THE ORPHAN.

THIS play stands forth to prove the predominating powers of the true poet, who from a fable improbable and badly constructed, and a set of incidents which come home to the feelings of no one, can nevertheless erect a tragic structure which will please to the end of time.

OTWAY seems to have abandoned his productions to chance, as to any good they were likely to produce from the reflected influence of character and sentiment-Every thing about him has a tinge of licentiousness-The compact enter'd into by his Twin Brothers surely never in a civilized country could occur; and, if it could, they both richly deserved to suffer from the hand of the executioner.

The conduct of this play is all in the dark-there is no light but that of the poet. The parties might say of their calamities, that they could not have happened.

"If a rush candle e'en had deign'd to visit them.”

The excellence of OTWAY's sentiment and diction bears down every thing-He polishes exquisitely, but his materials are coarse and impure.

PROLOGUE.

To you, great judges in this writing age,
The sons of wit, and patrons of the stage,
With all those humble thoughts, which still have sway'd
His pride much doubting, trembling and afraid
Of what is to his want of merit due,

And aw'd by ev'ry excellence in you,

The author sends to beg you will be kind,
And spare those many faults you needs must find.
You, to whom wit a common foe is grown,
The thing ye scorn and publicly disown.
Though now, perhaps, ye're here for other ends,
He swears to me ye ought to be his friends:
For he ne'er call'd ye yet insipid tools;
Nor wrote one line to tell ye you were fools:
But says of wit ye have so large a store,

So

very much you never will have more.
He ne'er with libel treated yet the Town,
The names of honest men bedaub'd and shewn.
Nay, never once lampoon'd the harmless life,
Of suburb virgin, or of city wife.
Satire's th' effect of poetry's disease,

Which, sick of a lewd age, she vents for ease,
But now her only strife should be to please;
Since of ill fate the baneful cloud's withdrawn,
And happiness again begins to dawn;

Since back with joy, and triumph he is come,

That always drew fears hence, ne'er brought 'em home.
Oft has he plough'd the boist'rous ocean o'er,
Yet ne'er more welcome to the longing shore,
Not when he brought home victories before.
For then fresh laurels flourish'd on his brow;
And he comes crown'd with olive-branches now:
Receive him-Oh, receive him as his friends;
Embrace the blessing which he recommends :
Such quiet as your foes shall ne'er destroy;
Then shake off fears, and clap your hands for joy.

B

. Miss Stuart.