JULIUS CAESAR. A TRAGEDY by SHAKESPEARE.

IF powerfully inculcating one of the nobleſt principles that actuates the human mind, the love of national liberty, can ſtamp additional value upon works of genius, we may venture to pronounce the tragedy now before us, as to the ſubject of it, high⯑ly deſerving of attention from an Engliſh audience; in reſpect of the executive part, a review of the ſe⯑veral ſcenes will, we hope, furniſh a competent idea.

At the commencement of this piece, the author introduces two Romans of character and public ſpirit reproving the mob with great energy for making holiday on Caeſar's account, in whoſe am⯑bition the freedom of their country had found a grave. The remonſtrances of Marullus and Fla⯑vius [2] are pathetically perſuaſive, and the mob reply with humorous, characteriſtic bluntneſs; however, we are not fond of ſuch ludicrous matter in a tra⯑gedy, and wiſh the piece could have been ſaved from the intruſion of inadequate characters, with⯑out enervating ſeveral paſſages, which as they ſtand at preſent diſcover peculiar force.

As Caeſar goes to the Courſe he is accoſted by a Soothſayer, who warns him to beware of the Ides of March, this prediction, however, he treats with contempt, and paſſes on to the games, leaving Bru⯑tus and Caſſius on the ſtage; from the former's declining to join the public feſtivity, his friend takes occaſion to hint a gloomineſs which ſeems to have hung for ſome time on his diſpoſition; Bru⯑tus being ſo touched, confeſſes that paſſions of ſome difference cloud his mind; upon this foundation Caſſius works with great ſubtlety to feel the pulſe of his political principles; a diſtant ſhout occaſions Brutus to expreſs apprehenſion that the people are conferring royalty upon Caeſar, whom Caſſius, in a long, ſpirited, and pictureſque ſpeech endeavours to depreciate, by an unfavourable compariſon with himſelf; however, there is more of oſtentatious va⯑nity than found argument in it, for the ſtrength of a very brave and good man might fail in ſwimming, and his tongue, parched with feveriſh thirſt, call for drink without any juſt imputation againſt his cou⯑rage; the next ſpeech of Caſſius, where he accuſes the Romans of enſlaving themſelves, and compares Brutus with Caeſar, applies cloſely to the point in view.

Brutus perceiving the drift of Caſſius, replies with ſenſible reſerve, but delivers one poſitive and [3] noble declaration, that he would prefer a ſtate of rural obſcurity rather than confeſs himſelf a citizen of Rome, under a diſgraceful ſtate of public af⯑fairs. Here their converſation is judiciouſly inter⯑rupted by the return of Caeſar and his train: what the conqueror of the world ſays in this ſcene is very unimportant, and we heartily concur with BEN JOHNSON, that his quaint remark upon the leanneſs of Caſſius deſerves to be ſneered at; indeed, ſome good reaſons for ſuſpecting that ſenator of gloomy deſigns are ſubjoined, but how the author could carry Caeſar off the ſtage with an uneſſential, ridi⯑culous remark on the deafneſs of one of his own ears, we cannot conceive.

In the next ſcene Caſca, with a blunt peculiarity, informs Brutus and Caſſius what happened while the people were offering Caeſar a crown; his picture of popular vehemence, irregularity and weakneſs, is juſt and ſtriking, but ſweaty nightcaps need not have been mentioned: upon Brutus's obſerving that Caeſar is liable to the falling ſickneſs, Caſſius makes a moſt emphatic and comprehenſive reply in two lines: at the concluſion of this interview, our author has, with ſingular judgment, given Caſ⯑ſius a ſoliloquy, which fully explains his own prin⯑ciples and character, while it throws ſome diſtant light on the contraſt diſpoſition of Brutus, which being generous, open and unſuſpecting, Caſſius juſtly thinks well calculated for him to work upon, thereby to gratify his perſonal reſentment againſt Caeſar.

Caſca and Cicero are next brought in view, a⯑larmed at violent, elementary concuſſions and ſtrange prodigies; the deſcriptive part is powerful [4] and poetical. When Cicero retires, Caſſius ap⯑pears, who ſeems to rejoice in the aſtoniſhing cir⯑cumſtances which ſurround Rome, and infers from them, matters of important dependancy relative to the ſtate: upon mention of Caeſar, as king, Caſſius proclaims a reſolution of never ſubmitting to what he terms ſlavery; to this Caſca agrees, and hence a dawn of the conſpiracy, againſt Caeſar breaks upon the audience; when Cinna enters, Caſſius declares him one of his faction: Brutus being mentioned as a moſt deſirable addition to the party, Caſſius gives ſome papers calculated for that purpoſe, and directs how they may be thrown in the way of Brutus's obſervation; with which preparative circumſtances, and a ſhort, but energetic elogium on the popularity of Brutus, the firſt act properly and agreeably con⯑cludes.

Brutus is introduced at the beginning of the ſe⯑cond act, as meditating by ſtar-light; and his ſo⯑liloquy reſpecting Caeſar's greatneſs, is finely ima⯑gined, eſpecially that part of it which touches on ambition. Upon Lucius's bringing ſome papers found in his maſter's ſtudy, Brutus queſtions him, whether to-morrow is not the Ides of March; this, though apparently a trifling point of interrogation, muſt be conſidered as a good preparative for the death of Caeſar, which has been predicted at that time.

Upon peruſal of what Lucius has brought him, he finds a dark, yet forcible inſinuation, relative to the enſlaved ſtate of Rome, and his own inactivity. He explains the matter, takes the point home to himſelf, and with juſt, patriotic feeling, determines to attempt the redreſs of his country's wrongs, [5] upon being told that Caſſius and ſome other perſons are come to wait upon him, he concludes, we think rather too haſtily, that they are the conſpiracy; he has reaſon to apprehend much public diſcontent, but there does not appear any foundation for his ſuppoſing an actual conſpiracy is formed.

When the conſpirators enter, Caſſius introduces them ſeverally, and the reception they meet is cor⯑dial. Our author manifeſts great judgment in communicating the matter they come upon a⯑ſide, and happily threw in to fill up, the digreſ⯑ſion of where the ſun riſes. At the propoſition or an oath to bind mutual fidelity, Brutus characteriſti⯑cally refuſes ſo ſuſpicious an obligation upon noble, generous minds, and eloquently ſhews why the cauſe alone is ſufficient to bind them, or if not that, nothing can; the manner of debating who are fit for their purpoſe is very natural, and Brutus's ob⯑jection to cutting off Antony, merely as a friend to Caeſar, heroically humane; the knowledge De⯑cius diſplays of Caeſar's diſpoſition, and the uſe he propoſes to make of it, ſhew deep policy; the warning Brutus gives his friends to wear diſengaged looks, is prudent: upon calling to Lucius, and per⯑ceiving that he is aſleep, Brutus ſhews moſt plea⯑ſing benevolence of diſpoſition, by leaving his boy's ſlumber undiſturbed.

Introducing Portia, though what ſhe ſays cannot affect an audience much, is judicious, as it is a re⯑lief to the other ſcenes, and approaches the pathetic, though it cannot touch the tender feelings. Her method of ſounding the care which lies heavy on him, and his method of declining an explanation, are ſenſibly natural; however, to ſoften the preſent [6] reſerve, he promiſes future information, and ſends her off to make way for a viſitant, Caius Ligarius, with whom a very unimportant conference enſues, which we think is left out and properly in the re⯑preſentation.

Caeſar appears next in his palace, evidently a⯑larmed at the turbulence of the preceding night, and orders the prieſts to do preſent ſacrifice; Cal⯑phurnia approaches, filled with dreadful apprehen⯑ſions, and by drawing a ſtrong picture of thoſe prodigies which have been recounted to her, endea⯑vours to diſſuade Caeſar from going to the capitol; however, he ſeems to treat omens with ſenſible con⯑tempt, and even rejects the unfavourable opinion of the Augurs; at laſt, Calphurnia's tender remon⯑ſtrances prevail, and he conſents that Antony ſhall acquaint the ſenate with his reſolution not to go.

Matters thus circumſtanced, Decius Brutus ap⯑pears, as being deputed to ſolicit Caeſar's appear⯑ance at the capitol, which, after ſome refuſal, by touching Caeſar's vanity, and alarming him with the imputation of fear, he works him up to go; the reſt of the conſpirators coming to attend him, he re⯑ſolves to accompany them, and propoſes previous refreſhment, which occaſions Brutus to make a moſt beautiful reflection on Caeſar's unſuſpecting mind, and their own fatal diſſimulation.

In the next ſcene we meet Artemidorus, a ſooth⯑ſayer, peruſing a paper deſigned for Caeſar, wherein he warns that monarch of all the conſpirators by name, Portia, anxious for the great event depend⯑ing, [7] comes on in a ſtate of very natural confuſion, diſpatching Lucius for intelligence; her disjointed manner of ſpeaking is well imagined; upon queſ⯑tioning Artemidorus, ſhe collects freſh fear of a diſcovery, and retires confeſſing the full force of womaniſh apprehenſions.

The third act opens with Caeſar entering the ſe⯑nate, when he is addreſſed by Artemidorus, who urges attention to the paper he offers, as being of near concern to himſelf, which Caeſar therefore very nobly declines, as being leaſt worthy of preſent re⯑gard; thoſe doubts which SHAKESPEARE has fur⯑niſhed the conſpirators with, are naturally the con⯑ſequence of feelings concerned in ſuch an important and precarious undertaking.

When Metellus kneeling adulates Caeſar with multiplied titles, the monarch replies like a truly great man, but uſes ſome terms too much in the baſhaw ſtile; upon the repeated ſolicitations of dif⯑ferent ſenators to favour Cimber's ſuit, he well de⯑ſcribes and manifeſts his own firmneſs: upon his confirmed refuſal, Caſca, according to appointment, gives the firſt ſtab, upon which all the reſt follow his blow, and the world's great conqueror falls be⯑neath a multitude of wounds, ſeeming to diſdain every meſſenger of fate, but that ſent by Brutus; here our author's judgment deſerves great praiſe, in giving Caeſar no more to ſay than hiſtory autho⯑rizes; but after ſpeaking Engliſh through every ſcene and ſpeech before, why he ſhould introduce et tu Bruté is not ſo obvious as might be wiſhed.

The exultation of the conſpirators, and the me⯑thods they propoſe for reconciling this great, un⯑thought of event to the people, are well conceived; [8] however we may applaud the glorious impulſe of patriotiſm which cauſed Brutus to ſacrifice ſo ſin⯑cere and powerful a friend to the liberties of his country, yet we heartily concur with Mr. POPE, that the ſpeech concerning dipping their hands in Caeſar's blood, is much more ſuitable to any other conſpirator than him.

SHAKESPEARE was judiciouſly fond of realizing mimic repreſentation as much as poſſible, for which purpoſe the following lines in this piece were cer⯑tainly and happily intended.

Antony's ſervant, in a very plauſible ſtile, offers from his maſter conciliating motives to the conſpi⯑rators, who promiſe him ſafety for his appearance; he is introduced much too ſoon, as there are but three lines from the ſervant's going till he comes on, which muſt oblige us to imagine him waiting at the door, where he would by no means have truſted himſelf, after he had fled to his houſe amazed, without ſome credible aſſurance of protection.

When Mark Antony enters he follows an amiable, natural impulſe, which directs him to pay his firſt regard to the dead body of his royal friend, with⯑out even caſting a glance at his ſurrounding mur⯑derers; his addreſs to thoſe real or pretending pa⯑triots is pathetic and ſpirited, Brutus's reply cordial and ſenſible; there is ſomething hypocritical, yet [9] politic, in ſhaking hands with the blood-ſtained conſpirators, the action leſſens him in our eſteem, yet the deſign, which may be eaſily perceived, com⯑mands our approbation. Caſſius pinching him cloſe, he makes a ſecond ſerious declaration of at⯑tachment to the popular party, which rather lays him low in the view of truth, but to be upon a level with rogues, eſpecially thoſe in power, integrity muſt become flexible, and ſometimes ſubmit to wear a maſk.

Antony's deſire of leave to pronounce Caeſar's funeral elogium, ſtrikes even ſlow perception with a more extenſive meaning than is expreſſed, which Caſſius very prudently adverts to; however, Bru⯑tus gives a reaſon, ſavouring of ſelf-ſufficiency, why it is not dangerous to give Antony the privilege of the roſtrum; therefore conſigns Caeſar's corpſe to his care, only reſerves to himſelf the firſt opportunity of ſpeaking to the people: this point being ſettled, the conſpirators retire, and leave Antony to vent his feelings more at large, which he does in a very maſt⯑erly ſoliloquy, admirably ſuited to his ſituation. Upon the appearance of a meſſenger from Octavius Caeſar, he warns the young Prince to avoid the dan⯑ger of entering Rome in ſo critical a ſtate of af⯑fairs, mentions the trial he intends to make of po⯑pular affection, and then goes off with his imperial maſter's body.

Brutus, attended by the Plebeians, next ſtrikes our view, he mounts the roſtrum, and diſpatches Caſ⯑ſius to divide the multitude; in his addreſs to thoſe who ſtay to hear him, his oratory diſcovers itſelf in that warm glow of ſentiment, that nervous, yet un⯑adorned flow of expreſſion, which diſtinguiſhes elo⯑quence, [10] founded upon conſcious honeſty: he ap⯑peals to feelings of a ſocial, virtuous and patriotic nature; he appeals to the dulleſt conception, by a beautiful antitheſis of his great love for Caeſar, and his ſuperior regard for the liberties of Rome; ſub⯑mitting, at laſt, with tempered dignity, and juſt confidence, his part in the aſſaſſination of great Ju⯑lius, to public opinion, even among the loweſt claſs of the people; ſuch as ſome of our preſent, ſmart Engliſh ſenators have called the ſcum of the earth. Upon Antony's approach with Caeſar's body, he, according to promiſe, gives place, and retires with a glorious obſervation, that the ſame weapon which ſtabbed his beſt friend, is ready to aſſail his own heart, if ever the public ſafety ſhould require it.

Upon Antony's mounting the roſtrum, it imme⯑diately occurs, that a great contraſt of manner, ſtile and argument, ſhould be adopted; this ardu⯑ous variation we hope SHAKESPEARE will appear amply qualified for upon due inſpection. The Plebeians ſeem to have received ſo ſtrong a preju⯑dice in favour of the conſpiracy from Brutus's ora⯑tion, that to impreſs an oppoſite opinion, appears al⯑moſt impracticable; inſomuch, that upon Antony's even mentioning the name of Brutus, a jealouſy of his meaning ſtarts up amongſt the mob; this circum⯑ſtance is a very artful and natural preparation for what follows.

In the firſt ſpeech of Antony, we diſcover a beau⯑tiful, yet modeſt elogium, upon the merits of Cae⯑ſar, mingled with ironicál compliments to the con⯑ſpirators, particularly Brutus; he cloſes it with a proper, pathetic appeal, to his own mournful feel⯑ings on the occaſion, which evidently touches the [11] Plebeians, and lays their hearts open to the im⯑preſſion he apparently wiſhes to work upon them. In the next ſpeech, our orator, with deep policy, obliquely hints, that he could communicate ſome inflammatory intelligence, but through his reſpect to Brutus, declines the office; he then plays a prin⯑cipal engine againſt their prejudice, by mentioning the will of Caeſar, as a moſt intereſting concern to them; with the true violence of mobbiſh ſpirits, they deſire the will may be read, this the orator moſt ſhrewdly evades to increaſe their eagerneſs, and that it may work the more powerful effect, ſhews them the ſeveral wounds in Caeſar's coarſe, pointing out each man who ſtabbed him, by name.

The piteous ſpectacle inflames the mob to ſudden exclamations of deſperate tendency; this agitation of mind Antony avails himſelf of, by ſeeming to ſoften their reſentment, which, like an inadequate quantity of water thrown upon powerful flames, tends to make it rage the fiercer. Thus rouſed, he confirms their fury, by reminding them of, and reading to them Caeſar's will, wherein they find a reſpectful and conſiderable remembrance of the Roman citi⯑zens; this corroborates all preceding circumſtances, and they go off, denouncing moſt terrible threats againſt the conſpirators. This ſcene finely exhibits the mutability and inconſiſtency of popular affec⯑tion, which an artful, plauſible orator, can warp from attachment to antipathy, from the moſt wor⯑thy to the moſt worthleſs object of human conſide⯑ration: an excellent leſſon this for all ſtates, more eſpecially free ones.

By a ſervant Antony is informed of Octavius's arrival at Rome, and goes to meet him at Caeſar's [12] houſe: after this, comes a moſt uneſſential ſcene, omitted in repreſentation; a ſcene without any meaning, unleſs from the treatment Cinna meets with: we deduce a truth, moſt generally known, that an enraged mob, in the midſt of precipitation, will as ſoon ſacrifice an innocent as a guilty object, ſo wild, ſo unprincipled are in general their reſo⯑lutions.

At the beginning of the fourth act, we find the bloody triumvirate, Octavius, Antonius and Lepidus, conſulting who ſhall fall the victim of their diſplea⯑ſure, or ambitious views, in which cruel ſcheme we perceive they proceed upon principles of great con⯑deſcenſion to each other; however, when Lepidus diſappears, we find he is made a mere tool to the other two, particularly Antony; they go off, de⯑termining to make head againſt the warlike prepa⯑tions of Brutus and Caſſius.

In the next ſcene Brutus appears, encamped near Sardis; after ſome previous converſe with Pindarus and Lucilius, by which we are informed, that he ſuſpects a decline of friendſhip in Caſſius; the ac⯑cuſed perſon appears, and recriminates a charge of wrong upon Brutus; an explanation is warmly urged, when the latter prudently adviſes an abſtract⯑ed diſcuſſion of their affairs, that their armies may not be acquainted with ſo important and prejudicial a diſſention: for this powerful reaſon they retire to Brutus's tent, where the matter is reſumed with great eagerneſs by Caſſius, and maintained with much philoſophical dignity by Brutus.

A money matter ſeems the point in diſpute: Brutus, with a noble elevation of mind, expreſſes his contempt of ſordid ſelfiſhneſs, and with conſiderable [13] aſperity, reproaches Caſſius, not only for refuſing him ſome ſupplies he had ſolicited, but even with venality in ſelling public offices; ſuch ſtinging al⯑legations would rouſe a more patient ſpirit than Caſſius ſeems to have: in ſhort, the whole ſcene is a powerful, beautiful, inſtructive contraſt; ſhew⯑ing the great advantage cool deliberation of mind has over intemperate raſhneſs. Their reconciliation is brought about in a very becoming manner. SHAKESPEARE, immediately after this noble inter⯑view, for what reaſon we cannot divine, has intro⯑duced a poet, to ſpeak ſome as trifling and ſuperflu⯑ous lines as ever were penned; ſo diſgraceful a rhimer is juſtly baniſhed the ſtage.

The circumſtance of Portia's death is well men⯑tioned, and Brutus's behaviour quite characteriſtic; we alſo much approve the ſhort debate which ariſes upon marching to Philippi, as it brings to view the main ſtory. If we could reliſh ghoſts, Julius Cae⯑ſar's, in the tent of Brutus, would be very admiſſible; in action, it certainly gives ſolemnity, and makes a ſtriking concluſion to the fourth act. This ghoſt is introduced upon the ſtage, and we think very ab⯑ſurdly, a ſecond time.

Antony and Octavius begin the fifth act, in the fields of Philippi; after a few ſhort ſpeeches, Bru⯑tus, Caſſius, and their party appear, when a parly and conference enſue; it may perhaps be an in⯑ſtance of overſtrained delicacy, to make an objecti⯑on to what paſſes between the hoſtile leaders upon this occaſion, but we apprehend the terms of re⯑probation they exchange, are not quite conſiſtent with ſuch exalted characters.

[14]What Caſſius ſays to Meſſala, after Octavius and Antony go off, concerning unfavourable omens, is very preparative for the cataſtrophe of the piece; the parting of Brutus and Caſſius, from the poſſibi⯑lity of never meeting again, is truly pathetic, and well performed, muſt deeply ſtrike every generous mind.

The battle now begins, Caſſius's party gives way; unable to bear the idea of defeat, that chief, with the ſame precipitation of temper which has all a⯑long marked his character, determines upon death; and commands Pindarus to perform, what amongſt the Romans was deemed an act of friendſhip, ad⯑miniſtring of fate: from what follows, it appears, that a miſtake has led him into this irreparable ſtep, which affects Titinius ſo much, that he puts an end to his own burthenſome being with Caſſius's ſword. The ſcenes between this, and that of Brutus and his friends, after a total defeat, are very trifling; nor can we think that SHAKESPEARE has taken ſo much care to render his amiable hero's fall impor⯑tant, as he might have done: in the laſt ſcene An⯑tony pronounces a very juſt and conciſe, yet copious elogium upon Brutus.

The ſubject of this tragedy is of a very intereſt⯑ing nature, and its tendency ſingularly uſeful in a ſtate like that of Great Britain. The unities are no doubt ſadly mutilated, yet does it not appear in re⯑preſentation ſo irregular as it really is; the cha⯑racters are very numerous, and thoſe of any conſi⯑deration, ſupported with great conſiſtency.

Julius Caeſar appears poſſeſſed of ſuch intrepidity and openneſs of mind, as recommend him, though the enſlaver of his country, to the reſpect of an [15] audience; as a part, there is no opportunity for an actor to diſplay capital abilities; the beſt perſonators of him we remember were Meſſrs. BRIDGWATER and SPARKS.

Brutus is a character of ſingular dignity, amiable in every point of view, except that violent breach of gratitude, conſpiring againſt, and perſonally aſſail⯑ing the life of a man, who, upon moſt diſintereſted principles, had proved himſelf his faſt friend; this is a point of doubt, which has been often debated, and as often left undetermined: however, as the Ro⯑man idea of patriotiſm, not only juſtified, but applaud⯑ed a man, even in the act of ſuicide, where the good of his country was eſſentially concerned. It may eaſily be admitted an eſtabliſhed rule, to ſacrifice the deareſt friend, nay, the neareſt relation, for the ſame glorious cauſe; and, in this view, Brutus ſtands ex⯑culpated, for Caeſar's uſurpation of power, moſt certainly broke off all ſocial connection between him and every citizen, influenced by the principles of liberty.

After this defence, we are ſorry that he appears only as a tool of Caſſius's policy, in the piece before us; his own virtue and ſenſibility do not poſſeſs ſufficient activity to lead in the cauſe of patriotiſm, though, when rouſed, they join the general concern with cordiality and firmneſs. A mind of ſpotleſs integrity, ſeems to poſſeſs him through the whole; and though there is a ſlight charge of weakneſs a⯑gainſt him, yet there is an engaging uniformity which preſerves him in our eſteem while alive, and renders his fall an incident of tender concern.

Brutus requires good, but not extenſive powers of repreſentation; a graceful figure, with full, pla⯑cid [16] articulation of voice, muſt, in this part, ſuffici⯑ently gratify a ſenſible ſpectator. Mr. QUIN hav⯑ing much leſs monotony in Brutus than any other tragedy part, that is the verſe not affording him ſo many opportunities for periodical cadences, he ap⯑peared more reſpectable, and leſs offenſive than the buſkin generally rendered him. His oration to the Plebeians had great, and his ſcene with Caſſius very ſingular merit; in ſeveral other places he was heavy and inſipid.

Mr. SHERIDAN, curtailed by nature of almoſt every favourable, adequate, external requiſite, yet manifeſted great judgment in this character, main⯑taining ſtricter equality through the whole than Mr. QUIN; if he could not riſe ſo high in the view of criticiſm, neither did he fall ſo low. His perſon, though unimportant, by the aid of dreſs, was not totally void of reſpect: but a ſtiff ſameneſs of action, frequently riſing to extravagance, ſuper-added artificial to natural deficiency. SHAKE⯑SPEARE's meaning he clearly conceived, and fully conveyed, but frequent, ungracious ſnip-ſnap breaks of voice, and a painful attempt to keep up the laſt ſyllable of every ſentence, his peculiar fault, gave ſtrong ſpecimens of oratorical diſſonance. Mr. WALKER, within theſe few years, made a decent ſhift with the part at Covent Garden; at preſent, there is not the ſlighteſt trace of it to be found at either houſe.

Caſſius is in every reſpect a ſtriking contract to Brutus; an enemy to Caeſar rather from envy and private pique, than public ſpirited principles: proud, impatient, ſubtle, iraſcible, without any kind of virtue, but the military one of courage, to re⯑commend [17] him; yet from ſome ſpirited and plauſi⯑ble declarations in the cauſe of freedom, an audi⯑ence are induced to view him as a more valuable object than he really is, and though his fall appears to be an unjuſtifiable effect of impetuoſity, yet we are apt to lament it.

As a part, the repreſentation of Caſſius is more difficult, and requires much greater powers of ex⯑preſſion than Brutus; however, this is to be re⯑marked, that an indifferent actor can much more eaſily catch applauſe from an injudicious audience in the former, than the latter; indeed, if two capital performers, of equal merit, preſent themſelves to the public in theſe characters, the odds are great but Caſſius outſtrips his competitor in noiſy appro⯑bation. In the courſe of our theatrical obſervation, we recollect but one good Caſſius, Mr. RYAN; the techy degree of paſſion deſcribed in this part, and the general mode of mind which actuates it, he hit off in a very characteriſtic manner. Mr. MOS⯑SOP, in attempting this fiery Roman, ſhewed much power, but very little nature; and every other can⯑didate we have ſeen ſunk below contempt; he is, like Brutus, ſo unhappily ſituated, as not to have the ſhadow of a repreſentative at either theatre,

Caſca's cynical roughneſs was admirably de⯑ſcribed by Mr. SPARKS, nor did he ſuſtain much injury from Mr. RIDOUT's abilities; yet even this conſpirator would find but indifferent ſupport from any exiſting ſon of the buſkin.

From the outlines of Mark Antony's character, as drawn not only by his friend Caeſar, but the con⯑ſpirators alſo, we ſhould be apt to deem him a mere trifling, unimportant reveller; yet, when circum⯑ſtances [18] call for ſerious attention, we perceive him to be a very ſhrewd, plauſible and deep politician; a perſuaſive orator, an active and reſolute ſoldier: his manner of working up the Plebeians is maſterly, and ſhews a thorough knowledge of life.

Mr. BARRY, beyond a doubt, ſtands foremoſt in our approbation for this part, as poſſeſſing a very adequate figure, an harmonious voice, and all the plauſibility of inſinuation that SHAKESPEARE meant; however, we think that critic an enthuſiaſtic ad⯑mirer, who, ſpeaking of him in the roſtrum, ex⯑claimed, that Paul never preached ſo well at Athens. It is certain, nature in this, as well as all his drama⯑tic undertakings, furniſhed him with almoſt irreſiſt⯑able recommendations; but judgment did not ſeem ſo much his friend as might have been wiſhed. Mr. DIGGES figured, and imagined the part ex⯑tremely well, but wanted that flow of voice eſſen⯑tial to ſmooth oratory. Mr. DEXTER was pretty and inoffenſive, but very faint and lukewarm. Mr. ROSS ſtands next to what Mr. BARRY was, and has it in his power to make a very eſtimable Antony; but with reſpect to the ſtage, this gentleman's incli⯑nation and abilities ſeldom accompany each other.

As to the long, &c. of male characters in this tragedy, they are not worth regard; and as to the ladies, all we can ſay of them is, that Mrs. WOF⯑FINGTON, in Portia, deſerved more notice than any other lady we have ſeen.

To differ with great men, or eſtabliſhed opini⯑ons, is rather hazardous; however, we muſt venture to blame Dr. JOHNSON's feelings, which conſider this piece as cold and unaffecting; we readily admit there is a total want of thoſe tender paſſions which [19] are eſſential to move and pleaſe female ſpectators, which prevents it from commanding that ſucceſs on the ſtage it deſerves: however, we are hardy enough to contend, that the ſubject is truly intereſting, that the thoughts are noble and inſtructive, the verſifica⯑tion ſuitable, the orations happily contraſted, the characters well preſerved; and that the whole toge⯑ther reſembles a beautiful fabric, which in general ſtrikes with ſingular ſatisfaction, in ſpite of ſome ſmall irregularities and blemiſhes which appear: had the fifth act been adequate to the other four, we ſhould not heſitate to pronounce SHAKESPEARE's JULIUS CAESAR, a very capital ornament to the ſtage, and a moſt deſirable companion in the cloſet; containing many paſſages and circumſtances which may improve, not one which can taint the mind.

SCHOOL for RAKES. A COMEDY. ANONYMOUS.

BY a converſation between Frampton and Willes, at the beginning of this comedy, we find, that Sir William Evans, a Welch baronet, and his family, are arrived at the town-houſe of Lord Euſtace; and from what occurs, eſpecially from what Willis lets fall, we may infer that they are not very agreeable gueſts; the baronet's daughter Har⯑riet is mentioned, and ſome deſign, relative to her, dawns upon us: the pertneſs of a valet, buoyed up by a maſter's confidence, is well deſcribed in this ſcene; and the inſults a dependant upon quality is liable to, equally well ſet forth.

Frampton, who appears a man of principle and ſenſibility, though by a decay of circumſtances re⯑duced to humour and aſſiſt the licentious purſuits of a diſſipated young nobleman, in a very rational ſoliloquy, after Willis retires, reflects upon his pain⯑ful ſituation, but expreſſes ſome ſatisfaction, that he has eſcaped an iniquitous affair then on the tapis, and goes off with a commendable reſolution, not to abandon his patron, while ſurrounded with perplexi⯑ties, nor to aſſiſt him further than honour and peace of mind allow.

Sir William Evans, his ſiſter Winifred, and daugh⯑ter Harriet, as freſh from a journey, next appear: the baronet ſeems diſpleaſed at his lordly hoſt, but is rallied by his ſiſter for not having notions of po⯑liteneſs [21] and family conſequence equal to her own; he ſeems loth to incur obligations; ſhe conſiders an interchange of civilities as none. Their altercation ſubſiding, Sir William addreſſes himſelf to Harriet, who appears unexpectedly thoughtful and grave, which, being queſtioned, ſhe attributes to fatigue; however, a ſmall intimation is dropped aſide, ſigni⯑fying, that the houſe without its owner, cannot be very agreeable to her.

Mrs. Winifred's deſire that all their acquaintance ſhould know of the intimacy with Lord Euſtace, is a well applied ſtroke of ſatire againſt the ridiculous admirers of elevated ſtations.

Upon the baronet's mentioning a deſign of viſit⯑ing Captain Lloyd, the maiden lady expreſſes great apprehenſions at the gentleman's coming to Lord Euſtace's; this Sir William is ſurprized at, the cap⯑tain being uncle to the perſon intended for Miſs Harriet's huſband; here a freſh altercation ariſes between the brother and ſiſter, which is terminated by the former going on his propoſed viſit to Cap⯑tain Lloyd. When the baronet diſappears, Wini⯑fred drops a piece of information, by which we learn, that her niece's hand is already diſpoſed of, and therefore beyond the father's power. Here Miſs Harriet appears, and from what paſſes between the young lady and her aunt, we perceive that the former entertains uneaſy ſenſations for two reaſons firſt, that her marriage is concealed from the baro⯑net, and next that her huſband has not been in town to receive them; from which laſt cauſe ſhe draws ſome diſagreeable doubts of his conſtancy. This delicate agitation of mind, Mrs. Winifred endea⯑vours to compoſe, by deſcanting on her noble con⯑nection, [22] her ſupporters, coronets, &c. Robin ac⯑quaints Harriet that Mr. Frampton deſires to ſpeak to her, the ladies go off to meet him immediately in the parlour.

Frampton, in two ſhort ſoliloquies, previous to the appearance of the ladies, intimates a ſtrong un⯑eaſineſs of mind at a buſineſs he has in hand, and makes this juſt, inſtructive remark, that it is the loweſt, we may add the moſt cruel baſeneſs, to be capable of admiring, and betraying an innocent young creature in the ſame moment.

From the ſucceeding ſcene we learn, that the ill⯑neſs of Lord Euſtace's father has been the cauſe of that abſence which Harriet takes unkindly; Framp⯑ton delivers a very plauſible exculpation of his friend, and expreſſing a hope of his ſpeedy arrival, the ladies go off to mend their external appearance againſt my lord's approach.

Frampton is now again in ſoliloquy, which Lord Euſtace interrupts by his approach; a converſation enſues between the friends, which plainly ſhews, that Lord Euſtace has ſenſibility to know that he acts upon very culpable principles, reſpecting Harriet; eſpecially by drawing her into a feigned marriage, and wanting to caſt her off. Frampton's remon⯑ſtrances are candid, perſuaſive and well applied; among other points of perplexity, Lord Euſtace expreſſes ſtrong apprehenſion that his villainy will be diſcovered to Sir William Evans and family, by the compunction of a ſteward who is dying, and has declared an intention of confeſſing his own guilt, in acting the part of a clergyman. To de⯑feat the chance of a letter from this man reaching improper hands, Lord Euſtace deſires that Framp⯑ton [23] may ſtay in the houſe, and take care that all letters are firſt brought to him; Frampton re⯑marks, that it is an irkſome and hateful undertaking, but having promiſed, he ſeems willing to give all poſſible aſſiſtance towards preventing a diſcovery; Lord Euſtace expreſſes a deſire of ſeeing Harriet, but Frampton, for prudential reaſons, diſſuades him, and the firſt ac [...] concludes here with ſome juſt remarks on the eſſential, preparatory grounds of amendment in tainted minds; indeed, this entire ſcene may be called a good, agreeable leſſon of moral and ſocial inſtruction.

Lord Euſtace begins the ſecond act, ruminating on his own diſagreeable ſituation, and the pride of family, which reduces him to ſuch a dilemma; Ro⯑bert, as meſſenger, acquaints him that the ladies are approaching; after a few lines Harriet appears, and with a very natural eagerneſs of mind, approaches to embrace the man ſhe conſiders as her huſband; but from a ſudden check of delicacy ſtops ſhort, and diſcovers marks of confuſion for having appeared ſo forward: Lord Euſtace queſtions the cauſe of her timidity, and upon Mrs. Winifred's entrance im⯑mediately after, apologizes for his abſence at the time of their arrival in town; the old lady grants her excuſe with great readineſs; Harriet, however, cannot ſhake off her concern entirely, which occa⯑ſions her aunt to make ſome tart obſervations on ſuch unbecoming behaviour.

A propoſal is made to Lord Euſtace, of opening the marriage affair to Sir William, and Mrs. Wini⯑fred's kind interpoſition is ſolicited, but having pro⯑miſed his lordſhip to maintain ſecrecy, ſhe goes off, determined to fulfil the treaty, as ſhe phraſes it, and [24] leaves the young couple to a tete-a-tete, wherein Harriet continues to urge unfolding the matter to her father; this encreaſes his lordſhip's embarraſ⯑ment much, from which he at length makes a tem⯑porary eſcape, by ſuggeſting a deſign of going into the country, on pretence of joining his regiment, and promiſing that he will there comply with her requeſt. On being queſtioned why in his letters to Harriet he has never ſtiled her wife, the danger of diſcovery by his father, Lord Delville, is urged as a reaſon, and thus the tender, believing, deceived la⯑dy, is quieted for the preſent.

Mrs. Winifred re-enters haſtily, and announces the approach of her brother Sir William, who ſpeaks at his entrance ſome rough but ſenſible truths againſt the prevalence of luxury; after mak⯑ing ſome juſt remarks on the general relaxation of military duty, and the partial indulgence that is ſhewn to officers of quality in particular, the baro⯑net comments upon his daughter's evident altera⯑tion, and unuſual depreſſion of ſpirits; being in⯑terrupted upon that point by Mrs. Winifred, he paſſes on to the report of Lord Euſtace's approach⯑ing marriage, as ſet forth in one of the public pa⯑pers. At this unexpected piece of intelligence, Harriet very naturally takes an alarm, while Mrs. Winifred treats the matter with contempt; Lord Euſtace puts a good face on the affair, laughs at news-paper information, and obſerves, that it is one conſequence of the liberty of the preſs, for para⯑graph-writers to marry couples who have ſcarce ſeen each other; however, he admits ſome grounds for the report relative to himſelf, as Lord Delville had expreſſed great liking to Lady Ann Mountfort's [25] large fortune. Sir William, in his rough ſtile, com⯑ments upon the unneceſſary pains of explanation Lord Euſtace has taken, as not thinking the mat⯑ter of any concern to him or his family. An en⯑gagement of buſineſs calling the young lord away, he goes off, ſoliciting leave to viſit the ladies, which is granted. We think the requeſt a little odd, and imagine the author forgot that the Evans's were lodged in his lordſhip's houſe.

Mrs. Winifred, after chiding her neice for en⯑couraging groundleſs apprehenſions, dips into her favourite theme politics, and by diſplaying groſs abſurdity, ſtands before us a ſevere ſatire upon thoſe who buſy themſelves with concerns out of their ſphere, and quite beyond their conception.

Sir William re-entering with Robert, queſtions him firſt about my lord's valet, who is ſaid to be a very uſeful creature in his way; and next concern⯑ing Frampton, of whom Robert can ſay no more than he believes him honeſt, becauſe Willis does not like him. Towards the end of this converſa⯑tion, with his truſty domeſtic, the baronet declares he will leave town in a few days, and that his only remaining care is the marriage of his daughter Har⯑riet with Colonel Lloyd, which he determines ſhall ſoon take place.

Frampton and Willis next claim our attention, the latter giving an arch account to the former of the precautionary orders left by Lord Euſtace, to watch cloſe and exclude all Sir William's friends. In the courſe of this interview, Willis gives his tongue ſeveral pert liberties reſpecting Harriet, which occaſions Frampton to check him with be⯑coming ſpirit; an account of Captain Lloyd's con⯑nection [26] with Lord Euſtace, and the foundation of it occurs, when a knocking at the door calls off Willis; Frampton is left to meditate alone; what he utters is to the purpoſe, and has force, but we could wiſh this gentleman had not been loaded with ſuch a number of ſoliloquies; however, his views being worthy a man of honour, every good, tender mind muſt ſympathize with and applaud him.

We are now introduced to Sir William and Har⯑riet, he appears to be engaging his daughter's ap⯑probation of Colonel Lloyd as a huſband; Robert mentions the approach of Captain Lloyd, and the blunt tar enters cloſe at his heels; after a ſhort com⯑pliment, he complains of ſome difficulty he had in getting to his friends, and in the ſea phraſe ſays, he was near tacking about, had not Robert, by clearing the deck of my lord's impertinent valet, got conve⯑nient entrance. Upon pointing out the ladies as his ſiſter and daughter, Lloyd ludicrouſly replies to Sir William, that they are much altered ſince laſt he ſaw them, one being grown a young, and the other an old woman; the latter part of this obſer⯑vation affecting Mrs. Winifred, ſhe retorts upon the captain rather churliſhly, by remarking, that he is not grown a brute, for he has always been one; this ſeems the prelude to an altercation of ſome bitter⯑neſs, but the captain gives it a turn, by aſking for Sir William's ſon, the young colonel, who, by his account, has made a ſlip to London from his quar⯑ters in Ireland, and therefore, to ſcreen the affair, has changed his name to Weſton; this intelligence, with the additional hint that ſome female has occa⯑ſioned his journey, ruffies Sir William.

[27]A freſh point of debate ariſing between the cap⯑tain and Mrs. Winifred, Lord Euſtace is mentioned, with whom they both claim a particular intimacy; his lordſhip's approaching marriage being again ſpoken of, Harriet feels a freſh alarm, which her aunt endeavours to ſuppreſs; but Captain Lloyd's declaration that he has ſeen the equipage, jewels, liveries, &c. preparatory to the wedding, the young lady's fears appear confirmed, and her confuſion proportionably riſes, till at laſt mention being made of ſome eaſy, country girl, who has been made a fool of by Lord Euſtace, ſhe loſes every trace of re⯑ſolution, and faints; this puts her father into a flurry of ſpirits, ſhe is conducted off by Mrs. Wini⯑fred, Captain Lloyd goes in ſearch of the colonel; and Sir William, in a ſoliloquy, which concludes the ſecond act, endeavours to account for this ſudden and extraordinary emotion; however, he ſhoots wide of the real mark, and might as well have ſaid nothing, but for the following remark, which is very pregnant with truth and good ſenſe. ‘"The foibles of youth ſhould rather be counteracted than op⯑poſed, leſt in endeavouring to weed them out, we may deſtroy a kindred virtue."’

Frampton begins the third act with a few uneſ⯑ſential lines before Willis comes on with ſome let⯑ters he has intercepted; the voluble valet paints his own political dexterity in pleaſant, ſpirited terms, and ſeems to urge a claim of reward for his aſſi⯑duity very home to Frampton, who conſidering him as a kind of villainous, though neceſſary utenſil, diſmiſſes him the room in pretty rough terms, after ſecuring the letters, which latter circumſtance Wil⯑lis ſeems to regret, and goes off grumbling deeply.

[28]Frampton now again ſoliloquizes, and entertains us with exculpatory meditation reſpecting himſelf, as intermeddling with the diſhonourable purpoſes of Lord Euſtace, and to relieve his mind reſolves up⯑on delivering the letters to Sir William; at which criſis Lord Euſtace enters to him, enquiring eagerly if he has ſecured thoſe letters; this draws on a full and emphatic explanation of Frampton's ſentiments, wherein the breach of hoſpitality, as well as common civility, is charged home againſt his lordſhip, who offers no palliation but the neceſſity of his ſituation, and warmly deſires to ſee the letters; this Framp⯑ton commendably evades, and baits him with ſeve⯑ral inſtructive reproaches; the young peer replies in a ſtile of warm ſarcaſm, and the matter riſes to ſuch a pitch, that Frampton reſigns his charge, and renounces his lordſhip's friendſhip, finding it muſt be held on unworthy terms, and retires.

Willis now comes forward, full of expectation to work on his noble maſter's weakneſs for the reward of his diligence, but Frampton's ſpeedy and unex⯑pected return interrupts his deſign; he is ordered out of the room, and a freſh converſation between Lord Euſtace and Frampton enſues, wherein the latter ſhews a very delicate ſenſibility for his pa⯑tron's perplexed ſituation, and impreſſes him with a ſtrong idea of his own miſconduct; this produces a great conceſſion from his lordſhip, and a cordial reconciliation is the conſequence; it is alſo reſolved, that all Sir William's letters, ſave that from Lang⯑wood, the dying ſteward, ſhall be delivered him, for this purpoſe they are delivered to Willis.

When his lordſhip and Frampton retire, the active valet, with a true ſpirit of intrigue, deter⯑mines [29] to ſee what the important, excepted letter contains; and fiddling about the ſeal, breaks it before he is aware. This rather alarms him, but a gratification of his curioſity ſoftens the accident, and he explores the contents with ſome laughable ob⯑ſervations, drawing favourable hopes of advantage from the diſcovery he has made.

Harriet is next diſcovered alone, expreſſing much love for, with painful doubts of Lord Euſtace; en⯑tering upon ſo ſolemn an obligation, in direct breach of offilial duty, adds to her irkſome ſenſa [...]ons. Sir William enters upon her meditation, and ſhews a letter he has received from her brother, confirming Captain Lloyd's inſinuation, that a lady is the cauſe of his viſiting London. Speaking of his ſon's ma⯑trimonial views, the baronet utters a ſentiment every parent ſhould invariably adopt, that worth and vir⯑tue are ſuperior to every conſideration of fortune. Strong marks of melancholly ſtill hanging upon Harriet's countenance, her tender father wants to come at the cauſe, which again brings Lord Euſtace under conſideration; the ſubject works ſo ſtrongly upon the young lady, that ſhe aſtoniſhes Sir William with falling at his feet, and works him into ſtrong perplexity by ſoliciting, in broken ſentences, his pardon, for having become Lord Euſtace's wife without his knowledge. This circumſtance deeply impreſſes the old man, whoſe good ſenſe perceives a ſtrong objection, his lordſhip's diſſipated, licentious diſpoſition, which cannot afford the proſpect of much conjugal felicity. Harriet, however, pur⯑ſues her tender ſolicitation, and urges ſome excul⯑patory arguments in her lord's favour, which work the wiſhed for effect, and obtain Sir William's for⯑giveneſs; [30] this ſends off the young lady in perfect harmony of ſpirits.

By the ſcene which immediately follows between Sir William and Robert, we learn, that the latter has made ſome diſagreeable obſervations, and even heard of the impoſition which has been paſſed upon Harriet. This diſtracting explanation rouſes the baronet, who hearing that Willis is confidante, or⯑ders Robert to call him: upon the valet's appear⯑ance he is at firſt queſtioned mildly, then with a de⯑gree of intimidating warmth, concerning Lord Euſtace's marriage; he heſitates for ſome time, but having a ſword pointed to his breaſt, and fancying Sir William has had information from Langwood, pulls the letter Prampton had charged him to ſe⯑crete from his pocket, which the baronet ſnatches; after puzzling each other for a few ſpeeches lon⯑ger, the valet, terrified for what he has done, makes a confuſed and laughable retreat.

Here Sir William, reſolving to have a further explanation, after reading the fatal letter, calls for his ſiſter and daughter, who both appear on the in⯑ſtant; he immediately pronounces the deceit, which overpowers Harriet, and gives Langwood's letter to Mrs. Winifred, who, with her uſual ſelf-ſufficiency, conſiders it as a falſe, forged affair; and ſeems to wonder that her brother can be ſo eaſily impoſed upon. This but enflames the baronet's paſſion more, and cauſes him, after ſome ſtinging reproaches vented againſt his daughter, to hurry off the ſtage.

Harriet, in the midſt of her confuſion, propoſes to fly from Lord Euſtace's dwelling, but Mrs. Wi⯑nifred perſiſting in her opinion, that there is ſome impoſition in the affair, adviſes her neice to ſend [31] Lord Euſtace a letter; this, though warmly urged, is obſtinately refuſed, ſo that when Harriet retires to avoid further importunity, the aunt determines to write herſelf; and though ſome doubts reſpect⯑ing Lord Euſtace intrude upon her, yet ſhe cheriſhes the comfortable idea, that he dare not deceive her, or, if he does, that the ap Evans's are not to be in⯑jured with impunity.

At the beginning of the fourth act, a new cha⯑racter is preſented to us, Colonel Evans. In the converſation between him and Captain Lloyd, the latter, after blaming young Evans for leaving his regiment ſo abruptly on a woman's account, apo⯑logizes in ſome meaſure for the indiſcretion, by tell⯑ing what influence a Donna Iſabella at Gibraltar, had once like to have gained over himſelf; after this, the talkative tar enquires minutely into the circumſtances of the colonel's fair one, to which he only obtains the general reply, that ſhe is young, handſome, and of rank above her admirer's expecta⯑tion; expoſition of her name is declined. After theſe gentlemen diſappear, who, in our opinion, have ſaid nothing any way eſſential to the piece, nor much to place them in eſteem with an audience, Mrs. Winifred and Robert appear, when ſhe receives further proof of Lord Euſtace's treachery. After a few lines, ſhe diſpatches the honeſt domeſtic to watch a private door in the garden; here Sir Wil⯑liam joins his ſiſter, who wants to argue matters with him, but his temper of mind not ſuiting her pur⯑poſe, he at firſt anſwers rather churliſhly; however, ſhe forces her diſcourſe on him, and propoſes to try her influence and Harriet's tears upon Lord Euſtace. This deſign the baronet treats with contempt, and [32] thereby irritates his vain ſiſter; beſides, with be⯑coming pride, he diſdains the thought of his daugh⯑ter's ſuing ſo baſe a man. Another thought ariſes in Mrs. Winifred's prolific brain, that as Lord Euſtace has a place at court, Sir William ſhould complain of him to the king; this romantic idea produces ſome juſt compliments to virtuous royalty, but Sir William caſts ſo ineffectual a proceeding aſide, and determines upon taking perſonal ſatisfaction, with which ſpirited reſolution he withdraws.

Another very immaterial ſoliloquy occurs here, at the end of which Robert appears, and informs Winifred, that he has heard the private door in the garden unlocked, this hurries her off to prevent Lord Euſtace's meeting her enraged brother.

Colonel Evans, who as we find has been aſſault⯑ed by footpads, enters with Lord Euſtace, by whom he has been reſcued; thanks are returned for the ſervice. By a converſation which enſues, we find, that upon being told the title of his deliverer, Colo⯑nel Evans looks on him as a rival in the affections of Lady Ann Mountfort; a meeting is propoſed, but declined, as each of the gentlemen is otherwiſe particularly engaged: Lord Euſtace partly unfolds his critical ſituation with Harriet, but as her name is not mentioned, the colonel remains ignorant that ſhe is his ſiſter.

The next ſcene Mrs. Winifred brings on Harriet, when Lord Euſtace immediately enters, and endea⯑vours to ſooth that heavy concern which hangs on the young lady; for ſome time the aunt harangues him on the charge of infidelity, which he evades with tolerable effrontery, but is reduced to a pain⯑ful dilemma upon her producing Langwood's letter; [33] however, he profeſſes an honeſt deſign, dictated by ardent love, in the clandeſtine marriage effected him; this ſtrikes Mrs. Winifred with the pleaſing hopes of repairing every thing, and ſhe goes off to prevent Sir William from coming abruptly upon the young couple, as they ſeem to be in a fair train of reconciliation; but this female politician appears much out in her calculation, for Harriet's offended virtue and delicacy remain inexorable to entreaty, and ſhe retires, diſclaiming every idea of connection with ſo unworthy a betrayer: here Sir William en⯑ters, full of the injury done him through his daugh⯑ter, and a very warm altercation enſues, which is ſupported on Lord Euſtace's ſide with as much de⯑cent ſpirit as the circumſtances will admit; to Sir William's violent deciſion, he very properly oppoſes his own conſciouſneſs of error, which is a ſufficient reaſon why courage ſhould not exert itſelf againſt an injured perſon; however, the baronet's perſiſting in aggravation, compels him at laſt to accept the chal⯑lenge, in conſequence of which, a meeting is ap⯑pointed at eight o'clock the next morning, with ſe⯑conds.

After Sir William has expreſſed ſatisfaction that his ſon the colonel is abſent, as this affair of the duel muſt have fallen upon him, Mrs. Winifred bolts in, and accuſes her brother of turning matters topſy⯑turvy; ſhe alſo mentions Harriet's haughty refuſal, which ſeems to give the old gentleman ſingular ſa⯑tisfaction. His ſiſter's wiſh for being attached to nobility at any rate, gives riſe to ſome pertinent re⯑flections upon the mingled pride and meanneſs which mark her character; Sir William treats her notions with aſperity and contempt, and then haſtes to [34] comfort Harriet, whoſe rejection of Lord Euſtace, has replaced her in his favour. Mrs. Winifred, in a high miſſ at the ſlight ſhe has received, wants to aſſert her own infallibility, by caſting the blame of what has happened upon others, and concludes, with ap⯑plying to herſelf Lord Chatham's declaration, of not being accountable for meaſures that ſhe is not ſuf⯑fered to guide.

Lord Euſtace and Frampton begin the fifth act, conferring on the unlucky circumſtance of the for⯑mer having met Sir William, and the challenge con⯑ſequential to it, which Frampton ſenſibly obſerves, ought not to be fulfilled; however, Lord Euſtace ſolicits him to act as a ſecond, which for ſubſtantial reaſons he denies. Marriage of Harriet is urged as a palliative, but the young peer dreads an imputa⯑tion of cowardice. Upon Frampton's abſolute de⯑nial to be concerned, Lord Euſtace requeſts his de⯑livery of a letter, in caſe he ſhould fall, to his father, and goes off to ſearch a leſs ſcrupulous friend to act as a ſecond. Frampton deſcants ſome time on the contrariety of Lord Euſtace's diſpoſition, and goes off, reſolved to avert, if poſſible, thoſe perils which hang over his head.

Harriet, accompanied by her aunt, gives vent to an unequalled, and apparently incurable perplexity of mind, occaſioned not only by the baſeneſs of her ſuppoſed huſband, but by the impending duel, which ſhe urges Mrs. Winifred to prevent at any rate, for which purpoſe the old lady retires juſt as Sir Wil⯑liam appears: he perceives Harriet's concern, and tenderly tries to ſoften her, but endangering his life on her account, prevents the deſired effect; as the baronet will not relax thoſe ſtrict notions of honour, [35] which urge him on to ſo deſperate a mode of ſatis⯑faction.

Captain Lloyd's approach occaſions the afflicted Harriet to retire; we find that the captain has been ſummoned to act as Sir William's ſecond; to this end the baronet acquaints him with the duel he is engaged in; a circumſtance which draws from the ſon of Neptune ſome whimſical remarks on fight⯑ing, for which he ſeems to have a very good ſtomach, but thinks breakfaſt an eſſential preparative. This cauſes Sir William to take him into another room, and leaves the ſtage open for Lord Euſtace, who comes on with Colonel Evans, as his ſecond.

By what drops from the colonel, we find, his lord⯑ſhip, through romantic notions of juſtice, has de⯑termined to ſtand Sir William's fire, without re⯑turning it. At the ſame inſtant, Harriet and her father enter at oppoſite doors, the colonel is imme⯑diately ſaluted with the titles of ſon and brother, but is reproved as appearing the abettor of that man who has diſgraced his ſiſter; this young Evans diſclaims, and treats Harriet with rough contempt; then takes the quarrel upon himſelf, and gives Lord Euſtace a regular challenge, which, upon finding Harriet's innocence, he ſeems more warmly bent to enforce. As he and Lord Euſtace are going off, Frampton enters, who, hearing Harriet exclaim, ‘"when will my miſeries end,"’ replies, ‘"I hope this moment, madam."’ This dawning of an e⯑clairciſſement occaſions ſurprize in all the parties, and enquiries of what he means; when he declares, that he has been with, and is juſt come from Lord Delville, who approves Harriet for a daughter-in-law, and has charged him with a letter to Sir Wil⯑liam [36] Evans upon that ſubject. This letter being peruſed, the baronet pronounces it a mark of ho⯑nour in the old peer, yet ſays it cannot atone for the miſconduct of his ſon Lord Euſtace; this ſtarts a freſh difficulty, which however is removed by a declaration, that Lady Anne Mountfort never was an object of ſerious attention to Lord Euſtace, and is in reality the lady whoſe hand is deſtined for Co⯑lonel Evans: hence a reconciliation and mutual congratulations enſue on all ſides.

Captain Lloyd, upon ſeeing ſuch an aſſemblage of unexpected characters, ſeems diſappointed that the propoſed engagement is not likely to take place; however, like an honeſt, good natured man, ſympa⯑thizes in the general joy, with which the comedy concludes. But what could induce the author to tag half a dozen very indifferent lines together, by way of deducing a moral, we ſhall not pretend to ſuggeſt; let it ſuffice to ſay, that we could wiſh na⯑ture and the eſtabliſhed mode, which rejects rhimes, had been more ſtrictly regarded.

Upon a general view of this comedy, it appears to be written with a good intention; the dialogue has conſiderable eaſe, but not much ſpirit or ele⯑gance; the plot is tolerably intereſting, and the ſcenes regularly enough diſpoſed, but the cataſtrophe is rather huddled up; and the delicacy which Sir William Evans and his daughter ſeem ſo ſtrongly poſſeſſed of, at laſt vaniſhes almoſt imperceptibly.

The characters, without a grain of originality, are well imagined, and ſupported with tolerable conſiſtence; Lord Euſtace is an odd medley of vir⯑tues and weakneſs, for his errors are certainly more the effect of warm paſſions and inadequate judg⯑ment [37] than abſolute vice; there is a face of meanneſs in his propoſed connection with Lady Anne, which caſts a ſhade that reſts on him, even when matters are made up. In repreſentation, he is what per⯑formers call a tolerable walking gentleman, and is not much beyond the abilities of Mr. CAUTHERLY, who, by never attempting any thing higher, would deſerve ſome degree of praiſe.

Sir William is a perſon of nice feelings, and a fond, without being a fooliſh father. Mr. HOL⯑LAND, who was certainly better calculated for a par⯑ticular caſt in comedy, than any thing he ever did, or could do of a tragic nature, gave juſt and ſingu⯑lar ſatisfaction in the Welch baronet; ſince his death, Mr. HURST has undertaken him, with ſome degree of ſucceſs, which could not happen without ſome merit; though certainly the audiences of Lon⯑don have lately been much weaker in their judg⯑ment, or more extenſive in good nature, than they were ſeven years ago. May the diſpoſition conti⯑nue till there is a freſh ſupply of intrinſic merit to ſtand the teſt of criticiſm.

Colonel Evans is a very immaterial object, and can never gain any credit for either author or actor; what can be done for him in action Mr. PALMER ſupplies agreeably enough.

Frampton is certainly a well drawn child of na⯑ture; one who, notwithſtanding the want of pru⯑dence to preſerve his circumſtances in a ſtate of comfort and reſpect, nevertheleſs has a heart which ſcorns, even in the midſt of dependance, to flatter or promote for intereſt, the vices of an opulent patron; nay, who hazards the favour of that patron by la⯑bouring to ſave him from himſelf: he is a moſt ami⯑able [38] agent in the piece, and ſhould not after his eſſen⯑tial, good offices, have been left in ſuch an unprovided ſtate at the concluſion. We know not any character more chaſtely or more agreeably performed on ei⯑ther of the ſtages than this by Mr. REDDISH, from whoſe expreſſion the valuable ſentiments flow with peculiar grace and ſenſibility.

Captain Lloyd is well deſigned, but underwritten, the leaſt entertaining of any ſea character on the ſtage, and moſt evidently borrowed from all who went before him; nothing but the happy conception and exquiſite talents of Mr. KING, could render him ſo agreeable as he now appears.

Willis ſeems drawn with judgment and viva⯑city by the author; nor is the eſſential whim and ſprightlineſs of repreſentation any way deficient in Mr. DODD's very pleaſing performance of this laughable and ſpirited valet. Mr. W. PALMER has upon emergencies made a tolerable ſhift.

Robert has an agreeable, blunt ſimplicity, and commendable honeſty of character in his compoſi⯑tion; and ſtood much indebted for the notice he obtained to Mr. BADDELY's characteriſtic naivetè of action.

Mrs. Winifred is a painful, miſerable copy of Mrs. Margate Maxwell, in the DEVIL upon two STICKS: ſo flat, ſo impoveriſhed, that Mrs. CLIVE's powerful talents alone could have rendered her bear⯑able: poor Mrs. HOPKINS is as much aſleep in the performance, as the author was in writing this part.

Harriet is a tender, ſenſible, delicate young lady, and in every one of thoſe ideas received ample juſtice from the intereſting appearance, and pathetic ex⯑preſſion of Mrs. BADDELY.

[39]Being much diſguſted, both in the theatre and cloſet with a ſuperabundance of ſoliloquies in this piece, we have taken pains to count them, and find no leſs than twenty-two; the greateſt part of which, or at leaſt half, falls to Frampton alone; the plot muſt be very hard ſtrained which requires ſuch aid; however, the SCHOOL for RAKES, from its moral tendency, and the excellent ſentiments with which in ſeveral places it is ſprinkled, may be recommended as a comedy more deſerving of attention, both in public and private, than many other pieces of much greater critical merit; virtue is patronized and in⯑culcated through the whole, without being once put to the bluſh, or in the leaſt degree ſacrificed to ap⯑plauſe catching humour.

The ORPHAN. A TRAGEDY by OTWAY.

IF the author now before us could not lay claim to the nobleſt, yet he has been generally, and juſtly allowed ſome of the tendereſt flights of genius that ever graced dramatic compoſition: his beauties are many, and thoſe he principally derived from the li⯑berality of nature, which had conferred feelings, conception and expreſſion, well adapted to a ſubject of the queen of tears. He had alſo ſeveral glaring faults, but thoſe were totally derived from the licen⯑tiouſneſs of taſte, and depravity of manners, which prevailed when he wrote; indeed, by his life, as well as his pen, we perceive him to have been deep⯑ly tainted, but our remarks muſt be applied to him as a poet, not a man.

It is uſual to omit the firſt ſcene of this tragedy in repreſentation, which is a ſtretch of theatrical pre⯑rogative we do not altogether approve; for though what paſſes between Erneſto and Paulino is not ab⯑ſolutely eſſential, yet their converſation is beyond doubt a very good introduction to the piece, better, as we apprehend, than that with which it now com⯑mences; however we ſhall not give the ſubſtance of what is ſo little regarded, but begin with the two brothers, who being juſt returned from the chace, mention ſome danger that Caſtalio has been in, and then paſs on to other matters, till they come at laſt [41] to mention Monimia, their father's ward. The at⯑tachment of each to this young lady, occaſions an appearance of diſagreement between them, but a ſoftening conceſſion from one, draws from the other a moſt ſolemn declaration of unalterable friendſhip; uttered partly according to the taſte of the day, in rhime, and very little above the degree of doggrel.

When Monimia enters with the page, we ſoon perceive that her heart is conſiderably prejudiced in favour of Caſtalio; all her queſtions and obſervations ſtrongly indicate it. Cordelio's replies to her queſ⯑tions are in an arch characteriſtic ſtile, but in one ſpeech rather licentious; his account of what he has heard from the brothers, in regard to their love for Monimia, is diſtinct and natural; we think Moni⯑mia's reſentment againſt the deſign of Caſtalio's in⯑troducing Polydore to a private conference, is very becoming; indeed, there does not ſeem any colour for ſuch a paltry condeſcenſion in the former, as the latter might have gained an interview without ſuch an introduction.

When the brothers appear, and Caſtalio, accord⯑ing to promiſe, ſtands maſter of the ceremonies, the lady expreſſes confuſion; but why ſhe ſhould ſeem to entertain ſuch dreadful, previous apprehenſions of Polydore, we cannot ſay. Caſtalio's ſudden, and we may add, ſtrange departure, ruffles her extreme⯑ly, and ſeems to be the only cauſe for her ungracious charge of ill gature againſt Polydore's countenance, even before he has ſpoke a word; ſuch treatment is rather cavalier on her ſide, yet at firſt occaſions no return but warm declarations of amorous paſ⯑ſion, which are well expreſſed, and ſuitably replied to: however, when Monimia comes to a peremp⯑tory [42] refuſal of ſacrificing her honour, why ſhe ſhould ſuppoſe his profeſſions diſhonourable, we know not. Polydore throws off every trace of the gentleman, and ſhews himſelf the brute Monimia ſeems to have imagined him. His general ſarcaſm againſt the whole ſex is illiberal, but not without ſome truth and conſiderable fancy; her reply is couched in very proper and ſtrong terms: what Polydore ſpeaks after ſhe goes off, his alluſion to the bull, &c. is almoſt too groſs for a ſatyr to utter, or a Billingſgate fiſh-wife to hear; it is highly ſhameful that ſomewhat more bearable has not been ſubſtituted, inſtead of ſuch ſenſual, filthy traſh.

At the beginning of the ſecond act, Acaſto, with his two ſons, are preſented to our view; the old gentleman deſcants on the pleaſures and dangers of that day's chace; particularly remarking his own critical ſituation from the attack of a wild boar, and his fortunate conqueſt over that furious animal. Recital of this laſt circumſtance draws from Caſta⯑lio a complimentary line, which his father juſtly conſiders as bordering on flattery; a depravation of mind he treats with aſperity, diſmiſſing it with great propriety from ſocial connections, to the intereſted dependance of court ſycophancy; a diſſembling de⯑pendance, which he illuſtrates in very ſtrong co⯑lours, and corrects with a keen laſh of ſatire: but poets may exhauſt their imaginations, and moraliſts declaim on the ſubject till they are weary; yet mo⯑deſt merit will never gain an equal ſhare of favour at any court, with ſervile effrontery and low artifice.

Serina bringing on the news of Chamont's arri⯑val, gives Acaſto ſingular pleaſure; he having, as appears, a warm attachment to that young ſoldier, [43] whom he welcomes with the moſt cordial tenderneſs. Chamont replies with manly feeling, interchanges ſome kind expreſſions with his ſiſter Monimia, and then pays a delicate compliment to Acaſto's daugh⯑ter Serina, which ſhe ſeems to receive with ſome de⯑gree of tender ſenſation.

Acaſto, in the flow of domeſtic happineſs, and in reſpect of his royal maſter's birth-day, orders feſti⯑vity through all his houſe; and upon his ſon's letting fall ſome expreſſions of ardent loyalty, he manifeſts a little of the vanity of age, in proclaiming an anecdote of once killing a rebel who uttered diſ⯑reſpectful terms of his monarch. The laboured panegyrics upon royalty in this ſcene, were ſo many ſugar-plumbs dropped by our bard to ſweeten the leading character of his day.

As Acaſto is going off to receive ſome gueſts who are arrived, Chamont deſires a conference upon matter of ſerious concern, which being granted, he draws a pathetic, preparative picture of his dying parents, to introduce more ſtrongly the old gentle⯑man's kind patronage to himſelf and his ſiſter; he then ſuggeſts a doubt concerning Monimia's ſitua⯑tion and behaviour, which Acaſto deſires him to clear up, adding a moſt friendly declaration, that he will defend her cauſe, even though it ſhould ſubject his own children to prejudice.

Here a conference enſues between Chamont and his ſiſter, from whence we may infer, that he poſſeſſes honour to almoſt a romantic degree; but is unac⯑countably credulous, and unpardonably choleric. His account of their dead father is truly amiable; the dream is fanciful, but a ſtrange foundation for a man of even tolerable underſtanding to ground jea⯑lous [44] apprehenſions upon; and the picture of the old hag, who gave his fears confirmation, is inimi⯑table, ſo worthy regard, as a beautiful deſcription, that we beg leave to tranſcribe it; though after all, we judge it a ſufficient proof of Chamont's weak⯑neſs, and wonder at our author for inculcating ſo ri⯑diculous an idea of witchcraft.

Upon Monimia's ſolemn declaration of ſtrict ad⯑herence to virtue, Chamont's ſtrange paſſion cools, and gives her ſome friendly, ſenſible hints, reſpect⯑ing the diſſimulation of men in ſubjects of love. He retires, and the young lady, irritated by Poly⯑dore's ungenteel treatment, determines, even at the expence of her own peace, to treat Caſtalio with ſeverity. His immediate appearance gives her an opportunity of putting this reſolution in practice, which ſhe does in part, by quitting the ſtage as he comes on; this occaſions Caſtalio to utter his diſſa⯑tisfaction in ſoliloquy, as alſo to ſuggeſt, that he has [45] a natural pliantneſs of temper which his miſtreſs plays upon; he alſo confeſſes himſelf wrong in tri⯑fling with his brother, where ſo ſerious a matter is concerned; but flatters himſelf, that as it is his firſt tranſgreſſion, no ill conſequences will enſue.

Polydore here enters, and places that young agent of intrigue, the page, as a ſpy upon his brother and Monimia; when the lovers come forward, we find the lady in a fit of warm reſentment, much beyond, as we think, any provocation ſhe has received, and the gentleman for ſome time tenderly condeſcend⯑ing; however, ſtung with reproaches which ariſe from mention of Polydore, his temper riſes on the fret, yet his reſolution ſhortly fails, and he ſinks again into the whine with ſuch effect, that Monimia ſoftens into forgiveneſs, and a ſudden reconciliation, in the true love ſtile, enſues; this cauſes Caſtalio to vent his extraordinary ſatisfaction in the full ſlow of poe⯑tical frenzy, rhiming himſelf and the fair Monimia moſt harmoniouſly off the ſtage.

Polydore, with his little ſpy, begin the third act, when a full diſcovery is made to the former by the latter, of all that paſſed in the foregoing ſcene; the page having told his tale, is ſent off, when a ſervant enters with intelligence that Acaſto has been ſud⯑denly and violently taken ill at the banquet; the old gentleman ſoon enters in a ſtate of weakneſs, but recovery; having his children about him, he declares the diſpoſition of his fortune, in caſe of de⯑ceaſe, to be an equal diviſion of his eſtate between the brothers, ſave a reſerve of ten thouſand crowns for Monimia. This ſcene furniſhes a ſtrange con⯑tradictory lapſe in Acaſto's conduct; for after an equal diviſion of his fortune between Caſtalio and [46] Polydore, he allots one third of it to Chamont, in caſe of his marriage with Serina, who, in the firſt diſpoſition of affairs, poor lady! was totally for⯑got. Theſe points ſettled, Acaſto retires to reſt, attended by all the characters, except Chamont and the Chaplain.

Our young ſoldier's phraſe of addreſs to the cler⯑gyman, ſtiling him Sir Gravity, is rather an unpo⯑lite, ludicrous beginning of converſation; the in⯑tention of Chamont evidently appears to be getting at the connection, if any, between his ſiſter and Caſtalio; however, not being anſwered ſo fully, nor ſo ſoon as he wiſhes, he breaks out into the ſquib and cracker ſtile of paſſion, uttering ſuch a train of ill-grounded, irrational, ungentleman-like abuſe, upon the clerical profeſſion in general, as cannot be juſti⯑fied: however, the Chaplain, with a moſt eaſy, con⯑deſcending nature, teeming with Chriſtian forgive⯑neſs, for the groſſeſt abuſe, truſts one he has great reaſon to think half a madman, with what at pre⯑ſent ſeems eſſentially a ſecret, the marriage; this ſoftens the frantic red-coat, and they part upon very obliging terms.

Caſtalio and Monimia now appear, he fully ſa⯑tisfied with being in poſſeſſion of the idol of his heart; ſhe confeſſes ſome female fears from ominous circumſtances which ſhe has taken notice of; theſe apprehenſions the bridegroom imputes to her tender nature, and urges a ſpeedy conſummation of his bliſs. Here Polydore ſhews himſelf, in the mean office of liſtening at the door: Monimia repreſents ſome probable ill conſequences from her new huſ⯑band's coming to her bed chamber; however, be⯑ing cloſely urged, ſhe gives him a ſignal to ſecure [47] his admittance, and leaves him full of ſatisfaction at the near completion of his happineſs.

Polydore preſenting himſelf, as if caſually, to the view of Caſtalio, and enquiring rather particularly after Monimia, he receives equivocal anſwers, which warm him into an abſolute aſſertion of his paſſion; he delivers himſelf with warmth and roughneſs of expreſſion, while his evaſive brother treats the mat⯑ter with affected indifference, and retires ſneeringly: this behaviour, and his own licentious diſpoſition, prevail on Polydore to attempt a fatal impoſition upon hapleſs Monimia; having heard the appointed ſignal, he derives from thence ſtrong hopes of ſuc⯑ceſs; for the purpoſe of gaining time, he calls the page, and inſtructs him to attend Caſtalio while he is undreſſing, and to ſtay with him till he is gone to bed.

Matters thus diſpoſed, he approaches the chamber door, and by giving the ſignal, brings Florella to the window, who, ſuppoſing him Caſtalio, tells him Mo⯑nimia wonders at his unkind delay; tho' it is certain, as the ſtage has not been vacant ſince ſhe went into her chamber, that ſhe has ſcarce had time to get un⯑dreſſed; Polydore being admitted, with a very ful⯑ſome addreſs to his limbs, Caſtalio enters, followed by the page, whom he wants to get quit of; how⯑ever, true to his maſter's inſtructions, he perſeveres in attendance, and obliges Caſtalio to hear ſome proofs of his archneſs, though not much to the cre⯑dit of his modeſty; indeed our author ſeems indu⯑ſtrious to call a bluſh upon the cheeks of delicacy as often as poſſible; for he has made this page, which is generally repreſented by a child, utter ſome very groſs ſentiments.

[48]Being at length diſmiſſed, Caſtalio prepares for admittance to the manſion of his joy; but, we think, if leſs had been given him to ſay, where ab⯑ſolute ſilence ſeemed ſo neceſſary, it would have been more conſonant to the nature of things. Up⯑on Florella's coming to the window, ſuppoſing him an impoſtor, ſhe treats him contemptuouſly; this unexpected and provoking diſappointment of his hopes, enflames him ſo much, that being abſolutely refuſed, he throws himſelf upon the ground, ex⯑claiming againſt the ſuppoſed faithleſsneſs of Mo⯑nimia. Here Erneſto, an old ſervant, following, as he ſays, the ſound of ſorrow, finds his young maſter in that melancholy ſtate; with dutiful tenderneſs he ſtrives to ſooth his anxiety: on being told a woman is the cauſe, he declares a hatred of the ſex; this pleaſes and flatters Caſtalio's perturbed ſtate of mind, which cauſes him to exclaim in ſevere, ge⯑neral terms, againſt women, from whom hiſtorically he deduces ſome of the moſt ſignal miſchiefs which ſtand recorded; and with this rhapſodical, frenzied exclamation, he concludes the third act, in ſuch a vociferous manner, as we might reaſonably expect to draw the whole family about his ears.

Acaſto, in ſoliloquy, commences the fourth act, congratulating himſelf upon a reſtoration of health, which he imputes to a happy reſt, and yet in the lines immediately after, complains of painful, omi⯑nous dreams, which are the bane, the imbitterers of nature's ſecond feaſt, hag-riding his imagination all night; this is ſo groſs a contradiction, that it is wonderful how the author could fall into it. Polydore appearing, his father enquires for Caſtalio, and deſires to meet him in the chapel; [49] then in a ſecond ſoliloquy, ſpeaks of having heard Caſtalio's voice, during the night, conveying melan⯑choly ſounds.

Here Monimia approaches the old gentleman, who, after ſome kind obſervations upon her engag⯑ing looks, aſks if ſhe has not heard ſome particular noiſe at night, being anſwered in the negative, he goes off to make further enquiry.

Our Orphan now left with Florella, declares ap⯑prehenſion that her marriage is diſcovered, which muſt operate much to the diſadvantage of her huſ⯑band; a kind of complaint is dropped at the bride⯑groom's cool method of taking leave in the morn⯑ing. Upon ſeeing Caſtalio ſhe retires for ſake of meeting him in her chamber, we think it would have been more natural to have met his ſteps half way: however, her leaving the ſtage, affords him an opportunity of ſpeaking a very poetical, deſcrip⯑tive ſoliloquy; but a moſt unnatural effuſion for one under ſuch a violent ſtate of mental perturbation as Caſtalio is.

Monimia, who has but juſt now retired, without any freſh reaſon returns, and flies into the arms of her lord, as ſhe ſhould have done before the uneſſen⯑tial diſſertation upon mountains, ſhepherds, flocks, huts, birds, trees, &c. which he has ſo ſancifully entertained us with. Conſcious of her own inno⯑cence and virtuous affection, the reception ſhe meets naturally gives her a great ſhock; and though we confeſs Caſtalio's provocation poignant, yet we think the author has conſulted the progreſs of his plot more than nature, in making him vent his paſ⯑ſions ſo outrageouſly, without the minuteſt article of enquiry why he was refuſed admittance, as common [50] ſenſe might ſuggeſt ſome cauſe for ſuch refuſal, though not the real one; be it as it may, the bride⯑groom behaves in a moſt tyrannical, unintelligible manner, and leaves his unhappy bride in a ſtate of diſtracted grief, which circumſtance, however it may offend our reaſon, nevertheleſs touches com⯑paſſion very feelingly.

Chamont, at this intereſting, alarming criſis en⯑ters, and finds his ſiſter in a ſituation of the moſt affecting nature: he tenderly enquires the cauſe, and hearing Caſtalio named, very juſtly takes fire, but ſomewhat checks the tumult of his mind, till the whole affair is explained in very pathetic terms; upon which he flames irreſiſtably, and vows ven⯑geance on Caſtalio. This dreadful reſolution Mo⯑nimia is endeavouring to avert juſt as Acaſto enters; Chamont's impetuoſity cauſes him to aſſail the old man in a blameable, though natural manner.

Giving the epithet of villain to one of his ſons, impreſſes the old man ſtrongly, and the ſcene is agi⯑tated with warmth on both ſides; the firmneſs of age, and flightineſs of youth, are finely contraſted; ſoftening Chamont, and then precipitating him a⯑gain into ungovernable rage, are well imagined, well executed tranſitions; finely drawn, but rather too highly coloured for ſtrict adherence to nature. On being promiſed juſtice, the young ſoldier retires, leaving Monimia to receive a very ſtinging, though brief obſervation from Acaſto; importing, that her firſt complaint ſhould have been to him as a father, which might have prevented ſuch domeſtic com⯑buſtion.

Thus wretchedly circumſtanced, ill treated by her huſband, and in ſome meaſure caſt off by his [15] father, Monimia is left comfortleſs, amidſt a thou⯑ſand apprehenſions for both her brother and Caſta⯑lio, when Polydore comes in, and endeavours to ſooth the diſtreſſed fair one with tender expreſſions; however, not being a very agreeable object, it is not likely his kindneſs ſhould take the deſired effect. Upon mentioning that he knows Caſtalio to be the cauſe of her ſighs and tears, and urging his own paſſion, Monimia reproaches him with having at⯑tempted to enter her chamber, under ſemblance of his brother; upon which, with a degree of precipi⯑tate triumph, he not only avows the deſign, but boaſts his abſolute ſucceſs. This raiſes a tremen⯑dous alarm in the heart of Monimia, and ſhe cau⯑tions him to avoid ſuch a dreadful aſſertion; how⯑ever, upon a clear, explicit declaration, of having paſſed the night in her bed-chamber, nature faints under ſo violent a ſhock, and Monimia is rendered for a moment inſenſible of her horrid ſituation.

On the revival of her ſenſes, ſhe breaks out into a general execration, and acquaints Polydore with the dreadful crime his precipitate inadvertence has hurried him into. Their intercourſe now takes the affecting turn of deep, mutual contrition, and pun⯑gent ſorrow. One thought of Polydore's, which ſug⯑geſts murdering, if any, the fruit of their guilty joys, is deteſtably ſhocking, and the more ſo, as there is no reaſon for mentioning ſuch a thing; and of all extravagant excurſions of fancy which have offended criticiſm and propriety, we know not one more hateful and unnatural, than Polydore's con⯑cluſive ſpeech to the fourth act; the notion of witches, at any rate, is contemptible, but to intro⯑duce a picture of their noiſome rendezvous, and to [52] preſent them as feeding upon imps, fattened with the blood of babes, is as diſguſtful as it is unnatural. The ſtage has, we think, commendably ſoftened this moſt cenſurable paſſage.

The fifth act begins with Caſtalio lying on the ground, and, as we underſtand from his words, taking a view of deer which are paſſing; from whence he draws a ſhort compariſon between the tranquil ſtate of brutality, and the perturbed ſitua⯑tion of rational beings. His ſoliloquy ends with a very groſs and ſuperfluous remark: being called upon by his father, he enquires who is ſo wretched but to name him; Acaſto's deſign is that of a ſen⯑ſible, benevolent parent, to reconcile the breach be⯑tween his ſon and daughter-in-law; this deſirable point he urges warmly, and inſiſts upon Caſtalio's condeſcending to a perſonal interview with Moni⯑mia, but cannot prevail. While they are in debate, Chamont appears, full fraught with injuries: Caſ⯑talio having heard the rough treatment his father has received from the young ſoldier, is prepared to meet him on the moſt deſperate terms; from mu⯑tual heat, and aggravating expreſſions, a fatal deci⯑ſion ſeems impending, the fearful effects of which are prevented by Acaſto's manly, ſpirited interpo⯑ſition, and the timely appearance of Serina; how⯑ever, the ſtorm ſeems to be lulled only for the pre⯑ſent, and the young men part on very angry terms. Acaſto here again renews his ſuit, in favour of Mo⯑nimia, but without effect, till Florella enters with a pathetic account of her diſtreſs, and an urgent ſoli⯑citation to ſee Caſtalio; this melts all his obdurate reſolves, and he hurries off to ſooth her anguiſh. To ſay truth, he has ſhewn himſelf more than ſuffi⯑ciently [53] inexorable for any provocation he has re⯑ceived, as the material circumſtance, of which ſhe is innocent, as yet remains unknown to him.

Monimia enters in ſoliloquy, ſeeking diſtractedly for Caſtalio, who comes on with all the ardor of re⯑vived paſſion, with every trace of reſentment ſunk in oblivion.

Throughout this whole ſcene there is an affecting pathos of expreſſion, and conſiderable variety of action: Monimia hints unintelligibly ſome hidden cauſe of diſtreſs, ſome unſeen bar to the happineſs he aims at, and which he ſuppoſes reſts totally in her power. Grief and tenderneſs agitate him al⯑ternately, in a pitiable manner; at length Monimia leaves him without any explanation, an entire prey to doubts and fears.

At this gloomy period, upon this perilous tem⯑per of mind, Polydore enters, meditating on his own deplorable condition, which juſtly makes him weary of life. The brothers encounter, Caſtalio enquires for Monimia, of whom Polydore gloomily affects a total ignorance; the word friendſhip being mentioned, Po⯑lydore catches at it, and throws out terms of ſuſpicion againſt Caſtalio; this urges the latter to a very af⯑fectionate declaration, and a ſolicitation of comfort from the former, who intimates he has none to give. At length, Caſtalio enters upon a perplexed expla⯑nation of his marriage with Monimia, this cauſes Polydore to break into violent reſentment, which he gives ſcope to in very groſs terms: Caſtalio mani⯑feſts an extraordinary ſpirit of forbearance; till, at laſt, being repeatedly ſtigmatized as a coward, he draws his ſword, upon which Polydore voluntarily ruſhes, to end a being which the effects of his own [54] intemperance has rendered hateful to him. Upon Caſtalio's perceiving the ſituation his brother is in, all enmity vaniſhes, and he laments the circumſtance which occaſions Polydore to own his deſign, to ex⯑plain the occaſion. Monimia comes in upon this blood-ſtained ſcene, and ſeeing the fatal circum⯑ſtance which has happened, very juſtly ſtarts at the object. Caſtalio now viewing her as an object of ſingular guilt, ſeems to threaten death; the expiring brother exculpates our unfortunate orphan in ſuch a manner, that her unhappy huſband perceives his diſ⯑ſimulation has been the original and ultimate cauſe of ſuch ſad diſaſters. Thus the plot comes to a moſt intereſting criſis; Caſtalio becomes convinced of his own miſconduct, and its fatal effects; while the inno⯑cent object of his rage and ill-treatment dies of poiſon, adminiſtered by herſelf—A circumſtance we could have wiſhed our author to avoid, as ſuicide ſhould never be rendered pitiable.

Chamont immediately enters upon the deceaſe of his ſiſter, fraught with the ſame vindictive rage as poſſeſſed him when laſt he left the ſtage; but the ir⯑reſiſtable tempeſt in Caſtalio's breaſt overbears him, till that unhappy victim of violent love and a weak mind, falls by his own hand. Polydore, who has lingered much too long on the ſtage, yields his breath on Caſtalio's receiving the fatal ſtab, and Caſtalio himſelf expires in a few lines, lamenting the ſorrows which are brought upon his aged, kind father, and bequeathing his birthright to Chamont; who, after being a madman through all preceding ſcenes where he has been concerned, immediately commences moraliſt, and concludes the piece with a moſt uncomfortable, vague and indefenſible poſi⯑tion, [55] that heaven maintains its empire by the miſe⯑ries of mankind; whereas, we think, that the boun⯑ties and indulgences of providence, as they are much more extenſive and worthy of divine power, ſo they are infinitely a greater proof of it than thoſe diſagreeable, painful circumſtances, which the fol⯑lies and vices of mankind bring upon themſelves and ſociety.

In this tragedy we meet with many ſtrokes of pe⯑culiar ſenſibility; the ſtory affords great opportu⯑nity for ſuch, and yet the plot not only abounds with improbable irregularities, but is originally founded upon a moſt groſs and offenſive principle; every idea of delicacy is caſt aſide, and licentiouſneſs made the vehicle of melting impreſſions; the ſtage is ſo incumbered with blood and death, that it becomes a ſpectacle of real horror; the characters give us in general a very unfavourable idea of human nature; however, they are well ſupported, according to the principles on which each appears to be founded.

Acaſto is an elderly nobleman, who has paſſed part of his life in a ſtate of honourable activity; but being like many other worthy objects, neglected to make way for the preferment of more pliant, courtly tem⯑pers, now abſtracts himſelf from all public concerns, and means to enjoy the comforts of domeſtic felicity. He appears to be poſſeſſed of a good underſtanding, and a liberal mind; to his children a tender parent, to Monimia, as the daughter of a deceaſed friend and dependent on him, a kind protector. No great requiſites are wanting to render him reſpectable in repreſentation, yet have we never ſeen any performer equal to our idea of this character; Meſſrs. SPARKS and BERRY, were neareſt the mark. Meſſrs. BRANS⯑BY [56] and GIBSON, are at preſent very poor apologies for it. Whatever ideas theatrical gentlemen may form of Acaſto, we are perfectly of opinion, that he merits a capital actor to give him due conſequence.

Caſtalio is diſtinguiſhed by a ſoft, amorous turn of mind, whoſe want of generous, open confidence, cauſes all the diſtreſsful circumſtances which hap⯑pen; he is much more an object of partial pity than eſtimation. With reſpect to his brother, he certain⯑ly acts a mean, evaſive part; and with Monimia, he alternately ſhews himſelf a fool and a tyrant: his circumſtances give great ſcope for the exertion of various capital powers, which were amazingly well ſupplied in the elegant figure, bewitching voice, and excellent acting of Mr. BARRY; who, in this part, defied the ſevereſt criticiſm, and juſtly claimed what he always obtained, the warmeſt applauſe that en⯑chanted feelings could beſtow.

Mr. ROSS, tho' much fainter, has yet conſiderable merit; he figured the part well, his voice had the merit of harmony, but wanted extent of power for the moſt impaſſioned ſcenes. Mr. REDDISH is hea⯑vy and inadequate through the whole; neither his love, grief nor rage, keeps pace with the author's meaning. Mr. SMITH's conſtant failing, ſameneſs, lies remarkably heavy on him in this part; it is true, he riſes above inſipidity, but does not ſtrike out a gleam of leading merit. Mr. POWELL hit off the tender paſſages much better than any other com⯑petitor, except Mr. BARRY; but in the ſcenes of mere dialogue, he fell very ſhort of Mr. ROSS; who perhaps for characteriſtic eaſe and gentility in them ſhould be placed firſt.

[57]Polydore is bold, open, licentious, rather brutal, both in character and expreſſion; ungenerous and baſe in his conduct to Monimia to the laſt degree; an object of much diſlike, and very little eſteem; deſpiſed, or rather deteſted in life, unpitied in his fall, more againſt the actor than for him.

Mr. SPARKS was the moſt characteriſtic performer out of many that we have obſerved; the ſpirit and ſubtlety of this part, he marked with peculiar merit. We remember to have ſeen Mr. SHERIDAN make a moſt lamentable attempt at this character, and are bold to ſay upon recollection, that except the bare meaning of thoſe words he uttered, the whole was ſuch a piece of impotent, diſguſtful performance, as ſcarce any actor of repute ever ſhewed before or ſince. Meſſrs. CAUTHERLY and WROUGHTON are pretty equal competitors for the palm of inſipidity; to ſay which is worſt would puzzle the acuteſt cri⯑ticiſm, and imagination is almoſt at a loſs to con⯑ceive the wretchedneſs of either.

Chamont, in our account of the piece, has been marked as an oddity, and an extraordinary one he really is, but well calculated to ſhew an able actor advantageouſly. The quickneſs and fire of look, as well as expreſſion and geſture, which ſo eminently diſtinguiſh Mr. GARRICK from all his cotempo⯑raries, no where operate more happily than in Cha⯑mont; paſſions which are really abſurd and laugha⯑ble, as the author has drawn them, are by him ren⯑dered reſpectable and ſtriking; the calmer paſſages he delivers with unequalled ſenſibility, and his tran⯑ſitions to the impetuous ones are ſo maſterly, that all attempts to deſcribe his excellence muſt injure it.

[58]It will perhaps ſcarcely be credited, yet is moſt ſolemnly true, that we have ſeen Mr. QUIN, when at leaſt ſixty years old, and of ſuch corpulence as to weigh twenty ſtone, roll on for the young Chamont, in a ſuit of cloaths heavy enough for Othello; a pair of ſtiff-topped white gloves, then only worn by at⯑tendants on a funeral, an old faſhioned major wig, and black ſtockings; yet odd as this external ap⯑pearance may ſeem, his performance was not one jot leſs ſo; and, without exaggeration, we may aſſert, that there never was any thing ſo like bur⯑leſque, except the thing itſelf, as this veteran's droniſh apology for the juvenile ſoldier.

Mr. SHERIDAN— why, why did we ever meet him in this play, except for Acaſto? was untunably for⯑mal and ſtiff in the mild ſcenes, irkſomely boiſter⯑ous in the impetuous ones; not a glimpſe of merit appeaved through the whole, except his deſcription of the witch, and the account of his father's inte⯑grity. Mr. HOLLAND would have been equally diſagreeable, but that his expreſſion was more lively, and his powers, as well as figure, more adequate; though the buckram of affectation ſtiffened him moſt abominably.

The Chaplain is as well ſupported by Mr. LOVE, as any audience can poſſibly wiſh.

The page we have ſeen done extremely well by ſeveral different children, but apprehend, Miſs ROSE, who played laſt ſummer at Mr. FOOTE's, with ſo much and well deſerved applauſe, would from her diminitive ſize, archneſs of look, and peculiar ſhrewd⯑neſs of expreſſion, ſurpaſs any who have come under our notice.

[59]Monimia is drawn a character of great eſtimation, and touches the feelings of pity in a very peculiar manner; her attachment to Caſtalio is open, gene⯑rous and conſtant; in ſome paſſages, it is true, ſhe diſcovers a temper bordering on the violent; how⯑ever, ſhe undergoes circumſtances of peculiar pro⯑vocation, and is at laſt thrown into a moſt deſperate ſtate. It is hard to ſay how any human mind, eſ⯑pecially one poſſeſſed of ſenſibility, could ſuſtain ſo diſtracting a ſituation; but we could heartily wiſh that the author had found a more juſtifiable method of releaſing her from care, than by the act of ſuicide, which takes off much from the regard ſhe has ob⯑tained, and manifeſtly caſts a heavy ſhade on her fall; her taking poiſon in ſuch violent perturbation of mind, may be authorized by too many examples in real life, and therefore is not unnatural, but it ſhould have been avoided, as not only highly im⯑moral, but irrational alſo.

The opinion we gave of Mrs. CIBBER and Mrs. BELLAMY, in Belvidera, may nearly point out the merits of thoſe ladies in this character; equal in the error of ſing-ſong, we think the latter looked and ſpoke all paſſages of amorous feeling, much better than the former; but in rage and diſtreſs Mrs. CIBBER was no doubt equal to every degree of con⯑ception. In the firſt, ſecond and third acts, we have very little doubt of Mrs. BELLAMY's ſuperiority: In the fourth and fifth, her great competitor, or ra⯑ther example, took the lead conſiderably.

Mrs. YATES, though poſſeſſed of powerful and pleaſing talents for tragedy, has a certain ſtudied haughtineſs of look, and ſtiff mechaniſm of geſture, very ill adapted to ſuch a perſonage as Monimia; [60] therefore we never taſted critical pleaſure from her performance of it; the mode being much better ſuited to Roxana than our orphan.

Mrs. BARRY rather overfigures Monimia, but by uniting every excellence of the two firſt mentioned ladies, except Mrs. CIBBER's amazingly deſcriptive countenance, wherein every feature ſpoke; ſhe ap⯑pears to us the beſt in our recollection. We have ſeen Mrs. W. BARRY make ſuch a ſhift with the part as might do well enough on a country ſtage, but muſt be very inſipid upon a Theatre Royal. Miſs MILLER, who appeared at Covent Garden laſt winter in Monimia, has agreeable capabilities; but, as we apprehend, will never become a capital, ſtand⯑ing diſh for criticiſm to feaſt upon.

Serina being merely introduced to give Chamont a ſweet-heart, and Florella to joke upon the diſap⯑pointment of Caſtalio, they cannot be ſuppoſed of ſufficient note to fix any actreſs in remembrance; therefore we ſhall paſs them without further remark.

After admitting much of the pathos in this tra⯑gedy, ſo much as even to render it a good acting piece, we are again to complain of groſs licentiouſ⯑neſs, without the ſhadow of a moral; wherefore we deem it highly cenſurable, and ſincerely lamenting ſuch a vile proſtitution of OTWAY's maſterly talents, moſt ſincerely wiſh it baniſhed by general conſent, both from the cloſet and the ſtage.

The LAME LOVER. A COMEDY by Mr. FOOTE.

BEFORE we inveſtigate the comedy now in view, we hope our readers will concur in opi⯑nion, that as the author of it is at preſent living, and has had heavy charges of perſonality in characters laid againſt him, it may be an eſſential point of that impartiality we profeſs, to take a ſhort view of the comic Muſe's prerogative; and having eſtabliſhed her power within due, that is ſalutary limits, a fair trial of the modern Ariſtophanes may enſue.

We firſt then lay it down for an irrefragable prin⯑ciple, that as ſatire could have no juſt exiſtence without vices and follies, all knaves and fools, of whatever country or denomination, are the natural, lawful game of comedy, general ideas of both may be ſtruck out to the proper ends of amuſement and inſtruction; but how faint are the effects of ſuch compared with thoſe where individuals have ſat for a well drawn picture? but then, ſay ſome perſons, poſſeſſed of falſe delicacy, is it not cruel to render any particular character laughable or obnoxious? to this we readily anſwer, that it is really nature or habit, not the ſatiriſt, that furniſhes the cauſe of ſuch effects. For inſtance, a printer, with one leg, could never have been rendered the butt of ridicule, if a coxcomical vanity of appearing quite the fine gentleman, and a wit, with intellects very little a⯑bove [62] common ſenſe, had not marked him out as a character of riſibility. If ſuch a perſonage as Cad⯑wallader ever lived, of which there is no doubt, could there be richer or more deſirable food for ge⯑nius to feaſt on? his convulſed motion is not the foundation of the mirth he occaſions, his boaſted courage, learning, love for, and contempt of his wife, are ſuch an olio of whim, that it would have been unpardonable in a writer of Mr. FOOTE's talents, not to have ſacrificed him at the ſhrine of ſatire; however ſome may argue of cruelty, we aſſert, that a dramatic author, as well as a critic, or judge on the bench, ſhould be proof againſt all influence of affi⯑nity, intimacy, and partial connections. If you ap⯑ply the rod to a favourite child, it muſt wound your feelings; but will you therefore refrain due cor⯑rection, and let him vegetate a wild, uncultivated, and perhaps poiſonous weed in the field of nature.

If then an acquaintance, or even a friend, who would perhaps take umbrage from advice in private, renders himſelf ridiculous or hateful, what more probable method of working a reformation, than by ſhewing him a ſtrong reflecting mirror of his own defects or deformities? thus then, ſuppoſing the perſon aimed at takes it to himſelf, it bears a ſtrong probability of rendering him ſervice, though by a painful me⯑thod; if, as is moſtly the caſe, he joins the public laugh at his own picture, without knowing it, then there can be no cruelty, becauſe he ſuffers no pain from it, indeed, if a man's circumſtances were in⯑vaded, or any branch of trade injured, except that moſt pernicious one, methodiſt preaching, the caſe would alter much, and even ſtrict truth, too pub⯑licly ſpoken, be cenſurable.

[63]That writer who comes neareſt the grand point of teaching us to know ourſelves, is certainly the moſt uſeful; and in the dramatic ſphere, if he ſuperadds peculiar humour, deſerves the greateſt ſhare of praiſe. The ſtage has for ſeveral years dwindled into an al⯑moſt total loſs of character and ſpirit, inſtead of which is ſubſtituted a ſoft, ſimpering, vague, decla⯑matory chit-chat, to which is politely given the un⯑meaning title of ſentimental dialogue.

The LAME LOVER opens with Serjeant Circuit, we fear a very common character, and his daughter Charlotte, in warm conference about ſome gallant, which the former favours, but to whom Charlotte makes ſome ſtrong and ſenſible objections. The old ſplitter of cauſes, as he is afterwards emphatically called, argues humorouſly in quaint terms of litiga⯑tion, and endeavouring to explain the matter, by a caſe in point, he puzzles himſelf in a very laughable manner, leaving the point more unintelligible than he found it.

Upon mention of Sir Luke Limp, the young lady ſuggeſts that he has other motives or attraction than his pretended paſſion for her, to bring him to the ſerjeant's houſe; upon being interrogated concern⯑ing her meaning, ſhe hints a view upon her mother-in-law, Mrs. Circuit; this, as ſhe cannot bring any poſitive proof, the lawyer treats with indifference, and imputes it to her jealouſy of the baronet. Here a deſcription of that gentleman drawn in lively terms occurs: ſpeaking of Sir Luke's being vain, even of defects, we meet this excellent remark; ‘"To be ſure, ſuſtaining unavoidable evils with conſtancy, is a certain ſign of greatneſs of mind; but then, to derive vanity from a misfortune, will not, I am afraid, [64] be admitted as a vaſt inſtance of wiſdom, and indeed looks as if the man had nothing better to diſtinguiſh himſelf by."’ The abſurd deſire of hunting after, and being attached to people of fortune, merely for ſake of their titles, is alſo alledged againſt Sir Luke, whom Charlotte ſtiles, and ludicrouſly proves a mere nobo [...]y, upon very ample arguments. With theſe preparatives he enters, full of vivacity, loquacity, and ſelf-opinion; his very outſet, deſcribing his companions, and the new chriſtening of Charlotte, as he calls it, has a ſtrong zeſt of humour. Upon the lawyer's obſerving that Sir Luke is nothing worſe for the loſs of a leg, our whimſical baronet turns his misfortune to advantage, by obſerving, that a falſe limb is free from all the apprehenſions of injury and ſenſations of pain, which commonly attend a real one; there is ſomething extremely whimſical in his remarks upon what he calls the redundancies of human nature, and his challenging the hot-headed Swiſs to run corking pins into the calves of their legs, is not only laughable from the oddity of idea, but a juſt and ſevere ſarcaſm a⯑gainſt boaſters of courage and ſtoiciſm.

A ſervant here enters with Sir Gregory Gooſe's complimentary invitation to Sir Luke, who men⯑tions a previous engagement; but, upon hearing that Sir Greg. is returned a member of parliament, he throws aſide his promiſe to Alderman Inkle, and complies with the requeſt of his brother baronet. In a very ſhort ſpace the footman returns with a letter, which proves to be a ſolicitation of Sir Luke's company from Lord Brentford; this occaſions an embarraſſment, how to get off with Sir Greg. but he ſends an apology for that purpoſe. Charlotte [65] takes notice how the gradations of rank muſt give way to each other; upon which, Sir Luke, by way of defence, pays ſome compliments to the attractive qualifications, eſpecially the wit of Lord Brentford, of which ſome very laughable proofs are given; ſuch as taking ready furniſhed lodgings, and hiring a coach by the month to evade a late act, which li⯑mits privilege, alſo paying his debts alphabetically; nothing can be more whimſically pleaſant than the ſtory of his lordſhip and the coachmaker.

Upon Serjeant Circuit's appearing loth to part with Sir Luke, the loquacious baronet enumerates ſeveral curious engagements which call for his im⯑mediate attention. As he is going off, the ſervant returns in violent haſte, with compliments from a duke; this puts Sir Luke into an irreſiſtable flutter; his promiſes to Sir Greg and Lord Brentford throw him into great perplexity; but being informed that the duke is waiting for him in his own coach, with the coronets on, every idea of his other friends is ſa⯑crificed, and he frames a moſt extraordinary excuſe for Lord Brentford, no leſs than his being rendered incapable of attending, as two bailiffs had arreſted and carried him into the Borough.

Mrs. Circuit finding upon her entrance that Sir Luke is gone, throws out ſome oblique hints as if her abſence had haſtened his departure. The ſer⯑jeant mentioning that he had been ſolicited to attend Kingſton aſſizes, for one of the judges, aſks if his going will be agreeable to his lady, who ſeems well pleaſed at the idea of getting rid of him for a little time. The name of his ſon Jack occurring, Mrs. Circuit objects to the lad's being brought up to the bar, and gives it as her opinion, that a commiſſion [66] in the army would enliven his natural ſtupidity with a little fire; to which the ſerjeant makes this very pregnant reply, ‘"True, love; and a knowledge of the law, may'nt be amiſs to reſtrain his fire a little."’ Where this excellent ſtroke points it is needleſs to explain.

The ſerjeant intimating that he ſhould be glad if Mrs. Circuit would ſtay to hear his ſon's improve⯑ment, is anſwered by the lady, that ſhe has buſineſs of much concern to engage her attention; particu⯑larly as ſhe expects to be ballotted for as a member of the ladies club. She then enquires when her huſband intends to let her have money for the diſ⯑charge of her gaming debts: to this in the law phraſe, he rather demurs, and with a true petifog⯑ing ſpirit, propoſes to avail himſelf of the ſtatutes againſt gaming, by which not only all demands a⯑gainſt his wife may be prevented, but money made into the bargain; this the lady treats with very ſpi⯑rited contempt. In their altercation the following valuable remark relative to the effect gaming among the higher has upon the lower claſſes of life, occurs, ‘"Whilſt ſuperiors are throwing away their fortunes and independence above, you can't think but their domeſtics are following their example below; the conſequence of which is, the ſame diſtreſs that throws the maſter or miſtreſs into the power of any who are willing to purchaſe them, by a regular gra⯑dation ſeduces the ſervants to actions though more criminal, perhaps not leſs atrocious."’ We know not any paſſage of ſimilar length, in any author, which conveys more uſeful ſatire, ſtricter truth, or more comprehenſive good ſenſe.

[67]The lady, not at all pleaſed with her huſband's rea⯑ſoning, inſiſts peremptorily on a pecuniary ſupply to ſave her honour, as ſhe phraſes it. This draws from the ſerjeant a diſſertation upon the word honour, ſo highly pleaſing to us, that we cannot reſiſt the temp⯑tation of tranſcribing, as worthy the peruſal and recollection of every reader.

‘"My honour is in pawn! Good Lord! how a century will alter the meaning of words: formerly, chaſtity was the honour of women, and good faith and integrity the honour of men; but now, a lady who ruins her family by punctually paying her loſſes at play, and a gentleman who kills his beſt friend in a frivolous quarrel, are your only rip-top people of honour. Well, let them go on, it brings griſt to our mill; for while both ſexes ſtick cloſe to their honour, we ſhall never want buſineſs, either at Doctor's Commons or the Old Bailey."’ Never was a truer, bolder, or more inſtructive picture of the times drawn than in this ſpeech; which alone is worth whole ſcenes of thoſe dialogue novels called comedies.

Act the ſecond begins with the ſerjeant and his hopeful ſon Jack; Mr. Fairplay, an attorney, is in⯑troduced, who recommends the caſe of one Mr. Woodford to the ſerjeant, who, after ſome interro⯑gations and doubts, deſires Fairplay to call on him ſome other time. This gentleman being diſpatched, Jack acquaints his father of clients who have called for his aſſiſtance in two very ſingular caſes; upon which the ſerjeant makes ſome very laughable, cha⯑racteriſtic remarks, and then proceeds to queſtion his ſon upon ſome points of litigation, to which ſuch anſwers are given, as manifeſt a fund of irreſiſtable [68] humour; particularly the caſe of the cow, which, however ludicrous it may ſeem, certainly gave a hint of the moſt ſerious importance for preſervation of that worthy gentleman who was tried lately for ſet⯑ting his houſe on fire; whoſe acquittal depended upon ſomething extremely ſimilar to the ſhrewd aſſer⯑tion, that though cattle may be cows, it by no means follows that cows muſt be cattle.

After the ſerjeant's departure for Kingſton, Char⯑lotte enters, for whom Jack has a letter from young Woodford which he delivers, and recommends to his ſiſter's notice, with a conſiderable ſhare of boyiſh humour; upon reading the tender epiſtle, Char⯑lotte diſclaims all knowledge of its author.

After Jack has exerted his ſimple eloquence in favour of Woodford, and prevailed upon his ſiſter to give ſome gleam of hope, Mrs. Circuit enters, and diſmiſſes both the brother and ſiſter from her preſence; then enquires after a letter or meſſage, and orders a collation for ſome company ſhe expects to be got ready. Being alone, ſhe meditates on her ſituation as candidate to be a member of the female coterie, and throws out ſome curious remarks on the diſpoſition of time amongſt fine ladies. In the midſt of a moſt pleaſing reverie, Betty brings on a letter, which being opened with great eagerneſs, un⯑folds the lamentable chance of having loſt the very intereſting election; this ſo much overpowers her agitated ſpirits that ſhe faints, a circumſtance which neceſſarily occaſions much buſtle and confuſion; in the midſt of it Sir Luke enters, and exerts all his care to recover the diſtreſſed lady. This being ef⯑fected, the ſervants are diſmiſſed, and Mrs. Circuit deſires the knight to read the letter, which he does, [69] and at the bottom finds what he thinks a circum⯑ſtance of great comfort, viz. that ſhe has had ſixteen almonds, and but two raiſins againſt her. This ſcene is juſtly and pleaſantly pointed at an eſtabliſh⯑ment ridiculous to the higheſt degree, which has been ſuggeſted and countenanced by ſome ladies of leading faſhion.

Upon the appearance of Colonel Secret and Mrs. Simper, who mention Mrs. Circuit's diſappoint⯑ment, ſhe affects great indifference, and declares, that the matter has happened entirely through her own deſign, then invites her gueſts to the collation in another room; this makes room for Jack and Woodford, the former Introduces the latter to his ſiſter's room, and then returns to keep watch; his ſoliloquy is fraught with real humour, ariſing from very pleaſant and characteriſtic tranſitions: while he is making obſervations Betty, the maid, ſurprizes him, and ſeeing young Woodford in Charlotte's room, declares ſhe will acquaint the ſerjeant; this alarms Jack, who endeavours to diſſuade her, but finds ſome difficulty, as Miſs has offended Betty by mentioning her drums. Some good ſtrokes are thrown out againſt the ignorant vanity of ſervants apeing the extravagancies of their maſters and miſ⯑treſſes; when this pert chamber-maid is called off, by the ringing of her miſtreſs's bell, Woodford re-enters, and is queſtioned by Jack, in low terms, whe⯑ther he has gained his ſuit, to which replying, that he thought it too hard to preſs for ſentence ſo ſoon, Jack reproves his diffidence, and is going to ſuggeſt ſome aſſiſtance, when ſight of his father frights them into Charlotte's chamber again.

[70]At the beginning of the third act, Sir Luke, &c. are diſcovered at the collation, and a very entertain⯑ing burleſque upon the diſjointed nothingneſs of polite chit-chat enſues; at length the ſerjeant being mentioned, Sir Luke offers to introduce him, which ſurprizes Mrs. Circuit, as ſhe ſuppoſes him at King⯑ſton. The baronet, with a degree of whim very ſuitable to his character, brings forward a block with one of the lawyer's large whigs on it, this Mrs. Circuit ſalutes, as the image of her lord: be⯑ing determined to have him at table as an object of mirth, ſhe goes off for a ſerjeant's gown; the mock figure being thus complete, Sir Luke's prolific brain ſuggeſts another ſtroke of humour, which is to plead a cauſe before the ſerjeant, as an indulgence to his darling paſſion. No ſooner ſaid than agreed to, when the two ladies and gentlemen go off to get proper habiliments. While they are preparing Serjeant Circuit comes on, ruminating on the hint Charlotte had given him, reſpecting Sir Luke and her mother-in-law; ſeeing the collation, he is reſolved to par⯑take, and for that purpoſe going to a chair, he ſees his own ſimilitude at the head of the table, which at firſt ſtartles and puzzles him to know the meaning; however, he puts the favourable conſtruction upon it, that his wife's ſingular regard makes her ſtudious of having ſomething in his abſence to reſemble him; happy in this idea, he ſits down and enjoys the wine, &c. very freely: approaching feet interrupt his jollity, when looking out, and ſeeing the appearance of four lawyers, he determines to ſecrete himſelf, and ſlips to that end under the gown, with this very poignant remark, that it is not the firſt fraud it has covered.

[71]Preparatory to the pleading, Sir Luke throws out ſome cutting ſarcaſms againſt perverſions of law, by firſt obſerving, that they are only to debate upon the cutting down of a tree, without taking any no⯑tice of a borough, which is the real point in diſpute; and next by expreſſing his hopes that none of his brethren have touched on both ſides.

Mrs. Circuit, as counſel for Hobſon, the plaintiff, with moſt loquacious volubility and abundance of circumlocution, not only ſtates but illuſtrates the caſe; ſhe deſcribes the utility and beauty of the plumb-tree in queſtion, giving alſo an account of the clandeſtine and injurious manner in which it has been cut down; from thence deducing in the uſual manner, ſtrong hope that a verdict will be found for the plaintiff.

Sir Luke, for the defendant riſes, and after ſome imagined interruptions, proceeds with much formal pompoſity, to ſet aſide his antagoniſt's arguments, which he traces with ſtrict method, purſuing, as he phraſes it, the probable and the poſitive proofs, both which he controverts in a very ludicrous manner; contending, that the plumb-tree which has been re⯑preſented as ſo beautiful and ſo excellent, was not only leafleſs, limbleſs, and almoſt lifeleſs, but alſo of an impoveriſhed ſpecies, far inferior to ſeveral other he mentions. Here, by a kind of inſtinct, the real ſerjeant bolts forward, and mentions green-gages as of ſuperior quality; the ſight of ſo unexpected a perſon concludes the trial, and leaves only the ſer⯑jeant, with his friend Sir Luke, on the ſtage; the former has been ſo delighted with the pleadings, that in full glee he inſiſts upon the baronet's ſitting down and taking a chearful glaſs with him; both of theſe [72] gentlemen being previouſly fluſtered, a few bum⯑pers force the flow of ſpirits to intoxication.

Arrived at this critical point, Sir Luke begins to unboſom himſelf, and by very natural degrees for ſuch a ſituation, furniſhes the ſerjeant with very in⯑telligible hints of his intimacy with Mrs. Circuit: the ſerjeant for ſome time, poſſeſſed of a particular portion of confident ſtupidity, forms no clear idea of what he hears; at laſt, having ſuch an explana⯑tion as he cannot poſſibly reſiſt or miſapprehend, he breaks out in terms of high reſentment againſt his wife, but thoroughly exculpates Sir Luke, and a moſt whimſical compact of friendſhip is entered into by the offender and offended; when Mrs. Circuit, who, as it appears, has been liſtening to this curious tete-a-tete, bolts in, and rates her intimidated, cre⯑dulous huſband moſt ſoundly; upon which, he joins her in attacking Sir Luke, and bids him with terms of infamy get out of his houſe: thus Sir Luke is driven into Charlotte's chamber, whence his appearance draws Jack, Woodford, and the young lady; freſh ſurprize here breaks in upon the ſerjeant, however, upon recognizing Woodford, and hoping that the young man's view of fortune may be at⯑tainable, hearing from Sir Luke alſo that the ſtory of his wife was to prevent the baronet's marriage with his daughter, matters ſubſide into a tolerable calm, and the comedy ends with a promiſe of con⯑jugal obedience from the ſerjeant to his dear, injured lady.

Having thus traced the ſcenes and general pur⯑port of this piece, we are now to conſider the uni⯑ties and the characters, in a more diſtinct manner; as to the former, Ariſtotle himſelf could not have [73] wiſhed them more ſtrictly adhered to, as to the latter they have conſiderable force, variety and novelty: the moral of this piece is rather complicate than ſingle; more deducible from the perſonages of the drama diſtinctly, than the general action.

In the Serjeant we find abuſe of law and equity ſatirized with a very keen and pleaſant degree of humour; in his wife the falſe ſpirit of wiſhing to join in even the vicious diſſipations of high life is laughably ridiculed; and by Sir Luke Limp, buſt⯑ling, talking inſignificance, united to a ridiculous affection for titles, is admirably ſet forth. The dialogue of this piece is lively, pregnant and terſe, to a conſiderable degree of excellence.

Serjeant Circuit is one of thoſe deteſtable practi⯑tioners who ſtudy the wrong ſide of law more than the right, and prefer perverſion to juſtice; as know⯑ing, according to an obſervation in this comedy, that a bad cauſe is more profitable than a good one; he is a knave in ſociety, yet credulous and a dupe to his wife; an admirer of Sir Luke's oddi⯑ties, which he miſtakes for wit, humour, ſpirit and politeneſs. This character is drawn with great abi⯑lity, and poſſeſſes a kind of dry, intricate pleaſantry, ſomewhat difficult to hit off ſucceſsfully; notwith⯑ſtanding which Mr. VANDERMERE gave us conſi⯑derable ſatisfaction; and we doubt whether his per⯑formance of the Serjeant would be mended by any gentleman of either houſe, unleſs Mr. YATES un⯑dertook him, whoſe talents in ſuch a vein of hu⯑mour are inimitable.

Sir Luke Limp is as laughable a compound as ever was mingled, made up of vanity, aſſurance and verboſe nothingneſs, an obſequious appendage of [74] quality, and the humble ſervant of any body who will gratify his buſy diſpoſition, by tranſacting any commiſſion, however trifling or ridiculous; it is impoſſible to read this part without taſting its high reliſhed ingredients, but we are very certain that the fineſt conception which has not been preſent at the animating action of Mr. FOOTE, muſt have but a very faint idea of the baronet; his vivacity, variety, and force of expreſſion through the whole, rather ſurpaſſes than falls ſhort of his uſual excellence.

Jack Circuit is a well drawn piece of ſhrewd ſim⯑plicity, and enlivened by Mr. WESTON's peculiar humour, ſo forceable to an audience, afforded rich food for laughter.

Mrs. Circuit is a mixture of vanity and weak⯑neſs, which indeed are commonly united: to ſay that Mrs. GARDNER ſhewed talents peculiarly hap⯑py, eſpecially in pleading the cauſe of the plumb-tree, is rather too faint praiſe for her riſing and ex⯑tenſive merit.

Charlotte, the Serjeant's daughter, ſeems to be a ſenſible young lady, and rallies her father in the firſt ſcene very agreeably; her ſtrictures upon Sir Luke Limp, and ſome other characters, diſcover diſcernment, underſtanding and humour. Mrs. JEWELL, whoſe chief fault is a little want of eſſen⯑tial ſpirit in expreſſion, ſupported the delicacy of this part in an agreeable manner.

The Chambermaid, who varies little from the general run of that caſt, was well enough perſonated by Mrs. READ. The reſt of the characters are too inconſiderable to ſay more, than that the performers did them as well as could be expected.

[75]Upon the whole, this comedy, well acted, muſt ever pleaſe the general ear, but in the cloſet, if we judge right, it will only be acceptable to the intel⯑ligent few who can taſte the poignancy of its ſatire, and comprehend the bent of its humour; a ſtrong proof of ſterling worth is its having every night riſen above a capricious prejudice which attended the firſt repreſentation.

CYMBELINE. A TRAGEDY. Altered from SHAKESPEARE by GARRICK.

NO author's works were ever inveſtigated by ſo many, and ſuch able commentators, in the ſame ſpace of time as SHAKESPEARE's have been, within the laſt half century: in many places he ſtands in⯑debted to their elucidations, in many others they have rather clouded than thrown light upon his ideas; ſeveral of his pieces have undergone advan⯑tageous alteration, and we repeat a wiſh already mentioned, that an edition of his plays, cleared from the abundance of ſuperfluous, trifling, offenſive, incoherent paſſages which incumber them, was pre⯑pared for, and given to the public.

Reconciling any play written by ſo unparalelled a genius to the ſtage, deſerves particular praiſe, as thereby public entertainment is much enriched, and noble flights of genius brought to a general know⯑ledge; the taſk is arduous, and attended with much hazard; in this light we are to conſider the piece before us, and ſhould rather give Mr. GARRICK ge⯑neral approbation for his bold attempt, than point out induſtriouſly the defects of his alteration; but how⯑ever goodnaturedly inclined the DRAMATIC CENSOR may be, yet ſtrict juſtice, as heretofore, muſt be aimed at, void of all prejudiced praiſe or cenſure.

[77]CYMBELINE opens with Piſanio and a gentleman converſing on the ſtate of affairs at court; from their conference we learn that the old monarch is uneaſily ſituated, as his daughter, by a former wife, whom he intended for the ſon of a widow lately eſ⯑pouſed by him, has given herſelf in marriage to a perſon of much inferior rank, but great worth as a man: the account of Poſthumus's birth and qua⯑lifications prepare an audience well for admitting him to favour; mention is made of two of Cym⯑beline's ſons loſt in their infancy, which as one of the characters obſerves, is a circumſtance calculated to ſtrain credibility.

The Queen entering with Poſthumus and Imo⯑gen makes fair-faced profeſſions of friendſhip to the young pair; but the princeſs rightly ſees through the thin veil of her hypocriſy, and tender⯑ly intimates it to her huſband, whoſe departure ſhe requires, yet pathetically laments; his return is af⯑fectionate. The royal ſtep-dame re-enters, and ſeems apprehenſive of the king's ſeeing Poſthumus, yet mentions aſide her intention of bringing him to the view ſhe feigns to dread ſo much; a ring and bracelet, as mutual remembrancers of affection are interchanged, with expreſſions of delicate ſoftneſs. Cymbeline's abrupt entrance and terms of reproach, hurry Poſthumus off the ſtage; Imogen ſuſtains many harſh terms from her enraged father, and the Queen gets her ſhare for ſuffering the interview with Poſthumus.

From Piſanio, who was ſent to ſee his lord on board, we learn that he has ſailed; it appears to us, that the alterer of this play might, without throwing any weight on repreſentation, have fur⯑niſhed [78] matter to give Piſanio more probable time for what he deſcribes; what paſſes between the princeſs and him reſpecting her huſband's depar⯑ture is pathetically pictureſque.

The Queen next appears, with Cornelius a phy⯑ſician, from whom ſhe receives a phial of ſuppoſed poiſon, which with moſt murderous intention ſhe forces upon Piſanio, under a maſk of friendſhip, ſoliciting him to influence his miſtreſs Imogen in favour of her ſon; this female monſter is truly of⯑fenſive, and rather diſgraceful to human nature; however, the feeling mind has a comfort in prophe⯑tically perceiving that her abominable deſigns are not likely to take effect; for Piſanio, as well as the phyſician, appears to have a right idea of her, and faithfully profeſſes attachment to his exiled maſter Poſthumus.

By the power of poetical magic we are inſtanta⯑neouſly conveyed from the Engliſh court to Italy, without even the intervention of a chorus, which though an imperfect, is yet a plauſible apology for ſuch palpable breaches of time and place.

Philario, Jachimo, and a Frenchman—why was not the latter equipped with a name? preſent them⯑ſelves; their converſation, which is expreſſed in a cramp, obſolete, quibbling ſtile, turns upon and in favour of Poſthumus, who ſhortly appears, and is recommended to a cordial intimacy with the other characters by Philario. A ſubject of debate ariſing upon the qualifications of females, Jachimo ex⯑preſſes himſelf lightly, and Poſthumus warms into an elogium upon Imogen, without naming her; the oppoſition of opinions at length increaſes ſo much, that Poſthumus, we muſt ſay very fooliſhly, enters [79] into a wager upon the impracticability of Jachimo's obtaining any countenance from his wife. This point being agreed between the abſurd gallant Ja⯑chimo, and the more abſurd huſband Poſthumus, we are brought to the concluſion of the firſt act, by a forced, chimerical incident, ſet forth in a ſcene of quaint, unimportant expreſſion, which cannot help the ſpeakers, nor pleaſe a judicious audience, unleſs ſupported by very agreeable capabilities.

At the beginning of the ſecond act we find Imo⯑gen in ſoliloquy upon her unhappy ſituation; after a few lines Piſanio introduces Jachimo, as bringing letters from Poſthumus. By the by, courtly eti⯑quette is laid entirely aſide, and ſomething of a queſtion ariſes how a ſtranger ſhould gain ſuch ready, cordial admittance to a princeſs, watched in all her motions, and labouring under the diſpleaſure of her royal father. However, the adventurous Roman was to be introduced, and SHAKESPEARE thought the manner of little importance, elſe by charging him with ſome commiſſion from Rome, which might have been mentioned in the preceding ſcene, Jachimo's journey would not have been founded upon ſo romantic and improbable a crcumſtance as the wager alone, and his free acceſs to court would in ſuch caſe be very natural.

From the part of Poſthumus's note which Imo⯑gen reads, it appears, that he gives Jachimo's vil⯑lainous deſign the faireſt proſpect of ſucceſs, by re⯑commending him to the lady's confidence in terms of very kind reſpect. The forward gallant, ſtruck with her beauty, and willing to make trial at once, arms himſelf with uncommon confidence, and begins his attack politically enough, by deſcanting on the [80] ſuperior value of her charms, and the depravity of human nature, particularly in Poſthumus; who be⯑ing poſſeſſed of ſuch matchleſs excellence, can proſ⯑titute his attention and regard to objects of far leſs eſtimation. There is art diſcovered in this part of the ſcene, and fancy gilds the conduct, but we think Imogen too tame, too dull of conception; and Ja⯑chimo ſtands reprehenſible for ſeveral very indeli⯑cate ideas, which we imagine the alterer of this play ſhould have ſoftened: how could delicacy let ſlip?

Not one of the preceding paſſages has the leaſt gleam of poetical beauty, to apologize for fulſome⯑neſs; and to make a chaſte princeſs violate her own modeſty, by mention of Roman ſtews, though high⯑ly provoked, is a violent treſpaſs upon decorum: the turn which Jachimo gives to his intention upon Imogen's reſentment, is well imagined, and has in action a very pleaſing effect. His requeſt of place⯑ing a trunk in care of the princeſs is odd enough, [81] and her immediately reſolving to place it in her bed-chamber, ſtill more ſtrange; this circumſtance we muſt ſuppoſe Jachimo has thought of previouſly, in caſe other means ſhould fail, and the unſuſpecting princeſs meeting his deſign half way, they part for the night in friendly terms.

Cloten, the Queen's ſon, next enters, with two nameleſs lords—Sure titles were very ſcarce when this tragedy was written, elſe SHAKESPEARE could never have incumbered it with ſuch a parcel of a⯑nonymous peers. The ſhallow-pated prince and his companions, are engaged in converſation upon a moſt important quarrel, occaſioned by Cloten's ſwearing at a game of bowls. This ſhort ſcene ap⯑pears to be merely introduced as a ſpecimen of this royal ſprig. Upon Cymbeline's entering with the Queen, the obſtinacy of Imogen is mentioned, but hopes given that when Poſthumus is a little worn from her recollection, ſhe ſhall be diſpoſed of ac⯑cording to their wiſhes. Here intelligence is brought in of Caius Lucius's arrival, the Roman ambaſſador; Cymbeline propoſing to give him audience on the morrow, retires.

Upon being told of Jachimo, as one of Leona⯑tus's friends, Cloten diſplays his mental abilities more at large ſhews himſelf perfectly the incohe⯑rent, vain fool, and goes off, leaving one of the lords to deſcant on his weakneſs; and to tell in half a dozen ſuperfluous lines, what even the dulleſt au⯑ditor is already ſufficiently acquainted with.

We are now conducted to the bed-chamber of Imogen, who expreſſing wearineſs of reading, and ripeneſs for ſleep, ſends her attending woman to reſt, and with becoming piety commends herſelf to ce⯑leſtial [82] protection. When ſhe is locked in the ſoft ſemblance of death, Jachimo riſes from the trunk, in which he has lain concealed; and in a ſpeech of great variety, judgment, and poetical fancy, takes into his poſſeſſion and remembrance, ſuch ſtrong proofs of particular freedom and intimacy with the innocent princeſs, as cannot be controverted: this done, he retires to his covert.

What the ſhort ſucceeding ſcene between Cloten and lords is introduced for we cannot apprehend, unleſs to give an opportunity of clearing the bed, &c. away. When the maſquerade is over— ſuch an entertainment ſeems rather improper for a morning—the ſimple prince makes a very character⯑iſtic ſpeech, but we wiſh the phraſe, unpaved eunuch, had not been retained, underſtood it is ſhamefully groſs; if unintelligible, it deſerves the cenſure of obſcurity. In his ſoliloquy, previous to knock⯑ing at the princeſs's chamber-door, Cloten makes ſome remarks on the power and influence of gold, too ſhrewd for ſuch a ſuperficial coxcomb; what paſſes between him and the princeſs is ſhallow fop⯑pery on his ſide, and peeviſh quibble on hers; the ſpirit ſhe ſhews in favour of Poſthumus, is indeed pleaſing and commendable; her miſſing the brace⯑let, and the contemptuous manner of leaving Clo⯑ten, conclude this act with tolerable propriety and ſpirit.

Now, by the irreſiſtable power of dramatic con⯑juration, we are—hey!—preſto! paſs!—carried a⯑gain to Rome; where we find Philario and Poſthu⯑mus in conference. The latter drops a hint of his confidence in Imogen's invincible modeſty; they then paſs on to the ſubject of Caius Lucius's em⯑baſſy; [83] demanding tribute from Britain: this gives Poſthumus an opportunity of paying a pretty com⯑pliment to the courage and independant principles of his countrymen; to which the poet has added a forced panegyric upon living royalty; we call it forced, becauſe applied to Cymbeline, who from what is ſaid of him in the beginning, and his con⯑duct through the piece, can ſcarcely be deſerving of this paſſage, which we think inelegant as well as ſuperfluous.

The firſt hemiſtich in Italics, is not only impo⯑veriſhed but ungrammatical; the laſt faint and vulgar. Beſides, bringing this trite, thread-bare compliment down to the preſent day, is taking a large jump over ſeventeen centuries, to draw a ſimi⯑litude by no means deſirable, in courtly terms of very ſteril praiſe.

The obſervation of Poſthumus, on ſeeing Jachimo, is a pretty fanciful apology for his miraculous ſpeed, and deſerves to be particularly noted,

After peruſing ſome letters delivered by Jachimo, Poſthumus enters directly upon the grand point, their wager. The ſubject is ſported with for a few ſpeeches, at length his rival enters upon proofs, which his good opinion waves, while the room, its furniture, and ſuch dubious externals are mentioned. [84] At length the bracelet is produced, which ſtrikes deep; however, the confidence of ſincere love ſug⯑geſts that ſhe might have delivered it to Jachimo for Poſthumus's uſe: this gleam of comfort is clouded with one ſhort queſtion, and the unhappy huſband is harrowed with paſſion; when Philario intimating ſhe might have dropped the jewel, another pauſe of calmer reaſon enſues, and he deſires ſome corporal ſign; jealous relapſes nevertheleſs break in even before the moſt ſubſtantial proof of diſloyalty is uttered. At length, when Jachimo mentions the mole, cinque ſpotted, upon Imogen's breaſt, her diſtracted lord is ſo ſwelled with rage, as to be ſcarce⯑ly eapable of utterance, wherefore he is judiciouſly carried off the ſtage in a ſtate of outrageous dubi⯑tation.

In the ſoliloquy of Poſthumus, ſucceeding the laſt mentioned ſcene, there are many fine opportu⯑nities afforded the able actor for ſtriking tranſitions of tones, look and geſtures; and his virulent charge againſt the character of woman in general, empha⯑tically natural, for a man in his diſtracted ſtate of provocation. But we muſt lament retaining the following paſſages, for the ſame reaſon, licentiouſ⯑neſs, that we have cenſured ſome preceding ones:

Cymbeline giving audience to the Roman am⯑baſſador, next ſtrikes our view; here we have in⯑ſtantaneouſly [85] travelled, even without an act tune, from Italy to Britain. The notion of tribute is treated with contempt by Cymbeline, as echo of his Queen, and the worthy Cloten; who, to ſay truth, ſteps in this ſcene a little from himſelf, and ſpeaks with ſome degree of ſenſe and ſpirit, though in a quaint ſtile.

Whether in a royal audience any perſons are al⯑lowed to ſpeak but the monarch and the ambaſſa⯑dor, we are not courtly enough to determine, but we apprehend not; if ſo the Queen and her ſon are improperly introduced, without any neceſſity; for the matter in agitation might have been as well ſettled in their abſence, unleſs it was deemed neceſ⯑ſary to ſhew female influence over public councils.

Piſanio ſucceeds the ſcene of embaſſy, peruſing a letter from Poſthumus, who, in the heat of jealous rage, has directed him to murder the ſuppoſed adul⯑treſs Imogen; and for this deſperate purpoſe, has alſo ſent a letter to his unſuſpecting wiſe, adviſing her that he is at Milford Haven, and wiſhes to ſee her there. Poſthumus here manifeſts a cruel, pre⯑meditate, vindictive, rather than generous ſpirit of reſentment; an injured huſband, with quick and warm feelings, might naturally ſacrifice an abuſer of love and honour with his own hand; but to play the hypocrite, and become a political murderer, ſa⯑vours much more of the Italian than Britiſh diſpoſi⯑tion. However, ſuch our author has drawn his hero; and Imogen, with all the eager impatience of a tender, loving wife, falls into the ſnare, at once re⯑ſolving to ſet out with Piſanio on the journey: if the tender-hearted domeſtic had not in his ſoliloquy expreſſed proper deteſtation of his maſter's bloody [86] command, the andience muſt here have been in a ſtate of very painful apprehenſion for Imogen; even as it is, our ſuſpenſe muſt be touched with tender concern.

Three freſh characters now offer themſelves to view; Bellarius, an old man, and his two ſuppoſed ſons, Guiderius and Arviragus. After a ſhort, ſig⯑nificant and poetical oriſon, applicable to their low⯑ly and abſtracted ſtate, the old man takes occaſion to mention mountain ſports, and deſcants with a pleaſing, deſcriptive degree of philoſophical in⯑ſtruction, upon the elevated and humbler ſtations of life, preferring the latter to the former; to this the youths reply, with a ſenſible activity of ſpirit, that their years require a more buſtling ſphere: we could gladly tranſcribe this whole ſcene as teeming with beauties, but ſhall confine ourſelves to the fol⯑lowing lines of Bellarius, in anſwer to what Arvira⯑gus and Guiderius have urged:

[87]We have marked ſome diſſonant contractions by italics in the preceding lines, which might and ſhould have been ſoftened.

Bellarius's account of his own exile and the young princes, is alſo very nervous and pleaſing; howe⯑ver, his ſoliloquy is a palpable piece of explanatory information to the audience, and therefore cenſura⯑ble: by it we find, that Bellarius, in revenge of his unjuſt baniſhment, ſtole Cymbeline's two infant ſons, and that they know nothing of their real birth, but imagine themſelves his children, as being brought up from two and three years old with him and his wife Euriphile.

In the ſucceeding ſcene we perceive Lucius taking leave of Cymbeline: after the ambaſſador's depar⯑ture, the old monarch enquires for Imogen, and complaining of her undutiful abſtraction, orders her into his preſence. The Queen faintly apologizes for her cold diſtance: on being informed that her chambers are all locked, Cymbeline confeſſes fear of what may be the meaning, and goes off; Cloten follows by the Queen's direction, while ſhe, in a ſo⯑liloquy, expreſſes hope that Piſanio has taken the quieting draught which ſhe gave him; as to Imo⯑gen, the hopeful ſtep-mother encourages, flattering ideas, that deſpair or voluntary exile has put her ſo effectually out of the way, as to leave the Britiſh crown entirely at her diſpoſal.

Piſanio, and his royal miſtreſs, appear next, on their journey; a ſtrong perplexity of countenance, apparent in him, cauſes her to queſtion the reaſon of it. Being urged cloſe, he gives Poſthumus's letter into her hands with diſtreſsful reluctance; the paper, or rather the matter it contains, proves dag⯑gers [88] to her ſight, and ſhe is ſtruck dumb, while Pi⯑ſanio expreſſes warmly his invincible confidence and good opinion reſpecting her innocence.

The remaining part of this ſcene is truly intereſt⯑ing; her ſolicitation for fulfilling her huſband's barbarous command, and the ſtruggles of Piſanio, play powerfully on our feelings. His advice for her to join the Roman ambaſſador's train in diſguiſe, from thence deriving a probability of being near Poſthumus, is politic and humane. Imogen re⯑ſolves to take his friendly counſel, and being told he has garments fit for the purpoſe in their cloak bag, ſhe agrees to put on a maſculine appearance.

The parting of Piſanio from his royal miſtreſs, his leavlng her to proſecute the propoſed pilgrimage alone, though there may be ſome colour of reaſon for it, is rather indefenſible; for we muſt ſuppoſe that a faithful ſervant, who had dared to elope with her, would have continued his attachment, by partaking her diſguiſe and future fortunes; however, the poor princeſs is left to encounter alone a precarious and perilous adventure: Piſanio preſenting her with the phial he received from the Queen, as a benign and ſpirit-cheering cordial, they ſeparate and conclude the third act.

At the beginning of the fourth act, we find diſ⯑appointed Cloten teeming with reſentment againſt Imogen. To him Piſanio enters, and is accuſed of abetting her elopement; urged with heavy threats, he delivers a paper to Cloten, importing, as he ſays, the ſtory of her flight, but in reality calculated not only to deceive, but to lead him into danger. The royal gudgeon ſwallows the bait laid for him, and bribing Piſanio to become his friend, reſolves to [89] purſue his miſtreſs in a ſuit of Poſthumus's cloaths; declaring alſo, an intention of killing that unfortu⯑nate man, upon meeting him at Milford Haven.

Imogen, now in boyiſh habiliments enters, and having loſt her way, approaches the cave of Bella⯑rius; into which, after ſtrong marks of natural in⯑timidation, ſhe enters, to ſeek or obtain ſome re⯑freſhment to ſupport languiſhing nature. The huntſmen returned from their ſports, Bellarius looks into his cave, and diſcovers an unexpected gueſt, upon whoſe beauty and innocence he paſſes a kind and comprehenſive compliment.

Upon being ſeen, Imogen enters from the cave, and prettily apologizes for her intruſion, offering al⯑ſo to pay for what ſhe has had. Inquiſition being made concerning her name and deſtination, ſhe aſ⯑ſumes the title of Fidele, and ſays ſhe is following a relation bound to Italy from Milford. After this explanation, the good old man, caſting aſide every conſideration, but the pleaſure reſulting from hoſ⯑pitality, invites her to better cheer; and, as night is coming on, to take up her repoſe with them. Being preſented to her unknown brothers, a kind of inſtan⯑taneous, ſympathetic regard riſes between them, and terms of mutual regard are exchanged; after which they retire into the cave.

Cloten next appears, upon the hunt for Poſthu⯑mus, and in his ſoliloquy, declares terrible intentions againſt Imogen, when in his power; relying for ex⯑culpation from any crime he can commit, upon his mother's influence over Cymbeline. The fop and fool, in this adventure, ſeems to have a ſtrong tinct⯑ure of the deſperado, which, according to our idea, is making him a kind of paradox in character.

[90]Upon returning from the cave, Imogen declares herſelf ſick, and is therefore left behind, while Bel⯑larius, &c. go to the chace, one of the young princes having previouſly offered to ſtay with her as an aſ⯑ſiſtant: by way of reſtorative, ſhe applies the cor⯑dial furniſhed by Piſanio.

As the hunters are going off, Cloten enters, and from his uſing the word runnagates, Bellarius ap⯑prehends a diſcovery of their retreat; the old gen⯑tleman's immediate knowledge of this prince, after an abſence from court of twenty years, diſguiſed too in Poſthumus's cloaths, is rather an encroachment on probability. Guiderius, by his own deſire, is left to encounter Cloten, while his brother and ſup⯑poſed father, look out to ſee if he has any atten⯑dants; after a tart altercation, Guiderius and Clo⯑ten engage, fighting off the ſtage. After a few in⯑tervening lines, the former returns victorious, ac⯑quainting Bellarius and Arviragus that he has con⯑quered, by the death of his antagoniſt.

The circumſtance of Cloten's death, alarms Bel⯑larius with juſt fears of fatal conſequences; Gui⯑derius reſolves upon committing Cloten's corpſe to a neighbouring creek of the ſea, and retires for that purpoſe; while Arviragus receives inſtructions to go and aſſiſt Fidele in preparing ſome proviſions. The old man's ſoliloquy, reſpecting his two adopt⯑ed ſons, is ſo beautiful, that it would be an unpar⯑donable omiſſion not to gratify the readers taſte, by tranſcribing it.

After Guiderius has acquainted us with his com⯑mitting Cloten's body to the ſtream, Bellarius is ſtruck with the ſound of ſolemn muſic from his cave, occaſioned, as we ſoon learn, by Arviragus having diſcovered Imogen in an apparent ſtate of death. This circumſtance proves of much concern, interment is ſpoken of, and Bellarius, with true dig⯑nity of ſpirit, reſolves that Cloten, though a foe, ſhall in his remains be treated with reſpect, where⯑fore, he directs that his body may be found and laid by Imogen's.

Cymbeline now preſents himſelf, deeply agitated for the perilous, ſickly ſtate of his queen, the elope⯑ment of Imogen, the abſence of Cloten, and the near approach of war. Perſuaded that Piſanio has aided his daughter's flight, he breaths heavy threats, but is ſoftened by one of his attendant lords, who draws his attention to the public danger, from the Roman legions being landed on his coaſt.

When Cymbeline goes off, Piſanio, in ſoliloquy, gives us to underſtand, that though he has wrote to Poſthumus, ſignifying Imogen's intention, yet no anſwer has reached his hands. In the midſt of a [92] perplexed, dubitable ſtate, he reſolves to prove him⯑ſelf, by acting in defence of his country, a good ci⯑tizen, and a loyal ſubject.

Imogen and Cloten, by a change of ſcene, are diſcovered; the former awaking from the trance ſhe had been thrown into, by the liquid which Piſa⯑nio gave her, utters disjointed expreſſions, pointing, however, to the chief object of her attention and re⯑gard: upon diſcovering the dead body beſide her, and ſuppoſing it, through knowledge of his cloaths, the actual coarſe of her huſband, ſhe breaths out heart-felt lamentation for his fate, notwithſtanding the relentleſs ſentence he pronounced againſt her life. While ſhe is in this pitiable ſtate, Lucius en⯑ters, with ſome other Romans; on ſeeing the dead, headleſs body, and Imogen proſtrate over it, tender feelings impel them to ſeek a little further in the matter. Upon queſtion, the princeſs ſays it is her maſter, who lies ſlain by mountaineers; the faith ex⯑preſſed by Imogen works a favourable impreſſion upon Lucius, who, with his aſſociates, determine to give the ſuppoſed Poſthumus as reſpectable inter⯑ment as their ſituation and means will admit: the ambaſſador's conſolative addreſs to Imogen, with which the fourth act concludes, is humane and phi⯑loſophical:

Bellarius, and his adopted ſons, begin the fifth act; alarmed at an unaccuſtomed buſtle they hear round them, the young princes manifeſt a becoming ſpirit, by wiſhing to mingle with the war: by the glow of their expreſſion, and the warmth of their [93] eager example, the old man kindles into ſimilar feelings, and they unite in reſolution to take an active part in the field.

Poſthumus now preſents himſelf, ruminating on the death of his wife, and ſeems deeply to repent the too harſh obedience of Piſanio, in executing his ſanguine order; it appears, this unhappy man has been brought from Italy to fight againſt his native ſoil; ſo ungracious a taſk, however, he reſolves a⯑gainſt, and utters a deſign of obſcuring himſelf in peaſant's weeds, that under ſuch cover, he may turn his ſword againſt the enemies of Britain, and meet that death his diſtreſs of mind makes him wiſh for. We are amazed why the alterer of this piece ſhould have retained ſo many inſignificant, jingling tags, at the end of ſcenes, ſuch as want even the merit of harmony.

Immediately after a general encounter of the Ro⯑man and Britiſh armies, Poſthumus meets and diſ⯑arms Jachimo, but diſdains to take his life. This is generous, yet, if we conſider that Jachimo has been the foundation of all Poſthumus's woes, and that he is a capital enemy to his country, the inci⯑dent does not appear ſo natural as we could wiſh; however, ſuch we find it, and the effect it has on Jachimo, is ſuitable to a mind filled with conſcious guilt.

In the ſhort ſcene which follows, Piſanio gives us to underſtand, that Cymbeline's victory was almoſt ſolely derived from the intrepid behaviour of four perſons, who, from his deſcription, appear to be Bellarius, Arviragus, Guiderius and Poſthumus.

Wearied with glorious action, dead to the charms of fame, and torn with perturbation of mind, Poſt⯑humus [94] determines, in ſoliloquy, to reaſſume his Ita⯑lian garment, that he may fall by Britiſh hands.

Cymbeline is now diſcovered in his tent, deliver⯑ing gracious thanks to Bellarius, and the two young warriors; at the ſame time, lamenting that the brave peaſant who ſhewed ſuch heroiſm is not to be found. We think the omiſſion of what concerns Cymbe⯑line's vile queen, and bringing on Lucius, &c. im⯑mediately the monarch has conferred knighthood on his unknown heroes, is perfectly right.

When Cymbeline acquaints the Roman leader that a ſacrifice is to be made of all the captives, to atone the ſlaughter of his ſubjects, Lucius not only ſhews great magnanimity of mind, but tenderneſs of feeling, by confining his ſolicitation of mercy to Imogen, in the character of Fidele; ſtruck by his daughter's countenance, the old monarch readily grants the requeſt, and admits the ſuppoſed page even to cloſe conference with him.

While Bellarius, &c. are expreſſing their ſur⯑prize to ſee the boy alive whom they ſuppoſed dead, Imogen moves her father to queſtion Jac⯑himo; this being granted, ſhe aſks him concern⯑ing a ring he wears; terms of compulſion are uſed to draw an anſwer from him; this brings on gradually an explanation of Poſthumus's worth, Imogen's innocence, and Jachimo's villainy; the circumſtances related, though already known to the audience, bear repetition very well; what Jac⯑himo relates, works upon Poſthumus's grief and warmer paſſions ſo ſtrongly, that he abruptly diſ⯑covers himſelf, and ſollicits puniſhment for the deſtruction of his wife; on Imogen's interpoſing he caſts her ſo rudely off, that Piſanio inadvertent⯑ly [95] diſcovers Fidele to be the real Imogen; here a moſt agreeable eclairciſſement ſtrikes us, while Cymbeline and Poſthumus become inſtantane⯑ouſly happier than ſo harſh a father, and ſo preci⯑pitate a huſband could deſerve to be.

Cloten being mentioned, Guiderius avows hav⯑ing put him to death, and is for that action order⯑ed into cuſtody by Cymbeline; hence ariſes Bel⯑larius's diſcloſure of the two young Princes, to the great aſtoniſhment and joy of the old monarch; after their being received into the arms of pater⯑nal affection, Cymbeline again mentions the poor ſoldier, when Poſthumus confeſſes himſelf the perſon, and appeals to Jachimo, as having been vanquiſhed by him; this the Italian corroborates, at the ſame time, begging death from that hand which he has ſo grievouſly provoked: but the Bri⯑ton wraps his injuries in oblivion, and by an exam⯑ple of generous humanity, prevails on Cymbeline to grant a general pardon, with which the piece con⯑cludes.

The plot of this play has too ſtrong a taint of romance, and the abſolute annihilation of unities is rather offenſive; notwithſtanding Mr. GARRICK's pains, there are abſurdities of a very groſs nature. We remember to have ſeen an alteration of this play by one Mr. HAWKINS, played at YORK, and think it has conſiderable merit; however, we view SHAKESPEARE between theſe gentlemen as a ſtately tree, abounding with diſproportionate ſuperfluities; the former has been ſo very tender of pruning, that a number of luxuriances remain; and the latter ad⯑mired the vegetation of his own brain ſo much, that he has not only cut the noble plant into the ſtiffneſs [96] of an yew hedge, but decked it like a may-pole, with poetical garlands, which prove rather gaudy than uſeful ornaments. Mr. GARRICK's is, no doubt, beſt calculated for action, but Mr. HAW⯑KINS's will ſtand a chance of pleaſing every fanciful reader better, becauſe he has in many places har⯑monized the expreſſion, and rendered the obſcure paſſages more intelligible, however, we wiſh he had retained more of the original, and Mr. GARRICK leſs.

In point of character, this play is well ſupplied with a judicious variety, the lights and ſhades are ſo blended as to furniſh a picture of human nature, both ſtriking and inſtructive. As to Cymbeline, he is drawn, what we have ſtrong reaſon to believe ſe⯑veral monarchs have been, and what no doubt many in future will be, a fool; eaſily wrought upon, by deſigning perſons, to actions totally below and in⯑conſiſtent with his rank in life. Upon the ſtage, he is no more nor leſs than a very poor creature, hav⯑ing nothing to ſay as a counter-balance to the con⯑temptible light in which he appears.

If an actor can have any merit in the part, we are willing to allow Mr. HURST ſome; indeed, this gentleman ſeems to have good capabilities for pa⯑rental feelings. As to Mr. GIBSON, we have men⯑tioned him ſo often diſadvantageouſly, that we are abſolutely weary of finding fault with his perform⯑ance; and therefore ſhall only ſay for the preſent, that he is ſecond beſt in this ſimple monarch.

Cloten is a ſtrange and hateful compoſition, tri⯑fling, coxcomical, malevolent, pert and proud; yet poſſeſſed, which is ſomewhat ſtrange in ſuch a creature, of reſolution. His circumſtances moſtly [97] preſent him as an object of contempt, mingled with laughter, and his fall is a very fit ſacrifice to poeti⯑cal juſtice. This empty-headed prince can never gain much favourable notice from an audience, Mr. KING and Mr. YATES, both make more of him than criticiſm ſhould expect, nor is Mr. DODD any way deficient.

Poſthumus, as drawn by the author, has two moſt amiable qualities, conſtancy in love, and courage in the field; yet, if we examine them narrowly, we ſhall perceive the former ſtrongly tainted with jea⯑louſy, the latter impelled by deſpair. That he is weak in his underſtanding, we need only appeal to his ſtrange wager with Jachimo, on which the plot is founded; a circumſtance, which would lead us to think, that in SHAKESPEARE's days, as well as at preſent, it was the method to determine argu⯑ments, not by reaſon, but betting. That this hero is clouded with raſhneſs and a mixture of cru⯑elty, witneſs his commiſſion to Piſanio; however, his ſituation is ſuch, that through the whole we find him an object of very intereſting concern, and are led to pity, even where we muſt blame.

A multitude of inſtances concur to prove, that no performer ever knew his own abilities better, or ſtrove more earneſtly to keep them in the proper channel, than Mr. GARRICK; his revival of this play, were there no other motives but a freſh oppor⯑tunity of diſplaying his unparalelled powers, merits a large portion of public praiſe; for, we are bold to affirm, that conſidering an actor muſt make the part, not the part an actor, his aſtoniſhing talents were never more happily exerted; this aſſertion be⯑comes more evident, by conſidering that the falling [98] off from him to any other perſon who has ſince done it, is greater than in any other character; the ten⯑derneſs of his love, the pathos of his grief, the fire of his rage, and the diſtraction of his jealouſy, have never been ſurpaſſed, and poſſibly, in Poſthumus, will never be equalled.

Mr. POWELL, who paſſed through this part with a conſiderable ſhare of public eſtimation, was in his merit confined to tenderneſs alone; he much wanted eſſential rapidity of expreſſion, and the natural va⯑riety of ſudden tranſitions, incident to jealouſy, rage and deſpair. Notwithſtanding general opinion, we are inclined to think this gentleman's voice and fea⯑tures fell very ſhort of the bolder paſſions, for which reaſon his Poſthumus, though an agreeable piece of acting, could never be juſtly deemed great. Mr. REDDISH, whoſe general merit we are glad to al⯑low, is ſtill more deficient. Laſt winter a remarka⯑ble piece of managerical ignorance or cruelty, was manifeſted at Covent Garden, by popping on a young perſon, who had never played before, in this ardu⯑ous, tickliſh, and, as we think, unfavourable cha⯑racter; had he been tried in one of many more practicable parts, which the people are uſed to ſee murdered, ſucceſs might have been the conſequence. Mr. BENSLEY has ſince done it, ha! ha! ha!

Bellarius is an old gentleman, well worthy of that reſpect he generally meets; virtuouſly philoſophi⯑cal, cooly brave, ſenſible, humane and benevolent; his ſentiments and expreſſions are ſuch as muſt pleaſe and inſtruct; for this reaſon he is acceptable even in Mr. BURTON's repreſentation, which we deem for the moſt part very dry and unaffecting. Mr. CLARKE renders him much more greeable; [99] but we are obliged to travel as far as YORK for the beſt that we have ſeen, one Mr. ORAM, whoſe merit both in tragedy and comedy, ſhould have tranſplant⯑ed him to the capital many years ſince.

Arviragus and Guiderius are in no ſhape remark⯑able, nor are any forcible requiſites wanting to re⯑preſent them; wherefore, the four following charm⯑ing performers, whom we lump together from equa⯑lity and ſimilarity of merit, may continue to do them without much offence; Meſſrs. CAUTHERLY and BRERETON, at Drury Lane; PERRY and WROUGH⯑N, at Covent Garden.

In the alteration of this play by Mr. HAWKINS, Palador, the eldeſt prince, is made rather more con⯑ſpicuous than Poſthumus, and we remember an ec⯑centric genius at YORK, Mr. FRODSHAM, who per⯑formed him with ſingular merit. This perſon, though he never reached a Theatre Royal, had ex⯑tenſive powers, good feelings, and the advantage of a liberal education to improve natural underſtand⯑ing, yet was often as great an oddity as ever pre⯑ſented itſelf to the public eye; wild and unculti⯑vated, his beauties and faults reſembled a paterre of flowers, choaked up with weeds; the ſtage is ſel⯑dom enriched with ſuch a genius, had he been early placed under critical limitation.

Piſanio we muſt regard as a ſteady, prudent, faithful ſervant; he is a very amiable object in the drama, and is ſupported at both houſes with plea⯑ſing propriety by Mr. HULL and Mr. PACKER.

Jachimo is a villain of the deepeſt die, who from a principle of oſtentatious gallantry, frames the moſt iniquitous falſhood; and lays the foundation, not on⯑ly of miſery but murder, merely to win a paltry wa⯑ger. [100] Iago, Shylock, Richard, &c. have ſome co⯑lour for their abominable behaviour, but this Ita⯑lian none. Conſidered in a ſtate of action, the part deſerves a capital actor; Mr. SMITH poſſeſſes that eaſy elegance and ſpirit which the character requires; but, we muſt be of opinion, that Mr. HOLLAND, notwithſtanding his affectation, claimed a ſuperiori⯑ty, eſpecially in the laſt act. Mr. PALMER, though not equal to either of theſe gentlemen, ſtands better in this part than could be expected from his ſtation, and his experience of the ſtage. We cordially re⯑commend moderation in acting to this young per⯑former, loudneſs of ſpeaking, and violence of acti⯑on, under the falſe notion of ſpirit, are, with few ex⯑ceptions, very offenſive.

Philario Lucius, &c. may be done with ſo ſmall a ſhare of executive abilities, that the mention of any particular perſons in ſuch parts would be to⯑tally ſuperfluous.

The Queen is a finiſhed female monſter, deceit⯑ful, ambitious, and cruel, without any one recom⯑mendation, either from word or ſentiment; a terri⯑ble weight upon any actreſs, and an offence to hu⯑manity. She generally falls to the ſhare of a third and fourth rate performer, and indeed deſerves no better; we think a total omiſſion of her would have mended the piece: Mrs. REDDISH and Mrs. VIN⯑CENT are paſſable enough in this hateful, immate⯑rial weed of royalty.

Imogen, for tender, ſteady affection, is a com⯑pliment to her ſex, and opens a fair field for happy talents to diſplay themſelves with ſucceſs; ſhe poſ⯑ſeſſes great force and variety, but falls off unpardon⯑ably towards the concluſion. Mrs. CIBBER's very [101] affecting capabilities, were much better ſuited to this character than thoſe of any other lady we have ſeen; Mrs. YATES has great merit in repreſenting the princeſs, but wants an eſſential, elegant innocence; Mrs. BULKLEY has given us more pleaſure than could be expected, from a lady ſo little ſeen; and Miſs YOUNGE has ſome title to praiſe, though a proper melifluous flow of expreſſion and eaſe of action, are wanting.

Upon the whole, CYMBELINE, as it is now per⯑formed, ſtands a good chance of being a ſtock, or living play, as long as theatrical entertainments are in eſteem, To atone for groſs irregularities, the incidents are well imagined, the language nervous, the ſentiments elevated, and the characters, except in the laſt ſcene, where there is a ſtrange huddle of diſcoveries, well ſupported; as to moral, we cannot diſcover any, but that providence, by unſeen means, reſtores ſuffering innocence to happineſs: jadicious readers will ever find pleaſure from this tragedy in the cloſet, but decorations and action will moſt recommend it to general taſte.

MAID of the MILL. A COMIC OPERA. By Mr. BICKERSTAFF.

A Chorus and duett in praiſe of rural compe⯑tence, pleaſure and content, open this opera; after which, Fairfield, the miller, expreſſing ſatisfaction at ſuch chearfulneſs, as gives ſpirit to labour, orders his ſon Ralph to load flour for Lord Aimworth's; to this the lad replies churliſhly, and remarks on a partiality to his ſiſter Pat, both in reſpect of educa⯑tion, and her manner of living. His obſervations are pleaſant and pertinent; the old man ſuggeſts from ſuch a glibneſs of tongue, that his ſon is drunk, but Ralph denies the charge, though he acknow⯑ledges having been treated with ſome wine by a gentleman from London; to whom he ſpeaks of returning, and therefore in defiance of all his father's threats, determines not to do any work for the day, concluding their diſputes with a ſong characteriſti⯑cally worded, and well calculated for comic ex⯑preſſion.

Patty, called by her father, comes forward, and in⯑troduces herſelf to our acquaintance with a ſong, intimating that love, and of a hopeleſs nature, has invaded her breaſt: from the converſation between Patty and her father, we learn, that a match is de⯑pending between one Miſs Sycamore and Lord Aimworth; ſome obſervations occur reſpecting a melancholly which hangs round our Maid of the [103] Mill, and Fairfield, like a prudent, affectionate fa⯑ther, propoſes farmer Giles to her as a ſuitable hus⯑band; her reply is complacent and dutiful; on the miller's mention that he may prove a much better man than many who move in the character of gen⯑tlemen, Patty corroborates his ſentiment in an agree⯑able air, which has both good ſenſe and a ſhare of fancy to recommend it, for which reaſon we ſhall preſent the reader with an opportunity to peruſe it.

The word ſhows in the firſt line, and that which rhimes to it in the third, we apprehend exceptiona⯑ble; not only as mere makeſhifts, but alſo being unchaſte, and rather ungrammatical.

Upon Patty's going off, farmer Giles enters, and enquires what hopes; Fairfield encourages him, by ſeeming to think there is no doubt of his ſucceſs, but intimates, that her peculiar obligations to Lord Aimworth's family, requires their conſent to every material ſtep ſhe takes. Giles from hence hints a prevailing report that Lord Aimworth, as he phraſes it, has a ſneaking kindneſs for Patty; this ſuppo⯑ſition her father treats as an idle tale, and immedi⯑ately adviſes to ſollicit the peer's conſent to his pro⯑poſed match; this the hearty ruſtic gladly conſents [104] to, but wiſhing to pay his miſtreſs a perſonal com⯑pliment, the miller points her out in the next room; upon which he addreſſes her in a ſong of ſome hu⯑mour, and without waiting for any reply, or any immediate interview, he retires.

Patty now appears, and receives from her father the painful information, that her diſguſtful admirer is gone to ſolicit Lord Aimworth's approbation of the depending match; this throws her into a ſtrong agitation of mind, and by heſitative intimations ſhe ſignifies it; however, upon the miller's warm re⯑monſtrances, ſhe ſeems to acquieſce, when he leaves her to a ſoliloquy, in which ſhe diſcovers the real bent of her paſſion is to Lord Aimworth; who, ac⯑cording to her ſuppoſition, does not hold her indif⯑ferently; nevertheleſs, ſeveral irkſome doubts ariſe, which in the true operatical ſtile, are compoſed for the preſent with a ſong, very languid, both in verſi⯑fication and ſentiment.

Sir Harry Sycamore, and his daughter Theodoſia, now mount the ſtage; by what paſſes, we are in⯑formed, that love is playing croſs purpoſes in this family alſo. Theodoſia upbraids the old gentleman with having encouraged her to receive the addreſſes of one Mr. Mervin, and having diſcarded him to make way for a treaty of alliance with Lord Aim⯑worth; the baronet's defence is rather evaſively lu⯑dicrous than rational, and he is at laſt obliged to own, that he has ſacrificed his own opinion to that of Lady Sycamore. Such condeſcenſion the young lady rather objects to, as the effect of good nature improperly extended; and, with a becoming ſpirit of diſintereſtedneſs, upon being aſked if ſhe could give up the view of titles and ample fortune, de⯑clares [105] ſhe would moſt willingly; rather chuſing to embrace a cupid of her own liking, in the humbleſt garb, than one with golden wings contrary to her free, generous inclination.

Lady Sycamore now enters, full of the dazzling appearance of jewels her daughter is to become mi⯑ſtreſs of, and calls them with other appendages of quality, the bleſſings of life. Theodoſia's more ra⯑tional idea of things brings on an altercation, and ſhe is taxed with lowneſs of ſpirit, in preferring a pitiful citizen to a noble peer; there is a conſidera⯑ble ſhare of pleaſing humour in what paſſes here, and Sir Harry is brought into a kind of dilemma by Theodoſia's obſerving, that he is not averſe to her match with Mervin; however, the old lady pre⯑vails, and the knight ſings forth his reſentment for the young lady's contradicting her mama.

Lord Aimworth comes forward, introducing Giles; after paying a ſhort compliment to Sir Har⯑ry, his lordſhip enters upon the farmer's buſineſs: being informed it is for his leave to marry, he gives it with condeſcending cordiality, and adds his hopes, that Giles has made a prudent choice. After ſome ſimple, ludicrous circumlocution, the ruſtic names his ſweetheart; upon which the peer pronounces her a deſerving object, but ſeems a little particular, in aſking whether the girl is willing, whether ſhe ſent to aſk his conſent, and whether her genteel edu⯑cation may not render her unfit for ſuch a match. Giles's ſong in praiſe of his miſtreſs's notable quali⯑fications, has ſpirit and humour.

After Giles is gone off, Sir Harry ſlily inſinuates, that a tenant to take off a caſt miſtreſs, is very con⯑venient; then talks of his own youthful gallantry pleaſantly enough, but carries the joke too far when [106] his matrimonial chaſtity is mentioned; for which Lady Sycamore, with ſtrict propriety, drives him out of the room.

Lord Aimworth left alone, meditates on, and acknowledges his embarraſſed ſtate between Theo⯑doſia, to whom he is engaged by promiſe, and Patty, to whom he is attached by inclination; ſome pretty remarks upon the hard reſtrictions of birth and ſta⯑tion occur, but his lordſhip's ſong we are not very fond of, as the idea is ſomewhat forced, and the ſimi⯑litude rather obſcure, though trite.

Ralph and Mervin here enter, followed by Fan⯑ny, who, as a gypſey, preſſes the latter hard for charity, but her ſuit is not attended to immediately, as his attention is engaged by Theodoſia's ſuppoſed falſhood; however, he is at length ſung out of a bounty, at which Ralph ſeems very angry, and threatens to take it from her. By the following part of this ſcene we find, that Ralph has a parti⯑cular tendre for her, which he communicates as a profound and important ſecret. Mervin, through Ralph's intimacy with the gypſies, ſtrikes out a ſcheme of diſguiſing himſelf as one of the gang, that he may thereby get a ſight of his miſtreſs; Ralph promiſes him what he deſires, the cit then makes a muſical exit, and aptly compares his ha⯑zardous metamorphoſe to the ventures of a mer⯑chant, who runs known hazards in purſuit of what he admires.

Giles enters with Patty and Fanny, full of his ſucceſs with Lord Aimworth, which he relates; but does not meet with the reception he ſeems to expect. Churliſh Ralph throws in a remark, that his ſiſter ſhould change her cloaths for ſuch as ſuit her ſta⯑tion [107] better; ſhe promiſes to obey her father, and a quartetto, which concludes the firſt act, is ſung; as to pieces of this ſort, the words being mere paſſive inſtruments for muſic and action, ſhould not be cri⯑ticiſed.

Lord Aimworth opens the ſecond act with a ſoli⯑loquy, expreſſing ſentiments of virtuous tendency, and a delicate attachment to Patty; ſongs are ne⯑ceſſary to make an opera, elſe what his lordſhip ſings here might as well have been omitted. Our Maid of the Mill, with very natural awe and palpi⯑tation of heart, approaches her noble admirer; the encounter is well managed, and their converſation opens in an eaſy, pleaſing manner; her thanking him for favours conferred, and his manner of re⯑ceiving thoſe thanks, are prettily conceived; his lordſhip's remark upon the change of her dreſs, ſhews that ſhe has ſome intereſt in his thoughts, and aptly introduces the indulgence his mother had ſhewn the girl. There is a well connected chain of gradation from one ſubject to another in this ſcene, and Lord Aimworth's dubitable, round about men⯑tion of farmer Giles, with Patty's replies, are, we conceive, a good picture of nature in ſuch circum⯑ſtances; his lordſhip's declaration of turning the honeſt, well-meaning ruſtic off his farm, may be a⯑pologized for as a probable ſtart of jealouſy, but it infringes upon generoſity of principle; however, there is ſome reaſon to think he does it merely to try whether ſhe has a poſitive regard for his rival or not. The feelings of two youthful minds in love with each other, yet ignorant of the mutual attach⯑ment, is very well deſcribed in this tete-a-tete; his lordſhip being good-naturedly peeviſh, and Patty [108] timerouſly obſcure; the tranſition to a marriage with Theodoſia is well introduced. At the con⯑cluſion of this ſcene Lord Aimworth's feelings riſe into a juſt degree of perplexity, and he goes off with a very tolerable ſong.

Upon the peer's departure Giles enters, informing Patty of ſome rural honours the tenants are going to pay Lord Aimworth's arrival, and ſoliciting her as a partner in the feſtival dance, being, as he ſays, intended his partner for life; upon mention of this laſt circumſtance, Patty enters into a ſerious remon⯑ſtrance againſt Giles's hopes of a matrimonial union with her; nay, ſhe goes ſo far as to declare an ab⯑ſolute diſlike, which even the authority of her father cannot remove, or, as ſhe expreſſes it in her ſong, fears of the greateſt hardſhips; leaving him with an earneſt requeſt not to harraſs her with ſo irkſome a ſubject: ſhe throws poor Giles into a conſterna⯑tion; his ſuppoſition that learning has cracked her brain, is extremely characteriſtic; and his method of accounting for the repulſe ſhe has given him, we hold in the ſame view; his ſong is nothing but a repetition of what he has ſaid before, however, poſ⯑ſeſſes a degree of humour that muſt recommend it.

In the next ſcene we are entertained with ſome agreeable remarks on rural felicity, of which Patty and Theodoſia ſeem to have a juſt and ſpirited idea: Fanny, at Mervin's deſire, approaches Theodoſia, and addreſſes her in the right gipſey, begging, for⯑tune-telling cant, but without effect. Mervin, un⯑der favour of his diſguiſe, pretends to pick up a pa⯑per, which is in reality a letter from himſelf to The⯑odoſia; upon reading it, ſhe eagerly deſires to be conducted to the writer of it; this induces the lover [109] to diſcover himſelf, which he has but juſt done when Sir Harry and Lady Sycamore come upon them. The knight happening to cough is humour⯑ouſly reproved by his lady for not obſerving her directions concerning health: upon mention of gypſies, Sir Harry aſſumes the magiſterial ſtile, and rates them ſoundly; however, urged and led on by Mervin, they preſs after him; this occaſions Lady Sycamore to expreſs apprehenſions, while her va⯑lorous ſpouſe ſings forth his reſentment in a rhap⯑ſody of abuſe againſt the mendicant crew; a cir⯑cumſtance which throws the gypſies into a conſter⯑nation, leſt he ſhould be a juſtice of peace.

Mervin, who had followed Theodoſia, returns much chagrined at her departure, drives off the gyp⯑ſies, and is in violent agitation about his miſtreſs, who unexpectedly appears in the pavillion; upon ſeeing her, with the true phrenzy of impatient love, he is for climbing up to her; however, this ſhe pru⯑dently forbids, and, as time preſſes cloſe, ſhe comes at once not only to a declaration of love, but of her readineſs to elope with him. Here a freſh difficulty ariſes, how to carry the lady off, having no car⯑riage or horſes; ſhe deſires him to expect her at the Mill, and to deviſe in the mean time ſome me⯑thod to accompliſh their mutual wiſhes; the amo⯑rous ditty ſhe ſings is made up of agreeable nothing⯑neſs, founded on the pilfered idea of Juliet's calling Romeo back, and forgetting what ſhe has to ſay.

When Theodoſia diſappears, Fanny claims from Mervin the reward he promiſed her ſociety, which he gives her, ſuggeſting to himſelf a ſcheme of get⯑ting Theodoſia diſguiſed as a gypſy alſo. To fur⯑ther this purpoſe, and to make Fanny a faſter friend, [110] he gives her a guinea, as earneſt of twenty more, if ſhe will fulfil his deſires; Fanny, by miſtaking Mervin's meaning, gives the ſcene an arch turn, fa⯑vourable to acting merit.

Ralph's appearance makes Fanny reſolve, that unleſs he fulfils his promiſe of marriage, he muſt converſe no more with her; ſeeing his miſtreſs look gloomy, and receiving very ſhort anſwers from her, the young miller enquires the cauſe, and intimates his having a bout with the gentleman, if he has been uncivil to her. This brings her to an explanation, and ſhe claims his promiſe; hence a well-conceived ſquabble ariſes, and very ungentle terms enſue: quite cock-a-hoop with her views from Mervin, Fanny rates him ſoundly, and he in return treats her with as good as ſhe brings. This whole ſcene is perfectly founded in nature, and expreſſed happi⯑ly; Ralph's ſoliloquy, wherein he vows revenge againſt his ſuppoſed rival, Mr. Mervin, is ſpirited, humourous, and very much in character.

We are now conducted to the Mill, where we meet Fairfield and Giles over a pot of beer, the for⯑mer lamenting that his daughter is deaf to all per⯑ſuaſion, reſpecting the marriage; while the latter, with a blunt, generous degree of compoſure, im⯑putes it to the right cauſe, her liking another better. His diſintereſted ſentiments in this ſcene recommend him much, and his ſenſible reſignation of the hopes he had formed, ſhew a good head, as well as an ho⯑neſt heart.

Lord Aimworth coming unexpectedly, Fairfield is rather puzzled to pay his reſpects with propriety, but is relieved by the peer's affable condeſcenſion; who ſhortly introduces the ſubject of Patty's mar⯑riage, [111] and obſerves, that nothing but the ſudden death of his mother could-have prevented a genteel proviſion being made for the girl; to repair which loſs, with very delicate generoſity, his lordſhip pre⯑ſents to the Miller a bill of a thouſand pounds, and takes on himſelf the expence of Patty's nuptials: Fairfield, after expreſſing ſuitable gratitude, ac⯑quaints Lord Aimworth with his daughter's aver⯑ſion to the match, and begs his influence to recon⯑cile her. This intelligence and requeſt cauſe his lordſhip freſh perplexity; however, the miller ſends in Patty, between whom and the peer a ſcene of cri⯑tical delicacy enſues.

The manner in which Lord Aimworth ſounds Patty's real inclination, his playing moth like round the flame of his own paſſion, her diffidence and tre⯑mor of heart, his avowal of love, her declining the firſt wiſh of her heart, to prevent any diſgrace from falling on his rank, by an inadequate connection, all do the author of this piece great credit. Mat⯑ters are left in an undetermined ſtate when Sir Har⯑ry enters, fluſtered with an idea that his daughter was near being carried off by a gypſey man; after expreſſing his reſentment, he takes Lord Aimworth aſide, in favour of Giles, who has been relating his diſappointment; while the peer and her father are in converſe apart, Theodoſia lets us hear her appro⯑bation of the gypſey ſcheme.

Sir Harry acquaints Giles of my lord's good diſ⯑poſition towards him, and declaring that he will make all up, a quintetto, expreſſive of their ſeveral feelings, concludes the ſecond act.

Lady Sycamore, and her mate, at the beginning of the third act, are much agitated about their daugh⯑ter's [112] elopement with a gypſey; Lord Aimworth en⯑deavours to ſoften matters, and deſires that he may have the management of the affair, eſpecially as he has been the cauſe of Miſs Sycamore's uneaſineſs. The knight's remarks upon ladies are rather harſh, and not very characteriſtic for a man ſo much under the dominion of a crooked rib as he ſeems to be. Ralph, under apprehenſion of having done ſomething wrong, apologizes to Lord Aimworth, who acquits him, and ſeeing the miller, enquires his buſineſs; Fairfield, from a very delicate principle, acquaints him, that as talkative people have thrown out ſcan⯑dalous inſinuations, reſpecting the thouſand pound note given to him for Patty, he begs to return it; adding, that farmer Giles has been prejudiced a⯑gainſt Patty by means of it. Lord Aimworth con⯑deſcends to take back the note, and having been, though inadvertently, the cauſe of Patty's loſing one huſband, promiſes to get her another, for which purpoſe he deſires the miller to bring her immedi⯑ately, but detains him to take a letter he is going to write; then gives the audience a hint of his in⯑tention by a ſong.

In the next ſcene Fanny becomes petitioner to Ralph, who humorouſly retorts upon her the rough treatment ſhe gave him, and ſtands proof againſt all her ſolicitation; we apprehend his ſong, eſpecially the firſt verſe, diſcovers a delicacy of ſentiment and expreſſion rather out of character for maſter Ralph. Fanny, finding his obduracy, laments her own for⯑ſaken ſtate; when ſhe mentions the gentleman, though an enraged gypſey might ſay, the devil run away with him, yet we apprehend it a very blamea⯑ble mode of expreſſion for the ſtage.

[113]Farmer Giles now appears, nettled at ſomething Patty has ſaid to him, and from the warmth of con⯑verſation declares, that he wont have her; this a⯑larms her pride, leſt he ſhould think her temper moved on that account, ſhe declares that nothing but painful neceſſity could have obliged her even to a ſeeming conſent; here Giles exhibits a touch of the brute, and very juſtly irritates Patty till her paſſion gets vent at her eyes, when ſhe ſings the fol⯑lowing air, which we think worth tranſcribing.

Mervin, provided with a diſguiſe for Theodoſia, comes on here, and ſhe, after rallying him for letting her be at the appointed place before him, goes into a cloſet to put on the gypſey garment; which done, ſhe ſings an air in the ſtile of thoſe itinerant gentry, and is going off with her lover, when they are inter⯑rupted by the approach of Fairfield and Giles: th [...] miller ſeeing two of gypſey appearance in his houſe, threatens them with puniſhment, when ſeizing The⯑odoſia, to ſee if ſhe has ſtolen any thing, he knows her, and expreſſes aſtoniſhment at her diſguiſe. O [...] the diſcovery, Mervin offers to bribe the miller, w [...] rejects the propoſal with proper ſpirit, and giving him a letter from Lord Aimworth, adviſes their going [114] to his lordſhip's. On peruſal of the letter, their ſcheme of running away is laid aſide, and they re⯑ſolve to obey the peer's ſummons. Theodoſia throwing out a good-natured doubt of Mervin's ſincerity, he anſwers by a ſong, founded upon one of the moſt hackneyed ſentiments in poetical com⯑poſition.

Giles, in a ſoliloquy of ſome humour, acquaints us that he has heard of Lord Aimworth's promiſe to get Patty a huſband, and throws out his con⯑jectures who it may be; he alſo expreſſes his ſatis⯑faction at having eſcaped the nooſe, with one he ſuppoſes a caſt miſtreſs, and reſolves to live a batche⯑lor, that he may avoid the chance of being a cuckold.

From the Mill we are again conveyed to Lord Aimworth's houſe, where we meet with his lordſhip removing Fairfield's uneaſineſs, at the attack which has been made upon his daughter's reputation. When the miller declares himſelf content, and is go⯑ing home, the peer ſurprizes him with a propoſition of taking Patty for his lady; the old man's ſwell of heart at ſuch unexpected honour, the young wo⯑man's aſtoniſhment at ſuch unforeſeen happineſs, with his lordſhip's tender declarations, render this ſcene affecting; and, we venture to affirm, that what Ralph ſays upon his ſiſter's wanting a proper ac⯑ [...]nowledgment, is as natural, comprehenſive, and [...]ne an effuſion of ſimplicity, as ever fell from any author's pen, ‘"Down on your knees, and fall a crying."’

After a duett, in the bill-and-coo ſtrain, between [...] happy pair, Sir Harry, Lady Sycamore, Mervin and Theodoſia appear; from what the knight ſays, we learn, that by the interpoſition of Lord Aim⯑worth, [115] the wiſhes of Theodoſia and her lover are to be fulfilled. Upon his lordſhip's preſenting Patty as his intended bride, ſome objections are ſtarted by Sir Harry and his lady, which the peer genteely and ſenſibly ſets aſide; then proceeds to provide for his honeſt father-in-law, and declares an intention of get⯑ting Ralph a commiſſion. The forward young ruſtic's reſolution of keeping Fan when he is an of⯑ficer, and his elevated pertneſs, are circumſtances highly in nature. Giles joining the company, is introduced to his former ſweetheart, and promiſed remiſſion of a year's rent; all parties thus accomo⯑dated, the piece concludes with an alternate ſong.

With reſpect to the plot of this opera, it is ſim⯑ple, uniform and intereſting; the ſcenes are ranged in an agreeable ſucceſſion, and the ſongs flow natu⯑rally from the dialogue, which we think well varied for, and adapted to the characters; neither the ſen⯑timents nor verſification of the ſongs deſerves much praiſe, and we ſuppoſe the author only meant them as mere inſtruments for combining and conveying muſical ſounds.

In a review of the characters, we find Lord Aim⯑worth what every nobleman ſhould be, and what we fear very few are, humane, generous, virtuous and diſintereſted; poſſeſſing too much good ſenſe to be ſwayed by an irrational pride of birth, and too much delicacy of ſentiment to approach the object of his love upon unworthy terms. As the part in repreſentation requires more of the feeling actor, than the harmonious ſinger, however we may like Mr. MATTOCKS in the airs, we muſt rather object to him in the dialogue; nerveleſs expreſſion and unvarying features, throw a great damp on this part. [116] We are ſorry to ſay, that the ſame remark is equally applicable to Mr. DUBELLAMY, who has confeſſed⯑ly much merit as a ſinger, not one grain as a ſpeak⯑er. Mr. REDDISH did it for his benefit, as we re⯑member, and appeared the exact reverſe of thoſe gentlemen we have mentioned; ſuppoſing his view was more to get money than fame, and that he did not mean to impoſe himſelf on the public as a mu⯑ſical performer, his Lord Aimworth was reſpectable.

Sir Harry Sycamore is a talkative, vain, igno⯑rant baronet, well calculated for Mr. SHUTER, who certainly exhibits him with whimſical pleaſantry; however, though we give him the foremoſt praiſe, juſtice obliges us to ſay, that Mr. PARSONS treads cloſe on his heels and ſhews himſelf a very capable ſervitor in the temple of Momus.

Mervin is a loving gentleman, of very little merit, and at each houſe has fallen into very feeble hands; Meſſrs. BAKER and FAWCET do, if poſſible, leſs for him than the author has done; ſo that what Mr. BICKERSTAFF has faintly conceived, they as inſipid⯑ly execute.

Fairfield, the miller, is a moſt amiable ruſtic, poſ⯑ſeſſed of feelings and ideas equal to a more exalted character, a kind parent, and an honeſt man; the ſituation he is placed in, and his mode of behaviour, render him an object of reſpect and concern. We are extremely pleaſed at meeting an opportunity of giving Mr. GIBSON our approbation in this part, and we have never mentioned him diſadvantageouſly, but his worth in private life made us peculiarly la⯑ment his deficiencies on the ſtage. Mr. JEFFERSON having the advantage of much freer expreſſion than Mr. GIBSON, we muſt give him ſo far the preference.

[117]Giles is an extreme well-drawn, rural character, and Mr. BEARD did that honeſt, unaffected ſimplicity which diſtinguiſh him, particular juſtice; his hu⯑mour was natural, forcible and intelligible. The farmer has never been quite himſelf ſince that very excellent ſinging actor has left the ſtage; however, impartiality demands that we ſhould allow Mr. BAN⯑NISTER a very happy ſhare of execution, both in the ſpeaking and ſinging, conſiderably more than any competitor ſince the original. Mr. REINHOLD has performed the part with a conſiderable ſhare of merit, but wants an eſſential mellowneſs of humour; and Mr. BARNSHAW has exbibited the farmer, but having more of the Clare Market knock-me-down knowing-one, than ruſtic ſimplicity, was by no means an agreeable repreſentative.

Ralph is drawn with much pleaſant propriety, and ſupported equally through the whole. What⯑ever merit Mr. DIBDIN may have in compoſition, he certainly has not the ſhadow of any in acting; wherefore, we are hardy enough to ſay, the young miller could ſcarce have fallen into worſe hands.

Mr. DYER has ſome degree of ſpirit and nature, yet, if we may allude to painting, his performance is little more than dead colouring the character. If Mr. KING had not neceſſarily a caſt of parts, which ſcarce allows him proper relaxation, the young mil⯑ler ſhould moſt certainly be rendered a public fa⯑vourite, by the recommendation of his truly comic powers.

Lady Sycamore is a vain, poſitive old lady, who holds her lord and maſter in that light we fear many wives do; and thinks her own underſtanding is ſhewn to more advantage, by taking him into the [118] leading-ſtrnigs of her direction. Her overſtrained modeſty in catching at the ſlighteſt appearance of licentious ideas, is very characteriſtic; her formality and falſe conſequence, are excellently ſupported by Mrs. PITT; and Mrs. BRADSHAW, though inferior, cannot fail to gratify an audience.

Theodoſia, who has nothing particular to mark her character, and is like moſt other marriagable young ladies, ſuffers no injury from Mrs. BAKER, or Miſs RADLEY, but we apprehend the ſuperior ſen⯑ſibility of Mrs. MATTOCKS, renders her more pleaſing.

Patty appears to be an object of the author's par⯑ticular attention; he has drawn her with ſo many amiable qualities, that even pride muſt allow Lord Aimworth juſtifiable, in deſcending ſo much below his rank to ſecure happineſs. Mrs. PINTO's execu⯑tion of the ſongs has been ſo generally allowed, and had ſuch amazing influence at the original perform⯑ance of this piece, that we doubt whether in that reſpect, the ſtage will ever find her equal; as to the ſpeaking, ſhe was much worſe than any one we have ever heard: however, be her deficiencies what they may, Covent Garden theatre, in common gratitude, owes her a penſion of two hundred a year, for im⯑menſe advantages received, even though ſhe was ne⯑ver to ſpeak or ſing a line more. Mrs. MATTOCKS has given us more pleaſure in Patty than Mrs. PIN⯑TO, but beyond all doubt the feelings and expreſ⯑ſion of Mrs. BADDELY, rank her firſt in critical eſ⯑teem.

Placed between thoſe very engaging and ſpirited gypſies, Mrs. THOMPSON and Miſs POPE, we may ſay with Macheath, ‘"Which way ſhall we turn us, [119] how can we decide;"’ however, if the ſcale muſt turn, Mrs. THOMPSON's merit, in our view, gives it the caſt.

The author of this opera has candidly acknow⯑ledged taking his plan from Pamela, and we are happy to congratulate him on having made a very good and agreeable uſe of the materials furniſhed by that romance; his humour is not tainted with licentiouſneſs, and the nicer feelings are wrought up with a probable and inſtructive delicacy; upon the whole, we think the MAID of the MILL poſſeſſes ſuch charms, ſuch a chaſte, pleaſing ſimplicity, that both in repreſentation and peruſal, ſhe muſt have many admirers.

DOUGLAS. A TRAGEDY. By Mr. JOHN HOME.

LADY Randolph, formerly married to a chief of the name of Douglas, but at the time of this tra⯑gedy eſpouſed to Lord Randolph, opens the piece with a ſoliloquy, expreſſing that ſettled grief which hangs upon her heart, for the loſs of her deceaſed lord, and infant ſon. While in this ſtate of mourn⯑ful meditation, her living lord appears, and in mild terms reproves the melancholy ſhe wears; nay, is ſo very moderate in his expectations, that he only requires from her a decent affection; failing of which, his wiſh is to mingle with the war, threatened by a Daniſh invaſion.

The lady here lets a ray of kindneſs break through the clouds of ſorrow, and ſpeaking of war, ſhe makes a juſt and pleaſing diſtinction between that waged with a foreign power, and different ends of the ſame iſland, which nature has united, conflicting with each other. There is a pretty compliment to the union, and the courage of South and North Britain, in this ſpeech: Lord Randolph retiring, Anna ap⯑pears; this kind confidant, by ſtriving to balm her lady's wounded heart, probes and pains it the more; the pretence of grief being for a loſt brother, Anna aſks, what her feelings muſt be, had a tender, be⯑loved huſband been ſnatched from her arms. Touch⯑ing upon this maſter-ſtring of her heart, ſhe leads [121] Lady Randolph to a full diſcloſure of her mind: the narration of her ſecret marriage, and the fate of her huſband is natural and pathetic; her grief for expoſing her child to the fate ſhe ſuppoſes he met, is well deſcribed. When Lady Randolph obſerves, that a fore knowledge of the evils which had em⯑bittered her paſt life, would certainly have broken her heart, Anna makes this very ſenſible and moral reply:

This converſation, which we think rather too much extended for ſtage action, is interrupted by the approach of Glenalvon, a perſon, who, from what ſhe ſays, is rather diſagreeable to Lady Ran⯑dolph, for which ſhe aſſigns ſufficient reaſon, by ſketching his character, and retires. A very imma⯑terial ſoliloquy, trite in ſentiment, but tolerably well expreſſed, intervenes between Lady Randolph's exit and Glenalvon's entrance; this enterprizing blade queſtions Anna reſpecting the thoughtfulneſs of her aſpect, and pays ſome compliment to her charms; this fading advantage ſhe holds light, from Lady Randolph's woes, and with dutiful feeling for her miſtreſs's painful ſtate, follows to relieve her.

When alone, Glenalvon lays himſelf open to the audience for a conſummate villain, declares himſelf Randolph's ſecret rival, and ſignifies, that there is a ſcheme on foot to deprive the unſuſpecting baron of his lady, fortunes and life.

At the beginning of the ſecond act, a peaſant, fear ſtruck, is brought on by ſervants, and imme⯑diately after Lord Randolph enters with Douglas, [122] as a young ſhepherd, who has reſcued him from the deſperate aſſault of four aſſaſſins: after thanks re⯑turned to the gallant ſtranger, both by the baron and his lady, enquiry is made concerning who the brave deliverer is; to this Douglas replies with a modeſty peculiar to great minds, that his name is Norval, and that his father is a ſhepherd on the Grampian Hills, that an attack made upon their property, by a band of ruffians, ſome days before, had given his active ſpirit an opportunity of exerting itſelf, that his ſucceſs in defeating the banditti, had inſpired him with martial ideas, and that having heard of an impending war, he propoſed entering the field in his country's cauſe, as a volunteer. On Lord Ran⯑dolph's promiſing him protection and patronage, he replies with a manly ſenſe of favour, and his noble friend takes him off to viſit and view the camp.

The feelings of maternal ſympathy dawn in this ſcene, and the following one with Anna, they are judiciouſly manifeſted in Lady Randolph's regard for her unknown ſon; well knowing the treachery of Glenalvon's heart, and his jealouſy of any one who may rival him in Randolph's eſteem, ſhe determines to be young Norval's guardian. The following ſimilitude of herſelf to a flower, is fanciful and pretty, but poetical alluſions we deem unnatural to a mind diſeaſed; peruſal however may not be un⯑pleaſing:

Upon Glenalvon's appearance and enquiry after Randolph's welfare, Matilda gives him to under⯑ſtand, we think too plainly, her knowledge of his character and real feelings; ſtartled with her charge and conſcious guilt, he endeavours to apologize, but by the mention of love, increaſes her contempt and deteſtation. At length, ſhe acquaints him, rather indiſcreetly, with Randolph's attachment to his de⯑liverer, and by threats alarms his jealouſy; this, upon going off, plainly appears, for in the ſucceeding ſoliloquy, he determines to aggravate his former crimes, by removing young Norval at any rate; and, for that purpoſe, reſolves to try the cowardly attendant who forſook him in reſcuing Lord Ran⯑dolph, ſhrewdly obſerving, that the greateſt daſtards are capable of harbouring dangerous revenge.

At the beginning of the third act, we meet Mrs. Anna ſoliloquizing to very little purpoſe, as all ſhe ſays amounts to no more than telling us in a diffuſe, flowery ſtile, that Lady Randolph is aſleep, and that ſhe heartily wiſhes her a good nap; indeed, ſhe prays for it prettily enough, but placing immortal ſpirits upon golden beds, ſavours too much of groſs mortality; beſides, if we take the idea literally, a bed of ſtraw is preferable to a bed of gold, if figu⯑ratively it means nothing: but poets are wedded to [124] fancy, and too often conſider propriety as a mere domeſtic, to be employed or diſcarded at pleaſure.

A ſervant acquaints Anna that one of the aſſaſſins is ſecured, and produces ſome jewels taken from the priſoner, which are ſtrong preſumptive proofs of his guilt. Upon viewing the jewels, Anna diſcovers the family creſt of Douglas, and goes off to acquaint her lady with ſo alarming a circumſtance.

Here an aged peaſant is brought on, aſſerting his own innocence and ignorance of the crime laid to his charge: upon Lady Randolph's entrance, we find, that ſhe expects to hear how her child periſh⯑ed; the old ſhepherd ſolicits Lady Randolph's pro⯑tection from the torture with which he is threatened, which ſhe grants, on condition that he truly relates the manner of his obtaining the jewels found upon him; this he would gladly evade, but through fear of compulſion, enters upon the narration, which we think happily related, and the following deſcriptive lines we particularly approve.

From Norval's tale it appears, that he found a child floating in a baſket, that he brought up the child as his own, keeping from him every idea of noble birth; that this adopted ſon had left him ſome days, purpoſing for the camp, and that he was following to deliver him the jewels that were found in the baſket, as from them the real lineage of his charge [125] might poſſibly be traced. The whole of this rela⯑tion is well conducted, and free from ſuperfluity; the interruptions thrown in by Lady Randolph du⯑ring the progreſs of it are natural; and upon full conviction that the young ſhepherd is her identical child, the burſt of overflowing ſatisfaction is very deſcriptive of maternal affection. From Anna's adviſing a prudent reſtriction of her joy for fear of diſcovery, and her agitation, Norval ſuggeſts that ſhe is the daughter of his ancient maſter, which ſhe acknowledges, as alſo that the reſcued child is hers. Lady Randolph deſires that the old man, till matters are ripe for a diſcovery, may go to an old ſervant of her father's, who lives retired from the world; and charges him, if he ſhould meet Douglas, not to ac⯑quaint him with the diſcovery that has been made. Theſe precautions taken, ſhe orders the ſervants not only to ſet the old ſhepherd at liberty, as being in⯑nocent, but to conduct him ſome part of his way, as reparation for the injury of having detained him as a priſoner.

When all are retired but her confidant, the en⯑raptured mother gives a ſcope to joy, expreſſing her ideas in a pleaſing flow of expreſſion; and ſhe deter⯑mines upon an interview with Douglas, not only to indulge her tender feelings, but alſo to concert with him proper meaſures for aſſerting his rank and birth-right. Here Glenalvon enters, with intelli⯑gence that the Danes are landed upon the Eaſt coaſt of Lothian: Lady Randolph's remark upon the miſery war brings to mothers and wives, is pleaſing⯑ly compaſſionate. By Glenalvon's obſervation, that ſcorn from thoſe we love is more wounding than the ſword, the ſubject of his paſſion for Matilda ariſes, [126] which ſhe replies to with ſenſible and friendly advice, couched in terms of politic complacence; with hypocritical penitence he receives it, and not only promiſes to lay aſide his guilty paſſion, but alſo to become the guardian of young Norval in the field. Pleaſed with this promiſe, the lady retires, aſſuring Glenalvon, that upon ſuch terms he may rely on her friendſhip, or, what is much more than any other degree of reward, the conſcious approbation of his own heart.

Glenalvon alone, and fit for miſchief, caſts off the occaſional veil of virtue aſſumed for a few moments, and triumphs in the effects he thinks his ſmooth ar⯑tifice may work upon the lady. He ſuggeſts, that his own dependance and ſituation are tickliſh, where⯑fore, he determines to make young Norval an in⯑ſtrument for raiſing jealouſy in the breaſt of Lord Randolph; ſo finiſhed a raſcal as Glenalvon appears to be, would no doubt be capable of ſaying, as well as doing any thing vile. Yet his illiberal remark upon the female ſex, with which the third act con⯑cludes, might as well have been omitted.

At the beginning of the fourth act, Lord and Lady Randolph are brought forward, converſing upon the Daniſh invaſion; ſhe expreſſing female ap⯑prehenſions, he manifeſting the ſpirit of a brave man. Upon Douglas's entrance, Lord Randolph aſks how he has learned ſo much of military ſciences in the midſt of rural obſcurity; this he ac⯑counts for by a very pictureſque narration, but ra⯑ther tedious to that part of an audience, who are not furniſhed with a conception as fanciful as the au⯑thor's; and burthenſome to a ſpeaker who is not poſſeſſed of flowing, variable, declamatory expreſſi⯑on. [127] The account of why his inſtructor became a hermit, is, we apprehend, quite ſuperfluous, and we have a ſtrong objection to the following remark made by Lady Randolph:

However ſtrange the world may be, this aſſer⯑tion is equally ſo, having no meaning at all, or a very dangerous one, accuſing eternal juſtice of a partial diſpenſation—Deſtiny! we need go but a ſhort time to the ſchool of reaſon for proof that there is no ſuch principle in the providential ſcheme of life; wherefore, it cannot be thought harſh to con⯑ſider ſuch a poſition as inconſiſtent with ſound phi⯑loſophy, and rather an inſult upon our ſober ſenſes. Let fataliſm be buried in the ſame oblivion and con⯑tempt with witches, fairies, ghoſts, goblins, and every other phantom of gloomy, troubled minds.

Here ſeveral ſpeeches occur, no otherwiſe eſſential than to indulge the poet's fancy with unneceſſary mention of a warrior who never appears. Indeed, through this whole ſcene the plot ſtands ſtock-ſtill, merely that the hobby-horſe of genius may prance about in the parterres of flowery deſcription; this will evidently appear by obſerving, that if all which paſſes from the beginning of the fourth act, to the ſcene between Lady Randolph and her ſon, was cut out, ſuch an omiſſion would not occaſion the leaſt chaſm.

Left alone with her ſon, impatient to make the diſcovery, ſhe enters upon the ſubject, though di⯑ſtantly [128] at firſt, and invites him to a place of more ſecrecy, yet proceeds without removing. The ex⯑planation of his birth is brought about with ſome merit, but the effect of this ſcene is anticipated, and much weakened by what paſſed between her and the old ſhepherd in the third act; beſides, the con⯑verſation is ſtretched out to a length which no force of action can ſupport: feeling ſhould not be kept long on the ſtretch, for in ſuch caſe it moſt aſſured⯑ly dulls.

After the tender tumults of joy ſubſide, ſhe tells Douglas of his claim to the caſtle and demeſnes which Lord Randolph holds in right of her; then mentions a deſign of putting him in poſſeſſion of his birth-right by means of the king; ſhe prudent⯑ly checks ſome impetuous ſtarts which break forth from him. After adviſing him to conduct himſelf ſtill as Norval's ſon, and to beware of Glenalvon, he retires, leaving her to make a pious and very emphatic ſupplication to heaven in his behalf; a ſupplication which could have no effect if deſtiny prevailed. The following lines relative to the dif⯑ficulty ſhe finds to diſſemble, are very ſignificant and pleaſing;

Lord Randolph, who, from his firſt appearance, has talked of nothing but the Danes and battles, here enters with the ſame ſubject; wherefore, we think his lady, upon going off, gives him a very [129] proper hint, to talk of war no more. From what oc⯑curs between Randolph and Glenalvon we diſcover, that the latter has infected his patron and kinſman with jealouſy; and that Randolph has in a letter from his lady to Norval, appointing a meeting, plauſible proof of what Glenalvon has ſuggeſted. The villain, with great depth of policy, adviſes Lord Randolph to wait for more particular proof, and for that purpoſe to forward the intercepted bil⯑let to the young ſwain, that by watching their mo⯑tions he may have ocular demonſtration of their behaviour: this counſel the baron approves, while his pretending friend deſires leave to ſound Norval on the ſubject, as from the weakneſs and vanity of youth ſome diſcovery may be made; this bait his lordſhip alſo catches at, and leaves Glenalvon to purſue his inſiduous purpoſe.

By a ſhort ſoliloquy it appears, that even he is deceived into an opinion that Lady Randolph enter⯑tains a criminal paſſion for the young ſtranger: by premeditate irony, Glenalvon works up the temper of Douglas to warmth, for which his mother's ac⯑count of the villain has prepared him. The terms run high and reproachful on both ſides, till at length their diſpute is referred to the deciſion of the ſword; when Lord Randolph re-entering interpoſes, and enjoins peace, demanding alſo the cauſe of quarrel and offering his arbitration. This, with becoming ſpirit, Douglas declines; another alternative is then propoſed, that their private quarrel ſhall reſt unde⯑cided till the fate of war is known; the parties a⯑greeing to this, the act concludes.

Douglas begins the fifth act with a ſoliloquy, wherein, though the characters muſt labour under [130] ſtrong agitation of mind, yet we meet the author a⯑gain ſporting wantonly with his imagination, and al⯑ſo introducing the ridiculous, irrational idea of ſu⯑pernatural ſpirits converſing with mortals, in the re⯑tirements of night and ſolitude: we can forgive poets any degree of fiction but this, which we hold pernicious as well as contemptible,

Old Norval wandering in the wood, ſeeing the fondling of many years, approaches, and notwith⯑ſtanding Lady Randolph's caution to the contrary, accoſts him in his real character, and begs excuſe for having ſo long kept him in a ſtate of obſcurity; this tender condeſcenſion of the old man, draws af⯑fectionate expreſſions of regard from Douglas, who, with great good ſenſe and humility obſerves, that in his ſylvan ſtate, he learned ſome inſtructive leſſons, which he will ever retain; particularly to treat his inferiors with reſpect, remembring that he once was ſhepherd Norval.

The old ſhepherd having heard ſome deſigns a⯑gainſt his young lord's life, warns him of Lord Randolph and Glenalvon, who have vowed revenge; unconſcious of having done any injury, the noble youth is at a loſs to know their inſtigation, but pro⯑miſes to acquaint his mother with the danger, and to take her advice. The old man here adminiſters a bleſſing, and retires.

Again the hero of our piece ſoliloquizes in a lux⯑uriant, poetical, and therefore, for his ſituation, un⯑natural ſtrain. There is an elevation of ſpirit in ſome of theſe ſentiments well worthy a great mind; but others are trifling excurſions of a luxuriant muſe. Lady Randolph entering, a converſation fol⯑lows, in which her ſon repeats what old Norval in⯑formed [131] him of; from this ſhe draws fearful appre⯑henſions that the ſecret of his birth is diſcovered, and that he conſequently ſtands in much danger; for which reaſon ſhe adviſes him to ſeek the camp, which he with a courageous glow of mind diſdains, and propoſes to drive the treacherous ſpoilers from poſſeſſion of his father's houſe.

The fond mother admires his intrepidity, yet fearing for his life, and aſſuring him of her own ſafe⯑ty, ſhe perſuades him to ſeek his kinſman Lord Douglas, in the camp; this, after ſome heſitation, he complies with, and in compaſſion to maternal fears, promiſes he will reſtrain his ardor in the ap⯑proaching fight, as far as the honour of his endan⯑gered country and great name will admit. Here, as the mother and ſon are affectionately ſeparating, Lord Randolph comes forward, with his murderous aſſo⯑ciate Glenalvon; however, diſdaining aſſaſſination, the baron determines to attack him ſingly, and for that purpoſe follows Douglas, while Glenalvon remains, and diſcloſes his intention of finiſhing them both.

A ſcuffle and claſhing of ſwords is heard behind the ſcenes, which calls Glenalvon off to execute his fell purpoſe. Lady Randolph enters in wild con⯑fuſion, and ſoon after Douglas, having diſarmed Lord Randolph, and ſlain Glenalvon, returns, but not before the bloody villain had effected the deſign of treacherouſly ſtabbing him. This incident pro⯑duces a ſhort ſcene of melting tendency, and every generous mind muſt give a tear of pity to ſuffering virtue. Upon her ſon's deceaſe, Lady Randolph very naturally loſes ſenſation ſome moments, through exceſs of grief; during which interval, her huſband receives the painful intelligence from Anna, [132] that he who was deemed a rival, was his wife's ſon. This throws Randolph into deep concern; when the unhappy mother revives, ſhe gives ſome vent to woe in frantic, disjointed expreſſions, and preci⯑pitately hurries off the ſtage to make way for old Norval, who comes to view and weep over the me⯑lancholy ſcene; being checked by Lord Randolph for intruſion, his grief vents itſelf at large, in terms of bitter lamentation, over the corſe of Douglas. Anna, who followed her miſtreſs, returns with the lamentable intelligence of her having cloſed a wretched life, by precipitating herſelf headlong from a rock; this heaps additional woe upon her huſ⯑band's head, who conſidering himſelf as the princi⯑pal cauſe of her diſtraction, reſolves, after giving Anna directions for all funeral reſpect, to ruſh into the field of war, wiſhing never to return.

Thus ends a piece which has regularity of plot and unity of action to recommend it; the incidents are few, and ſome trifling; the ſcenes long, and in ſeveral places they run too much into a flattening ſimilarity; the ſentiments are moral and poetical, but want originality; the language is eaſy and chaſte, and the verſification well broke for thoſe who ſpeak the parts to avoid monotony; the number of characters is ſmall, hence ſome weight on action, however they are well choſen and uniformly ſup⯑ported; time and place are alſo adhered to ſtrictly enough.

Lord Randolph is ſo ſituated, that we can hardly collect the component parts of his character; from what are diſtinguiſhable, he ſeems to be a lover of his country, a friend to merit, and as far as his la⯑dy's coldneſs will allow, a tender huſband; brave, [133] but weak; with a heart to oppoſe and conquer open foes, but wanting a head to diſcern and counteract ſecret ones. Till the touch of jealouſy he feels in the fourth act, and the laſt ſcene, what he ſays is entirely compoſed of unimportant declamation; it is not eaſy for an actor to render him pleaſing to any audience, repreſenting him may be called rowing a⯑gainſt tide; wherefore, Mr. YOUNGER, who was the original at EDINBURGH, and Mr. RIDOUT in LONDON, both merited praiſe for ſteering clear of offence; yet ſo far as recollection will authorize compariſon, we think it a duty to place Mr. JEF⯑FERSON foremoſt.

Glenalvon is, as we have already obſerved, a horrid picture of deformed humanity, capable of vile actions upon the ſlighteſt views. The author has in working up this part, mingled ſubtlety with ſpi⯑rit, and given a capable performer favourable op⯑portunities to gain from humane feelings the ap⯑plauſe of deteſtation.

Mr. LOVE, the firſt murderer of this murderous villain, was hateful indeed; not from marking the character with propriety, not as Glenalvon, but as himſelf; there never was ſure a more rumbling, in⯑ſipid, uncharacteriſtic exhibition ſince the days of Theſpis. Mr. SMITH was a very great contraſt to this gentleman, yet as much out of character; one growled like a thunder ſtorm, the other ſimpered like an April fit of ſunſhine. Mr. PALMER has capacity, well in⯑ſtructed and reſtrained, to do Glenalvon with pro⯑priety; but if the play could be otherwiſe adequate⯑ly caſt, Mr. REDDISH would certainly do him that juſtice he has hitherto been wronged of, and give the [134] author's full meaning with ſuitable force to an au⯑dience.

Douglas is drawn an object of great reſpect, as to his filial, ſocial ſentiments, and peculiarly ſo for his ideas of glory; but the author too often ſpeaks in this part, forgetting character. The young hero's ſituation is intereſting, and his fall claims pity, but we wiſh it had been effected by ſome other means, or rather that he had been ſaved, as his death is a violent breach of poetical juſtice, and might have been avoided, even to an amendment of the plot. There is ſome fire and conſiderable pathos in him, yet we think if he had ſaid leſs, he would have meant more.

Mr. BARRY never ſhewed leſs of capital merit than in this part, almoſt the whole of it ſeemed to drag upon his tongue, for which we can aſſign only two reaſons; that he did not think the writing and de⯑lineation equal to his execution, therefore was neg⯑ligent; or, which we think moſt probable, the paſ⯑ſions not being wrought up to that degree of ex⯑preſſion in which he excells, the part ſlipped from him without any perception of his own deficiency.

Mr. DIGGES was extremely pleaſing and happy in the narrative and deſcriptive parts, nor was he any way deficient in the ſtrokes of tenderneſs; the author ſtood very much indebted to this gentleman for the proſperous exiſtence of his piece. Mr. BRERETON may walk through it to fill up time be⯑fore a pantomime or the jubilee, but ſure neither the managers, nor he himſelf, would wiſh to ſee the whole of our opinion reſpecting this attempt.

Old Norval's ſimplicity, ſenſibility, and tender fi⯑delity of heart, engage us deeply in his favour; he [135] is extremely well imagined, and finiſhed in a maſter⯑ly manner. As it is hard for a performer to render Lord Randolph reſpectable, ſo we think it would be difficult to find one of even decent capacity, who could be flat and unaffecting in the old ſhepherd: Mr. SPARKS diſcovered judgment and maſterly ſtrokes of acting, but was too mechanical and labo⯑rious; his ſimplicity wore ſtrong marks of affecta⯑tion, and his grief, in general, was diſcoverably pumped up by artificial feelings. Mr. PACKER, avoiding ſuch faults, and ſucceſsfully purſuing the path of nature, deſerves preference.

Mrs. WOFFINGTON, whoſe tragic utterance was, in general, the bane of tender ears, never appeared to leſs advantage than in Lady Randolph; flat in the calm, and diſſonant in the impaſſioned paſſages; who Mr. HOME might mean the part for originally, we cannot ſay, but Mrs. WARD, into whoſe hands it fortunately fell, did it as much juſtice as the poet or audience could wiſh, and deſerves the praiſe of having exhibited in this tragedy, a very correct and affecting piece of performance. Mrs. BARRY, at preſent, who conceives the part equally well, hav⯑ing more power of expreſſion, ſurpaſſes the laſt men⯑tioned lady in execution.

Anna we have ſeen by Mrs. HOPKINS, Mrs. VIN⯑CENT, and Mrs. REDDISH, if there is any difference, we prefer the latter.

The perſecution this tragedy underwent in its infant ſtate, from ſome rigid, malevolent enthuſiaſts, was ſingular and ſevere; yet, from a very ſenſible and laudable exertion of public ſpirit, the author, to our great ſatisfaction, and the honour of the Edin⯑burgh audience, received unexpected and extenſive [136] advantage from the malevolence of his narrow-minded, illiberal foes; who abſurdly confine reli⯑gion to auſterity of features, formality of ſpeech, and abſtraction from public amuſements. May eccleſi⯑aſtic tyranny ever find ſuch a fate, through the ſenſe, ſpirit and independancy of mankind.

Though we have objections to DOUGLAS for want of buſineſs; to ſome of the ſcenes for trifling too long with the paſſions; to a ſuperfluity of deſcriptions; and to the cataſtrophe, which ſweeps off the inno⯑cent with the guilty; yet we are willing to allow it the offspring of warm genius; and freely ſubſcribe to the praiſe of its being a moral, fanciful and afflu⯑ent dramatic poem, which probably may improve the head, and can never taint the heart.

The CONSCIOUS LOVERS. A COMEDY. By Sir RICHARD STEELE

A Converſation between Sir John Bevil and his old ſervant Humphry, opens this comedy; the ba⯑ronet ſeems full of concern about his ſon, and relates an incident which happened at a maſquerade, from whence he draws apprehenſion, that young Bevil is married to, or reproachably connected with a young lady, who was at the forementioned public meeting.

From an obſervation that Humphry makes, we find that one Mr. Sealand, whoſe daughter was in treaty of marriage with young Bevil, has taken an alarm, and poſtponed the match. Sir John, upon this declares, that to clear up matters he will inſiſt upon his ſon's purſuing the contract with Sea⯑land; and orders Humphry to pump his valet, as poſſibly from him they may learn if his maſter is engaged in any private amour. The prince of poor coxcombs, as the old domeſtic calls him, enters in a full flow of ſpirits, and rallies honeſt Humphry, exulting in his own gayer and more unlimited ſtate of ſervitude; the volubility of his expreſſion, the vivacity of his remarks, and the humour of his ideas, are a very entertaining combination of plea⯑ſantries. The remark he makes of having never taken a mug of beer for his vote—would every ſe⯑nator could ſay as much with truth—is ſatirical and laughable.

[138]Upon Tom's mentioning that he has a letter from his maſter to Lucinda, Humphry aſks why he does not haſten to deliver it; this queſtion brings about an explanation that it is not eaſy to obtain ac⯑ceſs to her, Mrs. Sealand, the young lady's mother, being averſe to her daughter's match with Mr. Be⯑vil, through a deſire the old lady has of matching Lucinda to a relation of her own; this intelligence, it appears, the loquacious valet has received from one Mrs. Phillis, a chambermaid, who, as he inſi⯑nuates, looks on him with a very tender eye, and therefore lets him into the ſecrets of the family. Upon the appearance of this ſecond-hand lady of faſhion, Humphry retires, nauſeated with the party-coloured beau's intolerable vanity.

A ſcene of very peculiar ſpirit here enſues between the valet and waiting-woman; their affected polite⯑neſs, their jealouſy, and reconciliation, make up a juſt and amuſing picture of their ſphere in life, ſo diſtinguiſhed for mimic gentility. When their own concerns have been diſcuſſed, Tom recommends his maſter's letter for delivery to Phillis's care; encou⯑raged thereto by a handſome bribe, ſhe undertakes the matter, and concludes the ſcene with two lines which have more of plauſibility than ſtrict truth to recommend them.

A multitude of melancholy inſtances prove, that in affairs of gallantry, money is often freely parted with to promote the moſt culpable, vileſt purpoſes, of which deceit and treachery are the baſe founda⯑tion; [139] however, the maxim is natural enough for a chamber-maid, who wiſhes fees at any rate.

We next meet young Bevil in his ſtudy alone, meditating on the difficulties his propoſed marriage throws him into, and remarking, that his only hope is Lucinda's refuſal of the match. This pleaſing expectation he entertains for two reaſons; firſt, be⯑cauſe ſhe is pre-engaged to Myrtle; and next, be⯑cauſe he has by letter acquainted her with his incli⯑nation towards another: collecting reſolution from this favourable view of matters, he determines to declare a readineſs of conſummating the nuptial rites, according to his father's earneſt deſire. When he has thus prepared himſelf for an interview, Sir John approaches, and enters upon the matrimonial ſubject, expreſſing great ſatisfaction at his ſon's du⯑tiful acquieſcence; the young man propoſes imme⯑diately waiting on his bride, but the baronet waves that, as knowing Sealand is not in a favourable mood of mind to ſee his intended ſon-in-law; there⯑fore, he leaves Humphry as a ſpy upon his ſon, and haſtens to put Sealand into better temper.

No ſooner does Sir John diſappear, than Hum⯑phry, with a faithful, ingenuous openneſs of temper, mentions to his young maſter a lady that gives the old man pain. This draws from Bevil a confiden⯑tial confeſſion, and in an extreme pretty, well con⯑ducted tale, he relates the diſtreſsful hazards Indi⯑ana, a lady whom he had ſeen and conceived a paſ⯑ſion for on his travels, experienced from the loſs of parents, friends, and the villainy of one who was left her guardian, but would have proved her de⯑ſtroyer.

[140]The circumſtance of Bevil's meeting her on the brink of impriſonment, his humane, generous deli⯑verance by concealed bounty, and his conducting her ſafe to England, on the moſt honourable and diſintereſted principles, place him in a very favour⯑able point of view. Upon Humphry's aſking whe⯑ther it was the young lady's paſſion for him, or his for her, that gave him an averſion to the match of his father's propoſing, he gives him an anſwer that ſhews him rather uncommonly refined in his notions, never having once hinted to her the warm intereſt ſhe claimed in his heart; and this reſerve he imputes to an inviolable filial reſpect, which checks him from entering into any engagement that might prove diſagreeable to Sir John.

Upon being informed that Mr. Myrtle is at the next door, and would be glad of a conference, he expreſſes readineſs to receive him; then aſks Tom for an anſwer to his letter, who informs his maſter he was deſired to call again. Here Humphry with⯑draws, dropping the ſatisfactory hint, that there is a ſecret impediment which will check the dreaded marriage with Lucinda. Bevil agreeably feels for his friend Myrtle's uneaſy ſituation, judging of it from his own; and concludes the act with a rhim⯑ing couplet, which would have been much better turned into proſe.

Myrtle being introduced by Tom at the begin⯑ning of the ſecond act, addreſſes himſelf with ſome degree of reſentment, on the ſubject of rivalſhip to young Bevil, who endeavours, by proper degrees, to explain the ſtate of affairs; however, Myrtle, ſpurred by a kind of jealouſy, rather warms, from a miſapprehenſion of Bevil's meaning. At length [141] they come to underſtand one another, and a third perſon is mentioned as a formidable rival, who though old and an egregious coxcomb, ſtands a fair chance of ſucceſs. After ſome doubts ariſing, as counſel are to be conſulted, it is reſolved, that Myrtle and Tom ſhall aſſume the appearance of the law⯑yers employed, and thereby delay matters at leaſt. This point ſettled, Myrtle goes off, and leaves Bevil to his juſt and friendly reflections upon the perplexed ſtate of Indiana, whom he reſolves to vi⯑ſit; generouſly, as well as ſenſibly remarking, that though filial duty will prevent him from ever mar⯑rying contrary to his father's inclination, yet that duty does not deter him from the innocent company of a virtuous woman, who is particularly agreeable to him.

The ſcene changing to Indiana's lodgings, ſhe and her aunt Iſabella come forward, converſing upon the behaviour of Bevil, which appears intereſted and de⯑ſigning to the former, totally generous and honour⯑able to the latter. Iſabella ſpeaks with more pre⯑caution and knowledge than her neice, but Indiana expreſſes the genuine gratitude and delicacy of a good and ſuſceptible mind; in the full flow of which, ſhe produces a freſh inſtance of his benevo⯑lence, two hundred and fifty pounds in bank notes, to pay for a new ſet of dreſſing-plate.

After an altercation of conſiderable length, in which Indiana defends her admirer with reaſon, af⯑fection and delicacy, her aunt ſtill perſeveres in a ſuſpicion of danger, and, even continues her doubts till Indiana's reſentment is rather wrought up, and [142] leaves her to make ſome old maidiſh reflections upon the perils waiting unſuſpecting innocence.

Indiana immediately re-enters, and having been informed of Mr. Bevil's approach, orders his ad⯑miſſion, previous to which ſhe reflects upon an alteration in behaviour, a reſerve aſſumed ſince the report of his marriage; however, love at his ap⯑pearance baniſhes all doubts, he appears inno⯑cently amiable in her eyes, and their encounter is ſuch as may be properly expected from perſons of ſenſe and true politeneſs. The converſation at firſt is employed upon matters merely indifferent; at length, the ſubject turns upon the eſſential dif⯑ference of love and eſteem, upon which topic ſome agreeable remarks occur.

At length an opportunity offers for Bevil to ſhew a feeling of heart extremely recommendatory, that of not being content with barely recompenſing merit, but treating it with reſpect alſo; this intro⯑duces for Bevil's opinion the diſpute Indiana has had with her aunt, whether a man who confers favours on a woman he is no way allied to muſt not be in⯑tereſted; Bevil's anſwer in the affirmative, rather puzzles the young lady, who is evidently endea⯑vouring to work out ſome explanation relative to herſelf; however, this is evaded on his ſide, till, at length, probably from an apprehenſion of what her drift is, he retires ſomewhat abruptly.

At this juncture Iſabella returns, and ſoftens her neice's doubts concerning the real bent of Be⯑vil's heart, but declares it neceſſary for further ſatis⯑faction and ſafety, to find out whether Mr. Bevil and Mr. Myrtle are really friends or rivals; India⯑na, [143] wrapping her heart in confidence of her lov⯑er's faith, concludes this act, as every act of this piece cenſurably does, with rhime; and that, to ſay truth, neither very ſignificant nor poetical.

Tom and the volatile ludicrous object of his ad⯑miration meet and open the third act; but not⯑withſtanding a free, kind ſalutation from him, the coquettiſh jade toſſes up her noſe, and paſſes him with an air of quality diſdain; ſtung with this treatment, and knowing her diſpoſition, he deter⯑mines upon aſſuming airs alſo, and the repartee of flirtation is bandied about for ſome time with equal dexterity on both ſides; at length, the ſwain ſoftens, and relates with much natural whim, the impor⯑tant day and hour, and manner of his falling in love; this, after a few taunts and conſequential airs, ſoftens the nympth into an acknowledgement, that her lover's eloquence is very forceable; and ſhe then acquaints him with the effect of his maſter's letter; how happy it has made Lucinda, giving him alſo one in return.

Tom applauds their negotiation, as ſomething may be derived from it for their mutual advantage and ſettlement; here the interview takes a very ſoft, amorous turn, and ſome kiſſes are ſeemingly ra⯑viſhed by Tom, for which his miſtreſs gives a faint repulſe, acquainting him with the different views of Mr. and Mrs. Sealand, reſpecting Lucinda's wed⯑ding, then archly deſires him to give her but one kiſs more; after which they take leave of each other with great and laughable ceremony.

Lucinda, upon her entrance, enquires of Phillis who ſhe has been hurrying off, and receives for an⯑ſwer, [144] a ſweetheart; here the young lady, we ap⯑prehend, deſcends a little out of her ſphere, by ob⯑ſerving, that ſhe has heard ſomething like kiſſing; to which Phillis makes a facetious and ingenuous reply; this draws on mention of Cimberton, and the ſpirited chambermaid aſſerts, that he is as much married to Lucinda as quality generally are, that is, by conſent of friends, ſettlements and other pecuniary agreements. In the progreſs of this con⯑verſation, we diſcover that Myrtle, whoſe preten⯑ſions were once favoured by the young lady's pa⯑rents, has won her heart; the account ſhe gives of her mother's reſerved peculiarity is pleaſant enough; Phillis, who ſeems to be the friend of her young miſtreſs's inclination's declares, that by liſten⯑ing ſhe has diſcovered the whole of Mrs. Sealand's deſign in favour of Cimberton; particularly the means uſed to gain conſent from a rich uncle of his, ſtiled Sir Geoffery. Upon the approach of Mr. Cimberton and her mother, Lucinda puts Phillis off the ſtage; the old lady opens her own character by ſome formal obſervations upon keeping family blood pure; to which her ſtarched, antiquated kinſ⯑man replies in terms adequately ludicrous; ſome of his remarks upon the matrimonial connection are groſs, and not a little heightened in that ſenſe, both by Lucinda and her mother; the Lacedemoni⯑an inſtitution and other points being diſcuſſed, they enter upon the main ſubject. Mrs. Sealand point⯑ing out her daughter to Cimberton as his intended wife; he with his ſupercilious, philoſophical mode of delivery, ſpeaks of her ſhape and motions, ac⯑cording to her own phraſe, as if ſhe was a ſteed at [145] ſale; another of his remarks of not allowing her a fallow ſeaſon when married, though characteriſtic, is fulſome.

Mrs. Sealand being informed that the lawyers are come, orders them to be ſhewn in; here Myr⯑tle as ſerjeant Bramble, and Tom as councellor Tar⯑get appear; being ſeated, they enter immediately on the debate; and while the former puzzles the ſubject with a verboſe, voluble introduction, the other ſtammers out impatient interruption till the ſcene grows very laughable; at length, Cimberton naturally aſks, as not underſtanding the purport of their pleading, to have a copy of it in Engliſh, this offends Bramble; a very good and ſatirical ſtroke againſt tedious letigation occurs by Bramble's re⯑ply, when Cimberton deſires to have their opinions without delay, ‘"that the law will not admit of"’ there is conſiderable humour in the remark of Tar⯑get after his opponent is gone; though he has not uttered one perfect word, yet he ſays ‘"I touched him to the quick upon Grimgribber.’ This ſcene has a great deal of ſpirit and humour, but the in⯑cident is rather forced and improbable.

Sealand obſerving that men of learned profeſ⯑ſions ſhould talk as intelligibly as poſſible, which render what they ſay of more eſtimation, Cimber⯑ton makes this very ſenſible reply.

‘"They might perhaps, madam, (gain by it) with people of your good ſenſe; but with the gene⯑rality it will never do: the vulgar would have no reſpect for truth and knowledge, if they were ex⯑poſed to naked view.’

[146]At the beginning of the fourth act we find Tom in confuſion, and his maſter chagrined at a kind of a blunder he has made, by letting Myrtle fiſh out of him Bevil's having received a letter from Lu⯑cinda; this, we learn, has produced a challenge from Myrtle to Bevil, for ſuppoſed double dealing. When Tom, according to order, retires, his maſter meditates with ſome warmth on his friend's precipi⯑tation; then reads Lucinda's letter, thanking him for declining the marriage, and making him even a confidant of her attention to Myrtle.

Bevil here kindly conſiders that ſome ſteps ſhould be taken to cure the impatience and jealouſy of his friend, for which reaſon he thinks it prudent to keep the forementioned letter ſometime from his know⯑ledge; having read Myrtle's challenge alſo, which is couched in brief and ſignificant terms, that gen⯑tleman appears, and with a peremptory ſtile, re⯑quires that notice may be taken of his meſſage.

Bevil's reply to this abrupt addreſs is ſenſible and cool, deſiring an explanation face to face; the ſub⯑ject, as is uſual in ſuch caſes, riſes faſt, and Myrtle throws out an intimation of timidity, which draws from young Bevil theſe truly excellent and moral re⯑marks, worthy a brave man, and which ought to be ſtamped upon every forward mind. ‘"Sir, you know I have often dared to diſapprove a deciſion the tyrant cuſtom has introduced, to the breach of all laws divine and human: I have often told you, in the confidence of heart, I abhorred daring to offend the author of life, and ruſhing into his preſence—I ſay, by the ſame act, to commit the crime againſt him, and immediately urge on to his tribunal."’— Read, read, and treaſure up in memory's ſecureſt [147] cell, this ſalutary inſtruction, ye ſavage, vindictive duelliſts.

As there is a bound in every breaſt beyond which patience cannot reach, ſo Bevil, hearing the mo⯑deſt woman of his heart mentioned lightly, takes fire, and accepts the hoſtile invitation; here we tremble for good ſenſe, virtue and friendſhip, tot⯑tering on the verge of deſtruction; however, the author, by a moſt maſterly ſtroke, the intervention of Tom, gives Bevil a pauſe of reaſon, which plea⯑ſingly and reputably brings him to the proper way of thinking. He ſhews his raſh antagoniſt Lucin⯑da's letter; ſo convincing a proof of his friend's in⯑nocence, reduces Myrtle to a degree of pity as well as cenſure; however, the delicate cordiality of Be⯑vil, anticipates any mortifying condeſcenſion from his repentant challenger, and Myrtle is left, inſtead of ſervile acknowledgments, to make ſome very in⯑ſtructive obſervations upon the precipiece they have both eſcaped, by Bevil's ſuperior conduct. We con⯑template this ſcene with great pleaſure, and aſſert, that it is as happily conceived, as judiciouſly con⯑ducted, and as finely written as any other in the En⯑gliſh drama.

Sir John Bevil and Mr. Sealand ſucceed the young gentlemen: at the beginning of their converſation, the baronet ſeems to plume himſelf on genealogy, which the reſpectable merchant holds in a cheap light, and rallies Sir John upon it with ſome degree of cynical humour. Sealand, in reſpect to his daughter's marriage, objects his keeping a miſtreſs; this charge, the baronet, like a kind father, endea⯑vours to exculpate his ſon of; however, the cit puts the matter to this iſſue, viſiting the unknown lady [148] himſelf; and if, upon the interview, he finds no⯑thing to confirm his apprehenſions, then there can be no impediment to the match Sir John ſo much urges, upon this propoſal they ſeparate.

From what paſſes between Humphry and his old maſter, after the Cit is gone, it appears, that Sir John's anxiety is chiefly about Lucinda's large fortune, which at any rate he wiſhes his ſon to ob⯑tain, the baronet frets very naturally, however re⯑ceives ſome ſatisfaction from hearing his ſon's de⯑claration of never marrying without his conſent; this ſcene brings about no determination, but leaves matters in a proper ſtate of doubt.

Phillis in the next ſcene, acquaints Myrtle that he is in the utmoſt hazard of loſing his miſtreſs, Sir Geoffry being hourly expected to compleat the marriage ſettlements; this perplexes the lover, when our chambermaid, with the true ſpirit of in⯑trigue, adviſes him to perſonate the old gentleman, this wears ſo good a face, that he rewards her for ſo happy a thought, both with money and kiſſes, concluding the fourth act with a reſolution to put her ſcheme in practice, as well as his diſturbed ſtate of mind will admit.

At the beginning of the fifth act Myrtle, meta⯑morphoſed into the ſhape of Sir Geoffry, is brought forward by Mrs. Sealand, Lucinda and Cimberton; he aſſumes the old knights peculiarity of expreſſion, as well as his antiquity of ſhape; Mrs. Sealand, af⯑ter ſeeing him ſeated, goes off to give neceſſary di⯑rections; and is followed by Phillis, that ſhe may give the diſguiſed lover an opportunity of being alone with his miſtreſs; after ſome ludicrous marks [149] in the Cimberton ſtile have been made, Phillis ef⯑fects her purpoſe in favour of Myrtle, by deliver⯑ing a meſſage to Cimberton from Mrs. Sealand; this removes him, and the ſtage is left clear for the lover to diſcloſe himſelf, which he does with ſuch rapturous precipitation, that through ſur⯑prize Lucinda ſcreams out, which brings back the company; here, upon apprehenſion of a diſcovery, Myrtle, with very quick addreſs, feigns himſelf in a fit, which ſerves as a good apology for Lucin⯑da's ſurprize and confuſion; the matter being thus ſettled, the ſuppoſed old gentleman is conduct⯑ed off. The circumſtance of pulling his nephew's ear is farcial to the laſt degree, therefore much below the dignity of this piece.

Mr. Sealand, conducted by Humphry to Indi⯑ana's houſe, next appears, knocks at the door, when Daniel, a high finiſhed picture of ruſtic ſim⯑plicity, furniſhed with ſome degree of urbanic cun⯑ning and evaſion, is produced; his anſwers to the merchant's enquiry for his miſtreſs are replete with humour, and never fail of having a powerful ef⯑fect; at length, by the help of that argument which ſeldom fails to influence both the ſimple and wiſe, a bribe, Sealand gains admittance; firſt ob⯑tains a ſhort audience of Iſabella, who recollects him, but does not make herſelf known, and then is introduced to Indiana; he addreſſes her with re⯑ſpect, as having ſome money to pay her, which cir⯑cumſtance brings on the main ſubject, Mr. Be⯑vil's connection with her; the citizen reproaches that young gentleman with deceiving ſo deſerving a perſon, while ſhe, with generous gratitude, vindi⯑cates [150] his honourable conduct; at length, judging Sealand to be his intended father-in-law, her paſſion works up into a ſwell of grief.

In the flow of anxiety for loſing a man ſo dear to to her, ſhe indulges her painful feelings with tears, and very naturally recapitulates a ſucceſſion of mis⯑fortunes which have fallen upon her, even from ear⯑lieſt infancy; ſome of the circumſtances ſtrike Sea⯑land, who, at length by the circumſtance of a brace⯑let ſhe throws from her, and an enquiry into the real name, he perceives her to be his own daughter; her identity is verified by Iſabella, and the ſcene, which is beautifully wrought up, here cauſes the moſt plea⯑ſing ſenſations. The other characters now enter, hav⯑ing been told the wonderful diſcovery by Iſabella, Sir John congratulates the happy father and daughter; by the by, it is a little odd how they ſhould meet ſo ſuddenly at Indiana's houſe, and how Sir John ſhould know that Sealand intended to give her a fortune equal to his wiſhes: however, the author wanted to bring about his cataſtrophe, ſo claps Bevil and In⯑diana together as expeditiouſly as poſſible. This circumſtance depriving Lucinda of half her fortune, Cimberton, whoſe views were founded more upon intereſt than love, gives up his claim, and thereby affords Myrtle an opportunity of throwing off his diſguiſe, and propoſing his own generous paſſion, which Sealand immediately ratifies with his conſent. Matters thus agreeably ſettled, Sir John briefly de⯑duces from paſt tranſactions this excellent moral, That providence ſuperintends and rewards the per⯑ſeverance of virtue.

[151]Having paſſed through this comedy with great pleaſure to ourſelves, and we hope ſatisfaction to the reader, we muſt give its author great praiſe, both for his deſign and execution. The plot is regular; intricate, yet obvious; the ſentiments moral; the language eaſy and genteel; there is ſpirit without licentiouſneſs, and ſurprize without improbability; the characters exhibit nature and variety.

Sir John Bevil, as a fond father, deſerves reſpect; but there is a ſelfiſh, narrow-minded principle, capa⯑ble of ſacrificing even the ſon he loves to intereſt, that greatly lowers our opinion of him; he has nothing to ſay but what the mediocrity of Meſſrs. GIBSON and BURTON may utter decently enough; we have ſeen ſeveral others exhibit the old knight, but ſo little worth notice that we cannot recollect them.

Mr. Sealand is a plain, unaffected, generous citi⯑zen; a man of liberal principles without oſtentation, and ſound ſenſe without pedantry, bred in the ſchool of adverſity. This honeſt citizen was extremely well figured, and ſuitably performed by Mr. SPARKS; his anxiety, ſurprize, tenderneſs and joy, in the ſcene where Indiana is diſcovered to be his long loſt daugh⯑ter, were well expreſſed, and he ſtruck out many ju⯑dicious beauties. Mr. BERRY, as was uſual with him, mouthed the converſation, and blubbered the pathetic; and, as to his perſonal appearance, it was very ungentleman-like, both in figure and deport⯑ment. At preſent, we know not any performer, at either houſe, however ſtrange the aſſertion may ſeem, calculated to do the merchant juſtice; who, though he requires no capital powers, yet calls for judgment and expreſſion not eaſily found. We are by no means fond of Mr. AICKIN's paternal feel⯑ings; [152] nor do thoſe of Mr. CLARKE give us much pleaſure. Mr. HULL, we apprehend, muſt come neareſt him, unleſs Mr. BARRY would vouchſafe to perform the part.

Young Bevil is drawn a fine pattern for young gentlemen of fortune; virtuouſly generous, coolly brave; a diſintereſted lover, a dutiful ſon, and a ſincere friend. He has been ſtiled ‘"a faultleſs monſter, which the world ne'er ſaw;"’ but we can⯑not find any reaſon for ſuppoſing that an author, though he ornaments a character with many valua⯑ble qualifications, preſents him to view as perfect; and ſuch a man as young Bevil might have not only ſome weakneſs, nay ſome vice about him, though the circumſtances of this play don't call either into action.

To carry recollection back as far as we are able, with any degree of preciſion, we remember Mr. QUIN, when he was big enough to do Falſtaff with⯑out ſtuffing, rumbling forth this part with very near as great pompoſity as he ſounded Cato with; a major wig, as in the young Chamont, graced his large head; and though young Bevil mentions gaiety of dreſs, by calling his cloaths the ſplendid covering of ſorrow, yet this great actor once, per⯑haps oftner, ornamented the part with the very cloaths which he played the Old Batchelor in.

Mr. SHERIDAN barked out young Bevil ſeveral years in DUBLIN with great applauſe—a notable proof of critical judgment in the audience there— for, beyond every degree of diſpute, he was not fur⯑niſhed with any one requiſite; the ſnap of his ex⯑preſſion, the ſtiffneſs of his deportment, with the natural alternate ſqueaks and croaks of his unhappy [153] voice, were ſuch a group of impediments, as never before incumbered an audience, or lowered an actor of any eſteem.

Mr. ROSS, when firſt he played the character at Drury Lane, was as correct, eaſy, ſpirited and gen⯑teel, as criticiſm could wiſh; he looked, moved, and ſpoke like a gentleman. From what we have ſeen of him lately, he is grown too corpulent for the requiſite freedom, and too careleſs for the eſſential ſpirit; performance ſeems rather a fatigue to him, and any trace of that muſt be injurious to ſuch a part as young Bevil. Mr. FLEETWOOD, who has left the ſtage ſome few years paſt, had a great deal of merit in this character; his figure, manner, and delivery, all correſonpded to place him in a very fa⯑vourable light.

Mr. REDDISH is much the moſt capable at pre⯑ſent, as Mr. BARRY's age deſtroys the merit he once had.

Myrtle has no particular characteriſtical diſ⯑tinction, his principles appear generally good, his temper ſomewhat warm; he requires more acting than Bevil, as he aſſumes different ſhapes, a volu⯑bility is wanting for Bramble, a low comedy feeble⯑neſs for Sir Geoffry. Mr. RYAN, allowing for age and oddity, was not at all amiſs in perſonating of him: Mr. SMITH is no way diſpleaſing, nor in any ſhape capital: Mr. JEFFERSON is faint indeed: Mr. LEE through the whole chaſtely excellent.

Cimberton is a coxcomb of peculiar mold, face⯑tiouſly conſequential, ludicrouſly ſententious; his vein of humour is not hard to hit, and his words ſpeak for themſelves; however, we have ſeen him conſiderably flattened in performance. Mr. SHU⯑TER [154] is too luxuriant, Mr. LOVE too dry, yet both have conſiderable merit; there was a medium be⯑tween theſe two gentlemen which Mr. TASWELL ex⯑hibited, thereby irreſiſtably working upon the comic feelings.

There never was a better drawn coxcomb of the party-coloured corps than Tom; the outlines are highly natural, and the finiſhing exquiſite. If an actor has any merit in the fop caſt, he muſt give pleaſure in this part, there is a pert jen ſe quoy about him truly diverting: it is ſaid this part and Phillis were added to the piece by Mr. CIBBER; if ſo, it is indebted to him for a very happy addition of vi⯑vacity; we have ſeen his ſon perform it with con⯑ſiderable pleaſure, but think he rather grimaced it too much; the ſame fault we find with Mr. WOODWARD, yet allow his ſtudied deportment more juſtifiable in this than many other parts, be⯑cauſe affected gentility will plan attitudes, while real grace of figure and motion proceeds from what Dr. JOHNSON calls ſpontaniety. Mr. DYER, by help of a ſong, has ſkipped through the valet agreeably enough; but for the author's meaning, and nature without any trick, we muſt appeal to the animated critical execution of Mr. KING.

Daniel, as we have already intimated, is a moſt pleaſing ſimpleton, as well written for the length of him as any part in the piece, and though ſo ſhort a time in ſight, is by many of an audience longeſt remembered. Mr. HAMILTON well deſerves ap⯑plauſe for the navité of his expreſſion, but nature's own comedian, Mr. WESTON, is droll beyond every degree of conception; thoſe who have not ſeen or heard him muſt fail of an adequate idea. Mr. WALDRON has lately ſlipped into his ſhoes, but hob⯑bles moſt horribly ſlip-ſhod.

KING JOHN. A TRAGEDY: By SHAKESPEARE.

THIS Play opens with peculiar dignity, being the royal audience of a French ambaſſador, whoſe very inſolent addreſs and arrogant demands, are re⯑plied to with ſuch ſpirit as we wiſh Britiſh monarchs upon ſuch an occaſion may ever ſhew. From an obſervation made by the queen mother, upon Cha⯑tillion's departure, it appears, that the kindling flame of war has been lighted by Lady Conſtance, in favour of her ſon Prince Arthur, whoſe juſt title the queen ſeems to admit.

Robert Falconbridge, and his brother Philip, are introduced for King John's deciſion concerning a plea of birth-right, Robert urging baſtardy againſt his brother. Philip's blunt, ſportive method of expreſſion, tainted too with licentiouſneſs, is abo⯑minable ſtuff for the ears and reſpectful decorum of royalty to be violated with; however, from tracing ſome marks in his viſage of that corrupt deſcent he ſeems to boaſt, after a ſlight altercation, the matter is ſettled thus; heritage of the paternal eſtate is granted to the legitimate brother, and Philip, with an invitation to join the warlike preparation, is knighted and confirmed in baſtardy, by being or⯑dered to take the royal name of Plantagenet.

After King John goes off, declaring his immedi⯑ate intentions of invading France, our new made [156] knight ſtays behind to meditate upon the change of his ſituation, which he does in a ſoliloquy of very quaint conceit; burthenſome to an audience, be⯑cauſe three-fourths of it is unintelligible to the ge⯑neral ear; and indeed, if not, is of very immaterial tendency. What enſues between this ſlighty blade and his mother, only ſerves to confirm what the king and queen took as fact, merely from appre⯑henſion.

We cannot think our author had any kind of rea⯑ſon for bringing Lady Falconbridge before an au⯑dience to confeſs her ſhame with ſuch effrontery, therefore cenſure this ſcene highly; and are of opi⯑nion, that the laſt ſeven lines of this Act, ſpoken by the Baſtard, are much more ſuitable to the bully of a brothel, than a perſon of good ſenſe, good breed⯑ing, and real ſpirit. This character might have been marked with oddity, as is evidently intended, without ſo much offence.

At the beginning of the ſecond act, by poetical conveyance, we meet the French king and his pow⯑ers before the walls of Angiers, where Conſtance and her ſon Arthur, yield him thanks for eſpouſing their diſtreſsful cauſe. Upon the arrival of Chatillion, his maſter is informed not only of King John's war⯑like reſolution, but that he has courſed him at the heels with ſuch unaccountable expedition, as to be within the ſound of beaten drums. We apprehend the play would have begun with much more pro⯑priety at this period, and there is not a ſingle paſ⯑ſage in the firſt act, ſave King John's reply to Cha⯑tillion, that could cauſe taſte or judgment to lament the omiſſion of it.

[157]Upon meeting his brother of France, King John firſt utters peace, and then, on refuſal, denounces war. To this the French monarch replies by argu⯑ments, in favour of Arthur's right; an altercation enſues, in which the ladies join, without ſeeming to have the leaſt regard for eſſential delicacy: what paſſes between Auſtria and the Baſtard alſo, is fitter for coalheavers than men of rank and education.

Upon a propoſition of ſurrendering all his domi⯑nions in right of Arthur, John treats King Philip with contempt, but offers protection to the young prince; this brings on a freſh brawl between the ladies; at length, the citizens of Angiers being ſummoned to their walls by ſound of trumpet, the two kings ſeverally addreſs them, denouncing threats on each ſide. Thus embarraſſed, and equally en⯑dangered, the citizens very prudently intimate, that whoever proves ſtrongeſt will prevail with them. This occaſions immediate determination of a battle, for which purpoſe both kings go off. Here a ſcene of tumult, and what we may juſtly ſtile theatrical confuſion, enſues, alarms! heralds! and a victory; after which the kings again meet, again debate, and ſtill talk in a high ſtrain, while Falconbridge flames between them with the ſpirit of Até.

After much controverſy, to very little purpoſe, more than to gratify a diſpoſition for talking, they agree to unite their powers againſt the reſiſting town; this ſharpens the wits of the citizens, who, by way of palliating matters, propoſe a match be⯑tween the Dauphin and Lady Blanche, a Spaniſh princeſs, nearly related to England; which matter being, like all other ſtate marriages, concluded by ſudden conſent of parties, without any appeal to [158] love, the gates of Angiers are thrown open, and our two kings enter in friendly terms. John promi⯑ſing to alleviate the pain ſuch a coalition muſt give Conſtance, by creating young Arthur Duke of Bretagny, and giving him the Town of Angiers.

Here Falconbridge is again left alone to deſcant upon the late tranſactions, which he does with keen and juſt ſatire; there is a ſort of word-catching in this ſoliloquy, ſome of the ideas are incumbered with ſuperfluous expreſſion, and the auditor's con⯑ception is fatigued with blameable obſcurity; not⯑withſtanding which faults, we allow it to contain uſeful thoughts and lamentable truths, reſpecting the influence intereſt has upon the higheſt as well as loweſt characters of life.

In the firſt ſcene of the third act, as it has been rightly ſettled by the ableſt editors, Conſtance ap⯑pears, poſſeſſed of ſtrong and natural reſentment againſt the French monarch, for entering into paci⯑fic connections with her enemy King John; ſhe ra⯑ther rates Lord Saliſbury for bringing her the news, and when he propoſes her going into the royal pre⯑ſence, ſhe replies with diſdainful refuſal, proſtrating herſelf, and making the ground her throne, as ſhe phraſes it.

Juſt returned from the Dauphin's nuptials, the two kings encounter this monument of grief. Up⯑on Philip's mention that ſo happy a day ſhall each annual return be kept a holy one, ſhe riſes, and vents her paſſion with much bitterneſs of expreſſion; her widow's curſe in the following terms is awfully nervous, and judiciouſly introduced by the author, as prophetic of what follows.

Her reproaches to boaſting Auſtria are of a very ſtinging nature, and the Baſtard's continuation of them ſharpens their pointedneſs exceedingly. Mr. POPE, and other commentators, have added ſome lines to make the Baſtard's behaviour more juſtifia⯑ble; but, if we conſider what paſſes in the ſecond Act, we find that Falconbridge indulges a general blunt oddity, that even treads cloſe upon the heels of majeſty; indeed, mention of Auſtria's having killed his father, is very proper to lay the foundation of hearted reſentment.

Pandulph, legate from the Pope, conſequently in thoſe days a miſchief-making prieſt, here enters; and, in terms of peremptory demand, enquires why the then Archbiſhop of Canterbury was deprived of his ſee: to this King John replies with very be⯑coming independency of ſpirit, but we think in ra⯑ther too harſh terms; dignity never ſits with grace upon abuſe. The thunderbolt of papal authority, excommunication, here iſſues from the enraged car⯑dinal, who urges King Philip to ſupport the church's quarrel againſt John; which, after ſome tolerable reſiſtance, and ſome well principled arguments, he is at laſt perſuaded to by the churchman's able ſo⯑phiſtry. This occaſions inſtantaneous declarations of hoſtility, and ſo very conveniently are both ar⯑mies ſituated, that without a ſingle line to give time for preparation, the battle joins. We apprehend [160] that the cardinal and Conſtance might have been furniſhed with ſomething to ſay, that would have been not only intereſting but of uſe, to give ſome trace of probability to the time of action.

After ſome martial flouriſhes, Falconbridge enters, as conqueror of Auſtria; we think the lion's ſkin as a trophy of honour worn by his father, ſhould be worn by the Baſtard through the remainder of the play. King John having taken Prince Arthur pri⯑ſoner, commits him to the care of Hubert; here a few more alarms ſucceed, and the Engliſh monarch beats the French behind the ſcenes; after which he comes on with the Queen Mother, &c. orders Fal⯑conbridge to haſte for England, there to raiſe againſt his coming taxes or contributions from the ſeveral orders of clergy.

We do not know any paſſage, in any piece, that can boaſt merit ſuperior to the method King John takes of working Hubert to the deſtruction of Ar⯑thur. His diffidence, his ſoothing, his breaks, pauſes, and diſtant hints, are moſt deſcriptive lines of nature in ſuch a depraved ſtate of agitation. What follows we think ſo rich a regale for poetical taſte, that we ſhould deem ourſelves very blameable not to offer it to the reader's palate.

Notwithſtanding the approbation we allow to that general excellence which diſtinguiſhes this ſpeech, yet we cannot avoid remarking the two words diſtinguiſhed by Italics. One o'clock in the morning, cannot with propriety be ſtiled the midnight bell—The word ſolemn would remove this objecti⯑on—Had baked thy blood; to us it appears that me⯑lancholy is a cold, chilling diſpoſition of mind; baked furniſhes an idea of heat, therefore we would ſubſtitute caked, as more conſonant to the meaning.

After King John has wrought up Hubert to his murderous purpoſe, and goes for England, the au⯑dience ſtill remain in France, to hear Philip lament the effects of his late defeat; and Conſtance breath deep lamentation for the captivity of her ſon. The unhappy mother's plaints are extremely forceable and tender; yet, amongſt many beauties, we muſt object to that ſpeech wherein ſhe ſpeaks of the courtſhip of death, in ſuch figurative extravagance. When Conſtance and the French king retire, Pan⯑dulph works on the Dauphin by ſome arguments of deep and probable policy, to retrieve his own ho⯑nour and that of France, by undertaking the inva⯑ſion of England; furniſhing warm hopes of ſuc⯑ceſs [162] from the internal diſquiets of King John's go⯑vernment, eſpecially thoſe of the enraged clergy, plundered by that monarch's order—A moſt alarm⯑ing circumſtance to churchmen, who, notwith⯑ſtanding they preach up contempt of this world, are peculiarly remarkable for coveting and holding faſt its riches.

At the beginning of the fourth act, humanity en⯑counters the painful circumſtance of Hubert's com⯑miſſion to burn out Arthur's eyes, to prevent, by the Ottoman method, his ſucceſſion or advancement to the throne; this ſcene, with reſpect to the young prince's part of it, does our author great credit; he has moſt happily traced nature, and has touched the tender feelings in a powerful manner, without ſtrain⯑ing them too much. Hubert's reluctance and pity are well deſcribed, the two characters impreſs an au⯑dience with compaſſion and eſteem, inſomuch, that tears of concern and ſatisfaction alternately flow.

When King John acquaints his peers with his ſecond coronation, the Lords Saliſbury and Pem⯑broke expreſs themſelves in very free terms con⯑cerning that meaſure: the latter complains of Ar⯑thur's impriſonment, and claims his enlargement, which the monarch conſents to, as ſuppoſing him diſpatched. Here Hubert enters, and tells the king that his order has been fulfilled: when Saliſ⯑bury and Pembroke are told of Arthur's death, they utter ſome expreſſions of vindictive diſcontent, and leave the king to conſider his perturbed, tickliſh ſituation. At this point of time a meſſenger enters, and increaſes his embarraſſment, by an account of the French invaſion, and his mother's death. The warlike operations of this play are conducted with [163] aſtoniſhing rapidity, for King John, between the firſt and ſecond acts, carried an army to France, which he landed before the French king heard of it; and between the third and fourth, the Dauphin lands a formidable power before the Eng⯑liſh know any thing of his approach. After Fal⯑conbridge is diſpatched to ſooth the diſcontented lords, Hubert re-enters, to acquaint the king of ſome prodigies which have appeared, and the popular confuſion occaſioned by Arthur's death; his de⯑ſcription, particularly in the latter part, has ſingular merit. The guilty monarch's recriminating upon one he ſuppoſes a ready agent to his ſanguine or⯑ders, is highly natural; the wicked always endea⯑vour to lighten the oppreſſive load of a bad con⯑ſcience, by throwing part of it upon another: Hu⯑bert's exculpation of himſelf comes favourably from the actor, but has more plauſibility than truth; for his aſſertion of a mind free from the taint of any murderous thought, is contradicted by the readineſs with which he underſtood and coincided with John's meaning; to have rendered him truly amiable, ſome paſſages might have been added to ſignify, that he only undertook the horrid charge to ſave young Arthur; at preſent he is left a very dubious or ra⯑ther culpable character.

The unhappy young prince, raiſed to a ſtate of deſparation by his captivity, and other painful cir⯑cumſtances, appears on the battlements of his pri⯑ſon, and reſolves upon attempting an eſcape; but by the fall puts an end to his life. The diſcon⯑tented Engliſh peers going to meet the Dauphin now enter, and are accoſted by Falconbridge with meſſage from the king, which they receive with [164] haughty terms. Upon ſeeing Arthur's body, their wrath grows more enflamed, and a ſolemn vow of vengeance is entered into.

Hubert, with a ſecond meſſage from the king, and intelligence that the prince is alive, comes in, when a warm altercation enſues; being ſhewn the corpſe of Arthur, Hubert pathetically aſſerts his own innocence, yet cannot gain credit from the lords, who openly avouch their deſign of joining the Dauphin: even Falconbridge ſeems ſtruck with Arthur's fate, and ſpeaks his doubts of Hubert. The picture he draws of the reigning political con⯑fuſion, is nervous and ſtriking, and merits being of⯑fered to the reader, but that we have already ex⯑ceeded in this play the propoſed limits of quota⯑tion.

At the beginning of the fifth act, we meet an in⯑cident utterly diſgraceful to Engliſh annals, King John's reſignation of his crown, and receiving it from Pandulph, as a mean dependancy on the Pope. His ſituation might politically require ſuch a con⯑ceſſion, but any man of even tolerable ſpirit would rather have died than ſhame an exalted ſtation ſo baſely; in return for the Engliſh monarch's ſub⯑miſſion, the cardinal goes to ſtop the Dauphin's hoſtile operations. Here the Baſtard enters with intelligence that ſeems to ſtagger John, whoſe em⯑barraſſment gives Falconbridge an opportunity of remonſtrating with great ſpirit and fire, eſpecially againſt Pandulph's palliative commiſſion; his ar⯑guments ſo far prevail, that he receives the royal authority to repel force by force.

In the next ſcene a ſolemn compact is entered into between the Dauphin and the Engliſh lords. Up⯑on [165] the cardinal's appearance, and the communicati⯑on of his pacific diſpoſition, the prince, with very becoming judgment and ſpirit, declines being pro⯑pertied by the churchman; who conſiders no fur⯑ther than as circumſtances relate to his maſter the Pope. During this parley, Falconbridge demands conference, in which he ſupports with ſoldierly de⯑meanour, the dignity of his king and native land; however, he loſes the gentleman in ſome of his re⯑marks, particularly where he poorly and indelicate⯑ly puns upon the beating of drums; bluntneſs and rudeneſs are very diſtinct operations of temper; good ſenſe approves the firſt, but condemns the laſt.

A battle here enſues, during which King John appears, labouring under a heavy indiſpoſition. Some tidings of great importance are brought by a meſſenger, but though of the favourable kind, the ſick monarch cannot reliſh them, but deſires to be conveyed to Swinſtead Abbey.

We are now conveyed to the French camp, where we meet Saliſbury, Pembroke, &c. in a ſtate of ſur⯑prize, at the ſtrength, number, and ſucceſs of King John's arms; to fill them with more aſtoniſhment and confuſion, Melun, a French count, who has received his death's wound, acquaints them with the Dauphin's deſign of cutting off all the revolters who have joined him, in caſe of victory; this de⯑termines them upon an immediate return to their allegiance, of which the Dauphin is informed, as well as of the fate his expected ſupplies have met, of being wrecked upon the Goodwin Sands; how⯑ever, he bears up with reſolution, and determines to ſtand the iſſue of another battle.

[166]A ſcene merely expletive, occurs between Fal⯑conbridge and Hubert, which is, and we think with juſtice, generally omitted in repreſentation; howe⯑ver, Hubert's account of the king's being poiſoned, ſhould be retained, and might come well enough from Saliſbury or Pembroke, juſt before John's en⯑trance.

We have now brought royalty to the laſt thread of life, and are ſorry to be under the neceſſity of obſerving, that our author has not diſplayed his uſual force of genius in what the expiring monarch ſays; his ſpeeches are too figurative for one in great pain, and are otherwiſe far ſhort of the circumſtances; he reſigns his breath too in a manner very unfavour⯑able for ſtage action; though a moſt abandoned politician, not one pang of a guilty conſcience is mentioned, which even in the midſt of diſtraction, ſeldom fails to ſhew itſelf.

The king no more, Falconbridge, with com⯑mendable ſpirit, urges union of forces, to expel the Dauphin and his invading powers; however, it appears, that loſſes and diſappointments have ob⯑liged that prince to concur in Pandulph's pacific plan, which the Engliſh lords and prince Henry ſeem ready to admit. This draws our piece to a conclu⯑ſion, and the whole is ſummed up with this excel⯑lent and truly Britiſh remark, uttered by Falcon⯑bridge.

[167]In writing this play, SHAKESPEARE diſclaimed every idea of regularity, and has huddled ſuch a ſeries of hiſtorical events on the back of one ano⯑ther, as ſhame the utmoſt ſtretch of probability; his muſe travels lightning winged, being here, there, and every where, in the ſpace of a few mi⯑nutes. We are by no means advocates for that pinching limitation which ſo diſadvantageouſly fet⯑ters modern compoſition; imagination will indulge ſeveral treſpaſſes of liberty, but muſt be offended when all the bounds of conception are arbitrarily trodden under foot.

In point of characters King John is a very diſa⯑greeable picture of royalty; ambitious and cruel; not void of ſpirit in the field, yet irreſolute and mean in adverſity; covetous, overbearing and im⯑politic; from what we can obſerve, totally unprin⯑cipled; ſtrongly tainted with the oppoſite appella⯑tions which often meet, fool and knave; during his life we have nothing to admire, at his fall nothing to pity.

There is no capital character within our know⯑ledge of more inequality; the greater part of what he has to ſay is a heavy yoke on the ſhoulders of an actor. His two ſcenes with Hubert are indeed maſterly, and do the author credit; like charity they may ſerve to cover a multitude of ſins; the dying ſcene is not favourable to action.

Mr. QUIN was the firſt we remember to ſee figure away in royal John; and, as in moſt of his tragedy undertakings, he lumbered through the part in a painful manner; growled ſome paſſages, bellowed others, and chaunted the reſt. Mr. CHURCHILL has ſneered at Mr. MOSSOP for brow-beating the French [168] king; had he ſeen and remembered the gentleman under conſideration, he would have thought the poor tame monarch in danger of being ſwallowed up alive by his voracious brother of England. Mr. SHERIDAN has, no doubt, impaired as his faculties are at preſent, very ſtriking merit, where he is working Hubert to the murder of the prince; his utterance and attendant looks are highly pictureſque. We allow him to be alſo deſerving of praiſe where he upbraids Hubert with ſo readily obeying his bloody orders; but in the other ſcenes of the four firſt acts, low as they are, he ſinks beneath them; in dying, he overacts to a degree of particular of⯑fence.

Mr. MOSSOP, whom we have been obliged to find fault with upon ſeveral occaſions, here de⯑ſerves our warmeſt praiſe, and we are happy to give it him. That ſtiffneſs and premeditate method which, in other characters, took off from his great powers and good conception, being leſs viſible in his King John. The rays of glowing merit here broke upon us unclouded and dazzling; where the author's genius ſoared aloft, he kept pace with equal wing; where Shakeſpeare flagged, he bore him up; wherefore, we are venturous enough to affirm, that no performer ever made more of good and bad materials mingled together, than Mr. MOSSOP did in this play. Mr. POWELL was too boyiſh, he want⯑ed weight and depth of expreſſion to excel in John.

Of the chip-in-pottage French king, we ſhall ſay nothing, as no actor can make any thing of him; nor can his ſon, for the like reaſon, deſerve much notice. However, we remember two performers that are worth mention, one Mr. LACY, who did [169] in the Dauphin than criticiſm had any right to ex⯑pect; and Mr. THE. CIBBER, who was undoubted⯑ly the verieſt bantam-cock of tragedy that ever crowed, ſtrutted, and flapped its wings on a ſtage.

The Cardinal is a very well drawn churchman of thoſe times, ſubtle, proud, iraſcible; rather prone to promote than prevent public calamities, where his maſter's intereſt ſeems concerned; a mere politician, not incumbered with delicacy of principle, or the feelings of humanity; he is not in favour of the actor, yet appeared very reſpectable in Mr. HA⯑VARD's performance of him, no other perſon ſtrikes our recollection.

The Baſtard is a character of great peculiarity, bold, ſpirited, free—indeed too free ſpoken; he utters many noble ſentiments, and performs brave actions; but in ſeveral places deſcends to keep at⯑tention from drowſing, at the expence of all due decorum; and what is very diſgraceful to ſerious compoſition, cauſes the weaker part of an audience to laugh at ſome very weak, punning conceits.

Mr. RYAN had ſome merit in this part, by no means equal to what he ſhewed in many others. The unhappy impediment of his utterance being more conſpicuous in it than uſual.

Mr. SHERIDAN has apologized for it, but from what we have already ſaid concerning his executive abilities, the reader may eaſily judge how very unlike the character he muſt be. Mr. HOLLAND was too ſtiff, and made too much uſe of his ſtrong lungs. Mr. SMITH is pretty and ſpirited, but wants weight and bluntneſs. We have ſeen one Mr. FLEETWOOD appear in it this ſeaſon, at the Haymarket, with eve⯑ry [170] fault of Mr. HOLLAND improved, and all his ſtrokes of merit diminiſhed.

If ever Mr. GARRICK's figure made againſt him, it was in this part; he ſtruck out ſome lights and beauties which we never diſcovered in the per⯑formance of any other perſon, but there was a cer⯑tain petitneſs which rather ſhrunk the character, and cut ſhort the uſual excellence of this truly great actor. Upon the whole, we are obliged to declare, that our idea of the Baſtard and SHAKESPEARE's meaning, to our knowledge, has never been pro⯑perly filled. Mr. BARRY, for external appearance and general execution, comes neareſt the point. This remark may ſerve to ſhew, that though we greatly admire, and have hitherto warmly praiſed our Engliſh Roſcius, we are not ſo idolatrouſly fond of his extenſive merit, as to think him always fore⯑moſt in the race of fame.

Hubert, though upon the whole an agreeable agent, is by no means an eſtimable perſonage; he appears in a very recommendatory light, and fa⯑vours repreſentation where there are any tolerable feelings. Meſſrs. SPARKS and BERRY did him very conſiderable juſtice, and Mr. BENSLEY has exhibited him with deſerved approbation; we cannot ſay ſo much for Mr. GIBSON. At the Haymarket, Mr. GENTLEMAN has paſſed muſter, as not having miſ⯑conceived or ill expreſſed the part; but we cannot, as a public performer, congratulate him much on the happineſs of his figure or features.

Prince Arthur is a very amiable and intereſting character of the drama; we have ſeen it done af⯑fectingly by ſeveral children, whoſe names we for⯑get; however recollect being particularly pleaſed [171] with Miſs REYNOLDS, now Mrs. SAUNDERS, ſome twenty years ſince.

Who did the revolting lords has entirely eſcaped our memory, except at Mr. FOOTE's, this ſummer, and thoſe gentlemen who perſonated them there may wiſh to be forgot alſo.

Every one of the female characters are too con⯑temptible for notice except Conſtance; ſhe indeed ſeems to have been an object of great concern with the author, and very ſeldom fails to make a deep impreſſion upon the audience; her circumſtances are peculiarly calculated to ſtrike the feeling heart; dull, very dull muſt that ſenſation be which is not affected with the diſtreſs of a tender parent, expreſſed in ſuch pathetic, forceable terms; even Mrs. WOF⯑FINGTON, who, from diſſonance of tones might be called the ſcreech-owl of tragedy, drew many tears in this part; to which her elegant figure and ade⯑quate deportment did not a little contribute. A fine woman robed with grief, is a leading object of pity.

Mrs. CIBBER, in the whole ſcope of her great ex⯑cellence, never ſhewed her tragic feelings and ex⯑preſſion to more advantage than in Conſtance; there was a natural tendency to melancholly in her fea⯑tures, which heightened in action, and became ſo true an index of a woe-fraught mind, that with the aſſiſtance of her nightingale voice, ſhe became irre⯑ſiſtable; and almoſt obliged us to forget every other character in raptured contemplation of her merit.

Mrs. BELLAMY fell far, very far ſhort of the fore⯑mentioned lady, and cathedralized the unhappy princeſs offenſively. Mrs. YATES and Mrs. BARRY, [172] have both powerful capabilities for the part, but can never juſtly hope to equal their great predeceſſor Mrs. CIBBER, who muſt be always remembered with pleaſure and regret by all perſons of taſte, who had the happineſs to ſhed the ſacrifice of tears at the ſhrine of her melting powers. Mrs. PHIL⯑LIPPINA BURTON was indiſcribably deplorable.

The ſhameful irregularity of plot we have alrea⯑dy remarked; in the characters there is variety. The Baſtard is an original and pleaſing oddity, though ſomewhat upon the extravaganza; the lan⯑guage is bold, flowing, and, where it ought to be, pathetic; yet in many places too figurative, ob⯑ſcure and turgid. As to moral, there ſeems to be no other deduction but this; that King John's crimes having merited his fate, the juſtice of provi⯑dential diſpenſation is thereby vindicated. This play wants much alteration to make it quite agree⯑able on the ſtage, and is at preſent we think a better reading than acting piece.

Before we diſmiſs this tragedy, permit us to offer a ſhort anecdote related by a gentleman who ſaw it performed at Portſmouth laſt war. The French party coming on with white cockades, a zealous tar ſhouts from the gallery, Harkee, you Mr. Moun⯑ſeers, ſtrike the white flags out of your nabs, or b——— my eyes, but I'll bombard you. A general laugh went through the houſe, but the actors deem⯑ing it merely a tranſient joke, took no notice; up⯑on which, our enraged ſon of Neptune gave the word fire, and immediately half a dozen apples flew, which worked the deſired effect; three cheers enſued, and this incident diffuſed ſuch a ſpirit through the houſe, that during the reſt of the play loud huzza's attended the exits and entrances of King John's [173] party, while King Philip and the Dauphin, notwith⯑ſtanding the polite removal of their cockades, ſuſ⯑tained many rough ſtrokes of ſea wit.

The HYPOCRITE. A COMEDY altered from CIBBER: By Mr. BICKERSTAFF.

NOtwithſtanding the NON JUROR did its author great credit in its original ſtate, yet we muſt cordi⯑ally applaud the deſign of turning it into the pre⯑ſent form. The laureat's ſatire was political, the objects of which being now almoſt forgotten, it be⯑came obſolete; beſides, we always looked on the old piece as heavy for want of ſuch ſeaſoning as is mingled with this alteration, which we are now a⯑bout to conſider.

It opens with a ſcene between Sir John Lambert and the Colonel, his ſon, who is expoſtulating warm⯑ly againſt the influence allowed to Dr. Cantwell: Sir John, the weak proſelyte of enthuſiaſm, backs his own opinion with ſome paſſion, and much pre⯑judice. The converſation turning upon Mr. Darn⯑ley's addreſſes to Charlotte, the baronet objects to that gentleman, as not being pious enough for a ſon-in-law; and being told of his coming to obtain final conſent, the father determines to go out that he [174] may avoid ſeeing him; declaring, at the ſame time, that he has another man in view to marry his daugh⯑ter. Colonel Lambert is ſtartled at this informa⯑tion, and ſeems to apprehend it may be ſome favourite of the Doctor's. Charlotte appearing, he opens the ſubject; from her natural vivacity ſhe ſports with his grave beginning, till he calls her a giddy devil; we wiſh the laſt word had been changed for a politer one; a lady may, by an ex⯑travagant admirer, be called a ſaint, and that's ſuf⯑ficiently ridiculous, but in pleaſantry to ſtile one a fiend, is not a mark of good breeding; we know there are precedents, but they don't invalidate our objection, which lies as much againſt lack of mean⯑ing as indelicacy.

On being told that her father is violently againſt the match with Darnley, the young lady expreſſes ſatisfaction, as ſhe ſeems to think that difficulties render an amour more engaging: her contempt of the addition her fortune may receive from Sir John's conſent, is ſpirited, and declaring herſelf a fine wo⯑man, pleaſant. When the Colonel mentions that Sir John has a perſon in his eye for her, ſhe, with the true feelings of coquetry, enquires who it is, and appears to find great pleaſure from the idea of an additional lover. We have a ſtrong objection to what this lady ſays when preſſed to a ſingle attach⯑ment in Darnley's favour, notwithſtanding the paſ⯑ſage always creates a laugh; the compariſon of her⯑ſelf to an empty houſe to let, is at leaſt vulgar and trite, if not licentious; it is mere gallery wit.

Charlotte, by ſlipping out an obſervation of Darn⯑ley's being rather jealous in his temper, ſhews that he claims ſome degree of her notice, which the Colonel [175] remarks: her lover enters, and for ſome time ſhe pretends not to perceive him, but repeats, as if in ſoliloquy, ſome poetical lines; the lover preſſes to gain her attention. At laſt, he makes rather a peeviſh remark, and draws upon himſelf ſome ſpirit⯑ed raillery; this gives him a turn, which we think of an ungracious caſt. Mention of a rival agitates Darnley very much, and he makes eager enquiry concerning who the perſon is; the Colonel ſuggeſt⯑ing that it is probably ſomebody of Cantwell's recommendation, the lover ſeems to think the Doctor is his friend; Charlotte here takes an odd turn, and makes a whimſical exit, very advantageous to a capable actreſs.

After his ſiſter is gone, the Colonel aſſures Darn⯑ley of being in his miſtreſs's favour; and hints, that if Sir John's conſent can be obtained, the Doctor may be brought over by young Lady Lambert, who apparently has great intereſt over him, and as ſuppoſed from amorous motives; this inclination of the Hypocrite for his patron's wife, is going to be accounted for, when the explanation is ſtopped by the appearance of Lady Lambert, Seyward, and the Doctor. Cantwell ſets off in the true methodiſtical ſtile of ſelf accuſation; and obſerving, that he is maintained too luxuriouſly for his ſpiritual welfare, declares his intention of quitting the family for a leſs ſenſual ſituation: ſuch an irreparable loſs ſhocks her ladyſhip, who reprobates herſelf alſo, and there⯑fore intreats his ſtay upon the tendereſt terms of perſuaſion, to promote her thorough reformation.

The Colonel returns with Darnley, when, after reciprocal ſalutation, the wickedneſs of going to plays is brought in view, and the old lady warmly [176] ſeconds her ghoſtly guide. Some words ariſing be⯑tween the Colonel and Cantwell, the former reproves the latter's inſolence with becoming ſpirit, which ſacrilegious violence drives off her ladyſhip, filled with apprehenſions of ſome extraordinary puniſh⯑ment for ſuch violence to ſo pious a character; and the Doctor himſelf retires, with threatning to ac⯑quaint Sir John. A few ſpeeches intervene, re⯑ſpecting the manner of his getting into the family, when he returns, following Charlotte, who ſeems to be much offended at his intruſion upon her; the Colonel and her lover alſo, both expreſs reſentment at his bolting into her room, without any previous notice; the Doctor pleads Sir John's authority for what he has done, and deports himſelf with much haughtineſs; Charlotte being queſtioned as to the particular offence ſhe has received, gives a pleaſant, but we think reprehenſible account of it.

In the following part of this ſcene, Charlotte a⯑gain indulges her ſportive humour with Darnley, whoſe patience is put to ſevere trial; however, at laſt, ſhe gives him leave to hope. They are inter⯑rupted and ſurprized by the entrance of Sir John, who, without uttering one ſyllable, takes his daugh⯑ter off the ſtage in a very abrupt manner: this Co⯑lonel Lambert imputes to the Doctor, and laments the weakneſs of a father, whoſe diſpoſition and un⯑derſtanding are naturally good; however, he hints having a thought that may prevent the Hypocrite's bringing ruin on the family: ſo ends the firſt act.

By a ſoliloquy of Seyward's, at the beginning of the ſecond, we find he is deeply in Cantwell's ſecret tranſactions; and he mentions one of his villainous deſigns, which appears to be no other [177] than cutting off Charlotte, by a deed of ſettlement, with a ſhilling, unleſs ſhe marries him. It appears, that Seyward is ſhocked at this knavery, and ſti⯑mulated by a paſſion he has conceived for the young lady, determines upon uſing his power to prevent the pernicious ſettlement from being per⯑fected. Sir John enters, and ſends Seyward off to tranſcribe hymns for his ſuppoſed uncle, the pious Doctor.

Upon Charlotte's ſpeaking in favourable terms of Seyward's good breeding and neatneſs, her father up⯑braids her with not conſidering a man's real merit; from whence, after ſome grave, preparatory ſpeeches, he explains his intention, and propoſes the Doctor, not by name, but deſcriptively; the young lady rallies, her father's notions of life and matrimony in a ſenſible and agreeable manner. At length, when he orders her to think no more of Darnley, and plumply names Cantwell, ſhe burſts into a horſe-laugh; then growing ſerious, ſuggeſts an ob⯑jection which, as ſhe rightly obſerves, is with fathers in general a weighty one, the Doctor's want of for⯑tune; however, Sir John intimates a deſign of giv⯑ing him one. The baronet being called by a meſ⯑ſage from his ſpiritual guide, Charlotte confeſſes to her ſtep-mother, young Lady Lambert, painful ap⯑prehenſion of her father's doing any thing that may impair the fortune of her brother, the Colonel, who, upon being informed that his ſiſter is deſtined ſo: Cantwell, is ſo enraged, that he hints to Lady Lam⯑bert the Doctor's paſſion for her, which, upon being preſſed, ſhe acknowledges to have perceived. What Colonel Lambert ſays about the Turkey-cocks, might as well have been omitted; the characters [178] are too ſerious for joking here; beſides, the idea con⯑veyed is not very ſuitable to modeſt ladies.

When the Colonel hears of his father's intention of ſettling a fortune on his chaplain, he thinks it time to lay ſome plan for the Hypocrite's deſtructi⯑on, and this he throws upon Lady Lambert, re⯑queſting her to encourage the Doctor's addreſſes, from which he will deviſe the means of overturning all his ſchemes and influence; this ſhe promiſes to conſider of. The Colonel then goes off upon an appointment to meet Darnley.

Old Lady Lambert enters, and complains of Charlotte's wearing thin lace over her breaſt, as Dr. Cantwell deems it indecent; Charlotte gives her opinion of the ſuppoſed ſaint in pretty tart terms, yet the old lady perſeveres, and makes the following truly characteriſtical remark: ‘"How has he wean⯑ed me from temporal connections; my heart is now ſet upon nothing ſublunary, and I thank hea⯑ven, I am now ſo inſenſible to every thing in this limbo of vanity, that I could ſee you, my ſon, my daughters, my brothers, my grand children, all ex⯑pire before me, and mind it no more than the going out of ſo many ſnuffs of candle."’ There never was a better picture of methodiſtical philoſophy, which annihilates every trace of ſocial feelings to a miſtaken, ridiculous ſpirituality.

Sir John and Cantwell join the old lady, when the baronet, with much ſeeming anxiety of mind, begs of his mother to join in ſoliciting the Doctor to ſtay in his family, from whence the dear creature pre⯑tends to go, as thinking himſelf obnoxious to Sir John's children, conſequently the cauſe of animoſi⯑ties and diſturbances amongſt the family: this [179] plauſible humiliation of mind, plays a deep game of policy, eſpecially where he propoſes to return Sir John his deed of ſettlement, and ſeems to lament the Colonel's perilous, reprobate ſituation. Char⯑lotte being mentioned, Cantwell imputes her refuſal to female modeſty, and thinks ſhe may be wrought upon, but adviſes that the matter may reſt awhile.

Maw-worm, a new character, and one of the ſelect, is introduced; as laughable and well-drawn a per⯑ſonage as we know. This ignorant, melancholly ſprig of enthuſiaſm, is moſt exquiſitely delineated, and calls powerfully on the riſible faculties; if it was not too great an infringement upon our due bounds, we would tranſcribe the whole of this ex⯑cellent ſcene; to give only a part would be injuri⯑ous, for there is an admirable connection of plea⯑ſantries, the jokes and blunders happily ariſing out of each other. It is much to be lamented that there are ſo many Maw-worms in real life.

After old Lady Lambert departs, Cantwell gives Seyward ſome papers, with an obſervation to lay them where they may be ſoon found, as he ſhall have occaſion for them in the afternoon. This fur⯑niſhes Seyward with an idea that matters are ripe⯑ning faſt, ſo he determines to acquaint Charlotte; ſhe appears, reading Pope's Homer, and aſks ſome queſtions concerning the original, of which ſhe knows two words. Upon repeating them, and de⯑ſiring an explanation, Seyward applies them to his own purpoſe, ſpeaking both the original and tran⯑ſlation with ſuch a glow of amorous emphaſis, that Charlotte takes notice of it. In what follows, he diſcovers to her, that Cantwell, though ſuppoſed his uncle, is not really ſo; then pathetically tells his [180] ſituation, lamenting that he has joined in any of the Doctor's vile ſchemes, even by connivance. Char⯑lotte perceives in the progreſs of their interview, that Seyward loves her: when he has acquainted her with the deed of ſettlement, containing a proviſo of four thouſand pounds for her in caſe ſhe marries the Doctor, and a total diſinheritance of her brother, her volatility vaniſhes; ſhe feels ſeriouſly, and requeſt⯑ing the deed from Seyward, ſhe concludes the act, with deſiring him to meet her at a lawyer's in the Temple.

At the beginning of the third act we are intro⯑duced into Charlotte's dreſſing-room, where ſhe is acquainted by Betty, her maid, that Mr. Darnley had been to enquire for her, and ſeemed uneaſy at her not being at home, which ſhe interprets into jealouſy, and reſolves to teize him. At this unlucky moment he comes, and meets with ſo whimſical a reception, that he remarks upon it; the colliſion of converſa⯑tion of two lovers is deſcribed here with ſpirit, a good deal of acid, as Lady Townly calls it, is mingled, and Charlotte very juſtly mortifies the im⯑patience of her gallant. At length the ſubject is waved, and Darnley informs his miſtreſs that he has heard from Colonel Lambert, Sir John's deſign of eſpouſing her to the Doctor; here the amantium irae breaks out again, and poor Darnley is wound up to a pitiable pitch of uneaſineſs; he makes an effort to ſhake off her power, but ſhe plays him ſo very judi⯑ciouſly, that he turns ſoft, and almoſt melts her.

When brought to a very critical point of feeling, Seyward's entrance gives Charlotte a very ſeaſonable pauſe: what ſhe ſays to that young man again a⯑larms Darnley's jealouſy, who queſtions him what buſineſs he has with the lady. Colonel Lambert [181] enters, and finding his friend ſtrongly agitated, kindly endeavours to talk him into a calm, promiſes his aſſiſtance, and appoints a meeting in the Park: Charlotte re-enters, and the Colonel aſſumes his friend's buſineſs directly, but cannot bring his ſiſter to any ſatisfactory explanation.

Young Lady Lambert appears, ſays ſhe has de⯑ſired a conference with Cantwell, and mentions her determination to give a good account of him. At ſight of the Doctor, Charlotte and her brother retire: after a well conducted tete-a-tete with the lady, wherein the lamblike wolf plainly ſhews his iniqui⯑tous deſign upon his patron's wife, the Colonel ruſhes precipitately in, and menaces diſcovery to his father; Cantwell, with quick policy, turns his meaning to the love he has for Charlotte. During this confuſion Sir John enters, and is told by his ſon of the Doctor's paying addreſſes to Lady Lam⯑bert; this gives the ſactified knave an opportunity of working upon the baronet's credulity, with all the plauſible addreſs of hypocriſy, and ſo far tri⯑umphs, that Sir John in rage forbids the Colonel his houſe. Here Cantwell's Chriſtian charity art⯑fully interpoſes in favour of his enemy, and he pro⯑poſes a reconciliation, which the Colonel very pro⯑perly declines; this confirms Sir John in reſpect of the ſettlement, and gives the Doctor a plea for ac⯑cepting it, which he declares is only as a truſtee.

Seyward and Charlotte begin the fourth act; by their converſation we are informed that a deed has been ſigned in preſence of the former, who, for his friendly interpoſition, is promiſed favour with re⯑gard to his own circumſtances; however, he hints that intereſt was not his motive ſo much as love: [182] the young lady's treatment of him here ſhews a good underſtanding, and a candid mind; ſhe commends his modeſty, avows a previous paſſion, and recom⯑mends avoiding to play, moth like, about a flame which may be fatal.

After a very characteriſtic ſoliloquy, Lady Lam⯑bert informs Charlotte that the Doctor, by Sir John's expreſs deſire, is coming to be his own ad⯑vocate for her favour: being introduced by Betty, the chambermaid, Cantwell opens the interview with obſerving, that he conſiders himſelf as a perſon not very agreeable to Charlotte, which opinion ſhe moſt cordially confirms; after receiving her con⯑temptuous treatment of him with much compoſure, he acquaints her that ſhe muſt not marry without his conſent; then cauſes her to confeſs an inclina⯑tion for Darnley, and modeſtly offers to favour that propoſal, in caſe ſhe gives up half the four thouſand pounds allotted for her by Sir John; this ſhe comes into, and receives warning from Cantwell not to at⯑tempt any prejudice againſt him, as any thing of that nature muſt retort upon herſelf. When he is gone off, a ſhort ſcene occurs, wherein the Colonel informs his ſiſter of having laid the foundation of Cantwell's overthrow. Darnley appears; after ſome ſtrokes of amorous dalliance, he relates what has been done in Seyward's affair, and how far the Doctor's villainy is detected. The young lady, with much good nature, recommends Seyward to her lover's patronage, and he with great gentility promiſes it. The Colonel returning unſeen, hears his ſiſter ſtill trifling with her gallant, and interpoſes, going ſo far as even to fix a wedding-day for her; and, at length, he ſo far prevails, that ſhe gives her [183] hand to Darnley, and taking the gallant into another chamber, the fourth act is concluded.

We meet the lady and her ſwain at the beginning of the fifth act, converſing upon the bargain ſhe has proviſionally made with Cantwell for his con⯑ſent, which Darnley ſeems willing to fulfil. Sir John joins them, and after apologizing for his abrupt behaviour, enters upon the topic of his daughter's marriage; he acknowledges the Doctor has quitted his claim, yet ſtill ſeems determined to have him for a ſon-in-law. Charlotte, warmed with indignation, lays a heavy charge againſt the Doctor, and being provoked by her father's obſtinate credu⯑lity, declares her reſolution to marry Darnley at all events. Charlotte's earneſtneſs, and his lady's pro⯑poſition of giving him occular demonſtration, make him conſent to ſtand behind a ſcreen, while Lady Lambert gives his hypocritical favourite an audience.

When the fair ſpoken ſon of impiety appears, her ladyſhip, with powerful artifice, ſeems apprehenſive of another ſurprize, and cautions him to faſten the doors; then enters upon the declaration of love he has made, and plainly intimates, that it was not on⯑ly acceptable, but very agreeable to her. Thus ſhe lures him on till he comes to the point, and goes ſo far as to ſay openly, that he can lead Sir John by the noſe; here the enraged baronet ruſhes forwards, and loads him with juſt accuſations, which Cantwell ſtrives for ſome time to throw off by calm evaſion; but, being preſſed, fires into reſentment, and advert⯑ing to the deed of ſettlement, deſires Sir John to walk out of his houſe. While matters are in this ſtate, Maw-worm and old Lady Lambert enter; upon the baronet's telling his mother that the [184] Doctor is a villain, ſome very ludicrous remarks drop from his diſciple, who wont believe any thing to his prejudice. Charlotte, in a fright, acquaints her father that ſhe apprehends murder, as the Doctor was heard at high words with Seyward, and immediately after a piſtol went off. This matter is ſoon cleared up by Seyward; after which Cantwell is going off, but Colonel Lambert meets him with a tipſtaff, properly attended, and delivers him into cuſtody. Even in this ſituation of conviction and dilemma, his inſolence continues, and he boaſts of being maſter of the houſe: in this, however, he is defeated, by having a deed quite the reverſe of what he imagines; here he is carried off, we think with too much tameneſs on his ſide: the old lady and Maw-worm go off, not convinced.

After the hero is thus diſpoſed of, the piece is brought to an excellent concluſion by the following ſpeech, delivered by Charlotte, when Sir John, in the heat of his vexation ſays, that henceforth he ſhall hold in abhorrence every thing which bears the ap⯑pearance of piety: ‘"Nay now, dear ſir, I muſt take the liberty to tell you, you carry things too far, and go from one extreme to another—What? becauſe a worthleſs wretch has impoſed upon you, under the fallacious ſhew of auſtere grimace, will you needs have it every body is like him, confound the good with the bad, and conclude there are no truly reli⯑gious in the world? Leave, my dear ſir, ſuch raſh concluſions to fools and libertines; let us be care⯑ful to diſtinguiſh between virtue and the appearance of it; guard, if poſſible, againſt doing honour to hypocriſy; but, at the ſame time, let us allow there is no character in life greater or more valuable, than [185] that of the truly devout; nor any thing more no⯑ble or more beautiful, than the fervour of a ſincere piety."’

The plot of this play is regular, and ſufficiently intricate without being improbable or obſcure; the incidents are well ranged, an agreeable ſuſpence is properly kept up, and the cataſtrophe gratifies every liberal mind; the characters, which exhibit variety within natural bounds, we ſhall, according to the rule of this work, conſider ſeparately.

Sir John Lambert is poſſeſſed of that kind of weakneſs which deſigning men work on at plea⯑ſure: enthuſiaſm flouriſhes, and indeed can only exiſt in flexible underſtandings; it is a weed that like thiſtles among corn, deſtroys the nobleſt har⯑veſt of the mind. The baronet appears to be a very well-meaning man, a good huſband, and a tender father; yet, under the abominable influence of a canting knave, ſeems ready to violate every princi⯑ple of thoſe two leading characters in the ſocial com⯑pact. In repreſentation this baronet is neither for nor againſt the actor, and we preſume ourſelves right when we think as well of Mr. PACKER, as of any body elſe that could be put into the part.

Darnley appears to be poſſeſſed of good qualities, but has a taint of ſuſpicion and impatience in his temper by no means agreeable. Charlotte's method of making him feel his failing is ſenſible, and occa⯑ſions much pleaſantry. The circumſtances he is placed in are not very deſirable to a performer, and therefore we could wiſh that ſo eſtimable an actor as Mr. REDDISH was eaſed of him: that gentleman, by being a little ſpared, would riſe faſter in public eſtimation; beſides, we dont conceive Darnley to [186] be in his ſtile of acting. It is no doubt a compli⯑ment and advantage to an author to have as many capital performers in his drama as poſſible, but it is rather ſevere upon one who ſtands in the firſt light, to be either put out of or below his ſphere.

Colonel Lambert is a free, ſenſible, ſpirited gen⯑tleman, who has ſo little perſonal concern with the piece, that he might eaſily be cut out and not be much miſſed; however, he is not at all a diſagreea⯑ble object, and we wiſh he was in the hands of ſome perſon poſſeſſing more vivacity than Mr. JEFFERSON.

Seyward is a very amiable young perſon, whoſe ſentiments we approve, and whoſe ſituation we pity; the circumſtance of his love is at beſt but trifling, and vaniſhes we know not how; it might have been omitted, and then the part he acts againſt Cantwell, coming from diſintereſted honeſty, would place him in a fairer degree of praiſe. We remember to have ſeen Mr. PALMER do this part in the original play, with much more feeling and propriety than Mr. CAUTHERLY manifeſts in it at preſent, not but we allow the latter to be very tolerable, as acting goes at preſent; Mr. ROSS was much the beſt.

Doctor Cantwell, much more emphatically called Wolf, by CIBBER, is a very high finiſhed piece of villainy; proud, avaricious, ſenſual, ungrateful and hypocritical; one who ſacrifices conſcience, honeſty and religion, to the baſeſt, underhand purpoſes; a monſter in nature, and a diſgrace to the human race. We remember to have heard a very ſenſible remark from a liberal, moral judge of mankind, that chap⯑lains in general, of every religion, have oftner pro⯑moted domeſtic confuſion than piety; and we can⯑not help highly approving the expreſſion of a Ro⯑man [187] Catholic nobleman, who, during the rebellion of forty-five, ſhewed himſelf zealous in the Pro⯑teſtant cauſe; upon being aſked his reaſon, he ſaid he liked the preſent form of government, and wiſhed Popery to be kept out of the kingdom; for if that prevailed, his chaplains, who now would bear a meſſage for him, would turn the tables, and make him their meſſage carrier. Cantwell is placed in very judicious points of view, to ſhew the danger of ſuch ſanctified vermin, who creep, ſnake-like, into your boſom, to ſting you mortally. His vil⯑lainy is revealed by juſt degrees, and his fate is well ſuited to his deſerts.

There is more difficulty in doing this character juſtice than is commonly imagined, much and ſtrong expreſſion of countenance is requiſite, as well as ſmooth and nervous utterance. We have ſeen the Doctor perſonated with great ability and much ap⯑plauſe, by both Mr. THE. CIBBER, and Mr. SPARKS; however, they were both too mechanical, wanting that eſſential eaſe and plauſibility which makes us give Mr. KING the preference.

Maw-worm we owe to the alterer of this piece, and are highly obliged to him for ſo rich an im⯑provement of the laureat's production. We are equally obliged to Mr. WESTON for his inimitable ſupport of it: Mr. MOODY once exhibited this riſi⯑ble piece of religious inſanity, but we hope never will again; and Mr. WALDRON was ſo much out of his depth, when the managers popped him, like Mr. FOOTE's Lindamira on for it, that we are a⯑mazed the young man was not overwhelmed by the tide of popular diſpleaſure; if he is held forth as the turtle of low comedy, we beg leave to borrow an [188] idea from Mr. COLMAN, and aſſert, he has not one bit of the green fat about him.

We hear Mr. WESTON is gone to Scotland; is it not amazing and vexatious to all lovers of the dra⯑ma, that when there is ſuch a lamentable, unpa⯑ralelled lack of merit, at both houſes, two ſuch in⯑trinſic performers as Meſſrs. WOODWARD and WES⯑TON, ſhould be driven to a northern migration. Is this gratitude to the public? oh ſhame!

Old Lady Lambert is alſo an additional cha⯑racter, of no great conſequence, yet well conceived; as by her we perceive that perſons of rank and edu⯑cation are liable to catch the infection of enthuſiaſm, as well as thoſe of the lower and more uncultivated claſs. Her ideas of religious purity are diverting, and we have no objection to Mrs. BRADSHAW's me⯑thod of delivering them; ſhe maintains the ſancti⯑fied formality in a very ſuitable manner.

Her daughter-in-law is a very good, conformable young wife, to an odd kind of an elderly huſband; ſhe ſeems deſirous to promote his happineſs and the welfare of his family, but has nothing to ſay worth notice, and at beſt can only be conſidered as an a⯑greeable daudle: Mrs. W. BARRY deſerves a better part, and does what ſhe can with this.

Charlotte is undoubtedly the beſt drawn coquette, and the moſt defenſible one on the ſtage; ſhe likes adulation, yet has ſincerity enough to own it; ſhe loves a man, yet has diſcernment to ſee his particu⯑lar failing, and reſolution to laugh him pleaſantly out of it; ſhe is ornamented with generoſity, ſprightlineſs and wit, nor is her vanity any way of⯑fenſive. Mrs. WOFFINGTON, in the NON JUROR, obtained ſingular applauſe, not without great merit; [189] however, there was ſuch an uncharacteriſtic affecta⯑tion about her, that ſome degree of diſguſt muſt at⯑tend it; and ſhe marked thoſe paſſages which had any reliſh of licentiouſneſs very offenſively. Mrs. PRITCHARD had much more eaſe, and equal ſpirit of expreſſion; but was, from corpulence, ſo very abſurd an appearance, that however our ears might be pleaſed, our eyes were offended. Mrs. ABING⯑TON being a very agreeable mixture of theſe ladies much freer than the former, and more delicate than the latter, fills our idea of Charlotte to every degree of ſatisfaction. Mr. BICKERSTAFF, in his preface, has paid this accompliſhed actreſs a very genteel and juſt compliment.

As we have obſerved at the beginning of our cri⯑ticiſms on this piece, the NON JUROR was growing obſolete, it was therefore highly judicious to give the ſatire a new and more intelligible form: CIB⯑BER's dialogue, though not remarkably correct, is natural, eaſy, and ſpirited; the additions in no ſhape diſgrace him, and there are ſome omiſſions which do him credit. Upon the whole, we heartily wiſh the HYPOCRITE encouragement on the ſtage, and attention in the cloſet.

THEODOSIUS. A TRAGEDY: By LEE.

THE tragedy of THEODOSIUS opens with all the pomp of religious pageantry; a decorated al⯑tar, the figure of Conſtantine kneeling to an air ſuſ⯑pended croſs, prieſts, choriſters and muſic: after a preparatory hymn and chorus, Atticus, the high prieſt, enters into conference with Leontine, a phi⯑loſopher. By what paſſes between them, we find that Theodoſius, from a fixed melancholly on his mind, has determined to lay aſide the reins of go⯑vernment for holy retirement: Leontine, who had been tutor to him and a Perſian prince, called Va⯑ranes, delineates theſe royal characters, and ſignifies, that the latter, attended by his daughter, is coming on a viſit to the former.

Varanes approaching with Athenais they retire; the ſhort ſcene which occurs between theſe lovers, means no more than to declare his warmth of paſ⯑ſion and her diffidence, ariſing from diſparity of rank between the heir of empire and a poor philo⯑ſopher's daughter. The prince's declarations ma⯑nifeſt rather an impetuous than a prudent paſſion. The approach of Theodoſius being announced by ſound of inſtruments they retire, and make way for the Emperor, attended by his two ſiſters, Marina and Flavilla, who have determined to take the veil.

Previous to his ſpiritual admiſſion, the Imperial devotee confeſſes to Atticus, in a very pleaſing de⯑ſcriptive [191] narration, that love, to an incurable degree, is the cauſe of that anxiety which exiles him from public life. Leontine pronounces the approach of Varanes, who immediately enters, warmed with the glow of early and ſincere friendſhip; their advert⯑ing to the ſports of former days, the theatre and the field, is very natural for juvenile, as well as aged minds; what Varanes ſays of hunting, is poetically imagined and well expreſſed: the prince uſes his endeavours to perſuade Theodoſius from his pur⯑poſe; however, ſeems ſtruck with the awful cere⯑mony of admitting nuns, and by the concluſive ſpeech of the firſt act, ſhews as if he was half won over to retirement; the ſentiments he utters, and his remark upon the weight that royalty lays on mental freedom, are pretty, but horridly diſgraced by rhime.

At the beginning of the ſecond act, Pulcheria, Theodoſius's ſiſter, who is inveſted with imperial authority, hears the claſh of ſwords, and ſoon after is accoſted by Marcian, a Roman general, who apo⯑logizes for quarrelling in the palace, by reciting the particulars of his provocation; in doing of which he throws out many low and indecent obſervations; theſe, we preſume, the author meant as proofs of martial bluntneſs, but are in reality abſolute breaches of decorum, cenſurable to the laſt degree, and the more ſo as being quite unneceſſary; his reflections upon court effeminacy are, no doubt, very natural effuſions of an honeſt mind, irritated by the buzzing, gaudy inſects of court ſun-ſhine, and this part of the ſcene we highly approve.

Openneſs of expreſſion becomes an honeſt and brave character, but to bully a lady of exalted ſta⯑tion, [192] as this militarian does, is beyond all bearing, and we think ſhe ſuſtains his abuſe too long; how⯑ever, at length, becoming ſpirit breaks forth, and ſhe reproves him in ſevere terms, at the ſame time baniſhing him after three days; there is ſomething whimſical enough in Pulcheria's intimation aſide, that he is once to lord it over her. Lucius, upon ſeeing his friend, the general, droop, at receiving ſo harſh and ſudden a ſentence, propoſes to aſſert his cauſe by force, which Marcian declines, accepting exile and retirement in the following well fancied, well expreſſed lines.

Athenais and Leontine preſent themſelves, the latter obſerving, that they have paid the compli⯑ment Varanes deſired, of attending him to Theodo⯑ſius's court, propoſes returning to Athens; this affects the love-ſtricken maid, who confeſſes her un⯑eaſineſs, and draws from Leontine a doubt of the prince's ſincerity, which Athenais cannot admit; however, upon her father's ſtarting the idea of a diſhonourable connection, with the juſt feelings of a chaſte reſerve, ſhe declares that no conſideration, however intereſting, not a parent's life in danger, ſhall impair her virtue; this ſatisfies the old man, who, upon ſeeing the prince approach, retires.

By what Varanes ſays to his friend Aranthes at entrance, it appears, that the latter has been adviſing him againſt a matrimonial connection, as diſgrace⯑ful, [193] which he ſeems to admit in very ungenerous terms; yet, upon ſeeing Athenais, he renews his vows with great fervour, and in a very bombaſtic flow of expreſſion declares, that he prefers her to all the Perſian greatneſs. Upon mention of his fa⯑ther's diſpleaſure if he ſhould know of his ſon's at⯑tachment to ſo inadequate a character, he utters the following beautiful effuſion of a fond mind.

When Athenais mentions a neceſſity of parting, Varanes takes alarm, which cauſes her to refer him to Leontine for explanation; the philoſopher inge⯑nuouſly queſtions the real meaning of his paſſion, which throws the prince into confuſion; and being urged to the critical point of marriage, his illiberal pride, getting the better of generoſity and truth, occaſions him to treat the woman of his heart, and his venerable good old tutor, in a moſt brutal, con⯑temptuous manner; Leontine warms into a noble reſentment, which forces the hot-brained Perſian off in a very diſgraceful manner.

[194]Every heart, ſuſceptible of tender feelings, muſt here ſympathize in that painful concern which over⯑whelms the injured father and ſlighted maid; the latter of whom acknowledges at large her ardent affection, but nobly reſolves to ſacrifice it at the ſhrine of juſt reſentment, and gives her approving ſire the moſt ſolemn, comfortable aſſurance, of in⯑violable virtue; this ſcene takes ſtrong poſſeſſion of the tender paſſions, but concludes with ſome very enervate, pitiful rhimes.

Varanes, totally repenting his treatment of Athe⯑nais, meets Aranthes at the beginning of the third act, and communicates his readineſs to make her any reparation: being informed that ſhe and her father have left the court, without any trace by which they might be followed, with the utmoſt vio⯑lence of anxiety, the hair-brained lover determines upon a perſonal purſuit, ordering his chariots to meet him in the Hippodrome. In the next ſcene we are ſurprized with the converſion of Athenais to Chriſtianity, for which we have been no way pre⯑pared; nor do we know whether it is Leontine's choice that his daughter ſhould go one road into futurity, while he himſelf purſues another. The matter is very ſoon brought about, and is not ſuffi⯑ciently probable; however, we find it ſo, and that Pulcheria has wrought the change, for which her proſelyte returns thanks in grateful terms: the im⯑perial princeſs vows ſtrict friendſhip, and propoſes a mutual participation of joys and griefs. Touch⯑ing upon the maſter-ſtring of her heart, Athenais, who, but a few lines ſince ſays, that converſion has eaſed her of the lumber of paſſion—a kind of me⯑thodiſtical [195] figure—here gives a looſe to grief, and vents bitter reproaches againſt the fallacy of man.

Theodoſius coming in, his ſiſter preſents her fair convert, when lo! it appears, that ſhe is the identi⯑cal unknown beauty who had inſpired him with love, and for whoſe ſake he meant to leave the world. This incident tells well in action; his immediate proffer of marriage is violently ſudden, yet no harſh violation of nature. Leontine's approbation of the honourable choice is ſuitable, and the author has furniſhed Athenais with a proper degree of diffident ſubmiſſion in her reply; the new appointed Em⯑preſs, Pulcheria, &c. being retired, Varanes, who comes to take his leave of Theodoſius, is acquainted with the unexpected change in favour of that mo⯑narch's happineſs; the Perſian prince, though deep⯑ly wounded in mind himſelf, congratulates his friend's joy, and laments that his own painful ſitua⯑tion wont let him ſtay to ſhare it.

This naturally damps Theodoſius's ſatisfaction; however, he requeſts Varanes to ſee his bride before he goes, which the latter ſeems willing to decline. There is ſomething odd in the Emperor's behaviour, not to aſk the cauſe of his friend's melancholly and ſudden departure; the plot has here intruded much upon friendſhip; Athenais is brought on, and pre⯑ſented by her imperial lover to the Perſian, whoſe aſtoniſhment and confuſion may be much more eaſi⯑ly imagined than expreſſed. To increaſe the ſwell and agitation of his heart, ſhe treats him as the pro⯑vocation he gave her merited, and leaves him to vent his paſſion with Theodoſius. What paſſes be⯑tween theſe royal perſonages is again very odd, for though the half-headed Emperor ſees his friend [196] eaten up with paſſion, and ſuffers himſelf to be cate⯑chized for taking the woman he likes, yet he never enquires into the reaſon of all this; indeed, when Varanes clears up the matter, by avowing his paſ⯑ſion, he ſhews ſome generous ſenſibility, by offering to ſubmit his claim to the lady's choice. This cauſes Varanes to whimper like a whipped ſchool-boy; and Theodoſius, piouſly leaving the iſſue to heaven, goes to prepare Athenais for an interview with his diſtreſſed rival. Aranthes, by offering to comfort his maſter, inflames his rage more, and is charged with being the author of his misfortune; notwithſtanding the prince is half mad, our author has put into his mouth a poetical deſcription of the tranquility of rural obſcurity; yet this we could have borne tolerably well, as the thought is pretty, and the lines flowing, had not jingle been intro⯑duced.

At the beginning of the fourth act, we meet Marcian lamenting his fallen ſtate; he is ſoon join⯑ed by that other unentertaining ſuperfluity, Pul⯑cheria, who, as it would ſeem, has ſneaked after him. The laſt time they parted ſhe pronounced his ba⯑niſhment, yet now ſhe ſo far forgets herſelf, as to truſt him with a very ſignal inſtance of her imperial brother's folly; andd then as ſtrangely diſcovers, without any hint to ſtir recollection, that ſhe has been talking with a proſcribed traitor. This draws on three or four lines of freſh reproach, then ſhe ſoftens, taking a very dubious leave.

When Lucius concludes ſhe is in love with the general, and tells him ſo, Marcian very juſtly re⯑plies, that they neither of them know any thing of her, and that it is out of the power of human nature [197] to ſcan her. We moſt heartily concur in the ſol⯑dier's opinion, for, as the author has drawn her, ſhe is equally unintelligible and inſignificant: an un⯑principled excreſcence of a poetical brain.

The token of Theodoſius's weakneſs, which ſhe has put into Marcian's hand, he determines to make uſe of, for rouſing the Emperor from his lethargic effeminacy. This the author has made him put in practice, but the ſcene is generally omitted, and we think blameably; for though it wants much foft⯑ning on Marcian's ſide, yet a ſubject forcing bold, honeſt truths, into a weak monarch's ear, is a very pleaſing and inſtructive picture for a Britiſh ſtage; though perhaps ſuch a one, in a new piece, might not now be licenced; poſſibly it is from a ſimilar principle omitted by courtly managers. We re⯑member the ſcene once done in Dublin, with very pleaſing and proper effect.

The ſhort ſcene between Theodoſius and Athe⯑nais, preparatory to ſeeing Varanes, ſhews the Em⯑peror to be a moſt condeſcending rival; and the la⯑dy obſerves, with great good ſenſe, that it is a ſevere and dangerous trial, to throw her in the way of one who had once inſpired her with ſo tender a paſſion; he notwithſtanding, leaves her to the violent ſtruggle of love and glory. No ſooner is he gone off, than Varanes appears, a picture of deſpair; ſhe is ſtruck with the ſettled melancholly that clouds him, yet re⯑ſolves to withſtand the ſofter feelings: her taunts are remarkably ſevere, particularly where ſhe mentions hearing him in obedience to the Emperor's com⯑mand. In ſhort, ſhe reduces the prince to ſuch an exquiſite degree of pain, that though ſome of his conduct merits contempt, we are obliged to pity [198] him. Where he mentions his death, and begs that compaſſion which he cannot obtain in life, the ſcene grows truly pathetic, and the audience muſt melt with Athenais; who, ſhocked at the ſound of an everlaſting farewell from the idol of her heart, calls him back, and candidly, with warmth, expreſſes her love, yet leaves him with the idea, that their incli⯑nations cannot be fulfilled. What the reaſon of this inſuperable perplexity is, we dont ſee; having for⯑given the inſult ſhe received, and Theodoſius be⯑ing diſpoſed to confirm her choice, what happens appears to be only the author's obſtinate purſuit of a tragical cataſtrophe. What Varanes ſays after ſhe is gone, appears to us very ſtrained and bom⯑baſtical: comparing himſelf to a perſon buried a⯑live, is ſtraining idea horridly: it is worthy of re⯑mark, that in this ſcene, Varanes ſwears by, or ap⯑peals to the gods, no leſs than ſix times; indeed, through the whole piece, Marcian and he are bring⯑ing in the deities upon every occaſion; inſomuch, that allowing the difference of plurality, it might be ſuppoſed they had been educated among the Eng⯑liſh foot-guards, where ſwearing is a capital accom⯑pliſhment, and conſtant practice.

Athenais, ornamented with imperial robes for the nuptials, begins the fifth act, with her attendant Delia. She very juſtly complains of being hurried to the Temple at the midnight hour, but is told that the deſign is to keep her marriage as long as poſ⯑ſible from the knowledge of Varanes, in compaſſion to his pains; her confidante diſmiſſed, ſhe deter⯑mines upon taking poiſon, and empties the deadly cup. Pulcheria, at entrance, takes notice of the Empreſs's diſtreſsful and pallid looks: doubting the [199] effect of what ſhe has done in futurity, Athenais aſks what puniſhment awaits ſuicide, which is a very natural queſtion, as ſhe has been ſo lately made a Chriſtian, and heathen ſects hold it a meritorious action to ſeek refuge in voluntary death, rather than labour under exceſs of pain or diſgrace. Leontine coming to conduct his daughter to the Temple, ob⯑ſerves and reproves her melancholly, charging her to think no more of Varanes, who has uſed her ill; the unforgiving rigidity of unfeeling age is here well contraſted to the relenting ſoftneſs of a female heart, impreſſed with a tender regard; the unhappy bride ſuffers herſelf to be led like a tame victim, yet pathetically declares Varanes can never be eraſed or baniſhed from her mind.

The Perſian prince, wholly a prey to deſpair, ap⯑pears next, in ſoliloquy. Our author has drawn toge⯑ther, and furniſhed him with various ſtriking images, well adapted to the gloom of melancholly; but what in the name of nature and common ſenſe, could make him run it into rhime: we had ſome idea of relieving this ſpeech from ſuch ſhameful fetters, in the ſame manner we did that of the Fryar in Ro⯑meo and Juliet, but as the play wants alteration in many other reſpects, we have declined it.

Upon the entrance of Aranthes, who has been ſent by the prince to Athenais's apartment, he ac⯑quaints his maſter that ſhe is gone to be married; this determines Varanes on ſpeedily putting a pe⯑riod to his intolerable life, and he claims holding the ſword againſt his breaſt, as an action of friend⯑ſhip, from Aranthes; who propoſes to attend his maſter in death, but is charged to ſurvive, and bear his bleeding corſe immediately to the Temple. [200] Things ſo diſpoſed, our broken-hearted hero puts his fatal reſolution in practice, and breaths his laſt in a moſt miſerable couplet, rather laughable than pa⯑thetic.

We are once again conducted to the Temple, where, after a nuptial benediction is given, Aranthes enters with the body of his deceaſed lord; and in two ſpeeches, intereſtingly deſcriptive, relates the manner of his death. Athenais, overwhelmed with the circumſtance, quits the living bridegroom for the dead lover; embraces his body, declares, to the aſtoniſhment of her huſband, father, &c. that tho' ſhe conſented to marriage, her heart was always with Varanes; wherefore, ſhe took a poiſonous draught, which ſoon takes effect, and ſends her af⯑ter the dear object of her firſt inclination. Theo⯑doſius, ſtruck with this unexpected incident, renews his former intention of laying down the reins of go⯑vernment, and gives the empire to Pulcheria and Marcian, who have made up matters very ſtrange⯑ly; thus the piece hurries to a concluſion.

The tragedy of THEODOSIUS is regular in its plot, and has many ſcenes of peculiar tenderneſs; yet is ſadly incumbered by thoſe diſagreeable non-eſſentials, Marcian and Pulcheria, who have almoſt as little buſineſs in that piece, as they would have in Julius Caeſar. The play might eaſily be altered ſo as to leave them entirely out, by which means the other characters would neceſſarily be enriched, and the main action more properly attended to: the verſification is flowing, and many of the ſentiments brilliant, yet bombaſt frequently ſoars to a diſa⯑greeable, unintelligible height; the author has [201] ſhewn warmth of genius, but coldneſs and inactivity of judgment.

Theodoſius—ſure there never was ſuch an inſipid morſel of royalty, is ſcarce a character in any ſhape; he has nothing to mark him but a kind of boyiſh, amorous weakneſs. After his firſt ſcene, he has not a line to utter that is worth an actor's ſpeaking, or a ſpectator's hearing: it is hardly reaſonable, though he gives name to the piece, to mention the perform⯑ance of ſuch an unſeaſoned incumbrance upon action; if we miſtake not, Mr. SMITH made his firſt attempt in this unfavourable part, which he rendered in ſome meaſure bearable, and has conti⯑nued to bear it up ever ſince till laſt ſeaſon. Mr. DIGGES has been puſhed on for it, but was much too manly in his perſon, and too declamatory in his expreſſion; the lover, at leaſt of this claſs, ſits un⯑eaſy upon him. Mr. REDDISH! in the name of equity, if any ſuch principle dwells within a theatre, why ſhould ſuch ſuperior abilities be crammed into ſo diſagreeable an undertaking? eſpecially when that capital actor, Mr. CAUTHERLY, might much more properly drudge through it, than Hamlet, Romeo, and a dreadful &c. which with moſt cruel kindneſs are impoſed upon him.

Marcian, the tragical blunderbuſs, who ſeems to have no idea of any difference between freedom and rudeneſs of ſpeech, utters ſeveral ſentiments which, well expreſſed, cannot fail of applauſe, and Mr. SPARKS uſed to give us ſingular pleaſure in thoſe paſſages: Mr. CLARKE is by no means diſpleaſing, but Mr. AICKIN, mounted on LEE's fiery, hard⯑mouthed PEGASUS, ſits in a very tickliſh, tottering ſituation. Mr. MOSSOP did it one ſeaſon in Dub⯑lin, [202] and thinking it unworthy his powers, acquired, through negligence, an eaſe which he wanted in more important characters; ſo became, by acci⯑dent, much the moſt agreeable performer we ever ſaw in this part.

Leontine is a character of worth; he may be ren⯑dered eſtimable without any capital requiſites; his ſolicitude for Athenais's virtue, and contempt of ag⯑grandiſement upon unworthy terms, ſpeak him e⯑qually a tender father and a good man; he muſt in⯑tereſt an audience, eſpecially where he calls his pu⯑pil to an explanation. Mr. RIDOUT perſonated this amiable philoſopher with ability: Mr. GIBSON has had the misfortune to follow him in the part, but never can ſucceed to his merit; having either no feeling at all, or ſuch a diſguſtful utterance of it, as is worſe than none: Mr. HULL ſhould certain⯑ly do it at Covent Garden.

Aranthes has but two ſpeeches of any regard, they indeed ſhould be taken care of; wherefore, we cannot ſufficiently expreſs our ſurprize to think any manager ſhould ſo far miſtake his place and judg⯑ment, as to ſuffer the marring of them by that diſ⯑tinguiſhed mutilator of ſenſe, language and charact⯑er, Mr. DAVIS: on the other hand, we cannot re⯑concile giving this attendant at Drury Lane, to Mr. PALMER, who frequently ſtands in a firſt light; it is making both head and tail of a man. Certainly, amongſt the number of young mutes, who ſerve on⯑ly to prop up the ſide wings, and bow to every baſhaw of three tails, ſome one might be found to do ſuch a part as this with tolerable decency.

Varanes, who was moſt the object of our au⯑thor's attention, is an odd medley of love and pride; [203] now he will, then will not; profuſe in profeſſions, irreſolute in practice; tender, impatient; in ſhort, a romantic madman; yet, notwithſtanding inconſiſt⯑encies of a glaring nature, he is as a dramatic perſonage, highly intereſting. We have under⯑gone the torture of hearing him preached by Mr. SHERIDAN, whoſe ſtage-love was the moſt grating that ever wounded a tender ear; yet we cannot juſtly avoid allowing him a very character⯑iſtical deſpondance of features in the laſt ſcene of the fourth act, and conſiderable merit in the mid⯑night ſoliloquy. Mr. ROSS is very bearable, but wants much of that fire neceſſary to keep pace with his author: when Mr. SMITH took leave of the Emperor, and formed an alliance with the Perſian prince, he made a moſt lamentable miſtake; and we wiſh, for old acquaintance ſake, he may return to his original, diſagreeable as it is, rather than ſhew himſelf to more conſpicuous diſadvantage.

Mr. BARRY muſt in imagination to thoſe who are at all acquainted with his performance, fill up every idea of excellence in this character; his love was enchanting, his rage alarming, his grief melt⯑ing; even now, though overtaken by time, and im⯑paired in his conſtitution, he has not the ſhadow of a competitor. The rheumatic ſtiffneſs of his joints has been induſtriouſly trumpeted forth, and every mean art made uſe of to lower him in public opinion: yet true it is, that if he hobbled upon ſtilts, he would be better than any perſons in his ſtile upon their beſt legs. A gentleman of acknowledged judgment lately made the following juſt and ſtriking ſimili⯑tude, that Mr. BARRY was like the time-worn ruins of Palmira and Balbec; which, even in a fallen [204] ſtate, ſhew more dignity and real beauty, than the compleat productions of modern architecture. We heartily lament that this gentleman's caſt is ſo in⯑conſiſtent with his years, and wiſh his prudence had laid up an independancy, that he might have retired ere envy and theatrical policy had ſapped the foun⯑dation of his well-earned fame.

Pulcheria, as a character, we have already given our opinion of; what ſhe ſays is full as inſignificant as what ſhe does; and Mrs. VINCENT, whom no length of years can make old, if ſhe had never been truſted with any ſuperior undertaking in tragedy, might here have been bearable enough: but what dull head, or hard heart, could have put the agreea⯑ble Mrs. W. BARRY, of Drury Lane, upon ſo irkſome an undertaking— Come forth Mrs. HOPKINS, and ſeize this Roman princeſs, more conſonant to thy abilities, than the young and beauteous Zara, and as ſuitable to thy delicate figure.

Athenais is much the moſt eſtimable character in this piece; for, laying aſide the weakneſs of her ſex, and reſiſting the temptation of a darling object, ſhe maintains that exalted virtue practically, which her father only admires and recommends in ſpeculation; however, tho' we approve her general conduct, yet ſhe manifeſts a ſtrong taint of romantic ideas: her ſelf-denial is carried to an extreme. As to the ter⯑mination of her own life, we have already exculpated that, by remarking, that ſhe had not been informed how abominable an action ſelf-murder is deemed in the Chriſtian ſyſtem.

The part of Athenais, though well delivered from the author's pen, has none of thoſe maſterly ſtrokes of action, which gave Mrs. CIBBER an opportunity [205] of diſplaying her exquiſite abilities; wherefore, we always thought that lady rather below herſelf in the fair Athenian, and allowed Mrs. BELLAMY to come nearer an equality in this, than any other character; they both were ſingularly pleaſing, but we muſt pre⯑fer Mrs. BARRY to either, as having equal force with more nature.

Miſs MILLER has certainly given Mr. COL⯑MAN ſome bitter provocation, that he puſhes her on for this and ſeveral other characters equally unfit; indeed, ſhe did it for her benefit, which is a ſeaſon when many performers, to indulge vanity, kindly treat their friends with the barbarous and dreadful, though not bloody murder of a principle character; this is like aſking acquaintances to dinner, and giv⯑ing a thin breaſt of mutton inſtead of a good ſirloin of beef, which is equally ready.

This play has no moral, there is no vice to merit puniſhment, and what virtue there is falls a ſacrifice to ill conducted paſſions: we are apt to think its tendency prejudicial to young minds, as it furniſhes very extravagant notions of love; and therefore, though it always pleaſes in repreſentation, cannot cordially recommend it.

The FOUNDLING. A COMEDY, by Mr. MOORE.

IN the firſt ſcene we meet young Belmont ral⯑lying Colonel Raymond, for making love in a ſtile of gravity to his ſiſter, of whoſe volatile and coquettiſh diſpoſition he draws a very plea⯑ſant picture, and alſo, by way of contraſt, ludi⯑crouſly paints the Colonel to himſelf; after this, he enters upon an account of women, which we think extremely injurious, to the ſenſible part of the ſex at leaſt, and ſhews his notions to be un⯑natural; to ſuppoſe that good underſtanding will make any female more ready to encourage a fool, is ſtrange doctrine; pride may work ſuch an ef⯑fect, but ſound ſenſe cannot: freedom, among friends, is the life of ſocial enjoyment, but, we think young Belmont places the Colonel in too ſevere and ridiculous a light; it ſeems as if the au⯑thor had ſacrificed every other conſideration to that of enriching his favourite character. When Fide⯑lia comes to be mentioned, Belmont goes on in the ſame rhapſodical ſtile concerning her, that he has made uſe of concerning his ſiſter, reſpecting the uncertainty of her birth; Belmont ſpeaks as a man of gallantry with very vague, undetermined principles; upon the Colonel's enquiry, whether Roſetta knows any thing of Fidelia's real ſtory, Belmont declares ſhe does not, but believes her to be the ſiſter of a fellow collegian of his, and in [207] that light recommends her as a wife to him; be⯑ing aſked his father's diſpoſition towards the young lady, he ſays, there is nothing wanting of recom⯑mendation to the old gentleman but ſome cer⯑tainty of a fortune; here he takes a moſt repre⯑henſible method of removing a kind of dilemma he is in, and meanly ſays, as he has brought her into the family by one miſrepreſentation, he'll re⯑move her by another; and what is that? forſooth, by ſcandalizing her virtue. Belmont favours ac⯑tion in this ſcene, but he is no more nor leſs than a deſpicable reptile, furniſhed with more words than meaning, more humour than ſenſe.

In the ſucceeding converſation between Roſetta and Fidelia, we find that the former rattles away in the ſame ſtile and ſentiment, concerning men, and the treatment of them in love affairs, that her brother, in the preceeding ſcene, uſed reſpecting her; Fidelia charges her with being in love with Colonel Raymond, though ſhe makes him wear ſuch painful chains. The gay coquette ſports with this circumſtance a little, yet acknowledges he is not indifferent, and aſſigns a very generous motive for keeping him off at preſent; having held his ſolicitations at a diſtance, while his circum⯑ſtances wore an unfavourable aſpect, ſhe juſtly thinks ſurrendering, when fortune ſmiles upon her lover, would ſeem mercenary.

By what ſhe drops, we perceive, that Sir Charles, the Colonel's father, was attainted, as having join⯑ed the rebellion, but lately pardoned by royal clemency; Roſetta cautions Fidelia againſt the wildneſs of her brother, which draws from the lat⯑ter a declaration, that let the danger be what it may, [208] he is the man of her choice; here Roſetta archly adviſes her friend to marry Sir Charles, who, it appears, has ſhewn a particular attachment for her; this, however, Fidelia thinks proceeds merely from his humanity, and is laughed at by the coquette for her grave ideas.

Juſt as ſhe is uttering theſe words, ‘"What a ſweet mama ſhall I have when I marry the Colonel,"’ young Belmont and that gentleman enter; the for⯑mer repeats his ſiſter's words, which the Colonel calls lucky ones. She aims at giving them a dif⯑ferent turn; but Fidelia counteracts the deſign, and confirms them, by repeating what ſhe has ſaid con⯑cerning Sir Charles; and having her for a mama, &c. thus the grave young lady indulges her mirth, while her gay companion is conſiderably puzzled how to turn the tables. Belmont keeps up the fret, and even the Colonel ſeems to enjoy it; at length, a ſervant brings a letter which relieves her; it ap⯑pears to come from one Mr. Faddle, whom ſhe ſpeaks of with rapture; the Colonel ſeems much ſtruck, and ſhewing his uneaſineſs, gives her an op⯑portunity of triumphing in turn, which ſhe does by reading the coxcomb's frothy epiſtle, and aſk⯑ing her lover's opinion of it.

The firſt act concludes with a ſoliloquy of very boyiſh import, and the couplet is remarkably feeble; Sir Roger Belmont and Sir Charlos Raymond begin the ſecond act; complaints are uttered againſt his ſon's conduct by the former, which the latter en⯑deavours to mitigate; it appears, that Sir Roger's uneaſineſs ariſes from being at the expence of keep⯑ing Fidelia, without knowing whether ſhe has any fortune to repay, in caſe of marriage with his [209] ſon; Sir Charles hints that a ſerious connection is not much to be dreaded, and both the old gentle⯑men appear concerned for the preſervation of Fi⯑delia's honour, whoſe myſterious ſituation is ſo un⯑accountable: to clear up the doubts that naturally ariſe, Sir Charles adviſes his friend to bring young Belmont, as ſoon as poſſible, to an explanation of whom the young lady really is; Sir Roger ſeeing his ſon approach, reſolves to attack him on this point.

The young gentleman enters, repeating ſome rapturous lines; the father, upon his mentioning that times are hard, obſerves, that he ought, as her Guardian, to improve Fidelia's money, and that a good round ſum may be thrown into the ſtocks to advantage; this throws the young gentleman in⯑to confuſion, and occaſions a very laughable ſcene of equivocation; after bearing a great deal, the old man ſeems to conceive matters in the right light, and gives, at his going off, an intimation which ſtartles young Belmont; he thinks his ſiſter concern⯑ed in the affair, and reſolves, by the aid of Faddle, to out-plot her; ſhe joins him, and after playing agreeably through ſome ſpeeches upon patience, the definition of a coquette, and that of a rake oc⯑cur, which are both pleaſantly given; however, we think, as a brother, young Belmont explains himſelf too far.

Seeing the Colonel, he goes off, and leaves him to a tete-a-tete with the young lady; this ſerious ſon of Mars addreſſing his miſtreſs in the ſolemn way, ſhe aſks him if he is a rake; and demanding how he would behave to her if really ſuch a character, the Colonel collects unuſual ſpirit; kiſſes her hand, [210] and breaths a glow of rapture, which ſhe receives ironically, and thereby draws him again into the ſerious mood, nay even works him into a degree of warm reſentment, which alſo ſhe treats lightly.

Juſt as the Colonel is fooled to the top of his bent, Faddle appears, and immediately feels ſome effect of the Colonel's choler, while the frighted Fop is in conſternation at the rough treatment he has met, young Belmont and Fidelia join the com⯑pany; this gives him a reſpite, and by degrees he is led on to a laughable account of himſelf and his companions; however, the author has certainly given him too much of this whip ſillabub ſtuff. A ſervant whiſpering Roſetta that dinner is ready, ſhe aſks the gentlemen to partake, but Belmont having engaged Faddle to dine at a tavern, they remain while the other characters go off; when by themſelves, Belmont gives Faddle a purſe, by way of retaining fee, to aſſiſt him in getting Fide⯑lia out of his father's houſe, as ſhe is there too ſecure from his licentious deſigns; he owns himſelf to be only a fictitious guardian, and partly opens the manner in which he got poſſeſſion of her; Faddle, who ſeems, as his employer obſerves, fit for any raſcality, immediately ſuggeſts to himſelf a method of throwing the family into ſuch confuſion as may anſwer the purpoſe; pregnant with this hopeful deſign, they haſten off to dinner and conclude the ſecond act.

At the beginning of the third, Roſetta and Fide⯑lia preſent themſelves, converſing upon the ſame ſubject that employed their firſt ſcene; the former inſiſts that cruelty, or ſeeming cruelty to gallants, is the beſt treatment of them; Fidelia differing [211] this opinion, a pretty and pertinent ſong is intro⯑duced; a ſervant brings a letter, the contents of which affect Roſetta ſo ſtrongly, that ſhe deſires him to go for her brother and Faddle to the tavern where they dined. Fidelia requeſts to be a par⯑taker of her friend's concern, which, after ſome heſitation is granted, by ſhewing the letter.

Upon peruſing it, and finding herſelf not only repreſented as an impoſter but a proſtitute, Fidelia's feelings riſe to a tender pitch, and ſhe confeſſes her⯑ſelf not what the ſcroll repreſents, nor what ſhe has been thought. Roſetta, though diſagreeable doubts ariſe, treats her with cordial gentility; in conſe⯑quence of the meſſage Faddle comes in, and is tax⯑ed with his knowledge of the ſubject, or the wri⯑ter of that letter; his evaſions are whimſical; at length, half owning the matter, and laying ſome imputation on Fidelia, her reſentment ſo far gets the better of her delicacy, that ſhe ſtrikes him; Roſetta promiſes every kind of protection, if he can make any diſcovery in which the honour of her fa⯑mily is concerned; or wiſhes him poverty and con⯑tempt if he has himſelf any part in trumping up ſo illiberal and baſe an accuſation.

With the true effrontery of a villain, he treats the matter lightly, and hurries off, leaving it totally unexplained; Roſetta, agitated with doubt, preſſes Fidelia to open the affair as much as in her power; which however ſhe declines, through delicacy of a promiſe made to young Belmont that ſhe does not chuſe to break. Coming in at this critical point of converſation, his ſiſter opens the matter, giving him the letter; which he repreſents as the offspring of ſcandal, and threatens to revenge the matter on [212] Faddle; as he makes this an excuſe for getting off, Fidelia ſtops him, and mentions that ſhe has own⯑ed herſelf a counterfeit, which he takes umbrage at; however, ſhe begs of him to clear up her cha⯑racter from the vile and groundleſs imputation of proſtitution; this he avoids in a very churliſh and ungentlemanlike manner.

After his abrupt exit, Roſetta leaves her abuſed friend with a declaration, that ſhe expects to have her doubts cleared, before ſhe can afford conti⯑nuance of that cordial eſteem ſhe has hitherto mani⯑feſted; Fidelia, in a ſhort ſoliloquy, laments her perplexed ſituation, and goes off to make way for her treacherous gallant, who meditates on his own raſcality, and views it in the proper light, yet ſeems to think himſelf poſſeſſed of honour above lying, and honeſty above deceit; at the ſame time, that he does not ſhew a gleam of contrition, but even reſolves to purſue his ſcandalous purpoſe.

In a ſhort converſation with his vicious agent, that rhapſodical fool hints, by way of getting a freſh bribe, qualms of conſcience; after ſome threats, young Belmont promiſes another purſe, if he will bring him word what paſſes between Sir Charles Raymond and Fidelia, who are gone into an adjoining chamber; this Faddle cheerfully un⯑dertakes, and his employer goes to the King's-arms to wait for his intelligence.

The old Baronet and young lady are next diſco⯑vered, in conference upon the letter which has oc⯑caſioned ſo much uneaſineſs; Sir Charles blames Fidelia for too much reſerve with Roſetta; ſhe apo⯑logizes for it by owning her regard for young Bel⯑mont, which ſeals her lips: Faddle, true to his truſt, [213] appears liſtening, and when the old gentleman humanley propoſes taking Fidelia under his protec⯑tion, if Roſetta's ſuſpicions ſhould make the Bel⯑mont family uneaſy to her; he catches the idea of her being, as he phraſes it, a bit for Sir Charles, and poſts away to the tavern with what he thinks a rare bit of news. Fidelia's tears draw a conſola⯑tory remark from the Baronet, that he hopes ſome⯑thing may be ſoon done for her relief; and ſhe ends the act with a pretty thought relative to pati⯑ence, if it had not been jingled into rhime.

The Colonel and Roſetta commence the fourth act, he renewing his addreſſes, and ſhe continuing her coquettiſh raillery: the Colonel, in compliance with his miſtreſs's deſire, gives the following pretty and juſt deſcription of matrimony. ‘"To fools, madam, it is the jewel of Aeſop's cock; to the wiſe a diamond of price in a ſkilful hand to enrich life; it is happineſs or miſery, as minds are differently diſ⯑poſed. The neceſſary requiſites are love, good ſenſe, and good breeding; the firſt to unite, the ſecond to adviſe, and the third to comply; if you add to theſe neatneſs and a competency, beauty will always pleaſe, and family cares become agreeable a⯑muſements."’

Roſetta animadverts pleaſantly upon this picture of the married life, and ſtill dallies with the amorous Colonel; at laſt, ſhe changes the diſcourſe to Fide⯑lia, of whom ſhe ſpeaks in a friendly manner; and tells her gallant, that if he hopes to make love ſuc⯑ceſsfully, it muſt be by endeavouring to clear up the perplexity of her fair friend, then propoſes to viſit her with him.

[214]Young Belmont and Faddle preſent themſelves, converſing upon the ſuppoſed deſign of Sir Charles, in offering Fidelia apartments, which the latter de⯑clares to be with a vicious intention. Seeing the old baronet approach, young Belmont retires, and leaves his worthy aſſiſtant to banter him; for which purpoſe he addreſſes Sir Charles with all the fami⯑liarity of an unbluſhing coxcomb, offers his ſervice, but ſneeringly obſerves, that old poachers hunt ſure; with other impertinent remarks, which the baronet ſeems not to underſtand, till he draws Faddle into a repetition of his own words, concerning the apart⯑ments, and Fidelia's acknowledgment for the pro⯑poſed favour. Rouſed by his inſolent ribaldry and ſcandalous inſinuation, Sir Charles ſhuts the door; this alarms the conſcious ſcoundrel, who, after two or three hearty ſhakes by the collar, firſt confeſſes that he did liſten, and next acknowledges his having forged, with young Belmont's connivance, the ano⯑nymous letter which has cauſed ſo much pain and confuſion. Having thus made the diſcovery he wanted, Sir Charles diſmiſſes the paraſite, with a moſt excellent lecture; ſo deſcriptive of ſuch rep⯑tiles, and ſo pregnant with inſtructive truth, that we beg leave to offer it our readers.

‘"Thy life is a diſgrace to humanity; a fooliſh prodigality makes thee needy; need makes thee vi⯑cious, and both make thee contemptible; thy wit is proſtituted to ſlander and buſſoonery; and thy judg⯑ment, if thou haſt any, to meanneſs and villainy. Thy betters, who laugh with thee, laugh at thee; and who are they? the fools of quality at court, and thoſe who ape them in the city; the varieties of thy life, are pitiful rewards and painful abuſes; for [215] the ſame trick that gets thee a guinea to-day, ſhall get thee beaten out of doors to-morrow; thoſe who careſs thee are enemies to themſelves, and when they know it will be enemies to thee; in thy diſtreſſes they'll deſert thee, and leave thee at laſt to ſink in thy poverty, unregarded and unpitied; if thou canſt be wiſe, think of me, and be honeſt."’

Faddle, thus ſeverely catechiſed, feels himſelf in a freſh dilemma, upon the approach of young Bel⯑mont; however, having cleared himſelf of one ſcrape by telling of truth, he determines to eſcape another, by means of lying heartily. To this end he tells young Belmont, that Sir Charles has made him a confidante, but the aſſertion is deemed apo⯑cryphal. Seeing Sir Charles returning he decamps, prudently reſolving never to ſet his foot in the houſe again.

The baronet comes on with a ſervant, who has delivered him a letter, purporting, that if the intereſt of his family be dear to him, it is eſſentially neceſ⯑ſary that he ſhould attend the bearer of the letter; this extraordinary ſummons ſtartles him, but howe⯑ver important, he ſays there is another concern that muſt precede it. Here young Belmont aſking what news, Sir Charles attacks him in an emphatic ſtrain of ſpirited reproach, for his deſign upon Fidelia, which he only anſwers by recrimination; and the baronet's noble, diſintereſted ſentiments, place Bel⯑mont's equivocation and falſe fire in a contemptible light; even his challenge is foiled with diſgrace, by the old gentleman's unanſwerable method of treat⯑ing it. Being told of Faddle's diſcovery, he takes ſhame to himſelf with a tolerable grace, and appears ready to make any reparation. Sir Charles deſires [216] him to undeceive his ſiſter, and then goes to the bearer of the letter. When alone, Belmont takes a juſt view of his proceedings, which he finds as weak as they have been deſpicable; and feels perplexity riſe ſo faſt, that he reſolves to fly upon the wings of penitence to injured Fidelia, and ſeek from her advice that peace of mind he cannot ſtrike out for himſelf.

At the beginning of the fifth act, Sir Roger Bel⯑mont enters, conſiderably fluttered with a letter he has received; which letter, from a pretended guar⯑dian of Fidelia's, threatning a law-ſuit for ſtealing her, he ſhews to Sir Charles in great anxiety, and de⯑termines that ſhe ſhall be packed off immediately; but this haſty reſolution his friend diſſuades him from, and they retire to conſult upon the matter.

Young Belmont, in the next ſcene, receives ſome very juſt and keen reproaches from Fidelia, for the baſe treatment ſhe has received from him; he pleads hard to obtain forgiveneſs, yet, though a violence to her love, which ſhe candidly acknowledges, ſhe holds him at a diſtance. Thus preſſed in his feel⯑lings, he offers marriage, but this alſo, on a generous principle; ſhe declines. Roſetta here joins them, full of the intelligence that Fidelia has been ſtolen by her brother, and that her guardian is at hand to demand ſatisfaction. This, young Belmont receives as a pleaſing piece of information; he is going to explain the ſtory of Fidelia, when Sir Roger, Sir Charles, the Colonel, and Villiard enter, the latter of whom is informed, that if he claims the lady, and makes good his claim, ſhe ſhall be reſtored without any heſitation.

He aſſerts her to be his ward, and that ſhe was ſtolen by violence from him by Belmont. His [217] proofs being demanded, he evades the point, and ſays, they ſhall be produced in a court of law. Fi⯑delia is then queſtioned, who, after his accuſations have been heard, draws a pathetic picture of Vil⯑liard's brutal attempt, which Mr. Belmont, by mere accident, ſaved her from.

The circumſtance of having relieved diſtreſſed innocence, gives Sir Roger a generous feeling of joy for his ſon's humane, gallant interpoſition. Vil⯑liard, finding no probability of ſucceſs by ſtaying, goes off, with warm threats. Roſetta aſking who the anonymous ſcroll, written by Faddle, came from, her brother frankly owns he had a hand in it; and, by way of reparation, offers to take the young lady for life: here Sir Roger's love of money cuts off his conſent. This draws a moſt generous propoſal from Colonel Raymond, which is to take Roſetta without a fortune, ſo her's may be beſtowed on Fi⯑delia. While matters remain dubious, and a good deal of delicacy is manifeſted on all ſides, Sir Charles ſteps in, and declares, that he will make Fidelia e⯑qual to Sir Roger's utmoſt wiſh, in point of pro⯑perty; and, in a few lines after, with a melting flow of paternal tenderneſs, declares her to be his daugh⯑ter. The general aſtoniſhment ariſing from this unexpected diſcovery, he removes by the following explanation: That at the time of his baniſhment, he left this daughter, an infant, to the care of a wo⯑man, who, to ſecure ſome jewels, made the child believe ſhe was a Foundling, and changed her name of Harriet to Fidelia, that at twelve years old ſhe ſold her to Villiard; that being ſeized with ſudden illneſs, and having heard of Sir Charles's return, ſhe had ſent for him, and from apprehenſions of death, [218] confeſſed the whole; thereby proving the idendity of a child, which, during his exile, ſhe ſent him word was dead. Matters brought to this agreeable criſis, all parties are made happy; the two young couple, by interchange of hands, and the old baro⯑nets, by ſeeing their children united according to mutual inclinations.

Young Belmont concludes the play with a very apt deduction from his own miſconduct, and a ſen⯑ſible remark—would it had not been made in rhime— that libertiniſm preys upon that beautiful, weak part of the creation, which it is man's natural pro⯑vince to defend.

The piece now conſidered, has proved a very a⯑greeable ſubject for criticiſm, having much to praiſe, and little to cenſure; for however perſons who feel, and ſhrink at, the touch of our rod, may think we tend to ſeverity, it is an undoubted fact, that we are infinitely better pleaſed to point out merit than de⯑ficiencies, in both writing and performance.

It has been ſaid that this play was evidently bor⯑rowed from the CONSCIOUS LOVERS, but we can perceive no ſtriking ſimilitude to authoriſe that opi⯑nion; the diſcovery of a daughter in each, is not ſufficient to ſupport the remark; there is indeed ſome likeneſs between Fidelia and Indiana, but all the other characters differ eſſentially.

In the FOUNDLING, critical unities are well pre⯑ſerved, and the plot lays proper hold of ſuſpence and attention; there are no make-ſhift ſcenes, nor any that are tedious; ſeveral excellent.

Sir Roger Belmont has nothing peculiar to mark him, and may be called a good kind of an old fel⯑low; only a little tainted with the love of money. [219] If the author had done half as much in writing the part, as Mr. YATES did in acting it, Sir Roger would have been as conſpicuous as any man in the piece. Mr. LOVE, to thoſe who have not ſeen the forementioned gentleman, may paſs very well.

Sir Charles Raymond is an object of great eſteem, his tender concern for Fidelia, before he knows any more of her than that ſhe is young, beautiful and in dangerous hands, recommends him much; the manner of chaſtiſing both Faddle and Belmont, on her account, does equal honour to his juſtice, his humanity, his ſpirit, and his good ſenſe. Tho' we never admired Mr. BARRY in proſe dialogue, yet it would be very injurious not to allow, that where the part materially called upon him, he powerfully an⯑ſwered. In the fourth act, he ſupported the cha⯑racter with emphatic dignity; in the laſt, with melt⯑ing tenderneſs; we dont recollect any body who could have been better. Mr. BERRY was heavy, un⯑graceful, and out of character: Mr. BANNISTER has no expreſſion of ſoft feelings, but ſpeaks the four firſt acts very well, and figures the part agreea⯑bly. Mr. POWELL had requiſites to render Sir Charles Raymond very pleaſing; and Mr. RED⯑DISH would do him more juſtice than any other part in the play.

Young Belmont is very cenſurable as a man; he does the meaneſt things, even under ſelf-conviction, with no other plea of excuſe than the pitiful one, that his appetites drive him on; had he ruſhed up⯑on vice, without giving himſelf time to think, he would have been more bearable; a ſpeculative li⯑bertine is the moſt dangerous, and moſt incurable. His reſcuing Fidelia muſt be conſidered as an action [220] of ſpirit, and yet by his behaviour afterwards, it is little more than a lion ſaving a lamb from the wolf, that he may devour it himſelf. As a character for action, the author moſt undoubtedly meant him ca⯑pital; yet, excepting the firſt ſcene, and that with his father, which we allow truly pleaſant; and that with Sir Charles, where he is little better than a foil to the baronet, he has nothing to ſay worth notice; and then he is placed in ſuch a diſgraceful light, that we cannot think him very deſirable for an actor of merit; however, Mr. GARRICK's peculiar qua⯑lifications, and happy uſe of them, added amazing ſpirit to the piece; giving young Belmont much more conſequence than can well be imagined.

Mr. LEE is very pleaſing and characteriſtic in this part, though rendered worſe within ſome late years by ſtudied improvements, than he was when he took leſs pains. Mr. ROSS, and this gentleman, are a ſtriking contraſte; the former, by negligence, im⯑poveriſhes good natural talents, and the latter, by a laborious, theatrical mechaniſm, impairs very agree⯑able qualifications, Mr. REDDISH appears to very great diſadvantage in this part, he has nothing of the requiſite volubility; Mr. KING ſhould certainly do it, if public ſatisfaction is in any ſhape worthy ma⯑negerical conſideration; a point we have much rea⯑ſon to doubt of late.

Colonel Raymond is a butt of ridicule, a mere cypher in action; Mr. HAVARD did him originally, as well as ever he has been done ſince, and there is nothing in him beyond the power of Mr. PACKER.

Faddle is a thorough-paced reptile, ready to tranſact any mean buſineſs for a bribe; and, under the appearance of rhapſodical foppery, a deſigning [221] knave. Several paſſages of this part were origi⯑nally repulſed, and we think with great juſtice, for a great deal of what he ſays in his firſt ſcene is frothy, ſuperfluous and low; we think his getting off with⯑out any other chaſtiſement than what Sir Charles gives him, is rather ſacrificing poetical juſtice.

Mr. MACKLIN, who never had, in voice, figure, or features, much capability for the fop caſt, yet ſtruck out ſome things in Faddle, which we have not ſeen any body equal; particularly marking the obſequious knave all through. After allowing thus much, we are willing to pronounce Mr. DODD better than any other performer we remember.

Roſetta is a moſt agreeable coquette, ſenſible, and full of vivacity; tinctured with harmleſs inconſtan⯑cy and pardonable pride; her notions are conſonant to gay life, florid youth, and a flighty imaginati⯑on; if ſhe does not manifeſt abſolute wit, ſhe yet may be allowed a brilliance of idea, and ſprightlineſs of expreſſion. The part was undoubtedly conceived for Mrs. WOFFINGTON, and ſhe did it particular juſtice; nor ſhould we wonder, ſince the elegance, the notions of love, and the vanity of admiration from gallants, which are united in Roſetta, were natural to that lady; ſo that here ſhe had the ad⯑vantage of looking, walking, and ſpeaking her own character. Notwithſtanding our general veneration for Mrs. PRITCHARD, we cannot place her upon a level with the je ne ſe quoy of Mrs. WOFFINGTON, in this part. Miſs POPE falls inconceivably below both. Where, oh drowſy or partial managers! is Mrs. ABINGTON, who has ſo much of the pleaſing and elegant original about her.

[222]Fidelia's circumſtances place her in a very par⯑ticular degree of eſtimation; her principles are un⯑exceptionable, and her conduct prudent; we pity her critical ſituation, and rejoice at the diſcovery which eſtabliſhes her happineſs. That delicate ſoftneſs and pathos which diſtinguiſh this character, ſat with much eaſe upon Mrs. CIBBER; at preſent, Mrs. BADDELEY ſupports it with very agreeable ca⯑pability, and is by far the moſt adequate performer in the piece.

If this play muſt be compared with the CON⯑SCIOUS LOVERS, we readily admit it to the ſecond place; but take it in a ſeparate view, and it deſerves conſiderable praiſe. It ſpeaks ſo feelingly to our paſſions, ſo chaſtely to our ideas, and ſo inſtructive⯑ly to our ſenſe, that we wiſh it often well performed on the ſtage, and a cordial reception in the cloſet.

The EARL of ESSEX. A TRAGEDY, by Mr. JONES.

SO intereſting has the ſtory of Eſſex been con⯑ſidered, at leaſt ſo advantageous a light has BANKS, who firſt wrote upon the ſubject, placed it in, that there have been no leſs than three plays ſtruck out upon his plan; we have choſen that by Mr. JONES, as being in poſſeſſion of the ſtage, and, in many reſpects, the beſt compoſition; though produced by a man whoſe whole dependance was on natural genius, of which he gave ſeveral ſtrong proofs, and might have furniſhed more, had his conduct any way coincided with his talents; but like many other unhappy ſons of the muſe, his life was a diſ⯑grace to his writings, and though his capacity gained him many friends, the turbulence and in⯑gratitude of his temper, prevented him from ever keeping one; but his work being more properly the object of our concern, we'll proceed to that, without further comment on its imprudent au⯑thor.

Burleigh, the leading and very able miniſter of Eliza's reign, begins this piece with acquainting Raleigh that a bill to clip the wings of Eſſex's ambition has paſſed; he aſks for coroborating proofs, which Sir Walter ſays are arrived; ſuch as his making a private treaty with Tyrone, and the Scots King, calculated to ruin Burleigh in his Miſtreſ's opinion.

[224]Wary Cecil deſires that this pleaſing piece of intelligence may be kept, like a battery concealed, to play upon the enemy by ſurpriſe; a meſſenger announcing the approach of Lady Nottingham, Burleigh conſiders what her buſineſs may be, as knowing her to have a partial regard for Eſſex; he prepares againſt any artifice ſhe may uſe in that peer's favour, and diſpatches Raleigh to watch the motions of Southampton and his friends, ob⯑ſerving, that as a leader of faction, he muſt be ta⯑ken care of. After ſome compliments from Not⯑tingham, on his great abilities as a ſtateſman, Cecil is acquainted by her that ſhe has renounced Eſſex; ſhe acknowledges having heretofore joined with him in his deſigns againſt the miniſter, but now determines to counteract thoſe deſigns, which a blind paſſion for Eſſex made her promote; as her reſentment ariſes from a ſlight thrown on her charms, Burleigh with great addreſs improves her indignation, by mentioning the preference given to Rutland, even ſo far as their being united by a ſe⯑cret marriage before the Earl's ſetting off for Ire⯑land.

This intelligence, like oil on flames, throws the Counteſs's temper into a blaze, and ſhe execrates them in terms which we think too groſs for her rank, though moved by jealouſy. Upon Burleigh's pro⯑poſing to work him out of royal favour, the only bar to his ruin, ſhe gladly accepts the office of im⯑bittering his royal miſtreſs againſt him, and goes off fully determined to try every method for effect⯑ing, not only his fall but death. Here Raleigh enters, and ſpeaks of Southampton's approach.

[225]That Earl, in the full glow of friendly reſent⯑ment, accuſes Burleigh of putting in practice ini⯑quitous meaſures, for the deſtruction of a worthy man and a good ſubject; the politician ſtands his warm reproaches with very prudent coolneſs, and aſſerts his own good intentions with confidence; throwing out an inſinuation that too violent an at⯑tachment to Eſſex's cauſe may involve the hardy friend in his fall. This oblique threat Southamp⯑ton treats with contempt, and mentions how inef⯑fectually malice muſt labour to tear the wreaths of honour from Eſſex's brow; this brings the conference to an end, and Cecil goes off obſerv⯑ing, that the queen ſhall judge of their debate; Southampton, after a warm effuſion of friend⯑ſhip, in ſoliloquy, follows him to the royal pre⯑ſence.

Queen Elizabeth, ſeated on her throne, expreſſes diſpleaſure at the bill of impeachment paſſed againſt Eſſex, without her privity or conſent; upon this point ſhe ſpeaks warmly to Cecil, charging him with it; this he evades, but confeſſes a concur⯑rence of opinion with parliament. While her Majeſty is on the fret, Southampton enters, to whom ſhe ſhews what ſhe calls the baſe portrait of Eſſex; this gives him a fair opening for the de⯑fence of his friend, which he undertakes, by paint⯑ing in nervous terms his innocence and loyalty. After a general reproof concerning the bill, the Queen diſmiſſes all but Burleigh, to whom ſhe gives an order for ſuppreſſing it: he begs the Queen to conſider how unpopular ſuch a ſtep would be, and mentions proofs; however, ſhe will hear nothing that way, and with an amiable [226] degree of generous juſtice, declares accuſation muſt ceaſe, till he can make a perſonal defence. After Burleigh goes off, Elizabeth expreſſes her good opinion of Eſſex, though ſhe knows his weak⯑neſs: a hint is dropped of the place he has in her heart; ſhe ſeems to view Burleigh in the right light, and concludes the firſt act, with determining to ſhield Eſſex againſt his fraudful machinations.

Cecil, at the beginning of the ſecond act, con⯑feſſes to Raleigh, that the unexpected return of Eſſex rather confuſes him; however, he ſends for Nottingham, and determines to alarm the Queen as much as poſſible; finding affairs brought to this critical ſituation, that Eſſex or he muſt be ſacri⯑ficed. The queen upon her entrance, expreſſes much ſurpriſe, that her favourite ſhould return from his command in Ireland without leave; finding her temper warmed, and therefore in ſome meaſure fit⯑ted to receive an unfavourable impreſſion of Eſſex, Burleigh mentions the ſecret treaty with Tyrone and the Scots King, tending, through the aſſiſtance of Eſſex and his friends, to attack even her native Iſle; at firſt, ſhe doubts this ſtrange aſſertion, but upon, conſidering ſo great a breach of duty in her general, as to leave his command without any authority but his own will; ſhe collects all the dig⯑nity of ſtation, and orders the culprit into her pre⯑ſence.

After an introductory addreſs of Southampton's, the Earl of Eſſex appears, and, with a becom⯑ing degree of humiliation, addreſſes his ſovereign, and apologizes for his conduct, by alledging, that he thought it proper, in perſon, to oppoſe ſcandal and the undermining efforts of envy; the Queen [227] does not ſeem to conſider this exculpation as he could wiſh, and juſtly obſerves, that the glow of language is, in his caſe, but of little uſe; that having appeal⯑ed from her to the laws, he muſt abide by the laws.

After Elizabeth and her courtiers are retired, Eſſex ruminates, in ſoliloquy, upon the ill return his martial dangers and fatigues meets; he deter⯑mines to ſtand the ſhock of adverſity with reſo⯑lution, ſeeming to think his ruin inevitable. South⯑ampton returns, and tells his friend, that the Queen's diſpleaſure, cheriſhed by Lord Burleigh, increaſes; the fickleneſs of courts Eſſex ſeems to deſpiſe, and deſires, as a more material concern than his political affairs, to be led where he may ſee his mourning lady; this he is warned againſt, as a dan⯑gerous ſtep, it being neceſſary that their marriage at this particular juncture, ſhould be concealed. Burleigh, by the Queen's command, demands Eſſex's ſtaff of office; this inflames him to utter harſh terms againſt his undermining foe, and he de⯑clares, that having from her own hand received it, to her alone he will reſign it. Southampton goes once again upon the buſineſs of interceſſion to ſof⯑ten the Queen, and leaves his friend ſtill further to conſider the inſtability of human greatneſs; this ſoliloquy has conſiderable merit, the imagery is agreeable and ſtriking, without any ſtrain of con⯑ception.

Rutland, with all the joy and tenderneſs of an affectionate wife, here flies into her huſband's arms, who, for a moment, forgets his fallen ſtate; and, when he recollects it, reſolves to fly from courtly ingratitude to the ſweets of retirement, with his be⯑loved [228] object. Rutland obſerving the danger they ſtand in of a diſcovery, being in one of the Queen's apartments, Eſſex leads her off, with the pleaſing idea of calm content, when ſeparated from the houſe of greatneſs, where honeſty and plain dealing are for⯑bidden ſhelter.

At the beginning of the third act, Nottingham meets Burleigh, and enquires what occurred, after the Earl's audience of the Queen: this Burleigh relates, ſignifying, that her majeſty was highly diſ⯑pleaſed at his refuſal to return the ſtaff of office, in compliance with her poſitive mandate; that her paſ⯑ſion went ſo far as to threaten him with death; then ſoftened into a recollection of his many ſhining qua⯑lities, and turned reproach on Cecil, for driving him, as ſhe ſuppoſed, to ſuch extremes; however, that after many changes for and againſt, ſhe had ordered Eſſex to the Tower; but, in concluſion, command⯑ed him to be brought into her preſence. A meſſage coming to Nottingham from the Queen, deſiring her attendance in the royal cloſet, Burleigh ſuggeſts, that it is to conſult her concerning Eſſex, and urges her to make the moſt of ſo favourable an opportu⯑nity, of ſtirring majeſty to more eſſential reſentment.

The Queen, diſcovered in ſoliloquy, ſeems deep⯑ly concerned for Eſſex's weakneſs of temper; which, with the artifice of his foes, places him in ſuch a pe⯑rilous, and pitiable ſituation; her pride appears hurt at his reſiſtance, but love ſoftens that pride in⯑to compaſſion. Here Nottingham, pregnant with all the fatal malevolence of jealouſy, approaches Elizabeth, who tells her of Eſſex's contemptuous behaviour; at which, to cover her purpoſe the bet⯑ter, ſhe ſeems ſurprized; but, as the conference [229] proceeds, ſtirs up the flame againſt him ſo far, that the Queen perceives a deſign of urging ſeverity, which ſhe checks, and deſires Nottingham to ſend Rutland; then ruminates on the painful ſtate of ſolitary grandeur, which, wanting the free, comfort⯑able communication of ſocial equality, is forced to bear its griefs and anxieties alone.

When Rutland appears, Elizabeth aſks her opi⯑nion and counſel, reſpecting Eſſex: the Counteſs aſſerts, that his faults are created by envy, that they have no real exiſtence; and ſpeaks of Eſſex in ſuch terms, that the Queen, with eagle-eyed jealouſy, which however ſhe conceals for ſome time, perceives her partial regard for the Earl: at length, Rutland's zeal goes ſo far, that her royal miſtreſs diſmiſſes her the preſence.

Eſſex, conducted by Burleigh and others, preſents himſelf, while the Queen is agitated: ſhe demands why he refuſed to yield his ſtaff; to this he replies, that it was his wiſh to lay his honours at the feet of her who had conferred them: on being charged with a ſelf-ſufficiency of ſpeech, he pays himſelf ſome compliments, which no degree of provocation would draw from a man of real ſenſe. At the charge of making a ſhameful compromiſe with rebels, Eſſex ſeems to think his life levelled at; however, as an exculpation, he aſſerts having been inveſted with diſcretionary power, and obſerves, that the circum⯑ſtance of affairs obliged him to uſe that power as he had done. This defence he makes in terms that we think highly provocative, and therefore applaud the Queen's reſentment, till ſhe degrades her rank and ſex, by ſtriking him. This, we naturally ſuppoſe, rouſes his impetuous temper ſtill more; however, [230] his fury vents itſelf only againſt the court tools, whom he violently threatens. After the Queen's departure, he gives an enlarged ſcope to rage; and, notwithſtanding Southampton's palliative advice, vehemently, at all hazards, determines upon re⯑venge.

At the beginning of the fourth act, we find, by Elizabeth's enquiry and Nottingham's anſwer, that Eſſex has been guilty of ſome outrage againſt the peace and dignity of government; that force has obliged him to an eſcape, and that he is fled to a place near the Thames, where reſiſtance on his part is reſolved. This behaviour, ſo unpardonable in its nature, wounds the Queen's regard for him deeply, and ſhe expreſſes her concern pathetically, but recollecting her ſtation, calls up becoming ſpi⯑rit.

Burleigh acquaints the Queen that Eſſex, South⯑ampton, and all their factious adherents are ſecured; that their deſign, could they have gained over the citizens to aſſiſt them, was no leſs than attacking her royal perſon; that all the characters of leſſer note concerned in this traiterous attempt have been ſecured, but that the two Earls, and others of di⯑ſtinguiſhed rank, are left to her majeſty's diſpoſal: this account draws from Elizabeth ſome pertinent and affecting remarks on the ingratitude of ſubjects, ready to riſe againſt a monarch, who has always ſtudied their advantage, collectively and indivi⯑dually.

She orders Eſſex to a private audience, and when he appears, addreſſes herſelf to him in very ſting⯑ing terms, which he receives with all the anguiſh of remorſe and ſelf-conviction; with this ſhe ſeems [231] touched, and coolly expoſtulates with him on the ungrateful return he has made her bounty, ſo pe⯑culiarly manifeſted to him; then obſerves with cor⯑dial concern, that ſhe fears the public voice will force him to the peril of his life; but to palliate the pain of his ſuſpence declares, that ſhe, as an indivi⯑dual, is willing to forgive his errors freely and fully. The apology he makes for his conduct is plauſible, but no way concluſive; however it touches Elizabeth's heart, already ſo prejudiced in his favour, and ſhe condoles with him moſt hu⯑manely: at length, being wrought up to a particular pitch of tenderneſs, ſhe gives him a ring, with her royal promiſe, that if public juſtice ſhould ſen⯑tence his life, upon returning that token of her favour, he may be ſure of finding clemency.

Thus ſecured from public and private foes, Eſſex retires, with expreſſions of fervent gratitude; after ſhe delivers him to cuſtody, a foreboding ſits heavy on her heart, but ſhe determines to ſtand between him and danger, however popular clamour may cenſure her protection.

Rutland, naturally afflicted, and urged on by her huſband's ſituation, not knowing the degree of favour in which he ſtands, notwithſtanding his miſ⯑conduct, pleads to the Queen for his life and un⯑happily lets fall that he is her huſband. This un⯑expected intelligence fixes a dagger in Elizabeth's heart; ſhe orders the Counteſs, whoſe grief bor⯑ders on diſtraction, to be taken from her preſence, and after that order is fulfilled, concludes the fourth act, with painting in ſtrong, and expreſſive colours, the melancholly ſtate of her own mind; [232] we look upon her at this period as an object of great pity, agitated between public duty, private affection, and confirmed jealouſy.

Raleigh, with the lieutenant of the tower, begin the fifth act, and we are informed, that the two Earls, after a very candid trial by the peers, have been condemned; Nottingham enters, and demands admittance to Eſſex, which is granted; this revengeful lady comes with deſign to effect a conſummation of vengance, therefore wears the ſemblance of friendſhip, and pretends that the Queen had ſent her to know if the Earl has no plea to avert his ſentence.

Eſſex, not ſuſpecting any ſiniſter deſign, after ſome thankful compliments for the lady's humane interpoſition, gives her the important pledge; and with it a generous ſollicitation for his friends life, without any mention of his own: poſſeſſed of this mark of royal regard, the Counteſs hurries off, ex⯑ulting in the proſpect of accompliſhing her vindic⯑tive purpoſe; the Queen impatient for Notting⯑ham's return, appears next; upon ſeeing her meſ⯑ſenger, ſhe aſks what Eſſex has ſaid, Nottingham, with ſingular art, works her up gradually, and ſeems to lament the Earl's ſullen, unrelenting obſti⯑nacy; and ſays that even with death in view, he diſdained making any conceſſion to injured majeſ⯑ty. The Queen, at length, enquires particularly if he made any mention of a ring, which is denied; this circumſtance is ſo ſtriking, that Nottingham ſeldom fails of getting very rough language from one or more of an audience.

[233]After every aggravation againſt the man ſhe wiſhes to ſave, Elizabeth gratifies Nottingham with an or⯑der that he may be led to the block; nay, her re⯑ſentment is wrought up to ſuch a pitch, that ſhe even determines upon going to the Tower, that his fate may be imbittered by her preſence.

Eſſex and Southampton, habited for the ſcaffold, next appear; the former, giving his friend hopes of life, the latter, with philoſophic reſolution, caſt⯑ing aſide ſuch flattering ideas. Some of the lines he ſpeaks, we think worthy quotation.

The whole of this ſcene ſhews warm friendſhip in one, noble reſolution in the other. When the Lieutenant of the Tower comes on to ſignify that a warrant is arrived for both Earls to ſuffer, Eſſex emphatically laments the fate of his friend, and Southampton meets it with a determined, vigorous reſolution; but when unexpectedly a pardon comes to the laſt mentioned nobleman, he melts into ſoft⯑neſs at the fate of his friend Eſſex, and parts from him in terms of noble, unſhakeable friendſhip.

After this ſeparation, Rutland comes to give her huſband yet a ſeverer trial of affliction; ſhe clings about his heart, and melts him almoſt to a diſ⯑graceful degree of tenderneſs: at laſt, after many [234] expreſſions of mutual endearment, the Lieutenant ſignifies, that time calls ſo preſſingly, he muſt re⯑quire the Earl's departure; this throws both Eſſex and Rutland into an exceſs of tenderneſs, which oc⯑caſions very ſtrong feelings amongſt an audience. At length they are ſeparated, he goes to his fate, and ſhe is left diſtractedly to lament it.

Here the Queen enters, we think much too ſoon; for, according to her forbiddance of the execution immediately, it is improbable, nay impoſſible, the place conſidered, that his head could be taken off before her mercy is known; however, ſo the plot takes its courſe, and Rutland, being diſappointed of a h [...]pe ſhe had conceived from the Queen's cle⯑mency, fall into a ſtate of abſolute madneſs, in which Elizabeth humanely offers to comfort her. Burleigh, who brings tidings of the execution, re⯑lates Nottingham's treachery, which ſtrikes the Queen with freſh concern, as conſidering that not only her regard for the man is violated, but even her fame ſtigmatized; her concluſive lines have a good moral tendency, had it not been enervated with unnatural and unneceſſary rhime.

This tragedy, being founded on hiſtorical fact, and that domeſtic alſo, has particular influence upon a B [...]itiſh audience; the plot is regular, the ſcenes well ranged, and the characters naturally drawn; the langu [...] is chaſte, the verſification harmonious [...] [...]ſive: and the ſentiments inſtructive; it [...] ba [...]ds, and more natural than Banks's; no [...] [...]ervous or ſentimental as Brooks's play, on the [...] ſubject [...]ut more conſonant to general ap⯑prehe [...]ion and [...]te; it moſt certainly does not deſerve the ſtile of a capital performance, but, as [235] we think, may very properly ſtand the teſt of pe⯑ruſal and performance.

In the EARL of ESSEX, there are but few cha⯑racters, conſequently moſt of them have ſome de⯑gree of importance. We find the hero brave, loy⯑al, loving and friendly; ſtrongly tinctured with pride and violence of temper; too open and bold in ſpeech for the ambiguity and fineſſe of court ſophiſtry.

Mr. BARRY had every requiſite to render this character agreeable; a fine figure to apologize for all the ladies, even majeſty itſelf to be in love with him; a moſt harmonious utterance for the amorous paſſages, fine breaks for the grief, and natural ſpirit for the rage; he was, through the whole, every thing a critical ſpectator could wiſh, and muſt have pleaſed the moſt unfeeling. Mr. ROSS, though greatly inferior to the original, has conſiderable me⯑rit in the part, and ſupports it much better than moſt capital characters are now ſupported.

Southampton appears only in the light of a ge⯑nerous friend, warm and ſteady in his attachment: Mr. SMITH gave us much pleaſure in perſonating of him, and we may venture to ſay it ſat eaſier on him than any other tragic character he ever played; why then give it to Mr. BENSLEY, who looks and plays it more in the ſtile of Bajazet, than that of an ac⯑compliſhed nobleman? Mr. REDDISH fills our idea beſt. Burleigh, as preſented on the ſtage, is cool, politic and reſolute; an excellent judge of charact⯑er, and equal to any taſk of ſtate. In juſt veneration of that great ſtateſman's name, we could wiſh he had not been drawn on the ſtage ſo unfavourably; for his plotting againſt Eſſex, merely as a check to [236] his ambition, and a rival in the Queen's favour, is a heavy imputation on Cecil's fame.

Mr. SPARKS repreſented him with becoming dig⯑nity, and gained that attention we have never per⯑ceived any other performer obtain, or in the leaſt deſerve. Mr. GIBSON is horrid to a degree of pain; he does not lay the leaden mace of ſlumber on his audience, but buffets their ears with ſounds more diſſonant than the hum-ſtrum of a hurdy-gurdy, Mr. GARDNER, who played the part in BROOKS's ESSEX at the Haymarket with merit, ſhould do this part at Covent Garden.

Queen Elizabeth is a character of importance, though we think underwritten. She has ſome weakneſs as a woman, none as a monarch; how⯑ever female inclinations ariſe, royalty maintains pre⯑eminence, and ſhe will be Queen even over the man ſhe loves. Mrs. HAMILTON, by an abundance of teaching, for ſhe could never get out of leading-ſtrings, made a very reſpectable figure in the cha⯑racter, and did the author more juſtice than could be expected from her, eſpecially in the tragic ſtile; her perſon, deportment and action, were well adapt⯑ed. Notwithſtanding we have ſaid thus much in favour of the original, our regard for merit obliges us to ſay, that no part was ever ſpoke or felt more properly, than Queen Elizabeth was by Miſs IBBOT, who played it as we remember one night, and no more, at Covent Garden, becauſe Mr. RICH, who delighted in oppoſing the opinion of the public, did not concur in the approbation ſhe received. Even at this diſtance of time, we remember to have been peculiarly ſtruck with her expreſſion in that ſcene where ſhe gives Eſſex the ring as a pledge of ſafety [237] from his foes; the whole interview was intereſting, but theſe lines ſhe uttered inimitably; by reading the paſſage we can ſcarce conceive the additional force ſhe gave it.

Mrs. WARD, who once had conſiderable merit, is now ſo mutilated by time, that ſhe has hardly a trace of her former ſelf; therefore, we need not be ſurprized that ſhe makes ſuch a wretched figure in the Queen and more eſpecially as the part never came within her compaſs; but however we may pity her, as being commended upon ſuch a forlorn hope, what apology can we make for the managers, indeed, what can they ſay for themſelves, to obtrude performance in a capital light, ſo very inadequate and diſgraceful to a London theatre. Mrs. HOP⯑KINS does not treſpaſs upon the bounds of decency, but merits no other applauſe than ſilent ſufferance.

Rutland is ſo circumſtanced as to claim our con⯑cern; her anxious love, her perplexed ſtate, and her diſtracted grief for the loſs of her huſband, all con⯑cur to touch the melting heart; the character took happy poſſeſſion of Mrs. CIBBER, and ſhe of the audience. Her merit never ſhone more conſpicu⯑ouſly than in the laſt act of this play, when abound⯑ing ſighs and tears gave her juſt tribute of the trueſt applauſe. Mrs. BARRY, though without power to equal this great original, gives very irreſiſtable ſen⯑ſation in this part. Miſs MILLER, who rubbed through it lately at Covent Garden, was ſhamefully [238] imperfect; ſhamefully we ſay, becauſe no doubt ſhe had due time for preparation. It is the duty of thoſe who have the greateſt abilities to know the author, how much more incumbent upon them who poſſeſs ſuch ſlender talents as this lady, of whoſe executive powers we will venture to ſay, that had ſhe been minutely acquainted with every ſyllable of Rutland, it is not in her power to do one tenth of the part juſtice.

Nottingham is a very diſagreeable, yet we believe a natural character, for where jealouſy taints the mind of either ſex, all moral and ſocial concerns are rooted up. She requires a good actreſs, and is a painful taſk for ſuch a one, being all up hill per⯑formance: Mrs. VINCENT was very improperly choſen for the original, ſeventeen years ago, and we ſuppoſe is to retain it for life; this is rather more abſurd than Mr. RYAN's doing the part of Marcus in CATO, when he was ſeventy, becauſe he had done it when he was five and twenty—For heaven's ſake, Mr. COLMAN, without diminiſhing a worthy wo⯑man's ſalary, have ſome pity upon criticiſm, dont compel it to ſting through public miſapplication, ſo excellent a private character. Where is Mrs. MATTOCKS? She ſometimes plays tragedy, though not her fort, and muſt, at leaſt in ſtage appearance, give tolerable grace to what Burleigh hints of charms. Mrs. STEPHENS, though her powers were not equal to the part, yet was capable of giving much ſatisfaction in this Counteſs.

At the Haymarket, laſt ſummer, the ESSEX of BROOKES was exhibited; though not ſtrictly with⯑in our plan, being a different piece, perhaps our rea⯑ders may not be diſpleaſed with ſome ſtrictures on [239] the performance. Mr. SHERIDAN was bombaſtic in the paſſages of paſſion, and diſcordant in the ten⯑der ones; hurtful through extravagance of action to eyes, and painful through falſe modulation of vile tones to ears. Mr. J. AICKIN's Southampton was modeſt, ſenſible, feeling, and within the lines of nature, but rather faint for a large audience: if this gentleman could rouze up a little more ex⯑preſſion, there is a degree of propriety about him which few reach; why he is placed in ſuch an ob⯑ſcure, diſadvantageous light at Drury Lane, none but thoſe who ſteer that ſtate can poſſibly ſay. There are ſeveral parts which Mr. PACKER is inju⯑diciouſly, or partially packed on for, which would ſit much eaſier upon him. Mr. GARDNER, whom we have already mentioned as fit to take Mr. GIB⯑SON's poſt, ſhewed, in his playing of Burleigh, ca⯑pability for ſupporting a ſimilar caſt.

Mrs. BURTON! Mrs. PHILLIPPINA BURTON! was the moſt mouthing, ſtrutting, ſtaring, Wapping landlady repreſentative of poor Elizabeth, that ever tortured the two delicate ſenſes of ſight and hear⯑ing. It is impoſſible to ſay, amidſt ſuch a compli⯑cation of wretchedneſs, whether her ungracious countenance, her lumbering figure, aukward action, wild modulation, or barbarous dialect, gave moſt diſguſt; let us adviſe this poetical adventurer to change her pen and tragedy ſceptre for the rolling-pin or mop, and then ſhe may become a uſeful mem⯑ber of ſociety.

Miſs HAYWARD, for ſo inexperienced a perform⯑er, ſhewed great merit in Rutland; her laſt act was truly affecting; a few vulgariſms, and ſome Shere⯑donian oddities of expreſſion, clouded her abilities; [240] but we think ſhe has the materials about her, with proper aſſiſtance and diligence, to make in a ſeaſon or two the third tragic actreſs in our London thea⯑tres; we wiſh the managers impartiality to make the beſt uſe of her capacity, and her the happy pru⯑dence to make the beſt uſe of herſelf. Mrs. JEF⯑FERIES is conſiderably the beſt Nottingham we have ſeen. It is remarkable, that the two principal parts in this exhibition, Eſſex and Elizabeth, were noto⯑riouſly the worſt.

From this tragedy ariſes the uſeful obſervation of that danger and mutability which attends court fa⯑vour. In a compariſon of BANKS's, JONES's, and BROOKES's, the former muſt be pronounced replete with offenſive bombaſt, forced figures, unnatural ideas, and pitiful expreſſion; the ſecond, regular, chaſte and affecting; the third, leſs turgid than BANKS, more laboured than JONES; nervous, but ſtiff; wherefore, we recommend that play which has paſſed review both for action and peruſal.

The PLAIN DEALER. A COMEDY, altered from WYCHERLY: By Mr. BICKERSTAFF.

THE comedies of CHARLES the SECOND's time were animated with wit, humour and a cha⯑racter ſtrongly marked; but had in general a vici⯑ous tendency; our public taſte being moralized; though private vices are as enormous as ever, the dramatiſts of our days make an adherence to de⯑cency apologize for all the other eſſentials.

To reſcue from oblivion the ſterling ore of anti⯑quity; to purge it of groſs alloy is an undertaking worthy of praiſe; it is like recovering a picture highly finiſhed from obſcuring filth; when this is done, without impairing the maſter's beauties, it ſhews judgment, and if any retouching is neceſſa⯑ry, to blend the addition with an able hand ma⯑nifeſts genius; Mr. BICKERSTAFF found the Plain Dealer a good, but an immoral play; this may ſeem a ſoleciſm in expreſſion, but we mean good as to the leading dramatic qualifications; what he has done by refitting it for public inſpection we are now to examine, after premiſing that he has dealt candidly with his original and readers, by marking the additions he choſe to make; thus whatever cenſure or praiſe they may deſerve, becomes direct⯑ly and fairly his own.

[242]Manly begins this piece, with opening his own character in a conference with Lord Plauſible, who ſeems a very diſagreeable viſitant. In the courſe of their ſhort converſation, they appear ſtrong con⯑traſts; one ſeems churliſhly fond of viewing and deſcribing human nature in the worſt light, while the other pleaſes himſelf with being the white-waſher of frailty; the wide difference of opinion, makes Manly cut ſhort the thread of diſcourſe in a very unhoſpitable, uncivilized manner; however, the roughneſs of one and pliancy of the other, have a pleaſing effect.

Oakham, a ſea domeſtic of Manly's, ſeeing the peer treated ſo roughly, ſoliloquizes, with marine pleaſantry, upon the incident; gives us to under⯑ſtand, that the Plain Dealer is a captain in the na⯑vy, that he is juſt landed from an unſucceſsful cruize, and that he had ſunk his ſhip to prevent her falling into the hands of the French: we think this ſpeech of the honeſt tar's well introduced.

Manly returning with Freeman, is aſked how he could treat a peer ſo roughly, when he makes a re⯑ply which we muſt tranſcribe as excellent. ‘"You are one of thoſe who eſteem men only by the value and marks which fortune has ſet upon them, and never conſider intrinſic worth; but counterfeit ho⯑nours will not paſs current with me, I weigh the man, not his title. It is not the king's inſcription which can make the metal better or heavier, your lord is a leaden ſhilling, which you bend every way, and debaſes the ſtamp he bears, inſtead of being raiſed by it."’ After ſome humorous reproofs to Oakham for admitting a viſitor without leave, [243] Manly forbids the admiſſion of any more, male or female,

In continuation of the conference between Manly and Freeman, we find the latter kindly endeavour⯑ing to ſoften the rigidity which characteriſes the former. One is for ſtrict truth and open ſpeaking upon all occaſions; the other, for giving way rea⯑ſonably to ſome cuſtoms and prejudices of life, that he may not be in a ſtate of continual warfare with his fellow-creatures. Juſt as Freeman is making a tender of cordial friendſhip, Fidelia, diſguiſed in men's cloths, enters, and torments Manly's patience with ſimilar profeſſions; he charges his female volunteer with cowardice, and upon that principle diſmiſſes her; ſhe remonſtrates againſt this ſeverity, but in vain.

Here Oakham ſignifies the boiſterous approach of a clamorous old lady, widow Blackacre, who, by deſcription, we find to be the eſſence of litigation; ſo fond of a law ſuit, that ſhe prefers it to any other enjoyment. Upon her entrance ſhe complains of being kept ſo long in waiting, to which Manly re⯑plies, by aſking for her niece Olivia, regardleſs of the queſtion, ſhe proceeds to the ſtating of a cauſe ſhe has in hand; Jerry, her ſon, is ordered to put the caſe, which, after many interruptions, he at⯑tempts, but blunders ſo, that the impatient mother proceeds herſelf; till Manly, driven beyond pa⯑tience, damns the cauſe, and all the parties con⯑cerned. Upon being offered a ſubpoena, he flounces out of the room, and leaves the widow to lament his Gothic behaviour.

After he is gone, Freeman makes a kind of ma⯑trimonial attack upon Mrs. Blackacre, which, for the preſent, is cut ſhort, under the idea of affection [244] for her ſon. By the next ſcene, which is an added one, we learn that Manly has fixed his undivided friendſhip upon a man called Varniſh, and his love upon a woman called Olivia, not remarkable either for beauty or fortune; however, it appears, that this odd ſon of Neptune, upon going to ſea, had pro⯑viſionally left this object of his affection poſſeſſed of no leſs than ten or twelve thouſand pounds; from a partial opinion of her being, what he thinks rare, a faithful woman. Freeman goes off to plead in Fidelia's favour, and leaves that female to inform us that ſhe is in love with Manly, that ſhe has taken a diſguiſe to watch an opportunity of gaining his affections, though ſhe knows them to be previouſly engaged.

The Plain Dealer appears dreſſed, and ſignifies to Freeman that he is going out; on being told that it is on a viſit to his miſtreſs, with an obſervation that ſhe muſt be in the phenomenon ſtile to engage ſuch a diſpoſition as his, he launches out violently in her praiſe, becauſe ſhe is conſonant in temper, as he imagines, to him. A glaring inſtance of weakneſs drops from the blunt captain here, which is giving her unlimited credit for requeſting to ſwear ſhe would not hear the addreſſes of any perſon while he was at ſea: as a proof of her valuable and amiable qualifications, he deſires Freeman to call on him at her lodgings in an hour, obſerving, that the young volunteer can ſhew him where ſhe lives.

Olivia and Eliza begin the ſecond act: from what paſſes between them we find, that the former, though ſhe diſclaims all liking for gay life and ele⯑gance of dreſs, is warmly attached to both: through the whole of this ſcene, ſhe diſplays contempt of [245] every thing that is pleaſing to her, eſpecially any concern with the male ſex: her character opens it⯑ſelf, and ſhews a very palpable mixture of pride, peeviſhneſs, and prudery.

A foot-boy bringing in word that a gentleman, who frequently comes, deſires admittance, ſhe pro⯑teſts againſt the knowledge of any viſitors: on be⯑ing told the perſon's name, ſhe is rather confuſed, and wants to make Eliza the cauſe of his viſit; then gives a character that ſhews ſhe is intimately ac⯑quainted with him. With admirable effrontery ſhe calls up Novel, as if to pleaſe her couſin: this alert ſprig of faſhion no ſooner appears, than he enters upon a ſubject very common in modiſh life, that is, delineating the characters he dined with the day be⯑fore; however, Olivia, who profeſſed herſelf a foe to detraction but a few lines ſince, outſtrips Novel ſo much in the diſſection of Lady Autumn and her daughter, that he attempts to march off, but is de⯑tained.

Lord Plauſible being mentioned, the tender Oli⯑via cuts him up too; and Novel is ſpeaking of him in very harſh terms at the moment he appears. This turns the ſcales, all immediately becoming complaiſance and cordiality. His lordſhip obſerv⯑ing that he met two worthy characters at Olivia's door, Count Levant and Lord Court-title, there is a freſh field for ſcandal opened, and every one whoſe name happens to fall in is ſacrificed; till Eliza, wearied with ſuch ſtuff, goes off, and Manly is heard ſquabbling at the door with the foot-boy: he en⯑ters, and is aſtoniſhed to ſee Olivia in ſuch compa⯑ny; his vexation and ſurprize are expreſſed in pretty [246] rough terms, and ſhe replies rather with upbraiding than conceſſion.

While Novel and Plauſible are on, he is much agitated, and treats the things, as he juſtly calls them, with becoming ſpirit: at length they retire, rather intimidated, to another room.

Olivia's aggravation, when by themſelves, riſes ſo high, that he renounces her; ſhe coolly goes off, and ſays ſhe ſhall return ſoon. Fidelia and Free⯑man, who have overheard the ſquabble, join the captain, and feel ſome rubs from his rouzed fury; however, Freeman urges him to demand a reſtitu⯑tion of the money and jewels he had placed in ſo unworthy a miſtreſs's hands. When Olivia ap⯑pears, Fidelia unites with Freeman in this demand; to which ſhe replies, that what they aſk have been delivered to another perſon. This awakes the cap⯑tain, he demands who, ſhe returns, her huſband; and that ſhe dare not hint at their being given back, leaſt he ſhould think ſhe had received them upon unworthy terms.

This affirmative confeſſion of deceit provokes Manly ſo much, that he bids her go off to avoid ſomething worſe than rough words; ſhe complies, with moſt provoking indifference.

Mrs. Blackacre, Jerry, and Major Oldfox, are introduced: Freeman addreſſes the widow in very plain and poſitive terms, which makes her retort ſharply: this encourages Oldfox to mention his claim, which the choleric old dame repulſes with ſevere warmth, and is humorouſly ſatirical; her a⯑buſe of Freeman goes too far, when ſhe calls him a lath-backed fellow: full of law ſhe leaves both [247] her old and young gallant, to try if Olivia can in⯑fluence any of the jury in a depending cauſe.

At the beginning of the third act, Manly pre⯑ſents himſelf, ſolus, violently diſturbed in thought at Olivia's perſidious, unexpected behaviour, and lamenting that the injury he ſuſtains ſo hardly, was not done by a man, that he might have de⯑manded and compelled adequate ſatisfaction; how⯑ever, he confeſſes love for her, in ſpite of ſuch pe⯑culiar provocation to wean his miſled affection; while he is wrapped in this painful reverie, Fidelia enters and deſires to be heard a few words, which requeſt Manly is loth to comply with, however, being preſſed, and mention of Olivia occurring, he joins converſation.

When the ſuppoſed volunteer utters harſh terms againſt his captain's miſtreſs, love gets the better of ill uſage, and cauſes Manly to threaten Fidelia; after this, with great precaution, he acknowledges his paſſion for Olivia, but confeſſes it as a great ſecret; interprets her culpable behaviour in many favourable lights; inſiſts upon Fidelia's going to her houſe, ſuppoſing ſhe may have repented her diſdainful behaviour, and may be willing to make ſome acknowledgment.

The female volunteer undertakes this commiſ⯑ſion, in hopes of getting the money and jewels returned, but Manly forbids any idea of that kind, and ſays he is going to Weſtminſter Hall; here the ſcene concludes, and that which ſucceeds, places us in view of the law market; where Mrs. Black⯑acre appears, ſurrounded with long robed harpies, railing at a ſollicitor who has pacifically recommend⯑ed a reference.

[248]Major Oldfox coming on, a very immaterial, unentertaining ſcene enſues at a bookſeller's ſtall, between him and the litigious widow; at length, ſhe is called off by ſeeing a perſon who has propoſ⯑ed ſelling her a chancery ſuit, upon what ſhe thinks moderate terms. Seeing Freeman, his rival, the Major becomes very cruſty, and hobbles after his miſtreſs. Jerry wanting to buy Rocheſter's jeſts, but not having money to pay for the book, Freeman lays down the price, and laments that a young gentleman, of large expectations, ſhould be kept ſo bare; then aſks, why he wont give con⯑ſent to his marrying the widow. This draws from Jerry an explanation of his mother's character, her penury, and ſpirit of litigation.

Freeman, finding Jerry a good ſubject to work upon, puts two guineas into his hand, and they form an alliance againſt the old lady. The ſquire, being poſſeſſed of ſuch an immenſe ſum, goes off with a pleaſing remark, that he'll go and pay two ſhillings he owes, becauſe he believes the man wants it. Manly, harraſſed by Mrs. Blackacre, about her cauſe, enters, declaring he'll be plagued no more with it; when the widow miſſes her hopeful ſon, ſhe hurries off with the Major, to ſearch for him. Freeman obſerving to his captain, that his patience muſt be pretty well tried, the enraged Plain Dealer replies, that ſince his coming into the Hall, he has incurred a challenge and two law-ſuits.

Seeing Novel approach, he wants to ſheer off, but being hailed by the beau, brings too. The talkative ſprite propoſes ſome inſignificant queſti⯑ons, which are replied to with a mixture of rough⯑neſs and contempt. We cannot help thinking this [249] ſcene a very weak and unneceſſary addition, it means little to the plot, has but very faint humour [...]o recommend it, and conſequently hangs heavy on attention. What paſſes between Freeman and No⯑vel, might alſo be very well ſpared; when the lat⯑ter, having made a ſlip concerning Manly's cou⯑rage, ſneaks off, Jerry Blackacre, full of reſentment againſt his mother, enters, claiming the promiſed aſ⯑ſiſtance of his friend Freeman.

Seeing her approach, they go off: the widow here preſents herſelf, fuming with paſſion at the inſolence of Jerry, who has threatened to go on board Man⯑ly's ſhip; her concern ſeems not for the ſon, but the writings he has got with him, on which her jointure and law-ſuits depend. She goes off, threat⯑ening Manly, as an accomplice in the boy's elope⯑ment. Fidelia joins the Plain Dealer, and informs him of Olivia's confirmed infidelity; he doubts for ſome time, but when the young volunteer ſays, that Olivia has not only made love to him in direct terms, but that he is to be admitted to her bed-chamber at midnight, Manly inſiſts on his going, which Fidelia declines. Manly then reſolves him⯑ſelf to make uſe of a garden key ſhe has given him. Freeman's appearance cuts ſhort their diſcourſe; the lieutenant informs his captain of Jerry's revolt from maternal authority, and that he intends to make a proper uſe of that event.

Manly begins the fourth act with Fidelia: after obſerving, that he has been out all night, and that he now conſiders Olivia as the vileſt of her ſex, he diſcovers diſorder in Fidelia's countenance, which ſhews ſhe has been in tears; he ſpeaks in friendly terms, promiſing protection: he explains [250] the method of confirming Olivia's treachery, which was by paſſing in the dark for her expected young volunteer; and deſires that Fidelia, in that cha⯑racter, to favour his deſigns, will write a tender letter to the falſe fair: her objecting to this, ſug⯑geſts an idea of jealouſy to Manly. Upon ſaying he muſt either give up Olivia or her, he ſternly aſks what they have to do with each other: at length, upon an explanation that he only wants through this ſecond appointment, to confront Olivia with ir⯑reſiſtable conviction, ſhe goes off to write the pro⯑poſed letter.

Major Oldfox, though they parted upon ſuch un⯑gentleman-like terms in Weſtminſter Hall, is here introduced by Freeman to the Captain, both as a ſoldier and an author. The old militarian pro⯑poſes employing his pen in a relation of Manly's loſing his ſhip, which the tar treats with contempt. Oldfox's remarks upon his own abilities, and Free⯑man's mode of humouring his abſurdity, are agreea⯑bly imagined; but this, like ſeveral other ſcenes, has no kind of connexion with the plot, and ſeems more calculated to make Oldfox a tolerable part, than to enrich the piece. It appears to us, that the ſcene which now ſtands third, would have been more properly placed as ſecond.

The circumſtance of Freeman's wanting ſpirit to quarrel with one who had called him an impertinent, inſignificant, ignorant fellow, is ſomewhat odd for the character of an officer: after the Major retires, we are informed by the Lieutenant, that he has new rigged his charge. Hearing a knock, which is known to be Mrs. Blackacre's, they retire.

[251]The ſcene changes to Covent Garden Piazza, where we perceive the widow, who declares ſhe won't ſet foot in Manly's houſe without her lawyer. We wiſh Mr. BICKERSTAFF had placed Quillet's cham⯑bers in any other than Coney Court, eſpecially as it was to come from a female mouth. Upon Jerry's coming forth in his new habiliments, Mrs. Black⯑acre takes notice of the change, and being told that he has choſen Freeman for a guardian, ſhe ſoftens, deſiring he will go home with her. An altercation here ariſes, in which the characters are extremely well and homorouſly ſupported: being hard puſhed, and much enraged, the widow ſacrifices her own re⯑putation at the ſhrine of reſentment; declaring, that Jerry is baſe born: wherefore, his claim to the family eſtate, or choice of a guardian, can have no validity. With this very creditable ſubterfuge, ſhe haſtens to Doctor's Commons. Jerry, and his new guardian being alarmed with this unexpected decla⯑ration, they go off to fight her in her own way, by engaging a conſiderable detachment of pettifoggers.

We are now conducted to Olivia's lodgings, where we meet that lady bringing on Verniſh, her huſband: the remarkable palpitation ſhe appears in alarms ſuſpicion, which ſhe takes endearing methods to caſt aſide; and tells him not only of Manly's return from ſea, but of her manner of treating him: here Verniſh opens his own character, and ſhews that he is linked with the woman to impoſe on an eaſy, un⯑ſuſpecting temper. We perceive this raſcal to be the one friend mentioned by our Plain Dealer in the firſt act, with ſuch cordiality and confidence.

Olivia mentioning the neceſſity of taking means to ſecure the money placed in her hands by Manly, [252] Verniſh goes off for that purpoſe, and ſhe gets breathing time. By her ſoliloquy, it appears, that ſhe repents her marriage, and is very apprehenſive of danger to her young favourite, the volunteer, ſhould ſo dark and dangerous a temper diſcover her attachment. Here Fidelia preſents herſelf: a con⯑verſation enſues, which ſhews Olivia much ena⯑moured and very forward. She propoſes flying from her huſband; then invites her gallant to a collation in the next room, which we think not very probable, under fear of Verniſh's return. Being perplexed with ſolicitation, Fidelia feigns the ap⯑proach of a fit; Olivia goes into another chamber for ſome ſpirits, and immediately returns in great confuſion, announcing her huſband's approach: it appears, that while the ſervant went for a coach, he had changed his riding dreſs. On ſeeing Fidelia, he accoſts her in very rough terms, indeed very vul⯑gar ones: why would our alterer furniſh ſuch paſ⯑ſages as theſe? ‘"By the Lord, you ſhant ſlip by me—Damn you, ſirrah"’—Fear of death cauſes Fi⯑delia to own ſhe is a woman; of this the brute takes an advantage, and preſſes his licentious ſuit with violence. Her ſituation here claims pity, and the audience are judiciouſly left at the end of the fourth act, in a ſtate of anxious concern for her honour and ſafety.

Olivia, concerned for her rotten reputation, be⯑gins the fifth act with Eliza, who comforts her on that point, with obſerving, that her character was ſo bad before any late incident, it is paſt the attack of any freſh injury. Verniſh enters, Olivia, conſcious of guilt, craves pardon. This draws from him an expla⯑nation that the volunteer was a woman, in man's [253] cloaths, a diſcovery made by his pretending to be rude with her. When his wife finds the lover, male or fe⯑male, has eſcaped, ſhe turns the tables upon him, and charges Verniſh with criminality, where ſhe herſelf was guilty. Her hypocriſy is very well deſcribed; he ſooths her paſſion, and begs Eliza to work a re⯑conciliation.

When he is gone, Olivia, true to vice and effron⯑tery, diſclaims any knowledge of a gallant, though cloſely preſſed thereto by her couſin: in ſhort, her hardened, negative inſolence here, is very character⯑iſtic of a mind ſteeled againſt every juſt and delicate feeling. Her unbluſhing confidence warms Eliza, and they part with angry terms.

In the next ſcene we meet Freeman and Manly; the latter mentions Fidelia's eſcape from Olivia's lodgings, and makes an appointment with Freeman, for him, Oakham, and as many more as he chuſes, to meet at half an hour after ſeven in her chamber. Freeman gone off, Verniſh appears, to whom the Captain gives a moſt friendly welcome. This ſcene produces natural and pleaſing perplexity, by Man⯑ly's boaſting of the laſt favour from his ſuppoſed friend's wife. The exultation of the one, and anxi⯑ety of the other, are entertaining: the Captain, in rapture, mentions a ſecond appointment of amo⯑rous nature, and makes his exit, deſiring they may meet at ſupper. In a ſucceeding ſoliloquy, we find, that Verniſh, in order to convict his wife, deter⯑mines upon making her believe he is under a ne⯑ceſſity of going immediately to Oxford; by which means he imagines her guilt or innocence will cer⯑tainly be brought to light.

[254]Major Oldfox, Mrs. Blackacre, and Counſellor Quillet, preſent themſelves in the next ſcene: their converſation amounts to no more than making the widow's litigious character more ſtrongly apparent, and having no further connexion with the piece, may be deemed an excreſcence, obtruded upon the original by Mr. BICKERSTAFF: if the ſcene which now ſtands eighth, immediately ſucceeded Verniſh's ſoliloquy, it would have been better. Upon being arreſted at the ſuit of Freeman, as guardian to her ſon, the old lady bends her high ſpirit into ſuppli⯑cation; however, mercy lies open but one way, which is by marrying the Lieutenant.

Frighted at the loſs of her authority by ſuch a union, ſhe offers Freeman an annuity of three hun⯑dred pounds a year, and payment of his debts; juſtly ſurmiſing, that his view upon her is merely pecuniary advantage. He intimates, that her fa⯑mily has cheated him of four hundred a year, landed eſtate, and propoſes, upon a ſurrender of that property, to give up the guardianſhip of Jerry; this, and a ſtipulation that ſhe ſhall allow the young gentleman one hundred pounds a year, is agreed to, and they go off to ratify the agree⯑ment.

Olivia is brought forward in freſh expectation of her young volunteer; Fidelia enters, and in her maſculine capacity ſuſtains a very warm attack, with ſtrong ſolicitation to make an elopement: up⯑on hearing a noiſe, and diſcovering that it is her huſband returned, Olivia gives a caſket, containing jewels and bank notes to a conſiderable amount, to Fidelia; who, upon Manly's entrance, gives them to him. Verniſh forces a door open, and attacks [255] Manly and Fidelia; while they are ſcuffling by the faint glimmers of a dark lanthorn, Freeman, Plau⯑ſible and Novel enter; when lights appear, the Plain Dealer perceives that Olivia's huſband is the identical friend he had ſelected from mankind. The play now haſtens to a concluſion, Manly find⯑ing that his volunteer is a woman—we wiſh this point had been explained more ſatisfactory—he preſents her with a caſket, and offers his heart; Fidelia gladly accepts the latter, which ſhe has toiled hard to gain; and makes him acquainted that ſhe is poſſeſſed of two thouſand pounds a year. We think the cataſtrophe of this piece very defective, as neither Olivia, Verniſh, nor widow Blackacre, are ſufficiently puniſhed for the bad principles they manifeſt upon every occaſion.

Take this comedy as it is now offered to the pub⯑lic, we find many ſcenes of powerful humour, ſeve⯑ral very languid: for moſt of the former we are indebted to WYCHERLY, for the latter in general to Mr. BIKERSTAFF, whoſe alteration has rendered the play more chaſte, but not more entertaining. We ſhould have been happy to allow the ſame degree of praiſe here we have given the HYPOCRITE, but it is by no means deſerved; however, the unities are well preſerved, the plot judiciouſly conducted, the characters, ſuch as they are, properly maintained, and the dialogue eaſy.

Manly is an uncommon, yet not an unnatural character, his ſpirit of ſpeaking what he thinks upon every occaſion, leads him often to the verge of rudeneſs, and gives his converſation a very ſa⯑turnine caſt; however, plain dealing in one ſenſe may be a jewel, yet in ſuch a latitude as the Captain [256] uſes it, ſocial communication becomes hurt by unneceſſary, ill-timed truths: if it was commonly practiſed, according to the known feelings of mankind in general, we might expect nothing but conſtant bickerings amongſt neighbours: indeed, it is not every man that enjoys ſufficient judgment to diſtinguiſh what are really errors and vices, where, as fools are moſt apt to give their opinion, the reſtraint of cuſtom and civility becomes eſſential.

Manly's ſingularity pleaſes in action, but would be diſguſtful in private life; he ſeems to have an honeſt, unſuſpecting heart, but a wretched weak head; we remember to have ſeen Mr. QUIN exhi⯑bit the Plain Dealer with ſingular merit; the cyni⯑cal roughneſs being in a great meaſure his own diſ⯑poſition, became him well; yet, as being more ſpirited, we are apt to conclude Mr. HOLLAND better—Mr. AICKIN is indeed a lamentable falling off from both.

Freeman has very little to recommend an actor, the preſent Mr. PALMER deſerves as much praiſe as can be merited by ſuch an inſipid undertaking. Lord Plauſible is very little more than a name, he is a very poor contraſt to Manly, has nothing to do with the piece, and ſcarce any thing to ſay worth attention; he is totally unworthy of ſuch pleaſing talents as both Mr. PARSONS and Mr. DODD poſſeſs. Novel is equally an excreſence, and ſtill more below the happy execution of Mr. KING; however, there is ſome policy and a com⯑pliment to the public in putting good performers on ſuch ungracious undertakings.

Verniſh is a conſummate knave, a dead weight to drag, and will never be ſo well ſupported as by Mr. [257] LEE. Major Oldfox is meant as a humouriſt, but his influence upon the riſible faculties is very weak; Mr. LOVE ſupports this opiniated, caroethes ſcri⯑bendi coxcomb, better in action than the author has in delineation. Jerry Blackacre we find a very laughable ninny-hammer, placed in ſeveral divert⯑ing points of view; Mr. YATES no doubt ſhewed himſelf a very good actor in the performance of this part; but for true character and powerful ſimplicity, Mr. WESTON goes far beyond him; nor do we think it too indulgent for criticiſm to place Mr. W. PALMER ſecond; who with diligence and countenance from the managers, may make a firſt rate low comedian.

In the character of Olivia, we find an entire want of every amiable qualification; ſhe is proud, ſlanderous, deceitful, falſe to a lover who has con⯑ferred great obligations upon her, and equally diſ⯑poſed to abuſe her huſband, for ſake of a third per⯑ſon; ſhe is ſo hateful in principles that a good ac⯑treſs is requiſite to make her ſufferable, and ſuch we admit Miſs POPE ſhews herſelf in this part, though both authors have left it very unfiniſhed for repreſentation.

Fidelia is a lady of the romantic caſt, reſolved to have a man at any rate; if love is an excuſe for groſs breaches of decorum ſhe may ſtand excuſ⯑ed; however, we cannot help conſidering her as a reprehenſible object. Mrs. YATES gave very ade⯑quate ſatisfaction in perſonating this adventurous fair one, yet notwithſtanding her great merit and greater name, we are not afraid to declare that Mrs. BADDELY pleaſes us better. Mrs. Blacka⯑cre, who gallops on the hobby horſe of law, retir⯑ed [258] with Mrs. CLIVE to the neighbourhood of Straw⯑berry-hill, and will not in our judgment return, un⯑leſs Mrs. GREEN takes her by the hand; Mrs. STE⯑PHENS made ſome very unſucceſsful attempts upon her laſt winter, and Mrs. HOPKINS worſe this. In ſhort we are ſurprized that the laſt mentioned lady, who has as little humour as pathos about her, ſhould be bundled into ſo many characters of importance both tragic and comic. Miſs PLYM, and Mrs. W. BARRY may both be juſtly ſtiled pretty Eli⯑zas.

The comedy, whatever praiſe it might receive in its original ſtate from the wits and connoiſſures of the laſt age, or however it may be improved by the preſent alteration, has yet many very weak parts, and the remarkable fault of having three characters Plauſible, Novel and Eliza, very near ſuperfluous. Mr. BICKERSTAFF has ſoftened ſome roughneſs of character, and omitted many exceptionable paſſages, for which he deſerved both the praiſe and profit that attended the undertaking; yet we cannot wiſh to ſee the play often, nor can we, as its moral is at beſt very vague, urge the peruſal of it.

TAMERLANE. A TRAGEDY: By ROWE.

THIS tragedy opens in the camp of Tamer⯑lane: the Prince of Tanais, and two other chiefs, make us acquainted with the character of their il⯑luſtrious maſter; and point out alſo that of his bru⯑tal antagoniſt; whoſe repeated breaches of faith, in contempt of ſolemn treaties, has brought them to the eve of a deciſive battle. Tamerlane approaches, meditating beautifully on the devaſtation of war. Axalla, with Moneſes and Selima priſoners, preſents himſelf at the Emperor's feet, introducing his fair captive, who proves to be the Sultan's daughter. She ſues for protection, which is promiſed in the kindeſt terms, and ſhe is given, with an inſinuation of its being a pleaſing taſk, to Axalla's care.

Tamerlane enquiring whether there is any other priſoner of conſideration, Moneſes is brought for⯑ward: touched with Tamerlane's benevolent re⯑ception, he diſcloſes the royalty of his lineage, de⯑rived from the Greek emperors; then mentions being made, together with a female he calls a ſiſter, captives by Bajazet.

It appears, by his narration, that the Turk had compelled him to take arms; that being ſent to guard the Princeſs Selima to her father's camp, he had left Arpaſia behind as a pledge of faith; and that by Axalla's ſuperior fortune, he had fallen into new captivity. Tamerlane, though he entertains a [260] high opinion of the honour and intrepidity of Mo⯑neſes, yet, from a very delicate principle, deſires his ſword may reſt neuter during the impending battle. Tamerlane goes off with a pious addreſs to the great diſpoſer of all things, for aſſiſtance. When left alone with Selima, Axalla, who had contracted a paſſion for her during his embaſſy at the Sultan's court, prefers his addreſſes, which from the idea of being brought into a ſtate of bondage by him, ſhe at firſt treats with ſeverity; but ſoftens ſo far as to acknowledge ſhe entertained tender thoughts of him, till the duty of a child obliged her to conſider him as her father's foe.

She requeſts being delivered to the Sultan, but this the general obſerves is impracticable, conſider⯑ing the ſituation of the armies. Being ſummoned to the field, Selima, yielding to the impulſe of love, forms ideas of his falling in battle, and gives him every conſiſtent mark of tender regard, which ani⯑mates and fills him with happy preſages of ſucceſs. The ſimile with which he takes his leave is ſuper⯑fluous, and every one of the rhimes, in the two laſt ſpeeches of the firſt act, would be better omitted.

Our author having very judiciouſly left the bat⯑tle entirely to imagination, begins his ſecond act with Moneſes, who mentions the glorious victory Tamerlane has obtained. Stratocles, the Grecian, brings an account that Bajazet is taken; but being queſtioned concerning the fate of Arpaſia, he can ſay no more than that there are ſome women a⯑mongſt the priſoners. This ſends Moneſes off, with a damp on that pleaſure which he received from Tamerlane's triumph.

[261]The conqueror, ſeated in his pavillion, receives, with ſenſible reſerve, the compliments of his gene⯑rals, wiſely conſidering himſelf and his army, but as ſecondary cauſes of the ſucceſs they have been crowned with. The following addreſs to Axalla, ought to be imprinted upon every royal, indeed every ſubject heart:

Bajazet is here introduced, ſwelled with diſap⯑pointment, rage, and horror. Upon the victor's mentioning that he has a right to demand attone⯑ment for the torrents of blood ſhed by and through the Sultan's ambition, a reply of great ſpirit is made, and even defiance hurled in the victorious monarch's face. Through the whole of this interview, Ta⯑merlane contraſts a ſpirit of philoſophic dignity, to a kind of ſavage fury; indeed majeſty, in ſeveral paſſages, caſts aſide every idea of royalty, to become abſolutely ſcurrilous: he rails, curſes, ſwears, and gives the lie moſt groſsly. The manner in which his life is given him, the aſſignment of a royal tent for his accommodation, and the propoſition of mode⯑rate terms, reflect great honour upon his humane, generous conqueror; while his churliſh refuſal of every favour ſtamps him a brute.

[262]Tamerlane's remark of virtuous delicacy, which does not adminiſter benefits through mercenary hopes of reward, would have been much better if it had been expreſſed without jingle. Upon the en⯑trance of Arpaſia, Bajazet makes a fine pictureſque aſſimilation of his own feelings, at ſight of the wo⯑man he loves, in ſuch a fallen ſtate. When Haly preſents her to him, he comments nervouſly on her diſdainful looks, which ſhe returns with bitter re⯑proaches, for cauſing the wrongs ſhe has ſuffered.

The appearance of Moneſes kindles Bajazet's in⯑dignation, which riſes higher on the Prince's pre⯑ſuming to approach Arpaſia. Being accuſed by the Sultan of wanting courage and faith, he offers a ſpi⯑rited vindication, which puts the tyrant paſt all pa⯑tience, and cauſes him to hurry off in a frantic fit of paſſion, leaving the two lovers to a mournful inter⯑view; mournful, as Arpaſia pathetically informs Moneſes, that in his abſence, though ſhe had con⯑feſſed herſelf his wife, yet Bajazet, deaf to tears and intreaties, had forced her into the ceremony and conſummation of a marriage. This ſcene is wrought up to a degree of melting tenderneſs, and the act concludes with an affecting ſeparation.

It is a misfortune that the third act ſhould begin with another love ſcene, ſo much inferior to that we have juſt looked over. Axalla, as we find, has with painful ſtruggles, determined to yield up Seli⯑ma to her father: when the Emperor comes on, murmuring at the thoughts of obligations received, ſhe preſents herſelf, and for a moment he feels pater⯑nal ſoftneſs; but, being told by the Prince that he muſt receive her as a freſh mark of Tamerlane's in⯑dulgence, the monſter of pride and ingratitude [263] breaks out, and he goes near giving his benefactor that polite title given the electors of Middleſex— ſcum of the earth—When Selima ſpeaks favourably of Axalla, ſhe comes in for her ſhare: the Prince aſſerts his own dignity in ſo becoming a manner, that he puts the imperial ſcold into a corner. Upon promiſing to reſtore him his crown and empire, the ſavage fixes Tamerlane's head as the only price that can purchaſe his daughter.

Seeing Axalla ſhrink, like a man of honour and loyalty, from ſo baſe a propoſition, he again puts on the bully, drags off Selima, and leaves Axalla without any comfort but that conſcious integrity which prevents even the ſtrong impulſe of ardent love, from making him undertake a baſe action.

We next meet Moneſes, ſoliciting an audience of Tamerlane; but being told by the Prince of Ta⯑nais that the Emperor is in private conference with a Derviſe, he goes off to make way for the two laſt mentioned characters, who enter conferring on a religious ſubject. The prieſt, like a true ſanguine bigot, rates Tamerlane for giving protection and countenance to Chriſtians. The narrowneſs of thought, the uncharitable, excluſive opinion of ſectariſts, which devote to temporal and ſpiritual deſtruction all who are not of their own claſs, are ſet in a light of juſt contempt by the following very moral, argumentative, concluſive and beautiful lines:

We are bold to aſſert, that no pulpit ever ad⯑vanced a more uſeful, liberal piece of inſtruction, which wiſely conſiders human nature whether in the torrid, frigid, or temperate zone; whether of com⯑plexion black or white, brown or copper colour, as children of one univerſal, impartial parent.

Being foiled in all his arguments by the nobleſt principles of reaſon and humanity, the hot-brained prieſt tries what a dagger will do, but is th [...]re too prevented, by the magnanimous monarch who diſarms, and mercifully, we think too mercifully, diſmiſſes him without any other puniſhment than reproof. The holy Aſſaſſin being departed, Mo⯑neſes, oppreſſed with griefs, proſtrates himſelf at the Emperor's feet, confeſſes the falſhood he had been guilty of, in calling Arpaſia his ſiſter, and ſollicits having her reſtored as his contracted bride. Tamerlane, knowing her to be Bajazet's queen, juſtly declines any interpoſition, and prudently re⯑commends the weaning his affection by martial ac⯑tivity, from the ſoft bands of love to the thirſt of glory.

A very pleaſing, and poetical picture of the mind under theſe different influences cloſes the third act; the Derviſe, who conſiders Tamerlane's clemency as folly, begins the fourth act, acquainting Haly that he has ſtruck out another ſcheme for Bajazet's ſervice; by inflaming the diſcontent of Omar, a powerful chief, who having claimed Selima from [265] the Emperor, is refuſed on account of a preference given to Axalla.

By what Omar ſays at his entrance, we find, that he conſiders Tamerlane as under peculiar obligati⯑ons to him, and ungrateful in refuſing his requeſt. The Derviſe reſumes his inflammatory inſinuations, and Haly, mentioning that Selima may be had at her father's hands, the Tartar determines to join Bajazet's cauſe: hearing, by ſound of trumpet, the Emperor's approach, they retire.

A ſong, ſuited to the diſtreſs of Arpaſia, and much better written than ſongs in general, occurs here. The muſic ended, ſhe meditates on death, as a deſirable refuge from ſorrow; but, as a Chri⯑ſtian, nobly reſiſts ſome great examples of ſelf-de⯑ſtruction. Tamerlane, upon the humane principle of conſolation appears, and endeavours to balm the fair one's wounded mind. Bajazet entering while they are in conference, takes a jealous alarm, and burſts into fury like a ſprung mine. His vulgarity in the firſt ſcene we have been ſevere upon, but that we find in the ſcene before us, no laſh of criti⯑ciſm is any way equal to.

After bearing more than is poſſible to imagine, Tamerlane warms ſo far into reſentment, that he de⯑livers Bajazet to the guards, and orders him to be executed: this, by Arpaſia's interpoſition, with the Emperor's lenity, is ſet aſide, and Tamerlane pru⯑dently retreats, leſt he ſhould be kindled into rage again. What pity it is that Mr. ROWE has made him ſpeak a ſort of epilogue to every ſcene.

The iraſcible Turk, whoſe barbarous mind no weight of obligation can impreſs, goes off, ſtorming [266] at Arpaſia for having ſaved his life; and diſclaim⯑ing paradiſe, becauſe woman is placed there. This thought admits of an objection, if we conſider the Mahometan opinion, that all the females of this life are, after death, annihilated; 'tis true, the prophet has furniſhed the future world with black-eyed girls, but we know not whether this juſtifies Bajazet's extrava⯑gant idea. Arpaſia, almoſt ſunk with accumulating ſorrows, ſo much increaſed by the tyrant's vile inſi⯑nuation of criminality with Tamerlane, is joined by Moneſes; their mutual plaints are extremely pa⯑thetic, the interchange of affection highly intereſt⯑ing, but the ſcene concludes with two triplets which we can by no means approve; they are, if we may be allowed the ſimilitude, like yellow fringe upon the border of a mourning gown.

Bajazet now comes forward, making large pro⯑miſes to his new ally Omar, by whoſe aſſiſtance there are favourable appearances of his gaining ample re⯑venge upon Tamerlane. There is ſomething odd here, that Axalla ſhould be made and detained a priſoner in his maſter's camp; however, he is brought on by Omar in that ſtate. The Sultan propoſes to the prince, either joining with him or death; Axalla, with noble firmneſs, prefers the latter, which, but for Selima's ſolicitation is reſolved on: at his daughter's requeſt, the Sultan defers his ſentence, and Selima takes him off to try the power of her perſuaſion.

Affairs being thus ſeemingly well diſpoſed for Bajazet's grand deſign of recovering empire, he con⯑cludes the fourth act with a moſt noble aſſimulation of himſelf to Jove engaged with the Titans. Ar⯑paſia, again in ſoliloquy, commences the fifth act: [267] we think there is a ſameneſs in this lady's lonely meditations, which rather palls: ſhe informs us of what we already know, that Moneſes is made a pri⯑ſoner. While ſhe is indulging gloomy thought, Bajazet enters, confeſſing what influence ſhe has over his mind, even in the midſt of moſt important con⯑cerns; that even empire and revenge hold but the ſecond place in his heart. He determines, either by gentle means or force, to take her with him; the former he tries in terms, for him, unuſually ſmooth; her diſdainful treatment of his ſolicitation, again kindles up the flames of paſſion, and he threatens her with death; but ſuppoſing that the execution of Moneſes will wound deeper than the loſs of her own life, he orders the unhappy prince to be ſtrangled in her ſight.

The parting of theſe lovers is particularly pathe⯑tic, though we think there is ſomething very diſa⯑greeable in the mode of Moneſes's cataſtrophe. Arpaſia's end is not totally unnatural, but bears rather too hard upon probability; the word blaſt, twice uſed in her laſt ſpeech, is much more becom⯑ing a lady of eaſy virtue than a tragedy heroine, however agitated: the confuſion of Bajazet, at loſing the woman he loves ſo ſtrangely, is interrupt⯑ed by the Derviſe, who brings intelligence, that as there are apparent movements in the camp, it be⯑comes neceſſary to haſten flight: ſcarce has he fi⯑niſhed his meſſage, when Omar declares that they are ſurrounded, and imputes the diſcovery of their de⯑ſigns to a priſoner, who, by the Princeſs's order, was ſuffered to eſcape. Bajazet, ſtruck with his daughter's treachery, reſolves to take revenge upon Axalla.

[268]Being told he was the perſon that had eſ⯑caped, his fury rages againſt her, and he makes ſe⯑veral attempts to kill her, but ſome feelings of the father prevent his fatal purpoſe; at length, hearing the approach of Tamerlane, he conſigns her fate to the mutes, from whom ſhe is reſcued by Axalla, while the tyrant is once more taken into cuſtody.

After ſuch repeated and capital provocations, we are not to be ſurprized that the Emperor's lenity gives way to his juſtice; further forgiveneſs would have been a proſtitution of mercy: the ſentence he paſſes upon Bajazet of being caged, is ſeverer than death, by ſo much as pain of mind is more inſuffer⯑able than that of the body. The Sultan's departure is ſtrictly conſonant to his behaviour all through the piece, which concludes with a very noble remark upon that impious pride, which forgets the depen⯑dant ſtate of human nature, and arrogates to itſelf the advantages and grandeur of life.

Notwithſtanding this play is merely uſed as an anniverſary one, yet, we think, when actors capable of ſupporting it can be found, that it ſhould ſtand more forward in the rank of living tragedies. The incidents are various and affecting, the unities tole⯑rably well preſerved, the ſentiments elevated, and the language adequate without bombaſt. It is in ſome places rather too flowery, and the verſification ſo flowing, ſo ſeldom broke, that it requires great judgment in ſeveral of the parts to avoid monotony.

Tamerlane is a character worth every monarch's imitation, active and intrepid as a ſoldier; wiſe, juſt and merciful, as a ſovereign; affable, friendly, and benevolent, as a man: he reflects that credit upon his ſtation, which no ſtation nor dignity can give an [269] unworthy poſſeſſor. No higher compliment could be paid King William than marking him out as the original of this pleaſing picture.

Mr. QUIN ſupported Tamerlane with great dig⯑nity, but offended by his unnatural ſwell of utte⯑rance. Mr. HAVARD had all the eſſential placidity, but wanted conſequence both of figure and deport⯑ment. Mr. SHERIDAN ſhewed more propriety than either, as to expreſſion, but in appearance and de⯑portment fell very ſhort of the firſt mentioned gen⯑tleman. We have ſeen Mr. SOWDON do the part reſpectably. The two preſent Tamerlanes are not worth mention, they want both internal and external requiſites. Omar would do much better for Meſſrs. BENSLEY and AICKIN; the former of theſe gentle⯑men has been placed in ſuch a variety of acting, though always the ſame, as was ſcarce ever known; fops, lovers, declaimers, tyrants. Who, but Mr. COLMAN, could have allotted Sir Brilliant Faſhion and Barbaroſſa to the ſame performer? eſpecially one who has no variation.

Bajazet, though a hateful, and indeed vulgar cha⯑racter, always claims particular notice from an au⯑dience; there is a reſiſtive ſpirit about him which gives pleaſure, notwithſtanding it is founded upon the worſt principles. His pride, ambition, ingra⯑titude and cruelty, are deteſtable, yet greatly coun⯑terballanced by his noble ideas of independance; he is the moſt agreeable monſter we know, and very great powers are wanted to do the author juſtice.

Mr. QUIN, in the brutal part, excelled all the Bajazets we have ſeen, but had no part of the requi⯑ſite ſpirit. Mr. BARRY, though better in the latter, had too much harmony of voice and feature to [270] mark the former properly; for though a ſoft ſpoken or fair looking man may be a brute, yet ſuch being a deceptive character, does not fill our idea on the ſtage. In the laſt ſcene with Selima, Mr. BARRY's excellence ſurpaſſes our praiſe. Mr. BERRY la⯑boured through the part abominably, and Mr. SMITH has made lamentable attempts upon it: for eſſential fire, contemptuous aſpect, extent and varie⯑ty of voice, we place Mr. MOSSOP firſt, at the ſame time that we allow Mr. HOLLAND great merit; as the chains and Turkiſh habit rendered his mecha⯑nical movements leſs offenſive than they were in modern cloaths.

Moneſes is diſtinguiſhed by nothing but his love and misfortunes, which reduce him to a moſt whin⯑ing ſtate: he is generally given to ſecond-rate actors, though he certainly was drawn for, and deſerves capital ones. We have had pleaſure from ſeeing Mr. RYAN exhibit this prince, and pain from Mr. HULL. It hurries us beyond all patience, to think that any degree of managerical authority, whether ignorant or malicious, ſhould force ſo reſpectable a performer totally out of his way.

Mr. REDDISH is extremely pleaſing and characte⯑riſtic; he neither riſes above, nor falls below his au⯑thor, and has more merit than all the other men put together, as it is now played at Drury Lane: why does not Mr. ROSS do it at Covent Garden, where, without any great degree of eminence, he muſt ſtand foremoſt.

Axalla, we thought, could ſcarcely be worſe than in the late Mr. PALMER's hands, but Mr. PACKER and Mr. PERRY, are ſtrong proofs of our miſtake; ſuch a brace of heroic lovers—hoh! hoh! hoh! [271] were ſurely never ſeen before. Omar, when per⯑formed by Mr. SPARKS, made a very conſpicuous figure; at preſent, he falls off conſiderably in the hands of Mr. HURST, though he is ſecond beſt in the play, for we have ſpoken of Mr. BARRY in the Sultan as he was, not as he is. The remaining male characters are too inconſiderable for notice, being generally given to the tag-rag and bob-tail of a theatre.

Arpaſia's painful ſituation touches ſenſibility; we ſympathize with her tears, while we are pleaſed with her ſpirit and conſtancy. We could never admire Mrs. WOFFINGTON's croaking of this part; 'tis true, ſhe figured it ſo elegantly, that her firſt ap⯑pearance prejudiced ſpectators in her favour; but harmony of perſon was greatly injured by diſſonance of voice. Mrs. PRITCHARD played the princeſs much better, but had not the neceſſary ſoftneſs. Mrs. BELLAMY had the proper degree of pathos, but whined. Miſs MILLER has ſtumbled upon the part moſt injudiciouſly; while Mrs. BARRY looks, moves, ſpeaks, and feels up to the higheſt degree of criticiſm.

Selima is a mere foil to Arpaſia, of very little con⯑ſequence, and therefore very little attended to, yet we remember to have ſeen Mrs. ELMY give her un⯑common graces. Mrs. W. BARRY and Mrs. MAT⯑TOCKS are agreeable, but we beg leave to hint that the laſt mentioned lady has a ſtrong taint of the cathedral ſtile.

We think the play of TAMERLANE has two con⯑ſpicuous faults; firſt, the double love plot, which renders Axalla and Selima very unaffecting: next, the author's neglect of giving Eaſtern characters [272] ſomething of the Eaſtern ſtile; this is a commenda⯑ble propriety which the author of Zingis has ad⯑hered to. The frequent execrations we meet are alſo cenſurable, nor can we forgive ſo many repeti⯑tions of the word ALHA, the immediate title of the Supreme Being is not fit for ſtage expreſſion; how⯑ever, this tragedy, well performed, muſt pleaſe in repreſentation, and we cannot apprehend any pre⯑judice from peruſal of it: indeed, ſome ſcenes are highly inſtructive, and worthy recollection of the moſt ſerious mind.

ALL IN THE WRONG. A COMEDY: By Mr. MURPHY.

SIR John Reſtleſs begins this play, reflecting on himſelf for taking to wife an improper perſon; and enquires of Robin which door ſhe went out, that towards the ſtreet, or one to the Park; being an⯑ſwered through the latter, jealous ſuſpicions ariſe, which the domeſtic honeſtly and ſenſibly endeavours to remove from his maſter's mind; but, like a true ſelf-tormenter, Sir John, though much in love with his lady, from which principle alone he married her, increaſes ſhadows into ſubſtances, for the ſtrange purpoſe of working his own perplexity. Robert obſerves, that this ſtrange mode of behaviour has tainted her ladyſhip alſo with jealouſy.

The baronet, on hearing that ſhe bent her courſe towards the Horſe Guards, grows very warm; and ſending off Robin, goes himſelf, fraught with ideas of cuckoldom, in purſuit of her. Belmont and Beverley meet; the purport of their converſation is a mutual confeſſion of love, the former with Clariſſa, and the latter with Belinda. From what paſſes, it appears, that Beverley has a temper ſomewhat ſimilar to Sir John's, which is rouſed into a ſtate of conſi⯑derable ſolicitude, by mention that Belinda's father and Belmont's have determined upon uniting their children by marriage; however, to relieve his friend's pain, Belmont declares, that Clariſſa and he have agreed matters ſo as to counteract the old gen⯑tlemen's [274] deſigns. This gives Beverley great ſatis⯑faction, and to increaſe his rapture Belinda appears, whom he addreſſes with much gallantry: he pre⯑ſents her his picture, which ſhe partly approves, but thinks a better painter might have been found, meaning Cupid, who forms the moſt pleaſing im⯑preſſions.

Clariſſa and Belmont, who indeed ſay nothing worth ſtaying on for, retire, and leave their friends to a tete-a-tete. Beverley ſeems to think Belinda's inclination is not totally his, and from this idea he behaves to her in a ſtrange manner, for which ſhe properly reproves him; many trifling motives of irritation ſtart up, and the converſation is a kind of ſnip-ſnap. At length, juſtly irritated at his peeviſh ſuſpicions, ſhe retorts upon him emphatically, and he endeavours to repreſent the whims of his uneaſy, capricious mind, as delicacy. Lady Reſtleſs croſ⯑ſing the ſtage interrupts them, and they go off with a promiſe from Belinda, that ſhe will let him into that lady's character. The baronet's perturbed con⯑ſort, upon not being immediately anſwered upon ringing at her own door, ſuppoſes that ſome baſe tranſactions are going forward in the houſe, and ſteps aſide to watch.

Having heard the bell tattle, the chambermaid opens the door. Marmalet, a viſitor, after ſome reflections upon their different ſervices, is going off; her ladyſhip coming again to the door, and ſeeing this ſecond-hand gentlewoman neatly decked out, demands her buſineſs, intimating, that ſhe ſuppoſes it has been with Sir John; the girl's natural con⯑fuſion at ſuch an imputation, ſtrengthens ſuſpicion. During Marmalet's vindication, obſerving her to [275] have a freſh complexion, Lady Reſtleſs, ſuppoſing her to be painted, attempts rubbing off the unnatu⯑ral ornament: finding it real, ſuch a complexion gives her freſh uneaſineſs, and ſhe orders the con⯑founded waiting-woman to come no more near her doors. Marmalet's going off rather pettiſhly, helps to feed her jealouſy, as annexing ſuch pertneſs to the idea of a miſtreſs; and it grows to ſuch a whimſical pitch, that ſhe ſuppoſes Sir John has given her the handſome gown ſhe wears. She then enquires for her ſpouſe, and being told he is gone out, expoſes ſtill more her own weakneſs, by rating of Tattle, her maid.

Belinda and Beverley here enter, again reſuming the former ſubject; his uncertain temper, of which the lady ſeems to have a very clear idea; therefore, brings him to expletive preliminaries, which he im⯑plicitly ſubſcribes to. Seeing Sir William and Blandford, ſhe hurries him off, and in three lines obſerves, that though the old gentlemen are laying their heads together to counteract the ſchemes of love, yet they muſt be diſappointed.

The fathers, in a few lines, expreſs what we have been previouſly acquainted with, their mutual inten⯑tions concerning their children. Belinda being ſpoken to on the ſubject, mentions Beverley, as hav⯑ing been once encouraged by her father; but he obſerving that he has changed his mind, perempto⯑rily inſiſts upon her obeying the dictates of his will: this tyrannical obſtinacy throws her into an over-powering diſtreſs of mind, ſo that ſhe faints, juſt as Sir John Reſtleſs comes on, and in her fainting drops Beverley's picture. While the baronet is engaged upon a principle of humanity in aſſiſting the diſtreſſed [276] fair one, his turbulent conſort ſees him from a win⯑dow, and miſinterprets his meaning into gallantry; upon his propoſing to take Belinda into his houſe, her ladyſhip flies down to confront them.

The young lady chuſing to go home, Sir John humanely and politely gives her perſonal conduct: Lady Reſtleſs entering upon their departure, is quite enraged that ſhe miſſed them, but picks up the picture Belinda dropped, and hopes from thence to make ſome diſcovery.

At the beginning of the ſecond act, we meet Sir John enquiring of Robert for his lady; ſeeing her approach with Tattle, he ſteps aſide, to hear, if poſ⯑ſible, any thing conſonant to his ſuſpicions. When Lady Reſtleſs enters, ſhe blames Tattle for being in a conſpiracy againſt her; then reflects upon the picture, which being that of a man, ſhe ſuppoſes to be a former gallant of the unknown lady. At this point of time, while ſhe is railing againſt huſbands, her lord and maſter peeps in; during ſome remarks ſhe makes upon the unequal reſtrictions of men and women in the married ſtate, he ſwallows what ſhe ſays as a proof of infidelity. Tattle being ordered down ſtairs, the jealous lady wiſhes ſhe had never ſeen her huſband's face, which kind compliment he returns aſide: ſhe contemplates the picture, admires its beauty, and feeling perfume puts it near her noſe, this Sir John takes for kiſſing it. While ſhe goes on to compliment the portrait, wiſhing that ſhe had ſuch a man, the baronet enters tip-toe, comes behind, looks over her ſhoulder, and ſeems to approve her choice of a gallant: at length, his patience being quite ex⯑hauſted, he ſnatches the bauble; a ſquabble enſues, wherein mutual miſtakes occur laughably; he [777] charges her with guilt, and ſhe warmly recriminates upon him; he upbraids her with the picture, and ſhe him with the lady he was aſſiſting, till the ſcene riſes into a degree of peculiar pleaſantry: at laſt he goes off to find ſome proofs againſt her, and ſhe goes off to attain ſome againſt him.

Sir John re-enters ſoon with Robert, deſiring him to look at the picture, and enquires if he can diſtin⯑guiſh who it is, inſiſting at the ſame time that he can tell if he will, he tries every means to pump ſome intelligence out of him, but without a ſatiſ⯑factory anſwer. A Footman comes on and enquires for Sir John's; the Baronet aſks his buſineſs, and takes a letter for Lady Reſtleſs from him; which upon peruſal appears to be written by Lord Con⯑queſt in his Lady's abſence, as an exculpation of the guilt with which Marmalet was charged in the firſt act; and which, by the tenor of his Lordſhip's letter, has ſince been enforced by Lady Reſtleſs.

Sir John, ſtill in a ſtate of egregious miſtake, in⯑terprets all this to his wife's diſhonour, employs Robert to go and enquire for Mrs. Marmalet, and ſeems more alarmed at being told ſhe viſits Tattle; he appoints a meeting too with the waiting-wo⯑man in the Bird-Cage-Walk, and cautions Robert to extreme ſecrecy, deſiring at the ſame time that ſhe may meet him maſked. Matters thus ſettled, he goes to ſearch for the original of that picture which he found in his wife's poſſeſſion.

Belmont and Beverley ſucceed the diſcontented ſprite converſing upon their amorous concerns; and it appears that Belmont's father, Sir William, has poſitively declared againſt his union with Cla⯑riſſa; however he aſſures Beverley of never interfer⯑ing [278] with his miſtreſs, Belinda; notwithſtanding which, that very odd mortal goes off in a ſtile that we know not well whether he is pleaſed or diſpleaſ⯑ed. Sir John enters, and by the introduction of what's o'clock joins Belmont, in whom he can diſ⯑cover no likeneſs of the picture: Beverley re-enter⯑ing accoſts Belmont, in phraſeology the author ſeems fond of, my boy, dear rogue, &c. Sir John cruiſes round for the purpoſe of diſcovery, con⯑ſiders Beverley very minutely, and draws concluſi⯑ons of his being the original of that picture which has given him ſo much uneaſineſs. The behaviour of Sir John here has no doubt humour, but we think the author has ſacrificed probable nature to catch at laughter. Belmont and Beverley being very juſt⯑ly ſurpriſed at his behaviour, he thinks they laugh at him; indeed the exerciſe of a cane over his ſhoulders would better ſuit his behaviour, but that he eſcapes.

At length Beverley knowing the picture to be that he gave Belinda, catches jealous feelings, eſpe⯑cially as Sir John puts it haſtily into his pocket, and upon being aſked another ſight of it retires precipitately into his houſe; this ſets the tinder-tempered lover into a blaze, as ſuppoſing his miſ⯑treſs has given that taken of regard to another gallant; the act concludes with a ſhort and unne⯑ceſſary ſoliloquy of Sir John's, intimating that he muſt prove the identity of Beverley.

The two young ladies, Belinda and Clariſſa, meet us at the beginning of the third act, ſtill con⯑verſing upon their matrimonial projects; the latter ſeems to heſitate at ſome reſolves ſhe has taken, while the former appears to laugh at her diffidence; [279] the caprice of Beverley is mentioned again by Be⯑linda, who, notwithſtanding ſuch a tickliſh temper, cannot avoid loving the man: Clariſſa very juſtly remarks that there is ſome reaſon to doubt her friend's temper, being rather like the man's ſhe complains of; this Belinda denies, and Beverley is introduced to ſpeak for himſelf; after a few lines, Belmont aſks for the picture, which ſhe cannot find, and charges one or other of them with having it, this nettles Beverley: Seeing the capricious lo⯑vers ready to ſquabble again, Belmont and his miſ⯑treſs very prudently retire from the approaching ſtorm.

When they are gone the agitated ſwain upbraids his lady very ſeverely, for having given, as he ſuppoſes, his picture to a more favoured gallant; his childiſh behaviour ſhe only laughs at, and indeed it deſerves no other treatment. She leaves him in a ſtate of diſſatisfaction; but returns ſoon with Clariſſa, they paſs him by, ſneer at his uneaſineſs, and thereby increaſe it much; in ſoliloquy he ex⯑preſſes himſelf with vehemence, and determining to know the bottom of the matter he reſolves, when they are out of ſight, to viſit Sir John, whoſe houſe he knows by having ſeen him go into it.

Lady Reſtleſs meeting Robert with ſome cloaths over his own, ſtops him to ſearch the pockets for letters; not finding any, ſhe renews her former ac⯑cuſation againſt the ſervant, that he is her enemy and in combination with his maſter; hearing a rap at the door ſhe liſtens, and, Tattle coming on, en⯑quires who is at the door, then upbraids her for going out without leave; on being informed that ſhe went to bring Marmalet for their mutual juſti⯑fication, [280] this is conſtrued into a freſh crime by her Ladyſhip, and ſhe reſolves upon viſiting Lady Con⯑queſt, having had no anſwer to her letter; Tattle, true to her name and ſtation, throws out a ſuppoſi⯑tion which gratifies Lady Reſtleſs's ſuſpicions, by telling that Robert was at Lord Conqueſt's, deſi⯑ring Marmalet to meet his maſter in the evening.

While the wretched wife is enjoying this piece of information, a ſervant acquaints her that a gentle⯑man below wants to ſpeak to Sir John about a pic⯑ture; hoping ſome diſcovery from this interview, ſhe orders him to be ſhewn up ſtairs; Tattle's in⯑telligence, which ſhe ſeems willing to enrich with all the ornaments of ſcandal, is interrupted by Be⯑verley's approach. After mutual ſalutation they enter upon the ſubject of his viſit, when they plant thorns in each other's breaſt by a chain of miſin⯑terpretations; he looks upon it as certain that Belinda gave Sir John the picture, and to confirm the matter her Ladyſhip feelingly deſcribes the ſi⯑tuation ſhe ſaw them in during the fainting fit; adding, that ſhe believes her huſband capable of any vile action.

This ſcene is admirably well wrought up, as the confuſion of miſtakes ariſe from very probable ap⯑pearances, and the characters part under conviction that their fears have been well founded. The ſcene changing to the Park, Sir John enters before his own houſe, fully perſuaded that he has diſco⯑vered his wife's paramour; juſt at this inſtant he ſees Beverley coming from his houſe, and giving Robert a gratification for his trouble; when the jealous lover perceives the jealous huſband, he ac⯑coſts him with a degree of peeviſhneſs which is an⯑ſwered [281] in the ſame ſtile: Here recrimination plea⯑ſantly enſues, and the puzzle of circumſtances is kept up in a pleaſing manner; each catches eagerly at what flatters his own opinion, while jealouſy gives applauſe that ſhe makes them ſuch ridiculous fools.

Stung to the quick, when Sir John leaves him, Beverley declares that he will have one interview with his falſe miſtreſs to vent his mind, and then, however painful it may be, renounce her for ever; here ſhe enters with Belmont, and Clariſſa, who are the moſt commode polite companions we know; for they come on without any buſineſs, ſay little, help to make out a laugh, and complaiſantly leave their friends to battle as long as they like.

Belinda ſeems inclined to coquette it with her gallant, but neither her ſmiles, nor ſallies of wit, can clear the wintry gloom of Beverley's brow; it ſcowls heavily upon her till the ſtorm burſts in his pronouncing an everlaſting farewel: At length, after conſiderable acrimony on both ſides, by his men⯑tioning the circumſtance of her being ſeen in the arms of a gentleman, ſhews her his miſtake, which, from a ſpirit of reſentment, ſhe determines to im⯑prove for the ſake of additional mortification.

His declaration of love, and the regard he has for her future happineſs, notwithſtanding the baſe⯑neſs he thinks her guilty of, are marks of an inge⯑nuous and delicate mind; however, ſhe properly triumphs and keeps him on the fret till he almoſt becomes an object of pity; his aſſeverations of ne⯑ver approaching her again are carried too far; in⯑deed the ſcene wants curtailing, for it harps too long upon one ſtring. Belinda concludes the third act with placing jealous lovers in the light DRYDEN [282] has done great wits, that it is within the pale of madneſs or juſt on the edge of it.

At the beginning of the fourth act he ſeems to verify her remark by meditating in a manner almoſt frantic, and upon receiving, by the hands of his ſervant, a letter from her, the delirium riſes; our author has here given a fine ſcope for acting merit, but it is not eaſily hit off: The inſeparable pair, Clariſſa and Belmont, come on while he is in a painful reverie, they rouſe him, and recommend a reconciliation with a woman they think he cannot help loving; he remains obſtinate, yet drops ſeveral ex⯑preſſions which plainly indicate that his heart bends that way; the circumſtance of her fainting fit, which gave riſe to Lady Reſtleſs's ſtrange narration being explained to him, he is ſhocked at the idea of his own brutal behaviour, and fears to approach the injured fair, but by the encouragement of friends re⯑ſolves to attempt the reconciliation he ſo much wiſhes: The pleaſing diſcovery of Belinda's inno⯑cence tranſports her lover into almoſt as extravagant joy as her imaginary falſhood gave him pain, he goes off, and his dove-like friends follow.

Belinda mourning her lover's unaccountable tem⯑per appears next, enquiring of Tippet whether any meſſage is come from him: Sir John enters, when by Belinda's charging his Lady with having weaned Beverley's affection from her, Sir John opens a freſh field of perplexity, by accuſing Beverley with a de⯑ſign upon his wife; Belinda's regard makes her he⯑ſitate for ſome time, but on being aſſured by the Baronet that what he has ſaid may be relied on, ſhe in her turn reſolves to diſclaim him.

[283]Sir John, ſoon after leaving her, appears in the Park, in expectation of Marmalet; a woman comes on maſked, who, confeſſing great fear, begs ad⯑mittance to his houſe; knowing that Lady Reſtleſs is not at home he admits her, and orders that they may be private. We next meet Tattle acquaint⯑ing Beverley with the miſchief his picture had occa⯑ſioned; he wants to ſee Sir John for ſake of expla⯑nation, but ſhe adviſes him not to ſtay on any ac⯑count, however the argument is ended by her ſee⯑ing the Baronet conducting a woman in a maſk. Beverley's ſuſpicion takes alarm, and for the ſake of diſcovery he conſents to be put into a cloſet where he may overhear.

By the by, this liſtening is a moſt ungentleman-like action, the worthleſs fruit of a mean, ſuſpici⯑ous heart. Sir John leads forward his Maſk, which proves to be no other than his own crooked rib; having gone ſomething too far while he ſup⯑poſed her Marmalet, he tries what ſoothing will do, but ſhe remains inexorable, and going for pen and ink, as reſolving to give her brother an ac⯑count of the diſagreeable ſituation ſhe is in, ſhe finds the cloſet where Beverley lies concealed locked; this proves freſh cauſe of ſuſpicion, and being laughed at by Sir John ſhe grows more impatient. The Maid is thrown into confuſion and pretends to know nothing of the key, but being forced to pro⯑duce it, throws it on the ground and runs away.

On perceiving a man, her Ladyſhip ſcreams out, and Sir John, at Beverley's unaccountable appear⯑ance, revives his jealouſy; Beverley endeavours to apologize, but cannot obtain a hearing; he is beſet both by Sir John and the Lady, whoſe mutual at⯑tacks [284] place him in a very diſagreeable ſituation; at length Beverley threatening a duel if his picture is not returned, the Baronet's courage fails him, and he gives it up; after which the young gentleman retires with a declaration, that when reaſon can be heard he ſhall be ready to convince them of their error. Sir John, glowing with ſuſpicion, renews the verbal war with her Ladyſhip, in which, like a true female, ſhe maintains her part ably; threats and reproaches of an angry nature are vented reci⯑procally, and they conclude the fourth act with very virulent terms.

Blandford, Sir William, and Belmont, meet us, the former obſerving that all matters relative to the marriage are ſettled, goes to call his daughter Be⯑linda. From an intermediate conference between Sir William and his ſon, the latter diſcovers an in⯑clination to evade the match his father has provided for him, and pleads the lady's averſion to it; the old fellow grows warm and inſiſts upon the point, which obliges Belmont to ſay, if the Lady is wil⯑ling he ſhall be ready; but this condeſcenſion he only makes from an aſſurance that ſhe will never be brought to compliance; however in this he ſeems greatly diſappointed, for Blandford comes on pro⯑claiming with joy his daughter's readineſs to obey; ſhe formally declares her ſentiments to the utter confuſion of Belmont, the fathers go off to take a cheering glaſs and invite him to participate, after a ſingle queſtion to Belinda he follows them.

She in a ſhort ſoliquy declares that her determi⯑nation is ſerious, but Clariſſa's claim to Belmont ſtriking upon her mind cauſes ſome impediment; to her maid Tippet ſhe vents her ſpleen againſt Be⯑verley, [285] deſiring that all his letters, and a bracelet, may be returned, claiming her's in exchange; ſhe gives one alſo to inform him that his falſhood has forced her into a compliance with the match her fa⯑ther has propoſed.

The ſucceeding part of this ſcene ſhews Belinda in a very natural pleaſant view of love-ſick agitati⯑on; juſt as ſhe is entering into the moſt ſolemn re⯑ſolutions never to ſee his face again, a ſervant ac⯑quaints her that Beverley requeſts admittance, ſhe orders him to be ſhewn up, and bids Tippet retire. Her gallant at his entrance pleads pardon for his miſconduct, which ſhe peremptorily denies, he ſoli⯑cits her acceptance of the picture recovered from Sir John, but ſhe aſſerts it is come from Lady Reſt⯑leſs; when ſhe mentions her marriage with Belmont, his ſubmiſſion and ſupplication changes to very ſe⯑vere retorts, which work her into tears, and drive her off with a farewel for ever.

In a ſhort ſcene with Tippet he ſhews what faſt hold ſhe has of his heart, and goes off to find means of clearing matters; ſhe returns, and having the ſame feelings for him which he has for her, is perſuaded by the waiting-woman to ſeek an expla⯑nation from Lady Reſtleſs, for which purpoſe ſhe orders a chair. Belmont enters and blames her for cauſing him ſuch perplexity, ſhe pleads Beverley's falſhood. The gentle Clariſſa appears, much warm⯑ed with a ſuppoſition that has been much im⯑poſed on by Belmont and Belinda; when the laſt mentioned lady goes off, Belmont wants to perſuade Clariſſa that ſhe miſconceives matters, but intima⯑ting that her behaviour ſeems the effect of jealouſy, her pride is hurt, and ſhe leaves him abruptly, de⯑claring [286] that Belinda ſhall have her thoughts upon paper.

Sir William enters to his ſon, declaring all is now ready for conſummation: Belmont, by way of gaining time, gives a material reaſon for declining the match, no leſs than the lady's having a blemiſh⯑ed reputation; this alarms the old baronet. Bland⯑ford, full of the wedding, comes enquiring for his daughter; being informed that ſhe is gone to Sir John Reſtleſs's, he entertains ſome fear, and this circumſtance corroborates Belmont's inſinuation to his father; they all go off in purſuit of her. Tattle conducts Beverley in; a few ſpeeches paſs between him and Lady Reſtleſs, when Sir John ruſhes in with freſh complaint: Beverley attempts to diſcuſs the point calmly, when Belinda enters, which occaſions a very laughable jumble of jealouſy. While their paſſions are in the full tide of recrimination, Bland⯑ford and Sir William appear, Lady Reſtleſs main⯑tains perplexity, by charging Belinda with making her miſerable. Belmont and Clariſſa appear: Sir William, confirmed by what he hears of Belinda's blemiſhed reputation, deſires his ſon to take the la⯑dy of his choice. This occaſions ſome rubs between the old gentlemen, and Blandford declares againſt any connexion with thoſe who could ſlight his daughter.

Clariſſa, without any point being cleared up, patient⯑ly ſuffers Belmont to take her hand. Belinda is offer⯑ed to Beverley by her father; Lady Reſtleſs ſays, if he will marry the object of her jealouſy, ſhe will be ſa⯑tisfied; and Sir John ſays, that Belinda's conſent will quiet his mind. This brings matters to an expla⯑nation, with regard to the picture; but Sir John [287] and his lady laying freſh charges againſt each other, he goes off to bring on conviction, and ſhe follows to prevent his having a private conference with his confidante Robert.

All the characters go off, and leave Belinda and Beverly to make up their bickerings in a tender, natural, agreeable manner. The other characters ſoon return, when it appears, that Sir John and his lady, by what conviction we know not, are ſatisfied; the union of Belinda and Beverly is agreeably con⯑firmed by Blandford's inſiſting upon it; the piece concludes with mutual aſſurances of regulating tem⯑per better for the future; the lady's concluding rhimes we dont admire.

Never did criticiſm toil through ſuch a pantomi⯑mical jumble of incidents as this comedy, eſpecially in the laſt act; and there is ſuch a ſimilarity in moſt of the ſcenes, that we have been extremely puzzled to find words for the account of them, without ſay⯑ing the ſame thing over and over again.

Time and place are very well preſerved, but the plot is unpardonably intricate, and not ſufficiently elucidated at the cataſtrophe; the four leading cha⯑racters are exactly alike, ſave two being married and two ſingle. From a natural impetuoſity in Mr. YATES's temper, and his knowledge of the ſtage, great expectations might have been formed from his exhibition of the precipitate, weak, chimerical Sir John Reſtleſs, who catches at the ſhadow of of⯑fence, and entirely ſets aſide the reaſonable inveſti⯑gation of the circumſtances which pain his mind; not one critical idea could be formed but he ful⯑filled to a very particular degree of ſatisfaction; and we are ſurprized how Mr. KING has brought [288] himſelf to ſuch an exact equilibre with the original: without borrowing from his predeceſſor any thing, he equally gains and pleaſes our attention; we can⯑not point out any precedence that ſhould take place between theſe two gentlemen in this play; if any preference muſt be given, the laſt mentioned per⯑haps may claim it, as having a more pleaſing, though not a more chaſte utterance.

Beverley is a ſtranger object for a batchelor, than Sir John is for a huſband, captious, fretful, and ſuſpicious to an intolerable degree, ſo much that we think Belinda's ſuffering ſuch repetition of his inſo⯑lent airs, and uniting with him at laſt, is an impeach⯑ment of her underſtanding; love we know works unaccountable effects, but we think the jealouſy of this play ſo ſtrained and improbable, that to us it ſeems carried to the laſt degree of folly.

The gentleman who firſt appeared in this amo⯑rous Quixote being retired from theatrical connec⯑tions we are not at liberty to name him, but muſt aſſert that his merit was inimitable; Mr. CAUTHER⯑LEY, oh la! oh la! oh la! only ſerves to pain re⯑membrance with a diſmal contraſt to what we have ſeen. Belmont is ſuch an inſipid daudle, it would be cruel to expect any thing from an actor in the repreſentation of him; no body need wiſh to diſ⯑poſſeſs Mr. PACKER of him, and whoever does will not, we imagine, have more merit; Sir Willi⯑am Belmont and Blandford being equally inſignifi⯑cant may repoſe quietly enough in the ſomniferous poſſeſſion of Meſſrs. BRANSBY and BURTON, as came a pair as e'er made audience nod.

[289]The character of Lady Reſtleſs is exactly ſimi⯑lar to that of her huſband, a childiſh ſhadow-hun⯑ter, a perplexing termagant, fond of miſery, and conſtantly in purſuit of it: Miſs HOUGHTON, not⯑withſtanding a liſp, and the Newcaſtle mode of pronouncing the letter R, had a very particular merit in this turbulent Lady; yet we have great rea⯑ſon to be ſurprized why Mrs. PRITCHARD was not the original, whoſe acting in the JEALOUS WIFE gave ſuch juſt and general ſatisfaction; at preſent the parts is ſupplied by Mrs. HOPKINS with more ability than ſhe ſhews in moſt of her undertak⯑ings.

Belinda is very like, though not quite ſo great an oddity as her lover; how Mrs. YATES could be appointed her repreſentative is impoſſible to ſay, as ſhe never had, nor never will have, any degree of comic expreſſion: Mrs. ABINGTON goes infinitely beyond her, and ſeems to fill up the author's inten⯑tion perfectly. Clariſſa is too inſipid for any ac⯑treſs to make a figure in, ſhe impaired the real me⯑rit of Mrs. PALMER, and lies heavy on Mrs. W. BARRY.

Upon the whole, we muſt condemn that hurry of incidents, and that ſameneſs of character which we find in this piece; nor do we perceive any very obvious moral; the dialogue is eaſy and ſpirited, but not enriched with ſentiment; it is almoſt entirely a kind of peeviſh chit-chat: This comedy, had there not been one previouſly called ſo, ſhould have been named the PICTURE, for that is the axis on which it turns; this brings to mind a remark of Mr. QUIN's, at a conſultation, what name to give the [290] SUSPICIOUS HUSBAND; his opinion being aſked, Why, ſays the cynic, I have always thought that a play ſhould take its title from the moſt ſtriking incident or character; and, upon this principle, adviſe you to call it the LADDER and HAT; for, d—m me, if I ſee any thing elſe in it worth notice. ALL in the WRONG is kept alive by buſtle, and may exiſt upon the ſtage, but is a very poor companion for the cloſet.

BARBAROSSA. A TRAGEDY: By Dr. BROWN.

OTHMAN, an officer belonging to Barbaroſſa's court, and a ſlave, open this piece: the former, being told that a ſtranger requeſts admittance, after a pretty account of the unknown perſon, deſires him to be conducted in. Upon Sadi's entrance, Othman approaches to embrace, and give him the moſt cordial ſalutation, which he declines in angry terms: from what enſues, it appears, that this ho⯑neſt Algerine, filled with indignation againſt Barba⯑roſſa, as murderer of their late good king, conſiders Othman, from his place and habiliments, as an a⯑bettor of the uſurper. His zeal, for ſome time, is deaf to reaſon; but, when Othman mentions that his ſtay at court was in pity to the Queen, and to watch ſome favourable opportunity of juſt revenge upon the tyrant, Sadi ſoftens. A melting picture is given of the oppreſſion Algiers labours under, and the ſad ſituation Zaphira is in from the murder of her huſband, the exile of her ſon, and being tor⯑mented with the amorous ſolicitation of him who has been the cauſe of all her woes.

Othman obſerving that aſſaſſins are diſpatched to find and deſtroy Selim, Sadi's impatience again breaks out, but is moderated by his cooler and more politic friend, who adviſes him to leave the court, which advice, hearing trumpets proclaim the ap⯑proach of Barbaroſſa, he takes. The tyrant, on his [292] entrance, aſks concerning the execution of five per⯑ſons, ſacrificed for what he himſelf had been guilty of, and delivers himſelf in the haughtieſt terms of ambitious pride. Obſerving a penſive caſt in Oth⯑man's countenance, he demands the meaning of it; then mentions his ſurprize that young Selim ſhould be a voluntary exile, when he might find protection from him.

Aladin here brings intelligence that Selim is no more, the circumſtance ſtrikes Othman ſo that Bar⯑baroſſa perceives it; however, he gives it a favour⯑able turn. The Prince thus diſpoſed of, another care takes up the uſurper's thoughts, how to prevail on Zaphira: for this he aſks the aſſiſtance of Oth⯑man, with promiſes of great reward if he ſucceeds, and bids him go before the account of her ſon's death has gloomed her temper. His ſuppoſed friend being gone, he indulges his ſatisfaction at Selim's fate, and confers with Aladin, a very proper agent of barbarity, deſiring him to ſpread a report that the widowed Queen has at length conſented to become his wife.

As he is going to viſit her, his daughter Irene meets him; perceiving her in tears, he checks the untimely ſorrow ſhe wears. She comes, as it ap⯑pears, a ſuppliant from the Queen, to beg he wont perſiſt in his command to ſee her; this ſhe urges very tenderly: when he ſpeaks of Selim's death, her tears flow afreſh. This enflames him, and he demands the cauſe, which appears to be gratitude for his having ranſomed her from a ſtate of capti⯑vity: inſtead of applauding her delicate ſenſibility, Barbaroſſa is enraged that ſhe ſhould have received freedom from his foe, and goes off, commanding [293] her not to acquaint the Queen, whom he reſolves to poſſeſs, with Selim's fate.

Irene, ſtruck with her father's ſtern, obdurate re⯑ſolves, declares her intention of aiding Zaphira's eſ⯑cape, the firſt favourable opportunity. The hu⯑mane attachment of this princeſs to diſtreſſed inno⯑cence is very amiable, and gives a moſt favourable impreſſion.

At the beginning of the ſecond act, we meet Za⯑phira, bewailing her hapleſs lot, bereft both of huſband and child, and enſlaved by their deſtroyer. Upon Othman's appearance ſhe mentions her ſon's fate; being told that Barbaroſſa aſſumes the name of king, and means to ſee her, ſhe execrates the monſter, and ardently wiſhes ſome means of eſcape, but as there is a ſtrict watch kept Othman deems that impoſſible; therefore, recommends external acquieſcence, as the only method of gaining that li⯑berty which may make her eſcape practicable: however hard to put on diſſimulation in her caſe, however painful to a mourning wife and mother, ſhe, after many ſtruggles, to work the means of re⯑venge, promiſes that her friend's advice ſhall be pur⯑ſued. Barbaroſſa approaches, with ſoftened looks and amorous ſalutation, which ſhe evades, by ob⯑ſerving, that her heart cannot be weaned from the firſt object of its regard, that ſhe could not return his affection, and begs, if he really loves, a proof of it, by giving her liberty to ſeek her father.

The uſurper endeavours to perſuade, by drawing a pompous compariſon between his own powerful grandeur, and the unſettled obſcurity of that ſtate which ſhe wiſhes to be in: dead to all joys and ſplendor, ſhe perſeveres ſo far in her requeſt, as to [294] kneel at his feet. This moves Barbaroſſa to re⯑proach, which ſhe returns with great bitterneſs of expreſſion: when, as a ſtroke of art, he offers to en⯑throne her ſon if ſhe will marry him, her paſſion riſes to its utmoſt pitch, and ſhe pours curſes on him. Finding ſhe has been informed of what he meant to keep from her knowledge, he ſays the re⯑port is not true; however, ſeeing through and de⯑teſting his deſigns, ſhe peremptorily declares againſt his ſuit; this draws threats from Barbaroſſa, which ſhe replies to with ſpirited dignity.

Thus baffled, the tyrant ſoliloquizes in great per⯑turbation, during which Aladin enters, to whom he tells his diſappointment and diſtraction; to calm which, the convenient tool of royalty acquaints him, that the murderer of Selim is arrived: he imme⯑diately deſires to ſee him, and Selim, under the title of Achmet, is introduced. Upon receiving a ring from the ſuppoſed ſlave, Barbaroſſa, after giving him freedom, enquires how the affair was tranſacted.

His curioſity being gratified, he promiſes Ach⯑met conſiderable reward, bids him go to the Queen, and tell her that Selim, with his dying breath, re⯑queſted to heal the wounds of his country, that ſhe would ſhare Barbaroſſa's bed and throne: he alſo recommends the ſtranger to Othman's care, and goes off with Aladin to a banquet.

An anxiety of thought, perceptible in Othman, occaſions Selim to enquire the cauſe of it, but he obtains no diſtinct anſwer: the loyal Algerine, fired with indignation, not only at his lawful prince's death, but having the murderer before him, throws off his aſſumed allegiance to Barbaroſſa, and lays his hatred open; this, we think, very in⯑conſiſtent [295] conſiſtent with the ſcheme of policy he has laid down for aſſiſting Zaphira; however, it gives him an op⯑portunity of declaring his friendly ſentiments re⯑ſpecting the Prince, who, with gradual caution at length reveals himſelf.

Moſt dramatic diſcoveries, of this nature, are ei⯑ther trifling or improbable; Selim's we take to have a touch of both: for though Othman ſays no time can blot out the remembrance of his luſtrous eye and graceful features, yet he cannot recollect him without adverting to a ſcar, which the poet has ve⯑ry unaccountably called beauteous; had he been an Iriſh author, this would have been named a bull. Well, this ornamental ſcar is produced, at which Othman very properly exclaims, Am I awake! and recognizes the Prince immediately; nay, ſees every lineament of his father's face in his countenance. Selim mentions the manner of getting Barbaroſſa's ring, by which he has paſſed unſuſpected; he aſks tenderly for his mother, and mentions the tyrant's order for ſeeing her; but Othman, fearful of diſ⯑covery, wiſhes him to quit the court.

Secure in his diſguiſe, he determines to ſtay and watch a fit opportunity of revenging his father's blood; that his deſign may not appear romantic, he ſpeaks of having ſeen Sadi and Almanzor, who, with a choſen band of citizens, have promiſed to ſtorm Barbaroſſa's palace. Othman gives precau⯑tionary advice, and Selim concludes the ſecond act with an intereſting and very ſpirited ſupplication to his father's ſhade.

Irene, notwithſtanding her father's harſh com⯑mands, holds Selim in tender regard; and knowing him through his diſguiſe, expreſſes, at the beginning [296] of the third act, anxious concern for his ſafety. He enters, and endeavours to avoid her, but ſhe avows knowledge of him, and with great generoſity of ſpirit, warns him from the court, taking on herſelf the taſk to tell the Queen he lives. When he men⯑tions revenge, as a main motive of his ſtaying in the palace, her filial affection is alarmed, and ſhe utters ſtrong apprehenſions for her father. He urges Bar⯑baroſſa's guilt, ſhe pleads herſelf his daughter, and again tenderly urges his departure, which he ſeems to acquieſce in, if allowed an interview with his mo⯑ther. She retires, and leaves him to view his peri⯑lous ſituation, which he does with very becoming fortitude; then requeſts from an attendant ſlave audience of the Queen.

Zaphira appears, who, as well as Othman, has ſtrangely forgot the features of her darling ſon: ſhe enquires reſpecting Selim's fate, he tells her that he was witneſs of it, and literally fulfils Barbaroſſa's commands reſpecting Selim's laſt requeſt: Zaphira fires with indignation at ſuch an inſult to her ſon's me⯑mory; ſeeing and pitying her agitation, he changes his tone, and gives her a glimmering of hope that the prince is ſtill alive; ſays he was his companion in exile, and ſpread the ſtory of his death to gain an interview with her, he bids her maintain her reſolution with becoming confidence, till a ſtroke can be ſtruck for her delivery, and ſends her off in a ſtate of much greater comfort than he met her.

Being alone he indulges that grief which in her preſence he was obliged to ſmother; when Othman and Sadi appear, he aſks how the night wears, which they inform him approaches the mid-hour; he communicates the purport of his interview with [297] the Queen, and is told his friends in the city burn for the hour of action; mentioning that Irene knew him, his friends preſs immediate departure, but he determines to be near for the aſſiſtance of a mother, threatened with violation. He deſires, upon hearing how matters are concerted, that the tyrant may be left for his particular vengeance; Othman reminds him of Irene, but with noble firmneſs he declares himſelf above the influence of love in ſuch a cauſe. When the midnight watch warns them to part, Selim gives a humane charge to ſhed none but guilty blood; the Prince, in ſoli⯑loquy, ruminates upon the awful circumſtances de⯑pending; he examines his heart, and emphatically apologizes for working by underhand means, that re⯑venge which he could wiſh to obtain by open and honourable war. The author has laboured, and not unſucceſsfully, to make this ſcene a ſolemn pre⯑paration for the great event that is in agitation; the ſtillneſs of the night, the murmuring ſurge, the moon riſing in blood, all call attention, to the wiſhed for point.

Irene begins the fourth act with Aladin; it ap⯑pears, that terrified by an ominous dream, ſhe has deſired to ſee her father, who comes on in a very churliſh mood at being diſturbed during his ban⯑quet; ſhe expreſſes her apprehenſion of lurking danger, and relates her dream with ſtrong colour⯑ing, which Barbaroſſa treats with contempt.

Aladin comes on, and informs him, that a ru⯑mour prevails of young Selim's being alive, and in the city; though loth to admit fear, he orders the watch to be doubled, and commands Achmet to be brought before him; this alarms Irene, who [298] begs hard that he may not ſee Achmet, but the uſurper will have his way, and drives her off the ſtage in a ſtate of painful perplexity; being alone, conſcious guilt riſes to his view, and ſeems to ſtagger his reſolution; but knowing in his ſituation, the danger of remorſe, he reſolves to ſuppreſs the feel⯑ings of conſcience. He demands of Selim, if he be really what he has repreſented.

This unexpected queſtion rather confounds the prince; Barbaroſſa, with violent threats, aſks if Selim is not alive; Selim, with a dagger's point at his breaſt, evades fate, by braving it; how⯑ever, the uſurper commands he may be ſtrictly watched, then orders the marriage writes, vowing, that Zaphira ſhall, during the current night, be joined to him in wedlock; ſhe comes on and is queſtioned, whether her heart has relented, by per⯑ſiſting in refuſal, ſhe enflames him ſo that he calls his guards to drag her to the altar; whether Maho⯑metans have any altars we are not entirely clear; theſe compulſive meaſures occaſion her to cry out for her abſent ſon. Selim hearing her voice, enters, Barbaroſſa orders him to retire; Zaphira very oddly we think, prays his aſſiſtance, for what could the aid of a ſingle, unarmed ſlave avail againſt the de⯑termination of a monarch ſurrounded by guards; however, Selim tries what ſolicitation will do; find⯑ing that vain, he makes a final effort with his dag⯑ger; Barbaroſſa evades the blow, and delivers him to the guards, when priſoner he avows himſelf the identical Selim; this ſudden diſcovery of her ſon, and his deſparate ſituation, overwhelms Zaphira; ſhe faints, and he, running to embrace her, they are torn aſunder.

[299]When the Queen recovers, Barbaroſſa renews his order for her being forceably borne off; this again reduces Selim to his knees, the uſurper wiſh⯑ing to touch her heart in the tendereſt vein, orders her ſon to be borne to the rack; ſo ſevere a trial works her to compliance with the marriage; the Prince, with noble diſdain and unſhakeable re⯑ſolution, declines life, gained by ſo ſhameful a purchaſe; ſhe catches the noble flame, and both defying the tyrant's power, they are carried off ſeparately.

Aladin increaſes the confuſion and rage of Bar⯑baroſſa, by giving certain intelligence of a con⯑ſpiracy in the city; he orders out ſpies to diſcover, if poſſible, the members of it, then commands Selim's immediate death, and goes off breathing threats, dreadful in their tenor.

At the beginning of the fifth act, we again meet him; enquiring whether proper precautions are ta⯑ken, and obſerving, that the ſpies which were ſent out, have found no trace of tumult; the ſecond watch he dooms for Selim's final moment. Irene once more comes a ſuppliant to her father, and with tears offers up petitionary plaints, yet is treated with unuſual, or rather increaſed ſeverity; however the urgent occaſion, and the violent emotion of her heart, in favour of the man ſhe loves, oblige her to perſevere till her enraged fire orders the guards to force her off.

Left alone, the perilous condition ambition has brought him to, preſents itſelf to his diſheartened mind; upon enquiring for Othman, Aladin ſays, that he is fled, and that much danger may be ap⯑prehended; the following line uttered in Barbaroſ⯑ſa's [300] fury is unpardonably vulgar, ‘"Why then, may all hell's curſes follow him,"’ this freſh alarm pre⯑cipitates the Prince's fate, and the uſurper with moſt vindictive ideas goes to ſee him put to the rack, unleſs propoſed conceſſions mitigate his ſentence.

Selim, ſurrounded by executioners, appears no further concerned than that his remains may not be treated with diſreſpect; but that ſeems an unneceſ⯑ſary application, ſince the great foe who robs him of life muſt have equal power, with perhaps equal antipathy over his breathleſs body, that he has to the animated; Barbaroſſa entering, orders him to be raiſed from the ground, and aſks if his life is not forfeited upon his own principles; the Prince de⯑ſires him to take it; however, the tyrant, for Za⯑phira's ſake expoſtulates, till contemptuous refu⯑ſal, and ſound of the ſecond watch, end the fruit⯑leſs conference, Selim is left to the rack, and they are binding him with cords when Irene's entrance gains him a ſmall reſpite. Far from upbraiding her with her father's cruelty, he treats her in the ten⯑dereſt manner, and ſtrives to ſoften that woe ſhe feels, as ſuppoſing herſelf the means of his being diſcovered, ſhe begs forgiveneſs, which he moſt readily grants, and commits his mother to her care.

Juſt as they are fixing him to the rack, a tumult is heard, which fills him with ſpirit, and the guards with diſmay. Aladin enters in confuſion, and calls off the officers, &c. to aſſiſt Barbaroſſa. Irene now again melts with tenderneſs for her father's danger, and hearing the claſh of ſwords goes off in a ſtate of diſtracted grief: Othman entering with a party frees [301] Selim, and gives him a ſword, with which he goes to ſeek his mortal foe.

The tyrant, like Macbeth, tied to a ſtake, knows not what ſtep to take. Othman encounters, and gives him a mortal wound, at which inſtant Selim enters. Seeing Barbaroſſa proſtrate, he regrets that his hand had not given the blow, and calls on the murderer, that he may awake the ſtings of remorſe. His words have the deſired effect, and when he finds the expiring monſter contrite, his generous temper takes ſo humane a turn, that he ſolicits heaven's mercy in his favour.

After the tyrant begs protection for his daugh⯑ter, and draws his laſt breath, the Prince gives or⯑ders to ſtop all hoſtilities. It is an amiable ſtroke when Sadi moves that the body of Barbaroſſa ſhould be dragged about the ſtreets, for Selim to forbid ſuch inhumanity. Zaphira, filled with apprehen⯑ſions, enters, jealous of her ſteps, and fearful of every one ſhe ſees; but ſoon perceives with joy the happy revolution of affairs. After mutual congratulations, and pious acknowledgment to heaven, Selim aſks for Irene, who, by Othman's order, has been taken care of. Zaphira pronounces her worthy to partake his throne, which he acquieſces in, and then con⯑cludes the piece, deducing its general moral in the following agreeable lines:

Though Dr. Brown has in a previous advertiſe⯑ment, pompouſly paraded his ſteady adherence to [302] the ancient drama in this compoſition, yet, I be⯑lieve, had he not mentioned it, no reader would have found it out; he has indeed, been ſcrupulouſly nice with reſpect to time and place, but vigour of genius is wanting, and there is much more labour than fancy: from the former he has deviſed a plot, which preſents us with ſeveral ſtriking incidents, and works on to a juſt, agreeable and inſtructive cataſtrophe; but being deficient of the latter, ex⯑preſſion in many of the ſcenes is ſo languid, that if it does affect, it muſt be more through the merit of the actor than the poet.

Barbaroſſa is an ample ſubject for deteſtation to work, not a ray of virtue can we perceive to light his gloomy frame; haughty, revengeful, luſtful, and cruel. A wretch, eaten up with impious paſ⯑ſions, and an entire ſlave to each of them; a curſe to himſelf, and a plague to human kind; at leaſt, that part of it which unhappily came within his ſphere. There is ſuch a mixture of gloom, fire and affected ſoftneſs, that it requires very uncommon powers to give this part due force. Mr. MOSSOP made it ſo conſpicuous, that we may juſtly ſay, as the author no doubt formed the character for him, ſo nature formed him for it. We cannot deſcribe how amazingly he improved his original, and ſtrengthened many weak paſſages which muſt lie heavy on performers of leſs ability. Alas! Mr. BENSLEY, Mr. COLMAN puts you as Marlborough did John Duke of Argyle, upon all the moſt hazard⯑ous attempts: for heaven's ſake, reſign the ſove⯑reignty of Algiers; dont miſlead yourſelf, by think⯑ing that goggling the eye-balls will give the idea of a ſtern aſpect; nor imagine, that puſhing one ſhould⯑er [303] before the other, and rolling like a Dutch long⯑boat in a rough ſea, can paſs for dignity of deport⯑ment. We would moſt humbly, in the ſincerity of friendly wiſhes, adviſe you to change places with Mr. CLARKE; a prudent retreat is no ſmall part of generalſhip; if the managers ſhould threaten you with a Chancery ſuit for declining his mighty ap⯑pointment, try if you cant get him to ſtand the roaſt in a ſimilar manner.

Achmet is an object as amiable as his vile com⯑petitor is horrid; his ſituation very critical, his un⯑dertaking noble, his filial piety unſhakeable, his ho⯑nour inviolate, his love diſintereſted, his friendſhip warm, permanent and affable; his diſpoſition gen⯑tle, even to foes, and his courage equal to any dan⯑ger. As a part, he is much better written than Barbaroſſa, yet many of his ſpeeches want nerve, which indeed Mr. GARRICK moſt amply ſupplied. There are ſeveral breaks and paſſages in this cha⯑racter, which ſeem in peruſal to have very little meaning; yet he ſent them thrilling through the heart, and then brought them flowing from the eyes.

Mr. SAVIGNY, being as yet a very young per⯑former, in point of practice, which is highly eſſential to perfection, we muſt, as far as impartiality will admit, touch him with a lenient hand. Whether this part was choſen by himſelf, or recommended by ſome anxious friend, we can by no means ap⯑prove it for a beginning; there is ſuch an intricacy, ſo many tranſitions, ſuch a variety of manoeuvres, commonly called ſtage buſineſs, that two ſeaſons, at leaſt, are neceſſaay to cultivate properly even ſuch a⯑bilities as are naturally adequate to the undertaking.

[304]The gentleman who has lately appeared, ſeems to ſpeak, bating the barbariſm of furm inſtead of firm, ſturn inſtead of ſtern, and being faultily emphatic upon thy, thee, and thou, with propriety: the middle and lower notes of his voice harmoniouſly diſtinct, and either from nature or imitation, very like thoſe of Mr. GARRICK. We are told, that he has very extenſive powers, we wiſh it may prove ſo, but we could not perceive any proſpect of ſuch. In the midſt of firſt night fear, they will break out, though irregularly. Mr. BARRY and Mr. MOSSOP, ſhewed their excellent voices in their firſt attempts, though doubtleſs not ſo well as they have ſince exerted them.

Mr. SAVIGNY's countenance, from what we could diſcover, ſeems pleaſing and expreſſive, but wants thoſe ſtrong lines of expreſſion, which command a large audience. His perſon appears well propor⯑tioned, for what there is of it; and, if he would lay aſide that mode of holding his head over his ſhould⯑er, which ſeems to be caught from Roſcius, his po⯑ſitions and deportment would be more natural. Upon the whole, we are willing to allow him the beſt acquiſition by much, that our theatres have made ſince Mr. POWELL's commencement.

The dreſs of Selim is a very diſadvantageous one, and reſembles, as a wit in one of the boxes obſerved, part of the Queen's Zebra's wardrobe: We wiſh Mr. SAVIGNY, who has good feelings, and pleaſing expreſſion, every improvement and acqui⯑ſition neceſſary to place him deſervedly at the head of his new profeſſion.

[305]Sadi has little to diſtinguiſh him, but a com⯑mendable ſpirit of loyalty, which he expreſſes in reſpectful terms, during the firſt ſcene. We remember to have ſeen Mr. DAVIES's performance of this part; it was ſenſible, and ſuitably ſpirited: We are in no ſhape pleaſed to find Mr. HULL un⯑dertaking this patriotic Algerine; declamation and paternal tenderneſs are his ſtile, not love nor fire.

Othman is alſo a faithful ſubject to a dead mo⯑narch, and his oppreſſed heir: Mr. HAVARD did him juſtice, but we think Mr. CLARKE much pre⯑ferable; indeed, he has not ſuch dazzling rays of merit round him, as the original had to encounter.

Aladin is one of thoſe obſequious, execrable court jackalls, who are never happier than when providing prey for the lion authority; he has not one word to ſay that can render his villainy paſſable; Mr. GARDNER is rather better than Mr. MOZEEN was.

Zaphira is drawn with dignity as a Queen, con⯑ſtancy as a widow, and tenderneſs as a mother: through the whole piece ſhe claims reſpect and pity, when we dont ſee her, ſhe is nevertheleſs kept in our view.

The dead are not ſo often flattered as the living; Mrs. CIBBER can now give no compenſation for praiſe; nor, if ſhe could, would it avail in this work; but let gratitude, as well as judgment, place her for the peculiar feelings ſhe raiſed, far before Mrs. YATES. Her tenderneſs was truly pathetic, and the reſiſtive parts delicate, her countenance a matchleſs index to the whole. Her ſucceſſor has a voice too full for ſoftneſs, and a countenance more expreſſive of diſdain than ſorrow; yet, as things go [306] at preſent, the ſtage might rejoice if only one half of the capital parts could ſhew the merit ſhe has in this.

Miſs MILLER is more tolerable in Irene than any thing we have ſeen her in yet, though a poor, whim⯑pering daudle from beginning to end; we mean theſe laſt words of the character, and prefer the lady mentioned to Miſs MACKLIN.

From the tears it has drawn, we may conclude this s [...] not a bad acting tragedy; however, being upon the whole but a middling effort of genius, we think it meagre food for contemplation in the cloſet.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. A COMEDY: By SHAKESPEARE.

LEONATO Governor of Meſſina, begins this piece, peruſing a letter from Don Pedro, of Arra⯑gon, by which he is informed of that Prince's ar⯑rival the ſame evening; he queſtions the meſſenger concerning a battle which has been fought; this occaſions honourable mention to be made of one Claudio, a young Florentine; Beatrice enquires for Benedick, and is tartly witty at his expence. The Prince entering with his ſuit, ſalutes Leonato; Benedict happening to let fall ſome words, Beatrice immediately attacks him, and a ſhort altercation of quibbling raillery enſues, more pregnant with plea⯑ſantry than meaning. While they are playing the game of ſnip-ſnap, we find Don Pedro has accept⯑ed Leonato's invitation, to ſtay a month or more at his houſe,

When all go off but Claudio and Benedict, the former aſks the latter if he has noticed Leonato's daughter; after humorouſly giving his opinion of her, he obtains from Claudio a confeſſion of love for the young lady; this he acquaints the Prince with on his return, who ſeems to approve Hero as an object worthy of affection: Benedick, from an aſſumed contempt of amorous feelings, puns and quibbles ludicrouſly, not only upon the ſubject of Claudio's paſſion, but upon matrimonial connec⯑tions [308] in general; his remarks occaſion the Prince and lover to retort, by obſerving, that he, for all his boaſting will fall into the ſnare; however, the confident batchelor thinks his freedom in no danger, and proclaims himſelf poſſeſſed of unſhakeable in⯑dependance; Pedro ſends Benedick off to acquaint Leonato he will attend his ſupper.

Claudio being alone with the Prince, profeſſes at large his affection for Hero, and that it may not ſeem a ſudden ſtart of fancy, declares, that he loved her before his going to the war, they have lately been engaged in; then ſollicits Pedro's aſſiſtance in fa⯑vour of his ſuit, which is readily and cordially granted to him, for which purpoſe the Prince, knowing there is to be a maſquerade, lays a ſcheme for ſounding Hero's inclination; which is to aſſume the character of Claudio, and in that ſhape to make ſtrong declarations of love.

This ſettled, they go off to make way for Anto⯑nio and Leonato; the former tells the latter that a ſervant of his has overheard the Prince declaring a paſſion for Hero, and that he intended mention of it to her during the maſquerade; this ſeems very improbable, there being no time for Antonio's re⯑ceiving ſuch a piece of information, as one party enter immediately upon the other's departure; Leo⯑nato, though he does not ſeem to lay much weight on the diſcovery, nevertheleſs, determines to ac⯑quaint his daughter with the matter, that in caſe it ſhould be fact, ſhe may be the better prepared.

When the old gentlemen diſappear, Don John and Conrade come forward; from their conver⯑ſation, it appears, that Don John is of a ſurly miſ⯑chievous diſpoſition; that he hates obligations, and [309] would injure the Prince, his brother, who has late⯑ly reſtored him to that place in fraternal affection, which his ill behaviour had forfeited. Conrade adviſes him to a ſmoother mode of behaviour, but villainy being the firſt fruit of his heart, he deter⯑mines to purſue it. Upon being informed by Bo⯑rachio of an intended marriage, he goes off with the malevolent intention of diſturbing the peace of thoſe who never injured him.

At the begginning of the ſecond act, Leonato enquires whether Don John was not at ſupper; mention of this gloomy blade, occaſions ſprightly Beatrice to remark ſhrewdly upon the contraſt be⯑tween him and Benedick; the following part of this ſcene is made up of rhapſodical obſervations, upon love, marriage, maids and batchelors, by this loquacious lady; the maſquers coming on, Pedro ſingles out Hero, who has been prepared by her father; he ſollicits conference, but is baffled by her anſwers; while they retire, other characters play on each other; among the reſt Benedick and Beatrice encounter, whoſe phraſes are bandied to and fro with all the quickneſs and levity of a ſhut⯑tle-cock: under cover, ſhe cuts him up to him⯑ſelf; after a dance, Don John comes forward with Borachio, they miſtake Claudio for Benedick, and acquaint him that the Prince is in love with Hero, deſiring him to prevent ſo inadequate a connection; when they are gone off, Claudio meditates upon what he has heard with moſt ſtrange feelings of jealouſy; the Prince had to him declared a deſign of wooing Hero in his favour; yet now he is ſur⯑prized to hear that what they had agreed upon has been put in practice; nothing but the abſurdi⯑ties [310] lovers are capable of, could poſſibly juſtify this.

While he is in peeviſh mood, Benedick comes on, and jeſtingly confirms his jealouſy, which teizing of his ruffled temper, occaſions a ſudden retreat. Pedro approaching, is charged with having caught the affection of Hero, which he declares to be won in favour of Claudio; the Prince mentioning a quarrel Beatrice has to Benedick, he gives a very fanciful and humorous account of his own meſ⯑ſage by that volatile dame; juſt as he has finiſhed his account, ſhe appears; ſeeing her, he haſtens off, as if terrified at the thoughts of encountering ſo nimble and bitter a tongue.

When Pedro ſays to Beatrice that ſhe has put down Benedick, ſhe makes a reply rather reprehen⯑ſible, as raiſing a groſs idea, ‘"So I would not he ſhould do me, my Lord, leſt I ſhould prove the mother of fools."’

The Prince, perceiving a cloud on Claudio's coun⯑tenance, demands the reaſon, to which he receives equivocal replies; Benedick is guilty of a vulgariſm when he ſays the Count is civil as an orange, the name being Seville; at beſt, like many others in this play it is a ſtrained pun.

When Pedro declares that he wooed Hero for Claudio, Leonato gives her in form to the raptured lover; this diſpoſal of her couſin, ſets Beatrice rat⯑tling once more; ſhe is again blameable for reply⯑ing to Pedro as ſhe does, when he ſays, ‘"ſhall I get you a huſband, I had rather have one of your father's getting"’. When ſhe is ſent off by her un⯑cle, Claudio's wedding is fixed for that day week, and by way of making the interval tedious to im⯑patient [311] love, paſs more agreeably, Pedro propoſes to attempt working Benedick and Beatrice into a violent affection for each other; with this pleaſant propoſal the ſcene concludes.

Don John enters with his hopeful aſſociate Borachio; the former wiſhing, at any rate, by any impediment to croſs Claudio's marriage; to effect this purpoſe, Borachio lays a villainous plan, through his intimacy with Margaret, Hero's wait⯑ing-woman; for this infamous project John pro⯑miſes the tool of his iniquity a thouſand ducats, and they go off to forward their execrable plan.

Benedick enters in Leonato's garden, with a boy, whom he ſends for a book: In ſoliloquy, he ex⯑preſſes ſurprize, that Claudio, who formerly uſed to laugh at love, ſhould fall ſo effectually into the ſnare himſelf: He then proceeds to enquire, whether his own mind can be ſo ſtrangely altered; and, with a very natural, pleaſant degree of confidence, ſuppoſes ſuch a metamorphoſe impoſſible. This ſpeech is much in favour of the actor, and truly agreeable to the audience.

Seeing the Prince, Claudio and Balthazar ap⯑proach, he retires behind an arbour: after a plea⯑ſing ſong, they enter upon the ſubject of Beatrice's love for Benedick; perceiving that he liſtens, all poſſible ſymptoms of violent affection in that lady are mentioned, which Benedick ſwallows the more greedily, as being advanced and avouched by ſo grave and venerable a character as grey-headed Leonato. The train of deception is admirably carried on through this ſcene, and when Benedick is left alone to ruminate upon what he has heard, he [312] does it moſt humorouſly. He ſeems to fear ſome flaſhes of wit, if he ſhould appear ſerious in a love affair, yet argues himſelf into a favourable opinion. She enters, and invites him to dinner; her words, though not kind, or even polite, he interprets fa⯑vourably; and concludes the ſecond act with re⯑ſolving to get her picture.

Hero, Margaret, and Urſula, open the third act. Hero ſends Margaret to draw Beatrice into the gar⯑den; it appears, that the ſame deſign is now to be put in practice upon her, as Leonato and Claudio wrought upon Benedick, in the foregoing act; for this purpoſe Hero inſtructs Urſula. Seeing Bea⯑trice ſteal into a woodbine arbour, they proceed on the ſubject of Benedick's love for her, and anatomize her ſpirit of pride and coquettry pretty ſeverely: while they blazon him with the warmeſt terms of commendation. After they have exhauſted praiſe upon one, and ſatire on the other, they go off. From what Beatrice ſays, when alone, it appears, that their converſation has produced the deſired ef⯑fect, and occaſioned her to think ſeriouſly of Bene⯑dick. This ſcene has conſiderable merit, but being exactly ſimilar to that which ends the ſecond act, cannot take equal poſſeſſion of an audience.

Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick and Leonato, ap⯑pear next: the Prince declares his intention of ſtay⯑ing till Claudio's marriage is conſummated; then propoſes going for Arragon, and that Benedick ſhould go with him. This draws on ſome obſerva⯑tions which charge Benedick with being in love, the Prince and Claudio mention ſeveral pleaſant ſymp⯑toms to prove their ſuggeſtion: when Benedick [313] walks aſide to ſpeak with Leonato, Don John en⯑ters, and charges Hero with being diſloyal; this naturally ſurprizes the Prince and her lover; who, upon being offered ocular demonſtration of her licentiouſneſs, jointly determine to expoſe her, and break off the marriage.

When they go off, we are preſented with Dog⯑berry, Verges, and Watchmen. This ſcene exhi⯑bits in the Conſtable and his aſſociate, a very laugh⯑able picture of blundering, ignorant conſequence; the neglect and villainy of nocturnal guards, is very well, and keenly touched upon: after giving the watchmen charge to look ſharply about Leonato's houſe, Dogberry goes off. Here Borachio and Conrade enter; theſe worthy gentlemen, not ſuſ⯑pecting eves-droppers, talk over the whole of the plot againſt Hero, how Margaret being ſubſtituted for her, Claudio had ſwallowed the deceit, and de⯑termined upon expoſing his intended bride in the temple; the watchmen having overheard this hope⯑ful conference, take them into cuſtody, and hurry them off the ſtage.

Hero next enters with Margaret, they converſe about a wedding-ſuit; Beatrice joins them, and profeſſing herſelf ill at eaſe, Margaret archly puns upon Benedick's name, by adviſing her to lay ſome Carduus Benedictus to her heart. After ſome plea⯑ſant raillery upon Beatrice's complaint, they retire to dreſs Hero for her nuptials.

In the next ſcene we are entertained with a very whimſical account which Dogberry and Verges give Leonato of the two men the watch have taken up; their roundabout, ſuperfluous manner, is truly diverting. Leonato, wearied with their verboſity, [314] deſires them to queſtion the culprits, and bring him the examination. At the beginning of the fourth act, we meet the bride, bridgeroom, prieſt, and all the nuptial gueſts. Upon the Friar's aſking Clau⯑dio if he is not come to marry the lady, he anſwers no; upon queſtioning Hero, ſhe replies in the af⯑firmative; to the next interrogation, whether any lawful impediment is known, Claudio replies in a ſtrain not very intelligible to the company, till he explains the matter in ſuch lines as we think wor⯑thy tranſcribing.

So unexpected and heavy a charge, ſupported by the Prince and Don John, ſtrikes Leonato to the heart; and ſo far overpowers his unhappy daugh⯑ter, that ſhe faints. When the accuſers are gone, the wretched father breaths forth his ſorrow in very pathetic and bitter plaints; patience is urged, and a vindication of Hero attempted by Benedick and Beatrice, but Leonato ſeems from ſuch reputable evidence, to think the accuſation juſt. The Friar, in a moſt ſenſible, humane, fanciful addreſs, takes up the injured lady's cauſe, who ſpeaks of her own innocence with melting modeſty. Her father, up⯑on a ſurmiſe that it may be the effect of ſome baſe [315] deſign, delivers himſelf with very emphatic ſpirit: the Friar, who prudently prefers moderate mea⯑ſures, deſires that a report of her death, in conſe⯑quence of ſlander, may be ſpread, in order to work out her exculpation; or to give an opportunity, if guilt is confirmed, of ſecreting her from the world. To this ſalutary advice Leonato agrees. The o⯑ther characters being gone off, Benedick and Bea⯑trice remain, who both entertain a favourable opi⯑nion of Hero; after urging him to eſpouſe the cauſe of her couſin, a pretty entertaining declara⯑tion of mutual affection, comes from theſe whimſi⯑cal lovers; and Benedick, in compliance with his miſtreſs's earneſt deſire, goes off, fully bent on chal⯑lenging Claudio.

Dogberry and Verges, with their priſoners and others, next appear; this examination of Conrade and Borachio, confirms the laughable idea we have already entertained of their conſequential examiners: after much quibble, they are confronted by the watchmen, who unfold the affair of Don John's bribing Borachio with a thouſand ducats to ſlander Hero; this diſcovery being made, they are or⯑dered to be carried before Leonato; this part of the buſineſs falls to the lot of Dogberry and Ver⯑ges, the former of whom, upon being called an aſs by Conrade, makes ſome very riſible remarks.

At the beginning of the fifth act, Antonio is comforting his brother Leonato, who replies to his conſolation, in terms that we muſt offer to our rea⯑der's peruſal, as truly beautiful, and ſtrictly argu⯑mentative:

Don Pedro and Claudio entering, the old man accoſts them in angry terms, which they wave, though Claudio receives a regular challenge from him, and both of them from Antonio. The Prince, in palliative terms, laments Hero's death, but aſſerts, that the charge which occaſioned it was founded in truth; this, as he refuſes to hear a vindication of her, ſends off the old gentlemen violently agitated with paſſion. No ſooner do they diſappear, than Benedict, ripe for quarrel, comes forward; they joke with him, but find that he is thoroughly bent upon a forceable vindication of Hero's blaſted re⯑putation; [317] however, they jeer him, by giving the matter a ludicrous turn, and make mention of Bea⯑trice. Benedick is neither to be frighted nor ſoothed, and leaves them, promiſing revenge upon Claudio.

Dogberry and Verges here bring on the priſo⯑ners Borachio and Conrade, who make a full con⯑feſſion of their ſlanderous guilt to the Prince: this unexpected intelligence, as may be well ſuppoſed, ſtrikes him and Claudio with ſorrowful aſtoniſh⯑ment. Leonato entering, after having been ac⯑quainted with the villainy, receives from Borachio a ſecond confeſſion; however, in the zeal of reſent⯑ment, he charges the injury his daughter has re⯑ceived againſt the Prince and Claudio. After ſome exculpatory addreſſes upon their ſide, he ſoftens, and propoſes, as Hero is irrecoverable, that Claudio ſhall marry a neice of his; this being agreed to, they go off, after Dogberry, with farcical ſolemnity, has complained of being called an aſs.

Benedick comes on with Margaret, whom, after ſome quibbling, and not very decent ſpeeches, he ſends for Beatrice. When alone, he pleaſantly de⯑ſcribes his love-ſick ſituation: the lady comes on, when a very unimportant conference enſues, which ends juſt as it begins: Urſula communicating the diſcovery of Hero's innocence, they go off to hear it more at large. The next ſcene at Hero's monu⯑ment is, and we think juſtly, omitted in repreſenta⯑tion.

When the author brings us to Leonato's houſe, we find Benedick ſoliciting the Friar's matrimonial aſſiſtance, upon which Leonato mentions the man⯑ner how he had been tricked into love. Pedro and [318] Claudio appearing, according to appointment, He⯑ro, under cover of a maſk, is brought on; when Claudio ſolemnly receives her at the Friar's hand, ſhe reveals herſelf to the aſtoniſhment and joy of her firſt intended huſband. The explanation of this ſeeming riddle being referred to another op⯑portunity, Benedick and Beatrice, by the interven⯑tion of other parties, conclude their match, and ſo concludes the piece.

When we take a general view of this comedy, we muſt be ſurprized that SHAKESPEARE himſelf could make ſo much of ſo little; the plot has ra⯑ther a romantic air, and is, in point of merit, but very moderate; the unities are not groſsly violated; the cataſtrophe is ſatisfactory, the language eaſy and ſpirited; many of the ſentiments diſcover fancy and good ſenſe, and the characters are well ſup⯑ported.

Benedick is a very pleaſant effuſion of genius, we have no reaſon to allow him any virtue, or to charge him with any vices. He is a humoriſt poſſeſſed of very laughable peculiarity, we dont often meet ſuch a perſonage in private life, yet we are glad to ſee him on the ſtage, eſpecially when repreſented by Mr. GARRICK.

In ſpeaking of our modern ROSCIUS, after what has already been offered, we muſt either limit our praiſe, or ſay over again what has been ſaid before: general ſuffrage has for many years authorized the warmeſt encomiums upon this great man in Bene⯑dick; it has been ſet down by many leading critics as his beſt comic character, but this opinion we cannot implicitly admit, notwithſtanding we are willing to allow the pre-eminence of his ſignificant [319] features, the diſtinct volubility of his expreſſion, and his ſtage manoeuvres; in the ſcenes of repartee with Beatrice, his diſtinct vivacity gives uncommon ſatisfaction. It is a character not ſo well ſuited to his age and figure as it was ſome years ago, yet we have no idea of any performer now on the ſtage who could render it ſo agreeable as he ſtill can.

We have attended Mr. KING's performance of Benedick with much critical pleaſure, and if we had never feaſted upon Mr. GARRICK's ſuperior merit, 'tis highly probable we ſhould never have wiſhed for any thing better.

Mr. LEE, if he had not laboriouſly methodized good natural requiſites into moſt offenſive oddity, might have deſerved conſiderable reputation in this part; as it is, though nature has ſuffered ſo much from palpable art, he has his admirers, and in ſome few paſſages really merits them. It is painful to think that any man who does not want ſenſe, ſhould become ſuch a clock-work actor, miſtaking mecha⯑niſm for eaſe, and ſtiffneſs for propriety. We have been tortured both in eyes and ears by Mr. SHE⯑RIDAN's barbarous attempts on this part.

Claudio is a gentle youth, who falls ſuddenly in love, and gives up the object of his paſſion with leſs feeling, in our apprehenſion, than he ought: there is nothing in the part which requires, or could ſhew great abilities, yet it is much too important for Mr. CAUTHERLY's very feeble abilities, and was much better ſupplied by the late Mr. PALMER, though in ſome meaſure a marrer of blank verſe.

Leonato is a very reſpectable, uniform perſo⯑nage; a ſenſible, feeling father, who utters ſeveral ſentiments decked with ſuitable ſtile, that do the [320] author great credit. When warmed by the ſup⯑poſed guilt of his daughter, his expreſſions, if the actor does them juſtice, muſt affect every heart ca⯑pable of impreſſion: we are ſorry to remark, that Mr. AICKIN is by no means capable of working this eſſential effect, or, if capable, has not been able to ſhew the leaſt trace of it; he fails extremely in attempting to deſcribe the force and delicacy of paternal feelings.

Mr. BERRY went as much beyond the tender parts of Leonato, as the laſt mentioned gentleman falls below them. It is much to be wiſhed that old men of a ſerious caſt were put into abler hands; the ſtage has had an irreparable loſs, in this parti⯑cular, by the death of Mr. POWELL, eſpecially as Mr. ROSS, whoſe capabilities might be very re⯑ſpectable in this view, manifeſts moſt weariſome negligence.

There is no point of excellence in which SHAKE⯑SPEARE has more diſtinguiſhed himſelf than in the variety and propriety of his characters: if we look through many pieces, eſpecially thoſe of the laſt twenty years, we ſhall perceive a diſguſtful ſame⯑neſs of ſtile; lords and valets, ladies and chamber⯑maids, maintain nearly the ſame dialogue; ſuch in⯑ſipidity SHAKESPEARE's good ſenſe, knowledge of nature, and powerful genius diſdained: a great number of ſtriking inſtances might be offered from his works, in proof of this aſſertion; and, among the reſt, his Dogberry and Verges, who are as whimſically imagined, and as well ſupported, as any characters we know; their ſolemn buffoonery and blundering importance, muſt be rich enter⯑tainment for the graveſt mind.

[321]Mr. TASWELL, whoſe dryneſs of humour, quaintneſs of expreſſion, and laughable caſt of fea⯑tures will never be excelled, gave every idea of Dogberry that the author ſeems to have meant; at preſent, Mr. PARSONS, though not quite equal in excellence to his humorous predeceſſor, well de⯑ſerves the warm applauſe he receives. Mr. HAR⯑TRY, who has a moſt peculiar and happy counte⯑nance for the caricature of low comedy, is the beſt Verges we remember to have ſeen; laughter feels ſome injury from not having a little more of him. All the other male characters in this play are ſo im⯑material, with reſpect to performance, that we deem ourſelves excuſable in declining mention of them; and for the ſame reaſon two of the females only will come under conſideration.

Hero is an amiable young lady, thrown into a painful and pitiable predicament; the part is pret⯑ty, but feeble; it requires an agreeable, though not a great actreſs. Having ſaid thus much, we be⯑lieve our readers will readily concur in opinion, that it need not be more pleaſingly ſupplied than by Mrs. W. BARRY.

Beatrice ſeems to have engaged as much of our author's attention as Benedick, and is equally well ſupported; as a child of whim ſhe is extremely pleaſant. Mrs. PRITCHARD was ſo excellent in this part, and ſtruck out ſuch uniſon merit with Mr. GARRICK, that her uncharacteriſtic corpulence was always overlooked. Mrs. WOFFINGTON we have heard receive conſiderable applauſe, which ſhe well deſerved; and though we could wiſh to ſee Mrs. ABINGTON's ſuperior talents put into poſſeſſion [322] of this part, we don't think ourſelves unjuſtifiable in allowing Miſs POPE ſome ſhare of approbation.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, ſupported by ca⯑pable performers, will always pleaſe in repreſenta⯑tion, and does not caſt any damp upon the great fame of its immortal author; at the ſame time, we do not conſider it as making any addition thereto. It is undoubtedly an agreeable, ſpirited compoſition for the ſtage, but can never be of any great impor⯑tance in the ſtudy.

The REVENGE. A TRAGEDY: By Dr. YOUNG.

THIS piece opens with judicious ſolemnity. A night ſcene, attended with elementary concuſſions, lightning, thunder, wind, hail, &c. introduces Zanga, the captive Moor, who, from perturbation of mind, enjoys the ſtorm. Iſabella, who appears to be his miſtreſs, through tenderneſs of regard, follows him into the lonely retreat of gloomy me⯑ditation; her ſolicitations and tears draw from him an elegant and ſpirited acount of what has laid the foundation of his diſcontent.

Hence, it appears, that being ſon of a Mooriſh monarch, at war with Spain, he fought in a battle where his father was killed, and he himſelf made priſoner. That becoming Alonzo's, the Spaniſh general's ſlave, the victorious commander had given him as humane and friendly treatment as could be wiſhed; but, upon ſome ſlight occaſion, in heat of paſſion, gave him a blow, which to Mooriſh tem⯑pers, proves an offence never to be forgiven.

Having painted the agony of his mind to Iſa⯑bella, who in vain urges patience, ſhe tells him that an expreſs is arrived from Alonzo; having deviſed ſome means to damp the progreſs of that chief, he prays for favourable intelligence, and goes off to queſtion Don Carlos concerning it.

[324]Manuel and Carlos are now introduced, by whom we find that Alonzo, notwithſtanding Zan⯑ga's treachery, has obtained another compleat victory, attended with much ſlaughter of his foes. We are alſo informed, that Carlos was freed from a bondage among the Moors by that general, whom as a friend he had deputed as an advocate in love to the beauteous Leonora. We find likewiſe, that Alvarez, the young lady's father, from a love of wealth, countenances Don Carlos's paſſion, knowing that he is in hourly expectation of a ſleet immenſely rich.

Here the object of his affection appears, led by her hoary father, who, after warmly urging her ac⯑ceptance of Don Carlos, leaves them to an amorous tete-a-tete; the lover preſſes his ſuit with much tenderneſs, but her inclinations dont appear to wear that cordial condeſcenſion he ſeems to wiſh.

She evades his warmeſt attacks, and leaves him to receive the triumphant Alonzo; who, upon his entrance, declares more ſatisfaction in meeting his friend, than in the charms of fame and conqueſt. After terms of ſalutation and reciprocal regard are interchanged, Zanga comes on, informing Carlos of news from the port, to receive which he goes off.

Alonzo being left with the Moor, opens the ſe⯑cret feelings of his heart, which, ſurrounded by a blaze of glory, is yet wretched. He informs Zan⯑ga, that while he ſhould have acted as the ambaſſa⯑dor of love for his friend, Leonora's charms had compelled him to become the principal; a faint exculpatory circumſtance is mentioned, that having received no letters from Carlos, he concluded him dead; this miſcarriage in correſpondence, it ap⯑pears, [325] has happened through Zanga's treacherous, underhand dealing, to work his own ſiniſter pur⯑poſes.

Seeing Leonora, the captivated conqueror goes off to meet her, which gives Zanga an opportunity of uttering ſome lines, fraught with moſt vindictive malevolence. When the lovers come on, a long, laborious, and, in ſome places, laughable ſcene en⯑ſues; the whole purport of which, is a violent ſtruggle of pride and love in the woman; love and friendſhip in the man. Our author has here made an attempt upon the power of action, injurious to that power; he has indulged his own imagina⯑tion contrary to the probability, at leaſt the repre⯑ſentable probability of nature; for which reaſon the laſt ſcene of the firſt act is generally much and commendably curtailed on the ſtage: at the con⯑cluſion, Alonzo gives us a moſt unmeaning jingle of rhimes, ſounding much, meaning little.

The ſecond act commences with Zanga and Ma⯑nuel, informing the audience that Don Carlos's fleet is wrecked, and with it his fortune; hence Zanga ſuggeſts Alonzo's union with Leonora.

Iſabella coming on, he makes enquiry of her con⯑cerning ſome material circumſtances, ſends for his tablets, and ruminates, in an emphatic ſoliloquy, upon the connexion of circumſtances; wherein he diſplays a fund of policy for deep intrigue.

He determines upon working Alonzo to a mar⯑riage with Leonora, from which he draws hopes of a tempeſt that may wreck their peace; ſome lines he utters concerning that paſſion which he is endea⯑vouring to raiſe, being nearly equal to any we have [326] met in any author, it would be unpardonable not to tranſcribe them.

Upon Alonzo's entrance, Zanga, with profound artifice, congratulates him upon the certainty of poſſeſſing Leonora; the generous minded Spa⯑niard, though he doats on the woman, ſtill ſtruggles with the reſtrictions of friendſhip. The artifices of Zanga are maſterly, and at length determine Alon⯑zo to confer with Don Carlos.

After his departure, the author has again furniſh⯑ed his Moor with ſome lines of a maſterly nature; boldly imagined, copiouſly arranged, and emphati⯑cally expreſſed. Don Carlos comes in upon his meditation, wrapped up in thought likewiſe. Don Carlos moralizes, in ſoliloquy, with judgment and feeling; his ſentiments, reſpecting hope and human happineſs, are founded in philoſophical truth.

The Moor, warmly intent upon his evil purpoſes, preſſes the melancholly lover to a reſignation of his miſtreſs, in favour of Alonzo; the voluntary ſacri⯑fice of his deareſt wiſhes, though in deſpair of their ever being fulfilled, pains him ſo much that he can⯑not comply; therefore, requeſts Zanga to prevent an interview with his friend. This the Moor pro⯑miſes, [327] yet goes off with a determination to bring it about.

Carlos again ruminates upon the inſtability of temporal enjoyments; his remark on the power of beauty is juſt and pleaſing. As he is going off, Zanga brings on Alonzo—Here a very delicate and pathetic ſcene enſues, wherein the friends manifeſt a cordial feeling for each other. Alonzo's diffidence works the deſired effect upon Carlos; who, at length, triumphs over the agony of his mind ſo far, as not only to reſign Leonora, but even to requeſt his friend's acceptance of that happineſs which he has been diſappointed of.

The general's mind is ſo affected with this beha⯑viour, that he retires, and Carlos concludes the act with a very deſcriptive aſſimulation of his own caſe to that of Epaminondas, who lived with an arrow in his ſide till victory was proclaimed, and then draw⯑ing forth the mortal ſhaft expired.

The third act commences with Zanga, in a ſtate of malevolent rejoicing, that his deſigns are in ſo fair a train: by what he ſays to Iſabella, we find Alonzo's nuptials have been compleated, and that a letter, forged by him, as from Carlos to Leonora, had fallen into the bridegroom's hands, on whom it had wrought a very powerful effect. Zanga's de⯑ſcription of Alonzo, upon peruſal of the infamous ſcroll, is maſterly painting.

When the general enters, teeming with jealous doubts, the Moor pretends to go off, that he may be called upon. After much preparation, which Zanga receives with artful ſurprize; Alonzo com⯑municates the letter: here the Moor's hypocritical attachment is exhibited in ſtrong colours; to give [328] the forgery freſh force, he ſhews the utmoſt con⯑cern for its contents; then, under a friendly pre⯑text, tears the paper. What follows in this ſcene, ſhews Alonzo to be of an open, unſuſpecting na⯑ture; an apt ſubject for impoſition, and the Moor ſhrewdly villainous.

The traitor draws forth every collateral circum⯑ſtance which may increaſe the taint of his maſter's mind; after which, with fair faced tenderneſs, he ſends off the unhappy, deluded huſband, to reflect upon a ſubject which he knows the more it is thought of, the more pain it gives. After putting a picture of Carlos into Iſabella's hand, that ſhe may place it in Leonora's chamber, to riſe up a corrobo⯑rative proof of infidelity, a gleam of remorſe breaks in upon the traiterous gloom of Zanga's mind; for a moment he feels compunction, and with great dignity of ſentiment, reflects upon the diſgraceful ſtate of mental depravation his antipathy has led him to; however, his darling principle of revenge ſuppreſſes every idea of remorſe, and even renders infamy meritorious. This is one baſe effect of vio⯑lent prejudices, which ſeldom fail to beautify the moſt culpable and horrid purpoſes.

At the beginning of the fourth act, we meet Alonzo labouring with increaſed perplexity; he propoſes going to his wife, and by terrifying threats, to force the ſecret from her. This ſtep, ſo very dangerous to his hopes and views, the Moor art⯑fully evades, by taking upon himſelf, with much ſeeming reluctance, the taſk of explaining matters Juſt as he commences his artful tale, the author has introduced Leonora, without, in our apprehenſion, any purpoſe; therefore, the omiſſion of her ſhort, [329] inſignificant ſcene, in action is judiciouſly left out. The lady being diſpatched, Zanga gives a formal account of what, in a garden by moonlight, he had ſeen paſs between her and Carlos. The picture wears ſuch ſtriking features of criminality, that Alonzo is even overwhelmed with conviction. When the confirmation of his wife's guilt is invin⯑cibly impreſſed upon Alonzo's mind, ſhe is again introduced, and reproves him for avoiding his friends.

By a disjointed, unintelligible mode of behaviour, he alarms her feelings, and ſhe goes off, filled with very painful ſenſibility. Zanga returns, and hear⯑ing his maſter talk of death, gives him joy of having ſacrificed Leonora to his juſt jealouſy. Being in⯑formed that ſhe ſtill lives, he ſets at work every en⯑gine of inſinuation and diſſimulation to affect her deſtruction; this point, at length, he gets deter⯑mined, and even obtains Alonzo's commiſſion to get Carlos murdered. This act ends with a fan⯑ciful, but bombaſt ſpeech.

At the beginning of the fifth act, we encounter the general, haunted with the imaginary ghoſt of his murdered friend. Zanga comes on, and tells him, that his orders reſpecting Carlos has been ſtrictly fulfilled; this intelligence ſomewhat awakens remorſe; however, having thus begun the work of blood, he determines to carry it on as far as his wife, and mentions the place he has appointed for this ſacrifice to jealous rage. The Moor, view⯑ing his miſchievous plan in ſo thriving a ſituation, breathes out ſome maſterly lines of emphatic exul⯑tation.

[330]Leonora is next diſcovered ſleeping in an arbour, the ſight of her occaſions a tenderneſs in Alonzo's mind, which he expreſſes in an agreeable manner, but too florid and pictureſque for the ſtate of agi⯑tation he is in. At length, he works his paſſion up to the fatal act, and even lifts his dagger to give the blow, but is ſtopped by her waking: love here in⯑terpoſes, and checks his rage, which extends no further than the utterance of ſome incoherent ſpeeches; ſhe ſooths him, and aims at explanation, but in vain.

Going off, he drops his dagger, at ſight of ſuch an object ſhe is ſtaggered, and, like a faithful wife, fears for her huſband's ſafety; however, when the boſom-ſnake Zanga hints to her, that her life ſtands endangered from Alonzo's jealouſy, with the true ſpirit of conſcious innocence, ſhe determines to vin⯑dicate her own honour from ſo foul a charge; and to free him from a feeling, which ſhe can hardly ſuppoſe him mean enough to indulge.

Alonzo returning, Zanga urges afreſh Leonora's guilt, but is ſent off with a churliſh reproof. When the lady re-enters, ſhe is accoſted by her huſband in terms of very ſoft and tender reſpect: their con⯑verſe, for ſome time, promiſes reunion, harmony and mutual ſatisfaction; but, upon her producing the dagger, takes quite a different turn. He is thrown into freſh agitation by ſeeing the inſtrument of his jealouſy, which Leonora perceiving, ſhe expreſſes herſelf in ſuch terms as warm him into a direct ac⯑cuſation of guilt: after ſome violent altercation, the pride of ſlander riſes ſo high, that ſhe ſtabs her⯑ſelf.

[331]This act of fatal extremity ſtrikes Alonzo's af⯑fection deeply; after apologizing for ſuicide in plauſible terms, ſhe is carried off, and Alonzo fol⯑lows, poſſeſſed with the moſt horrid doubts. Zan⯑ga now comes forward, bent on filling up the mea⯑ſure of his revenge, by the moſt deſperate means; which, upon Alonzo's return, he puts in practice, by an open and triumphant declaration of his vil⯑lainy; this has the deſired effect, and ſuperadds ſuch a weight of woe, that the unhappy victim of his implacable reſentment, faints under the load. At length, having with great, though falſe dignity of ſentiment, endeavoured to juſtify his cruel and treacherous proceedings, Zanga attempts to kill himſelf, but is prevented by Alonzo, and delivered as a priſoner to guards, who enter with Alvarez.

Upon hearing that Leonora is dead, the general puts a period to his own wretched exiſtence; this ſtrikes the Moor with remorſe, which he utters in very generous and forceable terms. When Zanga is carried to the fate his crimes deſerve, Alvarez concludes the piece, with ſome rhimes which we cannot greatly approve.

The REVENGE, upon a general view, exhibits indiſputable marks of a powerful genius: the ver⯑ſification is flowing and nervous; the ſentiments noble and comprehenſive; the moral, a warning againſt that hydra of calamities, jealouſy. Yet, if we ſcrutinize, we ſhall find a barrenneſs of incident, a palling ſameneſs in the ſcenes, and a weariſome length of laboured dialogue. There is alſo a moſt diſadvantageous and palpable ſimilitude to OTHELLO.

[332]The characters are few, and of them only four deſerve any notice. Alonzo is introduced to our regard as a brave and ſucceſsful ſoldier; yet, upon examination, we muſt conſider him as a weak or a wicked perſonage: the former undoubtedly he is, and he borders cloſe upon the latter, by firſt ſup⯑planting his friend in the buſineſs of love, and then authorizing his murder; though, as a jealous Spa⯑niard, with whom, as well as the Moors, revenge is virtue, he ſtands excuſable.

In repreſentation, he requires extenſive and va⯑riable powers; there are very difficult tranſitions in many paſſages, and he is a leading object for critical attention till his laſt ſcene, where he falls off moſt miſerably.

Mr. RYAN was in voice and years, when we ſaw him, very unfit for the love ſcenes of this character; yet, in the jealouſy and diſtraction, he ſtruck out conſiderable beauties. Mr. HAVARD looked the part better, and was more characteriſtic in the ten⯑der ſcenes. Mr. REDDISH, though deficient in powers for the moſt impaſſioned ſpeeches, has, we apprehend, more equality of merit, and is, upon the whole, more agreeable than his predeceſſors. Had Mr. GARRICK ever condeſcended to repreſent the Spaniſh general, he would, beyond doubt, have made him one of the greateſt parts on the ſtage; whereas, wanting ſuch incomparable abilities, he ever has been but a kind of foil to Zanga.

Carlos, though a very poetical character, is ſadly inſipid; Mr. ROSS did him more juſtice than any other perſon we recollect. It was barbarous in the managers to load Mr. J. AICKIN with this part. In a proper ſtile, we entertain a very favourable [333] idea of this gentleman's ſenſibility; but, we are ſorry to ſay, that his Don Carlos was a moſt ſomni⯑ferous exhibition: why might not the ſweet ſwain, Mr. CAUTHERLY, whine through this unſeaſoned lover? though, to confeſs truth, the matter would in that caſe be very little mended.

Zanga is a finiſhed villain, with ſome greatneſs of mind: we do not know any character more fa⯑vourable to the actor; this is plainly evinced by conſidering that in a great variety of performers we have ſeen undertake it, every one has met and de⯑ſerved conſiderable applauſe. Mr. QUIN, in the ſoliloquies, and laſt ſcene, acquitted himſelf with great ability, but wanted eaſe of inſinuation, and was heavy in the other parts. Mr. SHERIDAN, with powers vaſtly inferior, was more in character upon the whole. Mr. HOLLAND was better than either, by mingling the merit of both, yet fell greatly ſhort of Mr. MOSSOP, who moſt certainly ſtands in this part himſelf alone; as poſſeſſing and happily adapting an unequalled ſpirit, extent and propriety of expreſſion.

Leonora has been rendered very agreeable by Mrs. BELLAMY, but we are inclined to prefer Mrs. BADDELY.

Auditors and readers, of florid conceptions, will be entertained with this play, both on the ſtage and in the cloſet; however, we are inclined rather to praiſe it as a poem than a tragedy.

The SUSPICIOUS HUSBAND. A COMEDY: By HOADLEY.

RANGER, a young and volatile templar, opens this piece, juſt returned from the tavern, after a whole night's debauch; he reflects with ſenſible pleaſantry upon tavern enjoyments: it is ſomething odd, that having from CONGREVE ſketched out ſuch a female as ſuits his inclination, he ſhould ſay, ‘"Oh that I had ſuch a ſoft, bewitching fair, to lull my ſenſes to their deſired ſleep;"’ falling aſleep is a bad compliment to a lady. After receiving ſome complimentary cards, he is encountered by a mil⯑liner, with whom he makes very free; however, his amorous parly is interrupted by the abrupt en⯑trance of Mr. Bellamy, who, perceiving what Ran⯑ger had been about, gives him a friendly rebuke for putting modeſty to the bluſh.

When Frankly comes on, a moſt indelicate idea is raiſed by his remark upon Ranger's looking ſadly; we wiſh his queſtion and the anſwer totally ex⯑punged. The remaining part of this ſcene is filled up with very agreeable converſation, upon the ſub⯑ject of gallantry and the fair ſex; by which each diſcovers the bent of his own mind, with reſpect to the ladies. The viſit is a mere chit-chat one, and ſeems to have no other meaning than opening the characters.

[335]In the following ſcene, we meet Mrs. Strictland and Jacintha, by whom we are made acquainted with Clarinda; and that Cupid's arrow has touched her heart, in favour of a young fellow ſhe danced with at Bath. We alſo receive a hint of Mr. Strictland's gloomy ſtate of mind. When that gen⯑tleman makes his appearance, we find, that as guar⯑dian to Jacintha, he has received a letter from Bel⯑lamy, ſoliciting his conſent to marry that lady; upon which ſubject he makes ſome churliſh re⯑marks, but at laſt conſents to ſee the lover.

After Jacintha goes off, Strictland opens at large his ſuſpicious temper, by expreſſing diſlike to Cla⯑rinda, as a companion for his wife. His expreſſions are full of ill nature and aſperity, inſomuch, that the lady burſt into tears, which ſoften him into a faint, aukward kind of an apology, with which he retires, leaving Mrs. Strictland in doubt of his mo⯑tives for ſuch behaviour, and ſurprize at the foun⯑dation of them.

We are now carried into the Park, where Frank⯑ly and Bellamy preſent themſelves, the former diſ⯑cloſing to his friend the paſſion he has conceived for an unknown lady; his account of the matter is pleaſant and ſpirited. When Jack Meggot comes on, the ſubject gives way to his frothy, rhapſodical prattle: which, with very little meaning, is tolera⯑bly pleaſant.

After the butterfly of faſhion runs in purſuit of one of his favourite dilettanti, Frankly gives a fa⯑vourable idea of his heart, though we cannot enter⯑tain any reſpect for his head. Our author has in the following paſſage, we apprehend, been guilty of unpardonable diſreſpect to the fair ſex—"There is [336] a heart, even in a woman's breaſt, that is worth the purchaſe," why the emphatic word even, as if worth and generous feelings were more rare to be met with in the female, than the male ſex. A moſt il⯑liberal, as well as falſe idea.

The firſt act ends with Frankly's determining to ſearch out, if poſſible, his fair incognita. At the beginning of the ſecond, three ladies preſent them⯑ſelves, Clarinda, Jacintha and Mrs. Strictland; the former being taxed with her Bath partner, ſhe throws out ſome ſprightly obſervations upon gal⯑lants, and the manner of treating them. Jacintha's prudent and ſettled notions of love are well op⯑poſed to Clarinda's levity; ſhe having met with a worthy and agreeable man, has given him unre⯑ſerved poſſeſſion of her heart. Mrs. Strictland's unhappy ſituation being mentioned, the gay lady re⯑commends reſiſtive behaviour, which the ſenſible wife declines. To remove Strictland's uneaſy ap⯑prehenſions, Clarinda goes off, with a reſolution of leaving his houſe.

After two or three ſpeeches, ſhe returns in a great flurry of ſpirits, having met her admirer; the trick of letting him know where ſhe lives is natural: a kind of pantomime purſuit enſues, till, at length, Frankly having houſed her, takes the advantage of an open door, and obtains a ſhort conference with her, in which he ſpeaks plainly as to the paſſion he has conceived for her.

Her diffidence is delicate, and the lover makes no further progreſs than receiving information, that he will find or hear of her at Mr. Strictland's houſe. After he goes off, Clarinda makes an open confeſſion to Mrs. Strictland of her captivated [337] ſtate. Mr. Strictland, in ſoliloquy, expreſſes much uneaſineſs at the viſitors and meſſages which come to Clarinda, as ſuppoſing his wife may have ſome ſiniſter concern in them. Seeing Lucetta, his wife's waiting-woman, he determines to examine her; but thinking ſhe may deceive him, calls for Teſter, whoſe ſimplicity he thinks may be more ſafely truſted than the chambermaid's cunning; however, upon conſideration, he deems him too weak and fallible an object for confidence to reſt upon, therefore again calls for Lucetta, to whom he addreſſes himſelf with ſuch whimſical caution, that ſhe very artfully pretends to apprehend an attack upon her virtue; this, and her laughing at his per⯑plexity, increaſes it ſo much, that he hurries her off; and makes a very forceable remark on the tor⯑menting ſituation of his own mind, ſo painfully en⯑ſlaved by ſuſpicion.

From Bellamy and Jack Meggot, in the next ſcene, we learn, that if Jacintha, who has determined to elope, effects her purpoſe, ſhe is to be lodged at Jack's houſe. Frankly enters to them, on the wings of tranſport, at having found his Perdita; of whom, however, he can give no further account, than that he has ſeen and obtained leave to viſit her again.

When Jack Meggot retires, Bellamy acknow⯑ledges himſelf in the liſt of lovers: pleaſed with their ſympathetic feelings, Frankly and he embrace, a circumſtance merely introduced for Ranger to jeſt upon their inſipid ſituation. His entrance ra⯑ther interrupts their amorous ideas, as deeming him a heretic in love affairs; however, he delivers a let⯑ter from Jacintha to Bellamy, which informs the [338] audience that ſhe has planned her elopement. Ranger's advice of carrying her to a bagnio, howe⯑ver ſmart, is rather groſs.

When Bellamy claims Ranger's aſſiſtance, he calls himſelf a damnable unlucky fellow, we wiſh he had found another epithet, for though it may be natural enough in a Covent Garden buck, it is re⯑prehenſible on the ſtage. Buckle, Bellamy's ſer⯑vant, informs his maſter that Jacintha, having no other means of eſcape, intends to deſcend from her chamber-window by a ladder of ropes, and that ſhe is to be diſguiſed in boy's cloaths: matters thus ſettled, the ſecond act concludes.

Bellamy, diſguiſed in a chairman's coat, begins the third act, before Strictland's houſe, to which ſpot alſo love has conveyed Frankly. Lucetta, from below, informs Jacintha at the window, that ſhe muſt be very cautious, as her guardian is up and on the watch. Frankly, from what he imperfectly hears and ſees, imagines that ſome intrigue is going forward, therefore reſolves to liſten. While he is cloſely attending Jacintha's motions, Clarinda en⯑ters, returning from a whiſt party, and overhears ſome converſation between them. Jacintha, ſup⯑poſing it is Bellamy, throws down the rope ladder; juſt as ſhe is going to deſcend, Lucetta informs her that ſhe may come down the back ſtairs; this change of ſituations gives Clarinda an opportunity of detecting, as ſhe ſuppoſes, her faithleſs ſpark. He endeavours to exculpate himſelf, but ſhe flounces into the houſe without affording him an idea of forgiveneſs.

Here Bellamy enters, and ſeeing a man under his miſtreſs's window, entertains jealous apprehenſions [339] of rivalſhip. Jacintha, in the hurry of her eſcape, runs into Frankly's arms—How he immediately diſcovers her to be a woman is not obvious. Bel⯑lamy's alarm increaſes, and he gives the ſuppoſed rival an oblique challenge. No ſooner are theſe characters off the ſtage, than Strictland appears, in purſuit of his ward. To him ſucceeds Ranger, who having more liquor than prudence in his head, ſeems eager to have what he calls a frolic.

Reeling along, he encounters the rope ladder, and in the flow of ſpirits determines to mount it. Up⯑on reaching the window, he ſpies an agreeable wo⯑man, and very modeſtly reſolves to follow, deter⯑mining to make an amorous attack upon her. Mrs. Strictland and Lucetta next appear; from ſome words which the maid drops, Ranger diſcovers that the lady's huſband is jealous, and from that cir⯑cumſtance draws favourable hopes reſpecting his own deſign upon her; when Lucetta, for deliver⯑ing her ſentiments rather too freely, is ordered to quit the room, our gallant templar preſents himſelf, in a manner not very delicate. His purpoſe thro' the whole ſcene is culpably licentious, and the lady's behaviour, as we think, much too tame for ſuch an unpardonable intruſion.

Strictland's approach occaſions Ranger to retreat precipitately; in his hurry he inadvertently drops his hat; it appears, that Strictland has recovered Ja⯑cintha, and ſhe is brought on as his priſoner.

Having ſharply reproved the young lady for her adventurous elopement, Strictland ſtrikes his foot againſt Ranger's hat, which, in his hurry, that gal⯑lant had dropped. Such an object found in a wife's dreſſing room, might naturally alarm a man [340] leſs tainted with ſuſpicion. Mrs. Strictland, bold in her own innocence, though with ſuch an unfa⯑vourable circumſtance againſt her, endeavours, with becoming ſpirit, to ſet her precipitate lord and maſter right; who cannot, however, be reduced to any degree of reaſon, till wrought upon by a fineſſe which Lucetta ſuggeſts, that of Jacintha's owning the hat.

This turn is pleaſant enough, and works the de⯑ſired effect. A reconciliation, at leaſt an aukward, temporary one, takes place between the married couple; but the diſappointed ſingle lady is ſent cloſe priſoner to her chamber, with a declaration from her guardian, that in the morning ſhe muſt be removed to the country.

The ſcene being changed, Ranger comes for⯑ward, groping his way in a dark chamber, bent upon ſeeking out game: Jacintha enters with a candle, whom, from appearance, he takes to be a boy; however, by ſome expreſſions ſhe drops in ſo⯑liloquy, he diſcovers his miſtake, and as ſhe is going to attempt a ſecond eſcape, by means of the ladder of ropes, which ſhe ſuppoſes is ſtill at the window, he preſents himſelf: with humorous freedom he pays his devoirs in ſuch preſſing terms, that, being afraid, on Mrs. Strictland's account, to cry out, ſhe is at length obliged to mention Bellamy's name; this ſtrikes Ranger, who plays her off agreeably, concerning her letter, which mentioned the plan of elopement.

Perceiving hereby that Ranger is in her lover's confidence, ſhe readily agrees to his propoſal of helping her from confinement, and conducting her to the man of her heart.

[341]Act the fourth begins with Bellamy and Frank⯑ly, the former rating the latter, as being, though without deſign, the occaſion of his loſing Jacintha. While he is in this critical ſtate of temper, Lucetta comes in great confuſion to enquire for Jacintha; he knowing nothing about her, the maid remarks, that Clarinda ſuppoſes her to be gone off with one Frankly. On this information Bellamy ſends Lu⯑cetta to ſearch for the loſt fair one, and ſeeing a confuſion in Frankly's face, which might very na⯑turally ariſe in ſuch a caſe, he draws, demanding what is called gentleman's ſatisfaction for the ſup⯑poſed injury.

Here Ranger opportunely enters, and Iudicrouſly remarks, that they manifeſt a ſtrange contrariety of behaviour—One moment hugging each other, and the next tilting. In the account he gives of his laſt night's adventure, ſome very pleaſant miſappre⯑henſions ariſe, which bring on the alternate reſent⯑ment of Bellamy and Frankly, againſt their merry friend; who deſignedly plays upon them the game of croſs purpoſes, till he is both threatened and wheedled to give an explanation that may eaſe their anxiety.

This, however, he refers to Jack Meggot, which the ſprightly prattle enters upon immediately, by informing them that Jacintha is at his houſe. This eaſes Bellamy's painful feelings, and Frankly's new raiſed jealouſy ſubſides by being told, that the other lady Ranger had encountered is a wife. Each hav⯑ing mentioned a particular deſtination, the four gen⯑tlemen go off to make way for Mrs. Strictland and Clarinda.

[342]The latter, we perceive, is preparing for a ſpeedy removal from Mr. Strictland's houſe: he appears, and receives ironical, cold thanks, for the civilities ſhe has received from him. Having conducted her off, he re-enters, expreſſes ſatisfaction at her depar⯑ture, and then leads his wife off alſo.

Lucetta being left alone, ſtates to herſelf the ſuſ⯑picious ſituation of affairs, and ſeems, from the hat, to think her miſtreſs guilty. While ſhe is thus me⯑ditating, Frankly comes, deſiring to ſpeak with Cla⯑rinda; being informed that ſhe has left the houſe, with warm perſuaſion, and a golden bribe, ſhe pro⯑miſes to deliver a letter to her.

Strictland, alarmed by hearing a knock at the door, and a man's voice, liſtens. When Frankly goes off, he ſteals behind Lucetta, and ſnatches the epiſtle out of her hand; reads it, and finding an apology for an unſeaſonable viſit, he concludes it to be from the owner of the hat to his wife; from mention of a companion at Bath, he ſuppoſes Cla⯑rinda to be an acceſſary. His jealous ideas thus confirmed, he ſtorms at Lucetta, who deſires him to look at the cover of the letter, a point his impa⯑tience had neglected.

By this he finds that it is directed to Clarinda: the maid, juſtly reproving his folly, he concludes that they are all confederates, that his wife is in⯑diſputably guilty, and that in conſequence thereof, a poſitive ſeparation muſt take place.

Clarinda next appears, croſſing the ſtage in a chair, and goes into a lodging houſe: Ranger purſues her, and, by bribing the chairman, gains free acceſs. The lady diſcovers who he is, and aſks for a maſk, under which ſhe reſolves to try her mad-cap couſin. [343] Upon his approach, he ſuppoſes her to be a lady of eaſy virtue, and as ſuch, though with delicacy, makes his attack in very ſlattering terms, till being wrought up to a particular degree of rapture, ſhe diſcloſes her face, and throws him into a laughable confuſion; however, he turns it off with agreeable addreſs, profeſſing a knowledge of her, though diſ⯑guiſed.

In their converſation Jacintha is mentioned, and Clarinda ſpeaks of the hat dropped in Mrs. Strict⯑land's chamber; this leads to a diſcovery which Ranger avails himſelf of, that his couſin is Frankly's miſtreſs. After receiving from her a kind of cate⯑chetical admonition, by way of retaliation, he a⯑larms her with a fictitious incident of Frankly's being wounded.

Here, by ſhewing palpable concern for her lover, ſhe convinces Ranger of her regard, and he teizes her pretty handſomely; however, ſhe at laſt gets rid of him, and then determines upon enquiring fur⯑ther into the truth of ſo intereſting a circumſtance.

At the beginning of the fifth act, we ſee Strictland at one end of a table writing, and his wife at the other end weeping; the purport of his letter is to acquaint Mrs. Strictland's brother in the country what a ſiſter he is like to receive; the thoughts of being ſo criminated affect her deeply. Hearing two ſoft taps at the door, her ſuſpicious huſband ſtarts, and thinks to make ſome diſcovery againſt her: upon opening the door, he ſees Teſter, and enraged at his diſappointment, ſtrikes the undeſigning ſim⯑pleton, who, by way of vindication, declares, that his miſtreſs had ordered him never to come in with⯑out knocking; this is conſidered as a freſh corrobo⯑ration [344] of guilt. Upon reading a letter from Bel⯑lamy and his bride Jacintha, he determines upon going to Jack Meggot's, where an ecclairciſſement is promiſed, though he ſuppoſes all the parties com⯑bined to deceive him.

Soon after he goes off, Lucetta comes on, and acquaints Mrs. Strictland, that Mrs. Bellamy deſires her appearance alſo at Mr. Meggot's, particularly as the young gentleman, Ranger, who was ſo un⯑expectedly in her room the night before, is to be at the general rendezvous. We next meet Frankly, Ranger, Bellamy and Jacintha; the former being informed that Clarinda is not only a lady of fortune and Ranger's couſin, but that ſhe loves him, ex⯑preſſes warm ſatisfaction. In a ſhort time the lady appears; not ſeeing Frankly, her fears of his being wounded increaſe; a concern which ſhe cannot hide is pleaſantly rallied by the other characters: at length the men retire.

When the women are alone, Jacintha, with much formality of countenance and phraſe, plays upon her friend's feelings, but immediately relieves them, by declaring, that her gallant has no wounds but thoſe of love; ſhe then calls Mr. Frankly from his concealment, and leaves the enamoured pair to an explanation of their own concerns.

In a ſhort tete-a-tete, the lover makes cloſe ap⯑proaches, while the lady ſhews a delicate, but not an unkind reſiſtance. When they are both puzzled what to ſay, Ranger appears, and laughingly points out the aukwardneſs of ſpeechleſs love: he then comes to the deciſive point of ſettling matters; at once aſks his couſin if ſhe has not given conſent to make her lover happy, which queſtion not being [345] anſwered ſatisfactorily, he mentions the letter Mr. Strictland had intercepted, and goes off to bring proof of what he aſſerts.

When he is gone, Frankly confeſſes having given ſuch a letter to Lucetta: matters now take a very tender turn, when they are again interrupted by the entrance of Ranger, Strictland, Bellamy, Jacintha, and Jack Meggot. Mr. Strictland being promiſed ſatisfaction in the affair of the letter, ſeems diſpoſed to entertain a more favourable turn of mind. Cla⯑rinda, being perſuaded that Mrs. Strictland's future happineſs, in a great meaſure, depends on her agree⯑ing to Frankly's ſolicitations, acquieſces. Strictland ſeeing her with the very perſon whoſe letter he had ſtopped, ſeems to apprehend his folly; and, upon Frankly's openly declaring the matter, confeſſes his error.

Ranger here takes a pleaſant advantage of the ſtate of things to haſten Clarinda's marriage, by telling Strictland not to truſt their declaration, un⯑leſs confirmed by a poſitive match; this being in⯑ſiſted on, the point is ſettled agreeably to all parties. Seeing Mrs. Strictland approach, Ranger, conſcious of his own cenſurable indiſcretion, takes alarm: the injured wife, perceiving her occaſional gallant, points him out to Strictland, as the perſon who was in her chamber the night before; to prevent ſerious reſentment he recapitulates his adventure, and in the relation gives Strictland a ſevere reproof for his jealouſy.

Finding conviction flaſh upon him from all ſides, the reformed huſband encounters his jealouſy, and is reconciled to his wife with tears of joy. All matters being thus agreeably diſpoſed, Ranger con⯑cludes [346] the piece with a ſenſible compliment to ma⯑trimony, when attended with ſenſe and virtue.

No play has appeared with greater eclat for many years than the SUSPICIOUS HUSBAND did at its firſt appearance, nor is any comedy more likely to live from an uncommon vivacity of dialogue, variety and pleaſantry of incidents. There are ſome improba⯑bilities in the plot, which occur in the third act, but they are rather pleaſing than offenſive, and the de⯑ſign is entertaining, though trifling.

Wit there is none and very little ſentiment, yet na⯑ture need not be aſhamed of our author's delinea⯑tion, who has neither heightened her charms, nor caricatured her defects.

The denouement is moſt ſatisfactorily wrought up; the circumſtances are ſpiritedly and convictive⯑ly explained; as to the characters, let them ſpeak for themſelves.

Strictland, who is confeſſedly drawn from JOHN⯑SON's Kitely, wants much of that nervous beauty which appears in the original, yet is not without merit; his jealouſy is well deſcribed, and his ſitua⯑tions properly imagined; his reformation is brought about by very powerful perſuaſive; and, at the cataſtrophe, we have great reaſon to believe he is cured of his folly.

To perform this part requires judgment and ex⯑preſſion; it has never been better done than by Mr. BRIDGEWATER, Mr. SPARKS, notwithſtanding we only place him ſecond, buſtled through the jea⯑louſy very well; his fault was aiming at more than is neceſſary. Mr. BERRY, and the preſent poſſeſſor, Mr. LOVE, got to the other extreme, a moſt drow⯑ſing inſipidity.

[347]Ranger is a very pleaſant and plauſible rake, who commits many culpable actions, but without any fundamental, ill deſign; his clambering into a gen⯑tleman's houſe at midnight, is a very indiſcreet joke; but to ballance his foibles, he ſeems to have friend⯑ſhip, generoſity and honour, at the bottom.

Mr. GARRICK was his faithful, excellent repre⯑ſentative; the volatile humour of the inconſiderate templar, was admirably deſcribed by this moſt meta⯑morphoſable actor; inſomuch, that we well remember ſeveral young fellows, who, having more ſpirit than ſenſe, attempted to imitate his Ranger in real life, for which both their bones and pockets ſuffered ſmartly.

Doctor HOADLY's jokes would not do retailed in ſuch a manner; we laugh at tranſactions upon the ſtage, which would be very diſpleaſing at home. Mr. LEE had undoubted merit in Ranger, but wanted that voluble ſpirit which places Mr. KING, in our opinion, next to Mr. GARRICK, and not far behind him. Mr. DYER has made ſeveral inade⯑quate efforts, but for a London theatre has always appeared more like the ſketch of a character than a real one. Would you, kind reader, believe ſo groſs an improbability, as that Mr. SHERIDAN, not hav⯑ing the fear of murder before his eyes, ſhould, with more than ſavage barbarity, mutilate poor Ranger? yet, true it is: upon this occaſion, as well as many others, we were induced to wiſh, that, as an actor, he had ſtudied that excellent admonition, KNOW THYSELF; a maxim quite as eſſential to public as private life, yet as little attended to in the former as the latter.

Frankly is a gay young fellow, ſuſceptible of the tender paſſions; though he cannot obtain ſuch ap⯑plauſe [348] and attention as Ranger, he is nevertheleſs more reſpectable as a man; he loves one object, and purſues her only. His ſituations, though not very critical, are yet well diſpoſed; and though he can never add much to a performer's reputation, yet, if there are adequate abilities, he wont injure them.

Mr. RYAN was the firſt repreſentative we recol⯑lect of this character, and had a conſiderable ſhare of ſprightly eaſe; but age and figure were both a⯑gainſt him. Mr. HAVARD was genteel, but want⯑ed life. Mr. PALMER had ſufficient ſpirit, but was rather coxcomical. As to Mr. JEFFERSON, we think the part above his cut.

Bellamy is a ſober, regular gallant; and we think he is juſt as well ſupported by Mr. PACKER, as by any body elſe. Jack Meggot was moſt happy with Mr. WOODWARD; and has no manner of reaſon to complain of Mr. DODD. Mr. VAUGHAN's ſimple Teſter cannot be mended.

Mrs. Strictland is an agreeable picture of what a wife ſhould be, only we think her patience and con⯑deſcenſion are carried rather too far: there is a commendable degree of pliancy in domeſtic diſ⯑putes, which often prevents extremities; but, in this character, there is a cenſurable tameneſs.

Mrs. ELMY, who had a peculiar grace and hap⯑pineſs in making characters conſpicuous, which ſcarce any other actreſs could gain attention to, ſup⯑ported the taſk of playing this part, for ſuch it really is, with pleaſing ability. Mrs. PALMER, though not equal to her predeceſſor, was extremely amiable in this gentle wife; and we are not at all diſpleaſed to find her in poſſeſſion of Mrs. W. BARRY.

[349]Clarinda we may perceive to be an object of the author's particular regard; ſhe is furniſhed with a large fund of ſpirits, and a ſlight daſh of the co⯑quette; yet capable of a ſettled, ſincere paſſion, without any tendency to imprudent actions. She likes to rally, and has a pleaſant flow of expreſſion, but never ſacrifices delicacy at the ſhrine of licen⯑tious wit.

Mrs. WOFFINGTON was pleaſant in Clarinda, but ſtiffened her too much with the affectation, both in deportment and delivery, of a fine lady. Mrs. PRITCHARD, by equalling her excellence, and a⯑voiding her faults, took the lead conſiderably; there was a freedom and fire of expreſſion in her performance, that we have never ſeen ſurpaſſed. Miſs HAUGHTON was by no means unentertaining, yet far below either of theſe ladies; and Miſs POPE, at preſent in a ſtate of compariſon, makes but a very moderate ſhift.

Jacintha, in the circumſtance of her elopement, ſhews more of a romantic, adventurous diſpoſition, than prudence; however, ſhe has ardent love on one ſide, and confinement on the other, to plead her excuſe; and the moſt rigid obſerver muſt be pleaſed that ſhe effects her eſcape. When Mrs. WIL⯑LOUGHBY played this part, ſome years ſince, ſhe gave us great pleaſure, though an actreſs little known, and by ſew now remembered; by giving her the pre⯑ference, we dont mean to deprive Mrs. JEFFERIES of the praiſe ſhe deſerves.

Lucetta is a ſhort, unimportant chambermaid, yet well drawn, and uſeful to the play; Mrs. GREEN made every line of her tell; but, for Mrs. LOVE—oh! oh! oh!

[350]We are ſorry, after a ſerious, candid enquiry, into the nature and tendency of this play, to condemn ſo agreeable a piece of entertainment. It is moſt certainly calculated to exhilerate, but will it mend the heart? we fear not. Will it reſt neuter, and leave the ſuſceptible mind no worſe than it finds it? we are apprehenſive, no. Ranger is certainly a gilded bait of vice, for youth, and vanity to ſnap at; and all his tranſactions tend at leaſt to inflame, if not to taint the imagination. On the ſtage it is full of vivacity and laughter; in the cloſet flimzy and uninſtructive.

King HENRY the Fifth. An Hiſtorical TRAGEDY: SHAKESPEARE.

WE have ſome where obſerved, in reſpect of our author, that he not only ſucceſsfully availed himſelf of hiſtorical ſubjects in general, but, with peculiar addreſs, turned to advantage, many re⯑markable characters and tranſactions of his own country; which from a very natural and commend⯑able partiality to our native ſoil, prove particularly intereſting to Britiſh audiences.

The poet's idea of that unexpectedly great mo⯑narch the fifth Henry, may be collected from his prologue to this play; which, not only for the eſ⯑ſential connection, but its ſublimity, ſhould always be ſpoken; it is a noble apology for the groſs treſ⯑paſſes upon time and place, which ſo often occur to ſhock nice and rigid criticiſm.

Ely and the Archbiſhop of Canterbury open this play, like true churchmen who love to hold faſt temporalities, they conſult how to ward off a parliamentary attack upon a conſiderable part of their poſſeſſions; they ſeem happy in having the king of their ſide, of whoſe reformation, from the diſgraceful follies of his youth, they give a very fa⯑vourable account; the royal favour ſeems to have been purchaſed by a politic propoſal of Canterbu⯑ry's, to furniſh the king with a larger voluntary contribution than ever had been given by the cler⯑gy, to his predeceſſors.

[352]In the ſecond ſcene we meet King Henry, ſur⯑rounded by ſeveral noblemen; upon the Archbi⯑ſhop's entrance, his majeſty aſks his opinion, rela⯑tive to the ſalique law of France; whether it ſhould or ſhould not affect the Engliſh claims upon that kingdom; this propoſition Canterbury anſwers with nice political diſtinctions, and decides in fa⯑vour of England.

How the author could ſuppoſe any actor could gain attention through ſo long, laborious and in⯑tricate a ſpeech, we know not: the prelate ſtrong⯑ly urging war, is backed by the other nobles, when Henry takes occaſion to utter his apprehenſion that the Scots may take a dangerous advantage of fo⯑reign hoſtilities; this point is overuled by his coun⯑ſellors, upon which the king orders the ambaſſador of France to be called in.

During his audience, we perceive the French⯑man to be very pert, particularly in his mention of the ton of tennis balls, ſent by the Dauphin as an ironical equivalent for the territories claimed by England; the monarch's reply is pregnant with truly royal ſpirit, and becomingly denounces the chaſtiſement of France for ſuch preſumtuous inſo⯑lence; the Ambaſſador being diſmiſſed, Henry urges ſpeedy, vigorous preparation for the expediti⯑on; declaring that he will return the Dauphin's com⯑pliment at his father's door.

In the ſucceeding ſcene, we find a ſtrange tranſi⯑tion of characters; from the higheſt rank in life, we are immediately popped amidſt the ſcum of the earth, Nim and Bardolph; we find, that the for⯑mer has had ſome quarrel with Ancient Piſtol, which the latter wants to make up between them. [353] They are ſoon joined by the ſwaggering blade and Hoſteſs Quickly; the quarrel is renewed, and a converſation in the flaſh ſtile enſues.

It is painful to think that ſuch low, unintelligible jargon, ſhould have been obtruded upon a ſerious piece. The Hoſteſs gives them an intimation, that their old leader, Sir John Falſtaff, is at the point of death, and deſires them to viſit him.

At the beginning of the ſecond act we meet a chorus, which never ſhould be omitted; the tale of connexion is fine, and expreſſed with nervous elegance. Exeter, Bedford and Weſtmoreland, come forward, mentioning ſome traitors who have been diſcovered. The king, upon his entrance, ad⯑dreſſes himſelf to the culprits, in very gentle terms, deſiring their opinion concerning the expedition: from this he leads them on to warm profeſſions of loyalty; at length, giving each a paper, they per⯑ceive their detection, and cannot conceal their con⯑fuſion; but inſtantaneouſly acknowledge their guilt, and ſue for mercy, which the king, upon their own principles, very juſtly refuſes; for having ſome ſpeeches before propoſed pardoning a man, who, in heat of liquor, had ſpoken diſreſpectfully of his majeſty, theſe conſcious villains expreſſed diſappro⯑bation of ſuch royal lenity.

After recapitulating in a maſterly, but rather too minute a manner, their ingratitude and treache [...] he delivers them over to the courſe of law, and, with great humanity, prays for their acquittal. They are formally arreſted by Exeter, and be⯑have with becoming contrition: they are borne to their fate, and Henry goes off with a ſpirited reſo⯑lution [354] of ſeating himſelf on the throne of France, or falling in the bold attempt.

In the next ſcene we are placed amongſt the raga⯑muffins, from whom we learn, that Falſtaff is no more: the Hoſteſs's deſcription of his final exit is maſterly; and, we doubt not, all lovers of the fat knight, feel, at this paſſage, ſome regret for the loſs of him. We are inclined to wiſh that all his followers, who could only be ſufferable through their connexion with him, had tripped off the ſtage of life alſo; but, as the author has choſen to retain them, we muſt compound for their company, how⯑ever irkſome; eſpecially as they follow the king to France.

The grand monarch and his ſon, the Dauphin, next appear, conferring with the Duke of Burgun⯑dy and Conſtable, concerning the Engliſh invaſion. Henry's character is lightly treated by the volatile Dauphin, whoſe opinion is controverted by the peers; and even the French king ſeems to think him formidable, as having ſprung from that victo⯑rious ſtock which ſhook the power of France, at the memorable, fatal battle of Creſſy. A meſſenger announcing the approach of ambaſſadors from Eng⯑land, they are admitted to an immediate audience.

Exeter, on the part of his royal maſter, plainly and directly urges a renunciation of the French crown, in favour of Henry, under claim of his illuſtrious anceſtor, Edward the Third; denouncing warlike compulſion in caſe of refuſal. The Dauphin aſk⯑ing what reply the Engliſh monarch has ſent to his meſſage, receives threats of chaſtiſement. The French king, though ſo roughly attacked, tamely [355] promiſes an anſwer on the following day; and thus with the conference, ends the ſecond act.

Here again we meet with a very eſſential, becauſe explanatory and connective chorus; after which King Henry appears before the gates of Harfleur, where he has begun hoſtilities; the propoſals from France not being equal to his vaſt ideas. His ad⯑dreſs to the aſſailants is truly heroic, and worthy a royal character, rouſed to vindictive meaſures. He leads them on to the aſſault with becoming dignity and reſolution.

Here a ſcene follows, which is a ſtrange and tri⯑fling intruſion upon the ſerious circumſtances of affairs. Three captains, Scotch, Welſh and Iriſh, are introduced; the two laſt enter into a diſpute of ſome humour, though a very unſeaſonable one, con⯑cerning diſcipline. Hearing a parley ſounded, they go off, and Henry appears again before the gates; declaring, that he will no longer be trifled with, by the governor of Harfleur; but, on refuſal of ſurrender, will ſacrifice the town to his juſt reſentment.

The governor, deſpairing of ſuccour, yields, and the victorious monarch enters his new conqueſt.

Catherine, a French princeſs of France, is next introduced, endeavouring to learn ſome Engliſh words; ſure there never was a more trifling and ſu⯑perſtuous ſcene written. The French king, with his ſon, and ſeveral nobles, are now brought for⯑ward, deſcanting on the Engliſh ſpirit. Touched with ſhame at the unchecked approaches of ſo daring a ſoe, the monarch gives orders for a ſudden and vigorous oppoſition.

We next meet Gower, an officer, and the Welſh captain, Fluellin; who remarks, that a perſon of little note, Ancient Piſtol, has ſhewed himſelf a man [356] of ſpirit: the Ancient immediately appears, and ſolicits the Welſhman's interpoſition to ſave Bar⯑dolph, who has committed a robbery. The Cambo⯑briton diſdains ſuch an office, and declares, he would not, in ſuch a caſe, ſeek favour for a brother. This irritates Piſtol, who goes off in a violent huff.

Gower explains his character to Fluellin, who, it appears, had no proof of his bravery, but his own boaſting. Upon this diſcovery, and his contemp⯑tuous words, the Welſhman determines to watch an opportunity of putting him to the teſt. Here Hen⯑ry enters, and is addreſſed by the captain, with ſome compliments upon the Duke of Exeter's martial abilities. Upon his mentioning Bardolph's ſitua⯑tion, the king properly declares, that ſuch perſons are fit objects of puniſhment; and declares againſt all exerciſe of cruelty and rapine, though in an ene⯑my's country.

Mountjoy, as ambaſſador from the French king, enters, and, in an addreſs of conſiderable ſpirit, de⯑livers his maſter's defiance. Henry mentions the diſtreſſed, ſickly ſtate of his army; yet, with an exalted reſolution, declares his purpoſe to advance to Calais, and his determination, if oppoſed, to fight his way.

We do not approve the national reflections thrown out by the king in this ſcene; they are uncha⯑racteriſtic, both as to his underſtanding and ſtation; the ſum total of this audience is, that he will neither ſeek nor ſhun a battle. It appears, that the Engliſh monarch is reduced to a very tickliſh and perilous ſituation, which however no way appalls his mighty heart.

[357]The Dauphin, and peers of France, next exhibit themſelves; between whom a moſt trifling conver⯑ſation, upon the merit of horſes, enſues. When the prince goes off, his character is freely and ſlightly handled by one of the lords. In the latter part of this ſcene, being informed that Henry is within fifteen hundred paces of the French camp, the ſprightly and confident monſieurs divert themſelves at the expence of the Engliſh, whom they ſeem to conſider as an eaſy prey, and go off to prepare for certain victory.

Well met again, at the beginning of the fourth act, honeſt chorus. Some part of this addreſs to the audience, as well as other paſſages in the play, CIBBER has tranſplanted into his RICHARD THE THIRD. A moſt pitiable picture is drawn of Hen⯑ry's ſituation, yet the author has taken particular care to ſuſtain the dignity of his character; this painting is very political, as his future, wonderful victory, is thereby thrown into a more conſpicuous and advantageous light.

His deſcription of the king is ſo maſterly and a⯑miable, that we cannot avoid preſenting our readers with a part of it.

[358]After this very favourable impreſſion is ſtruck by the chorus, Henry appears, remarking, with ſuit⯑able compoſure, to Bedford and Glouceſter, the danger they are in. Upon the entrance of an aged knight, Sir Thomas Erpingham, the king good naturedly obſerves, that the ſoft pillow of peace is more adapted to his enfeebled age, than war's flinty couch; however, the ſpirited baronet returns a brief and pithy anſwer.

Henry takes a ſhort leave of them, as wiſhing to conſult his own heart, previous to the impending conflict. When the peers have left him, the king, wrapped up in Sir Thomas Erpingham's cloak, is accoſted by Piſtol, who, in his pompous cant, pays Henry ſome compliments; but denounces heavy threats againſt Fluellin, which the king banters pleaſantly.

After Piſtol goes off, Gower and Fluellin meet; the latter, who greatly admires the Romans, deſcants warmly on military decorum, he contends hard for ſilence in a camp; and, upon being told that the French do not maintain any ſuch reſerve, but are loud, very ſenſibly obſerves, that their diſſipated and irregular folly, is no juſt ſtandard for ſoldiers, who regard reputation and ſucceſs to go by.

Three ſoldiers, Bates, Court and Williams enter; the latter accoſts King Henry, demanding whom he ſerves under; he is anſwered, Sir Thomas Erping⯑ham. A very ſignificant conference enſues, wherein the ſoldiers exhibit melancholy ideas of their ſituation; the king reaſons with them, and throws their danger upon the neceſſity of invaded honour. Williams aſſerting, that a king who urges [359] war, has the lives and limbs of his fellow-creatures to anſwer for, Henry enters into a very cool, candid and rational exculpation of royalty.

There is conſiderable inſtruction, eſpecially for militarians, to be collected from this ſpeech: an obſervation that Williams makes, occaſions the king to give a rebuke, which produces a challenge; Williams gives a glove, and Henry preſents him a⯑nother. When the ſoldiers diſappear, his majeſty ruminates upon what has paſſed, and juſtly conſi⯑ders the regal ſtate, as a fountain of ever ſpringing cares. Some lines he utters on this occaſion, we muſt tranſcribe.

The whole of this ſpeech is fine, but our fanciful author has run it to a length, beyond the power of any actor to ſupport; it muſt, in ſome places, hang heavy on expreſſion, though every line pleaſes in peruſal.

Being informed that his nobles are impatient to ſee him, the king deſires they may be ſummoned to [360] his tent; and, after a very pious ejaculation, though rather reliſhing of the proud Samaritan, who confi⯑dently boaſted of his own good works, he goes off to meet them. In the next ſcene we hear the Dauphin, and other French chiefs, proudly vaunting their ſupe⯑riority over the drooping Engliſh; they haſten to the field, confident of ſucceſs, and leave the ſtage for Henry and his party. There is an Iriciſm in this line of Weſtmorland's, but ONE ten thouſand of thoſe men in England.

The royal Briton, though conſcious of the fear⯑ful odds againſt him, addreſſes his peers with heroic cheerfulneſs; and when Mountjoy comes with in⯑ſolent propoſal of a ranſom, the gallant monarch declares they ſhall have none but his bones. After this ſcene the armies join in battle: while we are waiting and anxious for the great event, our author has unaccountably brought in a ſcene between Piſtol and a Frenchman, he has taken priſoner; the whole of which is contemptibly farcical, and this paſſage very reprehenſible, ‘"Signieur DEWE ſhould be a gentleman;"’ playing upon ſacred terms, though by miſtake, is no way allowable.

After this Bartholomew-fair dialogue, we learn from the Dauphin and Conſtable, that the victory has gone againſt France; however, they go off to make a final effort. Henry enters, when a pathetic account is given of York and Suffolk, who have fallen in the battle: hearing a freſh alarm, the Engliſh monarch gives an order, ſhocking to human nature, however juſtified by neceſſity; that is to kill all the priſoners.

While the deciſive ſtroke of battle is giving, we are entertained with Fluellin's ludicrous aſſimula⯑tion of King Henry to Alexander; and when the [361] monarch comes on, the ſame humorous captain laughably mentions his being a Welſhman. Wil⯑liams, to whom Henry, in diſguiſe, gave a glove, is brought on; being queſtioned why he wears that token of a challenge in his hat, he aſſigns the rea⯑ſon; being ſent off for Gower, his captain, the king gives that glove he received from Williams to Fluellin, telling him, he took it from Alanſon in the battle, and that if any one challenges it, he muſt be a friend of Alanſon's; Fluellin receives it with par⯑ticular ſatisfaction.

This ſeems a boyiſh, unmeaning circumſtance, in the king's conduct, to put two men in the path of quarrel; and the moment he has done ſo, diſpatches two of his nobles to prevent any ſerious conſe⯑quence. SHAKESPEARE has in this ſacrificed the dignity of his hero to a deſire of enriching Fluellin's character; and ſhewing Henry's liberality, by fill⯑ing the glove with crowns for Williams.

After this frivolous, uneſſential point is ſettled, a herald recapitulates the loſs of the French, which appears to be prodigious! eſpecially when com⯑pared to that of the Engliſh. The king, as a man of ſound ſenſe and religion, moſt juſtly attributes the miraculous difference, to providential influence in his favour. The fourth act cloſes with Henry's order to embark for England.

At the beginning of the fifth act, we again meet our friendly chorus, who gives many ſubjects for imagination to work upon; without which the piece really makes a very disjointed and irreconci⯑liable figure. The choleric Welſhman is preſented to us with a leek in his hat; which, according to [362] his own account, he wears for ſake of Ancient Piſtol, who had ſlightingly mentioned that national ornament: opportunely his antagoniſt appears, to whom he gives terms of provocation, which the An⯑cient replies to by a freſh inſult upon leeks; this occaſions Fluellin to inſiſt upon Piſtol's eating that he has in his hat. So ſevere a taſk is contemptuouſly declined at firſt, but a few ſtripes cauſe the boaſt⯑ing poltroon to comply, which however he does with high ſounding praiſe.

The kings of England and France are next brought to a friendly interview, which turns upon the ſubject of a pacific alliance, planned and urged by the Duke of Burgundy: Henry obſerves, that the terms are before his Gallic majeſty, and that on his anſwer peace depends. The French monarch deſires time to reconſider matters, which is allowed, and five Engliſh nobles are authorized to ſettle mat⯑ters with him.

All the other characters being gone, a very inſi⯑pid, aukward ſcene of courtſhip enſues, between Henry and Catherine, a princeſs of France; words are played upon in a moſt childiſh manner: we ſee no reaſon why Catherine ſhould be the only perſon in the French court who does not ſpeak Engliſh; and that Henry, though the French language was not in his time ſo faſhionable as at preſent, ſhould be ignorant of it when he claimed France as his na⯑tural, lawful inheritance. Had theſe abſurdities in character ſerved any ſtriking purpoſe, there would have been ſome degree of palliation; but the whole purport of four inſignificant, word-catching pages, [363] is to acquaint us with the monarch's deſire to make Catherine his queen.

After this interview, the French king comes on, and all articles being agreed upon, particularly the propoſed marriage, the play concludes. We ſee no reaſon for introducing the laſt chorus, as it is no⯑thing but a piece of unneceſſary, hiſtorical informa⯑tion.

The principal event of this tragedy, renders the ſubject dear to every Engliſh mind, elſe we cannot find ſo many ſhining proofs of SHAKESPEARE's ge⯑nius in HENRY the FIFTH, as in many of his plays: incidents are ſadly crouded, and the laſt act is la⯑mentably languid; the comic parts are a moſt un⯑natural connexion, and notwithſtanding we allow Fluellin to be well drawn, moſt contemptible; there is very little to ſtrike in action, and as little to pleaſure in peruſal.

The Engliſh monarch is drawn a moſt excellent picture of what a king ſhould be, wiſe, cool, politic, liberal, merciful and brave; fond of fame, but not in an unjuſt cauſe. We have ſeen Mr. SHERIDAN diſplay ſolidity of judgment in this part, though royalty was much injured by his external appear⯑ance, and harmony of expreſſion violently wounded by the diſcord of his voice. The juſtification of a king, in caſe of waging war, he delivered better than any other perſon we have ſeen.

Mr. SMITH is, upon the whole, more pleaſing, yet wants conſequence and variety.

Mr. BARRY, in this part, ſteps far beyond any degree of competition, within our knowledge; his figure and manner happily unite to fill up our idea of the fifth Henry.

[364]The other ſerious characters of this piece are too immaterial for recollection; however, we can ven⯑ture to ſay, that we have ſeen Exeter and the Con⯑ſtable of France, well ſupported by Meſſrs. CLARKE and HULL; nor have we any fault to find with Mr. GARDNER, in the Archbiſhop of Canterbury. Flu⯑ellin is a part of great oddity, and requires peculiar acting; we are inclined to think Mr. MACKLIN much more characteriſtic in this part than Mr. SHUTER.

Mr. THE. CIBBER made more of the popgun Ancient Piſtol than poſſibly ever will be ſeen again, by a laughable importance of deportment, extrava⯑gant grimaces, and ſpeaking it in the ſonorous cant of old tragedizers, he exhibited a very entertaining piece of acting merit. Mr. DYER is nobody.

Mrs. PITT's Hoſteſs is worth notice, though ſhort of Mrs. MACKLIN, whoſe deſcription of Fal⯑ſtaff's dying was inimitable.

AARON HILL, favoured the town with a piece on the ſubject of this play, in which he preſerved much more dramatic regularity, and approached nearer the tender paſſions, but has rather eclipſed the blaze of genius. With all its irregularities, SHAKESPERAE's muſt take the lead conſiderably, as indeed he always will in a ſtate of compariſon; for even his weakeſt, and moſt cenſurable efforts, have in them an affluent originality, beyond the reach of any other dramatic author.

The BUSY BODY. A COMEDY: By Mrs. CENTLIVRE.

SIR George Airy meets Charles in the Park; the former appears to be a little uneaſy in his mind, which the latter rallies him for pleaſantly; inſinu⯑ating, that a man poſſeſſed of omnipotent gold, may obtain any thing to lull unquiet feelings. Be⯑ing told that the cauſe is love, he ſeems to think Plutus a more powerful deity than Cupid, and that the blind God muſt yield to the God of Wealth.

It appears, that Sir George's paſſion is engaged by two ladies, one whoſe face he has never ſeen, but is charmed by her wit; the other he has ſeen, and is captivated by her beauty, without having ever exchanged a word with her; Miranda, who is the ward of Charles's father, claims a preference. Sir Francis Gripe's avaritious character is opened, and his intention of marrying the young lady himſelf, for the ſake of her fortune, diſcloſed to the baronet, who gains a promiſe of aſſiſtance from Charles, to obtain the lady. Their conference is broke in upon by the appearance of Marplot, of whom a prepa⯑rative picture is given. The forward blade, after having eagerly urged an introduction to Sir George, accounts laughably for a black patch which appears on his noſe. Having formed ſome intimacy with the baronet, Marplot is aſked by that gentleman to convey [...] letter to Miranda; Charles juſtifies his [366] readineſs to go upon ſuch ſervices, but paints him as a very blundering emiſſary.

Hearing buſineſs mentioned, Marplot's curioſity riſes; Sir George excuſes his ſtaying any longer in the Park, by obſerving, that he has an appointment with Sir Francis Gripe. Whiſper coming on, ac⯑quaints Charles that Iſabinda can't meet him in the Park, but that her rigid, jealous father, will cer⯑tainly go out in the afternoon; he then goes to know the hour. Here Marplot is ſadly mortified, at not knowing the purport of his meſſage, and de⯑termining to find out the occaſion of Charles's a⯑brupt departure, follows him.

Miranda coming out of her chair, meets Patch, of whom ſhe enquires for Iſabinda; and is told, that her father, Sir Jealous Traffic, has detained her at home; this knight's ridiculous attachment to the formal and tyrannical cuſtoms of Spain, is here ſet forth. It appears, that Patch, though really Iſabinda's friend, has gained ſo much of the father's confidence, that he truſts her in the ſtile of a duenna, with the care of his daughter.

The waiting woman, who had formerly ſerved Miranda in that capacity, takes the liberty of en⯑quiring about a common report, that Miranda is going to be married to her guardian; to this the lady replies, that ſuch a report is neceſſary, though not founded in truth. She then acquaints us, that ſeeing a man ſhe likes, is the motive of her coming into the Park: Sir George appears to be the man, and comes forward in conference with Sir Francis. Miranda and Mrs. Patch, ſtand aſide and liſten.

We find, that the young knight is bargaining with the old one, for a limited interview with his [367] ward; in conſideration of the ſum of one hundred guineas, he conſents to a conference of ten minutes, with this proviſo, that he ſhall be preſent all the time; the old blade chuckles at having taken the baronet in, and leaves him. During their ſcene, two remarks drop, one from the lady, and the other from the maid, not very delicate.

After Sir Francis retires, Miranda, under cover or a maſk, comes forward. Seeing his incognita, Sir George ſolicits a view of her face; this is de⯑nied, and he undergoes ſome ſpirited raillery, which he ſuſtains, and replies to in an agreeable manner. Being brought to a ſituation rather critical, and fearing a diſcovery, ſhe ſuggeſts a method of get⯑ting off; which is by promiſing, if he will turn his back, to let him know her meaning, who ſhe is, and her place of reſidence; this he complies with.

She retires gradually, confeſſing, that he has in⯑ſpired her with a very tender paſſion for him, then ſhe rhimes herſelf off. The baronet, pleaſed with his conqueſt, hopes ſhe may prove handſome, and promiſes the behaviour of a gentleman. Hearing no voice ſound, he imputes the pauſe to her modeſty, but begs ſhe will proceed; receiving no anſwer to repeated ſolicitation, he turns round, and expreſſing ſome chagrin at being ſo jilted, concludes the act with ſix very flimzy lines, which we may juſtly ſtile proſe baſtardized into hobbling, unnatural verſe.

At the beginning of the ſecond act, we meet Sir Francis, telling his ward, with triumphant ſatis⯑faction, of the bargain he has made with Sir George. She, to forward her own deſigns, ſeems to reliſh the circumſtance highly; and pays the [368] old fool ſome compliments, which cauſe him to think, that he has ſecured a place in her heart. She makes a propoſal to him, which, in the ſlow of good humour, ſhe hopes he may comply with; that is, if he will give her poſſeſſion of her own fortune, ſhe will marry him the day after.

The danger of this he is aware of, and declines the propoſal; finding herſelf diſappointed, ſhe tacks about, and mentions a ſcheme ſhe has formed to baffle Sir George, which is to maintain ſtrict ſi⯑lence, and not anſwer a word he ſays. This pleaſes the old knight greatly; however, his ſatisfaction is rather damped by the appearance of his ſon Charles, who pleads hard, reſpecting his neceſſitous circumſtances, but without any effect.

While the father and ſon are parlying, Marplot enters, who, obſerving Charleſs melancholy face, aſks Sir Francis for a hundred guineas, for which the curmudgeon gives him an order on his clerk. When Marplot goes to receive his money, Sir Fran⯑cis makes a propoſal to Charles for mending his circumſtances, that is by marrying Lady Wrinkle, whoſe age and deformities are ſufficiently compen⯑ſated for, by her having forty thouſand pounds. The young man's declining this propoſition, occa⯑ſions the old one to drive him forth with very harſh terms. No ſooner is he gone than Marplot re⯑turns, counting his caſh; when he miſſes Charles, he hurries out after him, for fear of loſing ſome ſecret. Sir George Airy being ſhewn in, Miranda is called; Sir Francis ſets his watch, and the inter⯑view immediately begins.

Sir George's attack upon the lady's inclinations is warm and ſignificant; the old centinel, who [369] keeps watch, throws in ſome interruptive lines, but is by threats kept out of ear-ſhot. The lady's un⯑accountable and invincible ſilence, cauſes the ena⯑moured baronet to teach her ſigns, by which ſhe may anſwer ſuch interrogations as he may chuſe to propoſe.

There muſt be a miſtake in the printed copy, where Sir Francis ſays there are three quarters of an hour gone, becauſe the time ſpecified was ten minutes. Sir George having ſettled the mode of reply, he proceeds to offer his queſtions; her anſwers are ſome favourable, others doubtful. At length, tired with his unſatisfactory ſtate, he tries another method, which is to ſpeak both for her and himſelf; and, in her behalf, produces a letter, which he reads and kiſſes rapturouſly. In the heighth of his pleaſing emotion, Sir Francis acquaints him, that the time is expired., and giving Miranda the guineas, ſends her off.

Sir George's imperfect audience occaſions Gripe to chuckle, which nettling the lover, he throws out a prognoſtication of cuckoldom, and both the cha⯑racters clink themſelves off the ſtage with ſome Grub-ſtreet lines. It is aſtoniſhing how actors, or public taſte, could bear ſuch frequent intruſions upon ſenſe and nature; rhimes were, I ſuppoſe, found to be clap-traps, and conſequently gained ſome de⯑gree of eſtimation; but why are they not now re⯑jected in the old plays, as well as the new ones.

We are next introduced to Sir Jealous, who we hear lecturing his daughter, in favour of Spaniſh reſerve and gravity. Patch, with politic addreſs, backs his opinion, and inſinuates, that Iſabinda is rather prone to levity and reſiſtance; in conſe⯑quence [370] of this, he gives the maid a freſh authority and charge to lock her up, till the arrival of one Signior Babinetto, whom he expects hourly from Spain.

Whiſper, who has watched Sir Jealous going out, haſtes to the door, where he meets Patch; ſhe informs him that Iſabinda is now alone, and deſires him to acquaint Charles. Juſt as he is going off, he meets Sir Jealous, whom ſuſpicion has brought back: the knight queſtions him very roughly, as to what buſineſs has brought him near his door. This puzzles the valet; however, he ſtarts a whim⯑ſical apology, of having loſt his lady's lap-dog, and aſks Sir Jealous if he has found the creature; by this device, he gets clear of the choleric old blade, who nevertheleſs ſeems to have ſuſpicion of ſome deſign.

Charles and Marplot next preſent themſelves, and are ſoon joined by Sir George, who appears in the dumps: on aſking Marplot if Miranda's ſilence proceeded from her folly, he juſtifies her title to wit, by mentioning, that ſhe has often rallied him till he had not a word to ſay for himſelf. Whiſper enters, and by ſpeaking aſide to his maſter, ſtirs afreſh the inquiſitive faculties of Marplot, who is a mortal enemy to all reſerve: his ſtroke of deſiring Sir George to aſk Charles what his ſervant has been ſaying, is droll and in character. When Charles and the baronet propoſe going different ways, Marplot has ſo ſtrong an in⯑clination to diſcover what the former is about, that though he is roughly refuſed the privilege of going with him, he follows directly.

[371]At the beginning of the third act, Charles ap⯑pears at Sir Jealous Traffic's door, and is intro⯑duced by Patch: juſt as he enters the houſe, Mar⯑plot ſpies him; and, by way of friendſhip, deter⯑mines to watch him out again. The lovers being met, they lay a plan for their own happineſs, and to defeat Sir Jealous's deſigns. An alarm of the old knight's approach, throws them into extreme confuſion, amidſt which it is determined, that Charles ſhall effect his eſcape from the balcony; this ſettled, they part.

Sir Jealous now appears in the ſtreet, and breathes out ſuch terrible threats, in caſe of finding a man in his houſe, that Marplot, who overhears, in zeal for Charles's ſafety, and to prove his courage, ac⯑coſts the knight; and threatens, if any miſchief is done his friend, he will retaliate it ſeverely. This diſcovery rouſes Sir Jealous into ſuch a paſſion, that he belabours the poor, unlucky, blundering intruder, moſt unmercifully. Still ſolicitous for Charles, he cries murder; the lover deſcending from the balcomy, perceives who it is that's raiſing the tumult: here Marplot improves the miſtake he has made, by boaſting of what he has done; but, upon getting a hearty ſhake by the collar from en⯑raged Charles, he conceives his errors, and, droop⯑ing like a dog that had loſt his ears, retires lament⯑ing his ill luck; but not without ſome hopes of gaining ſuch intelligence for Sir George, concern⯑ing Miranda, as may bring him into favour again.

Sir Jealous, full of conviction that a man is in his houſe, though not to be found, enters with ſer⯑vants, enquiring if they have ſearched every where: Patch ſtill preſerving his confidence, he renews his [372] orders for locking up Iſabinda, then goes to renew his ſearch. The maid comforts her miſtreſs with the idea of gaining at laſt the man ſhe wiſhes, and they retire.

Sir Francis meets his lovely ward in the next ſcene, and ſhe plays him off ſo admirably, that he thinks her his own beyond a ſhadow of doubt. Marplot enters to them, who mentions Sir George's hundred pounds, and upbraids Miranda with cheat⯑ing him of it: warm words ariſing, Sir Francis bids the inquiſitive meddler get out of his houſe. Upon hearing Miranda declare that ſhe will take her guardian for better for worſe, Marplot banters the idea till he is threatened with the knight's cane, but having ſo lately felt one, he deſiſts. Miranda, with great addreſs, ſends an aſſignation to Sir George, by bidding him keep from his old haunt, the gar⯑den gate, at the hour of eight. Her meaning is groſsly miſtaken by both the old fool and young one, and her openneſs increaſes the old ſwain's confidence, who leads her off, full of joy, with a Latin quotation.

The ſcene now changes to a tavern, where Sir George and Charles are diſcovered over a bottle: the baronet offers his friend ſome conſolation, to free his ſpirits from that gloom which his late miſ⯑carriage has occaſioned. The waiter mentioning that Mr. Marplot deſires leave to wait on them, they deſire him to be admitted: on his appearance, the unhappy adventurer puts on a face of confeſ⯑ſion, and endeavours to apologize.

When Sir George enquires after Miranda, he gives a very unpromiſing account, and declares her ſettled determination to marry Sir Francis; to [373] which alſo, he adds her warning about the garden gate. Sir George does not immediately perceive her meaning, but, after a few ſhort ſpeeches, catches it; and thanks Marplot for ſo pleaſing a piece of intelligence. His ſatisfaction puzzles our Buſy Body.

In order to take ſo unlucky an object out of the way, Charles urges Marplot to go with him; he is pleaſed at being forgiven, but ſuſpecting, from Sir George's behaviour, ſomething that de does not underſtand, he reſolves upon going to Sir Francis Gripe's, that he may ſtand a chance of finding it out.

The firſt ſcene of the fourth act is before Sir Jealous's door, where Patch receives a letter from Whiſper for her miſtreſs; and deſires him to ac⯑quaint his maſter, there will be a fair opportunity for paying a viſit to Iſabinda, by means of a ladder of ropes: hearing the old man, ſhe hurries the va⯑let off; and, in her confuſion, drops the letter: no ſooner does ſhe diſappear, than Sir Jealous comes on; he perceives the billet, which, upon opening, he finds to be hieroglyphically inſcribed. This unintelligible object cauſes freſh ſuſpicion, and a glimpſe he got of Patch's tail ſweeping by, throws ſome part of it on her.

A ſervant entering, Sir Jealous enquires for ſome company he had invited; being told that they will all wait upon him, he countermands the invi⯑tation; calls for his butler, and orders that ſupper may be brought into his daughter's chamber. Iſa⯑binda and Patch are thrown into ſtrong perplexity about the letter, which cannot be found. The maid running out to ſee if ſhe had dropped it by [374] the way, is met at the door by the butler, whoſe buſineſs being aſked, he ſays it is to lay the cloth in that room, for his maſter's ſupper. This cir⯑cumſtance ſuggeſts to the young lady ſome freſh miſchance: the old man approaches, ſtops Patch, and queſtions his daughter about the letter; ſhe pleads ignorance, and the chambermaid, to make up for her blunder, invents an aſſertion, that the paper is hers; declares it was given her as a charm for the tooth ach, and throws herſelf into violent agitation at the misfortune of its being opened, as the magic power is thereby deſtroyed.

This bait takes with the old knight, and Iſabin⯑da, collecting ſome ſpirit from the ſucceſs of it, accuſes her father of ſeverity; to which he anſwers, that Signior Babinetto's arrival, will free her from all parental authority. Supper being placed on table, he aſks the young lady to partake; which, from her ſtomach being already too full, ſhe de⯑clines. He next deſires, that as ſhe can't eat, ſhe will entertain him with a tune on the ſpinnet, while her maid ſings a ſong; both theſe requeſts, through con⯑fuſion, they are ſo unable to comply with, that one plays, and the other ſqualls moſt miſerably out of tune, which provokes the old man to threats.

While they are endeavouring to proceed, Charles bolts in upon the wings of rapture; but ſeeing Sir Jealous, retires haſtily, though not ſo ſoon but that he is perceived: to cover his retreat, the women cry, a ghoſt! a ghoſt! and throw themſelves acroſs the door. Having given the lover time to eſcape, they make way for the impaſſioned knight, who ruſhes into the cloſet, bent on diſcovery and de⯑ſtruction.

[375]He ſoon returns, and not having found the main object of reſentment, lets his wrath wreak itſelf on the females; his daughter he locks up in a clo⯑ſet, and then drives Patch out of doors. In this exiled ſtate ſhe meets Charles, and acquaints him, not only of Iſabinda's impriſonment, but alſo that her deſtined Spaniſh huſband is expected on the following day, and is to conſummate the nuptials with all poſſible expedition.

In the midſt of Charles's diſtraction, Patch ſug⯑geſts his perſonating Babinetto, and furniſhes him a letter, by counterfeiting which, he may gain credit with Sir Jealous, who knows nothing more of the young Don, than what occurs by correſ⯑ponding with his father. This politic hint revives the lover, and they go off to concert matters, by which room is made for Sir George, who appears at the garden gate; through which he is ſoon con⯑veyed by Scentwell into the houſe.

Miranda, in ſoliloquy, apologizes for a ſeeming breach of delicacy, in bringing Sir George to viſit her in a clandeſtine manner, but the juſtification ſhe offers is very allowable; ſuch a guardian as her's would juſtify any young woman for taking all ſteps, but vicious ones, to defeat his loathſome de⯑ſigns upon her perſon, and knaviſh views upon her fortune.

The baronet advances with polite rapture: in the conference which enſues, we find Miranda ſo prudent, that ſhe wont gratify her inclination by a violent attack upon circumſtances, but determines, before ſhe leaves Sir Francis's houſe, to take the writings relative to her fortune along with her. Sir Francis's unexpected return obliges Sir George [376] to make a precipitate retreat behind the chimney⯑board; it appears, that Gripe's return has been oc⯑caſioned by Marplot's perſuading him, that Mi⯑randa had certainly ſome fatal, barbarous meaning, in the blunderbuſs. Sir Francis deſires Scentwell to throw an orange peel behind the chimney⯑board, this ſhe evades, by deſiring to eat it; but that be⯑ing refuſed, Miranda deſires the board may not be removed, as ſhe has a monkey, which being very wild, might do miſchief, if let out.

Marplot immediately expreſſes ſtrong curioſity to ſee what he calls, aptly enough, a miniature of man; however, he is forced to deſiſt by threats, and Sir Francis goes off to viſit his rich neighbour at Epſom, from whom he expects a large legacy.

While Miranda attends her guardian to his coach, Marplot lifts up the board, when out bolts Sir George, and thropples the frightened, inquiſi⯑tive blade; who, in his confuſion, deſires the ba⯑ronet to break ſome china, as an apology for the uproar he has made.

Sir Francis and Miranda returning, Marplot frames a ſtory of the monkey's eſcape, for which he receives a ſevere rebuke from the old fellow; who, after ordering ſearch to be made for the little favo⯑rite, goes off again to proſecute his journey. Miranda upbraids Marplot, who accounts laughably for his miſapprehenſion.

Sir George returns, when Marplot begs to be excuſed, and is, upon his ſubmiſſion, forgiven. Patch enters, and acquaints Sir George, that a friend of his wants aſſiſtance: on being told that it is Charles, he determines to wait on him, but de⯑clines Marplot's company, who expreſſes great de⯑ſire [377] of going alſo; and to prevent him, inſiſts he may ſtay with Miranda, ſo concludes the fourth act.

At the beginning of the fifth, we meet Mi⯑randa, telling Patch that ſhe has taken a bold and hazardous ſtep, by venturing upon a huſband, whoſe diſpoſition ſhe is not ſufficiently acquainted with: after ordering Scentwell to pack up her jewels, ſhe is going to leave the houſe; at which time moſt inopportunely, ſhe meets Sir Francis, who having found himſelf ſummoned upon a ſham meſſage, has declined the continuation of his journey.

Scentwell entering abruptly with a diamond necklace in her hand, occaſions ſome confuſion; but Miranda paſſes it off with ready addreſs, and turns the matter quite off, by telling him of Iſa⯑binda's approaching marriage with a Spaniſh Don, to which ſhe is invited: the amorous guardian, hoping that the ſight of matrimony may whet his ward's appetite for a ſimilar feaſt; he promiſes to go, and receiving an equivocal declaration from Miranda, that if ever ſhe marries, it muſt be in the courſe of that day; he leads her off with terms of moſt triumphant joy.

Sir Jealous next appears, who being told by a ſervant that Signior Babinetto is arrived, receives, and brings Charles, attended by Sir George, as Mr. Meanwell, forward: after ſome attempts at Spa⯑niſh, which Sir Jealous is very imperfect in, the converſation is continued in Engliſh. Sir George, with great art, as a deputed guardian to the young Don, and many plauſible arguments, urges an im⯑mediate marriage; which the father ſeems very well inclined to, after being ſatisfied in one point; [378] that is, why no mention has been made in the in⯑troductory letter of thoſe five thouſand crowns, which were to be ſettled on his daughter, in caſe of her becoming a widow.

This unexpected circumſtance occaſions ſome heſitation; but Sir George anſwering that the value of that ſum is conſigned to his care, for the pro⯑poſed purpoſe, in various kinds of valuable mer⯑chandize, Sir Jealous is ſatisfied, ſends for Mr. Tackum, who, as it appears, is ready.

The angry father goes off, and drags on his daughter, who ſolicits hard againſt a forced mar⯑riage, but to no purpoſe, ſhe adheres to her reſo⯑lution; after much threatning, and many violent remonſtrances from Sir Jealous, Sir George under⯑takes the perſuaſion, and by privately communi⯑cating who the apparent Spaniard really is, gains her to the deſired point. Her rapture, which breaks out a little untimely, is reſtrained; the fa⯑ther, heartily rejoiced at this unexpected and ſud⯑den converſion of his perverſe child, gives her with tears of ſatisfaction, to Don Diego, and they all go off, highly ſatisfied, to the celebration of thoſe nup⯑tials which the young couple ſo eagerly wiſh, and Sir George has earneſtly laboured to promote.

Marplot, without adverting to his former blun⯑ders, which have brought him into ſuch diſagreea⯑ble ſituations, now runs headlong into a from ſcrape; and having heard that Charles has bor⯑rowed a Spaniſh habit, determines to enquire about him at Sir Jealous Traffic's. Pat to his purpoſe, a ſervant comes out of the houſe, of whom he aſks if there be a gentleman in a Spaniſh habit at his maſter's; from the minuteneſs of his enquiry, and [379] ſaying he thought a friend of his might be there in diſguiſe, the footman ſuſpects a poſſibility of im⯑poſition, and calls his maſter.

When Sir Jealous comes forth, he accoſts Mar⯑plot churliſhly, demanding his buſineſs; on men⯑tion of a Spaniſh habit, he is ſuppoſed to be a friend of Babinetto's, and is queſtioned as ſuch, but not being able to give any intelligent account of who or what he wants, the old gentleman grows warm, and perceiving that he is the perſon who had threatened him with half a dozen mirmidons, he frightens poor Marplot in ſuch a manner, that he comes to an explanation about Charles, which a⯑larming the father, he calls in to ſtop the mar⯑riage.

This noiſe brings out Sir George, with his ſword drawn; ſeeing Marplot, he finds out the ſource of evil incidents, which, to confirm, the buſtling Buſy Body calls the baronet by title and name, which unfolds the deceit, and an attempt is again made to ſtop the marriage; however, Sir George ſtanding centinel between the door and him, orders it to go on: finding himſelf foiled, he wreaks his vengeance on Marplot, who once more feels the diſcipline of his cane.

At this criſis Charles and his bride enter; ſoon after them Sir Francis and Miranda come forward. Sir Jealous accuſes Gripe with being acceſſary to cheating him of his child; Sir Francis being de⯑ſired to open his purſe in favour of Charles, he de⯑clines any concern with him as a ſon, and declares his ſettled connexion with Miranda.

Here Sir George ſteps in, and claims the lady as his; this, ſhe confirms, and, as it appears, has not [380] only taken care to get her own writings, but Charles's too, relative to an eſtate left by an uncle, which the Jew, his father, kept from him. Thus totally over-reached, Sir Francis leaves them with great heat of paſſion: after his departure, matters take a more favourable turn, and Sir Jealous, with a commendable ſhare of good ſenſe, cools into good humour.

The ſeveral parties being agreeably diſpoſed of, Marplot aſks, what reparation he is to have for the hard uſage he has received; forgiveneſs of his blunders, and a promiſe from Sir George, that his guardian ſhall give him his eſtate, and make him happy. Thus the piece concludes, a very incon⯑teſtible moral being deduced from paſt tranſactions in three lines: if we ſearch for ſolidity of ſentiment, or purity of language in this comedy, our enquiry will be fruitleſs; yet there is a pertneſs of dialogue, and a womaniſh whim of incident, that muſt ever tickle the lighter paſſions, and keep attention upon a pleaſing bent.

As to the characters, they are natural and well choſen; as will appear upon their being ſeparately examined. Sir George is a fine gentleman, with elegant ideas, lively feelings, and a large eſtate; he meets with a woman he likes, and ſpares neither money nor pains to obtain her honourably. One circumſtance is odd, that he never once mentions his fair incognita after the firſt act: the author might eaſily have diſcovered to him that Miranda was the perſon, and a good ſcene might have been ſtruck out, of her rallying him upon the maſked lady; however, this is a very pardonable lapſe.

[381]Mr. PALMER, was in this gay baronet too much of the fop, indeed, it was ſo natural to him, he could not ſhake it off. Mr. SMITH has ſufficient vivacity, without diminiſhing eſſential elegance; we never deſire to ſee the part better ſupported than by this gentleman.

Sir Francis Gripe we find ſo complete a ſon of avarice, as warmly to wave every principle as a father, guardian, or man, to the inſatiable love of gain; his prepoſterous amour is more founded in wealth than regard; his ſituations are pleaſant, and render him rather an object of laughter, than of the contempt he really deſerves. Mr. YATES, a great favorite of ours, for ſtrict adherence to nature in his proper caſt, was remarkably chaſte in this cha⯑racter, which he played upon the moſt critical prin⯑ciples; and, certain it is, that though Mr. SHUTER may make the galleries laugh more, by a luxuriance of humour, yet he never can be ſo correct.

Mr. PACKER has done the inoffenſive Charles for many years inoffenſively enough; we have ſeen Mr. CLARKE exhibit him, but think the part far beneath his abilities; and, as to Mr. HULL, who goes on for him at preſent in Covent Garden, we never wiſh to meet him in any but the graver parts of comedy, many of which he would ſupport in a very reſpect⯑able manner. Why is not Charles given to Mr. LEWES, who ought to be brought forward in ſuch a light, till practice and improved merit make him fit for a more favourable one.

Sir Jealous Traffic is extremely well contraſted to Sir Francis, as his folly does not ariſe from a bad heart, but a deficient head; violent regard for his daughter, makes him anxious for her happineſs, and [382] a miſtaken notion of the means to prevent any ſiniſter accident, makes him ſeem cruel, when he really means well; there is an open bluntneſs of expreſſion about him, which Mr. LOVE is very characteriſtic in, and we think Mr. DUNSTALL e⯑qually happy.

Marplot, the main engine of this piece, is a very well conceived caricature of nature, adequately drawn, and prettily finiſhed: notwithſtanding a Buſy Body in private life, is a very miſchievous and obnoxious character, yet Mrs. CENTLIVRE has con⯑trived to preſent us with one ſo inoffenſive and laughable, that we believe many of the audience would be glad of ſuch an acquaintance to exhile⯑rate their ſpirits occaſionally: we remember many performers in this character, Mr. MACKLIN very dry, inſipid and ſaturnine: Mr. THE. CIBBER, e⯑gregiouſly comical, extravagant and incorrect: Mr. BROWN, by ſome thought a good actor, though certainly the worſt that ever was ſeen, faint, inde⯑ſcriptive and laborious: Mr. GARRICK, lively and expreſſive, but too mechanical: Mr. KING, ſpirited and pictureſque, with rather too much ſenſibility: Mr. WOODWARD, every thing the author or ſpecta⯑tor could wiſh, poſſeſſing every beauty his compe⯑titors could boaſt, and exhibiting a ſuitable naivéte above them all.

Miranda has nothing blameable, but being a lit⯑tle too forward in her love affair; ſhe ſeems to have good ſenſe, ſteadineſs and generoſity. Mrs. PAL⯑MER was very unequal to the repreſentation of this part, yet, being an amiable actreſs, paſſed off with⯑out giving offence, Mrs. BULKLEY mended the [383] matter a good deal, but we are much inclined to place Miſs MACKLIN firſt.

Iſabinda was very improperly given to Mrs. MATTOCKS, who is much fitter for Patch; howe⯑ver, ſhe repreſented the young lady in a reſpectable manner: Miſs PLYM was well ſuited to the part, as is Mrs. BAKER.

Patch ſhould always be in the hands of Mrs. GREEN, though we have ſeen Mrs. PITT ſhew act⯑ing merit in the character, and Miſs MINORS per⯑form it extremely well. We readily admit this play to a ſtage exiſtence, but we think it ſcarce worth any body's purchaſe for the cloſet; notwith⯑ſtanding it is free from the heavy charge of licen⯑tiouſneſs, which juſtly lies againſt ſome abler com⯑poſitions.

King HENRY the Fourth. An Hiſtorical PLAY: SHAKESPEARE.

THE King, attended by his ſon, Lord John of Lancaſter, and other peers, gives us to under⯑ſtand, that the play opens with a newly commenced peace; yet from what Weſtmoreland ſays, we find that a general calm is not eſtabliſhed, notwithſtand⯑ing a deciſive victory gained by Piercy, over the Scots. Mention of this young nobleman occaſions Henry to paint, with ſtrong feeling, the diſreputa⯑ble contraſt between Hotſpur and his ſon, the Prince of Wales: nothing further material occurs in this ſcene, except that Piercy has refuſed to deli⯑ver up the priſoners taken in battle. In the next we meet Prince Henry and Falſtaff; the lat⯑ter enquiring what time of the day it is, is rallied by the Prince for demanding any information con⯑cerning a circumſtance ſo totally immaterial to his irregular courſe of life; the fat knight retorts, by painting his royal companion as graceleſs as him⯑ſelf. This is very natural, for the diſſolute always endeavour to level other characters with their own; or, if poſſible, to make them worſe.

This ſcene is chiefly made up of a quibble of words, yet is ſenſible and entertaining. When Poins comes on, there is a fine equivocal turn in Falſtaff's character: ſome few lines before, we find him bent on a new courſe of life, but, upon men⯑tion [385] of a robbery, which is likely to produce de⯑ſireable ſpoil, he hears the matter, and joins in it with great glee; wiſhing that the Prince may be an aſſociate, he goes to Eaſtcheap.

After the knight has waddled out of ſight, Poins propoſes a ſcheme of amuſement, that is, to rob Falſtaff, Bardolph, Peto and Gadſhill, after they have acquired the booty: to this project the vola⯑tile Prince agrees readily; the mode of proceeding is ſettled, and Poins retires to provide neceſſaries.

When alone, Henry, though linked with ſuch a diſſipated crew, and ſeemingly involved amidſt the depths of iniquity, makes ſome glorious reflections; wherein, his ſpirit as a man and a royal character, break brightly forth.

The obſervation that his latter years will ſhine more bright by a comparative view with the gloom of his former ones, is not a very allowable apology for joining in a courſe of life, which, in his own conviction, is held deſpicable; however, the ſoli⯑loquy throws a plauſible gloſs on his character, and prepares us agreeably for the reformation he ſug⯑geſts.

In the next ſcene we meet the King, highly net⯑tled at being croſſed, as it ſhould ſeem, by Hot⯑ſpur, and his relations. Upon Worceſter's at⯑tempting an apology, he is forbid the preſence: af⯑ter a palliative introduction, delivered by Northum⯑berland, Hotſpur enters upon his own defence, con⯑cerning refuſal of thoſe priſoners which the King had demanded: his addreſs is very peculiar and ſpirit⯑ed; his contraſt of the rough ſoldier's character, to a perfumed, effeminate peer, is finely imagined, and happily expreſſed.

[386]King Henry, however, conſiders his reply as equivocal, and founded on proviſo, that Mortimer, a ſubject hateful to majeſty, ſhould be ranſomed. Hearing an imputation of Mortimer's revolting, Hotſpur, with characteriſtic impatience, contends this point warmly with the King, and maintains his brother-in-law's character, both as a ſubject and commander. This altercation rouſes Henry to ſome ſevere terms, and a poſitive inſinuation, that further diſobedience of his orders, will be attended with diſagreeable conſequences.

This peremptory threat occaſions a flow of paſ⯑ſion, which vents itſelf on Hotſpur's ſide, in a very glowing ſtile. Being forbid even to ſpeak of Mor⯑timer, ſtings ſo home, that every trace of patience is obliterated; and, with the utmoſt heat of temper, he charges ingratitude and tyranny againſt the King. After ſpending the fire of his reſentment in frenzied ſtarts and bitter reproaches, he conde⯑ſcends to hear ſome cool and politic advice from his couſin Worceſter; who points out ſome vin⯑dictive meaſures by the path of rebellion, which he deems very practicable, from powerful diſcontents which agitate many leading characters of the realm.

Piercy's expectation warms from this view, ſo conſonant to his deſires, and he concludes the firſt act with a wiſh, formed by wounded pride, and a kind of military enthuſiaſm.

At the commencement of the ſecond act, two car⯑riers are introduced, throwing ſome very low reflect⯑ions upon their quarters and accommodations. After having informed us of their ſtation, and that they are going to continue their journey, they make room for the Prince and Poins, who having re⯑moved [387] Falſtaff's horſe out of his reach, the puffed knight comes on, almoſt breathleſs with fatigue, calling for them, and deſcribing his own cumber⯑ſome, painful ſituation: when they appear, he aſks, partly in a paſſion, and partly ſoothing, for his horſe. Gadſhill and Bardolph giving notice that the monied travellers are at hand, they take their ſtations; while Henry and Poins retire to put on their diſguiſes.

Hearing a furious noiſe of ‘"ſtand, down with them,"’ &c. the travellers drop their caſh, which the valorous Sir John and his mirmidons have no ſoon⯑er taken, than it is taken from them again by the Prince and Poins, in buckram ſuits. This jocular deſign being happily executed, the victorious cou⯑ple go off, enjoying their cheap conqueſt.

Hotſpur, in ſoliloquy, now preſents himſelf, pe⯑ruſing a letter, on which he makes ſome whimſical comments, as the contents are matter of excuſe from ſome deſireable partiſan, whom he expected to join in his enterprize. In the following ſcene with his lady, which, by the bye, is very immaterial, he diſcovers much peculiarity and flightineſs of tem⯑per; ſhe, with a kind of childiſhneſs, endeavours to wheedle from him, the cauſe of manifeſt pertur⯑bation, which, nevertheleſs, he declines communi⯑cating, and in a manner we think unneceſſary un⯑genteel, though bluntneſs ſeems to be a material part of his character.

We are now tranſplanted to the tavern in Eaſt⯑cheap, where the Prince and Poins appear, ſtill en⯑joying their adventure. Henry, in the flow of ſpi⯑rits, boaſts an intimacy with a parcel of drawers, and with Poins's aſſiſtance, plays upon the ſimpli⯑city [388] of one, in a manner that might very well be⯑come a Bartholomew-fair droll, but is too meanly farcical for the ſtage, though it ſeldom fails of a laughable effect.

After this unmeaning piece of buffoonry, Fal⯑ſtaff and his crew are introduced: the knight ſets forward with a furious exclamation againſt cowards, not forgetting to compliment himſelf, as being one of the only three honeſt, valuable men in England. At length, he broadly inſinuates, that Henry is a⯑mong the liſt of cowards, but, upon getting a re⯑buff from the Prince, readily and humorouſly re⯑tracts his meaning, yet continues the inſinuation: having mentioned taking a prize of a thouſand pounds, and its being moſt violently forced from him again, he enters into a very curious account of his own valorous reſiſtance, wherein ſuch cir⯑cumſtances and contradictions occur, as muſt di⯑late the rigideſt features.

After he has gone through the detail with moſt entertaining prevarication, the Prince enters upon his account, which reduces Falſtaff to a dilemma apparently inextricable; yet with invincible effron⯑tery, and quick addreſs, he exhibits a maſterly ſtroke of equivocation, by obſerving, that he knew it was the Prince who attacked him, and out of reſpect to the blood royal, would not make any reſiſtance.

Juſt as this point is diſcuſſed, the Hoſteſs enters in a violent hurry, acquainting the Prince, that a nobleman of the court deſires to ſpeak with him: Falſtaff is deputed to give him an anſwer, which charge he ſpeedily fulfills, and upon return, gives ſome hints of the civil commotions which are on [389] foot. The Hoſteſs again enters, and acquaints them that the Sheriff is at the door, demanding en⯑trance, to ſearch for ſome men who have committed a robbery. Falſtaſt, conſcious, claims protection; he is ordered behind the arras, and the Sheriff ad⯑mitted, who, being queſtioned of his buſineſs, de⯑clares it: the knight being plainly pointed at, Prince Henry ſcreens him, by aſſerting his abſence upon buſineſs; and that he will himſelf undertake to anſwer any charge that may be brought againſt the ſuppoſed guilty perſon.

The magiſtrate being diſpatched, and danger with him, Falſtaff is heard ſnoring: the Prince or⯑ders Poins to pick his pocket, from whence he ex⯑tracts nothing but papers; one of which, being read, proves a curious tavern bill, the principal ar⯑ticle of which is an enormous quantity of ſack▪ Henry declares his intention of going to court in the morning, and ſays, he will not only provide for Poins, but procure Falſtaff a company of foot. With this ſtrange intention the act concludes, ſtrange, we ſay, becauſe however flighty the Prince might be in his general conduct, we cannot ſuppoſe, that in ſo ſerious and critical an affair as civil war, he would put a proved poltroon, a known ſcoun⯑drel, into commiſſion: but the author found it ne⯑ceſſary, ſo without any ſcruple or apology, he has ſacrificed royal prudence and decorum, to the pre⯑ſervation and enlargement of his favorite character.

At the beginning of the third act, we find our⯑ſelves in the preſence chamber at Windſor: the King having deſired his nobles to retire, lectures the Pr. of Wales with much paternal feeling, and eloquent energy; his ſpeeches, though fine and pithy, are [390] beyond doubt, too laboriouſly long for the actor's expreſſion: his ſon's vindication of himſelf, and promiſe of future actions, ſuitable to his dignity, ſhow a ſpirited ſenſibility, which melts the King into a cordial reconciliation, who immediately gives him an honourable command, and appoints the day for his marching to meet the rebels.

Sir John and Bardolph ſucceed this royal inter⯑view; the former complains that he finds himſelf in a conſumptive ſtate, and therefore ſeems inclined to repent of his diſſolute courſes; but, upon Bar⯑dolph's blaming him for fretting, reverts again to vice, and jeſts upon the red noſe of his Bacchana⯑lian follower. Seeing the Hoſteſs, our fat knight mentions his having his pocket picked, which irri⯑tates the lady much, as being a heavy charge againſt the credit of her houſe: a warm altercation enſues, in which they both diſplay conſiderable abilities.

He aſſerts having loſt a ſeal ring, worth forty marks, which ſhe declares the Prince had often told her was copper. This occaſions Sir John to utter ſome heavy threats, but, upon ſeeing Henry, he turns the ſubject off; however, Mrs. Quickly re⯑ſolves to have it handled, and to that end tells the Prince, that Falſtaff had threatened to cudgel him. This cauſes a freſh and very laughable altercation, in which the knight is conſiderably embarraſſed; however, his old and conſtant friend equivocation ſtands by him, till Henry flaſhes conviction, by declaring, that he was the cauſe of this exaggerated robbery, which produced nothing but tavern bills, and a halfpenny worth of ſugar-candy. This ex⯑planation, after a conceſſion from Falſtaff, brings all matters to a right underſtanding; the Prince [391] acquaints his fat favorite, that he has procured him a charge of foot, then gives Bardolph ſome diſ⯑patches for Lord John of Lancaſter.

From the two concluſive lines of this act, we very plainly perceive that Falſtaff is much better inclined to a tavern than military operations.

Hotſpur, Worceſter and Douglas, begin the fourth act, in Shrewſbury: the former compliments the latter with generous terms of eſteem. A meſ⯑ſenger brings ſome letters, and the diſagreeable in⯑telligence, that ſickneſs prevents Piercy's father from joining perſonally the common cauſe. Wor⯑ceſter ſeems to think his abſence a great damp upon their enterprize; however, Hotſpur, with unbate⯑ing ſpirit, thinks it will reflect greater credit upon their daring attempt. Sir Richard Vernon informs them of the powerful preparations which are moving forwards, to make head againſt them. Piercy enquires particularly after the Prince of Wales, which gives Sir Richard an opportunity of deſcribing him and his warlike companions, with very beautiful imagery. This fires Hotſpur, who longs to enter the liſts againſt ſuch gallant oppo⯑nents, though unaſſiſted by his father and Glen⯑dower.

Sir John and Bardolph now appear upon their march to Coventry: having diſpatched his follower for a bottle of ſack, the knight, in ſoliloquy, gives a moſt diverting account of the ſoldiers he has picked up; his inſinuation of miſuſing the king's preſs money, we believe fits many a recruiting of⯑ficer. Prince Henry coming on with Weſtmore⯑land, aſks whoſe fellows they are that come after, and make ſo wretched a figure. Falſtaff acknow⯑ledges [392] them to be his, and humorouſly conſiders them as merely food for powder, conſequently good enough for that purpoſe.

Hotſpur, Worceſter, Douglas and Vernon, again come forward, debating whether they ſhall give battle the ſame night, or refer it to another day. Piercy's impatience wiſhes to ſeize the earlieſt oppor⯑tunity, and Douglas ſupports his opinion; Vernon and Worceſter diſſent. After reaſons urged on both ſides, it remains ſtill an undetermined point; when Sir Walter Blunt addreſſes them on embaſſy from the king, who ſent by him ſome plauſible offers of pacific redreſs, in caſe any real grievances can be made out. In Hotſpur's reply, which is nervous and circumſtantial, he accuſes the king of ambi⯑tion, duplicity and ingratitude, not to be truſted; however, he deſires a night to conſider the royal propoſition, and promiſes to ſend a categorical re⯑ply by his uncle Worceſter in the morning.

Our author has judiciouſly concluded this act with probable ideas of peace, which bring on more forceably the operations of the next.

King Henry, at the beginning of the fifth act, gives audience in his camp to Worceſter, who reca⯑pitulates the cauſes of complaint, which his ma⯑jeſty treats with contempt. The Prince of Wales, perceiving that all hopes of accommodation are va⯑niſhed, and that war is to be the arbitrator, with a gallant generoſity, propoſes to reſt the general diſ⯑pute upon a ſingle combat between him and Hot⯑ſpur. This pleaſes the King, his father, highly; however, with humane condeſcenſion, he once more offers, upon ſubmiſſion, to decline hoſtilities, nay, [393] even a renewal of royal favour, to his rebellious op⯑ponents.

There is a moſt centemptible piece of ſtage buf⯑foonery introduced here, which ought to be repulſed, not laughed at; we mean Falſtaff's ſitting upon the ſame drum with the King, and tumbling down when Henry gets up; SHAKESPEARE's luxuriant humour needs no ſuch pitiful reſources. Falſtaff's ſoliloquy, where he inveſtigates the meaning and value of honour, is as laughable an apology for cowardice as ever was penned.

Worceſter, from a ſuppoſition that the King's ſmooth propoſitions are founded in fallacy, declines acquainting his nephew with them; and, on Hot⯑ſpur's appearance, mentions ſuch aggravating terms as precipitate a battle. Vernon's deſcription of the Prince of Wales's challenge, is delicate and gene⯑rous. On being told that the royal army comes forward, Hotſpur and party go off to meet them, with a truly martial ſpirit. Here alarms are heard, and Sir Walter Blunt is ſlain by Douglas. A good deal of the ſkirmiſhing introduced by SHAKE⯑SPEARE, is properly omitted in repreſentation.

The fat knight has another ſoliloquy, and though horribly frightened, preſerves his humour; the giving him a bottle of ſack in a piſtol holſter, is whimſically characteriſtic. While Hotſpur and the Prince of Wales are engaged, he comes on va⯑pouring, but ſeeing Douglas, falls down as if dead. When Hotſpur has yielded his breath to his victo⯑rious competitor for glory, the generous conqueror pays an expreſſive and pathetic compliment to his qualifications: ſeeing his old companion Jack [394] proſtrate, he ſpeaks of his fall with friendly though ludicrous regret.

The coaſt being clear, our prudent knight gets up, rejoicing in his own ſafety, and applauding the means of it. The ſight of Piercy, though dead, touches him with freſh panic; however, he collects reſolution enough to make him ſure, and giving him a wound in the thigh, declares his reſolution to claim the honour of killing him. Here the Prince of Wales returns, with his brother Prince John of Lancaſter. Seeing Falſtaff with Hotſpur on his back, he is ſurprized, and is ſtill more ſo at Sir John's aſſerting himſelf to be the conqueror of Hotſpur; however, he good-naturedly inclines to countenance his humour, and the knight lugs off his honourable burden.

King Henry, after ſentencing Worceſter and Vernon to death, declares his intention of purſuing rebellion through all its haunts, and thus the play concludes.

Though we do not heſitate to pronounce tragi⯑comedy to be the moſt heterogenious production that ever entered the human imagination, yet we muſt contend that our author has in this piece made it as pardonable and probable as a union ſo unnatural would admit. In the tragic ſcenes there is great dignity and fire of expreſſion; in the comic ones, unparalleled pleaſantry. The plot, though void of unities, has a face of regularity, and keeps attention agreeably employed through the whole.

As to characters, we find Henry cool, politic and reſolute, well ſuited to his elevated ſtation; in per⯑formance, little more is requiſite than importance [395] of deportment, and propriety of declamation. Mr. SPARKS, in the former was ſtiffly mechanical, in the latter, irkſomely laborious; yet ſhewed more merit in the firſt ſcene with Piercy, than any other per⯑former within our notice. Mr. GIBSON, is un⯑doubtedly a burthen to himſelf in this part, conſe⯑quently can't ſit very light on the eyes, ears or feel⯑ings, of an audience. Mr. BANNISTER is better than either.

The Prince of Wales is totally made up of light and ſhade, his diſſipated ſtate and ſhameful compa⯑nions, render him an object of contempt; but his martial ſpirit, when called upon, and his real cou⯑rage, ſo happily tempered with generoſity, preſent him to view a very eſtimable character. As a rake he is pleaſant, as a hero ſtriking; in the tavern a trifler, but in the field important. Mr. RYAN had an eaſe in this mad-cap prince, which preſented him in a very agreeable manner. Mr. PALMER did the comic part well, but was egre⯑giouſly deficient in the ſerious ſcenes. Mr. CAU⯑THERLY is boyiſh at firſt, and inſipid at laſt. We do not recollect any perſon better calculated to do the character general juſtice than Mr. SMITH, he is well adapted by nature to give us an idea of the gentleman and prince.

Hotſpur is marked a very peculiar character, exactly anſwering our author's deſcription of a ſol⯑dier in AS YOU LIKE IT, ‘"jealous of honour, ſudden and quick in quarrel:"’ an enthuſiaſtic admirer of fame, who enters the liſts of rebellion, rather from ill founded reſentment than any ambitious view; however his cauſe deſerves cenſure, the original mo⯑tive of it admits of ſome defence; while his ſpi⯑rited [396] conduct commands applauſe, and his fall de⯑mands pity from every generous mind.

A martial figure, with great voluble powers, are the requiſites for this character; we have heard one Mr. DELANE much ſpoke of, but have too faint an idea to corroborate report. Mr. BARRY we often attended with great pleaſure, his externals pleaded powerfully for him, and he ſhewed many capital ſtrokes; but in the laſt ſcene of the firſt act, was re⯑markably deficient; the breaks and tranſitions wanted eſſential ſpirit and variety.

Mr. MOSSOP has power well ſuited to Hotſpur, but having leſs eaſe and more ſameneſs than Mr. BARRY, is conſequently leſs pleaſing. Mr. SMITH, who indeed is ſeldom any thing but Mr. SMITH, can never do the gallant Piercy juſtice; had Mr. GARRICK martial conſequence, his other requiſites would ſurpaſs all competition.

The other tragedy parts we don't ſufficiently re⯑collect for criticiſm; indeed, they afford no great opportunity for conſpicuous merit to ſhew itſelf.

Falſtaff is, beyond doubt, one of the moſt luxu⯑riant productions that ever ſprung from human imagination; a character ſo inimitably drawn, that by the force of irreſiſtable humour, we are led not only to forgive the unprincipled knight, but even to view him as an object of ſingular regard. There is not a ſentence he utters but feaſts atten⯑tention. The author has in this part ſhewn moſt powerful originality, and Mr. QUIN was in the repreſentation of him a true diſciple of Mo⯑mus; his comely countenance, his expreſſive eye, his happy ſwell of voice, and his natural im⯑portance of deportment, all united to make up a [397] moſt characteriſtic piece of acting. To point out one ſtroke where ſuch uniformity of merit adorned the whole, may ſeem ſuperfluous; yet it would be ingratitude to the remarkable pleaſure we felt from unuſual excellence, not to mention that paſſage, where Falſtaff's lies about the battle and buck⯑ram men, are pinched ſo cloſe, that he has no no refuge but the very unexpected one of pretend⯑ing that he knew the concealed aſſailants, and therefore conſidered the whole matter as a joke. There was in this place ſuch a glow of feature and expreſſion, as we ſhall never ſee equalled.

Mr. BERRY was a deplorable falling off, as heavy and unmeaning as a bare repetition of the words would admit. Mr. SHUTER's common fault, that of being too comical, lies much againſt him in the corpulent knight. Mr. LOVE is certainly correct, and ſtands next in our idea to Mr. QUIN. His fi⯑gure, features, eyes and manner, are agreeable to criticiſm; but we wiſh him a little more animation, a little of that luxuriance which Mr. SHUTER has too much of. Poins is well ſupplied by Mr. PACKER.

It is almoſt needleſs to ſay any thing of the la⯑dies, they are ſo trifling: Lady Piercy is the very ſimpleton of tragedy, totally uſeleſs, and unenter⯑taining; we have ſeen Mrs. WOFFINGTON, Mrs. BELLAMY, Mrs. HAMILTON, and Mrs. PALMER, daudle on for this part, without being able to diſ⯑cover any ſuperiority of merit, ſo very inſipid is the compoſition; indeed, were it not to compliment Hotſpur, an indifferent actreſs would ſuit it better than a firſt rate one; becauſe the former would probably take ſome pains, while the latter muſt un⯑doubtedly deſpiſe ſo ungracious an undertaking.

[398]The Hoſteſs, for what ſhe ſays, is well deline⯑ated; Mrs. MACKLIN made her appear to great advantage, and we are ſufficiently pleaſed with Mrs. PITT, and Mrs. BRADSHAW.

From what we have ſaid it will evidently follow, that the author of this play, though he has mani⯑feſted great abilities in the compoſition, for want of female characters and familiar incidents, has greatly abated the ſucceſs of it on the ſtage; few ladies have the ſame reliſh for Falſtaff's rhodomon⯑tades that Queen Elizabeth had. In the cloſet it muſt ever pleaſe ſubſtantial taſte.

The MOURNING BRIDE. A TRAGEDY: By CONGREVE.

WE are told that the ingenious parent of this tragedy, was four years finiſhing it, an old adage, ſignifying, that too much cookery ſpoils the broth, here ſtrikes us, and we wiſh it may not be verified by the preſent object of conſideration; but as we have hitherto avoided anticipation of judgment, let examination firſt take place, and candor, as hereto⯑fore, decide.

The MOURNING BRIDE begins with ſome very happy lines, ſpoken by Almeria. By the ſcene be⯑tween her and her confidante Leonora, which is too diffuſe and prolix, we find, that the Princeſs's father, Manuel, had depoſed King Anſelmo, to whoſe ſon Alphonſo, ſhe had been married unknown to her father; we are alſo informed, in a very poetical, but unnatural manner, that Alphonſo, flying with his bride from Manuel's fury, was wrecked, and in her idea loſt for ever; hence Almeria's diſtreſs, which ſhe expreſſes emphatically.

Shouts of triumph are heard: after Almeria's reſolving to viſit the tomb of Anſelmo, Gonzales enters. From him we receive a pompous account of King Manuel's triumphant entry: the Princeſs hears of her father's ſucceſs with cold indifference; the old ſtateſman hints his ſon Garcia's devotion of [400] heart for Almeria, but that ſubject is interrupted by the victorious monarch's approach.

Manuel ſeeing his daughter and her train in the ſable weeds of mourning, while ſplendor and joy gild every other part ot his palace and kingdom, conſiders her ſingularity as a mark of diſreſpect, and checks her in ſevere terms. She apologizes, by ſaying, ſhe keeps that day as the anniverſary of her deliverance from ſhipwreck. This vague excuſe, rather irritates than ſoftens the King, who orders her from his ſight, enjoining a change of dreſs. We think this order ſhould be complied with in the remainder of the play, as certainly a perſon of Ma⯑nuel's violent temper, would have reſented in ex⯑preſs terms, a freſh inſtance or continuance of diſo⯑bedience; we don't remember to have ſeen this point obſerved upon the ſtage.

As the Princeſs is going off, Garcia puts in his claim; which Manuel confirms, by giving his daughter's hand, and appoints the next day for their nuptials. This ſudden, irreſiſtable ſtroke, o⯑verwhelms Almeria with a fainting fit, by which ſhe gets clear for the preſent.

Alonzo here acquaints the King, that his lovely captive Zara, the Mooriſh Queen, is arrived. Be⯑fore her entrance, ſome intimation is given of Oſ⯑myn's character. Zara is received by her con⯑queror, not only with benevolent, but amorous po⯑liteneſs, which ſhe receives with haughty reſerve; however, the monarch reſolving to perſevere, frees her with his own hand, then addreſſes Oſmyn, who replies with enigmatical fullenneſs.

[401]Zara, fearful of any ill conſequence, apologizes for him, hy imputing his concern to having loſt, in the confuſion of battle, a valued friend called Heli. The King orders ſearch to be made for him, and concludes the act with a rapturous decla⯑ration of his paſſion in ſome tolerable lines, if they did not rhime.

The ſecond act begins with Garcia, Perez and Heli, in ſearch of Oſmyn; they get ſight of him gliding acroſs the Iſle of a Temple. Heli intreats to follow his friend alone: when they are gone off, Almeria and Leonora come forward; the latter feels very natural, womaniſh fear, at being amidſt ſo awful and terrifying a ſcene; but the former, made deſperate by grief, ſeems to enjoy the horrors of ſo gloomy a place. Having gained the tomb of An⯑ſelmo, ſhe perceives, with ſurprize, the iron and marble gates open: after making an addreſs to the grave, as a refuge from care, and conſequently the ſeat of peace, ſhe mounts her fancy in very bombaſt terms to ſtarry orbs, milky ways, liquid light, and ſeats of bliſs; mere poetical trumpery, when thus made uſe of.

After ſeveral emphatic repetitions of Alphonſo's name, he, in the habit and character of Oſmyn, riſes from his father's tomb; ſo unexpected an ob⯑ject ſtrikes the Princeſs with aſtoniſhment, that brings on another fainting fit: he endeavours to call her ſenſation back, while Heli enters unob⯑ſerved by him. At length, being reſtored and convinced of her huſband's identity, terms of the moſt endearing nature are interchanged; but our author has certainly rendered the ſcene heavy, by extending it too far: he ſeems to have conſulted [402] the indulgence of his own genius, more than nature and the eaſe of attention.

Perceiving Antonio, known by the name of He⯑li, their ſatisfaction is conſiderably encreaſed: while they are employed in mutual congratulations, upon ſo unexpected a meeting, Leonora perceives ſome perſons in ſhining garments croſſing the Iſle, whom Heli diſcovers to be Zara and Selim: her ill-placed paſſion for Oſmyn is mentioned to Al⯑meria, and he requeſts, for mutual ſafety, that the Princeſs may retire, which ſhe does.

Previous to Zara's entrance, Oſmyn reflects up⯑on the penury of ſight, which only admits exterior objects, and thoſe through neceſſity. This is not unnatural for a lover's extravagant ideas, but though common ſenſe admits the great latitude and ſuperiority of mental perception, we are not to throw a kind of philoſophical contempt on ſuch refined organization as the ſource of viſion: but love and reaſon ſo very ſeldom meet, that this paſ⯑ſage, though it might be ſpared, nevertheleſs ſtands in ſome meaſure juſtifiable.

Zara, urged on by her violent paſſion for the noble captive, purſues him even to the gloomy re⯑gion of death. Seeing him in a ſtate of deep, and to her regardleſs contemplation, ſhe upbraids him with ſlighting the affection ſhe has ſhewn for him, and urges ſome powerful proofs of love. In this ſcene, the lady diſcovers more romantic warmth than delicacy of feeling, and caſts off every trace of becoming pride: ſhe offers, through her influ⯑ence over Manuel, to give him liberty, which, knowing her terms, he declines. This rouſes her to the rage of a diſappointed female, tinctured with [403] jealouſy, and ſhe reſolves to irritate Manuel againſt him.

Juſt at this criſis, the amorous monarch enters; who, hearing that Oſmyn dares to be a rival, orders him to priſon and puniſhment: then concludes with a boyiſh obſervation, that love is the main ſpring of life.

At the beginning of the third act, we meet Oſ⯑myn, a priſoner, ruminating upon the tranſition from his father's tomb to an ignominious dungeon. He reads a paper, found in his cell, which, by the by, is very unnaturally thrown into blank verſe: this ſcroll appears to be a tender, ſupplicatory ad⯑dreſs to heaven, from his deceaſed father Anſelmo, for his deliverance and protection; one word being torn off, cauſes an abrupt concluſion, and Oſmyn moralizes on that circumſtance, in a ſtrange, per⯑plexed manner.

At laſt, he comes upon the point of eternal juſ⯑tice, which, notwithſtanding the profeſſed privilege of thinking, he leaves juſt as he finds it: we agree with our author, that thought precedes the will to think, but cannot own that error lives, ere reaſon can be born; or that reaſon, though a fallible, can juſtly be deemed a mere twinkling light, fooling the follower.

WHITFIELD himſelf, nor any other enthuſiaſt, could have given a more unworthy picture of hu⯑man nature's foremoſt attribute: Heli comes op⯑portunely to break this chain of falſe, or, at leaſt, partial philoſophy.

Obſerving that he has gained admiſſion by Al⯑meria's influence over the guard, Oſmyn enquires how ſhe is, and whether he may hope to ſee her: [404] being anſwered affirmatively reſpecting the laſt point, he expreſſes fears for her purſuing misfor⯑tunes in his perſon. The following compariſon of himſelf to chaff, is abominably far fetched:

Heli offers friendly conſolation, and acquaints him, that there are diſorders ripening in the ſtate, which hang as a ſtorm over the head of Manuel, and promiſe fair in Oſmyn's favour. This raiſes the noble captive's ſpirits, and, for a moment, he fancies himſelf at the head of a conquering army; which idea of exultation is ſoon turned into rage, on feeling the reſtriction of his chains: his friend judiciouſly recommends a moderation of ſuch violent feelings, and adviſes, at leaſt in appearance, an a⯑batement of his averſion to Zara; adding a deſire, that he may caſt his main hopes upon providence.

Heli going off, Oſmyn, in ſoliloquy, accuſes him⯑ſelf for queſtioning the impartial care of heaven, in temporal diſpenſations; and, at the ſame time, bla⯑zons his father's piety in that reſpect. We are ſorry to find in a ſpeech of ſuch moral and religious intention, the Book of Preſcience mentioned; as it immediately draws the thinking mind into an idea of predeſtination, which we deem the moſt uncom⯑fortable opinion that human nature can ſuſtain, The paſſage we here object to, reminds us of four lines in one of DRYDEN's plays, which ſeem to us [405] the oddeſt ſlight of ſpeculative fancy, that ever was committed to paper:

What a ſpacious and intricate ſcope of ſpecula⯑tion, do the two firſt lines propoſe? how vague and unſatisfactory a come off, do we find the two laſt exhibit?

Zara entering, covered with a veil, is miſtaken by Oſmyn for Almeria, and therefore tenderly ad⯑dreſſed: upon perceiving his miſtake, he manifeſts ſurprize, which betrays feelings no way conſonant to the Mooriſh Queen's wiſhes. This cauſes her again to upbraid him, though in tender terms; at the ſame time, ſhe pities his mournful ſituation, and ſeems painfully to conſider herſelf as the cauſe of it: his reply is generous, but his exculpation of her, by bringing in fate as the ſource of his woes, is blameable.

Expreſſing a wiſh that he had not been a ſlave, particularly at ſuch a time, the enamoured Queen promiſes, ere the riſe of morn, to procure him li⯑berty: the account ſhe gives of love forcing his eye-balls abroad, at the dead hour of night, is a ſtrained, unnatural effuſion of fancy.

When Zara retires, Oſmyn pronounces a ſhort eulogium upon her internal virtues, and external charms; yet concludes with conſidering her, from the violence of paſſions, as an object more to be feared than loved: here Almeria appears, whom he receives with the utmoſt tranſport, though in⯑cumbring [406] chains damp his tender feelings; to be a captive without probable hope of enlargement, ſtings his heart. The Princeſs ſtrives to ſooth his pangs, yet is too ſenſible of them to check her melt⯑ing ſympathy.

Several ſpeeches which occur between this di⯑ſtreſſed pair, are totally in the bombaſt ſtile; par⯑ticularly where Oſmyn puts in practice that con⯑temptible ſtage trick, daſhing on the ground; and the deſcription of the effects deſpair is like to have on him, is highly offenſive. In ſhort, this whole ſcene, though of pathetic tendency, is an impoſition upon nature; equally injurious to humanity and common ſenſe.

While they are ſunk into a ſtate of undiſcerning grief, Zara re-enters, producing the King's ſignet for Oſmyn's liberation: being requeſted by Perez, Captain of the Guard, to ſtop till the Princeſs is retired, her Mooriſh majeſty catches the gleam of jealouſy. Oſmyn perceiving her, conducts Almeria off, returning thanks for the condeſcending notice ſhe has been pleaſed to take of an unknown captive.

Zara ſees through his diſſimulation, and addreſſes him in terms which are a very ſmall degree above Billingſgate; for which we think the author highly blameable, ſince a royal character, though as ſub⯑ject to the unruly paſſions as thoſe of lower ſtation, ſhould ſtill maintain a ſuitable dignity of ſentiment.

After indulging her fury in reproaches, ſhe or⯑ders the guard, not only to confine him more ſtrictly, but to watch that he makes no attempt at ſelf-deſtruction. Then concludes the act, with an obſervation, which we take to be very well ground⯑ed; that there is nothing more dangerous than love [407] turned into hatred, nor any thing more vindictive than an amorous, jealous woman ſcorned.

Zara and Selim open the fourth act; by what paſſes between them, we find that ſhe has deeply incenſed the King, and that Manuel's rage has re⯑ceived freſh fuel from ſome accounts of a revolt amongſt his troops, and the flight of Heli, with ſome other perſons of diſtinction. Being told that the fate of Oſmyn, even for immediate execution, is ſigned, the Queen relents, and reſolves to defer his death. The agitations of a female mind in love, are here well deſcribed; the turbulence of rage and hate give way to ſofter paſſions, which ſo cir⯑cumſtanced we believe natural enough, even in a virago.

Puzzled to find probable means of ſaving the man ſhe loves, we hear her threaten the eunuch Selim with inſtant death, unleſs he ſuggeſts ſome⯑thing for her purpoſe: at this exigence he adviſes her not to diſcover any change in favour of Oſmyn, but to requeſt that execution may be done upon the noble priſoner in private, and by her mutes, as ſuppoſing the royal guard to be bribed. Here Manuel comes forward, dooming ſome rebellious leaders to death: by what Gonzales intimates to the King, we find ſome imperfect information has been received that Alphonſo is ſtill alive; by com⯑parative circumſtances Zara diſcovers that Oſmyn is Alphonſo.

This cauſes freſh anxiety, as his fate ſeems ine⯑vitable; however, ſhe reſolves, at all events, to at⯑tempt his preſervation: for this purpoſe, ſhe urges the neceſſity of his death, and frames a deceptive tale, importing that ſhe knows of a triple league [408] between Alphonſo, Heli, and Oſmyn. This gains Zara confidence with Manuel, who readily falls into her ſcheme of having him put to death by the mutes, and ſeems highly ſenſible of the obligation conferred by the zeal ſhe ſhews for his intereſt up⯑on ſo important an occaſion. Orders in conſe⯑quence of this arrangement are given, that no per⯑ſon ſhall have admittance to the Captive Moor, but ſuch perſons as have authority from Zara.

In the recollection of her jealous feelings, ſhe throws in a ſuſpicious hint, that even the Princeſs muſt not be allowed to viſit him. Gonzales, with the true penetration of a practiſed politician, ſuſ⯑pects the Mooriſh Queen's ſincerity, from ſo parti⯑cular and ſo emphatic an interdiction. Upon hinting the matter, Zara inadvertently ſlips out that ſhe had heard of an interview between Oſmyn and Almeria: this fires the King's reſentment, to which ſhe gives an artful turn, and retires, under pretence of preparing her miniſters for the execution of Oſmyn. No ſooner is ſhe retired than Gonzales mentions his doubts in explicit terms to the King, who for ſome time conſiders her as a ſanguine friend; but being awaked from the lethargy of confidence, at length ſees with the eyes of unpre⯑judiced caution, and fires at the thought of his daughter's diſobedient infidelity.

At this unlucky criſis the diſtreſſed Princeſs comes before her father, who indulges his rage, and loads her with reproach for the myſterious and ill-timed grief ſhe wears; his paſſion throws her into ſtill greater confuſion of mind, and this her intem⯑perature he concludes to be proof of ſome hidden, dangerous guilt. At length, the King's mention [409] that he knows who Oſmyn is, throws her into a ſtate of mental agony, bordering on deſperation, and ſhe drops ſome hints reſpecting her huſband; which, but that they are deemed the offspring of diſtraction, muſt cauſe the ruin of all her deareſt hopes.

Another convenient fainting bout is introduced, which rather checks the ſubject. After ſome dis⯑jointed flights on her file, the King orders her to be taken care of as an infane object; when her fa⯑ther retires, Gonzales endeavours to ſooth Almeria's grief, which increaſes to ſuch an height, that ſhe explains at full the ſecret of Oſmyn's being Al⯑phonſo; then impelled by the force of a frenzied imagination, runs off, ſuppoſing ſhe hears herſelf ſummoned by the mournful ſound of Alphonſo's dying voice.

Gonzales finding a firſt huſband in the way to impede his ſon's progreſs to royalty, by marriage with the Princeſs, deliberates how he may beſt work his own ambitious views for the aggrandiſement of his family: he fears to tell the King of the diſco⯑very he has made, leaſt paternal feelings ſhould work him to a reconciliation; the captive Queen he alſo apprehends danger from, on account of her ſecret attachment.

At length he reſolves, without opening his de⯑ſign any farther than by ordering Alonzo to procure him the dreſs of a mute; with this, and an intima⯑tion that Alphonſo muſt be ſlain, he concludes the act, aſſerting alſo his reſolution to place the crown at all events on Garcia's head.

At the beginning of the fifth act we meet the King, rather diſturbed that Zara, nor any of her [410] attendants are to be found. Juſt as Perez is giv⯑ing an account how Oſmyn is bound to earth with double chains, a mute appears, who, on ſight of Manuel, retires precipitately. Alonzo is diſpatched to ſeize him, on account of his having diſcovered ſuch diſorder, and concealed ſomewhat in his bo⯑ſom; Alonzo quickly returns with a paper, and information that the mute had ſtabbed himſelf on its being forced from him.

Upon peruſal of the paper, it appears that the King is moſt violently agitated: turning ſhort, and perceiving Perez to be within ear-ſhot, he firſt reproves him for ſo preſuming a ſituation, and then charges him with not only being privy to the diſ⯑guiſe of Alphonſo, as Oſmyn, but alſo of Almeria's intercourſe with him, and Zara's attachment in proof of which latter charge he reads ſome paſſages of the intercepted letter.

The injured officer pleads his ſervices, as deſerv⯑ing better uſage, but obtains no other return than the unkingly one of a blow; after which he is or⯑dered to drench his dagger in Alphonſo's heart; this he ſtartles at, but promiſes, on a threat againſt his own life, to perform. Enraged majeſty then gives way to an after thought, and propoſing to confront Zara, orders the cell where ſhe intends ſeeing Oſ⯑myn to be darkened, intending to be himſelf robed in Alphonſo's habit, and laid proſtrate as the cap⯑tive is, that ſhe may have no idea of deception till conviction flaſhes upon her.

Seeing the Queen approach he avoids an inter⯑view, and retires. Zara perceives him, and draws apprehenſion from his enflamed looks: we wiſh, at ſuch an anxious period, ſhe had not ſtepped aſide for [411] the aſſimulation of his eye to the dog ſtar, which al⯑luſion would be forced and ſuperfluous in any cha⯑racter, but is egregiouſly wrong for a Mooriſh lady, ſince in that country they have not ſuch ideas of aſtronomy as we have, even among the men, and the females are totally ignorant of every ſcience, the moſt familiar; therefore, mention of an abſtruſe one here is peculiarly abſurd, but our author ſeems determined to wrap her up with ſimilitudes this ſeene.

Suppoſing Selim deficient in ſome of his pro⯑ceedings ſhe upbraids him, while he, in a very mo⯑ral ſtrain, juſtifies himſelf under the idea of mortal imperfection. Two mutes, with that common tra⯑gedy appurtenance, a bowl of poiſon, are ordered to attend this wrong-headed Queen, which, as ſhe hopes, and is determined to ſet Alphonſo free, we don't ſee occaſion for, unleſs it be to prepare the audience for death. Gonzales next enters to the priſon, diſguiſed and alone; he ſurveys the man⯑ſion of miſery, he perceives the inner door to be unbarred, and enters with murderous intention.

Garcia comes on at this critical point of time, calling eagerly for his father; Gonzales ſoon re⯑turns, chafed at the interruptive clamours, howe⯑ver it appears he has done the deed of death. When Garcia mentions the city is all in confuſion, and that Oſmyn is fled with Perez to the foe, Gon⯑zales aſſerts that part of the intelligence is falſe, as his poinard reeks with the Moor's blood. To prove this aſſertion, Garcia goes into the cell, and returning inſtantly proclaims his father murderer of the King.

[412]This dire miſtake throws them into the utmoſt confuſion, and the old ſtateſman wiſhes to atone it with the ſacrifice of his own life; however, as things are circumſtanced, they reſolve to conceal Manuel's fate, and for this purpoſe Alonzo is or⯑dered to ſever his head from the dead trunk. This done, they go off to oppoſe the inſurrection.

Zara, teening with gloomy ſentiments and fatal reſolutions, comes forward, attended by Selim and her mutes: the ſtill horror of the ſcene affects her, ſhe ſends the mutes to tell Alphonſo that ſhe waits him, and orders Selim to acquaint the King ſhe has done what he commanded. When the mutes re⯑turn, with unuſual terror in their eyes, ſhe enquires the cauſe, which they diſcloſe by opening the back ſcene. Perceiving the horrid, headleſs trunk, and from the garment ſuppoſing it to be Oſmyn, ſhe indulges deep grief, d [...]ugh it appears that ſhe came reſolved to die, and to carry the object of af⯑fection to the grave with her.

While ſhe is in the utmoſt agony of mind, Selim enters, and telling her the King is no where to be found, ſhe ſtabs him. The faithful eunuch, wiſh⯑ing to ſave his miſtreſs, warns her not to drink the poiſon, and is going to inform her that Alphonſo is alive, but death checks him in the inſtant of in⯑formation. Zara proceeds to finiſh her weary life, but the author has run her into a ſad miſtake; be⯑ing a Mahometan, ſhe ſhould not talk of her ſpi⯑rit's meeting Alphonſo's in a future world, for in that faith women are not allowed immortality.

No ſooner is the unhappy Queen expired, but Almeria and her confidante enter; the Princeſs alſo comes to ſeek the object of her affection; up⯑on [413] ſeeing the headleſs trunk her grief riſes to a diſtracted height: viewing the fatal cups, ſhe deter⯑mines to end her cares; at the moment ſhe is go⯑ing to drink the poiſon Alphonſo enters, and ſnatches her from the gaping jaws of fate; the ſurprize of joy overpowers her, and ſhe faints for the third time.

The concluſion of this play draws a very moral inference, juſtly obſerving, that though virtue may labour under occaſional chaſtiſement, yet perſe⯑verance in rectitude cannot fail of reward. The MOURNING BRIDE has been, at different times, ſupported by very able performance, and has drawn many brilliant audiences, yet we cannot help thinking it one of the worſt living tragedies: it is apparently laboured, the ſentiments in general ſtrained, the verſification in many places monoto⯑nous, and the plot equivocal.

In point of characters, we find the King a weak, bluſtering, tyrannical object; a credulous lover, and a harſh father. His paſſions, eſpecially in the fourth act, are laughable, and the device which oc⯑caſions his death, farcical; he is altogether the moſt ungracious load that ever lay heavy on the ſhoulders of a performer. The higheſt merit that can be attained is to paſs through him inoffenſive⯑ly, and in this view we have ſeen Mr. SPARKS. Mr. BERRY rumbled him out in a moſt diſguſting man⯑ner: why he ſhould be impoſed upon Mr. J. AICKIN, we cannot conceive, unleſs to prejudice his merit in public opinion, his brother's general caſt and ſtile of acting, ſhould have royalized him in this play.

Oſmyn is deſcribed to us as a hero, but appears in no other light than that of an affectionate, [414] conſtant huſband. His ſituations and embarraſ⯑ments raiſe ſenſations of pity, but being totally out of the fourth act, and ſo immaterialiy concerned in the firſt and fifth, he becomes a very imperfect hero for repreſentation.

We have ſeen Mr. SHERIDAN make Gothic at⯑tempts upon this part, for which he had not a ſin⯑gle requiſite: an inſufficiency of figure, diſſonance of expreſſion, and limitation of voice, conjoined to overſhadow every trace of merit. Mr. BARRY was happy enough to be the very reverſe of the fore⯑mentioned gentleman; his love, grief and rage, were all expreſſed by very adequate powers. Mr. GARRICK, we think, in the ſoliloquies, and the ſcene with Heli, outſtripped every competitor; but the Mooriſh habit proved rather too much for his figure, and the amorous paſſages did not flow from him with that natural ſincerity, of which Mr. BAR⯑RY gave us an ample and very pleaſing idea. Mr. MOSSOP is much too mechanical and boiſterous, he cannot ſhake off the baſhaw; he ſhould never at⯑tempt any thing in the amorous ſtile, but that ſul⯑tanic hint of dropping the handkerchief. Mr. HOLLAND ſtiffened his deportment into a degree of aukwardneſs, and tortured the tones of his voice into an irkſome degree of diſſonance. Mr. INCH⯑BALD has preſented himſelf in Oſmyn this ſeaſon with a very ſlender degree of credit, being in every reſpect much worſe than any we have named, ex⯑cept Mr. SHERIDAN. Gonzales, like moſt ſtateſ⯑men, of all ages, moves upon that ruling principle ſelf-intereſt, and aggrandiſement of his family. As a part he ſtands in a ſtate of mediocrity, neither for or againſt the actor: we remember to have ſeen [415] him well done by Mr. HAVARD; and Mr. PACK⯑ER, who may be ſtiled the Pack-horſe of DRURY LANE, does him ſufficiently well. Mr. HULL has abilities, if required, to render the part reſpectable. As to all the other male characters, we ſhall leave them to their own inſignificancy.

Almeria, who gives name to the play, is amiable in her principles, and pitiable in her circumſtances; the author has run her a little into the romantic ſtrain, but ſhe has the happineſs of opening the play with two of the beſt lines in the whole piece. There is a variety of acting in this part, yet her royal highneſs is undoubtedly too much upon the whine: no perſon whom we have ſeen had equal capabilities to Mrs. CIBBER for this part; Mrs. BELLAMY, though inferior in requiſites, muſt not be placed far behind; her painting of diſtraction was more faint, but love and tenderneſs ſhe always expreſſed with admirable feeling. Miſs MACK⯑LIN, about ſeventeen years ago, by the inſtruction of, and playing with Mr. GARRICK, ſupported Al⯑meria through a conſiderable run, with much cre⯑dit, and really ſtruck out ſeveral beauties; but her feelings, though correct in tragedy, always wanted the animation of expreſſion; her voice was too thin and contracted. Miſs YOUNG, whom we con⯑ſider as a riſing actreſs, has ſhewn ability in the part, but we object to this lady's frequent attempts at what ſhe can't execute; ſtriving to excel is, no doubt, a laudable ambition, but as a performer ſhould not overſtep the modeſty of nature, no more ſhould he or ſhe ſtrain the powers of nature; it is better to be a little below, than above the point of rectitude.

[416]Zara is, beyond diſpute, the moſt indelicate Queen that can well be imagined; ſhe is vicious and mean, groſs in ſentiment, and vulgar in ex⯑preſſion. Had ſhe been more delicate in the for⯑mer, and more reſerved in the latter, ſhe might have attracted ſome degree of humane concern; but, as ſhe is, good ſenſe and decorum muſt frown through the four firſt acts, while ridicule attends her and the head-ſhaking miniſters of death in the fifth. The author's peculiar unhappineſs in the cataſtrophe of this leading character, is plainly evinced by an obſervation we have repeatedly made, that ſcarce any degree of merit can ſave ex⯑piring Zara and her diſmal attendants from being laughed at.

Mrs. WOFFINGTON's figure and deportment were well adapted to the captive Queen; but the vio⯑lent, as well as tender paſſions, grated abominably in her diſſonant voice. Mrs. PRITCHARD was ma⯑jeſtic, but rather too corpulent; in ſpeaking and acting the part, ſhe ſhewed correct and fine preſer⯑vation of character. The amorous paſſages were indeed not ſo harmonious as might be wiſhed, but in the jealouſy ſhe made ample amends.

We remember to have ſeen Mrs. CLIVE make a laughable aſſault upon Zara, which was nearer burleſque than could well be imagined. Had it not been to excite curioſity upon her night, it would have been one of the moſt unpardonable at⯑tempts that ever was made: excluſive of a voice dreadfully unfit for ſerious ſpeaking, her perſon rendered all the King's amorous compliments ludi⯑crous; and juſtified Oſmyn's coldneſs, admitting [417] he had no other engagement to warp his inclina⯑tion.

It is amazing that a principle of ſelfiſhneſs ſhould cauſe people of great merit and good circumſtances, for the ſake of a few pounds, to exhibit themſelves in a contemptible point of view. Mrs. HOPKINS, who now apologizes for moſt of the above excel⯑lent comedian's parts, makes rather a better figure in Zara, yet is bad enough, heaven knows. We have now got to the end of our remarks upon this laborious tragedy, and, without any heſitation, ven⯑ture to pronounce it, though capable of drawing tears when well acted, the worſt compoſition that any man of equal genius to Mr. CONGREVE ever produced.

LOVE MAKES A MAN; OR, The FOP's FORTUNE. A COMEDY: By CIBBER.

THE piece now offered to view took its origin from two plays of BEAUMONT and FLETCHER, which we think the Laureat ſhould have owned; but cannot find any trace of ſuch juſtice and mo⯑deſty in his prologue: two old dons, Antonio and Charino, open this play, talking upon a marriage between one of Antonio's ſons and Charino's daughter; the choice of who ſhall be his ſon-in-law, and other matters being agreed upon, Sancho enters and preſents a letter from Carlos to his fa⯑ther Antonio; ſoon after Clodio's valet appears, and in broken Engliſh announces his maſter's ſpeedy approach.

The brothers next come forward; when Clo⯑dio's vivacity, oppoſed to Carlos's ſtiffneſs, makes a favourable impreſſion upon Charino; who though old ſeems fond of feſtivity; the Beaux's remarks upon his brother's formal univerſity air improve the prejudice in his favour; Clodio retires to change his dreſs, which gives Antonio an oppor⯑tunity to conſult Charles's inclination or ideas re⯑ſpecting matrimony; being deſired to become a [419] man of the world, the abſtracted ſcholar ſeems to point out books as the moſt valuable and com⯑prehenſive enjoyment; when told that he ſhould marry for ſake of an heir to continue the family, he deſires that care to be caſt upon his brother, and ſeems ambitious of nothing but exalted know⯑ledge.

This throws the matrimonial ſcheme entirely upon Clodio, who returns and entertains the two old dons with a very whimſical and pleaſant ac⯑count of the French princes and princeſſes he has been familiar with in Paris, the father, and pro⯑poſed father-in-law enjoy his rhapſodical volubility ſo highly, that Charino propoſes immediate intro⯑duction to his daughter Angelina, which Clody gladly accepts, and they go off highly pleaſed with each other.

Sancho, who has overheard the deſign of ſettling the greater part of his maſter's inheritance upon Clodio, determines to acquaint don Lewis, Anto⯑nio's brother, with the matter; the cynical old blade entering juſt at this point of time, and de⯑ſiring to ſee Charles, Sancho opens the matter to him by degrees; upon hearing it he denies credit to the tale till Antonio, who comes on with a law⯑yer, confirms the truth of it; this cauſes don Lewis to uſe ſome very angry expreſſions againſt Clody, and favourable ones in reſpect of Charles; his admiration of and regard for literary know⯑ledge, though he knows nothing at all of the matter himſelf, further than that Greek has a lofty ſound, is humourouſly imagined.

There is a very groteſque and diverting oddity throughout this ſcene, and the firſt act concludes [420] with a furious declaration of don Lewis's againſt the proceedings of his brother, and the hopes of his younger nephew.

Sancho is preſented at the beginning of the ſe⯑cond act in anxious ſollicitation for his maſter's intereſt, but the poſitive father, bent on his own determination, cuts the matter very ſhort; then calls all his ſervants to prepare the wedding enter⯑tainment: Carlos from his ſtudy hears an unuſual buſtle, the noiſe of which diſturbs him; on ſeeing Sancho he aſks the meaning of it; being told it is the cooks, he lays by his book, then enquires about his younger brother's knowledge of languages; the marriage being mentioned, Sancho gives a luſ⯑cious deſcription of Angelina, by way of warming his maſter's numb'd feelings.

Upon hearing that all his birthright is to be ſettled upon Clody, he bears the intelligence with philoſophic patience. While he is in this ſtate of cold reſignation, the original of Sancho's picture comes on and immediately ſtrikes the ſcholar's wondering eyes; from ſome ſenſible replies he re⯑ceives proof of her underſtanding, but finding himſelf touched more than he could wiſh, he retires.

The thought of his calling for an OVID is very characteriſtic and pretty; Clody, don Lewis, An⯑tonio, and the lawyer, now come forward; upon being bid welcome, don Lewis afreſh expreſſes his diſpleaſure, particularly againſt Clodio; concern⯑ing whom he ſpeaks to Angelina in very whimſical terms; tired with being fretted, he goes off and returns immediately to Charles in his ſtudy; with whom he parleys about his ill-timed negligent in⯑difference; [421] at length he perſuades him to go and wiſh his intended ſiſter joy. Antonio enters with the lawyer to get Charles's ratification of his in⯑tended ſettlement, which he promiſes to execute; but wiſhing to do it in preſence of the lady, they retire for that purpoſe.

Charino, Angelina, Clody, a lawyer and prieſt next appear; don Lewis hints again to Angelina his diſlike of her match. Carlos enters with his father, and confeſſes upon the ſecond view of his purpoſed ſiſter, thoſe affectionate ſenſations which dawn'd at the firſt ſight of her.

Upon ſaluting Angelina, he expreſſes himſelf with all the warmth of rapture; ſhe ſympathizes, which occaſions him to declare that he could wiſh his brother happy with any other beauty: here Antonio and Charino interpoſe, while don Lewis encourages his nephew's amorous feelings, and ſeems determined to defend his claim.

The interruptions of Clody, and the replies of don Lewis, are very laughable; there is ſomething pleaſingly delicate in Carlos's readineſs to ſacrifice his own views and happineſs, to the lady's real in⯑clination if againſt him. At length finding, as far as modeſty will permit, that ſhe pronounces him the man of her heart, he reſolves to ſupport the privilege of encouraged love; and being rouſed by a challenge which Clody gives, he decides the matter by diſarming his confident coxcombly bro⯑ther, and carrying off the lady.

Her father highly enraged purſues, and the vanquiſhed Clody is left in a very whimſical ſitua⯑tion; here the plot takes a romantic and unpar⯑donable turn; finding that don Lewis, Carlos, [422] and Angelina have got on board ſhip, the two fa⯑thers and Clody reſolve to purſue them; thus af⯑fairs are ſtated at the concluſion of the ſecond act; between which and the beginning of the third, we are ſafely, though not very probably, conveyed to Liſbon, where we encounter don Duart the go⯑vernor, and Elvira, ſiſter to the former.

From what paſſes we find the don is a moſt fu⯑rious creature, violently prone to quarrel on ridi⯑culous, chimerical notions of honour; being ad⯑viſed to a moderation of temper, he flounces off with a degree of brutal paſſion: here a ſcene fol⯑lows which is generally omitted, but we think ne⯑ceſſary for explanation of the plot; as by it we know how Angelina has come on ſhore, and by what means ſhe is placed in Louiſa's houſe.

In the next ſcene we meet Louiſa and Ho⯑noria returning from veſpers. From what the former drops, it appears that her devotion has been interrupted by the ſight of a moſt engaging young man; here don Lewis and Carlos enter; the for⯑mer mentions their narrow eſcape from drowning, and their impoveriſhed circumſtances; the latter ſeems to think theſe matters of trivial concern, compared with the loſs of his miſtreſs.

His tenderneſs impreſſes Louiſa, ſhe reſolves to ſet a watch upon his ſteps, and for the preſent, under cover of a veil, gives him a purſe to relieve their neceſſity; don Lewis, at ſight of the gold, concludes her ſome woman of great fortune in love with Charles; and upon very mean, mercenary principles adviſes him to caſt aſide the remem⯑brance of his firſt love, for ſake of the emolu⯑ment which preſents itſelf; however Charles un⯑touched [423] with the avarice of age, and conſtant in his affections, rejects ſo unworthy a propoſition, reſolving to ſearch for his loſt Angelina.

Antonio and Charino appear next upon a hot ſcent of the run-aways; Clody joins them in the utmoſt anxiety for the loſs of a favourite ſnuff-box; this concern for ſo trifling an object, when the loſs of a daughter and bride claims notice, ſeems to abate Charino's favourable opinion of his deſigned ſon-in-law.

The old fellows go off on their purſuit, Clodio ſtays behind looking for his toy; while he is thus employed a page, preceding don Duart, orders him out of his maſter's way, the don himſelf com⯑ing up Clody banters him with pleaſantry; a blow given, brings on a tilting match, wherein Clodio wounds and brings his violent antagoniſt to the ground.

There is ſomething ungenerouſly cruel in Clo⯑dio's ludicrous remark of ‘"having never fenced better in his life;"’ a man of real courage, and Clody though a fop might be ſuch, will never ex⯑ult over a proſtrate, much leſs an expiring foe; an alarm being given by the page, and in conſe⯑quence a hue-and-cry raiſed, the conqueror finds it prudent to ſeek ſafety in flight; accordingly he eſcapes by a precipitate retreat from the officers of juſtice, who upon ſeeing don Duart think he has only received his deſerts; however they take up the body in order to convey it to his ſiſter's.

Don Lewis and Carlos now enter, having had ſome notice of Angelina; Carlos is forced by Louiſa's emiſſaries into a chair, and don Lewis violently dragged after him, with a gag in his [424] mouth; the next ſcene places us in Elvira's cham⯑ber, where we find the young lady preparing for devotion, and very oddly ordering all the lights away, as, according to her own meaning, ſhe can meditate without light.

Clodio having perceived the door of this lady's houſe open, in the hurry of flight makes it a re⯑fuge, and ſteals into the chamber where ſhe is; being heard by her, ſhe moſt unaccountably enters into converſation with a ſtrange man, in the moſt ſuſpicious circumſtances, whom ſhe cannot even ſee; we are at a loſs to know whether ſhe ſhews moſt folly or reſolution in her behaviour; if the latter it is not very delicate or characteriſtic.

Immediately upon confeſſing that the officers are at his heels for having killed an antagoniſt, though in ſelf-defence, ſhe by a violent ſtretch of huma⯑nity pities, and affords him protection; ſhe indeed palliates her proceeding by an obſervation that her raſh brother may want ſuch indulgence; no ſooner is Clody placed in a ſecure retreat than his purſuers enter with don Duart's body.

Here Elvira receives a violent ſhock from the ſight of a dead brother, and the inſtantaneous conviction that ſhe has taken the murderer under her care; ſhe indulges proper concern, but deter⯑mines to keep her vow of protection to the un⯑known perſon. Clodio interprets this very unde⯑ſerved, and culpable favour as a proof that ſhe has a tender for his perſon; but how he could ſup⯑poſe that, as ſhe has never ſeen him, we cannot tell; after the governors are gone ſhe calls Clody forth, and deſires him to take advantage of the [425] night for his eſcape; this he gladly complies with, but intimates a future deſign upon his protectreſs.

The ſucceeding ſcene carries us to Louiſa's houſe; that lady enquires whether her orders have been obeyed; being told that the gentlemen are ſecured, ſhe orders that all paſſages of egreſs may be ſhut up, and a ſtrict ſilence obſerved; upon Carlos's enquiring why he has been forceably con⯑veyed he knows not whither, Jaques declines a reply, and leaves him with his uncle, whom he finds gagged on the floor, and whoſe dumb lan⯑guage he does not underſtand.

Jaques however returns and releaſes don Lewis; Charles and the old man upon ſeeing each other feel ſome comfort, though both of them are puz⯑zled to find out what the treatment they have met with proceeds from; while they are expreſſing a mixture of doubt and apprehenſion the ſervants re-enter with an entertainment, the ſight of which ſeems to remove every diſagreeable ſenſation from don Lewis's mind; he refreſhes himſelf very hear⯑tily, but cannot perſuade Charles to partake; after ſupper it is intimated that he muſt retire, he obeys with a kind of whimſical reluctance.

The old don, ſuſpicious of ſomewhat extraordi⯑nary, gropes his way to a window, from whence he ſees Louiſa encounter Charles; this fair dame with very little reſerve, nay we might ſay licentiouſneſs, confeſſes and urges her amorous inclination; ſhe preſents him with jewels as a token of affection, and uſes every method of tender perſuaſion but in vain; the conſtant and diſintereſted lover rejects her propoſals and flies her temptations precipi⯑tately; this naturally enrages her, and don Lewis, [426] who has wiſhed an accommodation of matters agreeable to her deſires, determines to try if he can't talk her into good humour; but his attempt is made in ſuch fulſome, though laughable terms, and is ſo far unſucceſsful, that Louiſa orders him to be again gagged, tied neck and heels, and thrown into a garret.

Carlos enters endeavouring to find a way for his eſcape but cannot effect it; in his progreſs from chamber to chamber he accidentally gets into that where Angelina is alone, meditating upon the aenigmatical behaviour of the people ſhe has got amongſt; Carlos ſeeing a lady alone hopes to make her a friend, his voice ſtrikes Angelina's ear with a well known ſound, ſhe turns upon him and fills him with joyful aſtoniſhment; Jaques who has un⯑perceived traced Carlos's ſteps, goes to inform his lady of the interview he has been witneſs of.

He ſoon returns with Louiſa, who hears their mutual declarations of love, and alſo hears ſome ſevere ſtrictures upon herſelf; finding an eſcape meditated, ſpurred by jealouſy, diſappointed love and pride, ſhe takes preventive meaſures; however not time enough to hinder Carlos from getting over the garden wall; the lady feels this incident ſtrongly but finds ſome comfort in the idea of his returning within an hour, when ſhe reſolves that vengeance ſhall wait and intercept him.

The next ſcene introduces us to Clodio and Du⯑art who meet in the ſtreet; it appears that the latter has been ſeeking after the former; to what end will appear by what follows: a converſation enſues, rather general than particular, and a bottle of wine is called for, we think a little oddly, in the [427] ſtreet; Clody's account of gallantry in different nations is certainly licentious, and in our idea vul⯑gar; he may divert diſſipated minds, but cannot be acceptable to good ſenſe and delicacy.

His duel with don Duart falls in as a part of diſcourſe, but why he ſhould mention ſo dangerous an incident to a perfect ſtranger is very irreconcile⯑able; when don Duart confeſſes a thorough know⯑ledge of the affair, he ſeems alarmed; but gives up apprehenſion at an aſſurance that he is free from all danger; why don Duart ſhould give Clody a purſe, and why a man of his figure ſhould accept of it, is not eaſily accounted for, however thus we find it; and Clodio in the fullneſs of confidence, manifeſting a very weak and uncautious head, communicates to his new friend Elvira's humane protection of him, which his vanity interprets love.

Don Duart feels very juſt reſentment at ſuch be⯑haviour as his ſiſter's appears to him, and under⯑takes to carry a letter that he may come more par⯑ticularly at the real feelings of Elvira; thus con⯑cludes the fourth act.

At the beginning of the fifth, we perceive the lady, laſt mentioned, in a ſtate of deep mourning and profound melancholly; don Duart enters in diſguiſe and delivers the letter; in order to effect that juſtice for a brother's death which her raſh vow of protection prevented, ſhe ſeems to receive the addreſs of her gallant favourably; to draw him within her power ſhe expreſſes to the meſſenger rapturous wiſhes for his appearance, and propoſes anſwering his letter; this behaviour fills the brother with rage, which however he ſuppreſſes till more [428] ſubſtantial proof of her unnatural hypocriſy can be made out.

We next meet Louiſa and Jaques; ſhe enquires if Angelina is ſeized; being anſwered in the affir⯑mative, ſhe orders that when the ſtranger is taken alſo, immediate intelligence may be brought to her; ſhe has a ſhort ſoliloquy expreſſive of her re⯑ſentment at being ſlighted for one ſhe calls a girl; at the end of which intelligence is brought that the cold object of her affection is ſeized; Carlos di⯑rectly appears in a ſtate of captivity; after a few lines of upbraiding, Louiſa vindictively orders a door to be opened which ſhews Angelina in the Turkiſh ſtate of a bow-ſtring, on the point of being ſtrangled; the ſituation of Carlos and his innocent miſtreſs here grows very pathetic, while Louiſa's tyrannical exultation over their diſtreſs renders her for ſome time a very hateful object; at length melt⯑ed by the ſupplications of the man ſhe has impro⯑perly fixed her deſires upon, ſhe diſmiſſes the bra⯑voes, and reſtores the unhappy lovers to mutual affection and peace. This is an unexpected and pleaſing turn, but rather deficient in probability; for if CONGREVE's maxim, which we are apt to ad⯑mit, be right; that

This favourable turn of affairs ſeems brought about unaccountably; yet be it as it may, it has a ſatis⯑factory effect upon the audience, and ſoftens the diſagreeable view of a female monſter, which hi⯑therto Louiſa has invariably appeared.

Carlos having returned thanks for deliverance, enquires after his uncle don Lewis, who is ordered [429] in; the old gentleman, upon ſeeing Charles, for⯑gets his paſt ill treatment, and enjoys the pleaſing circumſtance of meeting his nephew; ſeeing Louiſa he begs excuſe for his freedom at a former meet⯑ing; being introduced to Angelina he expreſſes his ſatisfaction in very whimſical terms.

The governor is here introduced, who comes to ſearch for Carlos and Angelina upon the oaths of their purſuers; Louiſa beſpeaks his favour for the lovers, which he promiſes; Charino now comes forward, with Antonio and Clody; he appears in a violent heat, demanding of juſtiee, while Antonio acknowledges a reconciliation to Charles's proceed⯑ing, and gives the young pair his bleſſing: this ir⯑ritates Angelina's teſty father a-freſh; ſhe interpoſes with modeſt, emphatic perſuaſion, which however he makes no immediate reply to; don Duart enters and preſents Clodio with the anſwer to his letter; finding it kind, he reſigns all claim to Angelina, and invites the company to his wedding with the lady Elvira.

The ſcene now changes to her houſe, where all the characters ſoon appear; Clodio approaches her in terms of ſpirited nothingneſs, and introduces the whole company to her; when matters are at the point of an agreeable concluſion, Elvira calls the officers of juſtice whom ſhe has placed in wait⯑ing, and demands from the governor juſtice on the murderer of her brother; here circumſtances are thrown into confuſion; Charino finding Clody's dilemma, receives Charles as his ſon-in-law; and don Lewis with great humour, though very little humanity, diverts himſelf at his unhappy nephew's expence, till don Duart's diſcovering himſelf gives [430] a pleaſing explanation, and renders all the parties agreeable to each other.

After painfully toiling through this piece, which is highly offenſive in many places to criticiſm, we are to expreſs aſtoniſhment that a perſon ſo well ac⯑quainted with the drama, both as a writer and a performer, ſhould have plunged into ſuch unjuſti⯑fiable irregularity: even in hiſtorical tragedies, where importance of events and dignity of cha⯑racters may in ſome ſhape apologize for a breach of the unities, violent treſpaſſes are not admiſſible; how much leſs ſo in a repreſentation of private life, where only common tranſactions are exhibited; but the laureat ſeems to have ſtudied character alone in this play, and conſideration will ſhew that he has in his favourite point rather caracatured than followed nature.

The two old gentlemen, Antonio and Charino, are very whimſical fathers; the former wants to have one of his ſons married by way of continuing the family; which of them fulfils this natural duty he does not ſeem to care, and upon Charles's de⯑clining a connection ſo inconſiſtent with his abſtract ideas, very tenderly attempts to ſtrip him of his birthright.

Charino is violently fond of his daughter, wants to ſee her happy, yet never conſults her inclination reſpecting the moſt material concern of human life; he takes a fancy to the oſtentatious, unmean⯑ing rattle of a ſpirited coxcomb, and immediately ſets him down as a moſt deſireable ſon-in-law; without any other recommendation than a vivacity, and that rather licentious, ſeldom agreeable to de⯑clining age, there being nothing material in the [431] repreſentation of theſe two characters, and indeed many more parts of this play, we cannot charge our recollection with any but the three leading ones.

Don Lewis is a very extraordinary creature, he ſeems to have good nature, but then it appears to be merely founded upon the ſpirit of oppoſition; he is peeviſh and poſitive, more of a humoriſt than an object of eſteem; many of his expreſſions, though groſs, are laughable; the mode of per⯑forming this part is a cynic dryneſs of expreſſion, which we are apt to think Mr. MACKLIN hit off more happily than any other performer we have ſeen; he was extremely pleaſant without being co⯑mical; his retorts upon Clodio were inimitably contraſted; Mr. YATES is no leſs chaſte and cor⯑rect; but wants an equal degree of force: Mr. SHUTER manifeſts a glow of uncharacteriſtic good nature, and plays off too many variations of fea⯑ture; he ſeems too ſenſible of his own humour, and palpably chuckles where he ſhould leave that totally to the audience.

Clodio is made up of rhapſodical volatility; he appears to have no idea beyond the character of courage and volatility; he ſeems ready to addreſs any woman, or to fight with any man: intrigue, marriage or duelling are all alike to him; he is thrown into a variety of whimſical ſituations, and muſt be allowed a moſt favourable part for any actor who has ſuitable capabilities.

Notwithſtanding Mr. THE. CIBBER muſt have collected many advantageous ideas from the origi⯑nal, his father, and author of the piece; we never could think him ſufficiently poſſeſſed of negligent ſprightlineſs; he too often mixed the formal ele⯑gance [432] of a Foppington, and ſunk the coxcomb in the man of faſhion; he had alſo an unpardona⯑ble fault which diſgraced many of his principal characters; that was making ludicrous faces, more adapted to Abel Drugger than any claſs of genti⯑lity: to Mr. WOODWARD's Clody we give a great preference; as, to us, his figure, deportment and expreſſion, fill up every ſatisfactory idea; he makes uſe of ſome theatrical manoeuvres, which ſeem more calculated to catch the million than critical judgement, but as they are upon the whole inno⯑cent baits to gain applauſe, we do not think it neceſſary to particularize them. If pleaſing the majority be the actor's moſt profitable conſidera⯑tion, as certainly it is, this gentleman may be de⯑fended in moſt, if not all of his outré ſtrokes; the theatre frequently verifies what Cimberton remarks;

Mr. KING has every pleaſing and eſſential requiſite for Clody, but we never had the ſatisfaction to ſee him perform it.

Carlos, as a ſtudent, is moſt formally pedantic, totally unacquainred with life; as a lover, enthu⯑ſiaſtically amorous and romantic; he has courage when called upon, and appears not only conſtant in his affection, but commendably diſintereſted in his love; he is, through the former part of the play, a ſubject of eſteem, in the latter an object of pity; we reſpect though we cannot admire.

As a part he is not very favourable to the actor, as ſome of his ſcenes are incumbered with a tedi⯑ous ſameneſs.; Mr. DEXTER, who had very much of the gentleman in his appearance and expreſſion, [433] filled up this part ſome years ago with very pleaſing ability, yet we muſt give a preference to Mr. ROSS's requiſites, ere his perſon increaſed beyond the idea of a ſtudious life; Mr. BENSLEY is lean enough, but wants the ſoft flow of expreſſion, and philoſophical compoſure of look, which ſhould picture Carlos; he is too auſtere in the beginning, and too boiſterous where the paſſions come in: we remember one Mr. W. GIFFARD marching on for this part ſome fifteen years ago at Covent-Garden, who had ſo much of the antique paternal pompo⯑ſity ſtamped on his performance, that in ſome places he might have paſſed for Alexander; in others for Bajazet; now Cato, then Caſtalio, all exaggerated: ſuch groſs violations of nature, ſuch an unharmonious gallimaufry of acting, ſure never was ſeen, and can hardly be conceived.

Elvira and Angelina are very lukewarm ladies, eſpecially the former, who is much more of a fool than a philoſopher; if any thing can be made of Angelina in repreſentation, Mrs. BULKLEY's talents appear well adapted to make the burthen agree⯑able.

Louiſa is as contemptible a female as we know; groſsly licentious, and naturally cruel in her tem⯑per; indeed ſhe ſoftens at laſt, and throws off the monſter; but we think that ſince ſo unworthy a female was introduced, it would have been but barely conſonant to public juſtice to have puniſhed her in ſome manner ſuitable to her culpable beha⯑viour; inſtead of which, ſhe is allowed to huddle up an advantageous match with a worthy man, who has addreſſed her for years: Mrs. HAMILTON did this lady great juſtice; we may ſay entered too [434] far into the author's meaning, for it is blameable to exhibit offenſive pictures of nature in ſtrong co⯑lours.

When we look back upon this piece, we muſt again cenſure and lament Mr. CIBBER's hardineſs to venture and work upon ſo pantomimical a plot, highly improbable and groſsly irregular; the ſenti⯑ments, in many parts of this comedy, convey groſs ideas; many of the ſcenes are too long, others to⯑tally inſignificant: the dialogue is natural and ſprightly, though void of wit and elegance; the moral very vague, lying wholly in this, that the paſſion of love will inſpire a man to rouſe up prin⯑ciples of reaſon and action, which, till he feels that paſſion, lie dormant in his breaſt: what utility is inculcated hereby, we know not; but this we know, that young minds may be prejudiced by the capital figure in this piece of theatrical paint⯑ing.

Upon the whole, if an audience chuſe merely to laugh, the FOP's FORTUNE, when well performed, will gratify that wiſh; but we cannot by any means recommend it to peruſal; if in the cloſet it eſcapes tainting the mind, which we doubt, it may be ſafely aſſerted, that no inſtruction can be derived from the piece.

The DISTRESSED MOTHER. A TRAGEDY: By AM. PHILIPS.

ORESTES, the ſon of Agamemnon, in cha⯑racter of ambaſſador from ſeveral Grecian ſtates, opens this piece meeting moſt unexpectedly, and with much joy, his faithful friend Pylades, from whom he had been ſeparated by a ſtorm at ſea; his appearance and ſplendid retinue occaſion friend⯑ly congratulation upon the apparent favourable reverſe of fortune; but we find that an amorous feeling damps any pleaſure which might be de⯑rived from the eminence of his ſtation.

Pylades expreſſes ſurprize and concern at this painful weakneſs, eſpecially as he ſuppoſed his princely intimate long ſince freed from ſuch an ef⯑feminating bondage. By Oreſtes's exculpatory ex⯑planation, we find that Hermione, daughter of Menelaus, who has betrothed her to Pyrrhus king of Epirus, is the object of his affection; we alſo learn, that he had endeavoured to ſhake off the influence of her charms, but being unluckily de⯑puted a public miniſter to the court of his rival, where he cannot avoid ſeeing the princeſs, love flows in upon him with a returning and reſiſtleſs tide.

The ſubject of his embaſſy is rather ſtrange and diſgraceful to his employers; a vindictive demand of Aſtyanax, Hector's ſon, who, with his mother Andromache, are captives at the court of Epirus: [436] Oreſtes in this ſcene ſhews himſelf a man of very violent paſſions, and therefore ill calculated for public truſt; a gleam of hope breaks in upon the agitated lover, on being informed that a preference ſhewn to Andromache by Pyrrhus, occaſions Her⯑mione to turn her thoughts from the cold monarch to her firſt lover's tranſports.

Here Pyrrhus enters to give audience; when Oreſtes delivers his addreſs, in as manly, nervous, and plauſible terms, as the ſubject of it will admit; a great ſhare of dignified humanity breaks forth from Pyrrhus in his replies; his determination to guard the fatherleſs and widow, amidſt every peril, would manifeſt true magnanimity of mind, but that we find an amorous inclination at the bottom of it; after many remonſtrances, the ambaſſador ſounds Pyrrhus reſpecting Hermione; the mo⯑narch's anſwer is doubtful, however he ſends Oreſtes upon the agreeable errand of ſeeing the idol of his heart.

Upon Phoenix's obſervation to Pyrrhus, that he is encouraging a rival, he expreſſes a deſire of be⯑ing, freed from the Princeſs, at any rate; here An⯑dromache and her conſidante Cephiſa approach; the former being addreſſed by Pyrrhus, ſhe weep⯑ingly turns the diſcourſe to her ſon Aſtyanax: mention of him occaſions the king to tell her what the Grecian ſtates demand; ſhe claims protection, which he promiſes, but taxed with a proviſo of having his love returned.

His propoſitions are ardent and flattering, but the royal widow's inflexible attachment to the me⯑mory of her firſt lord, thwarts his views and ſol⯑licitations, inſomuch that he ſhews reſentment, but [437] gives her time for conſideration; deſiring ſhe may viſit the child, and reflect while ſhe is embracing him, whether to become a queen, and ſave her darling boy, or remain deaf to intreaty, and loſe him by an obſtinate perſiſtance in widowhood.

Andromache in a ſhort, pathetic ſoliloquy, founded more on maſculine heroiſm than maternal tenderneſs, ſeems to reſolve upon his fate, and expreſſes a determination to ſhare it; thus ends the firſt act.

Hermione begins the ſecond with her attendant Cleone, whom we perceive to be a partner of her boſom ſecrets; it appears that the princeſs had re⯑fuſed an audience to Oreſtes, but by perſuaſion now agrees with his requeſt; a point of confuſion, wrought by her ſenſe of the unworthy treat⯑ment ſhe has given him, occaſioned the refuſal, and a ſpark of pride that he ſhould find her in a foreign court, neglected by the man to whom ſhe is be⯑trothed, ſtrengthens her diſtreſs of mind; being irritated againſt Pyrrhus by Cleone, ſhe determines, amidſt the warmth of jealous reſentment, to take the advantage of Oreſtes's ambaſſy, and, under his care, once again to ſeek her father's kingdom.

This princeſs, though ſomewhat juſtified by the idea of a rival, triumphs rather too vindictively over the unhappy mother and her diſtracted ſon; her paſſion for Pyrrhus appears very warm, though her ſenſibility perceives and allows the merit of Oreſtes. Here the ambaſſador makes his appear⯑ance, and paints his ſucceſsleſs, yet unabating paſ⯑ſion, in very emphatic terms; hearing that Pyr⯑rhus refuſes to deliver up Aſtyanax, her jealous reſentment kindles a-freſh, and ſhe cheers her lover's [438] drooping ſpirits with ſome tender expreſſions; but upon being told by him that Pyrrhus neglects her charms, wounded pride confeſſes impatient feel⯑ings, and Oreſtes falls under blame for ſuggeſting an idea ſo mortifying to beauty.

After ſeveral ſtruggles and changes of paſſion ſhe reſolves, unleſs Pyrrhus delivers up the captive boy, to return with Oreſtes; this gives the prince ſingular ſatisfaction, as he cannot ſuppoſe compli⯑ance from the monarch; Pyrrhus approaches, and to the ambaſſador's great aſtoniſhment, conſents to the demand made by the Grecians. Thunder⯑ſtruck with ſo unexpected a change, Oreſtes makes a confuſed, and indeed very uncharacteriſtic reply; the agitation of his mind is much increaſed by Pyrrhus's declaration, that he will, on the ſucceed⯑ing day, receive Hermione as his bride, and from Oreſtes, as repreſentative of her father. Pyrrhus having gained a momentary triumph over his pre⯑judice in favour of Andromache, boaſt of it in ſuch a ſtile that his boſom counſellor Phoenix, who ſees with the diſcerning eyes of unimpaſſioned age, ſeems to think his ſtruggles like thoſe of a lion in the foils, which only ſerve to entangle him more deeply; the ſtateſman expreſſes his doubts, which the royal lover deems ill grounded, though he is ob⯑liged to ſlip out an acknowledgement, how difficult it is to root up a ſettled attachment from the heart; the ſecond act concludes with a ſimile too flowery and poetical for an agitated mind.

At the beginning of the third act we meet the two friends, Pylades and Oreſtes, the latter vio⯑lently lamenting his wayward fate, the former en⯑deavouring, by cool perſuaſion, to appeaſe his paſ⯑ſions; [439] which however hurry on to the deſperate and unjuſtifiable extremity of hearing his miſtreſs off by force: being made ſenſible how contrary to his ſtation and public faith ſuch an act would be, he requeſts Pylades to take charge of Aſtya⯑nax, while he reſolves to undertake the enterprize alone; but rather than ſuffer this, his faithful companion reſolves to ſhare the enterprize however dangerous and culpable.

This point ſettled, Hermione enters, and is ac⯑quainted by Oreſtes that Pyrrhus has conſented to eſpouſe her; though ſhe doubts the principle on which the monarch's ſudden change is founded, yet ſhe appears extremely willing to embrace it. Oreſtes goes off with a ſeeming reconciliation to the circumſtance, upon which, like a true woman, ſhe ſeems nettled that her old lover ſhould ſo tamely yield his hopes to the new one; however the approaching gratification of her real inclination diſſipates the tranſient cloud into ſmiles of joy, and ſhe breaks into a rapturous elogium on the heroiſm of her intended bridegroom.

Andromache here with untimely grief comes upon the princeſs, and in very moving terms ſol⯑licits her interpoſition in favour of Aſtyanax; to which ſhe makes a cold and rather diſdainful re⯑ply, that concludes with an inſulting taunt, the offspring of a little, rather than a great mind, which latter ſpecies maintains dignity even in re⯑ſentment.

Soon after Hermione retires, Pyrrhus enters en⯑quiring for her; perceiving him diſtant, Andro⯑mache's fears for her child increaſe, and for ſome time ſhe wants reſolution to addreſs him on the [440] ſubject; this he interprets coldneſs tinctured with pride; ſhe makes a motion to retire, which occa⯑ſions him to mention, with ſome degree of ruffled temper, the ſurrender of her ſon; ſo heart-wound⯑ing a circumſtance gets the better of modeſt, timid reſerve, and ſhe ſues for pity.

Pyrrhus ſuſtains her ſupplications for ſome time with unmoved firmneſs; at length, touched with her plaints, he orders their attendants to with⯑draw, then explains the ſtate of his own heart, and his political concerns; tells her he is ready to ſend away Hermione, even at the utmoſt peril of vin⯑dictive nations, if ſhe will become partner of his bed; he retires with again, and finally, ſubmitting to her choice, meeting him in the temple, or loſing her ſon for ever.

Brought to this painful dilemma, ſhe recapitu⯑lates ſome very powerful motives for declining a marriage with Pyrrhus, who was a main agent in the deſtruction of her former huſband Hector, his family and country; however maternal feelings at length prevail, ſhe gives up every other conſidera⯑tion to the preſervation of her ſon, and then rhimes herſelf off with more jingle than meaning.

At the beginning of the fourth act we again meet the diſtreſſed mourner confirming the reſolu⯑tion juſt mentioned, and hinting to Cephiſa ſome ſecret deſign which demands her confidence: mat⯑ters thus ſettled, ſhe goes off to be robed for roy⯑alty, and ſeems for the preſent to wear a heart ſomewhat lightened of its mortifying load. Her⯑mione now preſents herſelf with a countenance full of ſullen and vindictive ſorrow; it appears ſhe has heard of the intended nuptials, and enquires for [441] Oreſtes, who enters almoſt on the word; revenge for the ſlight ſhe has receiv [...]d is inſtantaneouſly propoſed, which Oreſtes ſeem ready to undertake by open force of arms, but her impatience from jealous rage inſiſts upon immediate ſatisfaction, even in the temple.

He very juſtly remonſtrates againſt a proceeding ſo contrary to the law of nations, as for him to make an aſſault upon a monarch who has hoſpitably and honourably received him in the confidential ſtile of an ambaſſador; however, the reſult of this conference ſhews, that a truly jealous woman is not to be perſuaded by reaſon nor humanity, and that a man totally enſlaved by love is liable to commit the moſt unjuſtifiable actions, under per⯑ſuaſion of the object he adores.

After Oreſtes retires to execute the dire com⯑mand Hermione has enjoined, ſhe triumphs in the idea of vengeance, but ſeeing Pyrrhus approach, immediately ſoftens from her ſanguinary purpoſes, and ſends Cleone after Oreſtes; a ſhort ſcene en⯑ſues between her and the monarch, when being again enraged by his coldneſs, ſhe goes off with threats of fatal tendency.

Phoenix after her departure expreſſes fear of his maſter's ſafety, while Pyrrhus, intoxicated with love, has no apprehenſion but for the ſafety of Andromache and her ſon: the intended queen, decked in the magnificence of bridal garments, next appears; however the mental gloom ſeems invariably fixed, and we perceive that external grandeur, often the caſe, is but the covering of internal ſorrow.

[442]She relates with feminine credulity a dream, from whence ſhe forms the gloomy reſolution, which was very common in her days, of ending her cares by ſuicide, after ſhe had ſecured Aſtyanax's life by fulfilling her promiſe to Pyrrhus; this may have a portion of heathen heroiſm and delicacy in it, but wants our idea of true reſolution, which makes it cowardice to fly cares by ſuch means, and maternal tenderneſs, which will encounter any difficulty to watch the tender years of an infant offspring, ſhe concludes the fourth act with aſſimi⯑lating herſelf to a victim going to ſacrifice, a ſenti⯑ment very trite, but well enough applied to her ſituation.

Act the fifth commences with Hermione in ſo⯑liloquy, full of horrors at having doomed the ob⯑ject of her affection to death; there is great va⯑riety of acting merit in this ſpeech, and the ago⯑nizing throws of a mind torn between love, jea⯑louſy, revenge and repentance, are pictured ſtrik⯑ingly by the pencil of nature. Cleone comes to the aid of her unhappy miſtreſs, and rouſes up her vengeance, by deſcribing Pyrrhus's progreſs to the temple, and the mortifying ſatisfaction which ſhone in his countenance; borne beyond every de⯑gree of calm reflection, or patient ſufferance, ſhe indulges the moſt ungovernable paſſion, and re⯑news her vindictive threats with double fury. Upon the entrance of Oreſtes, who informs her that according to her wiſh and expreſs order Pyr⯑rhus had been ſlain at the altar; a moſt ſtriking, and we think natural, turn of mind affects the princeſs; ſhe hears the manner of Pyrrhus's fall with a kind of ſullen diſtraction, then breaks forth [443] in the fullneſs of paſſion againſt Oreſtes, for having ſo readily obeyed the precipitate order of unthink⯑ing jealouſy; the ambaſſador vainly endeavours to vindicate his proceeding, while ſhe leaves him with moſt virulent terms of reprobation.

In ſoliloquy he reflects upon himſelf for being hurried by love into ſo unjuſtifiable an action, eſ⯑pecially for one ſo ready to accuſe him of the miſ⯑chief occaſioned by herſelf; Pylades entering urges the prince to a neceſſary retreat: loſt to all feelings for his own ſafety, he determines to remain at all events with Hermione. Hearing from his friend that the unhappy fair one has expired on the corpſe of the deceaſed monarch, his reaſon gives way to accumulating horrors, and at length reſigns its throne to the moſt furious diſtraction; a variety of unconnected images diſtract his ideas, till at length nature yielding to ſuch heart-racking ſtruggles, he is borne off void of all ſenſibility.

Phoenix enters with guards ſeeking the Grecian aſſaſſins who have fled; Andromache comes for⯑ward, who declares that vengeance ſhall be taken of the faithleſs Greeks; then gives orders for the funeral of Pyrrhus, and concludes the play with that common, but moral inference; that the inno⯑cent, however oppreſſed, meet when they leaſt ex⯑pect it, effectual comfort and relief.

To conſider this tragedy at large, we find it cri⯑tically regular, both in the plot and connection of ſcenes, which perhaps takes from it a portion of ſpirit that plays better ſupplied with buſineſs ma⯑nifeſt; it is ſo thin of characters, that a ſameneſs creeps through many paſſages; the verſification is ſufficiently ſmooth, without an enervating mono⯑tony, [444] and the ſentiments are elevated without ſuch an indulgence of fancy as ſhocks nature; however at the cataſtrophe we perceive a fault, which is, leaving the audience in doubt concerning the fate of Oreſtes; as we have no ground to form an idea of what becomes of him, whether he dies diſtract⯑ed or gets back ſafe to Greece.

As the author has not ſcrupled to violate real hiſtory in the fate of Hermione, he might as well have fixed that of the prince: we are alſo of opi⯑nion that the boy Aſtyanax might have been intro⯑duced to conſiderable advantage, as a real perſoni⯑fied object muſt ever influence an audience more than an ideal character, witneſs the ghoſt in Ham⯑let, who makes a much greater impreſſion by ap⯑pearance than the previous deſcriptions of him, though awful and emphatic can do; we hope it will not appear an Hiberniciſm to mention a ghoſt, where perſonification is hinted, ſince thoſe chimeri⯑cal children of the brain are cloathed with corpo⯑real ſemblance.

In point of characters we find that Pyrrhus, who has been a victorious proſelyte of Mars, like many other military heroes, ſacrifices the dignity of his mind to the charms of Andromache; nay, he gives up common honeſty by a breach of his plighted faith to Hermione; his paſſion is obſtinately fixed, neither danger from abroad nor his own reflection can deter him. In performance he is a good, but not a great part; while in view he commands at⯑tention and reſpect, but he takes leave of the au⯑dience in an imperfect and unconſequential man⯑ner; he melts from our view without affording the leaſt reaſon to think we ſhall not ſee him again.

[445]Dignity of appearance, and placidity of ex⯑preſſion are eſſential to the repreſentation of this character; Mr. QUIN poſſeſſed the former, but rather in a brutiſh degree, and the latter he was totally deficient in; he neither looked or ſpoke the lover. Mr. BARRY has done the part with more merit than any other perſon we remember, and ſa⯑tisfactorily fulfilled every idea we could form of it; he looked like a man that might well engage Hermione's affection, and ſpoke like one who muſt melt the heart of Andromache, had not grief ren⯑dered it callous to all other feeling. Mr. DIGGES ſupport [...] it in a manly becoming manner; we know not any perſon now at either houſe, who would not be trifling or heavy in it.

The character of Oreſtes, as a man, makes a mean figure, though as a lover ſeverely diſtreſſed, he engages ſome concern; he ſeems willing to be⯑tray his truſt as an ambaſſador, and then turns aſſaſſin in obedience to his ungovernable paſſion; he has many rapid and violent tranſitions, which offer an actor fair opportunities of diſplaying ca⯑pital powers to advantage: Mr. RYAN, though very unintereſting through the four firſt acts, threw more fire into the fifth than any of his competitors we remember; his painting of the diſtraction was truly fine, and the following words in particular he expreſſed inimitably: ‘"I ſhiver—oh, I freeze."’ Mr. BARRY was uniformly reſpectable through the character, but wanted that quick fire of expreſſion ſo requiſite in many paſſages; Mr. MOSSOP is too boiſterous in expreſſing the paſſions, and toils through the whole piece in a moſt painful manner, incumbered with a ſtiffneſs of deportment incom⯑patible [446] with real dignity. Mr. POWELL was languid, totally unequal to the princely Greek; Mr. HOL⯑LAND had ſufficient powers, but moſt rude and in⯑digeſted; his mechanical formality, and ungovern⯑able violence, rendered his performance in general, either inſipid or offenſive; Pylades and Phoenix are in point of acting merit below criticiſm.

Andromache, in our view, appears rather a ro⯑mantic than a natural character; however the au⯑thor has made her favourable to the actreſs, and very intereſting to the audience. Mrs. CIBBER was undoubtedly herſelf alone in the DISTRESSED MOTHER; her feelings were deeply pathetic, and her expreſſion entirely adequate; Mrs. BELLAMY diſplayed conſiderable merit, but was not equal to her great cotemporary and competitor, though con⯑ſiderably beyond any other lady who has come with⯑in our notice; Mrs. BARRY we have not ſeen, but think ſhe has requiſites and judgment to do An⯑dromache great juſtice.

The Grecian princeſs is placed in very odd cir⯑cumſtances, and indeed her conduct ſeems full as odd as her ſituation; love is extremely capricious, and often runs the wiſeſt heads into actions either very ridiculous or highly culpable. Hermione's violent affection for Pyrrhus may therefore apolo⯑gize for the inconſiſtencies which form her cha⯑racter; but her making ſuch a fool of poor Oreſtes, and her inſulting the diſtreſs of Andromache, are ſtrong indications of a ſubtle, ungenerous, ſelfiſh mind; in action ſhe muſt be very conſpicuous, giving full ſcope for the diſplay of every capital tragic attribute.

[447]Mrs. WOFFINGTON, in point of voice, was not equal to the paſſions of this part, but filled up every other idea with pleaſing and forceable ability. Mrs. FITZHENRY, had ſhe not been a ſervile copy of the above-mentioned lady, would have given much ſa⯑tisfaction; but juſt and impartial criticiſm muſt ever frown upon ſecond-hand acting: if it was diſ⯑pleaſing in no other view, this alone would render it ſo, bringing to recollection the merit of an ori⯑ginal, which muſt ever ſtrike more than the hap⯑pieſt imitation.

Mrs. HAMILTON, an uncertain, excentric actreſs, was not without ſome excellence in perſonating Hermione; Mrs. PRITCHARD, bating figure, did the princeſs peculiar juſtice, but upon the whole we are well diſpoſed to give the capabilities of Mrs. YATES conſiderable preference to any who have gone before her.

The Frenchified regularity of this play, which ſome very able, but over-nice critics admired at its firſt coming into the world, is in our apprehenſion an enervating circumſtance; the characters are too confined, and but indifferently diſpoſed; Mr. PHILLIPS was happy in being perſonally acquaint⯑ed with thoſe eminent geniuſſes who ſhed ſo great a luſtre on QUEEN ANNE's reign; from their par⯑tial friendſhip a much more reputable account was given of this tragedy than it deſerves, for beyond all doubt it is heavy in repreſentation, and languid in the cloſet.

Here we take leave of particular pieces, and ſhall now enter into more general criticiſms on com⯑poſition and action; hitherto we have religiouſly [448] adhered to our original principle of impartial in⯑veſtigation, both of plays and performers; we have not praiſed the dead to cut up the living, but very freely pointed out alternately, excellencies and errors as they have appeared; not one ſyllable in the DRAMATIC CENSOR has been dictated by friendly attachment or private pique; by fear of reſentment or hope of reward; this aſſertion we defy any perſon mentioned to contradict with rea⯑ſon and truth.

We wiſh the STAGE, as a noble and uſeful in⯑ſtitution, increaſe of ſucceſs, and all the diligent, deſerving ſons of THESPIS reward; our cenſure is not meant to prejudice but improve performers who are not too ſelf-ſufficient, and our praiſe is offered as an incentive to emulative merit.

The character of an actor, though more recon⯑ciled at preſent than ſome years ſince to ſocial eſteem, is yet by many held in a prejudicial and painful light, without the ſhadow of reaſon; for if a player is in private character a good man, his pro⯑feſſion cannot prevent him from being an eſtimable object; if every profeſſion was to fall under legiſ⯑lative and general interdiction, on account of ſome diſſolute and diſgraceful members, what would be⯑come of even the moſt reſpectable degrees of life? is religion leſs ſacred, becauſe ſome who wear cano⯑nicals are not only a diſgrace to their cloth, but even to human nature? is law leſs reſpectable, be⯑cauſe there are among its profeſſors wretches who ſacrifice every idea of juſtice to avaricious, mer⯑cenary views? is phyſic leſs worthy attention, be⯑cauſe ſome of its practitioners vend poiſonous noſtrums? is the army leſs honourable, becauſe [449] an unavoidable mixture of fools, knaves, and cow⯑ards, frequently ſhows itſelf.

If there is an alloy in all human actions, and every ſtation of life, why ſhould an uncharitable irrational mark of reprobation be ſtamped upon the ſons of the Drama; thoſe words in our moſt extraordinary penal act, reſpecting the ſtage, ‘"gain, hire, or reward,"’ are the ſtrangeſt ſuggeſtion that ever entered the human brain; if pecuniary advan⯑tage is to reflect diſcredit, what ſituation in this great ſtage of life is exempt? if, as we have ſome⯑where found it ſenſibly remarked, dramatic enter⯑tainments are either contemptible, or pernicious, why ſhould not the writers as well as performers be ſtigmatized; yet on the contrary, we find authors treated with the higheſt reſpect, while the poor actors are vilified, except where liberality of mind, and gentility of education, reſcue them from ſuch diſagreeable and irrational treatment.

When we come to conſider the powers and diver⯑ſity of dramatic action more particularly, we ſhall perceive that a performer, to come near critical pro⯑priety, muſt poſſeſs an intelligent mind, many a⯑greeable qualifications, ſtrong feelings, and at leaſt a decent, if not a good, education.

There have indeed been inſtances of ſome per⯑formers who having very faint imperfect ideas of their own, became by infinite pains tolerable organs to convey thoſe of others in an agreeable manner, but where one of thoſe parroted machines arrives at any ſtability of merit, twenty fall to the ground.

There is nothing more eaſy, or more common, than for a managerical fineſſe to preponderate a⯑gainſt public judgment; an admiration of novelty [450] is a Britiſh characteriſtic; this induces the audience to give every new performer a favourable recep⯑tion; ſuch commendable good nature is anticipa⯑ted by preparatory puffs, and corroborated by twen⯑ty or thirty pounds worth of well diſpoſed orders, who are to furniſh the deceitful and tranſitory ſtamp of noiſy approbation. The object of this appro⯑bation fancies the applauſe deſerved, grows conſe⯑quential, and never aims at improvement, but falls in public opinion as faſt as it riſes in its own.

This, among many others, is a point of high re⯑proach againſt the managers; let young and riſing merit work its own way, take care that the party of an envious veteran does not nip the ſwelling bud; but, at the ſame time gentlemen providers for pub⯑lic taſte don't palm upon us Dutch plaice for tur⯑bot, or necks of beef for ſirloins; don't grapple at ſo many thouſands a year, but let your benefactors ſatisfaction keep ſome decent kind of pace with your own weighty emoluments; a paltry take-in is below men of ſenſe; impoſitions are beneath men of honeſty.