.-Thomson and even Dryden, as dramatic poets, are forgotten. Lee and Rowe are read but for curiosity.-Otway and Southern live but in a single play whilst Cato, Irene, and Leonidas are never acted, and seldom read. In France, on the contrary, successful standard tragedies are numerous. However enraptured the French may be with Corneille, Racine, Crebillon, or Voltaire, they are not infatuated to the degree of excluding all other pretensions.These observations have naturally presented themselves to us, on considering the subject, and they must not be construed into palliation of faults, or into deprecations of severity in favour of Don Carlos. To those, who expect in this tragedy the rival of Macbeth or of Othello, we cannot, after what we have said, ་ be supposed to address ourselves ; but to those, who expect in Don Carlos nothing more than the exalted production of an exalted mind, we address ourselves with confidenceand congratulation. The story of the play is admirably adapted to the display both of humane and of heroic sentiments, and these the noble author pours forth with an earnestness worthy of his. name. Don Carlos, the grandson of. Charles the Fifth, and the son of: Philip, the reigning monarch of, Spain, having had an early attachment to her who had subsequently married his father, combats his fatalpassion with firmness. The Inquisitor-General (Valdez) with his agent (Luecro) incensed at the enlightened enmity which Don Carlos bears, to religious persecution, effects his ruin by exciting the jealousy, and appealing to the superstition of the King. On this outline the poet has wrought a drama of very considerable interest. Valdez aids his design by means of Cordoba, a false friend of Don Carlos, and by means of Don Cordoba's wife, Donna Leonora, who is stimulated against the Prince by her slighted passion. But there is no under plot; the unity of action, of place, and almost of time' is preserved, and without, as in the French dramas, shackling or inconveniencing the piece. The first act developes the character and designs of Valdez, the excited jealousy of the King, and the Queen's virtuous confidence in the honour of Don Carlos. There are passages of beauty in this act; but, on the whole, it is not sufficiently animated. The plot is developed in long set speeches, after the manner of the French drama; but making the plot disclose itself by the incidents of the play, or by apparently casual communications from the characters, is an excellent art, which seems peculiar to Shakspeare. The scene between Valdez and the King reminds us of that between Othello and Iago. Where Philip forgets his kingly rigidity, and moved by his affections exclaims-" Oh! think on this, and doubt-but say, the Queen. what said you of the Queen?" and his following speech, display much pathos and nature.. The second act, in point of constraction, is of the nature of the first. The scenes and speeches are long and staid; but it contains proofs of the poetic spirit. The first scene, of twenty pages, developes the fine character of Don Car and the dreadful superstition of the King, is very finely drawn. Don Carlos, speaking of the burning of the heretic, says, -Cazalla, he That stood so tall before me in the strength And scattered by the air! los, and gives us the stratagem by Of a high soul, was now a cinder, tost which the infatuated King at once convinces himself of his son's attachment, and of his damning sin of heresy. The conclusion of this long scene appears to us conceived from Timon of Athens. The next scene, representing the Queen pleading to the King for Don Carlos, though not a plagiarism, is too analogous to Desdemona's pleading for Cassio. Don Carlos, in the ravings of his unhallowed passions, exclaims-"I combat-conquer tremble-suffer-sink." The very speaking it is horrible. -our vain pomp 'Tis for our subjects' honour, not for our's. The garland and the gold that deck the bull Denote the sacrificing peoples' pride, And not the victim's fortune. The description of the "Act of Faith," given by Don Carlos, and the whole scene descriptive of the horrors of the Inquisition, are very powerful, and the contrast between the generous humanity of the Prince What an infinity of reflections, religions and metaphysical, are suggested by these three lines, but how Beautifully touching is the circumstance of the victim's entreating the Prince's protection" for his poor sister's offspring!" A powerful lesson might be taken from this scene by those bad, or at least mistaken men, who would now revive a spirit of religious persecution amongst us! The third act is more full of interest, and the examination of Don Carlos by the Inquisition is finely conceived, and as finely executed. It is what poetry seldom is-it is pathetic, ratiocinative, and grand. There are numerous passages of great power, but they are finer in connection with the whole scene, and we regret that our limits do not allow us to make either numerous or lengthened quotations. The appearance of the father, as an evidence against the son, is skilfully divested by the poet of extravagance or of being unnatural. Superstition knows not ties of blood. This scene, displaying the horrors of tyranny and persecution, and the sophistry with which we gloss oppression, must suggest to the reader many reflections on the passing scene of life.Finally, the entrance of and pleading of the tutor of Don Carlos induces the King to postpone the trial to the succeeding day. In the fourth act, Valdez, distrustful of the King's fortitude to witness the sacrifice of his son, plots the perpetual imprisonment; of Don Carlos by the hands of Don Luis Cordoba. The speeches to Lucero in which Valdez pourtrays his own fiery and ambitious nature, and traces his loss of human sympathies to the criminal nature of the monastic institution, are replete with the verba ardentia, they are full of ve hement description, and are equalled only by the subsequent speeches, in which Don Carlos indignantly refuses to purchase his safety by betraying his friends. This act ends with the escape of Don Carlos out of the prison of the Inquisition by the activity of his friends, and after his refusing to effect his liberation by generous efforts on the part of the Queen, which might compromise her safety and character. The fifth act is replete with explanations. Don Carlos is betrayed in his flight by Don Luís Cordoba, and a conflict between them ends in the death of Cordoba, and in Don Carlos being mortally wounded, An interesting scene takes place between the distracted father and the dying son. The father is convinced by the last confessions of Don Carlos, that both his child and wife are innocent, and, consigning Valdez to perpetual imprisonment, the play is closed. The last speech of Valdez is perfectly demoniac. It is obvious that the real climax of the play is in the third act. The interest of the piece is there at the highest pitch, and every thing after seems rather supplementary than an integral part of the drama. There are very many faulty lines throughout the piece, which, however, appear to us to be the effect of haste or negligence rather than of a want of ear or want of judgment. The author seems fond of the Latin principles of accentuation thus Lucéro, Granada have the accent on the penultimate, whilst Cordoba, on the contrary, must have the antepenultimate accent from the double consonant in the first syllable. Valladolid also must be metamorphosed by the primary accent on the antepenultimate, But there are frequent gingles of proximate words beginning and end ing with the same syllable, whilst sometimes pleonasms amounting almost to bad grammar. However, these observations are hy percritical, and must be lost in the predominant merits of so fine a drama-a drama which, in the exe cution of our literary duty, we have read with infinite pleasure, and from a future perusal of which, we anti. cipate renewed satisfaction. there are this author's Simple Plan, we may be allowed to state our thorough accordance with Mr. Malthus's great principle, that there is no possible means of diminishing pauperism, and, consequently, mendicity, but by preventing population exceeding or pressing too closely upon supply; and this is to be effected only by the diffusion of moral instruction among the poor, and by creating in them a species of humble luxury a love of certain factitious comforts, without the attainment and probable security of which, they will not be induced to marry. This is the only method of preventing pauperism, whilst the only possible means of relieving it must be found in the transportation of superfluous num-bers to spots of the earth now uninhabited or thinly peopled. Whatever schemes políticians may devise, they must prove impracticable, unless they are founded on those two great principles, and those princiciples being established, there can be no difficulty in carrying thein into operation, but what arises from prejudices, and that inherent attachment to the opinions and practices of our forefathers, which is almost always carried too far; and which consequently retards improvement and is the great bane of human happiness. The author of the work before us is a person of judgment and humanity; his general principles on the objects of government and society are sound and enlightened, and they are stated with clearness and propriety, Upon the immediate subject of the work; he asserts, that the aggregate evil of our present parochial system greatly preponderates over the good. This is a fact, we believe, that none will contradict. It has become al most a truism. But the sole diffi culty is, how to get rid of the evil, and what to substitute for parochial relief to the houseless and unfed.→ We hold the author's plan to be more benevolent than practicable. A voluntary society is to be formed funds are to be subscribed-cottages with gardens are to be builtpoor lands are to be brought into cultivation-the paupers are to effect all this; they are to be paid nothing, but from the funds of the society, and the produce of their toil; they Before informing our readers of are to be well clothed, housed, fed, Sketch of a Simple, Original, and Practical Plan, for Suppressing Men dicity, &c. &c. London, 1823. 8vo. Pp. 28. and instructed. Surely, all this is visionary and Utopian. The benevolent author cannot have considered the animal nature of man. Finally, we have but two further observations to make on this scheme.-First, the bringing of poor lands into cultivation is a policy strongly denied by our best political writers.-Secondly, the scheme, if now practicable, contains the principles of its speedy dissolution:-for making the great body of the poor so free from want, and so reckless of consequences, would act as a greater bounty upon population, even than our present disastrous parochial system, and, consequently, population would soon exceed supply in a greater ratio than at present, and misery would, therefore, be proportionately increased, Werner, a Tragedy. By Lord Byron. 8vo. pp. 188. We have not to accuse ourselves of any inclination to be "niggards in our praise" of Lord Byron, but, on the contrary, we have always considered ourselves bound in justice to join in that homage which the world, pays to his genius, and which has always appeared to us to be the result of critical acumen, and of that influence which his lordship's writings are calculated to have upon mankind. But, however exalted may be our opinion of "The poet of the age," we must confess without hesitation, that we took up the Tragedy of Werner with but little hope of amusement, and with as little expectation that the work would add freshness to his lordship's laurels. He who every year sends forth two or three tragedies, with as many mysteries, and with some scores of lyrical stanzas, can have little diffidence of public opinion, or be little solicitous for his own fame; whatever may be his genius, he must publish much of what is commonplace, and with the alloy of what is even worse. To us who feel a literary anxiety for the fame of all great men, heightened, in a case like the present, by something of national pride, it becomes a paramount duty to contribute to the dis semination of those opinions and sentiments which would induce Lord Byron, and one or two of his con Eur. Mag. Jan. 1823. temporaries, to submit their writings to more severe and cautious reflection, before they suffer them to appear before the public. Should some future Longinus ever class the numerous ages of literature, and' attach to each its discriminative cognomen, whatever may be the merits or the demerits of the present period, we are convinced, that an epithet synonymous with prolific would supersede any term of its other characteristic features. Lord Byron himself was formerly in a similar train of thought, when he observed in his "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." that, formerly, it required an age or century to produce an Epic, but that Mr. Southey poured forth his Epics at least in the ratio of one every year. A Tragedy has always been considered one of the most sublime and difficult of compositions, and now we have his lordship, as well as an Oxford Professor, publishing at the rate of two or three tragedies per annum. Fielding thought himself industrious and his genius fertile, if, in conjunction with his sister, he produced at the rate of a moderately sized novel, with one or two farces, in six years. Pope kept his pieces four or five years, and some of them much longer before he thought them sufficiently revised to meet the public judg ment. Now every work is sent into the world hot from the anvil, and we are almost continually compelled to reflect upon Addison's observation, that many a ponderous folio, or voluminous set of octavos, reduced to its quintessence, would occupy but a very small space upon our shelves. These observations, it may be said, can scarcely be elicited by the appearance of Werner, as the preface informs us that part of the tragedy was written so long ago as 1815; but we may be allowed to reply, that the drama itself bears evident marks that the long interval, between the conception and the. writing of the play, arose from other causes than criticism and a revision of the subject; and the accidental procrastination is no exception to the rapidity with which the noble author pours forth his effusions on the public. K |