And know you by myself. If these sad eyes, And every thing that I would have in her. [Embraces her.] Bland. Sir, we congratulate your happiness; I do most heartily. More precious time than I can spare you now. I have a thousand things to ask of her, And she as many more to know of me. But you have made me happier, I confess, Have words or power to tell you. Captain, you, Even you, who most have wronged me, I forgive. I wo' not say you have betrayed me now: I'll think you but the minister of fate, To bring me to my loved Imoinda here. Imo. How, how shall I receive you? how be worthy These are the transports of prosperity Oroo. Let the fools Who follow fortune live upon her smiles; We have enough of that to make us happy. This little spot of earth you stand upon Is more to me than the extended plains Of my great father's kingdom. Here I reign In full delights, in joys to power unknown; Your love my empire, and your heart my throne. [Exeunt.] Southerne, according to Hallam, was the first English writer who denounced, as he did in this play, the traffic in slaves, and the cruelties of their West Indian bondage. This is an honor that, in any mention of this dramatist, should never be forgotten. 'Isabella' is a more correct and regular drama than ‘Oroonoko,' and the part of the heroine affords scope for a tragic actress, scarcely inferior, in pathos, to 'Belvidera.' Otway, however, has greater depth of passion, and is more vigorous in the delineation of character. The plot of 'Isabella' is very simple. In abject distress, and believing her husband, Biron, dead, Isabella is hurried into a second mar riage. Biron returns, and the distress of the heroine terminates in madness and death. The following scene, embracing Biron's return, is of a very high order of dramatic writing : A CHAMBER. [Enter Isabella.] Isa. I've heard of witches, magic spells, and charms, The sun has been eclipsed, the moon drawn down To the abuses of this under world. This little ring, with necromantic force, Has raised the ghost of pleasure to my fears; My fears were woman's-I have viewed him all; And let me, let me say it to myself, I live again, and rise but from his tomb. Bir. Have you forgot me quite ? Isa. Forgot you! Bir. Then farewell my disguise, and my misfortunes! My Isabella! Isa. Ha! Bir. Oh! come again; [He goes to her, she shrieks, and faints.] Thy Biron summons thee to life and love; Excess of love and joy for my return, Without the mind; but passion 's in the soul, And always speaks the heart. Isa. Where have I been? Why do you keep him from me? I know his voice; my life, upon the wing, Hears the soft lure that brings me back again; 'Tis he himself, my Biron, Do I hold you fast, Never to part again? If I must fall, death 's welcome in these arms. Bir. Live ever in these arms. Isa. But pardon me; Excuse the wild disorder of my soul; The joy, the strange surprising joy of seeing you, Of seeing you again, distracted me. Bir. Thou everlasting goodness! Isa. Answer me: What hand of Providence has brought you back To your own home again? Oh, tell me all, For every thought confounds me. Bir. My best life! at leisure all. Isa. We thought you dead; killed at the siege of Candy. But hopes of life reviving from my wounds, I was preserved but to be made a slave. I often writ to my hard father, but never had An answer; I writ to thee too. Isa. What a world of woe Had been prevented but in hearing from you! Bir. Alas! thou could'st not help me. Isa. You do not know how much I could have done; At least, I'm sure I could have suffered all; I would have sold myself to slavery, Without redemption: given up my child, The dearest part of me, to basest wants. Bir. My little boy! Isa. My life, but to have heard You were alive. Bir. No more, my love; complaining of the past, We lose the present joy. 'Tis over price Of all my pains, that thus we meet again! I have a thousand things to say to thee. Isa. Would I were past the hearing. Bir. How does my child, my boy, my father too? I hear he 's living still. Isa. Well, both; both well; And may he prove a father to your hopes, Though we have found him none. Bir. Come, no more tears. Isa. Seven long years of sorrow for your loss Have mourned with me. Bir. And all my days to come Shall be employed in a kind recompense For thy afflictions. Can't I see my boy? [Aside.] Isa. He's gone to bed; I'll have him brought to you. Isa. Alas! what shall I get for you? Bir. Nothing but rest, my love. To-night I would not Be known, if possible, to your family: I see my nurse is with you; her welcome Would be tedious at this time; To-morrow will do better. Isa. I'll dispose of her, and order every thing As you would have it. Bir. Grant me but life, good Heaven, and give the means To make this wondrous goodness some amends; And let me then forget her, if I can. Oh! she deserves of me much more than I Can lose for her, though I again could venture A father and his fortune for her love! [Enter Isabella.] Isa. I have obeyed your pleasure; Every thing is ready for you. Bir. I can want nothing here; possessing thee, All my desires are carried to their aim Of happiness; there's no room for a wish, But to continue still this blessing to me; I know the way, my love. I shall sleep sound. Isa. Shall I attend you? Bir. By no means; I've been so long a slave to others' pride, To learn, at least, to wait upon myself; You'll make haste after? [Exit.] Ha! a lucky thought Works the right way to rid me of them all; That every tongue and finger will find for me. But keep me warm; no matter what can come. Have a last look, to heighten my despair, And then to rest forever. Comic scenes are interspersed throughout Southerne's tragedies, which, though they relieve the sombre coloring of the main action and interest of the piece, are sometimes misplaced and unpleasant, NICHOLAS ROWE, one of the most successful tragic poets of the present period, was descended from ancestors who distinguished themselves in the Holy Wars, and born at Little Beckford, Bedfordshire, in 1673. The first years of his classical study were passed at a private grammar-school in Highgate, after which he was sent to Westminster, where he attained to great excellence in classical learning, under the direction of the celebrated Busby. To his skill in Latin and Greek he is said to have added very considerable knowledge of the Hebrew, but from childhood poetry was his passion. His father, who was himself a lawyer, designed him for the legal profession; and with this view he took him from school at the age of sixteen, and entered him as a student in the Middle Temple. Being capable of acquiring with facility, any branch of knowledge, Rowe made great proficiency in the law, and would doubtless have risen to distinction in that profession, had not the softer graces of the muses drawn him from so laborious a pursuit. When in the twenty-fifth year of his age, he produced his first tragedy, The Ambitious Stepmother, the representation of which was attended with such marked success, that he at once relinquished the law, and resolved to devote himself to the drama. "The Ambitious Stepmother' was followed by Tamerlane, The Fair Penitent, Ulysses, The Royal Convert, Jane Shore, and Lady Jane Grey. He also wrote a comedy, The Biter, which proved a failure. Rowe, on rising into fame as an author, was munificently patronized. The Duke of Queensberry appointed him secretary for public affairs; and on the accession of George the First, he was made poet laureate, and surveyor of the customs. The Prince of Wales also appointed him clerk of his council, and the Lord Chancellor gave him the office of secretary for the presentations. One of the secrets of his success was, in all probability, his great personal popularity. It is remarked that his voice was so uncommonly sweet, his observations so lively, and his manners so engaging, that his friends, among whom were Addison, Swift, and Pope, always delighted in his society. With all his attractive traits of character, Rowe was a man of superficial feelings, and hence Pope declared that he had no heart. He |