Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be, I never will forsake thee. “De Mon. (looking at her with admiration.) Heav'n bless thy gen'rous soul, my noble Jane! I thought to sink beneath this load of ill, "Jane. Yes, thou art noble still. "De Mon. With thee, I am; who were not so with thee? New from its earthly tenement discharg❜d, We shall be sever'd far. Far as the spotless purity of virtue Is from the murd'rer's guilt, far shall we be. From which the soul recoils. "Jane. The God who made thee is a God of mercy; "De Mon. (shaking his head.) No, no! this blood! this blood! When humble penitence hath once aton'd. "De Mon. (eagerly.) What, after terms of lengthen'd misery, Imprison'd anguish of tormented spirits, Shall I again, a renovated soul, Into the blessed family of the good Admittance have? Think'st thou that this may be? Have push'd me to despair. It is most horrible O speak of hope! if any hope there be. (Jane is silent, and looks sorrowfully upon him; then clasping her hands, and turning her eyes to heaven, seems to mutter a prayer.) "De Mon. Ha! dost thou pray for me? Heav'n hear thy prayer! I fain would kneel.-Alas! I dare not do it. "Jane. Not so! all by th' Almighty Father form'd, Come kneel with me, my brother. (She kneels and prays to herself; he kneels by her, and clasps his hands fervently, but speaks not. A noise of chains clanking is heard without, and they both rise.) "De Mon. Hear'st thou that noise? They come to interrupt us. "Jane. (moving towards a side door.) Then let us enter here. "De Mon. (catching hold of her with a look of horror.) Not there—not there— the corpse-the bloody corpse! Act V-Scene 4. Page 108. Pride-remorse-hatred-fraternal affection-and the dread of an ignominious and disgraceful death, are too much for his exhausted frame, and in this struggle of the passions, "he bursts some stream of life within his breast," and dies. Let any man read De Monfort, and then say, if he can, that the plan of Miss Baillie is impracticable, or that her delineation of a single passion is incapable of furnishing adequate material for a most sublime, effective, and affecting tragedy-perfectly original in all its parts, so far as the emotions of the human bosom can be original, and suffering nothing from a comparison with any writer's since the time of Otway. True, it is difficult to run the parallel, but it is certainly equal to the Barbarossa of Brown-the Fair Penitent of Rowe-or even the Revenge of Young-equal to them in invention and poetical merit, and is not this a measure of fame rarely filled? In refinement and delicacy of sentiment, she far surpasses them all; and we cannot, in justice, forbear to say, while upon this subject, that there is a vein of pure morality, bordering closely upon piety itself, that characterizes all the works of Miss Baillie, and which cannot fail to impart to the mind, convincing proof, that every thing that comes from her pen, is the offspring of the best of motives, thereby establishing for her, a character even beyond the reach of her great intellectual fame. Ethwald, which depicts the rise and fall of ambition-Constantine Paleologus, a historical play-and the Family Legend -all written in blank verse, are respectable literary performances, yet we should suppose not well calculated for the stage. There are many brilliant passages in each of them, but in the tout ensemble, they are far inferior to either of those to which our attention has already been directed. We regret that neither time nor space is afforded to select some of their more attractive scenes, as they would abundantly requite us for the pains; but in quoting from Miss Baillie, it is easier to begin than to conclude, and as the whole volume is now before the public, in an alluring dress, we will not further forestall the gratification of readers, by presenting to them detached parts, of what is entirely deserving of their especial regard. As relates to the tragedies of Orra-The Dream-The Martyr-The Bride-and the Election,-the latter of which is in prose-and the musical drama of The Beacon, they are certainly not favourable specimens of our author's powers-nor does she seem so to have considered them. They are but little known, except from their parentage, and that undoubtedly is their highest, if not their only recommendation.-Homer occasionally nodsShakspeare had his Titus Andronicus, and Apollo himself, we are told, will at times unbend his bow. The pieces referred to, have been severely, though not unjustly criticised in former Reviews, and we are not inclined to add the infliction even of merited reproof. Miss Baillie can well afford to resign them to their fate, and amply solace herself for the loss, while reclining upon the accumulated and verdant laurels of thirty years-laurels which shall grow greener with the lapse of time." Of the comedies we are likewise unwilling to speak. We have perused them with great care, and with no inconsiderable pain. They have no wit-no point-and neither pith nor moment. They appear to have been commenced and prosecuted without any definite object--to have been, in other words, written in pursuit of a plot, instead of having been framed for its development; in her own language, "while making the coat, she thought chiefly of the buttons and buckram, instead of the pattern." Sometimes they seem to have terminated in the middle, and frequently not to have terminated at the end. Their very names often set badly on them, and it may be fairly inferred that neither the Graces nor the Muses, were attendants upon their birth or their christening. The Siege, for instance, is the title of one of them, and is derived from the circumstance of a mimic attack upon the Castle of Valdemere, for the purpose of putting to the proof the courage of a favourite suitor, who stands in the way of Antonio, for whom the experiment is suggested. This single incident, which can hardly be considered as entering into the essentials of the play, is relied upon to indicate its character. The Tryal, too, is not more appropriately chosen, the name being taken from an attempt, upon the part of a foolish girl, with the concurrence of a still more foolish old man, to ascertain the extent of a lover's affections, by subjecting him to the various and familiar tests of coquetry and vanity. We will not pause to examine the others. There is not much, certainly, in a mere name, but where there is nothing else, it is not entirely unworthy of remark, and it may serve at least, together with the other proofs, to sustain the allegation, that the author had no very distinct views of her subject, either before she commenced, or after she had finished. We have thus passed as hastily and briefly over the works of Miss Baillie, as their nature and extent would allow. We have ventured to differ from the Edinburgh critics in regard to the originality and practicability of her plan; and we take leave also, to differ with them in the suggestion, that the author writes slowly, and with great apparent difficulty. On the contrary, it is manifest to our eye, that many of her publications have been written in great haste, and that most of her imperfections are attributable to that very circumstance. She has written half as much as Shakspeare himself, who was unquestionably the most rapid writer and thinker that the world ever knew. She has produced more than half the other poets that have flourished, considered separately; and in the general, she has written much better. Forming our opinion, therefore, of the facility of her composition from its quantity, we have no reason to suppose that her productions are by any means laboured. Certainly, it is no merit to do negligently, that which we do without compulsion; but at the same time, it is unjust in measuring the energies or capacity of the mind, that we should be governed by the notion that its greatest powers have been employed in what is obviously the mere sportiveness and play of the imagination. Censure the errors of inattention if you will, but do not carry the condemnation so far, as to suppose that they arise from any radical incompetency. A word or two in conclusion, as respects the remainder of this volume. The Fugitive Pieces, as they are denominated, consist of about a dozen pages of poetry very indifferently writtenprobably composed in early life, and in no respect distinguished from the early productions of others, which from time immemorial have encumbered the earth. Among the Metrical ballads, Wallace is inferior to Miss Holford's Fight of Falkirk, or even Scot's Hallidon Hill: Columbus is superior to nothing; and Griseld Baillie is by no means, in point of merit, an unfit companion for it. But those who write much, must write something badly; the mind is not always in the same tone-if it were so, external influences necessarily vary; and it is therefore, perhaps, rather a subject of surprise that Miss Baillie should have so generally succeeded, than that she should have occasionally failed. We have read her work carefully-with great, though not uninterrupted pleasure, and we consider her among poets, what Angelica Kaufman was among painters-rarely equalled by men, and surpassing all of her own sex. ART. IX.-The Life of William Roscoe, by his Son, HENRY ROSCOE: 2 vols. 8vo. London: 1833. THE composition and publication of this work by the estimable biographer, needed no apology. To record the life of such a man as Roscoe, was, in some measure, a duty to the public-and particularly at the hands of those who were in possession of the most accurate sources of information. It is a filial offering worthy both of the distinguished father and the son; who, by the able manner in which he has performed the undertaking, has assured additional reputation to the name of Roscoe. The life of a literary man has been supposed to be devoid of much stirring interest; and to a certain extent, where the course of the individual's life has been undisturbed by incidents, having in themselves no connexion with his literary pursuits, but has flowed on, varied only by the depressions and occasional success which usually mark a career of the kind, the observation is correct. Unlike the statesman or the warrior, the events of the life of the man of letters more immediately concern himself, his own personal comforts, wants, or gratifications; while, with the former, though these are often the spring of action, their operations are with and among their fellow-men, and exercise, therefore, more directly, an extended influence. The effect and the results of a literary man's career, are of a moral character, and evidenced by the success of his productions. In this respect, indeed, they are often infinitely more important than even those public deeds of the soldier or the statesman, which have been most loudly vaunted by the trump of fame. In one point of view, however, the life of even the humblest and most obscure son of genius is matter of pleasing regard. It is the contemplation of intellect-its struggles and its development; and the sense which it confers, of permanent duration. Roscoe has described the idea better than we can pretend to do, in his Preface to the Life of Pope, (which we shall hereafter notice) and we therefore present his own language to our readers: "It has been so often repeated, that the life of a literary man is unproductive of incident, that we seem disposed to credit it; but although this may soothe the indolence or allay the apprehensions of a biographer, it is by no means borne out by the fact. The professors of literature have always been too ready to pay their homage to the world, and to assent to the idea, that nothing is deserving of notice but the affairs of states, and the great events and transactions of public life; but it is not for these that we look in the history of a man of genius. We have a different object in view; and his life is as full of interest and information in that after which we inquire, as that of a soldier in his battles, or a politician in his schemes. In human affairs, every thing is permanent in proportion as it is connected with intellect; and whilst the common events of life weary by repeti tion, and the memory of them perishes through neglect, the productions of the mind preserve their lustre, and even shine brighter from age to age. Under such circumstances, nothing that relates to a favourite author, or his writings, can be indifferent to us. Though he be dead, he yet speaketh; his influence is with us and around us; we feel him breathing in his works; and our minds are formed, and our characters modified, by a master spirit that survives alike the attacks of envy and the efforts of time." An interest, however, of this limited kind, is not the only attraction in the life of Roscoe. His were not merely the disappointments and the mortifications which are the lot of the poor and unfriended heir of genius; though, as we shall see in the brief sketch of his life, which we intend to lay before our readers, he was forced for a long time to struggle with poverty, and to push his way, under numerous embarrassments, up the steep and rugged path that leads to fame. In addition to this, we behold in the illustrious subject of this notice, the historian, the philosopher, and the poet; one, although not destined to hold a prominent post in political life, yet whose mind and pen were always employed in the contemplation and discussion of subjects of the widest public interest. Catholic emancipation; penal jurisprudence; parliamentary reform; slavery; the trade with India; the French war; each of these engaged his most anxious attention. In fine, every plan for the ameliora |