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Mall always be open to you. Now, God's blessing be with you,

young man !

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Frederick. (taking the louis-d'or) You are very generous, my lord : - you give me money, and are not sparing of good advice, But I desire your help in a inatter of much greater momento

You are a powerful man ; - aid me, then, to bring to justice an unpatural father.

Colonel. How?--Who is your father?

Frederick. (Sarcastically) O, he is a great baron, of a large estate esteemed at court, respected in the capital, and honoured in the country. Above all, he is benevolent, honest, and brave.

Colonel, And yet suffers his son to be in want? Frederick. And yet suffers his son to be in want.

Colonel. Perhaps, my friend, you have deserved it :may have been wild, lascivious -- a spendthrift, a gamester? Such things are ; -and your father may think it prudent to let you march behind the drum for a few years. The sound of the drum is an excellent specific in such cases; and if this be your case, I am far from disapproving your father's conduct.

Frederick. So far from that, my lord, he does not so much as know me.

He abandoned me, even in my mother's womb. 6 Colonel. What?

Frederick. The tears of my mother were all the wealth he left me..He has never enquired after me never taken the least trouble about me.

Colonel. Monster!

Frederick. I am a child of love. My poor, seduced mother, has reared me in the midst of grief and sorrow. She has, however, by labouring hard, afforded as much as was necessary to give me fome education ; and I, therefore, consider myself worthy the regard of a father, who would be deserving of such a fon. But, alas ! this is no concern of his; and his conscience suffers him to continue regardless of the fate of his unhappy child.

* Colonel. Regardless --That cannot be,

« Frederick. When I was grown up, I had no other means of relieving my mother, than going into the army, bastards being precluded every other profession.

Colonel. Unfortunate young man!

« Frederick. Nature has made forrow and grief the companions of age, and bestowed chearfulness on youth, to prepare it for the sufferings of declining years, I never knew chearfulness. My enjoyments have been the hard fare of a common soldier, and the severity of the serjeant into the bargain. But what is this to my father? His table is covered with plenty ; and he laughs at the upbraidings of conscience.

Colonel. (afide) His story touches mi

| Frederick. After an absence of five years, I return this very day to my native country, full of fw et filial dreams, and find my

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poor mother almost starved to death, with not fo much as a bundle of straw to repose her head on, or a roof to ihelter her from the changes of the seasons. Not one charitable being near her, to close her eyes, nor even a spot of earth to die on in peace.-But what is all this to my father?-He has an elegant country-house amply turnished with all the luxuries of life, and when he dies, the priest will exalt his christianlike virtues in a funeral sermon.

Colonel. Tell me, young man, what is the name of your father,

Frederick. That he has by falfhood deceived an innocent and unwary girl -- that he has given existence to an unhappy being, who curses him that he has almost made his own son à parricide;

all these horrible crimes are trifles to be atoned for before the supreme judge of man, by a piece of gold ---- like that! (throw. ing the louis d'or at the feet of the colonel.)

Colonel. Who is thy father!
Frederick, You !
Colonel. (covers his face with his hands, and fands Speechless.).

Frederick. (in great emotion) In this house, perhaps in this very room, you betrayed the imocence of my mother, and to render her misery complete, begot a son. Now, sir, I am again your prisoner

I will be your prisoner - I am a robber -- I accuse myself -Let justice have its way. You shall attend my execution shall see how vainly the ministers of religion will endeavour to give me comfort Mail hear how my last despairing words will curse you. Then come, and Itand near me, when my head is fevered off, that my blood, nay, thine own blood, may besprinkle your garments.

Colonel. Silence, I entreat you !

Frederick. And on your return from the scaffold, you shall find my mother breathing her last. Colonel. Leave off, monster !

« Enter the Parfon haftily. Parfon. What is the matter here? I hear a violent altercation. Young man, what have you dared to do?

Frederick. I have dared for a moment to do your business, fir. I have shook the finner! Look there, and see how a moment's lust is punished after twenty-one years. I am a robber, fir, and a murderer ; but what I now feel is the bliss of heaven compared with what that guilty man endiires. Now let justice have its course, that my blood may witness against him. (Exit Frederick.

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P. 8o.

The piece concludes with the determination of the baron, notwithstanding the pride and prejudice of rank, to marry Wilhelmina ; a reparation to which he is influenced by the conduct of his son, and the arguments of the clergyman of the village. To this minifter, who is an amiable and vir. tuous young man, he even condescends to give his daughter,

jather than to a man of fashion, a coscomb, who pays his addresses to her. It may perhaps be juftly affirmed, that the character of the daughter is not natural. There is somewhat of the finple forwardness of Athanasia * in her ; but there is not the fame excuse for it. This objection, however, detracts little from the merit of the play, which, we think, must interest every reader of fenfibility.

Miss Plumptre's translation of the fame piece seems to be, in general, less stiff and constrained than that of Mr. Porter

; and it is perhaps less faithful ; but this point we cannot determine, as we have not seen the original. A part of the scene in which the father and son have an interview, we will give from her publication.

Baron. (shuddering.) Young man, what is thy father's name?

Fred. That he abused the weakness of a guiltless maiden, ---deceived her through false oaths—that he gave existence to an unhappy wretch, who must curse him for the fatal gift--that he has driven his only fon almost to parricide-Oh these are trifles-- and when the day of reckoning comes, may all be paid for by a piece of gold :-(throws the louis-d'or ai the barcn's feet.)

Baron. (half diArafted.) Young man, tell me thy father's name!

Fred. Baron Wildenhain ! (The baron strikes his forehead with both hands, and remains fixed to the spot where he sands. Frederick proceeds with violent emotion.) Yes, in this houfe, in this very room, perhaps, was my mother beguiled of her virtue, and I was begotten for the sword of the executioner. And now, Iord, I am not free I am your prisoner -- I will not be free.. I am a highway-robber-loudly do I accuse myíelf as fuch-you fhall consign me over to the hand of justice-iliall conduct me ta. the place of execution--you shall hear how the priest seeks in vain to calm my mind liall hear how in despair I curse my father thall stand by me as the head falls from the trunk-ind my blood your own bloodhall sprinkle your garments.

6. Baron. Oh hold! hold ! ! Fred. And when you turn from this scene, and descend from the scaffold-there at its foot fall you find my mother, even at the momeat that the draws her last breath

sighs out her soul in anguish!

Baron. Inhuman! hold! (The.paftor rushes in haftily.)

Pastor. Heavens, what is the waiter --I hear impafsioned words ! --what has been passing here? young man, I hope you

ve not attempted-
Fred. Yes, sir, I have attempted to take your

office from your hands—I have made a finner 'tremble! (pointing to the baron.) See there--thus after a lapse of one and twenty years, the injuries

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* In Kotzebue's Count Bepyowlky.

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arising from inordinate paflions, are revenged. I am a murderer--I am a highway-robber--but what I feel in this moment is transport, is bliss, compared with the thorns which lacerate his breast. I to surrender myfelf up to justice, and then at the throne of heaven will I appear a bloody witness against this man.

[Exit.' P. 59. That Mrs. Inchbald hias well adapted this play of Kotzebue to the taste of an English public, is evinced by its fuccefs in the representation. The character of Amelia, in our opinion, is in some degree improved; but not so much as Mrs. Inchbald seems to imagine. She says,

* The part of Amelia has been a very particular object of my folicitude and alteration : the fame fituations which the author gave her remain, but almost all the dialogue of the character I have changed : the forward and unequivocal inaoner in which the announces her affection to her lover, in the original, would have been revolting to an English audience : the passion of love, represented on the stage, is certain to be infipid or disgusting, unless it creates smiles or tears : Amelia's love, by Kotzebue, is indelicately blunt, and yet void of mirth or sadness: I have endeavoured to attach the attention and sympathy of the audience by whimsical infinuations, rather than coarse abruptness—the same woman, I conceive, whom the author drew, with the self-fame sentiments, but with manners adapted to the English rather than the German taste ; and if the favour in which this character is held by the audience, together with every sentence and incident which I have presumed to introduce in the play, may be offered as the criterion. of my skill, I am sufficiently rewarded for the talk I have performed.'

In the altered play, the last scene is thus exhibited : Baron. Amelia, you have a brother.

Amelia. I have just heard so, my lord; and rejoice to find the news confirmed by you.

Baron. I know, my dear Amelia, I can repay you for the loss of count Caffel; but what return can I make to you for the loss of half

your

fortune? Amelia. My brother's love will be ample recompense.

" Baron. I will reward you better. Mr. Anhalt, the battle I have just fought, I owe to myself: the victory I gained, I owe to you. A man of your principles, at once a teacher and an exams ple of virtue, exalts his rank in life to a level' with the noblest family—and I mall be proud to receive you as my fon.

Anhalt [falling on his knees, and taking the baron's hand). My lord, you overwhelm me with confusion, as well as with joy.

Baron. My obligations to you are infinite--Amelia fall pay the debt. [Gives her to him.]

Amelia. Oh, my dear father! [embracing the barcn] whak

P. iii.

blessings have you beftowed on me in one day. [to Anhalt.] I will be your scholar still, and use more diligence than ever to please my master. Anhalt. His present happiness admits of no addition.

Baron. Nor does mine-And yet there is another task to perforin that will require more fortitude, more courage, than this has done! A trial that !--[bursts into tears)-I cannot prevent them--Let ine -- let me—A few minutes will bring me to myself - Where is Agatha ?

Anhalt. I will go, and fetch her. [Exit Anhalt at an upper entrance.]

Baron. Stop ! Let me first recover a little. [Walks up and down, fighing bitterly-looks at the door through which Anhalt left the room.] That door the will come from---That was once the dressing-room of my mother-From that door I have seen her come many times have been delighted with her lovely smiles How fliahl I now behold her altered looks! Frederick must be my mediator.Where is he? Where is my fon? -- Now I ain ready my heart is prepared to receive her-Haste! hafte ! Bring her in. [He looks stedfaflly at the door-Anhalt leads on Agatha-The Baron runs and clafps her in his arms--Supported by him, the finks on a chair which Amelia places in the middle of the stage-The Baron kneels by her fide, holding her hand.] "Baron, Agatha, Agatha, do you know this voice ?

Agatha. Wildenhaim. "Baron. Can you forgive me? Agatha. I forgive you. [embracing him.]

Frederick (as he enters]. I hear the voice of my mother! Ha! mother ! father! [Frederick throws himself on his knees by the other side of his mother---She clasps him in her arms.no Amelia is placed on the side of her father attentively viewing Agatha-Anhalt Aands on the pide of Frederick with his hands gratefully raised to heaven. The curtain lowly drops.' P. 88.

The favourable reception given to this piece and to the Stranger, will, we hope, convince our dramatists, that the aid of buffoonery is not indispensable.

Observations on the Structure, Economy, and Diseases of the

Foot of the Horse, &c. By Edward Coleman. Continued from p. 155.)

It is of great importance (Mr. Coleman says) to preserve the frog found, for, when cut, it becomes highly fufceptible of every impreffion : we might with as much wisdom remove the skin of the human foot, when obliged to walk on stones, without hoesn'

1. 35.

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