Raw. 'Sdeath! why meet my daughter in the forest? Wil. Because I love her.

Raw. And would ruin her.

Wil. That's a strange way of showing one's love, methinks. I have a simple notion, Gilbert, that the thought of having taken a base advantage of a poor girl's affection might go nigh to break a man's sleep, and give him unquiet dreams; now, I love my night's rest, and shall do nothing to disturb it.

Raw. Wouldst not poison her mind?

Wil. 'Tis not my method, friend, of dosing a patient. Look ye, Gilbert; her mind is a fair flower, stuck in the rude soil here of surrounding ignorance, and smiling in the chill of poverty. I would fain cheer it with the little sunshine I possess of comfort and information. My parents were poor, like her's: should occasion serve, I might haply, were all parties agreed, make her my wife. To make her aught else would affect her, you, and myself: and I have no talent at making three people uneasy at the same time.

Raw. Your hand: on your own account, we are friends. Bar. (L. c.) Oh, dear father!

Raw. Be silent. Now to your errand: 'tis from Mortimer.

Wil. I come from Sir Edward.

Raw. I know his malice: he would oppress me with his power-he would starve me and my family. Search my house.

Sam. (L.) No, father, no!-[Aside.] You forget the buck under the furze.

Raw. Let him do his worst, but let him beware—a tyrant! a villain! [Samson gets round to R. corner. Wil. Hark ye: he is my master; I owe him my gratitude-every thing; and had you been any but the father of my Barbara, and spoken so much against him, indignation had worked into my knuckles, and crammed the words down your rusty throat!

Sam. [Aside.-R. C.J I do begin to perceive how this will end father will knock down the secretary as flat as a buck!

Raw. Why am I singled out? Is there no mark for the vengeance of office to shoot its shaft at but me?— This morning, as he dogged me in the forest

EDITORIAL INTRODUCTION.

THIS play was quite unsuccessful on its first representation, which took place at Covent Garden in 1796. The author attributed its failure to the apathy and inattention of John Philip Kemble, who is said to have walked through the part of Sir Edward Mortimer without an effort to impart to it that tragic effect, of which it is undoubtedly capable. By way of revenging himself upon the actor, Mr. Colman wrote a vituperative and sarcastic preface, in which he gave full expression to his discontent; but he lived to repent this hasty ebullition of bad temper, and tried to suppress the edition of his play, which contained it—an effort which he found rather difficult to accomplish.

It seems to be admitted that Kemble did not come up to his usual standard of excellence in his performance of Sir Edward. He was indisposed at the time, and perhaps did not enter into the spirit of the character with sufficient promptitude of appreciation. But what probably contributed more than his inefficiency to the bad reception of the play, was the immoderate length of the part of the garrulous old man, Adam Winterton, which even the congenial talents of Dodd could not save from becoming wearisome. This fault has since been rectified.

The play was originally produced, with appropriate music, by Stephen Storace, a composer, who had been educated in the reformed Italian school at the close of the last century, and whose models of style were the works of Pacini, Sacchini, and Paesiello. He possessed a strong and capacious mind, was well versed in literature, aud, like Mozart, was, when a boy, distinguished for his powers of calculation. Sheridan is said to have once remarked of Storace, that had he been bred to the law he must have become Lord Chancellor. His health was

always delicate, and he died in consequence of his exertions in bringing out this play of "The Iron Chest," in the success of which he had become much interested. "On the first rehearsal," says Kelly, "though labouring under a severe attack of gout and fever, after having been confined to his bed for many days, he insisted on being wrapped up in blankets, and carried in a sedan chair to the cold stage of the play-house. The entreaties and prayers of his family were of no avail-go he would; he went, and remained to the end of the rehearsal. He returned to his bed, whence he never rose again." He died on the 19th of March, 1795, in the thirty-third year of his age. Undaunted by a first failure, Colman reproduced "The Iron Chest" at his own theatre, in the Haymarket. Mr. Elliston, then a young and aspiring actor, was the hero; and on this occasion the tables were turned in favour of the author and the play. The audience were vehement in their applause. Mr. Rae afterwards became a favourite in the character of Sir Edward; and at length Edmund Kean achieved a joint triumph for himself and Colman. A true interpreter of the author's conception was found in him; and the play was revived often with marked success. Mr. Charles Kean's personation of the same part is spirited and bold; and with Mrs. Kean as Wilford, he has frequently performed it to the satisfaction and pleasure of American audiences.

The plot of the "Iron Chest" is partially founded upon the well-known novel of "Caleb Williams," by Godwin; the character of Sir Edward corresponding to that of Falkland in the latter. Mr. Colman has, we think, made the most of his materials, and produced a play, which, if it does not rank among the first of a similar class, has that dramatic merit, which will keep it long from sinking into abandonment.

did-it needs the spur. [Looking over his book.] Nineand-forty years have I been house-steward and butler. It is a long lease. Let me see my tablets.

[Looking over them and singing.

"When birds do carol on the bush,

With a heigh no nonny"-Heigho!

These fatigues of office somewhat wear a man. I have had a long lease on't: I ha' seen out Queen Mary, Queen Elizabeth, and King James. 'Tis e'en almost time that I should retire, to begin to enjoy myself. [Looking off, L.] Eh! by St. Thomas! hither trips the fair mistress Blanch. Of all the waiting-gentlewomen I ever looked on, during the two last reigns, none stirred my fancy like this little rose-bud.

Enter BLANCH, L.

Blanch. A good day, good Adam Winterton.

Win. What, wag! what, tulip!-I never see thee, but I am a score of years the younger.

Blanch. Nay, then, let us not meet often, or you will soon be in your second childhood.

Win. What, you come from your mistress, the Lady Helen, in the forest here; and would speak with Sir Edward Mortimer, I warrant ?

Blanch. I would. Is his melancholy worship stirring

yet?

Win. Fie, you mad-cap!-He is my master, and your lady's friend.

Blanch. Yes, truly, it seems, her only one, poor lady: he protects her, now she is left an orphan.

Win. A blessing on his heart! I would it were merrier. Well, should they happen to marry, (and I have my fancies on't,) I'll dance a galliard with thee in the hall, on the round oak table. 'Sbud! when I was a youth, I would ha' capered with St. Vitus, and beat him.

Blanch. You are as likely to dance now, as they to marry. What has hindered them, if the parties be agreed? Yet I have, now, been with my mistress these two years, since Sir Edward first came hither, and placed her in the cottage hard by his lodge.

Win. Tush! family reasons. Thou knowest nothingthou art scarce catched. Two years back, when we came

from Kent, and Sir Edward first entered on his office here of head-keeper, thou wert a colt, running wild about New Forest. I hired you myself, to attend on Madam Helen. Blanch. Nay, I shall never forget it. But you were as frolicsome then as I, methinks. Dost remember the box

on the ear I gave thee, Adam ?

Win. Peace, peace, you pie !—An' you prate thus, I'll stop your mouth-I will, by St. Thomas!

Blanch. An I be inclined to the contrary, I do not think you are able to stop it.

Win. Tut, you baggage! thou hast more tricks than a kitten. Well, go thy ways; [Blanch crosses to R.] Sir Edward is at his study, and there thou wilt find him.—Ah, Mistress Blanch! had you but seen me sixty years ago, in the early part of Queen Elizabeth's reign!

Blanch. How old art thou now, Adam?

Win. Fourscore, come Martlemas; and, by our lady! I can run with a lapwing.

Blanch. Canst thou?-Well said!-Thou art a merry old man, and shalt have a kiss of me, on one condition. Win. Shall I ?—Odsbud! name it, and 'tis mine. Blanch. Then catch me.

[Runs of, R. Win. Pestilence on't!-There was a time when my legs had served: I was a clean-limbed stripling, when I first stood behind Sir Marmaduke's arm-chair in the old oak eating-room. [Retires up, L.

Enter WILFORd, r.

Wil. Every new act of Sir Edward's charity sets me a thinking; and the more I think, the more I am puzzled. 'Tis strange that a man should be so ill at ease, who is continually doing good! At times, the wild glare of his eye is frightful. I would stake my life there's a secret; and I could almost give my life to unravel it. I must to him for my morning's employment. [Crosses to L

Win. Ah, boy! Wilford! secretary! whither away, lad?

Wil. Mr. Winterton !-[Aside.] Ay, marry, this good old man has the clue, could I but coax him to give it to me.-Aloud.] A good morning to you, sir.

Win. Yea, and the like to thee, boy! Come, thou shalt have a cup of Canary from my corner cupboard, yonder.