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friction; and we understand from those who have worn patent water-proof coats, that in the sleeves particularly, they are very apt to admit moisture through the different folds. Nevertheless, their process is entitled to a tention; and it deserves to be adopted principally in those cases, where the manufacture is not liable to be impaired by friction; such as coverings for tents; for horses exposed to the rain when at rest; and especially for paper in which gunpowder, or steel and other goods, are to be packed.

The following simple process is stated to be that employed by the Chinese, for rendering cloth water-proof: Let an ounce of white wax be dissolved in one quart of spirit of turpentine; the cloth be immersed in the solution, and then suspended in the air, till it be perfectly dry. By this method, the most open muslin, as well as the strongest cloths, may be rendered impenetrable to the heaviest showers; nor will such composition fill up the interstices of the finest lawn; or in the least degree affect the most brilliant colours.' Vol. iv. P. 305.

To each volume a list of the articles is prefixed, and one of common terms, which will direct the reader to the proper title, should this not occur to his recollection. At the end is an explanation of the Latin terms, and an index of the facts mentioned in the dictionary, referring to the articles. The plates are sufficiently numerous, chiefly confined to the mechanical articles and instruments of husbandry. Of the more common machines, the representations are by means of wooden cuts; but the more important objects are represented by copperplates.

ART. VI. — Dramatic Poems. - Leonora, a Tragedy; and Etha and Aidallo, a Dramatic Poem. 8vo. 45. Boards. Bell. 1802.

TO understand the object of the author of these poems, we must invert our usual mode of reading, at least in the English language, and begin at the end; for we there meet with the introduction, although appended under the title of Remarks. The play of Leonora is intended to be a drama founded altoge ther upon the model of Aristotle; or, in other words, to exhibit a most solemn and sacred regard to the unities of time, place, and action; and thus to combine, what our author conceives, the more classic arrangement of the French dramatists with the vigour and eventful variety of the English. Respecting the difference of taste which has been observed upon this subject in England and France, our author remarks, that

'we need look no farther, than to the different genius of the two nations; and the disparity of their theatres will be sufficiently ac counted for. The French are easily moved, easily excited to violent passion, the English are more slow, and require more efficient causes

to produce similar effects; and experience has sufficiently shewn, that the horrors of Zanga, the piteous sufferings of Lear, the sad fate of Desdemona, affect not more a British audience, than the unfortunate love of Phædra, the lamentations of Andromache, the clemency of Augustus, affect our polished neighbours. It is in vain, therefore, that we say, Corneille fails to elevate the souf; or that the regularity of Racine stops the tears he else had seduced from us. It was to their own countrymen these great poets dedicated their vigils; they knew the point, where they would be crowned with this applause; it was useless to exceed; and success has amply paid their labours. Nor is it with justice, that we attribute what we call want of interest (but what, in fact, is intentional omission) to regularity and refinement. Under such circumstances, we should withhold our assent to that part of English criticism, and not censure, as a fault, in the French theatre, that, which has its chief source within ourselves; but charitably and rationally suppose, that, had these authors written for us, they would have found the necessity of giving scope to passion.

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It is however evident, that a greater degree of pathos is indispensable to success on our stage. But does it follow, that passion and regularity are incompatible? that, to call forth tears, the poet must conduct his audience over half the globe; bring together a multiplicity of personages, who never could have met; and cram into a few hours, not only the events, but the interval of years? Or, that our stage excels in interest, merely because contempt of rule is its grand characteristic? If we but slightly consider the principles, upon which the rules of Aristotle are founded, and the precepts themselves, we shall be convinced they are not prohibitory of any degree of sensibility; nor prescribe any particular point, between the extreme of passion and indifference. That philosopher (and who better had observed it?) found the human mind capable of being occupied but by one object at once, and ordered unity of action: time, he thought, though its lapse is so deceitful, could not, unless by an unnatural effort of imagination, be stretched beyond a certain length; and he assigned those limits, which fancy could reconcile, as the utmost, between its real and fictitious duration he saw the absurdity of a whole assembly being carried round the world, while no person had moved from his seat; and prohibited change of place. On this simple and rational basis, did he erect his theatric code; the three great unities of time, place, and action.' P. Q.

In a long subjoined note we are further informed that the taste of the English, upon the subject of dramatic representation, has been derived from the intestine troubles with which their country has formerly been torn:

Almost every generation,' observes our author, had beheld the rage of civil commotions, or the cruelty of fanatical fury; and the few, who were blessed in escaping the absolute contemplation of such sights, yet beheld them reflected from the brow of their fathers.' P. 81.

We are told also, that, since the late revolution in France, the French have acquired a different bias in their dramatic po

etry: that imitations from Shakspeare are now more frequently performed; and the translator ventures to retain more of the fire of the original.'

Our author, however, must look for other causes of this discrepancy in national taste than what are here advanced. No features of genius can be more opposite than those of the ancient Celts and Scandinavians: yet both were equally fond of the storm of swords,' and placed their highest delight in hearing the hard steel resound upon the lofty helmets of men.' Germany, for the last half century anterior to the late war, was less injured by hostilities, either foreign or domestic, than almost any other part of Europe. She had heard of the American contest, but had only heard of it. It was in a period of profound peace that she first discovered a genius for dramatic poetry; and yet the scarcely-fledged dramatists of Germany have infinitely surpassed those of England in passion and violence, in abruptness of incident, and tragic catastrophe. Nor can we readily assent to the proposition, that it is necessary for a man to be imbrued in the very blood of the civil wars of our own country, or be initiated into all the atrocious barbarities of Robespierre or Marat, before he will be able to relish the beauties of Shakspeare-the sublimest genius, and most accurate painter of nature, that perhaps ever lived in any age or country.

Towards the close of this final introduction or terminating preface, our author thus epitomises the story on which the drama of Leonora is founded.

In the British navy was an officer, who had long been attached to a person, well worthy of his tenderest regard, and who returned his affection with all the warmth, that sensibility could excite, and that innocence can sanctify. Their mutual passion was perceived, without disapprobation, by the parents of the lady; and a time, though distant, fixed for the solemnization of the nuptials. But absence, which had no power to efface the impression, made upon her heart, helped to operate a change in the sentiments of her father, who, allured by the prospects of a connexion more advantageous, after using every gentle effort to persuade her to comply with his new resolution, but in vain, commanded her to think no more of her former lover, and forbade what it was not in his power finally to prevent. Five. years elapsed in this suspension of fate, without any alteration in the affection of the once betrothed, or in the austerity of the obdurate parent. His death at length liberated them from the dread of eternal separation they were united. A few months passed in exstacy, when, from his situation in the service, he who, but so lately, was completely happy, was called upon to take the command of part of an expedition, then fitting out against the enemies of his country. He arrived in one of our fore gn possessions, and there met a friend of his early youth, a companion of his former glory. The object he had been compelled to leave, the ardour and the reciprocity of their attachment,

were a favourite theme; but he was at once cut off from that scanty comfort, and from the hope of ever enjoying the reality again. He was mortally wounded; and had time only to request his friend, who was on the point of returning to Europe, to bear his last words to his affectionate wife. Upon his arrival in England, the depositary of a charge, so sacred, hastened to acquit himself of his commission. He found the lovely being, upon whom he was to inflict her death-blow, all expectation, anxiety, and tenderness. He sought, on all sides, a gentle approach for misfortune; but it was not in manner to mitigate such a purpose. Struck to the soul; wounded to death-Leonora's letter has described the rest.—From that moment she was incapable of consolation; he offered every reparation for a crime, which, on her part, was involuntary, for she was deprived of sense at the time of its commission, and, on his, was the effect of no premeditation; but which may stand as a dreadful proof, how dangerous an entrance to passion lies, though the fairest road, and how immediate may be the passage from compassion, from sympathy, from the tenderest affections, from a delirium of sensibility, to the frenzy of sensuality. The lady withdrew from the world into total seclusion; where, oppressed with sorrow for her husband, and remorse which she imagined to be just, she survived her misfortunes but a short time; and the friend thus false, whose pains were thus aggravated, departed for India, with wishes, I firmly believe, the most sincere, never to return.

The other circumstances, I have added to this ground work, are fiction but it deserves to be remarked, that the only part, which has been accused of improbability, is the only part, which is true, and true in every particular.

It has further been said, that Leonora is painted in colours, which do not suit a person, capable of committing an act, such as she has been guilty of: but the act did not depend upon any former part of her character, sentiments, or opinions; it was involuntary, unconscious, and required merely the possibility of sudden grief, laying such hold upon her feelings, as to deprive her of momentary perception. It was from the joint result of the necessity she was under to conceal her crime, of the arts she was compelled to employ, and of the continual deceit to all around her, but particularly to those most dear, grafted on original propensities, that arose those habitudes, which constitute her character at the moment we become acquainted with her; and, upon that ground, I think she may be defended.' P. 96.

So far as relates to the story, we have never read one more uninteresting, and, notwithstanding the anecdote on which it is founded, more improbable. So anxious, indeed, is Leonora to conceal her crime, (if a ravishment, of which she was insensible in consequence of a swoon, may be so denominated) and at the same time so successful in her efforts, that we had no conception of any such misfortune, till told of it by herself towards the close of the fifth act; and as to the employment of arts and perpetual deceit, we know nothing of them even at the present moment, beyond that of silence as to the injury she had sustained, notwithstanding we have bestowed a careful perusal upon the entire performance; and yet this is the cha

racter upon which our author builds his sole hope of public approbation and future fame.

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That there are many' (faults) says he, I will readily confess ; and some indeed I could myself point out. There appear to me, through the whole piece, a want of discrimination, and of forcible delineation of character, both general and individual; the personages are not marked with the distinguishing features of Spaniards, Turks, or Africans, but, like Bayes's prologue to his play, might do for any other just as well. Among the individuals there is nothing striking: Sebastian is like any other villain; and Theodore like any other gallant young lover. Constantia differs but little from the generality of persons in her situation; and, in a word, Leonora alone can support the slightest claim to character, according to the acceptation of Aristotle. P. 100.

What our author means by the acceptation of Aristotle, or in what respect the character of Leonora is drawn from any model of this masterly critic, we confess ourselves totally ignorant. We will allow him the praise of having rigidly adhered to the Grecian unities, and of having exhibited, for the most part, a succession of easy and fluent versification. We present the following passage, with which the poem concludes, as the most favourable and impressive specimen we can select. Constantia is the fruit of the licentious embraces of Carlos, the perfidious friend of Leonora's husband, who, notwithstanding his supposed death, recovers. Leonora, not daring (but why we know not) to entrust the secret of her dishonour to her injured husband, conceals the fact of the illegitimacy of her child she grows up possessed of every virtue; and, in an early period of womanhood, feels an irresistible passion, which is in like manner returned, for Theodore, a youth of uncertain birth, but possessing every excellence of the soldier and the man of honour. Lorenzo, her supposed father, has, however, betrothed her to another; and, to prevent this otherwise inevitable matrimony, they marry abruptly and in private; and, in the act of returning from the ceremony, are met by Lorenzo, who hastens to inform Theodore that he has just indubitably discovered that he is his own son-a piece of intelligence which is at the same time communicated to Constantia by her mother. The enraptured couple are now reduced to the utmost agony at the idea of their consanguinity of brother and sister, and especially of their nuptials under such circumstances; and, to prevent them from being miserable for life by a separation, Leonora now resolves to communicate the precise relationship in which they stand to each other-although why, as half-brother and sister, they should be thought more at liberty to intermarry, than in their preconceived relation, the author doth not witness. Leonora, however, gives public intelligence of the fact, after having taken effectual care to prevent CRIT. REV. Vol. 38. July, 1808.

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