amongst the beauties of the poem, and may of itself be termed an important incident: that it leads to the catastrophe I think will not be disputed, and if it is asked in what manner, the Chorus will supply us with an answer—

He will directly to the Lords I fear,

And with malicious counsel stir them up
Some way or other further to afflict thee.

Here is another prediction connected with the plot and verified by its catastrophe, for Sampson is commanded to come to the festival and entertain the revellers with some feats of strength: these commands he resists, but obeys an impulse of his mind by going afterwards, and thereby fulfils the prophetic declaration he had made to his father in the second act. What incident can show more management and address in the poet, than this of Sampson's refusing the summons of the idolaters, and obeying the visitation of God's Spirit.

And now I may confidently appeal to the judicious reader, whether the Sampson Agonistes is so void of incident between the opening and conclusion as fairly to be pronounced to want a middle. Simple it is from first to last, simple perhaps to a degree of coldness in some of its parts, but to say that nothing passes between the first act and the last, which hastens or delays the death of Sampson, is not correct, because the very incidents are to be found, which conduce to the catastrophe, and but for which it could not have come to pass.

The author of The Rambler professes to examine the Sampson Agonistes according to the rule laid down by Aristotle for the disposition and perfection of a tragedy, and this rule he informs us is, that it should have a beginning, a middle, and an end. And is this the mighty purpose for which the authority of Aristotle is appealed to? If it be thus

the author of the Rambler has read the Poetics, and this be the best rule he can collect from that treatise, I am afraid he will find it too short a measure for the poet he is examining, or the critic he is quoting. Aristotle had said, that every whole hath not amplitude enough for the construction of a tragic fable; now by a whole, adds he in the way of illustration, I mean that, which hath beginning, middle, and end.' This and no more is what he says upon beginning, middle, and end; and this, which the author of the Rambler conceives to be a rule for tragedy, turns out to be merely an explanation of the word whole, which is only one term amongst many employed by the critic in his professed and complete definition of tragedy. I should add, that Aristotle gives a further explanation of the terms, beginning, middle, and end, which the author of the Rambler hath turned into English, but in so doing, he hath inexcusably turned them out of their original sense as well as language; as any curious critic may be convinced of, who compares them with Aristotle's words in the eighth chapter of the Poetics.

Of the poetic diction of the Sampson Agonistes I have already spoken in general; to particularize passages of striking beauty would draw me into too great length; at the same time, not to pass over so pleasing a part of my undertaking in absolute silence, I will give the following reply of Sampson to the Chorus

Wherever fountain or fresh current flow'd
Against the eastern ray, translucent, pure
With touch etherial of Heaven's fiery rod,
I drank, from the clear milky juice allaying
Thirst, and refresh'd; nor envy'd them the grape,
Whose heads the turbulent liquor fills with fumes.

Of the character I may say in few words, that Sampson possesses all the terrific majesty of Prometheus chained, the mysterious distress of Edipus, and the pitiable wretchedness of Philoctetes. His properties, like those of the first, are something above human; his misfortunes, like those of the second, are derivable from the displeasure of Heaven, and involved in oracles; his condition, like that of the last, is the most abject, which human nature can be reduced to from a state of dignity and splendour. Of the catastrophe there remains only to remark, that it is of unparalleled majesty and terror.

NUMBER LXXVII.

DR. Samuel Johnson, in his Life of Rowe, pronounces of The Fair Penitent,' that it is one of the most pleasing tragedies on the stage, where it still keeps its turns of appearing, and probably will long keep them, for that there is scarcely any work of any poet at once so interesting by the fable, and so delightful by the language. The story, he observes, is domestic, and, therefore, easily received by the imagination, and assimilated to common life; the diction is exquisitely harmonious, and soft or sprightly as occasion requires. Few people, I believe, will think this character of The Fair Penitent too lavish on the score of commendation; the high degree of public favour in which this tragedy has long stood, has ever attracted the best audiences to it, and engaged the talents of the best performers in its display. As there is no drama more frequently exhibited, or more generally read, I propose to give it a fair and

impartial examination, jointly with the more unknown and less popular tragedy from which it is derived.

The Fair Penitent is in fable and character so closely copied from The Fatal Dowry, that it is impossible not to take that tragedy along with it; and it is matter of some surprise to me that Rowe should have made no acknowledgement of his imitation either in his dedication or prologue, or any where else that I am apprised of.

This tragedy of The Fatal Dowry was the joint production of Massinger and Nathaniel Field; it takes a wider compass of fable than The Fair Penitent, by which means it presents a very affecting scene at the opening, which discovers young Charalois attended by his friend Romont, waiting with a petition in his hand to be presented to the judges, when they shall meet, praying the release of his dead father's body, which had been seized by his creditors, and detained in their hands for debts he had incurred in the public service, as Field Marshal of the armies of Burgundy. Massinger, to whose share this part of the tragedy devolved, has managed this pathetic introduction with consummate skill and great expression of nature; a noble youth in the last state of worldly distress, reduced to the humiliating yet pious office of soliciting an unfeeling and unfriendly judge to allow him to pay the solemn rites of burial to the remains of an illustrious father, who had fought his country's battles with glory, and had sacrificed life and fortune in defence of an ungrateful state, impresses the spectator's mind with pity and respect, which are felt through every passage of the play: one thing in particular strikes me at the opening of the scene, which is the long silence that the poet has artfully imposed upon his principal character, Charalois, who stands in mute sorrow with

his petition in his hand, whilst his friend Romont' and his advocate Charmi, urge him to present himself to the judges and solicit them in person: the judges now make their entrance, they stop upon the stage; they offer him the fairest opportunity for tendering his petition and soliciting his suit: Charalois remains fixed and speechless; Romont, who is all eagerness in his cause, presses him again and again—

Now put on your spirits

Now, Sir, lose not this offered means: their looks,
Fix'd on you with a pitying earnestness,

Invites you

to demand their furtherance

To your good purpose.

The judges point him out to each other; they lament the misfortunes of his noble house; they observe,

It is young Charalois,

Son to the Marshal, from whom he inherits
His fame and virtues only.

Romont. Hah! They name you.

Dulroy. His father died in prison two days since.
Rochfort. Yes, to the shame of this ingrateful state,

That such a master in the art of war,

So noble and so highly meriting

From this forgetful country, should, for want

Of means to satisfy his creditors

The sum he took up for the general good,

Meet with an end so infamous.

Romont. Dare you ever hope for like opportunity?

It is in vain; the opportunity passes off, and Charalois opens not his mouth, nor even silently tenders his petition.

I have, upon a former occasion, both generally and particularly observed upon the effects of dramatic silence; the stage cannot afford a more beautiful and touching instance than this before us: to say it is not inferior to the silence of Hamlet upon his first appearance, would be saying too little in its favour. I have no doubt but Massinger had this