interview, a conversation passes between him and them, full of affection and tenderness on the one side, and suppressed anguish and perplexity on the other.

I. Mother, be not offended, if I run To cast me on the bosom of my father. C. My venerable lord, my king, my husband,

We come obedient to thy royal will.

I. Let me shed tears of joy upon thy neck;

'Tis long since I beheld thee; how I love Again to gaze in fondness on thy face: Say thou dost love me.

A. Yes, I do love thee;

Thou art the best and kindest of my children.

I. Oh! might I look for ever on thee

A. I think of thee alone, of no one else. I. Let a sweet smile of love dispel the gloom

That hangs upon thy forehead.
A. I do joy

To see my child.

I. Yet tears flow from thine eyes.
A. Because a cruel separation waits us.
I. I understand thee not, my dearest
father.

wars;

And soon return to us from Phrygia.

A. I first have here to do a sacrifice.
I. In that the priests will guide thee.
A. Thou shalt know,

How happy art thou in thy ignorance!
For thou shalt stand beside the holy fount.

Give me one sad embrace and thy right hand,

For thou shalt be long absent from thy father.

Iphigenia quits the stage, and Agamemnon endeavours to persuade Clytemnestra to return to Argos, and that he himself would superintend the celebration of the marriage of his daughter with Achilles; and after an altercation upon the subject, the scene closes.

In the next, Clytemnestra

thee.

I. I would indulge in merriment to please thee.

A. (Aside) Alas, I would be silent if I could.

(Aloud) I thank thee for thy kindness to me, child.

I. Oh! father, stay at home and bless
thy children.

A.. Fondly I would, and grieve because
I cannot.

I. Nay, quit the battle spear, and think

vant, from whom Menelaus had taken the letter with which he was entrusted to her, enters and reveals the intended sacrifice of her daughter. She implores the aid of Achilles, who undertakes her defence. In the following scene, which is the most tender and interesting in the play, Clytemnestra extorts from Agamemnon a confession of the horrid secret, and joins her supplications to those of Iphigenia, who leads by the hand her infant brother Orestes, that he would spare his daughter's life.

Cly. Say, shouldst thou lead thy army to the field,

And leave me in the solitary palace, How think'st thou I shall feel when I behold

The chambers of my daughter desolate; And all the haunts she lov'd the most de

serted?

When I in solitude and bitter tears,

Shall weep my fair, my lov'd Iphigenia.
My child, thy father is thy murderer;
And stains his impious hands in thy pure
blood.

Oh! by the Gods, compel me not to hate thee;

Thou can'st not sacrifice the child who loves thee

As tenderly as ever daughter loved!
Couldst thou assisting at the sacrifice
Of thy first born, pray that the Gods would
grant thee

Aught that is good? Could I at thy de

parture

Prefer to them my humble supplication, That they would give thee health and victory,

And bring thee back in safety to thy country?

Nay! They will be avenged of parricide. An expedition impiously begun

Ends in disaster. How couldst thou return To Argos and thy children? would they greet thee

With looks of kind affection, if they knew That thou hadst been their sister's murderer? I. Oh! father, had I but the voice of Orpheus,

The music that might animate the rocks To follow me; had I the eloquence Whose charm might win my hearers to my

will,

On that should I rely; but now my tears
Must plead for me, for they are all I have.
I am a suppliant at my father's knees.
Thou wouldst not kill me, I am very young,
And it is sweet to look upon the light,
And the grave is a cold and dreary place.
I was the first who poured into thy ear
The music of a father's name, the first
To whom with bounding heart thou saidst,
My child!

I was the first who hung upon thy knees,
And kiss'd thee fondly, and was kiss'd again,
Then wouldst thou say to me, My lovely

Wilt thou not pity him and spare my life? Father, in mercy, pity me, and spare me; Oh! kill me not, for it is sweet to live, And to behold the glorious light of heaven,

Agamemnon is overwhelmed with grief, but answers, that the enraged army demanded her life, and that it was impossible for him to save her; and Achilles informs them, that in an attempt to sooth the angry passions of the soldiers, he had nearly lost his life. On hearing this, Iphigenia consents to die for her country. The sacrifice is thus described to Clytemnestra by a messenger:

"M. When Agamemnon saw his love-
ly daughter

Advancing to the altar of Diana,
He turned his head aside and veil'd his eyes
And wept.
Near him Iphigenia stood
And cried, father, I come a willing victim,
To lay my body on Diana's altar
An offering for Argos and for Greece.
Oh! ye assembled armies of my country,
Go forth to glory and to victory.
Let no one hold me, for I shall have
strength

To stretch my neck undaunted to the knife Of sacrifice, and shrink not from the stroke."

He further relates, that at the moment the priest had struck the fatal stroke, while the sound was still in the ears of the multitude, Iphigenia vanished from their sight, and was seen no more, and a hind was found panting on the ground in her place.

REMAINS OF A NON-DESCRIPT ANIMAL FOUND IN AYRSHIRE.

MR EDITOR,

ABOUT the 1st of January in the present year, there was found, in tirring the freestone quarry of Woodhill, in the parish of Kilmaurs, the remains of a very huge animal 17/ feet below the surface, incumbent on a thin stratum of gravel mixed with sea shells, immediately beneath a very adhesive dark clay. The whole, however, was in such a state of decay as to fall in pieces in handling, except one of the tusks, and some small bones similar in shape and size to the ribs of a horse, but none entire above eight inches in length. There were two tusks lying contiguous to each other, them fell into six or eight pieces in but pointing different ways. One of the lifting, but the other was taken

up nearly whole, and remains still in a hard state. It is about 40 inches long, and nearly 12 inches in girth at an average, at one end being 14 inches, and at the other about 10. In consistency, it is similar to the tusk of an elephant, but a little darker in colour. It is, however, much more curved, as it forms a very correct arc of 90 degrees, of which the radius is about 24 inches. It weighs 20 lbs. avoirdupois, and may thus, from the dimensions, be calculated to have about 1.39 of specific gravity. Part of it, being in a softish state at the thicker end, was cut off with a saw, and internally it exhibited a regular series of concentric circles.

The size or shape of this animal cannot be well guessed at, for, except the tusk, there was nothing so entire as to indicate proportion. What appeared in the shape of fragments of ribs seemed, indeed, to bear no proportion to the tusk-unless from being found scattered about as far backwards as 25 feet from it, they may lead to a conjecture, that the animal must have been at least 25 feet in length.

At first it was supposed, from the largeness of the tusk, that it was the skeleton of an elephant. Every other circumstance, however, is against this conclusion. The greater curvature of the tusk is against it; so is its solidity; the tusk of an elephant being hollow. Neither were there any remains of teeth. These, it is known, are still more imperishable than tusks. Neither any remains of large leg bones. Nothing larger than the rib of a horse-and these so entire as to smell most fœtidly when held to the fire-they even took flame like a candle. Every thing rather indicates the remains of a sea animal. In the museum at Glasgow there is a tusk to be seen remarkably similar, differing in no circumstance, but only that it is a small degree larger. They call it the tusk of a Mamoth rather an imaginary animal, as none alive have been seen in the present age of the world, and none entire ever discovered. The place where this was found is about four miles in a straight line from the sea, and through a country of a very irregular uphill and downhill surface, with a soil that shews no indication of having been formed by the retiring

of sea waters.

October 1, 1817.

G. R.

PLAN FOR SUPPLYING EDINBURGH

WITH WATER.

A REPORT has been presented to the Town-Council by a special committee appointed to consider the mode of procuring to the city an additional supply of water. We can state, on good authority, the following to be a correct outline. The expence required cannot be estimated at less than L.80,000. Though, in the present state of the money market, a loan to this amount might be effected without difficulty, yet, under a change of circumstances, it might give rise to serious inconveniences. It is therefore recommended, that a joint stock company should be formed, the members of which would subscribe the money in the hope of profit. This plan would put an end to all complaints as to the management of the water-concerns, as it would place them in the hands of the subscribers, who would probably be respectable citizens of Edinburgh; while, at the same time, the Town-Council, from its interest in the capital stock, would be entitled to have several of its members in the Board of direction. The only objection seems to be the additional tax which must thus be imposed on the inhabitants. The sum now required, added to that formerly expended, could not be estimated at less than L. 130,000, while the water-duty, even when equalized, would not exceed L. 4500: thus a considerable additional rate would be necessary to produce even 5 per cent., while it could not be expected that subscribers to a joint stock company would be satisfied with less than 7 per cent. It is conceived, however, that there can be no reasonable objection to some addition. Those who derive their supply from the public wells, including all the lower classes and those immediately above them, will not be affected by the change. As for the higher and middling classes, if the shares were made small, suppose L.2 or L.25, each individual, by taking one, might obtain such a profit as would compensate for the loss he sustained by the additional amount of water-duty.

This report has been approved of by the Council, and directions given for acting upon the plan proposed.

Sibylline Leaves, a Collection of Poems. By S. T. COLERIDGE, Esq. 8vo. pp. 303. Fenner, London, 1817.

EVERY reader of modern poetry is acquainted of course with "the Ancient Mariner" of this author. It is one of those compositions, indeed, which cannot be perused without a more than ordinary excitation of fancy at the time; and which, when once read, can never afterwards be entirely forgotten. What we mean, however, more particularly to say at present, is, that this production has always appeared to us in the light of a very good caricature of the genius of its author. It displays, in fact, all the strength and all the weakness,-all the extravagancies and eccentricities, -all the bold features, and peculiar grimace, if we may so express our selves, of his intellectual physiognomy, -and in forming an opinion respect ing the talents which he possesses, this composition may serve the very same purpose which an overcharged drawing of a countenance could answer to one who would form to himself some general idea of the kind of features by which an individual was distinguished. In order to adapt such a representation to the reality of the case, we must of course soften its prominences, and correct its extravagancies; we must raise some parts and depress others; and while we retain the general likeness and grouping of the individual features which compose the countenance, we must reduce the whole to that medium character, from which, amidst the infinite varieties that occur, it is the rarest of all things to meet with any great deviation.

Mr Coleridge, we understand, has sometimes expressed an unwillingness, in so far as the character of his poetry is concerned, to be classed with the other members of what has been called the Lake School; and it is impossible, we think, for any candid mind not to perceive, that, as in some respects the individuals of that association differ essentially from each other, there are also respects in which the

VOL. 1.

compositions of this author are strikingly and most advantageously distinguished from those of all the rest. He displays, it is true, on many occasions, the same sickly sentimentality,-the same perverted disposition to invest trifling subjects with an air and expression of great importance and interest,-to treat subjects of real grandeur in a manner unsuited to their native majesty of character,-and to employ, occasionally, expressions which are merely vulgar or ridiculous, instead of that direct and simple diction which is the most natural language of intense feeling. Along with these peculiarities, however, it cannot be denied, that there are other qualities of Mr Coleridge's poetry which entitle it to a place among the finest productions of modern times. There is, in particular, a wildness of narrative, and a picturesque grouping of qualities and objects, which are in fine contrast to the tameness and placidity of ordinary poetry;-a freshness of colouring and a delicacy of shading, which mark the hand of a great master. Amidst some obscurity and occasional failures, there are also every where to be discovered those incidental touches of true grace which indicate the native riches and power of the artist; and along with all these qualities, there is a fine adaptation, frequently, of the style and manner of our older masters to the improved design of modern times, which sheds a venerable air over the whole composition, and seems to embalm it with all the flowers and odours of the "olden time.” These better qualities, it ought also to be recollected, are the more prevailing cha❤ racteristics of our author's manner, and though there are occasional passages, and even entire pieces, in this collection, which none but a poet of the Lake school could have written, and which, without any intimation of the name of the author, would at once, in the opinion of any ordinary judge, determine his place of residence and habits of fellowship, there is no doubt that there is a still greater number of passages which remind us of an era of far better things. ri

Nothing, we apprehend, is more difficult than to characterize correctly the genius of an author whose productions possess so many opposite qualities, and whose excellencies and extravagancies are so curiously blended; especially as the work in which these combinations occur is not one uniform picture of any landscape in nature, or one unbroken narrative of some moral tale; not a regular and didactic poem, nor even a series of poems, marked by one prevailing character, and intended for the production of one common effect; but a great assemblage of unconnected pieces, which differ in subject, in character, and in style,-sibylline leaves, which have long been tossed by all the winds of heaven, and are now collected into one precious fasciculus,—some inscribed with interesting lessons of domestic love and family affection,-some dedicated to enthusiastic celebration of the grand or the beautiful in natural scenery, not a few devoted to inspired wailings over the fates and hopes of national enterprise, and a very considerable number merely employed by the poet, for the purpose of being inscribed, as might suit his humour, with the incoherent ravings of his indolence or gaiety. Taking them altogether, however, we shall endeavour, though with a very general and rapid glance, to mark the prevailing qualities of the group, and to enable our readers also, by the specimens we shall select, to form for themselves an estimate of the merits of our author, independent of any judgment we may happen to express.

We have already hinted, that the prevailing characteristic of the compositions of this author is a certain air of wildness and irregularity, which equally belongs to his narrations of events, and to the pictures he has offered of the aspects of Nature. It would require, we believe, a greater expenditure, both of time and of space, than we can at present afford, to say exactly wherein this quality consists. We think, indeed, that an examination of its nature presents a subject of very interesting study to those who delight to speculate on the wonderful varieties of human character, or to mark, with the eye of philosophical discernment, the predilections which determine the excursions of fancy throughout the unbounded range of

ideal combinations. Every person, however, may form to himself some analogical representation of this attribute of mind, who can contrast, in the imagination of external nature, the scenery of a rugged and finely wooded landscape, with the drowsy stillness of a champaign country, of which riches and uniformity are the prevailing characteristics,-or the progress of a torrent amidst rocks and forests, with the course of a stream which flows full and unbroken through the placid abundance of a cultivated region,or the music of the winds as it is modulated and aided in its progress through a landscape of woods and of mountains, with those harmonious adaptations of kindred sounds which science and taste are capable of forming. We cannot pretend, however, to give instances of this quality, which is, indeed, the characteristic attribute of our author's genius, and which, of course, displays itself in some degree in all his productions; we must, therefore, content ourselves at present with referring such of our readers as think they should, above all things, be delighted with a genius of this order, to the actual productions of the author before us, as the greatest master in this style with whom we are acquainted; and, in the meantime, we shall proceed to notice some other qualities of his works which can more readily be illustrated by quotations and references.

Mr Coleridge, like Mr Southey, possesses, in no ordinary perfection, the power of presenting to the imagination of his readers a correct idea of natural scenery. There is a remarkable difference, however, as it appears to us, in the character assumed by this faculty in the case of these two writers. The delineations of Mr Southey are true to the reality, as if his single object in description had been to represent every hue and variation of the object before him; his descriptions, accordingly, are admirably adapted for affording subjects to a painter; and, indeed, we know not any author by whose writings so many admirable facilities of this nature are afforded. His descriptions, at the same time, are frequently destitute of that far higher character which they might have assumed, if employed only as the ground-work for the production of emotion. We do not see