SCENE I. Amelrosa's _chamber._

Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Josephine Paolucci

and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at

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THE MIRROR OF TASTE,

AND

DRAMATIC CENSOR.

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

HISTORY OF THE STAGE.

CHAPTER V.

_Conclusion of the Greek Drama._

MENANDER.

Menander, as has been said in the last chapter, once more rescued the

stage of Greece from barbarism. In the death of Aristophanes was

involved the death of "the middle comedy," which rapidly declined in the

hands of his insufficient successors. The poets and wits that came after

him, wanted either the talents, the malignity, or the courage to follow

his example, to imitate him in his daring personalities, or to adopt his

merciless satyrical style. They followed his steps, only in his feeble,

pitiful paths, and contented themselves with writing contemptible

buffoon caricature parodies of the writings of the greatest men. The new

comedy never could have raised its head, had the middle comedy continued

to be supported by a succession of such wits as Aristophanes, with new

supplies of envenomed personal satire. Fortunately, however, the stage

was pretty well cleared of that pernicious kind of writing when

_Menander_, the amiable and the refined, came forth and claimed the bay.

This celebrated writer, who justly obtained the appellation of "prince

of the new comedy," was a native of Athens, and was born three hundred

and forty-five years before the birth of Christ. He was educated under

the illustrious Theophrastus, from whom he learned philosophy and

composition. While a brilliant genius directed him to comic poetry, his

natural delicacy, his refined taste, his moral rectitude, and true

philosophy controlled his fancy, imparted to his comedies a charm

unknown before, and obtained for them the suffrage of the most

enlightened, witty, and judicious men of his age, though for the same

reason they were, as Hamlet says, caviere to the multitude, and never

did please the corrupted and malicious multitude of Athens. With a wit

as brilliant and acute as that of Aristophanes, and perhaps as capable

of vitious coarseness and ribaldry, he kept it in correction, and

scorned to disgrace his compositions with illiberal personal aspersions,

or indecent, obscene, or satirical reflections; but endeavoured to make

his comedies pictures of real life, replete with refined useful

instruction, and sagacious observation, conveyed through the medium of

natural elegant dialogue. His writings, though they did not draw the

regards of the million with such irresistible and congenial attraction

as those of Aristophanes, had the power in some measure to rescue comedy

from the unbridled licentiousness and profligacy which, for fifty years

before, had rendered it a public nuisance. The multitude, however, he

could not, during his lifetime reclaim; for a miserable cotemporary of

his, named Philemon, a coarse writer of broad farce, who afterwards died

of a fit of laughter at seeing a jackass eat figs, continued by

intrigues and his natural influence with the mob, to carry away some

prizes from him; though he was so mean and contemptible a poet that his

very name would have been forgotten, and long since sunk in eternal

oblivion, if it had not been buoyed up by the simple fact of his

entering the lists against Menander.

The honours which his corrupted countrymen denied him were conferred

upon Menander by strangers; for we are informed by Pliny that the king

of Egypt, and the king of Macedon, as a proof of their respect, and

admiration of his rare qualities, sent ambassadors to invite him to

their courts; and, not contented with that compliment, sent fleets to

convey him: such was the fame accompanied with which his unexampled

endowments, spread his name over the remotest nations of the east.

Whether it was from local attachment to his native land, or from sound

philosophical wisdom and disregard of such temptations, he declined

those honours, cannot now be known, though the fact is beyond doubt that

he never would leave Attica. It is, however, an honourable testimony of

the perfect indifference with which he bore the stupid and unjust

preference given by the Athenians to his contemptible rival. It was said

that he drowned himself in consequence of Philemon's victory: but this

report has never been credited, being at variance with all the accounts

given by the best authorities, who, on the contrary, relate that so far

from being affected at the success of the other, the only notice he ever

took of it was, once to ask the victor, "Philemon! do you not blush to

wear that laurel?"

Of the incomparable merit of this great man, the principal evidence now

existing is the unanimous praise of some of the greatest men of

antiquity, since of one hundred and eight comedies which he wrote,

nothing but a few fragments remain in their original state. How much the

world ought to deplore the loss of those valuable compositions may be

collected from the admiration in which they were held by the Romans,

who, as we are assured by the ancients, maintained that their favourite

TERENCE was very much inferior to Menander. Terence borrowed six or at

least four of his plays from this admirable Greek poet, and those though

now considered excellent are allowed by his countrymen to have lost much

of the spirit of the great originals.

It cannot be doubted that he possessed to an astonishing fulness the

talent so little known in the ancient world, and which has exalted our

Shakspeare in lofty preeminence above the rest of mankind, of portraying

nature in every condition of human life. We have heard of, and

frequently read many terse and witty compliments to the genius of

Shakspeare, on account of his intimacy with nature; but we know of none

superior to that paid to Menander by the great Byzantian grammarian

Aristophanes, who, on reading his comedies exclaimed in an ecstasy, "O

MENANDER! O NATURE! WHICH OF YOU HAVE COPIED THE WORKS OF THE OTHER?"

Ovid held him in no less admiration; and Plutarch has been lavish in his

praise: the old rhetoricians recommend his works as the true and perfect

patterns of every thing beautiful and graceful in public speaking.

Quintilian advises an orator to seek in Menander for copiousness of

invention, for elegance of expression, and all that universal genius

which is able to accommodate itself to persons, things, and affections:

but that which appears to us more decisive than any other eulogy

bestowed upon him, is the opinion of Caesar, who, praising his favourite

Terence, calls him a half-Menander, thereby leaving upon record his

testimony that Menander had twice the merit of the greatest comic poet

of Rome.

Such was the poet from whom the mob of Athens snatched the laurel to

bestow it upon a mean and execrable scribbler, and to one hundred of

whose comedies the prize was denied, while only eight of them were

rewarded with it.

From the death of Menander which happened in his fifty-second year, not

a dramatic poet arose, nor a circumstance occurred relating to the art

in Greece, worthy of commemoration: here, therefore, history drops the

dramatic poetry of that country, till in a future page the merits of the

ancient and modern drama come to be viewed in comparison with each

other, and proceeds to commemorate some of the Grecian actors.

"Poetry," says a celebrated French writer, "has almost always been prior

to every other kind of learning, which is undoubtedly owing to its being

the produce of sentiment and fancy, two faculties of the mind always

employed before reason. Sensible minds are led by a kind of instinct to

sing their pleasures, their happiness, the gods whom they adore, the

heroes they admire, and the events they wish to have engraven on their

memories; accordingly poetry has been cultivated in all savage nations.

The warmth of the passions has been of great use in promoting this

delightful art." It is not to be wondered at, then, that the Athenians,

who, to use the words of the same writer, possessed a lively

imagination, great fertility of genius, a rich harmonious language, and

eminent abilities excited by the most ardent emulation, should be

extravagantly fond of poetry, and no less partial to those who displayed

a vigorous spirit of emulation in that art, and an ambition to excel in

any of the employments that served to illustrate or give it effect. For

these reasons they systematically honoured not only dramatic poets but

actors.

How much the important concerns of mankind are swayed and pre-influenced

by manners and habits is strongly illustrated in the discrepance which

maintained between the taste, the amusements, and opinions of the lively

Athenians, and those of the austere and exact people of Sparta, though

they were in fact one people. In their amusements, and partly in their

taste for literature, they differed essentially. The Athenians loved

poetry and music; while the Spartans, whose schemes were founded on

utility alone, rather rejected them as superfluous. Poets and musicians,

however, who confined themselves to sober and simple subjects, and to

grave and dignified expression, were not without admirers and supporters

in the latter: and when the Spartans destroyed and sacked the city of

Thebes, they spared the house that had been inhabited by PINDAR, in

respect to that great poet's memory. TERPANDER too, a lyric poet and

musician is related by AElian to have appeased a tumult at Sparta by the

sweetness of his notes and the fire of his poetry. They would not,

however, endure either poetry or music which did not breathe exalted

sentiment, and produce a beneficial impression on the mind.

On the subject of dramatic poetry and its adjuncts, theatres and actors,

the Spartans differed as essentially from the Athenians, as the

puritans, methodists, quakers, and rigid presbyterians differ from the

amateurs of the present day. During a reign of thirty-six years,

AGESILAUS who held the drama in contempt, discouraged and kept the

actors in depression. This extreme austerity prevailed through all ranks

of the rigid Lacedemonian people, who indeed carried it to a length

equally absurd and cruel; for they punished with great severity a famous

poet and musician, for adding three strings to the harp; grounding their

sentence upon a principle universally assented to among them, that the

softness of musical sounds produced effeminacy among the people. Of the

truth of their proposition in the abstract, there can be little doubt;

it is in the rigid application and extreme extension of it the fault

lies. Music has certainly a powerful influence on the passions, and

produces happy effects upon the human heart and mind when cultivated

moderately: but when it becomes the general prevailing passion of a

nation, or, as it were, gets dominion over them, it unquestionably

produces not effeminacy merely, but a hateful depravity of manners.

Whether the unexampled depravation of the modern Italians has been

caused by their passionate devotion to music, or their passionate

devotion to music by their monstrous depravity shall not be discussed in

this place. But the closeness of the connexion between the two things,

no matter which may be the cause or which the effect, will serve as an

illustration of the subject.

It is related that once, when Callipedes a celebrated tragedian, offered

his homage to Agesilaus, and for some time received no notice in return,

he said to the king, "Do you not know me, sir?" To which the king

replied, "You are Callipedes, the actor," and turned from him with

contempt. This harshness and severity extended even to the slaves of the

Spartans, some of whom, being taken prisoners of war by the Thebans, and

ordered to sing the odes of _Terpander_ for their captors, peremptorily

refused to comply, because it was forbidden them by their old masters.

In all Greece, however, Sparta stands a solitary instance of this

austerity; for the drama, poetry, and music were enthusiastically

cultivated in Athens, and even in every country into which the Grecians

penetrated. Players became in many instances the confidential friends,

counsellors, and ministers of kings themselves; and Alexander the Great

sent Thessalus, an actor, as an ambassador to Pexodorus, the Persian

governor of Caria, to forbid a marriage intended by the governor between

his daughter and Aridoeus, an illegitimate son of the late king

Philip. The proofs which that mighty conqueror has left on record of his

partiality to celebrated professors of the histrionic art, are no less

extraordinary than numerous, and in some instances, do no great credit

to his judgment. Every general in his camp had along with him his poets,

musicians, and declaimers. One time Alexander's favourite, Hephestion,

accommodated his musician named Evius, with the quarters which belonged

of right to EUMENES, the most worthy and renowned of all the Grecian

generals. Eumenes boldly remonstrated, and told Alexander that he

plainly saw the best way to acquire promotion in his army would be to

throw away arms, and learn to play upon the flute or turn actor.

At a contest of skill between Thessalus, Alexander's favourite actor,

and another of the name of Athenodorus, the king, though in his heart

deeply interested for the success of Thessalus, would not say a word in

his favour, lest it should bias the judges, who actually proclaimed

Athenodorus victor: the hero then exclaimed that the judges deserved

commendation for what they had done, but that he would have given half

his kingdom rather than see Thessalus overcome. This was certainly a

striking instance of magnanimity. How unprejudiced and generous that

great man's mind was may be collected from a subsequent act of his in a

case that concerned that very Athenodorus. That performer being heavily

fined by the Athenians for not appearing on the stage at the feast of

Bacchus implored Alexander to intercede for him; the just and munificent

monarch, however, refused to write in his favour, but, in order to

relieve the man, paid the fine for him.

In Greece, declamation was regarded as the principal step to honour and

advancement in public life. The greatest men practised it, and as they

held action to be the criterion of oratory, made the best actors their

models; nor was this a groundless opinion adopted by a few or

superficial men; for Demosthenes having remarked with some asperity that

the worst orators were heard in the rostrum in preference to him, the

celebrated actor SATYRUS, in order to show him how much grace, dignity,

and action add to the celebrity of a public man, repeated to him several

passages from Sophocles and Euripides, which so delighted and astonished

Demosthenes that he always afterwards formed his elocution and action on

the models of the most celebrated actors.

Having brought the history of the stage to the end of the Greek theatre,

this chapter cannot be better concluded than with an extract from an

admirable work lately published on the subject in England, to which this

history is indebted for some of its materials.

"It remains now only to say, that from the parodies of the ancient

writers, begun by Aristophanes, and awkwardly imitated by his

contemporaries and successors, sprung mimes, farces, and the grossest

buffoonery; and though the Grecian theatre still kept up an appearance

of greatness, and there was often some brilliancy beamed across the

heterogeneous mass which obscured truth and nature, to which the people

were no longer sensible; yet the grandeur and magnificence of public

exhibitions decreased; till, at length the fate of the stage too truly

foretold the fate of the empire. So certain it is that where the arts

are redundant they introduce luxury, and sap the foundation of a

state."

BIOGRAPHY.

For those readers who love biography, the editors of The Mirror have

selected one of the most interesting memoirs to be found in the rich

treasury of British literature. As a simple, yet animated picture of

natural genius, forcing its way through the impediments which waylay

early poverty, and breaking forth like the sun in meridian splendor

after a morning of tempest, clouds, and darkness, it will be a fit

companion for that of Hodgkinson. As a piece of composition, it is

perhaps the very finest specimen to be found in any language of the

unaffected, unadorned modest style that becomes a biographer, and

particularly a writer of his own life.

This memoir first appeared prefixed to that author's translation of

Juvenal.

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

TRANSLATOR OF JUVENAL.

I am about to enter on a very uninteresting subject; but all my friends

tell me that it is necessary to account for the long delay of the

following work; and I can only do it by adverting to the circumstances

of my life. Will this be accepted as an apology?

I know but little of my family, and that little is not very precise. My

great-grandfather (the most remote of it, that I ever recollect to have

heard mentioned) possessed considerable property at Halsworthy, a parish

in the neighbourhood of Ashburton; but whether acquired or inherited, I

never thought of asking, and do not know.

He was probably a native of Devonshire, for there he spent the last

years of his life; spent them too, in some sort of consideration, for

Mr. T. a very respectable surgeon of Ashburton, loved to repeat to me,

when I first grew into notice, that he had frequently hunted with his

hounds.

My grandfather was on ill terms with him: I believe not without

sufficient reason, for he was extravagant and dissipated. My father

never mentioned his name, but my mother would sometimes tell me that he

had ruined the family. That he spent much I know; but I am inclined to

think that his undutiful conduct occasioned my great-grandfather to

bequeath a part of his property from him.

My father, I fear, revenged in some measure the cause of my

great-grandfather. He was, as I have heard my mother say, "a very wild

young man, who could be kept to nothing." He was sent to the

grammar-school at Exeter; from which he made his escape, and entered on

board a man of war. He was soon reclaimed from this situation by my

grandfather, and left his school, a second time, to wander in some

vagabond society.[A] He was now probably given up, for he was, on his

return from this notable adventure, reduced to article himself to a

plumber and glazier, with whom he luckily staid long enough to learn the

business. I suppose his father was now dead, for he became possessed of

two small estates, married my mother,[B] the daughter of a carpenter at

Ashburton, and thought himself rich enough to set up for himself; which

he did with some credit, at South Molton. Why he chose to fix there, I

never inquired; but I learned from my mother, that after a residence of

four or five years he was again thoughtless enough to engage in a

dangerous frolic, which drove him once more to sea. This was an attempt

to excite a riot in a methodist chapel; for which his companions were

prosecuted, and he fled, as I have mentioned.

My father was a good seaman, and was soon made second in command in the

Lyon, a large armed transport in the service of government: while my

mother (then with child of me) returned to her native place, Ashburton,

where I was born, in April, 1757.

The resources of my mother were very scanty. They arose from the rent of

three or four small fields, which yet remained unsold. With these,

however, she did what she could for me; and as soon as I was old enough

to be trusted out of her sight, sent me to a school-mistress of the

name of Parret, from whom I learned in due time to read. I cannot boast

much of my acquisitions at this school; they consisted merely of the

contents of the "Child's Spelling Book;" but from my mother, who had

stored up the literature of a country town, which about half a century

ago, amounted to little more than what was disseminated by itinerant

ballad-singers, or rather, readers, I had acquired much curious

knowledge of Catskin, and the Golden Bull, and the Bloody Gardener, and

many other histories equally instructive and amusing.

My father returned from sea in 1764. He had been at the siege of the

Havanna; and though he received more than a hundred pounds for prize

money, and his wages were considerable; yet, as he had not acquired any

strict habits of economy, he brought home but a trifling sum. The little

property yet left was therefore turned into money; a trifle more was got

by agreeing to renounce all future pretensions to an estate at

Totness;[C] and with this my father set up a second time as a glazier

and house-painter. I was now about eight years old, and was put to the

free-school, kept by Hugh Smerdon, to learn to read and write, and

cypher. Here I continued about three years, making a most wretched

progress, when my father fell sick and died. He had not acquired wisdom

from his misfortunes, but continued wasting his time in unprofitable

pursuits, to the great detriment of his business. He loved drink for the

sake of society, and to this love he fell a martyr; dying of a decayed

and ruined constitution before he was forty. The town's people thought

him a shrewd and sensible man, and regretted his death. As for me, I

never greatly loved him; I had not grown up with him; and he was too

prone to repulse my little advances to familiarity, with coldness, or

anger. He had certainly some reason to be displeased with me, for I

learned little at school, and nothing at home, though he would now and

then attempt to give me some insight into the business. As impressions

of any kind are not very strong at the age of eleven or twelve, I did

not long feel his loss; nor was it a subject of much sorrow to me, that

my mother was doubtful of her ability to continue me at school, though I

had by this time acquired a love for reading.

I never knew in what circumstances my mother was left; most probably

they were inadequate to her support, without some kind of exertion,

especially as she was now burthened with a second child, about six or

eight months old. Unfortunately she determined to prosecute my father's

business; for which purpose she engaged a couple of journeymen, who,

finding her ignorant of every part of it, wasted her property, and

embezzled her money. What the consequence of this double fraud would

have been, there was no opportunity of knowing, as, in somewhat less

than a twelvemonth, my poor mother followed my father to the grave. She

was an excellent woman, bore my father's infirmities with patience and

good humour, loved her children dearly, and died at last, exhausted with

anxiety and grief more on their account than on her own.

I was not quite thirteen when this happened; my little brother was

hardly two; and we had not a relation nor a friend in the world. Every

thing that was left was seized by a person of the name of C----, for

money advanced to my mother. It may be supposed that I could not dispute

the justice of his claims; and as no one else interfered, he was

suffered to do as he liked. My little brother was sent to the

alms-house, whither his nurse followed him out of pure affection; and I

was taken to the house of the person I have just mentioned, who was also

my godfather. Respect for the opinion of the town, which, whether

correct or not, was, that he had repaid himself by the sale of my

mother's effects, induced him to send me again to school, where I was

more diligent than before, and more successful. I grew fond of

arithmetic, and my master began to distinguish me: but these golden days

were over in less than three months. C----sickened at the expense; and,

as the people were now indifferent to my fate, he looked round for an

opportunity of ridding himself of a useless charge. He had previously

attempted to engage me in the drudgery of husbandry. I drove the plough

for one day to gratify him, but I left it with a firm resolution to do

so no more, and in despite of his threats and promises, adhered to my

determination. In this I was guided no less by necessity than will.

During my father's life, in attempting to clamber up a table I had

fallen backward, and drawn it after me: its edge fell upon my breast,

and I never recovered the effects of the blow; of which I was made

extremely sensible on any extraordinary exertion. Ploughing, therefore,

was out of the question, and, as I have already said, I utterly refused

to follow it.

As I could write and cypher, as the phrase is, C----next thought of

sending me to Newfoundland, to assist in a store-house. For this purpose

he negotiated with a Mr. Holdsworthy of Dartmouth, who agreed to fit me

out. I left Ashburton with little expectation of seeing it again, and

indeed with little care, and rode with my godfather to the dwelling of

Mr. Holdsworthy. On seeing me, this great man observed with a look of

pity and contempt, that I was "too small," and sent me away sufficiently

mortified. I expected to be very ill received by my godfather, but he

said nothing. He did not, however, choose to take me back himself, but

sent me in the passage-boat to Totness, whence I was to walk home. On

the passage, the boat was driven by a midnight storm on the rocks, and I

escaped with life almost by a miracle.

My godfather had now humbler views for me, and I had little heart to

resist any thing. He proposed to send me on board one of the Torbay

fishing boats; I ventured, however, to remonstrate against this, and the

matter was compromised by my consenting to go on board a coaster. A

coaster was speedily found for me at Brixham, and thither I went when

little more than thirteen.

My master, whose name was Full, though a gross and ignorant, was not an

ill natured man; at least not to me: and my mistress used me with

unvarying kindness; moved perhaps by my weakness and tender years. In

return, I did what I could to requite her, and my good will was not

overlooked.

Our vessel was not very large, nor our crew very numerous. On ordinary

occasions, such as short trips, to Dartmouth, Plymouth, &c. it consisted

only of my master, an apprentice nearly out of his time, and myself:

when we had to go further, to Portsmouth for example, an additional hand

was hired for the voyage.

In this vessel, the Two Brothers, I continued nearly a twelvemonth; and

here I got acquainted with nautical terms, and contracted a love for the

sea, which a lapse of thirty years has but little diminished.

It will easily be conceived that my life was a life of hardship. I was

not only a "ship-boy on the high and giddy mast," but also in the cabin,

where every menial office fell to my lot: yet if I was restless and

discontented, I can safely say, it was not so much on account of this,

as of my being precluded from all possibility of reading; as my master

did not possess, nor do I recollect seeing during the whole time of my

abode with him, a single book of any description except the Coasting

Pilot.

As my lot seemed to be cast, however, I was not negligent in seeking

such information as promised to be useful; and I therefore frequented,

at my leisure hours, such vessels as dropt into Torbay. On attempting to

get on board one of these, which I did at midnight, I missed my footing,

and fell into the sea. The floating away of the boat alarmed the man on

deck, who came to the ship's side just in time to see me sink. He

immediately threw out several ropes, one of which providentially (for I

was unconscious of it) entangled itself about me, and I was drawn up to

the surface, till a boat could be got round. The usual methods were

taken to recover me, and I awoke in bed the next morning, remembering

nothing but the horror I felt when I first found myself unable to cry

out for assistance.

This was not my only escape, but I forbear to speak of them. An escape

of another kind was now preparing for me, which deserves all my notice,

as it was decisive of my future fate.

On Christmas day, 1770, I was surprised by a message from my godfather,

saying that he had sent a man and horse to bring me to Ashburton; and

desiring me to set out without delay. My master as well as myself,

supposed it was to spend the holydays there; and he, therefore, made no

objection to my going. We were, however, both mistaken.

Since I had lived at Brixham, I had broken off all connexion with

Ashburton. I had no relation there but my poor brother,[D] who was yet

too young for any kind of correspondence: and the conduct of my

godfather towards me did not entitle him to any portion of my gratitude,

or kind remembrance. I lived, therefore, in a sort of sullen

independence on all I had formerly known, and thought without regret, of

being abandoned by every one to my fate. But I had not been overlooked.

The women of Brixham, who travelled to Ashburton twice a week with fish,

and who had known my parents, did not see me without kind concern,

running about the beach in ragged jacket and trowsers. They mentioned

this to the people of Ashburton, and never without commiserating my

change of condition. This tale often repeated, awakened at length the

pity of their auditors, and, as the next step, their resentment against

the man who had reduced me to such a state of wretchedness. In a large

town, this would have little effect, but a place like Ashburton, where

every report speedily becomes the common property of all the

inhabitants, it raised a murmur which my godfather found himself either

unable or unwilling to withstand: he therefore determined, as I have

just observed, to recall me; which he could easily do, as I wanted some

months of fourteen, and consequently was not yet bound.

All this I learned on my arrival; and my heart, which had been cruelly

shut up, now opened to kinder sentiments, and fairer views.

After the holydays I returned to my darling pursuit, arithmetic: my

progress was now so rapid, that in a few months I was at the head of the

school, and qualified to assist my master (Mr. E. Furlong) on any

extraordinary emergency. As he usually gave me a trifle on those

occasions, it raised a thought in me, that by engaging with him as a

regular assistant, and undertaking the instruction of a few evening

scholars, I might, with a little additional aid, be enabled to support

myself. God knows, my ideas of support at this time, were of no very

extravagant nature. I had, besides, another object in view. Mr. Hugh

Smerdon, my first master, was now grown old and infirm; it seemed

unlikely that he should hold out above three or four years; and I fondly

flattered myself that, notwithstanding my youth, I might possibly be

appointed to succeed him. I was in my fifteenth year, when I built these

castles: a storm, however, was collecting, which unexpectedly burst upon

me, and swept them all away.

On mentioning my little plan to C----, he treated it with the utmost

contempt; and told me, in his turn, that as I had learned enough, and

more than enough, at school, he must be considered as having fairly

discharged his duty (so indeed he had); he added, that he had been

negotiating with his cousin, a shoemaker of some respectability; who had

liberally agreed to take me without a fee, as an apprentice. I was so

shocked at this intelligence, that I did not remonstrate; but went in

sullenness and silence to my new master, to whom I was soon after

bound[E] till I should attain the age of twenty-one.

The family consisted of four journeymen, two sons about my own age, and

an apprentice somewhat older. In these there was nothing remarkable; but

my master himself was the strangest creature! he was a presbyterian,

whose reading was entirely confined to the small tracts published on the

Exeter Controversy. As these (at least his portion of them) were all on

one side, he entertained no doubt of their infallibility, and being

noisy and disputatious, was sure to silence his opponents; and became,

in consequence of it, intolerably arrogant and conceited. He was not,

however, indebted solely to his knowledge of the subject for his

triumph: he was possessed of Fenning's Dictionary, and he made a most

singular use of it. His custom was to fix on any word in common use, and

then to get by heart the synonym, or periphrasis by which it was

explained in the book: this he constantly substituted for the other, and

as his opponents were commonly ignorant of his meaning, his victory was

complete.

With such a man I was not likely to add much to my stock of knowledge,

small as it was; and indeed nothing could well be smaller. At this

period I had read nothing but a black letter romance called Parismus and

Parismenus, and a few loose magazines which my mother had brought from

South Molton. The Bible, indeed, I was well acquainted with; it was the

favourite study of my grandmother, and reading it frequently with her,

had impressed it strongly on my mind; these then, with the Imitation of

Thomas a Kempis, which I used to read to my mother on her death-bed,

constituted the whole of my literary acquisitions.

As I hated my new profession with a perfect hatred, I made no progress

in it; and was consequently little regarded in the family, of which I

sunk by degrees into the common drudge: this did not much disquiet me,

for my spirits were now humbled. I did not, however, quite resign the

hope of one day succeeding to Mr. Hugh Smerdon, and therefore secretly

prosecuted my favourite study at every interval of leisure.

These intervals were not very frequent; and when the use I made of them

was found out, they were rendered still less so. I could not guess the

motives for this at first; but at length I discovered that my master

destined his youngest son for the situation to which I aspired.

I possessed at this time but one book in the world: it was a treatise on

algebra, given to me by a young woman, who had found it in a

lodging-house. I considered it as a treasure; but it was a treasure

locked up: for it supposed the reader to be well acquainted with simple

equation, and I knew nothing of the matter. My master's son had

purchased Fenning's Introduction: this was precisely what I wanted; but

he carefully concealed it from me, and I was indebted to chance alone

for stumbling upon his hiding-place. I sat up for the greatest part of

several nights successively, and, before he suspected that his treatise

was discovered, had completely mastered it. I could now enter upon my

own; and that carried me pretty far into the science.

This was not done without difficulty. I had not a farthing on earth, nor

a friend to give me one; pen, ink, and paper, therefore, in despite of

the flippant remark of lord Orford, were, for the most part, as

completely out of my reach, as a crown and sceptre. There was, indeed, a

resource; but the utmost caution and secrecy were necessary in applying

to it. I beat out pieces of leather as smooth as possible, and wrought

my problems on them with a blunted awl; for the rest my memory was

tenacious, and I could multiply and divide by it to a great extent.

Hitherto I had not so much as dreamt of poetry: indeed I scarce knew it

by name; and, whatever may be said of the force of nature, I certainly

never "lisp'd in numbers." I recollect the occasion of my first attempt:

it is, like all the rest of my non-adventures, of so unimportant a

nature, that I should blush to call the attention of the idlest reader

to it, but for the reason alleged in the introductory paragraph. A

person, whose name escapes me, had undertaken to paint a sign for an

alehouse: it was to be a lion, but the unfortunate artist produced a

dog. On this awkward affair one of my acquaintance wrote a copy of what

we called verse; I liked it, but fancied I could compose something more

to the purpose: I tried, and by the unanimous suffrage of my shop-mates

was allowed to have succeeded. Notwithstanding this encouragement, I

thought no more of verse, till another occurrence, as trifling as the

former, furnished me with a fresh subject; and so I went on, till I had

got together about a dozen of them. Certainly nothing on earth was ever

so deplorable: such as they were, however, they were talked of in my

little circle, and I was sometimes invited to repeat them, even out of

it. I never committed a line to paper for two reasons; first, because I

had no paper; and secondly--perhaps I might be excused from going

further; but in truth I was afraid, for my master had already threatened

me, for inadvertently hitching the name of one of his customers into a

rhyme.

(_To be concluded in our next._)

FOOTNOTES:

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

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

Edward.

[C] This was a lot of small houses, which had been thoughtlessly

suffered to fall into decay, and of which the rents had been so long

unclaimed, that they could not now be recovered unless by an expensive

litigation.

[D] Of my brother here introduced for the last time, I must yet say a

few words. He was literally

The child of misery baptized in tears;

and the short passages of his life did not belie the melancholy presage

of his infancy. When he was seven years old, the parish bound him out to

a husbandman of the name of Leman, with whom he endured incredible

hardships, which I had it not in my power to alleviate. At nine years of

age he broke his thigh; and I took that opportunity to teach him to read

and write. When my own situation was improved, I persuaded him to try

the sea; he did so, and was taken on board the Egmont, on condition that

his master should receive his wages. The time was now fast approaching

when I could serve him, but he was doomed to know no favourable change

of fortune: he fell sick, and died at Cork.

[E] My indenture, which now lies before me, is dated the first of

January, 1772.

BIOGRAPHY--FOR THE MIRROR.

SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE LATE MR. HODGKINSON.

(_Continued from page 297._)

The regulations of society, and the accidents of life too often thwart

the intentions of nature. Multitudes of human beings are in every age

poured forth from her inexhaustible stores, with inherent powers to rise

to distinction in the highest provinces of art and science, who yet are

condemned by the obstructions which worldly circumstance throws in their

way, to languish in obscurity--to live dejected and to die unknown. Some

whose natural endowments would, under less unpropitious circumstances,

qualify them to reach the summit of fame, are fettered by want of

patronage and pecuniary distress, while others are cramped in their

efforts by a complexional sensibility which they cannot overcome, and

checked in enterprise by diffidence and timidity, the natural offspring

of a refined and delicate structure.

If genius were always associated with physical force and constitutional

vigour, we should have had the dignities of the world more appropriately

filled than they are, and many who lord it would be found with their

necks bent in humiliation.

How many then should cover that stand bare!

How many be commanded that command!

Where mental and constitutional force are combined, and extraordinary

talents are sustained by resolution, confidence, vigorous animal

spirits, and the perseverance and indefatigable industry, supplied by

corporal strength, the obstructions must be numerous and great that can

prevent the possessor from rising. In Hodgkinson those requisites were

united in an eminent degree. No adversity could crush his energies, no

prosperity impair his industry. It was but a few months before his

death that old Mr. Whitlock under whose management Hodgkinson had early

in life played in the north of England, said to this writer, "John had

as much work in him as any two players I ever knew--he's the same in

that respect now, and will be the same to the end of the chapter."

Something of this the reader may have already perceived in the specimens

afforded by H's boyish adventures. His forcing his way to the notice of

one of the most respectable managers in England, and obtaining a footing

upon the stage, when not fifteen years of age, would appear incredible

if it were not so much a matter of notoriety as to be subject to

demonstrative proof. Intimately as the writer thought himself acquainted

with the minutest circumstances of H's first adventures at Bristol, he

finds that there was one which either he had forgotten, or H. had

neglected to mention to him. Though it be of no very great moment, yet

as it serves to thicken the circumstances which elucidate the boy's

character, it is introduced in this place. Since the publication of the

last number of The Mirror, the editor received the following letter

directed to "the biographer of Mr. Hodgkinson."

"Sir,

"Considering the circumstantial minuteness with which you

have related the youthful adventures of Mr. H. I am

surprised at your not mentioning one which I know to be a

fact. On the first night's performance of the company after

his arrival at Bristol, his passionate love of the stage

made him imprudent enough to throw away two shillings for a

seat in the gallery, which left him with only ninepence in

his pocket. Wishing your work success,

"I am yours obediently,

"_An old friend of John Hodgkinson._"

Upon mentioning this to another most intimate friend of the deceased in

this city, he said that he was sure the fact was so, as H. had more than

once mentioned it to him in the chitchat of their convivial hours.

Of his theatrical employment while a boy at Bristol, he was not in the

habit of mentioning particulars. Either there was nothing interesting in

it as a story, or it was so low that he felt no pleasure in dwelling

upon it. He helped to make up the crowd in a spectacle and occasionally

delivered letters and short messages on the stage: but his most

important and useful occupation was singing in choruses. In the dirge in

Romeo and Juliet he had a part allotted him, and never could forget the

mortification he felt when a person of consequence inquired of the

manager which of the _ladies_ it was that so far exceeded all the rest

in the power and sweetness of her voice. The praises bestowed on his

voice were poison to his ambitious young heart, when coupled with an

impeachment of his manhood.

There is one anecdote, however, of which though this writer has but an

obscure recollection, he thinks worth mentioning, as it serves to throw

a small ray of light upon one of H's characteristic foibles. One

evening, being in full glee, and talking of his early life to this

writer and three or four more of his acquaintances, he said that the

first time he ever received, specifically on his own account, the

slightest mark of applause was on this occasion. He had a letter to

deliver in a certain play or farce of the name of which the writer has

not at this moment the slightest recollection. The person to whom he was

to give the letter was, according to the plan of the piece, in very

ridiculous circumstances, scuffling with his wife, which he vainly

endeavoured to conceal. After handing him the letter it was H's business

to retire; but the comedian acted his part so naturally and looked so

ridiculously rueful, that it completely discomposed the boy's nerves, so

that just as he got to the side wing, and was about to disappear, he

could not help turning about and looking back at the man, and in spite

of him burst into a fit of laughter, which he endeavoured to suppress by

putting his hand to his mouth. The audience thinking it was purposely

done in character, were astonished at the natural way in which the boy

acted it, and gave him loud marks of approbation--"I dare say,"

continued H. "I looked devilish odd at the time, for the house laughed

incontinently." "Ay, ay," gravely replied a young Irishman who was

present, "I dare say it was your _game eye_ they laughed at." Down fell

the muscles of poor H's face--he changed colour, and was for sometime

before he could rally his spirit or recover his pleasantry.[F]

His time, however, was not lost or misapplied. He had an inexhaustible

thirst for knowledge, and therefore read, with ardour and industry,

every book he could lay his hands upon; and he has told this writer,

that if reading had been painful to him, his ambition was so ascendant,

and his determination to rise in the world so unalterable, that he would

not have read less. Strong indeed must have been the internal impulse

which made a boy of his age and spirits, his own voluntary task-master,

which induced him to lay the pleasures natural to his age at the feet of

a laudable purpose, and to devote to useful labour a portion of his

time, greater than the most diligent college book-worms devote to their

studies. He has declared to this writer that in summer time he rarely

gave more than five hours out of the four and twenty to sleep. The rest

was devoted to reading, refreshment by food, attendance on the stage,

and the practice of music. These constituted the whole of his

amusements; except that, when at Bath, he went out sporting--not to

shoot, but to see others shooting. One of the players who was a

sportsman, was a favourite of some of the _great_ men in the

neighbourhood, and often went out shooting with them. On these occasions

H. accompanied him, carried his hawking-bag, powder magazine, shot, &c.

and helped to mark the birds when they sprung. Thus was generated the

passion for dogs and shooting to which he was afterwards so warmly

addicted, and which indeed was, in the end, the cause of his death.

The worthy prompter supplied him with books, a benefit he derived from

the following circumstance. In Bristol there is a lane or street

occupied by venders of second-hand articles of various kinds. Thither he

one day repaired to buy, if possible, a pair of cheap silk

stockings:--poor John, like many others in the world, was most vain of

that part of him which was least handsome. As he sauntered along

inspecting the goods that lay exposed to view, he saw a bookstand, at

which he stopped, and with greedy eye devoured each title-page. An odd

volume of Harris's Hermes caught his fancy, and after having pondered

for some time on the alternative, whether he should postpone legs in

favour of head, or _vice versa_, he concluded on the former, saying to

himself that _Hermes_ would be snatched up by the first person who saw

it; but that the second hand silk stockings could be got at any time.

The volume was eighteen pence; yet so restricted was our hero's

finances, that this little sum deranged his stocking plan for a week.

His friend the prompter, seeing the book with him, took it out of his

hand, and looking at it, told him he had thrown away his money in buying

such stuff, and exhorted him not to waste his time in reading it. On

coming to an explanation with him, the good man finding the boy intent

upon improvement, benevolently told him that he should neither want

proper books, nor instructions how to make use of them. He then lent him

Lowth's grammar, and pointed out the most useful places. H. read it

diligently, and though he seldom forgot any thing he once read, he

perused Lowth three or four times over. The literary knowledge of H. was

one of the most astonishing circumstances about him. It is doubtful

whether on the day he died, he left a more perfect orthoepist living

behind him. Indeed his attainments, particularly in poetry and critical

science were so great, considering his early privation of means, that

with all the aid derived from his frequent and free communications, the

writer of this has often found it difficult to account for them

satisfactorily.

From this period of H's life all is an hiatus till his connexion with

the celebrated James Whiteley, manager of the most extensive midland

circuit ever known in England; viz. Worcester, Wolverhampton, Derby,

Nottingham, Retford and Stamford theatres. Why, how, or when he left

Bath and Bristol--or whether he was intermediately employed at any other

theatre, the writer is not in possession of a single fact to enable him

to determine. Of one Miller, a manager, he has heard H. speak, but not

with any interest. James Whiteley was the theme on which he most liked

to dwell. Whiteley was perhaps the greatest oddity on the face of the

earth; but of a heart sound, and benevolent beyond the generality of

mankind. Violently passionate, and in his passions vulgar, rude,

boisterous, and so abhorrent of hypocrisy, that he laboured to make

himself appear as bad as possible. He was a native of Ireland; and it

has often been said of him that in eccentricity and benevolence he was a

full match for any man of that country. He would ridicule and abuse his

actors in a style of whimsical foulmouthedness peculiar to himself--but

he would allow no other man living to do it--and while conferring

substantial benefits upon them, would blackguard them like a

Billingsgate fishwoman. So essentially did he differ from most other

managers, that instead of wronging or pinching them, instead of

intriguing against them, to run them down with the public, in order to

enhance his own consequence, he was their champion, their sincere

friend, and the strenuous supporter of their character and of the

dignity of his company. If they fell into misfortune they found in him a

father--and, dying rich, he bequeathed to his veteran performers who

survived him, a weekly salary for life, which those who survive still

enjoy. Whoever has read or heard of the character of doctor Moncey, may

form some idea of the oddity of James Whiteley. Whiteley went much

further than Moncey--for the effusions of his spleen or his humour were

sometimes too coarse and indelicate to bear public repetition, though

they still remain the topic of conversation with all who knew him, and

supply an inexhaustible fund of mirth to all who remember him.

In this extraordinary personage Hodgkinson found the warmest, most

benevolent friend; and, what may appear strange, a most valuable

instructor. Himself always appearing wrong, and speaking like one

cracked, he never failed to set right all those who were guided by his

advice; and, while his tongue ran riot as if he were drunk or mad, his

conduct was governed by sound sense and prudence. If ever any thing

hobby-horsical or pedantic crept into the conversation of Hodgkinson, it

was his fondness for describing this worthy oddity.

He had heard Whiteley's character described in a variety of quarters,

and went to him expecting to be ridiculed, blackguarded, and patronised.

Nor was he disappointed. Under his auspices, H. grew up, acquired

professional knowledge, and, considering his age, much fame. A whole

number of this work would not contain the anecdotes which, in his

cheerful moments, Hodgkinson has related to this writer, of Whiteley's

worth and eccentricities; but the humour and oddity of them were of a

kind not only too coarse for general perusal, but so dependant for

effect upon the manner of telling them, that it would be idle to relate

them here. Their first meeting, however, and the conversation on that

occasion may be hazarded. A gentleman of the name of Mills, an old

friend of W's and much in his good graces, introduced our youth to him,

having previously obtained his consent to see the lad, and consider what

line of business he was fit for. "You must not," said this mutual

friend, "take ill any thing that Whiteley says to you. He is a kind of

privileged person--_says_ what he pleases to every one, and _does_ all

the good he can. But this I can tell you, that if he treats you

ceremoniously (for no man can be more perfectly the gentleman when he

pleases) you have no chance with him.

"My name being announced," said H. relating to this writer his first

interview, "Jemmy Whiteley surveyed me from head to foot with a grinning

drollery, that no words can describe; he spat out, according to custom,

about a score of times, and after a tittering laugh was proceeding to

speak, when he was suddenly called off." "Stay here," said he, "I'll be

back in a minute or two." As he was leaving the room he stopped at the

door--looked back at me again--pulled up his small clothes, and

jeeringly tittered at me in a manner that was enough to provoke a saint,

if it were not for the man's well known character. "It will do I see,"

said my friend, "depend upon it, it will do--dont mind his sayings; but

when you come to business, be plain, downright and firm, and you'll have

his heart." When W. returned, he again surveyed me from head to foot,

and again grinned and tittered. I was almost as tall as I am now, and as

thin perhaps as you ever saw any one of the same height. My face too was

pale from recent indisposition, and I had no appearance of beard. "So,"

said he, addressing Mills, "this is the chap about whom you gave me such

a platter of stirabout with Ballyhack butter[G] in it yesterday." So far

from being vexed or daunted by this first address, the like of which I

had never heard before, nor could well understand, the playful,

good-natured drollery in his face, and the singularity of his deportment

tickled me so, that I could not, if it were to save my life, suppress a

smile of merriment, upon which after scrutinizing my face with the eye

of a master of his business, he turned to the other and said, "the

blackguard has some fun in him I see, though he looks as if a dinner

would not come amiss to him--for he's as slim as a starved greyhound;"

then casting a comical glance at my clothes which were neat, good, and

new--he said, "Why boy, your belly ought to swear its life against your

back, for you are killing the one to cover the other." I blushed, but

still could not help laughing. "You are mistaken Whiteley," said the

other, "there is not a man in your company eats better than John."

"Where does he get it?" said W. "he cant have above half a guinea a week

for his salary, and the clothes now on his back must cost at least

twenty half guineas, or perhaps half a year's pay." "Go on Whiteley,"

said the other, "discharge all your Irish nonsense upon his head, he has

temper to bear it all; in the meantime I'll take a walk, and come back

again: but let me know what time you intend to be done, that I may be

ready to a minute; for in matters of business Whiteley, you know I like

to be punctual." W. understood this sarcasm, and turning to Mills,

poured forth such a volley of whim and oddity as I think never fell from

the lips of any other man in this world. When he was in this vein of

humour, he had, in addition to the comic cast of his countenance, a lisp

and a brogue which enhanced his drollery, and at every pause he drew in

his breath as if he were sipping out of a teaspoon. He began, "Now you

think yourself a very clever fellow after that oration, dont you! you

feel aisy I hope Mr. Mills, after throwing that wisp of bullrushes off

your stomach! have you made your speech, honey?" Mills laughed and bowed

submission. "Pull down your cap then, my dear, and be hanged." Then

turning to me, "Take care of yourself, boy, for if you mind what this

man says to you, you'll come to the gallows: you stand a chance of that

as it is, or I am very much out in my reckoning; but if you follow his

advice, you will be hanged as dead as Jack the painter, or my name's not

Jemmy Whiteley." "Never in my life before or since," continued H. "was I

so astonished, or so diverted. In the midst of all the ribaldry of his

mouth and the farce of his countenance, the benevolence of his heart

glistened in his eyes;--my nerves were convulsed with a twofold

sensation, and actually so enfeebled that, bursting into a fit of

laughter I, unbidden, sat down in a large arm chair that stood behind

me." "What's this his name is," said he to Mills: "Hodgkinson," replied

the other. "I thought that there must be an O or a MAC to his name by

the _aisy affability_ with which he helped himself to the great chair.

Old Maclaughlin, that blackguard Jew that calls himself Macklin, could

not surpass it for _modesty_." I rose. "Och, to the d--l with your

manners honey," said he, clapping his two hands on my shoulders and

pressing me down into the chair, "stay there since you're in it, and be

d----d to you."

"Well, Whiteley," said my friend, "as you think my advice might be fatal

to the young man, give him some advice yourself. What do you think he

had best do? what do you think fittest for him?" "Any fool can tell him

that," returned Whiteley: "the best and the first thing I advise him to

do, is to eat a hearty meal, and as I dare say he has not a jingle[H] in

his pocket, I advise him to stay here and dine; and you may stay along

with him, if you please." "I cant--I'm engaged," said the other. "Then

if _you_ dont, the d----l a crust shall _he_ crack here." Upon which,

turning to me, he said, "see what you can do with him, boy--if you cant

keep him along with you, you dont get a toothful in this house." I

looked foolishly at my friend, who said, "Well, if that be the case, I

must stay;" upon which W. making me a very low formal bow, gravely said,

"I thank you, sir, for the great honour this gentleman does me, in

condescending to eat a piece of the best leg of mutton in the north of

England."

"W. then sat down, but he overflowed so with oddity, that business was

out of the question. Every three minutes produced an explosion of the

most extravagant kind--often full of humour, sometimes witty, always

coarse. It was in vain that my friend now urged, and now insinuated the

subject of the stage; Whiteley baffled him with a joke or a jeer, or a

story--and sometimes with a transition so extreme, rapid, and

unconnected, that it was impossible to do any thing with him. My

singing was adverted to. "Ay," said Whiteley, "I suspected he was one of

your squallers; I thought from his chalky face and lank carcase that he

was of the Italian breed, and that his story would end in a song. Did

you ever see Signor _Tenducci_, boy?" "No sir." "No matter, you are not

the worse for that; but I have nothing to do with _Italianos_. I have

none but men and women in my company." I then ventured to advert to the

English opera and hinted at my old favourite The Padlock. "Why if I were

disposed to try you, there is nothing in the Padlock that you could play

and I could give you. The part of Ursula is filled by the same old lady

who has played it for years in my theatres." The torrent could not be

resisted, so we swam along with it, and laughed heartily. "You are too

bad Jemmy Whiteley," said Mr. Mills, "by my soul, you're too bad." "Oh I

am a very bad fellow to be sure; you'll talk on the other side of your

cheek by and by, when you are swallowing my old ale and red port at

three and six pence a bottle."

"At length dinner was announced, and to tell you the truth, I had much

rather have gone without any than sat down to dine. I was at the best

very bashful, and Whiteley's coarse insinuation that I wanted a dinner,

though jocularly spoken, stuck in my throat, and made me blush heartily

when he helped me. But now his manner was changed, and he displayed such

unfeigned hospitality, and such an earnest desire that we should enjoy

ourselves, showing us himself the example, that before dinner was half

over, I was perfectly comfortable. He pressed me to drink, but was

greatly pleased at my refusing to comply. In a word, no two men were

ever more different than Jemmy Whiteley in the rhodomontade of the

morning and Mr. James Whiteley at his own hospitable, respectable board.

He and my friend chatted and drank cheerfully. I looked on, listened,

and sung two or three songs for them at Mr. W's request. When my friend

made a motion to go, the good manager thus addressed me: "look you my

good lad, when the waiter of a tavern or the potboy of a porter-house

presents me a pot of beer or ale, I always blow off the froth from the

top or wait till it subsides, and then bring it to the light and look

down carefully through it, lest it should be muddy or foul, or have some

dirt such as a candle-snuff, a mouse, a toad, or some trifle of that

kind floating in it: in a word, to know what I am about to swallow. Just

so I deal with men, when they approach me in a way that seeks connexion:

for I dont like changing, and I greatly detest the fallings out and

fallings in again which seem to make up the business and pleasure of so

many in this life. While I was blackguarding you and you staring and

laughing at me, I was looking down through your contents from your

frothy powdered head down to the very bottom; and so, if your friend and

you will call here tomorrow morning, I will try to bring my tongue down

to some serious conversation with you.""

In a word, our youth next day found himself placed with a man of

justice, honour, and generosity, with whom he remained till the grave

terminated the contract. Whiteley's passions were so lively, and bad

habit had so devested him of all control over his tongue that he would

d--n and curse his actors, and call them foul names, even during the

performance of the stage, and that too so loud that the audience would

frequently hear him. Yet he was in substantial concerns a truly

excellent man.

The next place in which Hodgkinson can be distinctly traced is the

northern line of theatres, then under the management of Whitlock and

Munden, viz. Newcastle, Sheffield, Lancaster, Preston, Warrington, and

Chester. In the course of his business in this circuit, the extension of

his fame more than kept pace with his years, and he was soon looked upon

as the most promising actor of his age. At first he was valued chiefly

for his musical talents. A gentleman now residing in Philadelphia was

present at his first appearance in that circuit at Preston in

Lancashire. A valuable actor and singer was put out of the character of

Lubin in the Quaker, to make way for H's debut in that character, in

which he was not so warmly received as the managers expected, being

_encored_ in only one of the songs. His matchless industry, however,

grafted on his great talents, soon produced a rich harvest of the most

excellent fruits. He became a very useful general actor, played any

thing and every thing the managers thought it their interest to appoint

him to, whether tragedy, comedy, opera, or farce; and too confident in

his own powers to be captious or fastidious, he never reneged an

inferior part, when it was the managers' interest he should play it,

even when, by the laws of the theatre, he was entitled to the first. Mr.

Whitlock told this writer that H. did _with good will_ more work than

any two performers they had. "I have known him," said the old gentleman,

"after performing in both play and after-piece at Newcastle in

Northumberland, set off without taking a moment's rest in a post-chaise,

travel all night, and rehearse the next day and perform the next night

in play and farce at Preston in Lancashire."

Powerful as were his talents, he would not, in all probability, have

risen to acknowledged eminence in his profession for many years, if he

had not fallen under the observation of Mrs. Siddons. That extraordinary

actress, little less illustrious for private virtues than splendid

talents, being engaged one summer in the northern theatres, observed

with pleasure and astonishment, a young man of abilities far above the

crowd that played with him. To adopt her own words, she at the first

glance discerned a rough, uncleansed diamond sparkling in a heap of

rubbish that surrounded it, and through the soil with which it still was

encrusted emitting brilliant rays of light. It was her delight to

stretch forth her mighty hand to raise genius from depression, and

resolving to raise Hodgkinson she took the most decisive means to do so.

She appointed him to perform the principal characters to her in every

play in which she acted and brought him for the purpose along with her

to all the provincial theatres in which she was engaged.

(_To be continued._)

FOOTNOTES:

[F] Handsome as H. was, he had a strange defect in his eyes: one of them

was smaller than the other, and in his efforts to reduce them to an

equality, he sometimes produced a whimsical archness of physiognomy. He

did not relish its being noticed, however, and thought the young

Irishman very rude.

[G] In the low cant of the Irish, gross adulation is called _the dirty

butter of Ballyhack_.

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

Irish.

NOKES.

Colley Cibber has transmitted to us in his apology, the

following character of the greatest of all comedians.

Nokes was an actor of a quite different genius from any I have ever

read, heard of, or seen, since or before his time; and yet his general

excellence may be comprehended in one article, viz. a plain and palpable

simplicity of nature, which was so utterly his own, that he was often as

unaccountably diverting in his common speech, as on the stage. I saw him

once, giving an account of some table talk, to another actor behind the

scenes, which a man of quality accidentally listening to, was so

deceived by his manner, that he asked him if that was a new play he was

rehearsing? it seems almost amazing, that this simplicity, so easy to

Nokes, should never be caught by any one of his successors. Leigh and

Underhill have been well copied, though not equalled by others. But not

all the mimical skill of Estcourt (famed as he was for it) though he had

often seen Nokes, could scarce give us an idea of him. After this

perhaps it will be saying less of him, when I own, that though I have

still the sound of every line he spoke, in my ear, which used not to be

thought a bad one, yet I have often tried, by myself, but in vain, to

reach the least distant likeness of the _vis comica_ of Nokes. Though

this may seem little to his praise, it may be negatively saying a good

deal to it, because I have never seen any one actor, except himself,

whom I could not, at least so far imitate, as to give a more than

tolerable notion of his manner. But Nokes was so singular a species, and

was so formed by nature, for the stage, that I question if, beyond the

trouble of getting words by heart, it ever cost him an hour's labour to

arrive at that high reputation he had and deserved.

The characters he particularly shone in, were Sir Martin Marrall, Gomez

in the Spanish Friar, Sir Nicolas Cully in Love in a Tub, Barnaby

Brittle in the Wanton Wife, Sir Davy Dunce in the Soldier's Fortune,

Sosia in Amphytrion, &c. &c. To tell you how he acted them, is beyond

the reach of criticism: but to tell you what effect his action had upon

the spectator, is not impossible: this then is all you will expect from

me, and hence I must leave you to guess at him.

He scarce ever made his first entrance in a play, but he was received

with an involuntary applause, not of hands only, for those may be, and

have often been partially prostituted, and bespoken; but by a general

laughter, which the very sight of him provoked, and nature could not

resist; yet the louder the laugh, the graver was his look upon it; and

sure, the ridiculous solemnity of his features were enough to set a

whole bench of bishops into a titter, could he have been honoured (may

it be no offence to suppose it) with such grave and right reverend

auditors. In the ludicrous distresses, which by the laws of comedy,

Folly is often involved in; he sunk into such a mixture of piteous

pusillanimity, and a consternation so ruefully ridiculous and

inconsolable, that when he had shook you, to a fatigue of laughter, it

became a moot point, whether you ought not to have pitied him. When he

debated any matter by himself, he would shut up his mouth with a dumb

studious pout, and roll his full eye into such a vacant amazement, such

a palpable ignorance of what to think of it, that his silent perplexity

(which would sometimes hold him several minutes) gave your imagination

as full content, as the most absurd thing he could say upon it. In the

character of Sir Martin Marrall, who is always committing blunders to

the prejudice of his own interest, when he had brought himself to a

dilemma in his affairs, by vainly proceeding upon his own head, and was

afterwards afraid to look his governing servant and counsellor in the

face; what a copious, and distressful harangue have I seen him make with

his looks, while the house has been in one continued roar for several

minutes, before he could prevail with his courage to speak a word to

him! then might you have, at once, read in his face _vexation_--that his

own measures, which he had piqued himself upon, had failed. _Envy_--of

his servant's superior wit--_distress_--to retrieve, the occasion he

had lost. _Shame_--to confess his folly; and yet a sullen desire, to be

reconciled and better advised for the future! what tragedy ever showed

us such a tumult of passions rising at once in one bosom! or what

buskined hero standing under the load of them, could have more

effectually moved his spectators, by the most pathetic speech, than poor

miserable Nokes did, by this silent eloquence, and piteous plight of his

features?

His person was of the middle size, his voice clear and audible; his

natural countenance grave and sober; but the moment he spoke, the

settled seriousness of his features was utterly discharged, and a dry,

drolling, or laughing levity took such full possession of him, that I

can only refer the idea of him to your imagination. In some of his low

characters, that became it, he had a shuffling shamble in his gait, with

so contented an ignorance in his aspect, and an awkward absurdity in his

gesture, that had you not known him, you could not have believed, that

naturally he could have had a grain of common sense. In a word, I am

tempted to sum up the character of Nokes, as a comedian, in a parody of

what Shakspeare's _Mark Antony_ says of _Brutus_ as a hero.

His life was laughter, and the ludicrous

So mix'd, in him, that nature might stand up,

And say to all the world--this was an _actor_.

MISCELLANY.

THEOBALDUS SECUNDUS,

OR

SHAKSPEARE AS HE SHOULD BE.

NO. IV.

_Hamlet Prince of Denmark, continued._

Latin and Greek are the only tongues in which departed spirits can be

addressed, for this reason they are denominated the _dead_ languages.

The nonappearance of these supernatural beings in the present day, may

be fairly ascribed to the decay of the learned languages. COBBET, with

all his volubility, has not a word to throw at a ghost. Johnson says:

When Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes,

First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakspeare rose.

This is converting learning into a bricklayer, and would have come with

a better grace from Ben Jonson than from Sam. But however that may be,

under such an architect, ghosts would naturally be enrolled in the

company. Dr. Farmer may say what he pleases, but I firmly believe

Shakspeare had Latin enough to talk to his own ghosts; though I doubt

whether I can express the same belief as to certain modern writers, who,

by reviving ghosts to squeal and gibber on the London stages, have taken

the same liberties as Shakspeare, without taking the same talents--"we

have no cold beef sir," said the landlady at Glastonbury to a hungry

traveller; "but we have excellent mustard!" All this however is foreign

to the Prince of Denmark,

_Horatio._ ----I have heard,

The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn,

Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat

Awake the god of day.

Doctor Fungus will have it, that cock should be clock, and ground his

opinions upon the situation of St. Paul's clock. But this would spoil

the poetry of the whole passage. What an accurate picture does the

creative pencil of our great poet present to the _mind's eye_! The

epithet _lofty_ has fallen through the sieves of all the commentators

excepting Theobaldus Secundus. It obviously alludes to the high roosting

perch of that valiant bird; nor is the mythological imagery in this

sentence to be passed by without its merited eulogium. Lingo, by way of

_agreeable surprise_, informs us that the cock is the bird of

Pallas--Pallas is the goddess of wisdom, and of course an early

riser----

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

Her favourite bird undoubtedly awoke her with his shrill note, and at

the same time roused the slumbering fop Phoebus, who answered in the

words of Dr. Watts----

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

and being the god of wit, when he rubbed his own eyes, doubtless vented

an imprecation on those of Minerva.

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

The moral is obvious;--they who, like Mr. Sheridan, aim only to be men

of wit, lie a bed; while they who, like Sir Isaac Newton, Mr. Burke, and

a very few others, aspire to be men of wisdom, rise with the lark.

Horatio in continuation--

"The extravagant and erring spirit hies

To his confine."

"The extravagant i. e. got out of his bounds"--_Warburton_--Bravo! old

Hurlo-thumbo! got out of his depth, Warburton, you mean. Extra-vagant

certainly may be construed out of bounds; we need no ghost with a

mouthful of Syntax to tell us that; but Shakspeare had too much taste to

adopt such an absurd Latinism. I have no doubt that the late king was a

man of expensive habits, and is here compared to a prisoner within the

rules of the king's bench, who must return to quod at a given moment or

compliment the marshal with the debt and costs. At the crowing of the

cock, the extravagant and erring spirit (that is, the spendthrift of a

defendant) whether he be drinking arrack punch at Vauxhall, champaigne

at the Mount, or brandy and water at the Eccentries, must kick off his

glass-slipper, and hobble back to St. George's Fields, like the lame

bottle-conjuror of Le Sage.

But look, the morn in russet mantle clad,

Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill.

_Russet mantle!_ what sorry attire for a goddess! I wish the critics

would settle, once for all, the costume of Aurora; at present she has

clothes, fingers, feet, bosom, and hair, of as many colours as the

roquelaure of Joseph. Homer styles her----

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

This is more like an old washerwoman than a young goddess. Ovid calls

her rutilis Aurora capillis. And again--

Ut solet aer

Purpureus fieri, primum Aurora movetur.

I translate "purpureus fieri," a fiery purple. What says Virgil of that

particoloured damsel----

Tithoni croceum liquens Aurora cubile.

A golden bed, by the way, is but a poor atonement for a leaden old

spouse snoring in it.

Lucia thinks happiness consists in state,

She weds an ideot, but she eats off plate.

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

says----

The morning was up gray as a rat,

The clock struck something, faith I can't tell what.

And Rosina now says, "see the rosy morn appearing;" and now "the morn

returns in saffron dress'd."--Selim in Blue Beard, sings, "Gray-eyed

morn begins to peep," his is no compliment to the beauty of the goddess.

If she had changed colours with the magician, it would have been well; a

_gray beard_ is fit for an old man, and _blue eyes_ for a young woman.

And now, reader, "_make way for the speaker_."--The scene draws, and

discovers a room of state, containing, the King, Queen, Hamlet,

Polonius, Laertes, Voltimand, Cornelius, Lords, and Attendants. This is

the first appearance of Hamlet.--Here, then, we must suppose a clapping

of hands, and a cry of hats off--down--down--you will therefore fancy to

yourself a young gentleman, arrayed in black velvet, with a plume of

sable feathers in his bonnet, big enough for the fore-horse of Ophelia's

hearse. But as in a certain assembly, if a member, however elevated in

rank, rise to speak late in the evening, he sets his hearers coughing,

there being no pectoral lozenge equal to an early harangue; and, as

touching the Lord Hamlet in that manner, would be touching the honour of

a prince, I shall keep his royal highness as a _bonne bouche_ to open my

next dissertation.

(_To be Continued._)

* * * * *

DR. JOHN HILL, an author, who to great learning, judgment, sagacity, and

luminous fancy, joined unparalleled industry, gratified the British

public for a long time with a diurnal paper wholly from his own pen,

called "the Inspector." In the course of this work he gave some of the

most admirable strictures upon the plays and players of his day. From

that work we intend to give some select passages. The following is

deserving of particular attention for the truth and accuracy of the

parallels it presents to our view.

While I admire in Barry the quick conception, the strong expression, and

the fine taste of Julio Romano; while I hang upon the expression of his

eyes, when tenderness is the passion to be described by them, and while

in the several parts of a history, or through the varied scenes of an

interesting tragedy, I am at once surprised and charmed with the choice

of attitudes in both, I cannot be blind to the defects that stain as

well the painting as the scene: there was always what the judges call a

dryness, a hardness in the painter, and the same foible now and then

discloses itself in the less guarded moments of the player: neither the

one nor the other seem to have been perfect masters of the doctrine of

lights and shadows, and both are therefore sometimes extravagant, and

not always graceful: this happy difference, however, appears between

them, that while the arrogance of the painter esteemed his faults as

excellencies, the player, equally capable of giving advice to himself,

and of receiving it from others, will soon scandalize all criticism by

annihilating the foibles that gave it origin.

The genius, the soul of Titian, is revived in Garrick; both give us not

resemblances, but realities: they do not represent but create, upon the

canvass or upon the scene; and what from others we would admire as

representations, we read in these as actions. There is in the

performance of this player, all the delicacy of taste, and all the

dignity of expression that we reverence in the painter: his figures,

where the subject gives him scope, are noble almost beyond imagination,

his attitudes the most strictly appropriated to the sensations that

inspire them, and his colouring, to borrow a metaphor from the sister

art to express an excellence for which the other has yet no word of its

own, is the greatest that we ever did or ever must expect to see. With

all the sweetness and delicacy of his imagery, there is a glow of fire

and freedom that at once surprises and charms his audience, and, like

his brother artist, he excels all men who have ever been eminent, in the

peculiar distinguishing touches which separate passion from passion; and

thence give at once the greatest spirit and the strictest truth to the

representation. I shall hardly venture to affirm that there is no foible

in any of the pieces given us by either of these artists; but there is a

blaze of majesty and beauty, throughout the works of both, that at once

engages the whole eye, and with its superior lustre dims what may be

less worthy praise till it becomes indiscernible.

While Bellamy assumes the piety, the tenderness, and the sorrows of a

Cordelia, or heightens the repentance of a Shore, we own that a Tintoret

has done some pictures equal to Corregio. The first of these is the

painter to whom I would resemble this rising actress, the latter only

breathes in Cibber. No woman ever excelled Miss Bellamy in the

requisites from nature, and were but her love to the profession, her

application to its necessary studies, and her patience in going through

the difficulties that lie in the road to eminence in it, equal to her

abilities, she would have few equals. The outlines of her figures are

sometimes faulty, but the colouring always pleases.

All that Corregio executed by the pencil we see in real life from Mrs.

Cibber; the strength of lights and shadows, of the glaring and the

obscure, are equal in the representations of both, but were never

equalled by any other in either art. The dignity of sorrow, and natural

and unaffected graces which that artist gives to his Madonas, this lady

diffuses over the whole figure in the tragic scene that requires it; we

are equally struck by both: we see nothing like either: and we admire

the execution while we have no conception of the manner in which it is

performed. The strength and heightening are alike admirable in each, and

the consummate sweetness only to be rivalled by the expressive strength

of the colouring. In the conduct and finish of their pieces, both have

done wonders; and as the pictures of Corregio are so equal in their

several parts, that, though the labour of years, they seem to have been

finished in one day, so that the longest characters of this actress are

so uniform throughout, that it is evident there are no careless

absences, no false extravagances in any part, but that the whole is the

resemblance of one temper actuated, though under various circumstances,

by one passion.

In Mrs. Pritchard one sees revived the extensive powers of Hannibal

Carrache: while we pursue her through the varied forms she assumes we

cannot but acknowledge the character of Corregio, the fire of Titian,

and the dignity of Raphael; this lady, of all the players, as that

master of all the painters, comes nearest the character of a universal

genius.

Woodward strikes the judicious eye with a strong resemblance of Paul

Veronese: he has all the vivacity and ease of that great painter, and

fully equals him in his fancy for the singular and the shining in his

draperies; but, as he shares his beauties, he is not without his faults.

His composition is sometimes improper, and his design always incorrect;

but with these blemishes, however, his colouring is so well calculated

to catch the eye, that he never fails to strike at first sight, and

makes so happy an impression on the generality of an audience, that they

never perceive what is deficient.

Though the last, not the least in my esteem, Macklin shall be produced;

nor must those who judge superficially, be surprized when they see me

call forth for his parallel Michael Angelo. It must be confessed of this

great painter, that the choice of his attitudes was, though never

unjust, not always pleasing: that his taste in design was not the most

minutely fine, nor his outlines the most elegant; that he was sometimes

extravagant in his conceptions, and bold even to rashness in his

execution: perhaps the player of the parallel inherits some tincture of

these faults; but to compensate, he has all his excellencies. He knows

the foundation of the art better than them all: he designs, if less

beautifully than some, more accurately than any: he better understands

nature of the human frame, and the situation and power of its muscles

than any man who ever played, nor has any man ever understood it like

him as a science: there is an air of truth in all his figures, a

greatness and severity in many of them that demand the utmost praise:

and in the whole, if nature has qualified him less for shining in some

of the most conspicuous parts than many, none has fewer faults.

* * * * *

_King Lear._

A correspondent has in a former number made some remarks on the

corruptions, or, as they are called, alterations and adaptations of the

plays of Shakspeare. As he has not prosecuted the subject, I will, with

your permission, say a word or two on that vilest and most infamous of

literary treasons, Tate's burlesque of king Lear.

This tragedy, as written by Shakspeare, is in my opinion the very

noblest of our author's works; and by the generality of critics, I

believe, none of his plays are absolutely preferred to it, except

Macbeth. It is inconceivable how any one could think such a play

required an alteration beyond the omission of the fool's character; and

still more so, how Tate's transformation of it could have been at first

endured by the nation: but that it should have been constantly

represented at our national theatres for nearly one hundred and thirty

years to the total exclusion of Shakspeare's divine drama, would be a

circumstance totally incredible, were it not verified by experience,

that the majority of an audience are very little troubled with a spirit

of inquiry, and are no doubt ignorant of the vast difference between the

two dramas. The play, as now performed "has the upper gallery on its

side;" whose members, being unacquainted with Shakspeare's tragedy, are

enchanted by the mad scenes, mangled as they are, and by all that it is

retained of the original, and therefore they applaud the whole, and

witness its repetition. But it never could be inferred from their

applauses, that even these spectators prefer Tate's play to

Shakspeare's; there is no comparison in the case: they applaud the one,

because they are pleased with it, not because they are displeased with

the other, which they never saw, and of which they know nothing. Let the

classical manager of ---- ---- theatre make a trial; it will be worthy

his ambition to introduce a reformation, which even Garrick overlooked;

and he may be assured, that the event will not only add to his

reputation, but what is a more important consideration with our

managers, will add to his profits also. Let Shakspeare and Tate have a

fair struggle; and who can doubt the final triumph of Shakspeare.[I]

Dr. Johnson is the advocate of Tate's alteration; but Addison, whose

opinion is countenanced by Steevens, declares, that "the tragedy has

lost half its beauty." Dr. Johnson is in part excusable for maintaining

so erroneous an opinion; but at the same time his sentiments ought to

have no weight with others; for we know, that in the present case he has

formed his judgment, not with that solidity of taste which generally

distinguishes his criticism, but with all the nervous agitation of a

hypochondriac. But why should he defend his opinion by arguments at once

unfair and untrue? it is not true, that "in the present case the public

has decided" in favour of the altered play: "Cordelia," says the critic,

"from the time of Tate has always retired with victory and felicity:"

but does he mean to assert, that the original drama, before Tate's

corruption, was not well received by the public? he cannot assert this,

because he could not make good such an assertion. The fact is, as stated

by Steevens, that "the managers of the theatres-royal have decided, and

the public has been obliged to acquiesce in their decision."

Of the alterations introduced by this reformer of Shakspeare, the first

and most obvious is the change of the catastrophe. King Lear and

Cordelia, instead of dying as in the original, are finally triumphant,

and _live very happy after_. Here is improvement, here is poetical

justice, here is every thing that can be desired to the perfection of a

drama. "Since all reasonable beings," says doctor Johnson, "naturally

love justice, I cannot easily be persuaded, that the observation of

justice makes a play worse; or that, if other excellencies are equal,

the audience will not always rise better pleased from the final triumph

of persecuted virtue." This reasoning is just; but the critic has

unfortunately advanced a sentence, which must be a perpetual

stumbling-block to every advocate of Tate, viz. "_if other excellencies

are equal_," &c. Had Shakspeare chosen, according to the "faith of

chronicles," to represent Cordelia triumphant; had he adorned the scenes

of poetical justice with his peculiar spirit, and nature, and poetry;

then indeed the excellencies of the drama, though different in kind,

would probably have been equal in magnitude: though I think it very

doubtful, whether even then the change of the catastrophe would not have

been a deformity, rather than an improvement. Unquestionably our

affection for persecuted virtue is strengthened by the very distresses

in which it is involved. The triumph of Cordelia would certainly draw

from us an instantaneous acknowledgment of satisfaction: but the

impression could not be lasting; while her fall is fixed more deeply on

the attention, and raises a more permanent feeling of pity for her

sufferings, and indignation against her persecutors. Shakspeare must

have thought so, when he chose, in violation of the truth of history, to

deprive her of poetical justice. To conclude the question relative to

the catastrophe, it is utterly impossible that the mind of Lear should

be capable of surviving so violent a change of circumstances. In the

original, he is very naturally represented by Shakspeare as bending

under the weight of his calamities, and expiring of a broken heart.

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

"_Lear._ Howl, howl, howl, howl!--O, you are men of stones;

Had I your tongues and eyes, I'd use them so

That heaven's vault should crack:--O, she is gone forever!--

I know, when one is dead, and when one lives;

She's dead as earth.----

"Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Ha!

What is't thou says't?--Her voice was ever soft,

Gentle, and low; an excellent thing in woman:--

I kill'd the slave that was a hanging thee.

And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life:

Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life,

And thou no breath at all? O, thou wilt come no more,

Never, never, never, never, never!--

"Pray you, undo this button: Thank you sir.--

Do you see this?--Look on her,--look,--her lips,--

Look there,--look there!-- [_He dies._"

What a "luxury of wo" does this exquisite scene afford? What can Tate

produce to counterbalance its value?

The next material alteration is the intrusion of love.[J] Cordelia is in

love with Edgar. Why, of what an abominable taste must that man have

been possessed, who in his sober senses could think of thus corrupting

the noble simplicity of Cordelia's character. As for the language of

love here introduced, it is about equal to what might be looked for from

such a man. Take for a specimen an exquisitely pithy scene of about ten

lines in the commencement of the play, in which Edgar follows Cordelia

across the stage with the following pathetic stuff:

"Cordelia, royal fair, turn yet once more,

And ere successful Burgundy receive

The tribute of thy beauties from the king."--

It is too sickening: I cannot go on. Cordelia the amiable and sensible

Cordelia, in love with such a whining milk-and-water fool as this! It

need not be mentioned, that of course they have several unaccountable

interviews, and at the conclusion of the play, Cordelia, all overjoyed

at the restoration of her father, marries Edgar!

The last remarkable corruption is in the introduction of a curious piece

of stage-machinery, ycleped a confidant, who, loving her mistress more

than herself, like a good servant, accompanies her through wind and

rain, and every other stage-horror, in a dark night, on a wild-goose

chase, without any adequate or apparent object. This confidant is like

every other stage-confidant.

How such a wretched jumble of inconsistencies, absurdity, and

insipidity, can have been suffered ever to be performed, is a subject at

once of wonder and regret. It is surprising, that Garrick never remedied

the evil; a man, who had an ardent veneration for Shakspeare, and by his

acting and management went some way towards doing him justice. It is

rather inconsistent, that he could suffer this play to be performed

instead of Shakspeare's, and yet in one of his prologues make the

following assertion:

"'Tis my chief wish, my joy, my only plan,

To lose no drop of that immortal man."

_Prologue to Catherine and Petruchio._

These lines too are quoted by Mr. Kemble, and prefixed as a motto to his

alteration of one of Shakspeare's plays. Is Mr. Kemble not aware, how

many drops of Shakspeare are lost, and how much false wine obtruded in

their place, in this metamorphosis? It would be an endless task to point

out all the beautiful and sublime passages omitted by Tate: but to point

out all the absurdities he has introduced, would be more endless. As Mr.

Kemble professes, however, such a wish, I will just remind him, before I

conclude, of what perhaps he has forgotten, that the present

stage-representation of Shakspeare is a disgrace to his memory; that

many of his best plays are never performed; that those which are

performed are exhibited in so mangled a state, as to be totally unlike

Shakspeare; and that not one of his dramas is now exhibited pure and

unadulterated.

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

A SHAKSPEARIAN.

* * * * *

_A week's journal of a strolling player._

_Monday._ We opened the house with the tragedy of the _distressed

mother_; I played _Orestes_. Our dresses and scenery rather out of

repair, which gave some gentleman occasion to remark; that it would have

been more _apropos_, had we advertised the play by the title of the

_distressed family_.

_Tuesday._ Played George Barnwell. Part of the audience wanted me

hanged: Afterwards did the watchman, and the bailiff in the

_Apprentice_.--Shared thirteen pence three farthings.

_Wednesday._ Played _Jachimo_ in _Cymbeline_. My arms almost

broken by being put into too small a chest. The farce the

_Register-office_--played _Gulwell_.--Shared one shilling.

_Thursday._ Doubled the _Ghost_ and _Rosencrantz_ in _Hamlet_, and

afterwards played _Mogs_ in the _Devil of a Duke_. A gentleman affronted

me by saying I was _the devil of a conjuror_. Shared one shilling and

six pence, and for the first time took my two bits of candles.

_Friday._ I played _Macduff_, and two or three other parts in _Macbeth_,

one of the witches being drunk, we were obliged to make shift with two.

The farce _Miss in her teens_: I was Fribble; and the house barber

having gone off in a pet, because I could not pay him his week's bill, I

was obliged to go on without my hair being dressed.--Shared ten pence

and a candle.

_Saturday. The Orphan._ The manager had taken _Castalio_ himself, and

insisted on my playing _Acasto_. An ignorant country fellow introduced

it only to support Acasto in the third act, stands on the stage, when I

asked "where are all my friends?" answered, "sir, they are at the George

over a mug of ale." We afterwards had the _Padlock_ without music. I

played _Mungo_ and never felt any thing half so much as the favourite

air, "I wish to my heart me was dead."

* * * * *

_Macklin and Foote._

Macklin once left the stage and set up a tavern and Coffee-house on a

new plan in the piazza, Covent garden. At his dinners every thing was

done by the waiters, on signs made to them by Macklin himself who acted

as chief waiter. One night, being at supper with Foote and some others

at the Bedford, one of the company praised Macklin for the great

regularity of his ordinary, and in particular his manner of directing

his waiters _by signals_. Ay, sir, says Macklin, I knew it would do, and

where do you think I picked up this hint?--well sir, I'll tell you, I

picked it up from no less a man than James Duke of York, who you know

sir, first invented signals for the fleet. Very apropos indeed, said

Foote, and good poetical justice, as _from the fleet_ they were taken,

_so to the fleet_ both master and signals are likely to return.

Macklin afterwards failed.

Another time Macklin delivered public lectures. One night as he was

preparing to begin, he heard a buz in the room, and spied Foote in a

corner talking and laughing immoderately. This he thought a safe time to

rebuke that wicked wit, as he had begun his lecture and consequently

could not be subject to any criticism: he therefore cried out with some

authority "well sir, you seem to be very merry there, but do you know

what I am going to say now?" "No sir says Foote, pray _do_ you?" This

ready reply and the laughter it occasioned silenced Macklin, and so

embarrassed him that he could not get on, till called upon by the

general voice of the company.

Another time Macklin undertook to show the causes of duelling in

Ireland, and why it was much more the practice of that nation than any

other. In order to do this, he began with the earliest part of the Irish

history, and, getting as far as queen Elizabeth, he was proceeding when

Foote spoke to order. "Well sir, what have you to say on the subject?"

said Macklin, "only to crave a little attention sir," said Foote, with

much seeming modesty, "when I think I can settle this point in a few

words."--"Well sir, go on."--"Why then, sir," says Foote, "to begin,

what o'clock is it?"--"O'clock" said Macklin, "what has the clock to do

with a dissertation on duelling?" "Pray sir," said Foote, "be pleased to

answer my question." Macklin on this, pulled out his watch and reported

the hour to be past ten.--"Very well," said Foote, "about this time of

the night, every gentleman in Ireland that can afford it, is in his

third bottle of claret, consequently is in a fair way of getting drunk;

from drunkenness proceeds quarrelling, and from quarrelling, duelling,

and so there's an end of the chapter." The company seemed perfectly

satisfied with this abridgment, and Macklin shut up his lecture for that

evening in great dudgeon.

* * * * *

_Countess of Carlisle's opinion of the Drama, taken from her maxims to

young ladies._

When you fix your mind on the scenes before you, when the eye shall not

wander to, nor the heart flutter at the surrounding objects of the

spectacle, you will return home instructed and improved.

The great utilities you may reap from well acted tragedy are the

exciting your compassion to real sufferings, the suppressing of your

vanity in prosperity, and the inspiring you with heroic patience in

adversity.

In comedy you will receive continual correction, delicately applied to

your errors and foibles; be impartial in the application, divide it

humbly with your acquaintance and friends, and even with your enemies.

* * * * *

_The general lover--An Ovidian rhapsody._

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

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

Though I may be inconstant to _Elizabeth, Betty, and Bess_, I am never

inconstant to love. But I will not defend myself. No, if it would do any

good to confess, I own my fault, and will say that I hate myself for it;

but I must add, that though I wish it, I cannot be otherwise than what I

hate. I am borne along like a vessel in a rapid current, impelled by

wind and tide--I know not what form delights me most, therefore the

causes are endless, why I can never cease to love.

If modest the nymph, with her eyes in her lap,

Her blushing's enough, I am caught in the trap.

If she is high spirited I am won, because she is not rustic.--Is she

austere,--I think her willing, but an admirable dissembler.

If learned, than riches I prize it above,

If not, sweet simplicity, O, how I love!

Is there one who prefers my writings to those of the salacious warbler,

the wanton lacivious little Moore? She to whom I am pleasing is ever

pleasing to me. If she hates both me and my works, I long to give her

reason to think differently of both. This fair one walks with grace, her

graces captivate me; that sings, and her voice flows like honey from her

lips; I pant to kiss the hive from which such honey flows. Her brilliant

fingers sweep the chords: Who can but love such well-instructed

fingers?--To love in every shape I bend my knees.

Though her figure heroic would fill the whole bed,

For me there'd be room where I'd lay my fond head.

If she is little and short I am equally glad, for then I can never have

_too much_ of her. Light hair how lovely!--Brown, I think it

auburn--Black, how beautiful when hanging in ringlets on her snowy neck!

Is it red--what so red as gold?--Youth warms my heart and later age I

love; this pleases by its form, that by its conduct.--Is she a slut--how

saving!--Is she delicate--how delightful!--Is she my wife--I _must_ love

her--Is she my friend's--how can I help it!--The fatter, the warmer; the

thinner, she is less subject, _perhaps_, to the frailty of the

_flesh_.--Is she lame--how domestic!--Is she deaf--'tis well.--Is she

blind--'tis better.--Is she dumb--O, 'tis too much!

* * * * *

_Humorous Epilogues after Tragedies._

The custom of introducing humorous epilogue, farce, and buffoonery,

after the mind has been agitated, softened, or sublimed by tragic

scenes, has been often objected to.

It hath been said in its favour, that five long acts is a portion of

time sufficiently long to keep the attention fixed on melancholy

objects; that human life has enough of real, without calling in the aid

of artificial distress; that it is cruel to send home an audience with

all the affecting impressions of a deep tragedy in their minds.

In reply, it has been observed, that it is degrading and untrue to

describe the human species as incapable of receiving gratification only

from comic scenes; that "_there is a luxury in wo_," independent of its

purifying the bosom and suppressing the more ignoble passions.

The supporters of this opinion have also added, that there is a species

of depravity in endeavouring by ludicrous mummery to efface the salutary

effects of pathetic, virtuous, and vigorous sentiments; that it is

sporting with the sympathies of our nature, repugnant to correct taste,

and counteracting moral utility.

This violation of the law of gentle and gradual contrasts, has been felt

and complained of by most frequenters of a modern theatre, and

well-authenticated instances have been produced of guilty men retiring

from a well-written and well-acted play to repentance and melioration.

An epilogue has been composed by Mr. Sheridan in support of these

opinions, superior in pathos, poetry and practical deduction, to any I

ever read. It was originally spoken by Mrs. Yates, after the performance

of Semiramis, a tragedy translated from the French.

Dishevell'd still, like Asia's bleeding queen,

Shall I, with jests deride the tragic scene?

No, beauteous mourners! from whose downcast eyes

The Muse has drawn her noblest sacrifice;

Whose gentle bosoms, Pity's altars, bear

The chrystal incense of each falling tear!

There lives the poet's praise; no critic art

Can match the comment of a feeling heart!

When general plaudits speak the fable o'er,

Which mute attention had approv'd before;

Though under spirits love th' accustomed jest,

Which chases sorrow from the vulgar breast;

Still hearts refin'd their sadden'd tints retain--

The sigh gives pleasure and the jest is pain:

Scarce have they smiles to honour grace or wit,

Though Roscius spoke the verse himself had writ.

Thus, through the time when vernal fruits receive

The grateful showers that hang on April's eve;

Though every coarser stem of forest birth

Throws with the morning beam its dews to earth,

Ne'er does the gentle rose revive so soon,

But, bath'd in nature's tears, it drops till noon.

O could the Muse one simple moral teach,

From scenes like these, which all who hear might reach;

Thou child of sympathy, whoe'er thou art,

Who with Assyria's queen hast wept thy part;

Go search where keener woes demand relief,

Go, while thy heart yet beats with fancied grief.

Thy breast, still conscious of the recent sigh,

The graceful tear still ling'ring on the eye;

Go, and on real misery bestow

The blest effusions of fictitious wo,

So shall our muse, supreme of all the nine;

Deserve indeed the title of divine,

Virtue shall own her favoured from above,

And Pity greet her with a sister's love.

* * * * *

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

TO THE CONDUCTOR.

Mr. CONDUCTOR,

I am a sort of literary _Lounger_, though no _Connoisseur_, yet an

_Idler_, like myself, will always assume a right to turn _Observer_ upon

every _Adventurer_; and, whether you may subscribe to my opinions or

not, yet, as I mean to subscribe to your work, I shall offer them very

freely.

Too many publications promise much at their outset, and perform little

in the sequel; great expectations will be formed of what may be produced

by the members of a British _Cabinet_; and in case of failure every

_Guardian_ of his own rights will become a _Tatler_; you will be accused

as a _Rambler_ from your engagements, and, at your downfal, the _World_

will be an unconcerned _Spectator_; while, on the contrary, by proper

polish and reflection, you may be styled the _Mirror_ of all _Monthly

Magazines_ in the metropolis. So much for your title, I shall next make

some remarks as to the general conduct of the work itself.

With regard to the engraved heads prefixed to each number, and called

portraits, I would certainly advise that they should bear _some_

resemblance to the originals; this, notwithstanding it may be but a

trifling recommendation to some readers, will often prove an advantage;

for, however singular it may appear, I have frequently purchased a

picture myself, for no reason than that it put me in mind of the person

it professed to represent.

I am conscious, however, that there may be exceptions to this general

rule; indeed I know a very worthy vender of prints, who keeps in his

cellar some hundreds of admirals and generals, ready engraved, and by

cutting off the arm of one, or clapping a convenient patch on the eye of

another, he is always ready before any of his competitors to present the

town with striking likenesses of any or all of those persons who so

frequently claim our attention and gratitude. However, as there is no

subject on which people are apt to disagree so pointedly as on the

precision or dissimilarity of a copy from nature, you may safely steer

clear of all criticism, and perhaps please all parties by embellishing

your incipient number with a face combining Cooke's nose, Kemble's chin,

and Munden's mouth, with the arched eye of Lewis, and writing under it

_The head of an eminent actor._

Thus every one will recognise the feature of a favourite, and one

feature in a whole face is as much as they ought to expect.

Admit no _puns_ into your miscellany. Dennis, the critic, has said, and

I know not how many others after him, that a punster is no better than a

pickpocket, and with truth, for how dare any quibbling varlet attempt to

rob his neighbour of any portion of that delightful inflexibility, the

very taciturnity of which bespeaks what _wisdom_ may lie _buried_ in a

_grave_ demeanour?

Be not too _sentimental_ neither; nor copy the infantine simplicity of

those dear little children of the _Della Cruscan_ school, who, "_lisp in

numbers_." Do not let them lisp in any number of your publication. No

sir, like sir Peter Teazle, I say, "curse your sentiments;" for the man

whose effeminate ideas, expressed in effeminate accents, would

contribute to lessen the manly character of the English nation, deserves

to be lost in a labyrinth, as I am now, and left in the lurch for a

finish to each sentence he commences.

On the other hand, you must carefully shun the affectation of _bombastic

diction_--it is lamentable to see a preelucidated theme rendered

semidiaphonous, by the elimination of simple expression, to make room

for the conglomeration of pondrous periods, and to exhibit the

phonocamptic coxcombry of some pedant, who mistakes sentences for

wagons, and words for the wheels of them.

Avoid _alliteration_, allowed by all to be the very vehicle of vitious

verbosity, particularly in a periodical publication; therefore, the

thought that dully depends, during lengthened lines of lumbering

lucubration, on innumerable initials introduced instead of rhyme or

reason, is really reprehensible. Shakspeare, scorning the sufferance of

such a sneaking style, said "Wit whither wilt?"

Lest you should put the same question to me, I will give you my

concluding piece of advice, which is, that you should beware of

introducing second hand _Rural Tales_ and essays, from the successful

labours of your predecessors. Such things _have_ happened more than

once, and I remember reading a letter to the editor, in the first number

of a new magazine, which was unfortunately signed by, _An Old

Subscriber_.

P. S. I meant to have called myself a _Constant Reader_, but, if you

follow my advice, you will have so many of those, you will not know how

to distinguish me from others. I shall, therefore, address my future

correspondence, under the signature of my proper initials,

S. L. U. M.

* * * * *

A CHAPTER ON LOGIC;

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

Occasioned by an observation of Mr. Montague Mathew, in the house of

commons, during the last session of parliament, that Mr. Mathew Montague

was no more like him, than a horse chesnut was like a chesnut horse.

An Eton stripling, training for the law,

A dunce at syntax, but a dab at law,

One happy christmas laid upon the shelf

His cap and gown, and stores of learned pelf.

With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome,

To spend a fortnight at his uncle's home.

Arriv'd, and pass'd the usual how d'ye do's,

Inquiries of old friends and college news;

"Well Tom--the road--what saw you worth discerning?

Or how goes study:--what is it you're learning?"

"Oh! logic, sir; but not the shallow rules

Of Locke and Bacon--antiquated fools!

'Tis wits' and wranglers' logic: thus, d'ye see,

I'll prove at once as plain as A B C,

That an eel-pie's a pigeon--to deny it,

Would be to swear black's not black--come let's try it.

An eel-pie is a pie of fish--agreed,

Fish-pie may be a jack-pie.--Well proceed.

A jack-pie is a john-pie; and 'tis done,

For every john-pie must be a pie-john,--" (pigeon.)

"Bravo!" sir Peter cries, "logic for ever!

That beats my grandmother's, and she was clever.

But hold, my boy, since 'twould be very hard,

That wit and learning should have no reward,

Tomorrow, for a stroll, the Park we'll cross;

And there I'll give thee,"--"What?" "My chesnut horse,"

"A horse!" quoth Tom, "blood, pedigree, and paces,

Heav'ns what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races!"

To bed he went, and slept for downright sorrow,

That night must go before he'd see the morrow;

Dreamt of his boots and spurs, and leather breeches,

Of hunting-caps, and leaping rails and ditches;

Left his warm nest an hour before the lark!

Dragg'd his old uncle, posting, to the Park.

Halter in hand, each vale he scour'd at loss,

To spy out something like a chesnut horse;

But no such animal the meadows cropt--

At length beneath a tree sir Peter stopt;

A branch he caught, then shook it, and down fell

A fine horse chesnut in its prickly shell.

There Tom, take that--Well, sir, and what beside?

Why since you're booted, saddle it and ride;

Ride what? a chesnut!--Ay, come, get across;

I tell you, Tom, that chesnut is a horse,

And all the horse you'll get--for I can show,

As clear as shunshine, that 'tis really so;

Not by the musty, fusty, worn out rules

Of Locke and Bacon--addle headed fools!

Or old Mallebranche--blind pilot into knowledge;

But by the laws of wit, and Eton college.

All axioms but the wranglers I'll disown,

And stick to one sound argument--your own.

* * * * *

What is the literary world?

It is a kind of fair, full of stalls, wares, and shopkeepers: in which

the theologist sells his stuff, which at the same time supplies food and

warmth. The critic disposes of his cobweb linen and transparent lawn, of

no shelter from the cold. The philologist, his embroidered vests,

Corinthian vases, and Phrygian marble. The physician letters and

syllables. The lawyer, men. The antiquary, old shoes. The alchymist,

himself. The poet, smoke. The orator, paint. The historian, fame--and

the philosopher, heaven and earth.

What are the most rare animals in the world?

A rich man contented with his fortune. A man distinguished by genius and

not by defects. A courtier grown old. A learned man who knows himself. A

virgin who is beautiful to every body but herself. A prime minister who

possesses honesty; who has the interest of his country, not that of

himself or his associates, at heart.

* * * * *

_Addison's pedigree of Wit._

Good Sense is his father, Truth his grandfather, and Mirth and Good

Humour are his chosen companions.

* * * * *

An impertinent petit-maitre told a country gentleman in a coffeehouse at

the west end of the town that he looked like a groom. "I am one,"

replied he, "and am ready to rub down _an ass_."

* * * * *

_Curious slip-slop!_--The three wives of a knight, a physician, and a

justice, were one evening engaged in a social game of questions and

commands; and, according to the custom of the game, the first began, "I

love my love with an N because he is a k-night!" The second in the same

terms confessed her partiality for an F, because he was a physician! and

the third avowed a similar regard for a G, because he was a justice!

* * * * *

_Specific for blindness._--A quack doctor in the neighbourhood of York,

who advertises a universal specific for the ills of mankind, adds, that

he attends to communications by letter, "but it is necessary that

persons afflicted with the loss of sight should _see_ the doctor."

* * * * *

A stage-struck youth lately called upon Mr. K, at his residence not far

from Bloomsbury-square, and applied for an engagement. The manager,

after scrutinizing the various qualifications of the youthful candidate,

inquired, "and pray sir, to what particular parts have your studies been

directed? What is your forte?" "Why, sir, (replied the youth in a modest

tone) I rather think that I excel in your line." "My line! (exclaimed

the manager with peculiar complacency) what is that? What do you mean?"

"To confess the truth, (rejoined the tyro) I flatter myself that I am

most at home in _playing the tyrant_!"

* * * * *

"The theatre at Sydney appears to be in a very flourishing state," said

a gentleman to John Kemble, speaking of the Botany Bay theatricals, an

account of which appeared in the papers a few months since. "Yes,"

replied the tragedian, "the performers ought to be all good, for they

have been selected and sent to that situation by very excellent

_judges_!"

* * * * *

_An Irish forgery._--At a provincial assize not long since, in Ireland,

an attorney was tried upon a capital charge of forgery. The trial was

extremely long, when after much sophistry from the counsel, and the most

minute investigation of the judge, it appeared to the complete

satisfaction of a crowded court, that the culprit had forged the

_signature of a man who could neither read nor write_!

* * * * *

A woman lately brought before a country magistrate, behaving with much

confidence, was told by his worship that she had brass enough in her

face to make a five gallon kettle. "Yes," answered she, "and there is

sap enough in your head to _fill it_."

* * * * *

_Anecdotes of Macklin._

Macklin was very intimate with Frank Hayman (at that time one of our

first historical painters) and happening to call upon him one morning,

soon after the death of the painter's wife with whom he lived but on

indifferent terms, he found him wrangling with the undertaker about the

extravagance of the funeral expenses. Macklin listened to the

altercation for some time: at last, going up to Hayman, with great

gravity he observed, Come, come, Frank, though the bill is a little

extravagant, pay it in respect to the memory of your wife: for by G-- I

am sure she would do twice as much for you had she the same opportunity.

* * * * *

A notorious egotist one day in a large company indirectly praising

himself for a number of good qualities which it was well known he had

not, asked Macklin the reason why he should have this propensity of

interfering in the good of others when he frequently met with unsuitable

returns? "I could tell you, sir," says Macklin. "Well do sir; you are a

man of sense and observation, and I should be glad of your definition."

"Why then sir, the cause is impudence--nothing but stark-staring

impudence."

* * * * *

A gentleman at a public dinner asking him inconsiderately Whether he

remembered Mrs. Barry, the celebrated actress who died about the latter

end of queen Ann's reign, he planted his countenance directly against

him with great severity, and bawled out, "No, sir, nor Harry the eighth

neither. They were both dead before my time."

* * * * *

An Irish dignitary of the church, not remarkably for veracity,

complaining that a tradesman of his parish had called him a liar,

Macklin asked him what reply he made him. "I told him," said he, "that a

lie was among the things I _dared_ not commit." "And why, doctor,"

replied Macklin, "did you give the rascal _so mean an opinion of your

courage_?"

* * * * *

ANECDOTE OF QUIN.

Quin's servant, at the accustomed hour,

Once came to call his master,

With visage long and aspect sour,

Expressive of disaster.

Quin soon began his usual story,

Well, John, what news of fish?

Have you of turbot or John Dory

Seen e'er a handsome dish?

Says John I've been the market round,

And searched from stall to stall,

But only some few Mackerel found,

And those not fresh at all.

Well! how's the day? says Quin again,

Will it be wet or dry?

There seems a drizzling kind of rain

Was honest John's reply.

Quin turns in bed with piteous moan,

And, not to brood o'er sorrow.

Says shut the door, and call me, John,

About this time tomorrow.

FOOTNOTES:

[I] Mossop, when he was manager of the Dublin theatre, always played

Lear as it was written by Shakspeare.

[J] A hint to managers.--As the tragedy of Macbeth is the great rival of

king Lear, I cannot but think, that it ought to be represented with all

the advantages which its rival possesses; as, particularly, with the

additional beauty of love. Nor would the change be difficult. Young

Malcolm might very conveniently and very naturally fall in love with a

daughter of Macbeth (to be sure it is most probable Macbeth had no

daughter; but what of that? It is not too late to make him one); then

the lovers might have many an affecting interview under the walls of

Dunsinane Castle; and finally, Malcolm instead of Macduff, might cut off

Macbeth's head, and immediately lead his daughter to the altar. How

successfully would this conclude in the style of Barbarossa, Gustavus

Vasa, &c. which are evidently the true models of tragedy.

SPORTING INTELLIGENCE.

BLODWELL ROCK.

A fox-chace rather remarkable in its nature, lately took place. As a

gentleman was coursing under Blodwell Rock, near Porthywaen lime works,

he unkennelled a very large dog fox; and having two couple of beagles,

they pursued him through the extensive covers near that rock to the

summit of Llanymynech hill; but being very hard run, he made a short

turn passing through the Gorwell covers, and along the banks of the

river Turnet, near to the village of Llanyblodwell. The beagles then

approached him so near, that he was under the necessity of taking the

road for Llandu; and leaving those covers on the left, he returned much

fatigued, near to the place where he was first started. He then went

through a large cover called Cowman's Ruff, and back to Llanymynech

hill; and in a lime quarry there, he stopped for his little pursuers,

who, having run him in view under that hill, opposite the village of

Llanymynech, he ascended a craggy rock, and got into a subterraneous

passage of great length formerly worked, it is supposed, by the Roman

miners. Bold Reynard being somewhat warm could not long remain in so

close a confinement, but had the audacity to make his appearance at the

mouth of the passage, and fought his way out, in defiance of the beagles

and a brace of greyhounds, which he had beaten before; and taking a

direction the same way back, for a considerable distance up a narrow

precipice in another part of the rock, he had no alternative of escaping

but by throwing himself down a declivity a little further on, at least

forty feet high, without any apparent injury. He then ran near to the

turnpike gate at Llanymynech, but being met by a canal boat, he altered

his course, and ran over the Stair Corrig Held, where he took another

prodigious leap and then ran along the turn pike road to Oswestry,

having stopped a few minutes in a small close near Llynckly, and the

beagles ran him in view for a considerable way, and he was taken alive

after a hard chace of more than four hours, with little or no

intermission.

* * * * *

WILTSHIRE PASTIME.

The play at singlestick at Salisbury races on Wednesday was very dull,

there being no players of note to meet the Somersetshire men, who

carried off the prize easily. On Thursday, however, James Lyne arrived,

on his return from Magdaline bull fair, and Maslen came in from Devizes.

Some fine play was now displayed--Maslin and John Wall had no less than

thirty-five bouts, and at length Wall gave in, not being able longer to

keep his guard.

But the crack play was between James Lyne (of Wilts.) and Wm. Wall

(Somerset) and it afforded a high treat to the amateurs of the art. At

length Lyne won Wall's head, and the play concluded for the morning. In

the afternoon when the tyes were called on, the Wiltshire men had four

heads, and only one Somerset man (Bunn) had gained a head. The odds were

too great for Bunn to have any hope of success, he therefore gave in,

and the Wiltshire men divided the prize.

Two master gamesters, a Berkshire and a Hampshire man then entered the

ring on a particular challenge, and showed much skill, intrepidity and

good bottom. Berkshire triumphed. The sport lasted five hours. The bouts

played were one hundred and sixty-one. The heads broken seventeen.

* * * * *

ST. GILES'S PASTIME

A duel was fought in a field, near Chalkfarm, between two Hibernian

heroes, named FELIX O'FLANNAGAN and DENNIS O'SHAUGNESSY, in consequence

of a dispute which occurred the preceding evening, at a meeting of

_connoisseurs_, in Russel-square, to view the newly erected statue of

the late duke of Bedford; when Mr. O'Flannagan and Mr. O'Shaugnessy

differed in opinion, not only in respect to the materials of which the

statue was composed, but the identity of the person it was said to

represent.

Mr. O'Flannagan, who is a _composer of mortar_, insisted it was made of

_cast stone_, and represented the duke of Bedford; and Mr. O'Shaugnessy,

who is a _rough lapidary_, vulgarly called a _pavior_, contended it was

made of _cast iron_, and intended to "_raprisint Charley Whox_." The

dispute ran high, and, as it advanced, became mixed with party and

provincial feelings. Mr. O'Flannagan was a Connaught man, and a

_Cannavat_; Mr. O'Shaugnessy a Munster man, and a _Shannavat_.

With such provocations of mutual irritation, they quickly appealed to

the law of arms; and after putting the eyes of each other into _half

mourning_, they agreed to adjourn the battle till Sunday morning, and to

decide it like _jontlemen_--by the _cudgel_. The meeting took place

accordingly, and each was attended to the field by a numerous train of

partizans, male and female, from the warlike purlieus of Dyott-street

and Saffron-hill. They were armed with blackthorn cudgels of no ordinary

dimensions; and having _set to_, without ceremony or parade, each

belaboured his antagonist for above an hour, in a style that would have

struck terror into the stoutest of the Burkes and Belchers, and

_enameled_ each other from head to foot, with lasting testimonies of

vigour and dexterity. The air was rent by the triumphant shouts of their

respective partizans, as either alternately bit the ground. At length,

Mr. O'Shaugnessy yielded the victory; and Mr. O'Flannagan was borne off

the field, with his brows enwreathed by the Sunday _shawl_ of a

milkwoman, his sweetheart, who witnessed the combat, and crowned the

conqueror with her own _fair_ hands.

* * * * *

_A singular circumstance._

Mr. Jones a veterinary surgeon of the Curtain road, near London, was

called upon lately to attend a horse that was unwell; having some very

untoward symptoms about him, the horse was conceived to be in danger:

every means was made use of that seemed calculated to be of service, but

without effect, as he died the same evening. On opening the body, in the

presence of several spectators the rectum was found to be ruptured by

the pressure of a large calculus, or stone which weighs five pounds

seven ounces, and in one of the intestines (_the colon_) were found

three others that weigh sixteen pounds seven ounces. Altogether twenty

one pounds fourteen ounces. They are kept in Mr. Jones' museum and

submitted to the inspection of those who desire to view such a

phenomenon.

* * * * *

A partridge's nest was last August discovered in a plot of grass, in the

garden of the Reverend Mr. M'Kenzie of Knockbourn, Shropshire. It

contained sixteen eggs which had been deserted by the mother. They were

immediately laid under a turkey hen that was sitting, and from them were

brought forth sixteen fine birds, which were in a thriving state, and

were following the turkey as their mother when the account here given

was written.

* * * * *

_Pedestrianism._

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

A lieutenant of the navy stationed with the sea fensibles at Kingston;

between five and six miles from Swanage, performed that distance on foot

in the short space of twenty minutes.

DRAMATIC CENSOR.

I have always considered those combinations which are formed

in the playhouse as acts of fraud or cruelty. He that

applauds him who does not deserve praise, is endeavouring to

deceive the public. He that hisses in malice or in sport is

an oppressor and a robber.

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

_From a Correspondent at New-York._

NEW-YORK THEATRICALS.

We have for several weeks been gratified by the performance of Mr.

Dwyer, lately arrived from England, an actor certainly superior to any

on the London boards in genteel comedy, and highly respectable as a

tragedian. He possesses every requisite for the stage: a fine person, a

good voice, a manly expression of countenance and the most polished

address. His orthoepy seems to have been acquired by the means which

alone can give it perfection: an intimate acquaintance and a constant

interview with the best speakers of the senate, the bar, the pulpit, and

the stage in the metropolis of the British empire.

It is a difficult task for an actor or actress newly arrived amongst us

(even were that actor a Garrick and the actress a Siddons) to overcome,

at the first onset, certain prejudices, which, in spite of a good

understanding, will oftentimes take possession of the human mind; and a

New-York audience seem particularly to require time for a complete

manifestation of their acknowledgment of superior talents, lest they

stand accused of an unjust partiality to a former favourite, or perhaps

thinking with Theseus, "that should the favourite be in the wane, yet,

in courtesy, in all reason, they must stay the time."[K] However this

may be, and strongly as the illiberal mode of proceeding may have

operated against respectable actors at various times, Mr. Dwyer has

carried every thing before him. Those who were desirous of diminishing

his fame, have sneaked from the field.

The fiends look'd up, and knew

Their mounted scale aloft: nor more----[L]

Mr. Dwyer has entirely justified amongst us the flattering reports we

had received of him in the European prints; and our theatrical amateurs

will feel a disagreeable void in their pleasures when he leaves us. He

is engaged on very liberal terms for a few nights in Philadelphia, by

Mr. Warren, who lately made a journey to New-York for the express

purpose of witnessing his extraordinary powers. Thence it is said, he

will proceed to Boston and the other principal cities of the United

States.

It would be needless to point out Mr. Dwyer's particular excellencies:

but we most esteem him for his _originality_. Scorning the degrading

acts of imitation, he has formed himself upon the unerring principles of

nature. In his performance we find that agreement, which, like the soul,

adds life and action to the figure, and is the all in all.

The little judgment used in the casts of the plays in which Mr. Dwyer

has appeared, must have, however, greatly diminished the effect his

talents would produce upon us, were he respectably supported. Our

company, weak and bad in the extreme, is by bad management rendered much

worse. To the annoyance of the public, when one actor, as a _star_, is

thought to have sufficient attraction to make a good house of himself,

the best performers of the company (and heaven knows bad enough is the

best) are left out; prompter, scene-shifters, supernumeraries, and

candle-snuffers being tugged in by the ears, as occasion may require, to

_complete_ the _Dramatis Personae_. The place of Mrs. Oldmixon, whom we

always see with pleasure, and who is never willingly absent when she can

contribute to the gratification of the audience, is frequently occupied

by Mrs. Hogg, whose infirmities impede those exertions which we are

inclined to believe she is willing to make: and Mr. Simpson, who, in

some characters, is not a bad performer, is often supplanted by the very

sweepings of the green-room. How often do we see that second Proteus,

the little prompter with his _parenthetical_ legs, rolled on in five or

six different parts on the same evening. Gentleman, jailor, footman,

king, and beggar are to him equally indifferent; and next to Mr. Hallam

we conceive him to be the very best murderer on the boards.

As we have gone so far in our observations on the state of the company,

it may be as well to take a glance at the whole corps.

First on the scroll stands the respectable Tyler, who, with some natural

qualifications and much industry, has for many years been the most

useful actor on our boards. His grave old gentlemen are far above

mediocrity, and although nearly sixty years of age, he appears to much

advantage occasionally in comic opera; being the only man in the

company, with the exception of Mr. Twaits, capable of singing.

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

Mr. Simpson, denied by nature the possibility of being graceful,

endeavours to make up for his defects by close attention to his

business. He is generally perfect, and may, by reading and much study,

become tolerable in the walk he aims at; which is genteel comedy. His

chief defects are a whining sing-song management of his voice, that

savors more of the rant of a methodist preacher than the genuine

expression of natural feeling. Mr. Simpson however, does not want fire;

a few years observation of good models may entitle him to a respectable

standing on this side the Atlantic.

Mr. Robinson's country boys and old men are excellent. His attempts at

tragedy and genteel comedy, will we fear, never be successful.

Mr. Young pleases us in all he undertakes. His conception is just, and

his gesticulation worthy of example.

In Mr. Collins we see much of the _naivete_ of Suett and Blisset. He

bids fair to be an excellent low comedian of a certain cast.

Mrs. Twaits approaches very near excellency in several walks of the

drama. Her figure is too _petite_ to give effect to heroic characters;

but her voice is good, and her stage business _soigne_.

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

powers.

Of Mrs. Mason we shall speak more fully hereafter. In gay, and

sprightly, and laughing comedy she is most at home. Her tragedy is too

whining.

Mrs. Young is the most attractive actress I have seen for many years.

There is something in her manner which charms the eye, whilst the ear is

at times offended. This is easily accounted for--she is very

handsome--her countenance is the picture of innocence; her deportment

modest and unaffected; but she wants study; and there is some little

defects in her speech, which, we fear it will be difficult to remove.

Mrs. Poe is a pleasing actress, with many striking defects. She should

never attempt to sing.

* * * * *

Mr. Tyler, Mr. and Mrs. Young, and Mr. Twaits leave us in July. We trust

the manager will take a little more pains to procure a good company. The

public are liberal; and his purse-strings should be open to pay as well

as to receive. If we had Mr. Warren here, or some one capable of

discerning merit and willing to reward it, the town would never fail to

support him. But, as it is, the only hope we have is a _new theatre_, a

subscription for which, it is reported, is now on foot. John Hogg, a

very good actor has been for twelve months unemployed here, whilst

ten-dollars-per-week men are engaged to stutter and stammer in parts as

far above their conception as their talents.

GLUM.

* * * * *

THE AFRICANS.

In that laudable zeal for the gratification of the public which has

uniformly distinguished the management of Mr. Warren, he resolved to get

up _The Africans_, and produced it at his own benefit on Wednesday the

18th of April. The scenery, dresses, and preparations being very

expensive, he could not demonstrate his respect for the city, and his

anxiety to provide for their amusement more unequivocally, than by

hazarding an immense expenditure of money, upon the issue of a solitary

benefit, when there were plays already in stock (the Foundling of the

Forest, for instance) that without a cent of additional expense would

have been sufficiently productive. Much is owing, therefore, to the

manager for presenting us with the Africans.

Among the dramatists of the day Mr. Colman stands in our opinion, very

high--if not highest. Some of his plays are noble productions, but by

that of which we are now speaking, his fame will not be greatly

augmented. Of the fable it is sufficient to say, that it is taken from

FLORIAN, who, as a pastoral writer, equals Cervantes himself. Like every

thing of Florian's the tale is divinely beautiful; but the selection of

it for the stage evinces a want of judgment, of which Mr. Colman is

rarely liable to be accused. The main ground work is the distress, or

rather the agonies of an African family, by which the warmest sympathy

is awakened in the bosom: too simple, however, in itself for a

stage-plot, though impressive and interesting as a narrative, Mr. Colman

has jumbled up with it metal of a lower kind, and so rudely alloyed the

gold of Florian, that the value of it is rather injured. Such a mass of

incongruous beauties we do not recollect to have seen. A tale of the

most pathetic kind is interwoven with low comedy--the most lofty

sentiments, the most exalted virtues, and heroism and magnanimity

strained almost beyond the limits of probability, are checkered by

uncouth pleasantries, and the most pathetic incidents intruded upon and

interrupted by the farcical conundrums of MUG, a low cockney, who has

become secretary of state to the king of the Mandingoes. Thus,

oscillating between Kotesbue and O'Keefe, giving now a layer of exalted

sentiment, and then a layer of mere farce, has Mr. C. raised a long

three act piece.

Nor are these the only imperfections of the piece. The language and

sentiments of the serious parts are at such variance with the personages

to whom they are assigned, not only according to received opinions, but

to obvious matter of fact, that no stretch of the imagination can

reconcile them. When we witness actions in which the tenderest charities

inculcated by the Christian dispensation are combined with the

inflexible magnanimity of the stoic's creed--when we hear virtues

----Such a Roman breast

In Rome's corruptless times might have confest.

dressed up in a vigorous highly ornamented style, and the crime of

suicide depicted in the most glowing language of poetry, and deplored

and deprecated in terms of dissuasion, forcible as those of Bourdaloue,

and eloquent as those of Massillon, delivered from the mouth of a sooty

African, as the spontaneous issues of his native moral philosophy and

religion, we feel the incongruity too much for our nerves, and reject it

in action. It may be asked, "why may not a negro on the coast of Africa

enjoy such feelings, possess such virtues and speak them in such terms?"

From what we have heard and seen, we entertain little doubt that there

are men capable of asking such a question; but we know no way of

answering it but by asking in return why an Esquimaux Indian should not

compose an overture equal to any of Handel's, or a Dutch boor dance a

_pas seul_ as well as _Vestris_, or a minuet as well as the prince of

Wales.

Again it may be asked how it came to pass that this play, if so

exceptionable, was well received in England; to this we answer, that an

abhorrence of the slave trade, just indignation at the wrongs done the

unhappy Africans, and pity for their sufferings, together with

exultation at the triumph which the generous band who procured the

abolition of that execrable trade obtained over its cruel sordid

advocates, had filled the people of Great Britain with an enthusiasm

calculated to ensure their favourable reception of any thing creditable

to the Africans. And it is highly probable that Mr. Colman purposely

took that tide in public opinion at the flood.

The play, however, must be delightful in the closet, and was cast so as

to comprehend the whole strength of the company. Every part was decently

sustained, others respectably, two excellently. For a proof of which we

need offer nothing more than the single circumstance that none of the

serious parts produced laughter as unexpected incongruities generally

do. Had _black_ SELICO been in the hands of some performers we have

seen, instead of Mr. Wood's, two or three of his speeches must have

produced merriment.

* * * * *

_Mr. Cooper's second visit this season._

Mr. Cooper's performances during this visit received less reward and yet

deserved more than those on his former. Of five characters there were

four on which criticism can dwell with pleasure.

Marc Antony in Julius Caesar,

Alexander in the Rival Queens,

Orsino in Alfonso,

Pierre in Venice Preserved.

Mr. Cooper's Antony was, as usual, a chequer work of good and bad: one

beauty there was, however, which would atone for a thousand faults. We

have never seen any thing in histrionic excellence to surpass, few to

equal it. We mean when, in the first scene of the third act, after the

assassination of Caesar, he returned to the senate house, and, dropping

on one knee, hung over the mangled body: his attitude surpassed all

powers of description. Then when after gazing for a time in horror at

the corse, with his hands clasped in speechless agony, he looked to

heaven, as if appealing to its justice, and again turning to his

murdered friend, exclaimed----

O mighty Caesar!----Dost thou lie so low?

Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils

Shrunk to this little measure?--Fare thee well.

All the conflicting passions, and excruciating feelings which Antony can

be supposed to have felt on that awful occasion--astonishment, fear,

suspicion, grief, tender affection, indignation, and horror seem rising

in tumultuous confusion in his face, and glared and flashed in his eyes.

And though Mr. Cooper less than any actor of equal merit that we

recollect affects the heart in pathetic passages, we only do him justice

in declaring that we have rarely known the feelings of an audience so

forcibly or successively appealed to, as by him in the last words: "Fare

thee well."

Through the whole of that scene Mr. Cooper was truly admirable. In the

speech in which he shakes the conspirators by their bloody hands, and,

like a consummate, artful politician, postpones the indulgence of his

grief and indignation for the accomplishment of a higher purpose, he was

not excelled by Barry himself. But in the harangue from the Rostrum he

missed the mark by aiming too high. Could he forget that that celebrated

speech is considered the chief test of the performer of Antony, he

would, we think, deliver it well; but, intent upon making the most of

it, he failed, and was laboriously erroneous and defective.

In the last speech beginning "This was the noblest Roman of them all"

Mr. Cooper was censurable. If he had ever committed it to memory, he had

now forgotten it, and omitting the very best lines, destroyed the whole

effect of that beautiful passage. That he should be so negligent is to

be deplored. For errors in judgment, deficiency in talents and powers,

nay, for casual lapses themselves, candor will make allowance--but want

of diligence admits of no excuse or palliation.

ALEXANDER.

In this character Mr. Cooper would extort commendation from the most

churlish critic. Alexander is a compound of Hero and Lover, and in both

extravagant and enthusiastic almost to madness. It is in the former of

these Mr. C. chiefly displayed his powers. His voice, his person, and

his manner qualified him for an impressive delineation of that portion

of the character--but as a lover Mr. Cooper only serves to remind us

with disadvantage to him, of actors we have seen before. In the proud

and boastful exultation, the starts of anger, the quick resentment, and

ardent friendship, the sudden alternation of storm and calm, and, in a

word, the medley of eccentric vices and virtues which compose this

gigantic offspring of Lee's bright but fevered brain, the severest

criticism must concur with the public opinion, which ranks Mr. Cooper's

Alexander high among the first specimens of the art exhibited in the

English language. Adverting to the first scene of the second act, when

irritated by Lysimachus demanding the princess Parisatis in marriage; in

the swell of passion from the mild rebuke,

Lysimachus, no more--it is not well;

My word you know, was to Hephestion given,

up to the storm of rage

"My slave, whom I

Could tread to clay, dares utter bloody threats."

The climax of temper was in every transition marked by Mr. Cooper with a

natural propriety which, though a vigorous and accurate critical

judgment might suggest, nothing but a high dramatic genius, seconded by

correspondent organs, could possibly have executed.

Several steps higher still in merit criticism must place the whole of

the banquet scene. The intoxicated vanity of Alexander--his soft and

puerile susceptibility of gross and fulsome adulation, his idle contest

with the blunt old Clytus, his fury and cruel murder of that brave old

soldier, and his outrageous grief and self reproach for that murder, in

all of which the fiery brain of the poet has urged the passions to the

utmost verge of nature, Mr. Cooper was all for which the most sanguine

admirer could wish, or a reasonable critic hope. But as, in the best

drawn portraits, one or more limbs or features will be found superior to

the rest, so in this scene of aggregate excellence, there were three

successive speeches of such preeminent excellence and superiority that

they ought to be commemorated. They all turn upon the provoking

insinuation of Clytus:

Philip fought men--but Alexander women.

In the jealousy, the astonishment, the wrath of the insulted hero, the

expression of the actor kept equal flight with the bold wing of the

poet. Accustomed as we have been to the prodigious exertions of the

greatest actors in the world we have not witnessed nor can we conceive

any thing superior to Mr. Cooper in the following speeches----

_Alex._ Envy by the gods!

Is then my glory come to this at last,

To conquer _women_!--Nay, he said the stoutest

Here would tremble at the dangers he had seen!

In all the sickness, all the wounds I bore,

When from my reins the Javelin's head was cut.

Lysimachus! Hephestion! speak Perdicas!

Did I once tremble? Oh, the cursed falsehood!

Did I once shake or groan, or act beneath

The dauntless resolution of a king?

_Lysim._ Wine has transported him.

_Alex._ No, 'tis mere malice.

I was a _woman_ too at Oxydrace,

When planting on the walls a scaling ladder;

I mounted spite of showers of stones, bars, arrows,

And all the lumber which they thunder'd down.

When you beneath cry'd and out spread your arms,

That I should leap among you--did I so?

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

_Alex._ Was I _woman_ when like Mercury,

I leaped the walls and flew amidst the foe,

And like a baited Lion dyed myself

All over in the blood of those bold hunters;

'Till spent with toil I battled on my knees,

Plucked forth the darts that made my shield a forest,

And hurl'd them back with the most unconquer'd fury,

Then shining in my arms, I sunned the field,

Moved, spoke and fought, and was myself a war.

_Clytus._ 'Twas all Bravado; for, before you leap'd

You saw that I had burst the gates asunder.

Never was a crisis in human passion, more naturally, more appropriately,

more exquisitely marked and illustrated by action than that of Alexander

at this juncture by the action of Mr. Cooper. He leaped like a foaming

tyger from the throne, and, with his arms extended and his fingers

crooked, seemed rushing upon Clytus as if to tear him in pieces. Then,

stopping short, as if forbearing a prey too weak for him, he in

breathless rage exclaimed----

Oh, that thou wert but once more young!

That I might strike thee to the earth

For this audacious lie, thou feeble dotard.

After this scene we could relish nothing in the play. We endeavoured to

disengage ourselves sufficiently to attend to the sequel--but all seemed

frigid and uninteresting till the mad dying scene of Alexander again

furnished Mr. Cooper with an opportunity to give scope to his talents,

which he did, so successfully, that if we had not been filled with the

former scene it is likely that we should have pronounced this his _chef

a'oeuvre_.

As we mean to be full upon the tragedy of ALFONSO, we postpone our

further observations on Mr. Cooper to the next number.

* * * * *

MR. DWYER.

The fame of this young actor reached America before him. Those who are

in the habit of perusing the critical productions of London or

Edinburgh, had learned from them that he was a performer of considerable

merit in a particular department, and of great promise as a general

actor. The most favourable reports of the British publications were

amply confirmed by American gentlemen who saw him perform in Europe; and

the acknowledged taste and judgment of a respectable literary character

at New-York, who engaged Mr. Dwyer for the manager of that theatre,

would have been of itself a sufficient warranty for the most sanguine

presumptions in his favour. Accordingly he was received by the New-York

audience for some nights with enthusiastic applause, and on the ground

of the reports of that city, the play-loving folks of this wound their

minds up to a strained pitch of expectation. In consequence of this, Mr.

Warren, who never fails to make use of every opportunity that arises to

gratify his audience, proceeded to New-York for the purpose of engaging

Mr. Dwyer for a few nights, if his merits should be found to correspond

with the general reports respecting him. Mr. Warren's own judgment

confirmed those reports, and he engaged Mr. Dwyer upon terms which do

honour to the liberality of his heart, and to his spirit as a manager.

Mr. Dwyer's performances here have answered the expectations we had

built upon the various criticisms we had read, and the verbal

communications we had received upon the subject of his professional

talents. We conjectured that his acting might not entirely, or all at

once, accord with that kind of taste which the actors we have been

accustomed to naturally generated in the multitude. His performance of

BELCOUR was as new to our audience as the chaste and natural acting of

Garrick was on _his_ first appearance to the admirers of Booth and Quin,

and for some time our audience could scarcely admire it. In some few

instances, indeed, a positive disrelish for it was openly avowed, and we

could not help feeling that those opinions were entitled to particular

respect as they could have come only by _inspiration_. Being uttered

before it was possible for the propounders to have formed a judgment by

mere human means upon that gentleman's merits. This we can aver, that he

had spoken only four lines, according to the letter press of the copy

now before us, when some person on one side of us remarked that he was

nothing to Mr. Chalmers, and in four lines more, another person on the

other side laid him down under another actor--but one, indeed of a very

superior kind to Mr. Chalmers.

As we have no pretensions to that kind of _inspiration_--that critical

second sight (as the Highland Scotch call it) but are fain to judge by

the mere humdrum human means of reason and experience, we felt it to be

our duty to see the character entirely performed by Mr. Dwyer before we

ventured to form an opinion on his acting it; and we are free to confess

that if all critics find it as difficult as we do to estimate the value

of an actor's performance, and are honestly disposed, they will not only

wait as we always do till the whole evidence is before them, but weigh

it scrupulously, without affection, prejudice, or malice, before they

venture to pass sentence.

Now it so happened that we differed essentially from those _inspired_

ones. We thought, as most critics who have seen him in England do, that

Mr. Dwyer's Belcour was a most elegant and accomplished specimen of

genteel acting--chaste, graceful, and where the character required and

admitted it, interesting and impressive. And we had the satisfaction to

perceive as the play advanced the audience conformed more and more to

the same opinion. It is greatly to Mr. Dwyer's credit that all the

applause he received, was extorted by his own merit, and drawn like

drops of blood reluctantly distilled from languid hearts.

In Tangent a character in which broader humour afforded him an

opportunity of coming nearer to the genteel taste. Mr. Dwyer met with a

superior reception at first, and before the end of the play drew the

most unequivocal acknowledgments of his supreme comic powers.

In the character of Ranger, (Suspicious Husband) though he was

wretchedly supported by the performers of every character, save

Strictland and Tester, he was no less successful.

In Vapid he was truly excellent and delivered the epilogue with a force

and humour which merited and indeed received three successive rounds of

applause after the curtain dropped.

The English critics concur in pronouncing Mr. Dwyer's the best WILDING

(Lyar) on the British boards. Nor will an enlightened critic, provided

he be honest as well as enlightened, deny his great superiority in that

part. Having seen Lewis, Palmer, I. Bannister, and several others,

perform young Wilding, we have no hesitation to declare that in many

parts of the character, but particularly in his account of the feigned

marriage with Miss Lydia Sibthorpe, and the adventure of the closet and

the cat, he was superior to any actor but the great original and the

author of the piece, SAM FOOTE.

Of his Rapid we are unable to say any thing, having been detained from

the theatre by business to a late hour. His Sir Charles Racket, which

followed it, was, like Belcour, an elegant specimen of high genteel

comedy. Something went wrong however towards the conclusion of the piece

which occasioned it to end rather abruptly.

Upon the whole we must in justice say, that Mr. Dwyer, so far as we have

seen him go, has shown uncommon talents for the stage--that he is an

acquisition to the American boards, such as we had not dared to hope

for, and that we trust next season will bring him back, and exhibit him

in a range of characters more varied and extensive, and better

calculated to call forth the great natural powers of which he seems to

be amply possessed.

* * * * *

_Grand Musical Performances._

In no country in the world is the practice of music more universally

extended and at the same time the science so little understood as in

America. Almost every house included between the Delaware and Schuylkill

has its piano or harpsichord, its violin, its flute, or its clarinet.

Almost every young lady and gentleman from the children of the Judge,

the banker, and the general, down to those of the constable, the

huckster, and the drummer, can make a noise upon some instrument or

other, and charm their friends, or split the ears of their neighbours,

with something which courtesy calls music. Europeans, as they walk our

streets, are often surprised with the flute rudely warbling "Hail

Columbia," from an oyster cellar, or the _piano forte_ thumped to a

female voice screaming "O Lady Fair!" from behind a heap of cheese, a

basket of eggs, a flour barrel, or a puncheon of apple whiskey; and on

these grounds we take it for granted that we are a very musical people.

When Boswell asked Dr. Johnson if he did not think there was a great

deal of learning in Scotland, "Learning," replied the philosopher, "is

in Scotland as food in a town besieged; every one has a mouthfull, but

no one a belly-full." The same may be said of music in America. The

summit of attainment in that delightful science seldom reaching higher

than the accompanying of a song so as to set off a tolerable voice, or

aid a weak one, and the attracting a circle of beaus round a young lady,

while she exhibits the nimbleness of her fingers in the execution of a

darling waltz, or touches the hearts of the fond youths with a plaintive

melody accompanied with false notes. Thus far, or but little further,

does music extend, save in a few scattered instances. Like a

plover-call, it is used to allure the fluttering tribe into the meshes;

but when it has done its office in that kind, is laid aside for ever.

POPE SEXTUS QUINTUS, when he was a cardinal, hung up a net in his room,

to demonstrate his humility, his father having been a fisherman; but as

soon as he was made pope, he pulled it down again, shrewdly saying, "I

have caught the fish." Miss Hannah More remarks that few ladies attend

to music after marriage, however skilful they may have been before it.

Indeed nothing is more common than to hear a lady acknowledge it. "Mrs.

Racket will you do us the favour," &c. says a dapper young gentleman

offering his hand to lead a lady to the piano. "Do excuse me, sir, I beg

of you," she replies, "I have not touched an instrument of music half a

dozen times since I was married--one, you know, has so much to do." Thus

music as a science lags in the rear, while musical instruments in

myriads twang away in the van: and thus the window cobweb having caught

its flies for the season is swept away by the housemaid.

This is, in fact, an evil. It is assuming the frivolity, the waste of

time, the coxcombry, and all the disadvantages of music, without any of

its substantial benefits. That which Shakspeare praised, and Milton

cultivated, and which is supposed to be the language of saints and

angels when they hymn their Maker's praise, ought to be a nation's care:

but then it ought to be so only on proper grounds and in the true

ethereal spirit which fits it for divine. Not the miserable or the

vitious levities of music, which serve but to unman the soul, to wake

the dormant sensualities of the heart, and far from lifting the spirit

to the skies, but sink it to the centre. Not what Shakspeare calls "the

lascivious pleasing of a lute" for fools "to caper to in a lady's

chamber," but harmony, such as befits the creature to pour forth at the

altar of the Creator; the sublime raptures of Handel; the divine strains

of Haydn, and the majestic compositions of Purcel, Pergolesse, and

Graun.

We have been led into these observations by a report which has for some

days prevailed, that a grand performance of music, such as we describe,

something on the plan of the commemoration of Handel, which took place

in the year 1784, at Westminster Abbey, and much superior to any thing

ever heard in America, is contemplated. Upon inquiry we find the report

to be true, and that a combination of musical powers hitherto unknown

in this country, will, at St. Augustine Church, perform a Grand

Selection of Sacred Music, after the manner of the oratorios in Europe.

Having made it our business to procure the best information upon this

subject, we are enabled to state that the pieces to be performed on this

occasion will be selected from the very highest order of musical

composition--the Messiah of Handel, the Creation of Haydn, &c. That

besides those, a number of the choicest compositions vocal and

instrumental, by Handel, Graun, Pergolesse, &c. will be performed, and

that, in order to make the exhibition as perfect as possible, every

attainable assistance will be brought in to give magnificence to the

performances and "swell the note of praise."

On this grand occasion, not only all the professional musicians of this

city will unite, but all who can be collected from the other States will

be summoned to lend their aid, in addition to which a number of ladies

and gentlemen, amateurs, will give their assistance.

A plan so well worthy of an enlightened nation's patronage, cannot fail

of success in such a country as America.

FOOTNOTES:

[K] Shakspeare Midsummer night's Dream.

[L] Milton.

ALFONSO,

KING OF CASTILE:

A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS.

BY M. G. LEWIS.

For us and for our Tragedy,

Thus stooping to your clemency,

We beg your _candid_ hearing patiently.

Hamlet.

PHILADELPHIA:

PUBLISHED BY BRADFORD AND INSKEEP: INSKEEP AND BRADFORD,

NEW-YORK; AND WILLIAM M'ILHENNY, BOSTON.

_Smith & M'Kenzie, printers._

1810.

ALFONSO, KING OF CASTILE:

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

Alfonso XI.

Orsino.

Caesario.

Father Bazil.

Henriquez.

Melchior.

Ricardo.

Gomez.

Marcos.

Lucio.

First Citizen.

Second Citizen.

Friars, Soldiers, Citizens, Conspirators, &c.

Amelrosa.

Ottilia.

Estella.

Inis.

Nuns, and Female attendants on Amelrosa.

_The scene lies in Burgos (the capital of Old Castile) and in the

adjoining Forest._

The Action is supposed to pass in the year 1345.

ACT I.

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

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

_Otti._ Dews of the morn, descend! Breathe, summer gales,

My flushed cheeks woo ye! Play, sweet wantons, play

'Mid my loose tresses, fan my panting breast,

Quench my blood's burning fever!--Vain, vain prayer!

Not Winter, throned 'midst Alpine snows, whose will

Can with one breath, one touch, congeal whole realms,

And blanch whole seas; not that fiend's self could ease

This heart, this gulph of flames, this purple kingdom,

Where passion rules and rages!--Oh! my soul!

Caesario, my Caesario!--[_A pause, during which

she seems buried in thought--the clock strikes four._]

Hark!--Ah me!

Is't still so early? Will't be still so long,

Ere my love comes? Oh! speed, ye pitying hours,

Your flight, till mid-day brings Caesario back;

Then, if ye list, rest your kind wings for ever!

_Enter_ Lucio.

_Luc._ 'Tis past the hour! I fear I shall be chid,

For lo! the sun already darts his rays

Athwart the garden-paths.

_Otti._ How still! how tranquil!

All rests, except Ottilia! I'll regain

The hateful couch, where still my husband sleeps:

Ere long he sleeps forever! Ha! why steals

Yon boy.----Amazement! Do my eyes deceive me?

_Luc._ Hist! hist! Estella?

Estella. [_Appearing on the terrace of the palace._]

_Est._ Lucio?

_Luc._ Ay, the same.

_Est._ Good! good!

_Luc._ But pray you bid him speed. So loud

His black Arabian snorts, and paws the earth,

I fear he'll wake the guards.

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

_Otti._ [_Alone._] 'Twas Lucio, sure!--What business.--Ah, how ready

Is fear to whisper what love hates to hear.

[Estella _and_ Caesario _appear on the terrace._]

See! see! again Estella comes--and with her--

Shame and despair! burst from your sockets eyes,

Since ye dare show me this!--'Tis he! 'Tis he!

Caesario! on my soul, Caesario's self----

He bids farewell!--He waves a glittering scarf,

A gift of love, no doubt!--Now to his lips

He glues it!--Blistered be those lips, Caesario,

Which have so oft sworn faith to me:--She goes----

Egyptian plagues go with her! [_Exit Estella._

_Caesa._ [_Looking back at the palace._] Yet one look,

One grateful blessing for this night of rapture;

Then, shrine of my soul's idol! casket, holding

My heart's most precious gem, awhile farewell!

But, when my foot next bends thy floors, expect

No more this cautious gait, this voice subdued!

Proud and erect, with manly steps and strong,

I'll come a Conqueror and a King, to lead

With sceptred hand forth from her bower my bride,

And bid Castile adore her, like Caesario.

Farewell, once more farewell!

_Otti._ [_Advancing._] I'll cross his path,

And blast him with a look.

_Caesa._ Ottilia?

_Otti._ What!

Am I then grown so hideous that my sight

Withers the roses on a warrior's cheeks,

And makes his steps recoil! In Moorish battles

He gazed undaunted on death's frightful form,

But shrinks to view a monster like Ottilia.

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

_Otti._ Or do I wrong myself? Is still _my_ form

Unchanged, but not thy faith? Speak, traitor, speak!

_Caesa._ I own, most dear Ottilia----

_Otti._ Hark! he owns it!

Hear, Earth and Heaven, he owns it! No excuse!

No varnish, no disguise!--He will not stoop

To use dissembling with a wretch he scorns,

Nor thinks it worth his pains to fool me further!

Proceed, brave sir, proceed! In trivial strain

Tell me how light are lovers' oaths, how fond

Youth's heart of change, how quick love comes and flies;

And own that yours for me is flown for ever.

Then with indifference ask a parting kiss,

Hope we shall still be friends, profess esteem,

Thank me for favours past, and coldly leave me.

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

_Otti._ Oh! fool, fool, fool!

I thought him absent; thought mid-day would bring

My hero back, and pass'd this sleepless night

In prayers, and sighs, and vows for his return;

While scorned all oaths, forgot all faith, all honour,

Clasped in Estella's wanton arms he lay,

And mock'd the poor, undone, deceiv'd Ottilia!

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

_Otti._ What! didst thou hope

My rival's name unknown? Oh! well I know it,

Estella! cursed Estella! Still I'll shriek it

Piercing and loud, till Earth, and Air, and Ocean,

Ring with her name, thy guilt, and my despair.

_Caesa._ And need thy words, Ottilia, blame my falsehood?

Oh! in each feature of thy beauteous face

I blush to read reproaches far more keen.

Those glittering eyes, though now with lightnings armed,

Which erst were used to pour on blest Caesario

Kind looks, and fondest smiles, and tears of rapture;

That voice, by wrath untuned, once only breathing

Sounds like the ringdove's, amorous, soft, and sweet;

That snowy breast, now swelled by storms of passion,

But which in happier days by love was heaved,

By love for me!--The least of these, Ottilia,

Gives to my heart a deeper stab than all

Thy words could do, were every word a dagger.

_Otti._ Thou prince of hypocrites!

_Caesa._ Think'st thou I flatter!

Then trust thyself--[_leading her to a fountain._]

View on this watery mirror

Thine angel-form reflected--Lovely shade,

Bid this indignant fair confess, how vain

Estella's charms were to contend with thine!

And yet--oh madman! at Estella's feet

Breathing my vows, these eyes forgot these lips,

Than roses sweeter, redder--Oh! I'll gaze

No more, for gazing I detest myself.

_Otti._ This subtile snake, how winds he round my heart!

Oh didst thou speak sincerely.

_Caesa._ At thy feet,

Adored Ottilia! lo! I kneel repentant.

Couldst thou forgive--Vain man, it must not be.

Forgive the fool, who for a lamp's dull gleaming

Scorn'd the sun's noon-tide splendour? for a pebble

Who gave a diamond worth a monarch's ransom?

No, no, thou canst not.

_Otti._ Cannot? Oh Caesario,

Thou lov'st no longer, or thou ne'er couldst doubt

I can, I must forgive thee!----[_falling on his bosom_]

_Caesa._ Best Ottilia,

No seraph's song e'er bore a sweeter sound

Breathed in the ear of some expiring saint,

Than pardon from thy lips.

_Otti._ Those lips again

Thus seal it!----Yet to prove thy faith, I ask--

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

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

_Caesa._ [_Starting._] Ottilia!

_Otti._ Well I know

It was Estella's gift. I'll therefore wear it,

And with her jealous pangs repay my own.

Give me that scarf.

_Caesa._ And can Ottilia wish

So mean a triumph?

_Otti._ Ha! beware, Caesario!

My foot is on thy neck, and should I find

Thy head a snake's I'll crush it! quick! the scarf!

Am I refused?

_Caesa._ Ottilia, be persuaded.

More nobly use thy power.

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

_Caesa._ I value not the toy, nor her who gave it.

Then wherefore triumph o'er a fallen foe?

It must not be----Hark! footsteps!--Sweet, farewell!

Ere night we meet again.----[_Going._]

_Otti._ Yes, go, perfidious!

But know, ere night, thy head shall grace the scaffold!

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

_Otti._ Last night my husband's dreams revealed

A secret.

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

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

[_looking round mysteriously, and pointing to the lower part of the

palace._]

Of vaults

Beneath the royal chamber--Wherefore tell I

To thee a tale thou know'st thyself full well?

I'll tell it to the king----[_Going._]

_Caesa._ Ottilia, stay!

_Otti._ The scarf.

_Caesa._ [_Giving it._] 'Tis thine!----My life is in thy hands.

Be secret, and I live thy slave forever. [_Exit._

_Otti._ [_Alone._] 'Tis plain! 'tis plain! traitor, thou lov'st her still!

Am I forsaken then? Oh shame, shame, shame!

Forsaken too by one, for whom last night

I dared a deed which----Ha! the palace opens,

And lo! Estella with the princess comes.

I'll hence, but soon returning make my rival

Feel what I suffer now. Thus fell Megaera;

Tears from her heart one of those snakes which gnaw it,

To throw upon some wretch; and when it stings him,

Wild laughs the fiend to see his pangs, well knowing

How keen those pangs are, since she feels the same. [_Exit._

Amelrosa, Estella, Inis, _and ladies, appear on the terrace of the

palace._

_Amel._ Forth, forth my friends! the morn will blush to hear

Our tardy greeting [_descending._] Gently, winds, I pray ye,

Breathe through this grove; and thou, all-radiant sun,

Woo not these bowers beloved with kiss too fierce.

Oh! look, my ladies, how yon beauteous rose,

O'er charged with dew, bends its fair head to earth,

Emblem of sorrowing virtue! [_to Inis_] would'st thou break it?

See'st not its silken leaves are stain'd with tears?

Ever, my Inis, where thou find'st these traces,

Show thou most kindness, most respect. I'll raise it,

And bind it gently to its neighbour rose;

So shall it live, and still its blushing bosom

Yield the wild bee, its little love, repose.

_Inis._ Its love? Can flowers then love?

_Amel._ Oh! what cannot?

There's nothing lives, in air, on earth, in ocean,

But lives to love! for when the Great Unknown

Parted the elements, and out of chaos

Formed this fair world with one blest blessing word,

That word was Love? Angels, with golden clarions,

Prolonged in heavenly strain the heavenly sound:

The mountain-echoes caught it: the four winds

Spread it, rejoicing o'er the world of waters;

And since that hour, in forest, or by fountain,

On hill or moor, whate'er be Nature's song,

Love is her theme, Love! universal Love!

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

_Amel._ I haste to meet him.

_Enter_ Alfonso, _and attendants._

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

_Alfon._ Heaven's best dews

Fall on thy beauteous head, my Amelrosa,

And be each drop a blessing!--Cheered by morning

Fair smile the skies; but nothing smiles on me,

Till I have seen thee well, and know thee happy.

_Amel._ And I _were_ happy, if my eyes perceived not

Tears clouding thine. Oh! what has power to grieve thee

On this proud day, when rich in spoils and glory

Caesario brings thee back thy conquering troops,

That brave young warrior? Spite of Moorish hosts,

And all their new-found engines of destruction,

Sulphureous mines and mouths of iron thunder,

He forced their gates! He leap'd their flaming gulphs!

Pale as their banner'd crescent fled the Moors,

And proudly streamed our flag o'er Algesiras!

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

Thy brother, Amelrosa!

_Amel._ How! my brother?

_Alfon._ Oh! 'tis too true. He thinks I live too long,

So joined the Moors to hurl me from my throne,

Guided their councils, sharpened their resentment,

And, when they fled, fled with them.

_Amel._ Powers of mercy!

Can there be hearts so black!

_Alfon._ Poor wretched man,

Where shall I turn me? where, since lust of power

Makes a son faithless, find a friend that's true?

Where fly for comfort?----

_Amel._ To this heart, my father!

This heart, which, while it throbs, shall throb to love thee.

Stream thy dear eyes? my hand shall dry those tears;

Aches thy poor head? My bosom shall support it!

And when thou sleep'st, I'll watch thy dreams, and pray----

"Changed be to joy the sorrow which afflicts

My king, my father, my soul's best friend!"--

_Alfon._ My child! my comfort!--Yes, yes! here's the chain,

The only chain that binds me to existence--

And should that break too--should'st thou e'er deceive me--

Oh! should'st thou, Amelrosa.

_Amel._ Doubts my father?

_Alfon._ No, no!--Nay, droop not. By my soul, I think thee

As free from guile, as yon blue vault from clouds,

And clear as rain-drops ere they touch the earth!

Nor love I mean suspicion:--where I give

My heart I give my faith, my whole firm faith,

And hold it base to doubt the thing I value.

_Amel._ Then why that wronging thought?

_Alfon._ By fear 'twas prompted;

By fear to lose, but not by doubt to keep.

And well my heart may fear. Think, think how keenly

Ingratitude has wrung that trusting heart!

Think that my faithless son but rends anew

A wound scarce fourteen years had healed.

_Amel._ Orsino.

_Alfon._ He! he! that man--Oh! how I loved that man!

And yet that man betrayed me!

_Amel._ Is that certain?

Might not deception----? Slander loves the court,

And slippery are the heights of royal favour.

Who stumbles, falls; who falls, finds none to raise him.

_Alfon._ Nay, but I saw the writings; 'twas his hand,

His very hand, nor dared he disavow it:

For when I taxed him with his guilt, and showed him

His letters to the Moor, awhile he eyed me

In sullen silence, then contemptuous smiled,

And coldly bade me treat him as I list.

Arraigned, no plea excused his dark offence;

Condemned to die, no word implored for pardon:

But my heart pleaded stronger than all words!

I saved his life, yet bade him live a prisoner

Or clear himself from guilt.

_Amel._ And did he never----

_Alfon._ Without one word or look, one tear or sigh,

He turned away, and silent sought the dungeon

Where three years since he died----Ah! said I, died?

No, no, he lives! lives in my memory still,

Such as in youth's fond dreams my fancy formed him,

Virtuous and brave, faithful, sincere and just;

My friend? my guide?--a Phoenix among men!

How now? What haste brings fair Ottilia hither?

_Enter_ Ottilia, _wearing the scarf_.

Pardon, my sovereign, that uncalled I come

You see a suppliant from a dying man.

_Alfon._ Lady, from whom?

_Otti._ My husband, Marquis Guzman,

Lies on the bed of death, and, stung by conscience,

By me unloads it of this secret guilt!

Those traitor-scrolls, which bore Orsino's name--

_Alfon._ Say on, say on!

_Otti._ By Guzman's hand were forged.

_Alfon._ Forged?--No, no, no! Lady, it cannot be!

Unsay thy words or stab me!

_Otti._ Gracious Sir,

Look on these papers.

_Alfon._ Ha!

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

_Amel._ Father! dear father!

_Alfon._ Father! I merit not that name, nor any

Sweet, good, or gracious. Call me villain! fiend!

Suspicious tyrant! treacherous, calm assassin!

Who slew the truest, noblest friend, that ever

Man's heart was blest with!--Ha! why kneels my child?

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

_Alfon._ Deceive me!

_Amel._ Next to pay pure thanks to Heaven,

Which grants me to allay my father's anguish

With words of most sweet comfort.

_Alfon._ Ha! what means't thou?

_Amel._ Four years are past since first Orsino's sorrows

Struck on my startled ear: that sound once heard,

Ne'er left my ear again, but day and night,

Whether I walked or sate, awake or sleeping,

The captive, the poor captive still was there.

The rain seemed but _his_ tears; his hopeless groans

Spoke in each hollow wind; his nights of anguish

Robbed mine of rest; or, if I slept, my dreams

Showed his pale wasted form, his beamless eye

Fixed on the moon, his meager hands now folded

In dull despair, now rending his few locks

Untimely gray; and now again in frenzy

Dreadful he shrieked; tore with his teeth his flesh;

'Gainst his dark prison-walls dashed out his brains,

And died despairing! From my couch I started;

Sunk upon my knees; I kissed this cross,

----"Captive," I cried, "I'll die or set thee free!"----

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

_Amel._ Moved by gold,

More by my prayers, most by his own heart's pity,

His jailer yielded to release Orsino,

And spread his death's report.--One night when all

Was hushed, I sought his tower, unlocked his chains,

And bade him rise and fly! With vacant stare,

Bewildered, wondering, doubting what he heard,

He followed to the gate. But when he viewed

The sky thick sown with stars, and drank heaven's air,

And heard the nightingale and saw the moon

Shed o'er these groves a shower of silver light,

Hope thawed his frozen heart; in livelier current

Flowed his grief-thickened blood, his proud soul melted,

And down his furrowed cheeks kind tears came stealing,

Sad, sweet, and gentle as the dews, which evening

Sheds o'er expiring day. Words had he none,

But with his looks he thanked me. At my feet

He sunk; he wrung my hand; his pale lips pressed it;

He sighed, he rose, he fled; he lives, my father!

_Alfon._ [_Kneeling._] Fountain of bliss! words are too poor for thanks;

Oh! deign to read them here!

_Amel._ Canst thou forgive

My long deceit----

_Alfon._ Forgive thee? To my heart

Thus let me clasp thee, best of earthly blessings,

Balm of my soul, and saviour of my justice!

Oh! blest were kings, when fraud ensnares their sense,

And passion arms their hands, if still they found

One who like thee dared stand the victim's friend,

Wrest from proud lawless Power his brandished javelin,

And make him virtuous in his own despite!

_Enter_ Ricardo.

_Ricar._ My liege, your conquering general brave Caesario,

Draws near the walls.

_Alfon._ I hasten to receive

The hero and his troops: that duty done,

I'll seek my wronged friend's pardon. Say my child,

Where dwells Orsino?

_Amel._ In the neighbouring forest

He lives a hermit: Inis knows the place.

_Alfon._ Ere night I'll seek him there. And now farewell

Ever beloved, but now more loved than ever!

Oh! still as now watch o'er and timely check

My hasty nature; still, their guardian-angel,

Protect my people, e'en from _me_ protect them:

Then, after ages, pondering o'er the page

Which bears my name, shall see, and seen shall bless

That union most beloved of man and heaven,

A patriot monarch, and a people free!

[_Exit with_ Ricardo _and attendants_.]

_Amel._ My good kind father! fatal, fatal, secret,

How weigh'st thou down my heart! [_Remains buried in thought._]

_Otti._ I'll haste and calm

My husband's conscience with Orsino's safety.

But when our Spanish beauties throng the ramparts,

Anxious to see, and anxious to be seen,

Why stays Estella from the walls?

_Estel._ Both duty

And friendship chain me where the princess stays.

_Otti._ Duty and friendship? trust me, glorious words;--

Yet there's a sweeter--Love! Boasts the gay band,

Which circles brave Caesario's laurelled car,

No youth who proudly wears Estella's colours,

And knows no glory like Estella's smile?

_Estel._ Ha! Sure my sight must err?

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

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

_Otti._ [Aside.] So so! now flies she

To her she--Pylades for aid and comfort.

Oh most rare sympathy! How the fiend starts!

And, trust me, changes colour!

_Amel._ Say'st thou? how?

Away, it cannot be!

_Estel._ Convince thyself then.

_Otti._ [_Aside._] Ay, look your fill! look till your eye-strings break.

For 'tis that scarf; that very, very scarf?----

So now the question comes.

_Estel._ Forgive me lady,

Nor hold me rude, that much I wish to know,

Whence came the scarf you wear?

_Otti._ This scarf----Alas!

A paltry toy! a very soldier's present.

_Estel._ A soldier's!

_Otti._ Ay. 'Twas sent me from the camp:

But with such bitter taunts on her who wrought it----

Breathed ever mortal man such thoughts of me,

_My_ heart would break or _his_ should bleed for it!

_Estel._ Say you?

_Otti._ Nay mark--"Receive, proud fair,"--thus ran the letter--

"This scarf, forced on me by a hand I loath,

With many an amorous word and tasteless kiss!

As I for thee, so burns for me the wanton;

To me as thine, cold is my heart to her;

Nor canst thou more despise the gift than I

Scorn the fond fool who gave it!"----

_Amel._ Oh! my heart!

_Inis._ Look to the Princess.

_Otti._ [_Starting._] Ha!

_Estel._ She faints!

_Amel._ No, no,

'Tis nothing--mid-day's heat--the o'erpowering sun--

I'll in and rest.

_Otti._ Princess, permit----

_Amel._ No lady!

I need no aid of thine--In, in, Estella.

Oh! cruel, false Caesario!

[_Exit with_ Estella, Inis, _and Ladies_.]

_Otti._ [_Alone._] Ha! is't so?

And flies my falcon at so high a lure?

The princess! 'tis the princess that he loves!--

And shall I calmly see her bear away

This dear-bought prize, my secret crime's reward,

My lord, my love, my life, my all?----She dies! [_Exit._

_End of Act I._

ACT II.

SCENE I. _A hall in_ Caesario's _palace_.

[_Shouts heard without._]

_Enter_ Caesario [_a general's staff in his hand_] _followed by_

Henriquez, _citizens and soldiers_.

_Caesa._ Thanks, worthy friends! No further!--Pleased I hear

These shouts, which thank me for Alfonso's safety!

But though _my_ arms have quelled the Moors, your love

Alone can shield him from a foe more dangerous,

From his proud rebel son!--Farewell, assured

I live but for your use!

_First Citi._ Long live Caesario!

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

_All._ Huzza! [_Exeunt._

_Manent_ Caesario _and_ Henriquez.

_Caesa._ Kind friends, farewell!--Ay, shout, ye brawlers, shout!

Pour out unmeaning praise till the skies ring!

'Twill school your deep-toned throats to roar tomorrow,

--"Long live Caesario! Sovereign of Castile!"--

Mark you, Henriquez, how the royal dotard

Hung on my neck, termed me his kingdom's angel,

His friend, his saviour, his----Oh! my tongue burned

To thunder in his startled ear----"The man

Who raised this war, and fired your son's ambition,

Your daughter's husband, and your mortal foe,

That man am I!"----

_Hen._ Then absence has not cooled,

It seems, your hatred----

_Caesa._ Could'st thou think it? thou,

Who know'st a secret to all else unknown!

Know'st me no stranger-youth, no chance-adventurer,

Whose sword's his fortune, as Castile believes me;

But one of mightiest views and proudest hopes,

Galled by injustice, panting for revenge,

Son of a hero! wronged Orsino's son!

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

Alfonso's countless favours----

_Caesa._ Favours? Insults!

Curses when proffered by a hand I hate!

Bright seems ambition to my eye, and sure

To reign is glorious; yet such fixed aversion

I bear this man, and such my thirst for vengeance,

I would not sell his head, once in my power,

Though the price tendered were the crown that decks it!

Yet that, too, shortly shall be mine!--Say, Marquis,

How speeds our plot?

_Hen._ 'Tis ripe: beneath his chambers

The vaults are ours, the sleeping fires disposed;

The mine waits but your word.

_Caesa._ Tonight it springs then,

And hurls my foe in burning clouds to heaven--

O! rapturous sight!

_Hen._ And can that sight give rapture

Which wrings with anguish Amelrosa's bosom?

She loves her father----

_Caesa._ Loves she not her husband?

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

_Caesa._ She ne'er shall know it!

All shall be held her rebel brother's deed;

And while contending passions shake the rabble,

(Grief for the sire, resentment 'gainst the son;

And pity for the princess) forth I'll step,

Avow our marriage, claim the crown her right,

And, when she mounts the throne, ascend it with her.

_Hen._ Oh! she will drown that bloody throne with tears!

And should she learn who bade them flow----

_Caesa._ Say on----

_Hen._ She'll loath you!

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

_Hen._ Never, never!

I know the princess; know a daughter's love,

A daughter's grief----

_Caesa._ And are not daughters women?

By nature tender, trustful, kind, and fickle,

Prone to forgive, and practised in forgetting?

Let the fair things but rave their hour at ease,

And weep their fill, and wring their pretty hands,

Faint between whiles, and swear by every saint

They'll never, never, never see you more!

Then when the larum's hushed, profess repentance,

Say a few kind false words, drop a few tears,

Force a fond kiss or two, and all's forgiven.

Away! I know her sex!

_Hen._ But know not her!

Her heart will bleed; and can you wound that heart,

Yet swear you love her?

_Caesa._ Dearly, fiercely love her;

But not so fiercely as I loath this king!--

Hatred of him, cherished from youth, is now

My second nature! 'tis the air I breathe,

The stream which fills my veins, my life's chief source,

My food, my drink, my sleep, warmth, health and vigour,

Mixed with my blood, and twisted round my heart-strings!

To cease to hate him, I must cease to breathe!--

Never to know one hour's repose or pleasure

While loathed Alfonso lived,--such was my oath,

Breathed on my broken-hearted mother's lips.

She heard! her eyes flashed with new fire; she kissed me,

Murmured Orsino's name, blessed it and died!--

That oath I'll keep!

_Enter_ Melchior.

_Caesa._ Melchior! why thus alarmed?

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

Guzman is dying.

_Caesa._ and _Hen._ How?

_Mel._ Remorse already

Hath wrung one secret from him; and I fear,

The next fit brings our plot.

_Caesa._ Speed, speed, Henriquez!

Place spies around his gate! guard every avenue!

Mark every face that comes or goes--Away!

[_Exit_ Henriquez.

_Caesa._ I'll watch the king myself!

_Mel._ As yet he's safe.

Soon as he parted from the troops, Alfonso,

By Inis guided, tow'rds the forest sped,

To seek and sooth his late-found friend Orsino.

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

_Mel._ The count San Lucar, long thought dead, but saved.

It seems, by Amelrosa's care--Time presses----

I must away: farewell.

_Caesa._ At one, remember--

Beneath the royal tower----

_Mel._ Fear not my failing.

_Caesa._ [_Alone_] He lives! My father lives!

Oh, let but vengeance

Fire him to spurn Alfonso and his friendship.

His martial fame the memory of his virtues,

His talents, rank, and sufferings undeserved----

Oh! what a noble column to support

My new-raised power! [_Going._]

_Enter_ Ottilia. [_Veiled._]

_Otti._ Caesario, stay!

_Caesa._ Forgive me,

Fair lady, if my speech appears ungentle;

Such business calls----

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

_Caesa._ Ottilia!

_Otti._ Need I say what brings me hither?

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

_Otti._ She? Dissembler! fiend?--Peace, peace;

I come not here to rave, but to command.

You love the Princess, are beloved again----

Speak not! She saw this scarf; her tears, her anguish

Betrayed her secret. Yes, you love the Princess!

But, while I breathe, if e'er her hand is yours,

Strike me dead, lightnings!

_Caesa._ Hear me!

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

_Caesa._ 'Tis Guzman's hand.

_Otti._ He bade me to the king

Bear it with other papers; but my prudence,

For mine own purposes, kept back the scroll.

Lo! here a full confession of your plots--

The mine described--the vault--the hour--the signal--

What troops are gained--the list of sworn confederates--

And foremost in the list here stands Caesario!

_Caesa._ Confusion!

_Otti._ Nay, 'tis so! Now mark me, youth!

Either mine hand at midnight as my husband's

Clasps thine, or gives this paper to Alfonso!

Prepare a friar--at Juan's chapel meet me

At midnight, or the king----

_Caesa._ You rave, Ottilia!

While Guzman lives.

_Otti._ Young man, his hours are counted:

Three scarce are his--Last night I drugged the bowl

In which he drank a farewell to the world.

Ay, ay, 'tis true! thou'rt mine! With blood I've bought thee!

Nothing now parts us but the grave,--and there,

E'en there I'll claim thee!--If tonight thou com'st not--

_Caesa._ I will, by heaven!

_Otti._ Nay, fail at your own peril----

Your life is in my power! my breath can blast you!

Choose, then, Caesario, 'twixt thy bane and bliss--

Love or a grave! a kingdom or a scaffold!

My arms or death's--By yonder sun I swear,

Ere morning dawns, thou shalt be mine or nothing! [_Exit._

_Caesa._ Is't so?--Thy blood then on thy head--This paper--

----This female fiend--the scarf too!--I must straight

Appease the princess--some well-varnished tale

----Some glib excuse--Oh! hateful task! Oh, Truth!

How my soul longs once more to join thy train,

Tear off the mask, and show me as I am!

The wretch for life immur'd; the Christian slave

Of Pagan lords; or he whose bloody sweat

Speeds the fleet galley o'er the sparkling waves,

Bears easy toil, light chains, and pleasant bondage,

Weighed with thy service, Falsehood! Still to smile

On those we loath; to teach the lips a lesson

Smooth, sweet, and false; to watch the tell-tale eye,

Fashion each feature, sift each honest word

That swells upon the tongue, and fear to find

A traitor in one's self--By heaven, I know

No toil, no curse, no slavery, like dissembling!

[_Exit._

SCENE II. _A wild forest, with rocks, waterfalls, &c. On one side a

hermitage and a rustic tomb, with various pieces of armour scattered

near it, "Victoria" is engraved on it; a river is in the background._

Orsino _stands on a rock which overhangs the river_.

_Orsi._ Yes thou art lovely World! That blue-robed sky;

These giant rocks, their forms grotesque and awful

Reflected on the calm stream's lucid mirror;

These reverend oaks, through which (their rustling leaves

Dancing and twinkling in the sunbeams) light

Now gleams, now disappears, while yon fierce torrent,

Tumbling from crag to crag with measured dash,

Makes to the ear strange music: World, oh! World!

Who sees thee such must needs confess thee fair!

Who knows thee not must needs suppose thee good.

[_With a sudden burst of indignation_]

But I have tried thee, World! know all these beauties

Mere shows and snares; know thee a gilded serpent,

A flowery bank whose sweets smile o'er a pitfall;

A splendid prison, precious tomb, fair palace,

Whose golden domes allure poor wanderers in,

And when they've entered, crush them! Such I know thee

And, knowing, loath thy charms! Rise, rise, ye storms!

Mingle ye elements! Flash lightnings, flash!

Unmask this witch! blast her pernicious beauty!

And show me Nature as she is, a monster!

--I'll look no more! Oh! my torn heart! Victoria!

My son! Oh God! My son! Lost! lost! both lost!

[_Leaning against the tomb._

_Enter_ Alfonso, Inis, _and Attendants_.

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

_Alfon._ [_Starting back._] No, no, that living spectre

Is not my gallant friend. I seek in vain

The full cheek's healthful glow, the eye of fire,

The martial mein, proud gait, and limbs Herculean!

Oh! is that deathlike form indeed Orsino?

_Orsi._ Never to see them more! never, no never!

Wife, child, joy, hope, all gone!

_Alfon._ That voice! Oh! Heaven,

Too well I know that voice!--How grief has changed him!

I'll speak, yet dread----Retire [Inis, _&c. withdraw_.] Look up Orsino.

_Orsi._ Discovered?

[_Seizing a lance which rests against the cavern, and putting himself in

a posture of defence_]

Wretch, thy life--[_Staggering back._] Strengthen me, heaven!

'Tis he? the king himself!

_Alfon._ [_Offering to take his hand._]

Thy friend!

_Orsi._ [_Recovering himself, and drawing back his hand._]

Friend! Friend!----

I've none!-- [_Coldly._]

_Alfon._ Orsino.

_Orsi._ Never had but one,

And he--! Sir, though a king, you'd shrink to hear

How that friend used me!

_Alfon._ Hear me speak, in pity!

_Orsi._ What need of words? I'm found, I'm in your power,

And you may torture me e'en how you list.

Where are your chains? these are the self-same arms

Which bore them ten long years, nor doubt their weighing

Heavy as ever! These same eyes, which bathed

So oft with bitterest tears your dungeon-grate,

Have streams not yet exhausted! and these lips

Can still with shrieks make the Black Tower re-echo,

Which heard my voice so long in frantic anguish

Rave of my wife and child, and curse Alfonso!

Lead on, Sir! I'm your prisoner!

_Alfon._ Not for worlds

Would I but harm one hair of thine!--Nay, hear me!

And learn, most wronged Orsino, thy clear innocence

Is now well known to all.

_Orsi._ Ay? Nay, I care not

Who thinks me innocent! I know myself so--

Was this your business, Sir? 'Tis done! Farewell.

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

_Orsi._ What?

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

_Orsi._ [_Sternly_] True!

_Alfon._ Deeply, most deeply!

But wounding thine, hurt my own heart no less,

Where none has filled thy place: 'tis thine, still thine--

And if my court----

_Orsi._ What should I there? No, no, Sir!

Sorrow has crazed my wits; long cramped by fetters

My arm sinks powerless; and my wasted limbs,

Palsied by dungeon-damps, would bend and totter

Beneath yon armour's weight, once borne so lightly!

Then what should I at court? I cannot head

Your troops, nor guide your councils; leave me, leave me,

You cannot use me further!

_Alfon._ Oh! I must,

And to a most dear service--my heart bleeds,

And needs a friend! Be but that friend once more!

Be to me what thou wert, (and that was all things!)

Forgive my faults, forget thy injuries----

_Orsi._ [_Passionately._] Never!

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

_Orsi._ Peace, peace! You felt no friendship! felt no flame,

Steady and strong!--Yours was a vain light vapour,

A boyish fancy, a caprice, a habit,

A bond you wearied of, and gladly seized

A lame pretext to break. Did not my heart

From earliest youth lie naked to your eyes?

Knew you not every comer, nerve, turn, twist on't?

And could you still suspect----? No, no! You wished

To find me false, or must have known me true.

_Alfon._ You wrong me, on my life! So fine, so skilful

The snare was spread----I knew not----

_Orsi._ Knew not? Knew not?

Thou knew'st I was Orsino! Knowing that,

Thou should'st have known, I never could be guilty.

_Alfon._ Proofs seemed so strong----

_Orsi._ And had I none to prove

My innocence? these deep-hewn scars received

While fighting in your cause, were these no proofs?

Your life twice saved by me! your very breath

My gift! your crown oft rescued by my valour!

Were these no proofs! My every word, thought, action,

My spotless life, my rank, my pride, my honour,

And, more than all, the love I ever bore thee,

Were these no proofs?--Oh! they had been conviction

In a friend's eyes, though they were none in thine!

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

Your silence----

_Orsi._ What! Should I have stooped to chase

Your brawling lawyers through their flaws and quibbles?

To bear the sneers of saucy questioners--

Their jests, their lies--and, when they termed me villain,

Calmly to cry--"Good Sirs, I'm none!"--No, no:

I heard myself called traitor--saw you calmly

Hear me so called, nor strike the speaker dead!

Then why defend myself? What hope was left me?

Truth lost its value, since you thought me false!

Speech had been vain, since your heart spoke not for me.

_Alfon._ And it _did_ speak----Spite of the law's decision,

My love preserved your life----

_Orsi._ Oh! bounteous favour!

Oh! vast munificence! which, giving life,

Robbed me of every gem which made life precious!

Where is my wife? Distracted at my loss,

Sunk to her cold grave with a broken heart?

Where is my son? Or dead through want, or wandering

A friendless outcast! Where that health, that vigour,

Those iron nerves, once mine?--King, ask your dungeons!

_Alfon._ Oh! spare me!

_Orsi._ Give me these again, wife, son,

Health, strength, and ten most precious years of manhood,

And I'll perhaps forgive thee: till then, never!

_Alfon._ What could I do? thy son had been to me

Dear as my own, had not Victoria's pride,

Scorning all aid----

_Orsi._ 'Twas right!

_Alfon._ She fled, concealed

Herself and child----had it on me depended----

I cannot speak----My heart----Oh! yet have mercy,

Think I had other duties than a friend's----

Alas! I was a king!

_Orsi._ And are one still----

Have still your wealth, and pomp, and pride, and power,

And herd of cringing courtiers--still have children----

I had but one, and him I lost through thee.

I, I have nothing! Yon rude cave my palace,

These rocks my court, the wolf my fit companion--

Lost all life's blessings, wife, son, health! Oh! nothing

Is left me, save the right to hate that man

Who made me what I am!--And would'st thou rob me

E'en of this last poor pleasure? Go Sir! go,

Regain your court; resume your pomp and splendour!

Drink deep of luxury's cup! be gay, be flattered,

Pampered and proud, and, if thou canst, be happy.

I'll to my cave, and curse thee!

_Alfon._ Stay, Orsino!

If ever friendship warmed, or pity melted

Thy heart, I charge thee----

_Orsi._ Pity? In thy dungeons,

Sir, I forgot the meaning of that word.

For ten long years no gentle accents soothed me,

No tears with mine were mixed--no bosom sighed

That anguish tortured mine! King, king, thou know'st not,

How solitude makes the soul stern and savage!

_Alfon._ Yet were thy soul than adamantine rocks

More hard, these deep-drawn sighs----

_Orsi._ My wife's last groan

Rings in my ear, and drowns them.

_Alfon._ And these tears

Might touch thy heart----

_Orsi._ My heart is dead, King! dead!

'Tis yonder buried in Victoria's Grave!

_Alfon._ Could prayers, unfeigned remorse, ceaseless affection,

And influence as my own unbounded----

_Orsi._ Hold!

I'll try thee, and make two demands! But first,

Swear by all hopes of happiness hereafter,

And Heaven's best gift on earth, thine angel-daughter,

Whate'er I ask shall be fulfilled.

_Alfon._ I swear!

And Heaven so treat my prayers, as I shall thine.

_Orsi._ 'Tis well: now mark, and keep thine oath. My first

Request is--Leave me instantly! my second,

Ne'er let me see thee more.--Thou hast heard, begone! [_Exit into the cave._

_Alfon._ 'Tis well, proud man,--Alas! my heart's too humbled

To chide e'en him who spurns it.

_Inis._ Nay my liege,

Despair not----Sure the princess.

_Alfon._ Right, I'll seek her;

To her he owes his freedom, and her prayers

Shall win me back this dear obdurate heart

Oh! did he know how sweet 'tis to forgive,

And raise the wounded soul, which, crushed and humbled

Sinks in the dust, and owns that it has erred:

To quench all wrath, and cancel all offences,

Sure he would need no motive but self love.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE III.----_A garden._

_Amel._ [_Alone_] And are ye all then vanished, sylphs of bliss?

All fled in air, and not one trace, one shadow

Left of my bright day-visions? Is not rather

All this some fearful dream?----Caesario false!

I _know_ 'tis so, yet scarce can _think_ 'tis so!

Gods! when last night, after long absence meeting,

What looks!--what joy!--and was then all deceit?

Did he but mock me, when with tears of rapture

He bathed my hand; knelt; sighed; as had his voice

By pleasure been o'erwhelmed, a while was silent;

But soon came words, sweet as those most sweet kisses

Which grateful Venus gave the swain whose care

Brought back her truant doves!----So sweet, so sweet----

Distrust, herself, must have believed those words.

Oh! and was all but feigned?

_Enter_ Caesario _and_ Estella.

_Estella._ Wait here awhile;

I'll try to sooth her.

_Caesa._ My best friend!

_Estel._ Withdraw [Caesario _retires_.

Still bathed in tears?

_Amel._ [_Throwing herself on her bosom._] Oh! my soul's sick,

Estella.

My heart is broken, broken!

_Estel._ Nay, be calm!

I bring you comfort.

_Amel._ How?

_Estel._ Caesario sues

For one short moment's audience.

_Amel._ I'll not see him.

_Estel._ Dear princess!

_Amel._ Never! saw I not Ottilia

Decked with my gift? did I not hear.----Shame! shame!

Go, go, Estella, see him! say, and firmly,

We meet no more! say, that the veil is rent!

Say, that I know him wavering, vain, ungrateful,

Flattering and false! and having said this, add,

False as he is, he's my soul's tyrant still!

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

_Amel._ Caesario?

Farewell forever!

_Caesa._ Nay you must not leave me.

Hear me but speak.----

_Amel._ Release me!

_Caesa._ But one word.--

_Amel._ I'll not be held!--Your pardon. I forgot sir!

I thought myself still mistress of my actions!

Still princess of Castile!--Now I remember

I'm that despised, unhappy thing, your wife!

Sir, I obey!--Your pleasure!

_Caesa._ Oh! how lovely

Those eyes can make e'en scorn! yet calm their lightnings--

Once more let love.--

_Amel._ Never--the hours are past

When I believed thee all my fond heart wished;

Thought thee the best, the kindest, truest----thought thee----

Oh! Heaven! no Eastern tale portrays the palace

Of fay, or wizard (where in bright confusion

Blaze gold and gems) so glorious fair, as seemed,

Tricked in the rainbow-colours of my fancy,

Caesario's form this morn:----Too late I know thee;

The spell is broke; and where an Houri smiled,

Now scowls a fiend. Oh! thus benighted pilgrims

Admire the glow-worm's light, while gloom prevails

But find that seeming lamp of fiery lustre

A poor dark worthless worm, when viewed in sunshine.

Away, and seek Ottilia.

_Caesa._ Oh! my princess,

Deep as thy anger wounds my heart, more deeply

I grieve to think, how thine will bleed at finding

This anger undeserved.

_Amel._ Oh! that it were _so_,

But no! I saw my scarf----that very scarf----

My own hands wrought it.----Many a midnight lamp,

While thou wert at the wars, in toil I wasted,

And made it my sole joy to toil for thee,

There was no thread I had not blest! no flower

I had not kist a thousand times, and murmured

With every kiss a prayer for thy return,

And yet thou gav'st this sacred work to buy

A wanton's favours.----

_Caesa._ Say, to buy her silence?

_Amel._ Her silence?

_Caesa._ As this morn I left the palace,

She marked my flight.

_Amel._ Just heaven!

_Caesa._ Though unrequited,

Her love has long been mine.--She raved; she threatened;

She would have vengeance; she would rouse the guards;

Alarm the king.----

_Amel._ [_Shuddering._] My father!

_Caesa._ But her silence

Bought by that scarf.--

_Amel._ Caesario, could I trust thee?

Were this tale true, could I but think.--

_Caesa._ I'll swear.

_Amel._ No! at the altar thou hast sworn already

Mine were thy hand and heart, and mine forever:

If thou canst break this oath, none else will bind thee----

Yet did I wrong thee? art thou true? I fain

Would think thee so.----But this fond heart, my husband,

Is such a weak sad thing and where it loves,

Loves so devoutly----Spare me, dear Caesario,

Such fears in future; let no word, no thought,

Cloud thy pure faith, for so my soul dotes on thee,

But to suspect thee racks each nerve, and almost

Drives my brain mad,--Oh! could'st thou know, Caesario,

How painful 'tis for one who loves like me,

To _cease_ to love----Cease, said I?----No, my heart

Ceased to esteem, but never ceased to love thee.

[_Falling on his neck._]

_Caesa._ My soul! my Amelrosa,--Now all planets

Rain plagues upon my perjured head, if e'er

I break the vow, which here I breathe; this heart,

Filled but with thee, and formed but to adore thee,

Is thine, my love, thine now, and thine forever!

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

_Estel._ [_who has retired, advances hastily._]

Haste, Caesario,

You must away! the king's returned, I see

His train now loitering near the garden-gate,

Fly by the private postern.

_Caesa._ Straight I'll follow. [_Exit_ Estella.

And must I leave thee, leave thee for so long too?

The king's affairs now call me far from Burgos,

And ere we meet again twelve hours must pass.

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

_Caesa._ Yet should I leave thee

With calmer soul, nor feel such pain in absence,

Were I but sure one wish----

_Amel._ [_Eagerly._] Oh! name it, name it,

But ask me nothing light in action: ask me

Something strange, hard, and painful: Something, such

As none would dare to do but one who loves.

Name, name this blessed wish.

_Caesa._'Tis this--From midnight,

Till my return, avoid the royal tower.

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

_Caesa._ When we meet

Thou shalt know all; till then forgive my silence:

Seal with a kiss thy promise, then farewell.

[_Here_ Alfonso _advances in silence; his eyes are fixed on his

daughter, his hands are folded, and his whole appearance expresses the

utmost dejection._]

_Amel._ Farewell, since it must be farewell----But mark,

See not Ottilia ere you go.

_Caesa._ I will not.

_Amel._ And when the bell's deep tongue announces midnight,

Breathe thou my name, for at that hour, my love,

I'll think on thee.--That hour! Oh, fool! as if

Hours could be found in which I think not on thee.

And must thou go?--Nay, if thou must, away,

Or I shall bid thee stay, and stay forever.

Farewell my husband!

_Caesa._ My soul's joy, farewell!

_Amel._ Oh! pain of parting!

[_Turning round, her eye rests on_ Alfonso. _She starts, and remains as

petrified with terror. After a pause, he passes her in silence; but, on

his reaching the door, she rushes towards him, her hands clasped in

supplication._]

Father!

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

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

_End of Act II._

ACT III.

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

_Enter_ Ottilia _and_ Inis.

_Otti._ Was it so sudden?--What, no cause assigned,

And so severe a shock too?--Trust me, Inis,

Thy tale alarms me.

_Inis._ On the earth we found her

Senseless and cold: we raised and bore her hither,

Where she revived only to sigh and sorrow,

Wring her fair hands, and shriek her father's name.

_Otti._ 'Tis wondrous strange,--Mourning my own afflictions,

This rumour reached me; straight all else forgotten,

Hither by love and duty urged I sped,

Nor come I trust in vain,----this phial holds

Drops of most precious power.--Good Inis take it,

And in your lady's drink infuse this liquid:

My life upon her cure.

_Inis._ Obedience best

Will speak my thanks, nor doubt----Lo, where approaches

My lady's ghostly father, holy Bazil.

_Enter Father_ Bazil.

_Bazil._ Pardon that rudely thus I break your parley,

But from the king I come, to bid the Infanta

Attend him here.----Good Inis lead me to her.

_Inis._ Here lies our way--Again I thank you, lady;

Ere night I'll use your gift. [_Exit with_ Bazil.

_Otti._ And if thou dost,

Go ring a funeral knel, and get thee mourning,

And gather flowers to strew thy lady's grave:

Thou'lt gather none so sweet as that I wither,

--Hark! 'twas her voice.----How at the sound seemed ice

To seize my every vein!--My victim comes!

--I cannot bear her sight!--So young to die!

So young, so fair, so gentle, and so good!

With such an angel's life, and my soul's quiet--

Oh, God! Caesario, thou art purchased dearly.

[_Exit._

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

_Bazil._ No passion flushed his cheek; his voice, his manner,

Though solemn were not stern; and when he named you,

A tear gushed forth, ere he could turn him from me.

Then droop not thus, nor doubt paternal love.--

_Amel._ Oh! 'tis that love distracts me, for his love

Was love so great! 'Twas but this morn he termed me

The only tie which chained him still to life!

And I have broke that tie!

_Bazil._ Nay, gentle princess!

_Amel._ Perhaps have broke his heart too! from his lips

Have dashed joy's last poor lingering drop, and shown him,

His only prop was frail as all the former!

Could I but think he felt like common parents,

That when he found my fault, affection died,

Then I were blest! then I alone should suffer,

And when his hatred broke my heart, could seek

Some lone sad place, and lay me down and die!

Alas! alas! I know I was his darling!

Know by the joy I gave him once, too well

How sharp the grief must be, I cause him now!

_Bazil._ That partial love which cherished thus your virtues,

Will now absolve your fault.

_Amel._ But when he frowns?

I ne'er yet saw him frown,--but sure he's dreadful!

Oh! ere I meet those eyes (which yet ne'er viewed me

But their kind language spoke uncounted blessings)

And find them dark with gloom, and dread with lightnings,

Closed be my own in death!--Hark! hark! he comes

In all his terrors, comes to spurn and drive me

For ever from his sight.--His frown will kill me!

Shield me, Estella, shield me!

Alfonso _enters, followed by_ Ricardo _and courtiers_.

_Alfon._ [_Aside, looking at_ Amelrosa.] Can it be!

Can she too have deceived--!--Retire awhile.

[_Exeunt_ Estella, &c.

_Manent_ Alfonso _and_ Amelrosa.

_Amel._ [_Advancing with timidity, then rushing

forward and falling prostrate at his feet._] My father?--Oh! my father.

_Alfon._ Rise!

Nay rise: what fears't thou? Wherefore weep, and tremble?

_Thou_ hast no cause for grief! The poisoned arrow

Has pierced no heart but mine! These eyes alone

Need weep for what they've seen! _Thou_ hast not felt

What 'tis to lose all faith in man! to see

Joy and hope die together; and to find,

When all thy soul loved best hung on thy neck,

Each kiss was false, and each sweet smile was hollow!

Well! well! 'Tis past grief's curing! wondrous bitter,

But must be borne! a few short months, and then

The grave mends all.

_Amel._ [_Aside._] Pangs of the dying sinner,

Are ye more sharp than mine!

_Alfon._ More tears?--Perhaps

You tremble, lest my regal wrath should crush

The audacious slave who stole his sovereign's daughter?

No, princess, no! I can excuse the youth,

Nor look from mortals for divine forbearance.

A fairer fruit than ever dragon guarded,

Courting his hand and hung within his grasp,

He could not choose but pluck it.

_Amel._ Oh! I would

My heart would spring before thine eyes, and show thee

Each word thou utter'st, written there in blood!

That it could speak----!

_Alfon._ What could it say? but plead

The youth's fair form, high fame, and great acquirements!

Gratitude that from ruffian hands he saved thee,

Feelings too fond, and thus excuse thy love!

But could it e'er excuse thy long dissembling,

Thy seeming confidence, thy vows all broken,

Thy arts to lull me in a blissful dream,

From which the waking's dreadful! Why deceive me?

Why hide as from a foe thy thoughts from me?

Why banish me thy bosom? didst thou fear me?

Didst fear my power, my pride, my wrath? Oh! was I--

Was I so harsh a father, Amelrosa?

_Amel._ [_Aside._] Heart, sure thy strings are

steel, or they would break!

_Alfon._ Yet 'Tis deserved? I was too fond! too partial!

Still loved thee better than my son, whose heart

Perhaps this partial love has turned against me--

If so, my pain is just!--Daughter I'll chide

No more; nor came I here to chide, but bless thee,

This parchment gives thy lord Medina's dukedom,

With all its fair domains; the dowry promised,

When my fond bosom hoped that princely Arragon----

But that's now passed!--Take it--farewell--be happy----

We meet no more!

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

_Alfon._ 'Twere vain, 'twere cruel,

To make thee toil to fan thy love's faint embers,

Since faith is dead; and though I still doat on thee,

I'll trust no more--Thy choice is made, and may

That choice prove all thy fondest dreams e'er pictured!

Blest be thy days as the first man's in Eden,

Before sin was! Be thy brave lord's affection

Firm as his valour, lovely as thy form!

And shouldst thou ever know, with thy whole soul

What 'tis to love a child, and hold it dearer

Than freedom, light, or life--Oh may that darling

Show thee more faith than thou hast shown to me.

I've done--Have there the deed--Farewell!

_Amel._ [_Grasping the hand which he extends

with the parchment, and pressing it to her lips._] Have mercy!

_Alfon._ Mercy?--On whom?

_Amel._ An humbled, breaking heart,

But which, though breaking, loves thee dearly, dearly!

Throw me not from thee!

_Alfon._ Hast not all thy wishes?

Thy husband's pardon, honour, wealth, and freedom,

To live with whom, and how, and where thou wilt?

What wouldst thou more?

_Amel._ That, without which all these

Are nothing, and each seeming grace true curses!

Thy heart! thy heart my father! Give me that!

Thy whole, whole heart, such as I once possessed it,

Soft--kind--indulgent--open--feeling--fond!

'Tis this I ask,--or, this denied, to die.

Yes! strike me at your foot; spurn, trample, crush me!

Twist in my streaming locks your hand, and drag me,

Till from my wounded bosom streams of blood

Gush forth, and dye the marble red!--All this

Were far less anguish to a _generous_ soul,

Than this so torturing love, so cruel kindness!

_Alfon._ I will not hear----

_Amel._ Oh! leave me not, my father,

Nor bid me leave thee! Let my anguish move thee;

Let not, though great, a single error lose me

The fruits of twenty years pass'd in thy service,

Which in thy service pass'd seemed short as moments.

_Alfon._ It must not be--

_Amel._ You would, but cannot hide it;

I still am dear! Each look, each feature speaks it,

Speaks to a softening heart--Oh! hear its pleading,

And bid me stay! I'll only stay to love thee!

Look on me! mark my altered form! observe

The strong convulsions of my gasping bosom!

See my wan cheeks, eyes swoln, lips trembling! feel

How scalding are the tears with which I dew

This dear, dear hand! Judge by thy own _my_ sufferings,

And bid me cease to suffer; when with force,

Such as despair alone can give, and louder

Than fiends implore from their volcanic prisons

The Arch-angel's grace, I cry to thee--"Have mercy."--

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

_Amel._ Weakness, say'st thou?

Oh! glorious fault! Oh! fair defect!--Oh! weakness

Passing all strength! If to forgive be sin,

How deeply then must Heaven have sinned to man!

Oh! be thy faults like Heaven's! Relent, my father!

Pardon--! Oh! speak that word!

_Alfon._ My heart! my heart!

My bursting heart!

_Amel._ That word, that blessed word,

So quickly said, so easy, as 'twere magic

Breaks sorrow's spell and bids her phantoms fly!

That word, that word, that one, one little word.

And I am blest!----

_Alfonso._ [_Yielding to his emotions, and clasping

her eagerly to his bosom._] Be blest then! _Exit._

_Amel._ Now, ye stars,

Which nightly grace the sky, if ye love goodness

Pour dews celestial from your golden vials

On yon dear gracious head!--Oh why is now

My husband absent? Lend thy doves dear Venus,

That I may send them where Caesario strays;

And while he smoothes their silver wings, and gives them

For drink the honey of his lips, I'll bid them

Coo in his ear, his Amelrosa's happy!

Joy, joy, my soul! Bound, my gay dancing heart!

Waft me, ye winds! To bear so blest a creature

Earth is not worthy! Loved by those I love,

I've all my soul e'er wished, my hopes e'er fancied,

My father's friendship, and Caesario's heart!

Leave me but these, and, fortune I defy thee! [_Exit._

SCENE II. _The forest as before._

_Enter_ Caesario _and_ Henriquez.

_Caesa._ He spurned him, Marquis, spurned him! With such scorn,

Such genuine ardent hate, repaid his soothing--

Oh! by that hate I feel, the blood which fills

These veins is right Orsino's!

_Hen._ 'Tis reported,

The king shed tears.

_Caesa._ Marquis, he wept, fawned, pleaded

Remorse, and sued for pardon, with such fervour,

As starving souls for bread!

_Hen._ Did not at this

Orsino's ire melt?

_Caesa._ Melt? Like yon fortress rock,

(Which rears his tower-clad front above the billows,

Nor heeds the winds that blow, nor rains that beat)

Proof against tears, and deaf to all entreaties,

Unmoved the stern one stood, and frowned his answer.

Oh! fear not, friend: like me he loaths Alfonso,

And, when I place revenge within his grasping,

Will spring to reach it.

_Hen._ 'Tis past doubt, his aid

Were to our cause a tower of strength; yet still

I fear, lest----Some one leaves the cave!--'Tis he!

I'll wait beneath yon limes. [_Exit._

Orsino _enters from the cave_.

_Caesa._ Now by my life

A noble ruin!

_Orsi._ I return to Burgos?

For what? To show my scars and hear court ladies

Rail at the wars for making men so hideous?

To bear the coxcomb's sneer, the minion's fawning,

And see fools sweetly smile at my good fortune,

Who, when my death was signed, smiled full as sweetly?

No, no, I'll none on't. [_Seeing_ Caesario.]

Plagues and fiends! another!

More gold and silk; more musk, fair words, and lying!

Will these court flies ne'er cease to buz around me?

Well, sir, what seek ye here?

_Caesa._ Revenge.

_Orsi._ Indeed!

On whom?

_Caesa._ On lawless power. Ask ye for what?

A father's wrongs and mother's murder!

_Orsi._ (_starting._) How!

That voice--Let me look on thee well--Those lips,

Those eyes--Oh Heaven! those eyes, too! I ne'er saw

But one have eyes like thine, an earthly angel,

And with the angels now. Fair youth, who art thou?

_Caesa._ Speaks not thy heart?

_Orsi._ It does, youth, Oh! It does;

But I'll not trust it; for if false its whispers

So sweet, so painful sweet--Dear good youth tell me,

Spare a poor broken heart, and tell me quickly

Thy father's name.

_Caesa._ My father! Oh! that was

A man indeed, and model for all others!

His country's sword, his country's shield, a hero,

A demigod; and great as were his actions,

So were his wrongs.

_Orsi._ His name! his name!

_Caesa._ (_rushing into his arms_) Orsino!

_Orsi._ I have him! hold him here! Death alone parts us.

My son! Victoria's son! Come, come, my boy,

Kneel at this tomb with me; join thou my suit

For the blest dust beneath, and read through tears

Here sleeps thy mother. Wandering forth to seek her,

Unknown her fate and thine, chance led me hither.

I marked yon tablet, read yon piteous lines,

Threw those now useless arms forever from me,

Sank on Victoria's grave, nor left it more;

Yet, yet I died not! Amelrosa's kindness,

Which gave me freedom, traced me to this spot,

And saved my life, my wretched life, which still

I only use to mourn thy loss, Victoria.

Know'st thou, my boy, when her eyes closed forever?

Whose hand----

_Caesa._ Her son's--

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

_Caesa._ 'Twas mine too raised

Yon rustic tomb, and 'twas this cave received her

When, desperate at your loss, she fled the court.

Here long she sorrowed, here at length she died,

Died of a broken heart! Ay weep, my father;

For know the king shall pay each tear thou shed'st

With drops of blood.

_Orsi._ The king? Boy, name him not.

That sound is poison. I was once so happy;

Was once so rich--and that one man stole all.

My curse be on him!

_Caesa._ Man, thy curse is heard.

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

_Caesa._ Vengeance! Hark, Orsino--

Soon as my mother died (believed Caesario

A young unknown) I sought the court, where chance

Gave me from ruffian Moors to save the princess.

This made Alfonso mine, and still I've used him

To further mine own ends. Joy, joy, my father!

My plots are ripe, the king's best troops corrupted,

His son, too, through my arts, declared a rebel;

And, ere two nights are past, I'll strip the tyrant

Both of his throne and life. Rouse then, and aid

----Now, sir, why gaze you thus?

_Orsi._ I fain would doubt it;

Fain find some plea--No, no, each look, each feature,

And my own heart----'Tis true thou art my son!

_Caesa._ What mean you?

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

_Caesa._ (_starting_) Villain!

_Orsi._ Destroy Alfonso! What! Alfonso,

The wise, the good?

_Caesa._ With thee then was he either?

Has he not wronged thee?

_Orsi._ Deeply, boy, most deeply.

But in his whole wide kingdom none but me.

Look through Castile; see all smile, bloom, and flourish.

No peasant sleeps ere he has breathed a blessing

On his good king; no thirst of power, false pride,

Or martial rage he knows; nor would he shed

One drop of subject-blood to buy the title

Of a new Mars! E'en broken hearted widows

And childless mothers, while they weep the slain,

Cursing the wars, confess his cause was just.

Such is Alfonso, such the man whose virtues

Now fill thy throne, Castile, to bliss thy children!

What shows the adverse scale! What find we there?

_My_ sufferings, mine alone! And what am _I_,

That I should weigh me 'gainst the public welfare?

What are my wrongs against a monarch's rights?

What is my curse against a nation's blessings?

_Caesa._ Yet hear me.

_Orsi._ I assist your plots! I injure

One hair that's nourished with Alfonso's blood!

No! The wronged subject hates the ungrateful master;

But the world's friend must love the patriot king.

_Caesa._ Amazement! Can it be Orsino speaking?

'Tis some court minion sure, some tool of office,

Some threadbare muse pensioned to praise the throne;

This cannot be the man whose burning vengeance,

Whose fixed aversion----

_Or._ Boy, 'Tis fixed as ever.

Alfonso's sight, his name, his very goodness,

Forcing my praise, torture my soul to madness.

I hate him, hate him; but still own his virtues;

And though I hate, Oh bless the good king, Heaven!

_Caesa._ Oh most strange patience! most rare stretch of temper!

What! bless the man who thought you treacherous, base,

Ungrateful!

_Orsi._ And because he thought me such,

(Remembering only what his fault deserves,

Forgetting all that's due to mine own honour)

Shall I become the wretched thing he thought me?

Prove his suspicions just? quit the proud station

Where injured Virtue towers and sink me down to

His level who oppressed me? Oh, not so!

When hostile arms strain every nerve to crush me,

Pang follows pang, and wrong to wrong succeeds,

Piled like the Alps, each loftier than the last one,

To pay those wrongs with good, those pangs with kindness,

To raise the foe once fallen, bind his gored breast,

And heap, with generous zeal, favours on favours,

Till his repentant spirit melts and bleeds

To think he ever pained a heart like mine,

Such is _my_ hate! such my proud soul's whole object.

The only vengeance noble minds should take.

_Caesa._ Farewell, then, since far other hate is mine,

And asks for other vengeance. I'll to seek it.

_Orsi._ Stay, youth, and hear me. Ere you quit this spot.

Since virtue has no power to chain or awe thee,

Swear to forgo thy traitorous schemes, or straight

I'll seek the king----

_Caesa._ You dare not: no, you dare not.

Nay, start not. I but know my power and use it.

Look on these lips and eyes; they are Victoria's.

And shall Victoria's lips be sealed forever?

And shall Victoria's eyes be closed in death?

E'en while you rage, with looks so fond you eye me,

They speak, your love will guaranty your silence.

_Orsi._ 'Tis true, too true: but dear and cruel boy,

Though threats succeed not, let these tears prevail,

Tears for thy dying virtue. Oh look round thee!

See to mankind what curses bad kings are,

And learn from them the blessings of a good one.

_Caesa._ Father, in vain you urge me. Know I've sworn

Alfonso's death. My mother's shade demands it.

Who asked that promise, with an oath confirmed.

And what she asked I gave.

_Orsi._ Oh! Wherefore did'st thou?

Since she required an oath to seal thy promise,

Thou shouldst have known thy promise must be wrong.

Virtue and truth are in themselves convincing,

Nor need the feeble sanction of man's lips;

As the sun needs no aid from foreign orbs,

Itself a fire-formed world of light and glory.

What meant thine oath? What meant those magic words?

Save by thy lips to bind thy hand to do

What makes each wise head shake, each good heart shudder.

Thy impious vow----

_Caesa._ Impious or just, once sworn,

To break it sure were shame.

_Orsi._ My son, 'twere virtue,

When to perform it were the worst of crimes,

'Twas wrong to swear; be with that wrong contented.

A second fault cannot make right the first;

And acts of guilt absolve no act of folly.

_Caesa._ Guilt! Then we jar for words. I see but glory

Where thou seest guilt: yet call it what thou wilt.

I _may_ be guilty, but I _must_ be great.

_Orsi._ A dreadful word!

_Caesa._ A crown, a crown invites me!

A glorious crown!

_Orsi._ Glorious! Oh no! True glory

Is not to _wear_ a crown but to _deserve_ one.

The peasant swain who leads a good man's life,

And dies at last a good man's death, obtains

In Wisdom's eye wreaths of far brighter splendour

Than he whose wanton pride and thirst for empire

Make kings his captives, and lay waste a world.

_Caesa._ And is't not glorious then to bless my country

By just and gentle ruling; fight her battles;

Preserve her laws----

_Orsi._ Thou, thou preserve her laws----

Thou fight her battles! thou--I tell thee, boy,

The hand which serves its country should be pure.

Ambition, selfish love, vain lust of power

Ravage thy head and heart! and would'st thou hold

The judgment balance with a hand still red

With royal blood? Would'st thou dare speak a penance

On guilt, thyself so guilty? Canst thou hope

Castile will trust her to thee? God forbid!

Mad is that nation, mad past thought of cure,

Past chains and dungeons, whips, spare food, and fasting,

Who yields the immortal man a patriot's name,

And looks in private vice for public virtue.

Thou play the patriot's part! Away, away!

Who _wounds_ his country is the worst of monsters;

But good men only should _presume_ to _serve_ her.

Thy guilt once seen----

_Caesa._ And who shall see that guilt

When wrapt in purple, and the world's eye dazzled

By the o'erpowering blaze a crown emits?

What pilgrim, gazing on some awful torrent,

Thinks through what roads it passed? Let golden fortune

But smile propitious on my daring crimes,

And all my crimes are virtues! Mark this, father,

The world ne'er holds those guilty who succeed. [_Exit._

_Orsi._ (_alone._) How shall I act? He said within two nights----

Whate'er is done must be done soon--Oh! how,

How shall I tread this labyrinth; how contrive

To save my king, yet not destroy my son?

The princess! Ha! well thought! It shall be so.

I'll seek her, and Alfonso's life preserved,

At once shall pay her kindness for my freedom,

And buy my son's full pardon. Yes, I'll haste,

And snatch my sovereign from this gulf of ruin.

I, I the Atlas of his tottering throne----

Prosperous I shunned; unhappy, I forgive him;

He reigned, I scorned his power; he sinks, I'll save him. [_Exit._

_End of Act III._

ACT IV.

SCENE I. Amelrosa's _chamber._

Amelrosa _in white robes, crowned with flowers_, Estella, _with a

letter._

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

_Estel._ In sable armour; round his neck was slung

A bugle horn. In courteous guise he prayed me

Give you this note unseen.

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

"One, not unknown, requests an immediate

audience on matters most important. Princess,

delay not as you value your father's life."

Not signed! My father's life! Estella say,

Did he not tell his name?

_Estel._ He said this jewel

Would speak whence came his letter.

_Amel._ Ha! The ring

I gave Orsino! Quickly seek yon stranger,

And charge him meet me at St. Juan's chapel;

For there to pass the night in grateful prayer,

E'en now I go----Friend speed thee.

_Amel._ [_Alone_] Doubt and terror----

My father's life?--And yet, for such a father

What need I fear? Heaven will defend its own,

And wings of seraphs shield that king from harm,

Whose proudest title is--"his people's father,"

Whose dearest treasure is his people's love! [_Exit._