composed, at that time, from twenty to thirty comedies, which all passed representation, without the performers receiving volleys of cucumbers or oranges, or any of those missiles with which an audience is wont to assail bad actors: they ran their career unchecked by hisses, by tumult, or by clamour. After this, having wherewithal to occupy my thoughts, I laid down the pen and left off writing plays: and, at this juncture, that prodigy of nature Lope de Vega appeared," &c. M. "O Knight! a sister's love for thee He heard-embrac'd her, but his tongue Then wildly broke away, and sprung To wear the Cross of Calvary And speed to the Holy Land. There many a deed of glory bright Proclaim'd his fame around; And wherever there raged the bloodiest fight, His name alone could appal the heart Of the fiercest infidel But his spirit still groan'd with the secret smart, That nothing on earth could heal. He bore that pang thro' a long, long year: Nor glory's crowns, nor victory's cheer A ship he sees on Joppa's strand And he speeds away to his father-land, By favouring winds convey'd. And swift he flew to the castle-gate That guards his angel dear: When O! what terrible accents grate "She wears the Veil so pure and blest, And he left, and left alas! for ever, And the warrior's praise was heard no more, For the coarse, cold garment of hair he wore At the end of the dusky Linden aile And there he watch'd from the morning's break And silent Hope oft flush'd his cheek, As he sat in loneliness. For hours and hours he speechless sate, Of his Heaven-devoted love- Then satisfied he sunk to rest: Until he saw her shadow bright And so he sate, and so he fell A corpse all stiff and chill: His dim eye fix'd upon the cell ON THE WRITINGS OF RICHARD CLITHEROE. MR. EDITOR, Among the singular events which have happened in the history of literature, I know none more curious than that which has condemned to so long a period of oblivion the name and writings of Richard Clitheroe, one of the best dramatic writers of the reign of James I. I was fortunate enough, some months ago, to purchase for a trifling price the plays of this writer, in two quarto volumes: and this copy, as I am assured, is the only one at present extant. The Tragedies of Clitheroe are six in number: Crichton; Julius Cæsar; Fortune's Fool; The Unlucky Marriage; Julian, the Apostate; and Virginia, or Honour's Sacrifice. To these Tragedies is prefixed a history of the early part of the author's life, which is curious for the quaint simplicity with which it is written, and the interesting anecdotes which it contains of contemporary poets. The following extracts from the first of these plays, the hero of which is the admirable Crichton, may enable your readers to form some opinion of the style and talents of this writer. The first extract is from the commencement of the Tragedy, which opens with a dialogue between Angelo, a young nobleman of Mantua, and Father Ilario, tutor to the Duke's son. This worthy ecclesiastic had been despatched to Padua by the Duke, for the purpose of overcoming Crichton in disputation. Angelo. Hail, holy father! welcome back to Mantúa! And told us wondrous news: we heard that Crichton Came off with greater fame at Padua Than all that he had won at Rome and Paris. Our noble Duke, I speak it to his shame, Gave to his dull and hasty messengers Too easy credence; for I cannot doubt That you have well sustain'd his confidence, Which he, poor youth! has all too rashly challenged. With scarcely twenty summers o'er his head, there. But thou wert Ilario. Oh! if thou lovest me, mention it no more; And publish my own shame. Oh, fortune! fortune! All that I wish'd of honour, fame, respect; Now they are gone, and I am less than nothing. When the fresh breeze that fann'd it blows no more; The prophecy of Ilario is accomplished. Crichton arrives at Mantua, and Ilario's situation is taken from him, to be bestowed upon the new favourite. The following is the priest's soliloquy thereon: Heaven's curse be on them all! oh, wretched slave! Of what I was, and what I might have been Ye busy thoughts, or you will drive me mad. The next extract is a dialogue between Angelo and Ilario, in the beginning of the second act; where Angelo, for certain reasons of his own, persuades Ilario to revenge himself upon Crichton. Angelo. (alone) Thank Heaven! changed his gait, here he comes. How Shame has bow'd down his head, and bent his neck. To shun men's looks. Enter Ilario. Good morrow, holy father, Again well met-if we may use that term Ilario. Bleeds for me! Who art thou? Angelo. And whither wouldst thou go? Ilario. I know of noue. When men have hell behind them, and within them, Angelo. Dost thou feel The poison'd sting of passion in thy mind? Ilario. What grief hadst thou? Angelo. Such as might make a wiser man blaspheme. His own thoughts. Or, at least, the blood is warm, That makes but to unmake Ilario. Oh, curse thy tongue! |