inconsistent with all real pathos. Diderot, Grimm's still more celebrated coadjutor, echoes his sentiments on this head, and asserts that tragedy has yet to be invented in France. He says, that "the declamatory and inflated tone" of French writers and actors is wholly incapable of conveying that which is simply dignified, forcible, or sublime. In one instance, after setting forth, in strong terms, the total deficiency of their tragedies on these points, he concludes with this memorable sentence; Mettez la main sur la conscience, et dites-moi s'il y a dans nos tragédies un mot du ton que convient à une vértu aussi haute et aussi familière, et quel air pourraient avoir dans cette bouche ces sentences ambitieuses, et la plupart de nos fanfaronnades à la Corneille?" These opinions are pretty strongly opposed to the established French taste; so much so, indeed, that both the writers enjoin their correspondent to secrecy, for fear that they should be stoned to death in front of the temple of the offended divinities-the Théâtre Français.

To M. de Jouy's argument that the encreased ease which prose would give to dramatic composition, would overwhelm us with a flood of crude and faulty plays, the answer is quite obvious. Every thing of this kind always and very speedily corrects itself. If bad plays were written, they would get no readers or spectators; and they would thence soon cease to be written at all. The ease with which a commodity may be prepared does not in the least reconcile the consumer to its being bad. If it be, the demand will cease, and as in all other cases of manufactured goods, the demand regulates the supply. Who will buy, or who will go to see acted, miserable scenes of the nature M. de Jouy describes? And, if

nobody buys or sees, need we fear that there should be any alarming number written?

Though these remarks have stretched to a much greater length than we at first intended, we must say one word concerning our misapprehension of M. de Jouy's meaning with regard to the character of Sylla, as drawn by Montesquieu. We saw from the first that there must be some error, for it was impossible that he should copy at such length a portrait which never was drawn. We now find our mistake to have been the most natural possible. M. de Jouy begins his sentence in these words: "Sous la plume de l'auteur immortel de la Grandeur et de la Décadence des Romains, Sylla devient," &c. :-now, as Sylla is treated of in that work, we of course imagined it was that to which reference was made, else why style Montesquieu "l'auteur de la Grandeur et la de Décadence?" If he had been spoken of as the author of "l'Esprit des Loix," we should have understood at once that he was merely desig nated from his chief work; but why name him by one which, though distinguished, is yet of inferior note, unless peculiar allusion to it were meant? We should as soon have expected a passage from Julius Cæsar to be quoted as by "the author of the Merchant of Venice."

As it is, the charge of contradiction must rest on Montesquieu himself; for, we repeat, no two things can be more dissimilar than the character in the "Grandeur et Décadence," and thatin " le Dialogue d'Eucrate." We repeat also, that we consider the latter fantastic and unnatural-in discordance with the facts of the case, and the general principles of human nature. But even genius is not free from that love of paradox which sacrifices being just to being ingenious.

In conclusion, we must express to M. de Jouy our gratification at the notice which he has given to our observations, and our sense of the candid, unprejudiced, and gentlemanlike manner in which he has replied to them.]

SCENE I.-Before the House of Abraham.
ABRAHAM, HAGAR, ISHMAEL.

HAGAR.

AND is it come to this ?-will you,

You whom I've loved with that full fervent love

Which virgins feel towards him to whom they yield.
Their maiden selves—will you, with whom I've shared
That heaven which is created in the heart
By the first parent feelings-oh will you
Who once at least were used to cherish me
With fondness on your bosom-will you now
Thus cast me forth to perish?-can you cast

Your child forth too?-him on whose new-born head
You dropped the heart-o'erflowing tears which rise
Deliciously from deep affection's joy?—
No-no-you cannot have forgotten all

That we have felt together;-you will spare
Oh surely, surely, you will spare my child,

Your child, and me.

ABRAHAM.

I do not seek your death:

I wish that you may live, and long be happy.
I hope, I know, from HIм whose mighty word
Is truth and goodness, that your child will thrive
And be a lusty warrior, and give birth

To a great nation; as our Eastern tree

Shoots forth its boughs till they again take root
And flourish in a multitude of trees

As goodly as itself. But other claims,

Yet 'tis not

Higher than thine, and of more just affection,
Enforce that I should bid thee hence.
In wrath I send thee forth;-No, Hagar, still
My heart is softened at your voice, and yearns
With tenderness and sorrow as you fix

Your eyes thus in complaint upon me! Still
It swells with the remembered throb which erst
Beat with an unknown thrilling, as I gazed
Upon my infant's face:-but 'tis în vain

To think of these things now:-they are all passed
For ever!-and I may not without guilt

Dwell on their thought. Another child has now
Been borne to me by Sarah ;-she has right
To claim my undivided love for him.
In him my name will live-my seed be raised
In honour, number, and in might. Then go,
Go, Hagar, with your child-I still will think
With fond remembrance of you, but we must
Part, and for ever!-Take this scrip-there 're food

And water to support you in the waste,
Till you reach other dwellings.

HAGAR.

Oh! never

Shall we find other roof to shelter us

Since this is taken from our heads! Here-here
My hopes and all my best affections grew

And 'twined around this dwelling, like the vine
Whose broad abundant leaves o'er-curtain it!
Here have I lived in love and reverence-
Here did my bosom bear to thee this child-
Here did I nourish it at my fond breast-
Here did I nurse it in my doating arms-
Here did I watch its first young tottering steps,

And heard its earliest voice lisp forth" My mother !" And am I now, when youth has waned and gone,

And drawn its plastic spirit from my heart,

To wander forth to seek another home

In distant lands? Oh never, never more
Will human roof-tree rise above this head!

ISHMAEL.

Nay, father, do not send us forth! indeed

I will be yielding to my little brother,
Although he scorns me, and says I'm his slave

And bondsman. Do not send us forth! I'll love him,
And Sarah too; though she despitefully

Entreats me and my mother! See she weeps
And sobs as if she'd choke with agony!
Oh! let us stay !-dear father, let us stay!
Spare my dear mother-and your child!-

ABRAHAM.

Sweet boy,

It wrings my heart to see your tears, and hers!