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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Mirror of Taste, and Dramatic Censor, Vol. I, No. 5, May 1810 + +Author: Various + +Editor: Stephen Cullen Carpenter + +Release Date: October 31, 2008 [EBook #27109] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MIRROR OF TASTE, MAY 1810 *** + + + + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Josephine Paolucci +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net. + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[Pg 349]</a></span></p> + + + +<h1>THE MIRROR OF TASTE,</h1> + +<h3>AND</h3> + +<h1>DRAMATIC CENSOR.</h1> + + +<h2>Vol. I. MAY, 1810. No. 5.</h2> + + +<p class="notes">Transcriber's Note: Minor typos have been corrected and footnotes moved +to the end of the article. Table of contents has been created for the HTML version.</p> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --> +<p> +<a href="#HISTORY_OF_THE_STAGE"><b>HISTORY OF THE STAGE.</b></a><br /> +<a href="#BIOGRAPHY"><b>BIOGRAPHY.</b></a><br /> +<a href="#BIOGRAPHY_FOR_THE_MIRROR"><b>BIOGRAPHY—FOR THE MIRROR.</b></a><br /> +<a href="#NOKES"><b>NOKES.</b></a><br /> +<a href="#MISCELLANY"><b>MISCELLANY.</b></a><br /> +<a href="#SPORTING_INTELLIGENCE"><b>SPORTING INTELLIGENCE.</b></a><br /> +<a href="#DRAMATIC_CENSOR"><b>DRAMATIC CENSOR.</b></a><br /> +<a href="#ALFONSO_KING_OF_CASTILE"><b>ALFONSO, KING OF CASTILE:</b></a><br /> + <a href="#ACT_I"><b>ACT I.</b></a><br /> + <a href="#ACT_II"><b>ACT II.</b></a><br /> + <a href="#ACT_III"><b>ACT III.</b></a><br /> + <a href="#ACT_IV"><b>ACT IV.</b></a><br /> + <a href="#ACT_V"><b>ACT V.</b></a><br /> +</p> +<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. --> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="HISTORY_OF_THE_STAGE" id="HISTORY_OF_THE_STAGE"></a>HISTORY OF THE STAGE.</h2> + + +<h3>CHAPTER V.</h3> + +<h4><i>Conclusion of the Greek Drama.</i></h4> + + +<h4>MENANDER.</h4> + +<p>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 +<i>Menander</i>, the amiable and the refined, came forth and claimed the bay.</p> + +<p>This celebrated writer, who justly obtained the appellation of "prince +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[Pg 350]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[Pg 351]</a></span>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?"</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="smcap">Terence</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[Pg 352]</a></span> 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, "<span class="smcap">O +Menander! O Nature! which of you have copied the works of the other?</span>" +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 Cæsar, 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[Pg 353]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p>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 <span class="smcap">Pindar</span>, in +respect to that great poet's memory. <span class="smcap">Terpander</span> too, a lyric poet and +musician is related by Ælian 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.</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="smcap">Agesilaus</span> who held the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[Pg 354]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>Terpander</i> for their captors, peremptorily +refused to comply, because it was forbidden them by their old masters.</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[Pg 355]</a></span> 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 Aridœus, 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 <span class="smcap">Eumenes</span>, 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>In Greece, declamation was regarded as the principal step to honour and +advancement in public life. The greatest<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[Pg 356]</a></span> 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 <span class="smcap">Satyrus</span>, 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[Pg 357]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="BIOGRAPHY" id="BIOGRAPHY"></a>BIOGRAPHY.</h2> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>This memoir first appeared prefixed to that author's translation of +Juvenal.</p> + + +<h4>LIFE OF WILLIAM GIFFORD, ESQ. AUTHOR OF THE BAEVIAD AND MAEVIAD, AND +TRANSLATOR OF JUVENAL.</h4> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[Pg 358]</a></span> undutiful conduct occasioned my great-grandfather to +bequeath a part of his property from him.</p> + +<p>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 name="FNanchor_A_1" id="FNanchor_A_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</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,<a name="FNanchor_B_2" id="FNanchor_B_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_B_2" class="fnanchor">[B]</a> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[Pg 359]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p>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;<a name="FNanchor_C_3" id="FNanchor_C_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_C_3" class="fnanchor">[C]</a> 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[Pg 360]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[Pg 361]</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[Pg 362]</a></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[Pg 363]</a></span> +nothing but the horror I felt when I first found myself unable to cry +out for assistance.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Since I had lived at Brixham, I had broken off all connexion with +Ashburton. I had no relation there but my poor brother,<a name="FNanchor_D_4" id="FNanchor_D_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_D_4" class="fnanchor">[D]</a> 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[Pg 364]</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>All this I learned on my arrival; and my heart, which had been cruelly +shut up, now opened to kinder sentiments, and fairer views.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>On mentioning my little plan to C——, he treated it with the utmost +contempt; and told me, in his turn, that as I had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[Pg 365]</a></span> 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<a name="FNanchor_E_5" id="FNanchor_E_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_E_5" class="fnanchor">[E]</a> till I should attain the age of twenty-one.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[Pg 366]</a></span> reading it frequently with her, +had impressed it strongly on my mind; these then, with the Imitation of +Thomas à Kempis, which I used to read to my mother on her death-bed, +constituted the whole of my literary acquisitions.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[Pg 367]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h4>(<i>To be concluded in our next.</i>)</h4> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_A_1" id="Footnote_A_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_1"><span class="label">[A]</span></a> He had gone with Bamfylde Moore Carew, then an old man.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_B_2" id="Footnote_B_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_B_2"><span class="label">[B]</span></a> Her maiden name was Elizabeth Cain. My father's christian +name was Edward.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_C_3" id="Footnote_C_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_C_3"><span class="label">[C]</span></a> 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.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_D_4" id="Footnote_D_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_D_4"><span class="label">[D]</span></a> Of my brother here introduced for the last time, I must yet +say a few words. He was literally +</p> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The child of misery baptized in tears;<br /></span> +</div></div> +<p> +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.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_E_5" id="Footnote_E_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_E_5"><span class="label">[E]</span></a> My indenture, which now lies before me, is dated the first +of January, 1772.</p></div> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[Pg 368]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="BIOGRAPHY_FOR_THE_MIRROR" id="BIOGRAPHY_FOR_THE_MIRROR"></a>BIOGRAPHY—FOR THE MIRROR.</h2> + +<h3>SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE LATE MR. HODGKINSON.</h3> + +<h4>(<i>Continued from page 297.</i>)</h4> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How many then should cover that stand bare!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How many be commanded that command!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[Pg 369]</a></span> 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."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Sir,</p> + +<p>"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,</p></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I am yours obediently,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"<i>An old friend of John Hodgkinson.</i>"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">[Pg 370]</a></span></p> + +<p>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 <i>ladies</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">[Pg 371]</a></span> 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 <i>game eye</i> 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.<a name="FNanchor_F_6" id="FNanchor_F_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_F_6" class="fnanchor">[F]</a></p> + +<p>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 <i>great</i> 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372">[Pg 372]</a></span> shooting to which he was afterwards so warmly +addicted, and which indeed was, in the end, the cause of his death.</p> + +<p>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 <i>vice versa</i>, he concluded on the former, saying to +himself that <i>Hermes</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">[Pg 373]</a></span> his frequent and free communications, the +writer of this has often found it difficult to account for them +satisfactorily.</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_374" id="Page_374">[Pg 374]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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—<i>says</i> what he pleases to every one, and <i>does</i> 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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">[Pg 375]</a></span></p> + +<p>"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<a name="FNanchor_G_7" id="FNanchor_G_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_G_7" class="fnanchor">[G]</a> 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_376" id="Page_376">[Pg 376]</a></span> +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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_377" id="Page_377">[Pg 377]</a></span> O or a <span class="smcap">Mac</span> to his name by +the <i>aisy affability</i> with which he helped himself to the great chair. +Old Maclaughlin, that blackguard Jew that calls himself Macklin, could +not surpass it for <i>modesty</i>." 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."</p> + +<p>"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<a name="FNanchor_H_8" id="FNanchor_H_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_H_8" class="fnanchor">[H]</a> 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 <i>you</i> dont, the d——l a crust shall <i>he</i> 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."</p> + +<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_378" id="Page_378">[Pg 378]</a></span> 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 <i>Tenducci</i>, boy?" "No sir." "No matter, you are not +the worse for that; but I have nothing to do with <i>Italianos</i>. 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."</p> + +<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_379" id="Page_379">[Pg 379]</a></span> 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.""</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_380" id="Page_380">[Pg 380]</a></span> +which he was not so warmly received as the managers expected, being +<i>encored</i> 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 <i>with good will</i> 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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h4>(<i>To be continued.</i>)</h4> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_F_6" id="Footnote_F_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_F_6"><span class="label">[F]</span></a> 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.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_G_7" id="Footnote_G_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_G_7"><span class="label">[G]</span></a> In the low cant of the Irish, gross adulation is called +<i>the dirty butter of Ballyhack</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_H_8" id="Footnote_H_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_H_8"><span class="label">[H]</span></a> A <span class="smcap">Jingle</span>—means a very small piece of coin in the slang of +the low Irish.</p></div> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_381" id="Page_381">[Pg 381]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="NOKES" id="NOKES"></a>NOKES.</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Colley Cibber has transmitted to us in his apology, the +following character of the greatest of all comedians.</p></div> + + +<p>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 <i>vis comica</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_382" id="Page_382">[Pg 382]</a></span> &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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>vexation</i>—that his +own measures, which he had piqued himself upon, had failed. <i>Envy</i>—of +his servant's superior wit—<i>distress</i>—to retrieve, the occasion<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_383" id="Page_383">[Pg 383]</a></span> he +had lost. <i>Shame</i>—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?</p> + +<p>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 <i>Mark Antony</i> says of <i>Brutus</i> as a hero.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">His life was laughter, and the ludicrous<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So mix'd, in him, that nature might stand up,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And say to all the world—this was an <i>actor</i>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_384" id="Page_384">[Pg 384]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="MISCELLANY" id="MISCELLANY"></a>MISCELLANY.</h2> + + +<h3> +THEOBALDUS SECUNDUS,<br /> +OR<br /> +SHAKSPEARE AS HE SHOULD BE.<br /></h3> + +<h4>NO. IV.</h4> + +<h4><i>Hamlet Prince of Denmark, continued.</i></h4> + +<p>Latin and Greek are the only tongues in which departed spirits can be +addressed, for this reason they are denominated the <i>dead</i> languages. +The nonappearance of these supernatural beings in the present day, may +be fairly ascribed to the decay of the learned languages. <span class="smcap">Cobbet</span>, with +all his volubility, has not a word to throw at a ghost. Johnson says:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakspeare rose.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>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,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Horatio.</i> ——I have heard,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Awake the god of day.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Doctor Fungus will have it, that cock should be clock, and ground his +opinions upon the situation of St. Paul's clock.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_385" id="Page_385">[Pg 385]</a></span> 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 <i>mind's eye</i>! The +epithet <i>lofty</i> 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 +<i>agreeable surprise</i>, informs us that the cock is the bird of +Pallas—Pallas is the goddess of wisdom, and of course an early +riser——</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Early to bed, and early to rise, &c.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>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——</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"You have wak'd me too soon, I must slumber again."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>and being the god of wit, when he rubbed his own eyes, doubtless vented +an imprecation on those of Minerva.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Thus wit and judgment ever are at strife."—<i>Pope.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>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—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The extravagant and erring spirit hies<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To his confine."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"The extravagant i. e. got out of his bounds"—<i>Warburton</i>—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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_386" id="Page_386">[Pg 386]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But look, the morn in russet mantle clad,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Russet mantle!</i> 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——</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ροδοδακτυλος Ηως.—Rosy-finger'd morn.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>This is more like an old washerwoman than a young goddess. Ovid calls +her rutilis Aurora capillis. And again—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">Ut solet aër<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Purpureus fieri, primum Aurora movetur.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>I translate "purpureus fieri," a fiery purple. What says Virgil of that +particoloured damsel——</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Tithoni croceum liquens Aurora cubile.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>A golden bed, by the way, is but a poor atonement for a leaden old +spouse snoring in it.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Lucia thinks happiness consists in state,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She weds an ideot, but she eats off plate.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The moderns have been equally fanciful in describing Aurora. An old song +says——</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The morning was up gray as a rat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The clock struck something, faith I can't tell what.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_387" id="Page_387">[Pg 387]</a></span></div></div> + +<p>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 +<i>gray beard</i> is fit for an old man, and <i>blue eyes</i> for a young woman.</p> + +<p>And now, reader, "<i>make way for the speaker</i>."—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 <i>bonne bouche</i> to open my +next dissertation.</p> + +<h4>(<i>To be Continued.</i>)</h4> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p><span class="smcap">Dr. John Hill</span>, 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.</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_388" id="Page_388">[Pg 388]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_389" id="Page_389">[Pg 389]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_390" id="Page_390">[Pg 390]</a></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_391" id="Page_391">[Pg 391]</a></span></p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h4><i>King Lear.</i></h4> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_392" id="Page_392">[Pg 392]</a></span> have a +fair struggle; and who can doubt the final triumph of Shakspeare.<a name="FNanchor_I_9" id="FNanchor_I_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_I_9" class="fnanchor">[I]</a></p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>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 <i>live very happy after</i>. 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_393" id="Page_393">[Pg 393]</a></span> advanced a sentence, which must be a perpetual +stumbling-block to every advocate of Tate, viz. "<i>if other excellencies +are equal</i>," &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.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"<i>Enter Lear, with Cordelia dead in his arms.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"<i>Lear.</i> Howl, howl, howl, howl!—O, you are men of stones;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had I your tongues and eyes, I'd use them so<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That heaven's vault should crack:—O, she is gone forever!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I know, when one is dead, and when one lives;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She's dead as earth.——<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Ha!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What is't thou says't?—Her voice was ever soft,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gentle, and low; an excellent thing in woman:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I kill'd the slave that was a hanging thee.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_394" id="Page_394">[Pg 394]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thou no breath at all? O, thou wilt come no more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Never, never, never, never, never!—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Pray you, undo this button: Thank you sir.—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Do you see this?—Look on her,—look,—her lips,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Look there,—look there!— [<i>He dies.</i>"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>What a "luxury of wo" does this exquisite scene afford? What can Tate +produce to counterbalance its value?</p> + +<p>The next material alteration is the intrusion of love.<a name="FNanchor_J_10" id="FNanchor_J_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_J_10" class="fnanchor">[J]</a> 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:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Cordelia, royal fair, turn yet once more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And ere successful Burgundy receive<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The tribute of thy beauties from the king."—<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_395" id="Page_395">[Pg 395]</a></span></div></div> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'Tis my chief wish, my joy, my only plan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To lose no drop of that immortal man."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4"><i>Prologue to Catherine and Petruchio.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_396" id="Page_396">[Pg 396]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I am, Mr. Editor, your's, &c.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4"><span class="smcap">A Shakspearian</span>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p><i>A week's journal of a strolling player.</i></p> + +<p><i>Monday.</i> We opened the house with the tragedy of the <i>distressed +mother</i>; I played <i>Orestes</i>. Our dresses and scenery rather out of +repair, which gave some gentleman occasion to remark; that it would have +been more <i>apropos</i>, had we advertised the play by the title of the +<i>distressed family</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Tuesday.</i> Played George Barnwell. Part of the audience wanted me +hanged: Afterwards did the watchman, and the bailiff in the +<i>Apprentice</i>.—Shared thirteen pence three farthings.</p> + +<p><i>Wednesday.</i> Played <i>Jachimo</i> in <i>Cymbeline</i>. My arms almost +broken by being put into too small a chest. The farce the +<i>Register-office</i>—played <i>Gulwell</i>.—Shared one shilling.</p> + +<p><i>Thursday.</i> Doubled the <i>Ghost</i> and <i>Rosencrantz</i> in <i>Hamlet</i>, and +afterwards played <i>Mogs</i> in the <i>Devil of a Duke</i>. A gentleman affronted +me by saying I was <i>the devil of a conjuror</i>. Shared one shilling and +six pence, and for the first time took my two bits of candles.</p> + +<p><i>Friday.</i> I played <i>Macduff</i>, and two or three other parts in <i>Macbeth</i>, +one of the witches being drunk, we were obliged to make shift with two. +The farce <i>Miss in her teens</i>: 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.</p> + +<p><i>Saturday. The Orphan.</i> The manager had taken <i>Castalio</i> himself, and +insisted on my playing <i>Acasto</i>. An ignorant country fellow introduced +it only to support Acasto in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_397" id="Page_397">[Pg 397]</a></span> 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 <i>Padlock</i> without music. I +played <i>Mungo</i> and never felt any thing half so much as the favourite +air, "I wish to my heart me was dead."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h4><i>Macklin and Foote.</i></h4> + +<p>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 <i>by signals</i>. 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 <i>from the fleet</i> they were taken, +<i>so to the fleet</i> both master and signals are likely to return.</p> + +<h4>Macklin afterwards failed.</h4> + +<p>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 <i>do</i> 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.</p> + +<p>Another time Macklin undertook to show the causes of duelling in +Ireland, and why it was much more the practice<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_398" id="Page_398">[Pg 398]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h4><i>Countess of Carlisle's opinion of the Drama, taken from her maxims to +young ladies.</i></h4> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_399" id="Page_399">[Pg 399]</a></span></p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h4><i>The general lover—An Ovidian rhapsody.</i></h4> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">jaques</span>. The worst fault you have is to be in love.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">orlando</span>. It is a fault I would not change for your best virtue.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Though I may be inconstant to <i>Elizabeth, Betty, and Bess</i>, 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.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If modest the nymph, with her eyes in her lap,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her blushing's enough, I am caught in the trap.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>If she is high spirited I am won, because she is not rustic.—Is she +austere,—I think her willing, but an admirable dissembler.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If learned, than riches I prize it above,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If not, sweet simplicity, O, how I love!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Though her figure heroic would fill the whole bed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For me there'd be room where I'd lay my fond head.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_400" id="Page_400">[Pg 400]</a></span></div></div> + +<p>If she is little and short I am equally glad, for then I can never have +<i>too much</i> 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 <i>must</i> love +her—Is she my friend's—how can I help it!—The fatter, the warmer; the +thinner, she is less subject, <i>perhaps</i>, to the frailty of the +<i>flesh</i>.—Is she lame—how domestic!—Is she deaf—'tis well.—Is she +blind—'tis better.—Is she dumb—O, 'tis too much!</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h4><i>Humorous Epilogues after Tragedies.</i></h4> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 "<i>there is a luxury in wo</i>," independent of its +purifying the bosom and suppressing the more ignoble passions.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_401" id="Page_401">[Pg 401]</a></span> produced of guilty men retiring +from a well-written and well-acted play to repentance and melioration.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dishevell'd still, like Asia's bleeding queen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall I, with jests deride the tragic scene?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No, beauteous mourners! from whose downcast eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Muse has drawn her noblest sacrifice;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose gentle bosoms, Pity's altars, bear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The chrystal incense of each falling tear!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There lives the poet's praise; no critic art<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Can match the comment of a feeling heart!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When general plaudits speak the fable o'er,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which mute attention had approv'd before;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though under spirits love th' accustomed jest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which chases sorrow from the vulgar breast;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still hearts refin'd their sadden'd tints retain—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sigh gives pleasure and the jest is pain:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scarce have they smiles to honour grace or wit,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though Roscius spoke the verse himself had writ.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thus, through the time when vernal fruits receive<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The grateful showers that hang on April's eve;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though every coarser stem of forest birth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Throws with the morning beam its dews to earth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ne'er does the gentle rose revive so soon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, bath'd in nature's tears, it drops till noon.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O could the Muse one simple moral teach,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From scenes like these, which all who hear might reach;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou child of sympathy, whoe'er thou art,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who with Assyria's queen hast wept thy part;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Go search where keener woes demand relief,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Go, while thy heart yet beats with fancied grief.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy breast, still conscious of the recent sigh,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The graceful tear still ling'ring on the eye;<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_402" id="Page_402">[Pg 402]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Go, and on real misery bestow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The blest effusions of fictitious wo,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So shall our muse, supreme of all the nine;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Deserve indeed the title of divine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Virtue shall own her favoured from above,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Pity greet her with a sister's love.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p><i>A few words of advice, extracted from a London magazine.</i></p> + +<h4>TO THE CONDUCTOR.</h4> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Mr. <span class="smcap">Conductor</span>,<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>I am a sort of literary <i>Lounger</i>, though no <i>Connoisseur</i>, yet an +<i>Idler</i>, like myself, will always assume a right to turn <i>Observer</i> upon +every <i>Adventurer</i>; 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>Cabinet</i>; and in case of failure every +<i>Guardian</i> of his own rights will become a <i>Tatler</i>; you will be accused +as a <i>Rambler</i> from your engagements, and, at your downfal, the <i>World</i> +will be an unconcerned <i>Spectator</i>; while, on the contrary, by proper +polish and reflection, you may be styled the <i>Mirror</i> of all <i>Monthly +Magazines</i> in the metropolis. So much for your title, I shall next make +some remarks as to the general conduct of the work itself.</p> + +<p>With regard to the engraved heads prefixed to each number, and called +portraits, I would certainly advise that they should bear <i>some</i> +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.</p> + +<p>I am conscious, however, that there may be exceptions to this general +rule; indeed I know a very worthy vender of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_403" id="Page_403">[Pg 403]</a></span> 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</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8"><i>The head of an eminent actor.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Admit no <i>puns</i> 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 <i>wisdom</i> may lie <i>buried</i> in a +<i>grave</i> demeanour?</p> + +<p>Be not too <i>sentimental</i> neither; nor copy the infantine simplicity of +those dear little children of the <i>Della Cruscan</i> school, who, "<i>lisp in +numbers</i>." 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.</p> + +<p>On the other hand, you must carefully shun the affectation of <i>bombastic +diction</i>—it is lamentable to see a preelucidated theme rendered +semidiaphonous, by the elimination of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_404" id="Page_404">[Pg 404]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p>Avoid <i>alliteration</i>, 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?"</p> + +<p>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 <i>Rural Tales</i> and essays, from the successful +labours of your predecessors. Such things <i>have</i> 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, <i>An Old +Subscriber</i>.</p> + +<p>P. S. I meant to have called myself a <i>Constant Reader</i>, 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,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">S. L. U. M.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h4>A CHAPTER ON LOGIC;</h4> + +<h4><i>Or, the Horse Chesnut, and the Chesnut Horse.</i></h4> + +<p>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.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">An Eton stripling, training for the law,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A dunce at syntax, but a dab at law,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One happy christmas laid upon the shelf<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His cap and gown, and stores of learned pelf.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_405" id="Page_405">[Pg 405]</a></span> +<span class="i0">With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To spend a fortnight at his uncle's home.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Arriv'd, and pass'd the usual how d'ye do's,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Inquiries of old friends and college news;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Well Tom—the road—what saw you worth discerning?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or how goes study:—what is it you're learning?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Oh! logic, sir; but not the shallow rules<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Locke and Bacon—antiquated fools!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis wits' and wranglers' logic: thus, d'ye see,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'll prove at once as plain as A B C,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That an eel-pie's a pigeon—to deny it,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Would be to swear black's not black—come let's try it.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An eel-pie is a pie of fish—agreed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fish-pie may be a jack-pie.—Well proceed.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A jack-pie is a john-pie; and 'tis done,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For every john-pie must be a pie-john,—" (pigeon.)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Bravo!" sir Peter cries, "logic for ever!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That beats my grandmother's, and she was clever.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But hold, my boy, since 'twould be very hard,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That wit and learning should have no reward,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tomorrow, for a stroll, the Park we'll cross;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there I'll give thee,"—"What?" "My chesnut horse,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"A horse!" quoth Tom, "blood, pedigree, and paces,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heav'ns what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To bed he went, and slept for downright sorrow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That night must go before he'd see the morrow;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dreamt of his boots and spurs, and leather breeches,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of hunting-caps, and leaping rails and ditches;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Left his warm nest an hour before the lark!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dragg'd his old uncle, posting, to the Park.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Halter in hand, each vale he scour'd at loss,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To spy out something like a chesnut horse;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But no such animal the meadows cropt—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At length beneath a tree sir Peter stopt;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A branch he caught, then shook it, and down fell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A fine horse chesnut in its prickly shell.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There Tom, take that—Well, sir, and what beside?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why since you're booted, saddle it and ride;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ride what? a chesnut!—Ay, come, get across;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I tell you, Tom, that chesnut is a horse,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all the horse you'll get—for I can show,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As clear as shunshine, that 'tis really so;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_406" id="Page_406">[Pg 406]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not by the musty, fusty, worn out rules<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Locke and Bacon—addle headed fools!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or old Mallebranche—blind pilot into knowledge;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But by the laws of wit, and Eton college.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All axioms but the wranglers I'll disown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And stick to one sound argument—your own.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h4>What is the literary world?</h4> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h4>What are the most rare animals in the world?</h4> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h4><i>Addison's pedigree of Wit.</i></h4> + +<p>Good Sense is his father, Truth his grandfather, and Mirth and Good +Humour are his chosen companions.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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 <i>an ass</i>."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p><i>Curious slip-slop!</i>—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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_407" id="Page_407">[Pg 407]</a></span> 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!</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p><i>Specific for blindness.</i>—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 <i>see</i> the doctor."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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 <i>playing the tyrant</i>!"</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"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 +<i>judges</i>!"</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p><i>An Irish forgery.</i>—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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_408" id="Page_408">[Pg 408]</a></span> crowded court, that the culprit had forged the +<i>signature of a man who could neither read nor write</i>!</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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 <i>fill it</i>."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h4><i>Anecdotes of Macklin.</i></h4> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_409" id="Page_409">[Pg 409]</a></span></p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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 <i>dared</i> not commit." "And why, doctor," +replied Macklin, "did you give the rascal <i>so mean an opinion of your +courage</i>?"</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h4>ANECDOTE OF QUIN.</h4> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Quin's servant, at the accustomed hour,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Once came to call his master,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With visage long and aspect sour,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Expressive of disaster.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Quin soon began his usual story,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Well, John, what news of fish?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have you of turbot or John Dory<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Seen e'er a handsome dish?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Says John I've been the market round,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And searched from stall to stall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But only some few Mackerel found,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And those not fresh at all.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Well! how's the day? says Quin again,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Will it be wet or dry?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There seems a drizzling kind of rain<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was honest John's reply.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Quin turns in bed with piteous moan,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And, not to brood o'er sorrow.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Says shut the door, and call me, John,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">About this time tomorrow.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_I_9" id="Footnote_I_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_I_9"><span class="label">[I]</span></a> Mossop, when he was manager of the Dublin theatre, always +played Lear as it was written by Shakspeare.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_J_10" id="Footnote_J_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_J_10"><span class="label">[J]</span></a> 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.</p></div> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_410" id="Page_410">[Pg 410]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="SPORTING_INTELLIGENCE" id="SPORTING_INTELLIGENCE"></a>SPORTING INTELLIGENCE.</h2> + + +<h4>BLODWELL ROCK.</h4> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_411" id="Page_411">[Pg 411]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h4>WILTSHIRE PASTIME.</h4> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h4>ST. GILES'S PASTIME</h4> + +<p>A duel was fought in a field, near Chalkfarm, between two Hibernian +heroes, named <span class="smcap">Felix O'Flannagan</span> and <span class="smcap">Dennis O'Shaugnessy</span>, in consequence +of a dispute which occurred the preceding evening, at a meeting of +<i>connoisseurs</i>, in Russel-square, to view the newly erected statue of +the late duke of Bedford; when Mr. O'Flannagan and Mr. O'Shaugnessy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_412" id="Page_412">[Pg 412]</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>Mr. O'Flannagan, who is a <i>composer of mortar</i>, insisted it was made of +<i>cast stone</i>, and represented the duke of Bedford; and Mr. O'Shaugnessy, +who is a <i>rough lapidary</i>, vulgarly called a <i>pavior</i>, contended it was +made of <i>cast iron</i>, and intended to "<i>raprisint Charley Whox</i>." The +dispute ran high, and, as it advanced, became mixed with party and +provincial feelings. Mr. O'Flannagan was a Connaught man, and a +<i>Cannavat</i>; Mr. O'Shaugnessy a Munster man, and a <i>Shannavat</i>.</p> + +<p>With such provocations of mutual irritation, they quickly appealed to +the law of arms; and after putting the eyes of each other into <i>half +mourning</i>, they agreed to adjourn the battle till Sunday morning, and to +decide it like <i>jontlemen</i>—by the <i>cudgel</i>. 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 <i>set to</i>, 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 +<i>enameled</i> 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 <i>shawl</i> of a +milkwoman, his sweetheart, who witnessed the combat, and crowned the +conqueror with her own <i>fair</i> hands.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_413" id="Page_413">[Pg 413]</a></span></p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h4><i>A singular circumstance.</i></h4> + +<p>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 (<i>the colon</i>) 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.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h4><i>Pedestrianism.</i></h4> + +<p>In these days of walking wonders, the following is worthy of notice.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_414" id="Page_414">[Pg 414]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="DRAMATIC_CENSOR" id="DRAMATIC_CENSOR"></a>DRAMATIC CENSOR.</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>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.</p> + +<p><i>Dr. Johnson's Idler, No. 25.</i></p></div> + + +<h4><i>From a Correspondent at New-York.</i></h4> + +<h3>NEW-YORK THEATRICALS.</h3> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_415" id="Page_415">[Pg 415]</a></span> wane, yet, +in courtesy, in all reason, they must stay the time."<a name="FNanchor_K_11" id="FNanchor_K_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_K_11" class="fnanchor">[K]</a> 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.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">The fiends look'd up, and knew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their mounted scale aloft: nor more——<a name="FNanchor_L_12" id="FNanchor_L_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_L_12" class="fnanchor">[L]</a><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>It would be needless to point out Mr. Dwyer's particular excellencies: +but we most esteem him for his <i>originality</i>. 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>star</i>, 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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_416" id="Page_416">[Pg 416]</a></span> supernumeraries, and +candle-snuffers being tugged in by the ears, as occasion may require, to +<i>complete</i> the <i>Dramatis Personæ</i>. 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 <i>parenthetical</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Mr. Twaits as a low comedian is inferior to none in the United States.</p> + +<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_417" id="Page_417">[Pg 417]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mr. Robinson's country boys and old men are excellent. His attempts at +tragedy and genteel comedy, will we fear, never be successful.</p> + +<p>Mr. Young pleases us in all he undertakes. His conception is just, and +his gesticulation worthy of example.</p> + +<p>In Mr. Collins we see much of the <i>naivete</i> of Suett and Blisset. He +bids fair to be an excellent low comedian of a certain cast.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Twaits approaches very near excellency in several walks of the +drama. Her figure is too <i>petite</i> to give effect to heroic characters; +but her voice is good, and her stage business <i>soigné</i>.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Oldmixon, the only female singer among us! has lost none of her +powers.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Poe is a pleasing actress, with many striking defects. She should +never attempt to sing.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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 <i>new theatre</i>, a +subscription for which, it is reported,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_418" id="Page_418">[Pg 418]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">GLUM.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h4>THE AFRICANS.</h4> + +<p>In that laudable zeal for the gratification of the public which has +uniformly distinguished the management of Mr. Warren, he resolved to get +up <i>The Africans</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="smcap">Florian</span>, 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_419" id="Page_419">[Pg 419]</a></span> 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 <span class="smcap">Mug</span>, 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.</p> + +<p>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</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10">——Such a Roman breast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In Rome's corruptless times might have confest.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_420" id="Page_420">[Pg 420]</a></span> of Handel's, or a Dutch boor dance a +<i>pas seul</i> as well as <i>Vestris</i>, or a minuet as well as the prince of +Wales.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>black</i> <span class="smcap">Selico</span> 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.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h4><i>Mr. Cooper's second visit this season.</i></h4> + +<p>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.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Marc Antony in Julius Cæsar,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alexander in the Rival Queens,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Orsino in Alfonso,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pierre in Venice Preserved.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_421" id="Page_421">[Pg 421]</a></span> 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 Cæsar, 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——</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O mighty Cæsar!—--Dost thou lie so low?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shrunk to this little measure?—Fare thee well.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_422" id="Page_422">[Pg 422]</a></span> 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.</p> + + +<h4>ALEXANDER.</h4> + +<p>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,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Lysimachus, no more—it is not well;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My word you know, was to Hephestion given,<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>up to the storm of rage</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i16">"My slave, whom I<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Could tread to clay, dares utter bloody threats."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_423" id="Page_423">[Pg 423]</a></span> dramatic genius, seconded by +correspondent organs, could possibly have executed.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Philip fought men—but Alexander women.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>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——</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Alex.</i> Envy by the gods!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is then my glory come to this at last,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To conquer <i>women</i>!—Nay, he said the stoutest<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here would tremble at the dangers he had seen!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In all the sickness, all the wounds I bore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When from my reins the Javelin's head was cut.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lysimachus! Hephestion! speak Perdicas!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Did I once tremble? Oh, the cursed falsehood!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Did I once shake or groan, or act beneath<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dauntless resolution of a king?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Lysim.</i> Wine has transported him.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Alex.</i> No, 'tis mere malice.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I was a <i>woman</i> too at Oxydrace,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_424" id="Page_424">[Pg 424]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">When planting on the walls a scaling ladder;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I mounted spite of showers of stones, bars, arrows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all the lumber which they thunder'd down.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When you beneath cry'd and out spread your arms,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That I should leap among you—did I so?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Lysim.</i> Dread sir, the old man knows not what he says.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Alex.</i> Was I <i>woman</i> when like Mercury,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I leaped the walls and flew amidst the foe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And like a baited Lion dyed myself<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All over in the blood of those bold hunters;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Till spent with toil I battled on my knees,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Plucked forth the darts that made my shield a forest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And hurl'd them back with the most unconquer'd fury,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then shining in my arms, I sunned the field,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Moved, spoke and fought, and was myself a war.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Clytus.</i> 'Twas all Bravado; for, before you leap'd<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You saw that I had burst the gates asunder.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>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——</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, that thou wert but once more young!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That I might strike thee to the earth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For this audacious lie, thou feeble dotard.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>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 <i>chef +a'œuvre</i>.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_425" id="Page_425">[Pg 425]</a></span></p> + +<p>As we mean to be full upon the tragedy of <span class="smcap">alfonso</span>, we postpone our +further observations on Mr. Cooper to the next number.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h4>MR. DWYER.</h4> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="smcap">Belcour</span> was as new to our audience as the chaste and natural<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_426" id="Page_426">[Pg 426]</a></span> acting of +Garrick was on <i>his</i> 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 <i>inspiration</i>. 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.</p> + +<p>As we have no pretensions to that kind of <i>inspiration</i>—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.</p> + +<p>Now it so happened that we differed essentially from those <i>inspired</i> +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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_427" id="Page_427">[Pg 427]</a></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The English critics concur in pronouncing Mr. Dwyer's the best <span class="smcap">wilding</span> +(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, <span class="smcap">Sam Foote</span>.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_428" id="Page_428">[Pg 428]</a></span></p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h4><i>Grand Musical Performances.</i></h4> + +<p>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 <i>piano forte</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="smcap">Pope Sextus Quintus</span>, 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_429" id="Page_429">[Pg 429]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_430" id="Page_430">[Pg 430]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>A plan so well worthy of an enlightened nation's patronage, cannot fail +of success in such a country as America.</p> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_K_11" id="Footnote_K_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_K_11"><span class="label">[K]</span></a> Shakspeare Midsummer night's Dream.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_L_12" id="Footnote_L_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_L_12"><span class="label">[L]</span></a> Milton.</p></div> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>ALFONSO,</h2> + +<h2>KING OF CASTILE:</h2> + +<h3>A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS.</h3> + +<h3>BY M. G. LEWIS.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For us and for our Tragedy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thus stooping to your clemency,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We beg your <i>candid</i> hearing patiently.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">Hamlet.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="center"> +PHILADELPHIA:<br /> +<br /> +PUBLISHED BY BRADFORD AND INSKEEP: INSKEEP AND BRADFORD,<br /> +NEW-YORK; AND WILLIAM M'ILHENNY, BOSTON.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Smith & M'Kenzie, printers.</i><br /> +<br /> +1810.<br /> +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="ALFONSO_KING_OF_CASTILE" id="ALFONSO_KING_OF_CASTILE"></a>ALFONSO, KING OF CASTILE:</h2> + + +<h3>DRAMATIS PERSONAE.</h3> + +<p> +Alfonso XI.<br /> +Orsino.<br /> +Cæsario.<br /> +Father Bazil.<br /> +Henriquez.<br /> +Melchior.<br /> +Ricardo.<br /> +Gomez.<br /> +Marcos.<br /> +Lucio.<br /> +First Citizen.<br /> +Second Citizen.<br /> +<br /> +Friars, Soldiers, Citizens, Conspirators, &c.<br /> +<br /> +Amelrosa.<br /> +Ottilia.<br /> +Estella.<br /> +Inis.<br /> +<br /> +Nuns, and Female attendants on Amelrosa.<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>The scene lies in Burgos (the capital of Old Castile) and in the +adjoining Forest.</i></p> + +<p>The Action is supposed to pass in the year 1345.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="ACT_I" id="ACT_I"></a>ACT I.</h2> + + +<h3>SCENE I.—<i>The palace-garden.—Daybreak.</i></h3> + +<h4>Ottilia <i>enters in a night dress: her hair flows dishevelled.</i></h4> + +<p> +<i>Otti.</i> Dews of the morn, descend! Breathe, summer gales,<br /> +My flushed cheeks woo ye! Play, sweet wantons, play<br /> +'Mid my loose tresses, fan my panting breast,<br /> +Quench my blood's burning fever!—Vain, vain prayer!<br /> +Not Winter, throned 'midst Alpine snows, whose will<br /> +Can with one breath, one touch, congeal whole realms,<br /> +And blanch whole seas; not that fiend's self could ease<br /> +This heart, this gulph of flames, this purple kingdom,<br /> +Where passion rules and rages!—Oh! my soul!<br /> +Cæsario, my Cæsario!—[<i>A pause, during which<br /> +she seems buried in thought—the clock strikes four.</i>]<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 11em;">Hark!—Ah me!</span><br /> +Is't still so early? Will't be still so long,<br /> +Ere my love comes? Oh! speed, ye pitying hours,<br /> +Your flight, till mid-day brings Cæsario back;<br /> +Then, if ye list, rest your kind wings for ever!<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Enter</i> Lucio.</p> + +<p> +<i>Luc.</i> 'Tis past the hour! I fear I shall be chid,<br /> +For lo! the sun already darts his rays<br /> +Athwart the garden-paths.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> How still! how tranquil!<br /> +All rests, except Ottilia! I'll regain<br /> +The hateful couch, where still my husband sleeps:<br /> +Ere long he sleeps forever! Ha! why steals<br /> +Yon boy.——Amazement! Do my eyes deceive me?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Luc.</i> Hist! hist! Estella?<br /> +Estella. [<i>Appearing on the terrace of the palace.</i>]<br /> +<br /> +<i>Est.</i> Lucio?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Luc.</i> Ay, the same.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Est.</i> Good! good!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Luc.</i> But pray you bid him speed. So loud<br /> +His black Arabian snorts, and paws the earth,<br /> +I fear he'll wake the guards.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Est.</i> Farewell, I'll warn him. [<i>Ext. severally.</i><br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> [<i>Alone.</i>] 'Twas Lucio, sure!—What business.—Ah, how ready<br /> +Is fear to whisper what love hates to hear.<br /> +</p> + +<p>[Estella <i>and</i> Cæsario <i>appear on the terrace.</i>]</p> + +<p> +See! see! again Estella comes—and with her—<br /> +Shame and despair! burst from your sockets eyes,<br /> +Since ye dare show me this!—'Tis he! 'Tis he!<br /> +Cæsario! on my soul, Cæsario's self——<br /> +He bids farewell!—He waves a glittering scarf,<br /> +A gift of love, no doubt!—Now to his lips<br /> +He glues it!—Blistered be those lips, Cæsario,<br /> +Which have so oft sworn faith to me:—She goes——<br /> +Egyptian plagues go with her! [<i>Exit Estella.</i><br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> [<i>Looking back at the palace.</i>] Yet one look,<br /> +One grateful blessing for this night of rapture;<br /> +Then, shrine of my soul's idol! casket, holding<br /> +My heart's most precious gem, awhile farewell!<br /> +But, when my foot next bends thy floors, expect<br /> +No more this cautious gait, this voice subdued!<br /> +Proud and erect, with manly steps and strong,<br /> +I'll come a Conqueror and a King, to lead<br /> +With sceptred hand forth from her bower my bride,<br /> +And bid Castile adore her, like Cæsario.<br /> +Farewell, once more farewell!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> [<i>Advancing.</i>] I'll cross his path,<br /> +And blast him with a look.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Ottilia?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> What!<br /> +Am I then grown so hideous that my sight<br /> +Withers the roses on a warrior's cheeks,<br /> +And makes his steps recoil! In Moorish battles<br /> +He gazed undaunted on death's frightful form,<br /> +But shrinks to view a monster like Ottilia.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> [<i>Aside.</i>] Confusion! Should her rage alarm the guards.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Or do I wrong myself? Is still <i>my</i> form<br /> +Unchanged, but not thy faith? Speak, traitor, speak!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> I own, most dear Ottilia——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Hark! he owns it!<br /> +Hear, Earth and Heaven, he owns it! No excuse!<br /> +No varnish, no disguise!—He will not stoop<br /> +To use dissembling with a wretch he scorns,<br /> +Nor thinks it worth his pains to fool me further!<br /> +Proceed, brave sir, proceed! In trivial strain<br /> +Tell me how light are lovers' oaths, how fond<br /> +Youth's heart of change, how quick love comes and flies;<br /> +And own that yours for me is flown for ever.<br /> +Then with indifference ask a parting kiss,<br /> +Hope we shall still be friends, profess esteem,<br /> +Thank me for favours past, and coldly leave me.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> How shall I hush this storm? [<i>Aside.</i>]<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Oh! fool, fool, fool!<br /> +I thought him absent; thought mid-day would bring<br /> +My hero back, and pass'd this sleepless night<br /> +In prayers, and sighs, and vows for his return;<br /> +While scorned all oaths, forgot all faith, all honour,<br /> +Clasped in Estella's wanton arms he lay,<br /> +And mock'd the poor, undone, deceiv'd Ottilia!<br /> +<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span><i>Cæsa.</i> Estella? [<i>then aside</i>] Blest mistake!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> What! didst thou hope<br /> +My rival's name unknown? Oh! well I know it,<br /> +Estella! cursed Estella! Still I'll shriek it<br /> +Piercing and loud, till Earth, and Air, and Ocean,<br /> +Ring with her name, thy guilt, and my despair.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> And need thy words, Ottilia, blame my falsehood?<br /> +Oh! in each feature of thy beauteous face<br /> +I blush to read reproaches far more keen.<br /> +Those glittering eyes, though now with lightnings armed,<br /> +Which erst were used to pour on blest Cæsario<br /> +Kind looks, and fondest smiles, and tears of rapture;<br /> +That voice, by wrath untuned, once only breathing<br /> +Sounds like the ringdove's, amorous, soft, and sweet;<br /> +That snowy breast, now swelled by storms of passion,<br /> +But which in happier days by love was heaved,<br /> +By love for me!—The least of these, Ottilia,<br /> +Gives to my heart a deeper stab than all<br /> +Thy words could do, were every word a dagger.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Thou prince of hypocrites!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Think'st thou I flatter!<br /> +Then trust thyself—[<i>leading her to a fountain.</i>]<br /> +View on this watery mirror<br /> +Thine angel-form reflected—Lovely shade,<br /> +Bid this indignant fair confess, how vain<br /> +Estella's charms were to contend with thine!<br /> +And yet—oh madman! at Estella's feet<br /> +Breathing my vows, these eyes forgot these lips,<br /> +Than roses sweeter, redder—Oh! I'll gaze<br /> +No more, for gazing I detest myself.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> This subtile snake, how winds he round my heart!<br /> +Oh didst thou speak sincerely.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> At thy feet,<br /> +Adored Ottilia! lo! I kneel repentant.<br /> +Couldst thou forgive—Vain man, it must not be.<br /> +Forgive the fool, who for a lamp's dull gleaming<br /> +Scorn'd the sun's noon-tide splendour? for a pebble<br /> +Who gave a diamond worth a monarch's ransom?<br /> +No, no, thou canst not.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Cannot? Oh Cæsario,<br /> +Thou lov'st no longer, or thou ne'er couldst doubt<br /> +I can, I must forgive thee!—— [<i>falling on his bosom</i>]<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Best Ottilia,<br /> +No seraph's song e'er bore a sweeter sound<br /> +Breathed in the ear of some expiring saint,<br /> +Than pardon from thy lips.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Those lips again<br /> +Thus seal it!—--Yet to prove thy faith, I ask—<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> What can Ottilia ask, and I deny?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> The scarf you wear.——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> [<i>Starting.</i>] Ottilia!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Well I know<br /> +It was Estella's gift. I'll therefore wear it,<br /> +And with her jealous pangs repay my own.<br /> +Give me that scarf.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> And can Ottilia wish<br /> +So mean a triumph?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Ha! beware, Cæsario!<br /> +My foot is on thy neck, and should I find<br /> +Thy head a snake's I'll crush it! quick! the scarf!<br /> +Am I refused?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Ottilia, be persuaded.<br /> +More nobly use thy power.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> [<i>Suffocated with rage.</i>] The scarf! the scarf!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> I value not the toy, nor her who gave it.<br /> +Then wherefore triumph o'er a fallen foe?<br /> +It must not be——Hark! footsteps!—Sweet, farewell!<br /> +Ere night we meet again.—— [<i>Going.</i>]<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Yes, go, perfidious!<br /> +But know, ere night, thy head shall grace the scaffold!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> [<i>Returning.</i>] Saidst thou——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Last night my husband's dreams revealed<br /> +A secret.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> [<i>Starting.</i>] How? thy husband? Marquis Guzman?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> He spoke of plots—of soldiers brib'd——<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>looking round mysteriously, and pointing to the lower part of the +palace.</i>]</p> + +<p> +Of vaults<br /> +Beneath the royal chamber—Wherefore tell I<br /> +To thee a tale thou know'st thyself full well?<br /> +I'll tell it to the king—— [<i>Going.</i>]<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Ottilia, stay!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> The scarf.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> [<i>Giving it.</i>] 'Tis thine!—--My life is in thy hands.<br /> +Be secret, and I live thy slave forever. [<i>Exit.</i><br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> [<i>Alone.</i>] 'Tis plain! 'tis plain! traitor, thou lov'st her still!<br /> +Am I forsaken then? Oh shame, shame, shame!<br /> +Forsaken too by one, for whom last night<br /> +I dared a deed which——Ha! the palace opens,<br /> +And lo! Estella with the princess comes.<br /> +I'll hence, but soon returning make my rival<br /> +Feel what I suffer now. Thus fell Megæra;<br /> +Tears from her heart one of those snakes which gnaw it,<br /> +To throw upon some wretch; and when it stings him,<br /> +Wild laughs the fiend to see his pangs, well knowing<br /> +How keen those pangs are, since she feels the same. [<i>Exit.</i><br /> +</p> + +<p>Amelrosa, Estella, Inis, <i>and ladies, appear on the terrace of the +palace.</i></p> + +<p> +<i>Amel.</i> Forth, forth my friends! the morn will blush to hear<br /> +Our tardy greeting [<i>descending.</i>] Gently, winds, I pray ye,<br /> +Breathe through this grove; and thou, all-radiant sun,<br /> +Woo not these bowers beloved with kiss too fierce.<br /> +Oh! look, my ladies, how yon beauteous rose,<br /> +O'er charged with dew, bends its fair head to earth,<br /> +Emblem of sorrowing virtue! [<i>to Inis</i>] would'st thou break it?<br /> +See'st not its silken leaves are stain'd with tears?<br /> +Ever, my Inis, where thou find'st these traces,<br /> +Show thou most kindness, most respect. I'll raise it,<br /> +And bind it gently to its neighbour rose;<br /> +So shall it live, and still its blushing bosom<br /> +Yield the wild bee, its little love, repose.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Inis.</i> Its love? Can flowers then love?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Oh! what cannot?<br /> +There's nothing lives, in air, on earth, in ocean,<br /> +But lives to love! for when the Great Unknown<br /> +Parted the elements, and out of chaos<br /> +Formed this fair world with one blest blessing word,<br /> +That word was Love? Angels, with golden clarions,<br /> +Prolonged in heavenly strain the heavenly sound:<br /> +The mountain-echoes caught it: the four winds<br /> +Spread it, rejoicing o'er the world of waters;<br /> +And since that hour, in forest, or by fountain,<br /> +On hill or moor, whate'er be Nature's song,<br /> +Love is her theme, Love! universal Love!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Est.</i> See, lady where the king——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> I haste to meet him.<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Enter</i> Alfonso, <i>and attendants.</i></p> + +<p> +<i>Amel.</i> [<i>Kneeling.</i>] My father! my dear father!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Heaven's best dews<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span>Fall on thy beauteous head, my Amelrosa,<br /> +And be each drop a blessing!—Cheered by morning<br /> +Fair smile the skies; but nothing smiles on me,<br /> +Till I have seen thee well, and know thee happy.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> And I <i>were</i> happy, if my eyes perceived not<br /> +Tears clouding thine. Oh! what has power to grieve thee<br /> +On this proud day, when rich in spoils and glory<br /> +Cæsario brings thee back thy conquering troops,<br /> +That brave young warrior? Spite of Moorish hosts,<br /> +And all their new-found engines of destruction,<br /> +Sulphureous mines and mouths of iron thunder,<br /> +He forced their gates! He leap'd their flaming gulphs!<br /> +Pale as their banner'd crescent fled the Moors,<br /> +And proudly streamed our flag o'er Algesiras!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> And with them fled—Oh! have I words to speak it?<br /> +Thy brother, Amelrosa!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> How! my brother?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Oh! 'tis too true. He thinks I live too long,<br /> +So joined the Moors to hurl me from my throne,<br /> +Guided their councils, sharpened their resentment,<br /> +And, when they fled, fled with them.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Powers of mercy!<br /> +Can there be hearts so black!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Poor wretched man,<br /> +Where shall I turn me? where, since lust of power<br /> +Makes a son faithless, find a friend that's true?<br /> +Where fly for comfort?——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> To this heart, my father!<br /> +This heart, which, while it throbs, shall throb to love thee.<br /> +Stream thy dear eyes? my hand shall dry those tears;<br /> +Aches thy poor head? My bosom shall support it!<br /> +And when thou sleep'st, I'll watch thy dreams, and pray——<br /> +"Changed be to joy the sorrow which afflicts<br /> +My king, my father, my soul's best friend!"—<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> My child! my comfort!—Yes, yes! here's the chain,<br /> +The only chain that binds me to existence—<br /> +And should that break too—should'st thou e'er deceive me—<br /> +Oh! should'st thou, Amelrosa.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Doubts my father?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> No, no!—Nay, droop not. By my soul, I think thee<br /> +As free from guile, as yon blue vault from clouds,<br /> +And clear as rain-drops ere they touch the earth!<br /> +Nor love I mean suspicion:—where I give<br /> +My heart I give my faith, my whole firm faith,<br /> +And hold it base to doubt the thing I value.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Then why that wronging thought?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> By fear 'twas prompted;<br /> +By fear to lose, but not by doubt to keep.<br /> +And well my heart may fear. Think, think how keenly<br /> +Ingratitude has wrung that trusting heart!<br /> +Think that my faithless son but rends anew<br /> +A wound scarce fourteen years had healed.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Orsino.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> He! he! that man—Oh! how I loved that man!<br /> +And yet that man betrayed me!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Is that certain?<br /> +Might not deception——? Slander loves the court,<br /> +And slippery are the heights of royal favour.<br /> +Who stumbles, falls; who falls, finds none to raise him.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Nay, but I saw the writings; 'twas his hand,<br /> +His very hand, nor dared he disavow it:<br /> +For when I taxed him with his guilt, and showed him<br /> +His letters to the Moor, awhile he eyed me<br /> +In sullen silence, then contemptuous smiled,<br /> +And coldly bade me treat him as I list.<br /> +Arraigned, no plea excused his dark offence;<br /> +Condemned to die, no word implored for pardon:<br /> +But my heart pleaded stronger than all words!<br /> +I saved his life, yet bade him live a prisoner<br /> +Or clear himself from guilt.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> And did he never——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Without one word or look, one tear or sigh,<br /> +He turned away, and silent sought the dungeon<br /> +Where three years since he died——Ah! said I, died?<br /> +No, no, he lives! lives in my memory still,<br /> +Such as in youth's fond dreams my fancy formed him,<br /> +Virtuous and brave, faithful, sincere and just;<br /> +My friend? my guide?—a Phœnix among men!<br /> +How now? What haste brings fair Ottilia hither?<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Enter</i> Ottilia, <i>wearing the scarf</i>.</p> + +<p> +Pardon, my sovereign, that uncalled I come<br /> +You see a suppliant from a dying man.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Lady, from whom?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> My husband, Marquis Guzman,<br /> +Lies on the bed of death, and, stung by conscience,<br /> +By me unloads it of this secret guilt!<br /> +Those traitor-scrolls, which bore Orsino's name—<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Say on, say on!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> By Guzman's hand were forged.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Forged?—No, no, no! Lady, it cannot be!<br /> +Unsay thy words or stab me!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Gracious Sir,<br /> +Look on these papers.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Ha!<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>After looking at them, drops them, and clasps his hands in agony.</i>]</p> + +<p> +<i>Amel.</i> Father! dear father!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Father! I merit not that name, nor any<br /> +Sweet, good, or gracious. Call me villain! fiend!<br /> +Suspicious tyrant! treacherous, calm assassin!<br /> +Who slew the truest, noblest friend, that ever<br /> +Man's heart was blest with!—Ha! why kneels my child?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> For pardon first that I have dar'd deceive thee——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Deceive me!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Next to pay pure thanks to Heaven,<br /> +Which grants me to allay my father's anguish<br /> +With words of most sweet comfort.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Ha! what means't thou?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Four years are past since first Orsino's sorrows<br /> +Struck on my startled ear: that sound once heard,<br /> +Ne'er left my ear again, but day and night,<br /> +Whether I walked or sate, awake or sleeping,<br /> +The captive, the poor captive still was there.<br /> +The rain seemed but <i>his</i> tears; his hopeless groans<br /> +Spoke in each hollow wind; his nights of anguish<br /> +Robbed mine of rest; or, if I slept, my dreams<br /> +Showed his pale wasted form, his beamless eye<br /> +Fixed on the moon, his meager hands now folded<br /> +In dull despair, now rending his few locks<br /> +Untimely gray; and now again in frenzy<br /> +Dreadful he shrieked; tore with his teeth his flesh;<br /> +'Gainst his dark prison-walls dashed out his brains,<br /> +And died despairing! From my couch I started;<br /> +Sunk upon my knees; I kissed this cross,<br /> +——"Captive," I cried, "I'll die or set thee free!"——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> And didst thou? Bless thee, didst thou?<br /> +<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span><i>Amel.</i> Moved by gold,<br /> +More by my prayers, most by his own heart's pity,<br /> +His jailer yielded to release Orsino,<br /> +And spread his death's report.—One night when all<br /> +Was hushed, I sought his tower, unlocked his chains,<br /> +And bade him rise and fly! With vacant stare,<br /> +Bewildered, wondering, doubting what he heard,<br /> +He followed to the gate. But when he viewed<br /> +The sky thick sown with stars, and drank heaven's air,<br /> +And heard the nightingale and saw the moon<br /> +Shed o'er these groves a shower of silver light,<br /> +Hope thawed his frozen heart; in livelier current<br /> +Flowed his grief-thickened blood, his proud soul melted,<br /> +And down his furrowed cheeks kind tears came stealing,<br /> +Sad, sweet, and gentle as the dews, which evening<br /> +Sheds o'er expiring day. Words had he none,<br /> +But with his looks he thanked me. At my feet<br /> +He sunk; he wrung my hand; his pale lips pressed it;<br /> +He sighed, he rose, he fled; he lives, my father!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> [<i>Kneeling.</i>] Fountain of bliss! words are too poor for thanks;<br /> +Oh! deign to read them here!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Canst thou forgive<br /> +My long deceit——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Forgive thee? To my heart<br /> +Thus let me clasp thee, best of earthly blessings,<br /> +Balm of my soul, and saviour of my justice!<br /> +Oh! blest were kings, when fraud ensnares their sense,<br /> +And passion arms their hands, if still they found<br /> +One who like thee dared stand the victim's friend,<br /> +Wrest from proud lawless Power his brandished javelin,<br /> +And make him virtuous in his own despite!<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Enter</i> Ricardo.</p> + +<p> +<i>Ricar.</i> My liege, your conquering general brave Cæsario,<br /> +Draws near the walls.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> I hasten to receive<br /> +The hero and his troops: that duty done,<br /> +I'll seek my wronged friend's pardon. Say my child,<br /> +Where dwells Orsino?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> In the neighbouring forest<br /> +He lives a hermit: Inis knows the place.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Ere night I'll seek him there. And now farewell<br /> +Ever beloved, but now more loved than ever!<br /> +Oh! still as now watch o'er and timely check<br /> +My hasty nature; still, their guardian-angel,<br /> +Protect my people, e'en from <i>me</i> protect them:<br /> +Then, after ages, pondering o'er the page<br /> +Which bears my name, shall see, and seen shall bless<br /> +That union most beloved of man and heaven,<br /> +A patriot monarch, and a people free!<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Exit with</i> Ricardo <i>and attendants</i>.]</p> + +<p> +<i>Amel.</i> My good kind father! fatal, fatal, secret,<br /> +How weigh'st thou down my heart! [<i>Remains buried in thought.</i>]<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> I'll haste and calm<br /> +My husband's conscience with Orsino's safety.<br /> +But when our Spanish beauties throng the ramparts,<br /> +Anxious to see, and anxious to be seen,<br /> +Why stays Estella from the walls?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Estel.</i> Both duty<br /> +And friendship chain me where the princess stays.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Duty and friendship? trust me, glorious words;—<br /> +Yet there's a sweeter—Love! Boasts the gay band,<br /> +Which circles brave Cæsario's laurelled car,<br /> +No youth who proudly wears Estella's colours,<br /> +And knows no glory like Estella's smile?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Estel.</i> Ha! Sure my sight must err?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> [<i>Aside.</i>] She sees and knows it.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Estel.</i> It must be that!—--Princess!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> [Aside.] So so! now flies she<br /> +To her she—Pylades for aid and comfort.<br /> +Oh most rare sympathy! How the fiend starts!<br /> +And, trust me, changes colour!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Say'st thou? how?<br /> +Away, it cannot be!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Estel.</i> Convince thyself then.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> [<i>Aside.</i>] Ay, look your fill! look till your eye-strings break.<br /> +For 'tis that scarf; that very, very scarf?——<br /> +So now the question comes.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Estel.</i> Forgive me lady,<br /> +Nor hold me rude, that much I wish to know,<br /> +Whence came the scarf you wear?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> This scarf——Alas!<br /> +A paltry toy! a very soldier's present.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Estel.</i> A soldier's!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Ay. 'Twas sent me from the camp:<br /> +But with such bitter taunts on her who wrought it——<br /> +Breathed ever mortal man such thoughts of me,<br /> +<i>My</i> heart would break or <i>his</i> should bleed for it!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Estel.</i> Say you?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Nay mark—"Receive, proud fair,"—thus ran the letter—<br /> +"This scarf, forced on me by a hand I loath,<br /> +With many an amorous word and tasteless kiss!<br /> +As I for thee, so burns for me the wanton;<br /> +To me as thine, cold is my heart to her;<br /> +Nor canst thou more despise the gift than I<br /> +Scorn the fond fool who gave it!"——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Oh! my heart!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Inis.</i> Look to the Princess.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> [<i>Starting.</i>] Ha!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Estel.</i> She faints!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> No, no,<br /> +'Tis nothing—mid-day's heat—the o'erpowering sun—<br /> +I'll in and rest.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Princess, permit——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> No lady!<br /> +I need no aid of thine—In, in, Estella.<br /> +Oh! cruel, false Cæsario!<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Exit with</i> Estella, Inis, <i>and Ladies</i>.]</p> + +<p> +<i>Otti.</i> [<i>Alone.</i>] Ha! is't so?<br /> +And flies my falcon at so high a lure?<br /> +The princess! 'tis the princess that he loves!—<br /> +And shall I calmly see her bear away<br /> +This dear-bought prize, my secret crime's reward,<br /> +My lord, my love, my life, my all?——She dies! [<i>Exit.</i><br /> +</p> + +<h4><i>End of Act I.</i></h4> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="ACT_II" id="ACT_II"></a>ACT II.</h2> + + +<h3>SCENE I. <i>A hall in</i> Cæsario's <i>palace</i>.</h3> + +<h4>[<i>Shouts heard without.</i>]</h4> + +<p><i>Enter</i> Cæsario [<i>a general's staff in his hand</i>] <i>followed by</i> +Henriquez, <i>citizens and soldiers</i>.</p> + +<p> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Thanks, worthy friends! No further!—Pleased I hear<br /> +These shouts, which thank me for Alfonso's safety!<br /> +But though <i>my</i> arms have quelled the Moors, your love<br /> +Alone can shield him from a foe more dangerous,<br /> +From his proud rebel son!—Farewell, assured<br /> +I live but for your use!<br /> +<br /> +<i>First Citi.</i> Long live Cæsario!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Sec. Citi.</i> Long live the conqueror of the Moors!<br /> +<br /> +<i>All.</i> Huzza! [<i>Exeunt.</i><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p> + +<p><i>Manent</i> Cæsario <i>and</i> Henriquez.</p> + +<p> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Kind friends, farewell!—Ay, shout, ye brawlers, shout!<br /> +Pour out unmeaning praise till the skies ring!<br /> +'Twill school your deep-toned throats to roar tomorrow,<br /> +—"Long live Cæsario! Sovereign of Castile!"—<br /> +Mark you, Henriquez, how the royal dotard<br /> +Hung on my neck, termed me his kingdom's angel,<br /> +His friend, his saviour, his——Oh! my tongue burned<br /> +To thunder in his startled ear——"The man<br /> +Who raised this war, and fired your son's ambition,<br /> +Your daughter's husband, and your mortal foe,<br /> +That man am I!"——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> Then absence has not cooled,<br /> +It seems, your hatred——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Could'st thou think it? thou,<br /> +Who know'st a secret to all else unknown!<br /> +Know'st me no stranger-youth, no chance-adventurer,<br /> +Whose sword's his fortune, as Castile believes me;<br /> +But one of mightiest views and proudest hopes,<br /> +Galled by injustice, panting for revenge,<br /> +Son of a hero! wronged Orsino's son!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> Yet might your wealth and power—yon general's staff—<br /> +Alfonso's countless favours——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Favours? Insults!<br /> +Curses when proffered by a hand I hate!<br /> +Bright seems ambition to my eye, and sure<br /> +To reign is glorious; yet such fixed aversion<br /> +I bear this man, and such my thirst for vengeance,<br /> +I would not sell his head, once in my power,<br /> +Though the price tendered were the crown that decks it!<br /> +Yet that, too, shortly shall be mine!—Say, Marquis,<br /> +How speeds our plot?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> 'Tis ripe: beneath his chambers<br /> +The vaults are ours, the sleeping fires disposed;<br /> +The mine waits but your word.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Tonight it springs then,<br /> +And hurls my foe in burning clouds to heaven—<br /> +O! rapturous sight!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> And can that sight give rapture<br /> +Which wrings with anguish Amelrosa's bosom?<br /> +She loves her father——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Loves she not her husband?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> She'll hate him, when she knows——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> She ne'er shall know it!<br /> +All shall be held her rebel brother's deed;<br /> +And while contending passions shake the rabble,<br /> +(Grief for the sire, resentment 'gainst the son;<br /> +And pity for the princess) forth I'll step,<br /> +Avow our marriage, claim the crown her right,<br /> +And, when she mounts the throne, ascend it with her.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> Oh! she will drown that bloody throne with tears!<br /> +And should she learn who bade them flow——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Say on——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> She'll loath you!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> [<i>With a scornful smile</i>] She'll forgive me.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> Never, never!<br /> +I know the princess; know a daughter's love,<br /> +A daughter's grief——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> And are not daughters women?<br /> +By nature tender, trustful, kind, and fickle,<br /> +Prone to forgive, and practised in forgetting?<br /> +Let the fair things but rave their hour at ease,<br /> +And weep their fill, and wring their pretty hands,<br /> +Faint between whiles, and swear by every saint<br /> +They'll never, never, never see you more!<br /> +Then when the larum's hushed, profess repentance,<br /> +Say a few kind false words, drop a few tears,<br /> +Force a fond kiss or two, and all's forgiven.<br /> +Away! I know her sex!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> But know not her!<br /> +Her heart will bleed; and can you wound that heart,<br /> +Yet swear you love her?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Dearly, fiercely love her;<br /> +But not so fiercely as I loath this king!—<br /> +Hatred of him, cherished from youth, is now<br /> +My second nature! 'tis the air I breathe,<br /> +The stream which fills my veins, my life's chief source,<br /> +My food, my drink, my sleep, warmth, health and vigour,<br /> +Mixed with my blood, and twisted round my heart-strings!<br /> +To cease to hate him, I must cease to breathe!—<br /> +Never to know one hour's repose or pleasure<br /> +While loathed Alfonso lived,—such was my oath,<br /> +Breathed on my broken-hearted mother's lips.<br /> +She heard! her eyes flashed with new fire; she kissed me,<br /> +Murmured Orsino's name, blessed it and died!—<br /> +That oath I'll keep!<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Enter</i> Melchior.</p> + +<p> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Melchior! why thus alarmed?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Mel.</i> I've cause too good! our lives hang by a thread!<br /> +Guzman is dying.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> and <i>Hen.</i> How?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Mel.</i> Remorse already<br /> +Hath wrung one secret from him; and I fear,<br /> +The next fit brings our plot.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Speed, speed, Henriquez!<br /> +Place spies around his gate! guard every avenue!<br /> +Mark every face that comes or goes—Away!<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Exit</i> Henriquez.</p> + +<p> +<i>Cæsa.</i> I'll watch the king myself!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Mel.</i> As yet he's safe.<br /> +Soon as he parted from the troops, Alfonso,<br /> +By Inis guided, tow'rds the forest sped,<br /> +To seek and sooth his late-found friend Orsino.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> [<i>Starting</i>] Whom, whom? Orsino? what Orsino? speak.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Mel.</i> The count San Lucar, long thought dead, but saved.<br /> +It seems, by Amelrosa's care—Time presses——<br /> +I must away: farewell.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> At one, remember—<br /> +Beneath the royal tower——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Mel.</i> Fear not my failing.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> [<i>Alone</i>] He lives! My father lives!<br /> +Oh, let but vengeance<br /> +Fire him to spurn Alfonso and his friendship.<br /> +His martial fame the memory of his virtues,<br /> +His talents, rank, and sufferings undeserved——<br /> +Oh! what a noble column to support<br /> +My new-raised power! [<i>Going.</i>]<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Enter</i> Ottilia. [<i>Veiled.</i>]</p> + +<p> +<i>Otti.</i> Cæsario, stay!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Forgive me,<br /> +Fair lady, if my speech appears ungentle;<br /> +Such business calls——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> [<i>Unveiling</i>] Than mine there's none more urgent.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Ottilia!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Need I say what brings me hither?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Those angry eyes too plainly speak, that still Estella.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> She? Dissembler! fiend?—Peace, peace;<br /> +I come not here to rave, but to command.<br /> +You love the Princess, are beloved again——<br /> +Speak not! She saw this scarf; her tears, her anguish<br /> +Betrayed her secret. Yes, you love the Princess!<br /> +But, while I breathe, if e'er her hand is yours,<br /> +Strike me dead, lightnings!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Hear me!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Look on this [<i>showing a paper</i>.]<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> 'Tis Guzman's hand.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> He bade me to the king<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span>Bear it with other papers; but my prudence,<br /> +For mine own purposes, kept back the scroll.<br /> +Lo! here a full confession of your plots—<br /> +The mine described—the vault—the hour—the signal—<br /> +What troops are gained—the list of sworn confederates—<br /> +And foremost in the list here stands Cæsario!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Confusion!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Nay, 'tis so! Now mark me, youth!<br /> +Either mine hand at midnight as my husband's<br /> +Clasps thine, or gives this paper to Alfonso!<br /> +Prepare a friar—at Juan's chapel meet me<br /> +At midnight, or the king——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> You rave, Ottilia!<br /> +While Guzman lives.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Young man, his hours are counted:<br /> +Three scarce are his—Last night I drugged the bowl<br /> +In which he drank a farewell to the world.<br /> +Ay, ay, 'tis true! thou'rt mine! With blood I've bought thee!<br /> +Nothing now parts us but the grave,—and there,<br /> +E'en there I'll claim thee!—If tonight thou com'st not—<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> I will, by heaven!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Nay, fail at your own peril——<br /> +Your life is in my power! my breath can blast you!<br /> +Choose, then, Cæsario, 'twixt thy bane and bliss—<br /> +Love or a grave! a kingdom or a scaffold!<br /> +My arms or death's—By yonder sun I swear,<br /> +Ere morning dawns, thou shalt be mine or nothing! [<i>Exit.</i><br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Is't so?—Thy blood then on thy head—This paper—<br /> +----This female fiend—the scarf too!—I must straight<br /> +Appease the princess—some well-varnished tale<br /> +----Some glib excuse—Oh! hateful task! Oh, Truth!<br /> +How my soul longs once more to join thy train,<br /> +Tear off the mask, and show me as I am!<br /> +The wretch for life immur'd; the Christian slave<br /> +Of Pagan lords; or he whose bloody sweat<br /> +Speeds the fleet galley o'er the sparkling waves,<br /> +Bears easy toil, light chains, and pleasant bondage,<br /> +Weighed with thy service, Falsehood! Still to smile<br /> +On those we loath; to teach the lips a lesson<br /> +Smooth, sweet, and false; to watch the tell-tale eye,<br /> +Fashion each feature, sift each honest word<br /> +That swells upon the tongue, and fear to find<br /> +A traitor in one's self—By heaven, I know<br /> +No toil, no curse, no slavery, like dissembling!<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Exit.</i></p> + + +<p>SCENE II. <i>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.</i></p> + +<p>Orsino <i>stands on a rock which overhangs the river</i>.</p> + +<p> +<i>Orsi.</i> Yes thou art lovely World! That blue-robed sky;<br /> +These giant rocks, their forms grotesque and awful<br /> +Reflected on the calm stream's lucid mirror;<br /> +These reverend oaks, through which (their rustling leaves<br /> +Dancing and twinkling in the sunbeams) light<br /> +Now gleams, now disappears, while yon fierce torrent,<br /> +Tumbling from crag to crag with measured dash,<br /> +Makes to the ear strange music: World, oh! World!<br /> +Who sees thee such must needs confess thee fair!<br /> +Who knows thee not must needs suppose thee good.<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>With a sudden burst of indignation</i>]</p> + +<p> +But I have tried thee, World! know all these beauties<br /> +Mere shows and snares; know thee a gilded serpent,<br /> +A flowery bank whose sweets smile o'er a pitfall;<br /> +A splendid prison, precious tomb, fair palace,<br /> +Whose golden domes allure poor wanderers in,<br /> +And when they've entered, crush them! Such I know thee<br /> +And, knowing, loath thy charms! Rise, rise, ye storms!<br /> +Mingle ye elements! Flash lightnings, flash!<br /> +Unmask this witch! blast her pernicious beauty!<br /> +And show me Nature as she is, a monster!<br /> +—I'll look no more! Oh! my torn heart! Victoria!<br /> +My son! Oh God! My son! Lost! lost! both lost!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">[<i>Leaning against the tomb.</i></span><br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Enter</i> Alfonso, Inis, <i>and Attendants</i>.</p> + +<p> +<i>Inis.</i> This is the hermit's cave; and see, my liege, Orsino's self.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> [<i>Starting back.</i>] No, no, that living spectre<br /> +Is not my gallant friend. I seek in vain<br /> +The full cheek's healthful glow, the eye of fire,<br /> +The martial mein, proud gait, and limbs Herculean!<br /> +Oh! is that deathlike form indeed Orsino?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Never to see them more! never, no never!<br /> +Wife, child, joy, hope, all gone!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> That voice! Oh! Heaven,<br /> +Too well I know that voice!—How grief has changed him!<br /> +I'll speak, yet dread——Retire [Inis, <i>&c. withdraw</i>.] Look up Orsino.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Discovered?<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Seizing a lance which rests against the cavern, and putting himself in +a posture of defence</i>]</p> + +<p> +Wretch, thy life—[<i>Staggering back.</i>] Strengthen me, heaven!<br /> +'Tis he? the king himself!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> [<i>Offering to take his hand.</i>]<br /> +Thy friend!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> [<i>Recovering himself, and drawing back his hand.</i>]<br /> +Friend! Friend!——<br /> +I've none!— [<i>Coldly.</i>]<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Orsino.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Never had but one,<br /> +And he—! Sir, though a king, you'd shrink to hear<br /> +How that friend used me!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Hear me speak, in pity!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> What need of words? I'm found, I'm in your power,<br /> +And you may torture me e'en how you list.<br /> +Where are your chains? these are the self-same arms<br /> +Which bore them ten long years, nor doubt their weighing<br /> +Heavy as ever! These same eyes, which bathed<br /> +So oft with bitterest tears your dungeon-grate,<br /> +Have streams not yet exhausted! and these lips<br /> +Can still with shrieks make the Black Tower re-echo,<br /> +Which heard my voice so long in frantic anguish<br /> +Rave of my wife and child, and curse Alfonso!<br /> +Lead on, Sir! I'm your prisoner!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Not for worlds<br /> +Would I but harm one hair of thine!—Nay, hear me!<br /> +And learn, most wronged Orsino, thy clear innocence<br /> +Is now well known to all.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Ay? Nay, I care not<br /> +Who thinks me innocent! I know myself so—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span>Was this your business, Sir? 'Tis done! Farewell.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Oh! part not from me thus! I fain would say——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> What?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> I have wronged thee!——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> [<i>Sternly</i>] True!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Deeply, most deeply!<br /> +But wounding thine, hurt my own heart no less,<br /> +Where none has filled thy place: 'tis thine, still thine—<br /> +And if my court——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> What should I there? No, no, Sir!<br /> +Sorrow has crazed my wits; long cramped by fetters<br /> +My arm sinks powerless; and my wasted limbs,<br /> +Palsied by dungeon-damps, would bend and totter<br /> +Beneath yon armour's weight, once borne so lightly!<br /> +Then what should I at court? I cannot head<br /> +Your troops, nor guide your councils; leave me, leave me,<br /> +You cannot use me further!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Oh! I must,<br /> +And to a most dear service—my heart bleeds,<br /> +And needs a friend! Be but that friend once more!<br /> +Be to me what thou wert, (and that was all things!)<br /> +Forgive my faults, forget thy injuries——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> [<i>Passionately.</i>] Never!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> That to Alfonso? That to him whose friendship——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Peace, peace! You felt no friendship! felt no flame,<br /> +Steady and strong!—Yours was a vain light vapour,<br /> +A boyish fancy, a caprice, a habit,<br /> +A bond you wearied of, and gladly seized<br /> +A lame pretext to break. Did not my heart<br /> +From earliest youth lie naked to your eyes?<br /> +Knew you not every comer, nerve, turn, twist on't?<br /> +And could you still suspect——? No, no! You wished<br /> +To find me false, or must have known me true.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> You wrong me, on my life! So fine, so skilful<br /> +The snare was spread——I knew not——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Knew not? Knew not?<br /> +Thou knew'st I was Orsino! Knowing that,<br /> +Thou should'st have known, I never could be guilty.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Proofs seemed so strong——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> And had I none to prove<br /> +My innocence? these deep-hewn scars received<br /> +While fighting in your cause, were these no proofs?<br /> +Your life twice saved by me! your very breath<br /> +My gift! your crown oft rescued by my valour!<br /> +Were these no proofs! My every word, thought, action,<br /> +My spotless life, my rank, my pride, my honour,<br /> +And, more than all, the love I ever bore thee,<br /> +Were these no proofs?—Oh! they had been conviction<br /> +In a friend's eyes, though they were none in thine!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Your pride? 'twas that undid me! your reserve,<br /> +Your silence——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> What! Should I have stooped to chase<br /> +Your brawling lawyers through their flaws and quibbles?<br /> +To bear the sneers of saucy questioners—<br /> +Their jests, their lies—and, when they termed me villain,<br /> +Calmly to cry—"Good Sirs, I'm none!"—No, no:<br /> +I heard myself called traitor—saw you calmly<br /> +Hear me so called, nor strike the speaker dead!<br /> +Then why defend myself? What hope was left me?<br /> +Truth lost its value, since you thought me false!<br /> +Speech had been vain, since your heart spoke not for me.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> And it <i>did</i> speak——Spite of the law's decision,<br /> +My love preserved your life——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Oh! bounteous favour!<br /> +Oh! vast munificence! which, giving life,<br /> +Robbed me of every gem which made life precious!<br /> +Where is my wife? Distracted at my loss,<br /> +Sunk to her cold grave with a broken heart?<br /> +Where is my son? Or dead through want, or wandering<br /> +A friendless outcast! Where that health, that vigour,<br /> +Those iron nerves, once mine?—King, ask your dungeons!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Oh! spare me!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Give me these again, wife, son,<br /> +Health, strength, and ten most precious years of manhood,<br /> +And I'll perhaps forgive thee: till then, never!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> What could I do? thy son had been to me<br /> +Dear as my own, had not Victoria's pride,<br /> +Scorning all aid——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> 'Twas right!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> She fled, concealed<br /> +Herself and child——had it on me depended——<br /> +I cannot speak——My heart——Oh! yet have mercy,<br /> +Think I had other duties than a friend's——<br /> +Alas! I was a king!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> And are one still——<br /> +Have still your wealth, and pomp, and pride, and power,<br /> +And herd of cringing courtiers—still have children——<br /> +I had but one, and him I lost through thee.<br /> +I, I have nothing! Yon rude cave my palace,<br /> +These rocks my court, the wolf my fit companion—<br /> +Lost all life's blessings, wife, son, health! Oh! nothing<br /> +Is left me, save the right to hate that man<br /> +Who made me what I am!—And would'st thou rob me<br /> +E'en of this last poor pleasure? Go Sir! go,<br /> +Regain your court; resume your pomp and splendour!<br /> +Drink deep of luxury's cup! be gay, be flattered,<br /> +Pampered and proud, and, if thou canst, be happy.<br /> +I'll to my cave, and curse thee!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Stay, Orsino!<br /> +If ever friendship warmed, or pity melted<br /> +Thy heart, I charge thee——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Pity? In thy dungeons,<br /> +Sir, I forgot the meaning of that word.<br /> +For ten long years no gentle accents soothed me,<br /> +No tears with mine were mixed—no bosom sighed<br /> +That anguish tortured mine! King, king, thou know'st not,<br /> +How solitude makes the soul stern and savage!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Yet were thy soul than adamantine rocks<br /> +More hard, these deep-drawn sighs——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> My wife's last groan<br /> +Rings in my ear, and drowns them.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> And these tears<br /> +Might touch thy heart——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> My heart is dead, King! dead!<br /> +'Tis yonder buried in Victoria's Grave!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Could prayers, unfeigned remorse, ceaseless affection,<br /> +And influence as my own unbounded——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Hold!<br /> +I'll try thee, and make two demands! But first,<br /> +Swear by all hopes of happiness hereafter,<br /> +And Heaven's best gift on earth, thine angel-daughter,<br /> +Whate'er I ask shall be fulfilled.<br /> +<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span><i>Alfon.</i> I swear!<br /> +And Heaven so treat my prayers, as I shall thine.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> 'Tis well: now mark, and keep thine oath. My first<br /> +Request is—Leave me instantly! my second,<br /> +Ne'er let me see thee more.—Thou hast heard, begone! [<i>Exit into the cave.</i><br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> 'Tis well, proud man,—Alas! my heart's too humbled<br /> +To chide e'en him who spurns it.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Inis.</i> Nay my liege,<br /> +Despair not——Sure the princess.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Right, I'll seek her;<br /> +To her he owes his freedom, and her prayers<br /> +Shall win me back this dear obdurate heart<br /> +Oh! did he know how sweet 'tis to forgive,<br /> +And raise the wounded soul, which, crushed and humbled<br /> +Sinks in the dust, and owns that it has erred:<br /> +To quench all wrath, and cancel all offences,<br /> +Sure he would need no motive but self love.<br /> +</p> + +<h4>[<i>Exeunt.</i></h4> + + +<h3>SCENE III.——<i>A garden.</i></h3> + +<p> +<i>Amel.</i> [<i>Alone</i>] And are ye all then vanished, sylphs of bliss?<br /> +All fled in air, and not one trace, one shadow<br /> +Left of my bright day-visions? Is not rather<br /> +All this some fearful dream?——Cæsario false!<br /> +I <i>know</i> 'tis so, yet scarce can <i>think</i> 'tis so!<br /> +Gods! when last night, after long absence meeting,<br /> +What looks!—what joy!—and was then all deceit?<br /> +Did he but mock me, when with tears of rapture<br /> +He bathed my hand; knelt; sighed; as had his voice<br /> +By pleasure been o'erwhelmed, a while was silent;<br /> +But soon came words, sweet as those most sweet kisses<br /> +Which grateful Venus gave the swain whose care<br /> +Brought back her truant doves!—--So sweet, so sweet——<br /> +Distrust, herself, must have believed those words.<br /> +Oh! and was all but feigned?<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Enter</i> Cæsario <i>and</i> Estella.</p> + +<p> +<i>Estella.</i> Wait here awhile;<br /> +I'll try to sooth her.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> My best friend!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Estel.</i> Withdraw [Cæsario <i>retires</i>.<br /> +Still bathed in tears?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> [<i>Throwing herself on her bosom.</i>] Oh! my soul's sick,<br /> +Estella.<br /> +My heart is broken, broken!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Estel.</i> Nay, be calm!<br /> +I bring you comfort.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> How?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Estel.</i> Cæsario sues<br /> +For one short moment's audience.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> I'll not see him.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Estel.</i> Dear princess!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Never! saw I not Ottilia<br /> +Decked with my gift? did I not hear.——Shame! shame!<br /> +Go, go, Estella, see him! say, and firmly,<br /> +We meet no more! say, that the veil is rent!<br /> +Say, that I know him wavering, vain, ungrateful,<br /> +Flattering and false! and having said this, add,<br /> +False as he is, he's my soul's tyrant still!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> [<i>Throwing himself at her feet</i>] Accents of Heaven!—my life! my love!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Cæsario?<br /> +Farewell forever!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Nay you must not leave me.<br /> +Hear me but speak.——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Release me!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> But one word.—<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> I'll not be held!—Your pardon. I forgot sir!<br /> +I thought myself still mistress of my actions!<br /> +Still princess of Castile!—Now I remember<br /> +I'm that despised, unhappy thing, your wife!<br /> +Sir, I obey!—Your pleasure!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Oh! how lovely<br /> +Those eyes can make e'en scorn! yet calm their lightnings—<br /> +Once more let love.—<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Never—the hours are past<br /> +When I believed thee all my fond heart wished;<br /> +Thought thee the best, the kindest, truest——thought thee——<br /> +Oh! Heaven! no Eastern tale portrays the palace<br /> +Of fay, or wizard (where in bright confusion<br /> +Blaze gold and gems) so glorious fair, as seemed,<br /> +Tricked in the rainbow-colours of my fancy,<br /> +Cæsario's form this morn:——Too late I know thee;<br /> +The spell is broke; and where an Houri smiled,<br /> +Now scowls a fiend. Oh! thus benighted pilgrims<br /> +Admire the glow-worm's light, while gloom prevails<br /> +But find that seeming lamp of fiery lustre<br /> +A poor dark worthless worm, when viewed in sunshine.<br /> +Away, and seek Ottilia.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Oh! my princess,<br /> +Deep as thy anger wounds my heart, more deeply<br /> +I grieve to think, how thine will bleed at finding<br /> +This anger undeserved.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Oh! that it were <i>so</i>,<br /> +But no! I saw my scarf——that very scarf——<br /> +My own hands wrought it.——Many a midnight lamp,<br /> +While thou wert at the wars, in toil I wasted,<br /> +And made it my sole joy to toil for thee,<br /> +There was no thread I had not blest! no flower<br /> +I had not kist a thousand times, and murmured<br /> +With every kiss a prayer for thy return,<br /> +And yet thou gav'st this sacred work to buy<br /> +A wanton's favours.——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Say, to buy her silence?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Her silence?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> As this morn I left the palace,<br /> +She marked my flight.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Just heaven!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Though unrequited,<br /> +Her love has long been mine.—She raved; she threatened;<br /> +She would have vengeance; she would rouse the guards;<br /> +Alarm the king.——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> [<i>Shuddering.</i>] My father!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> But her silence<br /> +Bought by that scarf.—<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Cæsario, could I trust thee?<br /> +Were this tale true, could I but think.—<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> I'll swear.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> No! at the altar thou hast sworn already<br /> +Mine were thy hand and heart, and mine forever:<br /> +If thou canst break this oath, none else will bind thee——<br /> +Yet did I wrong thee? art thou true? I fain<br /> +Would think thee so.——But this fond heart, my husband,<br /> +Is such a weak sad thing and where it loves,<br /> +Loves so devoutly——Spare me, dear Cæsario,<br /> +Such fears in future; let no word, no thought,<br /> +Cloud thy pure faith, for so my soul dotes on thee,<br /> +But to suspect thee racks each nerve, and almost<br /> +Drives my brain mad,—Oh! could'st thou know, Cæsario,<br /> +How painful 'tis for one who loves like me,<br /> +To <i>cease</i> to love——Cease, said I?——No, my heart<br /> +Ceased to esteem, but never ceased to love thee.<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Falling on his neck.</i>]</p> + +<p> +<i>Cæsa.</i> My soul! my Amelrosa,—Now all planets<br /> +Rain plagues upon my perjured head, if e'er<br /> +I break the vow, which here I breathe; this heart,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span>Filled but with thee, and formed but to adore thee,<br /> +Is thine, my love, thine now, and thine forever!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Hark!—steps approach——Estella?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Estel.</i> [<i>who has retired, advances hastily.</i>]<br /> +Haste, Cæsario,<br /> +You must away! the king's returned, I see<br /> +His train now loitering near the garden-gate,<br /> +Fly by the private postern.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Straight I'll follow. [<i>Exit</i> Estella.<br /> +And must I leave thee, leave thee for so long too?<br /> +The king's affairs now call me far from Burgos,<br /> +And ere we meet again twelve hours must pass.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Ah! me, to love, an age.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Yet should I leave thee<br /> +With calmer soul, nor feel such pain in absence,<br /> +Were I but sure one wish——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> [<i>Eagerly.</i>] Oh! name it, name it,<br /> +But ask me nothing light in action: ask me<br /> +Something strange, hard, and painful: Something, such<br /> +As none would dare to do but one who loves.<br /> +Name, name this blessed wish.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i>'Tis this—From midnight,<br /> +Till my return, avoid the royal tower.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> I promise; yet what reason——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> When we meet<br /> +Thou shalt know all; till then forgive my silence:<br /> +Seal with a kiss thy promise, then farewell.<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Here</i> Alfonso <i>advances in silence; his eyes are fixed on his +daughter, his hands are folded, and his whole appearance expresses the +utmost dejection.</i>]</p> + +<p> +<i>Amel.</i> Farewell, since it must be farewell——But mark,<br /> +See not Ottilia ere you go.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> I will not.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> And when the bell's deep tongue announces midnight,<br /> +Breathe thou my name, for at that hour, my love,<br /> +I'll think on thee.—That hour! Oh, fool! as if<br /> +Hours could be found in which I think not on thee.<br /> +And must thou go?—Nay, if thou must, away,<br /> +Or I shall bid thee stay, and stay forever.<br /> +Farewell my husband!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> My soul's joy, farewell!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Oh! pain of parting!<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Turning round, her eye rests on</i> Alfonso. <i>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.</i>]</p> + +<p> +Father!<br /> +</p> + +<p>[Alfonso <i>motions to forbid her following, and goes off</i>.]</p> + +<p> +<i>Amel.</i> Oh! I'm lost! [<i>She falls senseless on the ground.</i>]<br /> +</p> + +<h4><i>End of Act II.</i></h4> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="ACT_III" id="ACT_III"></a>ACT III.</h2> + + +<h3>SCENE I.——<i>A chamber in the palace.</i></h3> + +<h4><i>Enter</i> Ottilia <i>and</i> Inis.</h4> + +<p> +<i>Otti.</i> Was it so sudden?—What, no cause assigned,<br /> +And so severe a shock too?—Trust me, Inis,<br /> +Thy tale alarms me.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Inis.</i> On the earth we found her<br /> +Senseless and cold: we raised and bore her hither,<br /> +Where she revived only to sigh and sorrow,<br /> +Wring her fair hands, and shriek her father's name.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> 'Tis wondrous strange,—Mourning my own afflictions,<br /> +This rumour reached me; straight all else forgotten,<br /> +Hither by love and duty urged I sped,<br /> +Nor come I trust in vain,——this phial holds<br /> +Drops of most precious power.—Good Inis take it,<br /> +And in your lady's drink infuse this liquid:<br /> +My life upon her cure.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Inis.</i> Obedience best<br /> +Will speak my thanks, nor doubt——Lo, where approaches<br /> +My lady's ghostly father, holy Bazil.<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Enter Father</i> Bazil.</p> + +<p> +<i>Bazil.</i> Pardon that rudely thus I break your parley,<br /> +But from the king I come, to bid the Infanta<br /> +Attend him here.——Good Inis lead me to her.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Inis.</i> Here lies our way—Again I thank you, lady;<br /> +Ere night I'll use your gift. [<i>Exit with</i> Bazil.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> And if thou dost,<br /> +Go ring a funeral knel, and get thee mourning,<br /> +And gather flowers to strew thy lady's grave:<br /> +Thou'lt gather none so sweet as that I wither,<br /> +—Hark! 'twas her voice.——How at the sound seemed ice<br /> +To seize my every vein!—My victim comes!<br /> +—I cannot bear her sight!—So young to die!<br /> +So young, so fair, so gentle, and so good!<br /> +With such an angel's life, and my soul's quiet—<br /> +Oh, God! Cæsario, thou art purchased dearly.<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Exit.</i></p> + +<p><i>Enter</i> Amelrosa, Bazil, Estella, Inis, <i>and attendants</i>.</p> + +<p> +<i>Bazil.</i> No passion flushed his cheek; his voice, his manner,<br /> +Though solemn were not stern; and when he named you,<br /> +A tear gushed forth, ere he could turn him from me.<br /> +Then droop not thus, nor doubt paternal love.—<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Oh! 'tis that love distracts me, for his love<br /> +Was love so great! 'Twas but this morn he termed me<br /> +The only tie which chained him still to life!<br /> +And I have broke that tie!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Bazil.</i> Nay, gentle princess!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Perhaps have broke his heart too! from his lips<br /> +Have dashed joy's last poor lingering drop, and shown him,<br /> +His only prop was frail as all the former!<br /> +Could I but think he felt like common parents,<br /> +That when he found my fault, affection died,<br /> +Then I were blest! then I alone should suffer,<br /> +And when his hatred broke my heart, could seek<br /> +Some lone sad place, and lay me down and die!<br /> +Alas! alas! I know I was his darling!<br /> +Know by the joy I gave him once, too well<br /> +How sharp the grief must be, I cause him now!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Bazil.</i> That partial love which cherished thus your virtues,<br /> +Will now absolve your fault.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> But when he frowns?<br /> +I ne'er yet saw him frown,—but sure he's dreadful!<br /> +Oh! ere I meet those eyes (which yet ne'er viewed me<br /> +But their kind language spoke uncounted blessings)<br /> +And find them dark with gloom, and dread with lightnings,<br /> +Closed be my own in death!—Hark! hark! he comes<br /> +In all his terrors, comes to spurn and drive me<br /> +For ever from his sight.—His frown will kill me!<br /> +Shield me, Estella, shield me!<br /> +</p> + +<p>Alfonso <i>enters, followed by</i> Ricardo <i>and courtiers</i>.</p> + +<p> +<i>Alfon.</i> [<i>Aside, looking at</i> Amelrosa.] Can it be!<br /> +Can she too have deceived—!—Retire awhile.<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Exeunt</i> Estella, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span>&c.</p> + +<p><i>Manent</i> Alfonso <i>and</i> Amelrosa.</p> + +<p> +<i>Amel.</i> [<i>Advancing with timidity, then rushing<br /> +forward and falling prostrate at his feet.</i>] My father?—Oh! my father.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Rise!<br /> +Nay rise: what fears't thou? Wherefore weep, and tremble?<br /> +<i>Thou</i> hast no cause for grief! The poisoned arrow<br /> +Has pierced no heart but mine! These eyes alone<br /> +Need weep for what they've seen! <i>Thou</i> hast not felt<br /> +What 'tis to lose all faith in man! to see<br /> +Joy and hope die together; and to find,<br /> +When all thy soul loved best hung on thy neck,<br /> +Each kiss was false, and each sweet smile was hollow!<br /> +Well! well! 'Tis past grief's curing! wondrous bitter,<br /> +But must be borne! a few short months, and then<br /> +The grave mends all.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> [<i>Aside.</i>] Pangs of the dying sinner,<br /> +Are ye more sharp than mine!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> More tears?—Perhaps<br /> +You tremble, lest my regal wrath should crush<br /> +The audacious slave who stole his sovereign's daughter?<br /> +No, princess, no! I can excuse the youth,<br /> +Nor look from mortals for divine forbearance.<br /> +A fairer fruit than ever dragon guarded,<br /> +Courting his hand and hung within his grasp,<br /> +He could not choose but pluck it.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Oh! I would<br /> +My heart would spring before thine eyes, and show thee<br /> +Each word thou utter'st, written there in blood!<br /> +That it could speak——!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> What could it say? but plead<br /> +The youth's fair form, high fame, and great acquirements!<br /> +Gratitude that from ruffian hands he saved thee,<br /> +Feelings too fond, and thus excuse thy love!<br /> +But could it e'er excuse thy long dissembling,<br /> +Thy seeming confidence, thy vows all broken,<br /> +Thy arts to lull me in a blissful dream,<br /> +From which the waking's dreadful! Why deceive me?<br /> +Why hide as from a foe thy thoughts from me?<br /> +Why banish me thy bosom? didst thou fear me?<br /> +Didst fear my power, my pride, my wrath? Oh! was I—<br /> +Was I so harsh a father, Amelrosa?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> [<i>Aside.</i>] Heart, sure thy strings are<br /> +steel, or they would break!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Yet 'Tis deserved? I was too fond! too partial!<br /> +Still loved thee better than my son, whose heart<br /> +Perhaps this partial love has turned against me—<br /> +If so, my pain is just!—Daughter I'll chide<br /> +No more; nor came I here to chide, but bless thee,<br /> +This parchment gives thy lord Medina's dukedom,<br /> +With all its fair domains; the dowry promised,<br /> +When my fond bosom hoped that princely Arragon——<br /> +But that's now passed!—Take it—farewell—be happy——<br /> +We meet no more!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> [<i>Covering her face with her hands</i>] Oh? heaven!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> 'Twere vain, 'twere cruel,<br /> +To make thee toil to fan thy love's faint embers,<br /> +Since faith is dead; and though I still doat on thee,<br /> +I'll trust no more—Thy choice is made, and may<br /> +That choice prove all thy fondest dreams e'er pictured!<br /> +Blest be thy days as the first man's in Eden,<br /> +Before sin was! Be thy brave lord's affection<br /> +Firm as his valour, lovely as thy form!<br /> +And shouldst thou ever know, with thy whole soul<br /> +What 'tis to love a child, and hold it dearer<br /> +Than freedom, light, or life—Oh may that darling<br /> +Show thee more faith than thou hast shown to me.<br /> +I've done—Have there the deed—Farewell!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> [<i>Grasping the hand which he extends<br /> +with the parchment, and pressing it to her lips.</i>] Have mercy!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Mercy?—On whom?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> An humbled, breaking heart,<br /> +But which, though breaking, loves thee dearly, dearly!<br /> +Throw me not from thee!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Hast not all thy wishes?<br /> +Thy husband's pardon, honour, wealth, and freedom,<br /> +To live with whom, and how, and where thou wilt?<br /> +What wouldst thou more?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> That, without which all these<br /> +Are nothing, and each seeming grace true curses!<br /> +Thy heart! thy heart my father! Give me that!<br /> +Thy whole, whole heart, such as I once possessed it,<br /> +Soft—kind—indulgent—open—feeling—fond!<br /> +'Tis this I ask,—or, this denied, to die.<br /> +Yes! strike me at your foot; spurn, trample, crush me!<br /> +Twist in my streaming locks your hand, and drag me,<br /> +Till from my wounded bosom streams of blood<br /> +Gush forth, and dye the marble red!—All this<br /> +Were far less anguish to a <i>generous</i> soul,<br /> +Than this so torturing love, so cruel kindness!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> I will not hear——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Oh! leave me not, my father,<br /> +Nor bid me leave thee! Let my anguish move thee;<br /> +Let not, though great, a single error lose me<br /> +The fruits of twenty years pass'd in thy service,<br /> +Which in thy service pass'd seemed short as moments.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> It must not be—<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> You would, but cannot hide it;<br /> +I still am dear! Each look, each feature speaks it,<br /> +Speaks to a softening heart—Oh! hear its pleading,<br /> +And bid me stay! I'll only stay to love thee!<br /> +Look on me! mark my altered form! observe<br /> +The strong convulsions of my gasping bosom!<br /> +See my wan cheeks, eyes swoln, lips trembling! feel<br /> +How scalding are the tears with which I dew<br /> +This dear, dear hand! Judge by thy own <i>my</i> sufferings,<br /> +And bid me cease to suffer; when with force,<br /> +Such as despair alone can give, and louder<br /> +Than fiends implore from their volcanic prisons<br /> +The Arch-angel's grace, I cry to thee—"Have mercy."—<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> My child—No, no!—'Twere weakness—<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Weakness, say'st thou?<br /> +Oh! glorious fault! Oh! fair defect!—Oh! weakness<br /> +Passing all strength! If to forgive be sin,<br /> +How deeply then must Heaven have sinned to man!<br /> +Oh! be thy faults like Heaven's! Relent, my father!<br /> +Pardon—! Oh! speak that word!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> My heart! my heart!<br /> +My bursting heart!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> That word, that blessed word,<br /> +So quickly said, so easy, as 'twere magic<br /> +Breaks sorrow's spell and bids her phantoms fly!<br /> +That word, that word, that one, one little word.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span>And I am blest!——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfonso.</i> [<i>Yielding to his emotions, and clasping<br /> +her eagerly to his bosom.</i>] Be blest then! [<i>Exit.</i><br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Now, ye stars,<br /> +Which nightly grace the sky, if ye love goodness<br /> +Pour dews celestial from your golden vials<br /> +On yon dear gracious head!—Oh why is now<br /> +My husband absent? Lend thy doves dear Venus,<br /> +That I may send them where Cæsario strays;<br /> +And while he smoothes their silver wings, and gives them<br /> +For drink the honey of his lips, I'll bid them<br /> +Coo in his ear, his Amelrosa's happy!<br /> +Joy, joy, my soul! Bound, my gay dancing heart!<br /> +Waft me, ye winds! To bear so blest a creature<br /> +Earth is not worthy! Loved by those I love,<br /> +I've all my soul e'er wished, my hopes e'er fancied,<br /> +My father's friendship, and Cæsario's heart!<br /> +Leave me but these, and, fortune I defy thee! [<i>Exit.</i><br /> +</p> + + +<h3>SCENE II. <i>The forest as before.</i></h3> + +<h4><i>Enter</i> Cæsario <i>and</i> Henriquez.</h4> + +<p> +<i>Cæsa.</i> He spurned him, Marquis, spurned him! With such scorn,<br /> +Such genuine ardent hate, repaid his soothing—<br /> +Oh! by that hate I feel, the blood which fills<br /> +These veins is right Orsino's!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> 'Tis reported,<br /> +The king shed tears.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Marquis, he wept, fawned, pleaded<br /> +Remorse, and sued for pardon, with such fervour,<br /> +As starving souls for bread!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> Did not at this<br /> +Orsino's ire melt?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Melt? Like yon fortress rock,<br /> +(Which rears his tower-clad front above the billows,<br /> +Nor heeds the winds that blow, nor rains that beat)<br /> +Proof against tears, and deaf to all entreaties,<br /> +Unmoved the stern one stood, and frowned his answer.<br /> +Oh! fear not, friend: like me he loaths Alfonso,<br /> +And, when I place revenge within his grasping,<br /> +Will spring to reach it.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> 'Tis past doubt, his aid<br /> +Were to our cause a tower of strength; yet still<br /> +I fear, lest——Some one leaves the cave!—'Tis he!<br /> +I'll wait beneath yon limes. [<i>Exit.</i><br /> +</p> + +<p>Orsino <i>enters from the cave</i>.</p> + +<p> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Now by my life<br /> +A noble ruin!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> I return to Burgos?<br /> +For what? To show my scars and hear court ladies<br /> +Rail at the wars for making men so hideous?<br /> +To bear the coxcomb's sneer, the minion's fawning,<br /> +And see fools sweetly smile at my good fortune,<br /> +Who, when my death was signed, smiled full as sweetly?<br /> +No, no, I'll none on't. [<i>Seeing</i> Cæsario.]<br /> +Plagues and fiends! another!<br /> +More gold and silk; more musk, fair words, and lying!<br /> +Will these court flies ne'er cease to buz around me?<br /> +Well, sir, what seek ye here?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Revenge.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Indeed!<br /> +On whom?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> On lawless power. Ask ye for what?<br /> +A father's wrongs and mother's murder!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> (<i>starting.</i>) How!<br /> +That voice—Let me look on thee well—Those lips,<br /> +Those eyes—Oh Heaven! those eyes, too! I ne'er saw<br /> +But one have eyes like thine, an earthly angel,<br /> +And with the angels now. Fair youth, who art thou?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Speaks not thy heart?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> It does, youth, Oh! It does;<br /> +But I'll not trust it; for if false its whispers<br /> +So sweet, so painful sweet—Dear good youth tell me,<br /> +Spare a poor broken heart, and tell me quickly<br /> +Thy father's name.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> My father! Oh! that was<br /> +A man indeed, and model for all others!<br /> +His country's sword, his country's shield, a hero,<br /> +A demigod; and great as were his actions,<br /> +So were his wrongs.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> His name! his name!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> (<i>rushing into his arms</i>) Orsino!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> I have him! hold him here! Death alone parts us.<br /> +My son! Victoria's son! Come, come, my boy,<br /> +Kneel at this tomb with me; join thou my suit<br /> +For the blest dust beneath, and read through tears<br /> +Here sleeps thy mother. Wandering forth to seek her,<br /> +Unknown her fate and thine, chance led me hither.<br /> +I marked yon tablet, read yon piteous lines,<br /> +Threw those now useless arms forever from me,<br /> +Sank on Victoria's grave, nor left it more;<br /> +Yet, yet I died not! Amelrosa's kindness,<br /> +Which gave me freedom, traced me to this spot,<br /> +And saved my life, my wretched life, which still<br /> +I only use to mourn thy loss, Victoria.<br /> +Know'st thou, my boy, when her eyes closed forever?<br /> +Whose hand——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Her son's—<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> (<i>grasping</i> Cæsario's <i>hand</i>) Was't thine?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> 'Twas mine too raised<br /> +Yon rustic tomb, and 'twas this cave received her<br /> +When, desperate at your loss, she fled the court.<br /> +Here long she sorrowed, here at length she died,<br /> +Died of a broken heart! Ay weep, my father;<br /> +For know the king shall pay each tear thou shed'st<br /> +With drops of blood.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> The king? Boy, name him not.<br /> +That sound is poison. I was once so happy;<br /> +Was once so rich—and that one man stole all.<br /> +My curse be on him!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Man, thy curse is heard.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Is heard! What mean'st thou?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Vengeance! Hark, Orsino—<br /> +Soon as my mother died (believed Cæsario<br /> +A young unknown) I sought the court, where chance<br /> +Gave me from ruffian Moors to save the princess.<br /> +This made Alfonso mine, and still I've used him<br /> +To further mine own ends. Joy, joy, my father!<br /> +My plots are ripe, the king's best troops corrupted,<br /> +His son, too, through my arts, declared a rebel;<br /> +And, ere two nights are past, I'll strip the tyrant<br /> +Both of his throne and life. Rouse then, and aid<br /> +----Now, sir, why gaze you thus?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> I fain would doubt it;<br /> +Fain find some plea—No, no, each look, each feature,<br /> +And my own heart——'Tis true thou art my son!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> What mean you?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> (<i>passionately</i>) Art my son, and yet a villain!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> (<i>starting</i>) Villain!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Destroy Alfonso! What! Alfonso,<br /> +The wise, the good?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> With thee then was he either?<br /> +Has he not wronged thee?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Deeply, boy, most deeply.<br /> +But in his whole wide kingdom none but me.<br /> +Look through Castile; see all smile, bloom, and flourish.<br /> +No peasant sleeps ere he has breathed a blessing<br /> +On his good king; no thirst of power, false pride,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span>Or martial rage he knows; nor would he shed<br /> +One drop of subject-blood to buy the title<br /> +Of a new Mars! E'en broken hearted widows<br /> +And childless mothers, while they weep the slain,<br /> +Cursing the wars, confess his cause was just.<br /> +Such is Alfonso, such the man whose virtues<br /> +Now fill thy throne, Castile, to bliss thy children!<br /> +What shows the adverse scale! What find we there?<br /> +<i>My</i> sufferings, mine alone! And what am <i>I</i>,<br /> +That I should weigh me 'gainst the public welfare?<br /> +What are my wrongs against a monarch's rights?<br /> +What is my curse against a nation's blessings?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Yet hear me.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> I assist your plots! I injure<br /> +One hair that's nourished with Alfonso's blood!<br /> +No! The wronged subject hates the ungrateful master;<br /> +But the world's friend must love the patriot king.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Amazement! Can it be Orsino speaking?<br /> +'Tis some court minion sure, some tool of office,<br /> +Some threadbare muse pensioned to praise the throne;<br /> +This cannot be the man whose burning vengeance,<br /> +Whose fixed aversion——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Or.</i> Boy, 'Tis fixed as ever.<br /> +Alfonso's sight, his name, his very goodness,<br /> +Forcing my praise, torture my soul to madness.<br /> +I hate him, hate him; but still own his virtues;<br /> +And though I hate, Oh bless the good king, Heaven!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Oh most strange patience! most rare stretch of temper!<br /> +What! bless the man who thought you treacherous, base,<br /> +Ungrateful!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> And because he thought me such,<br /> +(Remembering only what his fault deserves,<br /> +Forgetting all that's due to mine own honour)<br /> +Shall I become the wretched thing he thought me?<br /> +Prove his suspicions just? quit the proud station<br /> +Where injured Virtue towers and sink me down to<br /> +His level who oppressed me? Oh, not so!<br /> +When hostile arms strain every nerve to crush me,<br /> +Pang follows pang, and wrong to wrong succeeds,<br /> +Piled like the Alps, each loftier than the last one,<br /> +To pay those wrongs with good, those pangs with kindness,<br /> +To raise the foe once fallen, bind his gored breast,<br /> +And heap, with generous zeal, favours on favours,<br /> +Till his repentant spirit melts and bleeds<br /> +To think he ever pained a heart like mine,<br /> +Such is <i>my</i> hate! such my proud soul's whole object.<br /> +The only vengeance noble minds should take.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Farewell, then, since far other hate is mine,<br /> +And asks for other vengeance. I'll to seek it.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Stay, youth, and hear me. Ere you quit this spot.<br /> +Since virtue has no power to chain or awe thee,<br /> +Swear to forgo thy traitorous schemes, or straight<br /> +I'll seek the king——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> You dare not: no, you dare not.<br /> +Nay, start not. I but know my power and use it.<br /> +Look on these lips and eyes; they are Victoria's.<br /> +And shall Victoria's lips be sealed forever?<br /> +And shall Victoria's eyes be closed in death?<br /> +E'en while you rage, with looks so fond you eye me,<br /> +They speak, your love will guaranty your silence.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> 'Tis true, too true: but dear and cruel boy,<br /> +Though threats succeed not, let these tears prevail,<br /> +Tears for thy dying virtue. Oh look round thee!<br /> +See to mankind what curses bad kings are,<br /> +And learn from them the blessings of a good one.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Father, in vain you urge me. Know I've sworn<br /> +Alfonso's death. My mother's shade demands it.<br /> +Who asked that promise, with an oath confirmed.<br /> +And what she asked I gave.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Oh! Wherefore did'st thou?<br /> +Since she required an oath to seal thy promise,<br /> +Thou shouldst have known thy promise must be wrong.<br /> +Virtue and truth are in themselves convincing,<br /> +Nor need the feeble sanction of man's lips;<br /> +As the sun needs no aid from foreign orbs,<br /> +Itself a fire-formed world of light and glory.<br /> +What meant thine oath? What meant those magic words?<br /> +Save by thy lips to bind thy hand to do<br /> +What makes each wise head shake, each good heart shudder.<br /> +Thy impious vow——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Impious or just, once sworn,<br /> +To break it sure were shame.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> My son, 'twere virtue,<br /> +When to perform it were the worst of crimes,<br /> +'Twas wrong to swear; be with that wrong contented.<br /> +A second fault cannot make right the first;<br /> +And acts of guilt absolve no act of folly.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Guilt! Then we jar for words. I see but glory<br /> +Where thou seest guilt: yet call it what thou wilt.<br /> +I <i>may</i> be guilty, but I <i>must</i> be great.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> A dreadful word!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> A crown, a crown invites me!<br /> +A glorious crown!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Glorious! Oh no! True glory<br /> +Is not to <i>wear</i> a crown but to <i>deserve</i> one.<br /> +The peasant swain who leads a good man's life,<br /> +And dies at last a good man's death, obtains<br /> +In Wisdom's eye wreaths of far brighter splendour<br /> +Than he whose wanton pride and thirst for empire<br /> +Make kings his captives, and lay waste a world.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> And is't not glorious then to bless my country<br /> +By just and gentle ruling; fight her battles;<br /> +Preserve her laws——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Thou, thou preserve her laws——<br /> +Thou fight her battles! thou—I tell thee, boy,<br /> +The hand which serves its country should be pure.<br /> +Ambition, selfish love, vain lust of power<br /> +Ravage thy head and heart! and would'st thou hold<br /> +The judgment balance with a hand still red<br /> +With royal blood? Would'st thou dare speak a penance<br /> +On guilt, thyself so guilty? Canst thou hope<br /> +Castile will trust her to thee? God forbid!<br /> +Mad is that nation, mad past thought of cure,<br /> +Past chains and dungeons, whips, spare food, and fasting,<br /> +Who yields the immortal man a patriot's name,<br /> +And looks in private vice for public virtue.<br /> +Thou play the patriot's part! Away, away!<br /> +Who <i>wounds</i> his country is the worst of monsters;<br /> +But good men only should <i>presume</i> to <i>serve</i> her.<br /> +Thy guilt once seen——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> And who shall see that guilt<br /> +When wrapt in purple, and the world's eye dazzled<br /> +By the o'erpowering blaze a crown emits?<br /> +What pilgrim, gazing on some awful torrent,<br /> +Thinks through what roads it passed? Let golden fortune<br /> +But smile propitious on my daring crimes,<br /> +And all my crimes are virtues! Mark this, father,<br /> +The world ne'er holds those guilty who succeed. [<i>Exit.</i><br /> +<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span><i>Orsi.</i> (<i>alone.</i>) How shall I act? He said within two nights——<br /> +Whate'er is done must be done soon—Oh! how,<br /> +How shall I tread this labyrinth; how contrive<br /> +To save my king, yet not destroy my son?<br /> +The princess! Ha! well thought! It shall be so.<br /> +I'll seek her, and Alfonso's life preserved,<br /> +At once shall pay her kindness for my freedom,<br /> +And buy my son's full pardon. Yes, I'll haste,<br /> +And snatch my sovereign from this gulf of ruin.<br /> +I, I the Atlas of his tottering throne——<br /> +Prosperous I shunned; unhappy, I forgive him;<br /> +He reigned, I scorned his power; he sinks, I'll save him. [<i>Exit.</i><br /> +</p> + +<h4><i>End of Act III.</i></h4> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="ACT_IV" id="ACT_IV"></a>ACT IV.</h2> + + +<h3>SCENE I. Amelrosa's <i>chamber.</i></h3> + +<h4>Amelrosa <i>in white robes, crowned with flowers</i>, Estella, <i>with a +letter.</i></h4> + +<p> +<i>Amelrosa.</i> 'Tis strange! At this late hour! In armour say'st thou?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Estel.</i> In sable armour; round his neck was slung<br /> +A bugle horn. In courteous guise he prayed me<br /> +Give you this note unseen.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Unseen! How is this? [<i>Reading</i>]<br /> +<br /> +"One, not unknown, requests an immediate<br /> +audience on matters most important. Princess,<br /> +delay not as you value your father's life."<br /> +Not signed! My father's life! Estella say,<br /> +Did he not tell his name?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Estel.</i> He said this jewel<br /> +Would speak whence came his letter.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Ha! The ring<br /> +I gave Orsino! Quickly seek yon stranger,<br /> +And charge him meet me at St. Juan's chapel;<br /> +For there to pass the night in grateful prayer,<br /> +E'en now I go——Friend speed thee.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> [<i>Alone</i>] Doubt and terror——<br /> +My father's life?—And yet, for such a father<br /> +What need I fear? Heaven will defend its own,<br /> +And wings of seraphs shield that king from harm,<br /> +Whose proudest title is—"his people's father,"<br /> +Whose dearest treasure is his people's love! [<i>Exit.</i><br /> +</p> + + +<h3>SCENE II. <i>St. Juan's cloisters by moon-light.—On one side a gothic +chapel.</i></h3> + +<p> +<i>Orsi.</i> [<i>Alone in black armour.</i>] Yes, this must be the place—<br /> +Estella named,<br /> +St. Juan's shrine, and sure 'tis for the princess<br /> +Yon altar flames—Oh! hallowed vaults, how often<br /> +Ye ring with prayers, which granted would destroy<br /> +The fools who form them! Virgins there request<br /> +Their charms may fire the heart of some gay rake,<br /> +Who proves a wedded curse—There wives ask children,<br /> +And, when they have them, find their vices such<br /> +They mourn their birth—The spendthrift begs some kinsman<br /> +May die, and vows that heaven shall share the spoil—<br /> +While the young soldier prays his sword ere long<br /> +May blush with blood, (and with whose blood he cares not,)<br /> +Swearing, if so his arm may purchase glory,<br /> +He'll pay its price, a thousand human hearts.<br /> +And all these mad, these impious vows are ushered<br /> +With chant of cloistered maids, and swell of organs—<br /> +As could our earthly songs charm Him, who hears<br /> +Seraphs and cherubs wake their harps divine,<br /> +While the blest planets, hymning in their orbits,<br /> +Pour fourth such tones as reached their mortal ears,<br /> +Man would go mad for very extasy.<br /> +Well, well! Such forms are good to force example<br /> +On purblind eyes: but prayer from earth abstracted,<br /> +Breathed in no ear but Heaven's; when lips are silent,<br /> +But the heart speaks full loudly; thanks the music,<br /> +Man's soul the censer, and pure thoughts the incense<br /> +Kindling with grace celestial: that's the worship<br /> +Which suits Him best who, past all prayer and praise,<br /> +Esteems one grateful tear, one heart-drawn blessing,<br /> +Which, thanking God, declares that man is happy.<br /> +—Ha! Gleams of torches gild yon distant aisle!<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Enter Father</i> Bazil.</p> + +<p> +<i>Bazil.</i> Stranger, What dost thou here, where now to offer<br /> +Gifts at yon shrine, for wondrous favour shown her,<br /> +The princess hastens? See, she comes: retire?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Your pardon, reverend father, I obey.<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Exit</i> Orsino.</p> + +<p><i>A procession enters of nuns and friars with lighted tapers, then +follow</i> Amelrosa, Estella, Inis, <i>and ladies, carrying offerings</i>.</p> + +<p> +<i>Amel.</i> I thank ye, holy friends. Now leave me here,<br /> +Where I must watch the live-long night and feed<br /> +Yon sacred lamps, telling each hour my beads,<br /> +And pouring thanks to heaven and good St. Juan.<br /> +Till morn farewell.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Bazil.</i> May angels guard thee, daughter,<br /> +Pure as thy thoughts, and join thee in thy prayers.<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Exeunt.</i></p> + +<p> +<i>Amel.</i> (<i>alone</i>) He is not here. Oh how my bosom throbs<br /> +To know this fearful secret! Sure he cannot<br /> +Have missed the place.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> (<i>entering</i>) All's dark again and silent.<br /> +Perhaps her courage failed her, and she's gone.<br /> +If so, what must be done? No, no, a shadow<br /> +Moves on the chapel porch. 'Tis surely she.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Hark! steps! Orsino!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> He.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Oh, good Orsino!<br /> +What brings thee here? Those words, <i>my father's life</i>,<br /> +Like spells by witches breathed to raise the dead,<br /> +Filled my heart's circle with a crowd of phantoms,<br /> +Doleful and strange, which groan to be released.<br /> +Thy news! thy news! Oh! speak them in one word,<br /> +And let me know the worst.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Thy fears though great,<br /> +Are justified by what I have to tell.<br /> +Princess, a plot is formed and ripe for action,<br /> +To spoil thy father of his throne and life.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> My father! my good father!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi</i> What can goodness<br /> +And moral duties 'gainst the assaults of passion!<br /> +Those chains, e'en when they seem than diamond harder,<br /> +Soften, calcine, and fall like dust away,<br /> +Touched by the burning finger of ambition.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> This vile, vile world! Oh is there one on earth<br /> +So lost to virtue he would harm my father!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> There is, and one most favoured! one who owns<br /> +He long has lived nearest Alfonso's heart;<br /> +His friend, his trusted friend; and yet this traitor,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span>This worst of traitors—shame denies me utterance!<br /> +This traitor, princess, is Orsino's son.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Thy son! thy long lost son!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Long lost, late found,<br /> +And better than found thus if lost forever.<br /> +Go, princess, go; preserve your sire. I lay<br /> +Bound at my sovereign's feet this precious victim.<br /> +Yet, while you paint the son's offence, paint also<br /> +His father's anguish! Plead for him, dear lady,<br /> +Oh! plead for him and save him! since I own,<br /> +Own it with shame, clearer than air or eye-sight<br /> +I love, I doat upon Cæsario.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> (<i>starting</i>) Whom?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Cæsario is his name.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> 'Tis not, 'tis not,<br /> +Or, if it be, it means not <i>that</i> Cæesario,<br /> +Not <i>my</i> Cæsario! No, no, no!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> A soldier<br /> +Who says he saved thee once——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Peace, death-bell, peace!<br /> +Thou ringst the knel of all my joys!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> What mean'st thou?<br /> +What sudden passion——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Hear me, wretched father!<br /> +This son, now guilty thought, but guiltier far,<br /> +Who knows with what idolatry I dote on<br /> +My father, and yet plots to tear him from me!<br /> +Is one to buy whose barbarous heart I spurned<br /> +All the world prizes, fame, respect, and empire,<br /> +Nay, risked my father's love: this man, this man<br /> +—He is—Oh Heaven!—my husband!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> (<i>striking his forehead</i>) Slave! wretch!—fiend——<br /> +And yet Orsino's son!—--Alas, poor princess!<br /> +Gav'st thou him all, and rends he all from thee!<br /> +Was he thy love, and would he be thy bane!<br /> +Has he thy heart and stabs it! Now all plagues<br /> +Hell ever forged for demons light——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> hold, hold!<br /> +Oh! curse him not; no, save him. Some one comes.<br /> +We shall be marked. This way, and let us study<br /> +How we may rescue best——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> No, let him perish!<br /> +Perish, and seek the flames his guilt deserves.<br /> +The sooner 'tis the better.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Silence, silence!<br /> +Dear friend, this way, be patient. Oh! Cæsario,<br /> +And couldst thou have the heart to torture mine!<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Exeunt.</i></p> + +<p>Cæesario <i>enters, muffled in his cloak</i>.</p> + +<p> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Not come yet! 'Tis past midnight, and 'twas here<br /> +She bade me join her. Ha! why flame yon lamps?<br /> +Should any loitering monk—no, no, 'tis vacant,<br /> +And all as yet is safe. Fate let this hour<br /> +Be mine, and with the rest do what thou wilt.<br /> +I hear her—to my work then. Why this shivering?<br /> +I would fain spare her.—If she yields to reason<br /> +'Tis well: if not—she's here.<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Enter</i> Ottilia.</p> + +<p> +<i>Otti.</i> I find thee punctual.<br /> +'Tis well for thee thou art so. By my life,<br /> +If thou hadst failed me I had sought the king.<br /> +Where is the priest? On to the chapel.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Stay,<br /> +And hear me! for the hour is come that weighs<br /> +Our fates in the same balance. Thus then briefly,<br /> +Thou art most fair, in wit most choice and subtle,<br /> +In all rare talents still surpassing all,<br /> +And for these gifts, and thy long tried affection,<br /> +I feel I owe thee much, owe thee firm friendship,<br /> +Eternal gratitude, faith, favour, love,<br /> +And all things save my hand. Except but this,<br /> +Which now I must not give, nor couldst thou take,<br /> +And ask what else thou wilt.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Most gracious sir,<br /> +For thy fair praise, and these so liberal offers<br /> +Of granting all save that which I would have,<br /> +Accept my thanks, I've heard thee; now hear me.<br /> +I'll be thy wife or nothing.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Lady, Lady,<br /> +You know not what you ask.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> I know myself<br /> +Worthy of what I ask, and know my power,<br /> +Which you, it seems, forget. Is not my dowry<br /> +Your life and crown? Let me but speak one word,<br /> +And straight your fancied throne becomes a scaffold.<br /> +No more, but to the chapel.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> If to move thee<br /> +Ought would avail——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> It cannot.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Once a king——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> I share thy throne.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> 'Mid all Castile's first honours<br /> +Make thou thy choice——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> 'Tis made.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> And still remaining<br /> +My friend, my love——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Thy wife, thy wife, or nothing!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Nay then I'll crush thy frantic hopes at once;<br /> +I'm married.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> (<i>Starting</i>) What! I hope thou dost but feign;<br /> +For thy sake hope it; since, if true this marriage,<br /> +Thou'rt lost past saving.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Nay, unbend thy brow,<br /> +Nor stamp nor rave. The princess is my wife,<br /> +And frowns unbind not whom the church hath bound.<br /> +The javelin's thrown, and cannot be recalled;<br /> +Thine be the second prize the first is won,<br /> +And all thy grief and rage that tis another's<br /> +Will but torment thyself. Be wise, be wise,<br /> +And bear with patience what thou canst not cure.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> I will not curse: no, I'll not waste in vapour.<br /> +The fire which burns within me. What I feel,<br /> +My deeds shall tell thee best. (<i>Going.</i>)<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> (<i>detaining her</i>) Ottilia, stay.<br /> +If yet one spark of love remains——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> (<i>passionately</i>) of love!<br /> +Of love for thee! Mark me. Ere sets the sun<br /> +My rival dies, and thou once more art free:<br /> +But now so deadly is the hate I bear thee,<br /> +'Twill joy me less to see thee mine than dead.<br /> +Thy blood! thy blood! 'Tis for thy blood I thirst,<br /> +And it shall stream. Farewell.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Go then, proud woman,<br /> +I brave thy rancour. Ere thou gain'st the palace,<br /> +I'll spring the mine.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Indeed! Now hark awhile,<br /> +Then die for spite, thou base, thou baffled traitor!<br /> +Six trusty slaves wait but my call to bind<br /> +And bear thee to the king. Ay, rage, rage, rage,<br /> +For I'll invent such tortures to despatch thee,<br /> +Such racks, such whips, such baths of boiling sulphur,<br /> +The damned shall think their pains mere mirth and pastime,<br /> +And envying furies own their skill outdone.<br /> +I go to prove my words.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Thou must not leave me.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Worlds should not bribe my stay.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Thou'rt in my power.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Thy power! thy power! I brave it! I defy it!<br /> +Scorn both thy power and thee. Unhand me, ruffian!<br /> +I'll not be held. Within there! hasten hither!<br /> +Anthonio! Lopez! Treason? treason!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Nay then,<br /> +This to thy heart. (<i>stabbing her.</i>)<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Help, help! Oh, vile assassin!<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Enter</i> Orsino, <i>hastily</i>.</p> + +<p> +<i>Orsi.</i> What clamours——Hold, you pass not.<br /> +<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span><i>Cæsa.</i> Give me way,<br /> +Or else thy life——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Ruffian defend thine own. [<i>Exeunt fighting.</i><br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> [<i>Alone, leaning against a pillar.</i>] My blood streams fast!<br /> +I'm wounded, deeply wounded!——<br /> +My voice too fails; I cannot call for help.<br /> +To hope for life were vain; but for revenge.——<br /> +Could I but reach the palace——<br /> +[<i>Advancing a few steps, then sinking on the ground.</i>] 'Twill not be.<br /> +I faint!—--Oh, heaven!<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Enter</i> Amelrosa.</p> + +<p> +<i>Amel.</i> All's hushed again; how fearful<br /> +After those shrieks appear the midnight calm.<br /> +—Orsino?—Speak, Orsino?—No one answers.<br /> +What can this mean?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Fainter and fainter still——<br /> +And no one comes.——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Hark! 'Twas a groan! whence came it? [<i>Seeing</i> Ottilia.]<br /> +Stranger look up!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> A voice! Oh! blessed sound,<br /> +Who'er thou art, mark well my dying words;<br /> +A villain's hand—I'm wounded——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Gracious heaven!<br /> +Oh! let me fly for aid.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> All aid were vain.<br /> +Stay, mark! Revenge!—[<i>Taking a paper from her bosom.</i>]<br /> +This paper—take it—bear it<br /> +Swift to the royal tower—lose not a moment—<br /> +Insist to see the king—take no denial,<br /> +For 'tis of most dear import.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Sure, it must be—?<br /> +Ottilia.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> [<i>Starting up wildly.</i>] Heaven, who speaks? 'Tis she herself:<br /> +My victim, 'tis my victim!—Dost thou live then?<br /> +Hast thou escaped? Spare me, thou God of mercy!<br /> +Oh! spare me this one crime.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> What means this passion?<br /> +How wild she eyes me; how she grasps my hand!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Answer and bless me: Say thou didst not drink it!<br /> +Say Inis did not—While I speak, the blood<br /> +Fades from thy cheek! Thine eyes close! Dying pangs<br /> +Distort thy features; pangs like those which shortened<br /> +His life, whose angry ghost, grim, fierce, and ghastly,<br /> +Comes gliding yonder. See his livid finger<br /> +Points to the poisoned cup! He frowns and threatens.<br /> +Pray for me, angel! Pray for me! I dare not.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Alas, poor wretch!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Otti.</i> Help! help! The spectre grasps me,<br /> +And folds me to his breast, where the worm feeds!<br /> +He tears my heart-strings!—Now he sinks, he sinks!<br /> +And sinking grasps me still, and drags me down with him,<br /> +A thousand fathom deep!—Oh! lost, lost, lost!<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Dies.</i></p> + +<p> +<i>Amel.</i> She's gone.—Sure earth affords no sight more awful,<br /> +Than when a sinner dies—She named the king.—<br /> +Perhaps this writing—By yon favouring lamp<br /> +I'll find its meaning, [<i>Ascending the chapel steps.</i><br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Enter</i> Orsino.</p> + +<p> +<i>Orsi.</i> Aided by night<br /> +The villain has escaped me. [<i>Seeing</i> Amelrosa,<br /> +<i>who, while reading by the lamp suspended in the<br /> +chapel-porch, expresses the most violent agitation</i>.]<br /> +Princess,—Ha!<br /> +Why thus alarmed?—[Amelrosa <i>gives him the paper<br /> +in silence, with a look of agony</i>.] This paper?—Heaven, what's this?<br /> +[<i>Reading.</i><br /> +----"My king, Cæsario plots your destruction:<br /> +—A mine is formed in the Claudian vaults, beneath<br /> +the royal Tower, and which the conspirators<br /> +mean to spring this night. This warning<br /> +will enable you to defeat their purpose: Accept<br /> +it as an atonement for the crimes of the dying<br /> +Guzman. The mine is appointed to be sprung<br /> +when the clock strikes one."— [<i>The letter falls from his hand.</i><br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> [<i>Rushing from the chapel in despair</i>] One, one!—'Tis that<br /> +already.—Oh! he's lost!<br /> +My father's lost!—Ere we can reach his chamber<br /> +'Twill sink in flames!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> That must be tried—Say, princess,<br /> +How may I gain admittance to the king,<br /> +Nor meet delay?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> This signet—— [<i>Giving a ring.</i>]<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> 'Tis enough.<br /> +Know you the Claudian vaults?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> I do.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Away then;<br /> +Reach them with speed: cling round Cæsario, kneel,<br /> +Weep, threaten, sooth, implore! to rouse his feelings<br /> +Use every art; at least delay his purpose,<br /> +Till thou shalt hear this bugle sound; that signal<br /> +Shall speak Alfonso safe.—Farewell.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Oh! heaven!<br /> +Oh! dreadful hour!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Take heart: if time allows me,<br /> +I'll save thy father: if too late——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Then, then,<br /> +What wilt thou do?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> What? Plunge into the flames,<br /> +And perish with my king!—Away! away!<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Exeunt severally.</i></p> + + +<h3>SCENE III.—A cavern.</h3> + +<h4><i>Enter</i> Melchior <i>with a lamp, as from an inner cavern</i>.</h4> + +<p> +<i>Mel.</i> Hush!—No, he comes not; sure 'tis near the time.<br /> +A light:—Who's there?—Henriquez.<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Enter</i> Henriquez, <i>lighted by</i> Lucio.</p> + +<p> +<i>Hen.</i> Ay, the same.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Mel.</i> Now, Lucio, where's thy lord?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Lucio.</i> He charged me tell you,<br /> +He would not fail at one.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Mel.</i> The rest wait yonder.<br /> +Gomez, Sebastian, Marcos, none are wanting:<br /> +Our chief alone is absent.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> He'll not tarry.<br /> +Lead to the inner vault, I'll wait him there.<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Exeunt.</i></p> + +<p><i>Enter</i> Amelrosa.</p> + +<p> +<i>Amel.</i> Those gleams of light: I must be near the place.<br /> +—Voices!—I'll on—Oh! heaven! I can no further.<br /> +—I faint!—I die! [<i>Catching at a fragment of<br /> +the cave, against which she leans as stupified.—A<br /> +pause.—The bell strikes one.</i>]<br /> +Hark! the bell gives the signal.<br /> +Oh! for a moment's strength.—Hold, murderers hold! [<i>Rushes off.</i><br /> +</p> + + +<h3>SCENE IV.—[<i>The inner cavern, partially lighted with lamps. In the +middle, folding doors guarded with iron bars; on one side a rough hewn +staircase leading to a small door above.</i>]</h3> + +<h4>Gomez, Marcos, <i>and conspirators, discovered in listening attitudes</i>.</h4> + +<p> +<i>Gom.</i> 'Tis strange, the time is past, and yet not here?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Mar.</i> Henriquez too is absent.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Gom.</i> Steps approach. [<i>Kneeling at the folding door.</i>]<br /> +Who knocks?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> (<i>without</i>) A friend.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Mar.</i> The pass word.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> Empire.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Gom.</i> Open. [Marcos <i>unbars the door</i>.]<br /> +</p> + +<p>Henriquez, Melchior, <i>and</i> Lucio, <i>enter through the folding doors, +which</i> Marcos <i>again closes</i>.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span></p> + +<p> +<i>Gom.</i> Friends welcome. Melchior, is thy work complete?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Mel.</i> Complete, and fit for springing. Nought is wanting.<br /> +The train is laid. One spark and all is done.<br /> +Our chief alone——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Gom.</i> The private door unlocks.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> Cæsario only has the key.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Mel.</i> 'Tis he.<br /> +</p> + +<p>Cæsario <i>descends the staircase swiftly. His looks are wild; his hair +flows loose; and he grasps a bloody dagger</i>.</p> + +<p> +<i>All.</i> Welcome, Cæsario, welcome!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Ay, shout, shout,<br /> +And, kneeling greet your blood anointed king,<br /> +This steel his sceptre. Tremble, dwarfs in guilt,<br /> +And own your master. Thou art proof, Henriquez,<br /> +'Gainst pity. I once saw thee stab in battle<br /> +A page who clasped thy knees; and Melchior, there<br /> +Made quick work with a brother whom he hated<br /> +But what did I this night? Hear, hear, and reverence!<br /> +There was a breast on which my head had rested<br /> +A thousand times; a breast which loved me fondly,<br /> +As Heaven loves martyred saints; and yet this breast<br /> +I stabbed, knaves, stabbed it to the heart! Wine, wine, there!<br /> +For my soul's joyous. [Gomez <i>brings a goblet</i>.]<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> Friend, what means this frenzy?<br /> +What hast thou done? Where is Ottilia?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> (<i>dashing down the goblet</i>) Dead!<br /> +Dead, Marquis! At that word how the vault rings,<br /> +And the ground shakes. It shall not shake my purpose.<br /> +Murder and I are grown familiar, friends.<br /> +The assassin's trade is sweet. I've tasted blood,<br /> +And thirst for more. Say, is the mine——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Mel.</i> All's ready.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Who fires the train?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen. Mel. and all the conspirators.</i> I, I!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Oh, cheerful cry!<br /> +Oh! glorious strife for guilt: Let each man throw<br /> +His dagger in my casque; be his the service,<br /> +Whose steel I draw.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> 'Tis me——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> [<i>To</i> Lucio.] Thy torch, boy, [<i>giving it to</i> Henriquez.] Take it!<br /> +Here lies thy way—speed, speed, and let yon vaults,<br /> +Shivering in fragments, tell my ravished ear<br /> +Alfonso dies. Away, away!— [<i>On his throwing open the folding doors</i>,<br /> +Amelrosa <i>is discovered</i>.]<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Forbear!<br /> +<br /> +<i>All.</i> The princess.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> No, no, Princess; 'tis a daughter,<br /> +Fierce through despair, frantic with fear, and anguish.<br /> +Hear me ye dread unknown: Yon flinty man<br /> +Ne'er knew a father's care, and knows not now<br /> +What 'tis to <i>love</i>, what 'tis to <i>lose</i> a father.<br /> +But ye, (if e'er a parent's hand hath dried<br /> +Your infant tears; if e'er your eyes have streamed<br /> +To see him weep, knowing your hand but scarred<br /> +Gave him more pain, than his own heart torn piece meal)<br /> +Oh! spare my father! Bid those hours revive<br /> +Which filial love once bless'd; recall youth's feelings,<br /> +And by those feelings learn to pity mine.<br /> +Spare, spare my father!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> [<i>Struggling to conceal his confusion.</i>] Spare him? Sure thou rav'st:<br /> +What fears my gentle love?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> I'm not thy love;<br /> +Not gentle: Strange despair has changed my nature;<br /> +Steeled my soft bosom, braced my woman's nerves,<br /> +And brought me here, prepared and proud to perish,<br /> +If my heart's blood may save my sire's from streaming.<br /> +The savage tigress guards her new-born young<br /> +With tenderest, fiercest care; the timorous swallow,<br /> +If robber-hands approach her brood; defends it<br /> +With eagle-fury; and what brutes will do<br /> +To guard their offspring, born perhaps that day,<br /> +Shall I not do for one, to whom I owe<br /> +Full twenty years of love? Cæsario, mark me,<br /> +For by heaven's host, no power shall move my purpose:<br /> +Or thou must save my sire, or murder me.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> What must be done?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Mel.</i> Time presses.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> [<i>Recovering from his stupor.</i>] Fire the train.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> [<i>Interposing between the inner vault and</i> Henriquez.]<br /> +He shall not.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Amelrosa.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> No, he shall not!<br /> +Back, ruffian, back! and throw that torch away,<br /> +Which burns to light my father's funeral pile:<br /> +Here I'll defy thy rage, thus check thy malice,<br /> +Thus bar thy road, and, if thou needs wilt pass,<br /> +Make thee a way by trampling on my corse,<br /> +I stir not else.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Nay, then I'll use my power,<br /> +And, as thy husband now command thee——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Thou?<br /> +Man, thou canst not command me.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Art thou not<br /> +My wife?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> I am; but ere I was a wife,<br /> +I was a daughter, was a subject; nay,<br /> +Am still a princess, and as such command<br /> +Thee, traitor, thee! and bid thee turn from evil.<br /> +[<i>To</i> Henriquez,]—Away! you pass not.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Force her from the door!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> [<i>Clinging to a column.</i>] Oh! for the Hebrew's strength to shake yon vaults,<br /> +And crush these traitors and myself.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Mel.</i> In vain<br /> +You struggle.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Cut my hands off! stab me! kill me!<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>They force her away.</i>]</p> + +<p> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Henriquez, to your work.<br /> +</p> + +<p>[Henriquez <i>enters the vault</i>.]</p> + +<p> +<i>Amel.</i> Oh! barbarous men,<br /> +Where shall I turn—Cæsario, dear Cæsario!<br /> +Once thou wert kind—Aid, aid my prayers, ye angels,<br /> +And force this cruel man to save at once<br /> +My husband's honour, and my father's life.<br /> +Turn not away! look on me! see my tears,<br /> +And pity me: Friend, husband, lover, all<br /> +That makes life dear, I charge you! I implore you——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> [<i>Returning from the vault.</i>] The train is fired.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> [<i>Dashing herself on the earth.</i>] Barbarians! fiends, distraction!<br /> +Fall, fall, ye vaults and crush me.<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>A bugle horn sounds</i>, Amelrosa <i>starts from the ground</i>.]</p> + +<p> +Hark the signal——<br /> +He lives, he lives! [<i>Kneeling and clasping her hands.</i>]<br /> +Oh, Heaven, my thanks!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> 'Tis done.<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>The mine blows up with a loud explosion, and the back part of the +vault bursts into flames.</i>]</p> + +<h4><i>End of Act IV.</i></h4> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="ACT_V" id="ACT_V"></a>ACT V.</h2> + + +<h3>SCENE I.—<i>The interior of</i> Orsino's <i>hermitage.</i></h3> + +<h4>Alfonso <i>is discovered sleeping.</i></h4> + +<h4><i>Enter</i> Orsino <i>and</i> Ricardo.</h4> + +<p> +<i>Orsi.</i> Come they in force?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Ricar.</i> At least five thousand strong,<br /> +But stronger far in loyalty than numbers.<br /> +Scarce heard my tale, clamours of rage and pity<br /> +Burst from the croud, and every peasant swore,<br /> +He'd perish or preserve that sovereign's rights,<br /> +Who used them ever for the poor man's good.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Honest Ricardo: When to serve thy king<br /> +I judged thee truest of the true, I erred not.<br /> +The lords to whom I sent thee, what reception<br /> +Found'st thou from them?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Ricar.</i> Such as almost would prove,<br /> +Ingratitude is not the vice of courts:<br /> +But when I said, Orsino was to head them,<br /> +Their zeal, their joy——-<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> No more.—Are they at hand?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Ricar.</i> An hour will bring them here.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> We'll then tow'rds Burgos,<br /> +And ere the swarth Castilian sees the sun<br /> +Pour on his rip'ning vines meridian beams,<br /> +Cæsario's royal dream shall close forever.<br /> +—[<i>Looking on</i> Alfonso.]—-He sleeps—Oh! come all ye who envy monarchs,<br /> +Look on yon bed of leaves, and thank heaven's kindness,<br /> +Which saved ye from the sorrows of a throne.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Ricar.</i> My dear, my injured master.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Go, Ricardo,<br /> +Watch for your friends; and when from yonder rock<br /> +Thou see'st their forces, warn me. [<i>Exit</i> Ricardo.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> [<i>To</i> Alfonso,] Canst thou sleep,<br /> +And sleep thus soundly on so rude a pallet?<br /> +There's many a prince, whose couch is strown with roses,<br /> +Finds their sweet leaves but serve to harbour aspies:<br /> +There's many a conqueror stretched on down, who passes<br /> +The live-long night to woo repose in vain,<br /> +And view with aching, restless, sated eyes,<br /> +The trophies which nod round his crimson bed.<br /> +But fraud, ambition, treachery, plots, and murder,<br /> +In vain would banish his repose who sleeps,<br /> +Watched by his prospering kingdom's anxious angel;<br /> +And lull'd to slumber by his people's prayers.<br /> +But see,—He wakes.—(<i>Lowering his vizor.</i>)<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> (<i>Waking.</i>) Do what thou wilt, Cæsario,<br /> +But harm not my poor child.—How now!—--Where am I?<br /> +—What place—I see it all.—Lo!—where he stands,<br /> +Whose well-timed warning snatched me from the flames,<br /> +And led me hither.—Say, thou dread preserver,<br /> +Mysterious stranger, ease a father's anguish:<br /> +How fares it with my child? What news from Burgos?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Burgos believes thee dead. Cæsario fills<br /> +Thy vacant throne.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> I ask not of my throne.<br /> +My child! Oh! say, my child?——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Is safe, is well,<br /> +And hopes ere long to see her sire once more<br /> +Adorned, with regal pomp, and lord of Burgos.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Alas! vain hope.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Not so: thy faithful nobles,<br /> +By me apprized, now haste to give thee succour.<br /> +Ere night, Cæsario falls; and piercing his,<br /> +Thy just revenge shall print a mortal wound<br /> +On his proud father's heart.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> His father's?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Ay,<br /> +On his, who paid thy love this morn with curses,<br /> +Spurning thy proffered friendship—Know'st thou not<br /> +Cæsario is Orsino's son?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Just Heaven!<br /> +And does Orsino love him?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Dearly, dearly,<br /> +Loves him to madness; loves him with like fury.<br /> +As hates he thee.—Oh! glorious field for vengeance:<br /> +Think how 'twill writhe his haughty soul to hear,<br /> +This son, this darling, perished on the scaffold,<br /> +Branded, disgraced, a traitor, a foiled traitor.<br /> +Joy, joy, Alfonso; ere 'tis night thy wrath<br /> +Shall gorge itself with blood.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Now blessings on thee,<br /> +Who giv'st me more than all my foes can take.<br /> +Come, come, my friend; where are these troops? Away,<br /> +Forward to Burgos.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> (<i>Detaining him.</i>) Whither now?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> To Burgos.<br /> +Down with the walls: make once Cæsario mine—<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> And then——?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> I'll seek his father, grasp his hand,<br /> +And say,—"This stripling stole my darling daughter,<br /> +Betrayed my confidence, usurped my throne,<br /> +Aimed at my life, and almost broke my heart:<br /> +But he's Orsino's son; Orsino loves him,<br /> +And all's forgiven."——(Orsino <i>kneels, takes the<br /> +king's hand, and presses it to his lips.</i>)—How now?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> (<i>Raising his vizor.</i>) All is forgiven.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> 'Tis he:—Orsino's self.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> My pride is vanquished:<br /> +My king—Thy hand, my king.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> My heart, my heart;<br /> +There find thy place, and never leave it more.<br /> +Oh, from my joy again to name thee friend,<br /> +Judge of my grief to think thou wert my foe;<br /> +How could I doubt thee? how commit an error<br /> +So gross.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> No more; e'en now thou pay'st its penance:<br /> +In this long chain of present woes, that error<br /> +(Which seems at first so light) was the first link.<br /> +It tore me from my son: else, reared by me,<br /> +Formed in thy court, and schooled by my example,<br /> +My son must sure have proved thy truest subject,<br /> +Oh! learn from this, how weighty is the charge,<br /> +A monarch bears; how nice a task to guide<br /> +His power aright, to guide it wrong, how fatal.<br /> +If subjects sin, with them the crime remains,<br /> +With them the penance; but when monarchs err,<br /> +The mischief spreads swift as their kingdom's rivers,<br /> +Strong as their power, and wide as their domains.<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Enter</i> Ricardo.</p> + +<p> +<i>Orsi.</i> Now friend?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Ricar.</i> From yonder height I caught distinctly<br /> +The gleam of arms.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> 'Tis well—Away, my sovereign,<br /> +And join your troops; then shape your march tow'rds Burgos,<br /> +Nor doubt the event, for who that loves his country.<br /> +To save his king shall fear to die himself?<br /> +None, surely none! The patriot glow shall catch<br /> +From heart to heart throughout Castile, as swiftly<br /> +As sparks of fire disperse through summer forests;<br /> +Till all in care of thee forget themselves,<br /> +And every good man's bosom bucklers thine!<br /> +Forward, my king!—Lead on! [<i>Exeunt.</i><br /> +</p> + + +<h3>Scene II.—<i>A chamber in the palace.</i></h3> + +<h4><i>Enter</i> Henriquez <i>and</i> Melchior.</h4> + +<p> +<i>Mel.</i> And the grave council<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span>Fell blindfold in the snare?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> They could not fail,<br /> +So well Cæsario spread it—With such art<br /> +He told his tale, and in such glowing colours<br /> +Painted Alfonso's worth, and his son's guilt,<br /> +That all cried vengeance on the prince Don Pedro,<br /> +And bade Cæsario mount his forfeit throne.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Mel.</i> And he, no doubt, obeyed?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> In modest guise<br /> +He owned his union with the princess gave him<br /> +Some rights, but vowed, so heavy seemed its weight,<br /> +He feared to wear a crown, so prayed them spare him:<br /> +Till won by urgent prayer at length he yielded,<br /> +And kindly deigned to be a king.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Mel.</i> He's here,<br /> +And Bazil with him.<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Enter</i> Cæsario, <i>father</i> Bazil, <i>and attendants.</i></p> + +<p> +<i>Cæsa.</i> (<i>Entering.</i>) Bid her rest assured,<br /> +Her king is her first subject. But, good father,<br /> +How bears her health, this shock? Say, looks she pale?<br /> +Does she e'er name——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Bazil.</i> She bade me lead thee hither,<br /> +And claimed my promise not to tell thee more.<br /> +I'll warn her, thou art here. [<i>Going.</i>]<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Say too, my heart<br /> +Shares every pang of her's; that crowns are worthless<br /> +Bought with her tears; that could my prayers my blood,<br /> +Restore Alfonso's life——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Bazil.</i> Hold!—On that subject<br /> +What thou wouldst tell her, will come best from thee. + [<i>Exit.</i><br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Ha!—Meant he——No! Sure had he known my secret,<br /> +The monk had canted 'gainst the guilt of treason,<br /> +Thundering out saint-like curses!—--Vile, vile chance,<br /> +Which led the princess.—Yet what fear I now?<br /> +She keeps my secret: then she loves me still,<br /> +And, loving, must forgive me—Hark! I hear her.<br /> +Now all ye powers of bland persuasion, shed<br /> +Your honey on my lips. Come to my aid,<br /> +Ye soft memorials of departed pleasures,<br /> +Kind words, fond looks, sweet tears, and melting kisses!<br /> +Sighs of compassion, drown her anger's voice!<br /> +Smooth ye her frown, smiles of delight and love!<br /> +Make her but mine once more, and this day crowns me<br /> +Monarch of all my soul e'er wished from fate:<br /> +Yes, in my wildest dreams I asked but this,<br /> +"Love and revenge! A throne and Amelrosa!"—<br /> +Retire!—I dread to meet her.<br /> +</p> + +<p>[Henriquez &c. <i>Exeunt</i>.</p> + +<p>Amelrosa <i>enters, pale, and leaning on father</i> Bazil.—Estella, Inis, +<i>and ladies follow weeping.</i></p> + +<p> +<i>Amel.</i> 'Tis enough,<br /> +Good father, and one task performed, I'll meet<br /> +That hour with joy, which seems to guilt so fearful.<br /> +Leave me awhile: Anon, if time allows it,<br /> +We'll talk again—Farewell, my friends.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Inis.</i> [<i>Kneeling.</i>] Oh! princess!<br /> +Oh! royal victim!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Nay, be calm, my Inis.<br /> +Pass a few years, and all had been as now,<br /> +Perhaps far worse: Receive this kiss of pardon,<br /> +And give it back in heaven!—--Farewell!<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Exeunt</i> Estella &c.</p> + +<p><i>Manent</i> Cæsario <i>and</i> Amelrosa.</p> + +<p> +<i>Cæsa.</i> How grief<br /> +Has changed her! Ah! how sunk her eyes! her cheeks<br /> +How pale!—She comes!—How shall I bear her anguish!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Not to reproach, for that you sought a life,<br /> +Which you well knew I prized above my own;<br /> +Not to complain, that when my heart reposed<br /> +On you for all its earthly joys, you broke it,<br /> +I seek you now: but with true zeal I come<br /> +To warn thee, yea with tears implore thee, turn<br /> +From those most dangerous paths, which now thou tread'st.<br /> +Oh! wake, my husband! Close thy guilty dream;<br /> +Be just, be good! be what till how I thought thee!<br /> +That when we part (as ere two hours me must)<br /> +We may not part forever.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> How to answer,<br /> +Or in what words excuse—Could my best blood<br /> +Wash out thy knowledge of my fault.—<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> My knowledge?<br /> +And say, on earth none knew it! say thy crime<br /> +To eye of man were viewless as the winds,<br /> +And secret as the laws which rule the dead:<br /> +Could'st hide it from thyself?—Would not he know it,<br /> +Whose knowledge more than all thou ought to dread,<br /> +His, who knows all things?—Oh! short-sighted mortals!<br /> +Oh! vain precautions! Oh! misjudging sense!<br /> +Man thinks his secret safe, for no ear heard it!<br /> +Man thinks his act unknown, for no eye saw it!<br /> +But there was one above both saw and heard,<br /> +When neither ear could hear, nor eye could——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Thou lovely moralist! Oh! take me! school me!<br /> +Mould thou my heart, and make it like thine own.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Dost thou speak thus?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Be that one act forgiven,<br /> +And prove——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Oh! that were light: As yet thou'rt guilty<br /> +In thought alone. My father lives!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Indeed!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> He starts!—He feigned!—Oh! for heaven's love; my husband,<br /> +Trifle not now! this hour is precious, precious!<br /> +My soul is winged for heaven, and stays its flight,<br /> +In hopes of teaching thine the way to follow:<br /> +Let not its stay be vain! let my tears win thee,<br /> +And turn from vice: Repent; be wise; be warned;<br /> +For 'tis no idle voice that gives the warning;<br /> +I speak it from the grave!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> The grave!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> What fear'st thou?<br /> +Why shudder at a name?—Oh! if thou needs<br /> +Wilt tremble, tremble for thyself, not me.<br /> +I die to live; thy death may be for ever!<br /> +Short are my pangs; thy soul's may be eternal!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Die? Die!—Each word—Each look—Dreadful suspicions.<br /> +But no! it cannot, shall not be!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> It shall not?<br /> +As I've a soul, in one short hour, Cæsario,<br /> +That soul must kneel before the throne of God.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Mean'st thou——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> E'en so; I'm poisoned!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Torture! madness!<br /> +Within there!<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Re-enter father</i> Bazil, Estella, &c.</p> + +<p> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Help! Oh! help! The princess dies!<br /> +I'll speed myself.——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> [<i>Detaining him.</i>] No, no, thou must not leave me:<br /> +My hour of death is near, and thou must see it—<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Distraction!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Must observe, how calm the transit,<br /> +How light the pain, how free death's cup from bitter,<br /> +When virtue soothes, and hope exalts the soul,<br /> +I've seen a sinner die; Last night I closed<br /> +Ottilia's lids, and 'twas a night of horror!<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span>Each limb, each nerve was writhed by strange convulsions,<br /> +Clenched were her teeth, her eye-balls fixed and glaring;<br /> +She foamed, she raved, and her last words were curses!——<br /> +But look, Cæsario!—I can die, and smile!<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Sinks into</i> Estella's <i>arms.</i></p> + +<p> +<i>Cæsa.</i> [<i>In despair.</i>] My life!—My soul!——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> [<i>In a faint voice.</i>] But while one moment's mine,<br /> +By all thy vows of love, by those I breathed,<br /> +And never broke through life, never, no, never,<br /> +I charge thee, I conjure thee——<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Starting suddenly forward.</i>]</p> + +<p> +Powers of mercy,<br /> +Whence this so glorious blaze?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> How her eyes sparkle!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> Look, friends! Look, look!—My mother, my dead mother!<br /> +Rich in new youth, and bright in lasting beauty!<br /> +She floats in air; her limbs are clothed with light!<br /> +Her angel-head is wreathed with Eden's roses!<br /> +Heaven's splendours rove amid her golden locks,<br /> +While her blest lips and radiant eyes pour round her<br /> +Airs of delight and floods of placid glory!<br /> +She moves!—She smiles!—She lifts her hand!—She beckons!<br /> +World, fare thee well!—Mother, lead on!—I follow!<br /> +[<i>Exit with</i> Estella, &c.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> [<i>Alone.</i>] My brain! my brain!—Oh! I ne'er knew till now,<br /> +How well I loved her!— [<i>Following her.</i>]<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Enter</i> Henriquez.</p> + +<p> +<i>Hen.</i> Turn, Cæsario, turn!<br /> +We're lost! Alfonso lives; e'en now his troops<br /> +Assail our walls.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Confusion! is all hell<br /> +Combined——<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Enter</i> Melchior.</p> + +<p> +<i>Mel.</i> Betrayed, betrayed! The gates are opened;<br /> +The townsmen join our foes; I saw the king<br /> +First in the fight.——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> The king?—My brain is burning;<br /> +I'll cool it with his blood.—Forth, forth, my sword:<br /> +Forth, nor be sheathed till I return thee dyed<br /> +With royal gore—Away!<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Exeunt</i> Henriquez, <i>and</i> Melchior; Cæsario <i>is following when</i> +Amelrosa <i>shrieks from within: he stops and remains motionless.</i>]</p> + +<p> +<i>Amel.</i> [<i>Within.</i>] Oh! mercy, mercy!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Inis.</i> [<i>Within.</i>] She dies!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Estel.</i> [<i>Within.</i>] Nay, hold her! hold her down!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Amel.</i> [<i>Within.</i>] Oh! Oh!<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Solemn requiem chanted within.</i>]</p> + +<p> +Peace to the parted saint! Pure soul, farewell!<br /> +</p> + +<h4>[<i>The scene closes.</i>]</h4> + + +<h3>Scene III.—<i>A field of battle—alarums—thunder and lightning.</i></h3> + +<h4><i>Soldiers cross the stage fighting.</i></h4> + +<h4><i>Enter</i> Orsino.</h4> + +<p> +<i>Orsi.</i> Oh! shame, shame, shame!—Sun, thou dost well to hide thee,<br /> +Nor light Castile's disgrace.—Oh! I could tear<br /> +My flesh for rage!<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Enter</i> Ricardo.</p> + +<p> +<i>Ricar.</i> All's lost!—the foe prevails!<br /> +What must be done, Orsino?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Where's the king?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Ricar.</i> He fights still.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Seek him! save him! bid him fly,<br /> +Fly with all speed: thou know'st to find his courser.<br /> +Away!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Ricar.</i> General, thou'rt wounded!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> 'Tis no matter.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Ricar.</i> Thou'lt bleed to death.——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> And if I should, I care not:<br /> +The king, the king!—Oh! waste no thought on me:<br /> +The best of subjects can but lose one life,<br /> +But thousands perish when a good king bleeds.<br /> +Nay, speed!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Ricar.</i> [<i>Looking out.</i>] See! see! our troops—<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> They fly, by heaven!<br /> +Turn, turn, ye cowards! 'Tis Orsino calls!<br /> +Follow, slaves follow me, and die or conquer!<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Soldiers enter pursued by</i> Henriquez, &c. Orsino <i>rallies them, and +drives</i> Henriquez <i>back</i>.]</p> + + +<h3>Scene IV.—<i>Before the walls of Burgos—The storm continues.</i></h3> + +<h4><i>Enter</i> Cæsario.</h4> + +<p> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Shall I ne'er find him? Shall my mother's spirit<br /> +Still ask revenge in vain? This flame, which burns<br /> +My blood up, shall it ne'er be quenched with his?<br /> +'Tis he! 'tis he!—I see the high plume waving<br /> +O'er his crowned helmet:—Thunders, cease, nor rob me,<br /> +Of his expiring shriek!—Turn, turn, Alfonso!<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Exit.</i></p> + +<p>[<i>Shouts of victory.</i>]</p> + +<p><i>Enter</i> Henriquez, Melchior, Marcos, Gomez, <i>and soldiers</i>.</p> + +<p> +<i>Hen.</i> We triumph, Melchior!—See our trusty squadrons<br /> +Range the field unopposed. But where's our chief?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Mar.</i> How now! what clamour.——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Mel.</i> Look, Henriquez, look!<br /> +Cæsario and the king in single combat!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> They come this way!—mark, with their ponderous blows<br /> +How their shields ring!—Cæsario loses ground!<br /> +Yield thee, Alfonso!—<i>Interposing between</i> Alfonso<br /> +<i>and</i> Cæsario, <i>who enter fighting.</i><br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Back, I say! back, back!<br /> +No arm but mine——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Cæsario, pause, and hear me!<br /> +Whate'er thou wilt——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Thy life!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Medina's dukedom,<br /> +And Amelrosa.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Flames consume the tongue,<br /> +That names her! Thou hast rent my wound anew,<br /> +Recalling what was mine, but is no longer!<br /> +Look to thy heart, for if my sword can reach it,<br /> +Thou diest!—Come on!—[<i>They fight</i>; Alfonso<br /> +<i>loses his sword, and is beaten on his knees.</i>]<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Thou'rt mine!—and thus—[<i>At the moment<br /> +that he motions to stab</i> Alfonso, Orsino, <i>without<br /> +his helmet, deadly pale, and bleeding profusely,<br /> +rushes in, and arrests his arm.</i>]<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Hold, hold!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> My father bleeding! Horror!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Does that pain thee?<br /> +Oh by this blood, a father's blood, the same<br /> +Which fills thy veins, and feeds thy life I charge thee,<br /> +Shed not thy king's.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Father thy prayers are vain!<br /> +He broke my mother's heart! his own must bleed for't!<br /> +Release my arm.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> My son, I kiss thy feet:<br /> +Thy father kneels; let him not kneel in vain.<br /> +Nay, if thou stirr'st, my deadliest curse.——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> 'Twill grieve me,<br /> +But yet e'en that I'll brave:—Curse; still I'll strike!<br /> +No more!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Can nought appease thee——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> Nothing, nothing!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Alfon.</i> Nay, cease, Orsino: 'tis in vain——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> True, true!<br /> +This to thy heart.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Oh! yet arrest thy sword,<br /> +My son.——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> He dies!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> One word, but one!<br /> +<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span><i>Cæsa.</i> Despatch them.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Swear, ere you strike the blow, if still your power<br /> +Answers your will, as now it does, the king<br /> +Has not an hour to live!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> An hour?—An age!<br /> +Thrones shall not buy that hour. By hell I swear,<br /> +Alfonso breathes his last, if fate allows me<br /> +To live one moment more.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> [<i>Stabbing him.</i>] Then die this moment.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Cæsa.</i> My heart, my heart!—Oh! oh!<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Falls lifeless at</i> Orsino's <i>feet.</i></p> + +<p> +<i>Alfon.</i> What hast thou done?<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> Preserved Castile in thee.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Mel.</i> Hew him to pieces!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Hen.</i> Monster thy son——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> He was so; yet I slew him.<br /> +Think ye, I loved him not?—Oh! heaven, the blood<br /> +My breast now pours, gives me not half such pain<br /> +As that which stains this poniard: yet I slew him,<br /> +I, I his father!—And as I with him,<br /> +So, traitors, shall your father deal with ye,<br /> +Your father who frowns yonder.—[<i>Thunder.</i>]—mark! he speaks!<br /> +The avenger speaks, and stretches from the clouds<br /> +His red right arm.—See, see! his javelins fly,<br /> +And fly to strike you dead!—While yet 'tis time,<br /> +Down, rebels, down!—Tremble, repent, and tremble!<br /> +Fall at your sovereign's feet, and sue for grace.<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>The conspirators sink on their knees.</i></p> + +<p> +<i>Alfon.</i> Oh! soul of honour.—Oh! my full, full heart!<br /> +Orsino, friend!——<br /> +<br /> +<i>Orsi.</i> No more—Thy hand—farewell.<br /> +Life ebbs apace—Oh, lay me by my son,<br /> +That I may bless him ere I die—Pale, pale:<br /> +No warmth:—No sense:—Not one convulsive throb:<br /> +Not one last lingering breath on those wan lips!<br /> +All gone! all, all!—So fair, so young, to die<br /> +Was hard, most hard: canst thou forgive thy father,<br /> +Canst thou, my boy? he loved thee dearly, dearly,<br /> +And would to save thy life have died himself,<br /> +Though he had rather see thee dead than guilty.<br /> +My sand runs fast.—Oh! I am sick at soul!<br /> +I'll breathe my last sigh on my son's cold lips.<br /> +Clasp his dead hand in mine, and lay my heart<br /> +Close to his gaping wound, that it may break<br /> +'Gainst his dear breast.—My eyes grow faint and clouded.<br /> +I see thy face no more, my boy, but still<br /> +Feel thy blood trickle!—Oh! that pang, that pang!<br /> +'Tis done—All's dark!—My son, my son, my son!<br /> +</p> + +<p>[<i>Dies.</i></p> + +<h4><i>End of Act V.</i></h4> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mirror of Taste, and Dramatic +Censor, Vol. I, No. 5, May 1810, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MIRROR OF TASTE, MAY 1810 *** + +***** This file should be named 27109-h.htm or 27109-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/7/1/0/27109/ + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Josephine Paolucci +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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