THE MIRROR OF TASTE, AND

DRAMATIC CENSOR. 

Vol. I. JUNE, 1810. No. 6. 

HISTORY OF THE STAGE. 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE ROMAN DRAMA. 

In proportion as the Romans yielded to the habit of imitating theGreeks, they advanced into refinement, and receded from theircharacteristic roughness and ferocity. Their pace, however, was veryslow, for imagining rudeness and brutality to be synonimous withindependence, they indulged and prided themselves in an adherence totheir original coarseness and despised the manners of the Grecians, asthe latter did those of the Persians, for their extreme refinement andeffeminacy. Of the drama there is not to be found a trace on the recordsof Rome till more than three hundred and fifty years after the buildingof the city. The people had revels and brutal debauches at which rudecompositions filled with raillery and gross invective were sung, accompanied with indecent action and lascivous gestures. But theraillery they used was so personal and calumnious that riots constantlyensued from the resentment of the injured parties, in consequence ofwhich the senate passed a law, in the three hundred and second year ofthe city, condemning to death any person who should injure thereputation of his neighbour. 

It was a full century after that law when, on occasion of great publiccalamity, they, in order to appease the divine wrath instituted feastsin honour of the gods, and those feasts for the first time exhibited asort of irregular theatrical performances, composed wholly of imitation. The actors in those may in all probability be placed on a level withthose called Mummers in Great Britain, and Livy describes them asBalladines who travelled to Rome from Tuscany. Though their merit couldnot have been great, they were very much applauded. Applause producedimprovement, and they soon formed themselves into companies calledhistrioni, who performed regular pieces called satires. These, whichwere at best entitled to no higher rank than bad farces, kept exclusivepossession of the public regards for a hundred and twenty years. 

It was at the end of that period, and about two hundred and forty yearsbefore the Christian ęra that the first play performed after the mannerof the Greeks, was brought forward in Rome, by Livius Andronicus, theearliest of the Roman dramatic poets. He turned the personal Satires andFescenine verses so long the admiration of the Romans, into regular formand dialogue, and though the character of a player, so long valued andapplauded in Greece, was reckoned vile and despicable among the Romans, Andronicus himself acted a part in his dramatic compositions. At thetime of Cicero the works of this poet were obsolete; yet some passagesof them are preserved in the _Corpus Poetarum_. 

It is related of Livius Andronicus that he at first formed and sung hispieces in the manner of his predecessors, despairing of being able toaccomplish any improvement in the Roman theatre, but that one day beingsurrounded by the multitude and excessively fatigued, he called a slaveto relieve him while he recovered his breath. Displeased with thebungling manner in which the slave performed this new task, Liviusrebuked him very severely, the slave justified, the master replied, anda dialogue ensued which the spectators imagining to be a part of theplan of the piece, greatly applauded. The drama at once broke upon theirview in a new and superior aspect--they perceived that it was infamiliar colloquial communications, such as men use in real life, thathuman affairs and the hearts of men could be justly imitated, andAndronicus taking advantage of this singular and felicitous incident, composed and represented regular dramas in dialogue. 

To Livius Andronicus is due the praise of having first refined the Romantaste in dramatic poetry, as Ennius had but a short time before done inEpic, by introducing the Greek model, as the standard of literature. Both were, according to Suetonius, half Greeks, and were masters of bothlanguages. The taste for tragedy, however, held its ground but for ashort time; for the Romans, as fickle as ferocious, soon grew weary ofit, and were falling back into their barbarous enjoyment of gladiatorsand cruel spectacles, when the poet Pacuvius arose, and restored tragedyas far as it could be restored among such a people. He was a nephew ofEnnius, and, by descent, tinctured with the Grecian manner. Pacuvius wasnot only a poet of considerable merit, but a painter also, whoseproductions were greatly admired; particularly his decorations of atemple of Hercules, which Pliny has mentioned with lavish praise. 

To Pacuvius succeeded his disciple ACCIUS, whose first drama appeared inthe very same year that Pacuvius produced his last. By the advice of hismaster he chiefly adhered to the subjects which had before made thebusiness of the dramatists of Athens, translated several of thetragedies of Sophocles into the Latin language, and wrote a vast numberof pieces, some of which were comedies. Thus he gained a considerableshare, and in fact reaped the harvest of which Andronicus and Pacuviushad sown the seed. Thus it often happens in life that the fruits of oneman's virtues, genius, and industry are devoured by a successor. [A]

Yet Accius was unquestionably a lofty and excellent poet, though hisstyle was censured for harshness. Being told of this fault by Pacuvius, he replied "I have no cause to be ashamed of it: I shall hereafter writethe better for it. It is with genius as with fruit, that which is sour, grows sweet as it ripens, while that which is early mellow rots beforeit ripens. "

No man was held in higher respect than Accius. He received the greatestmarks of honour at Rome. A high magistrate severely reprimanded a manfor uttering the name of Accius without reverence; and an actor waspunished for mentioning his name on the stage. His exalted opinion ofhis own dignity may be inferred from the following anecdote respectinghim, transmitted to posterity by Valerius Maximus. Once when JuliusCęsar entered an assembly of poets, Accius alone abstained from risingto do him homage. He respected Cęsar as much as any of them, but hethought that in an assembly of the learned, the superiority lay on thepart of the poets, and the grandeur of the greatest conqueror wasdiminished before the lustre of the best writer. [B]

As the writings of Livius Andronicus, Pacuvius and Accius constitute thefirst epoch in the Roman drama, they are generally spoken of together, and the best critics of antiquity mention them with high commendationand respect. Of the first, much less is known than of the other two. Heis nowhere, that we know of, spoken of directly, but often collaterally. He is sometimes coupled with Ennius--the praise of invention isgenerally allowed him, and his name is brought forward by Horace ratherfor the purpose of marking an ęra than of giving an opinion of histalents. 

 Ambigitur quoties uter utro fit prior; aufert Pacuvius docti famam senis, Actius alti: Dicitur Alfrani toga convenisse Menandro; Plautus ad exemplar siculi properare Epicharmi, Vincere Coecilius gravitate, Terentius arte Hos ediscit, et hos areto stipata theatro Spectat Roma potens: habet nos numeratque poetas Ad nostrum tempus, LIVI scriptoris ab ęvo. [C]

From which lines it appears that in the time of Horace learning wasconsidered to be the characteristic feature of Pacuvius and loftiness ofthought that of Accius; and Quintilian speaks of both in the followingterms. "Those splendid writers combined sublimity of conception withvigorous style in their tragedies; and on the whole if they have notdiffused through their compositions more gracefulness, it was not theirfault, but the fault of the age they lived in. "

Unquestionably the first dramatic poets of Rome laboured under greatdisadvantages. They had not only to form a drama, but to mould to ataste for the reception of it a barbarous people, whose softest and mostluxurious enjoyments partook of that ferocity which rendered that raceterrible in the eyes of the world, but to the philosophic mind nottruly great--never, in the slightest measure, amiable or estimable. Nature, moreover, had been ransacked by the Greek poets, so that nothingbut imitation was left for the Romans, who in letters, science, or arts, and particularly in the drama, attained no excellence but in proportionas they copied their Grecian predecessors. Even their copies are allowedby their own best authors to be wretched productions when compared withthe works of the great originals. [D] Compared with Menander Terence wasfrigid and unaffecting, in sublimity even Accius was incomparablyinferior to Eschylus, Pacuvius in philosophic knowledge to Euripides, and the whole body of the tragic writers of Rome, including Seneca, sinkwhen put in competition with Sophocles. 

A poet of the name of Seneca wrote some tragedies--but it yet remains, and in all likelihood will ever remain, undecided whether it was LuciusAnnoeus Seneca, the same who distinguished himself as a philosopher, and whose admirable moral sentiments have been given to the world in anEnglish dress and arrangement, by Sir Roger Lestrange. There have notbeen wanting critics of considerable eminence to maintain that the nameof Seneca was assumed in order to conceal that of the real author. Quintilian ascribes to him the tragedy of Medea. The Troas and theHippolytus are also said to be of his composition, while the_Agamemnon_, the _Hercules Fureus_, and the _Thyestes_ and _Hercules inOeta_, are supposed to have been written by his father _Marcus_Annoeus Seneca, the declaimer. Be the author of them who he may, therecan be but one opinion on the merit of the compositions. The style isnervous and replete with beauties, but, according to the corrupted tasteof the time in which they were written, abounds too much with ornament, is often turgid and inflated. Those tragedies, however, contain muchgood morality, conveyed in brilliant sentences and illustrated by loftyand glowing imagery. 

As it became the fashion of every writer of eminence, as well as everypretender to letters, among the Romans to dabble with the drama, therewere a multitude of tragic poets whose names were soon forgotten, andmany whose names alone are incidentally mentioned while their worksshared the fate of their bodies, and were buried in their graves. _Gracelius_ wrote a tragedy called _Thyestus; Catullus_ one intitled_Alemeon; Cęsar Adrastus; Augustus Ajax; Męcenas Octavio_; and _OvidMedea_. _Marcus Attilius_ translated the Electra of Sophocles into Latinverse, and wrote some comedies also, but in language so barbarous andunintelligible that it procured him the name of _Ferreus_, or the ironpoet. A poet of the name of Publius Pontonius, a relative and bosomfriend of Pliny, wrote tragedies which were greatly admired by theemperor Claudius: and he was of so bold and independent a temper, thatwhen ordered by the emperor to strike certain passages out of one of hisplays, he peremptorily refused, and said he would appeal to the people. This man was a great soldier as well as a poet, and once had the honourof a triumph. 

There were many others--Diodorus an Alexandrian of whom Strabo speakshandsomely, and Sulpitius whose eloquence Cicero has praised, callinghim the tragic orator. All those had their day of celebrity, as ourLewises, Reynoldses, &c. &c. Have now, but their productions have longsince been buried in oblivion, and there is reason to believe that theworld has greater cause to rejoice at, than regret their loss. 

FOOTNOTES:

[A] The writer of this remembers to have had a curious illustration ofthis several years ago from Dr. Colley Lucas, then surgeon general forthe East India company's establishment at Madras. Lucas was the son ofthe celebrated Irish patriot, Doctor Charles Lucas. When the parliamentvoted Mr. Grattan £50, 000 for doing what had been done before to hishand by Lucas and Flood, Colley speaking of it said, with somebitterness, "Ay, my father laid the egg--Flood hatched it, but Grattanhas run away with the chicken. "

[B] This reminds us of Doctor Johnson's proud observation on LordChesterfield, "his lordship may be a wit among peers, but he is only apeer among wits. "

[C] Thus translated by Francis, Whate'er disputes of ancient poets rise, In some one excellence theirmerit lies; What depth of learning old Pacuvius shows! With strongsublime the page of Accius glows; Menander's comic robe Afranius wears, Plautus as rapid in his plots appears, As Epicharmus; Terence charmswith art And grave Coecilius sinks into the heart. These are the playsto which our people crowd, 'Till the throng'd playhouse crack with thedull load. These are esteemed the glories of the stage From the firstdrama to the present age. 

[D] See last number page 351, 352. 

BIOGRAPHY. 

ACCOUNT OF LE KAIN. 

_The celebrated French Actor. _

Henry Louis Le Kain, born at Paris in 1729, of parents employed in thetrade of a goldsmith, was himself designed for that business, afterhaving received a careful education. He excelled, from his earliestyouth, in the manufacture of chirurgical instruments, and was alreadyknown as a skilful artist in that way, when his inclination for thestage caused him to neglect his profession, in order to declaim tragedy. He sought for an opportunity of playing in public: he had the goodfortune to be introduced to M. De Voltaire, who had at that time, in thestreet of _Traversiere_, a small theatre, where this great man loved tomake a trial of the pieces he had newly composed. The celebrated tragicpoet soon discovered in Le Kain the actor who seemed formed to feel andexpress the sublime beauties of his performances. He gave him frequentlessons; he made him give up every pursuit except that of the theatre, and lodged him in his own house. Le Kain played successively the partsof _Leide_ and _Mahomet_; and astonished and delighted his master by hisforcible manner of playing. He transported him by pronouncing thesewords in the fifth act of Mahomet--"Il est donc des remords!"--Voltairecould not contain his admiration, and the actor has acknowledged that henever felt a more lively and profound sensation than he did at thatmoment. To be brief he made his appearance on the French stage, in thepart of _Titus_, in the tragedy of _Brutus_, and that of _Leide_, in_Mahomet_. 

Nature had given to Le Kain a disadvantageous countenance, a thick andrough voice, a short figure, and, indeed, appeared to oppose almostinsurmountable obstacles to his success: but art developed the feelingsconcentered on his heart, animated his whole person, suggested to himthe most graceful attitudes, strengthened his voice, and impressed inevery motion of his body the grand character of passion. Indeed, in theparts of _Orosmanes_, _Tancred_, _Mahomet_, _Gengiskan_, _Bayard_, &c. He appeared superior even to nature, and every object was eclipsedaround him. He fixed the attention and interest of every spectator. Nevertheless, Le Kain had not only to conquer nature, but also theefforts of envy, the intrigues of the green-room, and of the fashionableworld, and the precipitate opinions of bad judges. The _parterre_ aloneconstantly admired and applauded him. His debūt continued seventeenmonths, and every body anticipated his disgrace, when he was appointedto play before the court the part of _Orosmanes_. Even Louis XV, hadbeen prejudiced against him. But that king, who possessed judgment, intelligence, and a natural taste that nothing could pervert, appearedastonished that any person should have formed so ill an opinion of thenew actor, and said--_"Il m'a fait pleurer, mot qui ne pleureguere. "_--_He has drawn tears from me, 'albeit unused to the meltingmood. '_ This expression was sufficient. He could not do otherwise thanadmit him into his company. The French theatre possessed at that time, in tragedy, Dumesnil, Gaussin, Clairon, Sarrasin, Lanoue, &c. And thiscombination of eminent talents gave to the stage a degree of perfectionand eclat, which will hardly ever be seen again. It served to form thestyle of Le Kain, and to unite in this actor all the perfections ofwhich he was then a witness, and of which he afterwards became thepreserver and the model. It is well known that Le Kain and Mad. Claironcast off the ridiculous dresses of the old actors, and consulted thecostume of their characters, and that they were the first whoestablished it on the French stage. Le Kain himself designed dressessuitable to his parts: he spared nothing to render them as brilliant ashe judged necessary, at a time when these decorations were veryindifferent. He paid equal attention to all the _minutię_ of theperformance. He made himself master of the scene, and at one viewcommanded every surrounding object. He was well versed in history, letters, and every species of knowledge connected with his art. He waspassionately fond of poetry, and nobody knew how to recite verses betterthan himself. Le Kain carried into company much of simplicity, a deal ofinformation independent of his professional knowledge, good sense, wit, and sometimes gayety, although his character, in general, was inclinedto melancholy, in consequence of being so constantly employed inconceiving and expressing the higher passions. It were vain to attemptto analyse his talents;--they who have seen him play can alone form anyjust idea of them. He was not an actor; he was the very person herepresented. He finished his theatrical career with the part of_Vendōme_, in _Adelaide Duguesclin_, eight days before his death. Justbefore he went on the stage, he said, he felt an ardor that he had neverfelt before, and that he hoped to play his character very well. In fact, he appeared to surpass himself; he astonished and charmed the wholeaudience, and he could not refrain from an indulgence upon this occasionwhich he seldom allowed himself. He appeared to give out the play, andreceived the loudest applause from all parts of the theatre, which wascontinued long after he had quitted the stage. 

This fine actor, it is said, from an imprudent exposure of his health, was seized with an inflammatory fever, which in four days brought him tohis grave. He met the approaches of death without alarm, and surroundedby his friends, resigned himself cheerfully to his fate. He died on the8th of February, 1778. 

The manner in which Le Kain made his way to distinction, on the Frenchstage, is very remarkable, and it proves that a performer may sometimesbe a better judge of his own abilities than the manager; but how fewactors are there that possess the talents of Le Kain, and how numerousare those who _think themselves_ equal to the most arduous andconspicuous characters in the drama. 

When Le Kain first appeared on the French stage, Grandval played theprincipal tragic characters. He did not perceive the talent of Le Kain;he saw only the natural defects of this sublime actor, and knew not howto appreciate the sensibility and intelligence which so amply atoned forthem. 

Le Kain, nevertheless, vegetated, for more than sixteen months in therank of a pensioner. At length, disgusted with his situation, theimpetuous Le Kain went in search of the haughty Grandval, and, withoutbeing intimidated at the uncivil reception he met with, said to him--"Icome, sir, to request that you will let me play _Orosmanes_ before theking. " "You, Sir, " said Grandval; "_Orosmanes!_ before thecourt!--Surely you are not serious--do you mean to ruin yourself atonce?"--"I have weighed every thing, Sir, " replied the young tragedian;"I know the risk I run. It is time in short, that my fate weredecided. "--"Very well, Sir, " said Grandval, "I consent to your playingthe part; but if the result should turn out contrary to your wishes, remember that it is entirely your own act. " Le Kain withdrew, andhastened to study, with the attention due to the important task he hadundertaken, the character he was about to perform. 

The day arrived--the new actor appeared on the stage. His figure andheight excited at first some surprise, and even the women, accustomed tothe grace and handsome person of Grandval, suffered a slight murmur, ofdisappointment to escape them. Le Kain had forseen this; he was notastonished at it; but the little vexation he felt at it gave himadditional energy, and the success he experienced in the first actprepared the way only to his triumph in those which succeeded. Inproportion as the interest of the scene advanced, his soul expandeditself over and beamed through his features; and soon the eyes of everyspectator, dimmed with the tears that overflowed them, could no longerdistinguish whether the actor was beautiful or ugly, and he left nothingupon the minds of the audience but the most powerful impression of thefeelings which had animated him through his whole performance. 

After the representation, the first gentleman of the chamber asked hismajesty what he thought of him. The king made the reply which we havequoted above. 

This reception, so novel in its nature, astonished his brotherperformers; but they were obliged to yield to his superiority, andGrandval, who acknowledged his error, no longer delayed to put Le Kainin possession of the first characters in tragedy. 

Le Kain published shortly after his success, the following particularsof his first connexion with M. De Voltaire, to which he prefixed thisexpressive motto from the play of Oedipus. 

 "L'amité d'un grand homme est un bienfait des Dieux. "

"May I not be permitted to boast of a title which at once fixed mycondition, my fortune, and the happiness of my life? The brief account Iam about to give, will justify the motto I have chosen, which may, atthe first view, have the appearance of too much vanity. 

"The peace of 1748 reviving amusements of every kind in the city ofParis, gave birth at the same time to the institution of severalsocieties of citizens, who assembled together to enjoy the pleasure ofacting plays. 

"The first was established at the hotel de _Soyecourt_, St. Honoré; thesecond at the hotel de _Clermont-Tonnerre_, Marais; and the third at thehotel de _Jabac_, in the street of St. Mery. Of this last theatre I wasthe founder. 

"Of all the young people who acquired celebrity upon these stages, andsome of whom are settled in the provincial theatres, I am the only onewho have obtained a situation in Paris; and for this favour I amindebted more to my good stars, than to my poor talents. Thecircumstances which led to it are these. 

"The proprietor of the hotel de Jabac, being obliged to make somerepairs on the inside of the hall which we occupied, laid us under thenecessity of requesting permission from the comedians ofClermont-Tonnerre, to play alternately with them upon their stage. Itwas stipulated between us, in the month of July 1749, that we should paya moiety of the expenses; and accordingly we made our debūt there with_Sidney_ and _Georges Dandin_. 

"It may be easily conceived, that the competition of these two societiesexcited much difference of opinion in the public, the result of whichcould not be favourable to one company, without diminishing the creditwith which the other had till then performed. Some divided in ourfavour, and some in favour of our rivals. 'These ladies, ' observed oneparty, 'are prettier than the other. '--'Ah!' replied their neighbours, 'but then the latter have better knowledge of the stage, more grace andvivacity, &c. &c. '

"In this manner the public amused themselves, and selected theirfavourites either from Messrs. De _Tonnerre_, or Messrs. De _Jabac_. Butwho could imagine that a society of young people, who attended todecorum in the midst of their amusements, would have excited thejealousy and complaint of the great disciples of Melpomene. 

"Through their interference we were obliged to shut up our theatre. AJansenist priest, however, procured its re-establishment. M. L'AbbéChauvelin of the parliament of Paris, condescended to interest himselffor the _pupils_, in opposition to their _masters_, and got us to play_Le Mauvais Riche_, a five act comedy in verse, by M. D'Arnaud. Thepiece did not possess much merit in the opinion of the most brilliantassembly that was at that time to be met with in all Paris. This was inthe month of February 1750. 

"M. De Voltaire was invited by the author to attend the representation:and whether it was to gratify M. D'Arnaud, or through pure kindness tothe actors, who exerted themselves to the utmost to give effect to avery feeble and uninteresting drama, that great man appeared tolerablysatisfied, and anxiously inquired the name of the person who hadperformed the part of the lover. He received for answer, that he was theson of a goldsmith at Paris, who played at present for his amusement, but who had a serious intention of making the stage his profession. Heexpressed to M. D'Arnaud a desire to be acquainted with me, and beggedthat he would prevail upon me to go and see him the next day but one. 

"The pleasure that this invitation afforded, was greater even than mysurprise at receiving it. But I have never been able to describe whatpassed in my mind at the sight of this man, whose eyes sparkled withfire, genius, and imagination. When I spoke to him, I felt myselfpenetrated with respect, enthusiasm, admiration, and fear. I was almostoverpowered by these several sensations, when M. De Voltaire had thegoodness to put an end to my embarrassment, by opening his paternalarms, and _thanking God for having created a being who had moved andaffected him in the recitation of such wretched verses_. He afterwardsput several questions to me respecting my own condition, and that of myfather; the manner in which I had been educated, and my future prospectsin life. Having satisfied him in all these particulars, and taken myshare of a dozen cups of chocolate mixed with coffee[E], I told him, boldly, that I knew no other happiness on earth than that of actingplays; that a severe and afflicting event having left me master of myactions, and enjoying a small patrimony of 750 livres a year, I hadreason to hope, that by abandoning my father's business, I should losenothing by the change, if I might hope one day to be admitted into theking's company of comedians. 

"'Ah, my friend!' cried M. De Voltaire, 'never form this resolution. Beruled by me; play comedy for your amusement, but never make it yourprofession. It is the finest, the most rare and difficult talent thatcan be; but it is disgraced by blockheads, and proscribed by hypocrites. At some future day France will esteem your art, but then there will beno more Barons, Lecouvreurs, nor Dangevilles. If you will renounce yourproject, I will lend you 10, 000 francs to form your establishment, andyou shall repay me when you can. Go, my friend, return to me towardsthe end of the week, reflect maturely upon my advice and proposal, andgive me a positive answer. '

"Stunned, confused, and moved even to tears at the goodness andgenerosity of this great man, who had been called avaricious, severe andpitiless, I wished to pour forth my gratitude. I attempted to speak noless than four times, but was unable to articulate my thanks. I wasabout to retire, when he called me back, and requested that I wouldrecite to him a few passages from the characters that I had alreadyplayed. 

"Scarcely knowing what I was about, I unfortunately proposed to declaimthe great speech from _Gustavus_, in the second act--'No Piron! noPiron!' he cried out, in a thundering and terrific voice, 'I do not lovebad verse; let me have all you know from Racine. '

"I luckily recollected, that when I was at the _College Mazarin_, I hadlearnt the entire tragedy of Athaliah, from having heard it oftenrepeated by the scholars who were about to play it. 

"I began, therefore, the first scene, speaking alternately the parts ofAbner and Joad; but I had hardly finished, before M. De Voltaireexclaimed, with the highest enthusiasm--'Ah! my God! what exquisiteverses! and how very astonishing it is that the whole play should bewritten with the same spirit, and the same purity, from the first sceneto the last. The poetry is inimitable. Adieu, my child!' he continued, embracing me, 'I predict that you will possess a most heart-rendingvoice [_la voice dechirante_]; that you will one day be the delight ofall Paris; but for God's sake never appear upon any public stage. '

"This is a faithful account of my first interview with M. De Voltaire:the second was more determinative, since he consented, after the mostearnest solicitations on my part, to receive me as his pensioner, and tocause a small theatre to be erected near his dwelling, where he had thekindness to let me play in company with his nieces, and the wholesociety to which I belonged. He expressed great dissatisfaction atlearning that it had hitherto cost us a good deal of money to afford thepublic and our friends amusement. 

"The expense to which this establishment put M. De Voltaire, and thedisinterested offer that he had made me a few days before, proved to me, in the strongest manner, that his conduct was as generous and noble ashis enemies were unjust, in attributing to him the vice of avarice. 

"These are facts of which I have been the witness. I owe yet anotheracknowledgment to truth. M. De Voltaire not only assisted me with hisadvice, for more than six months that I lived with him, but he alsodefrayed all my expenses during the same period; and since my admissioninto the theatre, I can prove that I have received from his liberalitymore than 2000 crowns. He calls me at this moment his _great actor_, his_Garrick_, his _dear son_. These are titles that I owe entirely to hiskindness. I only presume to call myself his respectful pupil, who feelsevery sentiment of gratitude for his disinterested acts of friendship. 

"Ought I not so to feel, when it is to M. De Voltaire alone that I amindebted for my first knowledge of the art I profess, and from respectto him, that M. The Duc d'Aumont, granted the order for my debūt in themonth of February, 1750?

"By constant perseverance upon every occasion I have now, in the monthof February, 1752, after a debūt of seventeen months, surmounted all theobstacles raised against me both by the city and the court, and procuredmyself to be inserted on the list of King's comedians. "

FOOTNOTES:

[E] This was M. De Voltaire's only nourishment, from five in the morningtill three in the afternoon. 

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

(_Continued from page 367. _)

The repetitions of which I speak were always attended with applause, andsometimes with favours more substantial: little collections were now andthen made, and I have received sixpence in an evening. To one who hadlong lived in the absolute want of money, such a resource seemed like aPeruvian mine. I furnished myself by degrees with paper, &c. And whatwas of more importance, with books of geometry, and of the higherbranches of algebra, which I cautiously concealed. Poetry, even at thistime, was no amusement of mine: it was subservient to other purposes;and I only had recourse to it, when I wanted money for my mathematicalpursuits. 

But the clouds were gathering fast. My master's anger was raised to aterrible pitch by my indifference to his concerns, and still more by thereports which were brought to him of my presumptuous attempts atversification. I was required to give up my papers, and when I refused, my garret was searched, my little hoard of books discovered, andremoved, and all future repetitions prohibited in the strictest manner. 

This was a very severe stroke, and I felt it most sensibly; it wasfollowed by another severer still; a stroke which crushed the hopes Ihad so long and so fondly cherished, and resigned me at once to despair. Mr. Hugh Smerdon, on whose succession I had calculated, died, and wassucceeded by a person not much older than myself, and certainly not sowell qualified for the situation. 

I look back to that part of my life, which immediately followed thisevent, with little satisfaction; it was a period of gloom, and savageunsociability: by degrees I sunk into a kind of corporeal torpor; or, ifroused into activity by the spirit of youth, wasted the exertion insplenetic and vexatious tricks, which alienated the few acquaintancescompassion had yet left. So I crept on in silent discontent; unfriendedand unpitied; indignant at the present, careless of the future, anobject at once of apprehension and dislike. 

From this state of abjectness I was raised by a young woman of my ownclass. She was a neighbour; and whenever I took my solitary walk with myWolfius, in my pocket, she usually came to the door, and by a smile or ashort question put in the friendliest manner, endeavoured to solicit myattention. My heart had been long shut to kindness, but the sentimentwas not dead in me: it revived at the first encouraging word: and thegratitude I felt for it, was the first pleasing sensation I had venturedto entertain for many dreary months. 

Together with gratitude, hope, and other passions still more enlivening, took place of that uncomfortable gloominess which so lately possessedme: I returned to my companions, and by every winning art in my power, strove to make them forget my former repulsive ways. In this I was notunsuccessful; I recovered their good will, and by degrees grew to besomewhat of a favourite. 

My master still murmured; for the business of the shop went on no betterthan before: I comforted myself, however, with the reflection, that myapprenticeship was drawing to a conclusion, when I determined torenounce the employment forever, and to open a private school. 

In this humble and obscure state, poor beyond the common lot, yetflattering my ambition with day-dreams which, perhaps, would never havebeen realized, I was found in the twentieth year of my age by Mr. William Cookesley, a name never to be pronounced by me withoutveneration. The lamentable doggerel which I have already mentioned, andwhich had passed from mouth to mouth among people of my own degree, hadby some accident or other reached his ear, and given him a curiosity toinquire after the author. 

It was my good fortune to interest his benevolence. My little historywas not untinctured with melancholy, and I laid it fairly before him:his first care was to console: his second, which he cherished to thelast moment of his existence, was to relieve and support me. 

Mr. Cookesley was not rich: his eminence in his profession which wasthat of a surgeon, procured him, indeed, much employment; but in acountry town, men of science are not the most liberally rewarded; hehad, besides, a very numerous family, which left him little for thepurposes of general benevolence; that little, however, was cheerfullybestowed, and his activity and zeal were always at hand to supply thedeficiencies of his fortune. 

On examining into the nature of my literary attainments, he found themabsolutely nothing; he heard, however, with equal surprise and pleasure, that amidst the grossest ignorance of books, I had made a veryconsiderable progress in the mathematics. He engaged me to enter intothe details of this affair; and when he learned that I had made it incircumstances of discouragement and danger, he became more warmlyinterested in my favour, as he now saw a possibility of serving me. 

The plan that occurred to him was naturally that which had so oftensuggested itself to me. There were, indeed, several obstacles to beovercome. I had eighteen months yet to serve; my hand-writing was bad, and my language very incorrect; but nothing could slacken the zeal ofthis excellent man; he procured a few of my poor attempts at rhyme, dispersed them amongst his friends and acquaintance, and when my namewas become somewhat familiar to them, set on foot a subscription for myrelief. I still preserve the original paper; its title was not verymagnificent, though it exceeded the most sanguine wishes of my heart: itran thus, "A subscription for purchasing the remainder of the time ofWilliam Gifford, and for enabling him to improve himself in Writing andEnglish Grammar. " Few contributed more than five shillings, and nonewent beyond ten-and-six-pence: enough, however, was collected to free mefrom my apprenticeship (the sum my master received was six pounds) andto maintain me for a few months, during which I assiduously attended theRev. Thomas Smerdon. 

At the expiration of this period, it was found that my progress (for Iwill speak the truth in modesty) had been more considerable than mypatrons expected: I had also written in the interim several littlepieces of poetry, less rugged, I suppose, than my former ones, andcertainly with fewer anomalies of language. My preceptor, too, spokefavourably of me; and my benefactor, who was now become my father and myfriend, had little difficulty in persuading my patrons to renew theirdonations, and continue me at school for another year. Such liberalitywas not lost upon me; I grew anxious to make the best return in mypower, and I redoubled my diligence. Now, that I am sunk into indolence, I look back with some degree of scepticism to the exertions of thatperiod. 

In two years and two months from the day of my emancipation, I waspronounced by Mr. Smerdon, fit for the university. The plan of opening awriting school had been abandoned almost from the first; and Mr. Cookesley looked round for some one who had interest enough to procureme some little office at Oxford. This person, who was soon found, wasThomas Taylor, Esq. Of Denbury, a gentleman to whom I had already beenindebted for much liberal and friendly support. He procured me the placeof Bib. Lect. At Exeter College: and this, with such occasionalassistance from the country as Mr. Cookesley undertook to provide, wasthought sufficient to enable me to live, at least, till I had taken adegree. 

During my attendance on Mr. Smerdon I had written, as I observed before, several tuneful trifles, some as exercises, others voluntarily, (forpoetry was now become my delight) and not a few at the desire of myfriends. When I became capable, however, of reading Latin and Greekwith some degree of facility, that gentleman employed all my leisurehours in translations from the Classics; and indeed I do not know asingle school book, of which I did not render some portion into Englishverse. Among others JUVENAL engaged my attention, or rather my master's, and I translated the tenth Satire for a holyday task. Mr. Smerdon wasmuch pleased with this (I was not undelighted with it myself) and as Iwas now become fond of the author, he easily persuaded me to proceedwith him, and I translated in succession the third, the fourth, thetwelfth, and I think the eighth Satires. As I had no end in view butthat of giving a temporary satisfaction to my benefactors; I thoughtlittle more of these, than of many other things of the same nature whichI wrote from time to time, and of which I never copied a single line. 

On my removing to Exeter College, however, my friend, ever attentive tomy concerns, advised me to copy my translation of the tenth Satire, andpresent it, on my arrival, to the Rev. Dr. Stinton (afterwards Rector)to whom Mr. Taylor had given me an introductory letter: I did so and itwas kindly received. Thus encouraged, I took up the first and and secondSatires (I mention them in the order they were translated) when myfriend, who had sedulously watched my progress, first started the ideaof going through the whole, and publishing it by subscription, as ameans of increasing my means of subsistence. To this I readily acceded, and finished the thirteenth, eleventh, and fifteenth Satires: theremainder were the work of a much later period. 

When I had got thus far, we thought it a fit time to mention our design;it was very generally approved of by my friends; and on the first ofJanuary, 1781, the subscription was opened by Mr. Cookesley atAshburton, and by myself at Exeter College. 

So bold an undertaking so precipitately announced, will give the reader, I fear, a higher opinion of my conceit than of my talents: neither theone nor the other, however, had the smallest concern with the business, which originated solely in ignorance. I wrote verses with greatfacility, and I was simple enough to imagine that little more wasnecessary for a translator of Juvenal! I was not, indeed, unconscious ofmy inaccuracies: I knew that they were numerous, and that I had need ofsome friendly eye to point them out, and some judicious hand to rectifyor remove them: but for these as well as every thing else, I looked toMr. Cookesley, and that worthy man, with his usual alacrity of kindness, undertook the laborious task of revising the whole translation. Myfriend was no great Latinist, perhaps I was the better of the two; buthe had taste and judgment, which I wanted. What advantage might havebeen ultimately derived from them, there was unhappily no opportunity ofascertaining, as it pleased the Almighty to call him to himself by asudden death, before he had quite finished the first Satire. He diedwith a letter of mine unopened in his hands. 

This event, which took place on the 15th of January, 1781, afflicted mebeyond measure. [F] I was not only deprived of a most faithful andaffectionate friend, but of a zealous and ever-active protector, on whomI confidently relied for support: the sums that were still necessary forme, he always collected; and it was feared that the assistance which wasnot solicited with warmth, would insensibly cease to be afforded. 

In many instances this was actually the case; the desertion, however, was not general; and I was encouraged to hope, by the unexpectedfriendship, of Servington Savery, a gentleman who voluntarily stoodforth as my patron, and watched over my interests with kindness andattention. 

Some time before Mr. Cookesley's death, we had agreed that it would beproper to deliver out with the terms of subscription, a specimen of themanner in which the translation was executed:[G] to obviate any idea ofselection, a sheet was accordingly taken from the beginning of the firstSatire. My friend died while it was in the press. 

After a few melancholy weeks, I resumed the translation; but foundmyself utterly incapable of proceeding. I had been accustomed to connectMr. Cookesley's name with every part of it, and I laboured with suchdelight in the hope of giving him pleasure, that now, when he appearedto have left me in the midst of my enterprise, and I was abandoned to myown efforts, I seemed to be engaged in a hopeless struggle, withoutmotive or end: and his idea, which was perpetually recurring to me, brought such bitter anguish with it, that I shut up the work withfeelings bordering on distraction. 

To relieve my mind, I had recourse to other pursuits. I endeavoured tobecome more intimately acquainted with the Classics, and to acquire someof the modern languages: by permission too, or rather recommendation, ofthe Rector and Fellows, I also undertook the care of a few pupils: thisremoved much of my anxiety respecting my future means of support. I havea heartfelt pleasure in mentioning this indulgence of my college: itcould arise from nothing but the liberal desire inherent, I think, inthe members of both our Universities, to encourage every thing thatbears the most distant resemblance to talents: for I had no claims onthem from any particular exertions. 

The lapse of many months had now soothed, and tranquillized my mind, andI once more returned to the translation to which a wish to serve a youngman surrounded with difficulties, had induced a number of respectablecharacters to set their names: but alas, what a mortification! I nowdiscovered, for the first time, that my own inexperience, and the adviceof my too, too partial friend had engaged me in a work, for the dueexecution of which, my literary attainments were by no means sufficient. Errors and misconceptions appeared in every page. I had, indeed, caughtsomething of the spirit of Juvenal, but his meaning had frequentlyescaped me, and I saw the necessity of a long and painful revision, which would carry me far beyond the period fixed for the appearance ofthe work. Alarmed at the prospect, I instantly resolved (if not wisely, yet I trust honestly) to renounce the publication for the present. 

In pursuance of this resolution, I wrote to my friend in the country(the Rev. Servington Savery) requesting him to return the subscriptionmoney in his hands, to the subscribers. He did not approve of my plan;nevertheless he promised, in a letter which now lies before me, tocomply with it: and, in a subsequent one, added that he had alreadybegun to do so. 

For myself, I also made several repayments; and trusted a sum of moneyto make others with a fellow collegian, who, not long after, fell by hisown hands in the presence of his father. But there were still some whoseabode could not be discovered, and others, on whom to press the takingback of eight shillings would neither be decent nor respectful: evenfrom these I ventured to flatter myself that I should find pardon, whenon some future day I presented them with the work (which I was stillsecretly determined to complete) rendered more worthy of theirpatronage, and increased, by notes, which I now perceived to beabsolutely necessary, to more than double its proposed size. 

In the leisure of a country residence, I fancied this might be done intwo years; perhaps I was not too sanguine: the experiment, however, wasnot made, for about this time a circumstance happened which changed myviews, and indeed my whole system of life. 

I had contracted an acquaintance with a person of the name of ----, recommended to my particular notice by a gentleman of Devonshire, whom Iwas proud of an opportunity to oblige. This person's residence at Oxfordwas not long, and when he returned to town, I maintained acorrespondence with him by letters. At his particular request, thesewere enclosed in a cover, and sent to Lord GROSVENOR: one day Iinadvertently omitted the direction, and his Lordship necessarilysupposing it to be meant for himself, opened and read it. There wassomething in it which attracted his notice; and when he gave the letterto my friend, he had the curiosity to inquire about his correspondent atOxford; and, upon the answer he received, the kindness to desire hemight be brought to see him upon his coming to town; to thiscircumstance, purely accidental on all sides, and to this alone, I owemy introduction to that nobleman. 

On my first visit, he asked me what friends I had, and what were myprospects in life; and I told him that I had no friends, and noprospects of any kind. He said no more; but when I called to take leave, previous to returning to college, I found that this simple exposure ofmy circumstances had sunk deep into his mind. At parting, he informed methat he had charged himself with my present support, and futureestablishment: and that till this last could be effected to my wish, Ishould come and reside with him. These were not words of course: theywere more than fulfilled in every point. I did go and reside with him;and I experienced a warm and cordial reception, a kind and affectionateesteem, that has known neither diminution nor interruption, from thathour to this: a period of twenty years!

In his Lordship's house I proceeded with Juvenal, till I was called uponto accompany his son (one of the most amiable and accomplished youngnoblemen that this country, fertile in such characters, could everboast) to the continent. With him, in two successive tours, I spent manyyears: years of which the remembrance will always be dear to me, fromthe recollection that a friendship was then contracted, which time, anda more intimate knowledge of each other, have mellowed into a regardthat forms at once the pride and happiness of my life. 

It is long since I have been returned and settled in the bosom ofcompetence and peace: my translation frequently engaged my thoughts, butI had lost the ardour and the confidence of youth, and was seriouslydoubtful of my abilities to do it justice. I have wished a thousandtimes that I could decline it altogether; but the ever-recurring ideathat there were people of the description I have already mentioned, whohad just and forcible claims on me for the due performance of myengagement, forbade the thought; and I slowly proceeded towards thecompletion of a work in which I should never have engaged, had myfriend's inexperience, or my own, suffered us to suspect for a momentthe labour and the talents of more than one kind, absolutely necessaryto its success in any tolerable degree. Such as I could make it, it isnow before the public. 

 ----majora canamus. 

FOOTNOTES:

[F] I began this unadorned narrative on the 15th of January, 1801:twenty years have therefore elapsed since I lost my benefactor and myfriend. In the interval I have wept a thousand times at the recollectionof his goodness: I yet cherish his memory with filial respect: and atthis distant period, my heart sinks within me at every repetition of hisname. 

[G] Many of these papers were distributed; the terms, which I extractfrom one of them, were these. "The work shall be printed in quarto(without notes) and be delivered to the subscribers in the month ofDecember next. "

"The price will be sixteen shillings in boards, half to be paid at thetime of subscribing, the remainder on delivery of the book. "

FOR THE MIRROR. 

SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE LATE MR. HODGKINSON. 

(_Continued from page 380. _)

We have now brought the extraordinary personage who makes the subject ofthis memoir to that time of life when his character assumes a high rank, and his conduct an importance, which entitle him to a much more seriousconsideration from the reader. As a strict regard to truth forbids us todeny that, in common with all his fellow creatures, he deserves censurefor some part of his conduct in life, so candour, and indeed commonintegrity, enjoin it upon us to accompany that acknowledgment with allsuch circumstances, and the reasonings upon them that occur to us, asmay serve to extenuate the criminality of those acts, and to show thathis misconduct was the natural, or rather the necessary and inevitableresult of the circumstances to which he was exposed, and nothing morethan the every-day issues of human infirmity. If in discharging theoffice of a biographer, and canvassing the character of the dead, we arecompelled to utter truths that will be unwelcome to many a heart, and tospeak lightly of the bad members of a profession for the good ones ofwhich we have a high respect, let it be remembered that we do it perhapsreluctantly, but certainly in obedience to the imperious commands of aduty paramount to all form and ceremony, which dictates that truth mustbe investigated, no matter what galled jade may feel its withers wrungby it. 

The indiscriminating, unjust, and illiberal spirit of persecution, withwhich actors have been followed up for ages, has not a greater enemy inany bosom upon earth than in ours; and we should not only libel theopinions we have uniformly avowed, but violate our conscientiouspersuasion, and suppress truth if we neglected to state that a multitudeof the ladies and gentlemen of that profession, justly stand as high inmoral character, as any of those who, in the other departments of life, are most conspicuous for virtue and nice honour. The time was, indeed, when instances of the kind were so very rare, that they were scarcelycredited, and when the general maxim was, that the public had nothing todo with the private lives of performers. But now, when the spotlesspurity of successive actresses in England has so far diminished theprejudice entertained against the body, that actresses of irreproachablecharacter are received into good company, and many of them even marriedinto high families, a correspondent ambition on their part fills mostladies of the stage with an honourable spirit of emulation in the raceof fame; while, on the other hand, the people exercise a very rigidscrutiny upon the stage, hold the actresses amenable for their privateconduct, and declare that they will not suffer one who is notoriouslyvitious to come forward on the stage and make a mockery of discretion byuttering the precepts of virtue. 

Still, however, there hang about the stage in every country too manyactresses of abandoned character. As may well be supposed, the privateattachments of those are as perfectly feigned, as any of the passions orcharacters they represent in public, and their allurements are employedchiefly, if not solely, for the gratification of their vanity, or thefurtherance of their pecuniary interest. Here and there, may perhaps befound an example of the influence of personal love: but in general theymake their charms tributary to their purses, and to their standing inthe theatre. To prove this it need only be stated as a general rule, towhich there are but very few exceptions, that in England the greatestfavourites with that class of females, and those for whose preferencethey most artfully vie with each other, is some ordinary, or perhapshoary manager, who, if he be so disposed, is sure to carry away thoseprecious prizes from the finest youths or prime men of the theatre, unless to youth and personal elegance the latter should add greatprofessional merit and the power and influence consequent to it. 

A moment's consideration will show that, for the purposes of women ofthis description, there could not possibly be found a more hopefulobject than such a young person as Hodgkinson must necessarily have beenat this period of his life. Unassisted by early instruction

 ----No parent's care Shielded his infant innocence with prayer; No father's guardian hand his youth maintained; Called forth his virtues or from vice restrained. 

Raised by his own talents and industry to great celebrity, and at a timeof life, when others have not ventured to cross the threshold of theprofession, honoured with the patronage of the first dramatic personageliving, it would be a miracle if he had not been rendered giddy by hisunexpected height. He had as yet had no experience to make him wise, nosufferings to make him cautious. From his boyish days he was compelled, by the necessity of his situation, to associate with persons of allothers the most likely to corrupt his morals, and continually exposed todangers which he was incapable of suspecting, and therefore could notdefeat. On the other hand every circumstance attending his condition hada tendency to intoxicate his brain: the first dawn of manhood broke uponhim with the dazzling glare of a full and fervid prosperity, which nomodesty could prevent him from knowing to be the fruits of his ownextraordinary merit. Along with this, his personal endowments, whichwere of themselves sufficient in private life to have filled the bestregulated young mind with vanity, were the continual subject of publicapprobation--his face was remarkably handsome, he was tall, wellproportioned, and graceful. He had one of the finest voices in England, and played well on several musical instruments. These not onlydisqualified him for resisting, but increased the amount of thetemptations that surrounded him. Thus, while his personalaccomplishments fitted him for gaining the affections of the sex, fortune made him a desirable prey for their cupidity. The breath offlattery blew upon him in every direction, and inflamed his vanity andself-love, while all the wiles and allurements which artful wantonnesscould practise upon unsuspicious youth, were played off against hisheart; and thus his passions, which in all probability werecomplexionally strong, became ungovernable. Coarse undisguised flatterytoo often makes its way to the hearts of the wisest and the best--Howthen could a poor youth like Hodgkinson be expected to refuse it, whenadministered by beauty, and disguised by elegance and refinement. 

Co-ordinate with the rise of his fame and fortune therefore was thegrowth of the evils which were fated to endanger the one, and to makeshipwreck of the other; and his professional success and hisgallantries, running parallel to each other like the two wheels of agig, left their marks on every road he travelled in the north ofEngland, to the great delight of the major part of his profession, whosickened at his superiority, and exulted in every thing that threatenedto injure his reputation and degrade him in the eyes of the public. Nordid their malice want subjects to work upon: The _Statiras_ and the_Roxanas_ by turns got possession of our young _Alexander_, and thedemon of licentiousness seems to have exercised more than his customarydominion over the ladies, for the ruin of the young man. In whatevercompany Hodgkinson played, he became the object, too often the victim oftheir arts, and some unfortunate husband or lover had to deplore theunconcealed infidelity of his _cara sposa_. Nay, in one instance, theatrical sovereignty itself found its rights invaded, and had tolament a treason which it could not punish. In plain English, the wifeof one of his managers played "All for love, or the world well lost, "and ran away with him. It was on this occasion he left the northern lineof theatres, and joined the company of Bath and Bristol, whither hisgreat professional fame had preceded him. 

Persons are every day to be found, who having enjoyed the advantages ofearly instruction, imbibed in childhood the principles of religion, andgrown up in the practice of virtue under the control of a well regulatedrestraint, have not only deviated lamentably from the paths ofrectitude, but been willing to call in sophistry to disarm conscience, or as doctor Johnson says, to lull their imaginations with idealopiates. Can it appear surprising then that a hot-brained giddy youthlike Hodgkinson should find it easy to compound that affair, immoral asit was, with his conscience, and to let it pass by, without making anybeneficial impression upon his morals. That there was somethingbelonging to it, which, aided with his sophistry, served to diminish theguilt of it in his eyes, is pretty certain. Hodgkinson was naturallybenevolent and just, and filled with those sentiments and sympathieswhich engender pity for the injured and regret for doing wrong; yet ofthe man whom he had thus injured, he many times spoke with bitternessand reproach. One day this writer questioned him upon the subject in thewarmth of friendship: "How comes it to pass, Hodgkinson, that you neverhear the name of ---- mentioned without treating it with an asperityforeign to your usual way of speaking, and indeed contrary to yournatural disposition?" "He wronged me, most wickedly wronged me, " was theanswer--"He endeavoured to crush me in my youth. "--"You were even withhim, then, with a vengeance, " replied this writer. "You have heard thatunfortunate affair then, " said he. "Yes, I have. "--"It was greatly hisown fault, sir--very little mine. I was young, hot-headed, foolish, veryfoolish; but never meditated the affair you allude to. The woman was awanton--I never suspected that the kindnesses she showed me were to leadto guilt. His jealousy stimulated her, and his injustice and malicefired me to revenge, and supplied me with specious arguments ofjustification. I am sorry it so happened on many accounts. I forgivehim, but I cannot hear him mentioned without giving vent to my opinionof him, which is, that he is a very bad fellow, with a very rancorousheart. "

On his arrival at Bath, Hodgkinson became acquainted with some of themost respectable people, and was elected a member of the Noblemen'sCatch-Club, which was composed of some of the first men in that part ofEngland for rank and opulence. This was of itself, a very honourablemark of distinction, and a signal testimony of the respect in which histalents were held by those gentlemen. He continued to be a member of it, and conducted himself in a manner which every day increased theirrespect for him, till he left England. 

While he belonged to the Bath and Bristol theatres he received aninvitation to play at Brighton during the summer residence of the Princeof Wales there, with which invitation he complied. He had beenadvantageously mentioned to the prince, and his royal highness wasdesirous to see him perform. Upon this visit an incident occurred whichwe should think it unpardonable to omit mentioning, not only on accountof its importance as it relates to our subject, but as it serves tothrow a ray of light on the character of one of the most illustriouspersonages lining. 

The day after his arrival at Brighton, Hodgkinson took a walk, byhimself, down the Stein side, and was studiously employed in conningover the part of Belcour in the West Indian, in which character he wasthat night to make his debūt, when his attention was called off by loudwords of men high in quarrel. He cast his eyes towards the place fromwhich the noise issued, and perceived at a little distance a crowdapparently engaged in a tumultuous scuffle, he ran up, under the impulseof curiosity to see what the matter might be. Upon reaching the place, he found a well-dressed young man surrounded by a number of persons wholooked like gentlemen and who struck at him together, while he, havinggot his back to a tree, gallantly defended himself, and returned theirblows with much energy and good will. Foul play of that kind is rarelyattempted in England, and when attempted, seldom fails to bring downjust chastisement from the standers by. In fact it is a thing neverpermitted by the people, who make it a universal rule to show fair playin all cases of quarrel, be the parties who they may; so that if abattle takes place between an Englishman, and even a Frenchman, thelatter is as secure of justice, and of his second, and of hisbottleholder too, if necessary, as if he were a true-born Englishman. "Fair play, fair play! a ring, a ring! d--n my eyes why should not poorfrog-eater have as fair play as any other?" The writer has heard this_John Bullish_ effusion before now, and what was better, seen itgenerously and justly acted upon. 

Hodgkinson was too much a man of that kidney to stand by, a tamespectator of such scandalous foul play, he therefore rushed through thecroud, and joining the young man, made the assailants feel the force ofhis arm, which nature, aided by some skill in the pugilistic art, had inno ordinary degree qualified for that useful purpose. On the presentoccasion he acted under the impulse of a two-fold duty, first as agenerous man bound to sustain the weak and oppressed against injusticeand outrage, and secondly, as the person so injuriously attacked, wasone who had, on his own private account, a claim to his friendship andassistance. The name of this young man was Fox; he had been a writer forsome of the London prints, and having taken to the stage, was stationedwith the Brighton company, when Hodgkinson being engaged there for a fewnights, was particularly requested by a gentleman who had once beenfriendly to him, to do any service he could, and to take care of him, ashe was very young, wild, and giddy. 

The cause of the ungenerous assault upon the young man was this: he hadwritten a very severe philippic on the well known lord Barrymore, andMr. Barry, the brother of his lordship, having found means to discoverit, they both vowed to take personal vengeance for the affront, thefirst time they could lay hands upon the writer. This day they were incompany with a set of gentlemen, some of whom were well suited to their_respectable_ designs. Seeing young Fox in the walk on the Stein, Mr. Barry pointed to him and exclaimed, there, my lord, there is the rascalwho libelled you! "Knock him down!" said one, "flog the scoundrel, " saidanother, "break the villain's bones, " said a third; and (verymagnanimously, no doubt) they endeavoured to do it. But Fox, thoughyoung, was not so easy a conquest: To a frame, active, hardy, andmuscular, nature had blessed him by bestowing on him a bold, intrepid, independent spirit; and his dauntless heart was no more to beintimidated by the blows and menaces of the MOB about him, than his mindwas to be bent to respect for their rank and titles, when their conductwas a disgrace to both. He was, therefore, busily employed returningtheir favours in kind, when he was joined by Hodgkinson, who did not atthe time know the person or name of one single being in the crowd, Foxalone excepted. 

As soon as Hodgkinson appeared assisting his young friend "Here isanother of the rascally players, " exclaimed one of those gentlemen, "knock him down!"--"If you be really gentlemen, as you would bethought, " said Hodgkinson, "give us fair play; turn out man to man, oreven three of you to us two, and we'll fight you. " Then finding thatseveral of them continued to strike while the others urged them on, heexclaimed: "So, you cowardly gang of villains you want to murderus--then by Heavens we'll sell our lives dearer than you think of, " and, still supported by Fox, laid about him with desperation. Just at thatmoment he heard a person on the outside of the mob cry out aloud, "D--nthe rascal, knock his brains out--knock his brains out with your stick!"Hodgkinson, blind with rage, exclaimed in reply, "_D--n you, youcowardly rascal, and all your d--n'd breed. _" At this time a crowd ofpeople ran up, and fair play becoming necessary, lord Barrymore and hisfriends thought proper to decline the battle. Among those who came upand dispersed the combatants, was his royal highness the prince ofWales. 

Fox and his friend were severely beaten, and bore the marks of it; butwhat were the reflections of poor Hodgkinson when he learned that thevery person to whom he had said "D--n you, you cowardly rascal, and allyour d----d breed, " was no other than that very duke who has since cutso conspicuous a figure in the annals of gallantry with Mrs. CLARK, ofmeretricious notoriety, or in other words the duke of York himself. Bymeans which shall hereafter be related, the interest of the royal familyhad been engaged for Hodgkinson, and even the first personage of it hadagreed to do him a signal favour, on his first appearance in London. What then must have been his mortification and regret to think that byone rash expression he had not only lost those bright prospects, butincurred the censure and abhorrence of every thinking man in thekingdom; since, however censurable the duke of York might be, itafforded no pretence for a general expression of disrespect to the wholeof his family. 

In the desperate state of mind which succeeded these reflections, Hodgkinson saw but one measure that was becoming him, or indeed safe forhim to take; and he resolved to adopt it without delay--that was, toleave Brighton and live in retirement till the whole of the affair, withhis total ignorance of the identity of the person he had insulted, should be universally understood, and his innocence be made apparent. Tothis end he directly went to the manager of the playhouse, laid thewhole affair before him, and pointed out the absolute necessity therewas for changing the play and giving him up his bond of engagement. "Theprince of Wales, " added he, "is omnipotent in Brighton; he is so belovedand admired here, that his will is the law of every one's conduct, thetown will of course enter with violence into the resentment which hishighness will justly feel, and therefore for me to appear before themafter what has happened, will inevitably produce a riot which willprobably end in the destruction of the house. It would be considered bythe people, and very properly too, as an insult to them, for me to comeforward in such circumstances. "

Hodgkinson's remonstrances had no effect upon the manager, whoperemptorily insisted upon his appearance in the character of Belcour, be the consequences what they might. This, Hodgkinson always consideredas the most trying moment of his existence; and it was not until themanager swore that he would have him arrested before he could leave thecounty if he did not perform his engagement, that he could be prevailedupon to stand his ground, and face the storm that threatened him. Theaffair had got abroad, and when evening came, the house was uncommonlyfull, partly owing to the attractive circumstance of a celebratedactor's appearing among them, for the first time, and partly to thecuriosity of individuals to see what would be done to the new performerfor the part he had played that morning on the Stein. 

(_To be continued. _)

MISCELLANY. 

QUIZZICAL CRITIQUE ON THE SONG OF

"BILLY TAYLOR. "

 "Et tragicus dolet plerumque sermone pedestri: Telephus ac Peleus, quum pauper et exul uterque Projicit ampullas ac sesquipedalia verba Si curat cor spectantis, tetigisse querela. "

 _Hor. Art Poet. _

I hope that I shall not appear to degrade the office of criticism bymaking a ballad the subject of it, especially since that now before meis of so excellent a nature. If it is objected to, I must shelter myselfunder the authority of Addison, who has written a critique onChevy-Chace, to which, I venture to affirm, this ballad is infinitelysuperior. That I may not appear too presumptuous in my assertion, let usproceed to the examination of this justly celebrated poem. I call it apoem--I had almost called it an epic, seeing it has a beginning, middle, and end: the action one, namely the death of the hero Taylor: it isreplete with character, but suggested by incidents the most interestingand touching. Let us first examine it verse by verse. The author has notedious prelude, not even an invocation; but, like Homer, immediatelyenters into the middle of his subject, and in a few words gives us thename, character, and amour of his hero. Observe the gayety of theopening:--

 "Billy Taylor was a brisk young feller, Full on mirth and full on glee. "

How admirably, how judiciously is this jocund beginning contrasted withthe melancholy sequel! how affecting to the reader's feelings when hereflects how soon Billy's joy will be damped! Unhappy Taylor!--Let usproceed to the next lines:--

 "And his mind he did diskiver To a lady fair and free. "

Taylor was a bold youth: he feared not to tell his mind to the lady; hedid not stand shilly-shally, like a whimpering lover. But we are herepresented with a new character, a lady fair and free. Some commentatorshave thought that she was a lady of easy virtue, from the epithet free;and indeed the violence of her love and jealousy seems to favour thesuspicion: but let us not be too severe; free may signify no more thanthat she was of a cheerful disposition, and thus of the same temper withher lover: _concordes animę!_ Thus far all is pleasant and delightful:but the scene is now changed--and sorrow succeeds to joy. 

 "Four and twenty brisk young fellers, Drest they vas in rich array, They kim and they seized Billy Taylor, Press'd he vas and sent to sea. "

Taylor, the brisk, the mirthful Taylor is pressed and sent to sea. Icannot help observing here the art of the poet in letting us into thecondition of Taylor: we may guess from his being pressed that he was notfree of the city, and was most likely a journeyman cobler, coblers beingfamous for their glee. I will not positively say he was a cobler:Scaliger thinks he was a lamp-lighter; "_adhuc sub judice lis est_. " Butto proceed--Taylor is on board ship: what does his true-love?

 "His true-love she followed arter, Under the name of Richard Car; And her hands were all bedaubed With the nasty pitch and tar. "

Many ladies would have comforted themselves with other lovers; not soBilly's mistress, she follows him; she enters the ship under the name ofRichard Car. She condescends to daub her lilly-white hands with thepitch and tar. What excessive love, and how ill rewarded! I have twothings to remark here. 1. Her disregard for herself in daubing herhands. When I consider a lady in Juvenal who did the same, I am led tothink she was Billy's mistress. But then Billy disregards her; thismakes me think again she was his wife. Yet perhaps not; Billy had gotanother mistress. 2. The second observation is upon the name sheassumes, Richard Carr. Commentators are much divided upon this head; whyshe chose that name in preference to any other. I must confess they talkrather silly on this topic; I conjecture the name was given here becauseit was a good rhyme to tar; this is no mean or inconsiderable reason, asthe poets will all testify. But let the reader decide this at hisleisure; let us now proceed:--

 "An engagement came on the very next morning: Bold she fit among the rest; The wind aside did blow her Jacket, And diskivered her lily-white breast. "

Here was a trial for the lady: but she sustained it; she fought boldly, fought like a man. But mark the sequel; the wind blows aside her jacket;her lily-white breast is exposed to the lawless gaze of the sailors!Here was a sight! no doubt it inspired them with double valour andgained them a victory: for they certainly were victorious, though thepoet judiciously passes over the inferior topic, and hastens to his mainsubject. 

The captain gains intelligence of her heroism, or in the musicalsimplicity of the original, "kims for to know it:" with honest bluntnesshe exclaims "Vat vind has blown you to me?" The character of the seacaptain is well supported: he does not say, "how came you here?" but inthe characteristic language of profession, "vat vind has blown you tome?" The classical reader will be pleased also with the similarity thisexpression bears to a passage in the Ęneid; it is in the speech ofAndromache to Ęneas on a like occasion of surprise:

 "Sed tibi qui cursum venti, quę fata dedere? Aut quisquam ignarum nostris Deus appulit oris?"

It must be confessed, that the Latin is more pompous, perhaps moreelegant; but what it gains in refinement, it loses in simplicity. Thechief thing however to be remarked is, that the same language alwayssuggests itself on the same occasion. But let us attend to the lady'sanswer:

 "Kind sir: I be kim for to seek my true-love, Vhom you press'd and sent to sea. "

The pathos of this speech is inimitable. Observe with what art, orrather with what nature, it is worked up, so as to interest the feelingsof the captain. First let us take a view of the speaker; a woman, andher breast diskivered: she begins with, "Kind sir, " which shows thegentleness of her disposition, and that she forgave the captain thoughhe had pressed her true-love: she proceeds, "I be kim for to seek mytrue-love, " who could resist this affecting narration? A lady bravingthe dangers of the sea, and an engagement, to seek her true-love! Thelast line has suggested to the commentators that the captain headed thepress-gang himself. This is a matter of too much consequence for me todecide. But what effect has the speech on the rugged nerves of thecaptain? All that could be expected or desired. He breaks out--observethe art of the poet!--no frigid preface of "he said, " "he exclaimed, "but, like Homer, he gives us the speech at once--

 "If you be kim for to seek your true-love, He from the ship is gone away: And you'll find him in London streets, ma'am, Valking vith his lady gay. "

The captain's feelings are taken by storm: he makes a full discovery ofthe retreat of the youth, and the company in which he is to be found. Some have thought it very odd that the captain should be so wellinformed of Billy's retreat and company; and are of opinion that heconnived at it; but the captain might from the knowledge of humannature, and especially of sailors' nature, guess where and in whatcompany Billy would be. Let not then the honest tar be condemned. Asthe poet has put down none, we may suppose the lady to be too muchoppressed to make any answer to a speech so cutting and afflicting. Overwhelmed with anger, jealousy, and desire of revenge, she could notspeak. Admirable poet, who so well knew nature! "parvę curę loquuntur, ingentes silent, " and is not this silence more eloquent, moreexpressive, nay more awful, than all the angry words that could havebeen uttered? it is the silence before the tempest: the awful stillnessof revenge and death. 

 "She rose up early in the morning, Long before 'twas break of day. "

Mark the impatience of revenge! she will not even wait till day-break;she gets (as we may suppose, though it is not declared) leave ofabsence, and goes on shore, "And she found false Billy Taylor, Valking with his lady gay. "

Infamous Billy Taylor! while your mistress was braving for you thedangers of the ocean, you were reveling in the arms of another! But yourhour is come! The character of Billy is inimitably well supportedthroughout, or, as Horace says--

 "Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constat. "

'Tis true, he deserts his mistress; but 'tis for a lady of similardisposition; it is a lady _gay_ with whom he walks: thus, though he isfalse, he shows himself _full of mirth_: he is still Billy Taylor. Markthe artifice of the poet! Like Virgil who drops the epithet "pious" on asimilar occasion, the poet here calls Billy by the appropriate epithet"false. " There is an elegance and simplicity perfectly Homeric in therepetition of the line, "Valking with his lady gay. "

 "Straight she call'd for swords and pistols, Brought they vas at her command. "

Let not the sceptical reader sneer, and ask where she got, or whobrought the swords and pistols. Some kind deity, willing to assist thepurposes of her just revenge, interposed and brought her arms. SurelyHorace would allow that this was "dignus vindice nodus. " But toproceed:--

 "She fell on shooting Billy Taylor Vith his lady in his hand. "

Here is an interesting incident! here a melancholy subject! what a scenefor a picture! On one side, a lady impelled by jealousy with adischarged pistol in her hand, and a face expressive of the triumph ofrevenge; on the other Billy Taylor, stretched on the cold ground, withhis hand in that of his lady, now we may suppose no longer gay, andperhaps weeping! Observe, Billy died in the situation in which Tibulluswished to die: he held his mistress, "_deficiente manu_. "[H] O! comehere all ye young men! ye Billy Taylors for the world is full of you! yedeserters of true-lovers, ye walkers with ladies gay, come here andcontemplate! Taylor, who a few days before was gay like you, is now alas"stone dead, " or, to use the pathetic and expressive language ofFalstaff--who by the by, was, like Billy, a gay deceiver--is now nobetter than a "shotten herring!

 "When the captain kim for to know it; He very much applauded her for what she had done. "

From this passage, some have taken occasion to accuse the captain of aconnivance with Billy's escape and connexion with a lady gay, that hemight enjoy Billy's first mistress. But surely this is unfounded: thecaptain saw this mistress of Billy's by chance alone: and could nottherefore be supposed to have a longing for a lady whom he had neverseen till Billy had left the ship. Some have also accused the captain ofcruelty, for applauding the lady for killing her lover. But these areunfounded and calumnious charges: it was a love of justice which inducedthe captain to applaud her: not that I positively say, that he might notalso be swayed by the lady's beauty. The vehemence of the captain'sapplause is admirably displayed by the quantity of dactyls in the secondline of this stanza. Let us proceed:

 "And he made her first lieutenant of the valiant Thunder-bomb. "

Many are shocked at the apparent indifference of the lady; and foolishlycondemn the poet for inconsistency. Such ignorant critics know nothingof the matter. Our poet, who is the poet of nature, did not mean to drawa perfect character, a "sine labe monstrum, " but, like Homer, andEuripides, which latter he greatly resembles in his tenderness ofexpression, draws men and women such as they are. Still there is anotherobjection started: how could a woman be made a lieutenant? It must beconfessed that though such things are not entirely unprecedented, thatthey are very singular: some have therefore thought this a decentallegory of the poet to express that she was the captain's chiefmistress, his sultana; and we must remember that she was a free lady, and, after the murder she had committed, glad of the _protection_ of acaptain. I hope the ladies will not be offended at this interpretation, and, since a recent inquiry, will pardon me the expression that conveysit. 

It remains now to say something concerning the sentiments, characters, incidents, moral, and diction of the poem, and [Greek: ōrōtōn apoprōtōn], let us speak of the sentiments. These, as I observed before, are not, like Lucan's, obtruded upon the reader, but suggested byincidents. For instance, does not the circumstance of the lady's goingto sea after her true-love suggest more than the most laboureddeclamation on the force of love? When the captain is melted by thepathetic address, and lily-white breast of the lady, is it not clearlyand expressively intimated how great is the power of weeping beautypleading in a good cause, over even the boisterous nature of a sailor?Again, when the lady shoots Billy Taylor, what a fine sentiment is to bediscovered here of the power of jealousy? and in the death of Billycontrasted with his former gayety, who is there whose soul is of so irona mould as not to be touched by the implied sentiment of theshortlivedness of human pleasure and enjoyment, when even the gay Tayloris overtaken by fate? This is a most masterly piece of nature; and Iventure to pronounce that the man who is uninterested by it must havebeen born on Caucasus and nursed by she-wolves. I come now to thecharacters; and here it is that the chief art of the poet is displayed. It is wonderful to observe how many and how different characters are tobe found in this short poem. To say nothing of the four and twenty"fellers" who are admirably characterized by the epithet "brisk;" wehave the mirthful Taylor and the rugged sea-captain, the lady fair andfree, and the lady gay. It may be objected that there is too great asameness in the female characters: but no; the lady fair and free isbrave and revengeful; the lady gay is simply gay, a mere insipidcharacter, and introduced by the poet, no doubt, as a contrast to theturbulent and busy character of the other lady. The boisterous captainis a well-drawn and a well-supported character. He is rugged, honest, blunt, illiterate, and gallant. But it is the character of the heroTaylor which is drawn and sustained with the most art and nature. In thefirst place he is brave, although some have contradicted this, by sayingthat he did not go to sea voluntarily but was pressed, and then ran awaythe night before the engagement. But I will not believe he was a coward:no; let the critics remember that Ulysses did not go voluntarily to theTrojan war, and was always willing to escape when he could; and yetsurely he was a hero. Thus have I proved the bravery of Taylor. He hadalso other requisites for a hero: he was amorous, like Achilles andĘneas, and he deserted his love like the latter. Then he was brisk andgay. I do not remember any hero exactly of this character. To be sure, Achilles laughs once in the Iliad, and Ęneas in the Ęneid; but it doesnot appear to have been the general character of either of them, andespecially of the latter, who was a whimpering sort of hero. It does notappear that Taylor resembled Ęneas in piety; but that is a silly kind ofantiquated virtue, of which heroes of modern days would be ashamed, andwhich our poet has most judiciously omitted in the catalogue of Billy'squalities. Again, he resembles the heroes of antiquity in his untimelyend, and in the cause of it--a woman. Thus Achilles was shot in theheel; Ulysses was killed, though not very prematurely, by his son; Ęneaswas drowned like a dog in a ditch; and Alexander was poisoned. Then asto the cause: Sampson (though to be sure the polite reader will callthat fabulous, and think me a fool for quoting such an old wife's tale)owed his death to a woman; Agamemnon was even killed by a woman;Hippolitus lost his life by a woman; so did Bellerophon; and Antony lostthe world and his life too by a woman. Upon the whole Billy's is a mixedsort of character, composed of good and bad qualities, in which, according to the established character of heroes, the bad predominate. Thus, in the character of Achilles, it would be difficult to find asingle good quality; he is "impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer, " anda great deal more of the same sort. Ęneas is indeed pious: but then heis a perfidious deserter of an injured lady; he invades a country wherehe has no right, and kills the man who has the audacity to oppose theusurper of his own throne, and the ravisher of his own wife. And as toAlexander, he was a mere brute: he overthrew cities, as childrenoverthrow houses made of cards, for his mere amusement; and, like thesame children, wept when he had no more to knock down; he killed somemillions of men, for the same reason that country 'squires shootswallows, for exercise, and because they have nothing else to do: and, in the time of peace and conviviality, he slew two of his best friends, merely to keep his hand in practice. Compared to these heroes, Billy isa perfect saint: and indeed I have often thought that he is too good fora hero; and that a few rapes, and thefts, and murders, would have madea very proper and interesting addition to his character. As to theincidents, I shall merely observe that they are numerous, well chosen, interesting and natural. Let me next speak of the moral to be drawn fromthe poem. Whether the poet, according to Bossu's rule, and Homer's andĘsop's practice, chose the moral first, I cannot pretend to say, thoughsome, who resolve the whole poem into an allegory, favour that opinion. Certain it is, the moral is excellent: the ill effects of inconstancy;and I am sure the fair sex will be obliged to the poet's gallantry. There are also some of what I may call collateral truths to be derivedfrom the poem; such as not to trust too much to prosperity, exemplifiedin the mirth and downfall of Taylor; and the reward of virtue, in thelady's being made a first lieutenant. I shall conclude with a fewremarks on the diction, or, to speak metaphorically, the dress in whichthe story is clothed. It has all the requisites of a good style; it isconcise, perspicuous, simple and occasionally sublime. The poetry is notof that tumid nature which Pindar uses, but of the graceful simplicityof Homer's verse. The poet has diversified the language by theintermixture of the Doric dialect, in imitation of the Greek tragedians;of this kind are the expressions, _vat vind_, _diskivered_, _I be kim_, and _for to know_. But what strikes me most is, the solemn, mournful, and pathetic beauty of the chorus, _Tol lol de rol de riddle iddle ido_. The [Greek: Ai, an, ] and [Greek: pheu, pheu], of Euripides andSophocles, the [Greek: e e e e] and [Greek: oto to toi] [Greek: totoi]of Ęschylus, are comparatively frigid and tasteless. Yes; this _Tol lolde rol de riddle iddle ido_ is so exquisitely tender, and so musicallymelancholy, that I dare affirm, that the mind and ear that are notsensibly affected with it, are barbarous, tasteless, and incapable ofrelishing beauty or harmony. 

 * * * * *

ON THE CHOICE OF A WIFE. 

The variety of men's tastes is nowhere more remarkable than in thechoice of their wives. With many, beauty is the first consideration; toothers, fortune is more attractive; by some, excellence in the culinaryart is esteemed the most engaging accomplishment; while others deemsubmission the fittest disposition in a partner for life. Indeed, from aman's character and habits we may make a pretty good guess what sort ofwife he will choose. The avaricious man will gratify his passion withhis wife's fortune; the vain man with his his wife's beauty; and theepicure with his wife's ragouts. 

Gloriosus is sensible and accomplished, but egregiously fond ofadmiration. To gratify this passion, he paid his addresses to Sempronia, whose beauty and fortune attracted a crowd of suitors, and made her thebelle of the town in which she lived. The lady was not insensible of hisattentions, and he succeeded in gaining the prize, for which so many hadsighed in vain. His vanity was highly gratified with the preference hehad obtained, and nothing could exceed his satisfaction during hiscourtship and the first weeks of his marriage. The men called him alucky fellow, the women praised Sempronia's discernment, and thehandsome couple was the theme of general conversation. But, in a shorttime after the visits, which are usual on such occasions, had been dulypaid and as duly returned, admiration, always fickle, lavished itsregards on new objects, and Gloriosus and his wife were forgotten. Henow found, that she, whom he had chosen for the companion of his life, was deficient in every qualification that could render such a companionuseful or agreeable. She had been told from her earliest youth, that hercharms of person were such as always to ensure her admirers, withoutbeing at the pains of cultivating the graces of her mind. Her motherthought she could not too early introduce into the world such abeautiful creature; and, from the age of fifteen to the day when shemarried Gloriosus, her time was almost wholly taken up in visiting andreceiving visits, and her mind was entirely employed in devising somenew mode of decorating her person. Such a one was little calculated tosustain with dignity, "the mild majesty of private life. " Her ideas werefew and trivial; and her conversation was consequently trifling andinsipid. Her former habits made her ill qualified for a nurse; and herlove of pleasure made home a restraint to her, and the duties of amother insupportable. The disappointed Gloriosus, disgusted with hishome, sought for relief in the circles of pleasure and dissipation. Hiswife was too much engrossed with her person and her parties to concernherself about him; so that finding themselves mutually disagreeable, they agreed to a final separation. 

Apicius married for the sake of having a good housekeeper and cook. Heis a Mahometan in his opinion of women, and deems submission to herhusband the cardinal virtue in a wife. He has no idea of making a friendand adviser of one whom he looks upon merely as his head-servant. He hasthe same objection to any sort of learning in women which many peoplehave to the education of the poor: he thinks it must render them aversefrom the performance of those menial duties of life, for which, heimagines, they were exclusively created. It was his good fortune to meetwith a woman exactly suited to his disposition. She understood "thewhole art of cookery, " the four rules of arithmetic, and could read theNew Testament without much difficulty. She had never been taught tothink for herself; the duty of obedience, which had been earlyinculcated upon her by a severe father, had grown easy by habit; and shewas glad to save herself the trouble of relying upon her own resources. She is, therefore, the mere echo of her husband's sentiments; shebelieves him to be "the greatest wight on ground, " and would as soonthink of contradicting the scriptures, as any thing that he says. Thisacquiescence gratifies the vanity of her husband; he thinks her anadmirable wife, but to every one else, she appears a very insignificantwoman. 

Imperitus was early a worshipper of the showy attractions of Clelia. Shewas always a forward girl, and took the command of all the littleparties of her own age. This forwardness her parents mistook for mentalsuperiority, and thought they could not bestow too much pains in thecultivation of her extraordinary talents. They accordingly provided hernumerous masters, and Clelia attained a smattering in many things. Shecould draw tolerably, play tolerably, speak French tolerably, and writetolerably pretty verses. Her parents thought her a prodigy of genius;and her brothers and sisters were early taught to pay a proper deferenceto her superior endowments. Her will was law, and her opinionsinfallible. Imperitus contemplated her with amazement, and thought heshould be completely happy if he could obtain such an accomplishedcharacter for his wife. But several long years did he languish in vainfor that blessing; and when at last she consented to become his wife, she yielded with that air of condescension, which a high-bred dameassumes when she suffers herself to be handed across the way by a personof inferior condition. From that time, Imperitus became a cypher in hisown house; for the poor man was not only obliged to submit to all hiswife's proceedings, but she expected him to acquiesce in all heropinions. Nothing under absolute authority could satisfy her highopinion of her own abilities. Imperitus is almost afraid to speak in hercompany; for, instead of assisting and palliating his naturaldeficiencies, she is the first to ridicule and expose them. Herpassions, having never been checked, have become exceedingly violent. She converses on politics and divinity with all the fury of a partizanand a polemic; she seems impatient of the trammels of her sex; and herconversation frequently goes beyond the bounds of decency and goodmanners. One cannot help pitying the lot of Imperitus, who has a largeshare of good-nature, and who (whatever may be his deficiencies) cannotcertainly be reproached with a want of constancy and tenderness towardshis wife. 

Benignus's notions of the married state were of the noblest kind. In hisestimation, it was the institution the best calculated for the permanenthappiness of a rational being. Fully sensible how much the colour of hisfuture life must depend upon the person whom he should call his wife, hedetermined to make his choice with circumspection. Surely, said he, ifwe are solicitous respecting the character and temper of a person who isto make a short excursion with us, it behoves us to be extremely carefulrespecting one who is to be our companion in the journey of life. He wasfirst introduced to Charlotte at a ball. The dancing had just begun, andshe was entering into it with all that gayety which youth and healthinspire (for it was a diversion of which she was very fond) when she wasinformed that her father was suddenly taken ill and would be glad to seeher, if she could consent to give up the evening's pleasure. She waitednot for consideration; but regardless of place or person, she flew outof the room, and totally forgot, in the desire to relieve her parent, that she should thereby lose a diversion, to which she had lookedforward with the greatest delight. Benignus, who had been charmed withher person and conversation, was delighted with this proof of thegoodness of her heart, and determined to offer her his hand, if heshould find her as amiable at home as she was captivating abroad. He wasintroduced the next day into her father's house by a friend of his, whowas a relation of the old gentleman's. They were shown into theinvalid's room. Charlotte, with her arms round her father's waist, wasgently helping him to rise in the bed; and her expressive countenanceshowed how tenderly she sympathized in the pain he felt. As soon as shewas gone out of the room, her father, whose heart was warm withgratitude, could not help breaking out into an exclamation of hishappiness in possessing such a daughter, whose dutiful and affectionateattention, he said, disarmed sickness of its sting. Benignus went home, in love with Charlotte, and from that time he became a constant visiterat her father's house. He found her mind as accomplished as her heartwas benevolent. He doubted not but that so amiable a daughter would makeas amiable a wife. He married her, and has not been disappointed. Blessed in each other's affections, they enjoy as much happiness as thislife is capable of affording: theirs is

 ----"the mild majesty of private life, Where peace with ever-blooming olive crowns The gate, where Honour's liberal hands effuse Unenvied treasures, and the snowy wings Of innocence and love protect the scene. "

 I am, Mr. Editor, your humble servant, DOMESTICUS. 

 * * * * *

FRENCH DRAMATIC ANECDOTES. 

A French actor, accustomed to perform the part of Achilles, wished tohave his portrait taken, and desired it might be in that character, stipulating to give the painter forty crowns for his work. This son ofMelpomene had been a journeyman carpenter, and the painter, who wasinformed that he was a bad paymaster, thought proper to devise a mode ofbeing revenged should Achilles play him any trick; he therefore paintedthe figure in oil, the shield excepted, which was in distemper. Thelikeness was acknowledged to be great; but the actor, that he might payas little as possible, pretended to find many faults, and declared 'hewould only pay half the sum agreed upon. "Well, " replied the painter, "Imust be content; however, I will give you a secret for making thecolours more brilliant. Take a sponge, dip it in vinegar, and pass itover the picture several times. " The actor thanked him for this advice, applied the sponge, washed away the shield of Achilles, and, instead ofthat hero, beheld a carpenter holding a saw. 

The famous Baron was both an author and an actor: he wrote a comedy infive acts called _Les Adelphes_, taken from the Adelphi of Terence; anda few days before it was performed the duke _de Roquelaure_, addressinghim, said, "Will you show me your piece, Baron? You know I am aconnoisseur. I have promised three women of wit, who are to dine withme, the feast of hearing it; come and dine with us: bring it in yourpocket, and read it yourself. I am desirous to know whether you are lessdull than Terence. " Baron accepted the invitation, and found twocountesses and a marchioness at table, who testified the most impatientdesire to hear the piece. They were, however, in no haste to rise fromtable, and, when their long repast was ended, instead of thinking ofBaron, they called for cards. "Cards?" cried the duke. "Surely, ladies, you have no such intention? You forget that Baron is here to read youhis new comedy?" 'Oh, no; we have not forgotten that, ' replied one ofthem, 'he may read while we are at play, and we shall have two pleasuresinstead of one. ' Baron immediately rose, walked to the door, and, withgreat indignation, replied, his comedy should not be read tocard-players. This incident was brought on the stage by _Poincinet_, inhis comedy of the _Cercle_. 

 * * * * *

Boyer, a French dramatic author, had been fifty years writing and neversuccessfully. That he might prove whether his condemnation might not beimputed to the prejudice of the pit, he gave it to be understood thatthe new tragedy of Agamemnon was the production of _Pader D'Assezan_, ayoung man newly arrived at Paris. The piece was received with generalapplause, and Racine himself, the great scourge of _Boyer_, declared infavour of the new author. "And yet it is by _Boyer, Mons. De Racine_"exclaimed _Boyer_ himself, from the pit. Imprudent man! The next day thetragedy was hissed. 

When _Dancourt_ gave a new piece, if it were unsuccessful, to consolehimself he was accustomed to go and sup with two or three of hisfriends, at the sign of the Bagpipes kept by _Cheret_. One morning, after the rehearsal of his comedy called the _Agioteurs_, orStock-brokers, which was to be performed, for the first time, thatevening, he asked one of his daughters, not ten years of age, how sheliked the piece? "Ah, papa, " said the girl, "you'll go tonight and supat the sign of the Bagpipes. "

 * * * * *

It is a common practice in Paris, to read new theatrical pieces inprivate assemblies, where they are supposed to undergo a kind of primaryordeal, and over each of which a lady always presides. A tragedy called_Alzaide_ by _Linant_, had been read at one of those societies, andobtained great praise; however, it had no success on the stage, whichgreatly afflicted this previous tribunal. Being assembled the day afterits performance, there was a general silence; but the lady, who hadfirst given her favourable suffrage, spoke at length and said--"Thepiece, however, was not hissed. " "How the deuce could it?" replied astranger, who happened to be present; "people cannot gape and hiss bothat once. "

 * * * * *

A bad French actor, having taken disgust at the reception he had metwith and quitted the stage, being soon afterward at Versailles, was metby some young noblemen, who knew him, and who asked him what good newshe brought from Paris? "None, " replied he, "for my part, I have takenleave of the public. I am now no longer an actor. " "Oh, " said they, "that is very good news indeed. "

 * * * * *

_Dufresny_, a French author, having written _L'Amant masqué_ in threeacts, had it reduced to one act by the performers; and his comedies offive acts were also generally reduced to three. "What, " said he, excessively piqued, "shall I never get a five act piece on the stage?"'Oh, yes, ' answered the _Abbé Pellegrin_, "you have only to write acomedy in eleven acts; six of which will be retrenched by thecomedians. "

In France the comedians are their own managers; except so far asgovernment interferes. 

 * * * * *

The _lively device_ upon Mrs. Clarke's seal, which tickled the fancy ofthe _gallant_ Colonel Mac Mahon, was a _worn out Jack Ass_, mounted by aCupid, prodding the sides of the animal with an arrow, and the followingmotto, _Tels sont mes sujets_--"Such are my subjects. "

 * * * * *

_Gluttony. _--A few days since, a flint-digger, on the new Brighton road, undertook, for a trifling wager, to devour four pounds of beef and asixpenny loaf, and wash all down with two quarts of beer, within half anhour; and this task he actually completed in ten minutes and threeseconds, little more than a third of the time allowed!

 * * * * *

During the inquiry into the conduct of the commander in chief, Mr. Wilberforce said, that the courtly rebuke of the duke of York, by thechancellor of the exchequer, reminded him of an anecdote of the reign ofCharles the second. When that monarch had been guilty of some grossbreach of decorum and decency with a loose woman, which attracted thenotice of the clergy, it was resolved to reprove him for hisincontinence and public transgression. The body of the clergy came tothe bottom of the audience room; one of them, of the name of Douglass, persuaded the others to let him go up singly to his majesty, in orderthat he might rebuke him with greater asperity. He accordingly walked upto the king, but instead of the expected admonition, gravely, and in alow tone of voice, advised his majesty, when he did such a bad thingagain, to be sure and close the shutters!

As the public frequently enjoys a laugh at the expense of an Irish jury, it is but fair to allow a little _retaliation_ in the case of a_Yorkshire_ jury, who at the last assizes brought in a verdict of_manslaughter_, although the person so _slaughtered_ was alive; and whenrecommended to reconsider their verdict, they _mended_ it by pronouncingthe prisoner _not guilty_. 

 * * * * *

_The influence of Bacon and Cabbage. _

During the administration of Cardinal Richlieu, a set of strollingplayers at Paris had such success in low farce, that the other companiesbecame jealous, and wished to have them suppressed. They complained tothe cardinal. He, fond of every thing dramatic, sent for them to performbefore him in the Palais Royal; and the piece they selected shows thatthe Cardinal could sometimes be amused with one of the coarsestdescriptions of life and manners. 

Gros Guillaume, or Fat Will, was a principal droll in the exhibitionbefore the Cardinal. Fat Will is represented as thick as he was long, and often by means of a dress with hoops stretched across, formedhimself into the figure of a hogshead. In this farce, he was supposed tobe the wife of Turlupin, who, jealous of Garguilla, is going to cut offher head; infuriated with this idea, he seizes her by the hair, with adrawn sabre in his hand, while she, upon her knees, conjures him byevery thing that is tender to abate his anger. 

She first reminds him of their past loves and courtships--how she rubbedhis back when he had the rheumatism, and his stomach when he had thecholic, and how particularly charmed she was with him when he wore hisdear little flannel night cap--but all in vain. "Will nothing movethee?" cries this amiable fair one, in a fit of the last despair--"ThenO! thou barbarian, think of the _bacon_ and _cabbage_ I fried for thysupper yesterday evening. " "Oh, the sorceress!" cried Turlupin--"I can'tresist her--she knows how to take me by my foible; the _bacon_, the_bacon_, quite _unmans_ me, and the very fat is now rising in mystomach. Live on then thou charmer--fry cabbage, and be dutiful. "

 * * * * *

A circumstance has occurred in the neighbourhood of a large town inHampshire, which has occasioned much amusing conversation. A young lady, 23 years of age, who will inherit a great property at her father'sdeath, was recently discovered by him to be in the family way; and onthe enraged parent's demanding who had been her seducer, she, to hisutter astonishment, replied it was her maid Harriet. On Harriet's beingcalled before him, an explanation took place, when it appeared the younglady, during a visit last June at a friend's house near town, becameacquainted with a handsome youth, who was shop-lad at a circulatinglibrary, of whom she became enamoured, and a secret marriage was theconsequence; but fearing her father's anger at such an unequal match(the youth being poor) and the idea of being obliged to part with him, gave birth to the following stratagem. The youth assumed the femalehabit, and accompanied the fair bride to her father's house, where hehas until this fortnight figured away as her maid. The old gentleman, however, is now reconciled to the loving couple, and Harry (aliasHarriet) is as happy as beauty and money can make him. 

 * * * * *

An Irish officer of the name of Foster, (now lieut. Col. Of the 6th WestIndia regiment) of the uncommon stature of six foot eight, made hisappearance at the rooms at Bath, when the late haughty princess Ameliawas present, she was led from his extraordinary appearance, to inquirehis name, family, and pursuits: she received information amongst theanswers to her inquiries, that he had been originally intended for thechurch. "Rather for the steeple, " replied the royal humourist. 

 * * * * *

THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. 

_The ancient seat of Sir William Musgrave, in Cumberland. _

In an excursion to the North of England, I was easily prevailed upon, tosee the _Luck_ of _Edenhall_, celebrated in an ancient ballad, nowexceedingly scarce--the only description I can give you of it is, a verythin bell-mouthed beaker glass, very deep and narrow, ornamented on theoutside with fancy work of coloured glass, and may hold something morethan a pint. Tradition says that a party of fairies were drinking andmaking merry round a well near the hall, called St. Cuthbert's Well, butbeing interrupted by the intrusion of some curious people, they werefrightened, and made a hasty retreat, and left the cup in question, oneof the last of the fairies screaming out, "If this cup should break or fall, Farewell the _Luck_ of _Edenhall_. "

The ballad above alluded to, is here inserted. It was written by theduke of Wharton, and is called "The Earl's Defeat, " to the tune of ChevyChace. 

 "On both sides slaughter and gigantic deeds. "

 GOD prosper long from being broke, The _Luck of Edenhall;_ A doleful drinking bout I sing, There lately did befall. 

 To chase the spleen with cup and can, Duke Philip took his way; Babes yet unborn shall never see The like of such a day. 

 The stout and ever thirsty duke A vow to God did make, His pleasure within Cumberland, Three live long nights to take. 

 Sir Musgrave, too, of Martindale, A true and worthy knight, Eftsoons with him a bargain made, In drinking to delight. 

 The bumpers swiftly pass'd about, Six in a hand went round, And, with their calling for more wine They made the hall resound. 

 Now when these merry tidings reach'd The Earl of Harold's ears, "And am I (quoth he, with an oath) Thus slighted by my peers. 

 "Saddle my steed, bring forth my boots, I'll be with them and quick; And, master Sheriff, come you too; We'll know this scurvy trick, "

 "Lo, yonder doth Earl Harold come!" Did one at table say. "'Tis well, " replied the mettled duke; "How will he get away?"

 When thus the Earl began, "Great duke, I'll know how this did chance, Without inviting me! sure this You did not learn in France. 

 "One of us two for this offence Under the board shall lie; I know thee well, a duke thou art, So, some years hence shall I. 

 "But trust me, Wharton, pity 'twere So much good wine to spill, As these companions here may drink, Ere they have had their fill. 

 "Let thou and I, in bumpers full, This grand affair decide"-- "Accursed be he, " duke Wharton said, "By whom it is denied. "

 To Andrews, and to Hotham fair, Many a pint went round, And many a gallant gentleman Lay sick upon the ground. 

 When, at the last, the duke espied He had the earl secure, He plied him with a full pint glass, Which laid him on the floor. 

 Who never spoke more words than these After he downward sunk, "My worthy friends, revenge my fall, Duke Wharton sees me drunk. "

 Then, with a groan, duke Philip took The sick man by the joint, And said, "Earl Harold, 'stead of thee, Would I had drank the pint!

 "Alack! my very heart doth bleed, And doth within me sink For surely a more sober earl Did never swallow drink. "

 With that the Sheriff, in a rage, To see the earl so smit, Vowed to revenge the dead-drunk peer Upon renown'd Sir Kit. 

 Then stepp'd a gallant 'squire forth, Of visage thin and pale; Lloyd was his name, and of Gang-hall, Fast by the river Swale. 

 Who said he would not have it told, Where Eden river ran, That unconcern'd he should sit by-- "So, Sheriff, I'm your man. "

 Now when these tidings reach'd the room Where the duke lay in bed, How that the squire suddenly Upon the floor was laid--

 "O, heavy tidings!" quoth the duke, "Cumberland witness be, I have not any toper more, Of such account as he. "

 Like tidings to Earl Thanet came, Within as short a space, How that the under sheriff too, Was fallen from his place. 

 "Now God be with him, " said the earl, "Sith 'twill no better be; I trust I have within my town, As drunken knights as he. "

 Of all the number that was there, Sir Bains he scorn'd to yield, But, with a bumper in his hand, He staggered o'er the field. 

 Thus did this dire contention end, And each man of the slain Was quickly carried off to bed, His senses to regain. 

 God bless the king, the duchess fat, And keep the land in peace! And grant that drunkenness henceforth, 'Mong noblemen may cease. 

 And likewise bless our royal prince, The nation's other hope, And give us grace for to defy The devil and the pope. 

 * * * * *

"_Cooke's unparalled Excellence!_"

 "In characters new, and in characters old, Cooke must be allow'd a matchless fine fellow; For, act what he will, we are constantly told, That in every part he is perfectly mellow!"

 * * * * *

_Ambrose and his Dog. _

BY W. HOLLOWAY. 

 The clock had struck the midnight hour, And all the village slept, Save Julia, listening to the shower She, lonely, watch'd and wept. 

 For, ere the sun peep'd o'er the hill, To town her Ambrose went; And sure some unexpected ill Must his return prevent!

 What, though the wood he pass'd beside, He needed nothing fear, For honest Dobbin was his guide And faithful Tray was there. 

 The heath was wild! the roads were bad; 'Twas dark and dreary too; 'Twas cold, but he was doubly clad, And well the way he knew. 

 Thus while she ponder'd clamorous came Poor Tray, with scratch and whine, The mistress rose, and much to blame His rudeness did incline. 

 As gladly she the door unbarr'd, Her weary man to greet, The generous dog, with kind regard, Rush'd fondling round her feet. 

 He moaned, he howl'd, he seized her gown, And drew her gently forth; She follow'd him across the down, For she had prov'd his worth. 

 Beside the road the quarries lay, Capacious, dark, and deep; The steed had swerv'd one step astray, And tumbled down the steep. 

 There lay poor Ambrose, stunn'd and pale, Unhurt, his beast stands by; And thither Tray, with frisking tail, Attracts his mistress' eye. 

 Nor would he quit his master's side, Such sympathy he found---- He lick'd his pallid cheek, and tried To raise him from the ground. 

 Heaven, and her friends, their aid afford To Julia's tears and vows, And soon to life and love restor'd Her much lamented spouse. 

 On wintry nights, when beats the storm, And howling winds prevail, The children round the brick hearth warm, Repeat th' affecting tale. 

 While Tray, outstretch'd, the fire enjoys, And rests his long white chin On their soft laps who speak his praise, And pat his downy skin. 

 O happy dog! no faithless man, With prouder gifts endu'd, Shall ever, share with thee, or scan The joys of gratitude. 

 * * * * *

The following fragment of an elegant little ode to music will interestthe reader of taste, not only on account of the sweetness of itsnumbers, diction, and sentiment, but also for that melancholy butsublime anticipation of an affecting truth, that he was not made for along continuance in this world, which caused him to contemplate thefuture with heightened satisfaction. 

_By Henry Kirk White. _

TO MUSIC. 

 O give me music; for my soul doth faint. I'm sick of noise and care: and now mine ear Longs for some air of peace, some dying plaint That may the spirit from it's cell unsphere. 

 Hark, how it falls?--And now it steals along, Like distant bells upon the lake at eve When all is still--and now it grows more strong, As when the choral train their dirges weave, Mellow and many voic'd--where every close O'er the old minister-roof in wavy echoes flows, O, I am rapt aloft!--My spirit soars Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind!

 Lo, angels lead me to the happy shores, And floating pęans fill the buoyant wind. Farewell, base earth farewell. --My soul is freed: Far from its clayey cell it springs--where music dwells indeed. 

 * * * * *

_Little things are Best. _

A JEU D'ESPRIT. 

Addressed to Miss C---- a _little, short_ lady. 

_Satis parva res est. _ Amphitrion, Act 2, Sce. 2. 

 When any thing abounds, we find That nobody will have it, But when there's _little_ of the kind, Don't all the people crave it?

 If wives are evils, as 'tis known And woefully confess'd The man who's wise will surely own A little one is best. [I]

 The god of love's a _little_ wight, But beautiful as thought; Thou too art _little_, fair as light, And every thing--in _short!_[J]

 O, happy girl! I think thee so, For mark the poets'[K] song-- "_Man_ wants but _little_ here below, Nor wants that little _long!_"

 * * * * *

_From Poetical Tales, founded on facts. _

 On yon tall rock's projecting side, See where the stripling bends his way, To hang with rapture o'er the tide, And tune a sweetly rustic lay. 

 Say what in sportive youth can move To dwell on nature's varied hue? What bids his bosom glow with love And bathes his azure eye in dew?

 What bids him hail the matin strain, As morn's first blush illumes the vale; And wake at midnight hour again, To listen to the nightingale?

 O Genius! 'twas thy strong control, As o'er his cradle, from on high, Thou way'd thy magnet o'er his soul, And on his lips breath'd harmony. 

 Thy magic touch bade fancy rove, As mind its early charms display'd; Bade Shakspeare every passion move, And Homer on his pillow laid. 

 Thou gav'st that fine perceptive sense, Which throws o'er ev'ry scene its charm; To joy will brighter joy dispense, To grief more exquisite alarm. 

 Ah! dangerous gift, where bliss appears But as the morn's first vivid ray, And grief her mournful aspect rears Through the long, lingering, weary day!

 Yet siren Genius! still to thee Thy captive pours the grateful strain, To thee he bends the willing knee, With all thy joys, with all thy pain. 

 Would Alwin that pure sense forego, In tranquil apathy to rove? 'Ah! no, ' he cries, 'with all thy woe O stay and charm me with thy love!'

 * * * * *

THE PARSON AND THE NOSE. 

 'Twas on a shining Summer's day, As stories quite old fashion'd say, A sleepy set of sinners-- To church agreed that they would go, Their zealous piety to show, When they had ate their dinners. 

 Scarce had the parson ta'en his text, When he felt most confounded vext To see his neighbours nod; Proceeding with religious lore, He quickly heard the sleepers snore, Forgetting him and God. 

 When lo! descending from his seat, The parson, full of holy heat, At losing thus his labour, Tweak'd one's stout nose, then graceful bow'd, And said, "good sir, _you snore so loud, _ _I fear you'll wake your neighbour_. "

 J. M. L. 

 * * * * *

_The advantages of solitude for Study. _

 My garden neat, Has got a seat Hid from ev'ry eye sir; There day and night, I read and write, And _nobody's_ the wiser. 

 * * * * *

_Favourite divertissements in Spain. _

The theatres of this country, since the landing of the English, have, among other dramas, called mysteries, frequently represented oneentitled _Las profecias des Daniel_ (prophecies of Daniel). No subjectcan be better adapted than this, for combining a splendid variety ofpageantry in one oratorio, or sacred opera. The jubilee of adoration tothe golden colossus of Bel, the flaming _auto-de-fe_ for the refractoryholy children; the voluptuous dance exhibited during the meal ofBelshazzar; the sacrilegious use of the chalices of Jerusalem; thesudden wrath of Heaven; the gloom of the thunder; the shadowy handwriting on the wall, in characters of lurid fire; and the armedirruption of the besiegers to renew a scene of purer triumph; all theseform a series of picturesque magnificence, which, says ourcorrespondent, you would enjoy to see some Sunday evening, atDrury-lane. The popularity of this play may be ascribed to the continualallusions of the Spanish patriotic writers to the seizure and supposedprofanation of sacramental vessels by the French. 

Another new and very singular drama opens with Bonaparte, whosoliloquizes about Spain. Allegorical demons stand watching around, andwhen he has confessed the whole atrocity of his purposes, they seize andcarry him off in a fiery car to the place of torment. Next appearsFerdinand VII. A ballet of angels listen to his promises of virtuoussway, and crown him during the dance with wreaths of victory. Finallyappears king George the third, who declares his horror for the tyrant, his affection to the virtuous and native monarch; and who is entertainedby St. Iago and the virgin Mary, or by figures representing the geniusof Spain, and that of Christianity, with a performance in full chorus of"God save the king. "

 * * * * *

_Longevity. _

An extraordinary instance of longevity lately occurred in the island ofJamaica in the person of Joseph Ram, a black man, belonging to MauriceHall estate, and who died at the advanced age of 140 years. He perfectlyremembered the earl of Albemarle who succeeded to the government of theisland in 1687. His daughter Grace Martin, an inhabitant of Spanish-townand upwards of 85 years of age, says he had a complete set of new teethabout twenty years ago, which remained sound to the day of his death. His hair had turned quite gray. He retained his sight and memory well, and had all his senses perfect, except that of smelling. He was stoutand inclined to corpulence, was never sick but once, and all the physiche ever took in his life was one dose of nut oil. He had twenty-sixchildren by different women. His appetite was always good, and a fewdays previous to his death, he walked a distance of four miles. Hisdissolution was gradual, and unattended by pain or sickness: It seemedindeed, to be the mere decay of nature. 

 * * * * *

"The first step is the only difficulty, " is an old proverb. Ce n'est quele premier pas qui coute, said the old facetious duchesse deRambouillet, when touching on certain extravagancies of a young female. It was oddly enough applied lately by a lady, who hearing a clergymandeclare, "That St. Piat, after his head was cut off, walked two entiremiles with it under his arm _en chapeau bras_, yes madam, two milespositively. " "I do not doubt it" the lady quietly replied: "On suchoccasions, the first step is the only difficulty. "

 * * * * *

_A specimen of the antiquity of Irish Bulls!!!_

A wealthy lord of Ireland, had a goodly faire house new-built but thebroken bricks, tiles, sand, lime, &c. &c. Lay confused in heapes aboutthe building; the lord demanded of his surveyor, wherefore the rubbishwas not carried away; the surveyor said he proposed to hyre an hundredcarts for the purpose. The lord replied, that the charge of carts mightbe saved; for a pit might be dug in the ground and bury it. My lord, said the surveyor, I pray you what will wee doe with the earth, which wedigge out of the pit? Why you whore-son coxcombe, said the lord, canstthou not dig the pit deepe enough and bury all together?

 * * * * *

_Theatre, Ambleside, Winandermere. _

Such an incident as the comedy of "The Poor Gentleman" having beenrepresented by _four_ persons, we should imagine not to be paralleled, had we not before our eyes the advertisement of a farce in no better asituation. What such exhibitions are, they only who have witnessed themare able to inform us. The bill is certainly a curiosity, and as you payparticular attention to the theatricals, I am induced to present youwith it, for the entertainment of your readers. 

T. A. S. 

 THEATRE. 

 _White Lion, Ambleside. _

 On Wednesday evening, September 18. 

 _Will be presented the much admired new comedy of_

 THE POOR GENTLEMAN, _Or the Love of Argument. _

 Lieut Worthington, } _Mr. Weile. _ Humphrey Dobbins, }

 Sir Robert Bramble, } Corporal Ross, } _Mr. Deans. _ Ollapod the Apothecary, }

 Stephen Harroby, } Sir Charles Cropland, } _Mr. Johnston. _ Frederick Bramble, }

 Miss Lucretia Mac Tab, } Miss Emily Worthington, } _Mrs. Deans. _

 _After the play the following Songs, &c. _

 My Mary's true by Mrs. Deans. 

 Knowing Joe among the show folks, by Mr. Johnston. 

 Comic Songs, by Mr. Weile. 

 Hipsley's drunken man, by Mr. Johnston. 

 To conclude with the laughable farce of

 BARNABY BRITTLE, _Or, a Wife at her wits' End. _

 Barnaby Brittle, _Mr. Deans. _

 Sir Peter Pride, } _Mr. Weile. _ Clodpole, }

 Lovemore, } _Mr. Johnston. _ Jeremy, }

 Mrs. Brittle, } Damaras, } _Mrs. Deans. _

 Tickets of admission to be had at the principals inns. Front seat, 1_s_, back, 6_d_, to begin at 8 o'clock. 

FOOTNOTES:

[H] Te teneam moriens, deficiente manu. 

[I] See _Josephus_ de Uxoribus--a very ancient and a very _serious_jest. 

[J] Nulla Voluptas _longa_ est. Seneca. 

[K] Drs. Goldsmith and Young. 

SPORTING INTELLIGENCE. 

THE SOLDIER TO HIS HORSE. 

_Allusive to a military order for the destruction of the British cavalryhorses, during the late retreat in Spain. _

 The word is giv'n--my officers command, Fond partner of my danger and my toil, That thou should'st die by this now trembling hand, And prostrate lie upon a foreign soil. 

 Thy ample back in confidence I've strode, Depended on thee in the hour of flight, And oft thy wanton tricks of fondness show'd, Thy master's prowess was thy chief delight. 

 Urg'd by my will, amidst the hostile ranks, Hast thou sustained me, in each desperate fray, And is it thus, my gratitude and thanks, Thy nobly daring service shall repay. 

 Brute as thou art, 'tis not for thee to trace, The cause whence flows the rugged soldier's tear; And yet thou know's it flows not from disgrace, For, thou hast borne me thro' the war's career. 

 When my bright scabbard bounded by thy side, And shouts of victory our toils repaid, The stately curvet, and the pacing stride, None of our troops so gracefully displayed. 

 When charg'd by treble numbers we have fled, Oppress'd, and spent, the glance of thy quick eye Has cheer'd my drooping soul, as if it said, We'll live together, or together die. 

 And once (the time to memory is dear) Plung'd from thy back in the contentious strife, No brother comrade to assist me near Thy friendship, brutal friendship, saved my life. 

 Keen was the frost, the drifting snow fell thick Upon the plain, where late the battle rag'd. Benumb'd with cold, my heart was deathly sick, When my pale looks thy fostering care engag'd, Thy body thou didst gently bend to earth, And pressing to my breast its glowing heat. I felt the vital current gain new birth-- I felt the chilly hand of death retreat. 

 The memory of that unnerves my hand; 'Tis that enforces the unmanly tear! To singly charge the foe be their command, I know a soldier's duty to revere. 

 If on the "hope forlorn" I am doom'd to go, Still 'tis my duty, and I'll not repine! But I must perish, ere forget to know, Thy body fed the vital spark in mine. 

 * * * * *

_Colonel O'Kelly's famous horse Dungannon. _

This celebrated racer is the sire of many famous horses; he is the sonof the famous Eclipse, was foaled in 1780, and bred by colonel O'Kellyhimself. 

The exploits of this famous racer are still fresh in the memory of allfrequenters of the turf; and that his figure may survive with his fame, a most spirited print of him is published in England, in which he isdrawn accompanied by a sheep. A story attaches to this curiouscoalescence, which we think worth relating to our readers. 

As a drover was passing by colonel O'Kelly's on his way with a flock ofsheep for Smithfield market, one of them became so lame and sore-footed, that it could travel no further. The man wishing to get rid of theimpediment, took up the distressed animal, and dropped it over the palesof a paddock belonging to Mr. O'Kelly, where the race-horse was thengrazing, and pursued his journey, intending to call for the sheep, uponhis return back to the farmer who had employed him, believing thecreature after a little rest, would quickly recover. This was the case, and an attachment between the two rangers of the little paddockpresently took place, almost to surpass probability. It is related byevidence indisputable, that such was the affection of DUNGANNON for thesheep, that besides sporting with it in various ways, he would sometimestake it in his mouth by the neck with great tenderness, and lift itinto the crib where the groom deposited his fodder, as much as to say, though you are not able to reach it, I will help you to the banquet. Besides this, the horse would on all occasions defend his new friend, and suffered no one to offer him the least molestation. 

Mr. O'Kelly being made acquainted with these circumstances, resolved tomake the sheep his own, bought him of the farmer, and marked the woolwith his own initials, D. O'K. And left the two friends in peaceablepossession of the paddock and its adjoining shelter. 

Mr. Stubbs the painter, being acquainted with these facts when herequested leave to paint Dungannon, also introduced the portrait of thesheep, as a lasting memento of the unusual affection that subsistedbetween two creatures, so dissimilar in appearances, and so opposite intheir pursuits. 

 * * * * *

On Friday the 10th of April a very extraordinary wager was decided uponthe road between Cambridge and Huntingdon. A gentleman of the formerplace, had betted a considerable sum of money, that he would go a yardfrom the ground, upon stilts, the distance of twelve miles within thespace of four hours and a half: no stoppage was to be allowed, exceptmerely the time taken up in exchanging one pair of stilts for another;and even then his feet were not to touch the ground. He started at thesecond mile-stone from Cambridge on the Huntingford road, to go 6 milesout and 6 miles in: the first he performed in one hour and fiftyminutes, and did the distance back in two hours and three minutes, sothat he went the whole in three hours and fifty three minutes, havingthirty-seven minutes to spare beyond the time allowed him; he appeared agood deal fatigued, and his hands, we understand, were much blisteredfrom the continual pressure upon one part. This, we believe, is thefirst performance of the kind ever attempted; but as novelty appears toattract, as well as direct, the manners of the age, _stilting_ maypossibly become as fashionable in these, as _tilting_ formerly was inbetter times. 

DRAMATICUS. 

No. II. 

_Edward and Eleonora. _

This excellent and interesting tragedy, the production of the admiredauthor of the Seasons, was, for some reason not easily discoverable, prohibited from representation by the Lord Chamberlain, [L] with whosedictatorial power over dramatic performances the world is wellacquainted. Many of the scenes are most exquisitely tender and pathetic, and for the effects they produce on hearts of sensibility, are equal(with due deference be it said) to any in the English or perhaps anyother language. 

 * * * * *

SOUTHERN. 

Previous to the era of Southern's writing for the stage, the authors ofdramatic pieces had only the emoluments of the third night ofrepresentation[M]. He deserves the gratitude of all succeedingdramatists, for successfully contending with the managers, for theproceeds of every third night of the run of a new play. The vastincrease of advantage from a very successful drama, produced by thisarrangement, holds out a great additional inducement to the exertions ofthe talents of dramatists. Southern cleared, according to Baker, sevenhundred pounds sterling by one play--which, I presume, must have beenOronoko. 

 * * * * *

OTWAY. 

The manner of this unfortunate writer's death is variously stated byvarious writers. I wish some of the correspondents of the DramaticCensor would elucidate this point. I hope the general opinion is nottrue, that, being almost famished, he began so ravenously to devour aloaf which was given him for charity, that the first mouthful choakedhim, and put a period to his existence. 

Few dramatic performances require the pruning knife so much, and wouldso amply repay the trouble, as some of those of Otway. In the Orphanthere are some passages as gross and offensive as are to be found, probably in any tragedy whatever. There is moreover too much of horrorin it. The stage, it has been justly remarked, is made a mereslaughter-house. These objections, both of which are very strong, mightbe easily removed--and if they were, the tragedy would be excellent. After writing these lines I have doubted whether I should not erasethem. The incestuous connexion of Polydore and Monimia, on which thechief interest of the performance turns, is revolting, and incapable ofbeing eradicated without destroying the piece. 

The error of judgment in Venice Preserved is equally conspicuous. Lessalteration would be necessary to render this tragedy, which is now tothe last degree exceptionable, a _chef d'oeuvre_. Had the tyranny andoppression of the senators been made prominent and conspicuous--had theconspirators been animated with the glorious spirit that fired a Bruce, a Wallace, a Gustavus Vasa, a Hampden, a Sydney, a William Tell, or aWashington--then angels might have bowed down to hear the language of aPierre deploring the miseries of his oppressed countrymen. But when, instead of glorying in the risk they ran, and the sacrifice they madefor their country, their whole object clearly appears to be rapine andmurder, the liberal mind turns with horror from such a prostitution ofthe writer's talents, which, had they been under the government of asound judgment and correct principles, would have reflected high honouron the age and country in which they flourished. 

 * * * * *

_Candour and Modesty. _

Henry Metayer, author of a tragedy called the Perfidious Brother, committed it to Theobald, of Dunciad memory, for examination andcorrection. The latter had the monstrous effrontery, after having madea few verbal alterations in it, to have it acted and printed as hisown. [N] Metayer, incensed at this piratical proceeding, appealed to thepublic, and had his own work printed. The literary thief excited thecontempt and detestation such a base procedure merited. 

 * * * * *

_Charles Macklin. _

This actor has the credit of having checked a nefarious practice, whichhas prevailed to a certain degree in almost every theatre, and of whichPhiladelphia and New-York have exhibited some striking instances. I meanthe practice of certain meanspirited wretches, who bear malice towardsparticular performers, and make parties to hiss them off the stage. Itis not easy to conceive of a greater degree of baseness, turpitude, andcowardice, than is manifested by this conduct. The object of theirmalice is unable to defend himself from their attacks. This, to agenerous mind, would be an ęgis, and protect the person who could makesuch a plea, as completely as her sex protects a woman. But with thepersons here contemplated, the impunity they expect is the veryincitement to their inglorious warfare. 

Some of these ruffians having in this mode assailed Macklin, he singledout as many of them as he could identify by the deposition of competentwitnesses. Against these offenders he commenced a prosecution[O] inwhich they were found guilty, and exemplarily punished. The salutaryeffects of this spirited procedure, I am informed, are still perceptiblein the London theatres. 

 * * * * *

_Richard Fullerton. _

While I am writing on this topic, I may be allowed to drop a tear to thememory of this unfortunate victim to the brutal system I have referredto in the preceding paragraphs. That he was hunted to suicide, I could, if necessary, establish by indisputable testimony. A very worthy man, ofthe most strict veracity, now residing in Baltimore, informed me that hewas in a corner of the green-room, in the theatre of this city one nightwhen Fullerton was actually hissed off the stage. When the poorpersecuted actor came into the green-room, he did not perceive thegentleman, and clenching his fists, struck his forehead, and swore witha most desperate oath, that the ruffians would be the death of him. Hissensibility to outrage and insult overpowered and unmanned him. A fewdays afterwards he consigned himself to the waves of the Delaware, toescape from the fury of his remorseless persecutors. 

What is here stated, was asserted in a cotemporaneous pamphlet, published in this city on the occasion. The New-York reviewers, grosslyviolating every principle of decency, propriety and justice, assailedthe writer, as if he had been guilty of a base fabrication, and hadinvented this hideous charge, to dishonour the Philadelphia audience. Without any fair opportunity of investigating the facts, they had thedecency and modesty to pronounce sentence with an assumption of oracularinfallibility. Probably the annals of literature can hardly produce amore unfair attack upon any writer than the review to which I hereallude. 

 * * * * *

_A Dramatic Bull. _

In a sorry tragedy, called the Fall of Tarquin, written by one Hunt, there is a description of a forest, in which the author has thisludicrous line--

 And the tall trees stood _circling_ in a _row. _[P]

 * * * * *

_She would and she would not_--_or the kind Impostor. _

The humour of this comedy, in many of the scenes, has hardly ever beenexceeded by any writer in any language. The dialogue between Don Manueland Don Philip, in which the former undertakes to "bamboozle" the son ofhis friend, whom he conceives to be an arrant impostor, is absolutely amasterpiece of humour. There are several other scenes of nearly equalmerit. It is difficult even at this day, to form a correct judgement ofCibber--as the disgrace attached to him by Pope in the Dunciad excitedagainst him a prejudice which at this distance of time continues tooperate on the mind of the reader. 

 * * * * *

_High life below Stairs. _

It is generally known, I believe, that the livery servants, a verynumerous and formidable body, formed a combination to suppress thiselegant and humorous satire on their vices and follies, the first nightit was performed. But fortunately for good taste and good sense, theseheroes of the epaulette were suppressed, and the piece had much moresuccess than it probably would have had, but for this ill-judgedattempt. 

It is not, however, so generally known that this after piece owes itsorigin to one of the papers in the Spectator, in which a number ofservants of the nobility are introduced, aping the manners, the airs, and graces of their masters. The perusal of this essay suggested theidea which has been so felicitously expanded in High life below Stairs. 

 * * * * *

_A hard fought theatrical battle. _

No person in the smallest degree acquainted with theatrical affairs, canbe ignorant of the strong spirit of rivalship that exists between DruryLane and Covent Garden, and that has prevailed since the firstestablishment of those theatres. The anecdote I am going to relate, affords probably the strongest instance of this spirit that is onrecord. 

When Garrick's celebrity was at its highest pinnacle of glory, Rich, themanager of Covent Garden, engaged Barry and Mrs. Cibber, performers ofvery great talents, and high reputation, and entered the lists withGarrick in the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet. Barry performed the youngMontague, and Mrs. Cibber the delicate and elegant Juliet. Garrickproduced the celebrated, but frail and unfortunate Mrs. Bellamy inJuliet, while he played Romeo. Every exertion within the compass ofhuman powers was made by both parties, and the public opinion was heldfor a time divided between the rivals. The warfare was continued fortwenty nights successively. At length Rich, growing tired of thecontest, abandoned Romeo and Juliet; and Garrick in triumph had itrepresented one night more. The constant repetition of the same playdisgusted the public, and gave rise to the following epigram, which waspublished in the papers of the day--

 "What play tonight?" says angry Ned, As from his bed he rouses. "Romeo again!" he shakes his head-- "A pox on both your houses. "[Q]

 * * * * *

_What is it about?_

However incredible the following story may appear, it stands on the veryrespectable authority of Arthur Murphy[R] and David Erskine Baker[S]. Atragedy, called Zingis, written by Alexander Dow, was so totallyunintelligible that the audience were continually asking eachother--What is it about? What is it about?--That such nonsense should bewritten is not so very marvellous, as that the miserable farrago shouldhave had a run of nine nights, which has been frequently denied to worksof first rate merit. 

FOOTNOTES:

[L] Baker's Play-house Companion, vol. 1. 

[M] Idem, 426. 

[N] Baker's Play-house Companion, vol. 1. 312. 

[O] Idem, 292. 

[P] Baker's Play-house Companion, vol 1. P. 250. 

[Q] Murphy's life of Garrick, Dublin Edition, p 125. 

[R] Idem, page 294. 

[S] Play-house Companion, Vol. 2. P. 417. 

LITERARY INTELLIGENCE. 

SHAW'S POEMS. 

 ". . . Not unknown to me the glow, The warmth divine that poets know. "

 Shaw's M. S. 

We find that proposals have been issued for publishing by subscriptionthe Poems of the late Doctor John Shaw of Baltimore. This is one of thefew occasions on which every man who pretends to revere virtue andpersonal excellence, to admire talents, and to respect erudition, will, feel himself imperiously urged to step forward with something more thanempty professions, and by practically interesting himself in theadvancement of this subscription, to pay a posthumous tribute to thememory, and as the editor of the proposed work elegantly expresses it, "_the living remains_" of a gentleman in whom those qualities wereconspicuously united. The pleasure we have often received from thewritings of Doctor Shaw--the high and ample space he filled in theopinion of the country, particularly of those who best knew him, and thehonourable testimony which one of the most enlightened personages who inthis age have done honour to the peerage of Great Britain (lord Selkirk)has borne to his talents and virtues, would prompt us to enlarge uponthis theme, if we did not feel that it would be injuring the matter totake it out of the hands of the editor, J. E. Hall, Esq. Whose words, asbeing much preferable to any thing we could offer, we take the libertyof transcribing. 

"The Poems which are now offered to the patronage of the public, werecomposed by a gentleman whose extensive endowments and excellentqualities commanded the respect, and won the esteem of all who knew him. Those who remember the communications of ITHACUS, in the earlier volumesof the _Port Folio_, will not condemn the taste which deems them worthyof republication in the form that is now proposed: and the many wholament the untimely blow which deprived them of a friend, and society ofa useful and brilliant ornament, will liberally aid an attempt to give"a local habitation" to the memorials of his genius. 

"Some months previous to his demise, Dr. Shaw communicated to a friendhis intention of publishing a volume of poetry, and they devoted severalevenings to the task of preparing them for the press. But the idea ofestablishing a Medical College, in this city, which he conceived aboutthat time, and the cares of an increasing family, so much engrossed hisattention, that his literary project was abandoned for more importantpursuits. 

"For most of the pieces therefore, which shall appear in the proposedcollection, the editor may plead the sanction of their author: and, inthe choice of others, he will not neglect the duty that is due to thefame of his deceased friend. 

"It is the intention of the Editor to prefix some account of the life ofMr. Shaw. From his letters and memoranda written during his residence onthe coast of Barbary, his probationary studies at Edinburgh, and hiswanderings with Lord Selkirk in Upper Canada, it is probable thatsomething may be gleaned to interest a reader. It is proper, however, not to excite any extravagant expectations, as the Editor may not besuccessful in the collection of sufficient materials for the executionof so pleasing a duty. 

"It is deemed not improper to intimate, that this publication isundertaken as well to preserve the memory of the deceased, as to promotethe comfort of his "living remains. " Thus, while an opportunity isoffered for the gratification of the taste of some, the virtue of allmay be rewarded by those sensations which arise from the performance ofa benevolent action. "

From every circumstance that now appears, we augur the success of thework, and a brimming subscription for it. The promised sketch of Dr. Shaw's life ought of itself to ensure the publisher abundant support. Ofthe execution of that part it may be sufficient to state that it comesfrom the author of "The Life of Anacreon, " and other compositions whichhave enriched the pages of the Port Folio: and who is he so dull, forwhom biography has not charms?--On this last topic we beg leave toborrow, for this once, the expressions of a writer, whose delicacy weshould offend, by speaking of him as we think, and to whom the taste andliterature of this country are more indebted than any but the wise andlearned are competent to understand, or any but the honest and generousare willing to confess. 

"In the harmonious family of literature, " says Dennie, "History andBiography are sisters. They are twins: and both are beautiful. The portof the one is stately and martial, but the air of the other, if lessdignified, is more alluring. One generally _commands_ us to repair tothe cabinet or the camp, while the other _beckons_ us to the bower. History has respectful and stanch friends, but Biography has passionatelovers. There are some who are indifferent to the charms of the first, but there are none who do not admire the winning grace and sensibleconversation of the latter. "[T]

DR. SHAW'S POEMS are to be published by Coale and Thomas of Baltimore, who receive subscriptions for the work. 

FOOTNOTES:

[T] See Preface to the American edition of the Life of Pitt. 

THEFREE KNIGHTS, ORTHE EDICT OF CHARLEMAGNE:

A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS, INTERSPERSED WITH SONGS. 

BY FREDERICK REYNOLDS. 

PHILADELPHIA:

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

_Smith & M'Kenzie, printers. _1810. 

THE FREE KNIGHTS. 

DRAMATIS PERSONAE. 

 Prince Palatine, The Abbot of Corbey, Baron Ravensburg, Count Roland, Ravensburg, Prisoner, Bernardo, St. Clair, Everard, Zastrow, Walbourg, Christopher, Oliver, First Falconer, Second Falconer, Free knights, Crusaders, Soldiers, Falconers. 

 Countess Roland, Ulrica, Agnes. 

 Dancers, Attendants. 

_Scene--Westphalia. _

ACT I. 

SCENE I. --_A spacious cavern, veined with ore, marking the remains of asulphur mine. In the back a sheet of water, with a lamp hanging over it;and cells with iron grating before them. At the right wing a largebrazen door, at the left wing another with steps leading up to it. _Everard _discovered--knocking and trumpets. _

_Ever. _ Hark! another victim. [_Unbars the door. Enter_ Zastrow, _leading in a prisoner, whose eyes are bandaged. _

_Pri. _ Whither, Oh, whither would ye lead me? To pass apparently o'errugged rocks, ascend high mountains, and descend to vaults; hear theclose baying of the forest wolf, and the loud cataract's terrific roar;and now, e'en now, perhaps, to stand upon the verge of some stupendousprecipice----

_Zastrow_ (_removing the prisoner's veil_) Behold! behold the precinctsof that famed tribunal that renders justice to the Christian cause, andstrikes dismay throughout the Christian world. 

_Pris. _ Merciful Heaven! if justice be the boast of your tribunal, whyall this dark, mysterious--

_Zas. _ How! dare but to whisper one invidious word against aninstitution that's upheld by----

_Pris. _ (_crossing to Everard_) To you, who seem to wear a human form, to you I make appeal. Some three months past my interest called me frommy native land here to Westphalia; and but last night, when all aroundwas calm and still as my own thoughts, a loud terrific knocking at theportal convulsed my habitation. I rushed to know the cause, and, by themoon's pale beam, read, on a banner fixed into the earth, this awfulsummons: "Appear, Augustus Montfort, before the free knights! traitorappear. " How, how was I to act? A stranger to their hidden mystic forms, I sought my neighbours for inquiry, when, sad reverse! I, who before waswelcomed with their smiles, met now such fearful and contemptuous looks, that but for conscious and inherent pride, I had been then your victim. 

_Zas. _ Ay, none, none dare notice the accused. 

_Pris. _ None, save a monk, who, far less worldly than the rest, stopt, and warned me to obey this their first summons, or soon a second and athird would follow; and, on my then not answering, not only would mysentence be proclaimed, but my best friend, ay, my own son, were he amember of this dread tribunal, would, by a solemn oath, be bound toplunge his dagger into his father's heart. Such are free knights! Suchthe famed members of this lauded court! And having further learnt, thaton the tolling of the midnight bell at my own gate, or at the citadel, achosen minister of vengeance passed to pilot the accused, I went, andyou, through paths most dangerous and inscrutable, have brought me tothe spot where justice reigns; if so, give the first proof of justice, trial. By that I am prepared to stand or fall. 

_Ever. _ Trial! alas! it may be years----

_Pri. _ Years! I'll not believe it. Where are my judges?

_Zas. _ There (_pointing to the door_) in full council, electing a freeknight. And till that awful ceremony's past, they must not be disturbed, nor then but by their chief, Prince Palatine, who, on returning from theholy wars, comes to consult them on affairs of state. [_Music. _] Hark!he approaches. This way to your dungeon. [_Prisoner appeals. _] Nay, noparleying. You have to cope with those who'll teach you patience andsubmission. 

_Music. Prisoner is led into his cell, and_ Zastrow _bars the gate_, Everard _showing compassion. _ Zastrow _opens the door, and the princeand_ Walbourg _enter. _

_Prin. _ So, after an interval of ten long years, again I view andwelcome the tribunal. Ay, Walbourg, welcome it. For though darktraitors, plotting against a state, may oft elude the common vigilancewhich broad and open justice takes, yet can they escape the penetratingeye of this deep-searching and all-powerful court? No. Unseen it sees, and unknown pries into such hidden guilt, that the detected villain, awe-struck, cries, "this is not man's but Heaven's unerring vengeance. "

_Zas. _ And, once detected, shall free knights forgive! Be death the doomof all the prince's foes. 

_Prin. _ (_after a short pause_) Ay, death: for long inured to daring andto desperate deeds, still deeper must I plunge. But Oh, my friend! inthe bright morn of life--(_aside to_ Walbourg. )

_Trumpets within. The prince shows surprise. _

_Zas. _ The council are electing a free knight: the gallant Ravensburg. 

_Prin. _ Ravensburg! the brave heroic youth, who on the plains ofPalestine first stamped the glory of the Christian arms! I guess hishonest, loyal motive. He has heard rumours of conspiracy, and here, asin the field, would die to serve his prince. 

_Ever. _ So he avowed, my liege; and also that his father, the baronRavensburg, had urged him, and though he started when he entered, andwondered much why all our actions should be thus involved in darkobscurity, yet loyal and parental love prevailed, and he rushed into addone more to the ennobled list that graces the tribunal. 

_Prin. _ Exalted Ravensburg! Let all who would uphold their prince'scause like thee, uphold this hallowed institution. 

_Enter_ Ravensburg, _hastily. _

_Rav. _ In storm, in battle, in the hour of malady, I can brave dangerwith heroic firmness; but here I own and feel myself so much a coward, that not for worlds would I return and face that scene of unexampledhorror. Back with me as I came; and, do I live to utter it? your arm. Isicken, faint with apprehension. 

_Prin. _ Why, Ravensburg! The motive, loyal and parental love, and yetdare hesitate! Return--perform the solemn rites--

_Rav. _ What! swear I will pursue all doomed by this despotic court, and, swifter than the lightning, strike a deadly weapon e'en in a parent'sbreast! Never!

_Prin. _ Never!

_Ravens. _ My liege, error, perhaps, misleads me; but, trained in campsand the rough school of war, though I ne'er felt that superstitious zealwhich founded and supports these unknown judges, yet an enthusiast inthe Christian cause, I would maintain it as the cause deserves, by openvindication of its rights, and not by such mysterious arts as truth andjustice must disdain to practise. 

_Prin. _ Mysterious arts!

_Ravens. _ Ay. Why else at dead of night, with shrouded sight, was Iconducted to this drear abyss, through ways apparently unknown to man?And next immured in a long vaulted cell, where, as I gazed upon devicesframed to heighten my alarm, two ghastly figures, wrapt in mortuaryveils, rushed forth, and laying bare my breast, with a new-slaughteredcaptive's blood, there marked a crucifix, and then descending to adeeper cell, where, in full council, round an altar formed of humanskeletons, the secret knights appeared; and, whilst the cavern rung withthe loud shrieks of burning and of tortured victims, they proffered metheir oath--that oath which bound me to destroy friend, father, mistress! Mighty Heaven! let bigots reconcile and court these scenes. Ihave the common feelings Nature prompts, and fly from such barbarity. [_Going. _

_Prin. _ Hold! By this desperate, this outrageous act, you have incurredand well deserved our vengeance. And who is Ravensburg, that thuscondemns what laws, what monarchs, and what pontiffs sanction; and whichto loyal and obedient minds is now the rallying beacon of their hopes;for who, but this all-seeing court, can save your sovereign and_friend_, _father_, _mistress_, from a conspiracy, perhaps as fatal asthat by which the princess, young Theresa fell?

_Rav. _ How!

_Prin. _ Hear me. Some fourteen tedious years are past since on my loved, lamented brother's death, this infant, only child, became the victim ofthat curst Italian fiend, the count Manfredi's treachery, and I, againstmy will, was hailed prince palatine. Manfredi perished not as hemerited. He died a natural death, and with him treason seeminglyextinct, I, like the rest of Europe's zealous champions, joined thecrusaders in the Holy Land. You followed, and you fought so nobly, Iconfess I little thought that Ravensburg would join with new Manfredisto overthrow his prince. 

_Rav. _ That I! lives there the slanderous and calumnious wretch whodare----

 [_Drawing his sabre. _

_Prin. _ (_holding his arm_) The man who will not court the certain meansby which foul treason may be traced and crushed, so far encourages andaids the crime, that he is himself a traitor. And now, when journeyingfrom my capital, I hither come for counsel and redress--Shame! Oh, shame! if feeling for your prince have no effect, think of an absentfather's claims, who, to the loss of a son's valued life, may add hisown and others of his race. (_Ravensburg shows alarm: takes him aside. _)Ay, the tribunal once offended, will mark and watch with such suspiciouseyes, e'en your most distant kindred, that danger, great as youroffence, hangs o'er them. 

_Rav. _ They cannot--will not----

_Prin. _ They will. And picture the reverse: by linking with thisformidable chain, which, though invisible encircles all, you may watcho'er your house's safety. (_Noise without of unbarring gates. _) Theycome--from every quarter come--to execute your sentence! You've noalternative--escape you cannot. In church, in palace shall the freeknight strike; therefore instantly complete the forms, and aid yourcountry's and your prince's cause; or, like a base detested parricide, involve an aged parent's life--

_Rav. _ Hold! hold! A parent's claims are ever paramount; and Heaven, that witnesses my motive, will pardon my consenting. 

_Two free knights appear at each door, and are advancing with uplifteddaggers. _

_Prin. _ Forbear! He is a convert. He will unite with us in tracing ando'erthrowing new conspiracy. Come, you're my friend again (_takingRosenburg's hand_. ) And whilst Westphalia's my abode, I will sojourn mein your father's house, and witness, as I'm told, another ceremony; thehappy celebration of your nuptials. 

_Rav. _ My nuptials happy! Well! well! lead on. Be this my first, mylesser sacrifice. 

_Music. _--_A party of free knights enter at one door, carrying a banner, on which is painted the cross, an olive branch, and a poniard. A partylikewise enter at the other door, carrying a banner on which is paintedan eye, surrounded by clouds, and radiated like the sun. _ Prince, Ravensburg, _and train exeunt, free knights following. _

SCENE II. --_An open country, Corbey Abbey in the distance. At the rightwing the gates of the town of Corbey; at the left wing the chateau ofbaron_ Ravensburg. 

_Enter countess_ Roland _and_ Ulrica, _from the chateau. _

_Countess. _ So, this is grateful; this is graceful. Answer me. Who hasmaintained you? who has educated you? and from whom did you get thesefine clothes and fine manners? From me! you took your manners from me!

_Ulrica. _ Took your manners! Lord, aunt! and yet you call me ungrateful!

_Coun. _ And last summer, who took a fine house for you atAix-la-Chapelle? and, starting you on a matrimonial speculation, sodazzled and decoyed old baron Ravensburg, that he not only invited us tohis chateau here, but selected you to be his son's wife, the wife to thehero of Palestine. And yet, though I told you, modern friends followednew houses as naturally as rats run from old ones, you were for mylaying out my last florin on a cottage, a cheap paltry cottage. 

_Ul. _ And why, aunt? Because I thought we should both most like what wewere most used to. 

_Coun. _ Most used to!

_Ul. _ To be sure. Till a few years ago, when you went to live at Rolandcastle, did'nt you keep such a snug little cot in Franconia, that youmight have packed it up and taken it with you?

_Coun. _ My Franconia cottage! mercy on me!

_Ul. _ Yes. Don't I still wish myself in that cot? I do, I do: for it'sall very well if a person have the misfortune to be born a finelady--but to be made one; to be taught to talk without thinking, starewithout looking, and be red without blushing! Lord, who'd go and wastemoney at fairs and carnivals, when they might see curiosities in everygreat house for nothing!

_Coun. _ If you dare hint to baron Ravensburg--

_Ul. _ Not I! I dare no more tell baron Ravensburg what you once were, than I dare tell your rural relations what you now are: for if he knewyou were once Winifred Winbuttle, and they knew--Lord! Lord! if those Iso long lived with, if aunt Alice, and her son Christopher--deardarling cousin Christopher!

_Countess_ (_who has been walking about in a rage_). Jade! Jezabel! howoften must I remind you, that I no longer acknowledge this Franconiarelationship? That I am, and have been, since last winter, of pure, noble, Norman extraction, and widow of the great count Roland, madam, who, struck with my charms, soon married me, madam, and being married, soon died, madam. 

_Ulrica. _ Very, very soon. And you may well take it to heart; for, alas!his estate went with his title--went to his nephew, young count Roland, who, after an absence of many years, returned from his travels on thatmost melancholy day. (_half crying. _)

_Countess_ (_weeping. _) He did; and grief, grief prevented my seeinghim; but you saw him Ulrica, and by what I heard of the tenderinterview, if the count hadn't been suddenly called away again----Oh!'tis a sweet estate? one third of it would be consolation for any loss. 

_Ulrica. _ There! You think I'm to exterminate the whole German nobility, whilst I think there are even doubts about the young baron Ravensburg. Again, from my window this morning, again I saw him in closeconversation with the sweet interesting Agnes--and if he love an humbleorphan, and I love the humble Christopher--Now, do, aunt, do let me tellhim, and every body, you're become a fine lady: if I don't, they'llnever find it out, aunt. 

_Countess. _ Talks of your cousin, Christopher! whom I hav'n't seen foryears, and never mean to see again! Peace, I insist! And forRavensburg--your betroth'd's--loving Agnes, the Baron's dread of thatmarriage will hasten yours; or if it don't, and this string snaps, inyoung count Roland we've perhaps a better. But see--our host--hush! foryour life not one word of Franconia. 

_Baron_ (_speaks without. _) Now, prepare yourselves to receive ourillustrious visiter with the honour due to his rank. 

_Enters. _

Why countess, I've been looking for you every where. What do you think?The prince Palatine means to copy your example; like you, he means to bea visiter at my chateau, and be present at the celebration of my son'snuptials. His train has already pass'd the aqueduct. (_A strain ofmusic. _) Hark! he approaches. (_Calls on the servants. _) Come along allof you, and make your best bows and curtsies. 

_The procession enters. _

(_After procession. _) Now, Ulrica, as I am not one of your silver-tonedorators, do you give to the warriors from the holy land a mostharmonious greeting. 

RECITATIVE--_Ulrica. _

 With well-earn'd laurels in the Christian cause, Receive, great chief, your native land's applause. 

AIR. 

 Fam'd crusaders! just as brave, Form'd a nation's right to save! Now repose on tranquil plains, Listen to our dulcet strains. Peace inviting, Joy exciting, 'Till the foe again assail, Then the glorious contest hail. 

_Prince. _ Delightful! exquisite! (_To Ravensburg who looks dejected. _)Nay, Ravensburg, the die is cast, the solemn oath is sworn, and shouldyour altered looks create the least suspicion of what's past, beware!beware! for 'tis a secret that was ne'er divulged--not e'en your chosenpartner must suspect that you're invested with a free knight's rank. 

_Rav. _ 'Tis sworn--'tis secret. 

_Baron_ (_advancing with all respect towards the prince_). My liege, this honour to a poor old simple baron----

_Prince. _ Sir, you've a title that surpasses pedigree. You are thefather of the gallant Ravensburg; and since he comes to claim thesoldier's brightest, best reward, fair woman's love, I trust to find youhave selected one who richly merits such an envied prize. 

_Baron_ (_introducing Ulrica. _) This is the lady, your highness; and shenot only boasts great rank, and, as you see great beauty; but she hasnothing of what destroyed my matrimonial happiness--no distantrelations, no poor cousins, nephews, nieces, and grandchildren, who, ona rich man marrying into a family, actually treat him as privateproperty, and go on getting more cousins. 

_Prince_ (_to Ravensburg. _) She seems as artless as if trained in humbleunsophisticated life; and I prognosticate, will yield that calm contentwhich I, alas! can never hope to taste--never!--Come let us in, and ontomorrow be the nuptials solemnized. (_Ravensburg appeals. _)

_Enter_ Agnes. 

_Agnes. _ Madam--the----(_countess stops her_. )

_Prince. _ Ay, Ravensburg, tomorrow; for, harassed as we are by foulconspiracy, our stay's precarious; and 'till we're summon'd to the sceneof danger, let loud festivity and outward show dismiss our inward grief. 

_Ravens. _ My liege, may I suggest----

_Baron. _ Suggest nothing--'tis all settled--the prince has said it. I'vesaid it; and tomorrow the priest, shall say it. Lead on--away--and yet, bless me, how rude I am. I have introduced your highness only to Ulrica. That, entering the chateau, is her aunt, the countess Roland. (_Countesscurtsies to the prince, and exit_). That next to her is Agnes, the poororphan Agnes. 

_Ravens. _ The poor! My liege, though rank nor fortune smil'd upon herbirth, she is so rich in more substantial charms, that you, hersovereign, might be proud to boast a daughter of such peerless worth. 

_Prince_ (_starting, and gazing on Agnes with great emotion. _) Thatform, those eyes! that mark'd, majestic, ne'er to be forgotten mien!(_Agnes curtsies, and exit. _) Merciful powers! Whence came she, Ravensburg? Fly, swift recall her! yet hold! for if itprove----Impossible, it cannot be!--and the dread vision past, we areourselves, and hail the festive scene. 

[_Music. Exeunt into the chateau; the baron and Oliver remaining tousher the party in. The baron is following; Oliver stops him. _

_Oliver. _ One word, only one word from your faithful old Oliver, whocan't help reminding you, that he became your servant this day thirtyyears. 

_Baron. _ I know you can't. You are always reminding me; and if you go onpresuming upon long service, and making honesty so verytroublesome--give me a civil downright rascal! And so follow, and assistin preparing for the glorious union of the Rolands and theRavensburgs--of two families who boast pedigrees. 

_Oliver. _ Granted: but I've seen what you might, have seen. Your sondon't love Ulrica: he loves my poor dear Agnes!

_Baron. _ Granted. Thanks to the countess, I've seen it ever since hecame from the wars; and if Agnes had seen it, she had never seen myhouse again; but as she chose to be discreet, she shall now see an unionthat will blazon our family hall with Norman, Saxon, Spanish, Danish--inshort, with heraldry never yet seen or heard of. 

_Oliver. _ Stop--one word. (_Baron breaks from him, and exit. _) So thisis love of pedigree: this is because he reckons by titles, not bycharacter. And if a certain lady, whose name I won't mention, were notcountess Roland, he'd see she was no more than a deep, decoying, match-making----Plague on't! I hope she won't next hook him into thenoose; for if she had a husband every morning, my life on't, she'd be awidow before night. Oh lord! poor Agnes, poor young master, and poor oldOliver. (_Remains in a thoughtful posture. _)

_Enter_ Christopher _through the gates. _

_Chris. _ (_looking round. _) Dear, dear, what a nice, sweet, prettyplace! Well, I declare when travellers used to talk of their finesights, I used to wink and nod, as much as to say, I believe it's allbounce. But when I go back, and describe that object (_pointing to theabbey in the distance_) and this object (_turning round, and runningagainst Oliver_)--Sir, I beg pardon for calling you an object. But yousee I am just come from the woods, Sir--from the woods about six leaguesoff, Sir, where I was hawking with my lord, when he--he--he--od'rabbitit!--Hit or miss, it will be rare sport. 

_Oliver. _ What sport? And who are you? (_angrily. _)

_Chris. _ Why, that's it. I want to know who I am; and perhaps you cantell me. (_Gets close to him. _) Little Solomon, you see, one of ourunder falconers, and who has seen all my relations, come t'other day tothis town for a basket of provisions for my lord and his hawking-party;and as he was staring about, who shou'd he see ushered into a finehouse, and hear being call'd by a fine name, but my aunt Winifred--oldWinifred Winbuttle, the housekeeper! Very well--I cou'dn't say or unsaythis, you know; so I directly gets leave of my lord to come myself, andstare about; for thinks I, if I _am_ made a fool of, I'm only where Iwas, you know. (_With affected simplicity. _)

_Oliver. _ Certainly, or worse; for to suppose I'll stay chattering hereabout Solomon and Winifred, proves, if not quite, that you are very nearan idiot! (_going. _)

_Chris. _ (_taking his arm. _) Very--I'm very near an idiot! And yet, doyou know, upon my honour, Solomon described every thing!--from auntWinifred, and her great title, down to the Gothic latch'd gate, and thelittle twaddling old butler who open'd it: he did--and if I could butonce--(_looking about_)--only just once--(_seeing the chateau_)--Whythat's it! by Solomon's description, that must be the very house, thatthe gate, and you--he! he! he!--Come, I'm no fool now! Icod, I see whoyou are. 

_Oliver_ (_standing before the door. _) Dolt, booby! I leave you to yourfolly! But I would have you know, there are none in this house, none butthe marchioness Alberti, the countess of Roland--

_Chris. _ Who?

_Oliver. _ The countess of Roland, and her niece Ulrica; so that's yourfinal answer from the little twaddling old butler. [_Exit intothe chateau. _

_Chris. _ (_strutting, &c. _) 'Tis she!--Aunt Winifred, by law, takes acountess's title; and I--pshaw! I'm like other great people, I'll takeany thing!--Not so--some three score hungry, ragged relations, they'lltake possession of that beautiful tenement (_pointing to the chateau_)and Ulrica--sweet Ulrica--will take possession of this beautifultenement (_himself. _) And then--Oh, my dear Christopher! how you do longfor the wedding day!

SONG--_Christopher. _

 I. 

 I'll tap at her door when the morning shall break, And with the first lark I'll be singing; I'll whisper quite soft, "Now, my dear love, awake, For the church bells are merrily ringing. The bridegroom, impatient, no longer can rest: The bridemen and bridemaids quite smartly are drest; The drums and the fifes so cheerily play, The shepherds all chant a gay roundelay; With garlands of roses fair damsels advance, The young and the old partake in the dance; Such mirth and such rapture never were known; I'm surpris'd that so long you will tarry: I prithee, Ulrica--prithee, come down; For the sport of all sports is--to marry. "

 II

 When home we return, we'll sit down to feast, Our friends shall behold us with pleasure; She'll sip with my lord--I'll drink with the priest, We'll laugh and we'll quaff without measure. The toast and the joke shall go joyfully round, With love and good humour the room shall resound. The slipper be hid--the stocking let fall, And rare blindman's-buff shall keep up the ball; Whilst the merry spinette, and the sweet tambourine, Shall heighten and perfect the gay festive scene. Such mirth and such rapture never were known, I'm surprised that so long you will tarry; I prithee, Ulrica--prithee, come down; For the sport of all sports is--to marry. 

[_Exit into the chateau. _

SCENE III. --_A splendid gothic hall in the_ baron's _chateau. Largefolding doors in the centre. Two state chairs are brought on by two ofthe_ baron's _servants. _

_Enter_ Ravensburg. 

_Ravens. _ Today, to swear the dire terrific oath, "and on tomorrow bethe nuptials solemnized. " In all--in all--must Ravensburg besacrificed?--He must--his father has committed him! pledged by hispromise to accept the fair Ulrica s hand, shall I, perchance, destroyher prospects and her hopes, by basely now retracting! No--though lovefor Agnes occupies my breast, still is there room for honourablefeeling! and be the conflict great as was the last, that feeling shallprevail! This hand shall be Ulrica's--unless--there, there's my hope!Now, at the banquet, she besought a private interview; and whilst thefestive scene engages all, I've stolen forth to give her here themeeting. What, what would she impart?--And why delay? Oh, were hertidings welcome, she would not thus withhold them. 

_Enter_ Agnes, _hastily, not seeing_ Ravensburg. 

_Agnes. _ I cannot comprehend! the prince to gaze on me with suchemotion! wildly exclaim, "the sight of her is hateful!" and, with thebaron, leave the banquet, to be told the whole of my sad history--'Tiswell! I shall not suffer by the truth; for, as I guess, mine, is a storyto excite more of compassion than resentment. 

_Ravens. _ Agnes! speak--what of the Prince?

_Agnes. _ Nothing, my lord; he would know my story, would be told that I, an infant, friendless, fatherless, was nursed and cherished by the baronRavensburg, who, like the rest, of late has met me with such alteredlooks!--but 'tis of late!--for years he called me his adopted child; andyou, my benefactor's son, bear witness, I banish from my mind thepresent change, and dwell with gratitude on past affection. 

_Rav. _ 'Tis his new friend, this artful, envious countess! 'Till shebecame your foe--

_Ag. _ I know: and how have I offended? Still I've endeavour'd to obeyand please her, and her niece, the fair, the happy--Sir, I forget--Icame by her desire--the countess having heard of her intention, will notallow of any private interviews, and therefore 'tis Ulrica's wish, that, as tomorrow is the nuptial day, the day which blesses her, butwhich--(_bursts into tears_)--I can no more--Spare! spare! and pity me!

_Rav. _ Proceed! for, if I know Ulrica's heart, you are not messenger ofany tidings ungracious to yourself. 

_Ag. _ Indeed, I know not--She was, as she has ever been, most kind andmost compassionate; but to her wish--she begs you will comply with whatis here requested--Take it--(_giving him a letter_)--and the hard officeo'er, farewell until tomorrow! And then, no sister's prayers did e'ermore pure and fervent flow than mine shall then for yours and yourUlrica's happiness. 

_Rav. _ (_having opened the letter. _) Stay! (_reading. _) "Shall I accepthis hand, whose heart I perceive to be another's? And can I wish him toaccept mine, who, from early education, am better suited to a far morehumble sphere! No, generous Ravensburg! Remonstrate with your father, and increase the esteem of Ulrica, by wiping away tears, which flow fromsilent, genuine passion! Hearts such as yours and Agnes's can bestreward each other, " Exalted woman! I _will_ remonstrate with myfather--now, instantly, and come what will, no nuptials shall besolemnized, but those which love shall crown--(_taking her hand_)--ifyou refute not what Ulrica writes. 

_Ag. _ My lord, 'twere affectation to deny what this our mutual andunequall'd friend has now revealed; but for the rest! if I am worthy ofthe son's affection, remember, that I owe it to the father; and great, however great the sacrifice, still would I rather meet that son'sdispleasure, than plant a sting in the protecting breast that warm'd andnourished a forsaken orphan. 

_Rav. _ My father will relent! Hark! he comes! the banquet o'er, newrevelry succeeds, and now I can partake its joys. Come, the hope thatdawns shall lead to lasting sunshine. 

_Enter the_ baron's _train, and the_ prince's _train. _

_The_ prince _and_ baron _last, and together. _

_Prin. _ (_aside to the baron. _) That is her history? You have impartedall?

_Bar. _ That--that is Agnes Lindorf's story. 

_Prin. _ And none--none know it!

_Bar. _ None--I've kept it secret, even from herself; because, at firstthe circumstance exciting interest, I fear'd to lose what might supply adaughter's loss; and, since not wishing to increase an orphan'ssuffering--

_Prin. _ (_starting, on seeing Agnes. _) Behold again! again it flashes onmy mind full confirmation. Take, take her from my sight! Yet, no--thatmay create suspicion, and Walbourg! Walbourg will, ere long, return. Oh!were he come! for every moment is an age, till I'm secure! [_halfaside. _

_Bar. _ Walbourg! gone! where my liege?

_Prin. _ (_angrily. _) No matter, Sir--let the dread interval be filledwith these your care-destroying sports. Come, strike!

[Prince _and_ baron _seat themselves, and the other characters areranged on each side the stage. _

_Dance. _

_In the midst of which a loud knocking is heard, accompanied by trumpetswithout. All show alarm, except the_ prince, _who expresses secretsatisfaction. _ [_Music changes. _

_Folding doors are thrown open by_ Walbourg, _who enters, and points toa black banner, fixed into the ground, on which is written, in goldenletters, _

"AGNES LINDORF! APPEAR BEFORE THE FREE KNIGHTS!"

[Agnes _stands motionless with terror, then runs wildly about, appealingto the different characters. The_ prince _menaces--all point to thebanner, turn away, and exeunt, except_ Ravensburg, _who is following, when_ Agnes _clings to him, and detains him. _]

_Ag. _ You! you will not forsake me! Grant, grant me but a look!

_Rav. _ Avoid me! shun me!

_Ag. _ I swear by Him, to whom all crimes are known. I know no more ofwhat I am accused, than does the new born babe! But think, oh think! Iam accused by those, whose names strike terror through the world, andwho, by solemn and terrific oaths, are bound to execute such dreadfuldeeds, (_Ravensburg trembles violently_) that you, whose nature mustrevolt at such barbarity! you, my kind, only friend! [_fallingon his shoulder. _

_Rav. _ Fly! swift--escape? (_passing her across him. _) Where? (_stoppingher. _) Whither! who can elude the penetrating eye of theirdeep-searching vengeance? And if you answer not that awful mandate? Allgracious powers! (_turning from her_)--I am forbidden to advise, nay, even converse with the accus'd! And yet, Agnes! (_turning towards her_)though my whole heart be with thee--Farewell! farewell! [_embracingher. _

_Enter, immediately_, prince Palatine. 

_Prin. _ False, perjur'd Ravensburg! (_parting them. _) Away! and, butthat consciousness of guilt prevails, why, traitress? why this cowardfear? Tried and aquitted by this high tribunal, your friends shallwelcome you with added honour! But if you shall rashly disobey thesummons, your death is certain, and you doom those friends--markthat--you doom, perhaps, your dearest friends, to turn assassins, anddestroy that life, which, but for selfish and for dastard terror, hadbeen preserved to bless them. 

[Agnes _eagerly regarding_ Ravensburg, _who shows extreme agitation. _]

_Ag. _ I see! it breaks! it bursts upon my mind! and though none knowwhere the free knights meet, all are acquainted with their dreadedforms; and soon, and soon will a minister of vengeance come--(_crossesto Ravensburg_)--to summon the accused. (_Trumpets. _) My lord--takecourage! I'm no more a coward. (_She takes Ravensburg's hand. _) Feel--doI tremble? Am I by selfish terror influenced? No, mighty Sir, (_to theprince_) behold what conscious innocence effects! And see, wheresympathy and pity prompts, a woman's spirit emulates your own, (_embracing Ravensburg. _) Farewell, kind, generous friend! Now, Heavenprotect, and guard me!

[_Music. _--Ravensburg _would detain_ Agnes. _The_ prince _prevents him. A_ free knight _appears on the terrace. _ Agnes, _all animation, pointsto the_ free knight--_also blesses_ Ravensburg. Ravensburg _imploresheaven in her favour. _ Agnes _exit rapidly, and_ Ravensburg _is partlypersuaded, and partly forced off, by the_ prince Palatine. 

_End of Act I. _

ACT II. 

SCENE I. --_An apartment in the_ baron's _chateau. A door in the backscene, leading to a chamber. _

_Enter_ Christopher, _hastily, through the stage door. _

_Chris. _ Not here either!--no where to be met with! Bless my soul? now Iam in the house, I might as well be out of it; for I can't find aunt orcousin; and the fine company here seem all out of their senses. Onepushes me, and t'other pushes me, and till I'm sure I'm fine companymyself, it wont do for me to push again. Countess?--where are you, auntcountess? Do come, and make me fine company! Oh lord! I'll try this door(_door in the back scene_) and I should be half afraid she kept out ofthe way because she was asham'd of me, only I know aunt has nopride--not a bit of the gentlewoman about her. 

[_Exit affectedly into the chamber. _

_Enter countess_ Roland, _leading in_ Ulrica _through the stage door. _

_Coun. _ There! and now, whilst I return, and consult with the baron, I'll take care nobody consults with you. [_Taking the keyout of the stage door. _

_Ul. _ Heavens! what have I done, aunt?

_Coun. _ What have you not done? And till you're wife to Ravensburg thisand the adjoining chamber shall be your prison--it shall! for even ifthe great young count Roland were to offer marriage, who knows but youmight write to him about "humble sphere, " and "early education. " Write!nonsense! Why here I am who never wrote a letter in my life. 

_Ul. _ This my prison! Aunt, my dear aunt, if I have long sickened atthis scene of splendid misery, and sighed for your sister's calm cottagein Franconia, what must I now, when poor Agnes, and this frightfultribunal----

_Coun. _ My sister's cottage!

_Ul. _ And my cousin Christopher----

_Coun. _ How's again! again insult me with this low relationship! I'mgone, madam (_Christopher re-enters behind, smiles, rubs his hands, andstops at the door, and listens_)--gone to prepare for your marriage witha man of my own rank, madam. And once more take notice, I disclaim, Idisown the whole Franconia family; and if any poor cousin, niece, ornephew attempt to hang on me, depend on't they shall hang on somethingmore substantial. Oh! by way of example, only let me catch one ofthem--just that this frightful tribunal may catch, rack, and torture himinto confession of his own and your presumption. [_Exit at thestage door, banging and locking it after her. _

_Chris. _ (_groaning loudly_) Oh! h! h!

_Ul. _ (_half turning round. _) A man! a strange--help!

_Chris. _ (_advancing and trying to stop her mouth_) Don't!

_Ul. _ (_breaking from him without seeing his face_) Aunt! come back, aunt!

_Coun. _ (_without_) Not I, I promise you. 

_Chris. _ Thank ye, thank ye kindly, aunt! (_fanning himself with hishat_)--and if this be your style of providing for your family, thank youalso for disowning the relationship; but you, cousin, though you aregoing to be married to a man of rank, won't you take pity on your oldplay-fellow, Christopher, who having heard of aunt's promotion, came, inhopes of getting into high life; and who certainly will get into highlife (_pulling up his collar_) if you don't keep him from being caught, racked, and tortured by----Oh! Lord!

_Ul. _ Christopher! cousin, Christopher! and come to see his aunt, thecountess! Very well, sir; you didn't come to see Ulrica, then!

_Chris. _ Eh!

_Ul. _ You didn't come to see her who is already caught, locked up, because she don't choose an unequal marriage; and who, notwithstandingher dress and appearance, is the same simple-hearted creature you lefther, sir; but since you're altered, sir, since you forgot your formerhumble----

_Chris. _ (_half crying_) I don't--I'm as simple as ever. And if Ithought you were not joking--but you are--(_looking close in herface_)--yes--no--(_Ulrica smiles_)--she's the same kind-hearted--

_Ul. _ I am; and were we but in our native village, Christopher----

_Chris. _ We'd send for a priest, buy a little land, make money, makelove, and have such a happy fire-side!

DUET--_Christopher_, _Ulrica. _

 _Chris. _ When a little farm we keep, And have little girls and boys, With little pigs and sheep, To make a little noise---- Oh! what happy, merry days we'll see!

 _Ul. _ Then we'll keep a little maid, And a little man beside; And a little horse and pad, To take a little ride, With the children sitting on our knee. 

 _Chris. _ The boys I'll conduct, _Ul. _ The girls I'll instruct;

 _Chris. _ In reading I'll engage, Each son is not deficient;

 _Ul. _ In music I presage, Each girl is a proficient. 

 _Chris. _ Now, boy, your A, B, C!

 _Ul. _ Now, girl, your solfa!

[_Ulrica is supposed to teach a girl to sing, and Christopher to teach aboy to read. _]

 _Both. _ When a little farm we keep, &c. 

_Chris. _ Charming! delightful!

_Ul. _ Very! only you forget one thing: you forget we are both locked up;and if aunt finds us together, it will make bad so much worse. Mercy onme! how could you get in here?

_Chris. _ Mercy on me! how am I to get out here? and my time's up withthe count!

_Ul. _ What count?

_Chris. _ Why, mother, who formerly got this ungrateful aunt madehousekeeper to old count Roland, you know, has lately got me into theyoung count's retinue; and he is killing game in the neighbouring woods, and I'm (_noise of unlocking the door_) killed myself! Oh, Lord! there'sonly one chance: aunt cant know me--she has'nt seen me since I became aman; but then, _you_, cousin! if I _am_ a man! shall I, like a baseselfish--No--it mounts!--the Roland blood mounts high within me. [_Noise. _

_Ul. _ Hush! I rely on him they select to be my husband. His heart'selsewhere; and by securing your own escape now, you may hereafter effectmine. [_Stage door opens. _] The baron! our enraged host! Now! what's tobe done now? [_Christopher retires up the stage. _

_Enter_ Baron Ravensburg _and_ Oliver. 

_Oliver. _ I tell you, my lord, I'm sure Agnes will be foundinnocent--but I'm silent. 

_Baron. _ Be silent, then. And for you, madam, I came to tell you thatthe priest is sent for, and my son is sent for; and I shan't stir out ofthis room till I witness the glorious union of the Rolands and theRavensburgs. 

_Ul. _ (_archly. _) Your son! your son is absent, then!

_Bar. _ He is: but the countess has undertaken to see him brought home;and I don't know who she alludes to, but it seems she talks of catchingmore troublesome people. [_Here Ulrica makes signs to Christopher to begone, and he steals towards the stage door, behind the baron andOliver_] And so, Oliver, bring me a chair, old Oliver; [Oliver _giveshim one_] for here I'll sit. --[_Christopher opens the door, and isgoing, when the baron hears him. _]--Why, what's that? [_In his agitationChristopher turns sharply round, and faces the baron, holding the doorwide open in his hand. _] Zounds! where do you come from?

_Chris. _ Come! I come from---- [_Amazed. _

_Bar. _ Ay, what brings you, sir? And don't--don't stand staring therewith the door open. Either (_beating his cane violently against thefloor_) either come in or go out. 

_Chris. _ Out, if you please, sir. [_Exit. _

_Bar. _ (_pulling him back_) Stop; this won't do. How came you in myhouse?

_Chris. _ (_confused_) Came! why I came from young count Roland, sir. 

_Bar. _ Oh! you want to see the countess, then. 

_Chris. _ Thank ye, I have seen her; and as her answer isn't at allsatisfactory, I hope shortly to return, and take something much moresatisfactory. _Looking significantly at_ Ulrica, _and going_, Ulrica_nods in return. _

_Ol. _ (_coming between him and the door. _) I dare say you do; but--he!he! he! the little old butler will prevent you. My lord, just now, instead of a message from count Roland, this fellow talk'd of yourkeeping low company. --(_Christopher shakes his head to stop him. _) Youdid! you actually hinted, that one of our fine ladies was no better thanold Winifred Winbuttle, a housekeeper--

_Bar. _ Dolt! blockhead! (_to Christopher_) when, except this untitledgirl, there is not one plain lady, no, nor one real gentlewoman in thewhole party; and she, as heiress and sole relation of the high-borncountess Roland----

_Chris. _ The sole relation of who?

_Bar. _ The high-born countess Roland!

_Chris. _ (_eagerly. _) What! you havn't heard--the heiress dare not evenhint--Oh ho! (_looking at Ulrica, who beckons him to go. _) But I won'tstay, else I could tell you, that if you and your son had purses as longas the dead pedigree of the Ravensburgs, they wouldn't be half longenough for the live pedigree of the _high-born_ countess Roland! and asher relations will shortly be yours, I'll send express for some fewdozens from Franconia who'll now have two strings to their bow; for ifcousin Winifred Winbuttle don't keep open house for them, ecod! cousinbaron Ravensburg must. And so, yours my lord, yours madam: andthere--(_whispering Oliver_)--there's a Roland for your Oliver, mylittle twaddling old butler. [_Exit. _

_Bar. _ Send express for a few dozens! Without there! Stop thatscoundrel! Ulrica, what is all this? Speak, I insist on an explanation. 

_Ul. _ So do I, Sir--I insist upon an explanation, and I will have one, if I follow that impudent fellow to the world's end. 

_Bar. _ Stay where you are. In, in, if you please. 

_Ul. _ (_trying to pass him. _) Out, out, if you please. (_mimickingChristopher. _)

_Bar. _ Oliver, be you her guard, whilst I pursue this false, thisinfamous----

_Ul. _ (_getting between him and the door. _) Stay. 

SONG--_Ulrica. _

I. 

 Sure woman's to be pitied Whenever she's committed, For being fond and gay; And those who cry out "shame!" Are very much to blame-- That's all I say. 

 II. 

 I never could discover Why list'ning to a lover Throughout the live-long day, Should be miscall'd offence. It is not common sense-- That's all I say. 

 III. 

 But though the old and haughty Pretend 'tis very naughty, They think a different way; For this, I know, is true, They do as others do-- That's all I say. 

 [_Exeunt. _

SCENE II. --_A vaulted cavern belonging to the_ free knights--_nearly inthe centre a large brazen door, in the archway a practicable parapet, and occasional apertures in the broken fragments of the rock. _

_Enter_ Everard, _hastily through the doorway. _

_Ever. _ This, this the far-fam'd court so long extolled for fairinvestigation? Poor Agnes Lindorf! unheard thou art condemned, prejudged, thy judges will decree thee guilty, and this, thy trial, isno more than the mere mockery of justice! But I've held converse withthe young lord Ravensburg, and if he follow an old soldier's counsel, there may be still some hope, that the accused shall vanquish theaccuser. 

_Enter_ Zastrow _from the door, bearing Agnes, who is senseless, in hisarms--he places her on a piece of broken rock near the wing. _

Speak, Zastrow--is she condemn'd?

_Zast. _ No. Charge following charge, her boasted firmness forsook her;and fainting, as supposed, from conscious guilt, she was dismissed; butsoon her sentence will be known, and all foresee the vengeance thatawaits the count Manfredi's daughter. 

_Ever. _ Manfredi's daughter!

_Zast. _ Ay, that Italian traitor, who, on the Danube's banks destroyedthe treasure he was bound to guard, and she (_turning towards Agnes_)imbibing the same kindred hate for those whom loyalty should make herlove, late at the banquet of the baron Ravensburg, infus'd a poisonousmixture in the draught of our lov'd prince: but he detecting her intent, the death, thank heaven, she design'd for him, will soon recoil uponherself. 

_Ever. _ And he, the prince, is her accuser? Mark you that?

_Zast. _ I do. 

_Ever. _ Then mark, (_pointing to Agnes_) is that the countenance ofguilt?

_Zast. _ How, Everard! when even Ravensburg, her benefactor's son, nowloudly in the open court took part against her. (_Everard showsemotion. _) He did; and thereby so increased the prince'sadmiration----Look! he's here! _Enter_ Ravensburg, _hastily, in thedress of a free knight, with a paper in his hand, followed by two free_knights. 

_Rav. _ Where is the traitress? Where the daughter of Manfredi?

_Ag. _ (_starting up. _) That voice! still, still does it pursue me? Mylord! (_looking at him with a hope that he'll befriend her_)

_Rav. _ Stand off!

_Ag. _ This! this from Ravensburg! (_bursts into tears_)

_Rav. _ 'Tis past--it is pronounced! Read--read that awful warrant. 

_Ag. _ (_taking it, but not looking at it. _) 'Tis past indeed! but e'er Imeet my death, I swear by Him who shall for ever live, that I wouldrather be the culprit thus condemn'd, than those who have condemn'd me:for they, not I, must answer for a life unjustly sacrificed? and whendeprived of utterance and of sense, think not 'twas consciousness ofguilt o'ercame me! No, 'twas to hear myself accused by him, who, stillpersisting in his cruelty----why--wherefore should I live! since he, since he is lost: I am most thankful for this final--(_casting her eyeson the warrant. _) Heavens! how! (_reading it apart. _) "Perceiving youwere prejudged, I opposed, to save you. The free knight who conducts youto the solitary cell, from which 'tis meant that you should ne'erreturn, knows of a secret passage. Confide in him, and your devotedRavensburg. "

_Rav. _ (_fiercely. _) Well! have you read?

_Ag. _ (_with stiffled feeling. _) I have, and I repeat, I am mostthankful, Sir. 

_Rav. _ (_to Everard. _) Conduct her to her cell--you know the rest--away, and quick return; for as his highness passes from the court, he must betold the traitress is secured. 

_Ever. _ He shall, my Lord. 

_Rav. _ Away! (_Agnes is about to thank Ravensburg, by kneeling to him, when by action he recalls her recollection. _) Away! (_Everard and Agnesexeunt--Zastrow and other knights are following--Ravensburg stopsthem. _) Let none follow; he is alone sufficient to secure a willingvictim. 

_Zast. _ (_observing. _) Ha!

_Enter_ prince _and train through the doorway. _

_Prin. _ (_looking earnestly around. _) How! gone! 'tis well! for sherecalls such dreadful scenes, that, coward-like, I sicken at hersight. --But whither gone? Who was her guard?

_Rav. _ A loyal and a chosen knight; they know him well, and saw him leadher to her cell. 

_Zast. _ We did, my liege; but 'tis my duty to impart, as one of equalloyalty and honour----

_Rav. _ (_hastily interrupting him. _) Peace! he returns!

Everard _re-enters. _

_Prin. _ (_to Everard. _) Now, to your office, Sir! Speak, is thetraitress safe?

_Ever. _ Quite, quite safe, my liege. 

[_Looking at Ravensburg, who shows joy, aside. _

_Zast. _ (_aside to the prince. _) My liege, you are deceiv'd. Mark'd youtheir dark mysterious looks?

_Prin. _ How!--more conspiracy? Can none, not e'en free knights betrusted? And I, who would avoid the hated sight--must I, myself--Well'tis but one desperate effort more. Come, follow. 

[_Music. _ Agnes _is seen escaping through the apertures: she makes signsto_ Ravensburg, _who, unseen by the prince and train, returns them. _Everard _partakes in their joy. The prince commands all to march. _

 [_Exeunt. _

SCENE III. --_A wood. --Enter_ Falconers, _severally. _

_1st. Falc. _ Where is my lord? Where is count Roland?

_2d. Falc. _ Giving his orders for tomorrow's journey. 

_1st. Falc. _ What, our departure then is fixed?

_2d. Falc. _ It is: tomorrow we set off for Corbey, thereto sojournawhile with my lord's friend, Marquis Alberti. 

_Enter count_ Roland, _followed by two_ falconers. 

_Count. _ Come, brother falconers, break up our rural camp, give thehawks wing, and let another day of pure exhilirating pastime crown thosewe have enjoyed. 

SONG--_count Roland. _

 I. 

 When the morning shines forth, and the zephyr's calm gale Carries fragrance and health over mountain and dale, Follow me, brother falconers, and share in those joys, Which envy disturbs not, nor grandeur destroys: Up hill, down the valley, all dangers we'll dare, While our coursers spurn earth, and our hawks sail in air. Dash on, my brave birds, Your quarry pursue; "Strike, strike!" be the words. Lalleugh! lalleugh!

 II. 

 O'er plain, heath, and woodland, with rapture we roam, Yet, returning, still find the dear pleasure at home; Where inspiring good humour gives honesty grace And the heart speaks content in the smiles of the face. Dash on, &c. 

_Count. _ To day concludes our sylvan holiday. (_going. _) Why, who comeshere? As I live, my merry falconer, Christopher! And I'm impatient to betold the issue of his curious enterprise. Ha, ha, ha! to know if he'srelated to the house of Roland--

_Enter_ Christopher. 

Well, Christopher, am I to call you cousin?

_Chris. _ You are, my Lord; and with your leave I sha'n't copy our auntthe countess's example, and not notice those beneath us. No. How d'yedo, my fine fellows--how d'ye do?

_Bowing foppishly to the falconers. _

_Count. _ Aunt!--ridiculous! My uncle had no wife. I've heard indeed, hehad a consequential housekeeper, whose niece, Ulrica, I once saw. 

_Chris. _ What, you've seen Ulrica? So have I, my Lord: and though it'sbold work, life's so short, and love's so ridgety, mayn't I----mayn't Isee her again, my lord?

_Count. _ What, you'd return? (_Christopher nods assent. _) Then go--go, and announce to marquis Alberti, that I shall visit him tonight. Mind, tonight! I will hear more of this new aunt of mine. 

_Chris. _ (_with great glee. _) Tonight, my lord? And you, and you----[_To the falconers. _

_Count. _ And all. And therefore, till we meet at Corbey Abbey, adieu, most noble cousin Christopher!

_1st. _ and _2d. Falc. _ (_bowing with ironical respect. _) Adieu mostnoble nephew of the countess Roland!

_Chris. _ Noble indeed! and give me money and a wife, see if I don'tsupport nobility--I'll give such splendid entertainments----

_Count. _ What, and like town-bred, ostentatious nobles; only to splendidcompany?

_Chris. _ Certainly not, my lord; for your splendid company seldom inviteagain; and therefore I'll stick more to the trading line, where 'tis notgiving dinners, but _lending_ them, to be repaid at high bill of fareinterest; and so, till we meet at Corbey, adieu, most noble cousin! [_Exit. _

_Count. _ Now for our sport, which ends not in the field. 

GLEE. 

 I. 

 When Phoebus' rays no more appear, And falc'ners further sport decline; When ploughmen from their fields repair, And mournful night-birds rend the air, Then give me wine: And at home the chase shall reign, For in wine it lives again. 

 II. 

 When loud the chilling tempest blows, And winter makes all Nature pine; When lowing herds, and rooks, and crows Do droop and moan at frost and snows, Then give me wine, &c. 

 [_Exeunt. _

SCENE IV. --_The garden of Corbey abbey, with practicable gates, overwhich is a projecting tablet, with an inscription nearly effaced. In theback, an ascending avenue through pine trees: in the centre a statue ofCharlemagne; on the base of which is written, "Charlemagne grants thepower of sanctuary and of pardon to the abbots of Corbey forever. "_

_Enter_ Bernardo _and_ St. Clair _from the abbey. _

_St. Clair. _ Nay, brother, you're to blame. The church, the court, allGermany, applaud the proud election of the monk Bellarmin; for Corbeyabbey was too long disgraced by our late worldly abbot's vices. 

_Bern. _ And our new abbot will retrieve its fame. The monk Bellarmin hasno worldly vice. Speak, for I know him not. 

_St. Clair. _ Not know Bellarmin!

_Bern. _ I know some fourteen years are past, since, in the dead ofnight, a stranger, faint with terror and distress, implor'd assistanceat our abbey-gate, and, in return for our protecting care, since join'dour order. I know, beside, that stranger is Bellarmin. But for the rest, what means that pallid cheek, the hollow eye, and those stern gloomylooks, repelling sympathy, creating strong disgust. 

_St. Clair. _ Peace, peace, Bernardo!--he may have suffered wrongs, butnever has committed them; and firm in conscious dignity and honour, Bellarmin may have spirit to revive what former abbots, truckling toauthority; what servile priesthood, dreading lordly power, so long hassuffer'd to lie dormant--the edict of our mighty founder, the edict ofimmortal Charlemagne! [_Pointing to the tablet. _

_Bern. _ He, our new abbot! he restore our abbey's ancient and peculiarcharter! (_pointing to the tablet. _) St. Clair, he dare not, for guiltand courage ne'er had joint abode. 

_St. Clair. _ Guilt!

_Bern. _ Ay; why ever, else, on naming the return of our brave warriorsfrom the holy land, does he betray such latent anger? And, when, lastnight, 'twas thought their presence would increase the glory of hisinstallation, why such avowed and rancorous opposition? He bears abouthim hidden discontent, and I will fathom to the lowest depth this mostmysterious being! Mark! he comes! observe! observe! [_They retireup the stage. _

_Enter_ Abbot, _through the avenue. _

_Abbot. _ Oh thou! who know'st my undivulged thoughts! who know'st howlong and fervently I've prayed to root from memory all suffering past, and dwell with gratitude on present blessings, let me but practise whatI daily preach, thy brightest attribute forgiveness, and wrong'dBellarmin shall convince the world, that though their censure stung himto the heart, he feels their kindness with redoubled warmth! He does!the gnawing viper is, at last, extinct! and this auspicious day isherald of his future calm repose!

_St. Clair. _ Now, now, Bernardo, where's the discontent? (_advancingtowards the abbot. _) My lord, well met! and whilst all bless the hourthe emperor ratified our choice, we much rejoice your honours cease notwith your late election--Today installs you in your envied seat;tomorrow shall behold you still more grac'd; for the free knights shallthen elect you to the highest rank in their exalted council!

_Bern. _ Ay; in that sacred council which our holy brotherhood soreverence, and so dread. 

_Abbot. _ 'Tis well--'tis well--thus chosen abbot of your own free will, not by my seeking, as ye all can witness; for this, and greater favourspast, I'm bound forever to obey, and serve ye! Today, I'll welcomethese, our sacred rites; tomorrow, far more awful ceremony! I willdescend to the mysterious knights, and prove to those, who vest me withauthority, no selfish passion lurks within my breast! 'Tis past! it issubdued! and whilst life lasts, I will devote that life to ever crushingmy own narrowed wishes, and courting the superior joy of aiding andpromoting general welfare. 

_Voice_ (_without. _) Help! for mercy! help!

_Abbot. _ The voice of one distressed! Unbar the gates--give them freeentrance. 

 [_St. Clair opens the gate--Agnes rushes in. _

_Agnes_ (_falling at the abbot's feet. _) Protect me! save me! I'mpursued, o'ertaken;

_Bern. _ (_suddenly. _) Pursued!--

_Ag. _ No--not pursued--I scarce know what I utter--my friend, my kindprotecting friend! who was conducting me through yonder forest, compell'd to leave me by strong urgent circumstance, bade me seekshelter in this holy pile, till one he named could hasten to myrelief--and you'll consent! You pious men must feel, that virtue neverseems more lovely, than when her arm is stretched to raise the helplessand unfortunate. 

_Ab. _ (_raising her. _) Rise; and, till your friend arrive, confide inone, who train'd in dire misfortune's school, can keenly feel forothers. 

_Bern. _ My lord, reflect. She own'd she was pursued, and in theseperilous, these disastrous times, shall strangers be thus welcom'd? Iwould hear further. 

_Ab. _ What further would you hear? Sorrow in any shape, should meet withpity; but when it supplicates in female form, we dry its tears, nor waitto ask what caus'd them! Unknown! unquestion'd, I found welcome here, and none yet know the story of my wrongs; why, therefore pry into herhidden grief? 'tis harsh, it is unmanly! come. [_Trumpet, soundswithout. _

_Bern. _ Now, who was harsh in forewarning? Know ye that awful sound?Know ye the free knight's summons? (_goes to the abbey gate. _) Comeforth, and vindicate the cause of those who justify the Christian faith. (_Monks enter from the abbey. _) Lo! the accused! [_Pointing to Agnes. _

_Ag. _ (_to the abbot. _) Do not desert me! On my soul I'm innocent. 

_Ab. _ (_who has turn'd from her. _) Away! you have profaned our hallow'dground! And thus, pursued by those, whose mandates all submissivesanction, I am no more your friend. Begone!

_Ag. _ (_clinging to him. _) Is mine the age for plotting death by subtlepoison? Is mine the sex for treason and conspiracy? And if I am thedaughter of the count Manfredi, am I to answer for my wretched father'scrimes. 

_Ab. _ Manfredi's daughter. 

 [_Turning towards her with emotion. _

_Bern. _ (_opening the garden gate. _) Behold! read there! (_pointing tothe banner, and reading. _) "Condemn'd traitress! Agnes Manfredi appear!"

_Ab. _ Manfredi _had_ no daughter! Speak, e'er my brain burst! hisname--the name of your accuser?

_Ag. _ I dread to utter it, for all approve what the prince Palatineaffirms. 

_Ab. _ (_apart. _) I thought it was subdued--I said the gnawing viper wasextinct; but since it cross my path again, may the fulfillment of thisnew atrocious act be most important to his purpose! For let the vassalworld bow down to his imperious will, alone I'll blast the deadlyscorpion's wiles, and snatch one victim from his fiend-like fury!Manfredi's daughter! False! false as your accuser's heart! and knowingthat, 'tis joy, 'tis transport to protect you. 

 [_Taking Agnes's hand. _

_St. Clair. _ Horror! Protect her. 

_Bern. _ All gracious powers! thus in defiance of our sacred champions. 

_Ab. _ Hear me. If the tribunal be composed of high, unblemished, andenlightened minds, who meet to render free impartial justice, howeverungracious be their forms, those forms 'twere idle to oppose; but ifthey thus condemn--if private malice beat down public good--if made avehicle to gratify tyrannic power, they prove a midnight sanguinaryband; I, sacred champion of the Christian cause, will give a brightexample of its justice, by baffling those who prostitute its name. 

_Bern. _ This is Bellarmin! this the pious monk! who boasted of promotinggeneral welfare, and now commences his career by plunging us in ruin. But shall we patiently submit to be involved in his most impiousrashness? or shall we instantly dismiss the culprit? and, as we ought, give the free knights the quickest means of vengeance?

_St. Clair. _ For this ingratitude, all join Bernardo. 

_Bern. _ (_seeing that all take part with him. _) All!

_Abbot. _ Hold! I implore ye! My motives known, no censure will await me!But, till they are, confide in one who, if before he felt unceasinggratitude for all your kindness, what must he now? when, likeyourselves, he can exalt his abbey's fame, by once more sheltering inits holy walls, a wrong'd unhappy, persecuted being!

_Ag. _ (_appealing to the monks. _) Unhappy! most unhappy!

_Bern. _ In vain, in vain; for every where the free knights see; andseeing, every where approach, and oft by such mysterious paths, thatmagic-like, they flash on the pursued. Hark! behold! (_a party of freeknights are seen descending the avenue of pine trees. _) Guard well thegate! for all who seek not to secure the culprit, partake the crime, andshare in the destruction. 

[Zastrow _advancing, his vizor half up: the other knights remainingbehind the trees. _

_Zast. _ Behold! the traitress!

_Ab. _ (_coming between Zastrow and Agnes. _) On one false chargecondemn'd, I trust, I'm confident of all she's innocent. (_Zastrow stilladvancing. _) Nay, ye, who boast yourselves avenging knights, recallthese chivalrous heroic times, when knighthood's lance aveng'd a bettercause, and flew to guard, and not destroy, such helplessness! Reflect, beside, that love for what's divine (_pointing to heaven_) inspires thesoul with love for what is human! and whilst religion, with thebrightening sun, shines forth to gladden and improve, dark superstition, like the cankering blight, infects and withers every social hope! Youpass not further; on my life you pass not!

_Zast. _ Advance! (_free knights rush forward and seize Agnes_) and as yeare commanded (_pointing to the banner_) strike!

_Abbot. _ And as ye are commanded (_pointing to the inscription on thestatute of Charlemagne_) spare!--you know my power!--(_to themonks_)--you know the edict of our mighty founder, victoriousCharlemagne! who, in return for laurels won upon this spot, first raisedour abbey, to commemorate conquest; and soon endowing it with right ofsanctuary, next gave the abbot the more blest prerogative of grantingpardon, where he saw just cause! I see it now! I claim my abbey'sprivilege! I stand upon my founder's edict! and kings! laws! armies!must support the man, who, struggling for a sacred right, assertsmankind's and heaven's inspiring cause! (_the free knights unloose theirhold of Agnes, who crosses to the abbot; and the monks, by their mannerevince conviction. _) No more I sue for your support--(_to themonks_)--now I command it!--And ye, fam'd foes to sacreligiousoutrage!--(_to the free knights_)--proclaim that this, my post assignedto me by providence, I will maintain or perish in the conflict! Lead tothe sanctuary--away!

[_Music. _--Agnes _thanks the_ Abbot, _who cheers and encourages her. _Free knights _ascend the avenue, and disappear. _ Monks _exeunt into theabbey. _ Abbot _following with_ Agnes. 

_End of Act II. _

ACT III

SCENE I. --_View of corbey abbey, open country and chateau. _

_Enter countess_ Roland _and attendants. _

_Count. _ How fortunate! how very fortunate! Whilst I was in pursuit ofthat low wretch, call'd Christopher, I call'd in at the marquisAlberti's, and heard the welcome news, that my nephew, count Roland, andhis falconers were almost instantly expected! Charming! delightful! tho'I didn't see him when he visited Roland castle--though this will be ourfirst, I trust it won't be our last meeting; for, in my mind, his realmotive is not to see the good old marquis, but a young fair one, calledUlrica. Oh! if it prove as I suspect, I'll match these hesitatingRavensburgs!

 [_Going into the chateau. _

Oliver _enters from it. _

_Ol. _ Oh, madam, I'm so glad you're come, for what with the prince, andthe baron being absent, and my poor Agnes not yet return'd and the poorlock'd up lady Ulrica yonder (_pointing to a window in the chateau_)sighing for her cousin Christopher! I was just saying, anybody's companywould be better than nobody's. 

_Count. _ Cousin Christopher, the unknown impostor I'm in search of. Andafter I have so convinced the baron!--

_Ol. _ I know--I know you have convinced the baron, that you've no poorFranconia relations; but I do say, as the lady Ulrica has no objection, I wish this Christopher were her husband, (_countess frowns. _) I do; forin that case, she not being able to marry my young master, and my youngmaster being able to marry Agnes, I should see what I hav'n't seen sinceI lost my sweet Seraphina! a real happy handsome couple. 

_Count. _ Show me in, Sir; and instead of chattering about my pretendednephew Christopher, talk of my real nephew, count Roland! who, though tome a stranger, is none to the lady Ulrica, as you call her. (_Hornswithout. _) Hark! he comes! count Roland comes! and, as I thought--see!towards Ulrica's residence! to sigh and moan under his true-love'swindow!--Now for it. I'll just step in, and give further orders forpursuing this sham nephew, Christopher; and then, if I don't match oldbaron Ravensburg, and his capricious son, say I'm no match-maker. 

_Exit into the chateau, preceded by Oliver. _

_Enter count_ Roland _and 1st Falconer. _

_Count. _ Behold the beauties of this far-fam'd spot, and foremost todelight the traveller's eye, yon venerable Abbey! founded by him whoselaurels shall for ever bloom. 

_1st. Falc. _ And see, my lord, yonder is the marquis Alberti's chateau. 

_Count. _ Happy Alberti! who having brav'd the perils of the ocean, nowfinds a haven in his faithful Ella's love. Oh! I shall ne'er forget theday they parted, nor that tempestuous night, when many a shipwreck'dmariner was lost. 

SONG--_Count. _

 I. 

 Says Ella to her love, "remember Though doom'd to part, you constant view That moon, which rises in such splendour, I too, will look, and think of you. Anxious Ella shall not sleep Whilst her sailor braves the deep. "

 II. 

 But tempestuous is the weather, And lovely Ella's wish is crost, Vain her watching nights together, Successive moons in clouds are lost. Stormy winds the forests sweep, Whilst her sailor braves the deep. 

 III. 

 Swift to the shore she flies, complaining; The tempest to her pray'r is deaf; When lo! that orb she's so arraigning, Shines forth, and shows her lover safe. Now no more shall Ella weep, For her sailor's brav'd the deep. 

_Enter all the_ Falconers. 

_Count. _ Now for my friend Alberti's, and there learn more of this samecountess Roland. 

_Enter_ Christopher. 

_Chris. _ My lord, I have announced your coming, and the marquis is allimpatience. But what do you think? When I sent up your lordship'smessage, who should be of the party but my aunt, the countess? And oneof the marquis's retinue wanted me to take courage, and go up toher--"for, " says he, "if she has'n't seen you since you were a boy, andshe took up your cousin, Ulrica, on account of her uncommon beauty, whoknows, if she once saw you----" You understand, my lord--I'm certainlyimproved. 

(_Pulling up his collar. _)

_Count. _ Improv'd! So much, that at first sight, my life on't, you'llcharm the countess. 

_Chris. _ His words! his very words! and I certainly charmed Ulrica! Butthen--psha! ridiculous!--you all flatter!--and aunt's there!--(_pointingto the chateau_)--and Ulrica's there!--and tonight makes her wife tothat old pedigreed--(_here the countess appears at the door of thechateau unobserved, looks out, and listens. _) So go all of ye--go to themarquis Alberti's, and leave me to sob and sigh--Oh, sweet Ulrica!--Oh!h! ha!

_Count. _ Well, as it suits--and so good night, most noble love-sickswain. 

_Falc. _ Good night, most noble nephew of the countess Roland. 

[_Bowing as before, and with_ count _exeunt_ falconers. Christopher_with his back to the_ countess, _bows in return--She advances fromchateau all joy and triumph, and exultingly goes towards him--countessadvancing from the house. _

_Count. _ (_aside and unseen by Christopher. _) So, most noble nephew ofthe countess Roland. 

_Chris. _ Oh, sweet Ulrica! Oh, most savage--(_turns, and comes againstcountess. _) Mercy! do I see right?

_Count. _ You see your aunt, the countess Roland, who regrets extremelyshe didn't see you on your last visit--but you saw Ulrica; and if, as Ipresume, you come once more to see her--(_Christopher more and morefrightened. _) You do; your looks, your fears, your agitation proves it;and to end at once yours, hers, and my anxiety--Ulrica!

_Chris. _ Don't--don't alarm the family! Upon my honour. (_appealing. _)

_Count. _ When I selected the son of baron Ravensburg, I hadn't the honorof knowing my charming nephew. (_curtsying very low, Christopherstaring, and beginning to brighten up. _) But now I do know him! lest thebaron should return and spoil the present glorious opportunity--Ulrica!(_Ulrica appears at the window. _) Look, who's here--and at first sight, he has so won my favour; and so excells these paltry Ravensburgs, that, if you choose to be released, and instantly receive my dear lov'dnephew's suit----

_Ul. _ I'll try, aunt. 

_Count. _ And you! (_to Christopher. _)

_Chris. _ I'll try, aunt. 

_Count. _ (_hastily going to the door of the chateau. _) Oliver! thepriest has long been waiting. (_to Christopher. _)

_Chris. _ (_going to the door and calling loudly. _) Oliver!

_Enter_ Oliver

Show in the nephew of the countess Roland. (_Oliver shows astonishment, and looks at the countess, who nods assent. _) You see! Conduct me to mylov'd betrothed Ulrica. (_countess nods assent, and gives Christopherthe key of Ulrica's apartment. _) You see! Lead on, my little twaddlingold butler. Lol de rol, lel lol! (_exit, kissing his hand to countessand Ulrica, and making Oliver go in before him. _)

_Count. _ There! There's match-making, and here----

_Enter_ baron Ravensburg _and attendants. _

So, sir--have you found your runaway son?

_Bar. _ I have, countess--I've trac'd him to Corbey abbey, and he's soclosely pursued, that I shall soon employ the priest now, and makeamends for my low suspicions about that rascally impostor! that fellow, with his Franconian express! I know, except your niece----

_Count. _ (_haughtily. _) I have a nephew, Sir, a nephew now in thechateau, whose name you may have heard. Count Roland, sir. 

_Bar. _ In my--in my chateau? I've seen--I know count Roland--and such aguest I so rejoice to welcome. (_going hastily towards the door; Oliverre-enters meeting him. _)

_Ol. _ And I rejoice! and my lady, my young master, and Agnes mayrejoice! for the priest, quite worn out with waiting for one couple, isnow marrying another--is marrying the lady Ulrica to your nephew! He!he! he!

_Bar. _ (_to countess. _) Marrying Ulrica to your nephew. 

_Count. _ To _my_ nephew, sir--to a man as far above the Ravensburgs inrank, as in accomplishments!

_Ul. _ (_throwing open the window_) aunt! we're married aunt!

_Count. _ Transporting sight! There! (_to the baron. _) Married to hercousin, great count Roland!

_Chris. _ (_putting his head out of the window. _) No, to me! to cousinChristopher! who said, all along, that aunt would be as kind to poor, asrich relations! and who on the baron's giving him his choice, thismorning walked _out_ of the chateau; but, now, having sent the promisedexpress, and expecting all his Franconia cousins, says, "in, " till thehoney-moon's over!

[_Shutting the window immediately, and he and Ulrica disappear. _

_Bar. _ There he is again! there's the nephew of the countess Roland!

_Count. _ 'Tis false! and I'll be instantly reveng'd!

_Bar. _ And so will I?

[_As they are going into the chateau. _

QUINTETTO. 

 _Bar. _ Rage inspires me. 

 _Count. _ Madness fires me. 

 _Both. _ I'll the slave to pieces tear!

 _Enter_ Oliver _from the house. _

 _Ol. _ Sorrow banish, Anger vanish, Come and bless the wedded pair!

 _Count. _ Plague, _Bar. _ Confound, _Both. _ The wedded pair!

 _Enter_ Ulrica _from the house. _

 _Ul. _ As late I travers'd yonder plain, I heard a pilgrim worn with pain, A trav'ller thus addressing: "What can't be cur'd Must be endur'd, But pray, kind friend, your blessing. "

 _Chris. At_ } "What can't be cur'd _the window. _ } Must be endur'd, } But pray, kind friend, your blessing. "

 _Ul. _ You hear (_to baron_)--and you (_to countess. _)

 _Bar. _ } We do! we do! _Count. _ }

 _Ul. _ And you agree! (_coaxing them. _) I see--I see! We've liberty!

 _All. _ Love, true love is crown'd with glory! _Viva--viva con amore!_

 [_Exeunt. _

SCENE II. --_The interior of the abbey. _

_Enter the_ abbot _and_ Agnes. 

_Ab. _ An unknown orphan, named Agnes Lindorf, by him, your benefactor!

_Ag. _ By baron Ravensburg, whose son has so befriended me. But I detainyou from most urgent duty. The great, the good, all, all advance tograce your installation. 

_Ab. _ They do. But he, this baron, you suspect may know the motive foryour accusation? (_Agnes accords. _) Oh that I knew! for I would courteach, the most trifling circumstance, still further to destroy your fellaccuser's hopes. Well, well, they are destroyed! Long ere this darktribunal had a name, ages had sanction'd our monastic rights. And letbut your protecting friend arrive, you may pass free from this devotedland, to one where unmask'd justice sits in open day, and prince andpeasant meet with equal hearing. 

_Ag. _ We may, we may--and live to recompense thy matchless kindness. But still these awful these enrag'd avengers! Why, why does he delay?

_Enter_ St. Clair. 

_St. Clair. _ My lord, a stranger!

_Ag. _ (_looking out. _) 'Tis he! 'tis Ravensburg!

 [_Exit St. Clair. _

_Enter_ Ravensburg. 

Welcome! Oh welcome! Behold the man (_pointing to the abbot_) whoscorning prejudic'd, corrupt compliance--(_Ravensburg turns away, andhides his face. _) Hah! that look! those tears!

_Rav. _ For thee they fall, and for thy more than father! I've watch'd, I've hasten'd from my fell associates--(_abbot starts_)--Ay, I, by oath, am sworn to be the deadly foe of Agnes, and of all who give her aid. Butwhen I know that she deserves that aid, and that this boastedinstitution's power is made subservient to such lawless crime, asancient record of tyrannic guilt can give no proof of, I trust that he, who boldly shall retract such oath, is deem'd less guilty in the eye ofHeaven, than he who cowardly fulfills it. This for myself--for you, who, singly, have oppos'd this hydra of rapacious power, and in a gloriouscause, claim'd the just right of sanctuary and of pardon--how will youmeet the tenfold horrors that will soon burst forth on till within thesewalls!

_Ag. _ On all!

_Ab. _ They cannot--dare not!

_Rav. _ They dare! for her escape discover'd, they sent forth sanguinaryknights, who soon return'd, and in full council stated, that one, mostnobly acting on his founder's edict, defied their power, and pardon'dthe condem'd! All murmur'd, and all menac'd! till I, declaiming on theglaring outrage of those, who call'd themselves a sacred band, disputingsacred rights, had gain'd some proselytes, when the prince Palatineappear'd, and, like the torrent from the mountain's brow, assailed eachobstacle, and swept down all before him!

_Ab. _ (_after a struggle. _) Well! the result?

_Rav. _ Most savage, most inevitable! for while in force they come toclaim their victim, you, and the brotherhood, are all proscribed fortreason and for sacrilege!

_Ag. _ And this! this havoc is my causing! mine! a poor orphan! whosedeath no kindred will deplore, whilst the whole world will mourn my kinddefender's loss! My lord, 'tis past! lov'd friend, farewell! and if onevictim will appease their rage, I'll hail the sacrifice, and diecontented. [_Going. _

_Ab. _ (_stopping her. _) Die first this hated despot! who, ever, fiend-like, strikes his envious fangs, where Heaven most loves, andman's most bound to guard! I pardon! I give sanctuary! and whilst onespark of ebbing life glows here, whilst one small fragment of thesewalls remain, that fragment may be stained with dire assassin's blood!but a poor orphan, who, I know is innocent, shall live to soar andtriumph o'er her foes! Let them advance! ourselves, our abbey, cansupport some contest, and youn pright power! that watches o'er thevirtuous, will combat in our cause!--(_drums and trumpets heard at ashort distance. _) Hark! they come!

_Ag. _ They do! they do! and see! the prince, in person, leads thefurious band! Look! there! behold!

[Ravensburg _looks out. _ Abbot _turns away. _

_Ab. _ Not, not for worlds, lest, maddening at the sight, I lose allmemory of holy function, and rush to strike the murderer of my peacedead in his army's presence! Villain! barbarian!----(_weeps. _) Oh! theday has been, when these, fair nature's brightest gems, hung on my cheekas emblems of pure sympathy! But now, like drops of fire, they serve tolight the brand of discord and revenge!--come--to the sanctuary!

_Rav. _ Unequall'd man! fit guardian of such rights--speak! can my arm--

_Ab. _ (_taking him aside. _) Your father--mark--your father may haveheard why she is called Manfredi's daughter. I would know this, and allthat you can learn. Now, whilst there's hope, away--and this (_givinghim a key_) secures your private entrance through the western gate uponthe river's edge. 

_Rav. _ I'll seek my father, ascertain each fact, and, fear not, Agnes!the pangs of parting will be paid at meeting!

_Ab. _ 'Twill do! 'twill prosper! And my great founder's edict thusrevived--should they persist in prostituting justice's name, I willthrow wide my abbey-gates, and pardoning all they dare proscribe, makeit a bulwark 'gainst the common foe! Come--away! [_Exeunt. _

SCENE III. --_a road near Corbey. _

_Enter_ Christopher. 

_Chris. _ So, this is the place of meeting--from hence we were to startfor Franconia--and not here! Ulrica not yet come! Mighty well! ourmarriage but an hour old, and keep her husband waiting!

_Enter_ Ulrica. 

So, you begin, madam--you torment already. 

_Ul. _ Why, if I do torment, Christopher its only to please you themore--it is upon my honour. 

_Chris. _ Please by tormenting! how, madam?

_Ul. _ Ay, ask the god of love, if it isn't--

_Chris. _ Yes; but where am I to find him?

_Ul. _ True--where is love to be found?

SONG--_Ulrica. _

 I. 

 Where does the urchin love abide? Whence does he point his dart? Say, does he with the doves reside? Or dwells he in the heart?

 II. 

 No fixt abode the traitor knows-- On sportive wings he flies; Awhile he dallies with the rose, Then smiles in lovers' eyes. 

_Chris. _ He does--in mine; and now I'll tell you--'Tis all out, and I'vewithin me the true, real Roland blood. It seems, the strange old counthad privately made aunt his wife; but his estate descending with histitle, she thought she might support her rank, by getting for her niecea famous husband--and she has got one, hasn't she, Ulrica?

_Ul. _ She has--but, seriously, think not that I staid from idle motives. Poor Agnes has found shelter in Corbey abbey; but the prince and theavenging knights, march in full force to batter down its walls. 

_Chris. _ Indeed!

_Ul. _ Now--now I heard it from the noble Ravensburg, who seeks hisfather, to hear the whole of Agnes's hapless story. And my aunt'sinfluence no more prevailing, perhaps the baron will relent--at least, Ihope so. 

_Chris. _ So do I--and we won't stir. 

_Ul. _ No, not while one glimmering hope remains of Agnes's safety andher foes' defeat. 

_Chris. _ No, that we won't--but go, and plead in her behalf. [_Kissing_Ulrica's _hand. _

_Ul. _ That I will; and doubt not, Christopher--Heaven still will guardthe unprotected orphan!

[_Exit. _

_Chris. _ Never--never was couple so match'd! so much alike in all that'samiable and lovely! Oh, when we arrive in Franconia! I know one of ourneighbours, who will be all envy--baron Donderdronckdickdorff; forthough his wife treats him with the most sovereign contempt, he is stillobliged to look up to her. 

SONG--_Christopher. _

 I. 

 Baron Donderdronckdickdorff said, one summer's day, "Tho' wedlock's a word that revolts, Whatever our folks in Westphalia may say, I've a great mind to marry miss Quoltz. For of all the dear angels that live near the Weser, Miss Quoltz is the stoutest and tallest; Tho' of all German barons ambitious to please her, I know I'm the shortest and smallest. " How I should like the marriage waltz To dance with thee, my lovely Quoltz!

 II. 

 Poor Donderdronckdickdorff, with amorous phiz, On tiptoe imparted his flame, "Ah! baron!" she sigh'd, "what a pity it is, You are not half so long as your name!" "If names, " said the baron, "were smaller or bigger, To suit ev'ry size at a pinch, Your name, dear miss Quoltz, to keep up to your figure, Wou'd measure six foot and an inch. " How I should like, &c. 

 III. 

 The wedding-day fix'd, both the parties agreed, That the peasants should dance German waltzes, And drink to the future mix'd long-and-short breed Of the Donderdronckdickdorffs and Quoltzes. To the church, then, on foot, went the ace with his size-- "What's this crowd for?" cries one of the people. "For a baron, who's taking, " an arch wag replies, "A morning's walk under the steeple. " How I should like, &c. 

 IV. 

 Before supper, one knight, ere the honey-moon fled, They so quarrell'd some wives wou'd have struck him; But the baroness took up the lord of her bed, And over the chimney-piece stuck him. As the servant came in, said the baron, "you clown, Not a word when the guests come to sup: I have only been giving my wife a set-down, And she giving me a set-up. " How I should like, &c. [_Exit. _

SCENE IV. --_The grand aisle of the abbey, in the upper part of thesanctuary. _

_Enter_ Bernardo, St. Clair, _and two other monks. _

 [_Flourish of drums and trumpets without. _

_Bern. _ You hear! Soon the victorious foe will force our walls; for, canthey long sustain the shock of such an host? Or if they could--for what?for whom? Are we agreed?

_St. Clair. _ We are: in a just cause we would uphold our abbot's rights;but when such judges have prounounc'd her traitress, and such bravewarriors will support that judgment, shall we, upon the word of one whowill adduce no proof of innocence--we, the calm advocates of peace, notwar--shall we devote our abbey and ourselves to ruin most inevitable?

_Bern. _ No, haughty prelate! we will teach you now, that those whoraised you to your splendid height, have still the power to humble andto crush you. And they who this night come to grace your installation, shall view their idol's downfall. Unbar the gates! (_the abbot appearsin the aisle, unseen by the monks. _) Give the prince palatine freeentrance; and let the vengeance of the secret knights fall, as it ought, on those who have provoked it. 

_Ab. _ (_advancing hastily from the aisle. _) Who's he dare utter suchprofane commands?

_Bern. _ Bellarmin! I!--Unbar the gates!

_Ab. _ Forbear! And think not, brothers, that I court this contest, orwillingly involve ye in hard office. But we, who vested with brightmercy's power, can feel the bliss of sparing the unfortunate; shall we, when barbarism, mask'd by pious, plausible pretext, strikes at thegrowth of every liberal feeling; shall we forego our edict, or upholdit? I say, uphold it! And chiefly on one proof--Manfredi had nodaughter! That charge I know to be most groundless. 

_Bern. _ You knew Manfredi then! (_abbot shows agitation. _) He, our neworacle, proclaims he was no stranger to this murderer. 

_Ab. _ (_with suppressed indignation. _) Murderer!

_Bern. _ The worst of murderers! False to the man who raised him from lowfortune--false to his patron, the brave prince Palatine!

_Ab. _ To him!

_Bern. _ To him! Who on his brother's, the late prince's death, anxiousto see and guard that brother's child, then some leagues distant fromthe court, despatched Manfredi, as his trustiest friend to be theprincess's escort; when, on the way, most artfully dismissing all hertrain, and mov'd not by the smile of infant innocence, mixingingratitude with traitorous cruelty, this foe to virtue, but Bellarmin'sfriend, plung'd his fell poniard in Theresa's heart, and fled, and diedthe victim of despair. 

_Ab. _ Wert thou a winged messenger from Heaven, my father's spirit, nay, e'en fate itself! I'd tell you, vile detractor, it is false! false as_thy_ friend, the brave prince palatine! who fired by daring andambitious views, besought Manfredi to remove the bar 'twixt him andsovereignty. Manfredi yielded to _protect_ his charge, and artfullydismissed the princess's train to bear her to a friendly foreign court;when galling, dire reverse! in a dark covert on the Danube's banks, outlaws affected what her foes desired--Theresa fell--(_speakingrapidly_)--A prey to grief and disappointed hope, Manfredi fled--Yonfell usurper gained the wish'd-for seat!

_Bern. _ Usurper!

_Ab. _ Fiend! coward! traitor! Who, to destroy Manfredi's evidence, sought his destruction;--who, by false statement and concurringcircumstance, secur'd his triumph--who still comes forth to immolatemore innocence! and Corbey's abbot is to share in the new sacrifice! No, though our order teaches resignation--yet teaching fortitude and love ofvirtue, my founder's spirit shall inspire my soul, and once moreCharlemagne shall vanquish here!

_Bern. _ Audacious, impious slanderer! Compare ennobled and establishedworth with such confirm'd disgrace--(_flourish of drums and trumpets, and noise of walls falling_)--They force the outworks! Instant aid theirentrance! and hail the downfall of such perjured arrogance!

_St. Clair. _ Come!

_Ab. _ (_getting between them and the gates. _) St. Clair! Bernardo! whoonce call'd me friend! and who, on sudden impulse, have drawn forth whatI so long and anxiously kept secret, will you desert me at this awfulmoment? or, to the last contending for our abbey's rights, implore thesewarriors from the holy land, not to take arms against a sacred cause!She's wrong'd, she's innocent. 

_Bern. _ 'Tis false--most false!

_Enter_ Ravensburg. 

_Rav. _ My lord, all's lost! The savage and inveterate foe have storm'dthe walls, and rush to glut their vengeance. 

_Ab. _ (_to Ravensburg apart. _) And from your father! None--no hope?

_Rav. _ None! He merely states, that dreading he might lose her, who'dsupply a daughter's loss; and fearing to increase an orphan's grief, hecautiously concealed, how, one autumnal night some fourteen years ago, he saw upon the Danube's banks, an infant seemingly expiring. Hesnatch'd it--sav'd it! and what the mystery might solve, if now suchmystery were worth solving--this scarf (_producing it_) encircledher. --(_Abbot takes the scarf with great eagerness. _)--But all is past!and Agnes, dear lov'd Agnes, by the father saved, the son must instantlybehold destroyed. 

_Ab. _ (_after having gazed on the scarf with the greatest emotion. _)Eternal Providence! Theresa! princess! Oh, great God ofNature!--(_rushing into the sanctuary. _)

_Rav. _ Theresa!--Mighty heaven!

 [_Flourish. The gates are forced. _

_Enter the_ prince Palatine, free knights, Crusaders, _and_ soldiers. 

_Prin. _ First seize yon renegade! (_free knights seize Ravensburg_) nextforce the sanctuary!--(_free knights and soldiers enter the sanctuary byforce_) and then no more on others shall her fate depend. Thisarm----(_knights and soldiers bring Agnes from the sanctuary to thefront, all the characters following_)--Now, while all thoughts aredeadened in my heated brain, but those of fury and revenge--thus treasonfalls, and the vile traitress dies. [_Seizing Agnes, and goingto stab her with his sword. _

_Ab. _ (_behind the crowd. _) Forbear! she is your rightful princess!

_Prin. _ Merciful powers! who dare e'n breathe--

_Ab. _ (_rushing through the crowd, and approaching the prince. _) Here, in these hallowed aisles; here, in the face of Heaven, and of man, byall your hopes of future preservation, avow your treason, and yoursovereign's wrongs, detested, treacherous, murderous villain!--(_princemuch agitated. _) See, guilt is on him! Now, ye who had no faith (_to themonks_) and ye who trample upon sacred rights (_to the free knights_)behold how sacred justice is displayed! There's the usurper, sinkingwith remorse, and here Manfredi, shedding tears of joy at his regain'd, belov'd Theresa's feet! [_The_ prince _lets his sword fall, and reclineson the arm of_ Walbourg. Ravensburg _flies to_ Agnes, _and takes herfrom the_ free knights. Abbot _kneels on one side of_ Agnes, Ravensburg_on the other. _

_Rav. _ Manfredi! Sovereign!

_Ab. _ He knows it--knows, on her suppos'd decease, this hand inform'dhim of Manfredi's motives--and that, disgusted with a sickening world, in calm retirement, he should seek for peace. He sought it here--and inBellarmin's name, was here most safely sheltered! When, soon, the daringcalumny spread wide, of "traitor"--of "assassin"--and the sad narrativeperverted, confirm'd the perjur'd statement. You'll say I should haveanswered this? No--aware such influence, and such arts, would, with suchjudges, beat down humble truth, I kept immur'd! and my reported deathchecking inquiry, whilst the loud world sung forth the slanderer'spraise, I could look inward, and exclaim, better forever undeserveddisgrace, than hear applause the heart can never sanction!

_Ag. _ My lord, (_to Ravensburg_) though lost in wonder and in joy, andnow most certain he proclaim'd me as Manfredi's daughter, to give acolour to each cruel charge! yet can I see a fellow creature, torn withsuch convulsive agony!--Go--speak--console him. 

_Ab. _ (_to prince. _) You hear!

_Prin. _ I do! and if Manfredi had, like me, beheld her angel mother'sform, the strong resemblance had betray'd the secret, and mad ambitionhad been sooner crush'd! I sue, I supplicate for death--life, life's thedreaded punishment for guilt like mine! Come--I implore ye!

_Ab. _ 'Tis gone! 'tis vanished! and I, who hated and opposed, now feelmy edict surpasses even royal rights! Monarchs may spare, yet also theymust punish! By my prerogative, I can but pardon--be safe within thesewalls, till higher power determines on your fate. (_the prince is led upthe stage. _) Now hope we to fulfill a far more welcome office, the unionof two hearts, that beat in unison, and that, and our forth-cominginstallation, past--(_music without_)--Hark! they come--the warfareo'er, the sons of peace approach. 

_Rav. _ (_looking out. _) Oh! glorious, welcome sight! and let none saythe days of darkness are returned, when such desert is crown'd with suchreward. My lord, they enter--they expect you. 

_Ab. _ Why, ay; and if my princess will partake--She will, she will--and'tis not there that I shall seek reward--'Tis here! 'tis here. (_takingthe princess's hand. _)

_Music. _ [_Exeunt. _

SCENES THE LAST. --_The installation, &c. All the characters discovered. _

CHORUS. 

 Hail, hour of glory! Hail, hour of glory! Long o'er our hearts may our abbot sway! Fam'd in story, Long live this hallow'd and this happy day!

_Ab. _ Be ever chronicled this blest event! And now my princess shallwith me unite to root out secret subterraneous justice, and fixing it infair and open day, unmask free knights, and hail the dawn of genuinefreedom, and enlightened truth. 

FINALE. 

 Now your lofty pęans raise, To our youthful princess' praise. Ne'er may such bless'd rulers sever-- May our princess live for ever!