"damned spot" on our own souls, or to approach, without something like presumptuous freedom with God, those altars of religion before which we have stood in conflict with man.

Now, if there be any truth in our observations, it is not likely that those authors will meet with more than a temporary success, (if, indeed, they meet even with that,) who endeavour to write, as it were, in opposition to the UNKNOWN, and to paint anew the character of the old Covenanters. For it will be found that their portraits are not only less impressive than the others, but also not so true to history, and not so accordant with our knowledge of human nature at large. We lay down Ringan Gilhaize, with all its manifest and manifold merits, and take up the magical volumes again, convinced more than ever, that such were the living men, and that such only could they be; allowing, at the same time, that the Unknown has his prejudices and his peculiarities, as well as his neighbours, and is no more exempt than ordinary people, from sins that easily beset him, although their indulgence, it must be allowed, has worked no deadly effect on his noble and potent spirit.

Perhaps Mr Tennant (in our opinion) is somewhat in the same predicament with Mr Galt. But as this is the first time we have had the plea sure of introducing any work of his to our readers, we shall not occupy with discussion or disquisition the space which will be much better filled with his poetry.

The subject of the drama is a conspiracy-and we are partial to conspiracies. They cannot but be interesting and every human being, however odious, becomes an object almost of compassion, when we know that he is about to be murdered. Yet, in spite of a conspiracy, it must be confessed, that this drama moves rather heavily; and it is not possible to pay a gentleman a worse compliment, than to fall asleep while he is informing you that he has laid a plan to murder a Cardinal, or even a Bishop. The first and second acts, which rather flag, and, although classically, are not spiritedly written, are occupied in various colloquies between the Cardinal and his creatures, and also between different Scottish noblemen and gentlemen, the

object of which is to acquaint us with the enormities of Beaton, and the miserable evils they are bringing upon Scotland. We quote the whole of the last scene of the second act, which exhibits Mr Tennant's powers in a highly favourable light, and is certainly, although a little languid, very beautiful. Beatrice is the daughter of a sea-captain confined in a dungeon by the Cardinal, and has had her virtue basely assaulted by him on visiting the palace to pray her father's release.

SCENE IV.-A Garden near the Cathedral.

Enter BEATRICE STRANG.

I've seen my mother to her couch to rest, And I have said my evening prayers with her;

And now I seek this flowery solitude,
To entertain my desolated mind
With moonlight, and the garden's silent

scenes.

How beautiful, above the sea, the moon Has lighted up her sky-adorning torch, Dimming th' abashed stars, and paving all The bay's expansion, as with twinkling sheets

Of silver fluent on the flutt'ring wave! Nearer, the hillocks, valleys, rocks, and shores,

Flame out in night's best glory; and the
And copper-garnish'd roofs and pinnacles
spires
Ofyon Cathedral, gleam and tower on high,
As if exulting to give back the moon
Her image, and requite her with a sight
Of her own glory flung amended back
By roofs the brightest that she sees on earth.
The garden, too, is proud, and plumes her-
self

On her fair early flowers, which she expands Full to the moon, as bragging how her brother

Has busk'd her out, though she regrets

not now

His absence in his sister's sweeter beams. Welcome, sweet light, and with thee wel

come too

Thoughts of divinely-soothing melancholy,
That slide, as if by stealth, into the soul,
And fill it with a stillness calm as thine!
The day, with all its flashy glaring light,
Its brawl of bus'ness, shouts, and din of
wheels,

Is well away and buried in the sea.
To me, and to the sorrowful of heart,
And to the pious saint, and to the lover,
This lonely hour comes on more peace-
giving,

And more accordant to their museful mood;
For I have been in sorrow all the day,
And having wiped my tears, now forth repair
To feed with thoughts my meditative heart.
Haply he too, to whom my heart is vow'd,
As late he promised, will appear to bless

He for the golden interview assign'd.

SEATON, (appearing through the bushes.) "Tis she herself-I see the moonlight lie Asleep upon her neck and on her bosom, As fain to find such precious resting-place; Diana is not jealous of her beauty,

Only because she's like herself so chaste;
And therefore does the comely Queen of
Night,

As if right merry to behold in her
A maiden so completely her compeer,
Concentre all her yellow streaming beams
To gild my love more ravishingly fair!—
[TO BEATRICE.

Heaven's richest happiness be with thee, sweet,

And every joy which thy perfection merits!
O let me press to this unworthy bosom
A beauty and a worth so excellent,
It is my ardour only merits it!

Beat. O, thou art come, my love, in
needful time,

To gladden me amid the household griefs That Heaven hath sent to purify our hearts: How strange to meet here in a place so strange,

In such an hour, and plight so sorrowful! How diff'rent, when we took our evening

walks

By the moon's light upon the lofty shore, Whence we o'erlook'd the rolling ocean from

The sea-marge to the fiery-beacon'd May! Then how light-hearted in our happiness! How little boded we our present cares! Yet there are yet, I hope, good things for

us;

He who commands this stillness, and o'erspreads

Heaven's changeful face with such a robe of light,

Will yet o'erspread our count'nances with joy.

Seat. Oh, fair! thou canst not be where joy is not!

Methinks thy person is enshrined within An unseen heav'nly tabernacle of joy; And Love and Honour are the cherubim That hover o'er thee with their golden wings.

Where goodness is, there must be happi

ness;

Sorrow may fly across it as a bird;
But in the virtuous bosom, as its nest,
Peace as the halcyon builds, as did the
swallow

Within God's altar at Jerusalem.

Beat. Yea, Peace must be where Pa

tience is; and I

Can keep my spirit patient and submiss, When God, who gives the grief, requires submission,

As sign of acquiescence in his will;

That I can do, and Heaven requires no

more.

But joy's rich cup, though tender'd to my lips,

I cannot, may not taste, but pass it by ; Deferring till a father's doom be clear'd From doubt and danger, which surround it now,

The darker from to-day's occurrences.

Seat. What has to-day begot of darker

doubt,

Beat. Oh, Seaton! I to-day have dared
a deed

Above the venture of a timid maid:
Into thy heart I will confide it all.—
Him, the proud master of yon citadel,
The tyrant of our shire, and of the land,
Whose arbitrary gripe of iron seized
And dragg'd my father to his house of
gloom,

Him have I pray'd, and on my knees besought,

Reck'ning too strongly on the fervency
Of a fond daughter's suit, to liberate
His innocent and pining prisoner.
That prayer refused as bold, I did beseech
A little boon-leave to revisit oft
And cherish him with tender offices.
Alas, a fruitless suit! I might as well
Beseech the blast to blow not, and to spare
The wrecking ship it drives upon the shore.
Nay, his chid spirit, roused and mortified
By my contemning his opprobrious proffers,
Burns now with hotter irritation, which
May fall too fatal on a father's head.

Seat. Oh, hideous heart of cruelty and
wrong!

Oh, fiend! too worthy of thy hate and mine!
Though well to thee I could have prophesied
That idle supplication's evil issue.-
He is incensed, not only that thy father
Has foster'd what is misnamed heresy,
Incurring thence an honourable blot;
But that Balcaskie's house of Strang, whose

name

You share, with distant consanguinity,
Exerts, with all the neighb'ring families,
A bold hostility against his power.
Thence, as if conscious of conspiracy,
He shuts himself in stern relentlessness:
But long he cannot rule. Already he
O'erplays the tyrant, to his own destruction;
Which hovers now, suspended o'er his head
By a thin hair, like Damocles's sword.
Some plot is sprouting, and will ripen soon:
Events must burst; and fate can't labour

long

Against the pressure of necessity.

8

Beat. Yet, Seaton, if this man upon himself

Compels destruction from the hands of foes, I cannot bear that thou shouldst be involved In being party to the fate of him,

Whom thou had'st reason, for thy damsel's sake,

To call and deem a cruel enemy.

Seat. My fair one! I revere thee for that word:

Though not the less for thee, and for myself,

And for my country, I might well be clear'd, In aiding that the murderer may perish, Who seeks to rid the world of honest men.You see how he has summon'd to this city His crowd of minion priests, that swarming

come

To cause to-morrow perish at the stake
A saint, whose vestments are of holiness.
And he has other deaths more manifold
On hand, comprizing all the flower of Fife.
These slaughters can be only obviated,
By crushing the contriver's cursed head:
His own devices must entangle him;
His pit, for others dug, must swallow him!
Beat. I see the meaning, then, of all this
stir

And flocking thither of the laity;
Their broils and bickerings with priestly

men;

Their scoffs at girdled friars and mitres passing;

Their mutterings and whispers where they stand

In lonely lanes, and corners of the streets, Group'd into gloomy knots, discussing something

Mysterious, and of terrible import.
Even now, we hear at times the distant

sound,

As of th' explosion of confined wrath; Shouts, as of furious quarrellers; and cries, As of fierce men infuriated with wine, Assaulting, or assaulted in the streets. Such signs, I doubt, betoken some black

storm

About to agitate this fated town.
Yet those have nought to fear, whom love
and peace
Unite and harmonize in holy joy.
As the moon rides serene, regarding not
Earth's petty noises, far beneath her orb ;
E'en so, may both our happy hearts, su-
blimed

Into the orbit of celestial peace,

Look down unharm'd, exulting from their height,

On the black storm of passion as it breaks, Wrecking the lives of miserable men!

Seat. Thy words, my love, are all of heavenly charm,

And too divine for earthly-minded men, Who borrow from the very dregs they're made of

Inevitable drossiness of soul.

But see, the moon seems now high-pitch'd

above

Her serious starry daughters of the sky,
A witness of our idle colloquy.

And yet I cannot err while talking with thee;

And yet Good night!-that word must come at last,

Though long it loiters on a lover's lips. Seat. Good night, my love! Good angels guard you well!

Beat. Adieu, my boy! sweet sleep bedew your pillow!

And Heaven awake us to sweet peace tomorrow! [Exeunt severally.

The conspirators are long baffled in their designs against Beaton's life; and Wishart, whom they had hoped to save, is martyred. The description of the martyrdom is good.

Carmichael. No sooner had th' appointed moment come,

When from the Castle's gate the gentle saint

Appear'd, all radiant with sweet smiles of joy,

Amid a threat'ning multitude of spears: His hands were shackled, yet his lips were

free

The cannoniers a-tiptoe, with their reeds Just hov'ring for th' explosion, and the mouths

Metallic, that were glutted rich with death, Frowning upon them, ready at one volley To sweep th' encumber'd street from end to end.

Meantime the heavens had pall'd themselves all round

In mourning of funereal thunder-clouds ; And, just as that first faggot was lit up, Wept such a show'r of heavy drops, as soon Quench'd into blackness the obnoxious flame.

Thrice was it fired by man, and thrice again Heaven's rain descended to extinguish it; Till, at the last, man's stubborn hate prevail'd:

At which the thunder mutter'd down to earth

His indignation, and the eastern sky
Let loose a blast upon the town, that shook
Men-cover'd steeples, walls, and tottering
roofs,

Whereby all hearts were terrified, lest God
Was loosening the foundations of the world.
Norman. And what were Beaton and
his pack about,
Amid this elemental hurly-burly?
Stood he beside the pile to ply the bellows?
Or sat he in his painted room at ease,
Playing at cards, and cheating Paisley's
Abbot ?

Carm. I saw the villain-he was thrust

upon

Mine and the people's eyes obtrusively;
I watch'd his looks, his gestures, as he lay
Prank'd in his Romish ceremonial robes,
On tufts of purple, o'er his western window,
Marking with hellish curiosity
The progress of the saint-devouring flame;
I saw him and his prelates laughing loud,
And wagging to each other, where they lay,
(O monstrous!) nods of execrable triumph,
As round the suff"rer, waving red and high,
The flames reluctantly came narrowing,
And closed him in at last amid those spires,
Whence his just spirit bounding sprung to
heaven!

Nor. Abominable outrage! tell it not Again, Carmichael, in fair Scottish ground; Lest stones and turf should rise up in our faces,

And brand us publicly with cowardice; Nay, tell it everywhere-sound it about From tops of hills, from parish-churches' spires,

At borough-crosses, ferries, and fire-sides,
That men may rise in mass exasperated,
And rush into our county, rating us,
Crying, Lives there a Sheriff in this shire,
That like a stream injustice so runs down?
Or are there men, or are there milksops in
it ?

Ay, there's a Sheriff, 'twill be said, but he
Wears breeches only, not the sword of
justice;
VOL. XIV.

He swaggers in his words, a well-tongued braggart,

But Card'nal's big hat is the bug for him; It scares him as the scare-crow does the bird.

O shame, shame, shame! I will not brook it longer;

I will be at him greedily to-morrow; I will not sleep till I have purged our shire,

And made it cleaner by the scoundrel's death!

What say you to it? Shall I go alone, And through some port-hole worm into his castle ?

Or will ye be my pioneers, to break Way through his doors, with lever and with axe?

Were I but in, I'd hang him on his bedpost;

He is too vile for stabbing now, I think!

Let us hasten on to the catastrophe, which is stern and murderous.

Cardinal. If ye but spare my life, I'll let you in.

Melvil. Haply we may, my Lord, if ye're

but kind,

And entertain us strangers hospitably, Admitting us at once into your heart. Card. Swear by God's wounds, that you will spare my life,

And I'll unbolt.