I charge thee, no; my genius drives me on; Perhaps it is the crisis of my fate, And this one interview shall end my cares. Luc. Trust not to that: Rage is the shortest passion of our souls; Like narrow brooks that rise with sudden showers, It swells in haste, and falls again as soon; CAL. I have been wronged enough to arm my temper Chide not my weakness, gentle maid, but pity me- WILLIAM LILLO. · (Exit Lucilla. 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 (1693–1739), a jeweller in London. Lillo carried on business successfully for several years, dying with property to a considerable amount, and an estate worth £60 per annum. Possessing a literary taste, this industrious 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 bumble 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 Campbell in the following eloquent paragraph: 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 elevation 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 seeptred 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. YOUNG WILMor, unknown, enters the house of his parents and delivers them a casket, requesting to retire an hour for rest. AGNES the mother, alone, with the easket in her hand. AGNES. Who should this stranger be? And then this casket- As if a trifle, to a stranger's hand. His confidence amazes me. Perhaps It is not what he says. I'm strongly tempted Why should my curiosity excite me To search and pry into the affairs of others, Who have to employ my thoughts so many cares Leaps at the glorious sight. How bright's the lustre, Ay, such a treasure would expel for ever At our approach, and once more bend before us. 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 sinks 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 He seems to me a youth of great humanity: Begged me to comfort thee, and Dost thou hear me? Why have you opened it? Should this be known, 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. shews sovereign comtempt And noble scorn of its relentless malice. AGNES. Shews 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 sitting 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. O. WIL. Strange folly! Where's the means? Perhaps thou dost but try me; yet take heed 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, O. WIL. It is no matter, whether this or that Or none could act amiss. And that all err, Reason, his noblest power, may be suborned 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 We must despatch him sleeping: should he wake, 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! Oh, 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, 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 To seek his bread 'mongst strangers, and to perish The loveliest youth in person and in mind I ought not to reproach thee. I confess That thou hast suffered much: so have we both. Ere he reclined him on the fatal couch, From which he 's ne'er to rise, took off the sash If you make use of that, I can assist. 'Tis a dreadful office, and I'll spare Thy trembling hands the guilt. Steal to the door, Or I'm deceived, or he pronounced himself The happiest of mankind. Deluded wretch ! Are withering in their bloom. But though extinguished, Of every joy, and even hope itself, As I have done. Why do I mourn him then? WILLIAM CONGREVE. [Exit Agnes. 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 at Bardsey, in the West Riding of Yorkshire, and baptised February 10, 1669-70. He was of a good family, and his father held a military employment in Ireland, where the poet was educated-first at Kilkenny School, and then at Trinity College, Dublin. He studied |