TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS.

By ALFRED HENRY BROMILOW.

No. I.

THE GRECIAN DAUGHTER.

THE author of the tragedy bearing this title was Arthur Murphy, a celebrated Irish dramatist. The play was first produced at Drury Lane Theatre in 1772, and proved a success. Murphy, born 1727, was a prolific writer, and led a life of adventure. He was, at different times, a merchant's clerk, an author, an actor, a barrister, and a politician. Jesse Foote wrote his biography, a pondrous volume; the dramatist died on the 18th of June, 1805, and was interred at Hammersmith church.

NOT far from Syracuse, amid the rugged rocks that line the Sicilian shore, was a deep, and damp cave. This dungeon was on the summit of a pointed rock, and the only sound that reached its dreaded precincts was the sullen roar of the moaning sea.

It was night: a wild, tempestuous night, and the soldiers, Melancthon and Philotas, who guarded the entrance to the obscure abode, found consolation in speaking of the unhappy state of their country, under the tyrant Dionysius, and the misery the royal captive, Evander, must have suffered. It was the cruel tyrant's wish that the dethroned king should die the most horrible of all deaths-that of starvation-and already for three days had the prisoner languished within his cold cell, unfed and alone. Nor would Evander be the first whom the tyrant had so murdered; full many a victim to his bloodthirst had perished in the selfsame cave, unknown to their friends, unpitied, and in anguish.

As the soldiers talked, their conversation was stopped by the appearance of Euphrasia, Evander's unhappy daughter, whose melancholy, yet handsome face, was stamped with affection, devotion, and heroism. No sooner had she arrived than a vast tumult arose; the clang of arms and the shouts of soldiers reached the spot. It was the clatter of heroes, fighting Evander's cause; and, upon hearing the clash of swords, Euphrasia burst into an impassioned strain, bidding the soldiers to war on, until her father once more ascended the Sicilian throne-she called upon Timoleon, the leader of the Grecian arms, to fight bravely, and upset the throne of the usurper.

Then turning to the guards, she asked about her father, where, and how he was. They, fearing to tell the dreadful story, asked her why she had not followed Phocion, her husband, to the wars. She answered that her hero would not permit her; and loud as she wailed at being torn from him and her child, the warrior commanded her to stay behind, that she might tend to her poor father, soothe his pillow of death, close his eyes, and catch his last breath.

Pushing her former question, Euphrasia asked about her father; but the sentinels had not time to answer her before Dionysius, amid a flourish of trumpets, broke upon the scene. After hurling a thousand execrations on the head of Timoleon, Dionysius listened for a moment to the supplications of Euphrasia, and replied by ordering her to her couch. Then, renewing his oaths of vengeance, he sought the scene of action, leaving the guards and Euphrasia alone.

The daughter again entreated her hearers to give her news of her parent. Melancthon at last complied; and upon hearing the fearful story, the hunger of a tiger rushed through Euphrasia's form, and vowing to sheath her dagger in the heart of her oppressor, she rushed to the fight.

The rocks, that the night before stood so sullen and dark against the sky, were now tinged with the silver of the moon, and the bay that laved their feet was placid as a mirror. Arcas patrolled before the dismal cave; but soon, being relieved by Philotas, he went to sleep within .the recess.

As Philotas mused upon the events that were pending, he was startled by a wild cry from behind; he drew his sword, and rushed to seize hold of the intruder.

Lo to his horror, it was Euphrasia, her hair dishevelled, and the fiery glare of madness starting from her eyes; she again pleaded for an interview with her lone father, an interview however short; but Philotas

refused to grant it. At length, overcome with the pathos of her eloquence, he gave the requisite permission.

On entering the cell, she met Arcas, and begged of him to allow her to take some little nourishment to her sire; he feared to hear her prayer, but led Evander forth. He was weak, delirious, and forsome time knew not his daughter's loving touch; but oh the thrill that coursed throughout his frame when once he recognised her!

amazement.

The dawn of day was breaking over the world as Euphrasia conducted her father back to his dungeon. Their cries were so loud, that Philotas sought the cave to tell the sorrowing ones to be more calm. He, however, soon returned to his post, overwhelmed with terror and For oh! great God, on peering into the dark chamber, he had seen Euphrasia suckling her aged father; the milk designed for her own offspring, allayed the parching fever of her parent's lips Never, in the history of humanity, did love so triumph over the cruel decrees of tyrants! So refreshed was Evander, and so overcome with sorrow and admiration were the guards, that, allowing their hearts to rule them, they pointed out to father and daughter a path to a place of safety.

Timoleon bravely led his ships to action; and beneath the fierce blows of the swords of his heroes, combined with the valour of uncounted and undaunted warriors, the forts that protected Syracuse were well nigh battered down, and their defenders taken prisoners. But, after many a deed of courage, the Greeks were compelled to retire, leaving

many men in the hands of Dionysius. Though for the moment successful, the tyrant perceived that the day of his power was nearly over; and thinking that the gods must be against him, he ordered sacrifices to be made, incense to be burned in their honour, and the train of virgins to go through the sacred rites.

These orders being given, he commanded the prisoners to be brought before him. Melancthon obeyed the edict; and, loading the unfortunate men with abuse, to which they made such bold answers as to incur the wrath of Dionysuis, he directed the whole of them to be impaled on the rocks, within sight of their compatriots. By this means he hoped to terrify the besiegers.

As the soldiers were about to meet their doom, Dionysius hastened to the temple; when Melancthon, who felt sorry for the captives, caught the sound of a familiar voice, no other that of Phocion-Euphrasia's husband-who, under the garb of a prisoner, had found his way into the interior of Syracuse, in hopes of seeing his wife and Evander. Melancthon, fearful lest Phocion should be detected, hastily told him that Evander lived, and that Euphrasia was with him; with the same breath he informed the warrior of the entrance to a subterranean passage, by which the Greeks could enter Syracuse. He desired Phocion to return to Timoleon, to tell him of the secret, and to surprise and capture the tyrant in the heart of his own city.

A mist of blue incense filled the gorgeous temple; the train of virgins were holding service to the gods. To the left there stood a tomb, and in the centre of the edifice a monument. With eyes red with weeping, Euphrasia knelt before the tomb-it was her mother's last resting-place. Upon it she burned some viands and sprinkled it with wine, as a tribute to the memory of her lost parent.

At length the virgins all retired, leaving Euphrasia alone amid the brazen statues of the gods. With hasty steps she walked up to the monument, and from it, her old and infirm father, Evander, the dethroned king of Sicily, came forth. But their meeting and sacred converse soon was interrupted; a step was heard, and Philotas appeared. His head was bowed down with reverence on beholding the old monarch, and he asked forgiveness from him, for acting in consort with the troops of Dionysius-a part he was compelled to perform. He expressed such bright hopes of the future, that Evander wished to show himself to his people, and trust for support to their gratitude; believing that he should thuswise rally his followers, secure his crown, and prevent the bloodshed that would inevitably ensue, if he could only gather his honours by battling with Dionysius.

But the old king, persuaded by his daughter, resolved not to hazard so great a chance; and, as they could hear a messenger approaching, he reposed his confidence in the breasts of his friends, and re-entered the

monument.

The new-comer was Calippus, who commanded Euphrasia to seek the presence of Dionysius; and she, with many misgivings as to the tyrant's purpose, bowed to the imperial mandate.

Dionysius, surrounded by his warriors, stood upon the citadel. usurper, on being told that a lieutenant from Timoleon waited without, desired the presence of the visitor, who, upon being introduced to his majesty, informed him that his master requested an armistice of one day's duration, so as to enable both armies to give the killed an honourable buria!:

After some hesitation Dionysius granted the request, and summoned Euphrasia. She stood before him with downcast eyes, and the monarch, dissembling, desired to know if she would like to see her father, who he said, since his imprisonment had had every attention paid to his person. The brave daughter, knowing that if the guards went to look for Evander in the cave, they would find him not, and remembering that if such an event happened, her plans would be frustrated, made a prolix reply; in which she said, that dutiful as she was, loving as she was, she could not torture her bosom with the sight of her fallen parent, but reserved her caresses, until she could bestow them on Evander with the crown of Sicily on his brow. This answer stung Dionysius to the heart; he told her to keep for other ears her insolence, and to note that if she wished the crown of Sicily to pass to her boy, as he had no heirs, her only plan of success would be to ask her husband, Phocion, to advise Timoleon to unmoor his ships and return to Greece. To do this she refused; the throne of the isle, after her father's death, would, by right, belong to her son; and on no account should he accept of it from a robber. Her husband, Timoleon, like a true hero, fought in an honourable cause, and until the Greeks either conquered or were vanquished, she would claim and maintain her just and equitable rights.

"If that be so, cried Dionysius, your father this night, and before your eyes, shall meet his end," and saying this he left her.

"This night," she said inly, "this night, usurper and tyrant, shall witness thy downfall and death."

met.

A thick gloom hung within the temple as Phocion and Melancthon In pursuance to the advice of Melancthon, Phocion entered the monument, hoping to converse not only with Evander, but also with Euphrasia, his wife. A little while after Euphrasia entered upon the aisles, and she, too, drew near to the monument, out of which came Phocion, though in the darkness it was some time before the couple recognised each other. When they did so, Euphrasia's first question was about the boy; he, thank the gods, was safe. Evander, led by Melancthon, now stole upon their presence; he had been to prostrate himself at the foot of the altar. Great was the joy of this meeting; but there was no time for long embraces or kisses; the sounds of war were audible, and Phocion hurried back to Timoleon, whose troops, it appeared, while engaged in the burial of the dead, had been attacked by those of Dionysius, and the act thus made patent the usurper's intention in granting the armistice.

In the middle of the night Dionysius called Euphrasia. He told her to prepare for death, and summoning Philotas commanded him to execute Evander but, to the murderer's surprise, the victim was already

dead; the emperor asked for the king's head; Philotas, had, unwittingly, thrown the whole body into the sea. Revenge fell upon the old man's child; Philotos was told his duty, and Dionysius left them. Instead of performing the orders he had received, Philotas, who had ever hated the spoiler, told Euphrasia the true story; she would find her parent in the monument; thither she must repair and await the completion of their schemes.

That very night, upon the battlements, Dionysius delivered a harangue to his followers; he conjured them to strike for the liberty of their land, the honour of their wives, and the safety of their children-all was fair in war; and now, whilst the veil of sleep overshadowed the eyes of the Greeks, let them go; a glorious victory would be their reward, the valour of their forefathers would be sustained, and the narrative of their bravery gildthe pages of history.

Whilst he was delivering this oration, an officer, wildly excited, rushed before him, and declared that already the Greeks wrought havoc in the city, they having entered it by a subterranean passage.

The roar of the tumult swelled louder, the fury of the combatants vented itself in horror and blood and Dionysius, beaten back, sought refuge in the temple.

There he beheld Euphrasia, and raised a dagger to stab her, but was prevented from so doing by a slave. Not satisfied with this base attempt, he, in the midst of the wild din and clatter, fell upon Evander, and already was the old man about to fall beneath the glittering weapon, when Euphrasia, uttering a loud cry, rushed between them, and plunged, up to the very hilt, her dagger into Dionysius's breast.

A stream of crimson blood gushed over the white hand; Phocion embraced his wife and child. Peace was proclaimed through Sicily; and the love of Euphrasia, along with the singular act by which she saved her father from starvation, have been handed down for the admiration of posterity; so that we may hear of her unexampled virtue, and learn to emulate the Grecian daughter.