he boldly prescribes for the moral and political disorders of society; exclaiming, or seeming to exclaim,

"I will through and through

Cleanse the foul body of th' infected world,
If they will patiently receive my medicine."

His grand panacea is Vital Christianity. From this he expects the restoration of private and public virtue, and the perpetuity of our excellent ecclesiastical establishment and civil constitution. Mr. W.'s ideas on this part of the subject we shall give at some length in his own words:

Much may justly be apprehended from that change which has taken place in our general habits of thinking and feeling, concerning the systems and opinions of former times. At a less advanced period of society, indeed, the Religion of the ftate will be generally accepted, though it be not felt in its vital power. It was the Religion of our forefathers. With the bulk it is on that account entitled to reverence, and its authority is admitted without question. The esta blishment in which it subsists pleads the same prescription, and obtains the same respect. But in our days, things are very differently circumstanced. Not merely the blind prejudice in favour of former times, but even the proper respect for them, and the reasonable presumption in their favour, has abated. Still less will the idea be endured, of any system being kept up, when the imposture is seen through by the higher orders, for the sake of retaining the common people in subjection. A system, if not supported by a real persua sion of its truth, will fall to the ground. Thus, it not unfrequently happens, that in a more advanced state of society, a religious establishment must be indebted for its support to that very Religion which in earlier times it fostered and protected, as the weakness of some aged mother is sustained, and her existence lengthened, by the tender assiduities of the child whom she had reared in the helplessness of infancy. So in the present instance, unless there be reinfused into the mass of our society, something of that principle, which animated our ecclesiastical system in its earlier days, it is vain for us to hope that the establishment will very long continue; for the anomaly will not much longer be borne, of an establishment, the actual principles of the bulk of whose members, and even teachers, are so ex tremely different from those which it professes. But in proportion as vital Christianity can be revived, in that same proportion the church establishment is ftrengthened; for the revival of vital Christianity is the very reinfusion of which we have been speaking. This is the very Christianity on which our establishment is founded; and that which her Articles, and Homilies, and Liturgy, teach throughout.

But if, when the reign of prejudice, and even of honest prepos session, and of grateful veneration, is no more (for by these almost any system may generally be supported before a state, having passed the period of its maturity, is verging to its decline) if there are any who think that a dry, unanimated Religion, like that which is now professed by nominal Christians, can hold its place, much more, that

it can be revived among the general mass of mankind, it may be afErmed, that, arguing merely on human principles, they know little of human nature. The kind of Religion which we have recommended, whatever opinion may be entertained concerning its truth, and to say nothing of the agency of Divine Grace, must at least be conceded to be the only one which is at all suited to make impression upon the lower orders, by strongly interesting the passions of the human mind. If it be thought that a system of ethics may regulate the conduct of the higher classes, such an one is altogether unsuitable to the lower, who must be worked upon by their affections, or they will not be worked upon at all. The ancients were wiser than ourselves, and never thought of governing the community in general by their lessons of philosophy. These lessons were confined to the schools of the learned, while for the million, a system of Religion, such as it was, was kept up, as alone adapted to their grosser natures. If this reasoning fail to convince, we may safely appeal to experience. Let the Socinian and the moral teacher of Christianity come forth, and tell us what effects they have produced on the lower orders. They themselves will hardly deny the inefficacy of their instructions. But, blessed be God, the Religion which we recommend has proved its correspondence with the character originally given of Christianity, that it was calculated for the poor, by changing the whole condition of the mass of society in many of the most populous districts in this and other countries; and by bringing them from being scenes of almost unexampled wickedness and barbarism, to be eminent for sobriety, decency, industry, and, in short, for whatever can render men useful members of civil society.

• If indeed through the blessing of Providence, a principle of true Religion should in any considerable degree gain ground, there is no estimating the effects on public morals, and the consequent influence on our political welfare. These effects are not merely negative; though it would be much, merely to check the farther progress of a gangrene which is eating out the very vital principles of our social and political existence. The general standard of morality formerly described, would be raised, it would at least be sustained and kept for a while from farther depression. The esteem which religious characters would personally attract, would extend to the system which they should hold, and to the establishment of which they should be members. These are all merely natural consequences. But to those who believe in a superintending Providence, it may be added, that the blessing of God might be drawn down upon our country, and the stroke of his anger be for a while suspended.'

The triumph of Methodism over the Socinian sect, and over every other regular institution, in the sudden and powerful effect which it has, in many places, produced on the lowest class of the people, is admitted; and every candid man, who wishes well to society, will honour the memory of John Wesley and of George Whitefield, for their laudable exertions in eforming and civilizing a set of men, who scarcely lay within

$ 4

the

the pale of ordinary instruction :-but success is in no case a proof of truth, and least of all where the passions of the vulgar are the inftruments of operation.

and

Notwithstanding the facts in which Mr. W. justly exults, it still remains to be examined whether the system which has produced these effects be founded in reason and scripture. If vital Christianity consists, as many think, and as the general tenor of the discourses of Christ seems to imply, in a temper conduct conformed to the law of God, then the belief of certain tenets, and a certain exercise of spiritual affections and passions, are only incidental circumstances, and not essential to religion. This is the system which has generally been adopted by candid men of different persuasions: it is the system which affords the most satisfactory view of the condition of mankind; which leaves the fullest scope for the mutual exercise of charity; and which best directs our attention and zeal to objects of general utility. If, moreover, it should appear, on accurate inquiry, to be the true system, it must on the whole be most powerful in its operation: for, though erroneous opinions may for a time produce great effects, yet, when the error is detected, the effect ceases, and leaves the mind more unrestrained than before. Neither Mr. Wilberforce's system, nor any other, can keep the common people in subjection any longer than they believe it to be true; and, when faith shall fail among the higher orders, it will not long remain among the lower. As friends to religion, not less sincerely than Mr. W., we must give it as our decided opinion, that, in the present day, if its authority be preserved at all, it must not be done by addressing the passions, but by appealing to reason.

ART. II. The Mysterious Mother, a Tragedy. 8vo. Is. 6d.

T

Dodsley. 1781.

HE author of this far-famed tragedy, it is currently understood, was the late Earl of Orford, better known as the Hon. Horace Walpole; under which designation all his literary labours were accomplished, and all that portion of life passed which can be desirable to man.

The first edition of this drama was printed at Strawberryhill*, for distribution only among the author's friends. In 1781, an impression was intended for general publication, but the greater part of it was kept back, from motives of delicacy and diffidence, and it was first legally exposed to sale only during the last year. We seize the opportunity of noticing it: for there is a pleasure in announcing one of those works of art to which genius has affixed the stamp of immortality.

At the author's private press.

The

The Mysterious Mother may fitly be compared with the Oedipus Tyrannus of Sophocles, for unity and wholeness of design in the fable, for the dexterous conduct and ascending interest of the plot, for crowded maxims of sublime instruction, and for the abominable horror of its petrifying event. The English author has indeed exchanged the trim simplicity of action which was habitual to the Greek stage, for the artful complexity of intrigue that is expected on our own: he has also introduced a greater variety of characters, and has given to each a consistency and an individuality that were not always attained by the Athenian. In Sophocles, the critical arrival of the messenger from Corinth is more convenient than probable: so is the extreme malice of Benedict, when he accelerates the marriage in the Mysterious Mother.

The scene lies before the castle of Narbonne; where resides a Countess, an elderly lady, renowned for charity, feeling, and intellect, and in religious opinions as unshackled as her cotemporary the Queen of Navarre. She passes her widowhood in works of piety, displaying an uneasy penitential devotion, and an industrious eleemosynary profusion. She has educated the orphan Adeliza, who is now placed in a convent of nuns at Narbonne. To her son Edmund, who has hitherto followed the profession of arms, she has wholly forbidden the house of his ancestors; yet she is an attentive steward to his property, and ministers to his wants most affectionately. mysterious conduct has excited his curiosity: he arrives with his friend Florian at Narbonne, unannounced and unknown: they become acquainted with Adeliza, and Edmund solicits her hand. The Countess, somewhat apprized of what passes, but taught to suppose that Florian is the wooer, encourages the marriage; which Friar Benedict solemnizes.

Her

Edmund

and the Countess meet-she discovers her son to be the bridegroom wild with horror, she announces Adeliza as her daughter, and as her daughter by incest with Edmund. She then kills herself; Adeliza flies to the veil; and Edmund to the field of battle. The following scene between the two priests shews much of the author's spirit:

BENEDICT, MARTIN.

Benedict. Ay! sift her, sift her

As if I had not prob'd her very soul,

And wound me round her heart-I tell thee, brother,

This woman was not cast in human mould.

Ten such would foil a council, would unbuild

Our Roman church-In her devotions real,

Our beads, our hymns, our saints, amuse her not:
Nay, not confession, not repeating o'er
Her darling sins, has any charms for her.

I have mark'd her praying: not one wand'ring thought
Seems to steal meaning from her words. She prays
Because she feels, and feels, because a sinner.

Martin. What is this secret sin; this untold tale,
That art cannot extract, nor penance cleance?
Loss of a husband, sixteen years enjoy'd,

And dead as many, could not stamp such sorrow.
Nor could she be his death's artificer,

And now affect to weep it-I have heard,
That chasing, as he homeward rode, a stag,
Chaf'd by the hounds, with sudden onset slew
Th' adventurous count.

Benedict. 'Twas so; and yet, my brother,
My mind has more than once imputed blood
To this incessant mourner. Beatrice,
The dainsel for whose sake she holds in exile
Her only son, has never, since the night
Of his incontinence, been seen or heard of.

Martin. "Tis clear, 'tis clear; nor will her prudent tongue
Accuse its owner.

Benedict. Judge not rashly, brother.

I oft have shifted my discourse to murder:

She notes it not. Her muscles hold their place,
Nor discompos'd, nor firm'd to steadiness.
No sudden flushing, and no falt'ring lip:
Nor, tho' she pities, lifts she to her eyes
Her handkerchief, to palliate her disorder.
There the wound rankles not.-I fix'd on love,
The failure of the sex, and aptest cause

Of each attendant crime

Martin. Ay, brother, there

We master all their craft. Touch but that string

you err.

She own'd to me,

Benedict. Still, brother, do
That, tho' of nature warm, the passion love

Did ne'er anticipate her choice. The count,
Her husband, so ador'd and so lamented,
Won not her fancy, till the nuptial rites.

Had with the sting of pleasure taught her passion.
This, with such modest truth, and that truth heighten'd
By conscious sense, that holds deceit a weakness,

She utter'd, I would pawn my order's credit

On her veracity.

Martin. Then whither turn

To worm her secret out?

Benedict. I know not that.

She will be silent, but she scorns a falshood.

And thus while frank on all things, but her secret,

I know, I know it not.

Martin. Till she disclose it,

Deny her absolution.

Benedict. She will take none :

Offer'd, she scoffs it; and withheld, demands not,

Nay,