The Surrender of Calais, has been, by some critics, pronounced to be Colman's master-piece.

He himself relates, that on discovering that his eldest and favourite daughter had become pregnant by the king's brother, and presumptive heir to the throne, he flew into a violent passion, and declared that when he went home he would turn her out of doors, and never see her again; feelings and expressions which were perfectly natural, in a man whose rigid virtue had constantly withheld him from visiting the king's mistresses, though he was the only one of the ministers who evinced such a regard for decorum. But no sooner was Clarendon informed that the Duke of York and his daughter were privately married, and that there was an intention of declaring the marriage, than the Tory prevailed over the father and the man. This circumstance, though it was calculated to console him, aggravated the offence ten-fold, in his estimation, and served only to exasperate his indignation.

He again gave full vent to his anger, and said, that if it were true that his daughter was actually married to the duke, he was prepared to advise the course which ought to be adopted. He protested, that he would rather his daughter should be the duke's mistress than his wife. In the former case, he observed, nobody could blame him for turning his child out of doors, as he was not obliged to harbour a mistress for the greatest prince on earth; and the indigni'y to himself, he would submit to, as to the pleasure of God. But, he added, that if there were any reason to suspect they were lawfully married, he was ready to give a positive judgment (in which he hoped the Lords Ormond and Southampton would concur with him) that the king should immediately cause the young lady to be sent to the Tower, cast into a dungeon, and strictly guarded from all communication with her friends; and then, that an act of parliament should be immediately passed, for beheading her; to which, he would not only give his consent, but very willingly be the first to propose it." And whoever knew the man, (says Lord Clarendon, speaking of himself) will believe that he said all this very heartily."

Clarendon firmly persisted in his determination, and solemnly affirmed, in the presence of the king and council, that he would bear the infamy and death of his daughter, rather than see royalty degraded by such a marriage. When he afterwards ascertained, that the marriage had been validly solemnized, he still urged the expediency of putting his daughter to death by a bill of attainder.

Could the Grand Turk himself expect more from one of his devoted

It is copied from a French novel of the same title, rather than from the national tragedy of Dubelloy. The author deserves credit for having felt how much the heroic devotedness of Eustache de Saint-Pierre was superior to that of Edward. But Colman has not neglected to make his countrymen laugh, at the expence of the poor besieged citizens of Calais. The picture of a population, whose courage is subdued only by the extremity of want, might have been rendered susceptible of powerful tragic effects in the irregular system of the English drama. A man of genius would have employed the pencil of Dante, to give an impressive colouring to his subject. Colman has enlarged the tower of Ugolino, it is true, but he has filled it with characters, whose grimaces and trivial discourse are worthy of Punchinello. know not whether Colman's absurd caricatures of the French be dictated by national spirit, but certainly they present none of the spirit of genuine comedy.

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Mr. G. Colman fills the office of dramatic censor of London, under the auspices of the Lord Chamberlain. The exquisite fastidiousness evinced, in some of his decisions, bears a striking resemblance to the proceedings of our Parisian censorship.

subjects? The above circumstance was lately quoted in an article in the Edinburgh Review, by Brougham, who observes, that there has been, and still is, as much servility in England, as in France. For my part, I must confess, that the conduct of Lord Clarendon exceeds all my notions of toryism.

The rejection of a tragedy, entitled "Alasco," by Mr. Shee, recently excited a general feeling of dissatisfaction, I shall probably have occasion hereafter to notice this tragedy.

Dramatic composition is decidedly the feeble portion of contemporary English literature. Comedy, indeed, seems to be nearly extinct. The writer of a recent article, in the Edinburgh Review, on Chenier's Tableau de la Litterature Française Moderne, cautiously refrains from dwelling on the names of George Colman, Holcroft, &c.

Willing as I am to render full justice to the merits of such writers as Cumberland, Murphy, and Sheridan, I cannot but feel proud in opposing to them the French authors, who have enriched our comic drama since the year 1789. In spite of the mystico-burlesque strictures of German criticism, the French alone understand the secret of genuine comedy. I am aware that our tragic system stands in need of a revolution, like that of every other nation in Europe; but our comedy may continue to be regarded as a model, without any modification of its forms. Several pieces, such as M. Picard's Conteur, prove that French dramatists can sacrifice unity to the more necessary law of interest. We have been repeatedly threatened with the dangerous encroachments of bad taste; but the footsteps of Molière and Regnard have been followed by Andrieux, Fabre d'Eglantine, Colin d'Harleville, Picard, Duval, Eteinne, &c. We have also several young authors, who

bid fair to pursue the same track with success, but I shall not name them, because they have before them a long career of glory, in which their rank is as yet uncertain.

In alluding to the comedies of contemporary writers, I must not omit mentioning a piece which affords a triumphant answer to the reproach addressed by English critics to French dramatists, namely, that they want boldness and originality. The Pinto of M. Lemercier may be numbered among the remarkable productions of the age. It is as good as one of Scott's novels.

LETTER XXXVI.

TO M. RENÉ PERIN.

BEFORE I proceed to notice a few tragedies, which seem to encourage the hope that dramatic art may again be revived in England, I must give you some account of the secondary theatres, or, as they are called, the summer theatres of London. When Covent Garden and Drury Lane close for the season, two new theatrical companies are formed, one for the Haymarket, and the other for the English Opera House. The Haymarket company perform melo-drama, farce, and comedy, when they can. This season, however, they possess a rare combination of talent: they have

Charles Kemble, Liston, Terry, who, in some of his characters, rivals Farren; Oxberry, a very original actor, Mrs. Chatterley, an excellent representative of pert Abigails, and several other performers of distinguished merit. Madame Vestris, a very pleasing singer, whom I have already heard at Drury Lane, is also engaged at the Haymarket Theatre, to which she is an important acquisition. She does not, indeed, console the British dilettanti for the absence of Miss Stephens, the nightingale of Covent Garden, who imparts Italian grace to the cacophony of English song. Miss Stephens's voice was formed for the language of Metastasio, and the music of Mozart and Rossini. Her rival is a Mrs. Salmon, who sings only at concerts. I can conscientiously bestow the highest praise on these two sirens, though I have heard Mainville-Fodor and Pasta.

Madame Vestris was not a particular favourite with the public until she appeared in male attire. She has an extraordinary predilection for personating libertines. At Drury Lane, she has performed Don Juan with great applause, and at the Haymarket she selected, for her first appearance, the part of Captain Macheath, in the Beggars' Opera. Few pieces have been more popular than this singular production of John Gay, one of the most distinguished wits of Queen Anne's reign. If we may give credit to Swift, who, however, admired anything in the shape of satire and sarcasm, the Beggars? Opera is even more moral than witty. But this Newgate pastoral, with its highwayman hero, has, by more fastidious critics,