* * * * * _Humorous Epilogues after Tragedies._ The custom of introducing humorous epilogue, farce, and buffoonery, after the mind has been agitated, softened, or sublimed by tragic scenes, has been often objected to. It hath been said in its favour, that five long acts is a portion of time sufficiently long to keep the attention fixed on melancholy objects; that human life has enough of real, without calling in the aid of artificial distress; that it is cruel to send home an audience with all the affecting impressions of a deep tragedy in their minds. In reply, it has been observed, that it is degrading and untrue to describe the human species as incapable of receiving gratification only from comic scenes; that "_there is a luxury in wo_," independent of its purifying the bosom and suppressing the more ignoble passions. The supporters of this opinion have also added, that there is a species of depravity in endeavouring by ludicrous mummery to efface the salutary effects of pathetic, virtuous, and vigorous sentiments; that it is sporting with the sympathies of our nature, repugnant to correct taste, and counteracting moral utility. This violation of the law of gentle and gradual contrasts, has been felt and complained of by most frequenters of a modern theatre, and well-authenticated instances have been produced of guilty men retiring from a well-written and well-acted play to repentance and melioration. An epilogue has been composed by Mr. Sheridan in support of these opinions, superior in pathos, poetry and practical deduction, to any I ever read. It was originally spoken by Mrs. Yates, after the performance of Semiramis, a tragedy translated from the French. Dishevell'd still, like Asia's bleeding queen, Shall I, with jests deride the tragic scene? No, beauteous mourners! from whose downcast eyes The Muse has drawn her noblest sacrifice; Whose gentle bosoms, Pity's altars, bear The chrystal incense of each falling tear! There lives the poet's praise; no critic art Can match the comment of a feeling heart! When general plaudits speak the fable o'er, Which mute attention had approv'd before; Though under spirits love th' accustomed jest, Which chases sorrow from the vulgar breast; Still hearts refin'd their sadden'd tints retain-- The sigh gives pleasure and the jest is pain: Scarce have they smiles to honour grace or wit, Though Roscius spoke the verse himself had writ. Thus, through the time when vernal fruits receive The grateful showers that hang on April's eve; Though every coarser stem of forest birth Throws with the morning beam its dews to earth, Ne'er does the gentle rose revive so soon, But, bath'd in nature's tears, it drops till noon.