་ the Deity descends from his throne and goes out: Lucifer usurps it, and asks the angels "Gay felows, how semys now me?" The good and bad angels disagree as to his appearance; but the dispute is terminated by the return of the Deity, who expels Satan and his adherents from heaven. Adam and Eve are then created in Paradise, and this piece ends with a speech from Satan, lamenting their felicity. Of the temptation and fall of man we hear nothing, the second play relating to the murder of Abel. It is opened by Cain's ploughboy, called Garçon, with a sort of prologue, in which, among other things, he warns the spectators to be silent. It opens thus: All hayll, all hayll, both blithe and glad, "For here com I, a mery lad. "Be peasse youre dyn, my masters bad, "Felowes, here I you forbede "To make nother nose ne cry: "Whoso is so hardy to do that dede, "The devill hang hym up to dry." 'Cain enters with a plough and a team, one of his mares being named "Donnyng:" he quarrels with the Garçon, because he will not drive for him, after which Abel arrives, and wishes that "God may speed Cain, and his man."-Cain replies unceremoniously, desiring his brother to kiss the least honourable part of his person. The murder afterwards takes place, and Cain hides himself: "Deus. Cayn, Cayn! Cayn. Who is that callis me? "I am yonder, may thou not se. 64 Cayn. "Who so were ther then myght he se." 'Cain, having been cursed, calls the boy and beats him "but to use his hand:" he acknowledges that he has slain his brother, and the boy advises running away, lest " the bayles us take." This is followed by some gross buffoonery, Cain making a mock proclamation" in the King's name," and the boy repeating it blunderingly after him. Cain sends him away with the plough and horses, and ends the pageant with a speech to the spectators, bidding them farewell for ever, before he goes to the devil.'-vol. ii. pp. 157-159. After treating very copiously of the Miracle-plays, the author follows up the history of the drama through the "Moralities," to the period when it became conversant with the real or supposed characters of actua! life. He then proceeds to give a full account of the dramatic predecessors of Shakespeare, which is characterized by his wonted research, and great critical acumen. The most popular portion of the work is, however, compressed in a few pages towards the close of the third volume, in which many interesting chit-chat details are collected concerning the perform ance of plays. From these particulars it would appear, that the dramatic representations which were carried on in the inn-yards in the city, as well as in the public theatres afterwards, generally took place in the day-time. At the public theatres, such as the Fortune and Red Bull, the prices of admission varied from sixpence to twopence, the latter being in general the rate for the galleries. In the time of Shakespeare, the price of admission to the best boxes was one shilling. It was the practice of the day for young men of fashion to sit upon the stage, upon a stool or tripos, for which the same sum was commonly paid. At this period it would seem, that moveable painted scenery had not been much, if at all, used in the theatres. Steeples, rocks, tombs and trees, and other such articles, were, however, frequently introduced upon the stage, and the gods and godesses were lowered from their heaven, and elevated to it, by means of pullies. If it had not been convenient to represent to the eye a town or a house, the name was simply written upon a board, and that was deemed sufficient. Until after the Restoration, the curtains, which were usually composed of arras and worsted, ran upon a rod in front of the stage, and opened in the centre. The stage, in which there were trap doors, was usually strewed with rushes; upon extraordinary occasions it was matted. Each theatre had a sign outside it, and when the performances were about to begin, and while they continued, a flag was hoisted at the top, to give notice. Inigo Jones is said to be the first inventor of moveable scenes in this country, which do not appear to have been frequently introduced upon the stage until the reign of Charles I. Even then the custom continued of writing in large letters upon the scene, not only the name of the place in which the action was laid, but also the title of the play. In the regular theatres, the performances commenced about three o'clock in the afternoon, and seldom were extended beyond the period of two hours, only one dramatic piece being represented, which was generally followed by a jig, "the more cheerfully to dismiss the spectators." The jig was not a mere dance, in the sense which we attach to the term. It seems,' says Mr. Collier, 'to have been a ludicrous composition in rhyme, sung, or said, by the clown, and accompanied by dancing and playing upon the pipe and tabor.' In the earliest period of the stage, the announcement of the intention to exhibit theatrical performances was made by sound of trumpet, by persons called vexillators, who were employed for that purpose. The same purpose was accomplished by beat of drum, a practice which we ourselves witnessed in the country, not many years ago. Soon after the invention of printing, however, bills were introduced. Dramatic poets, many of whom were also actors, were admitted into the theatres gratis. When plays were first printed, those in blank verse were printed in the form of prose, in order to economise the page, and render the book saleable at a popular price. The copyright of a play was, in 1612, about £12, and at that period, those who were ambitious of having a play dedicated to them, paid £2 for the honour. The actors, at least the principal members of the company, were generally share-holders, and the profits of the establishment were divided amongst them by way of salary. Music seems to have been introduced into theatres from a very early period. ART. VI.-An Essay on the Origin and Prospects of Man. In three volumes. 8vo. By Thomas Hope. London: Murray. 1831. It was pretty generally known in the literary circles, that for several years before his death, Mr. Hope had given himself up, without a thought of any other occupation, to philosophical and metaphysical pursuits, and that it was his intention to present to the world the result of his labours. There was something more than commonly interesting in the expectations which were formed, from the application of such a mind as his, to subjects which now so rarely engage the attention of learned men, and which have, hitherto, been treated in an unsatisfactory manner. The spectacle of a gentleman of distinguished rank and ample fortune, who had already gained an enviable celebrity in letters, who was surrounded by all the luxuries which this life could bestow,-a splendid country seat in the bosom of the most enchanting scenery; a wife whom he worshipped, a family which he tenderly loved; society of the most intellectual, as well as the most fashionable description; an extensive library; numerous works of art of the most exquisite character, the spectacle of a highly accomplished individual, thus withdrawing from the most attractive scenes of life, and devoting himself with ardour, for many years, to the contemplation of the origin and prospects of his fellow-creatures, was calculated greatly to augment the general curiosity, and to prepare us to receive a bequest, made under the solemn sanction of the tomb, with the greatest respect. 'I have already,' says the author, in his Introduction, during the best period of my existence, not only sacrificed social enjoyments to recluse studies, but, moreover, in doing so, greatly impaired my health, and thus lessened my chance of a prolonged existence. I may thus with reason apprehend that by trying to do much better than I have thus far done-by delaying for that purpose much longer to communicate the fruits of my laboursmy days may come to an end before my task is completed. I therefore prefer publishing what still remains full of flaws and imperfections, to what, more elaborately finished, might only be doomed to follow me to the grave.' Hence it is impossible not to give Mr. Hope credit, for the utmost sincerity of desire to promote by his labours the general welfare of mankind. Indeed, whatever we, or others, may think of the moral tendency of many of his opinions; however inconsistent they may be with the facts disclosed, and the doctrines inculcated, in the Sacred Writings, we should deeply wound our own feelings, were we to animadvert upon the very peculiar theories which are maintained in this treatise, in the language of severity. If they be wrong, it is evident that the author strenuously and uniformly endeavoured to be right. There was not a particle of malignity in his disposition. Though he broaches opinions, often at variance with those which are entertained upon the authority of Holy Writ, and though his ideas, upon many points of doctrine, be distinct from those, which the Redeemer came on earth to establish, yet we may say with truth that Mr. Hope always writes in the spirit of a Christian philosopher. His charity is unbounded, and knows of no distinction of persons. He holds out motives for the cultivation of virtue and for aversion from vice, which, to many minds, may carry the force of conviction. Those motives are not founded upon the basis of religion; and so far they must be considered not only imperfect, but liable to condemnation. At the same time, we must acknowledge how very different the work of such a writer as this is from those of a Rousseau, or a D'Alembert. Though Mr. Hope seems to have believed that we might have discovered all it would be useful to us to know, concerning our origin and prospects, and might have fixed upon adequate rules of moral conduct, though we had never received the Bible, yet he would deprive us of none of the consolations which the sacred volume affords. An enthusiastic, and, perhaps, too curious an inquirer, in a sphere bounded on all sides by clouds and darkness, he would seek to lead us to the same results as the Bible does, though by a path of his own formation, or rather, as he thought, of his own discovery. His object was at least amiable, if it be not worthy of praise and imitation. But we shall more than once have reason to lament his want of success in attaining it, and to pity that excessive pride of a fine intellect, which, attempting to execute things far beyond the scope of its limited powers, falls from its towering height, confounded by its ineffectual struggles, and debased by them almost to the wretched state of madness. Gratuitous hypothesis supplies the place of ascertained data; imagination of reason, chimera of inference, and wild and visionary abstractions are set down as consistent and practical theories. The author tells us that he believes in revelation, yet he thinks that the men through whom revelation was made, might be deceived, or might deceive, as he cannot suppose that they differed in any respect from himself. Solicitous, therefore, as he was, that his life here should be prolonged to a happier existence hereafter, he sought ground for his belief of a future state, not in revelation merely, but in the unerring course of that nature which, when rightly viewed, admits of no deceit.' In other words, he was of opinion, that natural religion was a much safer one than the religion of the Scriptures, and he conceived that his own reason, acting by reflection on the objects around him, would arrive, ultimately, at the same results, as those to which revelation points, with this difference, that his conclusions would be more satisfactory and more certain, because they would be attained by the exercise of his own intellectual powers. Such being the course which he proposed to himself to pursue, he sets out with making an admission, which destroys at once the whole foundation of his theory, namely, that he advances nothing as an absolute certainty. That,' he very truly says, 'of which man may be actually certain, amounts to very little!' If this be so, what greater satisfaction, what greater certainty can be attained, by means of the human intellect acting independently of revelation, than in conjunction with it? At most, he admits, our circle of knowledge that is free from error, is limited to sensations of mere time and space-of_quantity and number-of touch, taste, smell, hearing, and sight. Even with respect to these sensations, many philosophers have doubted whether we really do acquire any thing like certainty. The sensations of time and space, we submit, are more liable to error than almost any other that we experience. Those who are pleasantly occupied, think and feel that their hours are minutes; while the idle and unhappy believe that their minutes are hours. As to sensations of space, what can be more deceptive than they? not to speak of the variations of taste and smell, which, to different persons, convey so many dissentient ideas, that it is ludicrous to speak of their amounting to certainty.' Certainty is truth, and truth is uniform. But if the taste, for instance, tell one man that an object is agreeable, and another that it is disagreeable, there is here no uniformity, no truth, no certainty. Such is the miserable basis upon which this philosopher erects the fabric of his speculations. As a very natural consequence of this process, instead of bringing his arguments to a fixed and invariable conclusion, he confesses that more than once he had drawn ultimate conclusions, 'wholly opposite to those which he had previously expected to establish!" Instead however, of favouring the world with the conclusions so drawn, he preferred going back to his premises, and remodelling them in every part, until, at length, the system of his reasoning assumed an appearance of consistency, at least, whatever may be said of certainty. We are astonished that the experience which Mr. Hope thus acquired of the fallibility of his own mind, did not convince him that it was incompetent, as every mind must be, unaided by revelation, to deal with such a subject as that which he proposed for examination and developement. Whatever system' he says, 'I might already, through dint of much labour, have reared, has again been unhesitatingly sacrificed to the love of truth, the moment that truth seemed to lean on the side of another system, opposite to the former, more probable and better founded. Even when I had, as I thought, attained the very conclusion of my |