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The necessity, therefore, of appearing no less dressed at the theatre in the Hay-market than at Almack's, or at an assembly of fashion, acts with these ladies rather as a stimulant than as a preventive.

Let me too remark, en passant, that it happens oddly enough that we, who really have a taste for the drama, call all places where scenic representations are performed des spectacles,(which word would strictly imply that we considered them as shews, or exhibitions,) while you, who principally value them on the latter account, in speaking of them use no similar expression.

It seems very strange to me, that though you are so very punctilious in enforcing a particular style of costume at the Opera House, you still suffer the greatest violations of good manners there to pass unpunished. At the time when all that is good, great, or respectable in England may be seen in the boxes, the most abandoned females appear in the adjoining pit; and your young men of distinction make no scruple in paying attention to the latter in the presence, and almost in the hearing, of their mothers and sisters. Indeed nothing can be more common than to see the same person, five minutes after whispering in the ear of one of those less cruel fair ones, approach the box of a woman of rank and reputation, and receive as cordial a welcome as if he had committed no such impropriety. Indeed, accustomed as I have been to consider England as the most moral of nations, it seems to me most extraordinary that your ladies should tolerate a kind of behaviour which in every other country would banish the person, who had been guilty of it, from all the circles of decent society.

As after disapproving of any of your usages it always gives me pleasure to be able to commend, I must acknowledge that the whole universe offers not a more splendid coup d'œil than the English Opera House presents on a Saturday night. The beauty of the theatre, the richness of its decorations, the loveliness of the women, the variety and brilliancy of their dress and jewels, the blaze of light, and the number of distinguished characters who are

often found in the ranks of the audience, the general appearance of wealth and prosperity, and the total absence of all features of an opposite kind, form altogether such a picture of gaiety and magnificence as is indeed unrivalled. It was my good fortune to be present a few evenings since; when in honor of His Majesty's presence, "God save the King,"

was called for. Never shall I forget the splendor of the sight, or the enthusiasm which displayed itself in the audience when, at the commencement of that national song, the ladies dressed in feathers and diamonds rose from their seats, and joined their voices to those of the actors in the performance of the chorus. All the rank, beauty, talent, and elegance of London seemed to be concentrated there; and that heart must be cold indeed which could witness unmoved such a general burst of ardent loyalty.

Your play-houses of Covent-Garden and Drury-Lane are fine edifices, but I am sure you must join with me in regretting that, instead of those two colossal buildings, large enough to hold a little world, you have not several smaller but more convenient theatres. The preposterous dimensions of your present ones are attended by several bad consequences. In the first place, it is next to impossible for the spectator to see at such a distance those nice variations in the countenances of the performers, which constitute one of the principle charms of dramatic excellence; and in the second, it is equally difficult to hear what is said on the stage with sufficient accuracy to enable one to enjoy the quick repartee of an animated dialogue. The best written plays, therefore, lose half their powers of pleasing; and in spite of the wit of Sheridan, I doubt much, whether if the School for Scandal had lately been acted for the first time on one of these boards, it would have succeeded. This is the real cause of your drama having sunk to so low an ebb at the very moment when, in all other walks of literature, England has been taking such rapid strides. The fact is, as your great moralist and critic (Dr. Johnson) has observed, "That as those who live to please,

must please to live," the writers of
the present day perceive that no-
thing animates the stagnant atten-
tion of the immense crowds which
these theatres now contain but
broad farce, splendid processions, or
eloquent appeals to the best feelings
of the human heart, appeals which
it is but doing justice to this coun-
try to add, are never made in vain.
Instead, therefore, of endeavouring
to sketch real characters such as
nature produces, and Shakspeare
portrays, modern dramatists either
try to force a smile by drawing ca-
ricatures which by their novelty or
absurdity may challenge attention,
to charm the eye with military pa-
rade, funeral pomp, and variegated
scenery, or to move a tear by a pa-
thetic, but often exaggerated, tale
of sentimental sorrow. These com-
positions, therefore, however suc-
cessfully performed on the stage,
are seldom read with pleasure in the
closet; nor is this the only inconve-
nience occasioned by the preposte-
rous size of your theatres; in the
vast multitudes which they contain
vice finds a never failing shelter;
and while robberies are nightly
committed on the persons of the
spectators, these nominal places of
rational amusement are made the

common

rendezvous of wantonness and profligacy. The lobbies, tea rooms, passages and stair-cases, as well as the rows of the upper boxes, are filled with the most abandoned women, who neither in their dress nor manner seem to attempt disguising the profession which they come thither to exercise. It is therefore impossible for a modest uncontaminated female to pass an evening at Covent-garden or Drury-lane, without seeing or hearing much that is offensive to the eye and ear of modesty; I think you will allow that we manage these things much better in France, and that nothing can be more decorous than the conduct of all classes at our larger theatres.

Among the many-coloured characters which frequent your playhouses, I am told that drunken men are still occasionally seen, but much less frequently than they were a few years ago, when Bacchanalian excesses were more common in London; at that time I am told that few evenings passed without a theatrical quarrel, which ended in a duel on the following morning. Indeed I have heard mentioned the names of several gallant men who, after distinguishing themselves in the battles of their country abroad, returned home to lose their lives in ignoble combats, occasioned by altercations of this kind, with persons in a state of inebriety, whose insults they were forced to resist.

The necessity, too, of letting the hour at which the play begins be regulated by the habits of the greater number of those who reside in this over-grown capital, prevents the national theatres being places of convenient resort to the higher ranks, who consequently frequent them but rarely; and, as when they do so, they either dispense with dinner altogether, or take that meal at a much earlier part of the day than usual, for attending the theatre materially interferes with all their other arrangements. Now, if instead of two great play-houses you had a small one in every district, most of the inconveniences which I have enumerated would be avoided.

I cannot drop the subject without saying, that going to a play in this town is accompanied by so many sacrifices that, to use our French phrase, le jeu ne vaut par la chandelle, and those dramatic amusements which, in every other capital of Europe afford a daily resource to the rich and idle, can scarcely be counted among the pleasures of London.

I remain ever yours,

DE VERMONT.

EPISTLES BY MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.
Epistle from MARY to her UNCLES.- December, 1566.
No. VI.

WHO has with idle tales your car abused?
Who in your noble breast such thoughts infus'd ?
Trust me your offer'd aid, your plans I scorn,
No-though this heart with injured love be torn,
(That secret long conceal'd by jealous pride,
That secret wedded duty bade me hide)

I ne'er will fix a stain on Darnley's name,
Ne'er tell my injuries, and a husband's shame;
Nor, howsoe'er with ceaseless injuries wild,
Will I divorce the father of my child.*
Whate'er the plea, such counsel I disdain,
And even you, lov'd Lords! command in vain.
But since with fruitless duty I have tried
My Darnley's errors from your sight to hide;
I to your pitying breasts will dare to own,
I feel the bitterest pangs to woman known ;
Own that, before the nuptial torch was cold,
For me the knell of wedded bliss was toll'd.
I heard the cruel taunts, the cold reply;
I saw the loathing of the averted eye;
I knew that rivals from his Mary's arms
Lur'd him I lov'd to their unhallow'd charms,
And felt, sad climax to fond woman's ill,
That spite of injury I lov'd him still.†

It is an incontrovertible fact, that Mary could not be prevailed upon to divorce Darnley.

I have always believed, and I have made Mary speak according to this belief, that, whatever was the conduct of the Queen of Scotland towards the King, she loved him with faithful, though ill requited tenderness; and the very circumstances, on which Dr. Robertson seems to build his conviction of her aversion from and indifference to her husband, are to me proofs of her continued and unhappy attachment to him. I subjoin what he says, page 385 of his 1st Volume.

"Meanwhile Mary fixed her residence at Craig-millar. Such a retirement, perhaps, suited the present temper of her mind, and induced her to prefer it before her own palace of Holyrood. Her aversion for the King grew every day more confirmed, and was become altogether incurable; a deep melancholy succeeded to that gaiety of spirits which was natural to her; the rashness and levity of her own choice, and the King's ingratitude and obstinacy, filled her with shame and despair; and a variety of passions preyed at once on a mind, all of whose sensations were exquisite, and all its emotions strong, and often extorted from her the last wish of the unfortunate-that life itself would come to an end."

With all due deference to Dr. Robertson's talents and learning, I cannot admit that deep melancholy is ever a proof of aversion, though it is frequently an evidence of hopeless love, and of conscious injury and ill-requited tenderness in the heart of woman-and where were rashness and levity in Mary's choice? It was a choice which the truest political wisdom would have suggested, had her heart (according to the opinion of Mr. Chalmers) been silent in Darnley's favor, for his right to the throne of England after the death of Elizabeth was equal to her own. Hatred and its concomitant, indignation (where hatred proceeds from a sense of injury), usually lead to buoyancy and restlessness of mind and spirit, and are rather stimulants to a public life, and a life of pleasure and amusement; but it is the marking characteristic of unfortunate, despairing, disappointed love, to seek retirement, to loath scenes of activity and cheerfulness, and, above all, to feel and to express the fond and touching wish of the wretched-to find a refuge from intolerable misery in the arms of death.

Yet ill my actions with these words agree,
No fond obedience he receives from me;
For cold, repellant, and neglectful still,
I seem o'erjoy'd to thwart my husband's will;
I meet him now but with averted eye,
And all he asks so firmly I deny,

So fully now retort his past disdain

That his heart pants to seek some far domain,
Where he from Mary's hate remov'd can dwell,
And bid each dream of power and love farewell.*
But while, by seeming coldness, I've denied
My conqueror's heart a triumph o'er my pride,
In the still solitude of Mary's bed,

How bleeds her soul o'er dear illusions fled!
How deeply then her heart's affections glow,
Like Etna's fires beneath its crown of snow;
Yet hope now whispers, Darnley's wandering heart
May from his wedded guilt remorseful start;
And he, his crimes repented and confess'd,
Seek the sure haven of his Mary's breast;
While days to come of wedded bliss remove
The festering, rankling thorn of slighted love;
Nay, e'en already, from his gloomy brows,
His faded cheek where health no longer glows,
His soften'd voice whene'er to me he speaks,
That downcast eye which mine no longer seeks,
My heart forebodes it will its wish obtain,
And love and Darnley be my own again.
Meanwhile our only pledge of love I seek,
And on the infant's, press its father's, cheek;
While fancy oft anticipates the day
When in his arms I shall our infant lay;
And both of tears, of tenderest tears beguil'd,
Shall see by turns each other in our child.
But with my grief e'en now some comfort blends,
Mine is the best of guides, the best of friends;
One who your place, my honour'd lords, supplies,
One next to you, on whom my heart relies;
One known for gallant deeds and loyal truth,
For Bothwell's age advises Mary's youth:
And well ye know that many a year has shed
Its ripening suns on noble Bothwell's head--
My friend he was in childhood's early day,
When in your presence pass'd its hours away;
Much on my mother's worth he lov'd to dwell,
And bid my breast with emulation swell;

Then on th' ambition which he rais'd he smil'd
And hail'd again the mother in the child:

Vow'd he from ills, like her's, my life would screen,
And swore allegiance to his baby queen.
Well has he kept that oath-his royal breast
Has never yet one rebel wish exprest;
O'er traitor lords he towers with lofty brow,

Like yonder castle o'er the vale below;
And, as its rock defies the power of time,

So Bothwell's heart rejects rebellion's crime.

Too much on love my bosom dar'd repose,

Love which inflicted wounds that ne'er may close,

An historical fact.

Eur. Mag. May, 1823.

C

But I on friendship lean without alarm,

For while it charms the heart it cannot harm:
Love's the meridian sun whose beams can kill,
Friendship the moon whose rays soft calm instill;
Love's fatal power can wound like shining sabre's blade,
But friendship heals the wound which love has made.
Thus, while I Bothwell's soothing friendship prove,
I learn to bear the loss of Darnley's love;
But the glad time will come when both combin'd
Shall shine the pole-stars of my darken'd mind;
Then this distracted heart at length shall rest,
And grateful Mary be, in blessing, blest.

Lines from MARY to DARNLEY.-January, 1567.

O THOU! in spite of scorn and injury lov'd,
How have thy touching prayers this bosom mov'd ;
How has my heart the trembling writing blest,
That all thy tender penitence exprest!
And does thy health from mental grief decay?
Has keen remorse been wearing life away?
No more, dear lord, shall lone distress be thine,
To watch beside thy fever'd couch be mine:
Thy nurse, physician, comforter to prove,
By all the quick inventions taught by love.
I by thy bed will take my patient stand,
Wipe thy damp brow and hold thy burning hand;
Though some may deem I act too kind a part,
My only counsellor shall be my heart :
In man's proud bosom let resentment live,
'Tis woman's dearest province to forgive.

Epistle from MARY to her UNCLES.-Dated Kirk in the Field, Feb. 1567.

No. VII.

YE soothing friends to whom your Mary's breast
Has all her wrongs, her fears, her hopes confest;
Now in her joy, her triumph bear a part,

For Mary rules once more o'er Darnley's heart.
His faults confess'd, repented and forgiven,
I raise my eyes in grateful joy to heaven!
Yet, not unclouded beams this sun of joy,
Death's envious hand its brilliance may destroy;
For pain, for sickness, bow my Darnley's head,
And Mary watches by a sufferer's bed.
Yet feels the narrow circle where she moves,
With step slow stealing round the man she loves,
More dear, more welcome to her faithful breast
Than courtly scene in royal splendours drest.
For still this truth will Mary's lip impart,
Woman is never blest, but through her heart:

*If my view of the subject be a just one, Mary was quite as eager to pardon Darnley as he could be anxious to be pardoned.

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