which should be chartered on a voyage of discovery at their own expence. Mr Smith, on his arrival, having transmittted his observations to the commanding officer in the Pacific, Captain Shireff of the Andromache, this excellent officer, ever alive as well to British interests as to the pursuit of objects of science and utility, instantly chartered the same brig Williams on Government account, in order to make an accurate and regular survey of the coasts and harbours. The Williams, refitted completely with every necessary for the voyage, put to sea in one week, (on the 19th December,) being placed under the charge of Mr Edward Bransfield, master of the Andromache, and several assistants, who were all ordered to observe, collect, and preserve every object of natural science during the prosecution of the more important objects of the expe dition. There is reason to believe this land has been twice before discovered, first by some Spaniards or Portuguese prior to 1569, and afterwards by Theodore Gerrards, one of the first Dutchmen who passed into the South Sea. This, however, does not take from the merit of Captain Smith, nor make the re-found Continent less a novelty to us, who never before heard any accurate account of its existence. As yet it remains an interesting topic of conversation, whether New Shetland be an island of considerable size, or if it be part of a continent. It is by no means an improbable supposition, that it is connected with Southern Thule, the most southerly point of Sandwich Land seen by Captain Cook in 1775, and situated in 59° 30′ lat. S., and 27° 30′ W. long., as there exists, according to the account given of Sandwich and by Dr Forster, some resemblance between it and New South Shetland. The climate of New Shetland would seem to be very temperate, considering its latitude; and, should the expedition now sent out bring assurances that the land is capable of supporting a population-an assumption which the appearance of trees and the abundance of birds seen on landing, render very probable-the place may become a colony of some import ried on in this hemisphere, must be immediately struck with the immense benefit which the acquisition of New Shetland might offer as a British settlement. There are at this time upwards of 200 American whale-ships lueratively employed in the Pacific, when Great Britain cannot boast of more than 30 or 40. This fact is enough to exhibit the advantage of this settlement; but we must also take into view the whole trade with Buenos Ayres, Chili, Peru, and the immensely extensive provinces of the interior, which is increasing with strides unknown, and establishing a demand for articles of British manufactures, that must eventually prove the channel for the consumption of British produce, and the employment of British capital. If we consider, too, that these countries must eventually become places of barter and entrepôt to our Indian and China trades, then must the importance of the situation, if it can admit of a settlement, be strikingly apparent. Comparing this spot with the Cape of Good Hope and New Holland, it will be seen that these three places form equi-distant depôts in the Southern Hemisphere, respectively situated so as to defend, if not to command, a superiority of trade with more extensive markets than were ever offered to any commercial nation at any former period in the world; and this, too, at a time when the late eventful circumstances in the history of Europe have turned in no small degree British commerce out of those channels in which it has flowed uninterruptedly for so many years. No one can deny that the want of a British settlement contiguous to the coast of South America is seriously felt. Since the abandonment of the Falkland Isles, we have no possession, not even a watering-place, nearer than the Cape of Good Hope or New Holland; and no one can calculate upon the absolute necessity Great Britain may one day feel for such a possession. Under every point of view, as well national, commercial, and scientific, must the discovery of New South Shetland be valued; and without doubt the results of the present expedition will be anxiously looked for by every well-wisher to his country. Valparaiso, Jan. 1820. Si. You know with what indulgence I have treated you-how light your service, ever since I bought you when a boy. Because you served me well, and had a mind above your state, I made you free ;-the best reward Í could, I have bestowed on you. So. That goodness, Sir, I bear in mind. Si. I don't repent. So. I'm glad to think that I have done, or still may do, what pleases you, and I rejoice I have your approbation; but, I own, this putting me in mind of all your favours wounds a little sure you cannot think I have forgot them? Tell me in a word, Sir, what you want of me. In the present rage for innovation in Literature, as in every thing else, the standard works of antiquity are in great hazard of being neglected. Schiller and Goethe seem to be coming in the room of Sophocles and Euripides, and the chaste tone of classical composition is too often sacrificed to the prevailing taste for effect which so frequently outrages nature, and even outherods Herod." The mild graces of the comic muse of Terence are not very likely to attract notice in such circumstances, they depend, too, so much on the elegance of the expression, that it is scarcely possible to do them justice in any translation; yet we were very agreeably surprised, to find that an old and valued friend So. Why is it so given out then? had been employing his leisure hours, Si. You shall hear the whole from in the decline of life, in this liberal first to last, and so you'll better know attempt. We believe he has nearly the manners of my son, and my decompleted the whole six comedies, sign, as well as what I wish of you in and he has been so obliging as to put this affair. When he had ceased to the first of these, the Andrian, into be a stripling, Sosia, more liberty was our hands, with permission to give to granted him, that we might know his the public a specimen of the manner dispositions; for, before, we could not in which it has been executed. We know them, while his tender years, shall accordingly quote the first scene the awe he stood in, and the authoriof this pleasing drama, in which the writing in the original is so remarkablety of those who brought him up, re for a beautiful simplicity, and which, although here stript of its versification and poetical refinement, is yet brought out with a truth and nature, which can scarcely be overlooked by our readers. THE FAIR ANDRIAN. Scene, Athens. ACT I. SCENE I.-SIMO, SOSIA, Servants, with provisions just brought from market. Si. You others, now go home, and take the things along with you. Come hither, Sosia a word with you. So. I know your meaning, Sir that I take care to have the things well cooked. Si. Not that; 'tis something else. So. In what besides can my poor talents be of use? Si. No talents now are wanted; only that you be, as I have always found you, faithful and discreet. So. I long to hear what you desire of me. VOL. VII. Si. I shall; and, first of all, I must inform you, that the marriage you expect to-day does not take place. strained him. So. You are right. རྩྭ Si. Now most young men, you know, devote themselves to this or that delight in hunters and in hounds or else frequent the schools to hear philosophers. He showed no rage for any one of such pursuits, but yet was moderately fond of all:that pleased me. So. And with reason; for it is, I think, of chief import in life, that nothing go too far. Si. Such was his life. With ease he bore the different humours of his friends-was quite devoted to thementered warmly into their affairs was rough to none and ne'er preferred That's the way himself to others. to gain unenvied praise, and many friends. So. He showed much sense; for, now-a-days, men's love is won by complaisance-the naked truth excites their hatred. Si. Now, about three years ago, there came a woman to this neighbourhood from Andros-forced by poverty, and cold neglect of those P connected with her very beautiful, and in the bloom of life. would he do if he himself had loved her? What would he do for me, his So. Ah! I'm afraid of mischief father? This I hold to be the surest from that Andrian. Si. At first she led a modest lifethe spinning-wheel and loom procured her bread; but, afterwards, when one, and then another, lover came and made her offers, (as the human mind is prone to pleasure, and averse from toil,) they were received, and now she lived by their munificence. Well, as it often happens, her admirers, when they went to see her, took my son along with them. Aha! thought I, most certainly he's caught-he's taken in. I watched their servants in the morning, going to or coming from her house. I asked them,-"Come, my lad, inform me who last night enjoyed the smiles of Chrysis?"-(so the Andrian was called.) So. I understand. Si. They said, 'Twas Phædrus, Clineas, or Niceratus." (All the three were then her lovers.) "Well, but as to Painphilus ?". "He? he paid his club, and supped."-How pleased I was! I asked another day, and found the same. I saw that Pamphilus was not her lover. Now I thought him tried enough-in continence he seemed a model. He who sees such scenes, and keeps such company, and yet himself is free, may well be deemed a man of firmness and of self-command. I both was pleased myself, and I received the compliments of all my friends, who said I was a happy man in having such a son as Pamphilus. To cut the matter short, when Chremes heard of this, he straight came to me, of his own accord, and offered me his daughter for him, with an ample fortune. The offer pleased me. I accepted; and this very day was fixed upon to make them man and wife. So. What stops the marriage? Si. You shall hear. A few days after that, our neighbour Chrysis died. So. That's lucky-how I like to hear it! I was much afraid of Chrysis, I must own. Si. On this occasion, Pamphilus was often with her lovers-aided them about the funeral-was sad, and sometimes shed a tear along with them. I liked to see it. After such a slight acquaintance, does he take her death so much to heart? thought I. What proof of a humane and tender heart. But why say more? On his account, I go, like others, to the funeral, suspecting nothing all the while. So. O, what comes now? Si. You shall be told. The corpse is lifted-we proceed. Meanwhile, among the women who attended I observe a damsel of an air and shapeSo. Perhaps engaging. Si. And a face, dear Sosia, so modest, so genteel, that nothing can surpass it. As she seemed more sorrowful than all the rest, and her appearance was so striking, I approach her female train, and ask them who she is. They tell me, Chrysis's sister. Then it struck me all at once. Aha! I have it now-hence come those tears and all that sympathy of his." So. I greatly dread how this will end. Si. Meanwhile, the funeral-procession still goes on. We follow, and at last we reach the spot. They place the body on the pile. The tears, as usual, flow; and now that sister whom I mentioned rushes on with great imprudence to the flames. The danger is alarming. Pamphilus, as pale as death, flies up, and shows the love he had till now concealed. He takes her round the waist. My dearest Glycery, says he, what are you doing? Will you rush on certain death? Then she ('twas easy to be seen that they were lovers) fell upon his breast, in tears, with so much tenderness and confidence! So. What do I hear? Si. I came away, and scarcely could restrain my anger; yet I had no cause to chide him much. What have I done? might he have said. Say, father, what offence have I committed? One who almost flew into the fire I hindered-saved her life! These words are specious. So. Very true; for, if you blame the man who saves a fellow-creature's life, what will you say to him whose heart is capable of deeds of cruelty? Si. The day thereafter, Chremes comes into my house, exclaiming, What a strange affair was this? That he had found my Pamphilus was married to that stranger-woman! I deny the fact with all my might-he in THE ARTS OF PHORMIO. sists on it. In the end he goes away, declaring that we shall not have his daughter. So. Now, I think, you must have spoken to your son. Si. I did not find I yet had cause sufficient. So. That I do not comprehend, Si. He might have said,You have yourself, dear father, fixed a term to such a course of life; the time's at hand when I must live according to the will of others--for the present, let me have my own. So. What other reason can you find, then, to reprove him? Si. Listen, and you shall be told. If he refuse to marry, from his liking to that other, I shall have a right to call him to account. And now my aim is this-Through this pretended marriage (if he should say No) to have it in my power to reprimand him. Then another thing-If wicked Davus think of any plot, that he may play it off at present, when it does no harm. I verily believe, with might and main he'll set about it, more to pester me than serve my son. So. Why so? Si. You need not ask-his disposition is so base and wicked; but, if I shall find- -No more of him, however. If it happens, as I wish, that Pamphilus is willing, then it still remains that I prevail on Chremes, and I hope I shall succeed. Now, Sosia, this duty I impose on you-that you pretend this marriage really meant. Keep Davus well in awe, and watch my son, to know what he is doing, and what plots he may be forming with that knave. So. It is enough-I shall be on the watch; and now let us go in, Sir, if you please. Si. Do you go first-I'll follow soon. We add another specimen from the Phormio. It is a curious picture of ancient manners, and of the meagre scope which their want of the domestic charities gave to the comic poet. The tragedians could expatiate among the great public disasters of kings and heroes. The writers of comedy were confined to the paltry tricks of slaves, -the intrigues of young men with kept-mistresses and singing girls, and the impositions practised on old testy fathers. Scene, Athens. SCENE I.-DAVUS. I had, yeterday, a call from Geta, my most worthy friend and countryman. For some time past I have been owing him the balance of a larger sum I owed him once: he came to tell me that he wished to have it. Now the sum is scraped together, and I am going to deliver it. His master's son, I hear, has just been married ; and I guess it is to make the weddingpresent that he wants the money. How unfair it is that those who have but little must contribute to increase the treasures of the rich! The trifle the poor fellow saved of his allowance, while he often ate a scanty meal, the bride will swallow at one gulp; nor will she think with how much toil and pinching Geta got it. That, however, is not all: he must come down again when she lies in; and, when the birth-day of the child comes round, once more :-no end of it. The mother will take all the child will only serve as a pretext. But is not that my friend I see approaching? : SCENE II.-GETA, DAVUS. Ge. (to those within the house as he comes out) Should a red-haired man, while I am absent, call Da. He's here: you need not tell them more. Ge. Friend Davus, I was setting out to call on you. Da. See, here's the money: you will find it good, and, to a farthing, right. Ge. You're very kind: I thank you that you have remembered it. Da. You may, indeed, as things go now, for it is come to this if one repays you what he owes, you think yourself obliged. But tell me, why so sad? Ge. What I? You little know the sad perplexity and danger we are in. Da. Pray, how is that? Ge. I'll tell you all, if you can hold your tongue. Da. Away! you foolish man. When you have found me honest in our money matters, do you fear to trust me with your words? What should I gain by cheating here? Da. Yes, I do. Ge. And Phædria, his son? Da. As well as I do you. Ge. The brothers went a travelling, I may almost say at once; the one to Lemnos, and the other, namely, Demipho, went over to Cilicia to meet an ancient friend, who in his letters promised him whole tons of gold if he would go. Da. A man so rich as he to leave his native country to increase his stores! Ge. You need not be surprised-it is the temper of the man. Da. O why was I not born a king? Ge. On setting out both fathers left their sons to me in charge. Da. It was no easy task they gave you, Geta. Ge. That I know, and to my cost: malignant fate would have it so. At first I wished and tried to keep them in. But why use many words? In short, my shoulders paid for my fidelity. Da. I thought as much: Your strictness but recoiled upon yourself. Ge. I changed my plan-I now did all they asked-I humoured them in every thing. Da. In that you showed dexterity. Ge. At first my master's son did nothing wrong, but Phædria fell in directly with a music-girl, and all at once was over head and ears in love. The girl belonged, good Davus, to the greatest miscreant that ever dealt in female-slaves. No money had their fathers ordered to be furnished them, and therefore Phædria could only feast his eyes, lounge after her at times, conduct her to the music-school, or see her home. As Antipho and I had little else to do, we lent a hand to Phædria. Just opposite the school in which the damsel took her lessons was a barber's shop: there frequently we sat and waited till the girl had done and went away. While we were sitting once, a youth came up and tears were gushing from his eyes. We wondered at the sight, and asked him what had happened? Never did I know before," said he, " that poverty was such a source of sorrow as I find it is. I just have seen a wretched girl lamenting o'er her mother's corpse. a The girl has neither friend, acquaintance, nor relation, nobody except a poor old woman to assist her at the funeral. How did I pity her! O what a lovely face!" But why say more? We all were moved, and Antipho cried out, Pray, shan't we go and see her? Certainly we should, replied another. Be so kind to show the way. We walk, we soon arrive, we see. What an enchanting girl! and, to set off her loveliness, no ornament was there-her hair was flowing on her shoulders-bare her ancles-grief was painted on her face the tears were streaming from her eyes-her clothes mere rags her beauty must have been extinguished quite, had it been possible. The lover of the fair musician said, She's well enough; but our young man Da. I guess how it will be--he lost his heart. Ge. You cannot think how desperately he fell in love. I pray you, hear the sequel. Off he goes next day to that old woman, whom he begs to favour his designs. She flatly tells him no, and says he's acting wrong; that that young girl was an Athenian citizen, of honourable parentage, and well disposed; that if he chose to marry her, it was allowed; but, she assured him, he could have her on no other terms. Our youth was now in great embarrassment: Although he wished to marry her, he feared his absent father. Da. Would his father not have given consent at his return? Ge. What, he? Allow his son to wed a girl who wanted rank and fortune? Never. Da. What is done then? Ge. What is done? There is a certain parasite, called Phormio, a brazen fellow: d-n the villain. Da. What of him? Ge. He gave the following advice: "The law ordains," says he, "that orphan-girls be married to their next of kin, and by that law the next of kin must not refuse. I'll say you are her near relation, and will summon you to court. I will give out that I'm her father's friend. When we're before the judges, I will frame a story, and will tell them who her father was, and who her mother, showing how you are related-nothing in the world is easier. And then if you agree to all I say, the cause is gained. Your |