the dark, and can form no probable conjecture how the matter shall end.

In the third act the scene continues. King Pepin and Duke Savary had retired to the ale-house, the one to compose himself for the loss of his town; the other to find an opportunity, if possible, of revealing his secret. This difficult matter, he at last accomplishes; and the important tale is disclosed in the following lines :

Pepin. Some twenty years ago, (oh happy years!)
In angry mood my wife I did divorce,

For divers causes me thereunto moving;

Chiefly because I thought-oh! devils and brimstone!
I thought I was.......I was........a cuc........a cuckold ! ! !

Perhaps in no modern tragedy can be found a more beautiful example of that affecting figure, the Aposiopesis, than this last line affords. In the mouth of a judicious actor its effects would be astonishing; especially, if before pronouncing the detested word, he should pause, pant, grin, groan, and beat his breast.

The king and duke are diverted from a further prosecution of this subject by the entrance of Valentine and Orson, and their ladies, supplicating mercy. And now, by certain signs, it appears that these gallant youths are actually the sons of King Pepin by his divorced wife. The pleasing astonishment produced by this discovery is great, but it is instantly exceeded by another; for Trompart, Soldan of Egypt, entering, and throwing off his helmet, hauberk, cuirass, &c. stands confessed the identical longlost wife of King Pepin. Complete reconciliation now takes place, the marriages are approved of notwithstanding their irregula rity, and naught is expressed but perpetual joy; when, lo! the implacable necromancer, Pacolet, descending through the roof upon his wooden steed comes souse in the midst of them. With looks of malignant satisfaction, natural to that sort of hellish wights, he informs them that the two brides, so far from being of high degree, are, in fact, of no degree at all: being only commoners following the camp, whom he, by his art, had substituted for the princesses. He speaks thus to the supposed Eglantina:

Pacolet. Lady I know thee well :

Thy father was my friend; a merchant he,
Peripatetic, prudent, and polite;

For various men and manners had he known,
Since from his native home he sallied forth,
Far northward, in the Caledonian bogs,
With multifarious pack. His consort fair,
Congenial nymph, in Savoy's vallies bred,
Upon her shoulders bore thee many a day,
While with her voice and hurdy-gurdy sweet,

She charm'd the list'ning crowds at hops and fairs.

'Then, turning, he addresses Clerimonda in the following words:

Did I not see thee at the siege Naples
Trudging about, with budget on thy back,
Among the Sutlers base, where thou didst sell
Gin, and et cætera, to the general camp?

The unfortunate Princes, in despair for the loss of their mistresses, and for being thus indissolubly linked to a couple of trulls, fall upon their swords, and expire with piteous groans. King Pepin, in a rage, and not without cause, stabs the two girls -Duke Savary at that instant returning from the door, whither he had been upon a necessary occasion, and beholding the massacre of his supposed daughter and niece, flies like a tyger on Pepin, and runs him through the body. The Queen, in return, snatching up her sword, with a mighty blow, smites off Duke Savary's head and the triumphant Pacolet, placing her behind him on his wooden horse, ascends from the stage slowly to solemn musick.

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We hesitate not to pronounce this catastrophe above praise. Its moral is obvious, and of the utmost importance to the literary world for it clearly teaches, that men of extraordinary talents and learning, especially in the occult sciences, deserve most honourable notice and respect, even from the nobles and great ones of the earth; and that, to refuse them such polite attention, or to treat them with neglect and contempt, may be productive of the most fatal consequences,

We shall therefore dismiss this admirable Tragedy, with a hearty wish, that the authour may find his account in the publication; and that when Gregory Fadge, Esq. Manager of the Theatre Royal, at next attempts to play Macbeth, he may be pelted to death on the stage and an extemporary cairn be reared over him, of pumpkins, pepins and potatoes.

MISCELLANEOUS EXTRACTS.

NARROW ESCAPE.

Hangs one that gathers Samphire----dreadful trade!

half way down

King Lear.

The method of gathering the crithmum maritimum, or rock samphire, which grows in great plenty along the ledges and down the perpendicular sides of the cliff on the coast of Wales, is this. The samphire gatherer takes with him a stout rope, and iron crow bar, and proceeds to the cliff. Fixing the latter firmly in the earth at the brow of the rock, and fastening the former with equal security to the bar, he takes the rope in his hand, and boldly drops over the head of the rock, lowering himself gradually till he reaches the crevices in which the samphire is found. Here he loads his basket or bag with the vegetable, and then ascends again to the top of the cliff by means of the rope. Carelessness or casualty, in a calling so perilous as this, will sometimes produce terrible accidents.

A few years since, one of these adventurers went alone to a particular spot, to follow his accustomed trade. He fixed his crow bar, attached the cord to it, and descended the face of the rock. In the course of a few minutes he reached a ledge, which, gradually retiring inwards, stood some feet within the perpendicular, and over which the brow of the cliff beetled consequently in the same proportion. Busily employed in gathering samphire, and attentive only to the object of profit, the

rope suddenly dropped from his hand, and after a few oscillations, but all beyond his reach, became stationary at the distance of four or five feet from him. Nothing could exceed the horror of his situation! Above, was a rock of sixty or seventy feet in height, whose projecting brow would defy every attempt of his to ascend it, and prevent every effort of others to render him assistance. Below was a perpendicular descent of one hundred feet, terminated by ragged rocks, over which the surge was breaking with a dreadful violence, Before him was the rope, his only hope of safety, his only means of return; but hanging at such a tantalizing distance, as baffled all expectations of his reaching it. Our adventurer was, fortunately, young, active, resolute; he therefore quickly determined what plan to adopt; collecting all his powers into one effort, and springing boldly from the ledge, he threw himself into the dreadful vaccuum, and dashed at the suspended rope. The desperate exertion was successful; he caught the cord, and in a short time was once more at the top of the rock.

RARE VIRTUE.

Towards the conclusion of the American war, when France had become an ally of the United States, a ship of St. Ives, in which Mr. Joseph Fox, a surgeon, at Falmouth, was part-owner, being fitted out by the majority of proprietors as a letter of marque, took several Prizes on a successful cruize, and brought them into port; the cargoes were of course sold, and the amount of it divided amongst the owners of the vessel. Mr. Fox, however, considered this legalized species of robbery in a very different point of view with his partners in the ship, and having received his share in the concern, actually employed an agent to go to Paris, and enquire by advertisement in the Gazette, who were the proprietors of the captured vessels, that he might restore to them all he had received of the unhallowed spoil. Dr. Franklin, who has inserted this very interesting anecdote in one of his essays (but without mentioning the name of Mr. Fox) says at the conclusion of the recital" this conscientious man is a Quaker."

FATAL CURIOSITY.

Our attention was here directed to an old barn to the left hand, remarkable for having been the scene of an event that furnished the plot of one of the most tragical and affecting of the English plays. I allude to "The Fatal Curiosity," written by Lillo; a drama that had its origin in a late family distress that literally happened at a dwelling house which formerly stood on the spot we were now upon. The story is as follows:

During the seventeenth century, a family (whose name I have forgotten) that had long lived at Penrhyn in credit, was, by some unforeseen reverse of fortune, suddenly reduced from affluence to bankruptcy. It consisted of a father, mother, and son; a youth idolized by his parents, beloved by his friends, and who had been nourished up at home with all the tenderness which usually centers in an only child. Unwilling to be a burthen upon his father and mother, when the poor wreck of their substance was scarcely sufficient to support themselves, and anxious by his own exertions to repay the debt of gratitude which he owed them, and repair the havock that misfortune had made in their affairs; the generous youth determined to seek employment abroad, and having acquired a competence, to return and share it with his parents. The hour at length arrived, when this little family groupe were, for the first time, to be separated, and they who have experienced the blessings of domestick harmony, will readily conceive the sorrows of parting. But the hapless youth had other ties to England, besides his father's roof. A secret attachment had long subsisted between a young lady of Penrhyn, and himself, which, though the misfortunes of his family could not extinguish, they still rendered it necessary to conceal. The claims of duty were, however, paramount to those of love; he pressed his treasure to his bosom, and hastened on board the ship, that was to tear him from all he valued upon earth. The parents retired from Penrhyn, and with their small remains of fortune, entered on a farm in the hamlet of Tremough. Here a few years rolled tediously and mournfully on, enlivened indeed occasionally by accounts of their son's success, but past by them, for the most part in sorrow and suffering; in struggling with ill success, and in