jection and exclamation, whereby their otherwise monotonous result upon the ear is enlivened.* I know very well how a Dramatist of the Day would have treated the subject; I know it as well as if I were sitting on his pineal, along with his soul: this is exactly what he would have done,-divided the whole dialogue into half a dozen speeches, the mid-ones of which would consist of some certain verses good for nothing but to waste the vocabulary, and the others would comprise everything that could be said or sung upon marble-beauty, all of which would pour forth from the orator's lips, in one shape, and with one uniform sound, like water from the mouth of a fountain-lion.

The plot of this tragedy is defective; ingeniously so: for it consists of two plots, put together with such unhappy artifice, that neither has as much connexion with the other, as the moon with the tide in a cup of wine. This tragedy is, in fact, under one name, two short tragedies, each of which is incessantly obstructing the progress of the other. An underplot in a drama should follow the same rule as an episode in an heroic poem,-it should forward the principal story. In the present tragedy, the underplot (which is taken from the Curious Impertinent in Don Quixote) seems to have been constructed by the artist, with a view to make a modern Aristotle grin with spite, at seeing the above great rule violated with as much industry as it should be preserved. There is also but little delineation of character in The Second Maiden's Tragedy; and what little there is, merits no praise for its accuracy: Thus, the Tyrant is endued with several incompatible dispositions, tenderness and cruelty, refinement and insensibility. Who ever wrote the author's name, William Shakspeare, in the title page, wrote himself liar, at the same time, -for Shakspeare could never have been so inartificial in his plot, nor so uncharacteristic in his personages. But with all its faults, or deficiencies, this tragedy may challenge admiration with as bold a front as any since the days of Massinger. Indeed, as

That liberally bestowed her graces on me, And when the morning dew began to fall, Then was my time to weep.-A. 1. Sc. 2.

As the Dramatists of the Day, therefore, are so much angered by my having brought their works in contact with Shakspeare's (quam proximè) perfect tragedies, their rage I suppose will be mollified when I set an imperfect model before them. Imperfect as it is, let them work from this; and equal it, if that power stand within a pair of modern slippers. We would even compound for two parallel plots and uniformity of character; but let them copy the energy, the action, the mixture of poetry and common dialogue, the novelty of scene, and the fabular interest, of "The Second Maiden's Tragedy," if they would raise their reputation as high as their pretensions.

As to the manner in which the first Number of The Old English Drama has been gotten up, I have only to say, that I could wish a much worse play a much better Editor. In the Dramatis Persona, one flagrant mistake gives hopeful and well-redeemed earnest of numberless inaccuracies in the text, which confound its sense and destroy its harmony.

There is another remarkable difference between our ancient and modern dramatists, which I shall beg leave to advert to in another paper,

her clouds weep with him. His real griefs become wedded to the apparent ones of Nature. She is at once the sharer and alleviator of his griefs, his nurse as well as companion. Who that has, in the pride of youth and robust strength, ascended some lofty mountain, whose summit the clouds have chosen for their resting-place; who that has reclined upon some giant rock, and gazed upon the majesty of ocean, has not felt his soul imbued with the sublimity of such scenes? Has not felt his spirit, at those moments, become free as the mountain-air he breathes, and his thoughts boundless as the ocean he surveys? Who that has heard the low of cattle, the hum of bees, the song of birds, and the fall of distant waters when the day is departing from the earth slowly, as a lover from his mistress, has not imbibed serenity and peace? Such were my thoughts and feelings as I moved slowly on my way. I had nearly reached the extremity of the forest when I saw an Indian sitting beneath a spreading mango-tree. He had a parrot on his arm, and several neatly and curiously made baskets were at his side. He appeared lost in thought, and did not notice me until I approached close to the spot where he was seated. Like others of his nation, he had his body painted red, and his straight black hair reached down to his hips. I had often remarked that the faces of all these Indians appeared the same-faithful copies of one original-exhibiting a sleek but indolent placidity-a careless and inert content; but in him, although his features individually may have resembled those which I had before seen, I traced lines of deep thought and melancholy reflection. I had never but once spoken to any of his race, and that was merely for a moment, and I became curious to learn something respecting them. I addressed him, and was happy to find by his answering salutation that he could perfectly understand me. He spoke to me in a mixture of broken Dutch and English, which he had learnt in the course of his little trading journeys to the towns inhabited by European set

tlers. I sat down beside him, and, by degrees, we entered into familiar conversation. By the aid of a little rum, which I carried in a leathern cup, I made him tolerably communicative; and, at last, in the wild and metaphorical style of all savage people, he thus recounted the events of his past life.

"I am of the Arrowauk nationand from my youth upwards was trained by my father to the use of the bow and gun. Whilst yet a boy I could bring down, with either, the smallest birds, even when they were at their utmost speed. For this reason I became noticed by my countrymen, and the maidens looked upon me with a favouring eye, and listened to me with a willing ear. There was one among them whom I had known from childhood. Ayana was as beautiful to my eyes, as the purple berries to the wood-dove, or the mispel to the humming-bird. I lived not when she was away from me. She was my breath. I was not then as I now am, and many maidens would have 'shared my hut-but Ayana was in my heart and I loved no other. Never shall I forget the day when I took her home! As she stept into my koriaal, she looked like a good spirit coming to bless Ouayo, and as we glided down the falls of the river, she was like the bright moon descending from the blue sky. We have none like her now in all our nation. Ayana brought me five children, and we lived together like the seven stars that dwell in the quiet heavens. When I left my hut to fish in the river or shoot in the woods for our daily food, Ayana was troubled, and would look after me in sorrow: when I returned, whether good or ill success had attended me, she was glad in her heart, and smiled, and welcomed me. When I was ill, and the burning fever dried my brain, she bound the cool banana leaves round my forehead, and supported my delirious head upon her bosom ; and when I was weary, she would sing me to sleep in her arms.* Oh! how good, how kind was Ayana then! But the fruit cannot hang for ever on the boughs, nor our joys cling eternally to the tree of life.

Mine I am sure did not. Before a moon was old I saw four of my little treasures sink one by one into coldness and death. They fell not like guava in their ripeness, but were plucked green from their father's heart. While the hot fever scorched up their little lips and withered their infant strength, I could not bear to leave them. I went not out to fishI had no heart to load my gun, or bear my unheeded bow. Ayana used to weep, but I could not, although my bosom was full of tears. When the last breath left the lips of my fourth child, who was the most like Ayana of them all, I think I died too, or else a sad change came over me. I can but imperfectly describe what I then felt. It was, and still is, like a dream. All that I can remember is, that I seemed not to have altered in form but in mind, and to have lost all feeling either of good or evil. I appeared to be in the same spot as before; but there was nothing above, below, or around me, except a kind of cloud, or troubled water, or something which was, and yet was not distinct. At that time I was nothing -or at best but like that trunk (and he pointed to a tree that had fallen, though a few green leaves upon the top indicated that there were still some vestiges of existence remaining in it) which, though there is yet some life about it, can never flourish more. I had a wife-but felt not that I was a husband:-I had still one child left-but knew not that I was a father. My mind was dark. It was Ayana's kiss that awakened me from the dead;

and I went out and dug a grave for my child, beside her brothers and sisters; and I laid her in it and returned to Ayana. And she was weeping, and then I wept too and felt comforted. And we lived on, and dearly cherished our only child, and she was as a bright star shining through the night of our sorrow. One day as I was returning home, loaded with the produce of my toil, I felt an unusual pressure on my mind. And I had misgivings of evil but knew not what that evil was. Ayana came not out to meet me as she was wont, and this confirmed my forebodings. I was unwilling and yet anxious to enter the hut. I at length opened the door, and at the sight of Ayana I started, and I said Our child is dead!" and Ayana answered not but wept. And she pointed to a mat at the corner of the hut and groaned aloud.

"There lay the body of our lovely -our innocent-our last child; and I had none but Ayana to care for in the whole world. My poor girl had gone without suspecting danger into my koriaal just above the falls, and sighed her sweet spirit out upon the cold and desolating waters. When I threw the pitiless earth over the body of the last one that my blood had warmed

that my breath had animated-it seemed to fall upon my own heart. Ah! I shall never forget how lonely Ayana and I became. We would sit for hours together without speaking, and gaze upon the spot where our children used to lie; and then we would turn and look at each other, and sigh in the anguish of our child