ready to mount the scaffold; but to his great surprise he is not only publicly thanked for the deed by his fellow - citizens, but elected provost in the murdered man's place. He soon becomes corrupted by prosperity, and thinks no more of the fugitive Luitolfo, who after a time returns to find his faithless friend a suitor for Eulalia's hand. As may be supposed, the catastrophe is highly tragic. The scene of the Return of the Druses is an islet of the southern Sporades colonised by Druses of Lebanon, and garrisoned by the Knights-Hospitallers of Rhodes. An unpopular Prefect is assassinated, and the colonists are only saved from the vengeance of the Knights by the intervention of the Venetians, who transport them back to their own country. The romantic part of the intrigue is represented by the maiden Anael and her two rival lovers, the Druse Djabal and the French Loys. Luria, who gives his name to the next tragedy, is a Moorish general in the service of the Florentine Republic, then at war with Pisa. Being wrongfully accused of treason, he is urged by his fair friend Domizia to revenge himself by marching with his mercenaries against the ungrateful Florence, but he prefers death to dishonour, and stabs himself. These later dramas of Browning's are even less suitable as acting plays than the two earlier ones; but amid their prevalent obscurity, their strange phraseology and their bewildering inversions, the patient reader may find many beauties. In fact, they are rather dramatic poems than dramas. The dialogue produces the effect of a series of monologues pronounced by each of the characters in turn, and we miss that rapid interchange of thought which is so indispensable to excite the interest and secure the attention of the reader or the listener. Douglas Jerrold. Besides two or three novels, and his famous contributions to the London Punch, Mr. Jerrold (1803—1857) has written some excellent comedies and farces. Of these, one of the best, Black-Eyed Susan, is founded on John Gay's well-known ballad: All in the Downs the fleet was moored; and such was the popularity it attained that Mr. T. P. Cooke, the original William, appeared no less than four hundred times successively in the same character, partly at the Surrey Theatre in London and partly in the provinces. William, a sailor aboard a man-of-war, is Susan's husband; and his captain, whose name is Crosstree, having one day when intoxicated insulted Susan in the public street, William sees himself compelled to strike him in defence of his wife. For a sailor, however, to strike his captain, even under the greatest provocation, is a most serious offence, and it results in the arrest of William, and his trial before a court-martial presided over by the admiral. Witnesses are called, who make their depositions, and the case is submitted to a jury of captains for their decision: Admiral. Gentlemen, nothing more remains for us than to consider the justice of our verdict. Although the case of the unfortunate man admits of many palliatives, still, for the upholding of a necessary discipline, any commiseration would afford a dangerous precedent, and I fear cannot be indulged. Gentlemen, are you all determined in your verdict? Guilty or not guilty? Guilty? (after a pause, the Captains bow assent.) It remains then for me to pass the sentence of the law? (Captains bow.) Bring back the prisoner. Re-enter William and Master-at-arms. Adm. Prisoner after a patient and impartial investigation of your case, this Court has unanimously pronounced you Guilty! (pause.) If you have anything to say in arrest of judgment now is your time to speak. William. In a moment, your honours. My top-lights) are rather misty. Your honours, I had been three years at sea, and had never looked upon or heard from my wife craft as was ever launched as sweet a little that's my I had come ashore, and I was but yet all taut,) with a face as 1) My eyes (Mastlichter). 2) Money. 3) Knavish creditors, swindlers. *) In good order, neat. we were as merry as a ship's crew on a pay-day, there comes an order to go aboard; I left Susan, and went with the rest of the liberty men to ax leave of the first lieutenant. I hadn't been gone the turning of an hour-glass, when I heard Susan giving signals of distress, I out with my cutlass, made all sail, and came up to my craft I found her battling with a pirate I never looked at his figure-head, never stopped would any of your honours? long live you and your wives say I! would any of your honours have rowed alongside as if you'd been going aboard a royal yacht? no, you wouldn't ; for the gilt swabs1) on the shoulders can't alter the heart that swells beneath; you would have done as I did; and what did I? why, I cut him down like a piece of old junk ; 2) had he been the first lord of the Admiralty, I had done it! (overcome with emotion.) Adm. Prisoner, we keenly feel for your situation; yet you, as a Adm. Have you anything further to advance? Adm. (and all the Captains rise.) Prisoner! it is now my most painful duty to pass the sentence of the Court upon you. The Court commiserates your situation, and, in consideration of your services, wil see that every care is taken of your wife when deprived of your protection. Wil. Poor Susan! Adm. Prisoner! your case falls under the twenty-second Article of War. (reads.) "If any man in, or belonging to the Fleet, shall draw, or offer to draw, or lift up his hand against his superior officer, he shall suffer death." (putting on his hat.) The sentence of the Court is, that you be hanged at the fore-yardarm of this his Majesty's ship, at the hour of ten o'clock. Heaven pardon your sins, and have mercy on your soul! This Court is now dissolved. William, condemned to death, bids a tender farewell to his unhappy wife; but he ultimately escapes, being at the last moment saved by the timely intervention of the now penitent Captain Crosstree: 1) Officer's epaulets. 2) Old cable or cordage.) I have told my story. William and Susan. Wil. Oh Susan! Well, my poor wench, how fares it? -- Susan. Oh, William! and I have watched, prayed for your return smiled in the face of poverty, stopped my ears to the reproaches of the selfish, the worst pity of the thoughtless and all, all for this! Wil. Ay, Sue, it's hard; but that's all over to grieve is useless. Susan, I might have died disgraced have left you the widow of a bad, black-hearted man; I know 'twill not be so and in this, whilst you remain behind me, there is at least some comfort. I died in a good cause; I died in defence of the virtue of a wife her tears will fall like spring rain on the grass that covers me. Susan. Talk not so your grave! I feel it is a place where my heart must throw down its heavy load of life. Will. Come, Susan. shake off your tears. There, now, smile a bit we'll not talk again of graves. Think, Susan, that I am a going on a long foreign station think so. Now, what would you ask have you nothing, nothing to say? Susan. Nothing! oh, when at home, hoping, yet trembling for this meeting, thoughts crowded on me, I felt as if I could have talked to you for days. Stopping for want of power, not words. Now the terrible time is come now I am almost tongue-tied - my heart swells to my throat, I can but look and weep. (gun fires.) That gun! oh, William! husband! is it so near! speak not tremble. - You Wil. Susan, be calm. If you love your husband, do not send him on the deck a white-faced coward. Be still, my poor girl, I have something to say until you are calm, I will not utter it; now Susan Susan. I am cold, motionless as ice. Wil. Susan! you know the old aspen that grows near to the church porch; you and I, when children, almost before we could speak plainly, have sat and watched, and wondered at its shaking leaves I grew up, and that tree seemed to me a friend that loved me, yet had not the tongue to tell me so. Beneath its boughs our little arms have been locked together beneath its boughs I took the last kiss of your white lips when hard fortune made me turn sailor. I cut from that tree this branch (produces it). Many a summer's day aboard, I've lain in the top and looked at these few leaves, until I saw green meadows in the salt sea, and heard the bleating of the sheep. When I am dead, Susan, let me be laid under that tree. Gun fires. Slow Music. William gives Susan in charge of Seaweed, kisses her, and she is carried off. Last Scene. The Forecastle of the Ship. Procession along the starboard gangway. Master-at-Arms. Prisoner, are you prepared? Wil. Bless you! Bless you all (mounts the platform). Captain Crosstree (rushes on from gangway). Hold! Hold! - Cross. Never! if the prisoner be executed, he is a murdered man. I alone am the culprit — 'twas I who would have dishonoured him. Adm. This cannot plead here he struck a superior officer. Cross. No! All. No? Cross. He saved my life; I had written for his discharge villainy has kept back the document 'tis here dated back; when William struck me he was not the king's sailor his officer. Adm. (taking the paper Music). He is free! I was not Bubbles of the Day, said Charles Kemble the actor, has wit enough for three pieces. A few extracts will suffice to prove that this is a well-earned eulogium. Sir Phenix Clearcake and Lord Skindeep. Sir Phenix. My lord, I come with a petition to you a petition not parliamentary, but charitable. We propose, my lord, a fancy fair1) in Guildhall: its object so benevolent, and more than that, so respectable! Skindeep. Benevolence and respectability of course, I'm with you. Well, the precise object? - Sir Ph. It is to remove a stain a very great stain from the city; to exercise a renovating taste at a most inconsiderable outlay; to call up as it were the snowy purity of Greece in the coal-smoke atmosphere of London; in a word, my lord but as yet 'tis a profound secret it is to paint St. Paul's! Skind. A gigantic effort! Sir Ph. The fancy fair will be on a most comprehensive and philanthropic scale. Every alderman takes a stall; and, to give you an idea of the enthusiasm in the city but this is also a secret the Lady Mayoress has been up three nights making pincushions. Skind. But you don't want me to take a stall - to sell pincushions? Sir Ph. Certainly not, my lord. And yet your philanthropic speeches in the house, my lord, convince me that to obtain a certain good you would sell anything. Skind. Well, well; command me in any way; benevolence is my foible. I tell you what; I've some splendid Chinese paintings on rice-paper. They're not of the least use to me, so you may have them for the charity. Another projector, Captain Smoke, who has served, as he says, in the "Madras Fusileers," now enters, and 1) A temporary bazaar, conducted by ladies, for some charitable object. |