misunderstanding; and turned his thoughts entirely on a project of making sweet oil from beech-nuts. He obtained a patent, and had his fortune been sufficient for the undertaking he would undoubtedly have rendered this attempt of great advantage to the nation; but borrowing sum of 25,000 pounds, he was obliged to submit to the formation of a company, who were to act in concert with him. These people, with the most sanguine hopes of success and ignorant of the inventor's plans, or perhaps fearing to loose their money, upon a trifling delay of their hopes, immediately commenced representations; these caused disputes, and the whole affair was overthrown just at the time when profits were already rising from it, and, if pursued with vigour, would, in all probability have continued increasing and permanent. Another valuable project, that of applying the timber grown in the north of Scotland to the use of the navy, for which it had been long erroneously imagined to be unfit, he set on foot in 1727: here again we have a terrible account of the obstacles he met with: when the trees were chained together into a raft, the Highlanders could not be prevailed upon to go down the river on them, till he first went himself; and he was obliged to find out a method of doing away with the rocks (by lighting fires on them at low water), which choked up the passage in different parts of the river. The commencement of a lead mine in the same country employing all the men and horses, which had heretofore been at his service, put an end to this undertaking; however he was presented with the freedom of Inverness and Aberdeen, as a compliment for his great exertions. All this time his pen did not continue idle: he produced The progress of Wit, a caveat for the use of an eminent Writer; in which he retorts very severely upon Pope, who had introduced him into The Dunciad, as one of the competitors for the prize offered by the goddess of Dulness. After the death of his wife 1731, he continued in London and in intercourse with the public till about 1758, when he withdrew to Plaistow in Essex, where his indefatigable genius projected many profitable improvements. One he lived to complete, but without benefit to himself, which was the art of making potash, equal to that brought from Russia. Here he wrote and published several poctical pieces; and adapted Voltaire's tragedy of Merope to the English Stage, which was the last work he lived to complete. He died the very day before it was to he represented for his benefit, Feb. 8. 1749, in the very minute of the earthquake. The Biographia Dramatica says him to have been a person of the most amiable disposition, extensive knowledge, and elegant conversation. We find him bestowing the profits of many of his works for the relief of distressed authors and artists; though he would never accept of a bencfit for himself, till his distresses at the close of his life obliged him to solicit the acting of Merope for their relief. No labour deterred him from the prosecution of any design which appeared to him to be praiseworthy and feasible, nor was it in the power of the greatest misfortunes to overcome or even shake his fortitude of mind. Although accused of being rather too turgid, and in some places obscure; yet the nervous power, and sterling sense we find in his writings ought to make us overlook our having been obliged to take some little pains in digging through the rock in which it is contained; while his rigid correctness will always make him stand in an exalted rank of merit,

ZARA.

of

ZARA was first produced 1755; and though it is founded on the principles of religious party, which are generally pt to throw an air of enthusiasm and bigotry into those dramatic works which are built on them, this piece has always been esteemed a very superior one, The Biographia Dramatica says, "It is borrowed originally from the Zaïre of Voltaire; an author who, while he resided in England, imbibed so much of the spirit of British liberty, that his writings seem almost always calculated for the meridian of London. Mr. Hill, however, has made this as well as his other translations so much his own, that it is hard to determine which of the two may most properly be called the author of this play." It is remarkable for a very extraordinary event; it is related, that a gentleman of the name Bond, collecting a party of his friends, got up the play of Zara, at the music room in Villiers Street, York Buildings, and chose the part of Lusignan for himself. His acting was considered as a prodigy; and he yielded himself up to the force and impetuosity of his imagination, that upon the discovery of his daughter, he fainted away. The house rung with applause; but, finding that he continued a long time in that situation, the audience began to be uneasy and apprehensive. With some difficulty, the representatives of Chatillon and Nerestan placed him in his chair; he then faintly spoke, extended his arms to receive his children, raised his eyes to heaven, and then closed them for ever.

ACT I.

SCENE L-Enter ZARA and SELIMA. Sel. It moves my wonder, young and beauteous Zara,

My fate's bound in by Sion's sacred wall:
Clos'd from my infancy within this palace,
Custom has learnt, from time, the power to
please.

Whence these new sentiments inspire your The sultan's property, his will my law;
I claim no share in the remoter world,

heart!

Your peace of mind increases with your charms;
Tears now no longer shade your eyes' soft

lustre:

To live his subject is my only hope.
Unknowing all but him, his
power, his fame;
All else, an empty dream-

Sel. Have you forgot
Absent Nerestan then? whose gen'rous friend-
ship

So nobly vow'd redemption from your chains!
How oft have you admir'd his dauntless soul?
Osman, his conqu'ror, by his courage charm'd,
Trusted his faith, and on his word releas'd him:
Though not return'd in time-we yet expect him.
Nor had his noble journey other motive,
Than to procure our ransom.-And is this,
This dear, warm hope, become an idle dream?
Zara. Since after two long years he not
returns,

Tis plain his promise ştretch'd beyond his
power,

A stranger and a slave, unknown, like him

Proposing much, means little; talks and vows,
Delighted with a prospect of escape.

He promis'd to redeem ten Christians more,
And free us all from slavery! I own
I once admir'd the unprofitable zeal,
But now it charms no longer.

Sel. What, if yet,

Zara. Can my fond heart, on such a feeble
proof,

Embrace a faith abhorr'd by him I love?
I see too plainly custom forms us all;
Our thoughts, our morals, our most fix'd belief,
Are consequences of our place of birth:
Born beyond Ganges, I had been a Pagan,

He, faithful should return, and hold his vow; In France a Christian, I am here a Saracen:

Would you not, then

Zara. No matter-Time is past.

And every thing is chang'd.

Sel. But whence comes this?

'Tis but instruction all! Our parents' hand
Writes on our heart the first faint characters,
Which time, re-tracing deepens into strength,
That nothing can efface, but death or heaven!

Zara. Go; 'twere too much to tell thee Thou wert not made a pris'ner in this place,

Zara's fate:

Till after reasons, borrowing force from years,
Had lent its lustre to enlighten faith:
For me, who in my cradle was their slave,
Thy Christian doctrines were too lately taught

me:

Yet, far from having lost the rev'rence due,
This cross, as often as it meets my eye,
Strikes through my heart a kind of awful fear!
I honour, from my soul, the Christian laws,
Those laws, which, softening nature by humanity,
Melt nations into brotherhood; no doubt
Christians are happy; and 'tis just to love them.
Sel. Why have you then declar'd yourself
their foe?

Thou blushest, and I guess thy thoughts ac- Why will you join your hand with this proud

cuse, me:

Osman's,

But, known me better-'twas unjust suspicion. Who owes his triumph to the Christians' ruin? All emperor as he is, I cannot stoop Zara. Ah! who could slight the offer of To honours, that bring shame and baseness his heart? with 'em :

Nay, for I mean to tell thee all my weakness, Perhaps I had, ere now, profess'd thy faith, But Osman lov'd me-and I've lost it all: think on none but Osman; my pleas'd heart, Fill'd with the blessing, to be lov'd by him, Wants room for other happiness. Oh, my friend!

I

Offensive tribute, and too poor for love!
'Twas Osman won my heart, not Osman's crown:
I love not in him aught besides himself.
Thou think'st, perhaps, that these are starts of
passion:

My heart is not surpris'd, but struck to hear it.
If to be empress can complete your happiness,
I rank myself, with joy, among your slaves.
Zara. Be still my equal, and enjoy my But had the will of heav'n, less bent to bless him,
Doom'd Osman to my chains, and me to fill
The throne that Osman sits on-ruin and
wretchedness

blessings;

Catch and consume my wishes, but I would-
To raise me to myself, descend to him.

For, thou partaking, they will bless me more.
Sel. Alas! but heaven! will it permit this
marriage?
Will not this grandeur, falsely call'd a bliss,
Plant bitterness, and root it in your heart?
Have you forgot you are of Christian blood?
Zara. Ah, me! what hast thou said, why A grand March. Enter OSMAN, reading
a Paper, which he re-delivers to Oras-
MIN, with Attendants.

[Exit Selima.

Osman. Wait my return, or should there
be a cause

That may require my presence, do not fear
To enter; ever mindful that my own

[Exit Oras. etc. Follows my people's happiness. At length, Asserts, that you like him, had Christian pa-Cares have releas'd my heart-to love and Zara.

rents;

Besides that cross, which from your infant

years

Has been preserv❜d, was found upon your
bosom,

As if design'd by heav'n, a pledge of faith
Due to the God you purpose to forsake!

Zara. 'Twas not in cruel absence, to de-
prive me

Of your imperial image; every where
You reign triumphant; memory supplies
Reflection with your power; and you, like
heaven,

Are always present-and are always gracious.

Osman. The sultans, my great ancestors, This place, long sacred to the sultan's privacies.

bequeath'd

Their empire to me, but their taste they gave not;
Their laws, their lives, their loves, delight not me;
I know our prophet smiles on am'rous wishes,
And opens a wide field to vast desire;
I know, that at my will I might possess;
That, wasting tenderness in wild profusion,
I might look down to my surrounded feet,
And bless contending beauties. I might speak,
Serenely slothful, from within my palace,
And bid my pleasure be my people's law.
But, sweet as softness is, its end is cruel;
I can look round and count a hundred kings,
Unconquer'd by themselves, and slaves to
others:

Hence was Jerusalem to Christians lost;
Hence from the distant Euxine to the Nile,
The trumpet's voice has wak'd the world to war;
Yet, amidst arms and death, thy power has
reach'd me,

For thou disdain'st, like me, a languid love;
Glory and Zara join, and charm together.
Zara. I hear at once, with blushes and
with joy,

This passion, so unlike your country's customs.
Osman. Passion, like mine, disdains my
country's customs;

The jealousy, the faintness, the distrust,
The proud, superior coldness of the east.
I know to love you, Zara, with esteem;
To trust your virtue, and to court your soul.
Nobly confiding, I unveil my heart,
And dare inform you that 'tis all your own:
My joys must all be yours; only my cares
Shall fie conceal'd within, and reach not Zara.
Zara. Oblig'd by this excess of tenderness,
How low, how wretched was the lot of Zara!
Too poor with aught but thanks to pay such
blessings!

Osman. Not so-I love, and would be lov'd
again;

Let me confess it: I possess a soul,
That what it wishes, wishes ardently.
I should believe you hated, had you power
To love with moderation; 'tis, my aim,
In every thing to reach supreme perfection.
If, with an equal flame I touch your heart,
Marriage attends your smile. But know, 'twill

make

Osman. Go-bring him with thee. Monarchs, like the sun,

Shine but in vain, unwarming, if unseen;
With forms and rev'rence let the great ap-
proach us;

Not the unhappy every place alike
Gives the distress'd a privilege to enter.
[Exit Orasmin.
I think with horror on these dreadful maxims,
Which harden kings insensibly to tyrants.

Re-enter ORAS MIN, with NERESTAN.
Ner. Imperial sultan! honour'd ev'n by foes!
See me return'd, regardful of my vow,
And punctual to discharge a Christian's duty.
I bring the ransom of the captive Zara,
Fair Selima, the partner of her fortune,
And of ten Christian captives, pris'ners here.
You promis'd, sultan, if I should return,
To grant their rated liberty: behold
I am return'd, and they are yours no more.
I would have stretch'd my purpose to myself,
But fortune has deny'd it; my poor all
Suffic'd no further, and a noble poverty
Is now my whole possession. I redeem
The promis'd Christians; for I taught 'em hope:
But, for myself, I come again your slave,
To wait the fuller hand of future charity.
Osman, Christian! I must confess thy cou-
rage charms me;

But let thy pride be taught it treads too high,
When it presumes to climb above my mercy.
Go ransomless thyself, and carry back
Their unaccepted ransoms, join'd with gifts,
Fit to reward thy purpose: instead of ten,
Demand a hundred Christians; they are thine:
Take 'em, and bid 'em teach their haughty
country,

He

They left some virtue among Saracens.
Be Lusignan alone excepted.
Who boasts the blood of kings, and dares lay
claim

To my Jerusalem-that claim, his guilt!
I mourn his lot,

Who must in fetters, lost to day-light, pine
And sigh away old age in grief and pain.
For Zara but to name her as a captive,
Were to dishonour language; she's a prize
Above thy purchase: all the Christian realms,
With all their kings to guide 'em, would unite
In vain, to force her from me. Go, retire.
Ner. For Zara's ransom, with her own
consent,

I had your royal word. For Lusignan-
Unhappy, poor old man-

Osman. Was I not heard?
Have I not told thee, Christian, all my will?
What, if I prais'd thee! This presumptuous
virtue,

Compelling my esteem, provokes my pride;
Be gone; and when to-morrow's sun shall rise,
On my dominions be not found-too near me.
[Exit Nerestan.
[Aside.

Zara. Assist him, heaven!
Osman. Zara, retire a moment.
Assume, throughout my palace, sovereign em-
pire,

While I give orders to prepare the pomp
That waits to crown thee mistress of my throne.
[Leads her out, and returns.
Orasmin! didst thou mark th'imperious slave?

What could he mean?—he sigh'd—and, as he And the proud crescent rise in bloody triumph.
went,
From this seraglio having young escap'd,
Turn'd and look'd back at Zara!-didst thou Fate, three years since, restor'd me to my

mark it?

Oras. Alas! my sovereign master! let not
jealousy

Strike high enough to reach your noble heart.
Osman. Jealousy, saidst thou? I disdain it.
No!

Distrust is poor; and a misplac'd suspicion
Invites and justifies the falsehood fear'd.
Yet, as I love with warmth, so I could hate!
But Zara is above disguise and art.
Jealous! I was not jealous! If I was,
I am not-no-my heart-but, let us drown
Remembrance of the word, and of the image;
My heart is fill'd with a diviner flame.
Go, and prepare for the approaching nuptials.
I must allot one hour to thoughts of state,
Then all the smiling day is love and Zara's.
[Exit Orasmin.
Monarchs, by forms of pompous misery press'd,
In proud, unsocial misery, unbless'd,
Would, but for love's soft influence, curse
their throne,

And, among crowded millions, live alone. [Exit.

ACT II.
SCENE I.

Enter NERESTAN and CHATILLON. Cha. Matchless Nerestan! generous and great!

You, who have broke the chains of hopeless

slaves!

Appear, be known, enjoy your due delight;
The grateful weepers wait to clasp your knees;
They throng to kiss the happy hand that
sav'd 'em!

Indulge the kind impatience of their eyes,
And, at their head, command their hearts for

ever.

Ner. Illustrious Chatillon! this praise o'erwhelms me; What have I done beyond a Christian's duty, Beyond what you would, in my place, have done?

Cha. True—it is every honest Christian's
duty;

Nay, 'tis the blessing of such minds as ours,
For others' good to sacrifice our own.
Yet, happy they, to whom heav'n grants the

power

To execute, like you, that duty's call.
For us, the relics of abandon'd war,
Forgot in France, and in Jerusalem,
Left to grow old in fetters, Osman's father
Consign'd us to the gloom of a damp dungeon,
Where, but for you, we must have groan'd
out life,

And native France have bless'd our eyes no

more.

chains;

Perish that soldier who would quit his chains,
And leave his noble chief behind in fetters.
Alas! you know him not as I have known him:
Thank heav'n, that plac'd your birth so far
remov'd

From those detested days of blood and woe:
But I, less happy, was condemn'd to see
Thy walls, Jerusalem, beat down, and all
Our pious fathers' labours lost in ruins!
Heav'n! had you seen the very temple rifled,
The sacred sepulchre itself profan'd,
Fathers with children mingl'd, flame together,
And our last king, oppress'd with age and

arms,

Murder'd, and bleeding o'er his murder'd sons!
Then Lusignan, sole remnant of his race,
Rallying our fated few amidst the flames,
Fearless, beneath the crush of falling towers,
The conqu'rors and the conquer'd, groans
and death!

Dreadful-and waving in his hand a sword,
Red with the blood of infidels, cry'd out,
"This way, ye faithful Christians! follow me!"
Ner. How full of glory was that brave retreat!
Cha. 'Twas heav'n, no doubt, that sav'd and
led him on,

Pointed his path, and march'd our guardian
guide:

We reach'd Caesarea-there the general voice
Chose Lusignan, thenceforth to give us laws.
Alas! 'twas vain; Caesarea could not stand
When Sion's self was fallen! we were betray'd;
And Lusignan condemn'd to length of life,
In chains, in damps, and darkness, and despair.
Ner. Oh! I should hate the liberty he
shar'd not.

I knew too well the miseries you describe,
For I was born amidst them. Chains and death,
Caesarea lost, and Saracens triumphant,

Ner. The will of gracious heav'n, that soft-Were the first objects which my eyes e'er

en'd Osman,

Inspir'd me for your sakes: but with our joy
Flows, mix'd, a bitter sadness. I had hop'd
To save from their perversion, a young beauty,
Who, in her infant innocence, with me,
Was made a slave by cruel Noradin;
When, sprinkling Syria with the blood
Christians,

Caesarea's walls saw Lusignan surpris'd,

look'd on.

Hurried, an infant, among other infants,
Snatch'd from the bosoms of their bleeding
mothers,

A temple sav'd us, till the slaughter ceas'd;
Then were we sent to this ill-fated city;
of Here, in the palace of our former kings,
To learn from Saracens their hated faith,
And be completely wretched. Zara, too,

See where they bring the good old chief,

grown dim

Shar'd this captivity; we both grew up
So near each other, that a tender friendship
Endear'd her to my wishes: my fond heart-With age, by pain and sorrows hasten'd on.

Pardon its weakness, bleeds to see her lost,
And, for a barbarous tyrant, quit her God!
Cha. Such is the Saracens too fatal policy;

Watchful seducers still of infant weakness!
But let us think: may not this Zara's int'rest,
Loving the sultan, and by him belov'd,
For Lusignan procure some softer sentence?
Ner. How shall I gain admission to her
presence?

Osman has banish'd me; but that's a trifle:
Will the seraglio's portals open to me?
Or could I find that easy to my hopes,
What prospect of success from an apostate?
On whom I cannot look without disdain;
And who will read her shame upon my brow.
The hardest trial of a generous mind
Is to court favours from a hand it scorns.
Cha. Think it is Lusignan we seek to serve.
Ner. Well, it shall be attempted. Hark!
who's this?

Are my eyes false? or is it really she?

Enter ZARA.

Zara. Start not, my worthy friend! I come
to seek you;

The sultan has permitted it; fear nothing:
But to confirm my heart, which trembles near

you,

Cha. How is my heart dissolv'd with sudden joy.

Enter LUSIGNAN, led in by two Guards.

Lus. Where am I? From the dungeon's
depth what voice

Has call'd me to revisit long-lost day?
Am I with Christians? I am weak; forgive me,
And guide my trembling steps. I'm full of
My miseries have worn me more than age.
Am I in truth at liberty? [Seats himself.

Cha. You are;

years;

Tis now the son of Noradin's seraglio.
Zara. The master of this place, the mighty
Osman,
Distinguishes, and loves to cherish virtue.
This gen'rous Frenchman, yet a stranger to you
Drawn from his native soil, from
and rest,
peace
Brought the vow'd ransom of ten Christian
slaves,

Soften that angry air, nor look reproach;
Why should we fear each other, both mis-
taking?
Associates from our birth, one prison held us,
One friendship taught affliction to be calm,
Till heaven thought fit to favour your escape,
And call you to the fields of happier France;
Thence, once again, it was my lot to find you They have been ever dear and useful to me.
A pris'ner here: where, hid amongst a crowd Would I were nearer to him. Noble sir,
Of undistinguish'd slaves, with less restraint
I shar'd your frequent converse :

Himself contented to remain a captive;
But Osman, charm'd by greatness like his own,
To equal what he lov'd, has giv'n him you.
Lus. So gen'rous France inspires her social

sons !

[Nerestan approaches.
How have I merited, that you for me
Should pass such distant seas to bring me
blessings,

And hazard your own safety for my sake?
Ner. My name, sir, is Nerestan; born in
Syria,

It pleas'd your pity, shall I say your friendship?
Or rather, shall I call it generous charity?
To form that noble purpose, to redeem
Distressful Zara-you procur'd my ransom,
And with a greatness that out-soar'd a crown,
Return'd yourself a slave, to give me freedom: I wore the chains of slavery from my birth;
But heav'n has cast our fate for different Till quitting the proud crescent for the court

climes;

Here, in Jerusalem, I fix for ever;
Yet, among all the shine that marks my fortune,
I shall with frequent tears remember yours.
Your goodness will for ever sooth my heart,
And keep your image still a dweller there:
Warm'd by your great example to protect
That faith that lifts humanity so high,
I'll be a mother to distressful Christians.
Ner. How! you protect the Christians! you,
who can
Abjure their saving truth, and coldly see
Great Lusignan, their chief, die slow in chains!
Zara. To bring him freedom you behold
me here;

You will this moment meet his eyes in joy.
Cha. Shall I then live to bless that happy

hour ?

Ner. Can Christians owe so dear a gift to
Zara?

Zara. Hopeless I gather'd courage to entreat
The sultan for his liberty: amaz'd,
So soon to gain the happiness I wish'd!

Where warlike Lewis reigns, beneath his eye
I learnt the trade of arms: the rank I held
Was but the kind distinction which he gave me,
To tempt my courage to deserve regard.
Your sight, unhappy prince, would charm
his eye;

That best and greatest monarch will behold
With grief and joy those venerable wounds,
And print embraces where your fetters bound