"And finds no end in wandering mazes lost." The limits of an essay will not allow us to touch upon the smaller peculi arities of the Spanish theatre-the division and classification of their plays, the measure in which they are written, or the introduction of that anomalous personage, the Gracioso. One or two words on the dialogue, and we have done.

The dialogue of the Spanish plays has great faults and great beauties. It may be questioned how far any poetry can be properly admitted into the drama, save the mere poetry of sentiment and action, and certainly it would not be easy to defend theoretically the introduction of poetry of a lyric cast: all practice, however, pleads strongly in its favour. The ancient Greek drama, and the plays of Shakespeare, and of the writers of the Elizabethan age, will readily occur to every reader. It is this which tempers the gloom of the German drama, and it is the want of this which renders the tragedies of Alfieri so disagreeably op pressive and monotonous. The whole structure of the dialogue of the Spanish theatre is extremely lyrical, a circumstance, which, as Lord Holland observes, may have originated in the short lyric nature of the redondillas, and versos de pie quebrado in which their plays are written, but which has with equal probability resulted from the superabundance of a warm imagination, untempered by judgment, and pouring forth its treasures, not with liberality, but profusion. This lyrical propensity would not, however, be objectionable, were it not for the common-place nature of too many of the images, metaphors, and allusions of the Spanish dramatists, not excepting even those of The Poet, 66 par excellence," as Schlegel calls Calde ron. Neither Lopé nor Calderon could, indeed, be expected to employ much research, or to be origi nal through several hundred comedies.

The former, indeed, is said to have frequently interwoven with the structure of his dramas any spare poems, sonnets, odes, or epigrams, which he happened to have by him at the time, and the examination of a few of his plays will tend strongly to confirm the surmise. Both he and Calderon are extremely fond of introducing into their pieces a kind of dialogues that seems to have

been fashionable in the court of Madrid, in which a proposition is laid down, and the characters adopt different sides, and defend their opinions in a set speech. This is certainly absurd, and the reasoning on either side is seldom very correct or convincing, but the reader will be occasionally amused with its subtlety and ingenuity, and with the elegance and epigrammatic point of the language in which it is conveyed.

The remarks which we have now concluded are applicable to the middle period of the Spanish drama. Three epochs in its existence are observable. The first extends froin its infancy through the rude and obsolete works of Encina, the Naharros, Lopé de Rueda, and Virues, down to Cervantes, who may either be considered as the last of the first, or the founder of the second epoch. The second, to which we have been directing our attention, was the manhood and maturity of the Spanish drama, which reached its highest elevation under Calderon. It includes Lopé, Calderon, Moreto, Roxas, De Solis, Molina, and a nameless crowd of" imitated imitators," who exaggerated even the extravagancies of their prototypes. The close of the seventeenth century witnessed the commencement of a new era, with the introduction of the French comedy. The credit of the old national drama had been gradually declining, and after a well meant but feeble stand made by La Huerta, the old writers were laid on the shelf, and Yriarte and Moratin reigned in their stead. Spain seems to be at this moment commencing a fourth epoch, or rather witnessing the revival of the second, for the French taste is slowly but surely on the decline, and a revulsion of taste, which seems to be gaining ground over all Europe, is again restoring the old writers to favour and popularity.

On the whole, though those who come to the perusal of the Spanish drama with a disposition to be critical, will find ample materials for ridicule and censure, the candid and impartial reader will, amidst these occasional absurdities, find much to applaud, to imitate, and to admire.

The outline of the whole is imposing and magnificent, and though in some parts the colouring is sketchy and unfinished, in others glaring and exaggerated, yet touches are continually occurring which reveal the handling of the artist, and atone for many imperfections. In every age and country where the era of genius has not been succeeded or supplanted by that of taste, mens' writings must bear a certain impress of rudeness, which at a more advanced period will undoubtedly jar with, and shock those delicate feelings which refinement and civilization have generated; but cold indeed to the beauties of poetry must that mind be, which cannot overlook these faults, amongst the excellencies by which they are surrounded: Some of these faults too are more imaginary than real. We should learn to distrust our opinion with regard to works in another language. One essential part of our pleasure in reading poetry is, that the delicacies and shades of allusion should be at once detected without the necessity of a laborious investigation. Now, it is almost impossible for a foreigner to be so perfectly acquainted with the manners, customs, and local allusions of another country, as not to overlook many beauties, which, to a native, are striking and palpable. And this must be more particularly the case in dramatic literature, where the familiarity and frequency of such allusions presuppose an acquaintance with the manners of all classes in society, which it falls to the lot of few foreigners ever to attain.

TEN YEARS' EXILE; A POSTHUMOUS

WORK OF MADAME DE STAEL.

We have not for a long time met with a book of deeper interest than these memoirs, although they are merely the fragments of an incomplete work. They are written with the lively feeling, and the comprehensive observation, which characterize all Madame de Staël's compositions; and as they relate to her own history during one of its most distressing periods, she has scarcely occasion to have recourse to her uncommon eloquence for awakening our warmest sympathies.

* London, 1821.

There is, we think, what is better than eloquence, real simplicity in this narrative, and but little attempt to colour or exaggerate. The gifted writer speaks with great humility of her own powers, and makes no effort to conceal her weaknesses, we do not mean those more culpable weaknesses which have been ascribed to her, and which, if they did exist, it would have been impudence to have unveiled in any form of hypocritical contrition; but weaknesses very allowable to her sex and situation, and yet, which one, who had been desirous of becoming the heroine of a tale, might have endeavoured to cover.

It is not, however, Madame de Staël herself who is the principal figure on the canvas before us. Another much more terrible personage starts into life again, in all the panoply of his power; and at this moment, when we have so lately heard of his final departure from that world which he had contrived in his "little day," almost to turn upside down; there is something indescribably awful in having him so soon recalled from the region of spirits, and presented to us once more in the full flush of his glory and his crimes. The name of Napoleon can scarcely now be repeated but with some feelings of tenderness; there was in the mind and in the fortunes of that astonishing man, something so dazzling at one time, and even to the last something so commanding; he was so well adapted for the part which he played, and even when it was all at an end, he carried so much of the sovereign with him off the stage, he was separated so far from the rest of humankind, and lived in such an enchanted whirl, and died in such a no less narvellous calm; that he is from beginning to end almost a hero of romance, a kind of fabulous being, to whom we can hardly apply the common rules of moral censure, and whose existence, now that it is at an end, we can scarcely believe to have been any other than that of a distempered dream. At present, perhaps, it would be more suitable to the train of our feelings, to hear nothing but what was good about Napoleon. Madame de Staël may be as "honest a chronicler as Griffith," but, alas! she has not made us

Whom we most hated living

Now in his ashes honour.

con

ment which incloses the ashes of my father and my mother, and in which, if the good God permits, mine also will be deposited, was one of the principal causes of the regret I felt at banishing myself from the place of my residence; but I found almost always on approaching it, a sort of strength, which appeared to me to come from on high. I passed an hour in prayer before that iron gate which inclosed the mortal remains of the noblest of human beings, and there, my soul was vinced of the necessity of departure. I recalled the famous verses of Claudian, in which he expresses the kind of doubt which arises in the most religious minds when they see the earth abandoned to the wicked, and the destiny of mortals as it were floating at the mercy of chance. I felt that I had no longer the strength necessary to feed the enthusiasm which developed in me whatever good qualities I possessed, and that I must listen to the voice of those of similar sentiments as myself, for the purpose of strengthening my confidence in my own resources, and preserving that self-respect which my fether had instilled into me. In this state of anxiety, I invoked several times the memory of my father, of that man, the Fénélon of politics, whose genius was in every thing opposed to that of Bonaparte; and genius he certainly, had for it requires at least as much of that to put one's self in harmony with heaven, as to invoke to one's aid all the instruments which are let loose by the absence of laws divine and human. I went once more to look at my father's study, where his easy chair, his table, and his papers, still remained in their old situation; I embraced each venerated mark, I took his cloak, which till then I had ordered to be left upon his chair, and carried it away with me, that I might wrap myself in it, if the messenger of death approached me. When these adieus were terminated, I avoided as much as I could any other leave-takings, which affected me too much, and wrote to the friends whom I quitted, taking care that my letters should not reach them until several days after my departure.

"The next day, Saturday, the 23d of May 1812, at two o'clock in the afternoon, I got into my carriage, saying that I should return to dinner. I took no packet whatever with me; I had my fan in my band, and my daughter hers, only my son and Mr Rocca carried in their pockets what was necessary for some days' journey. In descending the avenue of Coppet, in thus quitting that chateau which had become to me like an old and valued friend, I was ready to faint; my son took my hand, and said, ' My dear mother, think that you are setting out for England.' That word revived my spirits: I was still,

however, at nearly two thousand leagues distance from that goal, to which the usual road would have so speedily conducted me, but every step brought me at least something nearer to it. When I had proceeded a few leagues, I sent back one of my servants to apprize my establishment that I should not return until the next day, and I continued travelling night and day as far as a farm-house beyond Berne, where I had fixed to meet Mr Schlegel, who was so good as to offer to accompany me; there also I had to leave my eldest son, who had been educated, up to the age of fourteen, by the example of my father, whose features he reminds one of. A second time all my courage abandoned me; that Switzerland, still so tranquil and always so beautiful, her inhabitants, who know how to be free by their virtues, even though they have lost their political independence: the whole country detained me, it seemed› to tell me not to quit it. It was still time to return, I had not yet made an irreparable step. Although the prefect had thought proper to interdict me from travelling in Switzerland, I saw clearly that it was only from the fear of my going beyond it. Finally, I had not yet crossed the barrier which left me no possibilty of returning; the imagination feels a difficulty in supporting this idea. On the other hand, there was also something irreparable in the resolution of remaining; for after that moment, I felt, and the event has proved the feeling correct, that I could no longer escape. Besides, there is an indescribable sort of shame in recommencing such solemn farewells, and one can scarcely resuscitate for one's friends more than once. I know not what would have become of me, if this uncertainty, even at the very moment of action, had lasted much longer; for my head was quite confused with it. My children decided me, and especially my daughter, then scarcely fourteen years old. I committed myself, in a manner, to her, as if the voice of God had made itself to be heard by the mouth of a child. My son took his leave, and after he was out of my sight, I could say, like Lord Russel, the bitterness of death is past. I got into my carriage with my daughter; uncertainty once terminated, I collected all my strength within myself, and I found sufficient of that for action which had altogether failed me for deliberation." pp. 238-247.

Her route was for Vienna, where she arrived after more alarms than real obstacles.

"Before I reached Vienna, as I waited for my second son, who was to rejoin me with my servants and baggage, I stopped. a day at Mölk, that celebrated abbey, placed upon an eminence, from which Na