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, To nobler sentiment to fire the brave, For never Briton more disdained a slave. Jane S. I dare not. Oh, that my eyes could shut him out for ever! Would I had ne'er survived to see thee more. 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: 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! 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! Shore. Be witness for me, ye celestial host, 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, [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; 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 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 '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 Mr Campbell in the following eloquent paragraph : · Ay, such a treasure would expel for ever Enter OLD WILMOT. 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 symOld Wilmot. The mind contented, with how little pathy requires agreeable and romantic associations The wandering senses yield to soft repose, pains of the fancy to be blended with its poignancy. What-And die to gain new life? He's fallen asleep ever attaches ideas of importance, publicity, and elevation to the object of pity, forms a brightening and Already-happy man! What dost thou think, alluring medium to the imagination. Athens her- He seems to me a youth of great humanity: My Agnes, of our unexpected guest! self, with all her simplicity and democracy, delighted Just ere he closed his eyes, that swam in tears, on the stage to 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? "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 open it, and see. No; let it rest. What art thou gazing on? Fie, 'tis not well. Why have you opened it? Should this be known, How mean must we appear? Agnes. And who shall know it? Due to ourselves, which, spite of our misfortunes, sense! Agnes. Shows sovereign madness, and a scorn of O. Wil. To chase a shadow, when the setting sun 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. 0. Wil. The inhospitable murder of our guest? How couldst thou form a thought so very tempting, So advantageous, so secure, and easy; And yet so cruel, and so full of horror? Agnes. 'Tis less impiety, less against nature, O. Wil. It is no matter, whether this or that Agnes. You're too severe: reason may justly plead For her own preservation. O. Wil. Rest contented: Whate'er resistance I may seem to make, Agnes. Then nought remains But the swift execution of a deed That is not to be thought on, or delayed. We must despatch him sleeping: should he wake, "Twere madness to attempt it. O. Wil. True, his strength, Single, is more, much more than ours united; Ours in duration, should he 'scape this snare. Of wretches mad with anguish ! Agnes. By what means? By stabbing, suffocation, or by strangling, O. Wil. Why, what a fiend! How cruel, how remorseless, how impatient, Agnes. Barbarous man! Whose wasteful riots ruined our estate, And drove our son, ere the first down had spread I ought not to reproach thee. I confess Agnes. The sash. If you make use of that, I can assist. O. Wil. No. "Tis a dreadful office, and I'll spare Thy trembling hands the guilt. Steal to the door, Thy thoughts are perishing; thy youthful joys, Are withering in their bloom. But though extinguished, He'll never know the loss, nor feel the bitter Of every joy, and even hope itself, As I have done. Why do I mourn him then? WILLIAM CONGREVE. The comedies of CONGREVE abound more than any others, perhaps, in the English language, in witty dialogue and lively incident, but their licentiousness has banished them from the stage. The life of this eminent dramatic writer was a happy and prosperous one. He was born in 1672, in Ireland, according to one account, or at Bardsey, near Leeds, as others have represented. He was of a good family, and his father held a military employment in Ireland, where the poet was educated. He studied the law in the middle temple, but began early to write for the stage. His Old Bachelor was produced in his twenty-first year, and acted with great applause. Lord Halifax conferred appointments on him in the customs and other departments of public service, worth £600 per annum. Other plays soon appeared; the Double Dealer in 1694, Love for Love in 1695, the Mourning Bride, a tragedy, in 1697, and the Way of the World in 1700. In 1710 he published a collection of miscellaneous poems; and his good fortune still following him, he obtained, on the accession of George L, the office of secretary for the island of Jamaica, which raised his emoluments to about £1200 per annum. Basking in the sunshine of opulence and courtly society, Congreve wished to forget that he was an author, and when Voltaire waited upon him, he said he would rather be considered a gentleman than a poet. If you had been merely a gentleman,' said the witty Frenchman, I should not have come to visit you.' A complaint in the eyes, which terminated in total blindness, afflicted Congreve in his latter days: he died at his house in London on the 29th of January 1729. Dryden complimented Congreve as one whom every muse and grace adorned; and Pope dedicated to him his translation of the Iliad. What higher literary honours could have been paid a poet whose laurels were all gained, or at least planted, by the age of twenty-seven? One incident in the history of Congreve is too remarkable to be omitted. He contracted a close intimacy with the Duchess of Marlborough (daughter of the great duke), sat at her table daily, and assisted in her household management. On his death, he left the bulk of his fortune, amounting to about £10,000, to this eccentric lady, who honoured him with a splendid funeral. The corpse lay in state under the ancient roof of the Jerusalem chamber, and was interred in Westminster Abbey. The pall was borne by the Duke of Bridgewater, Lord Cobham, the Earl of Wilmington, who had been speaker, and was afterwards first lord of the treasury, and other men of high consideration. Her grace laid out her friend's bequest in a superb diamond necklace, which she wore in honour of him; and if report is to be believed, showed her regard in ways much more extraordinary. It is said that she had a statue of him in ivory, which moved by clockwork, and was placed daily at her table; that she had a wax doll made in imitation of him, and that the feet of this doll were regularly blistered and anointed by the doctors, as poor Congreve's feet had been when he suffered from the gout."* This idol of fashion and literature has been removed by the just award of posterity from the high place he once occupied. His plays are generally without poetry or imagination, and his comic genius is inextricably associated with sensuality and profaneness. We admire his brilliant dialogue and repartee, and his exuberance of dramatic incident and character; but the total absence of the higher virtues which ennoble life -the beauty and gracefulness of female virtue, the feelings of generosity, truth, honour, affection, modesty, and tenderness-leaves his pages barren and unproductive of any permanent interest or popularity. His glittering artificial life possesses but few charms to the lovers of nature or of poetry, and is not recommended by any moral purpose or sentiment. The 'Mourning Bride,' Congreve's only tragedy, possesses higher merit than most of the serious plays of that day. It has the stiffness of the French school, with no small affectation of fine writing, without passion, yet it possesses poetical scenes and language. The opening lines have often been quoted : Music has charms to soothe a savage breast, To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak. I've read that things inanimate have moved, And, as with living souls, have been informed By magic numbers and persuasive sound. Dr Johnson considered the description of the cathedral in the following extract as forming the most poetical paragraph in the whole range of the drama -finer than any one in Shakspeare! ALMERIA-LEOnora. Alm. It was a fancied noise, for all is hushed. Leon. It bore the accent of a human voice. Alm. It was thy fear, or else some transient wind Whistling through hollows of this vaulted aisle. We'll listen. Leon. Hark! Alm. No; all is hushed and still as death. "Tis dreadful! How reverend is the face of this tall pile, By its own weight made steadfast and immovable, Alm. It may my fears, but cannot add to that. Lead me o'er bones and skulls and mouldering earth It is difficult by quotation to convey an idea of Congreve's comedies. He does not shine in particular passages, but in a constant stream of wit and liveliness, and the quick interchange of dialogue and incident. He was a master of dramatic rules and art. Nothing shows more forcibly the taste or inclination of the present day for the poetry of nature and passion, instead of the conventional world of Edinburgh Review, vol. 72. p. 527. our ancestors in the drama, than the neglect into which the works of Congreve have fallen, even as literary productions. [Gay Young Men upon Town.] [From The Old Bachelor."] Bel. Vainlove, and abroad so early! Good morrow. I thought a contemplative lover could no more have parted with his bed in a morning, than he could have slept in it. Vain. Belmour, good morrow. Why, truth on't is, these early sallies are not usual to me; but business, as you see, sir-[Showing letters]-and business must be followed, or be lost. Bel. Business! And so must time, my friend, be close pursued or lost. Business is the rub of life, perverts our aim, casts off the bias, and leaves us wide and short of the intended mark. Vain. Pleasure, I guess you mean. Bel. More than they believe or understand. Vain. How; how, Ned! a wise man say more than he understands? Bel. Ay, ay, wisdom is nothing but a pretending to know and believe more than we really do. You read of but one wise man, and all that he knew wasthat he knew nothing. Come, come, leave business to idlers, and wisdom to fools; they have need of them. Wit be my faculty, and pleasure my occupation; and let father Time shake his glass. Let low and earthly souls grovel till they have worked themselves six foot deep into a grave. Business is not my element; I roll in a higher orb, and dwell Vain. In castles i' th' air of thy own buildingthat's thy element, Ned. [A Swaggering Bully and Boaster.] Sir Jos. Ay, bully, like a cock. Bluff. Say you so? Then I honour him. But has he been abroad? for every cock will fight upon his own dunghill. Sir Jos. I don't know; but I'll present you. Bluff. I'll recommend myself. Sir, I honour you; I understand you love fighting. I reverence a man that loves fighting. Sir, I kiss your hilts. Sharper. Sir, your servant, but you are misinformed; for unless it be to serve my particular friend, as Sir Joseph here, my country, or my religion, or in some very justifiable cause, I am not for it. Bluff. Oh, I beg your pardon, sir; I find you are not of my palate; you can't relish a dish of fighting without some sauce. Now, I think fighting for fighting's sake is sufficient cause. Fighting to me is religion and the laws! Sir Jos. Ah, well said, my hero! Was not that great, sir? By the Lord Harry, he says true; fight |