composed, at that time, from twenty to thirty comedies, which all passed representation, without the performers receiving volleys of cucumbers or oranges, or any of those missiles with which an audience is wont to assail bad actors: they ran their career unchecked by hisses, by tumult, or by clamour. After this, having wherewithal to occupy my thoughts, I laid down the pen and left off writing plays: and, at this juncture, that prodigy of nature Lope de Vega appeared," &c.

M.

"O Knight! a sister's love for thee
My bosom has confess'd;
Then ask no other love from me,
Nor wound a faithful breast.
If cold to thee that love appears,
Go, Knight! unmurmuring go-
And dry those sad and silent tears-
I know not why they flow."

He heard-embrac'd her, but his tongue
No agony betray'd;

Then wildly broke away, and sprung
On his war-horse array'd;
And straight to his Switzer-vassals he
Issues his high command,

To wear the Cross of Calvary

And speed to the Holy Land.

There many a deed of glory bright

Proclaim'd his fame around;

And wherever there raged the bloodiest fight,
There, there was the hero found.

His name alone could appal the heart

Of the fiercest infidel

But his spirit still groan'd with the secret smart,

That nothing on earth could heal.

He bore that pang thro' a long, long year:
He could bear that pang no more ;

Nor glory's crowns, nor victory's cheer
That inner pang could cure.

A ship he sees on Joppa's strand
With all it's sails display'd;

And he speeds away to his father-land,

By favouring winds convey'd.

And swift he flew to the castle-gate

That guards his angel dear:

When O! what terrible accents grate
On his horror-stricken ear.

"She wears the Veil so pure and blest,
And is the Bride of Heaven:
And yesterday was the marriage-feast
In the holy convent given."

And he left, and left alas! for ever,
His father's castle then-
Abandon'd his bright arms-and never
He mounted his steed again.

And the warrior's praise was heard no more,
Unknown was the stranger's fame;

For the coarse, cold garment of hair he wore
Conceal'd his noble frame.

At the end of the dusky Linden aile
Where the holy convent stood,
His own hands raised a humble pile,
A hut of straw and wood.

And there he watch'd from the morning's break
To the evening's hour of peace-

And silent Hope oft flush'd his cheek,

As he sat in loneliness.

For hours and hours he speechless sate,
His eye on the convent above;
Until he heard the window grate

Of his Heaven-devoted love-
Until he saw her shadow bright
In the dark and lonely cell:
In his eye, it fill'd the vale with light,
Soft-pure-ineffable.

Then satisfied he sunk to rest:
His spirit own'd no pain,
But lived upon the hope so blest
To see that shade again.
And thus for many a day and year
The tranquil Pilgrim sate,
(Nor heaved a sigh, nor shed a tear)
To hear the window grate-

Until he saw her shadow bright
Soft-beaming from above,
Filling the gladden'd vale with light,
And purity and love.

And so he sate, and so he fell

A corpse all stiff and chill:

His dim eye fix'd upon the cell
Of his loved angel still.

ON THE WRITINGS OF RICHARD CLITHEROE.

MR. EDITOR,

Among the singular events which have happened in the history of literature, I know none more curious than that which has condemned to so long a period of oblivion the name and writings of Richard Clitheroe, one of the best dramatic writers of the reign of James I. I was fortunate enough, some months ago, to purchase for a trifling price the plays of this writer, in two quarto volumes: and this copy, as I am assured, is the only one at present extant.

The Tragedies of Clitheroe are six in number: Crichton; Julius Cæsar; Fortune's Fool; The Unlucky Marriage; Julian, the Apostate; and Virginia, or Honour's Sacrifice. To these Tragedies is prefixed a history of the early part of the author's life, which is curious for the quaint simplicity with which it is written, and the interesting anecdotes which it contains of contemporary poets.

The following extracts from the first of these plays, the hero of which is the admirable Crichton, may enable your readers to form some opinion of the style and talents of this writer.

The first extract is from the commencement of the Tragedy, which opens with a dialogue between Angelo, a young nobleman of Mantua, and Father Ilario, tutor to the Duke's son. This worthy ecclesiastic had been despatched to Padua by the Duke, for the purpose of overcoming Crichton in disputation.

Angelo. Hail, holy father! welcome back to Mantúa!
What tidings bring you from the learned city?
How sped your errand, and the Duke's desire?
The lying voice of fame has been before you;

And told us wondrous news: we heard that Crichton

Came off with greater fame at Padua

Than all that he had won at Rome and Paris.

Our noble Duke, I speak it to his shame,

Gave to his dull and hasty messengers

Too easy credence; for I cannot doubt

That
And taught this hitherto successful Crichton,
That, though a man may once or twice do well,
And win the palm in learned disputation,
He must not hope to overcome the world,

you have well sustain'd his confidence,

Which he, poor youth! has all too rashly challenged.
Ilario. Oh, Angelo! how often have I thought,
That, in the times of old, Heaven rain'd more largely
The shower of portents, signs, and prodigies,
Than in these latter days! But now my mind
Is strangely alter'd. Who could have believed---
Had we not known it-that an unfledged youth,

With scarcely twenty summers o'er his head,
No student neither, but one who, in the use
Of arms, and every manly exercise,
Outshines the ablest of our chevaliers-
That he, without the aid of preparation,
At Padua, in the natural seat of learning,
Should find no doctor who could cope with him!
Angelo. None, didst thou say? Not one!

there.

But thou wert

Ilario. Oh! if thou lovest me, mention it no more;
Or, if thou needs must speak of my disgrace,
Oblige not me to keep thee company,

And publish my own shame. Oh, fortune! fortune!
But one short week ago, and I had then

All that I wish'd of honour, fame, respect;

Now they are gone, and I am less than nothing.
Before this curst intruder came among us,
No one had greater credit than myself,
For any learning that becomes a churchman;
And thence alone arose Gonzaga's favour:
Now all too quickly will the flame expire,

When the fresh breeze that fann'd it blows no more;
And those that, in the tide of my prosperity,
Have cringed the lowest to obtain my grace,
Will be the first to spurn my alter'd fortunes.

The prophecy of Ilario is accomplished. Crichton arrives at Mantua, and Ilario's situation is taken from him, to be bestowed upon the new favourite. The following is the priest's soliloquy

thereon:

Heaven's curse be on them all! oh, wretched slave!
Fool that I was! Where are my honours now?
Gone-gone-all fled and vanish'd with the tide
Of princes' gratitude! Smiles changed to frowns!
And those attentions, that were once so servile,
Now turn'd to cold neglect! Would I had lived
And spent my days in some poor cloister'd cell,
Where I had never known what fortune was,
Nor ever had it held up to my view,
Thus to lament its loss. Begone, vain dreams
Of high preferment, and of bishopricks,
The state of cardinals, nay even the popedom,
And all that fancy paints to cheat the mind-
Begone!-Hence vain delusions! Ye are all,
Like the foundation ye were built upon,
But air-no more-so light-so changeable.
Would that you were as easy to forget,
As lightly overthrown; but oh, vain thought!
That cannot be--when I shall seek some cell
To close my life, and be by all forgotten,
Still faithful memory will present the picture

Of what I was, and what I might have been
But for a cursed chance. Be still, be still,

Ye busy thoughts, or you will drive me mad.

The next extract is a dialogue between Angelo and Ilario, in the beginning of the second act; where Angelo, for certain reasons of his own, persuades Ilario to revenge himself upon Crichton.

Angelo. (alone) Thank Heaven!

changed his gait,

here he comes. How

Shame has bow'd down his head, and bent his neck.
His eyes seem reading lessons in the dust,

To shun men's looks.

Enter Ilario.

Good morrow, holy father,

Again well met-if we may use that term
In times like these, when gratitude has fled
Above the earth, as if to hide its face
From man's neglect. He seems to hear me not.
Ilario!-whither would thou go, old man?
In search of gratitude? men have it not;
And yet I lie; for, if I know my heart,
It bleeds for thee.

Ilario. Bleeds for me! Who art thou?
Poor gaudy insect! Painted butterfly!
My pride has had its full, and so will thine;
But let us go.

Angelo. And whither wouldst thou go?
Where is thy place of rest?

Ilario. I know of noue.

When men have hell behind them, and within them,
Their thoughts will seldom wander.

Angelo. Dost thou feel

The poison'd sting of passion in thy mind?
Cure it as I have done.

Ilario. What grief hadst thou?

Angelo. Such as might make a wiser man blaspheme.
The young and old are moved by different toys;
But such as both feel equal grief to part with.
When we are young, our minds are turn'd to love;
For then the heart is pure, and seeks to find
A mate, but of a somewhat softer mould,
Whose gentle soul, apt to receive impressions,
Like a well-polish'd mirror, may reflect

His own thoughts. Or, at least, the blood is warm,
And loves to cool itself in beauty's arms.
When we are old, we cast off childish thoughts,
And seek new playthings. Then the thirst of power,
Greedy ambition, and the nod of princes

That makes but to unmake

Ilario. Oh, curse thy tongue!