tain, and that they account for the satisfaction which a well written tale or drama diffuses through us.

The pleasure of sympathy and that of curiosity have so little mutual dependence, that a work may communicate the one with scarcely any intermixture of the other. But our participation in passions delineated soon begins to flag, unless we are enlivened by a series of critical situations; while the interest awakened by a well connected succession of adventures, where we are not led into the feelings of the characters, is not much superior to that which we sometimes take in the solution of a riddle or the disentanglement of a puzzle. The two species of delight should, therefore, be combined, though in the united effect either may prevail over its fellow. In the tale, curiosity generally predominates; but sympathy in the drama; which, however, on the modern stage borrows more aid from the artifice of the plot, than the example of antiquity would authorize. The tales first relished in the nursery are generally mere tissues of strange adventures; to this class of fictions, narratives which deal in the terrific for the most part succeed. Mrs. Radcliffe's romances usually become favourites with us at an early age: the uncommonness of the transactions keeps us in suspense for the result; the scenes delineated are such as inspire terror; and terror is a passion which we are soon capable of feeling. In the progress of years the whole train of our affections and passions is developed. Then, and not till then, do we derive much delight from the lively exhibition of their workings.

If, from the pleasure itself, we turn our thoughts to the means by which it is imparted, we shall find a wide difference between the drama and fictitious narrative. The novelist leads us through a long and varied series of critical situations, where new sources of interest are continually opening, and where one perplexing intricacy is no sooner removed than another appears. As he is at liberty to enumerate every incident, his story is followed with ease by the reader. He is under no limitation with respect to the number of characters introduced, except what is imposed by the uecessity of avoiding confusion; nor does he need to be very scrupulous as to the time during which the same actors may continue to occupy his page. In painting the emotions of his personages, he may avail himself of an infinite diversity of situations to bring into view a corresponding diversity of shades in disposition and feeling. He has no peculiar difficulties of style to overcome; and can give variety to his work by making it narrative at one time, and at another throwing it into the dramatic form.

In the drama the case is otherwise. Here the action must consist of a much smaller number of parts than fictitious narrative admits; so that in adhering to the unity requisite in the construc

tion of the fable, we are deprived of the means of holding curiosity in suspense by that copiousness of incident which so frequently charms in the novel. Add to this, that in proportion as we succeed in reducing the plot to a proper state of simplicity, we increase the labour of inventing a succession of adventures which may unravel the story and fill up the duration which custom has prescribed to legitimate comedy. From this difficulty Miss Edgeworth has, in part, escaped by the form of her dramas. We have no right to quarrel with such an arrangement; for it would be unfair to blame a work, because it is not different from what it professes to be. Yet we may

be allowed to hint, that a play in three acts in not a work of the same difficulty, or of the same merit with one in five: and that, not on account of its shortness, but because, less incident being requisite, less skill is necessary in framing the plot.

There are other circumstances in the conduct of the fable, in consequence of which the task of the dramatic writer becomes much more arduous than the composition of a fictitious narrative. The novelist can accompany his hero through long periods of months and years; and, when the convenience of his story prompts, can transfer him from one kingdom into another. The drama has much narrower limits. The strict unities of time and place may, no doubt, be dispensed with. That there shall be no change of place, and that the duration of the action shall not much exceed the time of representation, are restrictions which load the writer with heavy incumbrances, without any adequate addition to the pleasure of the spectator. But good reasons may be assigned why, during the same act, the place should not be supposed to be changed, nor any time to elapse beyond what is occupied in the exhibition. From the rule, even when thus modified, the custom of the English theatre allows some further relaxation. We are often, in the course of the same act, carried from one place to another, a removal which, for the most part, implies a longer lapse of time than what is actually spent in shifting the scenes. Yet after every indulgence, the limitations which still remain operate like so many new conditions introduced into an algebraical problem and render a higher degree of genius requisite in the writer. This is not all. In the drama a hero can seldom be trusted alone upon the stage for any length of time. A soliloquy is always dangerous, because it is generally a tiresome expedient for telling the audience something which could not be inserted in the dialogue. It can go no farther than the expression of the feelings which agitate the bosom of the speaker, and appears to be a kind of substitute for the chorus of the ancients. The novelist, on the contrary, can fix our attention by a series of incidents into which only one personage is introduced. Of this solitary nature are many of the most pow erful

erful passages of fictitious narratives. The novelist has likewise the advantage of leading us by degrees from adventure to adventure; while the drama is compelled to seize affairs in their crisis, and to resign all the interest which would be raised by contemplating the gradation of minute circumstances from which they originate. Indeed one of the principal difficulties of the dramatic art, is to contrive means of explaining what the nature of the subject and of the work will not allow to be exhibited. But it would be endless to attempt an enumeration of all the reasons which prove that in the drama the due conduct of the plot is a much more arduous undertaking than in the tale. Who is there that cannot recollect in the novels which he has read, a multitude of interesting scenes, which it would be nearly impossible to introduce into any composition thrown into the form that suits the stage?

If the language of the novelist flows in a clear, untroubled stream, he escapes without condemnation. But from comedy peculiar excellences of style are demanded; and these, too, excellences of no easy attainment—what they are, will be better learned from Terence and Molière, than from the vagueness of indefinite description. In general terms we can only say, that the dialogue should be concise, energetic, and sprightly; that it ought to be suggested by present circumstances, and unpolluted by that snappish flippancy which is too often mistaken for the playfulness of the comic muse; that wit is rather a becoming ornament to it than an indispensable requisite, and should be so diffused as to enliven every part, without degenerating, as in Congreve's scenes, into continual repartee.

success.

Thus widely do the paths of the novelist and the dramatic writer diverge, though at first they appear nearly to coincide. The result is, that scarcely any author has pursued both tracks with eminent Who now reads Love and Duty Reconciled,' the novel with which Congreve commenced his literary career? Arundel, Henry, John of Lancaster, bring no additional honours to the author of the West Indian and the Fashionable Lover. Smollet has written little for the theatre, but that little excites no wish for more. Even Fielding's genius fails him, when he attempts dramatic composition. The literature of France resembles, in this respect, the literature of England: it boasts of no comic writers who produced good novels, of no distinguished novelists who added to the wealth of their national drama. Marmontel might, perhaps, have been expected to hold a respectable rank in both classes; for he composed his tales with an express view to the theatre, selecting for his subjects foibles which had not been touched upon by Molière, and which he thought capable of being moulded into a shape suited to the stage. Yet the general opinion is, that his plays possess little merit. An exception seems, and only seems, to pre

sent

sent itself in the person of Voltaire, who has written both comedies and tales, to which the light graces of his style, aided by the popularity of his name, have given some currency. But his comedies are, in general, very flimsy performances, unworthy of the genius that produced Zaire; and his tales are not so much pictures of life and manners, as satirical exposures and misrepresentations of what the author conceived (in many cases wickedly and foolishly conceived) to be prevalent errors in morals, philosophy, and politics.

We have thus attempted to delineate the difference between the class of compositions to which the present work belongs, and those which Miss Edgeworth produced formerly; because many may be surprized that a writer, whose novels are read with mingled amusement and instruction, should have given to the world dramas of no higher merit than the three contained in the volume now before us. The first and the last are appropriated chiefly to the delineation of Irish characters. The Two Guardians, which is the second in order, is intended to exhibit a picture of the fashionable society of London. We shall, therefore, begin with it; because it refers to originals with which many of our readers have an acquaintance sufficient to enable them to estimate the merits of the imitation.

Mr. St. Albans, a young West Indian of large fortune and ardent character, is a ward of Lord Courtington and Mr. Onslow, Which of the two shall be acting guardian is left to the determination of his mother, Mrs. St. Albans. Lady Courtington is eager that the preference may be given to her husband, principally with a view to ensnare St. Albans into marriage with her daughter Juliana, an unfeeling beauty, rich in all the graces and accomplishments of fashion, as well as in all the follies and minor vices of female dissipation. The first act opens with a soliloquy of one of Lady Courtington's footmen, who afterwards enters into conversation with Blagrave the coachman. We are next transported to the drawing-room, where we are entertained with some reflections from Juliana, followed by a dialogue between her and her brother, illustrative of the education, character, and designs of both. To this succeeds a scene between St. Albans and his black servant Quaco, which exhibits to us the affectionate simplicity of the negro, and the warm, unsuspecting generosity of his master. The second act opens with a dance in Lady Courtington's drawing-room. Juliana is, of course, St. Albans's partner, and, aided by her mother, plays off her artifices against him with apparent success. The footman enters with solicitations from Mrs. Beauchamp, the widowed mother of a starving family, for the payment of money due to her on account of lessons in music. The purchase of some artificial flowers does not permit Juliana to send her more than one pound; but in the next scene, Quaco, moved by her sorrows,

3

drops

drops privately into her basket a purse of gold which he had received from his master. Mr. Onslow is now introduced to us, and, in consequence of assurances from Lady Courtington of the absence of his ward's mother, is preparing to depart, when Mrs. St. Albans, who has been informed of his visit by Quaco, makes her appearance. To counteract Onslow's influence, Lady Courtington affects to be thrown into hysterics: but no decision is adopted except that the choice of a guardian shall be left to the determination of the young man himself. At the commencement of the third act, after some conversation between the coachman and the footman, St. Albans and young Courtington ride out together, the former mounted on a blemished and unsound horse, which his friend wishes to sell to him. Next we are entertained by a conversation between Juliana and her mother, which is interrupted by intelligence that St. Albans has met with a dangerous accident in consequence of his horse having fallen. The last scene is in Mrs. Beauchamp's house, whither St. Albans has been carried, and where it is ascertained that he has received no serious injury. Juliana and her mother arrive; amid their inquiries and congratulations Mrs. Beauchamp enters, and, under a persuasion that the purse which she has just found in her basket, must have been put there by order of Juliana, returns her ardent thanks to her supposed benefactress. The young lady, without disclaiming the good deed, seems to shrink from the warm acknowledgments of gratitude. But the sight of the purse discovers to St. Albans that Quaco must have been the giver: and this detection proving the worthlessness of the daughter, as the misfortune of the horse showed the roguery of the son, he suppresses the rising passion which the arts of Juliana had kindled, and chuses Onslow for his guardian.

From this sketch of the fable, it is sufficiently obvious that the plot is meagre in the extreme. The first act contains not a single incident which tends to further the final issue, except that St. Albans gives Quaco a purse of gold. The second act drops this purse into Mrs. Beauchamp's basket: the only other use which any part of the act serves, is to exhibit the characters of the personages of the drama. The third act is somewhat more bustling; for in it St. Albans meets with his fall, and detects the heartlessness of Juliana. The plot, therefore, is deficient in what should constitute its most essential quality, abundance of incident; and this deficiency, of itself fatal to the interest of the piece, is aggravated by the loose and unartificial connection of the scenes.

We subjoin the opening of the drama.

Pop. (Reads)" Wants a situation as footman,-young man undeniable good character."--" Wants a situation as own man."—“ Own man and butler-character bear the strictest scrutiny-honesty and

sobriety."