And now (of all the six) sole D'Ambois

stood

Untouch'd, save only with the others' blood.

K. Hen. All slain outright but he? Nun. All slain outright but he; Who kneeling in the warm life of his friends,

(All freckled with the blood his rapier rain'd)

He kiss'd their pale lips, and bade both farewell."

D'Ambois enters to throw himself at the King's feet, and in excusing himself gives the following manly and rational apology for duelling:

66

since I am free, (Offending no just law) let no law make By any wrong it does, any life her slave: When I am wrong'd and that law fails to right me,

Let me be king myself (as man was made)
And do a justice that exceeds the law:
If my wrong pass the power of single va-
lour

To right and expiate, then be you my king,
And do a right, exceeding law and nature:
Who to himself is law no law doth need,
Offends no law, and is a king indeed."

D'Ambois is pardoned, and rises in the favor of the king, who calls him his eagle. He replies in the following bold satiric rhapsody :

D'Amb. I'll make you sport enough

then, let me have

My lucerns too,* (or dogs inur'd to hunt Beasts of most rapine) but to put them up, And if I trust not, let me not be trusted:

Show me a great man (by the people's

voice,

Which is the voice of God) that by his greatness

Bumbasts his private roofs with public riches;

That affects royalty, rising from a clapdish; That rules so much more by his suffering king,

That he makes kings of his subordinate

slaves:

Himself and then graduate (like wood

mongers

Piling a stack of billets) from the earth,
Raising each other into steeples' heights;
Let him convey this on the turning props
Of protean law, and (his own counsel
keeping)

Keep all upright; let me but hawk at him,
I'll play the vulture, and so thump his liver,
That (like a huge unlading Argosea)
He shall confess all, and you then may
hang him.

My lucerns too.' The word seems used here to denote a species of dogs. Europ. Mag. Vol. LXXVIII. Dec. 1820.

Show me a clergyman, that is in voice
A lark of heaven, in heart a mole of earth;
That hath good living, and a wicked life;
A temperate look, and a luxurious gut;
Turning the rents of his superfluous cures
Into your pheasants and your partridges;
Venting their quintescence as men read
Hebrew;

Let me but hawk at him, and, like the other,

He shall confess all, and you then may hang him.

Show me a lawyer that turns sacred law
(The equal renderer of each man his own,
The scourge of rapine and extortion,
The sanctuary and impregnable defence
Of retired learning, and besieged virtue)
Into a harpy, that eats all but's own,
Into the damned sins it punisheth;
Into the synagogue of thieves and atheists;
Blood into gold, and justice into lust ;
Let me but hawk at him, as at the rest,
He shall confess all, and you then may
hang him."

His advancement and boldness create the most violent hatred in Guise's breast; Monsieur even is dissatisfied at his having taken a higher flight than he had intended, and fearing, while he detests him, resolves his ruin.

says,

He

"I fear him strangely: his advanced vaJour

Is like a spirit raised within a circle, Endangering him that ignorantly rais'd him,

And for whose fury he hath learnt no limit."

A very remakable scene then takes place. Monsieur, in an interview with D'Ambois, charges him to tell him "the full and plain state of him in bis thoughts." D'Ambois agrees, on condition that Monsieur first says what be thinks as freely and as heartily of him. They fall to, and in a strain of inveterate candour, unveil each other's soul.

"Mons. I will I swear.

I think thee

That in thy valour thour't like other naturals,

That have strange gifts in nature, but no soul

Diffus'd quite through, to make them of a piece,

But stop at humours, that are more absurd, Childish, and villainous than that hackster, whore,

Slave, cut-throat, tinker's bitch, compar'd before;

And in those humours would'st envy, be

tray,

Slander, blaspheme, change each hour a religion;

Do any thing, but killing of the king: That in thy valour (which is still the dunghill,

To which hath reference all filth in thy house)

Thou'rt more ridiculous and vain-glorious Than any mountebank; and impudent Than any painted bawd: which, not to sooth

And glorify thee like a Jupiter Hammon, Thou eat'st thy heart in vinegar; and thy gall

Turns all thy blood to poison; which is

cause

Of that toad-pool that stands in thy com

plexion,

And makes thee (with a cold and earthly moisture,

Which is the dam of putrefaction,

As plague to thy damn' pride) rot as thou liv'st:

To study calumnies and treacheries, To thy friends slaughters; like a screechowl sing,

And to all mischiefs, but to kill the king. D'Amb. So: have you said?

Mons. How thinkest thou? do I flatter? Speak I not like a trusty friend to thee? D'Amb. That ever any man was blest withal;

So here's for me. I think you are (at worst)

No devil, since you're like to be no king; Of which with any friend of your's I'll lay This poor stillado here 'gain'st all the stars, Ay, and 'gainst all your treacheries, which

are morе:

The prime of all the fruits the kingdom yields.

That your political head is the curst fount Of all the violence, rapine, cruelty, Tyranny, and atheism flowing through the realm.

That you've a tongue so scandalous, 'twill

cut

The purest crystal; and a breath that will
Kill to that wall a spider; you will jest
With God, and your soul to the devil tender
For lust kiss horror, and with death en-
gender.

That your foul body is a Lernean fen
Of all the maladies breeding in all men.
That you are utterly without a soul:
And for your life the thread of that was
spun,

When Clotho slept, and let her breathing rock

Fall in the dirt; and Lachesis still draws it,

Dipping her twisting fingers in a bowl Defil'd, and crown'd with virtue's forced soul.

And lastly (which I must for gratitude Ever remember) that of all my height And dearest life, you are the only spring. Only in royal hope to kill the king.

Mons. Why now I see thou lov'st me, come to the banquet."

Monsieur and the Guise resolve to pursue D'Ambois to death. The means of his ruin are furnished through the affair which he carries on with the Lady Mountsurry. Monsieur discovers it through her woman, and, with the Duke of Guise, imparts it to her lord. His jealousy being roused, they promise to assist him in compassing the death of D'Ambois. The intrigue has been managed by a friar, who, with the trifling exceptions of being a necromaucer, and a go-between, seems an amiable sort of a churchman. He first introduces D'Ambois through a private passage; and afterwards, when be suspects some foul play is intended, he gives him a cast of his other office to put him on his guard. It is quite impossible to guess the motives which could induce Chapman, whose judgment is eminently correct, to introduce such an anomalous character as this friar, and we must refer it to the bad public taste which at that time so universally prevailed.

"D'Amb. I am suspicious, my most

honour'd father,

By some of Monsieur's cunning passages, That his still ranging and contentious nose thrills

To scent the haunts of mischief, have so us'd

The vicious virtue of his busy sense, And he trails hotly of him, and will rouse him,

Driving him all enrag'd, and foaming on us, And therefore have entreated your deep

skill,

In the command of good aerial spirits,
To assume these magic rites, and call up one
To know if any have reveal'd unto him
Any thing touching my dear love and me.
Friar. Good son, you have amazed me
but to make

The least doubt of it, it concerns so nearly The faith and reverence of my name and order,

Yet will I justify upon my soul

All I have done, if any spirit i' th' earth or air

Can give you the resolve, do not despair." "Friar. We soon will take the darkness from his face

That did that deed of darkness; we will know

What now the Monsieur and your husband do;

What is contain'd within the secret paper Offer'd by Monsieur, and your love's

events:

To which ends (honour'd daughter) at your

motion

I have put on these exorcising rites,
And, by my power of learned holiness,
Vouchsaf'd me from above, I will command
Our resolution of a raised spirit.

Tam. Good father, raise him in some
beauteous form,

That with least terror I may brook his sight Friar. Stand sure together then what e'er you see,

And stir not, as ye tender all our lives. [He puts on his robes. Occidentalium legionum spiritualium imperator (magnus ille Behemoth) veni, veni, comitatus cum Astaroth locotenente invicto. Adjuro te per stygis inscrutabilia arcana, per ipsos irremeabiles anfractus averni: adesto o Behemoth, tu cui pervia sunt Magnatum scrinia; veni, per noctis et tenebrarum abdita profundissima: per labentia sydera; per ipsos motus horarum furtivos, Hecatesque; altum silentium: appare in forma spiritali, lucente splendida et amabili.

[Thunder. Spirit riseth.

Beh. What would the holy Friar? Friar, I would see What now the Monsieur and Montsurry

do; And see the secret paper that the Monsieur Offer'd to Count Montsurry, longing much To know on what events the secret loves Of these two honour'd persons shall arrive. Beh. Why calledst thou me to this accursed light,

To these light purposes; I am emperor Of that inscrutable darkness, where are hid All deepest truths, and secrets never seen, All which I know, and command legions Of knowing spirits that can do more than these.

Any of this my guard that circle me In these blue hires, and out of whose dim fumes

Vast murmurs use to break, and from their sounds

Articular voices, can do ten parts more. Than open such slight truths as you require. Friar. From the last night's black depth 1 call'd up one

Of the inferior ablest ministers,

And he could not resolve me: send one then

Out of thine own command, to fetch the paper

That Monsieur hath to shew to Count Montsurry.

Beh. I will: Cartophalax: thou that properly

Hast in thy power all papers so inscrib'd, Glide through all bars to it, and fetch that paper,"

The Spirit, with a condescension which is exceedingly obliging, pour passer le tems while Cartophilax his messenger is despatching his errand, shews them what Monsieur, the Guise, and Mountsurry are doing; the party are alarmed at the plotting, and the Friar asks

If D'Ambois mistress dye not her white hand

In her forc'd blood, he shall remain untouch'd:

So, father, shall yourself, but by yourself: To make this augury plainer, when the voice

Of D'Ambois shall invoke me, I will rise, Shining in greater light, and shew him all That will betide ye all; meantime be wise, And curb his valour with your policies.

[He and the other Spirits descend? Mountsurry, maddened by his disgrace, attacks his wife with brutal outubiquity is not satisfactorily explained rage; the Friar, who is present, but whose exhorts him to refrain in the following manner, which might be applied to most angry husbands, who seek to revenge themselves on their wives :—

"Friar. My lord, remember that your soul must seek

Her peace, as well as your revengeful blood:

You ever to this hour have proved yourself
A noble, zealous, and obedient son,
T'our holy mother; be not an apostate:
Your wife's offence serves not (were it the

worst

You can imagine, without greater proofs) To sever your eternal bonds, and hearts; Much less to touch her with a bloody hand Nor is it manly (much less husbandly)

To expiate any frailty in your wife, With churlish strokes, or beastly odds of strength :

The stony birth of clouds," will touch no laurel,

Nor any sleeper; your wife is your laurel, And sweetest sleeper; do not touch her then.

Be not more rude than the wild seed of

vapour,

To her that is more gentle than that rude; In whom kind nature suffer'd one offence But to set off her other excellence."

The friar quits the room; Mountsurry resumes his attack on his wife, whom he wounds, and then fixes her on a rack; he is about to torture her when the Friar comes up the secret passage with a drawn sword, and seeing this piteous sight, the tender hearted man falls and dies. Mountsurry having thus discovered the means by which D'Ambois visited his wife, causes her to write a letter in her blood to him,

inviting him, which he delivers himself in the disguise of the Friar, whose body he strips for this purpose. D'Ambois, surprised at not hearing from his mistress, nor seeing the Friar, appre bends some danger, and invokes again the Spirit of Darkness.

"Terror of darkness! oh thou king of flames!

That with thy music-footed horse doth strike

The clear light out of chrystal, on dark

earth,

And hurl'st instructive fire about the world, Wake, wake, the drowsy and enchanted night,

That sleeps with dead eyes in this heavy

are made

To shine in darkness, and see ever best Where men are blindest! open now the heart

Of thy abashed oracle, that for fear

Of some ill it includes would feign lie hid, And rise thou with it in thy greater light. [Thunder. Behemoth rises. Beh. Thus to observe my vow of apparition

In greater light, and explicate thy fate, 1 come; and tell thee that if thou obey The summons that thy mistress next will send thee, Her hand shall be thy death."

Mountsurry places murderers in the chamber of his wife, and when D'Ambois comes thither, despising the caution of the spirit, or rather fulfilling his destiny (for the whole action of the

The equal thought I bear of life and death, Shall make me faint on no side; I am up Here like a Roman statue; I will stand Till death hath made me marble: oh, my fame

Live in despite of murder! take thy wings And haste thee where the gray-ey'd morn perfumes

Her rosy chariot with Sabæn spices; Fly, where the evening from th' Iberian vales,

Takes on her swarthy shoulders Heccate Crown'd with a grove of oaks; fly where

men feel

The burning axletree; and those that suf

fer

Beneath the chariot of the snowy bear; And tell them all that D'Ambois now is hasting

To the eternal dwellers; that a thunder
Of all their sighs together (for their frailties
Beheld in me) may quit my worthless fall
With a fit volley for my funeral.

Ghost. Forgive thy murderers.
D'Amb. I forgive them all;
And you, my lord, (to Mont.) their fautor;
for true sign

By this here in my bosom, and by this That makes me hold both up bru'd

For thy dear pardon.

my

hands em

D'Amb. Oh, my heart is broken! Fate, nor these murderers, Monsieur, nor the Guise,

Have any glory in my death, but this;
This killing spectacle; this prodigy:
My sun is turn'd to blood, in whose red
beams

Pindus and Ossa (hid in drifts of snow Laid on my heart and liver) from their veins

Melt like two hungry torrents, eating rocks
Into the ocean of all human life,
And make it bitter, only with my blood:
Oh, frail condition of strength, valour,

virtue

ment."

In me (like warning fire upon the top Of some steep beacon, on a steeper hill) Made to express it! like a falling star Silently glanc'd, that like a thunderbolt, Look'd to have stuck and shook the firma[Dies. This fine dying eloquence, in which the poet has made his hero expire in poetry, is followed by Mountsurry's forgiving his lady's disloyalty, and quilting her for ever. There are many beauties in this old play, as our extracts will testify; there are also many faults; but while this is confessed, it should be recollected, that the author is not to blame for all these; indeed his own good taste is so evident, that it may be just to visit faults of the description we have alluded to upon the age in which he wrote, when the audience required the most barbarous absurdities to stimulate their theatrical appetites.

Alque ursum et pugiles media inter car. mina poscunt."

THE ROMANCE OF A NIGHT. (Concluded from page 415.)

"KNOW, then," said the weeping

fair one,

"that this is the retreat of a celebrated magician and his sister; it is near two hundred years since they first took up their abode in dered inaccessible by their art. All this place, which has been hitherto renthese unfortunate ladies, with myself, notwithstanding the bloom of youth which is visible upon our countenances, entered the same moment with our impious tormentors.

But to learn the origin of our misfortunes, you should know that about two hundred years back there reigned in Persia a young and handsome Sophi; he was passionately fond of the sex, and despatched his emissaries over the world to supply bis Seraglio, which, as his resources were immense, was filled with the rarest beauties.

As he was hunting one day, chance detached him from his party, and riding on, he discovered at the end of a picturesque avenue, a white cottage, and near it a girl of about fifteen years old. Her beauty arrested his attention; the homeliness of her attire seemed to mock the majestic elegance of her person-the Prince gazed and sighed; the girl who regarded him with astonishment ran quickly into the house. It so happened that his hunting dress

was more

than usually magnificent, and the assurance that rank generally inspires, made him resolve to follow her. He entered the house; an old woman received him, and asked him what he wanted."-"I am a huntsman," replied he, "separated from my comrades, my endeavours to join whom have been unsuccessful, and I am half dead with fatigue and thirst."

The old woman quickly supplied him with a draught of clear spring water. While he drank it, the girl who had vanished into a back-room, ventured nearer, from a curiosity natural to her sex. The Prince was enchanted, and