world holds not such another wretch. All this] Stuke. Rather let him fly. His evidence large fortune, this second bounty of heaven, may crush his master. that might have healed our sorrows, and satisfied our utmost hopes, in a cursed hour I sold last night. Mrs. B. Impossible! Beo, That devil, Stukely, with all hell to aid him, tempted me to the deed. To pay false debts of honour, and to redeem past errors, I sold the reversion-Sold it for a scanty sum, and lost it among villains. Char. Why, farewell all then ! Beo. Liberty and life--Come, kneel and curse me. Mrs B. Then hear me, heaven! [Kneels] Look down with mercy on his sorrows! Give softness to his looks, and quiet to his heart! Take from his memory the sense of what is past, and cure him of despair! On me, on me, if misery must be the lot of either, multiply misfortunes! I'll bear them patiently, so he is happy! These hands shall toil for his support! These eyes be lifted up for hourly blessings on him! And every duty of a fond and faithful wife be doubly done, to cheer and comfort him! So hear me!-So reward me! [Rises. Bev. I would kneel too, but that offended heaven would turn my prayers into curses. For I have done a deed to make life horrible to you Mrs B. What deed? Jar. Ask him no questions, madam-This last misfortune has hurt his brain. A little time will give him patience. Enter STUKely. Beo. Why is this villain here! Stuke. To give you liberty and safety. There, madam, is his discharge. [Giving a Paper to Mrs. Beverley. The arrest last night was meant in friendship, but came too late. Char. What mean you, sir? Stuke. The arrest was too late. I say; I would have kept his hands from blood, but was too late. Mrs. B. His hands from blood!--whose blood Beo. Why ay; this looks like management. Bates. He found you quarrelling with Lew son in the streets last night. [To Beverley. Mrs. B. No; I am sure he did not. -They had no Mrs. B. 'Tis false, old manquarrel; there was no cause for quarrel. Bev. Let him proceed, I say-Oh! I am sick! sick!-Reach a chair. [He sits doon. Mrs. B. If Lewson's dead, you killed him not. Enter DAWSON. Stuke. Who sent for Dawson? Bates. Twas I-We have a witness too you little think of-without there ! Stuke. What witness? Bates. A right one. Look at him. Enter LEWSON and CHARLOTTE. [To Bates and Dawson. Mrs. B. Risen from the dead! VVhy, this is unexpected happiness! Char. Or is it his ghost? [To Stukely] That sight would please you, sir. Jar. What riddle's this? Beo. Be quick and tell it-My minutes are but few. Mrs. B. Alas! Why so? You shall live long and happily. Lew. While shame and punishment shall rack that viper! [Pointing to Stukely] The tale is short-I was too busy in his secrets. and therefore doomed to die. Bates, to pre vent the murder, undertook it-I kept aloof give it credit.— Char. And gave me pangs unutterable. Lew. I felt them all, and would have tok you-But vengeance wanted ripening. villain's scheme was but half executed. Thi Th arrest by Dawson followed the supposed murde -And now, depending on his once wicked as sociates, he comes to fix the guilt on Beverley Bates. Dawson and I are witnesses of this Lew. And of a thousand frauds. His for tune ruined by sharpers and false dice; ant Stuke. You are ignorant then! I thought I Stukely sole contriver and possessor of all. Char. No, villain! Yet what of Lewson? Speak quickly. heard the murderer at confession. Char. What murderer?-And who is murdered? Not Lewson? Say he lives, and I'll kneel and worship you. Stuke. In pity, so I would; but that the tongues of all cry murder. I came in pity, not in malice, to save the brother, not kill the sister. Your Lewson's dead. Char. Oh, horrible! Beo. Silence, I charge you-Proceed, sir. there's an evidence. Enter BATES. Bates. The news, I see, has reached you. But take comfort, madam. [To Charlotte] There's one without inquiring for you.-Go to him, and lose no time. [Erit. Daw. Had he but stopped on this side murder we had been villains still. Lew. How does my friend? [To Beverleg Bec. Why, well. Who's he that asks mei Mrs. B. 'Tis Lewson, love-Why do you look so at him? Beo. They told me he was murdered. [Wildly Mrs. B. Ay; but he lives to save us. Beo. Lend me your hand-The room turns round. Lew. This villain here disturbs him. Remove him from his sight-And, for your lives, see that you guard him. [Stukely is taken off by Dawson and Bates] How is it, sir? Beo. 'Tis here--and here. [Pointing to his Head and Heart] And now it tears me. Mrs. B. You feel convulsed too-What ist disturbs you? Char. O misery! misery! Mrs. B. Follow her, Jarvis. If it be true| Beo. A furnace rages in this heart-Down, that Lewson's dead, her grief may kill her. restless flames! [Laying his Hand on his Bates. Jarvis must stay here, madam. I Heart] Down to your native hell - There you have some questions for him. shall rack me--Oh! for a pause from pain!- Where's my wife?-Can you forgive me, love? Mrs. B. Alas! for what? Bev. For meanly dying. Mrs. B. No-do not say it. Mrs. B. Restore him, heaven! Oh, save him! save him! or let me die too. Beo. No; live, I charge you. - We have a little one.- -Though I have left him, you will Be. As truly as my soul must answer it-not leave him.-To Lewson's kindness I beHlad Jarvis staid this morning all had been queath him.-Is not this Charlotte?--We have well. But, pressed by shame-pent in a prison lived in love, though I have wronged you.-tormented with my pangs for you-driven Can you forgive me, Charlotte? to despair and madness-I took the advantage Char. Dreadful and cruel! Char. Forgive you! Oh, my poor brother! Lew. How is it, madam? Bee. Ay, most accursed-And now I go to my account. Bend me, and let me kneel. [Kneels.] I'll pray for you too. Thou power that madest me, hear me! If for a life of frailty, and this too hasty deed of death, thy justice Lew. Remove her from this sight-lead and dooms me, here I acquit the sentence; but if, support her-Some ministering angel bring her enthroned in mercy where thou sittest, thy peace! [Charlotte leads her off] And thou, pity has heheld me, send me a gleam of hope, poor, breathless corpse, may thy departed soul that in these last and bitter moments my soul have found the rest it prayed for! Save but may taste of comfort! and for these mourners one error, and this last fatal deed, thy life was bere, ob! let their lives be peaceful, and their lovely. Let frailer minds take warning; and deaths happy! from example learn, that want of prudence is [They lift him to the Chair. | want of virtue. [Exit. THOMAS OTWAY, Was not more remarkable for moving the tender passions, than for the variety of fortune to which he himself. wn subjected. He was the son of the Rev. Mr. Humphrey Otway, rector of Wolbeding, in Sussex, and was born at Treilen in that county, the 3d of March in the year 1651. He received his education at Wickeham school, near Winchester, and became a commoner of Christ Church, in Oxford, in 1669. But on his quitting the university, in , and coming to London, he turned player. His success as an actor was but indifferent, having made only one pt in Mrs. Behn's tragedy of The Fore'd Marriage; or, Jealous Bridegroom; he was more valued for the sprightLara of his conversation and the acuteness of his wit; which gained him the friendship of the Earl of Plymouth, who red him a cornet's, commission in the troops which then served in Flanders. At his return from Flanders he gave up his commission and had recourse to writing for the stage; and now it was that he found out the only employBeat that nature seems to have fitted him for. In comedy he has been deemed to licentious; which, however, was great objection to those who lived in the profligate days of Charles 11. But in tragedy few of our English poets ever equalled him and perhaps none ever excelled him in touching the passions, particularly that of love. There is sally something familiar and domestic in the fable of his tragedy, and there is amazing energy in his expression. though Otway possessed, in so eminent a degree, the rare talent of writing to the heart, yet he was not very farably regarded by some of his contemporary poets; nor was he always successful in his dramatic compositions. Afperiencing many reverses of fortune, in regard to his circumstances, but generally changing for the worse, he at le died wretchedly in a house, known by the sign of a Bull, on Tower Hill, April 14, 1685. whither he had retired to avoid the pressure of his creditors. Some have said, that downright hunger compelling him to fall too eagerly upon • piece of bread, of which he had been some time in want, the first mouthful choked him, and instantly put a period his days. VENICE PRESERVED. that ACTED at the Duke's Theatre, 1682. This interesting tragedy is borrowed, with respect to the plan of it at least, from a little book that relates the circumstances of the Spanish conspiracy at Venice, i. c. the Abbé de St. Real's Histre de la Conjuration du Marquis de Badamar. The speech of Renault to the conspirators is translated word for wind from this author. It has been remarked, that though, on the whole, the incidents of Otway's piece are interesting, the catastrophe affecting, there is not one truly valuable character in the whole drama, except that of Belvidera. To this, however, we cannot entirely subscribe. The character of Pierre is nobly drawn His pub hic services had been turned with ingratitude, and he was a greatly injured character; but was justly punished for taking a treasonable mode of redressing his wrongs. The scene lies in Venice. By comparing this with The Orphan, it will appear images were by time become stronger, and his language more energetic, The public seems to judge rightly of the faults and excellencies of this play; that it is the work of a man not attentive to decency, nor zealous for virtue, but of eae who conceived forcibly, and drew originally, by consulting nature in his own breast. Mr. Dryden says, “the mo− tena which are studied are never so natural as those which break out in the height of a real passion. Mr. Otway passed this part as thoroughly as any of the ancients or moderns. I will not defend every thing in his Venice Prerved; but I must bear this testimony to his memory, that the passions are truly touched in it, though perhaps there somewhat to be desired, both in the grounds of them, and in the height and elegance of expression; but nature is Bare, which is the greatest beauty." DRAMATIS PERSONAE. DUKE OF VENICE. BEDAMAR. RENAULT. AQUILINA. May all your joys in her prove false, like mine; in vain: My lord, my lord! I'm not that abject wretch throws Me back so far, but I may boldly speak Pri. Have you not wrong'd me? Have brook'd injustice, or the doing wrongs, Pri. Yes, wrong'd me! In the nicest point, The honour of my house, you've done me wrong. You may remember (for I now will speak, And urge its baseness) when you first came home From travel, with such hopes as made you look'd on, By all men's eyes, a youth of expectation; May he live to prove more gentle than his grandsire, And happier than his father. Pri. Rather live To bait thee' for his bread, and din your ears Jaf. Would I were in my grave! For, living here, you're but my curst remembrancers. I once was happy. you know Pleas'd with your growing virtue, I receiv'd My life feeds on her, therefore thus you treat you; merits: me. Courted, and sought to raise you to your Oh! could my soul ever have known satiety; Were I that thief, the doer of such wrongs As you upbraid me with, what hinders me But I might send her back to you with con tumely, My house, my table, nay, my fortune too, My very self was yours; you might have us'd me To your best service; like an open friend Jaf. 'Tis to me you owe her: I brought her, gave her to your despairing arms: Indeed you thank'd me; but a nobler gratitude Rose in her soul: for from that hour she lov'd me, Till for her life she paid me with herself. Pri. You stole her from me; like a thief you stole her, At dead of night! that cursed hour you chose To rifle me of all my heart held dear. And court my fortune where she would b kinder? Pri. You dare not do't. Jaf. Indeed, my lord, I dare not. My heart, that awes me, is too much m master: Three years are past, since first our vows wer plighted, During which time, the world must bear m witness, I've treated Belvidera like your daughter, The world might see I lov'd her for herself; Jaf. Yes, all, and then adieu for ever. There's not a wretch, that lives on commo charity, But's happier than me: for I have known The luscious sweets of plenty; every night Have slept with soft content about my head, And never wak'd, but to a joyful morning; Yet now must fall, like a full ear of corn, Whose blossom 'scap'd, yet's wither'd in th ripening. Pri. Home, and be humble; study to retrench Discharge the lazy vermin of thy hall, Those pageants of thy folly: Reduce the glitt'ring trappings of thy wife To humble weeds, fit for thy little state: Then, to some suburb cottage both retire; Pier. My friend, good morrow! Call'd honesty, got footing in the world. Cut-throats rewards: each man would kill his Himself; none would be paid or hang'd for Honesty! 'twas a cheat invented first Like wit, much talk'd of, not to be defin'd: Pier. So, indeed, men think me; But they're mistaken, Jaffier: I'm a rogue. A fine, gay, bold-fac'd villain as thou seest me. I steal from no man; would not cut a throat Pier. Yes, a most notorious villain; Yet whom they please they lay in basest bonds; Whilst по hold's left to save us from destruction. Jaf. I think no safely can be here for virtue, Pier. We've neither safety, unity, nor peace, Let me partake the troubles of thy bosom, Pier. Too soon 'twill reach thy knowledge- Let it proceed. There's virtue in thy friendship, I and ill fortune have been long acquainted. Pier. Thank heaven! for what? Where there's no truth, no trust; where in nocence Stoops under vile oppression, and vice lords it. Kindly look'd up, and at her grief grew sad, Jaf. Ithank thee for this story, from my soul; | Were in their spring! Has then our fortune Since now I know the worst that can befal me. chang'd? Ah, Pierre! I have a heart that could have borne Art thou not Belvidera, still the same, done me; But when I think what Belvidera feels, First, burn and level Venice to thy ruin. Under a hedge, and whine ourselves to death! Man knows a braver remedy for sorrow: thee? If thou art alter'd, where shall I have harbour? Bel. Does this appear like change, or love Sure all ill stories of thy sex are false! thought; Bel. If love be treasure, we'll be wondrous rich; have so much, my heart will surely break with't: Vows can't express it. When I would declare Die-damn first-What! be decently interr'd How great's my joy, I'm dumb with the big In a church-yard, and mingle thy brave dust With stinking rogues, that rot in winding-sheets, I swell, and sigh, and labour with my longing. Surfeit-slain fools, the common dung o'th' soil! O! lead me to some desert wide and wild, Jaf. Oh! Barren as our misfortunes, where my soul Pier. Well said, out with't, swear a little-May have its vent, where I may tell aloud Jaf. Swear! By sea and air; by earth, by To the high heavens, and ev'ry list'ning planet, heav'n, and hell,' With what a boundless stock my bosom's I will revenge my Belvidera's tears. Jaf. Agreed. Pier. Shoot him. Jaf. With all my heart. No more; where shall we meet at night? On the Rialto, every night at twelve, Jaf. Farewell. Pier. At twelve. fraught; Where I may throw my eager arms about thee, Jaf. Oh, Belvidera! doubly I'm a beggar: Fram'd for the tender offices of love, For charitable succour; wilt thou then, Wilt thou then talk thus to me? Wilt thou then |