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infinitely more useful, more true, more interefting, as it is more immediately adapted to the generality of the people.

I am a man, might I not fay to the dramatic poet? Shew me what I am; unfold to me my proper faculties. It is yours to intereft, to inftruct, to move me. Have you done this hitherto? Where are the fruits of your labours? To what purpose have they been employed? Has your fuccess been confirmed by the acclamations of the people; poffibly, they may be ignorant both of your labours and your exiftence. What, then, is the influence of your art on the age in which you live, and on your fellow-citizens?

The word drama, the proper, original, collective word, is to be profcribed-but I will venture to fay, that the diftinction of tragedy and comedy has certainly been more fatal to the art. The tragic poet finds himself under the neceffity of being always on the rack, ferious and impofing. He difdains the details which, though common, might, nevertheless, be noble; thofe fimple graces and that expreflion of Nature which give to a work its life and colour. The idea, that tragedy muft evermore be pregnant with tears, fills the scene with unexpected mortality, that makes the pen of the Author like the bloody fcymeter of death; and, following this falfe idea of exciting perpetual tears, he at length dries up the fource. On the other hand, the writer of comedy is to make you laugh without ceafing, and this feems to be his fole end and purpose. With this 'view he frames his characters. He confiders himself as obliged to form the ftrongest contrast to the tragic poet, and holds his manner of moving the paffions in contempt. He takes no step that does not follow his mistaken idea, forgetting that an attempt to excite perpetual laughter is more ridiculous than an endeavour to force perpetual tears.

Dramatic poetry may be defined the imitation of things, and particularly of human things. If this definition be just, the poets, inftead of duly mixing their colours, have thrown them into a contraft, and an opposition that is unnatural.'

Notwithstanding thefe arguments (which feem to refer to the French theatre rather than to any other, and which, referred to that only, are evidently overftrained) it requires no great fkill in the analyfis of human nature to fee that the comic and the tragic Mufe muft forever walk the stage separately. Mirth and Melancholy may be fifters, but are no friends: and though the former, more capricious, may cafually affume the air of the latter, and change her fmile into a tear, the fofter yet deeper influences of forrow, more congenial to our nature, will not fo eafily diffolve again under the warmth of merriment,-will find it intrufive, impertinent. The imagination, indeed,

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will travel with you at pleafure, from Thebes to Athens, and from Athens to Thebes; but the fee-faw of the paffions is a rebellion against Nature. Mirth muft, therefore, be either wholly banished fram this drama, or it muft reign awhile and be depofed, never to return; totally yield its empire to fenfibility and tender diftrefs. Is fuch an overture necessary to such a piece? Is it expedient? Is it not more congruous to natural fentiment that what should end with, or through the greatest part of its courfe excite, tender emotions, fhould open with tender ideas? Or is ridicule, the great characteristic of the comic Mufe, at all confiftent with fuch fenfations? Has it not fomething of an afperity in it incompatible with them? It fhould feem that, in fuch a DRAMA, Comedy muft lofe her capital and diftinguishing features, must be divefted of mirth and ridicule, at least of any degree of them above infipidity, and confequently be deprived of her very exiftence. And has Tragedy lefs to lofe? Muft fhe not give up thofe ftrong powers that rend the heart and shake the brain? Difarrayed of her pomp, difarmed of her terrors, fhe may, indeed, excite our pity,-for that infipid form into which he is fallen.

Yet, though we differ from this ingenious Writer with refpect to the main scope of his argument, we are not lefs pleafed with many of his obfervations. Speaking of the French and English ftage, particularly the theatres of Corneille and Shakepeare, Our tragedies, fays he, are like our gardens; they are fine but undiverfified, all fymmetry, proportion, and magnificent folemnity. The defign of an English garden is more after Nature, where every thing is more interefting; where the wild, the capricious, the natural disorder are retained. There is no leaving fuch places.'

He elsewhere obferves that there is nothing more inconftant than Nature, which, however, we call unchangeable. We feek her; the discovers herfelf, flies, changes her form. The painter thus catches a casual air of the countenance, and beholds it altered in the twinkling of an eye. We muft follow, then, thefe flying fhadows, or never take up the pencil.'

Speaking of the propriety of introducing characters in common life, on the stage, he maintains that whatever has its origin in truth and reafon, ought by no means to be excluded from the theatre. The Greek tragedies reprefented the bufinefs and characters of Greeks. And fhall not we have our appropriated ftage? A ftage that exhibits men of the fame interefts and fociety with ourselves, for whofe diftrefs we may find a more natural fympathy! Muft we have nothing but men cloathed in purple, furrounded with guards, and filleted with diadems? Thofe misfortunes that affect us moft fenfibly, that come home

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to ourselves, that lie in ambush around us, have they no right to our tears? If fo, why fhould we want the courage to reprefent to the world the virtues of a man in humble life? Let him be born in the lowest rank of fociety, believe me (if his poet be a man of genius) he will appear greater in our eyes [we suppose the Author means he will intereft us more] than thofe kings whofe lofty language has fo long ftunned our ears. Where new regulations are to take place [alluding to the drama] they ought undoubtedly to be adapted to the manners of a nation, from which the dramatic characters are taken. We are justly delighted with natural expression, says Pascal, for where we expected to find an author, we find a man.'

We will allow our Author the truth of the above observations, but not without exceptions. We agree with him that the highest utility to be hoped from theatrical representations muft proceed from those whose characters lie nearer upon a level with our own. But we are of opinion that those which might be taken from the very lowest ranks in fociety,' would be unfit for exhibition. However far from other diftinctions, they should at leaft be fuppofed to have had the advantages of liberal knowledge and fentiment, to give dignity to their virtue. Characters from the lowest ranks, from the cells of loathfome penury, and brutal ignorance, however virtuous they might be, and into the hands of whatever poet they might fall, would be unfit for representation. Neither, to rife a ftep higher, would the illiterate and unfentimental peafant, who brought up his family with decency, with all the domeftic diftreffes that the poet's imagination could give him, be an object more proper for the ftage. 'Tis true, we might pity the poor man, but then, probably, we should pity his author too.

In enumerating yet unoccupied fubjects, fuch as our Author thinks proper for the drama, he mentions the following. Has the Atheist been reprefented on the ftage, who blafphemes to give himself airs, who is not even fenfible of his own folly, who thinks that an efprit fort, and a philofopher are fynonimous terms, and who endeavours to make profelytes by way of encouraging himself in a way where he is afraid of walking alone? Could it not be proved to fuch a man, that he was a barbarous wretch, who wanted to deprive mankind of the hope of futurity, of the idea that they exifted under the eye of a Being, who heard and recorded their fighs? With fuch a character might be contrafted a man living in indigent obfcurity, far from the interest or attention of fociety, yet fupported by religious hope in peace beneath the eye of Providence. Though loft to the comforts and conveniences of life, his eye looks not to the laft and horrible refource of guilty mifery. He bleffes every pang that

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he endures, because every one brings him nearer to that final object on which his hope and his foul were fufpended. Let the Atheist approach and endeavour to deprive him of that hope, tell him that his fufferings are without remedy, that he has nothing to expect from a Being who does not exift! Would not the unnatural wretch inspire, on fuch an occafion, the highest horror? Would, not his odious fyftem appear in the trueft light? And would not the poor mán be an image of mankind in general; for who dares fay to his heart, Thou haft no hope?

Though we do moft readily give every degree of credit to this fuggeftion that fo meritorious an idea can deserve, yet furely we must conclude that the Author's piety and benevolence far exceed his knowledge of the world. If that be not the cafe, and if we be mistaken, we must take it for granted that the theatres on the Continent are more aufpicious to divinity than our own; for fhould fuch a drama appear at DruryLane, it would, moft affuredly, be remanded to the pulpit.

We difmifs this Writer, under a firm perfuafion, that his imagination is fuperior to his judgment, and that his heart is better than either.

L.

ART. VIII.

L'Art D'Aimer, et Poefies Diverfes, De M. Bernard.-The Art of Love, and other Poems, by M. Bernard. 8vo.

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HESE Poems are introduced with a complimentary epigram on the Author, by Mr. Voltaire, entitled, Les Trois Bernards. The Three Bernards: the Saint, the Financier, and the Poet. The laft of whom he fays, will be known when the other two are forgot: and, indeed, it seems very probable. There is a delicate vein of wit and fancy, as well as an easy gentility in the verses of M. Bernard, which will fufficiently appear from the few following ftanzas on his being in love with a fhepherdess.

Quand fes traits frappent mes yeux,
Les rangs ne me touchent gueres :
Doris connait peu d'Ayeux,

Mais mille amours font fes freres:

Son coeur tout au fentiment
Ne veut efprit, ni systême :
Auffi tel eft fon amant ;
Ce n'eft pas Newton qu'elle aime.

Baifer,

Baifer, regard, & foupir,
Voilà tout notre langage:
Mon etude eft fon plaifir;
Mon plaifir eft fon ouvrage.
Sa voix eft le fon du cœur,
Qui d'un feul mot fait tout dire,
Son vifage eft une fleur,
Qu' epanouit le fourire.
Deux ames femblent prefer
Son fein qui croit, & s'eleve:
La Pudeur le fait baisser ;
Et le defir le fouleve.

Something a little like it in English :

Delia's fmile is wealth to me,
Wealth and rank and ancestry;
She the nobleft lineage proves,
Sifter of a thousand loves!

Eyes that languish, heart that glows
All the fcience Delia knows!

Charms like thefe could learning give?
Love with wit can never live.

The kifs, the figh, the tender look
Our language-all from Nature's book!
Our studies only to impart
Mutual pleasure to the heart.

Her voice the foul's foft mufic plays,
In one sweet word a thousand says!
Her face, a flower of vernal morn,
That opens, and a fmile is born!
The regions of her beauteous breaft
Seem of two gentle fouls poffeft.
Advancing now with fond defire,
They now with modefty retire.

We recommend thefe poems of M. Bernard, as the moft ele

gant French verfes we have lately met with.

L.

INDEX

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