give to the expression of his ideas by putting them into the lips of an old beggar! The persons in the present novel are less strongly marked, and are not, upon the whole, so entertaining as those of the two former. There is more of eloquence in this work; but we think many of the pathetic declamations of the Antiquary misplaced, in being put into the mouth of one whom the author has chosen to represent as somewhat sordid. In his character we miss that fervency of affection, that abundance of the "milk of human kindness," which were so delightful in Dominie Sampson, and rendered him so dear to all the readers of Guy Mannering. There is no one, in short, on whom the reader can look with any sensations of love. Lovel is a mere cypher-Edie has been a stealer of fowlsSteenie, the son of the old fisherman, is fond of barnsbreaking-and the others are of equal interest and respectability. The ridicule of antiquarianism is a beaten path-and the author has not made us tread in it with much pleasure. In search of humour, he has once descended to the most contemptible vulgarity-(Vol. III. chap. 1.) We do not admire the tedious iteration of womankind by the ascetic Antiquary; and the profound adventure with the phoca is repeated till it becomes as sickening to the reader as it is said to have been to Hector M'Intyre. But we cannot dwell longer on the faults of one whose vivid representations have afforded us so much delight; and we regret that the careless and hurried manner in which the work has been prepared, has given birth to so many imperfections. In short, if the reader, like ourselves, from his lofty anticipations of a work with which the author of Waverley and Guy Mannering was to take his leave of this kind of writing, should be disappointed in his expectations-let bim recur to the forcible scenes in the cottage of the old fisherman, and he will, we are sure, esteem himself amply repaid for the labour of reading volumes, which have far less of interest and talent than are evident in the other portions of the ANTIQUARY. ART. VII.-Bertram; or, a Tragedy, in Five Acts. Fifth Edition. Murray. 187 The Castle of St. Aldobrand; By the Rev. R. C. MATURIN. 1816. "Be it rarely ours to encounter such a windy, wordy, coxcomb!" Such was the emphatic exclamation of the most irritable of our fraternity, as he finished the first reading of this thing, which, by the courtesy of fashion, is denominated a tragedy; and this deprecation we have been tempted to iterate in the progress of its examination. One of our old divines (Henry More, we believe,) compares the folly of preferring temporal things to spiritual, to a disordered appetite, which rejects proper aliment, and swallows coles and chalke with voracious eagerness. The comparison will hold good in literature. It appears to us that the public taste has lately been vitiated to a considerable degree; and, if our assertion wanted a clincher, we might instance the quantity of coles and chalke which has been devoured under the titles of Prize Poems, bad Speeches, frantic Tales in Verse, and more frantic Novels, written in prose run mad; and we cannot help thinking that a very alarming diagnostic of the distemper is now before us-for that appetite must indeed be diseased, which, in the space of a few weeks, could swallow down five editions of such a performance as Bertram, or the Castle of St. Aldobrand. We did not originally intend to notice this production, "whereof all London rings from side to side," considering it as having been rendered an object of admiration by the applauses of one set of fine people, and echoed by another as an exotic, which, in the nature of things, would expire as soon as the artificial warmth of fashionable adulation, in which it had been reared, should have subsided to a just temperature. But a fifth edition is really too por tentous to be passed over in silence. It is, therefore, our intention, in the present article, to disclose to the public the real nature and qualities of the trash which they have swallowed; and to endeavour to induce them to nauseate and disgorge the half-digested morsels. We do not affect, like some others, to be fearful of the influence upon public morality which this tragedy may have. We do not know any man so weak as to suffer such ineffable nonsense to have a dangerous effect upon his morals or feel ings, or, indeed, to produce any effect upon them at all. But we think that its influence upon public taste may not be inconsiderable; and it is this which has induced us to examine it. Its characteristics appear to be-language copious to verbosity imagination luxuriant to rankness a style resembling the celebrated productions of the Minerva Press, (which exquisite models, the author appears to have dili gently studied,) but even going beyond them, and strewed over with a profusion of the daisies and dandelions" of Irish eloquence and Della Cruscan poetry. The author seems to have sat down with a resolution to imitate Walter Scott and Lord Byron, and accordingly he has produced a wretched imitation of the worst parts of those writers, with an affectation of their affected and antiquated words. His own manner is at once grovelling, monotonous, and hyperbolical; and reminds us a good deal of the poetico-prosaic raptures of Mr. Phillips. Indeed, if we were to compare this tragedy to any thing which we ever read, it would be to the performances of the orator to whom we have alluded. The two authors resemble one another in many qualities, both good and evil, and their productions may be paralleled, we think, without any injury either to the one or the other. We now go on to give a sketch of the story, and to point out a few examples of the very enchanting qualities enumerated above; only premising, that we do not engage to explain what may appear mysterious and profound that there are a few oracular passages of which we cannot discover the meaning-and not a few which, we are afraid, have no meaning at all. A certain insipid young lady, called Imogine, is married to an equally insipid Count, Aldobrand; but, before this marriage, she has been betrothed to Bertram, who is represented in this tragedy as a mere abstraction of vice and absurdity. With this worthy person Imogine resolves to be outrageously in love; and in this virtuous determination she persists, even after her marriage with St. Aldobrand, with no one reason for doing so, and with every reason to the contrary. Such a character as this lady, one would imagine, was not likely to excite any very deep interest in the breasts of an audience. The reverend author, therefore, has chosen to take a singular method to render her a fit object of sympathy-he has made her an adulteress in the progress of the play. This, we should have conceived, was rather an intrepid experiment; but it has succeeded, we are informed, to a miracle. At the commencement of the action, Count Bertram is wrecked with his band of robbers, near the castle of his ancient enemy, Count Aldobrand, who is then absent. Here he recognizes Imogine; and, mad with agony to find her whom he loves the wife of his deadliest foe, he resolves on the destruction of the latter. This is an affecting situation; and, in the hands of a good poet, might have been made very pathetic: but we believe that few, save the reverend author, could have rendered it completely unimpressive, or rather, completely farcical. Count Aldobrand returns; is murdered by the seducer of his wife; (in pursuance of his laudable determination;) Imogine runs mad-and Bertram falls on his sword, without discovering any remorse for his crimes, and with a triumphant exclama tion on his lips. Such is a rapid outline of the story. The characters are completely out of nature. Bertram, who is the most prominent personage, and intended by the author to be very grand and imposing, is a kind of mongrel between the Satan of MILTON and the Corsair of LORD Br. RON; with all the pride and impiety of the first, without his power; and all the vices of the latter, without any of his tenderness. Such a being, if he raise any emotions at all, must excite such only as are ludicrous; and, indeed, he reminds us more of ANCIENT PISTOL or BRAGGADOCIO, (though not half so entertaining,) than of any other cha racter making any pretensions to loftiness with whom we are acquainted either in prose or poetry. Count Aldobrand is absolutely fatiguing; and Imogine is merely an insipid novel-reading young lady, who prates about love, and moonlight, and evening clouds, and all the common-places of novels and poetry. The Prior is a kind of methodistpreacher; and his harangues possess all the usual qualities of the oratory of the Tabernacle-they are long, dully nonsensical, egotistical, and ennuyant. We sincerely hope that the sermons of the reverend author are in a somewhat better taste than the prosing discourses of his holy representative, who is a better exemplification than any that we remember of the truth of the Italian proverb-Tanto buon, che val niente" So good, that he is good for nothing." This total absence of nature in the characters preserves us in a state of happy unconcern about their fates. For neither man, woman, nor child, for neither knights, robbers, warriors, nor priests, is our tranquillity disturbed in the slightest degree. They talk and act like persons of an entirely different sphere. The reader, from what we have related, is already satisfied that they act in a most fantastic manner; we will now give him a few specimens of the equally unaccountable style in which they talk. The tragedy opens with a storm, as might have been expected-but of all the storms which we ever experienced or heard of, this (if the monks did not exaggerate a little) must have been accompanied by the most wonderful effects. "Night. A Convent. Two Monks enter in terror. 1st Monk. Heaven for its mercy! what a night is hereOh! didst thou hear that peal? 2d Monk. The dead must hear it. Speak! speak! and let me hear a human voice. 1st Monk. While the dark terror hurtled distantly, Lapt in the skirts of the advancing clouds, Did rock and quiver in the bickering glare- 2d Monk. Among the tombed tenants of the cloister But, by the momently gleams of sheeted blue, I almost deem'd they liv'd, and fled in horror. Here is the description of Bertram; and we question if our readers ever saw any thing more lamentable than the evident attempt at force, originality, and terror, in the passage which introduces him. The last line is absolutely unintelligible. Prior. Look not so wild-Can we do aught for thee? Bertr. Yes; plunge me in the waves from which ye snatch'd me; Prior. I'll question not with him-his brain is wreck'd- His lip doth work with inward mutterings And his fix'd eye is rivetted fearfully On something that no other sight can spy. The following is equally detestable in style, metaphor, and sentiment. Bertr. I dream'd I stood before Lord Aldobrand, Impenetrable to his searching eyes And I did feel the horrid joy men feel Measuring the serpent's coil whose fangs have stung them; |