never lost the feeling that he was born and endowed for better things. His wide and profound theological reading, his first-rate controversial powers, his mastery in the pulpit, and his instinctive and practised knowledge of man and human life, were just obtaining the ascendency, and on the eve of appearing in their true light, when a lingering and painful disease removed him.

His early productions were such as to indicate plainly the cast of character thus described. In the "House of Montorio," there is a vast exuberance of all the impulses of humanity, the young passions, fantasies and aspirations, dancing and eddying like the waters of a gushing fountain, and sparkling in the coloured light of romance. Plot, sentiment, character, and description, in an abundance that seems to mock the anxious effort of ordinary genius, and to perplex the youthful author with his own riches, mark the entire of this extraordinary production,— the extraordinary power of which is known to have called forth the admiration of Sir Walter Scott.

The

We pass the more regular and successful productions, which followed for some years, to the period of his successful debut as a dramatic author. We shall offer a few remarks on the state of the drama, when Bertram appeared. The drama had fallen into decay, and there was a state of existing circumstances unfavourable to its restoration. false taste of the public, the sordid illiberality of managers, the vanity and usurpation of the green-room, bore on the luckless author with a force which is only to be conceived by those who have experienced it, unless, like ourselves, they have had the luck to see M‘Lise's admirable painting of a scene from Gil Blas, in which all the amusing varieties of histrionic conceit and impertinence are drawn with more than poetic truth, flirting their vanity and gaudy airs in the face of a poor-devil author. The humane spirit of modern manners, and the improved pretensions of literature itself, forbid such displays in our times, the representation is but symbolical as applied to the present century,it is no more true to the letter, but it is not less so in spirit. The dramatic poet is subordinate to the actor. After he has shaped his plot, conceived and struck out his characters, and lavished his utmost skill in moulding their language to the truth of life and nature, he must place his workmanship at the mercy of the Roscius of the hour. The depth or shallowness of this gentleman's lungs must be allowed for,-the colour his complexion loves,—the character or the portrait his pride has drawn for him ;—the hero is to be great or small according to the stature of the stage Procrustes. We do not, in this language, mean to convey any censure on the class of actors, we only speak of a tendency and its results. In most cases, we are quite sure the actor is the better judge, perhaps the better poet;-he is, in fact, the chief agent in giving effect to dramatic representation: but this is itself in a measure the consequence of decline. And in whatever light it is to be viewed, as matter of praise or censure, there is no less truth in the application. The author has to keep stage effect uppermost upon his imagination, just in the passages where it should be forgotten ;-if Boots or the laundress is to appear, the author will perhaps be allowed to use his discretion; the dramatic personage will probably be no actor: but Hamlet or Richard would (had they not protection from the sanction of time)

be sadly tonsored and tailored in the green-room. Now the uncalculated effect of this is, that no mind of the higher order of power can or will accommodate itself to the requisition of the stage. No one but an actor can, under the conditions, write a tragedy for the stage with any fair chance of legitimate success. To construct the magnificent hocus pocus of a melo-drama, and to preserve the nice rules of stage effect, was, at the time to which these remarks are intended to apply, the whole art of the drama.

It was at this period that a very considerable impulse in the right direction was communicated to the dramatic art by Mr. Maturin's tragedy of Bertram. We shall not here venture on the attempt to assign the place of this striking and powerful piece in the critical scale of the British drama. It indicated no degeneracy of power, either for the poetry or the stage effect: and perhaps the skill and tact of the author is shown in the very departures from the more classical standard, as thus alone could the melo-dramatic taste of the period of its production be conciliated. By the instrumentality of Lord Byron, then among the committee of management in Drury Lane, it had the success it well deserved, and ran for upwards of thirty nights representation. The effect on Mr. Maturin's fortunes was not satisfactory: the remuneration was not proportional to the success. The deduction for expenses from the author's nights are considerable; and we have some recollection of the miscarriage of a remittance by which some amount of the author's profit was in some way lost. However it is to be accounted for, he was not very materially enriched by the transaction. If this were all, it would be comparatively of small moment; but it will be at once felt, and indeed is of frequent occurrence, that such a success must have seemed as the opening of a golden vein of fortune. The prospect of a ready income from literature had, at the time, much to give it probability,—it was the day of the Waverley novels, of Byron's poetry, the public hand seemed outstretched to reward the poet: the first gay whirl of excitement was no season for keen and severe scrutiny of chances, it brought that flattery against which no mortal mind is proof,—it brought the caresses and allurements of the world,-it brought tastes, wants, desires, and expenses; and, in the flush of the moment, it was but natural to count on a continued succession of similar achievements. But there were thoughts which did not obtrude, and were not sought for. The tragedy of Bertram was no birth of a day: it was a slow, careful, and deliberate work, on which the best power and skill of its author had been lavished ;- a tale often to be told of first works. While it was in hands, much of his force and energy had ebbed and the glare and wearing excitements of society accelerated this natural progress of human decline. When it came to the point of trial, Mr. Maturin soon discovered that the spontaneous fertility of his youth had in a great measure declined. With these almost unobserved and unconscious changes, the expectations by which he was deceived, led to embarrassment of circumstances,-many anxious cares helped to distract his spirit and scatter his powers of concentration. In place of the vivid conception, he had indeed acquired a stock of new images from life, and a certain command of the positions, groupings, characters, and excitement, which prevail in the haunts of society. These, however, were rather the

matter of the novelist than of the dramatic poet. The consequence of the whole was a very considerable diminution of effectual power, though none of intellectual skill, in the tragedies with which he endeavoured rather too hastily to follow up his 'fortune. Had his efforts been more deliberate and spontaneous, we do not doubt that his success would have borne some fair proportion to his great powers, which after the first great effort were never fairly tested. The tragedies which followed Bertram were "Manuel" and "Fredolpho." A fourth, of far more promise, and indicating more of pure poetic imagination than we had ascribed to the author, was never published, or (we believe) completed, and still remains in manuscript.

Of Mr. Maturin's novels we cannot now speak, unless from very inadequate recollection. They largely display all his peculiar genius, his romantic taste, his dramatic talent, and his command of the use of grouping and costume. By the common crowd of novel readers they were not truly appreciated; and perhaps the opinions commonly expressed in educated circles are not to be regarded so much as speaking the actual interest with which the tale is read, as the language of the theory held by the speaker, or which may prevail at the moment.

In the height of his success, Mr. Maturiu deeply felt that he was not in his true position. His talent and the admiration of his circle, as well as the circumstances in which he was placed, were to him as the current of a mighty stream, a fatal necessity from which he had not the means of escape. He felt a bitter yearning to escape into the studies and service of his profession. He often so expressed himself; but he was not believed, because he was not understood. There seldom indeed has been so little allowance made, but it could not well be otherwise. There was in his manner somewhat of a forced gaiety, which concealed a grave, earnest, and anxious mind :-he disdained to con.. ciliate the opinions of the world, though he would gladly be allowed to "win the wise."

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From this temper of mind, a struggle was sooner or later to be expected and such was indeed the result. He watched for the occasion, which could scarcely be long wanting to a man of his abilities. In 1824 he published six controversial sermons, which told with considerable effect, and displayed his powers as a pulpit orator, and his extensive reading.

It was not however permitted that the course thus well begun should be carried to a further issue. His bodily health had been exhausted by the labour of nerve and mind. A lingering and painful illness set in, and in a few months conducted him to a premature grave.

His published writings are his novels Montorio, Woman, Melmoth, the Albigenses, his tragedies, Bertram, Manuel, and Fredolpho,—a volume of sermons, and the six controversial discourses. He also contributed some very clever articles to the periodicals.

Rev. C. Dickenson, D.D., Bishop of Meath.

BORN 1792-died 1842.

THE late Bishop Dickenson was the son of a Cumberland gentleman, who had settled in the city of Cork. He was born in 1792. In his early years he is mentioned by his biographer* to have been remarkable for his docility and the gentleness and amiability of his disposition. He early evinced also a marked talent for computation. He was sent to school to Mr. Finney, and was a favourite both with his master and school-fellows. He was afterwards changed to other schools, in all of which he became distinguished both for ability, diligence, and good conduct.

In 1810 he entered college as a pensioner under Dr. Meredith. It may be received as a proof of the capacity he showed at this time, that his tutor strongly recommended him to study for the bar, as the high road to fame and fortune. He however already felt the influence of a better election, and fixed his mind on the sacred calling.

In college his talent and industry continued to meet its due reward, —although, as his biographer observes, "he was no longer to possess the same monopoly of honours to which he had been accustomed." It will be sufficient explanation to say, that Hercules Graves and J. T. O'Brien† were in the class. Magee, then professor of mathematics, struck with his mathematical talent, persuaded him to “ pass from the class in which he then was to attend his lectures in a higher class."

He obtained a scholarship in 1813. He had been easily set down as a fellowship man, by public opinion in college: and such was the course he had selected for himself. But with the strong good sense, which formed no small portion of his character, he had resolved not to sit until he should feel that he had taken reasonable time and pains to ensure success. His friends thought otherwise, they placed a reliance on his talents, which led them to urge a trial which must, in most cases, be considered premature. He yielded to their pressing instances; and with a doubtful mind, and after considerable oscillation of purpose, went into the hall at the fellowship examinations of 1817. Notwithstanding these disadvantages, his answering was such as to be considered in a high degree promising. A first sitting, as Mr. West observes, is mostly considered experimental. Where it is not so, there is either very extraordinary ability, or, as often occurs, long previous preparation: and we should suppose that decided success was not expected to be the result of Dickenson's first trial. He was the junior candidate and he had against him Gannon, who had already sat three times, Purdon, Hincks, and Phelan, all considerably his seniors, and well known for attainment and ability long before his bachelor's degree, and, indeed, some of them before his entrance. Notwithstanding these disadvantages, he came off with distinction, and with the praise of Brinkley-itself no light honour.

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*The Rev. John West, D.D., vicar of St. Anne's, Dublin, Chaplain to the Archbishop of Dublin.

Since Bishop of Ossory.

It may

be viewed as a matter of course that more decided success must have followed in the usual course. But before the next fellowship examination, two years afterwards, he had formed an attachment and entered into an engagement which was not consistent with a further prosecution of a purpose of which years of celibacy was one of the consequent conditions. His affections had become engaged to Miss Russel, sister to archdeacon Russel, his friend and class-fellow.

In

In consequence of this incident he entered into holy orders, and took charge of the curacy of Castleknock, near Dublin, for one year. the following year he obtained the assistant chaplaincy of the Magdalene Asylum in Leeson-street; and in the next, on the resignation of the Rev. James Dunne, he filled his place of chaplain.

In 1820 his marriage took place. In 1821 he resigned the chaplaincy of the asylum, and soon after received and accepted an offer of that of the Female Orphan House.

As Dr. Dickenson has been once or twice assailed on the score of subserviency, (we never could see why,) it is important to observe, what otherwise we should not consider necessary to bring into prominent notice, that his adherence to his own views of what was right, "restrained him from affording his friend, the archbishop of Dublin [Dr. Magee], that degree of co-operation which his grace, naturally enough, expected from one whom he had distinguished by such friendly advances.' No one, who is aware of the extent of archbishop Magee's regard for Dickenson, can entertain any doubt that his preferment must have been immediate on the translation of that able prelate to the see of Dublin. There was indeed another curious cause for the same erroneous impression, the very remarkable amenity of Dr. Dickenson's temper, countenance, and deportment, and his extreme readiness to enter into the interests even of those with whom he had but slight acquaintance, were little to be reconciled with the selfish and suspicious ways of worldly men, and could not fail to receive harsh interpretations whenever he should become the subject of party discussion. Censure, when it assails the character, finds virtues even more ready than vices for its attack: they are more openly borne, and the shaft is less likely to recoil. There was indeed, and this we are enabled to affirm on personal experience, no change in Dr. Dickenson's professions of opinion in later times. It was at a period antecedent to the earliest of the incidents here referred to, that we can well recollect to have been party to discussions at the apartments of a common friend in which, on more than once occasion, the main principles of that line of opinion and public conduct with which he was afterwards identified, were broadly stated and discussed. Somewhat, indeed, he may have altered in the usual course of human experience, but certainly nothing that could change the general line of conduct or party involved in the views he then maintained.

As Mr. Dickenson's increasing family required some addition to his resources, he supplied the demand by taking pupils, a step facilitated by his high college reputation. Of the manner in which he acquitted himself of the duty thus undertaken, there is the best testimony in the frequent acknowledgments of those who were so fortunate as to have received that advantage.