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death of that son, soon after his return, and the decease of the Chancellor immediately succeeding, the poet was reduced from a degree of affluence to poverty; as he merely held a lucrative place under his patron, which fell with him.

The present tragedy was first acted in 1744. Garrick was the original Tancred, and Mrs. Cibber the renowned Sigismunda.--The story is taken from “ Gil Blas,” and, as the author added little more than poetry to the fable, it is devoid of all that incident by which every act should be diversified, to establish the just title of a dramatic work.

The soft flowing love of Tancred and Sigismunda may find admirers by the fire-side, on a long winter's evening, but can with difficulty obtain listeners in a brilliant theatre, where a thousand objects divert the attention which is not seized at once by some bold occurrence on the stage, and fastened to the subject of its concern by perpetual variety.

The interest which the town has taken of late in seeing a child represent a man, has recalled this tragedy from the library once more to the theatre. But this is no proof against the dulness of the production. The taste which is irregular, will combine irregularities; and why should not exquisite verses be taken for a play, whilst an exquisite little boy is received as an actor?

Mrs. H. Siddons wants nothing to make the part of Sigismunda impressive, but a Tancred of her own height.

The author of this work died in the forty-ninth year of his age, of a fever he caught by imprudently taking a boat from Hammersmith to Kew, when he was previously heated by a hasty walk from London He died at his house in Richmond, a pensioner of Frederick, Prince of Wales, the late king's father, and has a monument to his memory in Westminster Abbey.

Thomson appears, from all accounts received of him, to have been a man of mild and modest man. ners, and of depressed spirits: Dr. Johnson says he was fat, and accuses him of indolence--here is another irregularity--for Thomson was born on the other side of the Tweed.

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Miss Smith. Mrs. H. Siddons.
Mrs. Humphries. Mrs. Scott.

SCENE, -The City of Palermo, in Italy.




The Palace.


Sig. Ah, fatal day to Sicily! The King Touches his last moments!

Laura. So 'tis fear'd.
Sig. Laura,'tis said the heart is sometimes charged
With a prophetic sadness : such, methinks,
Now hangs on mine. The King's approaching death
Suggests a thousand fears. What troubles thence
May throw the state once more into confusion,
What sudden changes in my father's house
May rise and part me from my dearest Tancred,
Alarms my thoughts.

Laura. The fears of love-sick fancy !.
Perversely busy to torment itself.
But be assured your father's steady friendship,
Join'd to a certain genius, that commands,
Not kneels to fortune, will support and cherish,
Here in the public eye of Sicily,

This, I may call him, his adopted son,
The noble Tancred, formed to all his virtues.

Sig. Ah, form'd to charm his daughter!.. This fair


Has tempted far the chase. Is he not yet
Return d ?

Laura. No.-When your father to the King,
Who now expiring lies, was call'd in haste,
He sent each way his messengers to find him;
With such a look of ardour and impatience,
As if this near event was to Count Tancred
Of more importance than I comprehend.

Sig. There lies, my Laura, o'er my Tancred's birth
A cloud I cannot pierce.
In Belmont woods, my father rear'd this youth-
Ah, woods! where first my artless bosom learn'd
The sighs of love.—He gives him out the son
Of an old friend, a baron of Apulia,
Who, in the late crusado, bravely fell.
But then 'tis strange; is all his family,
As well as father, dead?
What says Rodolpho ? Does he truly credit
This story of his birth?

Laura. He has sometimes, Like you, his doubts; yet, when maturely weighed, Believes it true. As for Lord Tancred's self, He never entertained the slightest thought That verged to doubt; but oft laments his state, By cruel fortune so ill pair'd to yours.

Sig. Merit like his, the fortune of the mind, Beggars all wealth.-Then, to your brother, Laura, He talks of me?

Luura. Of nothing else. Howe'er The talk begin, it ends with Sigismunda. Their morning, noontide, and their evening walks, Are full of you, and all the woods of Belmont Enamoured with your name

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