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ception is good, and the execution reaches in some parts almost to grandeur.

“Camillus. How say'st thou prisoner? Answer to this charge So far by evidence established.

Manlius. Romans and fellow-countrymen! I stand
In this tribunal, as ne'er stood man before,
Without defenders, and without appeal.
Whate’er your judgment, 'tis my final doom :
To this your accusation I first answer-
No charge is proved involving life or honour:
But here I stand not to evade a crime,
Or shrink alone from judgment, else I'd rest
Secure in your acquittal.
It is not life alone that is at stake.
Mankind's esteem, my future reputation,
This day will be determined by your sentence;
That gem, the brightest jewel of the soul,
Above all price or recompence, a name
Beyond reproof, reproach, or calumny,
Is now at stake.

Once gone 'tis past recall
The brightness of its splendour's soon destroyed,
Which ne'er can be restored—the slightest breath
Will in a moment render that begrimed and black,
Which late was bright as beauty's fairest flower.

Camillus. Record thy plea!

Manlius. Record my plea ? Record ! 'tis easy thus
For one upon the judgment-seat to arraign
A fallen foe. Around I turn, around
Where'er I look, the pomp, the pride of state,
The power of the accuser stands before me,
To mock me with the unsubstantial show
Of justice. The judge, whose sworn duty 'tis
To guard the culprit, e'en in his tribunal,
Proves he can feel hatred for his fellow
As any other being of mortal mould.
Bethink, Camillus, how thy breath is watched,
How words which idle were, pronounced by others,
By thee, can turn e'en innocence to crime,
And doom a guiltless man to death itself ?
My plea is this I am the friend of Rome,
And not her foe! Who'll dare deny my truth?
None! or for answer, here are my rewards
For victories won-spoils taken from your foes
That 'neath this arm have fallen. Your honor'd crowns,
The recompence by noble deeds obtained-

[Pointing to crowns and spoils which had been

previously given him.] My citizens and fellow-countrymen, Whose lives in battle have been saved by me,

all

These would refute the charge of enmity,
Altho' perchance they may be out of date,
Passed from the memory of forgetsul man.
But here are proofs, which time doth not decay,
And death alone destroys. Behold these scars;
They now are small, but once there flow'd from each
A stream of blood-pure patriotic blood-

Shed in defence of Rome. [Tears open his dress.]"-pp. 95-97. He reminds the friends of his youth of the halcyon days they passed together, before their hearts were corrupted by experience of the treachery of men, and then recalls his struggle in the defence of Roman liberty.

“ Behold,
My judges! Turn; behold that spot,
The Capitol, where holy temples stand!
In peril's hour it bath been saved for

you;
When danger threatened you, it was your shelter,
And was preserved by one. Bethink

ye
How changed, how fållen, from the patriot then,
I stand before ye-but I am not here
To name my merits. Turn unto that spot,
And may the gods who witness'd my deserts,
Who nerved my soul with energy to save
Yon Capitol, the living monument to all
Of my past glory—so inspire your hearts
To judge me truly. Turn unto the gods,
And
say

if Manlius shall be doomed to die!
[ A murmur of approbation is heard in the assembly.

Camillus whispers an attendant, who goes out.]”—pp. 98-99. In other scenes of a different kind, but not treated so elaborately, he is equally successful. When Manlius is sentenced to death, Octavia, who had previously renounced Lucius, resolves to appeal to his compassion on behalf of her father, relying for a favourable hearing upon the unextinguished tenderness of the love she had cast away. This scene is exceedingly touching, and is well adapted for representation. It takes place in the house of Camillus.

“Lucius. Methought I heard the voice of her I loved
In times gone by-how quickly pass'd away !

OCTAVIA, Enters.
Octavia. Oh! Lucius—Speak, speak; dost thou know me now?
One who in earlier days possess'd thy love.
Alas, I come to beg, entreat, implore,--
Thou know'st what I would say—my
My madden'd brain, deprive me of my speech.
A father's life-
Lucius. (turning away.) Octavia !

feeble tongue,

Octavia. Thou hast the power.
Camillus' son can save him if he will.

Lucius. Cease, cease, Octavia— this I must not hear :
I bave no means to shield thy father, if
The laws condemn him.

OCTAVJA. If—is there then a ray
Of hope,-but no; it is unworthy of thee
Thus to delude a child by idle hopes
In such a cause as this. I am not come
As the Octavia of our earlier days,
For then I knew the soul of Lucius, warm,
Generous, and true. Ah ! had it happened then,
There had been little need to beg-entreat-
For he had fail'd but with his life itself,
To save my father's.

Lucius. Nay, speak not thus :
I am thine own in heart.

OCTAVJA. But now I'm here
A timid suitor-fearing the cold repulse
Of patronage-To ask a boon, from one
Who is far above me, in rank and power :
To him I come, a humble suppliant,
For my poor father's life.
Ah ! do not turn thine ear away from me,-
Seek no excuses. Oh! deceive me not
With idle sympathy, or heartless words;
But tell me tell me if thou wilt not save him!

Lucius. It must not, cannot be. I have no power
Over Camillus' will; and if I had,
Think, think, Octavia, that it is

my

father
Who feels the wrongs of thine.—No, he must fall.

Octavia. Ah! say not thus, lest my distracted mind
Should be o'erwhelm'd, and I should perish here.
Oh! oh! (sinking at his feet.)

Lucius. Forgive me, Heaven-Yes, it must be.
Forgive me, father !—Yes, he must be saved.

[Rushes out.]”—pp. 101-103. From these specimens, and the observations we have made, the merits of this tragedy may be estimated. They are not of a high order. There is too much of the real pathos of the story, and the tragic interest of the great events it embraces, sacrificed to scenic effects; nor can we safely predicate how far Mr. Colombine is likely to attain success in the difficult path upon which he has entered. We fear that he has not sufficient command over the springs of passion to enable him to reach the demands of tragedy.

Art. V.–1. Great Protestant Meeting. Franklin, Dublin. 2. A Familiar Epistle to Sergeant Jackson. Ridgway, London.

. 10 what peculiarity in the fortune of our country is it owing, of life, known for his hostility to the happiness and freedom of the human race, who has not been in the same degree the enemy of Ireland ? The magnanimous and the wise have ever loved our land, and taken an interest in all that tends to its improvement or prosperity. But there has never been a reckless trader in politics, a hackney place-hunter, a lawyer willing to barter his conscience for promotion, or a base worshipper of Mammon in any profession, who has not hated Ireland in exact proportion to the development of his other odious qualities.

We can endure—though it is hard to be reconciled to it—the existence of such a sentiment in strangers who do not know us. It is even a subject of pride and self-gratulation, when the vile and worthless of other countries are inspired with a kind of instinctive detestation of us. For next to the esteem of the virtuous, it is the highest testimony which can be offered to our national character, that we do not attract the sympathies of those with whom any kind of fellowship would be a disgrace. The enmity of such persons may often inflict serious injuries upon us; but there is something soothing in the consciousness that we deserve it. Lord Lyndhurst, for instance, is a very powerful enemy of our country. His talents, his eloquence, his persevering and fearless energy, render him a formidable foe. He has done much to obstruct our welfare; he has succeeded but too well in wounding our peace, and blowing up the embers of civil strife and discord amongst us; yet what true Irishman is there that does not rejoice to have been signalized by his hatred ? Who does not feel that his country has been raised in dignity and honour by having been pronounced "alien" to such a man?

It is not unnatural, however, in those who know nothing of Ireland, but by report, to dislike it; nor should we be at all surprised, if the sentiment were much more general in England than it really is. For when it is recollected who are the authors of those evil reports, and by whom the country is constantly villified and defamed, a suspicion at least, if not a positive contempt for its people, becomes almost excusable. The worst calumniators of Ireland are Irishmen-her bitterest revilers are those whom she has nurtured in her arms, and fed from her bosom. There has never been a foul slander propagated, derogatory to her character, or calculated to do her a prejudice in the minds of those who might otherwise be disposed to serve her, which might not be

"*

traced to an Irishman, or to one sprung from Irish blood. In other lands, there is a sentiment which unites men of all parties and political distinctions, in defending and upholding the fair fame of their country :

“There's a strange something-which, without a brain,

Fools feel, and with one, wise men can't explain-
Planted in man to bind him to that earth,

In dearest ties, from whence he drew his birth.” But alas ! that feeling is not Irish. At least a great number of Irishmen are strangers to it, and would blush to own it. The Duke of Wellington is not singular in disowning the soil “ from whence he drew his birth ;" but has many copyists among the supporters of his politics and the admirers of his wisdom. They claim affinity to his Grace, by being “of no country.”

The English Tories have, it is true, a strong antipathy to our country, and have always been ready at a call to assist in placing the iron yoke of the oppressor about her neck. They are, however, generally speaking, above the meanness of running her down with palpable falsehoods. A few renegades amongst them, like Sir James Graham, and the Ciceronian Hardy, do not consider it inconsistent with their dignity-of which, surely, they are the best judges—to “ filch from us our good name;" whilst such “ swaggering upsprings” as Philpotts and Copley exalt themselves into notice by the same ignoble means; but the gentlemanly Tories leave all that dirty work to be done by those who have the heartiest good-will to it—the Irish themselves. And in every class and degree of society, from the absentee marquis to the cobbler who whistles “ The Boyne Water” in his bulk, the work goes bravely on. There is no learned profession, no rank of life or department of business, in which our enemies can be at a loss to find Irishmen ready and eager to rail against their country. In the House of Lords, they will find a Londonderry, a Roden, a Fitzgerald, and-risum teneatis ?-a Glengall. In the Commons a Jackson, a Shaw, a Bateson, and that common delator of every thing good and honest, who profanes the honourable name of Tennant, leading a whole cohort of traducers. On the Bench are there not Joy, Doherty, Foster? At the Bar, Litton, Brewster, and a shoal of junior malignants? In the Church, the haters of Ireland defy enumeration—their name is Legion. And even in the seat of learning, our only university, where Plato, Cicero, Demosthenes, and Locke,+ are studied, no senti

Churcbill. + The political works of John Locke are not read in our University. The Treatise on Government-the only one of them which had ever been taken into the course-was forcibly ejected by Provost Elrington, as being adverse to the servile principles which were inseparably connected with his idea of a monarchy; and neither of his successors has had the heart to replace it.

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