My husband bloody, and his friend too! murther! Who has done this? speak to me, thou sad vision;

[Ghosts sink.

On these poor trembling knees I beg it: vanish'd—
Here they went down; oh! I'll dig, dig the den up.
You shan't delude me thus. Hoa, Jaffeir, Jaffeir.
Peep up and give me but a look. I have him!
I've got him, father: oh! how I'll smuggle him!
My love! my dear! my blessing! help me! help me!
They have hold on me, and drag me to the bottom!
Nay-now they pull so hard-farewell——

Maid. She's dead,

Breathless and dead.

Pri. Then guard me from the sight on't:
Lead me into some place that 's fit for mourning;
Where the free air, light, and the cheerful sun
May never enter: hang it round with black;
Set up one taper that may last a day,

As long as I've to live: and there all leave me :
Sparing no tears when you this tale relate,
But bid all cruel fathers dread my fate.

[She dies.

[Curtain falls.

Our last illustration of the Later Stuart Drama shall be a comedy written by John Crowne in accordance with a suggestion of Charles the Second. John Crowne, was who the son of an independent minister in Nova Scotia, began his career as dramatist in London in 1671, with the tragicomedy of “Juliana,” and closed it with the tragedy of "Caligula," in 1698, having produced eighteen plays. His comedy of "City Politics," printed in 1675, attacked the Whigs, and made him enemies. When he sought of the king some office that would ensure him maintenance without constant exertion as a dramatist, the king promised to help him when he had written one play more, as a farewell to the stage. It was to be a comedy, and written, by his Majesty's command, on the plot of a Spanish play by Moreto, No Puede Ser (It Cannot Be), founded on the Mayor Imposible of Lope de Vega. An English play had already been formed on the same theme, called “ Tarugo's Wiles," which had failed; but Crowne took pains to satisfy the king with wit that would ensure his worldly comfort for the future, and his twelfth play, the comedy "Sir Courtly Nice," was the result. But the king had an apoplectic stroke on the last day of its rehearsal, and died three days afterwards, on the 6th of February, 1685. The play, therefore, was produced at the beginning of the reign of James the Second

SIR COURTLY NICE, OR IT CANNOT BE, takes its second title straight from Moreto. What cannot be is the shutting up of a woman from a suitor whom she favours and who is determined to have access to her. Lord Belguard is resolved to keep all men away from his sister Leonora, except Sir Courtly Nice, whom he intends that she shall marry. sets as guards over her, an aunt aged fifty, and Hothead and Testimony, one "a choleric Zealot against Fanatics," the other "a canting hypocritical Fanatic," who, being fierce opponents, cannot unite to deceive him, and will serve, he believes, as checks on each other in the watching of the lady. Leonora has for

He

ally a damsel, Violante, whom her brother, Lord Belguard, desires to marry and who is ready, for her own sake as well as her friend's, to confound his plans for the safe custody of women; because, she says, "whilst he has this disease upon him so mortal to liberty, I dare venture on him no more than if he had the plague, or any other distemper dangerous to life. For what is life without liberty? To be his wife is worse than to be a ghost, for that walks and enjoys a little chat sometimes, but I must be laid by a conjuror called a husband for my whole life." Leonora can have liberty only on terms.

Violante. What terms?

Leonora. Marriage with such a coxcomb, you know him— Sir Courtly Nice.

Vio. A tempting man, he has a vast estate.

Leo. But incumbered.

Vio. With what?

Leo. A fop. 'Tis mortgaged to a thousand expensive follies. If it were not, I would not drink water for the sake of a fine bowl chained to the well.

Leonora loves a youth with a fair and free estate, Mr. Farewel, but he is forbidden. There has been family feud since the Conquest between her family and that of the Farewels. Because she showed none of the proper bitterness, Leonora's father had left her fortune tied by condition of her brother's assent to her marriage. The First Act, after opening the story in dialogue between Violante and Leonora, shows next the two guardians Hothead and Testimony, one a fanatical Church and State man, the other a fanatical Puritan, in feud together. Hothead, who is my lord's cousin, is offended at the bringing of Testimony into the household. Another part of Lord Belguard's method is to allow no handsome servants in the house. "I believe," says Leonora to her friend when the two fanatics have left her for a time, "I believe they are now all together in the pantry, and my aunt among 'em, distributing their breakfasts-the monsters will be worth seeing-open the door."

"The scene is drawn, and a company of crooked, withered, ill-looked fellows are at breakfast, and Aunt with them." The humours of Aunt are then set forth before Lord Belguard enters, and closes the Act in dialogue with his sister and Violante, wherein he maintains his doctrine that "woman like china should be kept with care."

The Second Act opens in Violante's lodging, with encouragement to Farewel to be bold, and with his declaration that Leonora's brother could not keep him out, "though guards were set on guards, till their confounded coxcombs reached the skies," for he has leagued with a witch; "at least a young fellow that has more tricks than a witch." This is Crack, once a poor student of Oxford, but expelled for his wild ways, though no offence could ever be fixed upon him. He enters presently; and comes ready to put out his wits on hire.

Farewel. Mr. Crack, your servant.

Crack. Your servant, sir, your humble servant, madam.

Violante. Your servant, sir; I am told you have been an Oxford scholar.

Leo. (aside) You will not find it so

Bel. Sir Courtly, I'll betray her to you. I left her in tears upon an unhappy occasion, and at parting told her I would bring you. Now you are come, I find her in joy. Nothing else could cause the change.

Then follows another scene of Sir Courtly's courtship, during which he becomes absorbed in the contemplation of himself in the glass. This gives Leonora her opportunity of slipping away, and before Sir Courtly has finished his studies in the mirror, Aunt has entered, and the neat, pretty things he says are received by her as intended for herself. When he turns round and sees who is in the room, he resolves to improve the opportunity. The Aunt governs the niece. Her consent to his suit for Leonora will be of considerable value. She may help to make him happy. "Well, madam," he asks, Well, madam," he asks, "shall I have your consent to my happiness, my glory?" "Oh, dear, sir! is it possible to answer you so soon?" "So soon, madam, you know my passion has been long." The dialogue is ambiguous enough to end in the belief of Sir Courtly that Aunt is going to put Leonora masked in a coach to be married to him at the nearest church, and in the Aunt's belief that it is she who is to be, in such wise, immediately married. Then Crack contrives that Leonora, in her vizard, shall be hustled out of the housedoor by Hothead and Testimony as a strange woman, who had slipped in for an evil purpose. Once out of the house, Farewel is married to Leonora, and Sir Courtly finds that Aunt has become Lady Courtly Nice. Belguard is laughed at by Violante, and yields up his faith in the art of conserving women. Violante requires that he shall consent to see her kissed by Mr. Surly, in witness to his abandonment of all false jealousy. But when Surly is about to take the kiss, his ears are boxed and Lord Belguard is made as happy as his sister. But Sir Courtly's complaisance has found a limit. He will not take his old woman home.

.

THEATRE CHECKS OF THE BEGINNING OF THE REIGN OF JAMES II. (1684, OLD STYLE.)

CHAPTER IX.

FROM THE ENGLISH REVOLUTION TO THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.-A.D. 1689 to A.D. 1789.

THE comedies of William Wycherley were all produced in the reign of Charles II.; those of William Congreve in the reign of William III., Congreve being thirty-two years younger than Wycherley. He was the second son of a Staffordshire gentleman, Richard Congreve, of Congreve and Stretton; was educated at Kilkenny and at Trinity College, Dublin, having at each place among his companions Jonathan Swift, who was about two years his senior. From Dublin Congreve came to London, entered himself of the Middle Temple, went into society, and published when twenty-one a novel written at the age of seventeen. At the same age of twenty-one, in 1693, Congreve saw his first play acted at Drury Lane. It was "The Old Bachelor," which he said he had written "several years before to amuse himself in a slow recovery from a fit of sickness." Dryden said he had never seen such a first play. Betterton and four chief actresses of the day appeared in it. Charles Montague, afterwards Lord Halifax, rewarded the young wit with the office of a commissioner for licensing hackney-coaches. Some twenty years later he obtained also a place in the Pipe Office, and then another place, which was in the Customs and worth six hundred a year. Congreve lived on his private means and the income derived from such patronage, with addition for some years from the theatre, although he professed to write plays only for his amusement. "The Double Dealer" was produced in 1694, with less success than "The Old Bachelor." In 1695 Betterton and other good actors seceded from Drury Lane, and opened a new theatre within a tennis-court in Lincoln's Inn Fields. They made their start with a new comedy by Congreve, "Love for Love," which had a brilliant success. The actors of the new company gave Congreve a share in the profits of the house, besides his author's profits, on condition of his writing for them only, and furnishing a play a year if his health was good enough. His next play was a tragedy, "The Mourning Bride," produced in. 1697-which opens with the often quoted line, "Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast"and this was even more successful than the comedy. His last comedy was "The Way of the World,” in 1700, a comedy excellent of its kind, that fell short of the usual success. A short masque of "The Judgment of Paris," and an opera, "Semele," were written a few years later. He died in January, 1729, aged fifty-seven, and although he published nothing during the last eighteen years of his life, partly, perhaps, because the act of writing was made difficult to him by great weakness of sight, he maintained the foremost reputation among wits and critics. He was kindly. Gay speaks of him as "friendly Congreve, unreproachful man ;" and if fashionable life of the day had been a little wiser than it was, there might have been some gentler feeling joined to the hard, worldly wit of comedy from the man who, in writing a paper for Steele's "Tatler" on the

follows it. Almeria is brought to the great tomb by Leonora.

Leon. Behold the sacred vault, within whose womb
The poor remains of good Anselmo rest;

Yet fresh and unconsumed by time or worms!
What do I see? O Heaven! either my eyes
Are false, or still the marble door remains
Unclosed: the iron gates that lead to death
Beneath, are still wide-stretched upon their hinge,
And staring on us with unfolded leaves.

Alm. Sure 'tis the friendly yawn of death for me;
And that dumb mouth, significant in show,
Invites me to the bed where I alone

Shall rest; shows me the grave, where nature, weary
And long oppressed with woes and bending cares,
May lay the burden down, and sink in slumbers
Of peace eternal. Death, grim death, will fold
Me in his leaden arms, and press me close
To his cold clayey breast; my father then
Will cease his tyranny; and Garcia too
Will fly my pale deformity with loathing.

My soul, enlarged from its vile bonds, will mount,
And range the starry orbs and milky ways
Of that refulgent world where I shall swim
In liquid light, and float on seas of bliss
To my Alphonso's soul. O joy too great!
O ecstacy of thought! Help me, Anselmo ;
Help me, Alphonso: take me, reach thy hand;
To thee, to thee I call, to thee, Alphonso:
O Alphonso!

ALMERIA, LEONORA. OSMYN ascending from the tomb.
Osm. Who calls that wretched thing that was Alphonso?
Alm. Angels, and all the host of heaven, support me!
Osm. Whence is that voice, whose shrillness, from the
grave,

And growing to his father's shroud, roots up
Alphonso?

Alm. Mercy! Providence! oh, speak!
Speak it quickly, quickly! speak to me,

Comfort me, help me, hold me, hide me, hide me,
Leonora, in thy bosom, from the light,
And from my eyes!

That motionless I may be still deceived.
Let me not stir, nor breathe, lest I dissolve
That tender, lovely form of painted air,
So like Almeria. Ha! it sinks, it falls ;
I'll catch it ere it goes, and grasp her shade.
'Tis life! 'tis warm! 'tis she! 'tis she herself!
Nor dead nor shade, but breathing and alive!
It is Almeria, 'tis, it is my wife!

ALMERIA, LEONORA, OSMYN, and HELI. Leon. Alas, she stirs not yet, nor lifts her eyes! He too is fainting.-Help me, help me, stranger, Whoe'er thou art, and lend thy hand to raise These bodies.

I taste her breath, I warmed her and am warmed. Look up, Almeria, bless me with thine eyes; Look on thy love, thy lover, and thy husband.

Alm. I've sworn I'll not wed Garcia; why d'ye force me? Is this a father?

Osm.

Look on thy Alphonso.

Thy father is not here, my love, nor Garcia:

Nor am I what I seem, but thy Alphonso.

Wilt thou not know me ? Hast thou then forgot me?

Hast thou thy eyes, yet canst not see Alphonso?

Am I so altered, or art thou so changed,
That seeing my disguise thou seest not me?
Alm. It is, it is Alphonso! 'tis his face,
His voice! I know him now, I know him all.
Oh, take me to thy arms, and bear me hence,
Back to the bottom of the boundless deep,

To seas beneath, where thou so long hast dwelt.
Oh, how hast thou returned? how hast thou charmed
The wildness of the waves and rocks to this?
That thus relenting, they have given thee back
To earth, to light and life, to love and me.

Osm. Oh, I'll not ask, nor answer how, or why
We both have backward trod the paths of fate,
To meet again in life; to know I have thee,
Is knowing more than any circumstance
Or means by which I have thee.

To fold thee thus, to press thy balmy lips,

And gaze upon thy eyes, is so much joy,
I have not leisure to reflect, or know,
Or trifle time in thinking.

Alm.

Stay a while

Let me look on thee, yet a little more.
Osm. What wouldst thou? thou dost put me from thee.
Alm.
Yes.

Osm. And why? what dost thou mean? why dost thou gaze so ?

Alm. I know not; 'tis to see thy face, I think—

It is too much too much to bear and live!

To see him thus again is such profusion

Of joy, of bliss-I cannot bear-I must
Be mad-I cannot be transported thus.

Osm. Thou excellence, thou joy, thou heaven of love!
Alm. Where hast thou been? and how art thou alive?
How is all this? All-powerful Heaven, what are we!
Oh, my strained heart!-let me again behold thee,
For I weep to see thee.-Art thou not paler?
Much, much; how thou art changed!

Alm. No, no; thy griefs, I know, have done this to thee. Thou hast wept much, Alphonso; and I fear,

Too much, too tenderly, lamented me.

Osm. Wrong not my love, to say too tenderly.
No more, my life; talk not of tears or grief;
Affliction is no more, now thou art found.

Why dost thou weep, and hold thee from my arms;
My arms which ache to fold thee fast, and grow
To thee with twining? Come, come to my heart.
Alm. I will, for I should never look enough.
They would have married me; but I had sworn
To Heaven and thee, and sooner would have died.
Osm. Perfection of all faithfulness and love!
Alm. Indeed I would.-Nay, I would tell thee all,
If I could speak; how I have mourned and prayed;
For I have prayed to thee as to a saint:
And thou hast heard my prayer, for thou art come
To my distress, to my despair, which Heaven
Could only by restoring thee have cured.