ng.

in those which e courts of the erence, which is of sequence to paintings,

gallery of the colonnade is terdonated by a magnificent stair-case, which leads to the Saloon of Sculpture. This part of the exhibition is very interesting this year, not so much for the number of the productions, as for their importance.

As I have already said, I cannot presume to give an opinion of things which I have only seen with a glance. But if I consult the public voice, which, however, I am far from considering as the vor dei, particularly with respect to the fine arts, the exhibition has not answered the public expectation, nor come up to the hope, which might be justly entertained from the number of celebrated painters now flourishing in France. There are but few produc tions of the great living masters. On the other hand, there is an abundance of paintings in the style which the French call tableaux de guerre; domestic scenes, promenades en caleche, popular caricatures, fairs, &c. and a handsome proportion of portraits of ladies and gentlemen, whom nobody knows, nor ever heard of. One particular circumstance has occurred at this exhibition, which has formed a subject of conversation all over Paris. Horace Vernet, one of the most popular painters of the day, presented no less than 32 pictures for the exhibi/tion. The jury that was appointed to examine all the pieces that were presented, rejected two of this artist's, as calculated to excite revolutionary ideas that had better be forgotten. Piqued at this, Vernet withdrew every one of his pictures, and, it is said, means to exhibit them in his own house.

A new tragedy has just been brought out at the Second Theatre Francais, entitled Attila, a subject which the great Corneille, as the French call him, pitched upon in his latter years, but in which he completely failed. If some strokes of a vigorous pencil in the painting of a great character, a boldness of expression occasionally happy, a sort of poetical exultation not always in unison with good taste, but seducing and attractive, and certainly preferable to the languid purity and droning exactness of lines, without colour or energy; if, in short, a great number of

fine verses and brilliant epic passages were sufficient to form a good tragedy, the triumph of Mr Bis, the author of Attila, would be complete, and the French theatre would be enriched with another masterpiece. But if a tragic composition, to rise above mediocrity, must have a probable action, the progress of which, skilfully combined, presents an interest always increasing; a principal character, well supported, who, in his transports, and even in his crimes, never excites contempt, nor even that horrible pity inspired by madness; a character, the effect of which is rendered more prominent by unaffected contrasts, then, indeed, we must declare that Mr Bis has remained far from the point where the palm awaits the victor. His production is very imperfect, but he has shewn a talent which gives well-founded hopes for the future; and the more so, as it has quite an original colour, and seems perfectly free from the servitude of imitation.

I must confine myself to a very rapid analysis of this new Attila.

This formidable chief of the Huns has marched from victory to victory, from the front of the Great Wall of China, to the banks of the Marne, near Paris; fright, devastation, and death, have everywhere marked his passage; empires have fallen before him, towns have disappeared, whole nations have been effaced from the surface of the earth, and the contemptible princes who totter on the thrones of Rome and Byzantium, have only preserved the appearance of sovereignty at the expense of their treasures and their honour. The heirs of Augustus are the tributaries of a Scythian.

Attila has made an invasion into Gaul, and has sworn to destroy Lutetia and the infant empire of the Franks. It is in his camp, in his very tent, that the action of the piece is placed. Every thing seems to favour the projects of the Scourge of God. Marcomir disputes the throne of Lutetia with his brother Mesordus, and, ambition stifling in his breast all the sentiments of nature and patriotism, he goes over to Attila, as his ally and protector, or rather his master.

Queen Edvege, and Genevieve, who is considered by the inhabitants of the banks of the Seine as an oracle inspired by heaven, have fallen by chance

into the hands of Attila. The author makes him both superstitious and amorous. He loves Edvege and fears Genevieve. He makes love indeed a little a la Cosaque; but notwithstand ing all his rodomontades, he is constantly troubled internally by the predictions of Genevieve, who has foretold his flight and his death. A troop of traitors deliver up Marcomir to Attila, who, in return, orders them all to be put to death. The Roman ambas sador forms a plan to assassinate him; the conspiracy is discovered, and Attila merely dismisses the criminal from his camp, telling him he shall punish him when he has conquered Byzantium. In short, the four first acts are almost entirely filled with boasting bravados, high-flown declamations, and contradictory movements of ferocity and clemency, the whole embellished with forced tirades on the valour and glory of the Franks, and on liberty; for the finest theories, and most pompous amplifications on that topic, are adroitly placed in the mouths of Attila and Marcomir. These passages, you may be sure, throw certain spectators into extasies and convulsions of delight.

At last, however, we come to a beautiful scene, the only one in the piece really pathetic and true.

Attila, in supporting the pretensions of Marcomir, only designs to destroy the Franks by their own hands. The two brothers are brought together in a scene well conducted, in which the ambitious and furious Marcomir

rejects the frank explanations, the af fectionate offers, and kind language of Mesorcus, who, irritated at length by the outrageous expressions of hatred, menace, and contempt, draws his sword-a fratricide is about to stain the race of Pharamond-Genevieve appears, and in a noble address to them, frequently sublime, but rather too long, she invokes the great shade of the founder of the French monarchy, to reproach his children for turning against themselves the wea pons their country demands. Softened, subdued by her inspired accents, the brothers embrace, and swear to fight, conquer, or die for the common cause.

In the mean time the fates are ac complished; Attila is informed that his troops are flying before the enemy, he does all in his power to rouse them to courage and vengeance, but declares he will burn himself and all his treasures on a funeral pile, if fortune be trays him. Genevieve terminates the piece by the recital of the victory of Mesorcus, who appears himself to confirm the intelligence.

One thing was wanting to the success of this new play. An author may write a tragedy, but he cannot make an actress, and not one of the female performers at the Odeon could come up to our idea of Genevieve. Mademoiselle Georges, though a great actress, had certainly nothing of the innocence, the simplicity, the angelic physiognomy of the virgin shepherdess of Nantere, the patroness of Paris.

MR CHRISTOPHER NORTH, As there are many different means by which feeling is awakened by literature and art; and as the person who reads or contemplates is often contented with strong sensations, without discriminating at all as to their quality, or their grade in relation to taste, I shall address to you some remarks on this subject; and shall endeavour to shew, that it is worth while to refer these heterogeneous sensations to some test; and that certain principles of classification, as to the qualities and grades of feeling, have an existence in

rerum natura. VOL. XI.

work, belonging entirely to this or that class, and confined entirely to one sort of interest.

If literature were sunk to the lowest possible state in which it could exist, it would reject, (from its means of interesting the mind,) first, all abstract truth; and then all imagination or conception except of things and concerns which are commonly before the eyes of mankind, and daily forced upon their attention; and then it would renounce all sense of the difference between beauty or deformity, and would content itself with representing only what is pleasant or painful to the individual. Having made all these renunciations, it would still have remaining the common passions of human nature, and the hopes and fears which necessarily accompany personal existence. These, in a literary work, the reader may be made intensely to feel, by a sympathy with fictitious situations; but without almost any internal discrimination of feeling as to better or worse. I could even suppose the lowest kind of feeling or interest to be produced by a painting, not as a work of art, but as a means of exciting sympathy; for example, a representation of a shipwreck, where men were Fusing various expedients to save their lives. The characteristic of this Stage of Taste, is, that its interest is only in the personal sensation of the moment, and in that which brings pleasure or spain to the individual, but has no relation to any thing general, or to permanent and abstract truth. This is the case with all the common and unenlightened passions. There can scarcely be any literary work which will not, in some parts, rise above these; but it is of importance to discriminate what is peculiarly appropriate to this lowest stage of feeling. The novel of Caleb Williams, for instance, has a great power of interesting the reader, for the most part, but scarcely rises beyond the personal sensations of the moment, and that darkness as to taste which is in the passions of individuals.

The class of feelings which belongs to the lowest stage, may be called "natural;" but they do not expand or revolve themselves into the affecting recognition of common humanity. The attention of the reader is fastened down to the concerns of individuals. Nature has sometimes been deified, and called

"holy," in the common native affections of mankind. But the private passions of individuals have never obtained this honour, in poetry; for it is always obvious that they are limited, and have a certain tendency for one, and against another. However, in poetry they obtain a certain kind of admiration, when exaggerated into greatness, as that of inconquerable pride and endurance, in Milton's devils. The passionate love of glory among mankind also obtains a sort of exaltation and lustre in poetry. It is clear, however, that the love of glory does not belong to the internal recognition of common nature. It only catches the feelings of mankind as individuals, and makes them proudly sympathize with achievements done, as it were by proxy, for behoof of their self-conceit. Therefore we never hear such things called "holy nature." The performer is identified as closely as possible with the selflove of each individual spectator, and is called "un grand homme,” or a being of uncommon powers." The spectator glories in his feelings; but a satirist might say, there is a meanness in any individual wishing to sympathize with, (and borrow vainly upon) what he could not do himself. However, there is yet something lower than vain-glorious sympathy with the powers of distinguished individuals. This is when the multitude are seized with an inclination to have the enjoyments of self-love equalized as much as possible, and diffused among mankind; and when for this purpose they become desirous of falsifying or leveling distinctions, or melting them down into a sort of dirty twilight, in the uncertainty of which all men may equally enjoy the pleasures of self-esteem unreproved. In Oliver Cromwell's time, when the mob entered into their round-headed combination to raise the price of lowness, the new conveniences discovered were called those of "each man worshipping in his own way;" and the nature of this sort of worship was not much suspected or understood, even by those who were most intensely engaged in it. The curious private gropings and obscure glimmerings going on in each mind apart from the rest, were also advantageous. It was thus that no man needed to remain long subject to any painful belief as

to his own qualities, tried according to any intelligible standard.

To the same level may be referred some of the latest tastes, which have appeared in modern times, as to what is the most desirable state and composition of society. These tastes have inclined a great proportion of mankind to wish to contemplate societies of such a composition, as the uniform grey or drab colours of the coats of Quakers, who, though they are good sort of people, I think, have more likeness to hired servants, than to prodigal sons. This is by way of conciliating a levelling taste with order. Externally this inclination assumes the hypocritical form of respect, for all that is most immediately useful in human nature. In reality, it is a wish to raise the price of the homely and vulgar stuff of human nature, and place it in a condition of undisturbed self-conceit, incapable of improvement in taste. But supposing that, in one generation, by the predominance of vulgar envy, the drab-colour were established in society, it would not be easy to persuade the next generation to remain contented with it, as the most beautiful of all things.

Such are the tastes and inclinations which belong to the lowest stage of feeling. But here it is proper to observe, that in all fictitious narrative, (to whatever stage of taste they may belong,) a sympathy with the personal feelings and fortunes of some particular character must be created, for the purpose of engaging the reader's attention, and carrying him on, and this must be the stock, whatever other things may be grafted upon it. Therefore, although a strong personal interest, awakened by a fictitious narrative, is not a feeling of any high grade, yet it does, on that account, make the work referable to this or that stage of

taste.

Having said thus much, Mr North, on the first stage of feeling, I shall now inquire what is the next. To the Second Stage, I think, may be referred all recognitions of a common humauity, extending through different individuals, and shewn in the natural affections of mankind. Although not lofty, this is at least deeply moving, and resolves the self-interested passions of individuals into something

universal and unlimited, in a sort of widely-diffused enthusiasm, or in the internal recognition of kindred being. This is what some of the German writers have called " holy nature;" and dramatists, among them, exploring the same vein, have shewn that they were capable of producing a great deal of sensation, in all the theatres of Europe. Kotzebue was one of the lowest. He makes his tenderness of as damp and watery a sort as possible, and confines himself to the most common and unmingled elements, which may be found in any mind whatever. In the dramas of the inferior German writers, there is often a transference of the scene into remote countries; and the persons on the stage, whether Asiatics, Europeans, or Hottentots, brought together, are made to join in sobbings of tenderness, undisturbed by any unseasonable discriminations of taste, that would lessen the breadth of the sensation. Schiller, in his Robbers, is not in a much higher vein, but deals in the passions of individuals, and seldomer resolves into the wet universal nature of German sentiment, which, I think, must be good, in so far as it conduces to the recognition of general humanity. But the fellow-feeling of a common nature, or of impulses widely shared, cannot justly be held up as the ultimate aim of poetical sentiment; since, if it were acknowledged as such, it would swallow up all distinctions of better or worse, or beauty and deformity. The aim of tragedy or novel-writing, is not like the figure of the kneeling African, on the medal struck in reference to the abolition of slavery, saying, "Am I not a man and a brother?" If one of the characters in Kotzebue's plays were making the same appeal, the reply might be, "You are a man and a brother by common origin, but you are not a person with whom we would think it any honour to sympathize from taste, however much we may desire your welfare." Among the English poets, Cowper, from humanity and humility, and from wishing to exercise the office of a Methodist preacher in verse, sought for this sense of universal kindred, and rejoiced in the participation of common affections. He has the following passage on the subject: