shows us the several species of a soldier, the frivolous and the revolting, the admirable and the amiable. The love scenes, the women, and the comic characters, are sometimes a relief, but generally a furtherance to the main design. In his other plays his fighters are not mere soldiers: they have some cause their bosoms which urges se dear to them on; they have their quarrel just,' or they think they have, or it is a struggle for power. But here they have no excitement beyond their profession. The affair originated in an oath of gallantry, and is continued as a point of honour. It becomes a by-gone dispute. It is an after seven year's siege. No man appeals to it as he draws his sword. It served well enough for the ground-work of a declaration of war, but it grows weaker as Helen grows older. They fight because they know not how to leave off. No one can be personally interested except Menelaus and Paris, who are like two rival monarchs, with their assembled forces, while the lady is the kingdom, whose gain or loss cannot possibly affect the crowd on either side. They combat in their calling,- -no matter for the cause, provided they are regularly paid. So then, these ancient heroes, these Greeks and Trojans, are exactly similar to the camp gentlemen of Shakespear's day! Aye, and of this day too, and of a thousand years hence; for nature and he know not the change of manners. She and he walk hand in hand through all the modifications of fashion, the same that was, and is, and ever shall be. In this play he introduces the reader, a silent and invisible spectator, to an officers' mess, where he touches them by turns with his magic wand, his Ithuriel's spear, and every faculty is laid open to its source, whether good or ill. They talk, and he furnishes the argument of their discourse, giving them golden breath. Thersytes and Pandarus stand behind their chairs, significantly pointing at whatever is ridiculous or contemptible: while Shakespear himself, in his own sweet words, whispers in our ear the loves of the boy Troilus and the false Cressid.

"Let us begin with Achilles. We see him here divested of supernatural machinery, he has no communion with Olympus' Hierarchy,' as in the Iliad,- —a very mortal,-and indeed the least estimable one in the play. However, being great Thetis' son,' he shall have priority. The Greeks call him the sinew and the forehand of their host,' and no one is more sensible of his importance than himself. They cannot proceed without him, while, for his part, he chooses to be the 'sleeping lion," to be sulky and keep his tent. This mood falls in with his haughtiness and indolence, especially as it is against the wishes of his party. Indeed he has one reason for this his privacy,' having sworn not to fight against Troy, for the sake of one of Priam's daughters. This oath however, with such a man, is liable to be forgotten; so much So, that it requires a letter from Hecuba, and a token from Polyxena, to remind him of it. Nor is his passion for the lady much in his thoughts. He is no Romeo. Patroclus says to him

Rouse yourself, and the weak wanton Cupid
Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold,
And, like a dew-drop from the lion's mane,
Be shook to air."

Aud Fatroclus knew better than to give him outrageous counsel, Ile knows he can shake off the weak wanton Cupid at his will; and in fact he does so at the last, when a stronger passion like Aaron's serpent swallows up the rest.' His love of fame surpasses his love of woman; but his pride overcomes both; and his revenge, when thoroughly roused, tops them all. Achilles' pride is in the mouth of e every character in the piece, while he and his humble servant Patroclus agree to call it by the name of greatness, till they talk themselves into a belief of it. Let Agamemnon and the Chiefs approach his tent, and humbly beg him to come forth,-to' arm and out: this is his delight; it is good for his pride; it is another opportunity for an evasive insolent message. In the mean time, with a keener relish, he can listen to the 'scurril jests,' and admire the slanderous mimicry of Patroclus, while at this sport

The large Achilles, on his press'd bed lolling,
From his deep chest laughs out a loud applause.'

One of the finest touches is where, his pride being hurt, he begins to
moralize.
e. Then comes Ulysses, and makes this mighty man a mighty
puppet, with his derision medicinable,' playing upon him, and sound-
ing him from the lowest note to the top of his compass. He is made
the jeer of the army, when he fancies himself at his wisest point.
Ajax is envious of his illustrious name; Achilles cannot envy any
body, since he is confessedly above all; but he hates Hector for being
next in fame to himself. That Hector is a dangerous neighbour. He
cannot look upon him without fearing that the world may, at some fa-
ture time, compare them together. He therefore eagerly desires to kill
him, and in his 'greatness' tells him so to his face. This is never off
his mind. He is angry if any one else presumes to fight with Ilector.
Even when about to feast him in his tent, he says,-

I'll heat his blood with Greekish wine to-night,
Which with my scimitar I'll cool to-morrow."

The wounded Patroclus is brought to him,

• Kingdom'd Achilles in commotion rages,
And batters down himself.

He is described as 'arming, weeping, cursing, vowing vengeance,' and hurries forth, attended by his myrmidons, in pursuit of Hector, whom he finds unarmed and alone. The revenge of Achilles cannot forego this vantage.' 'Hector the great must die.' No comment is needed here. The character is in keeping from first to last. And if great Thetis' son' dragged Hector's body three times round the walls of Troy, he was precisely the man that Shakespear has delineated.

But here I stop, for I know nothing of Hector, as the divine Racine has not condescended to dramatise him. The writer of the above appears to be out of his senses. Is such an Achilles to be tolerated? fellow who lolls upon a bed, laughs aloud, listens to scurril jests,

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thinks nothing of breaking an oath, is turned into derision, fights with odds against an unarmed man, , and is not constant in love! Sir, this may be very natural, but certainly makes no hero, and consequently is unfit for the drama. Allow me to observe by the way, that Shake spear seems to have followed Homer. Now Homer is a bad prototype in these days, for be it remembered Homer did not write to ladies and gentlemen.

What a relief to turn our thoughts to the Achille of the polished Racine! How tenderly he loves the fair Iphigénie! Mark how sweetly he addresses her-" Princesse, mon bonheur ne depend que de vous!"-which is a fine idea, and beautifully expressed. And how fondly he talks-hark!

"On dit qu'Iphigénie, en ces lieux amenée,
Doit bientôt à son sort unir ma destinée !"

As he is the hero, it is not proper any one should outwit him; Ulysses tries, but in vain; this is as it should be, in order to keep up the sublimity of the scene. How different from your Shakespear with his "derision medicinable!" To crown all, the divine Racine so admirably draws his characters, that they never vary from the beginning of the tragedy to the end, but remain the whole of the time under the influence of one passion (love of course), and actuated by nearly the same sensations. I think I have almost said enough,

With the greatest satisfaction I now offer an opinion, which is a high compliment to the English. It is this :-I imagine their language, if properly cultivated, would prove to be nearly equal to our's in strength and elegance. This I discovered some time ago in the tragedy of the Distressed Mother, translated from Racine by Mr. Ambrose Phillips, who perhaps is not now alive. The above quotations from the Iphigénie, following such strange jargon from Troilus and Cressida, are enough to make e many despair of so desirable an attainment on the part of our countrymen. However, I have hope. See how truly, and with what politesse, Mr. Ambrose Phillips translates Hermione's address to Orestes:

"How am I to interpret, Sir, this visit?

Is it a compliment of form, or love?"

This is positively equal to the French. Again, Pyrrhus speaks→

Oh, 'tis a heavy task to conquer love,

And wean the soul from her accustom'd fondness!"

Once more. They are charming passages.

"Andromache appears! May I, Madam,
Flatter my hopes so far as to believe

You come to seek me here?"

These examples induce me to think something can be effected with your language. Besides, an intimate friend of mine, Mr. Wigson, a gentleman of great talent (who ingeniously corrects this letter as I go on), has made an entire translation of the Iphigénie, in the original measure, and in rhyme. It is a glorious ornament to your literature.

Yet the managers, aware of the perverted taste of the town, have, refused it, candidly confessing they do not believe it will succeed in representation. I will delight you with a specimen; and you shall have the French, that you may make a judicious comparison between. them. It is the famous speech of Achille, in the last act, where pity and terror are wound up to the highest pitch, after his listening to Iphigénie's resolution to be sacrificed at the altar, in obedience to the commands of his father.

Achille. Hé bien, n'en parlons plus. Obéissez, cruelle,
Et cherchez une mort qui vous semble si belle:

Portez à votre père un cœur où j'entrevoi

Moins de respect pour Jui que de haine pour moi.
Une juste fureur s'empare de mon ame!

Vous allez à l'autel; et moi, j'y cours, Madame.
Si de sang et de morts le ciel est affamé,
Jamais de plus de sang ses autels n'on fumé.
A mon aveugle amour tout sera légitime:
Le prêtre deviendra la premiere victime;
Le bûcher, par mes mains détruit et renversé,
Dans le sang des bourreaux nagera dispersé;
Et si, dans les horreurs de ce désordre extrême,
Votre père frappé tombe et périt lai-même,
Alors, de vos respects voyant les tristes fruits,

Reconnoissez les coups que vous aurez conduits! (Il sort.)

Thus superbly rendered by Mr. Wigson. Every line is accurately

given

Achilles. Well talk not about it. Obey, and be spiteful,

And yield to a death which you think so delightful;

Take back to your father a heart where I see

Less of duty to him than of hatred to me;

My soul's filled with rage till it cannot hold more!

Go, Ma'am, to the altar, and I'll run before.

If the heavens are famish'd for blood and dead bodies,

There'll be more than enough for each God and each Goddess.

Blind with love through all legal constraints I shall burst;

The reverend priest shall be victim the first;

l'il knock down the funeral pile to the mud,

I'll make the sticks float in the murderer's blood;

And if, in the midst of this horrible uproar,

Your father should fall and should never get up more,

Then, woe upon you for a dutiful daughter,

And own 'twas yourself that committed the slaughter! (Erit.)

Mr. Wigson has at present gone out of the house, and I fear much to write more, without his most good corrections. It is therefore to conclude, Mr. the Indicator, with the most perfect consideration, I embrace you with all my heart, and am, eternally, your very obedient and very humble servant, PATROCLE.

M. the Indicator makes his best acknowledgments to M. Patrocle, and returns his embrace with as large a piece of his heart as M. Patrocle's all-conquering criticism has left in his body. What, he fears however, will vory much shock M. Patrocle, though he trusts to his candour for excusing it, is that he is so far gone in the seductious of that jade Nature, as to be unable to help liking the criticism he has inIcluded in his own. What is said about the officers' mess in particular,

strikes him as being very critical and judicious, and perhaps would not not come so much amiss to some of the more illegitimate countrymen of M. Patrocle, if they could contrive to separate in their imagiriations those very oddly connected characters, Shakspeare and the Duke of Wellington, At the same time, M. l'Indicatenr is extremely Happy

opy to acknore the very native merit of the other criticism, and

begs M. Patrocle to accept the assurances of the high consideration, with which he is an infinite number of etceteras. A

CUPID AND CAMPASPE.

The following song is from an old play by Lyly. It has been reprinted in Percy's Reliques, and lately in Mr. Hazlitt's work on the Literature of the Age of Elizabeth; but it is like one of those happy things in conversation, which a friend cannot avoid repeating, if he thinks there is one hearer that does not know it. We cannot refer to what Mr. Hazlitt has said of it, his books, as we are always having reason to find when we most want them, being of that description of property which may emphatically be called borrowable; but we remember but with i his advising us to do the very thing we are now doing it. We then were in comparative health, and thought we must talk on to the end of the chapter, or the reader would not like it. Such is the vanity of sprightly blood! We are glad that the readers approve this mode of filling up a space at the end of our paper. We cannot apologise for our present week's number; but sick or well, dull or amusing, we shall thus be always sure of something to conclude with, like a glass or two of good old wine after dinner.

Cupid and my Campaspe played

At cards for kisses; Cupid paid.

He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,

His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;

Loses them too. Then down he throws

The coral of his lip, the roseld boy inga eow and a
Growing on's cheek, (but none knows how), (we bin A
With these, the crystal of his brow,

And then the dimple of his chin;

All these did my Campaspe win, ald Jumbiy
At last he set her both his eyes,

She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?.

Printed and published by JOSEPH APPLEYARD, No. 19, Catherine-street, Strand. Price 2d. And sold also by A. GLIDDON, Importer of Snuffs, No. 31, Tavistock street, Covent-garden. Orders received at the above places, and by all Bouksellers and Newsmen.