O. Art. Lord, what a man are you! you were not there That time; as I remember, you were rid

Down to the North, to see some friends of yours.

'O. Lus. Well, I was somewhere; forward, Master Arthur. 'Justice. All this is well; no fault is to be found

In either of the parties; pray, say on.

O. Art. Why, sir, I have not nam'd the parties yet,

Nor touch'd the fault that is complain'd upon.

'O. Lus. Well, you touch'd somewhat; forward, Master Arthur. O. Art. And, as I said, they fell in controversy:

My son, not like a husband, gave her words
Of great reproof, despite, and contumely,
Which she, poor soul, digested patiently;
This was the first time of their falling out.
As I remember, at the self-same time

One Thomas, the Earl of Surrey's gentleman,
Din'd at my table.

'O. Lus. O, I knew him well.

'O. Art. You are the strangest man; this gentleman, That I speak of, I am sure you never saw ; He came but lately from beyond the sea.

forward, sir.

'O. Lus. I'm sure I know one Thomas; 'Justice. And is this all? make me a mittimus. And send the offender straightways to the jail.

'O. Art. First know the offender; how began the strife Betwixt this gentlewoman and my son,

Since when, sir, he hath us'd her not like one
That should partake his bed, but like a slave.
My coming was, that you, being in office
And in authority, should call before you
My unthrift son, to give him some advice,
Which he will take better from you than me,
That am his father. Here's the gentlewoman,
Wife to my son, and daughter to this man,
Whom I perforce compell'd to live with us.

Justice. All this is well; here is your son, you say,

But she that is his wife you cannot find.

Y. Lus. You do mistake, sir, here's the gentlewoman;

It is her husband that will not be found.

'Justice. Well, all is one, for man and wife are one; But is this all?

• Y. Lus. Aye, all that you can say,

And much more than you can well put off.

Justice. Nay, if the case appear thus evident,
Give me a cup of wine: What! man and wife
To disagree! I pr'ythee, fill my cup;

I could say somewhat: tut, tut, by this wine,

I promise you 'tis good canary sack.

Mis. Art. Fathers, you do me open violence,
To bring my name in question, and produce
This gentleman and others here to witness
My husband's shame in open audience;
What may my husband think when he shall know
I went unto the Justice to complain :

But Master Justice here, more wise than
Says little to the matter, knowing well
His office is no whit concern'd herein;
Therefore, with favour, I will take my

you,

leave.

'Justice. The woman saith but reason, Master Arthur, And, therefore, give her licence to depart.'

'Justice. Good woman, or good wife, or mistress, if you have done amiss, it should seem you have done a fault, and making a fault, there's no question but you have done amiss: but if you walk uprightly, and neither lead to the right hand nor the left, no question but you have neither led to the right hand nor the left, but, as a man should say, walked uprightly; but it should appear by these plaintiffs, that you have had some wrong: if you love your spouse entirely, it should seem you affect him fervently; and if he hate you monstrously, it should seem he loaths you most exceedingly, and there's the point at which I will leave, for the time passes away: therefore, to conclude, this is my best counsel, look that thy husband so fall in, that hereafter you never fall out. O. Lus. Good counsel, passing good instruction; Follow it, daughter. Now, I promise you,

I have not heard such an oration

This many a day. What remains to do?

' Y. Lus, Sir, I was call'd as witness to this matter. I may be gone for ought that I can see.

'Justice. Nay, stay, my friend, we must examine you. What can you say concerning this debate

Betwixt young Master Arthur and his wife?

Y. Lus. 'Faith, just as much, I think, as you can say,
And that's just nothing.

'Justice. How, nothing? Come, depose him; take his oath;
Swear him, I say; take his confession.

'O. Art. What can you say, sir, in this doubtful case?
Y. Lus. Why, nothing, sir.

'Justice. We cannot take him in contrary tales,

For he says nothing still, and that same nothing
Is that which we have stood on all this while ;
He hath confest even all, for all is nothing.
This is your witness, he hath witness'd nothing.
Since nothing, then, so plainly is confess'd,
And we, by cunning answers and by wit,
Have wrought him to confess nothing to us,
Write his confession.'

Vol. i. pp. 28-33.

Shirley and Chapman's comedy of The Ball is made up of a satire upon the newly introduced fashion of balls, and the persons who supported them. This is done with much wit, and the characters are highly amusing; but as a drama the whole is ill constructed, and deficient in plot.

The remainder of the collection consists of The Rape of Lucrece, and Love's Mistress, by Heywood; Albertus Wallenstein and The Lady's Privilege, by Henry Glapthorne; and Dido, Queen of Carthage, by Nash. Judging of Heywood's powers by the comparatively few specimens of their creation which have descended to us, a modern critic would be disposed to estimate them much

higher than his contemporaries appear to have done. The reason is that we see only his most perfect works, while they were acquainted with the mass of those hasty productions which he is said to have put forth with a rapidity only inferior to that of Lope de Vega. Of the plays here reprinted, the Love's Mistress is decidedly the best. It abounds, indeed, with sweet poetry, and amiable sentiment.

Glapthorne's plays were unworthy of another edition. They are undramatic in their construction, and their language is not to be exceeded in passionless bombast. The author, however, may easily be forgiven the mistake of supposing it poetical, when his modern editor has fallen into the same error.

Nash's Dido, in which he was assisted by Marlowe, is justly described as "little more than a narrative taken from Virgil.' It has avowedly been reprinted only on account of its extreme rarity, and for the purpose of illustrating the progress of the drama, it having been written before 1592.

ART. VII. The Letters of Marcus Tullius Cicero to Titus Pomponius Atticus; in Sixteen Books. Translated into English, with Notes, by William Heberden, M.D. F. R.S. 2 Vols. 8vo. 17. 6s. London. Payne and Foss. 1825.

In modern

THE most valuable documents for history are the private and confidential letters of the principal actors in its scenes. times such documents are not uncommon, but the only work of this kind which antiquity has left us is the epistolary correspondence of Marcus Tullius Cicero, a man adorned with every mental excellence and every moral virtue, invested with the highest offices in the greatest empire of the world, the contemporary of her greatest men, and the witness of her transition, through unequalled scenes of bloodshed and horror, from the freedom and equality of a republic to the thraldom and oppression of imperial sway.

We know more, perhaps, in general, of the history of Rome than of Greece, or even of our own country. The names and acts of her great men are as familiar to our ears as those of our contemporaries, and we are as conversant with her literature as with that of our native tongue; but the critical history of the ETERNAL CITY, and of her progressive and widely extended empire, is not to be found in the English language. The early history of the commonwealth has not, however, eluded the deep-thinking inquiring Germans, and the forthcoming translation of the profound and original work of Niebuhr on that subject will amaze many, who fancy themselves soundly versed in the institutions and manners of the early Romans. The fable that has mingled itself with the annals of the first three centuries of the commonwealth, and the slight foundation of ballad and metrical tale on which many a glorious

event rests, will be exposed; deeds of marvellous heroism and virtue will disappear, like the gardens and castles of enchantment, and the early history of Rome, as narrated by Livy, will resemble, in uncertainty, the early history of Peru, in the pages of Garcilasso de la Vega.

But with the taking of Rome by the Gauls, the uncertainty of the early history seems to terminate, the narrative of transactions. becomes consistent and probable, and in some periods we have all the fulness and authenticity of modern history. Of no period can this be more truly affirmed than of that of the last days of the Republic, and that principally owing to the collections of the correspondence of Cicero with the greatest and most influential men of the day, preserved and transmitted to us by the diligence of his trusty freed-man Tiro.

Of the letters of Cicero there are about one thousand remaining, which, however, form but a part of what he wrote, as many collections are referred to by ancient writers, which are no longer extant. How he could have written so many, engaged as he was in such multifarious duties, is astonishing. But Cicero never was idle. Sometimes he slipt aside in the senate-house, sometimes wrote in the midst of the turba salutantum, at times he dictated to his secretaries as he walked for exercise, at times while he sat at his meals.

The earliest and most constant friend of Cicero was Titus Pomponius, surnamed Atticus, from his attachment to the city of Athens. It is needless for us to mention, what few can be ignorant of, that these two distinguished men followed, in their philosophical opinions, the principles of two very different sects; that the calm, the elegant, the repose-loving Atticus found the system of Epicurus, a system by him fully understood and consistently followed, most congenial to his disposition, while the active, enquiring, glory-seeking spirit of his friend could alone be satisfied by the hesitating and searching Tox of the New Academy. Yet this diversity of opinion, on subjects which both then and now (whatever be their real importance and value) are held of the utmost consequence, never for a moment interrupted the harmony of their friendship; and though Cicero might occasionally indulge a little good humoured mirth, at the expense of his Epicurean friend, and though in his philosophical writings he expressed himself, at times, with perhaps rather too much contempt and asperity of the principles of the sect, yet Atticus was the friend to whom he unbosomed his most secret thoughts, to whose kindness he at all times appealed with the fullest confidence, who cheered him in adversity, rejoiced at his prosperity, and by his judicious counsels ever contributed to the maintenance of his dignity and reputation. The great charm of the epistolary writings of Cicero consists in their unaffected ease and simplicity, joined with consummate knowledge, sense, and taste. Whether writing to Atticus about the pur

chase of books and statues, acquainting him merely with the state of his own health and that of his family, bantering him on the discrepancy between his philosophical principles and his natural affections, communicating the most important political events and debates, or reasoning on their causes and grounds, he never for a moment stops to consider about the choice of expressions. He sets down the pun or the jest just as it occurs; if the Greek expression be more forcible, more playful, or more abounding in agreeable associations, he employs it without hesitation; he uses, in short, the very phrases, the very turns, the very metaphors and similes, which were adapted to polished, graceful, and elegant conversation. To write in this style was a much more common habit in the time of Cicero than at the present day: purity and gracefulness in the use of the Latin language was, amongst the Romans, held to be an affair of the last importance, and formed a part of the education of every person of ingenuous birth, and the letters of Cicero's correspondents, though inferior to his own in wit and deep knowledge, vie with them in elegance and correctness. It were to be wished that the entire correspondence between Cicero and Atticus had been preserved, that we might enjoy the advantage of comparing the style and sentiments of two men so different in character but so amiable in disposition, of observing more perfectly than we can at present how the tenets of Epicurus modelled the thoughts and actions of the latter, and how the same public event affected either mind. But the timid caution of Atticus, as is conjectured, has deprived us of this satisfaction by withdrawing from the hands of Tiro all his own remaining letters after the death of his illustrious friend.

The sixteen books of the letters of Cicero to his friends have, it is well known, been translated by the elegant Melmoth, and they form perhaps the most beautiful collection of letters that our language possesses. They are, indeed, genuine English: not a phrase occurs to remind us that they are a translation; and but for the proper names and subjects we might believe that we were reading the original compositions of an Englishman of cultivated mind and elegant taste. Mr. Melmoth appears to have gone on the principle of making Cicero, as far as was possible, think and write as if he lived in modern times, and spoke the English language.

The translation of the sixteen books of the letters to Atticus has been lately presented to the public by Dr. Heberden, so that we may now in our own language peruse all the remaining epistolary writings of Cicero. Dr. Heberden is more literal than his predecessor, and his plan, as stated in the dedication of his work to the Bishop of Durham, is to make the Letters appear not as if Cicero had written in this age and country, but as if English had been the language of Italy in his time, so that the sentiments and meaning might still be Roman, the medium only changed through which they are expressed.' Which may be the better mode of translating it is hard to decide in the former we are apt to be offended by the em