maintain the calmness and tranquillity of power and wisdom. Unswayed by passion, unmoved by temper, not dispirited by disappointment, careless of ingratitude and unjust reproach, it should scatter that 'celestial seed,' which, whether it germinates in the present or in a succeeding year, must eventually bring forth a fruitful harvest, a hundred and a thousand fold. To the Irish themselves great and practical duties belong. The honourable band of Irish Whigs, who have been throughout the enemies of unjust monopoly on the one hand, and of intemperate violence on the other, are but few in number. They stand as it were on a narrow isthmus, against the opposite shores of which the contending elements continue to beat. They have scarcely a dry spot on which to rest the soles of their feet. But they need not be discouraged. Those principles which for the time are honoured by attacks from violent men on all sides, will finally become a rallying point for the virtuous and the patriotic. Let the old Protestant party forget their unjust pretensions. To restore the dynasty of the ascendency is as impossible as to reanimate Professor Sedgewick's Icthyosauri, or to form a Tory ministry. Let them forget their Orange lodges, and remember that they too have a country: let them seek their religion rather in the precepts of the gospel than in the speeches of Mr Boyton. We do not despair of the great mass of the northern Protestants, when once they are persuaded that it is in vain for them to seek the restoration of their unjust and exclusive powers. They will finally discover that Ireland requires the performance of higher duties than toasting the Glorious Memory, and singing the Protestant Boys. Whilst the craft was in danger, great was the struggle at Ephesus; but when the shrines were destroyed, Alexander the coppersmith became a good subject. Under a just, but a most firm and determined Government, we do not abandon all hopes of witnessing the conversion even of the agitators. Scared at the sound themselves have made,' they may,-indeed they must, become sensible of the disreputable position in which they are placed. When they find among the trophies of their conquests, and the memorials of their exciting eloquence, the knife of the assassin and the torch of the incendiary on the one hand, and the gibbet and the convict ship on the other, they must pause, even if they cannot repent. It is in vain that they will appeal to their cautions against violence, when their language has been one continued and perpetual excitement. They cannot deceive others, even if successful in self-deception. Abelard might have lectured on philosophy, but the instruction his pupil imbibed was passion. This cannot last. To some few the game

may be a profitable one; but among the class are to be found generous and noble spirits,-men born to better hopes, and capable of more enlarged duties. Upon them the hour of waking will yet come, and they will emancipate themselves from a new penal code, as cruel and as intolerant as that of Queen Anne. A new consciousness of what is due to themselves and to their country, will be the first fruits of their personal independence. Responsibility, they will find, is not aflixed solely on public men and legislators. There is no responsibility so great as that assumed by popular leaders. The law of the land may not define, nor the decrees of courts of justice enforce it; but, though less tangible, it is equally operative. He who foments and excites the passions of a susceptible populace, he who seeks to accomplish even legitimate objects by the violence of physical force, may fall a victim, but he can never be honoured as a martyr. Failing, he becomes contemptible; and if unfortunately successful, his success too is but momentary; the pack that he has cheered on after their common prey, soon seek for other game; and he ends by being run down and torn to pieces by his own blood-hounds.

No. CXVI. will be published in July.

THE

EDINBURGH REVIEW.

JULY, 1833.

No. CXVI.

ART. I.-1. The Wife, a Tale of Mantua. A Play in Five Acts. By JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES. London: 1833.

2. Report from the Select Committee on Dramatic Literature, with the Minutes of Evidence. Ordered by the House of Com

mons to be printed. 1832.

WE WE remember with pleasure the commendation with which Mr Knowles's first play, Virginius,' was hailed ten years ago in this Journal; and with greater pleasure shall we now bestow a still warmer commendation on his last dramatic piece, The Wife.' It is, as we had hoped to find it, better than the first-equal, if not superior, in force and spirit-and decidedly superior in execution. Its author is, indeed, the most successful dramatist of the day. Within the last two years he has produced two plays which have combined the greatest literary merit with the most unequivocal success upon the stage. The 'Hunchback' and The Wife' deserve a permanent station in our drama. We trust they will retain it, and we shall be well pleased if he shall contribute many other pieces possessing equal claims to that distinction. We would sincerely encourage him to proceed; for in the whole circle of authorship we see none more likely to produce well-written plays,-interesting and effective in representation, and such as good taste and good feeling can approve.

VOL. LVII. NO. CXVI.

T

We shall not analyze the plot of The Wife,' or enter into a detailed exposition of its incidents. Such an exposition is always tedious, and gives little more idea of the real spirit and beauty of a play, than an enumeration of the colours employed impresses us with any true notion of the merit of a picture. Let it suffice to say, that the story is interesting, simply constructed, and naturally unfolded, and does not contain more improbability than our imaginative faith is willing to submit to. Instead of explaining the plot, we will hasten to give specimens of the text; and they shall be such as will explain themselves.

• Lorenzo. How grew your passion?
• Mariana. As my stature grew,
Which rose without my noting it, until
They said I was a woman. I kept watch

Beside what seem'd his death-bed. From beneath
An avalanche my father rescued him,

The sole survivor of a company

Who wander'd through our mountains. A long time
His life was doubtful, Signor, and he call'd

For help, whence help alone could come, which I,
Morning and night, invoked along with him.—
So first our souls did mingle!

Lorenzo. I perceive:-You mingled souls until you mingled

hearts?

You loved at last.-Was't not the sequel, maid?

Mariana. I loved, indeed! If I but nursed a flower

Which to the ground the rain and wind had beaten,
That flower, of all our garden was my pride :—
What then was he to me, for whom I thought
To make a shroud, when tending on him still
With hope, that, baffled still, did still keep up;
I saw at last the ruddy dawn of health
Begin to mantle o'er his pallid form,

And glow-and glow-till forth at last it burst
Into confirmed, broad, and glorious day!
'Lorenzo. You loved, and he did love?
Mariana. To say he did,

Were to affirm what oft his eyes avouch'd,
What many an action testified--and yet—
What wanted confirmation of his tongue.
But if he loved-it brought him not content!
'Twas now abstraction-now a start-anon
A pacing to and fro-anon, a stillness,
As nought remain'd of life, save life itself,
And feeling, thought, and motion, were extinct !
Then all again was action! Disinclined