troubled spirit, shall I be blamed if I inquire into the reality? I would have nothing dissatisfied in a female shape.

Mir.

What shall I do?

[Pauses.]

Sir G. Ay, pr'ythee, consider, for thou shalt find me very much at thy service. Patch. Suppose, sir, the lady should be in love with you?

Sir G. Ha, ha, ha! that's not the way to love her, child.

Mir. If he discovers me I shall die.-Which way shall I escape ?-let me see.

Sir G. Well, madam

[Pauses.]

Mir. I have it. Sir George, 'tis fit you should allow something; if you'll excuse my face, and turn your back (if you look upon me I shall sink, even masked as 1 am), I will confess why I have engaged you so often, who I am, and where I live. Sir G. Well, to show you I am a man of honour, I accept the conditions: let me but once know those, and the face won't be long a secret to me.

Patch. What mean you, madam? [Aside to Mir.]
Mir. To get off. [Aside to Patch.]
Sir G. 'Tis something indecent to
mand, and I obey. [Turns his back.]

turn one's back upon a lady; but you comCome, madam, begin.

Mir. First, then, it was my unhappy lot to see you at Paris, [draws back a little way, and speaks,] at a ball upon a birthday; your shape and air charmed my eyes, your wit and complaisance my soul, and from that fatal night I lov'd you.

[Drawing back.]

And when you left the place, grief seiz'd me so,
Nor rest my heart, nor sleep my eyes could know;
Last I resolv'd a hazardous point to try,
And quit the place in search of liberty.

[Exit, followed by Patch.]

Sir G. Excellent. I hope she's handsome. Well, now, madam, to the two other things, your name, and where you live. I am a gentleman, and this confession will not be lost upon me. Nay, pr'ythee, don't weep, but go on, for I find my heart melts in thy behalf. Speak quickly, or I shall turn about. Not yet. Poor lady! She expects I should comfort her, and to do her justice she has said enough to encourage me. [Turns about.] Ha! gone! the devil! jilted! Why, what a tale she has invented-of Paris, balls, and birth-days!-Egad, I'd give ten guineas to know who the gipsy is. A curse of my folly, I deserve to lose her. What woman can forgive a man that turns his back!

The bold and resolute in love and war

To conquer take the right and swiftest way:
The boldest lover soonest gains the fair,
As courage makes the rudest force obey:

Take no denial, and the dames adore ye;

Closely pursue them, and they fall before ye.

[Exit.]

WILLIAM LILLO will close our remarks on the dramatic writers of this period. His tragedies are all of the domestic kind, and founded on sorrows incident to real life in the lower and middling ranks of society. Born of poor parents, in 1693, he was brought up with very limited advantages of education, to the business of a jeweller; but being of a literary turn, he devoted his leisure hours to the composition of three dramas, George Barn

well, Fatal Curiosity, and Arden of Feversham. A tragedy on the last of these subjects, it will be recollected, appeared about the time of Shakspeare. At that early period of the drama, the style of Lillo may be said to have been 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 followers. The death of this writer occurred in 1739.

Lillo possessed a competent knowledge of dramatic art, and his style is generally smooth and easy. 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. Fatal Curiosity' is a work of far higher order. 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 own son, who had just 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 incidents in the whole English drama. The execution of Lillo's plays is unequal, and some of his characters are dull and commonplace; but that he was a forcible painter of the dark shades of human life, will appear evident from the following scene in 'Fatal Curiosity.' Young Wilmot, unknown to his parents, enters their house, and delivers to them a casket, requesting to retire an hour for rest:

[Agnes, his mother, alone, with the casket in her hands.]

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 forever
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,
VOL. II.-H

114

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 sink 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, shows sovereign contempt

And noble scorn of its relentless malice.

Agnes. Shows 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 In some conditions may be brought to approve; Theft, sacrilege, treason, and parricide,

When flattering opportunity enticed,

And desperation drove, have been committed

By those who once would start to hear them named. Agnes. And add to these detested suicide,

Which, by a crime much less, we may avoid.

O. 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,
To take another's life than end our own.

O. Wil. It is no matter, whether this or that
Be, in itself, the less or greater crime:
Howe'er we may deceive ourselves or others,
We act from inclination, not by rule,

Or none could act amiss. And that all err,
None but the conscious hypocrite denies.
O, what is man, his excellence and strength,
When in an hour of trial and desertion,
Reason, his noblest power, may be suborned

To plead the cause of vile assassination!

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,

I am betrayed within: my will 's seduced,
And my whole soul infected. The desire
Of life returns, and brings with it a train
Of appetites, that rage to be supplied.
Whoever stands to parley with temptation;
Does it to be o'ercome.

Agnes. Then nought remains

But the swift execution of a deed

That is not to be thought on, or delayed.

We must dispatch him sleeping: should he wake,

'T were madness to attempt it.

O. Wil. True, his strength,

Single, is more, much more than ours united;

So may his life, perhaps, as far exceed

Ours in duration, should he 'scape this snare.

Generous, unhappy man! O what could move thee

To put thy life and fortune in the hands

Of wretches mad with anguish !

Agnes. By what means?

By stabbing, suffocation, or by strangling,
Shall we effect his death?

O. Wil. Why, what a fiend!

How cruel, how remorseless, how impatient,

Have pride and poverty made thee!

Agnes. Barbarous man!

Whose wasteful riots ruined our estate,

And drove our son, ere the first dawn had spread
His rosy cheeks, spite of my sad presages,

Earnest entreaties, agonies, and tears,

To seek his bread 'mongst strangers, and to perish
In some remote inhospitable land.

The loveliest youth in person and in mind
That ever crowned a groaning mother's pains!
Where was thy pity, where thy patience then?
Thou cruel husband! thou unnatural father!
Thou most remorseless, most ungrateful man!
To waste my fortune, rob me of my son;

To drive me to despair, and then reproach me.
O. Wil. Dry thy tears:

I ought not to reproach thee. I confess

That thou hast suffered much; so have we both.

But chide no more: I'm wrought up to thy purpose.
The poor ill-fated, unsuspecting victim,

Ere he reclined him on the fatal couch

From which he 's ne'er to rise, took off the sash

And costly dagger that thou saw'st him wear;

And thus, unthinking, furnished us with arms
Against himself. Which shall I use?

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,
And bring me word if he be still asleep.

Or I'm deceived, or he pronounced himself
The happiest of mankind. Deluded wretch!

Thy thoughts are perishing; thy youthful joys,
Touched by the icy hand of grisly death,

[Exit Agnes.]

Are withering in their bloom. But though extinguished,
He'll never know the loss, nor feel the bitter
Pangs of disappointment. Then I was wrong
In counting him a wretch: to die well pleased

Is all the happiest of mankind can hope for.
To be a wretch is to survive the loss

Of every joy, and even hope itself,

As I have done. Why do I mourn him then?
For, by the anguish of my tortured soul,

He's to be envied, if compared with me.

The Conscious Lovers, a drama belonging to this period, was written by Sir Richard Steele, and combines moral instruction with amusement; but in all other respects it is a languid, if not an insipid performance. The Distressed Mother was translated from Racine, by Ambrose Philips, and was highly successful. The 'Zara' of Voltaire was, about the same time, adapted to the English stage, by Aaron Hill, who wrote also some original dramas; none of which, however, require particular notice.