the personages should be either mean or corrupt, nor always requisite, that the action should be trivial, nor ever, that it should be fictitious.

If the two kinds of dramatick poetry had been defined only by their effects upon the mind, some absurdities might have been prevented, with which the compositions of our greatest poets are disgraced, who, for want of some settled ideas and accurate distinctions, have unhappily confounded tragick with comick sentiments. They seem to have thought, that as the meanness of personages constituted comedy, their greatness was sufficient to form a tragedy; and that nothing was necessary but that they should crowd the scene with monarchs, and generals, and guards; and make them talk, at certain intervals, of the downfal of kingdoms, and the rout of armies. They have not considered, that thoughts or incidents, in themselves ridiculous, grow still more grotesque by the solemnity of such characters; that reason and nature are uniform and inflexible; and that what is despicable and absurd, will not, by any association with splendid titles, become rational or great; that the most important affairs, by an intermixture of an unseasonable levity, may be made contemptible; and that the robes of royalty can give no dignity to nonsense or to folly.

"Comedy,' says Horace, sometimes raises "her voice;" and Tragedy may likewise on proper occasions abate her diguity; but as the comick personages can only depart from their familiarity of style, when the more violent passions are put in mo, tion, the heroes and queens of tragedy should never descend to trifle, but in the hours of case, and intermissions of danger. Yet in the tragedy of Don Sebastian, when the king of Portugal is in the hands of his enemy, and having just drawn the lot, by

which he is condemned to die, breaks out into a wild boast that his dust shall take possession of Africk, the dialogue proceeds thus between the captive and his conqueror:

Muley Moluch. What shall I do to conquer thee?
Seb. Impossible!

Souls know no conquerors.

M. Mol. I'll show thee for a monster thro' my Africk.
Seb. No, thou canst only show me for a man:
Africk is stor❜d with monsters; man's a prodigy
Thy subjects have not seen.

M. Mol. Thou talk'st as if
Still at the head of battle.

Seb. Thou mistak'st: For there I would not talk,

Benducar, the Minister. Sure he would sleep,

This conversation, with the sly remark of the minister, can only be found not to be comick, because it wants the probability necessary to repre sentations of common life, and degenerates too much towards buffoonery and farce.

The same play affords a smart return of the general to the emperor, who, enforcing his orders for the death of Sebastian, vents his impatience in this abrupt threat:

No more replies,

But see thou dost it; Or

To which Dorax answers,

Choak in that threat: I can say Or as loud.

A thousand instances of such impropriety might be produced, were not one scene in Aureng-Zebe sufficient to exemplify it. Indamora, a captive queen, having Aureng-Zebe for her lover, employs Arimant, to whose charge she had been entrusted, and whom she had made sensible of her charms, to carry her message to his rival,

ARIMANT, with a letter in his hand: INDAMora.
Arim. And I the messenger to him from you?
Your empire you to tyranny pursue:
You lay commands both cruel and unjust,
To serve my rival, and betray my trust.

Ind. You first betray'd your trust in loving me :
And should not I my own advantage see?
Serving my love, you may my friendship gain;
You know the rest of your pretences vain,
You must, my Arimant, you must be kind :
'Tis in your nature, and your noble mind.

Arim. I'll to the king, and straight my trust resign.
Ind. His trust you may, but you shall never mine.
Heaven made you love me for no other end,
But to become my confident and friend :
As such, I keep no secret from your sight,
And therefore make you judge how ill I write;
Read it, and tell me freely then your mind,

If 'tis indited, as I meant it, kind.

Arim. I ask not heav'n my freedom to restore,-[Reading. But only for your sake

And yet I must

-I'll read no more.

[Reading.

Less for my own, than for your sorrow sad

Another line like this, would make nie mad

Heav'n! she goes on-yet more—and yet more kind!

Each sentence is a dagger to

my mind.

See me this night-- [Reading.

Thank fortune, who did such a friend provide;
For faithful Arimant shall be your guide.

Not only to be made an instrument,

But pre-engag'd without my own consent !

[As reading.

Ind. Unknown t'engage you, still augments my score And gives you scope of meriting the more.

Arim. The best of men

Some int'rest in their actions must confess;

None merit, but in hope they may possess:

The fatal paper rather let me tear,

Then, like Bellerophon, my own sentence bear.

Ind. You may; but 'twill not be your best advice:

Twill only give me pains of writing twice.

You know you must obey me, soon or late:

Why should you vainly struggle with your fate?

Arim. I thank thee, Heaven! thou has been won

d'rous kind!

Why am I thus to slavery design'd,

And yet am cheated with a free-born mind!

Or make thy orders with my reason suit,

Or let me live by sense, a glorious brute—— [She frowns.
You frown, and I obey with speed, before

That dreadful sentence comes, See me no more,

In this scene, every circumstance concurs to turn tragedy to farce. The wild absurdity of the expedient; the contemptible subjection of the lover; the folly of obliging him to read the letter, only because it ought to have been concealed from him; the frequent interruptions of amorous impatience; the faint expostulations of a voluntary slave; the imperious haughtiness of a tyrant without power; the deep reflection of the yielding rebel upon fate and free-will; and his wise wish to lose his reason as soon as he finds himself about to do what he cannot persuade his reason to approve, are surely suf ficient to awaken the most torpid risibility.

There is scarce a tragedy of the last century which has not debased its most important incidents, and polluted its most serious interlocutions, with buffoonery and meanness; but though perhaps it cannot be pretended that the present age has added much to the force and efficacy of the drama, it has at least been able to escape many faults, which either ignorance had overlooked, or indulgence had licensed. The later tragedies indeed have faults of another kind, perhaps more destructive to delight, though less open to censure. That perpetual tu, mour of phrase with which every thought is now expressed by every personage, the paucity of adventures which regularity admits, and the unvaried equality of flowing dialogue, has taken away from Qur present writers almost all that dominion over

the passions which was the boast of their predecessors. Yet they may at least claim this commendation, that they avoid gross faults, and that if they cannot often move terrour or pity, they are always careful not to provoke laughter.

No 126. SATURDAY, JUNE 1, 1751.

Nihil est aliud magnum quam multa minuta.

VET. AUCT

Sands form the mountain, moments make the year.

YOUNG.

SIR,

TO THE RAMBLER.

AMONG other topicks of conversation which your papers supply, I was lately engaged in a discussion of the character given by Tranquilla of her lover Venustulus, whom, notwithstanding the severity of his mistress, the greater number seemed inclined to acquit of unmanly or culpable timidity.

One of the company remarked that prudence ought to be distinguished from fear; and that if Ve nustulus was afraid of nocturnal adventures, no man who considered how much every avenue of the town was infested with robbers could think him blame able; for why should life be hazarded without prospect of honour or advantage? Another was of opinion, that a brave man might be afraid of crossing the river in the calmest weather, and declared,