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Bates. 'Twas I. We have a witness too, you little think of Without there. Stuk. What witness?

Bates. A right one. Look at him.

[Enter Charlotte and Lewson].

[Mrs. B. on perceiving Lewson, goes into a hysterical laugh, and sinks on Jarvis.]

Stuk. Lewson! O villains! villains!

[To Bates and Dawson.]

Mrs. B. Risen from the dead! Why, this is unexpected happiness!
Char. Or is it his ghost? [To Stukely.] That sight would please you, sir.
Jar. What riddle is this?

Bev. Be quick and tell it, my minutes are but few.

Mrs. B.

Alas! why so? You shall live long and happily.

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

Char. And give me pangs unutterable.

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

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Lew. And of a thousand frauds; his fortune ruined by sharpers and false dice; and Stukely sole contriver and possessor of all.

Daw. Had he but stopped on this side murder, we had been villains till.
Lew. [To Beverley.] How does my friend?

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

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

Bev. [Wildly.] They told me he was murdered!

Mrs. B. Ay; but he lives to save us.

Bev. Lend me your hand; the room turns round.

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

Bev. 'Tis here, and here. [Pointing to his head and heart.] And now it tears me!

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

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

Mrs. B. Alas! for what?

Bev. For meanly dying.

Mrs. B. No; do not say it.

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

Lew. Oh, fatal deed!

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

of hope, that in these last and bitter moments my soul may taste of comfort! And for these mourners here O let their lives be peaceful, and their deaths happy.

Mrs. B. Restore him, heaven! O, save him, save him, or let me die too! Bev. No; live, I charge you. We have a little one; though I have left him, you will not leave him. To Lewson's kindness I bequeath him. Is not this Charlotte? We have lived in love, though I have wronged you. Can you forgive me, Charlotte?

Char. Forgive you? O, my poor brother!

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

Lew. How is it, madam? My poor Charlotte, too!

Char. Her grief is speechless.

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

The Elfrida, and Caractacus, of Mason, whom we have already noticed, were dramas of a much more intellectual and scholar-like cast than 'The Gamester,' but were destitute of tragic interest. They were brought on the stage by Colman, manager of Covent Garden theatre, and were well received; but they are now known only as dramatic poems, and not as acting plays. From Elfrida' we select the following fine passage :—

AGAINST HOMICIDE.

Think what a sea of deep perdition whelms
The wretch's trembling soul, who launches forth
Unlicensed to eternity. Think, think,

And let the thought restrain thy impious hand.
The race of man is one vast marshalled army,
Summoned to pass the spacious realms of Time,
Their leader, the Almighty. In that march
Ah! who may quit his post? when high in air
The chosen archangel rides, whose right hand wields
The imperial standard of Heaven's providence,

Which, dreadful sweeping through the vaulted sky,
Overshadows all creation.

Far the most natural and affecting of all the tragic productions of this period, was the Douglas of Home, which was founded on the old ballad of 'Gil Morrice.' 'Douglas' was brought out in Edinburgh, in 1756, and its representation was attended with praises and with tears without limit; and in the following year it was produced at Covent Garden with equal success. The plot of this drama is pathetic and interesting in the extreme; and while some parts of the dialogue are flat and prosaic, others are written with the liquid softness and moral beauty of Heywood, or Dekker. Maternal affec

tion is admirably delineated under the novel and striking circumstances of the accidental discovery of a lost child; and the chief scene between Lady Randolph and Old Norval, in which the preservation and existence of Douglas is discovered, has no equal in the modern, and scarcely a superior, in the ancient drama. Douglas himself, the young hero, 'enthusiastic, romantic, desirous of honor, careless of life and every other advantage when glory lay in the balance,' is beautifully drawn, and formed the school-boy model of most of the English youth, 'sixty years since.'

JOHN HOME, the author of this fine drama, was connected with the family of the Earl of Home, and was born at Leith, in 1722. He received his education, in preparation for the ministry, at the university of Edinburgh, and succeeded Blair, the author of 'The Grave,' as minister of Athelstaneford. Previous to his ordination, however, he had, in 1745, taken up arms as a volunteer, against the Chevalier, and after the defeat at Falkirk, was imprisoned in the old castle of Downe, whence he effected his escape, with some of his associates, by cutting their blankets into shreds, and letting themselves down to the ground. The romantic poet soon found the church as severe and tyrannical as the army of Charles Edward. So violent a storm was raised because a Presbyterian minister had written a play, that Home was forced to bow to the authority of the presbytery, and resign his living. To compensate him, in some degree, for his loss, Lord Bute bestowed upon him the sinecure office of conservator of the Scots' privileges at Campvere, and on the accession of George the Third, in 1760, when the influence of Bute was paramount, the poet received a pension of three hundred pounds per annum. He wrote various other tragedies, all of which have now passed into oblivion; but with an annual income of about six hundred pounds, an easy, cheerful, benevolent disposition, and the enjoyment of the friendship of Hume, Blair, Robertson, Lord Kames, and many others, distinguished for rank and talents, Home's life glided on in happy tranquillity. He survived nearly all his associates, and died in 1808, having attained the advanced age of eighty-six.

As a specimen of the style and diction of Home, we subjoin part of the discovery scene in 'Douglas,' already alluded to. Lord Randolph is attacked by four men, and rescued by young Douglas. An old man is found in the woods, and is taken up as one of the assassins, some rich jewels being also in his possession:

DISCOVERY OF HER SON BY LADY RANDOLPH.

[Prisoner-Lady Randolph-Anna, her maid.]

Lady R. Account for these; thine own they can not be:
For these, I say: be steadfast to the truth;

Detected falsehood is most certain death.

[Anna removes the servants and returns.]

Pris. Alas! I'm sore beset; let never man, For sake of lucre, sin against his soul! Eternal justice is in this most just!

I guiltless now, must former guilt reveal.

Lady R. O, Anna, hear! Once more I charge thee speak The truth direct; for these to me foretell

And certify a part of thy narration:

With which, if the remainder tallies not,

An instant and a dreadful death abides thee.

Pris. Then, thus adjured, I'll speak to you as just

As if you were the minister of heaven,

Sent down to search the secret sins of men.

Some eighteen years ago, I rented land

Of brave Sir Malcolm, then Balarmo's lord;

But falling to decay, his servant seized

All that I had, and then turned me and mine

(Four helpless infants and their weeping mother) Out to the mercy of the winter winds.

A little hovel by the river side

Received us: there hard labour, and the skill
In fishing, which was formerly my sport,
Supported life. Whilst thus we poorly lived,
One stormy night, as I remember well,
The wind and rain beat hard upon our roof;
Red came the river down, and loud and oft
The angry spirit of the water shrieked.
At the dead hour of night was heard the cry

Of one in jeopardy. I rose, and run

To where the circling eddy of a pool,

Beneath the ford, used oft to bring within

My reach whatever floating thing the stream

Had caught. The voice was ceased; the person lost :

But, looking sad and earnest on the waters,

By the moon's light I saw, whirled round and round,
A basket; soon I drew it to the bank,

And nestled curious there an infant lay.

Lady R. Was he alive?

Pris. He was.

Lady R. Inhuman that thou art!

How could'st thou kill what waves and tempests spared? Pris. I was not so inhuman.

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Anna. My noble mistress, you are moved too much: This man has not the aspect of stern murder;

Let him go on, and you, I hope, will hear

Good tidings of your kinsman's long lost child.

Pris. The needy man who has known better days,

One whom distress has spited at the world,

Is he whom tempting fiends would pitch upon

To do such deeds, as make the prosperous men

Lift up their hands, and wonder who could do them;
And such a man was I; a man declined,
Who saw no end of black adversity;

Yet, for the wealth of kingdoms, I would not

Have touched that infant with a hand of harm.

Lady R. Ha! dost thou say so? Then perhaps he lives! Pris. Not many days ago he was alive.

Lady R. O, God of heaven! Did he then die so lately?

Pris. I did not say he died; I hope he lives.

Not many days ago these eyes beheld

Him, flourishing in youth, and health, and beauty.

Lady R. Where is he now ?

Pris. Alas! I know not where.

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

Direct and clear, else I will search thy soul.

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

Pursue thy story with a faithful tongue,

To the last hour that thou didst keep the child.

Pris. Fear not my faith, though I must speak my shame.

Within the cradle where the infant lay

Was stored a mighty store of gold and jewels;
Tempted by which, we did resolve to hide,

From all the world, this wonderful event,

And like a peasant breed the noble child.

That none might mark the change of our estate,

We left the country, travelled to the north,

Bought flocks and herds, and gradually brought forth
Our secret wealth. But God's all-seeing eye
Beheld our avarice, and smote us sore;
For one by one all our own children died,
And he, the stranger, sole remained the heir
Of what indeed was his. Fain then would I,
Who with a father's fondness loved the boy,
Have trusted him now in the dawn of youth,
With his own secret; but my anxious wife,
Foreboding evil, never would consent.

Meanwhile the stripling grew in years and beauty;

And, as we oft observed, he bore himself,

Not as the offspring of our cottage blood,

For nature will break out: mild with the mild,

But with the froward he was fierce as fire,
And night and day he talked of war and arms.

I set myself against his warlike bent;
But all in vain; for when a desperate band
Of robbers from the savage mountain came-

Lady R. Eternal Providence! What is thy name?
Pris. My name is Norval; and my name he bears.
Lady R. 'Tis he, 'tis he himself! It is my son!

O, sovereign mercy! 'Twas my child I saw !

No wonder, Anna, that my bosom burned.

Anna. Just are your transports; ne'er was woman's heart Proved with such fierce extremes. High-fated dame!

But yet remember that you are beheld

By servile eyes; your gestures may be seen

Impassioned, strange; perhaps your words o'erheard.

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