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subject we shall borrow the words
of a confidential friend and admirer
of him, who has himself taken and
still continues to take a very active
part in public affairs. As a de-
bater in the house of commons his
speeches were logical and argumen
tative; if they did not often abound
in the graces of metaphor, or sparkle
with the brilliancy of wit, they were
always animated, elegant, and clas-
sical. The strength of his oratory
was intrinsic; it presented the rich
and abundant resource of a clear
discernment and a correct taste.
His speeches are stampt with inimit-
able marks of originality. When
replying to his opponents, his readi-
ness was not more conspicuous than
his energy. He was always prompt,
and always dignified. He could
to the
sometimes have recourse
sportiveness of irony, but he did not
often seek any other aid than was to
be derived from an arranged and ex-
tensive knowledge of his subject.
This qualified him fully to discuss
the arguments of others, and for-
Thus
cibly to defend his own.
power
armed, it was rarely in the
his adversaries, mighty as they were,
to beat him from the field. His elo-
quence, occasionally rapid, electric,
and vehement, was always chaste,
winning, and persuasive; not awing
into acquiescence, but arguing into
conviction. His understanding was
bold and comprehensive. Nothing
seemed too remote for his reach, or
too large for his grasp.

of

Unallured by dissipation, and unswayed by pleasure, he never sacrificed the national treasure to the one, or the national interest to the other. To his unswerving integrity, the most authentic of all testimony is to be found in that unbounded public confidence which followed him throughout the whole of his political career.'

Mr. Pitt's mind was strongly ace tuated by the love of glory and the fire of genius: it was deeply imbued with taste, literature, and the best He was beendowments of nature. loved by his friends, and steady in his attachments. His temper, as a private man, contrary to what has been most unwarrantably said of him, was open, generous, and kind. His powers of conversation bore the stamp of his genius; but it was genius unbending from the dignity of senatorial eminence, to that fascinating and familiar simplicity which great men are ever known to display in domestic and relaxed hours.

Abroad, and in political contest, he was proud and inflexible. To those who knew him confidentially, he was said to bear an uniform demeanour of kindness and good nature. But it must be remembered that among his friends, even in the cabinet, there were few obstinate

en-few men who could pique his jealousy, or, in the slightest degree, ruffle the tide of his inclination.

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THE PLOT.

where she overhears the whole plot to besiege her father's castle. The robbers, conceiving her to have been too attentive to their discourse, give her over to Robert to be dispatched. The tender heart of this youth in iniquity is melted by her confession of her sex, and he not only preserves her, but secures her escape to his mother's cottage. Robert, too, shoots an arrow with a written discovery of the robbers' intention into the confines of the castle, where it is picked up and delivered to the baron, in the midst of his conference with the supposed friar. The baron gives it to Fitzharding to read, who, of course, perceiving its drift, evades the communication of it to the baron. In the mean time, Florence is brought into the baron's presence, under his order for the seizure of every soul in Matilda's cottage. Florence developes enough of Fitzharding's dark

THE Baron de Tracy, a native of Normandy, having married an English lady there, was so violently instigated to jealousy, by certain anonymous letters, that he plunged his dagger into his wife's breast, caught, as he considered her, in the arms of her seducer. His wife, Matilda, only wounded, fled with her infant son, leaving her husband to the distracting conviction of her honour, and to the still more distracting surmise, that the vessel in which she had departed was lost in its passage. The cause of all this misery was Fitzharding; a youth, who having enlisted in the baron's service, received from him, for some trifling offence, the ignominy of a public punishment; and of this the imposture he practised on the baron was but the commencement of his re-design to put the baron's castle in venge. In the present play, we find the baron, an English lord, and Fitzharding, the captain of a Danish banditti, infesting the woods adjacent to the baron's castle. Fitzharding, luckily for the completion of his revenge, intercepts a friar, who is on his way to confess the baron, assumes the monk's disguise, and proceeds thither himself, having previously planned with his fellow-robhers an attack upon the castle at the tolling of the curfew-bell. Near to this scene of action resided Matilda, and her son Robert, the former of whom, from her recluseness, had obtained the reputation of a witch, and the latter had just joined Fitzharding's banditti. This banditti in their prowlings meet with Florence, the daughter of the baron, who had left her father's castle in male disguise on account of his refusal to her union with Bertrand, the companion of her earliest years: the rob

the utmost readiness for attack; and just as Fitzharding had led the baron into the deepest recess of the castle, and had discovered himself and his bloody intentions, we find the form of Matilda interposing, and confessing herself the long-lost wife of the baron. The next scene is, of course, the frustration of Fitzharding's plot, and the happy union of Bertrand and Florence,

This play has been announced as the posthumous production of Mr. Tobin, the author of the Honey Moon, a name now well known, and whose memory and accomplishments are deservedly esteemed in the literary world. Being introduced under eircumstances which Dr. Johnson forcibly describes

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From praise or censure now no more we dread,

For English vengeance wars not with the dead

bers bear her away to their cave, the province of criticism becomes

166233

peculiarly delicate. Panegyric would therefore in some degree be superfluous, and correction of no avail-for

We need not hiss-the Author cannot hear!

The Curfew,' in several instances, excites the tender emotions of the mind. Although it by no means rouses our stronger energies, yet it commands an interest throughout which will ensure it that portion of popularity refused to several plays of modern times. It has little, if any, novelty; yet the attractions of the plot-although drawn from obvious sources--the elegance and purity of the sentiments, and its powerful stage effect, all happily combine in forming a play fit for our rational amusement. If it have no originality of plot or character, some may perhaps express their astonishment at the cause of its success; but that astonishment will cease when they are informed that a strong combination of incidents, managed by the hand of a master, and strengthened and adorned by forcible and eloquent observations on life and manners, will contribute to the success of a play in which originality of plot or character may be wanting. Although we are presented with many likenesses and colourings from various other dramas, yet the poetical machinery is so very happily blended, as to obtain our best and most sincere approbation. In The Curfew' we frequently find the most prominent features of The Revenge'

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The Children of the Wood' Castle Spectre'- The Battle of Hexham,'-Shakspeare's Plays, &c. &c. but the author draws from those sources so dexterously, as to ensure not only our forgiveness but

Between

our warmest encomiums. the character of Fitzharding and that of Zanga there is very little difference of sentiment and operation of the mind. In one passage there is the mere substitution of the word 'brand' for blow!'

The scenes where Matilda undergoes an interrogatory as a witch, and where she rescues her husband from the revengeful dagger of Fitzharding, are worked up with uncommon skill, and fraught with the deepest pathos. Not less striking are the scenes where Fitzharding, as the confessor, probes the conscience of the baron, and afterwards discovers himself to be an officer, whom the baron had formerly insulted so gallingly, and punished so ignominiously. The vigour of the sentiments which distinguish the chief character is suitably exhibited in equal vigour of expression. Indeed Mr. Tobin was perfect master of a style that has almost every thing to recommend it, viz. force, elegance, splendour of imagery, felicity, and justness of illustration and comparison.

We have seldom seen a new play so ably sustained by the performers, who were perfect in their respective parts. Elliston evinced unusual powers in Fitzharding, and Mrs. Powell infused much dignity and tenderness into the part of Matilda. Miss Duncan and Bannister were as interesting as ever; nor have we often seen Mr. H. Siddons to such advantage. Unmixed applause accompanied the performance from the beginning to the end of the piece, and broke out in an universal burst when the play was announced for a second representation.-A prologue and epilogue were spoken; the for mer has great merit.

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crew,

And the revels are now only waiting for you.

On the smooth shaven grass by the side-of a wood,

Beneath a broad oak, which for ages had stood,

See the children of earth, and the tenants of air,

To an ev'ning's amusement together repair. And there came the Beetle, so blind and so black,

Who carried the Emmet, his friend, on his back;

And there came the Gnat, and the Dragon fly too,

And all their relations-green, orange, and blue.

And there came the Moth, with her plumage. of down,

And the Hornet, with jacket of yellow and .brown,

Who with him the Wasp, his companion, did bring,

But they promised that ev'ning to lay by their sting.

Then the sly little Dormouse peep'd out of

his hole,

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A mushroom the table, and on it was spread A water dock-leaf, which their table-cloth made.

The viands were various, to each of their taste,

And the Bee brought the honey to sweeten the feast.

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With steps most majestic the Snail did ad

vance,

And he promised the gazers a minuet to dance;

But they all laugh'd so loud that he drew in, his head,

And went in his own little chamber to bed. Then as ev'ning gave way to the shadows of night,

Their watchman, the Glow-worm, came out with his light:

So home let us hasten, while yet we can see, For no watchman is waiting for you or for

me.

THE HAUNTED COTTAGE.

IN yonder neat cot, at the skirt of the grove
Fair Laura resided, a maiden so fair,
Near which a small streamlet doth glide,

That she was of the village the pride. Young William, who liv'd at the foot of the hill,

Beheld this sweet flower of the vale; His breast with the fondest emotions was

fill'd,

And soon he disclos'd his soft tale.

But when the attachment was known to his

friends,

They resolv'd that the lovers should part; And vow'd that the youth should his passion forego,

And leave the dear girl of his heart.

They fondly imagined that absence and time
Would all kind sensations remove;
That London's gay scenes would influence
the youth,

To forget his fond Laura and love.

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the cot,

And sought a retreat from her care.

So blooms the fair lily that graces the vale,

Eclipsing each floweret around, Till broke from its stem by the rude blast's rough wing,

In an instant it falls to the ground. Her parents, distracted, beheld the sad scene; With Laura their comfort was fled : Bow'd down with the weight of distress and old age,

They sunk to the realms of the dead. How lonely and sad does the cottage appear, Which erst was the seat of delight! The orchard, the garden, and jasmine bower, How dreary they look to the sight! No villager e'er will inhabit the cot,

For 'tis roundly affirm'd, that at night Deep murm'rings are heard, and dire sounds load the gale,

And the windows emit a pale light. 'Tis likewise reported-and credited too,

At midnight's dark ghost-walking hour, That William and Laura, with arm jock'd in arm,

Oft walk to their favorite bower. The birdnesting stripling-a truant from school,

Ne'er frequents this dread haunted spot; The peasant returning from labour at eve, Goes a circle, to shun the drear cot.

Fast by the small fane that o'erlooks the low vale

The remains of poor Laura repose! The maidens subscrib'd, and erected a tomb, And a youth did these verses compose:

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ADDRESS TO

OPULENCE AND COMPETENCE. (Written February, 1807.).

Take physic, Pomp;

Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou may'st shake the superflux te them,

And shew the Heavens more just.'*
SHAKSPEARE.

YE sons of opulence, while winter reigns
In frigid terror o'er your wide domains;
While from the north the gelid breezes
blow,

And covers nature with a mask of snow;
O freely from your purse impart your store,
And clothe and feed the naked, starving
poor!

Behold yon cot, whose miserable form
Shakes at the pressure of the wintry storm;
Whose mossy roof, chink'd walls, and broken
pane,

Admit the feathery snow and driving rain;
Eater the ruinous abode, and see

In living traits, domestic misery.

Crouch'd o'er the embers view the squalid

race,

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Rags on each back, and famine in each face; While cries for bread assault their mother's ears,

She gives but one expressive answer-tears! Lo, at her breast a famish'd nurseling lies, The milky fount refuse to grant supplies; Want has dry'd up the source whence freely flow'd

The mild nutritious stream.

Ye sons of competence, to whom kind heaven With lib'ral hand has needful plenty giv'n, Practise frugality-but spare, to spend ; Think what you give the poor to God you

lend.

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