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his wife and his married daughter, giving to his nephew, (a deceased brother's son) a hundred pieces of silver, and sending him away to seek his fortune, the wife, owing to an old quarrel with his deceased mother, leading him a most unhappy life at home. The old gentleman then sets out for his estate in the country, reconimending his pregnant wife to the humane treatment of his family, and in the hope of receiving from them speedy congratulations on the birth of a son.

He is no sooner departed, however, when the son-in-law cannot conceal from the daughter his disappointment at the pregnancy of the old man's second wife, as, if she brings forth a girl, he will lose half the family property, and if a son, the whole. His wife soothes him by a hint how easily she may be got rid of, and the old man persuaded that she had suddenly disappeared; and shortly after both the son-in-law and the audience are left to infer that she has actually contrived to put her to death. In the mean time, the old man waits the result in great anxiety; his family appear in succession to console him for the loss of his second wife, which he is reluctantly brought to believe. In the bitterness of his disappointment, he bursts into tears, and expresses strong suspicions of some foul play. He attributes his misfortunes to his former thirst of gain, resolves to fast for seven days, and to bestow alms publicly at a neighbouring temple, in the hope that the objects of his charity may treat him as a father. Among the beggars at the temple, his

nephew appears, in the most hopeless state of poverty, being reduced to take up his lodging under the furnace of a pottery; he is insulted by the son-in-law, and reproached by the old wife; but his uncle, moved with compassion, contrives to give him a little money, and earnestly advises him to be punctual in visiting the tombs of his family at the approaching spring, assuring him that a due attention to filial piety must ultimately lead to wealth. The nephew accordingly appears at the tombs, performs the rites of oblation, as far as his poverty will admit, and invokes the shades of his ancestors to commiserate his distress, and to grant him their protection. He no sooner departs than the uncle and aunt appear, and express their indignation that their own daughter and son-inlaw have neglected their duty, in not being there with the customary offerings; they observe that, from the earth being turned up, and paper burnt, some needy person must have been there, and conclude it to be their nephew. The scene of the tombs, and the reflections to which it gives rise in the old man's mind, have considerable interest; he reasons with his wife, convinces her that the nephew is more worthy, as well as nearer in blood, than the sonin-law; she relents, and expresses a wish to make him reparation; he appears, a conciliation takes place, and he is again received into the family. Soon after this, the son-in-law and daughter appear, with a great noise, and a procession of village officers, to perform the ceremonies; but are received 2 K2

by

by their parents with bitter reproaches for their tardy piety and ingratitude, and ordered never to enter their doors again. On the old man's birth-day, however, they send to ask permission to pay their respects, when, to the utter astonishment and unbounded joy of the old man, his daughter presents him with his second wife and her son, now about three years of age, both of whom it appears had been secreted by the daughter, and supported, out of affection for her father, and unknown to the husband, who had supposed them to have been otherwise disposed of. The daughter is separated from her husband, and taken back into her family; a new arrangement is made for the disposal of the old man's property, the daughter to have a third, the nephew a third, and the little son a third; and the piece concludes with expressions of joy and gratitude for the old gentleman having been blessed with an heir in his old age."

Such is the brief outline of the fable; the unity and integrity of action and design are strictly adhered to, and all the incidents are closely connected with the story, which turns entirely on the misery arising out of the want of an heir to perform the duties which filial piety demand, both to the living and the dead. The time employed in the course of the piece is three years, but the events follow each other in so natural a manner, and with such uninterrupted rapidity, that the time elapsed would not be perceived but for the age of the child brought forward in the concluding act. The several scenes

and acts are as properly divided as those of an European drama; the sentiments are naturally expressed, often tender and affecting, and always friendly to virtue. The translator observes, that a few passages which were grossly indecent, have been omitted in the translation; the Chinese, with all their politeness, are coarse in their expressions; and we have seen that, from a too close adherence to nature and to facts, the scenic representations are often exceedingly gross and indelicate. "Ils mettent," says De Guignes, "trop de la verité dans le scène."

The lyrical compositions, which prevail more in tragedy than in comedy, certainly bear a strong resemblance to the chorus of the old Greek tragedy; like the chorus too, they are sung with an accompaniment of music. The translator seems to think that these passages are chiefly intended to gratify the ear, and that sense is very often sacrificed to sound; even if this were the case, examples of the same kind might be produced nearer home. Perhaps, however, their obscurity may be owing to the nature of the written language, in which associations of ideas are presented rather to the eye, or to the recollection, than to the ear, by a combination of signs or symbols, on the choice of which the force of the expression must depend. Mr. Morrison observes, that "without extensive knowledge of their ancient poetry, and the customs and manners of the country, it is very difficult to understand their poetical compositions. The very point and beauty of the piece often depends on some

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slight allusion, which a foreigner does not perceive; added to which the style is peculiarly concise, and unusual words are introduced.”* The opening or prologue of a Chinese drama, in which the principal personages come forward to declare the characters of the piece, and to let the audience into the argument or story on which the action is to turn, bears a strong resemblance to the prologues of the Greek drama, and particularly to those of Euripides.

In comedy the dialogue is carried on in the common colloquial language, but in the higher order of historical and tragical plays, the tone of voice is elevated considerably above its natural pitch, and continued throughout in a kind of whining monotony, having some resemblance to, but wanting the modulations and cadences of, the recitative in the Italian opera; as in this too, the sentiments of grief, joy, love, hatred, revenge, &c. are in the Chinese dramas, usually thrown into lyric poetry, and sung in soft or boisterous airs, according to

Morrison's Chinese Grammar, p. 275.

the sentiment expressed, and the situation of the actor; they are also accompanied with loud music, the performers being placed on the back part of the stage.

Whatever may be the merits and the defects of the Chinese drama, it is unquestionably their own invention. The only nation from whence they could have borrowed any thing, is that of Hindostan, from whence they imported the religion of Budh; but as we know nothing of the Hindoo drama, except from the single specimen of Sacontala, translated by Sir William Jones, in a manner, it is said, sufficiently free; and as that drama differs more from the Chinese than the latter from the Greek, Roman, English, or Italian, there is not the slightest grounds for supposing that the one was borrowed from the other. There is, indeed, a characteristic difference between them; the one adhering strictly to nature, and describing human manners and human feelings; the other soaring beyond nature, into the labyrinth of an intricate and inexplicable mythology.

NATURAL

NATURAL HISTORY.

Narrative of a Journey from the village of Chamouni to the summit of Mount Blanc, undertaken on Aug. 8, 1787. By Colonel Beaufoy.

[From the Annals of Philosophy.]

HE desire of ascending to the

for that, five days before my arrival at the foot of the mountain, M. de Saussure, a professor in the university of Geneva, had gained the top of the ascent. But while I was informed of the success which had attended the efforts of M. de Saussure, I was told of the

T highest part of remarkably difficulties and dangers that the

elevated land is so natural to every man, and the hope of repeating various experiments in the upper regions of the air is so inviting to those who wish well to the interests of science, that, being lately in Switzerland, I could not resist the inclination I felt to reach the summit of Mount Blanc. One of the motives, however, which prompted the attempt was much weakened by the consideration that I did not possess, and in that country could not obtain, the instruments that were requisite for many of the experiments which I was anxious to make; and the ardour of common curiosity was diminished when I learned that Dr. Paccard and his guide, who in the

year 1786 had reached the supposed inaccessible summit of the hill, were not the only persons who had succeeded in the attempt;

companied the undertaking; and was often assured, with much laborious dissuasion, that, to all the usual obstacles, the lateness of the season would add the perils of those stupendous masses of snow which are often dislodged from the steeps of the mountain, together with the hazard of those frightful chasms which present immeasurable gulfs to the steps of the traveller, and the width of which was hourly increasing. M. Bourrit, whose name has often been announced to the world by a variety of tracts, and by many excellent drawings, confirmed the account, and assured me that he himself had made the attempt on the next day to hat on which M. de Saussure descended, but was obliged, as on many former occasions, to abandon the enterprise. Having formed my resolution, I

sent

sent to the different cottagers of the vale of Chamouni, from the skirts of which the mountain takes its rise, to inquire if any of them were willing to go with me as my assistants and my guides, and had soon the satisfaction to find that ten were ready to accept the proposal. I engaged them all. Having announced to them my intention of setting out the next morning, I divided among them provisions for three days, together with a kettle, a chaffing-dish, a quantity of charcoal, a pair of bellows, a couple of blankets, a long rope, a hatchet, and a ladder, which formed the stores that were requisite for the journey. After a night of much solicitude, lest the summit of Mount Blanc should be covered with clouds, in which case the guides would have refused the undertaking as impracticable, I rose at five in the morning, and saw, with great satisfaction, that the mountain was free from vapour, and that the sky was every where serene. My dress was a white flannel jacket without any shirt beneath, and white linen trowsers without drawers. The dress was white that the sunbeams might be thrown off; and it was loose, that the limbs might be unconfined. Besides a pole for walking, I carried with me cramp-irons for the heels of my shoes, by means of which the hold of the frozen snow is firm, and in steep ascents the poise of the body is preserved. My guides being at length assembled, each with his allotted burthen; and one of them, a fellow of great bodily strength, and great vigour of mind, Michael Cachet by name, who had accompanied M. de Saussure, having desired to

take the lead, we ranged ourselves in a line, and at seven o'clock, in the midst of the wives, and children, and friends, of my companions, and indeed of the whole village of Chamouni, we began our march. The end of the first hour brought us to the Glaciere des Boissons, at which place the rapid ascent of the mountain first begins, and from which, pursuing our course along the edge of the rocks that form the eastern side of this frozen lake, we arrived in four hours more at the second glaciere, called the Glaciere de la Coté. Here, by the side of a stream of water which the melting of the snow had formed, we sat down to a short repast. To this place the journey is neither remarkably laborious, nor exposed to danger, except that name should be given to the trifling hazard that arises from the stones and loose pieces of the broken rock which the goats, in leaping from one projection to another, occasionally throw down. Our dinner being

finished, we fixed our cramp-irons to our shoes, and began to cross the glaciere; but we had not proceeded far when we discovered that the frozen snow which lay in the ridges between the waves of ice, often concealed, with a covering of uncertain strength, the fathomless chasms which traverse this solid sea; yet the danger was soon in a great degree removed by the expedient of tying ourselves together with our long rope, which being fastened at proper distances to our waists, secured from the principal hazard such as might fall within the opening of the gulf. Trusting to the same precaution, we also crossed upon

our

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