With a good old fashion, when Christmas was come, With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds, But to his eldest son his house and lands he assign'd, And the king's young courtier. Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land, With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare, With a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood, Hung round with new pictures that do the poor no good; With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood, And a new smooth shovel-board, whereon no victuals ne'er stood; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new study stuft full of pamphlets and plays, And a new chaplain that swears faster than he prays, With a new buttery hatch that opens once in four or five days, Like a young courtier, &c. With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on, And a new journey to London straight we all must be gone, Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new gentleman usher, whose carriage is complete; With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat; Like a young courtier, &c. With new titles of honour, bought with his father's old gold, I 3 53. THE MODERN DRAMATIC POETS.-I. [IN subsequent Half-Hours' we shall give scenes from some of the great dramatic writers who were contemporary with Shakspere-from Webster, Ben Jonson, Dekker, Beaumont and Fletcher, and others, as we have already given Scenes from Massinger. The golden age of the English Drama did not last for more than sixty years. After an interval in which the Stage, in common with many other of the graces and refinements of life, was proscribed by a misdirected though sincere zeal, the Restoration gave us a degenerate and corrupt dramafalse in its principles of Art, debasing in its gross licentiousness. The Augustan age, as it used to be called, brought its brilliant Comedy, in which Wit went hand in hand with Profligacy-meretricious sisters-and its feeble Tragedy, which rested its claims upon its dissimilarity to Shakspere. From Cato to Irene we had no serious drama that was not essentially based upon French models-declamation taking the place of passion, and monotonous correctness substituted for poetical fervour. In our own times, and in a great degree by living authors, the imitation of the old drama, or, to speak more correctly, the knowledge of the principles upon which the old dramatists worked, has given us a dramatic literature which will not, we venture to think, be forgotten by coming generations.] [MISS BAILLIE'S 'Series of Plays to delineate the stronger Passions of the Mind' was the first great attempt to cast off the frigid conventionalities that had long encumbered all modern dramatic poetry. Here was a woman of genius working upon a bold theory. The notion of making the conduct of a drama wholly rest upon the development of one intense master passion appears to us a mistake. Passions, as they exist in actual life, and as they are portrayed by the greatest poetical revealers of man's nature, are complicated and modified by the antagonism of motives and circumstances. Othello is not simply jealous-Macbeth not merely ambitious. It is to this cause that we may perhaps attribute the circumstance that one only, we believe, of Joanna Baillie's Plays has been acted, although they were written for the stage, as every drama must be that has a dramatic vitality. But, whatever may be the defects of their scenic construction, they are, in many respects, models of strong and earnest dialogue, which rejects all cumbrous ornament, and is really poetical through its unaffected simplicity. This was a revolution in dramatic composition. It is half a century since these 'Plays on the Passions' were published. Their authoress has seen many changes in literary reputation; but none in which she has not been recognised with the honours which very few can permanently win and wear.] 'De Monfort,' from which the following scene is extracted, is founded upon the passion of hatred. De Monfort has fostered, from early years, a hatred of Rezenvelt-a hatred which he feels to be unjust and at variance with his own better nature. His noble sister, Jane de Monfort, thus struggles to expel the demon which torments and finally destroys him : De Mon. No more, my sister, urge me not again; My secret troubles cannot be reveal'd. From all participation of its thoughts My heart recoils: I pray thee be contented. Jane. What! must I, like a distant humble friend, De Mon. Ah, Jane, forbear! I cannot e'en to thee. Could e'er have been the crime of one so pitcous, De Mon. So would I now-but ask of this no more. All other troubles but the one I feel I had disclosed to thee. I pray thee spare me. It is the secret weakness of my nature. Jane. Then secret let it be; I urge no farther. The eldest of our valiant father's hopes, So sadly orphan'd, side by side we stood, Like two young trees, whose boughs, in early strength, And brave the storm together I have so long, as if by nature's right, Thy bosom's inmate and adviser been, I thought through life I should have so remain'd, The close attendant of thy wand'ring steps; The cheerer of this home, with strangers sought; This is mine office now: I ask no more. De Mon. Oh, Jane! thou dost constrain me with thy love Would I could tell it thee! Jane. Thou shalt not tell me. Nay, I'll stop mine ears, What shrinks from utt'rance. Let it pass, my brother. Pursue with thee the study of some art, Or nobler science, that compels the mind Till thou, with brow unloaded, smilest again; That, though I wrestle darkling with the fiend, Why do I treat thee thus? I should not be And yet I cannot-Oh that cursed villain! He will not let me be the man I would. Jane. What say'st thou, Monfort? Oh! what words are these? They have awaked my soul to dreadful thoughts. I do beseech thee speak! By the affection thou did'st ever bear me ; By the dear memory of our infant days; By kindred living ties; ay, and by those Who sleep i' the tomb, and cannot call to thee, ॐ [IN the collected edition of his works Mr. Landor says, "None of these poems of a dramatic form were offered to the stage, being no better than Imaginary Conversations in metre." An author knows best what he can accomplish; but there are few modern productions in which the real dramatic spirit is more developed than in Count Julian.' There are exuberances of language-lingerings in the primrose paths of verse when the business of the scene should go right onward. But the whole conception of Julian's character is magnificent -the lover of his country, who has laid it at the feet of an invader in the hour of passionate revenge. The agony of his remorse, which no ingratitude of the Moorish conqueror can add to, and no kindness can assuage, has been rarely surpassed.] My voice to heaven and man. Though enemies No violence can silence; at its voice The trumpet is o'erpower'd, and glory mute, So suddenly, so widely it extends, So fearfully men breathe it, shuddering To ask or fancy how it first arose. Muza. Yes, they shall shudder; but will that, henceforth, Molest my privacy, or shake my power? Julian. Guilt hath pavilions, but no privacy. The very engine of his hatred checks The torturer in his transport of revenge, Which, while it swells his bosom, shakes his power, And raises friends to his worst enemy. Muza. Where now are thine? Will they not curse the day That gave thee birth, and hiss thy funeral! Thou hast left none who could have pitied thee. Julian. Many, nor those alone of tenderer mould, For me will weep; many, alas! through me! Already I behold my funeral; The turbid cities wave and swell with it, And wrongs are lost in that day's pageantry: Opprest and desolate, the countryman Receives it like a gift; he hastens home, Shows where the hoof of Moorish horse laid wastę His narrow croft and winter garden plot, Sweetens with fallen pride his children's lore, Our very chains make the whole world our own, Those at whose call, brought down to us, the light Muza. I may accelerate that meteor's fall, And quench that idle ineffectual light Without the knowledge of thy distant world. Julian. My world and thine are not that distant one. Is age less wise, less merciful, than grief, To keep this secret from thee, poor old man? Abdalazis. Julian, respect his age, regard his power. Never was man so full of wretchedness, But something may be suffered after all; Perhaps in what clings round his breast and helps His agony and frenzy, overlooks; But droops upon at last, and clasps, and dies. Julian. Although a Muza send far underground, Into the quarry whence the palace rose, His mangled prey, climes alien and remote Mark and record the pang. While, overhead, Our sustenance, till heavenly truth descends, |