and sorrows too much; scarce has a stanza closed of exquisite pathos, which draws forth almost the tears of sensibility, than the next commences by a cold-hearted jest on the woes it pourtrayed, and the sorrows it occasioned. The “Ode or Hyma to Grecian Liberty," is one of the finest any language ever yet produced; it is in itself alone sufficient to give immortality to any poet; how prophetically, yet truly, does it warn the hapless Greeks against foreign promises and desertion, and remind them that every chance of freedom rests on themselves alone!-

❝ Trust not for freedom to the Franks; They have a king who buys and sells;

In native swords and native ranks,
The only hope of freedom dwells."

But his last drama, or mystery, as he terms it, of "Cain," has drawn upon him the whole directed battery of indignant piety and religion; it has been more virulently assailed than any other production of this distinguished writer. Some critics have been almost breathless with holy horror, while others, distrust ing the powers of the pen, have at once called on the legal authorities to prosecute. The noble poet has replied to all by unqualified defiance; he dares them to the legal assault, and expresses his determination at once to appear and take on himself the whole results; this is at least bold and manly, and worthy of his high and chivalrous bearing. For ourselves, we will not deny that we would have preferred seeing the genius of Lord Byron exercised on any other subject; England is a religious nation, its glory and prosperity have gone hand in hand with its religious institutions; were its faith founded on a less firm basis than the immoveable rock on which Christianity stands, yet linked as it is with all the charities of social life, its best feelings and affections, and including, as it does, all the great practical moral duties, it is not well to impeach it in the eyes of the people with them discontent and doubts often arise together; they are not sufficiently educated to form accurate conceptions, or think at any depth, and their minds once loosened from the anchor of belief,

and the tenets to which they have been taught to give a reverential trust and confidence, all the moral virtues and duties soon part also. Those who employ themselves in the praiseworthy task of sapping the faith, and undermining the foundations of all religion, have accordingly gladly seized on the latter works of Lord Byron to aid their purposes; they appear in cheap editions, and "Don Juan" and "Cain" are thus circulated among thousands of comparatively ignorant beings, carrying doubt and infidelity with them, where all was confidence and assurance before. But blasphemy sweepingly applied, and certainly is a term of late days much too quite unmerited by any thing in this mystery or drama; like many of the casuists and fathers of former days who were celebrated for their piety, Lord Byron has gone to the origin of sin and evil, and sounded all the depths of fate, free-will, necessity, and knowledge; but it is utterly unfair to load speculative or metaphysical disquisition, either in prose or poetry, with the appalling names of impiety and blasphemy. The great Milton was singularly pious, and yet the exclamations of his Satan against the Deity are fierce and frequent. The Lucifer of Lord Byron is not the lofty, proud, etherial spirit of Milton; he is more mundane, more apparently conversant in the ways of this former world and its new inhabitants; but if the most daring flights into the regions of doubt and impiety of the noble poet's Lucifer, are compared with those of the Satan of the pious Milton, it will be seen that the latter fully equal them in force of language, levelled as aspersion and defiance against the triumphant Godhead.

We give a passage from both :

war,

Irreconcileable to our grand foe,

Who now triumphs, and in th' excess of joy,

Sole reigning, holds the tyranny of heaven."

This is stronger and more power ful language, than any in the Mystery of Lord Byron, yet, how ridiculous to think of converting it into a charge of blasphemy against Milton, Again, in the Address of Satan to the deluded Eve, the dark spirit uses all the sceptic sophistry of glossing doubt and infidelity, to persuade his victim to the fated crime. Yet, who would be weak enough to select it as a proof of that splendid poet's disbelief, for a moment, of the power and infallibility of the Great Creator.

Satan. "And what are Gods, that man may not become

As they, participating God-like food, The Gods are first, and that advantage use,

On our belief, that all from them proceeds,

I question it; for this fair earth I see, Warm'd by the sun, producing every kind,

Sweep on in your unbounded revelry,

Thro' an ærial universe of endless

Expansion, at which my soul aches to think,

Intoxicated with eternity.

Oh, God! Oh, Gods! or whatsoe'er

but no variety, even Cain is but a darker portrait of Manfred. He is drawn with the same unbounded aspirations after the secrets of immortality; he holds the same communion with spirits of another world, the same troubled mind and brooding discontent absorb him, he rushes on from doubt to defiance, until, in an hour of sudden fury, at the rejection of his sacrifice, his meeker brother falls by his hand. It would be idle to compare this mystery either as a whole, or in any part, with the great poem of Milton, whose powers were of an order, no second poet has since shewn. The genius of Milton soars to the highest heaven of sublimity, while other poets only "wing the mid-way air." We wish Lord Byron would devote his great genius to regular and legitimate poetry, that he would select subjects worthy of illustration by his muse; subjects which would hand his name with the associated band of England's greatest poets to the latest posterity. We should be happy to see his mind more tempered, and his writings breathe the spirit of more equable feelings, less of the darker passions of human life, and more of calm and rational happiness: continual bursts of mental wildness are like the headlong rays of his own eastern sun, too powerful for lengthened endurance; while softer feeling and description, like moonlight stealing through the clustering foliage into the bower of retirement, bring luxury of thought and pleasure in their train. The Dramatic efforts of Lord Byron will not purchase for him permanent fame; we would recommend him to resign that walk of literature, and not to try and force nature into an existence foreign to her, while in the fertile soil of his splendid genius the choicest flowers of poetry will rise in spontaneous abundance, and flourish with only gentle care and cultivation, in rich and delightful profusion.

Our subject has grown upon us, until we fear, it has exceeded all bounds; in fact, the limits of an essay are too narrowed to permit a review of all the Tragic Dramas of the day; we may, perhaps, return to them at a future period. The "Remorse," of Mr. Coleridge, is, as we before stated, written with

great powers, but unfitted to the stage; Fazio is simply and beautifully drawn. The jealousy which incites the hapless Bianca, to accuse her husband of the murder, as the only means of withdrawing him from her hated rival, Aldabella, and her subsequent dreadful contrition and remorse, are powerfully depicted. This play has all the marks of genius, without the pomp and splendour of diction, which distinguish the "Fall of Jerusalem," "Samer,"

The Martyr of Antioch," and other dramatic poems of the same author. "The Mirandola," of Mr. Proctor; "Conscience," by Mr. Haynes; and Mr. Croly's late fine Tragedy of "Cataline," are before us, but we have not present space to devote to them as they deserve. "Mirandola,” has great powers of poetry, and some very affecting scenes. The exclamation of the horrified Duke, on the execution of his son, “I want to die!" possesses great force and nature. The play of "Conscience," is chastely and equably written; some very charming passages may be selected from it, but its undeviating adherence to the unities of the ancient masters, and its want of plot and incident, render it (howe ver classical) as a whole, cold and ineffective; its author, Mr. Haynes, has displayed unquestionable powers of composition, and great purity of taste; we have been glad to hear that he has another Tragedy in preparation. "Cataline," it is said, is to be brought out at Drury-lane Theatre. The character of the bold and reckless conspirator is pourtrayed with great effect; but varying essentially in feature from the record left of him by the historian Sallust. His wife, the daughter of the terrible Marius, like the guilty partner of Macbeth, is always rebuking his irresolution, and seeking "to screw his courage to the sticking point." She recalls to his memory the bloody entry of her sanguinary father into trembling Rome, and "his horses hoofs wet with patrician blood," until Cataline at length appears in arms against his country. We question whether the softened character of irresolution, given him by the Dramatist, adds to his effect, the portrait drawn of him, by Sallust, is most striking. “Namque animus impurus diis homini

busque infestus, neque vigiliis neque quietibus sedari poterat : ita conscientia mentem excitam vexabat, igitur colos ei exsanguis, faedi oculi; citus modo, modo tardus incessus; prorsus in facie vultuque vecordia inerat."

This is a striking likeness, drawn by a masterly hand of the agitated and remorseless conspirator, and cannot be improved.

The two great faults of tragedy, in general, are inflated dialogue, and want of real pathos and passion. Writers of latter days look less to the feelings which should agitate their personages, than to the pomp of words. It has been often observed, that the deepest agitation of the mind is such, as no language can describe; words can only paint ideas, and not the silent, utter excess of grief or rage, which the soul at times feels with such energy as to be bereft of all distinct perceptions. The look of mute reproach with which the indignant Dido returns the address of Æneas, and then flies into the gloom shades, and the same reproachful silence with which Ajax stalks away from his enemy, mark the great discrimination of the poet. Passion, however, will often call forth expression of the strongest description, by rousing every faculty, and exciting images suitable to the situation of the moment. Anger, which inflames the mind, inspires bold and daring images; those of grief and sorrow, are more broken and subdued:when passion sleeps, and real genius is wanting to produce it, an unnatural fancy appears as the substitute, and often errs, in creating figures and language utterly unsuited to the scene.

It has been doubted, whether the rejection of the chorus of the Greek tragedians, supported by the authority, in ancient days, of Aristotle and Horace, and, in later ones, of Shakspeare, Milton, and Racine,

has been an improvement to modern tragedy. There are several objections to it, but it certainly, also, has many advantages to recommend it. It fills up the vacuity between the acts, often so sensibly felt on the stage; it gives an air of probability and real life, by interposing in the action, and bearing a part in it.—It is, beside, a perpetual moral commentary on the Drama itself, enforcing every virtuous sentiment, and rectifying every vicious one, and points out the great moral to be drawn from the progress and catastrophe.

Without claiming any peculiar moral merit for the Drama, we may assert, that it has a powerful influence on the manners and feelings of a people, generally. In barbarous nations, we have seldom seen the Drama prevail; while, in free and polished countries, it is always cherished. The moral influence of the Drama does not perish with the feelings of the moment. We do not attempt to say, it incites at once to the emulation of any distinguished character, or the attainment of any peculiar virtue; but, it ultimately blends itself with the mass of our feelings, and becomes incorporated with our general ideas. To it, we owe some of the noblest productions in our language, and many of our proudest recollections. It is indissolubly linked with the most perfect of our arts and sciences; Music, Painting, and Architecture have all combined to illustrate and adorn it. Tragedy now appears on our stage in natural and classical costume. Cato no longer dies in a full-bottomed wig, nor is Macbeth seen in a tarnished court-suit. days of Booth and Quin are gone by; Garrick introduced a permanent reform on the stage, by his exertions, and it was perfected by the fine taste and discriminating judgment of Mr. Kemble.

The

3Q

Eur. Mag. Vol. 89.

It was mentioned in a preceding Number, that the Barrow is distinguished from the Cairn by the materials of which they are composed; the latter consisting of stones, but the former of earth. It is probable, that the Cairn is the origin of the Barrow, for it is found among nations in their rude state. In some countries, where the stones are plentiful, the Barrow has not displaced the Cairn. This may have been owing to the inhabitants retaining a tenacity for the customs of their ancestors, as in Scotland and Wales. Among the nations, which have not changed the rude stone for the loose earth, were the ancient Egyptians, who frequently united both, and adorned the earthen mound with the pyramid of brick or hewn stone. -The probability is, that the Cairn may have succeeded the single stone, which, in days of old, was set up as a memorial of some particular event, of which, Scripture-history furnishes us with numerous instances."And Jacob rose up in the morning, and took the stone that he had put for his pillow, and set it up for a pillar, and poured oil upon it.' Gen. xxviii. 18. The loose heap of stones, or Cairn, was also coinmemorative of some important circumstance." And Joshua said unto them, Pass over before the ark of the Lord your God into the midst of Jordan, and take ye up, every man of you, a stone upon his shoulder, according to the number of the tribes of the children of Israel: That this may be a sign among you, and when your children ask their fathers in time to come, saying, What mean ye by these stones?" Then ye shall answer them. That the waters of Jordan were cut off before the ark of the covenant of the Lord; when it passed over Jordan, the waters of Jordan were cut off: and these stones shall be a memorial to the children of Israel, for ever." Josh. iv. 5, 8. We are informed of

a Cairn having been raised over the dead body of Absolom.-" And they took Absolom, and cast him into a deep pit in the wood, and laid a very great heap of stones upon him." 2 Sam. xviii. 17.-The design of the Cairn in this island has been to commemorate some remarkable event, to perpetuate the memory of the dead, and sometimes for religious purposes. Some suppose it to be the relics of Druidical superstition, and dedicated to the sun, for the purposes of augurial calculations and execrations. That several are of later date, and of Roman construction, is evident, from a large one having been opened in 1771, at Turpin's Hill, in Northumberland, in which were found two stone coffins, the one containing two urns, and copper coins of Domitian, Antoninus Pius, and Faustina. About 1729, one was opened near Atterburne, in the same county. After removing about sixty tons of stones, a cavity of three feet long, two feet broad, and four feet deep, was discovered. It contained first, about eighteen inches of fine mould, then a layer of ashes mixed with bones and half-burned wood, and then two feet of fine river sand. Pennant mentions the opening of one in Wales, a few years ago. It had been erected over a room, about nine feet in diameter, and seven in height, forming a hexagon. Round the sides were stone benches, upon which lay a number of bones. The roof being of a single slab was supported by one stone. Many Cairns in Scotland, are of recent date. Some were constructed by the friends of individuals, that fell in the Rebellion of 1745. There is a proverb among the Highlanders, to this day, expressive of their respect for the dead: "I will add a stone to your cairn."

Huggate, Dec. 7, 1822.

T. R.