[Transcriber's Note:

 Typographical errors are listed at the end of the text. No attempt was made to regularize the use of quotation marks. 

 The printed book contained the six Numbers of Volume I with their appended plays. The Index originally appeared at the beginning of the volume; it has been relocated to the end of the journal text, before the play. Pages 1-108 refer to the present Number. ]

THE MIRROR OF TASTE, AND

DRAMATIC CENSOR. 

 Neque mala vel bona quæ vulgus putet. --_Tacitus. _

PROSPECTUS. 

The advantages of a correct judgment and refined taste in all mattersconnected with literature, are much greater than men in general imagine. The hateful passions have no greater enemies than a delicate taste and adiscerning judgment, which give the possessor an interest in the virtuesand perfections of others, and prompt him to admire, to cherish, andmake them known to the world. Criticism, the parent of these qualities, therefore, mends the heart, while it improves the understanding. Theinfluence of critical knowledge is felt in every department of sociallife, as it supplies elegant subjects for conversation, and enlarges thescope, and extends the duration of intellectual enjoyment. Without it, the pleasures we derive from the fine arts would be transient andimperfect; and poetry, painting, music, and that admirable epitome oflife, the stage, would afford nothing more than a fugitive, useless, pastime, if not aided by the interposition of the judgment, and senthome, by the delightful process of criticism, to the memory, there toexercise the mind to the last of life, to be the amusement of ourdeclining years, and, when all the other faculties for receivingpleasure are impaired by old age and infirmity, to cast the sunshine ofdelight over the last moments of our existence. 

In no age or country has the improvement of the intellectual powers ofman made a larger share of the business of life than in these in whichwe live. In the promotion of this spirit the stage has been aninstrument of considerable efficacy, and, as such, lays claim to a fullshare of critical examination; yet, owing to some cause, which it seemsimpossible to discover, that very important subject has been littleattended to in this great commonwealth; and in Philadelphia, theprincipal city of the union, has been almost totally neglected. Noapology, therefore, can be thought necessary for offering the presentwork to the public. 

The utility of miscellanies of this kind has been sometimes called inquestion; nor are those wanting who condemn the whole tribe of lightperiodical productions, as detrimental to the advancement of solidscience and erudition: yet, in the most learned and enlightened nationsof Europe, magazines and periodical compilations have, for more than acentury, been circulated with vast success, and, within the last twentyyears, increased in price as well as number, to an extent that shows howessentially the public opinion, in that quarter of the world differsfrom that of the persons who condemn them. 

Taking that decision as a decree without appeal, in favour of suchworks, the editors think themselves authorized in offering the presentwithout any formal apology. If the perusal of such productions had atendency to prevent the youth of the country from aspiring to deep andsolid erudition, or to divert men of talents from the prosecution ofmore important studies, the editors would be among the last to make anyaddition to the stock already in circulation; but, convinced that, onthe contrary, works of that kind promote the advancement of generalknowledge, they have no scruple whatever in offering this to theAmerican people; and so firm do they feel in the conviction of itsutility, that they let it go into the world, unaided by any of thosearts, or specious professions which are sometimes employed, in similarcases, to excite the attention, enlist the partialities, and seduce thejudgment of the public. 

Of those who possess at once the talents, the leisure, and theinclination to hunt erudition into its deepest recesses, the number mustever be inconsiderable; and of that number the portion must be smallindeed, who could be diverted from that pursuit by the casual perusal oflight fugitive pieces. On the other hand, the great majority of mankindwould be left without inducement to read, if they were not supplied, bypublications of the kind proposed, with matter adapted to theircircumstances, to their capacities, and their various turns of fancy;matter accessible to them by its conciseness and perspicuity, attractiveby its variety and lightness, and useful by its easy adaptation to thefamiliar intercourse of life, and its fitness to enter into theconversation of rational society. Men whose time and labour are chieflyengrossed by the common occupations of life, have little leisure toread, none for what is called study. In books they do not search fordeep learning, but for amusement accompanied with information on generaltopics, conveyed with brevity; happy if, in seeking relaxation from thedrudgery of business, they can pick up some new particles of knowledge. For this most useful and numerous portion of society, some adequateintellectual provision ought to be made. Nor should it be imagined that, in supplying them, the general interests of literature are deserted. Thefrequent perusal of well collated miscellanies imparts to youth anappetite for diligent reading; by slow but certain gradation, stores theyoung mind with valuable ideas; accumulates in it a large stock ofuseful knowledge; and imperceptibly insinuates a correct and refinedtaste. Nor is this all. It may serve, as it often has, to rouse theindolent from the gratification of complexional sloth, and recall theunthinking and irregular from the haunts of dissipation and vice to theblessings of serious reflection. 

Few things have more tended to inflame the general passion forliterature in Great Britain than the practice of uniting the plan of thereviews with that of the magazines, and making them jointly vehicles ofdramatic criticism. Multitudes at this day know the character of books, and form a general conception of their subjects, who, but for the lightperiodical publications, would never have known that such books existed:many who would not otherwise have extended their reading beyond thecolumns of a newspaper, are led by the pleasures of a represented play, to read the critic's strictures upon it, and thence, by a naturaltransition, to peruse attentively the various other subjects whichsurround those strictures in the magazines. This is the reason whyhundreds read the Monthly Mirror and similar productions of London, forone who reads the Rambler. 

For the passionate love of books, and the rapid advancement ofliterature which distinguish her from all young countries, America isgreatly indebted to her periodical publications. Those, though small innumber, and, unfortunately, too often shortlived, have been read intheir respective times and circles with great avidity, and produced acorrespondent effect. THE PORT FOLIO alone raised, long ago, a spirit inthe country which malicious Dulness itself will never be able to lay. Yet the disproportion in number of those miscellanies which havesucceeded in America, to those which enrich the republic of letters inEngland, is astonishing, considering the comparative population of thetwo countries. London boasts of several periodical publications foundedon the DRAMA alone; and though the other magazines occasionally containshort strictures on that subject, those have the greatest circulationwhich are most exclusively devoted to the stage. 

IN AMERICA THERE HAS NOT YET BEEN ONE OF THAT DESCRIPTION. 

To supply this defect, and raise the United States one step higher inlaudable emulation with Great Britain, the editors have planned thepresent work, of which, (though not to the total exclusion of othermatter) the basis will be

THE DRAMA. 

The first and by far the larger share will be allotted to the stage, anddramatic productions. The residue to miscellaneous articles, most ofthem connected with the fashionable amusements, and designed to correctthe abuses, which intemperate ignorance, and Licentiousness, runningriot for want of critical control, have introduced into the publicdiversions of this opulent and luxurious city. 

In the composition of the several parts of this work, care will be takento furnish the public with new and interesting matter, and to selectfrom the current productions of the British metropolis such topics aswill best tend to promote the cultivation of an elegant taste forknowledge and letters, and, at the same time, repay the reader for thetrouble of perusal, with amusement and delight. Abstracts from the mostpopular publications will be given, accompanied with short criticalremarks upon them, and, whatever appears most interesting in theperiodical productions of Great Britain will be transferred into this;pruned if they be prolix, and illustrated by explanatory notes, wheneverthey may be found obscured by local or personal allusion. 

As the leading object of the work is, not to infuse a passion, but toinculcate a just and sober taste for dramatic poetry and acting, theeditors propose to give, _seriatim_, a history of the drama from itsorigin, with strictures on dramatic poesy, and portraits of the bestdramatic poets of antiquity. To this will succeed the history of theBritish stage, with portraits of the most celebrated poets, authors, andactors who have flourished on it, and strictures on the professionaltalents of the latter, illustrated by parallels and comparisons withthose who have been most noted for excellence on the American boards. 

From that history the reader will be able to deduce a proper convictionof the advantages of the stage, and the importance, if not thenecessity, of putting the actors and the audience on a more properfooting with each other than that in which they now stand. Actors mustlay their account with being told their faults. They owe their wholeindustry and attention to those who attend their performance; but theeditors hold that critic to have forfeited his right to correct thestage, and to be much more deserving of reprehension than those hecensures, who, in the discharge of his duty, forgets that the actor hashis rights and privileges also; that he has the same rights which everyother gentleman possesses, and of which his profession has not even theremotest tendency to deprive him, to be treated with politeness andrespect; that he has the same right as every other man in society, asthe merchant, the mechanic, or the farmer, to prosecute his businessunmolested; shielded by the same laws which protect them from theattacks of malicious libellers out of the theatre, and the insults ofcapricious Ignorance or stupid Malevolence within. "Reproof, " says Dr. Johnson, "should not exhaust its power upon petty failings;" and "thecare of the critic should be to distinguish error from inability, faultsof inexperience from defects of nature. On this principle the editorswill unalterably act. And, since they have cited the great moralist'smaxim as a direction for critics, they, even in this their first stepinto public view, beg leave to offer a few sentiments from the same highsource, for the guidance of AUDITORS. "HE THAT APPLAUDS HIM WHO DOES NOTDESERVE PRAISE IS ENDEAVOURING TO DECEIVE THE PUBLIC; HE THAT HISSES INMALICE OR IN SPORT IS AN OPPRESSOR AND A ROBBER. [1]"

 [Footnote 1: Johnson's Idler, No. 25. ]

This work, therefore, will contain a regular journal of all, worthy ofnotice, that passes in the theatre of Philadelphia, and an account ofeach night's performances, accompanied with a critical analysis of theplay and after-piece, and remarks upon the merits of the actors. Norshall the management of the stage, in any particular, escapeobservation. Thus the public will know what they owe to the manager andto the leader of each department, and those again what they owe to thepublic. To make THE MIRROR OF TASTE AND DRAMATIC CENSOR, as far aspossible a general national work, measures have been taken to obtainfrom the capital cities, of the other states, a regular account of theirtheatrical transactions. To this will be added a register of the otherpublic exhibitions, and, in general, of all the fashionable amusementsof this city, and, from time to time, the sporting intelligence of thenew and old country. 

To the first part, which will be entitled "The Domestic DramaticCensor, " will succeed the "Foreign Dramatic Censor. " This will contain ageneral account of all that passes in the theatres of Great Britain, likely to interest the fashionable world and _amateurs_ of America, viz. The new pieces, whether play, farce, or interlude, with their prologuesand epilogues, together with their character and reception there, andcritiques on the acting, collected from the various opinions of the bestcritics, together with the amusing occurrences, anecdotes, bon-mots, andgreenroom chitchat, scattered through the various periodicalpublications of England, Ireland, and Scotland. 

The next head will be Stage Biography, under which the reader will findthe lives and characters of the leading actors of both countries. 

These will be followed by a miscellany collated from the foreignproductions, catalogues of the best books and best compositions inmusic, published or preparing for publication in Europe or America, withconcise reviews of such as have already appeared. 

Poetry, of course, will be introduced; not, as usual, under one head, but scattered in detached pieces through the whole. 

TERMS. 

_The price of the Mirror will be eight dollars per annum, payable on thedelivery of the sixth number. _

_A number will be issued every month, forming two volumes in the year. _

_To each number will be added, by way of appendix, an entire play orafter-piece, printed in a small elegant type, and paged so as to becollected, at the end of each year, into a separate volume. _

_The work will be embellished with elegant engravings by the firstartists. _

THE MIRROR OF TASTE, AND

DRAMATIC CENSOR. 

Vol. I. JANUARY 1810. No. 1. 

HISTORY OF THE STAGE. 

 Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem Quam quæ sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et quæ Ipse sibi tradit spectator. [2] _Hor. De Arte Poetica. _

 [Footnote 2: What we _hear_ With weaker passion will affect the heart Than when the faithful eye beholds the part. --_Francis. _ ]

CHAPTER I. 

OBJECTIONS TO THE STAGE CONSIDERED AND REFUTED. 

That amusement is necessary to man, the most superficial observation ofhis conduct and pursuits may convince us. The Creator never implanted inthe hearts of all his intelligent creatures one common universalappetite without some corresponding necessity; and that he has giventhem an instinctive appetite for amusements as strong as any other whichwe labour to gratify, may be clearly perceived in the efforts ofinfancy, in the exertions of youth, in the pursuits of manhood, in thefeeble endeavours of old age, and in the pastimes which human creatures, even the uninstructed savage nations themselves, have invented for theirrelaxation and delight. This appetite evinces a necessity for itsgratification as much as hunger, thirst, and weariness, intimate thenecessity of bodily refection by eating, drinking, and sleeping; and notto yield obedience to that necessity, would be to counteract theintentions of Providence, who would not have furnished us so bountifullyas he has with faculties for the perception of pleasure, if he had notintended us to enjoy it. Had the Creator so willed it, the processnecessary to the support of existence here below might have been carriedon without the least enjoyment on our part: the daily waste of the bodymight be repaired without the sweet sensations which attend eating anddrinking; we might have had the sense of hearing without the delight wederive from sweet sounds; and that of smelling without the capability ofenjoying the fragrance of the rose: but He whose wisdom and beneficenceare above all comprehension, has ordained in another and a bettermanner, and annexed the most lively sensations of pleasure to everyoperation he has made necessary to our support, thereby making theenjoyment of pleasure one of the conditions of our existence. This is anunanswerable refutation of one of the most abominable doctrines of theatheists--the overbalance of evil; and as such, that wise and amiabledivine, doctor Paley, has made use of it in his Natural Theology. It istrue, that yielding to the tendency of our frail, overweening nature topush enjoyment of every kind to its utmost verge, men too oftenovershoot the mark, and frustrate the object they have most at heart, byeagerness to accomplish it. For though to a reasonable extent and incertain circumstances, all enjoyments are harmless, they degenerate intocrimes, when excessively indulged, and particularly when the imaginationis overstrained to improve their zest, or to refine or exalt them beyondthe limits which Nature and sobriety prescribe. But this can no more bealledged as a reason for renouncing the moderate use of the enjoyment, than the excesses of the drunkard or glutton for the rejection of foodand drink. 

That man must have amusement of some kind, "Nature speaks aloud. " He, therefore, who supplies society with entertainment unadulterated byvice, who contributes to the pleasure without impairing the innocence ofhis fellow-beings, and above all, who instructs while he delights, mayjustly be ranked among the benefactors of mankind, and lays claim to thegratitude and respect of the society he serves. To that gratitude andrespect the dramatic poet, and those who contribute to give effect tohis works, are richly entitled. Accordingly history informs us that inall recorded ages theatrical exhibitions have been not only held in highestimation by the most wise, learned, and virtuous men, but sedulouslycultivated and encouraged by legislators as matters of high publicimportance, particularly in those nations that have been most renownedfor freedom and science. 

In the multitude and diversity of conflicting opinions which dividemankind upon all, even the most manifest truths, we find some upon thissubject. Many well-meaning, sincere christians have waged war againstthe enjoyment of pleasure, as if it were the will of God that we shouldgo weeping and sorrowing through life. The learned bishop of Rochester, speaking of a religious sect which carries this principle as far as itwill go, says: "their error is not heterodoxy, but excessive, overheatedzeal. " Thus we find that the stage has ever been with many well-meaningthough mistaken men, a constant object of censure. Of those, a vastnumber express themselves with the sober, calm tenderness which comportswith the character of christians, while others again have so far losttheir temper as to discard in a great measure from their hearts thefirst of all christian attributes--charity. We hope, for the honour ofchristianity, that there are but few of the latter description. Thereare men however of a very different mould--men respectable for piety andfor learning, who have suffered themselves to be betrayed into opinionshostile to the drama upon other grounds: these will even read plays, andprofess to admire the poetry, the language, and the genius of thedramatic poet; but still make war upon scenic representations, considering them as stimulants to vice--as a kind of moral cantharideswhich serves to inflame the passions and break down the ramparts behindwhich religion and prudence entrench the human heart. Some there areagain, who entertain scruples of a different kind, and turn from a playbecause it is a fiction; while there are others, and they are mostworthy of argument, who think that theatres add more than their share tothe aggregate mass of luxury, voluptuousness, and dissipation, whichbrings nations to vitious refinement, enervation and decay. 

In all reasoning of this kind, authority goes a great way, and thereforebefore we proceed any further, we will enrol under the banners of ourargument a few high personages, whose names on such an occasion are ofweight to stand against the world, and enumerate some great nations whoreverenced and systematically encouraged the drama. If it can be shownthat some of the most exalted men that ever lived--men eminent forvirtue, high in power and distinction, and illustrious for talents, indifferent countries and at different times, have countenanced the stageand even written for it; nay, that some of that description havethemselves been actors, further argument may well be thoughtsuperfluous: yet we will not rest the matter there, but taking thosealong with us as authorities, go on and probe the error to which weallude, even to the very bone. 

It might not be difficult to prove by inference from a multitude offacts scattered through the history of the world, that a passion for thedramatic art is inherent in the nature of man. How else should it happenthat in every age and nation of the world, vestiges remain of somethingresembling theatrical amusements. It is asserted that the people ofChina full three thousand years ago had something of the kind andpresented on a public stage, in spectacle, dialogue and action, livingpictures of men and manners, for the suppression of vice, and thecirculation of virtue and morality. Even the Gymnosophists, severe asthey were, encouraged dramatic representation. The Bramins, whoseausterity in religious and moral concerns almost surpasses belief, werein the constant habit of enforcing religious truths by dramatic fictionsrepresented in public. The great and good PILPAY the fabulist, is saidto have used that kind of exhibition as a medium for conveying politicalinstruction to a despotic prince, his master, to whom he dared not toutter the dictates of truth, in any other garb. In the obscurity ofthose remote ages, the evidences of particular facts are too faintlydiscernible to be relied upon: All that can be assumed as certain, therefore, is that the elementary parts of the dramatic art had thenbeen conceived and rudely practised. But the first _regular_ play wasproduced in Greece, where the great Eschylus, whose works are handeddown to us, flourished not only as a dramatist, but as an illustriousstatesman and warrior. 

Without dwelling on the many other examples afforded by Greece, weproceed to as high authority as can be found among men: we mean Rosciusthe Roman actor. That extraordinary man's name is immortalized byCicero, who has in various parts of his works panegyrized him no lessfor his virtues than for his talents. Of him, that great orator, philosopher and moralist has recorded, that he was a being so perfectthat any person who excelled in any art was usually called AROSCIUS--that he knew better than any other man how to inculcate virtue, and that he was more pure in his private life than any man in Rome. 

In the Roman catholic countries the priesthood shut out as far as theycould from the people the instruction of the stage. For ages the fire ofthe HOLY inquisition kept works of genius of every kind in suppressionall over the south of Europe. In France the monarch supported the stageagainst its enemies; but though he was able to support the actors inlife, he had not power or influence sufficient to obtain for themconsolation in death; the rights of the church and christian burialbeing refused to them by the clergy. 

In England, where the clouds of religious intolerance were first brokenand dispersed by the reformation, the stage has flourished, andexhibited a mass of excellence and a constellation of geniusunparalleled in the annals of the world. There it has been encouragedand admired by men whose authority, as persons deeply versed inchristian theology and learned as it is given to human creatures to be, we do not scruple to prefer to that of the persons who raise theirvoices against the stage. Milton, Pope, Addison, Johnson, Warburton, bishop of Gloucester, and many others have given their labours to thestage. In many of his elegant periodical papers Mr. ADDISON has lefttestimonies of his veneration for it, and of his personal respect forplayers; nay, he wrote several pieces for the stage, in comedy as wellas tragedy; yet we believe it will not be doubted that he was anorthodox christian. The illustrious POPE, in a prologue which he wrotefor one of Mr. Addison's plays--the tragedy of Cato--speaks his opinionof the stage in the following lines:

 To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart, To make mankind in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold: For this the tragic Muse first trod the stage, Commanding tears to stream through every age. Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, And foes to virtue wondered how they wept. 

Warburton, the friend of Pope, a divine of the highest rank, wrote notesto Shakspeare. And an infinite number of the christian clergy of asorthodox piety as any that ever lived, have admired and loved plays andplayers. If in religion doctor Johnson had a fault, it certainly wasexcessive zeal--and assuredly his morality cannot be called in question. What his idea of the stage was, may be inferred from his labours, andfrom his private friendships. His preface to Shakspeare--hisillustrations and characters of the bard's plays--his tragedy ofIrene, of which he diligently superintended the rehearsal andrepresentation--his friendship for Garrick and for Murphy--his lettersin the Idler and Rambler, from one of which we have taken our motto forthe Dramatic Censor, and his constant attendance on the theatre, loudlyproclaim his opinion of the stage. To him who would persist to thinksinful that which the scrupulous Johnson constantly did, we can only sayin the words of one of Shakspeare's clowns--"God comfort thy capacity. "

One example more. Whatever his political errors may have been, thepresent old king of England can never be suspected of coldness inmatters of divinity, or of heterodoxy in religion. His fault in that wayleans to the other side--for it is doubted by the most intelligent menin England whether his zeal does not border on excess. He has all hislife too taken counsel from those he thought the best divines; yet hehas done much to encourage the stage, and greatly delighted in scenicrepresentations--particularly in comedy. But as a much stronger proof ofhis esteem for the drama, we will barely mention one fact: When hismajesty first read Arthur Murphy's tragedy of the Orphan of China, hesent the poet a present of a thousand guineas. 

The notion that the theatre should be avoided as a stimulant to thepassions deserves some respect on account of its antiquity; for it is asold as the great grand-mother of the oldest man living. In good times ofyore, when ladies were not so squeamish as they are now about words, because they did not know their meaning, but were more cautious offacts, because the meaning of facts cannot be misunderstood, young menhad a refuge from the temptations of the stage in the reserveddeportment and full clothing of domestic society, we cannot wonder thatthe good old ladies who abhorred the slightest immodesty in dresslittle, if at all less than they abhorred actual vice, should urge totheir sons the necessity of keeping aloof from the allurements of thetheatre. If at that time the costume of the stage differed essentiallyfrom that of private life, and was the reverse of modest, or if theactresses indulged in meretricious airs which dared not be shown indomestic society, there was a very just pretence, or rather indeed therewas the most cogent reason for preaching against the theatre. But atthis day, no hypothesis of the kind can be allowed. That beautiful youngwomen ornamented with every decoration which art can lend to enhancetheir charms will perhaps excite admiration and licentious desires, istrue; but that those arts are more generally practised, or thoseincitements more strongly or frequently played off on the boards of thetheatre than in respectable private life, our eyes forbid us to believe. He who looks from the ladies on the stage to those seated on thebenches, and compares their dress and artificial allurements must haveeither very strong nerves or very bad sight, if he persist in sayingthat there is more danger to be apprehended from the former than thelatter. He knows very little of modern manners and must be a verysuckling in the ways of the world who imagines that a young man has anything to fear from the actresses on the stage, who has gone through theordeal of a common ball-room, or even walked of a fine day through ourstreets. The ladies of London, Dublin, New-York, Philadelphia andBaltimore, have thrown those of the stage quite into the back ground inthe arts of the toilet. Nor is this qualification confined to those ofthe _haut-ton_, but has descended to tradesmen's wives and daughters; tochambermaids, laundresses, and wenches of the kitchen white, yellow, andblack, coloured and uncoloured. 

Familiarity with impressive objects soon robs them of their influence;and if our natural disgust and anger at the shameful innovations in thefemale costume for which Great Britain and America stand indebted to the_virtues_ of France, be blunted by the constant obtrusion of them on oursight, it is to be hoped that the pernicious influence of them uponpublic morals will be diminished also. In those regions where a tropicalsun renders clothing cumbersome, and the costume of the ladies ofnecessity exceeds a little that of ears in transparency and scantiness, familiarity renders it harmless; little or nothing is left for theimagination to feed upon; cheapened by their obviousness, the femalecharms are rejected by the fancy which loves to dwell on what it onlyguesses at, or has but rarely seen, and the youthful heart finds itsultimate safety in the apparent excess of its danger. Thus the stage, ifit ever possessed, has lost its vitious allurements, as a bucket ofwater is lost in the ocean. To test this reasoning by matter of fact weappeal to the general feeling, and have no fear of being contradictedwhen we assert that, with reference to their comparative numbers, moremischievous throbs have been excited in every theatre in London, New-York, and Philadelphia for some years past before, than behind thecurtain. 

We are aware that there are some who will object, as a thing taken forgranted, the greater licentiousness of a player's life; but this, beforeit can be admitted in argument, must be proved, and the proof of itwould be very difficult indeed. From a long and attentive considerationof the subject, founded upon a perfect knowledge of the privatecharacters of the stage, and the general complexion of society off ofit, we are persuaded that in point of intrinsic virtue the players standexactly on a par with the general mass of society. That there areoffenders against the laws of morality and religion among them iscertain; but it must be remembered that they labour in this respectunder great disadvantages, from the publicity of their situation. There, they stand exhibited to public view, every turn of their conduct, private and public, becomes a subject of general scrutiny. Ten thousandeyes are rivetted upon them, for one that is fixed upon individuals inprivate life. And though it often happens that some of them aresuspected whose lives are perfectly pure, none who have deviated fromthe paths of virtue can long keep their fall concealed. Can the same besaid of the other departments of life? No. Now and then indiscretion, accident, or a total abandonment of decency brings to light themisconduct of an individual; but in general the irregularities ofprivate life either escape detection or are hushed up by pride. Sometimes indeed one vitious purpose occasions the detection of another, and family disgrace is revealed to pave the way to a divorce, with aview to another marriage, and perhaps to another divorce. Were theprivate conduct of individuals in other stations as well known as thatof the people of the stage, the former would have no cause to exult atthe superiority of their morals; and in truth if a candid review betaken individually of the actresses of the English stage, by which wemean every stage where the English language is spoken, it will appearthat, with few exceptions, they stand highly respectable for privateworth and pure moral character. In England, Scotland and still more inIreland, an unblemished reputation is necessary to a lady's success onthe stage. In some instances, the greatest favourites of the public havebeen driven for a time from the stage, for trespasses upon virtue, andwhen permitted to return were never after much more than endured. Tothese instances we shall have occasion to advert in the course of thiswork. 

While we assert, on the best grounds, that the theatre may be made, byproper established regulations, a school of virtue and manners, we donot wish to conceal our persuasion that there is nothing more potent todebase and corrupt the minds of a people than a licentious stage. But itmay be averred with equal truth, that the abuses of every otherinstitution are fraught with no less mischief to the public. At thisvery moment the abuse of the pulpit is the parent of more publicmischief in Great Britain and America than the stage ever produced inits most prolific days of vice; and it is deplorable to reflect that theformer is rapidly increasing, while the vitiation of the latter has beenfor a century on the decline. The licentiousness of the stage in thereign of Charles II was enormous: but it was a licentiousness which thetheatre in common with the whole nation derived from the court, and froma most flagitious monarch whose example made vice fashionable. Inservile compliance with the reigning taste, the greatest poets of theday abandoned true fame, and discarded much of their literary merit:Otway and Dryden sunk into the most mean and criminal slavery to it--theformer with the greatest powers for the pathetic ever possessed by anyman, Shakspeare excepted, has left behind him plays which in an almostequal degree excite our admiration and contempt, our indignation and ourpity. It is charitable to suppose that "his poverty and not his willconsented. " But Dryden had no such excuse to plead for his basesubserviency to pecuniary advantage, or for the detestablelicentiousness of his comedies. He who will take the pains to turn tothat admirable tragedy, Venice Preserved, by Otway, will find in thescenes between Aquileia and the old senator Antonio enough to disgustthe taste of any one not callous to all sense of delicacy. But hadJuvenal lived at that period, he would have scourged Dryden out ofsociety. To those we might add Wycherly. Congreve and other cotemporaryauthors succeeded: but the offences committed by those men can no morebe alleged as a ground of general condemnation of the stage, than theworks of lord Rochester can be set up as a reason for condemning Milton, Pope, Thomson, Goldsmith, and all our other poets, or the innumerablemurders committed by unprincipled quacks, be alleged as a cause forabolishing the whole practice of medicine. 

Exasperated by the outrages of the dramatic poets, on virtue anddecency, Jeremy Collier, a non-juring clergyman, attacked the stage. Hischarge against the authors was unquestionably right; but his attack uponthe stage itself, exhibited a disposition splenetic almost tomisanthropy, and an austerity of principle urged to unsocial ferocity. In his fury he renounced the idea of reforming the stage; he was forabolishing it entirely. He attacked the poets with "unconquerablepertinacity, with wit in the highest degree keen and sarcastic, and withall those powers exalted and invigorated by just confidence in hiscause. "[3] Thus arose a controversy which lasted ten years, during whichtime authors found it necessary to become more discreet. "Comedy (saysDr. Johnson) grew more modest; and Collier lived to see the reformationof the stage. " Colley Cibber, who was one of those whose plays Collierattacked, candidly says, "It must be granted that his calling ourdramatic writers to this account had a very wholesome effect upon thosewho writ after his time. Indecencies were no longer wit; and by degreesthe fair sex came again to fill the boxes on the first day of a newcomedy, without fear or censure. "

 [Footnote 3: Dr. Johnson. ]

Such a licentious stage as is here described well deserved the severestattacks: but what is there to justify severity now? at this day not onlythe success of every new play so much depends upon its purity, but soscrupulously correct in that particular is the public taste, and soabstinent from every the slightest indelicacy are the authors of playsand even farces, that not a word is uttered upon the stage from whichthe most timid _real_ modesty would shrink. In conformity to this happystate of the general taste and morals, all the old plays that retainpossession of the stage, have been cleared of their pollution, and allthe offensive passages in them have been expunged; some have beenentirely thrown out as incapable of amendment, and in truth, purity ofsentiment, and delicacy of expression, have become so prevalent, that itis very much to be doubted whether if it were proposed to act one ofWycherly's, Dryden's, or Otway's offensive plays in its original state, a set of players could be found who would prostitute themselves so faras to perform it. 

From the offences of mankind arise despotic restrictions and penal lawsof every kind. From the licentiousness of the stage in England, arosethe licensing law which still continues to hold a heavy hand over allthe dramatic productions that are acted; and which has too often beenperverted to corrupt purposes. 

But if the abuses of the stage in the times alluded to, serve to showits power to do mischief, the general reformation in the public taste, which followed that of the dramatic writings, equally show itscompetency to effectuate good. Rousseau, who had little less dislike toplays and players than Jeremy Collier, says, in a letter to D'Alembert, "Let us not attribute to the stage the power of changing opinions ormanners, when it has only that of following and heightening them. Anauthor who offends the general taste may as well cease to write, fornobody will read his works. When Moliere reformed the stage he attackedmodes and ridiculous customs, but he did not insult the public taste; heeither followed or explained it. " So far Rousseau was right. It is thepublic that gives the stage its bias--necessarily preceding it in tasteand opinion, and pointing out the direction to its object. In return thestage gives the public a stronger impulse in morals and manners. Wherever the stage is found corrupted with bad morals, it may be takenfor granted that the nation has been corrupted before it; when itlabours under the evils of a bad taste, it may safely be concluded thatthat of the public has been previously vitiated. The truth is evident inthe wretched state of dramatic taste in England at this moment, where, corrupted by the spectacles and mummery of the Italian opera, by therage for preternatural agency acquired from the reading of ghost novelsand romances, and by the introduction of German plays or translations, the people can relish nothing but melo-drame, show, extravagantincident, stage effect and situation--goblins, demons, fiddling, capering and pantomime, and the managers, in order to live, arecompelled to gratify the deluded tasteless multitude at an incalculableexpense. 

What the advantages are which could be derived from abolishing the stagecan only be judged from a view of the moral state of those countries inwhich the drama has been for ages discouraged and held in disrepute, compared with that of countries where it has been supported andcultivated. Spain comes nearest to a total want of a regular drama ofany Christian country in Europe; and if there be any person who prefersthe moral state of that country to the moral state of Great Britain orAmerica, we wish him joy of his opinion, and assure him that we admireneither his taste, his argument, nor his inference. 

We have thus far entered into a vindication of the stage, not with theslightest hope of changing the opinion of its enemies, nor with theleast desire to increase the admiration of its friends; but to awakenpublic opinion to a sense of its vast importance, and of the advantageswhich society may derive from giving full and salutary effect to itsagency, by generous encouragement, and vigilant control--by directingits operations into proper channels, and fostering it by approbation inevery thing that has a tendency to promote virtue, to improve theintellectual powers, and to correct and refine the taste, and themanners of society. This desirable end can only be attained by making itrespectable, and sheltering its professors from the insult andoppression of the ignorant, the base-minded, and the illiberal. Nonewill profit by the precepts of those whom they contemn; and the youth ofthe country will be very unlikely to yield to the authority of theinstructor whom they see subjected to the sneers and affronts of thevery rabble they themselves despise. Besides, if actors were to betreated with injustice and contumely, young gentlemen of talents andvirtue would be deterred from entering into the profession; and thestage would soon become as bad as it is falsely described to be byfanatics--a sink of vice and corruption: but the wisdom and liberalityof the British nation, after the example of old Rome, having, on thecontrary, given to the gentlemen of the stage their merited rank insociety, and raised actors and actresses of irreproachable privatecharacter, to associate with the families of peers, statesmen, legislators, and men of the highest rank in the nation, the professionis filled with persons eminently respectable for talents, learning andmorals, and estimable as those of other classes in sociallife--estimable as husbands, fathers, children, friends and companions. But in Great Britain, they have a twofold protection--that of theaudience and that of the law--from the insults and injustice ofcapricious, saucy, or malignant individuals. There, the line thatseparates the rights of the actor from those of the auditor has beenexactly defined by the highest judicial authority. [4] And if anindividual assaults a performer by hissing[5] without carrying theaudience, or a large majority of it, along with him, the performer hashis action against his malicious assailant, and is adjudged damages ascertainly as persons of any of the other professions or trades recoverfor an assault, a calumny, or a libel. Hence the stage is looked up toas a great school, and the eminent actors are universally looked to asthe best instructors in action, elocution, orthoepy, and the componentparts of oratory. By following the same liberal and wise system withrespect to OUR stage, we may reasonably hope soon to bring it to areputable state of competition with that of Great Britain, and in thatas in most other parts of the elegancies of life, not very long hence, to place the new on a complete footing with the old country. 

 [Footnote 4: By Lord Mansfield in the King's Bench, in the case of Macklin against Sparks, Miles, Reddish, and others. ]

 [Footnote 5: The audience, whenever an individual hisses against the sense of the house, always silence the offender by crying, "there's a goose in the pit (or wherever it is) turn him out, " and if he persists they expel him by force. It is to be hoped our audiences would follow the example. It is frequently necessary. ]

BIOGRAPHY--FOR THE MIRROR. 

The passion for inquiring into the lives of conspicuous men is souniversally felt, that we cannot help indulging it in cases where notonly the person is unknown, but where his actions are so remote, that wecan neither form a picture of the one, nor any possible way be affectedby the other. The delight with which children themselves read thehistories of remarkable characters, and the avidity with which, at everyperiod of life, we read biography, are proofs that this passion has itsource in nature, abstracted from any connexion imagined to existbetween the object and our own heart. It is, however, more lively whenthe object lives in our time, and when his actions are the subject ofdaily conversation in our hearing, or when we have ourselves beenwitnesses of them; and still more so, when the person being still inexistence has found means by the force of his talents to agitate a wholepeople, to rouse general curiosity and admiration, and to form, as itwere, a landmark in any interesting department of civilized life. 

That mankind, in general, derive greater pleasure from biography thanfrom most other kinds of writing is universally acknowledged. One of thegreatest moral philosophers of Britain justly observes, that of all thevarious kinds of narrative writing, that which is read with the greatesteagerness, and may with the greatest facility and effect be applied tothe purposes of life is biography; and the accomplished and sagaciousMontaigne, speaking in raptures, upon the same subject, says "Plutarchis the writer after my own heart, and Suetonius is another, the like ofwhom we shall never see. "

As a master key to the study of the human heart, the biographicalaccount of particular individuals is infinitely superior to history. History, in fact, is not a just picture of man and nature, but aregistry of prominent actions which derive conspicuity from their name, place, and date, while the inward nature of the agent, the secretsprings, the slow and silent causes of those actions, being leftunnoticed and undistinguished, remain forever unknown. The man himselfis seen only here and there, and now and then, and lies hidden fromview, except in those points in which his conduct is connected withthose actions. But biography follows him from his public exhibition intohis private retreat, haunts him in his closet concealments, accompanieshim through his house, where his desires, passions, irregularities, vices, virtues, foibles, and follies take their full swing--sits by hisfireside--watches for his unsuspecting, unguarded moments, --catches andlays up all the ebullitions of his heart, when it is freed from allrestraint by domestic confidence--scans all his expressions when he ismixing in free social converse with his friends and family, and thuspenetrates into his heart--detects every secret emotion of the man'ssoul, even when he thinks himself most effectually concealed, and inevery glance of his eye, every whisper, every unpremeditated act andexpression, dives to the very bottom of his designs and brings up hisreal character. 

In the regulation of life, therefore, or the improvement of moralsentiment, little benefit is to be derived from a knowledge of theevents of history, the subjects of which are so far removed from theordinary business of the world, that they seldom address a salutaryexample to the heart or understanding--seldom present an action in anyway applicable to the ordinary transactions of the world, or which menin general can hope or wish to imitate, and which are therefore readwith comparative indifference, and passed by without improvement, whilebiography conveys the best instruction for the conduct of life, by ahappy mixture of precept and example. 

Doctor Johnson has, in some of his writings, given it as his opinionthat "a life has rarely passed, of which a judicious and faithfulnarrative would not be useful; for not only, says he, every man has, inthe mighty mass of the world, great numbers in the same condition withhimself, to whom his mistakes and miscarriages, escapes and expedientswould be of immediate and apparent use; but there is such a uniformityin the state of man considered apart from adventitious and separabledecoration and disguises, that there is scarce any possibility of goodor ill but is common to human kind. " How much more beneficial as a massof precept and example, and how much more captivating as a narrativemust be the biography of any person who has held a conspicuous place forany length of time in the eye of the world, particularly if, by theindustrious exercise of vigorous or brilliant talents, he hascontributed more than his share to the happiness, the improvement, orthe innocent pleasure of society. In that case a mixed sentiment ofadmiration and gratitude insensibly fills the public mind, from whichthere arises a lively interest in all that concerns the person and aneager curiosity to learn his origin, his early education, privateopinions and habits, the fortunes and incidents of his life, and, aboveall, the singularities of his temper, and the peculiarities of hismanners and deportment. Few men in society stand so much in the publiceye, or have such opportunities to engage popular interest and personaladmiration as celebrated actors. In the general account current of life, casting up the debtor and creditor between individual and individual, the balance between the auditor and actor will be found largely infavour of the latter. There are few, we know, to whom this assertionwill not appear paradoxical, because few have given themselves time toconsider that there is no place where a person, having an hour or two tobestow on relaxation, can obtain so much delight and improvement with solittle concurrence of his own efforts as at the theatre. "At all otherassemblies, " says Dr. Johnson, "he that comes to receive delight will beexpected to give it; but in the theatre nothing is necessary to theamusement of two hours but to sit down and be willing to be pleased. "Where the private deportment and moral character of a celebrated actor, therefore, are not at great variance with the general feelings, hebecomes by the very nature of his profession and talents an object ofgeneral interest, and his life, character, and every circumstancebelonging to him are inquired into with earnest curiosity andsolicitude. 

He who fairly considers the requisites indispensable to a tolerableactor, will allow that the professors of that art must be persons ofintellectual capacity and personal endowments much superior to thecommon herd of mankind. The vivid intelligence, the high animal spirits, the aspiring temper, and the resolute intrepidity, which impel them tothe stage and support them under its difficulties, are generallyassociated with an eccentricity of character and a giddy disregard ofprudential considerations, which generate adventure and chequer theirlives with a greater variety of incidents and whimsical intercourse withthe world than falls to the lot of men of other professions. Hence itfollows that the stage presents the most ample field for the biographer;and that whether he writes for the instruction or the entertainment ofhis readers, he will not be able to find in any other department ofsociety men whose lives comprise such an interesting variety as theactors. 

In selecting the persons with whose lives it is intended to enrich thiswork, the editors find it necessary in the very first instance to departfrom the rule which their original purpose and strict justice, as wellas a due regard to priority, had prescribed to them. The biography ofthe deceased Mr. Hallam, as the father of the American stage, no doubtlays claim to the first place. There were others too, whose priority toMr. Cooper cannot be contested; but, as the materials were not to beimmediately had they have been obliged to postpone them. 

LIFE OF MR. COOPER. 

Mr. Thomas Abthorpe Cooper is the descendant of a very respectable Irishfamily, though he was, himself, born in England. His father, doctorCooper--a gentleman universally known, and not more known than belovedand respected by all who have had any intercourse with East Indianaffairs, was a native of Ireland, and after having served his time toone of the most eminent surgeons in that kingdom, with the reputation ofa young man of genius and great promise, went over to England, in orderto acquire, in the London hospitals, more perfect practical skill in hisbusiness, and to avail himself of the lectures of the principalprofessors of surgery and medicine in that metropolis; intending toreturn to his native country again, and there practise for life. Ithappened with the doctor however, precisely as it does with the greaterpart of young Irish gentlemen, who have their fortunes to raise chieflyby their own efforts. London gradually unfolded to his view all herirresistible charms; the ligaments which tied him to his native home, grew every day more and more slender and weak: the dictates of commonsense and prudence, in this one instance at least enforced by theattractions of pleasure, pointed out the vast superiority of England tothe oppressed, impoverished country which he had left, as a field forgenius and industry to work upon. Having a prepossessing face andperson, and manners frank, conciliating and firm, he soon extended hisacquaintance to a wide circle of friends, whose advice conspired withhis own taste to bring him to a determination, in consequence of whichhe settled near the metropolis, and became a practitioner in surgery andphysic. While he was successfully engaged in this career, he wasintroduced to some of the great men of Leadenhall-street, by whom he wasappointed to the lucrative office of inspecting-surgeon of the recruitsdestined for the service of the East India Company. In the discharge ofthis duty it fell to his share to visit the ships preparing for a voyageto India, and of course to mingle with the company's servants of allranks and conditions, by whom he was in no common degree beloved andrespected--by the higher order for his agreeable and manlydeportment--by the lower for his tenderness and humanity. Though helived in England, he viewed his own country with a laudable fondpartiality; and being constitutionally benevolent, and having a heart"open to melting Charity, " and a hand prompt to indulge it, it mayreasonably be conjectured that in his office of inspecting-surgeon hewas exposed to many sharp attacks upon his feelings; the far greaterpart of the recruits who came under his inspection being unfortunateIrish youths who had thrown themselves upon a strange world, destituteof every thing but health, youth, and bodily vigor. By such objects, thesympathy of such a warm heart as that which beat in doctor Cooper'sbosom, could not fail to be strongly excited, and it was prettygenerally believed that his family had less reason than his unfortunatecountrymen to exult at the goodness of his nature. Nor was hisphilanthropy confined to those wretched children of misfortune, therecruits; many young Irish gentlemen who were going to India as cadets, experienced his kindness also, but in another form. He had many friends, and considering his rank, very extraordinary interest with the highofficers and commanders in the company's service. This he never failedto exert in favour of such of his young countrymen as he considereddeserving of it: and in short strained his powers in every way toincrease their comfort and accommodation during that trying ordeal, their passage to India, and to procure them friends when they got there. 

His son Thomas, the subject of this paper, was born in the year 1777, and received an early liberal education. As doctor Cooper's interest laywholly with the East India company, his children were sent to thatemporium of wealth, Bengal, as soon as their ages fitted them foradmission into the world. Had he lived till our hero was of a suitableage the probability is that the American stage would at this day wantone of its greatest ornaments; and that the hand which now wields thetruncheon of Macbeth, Richard, and Coriolanus on the American boards, would be grasping a sword or driving a quill in the service of the EastIndia company in Bengal, whither doctor Cooper at last went himself, being promoted to a respectable rank on the medical staff of thatsettlement, and where at length he died to the deep regret of all whoknew him, and to the irretrievable loss of an amiable family. To thelast will and testament of the generous man there is seldom any greattrouble in administering--doctor Cooper made a great deal of money; butretained little of it. We do not mention this as a feature in thatworthy man's character to be imitated. On the contrary we wish it, sofar as it goes, to operate as a warning against the indulgence of aspirit, which, though it be a virtue of the highest order when keptunder the control of discretion, does, like every other virtue, degenerate into a foible, when carried to excess. Fortunately for thatmember of doctor Cooper's family of whom we are writing, he found, whenhis youth wanted it, a sincere friend. Mr. Godwin, whose name is wellknown in the republic of letters, particularly as the author of a workthe name of which we will not put upon the same page with thishonourable instance of posthumous friendship to doctor Cooper, took theyouth to his own care; adopted, educated, and, as some say, intended himfor an author; a scheme too absurd in our opinion, to be meditated by aperson of Mr. Godwin's sagacity, who would at least postpone such aproject till the genius of the young man should unfold itself in fullmaturity. Such, however, is said to have been the plan, which, whetherthe story be true or false, there is cause to rejoice was frustrated. Atthis distance it would be hopeless, if indeed it were very desirable, totrace that strange report to its origin, but we think it not at all aforced conclusion that it arose from the nature of the education whichMr. Godwin bestowed upon the youth. Hence without knowing the amount ofMr. Cooper's literary attainments, we think it may be fairly inferredfrom the existence of such a report, that his education was a learnedone, and that he was early grounded in the dead as well as the mostuseful modern languages. Mr. Godwin cannot be suspected of intending foran author by trade, a youth from whom he had withheld the Greek andLatin classics. 

It is not necessary to recur to the instructions of Mr. Godwin for thefervid partiality which Mr. Cooper early disclosed for the Frenchrevolution. In that feeling he partook in common with men who asradically, substantially, and essentially differed in principle from Mr. Godwin, as light from darkness, or heat from cold. Several highstatesmen in England, who afterwards deplored it, at first viewed thatextraordinary event with a favourable eye, as likely to better thecondition of twenty millions of people. So, Mr. Dundas, now lordMelville, for himself and his colleague Pitt, openly avowed inparliament. And even Burke himself, whose penetrating eye discerned fromthe outset, and foretold all the mischiefs that lurked under that event, complimented a young Irish gentleman of reputable birth, upon his havingfought as a volunteer with Dumourier, at the battle of Jamappe; adding, that he gloried in every instance in which he found his young countrymendisclosing an enthusiastic love of freedom. Nay, he did not scruple todeclare very frequently that, considering the plausible appearance ofthe revolution, he should entertain but a very poor opinion of a youthwho was not enamoured with it. With such an authority to warrant us, wefeel no hesitation in stating it as an honourable trait in the characterof Mr. Cooper, that he was delighted with the French revolution, andthat in his enthusiastic admiration of that event, he resolved toabandon his literary pursuits to give his young arm (he being then notabove seventeen years of age) to the defence of the new republic and, ashe thought, the cause of liberty. He had scarcely taken this resolution, and made preparations to go to the continent and join the army of theFrench republic, when the war broke out between England and France, andtotally overset his purpose and his hopes of military promotion, rendering that which before would have been lawful if not laudable, anact of treason to his country, of the bare contemplation of which, it isfair to believe, he was incapable. 

It was on occasion of this disappointment and check to his militaryambition, that Mr. Cooper turned his thoughts to the stage. Young as hewas, he made a full and accurate estimate of his situation. Too proud bynature to be dependant, his feelings suggested the necessity ofimmediately doing something for his own support and advancement. Heboldly resolved to be the architect of his own fame and fortune, and itis probable had too much common sense to take the author's pen either asa material or an instrument in constructing the edifice. Having made uphis mind to try his fortune on the stage, he imparted his intention toMr. Godwin, who received the communication with deep regret, andencountered it with the most decided disapprobation, and with everyargument and dissuasive which ingenuity and a perfect knowledge of thesubject could lend to friendship. It was in vain every topic was urgedwhich could serve to dissuade, to deter, or to disgust: Mr. Cooperfirmly adhered to his purpose, and Mr. Godwin perceiving him immovable, yielded to what he could not overcome, and resolved, since he could notdivert him from the stage, to do all he could to set him forward on itto the best advantage. To this end, Mr. Holcroft, the friend of Mr. Godwin, was called in; and he gave the young man some preparatorylessons, a task for which he was exceedingly well qualified uniting inhimself the several talents of actor, author, and critic. 

To procure admission on the stage in England is not always an easy task. In the present instance it seemed to Mr. Holcroft and Mr. Godwin amatter of serious consideration to whom an application should be madefor the purpose, and what theatre would be most likely to receive himwith least disadvantage. At length application being made to Mr. StephenKemble he agreed, without seeing the young gentleman, to take him underhis auspices; and to that end Mr. Cooper repaired to Edinburgh. Of hisreception by Mr. Kemble the most ludicrous description has been given;a description, which, as biographers, we should not think of introducingon the present occasion, if it had not already appeared in public, accompanied with an assertion that it came from Mr. Cooper himself. "Thewriter of this sketch (says the publisher of that account) has heardCooper himself describe with great pleasantry his first interview withthe Scotch manager; he was at that time a raw country youth ofseventeen. On his arrival in Edinburgh, little conscious of hisappearance and incompetency, he waited on Mr. Kemble, made up in theextreme of rustic foppery, proud of his talents, and little doubting hissuccess. When he mentioned his name and errand, Mr. Kemble's countenancechanged from a polite smile to a stare of disappointment: Cooper hadbeen prepared for young Norval; but he was obliged to exchange all hisexpected eclat for a few cold excuses from the manager, and the chagrinof seeing some nights after, his part filled by an old man and a badplayer. During the remainder of the season he continued with StephenKemble, without at all appearing on the stage. From Edinburgh he wentwith the company to Newcastle-upon-Tyne, there he lived as dependent, inactive, and undistinguished as before, till, owing to the want of aperson to fill the part of Malcolm in Macbeth, he was cast to thathumble character. In so inferior a sphere did he begin to move who isnow become one of the brightest luminaries of the theatrical hemisphere. His debut was even less flattering than his reception from the managerhad been. Till the last scene he passed through tolerably well, but whenhe came to the lines which conclude the play--

 "So thanks to all at once, and to each one, Whom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone. "

After stretching out his hands and assuming the attitude and smile ofthankfulness, a slight embarrassment checked him, and he paused, stillkeeping his posture and his look--the prompter made himself heard byevery one but the bewildered Malcolm, who still continued mute, everyinstant of his silence naturally increasing ten-fold hisperplexity--Macduff whispered the words in his ear--Macbeth who layslaughtered at his feet, broke the bonds of death to assist his dumbsuccessor, the prompter spoke almost to vociferation. Each thane dead oralive joined his voice--but this was only "confusion worseconfounded"--if he could have spoken the amazed prince might with greatjustice have said, "So thanks to all at once"--but his utterance wasgone "_vox faucibus hæsit_"--a hiss presently broke out in the pit, theclamor soon became general, and the curtain went down, amid a universalcondemnation. "

No part of biography is so interesting, or affecting as that whichbrings before us the struggles of unassisted vigour and genius with theobstructions which accident, or the ignorance or malice of vulgar soulsthrow in their way, and their ultimate triumph over adversity. Few menhave enjoyed that triumph more than Mr. Cooper, for few have in theiroutset met with a more mortifying repulse, or more discouragingdifficulties. There are not many whose resolution could have outlivedsuch a cruel discomfiture as that at Edinburgh: but on him it seemed tohave the happy effect of steeling his natural fortitude, and sending hisspirit forward in its career with increased impetuosity. 

Disappointed and chagrined, but not humiliated, he returned back toLondon, more determinately than ever resolved to persevere till he hadmastered fortune and established a footing on the stage--exhibiting adegree of confidence which generally inheres in genius, and which hisultimate success well justified. Far from being depressed or obscured byhis Edinburgh adventure, his talents had so much unfolded themselves andbeen so visibly improved, that his friends Godwin and Holcroft feltconvinced he had not mistaken or overrated his powers; but, on thecontrary, possessed qualifications, which, if diligently and judiciouslycultivated, would raise him to a rank with the most eminent actors thenliving. The great bar to his advancement was that diffidence whichoccasioned his discomfiture in Edinburgh: but his friends knew enough ofthe human heart and powers to be assured that that very diffidence is souniversally the concomitant of sterling merit, that where itsuperabounds wise men give credit for much excellence, and bestow theirpartiality with a liberal hand; while the want of it is generallysuspected of denoting a great deficiency in merit: and they were right;for the young person who wants modesty wants every thing. Fraught withthese considerations, those discerning men and steady friends thoughtthat they would best consult their _protegé's_ interest by putting himinto training in some obscure company, and took measures to introducehim into a routine of acting in the country theatres, from whichnovitiate they expected he would soon emerge well practised in stagebusiness, and fully qualified to give out the whole force of his naturalpowers on some of the stages of the metropolis. 

The country managers, however, seemed to think very differently fromMessrs. Godwin and Holcroft of Mr. Cooper's capabilities. If they hadnot the genius, the discernment, or the "spirits learned in humandealings" of our hero's patrons, they had self-sufficiency and obstinacyin abundance, and what was more unfortunate, they had the power in theirhands; a power which in such persons is rarely softened in its exerciseby liberality or candor. These, notwithstanding the authority of Godwinand Holcroft's opinion, considered or affected to consider Mr. Cooper asa poor juvenile adventurer, who had no one requisite for the profession. "Their hands, they said, were already full--(of trash no doubt theywere) every character even the lowest was engaged. To show theirdeference, however, to the high opinion of the young man's friends, theywould endeavour to think of something for him to perform. " In conformityto the dictates of this _generous_ spirit, they vouchsafed him someinferior parts: but every one knows, who knows any thing at all oftheatrical affairs, that the coldness of a manager to a young performer, creates at least, distrust in the audience--that the young candidate whois set forward in humiliation, is forbidden to rise; as he who is thrustinto characters far beyond the reach of his powers will, for a time, getcredit for talents which he does not possess: for discerning anddespotic as the multitude think themselves, they are still the dupes orthe submissive slaves of dexterous leaders in every department of life. By the error, the ignorance, or the churlishness of the countrymanagers, Mr. Cooper was excluded from any fair opportunity to redeemthe credit he had lost in Edinburgh--they considered, or affected toconsider him as wholly incompetent to any character of consequence:those which were vouchsafed him were of so inferior a rank that theydenied scope to the exercise of his yet latent powers; for such a geniusas that of Cooper could no more dilate in a meagre character, thanEclipse or Flying Childers could lay themselves out at full speed in acity building lot; and it is reasonable to suppose that, notwithstandingall his fortitude, the spirits of the youth were depressed, and hisfaculties chilled by such humiliating neglect, and such reiterateddisappointments. Who is he that would not, under such circumstances, sink into languor? It cannot be doubted that dejection every daydetracted from his powers, and that by a kind of irresistiblegravitation, he descended like a falling body in the physical world, with accelerated velocity, till at last he reached the very bottom ofthe profession. Reader, behold--and refrain from regret if youcan--behold COOPER, on whom crowded theatres have since gazed withastonishment and delight, reduced to the condition of a mere delivererof letters and messages upon the stage of a low country theatre. Thewriter of this cannot help picturing to himself the feelings of amultitude of great and worthy personages in Great Britain and India, andparticularly the feelings of a sister, the lovely inheritress of herfamily's virtues, if they had known at the time, that which our hero'smanly pride concealed, that the son of doctor Cooper, whose goodness ofheart had often been the refuge of the distressed, was for monthslanguishing under the chill of public neglect, and dragging on existenceupon a miserable pittance which scarcely afforded him physical support;or if they had seen him in his unaccommodated removal from thatsituation, walking on foot to the metropolis. 

The repulses of a mistaken and unworthy few, and the neglect of a worldvery little better, had no other effect upon Mr. Cooper's friends Godwinand Holcroft, than to quicken their sensibility and inflame their ardourto serve him. It is more than probable those mortifications tended toincrease the conviction of the former that his _eleve_ had made adeplorable choice of profession, but did not at all shake the opinionwhich both, and particularly the latter, entertained that he had greatcapabilities for the profession. The youth had now waded in so far, thatto go back might be worse than to go forward; Mr. Holcroft thereforeagain took him in hand; read Shakspeare with him, and accompanied theirreading with practical commentaries upon the force of that author'smeaning, marked out to him those parts where the character was to dependfor its interest and impression, on the actor's exertions; heard himover and over again repeat the most difficult speeches, and instructedhim how to adapt his action, looks, and utterance to the passion whichthe author designed to exhibit, so as to excite appropriate feelings inthe auditor. Though Shakspeare is above all others the poet of Nature, his meaning frequently eludes the dim or vulgar mind, and to beintelligibly elicited from the stiffness and obscurity which sometimesinjures his language, requires profound consideration. For the minuteinvestigation requisite for this purpose few men were better qualifiedthan Mr. Holcroft--few men much more equal to the task of bringing forthfrom the rich mine where they lay and purify of their dross the talentsof Mr. Cooper. With an earnestness and indefatigable zeal proportionedto the object, and which nothing but the most generous friendship couldimpel him to employ, Mr. Holcroft gave those powers to the instructionof our hero, and with such speedy and felicitous effect, that the younggentleman was, in the course of a few months, considered by his twofriends as perfectly qualified to appear before a London audience insome of Shakspeare's most important characters. Having been for sometime a successful dramatic writer, Mr. H. Enjoyed the ear and confidenceof the managers, and arranged with those of Covent Garden for hispupil's appearance on that stage. And now the time arrived when hisfortitude was to be rewarded, his sufferings compensated, and histalents to find their proper levels. His first appearance was in Hamlet, in which he received unbounded applause. In two or three nights after heperformed the very arduous part of Macbeth to a house so very full as tooccasion an overflow. It is but justice to the Edinburgh and otherprovincial managers to observe, that when Mr. Cooper appeared on theLondon boards he was greatly improved in his externals. His person hadgrown more into masculine bulk and manly shape; his face had become moremarked and expressive, and his voice had swelled into a more full deeptenor. 

The friendship of Mr. Holcroft caused Mr. Cooper to be universallymisjudged. The opposition prints represented him in the most extravagantterms of eulogy. The government prints ran into the opposite extreme, and he became at once the idol and the victim of party spirit. Yet sucha reception, by a London audience, was a sufficient pledge of futuresuccess. He was still young, had much to learn in order to reach thefirst rank of that profession, and if a real, well-grounded, just famehad been his object, he ought to have felt that it could only beattained by perseverance, and by the customary natural gradations. TheLondon managers offered him an engagement, which, though allowed to havebeen liberal, seems not to have come up to his own estimate of hisdeserts. Playing two or three or four characters well is a verydifferent thing from sustaining a whole line of acting, to which longpractice and great constitutional force are as necessary as any otherrequisite. In this view of the matter, as well as because managersneither desire nor will be permitted in England to supersede establishedfavourite servants of the public, it will not appear surprising that thefirst rate rank of characters to which Mr. Cooper aspired, was refusedto him by the managers, who thought that they better consulted thepublic feeling, their own interest, and even the young gentleman's fameand ultimate prosperity, by placing him in a secondary general line, inwhich he might improve himself by playing with and observing the bestmodels, and in regular gradation make his way to the first, as Kemble, Cooke, and others had done before him. This however was too unpalatablefor his ambition to swallow. The first he would be, or none. There isnot a sentiment of Julius Cæsar's that is thought so censurable andunworthy of his great mind as that which he uttered when, pointing to asmall town, he said, "I would rather be the first man in that villagethan the second in Rome. " This has been justly called pervertedambition, and Milton stamped it with terrible condemnation when he putinto the mouth of his arch fiend the sentiment--"better to reign in hellthan serve in heaven. " The passions of youth extenuate those errorswhich in ripened manhood are criminal; and it is not improbable that Mr. Cooper's own opinion at this day concurs with ours when we say that hisrefusal of the manager's offer seems to us to have been veryinjudicious. From Plautus, with whom we dare say he had long before hadan intimacy, he might have taken this profitable lesson, Viam qui nescit quâ deveniat ad mare Eum oportet amnem quærere comitem sibi. 

Had he not rejected that offer he would long ere this have had permanentpossession of the rank to which he too prematurely aspired. His refusalwas followed by a retreat into the country, where, with the perseveranceof Demosthenes, he laboured in fitting himself for a more successfuleffort; resolved to force his way if possible to the high object of hisambition. 

During his retirement intimations of his success crossed the Atlantic. Mr. Tyler, some time since the manager of the New-York theatre, receivedthe intelligence from a friend in England: "Prepare yourself forastonishment, " said his correspondent, "that identical Mr. Cooper who, a few months ago, was playing the very underling characters at ourtheatre, and who appeared so extremely incompetent, is now performingHamlet with applause in London. " Sometime after this the agent of thePhiladelphia manager in England made proposals to Mr. Cooper, whoexulting in the thoughts of obtaining in America that rank which he wasrefused in London, closed with the offer, and soon after passed over toAmerica. In Philadelphia, however, he found that his object was notaltogether so attainable as he imagined. In no place does favouritismflourish with much more rank luxuriance than in that city--in no placedo personal prepossessions more frequently operate to the overthrow ofjudgment, to the exclusion of merit, and to the fostering of incapacity. The multitude had their favourites whose merit touched the higheststandard of their conceptions--any thing beyond that was hid in anintellectual mist. The taste of the many was formed upon the kind ofmerit which they so much admired in their favourites, and little did itrelish that of Mr. Cooper. It is astonishing how constantly fondoverweening prejudice deceives itself. The philosopher who told thepowerful despot, his sovereign, that there was no royal way tomathematics, was believed, because the despot had common sense--but aheadstrong multitude can never be persuaded that a person can beincompetent to any one thing, if they only _will_ him to be great in it:and thus it has happened not infrequently, in all cities as well asPhiladelphia, that splendid talents have stood behind as lackeys, whiledoleful incapacity has feasted upon public favour. 

The abilities of Mr. Cooper gave great uneasiness, for they every dayforced a passage for themselves to some share of approbation, in thevery teeth of favouritism and prejudice. Some there were who coulddiscern no merit at all in him; some who industriously employedthemselves in depreciating and denying the little which others allowedhim. At last his vigorous struggles made it necessary to call in a_corps de reserve_ which he little suspected; his private life wasimpeached, and the careless, irregular habits of youth--habits, by theby, in which no youth indulge more than our own, were arrayed againsthim. Unjust as this was, it produced the desired effect; for when hisbenefit was announced, very few seats were taken in the boxes. And herewe have to record a feature in that gentleman's character which markshis honest pride and magnanimity in deep impression. The manager wasbound by his contract to make up to a certain stated amount, theproceeds of Mr. C. 's benefit. To such an advantage Mr. C. Disdained tohave recourse. At the same time his pride shrunk from the thoughts ofplaying to empty boxes at his benefit. He resolved to have a full house, and hit upon an expedient which showed that, young as he was, he knewsomething of the human heart, and that, though a stranger, he had made avery shrewd estimate of the public taste, for which he had the skill tocater more appropriately and successfully than he could by merelydishing up a play of Shakspeare's in his own rough cookery. Fortunatelyfor his purpose there had lately arrived in Philadelphia an actor ofgreat weight and merit, a native of India, of whose immense and populartalents he resolved to avail himself; this was an elephant, which forthe trifling _douceur_ of sixty dollars, that is, near twice as much asthe best actor in the city now gets for one week's labour, he prevailedupon to _press the boards_ of the theatre for that one time only, and bethe chief performer and great attraction of the night. This was what aseaman would call hitting the public between wind and water: Mr. Coopertherefore poured in a whole broadside of printed notices, which were putinto every hand, and a huge playbill, which glared at the corner ofevery street in letters of elephantine size, informing the public thatthe distinguished performer already mentioned, had kindly consented toact a principal part in the entertainment of the evening. No sooner wasthis announced than the whole city was in one hubbub of curiosity--onetwitter of delight; and Mr. Cooper had so many _friends_ who were all atonce intent upon giving him their dollar at his benefit, that the housewas crammed, and there was as great an overflow from every part of it asif the renowned master Betty himself were to have occupied the place ofthe elephant. 

Very different was Mr. Cooper's reception at New-York, whither he wentwhen the theatre of Philadelphia closed for the season. On his veryfirst appearance he established himself in the public opinion as a firstrate actor. The New-York stage might about that time vie for actors innumber and quality with the best provincial company that ever played inEngland. Hodgkinson, Cooper, Fennell, Jefferson, Harwood, Bernard, Mrs. Morris, and Mrs. Hodgkinson, besides two or three admirable comedians. Pierre is well adapted to Mr. Cooper's talents and style of acting, andhe evinced his judgment in selecting it for his first appearance. Through the whole play the ball was well tossed to him by the otheractors; the consequence was that the impression he made has never beenerased. The opinion entertained of him was more substantially evincedthan by mere applause. There was a unanimous desire that he should leavethe Philadelphia theatre and engage at New-York; but to this it wasobjected, that he was bound by his contract with the manager of theformer, to play for a certain time under a penalty of two thousanddollars; this objection, however, was soon superseded by a subscriptionraised among the gentlemen of New-York to pay off that sum if themanager should be able to enforce it. Thus honourably was Mr. Cooperplanted in the city which he contrived to make his head-quarters tillthe beginning of the year 1803, when he passed over to England. Duringthat period he paid a professional visit to Philadelphia, where he wasso justly appreciated that he had no further occasion for the aid of theelephant. 

It happened that Mr. John Kemble the chief actor, and once the actingmanager of Drury Lane theatre, had in the year 1802, a misunderstandingwith the proprietors, in consequence of which he left it, and visitedthe continent, leaving the first line of character very inadequatelyfilled. Intelligence of this secession having reached America in thelatter end of 1802, Mr. Cooper, who was invited, as it is said, by theproprietors of Drury Lane, to take Mr. Kemble's place, if his receptionby the town would warrant them in retaining him, crossed the Atlantic, and once more appeared in London. His success was by no means equal tothe expectations of his New-York friends. Those however who were betteracquainted with the general subject and the state of the stage inEngland, who were aware how much actors of the greatest talents profitby constantly playing with men of equal standing with themselves, andhow much they lose by the want of great models either to emulate orfollow, were far from being so sanguine in their expectations. By theLondon audience he was handsomely received, and greeted with theapplause and kindness due to a stranger of respectable powers: but inefficient benefit to the house and to himself he failed; wherefore, passing on to Liverpool, he played a few nights in that town with greatapplause, then took shipping and returned to America, where he wasreceived with open arms. 

After his departure the theatre of New-York fell into a state of declinefor want of a proper manager and proper company. The deceased Hodgkinsonhaving been joined in the management of the Charleston theatre, andbrought along with him some of the best performers, it was resolved bythe proprietors of the New-York theatre, to give it upon encouragingterms to a manager of sufficient qualifications to conduct the businessof it successfully. Hodgkinson was elected to the management of italmost unanimously; but soon after died of the yellow fever. Mr. Cooperthen undertook it--bought the theatre at a vast expense--improved andembellished the house, and was amply remunerated by the immense receiptsof the first season; at the end of which he sold out his property in itto another gentleman, who we believe now owns and manages it. 

No actor ever made so much money in America as Mr. Cooper. By a skilfuldistribution of his time and exertions, he takes care never to stay solong in one place as to satiate the public appetite. Regardless of thefatigues of travelling, and always supplied with the best cattle, heflies from city to city over this extended union, like a comet; one dayhe is seen at New-York, the very next he performs in Philadelphia. A fewdays after, we have an account of his playing at Boston, and perhapsbefore a month elapses we again have intelligence of his acting atCharleston, (S. C. ) in each of which places he receives an enormoussalary, and always has a full benefit. Thus if he possesses the gift ofretention as he does that of gaining, he must necessarily become veryrich. There are modes of getting rid of money, however, to which gossipFame, we regret to say it, whispers he is much addicted. That he may bemore extravagant than he ought to be, we can suppose without injury tohis moral character. Whether he be so or not is not our business todiscuss--but it is our duty to relate those things which may be set downas a counterpoise to the blamable disregard of economy of which he isimpeached by many who are perhaps little capable of estimating his meansor his motives. He is one of the most dutiful and generous of sons to anamiable mother, whose old age he cheers with punctual bounty, and by themost constant and pious filial reverence and affection. 

Mr. Cooper has a sister, or at least had one, a lady of high personalendowments and great goodness. She was early married to Mr. Perreau ofCalcutta, a gentleman who stands as high in the opinion of the world asany man in India. 

Of the merit of Mr. Cooper as an actor we shall have occasion to speakin another part of this work. 

LIFE OF ALLEYN, THE PLAYER. 

Mr. Edward Alleyn, who though an actor, is ranked among "the BritishWorthies, " was born in London in 1566, and trained at an early period tothe stage, for which he was naturally qualified by a stately port andaspect, corporal agility, flexible genius, lively temper, retentivememory, and fluent elocution. Before the year 1592 he seems to haveacquired a very considerable degree of popularity in his profession; hewas one of the original actors in the plays of Shakespeare, and aprincipal performer in some of those of Jonson; but it does not nowappear what were the characters which he personated. They were probablythe most dignified and majestic, for to these the portly and gracefulfigure of his person was well adapted. At length he became master of acompany of players, and the proprietor of a playhouse called theFortune, which he erected at his own expense, near Whitecross-street;and he was also joint proprietor and master of the Royal Bear-Garden, onthe Bank side, in Southwark. By the profits accruing from theseoccupations, added to his paternal inheritance, and to the dowries ofhis two wives, by whom he had no children, he amassed a considerableproperty, which he bestowed in a manner that has redounded more to hishonour than his professional merit. The wealth thus acquired enabled himto lay the foundation of a college, for the maintenance of aged people, and the education of children, at Dulwich in Surrey, which institution, called "The College of God's Gift, " subsists at this time in an improvedand prosperous state. The liberal founder, before he was forty-eightyears of age, began this building after the design, and under thedirection of Inigo Jones: and it is presumed that he expended eight orten thousand pounds upon the college, chapel, &c. Before the buildingsand gardens were finished, which was about the year 1617. 

Alleyn had long been regarded by all the great and good people ofEngland, including the sovereign Elizabeth, with admiration and respect. This charitable endowment presented him to the world in a new andgrander attitude. But still as he was a player, the vulgar andsuperstitious were unable to account for this act which would have donehonour to a king or a saint, by any other than diabolical influence. Itwas therefore reported, and by the ignorant multitude was believed, thatMr. Alleyn, "playing a demon with six others in one of Shakspeare'splays, was in the midst of the play surprised by the apparition of thedevil, which so worked on his fancy, that he made a vow, which heperformed at this place. " This most laughable story is handed downseriously in a book written by a person of the name of Aubrey. Traditionsays that it was from Alleyn's acting and conversation Shakspeare wrotehis admirable instructions to players which he has put into the mouth ofHamlet. 

After the founder had built this college, he met with difficulties inobtaining a charter for settling his lands in mortmain, that he mightendow it, as he proposed, with 800_l. _ per annum, for the support andmaintenance of one master, one warden, and four fellows, three of whomwere to be ecclesiastics, and the other a skilful organist; also sixpoor children, as many women, and twelve poor boys, who were to bemaintained and educated till the age of fourteen or sixteen years, andthen put out to honest trades and callings. The master and warden wereto be unmarried, and always to be of the name of Allen or Alleyn. Atlength the opposition of the lord chancellor Bacon was overcome, andAlleyn's benefaction obtained the royal license, and he had full powergranted him to establish his foundation, by his majesty's letters patentunder the great seal, bearing date June 21, 1619. When the college wasfinished, the founder and his wife resided in it and conformed in everyrespect to the regulations established for the government of hisalmoners. Having by his will liberally provided for his widow, and forfounding twenty almshouses, ten in the parish of St. Botolp, withoutBishopgate, in which he was born, and ten in St. Saviour's parish, Southwark, and bequeathed several small legacies to his relations andfriends, he appropriated the residue of his property to the use of thecollege. He died in 1626, in the sixty-first year of his age, and wasburied in the chapel of his own college. The chapel, master'sapartments, &c. Are in the front of this building, and the lodgings ofthe other inhabitants, &c. In the two wings, of which that on the eastside was handsomely new built, in 1739, at the expense of the college. They have a small library of books and a gallery of pictures with thatof the founder at full length. The inscription over the door concludeswith these words: _abi tu et fac similiter_--go thou and do likewise. 

INTRODUCTION

TO

THE DRAMATIC CENSOR. 

I have always considered those combinations which are formed in theplayhouse as acts of fraud or cruelty: He that applauds him who does notdeserve praise, is endeavouring to deceive the public; He that hisses inmalice or sport is an oppressor and a robber. 

 _Dr. Johnson's Idler, No. 25. _

The establishment of a regular and permanent work of dramatic criticism, and of censorship upon the public amusements of this city has often beenattempted. The uniform failure of these efforts renders it natural toapprehend that the proposition now submitted to the public will incurthe charge of presumption, and perhaps experience, for a time, thecoldness and discouragement with which the majority of mankind arealways inclined to treat even laudable exertions, if they in any degreemilitate against the dictates of common prudence, and are notrecommended by a certainty of public approbation. Taking their auspicesof the present undertaking from the fate of those hasty productions onthe same subject, which have been brought forth and expired within thecompass of their short season, there are too many, who, instead ofapplauding the hazardous boldness of the measure, and for the sake ofits public utility standing forward in its encouragement and support, will endeavour to damp it by premature censure, ascribe the undertakingto vanity, or unworthiness, and if it should fail, be ready to aggravatethe disappointment of the projectors with the galling imputation oftemerity, impudence, or overweening self-conceit. The sympathy whichmankind in general think it handsome to feel for unassuming merit, stumbling in its way through life by incautiously venturing upon grounduntrodden before, will be gladly withheld from persons who are supposedwilfully to rush forward into error, with the warning monitions ofexample before their eyes--who obstinately persist in an unadvised andhopeless enterprise, in defiance of manifold and recent experience, andwhom the imprudence and misfortunes of others have been incapable ofrendering cautious or discreet. 

With encountering these, and many other objections (the offspring ofindistinct conception and cold hearts) the projectors of the presentwork lay their account; yet, since nothing honourable or arduous wouldever be accomplished, if hope were to be extinguished by partial defeat, and a generous enterprise were to be abandoned, because it had beforebeen tried without success, the work now proposed is undertaken, withthe most firm conviction of its utility and the most unequivocalconfidence of success. Let their difficulties be what they may, however, the editors are prepared to meet them, not only without fear, but withsatisfaction; since they know that nothing but impossibility will berefused to undismayed perseverance and unremitting industry, and that inthe work they are entering upon, they labour for the promotion of apurpose which, whatever the amount of their pecuniary advantage may be, will entitle them to public respect and to the gratitude of the risinggeneration. Before such proud hopes, all the little obstructions theyanticipate--the cavils of the scrupulous, the doubts of the sceptical, the reluctance of the timid, the resistance of the refractory andincorrigible, and the sneers, the censures, and the sarcasms of thecurious and the malignant vanish, as the gloomy chills and shades of thenight recede before the glorious luminary of the morning. 

That the drama is a most powerful moral agent in society has beenadmitted by men of learning and wisdom in all ages of its existence. Whether its effects be, on the whole, injurious or not, will long be asubject of contest; but be they what they may, it can have very littleinfluence of any kind beyond that of harmless amusement, on the wise, the pious, the learned and the experienced. Were those alone to visittheatres and be exposed to its allurements, the task of the dramaticcensor might without injury be dispensed with: but since it is theyoung, the idle, the thoughtless, and the ignorant, on whom the dramacan be supposed to operate as a lesson for conduct, an aid to experienceand a guide through life, and since such persons are generallyunfurnished with ideas and undefended by principles, prompt to receivefirst impressions, and easily susceptible of false opinions andpernicious sentiments, it becomes a matter of great importance to thecommonwealth that this very powerful engine, (acting as it does upon ouryouth through the delightful medium of amusement, and by theinstrumentality of every circumstance that can lay hold of the fancy, and through the senses fascinate the heart) should be kept under thecontrol of a systematic, a vigilant and a severe, but a just criticism. 

To the formation of that rare compound "a finished man" there belong, besides the higher requisites of moral character, an infinite number ofminor accomplishments, which are materially affected either for thebetter or the worse, by a frequent and studious attendance on dramaticrepresentations. MANNERS, which constitute so important a part of thecharacter of every people, are considerably fashioned by a constantobservation of the pictures of human life exhibited in the theatre: onthe action, the utterance and the general deportment, the effects of thestage have ever been materially felt and are unequivocally acknowledged. The most eloquent men of antiquity, and the most eloquent men inEngland, have owned themselves indebted to actors for perfecting them inoratory. Roscius, the actor of Rome, is immortalized by Cicero, andGarrick by lord Chatham and Edmund Burke. If then the stage has beenfelt to produce such weighty effects in the more arduous part of humanimprovement, how ponderous in its operation must it not of necessity be, on the other hand, in the promotion of evil, if it exhibit to thegrowing generation corrupt examples and defective models, not onlyunrestrained and uncensured, but sanctioned with the applause of anuninstructed and misjudging multitude. Every plaudit which a vitiousplay, or a bad actor receives is a blow to the public morals, and thepublic taste. Man is an imitative animal, and insensibly conforms to themodels and examples before him. Young men who excessively admire afavourite actor, will insensibly imitate him, without scanning the man'smerits or defects; and without ever reflecting upon the ultimateinfluence which their partiality, if it should be misplaced, may haveupon their lives, fortunes and characters, will adopt his manner, hisaction, his enunciation, nay, his worst defects, and in short everything that is imitable about him. 

Those who dissent from us on other propositions, will agree with us atleast in this, that the highest degree of attention ought to be paid tothe morals, the manners, the address and the language of youth; and thatnothing which has a tendency to mislead them, in any of thoseessentials, should be submitted to their eyes or ears; but that on thecontrary, every thing should be done, as a great moral philosopher hasinstructed us, "to secure them from unjust prejudices, from perverseopinions, and from incongruous combinations of images. " Let it be keptin mind that we are not now discussing the question whether the stage bebeneficial to society or not. Though it be a fair subject of inquiry, and will hereafter engage a share of our attention, we have no use forit, at present; since be our opinions or those of our readers what theymay, the stage exists, and will continue to exist and attract theregards of mankind. The true point of consideration, therefore, is, nothow far it is beneficial or how far injurious; but in what way itsbenefits may be enhanced, and its mischiefs, if any, be abated. He whoshould demonstrate that it has a pernicious tendency, would but the morestrongly enforce our propositions; since he would thereby show theexpediency of diminishing that tendency and of mitigating that evilwhich the public will forbids to be entirely prevented. 

It is not merely on account of its effects upon the audience, but onthat of the actors themselves, that the theatre calls loudly for astrict critical regimen. An actor resigned to his own opinion, andcommitted to the unrestrained licentious exercise of his own judgment, if he be not one in a million, sinks into negligence, becomes wilful, and if, as is nine times in ten the case, he should obtain the casualapplause of a few stupid and injudicious spectators, becomes headstrong, refractory, and incorrigibly hardened in error. If by means of theoversight of critical judges, or the false adjudication of applause, anactor insensibly slides into popularity, he is erected into a standardof taste, by those who have not seen better; instead of being himselftested by sound principles of criticism and estimated by comparison, with the best models, he becomes gradually absolved from submission toall authority, is held up as a criterion for determining the merit ofother actors, and dubbed the Roscius of his little theatre by a numberof confident pretenders who know just as much about dramatic characterand acting, and on the very same grounds too, as the poor islander ofSt. Kilda did of architecture, when he sagaciously concluded that thegreat church of Glasgow was excavated out of a rock, because he hadnever before seen an edifice made of hewn stone and mortar. Thus notonly a false taste is circulated among the youth at large, but the veryfountain of taste is itself polluted. This is an evil which nothing buta well-regulated body of competent critical authority can prevent. Inthe prosecution of the intended work, an occasion will occur of pointingout eras during which, even in the great metropolitan seat of theEnglish drama, the public taste suffered years of vitiation fromdefective models being at the head of the stage. Till Garrick, led on byNature herself, introduced her school, the theatre presented a stage onwhich scarce a vestige of the human character as it really existed, wasto be seen. But pompous monotony of speech held the highest praise, and"DECLAMATION ROARED WHILE PASSION SLEPT. "

Hitherto the theatre of Philadelphia has been too much resigned to thelicentiousness of bold, and blind opinion. Men of letters, with whichthe city abounds, and who in every society are the natural guardians ofthe public taste and morals, seem to have deserted this important trust. Applause which ought to be measured out with scrupulous justice, correctness and precision, has been by admiring ignorance, poured forthin a torrent roar of uncouth and obstreperous _glee_ on the buffoon, "the clown that says more than is set down for him, " and on "therobustious perriwig-pated fellow, who tears a passion all to rags, "while chaste merit and propriety have often gone unrewarded by a smile. 

If critical judgment were a matter of physical force or numericalcalculation, then indeed the roar of the multitude would be asconclusive in reason, as it too often is in practical effect; butcriticism is a matter of intellectual estimate; and many acquirements goto the composition of a well-qualified dramatic critic, to any one ofwhich, but a small number of the auditors of a play can, in the natureof things, have the smallest pretensions. If indeed any man under theassumption of the critic's name should attempt dogmatically to imposehis _dictum_ as a law upon the public, he would deserve to be repelledwith indignity and rebuke. All the genuine critic will attempt to do, isto hold out those lights, with which his own study, experience, andobservation have supplied him, in order to enable the public to discernmore clearly what in the play or the actor is worthy of censure orapplause--of rejection or adoption. In the common operations of humanlife, every man is compelled by the necessity of his nature to takesuccedaneous aid from others. The mechanic in erecting the poorestbuilding, or forming the most simple machine, is indebted for his meansto the practical geometrician, and instrument maker, and the latteragain, to the master of the science of mathematics. The practicalsurveyor or navigator finds it his interest to be governed by rulessupplied by those whom study has furnished with the great elementaryprinciples of science, and is contented to stand indebted to them forhis means of determining, the area of his land, or the latitude andlongitude at sea, without impugning the rights of those studious men whohave given him the compendious rules and the tables by which he works. It is so with dramatic criticism. The legitimate source of judgment lieswith those who have by deep study made themselves masters of the firstprinciples of the science; and from them the people at large, who aretoo much otherwise and certainly better employed, to learn thoseprinciples, must be content to take the rules and laws by which theyjudge. The most infatuated self-devotee would be ashamed to contest thispoint, if he were at all apprised of the various acquirements requisitefor forming an accurate judgment of the business of the theatre, interwoven, as the dramatic art is, with some of the highest departmentsof literature, and the multifarious operations of the human heart. Thevainest being who cajoles himself into the notion that a man eitherunlettered or inexperienced can form a just judgment of a play andactors, must at once be convinced of his error by reflecting that "thedrama is an exhibition of the real state of sublunary nature;" and that"to instruct life, and for that purpose to copy what passes in it, isthe business of the stage. "[6] To understand this well, demands not onlysome book-learning, but that experience which, though books improve, they cannot impart, and which never can be attained by seclusion orsolitary study, but must be derived from intercourse with men in alltheir forms of conduct, from converse with society, and from anattentive and accurate examination of that complex miscellany, theliving world. To know the drama we must know men; and "if we would knowmen (says Rousseau) it is necessary that we should see them act. " It isequally necessary too that we should lift the veil which time has thrownover the past, and see how men have thought and acted through the lapseof ages upon the uniform principles of human passion, which ever havebeen and ever will be the same, and by that means distinguish that whichis natural, innate and permanent in man, from that which is adventitiousand acquired. He whose knowledge of the world is circumscribed withinthe narrow limits of one generation or one society can know man only ashe appears in the superficial colouring and peculiar modification ofpersonal habit, derived from the fashions, the modes, and the capriciouschanges of that time, and that society, while the great body of humannature remains buried from his sight. "The accidental compositions ofheterogeneous modes (says the gigantic critic Johnson) are dissolved bythe chance which combined them, but the uniform simplicity of primitivequalities neither admits increase nor suffers decay. " And assuredlythere was never an age in which man so masked his nature under modishinnovations as he does in the present. 

 [Footnote 6: Dr. Johnson. ]

The works of the ancients, says a great writer, are the mines from whichalone the treasures of true criticism are to be dug up--the pure sourcesof that penetration which enables us to distinguish legitimateexcellence from spurious pretensions to it. He, therefore, who would getat the true principles of dramatic criticism ought to read the poetryand criticism of the two great ancient languages, and to have formedsome acquaintance with those authors, whether ancient or modern, whohave furnished the world with the great leading principles upon whichdramatic poetry is constructed. Doctor Johnson has informed us thatbefore the time of Dryden, the structure of dramatic poetry was notgenerally understood; and what was the consequence? "AUDIENCES, "continues the doctor, "APPLAUDED BY INSTINCT, AND POETS OFTEN PLEASED BYCHANCE. "[7]

 [Footnote 7: See Johnson's Life of Dryden. ]

Without calling in the aid of such high authority, no risk ofcontradiction can be incurred by asserting that he must be radicallydeficient in the requisites of a dramatic critic, who is notsufficiently versed in philological literature to discriminate betweenthe various qualities of diction--to distinguish the language of theschools from that of the multitude--the polished diction of refinementfrom the coarse style of household colloquy--the splendid, figurative, and impressive combination of terms adapted to poetry, from those plainand familiar expressions suited to the sobriety of prose; and finally, to form a just estimate of a poet's pretensions to that delicacy in theselection of words which constitutes what is called beauty in style. Noris this all, he should be perfectly competent to form a judgment of thefable and its contrivance, to determine according to the canons ofcriticism laid down by the greatest professors of the art, whether thescheme of a piece be obscured by unnatural complexity or rendered jejuneand uninteresting by extreme simplicity, and familiarity ofdesign--whether description be bloated, or overcharged, or imagerymisplaced or extravagant; and lastly, whether the performance be on thewhole deficient in, or replete with moral institution. 

The editors are free to confess that while they enumerate the requisitesnecessary to a critic, they tremble for their own incompetency. Labourhowever shall not be spared---and they cherish the most sanguine hopesof supplying their general deficiency by candour and integrity; beingdetermined while they endeavour with encouragement and applause tofoster the rising genius and growing merit of the stage, to rescue itfrom the encroachment of sturdy incapacity, and while they sit injudgment for the security of the public taste, to be as far as thecanons of dramatic criticism will allow, the strenuous advocates of thevaluable man and unassuming actor--still keeping in sight thatimpressive truth contained in the motto: "HE THAT APPLAUDS HIM WHO DOESNOT DESERVE PRAISE, IS ENDEAVOURING TO DECEIVE THE PUBLIC; HE THATHISSES IN MALICE OR IN SPORT IS AN OPPRESSOR AND A ROBBER. "

The editors have said thus much merely to explain their motives, and tosmooth their way to the discharge of a task, in the performance of whichthey will necessarily be exposed to many invidious remarks from themisconceptions of presumptuous ignorance. Having done so they fearlesslycommit the subject to the public judgment, and proceed to the executionof their duty. 

DRAMATIC CENSOR. 

_The Philadelphia Theatre opened on Monday the 20th of November, with_

"A CURE FOR THE HEART-ACH. "

It has been said by a great moral philosopher that fashion supplies theplace of reason. On superficial consideration the assertion will appearparadoxical; but there is much truth in it, and much biting satire too, upon the absurdities of the world. Fashion could not supply the place ofreason, if reason were not absent; and most irrational and unaccountableindeed are all her ladyship's ways. Her capriciousness is proverbial, and her agency is generally illustrated by comparison with the mostunsteady elements of the physical world. We say "Fashion that_fluctuating_ lady, " alluding to the ebbing and flowing of the tide--and"Fashion that weathercock, " implying that she veers about with everypuff of wind. There are some few cases, however, on the other hand, inwhich she may be compared to a rock, because she stands immovably fixtto her seat; supplying, according to the idea of the philosopherabovementioned, the place of reason, who stands self-exiled forever. Itwould seem as if fashion never could take repose but in supremeirrationality. There and there alone she is firm. Whoever will take thetrouble (or rather the pleasure) to read "Browne's Vulgar Errors, " willsee how much deeper root absurd notions strike in "the brain of thisfoolish compounded clay man, " than those that belong to sound sense andreason. The insignia of fashion, therefore, may be considered inrelation to the human head, as the notification on the door of an emptyhouse, signifying that the family has removed to another tenement. Henceno one of common sense expects any caprice of that lady to be accountedfor on rational grounds. There is one of her freaks, however, which wehave endeavoured to trace to its source in the wilds of luxuriantabsurdity, and have never been able to succeed. Nay, we venture toaffirm that if the most sagacious man in America were asked, why it wasconsidered a violation of the laws of fashion for a lady to attend thetheatre on the opening night of a season, he would be puzzled for anyother reply than that it was permanently fashionable, because it wasprodigiously absurd. On the opening of our theatre this season the housewas full of MEN. The audience presented one dark tissue of drab andbrown, and black and blue woolen drapery, with here and there a solitaryexception of cheering female attire. Had there been a heavy fall ofsnow, the ladies would have been sleighing--had there been a public ballthe darkness of the streets would have been broken by multitudes ofattractive meteors in muslin, either "hanging on the cheek of night, " orhurried along like gossamer through the air. But fashion has so ordainedit: and a good play and after-piece were well represented to a housewhich, from the little intermixture of the lovely sex, somewhatresembled the auditory of a surgeon's dissecting theatre. 

Mr. Morton's comedy "A Cure for the Heart Ach, " is by this time so wellknown that to relate the fable of it here, would be uselessly toencumber the work. Of the quality of this production it would bedifficult for criticism to speak candidly, without adverting to thepresent miserable state of dramatic poetry in England, which from thedays of Sam Foote has been gradually descending to its presentdeplorable condition. The body of dramatic writers of the last thirtyyears first corrupted the public taste, and now thrive by thatcorruption. By hasty sketches, not of Nature as she appears in all timesand places, but of particular and eccentric manners and characters, theexcressences of overloaded society, they have made a short cut to thefavour of the public, and inundated the stage with a torrent ofephemeral productions, to the depravation of public taste, and indefiance of classical criticism: their highest praise that they do nomoral mischief, and that if they possess not the bold outline andfaithful colouring of nature which distinguished the productions oftheir mighty predecessors, they are no less exempt from the obscenityand immoral effects of those authors. As bad writing is infinitelyeasier than good, the pens of our living dramatic writers in generalteem with an inconceivable fertility--and the purlieus of London arebeat over in every direction to hunt up game suitable to the genius oftheir weak-winged muse; in short, to find out new modifications ofcharacter, attractive not by its consonance to man's general nature, butby its eccentricity and departure from the ordinary tracks of humanconduct. 

Having thus insulated this class of comedies, and put them apart fromthe old stock, to which, with the exception of the Honey Moon, there isno modern production comparable, criticism may weigh the merits of eachpiece as compared with its class, and perhaps find something to praise. We consider some of the comedies of Mr. Morton, however, as raised highabove the throng. The Cure for the Heart Ach has much in it to commend. The moral tendency of many parts of it is good, while the incidents areexceedingly laughable. _Old Rapid_ continually betraying his trade bystuffing his conversation with the technical terms of the taylor--hisson's distress at it--the honest rusticity of _Frank Oatland_--thebaseness, vanity and folly of _Vortex_ the nabob--the insolence andamorousness of _Miss Vortex_ his daughter, and the whimsical incidentsarising from their various designs, mistakes, detections anddisappointments, form altogether a _melange_ of pleasantry highlyprovocative of laughter, yet by no means so low as to reduce the pieceto the rank of farce, which some austere critics in London haveassigned it. 

Of the performance generally, we repeat that it was good. Young Rapidafforded criticism much satisfaction in the person of Mr. Wood, who inmany parts persuaded us that he had seen Mr. Lewis in that character, and seen him with profit. Mr. Wood's walk is not unlike that of thegreat original in London--a nasal tone of voice too is common to both. These, if they did not create, certainly increased the resemblancebetween those two gentlemen, which, however remote, was yet discernible. In _Sir Hubert Stanley_, as in every other character in which we haveseen him, Mr. M'Kenzie deserved warm applause--he was dignified, pathetic and interesting. Mr. Francis gave a strong colouring to Vortex;and to say that Frank Oatland was all that the author could wish, weneed only to state that he fell to the share of Mr. Jefferson. Afterall, we are doubtful whether old Rapid was not as well off in the handsof Mr. Warren as any other character in the play. 

We were greatly interested and indeed delighted by Mrs. Wood in JesseOatland. Mrs. Francis was abundantly droll in Mrs. Vortex; and Mrs. Seymour was entitled to the marks of approbation she received. 

 _November 22. _

PIZARRO and the Review composed the bill of fare for this evening. Although in the attack and defence of Pizarro criticism has worn downthe edges of its weapons to very dulness, we cannot forbear taking thisopportunity of recording our opinions of that extraordinary production. 

No play that has appeared during the last century, possesses the powerof agitating the passions, and interesting the feelings in an equaldegree to Pizarro. From a child of the brain of Kotzebue, trained andcorrected by Sheridan, much might be expected. And the piece before usis worthy of the talents of such men. 

In any contest between _oppressed_ and _oppressors_ the heart takes inan instant, a decided and a warm part. If the crime of _oppression_ isaggravated by other guilt in the _oppressor_, and the object of it isrendered more lovely and respectable by the most exalted virtues, pityfor the one rises to respect and affection--indignation against theother becomes exasperated to hatred, to abhorrence, and disgust; withoutthe intervention of the will, but merely from the spontaneous movementsof the heart, we sympathise, we silently pray for the one--we recoilfrom, we execrate the other. We are pressed by our very nature into theservice of virtue; our souls are up in arms against vice and improbity, and thus we receive lasting impressions, which, when our hearts are notvery corrupt, must forever after have a favourable influence on ourmoral conduct. 

To elucidate and confirm our opinions on this subject, we beg leave toask, what is that play in which there is such a mass of virtue andsimplicity, and such a number of amiable personages, opposed to such amass of villany, subtlety, fraudful avarice, and sensual vice, as inPizarro? Not one. The lofty moral sentiments of Rolla, his exquisitefeelings and exalted notions as the patriot, the friend, the lover, areunequalled. He exists out of himself, and lives but for others: for hiscountry, his king, his friend, and the dearest object of his love, ofwhom being bereft by that very friend, he becomes their brother--theirprotector--devotes his life to death to save the man--escaping that, devotes it again to save their offspring. How much worse, if worse couldbe, than a satanic soul must that man have, who could be insensible tosuch a character! Who is there whose heart beats in harmony with heroicvirtue and humanity, that would not accept such a death, to have livedsuch a life? Need we say more then of Pizarro than to contrast him withsuch a character. The only gleam of light that breaks in upon that black_Erebus_, his heart, is his conduct to Rolla when the latter throwsaside his dagger; and this the poet (Sheridan) has artfully contrivedfor the purpose of heightening the lustre of such virtue, by showingthat even that monster could not be insensible to it. 

Let us add that in the true liberal spirit of Christian piety, toleranceand humanity displayed by Las Casas, a popish Spanish priest; in thenoble indignation, the inflexible fortitude, and the intrepid patriotismand virtue of Orozimbo; in the valour, the beneficent wisdom, and the, ardent connubial fidelity and affection of the young Alonzo, in thetenderness, the simplicity, the conjugal and maternal virtues of Cora, and in the artless display of vivid patriotism in the old blind man andhis boy--there is, exclusive of Rolla's glorious qualities, a mass ofexcellence sufficient to make the character of any two plays, and puteach out of the reach of competition with any other that we canimmediately think of. 

Such as we have described are the emotions which are always produced bythe play now under consideration, when it happens to be properlyrepresented. Fortunately or unfortunately as it may happen, the play isso constructed that almost every part in it contributes largely, according to its kind, to the interest of the piece. Every person of the_oppressed_--the Peruvians, even down to the blind man and the littleboy, are made by the poet to produce a large share of the generaleffect. For this reason it is a piece which taxes a manager highly, calling for a variety of excellent talents in the actors. It is not oneof those plays which satisfy the mind and from which we come homecontented, if two or three characters are well done. The play of Pizarrois a lifeless body when compared with what it ought to be, if _all_ thehigh Peruvians at least, are not well performed. In the movement of awatch every small wheel and every little rivet is as necessary to thegeneral effect as the mainspring. So Las Casas, Orozimbo, the blind man, and the blind man's boy, are as necessary not perhaps to the meanprogress of the fable (but to that effect, that necromantic influenceupon the feelings, that penetrating moral which alone can render a playuseful as well as delightful) as is the character of Rolla. 

It may appear a singular avowal, yet being truth we will not withholdit, that having witnessed the performance of this play many times inEngland and America, we have never yet seen it performed to our_perfect_ satisfaction. Kemble was great in Rolla, but the feebleness ofhis voice was severely felt by the audience in the celebrated speech ofthe Peruvian to his soldiers. That speech has been the stumbling blockof most actors we have seen. Hodgkinson, who in other respects wasunexceptionable, rather failed in it. Throughout the whole character, Mr. Wood preserved a very equable tenor of acting. He had neither therich beauties nor the striking defects of others. He evincedconsiderable judgment, but at times powers were evidently wanting. 

Mr. M'Kenzie supported Pizarro well, and showed that he possessesabilities to support it better. It appears to us that this gentleman'sphysical powers are sometimes subdued by an over-scrupulous chasteness. In his answers to Elvira's solicitations on behalf of the unhappyAlonzo, he did not, we think, sufficiently mark all the feeling andemotions of the tyrant. Pizarro is stung with jealousy as well as rage;not so much the jealousy of love as of infernal pride; but both rage andjealousy are mastered by triumphant insolence and contempt. Theutterance therefore of his laconic decisive sentence, "He dies, " shouldbe marked with a triumphant sneer as well as malice. 

Mr. Warren did ample justice to the venerable Las Casas. 

Mr. Cone who, though labouring under the disadvantages of a voiceradically, and we fear, incurably monotonous, gives promise of being auseful actor, displayed considerable spirit in Alonzo. To the praise ofdiligence and attention to his business Mr. C. Is entitled, and thoserarely fail in any department to insure respectability and success. Mr. Cone's personal appearance is very much in his favour. 

The only part in the play on which we can justly bestow _unqualified_applause was Mr. Jefferson's Orozimbo. It is seldom that criticism hassuch a repast, a repast in which there was no fault but that of the poetin making it too short. 

Elvira is not one of the characters in which Mrs. Barret appears toadvantage. 

Had Mrs. Wood the requisite talent of singing, we should have been muchpleased with her Cora. Certainly so far as that lady was able to go, weknow no person on this stage who could be substituted in her place withadvantage to the character. But the omission of Cora's exquisitelybeautiful, wild, and pathetic song, was a great drawback from the effectof the part. 

_December 21. _--TOWN AND COUNTRY, by Morton--Village Lawyer. Some of theBritish critics rank Mr. Morton with the farce-writers of the day, others again pronounce his comedies to be the best which the age hasproduced, and say that they will be selected by posterity from theperishable trash of the day. We agree with neither, thinking it likelythey may remain for a _few_ years among the stock of acting plays. Tosay that they will be admired by posterity is praise as hyperbolical andunjust, as ranking them in farce is calumnious and untrue. 

The comedy before us is a very pleasing production. The plot is wellimagined, and the author has contrived to condense into it more bustleand incident than can readily be found in a piece of the same length. Reuben Gleuroy, the hero, is a noble character, possessed of the mostexalted virtues, which are continually brought into active exercise forthe good of his fellow beings. He preaches little and does a great deal, and displays a generosity and greatness of mind touching, as the worldnow goes, upon the chivalrous. But that which makes him moreconspicuously amiable and interesting is that while he takes the mostardent and active concern in the happiness of mankind, he is himselfreduced by the wickedness of others to a state of misery almost ofdistraction, which awakens the most poignant sympathy for his situation. Deserted, as he imagines, by the object of his dearest affections, Rosalie Summers, who is supposed to have eloped with a villain of highrank of the name of Plastic, he goes to London and finds his brother inthe last stage of ruin and despair by gambling, and stops his hand justat the moment he is attempting suicide. In the end he reforms thebrother, discovers his Rosalie, and finds that she is innocent andfaithful; and by a series of those events, which whether likely or not, modern dramatists without scruple press into their service, is madeperfectly happy. The colouring of this admirable portrait is not alittle heightened in its effect by a tinge of eccentricity caught from alife of rural retirement in the romantic mountainous country of Wales. On this character and that of old Mr. Cosey, a philanthropic, wealthy, and munificent stock-broker, whose cash, always at the disposal of hisfriends, enables Reuben to accomplish his purposes, the author seems tohave dwelt _con amore_. The comic dialogue of the piece arises chieflyfrom the contrasted feelings of Mr. Cosey and Mr. Trot. Cosey admiresthe city, and is miserable in Wales, while Trot, a wealthycotton-spinner, rejoices at the loss of a large share of his propertybecause it furnishes him with a pretext for returning to the country andleaving the _abominable_ city to which he was hurried away by the vanityof his wife. 

Mr. Wood displayed in Reuben, much ability, sound sense, and finefeeling. No person that we know on the stage discloses in hisperformances so little of the mere actor. That indefinable something, which though obvious to perception cannot be described, but isunderstood by the term "plain gentleman, " tinctures all he says and doesupon the stage. Whether this be detrimental to him as a general actor, we have not yet seen this gentleman often enough to determine: but thiswe will say, that while it stands a perpetual security against his beingpositively disagreeable in any character he may be obliged to act, itthrows a charm over all those for which he is best fitted by nature. 

The amiable, the inimitable Cosey, never was, nor ever can be moreperfectly at home than in the person of Mr. Jefferson. Were the authorto see the performance and to observe the correspondence of the actor'sphysiognomy as well as action and utterance, with the sentiments of thecharacter, he would from his heart exclaim in the words of Coseyhimself, "NOW THIS IS WHAT I CALL COMFORTABLE. "

It would be great injustice not to acknowledge the pleasure we receivedfrom Mr. Francis in the character of Trot, which he conceived andexecuted with great humour and spirit. 

A Mr. West from the southward made his appearance in the Yorkshirerustic Hawbuck. His face and person are well adapted to a certain classof low comedy; his voice still more so. If he will but avoid that baneof comedians, the effort to raise laughter by spurious humour and lowtrick, he will thrive in his department. 

In the drawing of the female parts there is nothing sufficientlystriking to call forth the powers of an actress. What was to be done wassufficiently well done by Mrs. Wood and Mrs. Wilmot. But, were they wellcast? or, should they not change sides?

_FARCES FOR THE FIRST WEEK. _

_November 20. _ OF AGE TOMORROW. 

Every character tolerably well played. 

_November 22. _ WAGS OF WINDSOR. 

Hardinge, an old favourite of the town in Irish characters, appeared thefirst time for four years in Looney M'Twoulter. His return to this stagewas hailed with thunders of applause; and all his songs were_encored_. --We have not seen Caleb Quotem better performed in England, nor so well by a great deal in America as this night byJefferson. --Wilmot is a true child of nature and simplicity in all suchcharacters as John Lump. 

_November 24. _ VILLAGE LAWYER. 

We abhor this farce. Scout, from whom it takes its name, is toodetestable a picture of human meanness and depravity to be fit forfarce, the proper effects of which, however nonsensical it may be, oughtto be to enliven and not create disgust. We cannot bear to see arespectable actor in it. Blisset, a favourite son of Momus, played theSheepstealer. Mr. West, whom we have mentioned in Hawbuck, played OldSnarl with great humour, which his audience, and indeed himself, seemedheartily to enjoy. In characters of low humour, particularly crabbed oldmen, Mr. West would be very pleasing, if he would aim less at raisinggallery laughter by spurious means. And all that could be done for Mrs. Scout was done by Mrs. Francis. 

_November 27. _

ELLA ROZENBERG. --WOOD DEMON. 

Ella Rozenberg, a melo-drame, by Mr. Kenny, was brought out for thefirst time at Drury Lane in 1807, and has ever since maintained itsground in the public opinion. It is extremely interesting, and thoughthere is nothing new or singular in the plot or incidents is calculatedto lay fast hold on the imagination and feelings. At the opening of thepiece, the scene of which is laid near a Prussian camp, the heroine_Ella Rosenberg_ reduced by the disappearance of her husband to a stateof poverty, is living under the protection of captain _Storm_, a crippled old officer of invalids, and the friend of her deceasedfather. Here she has concealed herself for two years, when she isdiscovered by colonel _Mountfort_, who having conceived a criminalpassion for her, had in order to gratify that passion, purposelyprovoked her husband to draw his sword upon him, in consequence of whichapprehending the severity of the military law, the latter had set off tothe capital to appeal to the electoral prince, but was no more heard of. The colonel, who is a finished master of intrigue, enters Storm's housein disguise, and attempts with the help of a band of his soldiers tocarry off Ella by force. In this he is opposed by the good and gallantold officer, who, sword in hand, beats off the soldiers, tears thecolonel's sash from him, and in a rage tramples it under foot, inconsequence of which Storm is made prisoner, and Ella left unprotected, is borne away by the soldiers. The elector, who has just returnedvictorious from the war, appears considering a petition from old Stormon behalf of Ella, which interests him so much, that he resolves tovisit her incognito. Mountfort, who is a favourite of the elector's andhas just arrived to congratulate him, is alarmed, endeavours to dissuadehim from going to Ella, and in the meantime to secure himself fromdetection orders the immediate trial of Storm, who is found guilty andsentenced to die. Ella escapes and reaches Storm, her old protector, just as he is on his way to execution. He does all he can to keep hisfate concealed from her; but it being betrayed, she is torn from him ina state of distraction and anguish, and being consigned by her generousprotector to the care of a brother officer who commands the guard, isconducted to a solitary inn by a soldier. The elector appears at nightpassing in disguise to visit the cottage of Storm, and is encountered byRosenberg, who appears in the most wretched state, flying from hispursuers, and supplicates him for the means to procure shelter. Withoutdisclosing who he is, Rosenberg informs the elector that he (Rosenberg)has been secretly and violently imprisoned. The elector directs him tothe house to which Ella is carried by the soldiers, and promises to meethim there in the morning and assist him. Rosenberg reaches the innwhither Ella too is brought in a state of insensibility, and placed in aseparate apartment. Mountfort arrives alone, and not knowing Rosenbergengages him to guard Ella, while he goes to seek a conveyance for her. Rosenberg now finds the cause of his imprisonment--an interestingdiscovery takes place between him and Ella--but he is detected by one ofhis pursuers, and is again in the hands of his enemies, when the electorenters, and obtaining the most perfect conviction of the villany ofMountfort, disgraces him, restores the young couple to rank andhappiness, and the brave and virtuous old Storm to life, liberty andjoy. 

The plot of this melo-drame is wrought up with uncommon skill: theinterest rising by a progressive climax which keeps the heart in a warmglow of feeling from the first scene to the last. Old Storm is worth awhole army of what are called heroes, and the elector is a model ofjustice and humanity for princes to imitate. 

According to the London casting Rosenberg would have fallen to the shareof the first player in the house: but we had no reason to complain ofMr. Cone. Mr. Warren discharged the high office of elector with dignity;and Mr. M'Kenzie was an excellent representative of the oldcut-and-thrust-colonel. Such characters as Ella are always interestingwhen played by Mrs. Wood. 

The tasteful amateur must have been roused and delighted by the music, particularly the overture. 

Ella Rosenberg was followed by one of the most monstrous productions, the mind of man ever groaned withal. Never did melancholy madmanlabouring under the horrors of an inflammation of the brain--never did awretch fevered with gluttony and intemperance, and writhing under thepressure of the night-mare, dream of more horrible circumstances thanthose which Mr. Lewis has offered in this prodigious melo-drame, for theENTERTAINMENT of the British nation. Where will the taste of Englandstop in its descent? Where will the impositions on it by bastard geniusend? Yet since this monster has produced a powerful effect, and ismanaged with such perverted skill as to excite a strong interest, andsince whole audiences condescend to club tastes with the scarecrow oldwomen of the heath and the mountain, and to play "look at the bugabow, "with the nurselings of the lap, we should be sorry to be deficient incurtesy, or when so many good and wise people drivel not to drivel alittle too; we bend therefore with stiff and painful obedience to ourduty, and offer our readers a short summary of the fable. 

To clear the way then, be it in the first place known, that Mr. MatthewLewis has found out a new kind of infernal agent--a demon who delightsin human sacrifices, and lives in the woods. Perhaps it is because weare poorly versed in demonology that we do not recollect to have heardof this particular infernal before. Be that as it may, _CountHardyknute_ of Holstein, having been sent into the world deformed inperson and poor in circumstances, and being resolved to sell his soul todamnation for the bettering of his body, makes a contract with thedemon, in condition of his being made handsome and powerful, tosacrifice to him a human victim on a particular day in each year; infailure of which he is to become the prey of the demon, who is veryhandsomely named _Sangrida_. The count has sacrificed nine victimsbefore the opening of the piece, and is meditating with himself withwhat fat offering he shall next glut the maw of Sangrida, in anniversarypunctuality. _Leolyn_, a dumb boy, the rightful heir of the estate andtitle which Hardyknute had usurped, has been secretly bred up by_Clotilda_ as her own, but Hardyknute discovers him by the mark of abloody arrow on his wrist, and determines to help Sangrida to his littlebody. _Una_, a beautiful young lady, to whom the count pays hisaddresses, is selected by the guardian spirit of Holstein to be thepreserver of the intended victim. The time approaches for the fulfilmentof the agreement. By a process of the most horrible kind of enchantmentUna is enabled to remove the boy so as to elude the count, and getspossession of the key of an enchanted place on which the boy is chained. She gets him down from it--the clock is seen just near the stroke ofone--she resolves to push the hand forward--Hardyknute seizes and isabout despatching her, when Leolyn with difficulty mounts to the clock, pushes forward the hand and it strikes one--the demon appears, seizesthe count in his claws--the earth opens, and the demon carries him down, in the same manner that an alligator or shark carries down a puppy dog, to devour him in comfort. 

Such is the piece, and such the depravity of a nation's taste. It is nowonder that the tasteful, the learned and the judicious, should wage anopen war of wit and satire upon such things. On this subject we referour readers to a piece signed THEOBALDUS SECUNDUS, which will appear inour next number. 

SECOND WEEK. 

_November 29. _ RECONCILIATION, OR FRATERNAL DISCORD, _with_ FALSE ANDTRUE. 

It would be superfluous to say any thing of a play so well known and sojustly admired. 

_December 1. _ ABAELLINO, OR THE GREAT BANDIT, _with the_ LADY OF THEROCK. 

The Great Bandit is one of those extraordinary productions whichdistinguish the present dramatic writers of Germany from those of allages and all countries. There are but few topics connected with thestage which deserve more serious discussion than this of the Germandrama. A proper investigation of it would require more room than we canat present spare: but we shall not so far desert our duty as to declineit when we can devote to it the deliberation it deserves. A future, andnot far distant number will contain such reflections as occur to us onthe subject. 

_December 2. _ ROAD TO RUIN--DON JUAN. 

Mr. Wood in _Harry Dornton_ was very successful. It is a line of actingfor which he is well calculated. The character of _Goldfinch_ was betterperformed by Mr. Jefferson than it could be in any other person in thistheatre. But we received less pleasure from it than from any other wehave seen him play, _Scout_ excepted. 

_FARCES FOR THIS WEEK. _

The Wood Demon, though used as an after-piece, demanded observation of amore serious kind than is due to farce, and has therefore received it inpages 71 and 72. 

The farce of "False and True" is a wretched thing. To speakJohnsonically it is a congeries of inexplicable nonsense. An Irishman, who, after having committed the _very probable_ blunder of going toNaples instead of Dublin, mistakes Vesuvius for the hill of Hoath, isthe most laughable character of the piece. What could be done for itHardinge did. A song of his was spoiled by the neglect of the band, whose conduct deserved reprehension from the manager. 

The Lady of the Rock is the production of Holcroft. Had he not himselfgiven it to the world as his own, we should have thought it a libel uponhis understanding to ascribe it to his pen. 

No pantomime has ever made so deep and so universal an impression as DonJuan. The merit of the original belongs to the celebrated Moliere. Averse on principle to pantomime, we have often felt ourselves indebtedto it for relief from the drowsiness induced by some modern plays; butthat perhaps was more owing to the badness of the play than the value ofthe pantomime. Of all pantomimes Don Juan is the most blamable. It isgood in its kind, but the kind _is bad_. 

THIRD WEEK. 

_Monday, Dec. _ 4. SPEED THE PLOUGH--ELLA ROSENBERG. 

The comedy of Speed the Plough is deservedly reckoned among the best ofthe modern stock, and considered as reflecting great credit upon themuse of Mr. Morton. The plot is very skilfully mixed up, notwithstandingthe difficulty that always must attend carrying on, in connection witheach other, two interests of a totally distinct and opposite nature, connecting two contradictory agencies without either encroaching on theother, and conducting an alternation of serious and comic scenes to oneend, without making them clash. This Mr. Morton has, to a considerabledegree, successfully accomplished; making that which occasions thedifficulty subservient to one of the most desirable but arduous ends indramatic writing, that of concealing the final unravelling ordenouement, as it is called, of the plot. 

A striking beauty in this play, and the more striking because seldom metwith, is the fidelity with which some of the characters are drawn fromlife; not as it is found in a solitary individual, but as it appears ina whole numerous class. Such is farmer Ashfield--such is dame Ashfield. Yet the characters in general are not very impressive, and there aresome inconsistencies in them as well as in the arrangement of theincidents. A young lady's suddenly, and at first sight, falling in lovewith a peasant boy, though it may have happened, is an occurrence toosingular to be perfectly natural; and as a dramatic incident, it is acoarseness which cannot well be reconciled to the characteristicdelicacy of such a young lady, even by the _ex post facto_ discoverythat the object of her love was in reality a person of condition. We donot think that love at first sight, which is in reality nothing morethan Forwardness indulging itself in the airs of Romance, and Pruriencecalling in Fate to sanction its indelicacy, ought to be clothed in sucha respectable and captivating dress as our author has bestowed upon itin this play. 

Yet with these defects to counterbalance them, Speed the Plough isreplete with beauties--the dialogue is neat, spirited, and forcible; andthere are many delicate touches of the pathetic, and much excellentmoral sentiment to recommend it. 

The best character, beyond all comparison, is that of Farmer Ashfield. It is a picture of real life, originals of which are found in multitudesin England--plain, honest, benevolent, and under a rustic garb, possessing a heart alive to the noblest feelings. No man that we know inthis country possesses such happy requisites for exhibiting the farmerin the true colours of nature as Mr. Jefferson. In the rustic deportmentand dialect--in the artless effusions of benignity and undisguisedtruth--and in those masterly strokes of pathos and simplicity with whichthe author has finished this inimitable picture Mr. Jefferson showeduniform excellence: and as in the humorous parts his comic powersproduced their customary effect on our risibility, so in the seriousoverflowings of the farmer's honest nature the mellow, deep, impressivetone of the actor's voice vibrated to the heart, and excited the mostexquisite sensations. 

Mr. Wood performed Bob Handy. He was given out in the bills for sirPhilip Blandford; but was, by a casualty, obliged to take the part ofBob: a change which, on more accounts than one, the audience had nocause to regret. Nor in our opinion, had either Bob or sir Philip anycause to lament it. Mr. Wood is at home in light comedy, while Mr. M'Kenzie, whose merits seem not to be sufficiently appreciated, is wellcalculated for such characters as Philip Blandford. 

The judgment of Mr. Warren enables him to perform any character heundertakes with propriety--but there are some parts in comedy for whichhe seems admirably qualified by nature and knowledge of stage business. We could enumerate several; but this is not the place for doing so--hisrepresentation of sir Abel Handy was uncommonly humorous andappropriate. 

Mr. Cone's Henry was pleasing. This young actor promises well. Though, to adopt the cant of the turf, he will never be first, there is no fearof his being distanced, unless he carries too great weight. 

Dame Ashfield in the performance of Mrs. Francis would be admired byMrs. Grundy herself; and to express our opinion of Mrs. Wood's Susanwould be only to repeat what we have already said of her on moreoccasions than one. 

It gives us infinite regret to be compelled, just as we put our footupon the threshold of the critic's office, to animadvert upon someerrors and defects in pronunciation, of which we could not have imaginedthe persons concerned to be capable. Our purpose is to persuade thepeople to encourage the stage upon principles honourable to it; not as aplace of mere barren pastime; but as a school of improvement. But howshall we be able to bring the public mind to that habitual respect forthe stage without which it must lose all useful effect, if the actorsshow themselves unfit for conveying instruction. Were this to be thecase, and were mere pastime the object of theatres, Astley'shorse-riders, the tumblers and rope-dancers of Sadlers-Wells, nay, thePUNCH of a puppet-show, would be as useful and respectable as Garrick, Barry, Cooke, or Kemble, and the circus might successfully batter itshead against the walls of that building in Chesnut-street which thesculptor has enriched with the wooden proxies of Melpomene and Thalia. But criticism will not allow this. For the sake of the stage it willexert all its might to support the actors--and for the sake of the stageit will hold them in admonition. If the established principles ofliterature be violated by the actors, the very ground upon which thecritic would support them, is blown up by a mine of their ownconstruction, and not only they must sink, but the critic must, for themaintenance of a just cause, put his hand to their heads and give them alanch. The theatre is a school for elocution or it is nothing. In GreatBritain it has time immemorial been attended to, not as authority forinnovations, but as an organ of conveyance of the authorisedpronunciation, to which the growing youth of the country were to lookfor accurate information of what was correct, as settled and consideredby their superiors, that is, by high learned men and statesmen. If theactors, therefore, run counter to authority, and thereby endanger thecause which they are presumed to aid, the mischief is too general andextensive in its operation to be neglected or endured. There is nothingbelonging to the stage which demands such strict discipline as itsorthoepy, because there is none in which it can so immediately andpowerfully affect the public. On this point therefore we are determinedto sacrifice nothing to ceremony; being convinced that debasing thelanguage is essentially as injurious, though legally not so punishable, as defacing the current coin of a country. 

Without pointing to individuals by name, we request the ladies andgentlemen of the green-room to consult all the acknowledged authoritiesfor the pronunciation of the words: true, rude, brute, shrewd, rule, inwhich the u is by some of them sounded very improperly; _true_ so as torhyme to _few_, _new_, &c. _rule_ as if it were to rhyme to _mule_, andso on; whereas true ought to be pronounced as if it were spelled _troo_, and rhymed to _do_; rule as if spelled _rool_, and so on; and thus theywill find them in the dictionaries of acknowledged authority. 

Since we are on the subject we will now advert to some other words whichare often most lamentably mispronounced, not only contrary to thepronunciation established by all learned men and orators in GreatBritain, but exactly in that way in which skilful actors often pronouncethem in Europe when they wish to mimic the most low and ignorant classesof society. Of this description is the pronunciation of the word"sacrifice. " For these words we refer all whom it may concern to thedictionaries of the best orthoepists, by which they will be instructedthat it is not pronounced say-crifice but sac-rifize. If the former bereally the pronunciation, the old ladies who smoke short pipes in thechimney corners of English and Irish cottages, are right, and Burke, Fox, Pitt, Windham, Curran, Grattan, Sheridan, and in short every manwho speaks in a public assembly in England or Ireland, are wrong. We arenot sure whether Mr. Kemble, who, as an excellent critic has observed, is always seeking for novelty and always running into error, may notlately have added that patch to his motley garb of new readings; but hisauthority is disallowed. Even Garrick, whose claims were of a verysuperior kind, when he attempted to render the English language, alreadytoo unstable, more so, by his innovations, was repelled with helplesscontempt. 

This is a point to which it is the manager's duty to attend, because itis not a matter of doubt, nor subject to discretionary opinion. Whatmust that part of our youth who attend to these things from a laudabledesire for improvement, think, when they hear the same word differentlypronounced in the same scene by different actors. Upon one nightparticularly, Mr. M'Kenzie several times returned the mispronouncedword, pronounced as it should be, with an emphasis which could not bemisunderstood: yet the mispronunciation was persisted in. 

Before we drop this subject we must observe that the pronunciation ofthe last syllable of the word sacrifice is sometimes as erroneouslypronounced as the first, indeed worse, as the sound given to itapproximates to one which conveys an offensive idea. Properly pronouncedit rhymes to the verbs _advise_, _rise_, and not to mice, spice, &c. 

Having brought our critical journal up to the appearance of thatphenomenon of the stage of this new world, Master Payne, we findourselves constrained, by the limits of this number, to postpone ourobservations upon the plays in which that extraordinary boy, for so manynights, astonished and delighted crowded houses, and far beyond ourexpectations, made good his title to the partiality of every city inwhich he has performed. 

CRITICISM. 

THE FOUNDLING OF THE FOREST--A PLAY. 

This production which we have annexed to our first number, not onaccount of its superior merit, but because it was the most recentlypublished of any that has yet come to our hands, will, on the mostsuperficial reading, be discerned to be of the true German cast. The oldtrick of grouping the characters at the end of a scene, and dropping thecurtain upon them, by way of leaving it to the general conception of theaudience to guess the rest, as is done in the Stranger, and all othersof that breed, is here twice put in practice. Those who like such drugsmixed up with a _quantum sufficit_ of horror, and all the tenterhookinterest, hair-breadth escapes, and incident so forced as to staggerbelief, which make up the hotchpotch romances whether narrative ordramatic of the present day, will like this. Mr. Dimond has in thispiece certainly shown great skill in working up that kind of materialsto the production of stage effect; since to those who can be interestedor affected by the marvellous and mysterious, and who love to step foramusement out of the precincts of nature, and the conduct of "the folksof the world" the Foundling of the Forest will be interesting andaffecting. Viewing it with a strict critical eye, not only the plot isfaulty, but the composition is in many places extremely bad. If theproduction of original character was the author's design, he hassucceeded to his heart's content in that of Florian, which we believehas never had a prototype in this world. In this _hero_ who is sometimesas bombastical as ancient Pistol, and sometimes as ridiculous as abuffoon, the author attempts to be droll, and

 Aims at wit--but levell'd in the dark, The random arrow never hits the mark. 

A London critic remarking with just severity upon the strange way inwhich the divinity is addressed in this piece, says, "This blot defacesalmost all the modern things called dramas or plays. In the farcicalcomedies we have low vulgar swearing unworthy even the refuse ofsociety; while in the _comedies larmoyantes_ (_weeping comedies_) andtragedies, we have eternal imprecations of the deity, indicative only ofmadness in literature. " To this observation as well as that whichfollows from the same critic we heartily subscribe. "It is interspersedwith songs, to one of which we direct[8] the reader, to remind theauthor of what Pope says:

 Want of decency shows want of sense. 

 [Footnote 8: _See the Duett between Rosabelle and L'Eclair, Act. III, scene I, page 16. _]

"Among _soi-disant_ jolly fellows revelling in senseless ribaldry andinebriety (continues the reviewer) this song might be deemed very fine;but we shrewdly suspect that if the lines had been spoken at the theatreinstead of being sung, the audience would have resented the insult. "

It would be injustice not to add that the concluding speech of countValmont, and many other parts scattered through the piece, must beadmired as specimens of very fine composition. 

MUSIC. 

The lovers of poetry and music have lately been highly gratified by thepublication of "A Selection of Irish Melodies, with Symphonies andAccompaniments, by Sir JOHN STEVENSON, Doctor of Music, andCharacteristic Words, by THOMAS MOORE, Esq. The first number of whichwas published in London and Dublin in the month of February of the lastyear, the reviewers spoke with decided approbation. To the secondnumber, published in April, they are no less favourable. These melodieshave been for some time anxiously expected--it being pretty generallyunderstood that that fascinating poet, Moore, was employed in thepursuit of them. He had promised them for sometime. "It is intended, says the editor, to form a collection of the best Irish melodies, withcharacteristic symphonies and accompaniments, and with words containingas frequently as possible, allusions to the manners and history of thecountry;" and in a letter of Mr. Moore's which appears in thepublication, he says, "I feel very anxious that a work of this kindshould be undertaken. We have too long neglected the only talent forwhich our English neighbours ever deign to allow us any credit. Whilethe composers of the continent have enriched their operas and sonataswith melodies borrowed from Ireland, very often without even the honestyof acknowledgment, we have left these treasures in a great degreeunclaimed and fugitive. Thus our airs, like too many of our countrymen, for want of protection at home, have passed into the service offoreigners. But we are come I hope to a better period both of politicsand music: and how much they are connected, in Ireland at least, appearstoo plainly in the tone of sorrow and depression which characterizesmost of our early songs. The task which you propose to me of adaptingwords to these airs, is by no means easy. The poet who would follow thevarious sentiments which they express, must feel and understand thatrapid fluctuation of spirits, that unaccountable mixture of gloom andlevity which composes the character of my countrymen, and has deeplytinged their music. Even in their liveliest strains we find somemelancholy note inhere, some minor third or flat seventh which throwsits shade as it passes, and makes even mirth interesting. If BURNS hadbeen an Irishman (and I would willingly give up all our claims uponOssian for him) his heart would have been proud of such music, and hisgenius would have made it immortal. "

A London reviewer speaking of the first number, says, "the idea isexcellent, and the twelve vocal airs which this first number of the workcontains, are tastefully arrayed by sir John Stevenson, and happilyprovided with language by Mr. Moore. 

"We are happy (continues the reviewer) to find that even where Mr. Moore's subject is amatory, his poetry is very little in the style ofthose baneful effusions which are undergoing so rigorous an examination. His verse is here fanciful and gentlemanly, full of his subject, and, asfar as our English souls can judge, faithfully expressing it. Nothingcan be more pathetic than "Oh! breathe not his name;" nothing morebrilliant than "Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour;" and nothing morepoetical than "As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow. " We mustbe indulged in quoting one of those effusions of Mr. Moore's genius; andwe can find none more elegant or natural than the following:

_SONG. _

 Oh! think not my spirits are always as light, And as free from a pang as they seem to you now, Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of tonight, Will return with tomorrow to brighten my brow. 

 No, Life is a waste of wearisome flowers, Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns; And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers, Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns. 

 But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile; May we never meet worse in our pilgrimage here Than the tear that Enjoyment can gild with a smile, And the smile that Compassion can turn to a tear. 

 The thread of our life would be dark, heaven knows! If it were not with friendship and love intertwined; And I care not how soon I may sink to repose, When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind!

 But they who have lov'd the fondest, the purest, Too often have wept o'er the dream they've believed; And the heart that has slumber'd in friendship securest, Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceiv'd. 

 But send round the bowl; while a relic of truth Is in man or in woman, this pray'r shall be mine, That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth, And the moonlight of friendship console our decline. 

"The airs of the first number are excessively beautiful inthemselves--particularly those of the well known "Gramachree, " "PlaustyKelly, " and the "Summer is Coming, " and the duets of "The Maid of theValley, " and the "Brown Maid, " are very delightful. "The latter (saysthe London reviewer) is a perfect specimen of the genius of duet, eachpart taking up the other alternately. The publication of these Irishairs fully discovers the source of Mr. Moore's musical compositions. "

Speaking of the second number, the reviewer says it is by no meansinferior to the first either in music or in poetry. The air "Oh! weepfor the hour" ("The Pretty Girl of Derby O!") is harmonized in a styleof great elegance; and that, and "The Red Fox, " "The Black Joke, " and"My Lodging is on the Cold Ground, " have particularly pleased us intheir arrangement. The song which Mr. Moore has written to "The BlackJoke, " is both poetical and political, and though the affairs of Spainhave now rendered it, as to that country, an _old newspaper_, yet it isstill good in the cause of Ireland. "

SPORTING INTELLIGENCE. 

The coterie of old ladies in the British parliament, the _chairwoman_ ofwhich was the late sir Richard Hill, have failed in all their attemptsto tie up the hands of the people from their old sports. They havedeclaimed in parliament, and they have declaimed in print, against allthe gymnastic exercises which time immemorial have been the pride andthe pastime of the hardy natives of the British islands. Never didRobespierre weep such unfeigned tears over "sweet bleeding humanity, " asthose good souls have shed over the broken heads, and black eyes, andbloody noses of the Bull family, who, obstinate dogs, will still go onand laugh at their ladyships. Indeed Bonaparte himself, whose interestit really is, could not more anxiously desire the abolition of thosegymnastic exercises. 

The sports of England are horse-racing; fox, hare, and stag-hunting;coursing with greyhounds; shooting, fishing, bull-baiting, wrestling, single stick, pugilism, pedestrianism, cricket, &c. These are practisedby all ranks and on national accounts, are encouraged by all the wiseand patriotic men of the country; some few, and those mostly fanaticks, excepted. To those games they add, in Ireland, the noble sport ofhurling, in which that vigorous race exhibit such prodigies of strengthand activity as induced the celebrated Arthur Young to speak to thiseffect in his Tour through Ireland: "In their hurlings, which I wouldcall the cricket of savages, they perform feats of agility that wouldnot do discredit to Sadler's Wells. "

The gymnastic games have been long carried on so systematically thatthey make as regular a part of the public intelligence as any that findsits way into the public papers, and have, like the theatre, theirappropriated periodical publications. [9] On this subject we would saymuch more, as we mean to present our readers with such things as appearcurious or extraordinary in those publications; but by way of abeginning, and to pave the road for the reception of this part of ourwork by the public, we beg leave to offer, not to their hasty perusal, but their profound consideration, the following defence of pugilism, written, it is said, by that profound statesman, patriot, and scholar, William Windham, whose eloquence and wit caused sir R. Hill'sbull-baiting bill to be laughed out of the House of Commons. 

 [Footnote 9: The Sporting Magazine for one. ]

"I lay it down as a principle, that in every state of society, men, particularly those of the lower ranks, will ever require some means ofventing their passions and redressing personal affronts, independentlyof those which the laws of their country might afford them; and that itis of more benefit to the community that these personal contests shouldbe under such regulations as place bounds to resentment, than that theyshould be left to the unrestrained indulgence of revenge and ferocity. In most countries on the northern continent of Europe, bodily strengthexclusively decides the contest; hands, feet, teeth, and nails are allemployed, and the strongest gratifies his resentment by biting, kicking, and trampling upon his prostrate adversary. [10] In the south the appealis usually to the stiletto, and a _colpo dicoltello_ is so common atNaples, that there is hardly a lazarone who has not the marks of it onsome parts of his body; not a year passes in which there are nothundreds of assassinations in this city. Now, observe the differenteffects of a different principle: A sailor, some time since, atNottingham, lent an aeronaut his assistance in preparing the ascent ofhis balloon; when receiving a blow from one of the by-standers while heheld a knife in his hand--"You scoundrel, " exclaims the tar, "you havetaken the advantage by striking me because you knew that, as I held aknife I could not strike you again. " Under similar circumstances, whatwould have been the conduct of a Genoese or a Neapolitan?

 [Footnote 10: He might have added gouging, as practised in the southern States of this Union. ]

Boxing, as it is conducted in this country, is a remnant of the ancienttilt and tournament, conducted on the principles of honour and equity;a contest of courage, strength, and dexterity, where every thing like anunfair and ungenerous advantage, is proscribed and abhorred. It is acustom peculiarly our own, and to which probably we are not onlyindebted for the infrequency of murder and assassination, but also forthe victories of Maida, and Trafalgar. 

Some persons are willing to allow these effects, provided the practicewas confined to casual contests, and not extended to public combats andstage fights. These, they say, induce the laborious men to quit theiroccupations, and serve as a rendezvous for the disorderly and theprofligate; but is not the same objection to be made to all amusementsin which the lower orders are peculiarly interested, and where elsewould men of this description practically learn, that the gratificationof their personal resentments must be limited by the laws of honour andforbearance? Had Crib struck Gregson after the decision of the contestin his favour, what would have been the indignant feelings of thesurrounding multitude, and what would he not have experienced from theirresentment? And are these feelings not worth inculcating? will they notcharacterise a nation, and are they not the genuine sources ofgenerosity and honour? If it be admitted, which I think cannot bedenied, that any advantage be derived to society from individuals inthese combats being restrained from giving full scope to ferocity andrevenge, these advantages must be exclusively ascribed to the custom ofpublic exhibitions. It is from these that all regulations andrestrictions originate--it is from these they are propagated, and withthese they will be extinguished. 

"I am not without apprehension, that from abhorrence of what some callbrutal and vulgar pursuits, the noble science of attack and defenceshould be in future proscribed at the seminaries of Eton, Winchester, and Westminster, and that little master should be enjoined by his mama, in case of an affront, to resort to his master for redress andprotection. To the custom, indeed, as it now prevails, the English youthare, in a great measure indebted for their nobleness and manliness ofcharacter. Two boys quarrel, they agree to box it out--they begin andthey end by shaking hands; the enmity terminates with the contest--Andwhat is this but a lesson of courage, magnanimity, and forgiveness? theprinciples of which are thus indelibly impressed on the mind of the boy, and must ever after influence the character of the man. 

"Away then with this effeminate cant about maintaining order anddecorum, by the suppression of the public exhibitions of manlyexercises. To them the individual Englishman owes his superiority to theindividual of every other country, in courage, strength, and agility:and as a country is composed of individuals, to what other causes canEngland more reasonably impute her proud preeminence among nations whichshe now enjoys, and which she will ever maintain till this spirit istamed into servility, under the pretence of applying salutaryrestrictions to the licentiousness of the people. "

After the foregoing essay, a parallel drawn between English men andEnglish mastiffs by the celebrated cardinal Ximenes comes notunappropriately in this place. 

The cardinal, who was minister to one of the French monarchs, observedthat the English, like their native mastiffs, lived in a state ofinternal hostility. "The cause, " said he, "which creates a canineuproar, every one knows, is a bone; whence among the English, everystatistical elevation, as well as other causes of contest, is called ABONE OF CONTENTION. During the time of profound peace, these island dogsare always growling, snapping at, and tearing each other; but the momentthe barking of foreign dogs is heard, the contention about bones ceases, the whole species become friends, and with one heart and mind they jointheir teeth to defend their kennels against foreign enemies. "

The following extraordinary circumstances are selected from the Britishsporting intelligence of the last year. 

"A herdsman lately met a fox in the morning, on a mountain in theneighbourhood of Ballycastle (Ireland). On his approach, the animal didnot offer to avoid him, but allowed him to come close up, when he struckit with a stick and killed it. On examination the fox was found to becompletely destitute of teeth, and is supposed to have been blind withage. 

"A fox lately turned out at Fisherwick-park, the hunting seat of themarquis of Donnegal, being hard pressed, forced his way into the windowof a farm house, and took shelter under the bed of the farmer's wife whohad not an hour before lain in. The feelings of all parties may easierbe imagined than described. The good woman, however, suffered nomaterial injury by Reynard's unexpected visit, who was taken andreserved for the sport of another day. 

"On Wednesday last, about six o'clock, a covey of partridges were seento pitch in the middle of the CIRCUS, Bath, supposed to have takenrefuge there, after having escaped from the aim of some distant gunner. Under the effects of fright and fatigue six were easily caught by threeservants, and strange as it may appear the three servants of threeeminent physicians who reside in that elegant pile. Doctor F. 's mansecured three; doctor P. 's two, and doctor G. 's the other bird. A _consultation_ afterwards took place respecting the fate of these poortremblers, when it was humanely determined that they should be taken ina basket to some distance, and liberated, which was accordingly done. A keen sportsman would not approve of this forbearance; but perhaps noneof the doctors had taken out a license to kill--GAME. 

"A male and female hare were put together by lord Ribblesdale for oneyear, when the offspring amounted to sixty-eight. A pair of rabbitsinclosed for the same time produced above three hundred. The value ofrabbits' wool used annually in the manufacture of hats in England is twohundred and fifty thousand pounds. 

"A few days ago a hare was observed lying before a door inManchester-street, London. The poor animal was immediately pursued, andin less than a minute the street was crowded: she succeeded in makingher way down through Duke-street, followed by an immense mob. Thenovelty of a hunt in such a place caused every person in the surroundingstreets to join in the chase. Notwithstanding her numerous pursuers shemade her way down Oxford-street and into Stratford-place, where she gotinto the corner next to the duke of St. Alban's house, and remainedquietly until she was taken alive by the duke's porter in the presenceof an immense concourse of spectators. 

"On the twenty-ninth of October last, in the afternoon, a fox was seencrossing the fields of Camptown in Bedfordshire, followed by ashepherd's dog. The fox first made his way into the grounds of thereverend Mr. Davies's boarding-school, at Campton, where the boys wereat play. Reynard was no sooner in the midst of this juvenile assemblythan a tumultuous uproar assailed him, from which he fled with all speedthrough a border plantation into the road, and crossing to the house ofthe reverend Mr. Williamson the minister of the parish, he boltedthrough the glass into the library. Here a female servant was cleaningthe room, who by the sudden and unexpected appearance of this newvisitor was thrown into fits. The family running into the apartmentfound the fox skulking in a corner, and the poor girl lying extended onthe floor. With some difficulty she was recovered, and master Reynardwas bagged for a future chase. Nobody can tell where the chasecommenced, but the dog is known to belong to a shepherd at Meppershall, the adjoining parish to Campton. 

"The Cranborne chase pack had one of the finest runs ever known in thewestern part of the kingdom. They unkennelled at Punpernwood, four mileseast of Blandford. The fox went off immediately for "the chase, " andhaving taken a round in the West-walk, broke off over Iwern hills, andentered the vale of Blackmore, leaving the parish of Shooten to theleft, making his play towards Duncliffwood near Shaston; but having beenheaded, he bent his course to the river Stow, which he boldly crossed indefiance of the flood, and after running the vale many miles passedthrough Piddleswood towards Okeford, Fitzpaine, but the hounds pressinghim hard he was obliged to return to the cover, where having taken aturn or two he broke on the opposite side near the town of Shirminster, and crossed the commons to Mr. Brunes's seat at Plumber, where heentered a summer-house, passed through the chimney flue, and entered adrain, whence being bolted, he was run into and killed at FifehideNeville, fourteen miles straight from the place where he was found, after a chase of two hours and ten minutes. 

BACKGAMMON. 

"It appears from the glossary to the Welch Laws that the game ofbackgammon was invented in Wales, sometime before the reign of Canutethe Great, and that it derived its name from _Back_, which in the welchlanguage meant _little_, and _Cammon_, which in the same languagesignified _Bottle_. 

"A blacksmith of Winchester in Hampshire, undertook, for a wager, toshoe six horses, and make the shoes and nails himself complete in _sevenhours_. He accomplished it in twenty-five minutes less than the time. 

"Mr. Brewer of the Crown inn, Nothingham, undertook for a wager of fortyguineas to go with a mare belonging to him in a cart, to Newark and backagain, being a distance of _forty miles, in four hours_. He performed itin twelve minutes less than the given time. Considerable bets were laidagainst the performance. The mare is under fourteen hands high. 

DICK THE HUNTER. 

"A poor fellow, half an ideot, has by his singularity got himself sonoticed by the sporting gentlemen at Newmarket, that his picture hasbeen painted by Mr. Chalon, and engravings from it have been published. He was intended for a blacksmith, but being untractable, was allowed tofollow his own inclination. Being always fond of hunting he soonattracted the attention of the gentlemen of the chase, and never failedjoining the hounds whenever they made their appearance. Dick is such anamazing swift runner that he keeps in with the hounds for many milestogether, to the surprise of all the gentlemen, who confess him to be avery useful man among them, as he instantly discovers the track of afox, and is very clever at finding a hare sitting, and who thereforesupport him. He never goes out without carrying a knife, a fork, a spoonand a spur, which are all of his own making, a performance that showshim not to be destitute of ingenuity, as they are not separately made, but contained in one, and with these he is at once equipped either forsporting or eating. The spur he uses for pricking himself, which hefancies enables him to keep up with the hounds. He frequently uses it tothe no small amusement of the spectators. His dress is quite as singularas his mode of life, for he always wears a long surtout coat, a hunting-cap, a boot on one leg and a shoe on the foot of theother--and thus equipped he runs with the speed of a hunting-horse, clearing with ease all the ditches and fences the riders do. 

"One of the best packs of hounds in England was most completely beatlately by a fox. The latter was turned out before them near Wold Newton, in Yorkshire, and after running rings for sometime, went off forScarborough, near which place the hounds were so completely knocked upthat he beat them in view, for the huntsman could not get them a yardfurther--a number of riders lost their horses in the cars, and were seenwading up to their necks to catch them again. The fox ran upwards oftwenty miles. 

"In the discussions which have arisen in and out of parliament inEngland about the abolition of the Briton's old favourite sports, it wasconceded by all but a few, that from the custom of boxing, singlestickand backsword playing, wrestling, &c. Arose the good temper whichdistinguishes that people--Englishmen being less subject to violent fitsof anger than the people of any other nation in the world. In thecompass of eighteen pages of a work now before us we have details of noless than two grand matches of singlestick, one Wiltshire againstSomersetshire, and the other Somersetshire against all England, forlarge purses. In both cases the champions of Somerset county beat; andwhat must astonish those who hear it, the victors (though men in thelowest classes of life in one case) shared the prize with thevanquished. In the former, Somerset gave nine broken heads and receivedseven--in the latter, gave eight and received six. The Wiltshire menwent to Trowbridge in Somersetshire, the appointed place of meeting, attended by some of the leading gentry of Wiltshire, and the gentlemanwho was appointed by them to preside, bore public testimony to theliberal and kind treatment his countrymen experienced. 

"Any person who has seen the farce of Hob in the Well, performed, willremember to have seen a specimen of this kind of prize fighting, forwhich as well as wrestling, the people of Somersetshire have for agesbeen renowned. In Scotland they excel at the backsword--the Irish tooare admirable hands--but neither have the temper of the English;"Oppression makes a wise man mad;" what should it do then with a poorpeasantry? The tempers of the English have not had that to irritatethem. We will close this subject with a letter from an intelligentLondoner, who was travelling through Hampshire. 

"Passing, sometime since, through Rapley Dean, Hants, my attention beingattracted by a crowd of rustics on a little green near the road I turnedmy horse thither, and arrived in the time when a lame elderly man, who Iafterwards found was the knight marshal of the field, from the middle ofa ring made by ropes, proclaimed, that "a hat worth one guinea was to beplayed for at backsword; the breaker of most heads to bear away the hatand honour, " and inviting the youth there to contend for it. A littleafter, a young fellow threw his hat into the ring and followed, when thelame umpire called out "a challenge, " and proceeded to equip thechallenger for the game. His coat and waiscoat were taken off, his lefthand tied by a handkerchief to his left thigh, and a stick, with baskethilt, put into his hand; he then walked round the ring till a second hatwas thrown in, and the umpire called out, "the challenge is answered. "

"As soon as prepared, the knights met, measured weapons, shook hands, walked once round, turned and began the contest. In about a minute, theumpire called out "About, " when they dropped the points of their weaponsand walked round, and this calling I observed, was repeated as often asthe umpire judged either distressed. After some twenty minutes play, some blood trickled down the challenger's head; the umpire called"Blood;" and declared the other to have won a head. 

"When both left the ring another hat was thrown in, and the challengeagain accepted, and played off in the like manner, till the umpireannounced there were four winners of heads, and proceeded to call theties, that is, he called on the winners of the first two heads to playtogether, and afterwards on the winners of the third and fourth heads;after which the winners of two heads each played for the hat, and theproud victor (Morgan) thus to earn it, broke three heads. I was muchstruck with the amazing temper with which the game was played: not aparticle of ill-will was shown, two young fellows, who played togetherforty-five minutes, and in the course of it gave each other many severeblows, one alone of which would have satisfied the most unconscionabletaylor or man-milliner breathing, drank frequently together between thebouts, shaking hands as often as the weight of the blows given seemed torequire it of their good-nature. Indeed it appeared to be a rule witheach pair that played, to drink together after the contest, and ageneral spirit of harmony seemed to prevail. This game is certainly ofgreat antiquity, and the only relick (with the exception of wrestling)of the ancient tournament. The knight defied with throwing down his hator gauntlet--the rustic gamester does the same, and is equally courteouswith the knight towards his opponent: nor were there in this instancevillage dames or damsels wanting, to animate the prowess of the youth. 

"It has been asserted, that these exhibitions engender a ferociousspirit; but were I to judge from what I saw, and from the inquiries Imade into the characters of the players at Ropley Dean, from the farmerson my right and left, I should pronounce quite the contrary; and thinkthat as long as the sword is used by our cavalry and navy, and as longas we wish to entertain in the nation a fearless, generous, martialspirit, we should encourage the like pastimes at our fairs and revels. "

MISCELLANY. 

A general sense seems to pervade all the most intelligent men of GreatBritain that a reformation is wanting in almost every department of lifein that country. The corruption of public taste in dramatic literatureand acting, and in most of the fashionable amusements of the high flyerscries aloud, no less than that of the state, for a heavy-handed scourgeand receives it. Among other things, the _musico-mania_ is attacked ashaving reached the highest acmé of absurdity. The Covent Gardenproprietors are very roughly handled, but not more roughly than theydeserve, for hiring Madam Catalani at the enormous salary of fourthousand pounds sterling and a free benefit for the season, with aprovision annexed, which is thought insolent, degrading, and unjust; noless than that of her French husband putting what fiddlers he pleasesinto the orchestra. The public prints are filled with remonstrances tothe people, whose attention is directed to the storm which was raised ona similar occasion in 1755 and 1756, and which burst with suchtremendous mischief on the head of Garrick. One writer thus vehementlyexpresses himself: "Shall a judge of the land be required to exercisethe faculties of his vigorous mind, which have been cultivated andmatured by an expensive education and the most laborious study; shall hebe continually employed in discriminating between right and wrong, inthe adjustment of individual differences, and in protecting the personsand properties of the honest and peaceable part of his majesty'ssubjects from the assaults of violence and the stratagems of fraud;shall his sensibility be wounded, and his heart pierced by the painfulnecessity to which he is frequently reduced of passing on his fellow-manthose awful sentences which the nature of their crimes, and the voice ofJustice imperiously demand; shall he, in short, be compelled todischarge the duties of an office which necessarily renders his nightsanxious and restless, and subjects him in the day to the most irksomefatigue--and shall he, for all this fatigue of body and unremittingsolicitude of mind, receive a salary scarcely exceeding _half_ the sumgiven to an ITALIAN CANTATRICE for the display of her vocal powers for afew nights?"

The fact is that the robust and vigorous appetite of the English hasbeen worn down by the intemperate use of German dramas, and is sovitiated and enfeebled that it can swallow nothing but hot spiced trash, or water gruel spoon-meat. Are the French wrong in calling John Bull_stupide barbare_ when they see him pouring thousands into the laps offoreign singers--and for what?--why, to sing such songs as this:

 Tom Gobble was a grocer's son, Heigho! says Gobble; He gave a ven'son dinner for _fun_, And he had a belly as big as a _tun_, _With his handy dandy, bacon and gravy_, Ah, hah, says alderman Gobble. 

 The servants ushered the company in, Heigho! says Gobble; The dinner is ready, quoth Tom, with a grin, So he tucked a napkin under his chin, With his handy dandy, bacon and gravy, Ah, hah, says alderman Gobble, Then Betty the cook-maid she gave a squall, Heigho! says Gobble; Poor John the footman has had a fall, And down stairs tumbled, ven'son and all, With his handy dandy, bacon and gravy, Alas! says alderman Gobble. 

 So down the alderman ran in a fright, Heigho! says Gobble; And there sat John in a terrible plight Astride on the ven'son _bolt upright_, With his handy dandy, bacon and gravy, Dear me! says alderman Gobble. 

 Was ever man so cruelly put on, Heigho! says Gobble; Get off the meat you rascally glutton, You've made my ven'son a saddle of mutton, With your handy dandy, bacon and gravy, Good lack, says alderman Gobble. 

 Lord, sir, says Betty, what a _splash_, Heigho! says Gobble; 'Tis a monstrous bad _rumbistical_ crash, But tomorrow I'll tickle it up in a hash, With your handy dandy, bacon and gravy, Ay, do! says alderman Gobble. 

This vile, low, degrading farrago is taken from an opera called theRussian Impostor, or Siege of Sloremskho. 

After such trash it will be delightful to turn to some lines, written bylord Byron on this general subject of complaint. They are extracted froman excellent poem entitled "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, a Satire, " with notes by the author. 

 Now to the DRAMA turn--oh, motley sight! What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite! Puns, and a prince within a _barrel_ pent, [11] And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content. Though now, thank heaven! the _Roscio mania's_ o'er, And full-grown actors are endured once more; Yet, what avails their vain attempts to please, While British critics suffer scenes like these; While Reynolds vents his '_dammes_, _poohs_' and '_zounds_'[12] And common place, and common sense confounds? While Kenny's World just suffered to proceed, Proclaims the audience very kind indeed? And Beaumont's pilfer'd Caratach affords A tragedy complete in all but words?[13] Who but must mourn while these are all the rage, The degradation of our vaunted stage? Heavens! is all sense of shame and talent gone? Have we no living bard of merit?--none? Awake, George Colman! --Cumberland, awake! Ring the alarum bell, let Folly quake! Oh, Sheridan! if aught can move thy pen, Let Comedy resume her throne again, Abjure the mummery of German schools, Leave new Pizarros to translating fools; Give, as thy last memorial to the age, One classic drama, and reform the stage. Gods! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head, Where Garrick trod, and Kemble lives to tread? On those shall Farce display Buffoonery's mask, And Hook conceal his heroes in a _cask_? Shall sapient managers new scenes produce From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose? While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot, On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot? Lo! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim, The rival candidates for attic fame! In grim array though Lewis'[14] spectres rise, Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize. And sure _great_ Skeffington must claim our praise, For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays Renowned alike; whose Genius ne'er confines Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs;[15] Nor sleeps with 'Sleeping Beauties, ' but anon In five facetious acts comes thundering on, [16] While poor John Bull, bewildered with the scene, Keeps wondering what the devil it can mean; But as some hands applaud, a venal few! Rather than sleep, why John applauds it too. Such are we now, ah! wherefore should we turn To what our fathers were, unless to mourn? Degenerate Britons! are ye dead to shame, Or, kind to dulness, do you fear to blame? Well may the Nobles of our present race Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face; Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons, And worship Catalani's pantaloons, [17] Since their own drama yields no fairer trace Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace. Then let Ausonia, skill'd in ev'ry art To soften manners, but corrupt the heart, Pour her exotic follies o'er the town, To sanction Vice and hunt Decorum down: Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Deshayes, And bless the promise which his form displays; While Gayton bounds before the enraptured looks Of hoary marquises and stripling dukes: Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle Twirl her light limbs that spurn the needless veil; Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow, Wave the white arm and point the pliant toe; Collini trill her love-inspiring song, Strain her fair neck and charm the listening throng!

 [Footnote 11: In the melo-drama of Tekeli, that heroic prince is clapt into a barrel on the stage: a new asylum for distressed heroes!]

 [Footnote 12: All these are favourite expressions of Mr. R. And prominent in his comedies, living and defunct. ]

 [Footnote 13: Mr. T. Sheridan, the new manager of Drury Lane Theatre, stripped the tragedy of Bonduca of the Dialogue, and exhibited the scenes as the spectacle of Caractacus. Was this worthy of his sire, or of himself?]

 [Footnote 14: Oh, wonder-working Lewis! monk, or bard, Who fain would make Parnassus a church-yard! Lo! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, Thy Muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou! Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand, By gibbering spectres hail'd, thy kindred band; Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page, To please the females of our modest age. All hail, M. P. ![a] from whose infernal brain Thin sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train; At whose command, "grim women" throng in crowds, And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds, With "small gray men, " "wild yagers, " and what not, To crown with honour thee and Walter Scott: Again, all hail! if tales like thine may please, [b]St. Luke's alone can vanquish the disease; Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell, And in thy skull discern a deeper hell. 

 [Footnote 14a: See a poem to Mr. Lewis, in the Statesman, supposed to be written by Mr. Jekyll. ]

 [Footnote 14b: St. Luke's is an hospital for lunatics in London. _Editor of the Mirror. _] ]

 [Footnote 15: Mr. Greenwood is, we believe, scene-painter to Drury Lane Theatre--as such, Mr. S. Is much indebted to him. ]

 [Footnote 16: Mr. S. Is the illustrious author of the "Sleeping Beauty" and some Comedies, particularly "Maids and Bachelors. " _Baculaurii Baculo magis quam lauro digni. _]

 [Footnote 17: Naldi and Catalani require little notice--for the visage of the one and the salary of the other, will enable us long to recollect these amusing vagabonds; besides, we are still black and blue from the squeeze on the first night of the lady's appearance in trowsers. ]

A London critic adds the following pertinent observations: "Thus far ourauthor concerning the stage, to which we add an observation or two ofour own. We certainly think the _barrel_ a curious asylum for adistressed prince; but when we reflect on what kind of princes andheroes the modern stage and modern authors exhibit, (the seige of St. Quintin for instance, by the same author, Mr. Hook) we cannot helpexclaiming (no plagiarism, we hope)

 We with the sentence are indeed content, To see _such_ princes in _such_ barrels pent. 

And as a barrel is described by our best lexicographers to be "any thinghollow, " what vehicle more appropriate could be found? The ingeniousauthor, was surely a favourite of the barrel, and well acquainted withthe virtues of a _cask_; although according to sir Walter Raleigh, "someare so ill-seasoned and conditioned that a great part of the contents isever lost and cast away. "

Respecting Mr. Reynolds's indulgence of himself, in perpetual repetitionof his vocables, [18] we should be glad to have it in our power to affirmthat the _beef and mutton_[19] author was the only one who disgracedhimself by such contemptible degradation; but, alas! the pages of ourwork have too often exhibited similar complaints against the majority ofour great playwrights--many of these _gentlemen_ being reduced tosilence, without their auxiliary _dammes_!

 [Footnote 18: Damme, pooh, zounds, &c. ]

 [Footnote 19: "Authors have lived and still live who write for what they call _fame_! --For my part I write for more substantial food--_beef_ and _mutton_ are the objects of my ambition. " --_Reynold's Preface to Begone Dull Care. _]

We differ widely from our author respecting Mr. T. Sheridan's_stripping_ of Bonduca--for we really think it worthy the son of thatpoet, who, neglecting his own genius and the duties of a regularpractitioner, condescends to turn quack, and bedizen that high Germandoctor Pizarro, in an English dress!!

Apropos of awaking George Colman! --We beg the noble lord's pardon; butwe are not in such a violent hurry to disturb this gentleman; for if, when awake, he should not acquit himself better than in his lastproduction of the Africans, we think the sounder he sleeps the moresolid will be his reputation. Therefore, Sleep on, George Colman! prithee, don't awake! Nor let the alarum bell thy slumbers shake! Lest jokes like _Mugg's_[20] should make our senses quake!

 [Footnote 20: One of Mr. Colman's witty characters in the _Africans_. ]

Why our author has coupled John Kemble's name with that of Garrick wecannot conceive; but that there appears more rhyme than reason in it, wecan safely aver. We have somewhere heard that "a live ass is better thana dead lion, " which we quote, not as individually applicable, but as ageneral adage; for we disclaim personalities, and well know that J. K. Is an eminent actor, and one whom we have not niggardly praised. Yet wewill not disparage departed excellence for any person existing; andtherefore cannot avoid wishing our young author had seen Garrick, andbearing in his "mind's eye" his natural acting of Lear, Hamlet, Macbeth, Richard, &c. --he might then go and witness the performances of Mr. Kemble--and judge!

CORRESPONDENCE. 

The conductors of the Mirror of Taste, and Dramatic Censor, have alreadyto make acknowledgments to correspondents. Scarcely had their intentionbeen promulgated when they were favoured with a letter, which, in lessthan a week afterwards was followed by two more, all of them upon thesame subject, though evidently written by different persons. It hadbefore been the intention of the conductors to call the public attentionvery soon to that very point to which these letters are intended todirect them; and conceiving that a fairer occasion for doing so canhardly occur than these letters afford them, they hasten to lay thecontents of them before the public. 

"_To the Conductors of the Dramatic Work to be published by Messrs. Bradford and Inskeep. _

_November 27. _

"Sirs, "From what I can learn about your intended publication I like the idea, and have no doubt it may be of great use. I have often said that such athing was much wanting, for I look upon a playhouse to be a very goodthing, often keeping young men from worse places, and young women fromworse employment. But if our playhouse goes on as it does, it will soonbe a worse place to go to than any I allude to. Last evening I broughtmy family to see the play, and I assure you, I often wished we were allaway again, the scandalous talk in the gallery was so bad. The noise wasso great that there was no hearing any thing else. The players' voiceswere ten or a dozen times interrupted so that they could not be heard, and two or three fellows in the gallery were particularly scandalous. Above all the rest there was one, a finished vagabond, who spoke smutand roared it out loud, directing it to the ladies in the boxes. If anyof you was there, gentlemen, you must have noticed it; if not, I can'twrite such filthy words as was spoken the whole evening. My wife beggedme to come away on our little girl's account who was with us. It is notthe players you ought to criticise, they behave themselves--but it isthose vagabonds that think they have a right to disturb the housebecause they pay their half dollar a piece. I think it your duty to takenotice of this, and I beg you will. 

A CITIZEN. "

N. B. They in the pit were bad enough, and so was some in the boxes. 

_To the Editors of the Mirror, &c. _

"Gentlemen, "As your intended publication is to come out monthly, I am doubtfulwhether I should trouble you on the present occasion; more particularlyas you may probably think of the matter yourselves without a hintfrom me. Besides, I am not sure whether it is not the duty of theeditors of the daily papers rather than yours. For my part, I think itis the duty of all people who regard the credit of the city, or tenderthe peaceableness and comfort of society. Our theatre, gentlemen, hassunk to the worst state imaginable of licentiousness and savage riot. Don't mistake me--I don't mean behind the curtain; but before it. Whilewe hold ourselves so proudly to the world, what must those foreignersthink of us who visit our theatre. From a place of rational recreation, and improvement, it has become a mere bear-garden. The play isinterrupted, and all enjoyment, save that of riot and brawling, killedin various ways. The very boxes themselves are no sanctuary fromruffianish incivility; while the ears are stunned, and the cheek ofDecency crimsoned with the profaneness, obscenity, and senseless brawlof barbarians in the gallery, the sight is intercepted, and all comfortdestroyed by the unmannerly and unjust conduct of intruders in the boxesand pit, who think they have a right to push in and even stand up beforeanother who has been previously seated, provided they have bodilystrength to make good their violence. I say, gentlemen, this ought to bestopped. The spirit of the manager at New-York, backed by the laws, hasput an end to it there, so far, that no theatre in Europe precedes it inorder and decency. The same power exists here and ought to be exercised. These things disgrace the city as well as annoy our audiences, and Ithink our daily editors on both sides would evince their regard for thepublic by giving a few lines every day to the reform of this evil tillit shall be abated. The proprietors and manager ought to call a meeting, invoke the aid of the magistrates and the people, and come to somedecisive resolutions on the subject. 

Forensis. "

COMMUNICATION. 

_For the Mirror, &c. _

"The manager, or the magistrates, or somebody is greatly to blame aboutthe playhouse. I brought my family to the pit to see that great actor, Cooper, play Zanga. We sat in the pit the whole time the blackguardswere throwing down various kinds of things upon our heads. Scraps ofapples, nutshells in handfulls, and what is worse something I can't wellname--some about me said that brandy or strong grog was thrown down--itmight be so once;--but it was not exactly that which fell on me and myfamily. Since then, I went to see him in Macbeth, and left my wife anddaughter at home for fear; and the fellows above were as bad asbefore--and had not I luckily kept my hat on I should once have got myhead broke with a hard heavy hiccory-nut that was thrown with all theforce and spitefulness as if the person wanted to hurt somebody veryseverely. "

We agree with our correspondents that some prompt and effectual remedyought to be applied to the evils of which they complain: and we aresurprised it has not yet been done, because every person with whom anyof us converses, makes pretty nearly the same complaint, and expressesthe very same wish. 

In every country there exist multitudes as well disposed as those nowalluded to, to disturb the playhouse, and bring brutal riot within itswalls--but they will not be allowed. Any one who reads Colquhoun'saccount of London and its rabble, will perceive that there are peopleenough there ready to do offensive offices for the pure sake of offenceand savageness; but not only the magistrates, but the audiencethemselves will not put up with it. The latter generally abate thenuisance in a summary way--they turn out the offender; and the lawwarrants, and if necessary aids them. If our audience suffer theseencroachments what will be the fair conclusion, but that they concurwith the offenders. 

It was but a few nights ago, a company (of perhaps ten, ) converted theboxes into a grog shop--brought jug and bottle, and glass, and tumblerinto the front seats, and there caroused, laughing, talking aloud, andswearing aloud, even during the performance. On the night the Revengewas performed, even while Mr. Cooper was engaged in a most interestingscene, a boy, not in mean clothes either, stood up at the front cornerof the gallery, roaring out and speaking as loud as he could to some oneon the opposite side. Yet this, were it not for the time it happened, was to the surrounding tumult, as a dying sigh to the roar of anorthwester. 

It cannot be doubted that in a civilized society like this, some legalmeans must exist to put an end to these grievances. There are othergrievances, however, that cannot be so _immediately_ made the subject ofredress by the magistrate, but which, nevertheless, require correction, and would never occur if every one who can afford to wear such a coat asgentlemen wear, could imitate the manners of gentlemen as well as theycan ape their dress. By a number of _well-coated_ persons of this kind, the time immemorial privileges of the theatre are violated, and itscustomary rights denied. Provided they think themselves able to scuffleit out by bodily strength they will indulge themselves at the expense ofothers--one of those will sit before a lady and refuse to take off hishat--another coming late will force his way contrary to all right andusage, before a person who has an hour before taken his seat--and ifspoken to, utter surly defiance. Against every such unmannered intruder, the whole audience ought, for the establishment of the general right andthe good old custom, to make common cause, and thrust him out by force. No doubt there are drawcansirs enough to push this offence as far as itwill go. Let them know that there have been and still are drawcansirs inEngland, Ireland and Scotland--that Dublin particularly was once full ofthem; but that they were soon brought to manners by the just resentmentof the audience--the gripe of the constable, and the contempt of everybody. 

INDEX. 

 A Actors, animadversion on WOOD, in Rapid, 62 Rolla, 65 Reuben Glenroy, 67 Harry Dornton, 73 Bob Handy, 76 Alonzo, 229, 337 Jaffier, 337 Copper Captain, 339 Prince of Wales, 339 CONE, Alonzo, 65 Henry, 76 WARREN, Las Casas, 65 Abel Handy, 76 Falstaff, 344 Cacafogo, 344 JEFFERSON, Frank Oatland, 62 Orozimbo, 65 Cosey, 67 Goldfinch, 73 Farmer Ashfield, 75 M'KENZIE, Sir Hubert Stanley, 62 Pizarro, 65 Old Norval, 155 FRANCIS, Vortex, 62 Trot, 68 Mrs. WOOD, Jessy Oatland, 62 Cora, 66 Mrs. FRANCIS, Mrs. Vortex, 62 Dame Ashfield, 76 Mrs. SEYMOUR, 62 PAYNE, in Douglas, 145 Octavian, 220 Frederick, 221 Zaphna and Selim, 222 Tancred, 222 Romeo, 223 COOPER, Othello, 225 Zanga, 227 Richard, 230 Pierre, 230 Hamlet, 231 Macbeth, 231 Hotspur, 234 Michael Ducas, 234 Alexander, 422 Antony, Jul. Cæs. 420 WEST, 68, bis DWYER, Belcour, 425 Tangent, 427 Ranger, 427 Vapid, 427 Liar, 427 Rapid, 427 Sir Charles Racket, 427 Advice to conductors of magazines, 402 Æschylus, 114, 189 Alleyn, the player, account of, 45 Anecdotes and good things Dick the Hunter, 92 Dr. Young, 181 Othello burlesqued, 181 Voltaire, 184 Louis XIV. 184 Mara and Florio, 185 Macklin, 247, 248, 397, 408, 409 Mozart, the composer, 257 Old Wignell, 343 Macklin and Foote, 397 Impertinent _Petit Maitre_, 406 Curious Slip Slop, 406 Specific for blindness, 407 Kemble and a stage tyro, 407 Kemble's bon mot on Sydney playhouse, 407 Irish forgery, 407 Woman and country magistrate, 408 French dramatic, 481 Bacon and cabbage, 485 Apparition, sable or mysterious bell-rope, 325 Aristophanes, 269 Authors' benefits see Southern, 502

 B Barry, the great player, account of, 298 Bedford, duke of, monument, 317 Betterton, the great actor, 133, 213 Biography, 24, 118, 202, 357 Bull, a dramatic one, 505

 C Carlisle, countess of, opinion of drama, 398 Catalani, madam, 96 Cibber, Colley, his merit, 506 Coffee and Chocolate, account of, 311 Cone, see actors Cooper, life of, 28 Cooper, see actors Cooper, account of his acting, 223 Correspondence on abuses of the Theatre, 103, 104 ----, from Baltimore on Theatricals, 157 ----, from New-York, ditto, 414

 D Dramatic Censor, 49, 141, 220, 337, 414 Drama, Grecian, 109, 189, 269, 350 ----, lady Carlisle's opinion on, 398 Dwyer, actor, 235 ----, see actors. Dramaticus, 251, 328, 502 Dungannon, famous horse, 500

 E Edenhall, luck of, old ballad, 487 Edward and Eleonora, remarks on, 502 English, parallel between English men and English mastiffs, by cardinal Ximenes, 88 Epilogues, humorous ones after tragedies censured, 400 Euripides, 195

 F Francis, see actors ----, Mrs. , ibid. Fullerton, actor, driven to suicide, 504

 G German Theatre, vindication of, by Dramaticus, 251 Gifford, Wm. Life of, 357, 447 Greek drama, 109, 189, 269, 350

 H History of the stage, 9, 109, 189, 269, 350, 431 High Life below Stairs, account of, 506 Hodgkinson, biography of, 202, 283, 368, 457

 I Irish bulls, specimen of, 455 Jefferson, see actors

 L Lear, essay on the alterations of it, 391 Le Kain, the French actor, account of, 438 Lewis, his retirement from the stage, 185 Literary World, what is it? 406 Longevity, instance of, 496 Lover general, a rhapsody, 399

 M Macklin checked practice of hissing, 504 Man and Wife, a comedy, 188 Menander, 350 Metayer Henry, anecdote of with Theobald, 503 M'Kenzie, see actors Milton and Shakspeare, comparison between, 248 Miscellany, 96, 173, 241, 307, 384, 467 Music, 81, 257 ----, Oh think not my spirits are always as light, a song by Anacreon Moore, 83 ----, Irish, 161 Musical performance, expectation of a grand one, 428

 N New-York reviewers impeached, 505 Nokes, comedian, 381

 O O'Kelly's horse Dungannon, 500 Originality in writing, Voltaire's idea of, 184 Otway, observations on, 502

 P Payne, American young Roscius, criticised on, 141, 220, 241 ----, see actors Pedestrianism, humorous essay on, 262 Players celebrated compared with celebrated painters, 387 Plays, names of, attached to each No. Foundling of the Forest, No. I Man and Wife, No. II Venoni, No. III New Way to pay Old Debts, No. IV Alfonso, king of Castile, No. V The Free Knights, No. VI Plays criticised in the Censor Cure for the Heart-ach, 59 Pizarro, 62 Town and Country, 66 Ella Rosenberg, 69 Wood Demon, 71 Abaellino, 73 Road to Ruin, 73 Speed the Plough, 74 Man and Wife, 188 Foundling of the Forest, 80, 345 Africans, 418 Poetry Tom Gobble, 97 English bards and Scotch reviewers, extract from, 98 Occasional prologue on the first appearance of Miss Brunton, afterwards Merry and Warren, at Bath, 121 Latin verses on do. And translation, 124 Prologue on first appearance, of the same lady in London, by A. Murphy, 126 Duck shooting, 172 A true story, 183 Lewis's address on taking leave of Ireland, 187 On the death of Mrs. Warren, 246 Descent into Elisium, 253 Gracy Nugent, by Carolan, 261 O never let us marry, 324 Epilogue by Sheridan, censuring humourous ones after tragedies, 401 Logical poem on chesnut horse and horse chesnut, 404 Quin, an anecdote in verse, 409 Luck of Edenhall, 487 The parson and the nose, 495 Solitude, advantages of for study, 495 Soldier to his horse, 499 Prospectus, 1

 R Reviews of New-York impeached, 505

 S Seymour, Mrs. See actors She would and she would not, merit of, 506 Southern, 502 Socrates, death of, 280 Sophocles, 189 SPORTING, 85, 164, 262, 410, 499 Spain, divertissements in, 495 Strolling Player, a week's journal of, 396 Stage, history of, 8, 9, 109, 189, 269, 350

 T Taylor, Billy, critique on ballad, 467 Thespis, account of, 113 Theobaldus Secundus, 173, 241, 307, 384 Theatre, misbehaviour there, 267 Theobald, his theft from Metayer, 503 Theatrical contest, Barry and Garrick, in Romeo, 507 Thornton, Col. His removal from York to Wilts, 164

 V Voltaire, his idea of originality in writing, 184

 W Warren, Mrs. Life of, 118 Warren, actor, see actors West, see actors Wit, pedigree of, by Addison, 406 Wife, essay on the choice of, 477 Wood, actor, see actors ----, Mrs. , ibid. 

 Y Young, celebrated actor, 236

 Z Zengis, so unintelligible audience not understand it, 507

 * * * * * * * * *

Errors and Inconsistencies: The Mirror of Taste

 Spellings were changed only when there was an unambiguous error, or the word occurred elsewhere with the expected spelling. 

_Unchanged:_ But this can no more be alledged Congreve and other cotemporary authors melo-drame [most common spelling for this publication] the excressences of overloaded society Ella Rozenberg [this spelling is used in the header and first citation; later references use "Rosenberg"] put his hand to their heads and give them a lanch A poor fellow, half an ideot His coat and waiscoat were taken off

_Corrected:_ From Edinburgh he went with the company [Edinburg] notwithstanding the difficulty [dfficulty] the reviewers spoke with decided approbation [appprobation] Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceiv'd in the adjustment of individual differences [idividual] While Reynolds vents his '_dammes_, _poohs_' and '_zounds_'[12] [word "and" italicized]

_Index_: Missing or inconsistent punctuation has been silently regularized. 

 _Poetry_ Soldier to his horse, 499 [tohis] Zengis, so unintelligible audience not understand it [word missing in original]

 * * * * * * * * *

 THE FOUNDLING OF THE FOREST:

 A PLAY. 

 By WILLIAM DIMOND, Esq. 

 Author of "Adrian and Orrila, " "Hero of the North, " "Hunter of the Alps, " &c. &c. 

 "And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy. " _Beattie. _

 Published by Bradford and Inskeep, Philadelphia; Inskeep and Bradford, New-York; and William M'ilhennny, Boston. 

 Smith and Maxwell, Printers. 

 1810. 

THE FOUNDLING OF THE FOREST. 

DRAMATIS PERSONAE. 

 Count De Valmont. Baron Longueville. Florian, _a foundling adopted by De Valmont_. Bertrand, _valet to Longueville_. L'Eclair, _valet to Florian_. Gaspard, _an old domestic_. Sanguine, } _bravoes in the pay of Longueville_. Lenoire, }

 Geraldine, _niece to De Valmont_. Rosabelle, _her woman_. Monica, _an old woman_. Unknown Female. _Domestics, Peasants, Dancers, &c. &c. _

 SCENE--_The Chateau de Valmont and its environs, situate in the upper Alsace, near the River Rhine. _

ACT I. 

 SCENE I. --_A hall in the Chateau de Valmont. _

 Enter _Bertrand_, in agitation, followed by _Longueville_. 

_Ber. _ Forbear, my lord! to urge me further. --Would you tempt me toinsure perdition?--my soul is heavy enough with weight of crimesalready. 

_Long. _ Hypocrite! You, whom I have known in childhood--a villain, evenfrom the cradle--committing crimes as pastimes--has your hand beenexercised thus long in blood, to shake with conscience, and desert menow?

_Ber. _ I have, indeed, deserved reproaches, but not from your lips, my lord! Remember, for you it was this hand was first defiled withblood--remember, too--

_Long. _ Yes, villain! I do remember, that my misplaced bounty once gaveyou back a forfeit life. Twenty years past, when, as a deserter, youwere sentenced, by the regiment under my command, to death, your fatewas inevitable, had not I vouchsafed a pardon. Traitor! you, too, hadbest remember a solemn oath at that same period passed your lips, whichbound you, soul and body, to my service ever--unscrupling to perform mypleasures, whether good or ill, and still to hold my secrets fast fromearthly ears, though unabsolving priests renounced you on the death-bed. 

_Ber. _ (_shuddering_) Ay! ay! it was an oath of horror, and if youcommand, it must be kept. Well, then--the young, the brave, the good, kindhearted Florian--yes--he dies!

_Long. _ Then only may your master be esteemed to live. 

_Ber. _ But whence this hatred to an unoffending youth?--one, whose formdelights all eyes, and whose virtues are the theme of every tongue?

_Long. _ Fool! that person and those virtues of which you vaunt, arewith me his worst offences--they have undone my love and marred myfortunes--the easy heart of Geraldine is captivated by the stripling'sspecious outside, while his talents and achievements secure him with theuncle undivided favour. 

_Bert. _ Can nothing but his blood appease your enmity?

_Long. _ Nothing--for now my worst suspicions stand confirmed. I havedeclared to De Valmont my passion for his niece, and the sullenvisionary has denied my suit--nay, insolently told me "Geraldine'saffections are another's right. " --Curses on that minion's head!--'tisfor Florian De Valmont's heiress is reserved--and shall I suffer thisvile foundling, this child of charity, to lord it over those estates, for which my impatient soul has paid a dreadful earnest! No, by heavens!never!

_Bert. _ Fatal avarice! already have we bartered for those curst estatesour everlasting peace!--for those did midnight flames surprise the sleepof innocence--for those did the sacrificed Eugenia with her shriekingbabe--

_Long. _ Wretch! dare not repeat those names! Now, mark me: this nightFlorian returns a triumpher from his campaign--two of my trustyblood-hounds watch the road to give me timely note of his approach. Oneonly follower attends the youth. In the thick woods 'twixt the chateauand Huningen, an ambush safely laid, may end my rival and my fearsforever. In the west avenue, at sunset, I command your presence. Markme! I command you by your oath. [_Exit. _

_Bert. _ Miserable man! I am indeed a slave, soul and body--both are inthe thrall! I know the fiend I serve. If I attempt to fly, his vengefulagency pursues me to the world's limit. No--my doom is fixed--I mustremain the very wretch I am for life--and after life--Oh! let me notthink of that!

 Enter _Rosabelle_ behind, who taps his shoulder. 

_Ros. _ Talking to yourself, Mr. Bertrand? that's not polite in a lady'scompany. 

_Bert. _ (_starting_) Ah! Rosabelle--good lass!--how art, Rosabelle?

_Ros. _ Why, Mr. Bertrand, how pale you look, and your limbs quitetremble--I fear me you are ill. 

_Bert. _ Oh, no--I am well--quite well--never better. 

_Ros. _ Then you are out of spirits. 

_Bert. _ You mistake--I am all happiness--ha! ha!--all joy!

_Ros. _ What! because the wars are over, and chevalier Florian returns tous?--'tis a blest hearing, truly--after all the hardships and dangers hehas passed to see him once again in safety--

_Bert. _ (_involuntarily_) Ah! would to heaven we might!

_Ros. _ Can there be any doubt? He reaches the chateau this night--willhe not be in safety then?

_Bert. _ Yes, yes, with this night every danger certainly will cease. 

_Ros. _ Bertrand! why do you rub your hand before your eyes?--surely youare weeping. 

_Bert. _ No, 'tis a momentary pain that--but 'twill leave me soon. Atnight, Rosabelle, you shall see me jovial--joyous!--we'll dancetogether, wench--ay, and sing--then--ha! ha! ha!--then who so mirthful, who so mad, as Bertrand. [_Exit. _

_Ros. _ What new spleen has bewitched the man? he is ever in some sullenmood, with scowling brows, or else in a cross-arm'd fit of melancholy;but I never marked such wildness in his looks and words before. 

 [_Geraldine_ speaks without. 

_Ger. _ Rosabelle. 

_Ros. _ Here, my lady, in the hall. 

 Enter _Geraldine_. 

_Ger. _ Girl! I have cause to chide you; my toilette must be changed--youhave dressed me vilely--here! remove these knots--I hate their fashion. 

_Ros. _ Yet they are the same your ladyship commended yesterday. 

_Ger. _ Then 'tis the colour of my robe offends me--these ornaments are afalse match to it--either all the mirrors in the house have warped sinceyesterday, or never did I look so ill before. 

_Ros. _ Now, in my poor judgment, you rarely have looked better. 

_Ger. _ Out! fool; you have no judgment. 

_Ros. _ Well, fool or not, there's one upon the road who holds faith withme, or I'm a heretic. Your charms will shine bright enough, lady, todazzle a soldier's eye. 

_Ger. _ Ah! no, Rosabelle--you would deceive your mistress. Florianreturns not as he left us; his travelled eyes have gazed on beauties ofthe polished court--and now he will despise the wild untutoredGeraldine. 

_Ros. _ Will he? Let him beware he shows not his contempt before me. What! my own beautiful and high-born mistress; the greatest heiress inall Alsace; to be despised by a foundling, picked up in a forest, andreared upon her uncle's charity?

_Ger. _ Hush!--the mystery of my Florian's birth is his misfortune, butcannot be his reproach. Our countrymen may dispute his title to command, but our enemies have confessed his power to conquer; and trust me, girl, the brave man's laurel blooms with as fresh an honour in the poorpeasant's cap as when it circles princely brows; nay, Justice deems itof a nobler growth, for Flattery often twines the laurel round acoronet, but Truth alone bestows it on the unknown head. 

_Ros. _ I confess the Chevalier is a proper gallant for any woman. Ay, and so is the Chevalier's man. I warrant me, that knave, L'Eclair, whenhe returns, will follow me about, wheedling and whining, to recollectcertain promises. Well, well, let but the soldiers return with wholehearts from the war, and your ladyship and myself know how to rewardfidelity. In sooth, the chateau has been but a doleful residence intheir absence; the count never suffered his dwelling to be a merry one;but of late his strange humours have so increased, that the householdmight as well have lodged in purgatory. 

_Ger. _ Hold! I must not hear my uncle's name pronounced with levity. Anangel at his birth, mingled the divine spirit with less than humanfrailty; but fiends have since defaced the noble work with more thanhuman trials. That fatal night, when the fierce Huguenots fired hiscastle, and buried both his wife and infant in the blazing ruin; thatnight of horrors has to his shocked and shrinking fancy still been everpresent; there still it broods--settled, perpetual and alone! Ah!Rosabelle! the petulancies of misfortune claim our pity, not resentment. My dear uncle is a recluse, but not a misanthrope; he rejects thesociety of mankind, yet is he solicitous for their happiness; and whilehis own heart breaks in silence under a weight of undivided sorrows, does he not seek incessantly to alleviate the burthen of his complainingbrethren?

_Ros. _ I know the count has an excellent heart; but surely his temperhas its flaws. 

_Ger. _ And shall we deem the sun that cheers the season less gracious inits course, because a cloud at intervals may hide or chill its beams?(_A bell rings_). Hark! 'tis the bell of his chamber. Perhaps he willadmit me now; for four days past I have applied at the door in vain. Ahme!--these constant growing maladies sometimes make me tremble for hislife. Girl! if from the turret-top at distance you espy the hasteningtravellers, turn, swift as thought, and call me to partake your watch! [_Exit. _

_Ros. _ If they arrive before sun-set, I'm sure I shall know L'Eclair amile off by the saucy toss of his head: before that rogue went on thecampaign, he certainly extorted some awkward kind of promises from me. As a woman of honour, I'm afraid it must be kept; I don't want ahusband--oh! no, positively--to be sure, winter is coming on, my chamberfaces the north, and when the nights are long, and dark, and cold, whenthe wind blusters, and the hail patters at the casement, then a solitarywoman is apt to have strange fancies, and sometimes to wish that--well, well, my promise must be kept at all events. 

SONG. --_Rosabelle. _

 Oh! come away! my soldier boy, From war to peace incline thee; Thy laurel, Time shall ne'er destroy. But Love with roses twine thee. Come, come away, Love chides thy stay, Oh! prithee come my soldier!

 Let fife and drum preserve their place, While softer sounds delight thee; The fiddle shall our wedding grace, But _horns_ shall never fright thee. Come, come away, Love chides thy stay, Oh! prithee come my soldier!

 [Exit. 

 SCENE II. --_A saloon: a large window is open and discovers the gardens: the noise of song and dance is heard immediately below the window. _

CHORUS. 

 Sing farewell labour, Blow pipe and beat tabor, Fly care far away; In light band advancing, Let music and dancing Proclaim holyday. 

 _De Valmont_ opens the door of an inner chamber, and crosses the stage with a quick petulant step, to ring a bell in the saloon: no answer is immediately given, and he repeats the ring with increased fretfulness. 

 Enter _Gaspard_. 

_De Val. _ So! am I heard! old man! to what strange dwelling have I beenborne while sleeping? and who is your new master?

_Gas. _ Alack! your lordship is in your own fair castle, nor other masterthan yourself do I, or any of my fellows serve--a kind and noble master. 

_De Val. _ You tell me wonders; I thought the master in his house hadborne command among his people, but here it seems, each groom is moreabsolute in his humours than the lord; how is't? do I clothe and feed apampered herd, but to increase my torments? when I would muse inprivacy, must I be baited still, and stunned with crowds and clamours?knave! drive the rabble from my gate, and rid my ears of discord. 

_Gas. _ Well-a-day! who could have foreseen this anger? my good lord 'tisbut your tenantry rejoicing: this morning, I distributed your lordship'sbounty among them to celebrate chevalier Florian's return; and now thehonest grateful souls would fain thank their benefactor by the song thattells him they are happy. 

_De Val. _ Their thanks are hateful to me; ungenerous wretches! is it notenough that they are happy whilst I am miserable, but they must mock myanguish by a saucy pageant of their joys, and force my shrinking sensesmore keenly to remark the contrast of our fates? (_Tabors, &c. Without. _) Quick! quick! begone and drive them from my gate (_stampsimperatively_). 

_Gas. _ (_frighted_) I am gone, my lord! --I am gone. 

_De Val. _ Hold! another word--perhaps the unthinking creatures mightdesign this torture kindly, and I would not punish the mistakes ofignorance. Do not dismiss them harshly--I would have them indulge theirgayety, but I cannot bear to be a witness of it. Gaspard, this house isMelancholy's chosen home; and its devoted master's heart, like anight-bird that abhors the animating sun, has been so long familiarizedto misery, it sickens and recoils at the approach of mirth. 

_Gas. _ (_pressing his hand_) My kind, unfortunate, my beloved master!

_De Val. _ (_snatching it from him_) Pshaw! I loathe pity-- (_shouts_)--hark! again! go, go, send them from the gate, but not harshly. 

 [Exit _Gaspard_. 

_De Val. _ All hearts rejoicing; mine only miserable! every peasantyielding to delight, their lord alone devoted to despair; a subtle, slowdespair that, drop by drop, congeals the blood of life, yet will not bidthe creeping current quite forbear to flow; that has borne its victimjust to the sepulchre 's tempting edge, but holds him there to envy, notpartake its slumbers. Well, well, your own appointed hour, justheavens!--if it be the infirmity of man to repine here, it is theChristian's hope to rejoice hereafter. 

 Re-enter _Gaspard_. 

_Gas. _ I've sent them hence; they'll not be heard again; but since theymay not thank, they are gone to pray for you--Mass! I had nighforgotten--young Madam Geraldine is in the anti-room, and waits to seeyour lordship. 

_De Val. _ Admit her! (_Exit_ Gaspard) My gentle one! my desolate, orphanmaid, if any softening drop were yet permitted in my cup of bitters, I think the affectionate hand of Geraldine would mingle and prepare itfor my lip. 

 Enter _Geraldine_. 

_Ger. _ (_Tenderly embracing him_) Ah! my dear, dear uncle! how am Irejoiced by a permission to visit you again; for four long days you havesecluded yourself, and indeed I have been so distressed--but I will notspeak of past anxieties now; war restores its hero to our vows; Florianreturns to us--are not you quite happy, uncle?

_De Val. _ Happy? I? my good child--do not mock me. 

_Ger. _ Nay, could I intend--

_De Val. _ Well! let it pass; you it seems, my Geraldine, are reallyhappy; your lips confess much, but your eyes still betray more--niece, you love my adopted Florian. 

_Ger. _ Love! fy, uncle--Oh yes, yes, I do certainly love him like abrother. 

_De Val. _ Something better. --Suppose I should offer this Florian to youas a husband

_Ger. _ (_looking down demurely. _) I never presume to dispute my dearuncle's commands. 

_De Val. _ Little equivocator! answer me strictly: do you not wish tobecome his wife?

_Ger. _ Indeed, I never yet have asked my heart that question. 

_De Val. _ But if Florian married any other woman, would you not hate theobject of his preference?

_Ger. _ (_throwing herself upon his neck. _) Ah! uncle, you have mysecret: no, I would not hate my fortunate rival--I would pray for herhappiness, but my heart would break while it breathed that prayer!

_De Val. _ My excellent ingenuous child, indulge the virtuous emotions ofyour heart without disguise--Florian and Geraldine are destined for eachother. 

_Ger. _ Generous benefactor! what delightful dazzling visions your wordsconjure up to my imagination; the universe will concentrate within thefairy circle of our hearth; a waking consciousness of bliss will everfreshly dress our day in flowers, and at nights, fancy will gild ourpillow with the dream that merrily anticipates the future. 

_De Val. _ Enthusiast! you contemplate the ocean in a calm, nor dream howfrightfully a tempest may reverse the picture. 

_Ger. _ Ambitious pride may tremble at the storm, but true love, uncle, never can be wrecked; its constancy is strengthened, not impaired bytrials, and when adversity divorces us from common friendships, thechosen partners of each other's hearts a second time are married, andwith dearer rites. 

_De Val. _ (_averting his face with a look of anguish_) Girl!

_Ger. _ (_unnoticing his emotion_) Then if they have children, howsurpassing is the bliss, while their own gay prime is mellowly subsidinginto age, to trace the features and the virtues they adored in youth, renewed before their eyes, and feel themselves the proud and gratefulauthors of each other's joy--Ah! trust me, uncle! such a destiny isbeyond the reach of fortune's malice; 'tis the anti-type of heaven. 

_De Val. _ (_Grasping her hand suddenly, convulsed with agitation. _) 'Tisthe distracting mockery of hell that cheats us with an hour's ecstaticdream to torture us eternally: girl! girl! wouldst thou find happiness, die! seek it in the grave, only in the grave--a watchful fiend destroysit upon earth! Prat'st thou of love? Connubial and parental love? Ah!dear-lov'd objects of my soul! what are ye now--ashes, ashes, darklyscattering to the midnight winds. God! the flames yet blaze--here, here--my brain's on fire! [_Rushes out. _

_Ger. _ Uncle! listen to your Geraldine! --Ah! ingrate that I am! thevulture that gnaws his generous heart, had slumbered for a moment, and Ihave waked it to renew its cruelty! my fault was unawares, yet I couldchide it like a crime; my mounting spirits fall from their giddy heightat once. Oh! uncle! noble, suffering uncle! would that my tears couldwash away the recollection of my words. [_Weeps. _

 _De Valmont_ suddenly returns and embraces _Geraldine_. 

_De Val. _ Geraldine! dear child, forgive me! my violence has terrifiedyour gentle nature. I would not pain you, love, for worlds; but I am notalways master of myself, and my passions will sometimes break forthrebellious to my reason; pity and forgive the infirmities of grief. 

_Ger. _ Ah! Sir. (_Attempts to kneel. _)

_De Val. _ (_Preventing her, and kissing her forehead. _) Bless you, mygood and innocent child; nay, do not speak to me, my happiness is lostforever, but I can pray for yours. Bless you, my child! bless you ever. [_Breaks from her, and exit. 

_Ger. _ My happiness! ah! if the exalted virtues of a soul like yours, myuncle, despair of the capricious boon, how shall the undeservingGeraldine presume to hope?

 Enter _Rosabelle_. 

_Ros. _ Oh! my lady, such news, he's arrived, he's in the hall. 

_Ger. _ My Florian?

_Ros. _ No, lady, not your Florian, but my L'Eclair, not quite so great ahero as his master to be sure, but yet a real, proper, mettlesomesoldier every inch; he looks about him among the men so fierce and sowarlike; then with the women, he's so impudent, and so audacious;--oh!he's a special fellow. 

 _L'Eclair_ speaks without. 

_L'Ec. _ Here's a set of rascals! no discipline? no subordination in thehouse! eh! look to the baggage, curry down my charger! hem! ha!

 Enter _L'Eclair_. 

Your ladyship's devoted servant, ever in the foremost rank! never did anine-pounder traverse the enemy's line with more promptitude than I, Phillippe L'Eclair, unworthy private of the fifth hussars, now fly tocast my poor person at your ladyship's gracious feet. 

_Ger. _ You are very welcome from the wars, L'Eclair, Fame has spoken ofyou in your absence. 

_L'Ec. _ Fy! my lady, you disorder me at the first charge, --a pestilencenow upon that wicked, impertinent gossip, Fame, --will not hereverlasting tongue suffer even so poor a fellow as L'Eclair, to escape?'tis insufferable; may I presume to inquire then, what rumours havereached your ladyship's ear?

_Ger. _ To a soldier's credit, trust me. --But your master, L'Eclair, where is he?

_L'Ec. _ Ah! poor gentleman, he's in the rearguard, I left him fourleagues off, at the fortress of Huningen, unexpectedly confined by----

_Ger. _ Confined! heavens! by what complaint?

_L'Ec. _ Only the complaint of old age; the general commissioned mymaster upon his route to deliver some instructions to the superannuatedcommandant of the fortress; now the old gentleman proving somewhat dullof apprehension, my master though dying of impatience, was constrainedto a delay of some extra hours, despatching me, his humble ambassador, forward, to prevent alarms, and promise his arrival at the chateaubefore midnight. 

_Ger. _ Midnight! so late?--four leagues to travel--alone--his roadthrough an intricate forest, and the sky already seeming to predict atempest. 

_L'Ec. _ Why, as your ladyship remarks, the clouds seem making a sort offorced march over our heads; but a storm is the mere trifling of naturein a soldier's estimation; my master and his humble servant have faced acannon-ball too frequently, to be disconcerted by a hail-stone. 

_Ger. _ Then you have often been employed upon dangerous service, L'Eclair?

_L'Ec. _ Hay, I protest, your ladyship must excuse me there; a man has somuch the appearance of boasting, when he becomes the reporter of his ownachievements; I beg leave to refer your ladyship to the gazettes, thoughI confess the gazettes do but afford a soup-maigre, whip-syllabub sortof narrative, accurate enough, perhaps in the main, but plaguilyincommunicative of particulars: for instance, in the recent affair atNordlingen, I can defy you to find any mention in the gazette, that thechevalier Florian charged through a whole regiment of the enemy'sgrenadiers, drawn up in a hollow square, that Phillipe L'Eclair, singlyfollowed the chevalier, and rode over all those his master had not timeto decapitate, how a masked battery suddenly opened with twelve piecesof heavy ordnance, firing red-hot balls; how the chevalier's horsereared; how L'Eclair's neighed; but how both officer and private, neither a whit discouraged at this dilemma, galloped their chargersgracefully up to the flaming mouth of the danger; cleared a chevaux defrise of fifteen feet at a flying leap; then dismounting; carried thebattery by a coup de main; spiked the guns; muzzled the gunners withtheir own linstocks; and, finally compelled the principal engineer toturn cook, and grill a calf's head at his own furnace, for the dinner ofhis conquerors! Now this affair which had no small influence indetermining the fortune of the day, with many parallel traits, ourgazetteers have unaccountably neglected to publish. My memory, perhaps, might remedy their deficiencies to any curious ear, but alas! aninsurmountable modesty renders the task so painful, that I cast myselfupon your ladyship's compassion, and beseech you to forbear from furtherinquiry. 

_Ger. _ Ha! ha! your sensitive delicacy shall be respected L'Eclair;Rosabelle, be it your care to make the defender of his countrywelcome--at midnight then. --Oh! hasten on your flight, dark-wing'dhours! through your close shadows once disclose my Florian, then if yelist, be motionless, and still retard the day. [_Exit. _

_L'Ec. _ There, you hear young woman!--you are to make the defender ofhis country welcome. 

_Ros. _ I'll do my best towards your pleasure, --what service can I lendyou first. 

_L'Ec. _ Dress my wounds. 

_Ros. _ Wounds! gramercy! I never should have guessed you had any. 

_L'Ec. _ Deep, dangerous, desperate, --here! (_affectedly pressing hisheart_) here, Rosabelle! here's the malady; 'tis an old hurt, I took it'ere I went on my campaign; time and absence had clapped an awkward sortof plaster on't; but now--oh! those eyes!--the wound breaks outafresh;--must I expire?--Rosabelle! prithee, be my surgeon. 

_Ros. _ I have not the skill to prescribe, but I could administer aremedy by directions; what salve will you try first. 

_L'Ec. _ Lip-salve, you gipsy! (_Kisses her furiously. _)

_Ros. _ Now, shame upon your manners, master soldier, was this a tricktaught you by the wars?

_L'Ec. _ Yes, faith! saluting is one of the first lessons in a soldier'strade, so my dear, tempting, provoking. (_Catches her round. _)

_Ros. _ Hay, keep your hands off, you have taught me enough of the manualexercise already; but say now, were you indeed so great a hero in thebattle as you told my lady?

_L'Ec. _ Pshaw! I did'nt tell her half, my modesty forbade, but for thee, my pretty Rosabelle--

_Ros. _ Ay, with me, I'm certain your modesty will be no obstacle. 

_L'Ec. _ None, for while I gaze upon the face of an angel, the devilhimself can't put me out of countenance. 

DUETTO. --_Rosabelle and L'Eclair. _

 _Ros. _ Tell, soldier, tell! and mark you tell me truly, How oft in battle have you slain a foe?

 _L'Ec. _ Go, count the leaves when winds are heard unruly, In autumn that from mighty forests blow. 

 _Ros. _ Did e'er a captain, worth a costly ransom, Own you his conqueror in the deadly broil?

 _L'Ec. _ I've twigg'd field-marshals, pickings snug and handsome, Twelve waggons now are loaded with my spoil. 

 _Both. _ Oh! loudly, proudly, sound the soldier's fame! Oh! flashy, dashy, flaunt the soldier's dame!

 _Ros. _ Tell, soldier, tell! and mark, you tell me truly, Did foreign maids ne'er win your roving vow?

 _L'Ec. _ O! blood and fire! --I swear I can't speak coolly, By Mars! to you, and only you, I bow. 

 _Ros. _ Say, shall love's chain of blossoms hold for ever? Nor time, nor absence, bid its bloom depart?

 _L'Ec. _ Not sword, or gun, such magic links can sever, Or rend from Rosabelle her hero's heart. 

 _Both. _ O! loudly, proudly, &c. 

 SCENE III. --_A front wood, stage very dark, thunder and lightning. _

 Enter _Longueville_ and _Bertrand_, the latter disguised and masqued. 

_Long. _ Come, sir, to your post! what! a coward even to the last? youtremble. 

_Bert. _ I do indeed, the storm is terrible, it seems as if heaven's ownvoice were clamoring to forbid the deed. [_Thunder. _

_Long. _ This tumult of the night assists our enterprise; its thunderswill drown your victim's dying groan. Where have you placed the bravoes?

_Bert. _ Hard by--just where the horse-road sinks into a hollow dell, andover-spreading branches almost choke the pass, there we may rush uponthe wretched youth securely, and there our poniards--

_Long. _ Hush!--a footstep!--who passes there?

 Enter _1st Bravo_. 

_1st Br. _ Sanguine!

_Long. _ Wherefore are you here, and parted from your fellow?

_1st Br. _ I left him lurking in the hollow, while I sought you out toask advice. Just now, a horse without a rider, burst furiously throughthe thicket where we lay; the lightning flashed brightly at the time, and I plainly marked the steed to be the very same young Florian rode, when we dogged him from the last inn, at sunset. 

_Bert. _ (_involuntarily_) merciful God! then thou hast preserved him. 

_Long. _ Villain! you may find your transports premature; perchance hehas dismounted to seek on foot some shelter from the increasing fury ofthe storm; but 'tis impossible he should escape; one only path conductsto the chateau. Quick! bestow yourselves on either side, and yourvictim's fate is certain. I must return to avoid suspicion. 

_Bert. _ (_catching his arm. _) Yet, my lord, once more reflect. 

_Long. _ (_throwing him off. _) Recollect your oath. 

_Bert. _ (_desperately. _) Yes, yes, it must be written on my memory incharacters of blood. [_Exeunt separately. _

 SCENE IV. --_Another part of the forest more entangled and intricate, the tempest becomes violent, and the stage appears alternately illumined by the lightning, and enveloped in utter darkness. Florian is seen advancing cautiously through the thickets from a distance. _

_Flor. _ A plague upon all dark nights, foul ways, and runaway horses!a mettlesome madcap, to start at the lightning and plunge with me headover heels in the brushwood; in scrambling out of that thicket, I certainly turned wrong, and have missed my road--how to regain it?'sdeath! I could as soon compose an almanac as and a clue to thispuzzle. Well, I was found in a wood when a baby, and have just lived toyears of discretion to be lost in a wood again! Fortune! Fortune! thouspiteful gipsy! was this an honest trick to pass upon a faithfulservant, who has worn thy livery from his cradle, and taken off thyhands a thousand knocks and buffetings without a murmur? Just at thismoment too, when hope and fancy were dancing merrily, and had made theprettiest ball-room of my heart--just too when the image of myGeraldine-- (_rain, storm increases_) but a truce with meditation, thispelting shower rather advises action-- (_turns to an opening_) --No;that can't be the path; which ever way I turn I may only get fartherentangled; then there are pit-falls, wolves, bears--yes! I've theprospect of a delectable night before me; what if I exercise my lungsand call for help? oh! there's scarcely a chance of being heard; well, 'tis my forlorn hope and shall e'en have a trial. Holloa! Holloa!Holloa! [_a whistle answers from the right_] Huzza! somebody whistlesfrom the right! kind lady Fortune! never will I call thee names again. [_another whistle from the opposite side. _] Ha! answered from the lefttoo! --Lucky fellow!--where are you my dear boys--where are you?

 _Florian_ runs toward the right--a very vivid flash of lightning at that instant gleams upon the path before him, and displays the figure of a masqued bravo, _Sanguine_, with an unsheathed poniard advancing between the trees, _Florian_ recoils. 

_Flor. _ Ha! a man armed and masqued!--perhaps some ruffian!--'sdeath!I am defenceless, my pistols were left in the saddle!

_Sanguine. _ (_advancing_) Who called?

_Flor. _ If I return no answer in the darkness I may retreat unseen. 

 [He creeps silently to the left as the bravo advances. 

_San. _ Speak! where are you?

 [2d bravo emerges from the gloom and directly crosses the path by which _Florian_ is about to escape. 

_Len. _ Here! [_Thunder. _

 [_Florian_ at the second voice discovers himself to be exactly between the ruffians, and stops. 

_Flor. _ God!

 [He recedes a single step, and strikes his hand against a tree immediately behind him, the trunk of which is hollowed by time, and open towards the audience. 

Ha! a tree!

 [By his touch he discovers the aperture, and glides into the hollow, at the very instant the two bravoes stepping forward quickly from either side of the tree, encounter each other's extended hands in front. 

_San. _ (_raising his poniard_) Die!

_Len. _ Hold! 'tis I--your comrade!

_San. _ Why did you not answer before, I took you for--hark?

 [_Bertrand_ comes through the trees from the top of the stage. ]

_Bert. _ Hist! Sanguine?--Lenoire?

_San. _ Here!--both of us. 

_Bert. _ (_coming forward_) Why did you whistle?

_San. _ In answer to your call--you hallooed to us. 

_Bert. _ When?

_San. _ But now--a minute back. 

_Bert. _ I never spoke. 

_San. _ I'll swear I heard a voice--no doubt then but 'twas he that--

_Bert. _ From what quarter did the cry proceed?

_San. _ I thought it sounded hereabouts, but the storm kept such aconfounded patter at the time--

_Bert. _ Well--let us take the left-hand path; and if we hear the callrepeated--

_San. _ Ay!--our daggers meet all questions with a keen reply. 

 [Exeunt to the left. 

_Flor. _ (_extricating himself cautiously from the tree. _) EternalProvidence, what have I heard! Murderers then are upon the watch for me!no, no--not for _me_. _I_ cannot be the destined victim. I never yetoffended a human being, and fiends themselves would not destroy withouta cause for hatred. Heaven guard the threatened one, whoe'er he be!Well, Prudence at least admonishes me to avoid the left-hand path; faithany turn but that must prove the right for _me_. Ha! unless my eyes arecheated by a Will-o'-th'-Wisp, a friendly light now peeps out throughyonder coppice. (_looking out_) Perhaps some woodman's hut, with a freshfaggot just crackling on the hearth. Oh, for a seat in such a chimneycorner. (_Whistle again at a distance_) I hear you, gentlemen, a pleasant ramble to you. Adieu, Messieurs! space be between us! yoursis a left-handed destiny; I'll seek mine to the right. [_Exit. _

 SCENE V. --_The outside of a cottage in the wood; a light burning in a casement. _

 Enter _Monica_, supporting herself on a crutch, and carrying a basket of flax. 

_Mon. _ Praise to the virgin! my old limbs have reached their restingplace at last: what a tempest! my new cardinal is quite drenched. Well, I've kept the flax dry, however, that's some comfort, (_strikes againstthe door. _) Ho, there, within--open quickly. 

 [The door opens, and a female wildly dressed, appears; she catches Monica's hand with affection, and kisses it. ]

_Mon. _ Ah, my poor Silence! thou hast watched and fretted for mepreciously, I'll warrant: but the road from Brisac is long, and thisrough night half crippled me. 

 [The female feels her damp garments, and seems with quick tenderness to invite her into the house. ]

Well, well, never fright thyself, if I shiver now, a cup of warm Rhenishwill soon make me glow again: 'faith I am weary though; wilt lend an armto an old woman?

 [The female embraces and supports her. ]

Ah, there's my kind Silence. 

 [Exeunt into the cottage. 

 Enter _Florian_ running and out of breath, from the left hand. 

_Flor. _ I'm right, by all the household gods! 'Twas no goblin of the fenthat twinkled to deceive, but a real substantial weatherproof tenementshining with invitation to benighted travellers. Oh, blessings on itshospitable threshold; my heart luxuriates already by anticipation, andpants for a fireside, a supper, and a bed. Hold though--just now I wason the point of shaking hands with a cutthroat; who knows but here I mayintroduce myself upon visiting terms with his family? 'faith I'llreconnoitre the position before I establish my quarters. This casementis commodiously low. (_Steps to the casement on tiptoe. _) I protest, a vastly neat, creditable sort of mansion! Yes--it will do! on one sideblazes an excellent fire; in the middle stands a table ready covered;that's for supper: then just opposite is a door left ajar; ay, that mustlead to a bed. Ha! now the door opens; who comes forward? by all myhopes a woman! Enough; here will I pitch my tent. Whenever doubts andfears perplex a man, the form of woman strikes upon his troubled spiritlike the rainbow stealing out of clouds--the type of beauty and the signof hope! (_he knocks_) Now Venus send her with a kindly smile!--shecomes--she comes. 

 [The female opens the door, but on seeing _Florian_ recoils with trepidation--he catches her hand, and forcibly detains her. ]

_Flor. _ My dear madam! no alarm, for Heaven's sake. You have thieves inyour neighbourhood, but, upon my soul, I don't belong to theirfraternity. No, madam, I'm an unlucky fellow, but with the best moralsin the world: the fact is, I have lost myself in the forest; the stormrages--and as I am no knight-errant to court unnecessary hardships, respectfully I entreat the hospitality of this roof for the remainder ofthe night. 

 [The female surveys his figure with suspicion and timidity. ]

_Flor. _ I fear 'tis my misfortune to be disbelieved; nay then, let mydress declare my character! (_he releases her hand to throw open hisriding-cloak, and discovers the regimental under it. _) Behold! I am asoldier. 

 [The female shrieks violently; for an instant she covers her eyes with both hands shudderingly, and then with the look and action of sudden insanity, darts away into the thicket of the wood. ]

_Flor. _ (_calling after her. _) Madam! my dear madam! only hear me, madam! she's gone! absolutely vanished! I wish I had a looking-glass;certainly I must have changed my face when I lost my road--no scare-crowcould have terrified the poor woman more. What's to be done? If I followher, I shall but increase her terrors and my own difficulties. Shall Ienter the cottage and wait her return? the door stands most invitinglyopen, and to a wet and weary wanderer, that fire sparkles soprovokingly--'faith, I can't resist the temptation--Adventure seems thegoddess of the night, and I'll e'en worship the divinity at a blazingshrine! [_Exit into the house. _

 SCENE VI. --_The interior of the cottage--the entrance, door, and casements are on one side--opposite is the fireplace--and a staircase in the back scene conducts to an upper chamber--a table with a lamp burning, and a frugal supper stands in the middle of the stage. --Florian is discovered when the scene draws, kneeling at the hearth and chaffing his hands before the fire. _

_Flor. _ Eternal praise to the architect who first inventedchimney-corners? the man who built the pyramids was a dunce bycomparison. [_rises and looks round him. _] All solitary and silent:faith, my situation here is somewhat whimsical. Well, I am left inundisturbed possession, and that's a title in law, if not in equity. [_he takes off his cloak and hangs it on a chair_] Yes, this shall be mybarrack for the night. What an unsocial spirit must the fair mistress ofthis cottage possess. Egad, she seemed to think it necessary, like theman and woman in the weather-house, that one sex should turn forth intothe storm, so soon as the other sought a shelter from its peltings:a plague on such punctilio. 

 [_Monica_ enters down the staircase from her chamber. ]

_Mon. _ [_speaking as she descends. _] There, my garments are changed, andwe may now enjoy our supper. 

_Flor. _ Ha! another woman! but old, by the mother of the Graces!

_Mon. _ A stranger!

_Flor. _ Not an impertinent one, I trust. One, who in the darkness of thestorm has missed his road, despairs of regaining it till morning, andcraves of your benevolence a shelter for the night. You shall be soonconvinced I am no dangerous guest. 

_Mon. _ [_with a voluble civility. _] Nay, young gentleman, never troubleyourself to inform me of your rank; you have told me your necessity, andthat's a sufficient claim to every comfort my little cabin can afford;pray, sir, take a seat: I am much honoured by your presence: we have alittle supper toward; you must partake it, sir: here! my good Silence!come hither. Ah! I do not see--[_looking anxiously round the cottage. _]

_Flor. _ I am afraid, my good madam, you miss one of your family. 

_Mon. _ I do, indeed, sir; and--

_Flo. _ It was my misfortune to drive a female out of your house at themoment I entered it. 

_Mon. _ Sir!

_Flor. _ But not intentionally, I protest. The fact is, though I havealways esteemed myself as a well-manufactured person, yet something inmy appearance so terrified the lady that--

_Mon. _ Ah, I comprehend; you wear the habit of a soldier, sir, and mypoor Silence never can abide to look upon that dress. 

_Flor. _ Indeed! that's rather a singular antipathy for a female. May Iinquire--is she a daughter of yours?

_Mon. _ Not by blood, sir; but she is the child of misfortune, and assuch may claim a parent in every heart that has itself experiencedsorrow; but come, sir, take a seat, I beseech you; my alarm ceases now Iknow the cause of her absence. She is accustomed to wander in the woodsby night when any thing disturbs her mind. She'll return to me anon calmand passive as before: I have known it with her often thus. You lookfatigued, sir; let me recommend this flask of Rhenish: pray drink, sir;it will do you good; it always does me good. 

_Flor. _ Madam, since you are so pressing, my best services to you--avery companionable sort of old gentlewoman this (_aside_); I protest, madam, I feel myself interested for this unfortunate under yourprotection; there was a wild and melancholy sweetness in her eye thattouched me at our first exchange of looks with awe and pity; is herhistory a secret?

_Mon. _ Oh, no--not a secret, but quite a mystery, you know nearly asmuch of it as I do; but since we are on the subject--another draught ofwine, sir!

_Flor. _ Madam, you will pledge me. And now for the mystery. 

_Mon. _ Well, sir, about sixteen years ago when I lived in Languedoc, foryou must know I am but newly settled _here_, a stranger in Alsace, ay!about sixteen or seventeen years ago, there came a rumour to ourvillage, of a _wild woman_, that had been caught by some peasants in thewoods near _Albi_, following quite a savage and unchristian life;gathering fruits and berries for her food by day, and sleeping in themossy hollows of a rock at night. She was brought round the country as ashow. All the world in our parts went to look upon the prodigy, and youmay be sure _I_ made one among the crowd. Well, sir, this wild woman wasthe very creature you beheld but now. At that time she was in truth apiteous object; her form was meagre and wasted, and her wretched garmenthung over it in filthy tatters; her fine hair fell in matted heaps, andthe sun and the wind together had changed her skin like an Indian's. Yeteven in the midst of all this misery, there was a something so noble andso gentle in her air, that the moment I looked upon her, my curiositywas lost at once in pity and respect. The people by whom she wassurrounded, were stunning her with coarse and vulgar questions, butnever an answer did she deign to give, though some wheedled and somethreatened; still 'twas to all alike: so most persons concluded she wasdumb. 

_Flor. _ And a very natural conclusion it was, when a female remainedsilent, who had so excellent an opportunity of exercising her tongue. 

_Mon. _ Well, Sir, presently _my_ turn came to approach her, when somehowmy heart swelled quite painfully, to see the gracious image of our Makerdegraded, and one's own fellow creature treated like the brutes of thefield, so, that when I touched her, my tears started unawares and fellupon her trembling hand. Would you believe it, sir? the poor desolatestatue felt the trickling drops, and reason was rekindled by the warmthof pity. Suddenly her eyes, so lately dull and vacant, flashed withrecovered brightness. She cast herself at my feet--clasped my knees--andcried out, in tones that might have moved a heart of rock--"Angel ofcompassion! save me from disgrace?" All present started as if a miraclewere worked. "Will you preserve me?" cried the suppliant. I was awidowed and a childless woman; in an instant I raised the forlorn one tomy arms, as a companion, as an adopted daughter. Her keepers wereignorant men, but not cruel; their hearts were softened by the scene, and they yielded their claims to my entreaties. I led the unfortune tomy dwelling; from that moment, she has shared my mat and partaken of mymorsel. I love her with the affection of a real parent, and were I nowto lose her, I think my heart would break upon the grave that robbed itof its darling. 

_Flor. _ By heavens, I reverence your feelings! in truth 'tis amelancholy story. 

_Mon. _ Yes, sir; and melancholy stories make people dry, so let merecommend another cup of wine. 

_Flor. _ Madam, I can't refuse the challenge-- (_aside_) the old ladycertainly designs to send me under the table. But pray, madam, have younever discovered the cause of that distress, from which you firstrelieved this suffering woman?

_Mon. _ Never. On the subject of her early adventures she remainsinflexibly silent. I have often tried to win the secret from her, butthough she is mild and rational enough upon all other themes, yet, letbut a hint remind her of her former wretchedness, her wits directlystart into disorder, and for whole hours, nay, sometimes days together, she remains a lunatic. I do not even know her name, but call herSilence, because her voice is heard so very rarely. I think herdejection has increased since we quitted Languedoc, for about two monthssince, a kinsman of mine died, and bequeathed me this cottage with someland here in Alsace; 'tis a lone house, and the thick woods about I fearremind my poor Silence too much of her former way of life, sometimes shewanders in them half the night. 

_Flo. _ Are you not fearful of her safety? these woods are full ofdanger; within this half hour, I myself have encountered three ruffianslurking for their prey. 

_Mon. _ Ruffians! young gentleman. Blessed Mary save us!--'tis true, I ama stranger in these parts, but never did I hear of such neighbours. Well, well, I fear not for my child, she has no wealth to tempt aplunderer. Poverty is the mother of ills, but her offspring generallyrespect each other. Come, sir, finish the flask; and now let me prepareyour chamber for the night. (_rises. _)

_Flor. _ Kind hostess! I am bounden to you ever. (_rises and fills hisglass_) Here's woman! beauteous, generous woman! _admired_ when we arehappy, but in our adversity _adored_! (_drinks. _)

_Mon. _ (_curtseying_) Sweet sir, down to the very ground I return yourgallantry. 

_Flor. _ Hist!--don't I hear footsteps in the wood?

_Mon. _ (_listening_) Ah, yes, perhaps my child returns to us. 

 [The casement is thrust open, and _Bertrand_ with the two bravoes look into the cottage. ]

_Mon. _ Ah! men in masks!

_Bert. _'Tis he! (_they disappear from the casement. _)

_Flor. _ Swift! help me swift to bar the door!

_Mon. _ Ah! 'tis forced already! (_noise at door. _)

 [The door is burst, the two bravoes instantly spring upon _Florian_ and grapple with him. _Bertrand_ seizes the woman. ]

_Mon. _ Murder! murder!

_Bert. _ Silence, or you die!

 [_Florian_ struggles towards the centre of the stage in front, and is there forced down upon one knee. ]

_Flo. _ Is it plunder that you seek? what is your purpose with me? speak!

_San. _ Learn it by this! (_raises his dagger. _)

_Bert. _ Hold! not _here_, drag him into the wood, despatch him _there_!

_Flo. _ Inhuman villains! by your soul's best hope--I charge you--Iimplore you--

_Bert. _ (_stamping furiously, and casting Monica from him_) Toward thewood! --Follow me!

 [_Bertrand_ turns to the door, and the bravoes struggle to force _Florian_ after him, at that instant, the unknown female enters from the wood, and pauses in the door-way exactly opposite to _Bertrand_, his advanced arm falls back nerveless by his side, his limbs shake with strong convulsion, and he reels backwards. ]

_Bert. _ Support me, ah! save me, or I die!

 [The bravoes release _Florian_ to fly towards _Bertrand_, who sinks in their arms. The female, with a light and rapid step crosses in front of the group to the middle of the stage where _Florian_ remains kneeling, she spreads her wild drapery before the victim, and places herself between him and the ruffians in the attitude of protection. ]

_Bert. _ (_pursuing her with his eye deliriously_) Look! look! she risesfrom the grave! she blasts me with her frown! away! away! heaven itselfforbids the deed!

 [The ruffians rush forth into the wood again. _Florian_ and _Monica_ catch the hands of the unknown to their lips in transport, and the curtain falls suddenly upon the scene. ]

 End of act I. 

ACT II. 

 SCENE I. --_A gallery in the chateau. _

 Enter _Longueville_ and _Bertrand_. 

_Long. _ Traitor! infamous, unblushing traitor! Florian has arrived, arrived in safety: every way I have been betrayed; and now to screenyour perfidy from punishment, you dare insult my ear with forgeries toomonstrous and too gross for patience. 

_Bert. _ Hear me, my lord! as I have life, as I have a soul, so have Ispoken truly, the grave yawned asunder to forbid the blow, it was novision of my cowardice--I saw--distinctly saw-it was _Eugenia_! as inher days of nature, entire and undecayed, the spectre-form stoodterribly before me, it moved--it gazed--it frowned me into madness!

_Long. _ Villain! still would you deceive me!

_Bert. _ Ah, my lord, you would deceive yourself. I swear it was Eugenia, her shadowy arms were stretched between the lifted dagger and theprostrate youth; while her swift dark eye flashed on mine withbrightness insupportable: such was her dreadful look, when, with herbleeding infant clinging to her breast, she sprang into the flames, and--

_Long. _ Hush! [_the doors of an inner chamber open, and De Valmontappears conversing with Florian and Geraldine. _] We are interrupted;quick! change those ruffled features into smiles, quick! mark me, wretch!

_De Val. _ (_coming forward_) My boy, your preservation was indeed amiracle. Ascribe not to the vague results of chance, that which belongsto Providence alone. Ah, here is my kinsman--one, whose anxious fears onyour account, have held him a sleepless watcher through the night. 

_Long. _ (_with affected fervency_) Florian! a thousand welcomes: thereturn of friends at all times is a joy, but when they come throughdangers to our arms, there's transport in the meeting. Tell me--whatstrange tale is this I catch imperfectly from every lip? can it bepossible you were assailed last night by ruffians in the wood?

_Flor. _ Yes, my dear baron, yes! but morning has chased away night, andI am out of the wood now; therefore let us banish gloomy retrospections, and yield the present hour to bliss without alloy. 

_De Val. _ Not so: in this your friends must claim an interest dearerthan your own: these men of blood shall be pursued to justice, if Alsaceyet hold them. 

_Long. _ Be that my task. (_to Flor. _) Should you recognize theirpersons?

_Flo. _ Positively no--their disguises were impenetrable. 

_Ger. _ But their voices, Florian, you heard them speak?

_Flo. _ True, sweet Geraldine, a few broken sentences; but their accentswere not framed like thine, to touch the ear but once, yet vibrate onthe memory forever. 

_Long. _ Indulge my curiosity, how were you preserved?

_Flo. _ Well, baron, since you will force me to act the hero in my owndrama, thus runs my story: I was defenceless, helpless, hopeless: twosturdy knaves had mastered my struggling arms, and the dagger of a thirdgleamed against my throat, when suddenly a female form appeared beforeus; in an instant, as if by magic, the murderers relaxed their hold, shuddered, recoiled, uttered cries, and fled the spot, the female muteand motionless remained. 

_Bert. _ (_aside to Longueville. _) You mark. 

_Long. _ (_repulsing him. _) Silence!

_Flo. _ Cowardice is ever found the mate of Cruelty: this stranger wasdoubtless regarded by the villains as a preternatural agent, she provedhowever, a mere mortal, frail and palpable as ourselves. 

_Bert. _ (_listening with tremulous attention. _) God! living!

_Long. _ (_not regarding Bertrand, who has drawn behind. _) Whence camethis woman? What was she?

_Flo. _ Alas! the most pitiable object in nature--an unhappy maniac; sheresides at the same cottage where I found shelter from the storm. 

_Bert. _ (_as if electrified by a sudden thought. _) Direct me, heaven!

 [He glides silently out of the gallery unobserved by all. ]

_Long. _ Were not any other circumstances linked with this adventure?

_Flo. _ None of consequence: but I suspect one of the ruffians was knownto this wretched woman; her incoherent words implied that she recognizedin him an ancient enemy; but her frail remains of intellect, were, for atime, quite unsettled by the terror of the scene; she fled from me toher chamber in dismay, and at daybreak I left the cottage without asecond interview. 

_Long. _ Florian! it is necessary this woman should be interrogatedfurther-- (_with much emotion_) not a moment must be lost--dear count, excuse me for an hour, my anxiety admits not of delay. I will myselfvisit this cottage instantly. [_Exit. _

_Ger. _ (_half aside to De Valmont_) Uncle, if the baron tarries beyondthe hour, we must not wait for his return, recollect it is to be at noonexactly. 

_Flo. _ (_overhearing. _) And what at noon, dear Geraldine?

_De Val. _ (_smiling_) Florian, you are destined to be our hero in peaceas well as war--my niece has planned a little fête in compliment to theconquerors of Nordlingen. 

_Ger. _ Fy, uncle, Florian was not to have known of it till the moment, you have betrayed my secret, now as a due punishment for the treason, I impose upon you to appear at our fête in person. 

_De Val. _ What a demand! --I, who never--

_Ger. _ Nay, if it be only for a minute, positively you must come amongus--nay, I will not be denied. 

_De Val. _ Well, you reign a fairy sovereign for the day, and if it beyour will to play the despot, your subjects, though they murmur, mustobey. 

_Ger. _ (_embracing him_) There's my kindest uncle! thanks! Florian Iwarn you not to stir towards the terrace till I summon you, beware ofdisobedience, I have the power to punish. 

_Flor. _ And to reward also. 

_Ger. _ Ah! at least I have the inclination, it will be your own fault ifever my actions and my wishes dissociate, or Geraldine refuse a boonwhen Florian is the suitor. [_Exit. _

_Flor. _ (_looking after her_) Geraldine! too kind, too lovely Geraldine, ah! sir, is she not admirable?

_De Val. _ She has been accounted so by many in your absence. I cannotestimate her beauty, but I know her virtue; and the last fond wish leftclinging to this heart is Geraldine's felicity. I shall endeavour tosecure it, by uniting her in marriage with a worthy object. 

_Flor. _ Sir!--marriage did you say? Gracious heaven! Marriage!

_De Val. _ What is it that surprizes you? I can assure you, Geraldinealready has been addressed by lovers. 

_Flor. _ To doubt it were a blasphemy against perfection. Oh! Sir, it isnot that--oh! no. 

_De Val. _ Wherefore, my dear Florian, so much emotion? Does the idea ofGeraldine's marriage afflict you?

_Flor. _ I am not such an ingrate--her happiness is the prayer of my soulto heaven, and I would perish to insure it. 

_De Val. _ (_after a pause, during which he regards the agitated Florianwith tender earnestness. _) Young man, I have long since determined toaddress you with a brief recital of circumstances necessary to yourfuture decisions in life. Every word of that recital must draw with it alife-drop from my heart, for I shall speak to you of the past, andrecollection to me is agony. The trial we once have considered asinevitable, it is fruitless to defer. Draw yourself a seat, and affordme for a few minutes your fixt attention. 

 (_Florian_ presents a chair to the _Count_, and then seats himself. )

_De Val. _ Florian, you now behold me, such as I have seemed, even fromyour infancy--a suffering, querulous, cheerless, hopeless, broken-hearted man--one who has buried all the energies of his nature, and only preserves a few of its charities tremblingly alive. It was notwith me always thus--I once possessed a mind and a body vigorouslymoulded, a heart for enterprize, and an arm for achievement. Grief, nottime, has palsied those endowments. Born to exalted rank, andluxuriously bread, like the new-fledged eaglet rushing from his nest atonce against the sun, eager, elate, and confident, I entered upon life. 

_Flor. _ Ah! that malignant clouds should obscure so bright a dawn!

_De Val. _ My spirit panted for a career of arms--civil war thendesolated France, and, at the age of twenty, I embraced the cause of myreligion and my king. Fortune, prodigal of her flatteries, twined mybrow with clustering laurels, and at the close of my first campaign, mysovereign's favor and the people's love already hailed me by a hero'stitle. Fatigued with glory--then--ah! Florian! then it was I welcom'dlove!--a first, a last, an only and eternal passion! (_Pauses withemotion. _)

_Flor. _ Nay, sir, desist--these recollections shake your mind toostrongly. 

_De Val. _ No, no--let me proceed. I can command myself--Florian! I wooedand won an angel for my bride--my expression is not a lover'srhapsody--at this distant period, seriously I pronounce it--Eugeniaapproached as closely to perfection as the Creator has permitted to hiscreature! Such as she was, to say I loved her were imperfect phrase! mypassion was enthusiasm--was idolatry! Our marriage-bed was early blessedwith increase--and as my lip greeted with a father's kiss the infant, myheart bounded with a new transport towards its mother. --My felicityseemed perfect! Now, Florian, mark! My country a second time called meto her battles; I left my kinsman, Longueville, to guard the dear-onesof my soul at home, then sped to join our army in a distant province. I was wounded and made prisoner by the enemy. When I recovered healthand liberty, I found a rumour of my death had in the interval prevailedthrough France. I trembled lest Eugenia should receive the tale, andflew in person to prevent her terrors. It was evening when I reached thehills of Languedoc, and looked impatiently towards my cheerful homebeneath. I looked--the last sunbeam glared redly upon smoking ruins! Oh!oh! the blood now chills and curdles round my heart--the wolves of warhad rushed by night upon my slumbering fold--fire and sword haddesolated all. I called upon my wife and my infant. I trembled on theirashes while I called! (_he sinks back exhausted in his chair. _)

_Flo. _ Tremendous hour! so dire a shock might well have paralized aRoman firmness. 

_De Val. _ (_resuming faintly. _) Florian, there is a grief that neverfound its image yet in words. I prayed for death--nay, madness! butheaven, for its own best purposes, denied me either boon. I was ordainedstill to live, and still be conscious of my misery. For many weeks Iwandered through the country, silent, sullen, stupified! My peoplewatched, but dared not comfort me. Abjuring social life, I plunged intothe deepest solitudes, to shun all commerce with my kind. 'Twas at theclose of a sultry day, the last of August, that I entered a forest atthe foot of the Cevennes, and worn with long fatigue and misery, stretched myself upon the moss for momentary rest. On the sudden, a faint and feeble moan pierced my ear; instinctively I moved thebranches at my side, and at the foot of a rude stone-cross beheld adesolate infant, unnaturally left to perish in the wilderness! It wasfamishing--expiring. I raised it to my breast, and its little armstwined feebly round my neck Florian! thou wert heaven's graciousinstrument to reclaim a truant to his duties! Welcome! I cried to thee, young brother in adversity!--"thou art deserted by thy mortal parents, and my heavenly father has forsaken me!" From that moment I felt I had amotive left to cherish life, since my existence could be useful to afellow-being--my wanderings finished, and I settled in Alsace. Eighteenyears have followed that event; but I shall not comment on their course. 

_Flor. _ (_with energy. _) Yet, sir, those years must not, shall not passforgotten. Deeds of generous charity have made them sacred, and anorphan's blessing wafts their eulogy to heaven--_he casts himself at DeValmont's feet_). Friend! protector! more than parent! the beings whohad called me into life denied my claim, and you performed the dutiesnature had renounced. Ah! sir, I am thoughtless, volatile, my mannerswild--but, from my inmost soul, I love, I reverence, I bless mybenefactor!

_De Val. _ Rise young man! your virtues have repaid my cares. Here let usdismiss the past, and advert to the future. Geraldine is my heiress; myniece and my vassals must receive the same master: both are objects ofmy care, and I would confide them only to a man of honor. Florian! letGeraldine become your wife--be you hereafter the protector of my people. 

_Flor. _ Merciful powers! what is it that I hear? I?--the child ofaccident and mystery: a wretched foundling: I?

_De Val. _ Young man, your sentiments and your actions have provedthemselves the legitimate offspring of honor, and I require no pedigreefor limbs and features. Fortune forbade you to inherit a name, but shehas granted you a prouder boast: you have founded one. Common men vauntof the actions of their forefathers, but the superior spirit declareshis own! Nay, no reply--I never form or break a resolution lightly. I know your heart: I am acquainted with Geraldine's; they beatresponsive to each other--your passion has my consent: your marriageshall receive my blessing. Farewell. [_He exits suddenly, and preventsFlorian by his action from any reply. _]

_Flor. _ Heard I aright? Yes, he pronounced it--"Geraldine is thine. "Earth's gross substantial touch is felt no more: I mount in air, andrest on sunbeams! Oh! if I dream now--royal Mab! abuse me ever with thydear deceits; for in serious wakeful hours, truth ne'er can touch mysenses with a joy so bright. O! I could sing, dance, laugh, shout; andyet methinks, had I a woman's privilege, I'd rather weep; for tears arepleasure's oracles as well as grief's. 

 Enter _L'Eclair_. 

_L'Ec. _ So, Captain! you are well encountered. I have sad forebodingsthat our shining course of arms is threatened with eclipse. If I may usethe boldness to advise, we shall strike our tents, and file off in quickmarch without beat of drum. Our laurels are in more danger here than inthe midst of the enemy's lines. 

_Flor. _ How now! my doughty 'squire: what may be our present jeopardy?

_L'Ec. _ Ah! captain, the sex--the dear seductive sex; this house is themodern Capua, and we are the Hannibals of France, toying away our severevirtues amid its voluptuousness. One damsel throws forward the prettiestancle in anatomy, and cries, "Mr. L'Eclair, I'm your's for a Waltz":a second languishes upon me from large blue melting eyes, and whispers, "Mr. L'Eclair, will you take a stroll by moonlight in the grove?" whilea third, in all the ripe round plumpness of uneasy health, calls themodest blood to my fingers' ends, by requesting me "to adjust some errorin the pinning of her 'kerchief. " O! captain, captain, heros are butmen, men but flesh, and flesh is but weakness; therefore, let us brieflyput on a Parthian valor, and strive to conquer by a flight!

_Flor. _ Knave! prate of deserting these dear precious scenes again, andI'll finish your career myself by a coup-de-main. No, no; changechurlish dreams and braving trumpets to mellifluous flutes. I am to bemarried. Varlet, wish me joy. 

_L'Ec. _ Certainly, captain, I _do_ wish you joy; when a man has oncedetermined upon matrimony he acts wisely to collect the congratulationsof his friends beforehand, for heaven only knows, whether there may beany opportunity for them afterwards. May I take the freedom to inquirethe lady?

_Flor. _ 'Tis _she_--L'Eclair, 'tis _she_, the only she, the peerless, priceless Geraldine. 

_L'Ec. _ "_Peerless_" I grant the lady, but as to her being"_priceless_, " I should think for my own poor particular, that when Ibartered my liberty for a comely bedfellow, I was paying full value formy goods, besides a swinging overcharge for the fashion of the make. 

_Flor. _ Tush! man, 'tis not by form or feature I compute my prize. Geraldine's _mind_, not her beauty, is the magnet of my love. The_graces_ are the fugitive handmaids of youth, and dress their chargewith flowers as fleeting as they are fair; but the _virtues_ faithfullyo'erwatch the couch of age, and when the flaunting rose has wither'd, twine the cheerful evergreen, crowning true lovers freshly to the last! [_Exit. _

_L'Ec. _ "True lovers!" well, now I love Love, myself, particularly when'tis mix'd with brandy! like the loves of the landlady of Lisle, and thebandy-legg'd captain. [*]

SONG. 

 A landlady of France, she loved an officer, 'tis said, And this officer he dearly loved her brandy, oh! Sigh'd she, "I love this officer, although his nose is red, And his legs are what his regiment call bandy, oh!"

 2

 But when the bandy officer was order'd to the coast; How she tore her lovely locks that look'd so sandy, oh! "Adieu my soul!" said she, "if you write, pray pay the post, But before we part, let's take a drop of brandy, oh!"

 3

 She fill'd him out a bumper, just before he left the town, And another for herself, so neat and handy, oh! So they kept their spirits up, by their pouring spirits down, For love is, like the cholic, cured with brandy, oh!

 4

 "Take a bottle on't, " said she, "for you're going into camp; In your tent, you know, my love, 'twill be the dandy, oh!" "You're right, " says he, "my life! for a tent is very damp; And 'tis better, with my tent, to take some brandy, oh!"

 [Footnote: For this speech, and the song that follows, the author is indebted to the pen of George Colman, Esq. ]

 SCENE II. --_The Cottage. _

 Enter _Monica_ and _Bertrand_. 

_Mon. _ In truth, sir, I have told you every circumstance I knowconcerning my poor lodger. But wherefore so particular in yourinquiries?

_Bert. _ Trust me, I have important motives for my curiosity. Seventeenyears ago, I think you said: and in the woods near _Albi_?

_Mon. _ Ay, ay, I was accurate both in time and place. 

_Bert. _ Every incident concurs. Gracious heaven! should it prove--mygood woman, I suspect this unfortunate person is known to me; bring medirectly to the sight of her!

_Mon. _ Hold! sir, I must know you better first. I fear me, this poorcreature has been hardly dealt with; who knows, but you may be herenemy?

_Bert. _ No, no, her friend; her firm and faithful friend: suspencedistracts me: lead me to her presence instantly!

_Mon. _ Well, well, truly, sir! you look and speak like an honestgentleman; but tho' I consent, I doubt whether my lodger will receiveyou; her mind is ill at ease for visitors. All last night I overheardher pacing up and down her chamber, moaning piteously and talking toherself; towards day-break, all became quiet, then I peeped thro' thecrevice of her door and saw that she was writing. I never knew her writebefore, I knocked for admittance, but she prayed me not to interrupt herfor another hour. 

_Bert. _ Does she still keep her chamber?

_Mon. _ She has not quitted it this morning--hark! I think I hear herstir, (_goes to the stair-foot and looks up_) ay! her door now standsopen, place yourself just here, and you may view her plainly withoutbeing seen yourself; her face is turned towards us, but her eyes arefixed upon a writing in her hands. 

 [_Bertrand_ looks for a moment to satisfy his doubts, then rushes forward and casts himself upon his knee transportedly. ]

_Bert. _ She lives! Eternal mercy! thanks! thanks!

_Mon. _ Holy St. Dennis! the sight of her has strangely moved you:collect yourself, I pray, she comes towards us. 

_Bert. _ Oh! let me cast myself before her feet!

_Mon. _ (_restraining him_) Hold, sir! whatever be your business, I beseech you to refrain a little, I must prepare her for yourappearance, her spirits cannot brook surprise, back! back!

 [_Bertrand_ withdraws, and _Eugenia_ descends the stair with a folded paper in her hand--she appears to struggle with emotion, and running towards _Monica_, casts her arms passionately around her. ]

_Eug. _ My kind mother! this is perhaps our last embrace; we must part. 

_Mon. _ Part! my child! what mean you?

_Eug. _ Ah! it is my fate, my cruel unrelenting fate that drives me fromyou, from the last shelter and the only friend I yet retain on earth. 

_Mon. _ Explain yourself; I cannot comprehend. 

_Eug. _ Mother! I have an enemy, a dreadful one. Seventeen years haveveil'd me from his hate in vain: those years have wasted the victim'sform, but the persecutor's heart remains unchanged: my retreat isdiscovered: the wretches who were here last night too surely recognizedme; soon they may return, and force me; oh! thought of horror. No, no, here I dare not stay. 

_Mon. _ My poor innocent! whither would you go?

_Eug. _ To the woods and caves from which you rescued me. Mother, thewilderness must be my home again. I fly to wolves and vultures to escapefrom man! Receive this paper, 'tis the written memoir of my wretchedlife; read it when I am gone: my head burned and my hand trembled whileI traced those characters: yet 'tis a faithful history. Mother! I darenot thank your charity, but heaven will remember it hereafter: bestowupon me one embrace, and then let me depart in silence. 

 (_Monica_ gives a sign to _Bertrand_ to advance. )

_Mon. _ Yet hold some moments; a stranger has been inquiring here thismorning who describes himself your friend. 

_Eug. _ Ah! no, no: the tomb long since has covered all my friends; 'tissome wily agent of my foe! Ah! forbid him mother; let him notapproach me. 

_Mon. _ 'Tis too late; he is already in the house. 

_Eug. _ Where?

 (_Monica_ points, and _Eugenia's_ eyes following her direction, rest upon the prostrate figure of _Bertrand_, who has placed himself in a posture of supplication, and concealed his face with his hands. )

_Eug. _ (_gazing intensely with apprehension. _) Speak! you kneel andstill are silent. Ah! what would you require of me?

_Bert. _ (_uncovering his face without raising his eyes_) Pardon! pardon!

_Eug. _ (_shrieking and flying_) Ah! Bertrand. 

_Bert. _ (_catching her mantle_) Stay! angel of mercy, stay and hear me. He that was your scourge now yields himself your slave: a wretchedpenitent despairing man lies humbled in the dust before you, andimplores for pardon. 

_Eug. _ (_pauses--presses her crucifix to her lips, and then replies withfervor. _) Yes! charity and peace to all! Nay, heaven forgive thee, sinful man, I never will accuse thee at its bar. 

_Bert. _ Angel! my actions better than my prayers may plead with heavenfor mercy: the cruel wrongs that I have offered, yet in part may beatoned--lady, I come to serve and save you. 

_Eug. _ Ah! to what fresh terrors am I yet devoted?

_Bert. _ Might we converse without a witness? in your ear only dare Ibreathe my purpose. 

_Mon. _ Nay, I will not be an eaves-dropper: my child you do not fearthis person now? I'll leave you with him--nay, 'tis best--perchance hecomes indeed with service. My blessings go with you, stranger, if youmean her fairly, but if you wrong or play her false, a widow's cursefall heavy on your death-bed. [_Exit up the staircase. _

 (A pause of mutual agitation. )

_Eug. _ Speak! man of terrors--say what has the persecuted and undoneEugenia yet to dread?

_Bert. _ The baron Longueville--

_Eug. _ That fiend!

_Bert. _ He now is in the neighbourhood; as yet he dreams not that youlive: but accident this very hour might betray you to his knowledge. Lady! I possess the means. O blessed chance! to shield you from hismalice. 

_Eug. _ And wilt thou; O! wilt thou, Bertrand, at last extend a pityingarm to raise the wretch, thy former hate had stricken to the ground?I have been despoiled of fortune, fame, and health: my brain has beendistracted by thy cruelty: yet now preserve me from this worst extremeof fate: let me not die the slave of Longueville, all my injuries, allmy sufferings are forgotten, and this one gracious act shall win thypardon for a thousand sins. 

_Bert. _ Lady! my o'er weighed conscience heaves impatiently to cast itsload. (_sinks on his knee_) Lo! at your injured feet I kneel, andsolemnly pronounce a vow, the tyrant Longueville shall mar your peace nomore. 

 [The cottage-door silently opens, and _Sanguine_ looks in--he makes a sign to _Longueville_ who follows, and they glide to the further end of the cottage unperceived; where they remain in anxious observation of the characters in front. ]

_Eug. _ Rise! your penitence wears nature's stamp, and I believe ithonest. 

_Bert. _ Oh! lady, your words redeem me from despair: but say, to ease aheart that aches with wonder: say, by what prodigy you 'scaped theflames of that tremendous night, when all believed you perished?

_Eug. _ (_shuddering. _) Ah! what hast thou said? my dream of confidencedissolves, and now I turn from thee again with horror! Again I view thymurderous poniard reared to strike! Again my wounded infant shrieks uponmy bosom, and the fiery gulf yawns redly at my feet! begone? begone! fornow I hate thee!

_Bert. _ Ah, not to me--to Longueville ascribe the horrors of that night. (_Aside_) What shall I say? I dare not own to her that De Valmont lives. Hear me, lady; scarce was your lord's untimely fall reported, when thecruel Longueville in secret plotted to remove his infant heir, the onlybar that held him from a rich succession; by hellish means he won me tohis cause: _his_ hand it was that oped the castle gates at midnight tothe foe, and when the fierce Huguenots rushed shouting through thehalls, still _his_ hand it was that fired the chamber where you slept inpeace: to save your child you rushed distracted to the rampart's edge;just as I followed to complete my prey, a falling turret crossed mypath, and presently the general fabric sank in ruin. 

_Eug. _ A wayward destiny that night was mine; at once both saved andlost! a hidden passage dug beneath the rampart, twining through many acavern'd maze, at distance opened to the woods. I reached the secretentrance of that pass, just as the turret fell and screened me frompursuit. Concealing darkness wrapt my flying steps: the roar of deathsank far behind, and ere the dawn, in safety with my child, I gained theforest. 

_Bert. _ Your child! eternal powers! the infant then escaped my blow. 

_Eug. _ Thy dagger's point twice scarred his innocent hand, but failedto reach the life. (_Bertrand gesticulates his transport_) A sanguinecross indelibly remained; but nature and his mother's tears assuaged thepain. Charitable foresters, ignorant of our rank, relieved our wants andchanged our robes for rustic weeds; thus disguised, my infant in myarms, on foot I travelled far and long, seeking ever by the loneliestpaths, to reach my sovereign's court, and at the throne of power implorefor justice. 

_Bert. _ O! does the infant yet survive? Speak, lady! bless me with thosewords--he lives. 

_Eug. _ No, Bertrand, no; fortune but mocked me with a moment's hope tocurse me deeper still through ages of despair. In vain I snatched mydarling boy from poniard and from flame: when way-lost in thewilderness, but for a moment did I quit my treasure, the mazes of thewood ensnared my step: the fever of my body rushed upon my brain:I wandered, never to return; while my forsaken infant--he perished, Bertrand. Ah! my brain begins to burn afresh! mark me, he perishedterribly: inquire not further. 

_Bert. _ (_deeply affected. _) Thou suffering excellence! be witnessheaven! the monster that I was, no longer has a life; thy tears havedrowned it quite, and now it strangely melts in pity and remorse. Come, lady, let me bestow thee in a safe retreat: the hoarded wages of mysinful youth, I'll use as offerings to redeem thy peace: far hence inforeign lands a certain refuge waits our flight, and there secure fromLongueville--

 [The _Baron_ suddenly stands before them in the centre: _Eugenia_ shrieks and _Bertrand_ stands aghast and trembles. ]

_Bert. _ Undone forever?

_Long. _ (_furiously to Sanguine_) Guard well the door--let not acreature enter or depart. 

 [_Sanguine_ advances by his direction. _Eugenia_ flies by the stairs to the upper chamber. _Longueville_, after a short pause of indecisive passion, draws a poniard and seizes upon _Bertrand_. ]

_Long. _ Wretch!

_Bert. _ Strike! yes, deep in this guilty bosom, strike at once, and ridme of despair. 

_Long. _ Thou double traitor! thy perjuries now meet their just reward. Tremble at impending death. 

_Bert. _ No; I have not feared to live in vice, and will not shrink atleast to die for virtue. 

_Long. _ (_throwing him off. _) No; I will not take the wretched forfeit:thou'rt spared from hate, not pity; I gave thee back thy life, but Iwill study punishments, to make the boon a curse unutterable. 

_Bert. _ Tyrant, I defy thy vengeance to increase my torments; theinnocent, I pledged myself to save, already stands devoted todestruction, and the measure of my anguish and despair is full. 

_Long. _ (_to Sanguine_) Sanguine, ascend the stair, and force thatwretched woman to my presence. 

_Bert. _ Hold, hold, my lord! recal those threatning words. O God! whatdamning crime is in your thoughts? pause--yet for a moment, pause, ereyou barter to the fiend your soul for ages. Omnipotence hath interposedwith miracles and still preserved you from the guilt you sought, yourconscience yet is undefiled with blood. 

_Long. _ Away! my purpose is resolved. 

_Bert. _ Will you then reject the mercy Heaven extends? (_kneels andcatching his cloak. _) Hear me, my lord; nay, for your own eternal being, hear me; as you now deal with this afflicted innocent, even so, hereafter, shall the God of judgment deal with you. 

_Long. _ I brave the peril, (_call aloud_) hasten, Sanguine, produce myvictim. 

_Bert. _ (_Desperately. _) Cover me mountains! hide me from the sun! (_Hecasts himself upon the ground. _)

 (_Sanguine_ returns precipitately from above. )

_Sang. _ My lord, one fatal moment has undone your scheme, the female hasescaped. 

_Long. _ Villain! escaped. 

_Bert. _ (_raising himself in frantic joy. _) Ha!

_Sang. _ I found the casement of the upper chamber open, some twistedlinen fastened to the bar, nearly reached to the ground without, andproved the method of her flight; a beldame who must have aided herescape, remains alone above, (_turning towards the window_, ) ha! I catcha female figure darting through the trees at a distance; she runs withlightning speed, --now--she turns towards the castle. 

_Long. _ Distraction! if she gains the castle, I am lost forever; pursue!pursue!

 [_Longueville_ and _Sanguine_ rush out. 

_Bert. _ (_Vehemently. _) Guardians of innocence, direct her steps! [_He follows them. _

 SCENE III. --_A Gallery in the Chateau. _

 Enter _Rosabelle_ followed by _Gaspard_. 

_Gasp. _ Ha! young mistress Rosabelle, whither so fast I pray? 'faith, damsel, you are fleet of foot. 

_Ros. _ Yet my steps are heavier than my heart, for that's all feather, ready for any flight in fancy's hemisphere; give thought but breath, and'twere blown in a second to the moon or the antipodes, wilt along withme, Gaspard?

_Gasp. _ What, to the moon or the antipodes? Alack! damsel, I shouldprove but a sorry travelling companion upon either road; no, no, youthis for night; but age for falls. 

_Ros. _ Wilt turn a waltz anon, and be my partner in the dance?

_Gasp. _ Hey! madcap, have we dances toward?

_Ros. _ Ay! upon the terrace presently, all the world will assemblethere; the lady Geraldine and myself for beauty; and then for rank, weshall have the count himself, and the baron, and the chevalier, and--

_Gasp. _ Out upon you, magpie; would you delude the old man with fables?his lordship, the count, among revellers! truly a pleasant jest; I havebeen his watchful servant these twenty years, and never knew him toabide the sight or sound of pleasures. 

_Ros. _ Then I can acquaint you, he proposes on this day to regale bothhis eyes and his ears with a novelty; I heard him promise lady Geraldineto join the pastimes on the terrace. 

_Gasp. _ Oh! the blest tidings: damsel, thy tongue has made a boy of meagain. 

_Ros. _ Now charity forefend, for so should I bring thee to thy secondchildhood. 

_Gasp. _ Ah! would you fleer me! his lordship among revellers! oh! theblest prodigy! well, well, I give no promise, mark; but should a certaindamsel lack a partner, adod. I know not--sixty-live shows with anill-grace in a rigadoon, but for a minuet: well, well, St. Vitusstrengthen me, and I accept thy challenge. [_Exit. _

_Ros. _ Go thy ways, thou antique gallantry; thy pledge shall never beendangered by my claim; I'm for a brisker partner in every dance throughlife, I promise thee. 

AIR. --_Rosabelle. _

 On the banks of the Rhine, at the sun-setting hour, Oh! meet me, and greet me, my true love, I pray! Or feasting, or sleeping, in hall, or in bower, To the Rhine-bank, oh! true love, rise up and away!

 On that bank, an old willow dejectedly grieves And drops from each leaf, for love's falsehoods, a tear; Go! rivals, and gather the willow's pale leaves, For falsehood ne'er cross'd between me and my dear. 

 [_Exit. _

 SCENE IV. --_The Castle Gardens decorated for a Fête, and crowded with Dancers and Musicians: a lofty Terrace crosses the extremity of the Stage, from which Village-Girls advance, scattering flowers before Geraldine, who is led by Florian to an open Temple between the Side-scenes, containing three Seats. _

_Ger. _ (_Pointing to the centre seat_) There is our hero's seat oftriumph: nay, my commands are absolute, and you have no appeal, I reserve this for my uncle, he will join us presently. 

 (They seat themselves--a ballet immediately commences--boys, habited as warriors, pay homage before _Florian_, and hang military trophies round his seat. Girls enter, as wood-nymphs, &c. Who surprise and disarm the warriors, then remove the trophies, and replace them with garlands. The warriors and nymphs join in a general dance--Suddenly a piercing shriek is heard: the action of the scene abruptly stops, and _Eugenia_, entering from the top of the stage, rushes distractedly between the groups of dancers, and casts herself at the feet of _Geraldine_. )

_Eug. _ Save me! save me!

_Ger. _ Ah! what wretched supplicant is this?

_Flor. _ By heavens! the very woman who yesternight preserved my life. 

 _Longueville_ enters in pursuit. 

_Long. _ (_Advancing rapidly, with instant self-command_) Dear friends!Heaven has this hour appointed me the agent of its grace. I havediscovered in this wretched woman, the long-lost wife of an ancientfriend, at Baden; lend your assistance to secure her person 'till I canapprise the husband of this unexpected meeting. 

_Eug. _ No, no, I have no husband--they have murdered him; he wouldbetray--destroy me. (_catching Geraldine's robe_) Oh! you, whose looksare heavenly-soft, to _you_ I plead: protect me from this fiend. 

_Ger. _ How earnestly she grasps my hand, indeed--indeed her agony seemsgenuine. 

_Long. _ You are deceived, she utters nought but madness, her mind hasbeen for years incurably diseased; come, away! away!

 (He seizes violently upon _Eugenia_ to force her with him, she clings to _Geraldine_ in anguish. )

_Eug. _ Forsake me not! I have no protector to invoke but you. 

_Ger. _ Forbear, my lord, I cannot find that wildness you proclaim;forbear, and recollect the rights of hospitality never yet were violatedat my uncle's gate. Lady, dismiss your fears, here sorrow ever meets aready shelter, for here resides the Count De Valmont. 

_Eug. _ Who?

_Ger. _ The excellent, the suffering Count De Valmont. 

_Eug. _ (_starting up with recurring insanity. _) Ha! ha! ha! come to thealtar, --my love waits for me, weave me a bridal crown!

_Long. _ (_triumphantly. _) Behold! can you doubt me now?

_Ger. _ Too painfully I am convinced; miserable being! Ah! remove herhence, before my uncle joins us; so terrible an object wouldinexpressibly afflict him. 

_Flor. _ Yes, yes; remove her hence! but O! I charge you treat her withthe tenderest care. 

_Long. _ (_eagerly to his people. _) Advance! bear her to my pavilion!mark! to _my_ pavilion on the river-bank!

 (The men seize upon _Eugenia_--the _Count_ appears at the same moment advancing from the extremity of the Terrace. )

_De Val. _ My friends! I come to join your pleasures. 

_Eug. _ (_struggling violently. _) Hark! he calls me to his arms--unhandme! nay, then oh! cruel, cruel, cruel. 

 (Overcome by her exertions, she sinks into a swoon and falls in the arms of the two men. _Longueville_ rapidly draw her veil across to conceal her features from the _Count_ as he advances. )

_Long. _ Away with her this instant!

 [He turns quickly toward the Terrace and catches De Valmont's arm as he descends to prevent his approach--then turns imperatively to the men. ]

_Long. _ Quick! Quick! away!

 _De Valmont_ pauses in surprize: _Longueville_ maintains his restraining attitude. _Florian_ and _Geraldine_ join to arrest his steps: the bravos withdraw the insensible and unresisting _Eugenia_ upon the opposite side: The various characters dispose themselves into a picture, and the curtain falls upon the Scene. 

 End of act II. 

ACT III. 

 SCENE I. --_The Steward's Room, _Gaspard_ and _L'Eclair_ discovered drinking, the latter half-intoxicated. _

_Gas. _ Adod! a very masterpiece of the military art? Why this Turennemust be a famous captain. I'll drink his health, (_drinks_) Odso! wheredid we leave the enemy? Oh! the Bavarians were just driven across theNeckar, and had destroyed the bridge. Well, and then what did ourtroops?

_L'Ecl. _ They clashed after them thro' the river like a pack of otters. 

_Gasp. _ Hold; you said just now the river wasn't fordable. 

_L'Ecl. _ Did I? Pshaw, I only meant, it wasn't fordable to the enemy:no, poor devils! they couldn't ford it certainly; but as to our hussars:whew! such fellows as they would _get_ thro' any thing, were it ever sodeep to the bottom. (_takes the flask from Gaspard and drinks_). 

_Gasp. _ O! the rare hussars! Now this is a conversation just to myheart's content. I dearly love to hear of battles and sieges. Thehousehold are all retired to rest, and my room is private; so here wemay sit peaceably, and talk about war for the remainder of the night. 

_L'Ec. _ Bravo! agreed: we'll make a night of it; but harkye, is not thisroom of yours built in a queer sort of a circular shape?

_Gasp. _ No; a most perfect square. 

_L'Ec. _ Well, I never studied mathematics; but, for a perfect square, methinks it has the oddest trick of turning round with its company Iever witnessed. 

 Enter _Rosabelle_. 

_Ros. _ Here's a display of profligacy! So, gentlemen, are these yourmorals? Methinks you place a special example before the household;drinking and carousing thus after midnight, when all decent personsought to be at rest within their beds. 

_Gasp. _ Marry now, my malapert lady! How comes it you are found abroadat these wild hours?

_Ros. _ I have always important motives for my conduct. A strange femalewaits at the castle-gate, who clamors for admittance; she seems in deepdistress, refuses to accept denial or excuse, and demands to speak withthe person of first consequence in the family. Now, Mr. Gaspard, as youhappen to be steward--

_Gasp. _ (_rises pompously_) I am of course the personage required. Yousay a female?

_Ros. _ Yes; she waits for you in heavy trouble at the gate. 

_Gasp. _ I fly. Gallantry invites, and I obey the call. Good Mr. L'Eclair, I cast myself upon your courtesy for this abrupt departure:

 'Tis woman tempts from friendship, war, and wine-- My fault is human--my excuse divine! [_Exit. _

_Ros. _ In sooth, the old gentleman has not forgotten his manners in hiscups; but as to you, sir, (_to L'Eclair_) how stupidly you sit--have younothing to say for yourself?

_L'Ec. _ (_rising and reeling towards her_). Much, very much--love--midnight--all snug and private. 

_Ros. _ Mercy O me! the wretch is certainly intoxicated; how wickedly hiseyes begin to twinkle. Why, Scapegrace, I'm sure you're not sober. 

_L'Ec. _ Don't say so, pray don't, you wound my delicacy. O! Rosabelle!beautiful but misjudging Rosabelle! I am unfortunate, but not criminal. This morning I beheld only one Rosabelle, and yet I was undone; now Iseem to behold two Rosabelles; ergo, I either see double, or am doublyundone. There's logic for you. Now, could a man who wasn't sober, talklogic? only answer me that. 

_Ros. _ What shall I do with him? If I leave him here, he'll drinkhimself into a fever. I must e'en coax him. L'Eclair, come, come, mydear L'Eclair, let me prevail upon you to go to bed; I'm going to bedmyself. 

_L'Ec. _ O! fy, that's too broad; I blush for you; would you delude myinnocence?

_Ros. _ The profligate monster! I delude!

_L'Ec. _ Well, I yield to fate: stars! veil your chaste heads, and thou. O! little candle, hide thy wick! behold the lamb submitting to thesacrifice. (_Reels to embrace her. _)

_Ros. _ Why, you heathen monster! how dare you talk to me about lambs andsacrifices? ah! if you stir another step, I'll alarm the family! I canscream, sir!

_L'Ec. _ I know you can; but pray, don't, somebody might hear you, andthat would be very disappointing, recollect I have a character to lose. 

_Ros. _ And have not I a character too, Sir?

_L'Ec. _ Hush! hush! Let's drops the subject. 

_Ros. _ How now, sirrah! have you any thing to say against my character?

_L'Ec. _ Oh! no, I never speak ill of the dead. 

_Ros. _ Why, you vile insinuating, but I shall preserve my temper thoughyou have lost your manners: well, assuredly of all objects in creation, the most pitiable is a man in liquor. 

_L'Ec. _ There's an exception--a man in love. 

DUETT. --_Rosabelle and L'Eclair. _

 _Ros. _ The precept of Bacchus to man proves a curse, The head it confounds, and the heart it bewitches. 

 _L'Ec. _ I'm sure, the example of Cupid is worse, For he walks abroad without shirt, drawers, or breeches. 

 _Ros. _ Pshaw! Cupid, you dolt, has rich garments enough. 

 _L'Ec. _ Nay, his wardrobe's confin'd to a plain suit of buff. 

 _Ros. _ 'Twas Bacchus taught men to drown reason in cans. 

 _L'Ec. _ 'Twas Cupid taught ladies the first use of fans. 

 _Ros. _ How diff'rent the garland, their votaries twine, -- How genteel is the myrtle--how vulgar the vine!

 _L'Ec. _ Of myrtle or vine I pretend not to know, But a fig-leaf I think would be most apropos: [_Exeunt. _

 SCENE II. --_The Count's Chamber--De Valmont is discovered gazing in profound meditation upon a miniature picture. _

 _De Val. _ Eugenia! Now of the angel race, and hous'd in Heaven! Forgive, dear saint! these blameful eyes that flow With human love, and mourn thy blessedness. O! ye strange powers! with what excelling truth Has Art's small hand here mimic'd mightiest Nature! What cheeks are these! could Death e'er crop such roses? Eyes! star-bright twins! fair glasses to fair thoughts, Where, as by truest oracles confest, The godlike soul reveals itself in glory. Your glances thrill me! amber-twinkling threads! Half bound by grace, half loos'd by winds, how strays This shining ringlet o'er this clear white breast! Like the pale sunshine streaking wintry snows! These lips have life--yea! very breath; a sweet Warm spirit stirs thru' the cleft ruby now! They move--they smile--they speak. Soft! soft! sweet heavens! I'll gaze no more; there's witchcraft in this skill, And my abus'd weak brain may madden soon!

 (conceals the picture in his bosom)

 The spell is hidden, still th' illusion works: O! in my heart Eugenia art thou trac'd-- There--there--thou livest--speakest--yet art mortal. Strong memory triumphs over death and time, In all my circling blood--each vein--each pulse Wherever life is, ever there art thou. 

 (Gaspard speaks without. )

_Gasp. _ Go, go; his lordship may not be disturb'd. 

_Mon. _ (_without_) Away! I have a cause that must be heard. 

_De Val. _ How now! voices in the anti-room! Ho!

 Enter _Gaspard_. 

_Gasp. _ Alack! that folk will be so troublesome: my good lord! here's astrange woman; truly a most obstinate spirit, who craves vehemently tobe heard, on matters (so she reports) of much importance to yourlordship. 

_De Val. _ Nay, in the morning be it; not at this hour. 

_Gasp. _ I told her so; my very words; but truly, her grief seems to havecraz'd her reason. 

_De Val. _ How! is she unhappy then? her sorrows be her passport here;admit her instantly: where should the afflicted heart prefer a prayer, if kindred wretchedness deny its sympathy?

 (_Gaspard_ introduces _Monica_. )

_Mon. _ So! you are seen at last, my lord! men say your heart is good;grant Heaven! I find it so; but ah! perhaps it is too late. Yes, yes;I fear it: the dove is in the vulture's grip already. 

_De Val. _ Woman! what strange distraction's this? Give me a knowledge ofyour griefs with method. 

_Mon. _ I will, I will, but anguish stifles me; O! my lord, my lord, thisis your castle, and here she fled for shelter, yet cruel hearts refusedher prayer. I have been told by your people that the baron's pavilion onthe river-bank is made her prison; she will be murdered there: oh! mylord, gracious lord, save her, save her!

 (She throws herself passionately at his feet. )

_De Val. _ Rise; attempt composure, your words are riddles to me. 

_Gasp. _ My lord! 'tis of the poor lunatic she speaks; she whom the baronhas confined: this woman claims her as her charge. 

_De Val. _I saw the person not, but heard in brief her story from thebaron; rest, good woman, rest; my kinsman is her friend. 

_Mon. _ No, no, he is a monster thirsting for her blood: here, here, I have read his character. 

 (Producing Eugenia's MSS. )

_De Val. _ Beware! you offend me; grief yields no privilege to slander. 

_Mon. _ I am not a slanderer, indeed, _indeed_, I am not; here areproofs: your lordship, I find, is called the Count De Valmont; had younot once a relation of the same title, who fell in battle with theHuguenots eighteen years ago!

_De Val. _ Never. 

_Mon. _ Yet 'twas the same title: ay, here 'tis written: "in forcing thepassage of the Durance. "

_De Val. _ How! 'tis of myself assuredly you read; I was reported falselyin that very action to have fallen; and for a time my death was creditedthrough France. 

_Mon. _ Ah! my lord! my lord! O! it rushes on my heart--nay, give but amoment; speak; were you once wedded to a lady named Eugenia?

_De Val. _ Woman! ah, name beloved!--wherefore that torturing question?

_Mon. _ Yes, yes; it is--it must be so--I cannot, here--read--this!--(_giving the scroll_). 

_De Val. _ Eternal Powers! Eugenia's well-known character! when andwhence did you procure this writing?

_Mon. _ This very morning, from her own hand, my lord, Eugenia lives tobless and to be blessed again. 

 (_De Valmont_ starts as if stricken to the center, for a moment his features express amazement, then incredulity, and lastly indignation. )

_De Val. _ Begone! thou wretched woman, lest I forget thy sex, and killthee for thy cruelty. 

_Mon. _ Nay, let me die, but not be doubted: read, read, and let youreyes assure your soul of joy!

 (The _Count_ faintly staggers back into a seat, and then fastens his eyes upon the scroll with a frenzied earnestness. )

_Gasp. _ Woman! if you have spoken falsely, my noble master's heart willbreak at once. 

_Mon. _ By the great issue, let my words be judged!

_De Val. _ (_reading_) "The chamber burst in flames, I snatched my infantfrom its slumber, I heard the voice of Longueville direct our murder, ruffians rushed towards us to perform his bidding. " (_starting forwardwith uncontrolable fury_) Oh! God of wrath and vengeance! hear thou ahusband's and a father's prayer! strike the pale villain! oh! with thyhottest lightning blast him dead! a curse, a tenfold curse o'erwhelm hisdeath-bed! Traitor! thou shalt not 'scape, this hand shall rend thyheart-strings, I'll smite thee home. 

 (In the delirium of his passion he draws his sword, and strikes with it as at an ideal combatant, his bodily powers forsake him in the effort, he reels, and falls convulsed into Gaspard's arms. )

_Gasp. _ Help! help! death is on him, help there swiftly!

 (_Geraldine_ rushes in, followed by domestics. )

_Ger. _ Whence these cries? ah Heavens! what killing sight is this?uncle, uncle, speak to me, 'tis Geraldine that calls. 

 Enter _Florian_ from the opposite side. 

_Flor. _ My patron! ha! convulsed! dying. Eternal Mercy spare his sacredlife!

_Ger. _ Nay, bend him forward, his eyes unclose again--he sees--heknows us. 

 (The _Count_ in silence draws a hand from _Geraldine_ and _Florian_ within his own, and presses them together to his heart. )

_Flor. _ How fares it, sir? bless us with your voice. 

_De Val. _ Ah! Ah! (_he grasps the scroll and points to it emphatically, but cannot articulate. _)

_Flor. _ O! for a knowledge of your gracious pleasure, speak sir, pronounce one word. 

_De Val. _ (_very faintly and with effort. _) Longueville: ah fly, preserve-- (_again his accents fail him, he seems to collect all hisremaining strength for one short effort, and a second time justarticulates_) --Longueville! (_he relapses into insensibility. _)

_Flor. _ Enough! I comprehend your will; nay, bear him gently in, I'll tothe river-bank and seek the Baron!

 (_Geraldine, &c. Bear the count off on one side, Florian rushes away by the opposite. _)

 SCENE III. --_A rugged Cliff that overhangs the River. _

 Enter _Longueville_ and _Sanguine_. 

_Long. _ Tardy, neglectful slave! still does he loiter?

_Sang. _ Nay, return to the pavilion; the signal soon must greet us: youbade Lenoire to sound his bugle when he reached the bank. 

_Long. _ Ay, thrice the blast should be repeated; still must I listen forthose notes of destiny in vain? hark! here you nothing now?

_Sang. _ Only the rising tide that murmurs hoarsly as it frets and chafesagainst the bank below us. 

_Long. _ Is midnight passed?

_Sang. _ Long since: just as we crossed the glen the monastery chimeswang heavy with the knell of yesterday. 

_Long. _ A guiltless end that flighted yesterday hath reached. O! thatthe morrow found as clear a tomb! When the next midnight tolls, Eugenia, thou wilt rest in blessedness, whilst thy murderer-- Ah! what charmedcouch shall bring the sweet forgetful slumber at that hour to me?Midnight, the welcome sabbath of unstained souls, O, to the murdererthou art terrible--silence and darkness that with the innocent makeblessed time, to him bring curses, for then through sealed ears andclose-veiled eyes, strange sounds and sights will steal their way, thatin the hum and glare of day-light dare not stir: then o'er the wretch'sforehead ooze cold beads of dew--in feverish, brain-sick dreams, withstarts and groans: on beds of seeming down he feels the griding rack, and finds himself a hell more fierce, than fiends can show hereafter. 

_Sang. _ How now, my lord? unmanned by conscience? Nay, then, let Eugenialive. 

_Long. _ Not for an angel's birthright! think'st thou I would deign tobreathe on wretched sufferance? No, no; her death is necessary to myhonor and my peace. Come on! my hand may falter, but my heart'sresolved; 'tis sworn, inexorably sworn: Eugenia dies. [_Exeunt. _

 SCENE IV. --_The river-bank--the Rhine flows across the stage at distance--on one side a pavilion extends obliquely, through the lower windows of which lights appear--nearly opposite is a small bower of lattice-work. --The moon at full, has just risen above the German bank, and pours its radiance upon the water. _Bertrand_ is discovered watching the pavilion. _

_Bert. _ I watch in vain; all means of access to the prisoner aredebarred: her chamber now is dark and silent: still tapers glare andvoices murmur from the hall beneath: the baron and Sanguine are there:'tis against life these midnight plotters stir. Oh! that this heartmight bleed to its last guilty drop in ransom for Eugenia! Soft! doesnot the dashing of a distant oar disturb the silence of the tide? Yes;just where the moonlight gleams a boat now crosses rapidly; it rowstowards this bank; it pauses now in stillness--what may this mean? thehour so late, the spot so unfrequented and remote. (_A bugle is soundedthree times_) Ha! a bugle sounded thrice! too sure the omen of somefatal deed. I will not quit this spot--no, Eugenia, I will preserve orperish with thee! Soft, the pavilion opens. Bower, receive me to thyfriendly shades! watch with me blessed spirits. 

 (He retires into the bower fronting the pavilion. _Longueville_ advances cautiously from the pavilion. )

_Long. _ 'Twas the signal! the boat has reached the bank, Ho! Lenoire!advance: no eye observes thy step. 

 Enter _Lenoire_ along the bank by an entrance between the bower and the river. 

_Len. _ All is prepared: your orders are fulfiled. 

_Long. _ Laggard! too many precious moments have been wasted in theirexecution: the moon has risen high, and casts a brightness round scarcefeebler than the day: your course may be observed. 

_Len. _ Dismiss that fear: nothing that lives hath voice or motion: now, not e'en the solitary fisher spreads his nets upon the stream. 

_Long. _ Where have you left the boat?

_Len. _ Under the bank in shade, fastened to the roots of yon tallwillow. 

_Long. _ Sanguine shall accompany you; then when you reach the middle ofthe current--

_Len. _ Ay, where it flows deep and strong; Eugenia's funeral rites arefew and brief. 

_Long. _ To-morrow, I shall report she has been conveyed in safety to herfriends upon the German bank--thus all inquiry stands forever barred. 

 [_Bertrand_, who watches from the bower, clasps his hands in despair and groans aloud. ]

_Long. _ Ha! what sound was that?

_Len. _ (_looking cautiously round. _) Some tree moaning to the blast--nomore. 

_Long. _ Now then! yet hold! wherefore come you not masked? some of thepeasantry may chance to stir ere you return, and I should wish yourpersons were unmarked by any. 

_Len. _ I left a mask within the boat; this flowing mantle will concealmy dress--trust me both form and feature shall effectually be hid. 

 (_Bertrand_ makes a gesticulation of hope towards the pavilion, then glides silently round the angle of the bower, and starts along the bank. )

_Long. _ 'Tis well! (_to the pavilion. _) Ho! Sanguine! lead forth yourcharge: despatch, Lenoire! return to the boat, and row it swiftlyhither! Away!

 [Exit _Lenoire_. 

She comes! Ill-starred Eugenia! fate chides the lingering echo of thystep, yet but a moment and 'tis hushed forever. 

 _Sanguine_ leads _Eugenia_ from the pavilion. _

_Eug. _ Ah! whither do you lead me? Speak, in pity--nay, nay, I pritheeforce me not; this is a savage hour, and I must fear your purpose, speak, whither would you hurry me? Ah! Longueville! now then I read myanswer--'tis to death--to murder!

_Long. _ Lady, you misjudge my purpose--true, that once I proved myselfyour foe, perhaps a kindless one; time and pity have extinguished hate. Across the Rhine, upon the German bank, a safe asylum is provided, wherepeace shall gild the evening of your life, and cure the memory of itsearly woes; 'tis necessary you should cross the river before dawn;a boat is now in readiness to bear you over. 

_Eug. _ No, no, I find a language in your eye more certain than yourlip--murder--midnight murder is its direful theme. Thou wretched man!rather for thee than for myself I kneel. Pause, Longueville! raise butthine eye to yon clear world, thick-sown with shining wonders--think, that throughout the boundless beauteous space, an omnipresent, andall-conscious spirit is; think, that within his awful eye-beam, now thyactions pass, and presently before his throne must wait for judgment;think, that whene'er he touched the veriest worm, that crawls on thisbase sphere, with life, mighty his will encompassed it with safety!then, tremble, creature as thou art, to spurn his law by whom thou wertcreated, nor quench with impious hand, that gifted spark Omnipotencehath once ordained to glow. 

_Long. _ Lady, already I have said, your auguries wrong me (_the noise ofa combat sounds from the bank. _) Ha! the crash of swords! Sanguine! flyto the spot. Lenoire, I fear me, is in danger. 

 [Exit _Sanguine_. 

Confusion to my hopes! what ill-beamed planet rules the hour? Eugenia, return to the pavilion. 

_Eug. _ Not, while succour seems so nigh, help! help!

_Long. _ Dare but repeat that cry, by heavens! this very moment is yourlast. (_draws a dagger. _) Nay, nay, you strive in vain, --away!

 [_Longueville_ forces _Eugenia_ into the pavilion, then drags a bar across the door. 

What cursed step has wandered on these banks to thwart my ripe design?Perdition to the meddling slave! his life shall pay the forfeit of hisrashness. 

 Re-enter _Sanguine_. 

_Sang. _ My lord, the combatants, whoe'er they were, had vanished ere Ireached the spot; close to the water's edge the turf was stained withblood, and already to a distance from the bank, Lenoire had rowed awaythe boat; I called aloud, but he increased his speed, and gave noanswer. 

_Lon. _ 'Sdeath! some prying hind has stolen on our plans; doubtlessLenoire has been assailed and for a while avoids the bank, fearful offurther ambush; follow me to search yon winding path; if the villianhave received a wound, traces of blood will guide us to hishaunt, --vengeance direct our steps! [_Exit, with Sanguine. _

 [_Eugenia_ appears at the lower windows through a grating. ]

_Eug. _ Fond, trusting heart! art thou again deceived? does the greatthunder sleep, and are the heavens still patient of a murderer's crimes;yes, yes, the sounds have ceased, and now a dreadful stillness sits uponthe night; the tomb seems imaged in the hour. Hope in the breathlesspause forsakes my breast forever. 

 Enter _Florian_. 

_Flor. _ Ha! lights still burning--fortunately then he has not retired torest, --baron! baron! [_Runs to the door. _

_Eug. _ (_Shrieks. _) Ah! the voice of succour--turn, turn in pity--snatchme from despair--preserve me from the grave. 

_Flor. _ Heavens!

 [Involuntarily he withdraws the bar, and _Eugenia_ darting forth, clings wildly round him. ]

_Flor. _ Unhappy woman! whence these transports?

_Eug. _ Swear to preserve me, swear not to yield me to the murderer'sdagger; no, no, you have a human heart; am I not safe with you?

_Flor. _ My honor and my manhood both are pledges for your safety: butwho is the enemy you dread!

_Eug. _ Longueville; he seeks my life: nay, nay, I am not mad, indeed Iam not; turn not from me: look with compassion on a desolate, devotedcreature, whom man conspires to wrong, and Heaven forgets to aid. 

_Flor. _ Appease these agonies; by my eternal hope, I swear, whatever thedanger, or the foe that threatens, I will defend you with my life frominjury. 

_Eug. _ A wretch's blessing crown thee for the generous vow! oh! let mysoul dissolve and gush in tears upon this gracious hand!

 [_Eugenia_ enthusiastically clasps Florian's hand, and covers it with tears and caresses; suddenly a new impulse appears to direct her actions: she rubs the back of the hand she has seized with strange earnestness, and a tremor pervades her entire frame. ]

_Flor. _ Why do you fasten thus your looks upon my hand: what moves yourwonder?

_Eug. _ (_tremblingly. _) This scar, this deep, _deep_ scar, that with acrimson cross o'erseams your hand; speak, how gained you first thisdreadful mark?

_Flor. _ From infancy I recollect the stamp, its cause remains unknown. 

_Eug. _ Who were your parents?

_Flor. _ Alas! that knowledge never blessed my heart. I am a foundling:eighteen years since, in a forest at the foot of the Cevennes--

_Eug. _ Ah! did watchful angels then--yes, yes, twice the dagger struck!'tis nature's holy proof!

_Flor. _ Merciful heavens! you then possess the secret of my birth:woman! woman! pronounce my parents' name, and I will worship you. 

_Eug. _ Your parents! ah! they were, ah! ah!

 [She attempts to enfold him with her arms, but faints as he receives the embrace. ]

_Flor. _ Speak! I conjure you, speak! breathe but their sacred name! shehears me not, and nature struggles at my heart in vain!

 Enter _Longueville_ and _Sanguine_ at distance. 

_Long. _ The lurking knave, whate'er his aim, has fled beyond our search, and all is now secure. Has Lenoire return'd your signal to approach thebank?

_Sang. _ He rows towards us now--nay, look--the boat draws close. 

_Long. _ Then to our last decisive deed!

 [Passing to the pavilion he beholds the characters in front, and starts. ]

Ha! confusion and despair! Eugenia rescued, and in Florian's arms!

_Flor. _ Help, baron!--swiftly help!--aid me to preserve a dying woman!

_Long. _ Florian! by what wild chance at such unwonted hour I find you onthis spot, admits not of inquiry now--but for this fair impostor, resignher to my care--with me her safety is at once assured. 

_Flor. _ Pardon me, Longueville; whate'er the laws of courtesy demand, I yield--but to this female's fate my soul is newly bound by ties sostrange and strong, that even your displeasure must not part us. 

 [The alarum-bell tolls from the castle. ]

_Long. _ Ha! the castle is alarmed--look out, Sanguine:--what means thistumult?

_Sang. _ My lord! the glare of numerous torches wavers through thegrove--this way the crowd directs its course. 

_Long. _ Distraction! --Florian, beware my just resentment, and instantlyresign this woman! (_Attempting to force her from him. _)

_Flor. _ Never!--my word stands pledged for her protection, and only withmy life will I desert my honor. 

_Long. _ Hell!--ho! Lenoire! --Lenoire!

 [He rushes furiously to the bank, and motions to the boat. ]

_Eug. _ (_just recovering. _) Stay, blessed vision!-- (_recognizingFlorian_) ah! 'twas real--I fold him to my heart, and am blessed atlast. 

 [The boat, rowed by a man enveloped in a mantle and a masque, at that instant gains the bank. ]

_Long. _ (_triumphantly_) Ha! the boat arrives!--now then presumptuousboy! receive the chastisement you dare provoke. 

 [He draws and rushes upon _Florian_, who disengages himself from _Eugenia_ and stands upon the defence. ]

_Flor. _ In the just cause I would not shrink before a giant's arm!(_they engage. _)

_Eug. _ (_frantic_) Inhuman Longueville!--forbear! forbear!

 [While _Florian_ encounters _Longueville_, _Sanguine_ suddenly darts upon _Eugenia_, who is too enfeebled to resist; by the action of a moment he transports her from her protector's side to the Baron's. Florian's position is next to the audience, so that Longueville's sword now equally intercepts him from _Eugenia_ and from the river. ]

_Long. _ (_Perceiving his advantage_) Away!--drag--her to the boat--bemine the task to curb her champion's valor. 

_Flor. _ Hold! dastard--unless thou art dead to every sense ofmanhood--hold!

_Long. _ Boy! I triumph, and deride thy baffled spleen. 

 [_Sanguine_ lifts _Eugenia_ into the boat, and the masque receives her. ]

_Eug. _ (_from the boat_) Great nature! speed my dying words! --Thoudear-lov'd youth! thy mother blesses thee--long-lost--late-found--behold! she struggles _now_ to bless her child--and _now_ she diescontent!

_Flor. _ Eternal Providence! what words were those? --Longueville!--Barbarian! --Fiend!

 [He rushes madly upon the _Baron_, who parries the assault; then in an agony casts himself before his feet. ]

Oh! if thou art human, hold! --I kneel--I fall thy slave--spurnme--trample on my neck--take my life--but O! respect and spare myparent!

_Sang. _ (_from the boat_) Decide, my lord; the crowd approach, alreadythey o'erlook the bank. 

_Long. _ 'Twere vain to pause--I founder upon either course--nay then, revenge shall brighten ruin; swift! plunge your poniards in Eugenia'sbosom! let me behold my victim perish, and then commit me to my fate!

_Flor. _ (_starting up in desperation_) Monster!

_Long. _ They come--obey me, slaves!

 [_Sanguine_ draws _Eugenia_ back, and the _Masque_ lifts a dagger over her. ]

_Sang. _ We are prepared. 

_Long. _ Now. 

_Sang. _ Comrade! strike!

_Masque. _ Ay! to the heart!

 [The _Masque_ rapidly darts his arm across Eugenia's figure and plunges the dagger into _Sanguine_, who reels beneath the blow and falls into the stream. 

(_triumphantly_) Eugenia is preserved!

 [With one arm he supports the lady, and with the other snatches away the masque and discovers the features of _Bertrand_. 

_Long. _ Bertrand--perfidious slave! eternal palsies strike thy arm!

 [_Gaspard_, _Monica_, _Domestics_, &c. With torches, enter at the moment and surround the baron, whose surprise bereaves him of power to resist. ]

_Flor. _ Secure the villain, yet forbear his life--Mother! Mysteriousblessing--ah! yield her to my arms--my heart!

 [_Bertrand_ resigns _Eugenia_ to Florian's embrace. ]

_Eug. _ My boy, my only one--Bertrand! life is thy gift, and now indeed Ibless thee for the boon. 

_Bert. _ I swore to save you, I have kept my oath, unseen I watched, unknown I ventured in your cause--your forgiveness half relieves mysoul, and now I dare to pray for heaven's!

 Enter _De Valmont_, supported by _Geraldine_ and _Domestics_. 

_De Val. _ Ah! 'tis she, dear worshipp'd form; she lives--she lives. 

_Eug. _ Ah! shield me--Florian, yon phantom shape--death surely hoversnear--

_De Val. _ Nay, fly me not, Eugenia! tis thy lord, thy living lord, thyonce beloved De Valmont calls: thou dear divorced-one bless theseoutstretch'd arms--I kneel and woo thee for my bride again!

 [_Florian_ leads _Eugenia_ trembling and uncertain to the _Count_, he catches her irresolute hand. ]

_Eug. _ Indeed, my wedded lord! --I wept for a dear warrior once; and didthe sword forbear so just a heart?--ah! chide not love, joy kills aswell as grief--

 [She sinks gradually into his embrace, and he supports her on his breast in speechless tenderness. ]

_Long. _ Detested sight! well, well, curses are weak revenge, and I'lldisdain their use. 

_Flor. _ Remove the monster to some sure confinement. The Count hereaftershall pronounce his punishment. 

_Long. _ Already I endure my heaviest curse. I view the objects of myhatred crown'd with joy. Come! to a dungeon!--darkness is welcome, sinceit hides me from exulting foes! [_Exit. _

_Ger. _ (_advancing with tenderness. _) Florian!--friend--ah! yet a dearername--you rob me of a birth-right, still I must greet my new-foundkinsman. 

_Flor. _ Geraldine! what means my love?

_De Val. _ Florian! Heaven mysteriously o'er-watch'd thy hour of peril, and led a father through the desert, unconsciously to succour and redeemhis child. 

_Flor. _ Ha! De Valmont's glorious blood then circles in these veins!--My parent, my preserver! Ha! twice has existence been my father'sgift. 

_De Val. _ My pride thus long in humbleness!--my forest-prize! myfoundling boy!--thou had'st my blessing ere I knew thy claim. Eugenia, greet our mutual image. Ah! wilt thou weep, sweet love. Thou bendesto'er his forehead e'en as a lily, brimming with clear dews, that stoopsin beauteous sorrow to embathe its neighbouring bud. Thro' many a stormof perilous and marring cares o'erborne, our long-benighted loves atlast encounter on a sun-bright course, and reach the haven of domesticpeace. 

 Thus Judah's pilgrim--one whose steps in vain Climb sky-crown'd rocks--o'erpace the burning plain, Just when his soul despairs--his spirits faint, Achieves the threshold of his long-sought Saint: The desert's danger--storms and ruffian-bands-- All sink forgotten as the shrine expands-- Feet cure their toil that touch the hallow'd floors-- He rests his staff--kneels, trembles, and adores!

 [Exeunt Omnes. 

 * * * * * * * * *

Errors and Inconsistencies: The Foundling

 Spellings were changed only when there was an unambiguous error, or the word occurred elsewhere with the expected spelling. Variation between "Flo. " and "Flor. " is as in the original. Names in stage directions were inconsistently italicized; they have been silently regularized. Missing or invisible periods have been silently supplied. 

_Unchanged:_ anti-room [both occurrences use this spelling] did'nt [both occurrences are in this form] I could as soon compose an almanac as and a clue [error for "find a clue"?] For falsehood ne'er cross'd between me and my dear. [inconsistent indendation in original] I led the unfortune to my dwelling [error for "unfortunate"?]

_Corrections:_ to be disconcerted by a hail-stone [to de disconcerted] _Bert. _ (_pursuing her with his eye deliriously_) [Bart. ] _Mon. _ She has not quitted it this morning [Lon. ] and solemnly pronounce a vow [solemny] SCENE III. --_A Gallery in the Chateau. _ [Scene III. ] presses her crucifix to her lips [pressess] she clings to Geraldine in anguish. [he clings] catches De Valmont's arm as he descends [decends] a most obstinate spirit [obsinate] the dove is in the vulture's grip already [gripe] _Len. _ All is prepared: your orders are fulfilled. [fulfiled] [Exit _Lenoire_. [Lenoir]

_Punctuation:_ I don't want a husband [dont] wouldst thou find happiness [woulds't] _1st Br. _ Sanguine! [printed "1st. _Br. _"] vibrate on the memory forever. [, for . ] SCENE II. --_The Cottage. _ [invisible dash] How she tore her lovely locks that look'd so sandy, oh! [? for !] you said just now the river wasn't fordable [was'nt] amazement, then incredulity, and lastly indignation. _) [period after close parenthesis] instantly resign this woman! [? for !]