test, his son enters his apartment, and by a confession of his guilt, implores and obtains the royal merty. Meantime, a father confessor irritated by Peter's reform of the abuses of the church, tempts the young prince once more to a defection from his duty. The unhappy youth is deeply enamoured with the beauty of Ksenia, in opposition to the wishes of his father, who had destined him to wed a foreign princess. The father confessor plies the two powerful engines of superstition and love to his purpose, and finally seduces Alexis from his allegiance again. The czar, who appears to have recovered his health by the abatement of the conflict, under which he had suffered so much, in a walk by moonlight, detects a conspiracy against his person, and by papers found in the possession of the conspirators, discovers that his own son is implicated in their treasonable designs. The father confessor finding his plot unravelled, meditates his own security, by attempting the death of Alexis, practises on the superstitious terrors of Ksenia, and endeavours to persuade her to commit perjury by implicating Theodosius, the head of the reformed church, in the treasonable purposes of Alexis. He delivers to her a vial of poison to administer to her lover, and pronounces it a cordial. A court is convened to try the criminals, and the father confessor appears, and accuses Theodosius. He relies on the evidence of Ksenia, who makes a bold confession of the whole plot, and the consequence is, that Ksenia is doomed to suffer banishment, and the father confessor and Alexis, the penalty of death. The czar, when the warrant of execution is presented for his signature, is compelled to undergo all his former doubts, misgivings, his parental and monarchial struggles again. The health of Alexis has been all this time gradually declining. At last, he implores, and receives his father's forgiveness and benediction, and expires in his arms. We are happy to discover in this tragedy nothing of these overstrained efforts at pathos, that disgrace modern productions for the drama. The style is elevated, without bombast; chaste, without insipidity; and pathetic, without rant. The author has well preserved that delicate and difficult equability, by such felicitous selection of incident, accompanied by correspondent passions, sentiment and language, that awaken without alarming the sympathies of his

readers. The cold and persecuting malignity of the father confessor, is well contrasted with the reluctant guilt of Alexis; for the one, we feel vengeance; for the other, nothing but pity. The character of the czar, agitated by such conflicting passions, is well conceived, and happily maintained.

One observation intrudes itself upon us, and we notice it rather on account of its singularity, than its revelancy, that the character of Peter, emblazoned as it is in this tragedy, by dramatic embellishment, resembles man more accurately, than he does when he is the professed subject of the author's eulogy. We regard this as a proof of the justice of the principle avowed in the commencement of this review, that after the death of a character illustrious and transcendant, we form an apotheosis of those sensibilities excited by his great actions, and which stands for his substitute. In the drama this image is brought nearer to an alliance with man-it loses that abstract and intangible virtue it is endowed with, when it rises upon us in the full splendour of panegyric. We shall now take our leave of this respectable author, by quoting, as a specimen of his tragedy, the following passage.

PETER sleeping on a couch. Enter MENTZIKOFF, with ALEXIS; points in silence to the couch, and exit.

Alexis, in a low voice.

My heart misgives me, and impels me back;
I dare not seek a parent's couch; that couch
To which, in times past, I with joy repair'd:
"Tis my unworthiness, that checks me thus.
Repentance, balm of wounded conscience, come!
Come, filial piety, inspire me now

With courage!—I'll advance, with noiseless step.

[approaches the couch.

Ltremble still! yet, on his tranquil brow

[gazing on his father.

No brooding anger sits; his visage wan

Marks nature's recent strife, yet now seems cloudless,
Such as might well rejoice a virtuous son.
Disease retreating, on his cheeks impress'd
A langour visible, yet softly mellow'd

His manly features. Why then should I fear?

O guilt! thou necromancer, black and curs'd!
How quickly can thy magic wand transform
The fairest objects into hideous sights!
Pervert the lovely face of smiling nature;

And turn our joys, our hopes, our sweetest hours,
To grief, despair, and years of bitterness!

Hark! hark! he stirs! he speaks!

Peter, dreaming.

I see him not. Why should

Such visions mock me, when reality

Makes disappointment doubly keen! I'll sleep;
I'll close my eyes again, and court the vision,
Which, like a friend in need, with well-tim'd comfort
Gives me my son such as he was-the prop,
The hope, the joy, and solace of my days,
The object of my cares, increasing daily
Yet bringing with each hour some new delight.
I'll think but on the past-forget the present.
Forget! Impossible. [rises.] Well I remember,
I am a king and father, wrong'd in both.

[walks slowly forward.

It suits not my great station to indulge
My heart's desires at the expense of duty.
He that ascends the throne, resigns all claims
Of common man. He must inflict the blow,
Though it may crush himself: Must live for others,
And in self-sacrifice shew most his power.
Shall I now pause for an ungrateful son?

Let me not call him son! For this would shew

Him nearest to my heart, and so, most guilty.

I'll pluck the viper thence for ever! my curses-
Alexis, discovering himself.

Forbear, dread sire! Kill me, but curse me not!

Peter, much agitated.

[falls at his feet.

Avaunt, degen'rate wretch! whence cam'st thou? Hence!

Blast not my sight with thy ungracious form!

Alexis.

Inflict on me the sharpest misery!

Smite me in all the fullness of thy wrath!

Tread on me! crush me, as a venomous reptile!
Make me the theme of universal scorn,
A dreadful warning to unnatural children!
All this and more with patience I'll endure!
But oh! deny me not thy royal presence!

Let not the beams of thy most gracious countenance
Withdraw from me their soul-reviving light!

Peter.

Away! Hide thee in foreign climes! there seek
That comfort, which thou wouldst not taste at home!

Go, profligate! and to thy parent's arms

Prefer the cold embrace and cheerless fare,

The looks mistrustful, and reluctant hand

Of strangers, grown impatient of thy burthen.

Go! urge not rashly here thy fate! To see thee

Is to feel all th' excruciate pains renew'd,

With which thou'st pierc'd this heart. 'Tis to remember That justice stern, demands thee for its victim.

Alexis.

And willingly I yield me to its power.

To me the greatest pain is thy displeasure;
To this cold earth I'll cling, until in pity
She gives me refuge in the friendly grave—
Or I feel death no longer in thy frowns!
Here will I ceaseless still invoke the heavens,
The kinder stars, and all propitious powers,
To plead my cause before an injur'd father!
I ask not now to live; I ask to die

In peace with thee. I've sinn'd beyond forgiveness:
Yet, sire, reflect! scarcely a third has pass'd
Of that existence, which unworthily

I hold from thee. The greatest part remains.
Oh! were it sav'd, I'd hail it as the means

A short-liv'd disobedience to repay,

By a more lasting, more extended duty.

Peter, much moved.

Be still, thou lab'ring heart! Forego thy struggles!

Let juster passions still prevail o'er softer!

[aside.

Alexis, seizing his hand.

Avert not so thine eyes! Frown not, my father
Relent! relent! yield to the voice of nature!
Receive me to thy arms, and all my thoughts
Shall henceforth dwell in thee! my soul, reclaim'd,
Shall harbour nought, but thy respected image!
Be glorious in being conquer'd thus! Ah me!
I plead in vain. Once more then, ere my doom
Is fix'd, let me attend thy couch; let me

Be rooted there, in expectation mute,

Till sleep has charm'd away thy anger, till

Thy lips once more have bless'd me with the sound
Of thy not yet extinguish'd love!

Peter, quite overcome.

My son!

[sinks gently into ALEXIS' arms.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

THOUGHTS ON THE INFLUENCE OF COMETS.

In the present article, we purpose to submit to the consideration of our readers, a few thoughts on the influence of comets. The subject, we flatter ourselves, is sufficiently engaging to excite, at any time, a liberal share of attention and interest. We select the present, however, as an occasion peculiarly suitable, in consequence of the awakened condition of the public feelings. If the minds of our fellow citizens be organized like our own, the comet, which has just retired from our view into the bosom of space, has left them in a state of perfect preparation to accompany us in the inquiry, which we are about to commence.

It is not our intention to pursue this investigation to its full extent. For an undertaking so weighty, we possess neither leisure, materials, nor capacity. Where Newton failed, we have not the vanity to aim at, much less the presumption to hope for, success. We will not, therefore, even hazard a conjecture as to the general uses and ends of comets, in the great scheme of the universe. Nor will we swell our pages with unavailing hypothe