ters of England, France or Germany, but to the dramatic critics-and this for two reasons. In the first place, however paradoxical it may sound, artists are not always the best judges of the rules of art; and, even if they were, the appeal, in a case like this, would lie so immediately to their self-love, that we could not depend on their impartiality; and this we conceive to be a most important reason-for, unfortunately, one of the parties to the question, have no drama of their own,—at least, no native drama. With the exception of a few plays of Voltaire, the dramatic literature of the French is wholly foreign; Grecian materials wrought into form, but not effect, by French artists.* We are thus under a two-fold obligation to address ourselves to the National mind-not as it presides over its own immediate literature, and is exemplified in the character of that literature-but the National mind as it is conversant with the literature of ages, from the rhapsodies of the early Grecian bards, to the lyrics of Thomas Moore; and, before such a tribunal, we feel less fettered and coerced than we should be were we obliged to fashion the little we have to say, according to the literary consciences of the dramatists themselves, severally and separately. To commence with the commencement, let us consider for a moment the dramatic literature of the Greeks. This literature we shall find to be in its very grain and growth of a character almost wholly identified with the national religion of the people among whom it took its rise, and by whom we are told it was carried to perfection. It appears to us, though we shall probably be denounced for the opinion, that much of the credit given the Greeks on the score of a refined taste in the Drama, is entirely gratuitous. Thus, one of the main defects attributed to the drama of Shakspeare, the admixture, of tragic with comic scenes, the Greek drama was necessarily free from, as it is known that on all great occasions they considered any "inauspicious" word offensive to the gods; and this inauspiciousness might well con. sist in language such as is employed in these mixed scenes:

"The gods require

Their pure rites undisturbed."

In reading, for instance, the "Agamemnon," it is impossible to overlook the traces, apparent in almost every page, of the peculiar origin of the Greek drama. You still remark the evident subserviency of the part assigned the interlocutors, to the moral and religious character of the Chorus-which appears to be merely an improvement, though undoubtedly a very good one, upon the original Hymn in honor of the gods. The chorus, too, combines in itself a sort of three-fold character-a poetical, moral, and mediatory agency, which it exercises ac

* The French have been extolled for affording to their stage a national support but to this very dependence upon the Court, is to be attributed the want of nationality in the French drama—in so much, at least, as their dramatic persons are almost all foreign; for, although the old French history might afford subjects for the Drama, they are not such as would prove acceptable to the Court. Seneca copies his "Medea" from the Greek of Euripides; and Mons. La Perouse copies from Seneca. The origin of French Tragedy may be referred to the early rart of the 16th century; when Baif and Jodelle commenced, in Italy, their translations from the Greek Drama.

cording to circumstances.

The same voice is heard alternately chanting the finest strains of a divine poetry, that "adores and burns"— giving utterance and emphasis to moral reflections not unworthy of a Socrates himself; and then descending, as it were, from its lofty eminence into the arena of the dialogue, and wielding, with a wondrous dexterity, alike the ponderous weapons of assault, and the sharper and keener sword of Aristophanic point and satire. In the Chorus, as we now have it, the original Hymn to Bacchus became gradually merged as the interest of the story increased; until, the dialogue being at length introduced, the character of the chorus was suddenly and entirely changed; and, from a Bacchanalian song, rose to the dignity of a pervading moral influence and agency-the form and spirit in which it has come down to us.

We have thus briefly adverted to the general character of the Greek drama; and will now as briefly touch upon another point. Influenced, it would appear, by the partial example of the two first writers of Greek Tragedy, it has been complacently maintained, that the decorum of the stage consists in banishing every thing actually disgustingnot merely in the scene before you, but in the characters of the persons of the draina; in order to compass that ideal perfection which some modern purists in the drama have been pleased to contend for. The names of Eschylus and Sophocles have been enlisted in support of this position, while their very dramas themselves, in which they appear to have recognized no such notion, are staring you in the face. What is there ideal in the murder of Agamemnon, or in the motives that lead to it? or in the murder of Clytemnestra by her son? Medea, in the tragedy of that name, murders her children before the eyes of the spectators; and in the Hecuba, Polymnestor appears on the stage with his eyes put out, and bathed in blood; and Hippolytus, torn to pieces by his fiery courser, is exhibited on the stage with his limbs bleeding and mangled! So much for the horrors of Euripides.

A great deal has been said about the simplicity of the Greek drama, as a model to modern writers. This simplicity, however, was, we think, the result of circumstances that have now no existence. Char acter, as we emphatically understand the term, had no part or participation in the ancient drama A series of events, in which there is no active human agency, but of which human nature is made the victim, are exhibited in the order prescribed by that fate which decreed that Edipus should destroy his father, and commit incest with his mother-an order which no humane power could reverse, and no mortal disobey. We thus conceive that the Romanesque poetry, as Madam de Stael terms it, has every possible advantage over the classic, or ancient.

KING RODRIGO,

(SPANISH OF LUIS DE LEON.)

Folgaba el rei Rodrigo

Con la hermosa Caba en la ribera
Del Tajo sin testigo:

El pecho saco fuera

El Rio, y le hoblo, de esta manera.

TOYING was the King Redrigo,
With the maiden Caba fair,
On the sloping bank of Tagus,
Witness none I wot was near.
Heav'd the river's breast for anger,
Straight he spoke that you shall hear.

In the moment thou enjoyest,
Ravisher I hear the shout,

Hear the cries of angry voices
That do circle thee about,

Clash of arms, and mingled elamour,

War, and rage, and frantic rout.

Wo is me! what sorrows gather
Round the spot whereon you lay,
With the fair one who for Spain, did
See the sun an evil day.

(Spain, how great a treasure wilt thon
For thy Gothic sceptre pay!)

Fires, lamentations, battles,
Murders, ruins, cruel ills,
Evermore thy arms opposing,
Will thy breast with terror fill.
Everlasting misery,

Falling on thy vassels still,

From him, who in Constantina

Breaks the fertile soil in vain,
Even to the serf, that, bathing
In the Ebro's tide hath lain;
Sansueña, Lusitaña,

Through the space of mourning Spain.

Lo, from distant Cadiz, succour
Loud the injured count doth pray.
Eager less for fame than vengeance,
Doth he Moslem hosts array.

And in that his wrongs are grevious,
Will he suffer no delay.

Hark, how to the skies with terror,

Throng the Moors their banners round,
Which upon the winds all lightly
Float above the armed ground.

Lo, where comes the Arab haughty,
Brandishing afar his lance,
Loudly to the combat calling.

Eager on the march, advance

Dountless hosts. A hundred thousand
Moslem squadrons forward prance.

All the land their armies cover,
Hid the sea beneath their sails
Various tongues, and mingled voices
Heaven's spacious vault assail.
Great the tumult; dim becometh
Day, wrapt round in dusty veil.

Look where urged along with ardor,
All their mighty navy nighs;

Stretching to their oars, the rowers
Vigorous of arm arise.

Sparkling, from the prows of galleys
Forth in foam the ocean flies.

Wo is me. This fair enchantress

Holds thee yet in bondage tied.

Though oft called upon, thou heedest

Not the evils which betide.

See the pillars of Hercules,
By the Moslems occupied.

Rise, take courage, fly with succor;
Climb the mountain's lofty side;
Seize upon the plains; yet spare not
With thy spur, thy courser's side.
Dream not now of peace, but scatter,
Sword in hand, destruction wide.

THE PRINCIPLE OF SELF-LOVE:

THIS principle, or passion, for it does not seem determined which it is-although we are inclined to class it rather with the principles than the passions of our nature-is a strange compound, it would appearpartaking, like every other constituent in the moral nature of man, of a tendency at once virtuous and vicious-or, to speak more philosophically, it is made subservient to the perceptions of that faculty which pertakes of the moral-approving and disapproving faculty, and which we denominate Reason. Reason, which involves Judgment, suggests to us the office of many of our moral principles; and, accordingly, selflove is that principle of our moral nature, which would seem to come very properly under the cognizance of this faculty. It is perhaps not

undeserving of observation, that our passive impressions and our active principles result, alike, from this principle of self-love-a principle which, according to Adam Smith, never prompts us of itself, to the sacrifice of the smallest portion of that individual good, over which it is supposed to preside-a sacrifice made at the suggestion of reason, but only that we may obtain a more than proportionate advantage." This discrimination does not appear to us to be a just one; while it involves, we think, a confusion of ideas, which, if not properly explained, must tend to destroy all moral distinctions-and thus take from our actions their only true merit-the purity of the motive. Selflove naturally suggests to us the advantage, and, indeed, the necessity of providing against temporal wants; while it sometimes prompts us to an apparent sacrifice of our interests- a sacrifice in which our active principles are called into exertion. This sacrifice, we are told, however, usually results in the end to our advantage; and is, therefore, the suggestion of reason, which would seem here to be only another name for self love. If we are to believe this, self-love is then the foundation of our active principles, which are the only tests of virtue. Admit this reasoning to be true, and there would be very little encouragement left to virtue-for it would tend-even when our actions were the result of the purest motives-to deprive us of that consciousness which is at once the reward of virtue, and the best criterion by which we can judge of it in ourselves. Thus, however, with all his candor and ability, does the author of the Theory of Moral Sentiments permit himself to reason; and reasoning thus, we do not see with what consistency he can venture to ask the following question: 'Where our passive impressions are always so sordid and so selfish, how comes it that our active principles should often be so generous and noble?' Now, according to the tenor of the writer's own argument, these generous and noble principles resolve themselves, after all, into nothing less than this very self-love, from which he here supposes them to be so entirely exempt. This sacrifice of our passive impressions to our active principles, is nothing more than an exchange of commodities-we give up one set of interests merely that we may secure another. This may be legitimate and fair enough in politics, and the business of the world; but we are not prepared to say that it is either very generous or very noble in our moral intercourse with men. Self-love is vicious, when it prompts solely to that which is calculated to benefit ourselves, with no regard to the collateral interests around us--but without, at the same time, actually violating these, as that would constitute positive crime. On the other hand, self-love is virtuous, when it leads us to the performance of actions that result in the advancement of the interests of others. This, at least, appears to be the otion of Adam Smith, when he says, that it is not the love of mankind, which prompts us to the practice of virtue -it is a strongor love of our own character. This is still self-love,

* This principle is so directly at variance with M. De Stael's doctrine (and a very generous one it is) of felt relations, that we wish she had undertaken to

combat it,