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Lov'd by the first of Caledonia's dames, He'll turn upon me, as the lion turns Upon the hunter's spear.

Which in the breasts of his forefathers burn'd: But if he be the favourite of the fair,
Set him on high, like them, that he may shine
The star and glory of his native land!—
Yonder they come. How do bad women find
Unchanging aspects to conceal their guilt,
When I, by reason and by justice urg'd,
Full hardly can dissemble with these men
In nature's pious cause?

Enter LORD RANDOLPH and GLENALVon. Lord R. Yon gallant chief,

Of arms enamour'd, all repose disclaims. Lady R. Be not, my lord, by his example sway'd.

Arrange the business of to-morrow now, And when you enter, speak of war no more. [Exit. Lord R. 'Tis so, by heav'n! her mien, her voice, her eye,

And her impatience to be gone, confirm it. Glen. He parted from her now. Behind the mount,

Amongst the trees, I saw him glide along. Lord R. For sad sequester'd virtue she's renown'd.

Glen. Most true, my lord,

Lord R. Yet this distinguish'd dame
Invites a youth, the acquaintance of a day,
Alone to meet her at the midnight hour.
This assignation [Shows a Letter] the assas-
sin freed,

Her manifest affection for the youth,
Might breed suspicion in a husband's brain,
Whose gentle consort all for love had wedded':
Much more in mine. Matilda never lov'd mc.
Let no man, after me, a woman wed,
Whose heart he knows he has not, though
she brings

A mine of gold, a kingdom for her dowry.
For let her seem, like the night's shadowy queen,
Cold and contemplative-he cannot trust her;
She may, she will, bring shame and sorrow
on him;

The worst of sorrows, and the worst of shames! Glen. Yield not, my lord, to such afflicting thoughts,

But let the spirit of a husband sleep,
Till your own senses make a sure conclusion.
This billet must to blooming Norval go:
At the next turn awaits my trusty spy;
I'll give it him refitted for his master.
In the close thicket take your secret stand;
The moon shines bright, and your own eyes
may judge

Of their behaviour.

Lord R. Thou dost counsel well.
Glen. Permit me now to make one slight


Of all the trophies, which vain mortals boast,
By wit, by valour, or by wisdom won,
The first and fairest in a young man's eye
Is woman's captive heart. Successful love
With glorious fumes intoxicates the mind,
And the proud conqueror in triumph moves,
Air-borne, exalted above vulgar men.

Lord R. And what avails this maxim?
Glen. Much, my lord.

Withdraw a little; I'll accost young Norval,
And with ironical derisive counsel
Explore his spirit. If he is no more
Than humble Norval, by thy favour rais'd,
Brave as he is, he'll shrink astonish'd from me


Lord R. 'Tis shrewdly thought.
Glen. When we grow loud, draw near.
But let my lord

[Exit Randolph.

His rising wrath restrain.
'Tis strange, by heaven!
That she should run full tilt her fond career
To one so little known. She, too, that seem'd
Pure as the winter stream, when ice, emboss'd,
Whitens its course. Even I did think her chaste,
Whose charity exceeds not. Precious sex!
Whose deeds lascivious pass Glenalvon's

His port I love: he's in a proper mood
To chide the thunder, if at him it roar'd.-
Has Norval seen the troops?

Nor. The setting sun With yellow radiance lighten'd all the vale; And as the warriors mov'd, each polish'd helm, Corslet, or spear, glanc'd back his gilded beams. The hill they climb'd, and, halting at its top, Of more than mortal size, tow'ring, they seem' A host angelic, clad in burning arms. Glen. Thou talk'st it well; no leader of our host


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To gall your pride, which now I see is gre
Nor. My pride!

Glen. Suppress it, as you wish to
Your pride's excessive. Yet, for Randolph's sab
I will not leave you to its rash direction.
If thus you swell, and frown at high-born me
Will high-born men endure a shepherd's scor
Nor. A shepherd's scorn!

Glen. Yes; if you presume

To bend on soldiers these disdainful eyes,
What will become of you?
Nor. If this were told!-

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Hast thou no fears for thy presumptuous self? The private quarrel.

Glen. Ha! dost thou threaten me?

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Nor. Whom dost thou think me?

Glen. Norval.

Nor. So I am—

And who is Norval in Glenalvon's eyes?

Glen. A peasant's son, a wandering beggar boy;

Glen. I agree to this.
Nor. And I.

Enter Servant.
Serv. The banquet waits.

Lord R. We come. [Exit with Servant.
Glen. Norval,

Let not our variance mar the social hour,
Nor wrong the hospitality of Randolph.
Nor frowning anger, nor yet wrinkled hate,
Shall stain my countenance. Smooth thou thy

At best no more, even if he speaks the truth.
Nor. False as thou art, dost thou suspect Nor let our strife disturb the gentle dame.
Nor. Think not so lightly, sir, of my re-

my truth?

Glen. Thy truth! thou'rt all a lie: and false

as hell

Is the vain-glorious tale thou told'st to Randolph.
Nor. If I were chain'd, unarm'd, and bed-
rid old,

Perhaps I should revile: but as I am,
I have no tongue to rail. The humble Norval
Is of a race who strive not but with deeds.
Did I not fear to freeze thy shallow valour,
And make thee sink too soon beneath my sword,
I'd tell thee-what thou art. I know thee well.
Glen. Dost thou not know Glenalvon, born
to command


Ten thousand slaves like thee-
Nor. Villain, no more!
Draw and defend thy life. I did design
To have defy'd thee in another cause;
But heav'n accelerates its vengeance on thee.
Now for my own and lady Randolph's wrongs.
[They fight.

Enter LORD Randolph.

Lord R. Hold, I command you both. The man that stirs

Makes me his foe.

Nor. Another voice than thine


When we contend again, our strife is mortal. [Exeunt.



is the place, the centre of the

Doug. This
Here stands the oak, the monarch of the wood.
How sweet and solemn is this midnight scene!
The silver moon, unclouded, holds her way
Through skies, where I could count each little


The fanning west-wind scarcely stirs the leaves;
The river, rushing o'er its pebbled bed,
Imposes silence with a stilly sound.
In such a place as this, at such an hour,
If ancestry can be in aught believ'd,
Descending spirits have convers'd with men,
And told the secrets of the world unknown.

Enter old NORVAL.

Old N. 'Tis he. But what if he should
Ichide me hence?

That threat had vainly sounded, noble Ran- His just reproach I fear.

Gien. Hear him, my lord; he's wondrous

Mark the humility of shepherd Norval!
Nor. Now you may scoff in safety.
[Sheathes his Sword.

Lord R. Speak not thus,
Taunting each other; but unfold to me
The cause of quarrel, then I judge betwixt you.
Nor. Nay, my good lord, though I revere
you much,

My cause I plead not, nor demand your judg-I


Iblash to speak; I will not, cannot speak
In opprobrious words that I from him have

the liege lord of my dear native land
Lose a subject's homage; but ev'n him
Asd his high arbitration I'd reject.
Within my bosom reigns another lord;
Baur, sole judge, and umpire of itself.
E my free speech offend you, noble Randolph,
oke your favours, and let Norval go
race as he came, alone, but not dishonour'd.
Lord R. Thus far I'll mediate with impar-
tial voice:

The ancient foe of Caledonia's land

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[Douglas turns aside and sees him
Forgive, forgive;
Canst thou forgive the man, the selfish man,
Who bred sir Malcolm's heir a shepherd's son?
Doug. Kneel not to me; thou art my father

Thy wish'd-for presence now completes my joy.
Welcome to me; my fortunes thou shalt share,
And ever honour'd with thy Douglas live.

Old N. And dost thou call me father? Oh,
my son!

think that I could die, to make amends For the great wrong I did thee. 'Twas my

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waves his banners o'er her frighted fields. Yet grievous are my fears. Oh, leave this place, Spend your purpose till your country's arms And those unfriendly towers!

e the bold invader: then decide

Doug. Why should I leave them?

Old N. Lord Randolph and his kinsman | By stealth the mother and the son should meet?

seek your life.

Doug. How know'st thou that? Old N. I will inform you how. When evening came, I left the secret place Appointed for me by your mother's care, And fondly trod in each accustom'd path That to the castle leads. Whilst thus I rang'd, I was alarm'd with unexpected sounds Of earnest voices. On the persons came. Unseen I lurk'd, and overheard them name Each other as they talk'd, lord Randolph this, And that Glenalvon. Still of you they spoke, And of the lady: threat'ning was their speech, Though but imperfectly my ear could hear it. "Twas strange, they said, a wonderful discovery; And ever and anon they vow'd revenge. Doug. Revenge! for what?

Old N. For being what you are,

[Embraces him. Doug. No; on this happy day, this better


My thoughts and words are all of hope and joy.

Lady R. Sad fear and melancholy still divide The empire of my breast with hope and joy. Now hear what I advise

Doug. First, let me tell

What may the tenor of your counsel change. Lady R. My heart forebodes some evil.

Doug. 'Tis not good

At eve, unseen by Randolph and Glenalvon, The good old Norval in the grove o'erheard Their conversation; oft they mention'd me With dreadful threat'nings; you they sometimes nam'd.


'Twas strange, they said, a wonderful discovery; Sir Malcolm's heir: how else have you offended? And ever and anon they vow'd revenge. When they were gone, I hied me to my cottage, Lady R. Defend us, gracious God! we are And there sat musing how I best might find Means to inform you of their wicked purpose; They have found out the secret of thy birth! But I could think of none. At last, perplex'd, It must be so. That is the great discovery. I issued forth, encompassing the tower, With many a wearied step and wishful look. Now Providence hath brought you to my sight, Let not your too courageous spirit scorn The caution which I give.

Doug. I scorn it not.

My mother warn'd me of Glenalvon's baseness:
But I will not suspect the noble Randolph.
In our encounter with the vile assassins,
I mark'd his brave demeanour; him I'll trust.
Old N. I fear you will, too far.
Doug. Here in this place

I wait my mother's coming: she shall know
What thou hast told: her counsel I will follow:
And cautious ever are a mother's counsels.
You must depart: your presence may prevent
Our interview.

Old N. My blessing rest upon thee! Oh, may heav'n's hand, which sav'd thee from the 'wave,

And from the sword of foes, be near thee stil;
Turning mischance, ifaught hangs o'er thy head,
All upon mine!

Doug. He loves me like a parent;
And must not, shall not, lose the son he loves,
Although his son has found a nobler father.
Eventful day! how hast thou chang'd my state!
Once on the cold and winter-shaded side
Of a bleak hill, mischance had rooted me,
Never to thrive, child of another soil;
Transplanted now to the gay sunny vale,
Like the green thorn of May my fortune flowers.
Ye glorious stars! high heav'n's resplendent
To whom I oft have of my lot complain'd,
Hear, and record my soul's unalter'd wish!
Dead or alive, let me but be renown'd!
May heav'n inspire some fierce gigantic Dane,
To give a bold defiance to our host!
Before he speaks it out, I will accept:
Like Douglas conquer, or like Douglas die.

Enter LADY RANDOLPH. Lady R. My son! I heard a voiceDoug. The voice was mine. Lddy R. Didst thou complain aloud to nature's ear, That thus in dusky shades, at midnight hours,

Sir Malcolm's heir is come to claim his own,
And they will be reveng'd. Perhaps even now,
Arm'd and prepar'd for murder, they but wait
A darker and more silent hour, to break
Into the chamber where they think thou sleep'st.
This moment, this, heav'n hath ordain'd to
save thee!
Fly to the camp, my son!

Doug. And leave you here?
No: to the castle let us go together,
Call up the ancient servants of your house,
Who in their youth did eat your father's bread:
Then tell them loudly that I am your son.
If in the breasts of men one spark remains
Of sacred love, fidelity, or pity,
Some in your cause will arm. I ask but few
To drive those spoilers from my father's house
Lady R. Oh, nature, nature! what can chee
thy force?

Thou genuine offspring of the daring Douglas But rush not on destruction: save thyself, And I am safe. To me they mean no harm Thy stay but risks thy precious life in vain. That winding path conducts thee to the river Cross where thou seest a broad and beater

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I have great cause to dread. Too well I see
Which way the current of thy temper sets:
To-day I have found thee. Oh! my long-lost

If thou to giddy valour giv'st the rein,
To-morrow I may lose my son for ever.
The love of thee, before thou saw'st the light,
Sustain'd my life when thy brave father fell.
If thou shalt fall, I have not love nor hope
In this waste world! My son, remember me!
Doug. What shall I say? How can I give
you comfort?

The God of battles of my life dispose
As may be best for you! for whose dear sake
I will not bear myself as I resolv'd.
But yet consider, as no vulgar name,
That which I boast, sounds among martial men,
How will inglorious caution suit my claim?
The post of fate unshrinking I maintain.
My country's foes must witness who I am..
On the invaders' heads I'll prove my birth,
Till friends and foes confess the genuine strain.
If in this strife I fall, blame not your son,
Who, if he live not honour'd, must not live.
Lady R. I will not utter what my bosom

Too well I love that valour which I warn. Farewell, my son, my counsels are but vain. [Embracing. And as high heav'n hath will'd it, all must be. [They separate. Graze not on me, thou wilt mistake the path; Fil point it out again.

Just as my arm had master'd Randolph's sword, The villain came behind me; but I slew him. Lady R. Behind thee! ab! thou'rt wounded! Oh, my child,

How pale thou look'st! And shall I lose thee now?


Doug. Do not despair: I feel a little faint


hope it will not last. [Leans upon his Sword. Lady R. There is no hope!

And we must part! the hand of death is on thee!

Oh! my beloved child! O Douglas, Douglas! Douglas growing more and more faint. Doug. Oh! had I fall'n as my brave fathers fell,

Turning with fatal arm the tide of battle, Like them I should have smil'd and welcom'd death;

But thus to perish by a villain's hand!
Cut off from nature's and from glory's course,
Which never mortal was so fond to run.
Lady R. Hear, justice, hear! stretch thy
avenging arm.

[Douglas falls. Doug. Unknown I die; no tongue shall speak of me.

Some noble spirits, judging by themselves,
May yet conjecture what might have prov'd,
And think life only wanting to my fame:
But who shall comfort thee?

Lady R. Despair, Despair!

[Exeunt. Doug. Oh, had it pleas'd high heav'n to let me live

Just as they are separating, enter, from A little while!-my eyes that gaze on thee the Wood, LORD RANDOLPH and GLEN- Grow dim apace! my mother-O! my mother!


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Gien. I'm prepar'd.

Lord R. No: 1 command thee stay.

I go alone: it never shall be said

That I took odds to combat mortal man.
The noblest vengeance is the most complete.

Exit. [Glenalvon makes some Steps to the same Side of the Stage, listens, and speaks.

Glen. Demons of death, come settle on my sword,

And to a double slaughter guide it home! The lover and the husband both must die. Lord R. Without] Draw, villain! draw! Doug. [Without] Assail me not, lord Randolph;

Act as thou lov'st thyself.

[Clashing of Swords. Glen. [Running out] Now is the time. Enter LADY RANDOLPH, at the opposite Side of the Stage, faint and breathless. Lady R. Lord Randolph, hear me; all shall be thine own!

Eat spare! Oh, spare my son!

Later DOUGLAS, with a Sword in each Hand. Doug. My mother's voice!

1 as protect thee still.

Lady R. He lives! he lives!

For this, for this to heav'n, eternal praise! Bure I saw thee fall.

Doug. It was Glenalvon.

[Dies. Lady Randolph faints on the Body.

Enter LORD RANDOLPH and ANNA. Lord R. Thy words, thy words of truth, have pierc'd my heart: I am the stain of knighthood and of arms. Oh! if my brave deliverer survives The traitor's sword

Anna. Alas! look there, my lord. Lord R. The mother and her son! How curst am I!

Was I the cause? No: I was not the cause. Yon matchless villain did seduce my soul To frantic jealousy.

Anna. My lady lives:

The agony of grief hath but suppress'd
Awhile her powers.

Lord R. But my deliverer's dead!
Lady R. [Recovering] Where am I now?
Still in this wretched world!
Grief cannot break a heart so hard as mine.
Lord R. Oh, misery.!

Amidst thy raging grief I must proclaim
My innocence.

Lady R. Thy innocence!
Lord R. My guilt

Is innocence compar'd with what thou think'st it.
Lady R. Of thee I think not; what have I

to do

With thee, or any thing? My son! my son! My beautiful! my brave! how proud was I Of thee and of thy valour! my fond heart O'erflow'd this day with transport, when I thought

Of growing old amidst a race of thine,

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as the havock

GEORGE LILLO, was by profession a jeweller, and was born in the neighbourhood of Moorgate, in London, on the 4th of Feb. 1693; in which neighbourhood he pursued his occupation for many years, with the fairest and m unblemished character. He was strongly attached to the Muses, yet seemed to have laid it down as a maxim, that the devotion paid to them ought always to tend to the promotion of virtue, morality, and religion. In pursuance of thi aim, Mr. Lillo was happy in the choice of his subjects, and shewed great power of affecting the heart, by working up the passions to such a height, as to render the distresses of common and domestic life equally interesting as tho of kings and heroes; and the ruin brought on private families by an indulgence of avarice, lust etc., made in states and empires by ambition, cruelty and tyranny. His George Barnwell, Fatal Curiosity, and Arden f Feversham are all planned on common and well-known stories; yet they have, perhaps, more frequently drawn teas from an audience, than the more pompous tragedies of Alexander the Great, All for Love, etc. Mr. Lillo, as before observed, has been happy in the choice of his subjects; his conduct and the management of them is no less meritorious, and his pathos very great. If there is any fault to be objected to his writings, it is, that sometimes he affects an elevation of style somewhat above the simplicity of his subject, and the supposed rank of his characters; but th custom of tragedy will stand in some degree of excuse for this; and a still better argument perhaps may be admitted in vindication, not only of our present author, but of others in the like predicament; which is, that even nature itsel will justify this conduct; since we find even the most humble characters in real life, when under peculiar circumstances of distress, or actuated by the influence of any violent passions, will at times be elevated to an aptness of and power of language, not only greatly superior to themselves, but even to the general language and conversation of persons of much higher rank in life, and of minds more perfectly cultivated. Our author died Sept. 5d. 1759, in the 47th year of his age; and a few months after his death the celebrated Fielding printed the following character of hi in The Champion: "He had a perfect knowledge of human nature, though his contempt of all base means of appli tion, which are the necessary steps to great acquaintance, restrained his conversation within very narrow bounds. had the spirit of an old Roman, joined to the innocence of a primitive christian; he was contented with his little st of life, in which his excellent temper of mind gave him a happiness beyond the power of riches; and it was neces sary for his friends to have a sharp insight into his want of their services, as well as good inclination or abilities t serve him. In short, he was one of the best of men, and those who knew him best will most regret his loss."


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This play was acted 1751, at the Theatre Royal in Drury-lane with great success. "In the newspapers of th time" says the Biographia Dramatica, "we find, that on Friday, 2d of July 1731, the Queen sent to the playhouse Drury-lane, for the manuscript of George Barnwell, to peruse it, which Mr. Wilks carried to Hampton Court. T tragedy being founded on a well known old ballad, many of the critics of that time, who went to the first represe tation of it, formed so contemptuous an idea of the piece, in their expectations, that they purchased the ballad (st thousands of which were used in one day on this account), in order to draw comparisons between that and the pla But its merit soon got the better of this contempt, and presented them with scenes written so true to the heart, t they were compelled to subscribe to their power, and lay aside their ballads to take their handkerchiefs." The orig performer of the character of George Barnwell, Mr. Ross, relates, that "in the year 1752, he played this part. Barrowhy was sent for by a young merchant's apprentice, who was in a high fever; upon the Doctor's approachi him, he saw his patient was afflicted with a disease of the mind. The Doctor being alone with the young man, confessed, after much solicitation, that he had made an improper acquaintance with a kept mistress; and had made ft with money intrusted to his care, by his employers, to the amount of 200 pounds. Secing Mr. Ross in that piece. was so forcibly struck, he had not enjoyed a moment's peace since, and wished to die, to avoid the shame he saw har ing over him. The Doctor calmed his patient by telling him, if his father made the least hesitation to give the money, should have it from him. The father arrived, put the amount into the son's hands,-they wept, kissed, embraced. 1 son soon recovered, and lived to be a very eminent merchant. Dr. Barrowby never told me the name; but one ev

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