What is 't goes forward, forward there without?
From hour to hour I hear the clashing of harsh steel,
Voices, various as the fingers of my hand;

Sometimes the roar of cannon thunder-like,
Then dead peace for many hours.

Miro.-Sad, sad and dark; you know the day?
Ivan.-I've seen the sky but once, if that is he;
Oh beautiful is his blue tent, but far
Away from me.

Miro. Be patient, sire,

And you shall sit enthroned as great as he
In all his azure strength."

We think our readers will agree with us in opinion, that the American writer does not suffer in this comparison with his English competitors. We could point out many facts connected with this matter which would startle the American public, and lead them to consider seriously the question, why they are so familiar with the slightest offspring of the English mind, and so totally ignorant of the dramatic labors of their own countrymen: it is a state of vassalage to foreigners, which no other nation except the American has ever submitted to, and stands out in bold contrast to that indomitable and sensitive spirit of independence which characterizes the Great Republic in every other sphere. Our space will not permit us to dwell at much length on the writers we have placed in this chapter: we have put them together in order to show that it is mediocrity which is so popular with the public. It was a favorite remark of Hazlitt that the masses liked mediocrity, and he supported his opinion with so many proofs, that we have never felt inclined to dispute his conclusion. Doubtless the chief reason is, that commonplace men hate genius, and resent an overpowering superiority: and we all know that the majority of our fellow creatures are commonplace. Dulness is the rule-genius the exception and however dull a man may be, he feels his inferiority in the presence of intellect, whether developed in literature,

science or art: hence the vindictiveness of inferior natures: a curious chapter might be written on the instinctive hatred, mingled with fear and awe, which some publishers have towards an author; nature, however, is even-handed, and while it deals to the one genius and truth, it consoles the inferior by giving it gold as a set off for its stupidity, just as we put tinsel on gingerbread. Let not our fellow laborers in the great cause of regeneration faint at the raging of the heathen. The felon's cross is now the symbol of truth and life.

Carlyle had a fierce struggle in his day against the assassinating conventionalism of "gigmanity," Probert's fellow citizen and bosom companions. We may as well relate a little anecdote, which will perhaps bring the matter more thoroughly before the mind of the reader.

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At a fashionable party the great Scotch philosopher met more millionaires, muslin theologians, and respectable shams, than he had bargained for when he accepted the invitation to be present. His disgust grew stronger every minute at their shallowness, insincerity, bland treachery, and respectable impudence, until at length it exploded at a remark made by the wife of a distinguished prelate. The better half of "Lawn Sleeves" said, Ah, Mr. Carlyle, if our Saviour were to appear now on earth, how delighted we should all be to welcome him; what reverence would be shown to the most unregarded of his words." Carlyle, after a pause, said, "I don't think so; English people now are not a bit better than the Jews were: they are very much alike. I see no difference between a Caiaphas and a bishop; a Herod and a lord chief justice: as you have asked my opinion, I will just give it you. If our Saviour were to appear on earth now

a genteel equipage, and behaved himself fashionably, he would be the Lion of the Season, and very likely we should have cards of invitation to Meet our Saviour;' but if he came as he did in days of old, and if he denounced the bishops and the modern church,

there would be a great cry of To Newgate with him! to Newgate with him!' and (looking round) I am afraid we should all deny his acquaintance."

This feeling exactly pervades the inferior order: -an enormous disposition to share the good, as great a horror of the evil:sympathy is the offspring only of the loftier mind, and when we find a writer select the gentilities of our common nature, we may be sure he is only a very small portion of the dramatist. That genius is aristocratic, is as undeniable as that mediocrity is democratic; but the definitions attached to these words are widely different from their political bearings. The true meaning of aristocracy is superiority to the low, the slavish and the grovelling, not a scorning of the many, as men: not the adventitious assumption of one class robbing the natural privileges of another :—while the true definition of democracy is that of a class which has wings to soar, no wish to rise."

'no

A mere playwright forgets these grand distinctions, and is rather solicitous about wardrobes than virtues: he considers man as a well dressed animal, and not as a human being clothed in the attributes of Immortality—the inheritor of a deathless birthright.

In most of the specimens we have given, let every discriminating reader carefully read the whole plays from which we have selected these extracts, and see how little of man there is :—to borrow Carlyle's word-" They are all shams!” They walk on two legs certainly: they have the garb of the time the dramatist lays the scene in; they talk a language, but what else is there of man? At the best they are so disguised by the conventional robes of commonplace, that an explosion of hearty, earnest nature would be a discord: they are in the world of perfume what lavender-water, or otto of roses is to the invigorating breath of morning across blooming heath, or the fresh fragranee of mealows with the hay on them.

We have not thought it necessary to include Robert Bell in our list of acted dramatists, as his comedies make no pretension beyond a collection of artificial dialogues, which we venture to add, were never spoken by real men and women. Still they had a temporary success, owing to the vivacity of the acting. He has also reason to complain of that immaculate lessee and manager, Mr. Bunn, of world-wide celebrity. Aside from his dramatic writings Mr. Bell is a man of fine taste, an acute critic, a writer of elegant verses, and a good biographer.

Mr. Bell had an agreement with the famous lessee of Drury Lane to produce one of his plays, we forget which-the author was to have the net proceeds of the third, sixth and twelfth nights. The first performance went off with tolerable eclat. To the great astonishment of the author, the play then disappeared from the bills altogether, and on his remonstrating with the wily manager he was coolly told that he had performed his contract with Mr. Bell to the exact letter-he had produced the comedy, and there was no proviso as to how often it was to be acted.

Mr. Bell's legal adviser agreed that he had no remedy: the result was that Mr. Bell cannot now even have his own play acted without Mr. Bunn's consent, while he himself has no power to make the manager perform it. It is supposed this is a retort for some unfavorable criticism which formerly appeared in the "Atlas" when under the direction of Mr. Bell.

We shall conclude our article on the modern dramatists by recording the answer of a facetious friend of ours, who, when asked to define a modern dramatist, replied;—" He is a man who, feeling himself very miserable, does his best to make his fellow-creatures equally so, by writing a play."

MRS. JAMESON.:

No work purporting to give an account of the British Living Authors would be complete without Mrs. Jameson. This lady is something more than a name in English Literature—she is an influence-an influence, too, of the best and most lasting kind, an humanising influence. This character is always slow in gathering round it a halo sufficiently bright to make it stand out on the walls of time; but it has a warmth and a geniality that suffuses itself widely, and softens all it warms. Mrs. Jameson has done for Art what Leigh Hunt has done for Literature-she has been its exponent. And as this she has done her duty bravely and well. She seems to have felt it to be her mission, and her mission it has become. We do not pretend to any chronological accuracy when we say the greater part of her life has been devoted to this aim. Accident made her an author, she says, and having once taken up the pen, she wields it to this day. Her works are many and various, and they all, more or less, bear upon art. They are as follows:

Memoirs of Female Sovereigns, &c.-Diary of an Ennuyee.-Characteristics of Women.-Sketches at Home and Abroad.-Memoirs and Essays on various Subjects.--Hand-Book to Public Picture.-Galleries in and near London. History of the Early Italian Painters.-Poetry of Sacred and Legendary Art.-Loves of the Poets.-Social life in Germany.-Beauties of the Court of Charles II.-Companion to Private Picture Galleries.