The part which he performed was Duncan, in Sir William Davenant's alteration of Macbeth. He was completely unsuccessful. "Yet Lee," says Cibber, "was so pathetic a reader of his own scenes, that I have been informed by an actor who was present, that MANY of the Bedlam witticisms of this unfor- | profession of an actor. tunate man have been recorded by those who can derive mirth from the most humiliating shape of human calamity. His rant and turgidity as a writer are proverbial; but those who have witnessed justice done to the acting of his Theodosius must have felt that he had some powers in the pathetic. He was the son of a clergyman in Hertfordshire. He was bred at Westminster, under Dr. Busby, and became a scholar on the foundation at Trinity-college, Cambridge. From thence he came to London, and attempted the [* The period of Lee's decease has not been hitherto ascertained. That he was buried in St. Clement's Danes was a clue to the period, and searching the Burial Register there the other day, for some assistance, we found the following entry: "6 April 1692, Nathaniell Lee a man bur."] while Lee was reading to Major Mohun, at a rehearsal, Mohun, in the warmth of his admiration, threw down his part, and said, 'Unless I were able to play it as well as you read it, to what purpose should I undertake it?' And yet," continues the laureate, "this very author, whose elocution raised such admiration in so capital an actor, when he attempted to be an actor himself, soon quitted the stage in an honest despair of ever making any profitable figure there." Failing in this object, he became a writer for the stage, and his first tragedy of "Nero," which came out in 1675, was favourably received. In the nine subsequent years of his life he produced as many plays of his own, and assisted Dryden in two; at the end of which period an hereditary taint of madness, aggravated by habits of dissipation, obliged him to be consigned for four years to the receptacle at Bethlem. He recovered the use of his faculties so far as to compose two pieces, the Princess of Cleves, and the Massacre of Paris; but with all the profits of his invention his circumstances were so reduced that a weekly stipend of ten shillings was his principal support towards the close of his life, and to the last he was not free from occasional derangement. FROM "THEODOSIUS, OR THE FORCE OF LOVE.” The characters in the following scenes are Varanes, a Persian prince, who comes to visit the Emperor Theodosius; Aranthes, his confidant; Leontine, the prince's tutor; and Athenais, daughter of that philosopher, with whom Varanes is in love. Her father Leontine, jealous for his daughter's honour, brings his royal pupil to an explanation respecting his designs towards Athenais; and Varanes, in a moment of rash pride, at the instigation of Aranthes, spurns at the idea of marrying the philosopher's daughter and sharing with her the throne of Cyrus. Athenais however is seen by the Emperor Theodosius, who himself offers her his hand. The repentance of Varanes for her loss, and the despair of Athenais, form the catastrophe of the tragedy. Leon. So, Athenais; now our compliment To the young Persian prince is at an end; What then remains, but that we take our leave, And bid him everlastingly farewell? Athen. My lord! Leon. I say, that decency requires We should be gone, nor can you stay with honour. Leon. The court is now at peace, Athen. Ah, sir, why will you break my heart? Thou art the only comfort of my age; Athen. Because you are so good, and will, I hope, Forgive my fault, who first occasioned it. [prince. Leon. I charged thee to receive and hear the Athen. You did, and, oh, my lord! I heard too Too much, I fear, for my eternal quiet. [much! Leon. Rise, Athenais! Credit him who bears More years than thou: Varanes has deceived thee. Athen. How do we differ then! You judge the prince Impious and base; while I take Heaven to witness, If thou art false, there's no such thing on earth Leon. That day he'll make thee mistress of his power, Which carries a foul name among the vulgar. Athen. O horrid supposition! how I detest it, warms me, Which runs as rich as any Athens holds, blushes. Not that I doubt the prince,—that were to doubt The heavens themselves; I know he is all truth : But modesty, The virgin's troublesome and constant guest, That, that alone forbids. Leon. I wish to heaven There prove no greater bar to my belief. Enter VARANES and ARANTHES. Vara. To fix her on the throne, to me, seems little ; Were I a god, yet would I raise her higher, But, see, she comes, the glory of my arms, Enter ATHEnais. The only business of my instant thought, Athen. What have you found, my lord, Vara. First let me kneel and swear, To all the Persian greatness ! Athen. I believe you ; For I have heard you swear as much before. Vara. I will do every thing Which Athenais bids: if there be more Athen. What's that, my lord? Vara. Thus to approach thee still! thus to behold Yet there is more [thee. Athen. My lord, I dare not hear you. "Tis an imagination which ne'er pierced thee; Athen. I must not doubt you, sir: But oh I To think if Isdigerdes should behold you, [tremble Should hear you thus protesting to a maid Of no degree, but virtue, in the world Vara. No more of this, no more; for I disdain Athen. Ah, prince; no more! Athen. I know your royal temper, And that high honour reigns within your breast, Which would disdain to waste so many hours With one of humble blood compared to you, [her; Unless strong passion sway'd your thoughts to love Therefore receive, O prince, and take it kindly, For none on earth but you could win it from me, Receive the gift of my eternal love! 'Tis all I can bestow, nor is it little ; For sure a heart so coldly chaste as mine, No charms but yours, my lord, could e'er have [comfort, warm'd. Vara. Yes, Leontine, my old remembrancer, Most learn'd of all philosophers, you did. Leon. Thus long she has attended, you have seen her, Sounded her virtues and her imperfections; Therefore, dread sir, forgive this bolder charge, Which honour sounds, and now let me demand you Vara. Now help, Aranthes, or I'm dash'd for ever. Aran. Whatever happens, sir, disdain the mar riage. But hold, my heart, and let that solid virtue, [sorrow. Leon. Why shouldst thou fear thy father? Leon. Can your high thoughts so far forget Is there, O speak, a possibility themselves, To admit this humble virgin for your bride? Vara. Ha! Athen. He blushes, gods! and stammers at the question. Leon. Why do you walk, and chafe yourself, The business is not much. [my lord? Vara. How, Leontine ! Not much I know that she deserves a crown; Athen. Undone for ever! Leon. Is this your answer, sir? Vara. Why dost thou urge me thus, and push The very brink of glory? where, alas! [me to I look and tremble at the vast descent: Leon. 'Tis well, my lord. Vara. Why dost thou thus provoke me? I thought that Persia's court had store of honour To satisfy the height of thy ambition. Besides, old man, my love is too well grown, What he will do, he will do of himself, Leon. I know he will not: Fond tears, away! I know, I know he will not; But he would buy with his old man's preferment My daughter * Vara. Away, I say, my soul disdains the motion! Leon. The motion of a marriage; yes, I see it; Your angry looks and haughty words betray it : I found it at the first. I thank you, sir, You have at least rewarded your old tutor For all his cares, his watchings, services; Yet, let me tell you, sir, this humble maid, This daughter of a poor philosopher, Shall, if she please, be seated on a throne As high as that of the immortal Cyrus. Vara. I think that age and deep philosophy Have crack'd thy brain: Farewell, old Leontine, Retire to rest; and when this brawling humour Is rock'd asleep, I'll meet my Athenais, And clear the accounts of love, which thou hast blotted. [Exit. Leon. Old Leontine ! perhaps I am mad indeed. To be forgiven? Leon. Thy father does forgive thee, Athen. See him! Oh heavens ! Leon. Unless it be, my daughter, to upbraid him: Not though he should repent and straight return, Nay, proffer thee his crown-No more of that. Honour too cries revenge, revenge thy wrongs; Revenge thyself, revenge thy injured father; For 'tis revenge so wise, so glorious too, As all the world shall praise. Athen. O give me leave, For yet I am all tenderness: the woman, Leon. Is this forgetting him? Is this the course Which honour bids thee take? Athen. Ah, sir, allow A little time for love to make his way; Leon. No woman sure, but thou, so low in for- Athen. Hold, sir, oh hold, forbear, For my nice soul abhors the very sound; Yet with the shame of that, and the desire Of an immortal name, I am inspired: All kinder thoughts are fled for ever from me, All tenderness, as if I ne'er had loved, Has left my bosom colder than the grave. |