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His sword, and-oh! I cannot tell the rest!
He stabb'd himself and died by Juliet's side.
Then she awoke from out her charmed trance,
And, oh! alas! 'tis a sad story, love;

I can't help weeping;-both the lovers died.


And did you weep when Gowrie told the tale?


Oh! sweetly; for, dear friend, the tears we shed
O'er the sad fate of trusting lovers, when
We know that their deep sorrows are all hush'd
Within the grave, are not such bitter tears
As present sorrow summons to the eyes.
And then the telling was so beautiful!
Oh! it was worth all tears that I could shed,
To hear that voice, and linkèd sweet discourse
That bore the tale upon its trembling words,
Like a rich boat, filled with sad melodies,
Upon the silver current of a river!


Sweet Kate! I love you like a sister.'

Our next extract is in a different strain; and will exhibit in a favourable light the variety of Mr White's powers, and the vigorous dramatic diction which he can employ. James, in search of the hoped for treasure, ventured into Gowrie's house. He has seated himself on a bench in the hall, and is already in imagination gloating over the promised gold.

"(The great door of the hall is opened; armed men enter and arrange themselves on each side.)


JAMES (alarmed and trying to conceal his fear.)

Cousin, we are your loving guest to-day,

And give you here our royal hand to kiss.

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Once more, and all these fleshless arms shall rise

To hold the dagger to your heart. Sir! know you Who stands before you? Name that name no more. It once was mine, e'er sorrow and deep wrong Unwoman'd me, and made me what I am.


Fair cousin, pray you harbour not such thoughts. I'm your true loving kinsman; your kind king.

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It was the law, fair cousin; 'twas the law;

I could not help it.-Zooks! I could not help it.
I wish he were alive-I do indeed-

He would not look so: he would talk more kindly,-
Indeed he would.-


Ruthven take bodily shape

Be palpable to other view than mine,
And look upon this man with the sad eyes
That night and day are fix'd upon my face.
Come forward from the shadowy abyss

Wherein you shroud


bloodless lineaments,

And ope your lips, damp from your crimson grave, And give him fitter welcome to your hall

Than my poor voice can utter !


Pray you, madam,

Look not so wildly; there is nothing there;
Think of me not so harshly. Let me go;
I'm rested now. I pray you let me go.

COUNTESS. (To the Guard.)
Keep double watch upon the door. Your lives
Shall answer for his going! Oh! not yet;
Not yet we part after such years of absence.
I have not thank'd you for the sweet reply
You gave to my entreaties for my child!
It was a spurn, I think, from the arm'd heel
Of him you follow'd then, the upstart Arran.
What can you look upon this heaving breast,

Nor feel a blush upon your craven cheek? 'Twas here his heel was planted.


That such a deed was mine!

Heaven forfend
Arran is dead,

Or I would hang him high as Haman's gallows.
I always liked you, cousin, and your sons,

Both buirdly gallants. John's a famous scholar;
I like him. He's an excellent Latinist.

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Your mother, sir,

Found careful nurse in stout old Margaret Douglas,
In Leven. I am warm'd with Douglas' blood,
And will be 'tendant on your majesty.


I thought not this. I came but as a friend


It was not you that came, 'twas Heaven that sent you,— 'Twas Scotland's guardian angel moved you here;

For from these rugged walls-or ruggeder

You budge not;-Oh! your time were wondrous short In prison bonds, if I had power as will!


For heaven's sake! madam. Oh! for mercy's sake,
Let me not think you serious in your talk-

It was a jest-Oh! tell me 'twas a jest!

You mean not to detain me.


I have told you,

If I might shape my actions to my wish,
You should be free as air, ere sets the sun,


And wherefore not? Good cousin, tender cousin, Take pity on a kinsman; set me free.


The freedom I would give you, is such freedom
As was your mother's gift from Shrewsbury,
When Death stood sponsor to the christening
Of the sharp axe. Man! look into your heart;
Can I forgive you? Is my blood all milk?
You slew my husband, basely, meanly slew him.
Can I, his wife-his widow, look on you
With other eyes than these? You leave me not
Till one of us is dead. You hear me, Ruthven.
I think a smile is sitting on your lips,

A stern hard smile, as is the vulture's glance,
When its uplifted nostril snuffs from far
The carrion-


Heaven have mercy on my soul!
The woman's mad. Oh! if you e'er knew pity,
I pray you, cousin, pity me. God knows,
I would give all I have to please you. What
Do you require of me? As I am a king,
A man, a gentleman, I'll not deceive you.
Say what you'd have me do,—I'll do it straight.
I'll take no council, save from you and John
I'll give him what high office he desires,
Chancellor-treasurer-whate'er he likes
But let me go. I pray you tell your men
To let me go.


Utter no promise here,

Or Perjury will shake the solid ground,

And gulf us in some horrible abyss.

Bethink you of the promises you swore

To Ruthven-how you broke them—how he died.

No-they shall never let you go.

Your throne

Is empty, and your kingly title done

Save as a vantage word for better men

To work with. Heaven and earth are tired and worn

With all your baseness.


But, my life is safe;

Cousin, sweet cotisín, you'll not take my life?



We take your honour-take your kingly name,
Your power, your
station-and you ask your
Take it-we would not touch so mean a thing
As asking makes it. Live dishonour'd years,
While men sit basking in this realm, released
From the thick cloud that darken'd it so long.
(To the guards.)
Let no one enter. Guard the outer gates,
And keep this man a prisoner, on your lives.


On the second of these plays, we shall not enter into any detailed criticisms. We shall merely say, that though ingeniously constructed for the purpose of displaying the talent of an accomplished actor, and effective as we have no doubt it was in the hands of the present chief boast of our Stage-it does not appear to us equal to its predecessor; and, in particular, we would advise Mr White in his next performance to bridle in his comic muse; for, as regards the facetious portions of The King of the Commons, it has seldom fallen to our lot to peruse more tragical mirth.

ART. X-Sophismes Economiques. Par M. FREDERIC BASTIAT. 12mo. Paris: 1846.

M. BASTIAT has, in this well-written volume, collected and exposed the most popular Protectionist fallacies ;-those sophistical arguments which are most frequently employed in defence of protective duties on Imports, and against the freedom of trade. The publication of such a book is of itself a proof that the doctrines of Free-Trade are beginning to make some progress in France; and that the countrymen of Turgot are not all deluded by that spurious patriotism which identifies the exclusion of foreign goods with the promotion of national interests. The simplicity and directness of the argument in favour of Free-Trade, ought, indeed, to secure it a ready acceptance in all countries where reason can make itself heard, and where sectional interests have not a complete ascendancy. But the present state of France is similar to that of England at the time when Adam Smith wrote his Wealth of Nations. The manufacturers and merchants were at that time the principal champions of the restrictive system in England; the agriculturists as he observes-were not infected with the same selfish and narrow-minded spirit as

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