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

Glen. Ha! dost thou threaten me?

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 bell

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

[Draws.

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-

sentment.

When we contend again, our strife is mortal. [Exeunt.

ACT V.

SCENE I-A Wood.

Enter DOUGLAS.

Doug. This is the place, the centre of the

grove;

Here stands the oak, the monarch of the wood.
How sweet and solemn is this midnight scene!
The silver moon, unclouded, holds her way
Through skies, where I could count each little

star.

Ten thousand slaves like thee-
Nor. Villain, no more!
Draw and defend thy life. I did design
The fanning west-wind scarcely stirs the leaves;
To have defy'd thee in another cause;
The river, rushing o'er its pebbled bed,
But heav'n accelerates its vengeance on thee. Imposes silence with a stilly sound.
Now for my own and lady Randolph's wrongs. In such a place as this, at such an hour,
If ancestry can be in aught believ'd,
Descending spirits have convers'd with men,
And told the secrets of the world unknown.

[They fight.

Enter LORD RANDOLPH.

Lord R. Hold, I command you both. The man that stirs

Makes me his foe.

Nor. Another voice than thine

That threat had vainly sounded, noble Ran

dolph.

Glen. Hear him, my lord; he's wondrous
condescending!

Mark the humility of shepherd Norval!
Nor. Now you may scoff in safety.
[Sheathes his Sword.

Lord R. Speak not thus,
Taunting each other; but unfold to me
The cause of quarrel, then I judge betwixt you.
Nor. Nay, my good lord, though I revere
you much,

My cause I plead not, nor demand your judg-I

ment.

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

To the liege lord of my dear native land
I owe a subject's homage; but ev'n him
And his high arbitration I'd reject.
Within my bosom reigns another lord;
Honour, sole judge, and umpire of itself.
If my free speech offend you, noble Randolph,
Revoke your favours, and let Norval go
Hence as he came, alone, but not dishonour'd.
Lord R. Thus far I'll mediate with impar-
tial voice:

The ancient foe of Caledonia's land

Enter old NORVAL.

Old N. 'Tis he. But what if he should chide 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

Now waves his banners o'er her frighted fields. Yet grievous are my fears. Oh, leave this place,
Suspend your purpose till your country's arms And those unfriendly towers!
Repel 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 carnest 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;

Lady R. Defend us, gracious God! we are 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,
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 give.

Doug. I scorn it not.

My mother warn'd me of Glenalvon's baseness:
But I will not suspect the noble Randolph.
In our encounter with the vile assassins,
I mark'd his brave demeanour; him I'll trust.
Old N. I fear you will, too far.
Doug. Here in this place

I wait my mother's coming: she shall know
What thou hast told: her counsel I will follow:
And cautious ever are a mother's counsels.
You must depart: your presence may prevent
Our interview.,

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 check
thy force?

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

[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!

complain'd,

To whom I oft have of my lot
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,

Which running eastward leads thee to the

camp.

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

Which I by certain proof will soon confirm.
Doug. I yield me, and obey: but yet my
heart

Bleeds at this parting. Something bids me
stay,

And guard a mother's life. Oft have I read
Of wondrous deeds by one bold arm achiev'd.
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, or

I have great cause to dread. Too well I see
Which way the current of thy temper sets:
To-day I have found thee. Oh! my long-lost
hope!

If thou to giddy valour giv'st the rein,
To-morrow I may lose my son for ever.
The love of thee, before thou saw'st the light,
Sustain'd my life when thy brave father fell.
If thou shalt fall, I have not love nor hope
In this waste world! My son, remember me!
Doug. What shall I say? How can I give
you comfort?

The God of battles of my life dispose
As may be best for you! for whose dear sake
I will not bear myself as I resolv'd.
But yet consider, as no vulgar name,
That which I boast, sounds among martial mer,
How will inglorious caution suit my claim?
The post of fate unshrinking I maintain.
My country's foes must witness who I am.
On the invaders' heads I'll prove my birth,
Till friends and foes confess the genuine strain.
If in this strife I fall, blame not your son,
Who, if he live not honour'd, must not live.
Lady R. I will not utter what my bosom
feels.

I 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 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? Gaze not on me, thou wilt mistake the path; Lady R. Despair, Despair! I'll 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!

ALVON.

Lord R. Not in her presence.

Now

Glen. I'm prepar'd.

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

Lord R. No: 1 command thee stay.

I go alone: it never shall be said.
That I took odds to combat mortal man.
The noblest vengeance is the most complete.
Exit.
[Glenaloon makes some Steps to
the same Side of the Stage, lis-
tens, and speaks.

Glen. Demons of death, come settle on my
sword,

And to a double slaughter guide it home!
The lover and the husband both must die.
Lord R. Without] Draw, villain! draw!
Doug. [Without] Assail me not, lord Ran-
dolph ;

Not as thou lov'st thyself.

[Clashing of Swords. Glen. [Running out] Now is the time. Enter LADY RANDOLPH, at the opposite Side of the Stage, faint and breathless. Lady R. Lord Randolph, hear me; all shall be thine own!

But spare! Oh, spare my son!

Enter DOUGLAS, with a Sword in each Hand.
Doug. My mother's voice!

I can protect thee still.

Lady R. He lives! he lives!

For this, for this to heav'n, eternal praise!
But sure I saw thee fall.

Doug. It was Glenalvon.

me live

[Dies. Lady Randolph faints on
the Body.

Enter LORD RANDOLPH and ANNA.
Lord R. Thy words, thy words of truth,
have pierc'd my heart:
I am the stain of knighthood and of arms.
Oh! if my brave deliverer survives
The traitor's sword--

Anna. Alas! look there, my lord.
Lord R. The mother and her son! How
curst am I!

Was I the cause? No: I was not the cause.
Yon matchless villain did seduce my soul
To frantic jealousy.

Anna. My lady lives:

The agony of grief hath but suppress'd
Awhile her powers.

Lord R. But my deliverer's dead!
Lady R. [Recovering] Where am I now?
Still in this wretched world!
Grief cannot break a heart so hard as mine.
Lord R. Oh, misery!

Amidst thy raging grief I must proclaim
My innocence.

Lady R. Thy innocence!
Lord R. My guilt

Is innocence compar'd with what thou think'st it.
Lady R. Of thee I think not; what have I

to do

With thee, or any thing? My son! my son!
My beautiful! my brave! how proud was I
Of thee and of thy valour! my fond heart
O'erflow'd this day with transport, when I
thought

Of growing old amidst a race of thine.

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!

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,
Upon the brink she stood, and cast her eyes
But in this rage she must abhor my presence. Down on the deep; then lifting up her head
[Exit Anna. And her white hands to heaven, seeming to say
Curs'd, curs'd Glenalvon, he escap'd too well, Why am I forc'd to this? she plung'd herself
Though slain and baffled by the hand he hated. Into the empty air.
Foaming with rage and fury to the last,
Cursing his conqueror, the felon died.

Re-enter ANNA.

Anna. My lord! My lord!

Lord R. Speak: I can hear of horror.
Anna. Horror, indeed!

Lord R. Matilda !

Anna. Is no more:

She ran, she flew like lightning up the hill;
Nor halted till the precipice she gain'd,
Beneath whose low'ring top the river falls
Ingulf'd in rifted rocks: thither she came,
As fearless as the eagle lights upon it,

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.

GEORGE LILLO, was by profession a jeweller, and was born in the neighbourhood of Moorgate, in London, on the 4th of Feb. 1695; 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., as the havock 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 meritorious, 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 he admitted in vindication, not only of our present author, but of others in the like predicament; which is, that even nature itself 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 aptness of expression, and power of language, not only greatly superior to themselves, but even to the general language and conversation of persins of much higher rank in life, and of minds more perfectly cultivated. Our author died Sept. 5d. 1739, 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 application, 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 state of life, in which his excellent temper of mind gave him a happiness beyond the power of riches; and it was necessary for his friends to have a sharp insight into his want of their services, as well as good inclination or abilities to 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 1731, at the Theatre Royal in Drury-lane with great success. "In the newspapers of the time" says the Biographia Dramatica, "we find, that on Friday, ad of July 1731, the Queen sent to the playhouse in Drury-lane, for the manuscript of George Barnwell, to peruse it, which Mr. Wilks carried to Hampton Court. This tragedy being founded on a well known old ballad, many of the critics of that time, who went to the first representation of it, formed so contemptuous an idea of the piece, in their expectations, that they purchased the ballad (some 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, that they were compelled to subscribe to their power, and lay aside their ballads to take their handkerchiefs." The original performer of the character of George Barnwell, Mr. Ross, relates, that "in the year 1752, he played this part. Dr. Earrowhy was sent for by a young merchant's apprentice, who was in a high fever; upon the Doctor's approaching him, he saw his patient was afflicted with a disease of the mind. The Doctor being alone with the young man, he confessed, after much solicitation, that he had made an improper acquaintance with a kept mistress; and had made free with money intrusted to his care, by his employers, to the amount of 200 pounds. Secing Mr. Ross in that piece, he was so forcibly struck, he had not enjoyed a moment's peace since, and wished to die, to avoid the shame he saw hanging over him. The Doctor calmed his patient by telling him, if his father made the least hesitation to give the money, he should have it from him. The father arrived, put the amount into the son's hands,-they wept, kissed, embraced. The son soon recovered, and lived to be a very eminent merchant. Dr. Barrowby never told me the name; but one even

ing he said to me, you have done some good in your profession, more perhaps than many a clergyman who preached last sunday.' I had for nine or ten years, at my benefit, a note sealed up with ten guineas, and these words, "a tribute of gratitude from one who is highly obliged, and saved from ruin, by seeing Mr. Ross's performance of Barnwell." What will the virulent decriers of stage-plays say to this?

SCENE I-A Room in THOROWGOOD's House.
Enter THOROWGOOD and TRUEMAN.
True. SIR, the packet from Genoa is arrived.
[Gives Letters. tion.

Maria. Sir, I find myself unfit for conversation., I should but increase the number of the company, without adding to their satisfacThorow. Nay, my child, this melancholy

Thorow. Heaven be praised! the storm that threatened our royal mistress, pure religion, must not be indulged. liberty, and laws, is for a time diverted. By Maria. Company will but increase it.` I this means, time is gained to make such pre- wish you would dispense with my presence. paration on our part, as may, heaven concur- Solitude best suits my present temper. ring, prevent his malice, or turn the meditated mischief on himself.

True. He must be insensible indeed, who is not affected when the safety of his country is concerned. Sir, may I know by what means? -If I am not too bold

Thorow. You are not insensible, that it is chiefly on your account these noble lords do me the honour so frequently to grace my board. Should you be absent, the disappointment may make them repent of their condescension, and think their labour lost.

Thorow. Your curiosity is laudable; and I Maria. He that shall think his time or hogratify it with the greater pleasure, because nour lost in visiting you, can set no real value from thence you may learn how honest mer-on your daughter's company, whose only merit chants, as such, may sometimes contribute to is that she is yours. The man of quality who the safety of their country, as they do at all chooses to converse with a gentleman and times to its happiness; that if hereafter you merchant of your worth and character, may should be tempted to any action that has the confer honour by so doing, but he loses none. appearance of vice or meanness in it, upon Thorow. Come, come, Maria, I need not reflecting on the dignity of our profession, tell you, that a young gentleman may prefer you may with honest scorn reject whatever is your conversation to mine, and yet intend me unworthy of it. no disrespect at all; for though he may lose True. Should Barnwell, or I, who have the no honour in my company, 'tis very natural benefit of your example, by our ill conduct for him to expect more pleasure in yours. I bring any imputation on that honourable name, remember the time when the company of the we must be left without excuse. greatest and wisest man in the kingdom, would have been insipid and tiresome to me, if it had deprived me of an opportunity of enjoying your mother's.

Thorow. You compliment, young man. [Trueman bows respectfully] Nay, I'm not offended. As the name of merchant never degrades the gentleman, so by no means does Maria. Yours, no doubt, was as agreeable it exclude him; only take heed not to pur- to her: for generous minds know no pleasure chase the character of complaisant at the ex- in society but where 'tis mutual. pense of your sincerity.

Thorow. Thou knowest I have no heir, no

True. Sir, have you any commands for me child, but thee; the fruits of many years sucat this time? cessful industry must all be thine. Now it Thorow. Only look carefully over the files, would give me pleasure, great as my love, to to see whether there are any tradesmen's bills unpaid; if there are, send and discharge 'em. We must not let artificers lose their time, so useful to the public and their families, in unnecessary attendance. [Exit Trueman.

Enter MARIA.

Well, Maria, have you given orders for the entertainment? I would have it in some measure worthy the guests. Let there be plenty, and of the best, that the courtiers may at least commend our hospitality.

I

see on whom you will bestow it. I am daily solicited by men of the greatest rank and merit for leave to address you; but I have hitherto declined it, in hopes that, by observation, should learn which way your inclination tends; for, as I know love to be essential to happiness in the marriage state, I had rather my approbation should confirm your choice than direct it.

Maria. What can I say? How shall I answer as I ought this tenderness, so uncommon even in the best of parents? But you are without example; yet, had you been less indulMaria. Sir, I have endeavoured not to wrong gent, I had been most wretched. That I look your well-known generosity by an ill-timed on the crowd of courtiers that visit here, with parsimony. Lequal esteem, but equal indifference, you have