THE MIRROR OF TASTE, AND

DRAMATIC CENSOR. 

Vol. I. MAY, 1810. No. 5. 

HISTORY OF THE STAGE. 

CHAPTER V. 

_Conclusion of the Greek Drama. _

MENANDER. 

Menander, as has been said in the last chapter, once more rescued thestage of Greece from barbarism. In the death of Aristophanes wasinvolved the death of "the middle comedy, " which rapidly declined in thehands of his insufficient successors. The poets and wits that came afterhim, wanted either the talents, the malignity, or the courage to followhis example, to imitate him in his daring personalities, or to adopt hismerciless satyrical style. They followed his steps, only in his feeble, pitiful paths, and contented themselves with writing contemptiblebuffoon caricature parodies of the writings of the greatest men. The newcomedy never could have raised its head, had the middle comedy continuedto be supported by a succession of such wits as Aristophanes, with newsupplies of envenomed personal satire. Fortunately, however, the stagewas pretty well cleared of that pernicious kind of writing when_Menander_, the amiable and the refined, came forth and claimed the bay. 

This celebrated writer, who justly obtained the appellation of "princeof the new comedy, " was a native of Athens, and was born three hundredand forty-five years before the birth of Christ. He was educated underthe illustrious Theophrastus, from whom he learned philosophy andcomposition. While a brilliant genius directed him to comic poetry, hisnatural delicacy, his refined taste, his moral rectitude, and truephilosophy controlled his fancy, imparted to his comedies a charmunknown before, and obtained for them the suffrage of the mostenlightened, witty, and judicious men of his age, though for the samereason they were, as Hamlet says, caviere to the multitude, and neverdid please the corrupted and malicious multitude of Athens. With a witas brilliant and acute as that of Aristophanes, and perhaps as capableof vitious coarseness and ribaldry, he kept it in correction, andscorned to disgrace his compositions with illiberal personal aspersions, or indecent, obscene, or satirical reflections; but endeavoured to makehis comedies pictures of real life, replete with refined usefulinstruction, and sagacious observation, conveyed through the medium ofnatural elegant dialogue. His writings, though they did not draw theregards of the million with such irresistible and congenial attractionas those of Aristophanes, had the power in some measure to rescue comedyfrom the unbridled licentiousness and profligacy which, for fifty yearsbefore, had rendered it a public nuisance. The multitude, however, hecould not, during his lifetime reclaim; for a miserable cotemporary ofhis, named Philemon, a coarse writer of broad farce, who afterwards diedof a fit of laughter at seeing a jackass eat figs, continued byintrigues and his natural influence with the mob, to carry away someprizes from him; though he was so mean and contemptible a poet that hisvery name would have been forgotten, and long since sunk in eternaloblivion, if it had not been buoyed up by the simple fact of hisentering the lists against Menander. 

The honours which his corrupted countrymen denied him were conferredupon Menander by strangers; for we are informed by Pliny that the kingof Egypt, and the king of Macedon, as a proof of their respect, andadmiration of his rare qualities, sent ambassadors to invite him totheir courts; and, not contented with that compliment, sent fleets toconvey him: such was the fame accompanied with which his unexampledendowments, spread his name over the remotest nations of the east. Whether it was from local attachment to his native land, or from soundphilosophical wisdom and disregard of such temptations, he declinedthose honours, cannot now be known, though the fact is beyond doubt thathe never would leave Attica. It is, however, an honourable testimony ofthe perfect indifference with which he bore the stupid and unjustpreference given by the Athenians to his contemptible rival. It was saidthat he drowned himself in consequence of Philemon's victory: but thisreport has never been credited, being at variance with all the accountsgiven by the best authorities, who, on the contrary, relate that so farfrom being affected at the success of the other, the only notice he evertook of it was, once to ask the victor, "Philemon! do you not blush towear that laurel?"

Of the incomparable merit of this great man, the principal evidence nowexisting is the unanimous praise of some of the greatest men ofantiquity, since of one hundred and eight comedies which he wrote, nothing but a few fragments remain in their original state. How much theworld ought to deplore the loss of those valuable compositions may becollected from the admiration in which they were held by the Romans, who, as we are assured by the ancients, maintained that their favouriteTERENCE was very much inferior to Menander. Terence borrowed six or atleast four of his plays from this admirable Greek poet, and those thoughnow considered excellent are allowed by his countrymen to have lost muchof the spirit of the great originals. 

It cannot be doubted that he possessed to an astonishing fulness thetalent so little known in the ancient world, and which has exalted ourShakspeare in lofty preeminence above the rest of mankind, of portrayingnature in every condition of human life. We have heard of, andfrequently read many terse and witty compliments to the genius ofShakspeare, on account of his intimacy with nature; but we know of nonesuperior to that paid to Menander by the great Byzantian grammarianAristophanes, who, on reading his comedies exclaimed in an ecstasy, "OMENANDER! O NATURE! WHICH OF YOU HAVE COPIED THE WORKS OF THE OTHER?"Ovid held him in no less admiration; and Plutarch has been lavish in hispraise: the old rhetoricians recommend his works as the true and perfectpatterns of every thing beautiful and graceful in public speaking. Quintilian advises an orator to seek in Menander for copiousness ofinvention, for elegance of expression, and all that universal geniuswhich is able to accommodate itself to persons, things, and affections:but that which appears to us more decisive than any other eulogybestowed upon him, is the opinion of Cæsar, who, praising his favouriteTerence, calls him a half-Menander, thereby leaving upon record histestimony that Menander had twice the merit of the greatest comic poetof Rome. 

Such was the poet from whom the mob of Athens snatched the laurel tobestow it upon a mean and execrable scribbler, and to one hundred ofwhose comedies the prize was denied, while only eight of them wererewarded with it. 

From the death of Menander which happened in his fifty-second year, nota dramatic poet arose, nor a circumstance occurred relating to the artin Greece, worthy of commemoration: here, therefore, history drops thedramatic poetry of that country, till in a future page the merits of theancient and modern drama come to be viewed in comparison with eachother, and proceeds to commemorate some of the Grecian actors. 

"Poetry, " says a celebrated French writer, "has almost always been priorto every other kind of learning, which is undoubtedly owing to its beingthe produce of sentiment and fancy, two faculties of the mind alwaysemployed before reason. Sensible minds are led by a kind of instinct tosing their pleasures, their happiness, the gods whom they adore, theheroes they admire, and the events they wish to have engraven on theirmemories; accordingly poetry has been cultivated in all savage nations. The warmth of the passions has been of great use in promoting thisdelightful art. " It is not to be wondered at, then, that the Athenians, who, to use the words of the same writer, possessed a livelyimagination, great fertility of genius, a rich harmonious language, andeminent abilities excited by the most ardent emulation, should beextravagantly fond of poetry, and no less partial to those who displayeda vigorous spirit of emulation in that art, and an ambition to excel inany of the employments that served to illustrate or give it effect. Forthese reasons they systematically honoured not only dramatic poets butactors. 

How much the important concerns of mankind are swayed and pre-influencedby manners and habits is strongly illustrated in the discrepance whichmaintained between the taste, the amusements, and opinions of the livelyAthenians, and those of the austere and exact people of Sparta, thoughthey were in fact one people. In their amusements, and partly in theirtaste for literature, they differed essentially. The Athenians lovedpoetry and music; while the Spartans, whose schemes were founded onutility alone, rather rejected them as superfluous. Poets and musicians, however, who confined themselves to sober and simple subjects, and tograve and dignified expression, were not without admirers and supportersin the latter: and when the Spartans destroyed and sacked the city ofThebes, they spared the house that had been inhabited by PINDAR, inrespect to that great poet's memory. TERPANDER too, a lyric poet andmusician is related by Ælian to have appeased a tumult at Sparta by thesweetness of his notes and the fire of his poetry. They would not, however, endure either poetry or music which did not breathe exaltedsentiment, and produce a beneficial impression on the mind. 

On the subject of dramatic poetry and its adjuncts, theatres and actors, the Spartans differed as essentially from the Athenians, as thepuritans, methodists, quakers, and rigid presbyterians differ from theamateurs of the present day. During a reign of thirty-six years, AGESILAUS who held the drama in contempt, discouraged and kept theactors in depression. This extreme austerity prevailed through all ranksof the rigid Lacedemonian people, who indeed carried it to a lengthequally absurd and cruel; for they punished with great severity a famouspoet and musician, for adding three strings to the harp; grounding theirsentence upon a principle universally assented to among them, that thesoftness of musical sounds produced effeminacy among the people. Of thetruth of their proposition in the abstract, there can be little doubt;it is in the rigid application and extreme extension of it the faultlies. Music has certainly a powerful influence on the passions, andproduces happy effects upon the human heart and mind when cultivatedmoderately: but when it becomes the general prevailing passion of anation, or, as it were, gets dominion over them, it unquestionablyproduces not effeminacy merely, but a hateful depravity of manners. Whether the unexampled depravation of the modern Italians has beencaused by their passionate devotion to music, or their passionatedevotion to music by their monstrous depravity shall not be discussed inthis place. But the closeness of the connexion between the two things, no matter which may be the cause or which the effect, will serve as anillustration of the subject. 

It is related that once, when Callipedes a celebrated tragedian, offeredhis homage to Agesilaus, and for some time received no notice in return, he said to the king, "Do you not know me, sir?" To which the kingreplied, "You are Callipedes, the actor, " and turned from him withcontempt. This harshness and severity extended even to the slaves of theSpartans, some of whom, being taken prisoners of war by the Thebans, andordered to sing the odes of _Terpander_ for their captors, peremptorilyrefused to comply, because it was forbidden them by their old masters. 

In all Greece, however, Sparta stands a solitary instance of thisausterity; for the drama, poetry, and music were enthusiasticallycultivated in Athens, and even in every country into which the Grecianspenetrated. Players became in many instances the confidential friends, counsellors, and ministers of kings themselves; and Alexander the Greatsent Thessalus, an actor, as an ambassador to Pexodorus, the Persiangovernor of Caria, to forbid a marriage intended by the governor betweenhis daughter and Aridoeus, an illegitimate son of the late kingPhilip. The proofs which that mighty conqueror has left on record of hispartiality to celebrated professors of the histrionic art, are no lessextraordinary than numerous, and in some instances, do no great creditto his judgment. Every general in his camp had along with him his poets, musicians, and declaimers. One time Alexander's favourite, Hephestion, accommodated his musician named Evius, with the quarters which belongedof right to EUMENES, the most worthy and renowned of all the Greciangenerals. Eumenes boldly remonstrated, and told Alexander that heplainly saw the best way to acquire promotion in his army would be tothrow away arms, and learn to play upon the flute or turn actor. 

At a contest of skill between Thessalus, Alexander's favourite actor, and another of the name of Athenodorus, the king, though in his heartdeeply interested for the success of Thessalus, would not say a word inhis favour, lest it should bias the judges, who actually proclaimedAthenodorus victor: the hero then exclaimed that the judges deservedcommendation for what they had done, but that he would have given halfhis kingdom rather than see Thessalus overcome. This was certainly astriking instance of magnanimity. How unprejudiced and generous thatgreat man's mind was may be collected from a subsequent act of his in acase that concerned that very Athenodorus. That performer being heavilyfined by the Athenians for not appearing on the stage at the feast ofBacchus implored Alexander to intercede for him; the just and munificentmonarch, however, refused to write in his favour, but, in order torelieve the man, paid the fine for him. 

In Greece, declamation was regarded as the principal step to honour andadvancement in public life. The greatest men practised it, and as theyheld action to be the criterion of oratory, made the best actors theirmodels; nor was this a groundless opinion adopted by a few orsuperficial men; for Demosthenes having remarked with some asperity thatthe worst orators were heard in the rostrum in preference to him, thecelebrated actor SATYRUS, in order to show him how much grace, dignity, and action add to the celebrity of a public man, repeated to him severalpassages from Sophocles and Euripides, which so delighted and astonishedDemosthenes that he always afterwards formed his elocution and action onthe models of the most celebrated actors. 

Having brought the history of the stage to the end of the Greek theatre, this chapter cannot be better concluded than with an extract from anadmirable work lately published on the subject in England, to which thishistory is indebted for some of its materials. 

"It remains now only to say, that from the parodies of the ancientwriters, begun by Aristophanes, and awkwardly imitated by hiscontemporaries and successors, sprung mimes, farces, and the grossestbuffoonery; and though the Grecian theatre still kept up an appearanceof greatness, and there was often some brilliancy beamed across theheterogeneous mass which obscured truth and nature, to which the peoplewere no longer sensible; yet the grandeur and magnificence of publicexhibitions decreased; till, at length the fate of the stage too trulyforetold the fate of the empire. So certain it is that where the artsare redundant they introduce luxury, and sap the foundation of astate. "

BIOGRAPHY. 

For those readers who love biography, the editors of The Mirror haveselected one of the most interesting memoirs to be found in the richtreasury of British literature. As a simple, yet animated picture ofnatural genius, forcing its way through the impediments which waylayearly poverty, and breaking forth like the sun in meridian splendorafter a morning of tempest, clouds, and darkness, it will be a fitcompanion for that of Hodgkinson. As a piece of composition, it isperhaps the very finest specimen to be found in any language of theunaffected, unadorned modest style that becomes a biographer, andparticularly a writer of his own life. 

This memoir first appeared prefixed to that author's translation ofJuvenal. 

LIFE OF WILLIAM GIFFORD, ESQ. AUTHOR OF THE BAEVIAD AND MAEVIAD, ANDTRANSLATOR OF JUVENAL. 

I am about to enter on a very uninteresting subject; but all my friendstell me that it is necessary to account for the long delay of thefollowing work; and I can only do it by adverting to the circumstancesof my life. Will this be accepted as an apology?

I know but little of my family, and that little is not very precise. Mygreat-grandfather (the most remote of it, that I ever recollect to haveheard mentioned) possessed considerable property at Halsworthy, a parishin the neighbourhood of Ashburton; but whether acquired or inherited, Inever thought of asking, and do not know. 

He was probably a native of Devonshire, for there he spent the lastyears of his life; spent them too, in some sort of consideration, forMr. T. A very respectable surgeon of Ashburton, loved to repeat to me, when I first grew into notice, that he had frequently hunted with hishounds. 

My grandfather was on ill terms with him: I believe not withoutsufficient reason, for he was extravagant and dissipated. My fathernever mentioned his name, but my mother would sometimes tell me that hehad ruined the family. That he spent much I know; but I am inclined tothink that his undutiful conduct occasioned my great-grandfather tobequeath a part of his property from him. 

My father, I fear, revenged in some measure the cause of mygreat-grandfather. He was, as I have heard my mother say, "a very wildyoung man, who could be kept to nothing. " He was sent to thegrammar-school at Exeter; from which he made his escape, and entered onboard a man of war. He was soon reclaimed from this situation by mygrandfather, and left his school, a second time, to wander in somevagabond society. [A] He was now probably given up, for he was, on hisreturn from this notable adventure, reduced to article himself to aplumber and glazier, with whom he luckily staid long enough to learn thebusiness. I suppose his father was now dead, for he became possessed oftwo small estates, married my mother, [B] the daughter of a carpenter atAshburton, and thought himself rich enough to set up for himself; whichhe did with some credit, at South Molton. Why he chose to fix there, Inever inquired; but I learned from my mother, that after a residence offour or five years he was again thoughtless enough to engage in adangerous frolic, which drove him once more to sea. This was an attemptto excite a riot in a methodist chapel; for which his companions wereprosecuted, and he fled, as I have mentioned. 

My father was a good seaman, and was soon made second in command in theLyon, a large armed transport in the service of government: while mymother (then with child of me) returned to her native place, Ashburton, where I was born, in April, 1757. 

The resources of my mother were very scanty. They arose from the rent ofthree or four small fields, which yet remained unsold. With these, however, she did what she could for me; and as soon as I was old enoughto be trusted out of her sight, sent me to a school-mistress of thename of Parret, from whom I learned in due time to read. I cannot boastmuch of my acquisitions at this school; they consisted merely of thecontents of the "Child's Spelling Book;" but from my mother, who hadstored up the literature of a country town, which about half a centuryago, amounted to little more than what was disseminated by itinerantballad-singers, or rather, readers, I had acquired much curiousknowledge of Catskin, and the Golden Bull, and the Bloody Gardener, andmany other histories equally instructive and amusing. 

My father returned from sea in 1764. He had been at the siege of theHavanna; and though he received more than a hundred pounds for prizemoney, and his wages were considerable; yet, as he had not acquired anystrict habits of economy, he brought home but a trifling sum. The littleproperty yet left was therefore turned into money; a trifle more was gotby agreeing to renounce all future pretensions to an estate atTotness;[C] and with this my father set up a second time as a glazierand house-painter. I was now about eight years old, and was put to thefree-school, kept by Hugh Smerdon, to learn to read and write, andcypher. Here I continued about three years, making a most wretchedprogress, when my father fell sick and died. He had not acquired wisdomfrom his misfortunes, but continued wasting his time in unprofitablepursuits, to the great detriment of his business. He loved drink for thesake of society, and to this love he fell a martyr; dying of a decayedand ruined constitution before he was forty. The town's people thoughthim a shrewd and sensible man, and regretted his death. As for me, Inever greatly loved him; I had not grown up with him; and he was tooprone to repulse my little advances to familiarity, with coldness, oranger. He had certainly some reason to be displeased with me, for Ilearned little at school, and nothing at home, though he would now andthen attempt to give me some insight into the business. As impressionsof any kind are not very strong at the age of eleven or twelve, I didnot long feel his loss; nor was it a subject of much sorrow to me, thatmy mother was doubtful of her ability to continue me at school, though Ihad by this time acquired a love for reading. 

I never knew in what circumstances my mother was left; most probablythey were inadequate to her support, without some kind of exertion, especially as she was now burthened with a second child, about six oreight months old. Unfortunately she determined to prosecute my father'sbusiness; for which purpose she engaged a couple of journeymen, who, finding her ignorant of every part of it, wasted her property, andembezzled her money. What the consequence of this double fraud wouldhave been, there was no opportunity of knowing, as, in somewhat lessthan a twelvemonth, my poor mother followed my father to the grave. Shewas an excellent woman, bore my father's infirmities with patience andgood humour, loved her children dearly, and died at last, exhausted withanxiety and grief more on their account than on her own. 

I was not quite thirteen when this happened; my little brother washardly two; and we had not a relation nor a friend in the world. Everything that was left was seized by a person of the name of C----, formoney advanced to my mother. It may be supposed that I could not disputethe justice of his claims; and as no one else interfered, he wassuffered to do as he liked. My little brother was sent to thealms-house, whither his nurse followed him out of pure affection; and Iwas taken to the house of the person I have just mentioned, who was alsomy godfather. Respect for the opinion of the town, which, whethercorrect or not, was, that he had repaid himself by the sale of mymother's effects, induced him to send me again to school, where I wasmore diligent than before, and more successful. I grew fond ofarithmetic, and my master began to distinguish me: but these golden dayswere over in less than three months. C----sickened at the expense; and, as the people were now indifferent to my fate, he looked round for anopportunity of ridding himself of a useless charge. He had previouslyattempted to engage me in the drudgery of husbandry. I drove the ploughfor one day to gratify him, but I left it with a firm resolution to doso no more, and in despite of his threats and promises, adhered to mydetermination. In this I was guided no less by necessity than will. During my father's life, in attempting to clamber up a table I hadfallen backward, and drawn it after me: its edge fell upon my breast, and I never recovered the effects of the blow; of which I was madeextremely sensible on any extraordinary exertion. Ploughing, therefore, was out of the question, and, as I have already said, I utterly refusedto follow it. 

As I could write and cypher, as the phrase is, C----next thought ofsending me to Newfoundland, to assist in a store-house. For this purposehe negotiated with a Mr. Holdsworthy of Dartmouth, who agreed to fit meout. I left Ashburton with little expectation of seeing it again, andindeed with little care, and rode with my godfather to the dwelling ofMr. Holdsworthy. On seeing me, this great man observed with a look ofpity and contempt, that I was "too small, " and sent me away sufficientlymortified. I expected to be very ill received by my godfather, but hesaid nothing. He did not, however, choose to take me back himself, butsent me in the passage-boat to Totness, whence I was to walk home. Onthe passage, the boat was driven by a midnight storm on the rocks, and Iescaped with life almost by a miracle. 

My godfather had now humbler views for me, and I had little heart toresist any thing. He proposed to send me on board one of the Torbayfishing boats; I ventured, however, to remonstrate against this, and thematter was compromised by my consenting to go on board a coaster. Acoaster was speedily found for me at Brixham, and thither I went whenlittle more than thirteen. 

My master, whose name was Full, though a gross and ignorant, was not anill natured man; at least not to me: and my mistress used me withunvarying kindness; moved perhaps by my weakness and tender years. Inreturn, I did what I could to requite her, and my good will was notoverlooked. 

Our vessel was not very large, nor our crew very numerous. On ordinaryoccasions, such as short trips, to Dartmouth, Plymouth, &c. It consistedonly of my master, an apprentice nearly out of his time, and myself:when we had to go further, to Portsmouth for example, an additional handwas hired for the voyage. 

In this vessel, the Two Brothers, I continued nearly a twelvemonth; andhere I got acquainted with nautical terms, and contracted a love for thesea, which a lapse of thirty years has but little diminished. 

It will easily be conceived that my life was a life of hardship. I wasnot only a "ship-boy on the high and giddy mast, " but also in the cabin, where every menial office fell to my lot: yet if I was restless anddiscontented, I can safely say, it was not so much on account of this, as of my being precluded from all possibility of reading; as my masterdid not possess, nor do I recollect seeing during the whole time of myabode with him, a single book of any description except the CoastingPilot. 

As my lot seemed to be cast, however, I was not negligent in seekingsuch information as promised to be useful; and I therefore frequented, at my leisure hours, such vessels as dropt into Torbay. On attempting toget on board one of these, which I did at midnight, I missed my footing, and fell into the sea. The floating away of the boat alarmed the man ondeck, who came to the ship's side just in time to see me sink. Heimmediately threw out several ropes, one of which providentially (for Iwas unconscious of it) entangled itself about me, and I was drawn up tothe surface, till a boat could be got round. The usual methods weretaken to recover me, and I awoke in bed the next morning, rememberingnothing but the horror I felt when I first found myself unable to cryout for assistance. 

This was not my only escape, but I forbear to speak of them. An escapeof another kind was now preparing for me, which deserves all my notice, as it was decisive of my future fate. 

On Christmas day, 1770, I was surprised by a message from my godfather, saying that he had sent a man and horse to bring me to Ashburton; anddesiring me to set out without delay. My master as well as myself, supposed it was to spend the holydays there; and he, therefore, made noobjection to my going. We were, however, both mistaken. 

Since I had lived at Brixham, I had broken off all connexion withAshburton. I had no relation there but my poor brother, [D] who was yettoo young for any kind of correspondence: and the conduct of mygodfather towards me did not entitle him to any portion of my gratitude, or kind remembrance. I lived, therefore, in a sort of sullenindependence on all I had formerly known, and thought without regret, ofbeing abandoned by every one to my fate. But I had not been overlooked. The women of Brixham, who travelled to Ashburton twice a week with fish, and who had known my parents, did not see me without kind concern, running about the beach in ragged jacket and trowsers. They mentionedthis to the people of Ashburton, and never without commiserating mychange of condition. This tale often repeated, awakened at length thepity of their auditors, and, as the next step, their resentment againstthe man who had reduced me to such a state of wretchedness. In a largetown, this would have little effect, but a place like Ashburton, whereevery report speedily becomes the common property of all theinhabitants, it raised a murmur which my godfather found himself eitherunable or unwilling to withstand: he therefore determined, as I havejust observed, to recall me; which he could easily do, as I wanted somemonths of fourteen, and consequently was not yet bound. 

All this I learned on my arrival; and my heart, which had been cruellyshut up, now opened to kinder sentiments, and fairer views. 

After the holydays I returned to my darling pursuit, arithmetic: myprogress was now so rapid, that in a few months I was at the head of theschool, and qualified to assist my master (Mr. E. Furlong) on anyextraordinary emergency. As he usually gave me a trifle on thoseoccasions, it raised a thought in me, that by engaging with him as aregular assistant, and undertaking the instruction of a few eveningscholars, I might, with a little additional aid, be enabled to supportmyself. God knows, my ideas of support at this time, were of no veryextravagant nature. I had, besides, another object in view. Mr. HughSmerdon, my first master, was now grown old and infirm; it seemedunlikely that he should hold out above three or four years; and I fondlyflattered myself that, notwithstanding my youth, I might possibly beappointed to succeed him. I was in my fifteenth year, when I built thesecastles: a storm, however, was collecting, which unexpectedly burst uponme, and swept them all away. 

On mentioning my little plan to C----, he treated it with the utmostcontempt; and told me, in his turn, that as I had learned enough, andmore than enough, at school, he must be considered as having fairlydischarged his duty (so indeed he had); he added, that he had beennegotiating with his cousin, a shoemaker of some respectability; who hadliberally agreed to take me without a fee, as an apprentice. I was soshocked at this intelligence, that I did not remonstrate; but went insullenness and silence to my new master, to whom I was soon afterbound[E] till I should attain the age of twenty-one. 

The family consisted of four journeymen, two sons about my own age, andan apprentice somewhat older. In these there was nothing remarkable; butmy master himself was the strangest creature! he was a presbyterian, whose reading was entirely confined to the small tracts published on theExeter Controversy. As these (at least his portion of them) were all onone side, he entertained no doubt of their infallibility, and beingnoisy and disputatious, was sure to silence his opponents; and became, in consequence of it, intolerably arrogant and conceited. He was not, however, indebted solely to his knowledge of the subject for histriumph: he was possessed of Fenning's Dictionary, and he made a mostsingular use of it. His custom was to fix on any word in common use, andthen to get by heart the synonym, or periphrasis by which it wasexplained in the book: this he constantly substituted for the other, andas his opponents were commonly ignorant of his meaning, his victory wascomplete. 

With such a man I was not likely to add much to my stock of knowledge, small as it was; and indeed nothing could well be smaller. At thisperiod I had read nothing but a black letter romance called Parismus andParismenus, and a few loose magazines which my mother had brought fromSouth Molton. The Bible, indeed, I was well acquainted with; it was thefavourite study of my grandmother, and reading it frequently with her, had impressed it strongly on my mind; these then, with the Imitation ofThomas à Kempis, which I used to read to my mother on her death-bed, constituted the whole of my literary acquisitions. 

As I hated my new profession with a perfect hatred, I made no progressin it; and was consequently little regarded in the family, of which Isunk by degrees into the common drudge: this did not much disquiet me, for my spirits were now humbled. I did not, however, quite resign thehope of one day succeeding to Mr. Hugh Smerdon, and therefore secretlyprosecuted my favourite study at every interval of leisure. 

These intervals were not very frequent; and when the use I made of themwas found out, they were rendered still less so. I could not guess themotives for this at first; but at length I discovered that my masterdestined his youngest son for the situation to which I aspired. 

I possessed at this time but one book in the world: it was a treatise onalgebra, given to me by a young woman, who had found it in alodging-house. I considered it as a treasure; but it was a treasurelocked up: for it supposed the reader to be well acquainted with simpleequation, and I knew nothing of the matter. My master's son hadpurchased Fenning's Introduction: this was precisely what I wanted; buthe carefully concealed it from me, and I was indebted to chance alonefor stumbling upon his hiding-place. I sat up for the greatest part ofseveral nights successively, and, before he suspected that his treatisewas discovered, had completely mastered it. I could now enter upon myown; and that carried me pretty far into the science. 

This was not done without difficulty. I had not a farthing on earth, nora friend to give me one; pen, ink, and paper, therefore, in despite ofthe flippant remark of lord Orford, were, for the most part, ascompletely out of my reach, as a crown and sceptre. There was, indeed, aresource; but the utmost caution and secrecy were necessary in applyingto it. I beat out pieces of leather as smooth as possible, and wroughtmy problems on them with a blunted awl; for the rest my memory wastenacious, and I could multiply and divide by it to a great extent. 

Hitherto I had not so much as dreamt of poetry: indeed I scarce knew itby name; and, whatever may be said of the force of nature, I certainlynever "lisp'd in numbers. " I recollect the occasion of my first attempt:it is, like all the rest of my non-adventures, of so unimportant anature, that I should blush to call the attention of the idlest readerto it, but for the reason alleged in the introductory paragraph. Aperson, whose name escapes me, had undertaken to paint a sign for analehouse: it was to be a lion, but the unfortunate artist produced adog. On this awkward affair one of my acquaintance wrote a copy of whatwe called verse; I liked it, but fancied I could compose something moreto the purpose: I tried, and by the unanimous suffrage of my shop-mateswas allowed to have succeeded. Notwithstanding this encouragement, Ithought no more of verse, till another occurrence, as trifling as theformer, furnished me with a fresh subject; and so I went on, till I hadgot together about a dozen of them. Certainly nothing on earth was everso deplorable: such as they were, however, they were talked of in mylittle circle, and I was sometimes invited to repeat them, even out ofit. I never committed a line to paper for two reasons; first, because Ihad no paper; and secondly--perhaps I might be excused from goingfurther; but in truth I was afraid, for my master had already threatenedme, for inadvertently hitching the name of one of his customers into arhyme. 

(_To be concluded in our next. _)

FOOTNOTES:

[A] He had gone with Bamfylde Moore Carew, then an old man. 

[B] Her maiden name was Elizabeth Cain. My father's christian name wasEdward. 

[C] This was a lot of small houses, which had been thoughtlesslysuffered to fall into decay, and of which the rents had been so longunclaimed, that they could not now be recovered unless by an expensivelitigation. 

[D] Of my brother here introduced for the last time, I must yet say afew words. He was literally

 The child of misery baptized in tears;

and the short passages of his life did not belie the melancholy presageof his infancy. When he was seven years old, the parish bound him out toa husbandman of the name of Leman, with whom he endured incrediblehardships, which I had it not in my power to alleviate. At nine years ofage he broke his thigh; and I took that opportunity to teach him to readand write. When my own situation was improved, I persuaded him to trythe sea; he did so, and was taken on board the Egmont, on condition thathis master should receive his wages. The time was now fast approachingwhen I could serve him, but he was doomed to know no favourable changeof fortune: he fell sick, and died at Cork. 

[E] My indenture, which now lies before me, is dated the first ofJanuary, 1772. 

BIOGRAPHY--FOR THE MIRROR. 

SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE LATE MR. HODGKINSON. 

(_Continued from page 297. _)

The regulations of society, and the accidents of life too often thwartthe intentions of nature. Multitudes of human beings are in every agepoured forth from her inexhaustible stores, with inherent powers to riseto distinction in the highest provinces of art and science, who yet arecondemned by the obstructions which worldly circumstance throws in theirway, to languish in obscurity--to live dejected and to die unknown. Somewhose natural endowments would, under less unpropitious circumstances, qualify them to reach the summit of fame, are fettered by want ofpatronage and pecuniary distress, while others are cramped in theirefforts by a complexional sensibility which they cannot overcome, andchecked in enterprise by diffidence and timidity, the natural offspringof a refined and delicate structure. 

If genius were always associated with physical force and constitutionalvigour, we should have had the dignities of the world more appropriatelyfilled than they are, and many who lord it would be found with theirnecks bent in humiliation. 

 How many then should cover that stand bare! How many be commanded that command!

Where mental and constitutional force are combined, and extraordinarytalents are sustained by resolution, confidence, vigorous animalspirits, and the perseverance and indefatigable industry, supplied bycorporal strength, the obstructions must be numerous and great that canprevent the possessor from rising. In Hodgkinson those requisites wereunited in an eminent degree. No adversity could crush his energies, noprosperity impair his industry. It was but a few months before hisdeath that old Mr. Whitlock under whose management Hodgkinson had earlyin life played in the north of England, said to this writer, "John hadas much work in him as any two players I ever knew--he's the same inthat respect now, and will be the same to the end of the chapter. "

Something of this the reader may have already perceived in the specimensafforded by H's boyish adventures. His forcing his way to the notice ofone of the most respectable managers in England, and obtaining a footingupon the stage, when not fifteen years of age, would appear incredibleif it were not so much a matter of notoriety as to be subject todemonstrative proof. Intimately as the writer thought himself acquaintedwith the minutest circumstances of H's first adventures at Bristol, hefinds that there was one which either he had forgotten, or H. Hadneglected to mention to him. Though it be of no very great moment, yetas it serves to thicken the circumstances which elucidate the boy'scharacter, it is introduced in this place. Since the publication of thelast number of The Mirror, the editor received the following letterdirected to "the biographer of Mr. Hodgkinson. "

 "Sir, "Considering the circumstantial minuteness with which you have related the youthful adventures of Mr. H. I am surprised at your not mentioning one which I know to be a fact. On the first night's performance of the company after his arrival at Bristol, his passionate love of the stage made him imprudent enough to throw away two shillings for a seat in the gallery, which left him with only ninepence in his pocket. Wishing your work success, "I am yours obediently, "_An old friend of John Hodgkinson. _"

Upon mentioning this to another most intimate friend of the deceased inthis city, he said that he was sure the fact was so, as H. Had more thanonce mentioned it to him in the chitchat of their convivial hours. 

Of his theatrical employment while a boy at Bristol, he was not in thehabit of mentioning particulars. Either there was nothing interesting init as a story, or it was so low that he felt no pleasure in dwellingupon it. He helped to make up the crowd in a spectacle and occasionallydelivered letters and short messages on the stage: but his mostimportant and useful occupation was singing in choruses. In the dirge inRomeo and Juliet he had a part allotted him, and never could forget themortification he felt when a person of consequence inquired of themanager which of the _ladies_ it was that so far exceeded all the restin the power and sweetness of her voice. The praises bestowed on hisvoice were poison to his ambitious young heart, when coupled with animpeachment of his manhood. 

There is one anecdote, however, of which though this writer has but anobscure recollection, he thinks worth mentioning, as it serves to throwa small ray of light upon one of H's characteristic foibles. Oneevening, being in full glee, and talking of his early life to thiswriter and three or four more of his acquaintances, he said that thefirst time he ever received, specifically on his own account, theslightest mark of applause was on this occasion. He had a letter todeliver in a certain play or farce of the name of which the writer hasnot at this moment the slightest recollection. The person to whom he wasto give the letter was, according to the plan of the piece, in veryridiculous circumstances, scuffling with his wife, which he vainlyendeavoured to conceal. After handing him the letter it was H's businessto retire; but the comedian acted his part so naturally and looked soridiculously rueful, that it completely discomposed the boy's nerves, sothat just as he got to the side wing, and was about to disappear, hecould not help turning about and looking back at the man, and in spiteof him burst into a fit of laughter, which he endeavoured to suppress byputting his hand to his mouth. The audience thinking it was purposelydone in character, were astonished at the natural way in which the boyacted it, and gave him loud marks of approbation--"I dare say, "continued H. "I looked devilish odd at the time, for the house laughedincontinently. " "Ay, ay, " gravely replied a young Irishman who waspresent, "I dare say it was your _game eye_ they laughed at. " Down fellthe muscles of poor H's face--he changed colour, and was for sometimebefore he could rally his spirit or recover his pleasantry. [F]

His time, however, was not lost or misapplied. He had an inexhaustiblethirst for knowledge, and therefore read, with ardour and industry, every book he could lay his hands upon; and he has told this writer, that if reading had been painful to him, his ambition was so ascendant, and his determination to rise in the world so unalterable, that he wouldnot have read less. Strong indeed must have been the internal impulsewhich made a boy of his age and spirits, his own voluntary task-master, which induced him to lay the pleasures natural to his age at the feet ofa laudable purpose, and to devote to useful labour a portion of histime, greater than the most diligent college book-worms devote to theirstudies. He has declared to this writer that in summer time he rarelygave more than five hours out of the four and twenty to sleep. The restwas devoted to reading, refreshment by food, attendance on the stage, and the practice of music. These constituted the whole of hisamusements; except that, when at Bath, he went out sporting--not toshoot, but to see others shooting. One of the players who was asportsman, was a favourite of some of the _great_ men in theneighbourhood, and often went out shooting with them. On these occasionsH. Accompanied him, carried his hawking-bag, powder magazine, shot, &c. And helped to mark the birds when they sprung. Thus was generated thepassion for dogs and shooting to which he was afterwards so warmlyaddicted, and which indeed was, in the end, the cause of his death. 

The worthy prompter supplied him with books, a benefit he derived fromthe following circumstance. In Bristol there is a lane or streetoccupied by venders of second-hand articles of various kinds. Thither heone day repaired to buy, if possible, a pair of cheap silkstockings:--poor John, like many others in the world, was most vain ofthat part of him which was least handsome. As he sauntered alonginspecting the goods that lay exposed to view, he saw a bookstand, atwhich he stopped, and with greedy eye devoured each title-page. An oddvolume of Harris's Hermes caught his fancy, and after having ponderedfor some time on the alternative, whether he should postpone legs infavour of head, or _vice versa_, he concluded on the former, saying tohimself that _Hermes_ would be snatched up by the first person who sawit; but that the second hand silk stockings could be got at any time. The volume was eighteen pence; yet so restricted was our hero'sfinances, that this little sum deranged his stocking plan for a week. 

His friend the prompter, seeing the book with him, took it out of hishand, and looking at it, told him he had thrown away his money in buyingsuch stuff, and exhorted him not to waste his time in reading it. Oncoming to an explanation with him, the good man finding the boy intentupon improvement, benevolently told him that he should neither wantproper books, nor instructions how to make use of them. He then lent himLowth's grammar, and pointed out the most useful places. H. Read itdiligently, and though he seldom forgot any thing he once read, heperused Lowth three or four times over. The literary knowledge of H. Wasone of the most astonishing circumstances about him. It is doubtfulwhether on the day he died, he left a more perfect orthoepist livingbehind him. Indeed his attainments, particularly in poetry and criticalscience were so great, considering his early privation of means, thatwith all the aid derived from his frequent and free communications, thewriter of this has often found it difficult to account for themsatisfactorily. 

From this period of H's life all is an hiatus till his connexion withthe celebrated James Whiteley, manager of the most extensive midlandcircuit ever known in England; viz. Worcester, Wolverhampton, Derby, Nottingham, Retford and Stamford theatres. Why, how, or when he leftBath and Bristol--or whether he was intermediately employed at any othertheatre, the writer is not in possession of a single fact to enable himto determine. Of one Miller, a manager, he has heard H. Speak, but notwith any interest. James Whiteley was the theme on which he most likedto dwell. Whiteley was perhaps the greatest oddity on the face of theearth; but of a heart sound, and benevolent beyond the generality ofmankind. Violently passionate, and in his passions vulgar, rude, boisterous, and so abhorrent of hypocrisy, that he laboured to makehimself appear as bad as possible. He was a native of Ireland; and ithas often been said of him that in eccentricity and benevolence he was afull match for any man of that country. He would ridicule and abuse hisactors in a style of whimsical foulmouthedness peculiar to himself--buthe would allow no other man living to do it--and while conferringsubstantial benefits upon them, would blackguard them like aBillingsgate fishwoman. So essentially did he differ from most othermanagers, that instead of wronging or pinching them, instead ofintriguing against them, to run them down with the public, in order toenhance his own consequence, he was their champion, their sincerefriend, and the strenuous supporter of their character and of thedignity of his company. If they fell into misfortune they found in him afather--and, dying rich, he bequeathed to his veteran performers whosurvived him, a weekly salary for life, which those who survive stillenjoy. Whoever has read or heard of the character of doctor Moncey, mayform some idea of the oddity of James Whiteley. Whiteley went muchfurther than Moncey--for the effusions of his spleen or his humour weresometimes too coarse and indelicate to bear public repetition, thoughthey still remain the topic of conversation with all who knew him, andsupply an inexhaustible fund of mirth to all who remember him. 

In this extraordinary personage Hodgkinson found the warmest, mostbenevolent friend; and, what may appear strange, a most valuableinstructor. Himself always appearing wrong, and speaking like onecracked, he never failed to set right all those who were guided by hisadvice; and, while his tongue ran riot as if he were drunk or mad, hisconduct was governed by sound sense and prudence. If ever any thinghobby-horsical or pedantic crept into the conversation of Hodgkinson, itwas his fondness for describing this worthy oddity. 

He had heard Whiteley's character described in a variety of quarters, and went to him expecting to be ridiculed, blackguarded, and patronised. Nor was he disappointed. Under his auspices, H. Grew up, acquiredprofessional knowledge, and, considering his age, much fame. A wholenumber of this work would not contain the anecdotes which, in hischeerful moments, Hodgkinson has related to this writer, of Whiteley'sworth and eccentricities; but the humour and oddity of them were of akind not only too coarse for general perusal, but so dependant foreffect upon the manner of telling them, that it would be idle to relatethem here. Their first meeting, however, and the conversation on thatoccasion may be hazarded. A gentleman of the name of Mills, an oldfriend of W's and much in his good graces, introduced our youth to him, having previously obtained his consent to see the lad, and consider whatline of business he was fit for. "You must not, " said this mutualfriend, "take ill any thing that Whiteley says to you. He is a kind ofprivileged person--_says_ what he pleases to every one, and _does_ allthe good he can. But this I can tell you, that if he treats youceremoniously (for no man can be more perfectly the gentleman when hepleases) you have no chance with him. 

"My name being announced, " said H. Relating to this writer his firstinterview, "Jemmy Whiteley surveyed me from head to foot with a grinningdrollery, that no words can describe; he spat out, according to custom, about a score of times, and after a tittering laugh was proceeding tospeak, when he was suddenly called off. " "Stay here, " said he, "I'll beback in a minute or two. " As he was leaving the room he stopped at thedoor--looked back at me again--pulled up his small clothes, andjeeringly tittered at me in a manner that was enough to provoke a saint, if it were not for the man's well known character. "It will do I see, "said my friend, "depend upon it, it will do--dont mind his sayings; butwhen you come to business, be plain, downright and firm, and you'll havehis heart. " When W. Returned, he again surveyed me from head to foot, and again grinned and tittered. I was almost as tall as I am now, and asthin perhaps as you ever saw any one of the same height. My face too waspale from recent indisposition, and I had no appearance of beard. "So, "said he, addressing Mills, "this is the chap about whom you gave me sucha platter of stirabout with Ballyhack butter[G] in it yesterday. " So farfrom being vexed or daunted by this first address, the like of which Ihad never heard before, nor could well understand, the playful, good-natured drollery in his face, and the singularity of his deportmenttickled me so, that I could not, if it were to save my life, suppress asmile of merriment, upon which after scrutinizing my face with the eyeof a master of his business, he turned to the other and said, "theblackguard has some fun in him I see, though he looks as if a dinnerwould not come amiss to him--for he's as slim as a starved greyhound;"then casting a comical glance at my clothes which were neat, good, andnew--he said, "Why boy, your belly ought to swear its life against yourback, for you are killing the one to cover the other. " I blushed, butstill could not help laughing. "You are mistaken Whiteley, " said theother, "there is not a man in your company eats better than John. ""Where does he get it?" said W. "he cant have above half a guinea a weekfor his salary, and the clothes now on his back must cost at leasttwenty half guineas, or perhaps half a year's pay. " "Go on Whiteley, "said the other, "discharge all your Irish nonsense upon his head, he hastemper to bear it all; in the meantime I'll take a walk, and come backagain: but let me know what time you intend to be done, that I may beready to a minute; for in matters of business Whiteley, you know I liketo be punctual. " W. Understood this sarcasm, and turning to Mills, poured forth such a volley of whim and oddity as I think never fell fromthe lips of any other man in this world. When he was in this vein ofhumour, he had, in addition to the comic cast of his countenance, a lispand a brogue which enhanced his drollery, and at every pause he drew inhis breath as if he were sipping out of a teaspoon. He began, "Now youthink yourself a very clever fellow after that oration, dont you! youfeel aisy I hope Mr. Mills, after throwing that wisp of bullrushes offyour stomach! have you made your speech, honey?" Mills laughed and bowedsubmission. "Pull down your cap then, my dear, and be hanged. " Thenturning to me, "Take care of yourself, boy, for if you mind what thisman says to you, you'll come to the gallows: you stand a chance of thatas it is, or I am very much out in my reckoning; but if you follow hisadvice, you will be hanged as dead as Jack the painter, or my name's notJemmy Whiteley. " "Never in my life before or since, " continued H. "was Iso astonished, or so diverted. In the midst of all the ribaldry of hismouth and the farce of his countenance, the benevolence of his heartglistened in his eyes;--my nerves were convulsed with a twofoldsensation, and actually so enfeebled that, bursting into a fit oflaughter I, unbidden, sat down in a large arm chair that stood behindme. " "What's this his name is, " said he to Mills: "Hodgkinson, " repliedthe other. "I thought that there must be an O or a MAC to his name bythe _aisy affability_ with which he helped himself to the great chair. Old Maclaughlin, that blackguard Jew that calls himself Macklin, couldnot surpass it for _modesty_. " I rose. "Och, to the d--l with yourmanners honey, " said he, clapping his two hands on my shoulders andpressing me down into the chair, "stay there since you're in it, and bed----d to you. "

"Well, Whiteley, " said my friend, "as you think my advice might be fatalto the young man, give him some advice yourself. What do you think hehad best do? what do you think fittest for him?" "Any fool can tell himthat, " returned Whiteley: "the best and the first thing I advise him todo, is to eat a hearty meal, and as I dare say he has not a jingle[H] inhis pocket, I advise him to stay here and dine; and you may stay alongwith him, if you please. " "I cant--I'm engaged, " said the other. "Thenif _you_ dont, the d----l a crust shall _he_ crack here. " Upon which, turning to me, he said, "see what you can do with him, boy--if you cantkeep him along with you, you dont get a toothful in this house. " Ilooked foolishly at my friend, who said, "Well, if that be the case, Imust stay;" upon which W. Making me a very low formal bow, gravely said, "I thank you, sir, for the great honour this gentleman does me, incondescending to eat a piece of the best leg of mutton in the north ofEngland. "

"W. Then sat down, but he overflowed so with oddity, that business wasout of the question. Every three minutes produced an explosion of themost extravagant kind--often full of humour, sometimes witty, alwayscoarse. It was in vain that my friend now urged, and now insinuated thesubject of the stage; Whiteley baffled him with a joke or a jeer, or astory--and sometimes with a transition so extreme, rapid, andunconnected, that it was impossible to do any thing with him. Mysinging was adverted to. "Ay, " said Whiteley, "I suspected he was one ofyour squallers; I thought from his chalky face and lank carcase that hewas of the Italian breed, and that his story would end in a song. Didyou ever see Signor _Tenducci_, boy?" "No sir. " "No matter, you are notthe worse for that; but I have nothing to do with _Italianos_. I havenone but men and women in my company. " I then ventured to advert to theEnglish opera and hinted at my old favourite The Padlock. "Why if I weredisposed to try you, there is nothing in the Padlock that you could playand I could give you. The part of Ursula is filled by the same old ladywho has played it for years in my theatres. " The torrent could not beresisted, so we swam along with it, and laughed heartily. "You are toobad Jemmy Whiteley, " said Mr. Mills, "by my soul, you're too bad. " "Oh Iam a very bad fellow to be sure; you'll talk on the other side of yourcheek by and by, when you are swallowing my old ale and red port atthree and six pence a bottle. "

"At length dinner was announced, and to tell you the truth, I had muchrather have gone without any than sat down to dine. I was at the bestvery bashful, and Whiteley's coarse insinuation that I wanted a dinner, though jocularly spoken, stuck in my throat, and made me blush heartilywhen he helped me. But now his manner was changed, and he displayed suchunfeigned hospitality, and such an earnest desire that we should enjoyourselves, showing us himself the example, that before dinner was halfover, I was perfectly comfortable. He pressed me to drink, but wasgreatly pleased at my refusing to comply. In a word, no two men wereever more different than Jemmy Whiteley in the rhodomontade of themorning and Mr. James Whiteley at his own hospitable, respectable board. He and my friend chatted and drank cheerfully. I looked on, listened, and sung two or three songs for them at Mr. W's request. When my friendmade a motion to go, the good manager thus addressed me: "look you mygood lad, when the waiter of a tavern or the potboy of a porter-housepresents me a pot of beer or ale, I always blow off the froth from thetop or wait till it subsides, and then bring it to the light and lookdown carefully through it, lest it should be muddy or foul, or have somedirt such as a candle-snuff, a mouse, a toad, or some trifle of thatkind floating in it: in a word, to know what I am about to swallow. Justso I deal with men, when they approach me in a way that seeks connexion:for I dont like changing, and I greatly detest the fallings out andfallings in again which seem to make up the business and pleasure of somany in this life. While I was blackguarding you and you staring andlaughing at me, I was looking down through your contents from yourfrothy powdered head down to the very bottom; and so, if your friend andyou will call here tomorrow morning, I will try to bring my tongue downto some serious conversation with you. ""

In a word, our youth next day found himself placed with a man ofjustice, honour, and generosity, with whom he remained till the graveterminated the contract. Whiteley's passions were so lively, and badhabit had so devested him of all control over his tongue that he wouldd--n and curse his actors, and call them foul names, even during theperformance of the stage, and that too so loud that the audience wouldfrequently hear him. Yet he was in substantial concerns a trulyexcellent man. 

The next place in which Hodgkinson can be distinctly traced is thenorthern line of theatres, then under the management of Whitlock andMunden, viz. Newcastle, Sheffield, Lancaster, Preston, Warrington, andChester. In the course of his business in this circuit, the extension ofhis fame more than kept pace with his years, and he was soon looked uponas the most promising actor of his age. At first he was valued chieflyfor his musical talents. A gentleman now residing in Philadelphia waspresent at his first appearance in that circuit at Preston inLancashire. A valuable actor and singer was put out of the character ofLubin in the Quaker, to make way for H's debut in that character, inwhich he was not so warmly received as the managers expected, being_encored_ in only one of the songs. His matchless industry, however, grafted on his great talents, soon produced a rich harvest of the mostexcellent fruits. He became a very useful general actor, played anything and every thing the managers thought it their interest to appointhim to, whether tragedy, comedy, opera, or farce; and too confident inhis own powers to be captious or fastidious, he never reneged aninferior part, when it was the managers' interest he should play it, even when, by the laws of the theatre, he was entitled to the first. Mr. Whitlock told this writer that H. Did _with good will_ more work thanany two performers they had. "I have known him, " said the old gentleman, "after performing in both play and after-piece at Newcastle inNorthumberland, set off without taking a moment's rest in a post-chaise, travel all night, and rehearse the next day and perform the next nightin play and farce at Preston in Lancashire. "

Powerful as were his talents, he would not, in all probability, haverisen to acknowledged eminence in his profession for many years, if hehad not fallen under the observation of Mrs. Siddons. That extraordinaryactress, little less illustrious for private virtues than splendidtalents, being engaged one summer in the northern theatres, observedwith pleasure and astonishment, a young man of abilities far above thecrowd that played with him. To adopt her own words, she at the firstglance discerned a rough, uncleansed diamond sparkling in a heap ofrubbish that surrounded it, and through the soil with which it still wasencrusted emitting brilliant rays of light. It was her delight tostretch forth her mighty hand to raise genius from depression, andresolving to raise Hodgkinson she took the most decisive means to do so. She appointed him to perform the principal characters to her in everyplay in which she acted and brought him for the purpose along with herto all the provincial theatres in which she was engaged. 

(_To be continued. _)

FOOTNOTES:

[F] Handsome as H. Was, he had a strange defect in his eyes: one of themwas smaller than the other, and in his efforts to reduce them to anequality, he sometimes produced a whimsical archness of physiognomy. Hedid not relish its being noticed, however, and thought the youngIrishman very rude. 

[G] In the low cant of the Irish, gross adulation is called _the dirtybutter of Ballyhack_. 

[H] A JINGLE--means a very small piece of coin in the slang of the lowIrish. 

NOKES. 

 Colley Cibber has transmitted to us in his apology, the following character of the greatest of all comedians. 

Nokes was an actor of a quite different genius from any I have everread, heard of, or seen, since or before his time; and yet his generalexcellence may be comprehended in one article, viz. A plain and palpablesimplicity of nature, which was so utterly his own, that he was often asunaccountably diverting in his common speech, as on the stage. I saw himonce, giving an account of some table talk, to another actor behind thescenes, which a man of quality accidentally listening to, was sodeceived by his manner, that he asked him if that was a new play he wasrehearsing? it seems almost amazing, that this simplicity, so easy toNokes, should never be caught by any one of his successors. Leigh andUnderhill have been well copied, though not equalled by others. But notall the mimical skill of Estcourt (famed as he was for it) though he hadoften seen Nokes, could scarce give us an idea of him. After thisperhaps it will be saying less of him, when I own, that though I havestill the sound of every line he spoke, in my ear, which used not to bethought a bad one, yet I have often tried, by myself, but in vain, toreach the least distant likeness of the _vis comica_ of Nokes. Thoughthis may seem little to his praise, it may be negatively saying a gooddeal to it, because I have never seen any one actor, except himself, whom I could not, at least so far imitate, as to give a more thantolerable notion of his manner. But Nokes was so singular a species, andwas so formed by nature, for the stage, that I question if, beyond thetrouble of getting words by heart, it ever cost him an hour's labour toarrive at that high reputation he had and deserved. 

The characters he particularly shone in, were Sir Martin Marrall, Gomezin the Spanish Friar, Sir Nicolas Cully in Love in a Tub, BarnabyBrittle in the Wanton Wife, Sir Davy Dunce in the Soldier's Fortune, Sosia in Amphytrion, &c. &c. To tell you how he acted them, is beyondthe reach of criticism: but to tell you what effect his action had uponthe spectator, is not impossible: this then is all you will expect fromme, and hence I must leave you to guess at him. 

He scarce ever made his first entrance in a play, but he was receivedwith an involuntary applause, not of hands only, for those may be, andhave often been partially prostituted, and bespoken; but by a generallaughter, which the very sight of him provoked, and nature could notresist; yet the louder the laugh, the graver was his look upon it; andsure, the ridiculous solemnity of his features were enough to set awhole bench of bishops into a titter, could he have been honoured (mayit be no offence to suppose it) with such grave and right reverendauditors. In the ludicrous distresses, which by the laws of comedy, Folly is often involved in; he sunk into such a mixture of piteouspusillanimity, and a consternation so ruefully ridiculous andinconsolable, that when he had shook you, to a fatigue of laughter, itbecame a moot point, whether you ought not to have pitied him. When hedebated any matter by himself, he would shut up his mouth with a dumbstudious pout, and roll his full eye into such a vacant amazement, sucha palpable ignorance of what to think of it, that his silent perplexity(which would sometimes hold him several minutes) gave your imaginationas full content, as the most absurd thing he could say upon it. In thecharacter of Sir Martin Marrall, who is always committing blunders tothe prejudice of his own interest, when he had brought himself to adilemma in his affairs, by vainly proceeding upon his own head, and wasafterwards afraid to look his governing servant and counsellor in theface; what a copious, and distressful harangue have I seen him make withhis looks, while the house has been in one continued roar for severalminutes, before he could prevail with his courage to speak a word tohim! then might you have, at once, read in his face _vexation_--that hisown measures, which he had piqued himself upon, had failed. _Envy_--ofhis servant's superior wit--_distress_--to retrieve, the occasion hehad lost. _Shame_--to confess his folly; and yet a sullen desire, to bereconciled and better advised for the future! what tragedy ever showedus such a tumult of passions rising at once in one bosom! or whatbuskined hero standing under the load of them, could have moreeffectually moved his spectators, by the most pathetic speech, than poormiserable Nokes did, by this silent eloquence, and piteous plight of hisfeatures?

His person was of the middle size, his voice clear and audible; hisnatural countenance grave and sober; but the moment he spoke, thesettled seriousness of his features was utterly discharged, and a dry, drolling, or laughing levity took such full possession of him, that Ican only refer the idea of him to your imagination. In some of his lowcharacters, that became it, he had a shuffling shamble in his gait, withso contented an ignorance in his aspect, and an awkward absurdity in hisgesture, that had you not known him, you could not have believed, thatnaturally he could have had a grain of common sense. In a word, I amtempted to sum up the character of Nokes, as a comedian, in a parody ofwhat Shakspeare's _Mark Antony_ says of _Brutus_ as a hero. 

 His life was laughter, and the ludicrous So mix'd, in him, that nature might stand up, And say to all the world--this was an _actor_. 

MISCELLANY. 

THEOBALDUS SECUNDUS, ORSHAKSPEARE AS HE SHOULD BE. 

NO. IV. 

_Hamlet Prince of Denmark, continued. _

Latin and Greek are the only tongues in which departed spirits can beaddressed, for this reason they are denominated the _dead_ languages. The nonappearance of these supernatural beings in the present day, maybe fairly ascribed to the decay of the learned languages. COBBET, withall his volubility, has not a word to throw at a ghost. Johnson says:

 When Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes, First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakspeare rose. 

This is converting learning into a bricklayer, and would have come witha better grace from Ben Jonson than from Sam. But however that may be, under such an architect, ghosts would naturally be enrolled in thecompany. Dr. Farmer may say what he pleases, but I firmly believeShakspeare had Latin enough to talk to his own ghosts; though I doubtwhether I can express the same belief as to certain modern writers, who, by reviving ghosts to squeal and gibber on the London stages, have takenthe same liberties as Shakspeare, without taking the same talents--"wehave no cold beef sir, " said the landlady at Glastonbury to a hungrytraveller; "but we have excellent mustard!" All this however is foreignto the Prince of Denmark, _Horatio. _ ----I have heard, The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat Awake the god of day. 

Doctor Fungus will have it, that cock should be clock, and ground hisopinions upon the situation of St. Paul's clock. But this would spoilthe poetry of the whole passage. What an accurate picture does thecreative pencil of our great poet present to the _mind's eye_! Theepithet _lofty_ has fallen through the sieves of all the commentatorsexcepting Theobaldus Secundus. It obviously alludes to the high roostingperch of that valiant bird; nor is the mythological imagery in thissentence to be passed by without its merited eulogium. Lingo, by way of_agreeable surprise_, informs us that the cock is the bird ofPallas--Pallas is the goddess of wisdom, and of course an earlyriser----

 Early to bed, and early to rise, &c. 

Her favourite bird undoubtedly awoke her with his shrill note, and atthe same time roused the slumbering fop Phoebus, who answered in thewords of Dr. Watts----

 "You have wak'd me too soon, I must slumber again. "

and being the god of wit, when he rubbed his own eyes, doubtless ventedan imprecation on those of Minerva. 

 "Thus wit and judgment ever are at strife. "--_Pope. _

The moral is obvious;--they who, like Mr. Sheridan, aim only to be menof wit, lie a bed; while they who, like Sir Isaac Newton, Mr. Burke, anda very few others, aspire to be men of wisdom, rise with the lark. Horatio in continuation--

 "The extravagant and erring spirit hies To his confine. "

"The extravagant i. E. Got out of his bounds"--_Warburton_--Bravo! oldHurlo-thumbo! got out of his depth, Warburton, you mean. Extra-vagantcertainly may be construed out of bounds; we need no ghost with amouthful of Syntax to tell us that; but Shakspeare had too much taste toadopt such an absurd Latinism. I have no doubt that the late king was aman of expensive habits, and is here compared to a prisoner within therules of the king's bench, who must return to quod at a given moment orcompliment the marshal with the debt and costs. At the crowing of thecock, the extravagant and erring spirit (that is, the spendthrift of adefendant) whether he be drinking arrack punch at Vauxhall, champaigneat the Mount, or brandy and water at the Eccentries, must kick off hisglass-slipper, and hobble back to St. George's Fields, like the lamebottle-conjuror of Le Sage. 

 But look, the morn in russet mantle clad, Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill. 

_Russet mantle!_ what sorry attire for a goddess! I wish the criticswould settle, once for all, the costume of Aurora; at present she hasclothes, fingers, feet, bosom, and hair, of as many colours as theroquelaure of Joseph. Homer styles her----

 [Greek: Rododaktylos Êôs]. --Rosy-finger'd morn. 

This is more like an old washerwoman than a young goddess. Ovid callsher rutilis Aurora capillis. And again--

 Ut solet aër Purpureus fieri, primum Aurora movetur. 

I translate "purpureus fieri, " a fiery purple. What says Virgil of thatparticoloured damsel----

 Tithoni croceum liquens Aurora cubile. 

A golden bed, by the way, is but a poor atonement for a leaden oldspouse snoring in it. 

 Lucia thinks happiness consists in state, She weds an ideot, but she eats off plate. 

The moderns have been equally fanciful in describing Aurora. An old songsays----

 The morning was up gray as a rat, The clock struck something, faith I can't tell what. 

And Rosina now says, "see the rosy morn appearing;" and now "the mornreturns in saffron dress'd. "--Selim in Blue Beard, sings, "Gray-eyedmorn begins to peep, " his is no compliment to the beauty of the goddess. If she had changed colours with the magician, it would have been well; a_gray beard_ is fit for an old man, and _blue eyes_ for a young woman. 

And now, reader, "_make way for the speaker_. "--The scene draws, anddiscovers a room of state, containing, the King, Queen, Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes, Voltimand, Cornelius, Lords, and Attendants. This isthe first appearance of Hamlet. --Here, then, we must suppose a clappingof hands, and a cry of hats off--down--down--you will therefore fancy toyourself a young gentleman, arrayed in black velvet, with a plume ofsable feathers in his bonnet, big enough for the fore-horse of Ophelia'shearse. But as in a certain assembly, if a member, however elevated inrank, rise to speak late in the evening, he sets his hearers coughing, there being no pectoral lozenge equal to an early harangue; and, astouching the Lord Hamlet in that manner, would be touching the honour ofa prince, I shall keep his royal highness as a _bonne bouche_ to open mynext dissertation. 

(_To be Continued. _)

 * * * * *

DR. JOHN HILL, an author, who to great learning, judgment, sagacity, andluminous fancy, joined unparalleled industry, gratified the Britishpublic for a long time with a diurnal paper wholly from his own pen, called "the Inspector. " In the course of this work he gave some of themost admirable strictures upon the plays and players of his day. Fromthat work we intend to give some select passages. The following isdeserving of particular attention for the truth and accuracy of theparallels it presents to our view. 

While I admire in Barry the quick conception, the strong expression, andthe fine taste of Julio Romano; while I hang upon the expression of hiseyes, when tenderness is the passion to be described by them, and whilein the several parts of a history, or through the varied scenes of aninteresting tragedy, I am at once surprised and charmed with the choiceof attitudes in both, I cannot be blind to the defects that stain aswell the painting as the scene: there was always what the judges call adryness, a hardness in the painter, and the same foible now and thendiscloses itself in the less guarded moments of the player: neither theone nor the other seem to have been perfect masters of the doctrine oflights and shadows, and both are therefore sometimes extravagant, andnot always graceful: this happy difference, however, appears betweenthem, that while the arrogance of the painter esteemed his faults asexcellencies, the player, equally capable of giving advice to himself, and of receiving it from others, will soon scandalize all criticism byannihilating the foibles that gave it origin. 

The genius, the soul of Titian, is revived in Garrick; both give us notresemblances, but realities: they do not represent but create, upon thecanvass or upon the scene; and what from others we would admire asrepresentations, we read in these as actions. There is in theperformance of this player, all the delicacy of taste, and all thedignity of expression that we reverence in the painter: his figures, where the subject gives him scope, are noble almost beyond imagination, his attitudes the most strictly appropriated to the sensations thatinspire them, and his colouring, to borrow a metaphor from the sisterart to express an excellence for which the other has yet no word of itsown, is the greatest that we ever did or ever must expect to see. Withall the sweetness and delicacy of his imagery, there is a glow of fireand freedom that at once surprises and charms his audience, and, likehis brother artist, he excels all men who have ever been eminent, in thepeculiar distinguishing touches which separate passion from passion; andthence give at once the greatest spirit and the strictest truth to therepresentation. I shall hardly venture to affirm that there is no foiblein any of the pieces given us by either of these artists; but there is ablaze of majesty and beauty, throughout the works of both, that at onceengages the whole eye, and with its superior lustre dims what may beless worthy praise till it becomes indiscernible. 

While Bellamy assumes the piety, the tenderness, and the sorrows of aCordelia, or heightens the repentance of a Shore, we own that a Tintorethas done some pictures equal to Corregio. The first of these is thepainter to whom I would resemble this rising actress, the latter onlybreathes in Cibber. No woman ever excelled Miss Bellamy in therequisites from nature, and were but her love to the profession, herapplication to its necessary studies, and her patience in going throughthe difficulties that lie in the road to eminence in it, equal to herabilities, she would have few equals. The outlines of her figures aresometimes faulty, but the colouring always pleases. 

All that Corregio executed by the pencil we see in real life from Mrs. Cibber; the strength of lights and shadows, of the glaring and theobscure, are equal in the representations of both, but were neverequalled by any other in either art. The dignity of sorrow, and naturaland unaffected graces which that artist gives to his Madonas, this ladydiffuses over the whole figure in the tragic scene that requires it; weare equally struck by both: we see nothing like either: and we admirethe execution while we have no conception of the manner in which it isperformed. The strength and heightening are alike admirable in each, andthe consummate sweetness only to be rivalled by the expressive strengthof the colouring. In the conduct and finish of their pieces, both havedone wonders; and as the pictures of Corregio are so equal in theirseveral parts, that, though the labour of years, they seem to have beenfinished in one day, so that the longest characters of this actress areso uniform throughout, that it is evident there are no carelessabsences, no false extravagances in any part, but that the whole is theresemblance of one temper actuated, though under various circumstances, by one passion. 

In Mrs. Pritchard one sees revived the extensive powers of HannibalCarrache: while we pursue her through the varied forms she assumes wecannot but acknowledge the character of Corregio, the fire of Titian, and the dignity of Raphael; this lady, of all the players, as thatmaster of all the painters, comes nearest the character of a universalgenius. 

Woodward strikes the judicious eye with a strong resemblance of PaulVeronese: he has all the vivacity and ease of that great painter, andfully equals him in his fancy for the singular and the shining in hisdraperies; but, as he shares his beauties, he is not without his faults. His composition is sometimes improper, and his design always incorrect;but with these blemishes, however, his colouring is so well calculatedto catch the eye, that he never fails to strike at first sight, andmakes so happy an impression on the generality of an audience, that theynever perceive what is deficient. 

Though the last, not the least in my esteem, Macklin shall be produced;nor must those who judge superficially, be surprized when they see mecall forth for his parallel Michael Angelo. It must be confessed of thisgreat painter, that the choice of his attitudes was, though neverunjust, not always pleasing: that his taste in design was not the mostminutely fine, nor his outlines the most elegant; that he was sometimesextravagant in his conceptions, and bold even to rashness in hisexecution: perhaps the player of the parallel inherits some tincture ofthese faults; but to compensate, he has all his excellencies. He knowsthe foundation of the art better than them all: he designs, if lessbeautifully than some, more accurately than any: he better understandsnature of the human frame, and the situation and power of its musclesthan any man who ever played, nor has any man ever understood it likehim as a science: there is an air of truth in all his figures, agreatness and severity in many of them that demand the utmost praise:and in the whole, if nature has qualified him less for shining in someof the most conspicuous parts than many, none has fewer faults. 

 * * * * *

_King Lear. _

A correspondent has in a former number made some remarks on thecorruptions, or, as they are called, alterations and adaptations of theplays of Shakspeare. As he has not prosecuted the subject, I will, withyour permission, say a word or two on that vilest and most infamous ofliterary treasons, Tate's burlesque of king Lear. 

This tragedy, as written by Shakspeare, is in my opinion the verynoblest of our author's works; and by the generality of critics, Ibelieve, none of his plays are absolutely preferred to it, exceptMacbeth. It is inconceivable how any one could think such a playrequired an alteration beyond the omission of the fool's character; andstill more so, how Tate's transformation of it could have been at firstendured by the nation: but that it should have been constantlyrepresented at our national theatres for nearly one hundred and thirtyyears to the total exclusion of Shakspeare's divine drama, would be acircumstance totally incredible, were it not verified by experience, that the majority of an audience are very little troubled with a spiritof inquiry, and are no doubt ignorant of the vast difference between thetwo dramas. The play, as now performed "has the upper gallery on itsside;" whose members, being unacquainted with Shakspeare's tragedy, areenchanted by the mad scenes, mangled as they are, and by all that it isretained of the original, and therefore they applaud the whole, andwitness its repetition. But it never could be inferred from theirapplauses, that even these spectators prefer Tate's play toShakspeare's; there is no comparison in the case: they applaud the one, because they are pleased with it, not because they are displeased withthe other, which they never saw, and of which they know nothing. Let theclassical manager of ---- ---- theatre make a trial; it will be worthyhis ambition to introduce a reformation, which even Garrick overlooked;and he may be assured, that the event will not only add to hisreputation, but what is a more important consideration with ourmanagers, will add to his profits also. Let Shakspeare and Tate have afair struggle; and who can doubt the final triumph of Shakspeare. [I]

Dr. Johnson is the advocate of Tate's alteration; but Addison, whoseopinion is countenanced by Steevens, declares, that "the tragedy haslost half its beauty. " Dr. Johnson is in part excusable for maintainingso erroneous an opinion; but at the same time his sentiments ought tohave no weight with others; for we know, that in the present case he hasformed his judgment, not with that solidity of taste which generallydistinguishes his criticism, but with all the nervous agitation of ahypochondriac. But why should he defend his opinion by arguments at onceunfair and untrue? it is not true, that "in the present case the publichas decided" in favour of the altered play: "Cordelia, " says the critic, "from the time of Tate has always retired with victory and felicity:"but does he mean to assert, that the original drama, before Tate'scorruption, was not well received by the public? he cannot assert this, because he could not make good such an assertion. The fact is, as statedby Steevens, that "the managers of the theatres-royal have decided, andthe public has been obliged to acquiesce in their decision. "

Of the alterations introduced by this reformer of Shakspeare, the firstand most obvious is the change of the catastrophe. King Lear andCordelia, instead of dying as in the original, are finally triumphant, and _live very happy after_. Here is improvement, here is poeticaljustice, here is every thing that can be desired to the perfection of adrama. "Since all reasonable beings, " says doctor Johnson, "naturallylove justice, I cannot easily be persuaded, that the observation ofjustice makes a play worse; or that, if other excellencies are equal, the audience will not always rise better pleased from the final triumphof persecuted virtue. " This reasoning is just; but the critic hasunfortunately advanced a sentence, which must be a perpetualstumbling-block to every advocate of Tate, viz. "_if other excellenciesare equal_, " &c. Had Shakspeare chosen, according to the "faith ofchronicles, " to represent Cordelia triumphant; had he adorned the scenesof poetical justice with his peculiar spirit, and nature, and poetry;then indeed the excellencies of the drama, though different in kind, would probably have been equal in magnitude: though I think it verydoubtful, whether even then the change of the catastrophe would not havebeen a deformity, rather than an improvement. Unquestionably ouraffection for persecuted virtue is strengthened by the very distressesin which it is involved. The triumph of Cordelia would certainly drawfrom us an instantaneous acknowledgment of satisfaction: but theimpression could not be lasting; while her fall is fixed more deeply onthe attention, and raises a more permanent feeling of pity for hersufferings, and indignation against her persecutors. Shakspeare musthave thought so, when he chose, in violation of the truth of history, todeprive her of poetical justice. To conclude the question relative tothe catastrophe, it is utterly impossible that the mind of Lear shouldbe capable of surviving so violent a change of circumstances. In theoriginal, he is very naturally represented by Shakspeare as bendingunder the weight of his calamities, and expiring of a broken heart. 

 "_Enter Lear, with Cordelia dead in his arms. _

 "_Lear. _ Howl, howl, howl, howl!--O, you are men of stones; Had I your tongues and eyes, I'd use them so That heaven's vault should crack:--O, she is gone forever!-- I know, when one is dead, and when one lives; She's dead as earth. ----

 "Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Ha! What is't thou says't?--Her voice was ever soft, Gentle, and low; an excellent thing in woman:-- I kill'd the slave that was a hanging thee. And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life: Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life, And thou no breath at all? O, thou wilt come no more, Never, never, never, never, never!--

 "Pray you, undo this button: Thank you sir. -- Do you see this?--Look on her, --look, --her lips, -- Look there, --look there!-- [_He dies. _"

What a "luxury of wo" does this exquisite scene afford? What can Tateproduce to counterbalance its value?

The next material alteration is the intrusion of love. [J] Cordelia is inlove with Edgar. Why, of what an abominable taste must that man havebeen possessed, who in his sober senses could think of thus corruptingthe noble simplicity of Cordelia's character. As for the language oflove here introduced, it is about equal to what might be looked for fromsuch a man. Take for a specimen an exquisitely pithy scene of about tenlines in the commencement of the play, in which Edgar follows Cordeliaacross the stage with the following pathetic stuff:

 "Cordelia, royal fair, turn yet once more, And ere successful Burgundy receive The tribute of thy beauties from the king. "--

It is too sickening: I cannot go on. Cordelia the amiable and sensibleCordelia, in love with such a whining milk-and-water fool as this! Itneed not be mentioned, that of course they have several unaccountableinterviews, and at the conclusion of the play, Cordelia, all overjoyedat the restoration of her father, marries Edgar!

The last remarkable corruption is in the introduction of a curious pieceof stage-machinery, ycleped a confidant, who, loving her mistress morethan herself, like a good servant, accompanies her through wind andrain, and every other stage-horror, in a dark night, on a wild-goosechase, without any adequate or apparent object. This confidant is likeevery other stage-confidant. 

How such a wretched jumble of inconsistencies, absurdity, andinsipidity, can have been suffered ever to be performed, is a subject atonce of wonder and regret. It is surprising, that Garrick never remediedthe evil; a man, who had an ardent veneration for Shakspeare, and by hisacting and management went some way towards doing him justice. It israther inconsistent, that he could suffer this play to be performedinstead of Shakspeare's, and yet in one of his prologues make thefollowing assertion:

 "'Tis my chief wish, my joy, my only plan, To lose no drop of that immortal man. "

 _Prologue to Catherine and Petruchio. _

These lines too are quoted by Mr. Kemble, and prefixed as a motto to hisalteration of one of Shakspeare's plays. Is Mr. Kemble not aware, howmany drops of Shakspeare are lost, and how much false wine obtruded intheir place, in this metamorphosis? It would be an endless task to pointout all the beautiful and sublime passages omitted by Tate: but to pointout all the absurdities he has introduced, would be more endless. As Mr. Kemble professes, however, such a wish, I will just remind him, before Iconclude, of what perhaps he has forgotten, that the presentstage-representation of Shakspeare is a disgrace to his memory; thatmany of his best plays are never performed; that those which areperformed are exhibited in so mangled a state, as to be totally unlikeShakspeare; and that not one of his dramas is now exhibited pure andunadulterated. 

 I am, Mr. Editor, your's, &c. 

 A SHAKSPEARIAN. 

 * * * * *

_A week's journal of a strolling player. _

_Monday. _ We opened the house with the tragedy of the _distressedmother_; I played _Orestes_. Our dresses and scenery rather out ofrepair, which gave some gentleman occasion to remark; that it would havebeen more _apropos_, had we advertised the play by the title of the_distressed family_. 

_Tuesday. _ Played George Barnwell. Part of the audience wanted mehanged: Afterwards did the watchman, and the bailiff in the_Apprentice_. --Shared thirteen pence three farthings. 

_Wednesday. _ Played _Jachimo_ in _Cymbeline_. My arms almostbroken by being put into too small a chest. The farce the_Register-office_--played _Gulwell_. --Shared one shilling. 

_Thursday. _ Doubled the _Ghost_ and _Rosencrantz_ in _Hamlet_, andafterwards played _Mogs_ in the _Devil of a Duke_. A gentleman affrontedme by saying I was _the devil of a conjuror_. Shared one shilling andsix pence, and for the first time took my two bits of candles. 

_Friday. _ I played _Macduff_, and two or three other parts in _Macbeth_, one of the witches being drunk, we were obliged to make shift with two. The farce _Miss in her teens_: I was Fribble; and the house barberhaving gone off in a pet, because I could not pay him his week's bill, Iwas obliged to go on without my hair being dressed. --Shared ten penceand a candle. 

_Saturday. The Orphan. _ The manager had taken _Castalio_ himself, andinsisted on my playing _Acasto_. An ignorant country fellow introducedit only to support Acasto in the third act, stands on the stage, when Iasked "where are all my friends?" answered, "sir, they are at the Georgeover a mug of ale. " We afterwards had the _Padlock_ without music. Iplayed _Mungo_ and never felt any thing half so much as the favouriteair, "I wish to my heart me was dead. "

 * * * * *

_Macklin and Foote. _

Macklin once left the stage and set up a tavern and Coffee-house on anew plan in the piazza, Covent garden. At his dinners every thing wasdone by the waiters, on signs made to them by Macklin himself who actedas chief waiter. One night, being at supper with Foote and some othersat the Bedford, one of the company praised Macklin for the greatregularity of his ordinary, and in particular his manner of directinghis waiters _by signals_. Ay, sir, says Macklin, I knew it would do, andwhere do you think I picked up this hint?--well sir, I'll tell you, Ipicked it up from no less a man than James Duke of York, who you knowsir, first invented signals for the fleet. Very apropos indeed, saidFoote, and good poetical justice, as _from the fleet_ they were taken, _so to the fleet_ both master and signals are likely to return. 

Macklin afterwards failed. 

Another time Macklin delivered public lectures. One night as he waspreparing to begin, he heard a buz in the room, and spied Foote in acorner talking and laughing immoderately. This he thought a safe time torebuke that wicked wit, as he had begun his lecture and consequentlycould not be subject to any criticism: he therefore cried out with someauthority "well sir, you seem to be very merry there, but do you knowwhat I am going to say now?" "No sir says Foote, pray _do_ you?" Thisready reply and the laughter it occasioned silenced Macklin, and soembarrassed him that he could not get on, till called upon by thegeneral voice of the company. 

Another time Macklin undertook to show the causes of duelling inIreland, and why it was much more the practice of that nation than anyother. In order to do this, he began with the earliest part of the Irishhistory, and, getting as far as queen Elizabeth, he was proceeding whenFoote spoke to order. "Well sir, what have you to say on the subject?"said Macklin, "only to crave a little attention sir, " said Foote, withmuch seeming modesty, "when I think I can settle this point in a fewwords. "--"Well sir, go on. "--"Why then, sir, " says Foote, "to begin, what o'clock is it?"--"O'clock" said Macklin, "what has the clock to dowith a dissertation on duelling?" "Pray sir, " said Foote, "be pleased toanswer my question. " Macklin on this, pulled out his watch and reportedthe hour to be past ten. --"Very well, " said Foote, "about this time ofthe night, every gentleman in Ireland that can afford it, is in histhird bottle of claret, consequently is in a fair way of getting drunk;from drunkenness proceeds quarrelling, and from quarrelling, duelling, and so there's an end of the chapter. " The company seemed perfectlysatisfied with this abridgment, and Macklin shut up his lecture for thatevening in great dudgeon. 

 * * * * *

_Countess of Carlisle's opinion of the Drama, taken from her maxims toyoung ladies. _

When you fix your mind on the scenes before you, when the eye shall notwander to, nor the heart flutter at the surrounding objects of thespectacle, you will return home instructed and improved. 

The great utilities you may reap from well acted tragedy are theexciting your compassion to real sufferings, the suppressing of yourvanity in prosperity, and the inspiring you with heroic patience inadversity. 

In comedy you will receive continual correction, delicately applied toyour errors and foibles; be impartial in the application, divide ithumbly with your acquaintance and friends, and even with your enemies. 

 * * * * *

_The general lover--An Ovidian rhapsody. _

 JAQUES. The worst fault you have is to be in love. 

 ORLANDO. It is a fault I would not change for your best virtue. 

Though I may be inconstant to _Elizabeth, Betty, and Bess_, I am neverinconstant to love. But I will not defend myself. No, if it would do anygood to confess, I own my fault, and will say that I hate myself for it;but I must add, that though I wish it, I cannot be otherwise than what Ihate. I am borne along like a vessel in a rapid current, impelled bywind and tide--I know not what form delights me most, therefore thecauses are endless, why I can never cease to love. 

 If modest the nymph, with her eyes in her lap, Her blushing's enough, I am caught in the trap. 

If she is high spirited I am won, because she is not rustic. --Is sheaustere, --I think her willing, but an admirable dissembler. 

 If learned, than riches I prize it above, If not, sweet simplicity, O, how I love!

Is there one who prefers my writings to those of the salacious warbler, the wanton lacivious little Moore? She to whom I am pleasing is everpleasing to me. If she hates both me and my works, I long to give herreason to think differently of both. This fair one walks with grace, hergraces captivate me; that sings, and her voice flows like honey from herlips; I pant to kiss the hive from which such honey flows. Her brilliantfingers sweep the chords: Who can but love such well-instructedfingers?--To love in every shape I bend my knees. 

 Though her figure heroic would fill the whole bed, For me there'd be room where I'd lay my fond head. 

If she is little and short I am equally glad, for then I can never have_too much_ of her. Light hair how lovely!--Brown, I think itauburn--Black, how beautiful when hanging in ringlets on her snowy neck!Is it red--what so red as gold?--Youth warms my heart and later age Ilove; this pleases by its form, that by its conduct. --Is she a slut--howsaving!--Is she delicate--how delightful!--Is she my wife--I _must_ loveher--Is she my friend's--how can I help it!--The fatter, the warmer; thethinner, she is less subject, _perhaps_, to the frailty of the_flesh_. --Is she lame--how domestic!--Is she deaf--'tis well. --Is sheblind--'tis better. --Is she dumb--O, 'tis too much!

 * * * * *

_Humorous Epilogues after Tragedies. _

The custom of introducing humorous epilogue, farce, and buffoonery, after the mind has been agitated, softened, or sublimed by tragicscenes, has been often objected to. 

It hath been said in its favour, that five long acts is a portion oftime sufficiently long to keep the attention fixed on melancholyobjects; that human life has enough of real, without calling in the aidof artificial distress; that it is cruel to send home an audience withall the affecting impressions of a deep tragedy in their minds. 

In reply, it has been observed, that it is degrading and untrue todescribe the human species as incapable of receiving gratification onlyfrom comic scenes; that "_there is a luxury in wo_, " independent of itspurifying the bosom and suppressing the more ignoble passions. 

The supporters of this opinion have also added, that there is a speciesof depravity in endeavouring by ludicrous mummery to efface the salutaryeffects of pathetic, virtuous, and vigorous sentiments; that it issporting 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 feltand complained of by most frequenters of a modern theatre, andwell-authenticated instances have been produced of guilty men retiringfrom a well-written and well-acted play to repentance and melioration. 

An epilogue has been composed by Mr. Sheridan in support of theseopinions, superior in pathos, poetry and practical deduction, to any Iever read. It was originally spoken by Mrs. Yates, after the performanceof 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. 

 O could the Muse one simple moral teach, From scenes like these, which all who hear might reach; Thou child of sympathy, whoe'er thou art, Who with Assyria's queen hast wept thy part; Go search where keener woes demand relief, Go, while thy heart yet beats with fancied grief. Thy breast, still conscious of the recent sigh, The graceful tear still ling'ring on the eye; Go, and on real misery bestow The blest effusions of fictitious wo, So shall our muse, supreme of all the nine; Deserve indeed the title of divine, Virtue shall own her favoured from above, And Pity greet her with a sister's love. 

 * * * * *

_A few words of advice, extracted from a London magazine. _

TO THE CONDUCTOR. 

 Mr. CONDUCTOR, I am a sort of literary _Lounger_, though no _Connoisseur_, yet an_Idler_, like myself, will always assume a right to turn _Observer_ uponevery _Adventurer_; and, whether you may subscribe to my opinions ornot, yet, as I mean to subscribe to your work, I shall offer them veryfreely. 

Too many publications promise much at their outset, and perform littlein the sequel; great expectations will be formed of what may be producedby the members of a British _Cabinet_; and in case of failure every_Guardian_ of his own rights will become a _Tatler_; you will be accusedas a _Rambler_ from your engagements, and, at your downfal, the _World_will be an unconcerned _Spectator_; while, on the contrary, by properpolish and reflection, you may be styled the _Mirror_ of all _MonthlyMagazines_ in the metropolis. So much for your title, I shall next makesome remarks as to the general conduct of the work itself. 

With regard to the engraved heads prefixed to each number, and calledportraits, I would certainly advise that they should bear _some_resemblance to the originals; this, notwithstanding it may be but atrifling recommendation to some readers, will often prove an advantage;for, however singular it may appear, I have frequently purchased apicture myself, for no reason than that it put me in mind of the personit professed to represent. 

I am conscious, however, that there may be exceptions to this generalrule; indeed I know a very worthy vender of prints, who keeps in hiscellar some hundreds of admirals and generals, ready engraved, and bycutting off the arm of one, or clapping a convenient patch on the eye ofanother, he is always ready before any of his competitors to present thetown with striking likenesses of any or all of those persons who sofrequently claim our attention and gratitude. However, as there is nosubject on which people are apt to disagree so pointedly as on theprecision or dissimilarity of a copy from nature, you may safely steerclear of all criticism, and perhaps please all parties by embellishingyour incipient number with a face combining Cooke's nose, Kemble's chin, and Munden's mouth, with the arched eye of Lewis, and writing under it

 _The head of an eminent actor. _

Thus every one will recognise the feature of a favourite, and onefeature in a whole face is as much as they ought to expect. 

Admit no _puns_ into your miscellany. Dennis, the critic, has said, andI know not how many others after him, that a punster is no better than apickpocket, and with truth, for how dare any quibbling varlet attempt torob his neighbour of any portion of that delightful inflexibility, thevery taciturnity of which bespeaks what _wisdom_ may lie _buried_ in a_grave_ demeanour?

Be not too _sentimental_ neither; nor copy the infantine simplicity ofthose dear little children of the _Della Cruscan_ school, who, "_lisp innumbers_. " Do not let them lisp in any number of your publication. Nosir, like sir Peter Teazle, I say, "curse your sentiments;" for the manwhose effeminate ideas, expressed in effeminate accents, wouldcontribute to lessen the manly character of the English nation, deservesto be lost in a labyrinth, as I am now, and left in the lurch for afinish to each sentence he commences. 

On the other hand, you must carefully shun the affectation of _bombasticdiction_--it is lamentable to see a preelucidated theme renderedsemidiaphonous, by the elimination of simple expression, to make roomfor the conglomeration of pondrous periods, and to exhibit thephonocamptic coxcombry of some pedant, who mistakes sentences forwagons, and words for the wheels of them. 

Avoid _alliteration_, allowed by all to be the very vehicle of vitiousverbosity, particularly in a periodical publication; therefore, thethought that dully depends, during lengthened lines of lumberinglucubration, on innumerable initials introduced instead of rhyme orreason, is really reprehensible. Shakspeare, scorning the sufferance ofsuch a sneaking style, said "Wit whither wilt?"

Lest you should put the same question to me, I will give you myconcluding piece of advice, which is, that you should beware ofintroducing second hand _Rural Tales_ and essays, from the successfullabours of your predecessors. Such things _have_ happened more thanonce, and I remember reading a letter to the editor, in the first numberof a new magazine, which was unfortunately signed by, _An OldSubscriber_. 

P. S. I meant to have called myself a _Constant Reader_, but, if youfollow my advice, you will have so many of those, you will not know howto distinguish me from others. I shall, therefore, address my futurecorrespondence, under the signature of my proper initials, S. L. U. M. 

 * * * * *

A CHAPTER ON LOGIC;

_Or, the Horse Chesnut, and the Chesnut Horse. _

Occasioned by an observation of Mr. Montague Mathew, in the house ofcommons, during the last session of parliament, that Mr. Mathew Montaguewas no more like him, than a horse chesnut was like a chesnut horse. 

 An Eton stripling, training for the law, A dunce at syntax, but a dab at law, One happy christmas laid upon the shelf His cap and gown, and stores of learned pelf. With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome, To spend a fortnight at his uncle's home. Arriv'd, and pass'd the usual how d'ye do's, Inquiries of old friends and college news; "Well Tom--the road--what saw you worth discerning? Or how goes study:--what is it you're learning?" "Oh! logic, sir; but not the shallow rules Of Locke and Bacon--antiquated fools! 'Tis wits' and wranglers' logic: thus, d'ye see, I'll prove at once as plain as A B C, That an eel-pie's a pigeon--to deny it, Would be to swear black's not black--come let's try it. An eel-pie is a pie of fish--agreed, Fish-pie may be a jack-pie. --Well proceed. A jack-pie is a john-pie; and 'tis done, For every john-pie must be a pie-john, --" (pigeon. ) "Bravo!" sir Peter cries, "logic for ever! That beats my grandmother's, and she was clever. But hold, my boy, since 'twould be very hard, That wit and learning should have no reward, Tomorrow, for a stroll, the Park we'll cross; And there I'll give thee, "--"What?" "My chesnut horse, " "A horse!" quoth Tom, "blood, pedigree, and paces, Heav'ns what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races!" To bed he went, and slept for downright sorrow, That night must go before he'd see the morrow; Dreamt of his boots and spurs, and leather breeches, Of hunting-caps, and leaping rails and ditches; Left his warm nest an hour before the lark! Dragg'd his old uncle, posting, to the Park. Halter in hand, each vale he scour'd at loss, To spy out something like a chesnut horse; But no such animal the meadows cropt-- At length beneath a tree sir Peter stopt; A branch he caught, then shook it, and down fell A fine horse chesnut in its prickly shell. There Tom, take that--Well, sir, and what beside? Why since you're booted, saddle it and ride; Ride what? a chesnut!--Ay, come, get across; I tell you, Tom, that chesnut is a horse, And all the horse you'll get--for I can show, As clear as shunshine, that 'tis really so; Not by the musty, fusty, worn out rules Of Locke and Bacon--addle headed fools! Or old Mallebranche--blind pilot into knowledge; But by the laws of wit, and Eton college. All axioms but the wranglers I'll disown, And stick to one sound argument--your own. 

 * * * * *

What is the literary world?

It is a kind of fair, full of stalls, wares, and shopkeepers: in whichthe theologist sells his stuff, which at the same time supplies food andwarmth. The critic disposes of his cobweb linen and transparent lawn, ofno shelter from the cold. The philologist, his embroidered vests, Corinthian vases, and Phrygian marble. The physician letters andsyllables. The lawyer, men. The antiquary, old shoes. The alchymist, himself. The poet, smoke. The orator, paint. The historian, fame--andthe philosopher, heaven and earth. 

What are the most rare animals in the world?

A rich man contented with his fortune. A man distinguished by genius andnot by defects. A courtier grown old. A learned man who knows himself. Avirgin who is beautiful to every body but herself. A prime minister whopossesses honesty; who has the interest of his country, not that ofhimself or his associates, at heart. 

 * * * * *

_Addison's pedigree of Wit. _

Good Sense is his father, Truth his grandfather, and Mirth and GoodHumour are his chosen companions. 

 * * * * *

An impertinent petit-maitre told a country gentleman in a coffeehouse atthe west end of the town that he looked like a groom. "I am one, "replied he, "and am ready to rub down _an ass_. "

 * * * * *

_Curious slip-slop!_--The three wives of a knight, a physician, and ajustice, were one evening engaged in a social game of questions andcommands; and, according to the custom of the game, the first began, "Ilove my love with an N because he is a k-night!" The second in the sameterms confessed her partiality for an F, because he was a physician! andthe third avowed a similar regard for a G, because he was a justice!

 * * * * *

_Specific for blindness. _--A quack doctor in the neighbourhood of York, who advertises a universal specific for the ills of mankind, adds, thathe attends to communications by letter, "but it is necessary thatpersons afflicted with the loss of sight should _see_ the doctor. "

 * * * * *

A stage-struck youth lately called upon Mr. K, at his residence not farfrom Bloomsbury-square, and applied for an engagement. The manager, after scrutinizing the various qualifications of the youthful candidate, inquired, "and pray sir, to what particular parts have your studies beendirected? What is your forte?" "Why, sir, (replied the youth in a modesttone) I rather think that I excel in your line. " "My line! (exclaimedthe manager with peculiar complacency) what is that? What do you mean?""To confess the truth, (rejoined the tyro) I flatter myself that I ammost at home in _playing the tyrant_!"

 * * * * *

"The theatre at Sydney appears to be in a very flourishing state, " saida gentleman to John Kemble, speaking of the Botany Bay theatricals, anaccount of which appeared in the papers a few months since. "Yes, "replied the tragedian, "the performers ought to be all good, for theyhave been selected and sent to that situation by very excellent_judges_!"

 * * * * *

_An Irish forgery. _--At a provincial assize not long since, in Ireland, an attorney was tried upon a capital charge of forgery. The trial wasextremely long, when after much sophistry from the counsel, and the mostminute investigation of the judge, it appeared to the completesatisfaction of a crowded court, that the culprit had forged the_signature of a man who could neither read nor write_!

 * * * * *

A woman lately brought before a country magistrate, behaving with muchconfidence, was told by his worship that she had brass enough in herface to make a five gallon kettle. "Yes, " answered she, "and there issap enough in your head to _fill it_. "

 * * * * *

_Anecdotes of Macklin. _

Macklin was very intimate with Frank Hayman (at that time one of ourfirst historical painters) and happening to call upon him one morning, soon after the death of the painter's wife with whom he lived but onindifferent terms, he found him wrangling with the undertaker about theextravagance of the funeral expenses. Macklin listened to thealtercation for some time: at last, going up to Hayman, with greatgravity he observed, Come, come, Frank, though the bill is a littleextravagant, pay it in respect to the memory of your wife: for by G-- Iam sure she would do twice as much for you had she the same opportunity. 

 * * * * *

A notorious egotist one day in a large company indirectly praisinghimself for a number of good qualities which it was well known he hadnot, asked Macklin the reason why he should have this propensity ofinterfering in the good of others when he frequently met with unsuitablereturns? "I could tell you, sir, " says Macklin. "Well do sir; you are aman of sense and observation, and I should be glad of your definition. ""Why then sir, the cause is impudence--nothing but stark-staringimpudence. "

 * * * * *

A gentleman at a public dinner asking him inconsiderately Whether heremembered Mrs. Barry, the celebrated actress who died about the latterend of queen Ann's reign, he planted his countenance directly againsthim with great severity, and bawled out, "No, sir, nor Harry the eighthneither. They were both dead before my time. "

 * * * * *

An Irish dignitary of the church, not remarkably for veracity, complaining that a tradesman of his parish had called him a liar, Macklin asked him what reply he made him. "I told him, " said he, "that alie was among the things I _dared_ not commit. " "And why, doctor, "replied Macklin, "did you give the rascal _so mean an opinion of yourcourage_?"

 * * * * *

ANECDOTE OF QUIN. 

 Quin's servant, at the accustomed hour, Once came to call his master, With visage long and aspect sour, Expressive of disaster. 

 Quin soon began his usual story, Well, John, what news of fish? Have you of turbot or John Dory Seen e'er a handsome dish?

 Says John I've been the market round, And searched from stall to stall, But only some few Mackerel found, And those not fresh at all. 

 Well! how's the day? says Quin again, Will it be wet or dry? There seems a drizzling kind of rain Was honest John's reply. 

 Quin turns in bed with piteous moan, And, not to brood o'er sorrow. Says shut the door, and call me, John, About this time tomorrow. 

FOOTNOTES:

[I] Mossop, when he was manager of the Dublin theatre, always playedLear as it was written by Shakspeare. 

[J] A hint to managers. --As the tragedy of Macbeth is the great rival ofking Lear, I cannot but think, that it ought to be represented with allthe advantages which its rival possesses; as, particularly, with theadditional beauty of love. Nor would the change be difficult. YoungMalcolm might very conveniently and very naturally fall in love with adaughter of Macbeth (to be sure it is most probable Macbeth had nodaughter; but what of that? It is not too late to make him one); thenthe lovers might have many an affecting interview under the walls ofDunsinane Castle; and finally, Malcolm instead of Macduff, might cut offMacbeth's head, and immediately lead his daughter to the altar. Howsuccessfully would this conclude in the style of Barbarossa, GustavusVasa, &c. Which are evidently the true models of tragedy. 

SPORTING INTELLIGENCE. 

BLODWELL ROCK. 

A fox-chace rather remarkable in its nature, lately took place. As agentleman was coursing under Blodwell Rock, near Porthywaen lime works, he unkennelled a very large dog fox; and having two couple of beagles, they pursued him through the extensive covers near that rock to thesummit of Llanymynech hill; but being very hard run, he made a shortturn passing through the Gorwell covers, and along the banks of theriver Turnet, near to the village of Llanyblodwell. The beagles thenapproached him so near, that he was under the necessity of taking theroad for Llandu; and leaving those covers on the left, he returned muchfatigued, near to the place where he was first started. He then wentthrough a large cover called Cowman's Ruff, and back to Llanymynechhill; and in a lime quarry there, he stopped for his little pursuers, who, having run him in view under that hill, opposite the village ofLlanymynech, he ascended a craggy rock, and got into a subterraneouspassage of great length formerly worked, it is supposed, by the Romanminers. Bold Reynard being somewhat warm could not long remain in soclose a confinement, but had the audacity to make his appearance at themouth of the passage, and fought his way out, in defiance of the beaglesand a brace of greyhounds, which he had beaten before; and taking adirection the same way back, for a considerable distance up a narrowprecipice in another part of the rock, he had no alternative of escapingbut by throwing himself down a declivity a little further on, at leastforty feet high, without any apparent injury. He then ran near to theturnpike gate at Llanymynech, but being met by a canal boat, he alteredhis course, and ran over the Stair Corrig Held, where he took anotherprodigious leap and then ran along the turn pike road to Oswestry, having stopped a few minutes in a small close near Llynckly, and thebeagles ran him in view for a considerable way, and he was taken aliveafter a hard chace of more than four hours, with little or nointermission. 

 * * * * *

WILTSHIRE PASTIME. 

The play at singlestick at Salisbury races on Wednesday was very dull, there being no players of note to meet the Somersetshire men, whocarried off the prize easily. On Thursday, however, James Lyne arrived, on his return from Magdaline bull fair, and Maslen came in from Devizes. Some fine play was now displayed--Maslin and John Wall had no less thanthirty-five bouts, and at length Wall gave in, not being able longer tokeep his guard. 

But the crack play was between James Lyne (of Wilts. ) and Wm. Wall(Somerset) and it afforded a high treat to the amateurs of the art. Atlength Lyne won Wall's head, and the play concluded for the morning. Inthe afternoon when the tyes were called on, the Wiltshire men had fourheads, and only one Somerset man (Bunn) had gained a head. The odds weretoo great for Bunn to have any hope of success, he therefore gave in, and the Wiltshire men divided the prize. 

Two master gamesters, a Berkshire and a Hampshire man then entered thering on a particular challenge, and showed much skill, intrepidity andgood bottom. Berkshire triumphed. The sport lasted five hours. The boutsplayed were one hundred and sixty-one. The heads broken seventeen. 

 * * * * *

ST. GILES'S PASTIME

A duel was fought in a field, near Chalkfarm, between two Hibernianheroes, named FELIX O'FLANNAGAN and DENNIS O'SHAUGNESSY, in consequenceof a dispute which occurred the preceding evening, at a meeting of_connoisseurs_, in Russel-square, to view the newly erected statue ofthe late duke of Bedford; when Mr. O'Flannagan and Mr. O'Shaugnessydiffered in opinion, not only in respect to the materials of which thestatue was composed, but the identity of the person it was said torepresent. 

Mr. O'Flannagan, who is a _composer of mortar_, insisted it was made of_cast stone_, and represented the duke of Bedford; and Mr. O'Shaugnessy, who is a _rough lapidary_, vulgarly called a _pavior_, contended it wasmade of _cast iron_, and intended to "_raprisint Charley Whox_. " Thedispute ran high, and, as it advanced, became mixed with party andprovincial feelings. Mr. O'Flannagan was a Connaught man, and a_Cannavat_; Mr. O'Shaugnessy a Munster man, and a _Shannavat_. 

With such provocations of mutual irritation, they quickly appealed tothe law of arms; and after putting the eyes of each other into _halfmourning_, they agreed to adjourn the battle till Sunday morning, and todecide it like _jontlemen_--by the _cudgel_. The meeting took placeaccordingly, and each was attended to the field by a numerous train ofpartizans, male and female, from the warlike purlieus of Dyott-streetand Saffron-hill. They were armed with blackthorn cudgels of no ordinarydimensions; and having _set to_, without ceremony or parade, eachbelaboured his antagonist for above an hour, in a style that would havestruck terror into the stoutest of the Burkes and Belchers, and_enameled_ each other from head to foot, with lasting testimonies ofvigour and dexterity. The air was rent by the triumphant shouts of theirrespective partizans, as either alternately bit the ground. At length, Mr. O'Shaugnessy yielded the victory; and Mr. O'Flannagan was borne offthe field, with his brows enwreathed by the Sunday _shawl_ of amilkwoman, his sweetheart, who witnessed the combat, and crowned theconqueror with her own _fair_ hands. 

 * * * * *

_A singular circumstance. _

Mr. Jones a veterinary surgeon of the Curtain road, near London, wascalled upon lately to attend a horse that was unwell; having some veryuntoward symptoms about him, the horse was conceived to be in danger:every means was made use of that seemed calculated to be of service, butwithout effect, as he died the same evening. On opening the body, in thepresence of several spectators the rectum was found to be ruptured bythe pressure of a large calculus, or stone which weighs five poundsseven ounces, and in one of the intestines (_the colon_) were foundthree others that weigh sixteen pounds seven ounces. Altogether twentyone pounds fourteen ounces. They are kept in Mr. Jones' museum andsubmitted to the inspection of those who desire to view such aphenomenon. 

 * * * * *

A partridge's nest was last August discovered in a plot of grass, in thegarden of the Reverend Mr. M'Kenzie of Knockbourn, Shropshire. Itcontained sixteen eggs which had been deserted by the mother. They wereimmediately laid under a turkey hen that was sitting, and from them werebrought forth sixteen fine birds, which were in a thriving state, andwere following the turkey as their mother when the account here givenwas written. 

 * * * * *

_Pedestrianism. _

In these days of walking wonders, the following is worthy of notice. 

A lieutenant of the navy stationed with the sea fensibles at Kingston;between five and six miles from Swanage, performed that distance on footin the short space of twenty minutes. 

DRAMATIC CENSOR. 

 I have always considered those combinations which are formed in the playhouse as acts of fraud or cruelty. He that applauds him who does not deserve praise, is endeavouring to deceive the public. He that hisses in malice or in sport is an oppressor and a robber. 

 _Dr. Johnson's Idler, No. 25. _

_From a Correspondent at New-York. _

NEW-YORK THEATRICALS. 

We have for several weeks been gratified by the performance of Mr. Dwyer, lately arrived from England, an actor certainly superior to anyon the London boards in genteel comedy, and highly respectable as atragedian. He possesses every requisite for the stage: a fine person, agood voice, a manly expression of countenance and the most polishedaddress. His orthoepy seems to have been acquired by the means whichalone can give it perfection: an intimate acquaintance and a constantinterview with the best speakers of the senate, the bar, the pulpit, andthe stage in the metropolis of the British empire. 

It is a difficult task for an actor or actress newly arrived amongst us(even were that actor a Garrick and the actress a Siddons) to overcome, at the first onset, certain prejudices, which, in spite of a goodunderstanding, will oftentimes take possession of the human mind; and aNew-York audience seem particularly to require time for a completemanifestation of their acknowledgment of superior talents, lest theystand accused of an unjust partiality to a former favourite, or perhapsthinking with Theseus, "that should the favourite be in the wane, yet, in courtesy, in all reason, they must stay the time. "[K] However thismay be, and strongly as the illiberal mode of proceeding may haveoperated against respectable actors at various times, Mr. Dwyer hascarried every thing before him. Those who were desirous of diminishinghis fame, have sneaked from the field. 

 The fiends look'd up, and knew Their mounted scale aloft: nor more----[L]

Mr. Dwyer has entirely justified amongst us the flattering reports wehad received of him in the European prints; and our theatrical amateurswill feel a disagreeable void in their pleasures when he leaves us. Heis engaged on very liberal terms for a few nights in Philadelphia, byMr. Warren, who lately made a journey to New-York for the expresspurpose of witnessing his extraordinary powers. Thence it is said, hewill proceed to Boston and the other principal cities of the UnitedStates. 

It would be needless to point out Mr. Dwyer's particular excellencies:but we most esteem him for his _originality_. Scorning the degradingacts of imitation, he has formed himself upon the unerring principles ofnature. In his performance we find that agreement, which, like the soul, adds life and action to the figure, and is the all in all. 

The little judgment used in the casts of the plays in which Mr. Dwyerhas appeared, must have, however, greatly diminished the effect histalents would produce upon us, were he respectably supported. Ourcompany, weak and bad in the extreme, is by bad management rendered muchworse. To the annoyance of the public, when one actor, as a _star_, isthought to have sufficient attraction to make a good house of himself, the best performers of the company (and heaven knows bad enough is thebest) are left out; prompter, scene-shifters, supernumeraries, andcandle-snuffers being tugged in by the ears, as occasion may require, to_complete_ the _Dramatis Personæ_. The place of Mrs. Oldmixon, whom wealways see with pleasure, and who is never willingly absent when she cancontribute to the gratification of the audience, is frequently occupiedby Mrs. Hogg, whose infirmities impede those exertions which we areinclined to believe she is willing to make: and Mr. Simpson, who, insome characters, is not a bad performer, is often supplanted by the verysweepings of the green-room. How often do we see that second Proteus, the little prompter with his _parenthetical_ legs, rolled on in five orsix different parts on the same evening. Gentleman, jailor, footman, king, and beggar are to him equally indifferent; and next to Mr. Hallamwe conceive him to be the very best murderer on the boards. 

As we have gone so far in our observations on the state of the company, it may be as well to take a glance at the whole corps. 

First on the scroll stands the respectable Tyler, who, with some naturalqualifications and much industry, has for many years been the mostuseful actor on our boards. His grave old gentlemen are far abovemediocrity, and although nearly sixty years of age, he appears to muchadvantage occasionally in comic opera; being the only man in thecompany, with the exception of Mr. Twaits, capable of singing. 

Mr. Twaits as a low comedian is inferior to none in the United States. 

Mr. Simpson, denied by nature the possibility of being graceful, endeavours to make up for his defects by close attention to hisbusiness. He is generally perfect, and may, by reading and much study, become tolerable in the walk he aims at; which is genteel comedy. Hischief defects are a whining sing-song management of his voice, thatsavors more of the rant of a methodist preacher than the genuineexpression of natural feeling. Mr. Simpson however, does not want fire;a few years observation of good models may entitle him to a respectablestanding on this side the Atlantic. 

Mr. Robinson's country boys and old men are excellent. His attempts attragedy and genteel comedy, will we fear, never be successful. 

Mr. Young pleases us in all he undertakes. His conception is just, andhis gesticulation worthy of example. 

In Mr. Collins we see much of the _naivete_ of Suett and Blisset. Hebids fair to be an excellent low comedian of a certain cast. 

Mrs. Twaits approaches very near excellency in several walks of thedrama. Her figure is too _petite_ to give effect to heroic characters;but her voice is good, and her stage business _soigné_. 

Mrs. Oldmixon, the only female singer among us! has lost none of herpowers. 

Of Mrs. Mason we shall speak more fully hereafter. In gay, andsprightly, and laughing comedy she is most at home. Her tragedy is toowhining. 

Mrs. Young is the most attractive actress I have seen for many years. There is something in her manner which charms the eye, whilst the ear isat times offended. This is easily accounted for--she is veryhandsome--her countenance is the picture of innocence; her deportmentmodest and unaffected; but she wants study; and there is some littledefects in her speech, which, we fear it will be difficult to remove. 

Mrs. Poe is a pleasing actress, with many striking defects. She shouldnever attempt to sing. 

 * * * * *

Mr. Tyler, Mr. And Mrs. Young, and Mr. Twaits leave us in July. We trustthe manager will take a little more pains to procure a good company. Thepublic are liberal; and his purse-strings should be open to pay as wellas to receive. If we had Mr. Warren here, or some one capable ofdiscerning merit and willing to reward it, the town would never fail tosupport him. But, as it is, the only hope we have is a _new theatre_, asubscription for which, it is reported, is now on foot. John Hogg, avery good actor has been for twelve months unemployed here, whilstten-dollars-per-week men are engaged to stutter and stammer in parts asfar above their conception as their talents. 

 GLUM. 

 * * * * *

THE AFRICANS. 

In that laudable zeal for the gratification of the public which hasuniformly distinguished the management of Mr. Warren, he resolved to getup _The Africans_, and produced it at his own benefit on Wednesday the18th of April. The scenery, dresses, and preparations being veryexpensive, he could not demonstrate his respect for the city, and hisanxiety to provide for their amusement more unequivocally, than byhazarding an immense expenditure of money, upon the issue of a solitarybenefit, when there were plays already in stock (the Foundling of theForest, for instance) that without a cent of additional expense wouldhave been sufficiently productive. Much is owing, therefore, to themanager for presenting us with the Africans. 

Among the dramatists of the day Mr. Colman stands in our opinion, veryhigh--if not highest. Some of his plays are noble productions, but bythat of which we are now speaking, his fame will not be greatlyaugmented. Of the fable it is sufficient to say, that it is taken fromFLORIAN, who, as a pastoral writer, equals Cervantes himself. Like everything of Florian's the tale is divinely beautiful; but the selection ofit for the stage evinces a want of judgment, of which Mr. Colman israrely liable to be accused. The main ground work is the distress, orrather the agonies of an African family, by which the warmest sympathyis awakened in the bosom: too simple, however, in itself for astage-plot, though impressive and interesting as a narrative, Mr. Colmanhas jumbled up with it metal of a lower kind, and so rudely alloyed thegold of Florian, that the value of it is rather injured. Such a mass ofincongruous beauties we do not recollect to have seen. A tale of themost pathetic kind is interwoven with low comedy--the most loftysentiments, the most exalted virtues, and heroism and magnanimitystrained almost beyond the limits of probability, are checkered byuncouth pleasantries, and the most pathetic incidents intruded upon andinterrupted by the farcical conundrums of MUG, a low cockney, who hasbecome secretary of state to the king of the Mandingoes. Thus, oscillating between Kotesbue and O'Keefe, giving now a layer of exaltedsentiment, and then a layer of mere farce, has Mr. C. Raised a longthree act piece. 

Nor are these the only imperfections of the piece. The language andsentiments of the serious parts are at such variance with the personagesto whom they are assigned, not only according to received opinions, butto obvious matter of fact, that no stretch of the imagination canreconcile them. When we witness actions in which the tenderest charitiesinculcated by the Christian dispensation are combined with theinflexible magnanimity of the stoic's creed--when we hear virtues

 ----Such a Roman breast In Rome's corruptless times might have confest. 

dressed up in a vigorous highly ornamented style, and the crime ofsuicide depicted in the most glowing language of poetry, and deploredand deprecated in terms of dissuasion, forcible as those of Bourdaloue, and eloquent as those of Massillon, delivered from the mouth of a sootyAfrican, as the spontaneous issues of his native moral philosophy andreligion, we feel the incongruity too much for our nerves, and reject itin action. It may be asked, "why may not a negro on the coast of Africaenjoy such feelings, possess such virtues and speak them in such terms?"From what we have heard and seen, we entertain little doubt that thereare men capable of asking such a question; but we know no way ofanswering it but by asking in return why an Esquimaux Indian should notcompose an overture equal to any of Handel's, or a Dutch boor dance a_pas seul_ as well as _Vestris_, or a minuet as well as the prince ofWales. 

Again it may be asked how it came to pass that this play, if soexceptionable, was well received in England; to this we answer, that anabhorrence of the slave trade, just indignation at the wrongs done theunhappy Africans, and pity for their sufferings, together withexultation at the triumph which the generous band who procured theabolition of that execrable trade obtained over its cruel sordidadvocates, had filled the people of Great Britain with an enthusiasmcalculated to ensure their favourable reception of any thing creditableto the Africans. And it is highly probable that Mr. Colman purposelytook that tide in public opinion at the flood. 

The play, however, must be delightful in the closet, and was cast so asto comprehend the whole strength of the company. Every part was decentlysustained, others respectably, two excellently. For a proof of which weneed offer nothing more than the single circumstance that none of theserious parts produced laughter as unexpected incongruities generallydo. Had _black_ SELICO been in the hands of some performers we haveseen, instead of Mr. Wood's, two or three of his speeches must haveproduced merriment. 

 * * * * *

_Mr. Cooper's second visit this season. _

Mr. Cooper's performances during this visit received less reward and yetdeserved more than those on his former. Of five characters there werefour on which criticism can dwell with pleasure. 

 Marc Antony in Julius Cæsar, Alexander in the Rival Queens, Orsino in Alfonso, Pierre in Venice Preserved. 

Mr. Cooper's Antony was, as usual, a chequer work of good and bad: onebeauty there was, however, which would atone for a thousand faults. Wehave never seen any thing in histrionic excellence to surpass, few toequal it. We mean when, in the first scene of the third act, after theassassination of Cæsar, he returned to the senate house, and, droppingon one knee, hung over the mangled body: his attitude surpassed allpowers of description. Then when after gazing for a time in horror atthe corse, with his hands clasped in speechless agony, he looked toheaven, as if appealing to its justice, and again turning to hismurdered friend, exclaimed----

 O mighty Cæsar!----Dost thou lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils Shrunk to this little measure?--Fare thee well. 

All the conflicting passions, and excruciating feelings which Antony canbe supposed to have felt on that awful occasion--astonishment, fear, suspicion, grief, tender affection, indignation, and horror seem risingin tumultuous confusion in his face, and glared and flashed in his eyes. And though Mr. Cooper less than any actor of equal merit that werecollect affects the heart in pathetic passages, we only do him justicein declaring that we have rarely known the feelings of an audience soforcibly or successively appealed to, as by him in the last words: "Farethee well. "

Through the whole of that scene Mr. Cooper was truly admirable. In thespeech in which he shakes the conspirators by their bloody hands, and, like a consummate, artful politician, postpones the indulgence of hisgrief and indignation for the accomplishment of a higher purpose, he wasnot excelled by Barry himself. But in the harangue from the Rostrum hemissed the mark by aiming too high. Could he forget that that celebratedspeech is considered the chief test of the performer of Antony, hewould, we think, deliver it well; but, intent upon making the most ofit, he failed, and was laboriously erroneous and defective. 

In the last speech beginning "This was the noblest Roman of them all"Mr. Cooper was censurable. If he had ever committed it to memory, he hadnow forgotten it, and omitting the very best lines, destroyed the wholeeffect of that beautiful passage. That he should be so negligent is tobe deplored. For errors in judgment, deficiency in talents and powers, nay, for casual lapses themselves, candor will make allowance--but wantof diligence admits of no excuse or palliation. 

ALEXANDER. 

In this character Mr. Cooper would extort commendation from the mostchurlish critic. Alexander is a compound of Hero and Lover, and in bothextravagant and enthusiastic almost to madness. It is in the former ofthese Mr. C. Chiefly displayed his powers. His voice, his person, andhis manner qualified him for an impressive delineation of that portionof the character--but as a lover Mr. Cooper only serves to remind uswith disadvantage to him, of actors we have seen before. In the proudand boastful exultation, the starts of anger, the quick resentment, andardent friendship, the sudden alternation of storm and calm, and, in aword, the medley of eccentric vices and virtues which compose thisgigantic offspring of Lee's bright but fevered brain, the severestcriticism must concur with the public opinion, which ranks Mr. Cooper'sAlexander high among the first specimens of the art exhibited in theEnglish language. Adverting to the first scene of the second act, whenirritated by Lysimachus demanding the princess Parisatis in marriage; inthe swell of passion from the mild rebuke, Lysimachus, no more--it is not well; My word you know, was to Hephestion given, up to the storm of rage

 "My slave, whom I Could tread to clay, dares utter bloody threats. "

The climax of temper was in every transition marked by Mr. Cooper with anatural propriety which, though a vigorous and accurate criticaljudgment might suggest, nothing but a high dramatic genius, seconded bycorrespondent organs, could possibly have executed. 

Several steps higher still in merit criticism must place the whole ofthe banquet scene. The intoxicated vanity of Alexander--his soft andpuerile susceptibility of gross and fulsome adulation, his idle contestwith the blunt old Clytus, his fury and cruel murder of that brave oldsoldier, and his outrageous grief and self reproach for that murder, inall of which the fiery brain of the poet has urged the passions to theutmost verge of nature, Mr. Cooper was all for which the most sanguineadmirer could wish, or a reasonable critic hope. But as, in the bestdrawn portraits, one or more limbs or features will be found superior tothe rest, so in this scene of aggregate excellence, there were threesuccessive speeches of such preeminent excellence and superiority thatthey ought to be commemorated. They all turn upon the provokinginsinuation of Clytus:

 Philip fought men--but Alexander women. 

In the jealousy, the astonishment, the wrath of the insulted hero, theexpression of the actor kept equal flight with the bold wing of thepoet. Accustomed as we have been to the prodigious exertions of thegreatest actors in the world we have not witnessed nor can we conceiveany thing superior to Mr. Cooper in the following speeches----

 _Alex. _ Envy by the gods! Is then my glory come to this at last, To conquer _women_!--Nay, he said the stoutest Here would tremble at the dangers he had seen! In all the sickness, all the wounds I bore, When from my reins the Javelin's head was cut. Lysimachus! Hephestion! speak Perdicas! Did I once tremble? Oh, the cursed falsehood! Did I once shake or groan, or act beneath The dauntless resolution of a king?

 _Lysim. _ Wine has transported him. 

 _Alex. _ No, 'tis mere malice. I was a _woman_ too at Oxydrace, When planting on the walls a scaling ladder; I mounted spite of showers of stones, bars, arrows, And all the lumber which they thunder'd down. When you beneath cry'd and out spread your arms, That I should leap among you--did I so?

 _Lysim. _ Dread sir, the old man knows not what he says. 

 _Alex. _ Was I _woman_ when like Mercury, I leaped the walls and flew amidst the foe, And like a baited Lion dyed myself All over in the blood of those bold hunters; 'Till spent with toil I battled on my knees, Plucked forth the darts that made my shield a forest, And hurl'd them back with the most unconquer'd fury, Then shining in my arms, I sunned the field, Moved, spoke and fought, and was myself a war. 

 _Clytus. _ 'Twas all Bravado; for, before you leap'd You saw that I had burst the gates asunder. 

Never was a crisis in human passion, more naturally, more appropriately, more exquisitely marked and illustrated by action than that of Alexanderat this juncture by the action of Mr. Cooper. He leaped like a foamingtyger from the throne, and, with his arms extended and his fingerscrooked, seemed rushing upon Clytus as if to tear him in pieces. Then, stopping short, as if forbearing a prey too weak for him, he inbreathless rage exclaimed----

 Oh, that thou wert but once more young! That I might strike thee to the earth For this audacious lie, thou feeble dotard. 

After this scene we could relish nothing in the play. We endeavoured todisengage ourselves sufficiently to attend to the sequel--but all seemedfrigid and uninteresting till the mad dying scene of Alexander againfurnished Mr. Cooper with an opportunity to give scope to his talents, which he did, so successfully, that if we had not been filled with theformer scene it is likely that we should have pronounced this his _chefa'oeuvre_. 

As we mean to be full upon the tragedy of ALFONSO, we postpone ourfurther observations on Mr. Cooper to the next number. 

 * * * * *

MR. DWYER. 

The fame of this young actor reached America before him. Those who arein the habit of perusing the critical productions of London orEdinburgh, had learned from them that he was a performer of considerablemerit in a particular department, and of great promise as a generalactor. The most favourable reports of the British publications wereamply confirmed by American gentlemen who saw him perform in Europe; andthe acknowledged taste and judgment of a respectable literary characterat New-York, who engaged Mr. Dwyer for the manager of that theatre, would have been of itself a sufficient warranty for the most sanguinepresumptions in his favour. Accordingly he was received by the New-Yorkaudience for some nights with enthusiastic applause, and on the groundof the reports of that city, the play-loving folks of this wound theirminds up to a strained pitch of expectation. In consequence of this, Mr. Warren, who never fails to make use of every opportunity that arises togratify his audience, proceeded to New-York for the purpose of engagingMr. Dwyer for a few nights, if his merits should be found to correspondwith the general reports respecting him. Mr. Warren's own judgmentconfirmed those reports, and he engaged Mr. Dwyer upon terms which dohonour to the liberality of his heart, and to his spirit as a manager. 

Mr. Dwyer's performances here have answered the expectations we hadbuilt upon the various criticisms we had read, and the verbalcommunications we had received upon the subject of his professionaltalents. We conjectured that his acting might not entirely, or all atonce, accord with that kind of taste which the actors we have beenaccustomed to naturally generated in the multitude. His performance ofBELCOUR was as new to our audience as the chaste and natural acting ofGarrick was on _his_ first appearance to the admirers of Booth and Quin, and for some time our audience could scarcely admire it. In some fewinstances, indeed, a positive disrelish for it was openly avowed, and wecould not help feeling that those opinions were entitled to particularrespect as they could have come only by _inspiration_. Being utteredbefore it was possible for the propounders to have formed a judgment bymere human means upon that gentleman's merits. This we can aver, that hehad spoken only four lines, according to the letter press of the copynow before us, when some person on one side of us remarked that he wasnothing to Mr. Chalmers, and in four lines more, another person on theother side laid him down under another actor--but one, indeed of a verysuperior kind to Mr. Chalmers. 

As we have no pretensions to that kind of _inspiration_--that criticalsecond sight (as the Highland Scotch call it) but are fain to judge bythe mere humdrum human means of reason and experience, we felt it to beour duty to see the character entirely performed by Mr. Dwyer before weventured to form an opinion on his acting it; and we are free to confessthat if all critics find it as difficult as we do to estimate the valueof an actor's performance, and are honestly disposed, they will not onlywait as we always do till the whole evidence is before them, but weighit scrupulously, without affection, prejudice, or malice, before theyventure to pass sentence. 

Now it so happened that we differed essentially from those _inspired_ones. We thought, as most critics who have seen him in England do, thatMr. Dwyer's Belcour was a most elegant and accomplished specimen ofgenteel acting--chaste, graceful, and where the character required andadmitted it, interesting and impressive. And we had the satisfaction toperceive as the play advanced the audience conformed more and more tothe same opinion. It is greatly to Mr. Dwyer's credit that all theapplause he received, was extorted by his own merit, and drawn likedrops of blood reluctantly distilled from languid hearts. 

In Tangent a character in which broader humour afforded him anopportunity of coming nearer to the genteel taste. Mr. Dwyer met with asuperior reception at first, and before the end of the play drew themost unequivocal acknowledgments of his supreme comic powers. 

In the character of Ranger, (Suspicious Husband) though he waswretchedly supported by the performers of every character, saveStrictland and Tester, he was no less successful. 

In Vapid he was truly excellent and delivered the epilogue with a forceand humour which merited and indeed received three successive rounds ofapplause after the curtain dropped. 

The English critics concur in pronouncing Mr. Dwyer's the best WILDING(Lyar) on the British boards. Nor will an enlightened critic, providedhe be honest as well as enlightened, deny his great superiority in thatpart. Having seen Lewis, Palmer, I. Bannister, and several others, perform young Wilding, we have no hesitation to declare that in manyparts of the character, but particularly in his account of the feignedmarriage with Miss Lydia Sibthorpe, and the adventure of the closet andthe cat, he was superior to any actor but the great original and theauthor of the piece, SAM FOOTE. 

Of his Rapid we are unable to say any thing, having been detained fromthe theatre by business to a late hour. His Sir Charles Racket, whichfollowed it, was, like Belcour, an elegant specimen of high genteelcomedy. Something went wrong however towards the conclusion of the piecewhich occasioned it to end rather abruptly. 

Upon the whole we must in justice say, that Mr. Dwyer, so far as we haveseen him go, has shown uncommon talents for the stage--that he is anacquisition to the American boards, such as we had not dared to hopefor, and that we trust next season will bring him back, and exhibit himin a range of characters more varied and extensive, and bettercalculated to call forth the great natural powers of which he seems tobe amply possessed. 

 * * * * *

_Grand Musical Performances. _

In no country in the world is the practice of music more universallyextended and at the same time the science so little understood as inAmerica. Almost every house included between the Delaware and Schuylkillhas its piano or harpsichord, its violin, its flute, or its clarinet. Almost every young lady and gentleman from the children of the Judge, the banker, and the general, down to those of the constable, thehuckster, and the drummer, can make a noise upon some instrument orother, and charm their friends, or split the ears of their neighbours, with something which courtesy calls music. Europeans, as they walk ourstreets, are often surprised with the flute rudely warbling "HailColumbia, " from an oyster cellar, or the _piano forte_ thumped to afemale voice screaming "O Lady Fair!" from behind a heap of cheese, abasket of eggs, a flour barrel, or a puncheon of apple whiskey; and onthese grounds we take it for granted that we are a very musical people. 

When Boswell asked Dr. Johnson if he did not think there was a greatdeal of learning in Scotland, "Learning, " replied the philosopher, "isin Scotland as food in a town besieged; every one has a mouthfull, butno one a belly-full. " The same may be said of music in America. Thesummit of attainment in that delightful science seldom reaching higherthan the accompanying of a song so as to set off a tolerable voice, oraid a weak one, and the attracting a circle of beaus round a young lady, while she exhibits the nimbleness of her fingers in the execution of adarling waltz, or touches the hearts of the fond youths with a plaintivemelody accompanied with false notes. Thus far, or but little further, does music extend, save in a few scattered instances. Like aplover-call, it is used to allure the fluttering tribe into the meshes;but when it has done its office in that kind, is laid aside for ever. POPE SEXTUS QUINTUS, when he was a cardinal, hung up a net in his room, to demonstrate his humility, his father having been a fisherman; but assoon as he was made pope, he pulled it down again, shrewdly saying, "Ihave caught the fish. " Miss Hannah More remarks that few ladies attendto music after marriage, however skilful they may have been before it. Indeed nothing is more common than to hear a lady acknowledge it. "Mrs. Racket will you do us the favour, " &c. Says a dapper young gentlemanoffering his hand to lead a lady to the piano. "Do excuse me, sir, I begof you, " she replies, "I have not touched an instrument of music half adozen times since I was married--one, you know, has so much to do. " Thusmusic as a science lags in the rear, while musical instruments inmyriads twang away in the van: and thus the window cobweb having caughtits flies for the season is swept away by the housemaid. 

This is, in fact, an evil. It is assuming the frivolity, the waste oftime, the coxcombry, and all the disadvantages of music, without any ofits substantial benefits. That which Shakspeare praised, and Miltoncultivated, and which is supposed to be the language of saints andangels when they hymn their Maker's praise, ought to be a nation's care:but then it ought to be so only on proper grounds and in the trueethereal spirit which fits it for divine. Not the miserable or thevitious levities of music, which serve but to unman the soul, to wakethe dormant sensualities of the heart, and far from lifting the spiritto the skies, but sink it to the centre. Not what Shakspeare calls "thelascivious pleasing of a lute" for fools "to caper to in a lady'schamber, " but harmony, such as befits the creature to pour forth at thealtar of the Creator; the sublime raptures of Handel; the divine strainsof Haydn, and the majestic compositions of Purcel, Pergolesse, andGraun. 

We have been led into these observations by a report which has for somedays prevailed, that a grand performance of music, such as we describe, something on the plan of the commemoration of Handel, which took placein the year 1784, at Westminster Abbey, and much superior to any thingever heard in America, is contemplated. Upon inquiry we find the reportto be true, and that a combination of musical powers hitherto unknownin this country, will, at St. Augustine Church, perform a GrandSelection of Sacred Music, after the manner of the oratorios in Europe. 

Having made it our business to procure the best information upon thissubject, we are enabled to state that the pieces to be performed on thisoccasion will be selected from the very highest order of musicalcomposition--the Messiah of Handel, the Creation of Haydn, &c. Thatbesides those, a number of the choicest compositions vocal andinstrumental, by Handel, Graun, Pergolesse, &c. Will be performed, andthat, in order to make the exhibition as perfect as possible, everyattainable assistance will be brought in to give magnificence to theperformances and "swell the note of praise. "

On this grand occasion, not only all the professional musicians of thiscity will unite, but all who can be collected from the other States willbe summoned to lend their aid, in addition to which a number of ladiesand gentlemen, amateurs, will give their assistance. 

A plan so well worthy of an enlightened nation's patronage, cannot failof success in such a country as America. 

FOOTNOTES:

[K] Shakspeare Midsummer night's Dream. 

[L] Milton. 

ALFONSO, KING OF CASTILE:

A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS. 

BY M. G. LEWIS. 

 For us and for our Tragedy, Thus stooping to your clemency, We beg your _candid_ hearing patiently. 

 Hamlet. 

PHILADELPHIA:

PUBLISHED BY BRADFORD AND INSKEEP: INSKEEP AND BRADFORD, NEW-YORK; AND WILLIAM M'ILHENNY, BOSTON. 

_Smith & M'Kenzie, printers. _

1810. 

ALFONSO, KING OF CASTILE:

DRAMATIS PERSONAE. 

Alfonso XI. Orsino. Cæsario. Father Bazil. Henriquez. Melchior. Ricardo. Gomez. Marcos. Lucio. First Citizen. Second Citizen. 

Friars, Soldiers, Citizens, Conspirators, &c. 

Amelrosa. Ottilia. Estella. Inis. 

Nuns, and Female attendants on Amelrosa. 

_The scene lies in Burgos (the capital of Old Castile) and in theadjoining Forest. _

The Action is supposed to pass in the year 1345. 

ACT I. 

SCENE I. --_The palace-garden. --Daybreak. _

Ottilia _enters in a night dress: her hair flows dishevelled. _

_Otti. _ Dews of the morn, descend! Breathe, summer gales, My flushed cheeks woo ye! Play, sweet wantons, play'Mid my loose tresses, fan my panting breast, Quench my blood's burning fever!--Vain, vain prayer!Not Winter, throned 'midst Alpine snows, whose willCan with one breath, one touch, congeal whole realms, And blanch whole seas; not that fiend's self could easeThis heart, this gulph of flames, this purple kingdom, Where passion rules and rages!--Oh! my soul!Cæsario, my Cæsario!--[_A pause, during whichshe seems buried in thought--the clock strikes four. _] Hark!--Ah me!Is't still so early? Will't be still so long, Ere my love comes? Oh! speed, ye pitying hours, Your flight, till mid-day brings Cæsario back;Then, if ye list, rest your kind wings for ever!

_Enter_ Lucio. 

_Luc. _ 'Tis past the hour! I fear I shall be chid, For lo! the sun already darts his raysAthwart the garden-paths. 

_Otti. _ How still! how tranquil!All rests, except Ottilia! I'll regainThe hateful couch, where still my husband sleeps:Ere long he sleeps forever! Ha! why stealsYon boy. ----Amazement! Do my eyes deceive me?

_Luc. _ Hist! hist! Estella?Estella. [_Appearing on the terrace of the palace. _]

_Est. _ Lucio?

_Luc. _ Ay, the same. 

_Est. _ Good! good!

_Luc. _ But pray you bid him speed. So loudHis black Arabian snorts, and paws the earth, I fear he'll wake the guards. 

_Est. _ Farewell, I'll warn him. [_Ext. Severally. _

_Otti. _ [_Alone. _] 'Twas Lucio, sure!--What business. --Ah, how readyIs fear to whisper what love hates to hear. 

[Estella _and_ Cæsario _appear on the terrace. _]

See! see! again Estella comes--and with her--Shame and despair! burst from your sockets eyes, Since ye dare show me this!--'Tis he! 'Tis he!Cæsario! on my soul, Cæsario's self----He bids farewell!--He waves a glittering scarf, A gift of love, no doubt!--Now to his lipsHe glues it!--Blistered be those lips, Cæsario, Which have so oft sworn faith to me:--She goes----Egyptian plagues go with her! [_Exit Estella. _

_Cæsa. _ [_Looking back at the palace. _] Yet one look, One grateful blessing for this night of rapture;Then, shrine of my soul's idol! casket, holdingMy heart's most precious gem, awhile farewell!But, when my foot next bends thy floors, expectNo more this cautious gait, this voice subdued!Proud and erect, with manly steps and strong, I'll come a Conqueror and a King, to leadWith sceptred hand forth from her bower my bride, And bid Castile adore her, like Cæsario. Farewell, once more farewell!

_Otti. _ [_Advancing. _] I'll cross his path, And blast him with a look. 

_Cæsa. _ Ottilia?

_Otti. _ What!Am I then grown so hideous that my sightWithers the roses on a warrior's cheeks, And makes his steps recoil! In Moorish battlesHe gazed undaunted on death's frightful form, But shrinks to view a monster like Ottilia. 

_Cæsa. _ [_Aside. _] Confusion! Should her rage alarm the guards. 

_Otti. _ Or do I wrong myself? Is still _my_ formUnchanged, but not thy faith? Speak, traitor, speak!

_Cæsa. _ I own, most dear Ottilia----

_Otti. _ Hark! he owns it!Hear, Earth and Heaven, he owns it! No excuse!No varnish, no disguise!--He will not stoopTo use dissembling with a wretch he scorns, Nor thinks it worth his pains to fool me further!Proceed, brave sir, proceed! In trivial strainTell me how light are lovers' oaths, how fondYouth's heart of change, how quick love comes and flies;And own that yours for me is flown for ever. Then with indifference ask a parting kiss, Hope we shall still be friends, profess esteem, Thank me for favours past, and coldly leave me. 

_Cæsa. _ How shall I hush this storm? [_Aside. _]

_Otti. _ Oh! fool, fool, fool!I thought him absent; thought mid-day would bringMy hero back, and pass'd this sleepless nightIn prayers, and sighs, and vows for his return;While scorned all oaths, forgot all faith, all honour, Clasped in Estella's wanton arms he lay, And mock'd the poor, undone, deceiv'd Ottilia!

_Cæsa. _ Estella? [_then aside_] Blest mistake!

_Otti. _ What! didst thou hopeMy rival's name unknown? Oh! well I know it, Estella! cursed Estella! Still I'll shriek itPiercing and loud, till Earth, and Air, and Ocean, Ring with her name, thy guilt, and my despair. 

_Cæsa. _ And need thy words, Ottilia, blame my falsehood?Oh! in each feature of thy beauteous faceI blush to read reproaches far more keen. Those glittering eyes, though now with lightnings armed, Which erst were used to pour on blest CæsarioKind looks, and fondest smiles, and tears of rapture;That voice, by wrath untuned, once only breathingSounds like the ringdove's, amorous, soft, and sweet;That snowy breast, now swelled by storms of passion, But which in happier days by love was heaved, By love for me!--The least of these, Ottilia, Gives to my heart a deeper stab than allThy words could do, were every word a dagger. 

_Otti. _ Thou prince of hypocrites!

_Cæsa. _ Think'st thou I flatter!Then trust thyself--[_leading her to a fountain. _]View on this watery mirrorThine angel-form reflected--Lovely shade, Bid this indignant fair confess, how vainEstella's charms were to contend with thine!And yet--oh madman! at Estella's feetBreathing my vows, these eyes forgot these lips, Than roses sweeter, redder--Oh! I'll gazeNo more, for gazing I detest myself. 

_Otti. _ This subtile snake, how winds he round my heart!Oh didst thou speak sincerely. 

_Cæsa. _ At thy feet, Adored Ottilia! lo! I kneel repentant. Couldst thou forgive--Vain man, it must not be. Forgive the fool, who for a lamp's dull gleamingScorn'd the sun's noon-tide splendour? for a pebbleWho gave a diamond worth a monarch's ransom?No, no, thou canst not. 

_Otti. _ Cannot? Oh Cæsario, Thou lov'st no longer, or thou ne'er couldst doubtI can, I must forgive thee!----[_falling on his bosom_]

_Cæsa. _ Best Ottilia, No seraph's song e'er bore a sweeter soundBreathed in the ear of some expiring saint, Than pardon from thy lips. 

_Otti. _ Those lips againThus seal it!----Yet to prove thy faith, I ask--

_Cæsa. _ What can Ottilia ask, and I deny?

_Otti. _ The scarf you wear. ----

_Cæsa. _ [_Starting. _] Ottilia!

_Otti. _ Well I knowIt was Estella's gift. I'll therefore wear it, And with her jealous pangs repay my own. Give me that scarf. 

_Cæsa. _ And can Ottilia wishSo mean a triumph?

_Otti. _ Ha! beware, Cæsario!My foot is on thy neck, and should I findThy head a snake's I'll crush it! quick! the scarf!Am I refused?

_Cæsa. _ Ottilia, be persuaded. More nobly use thy power. 

_Otti. _ [_Suffocated with rage. _] The scarf! the scarf!

_Cæsa. _ I value not the toy, nor her who gave it. Then wherefore triumph o'er a fallen foe?It must not be----Hark! footsteps!--Sweet, farewell!Ere night we meet again. ----[_Going. _]

_Otti. _ Yes, go, perfidious!But know, ere night, thy head shall grace the scaffold!

_Cæsa. _ [_Returning. _] Saidst thou----

_Otti. _ Last night my husband's dreams revealedA secret. 

_Cæsa. _ [_Starting. _] How? thy husband? Marquis Guzman?

_Otti. _ He spoke of plots--of soldiers brib'd----

[_looking round mysteriously, and pointing to the lower part of thepalace. _]

Of vaultsBeneath the royal chamber--Wherefore tell ITo thee a tale thou know'st thyself full well?I'll tell it to the king----[_Going. _]

_Cæsa. _ Ottilia, stay!

_Otti. _ The scarf. 

_Cæsa. _ [_Giving it. _] 'Tis thine!----My life is in thy hands. Be secret, and I live thy slave forever. [_Exit. _

_Otti. _ [_Alone. _] 'Tis plain! 'tis plain! traitor, thou lov'st her still!Am I forsaken then? Oh shame, shame, shame!Forsaken too by one, for whom last nightI dared a deed which----Ha! the palace opens, And lo! Estella with the princess comes. I'll hence, but soon returning make my rivalFeel what I suffer now. Thus fell Megæra;Tears from her heart one of those snakes which gnaw it, To throw upon some wretch; and when it stings him, Wild laughs the fiend to see his pangs, well knowingHow keen those pangs are, since she feels the same. [_Exit. _

Amelrosa, Estella, Inis, _and ladies, appear on the terrace of thepalace. _

_Amel. _ Forth, forth my friends! the morn will blush to hearOur tardy greeting [_descending. _] Gently, winds, I pray ye, Breathe through this grove; and thou, all-radiant sun, Woo not these bowers beloved with kiss too fierce. Oh! look, my ladies, how yon beauteous rose, O'er charged with dew, bends its fair head to earth, Emblem of sorrowing virtue! [_to Inis_] would'st thou break it?See'st not its silken leaves are stain'd with tears?Ever, my Inis, where thou find'st these traces, Show thou most kindness, most respect. I'll raise it, And bind it gently to its neighbour rose;So shall it live, and still its blushing bosomYield the wild bee, its little love, repose. 

_Inis. _ Its love? Can flowers then love?

_Amel. _ Oh! what cannot?There's nothing lives, in air, on earth, in ocean, But lives to love! for when the Great UnknownParted the elements, and out of chaosFormed this fair world with one blest blessing word, That word was Love? Angels, with golden clarions, Prolonged in heavenly strain the heavenly sound:The mountain-echoes caught it: the four windsSpread it, rejoicing o'er the world of waters;And since that hour, in forest, or by fountain, On hill or moor, whate'er be Nature's song, Love is her theme, Love! universal Love!

_Est. _ See, lady where the king----

_Amel. _ I haste to meet him. 

_Enter_ Alfonso, _and attendants. _

_Amel. _ [_Kneeling. _] My father! my dear father!

_Alfon. _ Heaven's best dewsFall on thy beauteous head, my Amelrosa, And be each drop a blessing!--Cheered by morningFair smile the skies; but nothing smiles on me, Till I have seen thee well, and know thee happy. 

_Amel. _ And I _were_ happy, if my eyes perceived notTears clouding thine. Oh! what has power to grieve theeOn this proud day, when rich in spoils and gloryCæsario brings thee back thy conquering troops, That brave young warrior? Spite of Moorish hosts, And all their new-found engines of destruction, Sulphureous mines and mouths of iron thunder, He forced their gates! He leap'd their flaming gulphs!Pale as their banner'd crescent fled the Moors, And proudly streamed our flag o'er Algesiras!

_Alfon. _ And with them fled--Oh! have I words to speak it?Thy brother, Amelrosa!

_Amel. _ How! my brother?

_Alfon. _ Oh! 'tis too true. He thinks I live too long, So joined the Moors to hurl me from my throne, Guided their councils, sharpened their resentment, And, when they fled, fled with them. 

_Amel. _ Powers of mercy!Can there be hearts so black!

_Alfon. _ Poor wretched man, Where shall I turn me? where, since lust of powerMakes a son faithless, find a friend that's true?Where fly for comfort?----

_Amel. _ To this heart, my father!This heart, which, while it throbs, shall throb to love thee. Stream thy dear eyes? my hand shall dry those tears;Aches thy poor head? My bosom shall support it!And when thou sleep'st, I'll watch thy dreams, and pray----"Changed be to joy the sorrow which afflictsMy king, my father, my soul's best friend!"--

_Alfon. _ My child! my comfort!--Yes, yes! here's the chain, The only chain that binds me to existence--And should that break too--should'st thou e'er deceive me--Oh! should'st thou, Amelrosa. 

_Amel. _ Doubts my father?

_Alfon. _ No, no!--Nay, droop not. By my soul, I think theeAs free from guile, as yon blue vault from clouds, And clear as rain-drops ere they touch the earth!Nor love I mean suspicion:--where I giveMy heart I give my faith, my whole firm faith, And hold it base to doubt the thing I value. 

_Amel. _ Then why that wronging thought?

_Alfon. _ By fear 'twas prompted;By fear to lose, but not by doubt to keep. And well my heart may fear. Think, think how keenlyIngratitude has wrung that trusting heart!Think that my faithless son but rends anewA wound scarce fourteen years had healed. 

_Amel. _ Orsino. 

_Alfon. _ He! he! that man--Oh! how I loved that man!And yet that man betrayed me!

_Amel. _ Is that certain?Might not deception----? Slander loves the court, And slippery are the heights of royal favour. Who stumbles, falls; who falls, finds none to raise him. 

_Alfon. _ Nay, but I saw the writings; 'twas his hand, His very hand, nor dared he disavow it:For when I taxed him with his guilt, and showed himHis letters to the Moor, awhile he eyed meIn sullen silence, then contemptuous smiled, And coldly bade me treat him as I list. Arraigned, no plea excused his dark offence;Condemned to die, no word implored for pardon:But my heart pleaded stronger than all words!I saved his life, yet bade him live a prisonerOr clear himself from guilt. 

_Amel. _ And did he never----

_Alfon. _ Without one word or look, one tear or sigh, He turned away, and silent sought the dungeonWhere three years since he died----Ah! said I, died?No, no, he lives! lives in my memory still, Such as in youth's fond dreams my fancy formed him, Virtuous and brave, faithful, sincere and just;My friend? my guide?--a Phoenix among men!How now? What haste brings fair Ottilia hither?

_Enter_ Ottilia, _wearing the scarf_. 

Pardon, my sovereign, that uncalled I comeYou see a suppliant from a dying man. 

_Alfon. _ Lady, from whom?

_Otti. _ My husband, Marquis Guzman, Lies on the bed of death, and, stung by conscience, By me unloads it of this secret guilt!Those traitor-scrolls, which bore Orsino's name--

_Alfon. _ Say on, say on!

_Otti. _ By Guzman's hand were forged. 

_Alfon. _ Forged?--No, no, no! Lady, it cannot be!Unsay thy words or stab me!

_Otti. _ Gracious Sir, Look on these papers. 

_Alfon. _ Ha!

[_After looking at them, drops them, and clasps his hands in agony. _]

_Amel. _ Father! dear father!

_Alfon. _ Father! I merit not that name, nor anySweet, good, or gracious. Call me villain! fiend!Suspicious tyrant! treacherous, calm assassin!Who slew the truest, noblest friend, that everMan's heart was blest with!--Ha! why kneels my child?

_Amel. _ For pardon first that I have dar'd deceive thee----

_Alfon. _ Deceive me!

_Amel. _ Next to pay pure thanks to Heaven, Which grants me to allay my father's anguishWith words of most sweet comfort. 

_Alfon. _ Ha! what means't thou?

_Amel. _ Four years are past since first Orsino's sorrowsStruck on my startled ear: that sound once heard, Ne'er left my ear again, but day and night, Whether I walked or sate, awake or sleeping, The captive, the poor captive still was there. The rain seemed but _his_ tears; his hopeless groansSpoke in each hollow wind; his nights of anguishRobbed mine of rest; or, if I slept, my dreamsShowed his pale wasted form, his beamless eyeFixed on the moon, his meager hands now foldedIn dull despair, now rending his few locksUntimely gray; and now again in frenzyDreadful he shrieked; tore with his teeth his flesh;'Gainst his dark prison-walls dashed out his brains, And died despairing! From my couch I started;Sunk upon my knees; I kissed this cross, ----"Captive, " I cried, "I'll die or set thee free!"----

_Alfon. _ And didst thou? Bless thee, didst thou?

_Amel. _ Moved by gold, More by my prayers, most by his own heart's pity, His jailer yielded to release Orsino, And spread his death's report. --One night when allWas hushed, I sought his tower, unlocked his chains, And bade him rise and fly! With vacant stare, Bewildered, wondering, doubting what he heard, He followed to the gate. But when he viewedThe sky thick sown with stars, and drank heaven's air, And heard the nightingale and saw the moonShed o'er these groves a shower of silver light, Hope thawed his frozen heart; in livelier currentFlowed his grief-thickened blood, his proud soul melted, And down his furrowed cheeks kind tears came stealing, Sad, sweet, and gentle as the dews, which eveningSheds o'er expiring day. Words had he none, But with his looks he thanked me. At my feetHe sunk; he wrung my hand; his pale lips pressed it;He sighed, he rose, he fled; he lives, my father!

_Alfon. _ [_Kneeling. _] Fountain of bliss! words are too poor for thanks;Oh! deign to read them here!

_Amel. _ Canst thou forgiveMy long deceit----

_Alfon. _ Forgive thee? To my heartThus let me clasp thee, best of earthly blessings, Balm of my soul, and saviour of my justice!Oh! blest were kings, when fraud ensnares their sense, And passion arms their hands, if still they foundOne who like thee dared stand the victim's friend, Wrest from proud lawless Power his brandished javelin, And make him virtuous in his own despite!

_Enter_ Ricardo. 

_Ricar. _ My liege, your conquering general brave Cæsario, Draws near the walls. 

_Alfon. _ I hasten to receiveThe hero and his troops: that duty done, I'll seek my wronged friend's pardon. Say my child, Where dwells Orsino?

_Amel. _ In the neighbouring forestHe lives a hermit: Inis knows the place. 

_Alfon. _ Ere night I'll seek him there. And now farewellEver beloved, but now more loved than ever!Oh! still as now watch o'er and timely checkMy hasty nature; still, their guardian-angel, Protect my people, e'en from _me_ protect them:Then, after ages, pondering o'er the pageWhich bears my name, shall see, and seen shall blessThat union most beloved of man and heaven, A patriot monarch, and a people free!

[_Exit with_ Ricardo _and attendants_. ]

_Amel. _ My good kind father! fatal, fatal, secret, How weigh'st thou down my heart! [_Remains buried in thought. _]

_Otti. _ I'll haste and calmMy husband's conscience with Orsino's safety. But when our Spanish beauties throng the ramparts, Anxious to see, and anxious to be seen, Why stays Estella from the walls?

_Estel. _ Both dutyAnd friendship chain me where the princess stays. 

_Otti. _ Duty and friendship? trust me, glorious words;--Yet there's a sweeter--Love! Boasts the gay band, Which circles brave Cæsario's laurelled car, No youth who proudly wears Estella's colours, And knows no glory like Estella's smile?

_Estel. _ Ha! Sure my sight must err?

_Otti. _ [_Aside. _] She sees and knows it. 

_Estel. _ It must be that!----Princess!

_Otti. _ [Aside. ] So so! now flies sheTo her she--Pylades for aid and comfort. Oh most rare sympathy! How the fiend starts!And, trust me, changes colour!

_Amel. _ Say'st thou? how?Away, it cannot be!

_Estel. _ Convince thyself then. 

_Otti. _ [_Aside. _] Ay, look your fill! look till your eye-strings break. For 'tis that scarf; that very, very scarf?----So now the question comes. 

_Estel. _ Forgive me lady, Nor hold me rude, that much I wish to know, Whence came the scarf you wear?

_Otti. _ This scarf----Alas!A paltry toy! a very soldier's present. 

_Estel. _ A soldier's!

_Otti. _ Ay. 'Twas sent me from the camp:But with such bitter taunts on her who wrought it----Breathed ever mortal man such thoughts of me, _My_ heart would break or _his_ should bleed for it!

_Estel. _ Say you?

_Otti. _ Nay mark--"Receive, proud fair, "--thus ran the letter--"This scarf, forced on me by a hand I loath, With many an amorous word and tasteless kiss!As I for thee, so burns for me the wanton;To me as thine, cold is my heart to her;Nor canst thou more despise the gift than IScorn the fond fool who gave it!"----

_Amel. _ Oh! my heart!

_Inis. _ Look to the Princess. 

_Otti. _ [_Starting. _] Ha!

_Estel. _ She faints!

_Amel. _ No, no, 'Tis nothing--mid-day's heat--the o'erpowering sun--I'll in and rest. 

_Otti. _ Princess, permit----

_Amel. _ No lady!I need no aid of thine--In, in, Estella. Oh! cruel, false Cæsario!

[_Exit with_ Estella, Inis, _and Ladies_. ]

_Otti. _ [_Alone. _] Ha! is't so?And flies my falcon at so high a lure?The princess! 'tis the princess that he loves!--And shall I calmly see her bear awayThis dear-bought prize, my secret crime's reward, My lord, my love, my life, my all?----She dies! [_Exit. _

_End of Act I. _

ACT II. 

SCENE I. _A hall in_ Cæsario's _palace_. 

[_Shouts heard without. _]

_Enter_ Cæsario [_a general's staff in his hand_] _followed by_Henriquez, _citizens and soldiers_. 

_Cæsa. _ Thanks, worthy friends! No further!--Pleased I hearThese shouts, which thank me for Alfonso's safety!But though _my_ arms have quelled the Moors, your loveAlone can shield him from a foe more dangerous, From his proud rebel son!--Farewell, assuredI live but for your use!

_First Citi. _ Long live Cæsario!

_Sec. Citi. _ Long live the conqueror of the Moors!

_All. _ Huzza! [_Exeunt. _

_Manent_ Cæsario _and_ Henriquez. 

_Cæsa. _ Kind friends, farewell!--Ay, shout, ye brawlers, shout!Pour out unmeaning praise till the skies ring!'Twill school your deep-toned throats to roar tomorrow, --"Long live Cæsario! Sovereign of Castile!"--Mark you, Henriquez, how the royal dotardHung on my neck, termed me his kingdom's angel, His friend, his saviour, his----Oh! my tongue burnedTo thunder in his startled ear----"The manWho raised this war, and fired your son's ambition, Your daughter's husband, and your mortal foe, That man am I!"----

_Hen. _ Then absence has not cooled, It seems, your hatred----

_Cæsa. _ Could'st thou think it? thou, Who know'st a secret to all else unknown!Know'st me no stranger-youth, no chance-adventurer, Whose sword's his fortune, as Castile believes me;But one of mightiest views and proudest hopes, Galled by injustice, panting for revenge, Son of a hero! wronged Orsino's son!

_Hen. _ Yet might your wealth and power--yon general's staff--Alfonso's countless favours----

_Cæsa. _ Favours? Insults!Curses when proffered by a hand I hate!Bright seems ambition to my eye, and sureTo reign is glorious; yet such fixed aversionI bear this man, and such my thirst for vengeance, I would not sell his head, once in my power, Though the price tendered were the crown that decks it!Yet that, too, shortly shall be mine!--Say, Marquis, How speeds our plot?

_Hen. _ 'Tis ripe: beneath his chambersThe vaults are ours, the sleeping fires disposed;The mine waits but your word. 

_Cæsa. _ Tonight it springs then, And hurls my foe in burning clouds to heaven--O! rapturous sight!

_Hen. _ And can that sight give raptureWhich wrings with anguish Amelrosa's bosom?She loves her father----

_Cæsa. _ Loves she not her husband?

_Hen. _ She'll hate him, when she knows----

_Cæsa. _ She ne'er shall know it!All shall be held her rebel brother's deed;And while contending passions shake the rabble, (Grief for the sire, resentment 'gainst the son;And pity for the princess) forth I'll step, Avow our marriage, claim the crown her right, And, when she mounts the throne, ascend it with her. 

_Hen. _ Oh! she will drown that bloody throne with tears!And should she learn who bade them flow----

_Cæsa. _ Say on----

_Hen. _ She'll loath you!

_Cæsa. _ [_With a scornful smile_] She'll forgive me. 

_Hen. _ Never, never!I know the princess; know a daughter's love, A daughter's grief----

_Cæsa. _ And are not daughters women?By nature tender, trustful, kind, and fickle, Prone to forgive, and practised in forgetting?Let the fair things but rave their hour at ease, And weep their fill, and wring their pretty hands, Faint between whiles, and swear by every saintThey'll never, never, never see you more!Then when the larum's hushed, profess repentance, Say a few kind false words, drop a few tears, Force a fond kiss or two, and all's forgiven. Away! I know her sex!

_Hen. _ But know not her!Her heart will bleed; and can you wound that heart, Yet swear you love her?

_Cæsa. _ Dearly, fiercely love her;But not so fiercely as I loath this king!--Hatred of him, cherished from youth, is nowMy second nature! 'tis the air I breathe, The stream which fills my veins, my life's chief source, My food, my drink, my sleep, warmth, health and vigour, Mixed with my blood, and twisted round my heart-strings!To cease to hate him, I must cease to breathe!--Never to know one hour's repose or pleasureWhile loathed Alfonso lived, --such was my oath, Breathed on my broken-hearted mother's lips. She heard! her eyes flashed with new fire; she kissed me, Murmured Orsino's name, blessed it and died!--That oath I'll keep!

_Enter_ Melchior. 

_Cæsa. _ Melchior! why thus alarmed?

_Mel. _ I've cause too good! our lives hang by a thread!Guzman is dying. 

_Cæsa. _ and _Hen. _ How?

_Mel. _ Remorse alreadyHath wrung one secret from him; and I fear, The next fit brings our plot. 

_Cæsa. _ Speed, speed, Henriquez!Place spies around his gate! guard every avenue!Mark every face that comes or goes--Away!

[_Exit_ Henriquez. 

_Cæsa. _ I'll watch the king myself!

_Mel. _ As yet he's safe. Soon as he parted from the troops, Alfonso, By Inis guided, tow'rds the forest sped, To seek and sooth his late-found friend Orsino. 

_Cæsa. _ [_Starting_] Whom, whom? Orsino? what Orsino? speak. 

_Mel. _ The count San Lucar, long thought dead, but saved. It seems, by Amelrosa's care--Time presses----I must away: farewell. 

_Cæsa. _ At one, remember--Beneath the royal tower----

_Mel. _ Fear not my failing. 

_Cæsa. _ [_Alone_] He lives! My father lives!Oh, let but vengeanceFire him to spurn Alfonso and his friendship. His martial fame the memory of his virtues, His talents, rank, and sufferings undeserved----Oh! what a noble column to supportMy new-raised power! [_Going. _]

_Enter_ Ottilia. [_Veiled. _]

_Otti. _ Cæsario, stay!

_Cæsa. _ Forgive me, Fair lady, if my speech appears ungentle;Such business calls----

_Otti. _ [_Unveiling_] Than mine there's none more urgent. 

_Cæsa. _ Ottilia!

_Otti. _ Need I say what brings me hither?

_Cæsa. _ Those angry eyes too plainly speak, that still Estella. 

_Otti. _ She? Dissembler! fiend?--Peace, peace;I come not here to rave, but to command. You love the Princess, are beloved again----Speak not! She saw this scarf; her tears, her anguishBetrayed her secret. Yes, you love the Princess!But, while I breathe, if e'er her hand is yours, Strike me dead, lightnings!

_Cæsa. _ Hear me!

_Otti. _ Look on this [_showing a paper_. ]

_Cæsa. _ 'Tis Guzman's hand. 

_Otti. _ He bade me to the kingBear it with other papers; but my prudence, For mine own purposes, kept back the scroll. Lo! here a full confession of your plots--The mine described--the vault--the hour--the signal--What troops are gained--the list of sworn confederates--And foremost in the list here stands Cæsario!

_Cæsa. _ Confusion!

_Otti. _ Nay, 'tis so! Now mark me, youth!Either mine hand at midnight as my husband'sClasps thine, or gives this paper to Alfonso!Prepare a friar--at Juan's chapel meet meAt midnight, or the king----

_Cæsa. _ You rave, Ottilia!While Guzman lives. 

_Otti. _ Young man, his hours are counted:Three scarce are his--Last night I drugged the bowlIn which he drank a farewell to the world. Ay, ay, 'tis true! thou'rt mine! With blood I've bought thee!Nothing now parts us but the grave, --and there, E'en there I'll claim thee!--If tonight thou com'st not--

_Cæsa. _ I will, by heaven!

_Otti. _ Nay, fail at your own peril----Your life is in my power! my breath can blast you!Choose, then, Cæsario, 'twixt thy bane and bliss--Love or a grave! a kingdom or a scaffold!My arms or death's--By yonder sun I swear, Ere morning dawns, thou shalt be mine or nothing! [_Exit. _

_Cæsa. _ Is't so?--Thy blood then on thy head--This paper------This female fiend--the scarf too!--I must straightAppease the princess--some well-varnished tale----Some glib excuse--Oh! hateful task! Oh, Truth!How my soul longs once more to join thy train, Tear off the mask, and show me as I am!The wretch for life immur'd; the Christian slaveOf Pagan lords; or he whose bloody sweatSpeeds the fleet galley o'er the sparkling waves, Bears easy toil, light chains, and pleasant bondage, Weighed with thy service, Falsehood! Still to smileOn those we loath; to teach the lips a lessonSmooth, sweet, and false; to watch the tell-tale eye, Fashion each feature, sift each honest wordThat swells upon the tongue, and fear to findA traitor in one's self--By heaven, I knowNo toil, no curse, no slavery, like dissembling!

[_Exit. _

SCENE II. _A wild forest, with rocks, waterfalls, &c. On one side ahermitage and a rustic tomb, with various pieces of armour scatterednear it, "Victoria" is engraved on it; a river is in the background. _

Orsino _stands on a rock which overhangs the river_. 

_Orsi. _ Yes thou art lovely World! That blue-robed sky;These giant rocks, their forms grotesque and awfulReflected on the calm stream's lucid mirror;These reverend oaks, through which (their rustling leavesDancing and twinkling in the sunbeams) lightNow gleams, now disappears, while yon fierce torrent, Tumbling from crag to crag with measured dash, Makes to the ear strange music: World, oh! World!Who sees thee such must needs confess thee fair!Who knows thee not must needs suppose thee good. 

[_With a sudden burst of indignation_]

But I have tried thee, World! know all these beautiesMere shows and snares; know thee a gilded serpent, A flowery bank whose sweets smile o'er a pitfall;A splendid prison, precious tomb, fair palace, Whose golden domes allure poor wanderers in, And when they've entered, crush them! Such I know theeAnd, knowing, loath thy charms! Rise, rise, ye storms!Mingle ye elements! Flash lightnings, flash!Unmask this witch! blast her pernicious beauty!And show me Nature as she is, a monster!--I'll look no more! Oh! my torn heart! Victoria!My son! Oh God! My son! Lost! lost! both lost! [_Leaning against the tomb. _

_Enter_ Alfonso, Inis, _and Attendants_. 

_Inis. _ This is the hermit's cave; and see, my liege, Orsino's self. 

_Alfon. _ [_Starting back. _] No, no, that living spectreIs not my gallant friend. I seek in vainThe full cheek's healthful glow, the eye of fire, The martial mein, proud gait, and limbs Herculean!Oh! is that deathlike form indeed Orsino?

_Orsi. _ Never to see them more! never, no never!Wife, child, joy, hope, all gone!

_Alfon. _ That voice! Oh! Heaven, Too well I know that voice!--How grief has changed him!I'll speak, yet dread----Retire [Inis, _&c. Withdraw_. ] Look up Orsino. 

_Orsi. _ Discovered?

[_Seizing a lance which rests against the cavern, and putting himself ina posture of defence_]

Wretch, thy life--[_Staggering back. _] Strengthen me, heaven!'Tis he? the king himself!

_Alfon. _ [_Offering to take his hand. _]Thy friend!

_Orsi. _ [_Recovering himself, and drawing back his hand. _]Friend! Friend!----I've none!-- [_Coldly. _]

_Alfon. _ Orsino. 

_Orsi. _ Never had but one, And he--! Sir, though a king, you'd shrink to hearHow that friend used me!

_Alfon. _ Hear me speak, in pity!

_Orsi. _ What need of words? I'm found, I'm in your power, And you may torture me e'en how you list. Where are your chains? these are the self-same armsWhich bore them ten long years, nor doubt their weighingHeavy as ever! These same eyes, which bathedSo oft with bitterest tears your dungeon-grate, Have streams not yet exhausted! and these lipsCan still with shrieks make the Black Tower re-echo, Which heard my voice so long in frantic anguishRave of my wife and child, and curse Alfonso!Lead on, Sir! I'm your prisoner!

_Alfon. _ Not for worldsWould I but harm one hair of thine!--Nay, hear me!And learn, most wronged Orsino, thy clear innocenceIs now well known to all. 

_Orsi. _ Ay? Nay, I care notWho thinks me innocent! I know myself so--Was this your business, Sir? 'Tis done! Farewell. 

_Alfon. _ Oh! part not from me thus! I fain would say----

_Orsi. _ What?

_Alfon. _ I have wronged thee!----

_Orsi. _ [_Sternly_] True!

_Alfon. _ Deeply, most deeply!But wounding thine, hurt my own heart no less, Where none has filled thy place: 'tis thine, still thine--And if my court----

_Orsi. _ What should I there? No, no, Sir!Sorrow has crazed my wits; long cramped by fettersMy arm sinks powerless; and my wasted limbs, Palsied by dungeon-damps, would bend and totterBeneath yon armour's weight, once borne so lightly!Then what should I at court? I cannot headYour troops, nor guide your councils; leave me, leave me, You cannot use me further!

_Alfon. _ Oh! I must, And to a most dear service--my heart bleeds, And needs a friend! Be but that friend once more!Be to me what thou wert, (and that was all things!)Forgive my faults, forget thy injuries----

_Orsi. _ [_Passionately. _] Never!

_Alfon. _ That to Alfonso? That to him whose friendship----

_Orsi. _ Peace, peace! You felt no friendship! felt no flame, Steady and strong!--Yours was a vain light vapour, A boyish fancy, a caprice, a habit, A bond you wearied of, and gladly seizedA lame pretext to break. Did not my heartFrom earliest youth lie naked to your eyes?Knew you not every comer, nerve, turn, twist on't?And could you still suspect----? No, no! You wishedTo find me false, or must have known me true. 

_Alfon. _ You wrong me, on my life! So fine, so skilfulThe snare was spread----I knew not----

_Orsi. _ Knew not? Knew not?Thou knew'st I was Orsino! Knowing that, Thou should'st have known, I never could be guilty. 

_Alfon. _ Proofs seemed so strong----

_Orsi. _ And had I none to proveMy innocence? these deep-hewn scars receivedWhile fighting in your cause, were these no proofs?Your life twice saved by me! your very breathMy gift! your crown oft rescued by my valour!Were these no proofs! My every word, thought, action, My spotless life, my rank, my pride, my honour, And, more than all, the love I ever bore thee, Were these no proofs?--Oh! they had been convictionIn a friend's eyes, though they were none in thine!

_Alfon. _ Your pride? 'twas that undid me! your reserve, Your silence----

_Orsi. _ What! Should I have stooped to chaseYour brawling lawyers through their flaws and quibbles?To bear the sneers of saucy questioners--Their jests, their lies--and, when they termed me villain, Calmly to cry--"Good Sirs, I'm none!"--No, no:I heard myself called traitor--saw you calmlyHear me so called, nor strike the speaker dead!Then why defend myself? What hope was left me?Truth lost its value, since you thought me false!Speech had been vain, since your heart spoke not for me. 

_Alfon. _ And it _did_ speak----Spite of the law's decision, My love preserved your life----

_Orsi. _ Oh! bounteous favour!Oh! vast munificence! which, giving life, Robbed me of every gem which made life precious!Where is my wife? Distracted at my loss, Sunk to her cold grave with a broken heart?Where is my son? Or dead through want, or wanderingA friendless outcast! Where that health, that vigour, Those iron nerves, once mine?--King, ask your dungeons!

_Alfon. _ Oh! spare me!

_Orsi. _ Give me these again, wife, son, Health, strength, and ten most precious years of manhood, And I'll perhaps forgive thee: till then, never!

_Alfon. _ What could I do? thy son had been to meDear as my own, had not Victoria's pride, Scorning all aid----

_Orsi. _ 'Twas right!

_Alfon. _ She fled, concealedHerself and child----had it on me depended----I cannot speak----My heart----Oh! yet have mercy, Think I had other duties than a friend's----Alas! I was a king!

_Orsi. _ And are one still----Have still your wealth, and pomp, and pride, and power, And herd of cringing courtiers--still have children----I had but one, and him I lost through thee. I, I have nothing! Yon rude cave my palace, These rocks my court, the wolf my fit companion--Lost all life's blessings, wife, son, health! Oh! nothingIs left me, save the right to hate that manWho made me what I am!--And would'st thou rob meE'en of this last poor pleasure? Go Sir! go, Regain your court; resume your pomp and splendour!Drink deep of luxury's cup! be gay, be flattered, Pampered and proud, and, if thou canst, be happy. I'll to my cave, and curse thee!

_Alfon. _ Stay, Orsino!If ever friendship warmed, or pity meltedThy heart, I charge thee----

_Orsi. _ Pity? In thy dungeons, Sir, I forgot the meaning of that word. For ten long years no gentle accents soothed me, No tears with mine were mixed--no bosom sighedThat anguish tortured mine! King, king, thou know'st not, How solitude makes the soul stern and savage!

_Alfon. _ Yet were thy soul than adamantine rocksMore hard, these deep-drawn sighs----

_Orsi. _ My wife's last groanRings in my ear, and drowns them. 

_Alfon. _ And these tearsMight touch thy heart----

_Orsi. _ My heart is dead, King! dead!'Tis yonder buried in Victoria's Grave!

_Alfon. _ Could prayers, unfeigned remorse, ceaseless affection, And influence as my own unbounded----

_Orsi. _ Hold!I'll try thee, and make two demands! But first, Swear by all hopes of happiness hereafter, And Heaven's best gift on earth, thine angel-daughter, Whate'er I ask shall be fulfilled. 

_Alfon. _ I swear!And Heaven so treat my prayers, as I shall thine. 

_Orsi. _ 'Tis well: now mark, and keep thine oath. My firstRequest is--Leave me instantly! my second, Ne'er let me see thee more. --Thou hast heard, begone! [_Exit into the cave. _

_Alfon. _ 'Tis well, proud man, --Alas! my heart's too humbledTo chide e'en him who spurns it. 

_Inis. _ Nay my liege, Despair not----Sure the princess. 

_Alfon. _ Right, I'll seek her;To her he owes his freedom, and her prayersShall win me back this dear obdurate heartOh! did he know how sweet 'tis to forgive, And raise the wounded soul, which, crushed and humbledSinks in the dust, and owns that it has erred:To quench all wrath, and cancel all offences, Sure he would need no motive but self love. 

[_Exeunt. _

SCENE III. ----_A garden. _

_Amel. _ [_Alone_] And are ye all then vanished, sylphs of bliss?All fled in air, and not one trace, one shadowLeft of my bright day-visions? Is not ratherAll this some fearful dream?----Cæsario false!I _know_ 'tis so, yet scarce can _think_ 'tis so!Gods! when last night, after long absence meeting, What looks!--what joy!--and was then all deceit?Did he but mock me, when with tears of raptureHe bathed my hand; knelt; sighed; as had his voiceBy pleasure been o'erwhelmed, a while was silent;But soon came words, sweet as those most sweet kissesWhich grateful Venus gave the swain whose careBrought back her truant doves!----So sweet, so sweet----Distrust, herself, must have believed those words. Oh! and was all but feigned?

_Enter_ Cæsario _and_ Estella. 

_Estella. _ Wait here awhile;I'll try to sooth her. 

_Cæsa. _ My best friend!

_Estel. _ Withdraw [Cæsario _retires_. Still bathed in tears?

_Amel. _ [_Throwing herself on her bosom. _] Oh! my soul's sick, Estella. My heart is broken, broken!

_Estel. _ Nay, be calm!I bring you comfort. 

_Amel. _ How?

_Estel. _ Cæsario suesFor one short moment's audience. 

_Amel. _ I'll not see him. 

_Estel. _ Dear princess!

_Amel. _ Never! saw I not OttiliaDecked with my gift? did I not hear. ----Shame! shame!Go, go, Estella, see him! say, and firmly, We meet no more! say, that the veil is rent!Say, that I know him wavering, vain, ungrateful, Flattering and false! and having said this, add, False as he is, he's my soul's tyrant still!

_Cæsa. _ [_Throwing himself at her feet_] Accents of Heaven!--my life! my love!

_Amel. _ Cæsario?Farewell forever!

_Cæsa. _ Nay you must not leave me. Hear me but speak. ----

_Amel. _ Release me!

_Cæsa. _ But one word. --

_Amel. _ I'll not be held!--Your pardon. I forgot sir!I thought myself still mistress of my actions!Still princess of Castile!--Now I rememberI'm that despised, unhappy thing, your wife!Sir, I obey!--Your pleasure!

_Cæsa. _ Oh! how lovelyThose eyes can make e'en scorn! yet calm their lightnings--Once more let love. --

_Amel. _ Never--the hours are pastWhen I believed thee all my fond heart wished;Thought thee the best, the kindest, truest----thought thee----Oh! Heaven! no Eastern tale portrays the palaceOf fay, or wizard (where in bright confusionBlaze gold and gems) so glorious fair, as seemed, Tricked in the rainbow-colours of my fancy, Cæsario's form this morn:----Too late I know thee;The spell is broke; and where an Houri smiled, Now scowls a fiend. Oh! thus benighted pilgrimsAdmire the glow-worm's light, while gloom prevailsBut find that seeming lamp of fiery lustreA poor dark worthless worm, when viewed in sunshine. Away, and seek Ottilia. 

_Cæsa. _ Oh! my princess, Deep as thy anger wounds my heart, more deeplyI grieve to think, how thine will bleed at findingThis anger undeserved. 

_Amel. _ Oh! that it were _so_, But no! I saw my scarf----that very scarf----My own hands wrought it. ----Many a midnight lamp, While thou wert at the wars, in toil I wasted, And made it my sole joy to toil for thee, There was no thread I had not blest! no flowerI had not kist a thousand times, and murmuredWith every kiss a prayer for thy return, And yet thou gav'st this sacred work to buyA wanton's favours. ----

_Cæsa. _ Say, to buy her silence?

_Amel. _ Her silence?

_Cæsa. _ As this morn I left the palace, She marked my flight. 

_Amel. _ Just heaven!

_Cæsa. _ Though unrequited, Her love has long been mine. --She raved; she threatened;She would have vengeance; she would rouse the guards;Alarm the king. ----

_Amel. _ [_Shuddering. _] My father!

_Cæsa. _ But her silenceBought by that scarf. --

_Amel. _ Cæsario, could I trust thee?Were this tale true, could I but think. --

_Cæsa. _ I'll swear. 

_Amel. _ No! at the altar thou hast sworn alreadyMine were thy hand and heart, and mine forever:If thou canst break this oath, none else will bind thee----Yet did I wrong thee? art thou true? I fainWould think thee so. ----But this fond heart, my husband, Is such a weak sad thing and where it loves, Loves so devoutly----Spare me, dear Cæsario, Such fears in future; let no word, no thought, Cloud thy pure faith, for so my soul dotes on thee, But to suspect thee racks each nerve, and almostDrives my brain mad, --Oh! could'st thou know, Cæsario, How painful 'tis for one who loves like me, To _cease_ to love----Cease, said I?----No, my heartCeased to esteem, but never ceased to love thee. 

[_Falling on his neck. _]

_Cæsa. _ My soul! my Amelrosa, --Now all planetsRain plagues upon my perjured head, if e'erI break the vow, which here I breathe; this heart, Filled but with thee, and formed but to adore thee, Is thine, my love, thine now, and thine forever!

_Amel. _ Hark!--steps approach----Estella?

_Estel. _ [_who has retired, advances hastily. _]Haste, Cæsario, You must away! the king's returned, I seeHis train now loitering near the garden-gate, Fly by the private postern. 

_Cæsa. _ Straight I'll follow. [_Exit_ Estella. And must I leave thee, leave thee for so long too?The king's affairs now call me far from Burgos, And ere we meet again twelve hours must pass. 

_Amel. _ Ah! me, to love, an age. 

_Cæsa. _ Yet should I leave theeWith calmer soul, nor feel such pain in absence, Were I but sure one wish----

_Amel. _ [_Eagerly. _] Oh! name it, name it, But ask me nothing light in action: ask meSomething strange, hard, and painful: Something, suchAs none would dare to do but one who loves. Name, name this blessed wish. 

_Cæsa. _'Tis this--From midnight, Till my return, avoid the royal tower. 

_Amel. _ I promise; yet what reason----

_Cæsa. _ When we meetThou shalt know all; till then forgive my silence:Seal with a kiss thy promise, then farewell. 

[_Here_ Alfonso _advances in silence; his eyes are fixed on hisdaughter, his hands are folded, and his whole appearance expresses theutmost dejection. _]

_Amel. _ Farewell, since it must be farewell----But mark, See not Ottilia ere you go. 

_Cæsa. _ I will not. 

_Amel. _ And when the bell's deep tongue announces midnight, Breathe thou my name, for at that hour, my love, I'll think on thee. --That hour! Oh, fool! as ifHours could be found in which I think not on thee. And must thou go?--Nay, if thou must, away, Or I shall bid thee stay, and stay forever. Farewell my husband!

_Cæsa. _ My soul's joy, farewell!

_Amel. _ Oh! pain of parting!

[_Turning round, her eye rests on_ Alfonso. _She starts, and remains aspetrified with terror. After a pause, he passes her in silence; but, onhis reaching the door, she rushes towards him, her hands clasped insupplication. _]

Father!

[Alfonso _motions to forbid her following, and goes off_. ]

_Amel. _ Oh! I'm lost! [_She falls senseless on the ground. _]

_End of Act II. _

ACT III. 

SCENE I. ----_A chamber in the palace. _

_Enter_ Ottilia _and_ Inis. 

_Otti. _ Was it so sudden?--What, no cause assigned, And so severe a shock too?--Trust me, Inis, Thy tale alarms me. 

_Inis. _ On the earth we found herSenseless and cold: we raised and bore her hither, Where she revived only to sigh and sorrow, Wring her fair hands, and shriek her father's name. 

_Otti. _ 'Tis wondrous strange, --Mourning my own afflictions, This rumour reached me; straight all else forgotten, Hither by love and duty urged I sped, Nor come I trust in vain, ----this phial holdsDrops of most precious power. --Good Inis take it, And in your lady's drink infuse this liquid:My life upon her cure. 

_Inis. _ Obedience bestWill speak my thanks, nor doubt----Lo, where approachesMy lady's ghostly father, holy Bazil. 

_Enter Father_ Bazil. 

_Bazil. _ Pardon that rudely thus I break your parley, But from the king I come, to bid the InfantaAttend him here. ----Good Inis lead me to her. 

_Inis. _ Here lies our way--Again I thank you, lady;Ere night I'll use your gift. [_Exit with_ Bazil. 

_Otti. _ And if thou dost, Go ring a funeral knel, and get thee mourning, And gather flowers to strew thy lady's grave:Thou'lt gather none so sweet as that I wither, --Hark! 'twas her voice. ----How at the sound seemed iceTo seize my every vein!--My victim comes!--I cannot bear her sight!--So young to die!So young, so fair, so gentle, and so good!With such an angel's life, and my soul's quiet--Oh, God! Cæsario, thou art purchased dearly. 

[_Exit. _

_Enter_ Amelrosa, Bazil, Estella, Inis, _and attendants_. 

_Bazil. _ No passion flushed his cheek; his voice, his manner, Though solemn were not stern; and when he named you, A tear gushed forth, ere he could turn him from me. Then droop not thus, nor doubt paternal love. --

_Amel. _ Oh! 'tis that love distracts me, for his loveWas love so great! 'Twas but this morn he termed meThe only tie which chained him still to life!And I have broke that tie!

_Bazil. _ Nay, gentle princess!

_Amel. _ Perhaps have broke his heart too! from his lipsHave dashed joy's last poor lingering drop, and shown him, His only prop was frail as all the former!Could I but think he felt like common parents, That when he found my fault, affection died, Then I were blest! then I alone should suffer, And when his hatred broke my heart, could seekSome lone sad place, and lay me down and die!Alas! alas! I know I was his darling!Know by the joy I gave him once, too wellHow sharp the grief must be, I cause him now!

_Bazil. _ That partial love which cherished thus your virtues, Will now absolve your fault. 

_Amel. _ But when he frowns?I ne'er yet saw him frown, --but sure he's dreadful!Oh! ere I meet those eyes (which yet ne'er viewed meBut their kind language spoke uncounted blessings)And find them dark with gloom, and dread with lightnings, Closed be my own in death!--Hark! hark! he comesIn all his terrors, comes to spurn and drive meFor ever from his sight. --His frown will kill me!Shield me, Estella, shield me!

Alfonso _enters, followed by_ Ricardo _and courtiers_. 

_Alfon. _ [_Aside, looking at_ Amelrosa. ] Can it be!Can she too have deceived--!--Retire awhile. 

[_Exeunt_ Estella, &c. 

_Manent_ Alfonso _and_ Amelrosa. 

_Amel. _ [_Advancing with timidity, then rushingforward and falling prostrate at his feet. _] My father?--Oh! my father. 

_Alfon. _ Rise!Nay rise: what fears't thou? Wherefore weep, and tremble?_Thou_ hast no cause for grief! The poisoned arrowHas pierced no heart but mine! These eyes aloneNeed weep for what they've seen! _Thou_ hast not feltWhat 'tis to lose all faith in man! to seeJoy and hope die together; and to find, When all thy soul loved best hung on thy neck, Each kiss was false, and each sweet smile was hollow!Well! well! 'Tis past grief's curing! wondrous bitter, But must be borne! a few short months, and thenThe grave mends all. 

_Amel. _ [_Aside. _] Pangs of the dying sinner, Are ye more sharp than mine!

_Alfon. _ More tears?--PerhapsYou tremble, lest my regal wrath should crushThe audacious slave who stole his sovereign's daughter?No, princess, no! I can excuse the youth, Nor look from mortals for divine forbearance. A fairer fruit than ever dragon guarded, Courting his hand and hung within his grasp, He could not choose but pluck it. 

_Amel. _ Oh! I wouldMy heart would spring before thine eyes, and show theeEach word thou utter'st, written there in blood!That it could speak----!

_Alfon. _ What could it say? but pleadThe youth's fair form, high fame, and great acquirements!Gratitude that from ruffian hands he saved thee, Feelings too fond, and thus excuse thy love!But could it e'er excuse thy long dissembling, Thy seeming confidence, thy vows all broken, Thy arts to lull me in a blissful dream, From which the waking's dreadful! Why deceive me?Why hide as from a foe thy thoughts from me?Why banish me thy bosom? didst thou fear me?Didst fear my power, my pride, my wrath? Oh! was I--Was I so harsh a father, Amelrosa?

_Amel. _ [_Aside. _] Heart, sure thy strings aresteel, or they would break!

_Alfon. _ Yet 'Tis deserved? I was too fond! too partial!Still loved thee better than my son, whose heartPerhaps this partial love has turned against me--If so, my pain is just!--Daughter I'll chideNo more; nor came I here to chide, but bless thee, This parchment gives thy lord Medina's dukedom, With all its fair domains; the dowry promised, When my fond bosom hoped that princely Arragon----But that's now passed!--Take it--farewell--be happy----We meet no more!

_Amel. _ [_Covering her face with her hands_] Oh? heaven!

_Alfon. _ 'Twere vain, 'twere cruel, To make thee toil to fan thy love's faint embers, Since faith is dead; and though I still doat on thee, I'll trust no more--Thy choice is made, and mayThat choice prove all thy fondest dreams e'er pictured!Blest be thy days as the first man's in Eden, Before sin was! Be thy brave lord's affectionFirm as his valour, lovely as thy form!And shouldst thou ever know, with thy whole soulWhat 'tis to love a child, and hold it dearerThan freedom, light, or life--Oh may that darlingShow thee more faith than thou hast shown to me. I've done--Have there the deed--Farewell!

_Amel. _ [_Grasping the hand which he extendswith the parchment, and pressing it to her lips. _] Have mercy!

_Alfon. _ Mercy?--On whom?

_Amel. _ An humbled, breaking heart, But which, though breaking, loves thee dearly, dearly!Throw me not from thee!

_Alfon. _ Hast not all thy wishes?Thy husband's pardon, honour, wealth, and freedom, To live with whom, and how, and where thou wilt?What wouldst thou more?

_Amel. _ That, without which all theseAre nothing, and each seeming grace true curses!Thy heart! thy heart my father! Give me that!Thy whole, whole heart, such as I once possessed it, Soft--kind--indulgent--open--feeling--fond!'Tis this I ask, --or, this denied, to die. Yes! strike me at your foot; spurn, trample, crush me!Twist in my streaming locks your hand, and drag me, Till from my wounded bosom streams of bloodGush forth, and dye the marble red!--All thisWere far less anguish to a _generous_ soul, Than this so torturing love, so cruel kindness!

_Alfon. _ I will not hear----

_Amel. _ Oh! leave me not, my father, Nor bid me leave thee! Let my anguish move thee;Let not, though great, a single error lose meThe fruits of twenty years pass'd in thy service, Which in thy service pass'd seemed short as moments. 

_Alfon. _ It must not be--

_Amel. _ You would, but cannot hide it;I still am dear! Each look, each feature speaks it, Speaks to a softening heart--Oh! hear its pleading, And bid me stay! I'll only stay to love thee!Look on me! mark my altered form! observeThe strong convulsions of my gasping bosom!See my wan cheeks, eyes swoln, lips trembling! feelHow scalding are the tears with which I dewThis dear, dear hand! Judge by thy own _my_ sufferings, And bid me cease to suffer; when with force, Such as despair alone can give, and louderThan fiends implore from their volcanic prisonsThe Arch-angel's grace, I cry to thee--"Have mercy. "--

_Alfon. _ My child--No, no!--'Twere weakness--

_Amel. _ Weakness, say'st thou?Oh! glorious fault! Oh! fair defect!--Oh! weaknessPassing all strength! If to forgive be sin, How deeply then must Heaven have sinned to man!Oh! be thy faults like Heaven's! Relent, my father!Pardon--! Oh! speak that word!

_Alfon. _ My heart! my heart!My bursting heart!

_Amel. _ That word, that blessed word, So quickly said, so easy, as 'twere magicBreaks sorrow's spell and bids her phantoms fly!That word, that word, that one, one little word. And I am blest!----

_Alfonso. _ [_Yielding to his emotions, and claspingher eagerly to his bosom. _] Be blest then! _Exit. _

_Amel. _ Now, ye stars, Which nightly grace the sky, if ye love goodnessPour dews celestial from your golden vialsOn yon dear gracious head!--Oh why is nowMy husband absent? Lend thy doves dear Venus, That I may send them where Cæsario strays;And while he smoothes their silver wings, and gives themFor drink the honey of his lips, I'll bid themCoo in his ear, his Amelrosa's happy!Joy, joy, my soul! Bound, my gay dancing heart!Waft me, ye winds! To bear so blest a creatureEarth is not worthy! Loved by those I love, I've all my soul e'er wished, my hopes e'er fancied, My father's friendship, and Cæsario's heart!Leave me but these, and, fortune I defy thee! [_Exit. _

SCENE II. _The forest as before. _

_Enter_ Cæsario _and_ Henriquez. 

_Cæsa. _ He spurned him, Marquis, spurned him! With such scorn, Such genuine ardent hate, repaid his soothing--Oh! by that hate I feel, the blood which fillsThese veins is right Orsino's!

_Hen. _ 'Tis reported, The king shed tears. 

_Cæsa. _ Marquis, he wept, fawned, pleadedRemorse, and sued for pardon, with such fervour, As starving souls for bread!

_Hen. _ Did not at thisOrsino's ire melt?

_Cæsa. _ Melt? Like yon fortress rock, (Which rears his tower-clad front above the billows, Nor heeds the winds that blow, nor rains that beat)Proof against tears, and deaf to all entreaties, Unmoved the stern one stood, and frowned his answer. Oh! fear not, friend: like me he loaths Alfonso, And, when I place revenge within his grasping, Will spring to reach it. 

_Hen. _ 'Tis past doubt, his aidWere to our cause a tower of strength; yet stillI fear, lest----Some one leaves the cave!--'Tis he!I'll wait beneath yon limes. [_Exit. _

Orsino _enters from the cave_. 

_Cæsa. _ Now by my lifeA noble ruin!

_Orsi. _ I return to Burgos?For what? To show my scars and hear court ladiesRail at the wars for making men so hideous?To bear the coxcomb's sneer, the minion's fawning, And see fools sweetly smile at my good fortune, Who, when my death was signed, smiled full as sweetly?No, no, I'll none on't. [_Seeing_ Cæsario. ]Plagues and fiends! another!More gold and silk; more musk, fair words, and lying!Will these court flies ne'er cease to buz around me?Well, sir, what seek ye here?

_Cæsa. _ Revenge. 

_Orsi. _ Indeed!On whom?

_Cæsa. _ On lawless power. Ask ye for what?A father's wrongs and mother's murder!

_Orsi. _ (_starting. _) How!That voice--Let me look on thee well--Those lips, Those eyes--Oh Heaven! those eyes, too! I ne'er sawBut one have eyes like thine, an earthly angel, And with the angels now. Fair youth, who art thou?

_Cæsa. _ Speaks not thy heart?

_Orsi. _ It does, youth, Oh! It does;But I'll not trust it; for if false its whispersSo sweet, so painful sweet--Dear good youth tell me, Spare a poor broken heart, and tell me quicklyThy father's name. 

_Cæsa. _ My father! Oh! that wasA man indeed, and model for all others!His country's sword, his country's shield, a hero, A demigod; and great as were his actions, So were his wrongs. 

_Orsi. _ His name! his name!

_Cæsa. _ (_rushing into his arms_) Orsino!

_Orsi. _ I have him! hold him here! Death alone parts us. My son! Victoria's son! Come, come, my boy, Kneel at this tomb with me; join thou my suitFor the blest dust beneath, and read through tearsHere sleeps thy mother. Wandering forth to seek her, Unknown her fate and thine, chance led me hither. I marked yon tablet, read yon piteous lines, Threw those now useless arms forever from me, Sank on Victoria's grave, nor left it more;Yet, yet I died not! Amelrosa's kindness, Which gave me freedom, traced me to this spot, And saved my life, my wretched life, which stillI only use to mourn thy loss, Victoria. Know'st thou, my boy, when her eyes closed forever?Whose hand----

_Cæsa. _ Her son's--

_Orsi. _ (_grasping_ Cæsario's _hand_) Was't thine?

_Cæsa. _ 'Twas mine too raisedYon rustic tomb, and 'twas this cave received herWhen, desperate at your loss, she fled the court. Here long she sorrowed, here at length she died, Died of a broken heart! Ay weep, my father;For know the king shall pay each tear thou shed'stWith drops of blood. 

_Orsi. _ The king? Boy, name him not. That sound is poison. I was once so happy;Was once so rich--and that one man stole all. My curse be on him!

_Cæsa. _ Man, thy curse is heard. 

_Orsi. _ Is heard! What mean'st thou?

_Cæsa. _ Vengeance! Hark, Orsino--Soon as my mother died (believed CæsarioA young unknown) I sought the court, where chanceGave me from ruffian Moors to save the princess. This made Alfonso mine, and still I've used himTo further mine own ends. Joy, joy, my father!My plots are ripe, the king's best troops corrupted, His son, too, through my arts, declared a rebel;And, ere two nights are past, I'll strip the tyrantBoth of his throne and life. Rouse then, and aid----Now, sir, why gaze you thus?

_Orsi. _ I fain would doubt it;Fain find some plea--No, no, each look, each feature, And my own heart----'Tis true thou art my son!

_Cæsa. _ What mean you?

_Orsi. _ (_passionately_) Art my son, and yet a villain!

_Cæsa. _ (_starting_) Villain!

_Orsi. _ Destroy Alfonso! What! Alfonso, The wise, the good?

_Cæsa. _ With thee then was he either?Has he not wronged thee?

_Orsi. _ Deeply, boy, most deeply. But in his whole wide kingdom none but me. Look through Castile; see all smile, bloom, and flourish. No peasant sleeps ere he has breathed a blessingOn his good king; no thirst of power, false pride, Or martial rage he knows; nor would he shedOne drop of subject-blood to buy the titleOf a new Mars! E'en broken hearted widowsAnd childless mothers, while they weep the slain, Cursing the wars, confess his cause was just. Such is Alfonso, such the man whose virtuesNow fill thy throne, Castile, to bliss thy children!What shows the adverse scale! What find we there?_My_ sufferings, mine alone! And what am _I_, That I should weigh me 'gainst the public welfare?What are my wrongs against a monarch's rights?What is my curse against a nation's blessings?

_Cæsa. _ Yet hear me. 

_Orsi. _ I assist your plots! I injureOne hair that's nourished with Alfonso's blood!No! The wronged subject hates the ungrateful master;But the world's friend must love the patriot king. 

_Cæsa. _ Amazement! Can it be Orsino speaking?'Tis some court minion sure, some tool of office, Some threadbare muse pensioned to praise the throne;This cannot be the man whose burning vengeance, Whose fixed aversion----

_Or. _ Boy, 'Tis fixed as ever. Alfonso's sight, his name, his very goodness, Forcing my praise, torture my soul to madness. I hate him, hate him; but still own his virtues;And though I hate, Oh bless the good king, Heaven!

_Cæsa. _ Oh most strange patience! most rare stretch of temper!What! bless the man who thought you treacherous, base, Ungrateful!

_Orsi. _ And because he thought me such, (Remembering only what his fault deserves, Forgetting all that's due to mine own honour)Shall I become the wretched thing he thought me?Prove his suspicions just? quit the proud stationWhere injured Virtue towers and sink me down toHis level who oppressed me? Oh, not so!When hostile arms strain every nerve to crush me, Pang follows pang, and wrong to wrong succeeds, Piled like the Alps, each loftier than the last one, To pay those wrongs with good, those pangs with kindness, To raise the foe once fallen, bind his gored breast, And heap, with generous zeal, favours on favours, Till his repentant spirit melts and bleedsTo think he ever pained a heart like mine, Such is _my_ hate! such my proud soul's whole object. The only vengeance noble minds should take. 

_Cæsa. _ Farewell, then, since far other hate is mine, And asks for other vengeance. I'll to seek it. 

_Orsi. _ Stay, youth, and hear me. Ere you quit this spot. Since virtue has no power to chain or awe thee, Swear to forgo thy traitorous schemes, or straightI'll seek the king----

_Cæsa. _ You dare not: no, you dare not. Nay, start not. I but know my power and use it. Look on these lips and eyes; they are Victoria's. And shall Victoria's lips be sealed forever?And shall Victoria's eyes be closed in death?E'en while you rage, with looks so fond you eye me, They speak, your love will guaranty your silence. 

_Orsi. _ 'Tis true, too true: but dear and cruel boy, Though threats succeed not, let these tears prevail, Tears for thy dying virtue. Oh look round thee!See to mankind what curses bad kings are, And learn from them the blessings of a good one. 

_Cæsa. _ Father, in vain you urge me. Know I've swornAlfonso's death. My mother's shade demands it. Who asked that promise, with an oath confirmed. And what she asked I gave. 

_Orsi. _ Oh! Wherefore did'st thou?Since she required an oath to seal thy promise, Thou shouldst have known thy promise must be wrong. Virtue and truth are in themselves convincing, Nor need the feeble sanction of man's lips;As the sun needs no aid from foreign orbs, Itself a fire-formed world of light and glory. What meant thine oath? What meant those magic words?Save by thy lips to bind thy hand to doWhat makes each wise head shake, each good heart shudder. Thy impious vow----

_Cæsa. _ Impious or just, once sworn, To break it sure were shame. 

_Orsi. _ My son, 'twere virtue, When to perform it were the worst of crimes, 'Twas wrong to swear; be with that wrong contented. A second fault cannot make right the first;And acts of guilt absolve no act of folly. 

_Cæsa. _ Guilt! Then we jar for words. I see but gloryWhere thou seest guilt: yet call it what thou wilt. I _may_ be guilty, but I _must_ be great. 

_Orsi. _ A dreadful word!

_Cæsa. _ A crown, a crown invites me!A glorious crown!

_Orsi. _ Glorious! Oh no! True gloryIs not to _wear_ a crown but to _deserve_ one. The peasant swain who leads a good man's life, And dies at last a good man's death, obtainsIn Wisdom's eye wreaths of far brighter splendourThan he whose wanton pride and thirst for empireMake kings his captives, and lay waste a world. 

_Cæsa. _ And is't not glorious then to bless my countryBy just and gentle ruling; fight her battles;Preserve her laws----

_Orsi. _ Thou, thou preserve her laws----Thou fight her battles! thou--I tell thee, boy, The hand which serves its country should be pure. Ambition, selfish love, vain lust of powerRavage thy head and heart! and would'st thou holdThe judgment balance with a hand still redWith royal blood? Would'st thou dare speak a penanceOn guilt, thyself so guilty? Canst thou hopeCastile will trust her to thee? God forbid!Mad is that nation, mad past thought of cure, Past chains and dungeons, whips, spare food, and fasting, Who yields the immortal man a patriot's name, And looks in private vice for public virtue. Thou play the patriot's part! Away, away!Who _wounds_ his country is the worst of monsters;But good men only should _presume_ to _serve_ her. Thy guilt once seen----

_Cæsa. _ And who shall see that guiltWhen wrapt in purple, and the world's eye dazzledBy the o'erpowering blaze a crown emits?What pilgrim, gazing on some awful torrent, Thinks through what roads it passed? Let golden fortuneBut smile propitious on my daring crimes, And all my crimes are virtues! Mark this, father, The world ne'er holds those guilty who succeed. [_Exit. _

_Orsi. _ (_alone. _) How shall I act? He said within two nights----Whate'er is done must be done soon--Oh! how, How shall I tread this labyrinth; how contriveTo save my king, yet not destroy my son?The princess! Ha! well thought! It shall be so. I'll seek her, and Alfonso's life preserved, At once shall pay her kindness for my freedom, And buy my son's full pardon. Yes, I'll haste, And snatch my sovereign from this gulf of ruin. I, I the Atlas of his tottering throne----Prosperous I shunned; unhappy, I forgive him;He reigned, I scorned his power; he sinks, I'll save him. [_Exit. _

_End of Act III. _

ACT IV. 

SCENE I. Amelrosa's _chamber. _

Amelrosa _in white robes, crowned with flowers_, Estella, _with aletter. _

_Amelrosa. _ 'Tis strange! At this late hour! In armour say'st thou?

_Estel. _ In sable armour; round his neck was slungA bugle horn. In courteous guise he prayed meGive you this note unseen. 

_Amel. _ Unseen! How is this? [_Reading_]

"One, not unknown, requests an immediateaudience on matters most important. Princess, delay not as you value your father's life. "Not signed! My father's life! Estella say, Did he not tell his name?

_Estel. _ He said this jewelWould speak whence came his letter. 

_Amel. _ Ha! The ringI gave Orsino! Quickly seek yon stranger, And charge him meet me at St. Juan's chapel;For there to pass the night in grateful prayer, E'en now I go----Friend speed thee. 

_Amel. _ [_Alone_] Doubt and terror----My father's life?--And yet, for such a fatherWhat need I fear? Heaven will defend its own, And wings of seraphs shield that king from harm, Whose proudest title is--"his people's father, "Whose dearest treasure is his people's love! [_Exit. _

SCENE II. _St. Juan's cloisters by moon-light. --On one side a gothicchapel. _

_Orsi. _ [_Alone in black armour. _] Yes, this must be the place--Estella named, St. Juan's shrine, and sure 'tis for the princessYon altar flames--Oh! hallowed vaults, how oftenYe ring with prayers, which granted would destroyThe fools who form them! Virgins there requestTheir charms may fire the heart of some gay rake, Who proves a wedded curse--There wives ask children, And, when they have them, find their vices suchThey mourn their birth--The spendthrift begs some kinsmanMay die, and vows that heaven shall share the spoil--While the young soldier prays his sword ere longMay blush with blood, (and with whose blood he cares not, )Swearing, if so his arm may purchase glory, He'll pay its price, a thousand human hearts. And all these mad, these impious vows are usheredWith chant of cloistered maids, and swell of organs--As could our earthly songs charm Him, who hearsSeraphs and cherubs wake their harps divine, While the blest planets, hymning in their orbits, Pour fourth such tones as reached their mortal ears, Man would go mad for very extasy. Well, well! Such forms are good to force exampleOn purblind eyes: but prayer from earth abstracted, Breathed in no ear but Heaven's; when lips are silent, But the heart speaks full loudly; thanks the music, Man's soul the censer, and pure thoughts the incenseKindling with grace celestial: that's the worshipWhich suits Him best who, past all prayer and praise, Esteems one grateful tear, one heart-drawn blessing, Which, thanking God, declares that man is happy. --Ha! Gleams of torches gild yon distant aisle!

_Enter Father_ Bazil. 

_Bazil. _ Stranger, What dost thou here, where now to offerGifts at yon shrine, for wondrous favour shown her, The princess hastens? See, she comes: retire?

_Orsi. _ Your pardon, reverend father, I obey. 

[_Exit_ Orsino. 

_A procession enters of nuns and friars with lighted tapers, thenfollow_ Amelrosa, Estella, Inis, _and ladies, carrying offerings_. 

_Amel. _ I thank ye, holy friends. Now leave me here, Where I must watch the live-long night and feedYon sacred lamps, telling each hour my beads, And pouring thanks to heaven and good St. Juan. Till morn farewell. 

_Bazil. _ May angels guard thee, daughter, Pure as thy thoughts, and join thee in thy prayers. 

[_Exeunt. _

_Amel. _ (_alone_) He is not here. Oh how my bosom throbsTo know this fearful secret! Sure he cannotHave missed the place. 

_Orsi. _ (_entering_) All's dark again and silent. Perhaps her courage failed her, and she's gone. If so, what must be done? No, no, a shadowMoves on the chapel porch. 'Tis surely she. 

_Amel. _ Hark! steps! Orsino!

_Orsi. _ He. 

_Amel. _ Oh, good Orsino!What brings thee here? Those words, _my father's life_, Like spells by witches breathed to raise the dead, Filled my heart's circle with a crowd of phantoms, Doleful and strange, which groan to be released. Thy news! thy news! Oh! speak them in one word, And let me know the worst. 

_Orsi. _ Thy fears though great, Are justified by what I have to tell. Princess, a plot is formed and ripe for action, To spoil thy father of his throne and life. 

_Amel. _ My father! my good father!

_Orsi_ What can goodnessAnd moral duties 'gainst the assaults of passion!Those chains, e'en when they seem than diamond harder, Soften, calcine, and fall like dust away, Touched by the burning finger of ambition. 

_Amel. _ This vile, vile world! Oh is there one on earthSo lost to virtue he would harm my father!

_Orsi. _ There is, and one most favoured! one who ownsHe long has lived nearest Alfonso's heart;His friend, his trusted friend; and yet this traitor, This worst of traitors--shame denies me utterance!This traitor, princess, is Orsino's son. 

_Amel. _ Thy son! thy long lost son!

_Orsi. _ Long lost, late found, And better than found thus if lost forever. Go, princess, go; preserve your sire. I layBound at my sovereign's feet this precious victim. Yet, while you paint the son's offence, paint alsoHis father's anguish! Plead for him, dear lady, Oh! plead for him and save him! since I own, Own it with shame, clearer than air or eye-sightI love, I doat upon Cæsario. 

_Amel. _ (_starting_) Whom?

_Orsi. _ Cæsario is his name. 

_Amel. _ 'Tis not, 'tis not, Or, if it be, it means not _that_ Cæesario, Not _my_ Cæsario! No, no, no!

_Orsi. _ A soldierWho says he saved thee once----

_Amel. _ Peace, death-bell, peace!Thou ringst the knel of all my joys!

_Orsi. _ What mean'st thou?What sudden passion----

_Amel. _ Hear me, wretched father!This son, now guilty thought, but guiltier far, Who knows with what idolatry I dote onMy father, and yet plots to tear him from me!Is one to buy whose barbarous heart I spurnedAll the world prizes, fame, respect, and empire, Nay, risked my father's love: this man, this man--He is--Oh Heaven!--my husband!

_Orsi. _ (_striking his forehead_) Slave! wretch!--fiend----And yet Orsino's son!----Alas, poor princess!Gav'st thou him all, and rends he all from thee!Was he thy love, and would he be thy bane!Has he thy heart and stabs it! Now all plaguesHell ever forged for demons light----

_Amel. _ hold, hold!Oh! curse him not; no, save him. Some one comes. We shall be marked. This way, and let us studyHow we may rescue best----

_Orsi. _ No, let him perish!Perish, and seek the flames his guilt deserves. The sooner 'tis the better. 

_Amel. _ Silence, silence!Dear friend, this way, be patient. Oh! Cæsario, And couldst thou have the heart to torture mine!

[_Exeunt. _

Cæesario _enters, muffled in his cloak_. 

_Cæsa. _ Not come yet! 'Tis past midnight, and 'twas hereShe bade me join her. Ha! why flame yon lamps?Should any loitering monk--no, no, 'tis vacant, And all as yet is safe. Fate let this hourBe mine, and with the rest do what thou wilt. I hear her--to my work then. Why this shivering?I would fain spare her. --If she yields to reason'Tis well: if not--she's here. 

_Enter_ Ottilia. 

_Otti. _ I find thee punctual. 'Tis well for thee thou art so. By my life, If thou hadst failed me I had sought the king. Where is the priest? On to the chapel. 

_Cæsa. _ Stay, And hear me! for the hour is come that weighsOur fates in the same balance. Thus then briefly, Thou art most fair, in wit most choice and subtle, In all rare talents still surpassing all, And for these gifts, and thy long tried affection, I feel I owe thee much, owe thee firm friendship, Eternal gratitude, faith, favour, love, And all things save my hand. Except but this, Which now I must not give, nor couldst thou take, And ask what else thou wilt. 

_Otti. _ Most gracious sir, For thy fair praise, and these so liberal offersOf granting all save that which I would have, Accept my thanks, I've heard thee; now hear me. I'll be thy wife or nothing. 

_Cæsa. _ Lady, Lady, You know not what you ask. 

_Otti. _ I know myselfWorthy of what I ask, and know my power, Which you, it seems, forget. Is not my dowryYour life and crown? Let me but speak one word, And straight your fancied throne becomes a scaffold. No more, but to the chapel. 

_Cæsa. _ If to move theeOught would avail----

_Otti. _ It cannot. 

_Cæsa. _ Once a king----

_Otti. _ I share thy throne. 

_Cæsa. _ 'Mid all Castile's first honoursMake thou thy choice----

_Otti. _ 'Tis made. 

_Cæsa. _ And still remainingMy friend, my love----

_Otti. _ Thy wife, thy wife, or nothing!

_Cæsa. _ Nay then I'll crush thy frantic hopes at once;I'm married. 

_Otti. _ (_Starting_) What! I hope thou dost but feign;For thy sake hope it; since, if true this marriage, Thou'rt lost past saving. 

_Cæsa. _ Nay, unbend thy brow, Nor stamp nor rave. The princess is my wife, And frowns unbind not whom the church hath bound. The javelin's thrown, and cannot be recalled;Thine be the second prize the first is won, And all thy grief and rage that tis another'sWill but torment thyself. Be wise, be wise, And bear with patience what thou canst not cure. 

_Otti. _ I will not curse: no, I'll not waste in vapour. The fire which burns within me. What I feel, My deeds shall tell thee best. (_Going. _)

_Cæsa. _ (_detaining her_) Ottilia, stay. If yet one spark of love remains----

_Otti. _ (_passionately_) of love!Of love for thee! Mark me. Ere sets the sunMy rival dies, and thou once more art free:But now so deadly is the hate I bear thee, 'Twill joy me less to see thee mine than dead. Thy blood! thy blood! 'Tis for thy blood I thirst, And it shall stream. Farewell. 

_Cæsa. _ Go then, proud woman, I brave thy rancour. Ere thou gain'st the palace, I'll spring the mine. 

_Otti. _ Indeed! Now hark awhile, Then die for spite, thou base, thou baffled traitor!Six trusty slaves wait but my call to bindAnd bear thee to the king. Ay, rage, rage, rage, For I'll invent such tortures to despatch thee, Such racks, such whips, such baths of boiling sulphur, The damned shall think their pains mere mirth and pastime, And envying furies own their skill outdone. I go to prove my words. 

_Cæsa. _ Thou must not leave me. 

_Otti. _ Worlds should not bribe my stay. 

_Cæsa. _ Thou'rt in my power. 

_Otti. _ Thy power! thy power! I brave it! I defy it!Scorn both thy power and thee. Unhand me, ruffian!I'll not be held. Within there! hasten hither!Anthonio! Lopez! Treason? treason!

_Cæsa. _ Nay then, This to thy heart. (_stabbing her. _)

_Otti. _ Help, help! Oh, vile assassin!

_Enter_ Orsino, _hastily_. 

_Orsi. _ What clamours----Hold, you pass not. 

_Cæsa. _ Give me way, Or else thy life----

_Orsi. _ Ruffian defend thine own. [_Exeunt fighting. _

_Otti. _ [_Alone, leaning against a pillar. _] My blood streams fast!I'm wounded, deeply wounded!----My voice too fails; I cannot call for help. To hope for life were vain; but for revenge. ----Could I but reach the palace----[_Advancing a few steps, then sinking on the ground. _] 'Twill not be. I faint!----Oh, heaven!

_Enter_ Amelrosa. 

_Amel. _ All's hushed again; how fearfulAfter those shrieks appear the midnight calm. --Orsino?--Speak, Orsino?--No one answers. What can this mean?

_Otti. _ Fainter and fainter still----And no one comes. ----

_Amel. _ Hark! 'Twas a groan! whence came it? [_Seeing_ Ottilia. ]Stranger look up!

_Otti. _ A voice! Oh! blessed sound, Who'er thou art, mark well my dying words;A villain's hand--I'm wounded----

_Amel. _ Gracious heaven!Oh! let me fly for aid. 

_Otti. _ All aid were vain. Stay, mark! Revenge!--[_Taking a paper from her bosom. _]This paper--take it--bear itSwift to the royal tower--lose not a moment--Insist to see the king--take no denial, For 'tis of most dear import. 

_Amel. _ Sure, it must be--?Ottilia. 

_Otti. _ [_Starting up wildly. _] Heaven, who speaks? 'Tis she herself:My victim, 'tis my victim!--Dost thou live then?Hast thou escaped? Spare me, thou God of mercy!Oh! spare me this one crime. 

_Amel. _ What means this passion?How wild she eyes me; how she grasps my hand!

_Otti. _ Answer and bless me: Say thou didst not drink it!Say Inis did not--While I speak, the bloodFades from thy cheek! Thine eyes close! Dying pangsDistort thy features; pangs like those which shortenedHis life, whose angry ghost, grim, fierce, and ghastly, Comes gliding yonder. See his livid fingerPoints to the poisoned cup! He frowns and threatens. Pray for me, angel! Pray for me! I dare not. 

_Amel. _ Alas, poor wretch!

_Otti. _ Help! help! The spectre grasps me, And folds me to his breast, where the worm feeds!He tears my heart-strings!--Now he sinks, he sinks!And sinking grasps me still, and drags me down with him, A thousand fathom deep!--Oh! lost, lost, lost!

[_Dies. _

_Amel. _ She's gone. --Sure earth affords no sight more awful, Than when a sinner dies--She named the king. --Perhaps this writing--By yon favouring lampI'll find its meaning, [_Ascending the chapel steps. _

_Enter_ Orsino. 

_Orsi. _ Aided by nightThe villain has escaped me. [_Seeing_ Amelrosa, _who, while reading by the lamp suspended in thechapel-porch, expresses the most violent agitation_. ]Princess, --Ha!Why thus alarmed?--[Amelrosa _gives him the paperin silence, with a look of agony_. ] This paper?--Heaven, what's this?[_Reading. _----"My king, Cæsario plots your destruction:--A mine is formed in the Claudian vaults, beneaththe royal Tower, and which the conspiratorsmean to spring this night. This warningwill enable you to defeat their purpose: Acceptit as an atonement for the crimes of the dyingGuzman. The mine is appointed to be sprungwhen the clock strikes one. "-- [_The letter falls from his hand. _

_Amel. _ [_Rushing from the chapel in despair_] One, one!--'Tis thatalready. --Oh! he's lost!My father's lost!--Ere we can reach his chamber'Twill sink in flames!

_Orsi. _ That must be tried--Say, princess, How may I gain admittance to the king, Nor meet delay?

_Amel. _ This signet----[_Giving a ring. _]

_Orsi. _ 'Tis enough. Know you the Claudian vaults?

_Amel. _ I do. 

_Orsi. _ Away then;Reach them with speed: cling round Cæsario, kneel, Weep, threaten, sooth, implore! to rouse his feelingsUse every art; at least delay his purpose, Till thou shalt hear this bugle sound; that signalShall speak Alfonso safe. --Farewell. 

_Amel. _ Oh! heaven!Oh! dreadful hour!

_Orsi. _ Take heart: if time allows me, I'll save thy father: if too late----

_Amel. _ Then, then, What wilt thou do?

_Orsi. _ What? Plunge into the flames, And perish with my king!--Away! away!

[_Exeunt severally. _

SCENE III. --A cavern. 

_Enter_ Melchior _with a lamp, as from an inner cavern_. 

_Mel. _ Hush!--No, he comes not; sure 'tis near the time. A light:--Who's there?--Henriquez. 

_Enter_ Henriquez, _lighted by_ Lucio. 

_Hen. _ Ay, the same. 

_Mel. _ Now, Lucio, where's thy lord?

_Lucio. _ He charged me tell you, He would not fail at one. 

_Mel. _ The rest wait yonder. Gomez, Sebastian, Marcos, none are wanting:Our chief alone is absent. 

_Hen. _ He'll not tarry. Lead to the inner vault, I'll wait him there. 

[_Exeunt. _

_Enter_ Amelrosa. 

_Amel. _ Those gleams of light: I must be near the place. --Voices!--I'll on--Oh! heaven! I can no further. --I faint!--I die! [_Catching at a fragment ofthe cave, against which she leans as stupified. --Apause. --The bell strikes one. _]Hark! the bell gives the signal. Oh! for a moment's strength. --Hold, murderers hold! [_Rushes off. _

SCENE IV. --[_The inner cavern, partially lighted with lamps. In themiddle, folding doors guarded with iron bars; on one side a rough hewnstaircase leading to a small door above. _]

Gomez, Marcos, _and conspirators, discovered in listening attitudes_. 

_Gom. _ 'Tis strange, the time is past, and yet not here?

_Mar. _ Henriquez too is absent. 

_Gom. _ Steps approach. [_Kneeling at the folding door. _]Who knocks?

_Hen. _ (_without_) A friend. 

_Mar. _ The pass word. 

_Hen. _ Empire. 

_Gom. _ Open. [Marcos _unbars the door_. ]

Henriquez, Melchior, _and_ Lucio, _enter through the folding doors, which_ Marcos _again closes_. 

_Gom. _ Friends welcome. Melchior, is thy work complete?

_Mel. _ Complete, and fit for springing. Nought is wanting. The train is laid. One spark and all is done. Our chief alone----

_Gom. _ The private door unlocks. 

_Hen. _ Cæsario only has the key. 

_Mel. _ 'Tis he. 

Cæsario _descends the staircase swiftly. His looks are wild; his hairflows loose; and he grasps a bloody dagger_. 

_All. _ Welcome, Cæsario, welcome!

_Cæsa. _ Ay, shout, shout, And, kneeling greet your blood anointed king, This steel his sceptre. Tremble, dwarfs in guilt, And own your master. Thou art proof, Henriquez, 'Gainst pity. I once saw thee stab in battleA page who clasped thy knees; and Melchior, thereMade quick work with a brother whom he hatedBut what did I this night? Hear, hear, and reverence!There was a breast on which my head had restedA thousand times; a breast which loved me fondly, As Heaven loves martyred saints; and yet this breastI stabbed, knaves, stabbed it to the heart! Wine, wine, there!For my soul's joyous. [Gomez _brings a goblet_. ]

_Hen. _ Friend, what means this frenzy?What hast thou done? Where is Ottilia?

_Cæsa. _ (_dashing down the goblet_) Dead!Dead, Marquis! At that word how the vault rings, And the ground shakes. It shall not shake my purpose. Murder and I are grown familiar, friends. The assassin's trade is sweet. I've tasted blood, And thirst for more. Say, is the mine----

_Mel. _ All's ready. 

_Cæsa. _ Who fires the train?

_Hen. Mel. And all the conspirators. _ I, I!

_Cæsa. _ Oh, cheerful cry!Oh! glorious strife for guilt: Let each man throwHis dagger in my casque; be his the service, Whose steel I draw. 

_Hen. _ 'Tis me----

_Cæsa. _ [_To_ Lucio. ] Thy torch, boy, [_giving it to_Henriquez. ] Take it!Here lies thy way--speed, speed, and let yon vaults, Shivering in fragments, tell my ravished earAlfonso dies. Away, away!--[_On his throwing open the folding doors_, Amelrosa _is discovered_. ]

_Amel. _ Forbear!

_All. _ The princess. 

_Amel. _ No, no, Princess; 'tis a daughter, Fierce through despair, frantic with fear, and anguish. Hear me ye dread unknown: Yon flinty manNe'er knew a father's care, and knows not nowWhat 'tis to _love_, what 'tis to _lose_ a father. But ye, (if e'er a parent's hand hath driedYour infant tears; if e'er your eyes have streamedTo see him weep, knowing your hand but scarredGave him more pain, than his own heart torn piece meal)Oh! spare my father! Bid those hours reviveWhich filial love once bless'd; recall youth's feelings, And by those feelings learn to pity mine. Spare, spare my father!

_Cæsa. _ [_Struggling to conceal his confusion. _] Spare him? Surethou rav'st:What fears my gentle love?

_Amel. _ I'm not thy love;Not gentle: Strange despair has changed my nature;Steeled my soft bosom, braced my woman's nerves, And brought me here, prepared and proud to perish, If my heart's blood may save my sire's from streaming. The savage tigress guards her new-born youngWith tenderest, fiercest care; the timorous swallow, If robber-hands approach her brood; defends itWith eagle-fury; and what brutes will doTo guard their offspring, born perhaps that day, Shall I not do for one, to whom I oweFull twenty years of love? Cæsario, mark me, For by heaven's host, no power shall move my purpose:Or thou must save my sire, or murder me. 

_Hen. _ What must be done?

_Mel. _ Time presses. 

_Cæsa. _ [_Recovering from his stupor. _] Fire the train. 

_Amel. _ [_Interposing between the inner vault and_ Henriquez. ]He shall not. 

_Cæsa. _ Amelrosa. 

_Amel. _ No, he shall not!Back, ruffian, back! and throw that torch away, Which burns to light my father's funeral pile:Here I'll defy thy rage, thus check thy malice, Thus bar thy road, and, if thou needs wilt pass, Make thee a way by trampling on my corse, I stir not else. 

_Cæsa. _ Nay, then I'll use my power, And, as thy husband now command thee----

_Amel. _ Thou?Man, thou canst not command me. 

_Cæsa. _ Art thou notMy wife?

_Amel. _ I am; but ere I was a wife, I was a daughter, was a subject; nay, Am still a princess, and as such commandThee, traitor, thee! and bid thee turn from evil. [_To_ Henriquez, ]--Away! you pass not. 

_Cæsa. _ Force her from the door!

_Amel. _ [_Clinging to a column. _] Oh! for the Hebrew's strength to shake yon vaults, And crush these traitors and myself. 

_Mel. _ In vainYou struggle. 

_Amel. _ Cut my hands off! stab me! kill me!

[_They force her away. _]

_Cæsa. _ Henriquez, to your work. 

[Henriquez _enters the vault_. ]

_Amel. _ Oh! barbarous men, Where shall I turn--Cæsario, dear Cæsario!Once thou wert kind--Aid, aid my prayers, ye angels, And force this cruel man to save at onceMy husband's honour, and my father's life. Turn not away! look on me! see my tears, And pity me: Friend, husband, lover, allThat makes life dear, I charge you! I implore you----

_Hen. _ [_Returning from the vault. _] The train is fired. 

_Amel. _ [_Dashing herself on the earth. _] Barbarians! fiends, distraction!Fall, fall, ye vaults and crush me. 

[_A bugle horn sounds_, Amelrosa _starts from the ground_. ]

Hark the signal----He lives, he lives! [_Kneeling and clasping her hands. _]Oh, Heaven, my thanks!

_Cæsa. _ 'Tis done. 

[_The mine blows up with a loud explosion, and the back part of thevault bursts into flames. _]

_End of Act IV. _

ACT V. 

SCENE I. --_The interior of_ Orsino's _hermitage. _

Alfonso _is discovered sleeping. _

_Enter_ Orsino _and_ Ricardo. 

_Orsi. _ Come they in force?

_Ricar. _ At least five thousand strong, But stronger far in loyalty than numbers. Scarce heard my tale, clamours of rage and pityBurst from the croud, and every peasant swore, He'd perish or preserve that sovereign's rights, Who used them ever for the poor man's good. 

_Orsi. _ Honest Ricardo: When to serve thy kingI judged thee truest of the true, I erred not. The lords to whom I sent thee, what receptionFound'st thou from them?

_Ricar. _ Such as almost would prove, Ingratitude is not the vice of courts:But when I said, Orsino was to head them, Their zeal, their joy-----

_Orsi. _ No more. --Are they at hand?

_Ricar. _ An hour will bring them here. 

_Orsi. _ We'll then tow'rds Burgos, And ere the swarth Castilian sees the sunPour on his rip'ning vines meridian beams, Cæsario's royal dream shall close forever. --[_Looking on_ Alfonso. ]---He sleeps--Oh! come all ye who envy monarchs, Look on yon bed of leaves, and thank heaven's kindness, Which saved ye from the sorrows of a throne. 

_Ricar. _ My dear, my injured master. 

_Orsi. _ Go, Ricardo, Watch for your friends; and when from yonder rockThou see'st their forces, warn me. [_Exit_ Ricardo. 

_Orsi. _ [_To_ Alfonso, ] Canst thou sleep, And sleep thus soundly on so rude a pallet?There's many a prince, whose couch is strown with roses, Finds their sweet leaves but serve to harbour aspies:There's many a conqueror stretched on down, who passesThe live-long night to woo repose in vain, And view with aching, restless, sated eyes, The trophies which nod round his crimson bed. But fraud, ambition, treachery, plots, and murder, In vain would banish his repose who sleeps, Watched by his prospering kingdom's anxious angel;And lull'd to slumber by his people's prayers. But see, --He wakes. --(_Lowering his vizor. _)

_Alfon. _ (_Waking. _) Do what thou wilt, Cæsario, But harm not my poor child. --How now!----Where am I?--What place--I see it all. --Lo!--where he stands, Whose well-timed warning snatched me from the flames, And led me hither. --Say, thou dread preserver, Mysterious stranger, ease a father's anguish:How fares it with my child? What news from Burgos?

_Orsi. _ Burgos believes thee dead. Cæsario fillsThy vacant throne. 

_Alfon. _ I ask not of my throne. My child! Oh! say, my child?----

_Orsi. _ Is safe, is well, And hopes ere long to see her sire once moreAdorned, with regal pomp, and lord of Burgos. 

_Alfon. _ Alas! vain hope. 

_Orsi. _ Not so: thy faithful nobles, By me apprized, now haste to give thee succour. Ere night, Cæsario falls; and piercing his, Thy just revenge shall print a mortal woundOn his proud father's heart. 

_Alfon. _ His father's?

_Orsi. _ Ay, On his, who paid thy love this morn with curses, Spurning thy proffered friendship--Know'st thou notCæsario is Orsino's son?

_Alfon. _ Just Heaven!And does Orsino love him?

_Orsi. _ Dearly, dearly, Loves him to madness; loves him with like fury. As hates he thee. --Oh! glorious field for vengeance:Think how 'twill writhe his haughty soul to hear, This son, this darling, perished on the scaffold, Branded, disgraced, a traitor, a foiled traitor. Joy, joy, Alfonso; ere 'tis night thy wrathShall gorge itself with blood. 

_Alfon. _ Now blessings on thee, Who giv'st me more than all my foes can take. Come, come, my friend; where are these troops? Away, Forward to Burgos. 

_Orsi. _ (_Detaining him. _) Whither now?

_Alfon. _ To Burgos. Down with the walls: make once Cæsario mine--

_Orsi. _ And then----?

_Alfon. _ I'll seek his father, grasp his hand, And say, --"This stripling stole my darling daughter, Betrayed my confidence, usurped my throne, Aimed at my life, and almost broke my heart:But he's Orsino's son; Orsino loves him, And all's forgiven. "----(Orsino _kneels, takes theking's hand, and presses it to his lips. _)--How now?

_Orsi. _ (_Raising his vizor. _) All is forgiven. 

_Alfon. _ 'Tis he:--Orsino's self. 

_Orsi. _ My pride is vanquished:My king--Thy hand, my king. 

_Alfon. _ My heart, my heart;There find thy place, and never leave it more. Oh, from my joy again to name thee friend, Judge of my grief to think thou wert my foe;How could I doubt thee? how commit an errorSo gross. 

_Orsi. _ No more; e'en now thou pay'st its penance:In this long chain of present woes, that error(Which seems at first so light) was the first link. It tore me from my son: else, reared by me, Formed in thy court, and schooled by my example, My son must sure have proved thy truest subject, Oh! learn from this, how weighty is the charge, A monarch bears; how nice a task to guideHis power aright, to guide it wrong, how fatal. If subjects sin, with them the crime remains, With them the penance; but when monarchs err, The mischief spreads swift as their kingdom's rivers, Strong as their power, and wide as their domains. 

_Enter_ Ricardo. 

_Orsi. _ Now friend?

_Ricar. _ From yonder height I caught distinctlyThe gleam of arms. 

_Orsi. _ 'Tis well--Away, my sovereign, And join your troops; then shape your march tow'rds Burgos, Nor doubt the event, for who that loves his country. To save his king shall fear to die himself?None, surely none! The patriot glow shall catchFrom heart to heart throughout Castile, as swiftlyAs sparks of fire disperse through summer forests;Till all in care of thee forget themselves, And every good man's bosom bucklers thine!Forward, my king!--Lead on! [_Exeunt. _

Scene II. --_A chamber in the palace. _

_Enter_ Henriquez _and_ Melchior. 

_Mel. _ And the grave councilFell blindfold in the snare?

_Hen. _ They could not fail, So well Cæsario spread it--With such artHe told his tale, and in such glowing coloursPainted Alfonso's worth, and his son's guilt, That all cried vengeance on the prince Don Pedro, And bade Cæsario mount his forfeit throne. 

_Mel. _ And he, no doubt, obeyed?

_Hen. _ In modest guiseHe owned his union with the princess gave himSome rights, but vowed, so heavy seemed its weight, He feared to wear a crown, so prayed them spare him:Till won by urgent prayer at length he yielded, And kindly deigned to be a king. 

_Mel. _ He's here, And Bazil with him. 

_Enter_ Cæsario, _father_ Bazil, _and attendants. _

_Cæsa. _ (_Entering. _) Bid her rest assured, Her king is her first subject. But, good father, How bears her health, this shock? Say, looks she pale?Does she e'er name----

_Bazil. _ She bade me lead thee hither, And claimed my promise not to tell thee more. I'll warn her, thou art here. [_Going. _]

_Cæsa. _ Say too, my heartShares every pang of her's; that crowns are worthlessBought with her tears; that could my prayers my blood, Restore Alfonso's life----

_Bazil. _ Hold!--On that subjectWhat thou wouldst tell her, will come best from thee. [_Exit. _

_Cæsa. _ Ha!--Meant he----No! Sure had he known my secret, The monk had canted 'gainst the guilt of treason, Thundering out saint-like curses!----Vile, vile chance, Which led the princess. --Yet what fear I now?She keeps my secret: then she loves me still, And, loving, must forgive me--Hark! I hear her. Now all ye powers of bland persuasion, shedYour honey on my lips. Come to my aid, Ye soft memorials of departed pleasures, Kind words, fond looks, sweet tears, and melting kisses!Sighs of compassion, drown her anger's voice!Smooth ye her frown, smiles of delight and love!Make her but mine once more, and this day crowns meMonarch of all my soul e'er wished from fate:Yes, in my wildest dreams I asked but this, "Love and revenge! A throne and Amelrosa!"--Retire!--I dread to meet her. 

[Henriquez &c. _Exeunt_. 

Amelrosa _enters, pale, and leaning on father_ Bazil. --Estella, Inis, _and ladies follow weeping. _

_Amel. _ 'Tis enough, Good father, and one task performed, I'll meetThat hour with joy, which seems to guilt so fearful. Leave me awhile: Anon, if time allows it, We'll talk again--Farewell, my friends. 

_Inis. _ [_Kneeling. _] Oh! princess!Oh! royal victim!

_Amel. _ Nay, be calm, my Inis. Pass a few years, and all had been as now, Perhaps far worse: Receive this kiss of pardon, And give it back in heaven!----Farewell!

[_Exeunt_ Estella &c. 

_Manent_ Cæsario _and_ Amelrosa. 

_Cæsa. _ How griefHas changed her! Ah! how sunk her eyes! her cheeksHow pale!--She comes!--How shall I bear her anguish!

_Amel. _ Not to reproach, for that you sought a life, Which you well knew I prized above my own;Not to complain, that when my heart reposedOn you for all its earthly joys, you broke it, I seek you now: but with true zeal I comeTo warn thee, yea with tears implore thee, turnFrom those most dangerous paths, which now thou tread'st. Oh! wake, my husband! Close thy guilty dream;Be just, be good! be what till how I thought thee!That when we part (as ere two hours me must)We may not part forever. 

_Cæsa. _ How to answer, Or in what words excuse--Could my best bloodWash out thy knowledge of my fault. --

_Amel. _ My knowledge?And say, on earth none knew it! say thy crimeTo eye of man were viewless as the winds, And secret as the laws which rule the dead:Could'st hide it from thyself?--Would not he know it, Whose knowledge more than all thou ought to dread, His, who knows all things?--Oh! short-sighted mortals!Oh! vain precautions! Oh! misjudging sense!Man thinks his secret safe, for no ear heard it!Man thinks his act unknown, for no eye saw it!But there was one above both saw and heard, When neither ear could hear, nor eye could----

_Cæsa. _ Thou lovely moralist! Oh! take me! school me!Mould thou my heart, and make it like thine own. 

_Amel. _ Dost thou speak thus?

_Cæsa. _ Be that one act forgiven, And prove----

_Amel. _ Oh! that were light: As yet thou'rt guiltyIn thought alone. My father lives!

_Cæsa. _ Indeed!

_Amel. _ He starts!--He feigned!--Oh! for heaven's love; my husband, Trifle not now! this hour is precious, precious!My soul is winged for heaven, and stays its flight, In hopes of teaching thine the way to follow:Let not its stay be vain! let my tears win thee, And turn from vice: Repent; be wise; be warned;For 'tis no idle voice that gives the warning;I speak it from the grave!

_Cæsa. _ The grave!

_Amel. _ What fear'st thou?Why shudder at a name?--Oh! if thou needsWilt tremble, tremble for thyself, not me. I die to live; thy death may be for ever!Short are my pangs; thy soul's may be eternal!

_Cæsa. _ Die? Die!--Each word--Each look--Dreadful suspicions. But no! it cannot, shall not be!

_Amel. _ It shall not?As I've a soul, in one short hour, Cæsario, That soul must kneel before the throne of God. 

_Cæsa. _ Mean'st thou----

_Amel. _ E'en so; I'm poisoned!

_Cæsa. _ Torture! madness!Within there!

_Re-enter father_ Bazil, Estella, &c. 

_Cæsa. _ Help! Oh! help! The princess dies!I'll speed myself. ----

_Amel. _ [_Detaining him. _] No, no, thou must not leave me:My hour of death is near, and thou must see it--

_Cæsa. _ Distraction!

_Amel. _ Must observe, how calm the transit, How light the pain, how free death's cup from bitter, When virtue soothes, and hope exalts the soul, I've seen a sinner die; Last night I closedOttilia's lids, and 'twas a night of horror!Each limb, each nerve was writhed by strange convulsions, Clenched were her teeth, her eye-balls fixed and glaring;She foamed, she raved, and her last words were curses!----But look, Cæsario!--I can die, and smile!

[_Sinks into_ Estella's _arms. _

_Cæsa. _ [_In despair. _] My life!--My soul!----

_Amel. _ [_In a faint voice. _] But while one moment's mine, By all thy vows of love, by those I breathed, And never broke through life, never, no, never, I charge thee, I conjure thee----

[_Starting suddenly forward. _]

Powers of mercy, Whence this so glorious blaze?

_Cæsa. _ How her eyes sparkle!

_Amel. _ Look, friends! Look, look!--My mother, my dead mother!Rich in new youth, and bright in lasting beauty!She floats in air; her limbs are clothed with light!Her angel-head is wreathed with Eden's roses!Heaven's splendours rove amid her golden locks, While her blest lips and radiant eyes pour round herAirs of delight and floods of placid glory!She moves!--She smiles!--She lifts her hand!--She beckons!World, fare thee well!--Mother, lead on!--I follow![_Exit with_ Estella, &c. 

_Cæsa. _ [_Alone. _] My brain! my brain!--Oh! I ne'er knew till now, How well I loved her!--[_Following her. _]

_Enter_ Henriquez. 

_Hen. _ Turn, Cæsario, turn!We're lost! Alfonso lives; e'en now his troopsAssail our walls. 

_Cæsa. _ Confusion! is all hellCombined----

_Enter_ Melchior. 

_Mel. _ Betrayed, betrayed! The gates are opened;The townsmen join our foes; I saw the kingFirst in the fight. ----

_Cæsa. _ The king?--My brain is burning;I'll cool it with his blood. --Forth, forth, my sword:Forth, nor be sheathed till I return thee dyedWith royal gore--Away!

[_Exeunt_ Henriquez, _and_ Melchior; Cæsario _is following when_Amelrosa _shrieks from within: he stops and remains motionless. _]

_Amel. _ [_Within. _] Oh! mercy, mercy!

_Inis. _ [_Within. _] She dies!

_Estel. _ [_Within. _] Nay, hold her! hold her down!

_Amel. _ [_Within. _] Oh! Oh!

[_Solemn requiem chanted within. _]

Peace to the parted saint! Pure soul, farewell!

[_The scene closes. _]

Scene III. --_A field of battle--alarums--thunder and lightning. _

_Soldiers cross the stage fighting. _

_Enter_ Orsino. 

_Orsi. _ Oh! shame, shame, shame!--Sun, thou dost well to hide thee, Nor light Castile's disgrace. --Oh! I could tearMy flesh for rage!

_Enter_ Ricardo. 

_Ricar. _ All's lost!--the foe prevails!What must be done, Orsino?

_Orsi. _ Where's the king?

_Ricar. _ He fights still. 

_Orsi. _ Seek him! save him! bid him fly, Fly with all speed: thou know'st to find his courser. Away!

_Ricar. _ General, thou'rt wounded!

_Orsi. _ 'Tis no matter. 

_Ricar. _ Thou'lt bleed to death. ----

_Orsi. _ And if I should, I care not:The king, the king!--Oh! waste no thought on me:The best of subjects can but lose one life, But thousands perish when a good king bleeds. Nay, speed!

_Ricar. _ [_Looking out. _] See! see! our troops--

_Orsi. _ They fly, by heaven!Turn, turn, ye cowards! 'Tis Orsino calls!Follow, slaves follow me, and die or conquer!

[_Soldiers enter pursued by_ Henriquez, &c. Orsino _rallies them, anddrives_ Henriquez _back_. ]

Scene IV. --_Before the walls of Burgos--The storm continues. _

_Enter_ Cæsario. 

_Cæsa. _ Shall I ne'er find him? Shall my mother's spiritStill ask revenge in vain? This flame, which burnsMy blood up, shall it ne'er be quenched with his?'Tis he! 'tis he!--I see the high plume wavingO'er his crowned helmet:--Thunders, cease, nor rob me, Of his expiring shriek!--Turn, turn, Alfonso!

[_Exit. _

[_Shouts of victory. _]

_Enter_ Henriquez, Melchior, Marcos, Gomez, _and soldiers_. 

_Hen. _ We triumph, Melchior!--See our trusty squadronsRange the field unopposed. But where's our chief?

_Mar. _ How now! what clamour. ----

_Mel. _ Look, Henriquez, look!Cæsario and the king in single combat!

_Hen. _ They come this way!--mark, with their ponderous blowsHow their shields ring!--Cæsario loses ground!Yield thee, Alfonso!--_Interposing between_ Alfonso_and_ Cæsario, _who enter fighting. _

_Cæsa. _ Back, I say! back, back!No arm but mine----

_Alfon. _ Cæsario, pause, and hear me!Whate'er thou wilt----

_Cæsa. _ Thy life!

_Alfon. _ Medina's dukedom, And Amelrosa. 

_Cæsa. _ Flames consume the tongue, That names her! Thou hast rent my wound anew, Recalling what was mine, but is no longer!Look to thy heart, for if my sword can reach it, Thou diest!--Come on!--[_They fight_; Alfonso_loses his sword, and is beaten on his knees. _]

_Cæsa. _ Thou'rt mine!--and thus--[_At the momentthat he motions to stab_ Alfonso, Orsino, _withouthis helmet, deadly pale, and bleeding profusely, rushes in, and arrests his arm. _]

_Orsi. _ Hold, hold!

_Cæsa. _ My father bleeding! Horror!

_Orsi. _ Does that pain thee?Oh by this blood, a father's blood, the sameWhich fills thy veins, and feeds thy life I charge thee, Shed not thy king's. 

_Cæsa. _ Father thy prayers are vain!He broke my mother's heart! his own must bleed for't!Release my arm. 

_Orsi. _ My son, I kiss thy feet:Thy father kneels; let him not kneel in vain. Nay, if thou stirr'st, my deadliest curse. ----

_Cæsa. _ 'Twill grieve me, But yet e'en that I'll brave:--Curse; still I'll strike!No more!

_Orsi. _ Can nought appease thee----

_Cæsa. _ Nothing, nothing!

_Alfon. _ Nay, cease, Orsino: 'tis in vain----

_Cæsa. _ True, true!This to thy heart. 

_Orsi. _ Oh! yet arrest thy sword, My son. ----

_Cæsa. _ He dies!

_Orsi. _ One word, but one!

_Cæsa. _ Despatch them. 

_Orsi. _ Swear, ere you strike the blow, if still your powerAnswers your will, as now it does, the kingHas not an hour to live!

_Cæsa. _ An hour?--An age!Thrones shall not buy that hour. By hell I swear, Alfonso breathes his last, if fate allows meTo live one moment more. 

_Orsi. _ [_Stabbing him. _] Then die this moment. 

_Cæsa. _ My heart, my heart!--Oh! oh!

[_Falls lifeless at_ Orsino's _feet. _

_Alfon. _ What hast thou done?

_Orsi. _ Preserved Castile in thee. 

_Mel. _ Hew him to pieces!

_Hen. _ Monster thy son----

_Orsi. _ He was so; yet I slew him. Think ye, I loved him not?--Oh! heaven, the bloodMy breast now pours, gives me not half such painAs that which stains this poniard: yet I slew him, I, I his father!--And as I with him, So, traitors, shall your father deal with ye, Your father who frowns yonder. --[_Thunder. _]--mark! he speaks!The avenger speaks, and stretches from the cloudsHis red right arm. --See, see! his javelins fly, And fly to strike you dead!--While yet 'tis time, Down, rebels, down!--Tremble, repent, and tremble!Fall at your sovereign's feet, and sue for grace. 

_The conspirators sink on their knees. _

_Alfon. _ Oh! soul of honour. --Oh! my full, full heart!Orsino, friend!----

_Orsi. _ No more--Thy hand--farewell. Life ebbs apace--Oh, lay me by my son, That I may bless him ere I die--Pale, pale:No warmth:--No sense:--Not one convulsive throb:Not one last lingering breath on those wan lips!All gone! all, all!--So fair, so young, to dieWas hard, most hard: canst thou forgive thy father, Canst thou, my boy? he loved thee dearly, dearly, And would to save thy life have died himself, Though he had rather see thee dead than guilty. My sand runs fast. --Oh! I am sick at soul!I'll breathe my last sigh on my son's cold lips. Clasp his dead hand in mine, and lay my heartClose to his gaping wound, that it may break'Gainst his dear breast. --My eyes grow faint and clouded. I see thy face no more, my boy, but stillFeel thy blood trickle!--Oh! that pang, that pang!'Tis done--All's dark!--My son, my son, my son!

[_Dies. _

_End of Act V. _