Is there no smooth descent-no painless way
Of kindly mixing with our native clay?

Raph. There is-but rarely shall that path be trod,
Which, without horror, leads to death's abode.
Some few, by temperance taught, approaching slow,
To distant fate by easy journeys go;

Gently they lay them down, as evening sheep
On their own woolly fleeces softly sleep.

Adam. So noiseless would I live, such death to find,
Like timely fruit, not shaken by the wind,
But ripely dropping from the sapless bough,
And, dying, nothing to myself would owe.

Eve. Thus daily changing, with a duller taste
Of lessening joys, I, by degrees, would waste:
Still quitting ground, by unperceived decay,
And steal myself from life, and melt away.

State of Innocence.

[Scene between Mark Antony and Ventidius, his general.] [Dryden says he preferred this scene to anything which he had written of that kind. It occurs in the first act of All for Love, a tragedy founded on the story of Antony and Cleopatra, and avowedly written in imitation of Shakspeare. All for Love was the only play Dryden ever wrote for himself; the rest, he says, were given to the people. It will be observed that this scene, as also that between Dorax and Sebastian, is copied from the quarrel between Brutus and Cassius in Julius Cæsar.]

Antony. They tell me 'tis my birthday, and I'll keep it

With double pomp of sadness.

'Tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath.
Why was I raised the meteor of the world,
Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travelled,

Till all my fires were spent, and then cast downward
To be trod out by Cæsar?

Ventidius. [Aside.] On my soul

"Tis mournful, wondrous mournful!

Ant. Count thy gains,

Now, Antony: wouldst thou be born for this?
Glutton of fortune, thy devouring youth
Has starved thy wanting age.

Vent. [Aside.] How sorrow shakes him!
So now the tempest tears him by th' roots,
And on the ground extends the noble ruin.

Ant. [Having thrown himself down.] Lie there, thou
shadow of an emperor;

The place thou pressest on thy mother-earth
Is all thy empire now: now it contains thee;
Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large,
When thou 'rt contracted in thy narrow urn,
Shrunk to a few cold ashes; then Octavia-
For Cleopatra will not live to see it-
Octavia then will have thee all her own,
And bear thee in her widowed hand to Cæsar.
Cæsar will weep, the crocodile will weep,

To see his rival of the universe

Lie still and peaceful there. I'll think no more on 't.
Give me some music; look that it be sad;
I'll soothe my melancholy, till I swell,

And burst myself with sighing.

'Tis somewhat to my humour. Stay, I fancy
I'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature;
Of all forsaken, and forsaking all;
Live in a shady forest's silvan scene;
Stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak,
I lean my head upon the mossy bark,
And look just of a piece, as I grew from it:
My uncombed locks, matted like misletoe,
Hang o'er my hoary face; a murm'ring brook
Runs at my foot-

Vent. Methinks I fancy

Myself there too.

Ant. The herd come jumping by me,

And, fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on

Ant. I would be private. Leave me. Vent. Sir, I love you,

And therefore will not leave you.

Ant. Will not leave me !

Where have you learned that answer? Who am I?
Vent. My emperor; the man I love next heav'n.
If I said more, I think 'twere scarce a sin:
You're all that's good and godlike.

Ant. All that's wretched.
You will not leave me, then?

Vent. 'Twas too presuming

To say I would not: but I dare not leave you;
And 'tis unkind in you to chide me hence
So soon, when I so far have come to see you.
Ant. Now thou hast seen me, art thou satisfied?
For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough,
And, if a foe, too much.

Vent. Look, emperor, this is no common dew;
I have not wept this forty years; but now
My mother comes afresh unto my eyes;

I cannot help her softness.

Ant. By heav'n, he weeps! poor good old man, he weeps!

The big round drops course one another down
The furrows of his cheeks. Stop 'em, Ventidius,
Or I shall blush to death; they set my shame,
That caused 'em, full before me.

Vent. I'll do my best.

Ant. I'll help thee-I have been a man, Ventidius.
Vent. Yes, and a brave one; but-
Ant. I know thy meaning.

But I have lost my reason, have disgraced
The name of soldier with inglorious ease;
In the full vintage of my flowing honours
Sat still, and saw it pressed by other hands.
Fortune came smiling to my youth, and wooed it.
And purple greatness met my ripened years.

When first I came to empire, I was borne
On tides of people, crowding to my triumphs.
The wish of nations, and the willing world,
Received me as its pledge of future peace.
I was so great, so happy, so beloved,
Fate could not ruin me; till I took pains,
And worked against my fortune, chid her from me,
And turned her loose: yet still she came again.
My careless days and my luxurious nights
At length have wearied her, and now she's gone;
Gone, gone, divorced for ever. Help me, soldier,
To curse this madman, this industrious fool,
Who laboured to be wretched. Pr'ythee curse me.
Vent. No.

Ant. Why?

Vent. You are too sensible already

Of what you've done; too conscious of your failings. And like a scorpion, whipped by others first

To fury, sting yourself in mad revenge.

I would bring balm, and pour it in your wounds,

Cure your distempered mind, and heal your fortunes. Ant. I know thou wouldst.

Vent. I will.

Ant. Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Vent. You laugh.

Ant. I do, to see officious love

Give cordials to the dead.

Vent. You would be lost, then?
Ant. I am.

Vent. I say you are not. Try your fortune.

Ant. I have to th' utmost. Dost thou think me desperate

Without just cause? No; when I found all lost
Beyond repair, I hid me from the world,

And learned to scorn it here; which now I do
So heartily, I think it is not worth

The cost of keeping.

Vent. Cæsar thinks not so:

He'll thank you for the gift he could not take.
You would be killed like Tully, would you? Do
Hold out your throat to Cæsar, and die tamely.

Ant. No, I can kill myself; and so resolve.

Vent. I can die with you, too, when time shall

serve;

But fortune calls upon us now to live,

To fight, to conquer.

Ant. Sure thou dream'st, Ventidius?

Vent. No; 'tis you dream; you sleep away your hours

In desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy.

Up, up, for honour's sake; twelve legions wait you, And long to call you chief. By painful journeys

I led 'em patient both of heat and hunger, Down from the Parthian marches to the Nile. "Twill do you good to see their sunburnt faces,

Their scarred cheeks, and chopt hands; there's virtue

Vent. They would perhaps desire A better reason.

Ant. I have never used

My soldiers to demand a reason of

My actions. Why did they refuse to march?
Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra.
Ant. What was 't they said?

Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra.
Why should they fight, indeed, to make her conquer,
And make you more a slave? To gain you kingdoms
Which, for a kiss, at your next midnight feast
You'll sell to her? Then she new names her jewels,
And calls this diamond such or such a tax.
Each pendant in her ear shall be a province.

Ant. Ventidius, I allow your tongue free licence
On all my other faults; but, on your life,
No word of Cleopatra; she deserves
More worlds than I can lose.

Vent. Behold, you pow'rs,

To whom you have intrusted humankind;
See Europe, Afric, Asia put in balance,

And all weighed down by one light worthless woman!
I think the gods are Antonies, and give,
Like prodigals, this nether world away

To none but wasteful hands.

Ant. You grow presumptuous.

Vent. I take the privilege of plain love to speak. Ant. Plain love! plain arrogance, plain insolence! Thy men are cowards, thou an envious traitor; Who, under seeming honesty, hath vented

The burden of thy rank o'erflowing gall.

Oh, that thou wert my equal; great in arms
As the first Cæsar was, that I might kill thee
Without stain to my honour!

Vent. You may kill me.

You have done more already-called me traitor.
Ant. Art thou not one?

Vent. For shewing you yourself,

Which none else durst have done. But had I been
That name which I disdain to speak again,

I needed not have sought your abject fortunes,
Come to partake your fate, to die with you.
What hindered me to 've led my conqu'ring eagles
To fill Octavius' bands? I could have been

A traitor then, a glorious happy traitor,
And not have been so called.

Ant. Forgive me, soldier;

I've been too passionate.

Vent. You thought me false;

Thought my old age betrayed you. Kill me, sir; Pray, kill me; yet you need not; your unkindness Has left your sword no work.

Ant. I did not think so;

I said it in my rage; pr'ythee forgive me. Why didst thou tempt my anger, by discovery Of what I would not hear?

Vent. No prince but you

Could merit that sincerity I used;

Nor durst another man have ventured it;

But you, ere love misled your wand'ring eyes,

Were sure the chief and best of human race,

Framed in the very pride and boast of nature.

Ant. But Cleopatra

Go on; for I can bear it now.

Vent. No more.

Ant. Thou dar'st not trust my passion; but thou

mayst;

Thou only lov'st, the rest have flattered me.

Vent. Heaven's blessing on your heart for that kind

word.

May I believe you love me? Speak again.

Ant. Indeed I do. Speak this, and this, and this. Thy praises were unjust; but I'll deserve 'em, And yet mend all. Do with me what thou wilt; Lead me to victory; thou know'st the way. Vent. And will you leave this

Ant. Pr'ythee, do not curse her,

And I will leave her; though, heav'n knows, I love
Beyond life, conquest, empire, all, but honour;
But I will leave her.

Vent. That's my royal master.

And shall we fight?

Ant. I warrant thee, old soldier;

Thou shalt behold me once again in iron,
And, at the head of our old troops, that beat
The Parthians, cry aloud, 'Come, follow me.'

Vent. Oh, now I hear my emperor! In that word
Octavius fell. Gods, let me see that day,
And, if I have ten years behind, take all;
I'll thank you for th' exchange.

Ant. Oh, Cleopatra !

Vent. Again!

Ant. I've done. In that last sigh she went; Cæsar shall know what 'tis to force a lover From all he holds most dear.

Vent. Methinks you breathe

Another soul; your looks are more divine;
You speak a hero, and you move a god.

Ant. Oh, thou hast fired me; my soul's up in arms,
And man's each part about me. Once again
That noble eagerness of fight has seized me;
That eagerness with which I darted upward
To Cassius' camp. In vain the steepy hill
Opposed my way; in vain a war of spears
Sung round my head, and planted all my shield;
I won the trenches, while my foremost men
Lagged on the plain below.

Vent. Ye gods, ye gods, For such another honour!

Ant. Come on, my soldier;

Our hearts and arms are still the same. I long
Once more to meet our foes; that thou and I,
Like Time and Death, marching before our troops,
May taste fate to 'em, mow 'em on a passage,
And, ent'ring where the utmost squadrons yield,
Begin the noble harvest of the field.

[Scene between Dorax and Sebastian.]

[Don Sebastian, king of Portugal, is defeated in battle, and taken prisoner by the Moors. He is saved from death by Dorax, a noble Portuguese, then a renegade in the court of the Emperor of Barbary, but formerly Don Alonzo of Alcazar. The train being dismissed, Dorax takes off his turban, and assumes his Portuguese dress and manner.]

Doraz. Now, do you know me?
Sebastian. Thou shouldst be Alonzo.
Dor. So you should be Sebastian;
But when Sebastian ceased to be himself,
I ceased to be Alonzo.

Seb. As in a dream

I see thee here, and scarce believe mine eyes.

Dor. Is it so strange to find me where my wrongs,
And your inhuman tyranny, have sent me?
Think not you dream: or, if you did, my injuries
Shall call so loud, that lethargy should wake,
And death should give you back to answer me.

A thousand nights have brushed their balmy wings
Over these eyes; but ever when they closed,
Your tyrant image forced them ope again,
And dried the dews they brought.

The long-expected hour is come at length,
By manly vengeance to redeem my fame:
And that once cleared, eternal sleep is welcome.
Seb. I have not yet forgot I am a king,
Whose royal office is redress of wrongs:
If I have wronged thee, charge me face to face;
I have not yet forgot I am a soldier.

Dor. 'Tis the first justice thou hast ever done me;
Then, though I loathe this woman's war of tongues,
Yet shall my cause of vengeance first be clear;
And, Honour, be thou judge.

Seb. Honour befriend us both.

Beware, I warn thee yet, to tell thy griefs
In terms becoming majesty to hear:

I warn thee thus, because I know thy temper
Is insolent and haughty to superiors:
How often hast thou braved my peaceful court,
Filled it with noisy brawls and windy boasts;
And with past service, nauseously repeated,
Reproached ev'n me, thy prince?

Dor. And well I might, when you forgot reward,
The part of heav'n in kings; for punishment
Is hangman's work, and drudgery for devils.
I must and will reproach thee with my service,
Tyrant! It irks me so to call my prince;
But just resentment and hard usage coined
Th' unwilling word, and, grating as it is,
Take it, for 'tis thy due.

Seb. How, tyrant?

Dor. Tyrant!

Seb. Traitor! that name thou canst not echo back: That robe of infamy, that circumcision,

Ill hid beneath that robe, proclaim thee traitor;
And if a name

More foul than traitor be, 'tis renegade.

Dor. If I'm a traitor, think, and blush, thou tyrant,
Whose injuries betrayed me into treason,
Effaced my loyalty, unhinged my faith,

And hurried me from hopes of heav'n to hell;
All these, and all my yet unfinished crimes,
When I shall rise to plead before the saints,
I charge on thee, to make thy damning sure.
Seb. Thy old presumptuous arrogance again,
That bred my first dislike, and then my loathing;
Once more be warned, and know me for thy king.

Dor. Too well I know thee, but for king no more: This is not Lisbon, nor the circle this,

Where, like a statue, thou hast stood besieged
By sycophants, and fools, the growth of courts;
Where thy gulled eyes, in all the gaudy round,
Met nothing but a lie in every face;

And the gross flattery of a gaping crowd,
Envious who first should catch, and first applaud
The stuff or royal nonsense: when I spoke,
My honest homely words were carped, and censured,
For want of courtly style: related actions,
Though modestly reported, passed for boasts:
Secure of merit, if I asked reward,

Thy hungry minions thought their rights invaded,
And the bread snatched from pimps and parasites.
Henriquez answered, with a ready lie,

To save his king's, the boon was begged before.
Seb. What say'st thou of Henriquez? Now, by

heav'n,

Thou mov'st me more by barely naming him,

Than all thy foul, unmannered, scurril taunts.

Dor. And therefore 'twas to gall thee that I named

him;

That thing, that nothing, but a cringe and smile;
That woman, but more daubed; or if a man,
Corrupted to a woman; thy man-mistress.
Seb. All false as hell or thou.

Dor. Yes; full as false

As that I served thee fifteen hard campaigns,
And pitched thy standard in these foreign fields:
By me thy greatness grew; thy years grew with it,
But thy ingratitude outgrew them both.

Seb. I see to what thou tend'st; but tell me first,

If those great acts were done alone for me:
If love produced not some, and pride the rest?
Dor. Why, love does all that's noble here below:
But all th' advantage of that love was thine:
For, coming fraughted back, in either hand
With palm and olive, victory and peace,
I was indeed prepared to ask my own-
For Violante's vows were mine before-

Thy malice had prevention, ere I spoke; And asked me Violante for Henriquez.

Seb. I meant thee a reward of greater worth. Dor. Where justice wanted, could reward be hoped? Could the robbed passenger expect a bounty From those rapacious hands who stripped him first? Seb. He had my promise ere I knew thy love. Dor. My services deserved thou shouldst revoke it. Seb. Thy insolence had cancelled all thy service; To violate my laws, even in my court, Sacred to peace, and safe from all affronts; Ev'n to my face, and done in my despite, Under the wing of awful majesty

To strike the man I loved!

Dor. Ev'n in the face of heav'n, a place more sacred, Would I have struck the man who, prompt by power, Would seize my right, and rob me of my love: But, for a blow provoked by thy injustice, The hasty product of a just despair, When he refused to meet me in the field,

That thou shouldst make a coward's cause thy own! Seb. He durst: nay, more, desired and begged with tears,

To meet thy challenge fairly: 'twas thy fault
To make it public; but my duty then

To interpose, on pain of my displeasure,
Betwixt your swords.

Dor. On pain of infamy

He should have disobeyed.

Seb. Th' indignity thou didst was meant to me:
Thy gloomy eyes were cast on me with scorn,
As who should say, the blow was there intended;
But that thou didst not dare to lift thy hands
Against anointed power: so was I forced
To do a sovereign justice to myself,
And spurn thee from my presence.

Dor. Thou hast dared

To tell me what I durst not tell myself:

I durst not think that I was spurned, and live;
And live to hear it boasted to my face.

All my long avarice of honour lost,
Heaped up in youth, and hoarded up for age:

Has Honour's fountain then sucked back the stream?
He has; and hooting boys may dry-shod pass,
And gather pebbles from the naked ford.
Give me my love, my honour; give them back-
Give me revenge, while I have breath to ask it.

Seb. Now, by this honoured order which I wear,
More gladly would I give than thou dar'st ask it.
Nor shall the sacred character of king
Be urged to shield me from thy bold appeal.
If I have injured thee, that makes us equal:
The wrong, if done, debased me down to thee:
But thou hast charged me with ingratitude;
Hast thou not charged me? Speak.

Dor. Thou know'st I have:

If thou disown'st that imputation, draw,
And prove my charge a lie.

Seb. No; to disprove that lie, I must not draw:
Be conscious to thy worth, and tell thy soul
What thou hast done this day in my defence;
To fight thee, after this, what were it else
Than owning that ingratitude thou urgest?
That isthmus stands between two rushing seas;
Which, mounting, view each other from afar,
And strive in vain to meet.

Dor. I'll cut that isthmus:

Thou know'st I meant not to preserve thy life,

But to reprieve it, for my own revenge.

I saved thee out of honourable malice:

Now draw; I should be loath to think thou dar'st not: Beware of such another vile excuse.

Seb. Oh, patience, heav'n!

Dor. Beware of patience too;

That's a suspicious word: it had been proper,

Before thy foot had spurned me; now 'tis base:

Yet, to disarm thee of thy last defence, I have thy oath for my security:

The only boon I begged was this fair combat: Fight, or be perjured now; that's all thy choice. Seb. Now can I thank thee as thou wouldst be thanked: [Drawing.

Never was vow of honour better paid,

If my true sword but hold, than this shall be.
The sprightly bridegroom, on his wedding-night,
More gladly enters not the lists of love.
Why, 'tis enjoyment to be summoned thus.
Go; bear my message to Henriquez' ghost;

And say his master and his friend revenged him.
Dor. His ghost! then is my hated rival dead?
Seb. The question is beside our present purpose;
Thou seest me ready; we delay too long.

Dor. A minute is not much in either's life, When there's but one betwixt us; throw it in, And give it him of us who is to fall.

Seb. He's dead: make haste, and thou mayst yet o'ertake him.

Dor. When I was hasty, thou delay'dst me longer.

I pr'ythee, let me hedge one moment more

Into thy promise: for thy life preserved,

Be kind; and tell me how that rival died,

Whose death, next thine, I wished.

Seb. If it would please thee, thou shouldst never know.

But thou, like jealousy, inquir'st a truth,
Which found, will torture thee: he died in fight:
Fought next my person; as in concert fought:
Kept pace for pace, and blow for every blow;
Save when he heaved his shield in my defence,
And on his naked side received my wound:
Then, when he could no more, he fell at once,
But rolled his falling body cross their way,
And made a bulwark of it for his prince.

Dor. I never can forgive him such a death!
Seb. I prophesied thy proud soul could not bear it.
Now, judge thyself, who best deserved my love.
I knew you both; and, durst I say, as heav'n
Foreknew among the shining angel host

Who should stand firm, who fall.

Dor. Had he been tempted so, so had he fall'n; And so had I been favoured, had I stood.

Seb. What had been, is unknown; what is, appears; Confess he justly was preferred to thee.

Dor. Had I been born with his indulgent stars,
My fortune had been his, and his been mine.
Oh, worse than hell! what glory have I lost,
And what has he acquired by such a death!
I should have fallen by Sebastian's side;
My corpse had been the bulwark of my king.
His glorious end was a patched work of fate,
Ill-sorted with a soft effeminate life:
It suited better with my life than his
So to have died: mine had been of a piece,
Spent in your service, dying at your feet.

Seb. The more effeminate and soft his life,
The more his fame, to struggle to the field,
And meet his glorious fate; confess, proud spirit-—
For I will have it from thy very mouth-
That better he deserved my love than thou.

Dor. Oh, whither would you drive me! grant,

I must

Yes, I must grant, but with a swelling soul,
Henriquez had your love with more desert:
For you he fought and died; I fought against you;
Through all the mazes of the bloody field
Hunted your sacred life; which that I missed,
Was the propitious error of my fate,

Not of my soul; my soul's a regicide.

Seb. Thou mightst have given it a more gentle

name;

Thou meant'st to kill a tyrant, not a king.

Speak; didst thou not, Alonzo?

Dor. Can I speak?

Alas! I cannot answer to Alonzo: No, Dorax cannot answer to Alonzo: Alonzo was too kind a name for me.

Then, when I fought and conquered with your arms,
In that blessed age I was the man you named;
Till rage and pride debased me into Dorax,
And lost, like Lucifer, my name above.

Seb. Yet twice this day I owed my life to Dorax.
Dor. I saved you but to kill you: there's my grief.
Seb. Nay, if thou canst be grieved, thou canst
repent;

Thou couldst not be a villain, though thou wouldst : Thou own'st too much; in owning thou hast erred; And I too little, who provoked thy crime.

Dor. Oh, stop this headlong torrent of your good

ness;

It comes too fast upon a feeble soul

Half drowned in tears before; spare my confusion:
For pity, spare, and say not first you erred.

For yet I have not dared, through guilt and shame,
To throw myself beneath your royal feet.
Now spurn this rebel, this proud renegade:
'Tis just you should, nor will I more complain.

Seb. Indeed thou shouldst not ask forgiveness first;
But thou prevent'st me still, in all that's noble.
Yes, I will raise thee up with better news:
Thy Violante's heart was ever thine;
Compelled to wed, because she was my ward,
Her soul was absent when she gave her hand:
Nor could my threats, or his pursuing courtship,
Effect the consummation of his love:

So, still indulging tears, she pines for thee,

A widow and a maid.

Dor. Have I been cursing heav'n, while heav'n blessed me?

I shall run mad with ecstasy of joy:

What, in one moment to be reconciled

To heav'n, and to my king, and to my love!
But pity is my friend, and stops me short,
For my unhappy rival. Poor Henriquez!

Seb. Art thou so generous, too, to pity him?
Nay, then, I was unjust to love him better.
Here let me ever hold thee in my arms;
And all our quarrels be but such as these,
Who shall love best, and closest shall embrace:
Be what Henriquez was: be my Alonzo.

Dor. What! my Alonzo, said you? My Alonzo?
Let my tears thank you; for I cannot speak;
And if I could,

Words were not made to vent such thoughts as mine.
Seb. Thou canst not speak, and I can ne'er be silent.
Some strange reverse of fate must sure attend
This vast profusion, this extravagance
Of heav'n to bless me thus. 'Tis gold so pure,
It cannot bear the stamp, without alloy.
Be kind, ye pow'rs, and take but half away:
With ease the gifts of fortune I resign;
But let my love, and friend, be ever mine.

THOMAS OTWAY.

Where Dryden failed, one of his young contemporaries succeeded. The tones of domestic tragedy and the deepest distress were sounded, with a power and intenseness of feeling never surpassed, by the unfortunate THOMAS OTWAY; a brilliant name associated with the most melancholy history. Otway was born at Trotting in Sussex, March 3, 1651, the son of a clergyman. He was educated first at Winchester School, and afterwards at Oxford, but left college without taking his degree. In 1672 he made his appearance as an actor on the London stage. To this profession his talents were ill adapted, but he probably acquired a knowledge of dramatic

art, which was serviceable to him when he began to write for the theatre. He produced three tragedies, Alcibiades, Don Carlos, and Titus and Berenice, which were successfully performed; but Otway was always in poverty. In 1677, the Earl of Plymouth procured him an appointment as a cornet of dragoons, and the poet went with his regiment to Flanders. He was soon cashiered, in consequence of his irregularities, and, returning to England, he resumed writing for the stage. In 1680, he produced Caius Marcius and the Orphan, tragedies; in 1681, the Soldier's Fortune; and in 1682, Venice Preserved. The short eventful life of Otway, checkered by want and

extravagance, was prematurely closed in 1685. One of his biographers relates, that the immediate cause of his death was his hastily swallowing, after a long fast, a piece of bread which charity had supplied. According to another account, he died of fever, occasioned by fatigue, or by drinking water when violently heated. Whatever was the immediate cause of his death, he was at the time in circumstances of great poverty.

The fame of Otway now rests on his two tragedies, the Orphan and Venice Preserved; but on these it rests as on the pillars of Hercules. His talents in scenes of passionate affection 'rival, at least, and sometimes excel, those of Shakspeare: more tears have been shed, probably, for the sorrows of Belvidera and Monimia than for those of Juliet and Desdemona.'* The plot of the Orphan, from its inherent indelicacy and painful associations, has driven this play from the theatres; but Venice Preserved is still one of the most popular and effective tragedies. The stern plotting character of Pierre is well contrasted with the irresolute, sensitive, and affectionate nature of Jaffier; and the harsh unnatural cruelty of Priuli serves as a dark shade, to set off the bright purity and tenderness of his daughter. The pathetic and harrowing plot is well managed, and deepens towards the close; and the genius of Otway shines in his delineation of the passions of the heart, the ardour of love, and

Sir Walter Scott.