Or the good Father there if he be willing
To doff his hood and turn him to the light,
He hath a good thick beard and a stern eye,
That would be better still."

Rayner laughs violently, the monk expels the turnkey in a passion, and proceeds to remonstrate with the prisoner on his ill-placed levity.

From Constantine we select the following passages, in an opposite strain.

Mahomet is visiting his outposts on the night previous to the final attack of Constantinople. The distant murmurs proceeding from the devoted city are heard.

MAHOMET.

[To his Vizier] What sounds are these?

OSMIR.

Hast thou forgot we are so near the city?
It is the murmuring night-sound of her

streets.

MAHOMET.

And let me listen too,-I love the sound!
Like the last whispers of a dying enemy
It comes to my pleas'd ear.

Spent art thou, proud imperial queen of nations,

And thy last accents are upon the wind. Thou hast but one more voice to utter: one Loud, frantic, terrible, and then art thou Amongst the nations heard no more."

In the fourth act Constantine having determined to die in the breach, has a parting interview with his wife, in which he darkly intimates his dread that after his death she will fall into the power of the conqueror, and be compelled to espouse him. She does not at first comprehend his meaning, but when it bursts upon her, a dialogue of mingled agony and pathos winds up thus:

แ CONSTANTINE. "Think how a doting husband is distracted, Who knows too well a lawless victor's power.

In the last scene, Constantine has fallen on his post like a gallant and devoted soldier. The city is taken; all are at the mercy of the conqueror. Valeria, who has just received the news of the Emperor's death, has cast herself on the ground in a frenzy of despair, and lies motionless surrounded by her attendant ladies. The victorious sultan enters with his train.

MAHOMET.

"She stirs not, Osmir, even at my approach. She sits upon the ground, unmoved and still. Thou sorrow-clouded beauty, not less lovely In this thy mournful state! She heeds me

not.

Empress and sov'reign Dame. Still she re-
gards me not. [After a pause.]
Widow of Constantine!

VALERIA-
A-[Starting up.]

Ay, now thou callest on me by a name
Which I do hear-

What would'st thou say to her who proudly

wears

That honour'd title ?"

This play is seldom read, and in all probability will never be acted again ; but if these and many similar passages, which we might readily multiply, did space permit, do not combine poetic beauty with dramatic vigour—an opinion in such cases, derived from experience, is a very fallacious guide, and a mere reed unsafe to lean on.*

There is a letter from Sir Walter Scott to Mrs. Hemans (in Lockhart's Life), on the production of her tragedy called the "Vespers of Paler

mo,

‚” in Edinburgh, which corroborates so strongly the argument that action supersedes language, with modern audiences, that we cannot abstain from inserting it. He says, "they care little (that is, audiences) about poetry on the stage-it is situation, passion, and rapidity of action which seem to be the principal requisites for ensuring the success of a modern drama; but I trust by dint of a special jury, the piece may have a decent success-certainly I should not hope for much more. This play did succeed in Edinburgh, although it failed in London, but it never became popular or attractive, and most probably from a deficiency of the qualities so strongly pointed out in Sir Walter's letter.

"

WELL may the multitudinous Londoners who wend their triumphant way, this bright May-morning, to Hydepark, adopt the words of our motto, and exclaim:

"Esta Maya lleva la flor

Que las otros no."

66

Yes, indeed, this May produces a flower for them which no other May ever produced before. The fullest development of mechanical skill; the completest consummation of industrial progress; a peace congress," rich in results and unincumbered by barren or impossible theories; an Aladdin's palace, called into quick and miraculous existence by means of the wonderful lamp of science, more potent than that of romance; all lie before them in that stupendous crystal casket which art has created for their instruction and delight. It is not for them to sigh over the vanished glories of May-day, the time-honoured sports, the simple carnivals of many a village-green. They have themselves instituted a new festival, which is likely to take the place of those that have disappeared, when, instead of the Morrice dance of our ancestors, led along by the sylvan pipe or pastoral reed, shall be heard and seen that overwhelming "March of Nations" for which Mons. Jullien has most opportunely and considerately composed the music, and where, instead of Maid

LOPE DE VEGA.

Marian, her most gracious Majesty herself (addressing the Duchess of Kent, we presume, on this morning) will exclaim, in the words of her own Laureate :

"I'm to be Queen of the May, mother,
I'm to be Queen of the May!"

On this day, dear reader, when all the old haunts of summer revelry are deserted; when for the first time since St. Walpurgis converted their Saxon ancestors to Christianity, the dream. haunted Burschen of the father-land will turn their curious and mysteryseeking steps from the wild summits of the Brocken, and exchange the witches of the Harz for those "witches" of the heart which Lancashire will doubtless contribute to the world's monster meeting, and when, instead of one "jung frau," our German wanderer will have the pleasure of seeing many. On this day, we repeat, when the house-spirit of Andalusia, the tricksy Duende of Spanish song, like more earthly enchanters in those degenerate times, will have to play to empty houses in the fair cities of Seville or Granada, the noble Hidalgos, their proprietors, being at the time expiating in the purgatory of some London "Casa de posada," the original sin of eating the fruit of industrial knowledge on the banks of the Thames. On this day when (to be lyrical)

2 M