mere theatrical pageant. Who can say that managers have of late been backward in their encouragement to the literary dramatic author? Within a very short period, Madame Vestris produced Mr. Knowles's Old Maids, Mr. Bourcicault's Irish Heiress, Mr. Mark Lemon's What will the World say? and Mr. D. Jerrold's Bubbles of the Day. Mr. Webster produced Mr. Troughton's Nina Sforza, Mr. Bell's Marriage, and Mr. Knowles's Rose of Arragon; while Mr. Macready, whose season was very short, produced Mr. Griffin's Gisippus, and Plighted Troth. Nine new five-act plays have been produced in something like nine months. This fact speaks for itself-is a convincing proof that managers have made up their minds that the drama must be literary; that there must be a difference between their own avocation and that of the keeper of a puppet-show. Whether it be the vanity of one manager, the jealousy of another, or whatever be the motive that has driven them all into the same track, still, that they are all in this track is a coincidence, which is, to say the least of it, remarkable.

Nine plays in as many months! If all had been the highest works of art, who might not have talked of the increasing wealth of the English drama! There is no visible, corporeal obstacle to the production of the highest drama; managers have vied with each other in offering a helping hand to those who have professed to be its creators, and if authors have not answered to the call, and we still find ourselves without a drama to which we can look with sincere pride, the authors themselves, and not the managers, must be considered the parties in fault. When first there was a reaction in favour of the drama, it was thought by some that the advantage of dramatic production was confined to those who were pre-eminent from some adventitious circumstance,-such, for instance, as being a member of parliament, or a leading orator at the bar. But no such inference can be drawn from the recent acts of the three managers just mentioned. Mr. Bourcicault was unknown to fame when he wrote his London Assurance, last year, and Madame Vestris took him by the hand; Mr. Zouch Troughton had no peculiar influence; and Mr. Griffin had departed this life when his play of Gisippus was accepted. Who can say that the advantages obtained by these authors were obtained unfairly? Still it will be observed by many, that there is an improper influence to which the dramatic author is subject, and that is, the influence of the actors, who have attained a position above the dramatist to which they are not entitled. It will be granted that such and such an author had no influence by his rank or station, but still it will be argued that he flattered the vanity of this or that leading performer, and therefore, and not for its intrinsic merit, was his piece accepted. Then it will be said the actor should not be the manager of a theatre; yet, if we look at the results of the late dramatic seasons, what do we find to regret from such an arrangement? Mr. Webster is continually producing pieces in which he does not appear at all; Mr. Macready made nearly his first effort last season by reviving the Two Gentlemen of Verona, in which he acted Valentine, a character which any "star" would have felt himself perfectly justified in refusing; and Madame Vestris accepted from a young and unknown author the piece of London Assurance, in which the greatest "hits" were made by Farren and Mrs. Nisbett. Look at a theatre of humbler pretensions, the little theatre in the Strand, which is so excellently managed by Mr. Hall-and you will find the manager, who is a real artist, acting subordinate characters, and utterly free from the desire of pushing himself forward.

Besides, who is to manage a theatre? If the mere capitalist, or a joint-stock company, which many advocate, be at the head of affairs, still there must be some one who is familiar with the drama, either as a reader, or a writer, or an actor, who would act as the professional adviser of the capitalist, and in him, at last, would all the directing power be centred. We are left, then, to choose between the literary man and the actor. "Let it be the poet!" shout the Syncretists with one voice. And last year, accordingly, the Syncretists did try to seat the poet on the throne, and George Stephens took the Lyceum Theatre at his own expense, and played his "own Martinuzzi. The concern was an utter failure, because the author was utterly unversed in stage capabilities, and not, as some of his very hard critics remarked, because his piece was wretched trash, and completely below criticism. There were several fine thoughts in Martinuzzi-a great idea prevailed in it; and it is somewhat remarkable, that the phrase which produced the loudest yell of derision on the memorable night of its production-"ink brew'd in the infernal Styx"-does not belong to Stephens at all, but stands written in Massinger's Virgin Martyr, Act II. Scene II. George Stephens failed because he knew nothing of theatrical representation, and therefore are his words called fustian and bombast. Had he succeeded, we should have heard from all quarters that he had much of the vigour and fine poetical spirit of the Elizabethan age, as indeed his admirers actually assert.

Perhaps the very best manager that could be found would be an experienced dramatic author, and by "experienced" we mean, in stage business, and not merely in dramatic literature, who had ceased writing much himself, and being therefore free from personal feeling, yet gave the undertaking the advantage of his judgment. But such an ideal personage, who is willing to undertake the responsibility of managing a theatre, will probably only make his appearance once in a century; and therefore, instead of sighing for such a happy period, the dramatic author, if he mean to do anything at all, had better try to work with such means as are afforded him. It is very pleasant, indeed, when one's drama is rejected by an experienced manager, never to suspect the fault rests on one's own shoulders, but to mourn for the glorious times when the poet planned his edifice, and the actors were the mere bricklayers. We have shewn that there are means of performing more literary dramas in one year than will be produced in three; we have seen that there is a public that requires the literary drama, thanks to the taste which began with Mr. Macready's management of Covent Garden seven years back. Up, then, aspiring dramatist! set your hands to the work-there is a path for you! Lose not your breath in declaiming at Syncretic meetings, or your time in penning diatribes against managers. Do not attempt to make the public believe that because your particular drama has not been produced, a calamity has befallen the nation, for the public will refuse its credence. Unless circumstances entail an absolute impossibility, a constant complaint against them shews rather the impotence of the complainer than the greatness of the obstacle. Mr. Macready, Madame Vestris, Mr. Webster, have none of them closed their doors; and we anticipate the same encouragement from Mr. Charles Kemble. There is hope for the drama.

But there is also room for regret that more has not been done. In fact, we have no drama that keeps pace with undramatic literature. Stage-construction is well understood, but the living soul of the age is not yet in a dramatic form. In this respect, how humble are the demands of the audience! How will a common-place sentiment, which in a book would have been deservedly slighted, be followed by thunders of applause on the stage! The animadversions on selfishness which were uttered in Mr. Knowles's Rose of Arragon, lately produced, were merely such primitive remarks as would have been made if Rochefoucauld had never come into the world. If we observe the general amount of the reflections made on the stage, or the general attempts to utter moral truths, we shall find that they indicate about as much philosophical mind, about as much acute perception of the recesses of the human heart, as the schoolboy when he writes his trumpery theme on "Avarice" or on "Idleness." From a character in one of Balzac's novels, what a deal do we learn!— a new world of sentiment and feeling, a new system of motives is opened to us ;from a character in a modern English drama we learn-nothing. Granted, that the novelist can employ minute touches, while the dramatist is confined to a few bold strokes, and that therefore the former can describe subtleties which the latter cannot pause to touch upon-that is no reason the latter is to tell us nothing at all. The fact is, the modern dramatist has very little to do with real life; his heroes, his heroines, his valets, his flirts, have been bequeathed to him by his predecessors— some of them from the time of Terence; just as an exhibitor of Punch would leave to his legatee his box of puppets. The legatee would introduce some new situations, some new "effects," would defer the victory of Punch in one case, and accelerate it in another; but let him vary his arrangement as much as he pleased, there would be the old Punch, Judy, and the constable, and no one else, before us.

The Rose of Arragon is the only important dramatic production of the present month. By being well constructed, and from no other cause, does it succeed. It is a good story-well told. Certain effects are brought in at judicious periods, and therefore at these same periods is applause elicited. The characters are the merest conventionalities that were ever represented, but they answer the purpose of being carried through a tale, and arranged in picturesque situations, just as the bits of pebble and looking-glass in the hands of Gainsborough served to form a landscape. But let us not on that account despise the Rose of Arragon. It is a mere melodrama; but that is a healthy reaction from such inanimate pieces as Old Maids. We would warn the young dramatist not utterly to despise melo-drama. The public will have a sight to see, as well as words to hear; and a higher drama, whenever it shall make its appearance, must have the melo-dramatic element in it. The progress in the art of producing stage-effects is attended with a desire to see them produced. It is no use to complain that the public is unable to appreciate this or that work of pure poetry; he who tries to succeed with the public must accommodate the public, and if he fails, the failure is his own fault. The dramatic public is all-powerful; its judgment is severe and rapid. The writer of a book may stand

the execrations of his time, and wait for the chosen few to admire him. The writer of a play, if he fail, is at once hurled by his judges into oblivion, and far from the sentence being repealed by future times, his name does not reach them. Mr. Knowles has written a melo-dramatic piece, which wants every element of a high drama, and has succeeded; the high dramatist who is to follow must supply the deficiencies of pieces of this kind; but he must not go into the extreme of omitting the element that ensured success.

It is satisfactory to see the Italian Opera flinging off the trash of Donizetti and (worse still) of Mercadante, and returning to the opera buffa of Fioravanti and Rossini, to Le Cancatrice Villane and Il Barbiere. Is there not the veritable atmosphere of the South in these comic operas, in their old-fashioned abstractions? Nothing in nature corresponds to the absurdities and drolleries of their ponderous doctors, their flippant fair ones, their sub-human music-masters, their dull country squires, their nonsensical duels. Their gestures, their fun, their little practical jokes, have no more to do with real life than the woes of Pantaloon or the joys of the Clown. But we are not called upon to look upon them as realities; we are placed in an imaginary atmosphere, the inhabitants of which breathe so freely that we at last sympathize with such agreeable caricatures. Look at Lablache, that huge doctor, carrying that tiny pianoforte-how triumphant is his smile at the feat! Yet wherefore the triumph-wherefore the smile? We neither know nor care. It is the festival of unreason, at which the most consummate artist is the chief host. Look at Ronconi, as Basilio, pattering along the stage, degraded into something between a miser and an ape, drinking in malice as M. Chabert drank prussic acid. Look at Persiani's combination of superficial modesty and sly approval of mischief. We love them all, not as human beings, but as we do the Arlequin and the Pierrot in Watteau's pictures, taken from the characters in the Commedia dell' Arte. Rubini has returned to her Majesty's Theatre, to play his series of characters for the last last time. His reception in La Sonnambula was glorious. Plenty of voices are there that are raised against Rubini, against his meretricious style, his effeminate falsetto, his inability to sustain a single firm note. Plenty of attempts have been made to set up a superior to Rubini; but yet is his return triumphant. His voice at once filled the house-his ornaments were so exquisitely finished! His style may be meretricious, but so perfect is his performance in its kind, so artistically is it polished, that even an attempt to establish a comparison between him and any other tenor of the present day, would be an absurdity. Cerito reigns supreme in the ballet-Cerito, who is the impersonation of life, youth, spirit, buoyancy; who, in short-but we shall reserve a more lengthened notice of Cerito till we have seen her in the ballet of Alma.

The manager of her Majesty's Theatre finding all the fashionable world running off to the French company, in King-street, has set up a counter attraction by engaging Mademoiselle Rachel for six nights. Rachel is a pure intelligence ;nothing can be more beautiful than her declamation-than her conception of the minute turn of a phrase. Her physical powers are not great,-her voice is sometimes lost in passion,-but there are moments when she resigns herself to its influence, and the appearance of that very weakness produces a powerful effect. Such an effect is that, when in the character of Camille in Horace, she hears of her lover's death, and every limb seems to lose its power, till it is incapable of sustaining her. Such an effect is that, when she denounces her brother, and seems shattered by the force of her own imprecations. She has brought with her, this time, a new character-Ariane-in the younger Corneille's drama of that name. It is a fine representation of mournfulness, reproach, despair, and indignation, but it is less effective than Camille. Rachel has much to contend with. The English public like well enough the light French vaudevilles; but the long, sleepy dramas of Racine and Corneille are not only heavy, but absolutely detestable,-unapproachable to those who are not familiar with the legends of antiquity, and disgusting to those who are; for it would be scarcely less revolting to see an idle vagabond scratch his name on the Medicean Venus with his penknife, than to see such puny weaklings as Racine or Corneille inscribe their names on the ancient traditions of Greece and Rome. We grant that these little great men evinced much ingenuity in tacking their pieces together, and that their dialogue shews many clever rhetorical tricks ;we also grant that these plays are well adapted for Mademoiselle Rachel; for the assertion (common enough) that she would be so much greater in Shakspeare, seems to us very questionable ;-but then, they are such a frightful infliction !

pearance of a page, was leaning over the terrace-wall on the north side of Windsor Castle, and gazing at the magnificent scene before him. On his right stretched the broad green expanse, forming the Home Park, studded with noble trees, chiefly consisting of ancient oaks, of which England had already learnt to be proud, thorns as old, or older than the oaks, wide-spreading beeches, tall elms, and hollies. The disposition of these trees was picturesque and beautiful in the extreme. Here, at the end. of a sweeping vista, and in the midst of an open space, covered with the greenest sward, stood a mighty, broad-armed oak, beneath whose ample boughs, though as yet almost destitute of foliage, while the sod beneath them could scarcely boast a head of fern, couched a herd of deer; there, lay a thicket of thorns skirting a sand-bank, burrowed by rabbits; on this hand, grew a dense and Druid-like grove, into whose intricacies the slanting sunbeams pierced; on that, extended a long glade, formed by a natural avenue of oaks, across which, at intervals, deer were passing. Nor were human figures wanting to give life and interest to the scene. Adown the glade came two keepers of the forest, having each a couple of buckhounds with them in leash, whose baying sounded cheerily amid the woods. Nearer the castle, and bending their way towards it, marched a party of falconers, with their well-trained birds, whose skill they had been approving, upon their fists, their jesses ringing as they moved along; while nearer still, and almost at the foot of the terrace wall, was a minstrel, playing on a rebec, to which a keeper, in a dress of Lincoln green, with a bow over his shoulder, a quiver of arrows at his back, and a comely damsel under his arm, was listening.

On the left, a view altogether different in character, though scarcely less beautiful, was offered to the gaze. It was formed by the town of Windsor, then not a third of its present size, but incomparably more picturesque in appearance, consisting almost entirely of a long straggling row of houses, chequered black and white, with tall gables and projecting stories, skirting the west and south sides of the castle; by the silver windings of the river, traceable for miles, and reflecting the glowing hues of the sky; by the venerable college of Eton, embowered in a grove of trees; and by a vast tract of well-wooded and well-cultivated country beyond it, interspersed with villages, churches, old halls, monasteries, and abbeys.

Taking out his tablets, the youth, after some reflection, traced a few lines upon them, and then, quitting the parapet, proceeded slowly, and with a musing air, towards the north-west angle of the terrace. He could not be more than fifteen, perhaps not so much; but he was tall and well-grown, with slight, though remarkably well-proportioned limbs; and it might have been safely predicted, that, when arrived at years of maturity, he would possess great personal vigour. His countenance was full of thought and intelligence; and he had a broad, lofty brow,