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Lecture the Forty-First.

DRAMATIC WRITERS.

LY-RICHARD

EDWARD MOORE-JOHN HOME-GEORGE COLMAN-ARTHUR MURPHY-HUGH KELCUMBERLAND-RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN-MRS. HANNAH GARRICK-REV. MR. TOWNLEY-SAMUEL FOOTE-COFFEY

COWLEY-DAVID

CHARLES DIBDIN.

HE most distinguishing feature of the dramatic literature of this period is the complete separation of tragedy from comedy, and the origin of the Farce. In the brief remarks which this subject will here elicit, we shall, therefore, treat these three departments of the drama separately.

Of the tragic dramatists, one of the most successful and conspicuous was the author of the Night Thoughts.' Dr. Young, before he entered the church, produced three tragedies, all having one peculiarity, that they ended in suicide. The Revenge,' still a popular acting play, contains, amidst much rant, passages of strong passion and eloquent declamation. Like Othello, 'The Revenge' is founded on jealousy, and the principal character, Zanga, is a Moor. The latter, a son of the Moorish king Abdallah, is taken prisoner after a conquest of the Spaniards, in which his father fell, and is condemned to servitude by Don Alonzo. In revenge, he sows the seeds of jealousy in the mind of his conqueror, Alonzo, and then thus glories in the ruin of his victim :

Thou seest a prince, whose father thou hast slain,
Whose native country thou hast laid in blood,
Whose sacred person, oh! thou hast profaned,
Whose reign extinguished—what was left to me,
So highly born? No kingdom but revenge;
No treasure but thy torture and thy groans.
If men should ask who brought thee to thy end,
Tell them the Moor, and they will not despise thee.
If cold white mortals censure this great deed,
Warn them they judge not of superior beings,
Souls made of fire, and children of the sun,
With whom revenge is virtue.

In 1749, Dr. Johnson produced his tragedy of Irene; but it met with little success on the stage, and has never since been revived. It is cold and stately, but contains some admirable sentiments and maxims of morality, though destitute of elegance, simplicity, and pathos. The following passage in this play is of unusual merit:

To-morrow!

That fatal mistress of the young, the lazy,
The coward and the fool, condemned to lose
A useless life in waiting for to-morrow-
To gaze with longing eyes upon to-morrow,
Till interposing death destroys the prospect!
Strange! that this general fraud from day to day
Should fill the world with wretches undetected.
The soldier labouring through a winter's march,
Still sees to-morrow dressed in robes of triumph;
Still to the lover's long-expecting arms
To-morrow brings the visionary bride.
But thou, too old to bear another cheat,

Learn that the present hour alone is man's.

Between 1729, and his death, the author of 'The Seasons' produced the following five tragedies:-Sophonisba, Agamemnon, Edward and Eleonora, Tancred and Sigismunda, and Coriolanus. They all, however, exhibit the defects of Thomson's style, without its excellences. The author was deficient in 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 the imagination.

The Gustavus Vasa of Brooke, and the Barbarossa of Dr. Brown, were tragedies of a similar kind to those of Thomson, though more easy in dialogue, and animated in expression. The latter, sustained by the genius of Garrick, was unusually successful. The following sentiment, at the conclusion, is finely expressed :

Heaven but tries our virtue by affliction,

And oft the cloud which wraps the present hour
Serves but to brighten all our future days.

The Gamester, one of the most affecting domestic tragedies in the English language, was written by EDWARD MOORE, and produced upon the stage, in 1753. Though wanting the merit of ornamental poetical language and blank verse, the vivid picture drawn by the author of the evils of gambling, ending in despair and suicide, and the dramatic art evinced in the characters and incidents, have given, to this tragedy, a high place among acting dramas. The following thrilling scene, though long, will not bear to be curtailed:

THE GAMESTER'S LAST STAKE.

Beverley. Why, there's an end then. I have judged deliberately, and the result is death. How the self-murderer's account may stand, I know not; but this I know, the load of hateful life oppresses me too much. The horrors of my soul are more than I can bear. [Offers to kneel.] Father of mercy! I can not pray; despair has laid his iron hand upon me, and sealed me for perdition. Conscience! conscience! thy clamours are too loud: here's that shall silence thee. [Takes a phial of poison out of his pocket.] Thou art most friendly to the miserable. Come, then, thou cordial for sick minds, come to my heart. [Drinks it.] Oh, that the grave would bury memory as well as body! for, if the soul sces and feels the sufferings of those dear ones it leaves behind, the Everlasting has no vengeance to torment it deeper. I'll think no more on it; reflection comes too late; once there was a time for it, but now 'tis past. Who's there?

[Enter Jarvis.]

Jar. One that hoped to see you with better looks. Why do you turn so from me? I have brought comfort with me; and see who comes to give it welcome. Bev. My wife and sister! Why, 'tis but one pang more then, and farewell, world.

[Enter Mrs. Beverley and Charlotte.]

Mrs. B. Where is he? [Runs and embraces him.] O, I have him! I have him! And now they shall never part us more. I have news, love, to make you happy forever. Alas! he hears us not. Speak to me, love! I have no heart to see you thus. Bev. This is a sad place.

Mrs. B. We come to take you from it; to tell you the world goes well again; that Providence has seen our sorrows, and sent the means to help them; your uncle died yesterday.

Bev. My uncle? No, do not say so. O! I am sick at heart!

Mrs. B. Indeed, I meant to bring you comfort.

Bev. Tell me he lives, then; if you would bring me comfort, tell me he lives.

Mrs. B. And if I did, I have no power to raise the dead. He died yesterday. Bev. And I am heir to him?

Jar. To his whole estate, sir. But bear it patiently, pray bear it patiently.

Bev. Well, well. [Pausing.] Why, fame says I am rich then?

Mrs. B. And truly so. Why do you look so wildly?

Bev. Do I? the news was unexpected. But has he left me all?

Jar. All, all, sir; he could not leave it from you.

Bev. I am sorry for it.

Mrs. B. Why are you disturbed so?

Bev. Has death no terrors in it?

Mrs. B. Not an old man's death; yet if it trouble you, I wish him living. Bev. And I, with all my heart; for I have a tale to tell, shall turn you into stone; or if the power of speech remain, you shall kneel down and curse me. Mrs. B. Alas! Why are we to curse you? I'll bless you ever.

Bev. No; I have deserved no blessings. All this large fortune, this second bounty of heaven, that might have healed our sorrows, and satisfied our utmost hopes, in a cursed hour I sold last night.

Mrs. B. Impossible!

Bev. That devil Stukely, with all hell to aid him, tempted me to the deed. To pay false debts of honour, and to redeem past errors, I sold the reversion, sold it for a scanty sum, and lost it among villains.

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Bev. Liberty and life. Come, kneel and curse me.

Mrs. B. Then hear me, heaven. [Kneels.] Look down with mercy on his sorrows! Give softness to his looks, and quiet to his heart! On me, on me, if misery must be the lot of either, multiply misfortunes! I'll bear them patiently, so he be happy! These hands shall toil for his support; these eyes be lifted up for hourly blessings on him; and every duty of a fond and faithful wife be doubly done to cheer and comfort him. So hear me ! so reward me! [Rises.]

Bev. I would kneel too, but that offended heaven would turn my prayers into curses; for I have done a deed to make life horrible to you.

Mrs. B. What deed?

Jar. Ask him no questions, madam; this last misfortune has hurt his brain. A little time will give him patience.

Bev. Why is this villian here?

[Enter Stukely.]

Stuk. To give you liberty and safety. There, madam, is his discharge. [Gives a paper to Charlotte.] The arrest last night was made in friendship, but came too late.

Char. What mean you, sir?

Stuk. The arrest was too late, I say; I would have kept his hands from blood; but it was too late.

Mrs. B. His hands from blood! Whose blood?

Stuk. From Lewson's blood.

Char. No, villain! Yet what of Lewson; speak quickly.

Stuk. You are ignorant then; I thought I heard the murderer at confession. Char. What murderer? And who is murdered? Not Lewson? Say he lives, and I will kneel and worship you.

Stuk. And so I would; but that the tongues of all cry murder. I came in pity, not in malice; to save the brother, not to kill the sister. Your Lewson's dead. Char. O horrible!

Bev. Silence, I charge you. Proceed, sir.

Stuck. No; justice may stop the tale; and here's an evidence.

[Enter Bates.]

Bates. The news, I see, has reached you. But take comfort, madam. [To Charlotte.] There's one without inquiring for you; go to him, and lose no time. Char. O misery! misery!

Mrs. B. Follow her, Jarvis; if it be true that Lewson's dead, her grief may kill her.

Bates. Jarvis must stay here, madam; I have some questions for him.
Stuk. Rather let him fly; his evidence may crush his master.

Bev. Why, ay; this looks like management.

Bates. He found you quarrelling with Lewson in the street last night.

Mrs. B. No; I am sure he did not.

Jar. Or if I did

[To Beverley.]

Mrs. B. 'Tis false, old man; they had no quarrel, there was no cause for quarrel. Bev. Let him proceed, I say. O! I am sick! sick! Reach a chair.

[Jarvis brings it, he sits down.] Mrs. B. You droop and tremble, love. Yet you are innocent. If Lewson's dead, you killed him not.

[Enter Dawson.]

Stuk. Who sent for Dawson ?

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