[ARVIDA going to ftab himself GUSTAVUS catches his ArmGuft. Ha! Hold, ARVIDA-No, I will not lofe theeForbid it Heaven! thou shalt not rob me fo

No, I will struggle with thee to the laft,

And fave thee from thyfelf, O, answer me!
Wilt thou forfake me ?-Answer me, my brother,
My best ARVIDA.

Arv. I would speak to thee

But let it be by filence-O GUSTAVUS!

Guft. Say but you'll live.

Arv.

Guft. For my fake.

Arv.

Guft.

Yes, take me

Expose me, cage me, brand me for the tool
Of crafty villains; for the veriest slave,

On whom the bend of each contemptuous brow
Shall look with loathing. Ah, my turpitude
Shall be the vile comparative for knaves,

To boast and whiten by!

Not fo, not fo

Who knows no fault, my friend, knows no perfection.
The rectitude that Heaven appoints to man

Leads on through error; and the kindly fenfe
Of having ftrayed, endears the road to blifs;

It makes Heaven's way more pleasing! O my brother,
'Tis hence a thousand cordial charities

Derive their growth, their vigour, and their fweetness.
This short lapfe

Shall to thy future foot give cautious treading,

Erect and firm in virtue,

Aro. Give me leave.

Guft. You fhall not pafs.

Arv. I muft.

Guft. Whither?

Aru. I know not-O GUSTAVUS!

[Offers to pass.

[Points to the dagger.

I could have died—indeed I could-for thee,

I could have died, GUSTAVUS!

Guft. OI know it.

A generous mind, though fwayed a-while by paffion,
Is like the fteely vigour of the bow,

Still holds its native rectitude, and bends

But to recoil more forceful. Come, forget it.

This, furely, is moft excellent and interefting! When love rifes to pity and terror, it becomes a paffion worthy of tragedy; but when it finks into mere fighing, and whining, it difgraces

the

the buskin. We are told that this tragedy was refused a licence. There is no doubt but a party-spirit runs through the whole, and that fuch a spirit was as much below the dignity of fo good a poet, as it was beneath the wisdom of government to take notice of it. Whenever a writer catches hold of temporary circumstances to affift his mufe, the genius of fuch an author may be justly doubted, though Addison, Thomson, and Brooke, may be quoted as precedents.

There is scarce a fcene in this tragedy in which there are not great beauties: the firft appearance of Guftavus is noble and characteristic:

Enter GUSTAVUS to ANDERSON.
And. Your pardon, ftranger, if the voice of virtue,
If cordial amity from man to man,

And fomewhat that fhould whifper to the foul,
To feek and chear the fufferer, led me hither
Impatient to falute thee. Be it thine

Alone to point the path of friendship out;

And my best power fhall wait upon thy fortunes.
Guft. Yes, generous man! there is a wondrous teft,
The trueft, worthieft, nobleft caufe for friendship;
Dearer than life, than intereft, or alliance,
And equal to your virtues.

And. Say-unfold.

Guft. Art thou a foldier, a chief lord in Sweden,
And yet a ftranger to thy country's voice
That loudly calls the hidden patriot forth?

But what's a foldier? What's a lord in Sweden ?
All worth is fled, or fallen-Nor has a life
Been fpared, but for difhonour; spared to breed
More flaves for Denmark, to beget a race
Of new-born virgins for the unfated luft

Of our new matters. Sweden! thou art no more!
Queen of the north! thy land of liberty,

Thy houfe of heroes, and thy feat of virtues,

Is now the tomb, where thy brave fons lie fpeechless,
And foreign fnakes engender.

And. O'tis true.

But wherefore? To what purpose ?—

Guft. Think of Stockholm!

When CRISTIERN feized upon the hour of peace,
And drench'd the hofpitable floor with blood;
Then fell the flower of Sweden, mighty names!
Her hoary fenators, and gafping patriots.
The tyrant fpoke, and his licentious band
Of blood-trained miniftry were loofed to ruin,
Invention wanton'd in the toil of infants
Stabb'd on the breast, or reeking on the points
Of fportive javelins. Hufbands, fons, and fires,
With dying ears drank in the loud despair
Of shrieking challity. The wafte of war

A a 4

Was

2

Was peace and friendship to this civil massacre.
O heaven and earth! Is there a caufe for this?
For fin without temptation, calm, cool villainy,
Deliberate mifchief, unimpaffion'd luft,

And fmiling murder?-Lie thou there, my foul!-
Sleep, fleep upon it-image not the form

Of any dream but this, 'till time grows pregnant,
Ahd thou canst wake to vengeance.

And. Thou haft greatly moved me. Ha! thy tears flart forth.
Yes, let them flow, our country's fate demands them :

I too will mingle mine, while yet 'tis left us

To weep in fecret, and to figh with fafety.
But wherefore talk of vengeance? 'Tis a word
Should be engraven on the new fallen fnow,
Where the first beam may melt it from obfervance.
Vengeance on CRISTIERN-Norway and the Daue,
The fons of Sweden, all the peopled north
Bend at his nod: my humbler boast of power
Meant not to cope with crowns.

Guft. Then what remains

Is briefly this your friendship has my thanks,
But mult not my acceptance: never-no.
First fink thou baleful manfion to the center,
And be thy darkness doubled round my head;
'Ere I forfake thee for the blifs of Paradife,
To be enjoyed beneath a tyrant's fcepter!
No, that were wilful flavery-Freedom is
The brilliant gift of Heaven; 'tis Reafon's felf,
The kin of Deity-I will not part wi't.

And. Nor I, while I can hold it; but alas!

That is not in our choice.

Guft. Why?-where's that power whofe engines are of force
To bend the brave and virtuous man to flavery?
Bafe fear, the lazinefs of luft, grofs appetites,
These are the ladders, and the groveling foo:ftool,
From whence the tyrant rifes on our wrongs,
Secure and scepter'd in the foul's fervility.
He has debauch'd the genius of our country;
And rides triumphant, while her captive fons
Await his nod, the filken flaves of pleasure,
Or fetter'd in their fears.

And. I apprehend you:

No doubt, a base fubmiffion to our wrongs
May well be term'd a voluntary bondage.
But think, the heavy hand of power is on us;
Of power, from whofe imprisonment and chains
Not all our free-born virtue can protect us.
Guft. 'Tis there you err, for I have felt their force;
And had J yielded to enlarge these limbs,
Or fhare the tyrant's empire, on the terms
Which he proposed-I were a flave indeed.
No-in the deep and deadly damp of dungeons

1

The

The foul can rear her fceptre, fmile in anguish,
And triumph o'er oppreffion.

And. O glorious fpirit!-Think not I am lack

To relish what thy noble fcope intends;

But then the means! the peril! and the confequence!
Great are the odds, and who fhall dare the trial?
Guft. I dare.-

O wer't thou fill that gallant chief

Whom once I knew! I could unfold a purpose,
Would make the greatness of thy heart to fwell,
And burst in the conception.

And. Give it utterance.

Perhaps there lie fome embers yet in Sweden,

Which wakened by thy breath, might rife in flames,
And fpread vindictive round-You say you know me;
But give a tongue to fuch a caufe as this,

And if you hold me tardy in the call,

You know me not-But thee I have furely known;
For there is fomewhat in that voice and form,
Which has alarm'd my foul to recollection;
But 'tis as in a dream, and mocks my reach.
Guft. Then name the man, whom it is death to know,
Or knowing to conceal-and. I am he,

And. GUSTAVUS!-Heavens! 'Tis he! tis he himself!

Before we quit this tragedy, it will be proper to observe that it is of that fpecies which creates admiration, while it is lefs powerful in exciting pity or terror. Our late dramatists have, in general, dealt more in the heroic than the pathetic; they have rather endeavoured to elevate the mind than to harrow up the foul: the laft is the most difficult, and, confequently, the leaft practifed.-Shakespeare poffeffed all the dramatic powers. Dryden and Addifon could raife admiration; Otway and Southern, produced both pity and terror.

The next play to Guftavus is Mr. Brooke's Earl of Effex. It is matter of wonder that not one of the alterations of this tragedy hath fo great an effect in reprefentation as the well-planned, though incorrectly-written original Earl of Effex by Banks.Mr. Brooke's performance deferves the preference, as it has the double merit of giving pleasure in the closet as well as upon she ftage.

We could wifh, for the credit of our Author, to omit mentioning his Anthony and Cleopatra; but our duty as Reviewers will not excufe fuch an neglect. The fpirit of Shakespeare is wholly evaporated in this alteration. There is, perhaps, no play in which our immortal poet has more happily fhewn his knowledge of character, or displayed more fire and genius in the exhibition.

We are furprized to find the famous defcription of Cleopatra and her barge turned into profe:

Enobarbus.

Enobarbus

"I will tell you;

"The barge fhe fat in, like a burnish'd throne
"Burnt on the water," &c.

Now mark the weaknefs of the alteration.

• Enobar. Why, fhe came down the river Cydnus, in a galley, whofe poop and fides were inlaid with burnish'd gold, and appear'd to whiz and burn along the water,' &c.-What a want of taste and propriety in that whix!

Mr. Brooke has introduced two new characters of children (young Alexander and Cleopatra;) with what effect the Reader may judge by turning to page 354, Scene II.

ANTONY enters, with young ALEXANDER and CLEOPATRA fondling on each fide.

Ant.

Alex.

Away, ye little rogues, ye wanton varlets!
Away, I am not in the humour now,

To wrestle with your fondness

To ride the may-rods, or to roll the slope,

Or play at marble pellets-Hence, ye roguelings!
I am not in the vein.

Sifter!

Do you take hold of one leg, while I take hold
Of t'other, and then I'll warrant you!

Cleo. Now, ALLY, now!—

I lay a good round wager we have him down!

Ant. There now, I am down already.

What would ye more ?-How dare you use me thus ?

Know ye not I'm an emperor'?

Alex. Yes, yes-but, father,

What matters being an emperor ?

Ant. What matters, firrah ?—

Marry, and that's a pregnant question too!

What matters? why, to wear a crown, as I do.

Cleo. Don't believe him, brother.

I'll tell you what's to be an emperor

It is to fpeak big words, and to be strong,
And to throw others down, as we throw him.
Alex. Then, PATTY, we are stronger than an emperor.
Ant. Indeed, and that's true too.

Aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus

[Sits.

The third volume contains five tragedies-the Impoftor, the Earl of Westmorland, Cymbeline, Montezuma, and the Vestal Virgin.-At first fight the Impoftor feems to be an imitation of the Mahomet of Voltaire; but notwithstanding there is a bare fimilitude in fome of the fcenes, the plan and fable are wholly altered, and particularly in the catrastrophe; the love of Palmyra and Zaphna (who prove to be brother and fifter in Voltaire) is the fame in both. Mr. B. indeed, by a very improbable means, marries them at the end; but the great fcene of terror, in which Zaphna kills Alcanor, who proves to be his father, is not introduced in Mr. Brooke's Impoftor. This, perhaps, is

the