E. My father's murderers.
O. Ill-fated lady! how I pity thee!
E. Thou art the only man that pities me.
O. For I alone feel a true sympathy
In thy misfortunes.
E. Art thou of my kindred?
O. (Pointing to the Chorus.) If these were friendly, I should tell thee all.
E. Fear not them, for they are ever faithful.
O. Lay down the casket. Thou shall hear the truth.
E. Stranger, ask not that, I supplicate thee,
By all thy hopes, oh! rob me not of that.
O. Restore the casket!
E. Brother of my soul!
How miserable were I, if bereft
Of this possession!
O. Lady, cease to mourn.
E. Shall I not mourn a brother's death?
O. Mourn not.
E. What! am I thus dishonoured of the dead?
O. Thou art of none dishonoured.
E. Are not these
My brother's ashes? And shall I not mourn?
O. They are not.
E. Where are they then? Oh! give me them!
O. The living need no tomb.
E. What meanest thou
O. I only speak the truth.
E. Oh! lives Orestes?
O. Lady, he lives indeed, if I do live.
E. Art thou Orestes?
O. Take that ring: observe it.
E. Oh! happy hour!
O. Yes, happy hour indeed!
E. Light of my life! and art thou come at last?
O. Expect no other brother.
E. Do I clasp
My brother to that heart which has not felt,
For many a lonely year, the pulse of joy?
O. Thus ever be thy joys."
From these gentle feelings, Electra rises to the true sublimity of her character, and, like a demon, instigates her brother to the murder of their mother. When their plans are fully arranged, Orestes enters the palace, and, from behind the scenes, Clytemnestra is heard crying in a loud voice.
"Cly. The royal halls are full of murderers!
Where are my friends?
E. (To the Chorus.) Hush! hear ye not a voice?
Cho. Yes, sounds of woe, that shake my soul with horror.
Cly. I am murdered! Oh! where art thou, Ægysthus?
E. Hush! again she shrieks.
Cly. My son! my son!
Have mercy on thy mother!
E. Thou hadst no mercy
On him, and on my father thy own husband.
Cly. I am murdered!
E. Again! Repeat the blow,
And strike with the unerring force of vengeance.
Cly. Murder! I die!
E. Oh! had Ægysthus fallen
By the same stroke!"
SHAKESPEARE CLUB OF ALLOA.
MR EDITOR,
Your readers must have remarked in the newspapers, for some years bygone, accounts of an yearly festival in memory of Shakespeare, held at a place called Alloa, situated, I believe, somewhere on the banks of the Forth; a town which I think I have once or twice heard mentioned, though on what account I do not at present recollect, if it was not in consequence of this very club, or a famous steam boat, on a new plan, that was there constructed.
Curious to learn how the anniversary of Shakespeare first came to be celebrated in such a remote corner of our country, I have made every inquiry I could anent it, in order to lay the account before your readers; but to very little purpose. I have been told that this poetic union had its origin about sixteen years ago, and was first set on foot in opposition to a Musical Club—(it must be an extraordinary place this Alloa)—which was established there at the same time. The latter, however, like its own enchanting strains, died away, and has left no trace behind; but the poetical brotherhood continued stedfast, flourished, gained ground, and promises to be permanent. The members have a hall, a library, and a store of wines, spirits, &c. To this store or cellar every one of them has a key, and is at liberty to treat his friends from it to any extent he pleases without check or control. There is something extremely liberal and unreserved in this, and were we members of this club, we would certainly prefer this privilege to any literary one that can possibly be attached to it.
The festival this year, I am told, lasted eight days complete; and my informer assures me, that (saving on the 23d, the anniversary of their patron's birth) during all that time every man of them went sober to his bed. I believe the gentlemen thought so, which was much the same as if it had really been the case. Their principal a-
