fractions which are usual in high latitudes. One very singular instance deserves to be noticed.

"On my return to the ship, about eleven o'clock, the night was beautifully fine, and the air quite mild. The atmosphere, in consequence of the warmth, being in a highly refractive state, a great many curious appearances were presented by the land and icebergs. The most extraordinary effect of this state of the atmosphere, however, was the distinct inverted image of a ship in the clear sky, over the middle of the large bay or inlet before mentioned; the ship itself being entirely beyond the horizon. Appearances of this kind I have before noticed, but the peculiarities of this were, the perfection of the image, and the great distance of the vessel that it represented. It was so extremely well defined, that when examined with a telescope by Dollond, I could distinguish every sail, the general "rig of the ship," and its particular character; insomuch that I confidently pronounced it to be my father's ship, the Fame, which it afterwards proved to be ; though, on comparing notes with my father, I found that our relative position at the time gave our distance from one another very nearly thirty miles, being about seventeen miles beyond the horizon, and some leagues beyond the limit of direct vision. I was so struck by the peculiarity of the circumstance, that I mentioned it to the officer of the watch, stating my full conviction that the Fame was then cruizing in the neighbouring inlet." P. 189.

Among other qualifications for a discoverer of new regions, Mr. Scoresby has a very pretty knack at naming the promon'tories and inlets as he marks them down in his chart. The good towns of Edinburgh and Liverpool seem to have transported half their people to the shores of East Greenland. A very unnecessary apology is made for naming the principal Sound after the father of our excellent author, and Canning Island, Cape Gladstone, and Roscoe Mountains, are among the most distinguished places upon Liverpool Coast. Immediately under Church Mount, we have Cape Jones and Cape Buddecom, "so called in compliment to two respected clergymen of Liverpool." The Southernmost Inlet examined by the discoverers, was "named Knighton Bay, in honour of Sir William Knighton, Private Secretary to his Majesty;" and the Northern coast is appropriately devoted to a large assortment of the most respectable people in Edinburgh. Science also asserts her claims-a happy cluster of frozen islands is adorned with the names of Werner, Brewster, Cater, Wollaston, Herschell, and Home; and Mr. Scoresby's great predecessors in the art of boring through an Ice-berg, are remembered not in flowing cups,

but on the durable tablet of Capes, Inlets, and Moun tains.

A dreadful storm which the Baffin experienced off the North-western coast of Scotland, is described in an impressive manner; especially the loss of one of the crew, who was swept from the deck by a mountainous wave.

"No water had yet been shipped, though the tremendous sea that was running, was received upon the ship's quarter, or beam, being in a direction of all others the most dangerous. A fatal wave, however, at length struck the quarter, with tremendous violence, and throwing up a vast weight of water carried along with it, in its passage across the deck, one of our harpooners, or principal officers (who, along with several others, was employed on the weather-rail endeavouring to secure one of the boats hanging over the side) quite over the heads of his companions, and swept him overboard! Most of the crew being under water at the same time, his loss was not known until he was discovered just passing under the ship's stern, but out of reach, and lying apparently insensible upon the wave. He was only seen for a few seconds, and then disappeared for ever.

"For some minutes, it was not known who the sufferer was. Every one was greatly distressed; and each, in his anxious exclamations, revealed his fears for his friend. It is Shields jack, cries one. · No,' replies a voice of feeling self-congratulation, I am here.' It is Jack O'Neill,' exclaims another;- Aye, poor fellow, it is Jack O'Neill.' But a dripping stupor-struck sailor, clinging by the weather-rail, comes aft at the moment, and replies, No, I am here. After a pause of suspense, one adds,It is Chambers.'' Ah! it must be Sam Chambers,' cries another; and no voice contradicted the assertion, for his voice, poor sufferer, was already choaked with the waters, and his spirit had fled to meet its God! Happily he was an excellent man; and there was no doubt with those who knew his habitual piety, and consistency of conduct, that he was prepared to die. His conduct, in every case, was worthy of his profession; and was a sufficient proof, if such proof could be necessary, that religion, when real, gives confidence and courage to the sailor, rather than destroys his hardihood and bravery. He was always one of the foremost in a post of danger, and met with his death in an exposed situation, to which duty called, where he had voluntarily posted himself.

"Melancholy as the loss of a comrade was, the individual and personal danger of all hands, prevented any one from dwelling at that time, upon an event calculated, under other circumstances, to arouse the keenest sympathies of the most thoughtless. Several others of the people had very narrow escapes. Another har

The side of the ship towards the stern.

pooner, who was in a similar situation with Chambers, and close by him, was washed up into the mizen-rigging; and on recovering his recollection, found himself instinctively grasping the rope that saved him." P. 375.

These observations remind us not to close our remarks without commending Mr. Scoresby for the religious principles and conduct which are displayed throughout his narrative. The Sabbath was conscientiously observed, even in the midst of the fishing season, while the whales were spouting around the vessel, and less scrupulous commanders were busily employed in the chase. Dangers were rendered less formidable by a humble confidence in God's protecting care, and a pious resignation to his will. And Mr. Scoresby bears strong testimony to the temporary good effects of religion by assuring us, that his ship's company were orderly and resolute beyond the common run of sailors, and never shrank from those exertions which always deserve, and in the present instance obtained success.

ART. X. The Brides' Tragedy. By Thomas Lovell Beddoes, of Pembroke College, Oxford. pp. 138. Rivingtons. 1822.

Ir is an assertion, which has been frequently made, and loudly reiterated, that criticism is unjustly severe against the attempts of contemporary genius. It will be found, however, to proceed, for the most part, from those who are desirous. of attributing their failure to any rather than the real cause, their own deficiency in talent, and who expect to receive their recompence in the posthumous fame, which another age will certainly not assign to them. It is true that the instinctive feeling which induces almost every mind to view with reverence "the days of the years that are gone," may sometimes prevail to the disadvantage of the productions of a later period: some may be prevented by disappointment from yielding the meed of praise to those who have trodden more successfully in the same path with themselves; and others may possess minds so contracted and ungenerous, that they will commend none but those who have never been their competitors upon the stage of life. Of these motives, the latter are necessarily extremely limited in their influence; and the former is seldom sufficiently powerful to produce, to any extent, the alleged injustice; we may therefore fairly conclude, that the mass of persons being unbiassed in their

judgment, will pronounce an impartial opinion. Upon few subjects has this opinion been more unanimously expressed, than the present degenerate condition of the drama. It is allowed that there is no branch of English literature in which so little advance has been made since the seventeenth century, as in this. In every other department of poetry, illustrious names have been added to those by which the fame of our national genius was sustained. History has made such important progress, that we need no longer fear a comparison of our annals with those which contain the memorial of classic ages: and in philosophy all has been accomplished which profound investigation and enlightened minds could effect. The stage alone has failed to keep pace with this progressive attainment of excellence, and, in fact, has produced little which will not be totally obscured by the more splendid remains of an earlier period. In the reign of Elizabeth, when England was emerging from the darkness which the barbarous ages had left, dramatic amusements began to be cultivated with a degree of success which was unknown to the religious mysteries, and other scenic exhibitions of preceding times. A gaudy pageant was no longer sufficient to excite applause, but the people learned, from the sweet bard of Avon, to receive delight from the correct delineation of feeling and manners. The grimace of unmeaning buffoonery was exchanged for the sallies of genuine humour; and the unskilful interlude for the affecting representation of tragic distress. During this and the succeeding reign, the glory of the stage was supported by Shakspeare, Jonson, Massinger, and others of hardly inferior reputation. They gave to the English drama its character, and form, and left an example which other poets at intervals successfully imitated. From the puritans, however, the stage received an important check, and under the enervating influence of the luxurious and dissolute court of Charles, the severe spirit of the tragic muse rapidly declined. After this period, writers for some time occasionally appeared, who, although they were far from attaining to past excellence, proved that dramatic genius was not altogether lost. Rowe, Otway, and others, caught as it were the faint and lingering beams of a sun which was then sinking, and which has now become almost extinct. The present and preceding generations have produced some tragedies which, from their strength of sentiment and beauty of diction, will never fail to please in the closet, but little has been added to the splendour or dignity of the stage. To what cause this decline in an important branch of polite literature is to be assigned, is a question which has been frequently proposed,

and seems to present an insurmountable difficulty. We should, perhaps, best obtain a solution by attributing it to a combination of causes, each of which has had its weight in producing the effect. It may sound somewhat like a paradox, to assert that the very progress of civilization, and the more extensive diffusion of learning, has had an influence hostile to the advance of the drama. But, if we consider how much its excellence depends upon the lively and accurate delineation of nature, it will be readily allowed, that whatever calls off the attention from the observation of men to more abstract study, will be adverse to its success. The magnificent models of tragic beauty which Greece has transmitted to us, were produced in times when refinement had made small inroad upon the simplicity of early manners. Our own Shaks peare too, wrote in an age when learning was cultivated only by the few: books were a rare possession, and the talent for perusing them was still more unfrequent. He was compelled to present to his audience such sentiments as were drawn from a general observation of mankind; which required neither depth of research to discover, nor elegance of taste to comprehend. He was probably ignorant of the laws which the schools would have imposed upon him, and to this circumstance perhaps he owes much of his undisputed superiority over every rival. His disregard of the unities, for instance, has given rise to numberless scenes of exquisite beauty; and, since it has little effect în destroying an illu sion, which in no case can be complete, it will be observed as a defect by no one, unless by the critic, who reads only tỏ censure. The modern poet, on the other hand, well stored with rules which learning has supplied, is chiefly anxious not to offend against the refinement of a more cultivated audience. Strong and nervous expression is sacrificed to affec tation and fastidiousness, and in the care to avoid the imputation of ignorance, the artlessness and simplicity of nature is forgotten.

The chief objects of the drama are, to affect the feelings and to inform the heart. This will be far better accomplished by the most inartificial form in which human life is correctly pourtrayed, than by a splendid and polished piece to which this requisite is wanting. The latter will receive but cold acquiescence, the former will excite interest and delight.

The preservation of uniformity in their characters is another point in which recent dramatists are far inferior to their predecessors; and to this it may be partly ascribed, that the effect produced is so much less powerful. Among our early