rowed from the papers of Miranda some notes upon them. I trust the girlish tone of apostrophizing rapture may be excused. Miranda was very young at the time of writing, compared with her present mental age. Now, she would express the same feelings, but in a worthier garb—if she expressed them at all.

"Iphigenia! Antigone! you were worthy to live! We are fallen on evil times, my sisters! our feelings have been checked; our thoughts questioned; our forms dwarfed and defaced by a bad nurture. Yet hearts, like yours, are in our breasts, living, if unawakened, and our minds are capable of the same resolves. You, we understand at once; those who stare upon us pertly in the street, we cannotcould never understand.

You knew heroes, maidens, and your fathers were kings of men. You believed in your country, and the gods of your country. A great occasion was given to each, whereby to test her character.

You did not love on earth; for the poets wished to show us the force of woman's nature, virgin and unbiassed. You were women; not wives, or lovers, or mothers. Those are great names, but we are glad to see you in untouched flower.

Were brothers so dear, then, Antigone? We have no brothers. We see no men into whose lives we dare look stedfastly, or to whose destinies we look forward confidently. We care not for their urns; what inscription could we put upon them? They live for petty successes; or to win daily the bread of the day. No spark of kingly fire flashes from their eyes.

None! are there none?

It is a base speech to say it. Yes! there are some such; we have sometimes caught their glances. But rarely have they been rocked in the same cradle as we, and they do not look upon us much; for the time is not yet come.

Thou art so grand and simple! we need not follow thee; thou dost not need our love.

But, sweetest Iphigenia; who knew thee, as to me thou art known? I was not born in vain, if only for the heavenly tears I have shed with thee. She will be grateful wholly; as a friend

for them. I have understood her

should, better than she understood herself.

With what artless art the narrative rises to the crisis. The conflicts in Agamemnon's mind, and the imputations of Menelaus give us, at once, the full image of him, strong in will and pride, weak in virtue, weak in the noble powers of the mind that depend on imagination. He suffers, yet it requires the presence of his daughter to make him feel the full horror of what he is to do.

"Ah me! that breast, those cheeks, those golden tresses!"

It is her beauty, not her misery, that makes the pathos. This is noble. And then, too, the injustice of the gods, that she, this creature of unblemished loveliness, must perish for the sake of a worthless woman. Even Menelaus feels it, the moment he recovers from his wrath.

"What hath she to do,

The virgin daughter, with my Helena !

Its former reasonings now

My soul foregoes.

For it is not just

That thou should'st groan, but my affairs go pleasantly, That those of thy house should die, and mine see the light."

Indeed the overwhelmed aspect of the king of men might well move him.

Men.

"Brother, give me to take thy right hand. Aga. I give it, for the victory is thine, and I am wretched. I am, indeed, ashamed to drop the tear,

And not to drop the tear I am ashamed."

How beautifully is Iphigenia introduced; beaming more and more softly on us with every touch of description. After Clytemnestra has given Orestes (then an infant) out of the chariot, she says:—

"Ye females, in your arms, Receive her, for she is of tender age. Sit here by my feet, my child,

By thy mother, Iphigenia, and show

These strangers how I am blessed in thee,

And here address thee to thy father."

Iphi. "Oh mother, should I run, would'st thou be angry?
And embrace my father breast to breast?"

With the same sweet timid trust she prefers the request to himself, and as he holds her in his arms, he seems as noble as Guido's Archangel; as if he never could sink below the trust of such a being!

The Achilles, in the first scene, is fine. A true Greek hero; not too good; all flushed with the pride of youth; but capable of god-like impulses. At first, he thinks only

of his own wounded pride (when he finds Iphigenia has been decoyed to Aulis under the pretext of becoming his wife); but the grief of the queen soon makes him superior to his arrogant chafings. How well he says:—

"Far as a young man may, I will repress
So great a wrong."

By seeing him here, we understand why he, not Hector, was the hero of the Iliad. The beautiful moral nature of Hector was early developed by close domestic ties, and the cause of his country. Excepting a purer simplicity of speech and manner, he might be a modern and a Christian. But Achilles is cast in the largest and most vigorous mould of the earlier day: his nature is one of the richest capabilities, and therefore less quickly unfolds its meaning. The impression it makes at the early period is only of power and pride; running as fleetly with his armour on as with it off; but sparks of pure lustre are struck, at moments, from the mass of ore. Of this sort is his refusal to see the beautiful virgin he has promised to protect. None of the Grecians must have the right to doubt his motives. How wise and prudent, too, the advice he gives as to the queen's conduct! He will not show himself, unless needed. His pride is the farthest possible remote from wanity. His thoughts are as free as any in our time.

"The prophet? what is he? a man

Who speaks 'mong many falsehoods, but few truths,
Whene'er chance leads him to speak true; when false,
The prophet is no more."

Had Agamemnon possessed like clearness of sight, the virgin would not have perished, but also, Greece would have had no religion and no national existence.

When, in the interview with Agamemnon, the Queen begins her speech, in the true matrimonial style, dignified though her gesture be, and true all she says, we feel that truth, thus sauced with taunts, will not touch his heart, not turn him from his purpose. But when Iphigenia begins her exquisite speech, as with the breathings of a lute:—

"Had I, my father, the persuasive voice

Of Orpheus, &c.

Compel me not

What is beneath to view. I was the first
To call thee father; me thou first did call
Thy child: I was the first that on thy knees
Fondly caressed thee, and from thee received
The fond caress; this was thy speech to me:-
'Shall I, my child, e'er see thee in some house
Of splendour, happy in thy husband, live
And flourish, as becomes my dignity?'

My speech to thee was, leaning 'gainst thy cheek
(Which with my hand I now caress): ́And what
Shall I then do for thee? shall I receive

My father when grown old, and in my house
Cheer him with each fond office, to repay
The careful nurture which he gave my youth?'
These words are in my memory deep impressed,
Thou hast forgot them, and will kill thy child.”

Then she adjures him by all the sacred ties, and dwells pathetically on the circumstances which had struck even Menelaus :