ABSTRACT
If the French Theatre lives upon murders, the English exists upon robberies; it steals every thing it can lay its hands upon; to-day it filches a French farce, tomorrow it becomes sacrilegious, and commits a burglary on the Bible. The most honest of our writers turn up their noses at the rogues who steal from foreigners, and with a spirit of lofty patriotism confine their robberies to the literature of their own country. There have been many reasons for the present deterioration of dramatic literature to be ascribed solely to the state of the laws. The political agitation of the times is peculiarly unfavourable to the arts: when people are busy, they are not eager to be amused. The poet of the drama hath no restrictions on his imagination from the deficiency of skill to embody corporeally his creations, and that which the epic poet can only describe by words, the tragic poet can fix into palpable and visible life.
