times. The literature and arts of other countries, particularly of Italy, were unlocked, and although they made no essential part, served to reveal the intellectual riches of that age. Added to these, were other influences, which acted equally, though differently. Chivalry was not extinct. Those days were gone indeed when "worlds were lost for ladies' eyes," but their nobler features still remained. The poet's description embodied not only "all he saw," but "part of what he was." He was not, like his posterity, placed upon a stand-point above mankind, where he could take in at a glance the whole range of human affairs, but mixed with them, and was of them. Hence the strength and truthfulness of his descriptions.

It were a bootless, and for us a dangerous task, to essay a minute critique upon any of the men who made the reign of Elizabeth great. The names of Shakspeare, Ben Jonson, Massinger, Beaumont and Fletcher, have become household words;-and even the less familiar, such as Lyly, Marlowe, Marston, Webster Decker, &c., we will not abuse by criticism. Let them sleep-the dead who live. Our limits also forbid a close review of the English Drama down to our own day. The present dramatic literature of England and our own country is not the legitimate offspring of that which we have noticed. It claims no greater antiquity than the reign of Charles II. With the simple remark, then, that although Comedy may, high poetry cannot keep pace with the progress of civilization, we will hasten to consider the means by which these old days have been made familiar to us. And why is it that we no longer look upon this age as a vast Sahara of mind? Why do we bring fond and zealous minds to converse with those great old days? It is not that, stripped of their quaint old-fashioned guise, they have put on the mottled cloth of modern wear. No;-they are not changed; but we are.

A second Reformation has taken place, different in kind, it is true, but equally marked with the first. That learning which until within a few years was banned to all except the acute and drudging student, is now our common, our cherished property. Resultant to this, our authors in prose as well as verse have learned that the chastest models may be found in their mother-tongue, and that to write well is not to write fashionably, but from the "red-leaved tables of the heart." This end is the work of legitimate means, the Stage. It is impossible for the mind to understand a play without aid from the senses, the eye and ear. True, in the most simple, this is doubly so when a play is involved and introduces a wide range of character; above all, when it abounds in such anachronisms as we meet in Shakspeare. A Dramatist's object and excellence lie in so managing a variety of characters that they shall bear a distinct part in the action, and yet tend unitedly to the denouement. Notwithstanding our own emotions answer to the passions portrayed, they are indefinite, unless these passions be seen acting through flesh and blood. We cannot shift the scenes; at one moment in a field of blood, thrilled with the hot enthusiasm of battle, and at the next, dazed with the pomp and glitter of a court; the mind cannot make these quick transitions so as to realize its change of situ

ation-there must be a bridge between our emotions. If such be the necessity where real existences are introduced, how far more feeble is our attempt to follow the Dramatist when he enters the invisible; when he brings before us in all their airy and spirit-array the shapes of Elves and Fairies! We make a more stupid figure in lands of such enchantment, than did the doughty Falstaff among his "moonshine revelers."

And in this we may remark, the Epic poet has an advantage over the Dramatist. His spirit-machinery (if we may so speak) is of a less subtle kind. We can soar with Milton into the unknown, and tread with him the "sapphire walls of Heaven;" we can descend with Dante, and thrill while the shapes of "ugly hell" gape at us; but we may not follow Shakspeare in his flight to the enchanted Island; we may not mix with Prospero in the spirit-conclave, or couch with the Court of Titania, reveling in the golden bells of flowers. Into these gorgeous privacies of the imagination no unaided eye can pierce. The mimic circumstance of the Stage must introduce us to these "little ethereal people,"

66 as on the sands with printless feet, They chase the ebbing Neptune."

Such, however, are lessons to the mind-that great mission to the heart which Nature has given the Poet is his nobler calling. And shall we ban him from the Stage because immoralities attend its representations? because low, debauched humanity trails its slime and venom into the place where Manliness and Beauty wait upon mind? The same justice would discard a play because vicious characters are admitted. Away with this uneasy virtue, which sits starched and puckered like ruff on the cold neck of an old maid. Give us your stout, bold-fronted virtue, which fears no evil, because it knows none. Immoralities are not, however, necessary attendants upon theatrical representations. When the good and pure give that patronage to the Stage which it deserves, the Theatre will cease to be the resort of the low. The truth of this was shown, to a degree, in the recent representation of Richard III. at the Park. Wit and fashion there usurped the places of ignorance and vulgarity. Similar testimony is given by the better class of English Theatres. Still, even granting that they are unavoidably the haunts of vice, we should contend none the less strenuously for their encouragement. Every large city is full of vice, in all its multifaced deformity. It does not walk the streets alone. It does not fester and rot only in the brothel. It crowds the gay and costly saloon, and lists to the rich lures of feasting and song. Every corner and nook holds out some snare to the unwary. Every window sparkles with some gay iniquity. Those then who would close the Theatre, from benevolence to the young and inexperienced, yield them either to scenes of more gairish wickedness, or to the cells of drunken and slimy vice. Let then the American public give that patronage to the Stage which it so eminently deserves. Let it foster dramatic genius, and some of our own glorious history may yet be "wedded to immortal verse."

ORIGIN OF THE ROBIN-REDBREAST.

(AN INDIAN FAble.)

[The following Indian tradition will be found in Mrs. Jamieson's "Winter Studies and Summer Rambles," for whom it was expressly translated from the Chippeway language. It is here done into rhyme, and all its allusions to the customs of the Aborigines of our country, are in the main correct.]

Long time since, ere the white man came To these rubrics derived from heaven

In western wilds a seat to claim,-
Far inland towards the closing day,
Where straits of Mackinaw display
Their smooth-worn, bleak and rugged sides,
Washed by three lakes' copious tides,—
'Mid the Chippeway's tawny clan,
Once there dwelt a medicine man.
Far-famed was he for knowledge vast
Of magic rites and annals past;
No one was thought so skilled to call
Demons dark from their spirit hall-
No one was thought so skilled to heal,
By charms that roots and herbs reveal.

II.

And now his son, of robust form,

Manly limbs and manly arts,
His heart with courage thrilling warm,
Nears the bound whence manhood starts;
At which time there a practice was,
'Mong the red men's accustomed laws,
In a lone lodge, with patience brave,
Their strengthened limbs to wash and lave,
And by long fasts and mien sedate,
Compose their minds to meditate;
That when Wee-ny, the god of sleep,
Softly should their eyelids close-
In slumber wearied nature keep,

Seeking vigor in repose,
Their guardian spirit might appear
As sun or moon or bat or deer,

Or whate'er shape the dream might show,
'Twas said to guide their life below.

III.

The son in wisdom's ways to make

Far better than all others,
Persuaded was more pains to take

Than all his magi brothers.
With more form was the water boiled,
In steam his body longer toiled:
Full many times the bath was tried,
And many times the cloth applied;
A husky mat was smoothly spread,
To form for him the dreaming bed;
And it upon the youth was laid,
Assured his grief should be repaid-
In mystic lore he should excel,
And prophecy extremely well,
If he bore all as did become
The Magician's true-born son.
He was to fast more than was deemed
Enough by those who erst had dreamed:
Not till twice six suns rose and set,
And twice six nights their course had met,
On grain or flesh or fruit was he
His famished frame regaled to see.

IV.

And at each morn the old man came
Where his son in silence lay,
To practice rites by which to gain
Such gifts as magicians may.
And now he shakes his magic wand,
And now employs his sleights of hand,
And brings the tools that a rude age
Thought fit and useful for the sage,

That their presence might inspire
Powers which their feats require-
Endurance in fire's scorching rage,

And since 't was thought this magic power And courage in battle's ire.
Depended not on chance or hour,

V.

When nine of the twelve days were gone,
By craving appetite made long,
The son besought his fast to break-
Some other time a new one take.
"My dreams," he said, "are very sad,
And ominous of all that's bad."
But no-his sire would not permit
That he should touch or taste one bit;
Since one to gain the seer's high art
Must not from first intents depart.

Lessened down to astonished eyes,
His feet with claws he now supplies;
And swelling now his pliant throat,
Pitched and tuned to the robin's note.

64

VII.

My father refused to give me meat
When hungry much I wished to eat,
And now he sees I'm made a bird,
No more with human race to herd;
He alone suffers by the change,
The air now happy I shall range:

When two days more their course had run, Manito* to me has been most just,

Imploringly repeats his son

The request that before was sent
For aught to stay his languishment.
Denied again-the old man said,
That hope and courage him might aid-
"At morrow's dawn myself will bring
The food for which you are suffering;
'Tis hard by twelve short hours to lose
The gifts for thee that now I choose."

VI.

By the first light the father brought
The food before so gently sought,
With expectations mounting high,
Of skill his child had gained thereby.
Already prided he upon

The future fame of his young son,
Which every wind should waft abroad,
And make far off a household word;
But stooping now to cast a look
Through cedar boughs into his nook-
Why starts he back with sore surprise?
Why stands he fixed with staring eyes?
No pleasing view does him delight,
But a vision strange meets his sight-
The child his failing years had charmed
To a bird being fast transformed;-
His arms to wings already turned,
Vermilion on his bosom burned;

And shown me mercy-go I must—
In gladness I mount to the skies."

My son, my son," the old man cries,
"Do not me leave alone below,
Without thee life is full of woe!"
And rushing in, with intent rude,
His grasp the bird can just elude,
And rising up the trees among,
The robin sings a cheering song.

66

VIII.

Forsaken, now, Oh! sir, you see
I take my course to love and glee ;-
Yet be assured I e'er shall dwell
Nearest your wigwam, to dispel
Sorrow and sadness from your breast,
With cheering music lulled to rest.
Content and happy, day by day
Unceasing joy I shall display ;-
And ages hence, when o'er the main
Come foes to your Indian name,-
The stars that guide them to these lands,
Ill-omened to your strongest bands,—
Their bark with such destruction fraught-
Such evils by their presence brought—
The air pestilenced by their breath,
Their very looks the shafts of death-
Then, e'en then, for the love I bore
To my red brothers on this shore,

There starts from him the plumage bright, I still will charm the ground they tread,
Which forms and grows upon the sight;— With songs so oft here warbled.”

*The good spirit of the Indians.

ix.

Then looking up the sky upon,
The robin greets the rising sun,
His eye with pity beaming looked,
As thus the promise on he spoke :-
"And ev'ry day the summer long
I'll usher in this hour with song;
When morn's fresh air and pearly dew
Their wonted life daily renew,
My sweetest strains 'tis then I'll shower,
In honor of my natal hour."

X.

Do not despise this tale so rude,
In it is found a precept good,-
That filial duty joy e'er gains,
And obedience reward claims:
Tho' nature's course it cannot stop,
It changes for a better lot.
It is by such untutored speech,
That simple men their virtue teach.

GILES SCROGGINS.

I ALWAYS had an aversion to that species of practical jokes called hoaxes. To tell a man in sober earnest, that a thing is so and so, and then to laugh at him for a ninny, because he is fool enough to believe you, seems to me rather a proof of knavery and unblushing impudence, than of any of that keen shrewdness and wit, which the perpetrators of these deceptions generally arrogate to themselves, and that too, with the consent of a considerable portion of people who ought to know better. These deceptions are seldom carried out without more or less of downright falsehood, and what is rather singular, the individuals who are foremost in such undertakings, are always those who are ready to fly into a passion if their word is doubted, and consider the least imputation against their veracity as the deepest insult.

But I will leave homilies on that subject to the more capable, and go on with, or rather begin, my story. As I was saying, I always had an aversion to hoaxes-that is, in principle, but from long habit, in this quizzical world, I have become somewhat accustomed to them, and if I had not, I have seen some at which, in spite of my scruples, I could not choose but laugh. There is something so very ludicrous in the pertinacity and persevering obstinacy with which one of these victims of ridicule persists in making game of himself, that it seems as if they were sent into the world on purpose that the schoolmaster, Experience, should never be idle, but that he might have employment and wages the year round.

One of these unfortunate wights, in particular, is at present in my mind, who, after being made, for several successive months, a subject of these experiments, most perseveringly refused to grow one particle wiser, and at length left the place in search of employment, just as 'ready and waiting' to be hoaxed as on the morning when he first entered it in all the verdancy of youthful expectation.

Common jokes and quizzes were dull and perfectly disgusting when applied to him. The tales of the Arabian Nights, and Sinbad the Sailor, he would have believed as readily as he did the Spelling