The honoured ashes of my ancestors
May still rest quiet in their tear-wet urns
For any act of mine; I might have lived,
If Heaven had not prevented it, and found
Death for some foul, dishonourable act.
Brother, farewell; no sooner have I found
But I must leave thy wished-for company.
Farewell, my dearest love; live thou still happy;
And may some one of more desert than I
Be blest in the enjoying what I lose.

I need not wish him happiness that has thee,
For thou wilt bring it; may he prove as good
As thou art worthy!

Leuc.

Dearest Philocles,

There is no room for any man but thee
Within this breast. Oh, good my lords,
Be merciful: condemn us both together;
Our faults are both alike; why should the law
Be partial thus, and lay it all on him?

1 Judge. Lady, I would we could as lawfully
Save him as you, he should not die for this.

The reader foresees the conclusion. Eugenio first accuses Count Virro of murder, then relieves all parties by discovering himself. A reconciliation ensues of the most perfect earnestness and sincerity; very different from the words of course spoken by two "good haters" at the end of a modern comedy. There is an underplot dovetailed in with great skill, which I have left untouched, to avoid confusion.

"The Old Couple" is a still sweeter play than "The Heir;" though the story is more intricate and the persons are more numerous. I can only quote part of the opening scene. Eugeny thinks that he has killed Scudmore in a duel, and remains concealed in the woods near the house of his mistress, who meets him in her garden.

Eugeny, solus.

Eug. This is the hour which fair Artemia
Promised to borrow from all company,
And bless me only with it; to deny
Her beauteous presence to all else, and shine
On me, poor me! Within this garden here,
This happy garden once, while I was happy,
And wanted not a free access unto it;
Before my fatal and accursed crime
Had shut these gates of paradise against me;
When I, without control, alone might spend
With sweet Artemia in these fragrant walks
The day's short-seeming hours; and ravished hear
Her sweet discourses of the lily's whiteness,
The blushing rose, blue-mantled violet,
Pale daffodil, and purple hyacinth;

With all the various sweets and painted glories
Of Nature's wardrobe; which were all eclipsed
By her diviner beauty. But, alas!

What boots the former happiness I had
But to increase my sorrow? My sad crime
Has left me now no entrance but by stealth,
When death and danger dog my venturous steps.
And welcome danger, since thou find'st so fair
A recompense, as my Artemia's sight.

(Artemia then enters; and after some sweet chiding for his rashness in visiting her, inquires)

How dost thou spend thy melancholy time?

Eug. Within the covert of yon shady wood,

Which clothes the mountain's rough and craggy top,
A little hovel, built of boughs and reeds,

Is my abode; from whence the spreading trees
Keep out the sun, and do bestow in lieu
A greater benefit, a safe concealment.
In that secure and solitary place,
I give my pleased imagination leave
To feast itself with thy supposed presence;
Whose only shadow brings more joy to me
Than all the substance of the world beside.

Art. Just so alone am I: nay, want the presence
Of my own heart, which strays to find out thee.
But who comes to thee to supply thy wants?
Eug. There my Artemia names my happiness:

A happiness, which, next her love, I hold
To be the greatest that the world can give ;
And I am proud to name it. I do there
Enjoy a friend, whose sweet society
Makes that dark wood a palace of delight;
One stored with all that can commend a man ;
In whom refined knowledge and pure art,
Mixing with true and sound morality,

Is crowned with piety.

Art.

Whom thou describ'st ?

What wonder 's this

But I in vain, alas!

Eug.
Do strive to make with my imperfect skill
A true dissection of his noble parts:
He loses, love, by all that I can say;
For praise can come no nearer to his worth
Than can a painter with his mimic sun
Express the beauty of Hyperion.

Art. What is his name?

Eug.

His name is Theodore,

Rich Earthworm's son, lately come home from travel.

Art. Oh, heavens! his son! Can such a caitiff wretch, Hated and cursed by all, have such a son!

The miser lives alone, abhorred by all
Like a disease; yet cannot so be 'scaped:

But, canker-like, eats through the poor men's hearts
That live about him: never has commerce
With any, but to ruin them. His house,
Inhospitable as the wilderness,

And never looked upon, but with a curse.
He hoards, in secret places of the earth,
Not only bags of treasure, but his corn;
Whose every grain he prizes 'bove a life;
And never prays at all, but for dear years.

Eug. For his son's sake, tread gently on his fame. Scudmore is, however, alive, and all ends happily. The chief purpose of this play seems to be to expose the vice of avarice in all its forms; and nothing can be more finely marked and distinguished than the bold and wicked grasping of Sir Argent Scrape, the cunning, yet abortive overreaching of Lady Lovet, and the sordid accumulation and tenacious retention of Earthworm. Its principal charm is undoubtedly the character of Theodore, Earthworm's son; who bends the whole force of a noble and powerful mind to effect his father's reformation, and his friend's happiness; and conquers all others, as he conquers himself, by the strength of his will, and the softness and pliability of his temper. He throws off a beginning passion for Ma. tilda, "Scudmore's love," as she is prettily called in the Dramatis Personæ, with a self-control as absolute as his influence over all about him is irresistible. His gentle and peaceful character has something quite chivalrous in its repose and courtesy. We could no more doubt his courage than we could doubt that of Sir Philip Sydney. Another attraction of this charming play is the circumstance of the scene's being laid in the country, in the midst of woods and gardens, and farms and old mansions; with perpetual allusions to rural sights and sounds, to the moon and the nightingale, and the sweet world of leaves and flowers. A less pleasing peculiarity is the miserable picture it exhibits of the utter perversion of justice during the reign of Charles the First, when lives were bought or sold, not only by men's enemies, but by their heirs. Šir Argent Scrape plots to prevent Eugeny's obtaining a pardon, that he may inherit his estate. Theodore says:

And then what bribes may do

In hastening execution, do but consider.-
This very age hath given

Horrid examples lately. Brothers have been
Betrayed by brothers, in that very kind.—
No tie so near,

No band so sacred, but the cursed hunger
Of gold has broke it; and made wretched men

To fly from nature, mock religion,

And trample under feet the holiest laws.

The conclusion of "The Old Couple" is still sweeter than that of "The Heir." Penitence and joy, the rain and the sunshine, bring out a flush of blossoms like April weather. Earthworm is the most ardent and enthusiastic of misers, and with a natural reaction of the passions becomes generous almost to prodigality.

Of the personal character of Thomas May very little is known, and that little comes from a political enemy. Lord Clarendon, with whom he was intimately acquainted, says, "That his father spent the fortune to which he was born, so that he had only an annuity left him, not proportionable to a liberal education; yet, since his fortune could not raise his mind, he brought his mind down to his fortune, by a great modesty and humility in his nature, which was not affected, but very well became an imperfection in his speech, which was a great mortification to him, and kept him from entering upon any discourse but in the company of his very friends. His parts of nature and art were very good, as appears by his translation of Lucan (none of the easiest work of that kind,) and more by his supplement to Lucan, which being entirely his own, for the learning, the wit, and the language, may be well looked upon as one of the best epic poems in the English language He writ some other commendable pieces of the reign of some of our kings. He was cherished by many persons of honour, and very acceptable in all places." No need to follow Lord Clarendon into his political vituperation. What I have quoted does equal honour to the historian and the poet; and is exactly what one imagines in reading the plays.

ITALY.*

M.

THERE is no country on the face of the habitable globe that is connected with so many associations of taste and feeling, of fancy and reflection, as Italy. Lovely in the fables of antiquity; wildly grand and wonderful in her early history; universal in the sway of her middle ages; dazzling in the splendour of her mid-day power; affecting in the long twilight of her decay; again imposing, and perhaps more than ever so, to the inquiring mind, in the Gothic darkness of the night which succeeded to all her glories; and trebly interesting in the sweet refulgence which reviving intellect threw over even the ruined images of her former greatness-ideas of the energy, the brilliancy of her mental character, are inseparably united in our minds with corresponding images of her cloudless skies, her luxuriant valleys; her mountains, presenting all that is magnificentin nature; her cities, containing every thing that is valuable in art. Hence is this charming country described and redescribed, and every de

* Italy. By Lady Morgan. 2 vols. 4to.

scription of it perused and reperused with an eagerness which requires not novelty of theme to increase the pleasure we derive from comparing one account with another, and all of them with either our own actual experience, or previous conceptions on the subject. There is, however, one province of delineation throughout the world which must ever present novelty, for by every eye it will be differently viewed, according to the light in which it may have been contemplated; by every hand be differently traced, according to the feeling, as well as the execution of the artist who may use the pencil -we mean the delineation of human nature. Hence, if Italy, as a country, could ever cease to interest, Italy, as a people, must still claim our attention as long as we are concerned in what befals our fellow creatures, and in the effect of such human institutions, and variations of outward circumstances, as all nations are exposed to, and which therefore all nations ought to know. In this point of view there are few modern tourists who will be found to draw more amusing pictures than Lady Morgan.

Susa is styled by Lady Morgan "the first stage in the theory of agreeable sensations ;" and to those who are, most likely, still congratulating themselves as they enter it, on their safe descent from the cloud-capped mountains under whose shadow it lies, we wonder not at its appearing so.

Turin, the smallest royal capital in Europe, being only three miles in circumference, she terms a little city of palaces; at the time of the French invasion it contained an hundred and ten churches, all splendidly endowed, and rich in marbles, pictures, and other precious objects. Still, amidst all its beauties, it has "the fault of incompleteness;" its noblest palaces are to be seen partly unfinished, and partly in ruins; an epitome of the general state of Italian villas, as well royal as noble; being, for the most part, vast, desolate, dreary, and neglected. Sight-seeing scarcely begins at Turin, but the Library is very extensive, and the biblical treasures it contains are immense. Lady Morgan saw there the famous Golden Bull of Trebizond, respecting which she remarks that the diplomacy of it "is as unintelligible as if it proceeded from that British minister whose bulls are not always golden."

It would be an injustice did we omit to notice in this place the honourable conduct of the French with respect to the Library at Milan, only two works from which they took away; one a Polyglott Bible, the other a Hebrew Tract; for both of which they left written acknowledgments, and both of which were returned. From the cabinet of medals, one of the richest in Italy, they took not, nor even displaced, a single coin. Mr. Eustace's lamentations over their spoliations are therefore somewhat misplaced, as well as his censures of them for turning the "Lord's Supper of Leonardo da Vinci, in the convent of the Dominicans, into a target for the soldiers to fire at:" the whole story of which is declared by the author of "Italy" to be without foundation, as the picture is without injury, save and except that which the Monks themselves have inflicted on it, by cutting a door through the legs of the principal figure, which is that of our Saviour, in order that, by making a nearer communi