this remark, to a certain extent, is true. In extenso, we by no means subscribe to it. Though there be no subject on which men are so strenuous or so sensitive as their religion; though there be no one thing which you may not with less chance of resentment charge them with being without, or more safely attempt to take from them; yet, bring that jewel of their lives into a prominent consideration in your interchanges and reasonings, and it seems to lose half its sacredness and value by the transfer; as though what must be worshipped as a faith, deserved to be overlooked or depreciated as an influence--as though the sublime object of veneration in the temple were deprived of its intrinsic importance by its association with the best efforts of human thought, under the form of some stirring history or poem. This is a part of the common inconsistency of our nature. Still, though the Christian religion, in its simple and severe exhibitions, may fail to render the poetry which embodies them less attractive than the common worldly principles on which most works of fancy are accustomed to turn, it would be unphilosophical to deny that illustrations of strong moral energy or power of endurance form the most popular, as well as the most elevating efforts of the dramatic artist. So far, then, as these may go, they exhibit a modification of the religious element, after all. We see not how this can be denied, if any connection or sympathy is to be allowed between religion and morality; and we feel safe in maintaining that this spirit-call it a moral or religious one, as you please-which forms its principle, its nucleus, as in the tragedies of Miss Baillie, is the true spirit of the drama. Yet we are hardly ready to admit that the religious sentiment of our time, strongly marked as it often is by the spirit of sect, can be employed as an ingredient of the drama with a degree of success by any means commensurate with that which accompanied it in its earlier introduction. The religion which favors the highest efforts of poetry is an influence that awes mankind, without arraying man against his brother-a holy and resistless spirit of good, that points and leads the way to happiness, rather than a spirit of contention, that is too often thought to hallow a warfare that bends all our passions to its service without distinction. If the drama be founded upon the exhibition of this principle, as it at present obtains among us, it would seem that most of its success, should it win any, would be confined to that class of believers who sympathized exactly with the writer. Amid conflicting parties, it is too often to be lamented that no large, embracing principle of faith will serve to nullify technical differences, and bring the mind, by a sort of centripetal force, to acknowledge a centering power of genius, in spite of a particular and differing creed in him who manifests it. This is melancholy. It is a weakness. Thus Pollock, the author of the Course of Time-no drama, though a poem-found his worshippers, and those who passed by on the other side, not only among those of the same genera. tion, but of the same circle. It was his religious creed that gave him notoriety, we are disposed to believe, rather than the exhibition of religion as a principle, in the simple and commanding features which approve themselves to every man's conscience-rather too than the strong inspired language of poetry to which all hearts invariably respond. We deem it hardly necessary to add here, that we are not to be understood as saying that we consider the strongest sense of natural religion of which humanity is capable, as the best foundation or principle of religious and sacred poetry; or that we should rest content with it as its chief, and best, and vital ingredient. What we mean to say is-because we cannot escape saying it, in honesty and sobernessthat, as far as the cause and progress of poetry is concerned, we would rather see it, as it was in the hands of the great masters of old, than see it, in noble strain and strong language, advocating any peculiar religious feeling or sentiment, that would eventually subject it-and that justly to the designation of bigoted or belligerant. Added to this, we would be understood as maintaining, most emphatically, that Christianity-the Christian religion-the revealed religion of Christ-must be considered as the only safe and satisfactory foundation and spirit of that sacred and religious poetry, which can hope, as such, to be received, or to be properly regarded by an enlightened age, as a strong minister to man of the saving principles from which it springs. There is no subject connected with poetry, which demands more emphatic or serious consideration, than the great moral tone that marks it like the vein in the marble--the religious character of the deep principle which animates it. It is this tone-this character-that imparts to it not only its virtue but its value. And while this is so, it certainly cannot be singular that sacred poetry should win and retain the place it holds with those spirits, which, open to all the mysteries of the lyre, can well appreciate its noble and lifting music. With this principle of the sky at his helm, the poet can sail triumphant and honored through any sea. Endowed with a vivid imagination, he can readily invest with a rich and harmonious coloring every object in nature or art, of mind or matter, upon which he may exercise the spell of his fancy. He grasps the prominent points of his subject with a bold hand and a high intention; and, under the rapid and beautiful analysis of genius, guided by truth, unfolds its various combinations, that rise like lights upon his march of inspiration. He delights in the simple but energetic emotions; in the deep but strong movements of pure hearts and great spirits; in the joy of happy memories, and the contemplation of high and invigorating realities. His visions are generally distinct, and his picture, in its glowing but delicate colors, attracts us by the magic with which it brings back some of the dearest dreams of our other years, and some of the holiest feelings which we have been accustomed to cherish. He rather prefers, in bold, vigorous outline, to bare the soul in some one absorbing excitement, to indulging in too refined speculations upon its nature-its mysterious movements-its subtle affections. He avoids swelling into bombast, or sinking into the common-place of mere sentiment. He depicts strongly, but with truth. He is not apt to forget the majesty of his art. He presents us a fine statue in the full grace of its proportions; but he remembers the drapery; and arranges it with the ease and taste of one whose genius is true to its work. His fervor is that of a mind impressed with the importance of things higher and better than those of earth; and it ever burns upward, like the flame from the holy altar. It comes to sanctify the kindest and best of the affections, and delights in the grand and deep revelations of those principles that honor and elevate man. But we resume our subject. The Greek tragedy was peculiar; but it was certainly pure and perfect compared with that which succeeded it. It was grand and heroic, for it sprang from the lyrics. It glowed with passion. It abounded in rugged but natural conceptions. It formed the very religion of the time. It is at present our object merely to refer to the great masters of the Grecian drama. The names of Eschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides are as familiar as household words-and their his tory is very generally and pleasantly remembered. Ancient poetry is embalmed with them; and themselves were embalmed in the pride and gratitude of their countrymen. These great spirits interwove the public events of Greece into their dramatic poetry, and made national concerns of their tragedies; thus, at once, registering the glories of their heroes, and presenting to the young men of their time the best models by which they could shape themselves in sentiment and character. In reward for this devotion to the art, their ambition was ministered to in a manner, or at least in a degree, peculiar to the age. They were the honored and the observed of their generation. It is not to be wondered at—to use the sentiment of a sensible French writer-that the Athenians, distinguished as they were by a lively imagi nation; a noble and musical language; singular fertility of genius, and eminent abilities, exercised by the most vigorous emulation, should have been excessively fond of poetry, and no less attached to those who displayed a strong spirit of ambition in that art, and a determination to excel in any of the employments that tended to illustrate or give it effect. For these reasons they honored, as a matter of course, not only dramatic poets, but actors. 'T'he regard was reciprocal. From feelings thus generated and thus directed, much was to be expected that should advance the public mind on one side, and high-reaching vigorous poetry on the other. But all this prospect, bright as it was with promise, was doomed to be clouded. The Grecian theatre fell from its high estate, so soon as comedy took possession of the stage. The early form it assumed there was the most unamiable one in which it has ever appeared; and saving only the interval during which Menander moved to dignity it, and rescue the drama, there is little that presents itself upon which it is either pleasant or profitable to linger. We accordingly pass to a consideration of it as developed under auspices totally different, in another land. The close connection with the stage held in early times by the drama, renders quite natural an application to the former of the passing remarks which we are submitting upon the prominent points in the history of the latter. In Rome -to which we insensibly turn, as the light of poetry expires on the plains of Greece-in Rome, Plautus and Terence were identified with the stage. Yet these two were among the first and most prominent of the Latin dramatic writers. Both, too, were writers of surpassing power in their peculiar sphere. So pure and energetic was the language of Plautus, that Varro, a Roman of acknowledged learning and judgment, declared that if the muses were inclined to speak Latin, they would speak in the language of Plautus. Indeed, were more wanting to show the celebrity in which he was held, Varro has left, in addition, the following stanza upon his death: Postquam morte captus est Plautus, Deinde Risus, Ludus, Jocusque, et numeri Horace held opinions respecting this author, totally different, to be sure. But Horace lived in the Augustan age, when the Roman taste was at its height of refinement. The only commentary upon his criticism which we deem it necessary just now to submit, is the fact that for five hundred years Plautus continued the principal favorite of the stage. Still, we would by no means be considered the advocate of the drama and stage at this crisis. Both were exceedingly corrupt, and in that lamentable state they remained, exhibiting to a luxurious and dissolute people, every variety of extravagance and licentiousness which could be brought forth under the shadow of imperial patronage in its high places. Thus passed even the age of Roscius; and thus continued the theatre, even in what was then considered the home of its splendor and popularity, until genius withdrew from it, and under the vile and ridiculous personations of Nero, it fell into utter decay and dissolution. The appearance of the drama in Spain was accompanied by that strange mixture of gloomy superstition and provincial farce which was too sadly peculiar to escape notice, in the early literature of that country. The great basis of the drama there was religion; and not only the ineffable absurdities, but the absolute blasphemies which were constructed upon it, are almost beyond belief. Lope de Vega and Calderon may, in many respects indeed, be exceptions from the |