Having been tried upon the statute 25 Edw. III. ch. 2. Mr. Morton is found not guilty of treason against the sovereignty of man, as no overt act is proved upon him. It appears upon evidence very clearly, that the conspiracy with which he was charged could not possibly have been carried into effect, and have accomplished its end by the measures proposed to be adopted. The jury-all married menwere unanimously of opinion in the first place, that women could never be brought to employ silence as an instrument to overturn the lawful authority of their husbands; and in the second place, that if a solitary and unaccountable instance of this experiment should occur, it would produce a very opposite effect.

Mr. Morton has been often before a Covent-garden audience, and knows the art of accommodating to different palates his jokes, repartees, and soft sentiments. In the School for Reform a character is introduced, Frederick, who is bred up at the Philanthropic School, to the patron of which the piece is dedicated. A repentant profligate, Tyke, is a prominent character in the play, and supported with great spirit. The scene between Ferment and Tyke in the second act is ludicrous enough and considerable effect is probably produced on the stage by a scene of a very different nature, between Tyke and an old man whom he discovers to be his father. On the whole, the School of Reform is endurable.

IT was surely unnecessary for Mr. Holcroft to have deprecated, in a preface, the public contempt for so humble an employment of his pen as the composition of novels; and to have contended, as gravely as if any body in his senses had disputed the position, that hints of great utility and of a dignified and important nature are frequently found in them; that they are a high source of gratification to many persons; and that when made the vehicle of moral instruction, they are deserving of general encouragement. The public are not backward in doing justice to the merit of a novel; Mr. Holcroft knows this from personal experience. An artist might as reasonably tremble lest the dignity of his profession should be brought into jeopardy by the daubings of a signpainter, as a novelist who delineates the manners of real life with fidelity and effect, apprehend degradation in the scale of literary rank, from the trash which is often published by writers who arrogate ⚫ the same title without any pretension, and prostitute the duties of it to the most shameful purposes.

Novels may be divided and subdivided into a hundred classes, but the two principal ones are, first those which are written solely with the view of exciting the reader's feelings by an interesting tale, that is to say, for the mere purpose of amusement; and secondly, those in which

the story is of secondary consideration, and only introduced in subordination to the higher purposes for which the novel was especially written, namely that of promoting certain virtues or satirizing certain vices. Mr. Holcroft's novels, as he seems to have thought it necessary to inform us, are of the latter kind. Now to state, in limine, so specifically as he has done, the object in view, argues either a diffidence as to the execution of the work, which in honest truth we do not give Mr. Holcroft the credit of feeling in the slightest degree; or it is an affront to the sagacity of his readers, who are thus avowedly suspected of not having sufficient penetration to see the force and felicity of certain allusions, or to discover the meaning of a fable unless" the moral" is tacked to it. It must be acknowledged, however, on the other hand, that commentators have often been accused, and upon no slight grounds, of charging on their author a meaning, which in all probability their author never meant; now when a man becomes, as it were, the commentator on his own work, there is no danger that he should be misunderstood, and that his readers should be led astray in this manner.

We must waste no more words on the preface as to the work itself, we have already said it belongs to that class of noyels where the story is subordinate to the

moral. Indeed it is the damning fault of Bryan Perdue, that it is deficient in interest: the hero takes a retrospection of his past conduct from the earliest period of life, and tells his own tale, but it is in so flippant a manner, as to destroy a large proportion of the interest which it was intrinsically calculated to inspire. The style is ill-suited to the subject: levity is not the language of contrition. The particular vice against which it is the object of this novel to warn young persons, is gaming: a more fertile theme could not have been chosen; here it is unnecessary to describe imaginary horrors, or even to give an artificial glow of colouring to the real ones which are produced by indulgence in this seducing vice. The simple narrative of distresses which in actual life may every day be witnessed, is sufficient, surely, to appal the unhardened youth who may have had the misfortune to have been betrayed into the society and ways of gamesters. "If men," says Bryan Perdue, "could but be made sensible of the mad risk they run when they encourage a spirit of gaming; if they were not blind to the narrow selfishness, the odious passions to which it gives birth, the desire of gaining that which may be, and often is, the destruction of families, the hazard of being exposed to equal destruction themselves, and the contemptible and disgusting nature of such covetousness; did they I say but consider this, there would soon be no gamblers; for they could not long exist were they deprived of the spoils of the unwary."

But the misfortune is, that gamblers are not often men of consideration; they are anxious to flee from the reflections of their own mind, and in order to render them "sensible of the mad risk they run," it is necessary to make such an appeal to their feelings as shall irresistibly enforce attention. Such appeals have been made, and with greater effect than in the history of Bryan Perdue: an anecdote is recorded in the memoirs of David Ross the actor, which we make no apology for introducing here. In the year 1752, during the Christmas holidays, he performed the part of George Barnwell, and Mrs. Pritchard that of Milwood. Soon after Dr. Barrowby, one of the physicians to St. Bartholomew's hospital, was sent for by a young gentleman in Great St. Helen's, who was apprentice to an eminent merchant. He found his patient very ill with a slow fever, and a languid pulse which no medicine could affect. The

nurse told Dr. Barrowby that the young man sighed at times so very deeply, that she was sure there was something on his mind. The doctor sent every one out of the room, and told the patient his sus picion that some secret distress lay heavy on his mind; and added, that unless he would unbosom himself, all medicine was in vain. After much solicitation, the youth confessed that he had a secret sorrow preying on his mind, but that he would rather die than divulge it, as inevitable ruin must be the consequence. The doctor assured him if he would make him his confident, he would try every means in his power to serve him, and that the secret, if he desired it, should remain so to all the world but to those who might be necessary to relieve him. After much conversation, he told the doctor that he was the second son of a gentleman of good fortune in Hertfordshire; that he had made an improper acquaintance with the kept mistress of a captain of an Indiaman then abroad; that he was within a year of being out of his time, and had been entrusted with cash, drafts, and notes, to the amount of two hundred pounds, which he had appropriated to his own use. Having been at Drury-lane a few nights before to see Ross and Mrs. Pritchard in their characters of George Barnwell and Milwood, he said that he had been so deeply impressed with the scene, that he had not enjoyed a moment's peace since, and wished to die that he might avoid the shame he saw hanging over him. Dr. Barrowby enquired where his father was; the young man replied that he expected him every minute, as he had been sent for by his master on his being taken so alarmingly ill. The doctor desired him to tranquillize his mind, as he would undertake to break the matter to his father, and if the latter made any hesitation as to advancing the money, that he would advance it himself. The father soon arrived; Dr. Barrowby took him into another room, and after explaining the whole cause of his son's illness, begged him to save the honour of his family, and the life of his son. The father with tears in his eyes gave him a thousand thanks, and said he would instantly step to his banker and bring the money: he returned to his son with peace and forgiveness, they embraced, and under an assurance on the part of the former that not the slightest reproach or even allusion to the unhappy circumstance should ever escape his lips. The young man reco

vered, and told his friend and physician Dr. Barrowby, who never divulged his name, that the play had raised such extreme horror and contrition in his soul, that if it pleased God to raise a friend to extricate him out of his distress, he would dedicate the rest of his days to virtue and religion. This young man became an eminent merchant; Ross never knew his name or saw his person; but for nine or ten years he constantly received at his benefit an anonymous note sealed up with these words: "A tribute of gratitude from one who was highly obliged and saved from ruin by seeing Mr. Ross's performance of Barnwell.". There are some events in the life of Bryan Perdue, which very naturally recalled this anecdote to our recollection. Bryan Perdue, the son of a professed and unprincipled gamester, who was exceedingly anxious that his boy should, like himself, be an adept in all the iniquitous mysteries of the art, had the misfortune in early life to lose an amiable and virtuous mother: whilst yet at school he had learnt to cog the dice and pack the cards. The facility with which he had oftentimes relieved himself from pecuniary embarrassment by his dexterity and skill in gaming, made it his ordinary resource in all cases of difficulty. Bryan is one of those mixed characters which prevail in real life, but which novelwriters in general-not surely for that very reason?-have declined selecting for their hero. It has been too much the custom to exhibit the prominent characters in these works of fancy as monsters of vice or paragons of virtue: the man consummately good or consummately depraved, does not fall within the usual compass of observation. Bryan Perdue is, nevertheless, not an every-day character: his intellectual powers are strong, his observation keen, and his feelings acute. The native virtues of his heart are roused into action on the slightest call, but he is the slave to passion, and an unlimited indulgence of licentiousness brings his life into imminent peril. Before we come to this part of his narrative, however, let us do Mr. Holcroft the justice to exhibit his skill in working up a scene. One night at the billiard-table Bryan Perdue won of a stranger who had in all respects the demeanor of a gentleman, two hundred and fifty pounds: when all his money was lost, the latter requested that fifteen gameas might be staked against his gold watch and seals. He lost them, and instandly hurried from the room, exclaiming

in an agony of despair, "It's done! It's over! It's past recall!" The sensibilities of Bryan Perdue were awakened in favour of the stranger, but he was gone, and it was not known where.

adventure, that the period, which caution and "It happened, about five days after this customary visit to Henrietta. I sat convers propriety had prescribed, arrived for my ing with her and her friend, when Mrs. Vaughan, the lady under whose care they both were placed, entered.

Notwithstanding her habitual equanimity and ease of behaviour, affliction was visible in she came, and sat with us: her conversation her countenance: it was to fulfil a duty that she said but little, spoke in a tone of conwas not pleasant and unembarrassed as usual: cealed grief, and now and then a sigh escaped her; though many deep ones were suppressed.

Henrietta had too much sensibility for this to pass unperceived, though the same cause restrained and forbade her to notice friend of Henrietta left the room, and I venwhat she saw and felt. Shortly after, the tured to say to Mrs. Vaughan—' I fear, madam, you are not well.'

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She burst into a flood of tears and replied- No, sir, I am not well, indeed; nor ever shall be again: my disease is incu rable!

"With the most tender affection, Henrietta entreated her to say if it were any way possible to give her relief, or consolation. I joined in the request, and Mrs. Vaughan at length replied Of relief I see not any hope; but, Mr. Perdue, for your sake, I will relate what it is that now distracts my mind. Pray pardon me, when I say it is for your sake; but I have heard your friends frequently lament that you indulged yourself in that which daily proves itself to be one of the worst of vices; I mean gaming. I hope you if you do, the story which I have to tell no longer give yourself this indulgence; but, ought to be a serious warning to you.'

"I was in the presence of Henrietta, before a matron too, whose proper conduct and excellence in life made irregularity shrink from her, abashed. Till that moment, I had never felt such trepidation! I dreaded what was to come, my conscience flushed in my

face, and I almost feared that it was me, myself, of whom she was about to speak. I was

not far from the truth.

"Do not blame me, I am a mother,' said Mrs. Vaughan, bursting into a fresh flood of tears, and my son is ruined!'

Good God! exclaimed I, ruined? Which way, madam?

By gaming. The loss of money is not he has lost himself, lost his character, betrayso great but that it might be supported; but ed his trust, and that he may for ever conceal himself and his disgrace from the world, if possible, he has entered on board a man of

war. I had educated him with a truly maternal care: with every good principle of morality, I had endeavoured to give him every accomplishment of a man: he was the admiration of all who knew him! What is he

now? Lost! Lost to himself, lost to me, lost to society! You, Mr. Perdue, are entrusted with concerns that are not your own: so was he. His character is never more to be retrieved, and I tell this to you, and you alone, Mr. Perdue, in the affliction and dread of my heart, lest you should, some time or other, plunge into, or suffer yourself to be hurried away by, the same pernicious vortex!'

"I listened in terror, and then said'What was the sum that he lost, Madam?'

"Two hundred and fifty pounds! "I became pale as death! My whole frame shook! I could not keep myself still: I was in the awful presence of Henrietta!

"Was not the money his own, madam ?' "No. It would then only have occasioned distress; now it has brought irretriev

able ruin!'

“To whom did it belong?'

"To Mr. Fairman, who is an army agent. My son was the principal clerk in his office; the money was designed to pay up the arrears of an officer, who is aged, sick, and in distress. Every way the transaction wears the appearance of baseness! I am sure my son is not base, though inveigled by the wicked arts of a gambler to his destruction

"No, madam- I was about to deny a charge, as if intentionally made against my self. Every thing conspired no less against me than against the youth I had ruined. Mr. Fairman was the uncle of my young friend, Henry; and, to complete my confusion, I had the watch in my pocket, that I had won, the seals of which were remarkable; one of them especially, it was a seal ring, an antique, and had been given to her son by Mrs. Vaughan.

"These seals had caught her eye: she requested Henrietta to retire, and then addressing me in a serious tone, said—

"Pardon me, Mr. Perdue, but, if I am not exceedingly mistaken, you have my son's watch in your pocket! Pray permit ine to look?

"The sensations of the culprit, receiving sentence, scarcely could be more painful than those I felt! Every way confounded, I stood silent for a moment, then gave the watch hastily into her hand, and exclaimed-For heaven's sake, madam, do not tell Henrietta! I am not so much to blame as I may appear: I will find your son, and save him, if it be possible!'

"So saying, I hurried to get out of the house, eager to perform what I had promised, though not yet well conceiving the means."

As Bryan is quitting the house the postman brings a letter to Mrs. Vaughan from her distracted son, expressing the

utmost bitterness of repentance, and imploring her compassion and forgiveness. He had volunteered to serve his majesty mother's affecting letter of forgiveness to as a common sailor: Bryan flies with his the tender, on board of which is the unhappy Vaughan. The sight of him who had been the immediate cause of his present distress, could not but be painful: Bryan endeavours to soothe his mind, and insists on restoring the money which he had won of him. Vaughan will not consent to this, but he allows himself to be liberated through Bryan's means, hoping in a short time to repay the expence. As soon as they are on shore, Vaughan returns to the arms of his mother; and Bryan, who had dissipated part of the money he had won, borrows the deficiency of a friend, hastens to the house of Mrs. Vaughan, and again urges, in vain, the restoration of the money. The only resource is to go directly to the countinghouse of Mr. Fairman.

"I found Mr. Fairman at his office, requested to speak to him, and being admitted, related my business.

"I began with describing the maternal feelings of Mrs. Vaughan, and the penitence of Frederic. During this, I repeated the contents of the two letters, confessed my share in the gambling business, declared my grief and shame, and concluded with saying that I was now come to repay the money, and humbly to petition Mr. Fairman would consent to hear, from Frederic himself, how truly penitent he was for the fault he had cominitted.

"Instead of acting with the haste that my impetuosity expected, Mr. Fairman paused, considered, appeared to survey me, and at last asked

"Do you come, Sir, on the part of Frederic Vaughan, to pay this money?' "Yes, Sir.'

"At his desire; sent and deputed by him?'

I hesitated, Not, directly.' "Does he know that you are come?' "I-did not mention where I was going: but I have just left him, with Mrs. Vanghan.' "I wish to understand, Sir, whether this money comes from him, or you?'

"I told you, Sir, I am very sorry I ever received it, and I am now come with a desire to give it to its right owner.'

The money I confided to Frederic Vaughan was for an officer, in distress: owing to this breach of trust, the effects of the officer were seized, and he was put in prison.' "Is he there now, Sir?'

"No; but that is not to the point. I have heard much of you, Mr. Perdue, from my nephew. He is a good young man, and

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