Such is the catastrophe of Rowe's Fair Penitant, such is the representation he gives us of human nature, and such the moral of his tragedy.

I shall conclude with an extract or two from the catastrophe of The Fatal Dowry; and first, for the penitence of Beaumelle, I shall select only the following speech, addressed to her husband:

I dare not move you

To hear me speak. I know my fault is far

Beyond qualification or excuse ;

That 'tis not fit for me to bope, or you
To think of mercy; only I prefume

To intreat you wou'd be pleas'd to look upon
My forrow for it, and believe these tears
Are the true children of my grief, and not
A woman's cunning.

I need not point out the contrast between this and the quotations from Calista. It will require a longer extract to bring the conduct of Rochfort into comparison with that of Sciolto: The reader will observe that Novall's dead body is now on the scene, Charalois, Beaumelle, and Rochfort her father, are present. The charge of adultery is urged by Charalois, and appeal is made to the justice of Rochfort in the cafe.

Rochfort.

Rochfort. What answer makes the prisoner ?
Beaumelle. I confess

The fact I'm charg'd with, and yield myself
Moft miferably guilty.

Rochfort. Heaven take mercy
Upon your foul then ! It must leave your body-
-Since that the politic law provides that servants,
To whose care we commit our goods, shall die
If they abuse our truft; what can you look for,
To whose charge this most hopeful Lord gave up
All be receiv'd from his brave ancestors,

All he cou'd leave to his pofterity?

His honour-Wicked woman! in whose safety
All his life's joys and comforts were lock'd up,
Which thy lust, a thief, bath now tolen from him!
And therefore

Charalois. Stay, just Judge-May not what's loa
By ber one fault (for I am charitable,

And charge her not with many) be forgotten
In her fair life bereafter?

Rochfort. Never, Sir !

The wrong that's done to the chafte married bed,

Repentant tears can never expiate :

And be affur'd to pardon such a fin,

Is an offence as great as to commit it.

In consequence of this the husband strikes her dead before her father's eyes: The act indeed is horrid; even tragedy shrinks from it, and Nature with a father's voice instantly cries out-Is she dead then?-and you have kill'd her?-Charalois

3

avows

:

1

avows it, and pleads his fentence for the deed; the revolting, agonized parent breaks forth into one of the most pathetic, natural and expressive lamentations, that the English drama can produce

-But I pronounc'd it

As a Judge only, and a friend to justice,
And, zealous in defence of your wrong'd honour,
Broke all the ties of nature, and caft off
The love and foft affection of a father:
I in your cause put on a scarlet robe
Of red dy'd cruelty; but in return
You have advanc'd for me no flag of mercy &
I look'd on you as a wrong'd husband, but
You clos'd your eyes against me as a father.
Oh, Beaumelle ! Oh, my daughter!-

Charalois. This is madness.

Rochfort. Keep from me!-Cou'd not one good

thought rise up

To tell you that she was my age's comfort,
Begot by a weak man, and born a woman,
And cou'd not therefore but partake of frailty?
Or wherefore did not thankfulness Aep fortb
To urge my many merits, which I may
Object to you, fince you prove ungrateful?
Flinty-bearted Charalois !-

Charalois. Nature does prevail above your virtue.

What conclufions can I draw from these compa

rative examples, which every reader would not anticipate ? anticipate? Is there a man, who has any feeling for real nature, dramatic character, moral sentiment, tragic pathos or nervous diction, who can hefitate, even for a moment, where to bestow the palm ?

I

N° XCI.

An toti morimur?

(SENECA IN TROAD.)

Believe there are few people, who have not

at some time or other felt a propenfity to humour themselves in that kind of melancholy, which arises in the mind upon revifiting the scene of former happiness, and contemplating the change that time has wrought in its appearance by the mournful comparison of present with past impreffions.

In this train of thought I was the other day carried almost imperceptibly to the country feat of a deccased friend, whose lofs I must ever lament. I had not been there fince his death, and there was a dreariness in the scene as I approached, that might have almost tempted me to believe even things inanimate partook of my sensations. The

traces of my friend, whose solicitude for order and feemliness reached to every thing about him, were no longer to be seen: The cottages and little gardens of his poor neighbours, which used to be so trim and neat, whilst his eye was over them, seemed to be falling into neglect; the lawn before his house was now become a folitude; no labourers at their work; no domestics at their sports and exercises: I looked around for my old acquaintance, that used to be grazing up and down upon their pensions of pasturage; they had probably been food for hounds long ago; Nature had lost her smile of hospitality and benevolence; methought I never faw any thing more disconfolate.

As I entered the house, an aged woman, whom I had long remembered as one of the family, met me in the passage, and, looking me in the face, cried out, " Is it you, Sir?"-and burst into tears: She followed me into the common fitting-room, and as she was opening the shutters, observed to me-" That it did not look as "it used to do, when my lord was living." It was true; I had already made the remark in filence:"How the face of a friend," said I within myself, " enlivens all things about him! " What hours of placid delight have I passed " within