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

If she is little and short I am equally glad, for then I can never have too much of her. Light hair how lovely!—Brown, I think it auburn—Black, how beautiful when hanging in ringlets on her snowy neck! Is it red—what so red as gold?—Youth warms my heart and later age I love; this pleases by its form, that by its conduct.—Is she a slut—how saving!—Is she delicate—how delightful!—Is she my wife—I must love her—Is she my friend's—how can I help it!—The fatter, the warmer; the thinner, she is less subject, perhaps, to the frailty of the flesh.—Is she lame—how domestic!—Is she deaf—'tis well.—Is she blind—'tis better.—Is she dumb—O, 'tis too much!

* * * * *

Humorous Epilogues after Tragedies.

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

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

In reply, it has been observed, that it is degrading and untrue to describe the human species as incapable of receiving gratification only from comic scenes; that "there is a luxury in wo," independent of its purifying the bosom and suppressing the more ignoble passions.

The supporters of this opinion have also added, that there is a species of depravity in endeavouring by ludicrous mummery to efface the salutary effects of pathetic, virtuous, and vigorous sentiments; that it is sporting with the sympathies of our nature, repugnant to correct taste, and counteracting moral utility.

This violation of the law of gentle and gradual contrasts, has been felt and complained of by most frequenters of a modern theatre, and well-authenticated instances have been produced of guilty men retiring from a well-written and well-acted play to repentance and melioration.

An epilogue has been composed by Mr. Sheridan in support of these opinions, superior in pathos, poetry and practical deduction, to any I ever read. It was originally spoken by Mrs. Yates, after the performance of Semiramis, a tragedy translated from the French.

Dishevell'd still, like Asia's bleeding queen, Shall I, with jests deride the tragic scene? No, beauteous mourners! from whose downcast eyes The Muse has drawn her noblest sacrifice; Whose gentle bosoms, Pity's altars, bear The chrystal incense of each falling tear! There lives the poet's praise; no critic art Can match the comment of a feeling heart!

When general plaudits speak the fable o'er, Which mute attention had approv'd before; Though under spirits love th' accustomed jest, Which chases sorrow from the vulgar breast; Still hearts refin'd their sadden'd tints retain— The sigh gives pleasure and the jest is pain: Scarce have they smiles to honour grace or wit, Though Roscius spoke the verse himself had writ.

Thus, through the time when vernal fruits receive The grateful showers that hang on April's eve; Though every coarser stem of forest birth Throws with the morning beam its dews to earth, Ne'er does the gentle rose revive so soon, But, bath'd in nature's tears, it drops till noon.

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

* * * * *

A few words of advice, extracted from a London magazine.

TO THE CONDUCTOR.

Mr. CONDUCTOR,

I am a sort of literary Lounger, though no Connoisseur, yet an Idler, like myself, will always assume a right to turn Observer upon every Adventurer; and, whether you may subscribe to my opinions or not, yet, as I mean to subscribe to your work, I shall offer them very freely.

Too many publications promise much at their outset, and perform little in the sequel; great expectations will be formed of what may be produced by the members of a British Cabinet; and in case of failure every Guardian of his own rights will become a Tatler; you will be accused as a Rambler from your engagements, and, at your downfal, the World will be an unconcerned Spectator; while, on the contrary, by proper polish and reflection, you may be styled the Mirror of all Monthly Magazines in the metropolis. So much for your title, I shall next make some remarks as to the general conduct of the work itself.

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

I am conscious, however, that there may be exceptions to this general rule; indeed I know a very worthy vender of prints, who keeps in his cellar some hundreds of admirals and generals, ready engraved, and by cutting off the arm of one, or clapping a convenient patch on the eye of another, he is always ready before any of his competitors to present the town with striking likenesses of any or all of those persons who so frequently claim our attention and gratitude. However, as there is no subject on which people are apt to disagree so pointedly as on the precision or dissimilarity of a copy from nature, you may safely steer clear of all criticism, and perhaps please all parties by embellishing your incipient number with a face combining Cooke's nose, Kemble's chin, and Munden's mouth, with the arched eye of Lewis, and writing under it

The head of an eminent actor.

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

Admit no puns into your miscellany. Dennis, the critic, has said, and I know not how many others after him, that a punster is no better than a pickpocket, and with truth, for how dare any quibbling varlet attempt to rob his neighbour of any portion of that delightful inflexibility, the very taciturnity of which bespeaks what wisdom may lie buried in a grave demeanour?

Be not too sentimental neither; nor copy the infantine simplicity of those dear little children of the Della Cruscan school, who, "lisp in numbers." Do not let them lisp in any number of your publication. No sir, like sir Peter Teazle, I say, "curse your sentiments;" for the man whose effeminate ideas, expressed in effeminate accents, would contribute to lessen the manly character of the English nation, deserves to be lost in a labyrinth, as I am now, and left in the lurch for a finish to each sentence he commences.

On the other hand, you must carefully shun the affectation of bombastic diction—it is lamentable to see a preelucidated theme rendered semidiaphonous, by the elimination of simple expression, to make room for the conglomeration of pondrous periods, and to exhibit the phonocamptic coxcombry of some pedant, who mistakes sentences for wagons, and words for the wheels of them.

Avoid alliteration, allowed by all to be the very vehicle of vitious verbosity, particularly in a periodical publication; therefore, the thought that dully depends, during lengthened lines of lumbering lucubration, on innumerable initials introduced instead of rhyme or reason, is really reprehensible. Shakspeare, scorning the sufferance of such a sneaking style, said "Wit whither wilt?"

Lest you should put the same question to me, I will give you my concluding piece of advice, which is, that you should beware of introducing second hand Rural Tales and essays, from the successful labours of your predecessors. Such things have happened more than once, and I remember reading a letter to the editor, in the first number of a new magazine, which was unfortunately signed by, An Old Subscriber.

P. S. I meant to have called myself a Constant Reader, but, if you follow my advice, you will have so many of those, you will not know how to distinguish me from others. I shall, therefore, address my future correspondence, under the signature of my proper initials,

S. L. U. M.

* * * * *

A CHAPTER ON LOGIC;

Or, the Horse Chesnut, and the Chesnut Horse.

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

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

* * * * *

What is the literary world?

It is a kind of fair, full of stalls, wares, and shopkeepers: in which the theologist sells his stuff, which at the same time supplies food and warmth. The critic disposes of his cobweb linen and transparent lawn, of no shelter from the cold. The philologist, his embroidered vests, Corinthian vases, and Phrygian marble. The physician letters and syllables. The lawyer, men. The antiquary, old shoes. The alchymist, himself. The poet, smoke. The orator, paint. The historian, fame—and the philosopher, heaven and earth.

What are the most rare animals in the world?

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

* * * * *

Addison's pedigree of Wit.

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

Specific for blindness.—A quack doctor in the neighbourhood of York, who advertises a universal specific for the ills of mankind, adds, that he attends to communications by letter, "but it is necessary that persons afflicted with the loss of sight should see the doctor."

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

An Irish forgery.—At a provincial assize not long since, in Ireland, an attorney was tried upon a capital charge of forgery. The trial was extremely long, when after much sophistry from the counsel, and the most minute investigation of the judge, it appeared to the complete satisfaction of a crowded court, that the culprit had forged the signature of a man who could neither read nor write!

* * * * *

A woman lately brought before a country magistrate, behaving with much confidence, was told by his worship that she had brass enough in her face to make a five gallon kettle. "Yes," answered she, "and there is sap enough in your head to fill it."

* * * * *

Anecdotes of Macklin.

Macklin was very intimate with Frank Hayman (at that time one of our first historical painters) and happening to call upon him one morning, soon after the death of the painter's wife with whom he lived but on indifferent terms, he found him wrangling with the undertaker about the extravagance of the funeral expenses. Macklin listened to the altercation for some time: at last, going up to Hayman, with great gravity he observed, Come, come, Frank, though the bill is a little extravagant, pay it in respect to the memory of your wife: for by G— I am sure she would do twice as much for you had she the same opportunity.

* * * * *

A notorious egotist one day in a large company indirectly praising himself for a number of good qualities which it was well known he had not, asked Macklin the reason why he should have this propensity of interfering in the good of others when he frequently met with unsuitable returns? "I could tell you, sir," says Macklin. "Well do sir; you are a man of sense and observation, and I should be glad of your definition." "Why then sir, the cause is impudence—nothing but stark-staring impudence."

* * * * *

A gentleman at a public dinner asking him inconsiderately Whether he remembered Mrs. Barry, the celebrated actress who died about the latter end of queen Ann's reign, he planted his countenance directly against him with great severity, and bawled out, "No, sir, nor Harry the eighth neither. They were both dead before my time."

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

ANECDOTE OF QUIN.

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

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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

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

[J] A hint to managers.—As the tragedy of Macbeth is the great rival of king Lear, I cannot but think, that it ought to be represented with all the advantages which its rival possesses; as, particularly, with the additional beauty of love. Nor would the change be difficult. Young Malcolm might very conveniently and very naturally fall in love with a daughter of Macbeth (to be sure it is most probable Macbeth had no daughter; but what of that? It is not too late to make him one); then the lovers might have many an affecting interview under the walls of Dunsinane Castle; and finally, Malcolm instead of Macduff, might cut off Macbeth's head, and immediately lead his daughter to the altar. How successfully would this conclude in the style of Barbarossa, Gustavus Vasa, &c. which are evidently the true models of tragedy.



SPORTING INTELLIGENCE.

BLODWELL ROCK.

A fox-chace rather remarkable in its nature, lately took place. As a gentleman was coursing under Blodwell Rock, near Porthywaen lime works, he unkennelled a very large dog fox; and having two couple of beagles, they pursued him through the extensive covers near that rock to the summit of Llanymynech hill; but being very hard run, he made a short turn passing through the Gorwell covers, and along the banks of the river Turnet, near to the village of Llanyblodwell. The beagles then approached him so near, that he was under the necessity of taking the road for Llandu; and leaving those covers on the left, he returned much fatigued, near to the place where he was first started. He then went through a large cover called Cowman's Ruff, and back to Llanymynech hill; and in a lime quarry there, he stopped for his little pursuers, who, having run him in view under that hill, opposite the village of Llanymynech, he ascended a craggy rock, and got into a subterraneous passage of great length formerly worked, it is supposed, by the Roman miners. Bold Reynard being somewhat warm could not long remain in so close a confinement, but had the audacity to make his appearance at the mouth of the passage, and fought his way out, in defiance of the beagles and a brace of greyhounds, which he had beaten before; and taking a direction the same way back, for a considerable distance up a narrow precipice in another part of the rock, he had no alternative of escaping but by throwing himself down a declivity a little further on, at least forty feet high, without any apparent injury. He then ran near to the turnpike gate at Llanymynech, but being met by a canal boat, he altered his course, and ran over the Stair Corrig Held, where he took another prodigious leap and then ran along the turn pike road to Oswestry, having stopped a few minutes in a small close near Llynckly, and the beagles ran him in view for a considerable way, and he was taken alive after a hard chace of more than four hours, with little or no intermission.

* * * * *

WILTSHIRE PASTIME.

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

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

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

* * * * *

ST. GILES'S PASTIME

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

Mr. O'Flannagan, who is a composer of mortar, insisted it was made of cast stone, and represented the duke of Bedford; and Mr. O'Shaugnessy, who is a rough lapidary, vulgarly called a pavior, contended it was made of cast iron, and intended to "raprisint Charley Whox." The dispute ran high, and, as it advanced, became mixed with party and provincial feelings. Mr. O'Flannagan was a Connaught man, and a Cannavat; Mr. O'Shaugnessy a Munster man, and a Shannavat.

With such provocations of mutual irritation, they quickly appealed to the law of arms; and after putting the eyes of each other into half mourning, they agreed to adjourn the battle till Sunday morning, and to decide it like jontlemen—by the cudgel. The meeting took place accordingly, and each was attended to the field by a numerous train of partizans, male and female, from the warlike purlieus of Dyott-street and Saffron-hill. They were armed with blackthorn cudgels of no ordinary dimensions; and having set to, without ceremony or parade, each belaboured his antagonist for above an hour, in a style that would have struck terror into the stoutest of the Burkes and Belchers, and enameled each other from head to foot, with lasting testimonies of vigour and dexterity. The air was rent by the triumphant shouts of their respective partizans, as either alternately bit the ground. At length, Mr. O'Shaugnessy yielded the victory; and Mr. O'Flannagan was borne off the field, with his brows enwreathed by the Sunday shawl of a milkwoman, his sweetheart, who witnessed the combat, and crowned the conqueror with her own fair hands.

* * * * *

A singular circumstance.

Mr. Jones a veterinary surgeon of the Curtain road, near London, was called upon lately to attend a horse that was unwell; having some very untoward symptoms about him, the horse was conceived to be in danger: every means was made use of that seemed calculated to be of service, but without effect, as he died the same evening. On opening the body, in the presence of several spectators the rectum was found to be ruptured by the pressure of a large calculus, or stone which weighs five pounds seven ounces, and in one of the intestines (the colon) were found three others that weigh sixteen pounds seven ounces. Altogether twenty one pounds fourteen ounces. They are kept in Mr. Jones' museum and submitted to the inspection of those who desire to view such a phenomenon.

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

Pedestrianism.

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

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



DRAMATIC CENSOR.

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

Dr. Johnson's Idler, No. 25.

From a Correspondent at New-York.

NEW-YORK THEATRICALS.

We have for several weeks been gratified by the performance of Mr. Dwyer, lately arrived from England, an actor certainly superior to any on the London boards in genteel comedy, and highly respectable as a tragedian. He possesses every requisite for the stage: a fine person, a good voice, a manly expression of countenance and the most polished address. His orthoepy seems to have been acquired by the means which alone can give it perfection: an intimate acquaintance and a constant interview with the best speakers of the senate, the bar, the pulpit, and the stage in the metropolis of the British empire.

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

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

Mr. Dwyer has entirely justified amongst us the flattering reports we had received of him in the European prints; and our theatrical amateurs will feel a disagreeable void in their pleasures when he leaves us. He is engaged on very liberal terms for a few nights in Philadelphia, by Mr. Warren, who lately made a journey to New-York for the express purpose of witnessing his extraordinary powers. Thence it is said, he will proceed to Boston and the other principal cities of the United States.

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

The little judgment used in the casts of the plays in which Mr. Dwyer has appeared, must have, however, greatly diminished the effect his talents would produce upon us, were he respectably supported. Our company, weak and bad in the extreme, is by bad management rendered much worse. To the annoyance of the public, when one actor, as a star, is thought to have sufficient attraction to make a good house of himself, the best performers of the company (and heaven knows bad enough is the best) are left out; prompter, scene-shifters, supernumeraries, and candle-snuffers being tugged in by the ears, as occasion may require, to complete the Dramatis Personae. The place of Mrs. Oldmixon, whom we always see with pleasure, and who is never willingly absent when she can contribute to the gratification of the audience, is frequently occupied by Mrs. Hogg, whose infirmities impede those exertions which we are inclined to believe she is willing to make: and Mr. Simpson, who, in some characters, is not a bad performer, is often supplanted by the very sweepings of the green-room. How often do we see that second Proteus, the little prompter with his parenthetical legs, rolled on in five or six different parts on the same evening. Gentleman, jailor, footman, king, and beggar are to him equally indifferent; and next to Mr. Hallam we conceive him to be the very best murderer on the boards.

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

First on the scroll stands the respectable Tyler, who, with some natural qualifications and much industry, has for many years been the most useful actor on our boards. His grave old gentlemen are far above mediocrity, and although nearly sixty years of age, he appears to much advantage occasionally in comic opera; being the only man in the company, with the exception of Mr. Twaits, capable of singing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Poe is a pleasing actress, with many striking defects. She should never attempt to sing.

* * * * *

Mr. Tyler, Mr. and Mrs. Young, and Mr. Twaits leave us in July. We trust the manager will take a little more pains to procure a good company. The public are liberal; and his purse-strings should be open to pay as well as to receive. If we had Mr. Warren here, or some one capable of discerning merit and willing to reward it, the town would never fail to support him. But, as it is, the only hope we have is a new theatre, a subscription for which, it is reported, is now on foot. John Hogg, a very good actor has been for twelve months unemployed here, whilst ten-dollars-per-week men are engaged to stutter and stammer in parts as far above their conception as their talents.

GLUM.

* * * * *

THE AFRICANS.

In that laudable zeal for the gratification of the public which has uniformly distinguished the management of Mr. Warren, he resolved to get up The Africans, and produced it at his own benefit on Wednesday the 18th of April. The scenery, dresses, and preparations being very expensive, he could not demonstrate his respect for the city, and his anxiety to provide for their amusement more unequivocally, than by hazarding an immense expenditure of money, upon the issue of a solitary benefit, when there were plays already in stock (the Foundling of the Forest, for instance) that without a cent of additional expense would have been sufficiently productive. Much is owing, therefore, to the manager for presenting us with the Africans.

Among the dramatists of the day Mr. Colman stands in our opinion, very high—if not highest. Some of his plays are noble productions, but by that of which we are now speaking, his fame will not be greatly augmented. Of the fable it is sufficient to say, that it is taken from FLORIAN, who, as a pastoral writer, equals Cervantes himself. Like every thing of Florian's the tale is divinely beautiful; but the selection of it for the stage evinces a want of judgment, of which Mr. Colman is rarely liable to be accused. The main ground work is the distress, or rather the agonies of an African family, by which the warmest sympathy is awakened in the bosom: too simple, however, in itself for a stage-plot, though impressive and interesting as a narrative, Mr. Colman has jumbled up with it metal of a lower kind, and so rudely alloyed the gold of Florian, that the value of it is rather injured. Such a mass of incongruous beauties we do not recollect to have seen. A tale of the most pathetic kind is interwoven with low comedy—the most lofty sentiments, the most exalted virtues, and heroism and magnanimity strained almost beyond the limits of probability, are checkered by uncouth pleasantries, and the most pathetic incidents intruded upon and interrupted by the farcical conundrums of MUG, a low cockney, who has become secretary of state to the king of the Mandingoes. Thus, oscillating between Kotesbue and O'Keefe, giving now a layer of exalted sentiment, and then a layer of mere farce, has Mr. C. raised a long three act piece.

Nor are these the only imperfections of the piece. The language and sentiments of the serious parts are at such variance with the personages to whom they are assigned, not only according to received opinions, but to obvious matter of fact, that no stretch of the imagination can reconcile them. When we witness actions in which the tenderest charities inculcated by the Christian dispensation are combined with the inflexible magnanimity of the stoic's creed—when we hear virtues

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

dressed up in a vigorous highly ornamented style, and the crime of suicide depicted in the most glowing language of poetry, and deplored and deprecated in terms of dissuasion, forcible as those of Bourdaloue, and eloquent as those of Massillon, delivered from the mouth of a sooty African, as the spontaneous issues of his native moral philosophy and religion, we feel the incongruity too much for our nerves, and reject it in action. It may be asked, "why may not a negro on the coast of Africa enjoy such feelings, possess such virtues and speak them in such terms?" From what we have heard and seen, we entertain little doubt that there are men capable of asking such a question; but we know no way of answering it but by asking in return why an Esquimaux Indian should not compose an overture equal to any of Handel's, or a Dutch boor dance a pas seul as well as Vestris, or a minuet as well as the prince of Wales.

Again it may be asked how it came to pass that this play, if so exceptionable, was well received in England; to this we answer, that an abhorrence of the slave trade, just indignation at the wrongs done the unhappy Africans, and pity for their sufferings, together with exultation at the triumph which the generous band who procured the abolition of that execrable trade obtained over its cruel sordid advocates, had filled the people of Great Britain with an enthusiasm calculated to ensure their favourable reception of any thing creditable to the Africans. And it is highly probable that Mr. Colman purposely took that tide in public opinion at the flood.

The play, however, must be delightful in the closet, and was cast so as to comprehend the whole strength of the company. Every part was decently sustained, others respectably, two excellently. For a proof of which we need offer nothing more than the single circumstance that none of the serious parts produced laughter as unexpected incongruities generally do. Had black SELICO been in the hands of some performers we have seen, instead of Mr. Wood's, two or three of his speeches must have produced merriment.

* * * * *

Mr. Cooper's second visit this season.

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

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

Mr. Cooper's Antony was, as usual, a chequer work of good and bad: one beauty there was, however, which would atone for a thousand faults. We have never seen any thing in histrionic excellence to surpass, few to equal it. We mean when, in the first scene of the third act, after the assassination of Caesar, he returned to the senate house, and, dropping on one knee, hung over the mangled body: his attitude surpassed all powers of description. Then when after gazing for a time in horror at the corse, with his hands clasped in speechless agony, he looked to heaven, as if appealing to its justice, and again turning to his murdered friend, exclaimed——

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

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

Through the whole of that scene Mr. Cooper was truly admirable. In the speech in which he shakes the conspirators by their bloody hands, and, like a consummate, artful politician, postpones the indulgence of his grief and indignation for the accomplishment of a higher purpose, he was not excelled by Barry himself. But in the harangue from the Rostrum he missed the mark by aiming too high. Could he forget that that celebrated speech is considered the chief test of the performer of Antony, he would, we think, deliver it well; but, intent upon making the most of it, he failed, and was laboriously erroneous and defective.

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

ALEXANDER.

In this character Mr. Cooper would extort commendation from the most churlish critic. Alexander is a compound of Hero and Lover, and in both extravagant and enthusiastic almost to madness. It is in the former of these Mr. C. chiefly displayed his powers. His voice, his person, and his manner qualified him for an impressive delineation of that portion of the character—but as a lover Mr. Cooper only serves to remind us with disadvantage to him, of actors we have seen before. In the proud and boastful exultation, the starts of anger, the quick resentment, and ardent friendship, the sudden alternation of storm and calm, and, in a word, the medley of eccentric vices and virtues which compose this gigantic offspring of Lee's bright but fevered brain, the severest criticism must concur with the public opinion, which ranks Mr. Cooper's Alexander high among the first specimens of the art exhibited in the English language. Adverting to the first scene of the second act, when irritated by Lysimachus demanding the princess Parisatis in marriage; in the swell of passion from the mild rebuke,

Lysimachus, no more—it is not well; My word you know, was to Hephestion given,

up to the storm of rage

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

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

Several steps higher still in merit criticism must place the whole of the banquet scene. The intoxicated vanity of Alexander—his soft and puerile susceptibility of gross and fulsome adulation, his idle contest with the blunt old Clytus, his fury and cruel murder of that brave old soldier, and his outrageous grief and self reproach for that murder, in all of which the fiery brain of the poet has urged the passions to the utmost verge of nature, Mr. Cooper was all for which the most sanguine admirer could wish, or a reasonable critic hope. But as, in the best drawn portraits, one or more limbs or features will be found superior to the rest, so in this scene of aggregate excellence, there were three successive speeches of such preeminent excellence and superiority that they ought to be commemorated. They all turn upon the provoking insinuation of Clytus:

Philip fought men—but Alexander women.

In the jealousy, the astonishment, the wrath of the insulted hero, the expression of the actor kept equal flight with the bold wing of the poet. Accustomed as we have been to the prodigious exertions of the greatest actors in the world we have not witnessed nor can we conceive any thing superior to Mr. Cooper in the following speeches——

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

Lysim. Wine has transported him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

After this scene we could relish nothing in the play. We endeavoured to disengage ourselves sufficiently to attend to the sequel—but all seemed frigid and uninteresting till the mad dying scene of Alexander again furnished Mr. Cooper with an opportunity to give scope to his talents, which he did, so successfully, that if we had not been filled with the former scene it is likely that we should have pronounced this his chef a'oeuvre.

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

* * * * *

MR. DWYER.

The fame of this young actor reached America before him. Those who are in the habit of perusing the critical productions of London or Edinburgh, had learned from them that he was a performer of considerable merit in a particular department, and of great promise as a general actor. The most favourable reports of the British publications were amply confirmed by American gentlemen who saw him perform in Europe; and the acknowledged taste and judgment of a respectable literary character at New-York, who engaged Mr. Dwyer for the manager of that theatre, would have been of itself a sufficient warranty for the most sanguine presumptions in his favour. Accordingly he was received by the New-York audience for some nights with enthusiastic applause, and on the ground of the reports of that city, the play-loving folks of this wound their minds up to a strained pitch of expectation. In consequence of this, Mr. Warren, who never fails to make use of every opportunity that arises to gratify his audience, proceeded to New-York for the purpose of engaging Mr. Dwyer for a few nights, if his merits should be found to correspond with the general reports respecting him. Mr. Warren's own judgment confirmed those reports, and he engaged Mr. Dwyer upon terms which do honour to the liberality of his heart, and to his spirit as a manager.

Mr. Dwyer's performances here have answered the expectations we had built upon the various criticisms we had read, and the verbal communications we had received upon the subject of his professional talents. We conjectured that his acting might not entirely, or all at once, accord with that kind of taste which the actors we have been accustomed to naturally generated in the multitude. His performance of BELCOUR was as new to our audience as the chaste and natural acting of Garrick was on his first appearance to the admirers of Booth and Quin, and for some time our audience could scarcely admire it. In some few instances, indeed, a positive disrelish for it was openly avowed, and we could not help feeling that those opinions were entitled to particular respect as they could have come only by inspiration. Being uttered before it was possible for the propounders to have formed a judgment by mere human means upon that gentleman's merits. This we can aver, that he had spoken only four lines, according to the letter press of the copy now before us, when some person on one side of us remarked that he was nothing to Mr. Chalmers, and in four lines more, another person on the other side laid him down under another actor—but one, indeed of a very superior kind to Mr. Chalmers.

As we have no pretensions to that kind of inspiration—that critical second sight (as the Highland Scotch call it) but are fain to judge by the mere humdrum human means of reason and experience, we felt it to be our duty to see the character entirely performed by Mr. Dwyer before we ventured to form an opinion on his acting it; and we are free to confess that if all critics find it as difficult as we do to estimate the value of an actor's performance, and are honestly disposed, they will not only wait as we always do till the whole evidence is before them, but weigh it scrupulously, without affection, prejudice, or malice, before they venture to pass sentence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Upon the whole we must in justice say, that Mr. Dwyer, so far as we have seen him go, has shown uncommon talents for the stage—that he is an acquisition to the American boards, such as we had not dared to hope for, and that we trust next season will bring him back, and exhibit him in a range of characters more varied and extensive, and better calculated to call forth the great natural powers of which he seems to be amply possessed.

* * * * *

Grand Musical Performances.

In no country in the world is the practice of music more universally extended and at the same time the science so little understood as in America. Almost every house included between the Delaware and Schuylkill has its piano or harpsichord, its violin, its flute, or its clarinet. Almost every young lady and gentleman from the children of the Judge, the banker, and the general, down to those of the constable, the huckster, and the drummer, can make a noise upon some instrument or other, and charm their friends, or split the ears of their neighbours, with something which courtesy calls music. Europeans, as they walk our streets, are often surprised with the flute rudely warbling "Hail Columbia," from an oyster cellar, or the piano forte thumped to a female voice screaming "O Lady Fair!" from behind a heap of cheese, a basket of eggs, a flour barrel, or a puncheon of apple whiskey; and on these grounds we take it for granted that we are a very musical people.

When Boswell asked Dr. Johnson if he did not think there was a great deal of learning in Scotland, "Learning," replied the philosopher, "is in Scotland as food in a town besieged; every one has a mouthfull, but no one a belly-full." The same may be said of music in America. The summit of attainment in that delightful science seldom reaching higher than the accompanying of a song so as to set off a tolerable voice, or aid a weak one, and the attracting a circle of beaus round a young lady, while she exhibits the nimbleness of her fingers in the execution of a darling waltz, or touches the hearts of the fond youths with a plaintive melody accompanied with false notes. Thus far, or but little further, does music extend, save in a few scattered instances. Like a plover-call, it is used to allure the fluttering tribe into the meshes; but when it has done its office in that kind, is laid aside for ever. POPE SEXTUS QUINTUS, when he was a cardinal, hung up a net in his room, to demonstrate his humility, his father having been a fisherman; but as soon as he was made pope, he pulled it down again, shrewdly saying, "I have caught the fish." Miss Hannah More remarks that few ladies attend to music after marriage, however skilful they may have been before it. Indeed nothing is more common than to hear a lady acknowledge it. "Mrs. Racket will you do us the favour," &c. says a dapper young gentleman offering his hand to lead a lady to the piano. "Do excuse me, sir, I beg of you," she replies, "I have not touched an instrument of music half a dozen times since I was married—one, you know, has so much to do." Thus music as a science lags in the rear, while musical instruments in myriads twang away in the van: and thus the window cobweb having caught its flies for the season is swept away by the housemaid.

This is, in fact, an evil. It is assuming the frivolity, the waste of time, the coxcombry, and all the disadvantages of music, without any of its substantial benefits. That which Shakspeare praised, and Milton cultivated, and which is supposed to be the language of saints and angels when they hymn their Maker's praise, ought to be a nation's care: but then it ought to be so only on proper grounds and in the true ethereal spirit which fits it for divine. Not the miserable or the vitious levities of music, which serve but to unman the soul, to wake the dormant sensualities of the heart, and far from lifting the spirit to the skies, but sink it to the centre. Not what Shakspeare calls "the lascivious pleasing of a lute" for fools "to caper to in a lady's chamber," but harmony, such as befits the creature to pour forth at the altar of the Creator; the sublime raptures of Handel; the divine strains of Haydn, and the majestic compositions of Purcel, Pergolesse, and Graun.

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

Having made it our business to procure the best information upon this subject, we are enabled to state that the pieces to be performed on this occasion will be selected from the very highest order of musical composition—the Messiah of Handel, the Creation of Haydn, &c. That besides those, a number of the choicest compositions vocal and instrumental, by Handel, Graun, Pergolesse, &c. will be performed, and that, in order to make the exhibition as perfect as possible, every attainable assistance will be brought in to give magnificence to the performances and "swell the note of praise."

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

[K] Shakspeare Midsummer night's Dream.

[L] Milton.



ALFONSO,

KING OF CASTILE:

A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS.

BY M. G. LEWIS.

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

Hamlet.

PHILADELPHIA:

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

Smith & M'Kenzie, printers.

1810.



ALFONSO, KING OF CASTILE:

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

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

Friars, Soldiers, Citizens, Conspirators, &c.

Amelrosa. Ottilia. Estella. Inis.

Nuns, and Female attendants on Amelrosa.

The scene lies in Burgos (the capital of Old Castile) and in the adjoining Forest.

The Action is supposed to pass in the year 1345.



ACT I.

SCENE I.—The palace-garden.—Daybreak.

Ottilia enters in a night dress: her hair flows dishevelled.

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

Enter Lucio.

Luc. 'Tis past the hour! I fear I shall be chid, For lo! the sun already darts his rays Athwart the garden-paths.

Otti. How still! how tranquil! All rests, except Ottilia! I'll regain The hateful couch, where still my husband sleeps: Ere long he sleeps forever! Ha! why steals Yon boy.——Amazement! Do my eyes deceive me?

Luc. Hist! hist! Estella? Estella. [Appearing on the terrace of the palace.]

Est. Lucio?

Luc. Ay, the same.

Est. Good! good!

Luc. But pray you bid him speed. So loud His black Arabian snorts, and paws the earth, I fear he'll wake the guards.

Est. Farewell, I'll warn him. [Ext. severally.

Otti. [Alone.] 'Twas Lucio, sure!—What business.—Ah, how ready Is fear to whisper what love hates to hear.

[Estella and Caesario appear on the terrace.]

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

Caesa. [Looking back at the palace.] Yet one look, One grateful blessing for this night of rapture; Then, shrine of my soul's idol! casket, holding My heart's most precious gem, awhile farewell! But, when my foot next bends thy floors, expect No more this cautious gait, this voice subdued! Proud and erect, with manly steps and strong, I'll come a Conqueror and a King, to lead With sceptred hand forth from her bower my bride, And bid Castile adore her, like Caesario. Farewell, once more farewell!

Otti. [Advancing.] I'll cross his path, And blast him with a look.

Caesa. Ottilia?

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

Caesa. [Aside.] Confusion! Should her rage alarm the guards.

Otti. Or do I wrong myself? Is still my form Unchanged, but not thy faith? Speak, traitor, speak!

Caesa. I own, most dear Ottilia——

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

Caesa. How shall I hush this storm? [Aside.]

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

Caesa. Estella? [then aside] Blest mistake!

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

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

Otti. Thou prince of hypocrites!

Caesa. Think'st thou I flatter! Then trust thyself—[leading her to a fountain.] View on this watery mirror Thine angel-form reflected—Lovely shade, Bid this indignant fair confess, how vain Estella's charms were to contend with thine! And yet—oh madman! at Estella's feet Breathing my vows, these eyes forgot these lips, Than roses sweeter, redder—Oh! I'll gaze No more, for gazing I detest myself.

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

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

Otti. Cannot? Oh Caesario, Thou lov'st no longer, or thou ne'er couldst doubt I can, I must forgive thee!——[falling on his bosom]

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

Otti. Those lips again Thus seal it!——Yet to prove thy faith, I ask—

Caesa. What can Ottilia ask, and I deny?

Otti. The scarf you wear.——

Caesa. [Starting.] Ottilia!

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

Caesa. And can Ottilia wish So mean a triumph?

Otti. Ha! beware, Caesario! My foot is on thy neck, and should I find Thy head a snake's I'll crush it! quick! the scarf! Am I refused?

Caesa. Ottilia, be persuaded. More nobly use thy power.

Otti. [Suffocated with rage.] The scarf! the scarf!

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

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

Caesa. [Returning.] Saidst thou——

Otti. Last night my husband's dreams revealed A secret.

Caesa. [Starting.] How? thy husband? Marquis Guzman?

Otti. He spoke of plots—of soldiers brib'd——

[looking round mysteriously, and pointing to the lower part of the palace.]

Of vaults Beneath the royal chamber—Wherefore tell I To thee a tale thou know'st thyself full well? I'll tell it to the king——[Going.]

Caesa. Ottilia, stay!

Otti. The scarf.

Caesa. [Giving it.] 'Tis thine!——My life is in thy hands. Be secret, and I live thy slave forever. [Exit.

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

Amelrosa, Estella, Inis, and ladies, appear on the terrace of the palace.

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

Inis. Its love? Can flowers then love?

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

Est. See, lady where the king——

Amel. I haste to meet him.

Enter Alfonso, and attendants.

Amel. [Kneeling.] My father! my dear father!

Alfon. Heaven's best dews Fall on thy beauteous head, my Amelrosa, And be each drop a blessing!—Cheered by morning Fair smile the skies; but nothing smiles on me, Till I have seen thee well, and know thee happy.

Amel. And I were happy, if my eyes perceived not Tears clouding thine. Oh! what has power to grieve thee On this proud day, when rich in spoils and glory Caesario brings thee back thy conquering troops, That brave young warrior? Spite of Moorish hosts, And all their new-found engines of destruction, Sulphureous mines and mouths of iron thunder, He forced their gates! He leap'd their flaming gulphs! Pale as their banner'd crescent fled the Moors, And proudly streamed our flag o'er Algesiras!

Alfon. And with them fled—Oh! have I words to speak it? Thy brother, Amelrosa!

Amel. How! my brother?

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

Amel. Powers of mercy! Can there be hearts so black!

Alfon. Poor wretched man, Where shall I turn me? where, since lust of power Makes a son faithless, find a friend that's true? Where fly for comfort?——

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

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

Amel. Doubts my father?

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

Amel. Then why that wronging thought?

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

Amel. Orsino.

Alfon. He! he! that man—Oh! how I loved that man! And yet that man betrayed me!

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

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

Amel. And did he never——

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

Enter Ottilia, wearing the scarf.

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

Alfon. Lady, from whom?

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

Alfon. Say on, say on!

Otti. By Guzman's hand were forged.

Alfon. Forged?—No, no, no! Lady, it cannot be! Unsay thy words or stab me!

Otti. Gracious Sir, Look on these papers.

Alfon. Ha!

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

Amel. Father! dear father!

Alfon. Father! I merit not that name, nor any Sweet, good, or gracious. Call me villain! fiend! Suspicious tyrant! treacherous, calm assassin! Who slew the truest, noblest friend, that ever Man's heart was blest with!—Ha! why kneels my child?

Amel. For pardon first that I have dar'd deceive thee——

Alfon. Deceive me!

Amel. Next to pay pure thanks to Heaven, Which grants me to allay my father's anguish With words of most sweet comfort.

Alfon. Ha! what means't thou?

Amel. Four years are past since first Orsino's sorrows Struck on my startled ear: that sound once heard, Ne'er left my ear again, but day and night, Whether I walked or sate, awake or sleeping, The captive, the poor captive still was there. The rain seemed but his tears; his hopeless groans Spoke in each hollow wind; his nights of anguish Robbed mine of rest; or, if I slept, my dreams Showed his pale wasted form, his beamless eye Fixed on the moon, his meager hands now folded In dull despair, now rending his few locks Untimely gray; and now again in frenzy Dreadful he shrieked; tore with his teeth his flesh; 'Gainst his dark prison-walls dashed out his brains, And died despairing! From my couch I started; Sunk upon my knees; I kissed this cross, ——"Captive," I cried, "I'll die or set thee free!"——

Alfon. And didst thou? Bless thee, didst thou?

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

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

Amel. Canst thou forgive My long deceit——

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

Enter Ricardo.

Ricar. My liege, your conquering general brave Caesario, Draws near the walls.

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

Amel. In the neighbouring forest He lives a hermit: Inis knows the place.

Alfon. Ere night I'll seek him there. And now farewell Ever beloved, but now more loved than ever! Oh! still as now watch o'er and timely check My hasty nature; still, their guardian-angel, Protect my people, e'en from me protect them: Then, after ages, pondering o'er the page Which bears my name, shall see, and seen shall bless That union most beloved of man and heaven, A patriot monarch, and a people free!

[Exit with Ricardo and attendants.]

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

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

Estel. Both duty And friendship chain me where the princess stays.

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

Estel. Ha! Sure my sight must err?

Otti. [Aside.] She sees and knows it.

Estel. It must be that!——Princess!

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

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

Estel. Convince thyself then.

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

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

Otti. This scarf——Alas! A paltry toy! a very soldier's present.

Estel. A soldier's!

Otti. Ay. 'Twas sent me from the camp: But with such bitter taunts on her who wrought it—— Breathed ever mortal man such thoughts of me, My heart would break or his should bleed for it!

Estel. Say you?

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

Amel. Oh! my heart!

Inis. Look to the Princess.

Otti. [Starting.] Ha!

Estel. She faints!

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

Otti. Princess, permit——

Amel. No lady! I need no aid of thine—In, in, Estella. Oh! cruel, false Caesario!

[Exit with Estella, Inis, and Ladies.]

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

End of Act I.



ACT II.

SCENE I. A hall in Caesario's palace.

[Shouts heard without.]

Enter Caesario [a general's staff in his hand] followed by Henriquez, citizens and soldiers.

Caesa. Thanks, worthy friends! No further!—Pleased I hear These shouts, which thank me for Alfonso's safety! But though my arms have quelled the Moors, your love Alone can shield him from a foe more dangerous, From his proud rebel son!—Farewell, assured I live but for your use!

First Citi. Long live Caesario!

Sec. Citi. Long live the conqueror of the Moors!

All. Huzza! [Exeunt.

Manent Caesario and Henriquez.

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

Hen. Then absence has not cooled, It seems, your hatred——

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

Hen. Yet might your wealth and power—yon general's staff— Alfonso's countless favours——

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

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

Caesa. Tonight it springs then, And hurls my foe in burning clouds to heaven— O! rapturous sight!

Hen. And can that sight give rapture Which wrings with anguish Amelrosa's bosom? She loves her father——

Caesa. Loves she not her husband?

Hen. She'll hate him, when she knows——

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

Hen. Oh! she will drown that bloody throne with tears! And should she learn who bade them flow——

Caesa. Say on——

Hen. She'll loath you!

Caesa. [With a scornful smile] She'll forgive me.

Hen. Never, never! I know the princess; know a daughter's love, A daughter's grief——

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

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

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

Enter Melchior.

Caesa. Melchior! why thus alarmed?

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

Caesa. and Hen. How?

Mel. Remorse already Hath wrung one secret from him; and I fear, The next fit brings our plot.

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

[Exit Henriquez.

Caesa. I'll watch the king myself!

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

Caesa. [Starting] Whom, whom? Orsino? what Orsino? speak.

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

Caesa. At one, remember— Beneath the royal tower——

Mel. Fear not my failing.

Caesa. [Alone] He lives! My father lives! Oh, let but vengeance Fire him to spurn Alfonso and his friendship. His martial fame the memory of his virtues, His talents, rank, and sufferings undeserved—— Oh! what a noble column to support My new-raised power! [Going.]

Enter Ottilia. [Veiled.]

Otti. Caesario, stay!

Caesa. Forgive me, Fair lady, if my speech appears ungentle; Such business calls——

Otti. [Unveiling] Than mine there's none more urgent.

Caesa. Ottilia!

Otti. Need I say what brings me hither?

Caesa. Those angry eyes too plainly speak, that still Estella.

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