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HAVING lately heard a young lady, who is one of your readers, say, that "she thought it very difficult to distinguish between Pride and Vanity," I have sent you this hasty sketch, rather common place perhaps, which may serve in some measure to explain the difference between these two prevailing points of character, should you think it worthy of a place in Blackwood's Magazine.

Although Pride and Vanity differ in various respects and degrees, yet certainly it often requires some experience and tact to distinguish between the one and the other. However, the general observation appears to be a good one, "that Pride is founded on an estimable action, whereas Vanity may be founded on an action, not only not estimable, but entirely useless, and even highly culpable."

be as much, if not more highly gratified than the beauty-but her feeling would be vanity

3d, A man of the world who seeks gratification (and courts applause) from drinking six bottles of claret at a sitting, or seducing his friends' wife or daughter, may be vain; he cannot be proud of such actions. But a man who subjects himself to the greatest deprivations to promote the interests of his country, or risks his life to preserve the family of his friend from disgrace and ruin, may justly be proud of his conduct.

4th, Were Mr Hogg, when in company with Mr- to be complimented as the undoubted author of the Tales of my Landlord, and were he seemingly to swallow the compliment, his acquiescence would proceed from vanity, while Mr would, with all his reserve, feel proud of the praise, especially if it came from a judicious critic. But, I am sorry to remark, that there are people whose vanity leads them a step still farther, and who unblushingly endeavour to palm upon their friends and neighbours literary productions as their own, from which they have no merit, and in which they have, indeed, had no hand, other than the employment of their right hand, in writing out a fair copy. This is vanity combined with lying and stealingbut, like murder, seldom escapes detection, and from its odious meanness and turpitude, deserves (next to boasting of favours from the fair sex) the most severe reprobation. I could be more pointed and particular, but have no doubt that the remark as it stands will find a ready application.

Another general distinction between Pride and Vanity is this, "that the proud man rests satisfied with the approbation of his own mind, whereas the vain man eagerly courts gratification from the applause of others,"-all which I shall endeavour to exemplify in a manner as practicable as possible. 1st, Should an Astronomer, after a long life spent in severe study, discover a new constellation, he might fairly be proud of his success, though his discovery should not procure him the meed of public applause. Were a votary of that exhilarating sport called coursing, to find a hare more readily than his brother sportsmen in the field, and receive their praise for his adroitness, he would probably be as much gratified by the discovery of mawkin, as the Astronomer would be by the discovery of the constellation-going truisms may possibly be of some but as there is nothing very estimable, use to shew, at least in part, wherein farther than has reference to a tureen the distinction rests, and may serve as of soup, in finding a hare, the sports- a sort of familiar illustration to my man's feeling would be vanity. fair young friend, and also to others, whose practice in such matters may prevail over their theory.

2d, Were a beautiful and accomplished woman to overhear the wellmerited praise of her own charms from the lips of an amiable and sensible man, she might, and probably would be proud of the tribute. Were an ugly, vulgar woman, to overhear her fancied perfections praised by a fool, or a puppy, she would, I imagine, VOL. IV.

There are doubtless many other shades of difference between pride and vanity, which it does not suit my present purpose to exhibit; but the fore

little pretence will not be considered It is hoped that this exposition of with an eye of scorn, because, without entering into nice distinctions, an endeavour has been made to render it as plain as


A. B. C.


No VI.

The Traitor.-SHIRLEY.*

"SHIRLEY," says Mr Lambe in his Specimens of the Early English Dramatic Poets, "claims a place among the worthies of this period, not so much for any transcendent genius in himself, as that he was the last of a great race; all of whom spoke nearly the same language, and had a set of moral feelings and notions in common. A new language, and quite a new turn of tragic and comic interest came in with the restoration." It is true, that Shirley is excelled by several of his contemporaries in depth of passion, which is the soul of tragedy; but we cannot grant that he is not entitled, on his own peculiar merits, to take his seat among those immortals. We shall have an opportunity to speak at length of his genius, when Mr Gifford's edition of his plays appears; when the world, now little acquainted with their multifarious beauties, will

*We are not acquainted with any particulars of Shirley's life that are not mentioned in the following passage from "Ellis's Specimens," &c. If any thing farther can be brought to light, it will not escape the research of Mr Gifford.

"James Shirley was born in London about 1594, educated at Merchant Taylor's Schools, entered at St John's College, Oxford, and afterwards, having taken no degree, removed to Catharine Hall, Cam. bridge, (Vid. Bancroft's Epigrams, 4to, 1639, B. I. Ep. 13.) He successively became an English divine, a Popish schoolmaster, and a deservedly celebrated writer of plays, (of which he published 39), from 1629 to 1660. He was patronised by William Duke of Newcastle, (whom he assisted, according to Wood, in the composition of his plays, as well as Ogilby, by notes for his translation), and followed this his patron's fortunes in the wars, till the decline of the royal cause, when he retired obscurely to London. Here he was countenanced by his learned friend T. Stanley, Esq., and during the suppression of the theatres, followed his old trade of school teaching, in which he educated many eminent men. He died in 1660, immediately after the great fire of London, and was interred in the same grave with his second wife, who died the same day, and was supposed, as well as Shirley, to have owed her death to the fright occasioned by that calamity. Besides his plays, he published a volume of poems, 1646, 12mo."

at once acknowledge that the revival of this great worthy was a work fitting the most acute, accurate, judicious, and learned of the critics and commentators on our dramatic literature. That our readers may be enabled to judge of the value of those treasures which Mr Gifford is about to restore from oblivion, we shall give them an analysis of the tragedy of " The Traitor," and some of its finest passages. It is for this purpose that we deviate from that chronological order which we have hitherto followed; and perhaps our readers will, independently of this, be pleased to meet with specimens of a tragedy more regular in its design, and more uniformly elegant in the execution, than the original but imperfect dramas of Marlow and Webster. We understand too, that this tragedy is soon to be brought out, with alterations, on the stage of Covent Garden; and from the wellknown taste, judgment and genius of the gentleman (Mr Shiel), to whom these alterations are, we hear, intrusted, there can be no doubt that it will be successful.

It is called "The Traitor," because Lorenzo, the ruling character, kinsman and favourite of Alexander Duke of Florence, plots the overthrow of his Prince and benefactor. In the second scene, which is written with great eloquence and animation, and moreover, truly dramatic, the Duke, who has received letters unveiling the treachery of Lorenzo, taxes him with his guilt. That arch-traitor repels the charge with crafty indignation, and convinces his credulous kinsman of his innocence. The following lines will serve to show the character of the dialogue:

Lor. This, o' the sudden, Sir; I must owe the title of a Traitor To your high favours; envy first conspir'd, And malice now accuses: but what story Mention'd his name, that had his prince's bosom,

Without the people's hate? 'tis sin enough, In some men, to be great; the throng of

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Escaped from this peril, Lorenzo undertakes to forward the designs of the Duke on Amidea, that her brother Sciarrha, a man fierce and jealous of his family's honour, may be thus instigated to murder the seducer.

The second act, accordingly, opens with a conversation between Lorenzo and Sciarrha, in which the latter, when informed of the dishonour me ditated against his sister, is worked up by the artifices of the "Traitor" into furious passion.

Sci. My sister! Though he be the duke,
he dares not.

Patience, patience! if there be such a virtue,
I want it, Heaven; yet keep it a little longer,
It were a sin to have it; such an injury
Deserves a wrath next to your own.


It has thrown wild-fire in my brain, Lorenzo,
A thousand Furies revel in my skull.
Has he not sins enough in's court to damn

But my roof must be guilty of new lusts,
And none but Amidea? these the honours
His presence brings our house!

Lor. Temper your rage.

Sci. Are all the brothels rifled? no quaint piece

Left him in Florence, that will meet his hot And valiant luxury, that we are came to Supply his blood out of our families? Diseases gnaw his title off!

Lor. My lord

Sci. He is no prince of mine; he forfeited His greatness that black minute he first gave Consent to my dishonour.

Lor. Then I'm sorry

Sci. Why should you be sorry, sir?
You say it is my sister he would strumpet,
Mine! Amidea! 'tis a wound you feel not;
But it strikes through and through the poor

I do not think but all the ashes of
My ancestors do swell in their dark urns,
At this report of Amidea's shame :

It is their cause, as well as mine; and should Heaven suffer the duke's sin to pass unpunish'd,

Their dust must of necessity conspire
To make an earthquake in the temple.

Lorenzo finding Sciarrha in this key, admits him to his confidence-informs him of his design to destroy Alexander-and before they part, Sciarrha vows to put that prince to death, in revenge for his insult to Amidea.

Lor. From horrid rape-'las, Amidea! Sci. I am resolv'd; by all that's blest, he dies.

Return my willingness to be his pander, My sister's readiness to meet his dalliance; His promises have bought our shame :-he

dies; The roof he would dishonour with his lust" Shall be his tomb ;-bid him be confident;

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'Tis truth, the duke does love thee, viciously, Let him, let him! he comes to be our guest; This night he means to revel at our house,The Tarquin shall be entertain'd; he shall.

We cannot forbear quoting part of this fine scene. As Amidea approaches, Sciarrha says to her brother Florio, Is she not fair,

Exceeding beautiful, and tempting, Florio ? Look on her well, methinks I could turn poet,

And make her a more excellent piece than heaven.

Let not fond men hereafter commend what
They most admire, by fetching from the stars,
Or flowers, their glory of similitude,
But from thyself the rule to know all beauty;
And he that shall arrive at so much baldness,
To say his mistress' eyes, or voice, or breath,
Are half so bright, so clear, so sweet as thine,
Hath told the world enough of miracle..
These are the duke's own raptures, Amidea;
His own poetic flames; an argument
He loves my sister.

He then begins his temptation in a strain of warmth and vigour, characteristic of the safe fearlessness of the

energetic minds of old.

Sci. What do great ladies do at court, I pray?

Enjoy the pleasures of the world, dance, kiss The amorous lords, and change court breath; sing; lose

Belief of other heaven; tell wanton dreams, Rehearse their sprightly bed-scenes, and boast, which

Hath most idolaters; accuse all faces
That trust to the simplicity of nature,
Talk witty blasphemy,

Discourse their gaudy wardrobes, plot new pride,

Jest upon courtiers' legs, laugh at the wagging

Of their own feathers, and a thousand more Delights, which private ladies never think of. But above all, and wherein thou shalt make All other beauties envy thee, the duke,

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Made part of his, at the same instant he
Conveying a new soul into thy breast
With a creating kiss.

Amidea's first answer to "what is your resolve?" is simply beautiful. Ami. To have my name Stand in the ivory register of virgins When I am dead. Before one factious thought

Should lurk within me to betray my fame To such a blot, my hands shall mutiny, And boldly with a poinard teach my heart To weep out a repentance.

In the meanwhile, it appears that Amidea had been tenderly beloved by Pisano, who had transferred his affections to Oriana. His friend Cosmo loves Oriana, but shews the depth and sincerity of his friendship, by giving up all claim on her to his rival. We discover, from the first scene of the play, that the Traitor Lorenzo, afraid lest Cosmo might become dangerous in the state, if possessed of Oriana's wealth, had worked upon Pisano to forget his first love, and lay siege to the mistress of his friend. He also hopes that tragical effects to both parties may result from this inconstancy. Both ladies therefore, Amidea and Oriana, are deserted by those they love. This, we think, is rather a clumsy, and not very probable, contrivance, but without doubt, it produces, throughout the play, several interesting situations, and much pathos. Amidea's behaviour, when informed by Pisano that she no longer possesses his affections, is touching and dignified; and there is still greater beauty in the scene between Cosmo and Oriana, when he intreats her, with indifference ill assumed and not long preserved, to transfer her love to Pisano. This scene would act well, being full of affection and earnestness, and the language being singularly musical and beautiful. Oriana submits to her fate. "I've heard too much; do with me what you please,

I am all passive-nothing of myself,
But an obedience to unhappiness."

In the third act, preparations for a masque are made in Sciarrha's house,

and there assemble the Duke, Amidea, Lorenzo, Sciarrha, Florio, &c.

Duke. Sciarrha, you exceed in entertainment;

Banquet our eyes too?

Lor. He will feast all senses.

Sci. Only a toy, my lord; I cannot call't A masque, not worthy of this presence, yet It speaks the freedom of my heart, and gratitude

For this great honour.
Duke. Amidea must
Sit near us.

Sci. Lords, your places; 'twill not be Worth half this ceremony.-Let them begin.

Sciarrha is right in saying that the entertainment which follows can scarcely be called a masque, for it is rather an imitation of the old moralities. The characters are Lust, Youth, Pleasure, Death, and Furies. The whole representation is intended to shadow forth the wickedness of the Duke, and the fate that awaits him. Sciarrha sits by him, explains the spectacle, and watches his unsuspecting victim. After the song of Lust, which contains some strong lines, the Duke asks,

Duke. What's he?

Sci. A wild young man that follows Lust; He has too much blood, it seems.

Duke. Why looks he back?

Sci. There is a thing call'd Death, that follows him;

With a large train of Furies; but the Syrens Of Lust make him secure, and now the hag Embraces him, and circles him with plea


The harpies mean to dance too.

If this scene is to be retained in the

representation, and we presume it will, fine music may render it very impressive. The character of the Duke, and the situation of peril in which his own wickedness has placed him, make the mind willing to receive wild impressions, and to gaze on wild emblems of retribution. We are not well acquainted with the liberties allowed in fitting old plays for the stage, but assuredly a man of genius may render this scene a very striking-even terrible one.

At the close of the masque, Sciarrha brings the Duke to Amidea. This lofty-minded pure-souled lady has resolved to save the Duke's life, by converting him from his wicked purpose against her virtue. Sciarrha and Florio remain concealed to watch the issue of her conversation with the amorous Duke. The whole scene is excellent. The Duke exclaims to Amidea

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To wish their bodies on. Thou dost with ease

Captivate kings with every beam, and mayst Lead them like prisoners round about the world,

Proud of such golden chains; this were enough,

Had not my fate provided more, to make me
Believe myself immortal in thy touches.
Come to thy bed, transform me there to hap-

I'll laugh at all the fables of the gods,
And teach our poets, after I know thee,
To write the true Elysium.

Amidea, shortly after this, says to a question of the Duke,

Ami. To tell you that you are not virtuous.
Duke. I'm of your mind.

Ami. But I am not so wicked

To be of yours: oh, think but who you are, Your title speaks you nearest heaven, and points

You out a glorious reign among the angels;
Do not depose yourself of one, and be
Of the other disinherited.

Finding that Amidea, who has already wounded herself in the arm, is resolved to stab herself to the heart with a poinard, rather than surrender her honour, the Duke relents and desists from his iniquity.

Duke. Contain; I am sorry, sorry from
my soul,

Trust me, I do bleed inward, Amidea,
Can answer all thy drops: oh, pardon me,
Thou faint'st already, dost not? I am fearful.
The phoenix, with her wings, when she is

Can fan her ashes into another life;

But when thy breath, more sweet than all the spice

That helps the other's funeral, returns
To heaven, the world must be eternal loser.
Look to thy wound.

Sciarrha comes from his concealment, and, struck with the remorse and penitence of the Duke, confesses to him the plan of murder concerted between himself and Lorenzo. The Duke being still incredulous of his favourite's guilt, Sciarrha says,

Sci. We will not shift the scene till you believe it.

Florio, entreat my lord Lorenzo hither.

[Exit Florio.

Step but behind the arras, and your ear Shall tell you who's the greatest traitor living. Observe but when I tell him you are slain, How he'll rejoice, and call me Florence' great Preserver, bless my arm, that in your blood Hath given our groaning state a liberty; Then trust Sciarrha.

Lorenzo is accordingly called in, but having overheard the last words of Sciarrha, his wary nature is on its guard, and, instead of rejoicing with Sciarrha over the Duke's death, and acknowledging himself an accessory to the murder, he assumes the looks and words of the deepest horror and reprobation. Sciarrha, incensed with his hypocrisy, draws upon him, but the Duke interferes.

Duke. Put up, I say.

Sci. My lord, we are both cozened:
That very smile's a traitor.

Duke. Come, be calm:
You are too passionate Sciarrha, and
Mistook Lorenzo.

Lor. But I hold him noble ;
I see he made this trial of my faith,
And I forgive him.

The scene closes tumultuously-the city having been agitated with the report of the Duke's death, and the different factions ripe for action. The fourth act opens with a soliloquy of Lorenzo, who finds himself baffled in all his ambitious schemes.

Lor. My plots thrive not; my engines

all deceive me,

And in the very point of their discharge
Recoil with danger to myself: are there
No faithful villains left in nature? all
Turn'd honest? man nor spirit aid Lorenzo,
Who hath not patience to expect his fate,
But must compel it. How Sciarrha play'd
The dog-bolt with me! and had not I pro-

In wisdom for him, that distress had ruin'd me.
His frozen sister, Amidea, too,

Hath half converted him; but I must set New wheels in motion, to make him yet More hateful, and then cut him from his stalk, Ripe for my vengeance. I'll not trust the rabble;

Confusion on ['em !]-the giddy multitude, That, but two minutes ere the Duke came at them,

Bellow'd out Liberty, shook the city with Their throats, no sooner saw him, but they


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