At fuch a time-That look doth wrong me, Rofinberg! Ere I beheld-Before we enter'd Mantua. Rof. Yes, I will go. (As they are going, Rof. ftops, and looks at Bafil.) 'Rof. 'Tis for my wonted caution, Which first thou gav'ft me, I fhall neʼer forget it. Thou but a youth, I then a man full form'd; It is offenfive in the publick eye, And fuits not with a man of thy endowments. In other terms repeated→ But I must go to-day without my caution. Rof. Nay Rofinberg, I am impatient now. Did I not fay we'd talk of her no more. Baf. Well, my good friend, God grant we keep our word!" P. 85. If our limits would permit, we could trace with pleasure the progrefs of the count's attachment through the whole of this admirable tragedy. It is the production of one who has ftudied nature deeply. Perhaps it is impoffible to bestow upon it higher praife, than to say that it reminded us of our old and excellent dramatic writers. The artifices of the duke are fuccefsful; and Bafil is detained at Mantua till the battle of Pavia has been fought. From his high notions of military honour, fhame and pride overpower him, and he destroys himself, preferving till death his affection for Victoria, though its confequences proved fo fatal. We cannot refrain from particularifing one exquifite line in this drama. The princess is fpeaking of a child. • How steadfastly he fix'd his looks upon me, His dark eyes fhining thro' forgotten tears! P. III. There is, however, an oversight in the paffage; for he was before represented as the little blue-ey'd, fweet, fair-hair'd Mirando." CRIT. REV. VOL. XXIV. Sept. 1798. C The comedy is not inferior to the tragedy. Here also the author has delineated the love of a calm and manly character. To try the extent of the lover's reafon as well as of his affection, his mistress affumes the appearance of extravagance and ill temper: the effect of this behaviour upon him may be seen in the following extract. Harwood. What brings you here, Thomas? • Thom. Your bell rung, fir. Har. Well, well, I did want fomething but I have forgot it. Bring me a glass of water. [Exit Thomas. Harwood fits down by a fmall writing-table, and refts his head upon his hand. Re-enter Thomas, with the water.] You have made good hafte, Tho mas. Thom. I did make good hafte, fir, left you should be impatient with me. Har. I am fometimes impatient with you, then? I fear indeed I have been too often fo of late; but you must not mind it, Thomas, I mean you no unkindness. Thom. Lord love you, fir! I know that very well! a young gentleman who takes an old man into his fervice, because other gentlemen do not think him quick enough, nor smart enough for them, as your honour has taken me, can never mean to fhow him any unkindness, I know it well enough; I am only uneafy because I fear you are not fo well of late. • Har. I thank you, Thomas, I am not very well—I am not ill neither, I fhall be better. (Pauses.) I think I have heard you Lay, you were a soldier in your youth? Thom. Yes, fir. • Har. And you had a wife too, a woman of fiery mettle, to bear about your knapsack? • Thom. Yes, fir, my little ftout spirity Jane; she had a devil of a temper, to be fure. nefs. Har. Yet you loved her notwithstanding? Thom. Yes, to be fure, I did, as it were, bear her fome kind • Har. I'll be fworn you did!-and you would have been very forry to have parted with her. Thom. Why death parts the best of friends, fir: we lived but four years together. Har. And fo, your little spirity Jane was taken so soon away from you? Give me thy hand, my good Thomas. (Takes his hand and preffes it.) Thom. (Perceiving tears in his eyes.) Lord, fir! don't be fo distress'd about it; fhe did die, to be fure, but truly, between you and I, although I did make a kind of whimpering at the first, I was not ill pleafed afterwards to be rid of her; for, truly, fir, a man who has got an ill-tempered, wife, has but a dog's life of it at the beft.-Will you have your glafs of water, fir? 1 • Har. (Looking at him with dissatisfaction.) No, no, take it away; I have told you a hundred times not to bring me that chalky water from the court-yard.' P. 253. The merit of this comedy is not confined to the developement of a fingle paffion in one character: the other dramatis perfonæ are drawn in a manner equally true to nature. The third play is founded upon the effects of hatred. The author has done wifely in representing it as destroying a character otherwise excellent; for, the more interefting is the character of the perfon whom it deftroys, the more strongly are the fatal effects of fo deteftable a paffion expofed. But to us it appears that a mind like de Monfort's could not be capable of an averfion fo rooted, fo malignant. Such an averfion might have implanted itself in a meaner, a weaker, a more envious mind, and, by trifles light as air,' have worked it up even to the commiffion of murder. But de Monfort is too noble, too affectionate, to authorise the fuppofition that he could have been an affaffin. This fault renders the third inferior to the other pieces; but the fame genius, and the fame knowledge of the human heart, are discoverable in most of the scenes. We will present our readers with a part of the scene subsequent to the murder, when the dead man and de Monfort are both in the convent. • Abb. to De Mon. Most miserable man, how art thou thus ? Thy tongue is filent, but thofe bloody hands Do witness horrid things. What is thy name? (Pauses.) De Mon. (Roufed; looks fteadfastly at the Abbess for fome time, then Speaking in a fhort hurried voice.) I have no name. • Abb. to Bern. Do it thyfelf: I'll speak to him no more. 1 Sift. O holy faints! that this should be the man, Who did against his fellow lift the stroke, Whilft he so loudly call'd.— Still in mine ear it founds: O murder! murder! • De Mon. (Starting.). He calls again! Sift. No, he did call, but now his voice is ftill'd. 'Tis paft. De Mon. (In great anguish.) 'Tis paft! Sift. Yes it is past, art thou not he who did it? (De Monfort utters a deep groan, and is fupported from falling by the monks. A noife is heard without.) • Abb. What noife is this of heavy lumb'ring steps, Like men who with a weighty burden come ? • Bern. It is the body: I have orders given That here it should be laid. C (Enter men bearing the body of Rezervelt, covered with a white cloth, and fet it down in the middle of the room ☀ they then uncover it. De Monfort ftands fixed and motionlefs with horrour, only that a fudden shivering feems to pass over him when they uncover the corps. The abbefs and nuns shrink back and retire to fome diftance; all the reft fixing their eyes fteadfastly upon De Monfort. A long paufe.) Bern. to De Mon. See'st thou that lifelefs corps, thofe See how he lies, who but fo fhortly fince Oh! what a heart had he who did this deed! 1ft Monk. (Looking at the body.) How hard those teeth against the lips are prefs'd, As tho' he ftruggled ftill! 2d Monk. The hands, too, clench'd: the last efforts of nature. De Monfort fill ftands motionless. Brother Thomas then goes to the body, and raising up the head a little, turns it towards De Monfort.) Thom. Know'st thou this gaftly face? De Mon. (Putting his hands before his face in violent perturbation.) Oh do not! do not! veil it from my fight! Put me to any agony but this! Thom. Ha! doft thou then confefs the dreadful deed? Haft thou against the laws of awful heav'n Such horrid murder done? What fiend could tempt thee? (Paufes and looks fteadfastly at De Monfort.) 'De Mon. I hear thy words but do not hear their sense— Haft thou not cover'd it? 'Bern. to Thom. Forbear, my brother, for thou fee'st right well He is not in a state to answer thee. Let us retire and leave him for a while. These windows are with iron grated o'er; He cannot 'scape, and other duty calls. Bern. to Monks, &c. Come, let us all depart. One • De Mon. All gone! (Perceiving the monk.) O stay thou here! Monk. It must not be. * De Mon. I'll give thee gold; I'll make thee rich in gold, If thou wilt ftay e'en but a little while. Monk. I must not, muft not ftay. De Mon. And wilt thou go? (Going.) (Catching hold of him eagerly.) O! throw thy cloak upon this grizly form! (Monk covers the body, and exit. De Mon. (Alone, looking at the covered body, but at à diftance.) Alone with thee! but thou art nothing now. 'Tis done, 'tis number'd with the things o'erpaft, What fated end, what darkly gath'ring cloud O that dire madnefs would unloofe my thoughts, (Paufes and fhudders.) I heard a fmother'd groan.-It is impoffible! (Looking feadfastly at the body.) It moves! it moves! the cloth doth heave and swell. It moves again.-I cannot fuffer this Whate'er it be I will uncover it. (Runs to the corps and tears off the cloth in despair.) All still beneath. Nought is there here but fix'd and grizly death. They look me still.' P. 386. Such are the plays that compofe this volume. They form only a small part of the projected plan; but they are fufficient to prove that the defign is excellent, and that the author is equal to the task of properly executing it. On one account we are glad that he has yet proceeded no farther in it, as we think his verfification bad. It wants the freedom of dramatic blank verfe; there is a wearying monotony in it. We would advife this writer to ftudy the verfification of Shakspeare, and the other dramatists of that time. He may foon verfify with their facility; and we may then place his volumes near thofe of Maffinger and of Beaumont and Fletcher. He has already avoided the faults of our modern theatrical authors; we meet with no whining dulļnefs, no idle |