"Twas my desire; perhaps 'twill fetch a sigh Pis. Thou art. Ami. Let me beseech you then, to be so kind, To grace my wedding; I shall be married shortly. Pis. To one whom you have all heard talk of,— And give me leave to wear my willow here.'-vol. ii. p. 163-165. The Cardinal' is another tragedy of great power; dark and impressive; but too often revolting where it ought to be terrible. The Duchess Rosaura, though obliged to plight her vows to Columbo, the nephew of the all-powerful cardinal, is still in love with Alvarez. While Columbo is absent with the army, she obtains by artifice a letter releasing her from her vows. Alvarez is murdered by Columbo. He, in his turn, is slain in a duel at her instigation, by Hernando, to whom, in her incipient frenzy, she has promised her hand as his reward, and who accosts his victim in these terrific lines : 'You must account, sir, if that my sword prosper, Would he were lurking now about that heart, That the same wound might reach you both, and send There is great tenderness in some touches of the ensuing madness of the Duchess-a sort of agony of suppressed and conflicting emotion: C 2 • Her. Duch. You're very welcome; I have done; I will not shed a tear more Till I meet Alvarez, then I'll weep for joy. He was a fine young gentleman, and sung sweetly; had heard him but the night before An you We were married, you would have sworn he had been But we'll talk o' the Cardinal. Her. Would his death Might ransom your fair sense! he should not live To triumph in the loss. But I begin to melt. Beshrew my manhood, Duch. I pray, sir, tell me, For I can understand, although they say I have lost my wits; but they are safe enough, Since he was slain. Duch. I know not where he is. But in some bower Within a garden he is making chaplets, And means to send me one; but I'll not take it; I have flowers enough, I thank him, while I live. Duch. Yes, but I'll never marry him; I am promis'd Already. Her. To whom, madam? Duch. Do not you Blush when you ask me that? must not you be No man alive so well as you: the Cardinal Shall never know't: he'll kill us both; and yet To make me well again; but I'm afraid, One time or other, he will give me poison. Her. Prevent him, madam, and take nothing from him. Duch. Why, do you think 'twill hurt me? Her. It will kill you. Duch. I shall but die, and meet my dear-lov'd lord, Whom, when I have kiss'd, I'll come again and work A bracelet of my hair for you to carry him, When you are going to heaven; the poesy shall Will weep next winter, which congeal'd i' the frost, Her. She is quite lost. Duch. Pray, give me, sir, your pardon: —vol. v. pp. 341, 342. Shirley is still more successful in a kind of romantic tragi-comedy, crowded in general with incident and adventure, often wild and extravagant, but always full of life and amusement; sometimes, as in the diverting play of the Sisters,' the comic part greatly predominating; sometimes, as in the Young Admiral,' the interest being serious and tragic, but the catastrophe without bloodshed. It is not easy to give a fair notion of these pieces, by extracting single speeches or even scenes. It is the general effect of the whole drama, with all its intricacies of plot, however inconsistent, its rapid succession of perilous or diverting situations, however strangely brought about, and its varieties of character-it is the animation, the excitement of the dramatized romance-for such, as in a former article we attempted to explain, are all the plays of this school,-which constitutes their chief excellence. The Brothers' is another drama of the same class, though less raised above the level of common life. In this play, the bustle and intricacy of a Spanish plot is mingled up with scenes of a kind of quiet pathos, in which Shirley, apt to overstrain the more violent passions, is often inimitably happy. There is something exquisitely touching in the following scene. Nothing is laboured, nothing forced. The truth,-the simplicity of nature is perfectly preserved, while a hue of poetic fancy is thrown over the whole dialogue. Its very tranquillity is affecting, and a deep emotion is produced by the absence of all effort to produce emotion. Fernando, the elder son of Don Ramirez, is in love with Felisarda, the poor daughter of Theodoro, and the humble companion of Jacinta. Ramirez is supposed to have died in a fit of passion at the disobedience of Fernando, in refusing to pay his court to the rich heiress Jacinta, of whom his brother Francisco is enamoured. With his dying breath he disinherits Fernando, who is reduced to the most abject poverty. Fel. Why should I Give any entertainment to my fears? Suspicions are but like the shape of clouds, And idle forms i' the air, we make to fright us. As Fel. Shall I want fortitude to bid him welcome? [Aside. Sir, if you think there is a heart alive That can be grateful, and with humble thought Am fearful to come near, and breathe a kiss With one warm sigh, meet and dry up this sorrow. I look upon the world, and race of men, Thyself, poor Felisarda; I am mortal; But borrow'd to come to thee once again, And, ere I go, to clear how much I love thee- A tale will make thee sad, but I must tell it,― There is one dead that lov'd thee not. Fel. One dead That lov'd me not? this carries, sir, in nature No killing sound; I shall be sad to know A charity at death. Fer. Thy cruel enemy, And my best friend, hath took eternal leave, And's gone to heaven, I hope; excuse my tears, For I did love my father. Fel. Fel. Ha! your father? Fer. Yes, Felisarda, he is gone, that in Fel. Now trust me, My heart weeps for him; but I understand Fer. He did Command me, on his blessing, to forsake thee. The soul, and curse his son for honest love? Fer. But not so mortal; For his last breath was balsam pour'd upon it, And I, that groan'd beneath the weight of that Anathema, sunk almost to despair, Where night and heavy shades hung round about me, Found myself rising like the morning star To view the world. Fel. Never, I hope, to be Eclips'd again. Fer. This was a welcome blessing. Fel. Heaven had a care of both: my joys are mighty. And say I love, but rather than the peace Fer. No, live, Fer. Do not, I prithee, do not; I am lost, Alas! I am no more Fernando, there Is nothing but the empty name of him That did betray thee; place a guard about Thy heart betime, I am not worth this sweetness. Fer. Desert me, goodness, When I upbraid thy wants, "Tis I.am poor, For |