inferiority. Not that they are without their value, at least they rouse sympathies not otherwise to be roused at all, and thus form the first step of dramatic initiation; in their nature they are cloying and exhausting, and lead to a reaction in favour of pleasures more cordial and refreshing.

For cordial and refreshing, in truth, is the influence of noble Tragedy, notwithstanding its severity; inasmuch as in presenting the developement and progress of some great crisis of human conflict, it confers, as it carries us along, the sense of progressive experience, instruction, education or accomplishment; with the power for avoiding or surmounting like embarrassments.

Some, indeed, state the course of feeling fallaciously, and represent the gratified spectator as selfishly triumphing in his own superiority to the error into which a Lear or an Othello falls, and, whatever the hero suffers, flattering himself that he would have managed better.

But very rarely, in high art, is there room for such coarse selfgratulation with highest art it is inconsistent, for how can it subsist with the preservation of the dignity of the Tragic character? Had Shakspere admitted a shade of the contemptible into the infirmities of Hamlet or Othello-he would have reduced them at once to Comedy. It is true enough that the credulousness of the one and the practical inaptitude of the other have each their comic phase, but for these, independent expression is amply provided in Roderigo and Polonius, who may be considered as expressly provided to draw off and concentrate whatever fitful ludicrousness may be evolved by their illustrious antitypes.

Again, most persons must have observed in themselves or others a tendency, carried to excess, to find consolation in assigning the most indubitable misfortunes of others to some imperfection peculiar to their conduct or character; and some may think that Tragedy favours this somewhat unfeeling disposition, by too constantly displaying misery as the consequence of vice or error, to the exclusion of simple unfortunate coincidence; and there seems some temptation to such an error, since events of this class-where the distress of the Hero, and the flaw of his character, are in immediate dependanceare most dramatic-give most occasion for the display of strong and fluctuating feeling.

But, in the first place, so far as the disposition in question is a fault, the very force of it assures to the Poet who shall dare to display its fallaciousness, a principle of eager interest—a principle that assuredly has not been unimproved. And again, it is by no means an unqualified error. Whatever may be the origin of misfortunes, the misery they inflict on their victim will always bear a certain proportion to the defects of his character; the deepest misery cannot be depicted as afflicting a truly virtuous and well-constituted mind; such misery implies a lack of self-possession and resolution, or of gentleness and humility, such as at once furnishes a sufficient reason for regarding the sorrows of the individual as in intimate connection with his personal deficiencies. What drives Lear mad? His daughters' ingratitude? By no means. His own sense, it was, of gross injustice to one who would have been grateful. "No-that way madness lies-let me shun that." The distresses of Hamlet and

Othello are, certainly, most directly due to the vices and misconduct of others; but, in either case, it is not difficult to trace the defects of character that laid them open to the treason-their predisposition to infection and prostration, as well as the nobler influence of characteristics in counteracting tendencies to which minds less highly endowed would, in the same situations, infallibly have given way.

Lofty, grave Tragedy, therefore, ever embodies and expresses, in the most impressive form, some recondite moral, some great and subtle truth, concerning the workings of the mystery of "Fate, and chance, and change in mortal Life-high actions and high passions best describing." Developing a struggle generated by the dormancy or the undisciplined activity of some power or passion, exhibiting the essential self-destructiveness of vice and error, their natural tendency to elimination and conclusion-it corrects the heart alike to the true tone of tenderness and of severity, melts to compassion, and nerves to justice, and leading onward to the contemplation of death as the great reconciler of all incongruities, the restorer of otherwise hopelessly disordered harmony, it associates most strongly our confidence in the Divine government of the world with that very event which is the occasion of man's intensest apprehensions. It acts the more surely and effectively by teaching the heart--not through the intellect, by dogma, or precept, which, however clearly recognized and fully assented to, do not thereby obtain such warm and lively associations, but immediately through its own sympathies and antipathies.

Such is my theory of Dramatic Art;-and what in consequence is the province of a critic in relation to the highest specimens of Art? Not, I conceive, to educe rules of composition and offer principles to guide future poets, who can only be in the right way when, relying on original inspiration, they write,

"From the full heart within

And leave Analysis to find her own," but simply to assist the sympathies of readers or spectators in the appreciation of the ruling idea of the piece, by drawing attention to points and passages of which the less experienced might neglect the import, by correcting the false glosses given to the purpose of the author by omissions and changes incident to representation, and the erroneous conceptions derived from other critics, or the prevailing prepossessions of the time.

Criticism of this nature the preceding speculations may assist in promoting, if they have been successful in making apparent the moral interest that is implicated in every highly perfected Drama, and in establishing its identity as well in the comic as in the serious form; only by a clear perception of this relation can we appreciate the marvellous combinations of Shakspere, by which, as by a species of dramatic counterpoint, the motive theme

-"Through high and low and lower

Put into parts doth hold a true consent
Congreeing in a full and natural close
Like Music"-

(Henry V.)

and the mind is fully satisfied by the complete evolution of the har. mony that reigns throughout the universe of human sympathy.

SIR ROBERT DE FLEECE.

BY JOHN LACHRYMOSO SMITH, ESQ.

'Tis a common remark in our cities and towns,

What a great many Smiths, Joneses, Thompsons and Browns, Greens, Blacks, Whites and Grays, Days and Johnsons, there are! But I think I may say

There's one family may

Be said to out-do them in numbers by far;

"Tis the Fleeces I mean; -Well, I see, Reader dear, By that smile on your face, you agree with me here.

Of course in so very extensive a race,

There must be a good deal that's improving to trace;
And lately I've travelled all London about,

And turned its old records and chronicles out,
To find out whate'er

"Twill do good to declare

To the world (which is always so fond of rum stories)
Concerning the Fleeces, their shames, and their glories.
So, therefore, I mean

In the following lines,

And in numbers to come, if the Editor pleases,-
To tell what I've seen,

Or heard as I've been

Engaged in my search after news of the Fleeces.
And I don't mean, kind Reader, while telling my story,
To give you, like LESTER, all shame and no glory.

The Fleeces, I find, are a very old race;
I have not been enabled exactly to trace
Their pedigree's course

All the way to its source,

But as I have found them wherever I've sought,
In camp and in cloister, in church and at court,
In England and Holland-and all lands in short,—
I think, and our heralds agree in the thought,
That they go back as far as the earliest news
That history gives us of earth's varied races;
I rather believe that they spring from the Jews,
For they've got a great deal of the Jew in their faces;
Besides here I trust I am wounding no feelings,-
They closely resemble the Jew in their dealings.

I find in a very old manuscript, written

In English black letter,-by whom I don't know,-
That the first time this family settled in Britain,
Was when that strong man with the very tough bow
Called WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR, swayed this great land,
Just as if he had got the said bow in his hand.

Sir Robert de Fleece was the name of the gent.
Who did this great family then represent,

And he really was quite a nice man as times went.
He had one little fault,

But ought I to halt

To tell it, dear Reader? Well since I've begun,
"Tis as well just to name it; no harm can be done.

His failing was this;-he by no means could see,
Nor perceive, nor find out, nor discern, nor divine
The important distinction there is and must be

Between the two words, called by us, "mine" and "thine ;"
And what made it worse was, not only that he
Made this little mistake with regard to the word,
But it might be to prove his consistency-
In the spirit as well as the letter he erred.
A tale I will tell,

As it truly befell,

Concerning this gentleman, pray heed it well!

When Sir Robert came over from France in the train,
(I don't mean the railroad,—such things were not then;
I refer to the retinue, which, on the main,

Consisted of ladies, brave lords, and liege men)

The CONQUEROR couldn't find out where to put him,—
He hadn't a place or a pension to suit him,

So he fetched down an earl from his honours and ranks
And gave his possessions-(he oft played such pranks)
To Sir Robert de Fleece, who received them-with thanks.
Now this earl had a very delightful estate,

With a castle which had a large drawbridge and gate,
And he kept hawks and hunters and lived in vast state;

So Sir Fleece, as you'll fancy, was highly elate,

And the joy which he felt was exceedingly great.

There was one little thing, though, which marred his delight,
And made him so sad, it is grievous to tell,-
Not contented with all the earl's riches and might,
He wanted the earl's PRETTY DAUGHTER as well!
But the earl's pretty daughter rejected his suit,
Nay, turned up her nose at him, snubb'd him to boot,
And said that she never could bear such a brute!

One fine afternoon he was taking a stroll—
Exceedingly sad and distressed in his soul-
When whom should he meet,

Coming down the street,

But this very delightful though obdurate dame Miss Adeline Atherstone- that was her name. "Ho! ho!" said the knight,

As her form met his sight,

"Here goes for a lark-now let's do the polite!"

He lifted his hat-she looked over the way;

"Fair lady!" he cried-not a word did she say;
"Excuse me, sweet dame !" urged Sir Robert, "I pray !"
"Move on, Sir," she answered-Sir Robert said, "Nay,
"I beseech you, fair Adeline, hear while you may,
"Condemn me not ever to woe and dismay."
"Begone, Sir" said she, with a fast flashing eye;
"Begone, Sir!" and this was her only reply.

"No, not till I've told you the state of my heart,

Might, could, would, should, may, can, or will I depart! "I love you fair Adeline, deeply!" he said,

(She toss'd up her haughtily beautiful head).

"Dost thou ask me for proof?-by the light of thine eye,
"I'll give thee such proof as thou can'st not deny !

"I will do-Gad! I hardly know what I won't do-
"To prove that my knightly devotion is true!
"I pray thee-tis all that I venture to ask-
"To bid me perform some impossible task;

"Bring tigers and leopards and lions by dozens

"Kill-skin all your foes-mothers, brothers, and cousins"Catch shadows, fetch moonshine, cork lightning in bottles— "Bring stars, just like strawberries, packed up in pottles Plunge deep in the ocean for pearls of great worth"Collect for thy wearing all gems of the earth"Scale mountains, hew forests, swim river and flood"Defend thee from harm to the last of my blood— "Mount-fly-delve-or ride

dame,

66

'Nay Sir, hold," said the

With scorn in her accents-" a task I will name;
"If you do it, I'm yours-I'll at once be your bride."
""Tis done ere you name it," Sir Robert replied;
"What is it, fair lady? now prove me thy knight!"

"GO AND HANG YOURSELF, Sir !" said she, laughing outright.
The knight was done brown-not a word could he say—
So he coloured-looked foolish-and then slunk away.

His gloom and his sadness, his pangs and distress,
Increased ev'ry day, as you doubtless will guess;
And I think for his grief he had reason enough,
For really it was an unpleasant rebuff.

Well, well," said Sir Robert one day while at tea—
In a voice that was very much like a bear's growl—
"I'm bless'd if a woman shall conquer me,

6.

If she won't yield to fair means, she will p'r'aps to foul; "I'll have her, by "whom or by what I don't know, For Sir Robert stopp'd short-so of course that must go.

Next day while the lady was taking a stroll,
Attended by two of her maidens of honour-
Three men, clad in armour from helmet to sole,

Rushed out, like wild beasts of the forest, upon her;