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teresting situation, which are the great and peculiar requisites of dramatic excellence. It seems also defective in the pathetic, for which certainly the subject afforded very great room, and which, in a similar situation, our countryman Rowe has contrived so strongly to excite.

Of Lessing's performances in these volumes, the next in merit, though in my opinion, at a considerable distance, is Sara Samson, an English story, of which the idea seems chiefly taken from Clarissa; though one character in it, that of a violent and profligate woman, is evidently borrowed from Millwood in George Barnwell. There is a degree of infamy in the vice of such a person, that is scarcely suitable to the dignity of the higher drama, and which disgusts us with its appearance. The Marwood of Lessing is introduced in such a manner as to heighten that disgust. The amiable female of the piece, Sara Samson, is no exception from the general defect of female character in this collection. And her father, who is placed in the tenderest situation, of which several authors have made so affecting a use, the parent of a child seduced from honour, though still alive to virtue, is insipidly drawn, and awkwardly introduced. In this tragedy, is an incident, of which Lessing seems to be foud, as he has repeated it with very little variation in another tragedy, called L'Esprit Fort, a dream, related by the heroine, predictive of the catastrophe. This, as it anticipates the conclusion, is always faulty. No part of the conduct of a play is more nice and difficult than that degree of information which the author is to give the audience in the course of it. In general, he should certainly not forestal their expectations, by opening his plot too soon. But there is an admirable theatrical effect which often results from letting the audience know what the persons of the drama are ignorant of, which stretches, if I may use the expression, the cords of fear, anxiety and hope in the spectators to the highest pitch, through scenes which otherwise would produce these feelings in an inferior, as well as in a momentary degree. This knowledge in the audience of Merope's son, while she, in ignorance of his person, is on the point of putting him to death, is one of the most interesting situations which dratnatic invention has ever produced; and there is nothing on the French stage which equals the horror of that scene of Crebillon's Atree et Thyeste, where the devoted brother attempts to disguise himself from Atreus, while the terrified spectators know him all the while, and tremble at

every look and word which they think will discover him. Next to Lessing, in point of name, is Goethe, the author of two tragedies in this collection, Goetz de Berliching and Clavidgo, and of a drame entitled Stella. The first I have already mentioned as highly irregular in its plan, being a life thrown into a dialogue rather than tragedy. The simple manners, the fidelity, the valour and the generosity of a German knight, are pourtrayed in a variety of natural scenes. This national quality, I presume, has been the cause of its high fame in Germany, to which it seems to me to have otherwise not a perfectly adequate claim. His Clavidgo is founded on an incident which happened to the celebrated Caron de Beaumarchais in Spain, who is introduced as a person of the drama, under the name of Ronac, an anagram of Caron, with the letters a little transposed. The distress of the play arises from the falsehood of a lover, who leaves his mistress after being engaged to marry her. Neither the delineation of the characters, nor the management of the plot in the first two acts, is entitled to much applause; but the last act, which passes in the sight of the corpse of Maria, is wrought up with uncommon force, and must, on the stage, be productive of high effect. His third performance, Stella, is strongly marked with that enthusiastic sentiment and refined sensibility, which, in the Sorrows of Werter, he has so warmly indulged; and in point of immoral effect, the drama is equally reprehensible with the novel. Its conclusion is in the boldest style of this sentimental refinement; since it gives to the hero two wives, with whom he is to share that heart, to which the incidents of the play have shewn the claims of both.

COUNTESS OF CARLISLE'S OPINION OF THE DRAMA,

FROM HER MAXIMS TO YOUNG LADIES.

When you can fix your inind on the scenes before you, when the eye shall not wander to, nor the heart flutter at, the surrounding objects of the spectacle, you will return home instructed and improved.

The great utilities you may reap from well-acted tragedy are, the exciting your compassion to real sufferings, the suppression of your vanity in prosperity, and the inspiring you with heroic patience in adversity.

In comedy, you will receive continual correction, delicately applied to your errors and foibles; be impartial in the application, and divide it humbly with your ac quaintance and friends, and even with your enemies.

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POETRY.

TO *

ON BEING TOLD I HAD HURT HER FEELINGI.

When the joy-breathing spirit of rapture has flown,
And the heart sinks, oppress'd by the demon of woe,
Could I add to the pangs which the sufferer has known,
Or sharpen the arrows of sorrow?-Oh! no!

Each sigh of her grief I would willingly share,
Bid the tears of her anguish for e'er cease to flow,
But could I ever add to the load of despair,

Or oppress the keen feelings of sorrow?-Oh! no!

Oh! no! I would pray the blest seraph of peace To soothe all the cares of the mourner to rest, Bid the griefs of her bosom in happiness cease, And joy fix its haunt in so hallow'd a nest! Liverpool.

W. M. T.

SONNET TO HORATIUS,

PREVIOUS TO HIS GOING TO THE EAST INDIES.

Say, can the fields luxuriant of the East,

Or all the wealth that Asia's sons possess ;

Say, can the dainties of the varied feast,

On which proud man lays such an awful stress !
Yield thee more charms than England's lib'ral fare?
Than what the heroes of the island see?

No! surely no !-her wealth's without compare,
Her sons are honest, virtuous, and free!
How great the contrast !-the extreme how wide!
But I'll not trace them lest I mar thy views;
Be mine the task thy roving feet to guide,
And thine to mind the precepts of the muse !
Where'er thou goest Misery will appear,
Relieve her woes, and bless thy happier sphere.

Hereford-street, 1808.

YOL. IV.

J. G.

LAURA.

SLOWLY bend the willow trees,
O'er the brook their branches wave,
Near their roots the trav'ler sees
Th'rustling grass on Edmund's grave.

When at midnight's silent hour,
Is heard the bell's sonorous toll-
And the torrent's distant roar,
Strikes with dread the guilty soul

Laura leaves her wretched home,
Lost to joy incessant weeps,
Seeks the dew-bespangl'd tomb,

Where in silence Edmund sleeps.

Hark! she gently strikes the lyre

Mouruful sound the trembling strings,

Echoing round the moss-clad spire,
Thro' the porch the music rings.

Wild on air the numbers float,
Wild thro' distant woodlands fly,
As she forms the pensive note,
Sadly heaves a heartfelt sigh.

Sweet her voice in cadence low,
Softly fills the list'ning ear,
The gentle waters as they flow,
On ev'ry pebble drop a tear.

Hapless maid, not long thou'lt mourn.
Woe not long will pain thy breast

Soon thy bosom anguish-torn,

Will cease to throb in endless rest.

J. B.

LYING DICK; OR, DEATH AND THE DOCTOR.

AN English ship, in desperate fight

With Gallic foes engag'd,

For twice two hours, an awful time,
The unequal conflict wag'd.

But victory crown'd the British flag
Though purchas'd by the blood
Of many a brave and noble tar,
Who for his country stood.

The fight once o'er, the surgeons next
O'er wounded bodies creep,

And those whom death had fairly caught
They sentence to the deep.

One manly fellow on the deck

Had felt the Gallic fire;

Disguis'd with blood, they scarcely knew
Poor DICK; nicknam'd the liar.

For truth from DICK's unsteady tongue,
Too rarely found the way;
Whate'er he said, he freely gave

Imagination play.

Him motionless and stain'd with gore

The surgeon left for dead :

And bade his comrades standing round,

Heave to his watery bed.

They stoop; they heave the bleeding load;

But life was not all gone:

DICK roar'd aloud "I'm only stunn❜d,

"You lubbers set me down?"

Amaz'd they stand; but knowing well

DICK lov'd a lying jest,

At once exclaims, "Why, d- -n your eyes,

"The doctor must know best."

QUIZ,

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