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

Glen. Suppress it, as you wish to prospe Your pride's excessive. Yet, for Randolph's sak 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 scorn 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!-

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

Glen. Ha! dost thou threaten me?

Nor. Didst thou not hear?

Glen. Unwillingly I did; a nobler foe Had not been question'd thus.

thee

But such as

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;

At best no more, even if he speaks the truth.
Nor. False as thou art, dost thou suspect
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

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
brow;

Nor let our strife disturb the gentle dame.
Nor. Think not so lightly, sir, of my re-

cause I plead not, nor demand your judg-I

ment.

! Wash to speak; I will not, cannot speak
The opprobrious words that I from him have
borne.

Enter old NORVAL.

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

His just reproach I fear.

[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
still:

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

crime,

Which in the wilderness so long conceal'd
The blossom of thy youth.

the liege lord of my dear native land lose a subject's homage; but ev'n him And his high arbitration I'd reject. Within my bosom reigns another lord; Baur, sole judge, and umpire of itself. b my free speech offend you, noble Randolph, ke your favours, and let Norval go arce as he came, alone, but not dishonour'd. Lord R. Thus far I'll mediate with impar- Norval shall smooth the crested pride of Douglas. Old N. Let me but live to exaltation!

Doug. Not worse the fruit,

That in the wilderness the blossom blow'd.
Amongst the shepherds, in the humble cot,
I learn'd some lessons, which I'll not forget
When I inhabit yonder lofty towers.
I, who was once a swain, will ever prove
The poor man's friend; and, when my vassals
bow,

tial voice:

see thine

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

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

birth-day,

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 some-
times nam'd.

'Twas strange, they said, a wonderful discovery;

betray'd:

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.

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

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
And from the sword of foes, be near thee stil; But rush not on destruction: save thyself,
Turning mischance, ifaught hangs o'er thy head, And I am safe. To me they mean no harm
All upon mine!
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

[Exit.
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
host!

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 voice-
Doug. The voice was mine.
Lddy R. Didst thou complain aloud to na-
ture's ear,
That thus in dusky shades, at midnight hours,

way,

Which running eastward leads thee to th

camp.

Instant demand admittance to lord Douglas:
Show him these jewels, which his brother wore
Thy look, thy voice, will make him feel th
truth,

Which I by certain proof will soon confirm
Doug. I yield me, and obey: but yet m
heart
Bleeds at this parting. Something bids m

stay,

And guard a mother's life. Oft have I read
Of wondrous deeds by one bold arm achiev
Our foes are two; no more: let me go forth
And see if any shield can guard Glenalvon.
Lady R. If thou regard'st thy mother, o

rever'st

Thy father's memory, think of this no more.
One thing I have to say before we part:
Long wert thou lost; and thou art found, m
child,

In a most fearful season. War and battle

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

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

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.a
1.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.

Too well I love that valour which I warn.
Farewell, my son, my counsels are but vain. Some noble spirits, judging by themselves,
[Embracing. May yet conjecture what I might have prov'd,
And as high heav'n hath will'd it, all must be. And think life only wanting to my fame:
[They separate. But who shall comfort thee?
Lady R. Despair, Despair!

Gaze not on me, thou wilt mistake the path;
Fil point it out again.
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!

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

Now all my hopes are dead! A little while
Was I a wife! a mother not so long!
What am I now? I know-But I shall be
That only whilst I please; for such a son
And such a husband drive me to my fate.
[Exit running.
Lord R. Follow her, Anna: I myself would
follow,

But in this rage she must abhor my presence.
[Exit Anna.
Curs'd, curs'd Glenalvon, he escap'd too well,
Though slain and baffled by the hand he hated.
Foaming with rage and fury to the last,
Cursing his conqueror, the felon died.

And headlong down-
Lord R. 'Twas I, alas! 'twas I
That fill'd her breast with fury; drove her
down

The precipice of death! Wretch that I am!
Anna. Oh, had you seen her last despairing
look!

Upon the brink she stood, and cast her eyes
Down on the deep: then lifting up her head,
And her white hands to heaven, seeming to say
Why am I forc'd to this? she plung'd Herself
Into the empty air.

Lord R. I will not vent,

In vain complaints, the passion of my soul.
Peace in this world I never can enjoy.
These wounds the gratitude of Randolph gave;
They speak aloud, and with the voice of fate
Denounce my doom. I am resolv'd. I'll go
Straight to the battle, where the man that

makes

Me turn aside, must threaten worse than death.
Thou, faithful to thy mistress, take this ring,
Full warrant of my power. Let every rite
With cost and pomp upon their funerals wait:
For Randolph hopes he never shall return.

[The Curtain descends slowly to Music,

LILLO.

as the havock

GEORGE LILLO, was by profession a jeweller, and was born in the neighbourhood of Moorgate, in London, an the 4th of Feb. 1693; in which neighbourhood he pursued his occupation for many years, with the fairest and most 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 this 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 those 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 of Feversham are all planned on common and well-known stories; yet they have, perhaps, more frequently drawn tears 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 merito rious, 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 the 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 itseli 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 aptuess of expression and power of language, not only greatly superior to themselves, but even to the general language and conversation of per sons 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 him in The Champion: "He had a perfect knowledge of human nature, though his contempt of all base means of applic tion, which are the necessary steps to great acquaintance, restrained his conversation within very narrow bounds. He had the spirit of an old Roman, joined to the innocence of a primitive christian; he was contented with his little sta 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."

GEORGE BARNWELL.

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 i Drury-lane, for the manuscript of George Barnwell, to peruse it, which Mr. Wilks carried to Hampton Court.' Th tragedy being founded on a well known old ballad, many of the critics of that time, who went to the first represen tation of it, formed so contemptuous an idea of the piece, in their expectations, that they purchased the ballad ( thousands of which were used in one day on this account), in order to draw comparisons between that and the play But its merit soon got the better of this contempt, and presented them with scenes written so true to the heart, the they were compelled to subscribe to their power, and lay aside their ballads to take their handkerchiefs." The origa performer of the character of George Barnwell, Mr. Ross, relates, that in the year 1752, he played this part. D Barrowby was sent for by a young merchant's apprentice, who was in a high fever; upon the Doctor's approachin 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 fre with money intrusted to his care, by his employers, to the amount of 200 pounds. Seeing 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 han ing over him. The Doctor calmed his patient by telling him, if his father made the least hesitation to give the money, t should have it from him. The father arrived, put the amount into the son's hands,-they wept, kissed, embraced. Ta son soon recovered, and lived to be a very eminent merchant. Dr. Barrowby never told me the name; but one evea