pathos in Calista's noted soliloquy at the beginning of the fifth act, where that lady is by far too much mistress of herself, and discourses in a style very foreign to her circumstances; instead of being lost in the thoughts of her situation, she remarks on the scene, as a spectator might, that here is ample room for meditation. She tries the book, and descants upon the vanity of its precepts; she listens to the music, and approves the style of it; she expatiates on the pageantry of the death's head and bones ; while the corse of the loved youth who had wrought all her troubles is noticed in fewer words than are bestowed on any of the other topics; and these words only an exclamation at the ghastliness of its appearance. This composure and unconcern are by no means what we look for from the ardent spirit of Calista, sitting at midnight by the dead body of her dear betrayer.' She had loved Lothario with passion; and her fondness for him had confessedly a little while ago full possession of her breast. Only a few hours have passed since he was slaughtered in her presence. His faults are now expiated in his blood. She is a woman, not a Cato; and she had hitherto been represented as of a violent temper, rather than firm; so that we now indulge in the full hope to hear the genuine voice of grief and despair uttering not a single word but what immediately relates to her situation, and is suggested by it. It is not enough that she tell us, the mind may here burst with thinking, and that she is full of anguish which no discipline can cure; nor that she feed the frenzy of her soul with solemn sounds, and invoke the infernal gods to match the horror around her. A thousand such fanciful exclamations express not truly any distress. They are not the language of anguish, which dwells, like every other strong feeling, steadily on its object, and is occupied with that alone, and not with talking of itself. It is the very griefs of Calista, the sources of pain opened afresh by the sight of Lothario, as he there lies,― compassion for his fate, revived affection for his person,― the present scene compared with their stolen interview of love, the desolation she has spread around her, her despair of relief; these are the subjects we expect to see pursuing one another in her thoughts; and till these appear, say Calista what she may about her agonies, we are neither disposed to believe nor to pity them. Yours, &c. "THEATRICUS." To show that I take in good part the suggestion of my correspondent at the beginning of his letter, I will add to his observations on the tragedy in question a few lines, to inform him that I was one of the audience who attended its representation some evenings ago, and received that very high entertainment which the performance of Mrs. Siddons always affords. Amidst the defects which Theatricus very justly remarks in the character of Calista, there is, however, a variety of high and stormy passion, which gives scope to the astonishing powers of this incomparable actress. These she displayed so forcibly, that some who had not investigated the character so closely as my correspondent, thought "she o'erstepp'd the modesty of nature in the force and whirlwind of her passion." But let it be remembered, that Calista is a woman haughty and impetuous in the highest degree, and that the defence of guilt is always loud in proportion as it is hollow. In this, indeed, lay the admirable art with which she played the scene with Horatio she rose in violence as the accusation was pressed upon her, and met his reproof and admonition with the fierceness of resentment and of pride, struggling with the anguish of guilt and of shame. Nor did she fail to give the poet, as is usual with her, some merit not his own, by infusing into the latter part of the play that tenderness of which she knows so well how to unlock the springs. In the last interview with her father, particularly, and in her dying speech to Altamont, she conveyed this impression so strongly, that we quite forgot the blame which our justice should have laid upon Calista, and our tears flowed for her misfortunes with all the interest of compassion, and all the consciousness of virtue. But the language of encomium is so familiar to this lady, that it were trite to continue it. In recalling her performance, I tried a much more difficult task, to remember some defect. One trifling error I imagined I discovered. In marking the sentiments of contempt and insolence, she sometimes used a voice, and assumed a countenance, rather of too familiar a kind. When she uttered the following lines: "And blesses her good stars that she is virtuous"- -a tale-bearing officious fellow?" "Who guiltless dies because her fool run mad." And the evening before, in Lady Macbeth: "Was the Hope drunk In which you dress'd yourself?. Like the old cat i' the adage." Methought in her speaking of such passages, there 12 was a tone and look more allied to the Comic than the Tragic Muse, and hardly dignified enough for the importance of the situation, or the high feeling of the moment in which they were pronounced. It was an observation of some of the great French actors upon Garrick, that he spoke admirably well the language of passion, but not quite as a hero would speak it. Though one might trace something of the costume of Paris in this remark, yet undoubtedly there is a form which passion puts on, different in different situations. Perhaps, too, there is a certain deception in our ideas of what the station or character of the person should impress upon his feelings, which the very truth and genuine colour of nature may sometimes offend. We have all our prejudices, like Partridge, though they may not be altogether so simple. It is very seldom, however, that we have any room for a complaint of this sort. It is only in a Garrick or a Siddons that nature presses so close on us, that she "galls our kibe." Ꮓ No. 26. SATURDAY, JULY 30, 1785. I HAVE observed, that the authors of former periodical publications have commonly given some account of their life and situation in the world. Hitherto, "for certain good causes and considerations," I have been very sparing in these particulars. Stepping the other day into a box in the playhouse, I was very much entertained with over 86 hearing part of a conversation between two young ladies. I found they had been talking about The Lounger; and at the time I chanced to come in, they were disputing whether the author was a married or an unmarried man. "I don't trust much," said one of the young ladies, " to his own hint in a late paper; authors I know take liberties that way; but he certainly must be a bachelor; for had he been married, he would before now have told us something about his wife and children."- No," says the other, "he has certainly a wife, and children too, I believe, otherwise he could not have described domestic situations so well as he does; he could not " Here she mentioned some of my papers in a style which it would not be proper for me to repeat. The two ladies at last agreed to refer their dispute to an elderly lady, Mrs. B., who sat by them." My dear," said Mrs. B., addressing herself to the young lady next her, "if he is not married, he certainly ought to be." I am sorry that for the present I must leave this matter in the same uncertainty in which Mrs. B. has left it; possibly at some other time I may clear up the point, and amuse my readers with some other incidents in my life. Meanwhile it is to my present purpose to observe, that, whether a married man or a bachelor, there is nothing in either of these situations which can incapacitate me from carrying on my present undertaking. In the course of my observations, I have had occasion to remark, that there are Loungers in all situations; some with a wife and family at home, and others who, when they leave their house, may put the key in their pocket, all their friends and acquaintance being without doors. I remember a story of two gentlemen who were |