the Ratnávalí, the same; in the Málati and Mádhava, a few days; and in the Uttara-Rama-Charitra, though the time of each act is that of its representation, an interval of twelve years occurs between the first act and the remainder of the play. The violations of the temporal unity in the Chinese drama are much greater, and that for a special reason. Here didactic purposes have made the dramatist peculiarly fond of historical personages and events; and it is almost needless to say that wherever any form of the historical drama, religious or secular, has prevailed, the temporal unity has been neglected. Thus, in Ho-han-chan, eighteen years elapse between the second and third acts, the unborn infant of the former haying become the young hunter, Tchin-pao, of the latter; in Ho-lang-tan, the third act opens with the words of Youan-yen, "Alas, the days and months glide away with the speed of the arrow," for thirteen years have elapsed since the purchase of the child formally detailed in the second act; and, in Teou-ngo-youen, the father of Teou-ngo says, "'Tis now full sixteen years since I left my daughter"—the event dramatised in the first act. Far from any apologies such as the chorus in Winter's Tale and in Henry V. offers, the Chinese dramatist does not even see the need of always recollecting the lapse of time. In Ho-han-chan, for example, when the old couple are again brought upon the stage (Act. III. sc. vi.), eighteen years have not accustomed them to beggars' habits. Tchang-i is still lamenting his losses as if they had happened but yesterday; both he and his wife are still mendicants fresh at the trade, feeling bitterly "the disgrace of asking alms in the street;" nay, even the snow-flakes are still falling and the winds still roaring as on the dismal day of the conflagration in which he lost his wealth.
Unity of place is equally disregarded by Indian and
