Now, whether she has ought to say or no,
A woman's tongue will go for exercise.
Most earthly things have their similitude,
But woman's tongue is yet incomparable.

"In Act II. Scene 3. Balthazar goes in search of his daughter, and the Count

says

I'll bear you company;

And as the traveller, perplex'd awhile

In the benighted mazes of a forest,

Breaks on a champaign country smooth and level,
And sees the sun shine glorious; so shall you, sir,
Behold a bright close, and a golden end
To this now dark adventure.

"The following is a fine drawn picture of the follies in which the wealthy indulge: it is near the end of the second act.

Who, then, that has taste for happiness,
Would live in a large mansion, only fit
To be a habitation for the winds;

Keep gilded ornaments for dust and spiders;
See every body- care for nobody;

Lose the free use of limbs by being mew'd up

In a close carriage next to being bed-rid,
As if, like mummies, we should fall to pieces
By taking air; and, above all, be pester'd
With those voracious vermin, call'd attendants.

"At the close of the third act the Duke gives the following beautiful picture.

Thus modestly attir'd,

A half-blown rose stuck in thy braided hair,
With no more diamonds than those eyes are made of,
No deeper rubies than compose thy lips,
Nor pearls more precious than inhabit them,
With the pure red and white which that same hand
That blends the rainbow, mingles in thy cheeks.
This well proportion'd form (think not I flatter)
In graceful motion to harmonious sounds,
And thy free tresses dancing in the wind,

Thou'lt fix as much observance as chaste dames
Can meet without a blush."*

That The Honey-moon is a fortunate imi- v tation cannot be denied by its most ardent admirers; but the idea of reviving the old

*These remarks are extracted from the Theatrical Inquisitor for 1805.

comedy was no less original than happy, and gives the author an indisputable title to the reputation he has acquired. It has lately been customary to refer to our elder writers as the first and last and only school of dramatic poetry. To say that Shakespeare belonged to that age, is surely suffi. cient to establish its universal supremacy: but not satisfied with this concession, it is pretended that even his cotemporaries (few of whose productions could be introduced on a modern stage), and even his successors (though they adulterated many of his beautiful productions), all belonged to an order of dramatic intelligences immeasurably removed from the present race of writers, and unapproachable by those of future generations. It is natural to enquire what were the peculiar circumstances of society to which we are to attribute this prescriptive claim to excellence: and the representation of The Honey-moon naturally transports the imagination to the poetical court

of Elizabeth, and the theatrical metropolis of James. In that dramatic age it is well known that the poet was supremely happy to receive five pounds for his moiety of a play; that the most popular performer thought himself liberally remunerated by a salary of thirty shillings per week; and that, even in the elegant theater of Blackfriars, volumes of vapours ascended from the smokers in the pit, whilst the fumes of strong beer issued from the dark and gloomy cells corresponding in design with ourboxes, but not like them, alas! graced by the presence of fashion, of elegance, and beauty. We will not animadvert on the custom of crying in the theatre the refreshments provided for the audience *, since the same custom prevails at this day in the Theatre Francois. Nor need we, perhaps, greatly commiserate our play-going forefathers be

* The money squandered in these refreshments forms a serious article in Prynn's charges against the theatre.-See Histrio Mastix.

cause their orchestra was comprized ni three fiddles, and its operations often limited to the three flourishes announcing the entrance of the royal Dane or noble Moor, inasmuch as they were thus spared the musical interlude which now deforms the solemn scenes of Macbeth.

In witnessing the rage for spectacle which in our day has almost raised the machinist above the poet or the tragedian, we might perhaps be tempted, with the eloquent Schlegel, to envy rather than pity the squalid penury of their scenical decorations. The blanket curtain might be tolerated, under some circumstances, even in modern times ; but no eloquence-no ingenuity can disguise the ludicrous subterfuges for scenical machinery which have drawn forth the animadversions of cotemporary critics, and at which Sydney has levelled the keenest satire.*

* Our tragedies and comedies observe rules neither