his daughter's society, sends young Pottingen in search of her, with strict injunctions not to return without her, and to bring with her either her present lover Casimere, or - should that not be possible Rogero himself, if he can find him; the Doctor having set his heart upon seeing his children comfortably settled before his death. Matilda, about the same period, quits her aunt's in search of Casimere; and Cecilia, having been advertised by an anonymous letter of the falsehood of his Kamschatkan journey, sets out in the post-wagon on a similar pursuit.

It is at this point of time the play opens, with the accidental meeting of Cecilia and Matilda at the inn at Weimar. Casimere arrives there soon after, and falls in first with Matilda, and then with Cecilia. Successive éclaircissements take place, and an arrangement is finally made by which the two ladies are to live jointly with Casimere.

Young Pottingen, wearied with a few weeks' search, during which he has not been able to find either of the objects of it, resolves to stop at Weimar and wait events there. It so happens that he takes up his lodging in the same house with Puddincrantz and Beefinstern, two English noblemen, whom the tyranny of King John has obliged to fly from their country, and who, after wandering about the continent for some time, have fixed their residence at Weimar.

The news of the signature of Magna Charta arriving, determines Puddincrantz and Beefinstern to return to England. Young Pottingen opens his case to them, and entreats them to stay to assist him in the object of his search. This they refuse; but, coming to the inn where they are to set off for Hamburg, they meet Casimere, from whom they had both received many civilities in Poland.

Casimere, by this time, tired of his "Double Arrangement," and having learnt from the waiter that Rogero is confined in the vaults of the neighboring Abbey for love, he resolves to attempt his rescue, and to make over Matilda to him as the price of his deliverance. He communicates his scheme to Puddingfield and Beefington, who agree to assist him; as also does young Pottingen. The waiter of the inn, proving to be a Knight Templar in disguise, is appointed leader of the expedition. A band of troubadours, who happen to be returning from the Crusades, and a company of Austrian and Prussian grenadiers returning from the Seven Years' War, are engaged as troops.

The attack on the Abbey is made with great success. The Count of Weimar and Gaspar, who are feasting with the Prior, are seized and beheaded in the refectory. The Prior is thrown into the dungeon from which Rogero is rescued. Matilda and Cecilia rush in. The former recognizes Rogero, and agrees to live with him. The children are produced on all sides, and young Pottingen is commissioned to write to his father, the Doctor, to detail the joyful events which have taken place, and to invite him to Weimar to partake of the general felicity.

APPENDIX

THE POEMS OF OSSIAN

TRANSLATED BY

JAMES MACPHERSON

1760, 1762

[The Ossianic "poems" are represented in an Appendix, as not being strictly a part of either the prose or the poetry of the eighteenth century. They were published by Macpherson as translations: first, Fragments of Ancient Poetry, collected in the Highlands, in 1760; then Fingal, an ancient epic poem in six books, together with several other poems composed by Ossian, the son of Fingal, in 1762; lastly Temora, another epic, in 1763. Their genuineness was early suspected (see the extracts above from Gray's Letters, page 328, and Boswell's Johnson, page 643), and the exact character of the writings has never been determined with precision. It is now generally agreed, however, that while Macpherson found his materials in Galic literature the arrangement and style of his "translations" were largely his own. The following extracts include the close of Carthon (including the famous "Hymn to the Sun"), the opening of Book 1 of Fingal, and the greater portion of The Death of Cuthullin.]

CARTHON

FINGAL was sad for Carthon; he commanded his bards to mark the day, when shadowy autumn returned; and often did they mark the day and sing the hero's praise. "Who comes so dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's shadowy cloud? Death is trembling in his hand! his eyes are flames of fire! Who roars along dark Lora's heath? Who but Carthon, king of swords! The people fall! See how he strides, like the sullen ghost of Morven! But there he lies, a goodly oak which sudden blasts overturned! When shalt thou rise, Balclutha's joy? When, Carthon, shalt thou arise? Who comes so dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's shadowy cloud?"

Such were the words of the bards, in the day of their mourning. Ossian often joined their voice, and added to their song. "My soul has been mournful for Carthon; he fell in the days of his youth. And thou, O Clessammor! where is thy dwelling in the wind? Has the youth forgot his wound? Flies he on clouds with thee? I feel the sun, O Malvina! Leave me to my rest. Perhaps they may come to my dreams; I think I hear a feeble voice. The beam of heaven delights to shine on the grave of Carthon; I feel it warm around! O thou that

T

rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone; who can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks, and grows again; the moon herself is lost in heaven. But thou art forever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with tempests, when thunder rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain; for he beholds thy beams no more, whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the West. But thou art, perhaps, like me, for a season; thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in the clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult, then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth! Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of the moon, when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills; the blast of the North is on the plain; the traveler shrinks in the midst of his journey."

TINGAL

Cuthullin sat by Tura's wall, by the tree of the rustling sound. His spear leaned against a rock. His shield lay on grass by his side. Amid his thoughts of mighty Carbar, a hero slain by the chief in war, the scout of ocean comes, Moran the son of Fithil.

"Arise!" says the youth. "Cuthullin, arise! I see the ships of the North! Many, chief of men, are the foe. Many are the heroes of the sea-born Swaran!"

"Moran," replied the blue-eyed chief, "thou ever tremblest, son of Fithil! Thy fears have increased the foe. It is Fingal, king of deserts, with aid to green Erin of streams."

"I beheld their chief," says Moran, "tall as a glittering rock. His spear is a blasted pine; his shield the rising moon. He sat on the shore! like a cloud of mist on the silent hill! Many, chief of heroes! I said, many are our hands of war. Well art thou named the Mighty Man, but many mighty men are seen from Tura's windy walls.

"He spoke, like a wave on a rock: Who in this land appears like me? Heroes stand not in my presence; they fall to earth from my hand. Who can meet Swaran in fight? Who but Fingal, king of Selma of storms? Once we wrestled on Malmor; our heels overturned the woods. Rocks fell from their place; rivulets, changing their course, fled murmuring from our side. Three days we renewed the strife; heroes stood at a distance, and trembled. On the fourth, Fingal says that the king of the ocean fell; but Swaran says he stood. Let dark Cuthullin yield to him that is strong as the storms of this land!"

"No!" replied the blue-eyed chief, "I never yield to mortal man! Dark Cuthullin shall be great or dead! Go, son of Fithil, take my spear. Strike the sounding shield of Semo. It hangs at Tura's rustling gate. The sound of peace is not in its voice! My heroes shall hear and obey."

He went. He struck the bossy shield. The hills, the rocks reply. The sound spreads along the wood; deer start by the lake of roes. Curach leaps from the sounding rock, and Connal of the bloody spear. Crugal's breast of snow beats high. The son of Favi leaves the darkbrown hind. "It is the shield of war," said Ronnor! "The spear of Cuthullin," said Lugar! Son of the sea, put on thy arms! Calmar, lift thy sounding steel! Puno! dreadful hero, arise! Cairbar, from thy red tree of Cromla! Bend thy knee, O Eth! descend from the streams of Lena. Ca-olt, stretch thy side as thou movest along the whistling heath of Mora; thy side that is white as the foam of the troubled sea, when the dark winds pour it on rocky Cuthon.

Now I behold the chiefs in the pride of their former deeds! Their souls are kindled at the battles of old, at the actions of other times. Their eyes are flames of fire. They roll in search of the foes of the land. Their mighty hands are on their swords. Lightning pours from their sides of steel. They come like streams from the mountains; each rushes roaring from his hill. Bright are the chiefs of battle, in the armor of their fathers. Gloomy and dark their heroes follow, like the gathering of the rainy clouds behind the red meteors of heaven. The sounds of crashing arms ascend. The gray dogs howl between. Unequal bursts the song of battle. Rocky Cromla echoes round. On Lena's dusky heath they stand, like mist that shades the hills of autumn; when broken and dark it settles high, and lifts its head to hea

ven.

"Hail!" said Cuthullin, "sons of the narrow vales! Hail, hunters of the deer! Another sport is drawing near; it is like the dark rolling of that wave on the coast. Or shall we fight, ye sons of war, or yield green Erin to Lochlin? O Connal, speak, thou first of men! thou breaker of the shields! Thou hast often fought with Lochlin; wilt thou lift thy father's spear?"

"Cuthullin," calm the chief replied, "the spear of Connal is keen. It delights to shine in battle, to mix with the blood of thousands. But though my hand is bent on fight, my heart is for the peace of Erin. Behold, thou first in Cormac's war, the sable fleet of Swaran. His masts are many on our coast, like reeds in the Lake of Lego. His ships are forests clothed with mist, when the trees yield by turns to the squally wind. Many are his chiefs in battle. Connal is for peace! Fingal would shun his arm, the first of mortal men! Fingal, who scatters the mighty, as stormy winds the heath, when streams roar through echoing Cona, and night settles with all her clouds on the hill."

"Fly, thou man of peace!" said Calmar. "Fly!" said the son of Matha. "Go, Connal, to thy silent hills, where the spear never