well-informed and intelligent layman, I who at once understands its system thoroughly, and believes in it sincere ly.

This religion is seen flourishing in all its vigour in Spain, and Portugal, and South America. Let us judge of it by what it is when it is at liberty to show itself as it pleases. Mr Brougham bids us judge of the King's sentiments on the Catholic question, not by what he does in the limited monarchy of England, but by what he does in Hanover. The inference as to that case is nonsense-but the principle is right. Apply it here. If you wish to know what Popery is, do not ask Mr Butler, who has lived all his life in Lincoln's Inn, mixing with ourselves, and reading our books-but ask Mr Blanco White, who comes with his story fresh and fearful from the unchallenged domain of Popish power in Spain. See the very democracies of South America avowing Popish intolerance on the front and fore head of their most jacobinical constitutions. Look at these things, and then talk to men about the smooth speeches of Dr Doyle-that thorough ly learned and judicious Prelate, who, not above a year ago, published two pamphlets, one of which was to prove, that all are damned who disbelieve Hohenlohe's miracles; and another, that tithes are an unlawful method of paying clergy. What! are we to be guided by the advice of men of this stamp? Are we seriously to follow the advice of a Catholic Bishop, who, in the face of all the decrees and councils of his own Church, denounces tithesmerely because it suits his particular purpose to attempt the overthrow of the Protestant Church of Ireland? Are we seriously to be affected as to our views of rational sense and policy, by the opinions of a man, who asserts his faith in that trumpery of Hohenlohe? That fact, we should have thought, might have spoken for itself. Wherever the Catholic Church has the opportunity of managing matters as she likes, we find brutally degrading superstitions received by the lower classes, and Christianity itself sunk beneath the load of human inventions, so as to become virtually exploded among the higher classes, wherever education is diffused among them. Hear what this Mr White tells us of the upper clergy in Spain. Compare

that account with what history has be queathed us about the Court of Leo X.-the last Pope, whose court and conduct were not checked by the knowledge that a tremendous proportion of the intellect of Europe was unceas ingly observing the Vatican, with scru tiny quickened by deliberate hostility. Read Roscoe's Life of Leo, and observe the blasphemous jokes in which all those polite cardinals indulged themselves then. They are now more cautious; but, perhaps, when a cardinal comes over, we may hear a story not very different from what has now been told us by a reformed priest. Compare for a moment Catholic Germany and Protestant Germany-step across the line that divides them, and deny, if you dare, that you feel as if you had walked back three hundred years. Compare England or Scotland, with Catholic Ireland, and say whether it is possible to doubt, that part, at least; of the misery of the last named country is owing to her religion.

And yet we have lived to see a proposal for eternizing the Catholic Church of Ireland, by endowing her clergy directly from the purse of the state!

It may be proper that all clergymen should be paid by the state-old opinions are so much unsettled, that, perhaps, some one may be found to support even that notion. But we, for ourselves, must avow our opinion that, even if that be true, the Catholic clergy are the last body of dissenting clergy in this empire, who ought to have been selected whereon to commence the operation of such a sys

tem.

We cannot-however aware that our remarks have already extended to great length-we cannot close this paper without saying a very few words in regard to the abuse which has been showered upon the Duke of York, in consequence of a late (reported) speech of his Royal Highness in the House of Lords. That that speech should have excited emotions of the most bitter description in the breasts of such people as Mr Brougham, we by no means wonder; although, we must confess, the mean and dastardly revenge of introducing his Royal Highness's private and domestic affairs into a debate in the House of Commons, (if, indeed, the newspapers give anything like a fair account of that

proceeding,) was a stroke of utter baseness, beyond even our anticipations of what Mr Brougham might do. No matter what that ferocious and reckless partizan says or does; but we are surprised indeed, that any man, having the sense of a man, and the feelings of an Englishman, should, whatever his opinions on the Catholic Question might be, venture to find fault with what is attributed to the Duke of York upon this occasion. There are only two grounds, so far as we understand the business, on which the Duke has been blamed the first, that it was indelicate in him to make, in the House of Lords, any allusion whatever to the possibility of his outliving his brother, and being one day King of England; the second, that it was unconstitutional in him to say anything, not being King of England, about what his conduct, in relation to any particular question of policy, would be if he should be King of England.

Now, in regard to the first of these heads of abuse, we wish to know who it is that is the best judge of what delicacy between these royal brothers demands. Is it Mr Brougham? or the Duke of York himself? We all know that the King and the Duke are not merely affectionate brothers, but intimate companions and friends. We all, as it happens, know also pretty surely, that they are, both of them, men of sense, talent, and knowledge, much above the contempt of Mr Brougham, or Mr Anybody. Now, really, this being the state of the case, a plain man, we think, would have naturally concluded, when he heard of the Duke's making such a speech as is ascribed to him, either that he had made it after telling the King what he meant to do, or in the knowledge, from long fraternal intiu., that, by making such a speech, he should in no way whatever offend the feelings of his brother and his prince. That one or other of these was the real state of the case, we no more doubt than we doubt our own existence. Really, when one thinks a little of the matter, and remembers that the King and the Duke are brothers, with not two years of

difference between their ages, we must say, that it appears to us as if few things could be more ludicrous than the notion that the one of these two men could possibly have any idea of his own life as likely to last longer than the other's-certainly not to any extent worth mentioning. But any one who understands human nature will bring the question to an easy issue. The Duke of York must know the King rather better than Mr Henry Brougham. Is it not a pretty good specimen of impudence, to see a sulky lawyer like him laying down the rules of fraternal delicacy to George IV. and Frederick, Duke of York and Albany?

As to the unconstitutional nature of his Royal Highness's speech, we confess ourselves quite as much at a loss. Has the Duke of York, as a Peer of Parliament, no right to express his opinions, whatever they may be, about the Catholic Question? He is a man turned of sixty, and has seen something of the world. If his opinions as to questions of that sort be not pretty well fixed now, when are they likely to be so? And, they being fixed, has he not quite as good a right to say, that he intends to oppose the Catholic claims to the end of his time, as Mr Brougham has to tell all England, (as he has done we not how often, this very Session,) that he, Mr Brougham, intends to advocate them to the end of the chapter? The Duke of York said, "So help me God;" would it have altered Mr Brougham's annonce, if he had said, "So help me Devil p

The Duke of York, by that solemn asseveration, declared his resolution to discharge his duty to his God and his country. He will never declare his opinion to be changed, until he has satisfied his mind that, by declaring and acting upon such a ange, he is to serve his country and his God. Neither of these, if that should be, will record against him a manly disavowal, in whatever terms expressed, of an opinion deliberately formed, and of a consequent resolution, avowed in a manner alike worthy of a Peer, a Prince, and a Patriot.

GRANTING that a man possesses a powerful intellect, a vivid imagination, and a keen insight into human nature, especially its passions, where is the prodigious difficulty of writing a good tragedy? We think it self-evident that it is easier to construct such a composition, than any other of a lofty kind. A drama is, in fact, a representation of human life, as it exists, and acts, and suffers. Take an impressive story, and interesting agents-revolve incidents and characters in your mind, as you see them revolving in the real world, and a tragedy will almost create itself. Let there be the presence of strong, and if possible various passion, and let there be a processional march of events towards the accomplishment of some great catastrophe, of which the imagination is for ever dimly divining the consummation, and scene after scene will, of themselves, shift before the eye of Genius, till the curtain drops over the dead or dying, and shrouds up the stage in the darkness of destiny. In no other kind of composition-for example, take the epic poem-is life depicted in the order and colour of its real on-goings, but is subjected to the transformations of art and science. The Iliad and Paradise Lost, are not life and death, like Lear and Macbeth. The Muse inspired them-but Shakspeare wrote from his human soul. Existence comes pouring upon him who conceives a tragedy he has but to enter the body of a fellow-creature, whom fate may have placed in pathos or peril; and, retaining the self-possession of his own identity, in thidst of his impersonation of another, to tell what has been revealed to him of his nature by a closer intimacy with agonies hitherto unexperienced even by his imagination. We do not mean to say that the rules and laws of poetry, as a science, do not apply to the tragic drama. But we say, what every thoughtful reader will agree with us in thinking, that

the subject-matter of poetry undergoes less change from its original form in life, in tragedy, than in any other kind of dignified poetical composition. If so, then to minds of power it must be the easiest of all kinds of high poe try.

Accordingly, the multitude of noble tragedies is immense say a thousand

while the number of effective, although not first-rate compositions of the same class, is altogether incalcula ble. People wonder at the endless succession of glorious novels, as they are called, from one extraordinary living writer. They are all dramas-many of them of the highest and deepest tragedy. Nor can any reason be shown in the nature of things why that great genius should not annually illustrate human life by a new creation. What a world of life breathes in what we call-the Old English Drama!

So far, therefore, from joining in the cry, “ Where is dramatic genius ?” we aver that it is kindling over the whole land. True, that the playwrights of the day are a miserable race, and fit only to round periods for the mouthing of a Macready. But turn away from the stage and its pompous whine, and the strong spirit of dramatic poetry will be found to animate the whole body of English literature. Scott, Byron, Coleridge, Baillie, Milman, Wilson, and Shelley, have indeed all written tragedies which may be compared, without obscuration of their power, with the compositions of our best dramatic writers. De Montfort, Basil, The horse, Sardanapalus, Cain, Fazio, The City of the Plague, The Cenci-Do they contain less poetry, less passion, less pathos, than the dramas of Ford or Massinger? In our opinion infinitely more; but with all our boasted freedom, we are still enslaved beneath the bondage of great names, and no tragic poet is thought great, unless his dimensions loom gigantic through the darkness of past

time, and on the verge of that distant horizon.

We are now about to support these our opinions by some account of a tragedy-ay, a regular tragedy in five good acts-entitled Babington, by Mr Doubleday, a writer not altogether unknown to the public, and whose great merits cannot fail of very soon attracting general notice and admiration. Of the " Italian Wife," an exceedingly beautiful, romantic, and affecting drama, suggested by the story of Fair Rosamond, we shall ere long present our readers with an account; but at present we must confine our attention to "Babington," which is by far the more powerful composition of the two, and such as, unless we are greatly mistaken, will give Mr Doubleday a place among the best living poets.

The conspiracy of Babington, which is told by Hume in his best manner, is an excellent subject for tragedy and although we do not think that Mr Doubleday, admirable as are his talents, has made the most of it, in an historical point of view, yet he has produced a composition truly tragic, and shown great mastery of the passions of pity and terror.

When we say that Mr Doubleday has not made enough of the conspiracy, we mean that the grand purpose of the conspirators here, no less than the dethronement and death of Elizabeth, does not sufficiently breathe and beat forth over the drama. There are no bold sentences ripening in our sight, no great events brought close upon our imagination, no alternations of hope and fear so quickly succeeding each other as to form one tumultuous passion. The atmosphere is not sufficiently grim and lowering-nor tinged with lurid lights and a ghastly splendour. We are not made to feel that the chief actors are men designing to overthrow thrones and altars, and to set up a new Government and a new Faith: From the very beginning they are even caught in the toils. No desperate struggles are made the danger does not sublime their characters-they do not play well the parts of lost and infatuated men. Indeed, the author has not so designed his drama. We have not to complain of inadequate power exerted in vain to produce a certain effect; but

of power far beyond the common pitch employed for other purposes, purposes legitimate in themselves no doubt, and full of the tenderest and deepest interest, but which, in our humble apprehension, ought to have been secondary and subordinate.

Having made this criticism, we shall not seek to establish its truth by any argument, but proceed to give extracts from Mr Doubleday's Tragedy, and to tell, in not many words, wherein its chief merits consist.

Babington, the chief conspirator, has long loved his ward-the gentle and beautiful Agnes-and, unknown to each other, that love has been mutual. The first intimation that there is affection between them, is very elegantly given in a playful dialogue between the lady and Plasket, a privileged character, a sort of philosophical jester, who bears his part admirably throughout all the five acts.

Methought I should come over you at

last

High-thoughted gravity may haply sit Upon his brow enthroned, and loftier promptings

Make the shrunk world look little, that perchance

He recks not of it, like a meaner man. But mark that brow when it unbends itself;

And mark his eye, when it declines, at last,

On Pleasure, who sits smiling at his feet; And show me one whose port bespeaketh

more

High nobleness and courtly gallantry, Friendship, and all that doth become a

man.

Pla. (Aside.) Comes the shaft thence?
You're an enthusiast, lady,
Agnes. It may be so. Hath he not been
my brother,

My play-mate, guardian, tutor, all in one?
Pla. (Aside.) And thou would'st make
him husband; would he were !
(Aloud.) It is true, lady. Marry, by my
fay.

Here comes our lady mother.

After this kind of conversation has been for some time continued between Agnes, Plasket, and Lady Maud, Babington's mother, Babington himself appears. Throughout the whole drama, with the exception already made, the character of this conspirator is excellently conceived and supported. The following dialogue seems to us especially beautiful :

L. Maud. What should she say? List to me, childish trifler;

In wedding Tichbourne, thou wedd'st worth and honour:

That is the first; and, in the next degree, Prosperity beyond the reach of chanceA name, nobility, and splendour, grace, Which shame nor poverty have e'er obscured,

Nor ever shall, or can. If Heaven would stoop

To please your sickly fancy with a husband, And fashion him to the pattern, tell me, girl,

What could'st thou ask for more?-Speak tó her, son.

Agnes. I pray you spare me, madam.
Babington,

L. Maud.

Are you dumb too?

Bab.

Madam, an' if my breath Could, in its sway, outvie the winds of spring,

That from their plumes drop beauty, youth, and health,

'Twere not too much for my dear friend's deservings.

Heaven hath shower'd down on him prosperity,

And may God grant it lasting—may it 'scape

The blight of tyrannous power—ay, and

That

the sweep

ever must attend on vengeance' wing Whene'er she lights upon a darken'd land. L. Maud. This is another theme. Bab. Madam, forgive me That I forestall your words. Pray, bear with me

So let her take him. But, in this drear time,

When to be faithful is to be suspectedWhen to be honourable is to be distrusted

When change strides o'er men's heads, and sets her foot

Upon the noblest necks-who is so good, But he shall be a mark for those whose archery

Is bent to strike the fairest? Who sÓ humble,

But he shall be an eye-sore unto thoseWhose best religion lies in innovation? In nature's throes, when inward motion shakes

The frighted earth, and the tumultuous

waves

Q