conqueror, Alonzo, and glories in the ruin of his spair and suicide, and the dramatic art evinced in the victim: characters and incidents, drew loud applause. The Gamester' is still a popular play.

and to redeem past errors, I sold the reversion, sold it for a scanty sum, and lost it among villains.

Char. Why, farewell all then.

Bev. Liberty and life. Come, kneel and curse me. Mrs B. Then hear me, heaven. [Kneels.] Look down with mercy on his sorrows! Give softness to his looks, and quiet to his heart! On me, on me, if misery must be the lot of either, multiply misfortunes! I'll bear them patiently, so he be happy! These hands shall toil for his support; these eyes be lifted up for hourly blessings on him; and every duty of a fond and faithful wife be doubly done to cheer and comfort him. So hear me ! so reward me!

[Rises.

Bev. I would kneel too, but that offended heaven would turn my prayers into curses; for I have done a deed to make life horrible to you.

Mrs B. What deed?

Jar. Ask him no questions, madam; this last misfortune has hurt his brain. A little time will give him patience.

Enter STUKELY. Ber. Why is this villain here?

Stuk. To give you liberty and safety. There, madam, is his discharge. [Gives a paper to Charlotte.] The arrest last night was meant in friendship, but came too late.

Char. What mean you, sir?

Bates. Dawson and I are witnesses of this. Lew. And of a thousand frauds; his fortune ruined Stuk. The arrest was too late, I say; I would have by sharpers and false dice; and Stukely sole contriver kept his hands from blood; but was too late.

and

possessor of all.

Mrs B. His hands from blood! Whose blood?
Stuk. From Lewson's blood.

Daw. Had he but stopped on this side murder, we had been villains still.

Char. No, villain!

Yet what of Lewson; speak

quickly.
Stuk. You are ignorant then; I thought I heard
the murderer at confession.

Char. What murderer? And who is murdered? Not Lewson? Say he lives, and I will kneel and worship you.

Stuk. And so I would; but that the tongues of all cry murder. I came in pity, not in malice; to save the brother, not kill the sister. Your Lewson's dead. Char. O horrible!

Bev. Why, ay; this looks like management. Bates. He found you quarrelling with Lewson in the street last night. [To Beverley.

Mrs B. No; I am sure he did not.

Jar. Or if I did

Enter CHARLOTTE and LEWSON.

[Mrs B., on perceiving Lewson, goes into a hysteric laugh, and sinks on Jarvis. Stuk. Lewson! O villains! villains! [To Bates and Dawson. Mrs B. Risen from the dead! Why, this is unexpected happiness!

Char. Or is it his ghost? [To Stukely.] That sight would please you, sir.

Jar. What riddle is this?

Stuk. What witness?
Bates. A right one.

Bev. Be quick and tell it, my minutes are but few. Mrs B. Alas! why so? You shall live long and happily.

Lew. While shame and

punishment shall rack that viper. [Points to Stukely.] The tale is short; I was too busy in his secrets, and therefore doomed to die. Bates, to prevent the murder, undertook it; I kept aloof to give it credit.

Proceed, sir.

Bev. Silence, I charge you. Stuk. No; justice may stop the tale; and here's an heart.] And now it tears me! evidence.

Char. And give me pangs unutterable.

Lew. I felt them all, and would have told you; but vengeance wanted ripening. The villain's scheme was but half executed; the arrest by Dawson followed the supposed murder, and now, depending on his once wicked associates, he comes to fix the guilt on Beverley.

Lew. [To Beverley.] How does my friend?

Bev. Why, well. Who's he that asks me?

Mrs B. Tis Lewson, love. Why do you look so at him?

Bev. [Wildly.] They told me he was murdered!
Mrs B. Ay; but he lives to save us.

Bev. Lend me your hand; the room turns round. Lew. This villain here disturbs him. Remove him from his sight; and on your lives see that you guard him. [Stukely is taken off by Dawson and Bates.] How is it, sir?

Bev. 'Tis here, and here. [Pointing to his head and

Mrs B. You feel convulsed, too. What is it disturbs you?

Bev. A furnace rages in this heart. [Laying his hand upon his heart.] Down, restless flames! down to your native hell ; there you shall rack me! Oh, for a pause from pain! Where is my wife? Can you forgive me, love?

Mrs B. Alas! for what?

Bev. For meanly dying.
Mrs B. No; do not say it.

Bev. As truly as my soul must answer it. Had Jarvis staid this morning, all had been well; but, pressed by shame, pent in a prison, and tormented with my pangs for you, driven to despair and madness, I took the advantage of his absence, corrupted the poor wretch he left to guard me, and swallowed poison.

Lew. Oh, fatal deed!

Mrs B. 'Tis false, old man; they had no quarrel, there was no cause for quarrel.

Ber. Let him proceed, I say. O! I am sick! sick! Reach a chair. [Jarvis brings it, he sits down. Mrs B. You droop and tremble, love. Yet you are innocent. If Lewson's dead, you killed him not.

Bev. Ay, most accursed. And now I go to my account. Bend me, and let me kneel. [They lift him from his chair, and support him on his knees.] I'll pray for you too. Thou Power that mad'st me, hear me. If, for a life of frailty, and this too hasty deed of death, thy justice doom me, here I acquit the sentence; but if, enthroned in mercy where thou sitt'st, thy pity hast beheld me, send me a gleam of hope, that in these last and bitter moments my soul may

Enter DAWSON. Stuk. Who sent for Dawson?

Bates. "Twas I. We have a witness too, you little taste of comfort! And for these mourners here, O think of. Without there!

let their lives be peaceful, and their deaths happy. Mrs B. Restore him, heaven! O, save him, save him, or let me die too!

Look at him.

Bev. No; live, I charge you. We have a little one; though I have left him, you will not leave him. To Lewson's kindness I bequeath him. Is not this Charlotte? We have lived in love, though I have wronged you. Can you forgive me, Charlotte?

Char. Forgive you! O, my poor brother!

Bev. Lend me your hand, love. So; raise me-no; it will not be; my life is finished. O for a few short moments to tell you how my heart bleeds for you; that even now, thus dying as I am, dubious and fearful of a hereafter, my bosom pang is for your miseries. Support her, Heaven! And now I go. mercy! mercy!

O,
[Dies.

Lew. How is it, madam? My poor Charlotte, too!
Char. Her grief is speechless.

Lew. Jarvis, remove her from this sight. [Jarvis and Charlotte lead Mrs Beverley aside.] Some ministering angel bring her peace. And thou, poor breathless corpse, may thy departed soul have found the rest it prayed for. Save but one error, and this last fatal deed, thy life was lovely. Let frailer minds take warning; and from example learn that want of pru

dence is want of virtue.

[Exeunt.

Of a more intellectual and scholar-like cast were

the two dramas of Mason, Elfrida and Caractacus.
They were brought on the stage by Colman (which
Southey considers to have been a bold experiment in
those days of sickly tragedy), and were well received.
They are now known as dramatic poems, not as act-A
ing plays. The most natural and affecting of all the
tragic productions of the day, was the Douglas of
Home, founded on the old ballad of Gil Morrice, which
Percy has preserved in his Reliques. 'Douglas' was
rejected by Garrick, and was first performed in
Edinburgh in 1756. Next year Lord Bute procured
its representation at Covent Garden, where it drew
tears and applause as copiously as in Edinburgh.
The plot of this drama is pathetic and interesting.
The dialogue is sometimes flat and prosaic, but
other parts are written with the liquid softness and
moral beauty of Heywood or Dekker. Maternal
affection is well depicted under novel and striking
circumstances the accidental discovery of a lost
child- My beautiful! my brave!'-and Mr Mac-
kenzie, the Man of Feeling,' has given as his opi-
nion that the chief scene between Lady Randolph
and Old Norval, in which the preservation and
existence of Douglas is discovered, has no equal in
modern and scarcely a superior in the ancient drama.
Douglas himself, the young hero, enthusiastic, ro-
mantic, desirous of honour, careless of life and every
other advantage when glory lay in the balance,' is
beautifully drawn, and formed the schoolboy model
of most of the Scottish youth sixty years since.'
As a specimen of the style and diction of Home,
we subjoin part of the discovery scene. Lord Ran-
dolph is attacked by four men, and rescued by
young Douglas. An old man is found in the woods,
and is taken up as one of the assassins, some rich
jewels being also in his possession.

•

[Discovery of her Son by Lady Randolph.]
PRISONER-LADY RANDOLPH-ANNA, her maid.

The truth direct; for these to me foretell
And certify a part of thy narration;
With which, if the remainder tallies not,
An instant and a dreadful death abides thee.
Pris. Then, thus adjured, I'll speak to you as just
As if you were the minister of heaven,
Sent down to search the secret sins of men.

Some eighteen years ago, I rented land
Of brave Sir Malcolm, then Balarmo's lord;
But falling to decay, his servants seized
All that I had, and then turned me and mine
(Four helpless infants and their weeping mother)
Out to the mercy of the winter winds.
A little hovel by the river side
Received us: there hard labour, and the skill
In fishing, which was formerly my sport,
Supported life. Whilst thus we poorly lived,
One stormy night, as I remember well,
The wind and rain beat hard upon our roof;
Red came the river down, and loud and oft
The angry spirit of the water shrieked.
At the dead hour of night was heard the cry
Of one in jeopardy. I rose, and ran
To where the circling eddy of a pool,
My reach whatever floating thing the stream
Beneath the ford, used oft to bring within
Had caught. The voice was ceased; the person lost:
But, looking sad and earnest on the waters,
By the moon's light I saw, whirled round and round,
basket; soon I drew it to the bank,
And nestled curious there an infant lay.
Lady R. Was he alive?
Pris. He was.

be:

For these, I say: be steadfast to the truth;
Detected falsehood is most certain death.

Lady R. Inhuman that thou art!

How could'st thou kill what waves and tempests
spared?

Pris. I was not so inhuman.
Lady R. Didst thou not?

This man has not the aspect of stern murder;
Anna. My noble mistress, you are moved too much:
Let him go on, and you, I hope, will hear
Good tidings of your kinsman's long lost child.

Pris. The needy man who has known better days,
One whom distress has spited at the world,
Is he whom tempting fiends would pitch upon
To do such deeds, as make the prosperous men
Lift up their hands, and wonder who could do them;
And such a man was I; a man declined,
Who saw no end of black adversity;
Yet, for the wealth of kingdoms, I would not
Have touched that infant with a hand of harm.

Lady R. Ha! dost thou say so? Then perhaps he
lives!

Lady R. Account for these; thine own they cannot Pursue thy story with a faithful tongue,

Pris. Not many days ago he was alive.

Lady R. O, God of heaven! Did he then die so lately!
Pris. I did not say he died; I hope he lives.
Not many days ago these eyes beheld
Him, flourishing in youth, and health, and beauty.
Lady R. Where is he now?
Pris. Alas! I know not where.

Lady R. O, fate! I fear thee still. Thou riddler,
speak

Direct and clear, else I will search thy soul.

Anna. Permit me, ever honoured! keen impatience, Though hard to be restrained, defeats itself.

To the last hour that thou didst keep the child.
Pris. Fear not my faith, though I must speak my

shame.

Within the cradle where the infant lay
Was stowed a mighty store of gold and jewels;
Tempted by which, we did resolve to hide,
From all the world, this wonderful event,
And like a peasant breed the noble child.

[Anna removes the servants and returns.
Pris. Alas! I'm sore beset; let never man,
For sake of lucre, sin against his soul!
Eternal justice is in this most just!
I, guiltless now, must former guilt reveal.

Lady R. O, Anna, hear! Once more I charge thee That none might mark the change of our estate,
We left the country, travelled to the north,

speak

Bought flocks and herds, and gradually brought forth Till I shall call upon thee to declare,
Our secret wealth. But God's all-seeing eye
Beheld our avarice, and smote us sore;
For one by one all our own children died,
And he, the stranger, sole remained the heir
Of what indeed was his. Fain then would I,
Who with a father's fondness loved the boy,
Have trusted him, now in the dawn of youth,
With his own secret; but my anxious wife,
Foreboding evil, never would consent.
Meanwhile the stripling grew in years and beauty;
And, as we oft observed, he bore himself,
Not as the offspring of our cottage blood,
For nature will break out: mild with the mild,
But with the froward he was fierce as fire,
And night and day he talked of war and arms.
I set myself against his warlike bent;
But all in vain; for when a desperate band
Of robbers from the savage mountains came-

Lady R. Eternal Providence! What is thy name?
Pris. My name is Norval; and my name he

bears.

Lady R. 'Tis he, 'tis he himself! It is my son!
O, sovereign mercy! "Twas my child I saw!
No wonder, Anna, that my bosom burned.

Anna. Just are your transports: ne'er was woman's

heart

Proved with such fierce extremes. High-fated dame!
But yet remember that you are beheld
By servile eyes; your gestures may be seen
Impassioned, strange; perhaps your words o'erheard.
Lady R. Well dost thou counsel, Anna; Heaven be-

stow

On me that wisdom which my state requires!
Anna. The moments of deliberation pass,
And soon you must resolve. This useful man
Must be dismissed in safety, ere my lord
Shall with his brave deliverer return.

Pris. If I, amidst astonishment and fear, Have of your words and gestures rightly judged, Thou art the daughter of my ancient master; The child I rescued from the flood is thine.

Lady R. With thee dissimulation now were vain.
I am indeed the daughter of Sir Malcolm;
The child thou rescuedst from the flood is mine.
Pris. Blessed be the hour that made me a poor
man!

My poverty hath saved my master's house.
Lady R. Thy words surprise me; sure thou dost not
feign!

The tear stands in thine eye: such love from thee
Sir Malcolm's house deserved not, if aright
Thou told'st the story of thy own distress.

Pris. Sir Malcolm of our barons was the flower;
The fastest friend, the best, the kindest master;
But ah! he knew not of my sad estate.
After that battle, where his gallant son,
Your own brave brother, fell, the good old lord
Grew desperate and reckless of the world;
And never, as he erst was wont, went forth
To overlook the conduct of his servants.

Before the king and nobles, what thou now
To me hast told. No more but this, and thou
Shalt live in honour all thy future days;
Thy son so long shall call thee father still,
And all the land shall bless the man who saved
The son of Douglas, and Sir Malcolm's heir.

JOHN HOME, author of Douglas, was by birth connected with the family of the Earl of Home; his father was town-clerk of Leith, where the poet was born in 1722. He entered the church, and succeeded Blair, author of The Grave,' as minister of Athelstaneford. Previous to this, however, he had taken up arms as a volunteer in 1745 against the Chevalier, and after the defeat at Falkirk, was imprisoned in the old castle of Doune, whence he effected his escape, with some of his associates, by cutting their blankets into shreds, and letting themselves down on the ground. The romantic poet soon found the church as severe and tyrannical as the army of Charles Edward. So violent a storm was raised by the fact that a Presbyterian minister had written a play, that Home was forced to succumb to the presbytery, and resign his living. Lord Bute rewarded him with the sinecure office of conservator of Scots privileges at Campvere, and on the accession of George III. in 1760, when the influence of Bute was paramount, the poet received a pension of £300 per annum. He wrote various other tragedies, which soon passed into oblivion; but with an income of about £600 per annum, with an easy, cheerful, and benevolent disposition, and enjoying the friendship of David Hume, Blair, Robertson, and all the most distinguished for rank or talents, John Home's life glided on in happy tranquillity. He survived nearly all his associates, and died in 1808, aged eighty-six.

Among the other tragic writers may be mentioned Mallet, whose drama of Elvira was highly successful, and another drama by whom, Mustapha, enjoyed a factitious popularity by glancing at the characters of the king and Sir Robert Walpole. Glover, author of 'Leonidas,' also produced a tragedy, Boadicea, but it was found deficient in interest for a mixed audience. In this play, Davies, the biographer of Garrick, relates that Glover 'preserved a custom of the Druids, who enjoined the persons who drank their poison to turn their faces towards the wind, in order to facilitate the operation of the potion!' Horace Walpole was author of a tragedy, The Mysterious Mother, which, though of a painful and revolting nature as to plot and incident, abounds in vigorous description and striking imagery. As Walpole had a strong predilection for Gothic romance, and had a dramatic turn of mind, it is to be regretted that he did not devote himself more to the service of the stage, in which he would have anticipated and rivalled the style of the German drama. The Mysterious Mother' has never been ventured on the stage. The Grecian Daughter, by Murphy, produced in 1772, was a classic subject, treated in the French style, but not destitute of tenderness.

[Against the Crusades.]

I here attend him,

In expeditions which I ne'er approved,
In holy wars. Your pardon, reverend father.
I must declare I think such wars the fruit
Of idle courage, or mistaken zeal;
Sometimes of rapine, and religious rage,
To every mischief prompt.

* Sure I am, 'tis madness,
Inhuman madness, thus from half the world