THE DRAMA. COVENT GARDEN THEATRE. Julian. THE stage has its fashions as well as the town and we rather think tragedies and Oldenburg-bonnets came in about the same time. No one will be bold enough to deny that the rage for finery is extremely strong both before and behind the curtain and that a play without processions and splendid deaths has no more chance of success, than a lady without rouge and a sheaf of flowers to match. The old, that is, the not very old, days of unaffected comedies and cottage-bonnets are quite exploded; and farces and unflounced gowns now meet with no respect. The high-dress of life is only worn, and worn too in its brightest gloss. Tragedy elegantly attired, and languidly leaning on the arm of that old tawdry hag-confidante, Melodrame, saunters about the stage, the observed of all observers. Eastern tales of enchantment have also their attraction, and are sure to command a mob,-as some glittering black noble, with a tattooed nose, or Chinese prince with canoe toes, draws a bumper to a Duchess's drawing room. For our own parts, we almost begin to get careless about the triumph of any particular fashion; and, despairing of a true standard taste, can relish a mad tragedy as well as a Quaker comedy; a flaring Chinese tale as thoroughly as a little formal withered farce. Whatever is excellent in its way, is perhaps the best: and certainly the Eastern pieces (thanks to Mr. Grieve's poetry and paintpot) are as near realized imaginations as even a poet can desire. The tragedies of this age are not altogether so distinguished-but they are followed, and therefore must not be trifled with. And here we are, therefore, called upon to speak of a sorrowful young thing at Covent-Garden. There has been much promise held out in the newspapers of the surpassing excellence of a production from the pen of Miss Mitford; and much as we are in general inclined to believe in the unprejudiced reports of the news papers, and confident as we must of course feel in the tragic powers of any lady, who can spare time from her muslins to devote herself to the muses-we must say we had fearsno-not fears-apprehensions-faint misgivings, that our lady authoress would not altogether drown the stage with tears, and turn us Londoners into dramatic Deucalions. We thought, by the help of many handkerchiefs and some philosophy, to be able to keep our head above water. As we, therefore, went to the theatre with amiable hopes and tempered expectations;-we have much pleasure in honestly confessing that we came away with a respect for Miss Mitford, and with a faint surprise at the effort which a ladye pen had made. The truth is,-for why should we Ritson-hearted critics be affecting the fine gentlemen?-the truth is,no lady has ever yet succeeded in tragedy; and, from the powers which are absolutely necessary for a grand success, we shall be pretty safe in asserting, that no lady ever will be splendidly triumphant. Miss Baillie taught her muse dancing in the Shakspeare school; but all lovers of the art knew the steps again, and detected the master. Miss Hannah More ventured out in a sort of ark, only she found no water!-The tragic muse of a lady is a creature of edu cation-of limited education—not of inspiration. There are subjects she cannot treat of,-there are subjects she may not treat of. There are subjects which she must manage ignorantly. The sex- and after all it is beautiful that it is so-softens every line-and horror is introduced like some poor Bedlamite in a strait-waistcoat. We remember (Miss Mitford will not be offended at the strength of our recollection) some very pleasing poems from the pen of this ladyand from the skill which those poems manifested, we were disposed to expect a fair style in the dialogue of the play- and none of those hateful abruptnesses and frightful distortions of figure, which scare us so terribly in the noisy tragedies of Mr. Shiel and in Mr. Maturin's measured romances. We were not disappointed. In Miss Mitford's tragedy of Julian, the characters are not strained out of all human proportion-neither is the dialogue harassed into disordered metaphor, or clouded with a foggy mystery. The language is generally good, unassuming English, not very imaginative or fanciful, but perfectly clear and distinct, and approaching to within a very reasonable distance of a good tragic dialogue;-the characters too are straight forward persons, of no originality, but fit for use, and capable in clever hands of doing the work of five acts with considerable effect. Julian, indeed, is just such a play as we should be glad to see brought to us by our eldest daughter, though we should not altogether be anxious to have to answer for such an affair ourselves. The plot of Julian is, perhaps, the worst thing Miss Mitford has to answer for; and, indeed, its unnatural and improbable exaggeration goes very near to the distraction of several of the leading characters towards the end of the play. They have much difficulty to keep their senses, -in their situations. Indeed, the contrast of a ministerial father with an opposition son (for the play turns upon such a strife) is always painful, and generally leads to awkward discoveries. It is a sad sight to see the honest son laying informations against his indifferent sire. The plot of the tragedy (for we must attempt an unravelling) is something " to this defect." The Duke of Melfi, the Regent of Sicily, in passing through some glen, with the heir to the Crown, his brother's son, the boy Alfonso,-turns upon him and attempts to assassinate him. The Prince Julian, son of the Duke Melfi, passing by at the time, hears the shriek, and rescues the boy by stabbing the boy's uncle. The first scene exhibits Julian sleeping, like Orestes (as Miss Mitford informs us) with his wife Annabel watching over him, and the boy-king standing by as a page. The Duke having been wounded, and having missed Alfonso, arrives at court, and gives out the death of the young King; of course, putting himself forth as king in his place. Julian and the Duke have a mysterious meeting,—and much moral is wrapped up and handed about between them. The Duke, however, is bent on a crown, and pushes on the coronation. At the critical moment, Julian produces the boy-and some courtiers cleave to Alfonso, and attaint Melfi of treason. Julian, to save his father, neatly says that only his sword had drawn blood in the glen," which you know, reader, was true enough. The Duke and Julian are tried in some odd way or another, and are banished. This banishment, however, we should state, is chiefly compassed by one Count D'Alba, who is very properly in love with Prince Julian's wife, Annabel. There must be a villain in this line. The Duke, when banished, begins to bleed at his old glen wound, and dies, in spite of a deal of water brought by his son, in the open air, on the earth. The poor nobleman has a very te dious death of it, and does not, like Falstaff, "make a good end." Julian, after this demise, hears that Annabel is in danger, contrives to arrive at, and to enter the castle where she is confined-talks much conjugal tenderness to her-and then sees his wife, who makes herself his shield, killed by two bravos, hired by Count D'Alba to dispatch_himself. This brace of bravos Julian dispatches. He wraps himself in the cloak of one, and covers his wife with his own robe. D'Alba comes on, and a grand discovery is accomplished. The King Alfonso enters, orders Count D'Alba into custody, and hangs over poor Julian, who dies of a broken heart at the end of the fifth act. This is a sketch of the plot,-the best we can achieve. Our readers will see, we rather think, that this plot is unnatural and ineffective; indeed, we are greatly surprised that Miss Mitford has managed her characters so well in the thick of such frightful troubles. Mr. Henry Revell Reynolds, of the Insolvent Court, would have been puzzled to have got the gentlemen clear of such profound difficulties! Miss Mitford, however, has really thrown some vigour and pathos into the character of Julian; and a great deal of stiff indignation and rigorous viciousness into the usurper. Annabel is a sad, sweet woman, but she talks reasonably. Alfonso is clearly only Miss Foote in pantaloons. Several of the scenes were unwisely and tediously spun out-and the dialogue was occasionally shredded at some foolish stage suggestion, if we mistake not. What a pity it is that a dramatist should be compelled to lis→ ten to the wild selfish advice of any given actor or actress! Julian's sleep in the first act was too long and sound, in spite of Greek authorities; and Duke Melfi's death was one of those gradual decays of nature which human patience cannot bear to contemplate. He died as slowly as the New Marriage Act! THE AUTHOR. Mercy on us!" Endowments casting a new lustre on the art!""Powers which have inspired"—aye "Grati The tragedy, in our opinion, was very indifferently acted. Mr. Ben--and "fostered the tragic dramatists nett murdered the Duke very early tude for befriending a stranger!"of his age!"-HIS age! in the piece, and as Mr. Puff observed of the beef-eater, we saw no "Judicious alterations"-"energy" reason for his remaining on the stage What! did Mr. Macready inspire -“ pathos”—skill"-and so on!so long after the death of the Regent. Knowles and foster Maturin ?-Did Mr. Abbott topped his part in Count D'Alba; but then what a part to Mr. Macready inspire Shiel, and top! Mr. Egerton, Mr. Chapman, foster Barry Cornwall?-Does the and Mr. Baker, played as usual; in age belong only to Mr. Macready ? deed, these excellent gentlemen are very domestic in their styles, and never go out of themselves on any account whatever. Miss Foote showed much above her name. We wish Miss Lacy had a better, fuller voice -her whole defect, in voice, person, and manner,-is thinness! To Mr. Macready the authoress appears to have entrusted all her hopes; and, by a copy of the tragedy, which has just been put into our hands, we perceive that her sense of his merits and his kindness is higher than any modern dramatist has hitherto ventured to express. In our opinion, Mr. Macready never played worse. He outraged all discretion-and maddened those fine tones of his in a way to distract all lovers of good sensible acting. In the long death-scene of his father, he was vehemently filial all of a sudden, and then nothing could surpass his wildness. In the last scenes of the tragedy, he lashed himself into a fearful fury. Quieter acting would have done Miss Mitford more service; and we are only surprised that she should be so misled as to fancy that five acts of noise can be good in any actor. The dedication to this play is extraordinary, and ought not to be lost. It is this: We must say, that Miss Mitford has as much over-acted her dedicahero; and, perhaps, this was her tion, as her patron exaggerated her delicate Mr. Macready, and think him a gen- to him. Before quitting the book, as we have opened it to read the dedication, we will just take a passage' or two for the perusal of our country readers. We are quite sure that we shall be thus fostering Miss Mitford, though not, perhaps, in her own opinion, inspiring her. It is our honest opinion, that those who read the tragedy, will be more pleased with it than those who witness its representation. Annabel to Alfonso, while Julian is The following description given by sleeping, is spirited and clever: Ann. Father nor cousin came; nor mes Red, purple, saffron, melted into one Intense and ardent flame, the doubtful line Where sea and sky should meet was lost in that Continuous brightness; there we sate and talk'd Of the mysterious union that bless'd orb Wrought between earth and heaven, of life and death High mysteries!-and thou didst wish thyself Away in such a glory. Annabel!" We must say, Count D'Alba's figure of a widow cuts such a figure as few widows, with their well-known wifely propensities, betray. Our bereaved state Stands like a widow, one eye dropping tears For her lost lord, the other turn'd with smiles On her new bridegroom. But even she, the Dame Of Ephesus, the buxom relict, famed And then the coronation. (P. 20.) There is no new scenery. The month has been very poor in novelty, both at Drury-lane and Covent-garden-but Easter is coming! VIEW OF PUBLIC AFFAIRS. THE projected invasion of Spain by the French government continues naturally to excite the public mind, in proportion as that measure seems to verge towards its execution; an event, now, as it appears, just upon the eve of its accomplishment. Immediately after the delivery of the French king's speech, recorded in our last, the administration proposed to the chamber a vote of credit of one hundred millions of francs, for the support of the war in the Penin sula; and, of course, upon this proposal, several stormy debates took place. While the left side indig nantly urged the injustice and impolicy of a war undertaken for the avowed and odious purpose of dictating a constitution to a foreign state, the violent members of the right side took altogether a different line of accusation. They, on the contrary, assailed ministers for not having made war sooner-accused M. de Villele of dissolving the regency of Urgel, and declared that ministers were only trying to gain time, and intended to compromise the rights of legitimacy, by contenting themselves with procuring modifications in the Spanish constitution. Villele took two grounds of defence, which, as they appear to us, are perfectly irreconcilable-the first, that he had done every thing possible to prevent war, but that the Spanish government was obstinate, and that the present state of Spain was incompatible with the honour and security of France-the second ground was, that in the mean time, the French government were doing every thing in their power to foment the internal troubles of the country by assisting and encouraging the army of the faith! If this last position be true, it really appears a little hardy in a minister to assert that he had done every thing in his power to avert the war. The grand defence of the invasion of Spain was en trusted to Chateaubriand, the minister for foreign affairs, who, on the resumption of the debate, entered into its formal and lengthened justification. His entire argument rested upon the example of England in her conduct towards the French republic, in the year 1793, never pretending to deny the principle that one state should not interfere with another in its internal arrangements, but relying upon this exception to the rule. "Thus, (he says,) I will not contest the principle, I will apply myself to establish an exception, drawn from the situation of a neighbouring state. Our adversaries look for evidence to England; I will do so too. At the beginning of the revolution, the interference of the English in the affairs of France, and the arguments which they adduced to justify that interference, must be remembered. It was to stay the progress of an evil which only exists through the violation of all rights, and of the fundamental principles which bind men in society. Our interference has no other object than to destroy also an anarchy which has plunged in fire and blood whole pro vinces which demand their king, their God, and their religion; and if it has been permitted to England to repel French contagion, shall we be forbidden to repel Spanish contagion?" Such is the argument of M. Chateaubriand, who appears however to forget this main distinction between the cases; namely, that in 1793, the French republic actually forced the hostile interference of all the neighbouring monarchies, by declaring war against the very exist ence of the principle of monarchy in the world, and thus were themselves the very first virtually to interfere with the internal policy of the neighbouring states; whereas, Spain, on the contrary, interferes with none of them, and merely assumes to her self the hitherto undisputed right of modelling her own constitution as she pleases. However, when nations are determined upon a war of aggression, reasons, or rather pretences, are easily invented; and that France has, at last, in good earnest really determined upon this war, there can now be no doubt. In fact, Mr. Canning, in answer to a question put to him in the House of Commons on the subject, declared that all hope of peace was almost extinguished; but, he added, that nothing had arisen to involve the English nation in the contest. Having thus briefly recorded the leading features of the discussion in the French Chambers, we must by no means omit the extraordinary scene in which M. Manuel, á celebrated speaker of the coté gauche, formed the principal actor. It is, altogether, most ominous in its nature; and certainly, even had there been cause for it, its occurrence at such a period as the present ought to have been scrupulously avoided. M. Manuel, it appears, had been lately elected a deputy for La Vendée, and was particularly obnoxious to the ultra party, on account not merely of his principles, but of the eloquence with which he expressed, and the firmness with which he sup ported them. It was said in consequence that they had determined upon his expulsion from the Chamber the first moment an opportunity should offer. Accordingly, during one of the discussions to which we have referred, Manuel, in answer to a minister who had pleaded the danger of Ferdinand as a reason for French interference, argued that such interference would augment the danger it professed to remove, by exciting the Spaniards against the royal family; and he referred, in illustration, to the events which preceded the overthrow of the Stuarts in England, and of Louis XVI. in France. "Revolu tionary France," said he, "being attacked by Prussians and Austrians, and feeling the necessity of defending herself by new strength and energy"-here M. Manuel was interrupted by the ungovernable rage of the Ultras, and utterly prevented from finishing his sentence, which he subsequently declared he meant to conclude as follows: "set in motion all the masses, roused the popular |