Or to aught else in this gay glittering world:
There's but one trouble I shall ever give
To any one again. I will but pray
The Maker of the lonely beds of peace
To open one of his deep hollow ones
Where misery goes to sleep, and let me in ;—
If e'er you chance to pass beside my grave,
I am sure you'll not refuse a little sigh,
And if my friend (I still will call her so)
My friend, Olivia, chide you, prithee tell her
Not to be jealous of me in my grave.

In the closing scene, when pursued by the unworthy solicitations of the King, Evadne relies on the potency of her eloquence alone. And there are few finer conceptions in our dramatic literature than that in which she appeals for protection to the statues of her ancestors; and, pointing to her father's marble effigy, asks :

Know you this statue ?
King.-No, in sooth, I do not.

Evadne.-Nay, look again—for I shall think but ill

Of princely memories, if you can find,
Within the inmost chambers of your heart,

No image like to this-look at that smile-
That smile, my liege-look at it!

Evadne.-(Breaking into exultation)

Aye!-'tis indeed my father!-'tis my good,

Exalted, generous, and god-like father!
Whose memory, though he had left his child
A naked, houseless roamer through the world,
Were an inheritance a princess might

Be proud of for her dower!-It is my father!
Whose like in honour, virtue, and the fine
Integrity that constitutes a man,

He hath not left behind!-There is that smile
That, like perpetual daylight, shone about him
In clear and bright magnificence of soul!
Who was my father?

[With a proud and conscious interrogatory.] King.—One, whom I confess

Of high and many virtues.

Evadne.-Is that all?

I will help your memory, and tell you first,
That the late King of Naples looked among
The noblest in his realm for that good man,
To whom he might entrust your opening youth,
And found him worthiest. In the eagle's nest
Early he placed you, and beside his wing
You learned to mount to glory! Underneath
His precious care you grew, and you were once
Thought grateful for his service. His whole life
Was given to your uses, and his death-

Ha! do you start, my lord! On Milan's plain
He fought beside you, and when he beheld

A sword thrust at your bosom, rushed-it pierced him!
He fell down at your feet, he did, my lord!

He perished to preserve you! [rushes to the statue]
Breathless image,

Although no heart doth beat within that breast,
No blood is in those veins, let me enclasp thee,
And feel thee at my bosom. Now, sir, I am ready-
Come and unloose these feeble arms, and take me!-
Aye, take me from this neck of senseless stone,
And to reward the father with the meet
And wonted recompense that princes give-

Make me as foul as blotted pestilence,

As black as darkest midnight, and as vile
As guilt and shame can make me.

King. She has smitten
Compunction thro' my soul!

Evadne.-Approach, my lord!

Come in the midst of all mine ancestry,
Come and unloose me from my father's arms-
Come, if you dare, and in his daughter's shame
Reward him for the last drops of the blood
Shed for his prince's life!-Come!

King.-Thou hast wrought

A miracle upon thy prince's heart,

And lifted up a vestal lamp to show,

To show my soul its own deformity-my guilt!

The copyright was purchased by Mr. Murray for the sum of a hundred guineas, and the play went through many editions. From the theatre the author received four hundred pounds. As an acting play it has kept its place longer than any of the others. Of late years the principal part has frequently been sustained with great effect by Miss Helen Faucit: and the lovers of the modern drama in the United States have recently become familiar with Evadne as performed by Miss Julia Dean.

In September, 1819, he visited Paris, where for the first time he became acquainted with Talma. He found the great actor affable and frank, easy of access, and apparently pleased with the opportunity

of talking to one who was well acquainted with English dramatic literature and with the existing English stage. Talma understood the language of Shakspeare well, and had long cherished the idea that he would succeed in the representation in English of the leading characters which he had himself seen Kemble play. He spoke of Kemble's performances in a tone of the highest admiration, but doubted whether his voice would have been strong enough for the requirements of the French stage. He had studied Hamlet, in particular, and one day, at Sheil's request, recited for him, as he conceived it ought to be delivered in representation, the celebrated soliloquy, "To be or not to be," &c. There was much originality and impressiveness about it; it would not perhaps have altogether satisfied a London audience, "but a discriminating actor would have found in it much for study, and even for imitation. It was at once solemn and abrupt. The pauses were long, but the utterance was sudden, and occasionally precipitate. There was an earnestness, and, if I may so say, an impatient curiosity in his investigations of the mysteries of the grave, which he seemed to open and search like one looking for its secrets like a treasure in its dark and impenetrable depth. Yet there was no less of dignity

in this impassioned scrutiny. He was more swift than hurried. The images appeared to pass, like the shadows of rapid clouds, over an elevated mind. He seemed to spring at once over the boundaries which separate us from futurity, and to traverse vast tracts of meditation in a single thought. It was not exactly consistent with our notions of Hamlet, but it was a noble portraiture of a man holding discourse with death."*

His acquaintance with Talma was to him a source of infinite gratification, and a theme on which in after years he often used to dwell. His keen appreciation of the subtler arts of recitation, and of those refinements of dramatic enunciation and delivery, of which this great artist is said to have possessed so profound a knowledge, constituted a bond of sympathy between them that took but little time to form. There was, indeed, much that was congenial in their natures: the same "promptitude to feel" deeply and intensely, which manifested itself in private as well as in public, and the same longing for undisturbed repose and thorough love of the tranquillity that the listless and passionless are erroneously believed to be alone fitted to enjoy. To both, long intervals of quietude seemed

* Article on Talma. New Monthly Magazine, July, 1822.