Of husband, wife, and child ;-those tenderest ties!
Superior to your right divine of kings!

Zamti. Then go, Mandane, thou once faithful woman,

Dear to this heart in vain ;-go, and forget

Those virtuous lessons which I oft have taught thee,

In fond credulity, while on each word

You hung enamor'd. Go, to Timurkan,
Reveal the awful truth. Be thou spectatress

Of murder'd majesty. Embrace your son,

And let him lead in shame and servitude,

A life ignobly bought. Then let those eyes,
Those faded eyes, which grief for me hath dimm'd,
With guilty joy reanimate their lustre,

To brighten slavery, and beam their fires
On the fell Scythian murderer.

Mandane. And is it thus,

Thus is Mandane known? My soul disdains
The vile imputed guilt. No-never-never-
Still am I true to fame. Come, lead me hence,
Where I may lay down life to save Zaphimri;
But save my Hamet too. Then, then you'll find
A heart beats here, as warm and great as thine.

Zamti. Then make with me one strong, one glorious effort,

And rank with those who, from the first of time,

In fame's eternal archives stand rever'd,

For conquering all the dearest ties of nature,

To serve the general weal.

Mandane. That savage virtue

Loses with me its horrid charms.

I've sworn

To save my king. But should a mother turn

A dire assassin-oh! I cannot bear

The piercing thought. Distraction-quick distraction

Will seize my brain.-See there-my child-my child—

By guards surrounded, a devoted victim,

Barbarians, hold! Ah! see, he dies!-he dies!

[She faints into Zamti's arms.

Zamti.

Where is Arsace? Fond maternal love

Shakes her weak frame-(Enter Arsace.) Quickly, Arsace, help

This ever tender creature. Wand'ring life
Rekindles in her cheek. Soft, lead her off

To where the fanning breeze in yonder bow'r
May woo her spirits back. Propitious heav'n!
Pity the woundings of a father's heart;

Pity my strugglings with this best of women;
Support our virtue :-kindle in our souls
A ray of your divine enthusiasm ;

Such as inflames the patriot's breast, and lifts

Th' imprison'd mind to that sublime of virtue,
That even on the rack it feels the good,

Which in a single hour it works to millions,

And leaves the legacy to after-times. [Exit, leading off Mandane.

Even in so short a specimen the reader sees a strength of thought, a propriety of diction, and a perfect acquaintance with the stage. The whole is thus in action, filled with incident, and embellished with a justness of sentiment, not to be found even in M. Voltaire. The French poet, for instance, seems to speak without detestation of self-murder, and instances the neighboring Japanese, who find in it a refuge from all their sorrows: our poet more justly bounds it as a usurpation of

Zamti. The dread prerogative

Of life and death, and measure out the thread
Of our own beings! 'Tis the coward's act,

Who dares not to encounter pain and peril-
Be that the practice of the gloomy north.

["L'homme était-il donc né pour tant dépendance,
De nos voisins altiers imitons la constance;

De la nature humaine ils soutiennent les droits,
Vivent libres chez eux, et meurent à leur choix.
Un affront leur suffit pour sortir de la vie,
Et plus que le néant ils craignent l'infamie,
Le hardi Japonais n'attend par qu'au cercueil;
Un despote insolent le plonge d'un coup-d'œil."

L'Orphelin de la Chine, acte v. sc. 5.]

Mandane. Must we then wait a haughty tyrant's rod,

The vassals of his will?-no-let us rather

Nobly break through the barriers of this life,
And join the beings of some other world,
Who'll throng around our greatly daring souls,
And view the deed with wonder and applause.
Zamti. Distress too exquisite !-Ye holy pow'rs,
If aught below can supersede your law,
And plead for wretches, who dare, self-impell'd,
Rush to your awful presence ;-oh! it is not
When the distemper'd passions rage; when pride
Is stung to madness; when ambition falls
From his high scaffolding;-oh!-no-if aught
Can justify the blow, it is when virtue

Has nothing left to do;-when liberty

No more can breathe at large;-'tis with the groans

Of our dear country when we dare to die.

Mandane. Then here at once direct the friendly steel.
Zamti. One last adieu!-now!-ah! does this become

Thy husband's love! thus with uplifted blade

Can I approach that bosom-bliss, where oft
With other looks than those-oh! my Mandane-

I've hush'd my cares within thy shelt'ring arms?

Mandane. Alas! the loves that hover'd o'er our pillows

Have spread their pinions, never to return,

And the pale fates surround us

Then lay me down in honorable rest;

Come, as thou art, all hero, to my arms,

And free a virtuous wife.

Zamti. It must be so

Now then, prepare thee-my arm flags and droops,

Concious of thee in ev'ry trembling nerve.

[Dashes down the dagger.

This is finely conceived, and exquisitely executed. Subjoined

to the play we find a letter, addressed from the author to Vol

taire, which we think might have been better suppressed; for though it is written with fire and spirit, and contains many judicious observations, it may subject Mr. Murphy to the censure of having made but an indifferent return to a man, whose sentiments and plan he has, in a great measure, thought proper to adopt. It may be indeed considered as a just retribution on a Frenchman, who had served Shakspeare in the same manner; that is, adopted all his beauties, and then reviled him for his faults. Voltaire is entitled to particular regard from our countrymen, notwithstanding the petulance with which he has treated them on some occasions; for he was certainly the first who opened the eyes of Europe to the excellences of English poetry.

XIX.-DR. YOUNG ON ORIGINAL COMPOSITION.*

[From the Critical Review, 1760. "Conjectures on Original Composition; in a letter to the Author of Sir Charles Grandison." 8vo.]

ONE of the oldest and bravest champions in the cause of literature, has here resumed the gauntlet; and Dr. Young, the only survivor of our age of writers, instead of growing languid with age, seems to gather strength by time, and kindles as he runs. Some imagery, frequent metaphor, and a glowing imagination, are generally the prerogatives of a youthful author; however,

* ["Dr. Johnson told us, the first time he saw Dr. Young was at the house of Mr. Richardson, the author of Clarissa. He was sent for, that the Doctor might read to him his Conjectures on Original Composition; which he did, and Dr. Johnson made his remarks; and he was surprised to find Young receive as novelties, what he thought very common maxims. He said he believed Young was not a great scholar, nor had studied regularly the art of writing "-BosWELL, vol. iv. p. 301.]

the writer in view seems to invert the order of nature, and as he grows old, his fancy seems to grow more luxuriant. To say the truth, his metaphors are too thick sown; he frequently drives them too far, and often does not preserve their simplicity to the end; thus, when he speaks of men "up to the knces in antiquity saluting the Pope's toe," he mixes images that are in themselves inconsistent; but wherever he falls short of perfection, his faults are the errors of genius; his manner peculiarly his own; and while his book serves, by precept, to direct us to original composition, it serves to impel us by example.

He begins by apologizing for his having, at his time of life, resumed the pen. There was need of an excuse from one whose genius still subsists in its energy, and whose very defects will have admirers. He proceeds to observe that there are two kinds of imitations, one of nature, the other of authors. The first we call originals, and confine the term imitation to the second; an imitator of the last class he justly ranks infinitely beneath the former. An imitator shares his crown with the chosen object of his imitation; but the original seizes reputation. Fame, fond of new glories, sounds her trumpet in triumph at his birth; but so few books have we dictated by original genius, that if all others were to be burnt, the lettered world would resemble some metropolis in flames, where a few incombustible buildings, a fortress, temple, or tower, lift their heads in melancholy grandeur, amid the mighty ruin. But why, continues he, are originals so few? Not because the writers' harvest is over, the great reapers of antiquity having left nothing to be gleaned after them, but because illustrious examples engross, prejudice, and intimidate. They engross our attention, and so prevent a duc inspection of ourselves; they prejudice our judgment in favor of their abilities, and so lessen the sense of their own; they intimidate us with