ful as may at first sight appear. Solitary, unloved, he found here a prospect of satisfying the long uncomprehended yearnings of his heart. Not that a man so cold and selfish was capable of anything worthy of being called love: but he did not want a wealthy bride,— besides, where was he to get one? Here was a young girl,—beautiful, accomplished,-one whom he might ask for, without the disagreeable risk of having "No!” said to him. Whatever his reasons were he certainly did go to Clapham, and finding the worthy couple alone, enquired, with a sort of sheepish tenderness, for Miss Bulmer. "She was in the garden,-did he wish to see her?" "Not in the least.-The weather was seasonable and pleasant." "Yes it was. Decidedly.-Very much so." "The garden looked very pretty." "Would Mr. Tesdale like to see it?" "Not in the least,........ that is,—not at present..... "The fact is, my dear sir," gasped the capitalist, "I am going to make a proposal." "Bless me!" said Mrs. Nibley, rising instinctively— By no means, my dear madam; what I am going to say concerns you. Pray remain." "Nibley," said he, "I am a solitary man, and a rich man. thinking of a wife." "Glad to to hear it, sir," was the reply of the meek man. "Can't you help me to one?" hinted Tesdale. I am "I am afraid not, sir," said the other; "you know I can't spare my own." "Is there no one else you could spare?" "Lor Mr. T!"-burst in the lady-" who do you mean?" "Miss Bulmer." "Excuse me, sir," said Nibley, with some dignity; "that cannot be. Pardon my freedom,-it is not only impossible,-it is preposterous!" This was a long speech for John Nibley; but his wife rose (as the saying is) as one man. She was listened to, but without effect, In vain Tesdale argued,-Sarah stormed,-for Mr. Nibley was firm— Tesdale's thin lips grew white. "Mr. Nibley," said he, "a word in your ear"....... Sir," gasped Nibley, "if I have any influence, it shall be done THOUGHTS ON THE DRAMA. (Continued from p. 384.) We have thus far taken a brief view of the present state of the Drama in England; we have seen that it is by no means in a flourishing condition; nnd we have glanced at some of the immediate causes which have conspired to injure it: it remains for us to see what (if any) is the grand and general first-cause of its Decline, and whether there is any reasonable prospect of the British Drama ever reviving, and resuming its pristine importance among the arts which elevate and ennoble the human race. We have seen that there were several apparently distinct causes of its present depressed state; amongst which were the immense size of the houses; the improvements in painting, mechanism, and the decorative art; the absence of due competition and opening, whether for authors or actors; and finally, the refinement-and, in some sense, improvement-of the art of the actors. That is to say, that we have become fastidious critics of acting, rather than humble disciples of poetical instruction; and that both spectator and actor vie in annexing an undue predominance to the Histrionic Art. Now we think that, on a careful retrospect of the progress of the Drama among all nations, and at various periods, the mind of the enquirer will become aware of a Principle working in the formation and development of the Art, founded on the wants of mankind at large. The origin of the Drama of every nation has been religious: whether among the sophistries of the Pagan Greek, or the barbarous subtilities of the Monk of Dark Ages, the object of the Drama was to assert merely the facts of the national creed, rather than to convince men of the truth of its doctrines;-to bribe, as it were, their faith in things which it would have been vain to offer to their reason. In the Dark Ages of Christian Europe, the moralities succeeded, having a similar end in view. The mysteries, being no longer wanted, gave way to a more general diffusion of religious truth. But the Philosophy of the Schools, and the elaborate ethics of the closet, were also to be taught. Hence those cumbrous and arid performances in which personified Virtues edified one another in rival self-congratulation; while merrier Vice too often afforded the wearied spectator a momentary relief by his successful stratagems. But the progress of civilization (never more rapid than in the sixteenth century) required another sort of morality. The application of religion to daily life; the beauty of holiness; the triumphs of innocent suffering or of heroic fortitnde; the Beautiful to be loved, or the Mean to be contemned and avoided :-all these were now to be taught. Poetry was raised into its true position,-it became the SCHOOL OF THE HEART. And in these times, when Printing was but just struggling into usefulness, and when the litera scripta was a dead letter to three-fourths of the nation, how should poetry raise her voice effectually, but on the stage? If it be true that Segniùs irritant animos demissa per aures, it must be much more true that thoughts, represented in action and spoken speech, must have a more powerful effect on a barbarous people than the dry instructions of books, which few can read and fewer understand. The truths remain the same, and still are to be taught. As long as he groans under the Curse, Man will never have done learning the lessons which an exalted Christian piety can alone convey. But the vehicle is altered. The cultivated millions of to-day will ponder better the thoughts of genius, and the exhortations of love, in the stillness of the closet, than in the crush and splendour of the theatre. In like manner as the men of the age of Luther ceased to need the mysterics, have the men of the Age we live in ceased to need the Drama. If the facts we have stated be true, and the inferences we have drawn from them be just, the Drama must, for us, exist as an AMUSEMENT only. With this must be connected its inevitable decay. Whilst the opening mind of the sixteenth century furnished encouragement and support for sixteen temples of " Legitimate Drama," the refined élite of the nineteenth, nourish one as an exotic luxury. We go to see Mr. Macready or Mr. Farren as we would to see Mile. Cerito or the performing elephant; and though you, reader, or 1, may prefer the former, we know that there are a hundred against us who would rather see either of the latter. To this point, then, we may fairly trace the other causes which we have mentioned, as combining to influence the depressed state of the Drama. The scenery is splendid, because we want amusement (for the senses or lower tastes); the theatres are large, because they are places of amusement; the saloons are thronged, and the virtuous shrink from the theatre, and declaim against it on that account-because it is an amusement; while Mr. Macready has to devote his whole heart and soul to gesture and grimace, ― because he, too, is an amusement, and has to contend with the elephant,his rival. This will also be our answer to future questions as to the prospects of the Drama-Can the Drama revive? will be at once answered. In the sense in which Shakspeare's was a Drama, No. As an amusement, it may linger on; nay, if popular taste continue to possess some grains of refinement, it may always maintain an obscure and precarious existence. Future galleries may rush to laugh at future Wrights; future private boxes may weep over future Fortescues: but the same galleries will, the next night, be gaping at fireworks, or grinning at Widdicomb, and the same lovely inmates of the boxes will, the next night, be indulging in auricular sympathies with future Persianis. But as a Teacher,—as a glorious Exponent of high thoughts, of noble deeds, and of refined sentiments;-as a suggestor of sympathy, of emulation, and of love;-the British Drama has fallen to rise no more. Future generations will need the same teaching, and future philosophers will enunciate the lessons of love; but as long as printing and civilization go hand in hand, the Drama can never exist as anything but an amusement. Since we began this paper, we have met with an article in the Quarterly Review, which takes similar views on this subject to those which we have here advanced. We will conclude with the words of the Reviewer:-"The novelist has supplanted the dramatist. Where the theatre has one visitor, the circulating-library has a hundred subscribers. The author who, in former times, would have strained every nerve to obtain success on the stage,-who would have listened with trembling delight to the fiat of the manager, for the reception of his piece, as sealing his hopes of fame, and even of profit,-now awaits his doom from Messrs. Colburn. Even the dramatic poet does not consider success upon the stage, as essential to his fame: he trusts to the power of his poetry over the public mind, read only in the quiet chamber-not performed in the crowded theatre; well knowing that for one spectator, he may thrill the bosom of a thousand readers-and find his way, in the printed volume, into every house through the kingdom. In our day, Shakspeare would have been another Scott;-Macbeth would have furnished matter for a rival series of Tales of my Landlord; and King John would have grown into a second Ivanhoe,” "Quarterly Review," XCII., vii. 1832. NOTE.-Without taking the circumscribed views of this critic, respecting the scope of poetry, or acquiescing in his bold comparison of Shakspeare with the late Sir Walter (great as he undoubtedly was), we hope that he has assisted us to render our "Thoughts on the Drama" intelligible to the reader, if not in proving their veracity. NEW YEAR'S EVE. PART III. "There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, A new face at the door." TENNYSON. "Years of his youth! SOUTHEY'S THALABA. Two years had passed, and the Gascoignes were once more at Bath. It is hardly necessary to say that the match had been broken off between Josephine and Walter Dudley. Disappointed in his extraordinary scheme, the latter had left the country, and it was supposed had settled in America. Colin Dudley, now called Lord Delafield, was passing the winter at Bath with his mother. They had both formed the intimate acquaintance of the Gascoignes, when Colin was lying so ill at Clifton two winters back, and his mother was there nursing him; so that it was a mutual pleasure to meet again. Renewed intimacy is often more pleasing than if it had been uninterrupted, and therefore it was not strange that Colin was very often with the Gascoignes; nor was it strange that, from being much with Josephine, he began to entertain feelings of a tender nature for her. They were reciprocal on her part, and at length the two were engaged. And now that she could call those eyes hers, and that sweet expression all her own,-did she look back on the events of New Year's Eve seven years gone as strange and unearthly! It seemed as if on that night, like Roderick, she had been permitted to look upon her destiny in a vision. But it is time to make explanations about Colin. I cannot do better than give his own words in a sketch of his life which he wrote for Josephine : COLIN'S HISTORY. "There has been a wild romance about the whole of my existence up to this time, my dear Josephine. I first saw the light in the beautiful scenery near the Lakes of Killarney, my father having a house in the neighbourhood, in which he commonly resided. My earliest recollection is the loss of my sister; I can just remember her, a little toddling thing, two years old, with deep blue eyes, and a beautiful head of light ringlets; and I shall never forget the day the maid came home without her from a walk; for you must know, when I speak of her loss, I do not mean her death, but of her being stolen from us. My father had ejected a tenant on his estate, and many notices were sent threatening vengeance if this ejection were not cancelled. He remained firm, however, and the vengeance that was devised was stealing away my little infant sister from the maid, whilst out in a distant part of the |