ness for artificiality and gawdy frippery. It has, indeed, attained to high fame throughout Europe; and among many of the leading families of the different nations it has been in some points imitated and adopted, particularly in made dishes; but if the laws of nature are to decide, with as little good reason as in most other cases, in stead of ranking it the first in Europe, I should be disposed to rank it nearer the bottom. It is true, that as Partridge, and numberless others have said, de gustibus non est disputandum. Every man for himself. I certainly will never choose a French cook for my kitchen.

Yet, though I by no means think French cookery a good species, I have no antipathies in the case. In travelling, I have never allowed my native custom, or squeamishness, to prevent me from yielding to the custom of other countries. I ate heartily, though few of the dishes suited my palate. I must, however, except from this charge their broth with bread, which I found excellent. Some persons may reckon it poor, but I consider it by far the best dish I met with in France. It is not rich; but it has the real flavour of the meat, and it is not spoilt with any of the unpleasing flavours of their sauces.

But to return to our table d'hôte: The British part of the guests, both male and female, seemed to be the genuine children of John Bull, though they had come, like the rest, to spend their money in France. They criticised every thing with the most unbounded freedom, and generally, with severity. Many a comparison was instituted, and of course, always ended in favour of the island.

I had frequently heard that the vin ordinaire was for the most part just as good as any wine to be had at inns in the country, and that if we called for any other sort, the only difference, in general, would be a higher price. I meant to act upon this information, Some of the gentlemen entertained other ideas, and called for wine at five and six francs the bottle. They did not like it; and they owned that the vin ordinaire, which we were drinking, seemed to be quite as good. I found it agreeable; and as their beer is abominable, I resolved to adopt the custom of the country, as I had done

before in Germany, and mix wine with water for my beer. The wine is brought in long necked bottles; and they do not use decanters. This renders their wine-drinking much less elegant in appearance than ours. However, I became reconciled to it.

Towards the close of the dinner, which consisted of three removes, including the dessert of pastry and fruit, a male and female musician entered; and, without saying any thing, as soon as they had taken their station, struck up. The man played the flute, and the woman a kind of hurdy-gurdy, to which she sang. She was of the middle age, not very pretty; but was decently dressed, and wore immense ear-rings. In the size of this ornament, by the way, the lower women of Calais seem prodigiously to excel. She sung in a very tolerable style. Some of the gentlemen asked for favourite airs; and, at my request, she sang the national air, Vive Henri Quatre. Fond of whatever tends to promote cheerfulness and innocent enjoyment, I was much delighted with this trait of manners, which I afterwards found to be a common one. The female at length came round the table with her tambourine. Each person put in a sous or two. I thought the tribute, though the usual one, somewhat small; and, pleased with the agreeable treat, as well as considering that I was an Anglais for the first time in France, for the honour of our country I gave her half a frank. I received, in return, a very grateful courtesy.

The company sat a very short while after dinner. I called for coffee. I had often heard how superior the French were at making this delightful and exhilarating, without intoxicating beverage. I found, from the first cup, that their fame was not unjustly won. They make it extremely strong and black. They use hot milk, which seems an improvement. The garçon, without being asked, brought me the usual accompaniment, some chasse café, or a small glass of eau de vie; in plain terms, brandy. This I did not choose to touch. It was white, and looked well, but I did not try its flavour; and if I had, I am no judge. A small glass is a sous and a half, or three farthings. It is astonishing how much of this is drank in France by

1

people of all ranks; and yet we sel dom meet with a drunkard in that country.

My bill, including coffee and wine, for in general they do not make a separate charge for wine when the vin ordinaire is used, was three francs and a half, or about three shillings. The half franc was for the coffee. I thought this very reasonable. A similar dinner, with coffee, in Kent, exclusive of wine, would have cost me at least double the sum.

REMARKS ON GREEK TRAGEDY.

No IV.

(Philoctetes Sophoclis.)

THE Complaint that is sometimes made, that a poet has been unfortunate in the choice of his subject, is saying little more than that he has written a bad poem. The truth is, that any theme, into which the feelings, and the passions, and the sufferings of men can be introduced, becomes interesting in the hands of genius. It is these that lend a charm to the wildest extravagancies of fiction, that redeem the absurdities of the Odyssey and the Arabian nights, and render Thalaba, with all its deviations from nature, one of the most seductive poems in our language. Nothing is so interesting to man as man ;-the affections of the heart are the part of his nature the most suitable to the purposes of poetry; and where these may be introduced, the author must blame something else than his subject if he is unsuccessful. In true history, as well as in the works of fiction, it is the simple expression of these that is most delightful to all classes of men. It is owing to these that the story of Joseph has been the favourite of nations for three thousand years; and these, wrought into an endless variety of forms and combinations, render the Iliad to this day the most popular book in any language. It has seldom happened, however, that any author has trusted to these feelings so exclusively of incident, as Sophocles in the play of Philoctetes.

The situation, for it can hardly be called story, on which this drama is founded, arises out of one of these VOL. I.

numberless legends connected with the Trojan war. Philoctetes, who had been the associate and friend of Hercules, was present at his death, and received from him, as a legacy, his bow, and the arrows dipt in the gall of the Hydra. After this event he joined the fleet of the Greeks assem bled at Aulis for the expedition a gainst Troy; but so disturbed the chiefs by his lamentations, which arose from the pain of a wound in his foot, occasioned by the bite of a serpent, that they set him on shore on the de sert island of Lemnos, where he remained ten years in solitary wretchedness. About the end of that period, Helenus, a Trojan prophet, who had been made prisoner by Ulysses, declared to the Grecian leaders, that Troy could not be taken but by Philoctetes armed with the bow of Hercules. Ulysses and Neoptolemus were de puted by the Greeks to bring him from the island, and the stratagems used by them for that purpose, form the whole fable of the play.

In the first scene, Ulysses, with some difficulty, reconciles the mind of Neoptolemus to the deceit which he deemed necessary to the success of their designs. Philoctetes, though lame and infirm, was formidable by means of his bow; and as he detested Ulysses more than all mankind, it was re quisite to proceed with caution. It was agreed, therefore, that Neoptole mus should at first appear alone to Philoctetes, and tell him, that in con sequence of injuries which he had received from the Greeks, and chiefly from Ulysses, he had deserted the ar my, and was on his way home, that he might, by common tales and common enmities, insinuate himself into his favour and confidence. In this he succeeded to his wishes. Philoctetes, who had lived ten years on a desert island, cut off from the society of man, is easily led into the snare, and is greatly delighted with the hopes of being again restored to his home and kindred. After so long a period, to meet with men and with Greeks, and once more to listen to the music of his native language, awakens all the sensibilities of his heart; and he gives an affecting recital of the manner in which he had been exposed on this inhospitable shore, and his sufferings during ten long years of solitude. It is not easy to conceive human calamity more 4 G

aggravated or more hopeless than what appears in the following description. The fleet had sailed and left him asleep.

"What, think'st thou, were my feelings when I woke ?

What were my lamentations, what the tears
I shed, when I descried the Grecian fleet,
And my own ships, already far at sea?
Deserted, on a solitary isle,
Without a human being near to aid me,
To grant me food or water, to apply
A balm to sooth the anguish of my wound.
I looked around me, and in all I saw
I found new cause of sorrow. Time rolled on,
But slow and melancholy were the hours.
Within this little cave I found a shelter,
And with my trusty bow I got me food.
When the wild pigeons flew within my shot,
With certain aim did I arrest their flight;

But painful were my steps, when forth I

halted

To fetch my prey, or water from the fountain,
Or gather wood to kindle me a fire.
When winter shed its hoar-frosts o'er the

earth,

From the hard flint I struck the living spark, To light the flame that warmed my shivering hands,

And shed a kindly feeling thro' my frame;
Yet even then my agonies assailed me,
Amid a pause of pain and glimpse of joy.
Here is no station for the passing ship,
No place of refuge for the mariner
Tossed by the storm, no hospitable roof
Where he may rest him after toil and danger,
No mart to tempt him with the hopes of gain;
Or if the adverse winds bring strangers hither,
All that I can obtain from them is pity;
Perhaps a little food or single garment.
But all my supplications have been vain,
That they would bear me to my native land,
That land for which I've sigh'd for ten long

years,

Exposed to all the miseries of famine, And torture caused me by a cureless wound." After a dialogue, in which Philoctetes inquires for several of his friends among the Grecian chiefs, Neoptolemus wishes that the gods may cure his disease, and insinuates that he must sail without delay, whom, fearing that he was again to be deserted, he addresses in this pathetic passage: "Oh! by thy father's and thy mother's love, By all that is most dear to thee at home, Leave me not here in solitary sorrow. I grant thee I may be a heavy burden, Yet, oh! my friend, be generous and save me; Place me beside the pump, or prow, or stern, Or any where, where I may give least hin

d'rance.

By the Great Sovereign of the universe, Hear me, my son, thy wretched suppliant, I bow me to the earth and clasp thy knees, Lame and infirm, oh! look upon my tears, Leave me not here abandoned by my kind,

Where I may never more behold the smile, Nor hear the music of the voice of man ; But bear me to my home and to my kindred, And to the much loved mansions of my father.

Oft have I sent to him by those who touched At this lone isle, that he would take me hence;

But he is either dead, or those I trusted
Neglected me, for still I sorrow here.
Son of my friend, son of a glorious father,
Oh! hear my prayer, and pity me and save
me."

Neoptolemus complies; and a mariner arrives, and informs them that Diomed and Ulysses had taken an oath to carry Philoctetes to Troy, either by him into a paroxysm of rage, and persuasion or by force. This throws brings on a violent attack of pain. Neoptolemus requests that he be may permitted to bear his bow, and have the pleasure of handling so celebrated a weapon. Though he had never before quitted it, he can refuse nothing to so generous a benefactor. But let him speak for himself.

"Take it, my friend, for it is but thy due.
Thou grantest me to look upon the sun,
And to revisit the Etean fields,
My native land, scenes of my infancy,
That absence has made dearer to my soul,
And to embrace my father and my friends,
And triumph over all mine enemies."

Here the poet has endeavoured to excite sympathy by the exhibition of bodily pain, and, hopeless as the attempt may seem, not without success. The sufferings of Philoctetes are excessive, and he utters loud lamentations, till, overcome by torture, he falls asleep. In real life, fortitude in this species of affliction, the most ter rible to which our nature is subject, excites sympathy mingled with admiration; but complaints, if they do not disgust us, lower the character of the sufferer in our esteem. There is a point, however, at which the fortitude of the strongest mind fails, and the patient is not more accountable for his cries than for any spasmodic affection; but nothing, save a sense of duty, and the desire of affording relief to a fellow mortal, could induce us to witness such sufferings. Even here Sophocles has shewn judgment; for it is not so much by the lamentations of Philoctetes that he aims at awaking the compassion of the spectators, as by his struggles to suppress them, till, overcome by agony, he can no longer refrain, by the utter helplessness of his state, and, above

all, by his fear lest Neoptolemus, de terred by his situation, should abandon him, and leave him to the practices of his enemies, Diomed and Ulysses.

After a short slumber he awakes, refreshed and relieved from pain. Now that Neoptolemus had obtained the bow, and was freed from the terror of that formidable weapon, he confesses to Philoctetes that he was in league with Ulysses, and that it was his object to carry him to Troy.

"Phil. Destructive as the fire! waker of
mischief!

Traitor! have I done ought to merit this?
Say, art thou not ashamed to look on me,
A helpless suppliant, who did trust in thee?
Who robs me of my bow, robs me of life?
Oh, wo is me! he will not speak to me;
He does not deign me even a look of mercy.
Ye lakes, ye promontories, and ye rocks,
Haunts of the wild beast of the wilderness,
To you again do I address my plaints:
Oft have ye seen my tears and heard my

cries.

See what the cruel man has done to me! He pledged his faith that he would bear me home,

And now betrays me to mine enemies.
By guile he has obtained the sacred bow,
Drawn by the mighty hand of Hercules,
Yet he will vaunt him of the victory
That he has won over a dead man's corpse.
Oh! I am like the shadow of the smoke,
The image, not the substance of a man.
Were I what once I was, he had not tri-

umphed,

And not even now, but by a stratagem.
Alas! dost thou refuse to speak to me?
By a mean treason thou hast ruined me,
And spurn'st me from thee like a hideous
thing.

Thou cave, my shelter from the winds and rain,

Without one beam of hope I enter thee. My bow no longer shall procure me food, But I shall die of famine, and my limbs Shall be the banquet of the fowls of heaven." Ulysses now comes on the stage, and confesses to Philoctetes that he had been betrayed through his agency. A long dialogue ensues, but he resists all the advices and all the stratagems of Neoptolemus and Ulysses, till, near the conclusion of the play, the ghost of Hercules appears, and informs him, that it was for his sake that he had descended from heaven, commissioned by Jupiter; that a mansion was prepared for him among the Gods; but that he must first repair to Troy, which could not be taken but by means of the bow which he had bequeathed to him, and that there only he could be cured of his wounds. He

yields to this supernatural agency, and consents to accompany them. There is something exceedingly tender in his farewell address to Lemnos.

"Thou cave, that long hast been my habitation,

Ye nymphs that guard the meadows and the fountains,

Ye jutting rocks, from which the briny spray Has often showered upon my naked head, Borne by the south winds-and ye dashing

waves,

Farewell. Farewell, thou hill of Mercury,
That oft has echoed to my lamentations.
Ye fountains, ye sweet waters, and green
fields,

Farewell I leave you to return no more.
Lemnos, endeared to me even by my sor-

rows,

Farewell."

From this view of the play of Philoctetes, it will appear, that nothing can be more simple than its fable. The stratagems used to decoy him from the island, their failure, and the intervention of a supernatural agency, which for such a purpose is quite unnecessary, form the whole of the plot. The interest of this drama does not then arise out of an intricate and elaborate action. Its whole charm consists in the character, or rather the circumstances, of Philoctetes-the romantic nature of his situation, and the hopelessness of his distress-his helplessness and solitude-his longings after his native country and the society of his kindred-and his pathetic appeals to the rocks, and the valleys, and the mountains of Lemnos, which had become as the friends and companions of his long exile from his fellow men. It would not be easy to conceive a form of distress of which the poet has not availed himself to heighten the picture. The Solitary suffers from the excess of bodily pain and extreme infirmity, from famine, and from almost all the privations to which man is exposed; and yet there is no deviation from nature, and the poetry is of exquisite simplicity and beauty.

The Greek tragedians had chiefly in view the exhibition of one character in some situation of deep distress, or under the influence of some one of the more violent passions, and neglected the subordinate personages. There is nothing original in the conception of the characters of Ulysses and Neoptolemus. They are mere copies from Homer; and, like all other

copies, fall greatly short of the originals. In Ulysses, wisdom degenerates into low cunning; and Neoptolemus, the son of Achilles, is, like his father, guileless and impetuous; but, in the contemplation of both, the mind is led to their prototypes in Homer, and not to nature. Even in Philoctetes the poet is more studious of making us acquainted with his sufferings, and of exciting our sympathy by them, than of giving an individuality to the portrait to which he has chosen to give

that name.

It is rather extraordinary that, with the example of Homer before their eyes, whose characters are always men of nature, each marked by his own individual peculiarity-the Greek tragedians should have often been so careless, or so unsuccessful, in this most important department of dramatic writing. Of Philoctetus I have no notion but what is connected with a certain transaction supposed to have happened in the island of Lemnos. Not so in Shakspeare. Having once seen his characters, I remember them for ever, independent of all situations. They seem to be men and women with whom I have been intimately acquainted, and the scenes in which I have seen them, only a portion of the great drama of life. It is not in the least necessary to my conception of the character of Hamlet that he should be the avenger of his father's murder; but I feel convinced, that if he were so, or expostulated with his mother on her unnatural conduct, he would speak and act exactly as we see him do in the wonderful play that bears his name. He is, in my mind, as much an individual being as Cæsar or Alexander. I could suppose him placed in ten thousand other situations, and should recognise him in all. His sentiments and actions are the result of his character, and never err in consistency. We have a similar example in the character of Sir John Falstaff, whom we are tempted to believe Shakspeare copied from real life, and then invented situations for him; and in every situation there appears so much of the truth of nature, that we could be easily persuaded that the poet is representing an action that really happened. The Greek tragedians are eminently successful in the natural and simple expression of sorrow, and abound in passages of beautiful poetry; but it is

in Shakspeare alone that we breathe the atmosphere of real life. He alone unites the accurate observation and faithful delineation of the minutest shades of human character with the divine inspiration of poetry. He alone never declaims, nor ever appears in his own person; and in him alone every character seems to be formed for the place assigned to him, and no other; and expresses his own feelings, and his own sentiments, in his own language, which is always the voice of Nature.

MEMOIR OF JAMES GRAHAME, AUTHOR 66 OF THE SABBATH."

THE contemplation of superior excellence is perhaps the most impressive, as well as interesting, subject of meditation in which the human mind can be engaged. For it is impossible to reflect on exalted virtue, without feeling our own nature improved, or upon extensive acquirements, without being inspired with some degree of emulation. But when genius is added to these perfections of which our common nature is susceptible, the character of the individual is raised to a higher standard of excellence; and while our admiration is increased, we consider the mind so gifted, as belonging to a superior species of beings, in whom are qualities quite beyond our powers of attainment; and, dazzled by the lustre by which they are surrounded, we look up to them as from a humbler sphere, with a sort of mysterious veneration. In the mind, of which I am now to attempt a delineation, those powers were so happily blended, as to produce a result of the most endearing nature. It is not so much the life, as the character of the Bard of the Sabbath, with which I would make my readers acquainted. In the first there was nothing remarkable, in the latter there was every thing to engage the attention and amend the heart.

JAMES GRAHAME was born in Glasgow, on the 22d of April 1765-and was there educated in the usual routine of public classes, in which he eminently distinguished himself. He wrote some elegant Latin verses when very young; and, although averse to the appearance of being particularly studious, he was, even then, so ardently devoted to literary pursuits, that be ab