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 They were so great, I could not think 'em true; 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- More precious time than I can spare you now. Have words or power to tell you. Captain, you, To bring me to my loved Imoinda here. Imo. How, how shall I receive you? how be worthy Of such endearments, all this tenderness? Oroo. Let the fools Who follow fortune live upon her smiles; 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; To the abuses of this under world. Has raised the ghost of pleasure to my fears; Enter NURSE. Nurse. Madam, the gentleman's below. This ring was the first present of my love By his last breath, to some known faithful friend, 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; Excess of love and joy, for my return, 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, Isa. Where have I been? Why do you keep him from me? I know his voice; my life, upon the wing, '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, 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! 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, I know the way, my love. I shall sleep sound. Bir. By no means; I've been so long a slave to others' pride, Isa. I'll but say my prayers, and follow you. My prayers! no, I must never pray again. 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? 527 Oh, Biron, hadst thou come but one day sooner! [Weeping. What's to be done? for something must be done. Works the right way to rid me of them all; That every tongue and finger will find for me. 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, Penitence and Death of Jane Shore. JANE SHORE, her HUSBAND, and BELMOUR. Jane Shore. My heart is thrilled with horror. 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! Oh, that my eyes could shut him out for ever! Jane S. Oh! thou most injured-dost thou live, indeed? Fall then, ye mountains, on my guilty head! Shore. Why dost thou turn away? Why tremble thus? Why thus indulge thy fears, and in despair Now, while occasion seems to smile upon us, 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! 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! Cates. You'll answer this at full: away with 'em. 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! He shall offend no more, for I will die, Shore. Oh, my love! Why have I lived to see this bitter moment- Jane S. Forgive me! but forgive me! 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, Of pining discontent and black despair; For, oh! I've gone around through all my thoughts, 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; Cal. There I fain would hide me From the base world, from malice, and from shame; And blesses her good stars that she is virtuous. Luc. Oh! hear me, hear your ever-faithful creature ; Cal. On thy life, I charge thee, no; my genius drives me on; And this one interview shall end my cares. My labouring heart, that swells with indignation, Luc. Trust not to that: ; Rage is the shortest passion of our souls Ha! Altamont! Calista, now be wary, 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. 529 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 search and pry into the affairs of others, At our approach, and once more bend before us. To rob myself, and court so vast a loss? Enter OLD WILMOT. Old Wilmot. The mind contented, with how little pains The wandering senses yield to soft repose, He seems to me a youth of great humanity: What art thou gazing on? Fie, 'tis not well. 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 Now the last means for its support are failing: This warmth might be excused. But take thy choice: 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 |