they may, who have not experienced his feelings. Who, on such a day, has not felt a pleasing languor steal over him, and a distaste for ordinary pursuits and avocations? Who does not long to leave the hubbub of the city far behind, to stroll forth into the fields, and have the taint of the smoke blown off by the fresh April winds? and who would not do so if

"Necessity, the master still of will,
How strong soe'er it is,"

did not drag him back to his toils? Oh! what a clog it is on a man's spirit to feel that he is a slave -(for what are they but slaves with the privilege of change, whose daily labor buys their daily bread?)

-to long for liberty, yet feel that the pure air, the green fields, the blue sky, the very commonest gifts of nature, that are enjoyed by the brutes of the earth and the birds of the air, are denied to him? True, he may break through all restraints and go about inhaling as much fresh air as he pleases; but when the cravings of appetite hint to him that it is dinner time, whence are to come the victuals that constitute that important item in the sum total of human happiness? Man is unfortunately a carnivorous animal, and must, once a day at least, be fed with flesh, fowl, or fish: he cannot make an

unsophisticated repast off the roots and fruits of

the earth, for though

"his anatomical construction

Bears vegetables in a grumbling sort of way
Yet certainly he thinks, beyond all question,
Beef, veal, and mutton easier of digestion."

Then why are idle people, who can afford to be so without wrong to any one, so hardly dealt with, when all men, deserving the name, would be idle if they could? Who ever knew a creature that made use of the too-common expression, “I am never easy unless I am doing something," that was worth passing an hour with, or that showed the slightest symptoms of having a soul? He cannot be easy without doing something, merely because he cannot hold communion with himself; he has no treasures of thought to which he can revert, and his mind preys upon itself unless exercised in the miserable distinctions and petty gains and triumphs of business, which is at best but a necessary evil. With a few exceptions, I much admire the state of things that the old courtier in the Tempest proposes to introduce into the enchanted island if he were king of it—

"No kind of traffic

Would I admit; no name of magistrate;

Letters should not be known; no use of service,

Of riches, or of poverty; no contracts,

Successions; bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none :
No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil;
No occupation; all men idle, all;

And women too; but innocent and pure.
All things in common nature should produce
Without sweat or endeavor; treason, felony,
Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine,
Would I not have; but nature should bring forth
Of its own kind, all foison, all abundance,
To feed my innocent people."

PRIZE TRAGEDIES.

IN days of yore Melpomene was a proud and haughty dame, who had to be long and ardently wooed before she would vouchsafe her company to any one; she was like one of those fair, unreasonable damsels in the age of chivalry, for whose sake a man had to endure much abstinence, penance, and mortification before he was rewarded with the slightest degree of familiarity; but now she is transformed into a mere modern miss, who will flirt and keep company with all who take the trouble of asking her. And then both she and her votaries have become mercenary. In former times it was "the divinity which stirred within them" that prompted tragic poets to the creation of those mighty works that have spread a halo around their names; now it is a mere matter of dollars and cents: ours serve for hire, and undertake to manufacture tragedies on any given subject that may be dictated to them. On one point, however, they have decidedly the

advantage; if the ancients were superior to the moderns in strength, they are far inferior in productiveness; and an author now litters more literary offspring in a year, than three or four could formerly bring forth in ten; but what is produced with so little trouble and in such abundance, is sickly and short-lived; whilst the rare, but healthy, hardy offspring of the intellects of other years still continue to bloom and "flourish in immortal youth."

The great point of inferiority of the ancients to us was their ignorance of machinery, the discoveries in which we have applied admirably both to physics and literature. Our forefathers were in bodily strength immensely superior to the present slim generation; yet by the aid of engines we can do more in an hour than they could in a year. So it is with the drama. They were giants in intellect, and a tragedy was with them a tremendous mental struggle and victory; with us it is a mere mechanical affair. The matter is a trifle, the manner all in all. We take an interesting anecdote, put it into turgid blank verse, inflate it with bombast and epithets, divide and subdivide it into acts and scenes, and, by the aid of machinery, scenery, dresses and decorations, make it go off with more noise and eclat than can be produced by the most