died on the sixth of December, 1718, and was buried in Westminster Abbey, opposite the tomb of Chaucer. Rowe's tragedies are passionate and tender, with a smooth and easy style of versification, not unlike that of Ford. His 'Jane Shore,' written professedly in imitation of Shakspeare, is still occasionally performed, and is very effective in those pathetic scenes which exhibit the sufferings of the heroine. 'The Fair Penitent,' was long a popular drama, and the 'gallant gay Lothario' was the prototype of many profligate and romantic heroes. Richardson elevated the character in his Lovelace, giving, at the same time, a purity and sanctity to the sorrows of Clarissa, which leaves Rowe's Calista immeasurably behind. Tamerlane' was the favorite tragedy of the author; but as the principal characters were local, the hero being intended for King William, and Bajazet, for Louis the Fourteenth, its interest has long since passed away. The incidents of Rowe's dramas are well arranged for stage effect, and were adapted to the taste of the age. His plays are, however, at present but little read. We present the following death-scene from 'Jane Shore: JANE SHORE, HER HUSBAND, AND BELMOUR. Bel. How fare you, lady? Jane S. My heart is thrilled with horror. Bel. Be of courage; Your husband lives! 'tis he, my worthiest friend. Jane S. Still art thou there? still dost thou hover round me? Oh, save me, Belmour, from his angry shade! Bel. 'Tis he himself! he lives! look up. Jane S. I dare not. Oh, that my eyes could shut him out forever! Shore. Am I so hateful, then, so deadly to thee, And shield me with thy sable wing forever. indeed? Shore. Why dost thou turn away? Why tremble thus ? Why thus indulge thy fears, and in despair Abandon thy distracted soul to horror? Cast every black and guilty thought behind thee, And let 'em never vex thy quiet more. My arms, my heart, are open to receive thee, To bring thee back to thy forsaken home, Now, while occasion seems to smile upon us, Forsake this place of shame, and find a shelter. Jane S. Alas! I'm wondrous faint: But that's not strange, I have not ate these three days. Jane S. Oh! I am sick at heart! Shore. Thou murderous sorrow! Wo 't thou still drink her blood, pursue her still? Speak peace to thy sad heart: she hears me not: [Enter Catesby with a Guard]. Cates. Seize on 'em both as traitors to the state! [Guards lay hold on Shore and Belmour.] Cates. Have we not found you, In scorn of the protector's strict command, Shore. Infamy on thy head! Thou tool of power, thou pander to authority! I tell thee, knave, thou know'st of none so virtuous, Cates. You'll answer this at full: away with 'em. Cates. Convey the men to prison; but for herLeave her to hunt her fortune as she may. Jane S. I will not part with him: for me!-for me! Oh! must he die for me? [Following him as he is carried off—she falls.] Shore. Inhuman villains! Stand off! the agonies of death are on her! [Breaks from the guards.] She pulls, she gripes me hard with her cold hand. Jane S. Was this blow wanting to complete my ruin? Oh! let me go, ye ministers of terror. He shall offend no more, for I will die, And yield obedience to your cruel master. And take my last breath with you. Shore. Oh, my love! Why dost thou fix thy dying eyes upon me With such an earnest, such a piteous look, As if thy heart were full of some sad meaning Jane S. Forgive me! but forgive me! Shore. Be witness for me, ye celestial host, Such mercy and such pardon as my soul Accords to thee, and begs of heaven to show thee, May such befall me at my latest hour, And make my portion blest or curst forever! Jane S. Then all is well, and I shall sleep in peace; 'Tis very dark, and I have lost you now: Was there not something I would have bequeathed you? Nothing but one sad sigh. Oh! mercy, heaven! [Dies.] Besides his dramatic works, Rowe was the author of two volumes of miscellaneous poems, in which, however, he scarcely ever rises above mediocrity. He was the earliest editor of Shakspeare entitled to the name, and the first to attempt the collection of a few biographical particulars of the immortal dramatist's life. He also translated 'Lucan's Pharsalia;' and Dr. Johnson regarded this performance as one of the greatest productions of English poetry,' 'for,' says he, 'there is, perhaps, none that so completely exhibits the genius and spirit of the original.' Though this praise may be somewhat extravagant, still Rowe's 'Pharsalia' deserves much more notice than it has hitherto received; and should it be more extensively read, it would be more highly appreciated. Lecture the Twenty-Eighth. WILLIAM CONGREVE-SIR JOHN VANBRUGH-GEORGE FARQUHAR--COLLEY CIBBER -MRS. SUSANNA CENTLIVRE-WILLIAM LILLO-SIR RICHARD STEELE-AARON HILL. FROM ROM the tragic poets who occupied our chief attention during the last lecture, we pass to notice their contemporary comedy writers. Among these, Congreve, Vanbrugh, and Farquhar are most conspicuous. WILLIAM CONGREVE was descended from a family in Staffordshire, of so great antiquity that it claims a place among the few that can trace their ancestry beyond the Norman Conquest. He was born at Bardsa, near Leeds, in 1672; but in consequence of some military appointment which his father held in Ireland, the future poet was carried, in his infancy, to that country, and there educated. This circumstance has given rise to the impression long current, that Ireland was the country of his nativity. His studies were at first conducted at the grammar-school of Kilkenny, and afterward in Dublin; and though his proficiency in classical learning was very respectable, it was attained without the aid of a university. About the time of the Revolution, when Congreve was in the seventeenth year of his age, his father sent him to study law in the Middle Temple, London, where he lived for several years, but with very little attention to statutes or reports. 'His inclination to become an author,' says Dr. Johnson, 'appeared even in his youth; for at that early period he felt that force of imagination, and possessed that copiousness of sentiment which uniformly afford intellectual pleasure.' Congreve's first essay in authorship was a novel under the title of Incognita, or Love and Duty reconciled. This work, when we remember that the author was not yet seventeen years of age at the time it was written, must be regarded as a very unusual production. His first dramatic performance was his comedy of The Old Bachelor. The success of this play, after it had undergone slight revisions by Dryden and Southerne, was so great as to recommend the youthful author to the patronage of Lord Halifax, who being desirous to place so eminent a wit in a condition of ease and tranquillity, immediately made him one of the commissioners for licensing hackney coaches; and soon after appointed him to a place in the customs, from which he received six hundred pounds a year. The very remarkable success that attended 'The Old Bachelor,' induced Congreve to bring out, in the following year, 1694, his second comedy, The Double Dealer. This play, though highly approved and commended by the best judges, was not so successful as the first; the cause of which is supposed to have been its regularity—regular comedy then being a new thing before an English audience. The death of Queen Mary, at the close of this year, drew from Congreve a Pastoral, entitled The Mourning Muse of Alexis, which is simple, correct, and partially elegant, but in no respect remarkable. In another year, 1695, Congreve's prolific pen produced Love for Love, a comedy more nearly allied to life, and exhibiting more real manners than either of the former. Having thoroughly established his reputation as a comic writer, he now invoked the tragic muse, and, in 1697, produced The Mourning Bride, a tragedy written with such skill as to show that the author was entirely qualified for either department of dramatic poetry. His last drama, The Way of the World, a comedy, was written in 1700. When we reflect that all his fine plays were produced before he had reached the twenty-eighth year of his age, we are prepared to overlook such dramatic defects as they may contain, and to acknowledge that among all the efforts of early genius which literary history records, not one can be produced that more surpasses the common limits of nature, than the plays of Congreve. In 1710, Congreve published a collection of miscellaneous poems; and though none of them rise above mediocrity, yet his good fortune still followed him. On the accession of George the First, he obtained the office of secretary for Jamaica, which, though a mere nominal office, raised his annual income to twelve hundred pounds. Basking in the sunshine of opulence and courtly society, he now wished to forget that he was an author, and when Voltaire waited upon him, he said he would rather be considered a gentleman than a poet. If you had been merely a gentleman,' said the witty Frenchman, I should not have come to visit you.' In his retirement, Congreve devoted himself closely to his books, but his studies were at length interrupted by cataracts upon his eyes, which resulted in total blindness. This melancholy state was aggravated by the gout, from which he sought relief by a journey to Bath; but being overturned in his chariot, a disease in his side ensued, which eventually terminated his life, on the twenty-ninth of January, 1729. Having lain in state, in the Jerusalem Chamber, for some days, he was then buried in Westminster Abbey, and his pall was borne by the Duke of Bridgewater, Lord Cobham, the Earl of Wilmington, and other men of high rank. His fortune, which amounted to ten thousand pounds, he bequeathed to Henrietta, Duchess of Marlborough, by whom a monument was erected to his memory, and who purchased with the bequest a diamond necklace, which she wore in honor of her departed friend. With all Congreve's genius for the drama, we are constrained to say that |