the Israelites, this, the awful catastrophe of their national drama, had been distinctly foretold. Prophet followed prophet to awaken and encourage the devotion, or to rebuke the coldness and chastise the backslidings of the chosen people, and each in his turn pointed with a mournful but a steady finger to the same final overwhelming calamity. At length the long series of prophets terminated in the Son of God, and he, more clearly and decidedly than any that had gone before him, announced to the devoted nation the now near and impending consummation of their destiny. Of the many that heard and scorned his prediction, not a few lived to witness with their own eyes, and to share in their own persons, the terrors of its fulfilment; while far different was the fate of those that had embraced the glad tidings brought by the Prince of Peace, and obeyed the distinct warning, "flee ye to the mountains;" for the page of history testifies, that not one Christian Jew was a partaker in the last miseries of the beleaguered and captured city of his fathers. A more visible-a more sublime example of the completion of prophecy has never been exhibited to the world, nor shall any such ever be exhibited, until (as the poet before us has very skilfully and powerfully suggested throughout the whole tenor of his performance) that last great day shall arrive, wherein it shall be manifested to the eyes of men and angels, that the downfall of Jerusalem was but the type and symbol of the closing catastrophe of all earthly things.

Grand and magnificent, however, as Mr Milman's subject must be admitted to be, it still remains a matter of some doubt with us, whether he judged well when he resolved to treat it in a dramatic form of composition. That a subject may be sublime and imposing, and in itself highly poetical, and yet not well adapted for the drama, has already been shown abundantly in the history of literary enterprise; and we are not prepared to say that Mr Milman has not followed many illus trious predecessors, in mistaking that for a tragic which by nature was more properly fitted to be an epic or a lyrical theme. In spite of all the genius of Eschylus the incidents properly arising out of the situation of Thebes as a besieged city, do

not affect the imagination as peculiarly adapted for dramatic representation. The passions and the situations are too general and too much diffused over multitudes to be truly dramatic; for in that species of composition, the principal element of success has always been found in the happy delineation of a fine play of thought and sentiment in individual characters. Now, in the piece before us, there is no essential train of incidents regularly engendered out of the affections and relations of individuals, and consequently there is not much of consecutive personal interest extending through the whole course of the drama. The passions of the individual characters are vigorously expressed, and their sufferings are deliheated with an appalling and commanding mastery of imagination, but all these are but so many detached pictures, for they lead to nothing, and the catastrophe comes on without any dependence upon them. And these circumstances, although they had not occurred to the poet when he was laying the plan of his work, have evidently, we think, exerted a great influence over him in the execution of it,

for-although the Fall of Jerusalem be in form a dramatic piece the reader, who pauses after perusing it to consider by what passages he has been most pleased, will, we rather suppose, have little hesitation in deciding, that these, with scarcely one exception, are all specimens, not of proper tragic dialogue, but of magnificent epic description or of high lyrical inspiration, either pathetic or sublime.

We shall have enough to say hereafter on the beauties of this poem, but since we have begun with mentioning its defects, it may be as well to say here, once for all, that-granting the Fall of Jerusalem to have been an admirable subject not only for poetical embellishment, but even for dramatic embellishment-Mr Milman would still have done wrong in making, as he has done, the chief substance of his drama to consist of a delineation of the contending elements of the later Jewish fanaticism. It is not possible that we should give the fulness of our sympathy to beings stained with all human vices, of whose character the only tolerable trait lies in their firm adherence to an outworn and supplanted system of religious belief. The three principal male characters introduced

by Mr Milman excite no deep interest-they neither fix the attention nor keep hold of it. The disputes between Simon the Pharisee and John the Sadducee are in general coldly conducted, although there is one passage in which the denier of the doctrine of resurrection expresses, with a masterly energy, his mode of thinking in regard to the pleasures of life. But, indeed, what we have said concerning the dramatic imperfection of Mr Milman's composition, must be understood with many exceptions in favour of particular passages. Throughout there are scattered many fine touches expressive of the obstinate and infatuated hopes of the Jews, that they were soon to be delivered from all their miseries by some direct interposition of heavenly aid. Their hatred-their scorn of the Roman power is depicted so as to produce a very striking effect. The last remains of long cherished faith and confidence are seen fermenting and maddening a people whom God has abandoned. Their faith, not being answered by any divine protection, produces only a wild delirium of zeal, which destroys the balance of all natural feelings, and hurries the stubborn misbelievers into every species of dark and bloody atrocity. Had these circumstances been made to come before us more distinctly in the portraiture of individual minds, and had the action of the fable been made to hinge more closely upon what goes on by means of its persons, there can be little doubt that Mr Milman might have produced a far more perfect poem than he has done. But we are criticising too much where there is so much room to admire. Our apology must be found in our respect for the genius of our young poet, and our anxiety to see him as free from faults as he is already rich in beauties.

The tragedy opens on the evening preceding the last night of the siegeTitus and his Roman officers survey the beleaguered city from the Mount of Olives, as it lies before them gleaming in the rich golden light of that fatal sunset. The splendour of this antique capital is set forth in one of the speeches with prodigious luxury of diction, though, after all, the poet's enthusiasm scarcely carries him beyond the sorrowful historic majesty of the lamentation of Josephus. In that, and in some other passages we are about

to quote, the language appears to be chosen with exquisite skill, and is often put together with a fine gloss;but, as we have said already, it is in passages purely descriptive that such praise is most frequently due to Mr Milman. We shall begin with this beautiful speech.

"Tit. It must beAnd yet it moves me, Romans! it confounds The counsels of my firm philosophy, That Ruin's merciless ploughshare must pass o'er,

As on our olive-crowned hill we stand,
And barren salt be sown on yon proud city.
Where Kedron at our feet its scanty waters
Distils from stone to stone with gentle
motion,

As through a valley sacred to sweet peace, How boldly doth it front us! how majestically!

Like a luxurious vineyard, the hill side
Is hung with marble fabrics, line o'er line,

Terrace o'er terrace, nearer still, and nearer To the blue heavens. Here bright and sumptuous palaces,

With cool and verdant gardens interspers'd; Here towers of war that frown in massy strength.

While over all hangs the rich purple eve,
As conscious of its being her last farewell
Of light and glory to that fated city.
And, as our clouds of battle dust and smoke
Are melted into air, behold the Temple,
In undisturb'd and lone serenity
Finding itself a solemn sanctuary
In the profound of heaven!
fore us

It stands be

rial Titus,

Of late esteem'd thee at the height of those That with consummate wisdom have tamed down

The fierce and turbulent passions which dis

tract

The vulgar soul: they deemed that, like Olympus,

Thou, on thy cold and lofty eminence, Severely didst maintain thy sacred quiet Above the clouds and tumult of low earth. But now we see thee stooping to the thral

dom

Of every fierce affection, now entranced
In deepest admiration, and anon
Wrath hath the absolute empire o'er thy
soul,

Methinks we must unschool our royal pupil,
And cast him back to the common herd of

men.

Tit. 'Tis true, Diagoras; yet wherefore ask not,

For vainly have I question'd mine own rea

son :

But thus it is-I know not whence or how,
There is a stern command upon my soul.
I feel the inexorable fate within
That tells me, carnage is a duty here,
And that the appointed desolation chides
the tardy vengeance of our war. Diagoras,
If that I err, impeach my tenets. Destiny
Is over all, and hard Necessity
Holds o'er the shifting course of human
things

Her paramount dominion. Like a flood
The irresistible stream of fate flows on,
And urges in its vast and sweeping motion
Kings, Consuls, Cæsars, with their mightiest

armies,

Each to his fix'd inevitable end.

Yea, even eternal Rome, and Father Jove,
Sternly submissive, sail that onward tide.
And now am I upon its rushing bosom,
I feel its silent billows swell beneath me,
Bearing me and the conquering arms of
Rome

'Gainst yon devoted city.

There is something exquisitely just as well as poetical in the idea which this passage unfolds of Titus, as being vehemently impelled towards the destruction of the city by an inward feeling for which he cannot account. This idea is the happiest that could have been selected for meeting us at the opening of the piece but, perhaps, it might have been still better if Titus had not reasoned upon the impulse which he feels, or appeared to consider it as any thing that required to be accounted for. It would

have produced a still stronger effect if he had merely shewn a determined enthusiasm of vengeance-of such a nature as to appear unusual and remarkable to those about him, but not to himself. He that is made the instrument of a preternatural and extraneous impulsion, such as that which hastened the footstep of Titus to the ruins of the temple, should not be represented as perceiving, in the midst of these inpoured energies, that he is feeling any thing more than the circumstances in which he is visibly placed are calculated to produce. Jove sails on, unquestioning, upon the tide of Fate-it becomes not Titus to speculate too much on the impulses of his own minor progress. The idea swathed and shrouded in the stern unof Destiny is nothing unless it be kept approachable darkness of relentless gloom.-It sways, grasps, and hurries on the whole existence of its instruments-it does not divide the soulit does not leave one part of the impelled spirit to theorize on the movements of the rest. The whole man is bound in his heavenly fetters-and his whole powers should have been represented as swallowed up in one blind overwhelming energy of human will, strung high to more than earthly enthusiasm.

While the Roman draws, closer and closer, his "imprisoning wall" without-the Jews within are divided by a thousand bigotries of contending sects and parties, and the want of cordiality among their leaders, is made the instrument to prevent them from executing any combined movement, or taking up any one rational scheme of defence. In this last night of the siege, the elements of their disunion are represented as more jarring than ever. The bitterness of defeat exasperates them not more against the common enemy than internally against themselves. In spite of the proud hopes which still awaken from time to time in their bosoms, the heaped up tide of their calamity begins to slacken their confidence in the misinterpreted prophecies whereon they had hitherto relied. A spirit of incipient Infidelity mingles itself visibly in the workings of their maddened souls. The high priest complains that his ephod and mitre command no respect among the furious disputants whose business it is to defend the temple of the Lord.Rage, hunger, despair, stir every

bosom into a storm;-and when, at length, Heaven begins to pour forth prodigy on prodigy, and omen on omen, all full of thickening darkness -we feel that the waywardness of Man has already been preparing all things for the doom of the Almighty; and that the catastrophe, sudden and awful as it is, can scarcely surprize even those that are involved in its tempestuous visitation. The last prodigy is that recited by the High Priest himself-the audible, not visible desertion of the temple by the tutelary angels of the place and when it is told, we perceive that all is completed.

Upon a sudden

The pavement seemed to swell beneath my feet,

And the veil shiver'd, and the pillars rock'd. And there, within the very Holy of Holies, There, from behind the winged Cherubim, Where the Ark stood, noise, hurried and

tumultuous,

Was heard, as when a king with all his host
Doth quit his palace. And anon, a voice,
Or voices, half in grief, half anger, yet
Nor human grief nor anger, even it seem'd
As though the hoarse and rolling thunder
spake

With the articulate voice of man, it said,
"LET US DEPART !"

Amidst all the terrible spectacles exhibited in the beleaguered city, a delightful relief is ever and anon afforded by the underplot of Miriam and Javan-the conception and execution of which will form, we suspect, the most lasting charm of the poem. The Pharisee leader, Simon, has two daughters, both young and beautifulthe elder, Salone, of a high and enthusiastic temper, loves, with all the oriental warmth of imagination and passion, Amariah, a young Jewish hero, in whom, along with her father, the last hopes of the perishing nation are centred. She sits every day upon the ramparts of the city, her black locks thrown back from her front, and devouring with her eyes the blaze of the perpetual contest, where the path of her impetuous lover is marked by tenfold desolation. In the last night of the siege, Abiram, a false prophet, commands, in the name of the Most High, that the nuptials of this pair be immediately celebrated, and the mandate is listened to with applause by all the assembled leaders, who still entertain a shadow of hope that the Messiah is about to make his appearance, and kindle at the suggestion, that the daughter of Simon and the bride of Amariah

may be likely, above all others of her tribe, to be the favoured mother of the mysterious infant. The bridal is held forthwith, in the house of the old Pharisee, and the last cup of wine is shed in its festive celebration.— Youths and maidens sing the nuptial song, full of all the old pride of their people, and the bridegroom is ushered into "the chamber of his rest," with a tumult of joy that contrasts fearfully with the general gloom all around the city and the habitation. While the song is yet prolonged, the final assault of Titus takes place at that moment the angels desert the holy of holies,— and the whole of the city is wrapt in an instant in the darkness of its last agony. Could our limits permit us, we might quote many passages of the highest splendour from this part of the younger sister Miriam, and her the poem, but we prefer the episode of lover, Javan.

Javan is a Christian, and previous to the siege, had retreated with those of his faith to the safety of the mountainous region beyond Jerusalem. But Miriam, although she has embraced the creed of her lover, refuses to quit her father in the hour of his distress, and undergoes, in the strength of filial devotion, her share of all the calamities of the siege. Javan, however, meets her every night at the fountain of Siloe, to which she descends from the city wall by an old overgrown path-way in the rock, known only to herself and her sister. Here they interchange the renewal of their vows, but Miriam resists every importunity of her lover to flee from the ruin-stricken city. He brings to her a nightly offering of fruits, which she receives, for the secret solace of her father after his fatigues in the daily battle-while, wasted and worn out, she herself awaits in firm but gentle submissiveness, that hour of doom from whose terrors she has no hope to escape.-We must quote the first introduction of these lovers.

The Fountain of Siloe-Night.

BIRTHS.

Jan. 2. At Quebec, the lady of James Kerr, Esq. Judge of the Court of King's Bench, a son.

15. At Gibraltar, the lady of Major Thos. Fyers, royal engineers, a son.

Feb. 20. At Loanhead, the lady of the late R. Riccalton, Esq. surgeon, R. N. a daughter. 26. Mrs N. W. Robertson, a daughter. Mrs Grey, Minto-street, a son.

28. At Galashiels, Mrs Dickson, a son.

At Reading, Berks, the lady of LieutenantColonel Wemyss, a son and heir.

At Deal, the lady of Captain M'Culloch, of his Majesty's ship Severn, a son.

29. The lady of Alexander Grant, Esq. Adamstreet, Adelphi, a son.

March 1. At Edinburgh, the lady of Alexander Norman M'Leod, Esq. of Harris, a daughter. -At Teviot-bank, the Honourable Mrs Elliot, a daughter.

2. At Parkhouse, Mrs Gordon, a son.

5. At Edinburgh, the lady of Major-General the Hon. Alexander Duff, a daughter.

At Ladyland, Mrs Cochran, a daughter. 8. The lady of Major Martin, Broughton-place, Edinburgh, a daughter.

9. At Dundalk, Ireland, the lady of Major Wallace, of the King's dragoon guards, a son.

10. At Paisley, the lady of Captain Tronson, 13th regiment, a son.

11. At Shandwick-place, Edinburgh, the lady of Thomas M'Kenzie, a son.

12. Mrs Yule, Broughton-place, Edinburgh, a

a son.

ter.

14. At Ayr, Mrs Fullarton of Skeldon, a daugh

15. In Lower Grosvenor-street, London, the Rt. Hon. Lady Catherine Whyte Melville, a daughter. 16. In Edinburgh-castle, the lady of Lieut. Johnstone, 26th regiment, a son.

-At Perth, Mrs Latta, spouse of Dr Latta, physician there, a still-born son.

17. At Marienville, Mrs Dudgeon, a son.

At Albany-street, North Leith, Mrs Thomas Robertson, a son.

-At Mungall-cottage, Stirlingshire, the wife of Lieutenant Charles Smith, R. N. a son.

18. In Great Portland-street, London, the lady of William Anderson, Esq. a son.

19. In Bedford-square, London, the lady of A. Spottiswoode, Esq. a daughter.

20. At Pilrig-house, Mrs Balfour, a son. -At Great King-street, Edinburgh, Mrs Crawfurd of Cartsburn, a son.

29. At Jamaica-street, Mrs Duncan Ballentine, a daughter.

MARRIAGES.

Feb. 28. At Bonnington-house, Lanarkshire, Sir Charles Macdonald Lockhart, of Lee and Carn

wath, to Emilia Olivia Ross, daughter of the late General Sir Charles Ross, Bart. of Balnagowan.

29. At Edinburgh, Lieut. D. Macfarlan, late of the rifle brigade, to Jane, eldest daughter of Johu Drummond, Esq.

March 1. At Aberdeen, the Rev. Alex. Cushnie, Strachan, to Ann, eldest daughter of the late Rev. Alexander Robertson, minister of Coull.

Lieut.-Colonel Colquhoun Grant, Forres, to Margaret, second daughter of James Brodie, Esq. 2. At Edinburgh, Major Balmain, of the Hon. East India Company's service, to Jane, third daughter of the late Forest Dewar, Esq.

5. At her brother's house, of Straloch, Aberdeenshire, Mrs William Brebner, to H. George Leslic, Esq. of Denlugas.

6. At Liverpool, Alexander Hunter, Esq. to Catharine, second daughter of William Carson, Esq. merchant.

-At Edinburgh, by the Rev. John Campbell, Selkirk, James Cross, Esq. St John's, Newfoundland, to Barbara, third daughter of Mr Laidlaw, Johnston's-place, Stockbridge.

-At Glasgow, Mr Dundas Smith, surgeon in Saltcoats, to Margaret Sarah, daughter of the late Robert Thomson, Esq. of Jamaica.

7. At Scotscraig-house, Captain Hugh Lyon Playfair, of the Honourable East India Company's service, to Jane, youngest daughter of William Dalgleish, Esq. of Scotscraig.

8. At Edinburgh, Captain M'Queen, of the Honourable East India Company's service, to Mary, eldest daughter of the deceased John Moir, Esq. of Hillfoot.

11. At Beaconsfield-church, the Honourable Charles Augustus Fitzroy, eldest son of LieutenantGen. Lord Charles Fitzroy, to Lady Mary Lennox, daughter of the late Duke of Richmond.

13. At Wells, Alexander Fraser, Esq. of Thavis Inn, London, to Eliza, second daughter of Robert Brooks, Esq. of Coxley, Gloucestershire.

At Greenock, Mr Thomas Boyd, Dublin, to Mary, eldest daughter of Mr John Pringle, Bottlework, Greenock.

At Leith, William Henry Roberts, Esq. Albany, Surrey, to Anne, daughter of John Crawford, Esq. Leith.

14. At Taunton, Robert Grant, Esq. of the 4th light dragoons, youngest son of Sir Arch. Grant, Bart. of Monymusk, Aberdeenshire, to Charlotte, youngest daughter of the late William Walter Yea, Esq. of Pyrland-hall, in the county of Somerset.

16. At Niddry, Mid-Lothian, Mr Robert Handyside, Fisherrow, to Marion, eldest daughter of the late Mr Robert Young.

17. W. G. M'Knight, Esq. of Green-castle, Jamaica, to Eliza, youngest daughter of T. Manners, Esq. of the Crescent, Minories.

At Newington, Mr William M'Candlish, to Felicite Leslie, daughter of John M'Gregor, Esq. 18. Captain Robert Anderson, 91st regiment, to Charlotte Erskine, eldest daughter of the late J. P. Wade, M. D. of the Honourable East India Company's service.

20. At Kirkcudbright, Benjamin Welsh, M. D. Haddington, to Jane Blair, youngest daughter of the late Rev. Dr Mutter, Kirkcudbright.