This last play of Anthony Brewer's, is one of the best irregular plays, next to those of Shakespear, which are in our language. The story, which is extremely interesting, is conducted, not so much with art, as spirit; the characters are animated, and the scene busy. Canutus King of Denmark, after having gained the city of Winchester, by the villainy of a native, orders all to be put to the sword, and at last enters the Cloister, raging with the thirst of blood, and panting for destruction; he meets Cartesmunda, whose beauty stops his ruffian violence, and melts him, as it were, into a human creature. The language of this play is as modern, and the verses as musical as those of Rowe; fire and elevation run through it, and there are many strokes of the most melting tenderness. Cartesmunda, the Fair Nun of Winchester, inspires the King with a passion for her, and after a long struggle between honour and love, she at last yields to the tyrant, and for the sake of Canutus breaks her vestal vows. Upon hearing that the enemy was about to enter the Cloister, Cartesmunda breaks out into the following beautiful exclamation: The raging foe pursues, defend us Heaven! Take virgin tears, the balm of martyr'd saints As tribute due, to thy tribunal throne; With thy right hand keep us from rage and murder; Let not our danger fright us, but our sins; Misfortunes touch our bodies, not our souls. When Canutus advances, and first sees Cartesmunda, his speech is poetical, and conceived in the true spirit of Tragedy. Ha! who holds my conquering hand? what power unknown, By magic thus transforms me to a statue, Senseless of all the faculties of life? My blood runs back, I have no power to strike; Call in our guards and bid 'em all give o'er. Sheath up your swords with me, and cease to kill: Her angel beauty cries, she must not die, Nor live but mine: O I am strangely touch'd! Methinks I lift my sword, against myself, When I oppose her--all perfection! O see! the pearled dew drops from her eyes; Arise in peace, sweet soul. In the same scene the following is extremely beautiful. I'm struck with light'ning from the torrid zone; Stand all between me, and that flaming sun! Go Erkinwald, convey her to my tent. Let her be guarded with more watchful eyes Than heaven has stars: If here she stay I shall consume to death, 'Tis time can give my passions remedy, Art thou not gone! kill him that gazeth on her; For all that see her sure must doat like me, And treason for her, will be wrought against us. Be sudden--to our tents--pray thee away, The hell on earth is love that brings delay. * * * * * THOMAS MAY,