66 gularly engaged, and the first fruits of his classical pen have been an "entire new tragic melo-drame," called the Roman Wife; or a Father's Vengeance! and an entire new comic pantomime," called Harlequin and the Devil! or, the Drunken Friar. The unprecedented success of these dramas might be fairly substituted in the room of criticism, but we owe too much to the cause of talent to shrink from the delightful, though elaborate duty it has imposed. We shall therefore proceed to furnish an outline of these magical pieces, and the archives of the stage have never been graced, it is probable, with a tragedy or a pantomime so happily planned, or so powerfully constructed. Without entering into any disquisition upon the comparative merits of melo-drame and harlequinade, we shall abide by the common rule of precedence, and deliver our sentiments upon the first, before we attempt to develope the claims of the latter: a different course of proceeding will, perhaps, be expected from us, but we shall still take the liberty to follow our own ideas, and reserve the discussion of that abstract point till a fitter opportunity. Gonzaria, Duke of Milan, is the parent of Horatius, whose mother died in child-bed, owing to the unskilfulness of her accoucheur. The passions of this aspiring youth, for want of maternal restraint, have led him into various excesses, in the course of which, though but forty seven years of age, he has clandestinely wedded Eudocia, a virgin of unparalleled beauty, but vulgar connexions, without the sanction or privity of his royal father. This indiscretion arouses the fury of Marcia, Princess of Florence, who had fallen in love with his parts, and abetted by the whole military, marine, legal, clerical, and parliamentary strength of Gonzaria's dukedom, she pursues Horatius and his bride with unrelenting animosity. The upshot of this pathetic tale is soon told. Horatius and Eudocia are ensnared by the arts of their enemies; the duke assents to the death of his only son; and the headsman is on the point of performing his hateful office, when the Spectre of the deceased Duchess interferes, mollifies the rigour of Gonzaria's decree, and not only restores the lovers to life, but invests them with a plenitude of its enjoyments. They then shake hands with the ghost, the curtain falls, and the audience go out of the booth. This plot, as it must immediately be seen, is not at tenuated to that degree of labyrinthine intricacy which the appetite of a modern audience requires. Still, however, it commanded a fixed attention, and possessed a deep interest, alone interrupted by simultaneous bursts of applause, elicited by striking situations and complicated incidents, from numbers that were hourly increasing in judgment and respectability. This may be considered as a test of success, and the drama was therefore, without arrogance, classed high by Mr. Richardson himself amongst the most favourite productions of the Smithfield stage. We think, however, that the chief merit of this popular play is much more fairly to be deduced from the brilliant coruscations of its language than the marked attributes of its characters, or the mazy windings of its fable. In support of this opinion, we shall adduce a few of the most striking speeches, for which we are indebted to the permission and kind assistance of the manager, who has favoured us with the loan of his MS. The following rich specimen of moralization is taken out of the mouth of a dignified ecclesiastic: Life, my respected son, is like the sport Where nine tall skettles fill a crowded court; And he, who, like the skettle, stands till shaken, Maintains his credit, though he cannot save his bacon. In the subsequent extract from a colloquy between Horatius and Eudocia, of course at a time when their marriage was broken off, we hardly know which to admire most, the sober prudence of the heroine, or the calm resignation of the hero : Hor. O, what like woman in the world appears ! A single boot, and solus, can but seem Soup without salt, or coffee without cream. Enter EUDOCIA. Look there, ye gods, and say if every sweet Than soft Jew's harp, or bagpipe when it drones; Might charm a bailiff to forego his hold. * * Hor. And dost thou love me? For fifty years upon a dish of tea, To mark the music of thy face, and scan it, I'll send my watch to pawn, and with a high sense Eud. Hold, my Horatius, hold; more slow and sure; Placed on the board, shall bar the want of wine; Hor. Death and the devil! can my charmer stoop And with prudential notions hold alliance? Base is the maid that thinks +. *The "Saffron-hill" here mentioned is "Saffron-hill” in Milan, a place, like the spot which resembles it in London, of polite resort. For a parallel reference to Devonshire in Spain, see "Lock and Key," a farce by Hoare, 8vo. 1796. This, it must be confessed, has all the air of an imitation from a well-known writer, in whose tragi-comedy of the "Queen of Arragon," fol. 1640, Act 2, Sc. 1, we find nearly the same phrase: "Base is the wight that thinks." Eud. Much baser he, The thoughtless rascal, who resembles thee. Hence, unreal mockery, hence! Hor. Why then farewell the tranquil mind I bore Here, it is probable, we might take permission to relinquish our extracts, conscious that the merit ascribed to this tragedy has been copiously proved by the passages already quoted. There is, however, a more lofty walk of passion in which the efforts of this transcendent writer deserve to be noticed, and we shall therefore do ourselves the pleasure to furnish a final example of the towering height to which genius, on her eagle pinions, is capable of ascending. The annexed speech is an incentive from the Abbot della Pietà to the regiment of which he is colonel, when upon the point of maintaining the supremacy in church and state, that Horatius and his rebel adherents have so impiously attacked. This precious fragment appears to surpass every specimen of oratory delivered since the days of the Bishop of Pavia, when the mellifluous prelate harangued the crusaders in the holy land. To arms, ye great companions of my toil, An obsolete author, whose volumes are sometimes dipped into by the curious,-one Shakspeare,-it is singular enough, has something of the same sort, which, if we could persuade ourselves that his plays were ever seen, might have given birth to both the passage in the text, and that already quoted. So, in the "Life of King Henry the Fifth,"-Act 5, fol. 1623. "Base is the slave that pays." If fate proposes, with her giant shears, By Mammon, I'm not covetous of gold, Like some commanders, who have bought and sold, I feel all over like a kitchen fire. Let it be publish'd through my ample host, We have thus discharged our duty, a pleasant though an arduous one, to the author of this play, the spirit of which is uniformly sustained in its brilliant alternations of pathos and humour. Those great dramas, the Hebrew and Virginius, produced a few months since at Drurylane Theatre, are alone worthy to cope with the claps and flashes of tremendous excellence, the thunder and lightning of poetry,-in which this tragedy abounds, and we therefore hope that our academical friend will not confine his labours to the stage, while their paramount success must be so welcome in the closet. There is a great moral influence attaching to productions of this sort, which we wish to see extended. The dresses and decorations were singularly wild and inappropriate, and even the title of the play was a refreshing misnomer. The Romans were all Milanese, and, to show the dexterity of the projector, standards of S. P. Q. R. were coupled with the ensigns of Christianity, and the pileus and toga were cordially associated with the surplice and mitre. These are the |