“I think, doctor, your ghosts speak blank verse.” “Oh yes, you would not have a ghost speak plain prose, would you?” “But when the Moors had Andalusia, how came the ladies to be acquainted with Tom Jones, which was not written for several centuries after? Are you not out in chronology?” “Pshaw, who the devil ever expected chronology in German literature; you might as well expect history, geography, or probability, which would entirely destroy the gigantesque.” “I admit the justness of your remark, and stand corrected; but proceed, if you please, with your story.” “Thrumbo, the old lady, and the _maidens_, sally forth in quest of the father; the hero encounters no obstacles but iron bars, which he cracks like walnut-shells, until he reaches the kernel. The five hundred and one giants supposed dead, rise to the tune of ‘Up and war them a’ Willie,’ and by the enchanting melody, are made virtuous and holy. Hurlothrumbo marries his beloved Aldonazina, and with marriage and reformation the piece concludes.” “Well,” said Jeffery, “how do you like this production, Mr. Hamilton?” Before he could answer, “I will venture to speak for him,” said Dr. Scribble, “such a treat he has rarely enjoyed. This is a sample of our German plays, which must prove a most valuable accession to English dramatic literature, and poetry in general. Would your Murphys or your Vanburghs, and your Steeles and your Congreves, your Homes, your Rowes, your Southerns, or your Otway, equal this work?” “I dare say,” said Hamilton, “no production of theirs would ever resemble it; even Sheridan himself, if he were to try his hand, would not make it so pure; he certainly has astonishing genius, but I doubt if he were to try this German mode, with all his brilliancy of fancy, if he could make so unique a performance, and resolutely exclude from every scene and passage, nature, truth, and probability. This production, in it’s beginning, middle, and end, is thoroughly consistent. The incidents are all of a credibility, so nearly equal, that if the fancy can stretch so far as to take in one, it may swallow all the rest. The single captor of a strongly fortified town might vanquish a thousand giants, crack iron bars like walnuts, or dance Rothie Murcus with his deceased grandmother.” “Yes,” said Scribble, “your criticism is right; it is the _pure gigantesque_.” “But how comes the German author to be so well acquainted with Scotch and English tunes?” “Oh, the tunes I introduce myself, in order to accommodate them to a British audience. I have several others in hand; in one, there is a new way of making love, or rather of introducing a lover to his mistress; and how do you think it is contrived?” “Faith I cannot say; though in this age of innovation, I should not be surprized, if a scheme were devised for making love after the fashion of the Irish sociables.” “But will you hear how they meet? A youth falls in love with a nun; she is closely