"Sit igitur, judices, sanctum apud vos, humanissimos homines, hoc poëtæ nomen, quod nulla unquam barbaria violavit. Saxa et solitudines voci respondent; bestiæ sæpè immanes cantu flectuntur atque consistunt: nos instituti rebus optimus, non poëtarum voce moveamur?" To contrast these jarring opinions of the philosopher and the orator is of exceeding interest: they afford much room for metaphysical study, but are easily accounted for by him who has considered the constitution of the mind. Philosophy and poetry require understandings of a dissimilar order, though they sometimes exist in combination, and form a conjunction as rich as it is rare. Sir Humphrey Davy was an example of this union, and could discover the beauties with no less facility than the causes of things. He would doubtless have participated in the sentiments which gave birth to the splendid tribute of the illustrious Cicero, to which we respond from a conviction of its correctness, and admire for the extreme felicity of its diction; whilst we are at complete variance with the opinion said to be the discoverer's of the law of gravity; nor will his authority, however indisputable on many matters, take one step in serving to convince us that Shakspere, Milton, Homer, Virgil, Tasso, Dante and their fellows have written nothing but "ingenious nonsense." The mind laughs involuntarily at the idea. It remembers instantly that it has nowhere seen the image of truth more palpably depicted, the fair face of Nature more extensively unveiled, the strength of passion more intensely pictured, the force of intellect more clearly developed, the harmony of all things more fully demonstrated, and the love of whatsoever is pure and excellent more impressively, independently, and fervently asserted, than in the ornate and rapture-yielding language of the poets.

To judge of one man of genius by the estimation in which another holds him, is fallacious to the utmost; for every one thinks most highly of, and is most devoted to, his own department; and many are too prone to despise those pursuits and studies of which they are in ignorance, because they have not taken the trouble to consider them. The poet can best know the merits of the poet; Dryden's is the finest character of Shakspere; and, being himself a master of poetry, he could appreciate the excellencies to which others were blind; but if we would be informed of the value of the Principia, we must not be persuaded to refer to those who are too intently occupied in wooing the Muses to think of the solution of a mathematical problem. W. F. B.

MEDON.

A DRAMATIC SCENE.

By C. H. H.

"A sad tale's best for winter."

WINTER'S TALE.-ACT II. Scene 1.

SCENE. An Apartment in the Palace.

[MEDON, the old king, is, by the death of his wife and infant, and the flight of CREONTES, his son by a former wife, brought to madness.]

Enter a DOCTOR of Medicine, and SERVANT.

DOCTOR. Is it so, think you?

SERVANT.

Aye, sir, much I fear it;

For since my mistress died, and Medon's son

Fled from his aged sire, the good old king,

With eyes that scarce distinguish friends from foes,

Goes weeping through the house, grown childish quite;

And, but his venerable locks proclaim

Old age and grief-worn days, you might believe

It were some whining child.

DOCTOR.

Hath this been noted ?

SERVANT. Nay, only in the house, sir. Oftentimes
With voice half choked, and trembling from old age,
He cries for Calipa—my former mistress.
Sometimes he takes us all for strangers, asks
Our business, and then drawing one aside
Tells in his ear his own most piteous tale,
In such a manner as would break the heart
Of any listener. But, sir, sometimes
Reason comes back for a few sentences,
Then leaves him of a sudden; thus his speech
Is all confusion, and-

DOCTOR.

See where he comes

Is not this he? Ah! yes,-methinks I read
The pitiful tale charactered on his brow;-

Shall I address him?

SERVANT.

No, by no means, sir,

Listen awhile; you may by that glean something
That may inform you of the malady

You come to cure. Be silent.

Hush! he comes

[They retire a little.

Enter MEDON, not seeing them.

MEDON. What's life, that men so greedily do hold itGiving up all things precious, and that last,

E'en last of all. Methinks it were most sweet

To lay upon the earth this heavy lump

That gathers at my heart, and bigger grows

Each hour I draw my breath! 'Tis somewhat strange
That it should grow in bulk the more I lose
Things dear to me. Alas! poor Calipa!
When thou didst die I felt it first within me;
And when I lost my son, then it grew bigger.
Methinks it is some fiend doth sit within me,
That gambles with me-with the dice of life,
And laughs as I do lose, swelling with joy.
Ha! ha! laugh on! laugh on! 'twill soon be o'er,
And all your winnings dwindle to an end.

Come! come! come! come!

DOCTOR.

(The DOCTOR advances.)

What spirit do you invoke ?

MEDON. Life's brave physician, that doth all things cure;

He's of surpassing skill-why, man, since first

The world began he hath practised on mankind;
You'll sure to know him once-physician Death!

DOCTOR (aside.) Not altogether mad; some trace of sense Sorrow hath left behind to work upon.

MEDON. Do you know me, sir, my state, my occupation ?I am the royal puppet, kept to be

The

gaze of fools and children i' the street. Come hither-prithee send that man away; Let us be private.

DOCTOR.

Nay, he's trusty, sir.

MEDON. Bid him come hither, then, and place his ear
Where he may catch the minutes of my story.

Pray you sit down; befits me stand, that so,
For that I am a king, I may be greater.

SERVANT. Good sir, be seated; I beseech you sit;
"Twill bring more ease to you.

MEDON (not heeding him-to Doctor) Do you not see
Some subtle marks of sorrow in my face?

A lank and hungry look about my cheeks,-
A slumberous heaviness about mine eyes,
That tells of weeping?

DOCTOR (aside) Oh! alas! alas !

MEDON. Will you not hear my story then? You will— Or if you will not, 'gainst your will you shall;

Listen what I will do, if

you resist :

I am a king, and I will call my subjects
Together in a place, then bid the thunder,
Great nature's universal groan, to mouth,
And clamour it in their ears.

DOCTOR. Oh sir, go on.

MEDON.

But

you will hear.

Nay, hear me to the end!

You must know, sir, that I am a king; somewhat declining in years, as you may see by the white locks under my crown; but, sir, no less a king for that matter. Well, sir, but I pray you be attentive, and give me some portion of your favour, if I stumble in my progress. I had-oh! that pitiful "had" is like a death-bell in my ear— -I had a wife, and-I pray you your ear a little closer a son by my first wife-look now, that you lose not this particular; my wife Calipa was young, look you, and had eyes bright, like the jewels upon my crown ;—you see, sir

DOCTOR (aside) Alas, how movingly he tells his tale!

MEDON. It was about the spring-time of the year, sir, when that prolific mother-the earth--was in labour, that Calipa was in labour too be but attentive, and you shall hear how she triumphed. Nature and she seemed rivals in their bearing; but, mark you, my queen, my Calipa, brought forth the speediest and the fairest; and they told me once more I was a father— old Medon-a father.

What follows should be whispered in the ear,—
Not spoken e'en so loudly that the rats
Behind the arras catch the meaning on't.
DOCTOR. Speak on, sir.

MEDON.
As she grew stronger, and the babe did thrive,
Methought my son, Creontes, 'gan to frown-
Much did he sit alone, and muse, and hold

Well, Hah! would that it were well;

Strange converse with himself. One day they told me
That he had fled! and on the self-same day
Tolled in upon my heart the passing bell

Of Calipa and my child ;-the self-same day-
Oh God! the self-same day!

DOCTOR.

On with

your tale.

MEDON.

No more of that;

Open the window, sir—

If't please you, give me air; the self-same day-
That day that came e'en as our marriage-day,
With its bright sun, its music of the birds,
Its opening flowers, with chalices of dew;
And yet, but be you secret on the matter,
That day I grew a madman; raved, and swore,
And tore my hair; and what do all men say?
That I am mad?

DOCTOR.

MEDON.

E'en so.

Can it be other?

My soul and body are no more akin

Than fire and water. This thou seest before thee

Robed in this holiday and gaudy dress!

That is with Calipa. (Noise within.) What noise is this?

Enter a SERVANT, hastily.

Why dost thou stand and look so passing pale?
Speak, though thy mouth be like the gates of hell,
And belch forth fierce damnation.

Here is a fellow taken, whom thy guards

Have hither brought; for that he hath confessed

The murder of-alas! my lord-the queen.