they should want nothing of that part of the entertainment), was very merry, and in great admiration of the ship, for he had never been in one before; so that he was curious of beholding every place where he decently might descend. The rest, no less curious, who were not quite overcome with drinking, rambled at their pleasure fore and aft, as their fancies guided 'em : so that the captain, who had well laid his design before, gave the word, and seiz'd on all his guests; they clapping great irons suddenly on the prince, when he was leap'd down into the hold, to view that part of the vessel; and locking him fast down, secur'd him. The same treachery was us'd to all the rest; and all in one instant, in several places of the ship, were lash'd fast in irons, and betray'd to slavery. That great design over, they set all hands at work to hoist sail; and with as treacherous as fair a wind they made from the shore with this innocent and glorious prize, who thought of nothing less than such an entertainment.

Some have commended this act, as brave in the captain; but I will spare my sense of it, and leave it to my reader to judge as he pleases. It may be easily guess'd in what manner the prince resented this indignity, who may be best resembled to a lion taken in a toil; so he raged, so he struggled for liberty, but all in vain: and they had so wisely managed his fetters, that he could not use a hand in his defence, to quit himself of a life that would by no means endure slavery; nor could he move from the place where he was ty'd, to any solid part of the ship, against which he might have beat his head, and have finish'd his disgrace that way. So that being deprived of all other means, he resolv'd to perish for want of food; and pleas'd at last with that thought, and toil'd and tir'd by rage and indignation, he laid himself down and sullenly resolv'd upon dying, and refused all things that were brought him.

This did not a little vex the captain, and the more so because he found almost all of 'em of the same humour; so that the loss of so many brave slaves, so tall and goodly to behold, would have been very considerable: he therefore order'd one to go from him (for he would not be seen himself) to Oroonoko, and to assure him he was afflicted for having rashly done so unhospitable a deed, and which could not be now remedied, since they were far from shore; but since he resented it in so high a nature, he assur'd him he would revoke his resolution, and set both him and his friends ashore on the next land they should touch at; and of this the messenger gave him his oath, provided he would resolve to live. And Oroonoko, whose honour was such, as he never had violated a word in his life himself, much less a solemn asseveration, believ'd in an instant what this man said; but reply'd he expected for a confirmation of this to have his shameful fetters dismiss'd. This demand was carried to the captain, who return'd him answer that the offence had been so great which he had put upon the prince, that he durst not trust him with liberty while he remain'd in the ship, for fear lest by a valour natural to him, and a revenge that would animate that valour, he might commit some outrage fatal to himself and the king his master, to whom the vessel did belong. To this Oroonoko reply'd, he would engage his honour to behave himself in all friendly order and manner, and obey the command of the captain, as he was lord of the king's vessel, and general of those men under his command.

This was deliver'd to the still doubting captain, who could not resolve to trust a heathen, he said, upon his

parole, a man that had no sense or notion of the god that he worshipp'd. Oroonoko then reply'd, he was very sorry to hear that the captain pretended to the knowledge and worship of any gods, who had taught him no better principles than not to credit as he would be credited, but they told him the difference of their faith occasion'd that distrust for the captain had protested to him upon the word of a Christian, and sworn in the name of a great God; which if he should violate, he must expect eternal torments in the world to come. Is that all the obliga

tions he has to be just to his oath? (reply'd Oroonoko.) Let him know, I swear by my honour; which to violate would not only render me contemptible and despised by all brave and honest men, and so give my self perpetual pain, but it would be eternally offending and displeasing all mankind; harming, betraying, circumventing, and outraging all men. But punishments hereafter are suffer'd by one's self; and the world takes no cognizance whether this God has reveng'd 'em or not, 'tis done so secretly, and deferr'd so long; while the man of no honour suffers every moment the scorn and contempt of the honester world, and dies every day ignominiously in his fame, which is more valuable than life. I speak not this to move belief, but to shew you how you mistake when you imagine that he who will violate his honour will keep his word with his gods.' So, turning from him with a disdainful smile, he refused to answer him, when he urged him to know what answer he should carry back to his captain; so that he departed without saying any

more.

The captain pondering and consulting what to do, it was concluded that nothing but Oroonoko's liberty would encourage any of the rest to eat, except the Frenchman, whom the captain could not pretend to keep prisoner, but only told him he was secur'd because he might act something in favour of the prince; but that he should be freed as soon as they came to land. So that they concluded it wholly necessary to free the prince from his irons, that he might shew himself to the rest, that they might have an eye upon him, and that they could not fear a single man.

This being resolved, to make the obligation the greater, the captain himself went to Oroonoko, where, after many compliments and assurances of what he had already promis'd, he, receiving from the prince his parole and his hand for his good behaviour, dismiss'd his irons, and brought him to his own cabin, where, after having treated and repos'd him a while (for he had neither eat nor slept in four days before), he besought him to visit those obstinate people in chains, who refused all manner of sustenance; and intreated him to oblige 'em to eat, and assure 'em of their liberty the first opportunity.

Oroonoko, who was too generous not to give credit to his words, shew'd himself to his people, who were transported with excess of joy at the sight of their darling prince; falling at his feet, and kissing and embracing 'em; believing, as some divine oracle, all he assur'd 'em. But he besought 'em to bear their chains with that bravery that became those whom he had seen act so nobly in arms; and that they could not give him greater proofs of their love and friendship, since 'twas all the security the captain (his friend) could have against the revenge, he said, they might possibly justly take for the injuries sustained by him. And they all with one accord assur'd him that they could not suffer enough, when it was for his repose and safety.

After this they no longer refused to eat, but took what was brought 'em, and were pleased with their captivity, since by it they hoped to redeem the prince, who all the rest of the voyage was treated with all the respect due to his birth, tho' nothing could divert his melancholy; and he would often sigh for Imoinda, and think this a punishment due to his misfortune in having left that noble maid behind him that fatal night in the Otan, when he fled to the camp.

Possess'd with a thousand thoughts of past joys with this fair young person, and a thousand griefs for her eternal loss, he endur'd a tedious voyage, and at last arrived at the mouth of the river of Surinam, a colony belonging to the king of England, and where they were to deliver some part of their slaves. There the merchants and gentlemen of the country going on board, to demand those lots of slaves they had already agreed on, and, amongst those, the overseers of those plantations where I then chanc'd to be, the captain, who had given the word, order'd his men to bring up those noble slaves in fetters, whom I have spoken of; and having put 'em some in one and some in other lots, with women and children (which they call Pickaninies), they sold 'em off as slaves to several merchants and gentlemen; not putting any two in one lot, because they would separate 'em far from each other; nor daring to trust 'em together, lest rage and courage should put 'em upon contriving some great action, to the ruin of the colony.

Oroonoko was first seiz'd on, and sold to our overseer, who had the first lot, with seventeen more of all sorts and sizes, but not one of quality with him. When he saw this, he found what they meant; for, as I said, he understood English pretty well; and being wholly unarm'd and defenceless, so as it was in vain to make any resistance, he only beheld the captain with a look all fierce and disdainful, upbraiding him with eyes that forc'd blushes on his guilty cheeks, and cry'd in passing over the side of the ship: 'Farewel, Sir, 'tis worth my sufferings to gain so true a knowledge, both of you and of your gods, by whom you swear.' And desiring those that held him to forbear their pains, and telling 'em he would make no resistance, he cry'd, 'Come, my fellow-slaves, let us descend, and see if we can meet with more honour and honesty in the next world we shall touch upon.' So he nimbly leapt into the boat, and shewing no more concern, suffer'd himself to be row'd up the river, with his seventeen companions.

The gentleman that bought him was a young Cornish gentleman, whose name was Trefry; a man of great wit and fine learning, and was carried into those parts by the lord -, Governor, to manage all his affairs. He reflecting on the last words of Oroonoko to the captain, and beholding the richness of his vest, no sooner came into the boat but he fix'd his eyes on him; and finding something so extraordinary in his face, his shape and mien, a greatness of look, and haughtiness in his air, and finding he spoke English, had a great mind to be enquiring into his quality and fortune; which, though Oroonoko endeavour'd to hide, by only confessing he was above the rank of common slaves, Trefry soon found he was yet something greater than he confess'd; and from that moment began to conceive so vast an esteem for him, that he ever after lov'd him as his dearest brother, and shew'd him all the civilities due to so great

a man.

Part of the continuation of Oroonoko's story is given at page 63 below in Southerne's dramatised rendering.

Elkanah Settle (1648-1724), born at Dunstable, went from Oxford University to London to make a living by his pen, and at eighteen (in 1665) made a hit by his tragedy of Cambyses (printed 1671). To annoy Dryden, Rochester got his high-flown Empress of Morocco played at Whitehall by the court lords and ladies (1671). In Absalom and Achitophel Dryden, enraged and jealous, scourged 'Doeg' with his scorn; and Settle replied, not very effectively, in Absalom Senior, or Achitophel Transpros'd, and Reflections on Some of Mr Dryden's Plays. Love and Revenge, The Conquest of China, Ibrahim or the Illustrious Bassa, and Fatal Love were acted before 1680. For a time petted by the court, he had lost favour and took the Whig side, writing in this cause not merely The Female Prelate, a play on Pope Joan, but a series of pamphlets in Shaftesbury's interest and against the succession of the Duke of York. But in 1683 he was writing down Oates, ridiculing the Popish Plot, denouncing Lord William Russell and Algernon Sidney, and making a Panegyrick of Judge Jeffreys, and (in 1685) issuing a Heroic Poem in honour of James II.'s coronation. Appointed City poet in 1691, in the following years he brought out a series of City pageants. He compiled lives of two impostors and cheats, a pamphlet on the cruelties of the Dutch towards the English in the East Indies, and a Pindarick' ode on the propagation of the gospel in foreign parts. The Ladies' Triumph was the last of some eight plays produced between 1694 and 1718; but long ere this their author was writing comicalities for Bartholomew Fair, acting in a booth there, and producing (for a livelihood) elegies and complimentary poems. In 1718 he was admitted to the Charterhouse.

Thomas Otway (1652-85), born twelve years after Wycherley, was one of Dryden's younger contemporaries who succeeded where the master had failed; his plays brilliant achievements associated with a melancholy history - sound the tones of deepest tragedy with singular power. Born the son of a clergyman at Trotton near Midhurst in Sussex, Otway proceeded from Winchester College to Christ Church, Oxford, but left in 1672 without taking his degree. The same year he made his appearance as an actor on the London stage. It was an absolute breakdown, but here he doubtless acquired a knowledge of dramatic art which stood him in good stead when he began to write for the theatre. He produced three tragedies, a farce, and a comedy —Alcibiades (1675), Don Carlos (1676; based on the same French romance by St Réal as Schiller's), Titus and Berenice (from Racine; 1677), The Cheats of Scapin (adapted from Molière; 1677), and Friendship in Fashion (1678)—which were successfully performed; but Otway was always in poverty, mainly owing to drink and other kinds of dissipation. Betterton, Mrs Barry, and Mrs Brace

girdle were amongst the actors who helped to secure popularity for his plays; it was a lifelong heart-break to the dramatist that Mrs Barry flouted his almost abject devotion to her. The Earl of Plymouth procured him an ensignship in a foot regiment, and the poet went for a year or two to Flanders. He was soon cashiered for his irregularities; and returning to England, he resumed writing for the stage. In 1680 he produced The Orphan and Caius Marius, tragedies; in 1681, The Soldier's Fortune, a comedy full of autobiographical detail; and in 1682, Venice Preserved. The Atheist (1684), a continuation of The Soldier's Fortune, was his last play; and Otway's short but eventful life came to a premature end after twenty years of want and extravagance. One biographer says the

THOMAS OTWAY.

From an Engraving after a Portrait by Beal.

cause of his death was his hastily swallowing, after long fasting, a piece of bread which charity had supplied. Another story makes him die of fever brought on by fatigue or by drinking water when violently heated. Whatever was the last of his misfortunes, he was at the time in great poverty, and apparently skulking from creditors at a publichouse on Tower Hill.

The fame of Otway now rests on his two tragedies, The Orphan and Venice Preserved; but on these it rests as on the pillars of Hercules. Scott said his talents in scenes of passionate affection 'rival at least and sometimes excel those of Shakespeare more tears have been shed, probably, for the sorrows of Belvidera and Monimia than for those of Juliet and Desdemona.' This is excessive praise. The inherent indelicacy and unpleasant associations of the plot have driven The Orphan from the theatres; but Venice Preserved was played

at Drury Lane so recently as 1829. The stern, plotting character of Pierre is well contrasted with the irresolute, sensitive, and affectionate nature of Jaffier; and the harsh, unnatural cruelty of Priuli serves as a dark shade to set off the bright purity and tenderness of his daughter. Belvidera is Otway's creation, a creation of high dramatic genius. The dramatist's genius shines in his delineation of the passions of the heart, the ardour of love, and the excess of misery and despair. His humour is clumsy and gross, and his comedy is very poor, though the farce is funny and rollicking. There is in Otway little of the rant or bombast Dryden too often admitted. He was partly influenced by French models; there is something classical in the simplicity and skill he shows in the working of his plots, and in his concentration of interest on a few figures or groups of figures; of development of character there is little or none. The versification is sometimes rugged and irregular, and there are plenteous redundancies and inflated expressions, due largely to haste and carelessness. Venice Preserved, which Mr Gosse, like most critics, has praised as 'simply the greatest tragic drama between Shakespeare and Shelley,' excited keen interest in French, Dutch, German, Russian, and Italian versions. The following extract is the opening of the play; the shorter detached extracts which follow it are all from The Orphan:

From Venice Preserved.'

Priuli. No more! I'll hear no more; begone and

leave me.

Jaffier. Not hear me! by my suffering but you shall! My lord, my lord! I'm not that abject wretch

You think me. Patience! where 's the distance throws
Me back so far, but I may boldly speak

In right, though proud oppression will not hear me?
Pri. Have you not wronged me?
Jaf.
Could my nature e'er
Have brooked injustice or the doing wrongs,
I need not now thus low have bent myself
To gain a hearing from a cruel father.
Wronged you?

Fri.
Yes, wronged 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 looked on
By all men's eyes, a youth of expectation;
Pleased with your growing virtue, I received you;
Courted and sought to raise you to your merits;
My house, my table, nay my fortune too,
My very self was yours; you might have used me
To your best service; like an open friend
I treated, trusted you, and thought you mine;
When, in requital of my best endeavours,
You treacherously practised to undo me;
Seduced the weakness of my age's darling,
My only child, and stole her from my bosom-
Oh, Belvidera!

You may remember, scarce five years are past,
Since in your brigantine you sailed to see
The Adriatic wedded by our duke,
And I was with you: your unskilful pilot
Dashed us upon a rock, when to your boat
You made for safety, entered first yourself;
The affrighted Belvidera, following next,
As she stood trembling on the vessel's side,
Was by a wave washed off into the deep;
When instantly I plunged into the sea,
And buffeting the billows to her rescue,
Redeemed her life with half the loss of mine.
Like a rich conquest, in one hand I bore her,
And with the other dashed the saucy waves,
That thronged and pressed to rob me of my prize.
I brought her, gave her to your despairing arms :
Indeed, you thanked me; but a nobler gratitude
Rose in her soul: for from that hour she loved 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.

May all your joys in her prove false, like mine!
A sterile fortune and a barren bed
Attend you both continual discord make

Your days and nights bitter and grievous still :
May the hard hand of a vexatious need
Oppress and grind you, till at last you find
The curse of disobedience all your portion!

Jaf. Half of your curse you have bestowed in vain.
Heaven has already crowned our faithful loves
With a young boy, sweet as his mother's beauty:
May he live to prove more gentle than his grandsire,
And happier than his father!

Jaf. Would I were in my grave!

Pri.

And she, too, with thee;
For living here, you 're but my cursed remembrancers
I once was happy!

Jaf. You use me thus, because you know my soul
Is fond of Belvidera. You perceive

My life feeds on her, therefore thus you treat me.
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 contumely,
And court my fortune where she would be kinder?
Pri. You dare not do't.

Jaf.
Indeed, my lord, I dare not.
My heart, that awes me, is too much my master:
Three years are past since first our vows were plighted,
Daring which time the world must bear me witness
I've treated Belvidera like your daughter,
The daughter of a senator of Venice :
Distinction, place, attendance, and observance,
Due to her birth, she always has commanded :

Out of my little fortune I have done this;
Because, though hopeless e'er to win your nature,
The world might see I loved her for herself;

Not as the heiress of the great Priuli.

Pri. No more.
Jaf.
Yes, all, and then adieu for ever.
There's not a wretch that lives on common 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 waked but to a joyful morning:
Yet now must fall, like a full ear of corn,
Whose blossom 'scaped, yet's withered in the ripening.
Pri. Home, and be humble; study to retrench;
Discharge the lazy vermin of thy hall,
Those pageants of thy folly:

Reduce the glittering trappings of thy wife
To humble weeds, fit for thy little state:

Then to some suburb cottage both retire;
Drudge to feed loathsome life; get brats, and starve.
Home, home, I say.
[Exit.

Jaf. Yes, if my heart would let me

This proud, this swelling heart: home I would go,
But that my doors are hateful to mine eyes,
Filled and dammed up with gaping creditors,
Watchful as fowlers when their game will spring;
I've now not fifty ducats in the world,
Yet still I am in love, and pleased with ruin.
O Belvidera! Oh! she is my wife-
And we will bear our wayward fate together,
But ne'er know comfort more. . . .
Jaf. Poor Belvidera!

[BELVIDERA enters.

Belvidera. Lead me, lead me my virgins To that kind voice. My lord, my love, my refuge ! Happy my eyes when they behold thy face; My heavy heart will leave its doleful beating At sight of thee, and bound with sprightful joys. Oh smile as when our loves were in their spring, And cheer my fainting soul!

As when our loves

Jaf.
Were in their spring! Has, then, my fortune changed
Art thou not, Belvidera, still the same,
[thee?

Kind, good, and tender, as my arms first found thee?
If thou art altered, where shall I have harbour?
Where ease my loaded heart? oh, where complain?
Bel. Does this appear like change, or love decaying,
When thus I throw myself into thy bosom,
With all the resolution of strong truth?
Beats not my heart as 'twould alarum thine
To a new charge of bliss? I joy more in thee
Than did thy mother when she hugged thee first,
And blessed the gods for all her travail past.

Jaf. Can there in woman be such glorious faith?
Sure all ill stories of thy sex are false.

Oh woman, lovely woman! Nature made thee
To temper man: we had been brutes without you;
Angels are painted fair, to look like you:
There's in you all that we believe of Heaven;
Amazing brightness, purity, and truth,
Eternal joy, and everlasting love.

Bel. If love be treasure, we 'll be wondrous rich :
I have so much my heart will surely break with 't:
Vows can't express it: when I would declare
How great's my joy, I'm dumb with the big thought;
I swell and sigh and labour with my longing.

Oh lead me to some desert, wide and wild,

Barren as our misfortunes, where my soul
May have its vent; where I may tell aloud
To the high heavens and every list'ning planet,
With what a boundless stock my bosom 's fraught;
Where I may throw my eager arms about thee,
Give loose to love, with kisses kindling joy,
And let off all the fire that's in my heart!

Jaf. O Belvidera! doubly I'm a beggar:
Undone by fortune and in debt to thee.

Want, worldly want, that hungry meagre fiend,

Is at my heels, and chases me in view.

Canst thou bear cold and hunger? Can these limbs,
Framed for the tender offices of love,

Endure the bitter gripes of smarting poverty?
When banished by our miseries abroad

(As suddenly we shall be) to seek out

In some far climate where our names are strangers
For charitable succour, wilt thou then,
When in a bed of straw we shrink together,

And the bleak winds shall whistle round our heads;
Wilt thou then talk thus to me? Wilt thou then
Hush my cares thus, and shelter me with love?

Bel. Oh I will love thee, even in madness love thee:

Though my distracted senses should forsake me,
I'd find some intervals when my poor heart
Should 'suage itself, and be let loose to thine.
Though the bare earth be all our resting-place,
Its roots our food, some clift our habitation,
I'll make this arm a pillow for thy head,
And as thou sighing liest and swelled with sorrow,
Creep to thy bosom, pour the balm of love
Into thy soul, and kiss thee to thy rest;

Then praise our God, and watch thee till the morning. Jaf. Hear this, you Heavens, and wonder how you made her!

Reign, reign, ye monarchs that divide the world;
Busy rebellion ne'er will let you know
Tranquillity and happiness like mine;
Like gaudy ships, the obsequious billows fall
And rise again, to lift you in your pride;

They wait but for a storm, and then devour you:

I in my private bark already wrecked,
Like a poor merchant, driven on unknown land,
That had by chance packed up his choicest treasure
In one dear casket, and saved only that:
Since I must wander farther on the shore,
Thus hug my little but my precious store,
Resolved to scorn and trust my fate no more.

Parting.

Where am I? Sure I wander midst enchantment,
And never more shall find the way to rest.
But O Monimia! art thou indeed resolved
To punish me with everlasting absence?
Why turn'st thou from me? I'm alone already.
Methinks I stand upon a naked beach
Sighing to winds and to the seas complaining,
Whilst afar off the vessel sails away,
Where all the treasure of my soul's embarked.
Wilt thou not turn? O could those eyes but speak
I should know all, for love is pregnant in them;
They swell, they press their beams upon me still.
Wilt thou not speak? If we must part for ever,
Give me but one kind word to think upon,
And please myself withal, whilst my heart's breaking.

A Witch.

Through a close lane as I pursued my journey,
And meditated on the last night's vision,
I spied a wrinkled hag, with age grown double,
Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself;
Her eyes with scalding rheum were galled and red,
Cold palsy shook her head, her hands seemed withered;
And on her crooked shoulders had she wrapped
The tattered remnant of an old striped hanging,
Which served to keep her carcass from the cold.

So there was nothing of a piece about her.
Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely patched
With different coloured rags-black, red, white, yellow-
And seemed to speak variety of wretchedness.

I asked her of my way, which she informed me;
Then craved my charity, and bade me hasten
To save a sister. At that word I started!

A Splenetic View of Woman.
Woman the fountain of all human frailty!
What mighty ills have not been done by woman!
Who was 't betrayed the Capitol? A woman.
Who lost Mark Antony the world? A woman.
Who was the cause of a long ten years' war,
And laid at last old Troy in ashes? Woman;
Destructive, damnable, deceitful woman;
Woman to man first as a blessing given,
When innocence and love were in their prime.
Happy a while in Paradise they lay,

But quickly woman longed to go astray;
Some foolish new adventure needs must prove,
And the first devil she saw she changed her love;
To his temptations lewdly she inclined
Her soul, and for an apple damned mankind.

Morning.

Wished Morning's come; and now upon the plains
And distant mountains, where they feed their flocks,
The happy shepherds leave their homely huts,
And with their pipes proclaim the new-born day.
The lusty swain comes with his well-filled scrip
Of healthful viands, which, when hunger calls,
With much content and appetite he eats,
To follow in the fields his daily toil,
And dress the grateful glebe that yields him fruits.
The beasts that under the warm hedges slept,
And weathered out the cold bleak night, are up,
And, looking towards the neighbouring pastures, raise
The voice, and bid their fellow-brutes good-morrow.
The cheerful birds, too, on the tops of trees,
Assemble all in choirs, and with their notes
Salute and welcome up the rising sun.

A Boar Hunt.

When you, Castalio, and your brother left me,
Forth from the thickets rushed another boar,
So large, he seemed the tyrant of the woods,
With all his dreadful bristles raised up high,
They seemed a grove of spears upon his back;
Foaming he came at me where I was posted,
Best to observe which way he 'd lead the chase,
Whetting his huge long tusks, and gaping wide,
As if he already had me for his prey;
Till brandishing my well-poised javelin high,
With this bold executing arm I struck
The ugly brindled monster to the heart.