THOMAS SOUTHERNE.

THOMAS SOUTHERNE (1659-1746) may be classed either with the last or the present period. His life was long, extended, and prosperous. He 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 bursts 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 :

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 misemployed
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
The light of any other heaven but you,
May I be struck this moment blind, and lose
Your blessed sight, never to find you more.
Oroo. Imoinda! Oh! this separation
Has made you dearer, if it can be so,
Than you were ever to me.

You appear
Like a kind star to my benighted steps,
To guide me on my way to happiness:

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 wo'not say you have betrayed me now:
I'll think you but the minister of fate,
To bring me to my loved Imoinda here.
Of such endearments, all this tenderness!
Imo. How, how shall I receive you? how be worthy
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 Engslaves and the cruelties of their West Indian bondage. lish writer who denounced (in this play) the traffic in

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.

Isa. 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

Isa. Ha!

[He goes to her; she shrieks, 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 ecstacy 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.

not

[Exit.

Bir. Grant me but life, good Heaven, and give the

means

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.

Isa. But pardon me;

Excuse the wild disorder of my soul;

The joy, the strange surprising joy of seeing you, Of seeing you again, distracted me.

Bir. Thou everlasting goodness!

Isa. Answer me:

What hand of Providence has brought you back To your own home again?

Oh, tell me all,

For every thought confounds me.

Bir. My best life! at leisure all.

Isa. We thought you dead; killed at the siege of Candy.

Bir. There I fell among the dead;

But hopes of life reviving from my wounds,

I was preserved but to be made a slave.

I often writ to my hard father, but never had

An answer; I writ to thee too.

Isa. What a world of wo

Had been prevented but in hearing from you!
Bir. Alas! thou could'st not help me.

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 wo;
Yet I may shorten it.

I promised him to follow-him!

My husband! Ha! What then is Villeroy?
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.

589

NICHOLAS ROWE.

NICHOLAS ROWE was also bred to the law, and forsook it for the tragic drama. He was born in 1673 of a good family in Devonshire, and during the carlier years of manhood, lived on a patrimony

Nicholas Rowe.

of L.300 a-year in chambers in the Temple. His first tragedy, The Ambitious Stepmother, was performed with great success, and it was followed by Tamerlane, The Fair Penitent, Ulysses, The Royal Convert, Jane Shore, and Lady Jane Gray. 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 secretary for the presentations. Rowe was a favourite in society. It is stated that his voice was uncommonly sweet, and his observations so 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 superficiality of feeling 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, at the age of forty-five.

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 Mr 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.

Jane S. I dare not.

Oh, that my eyes could shut him out for ever!
Shore. Ain 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, oh 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'm wondrous faint:
But that's not strange, I have not ate these three days.
Shore. Oh, merciless !

Jane S. Oh! I am sick at heart!

Shore. Thou murderous sorrow!
Wo't 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.

Enter CATESBY with a Guard.
Cates. Seize on 'em both, as traitors to the state!
Bel. What means this violence?

[Guards lay hold on Shore and Belmour.

Cal. There I fain would hide me

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 men 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 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 show 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.

Cal. 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

[Dies.

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.

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

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.

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 intreat 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, a jeweller in London. Lillo was born in 1693, and carried on business successfully for several years, dying in 1739, with property to a considerable amount, and an estate worth £60 per annum. Being of a literary turn, this respectable 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 up to justice and to an ignominious death. The characters are naturally delineated; and we have no doubt it was correctly said that 'George Barnwell' drew more