On these poor trembling knees I beg it. Vanish'd

Here they went down-Oh, I'll dig, dig the
den up!

You shan't delude me thus. Hoa, Jaffier, Jaffier,
Peep up, and give me but a look. I have him!
I've got him, father': Oh!
My love! my dear! my blessing! help me!
help me!

They have hold on me, and drag me to the
bottom.

Nay-now they pull so hard-farewell-
[Dies. The Curtain falls slowly to Music.

THE ORPHAN

OR, The Unhappy Marriage. Tragedy by Thomas Otway. Acted at the Duke's Theatre 1680. The plot is founded on the history of Brandon, in a novel called English Adventures, published in 1667. The language is truly poetical, tender, and sentimental, the circumstances are affecting and the catastrophe is distressfull. Yet there is somewhat improbable in the particular on which all the distresses are founded; and we must own that we incline to the opinion of that person, who, on first seeing it, exclaimed, "Oh! what an infinite deal of mischief would a farthing rushlight have prevented!" We cannot avoid remarking, says the Biographia Dramatica, that the compassion of the audience has commonly appeared misplaced; it lighting in general on the whining, irresolute Castalio, instead of falling, where it ought to do, on the more spirited and open-hearted Polydore, who, in consequence of concealments on the side of his brother, which he could not have any reason to expect, and by which he is really injured, is tempted in his love and resentment to an aet which involves him in greater horror and distress than any of the other characters can undergo, from the more bloody effects it produces. This partiality has, however, always appeared to us to arise from some strokes of libertinism thrown into the early parts of Polydore's character, which give an air of looseness to it, and prejudice the audience against him through the whole play. As Dr. Johnson observes, "it is one of the few pieces that keep possession of the stage, and has pleased for almost a century, through all the vicissitudes of dramatic fashion. Of this play nothing new can easily be said. It is a domestic tragedy drawn from middle life. power is upon the affections; for it is not written with much comprehension of thought, or elegance of expression. But if the heart is interested, many other beauties may be wanting, yet not be missed." Voltaire, who (from his egre gious vanity) seldom spoke of an English author but in a strain of ridicule, has sarcastically, yet not without some appearance of truth, observed of the impetuous Chamont: "There is a brother of Monimia, a soldier of fortune, who, bes cause he and his sister are cherished and maintained by this worthy family, abuses them all round. Do me justice, you old Put,' says he to the father, or, damme, I'll set your house on fire,'-'My dear boy,' says the accommodating old gentleman, you shall have justice.""

Its whole

ACT I.

SCENE.- Bohemia.

SCENE L-A Garden.
Enter CASTALIO, POLYDORE, and Page.
Cas. POLYDORE, our sport
Has been to-day much better for the danger:
When on the brink the foaming boar I met,
And in his side thought to have lodg'd my spear,
The desperate savage rush'd within my force, I
And bore me headlong with him down the rock.
Pol. But then

Cas. So, Polydore, methinks, we might in war Rush on together; thou shouldst be my guard, And I be thine. What is't could hurt us then? Now half the youth of Europe are in arms, How fulsome must it be to stay behind, And die of rank diseases here at home!

Pol. No, let me purchase in my youth renown,
To make me lov'd and valu'd when I'm old;
would be busy in the world, and learn,
Not like a coarse and useless dunghill weed,
Fix'd to one spot, and rot just as I grow.
Cas. Our father

Has ta'en himself a surfeit of the world,
And cries, it is not safe that we should taste it.
I own, I have duty very pow'rful in me:
And though I'd hazard all to raise my name,
Yet he's so tender, and so good a father,
I could not do a thing to cross his will.
Pol. Castalio, I have doubts within my
Which you, and only you, can satisfy.
Will you be free and candid to your friend?

heart,

Cas. Have I a thought my Polydore should| not know?

What can this mean?

Pol Nay, Pll conjure you too,

By all the strictest bonds of faithful friendship,
To show your heart as naked in this point,
As you would purge you of your sins to heav'n.
And should I chance to touch it near, bear it
With all the suff'rance of a tender friend.
Cas. As calmly as the wounded patient bears
The artist's band, that ministers his cure.
Pol. That's kindly said.-You know our fa-
ther's ward,

The fair Monimia:-is your heart at peace?
Is it so guarded, that you could not love her?
Cas. Suppose I should?

Pol Suppose you should not, brother ?
Cas. You'd say, I must not.

Pol. That would sound too roughly

Twist friends and brothers, as we two are.
Cas. Is love a fault?

Pol. In one of us it may be-
What, if I love her?

Cas. Then I must inform you

I lov'd her first, and cannot quit the claim;
But will preserve the birthright of my passion.
Pol. You will?

Not with my Polydore:-though I must own
My nature obstinate, and void of suff'rance;
I could not bear a rival in my friendship,
I am so much in love, and fond of thee.

Pol. Yet you will break this friendship!
Cas. Not for crowns.

Pol But for a toy you would, a woman's toy.
ajust Castalio!

Cas. Pr'ythee, where's my fault?

Pol. You love Monimia.

ma, and enjoy her.

Pal. Both of us cannot.
Las. No matter

Whose chance it prove; but let's not quarrel for't.
Pot. You would not wed Monimia, would you?
Cas. Wed her!

were she all desire could wish, as fair would the vainest of her sex be thought, With wealth beyond what woman's pride could waste,

should not cheat me of my freedom.-Marry!
When I am old and weary of the world,
I may grow desperate,

And take a wife to mortify withal.
POL. It is an elder brother's duty so
To propagate his family and name.

ould not have yours die, and buried
with you?

C Mere vanity, and silly dotage, all:-
Shahet me live at large, and when I dic-
Who shall possess th' estate you leave?

Cas. My friend,

If he survives me; if not, my king,
Who may bestow't again on some brave man,
Whose honesty and services deserve one.
Pol. 'Tis kindly offer'd.

Cas. By yon heaven, I love
My Polydore beyond all worldly joys;
And would not shock his quiet, to be blest
With greater happiness than man e'er tasted.
Pol. And, by that heaven, eternally I swear,
To keep the kind Castalio in my heart.
Whose shall Monimia be?

Cas. No matter whose.

Pol. Were you not with her privately last night?

Cas. I was; and should have met her here
again.

The opportunity shall now be thine;
But have a care, by friendship I conjure thee,
That no false play be offer'd to thy brother.
Urge all thy powers to make thy passion prosper;
But wrong not mine.

Pol. By heaven, I will not.

Cas. It prove thy fortune, Polydore, to

Enter MONIMIA.

Mon. Pass'd not Castalio and Polydore this way?

Page. Madam, just now.

Mon. Sure some ill fate's upon me:
Distrust and heaviness sit round my heart,
And apprehension shocks my tim'rous soul.
Why was not I laid in my peaceful grave
| With my poor parents, and at rest as they are ?
Instead of that, I'm wand'ring into cares.-
Castalio! O Castalio! thou hast caught
My foolish heart; and, like a tender child,
That trusts his plaything to another hand,
I fear its harm, and fain would have it back.
Come near, Cordelio; I must chide you, sir.
Page. Why, madam, have I done you any
wrong?

Mon. I never see you now; you have been
kinder;

Perhaps I've been ungrateful. Here's money for you.

Page. Madam, I'd serve you with my soul. Mon. Tell me, Cordelio (for thou oft hast heard Their friendly converse, and their bosom secrets), Sometimes, at least, have they not talk'd of me? Page. O madam! very wickedly they have

talk'd!

But I am afraid to name it; for, they say,
Boys must be whipp'd, that tell their masters'

secrets.

Mon. Fear not, Cordelio; it shall ne'er be
known;

For I'll preserve the secret as 'twere mine.
Polydore cannot be so kind as 1.
I'll furnish thee with all thy harmless sports,
With pretty toys, and thou shalt be my page.
Page. And truly, madam, I had rather be so.
Methinks you love me better than my lord;

For he was never half so kind as you are.
What must I do?

Mon. Inform me how thou'st heard
Castalio and his brother use my name.

Page. With all the tenderness of love, You were the subject of their last discourse. At first I thought it would have fatal prov'd; But as the one grew hot, the other cool'd, And yielded to the frailty of his friend;

If softest wishes, and a heart more true
Than ever suffer'd yet for love disdain'd,
Speak an ill nature, you accuse me justly.
Mon. Talk not of love, my lord, I must not
hear it.

Pol. Who can behold such beauty, and be
silent?
Desire first taught us words.
Man, when
created,

At last, after much struggling, 'twas resolv'd-At first alone long wander'd up and down
Mon. What, good Cordelio?
Page. Not to quarrel for you.
Mon. I would not have 'em, by my dearest
hopes;

I would not be the argument of strife.
But surely my Castalio won't forsake me,
And make a mock'ry of my easy love!
Went they together?

Page. Yes, to seek you, madam.
Castalio promis'd Polydore to bring him,
Where he alone might meet you,
And fairly try the fortune of his wishes.
Mon. Åm I then grown so cheap, just to

be made

A common stake, a prize for love in jest?
Was not Castalio very loath to yield it?
Or was it Polydore's unruly passion,
That heighten'd the debate?

Page. The fault was Polydore's.
Castalio play'd with love, and smiling show'd
The pleasure, not the pangs of his desire.
He said, no woman's smiles should buy his
freedom:

Forlorn, and silent as his vassal beasts:
But when a heav'n-born maid, like you, appear'd,
Strange pleasures fill'd his eyes and fir'd his heart,
Unloos'd his tongue, and his first talk was love.
Mon. The first created pair indeed were

bless'd;

families;

me happy.

And therefore when my tender parents dy'd, And marriage is a mortifying thing. [Exit. Whose ruin'd fortunes too expir'd with them, Mon. Then I am ruin'd! if Castalio's false, Your father's pity and his bounty took me, Where is there faith and honour to be found? A poor and helpless orphan, to his care. Ye gods, that guard the innocent, and guide Pol. 'Twas Heav'n ordain'd it so, to make The weak, protect and take me to your care. O, but I love him! There's the rock will wreck me! Why was I made with all my sex's fondness, Yet want the cunning to conceal its follies? I'll see Castalio, tax him with his falsehoods," Be a true woman, rail, protest my wrongs; Resolve to hate him, and yet love him still.

Hence with this peevish virtue, 'tis a cheat;
And those who taught it first were hypocrites.
Come, these soft, tender limbs were made for
yielding.

Mon. Here on my knees, by heav'n's bles
pow'r I swear, [Kneels
If you persist, I ne'er henceforth will see you
But rather wander through the world a beggar
And live on sordid scraps at proud men's doors
For though to fortune lost, I'll still inherit
My mother's virtues, and my father's honour
Pol. Intolerable vanity! your sex
Was never in the right; y'are always false,
Or silly; ev'n your dresses are not more
Fantastic than your appetites; you think
Of nothing twice; opinion you have none.
To-day y'are nice, to-morrow not so free;
Now smile, then frown; now sorrowful, the
glad;

Now pleas'd, now not; and all, you kno
not why!

Mon. Indeed, my lord,

I own my sex's follies; I have 'em all;
And, to avoid its fault, must fly from you.
Therefore, believe me, could you raise me his
As most fantastic woman's wish could read
And lay all nature's riches at my feet;
I'd rather run a savage in the woods,
[Exit. Amongst brute beasts, grow wrinkled a
deform'd,

Cas. I could for ever hear thee; but this time Matters of such odd circumstances press me, That I must go.

Mon. Then go, and, if't be possible, for ever. Well, my lord Polydore, I guess your business, So I might still enjoy my honour safe, And read th' ill-natur'd purpose in your eyes. From the destroying wiles of faithless men. [E Pol. If to desire you more than misers wealth, Pol. Who'd be that sordid thing call'd ma Or dying men an hour of added life; I'll yet possess my love, it shall be so. [Exeu

ACT II.

SCENE L-A Saloon.

Another sister! sure, it must be so;
Though I remember well I had but one:
But I feel something in my heart that prompts,

Enter ACASTO, CASTALIO, POLYDORE, and And tells me, she has claim and interest.there.

Attendants.

Acas. Young soldier, you've not only studied

war,

Acas. To-day has been a day of glorious sport:
When you, Castalio, and your brother left me,
Forth from the thickets rush'd another boar,
So large, be seem'd the tyrant of the woods,
With all bis dreadful bristles rais'd up high,
They seem'd a grove of spears upon his back; And I'm at least her brother by adoption;
Foaming he came at me, where I was posted For you have made yourself to me a father,
Best to observe which way he'd lead the chase, And by that patent I have leave to love her.
Whetting his huge large tusks, and gaping wide, Ser. Monimia, thou hast told me men are false,
As if he already had me for his prey! Will flatter, feign, and make an art of love:

Courtship, I see, has been your practice too,
And may not prove unwelcome to my daughter.
Cham. Is she your daughter? then my heart
told true,

Till brandishing my well-pois'd_javelin_high, Is Chamont so? no, sure, he's more than man;
With this bold executing arm I struck Something that's near divine, and truth dwells
The ugly brindled monster to the heart.
in him.
Cas. The actions of your life were always
wondrous.

Acas. No flattery, boy! an honest man can't
live by't;

It is a little sneaking art, which knaves
Use to cajole and soften fools withal.
If thou hast flattery in thy nature, out with't,
Or send it to a court, for there 'twill thrive.
Cas. Your lordship's wrongs have been
So great, that you with justice may complain;
But suffer us, whose younger minds ne'er felt
Fortune's deceits, to court her, as she's fair:
Were she a common mistress, kind to all,
Her worth would cease, and half the world
grow idle.

Methinks I would be busy.
Pol. So would I,

Not loiter out my life at home, and know
No further than one prospect gives me leave.
Acas. Busy your minds then, study arts and

men;

Learn how to value merit, though in rags,
And scorn a proud, ill-manner'd knave in office.
Enter SERINA.

Ser. My lord, my father!
Acas. Blessings on my child!

My little cherub, what hast thou to ask me?
Ser. I bring you, sir, most glad and

The

come news;

young Chamont, whom you've so
wish'd for,

Is just arriv'd, and entering.
Acas. By my soul,

Acas. Thus happy, who would envy pom-
pous pow'r,

The luxury of courts, or wealth of cities?
Let there be joy through all the house this day!
In ev'ry room let plenty flow at large!
It is the birth-day of my royal master!
You have not visited the court, Chamont,
Since your return?

Cham. I have no bus'ness there;
I have not slavish temperance enough
T'attend a favourite's heels, and watch his smiles,
Bear an ill office done me to my face,
And thank the lord that wrong'd me for his favour.
Acas. This you could do. [To his Sons.
Cas. I'd serve my prince.
Acas. Who'd serve him?
Cas. I would, my lord.
Pol. And I; both would.
Acas. Away!

He needs not any servants such as you.
Serve him! he merits more than man can do!
He is so good, praise cannot speak his worth;
So merciful, sure he ne'er slept in wrath!
So just, that, were he but a private man,
He could not do a wrong! How would you
serve him?

Cas. I'd serve him with my fortune here at
home,

wel-And serve him with my person in his wars: Watch for him, fight for him, bleed for him. often Pol. Die for him,

And all my honours, he's most dearly welcome;
Let me receive him like his father's friend.

As ev'ry true-born, loyal subject ought.

Acas. Let me embrace ye both! now, by

the souls

Of my brave ancestors, I'm truly happy!
For this, be ever blest my marriage day!
Blest be your mother's memory, that bore you;
And doubly blest be that auspicious hour
That gave ye birth!

Enter a Servant.

Sero. My lord, th' expected guests are just arriv'd.

Acas. Go you and give 'em welcome and reception.

[Exeunt Castalio and Polydore. Cham. My lord, I stand in need of your assistance,

In something that concerns my peace and honour.
Acas. Spoke like the son of that brave man
I lov'd!

So freely, friendly, we convers'd together.
Whate'er it be, with confidence impart it;

Thou shalt command my fortune and my sword.

Cham. Then you'll remember too he was

Cham. I dare not doubt your friendship, nor
your justice,

Your bounty shown to what I hold most dear,
My orphan sister, must not be forgotten!
Acas. Pr'ythee no more of that, it grates
my nature.

Cham. When our dear parents dy'd, they
dy'd together;

One fate surpris'd'em, and one grave receiv'd'em;
My father, with his dying breath, bequeath'd
Her to my love; my mother, as she lay
Languishing by him, call'd me to her side,
Took me in her fainting arms, wept, and
embrac'd me;

Then press'd me close, and, as she observ'd
my tears,

Kiss'd them away; said she, "Chamont, my son,
By this, and all the love I ever show'd thee,
Be careful of Monimia: watch her youth;
Let not her wants betray her to dishonour:
Perhaps kind heav'n may raise some friend."
Then sigh'd,

Kiss'd me again; so bless'd us, and expir'd.
Pardon my grief.

Acas. It speaks an honest nature.
Cham. The friend heav'n rais'd was
you took her up,

An infant, to the desert world expos'd,

And prov'd another parent.

Acas. I've not wrong'd her.

Cham. Far be it from my fears.

Acas. Then why this argument?

you;

a man

That liv'd up to the standard of his honour,
And priz'd that jewel more than mines of wealth:
He'd not have done a shameful thing but once:
Though kept in darkness from the world, and
hidden,

He could not have forgiv'n it to himself.
This was the only portion that he left us;
And I more glory in't than if possess'd
Of all that ever fortune threw on fools.
'Twas a large trust, and must be manag'd nicely;
Now if, by any chance, Monimia,
You have soil'd this gem, and taken from its value,
How will you account with me?
Mon. I challenge envy,
Malice, and all the practices of hell,
To censure all the actions of my past
Unhappy life, and taint me if they can!

Cham. I'll tell thee, then; three nights ago, as I
Lay musing in my bed, all darkness round me,
A sudden damp struck to my heart, cold sweat
Dew'd all my face, and trembling seiz'd my
limbs:

My bed shook under me, the curtains started,
And to my tortur'd fancy there appear'd
The form of thee, thus beauteous as thou art;
Thy garments flowing loose, and in each hand
A wanton lover, who by turns caress'd thee
With all the freedom of unbounded pleasure.
I snatch'd my sword, and in the very moment
Darted it at the phantom; straight it left me;

Cham. My lord, my nature's jealous, and Then rose, and call'd for lights, when, O dire

Acas. Go on.

you'll bear it.

Within my reach, though it should touch my
nature,

In my own offspring, by the dear remembrance
Of thy brave father, whom my heart rejoic'd in,
I'd prosecute it with severest vengeance. [Exit.
Cham. I thank you, from my soul.

Mon. Alas, my brother! What have I done?
My heart quakes in me; in your settled face,
And clouded brow, methinks I see my fate.
You will not kill me?

Cham. Prythee, why dost thou talk so?
Mon. Look kindly on me then; I cannot bear
Severity; it daunts, and does amaze me;
My heart's so tender, should you charge me
rough,

Ishould but weep, and answer you with sobbing:
But use me gently, like a loving brother,
And search through all the secrets of my soul.
Cham. Fear nothing, I will show myself
brother,

A tender, honest, and a loving brother.
You've not forgot our father?

Mon. I never shall.

a