wind is heard to whistle through the Caverns.-ROGERO rises, and comes slowly forward, with his arms folded.

Eleven years!* It is now eleven years since I was first immured in this living Sepulchre-The cruelty of a MinisterThe perfidy of a Monk-Yes, MATILDA! for thy sake-alive amidst the dead-chained-coffined-confined-cut off from the converse of my fellow men. Soft!-what have we here?

(stumbles over a bundle of sticks.) This Cavern is so dark, that I can scarcely distinguish the objects under my feet. Oh !-the register of my Captivity-Let me see, how stands the account? (Takes up the sticks, and turns them over with a melancholy air; then stands silent for a few moments, as if absorbed in calculation)—Eleven years and fifteen days!-Hah-the twenty-eighth of August!How does the recollection of it vibrate on my heart! It was on this day that I took my last leave of my MATILDA. It was a summer evening-her melting hand seemed to dissolve in mine, as I pressed it to my bosom-Some Demon whispered me that I should never see her more.-I stood gazing on the hated vehicle which was conveying her away forever-The tears were petrified under my eye-lids.-My heart was crystallized with agony.-Anon-I looked along the road.--The Diligence seemed to diminish every instant. I felt my heart beat against its prison, as if anxious to leap out and overtake it.-My soul whirled round, as I watched the rotation of the hinder wheels.-A long trail of glory followed after her, and mingled with the dustit was the Emanation of Divinity, luminous with Love and Beauty-like the splendour of the setting Sun-but it told me that the sun of my joys was sunk forever-Yes, here in the

Our readers will readily recollect the various dungeon scenes which comprise so considerable a part of the merits of the German plays; the chains, the bundle of sticks, the 28th of August, the fatal day, the retrospective glance at previous prosperity, and the pathos of present desperation, are circumstances which very naturally arise, and of which almost every victim of tyrannical vengeance makes indiscriminate use. The song of Rogero is a fancy of the poet's, as is the full accompaniment of the violins from the orchestra. So in the Melo-Drama, the characters are obliged to wait for the musick to strike a chord in unison with the sensation to be produced, before the passion can be exhibited. And the actor is frequently o bliged to give a signal to the leader of the band, by a wink, a motion, a stamp of the foot, that he may begin; as, now, sir, I am to be mad, let your instruments express distraction; now disappointed, let your violin indicate disappointment; now I wish to wash my hands, let your musick be expres sive of soap and water, Exe.

depths of an eternal Dungeon In the Nursing Cradle of HellThe Suburbs of Perdition-In a nest of Demons, where Despair in vain sits brooding over the putrid eggs of hope; where Agony woos the embrace of Death; where Patience, beside the bottomless pool of Despondency, sits angling for Impossibilities -Yet even here, to behold her, to embrace her-Yes, MATILDA, whether in this dark abode, amidst toads and spiders, or in a Royal Palace, amidst the more loathsome Reptiles of a Court, would be indifferent to me-Angels would shower down their hymns of gratulation upon our heads-while Fiends would envy the eternity of suffering Love... Soft, what air was

that? it seemed a sound of more than human warbling-Again (listens attentively for some minutes)-Only the wind-It is well, however-It reminds me of that melancholy Air, which has so often solaced the hours of my Captivity-Let me see whether the damps of this dungeon have not yet injured my Guitar(Takes his Guitar, tunes it, and begins the following Air, with a full accompaniment of Violins from the Orchestra.)

Whene'er with haggard eyes I view
This Dungeon, that I'm rotting in,

I think of those Companions true
Who studied with me at the U-

-NIVERSITY of Gottingen,

NIVERSITY of Gottingen. (Weeps, and pulls out
a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his
eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds

Sweet kerchief, check'd with heav'nly blue,
Which once my love sat knotting in?—
Alas! MATILDA then was true!-

At least I thought so at the U

NIVERSITY of Gottingen

NIVERSITY of Gottingen. (At the repetition of this Line ROGERO clanks his Chains in cadence.)

Barbs! Barbs! alas! how swift you flew

Her neat Post-Waggon trotting in!

Ye bore MATILDA from my view;
Forlorn I languish'd at the U-

-NIVERSITY of Gottingen-
-NIVERSITY of Gottingen.

This faded form! this pallid hue!
This blood my veins is clotting in,
My years are many-They were few
When first I enter'd at the U-

NIVERSITY of Gottingen-
-NIVERSITY of Gottingen.

There first for thee my passion grew,
Sweet! sweet MATILDA POTTINGEN!
Thou wast the daughter of my Tu-
-TOR, Law Professor at the U-

-NIVERSITY of Gottingen

-NIVERSITY of Gottingen.

Sun, Moon, and thou vain world, adieu,
That King's and Priests are plotting in:
Here doom'd to starve on water-gru-
-el* never shall I see the U-

-NIVERSITY of Gottingen !—
NIVERSITY of Gottingen!

(During the last Stanza ROGERO dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his Prison; and finally, so hard as to produce a visible contusion. He then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The Curtain drops-The musick still continuing to play, till it is wholly fallen.)

END OF ACT I.

POETRY.

THE following Verses, supposed to have been written by one of the authors of 'Salmagundi,' are copied from Godwin's Album, at Passaick Falls. The writers of Salmagundi certainly have much genius

* A manifest error-since it appears from the Waiter's conversation (P 293), that Rogero was not doomed to starve on water-gruel, but on peasesoup; which is a much better thing. Poffibly the length of Rogero's imprisonment had impaired his memory; or he might wish to make things appear worse than they really were; which is very natural, I think, in such a case as this poor unfortunate Gentleman's. PRINTER'S DEVIL.

Vol. I.

and original wit. In the Monthly Mirror, however, (an English publication of extensive sale, arising only from its ample information in the theatrical department, the beauty of its engravings, and the neatness of its typographical execution: but viewed in any other light, a mere collection of vapid thought and ignorant observation) their miserable reviewers undertake to censure it very severely. Though Salmagundi evidently has faults, yet they certainly are not such as these reviewers seem to apprehend and indeed, the judges at the tribunal of the Monthly Mirror, in presuming to pronounce sentence upon the literary crimes committed on this side of the Atlantick, act upon selfassumed authority, and in reality are deciding questions, over which they have no jurisdiction. 'As well,' says Pope, 6 may you try a man in one country for offending the laws of another.' The truth is, the reviewers in the Monthly Mirror cannot justly estimate the merits of a composition, the wit and humour of which depend upon an acquaintance with circumstances far removed out of the circumference of their knowledge; a composition, which really possesses more genuine though playful excellence, than an extraction of all the merit from all the original communications to the Monthly Mirror could produce, if taken from the beginning of the establishment.

IN a wild tranquil vale, fring'd with forests of green,
Where nature had fashion'd a soft sylvan scene ;
The retreat of the ring-dove, the haunt of the deer,
Passaick in silence, roll'd gentle and clear.

No grandeur of prospect astonish'd the sight,
No abruptness sublime mingled awe with delight;
Here the wild flow'ret blossom'd, the elm proudly wav'd,
And pure was the current the green banks that lav'd.

But the spirit that rul'd o'er the thick tangled wood,
And deep in its gloom fix'd his murky abode,
Who lov'd the rude scene that the whirlwinds deform,
And gloried in thunder and lightning and storm';

All flush'd from the tumult of battle he came,
Where the red men encounter'd the children of flame;
While the noise of the war-whoop still rung in his ears,
And the fresh bleeding scalp as a trophy he bears.

Oh! deep was the horror, and fierce was the fight,
When the eyes of the red men were shrouded in night;
When by strangers invaded, by strangers destroy'd,
They ensanguin'd the fields which their fathers enjoy'd.

Lo! the sons of the forest in terror retire,

Pale savages chase them with thunder and fire;
In vain whirls the war club, in vain twangs the bow,
With thunder and fire are his warriors laid low.

From defeat and from carnage, the fierce spirit came,
His breast was a tumult his passions were flame;
Despair swells his heart, fury maddens his ire,
And black scowls his brow o'er his eye balls of fire.
With a glance of disgust he the landscape survey'd,
With its fragrant wild flowers, its wide waving shade,
Where Passaick meanders through margins of green,
So transparent its waters, its surface serene.

He riv'd the green hills, the wild woods he laid low,
He taught the pure stream in rough channels to flow;
He rent the rude rock, the steep precipice gave,
And hurl'd down the chasm the thundering wave.

A scene of strange ruin, he scatter'd around,
Where cliffs pil'd on cliffs in rude majesty frown'd;
Where shades of thick horror embrown'd the dark wood,
And the rainbow and mist mark'd the turbulent flood.

Countless moons have since roll'd in the long lapse of time,
Cultivation has soften'd those features sublime;
The axe of the white man, has lighted the shade,
And dispell'd the deep gloom of the thicketed glade.

Yet the stranger still gazes with wondering eye,

On the rocks rudely torn, and groves mounted on high;
Still loves on the cliffs' dizzy borders to roam,
Where the torrent leaps headlong embosom'd in foam.

TOBINUS.

EPIGRAM.

IN the reign of Democracy, dead to all shame,

The demons of falsehood infest us;

Vice and Folly assume Wit and Virtue's fair name,
And the devil himself's call'd Honestus.

Q&