became an accessory--not a realization--all that was palpable was the innocence and sacrifice of the heroine--and the awful and inexpressible struggles of the man. Do you see what I mean? Do you agree with me that it was a misfortune to the British drama that the summit of its glory was reached by Shakspeare so long ago;--a Shakspeare that knew the whole secrets of the human heart, as the human heart existed before his time--or at least as it was supposed in his time to exist;--a Shakspeare who was ignorant of the Great Rebellion--of the Restoration--of the Revolution--of the glorious First of June--of the Guillotine--of Napoleon--of Trafalgar--of Waterloo;--a Shakspeare who had never seen a telegraph--a mail-coach--a steam-boat--a railway. What sort of a man must this have been, that still maintains possession of the stage--that keeps (as I maintain) the British taste in a state of almost mediæval roughness, and chains the dramatic art itself to the slab over his grave? Perhaps, my dear Smith, the immortal Bunn is right after all. Perhaps, if all managers were to follow his example for forty years--if for forty years mankind were condemned to the wilderness of operas, and divertisements, and farces--we should forget the flavour of the flesh-pots (furnished by Shakspeare) which has so completely mastered our taste;--some Joshua would lead us into a chosen land, and feed us with all manner of delights;--the stage, I mean, would come, like the aloe, to a second flower, only resembling its ancient crown in its life and beauty, but smelling of the present time. For no beer, you will grant, is so pleasant as that which has the froth on. Its freshness even compensates for its want of strength. But if, in addition to being fresher by two hundred years than the tap of William Shakspeare of Stratford, it were as strong--as cunningly mixed of malt and hops--and had as beautiful a flavour as his had when it was first brewed--eh! Smith? What do you think, then? Isn't it worth while to live forty years on the chance? isn't it worth while to be teetotallers in the meantime? to live upon slops and gruel? Gentlemen, I propose the health of Mr Lumley and Mr Bunn. I remain, my dear Smith, Your admirer and friend, G. BOBSON. BIRBONIANA; OR, ITALIAN ANTIQUARIES AND ANTICHITÀ. "Birbone--a Jew, a cheat, a rogue, a vagabond, a liar, a coiner, an utterer of all things base and false--an Antiquary!"--BARETTI'S _Italian Dict_. "Ah me! it is a dangerous freak, When men _will_ dabble with Antique."--_Hudibras(?)_ SCENE I.--THE INTRODUCTION.