uffer her to be interrupted. Mr Edgermond, in
particular, could scarcely satisfy himself with seeing and hearing
Corinne; hardly did he dare to express the admiration she inspired him
with, and he pronounced some words of panegyric in a low tone of voice
hoping she would comprehend them without obliging him to address her
personally. He however possessed such a lively desire to know her
sentiments on Tragedy, that in spite of his timidity he ventured a few
words on that subject.

"Madam," said he to Corinne, "where the Italian literature appears to me
most defective is in Tragedy; methinks the distance is not so great
between infancy and manhood, as between your Tragedies and ours; for in
the changeableness of children may be discovered true if not deep
sentiments, but there is something affected and extravagant in Italian
Tragedy, which destroys for me all emotion whatever. Is this not so?
Lord Nelville," continued Mr Edgermond, turning to his lordship and
inviting his support by a glance, quite astonished at having found
courage to speak in such a numerous assembly.

"I am entirely of your opinion," answered Oswald; "Metastasio, who is
vauntingly called the poet of love, gives the same colouring to this
passion in every country and under every circumstance. His admirable
airs are entitled to our applause as much from their grace and harmony
as the lyrical beauties which they contain, especially when detached
from the drama in which they are placed; but it is impossible for us who
possess Shakespeare, who has most deeply fathomed History and the
passions of man, to suffer those amorous couples, that divide between
them almost all the pieces of Metastasio alike, under the names of
Achilles, of Tircis, of Brutus, and of Corilas, singing, in a manner
that hardly touches the surface of the soul, the grief and sufferings of
love, so as almost to reduce to imbecility the noblest passion that
animates the human heart. It is with the most profound respect for the
character of Alfieri that I shall indulge in a few reflections upon his
pieces. Their aim is so noble, the sentiments which the author expresses
are so much in unison with his personal conduct, that his tragedies must
always deserve praise as actions, even when they are criticised as
literary performances. But I find in the vigour of some of his tragedies
as much monotony as in the tenderness of Metastasio. There is, in the
plays of Alfieri, such a profusion of energ