of the reign of William III. and his successors, will shew that ladies frequenting the theatres had still occasion to wear masks, which Colley Cibber says they usually did on the production of a new play.

THOMAS SOUTHERNE.

He

THOMAS SOUTHERNE (1659-1746) may be classed either with the last or the present period. His life was long, extended, and prosperous. was a native of Dublin, but came to England, and enrolled himself in the Middle Temple as a student of law. He afterwards entered the army, and held the rank of captain under the Duke of York, at the time of Monmouth's insurrection. His latter days were spent in retirement, and in the possession of a considerable fortune.

Southerne wrote ten plays, but only two exhibit his characteristic powers, namely Isabella, or the Fatal Marriage, and Oroonoko. The latter is founded on an actual occurrence; Oroonoko, an African prince, having been stolen from his native kingdom of Angola, and carried to one of the West India islands. The impassioned grandeur of Oroonoko's sufferings, his burst of horror and indignation at the slave-trade, and his unhappy passion for Imoinda, are powerful and pathetic. In the following scene, the hero and heroine unexpectedly meet after a long absence:

Oroonoks. My soul steals from my body through

That I would have: my husband! then I am
Alive, and waking to the joys I feel:

They were so great, I could not think 'em true;
But I believe all that you say to me :
For truth itself, and everlasting love,
Grows in this breast, and pleasure in these arms.
Oroo. Take, take me all; inquire into my heart-
You know the way to every secret there-
My heart, the sacred treasury of love:
And if, in absence, I have disemployed
A mite from the rich store; if I have spent
A wish, a sigh, but what I sent to you,
May I be cursed to wish and sigh in vain,
And you not pity me.

Imo. Oh! I believe,

And know you by myself. If these sad eyes, Since last we parted, have beheld the face Of any comfort, or once wished to see

Bland. Sir, we congratulate your happiness; I do most heartily.

Lieut. And all of us: but how it comes to pass-
Oroo. That would require

More precious time than I can spare you now.
I have a thousand things to ask of her,
And she as many more to know of me.
But you have made me happier, I confess,
Acknowledge it, much happier than I

Have words or power to tell you. Captain, you,
Even you, who most have wronged me, I forgive.
I will not say you have betrayed me now :
I'll think you but the minister of fate,

To bring me to my loved Imoinda here.

Imo. How, how shall I receive you? how be worthy

Of such endearments, all this tenderness?
These are the transports of prosperity,
When fortune smiles upon us.

Oroo. Let the fools

Who follow fortune live upon her smiles;
All our prosperity is placed in love;
We have enough of that to make us happy.
This little spot of earth you stand upon
Is more to me than the extended plains
Of my great father's kingdom. Here I reign
In full delights, in joys to power unknown;
Your love my empire, and your heart my throne.
[Exeunt.

Mr Hallam says that Southerne was the first English writer who denounced (in this play) the traffic in slaves and the cruelties of their West Indian bondage. This is an honour which should never be omitted in any mention of the dramatist. Isabella is more correct and regular than Oroonoko, and the part of the heroine affords scope for a tragic actress, scarcely inferior in pathos to Belvidera. Otway, however, has more depth of passion, and more vigorous delineation of character. The plot of Isabella is simple. In abject distress, and believing her husband, Biron, to be dead, Isabella is hurried into a second marriage. Biron returns, and the distress of the heroine terminates in madness and death. Comic scenes are interspersed throughout Southerne's tragedies, which, though they relieve the sombre colouring of the main action and interest of the piece, are sometimes misplaced and unpleasant.

Return of Biron.

A Chamber-Enter ISABELLA.

Isabella. I've heard of witches, magic spells, and charms,

That have made nature start from her old course;
The sun has been eclipsed, the moon drawn down
From her career, still paler, and subdued

To the abuses of this under world.
Now I believe all possible. This ring,
This little ring, with necromantic force,

Has raised the ghost of pleasure to my fears;
Conjured the sense of honour and of love
Into such shapes, they fright me from myself!
I dare not think of them.

Enter NURSE.

Nurse. Madam, the gentleman's below.
Isa. I had forgot; pray, let me speak with him.
[Exit Nurse.

This ring was the first present of my love
To Biron, my first husband; I must blush
To think I have a second. Biron died
(Still to my loss) at Candy; there's my hope.
Oh, do I live to hope that he died there?
It must be so; he's dead, and this ring left,

By his last breath, to some known faithful friend,
To bring me back again;

That's all I have to trust to.

My Isabella!

Isa. Ha!

[He goes to her; she shrinks, and faints.

Bir. Oh! come again;

Thy Biron summons thee to life and love;
Thy once-loved, ever-loving husband calls-
Thy Biron speaks to thee.

Excess of love and joy, for my return,
Has overpowered her. I was to blame

To take thy sex's softness unprepared;

But sinking thus, thus dying in my arms,

This ecstasy has made my welcome more

Than words could say. Words may be counterfeit,
False coined, and current only from the tongue,
Without the mind; but passion's in the soul,
And always speaks the heart.

Isa. Where have I been? Why do you keep him from me?

I know his voice; my life, upon the wing,
Hears the soft lure that brings me back again;

'Tis he himself, my Biron.

Do I hold you fast,

Never to part again?

If I must fall, death's welcome in these arms. Bir. Live ever in these arms.

Bir. How does my child, my boy, my father too? I hear he's living still.

Isa. Well, both; both well;

And may he prove a father to your hopes,
Though we have found him none.

Bir. Come, no more tears.

Isa. Seven long years of sorrow for your loss Have mourned with me.

Bir. And all my days to come

Shall be employed in a kind recompense

For thy afflictions. Can't I see my boy?

Isa. He's gone to bed; I'll have him brought to

To make this wondrous goodness some amends; And let me then forget her, if I can.

Oh! she deserves of me much more than I

Can lose for her, though I again could venture

A father and his fortune for her love!

You wretched fathers, blind as fortune all!
Not to perceive that such a woman's worth
Weighs down the portions you provide your sons.
What is your trash, what all your heaps of gold,
Compared to this, my heartfelt happiness?
What has she, in my absence, undergone?
I must not think of that; it drives me back
Upon myself, the fatal cause of all.

Enter ISABELLA.

Isa. I have obeyed your pleasure; Everything is ready for you.

Bir. I can want nothing here; possessing thee, All my desires are carried to their aim

Of happiness; there's no room for a wish,
But to continue still this blessing to me;

I know the way, my love. I shall sleep sound.
Isa. Shall I attend you?

Bir. By no means;

I've been so long a slave to others' pride,
To learn, at least, to wait upon myself;
You'll make haste after?

Isa. I'll but say my prayers, and follow you.
[Exit Biron.

My prayers! no, I must never pray again.
Prayers have their blessings, to reward our hopes,
But I have nothing left to hope for more.
What Heaven could give I have enjoyed; but now
The baneful planet rises on my fate,

And what's to come is a long life of woe;

Yet I may shorten it.

I promised him to follow-him!

Is he without a name? Biron, my husband

My husband! Ha! What, then, is Villeroy?

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Oh, Biron, hadst thou come but one day sooner!

[Weeping.

What's to be done? for something must be done.
Two husbands! married to both,
And yet a wife to neither. Hold, my brain—
Ha! a lucky thought

Works the right way to rid me of them all;
All the reproaches, infamies, and scorns,

That every tongue and finger will find for me.
Let the just horror of my apprehensions
But keep me warm; no matter what can come.
'Tis but a blow; yet I will see him first,
Have a last look, to heighten my despair,
And then to rest for ever.

NICHOLAS ROWE.

NICHOLAS ROWE was also bred to the law, and forsook it for the tragic drama. He was born in 1673 or 1674 of a good family at Little Barford, in Bedfordshire. His father had an estate at Lamerton, in Devonshire, and was a serjeant-at-law in the Temple. Nicholas, during the earlier years of manhood, lived on a patrimony of £300 a year in chambers in the Temple. His first tragedy, The Ambitious Stepmother, acted in 1700, was performed with great success; and it was followed by Tamerlane, The Fair Penitent, Ulysses, The Royal Convert, Jane Shore, and Lady Jane Grey. Rowe, on rising into fame as an author, was munificently patronised. The Duke of Queensberry made him his secretary for public affairs. On the accession of George I. he was made poet-laureate and a surveyor of customs; the Prince of Wales appointed him clerk of his council; and the Lord Chancellor gave him the office of clerk of the presentations. Rowe was a favourite in society. It is stated that his voice was uncommonly sweet, his observations lively, and his manners so engaging, that his friends, amongst whom were Pope, Swift, and Addison, delighted in his conversation. Yet it is also reported by Spence, that there was a certain levity and carelessness about him, which made Pope, on one occasion, declare him to have no heart. Rowe was the first editor of Shakspeare entitled to the name, and the first to attempt the collection of a few biographical particulars of the immortal dramatist. He was twice married, and died in 1718.

His widow-who afterwards married a Colonel Dean-received a pension from the crown, ' in consideration,' not of his dramatic genius, but 'of the translation of Lucan's Pharsalia made by her late husband!' The widow erected a handsome monument over her husband's grave in Westminster Abbey.

In addition to the dramatic works we have enumerated, Rowe was the author of two volumes of miscellaneous poetry, which scarcely ever rises above dull and respectable mediocrity. His tragedies are passionate and tender, with an equable and smooth style of versification, not unlike that of Ford. His Jane Shore is still occasionally performed, and is effective in the pathetic scenes descriptive of the sufferings of the heroine. The Fair Penitent was long a popular play, and the 'gallant gay Lothario' was the prototype of many stage seducers and romance heroes. Richardson elevated the character in his Lovelace, giving at the same time a purity and sanctity to the sorrows of his Clarissa, which leave Rowe's Calista immeasurably behind. The incidents of Rowe's dramas are well arranged for stage effect; they

are studied and prepared in the manner of the French school, and were adapted to the taste of the age. As the study of Shakspeare and the romantic drama has advanced in this country, Rowe has proportionally declined, and is now but seldom read or acted. His popularity in his own day is best seen in the epitaph by Pope-a beautiful and tender effusion of friendship, which, however, is perhaps not irreconcilable with the anecdote preserved by Spence :

Thy relics, Rowe, to this sad shrine we trust,
And near thy Shakspeare place thy honoured bust;
Oh! next him, skilled to draw the tender tear,
For never heart felt passion more sincere ;
To nobler sentiment to fire the brave,
For never Briton more disdained a slave.
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest!
Blest in thy genius, in thy love, too, blest!
And blest, that timely from our scene removed,
Thy soul enjoys the liberty it loved.

Penitence and Death of Jane Shore.

JANE SHORE, her HUSBAND, and BELMOUR.
Belmour. How fare you, lady?

Jane Shore. My heart is thrilled with horror.
Bel. Be of courage;

Your husband lives! 'tis he, my worthiest friend. Jane S. Still art thou there? still dost thou hover round me?

Oh, save me, Belmour, from his angry shade!
Bel. 'Tis he himself! he lives! look up.
Jane S. I dare not.

Oh, that my eyes could shut him out for ever!
Shore. Am I so hateful, then, so deadly to thee,
To blast thy eyes with horror? Since I'm grown
A burden to the world, myself, and thee,
Would I had ne'er survived to see thee more.

Jane S. Oh! thou most injured-dost thou live, indeed?

Fall then, ye mountains, on my guilty head!
Hide me, ye rocks, within your secret caverns;
Cast thy black veil upon my shame, O night!
And shield me with thy sable wing for ever.

Shore. Why dost thou turn away? Why tremble thus?

Why thus indulge thy fears, and in despair
Abandon thy distracted soul to horror?
Cast every black and guilty thought behind thee,
And let 'em never vex thy quiet more.
My arms, my heart, are open to receive thee,
To bring thee back to thy forsaken home,
With tender joy, with fond forgiving love.
Let us haste.

Now, while occasion seems to smile upon us,
Forsake this place of shame, and find a shelter.
Jane S. What shall I say to you? But I obey.
Shore. Lean on my arm.

Jane S. Alas! I am wondrous faint:

But that's not strange, I have not ate these three days. Shore. Oh, merciless!

Jane S. Oh! I'm sick at heart!

Shore. Thou murderous sorrow!
Would thou still drink her blood, pursue her still?
Must she then die? Oh, my poor penitent!
Speak peace to thy sad heart: she hears me not :
Grief masters every sense-help me to hold her.

Enter CATESBY with a Guard.

Catesby. Seize on 'em both, as traitors to the state! Bel. What means this violence?

[Guards lay hold on Shore and Belmour. Cates. Have we not found you, In scorn of the Protector's strict command

Assisting this base woman, and abetting

Her infamy?

Shore. Infamy on thy head!

Thou tool of power, thou pander to authority!
I tell thee, knave, thou know'st of none so virtuous,
And she that bore thee was an Ethiop to her.

Cates. You'll answer this at full: away with 'em.
Shore. Is charity grown treason to your court?
What honest man would live beneath such rulers?
I am content that we should die together.

Cates. Convey the man to prison; but for herLeave her to hunt her fortune as she may.

Jane S. I will not part with him: for me!--for me! Oh! must he die for me?

[Following him as he is carried off-she falls. Shore. Inhuman villains!

[Breaks from the Guards.

Stand off! the agonies of death are on her!
She pulls, she gripes me hard with her cold hand.
Jane S. Was this blow wanting to complete my ruin?
Oh! let me go, ye ministers of terror.

He shall offend no more, for I will die,
And yield obedience to your cruel master.
Tarry a little, but a little longer,
And take my last breath with you.

Shore. Oh, my love!

Why have I lived to see this bitter moment-
This grief by far surpassing all my former?
Why dost thou fix thy dying eyes upon me
With such an earnest, such a piteous look,
As if thy heart were full of some sad meaning
Thou couldst not speak?

Jane S. Forgive me! but forgive me!
Shore. Be witness for me, ye celestial host,
Such mercy and such pardon as my soul
Accords to thee, and begs of Heaven to shew thee,
May such befall me at my latest hour,
And make my portion blest or curst for ever!

Jane S. Then all is well, and I shall sleep in peace. 'Tis very dark, and I have lost you now:

Was there not something I would have bequeathed you?

But I have nothing left me to bestow,

Nothing but one sad sigh. Oh! mercy, Heaven!

Calista's Passion for Lothario.

A Hall-CALISTA and LUCILLA.

[Dies.

Calista. Be dumb for ever, silent as the grave,
Nor let thy fond, officious love disturb
My solemn sadness with the sound of joy.
If thou wilt soothe me, tell some dismal tale

Of pining discontent and black despair;

For, oh! I've gone around through all my thoughts,
But all are indignation, love, or shame,
And my dear peace of mind is lost for ever.

Lucilla. Why do you follow still that wandering fire, That has misled your weary steps, and leaves you Benighted in a wilderness of woe,

That false Lothario? Turn from the deceiver;
Turn, and behold where gentle Altamont
Sighs at your feet, and woos you to be happy.
Cal. Away! I think not of him. My sad soul
Has formed a dismal, melancholy scene,
Such a retreat as I would wish to find;
An unfrequented vale, o'ergrown with trees
Mossy and old, within whose lonesome shade
Ravens and birds ill-omened only dwell:
No sound to break the silence, but a brook
That bubbling winds among the weeds: no mark
Of any human shape that had been there,,
Unless a skeleton of some poor wretch
Who had long since, like me, by love undone,
Sought that sad place out to despair and die in.
Luc. Alas! for pity.

Cal. There I fain would hide me

From the base world, from malice, and from shame;
For 'tis the solemn counsel of my soul
Never to live with public loss of honour :
'Tis fixed to die, rather than bear the insolence
Of each affected she that tells my story,

And blesses her good stars that she is virtuous.
To be a tale for fools! Scorned by the women,
And pitied by the men. Oh! insupportable!

Luc. Oh! hear me, hear your ever-faithful creature ;
By all the good I wish you, by all the ill
My trembling heart forebodes, let me entreat you
Never to see this faithless man again—
Let me forbid his coming.

Cal. On thy life,

I charge thee, no; my genius drives me on;
I must, I will behold him once again;
Perhaps it is the crisis of my fate,

And this one interview shall end my cares.

My labouring heart, that swells with indignation,
Heaves to discharge the burden; that once done,
The busy thing shall rest within its cell,
And never beat again.

Luc. Trust not to that:

;

Rage is the shortest passion of our souls
Like narrow brooks that rise with sudden showers,
It swells in haste, and falls again as soon;
Still as it ebbs the softer thoughts flow in,
And the deceiver, Love, supplies its place.
Cal. I have been wronged enough to arm my temper
Against the smooth delusion; but, alas!—
Chide not my weakness, gentle maid, but pity me-
A woman's softness hangs about me still;
Then let me blush, and tell thee all my folly.
I swear I could not see the dear betrayer
Kneel at my feet, and sigh to be forgiven,
But my relenting heart would pardon all,
And quite forget 'twas he that had undone me.
[Exit Lucilla.

Ha! Altamont! Calista, now be wary,
And guard thy soul's excesses with dissembling:
Nor let this hostile husband's eyes explore
The warring passions and tumultuous thoughts
That rage within thee, and deform thy reason.

WILLIAM LILLO.

The experiment of domestic tragedy, founded on sorrows incident to real life in the lower and middling ranks, was tried with considerable success by WILLIAM LILLO (1693-1739), a jeweller in London. Lillo carried on business successfully for several years, dying with property to a considerable amount, and an estate worth £60 per annum. Possessing a literary taste, this industrious citizen devoted his leisure hours to the composition of three dramas, George Barnwell, Fatal Curiosity, and Arden of Feversham. A tragedy on the latter subject had, it will be recollected, appeared about the time of Shakspeare. At this early period of the drama, the style of Lillo may be said to have been also shadowed forth in the Yorkshire Tragedy, and one or two other plays founded on domestic occurrences. These, however, were rude and irregular, and were driven off the stage by the romantic drama of Shakspeare and his successors. Lillo had a competent knowledge of dramatic art, and his style was generally smooth and easy. To the masters of the drama he stands in a position similar to that of Defoe, compared with Cervantes or Sir Walter Scott. His George Barnwell describes the career of a London apprentice hurried on to ruin and murder by an infamous woman, who at last delivers him The up to justice and to an ignominious death.

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characters are naturally delineated; and we have no doubt it was correctly said that George Barnwell drew more tears than the rants of Ålexander the Great. His Fatal Curiosity is a far higher work. Driven by destitution, an old man and his wife murder a rich stranger who takes shelter in their house, and they discover, but too late, that they have murdered their son, returned after a long absence. The harrowing details of this tragedy are powerfully depicted; and the agonies of old Wilmot, the father, constitute one of the most appalling and affecting incidents in the drama. The execution of Lillo's plays is unequal, and some of his characters are dull and commonplace; but he was a forcible painter of the dark shades of humble life. His plays have not kept possession of the stage. The taste for murders and public executions has declined; and Lillo was deficient in poetical and romantic feeling. The question, whether the familiar cast of his subjects was fitted to constitute a more genuine or only a subordinate walk in tragedy, is discussed by Campbell in the following eloquent paragraph:

'Undoubtedly the genuine delineation of the human heart will please us, from whatever station or circumstances of life it is derived. In the simple pathos of tragedy, probably very little difference will be felt from the choice of characters being pitched above or below the line of mediocrity in station. But something more than pathos is required in tragedy; and the very pain that attends our sympathy requires agreeable and romantic associations of the fancy to be blended with its poignancy. Whatever attaches ideas of importance, publicity, and elevation to the object of pity, forms a brightening and alluring medium to the imagination. Athens herself, with all her simplicity and democracy, delighted on the stage

to

Let gorgeous Tragedy

In sceptred pall come sweeping by.

Even situations far depressed beneath the familiar mediocrity of life, are more picturesque and poetical than its ordinary level. It is certainly on the virtues of the middling rank of life that the strength and comforts of society chiefly depend, in the same manner as we look for the harvest, not on cliffs and precipices, but on the easy slope and the uniform plain. But the painter does not, in general, fix on level countries for the subjects of his noblest landscapes. There is an analogy, I conceive, to this in the moral painting of tragedy. Disparities of station give it boldness of outline. The commanding situations of life are its mountain scenery-the region where its storm and sunshine may be portrayed in their strongest contrast and colouring.'

Fatal Curiosity.

Young WILMOT, unknown, enters the house of his parents and delivers them a casket, requesting to retire an hour for rest. AGNES, the mother, alone, with the casket in her hand.

Agnes. Who should this stranger be? And then this casket

He says it is of value, and yet trusts it,

As if a trifle, to a stranger's hand.

His confidence amazes me. Perhaps

It is not what he says. I'm strongly tempted
To open it and see. No; let it rest.
Why should my curiosity excite me

To search and pry into the affairs of others,
Who have to employ my thoughts so many cares
And sorrows of my own? With how much ease
The spring gives way! Surprising! most prodigious!
My eyes are dazzled, and my ravished heart
Leaps at the glorious sight. How bright's the lustre,
How immense the worth of those fair jewels!
Ay, such a treasure would expel for ever
Base poverty and all its abject train;
The mean devices we're reduced to use
To keep out famine, and preserve our lives
From day to day; the cold neglect of friends;
The galling scorn, or more provoking pity
Of an insulting world. Possessed of these,
Plenty, content, and power, might take their turn,
And lofty pride bare its aspiring head

At our approach, and once more bend before us.
A pleasing dream! 'Tis past; and now I wake
More wretched by the happiness I've lost;
For sure it was a happiness to think,
Though but a moment, such a treasure mine.
Nay, it was more than thought. I saw and touched
The bright temptation, and I see it yet.
'Tis here-'tis mine-I have it in possession.
Must I resign it? Must I give it back?
Am I in love with misery and want,

To rob myself, and court so vast a loss?
Retain it then. But how? There is a way.
Why sinks my heart? Why does my blood run cold?
Why am I thrilled with horror? 'Tis not choice,
But dire necessity, suggests the thought.

Enter OLD WILMOT.

Old Wilmot. The mind contented, with how little pains

The wandering senses yield to soft repose,
And die to gain new life! He's fallen asleep
Already-happy man! What dost thou think,
My Agnes, of our unexpected guest?

He seems to me a youth of great humanity:
Just ere he closed his eyes, that swam in tears,
He wrung my hand, and pressed it to his lips;
And with a look that pierced me to the soul,
Begged me to comfort thee, and— Dost thou hear
me?

What art thou gazing on? Fie, 'tis not well.
This casket was delivered to you closed:
Why have you opened it? Should this be known,
How mean must we appear!

Agnes. And who shall know it?

O. Wil. There is a kind of pride, a decent dignity Due to ourselves, which, spite of our misfortunes, May be maintained and cherished to the last. To live without reproach, and without leave To quit the world, shews sovereign contempt And noble scorn of its relentless malice.

Agnes. Shews sovereign madness, and a scorn of sense!

Pursue no further this detested theme:

I will not die. I will not leave the world

For all that you can urge, until compelled.

O. Wil. To chase a shadow, when the setting sun
Is darting his last rays, were just as wise
As your anxiety for fleeting life,

Now the last means for its support are failing:
Were famine not as mortal as the sword,

This warmth might be excused. But take thy choice:
Die how you will, you shall not die alone.
Agnes. Nor live, I hope.

O. Wil. There is no fear of that.

Agnes. Then we'll live both.

O. Wil. Strange folly! Where's the means?

Agnes. The means are there; those jewels.

O. Wil. Ha! take heed:

Perhaps thou dost but try me ; yet take heed

There's nought so monstrous but the mind of man