Lil

struction and conviction with good nature good manners. The plot of Fatal Curiosity,! that of Barnwell, was taken from private 1 An unhappy old man and his wife who livec Penryn in Cornwall, impatient under their misfortu and rendered desperate by extreme poverty, i dered their guest, a sailor just returned from Indies, for the sake of his wealth: to aggravate th atrociousness of the crime, upon examination, tɩ murdered person proved to be their own son. has happily varied some of the circumstances of th dismal story, and has added others to render it moi dramatic. The language of this play is more elevate than that of any of our author's works; in some fe passages it must be owned that it is too rich an flowery, and partakes rather of the descriptive tha the familiar stile suited to the subject and character. However the author has seldom indulged himself this luxuriancy of fancy; for in general his styl plain and easy, though vigorous and energetic; a he is remarkable in this tragedy and in Elmer for a magnificent simplicity of style, so justly con mended by Mr. Colman in Massinger and the rest our old dramatic writers. Fielding was not mere content to revise Fatal Curiosity, and to instru the actors how to do justice to their parts. warmly recommended the play to his friends, and the public. Besides all this he presented the auth with a well written prologue; which, as it contaras

just criticism on modern tragedies, the reader I hope will not be displeased to find here.

PROLOGUE TO FATAL CURIOSITY.

"THE Tragic Muse has long forgot to please
With Shakspeare's nature, or with Fletcher's ease:
No passion mov'd, thro' five long acts you sit,
Charm'd with the poet's language, or his wit.
Fine things are said, no matter whence they fall;
Each single character might speak them all.
But from this modern fashionable way,
To-night, our author begs your leave to stray.
No fustian hero rages here to-night;
No armies fall, to fix a tyrant's right:
From lower life we draw our scene's distress:
-Let not your equals move your pity less!
Virtue distrest in humble state support;
Nor think she never lives without the court.
Tho' to our scenes no royal robes belong,
And tho' our little stage as yet be young,
Throw both your scorn and prejudice aside;
Let us with favour not contempt be tried;
Thro' the first acts a kind attention lend,
The growing scene shall force you to attend ;
Shall catch the eyes of every tender fair,
And make them charm their lovers with a tear.
The lover too by pity shall impart

His tender passion to his fair one's heart :
The breast which others' anguish cannot move,
Was ne'er the seat of friendship, or of love."

In the conduct of this play Lillo has shewn great judgment. The characters of Old Wilmot and is Wife exhibit strong pictures of pride heightened by poverty, impatience and despair. The reader is

VOL. I.

frequently though gradually prepared for the dreadful catastrophe in the last scene of the drama. This tragedy is I believe little known, and though I am an enemy to long citations, I shall quote some particular interesting speeches in the first and second act, and a whole scene in the last, which by many is esteem'd a masterpiece of writing. Old Wilmot begins the play with a soliloquy that strongly marks his character and situation.

O. Wilm. The day is far advanc'd; the chearful sun
Pursues with vigour his repeated course;

No labour lessening nor no time decaying
His strength, or splendor: evermore the same,
From age to age his influence sustains

Dependent worlds, bestows both life and motion
On the dull mass that forms the dusky orbs,
Chears them with heat, and gilds them with his
brightness.

Yet man, of jarring elements compos'd,

Who posts from change to change, from the first hour Of his frail Being till his dissolution,

Enjoys the sad prerogative above him,

To think, and to be wretched.-What is life,

To him that's born to die! or what that wisdom

Whose perfection ends in knowing we know nothing!
Mere contradiction all! A tragic farce,

Tedious tho' short, and without art elaborate,
Ridiculously sad-

In the following scene the author artfully contrives to make the unhappy old man discharge the only person who could have prevented the murder of his son, at the same time that he introduces the character of the amiable Charlot, on whose bounty they

had hitherto subsisted, though now they were reduced to the lowest ebb of poverty. Old Wilmot when he parts with his faithful servant, Randal, who is willing to endure the utmost distress rather than quit his service, gives him such advice for his future conduct in the world as farther displays his distressful situation and the impatience of his mind.

O. Wilm.

--Prithee, Randal, How long hast thou been with me? Rand.

Fifteen years.

I was a very child when first
you took me
To wait upon your son, my dear young master!
I oft have wish'd, I'd gone to India with him;
Tho' you, desponding, give him o'er for lost.

[Old Wilmot wipes his eyes. I am to blame-this talk revives your sorrow For his absence.

O. Wilm.

How can that be reviv'd,

Which never died?

Rand.

The whole of my intent

Was to confess your bounty, that supplied

The loss of both my parents; I was long

The object of your charitable care.

O.W. No more ofthat; Thou'st serv'd me longer since
Without reward; so that account is balanc'd,
Or rather I'm thy debtor-I remember,
When poverty began to show her face

Within these walls, and all my other servants,
Like pamper'd vermin from a falling house,
Retreated with the plunder they had gain'd,
And left me, too indulgent and remiss
For such ungrateful wretches, to be crush'd
Beneath the ruin they had help'd to make,
That

you, more good than wise, refus'd to leave me.

Rand. Nay, I beseech you, sir!

O. Wilm.

With my distress, In perfect contradiction to the world, Thy love, respect and diligence increas'd; Now all the recompence within my power, Is to discharge thee, Randal, from my hard, Unprofitable service.

Rand.

Heaven forbid!

Shall I forsake you in your worst necessity?-
Believe me, sir, my honest soul abhors

The barb'rous thought.

O. Wilm.

What! canst thou feed on air?

I have not left wherewith to purchase food
For one meal more.

Rand.

Rather than leave you thus,

I'll beg my bread, and live on others bounty
While I serve you.

O. Wilm.

Down, down my swelling heart,

Or burst in silence: 'tis thy cruel fate
Insults thee by his kindness-he is iunocent
Of all the pain it gives thee-Go thy ways-
I will no more suppress thy youthful hopes
Of rising in the world.

Rand.

'Tis true, I'm young,
And never tried my fortune, or my genius:
Which may perhaps find out some happy means,
As yet unthought of, to supply your wants.

O. Wilm. Thou tortur'st me—I hate all obligations
Which I can ne'er return--And who art thou,
That I should stoop to take 'em from thy hand!
Care for thyself, but take no thought for me;