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and poetical. Being disguised, she does not at first recognize him, and bids him “ be gone without a reply.” He replies, however, thus :

“ Be just, Penthea,
In thy commands: when thou send'st forth a doom
Of banishment, know first on whom it lights ;
Thus I take off my shroud in which my cares
Are folded up from view of common eyes;
What is thy sentence next?

Pent. Rash man! thou layest
A blemish on mine honour with the hazard
of thy too desperate life ; yet I profess
By all the laws of ceremonious wedlock
I have not given admittance to one thought
Of female change, since cruelty enforc'd
Divorce betwixt my body and my heart :
Why would you fall from goodness thus ?

ORGIL. Oh! rather
Examine how I could live to say-
I have been much, much wrong'd ; 'tis for thy sake
I put on this imposture ; dear Penthea,
If thy soft bosom be not turn'd to marble,
Thou 'lt pity our calamities; my interest
Confirms me thou art mine still.

Pent. Lend me your hand,
With both of mine, I clasp it thus, thus kiss it,
Thus kneel before you.
ORGIL. You instruct my duty.

Pent. We may stand up. Have you aught else to urge
Of new demand ? as for the old, forget it;
'Tis buried in an everlasting silence,
And shall be, shall be ever. What more would you ?

ORGIL. I would possess my wife, the equity
Of every reason bids me ?

Pent. Is that all ?
ORGIL. Why 'tis the all of me, myself.

PENT. Remove
Your steps some distance from me ; at this space
A few words I dare change; but first put on
Your borrow'd sbape.

ORGIL. You are obey'd. 'Tis done.

Pent. How, Orgillus, by promise I was thine,
The heavens do witness; they can witness too
A rape done on my truth. How I do love thee
Yet Orgillus, and yet, must best appear
In tendering thy freedom; for I find
The constant preservation of thy merit
By thee not daring to attempt my kunne
With injury of any loose conceit,
Which might give deeper wounds to discontents :
Continue this fair race, then though I cannot
Add to thy comfort, yet shalt I more often
Remember from what fortune I am fallen,
And pity mine own ruin. Live! live happy,
Happy in thy next choice, that thou mayst people
This barren age with virtues in thy issue :
And, oh! when thou art married, think on ine,
With mercy, not contempt: I hope thy wife
Hearing my story will not scorn my fall :
Now let us part.

ORGIL. Part! yet advise the better.

Penthea is the wife of Orgillus,
And ever shall be.

PENT. Never shall nor will!
ORGIL. How !

PENT. Hear me. In a word I'll tell thee why.
The virgin dowry which my birth bestow'd,
Is ravish'd by another : my true love
Abhors to think that Orgillus deserv'd
No better favours than a second bed.

Orgil. I must not take this reason.

Pent. To confirm it;
Should I outlive my bondage, let me meet
Another worse than this and less desir'd,
If of all the men alive thou should'st but touch
My lip or band again!

ORGIL. Penthea, now
I tell thee you grow wanton in my sufferance ;
Come sweet, thou'rt mine.

PENT. Uncivil sir, forbear,
Or I can turn affection into vengeance !
Your reputation, if you value any,
Lies bleeding at my feet. Unworthy man!
If ever henceforth thou appear in langnage,
Message, or letter to betray my frailty,
I'll call thy former protestations lust,
And curse my stars for forfeit of my judgment.
Go thou! fit only for disguise and walks
To hide thy shame! this once I spare thy life.
I laugh at my own confidence: my sorrows
By thee are made inferior to my fortunes.
If ever thou didst harbour worthy love,
Dare not to answer. My good genius guide me,
That I may never see thee more !-go from me!

Orgil. I'll tear my veil of polític French off,
And stand up like a man resolv'd to do;
Action, not words, shall shew me. Oh, Penthea !

Pent. He sigh'd my name sure as he parted from me ;
I fear I was too rough. Alas, poor gentleman ;
He look'd not like the ruins of his youth,
But like the ruins of those ruins : honour,

How much we fight with weakness to preserve thee ! Orgillus now determines to return into the world, and consummate his revenge upon Ithocles. He is received honorably at Court, mixes in society, and the better to conceal his intentions, joins in the common cry of admiration of the conqueror, whom he terms “the “ matchless"---" the clear mirror of absolute perfection." He becomes his friend ; consents that his sister shall be married to a friend of Ithocles ; and in every thing by the utmost submission and complaisance disarms suspicion. Still poor Penthea, tormented by her husband's jealousy and her own reflections, becomes more and more melancholy, until at length

some angry minister of Pate
Depos'd the empress of her soul, her reason,

From its most proper throne."
Her death shortly follows; and now the time of vengeance for
Orgillus has arrived, and he executes it most horribly. Ithocles,
honored and cherished at Court, seeks the hand of the king's daughter,
Calantha, who is indeed about to be married to another, but in truth

bas an affection for Ithocles. The king is worked upon to consent to their marriage, and at length grants permission, and the union is upon the point of taking place at the time of the death of Penthea: Orgillus conducts Ithocles to the death chamber, and there sacrifices the brother at the sister's shrine. · He stabs him, and leaving the dead body by the side of Penthea's corpse, takes his way for the Court, where revels have commenced in honor of the approaching nuptials. Just previous to his arrival, news had been brought to Calantha that her father, who was old and sickly, had died; the intelligence of Penthea's death follows; and then Orgillus burst in, and proclaims himself the murderer of the bridegroom. Calantha hears all patiently---she sheds no tear---goes through the dance, and at its conclusion before the corpse of Ithocles she formally disposes of the kingdom which had fallen to her, and of several dignities in the state; and then, heart broken by grief, expires by the side of her murdered lover. This concluding scene is an extremely noble one ; as is also that of the death of Orgillus, who being condemned to die, opens a vein, and thus kills himself; but we have no space for extracts. Altogether, the play is an excellent one, although the stoical firmness of Calantha in continuing the dance after being informed successively of the death of her father, Penthea, and Ithocles, is somewhat unnatural. There are several lyrical pieces in the course of the play. We shall extract two; the following dirge is really beautiful.

"Glories, pleasures, pomps, delights, and ease,

Can but please
The outward senses, when the mind
Is or untroubled or by peace refin'd;
Crowns may flourish and decay ;
Beauties shine and fade away ;
Youth may revel, yet it must
Lie down in a bed of dust;
Earthly honours flow and waste,
Time alone doth change and last.
Sorrows mingled with contents prepare

Rest for care ;
Love only reigns in death ; though art

Can find no eomfort for a broken heart.” There is something very playful and pretty in the following song, with which we conclude.

“ Can you paint a thought ? or number
Every fancy in a slumber?
Can you count soft minutes roving
From a dial's point, by moving ?
Can you grasp a sigh ? or lastly,
Rob a virgin's honour chastely?
No! Oh! no! yet you may

Sooner do both that and this,

This and that, and never miss,
Than by any praise display

Beauty's beauty ; such a glory
Is beyond all fate, all story,

All arms, all arts,

All loves, all hearts ;
Greater than those or they
Do, shall and must obey."




Am I grown contagious? Has my old enemy the plague returned ? Have I unconsciously become infected with a leprosy? Or what other cause is there why you daily remove farther from me? Indeed, indeed, brother, I take it

ill of

thus shun me. The time was when an easy walk enabled us to communicate with each other; but now, the only way to visit you is by hackney coach, or those other vehicles called short stages, I suppose because they are a much longer time in reaching their destination than is either necessary or convenient. A few years ago. I was certain of finding you either in the fields by St. Giles's or St. Martin's, or at farthest at St. James's. Now, they tell me you have stretched far beyond Primrose Hill, and that you are meditating a flight from Grosvenor Square to Chelsea.

Nor is this all that I have to complain of. Wherever I go-upon 'Change, at Guildhall, or at the Mansion House, I hear nothing but complaints of the ridiculous manner in which you are behaving yourself—the freaks of which you have lately been guilty-and the absurdities you are at present contemplating. I really can bear it no longer, and must take advantage of my right as an elder brother to remonstrate with you upon these subjects, kindly and affectionately, but still firmly.

For twelve months past I have not had the heart to visit St. James's Park, that Paradise of my youthful days—the scene of all my rural enjoyments-the happy spot to which I used formerly to resort for holiday amusement, and where I inhaled an atmosphere pure as my imagination can conceive, at once cheering my spirits, and invigorating my frame. But now, alas ! I am given to understand, that were I to revisit this Arcadia, the once pleasing scene of all my pastoral happiness, I should not know the place. They tell me you have cut down the trees, dispossessed the rooks, encroached upon the walk nearest to Buckingham Gate, and converted the once firm gravel into a swamp, sometimes almost impassable. Nay, more: I have been informed that you have built a new Palace in the place of Buckingham House; but not content with the ample space upon which it stood, you have protruded this new building into the Park; and in order to conceal it, have raised an immense mound as high as the house itself, rendering it of course a most unwholesome and unpicturesque habitation. Really all this is very silly; nay, it is much worse than silly. The situation of Buckingham House was bad enough-built as it was in a corner, and overlooked on every side; but in this new building, you have retained all the old disadvantages, and created many new ones.

It is rumoured that you intend to encroach still further upon the Park, and that the old Bird Cage Walk is to be turned into a terrace, or some such fine place; truly you are a very silly fellow for your pains. Your fine “improvements," as you call them---your French imitations---are in my mind mere nonsense. Before you can make London like Paris, you must render England like France. You must reduce our National Debt, and lessen our taxes. If you need must be improving, try your hand at one of these, and let masonry and Mac Adam alone. "By the bye, talking of MacAdam, pray what are you doing at Hyde Park Corner that used to be ? Not the new-fangled Knightsbridge Hyde Park Corner, but the old one. I sent one of my clerks up there a few days ago to present a bill, and when he returned I declare he was a complete pillar of mud. He tells me that you have “ improved" the fine hard old road until it has become a complete slough. You talk very contemptuously of my part of the town, as if it were a dirty, filthy place; but I pray you to look nearer home--mend your own ways, before you complain of mine.

As to the buildings you are erecting at Hyde Park Corner, in good truth the world cries out against them and you. On one side I am told there is a sort of screen---an entrance---of which a good view cannot any where be obtained, and on the other a huge, ponderous pile of building, as inapplicable for the purpose it is intended to answer as any thing can well be. Truly ! truly! you are a silly fellow. What you are going to do with the Hospital, and the buildings thereabouts, I know not. Mr. Liston, who came prying into the Bank a few days ago, informs me you have turned him out of his house ; at first I could not believe it---knowing him as I do to be a man who deals in jokes ; but his account has since been corroborated by some of his neighbours, who say that they have also been obliged to remove.

But what displeases me more than any thing, is a rumour that you intend to convert the house built for the late Duke of York into å gallery for pictures, and that amongst other shows the Exhibition is to be held there. Now really this is too bad, and I must say that I shall be quite offended if any thing of the sort is put into execution. What ! Am I not to be permitted to view the Exhibition uuless I choose to travel to any corner you may select to place it in? Besides, what security have i that you may not, if the present rage for Western emigration should continue, select in a short time some spot in your new settlement in the Five Fields ? And then how do you think I should ever be able to visit it? I tell you what, unless it is allowed to continue at Somerset House, I shall do as the Scots would have done if the Minister had persisted in his attempt to withdraw their Bank paper from circulation, and substitute gold---I'll shut up Temple Bar, and rebel, and so I shall instruct my sons, Thompson, Ward, Wood, and Waithman, to declare to Parliament as soon as it meets. The consequences of so dreadful'a catastrophe will of course be all attributable to your indiscretion; and therefore I advise you to reflect, if you can reflect, before you decide upon an act calculated to produce effects so tremendous, Sealed with the City Seal, the twenty-eighth day of April, 1827.


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