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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,
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
Her manifest affection for the youth,
A mine of gold, a kingdom for her dowry.
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,
Of their behaviour.
Lord R. Thou dost counsel well.
Of all the trophies, which vain mortals boast,
Lord R. And what avails this maxim?
Withdraw a little; I'll accost young Norval,
Lord R. 'Tis shrewdly thought.
His rising wrath restrain.
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
To gall your pride, which now I see is gre
Glen. Suppress it, as you wish to
Glen. Yes; if you presume
To bend on soldiers these disdainful eyes,
Hast thou no fears for thy presumptuous self? The private quarrel.
Glen. Ha! dost thou threaten me?
Nor. Whom dost thou think me?
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.
Lord R. We come. [Exit with Servant.
Let not our variance mar the social hour,
At best no more, even if he speaks the truth.
Glen. Thy truth! thou'rt all a lie: and false
Is the vain-glorious tale thou told'st to Randolph.
Perhaps I should revile: but as I am,
Ten thousand slaves like thee-
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.
SCENE I-A Wood.
is the place, the centre of the
The fanning west-wind scarcely stirs the leaves;
Enter old NORVAL.
Old N. 'Tis he. But what if he should
That threat had vainly sounded, noble Ran- His just reproach I fear.
Mark the humility of shepherd Norval!
Lord R. Speak not thus,
My cause I plead not, nor demand your judg-I
Iblash to speak; I will not, cannot speak
the liege lord of my dear native land
The ancient foe of Caledonia's land
[Douglas turns aside and sees him
Thy wish'd-for presence now completes my joy.
Old N. And dost thou call me father? Oh,
think that I could die, to make amends For the great wrong I did thee. 'Twas my
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:
I wait my mother's coming: she shall know
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;
Doug. He loves me like a parent;
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,
Doug. And leave you here?
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
I have great cause to dread. Too well I see
If thou to giddy valour giv'st the rein,
The God of battles of my life dispose
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!
[Douglas falls. Doug. Unknown I die; no tongue shall speak of me.
Some noble spirits, judging by themselves,
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!
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.
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
Lord R. But my deliverer's dead!
Amidst thy raging grief I must proclaim
Lady R. Thy innocence!
Is innocence compar'd with what thou think'st it.
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,
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 express.ca 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."
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