Bev. No; live, I charge you. We have a little one; though I have left him, you will not leave him. To Lewson's kindness bequeath him. Is not this Charlotte? We have lived in love, though I have wronged you. Can you forgive me, Charlotte? Char. Forgive you! O, my poor brother! Bev. Lend me your hand, love. So; raise me-no; it will not be; my life is finished. O for a few short moments to tell you how my heart bleeds for you; that even now, thus dying as I am, dubious and fearful of a hereafter, my bosom pang is for your miseries. Support her, Heaven! And now I go. O, mercy! mercy! [Dies. Lew. How is it, madam? My poor Charlotte, too! Char. Her grief is speechless. Lew. Jarvis, remove her from this sight. [Jarvis and Charlotte lead Mrs Beverley aside.] Some ministering angel bring her peace. And thou, poor breathless corpse, may thy departed soul have found the rest it prayed for. Save but one error, and this last fatal deed, thy life was lovely. Let frailer minds take warning; and from example learn that want of pru[Exeunt. dence is want of virtue. Of a more intellectual and scholar-like cast were The truth direct; for these to me foretell Some eighteen years ago, I rented land Pris. He was. Lady R. Inhuman that thou art! How could'st thou kill what waves and tempests spared? the two dramas of Mason, Elfrida and Caractacus. [Discovery of her Son by Lady Randolph.] be: For these, I say: be steadfast to the truth; [Anna removes the servants and returns. Pris. I was not so inhuman. Anna. My noble mistress, you are moved too much: Pris. Not many days ago he was alive. Pris. Alas! I know not where. Lady R. O, fate! I fear thee still. Thou riddler speak Direct and clear, else I will search thy soul. Anna. Permit me, ever honoured! keen impatience, shame. Within the cradle where the infant lay Lady R. O, Anna, hear! Once more I charge thee That none might mark the change of our estate, speak Bought flocks and herds, and gradually brought forth Till I shall call upon thee to declare, Our secret wealth. But God's all-seeing eye For nature will break out: mild with the mild, bears. Lady R. 'Tis he, 'tis he himself! It is my son! Anna. Just are your transports: ne'er was woman's Proved with such fierce extremes. High-fated dame! By servile eyes; your gestures may be seen stow On me that wisdom which my state requires! Pris. If I, amidst astonishment and fear, Lady R. With thee dissimulation now were vain. My poverty hath saved my master's house. Lady R. Thy words surprise me; sure thou dost not The tear stands in thine eye: such love from thee Pris. Sir Malcolm of our barons was the flower; To overlook the conduct of his servants. By them I was thrust out, and them I blame; Lady R. His race shall yet reward thee. On thy faith Depends the fate of thy loved master's house. Rememberest thou a little lonely hut, That like a holy hermitage appears Among the cliffs of Carron? Pris. I remember The cottage of the cliffs. Lady R. "Tis that I mean; There dwells a man of venerable age, Who in my father's service spent his youth: Before the king and nobles, what thou now JOHN HOME, author of Douglas, was by birth connected with the family of the Earl of Home; his father was town-clerk of Leith, where the poet was born in 1722. He entered the church, and succeeded Blair, author of The Grave,' as minister of Athelstaneford. Previous to this, however, he had taken up arms as a volunteer in 1745 against the Chevalier, and after the defeat at Falkirk, was imprisoned in the old castle of Doune, whence he effected his escape, with some of his associates, by cutting their blankets into shreds, and letting themselves down on the ground. The romantic poet soon found the church as severe and tyrannical as the army of Charles Edward. So violent a storm was raised by the fact that a Presbyterian minister had written a play, that Home was forced to succumb to the presbytery, and resign his living. Lord Bute rewarded him with the sinecure office of conservator of Scots privileges at Campvere, and on the accession of George III. in 1760, when the influence of Bute was paramount, the poet received a pension of £300 per annum. He wrote various other tragedies, which soon passed into oblivion; but with an income of about £600 per annum, with an easy, cheerful, and benevolent disposition, and enjoying the friendship of David Hume, Blair, Robertson, and all the most distinguished for rank or talents, John Home's life glided on in happy tranquillity. He survived nearly all his associates, and died in 1808, aged eighty-six. Among the other tragic writers may be mentioned Mallet, whose drama of Elvira was highly successful, and another drama by whom, Mustapha, enjoyed a factitious popularity by glancing at the characters of the king and Sir Robert Walpole. Glover, author of 'Leonidas,' also produced a tragedy, Boadicea, but it was found deficient in interest for a mixed audience. In this play, Davies, the biographer of Garrick, relates that Glover'preserved a custom of the Druids, who enjoined the persons who drank their poison to turn their faces towards the wind, in order to facilitate the operation of the potion!' Horace Walpole was author of a tragedy, The Mysterious Mother, which, though of a painful and revolting nature as to plot and incident, abounds in vigorous description and striking ima gery. As Walpole had a strong predilection for Gothic romance, and had a dramatic turn of mind, it is to be regretted that he did not devote himself more to the service of the stage, in which he would have anticipated, and rivalled the style of the German drama. The Mysterious Mother' has never been ventured on the stage. The Grecian Daughter, by Murphy, produced in 1772, was a classic subject, treated in the French style, but not destitute of tenderness. To drain its blood and treasure, to neglect I venerate this land. Those sacred hills, But the same God, my friend, pervades, sustains, I meant alone to say, I think these wars THOMSON'S Edward and Eleonora. [Love.] Why should we kill the best of passions, Love? [Miscalculations of Old Men.] Those old men, those plodding grave state pedants, THOMSON'S Tancred and Sigismunda. [Awfulness of a Scene of Pagan Rites.] This is the secret centre of the isle: MASON'S Caractacus. [Against Homicide.] Think what a sea of deep perdition whelms MASON'S Elfrida. [Solitude on a Battle Field.] I have been led by solitary care To yon dark branches, spreading o'er the brook, But, prince, remember then The vows, the noble uses of affliction; With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose. COMIC DRAMATISTS. The comic muse was, during this period, more successful than her tragic sister. In the reign of George II., the witty and artificial comedies of Vanbrugh and Farquhar began to lose their ground, both on account of their licentiousness, and the formal system on which they were constructed with regard to characters and expression. In their room, Garrick, Foote, and other writers, placed a set of dramatic compositions, which, though often of a humble and unpretending character, exercised great influence in introducing a taste for more natural portraitures and language; and these again led the │ way to the higher productions, which we are still accustomed to refer to veneratively, as the legitimate English comedies. Amongst the first five-act plays in which this improvement was seen, was The Suspicious Husband of Hoadly, in which there is but a slight dash of the license of Farquhar. Its leading character, Ranger, is still a favourite. GEORGE COLMAN, manager of Covent Garden theatre, was an excellent comic writer, and produced above thirty pieces, a few of which deservedly keep possession of the stage. His Jealous Wife, founded on Fielding's 'Tom Jones,' has some highly effective scenes and well-drawn characters. It was produced in 1761; five years after George Colman. wards, Colman joined with Garrick and brought out The Clandestine Marriage, in which the character of an aged beau, affecting gaiety and youth, is strikingly personified in Lord Ogleby. ARTHUR MURPHY (1727-1805), a voluminous and miscellaneous writer, added comedies as well as tragedies to the stage, and his Way to Keep Him is still occasionally performed. HUGH KELLY, a scurrilous newspaper writer, surprised the public by producing a comedy, False Delicacy, which had remarkable success both on the fortunes and character of the author: the profits of his first third night realised £150-the largest sum of money he had ever before seen- and from a low, petulant, absurd, and ill-bred censurer,' says Davies, Kelly was transformed to the humane, affable, good-natured, well-bred man.' The marked success of Kelly's sentimental style gave the tone to a much more able dramatist, RICHARD CUMBERLAND (17321811), who, after two or three unsuccessful pieces, in 1771 brought out The West Indian, one of the best stage plays which English comedy can yet boast. The plot, incidents, and characters (including the first draught of an Irish gentleman which the theatre had witnessed), are all well sustained. Other dramas of Cumberland, as The Wheel of Fortune, The Fashionable Lover, &c., were also acted with applause, though now too stiff and sentimental for our audiences. Goldsmith thought that Cumberland had carried the refinement of comedy to excess, and he set himself to correct the fault. His first dramatic performance, The Good-Natured Man, presents one of the happiest of his delineations in the character of Croaker; but as a whole, the play wants point and sprightliness. His second drama, She Stoops to Conquer, performed in 1773, has all the requisites for interesting and amusing an audience; and Johnson said, he knew of no comedy for many years that had answered so much the great end of comedy-making an audience merry.' The plot turns on what may be termed a farcical incident-two parties mistaking a gentleman's house for an inn. But the excellent discrimination of character, and the humour and vivacity of the dialogue throughout the play, render this piece one of the richest contributions which have been made to modern comedy. The native pleasantry and originality of Goldsmith were never more happily displayed, and his success, as Davies records, revived fancy, wit, gaiety, humour, incident, and character, in the place of sentiment and moral preachment.' Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and I'll set them right in a twinkling. [Exit Landlord.] Gentlemen, as they mayn't be good enough company for you, step down for a moment, and I'll be with you in the squeezing of a lemon. [Exeunt Mob.] Fatherin-law has been calling me a whelp and hound this half-year. Now, if I pleased, I could be so revenged upon the old grumbletonian. But then I am afraid -afraid of what? I shall soon be worth fifteen hundred a-year, and let him frighten me out of that if he can. Enter LANDLORD, conducting MARLOW and HASTINGS. Mar. What a tedious uncomfortable day have we had of it! We were told it was but forty miles across the country, and we have come above threescore. Hast. And all, Marlow, from that unaccountable reserve of yours, that would not let us inquire more frequently on the way. Mar. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay myself under an obligation to every one I meet; and often stand the chance of an unmannerly answer. Hast. At present, however, we are not likely to receive any answer. Tony. No offence, gentlemen; but I am toid you have been inquiring for one Mr Hardcastle in these parts. Do you know what part of the country you are Hast. Not in the least, sir; but should thank you for information. in? Tony. Nor the way you came? Hast. No, sir; but if you can inform us Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither the road you are going, nor where you are, nor the road you came, the first thing I have to inform you is that you have lost your way. Mar. We wanted no ghost to tell us that. Tony. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold as to ask the place from whence you came? Mar. That's not necessary towards directing us where we are to go. Tony. No offence; but question for question is all fair, you know. Pray, gentlemen, is not this same Hardcastle a cross-grained, old-fashioned, whimsical fellow, with an ugly face, a daughter, and a pretty son! Hast. We have not seen the gentleman; but he has the family you mention. Tony. The daughter a tall, trapesing, trolloping, talkative maypole; the son a pretty, well-bred, agreeable youth, that everybody is fond of. Mar. Our information differs in this: the daughter is said to be well-bred and beautiful; the son an awkward booby, reared up and spoiled at his mother's apron-string. Tony. He-he-hem. Then, gentlemen, all I have to tell you is, that you won't reach Mr Hardcastle's house this night, I believe. Hast. Unfortunate! keeps as good wines and beds as any in the whole county. Mar. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall want no further connexion. We are to turn to the right, did you say? Tony. No, no, straight forward. I'll just step myself and show you a piece of the way. [To the Landlord.] Mum! [Exeunt. [Arrival at the Supposed Inn.] Enter MARLOW and HASTINGS. Hast. After the disappointments of the day, welTony. It's a long, dark, boggy, dangerous way. come once more, Charles, to the comforts of a clean Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to Mr Hardcastle's room and a good fire. Upon my word a very well[winking at the Landlord]—Mr Hardcastle's of Quag-looking house; antique, but creditable. mire-marsh. You understand me? Land. Master Hardcastle's? Lack-a-daisy! my masters you're come a deadly deal wrong. When you came to the bottom of the hill you should have crossed down Squash-lane. Mar. Cross down Squash-lane? Mar. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first ruined the master by good house-keeping, it has at last come to levy contributions as an inn. Hast. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a good sideboard, or a marble chimney-piece, though not actually Land. Then you were to keep straight forward till put in the bill, inflame the bill confoundedly. you came to four roads. Mar. Come to where four roads meet? Mar. Travellers must pay in all places; the only difference is, that in good inns you pay dearly for Tony. Ay; but you must be sure to take only luxuries; in bad inns you are fleeced and starved. one. Mar. O, sir! you're facetious. Tony. Then, keeping to the right, you are to go sideways till you come upon Crack-skull Common; there you must look sharp for the track of the wheel, and go forward till you come to Farmer Murrain's barn. Coming to the farmer's barn, you are to turn to the right, and then to the left, and then to the right about again, till you find out the old mill Mar. Zounds! man, we could as soon find out the longitude! Hast. What's to be done, Marlow? Mar. This house promises but a poor reception; though perhaps the landlord can accommodate us. Land. Alack, master! we have but one spare bed in the whole house. Enter HARDCASTLE. Hard. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome. Which is Mr Marlow? [Mar. advances.] Sir, you're heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to receive my friends with my back to the fire! I like to give them a hearty reception, in the old style, at my gate; I like to see their horses and trunks taken care of. Mar. [Aside.] He has got our names from the servants already. [To Hard.] We approve your caution and hospitality, sir. [To Hast.] I have been thinking, George, of changing our travelling dresses in the morning; I am grown confoundedly ashamed of mine. Hard. I beg, Mr Marlow, you'll use no ceremony in this house. Hast. I fancy, you're right: the first blow is half Tony. And to my knowledge that's taken up by the battle. We must, however, open the campaign. three lodgers already. [After a pause, in which the Hard. Mr Marlow-Mr Hastings-gentlemenrest seem disconcerted.] I have hit it: don't you think, pray be under no restraint in this house. This is Stingo, our landlady would accommodate the gentle-Liberty-hall, gentlemen; you may do just as you men by the fireside with three chairs and a bol- please here. ster? Hast. I hate sleeping by the fireside. Mar. And I detest your three chairs and a bolster. Tony. You do, do you? Then let me see-what if you go on a mile farther to the Buck's Head, the old Buck's Head on the hill, one of the best inns in the whole country. Hast. O ho! so we have escaped an adventure for this night, however. Land. [Apart to Tony.] Sure you bean't sending them to your father's as an inn, be you? Tony Mum! you fool, you; let them find that out. [To them.] You have only to keep on straight forward till you come to a large house on the road-side: you'll see a pair of large horns over the door; that's the sign. Drive up the yard, and call stoutly about you. Hast. Sir, we are obliged to you. The servants can't miss the way. Mar. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too fiercely at first, we may want ammunition before it is over. We must show our generalship by securing, if necessary, a retreat. Hard. Your talking of a retreat, Mr Marlow, puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough when he went to besiege Denain. He first summoned the garrison Mar. Ay, and we'll summon your garrison, old boy. Hard. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men Hast. Marlow, what's o'clock ? Hard. I say gentlemen, as I was telling you, he summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men Mar. Five minutes to seven. Hard. Which might consist of about five thousand men, well appointed with stores, ammunition, and other implements of war. Now, says the Duke of Marlborough to George Brooks, that stood next to him Tony. No, no: but I tell you though, the landlord-you must have heard of George Brooks-I'll pawn is rich, and going to leave off business; so he wants to be thought a gentleman, saving your presence, he, he, he! He'll be for giving you his company; and, ecod! if you mind him, he'll persuade you that his mother was an alderman, and his aunt a justice of the peace. Land. A troublesome old blade, to be sure; but a my dukedom, says he, but I take that garrison without spilling a drop of blood. So Mar. What? My good friend, if you give us a glass of punch in the meantime, it would help us to carry on the siege with vigour. Hard. Punch, sir!-This is the most unaccountable kind of modesty I ever met with. [Aside. |