in the mind of his conqueror, Alonzo, and glories Druids, who enjoined the persons who drank their in the ruin of his victim: Thou seest a prince, whose father thou hast slain, Dr Johnson's tragedy of Irene was performed in 1749, but met with little success, and has never since been revived. It is cold and stately, containing some admirable sentiments and maxims of morality, but destitute of elegance, simplicity, and pathos. At the conclusion of the piece, the heroine was to be strangled upon the stage, after speaking two lines with the bowstring round her neck. The audience cried out 'Murder! murder!' and compelled the actress to go off the stage alive, in defiance of the author. An English audience could not, as one of Johnson's friends remarked, bear to witness a strangling scene on the stage, though a dramatic poet may stab or slay by hundreds. The following passage in Irene was loudly applauded: To-morrow! That fatal mistress of the young, the lazy, Five tragedies were produced by Thomson betwixt the year 1729 and the period of his death: these were Sophonisba, Agamemnon, Edward and Eleonora, Tancred and Sigismunda, and Coriolanus. None of them can be considered as worthy of the author of the Seasons: they exhibit the defects of his style without its virtues. He wanted the plastic powers of the dramatist; and though he could declaim forcibly on the moral virtues, and against corruption and oppression, he could not draw characters or invent scenes to lead captive the feelings and imagination. poison to turn their faces towards the wind, in order to facilitate the operation of the potion!' Two tragedies of a similar kind, but more animated in expression, were produced-Gustavus Vasa, by Henry Brooke, author of The Fool of Quality, a popular novel; and Barbarossa, by Dr Brown, an able miscellaneous writer. The acting of Garrick mainly contributed to the success of the latter, which had a great run. The sentiment at the conclusion of Barbarossa is finely expressed: Heaven but tries our virtue by affliction, And oft the cloud which wraps the present hour Aaron Hill translated some of Voltaire's tragedies with frigid accuracy, and they were performed with success. In 1753, The Gamester, an affecting domestic tragedy, was produced. Though wanting the merit of ornamented poetical language and blank verse, the vivid picture drawn by the author-Edward Moore of the evils of gambling, ending in despair and suicide, and the dramatic art evinced in the characters and incidents, drew loud applause. The Gamester is still a popular play. Óf a more intellectual and scholar-like cast were the two dramas of Mason, Elfrida and Caractacus. They were brought on the stage by Colmanwhich Southey considers to have been a bold experiment in those days of sickly tragedy-and were well received. They are now known as dramatic poems, not as acting plays. The most natural and affecting of all the tragic productions of the day was the Douglas of Home, founded on the old ballad of Gil Morrice, which Percy has preserved in his Reliques. Douglas was rejected by Garrick, and was first performed in Edinburgh in 1756. Next year Lord Bute procured its representation at Covent Garden, where it drew tears and applause as copiously as in Edinburgh. The plot of this drama is pathetic and interesting. The dialogue is sometimes flat and prosaic, but other parts are written with the liquid softness and moral beauty of Heywood or Dekker. Thus, on the wars of England and Scotland, we have these fine lines: Gallant in strife, and noble in their ire, Maternal affection is well depicted under novel and striking circumstances the accidental discovery of a lost child-' My beautiful! my brave!' Mallet was the author of three tragedies-Eury--and Henry Mackenzie, the 'Man of Feeling,' dice (1731), Mustapha (1739), and Elvira (1763). considered that the chief scene between Lady Mustapha, as a party play, directed against Randolph and Old Norval, in which the preWalpole, was successful, and had a run of fourteen servation and existence of Douglas are described, nights. Besides these, Mallet was associated with had no equal in modern, and scarcely a superior Thomson in the composition of Alfred, a mask, in the ancient drama. Douglas himself, the young acted at Cliefden before the Prince of Wales in hero, enthusiastic, romantic, desirous of honour, 1740. Another mask, Britannia, was produced careless of life, and every other advantage when by Mallet in 1755. glory lay in the balance,' is beautifully drawn, and formed the school-boy model of most of the Scottish youth'sixty years since.' As a specimen of the style and diction of Home, we subjoin part of the discovery scene. Lord Randolph is attacked by four men, and rescued by young Glover, the author of Leonidas, produced in 1754 a tragedy, Boadicea, which was brought on the stage by Garrick, but without success. In this play, Davies, the biographer of Garrick, relates that Glover 'preserved a custom of the Douglas. An old man is found in the woods, and is taken up as one of the assassins, some rich jewels being also in his possession. Discovery of her Son by Lady Randolph. PRISONER-LADY RANDOLPH-ANNA, her maid. Lady Randolph. Account for these; thine own they cannot be : For these, I say: be steadfast to the truth; [Anna removes the servants and returns. I, guiltless now, must former guilt reveal. Lady R. O Anna, hear 1-Once more I charge thee speak The truth direct; for these to me foretell An instant and a dreadful death abides thee. Pris. Then, thus adjured, I'll speak to you as just Some eighteen years ago, I rented land At the dead hour of night was heard the cry Had caught. The voice was ceased; the person lost: But, looking sad and earnest on the waters, By the moon's light I saw, whirled round and round, A basket; soon I drew it to the bank, And nestled curious there an infant lay. Lady R. Was he alive? Pris. He was. Lady R. Inhuman that thou art! How couldst thou kill what waves and tempests spared? Pris. I was not so inhuman. Anna. My noble mistress, you are moved too much: Pris. The needy man who has known better days, One whom distress has spited at the world, Is he whom tempting fiends would pitch upon To do such deeds as make the prosperous men Lift up their hands, and wonder who could do them; And such a man was I; a man declined, Who saw no end of black adversity; Yet, for the wealth of kingdoms, I would not Have touched that infant with a hand of harm. Lady R. Ha! dost thou say so? Then perhaps he lives! Pris. Not many days ago he was alive. Lady R. O God of heaven! Did he then die so lately? Pris. I did not say he died; I hope he lives. Not many days ago these eyes beheld Pris. Alas! I know not where. Lady R. O fate! I fear thee still. Thou riddler, speak Direct and clear, else I will search thy soul. Anna. Permit me, ever honoured! keen impatience, Though hard to be restrained, defeats itself. Pursue thy story with a faithful tongue, To the last hour that thou didst keep the child. Pris. Fear not my faith, though I must speak my shame. Within the cradle where the infant lay Was stowed a mighty store of gold and jewels; Anna. Just are your transports: ne'er was woman's Proved with such fierce extremes. High-fated dame! But yet remember that you are beheld By servile eyes; your gestures may be seen Impassioned, strange; perhaps your words o'erheard. Lady R. Well dost thou counsel, Anna; Heaven bestow On me that wisdom which my state requires! Pris. If I, amidst astonishment and fear, Lady R. With thee dissimulation now were vain. I am indeed the daughter of Sir Malcolm; The child thou rescuedst from the flood is mine. Pris. Blest be the hour that made me a poor man! My poverty hath saved my master's house." Lady R. Thy words surprise me; sure thou dost not feign! The tear stands in thine eye: such love from thee Pris. Sir Malcolm of our barons was the flower; After that battle, where his gallant son, And never, as he erst was wont, went forth Lady R. His race shall yet reward thee. On thy faith Depends the fate of thy loved master's house. That like a holy hermitage appears Pris. I remember The cottage of the cliffs. Lady R. 'Tis that I mean; There dwells a man of venerable age, Who in my father's service spent his youth: JOHN HOME, author of Douglas, was by birth connected with the family of the Earl of Home; his father was town-clerk of Leith, where the poet was born in 1722. He entered the church, and succeeded Blair, author of The Grave, as minister of Athelstaneford. Previous to this, however, he had taken up arms as a volunteer in 1745 against the Chevalier, and after the defeat at Falkirk, was imprisoned in the old castle of Doune, whence he effected his escape, with some of his associates, by cutting their blankets into shreds, and letting themselves down on the ground. The romantic poet soon found the church as severe and tyrannical as the army of Charles Edward. So violent a storm was raised by the fact that a Presbyterian minister had written a play, that Home was forced to succumb to the presbytery, and resign his living. Lord Bute rewarded him with the sinecure office of conservator of Scots privileges at Campvere, and on the accession of George III. in 1760, when the influence of Bute was paramount, the poet received a pension of £300 per annum. He wrote various other tragedies, which soon passed into oblivion; but with an income of about £600 per annum, with an easy, cheerful, and benevolent disposition, and enjoying the friendship of David Hume, Blair, Robertson, and all the most distinguished for rank or talents, John Home's life glided on in happy tranquillity. He survived all his literary associates, and died in 1808, aged eighty-six. We subjoin some fragments from the tragic dramas mentioned above: Against the Crusades. I here attend him In expeditions which I ne'er approved, Sure I am, 'tis madness, Inhuman madness, thus from half the world To drain its blood and treasure, to neglect Each art of peace, each care of government; And all for what? By spreading desolation, Rapine, and slaughter o'er the other half, To gain a conquest we can never hold. But the same God, my friend, pervades, sustains, I meant alone to say, I think these wars THOMSON'S Edward and Eleonora. Love. Why should we kill the best of passions, Love? To nobler heights, inspires immortal deeds, Miscalculations of Old Men. Those old men, those plodding grave state pedants, THOMSON'S Tancred and Sigismunda. Awfulness of a Scene of Pagan Rites. This is the secret centre of the isle: And yet, my If shapes like his be but the fancy's coinage, GEORGE COLMAN-ARTHUR MURPHY- GEORGE COLMAN (1733-1794), manager of Covent Garden Theatre, was an excellent comic writer, and produced above thirty pieces, a few of which deservedly keep possession of the stage. and originality of Goldsmith were never more happily displayed, and his success, as Davies records, 'revived fancy, wit, gaiety, humour, incident, and character, in the place of sentiment and moral preachment.' A Deception.-From 'She Stoops to Conquer? LANDLORD of the 'Three Jolly Pigeons' and TONY LUMFKIK Landlord. There be two gentlemen in a post-chaise at the door. They've lost their way upo' the forest, and they are talking something about Mr Hardcastle. His Jealous Wife, founded on Fielding's Tom one of the richest contributions which has been Jones, has some highly effective scenes and well-made to modern comedy. The native pleasantry drawn characters. It was produced in 1761; five years afterwards, Colman joined with Garrick and brought out The Clandestine Marriage, in which the character of an aged beau affecting gaiety and youth is strikingly personified in Lord Ogleby. Colman translated the comedies of Terence (1764) and Horace's Art of Poetry (1783). He also wrote some excellent light humorous essays.-ARTHUR MURPHY (1727-1805), a voluminous and miscellaneous writer, added comedies as well as tragedies to the stage, and his Way to Keep Him is still occasionally performed.-HUGH KELLY (1739-1777), an Irish dramatic poet and a scurrilous newspaper writer, surprised the public by producing, in 1768, a comedy, False Delicacy, which had remarkable success both on the fortunes and character of the author; the profits of his first third night realised £150-the largest sum of money he had ever before seen-and from a low, petulant, absurd, and ill-bred censurer,' says Davies, 'Kelly was transformed to the humane, affable, good-natured, well-bred man.' RICHARD CUMBERLAND-OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must be the gentleman that's coming down to court my sister. Do they seem to be Londoners? Land. I believe they may. They look woundily like Frenchmen. Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and I'll set them right in a twinkling. [Exit Landlord.] Gentlemen, as they mayn't be good enough company for you, step down for a moment, and I'll be with you in the squeezing of a lemon. [Exeunt Mob from the Alehouse.] Father-in-law has been calling me a whelp and hound this half-year. Now, if I pleased, I could be so revenged upon the old grumbletonian. But then I am afraid-afraid of what? I shall soon be worth fifteen hundred a year, and let him frighten me out of that if he can. Enter LANDLORD, conducting MARLOW and HASTINGS Marlow. What a tedious uncomfortable day have we had of it! We were told it was but forty miles across the country, and we have come above threescore. Tony. No offence, gentlemen; but I am told you have been inquiring for one Mr Hardcastle in these parts. Do you know what part of the country you are in? Hast. Not in the least, sir; but should thank you for information. Tony. Nor the way you came? Hast. No, sir; but if you can inform us The marked success of Kelly's sentimental style gave the tone to a much abler dramatist, RICHARD CUMBERLAND (1732-1811), who, after two or three unsuccessful pieces, in 1771 brought out The West Indian, one of the best stage-plays which English comedy can yet boast. The plot, incidents, and characters-including the first draught of an Irish gentleman which the theatre had witnessed-are all well sustained. Other dramas of Cumberland, as The Wheel of Fortune, The Fashionable Lover, &c. were also acted with applause, though now too stiff and sentimental for our audiences.-GOLDSMITH thought that Cumberland had carried the refinement of comedy to excess, and he set himself to correct the fault. His first dramatic performance, The Good-natured Man, presents one of the happiest of his delineations in the character of Croaker; but as a whole, the play wants point and sprightliness. His second drama, She Stoops to Conquer, performed in 1773, has all the requisites for interesting and amusing an audience; and Johnson said, 'he knew of no comedy for many years that had answered so much the great end of comedy-making an audience merry. The plot turns on what may be termed a farcical incidenttwo parties mistaking a gentleman's house for an inn. Such an adventure, however, is said to have occurred to Goldsmith himself. He was returning to school after the holidays on a borrowed hack, Tony. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trolloping, talkand being overtaken by night in the streets of ative may-pole; the son, a pretty, well-bred, agreeable Ardagh, he inquired with a lofty confident air-youth, that everybody is fond of. you are going, nor where you are, nor the road you came, Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither the road the first thing I have to inform you is that-you have lost your way. Mar. We wanted no ghost to tell us that. Tony. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold as to ask the place from whence you came? Mar. That's not necessary towards directing us where we are to go. Tony. No offence; but question for question is all fair, you know. Pray, gentlemen, is not this same Hardcastle a cross-grained, old-fashioned, whimsical fellow, with an ugly face, a daughter, and a pretty son? the family you mention. Hast. We have not seen the gentleman; but he has Tony. He-he-hem. Then, gentlemen, all I have to tell you is, that you won't reach Mr Hardcastle's house this night, I believe. having a guinea in his pocket—for the best house Mar. Our information differs in this: the daughter is of entertainment in the town. A wag pointed to said to be well-bred and beautiful; the son, an awkward the house of the squire, a Mr Featherston, and booby, reared up and spoiled at his mother's apronGoldsmith entering, ordered supper and a bottle string. of wine, with a hot cake for breakfast in the morning! It was not till he had despatched this latter meal, and was looking at his guinea with pathetic aspect of farewell, that the truth was told him by the good-natured squire.'-(Forster's Life.) This was a good foundation for a series of comic mistakes. But the excellent discrimination of character, and the humour and vivacity of the dialogue throughout the play, render this piece Hast. Unfortunate! Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to Mr Hardcastle's Tony. It's a long, dark, boggy, dangerous way. [winking at the Landlord]-Mr Hardcastle's of Quagmire-marsh. You understand me? Land. Master Hardcastle's! Lack-a-daisy, my masters, you're come a deadly deal wrong. When you came to the bottom of the hill, you should have crossed down Squash-lane. Mar. Cross down Squash-lane! Mar. [Aside.] He has got our names from the servants already. [To Hard.] We approve your caution and hospitality, sir. [To Hast.] I have been thinking, morning; I am grown confoundedly ashamed of mine. Hard. I beg, Mr Marlow, you'll use no ceremony in Land. Then you were to keep straight forward till George, of changing our travelling-dresses in the you came to four roads. Mar. Come to where four roads meet? Tony. Ay; but you must be sure to take only one of this house. them. Mar. O, sir! you're facetious. Tony. Then, keeping to the right, you are to go sideways till you come upon Crack-skull Common; there you must look sharp for the track of the wheel, and go forward till you come to Farmer Murrain's barn. Coming to the farmer's barn, you are to turn to the right, and then to the left, and then to the right about again, till you find out the old mill Mar. Zounds, man! we could as soon find out the longitude! Hast. What's to be done, Marlow? Mar. This house promises but a poor reception; though perhaps the landlord can accommodate us. Land. Alack, master! we have but one spare bed in the whole house. Tony. And to my knowledge, that's taken up by three lodgers already. [After a pause, in which the rest seem disconcerted.] I have hit it: don't you think, Stingo, our landlady would accommodate the gentlemen by the fireside with-three chairs and a bolster? Hast. I hate sleeping by the fireside. Mar. And I detest your three chairs and a bolster. Tony. You do, do you? Then let me see what if you go on a mile further to the Buck's Head, the old Buck's Head on the hill, one of the best inns in the whole county. Hast. O ho! so we have escaped an adventure for this night, however. Land. [Apart to Tony.] Sure you bean't sending them to your father's as an inn, be you? Tony. Mum! you fool, you; let them find that out. [To them.] You have only to keep on straight forward till you come to a large old house by the roadside: you'll see a pair of large horns over the door; that's the sign. Drive up the yard, and call stoutly about you. Hast. Sir, we are obliged to you. The servants can't miss the way? Tony. No, no: but I tell you, though, the landlord is rich, and going to leave off business; so he wants to be thought a gentleman, saving your presence, he, he, he! He'll be for giving you his company; and, ecod! if you mind him, he'll persuade you that his mother was an alderman, and his aunt a justice of the peace. Land. A troublesome old blade, to be sure; but a keeps as good wines and beds as any in the whole country. Mar. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall want no further connection. We are to turn to the right, did you say? Tony. No, no, straight forward. and shew you a piece of the way. Mum! I'll just step myself [To the Landlord.] [Exeunt. care of. Hast. I fancy, Charles, you're right: the first blow is half the battle. I intend opening the campaign with the white and gold. Hard. Mr Marlow-Mr Hastings-gentlemen-pray be under no restraint in this house. This is Libertyhall, gentlemen; you may do just as you please here. Mar. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too fiercely at first, we may want ammunition before it is over. I think to reserve the embroidery to secure a retreat. Hard. Your talking of a retreat, Mr Marlow, puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough when we went to besiege Denain. He first summoned the garrison Mar. Don't you think the ventre d'or waistcoat will do with the plain brown? Hard. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men Hast. I think not: brown and yellow mix but very poorly. Hard. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, he summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men Mar. The girls like finery. Hard. Which might consist of about five thousand men, well appointed with stores, ammunition, and other implements of war. Now, says the Duke of Marlborough to George Brooks, that stood next to him-you must have heard of George Brooks-I'll pawn my dukedom, says he, but I take that garrison without spilling a drop of blood. So Mar. What? My good friend, if you give us a glass of punch in the meantime; it would help us to carry on the siege with vigour. Hard. Punch, sir!-This is the most unaccountable kind of modesty I ever met with. [Aside. Mar. Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm punch after our journey will be comfortable. Enter SERVANT with a tankard. This is Liberty-hall, you know. Hard. Here's a cup, sir. Mar. So this fellow, in his Liberty-hall, will only let us have just what he pleases. [Aside to Hast. Hard. [Taking the cup.] I hope you'll find it to your mind. I have prepared it with my own hands, and I believe you'll own the ingredients are tolerable. Will you be so good as to pledge me, sir? Here, Mr Marlow, here is to our better acquaintance. [Drinks. Mar. A very impudent fellow this; but he's a character, and I'll humour him a little. [Aside.] Sir, my service to you. [Drinks. Hast. I see this fellow wants to give us his company, and forgets that he's an innkeeper before he has learned to be a gentleman. [Aside. Mar. From the excellence of your cup, my old friend, I suppose you have a good deal of business in this part of the country. Warm work now and then at elections, I suppose. Hard. No, sir; I have long given that work over. Since our betters have hit upon the expedient of electing each other, there's no business 'for us that sell ale.' Hast. So, you have no turn for politics, I find. Hard. Not in the least. There was a time indeed, I fretted myself about the mistakes of government, like other people; but finding myself every day grow more angry, and the government growing no better, I left it to mend itself. Since that, I no more trouble my head about who's in or who's out than I do about Hyder Ally, |