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 They were so great, I could not think 'em true; Imo. Oh! I believe, And know you by myself. If these sad eyes, You appear 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. Oroo. Let the fools Who follow fortune live upon her smiles; 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. This ring was the first present of my love Isa. Ha! [He goes to her; she shrieks, and faints. Bir. Oh! come again; Thy Biron summons thee to life and love; Excess of love and joy, for my return, Than words could say. Words may be counterfeit, 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 Bir. And all my days to come Shall be employed in a kind recompense For thy afflictions. Isa. He's gone to bed; I'll have him brought to you. Bir. To-morrow I shall see him; I want rest Myself, after this weary pilgrimage. Isa. Alas! what shall I get for you? Bir. Nothing but rest, my love. To-night I would not Be known, if possible, to your family: I see my nurse is with you; her welcome To-morrow will do better. Isa. I'll dispose of her, and order everything [Exit. Bir. Grant me but life, good Heaven, and give the means To make this wondrous goodness some amends; O! she deserves of me much more than I A father and his fortune for her love! You wretched fathers, blind as fortune all! Isa. Where have I been? Why do you keep him Weighs down the portions you provide your sons. 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! 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. I promised him to follow-him! Isa. You do not know how much I could have Is he without a name? Biron, my husband My husband! Ha! What then is Villeroy? What's to be done? for something must be done. Works the right way to rid me of them all; 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, For never Briton more disdained a slave. Jane S. I dare not. Oh, that my eyes could shut him out for ever! Fall then, ye mountains, on my guilty head! Shore. Why dost thou turn away? Why tremble Now, while occasion seems to smile upon us, Jane S. Alas! I'm wondrous faint: Jane S. Oh! I am sick at heart! Shore. Thou murderous sorrow! Enter CATESBY with a Guard. [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 Jane S. Forgive me! but forgive me! Was there not something I would have bequeathed you? But I have nothing left me to bestow, [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; 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; From the base world, from malice, and from shame; "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. Luc. Oh! hear me, hear your ever faithful creature; Cal. On thy life, I charge thee, no; my genius drives me on; Luc. Trust not to that: Rage is the shortest passion of our souls; Cal. I have been wronged enough to arm my temper 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, 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 tears than the rants of Alexander the Great. His Ay, such a treasure would expel for ever 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 ele vation 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.] 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, Nay, it was more than thought. I saw and touched Enter OLD WILMOT, Old Wilmot. The mind contented, with how little What art thou gazing on? Fie, 'tis not well. This casket was delivered to you closed: Agnes. And who shall know it! O. Wil. There is a kind of pride, a decent dignity Agnes. Shows sovereign madness, and a scorn of O. Wil. To chase a shadow, when the setting sun This warmth might be excused. But take thy choice: O. Wil. There is no fear of that. O. Wil. Strange folly! Where's the means? O. Wil. Ha! take heed: Perhaps thou dost but try me; yet take heed. |