RIVAL ITALIAN DRAMATISTS.

The Venetian stage had long been in possession of Goldoni, a dramatic poet, who, by introducing bustle and show into his pieces, and writing principally to the level of the gondoliers, arrived to the first degree of popularity in Venice. He had a rival in Pietro Chiari, whom the best critics thought even inferior to Goldoni; but such an epidemic frenzy seized the Venetians in favour of these two authors, that it quickly spread to almost all parts of Italy, to the detriment of better authors, and the derangement of the public taste. This dramatic mania was arrested by Carlo Gozzi, a younger brother of a noble family, who attacked Goldoni and Chiari, and others soon followed him. On this occasion the two bards suspended their mutual animosity, and joined to oppose their adversaries. Chiari was a great prose scribbler, as well as a comedy-monger, so that a warm paper war was soon commenced, which grew hotter and hotter rapidly.

It happened one day that Gozzi met with Goldoni in a bookseller's shop. They exchanged sharp words, and in the heat of altercation Goldoni told Gozzi," that though it was an easy task to find fault with a play, it was very difficult to write one." Gozzi acknowledged "that to find fault with a play was really very easy, but that it was still easier to write such plays as would please so thoughtless a nation as the Venetians;" adding, with a tone of contempt, "that he had a good mind to make all Venice run to see the tale of the Three Oranges formed into a comedy." Goldoni, with some of his partisans in the shop, challenged Gozzi to do it; and the critic, thus piqued, engaged to produce such a comedy within a few weeks.

To this trifling and casual dispute Italy owed the greatest dramatic writer it ever had. Gozzi quickly wrote a comedy in five acts, entitled "I Tre Aranci," or "The Three Oranges;" formed out of an old woman's story with which the Venetian children are entertained by their nurses. The comedy was acted, and three-beautiful princesses, born of three enchanted oranges, made all Venice crowd to the theatre of St. Angelo.

In this play Goldoni and Chiari were not spared. Gozzi introduced in it many of their theatrical absurdities. The Venetian audiences, like the rest of the world, do not much relish the labour of finding out the truth; but once point it out, and they will instantly seize it.. This was

remarkable on the first night that the comedy of the “Three Oranges" was acted. The fickle Venetians, forgetting the loud acclamations with which they had received Goldoni's and Chiari's plays, laughed obstrepe. rously at them and their comedies, and bestowed frantic applause on Gozzi and the "Three Oranges.'

This success encouraged Gozzi to write more; and in a little time his plays so entirely changed the Venetian taste, that in about two seasons Goldoni was stripped of his theatrical honours, and poor Chiari annihilated. Goldoni quitted Italy, and went to France, where Voltaire's interest procured him the place of Italian master to one of the princesses at Versailles; and Chiari retired to a country house in the neighbourhood of Brescia.

NATURAL CURIOSITIES OF DERBYSHIRE.

EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF A TOURIST.

For the Table Book.

*

Buxton, May 27, 1827. `

I was so fortunate as to meet at the inn (the Shakspeare) at Buxton with two very agreeable companions, with whom I dined. The elder was a native of the place, and seemed well acquainted with all the natural curiosities at Buxton, and in the county of Derby. The name of the other was H-, of a highly respectable firm in London, sojourning at the Wells for the benefit of a sprained leg. He accompanied me on the following morning to visit an immense natural cavern, called Pool's Hole, from a freebooter of that name having once made it his place of abode. It is situated at the foot of a steep hill, the entrance low and narrow: it is 696 feet in length, penetrating into the bosom of the mountain, and varying in height from six to fifty or sixty feet. Our guides were two old women, who furnished us with lights. There is in it an incessant dripping of water, crystallizing as it falls, forming a great variety of grotesque and fanciful figures, more resembling inverted gothic pinnacles than any thing else I could ima gine: it was with great difficulty that we could break some fragments off; they are termed by naturalists stalactites. A scene so novel and imposing as the interior of this gloomy cave presented, with its huge blocks of rocks irregularly piled upon each other, their shapes but indistinctly visible

from the glare of the torches, was of that kind as to leave an indelible impression on my mind. It has many very large and curious recesses within; one of which is called Pool's chamber, another his closet, and a third his shelf. The continual falling of the water from the insterstices in the roof upon the rocks beneath, causes holes on them, which are not formed by the friction of the water itself, but by its gradual crystallization immediately around the spots whereon it drips. The utmost extent that can be reached by a human foot is called Mary Queen of Scot's Pillar; from that point it becomes dangerous and impassable. After dinner we made a short excursion along the banks of the river Wye, called Wye-dale; a walk, which from the grandeur of the scenery, and its novelty, (for I had never before seen any of the Peak scenery,) will be long imprinted in vivid colours on my recollection. In some parts the river flowed smoothly along, but in others its motion was rapid, impetuous, and turbulent: huge fragments of rock, disunited from the impending crags, divided the stream into innumerable eddies; the water bubbled and foamed around, forming miniature cataracts, and bestowing life and animation to the otherwise quiet scene. On either side, the rocks rose to a great height in every diversity of shape; some spiral, or like the shattered walls or decayed bastions of ruined or demolished fortresses; others bluff, or like the towers of citadels; all covered with a variety of coarse vegetation, among which the stunted yew was the most conspicuous; its dark foliage hanging over the projecting eminences, gave an expressive character to surrounding objects. A few water-mills, built of rough unhewn limestone, presented themselves as we followed the windings of the stream, having a deserted and silent appearance.

It appeared to me probable, that the now insignificant little stream was, in by-gone distant ages, a mighty river; the great depth of the valley, excavated through the rocks, could scarcely have been caused but by the irresistible force of water. The lesser vales diverging from it in some parts, favour the conjecture that they had been formerly some of its tributary streams: in-one of these, which we had the curiosity to ascend, we observed a small rill. After a slippery ascent on the rough stones of which its bed was formed, we reached a mineral spring, issuing from a fissure in the rock, and depositing a greenish copperas-like sediment at the bottom; we found some beautiful specimens of mosses and lichens.

I inquired of a passing peasant what fish the Wye could boast of. "Wee (Wye) fish to be sure," said he: by which I understood him to mean, that there was in it only one species of the finny race of any consequence, and that trout.

It was late before we gained our inn; we had walked upwards of six miles in that deep and romantic dale.

28th. This morning I enjoyed a beautiful ride to Tideswell, along the banks of the Wye, about seven miles. The road wound up the sides of lofty hills, in some parts commanding views of the river flowing in the vale beneath; not so high however, but that the murmur of its waters, mellowed by the distance, might be heard by the traveller. Tideswell possesses a handsome church; from the steeple arise four gothic spires.

29th. Went forward to Castleton, down the hills called the Wynyats, by the Sparrow Pit mountain; the ride took me over some of the wild and barren hills which surround Buxton on every side. The immediate descent to Castleton is from a steep mountain more than a mile in length, and is only to be effected by a road formed in a zigzag direction. A fine view of the rich vale beneath presents itself from this road, having the appearance of a vast amphitheatre, for nothing is to be seen on any side but mountains; it is of great fertility. The most remarkable mountain is MamTor; its height is 1301 feet. One of them I learnt was called the "Shivering" Mountain; the reason for which being, that after severe frosts, or in heavy gales, large quantities of earth separate from one side of it, which is nearly perpendicular. At the foot of Mam-Tor there is a lead mine, called Odin; from whence is procured the famous fluor spar, of which so many articles of utility and ornament are made. Castleton is by no means a handsome town; it has narrow dirty streets, and a deplorably rough pavement. The objects worthy of notice near it are, a celebrated cavern, called Peak's Hole, and a venerable ruined castle, situated on the rock immediately above it. It was built by William Peveril, to whom the manor of Castleton was granted by William the Conqueror.

On the path leading to the cavern, a streamlet is followed, which issues from that extraordinary wonder of nature; the approach is grand and striking; the perpendicular cliffs above are solemnly majestic-their height is about 250 feet. The arch of the first and largest chamber in this cavern is stupendously broad in its span.

The top of the mountain along the edges is fringed with a number of fine elms, wherein there is perched a rookery, a singular situation of the noisy tribe: lower down are innumerable jackdaws, which build in the ledges of the rocks.

The span of the grand arch is 180 feet; the length of the first cave 220 feet. A number of labourers in it are employed at rope walks, making twine, &c. From the roof hang immense spiral masses of petrified water, or stalactites. The entrance to the interior is through a small door at the further end the visiter is there directed to stop and gaze at the arch of the first cavern; this is a most striking object; the very livid colour of the light admitted, with the bluish-white reflection upon the surrounding rocks, reminded me forcibly of the descriptions of the infernal regions by Virgil, Milton, and other poets. Torches are here put into your hands: the passage is narrow and low, and you reach an immense hollow above you in the roof, called the Bell House, from its resemblance to that form; the same stream is then seen which was followed on your approach; on it is a small shallop. I was directed to extend myself along its bottom with the guide, on account of the rock being in this place but fourteen inches from the surface of the water, which in depth is only four feet. I was then landed in a cavern more stupendous than the first; the whole of it was surrounded with a number of rugged rocks of limestone, which seemed to have been tossed and heaped together by some violent convulsion of nature, or by the impetuosity of the water that swells to a great height after heavy and continued rains. This is called Pluto's Hall; and when a distant gallery, formed by a ledge of rocks, was illumined by the light of some dozen of candles, the effect was the most imposing of the kind I ever witnessed. There is a continual dropping of water; and after passing a ford, I reached what is called

66

Roger Rain's" House, from its always dripping there. A little further on is a place called the Devil's Wine Cellar, from which is a descent of 150 feet; it becomes terrific in the extreme: immense arches throw their gloomy and gigantic spans above; and the abyss on one side, which it is impossible for the vision to penetrate to the bottom, adds to the intensity of the horror. This wonderful subterraneous mansion is 2250 feet in length.

30th. At Bakewell, one of the pleasantest of the small towns in England, there is an excellent hotel, called the Rut

land Arms, belonging to the Rutland family, and under its patronage. The church is situated on a rising ground. There is a neat stone bridge over the river Wye, and the silvery stream winds the adjoining vale. The view from the church-yard is enchanting. The two rivers, the Wye and Derwent, form a junction at some little distance, and beyond are wood-tufted hills sloping their gentle elevations. Haddon Hall, one of the finest and most perfect of the ancient baronial residences in the kingdom, is seen embosomed in the deep woods.

Bakewell is celebrated as a fishing station. The fine estates of the Devonshire and Rutland families join near it.

In the church-yard I copied, from the tomb of one who had been rather a licentious personage, the following curious

Epitaph.

"Know posterity, that on the 8th of April, 1737, the rambling remains of John Dale were, in the 86th year of his age, laid upon his two wives.

"This thing in life might raise some jealousy,
Here all three lie together lovingly;
But from embraces here no pleasure flows,
Alike are here all human joys and woes.
Here Sarah's chiding John no longer hears,
And old John's rambling, Sarah no more fears;
A period's come to all their toilsome lives,
The good man's quiet-still are both his wives."

For the Table Book.

A DIALOGUE

BETWEEN VIRTUE AND DEATH,

ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES PEMBERTON, KNIGHT, WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE THE 8TH OF SEPTEMBER, 1613.

He was lord mayor of London in the reign of James I., and was a great benefactor to several charities.

Vertue. What Vertue challengeth, is but her right. Death. What Death layes claime to who can contradict?

Ver. Vertue, whose power exceeds all other might. Dea. Wher's Vertue's power when Death makes all submit?

Ver. I gave him life and therefore he is mine.
Dea. That life he held no longer than I list.
Ver. I made him more than mortall, neere diuine;
Dea. How hapt he could not then Death's stroke
resist?

Ver. Because (by nature) all are born to dye.
Dea. Then thyne own tongue yeelds Death the vic-
tory.

Ver. No, Death, thou art deceiued, thy enuions stroke

Hath giuen him life immortal 'gainst thy will: Dea. What life can be, but vanished as smoake? Ver. A life that all thy darts can never kill. Dea. Haue I not locked his body in my graue? Ver. That was but dust, and that I pray thee keepe. Dea. That is as much as I desire to haue,

His comely shape in my eternal sleepe. Ver. But wher's his honorable life, renowne, and fame ?

Dea. They are but breath, them I resign to thee.
Ver. Them I most couet.

PETER HERVE.

To the Editor.

Sir,- Having had the happiness and honour of holding correspondence with that most benevolent man, Mr. Peter Hervé, whose death I deeply deplore, I shall feel myself relieved from a debt due to his me mory, if you will allow me, through the medium of your valuable publication, to express my hope that he was not, in the time of need, forgotten by that society of which he was the honoured founder. His last letter told me he was ill and in distress; and had been advised to try the air of the south of France, with scarcely any means of pursuing his journey but by the sale of his drawings. My own inability to serve him made me hesitate; and I am shocked to say, his letter was not answered. I am sorry, but repentance will not come too late, if this hint will have any weight towards procuring for his amiable widow, from that admirable institution, a genteel, if not an ample independence: for certain I am, that he could not have made choice of any one who had not a heart generous as his own.

I am, &c.

wept but little for Sarah, probably because she was old." They prove this by producing the letter "Caph," which being a remarkably small letter, and being made use of in the Hebrew word which describes Abraham's tears, evinces, they affirm, that his grief also was small.