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them to others. He was himself witty, but the points of his conversation consisted principally in anecdote and the relation of jokes. He often awoke early, and read from five or six o'clock in the morning, until nine or ten, and thus he became acquainted with all the new books, which he read, of every description-novels, pamphlets, voyages, travels, plays-and he liked to talk of them.

Sir Astley says that George the Fourth did not like Lord Liverpool, "because he felt a fear of him, from his firmness; for he would never yield any important point to the king, nor suffer him to interfere in his particular province." Will it add to the reader's estimate of his Majesty's gentlemanly manners, when told that he (the King) "used to say, as soon as he (Lord Liverpool) went out of the room, 'What an awkward creature that is!' and then he mimicked all his peculiarities, so as to produce a laughrainst Lord Liverpool?"

We cite a few more anecdotes, given on the authority of some noblemen, relative to the king.

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I then talked with Lord of George the Fourth; he agreed that he was a clever creature. I told him that when the Duke of Wellington was ill, George the Fourth shed tears, and said, "If I were to lose him, I should lose the honestest man I have about me." I related that the king asked if the duke could go out that day, and that Knighton said, “I ordered him not." The king said, smiling, " You ordered him not! Could you not have thought of a better word ?" "No, Sire," said Knighton, I ordered him If a man does not attend to his friend and physician, he had better have neither." As we went out of the room I said, "You are a pretty fellow!" and he said, "Oh! that was intended for him." "Yes," said Lord "he was a great friend to George the Fourth, for he brought his pecuniary affairs into an excellent state; the king had ten thousand pounds about him when he died, although he had been in debt." "The king was a very clever man," said Lord " he saw everything at an instant; and what an excellent mimic he was.' 'True," I replied. Lord said that George the Fourth and the Duke of York, although generally lavish, were fond of having money in their bureau, which they did not like to expend, and related the following anecdote in illustration. Mrs. Fitzherbert told the king, that one of his horses was likely to win at Newmarket, but the stakes were not paid. George Lee came and told him the same thing. "Yes," said the king, "I told Lake to pay them." "But," replied Lee," he has no money." "Do you pay them, then, my dear fellow. Oh! yes, you pay them." He could not pay them either, and half an hour only remained; when he was told that his horse could not run, as the stakes were not paid. "Yes; but I have told Lake to pay them, and I told Lee to pay them." "But they have no money, your majesty." then very unwillingly he went to his drawer to take out the sum. Duke of York was just the same; they would, either of them, draw a cheque on their bankers, but would not part with their money

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Our last extract of all belongs to a period when George the Fourth was subjected to a very serious operation for tumour in the

head.

The king bore the operation well, requested that there might be no hurry, and when it was finished, said, "What do you call the tumour ?" I said, "A steatome, Sire." "Then," said Le, "I hope it will stay at home, and not annoy me any more.

The king went on well until Saturday; when he came in to us he said, "I have not slept all night, and I am d-d bad this morning; my head is sore all over." I immediately thought erysipelas was coming on, and that we should lose him. I called in the middle of the day at Carlton Palace, and again in the evening, and he was much the same.

The next morning when I went the king was on the sofa,-his great toe was red with gout,d his head had lost its soreness, and all its unpleasant feelings. From this t the wound healed in the most favourable manner. In a fortnight afterwards he said, "Lord Liverpool has promised to make you a baronet, but I will not suffer it, I shall do it myself." I thanked him, and said, 66 Since your majesty is so kind, let me say, if it be not entailed upon my nephew, Astley, whom I have adopted and educated, it will lose much of its value." He immediately said, "It shall be made out as you wish." He afterwards, in six months, sent me a beautiful epergne, for which he gave the plan himself, and which cost him five hundred guineas.

In conclusion, we merely observe that, although Sir Astley commenced life with a strong tendency to extreme democratical notions, yet the baronet's opinions not only made a halt, but took such a turn, that he came to cherish a deep veneration for ancient institutions, so as even to be apprehensive that the London University boded danger and was unsound in its principles.

ART. X.-The Patrician's Daughter: A Tragedy in Five Acts. Fourth Edition. By J. W. MARSTON. Mitchell.

HAVING at the time of its publication reviewed the first edition of this tragedy, our present object is not so much to canvass the merits of the work, as to offer some few observations on the controversy which it has excited. The point mooted by Mr. Marston's drama, as our readers are probably aware, is the capacity and suitability of the present for tragic illustration; whether in contemporary life may be found materials of passion and incident, worthy of commemoration in the most stately form of poetry, and calculated, like the lofty themes of old, to solemnize the mind, and to soften the heart. So far as the public is concerned, the proposition was triumphantly affirmed on the first night of representation. It was never our lot to

witness greater enthusiasm, or demonstrations of delight more apparently sincere, than were displayed on this occasion. It is true that the author owes much of his triumph to the representatives of his leading characters. Nothing could be more nobly conceived, or more powerfully delineated, than the part of Mordaunt by Mr. Macready. The subdued earnestness of his love, which works by a fascination so gradual as almost to blind the subject of it to the power of its operation,—a love trembling with its own intensity; the crushing sense of his wrong, when he believes devotion so ardent to have been excited and fostered for the mere gratification of a scornful humour; the almost inspired energy of the revenge which he executes, under the self-deluded conviction that he is the minister of justice; the grandeur of the mournful yet proud lowliness which he exhibits when his purpose is consummated; and the paralysing effects of a too late remorse, were revelations worthy of a genius as profound in its discrimination of human motives and feelings, as impressive in their portraiture. Nor can too much praise be awarded to the Mabel of Miss Helen Faucit. There was a spell, a subtle and spiritual charm in her early scenes, which might well account for the fervour of Mordaunt's passion, and which materially contributed to render an act, the least rapid in dramatic action of the whole play, one of its most interesting features. The sweet and delicate appreciation by which, she seized and realised every-even the most minute-poetical sentiment, was received by the audience as a full compensation for the comparatively slow movement of this part of the story. Nor can we omit to record her pure and unstrained pathos in the closing scene,—a pathos which stole upon the heart, rather than smote it, and drew forth tears with a witchery so subtle, that few could repress the tribute. We allude more particularly to the excellence of the acting, because, to our mind, it rather confirms than detracts from the principle affirmed in this play-that the present possesses all the elements of tragic interest. If in the more familiar events and aspects of contemporaneous life, there had been aught inherently opposite to the spirit of tragedy, then we contend that the very excellence with which the design was embodied would only the more prominently have exhibited the disharmony between the tragic principle itself, and the media through which it was attempted to be developed. If, for example, modern costumes were essentially repugnant to intense passion, then, in precise proportion to the power with which the passion was expressed, would be this absurdity of the contrast between it and the incongruous externalities of dress.

The success of this play with the public, was, we have said, decisive. But the opponents of Mr. Marston's theory were not to be daunted by the verdict which the popular feeling returned. Routed on the grounds of results, the hostile critics betook themselves to the

more metaphysical position of causes, and loudly affirmed that although the experiment had succeeded, it ought to have failed. Feelings were touched, and enthusiasm stirred; true,-but not (quoth the impervious adversary), by the right means. In fine, the heart and mind of the multitude were vitiated, diseased, artificial; while the infallible censor preserved by miracle from infection, appeals from the recorded decision of thousands, and cries, "HEAR HUMAN NATURE!"

And now let us arrange and investigate, in their order, the principal à priori objections to our author's doctrine.

They may be classified as follows:

Firstly, Tragedy requires the illusion of the ideal, which the familiar character of the present destroys.

Secondly, That the events and emotions of the present are not sufficiently stirring and dignified for tragic purposes.

Thirdly, That poetic diction is unsuited to the expression of existing passion and incident.

In considering the first of these propositions, we ask ourselves whether the ideal is necessarily limited to the past, whether the Shaksperian drama is a literal transcript, or an ideal delineation, of the times and persons which it embodies; whether the elder drama is rendered ideal to us by the mere mellowing influence of years; or whether the poetic mind sealed on that drama its ideality at the moment of its creation? Let us cite the tragedy of "King John," in illustration of our meaning. Is he the literal historical coward and usurper of his day; or is he the historical person elevated and idealized to tragic greatness by the spirit of Shakspeare? That the poet's "John" differs widely from the John of history, is almost too obvious to require affirmation. What then are we to say? -that Shakspeare invented a monarch in opposition to the historic record?-No; but that the meagre materials furnished by chronicle and tradition, hinted to the bard's mind the poetical truth; that where others had seen facts, he apprehended motives, and ascended from the effects of human action to the principles in which they originate. From his perception of individual, and his sympathy with universal man, the poet framed a king who transcended history, without contradicting it. In all the creations of poets, especially in those of the greatest, this same principle is obvious. The conceptions of the bard are derived from his own deep and manifold sympathies both of heart and mind; and not from a laborious imitation of the superficies of passion and character as exhibited in the habits and peculiarities of society. There can be no question that conventionalities, commonplace customs, and insignificant, even ludicrous features, appertained to the respective ages of "Julius Cæsar," "Macbeth," and "Richard the Second ;" but does the poet think the introduction of such features essential to a true picture of life? By no means.

He knows that the drama is the history of man, not a register of habits; and although the poet will adopt such special forms as the times of his story may furnish, he will elevate those very forms to the level of his human conception. His object is not so much to describe the doings of men, as the feelings of man; and it will frequently happen that the more minutely correct the delineation of apparent life, the further removed is that illustration from the spiritual truth, from the genuine life of humanity. Who ever encountered in real life such a grave-digger as the merry sophist, who dug the grave of the fair Ophelia? What fortunate wanderer through summer forests fell in with an actual flesh-and-blood Rosalind? Eastcheap denies all knowledge of the Falstaff Shakspeare created, and Verona has no remembrance of Juliet. You may search the tribes of Israel in vain for a Shylock, who vents his rage and his wrongs in a public thoroughfare, and rouses the streets of Venice with his indignant agonies. Oh! Shakspeare, is it the wont of merchants to rave thus in public streets? And since thou hast given us a street in Venice, why not give us also the passengers, the traffic - the reality of a street?

If, then, these creations have no prototype in the actual, whence have they acquired so established a charm on the imagination and the feelings? From their ideal truth the mind as distinctly asserts their verity as do the senses that of any external object.

We see, then, that the ideal is not the effect of time, but the operation of the poetical principle, that no man-no circumstance-no age is ideal independent of poetry; and that dramatic truth of delineation is so far above the test of literal fact, and that the bard may with advantage to the force and the mental reality of his scenes, violate the probabilities and rules of society and custom. We will now add, that wherever the poetical principle is exercised, there is the ideal wherever the ideal, there is human action and emotion in its inherent dignity, and wherever these are the theme, there, also, may the language of poetry be most appropriately employed. Thus we reply to the opponents of, at least, a worthy endeavour. If we have succeeded in refuting their first objection, the following ones, which depend upon it, are involved in its fall.

Our previous observations may throw some light upon the sort of criticism to which, in some quarters, (and we rejoice to believe they are not numerous) this tragedy has been exposed. Ex. gr. In the fourth act, where Mordaunt recounts to the assembled guests, the scorn, the injustice, the agony which he has endured; the betrayal of his hopes, the duplicity and falsehood of Lydia, these lines occur;

MORDAUNT.

'Twas not my vanity that thus construed

These signs of tenderness; the Lady Lydia

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