are the prettiest thing about me. But it an't aunt's fault: I shall have it cut when we go to town. (Putting her hair behind her ears awkwardly with her fingers, and beginning to look rather brisk.) "Worshipton (looking at them with affected admiration). O, beautiful indeed!' P. 191. Miss Clodpate is proof against the eloquence of sighs. She must be assailed with groans; though they seem to excite a different sort of pity from that which was intended by her admirer. Worshipton. Ah! my charming Hanabella! (Sighs two or three times, but she continues staring vacantly, without taking any notice of it.) Jenkins (aside to Worshipton, as he walks near his hiding place, rather at a loss what to do). Give a good heavy grunt, sir, and she'll ask what's the matter with you: mere sighing is no more to her than the blowing of your nose. Worshipton (ogling Hannah, and giving a groan). Oh! oh! Hannah. La! what is the matter with you? have you the sto mach ach? My aunt can cure that. Worshipton. Nay, my dear Hanabella, it is yourself that must cure me. I have got the heart-ach. It is your pity I must implore.. (Kneeling and taking her hand.) • Hannah. O, sure now! to see you kneeling so-it is so droll! I don't know what to say, it is so droll.' P. 194. Amaryllis, the poet, professes to prefer the maid whose tender sensibility, whose soft delicacy, whose sympathy of soul gently animates her countenance.' P. 177. We were therefore at a loss to imagine where he could have discovered the attractions of his Dolly, of whose 'tender sensibility' the following circumstance may possibly excite some doubt. • Amaryllis (alone). Dolly! my sweet Dolly! (Calling to her.) Dolly (without). Coming, sir. Amaryllis. There is something of natural harmony in the very tones of her voice. Dolly (without, in a sharp angry key). Get down to the kitchen, you vile abominable cur! Do you think I have nothing to do but mop the stairs after your dirty feet? Get down to the kitchen with you! (The howling of a dog heard without.) Yes, yes, how away there! I'll break every bone in your skin, if you come this way again, that I will.' P. 224. And again, when Will the post-boy is lying, as every one present believes, in a strong hysteric fit, the delicate and sympathetic Dolly proposes to relieve him with a kick o' the guts!' • Lady Goodbody. He's in a strong hysteric fit. Dolly. Give him a kick o' the guts, and that will cure his extericks!' P. 245. We never recollect to have met with any adept in the myste ries of the tender passion who has represented a good box on the ear' as the signal for a declaration of love. This is a valuable lesson, which those ladies who are desirous of bringing their lovers to may learn from the following interesting scene. Lady Goodbody. There is still a good likeness of me, as I was in those days, which Mary now wears upon her arm: whilst I go to give some orders to my woman, make her pull off her glove and shew it to you. You'll have the sight of a very pretty hand and arm by the bye; our family is remarkable for pretty hands. [Exit. Sir John Hazelwood (going up to Miss Martin). May I presume, madam, thus authorized, to beg you will have the condescension to gratify me. I • Miss Martin. I can't possibly it is not on my arm at present. * Sir John Hazelwood. Nay, but I see the mark of it through your glove: may presume to assist you in pulling it off? Offering to take hold of her glove, whilst she puts away his hand with great displeasure.) Miss Martin. You presume indeed: I can't suffer it to be pulled off. Sir John Hazelwood. Then I must indeed be presumptuous, for positively I will see it. (Taking hold of her hund, whilst she, struggling to pull it away from him without effect, at last, in her distress, gives him with the other hand a good box on the ear, and then, bursting into tears, the ows herself into the next chair, and covers her face with both her hands.) My dear miss Martin forgive me! I fear I have behaved ungenerously to you: but believe me, careless as I may have appeared, I have beheld you with the most passionate admiration. (Kneeling at her feet.) P. 260. But we are weary of transcribing this bald unjointed chat;' and if there be any who feel disposed to believe that we have made a malicious and uncandid selection of specimens, it is impossible that their suspicions of our critical integrity can excite a degree of resentment that will prompt us to wish them a severer punishment than the task of perusing the whole. But though she shuffles thus vilely in the sock, miss Baillie's last performance shews that she is capable of assuming some dignity of deportment in the cothurnus. In the tragedy of 'Constantine Paleologus' she rises more nearly to the level of her former reputation. The subject of it, she tells us, is taken from Gibbon's account of the siege of Constantinople, an event which she seems to have thought irresistibly inviting to a poet. The image she formed to herself of this amiable monarch, is worthy of being inserted. The character there displayed of Constantine Paleologus, the last of the Cæsars, a modest, affectionate, domestic man; nursed in a luxurious court in habits of indulgence and indolence; without ambition, even without hope, rousing himself up on the approach of unavoidable ruin; and deserted by every christian prince in Europe, deserted by his own worthless and enervated subjects, supported alone by a generous band, chiefly of strangers, devoting themselves to him from generous attachment;-to see him thus circumstanced, nobly fronting the storm, and perishing as became the last of a long line of kings, the last of the Romans; this was a view of man-of noble and dignified exertion which it was impossible for me to resist, though well aware that no play I am capable of writing can ever be equal to what such a subject deserves.' p. xiv. We have great pleasure in being able to declare that these conceptions are happily executed. Constantine, from first to last, is in possession of our admiration, and our affection. Of the plan of this tragedy it would not be easy to give any clear account; such is the bareness and simplicity of its conduct, that it can scarcely be said to have any plot. The incidents with which the time is filled up between the first act and the last, are almost entirely unconnected with each other, and not in the smallest degree instrumental to the completion of the story. That this nakedness of design is a fault, will hardly be denied; and it is a fault of which the author seems to have been sensible. (Pref. p. xvii.) We are, however, willing to allow that the defect seems almost inevitably to spring from the nature of the subject; and to be such as it would not be easy to remedy by any ingenuity of contrivance, consistently with historic truth. But that which cannot be prevented, it may be prudent to conceal. Accordingly, all the tumultuous magnificence of war is employed to hide from the audience that penury of incident which will very soon be discovered by the reader; who must judge of the piece as it exhibits itself to his perception, undisguised by the pomp of splendid scenery or martial apparatus. It may here be not amiss to remark, that as this play (together with the other two which accompany it) has been offered for representation, and rejected, it might without disadvantage have been presented to the public in a form better calculated to please in the closet. But the intermediate parts, though deficient in connection with the main design, are many of them noble, interesting, and affecting. The intrepid deportment of Constantine amidst the seditious and cowardly rabble that yelled out at the gates of the palace for bread and Mahomet !'-the undaunted and unbroken spirit displayed by the embassadors of Constantine in the camp of the sultan-the wild and savage heroism of Othoric-the imperial pride and conjugal tenderness of Valeria -the preparation of Constantine and his friends to celebrate the sacrament for the last time-shew that miss Baillie has powers which are properly exerted in the more elevated departments of tragedy. In the interview of the emperor with his friend Othus, we find an amiable picture of that natural mildness of disposition which the necessity of the times had roused and exalted into heroism: and perhaps it is not inconsistent with the character which the writer intended to display, that this heroism appears to be the effect of considerable effort and struggle. P. 335 Othorio is a needy but brave Hungarian, who has attempted unsuccessfully to assassinate Mahomet. The sultan afterwards questions him in the presence of the embassadors of the emperor his replies, though too refined perhaps for a barbarian, are noble and heroic. • Mahomet (sternly). Who hired thee, thou bold and hardbrow'd villain, Such horrid deed to do? Othoric. I have been twice hired, mighty Mahomet, To do fell deeds, in which I've lack'd performance. • Mahomet. And who first hired thee? Othoric. Thyself. Mahomet. Base traitor! Dar'st thou belie me to my very face? Othoric. That I belie thee not be this my. My hire was given to me by Petronius, Othus. Petronius! • Othoric. Yes, that smooth, subtle Greek. token; Mahomet. He hir'd thee not to take the life of Constantine? Not for delib'rate murder. Tho' most wretched, A stranger, grip'd by hard necessity, The price he gave me ne'er had bought this arm Mahomet. And who did hire thee for this second deed, • Othoric. 'Twas Constantine. • Justiniani. Thou liest, foul, artful villain! • Mahomet. Peace I command! ye shall not interrupt him. "Twas Constantine that hir'd thee? Othoric. Yes, great sultan! But not with gold, and he himself, I ween, 'Mahomet. What did he bribe thee with? Othoric. With that which does but seldom prove the means Of like corruption-gen'rous admiration Of noble manly virtue. I beheld him, Like a brave stag encompass'd by base curs, Did I reveal my purpose.' P. 359. The effects of that strange fondness with which misery itself clings to existence, are described with terrible force in these lines: In expectation of their horrid fate, Widows, and childless parents, and 'lorn dames, In horrible stillness. But when the voice of grace was heard aloud, I saw a mother with her murder'd infant Still in her arms fast lock'd, spring from the ground.' r. 420. The loves of Ella and Rodrigo the Genoese naval commander, are abruptly and unskilfully introduced; and, what is worse, the lady almost seems to court the gentleman: however, a passage is to be found in the same scene which displays a warm and poetical imagination. We seamen, truly, Small dealings have with learn'd sorcery; Nor bead, nor book, nor ring, nor mutter'd rhymes, In shape of hern, or gull, or carrion bird, Our unfee'd wizards sit, and, with stretch'd throats, |