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Do wreak their wrath upon the stedfast hills."

After some further conversation of this kind, the archbishop says-"But why, my good Lord Count, are you thus shaken?

A Coronation Tragedy-By LAELIUS We have great pleasure in doing our utmost to bring this singularly beautiful production into notice. It has redeemed, in our opinion, the literary character of the age from the impu tation of the players, to whom we may now confidently assert a true dramatic genius does exist in English literature. Not only is the subject of this tragedy chosen in an original spirit, and the fable constructed with the greatest skill, but the versification and dialogue are equally entitled to unqualified praise.

The plot is founded on the unhappy coronation of Carlo Aurenzebe, King of Sicily, a prince of the Austrian dynasty, who was put to death during the solemn ceremony of the anointment, by the conspirators substituting a corrosive oil, of the most direful nature, instead of the consecrated ointment; and the medical author, with a rare felicity, has accordingly called his tragedy "The Fatal Unction." As the story is well known, we think it unnecessary to say more respecting it, than that the Doctor, with a judicious fidelity to historical truth, has stuck close to all the leading incidents, as they are narrated in Ugo Foscolo's classic his tory, in three volumes quarto, a translation of which, with ingenious annotations, may speedily, we understand, be expected from the animated pen of Sir Robert Wilson, the enterprizing member for Southwark.

The play opens with a grand scene in a hilly country, in which Mount Ætna is discovered in the back ground. Butero, who had a chief hand in the plot, enters at midnight, followed by the Archbishop of Palermo, whom he addresses in the following spirited lines, his right hand stretched towards the burning mountain.

"There, spitting fires in heaven's enduring face,

Behold where Etna stands sublime, nor

dreads

The vengeance of the foe he so insults
For what to him avails the thunderbolt?
It cannot harm his adamantine head,
Nor lavish showers of rain his burning
quench

The wonted arms with which the warring
skies

The spark of life in Carlo Aurenzebe
Is surely not eterne. He is a man:
At any time, my lord, at any time,
The posset or the poniard may suffice
To give him his quietus."
and impassioned reply of Count Butero
"Peace, fool, peace," is the abrupt
to the archbishop, and then the fol-
lowing animated colloquy ensues :—

"Archb. I am no fool, you misapply
the term;

I ne'er was such, nor such will ever be.
Oh, if your Lordship would but give me
hearing,

I would a scheme unfold to take him off,
That ne'er conspirator devised before.

Count Butero. Thy hand and pardon.

you,

'Tis my nature's weakness
To be thus petulant; ah, well you know,
My Lord Archbishop, for I oft have told
Told in confession how my too quick ire
Betrays me into sin. But thou didst speak
Of taking off, hinting at Aurenzebe
What was't thou wouldst unfold?

Archb.
Look round.

To-morrow, Count

Count Butero. There's no one near.
Archb. Heard ye not that?
Count Butero. "Twas but the mountain

Pray thee proceed, and let the choleric hill
belching-out upon't.
Rumble his bellyful, nor thus disturb
The wary utterance of thy deep intents.
What would you say?

Archb. To-morrow, my dear Count,
The Carlo Aurenzebe, your sworn foe,
And our fair Sicily's detested tyrant,
Holds in Palermo, with all antique rites,
His royal coronation.

ཐཱཝཱན

Count Butero. I know that. Archb. And 'tis your part, an old timehonour'd right,

1

To place the diadem upon his brow
Count Butero. Proceed-go on.
Archb. And 'tis my duteous service
To touch and smea him with the sacred oil.
Count Butero. I am all ear-what then?
Archb. What then, my lord? what

might not you and I
To free the world of one so tyrannous"
In that solemnity perform on him,

The traitor archbishop then proceeds to develope the treason which he had

54

hatched, and proposes, instead of the
consecrated oil, to anoint the King with
a deadly venom, of which he had pro-
vided himself with a phial. Occasional
borrowed expressions may be here and
there detected in the dialogue; but, in
general, they only serve to shew the
variety of the Doctor's reading; we fear,
however, that the following account
of the preparation, which the arch
bishop had procured, must be consi-
dered as a palpable imitation of the
history of Othello's handkerchief; at
the same time, it certainly possesses
much of an original freshness, and of
the energy that belongs to a new con-
ception.

“The stuff in this [shewing the bottle]

a gypsey did prepare

From a decoction made of adders' hearts, And the fell hemlock, whose mysterious juice

Doth into mortal curd knead the brisk blood,

some political reflections, rather of a
radical nature, are made on the Sici-
lian government and road trustees. In
the end, however, as the poor woman
is quite bankrupt, by the sinking of
her quadruped Argusey, Gaffer Curioso
persuades her to go to the city, where
she may perhaps gather as much mo
ney by begging in the crowd assembled
to see the coronation, as will enable
her to set up again with another ass
and baskets. The whole of this scene
is managed with great skill, and the
breaks and sparklings of natural pathos,
here and there elicited, are exceeding
ly beautiful. The little incongruity of
making the Sicilians converse in our
doric dialect, may, perhaps, by some,
be deemed a blemish; but when it is
considered, that the different high
characters in the piece speak in Eng-
lish, the propriety of making those of
the lower order talk in Scotch, we are
convinced, must, upon serious reflec-

Wherein the circling life doth hold its tion, appear judicious and beautiful.

course

A friar saw her sitting by a well,
Tasting the water with her tawny palm,
And bought the deadly stuff."

66

The count and archbishop having agreed to infect with death" their lawful and legitimate monarch, while he is undergoing the fatigues of his inauguration, then go to the palace on purpose to confer with certain others of the rebellious nobles; and the scene changes to a narrow valley, and peasants are seen descending from the hills, singing "God save the King," being then on their way towards Palermo to see the coronation.

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Having descended on the stage, and
finished their loyal song, one of them,
Gaffer Curioso, sees an old gypsey wo-
man, the same who sold the poison to
the friar, standing in a disconsolate
posture, and going towards her, he
gives her a hearty slap on the back,
and says, in a jocund humour,-

What's making you hing your grun-
tle, lucky, on sic a day as this?
Gyp. Och hon! och hon!
Gaffer Curi. What are ye och-honing
for?

Gyp. Do ye see that bell in the dub there?
Gaffer Curi. Weel, what o't?
Gyp. It's a' that's left me for an ass and
twa creels."

The carlin having thus explained the
cause of her grief, namely, the loss of
her ass and paniers in the mire, a con-
versation arises respecting the bad and
neglected state of the roads, in which

When the peasants, with the gypsey, have quitted the stage, the scene is again shifted, and we are introduced to Carlo Aurenzebe, the King and the beautiful Splendora, his royal consort, in their bed-chamber. His majesty has been up some time, walking about the room, anxious for the coming of his Lord Chamberlain, whose duty it was, according to ancient custom, in such a morning, to dress him; but the Queen still presses her pillow asleep; in this situation, the King happens to cast his eye towards the bed, and forgetting his own anxious cares about the impending ceremony of the day, address→ es her in the following tender and touching verses:

"How like a rose her blooming beauty

presses

The smooth plump pillow, and the dent it makes

cence

Is as a dimple in the guileless cheek
Of some sweet babe, whose chubby inno-
Smiles to provoke caresses. O, my love-
But let her sleep-too soon, alas! too soon
She must be roused, to bear her heavy part
In the great business of the coronation."

His majesty then, in the most affectionate manner, steps towards the bed, and stoops

"to taste her cheek, That, like a full-ripe peach, lures the fond lip."

In the attempt he awakens her, and she leaps out of bed, startled and alarmed, exclaiming→→

"Arrest that traitor's arm, dash down the bowl

'Tis fraught with death."

And in this striking manner we are
apprised that her Majesty has been
afflicted with a most awful and omin-
ous dream, of which, when she had
somewhat come to herself, she gives
the following impressive description:
"Methought we sat within an ancient hall,
Our nobles there, and all the peeresses
Garb'd as befits the feast you hold to-day
But as I look'd, a change came in my

dream,

And suddenly that old and stately hall, Whose gnarled joists and rafters, richly carved,

Were drap'd and tasselled by the weaving spider,

Melted away, and I beheld myself

In a lone churchyard, sitting on a tree,
And a fell band of corse-devouring gowles,
Both male and female, gather'd round a
grave.

King. What did they there?

Queen. With eager hands they dug,
Fiercely as hungry Alpine wolves they dug,
Into the hallow'd chamber of the dead,
And, like those robbers whom pale science
bribes

To bring fit subjects for her college class,
With hideous resurrection, from its cell
They drew the sheeted body.

King.
Queen.

Heavens!
They did

And on the churchyard grass I saw it lie,
Ghastly and horrible, beneath the moon,
That paled her light, seeing a thing so grim.
King. Then what ensued?

Queen. I tremble to disclose

King. I pray you, tell-dearest Splendora, tell.

Queen. It is a tale will harrow up your soul.

They tore the cerements, and laid out to

view

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ous gowle

Smelt the wide nostril, and on looking up,
The moonlight brightening on her fore-

head, smiled.

King. O who will beauty ever love

again?

Queen. Soon without knives the canni

the midst of traitors, one of whom tried to force her to drink a bowl of poison, when happily she was roused by the king kissing her cheek. A few natural enough reflections are made by both their Majesties on the omen, and the first act is terminated by the lord chamberlain knocking for admission to assist his majesty to dress, while six mute ladies come in with a robe de chambre, which they throw round the Queen, and lead her off into her dressing-room.

The second act opens in the street, with a conversation between the friar who had bought the poison from the gypsey woman, and the King's principal secretary of state for the home department:

Sec. My Lord Archbishop is an ho

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danined villain,

Say, wherefore kept you poison in that bottle;

For whom, assassin, didst thou buy the
draught?

Friar. Will you not listen?
Sec. No: begone and leave me,
I sin in holding converse with thy kind;
And in my office do I much offend
In suffering such a man to roam at large
The cruel'st beast that in the forest dens,
The tawny lion, and the grumbling bear,
Are far less dangerous than such as thou;
They keep no murd'rous phials in their
pockets,

Nor secrete steel to do their guilty deeds."

This scene is conceived with great art; for the friar, as the reader sees, is just on the point of telling the secretary of state that he had given the poison to the Archbishop, and if the bals began secretary would only have listened to To relish their foul meal-I saw a mother him, the plot, in all human probabiliGive to her child, that fondled at her side, ty, would have been discovered. But An ear to mumble with its boneless gums.' "the secretary, by his rashness, preHer majesty then continues to relate, that another change came over the spirit of her dream, and the gowles having vanished, she found herself in

vents himself from hearing the suspicious circumstance of the Archbishop having secretly provided a bottle of poison, and quits the scene, vehement

ly expressing his abhorrence of all murderers

"Whether their hests they do with pill

or poniard,

The ambush'd pistol, or the bludgeon rude,

That strews the road with brains " pretty plainly insinuating that he considers the friar as one of those bad characters,

Who make no pause in their fell purposes."

The friar, who is a very honest man, though longing a little for promotion in the church,-which, by the way, is a natural enough feeling in a clergyman,-justly indignant at the imputation of the secretary of state, breaks ́out, after that minister has made his exit, into this noble soliloquy:

"Oh that the gods, when they did fashion

me

Into this poor degraded thing of man,
Had but endow'd me with the tiger's form,
And for these weak and ineffectual hands,
Had bless'd me with that noble creature's
feet,

I would have torn the saucy dotard's throat.
Me, murderer! what, I that came to speak
My strong suspicion of the plotting prelate,
To have my words of truth with rage re-
pell'd,

And the warm milk of human kindness in

me,

Tax'd with the thickness of a felon's blood!"

While the friar is in this resentful mood, Count Butero enters, and a long and highly poetical dialogue takes place, in the course of which the friar is led to suspect that his lordship has some secret understanding with the archbishop, and that between them something of a very dreadful nature

has been concerted.

Count. I'll hear no more thou speak'st
but priestly prate,

And the archbishop has a better knowledge
Of what 'tis fit we should believe.
My Lord,

Friar.

If that his grace-my Lord Butero, hear

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Of something dreadful in the womb of time, Hatching between you and that wicked prelate.

[Exit the Friar; the Count follows him a few paces with his sword drawn, bút suddenly checks himself, and returning sheathes it.]

Count. Back to thy home, my bright

and trusty blade;
I'll not commission thee for aught so mean.
Thy prey is royalty—a jibing priest
Yet he suspects, and may to others tell
Would but impair the lustre of the steel.
His shrewd conjectures, and a search detect
Administer to bold ambition's purpose."

"Count. But tell me, monk, where lies Our schemed intent to make the coronation

the guilt of it.

To die is to be not-and what is slain
Is therefore nothing. How then, tell me,
father,

Can that which nothing is, be guilt, that is
A thing most heinous both in earth and

heaven?

Friar. There's atheism in such subtlety. I pray thee, son, to change these desperate thoughts;

They smack of sin, and may draw down forever

That winged thing that is more truly thee, Than is the clothes of flesh and bone thou wear'st,

Loading its pinions, that would else expand,

And eagle like, soar onward to the skies.

The Count then retires, and the scene changes to a hall in the palace, where the Queen, in her robes of state, is addressed by the old gypsey.

"Gyp. Stop, lady fair, with jewell'd
hair,

And something gic, to hear frae me,
That kens what is, and what shall be.

Queen. Alas, poor soul! take that small
change, and go—

I have no time to list my fortune's spacing.
This is the coronation-day, and I,
That am the queen of this resplendent land,
Have a great part in that solemnity.

Gyp. Pause and ponder, noble dame,
Swords have points, and lamps have flame;

DE Bottles cork'd we may dery,

But doctors' drugs are jeopardy.
Queen. This is most mystical-what doth

she mean?

Gyp. I heard a tale, I may not tell, 'I saw a sight, I saw it well; In priestly garb the vision sped, And then a body without head; A traitor died, a hangman stood, He held it up-red stream'd the blood; The people shouted one and all, As people should when traitors fall; But O, thou Queen of high degree, What 'vails the gladsome shout to thee. Queen. This is mere rave I understand it not

Away, poor wretch, I'll send for thee again!"

The gypsey is accordingly dismissed with "the small change which her majesty had bestowed; for "it is a law of our nature," in such circumstances, to deride admonition, and the author evinces his profound knowledge of man, in thus representing the Queen, reckless alike of her prophetic dream, and the gypsey's prediction, still going undismayed to the coronation.

The next scene represents an apart

ment where the regalia of Sicily is kept. The crown and the other ensigns of royalty are seen on a table, and among them an ivory pigeon, with a golden collar round its neck. The archbishop enters with an officer, the keep er of the regalia, and the following brief, but striking conversation, ensues, "Archb. Are all things now prepared? Off. They are, my lord.

Arch. Clean'd and made ready for their solemn use?

Off. They have been all done newly up,

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sence.

[Exit the Archbishop; and the Officer is seen wiping up the holy oil as the drop scene falls.]"

The whole of this act is perfect, the action never flags for a moment, but dialogue rich and appropriate, and the proceeds with an awful and appalling rapidity.

The drama is very properly divided into only three acts or parts, the begin ning, the middle, and the end, which the author tastefully denominates "the preparation," the operation," and and last opens with the peasants and "the consummation;" and the third

Palermitans assembled to see the coro

nation procession, and all talking Scoteh in the most natural manner.

66 Gaffer Curioso. Hoots, ye stupit muc kle stot; what gart you tread on my taes, ye sumph that ye are?

Cit. Taes! ha'e ye taes? I'm sure a brute like you should ha'e been born baith wi' horns and clutes.

Gaffer Curioso. I'll tell you what it is, gin ye speak in that gait to me, deevil do me gude o' you, but I'll split your harnpan.

1 Fem. Cit. Black and sour, honest folk, for gudesake dinna fight.

2 Fem. Cit. Wheesht, wheesht, it's coming noo!

;

[The Procession enters with solemn music, the crowd increases, and the Friar comes in at one side, and the old Gypsey woman at the other.]

Gyp. Wo. That's the friar who bought the venom frae me at the well-I'll watch him-For what, I wonder, did he buy the venom ?

Friar. As the Archbishop passes to the church

I'll mark him well-for, in my heart, I fear He meant no virtue, when he me entreated To give the deadly ointment to his care.'

Gyp. Wo. The friar's surely no right in the head-He's speaking to hitnsel-I'll hearken to what he's saying. H

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