Nicholas Rowe and Christian Tragedy Nicholas Rowe and Christian Tragedy Nicholas Rowe and Christian Tragedy  Th PenncfJn Bake. Cuteyof The Chrh,by Willim Blk.Cuteyo h Th ac fJan Church, by Wiliam~ Blake. Courtesy of he   IF cC I, a;; The University Presses of Florida is the Scholarly publishing agency for the State Univer- sity System of Florida. The publication of this book was aSisted by the American Couu- cil of Learned Societies under a grant from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation. The University Presses of Florida is the scholarly publishing agency for the State Univer- sity System of Florida. The publication of this book was assisted by the American Coun- cil of Learned Societies under a grant from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation,. Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Canfield, John Douglas, 1941- Nicholas Rowe and Christian tragedy. Includes bibliographies and index. 1. Rowe, Nicholas, 1674-1718-Criticism and interpretation. I. Title. PR367LR5C3 822'.5 76-39917 ISBN 0-130-0545-0 Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Canfield, John Douglas, 1941- Nicholas Rowe and Christian tragedy. Includes bibliographies and index. .L Rowe, Nicholas, 1674-1718-Criticism and interpretation. L. Title,. PR367L.R5C3 822'.5 76-39917 ISBN 0-8130-0545-0 The University Pess of Florida is the scholarly publishing agency for the State Univer- sity System of Florida. The publication of this book was assisted by the American Coun- cil of Learned Societies under a grant from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation. Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Canfield, John Douglas, 1941- Nicholas Rowe and Christian tragedy. Includes bibliographies and index. 1. Rowe, Nicholas, 1674-1718-Criticism and interpretation. L Title. PR367LR5C3 822'.5 76-39917 ISBN 0-8130-0545-0 COPYRIGHT (K 1977 BY THE BOARD OF REGENTS OF THE STATE OF FLORIDA All rights reserved PRINTED BY STORTER PRINTING COMPANY, INCORPORATED COPYRIGHT t 1977 By THE BOARD oF REGENTS OF THE STATE OF FLORIDA Allfrights -resred PRINTED BY STORTER PRINTING COMPANY, INCORPORATED COPYRIGHT @ 1977 BY THE BOARD OF REGENTS OF THE STATE OF FLORIDA All rights reered PRINTED BY STORTER PRINTING COMPANY, INCORPORATED  For Pam and Robbie -they endured. For Pam and Robbie -they endured. For Pam and Robbie -they endured.   Preface Preface Preface HIS IS A STUDY of the meaning and the merit of Nicholas Rowe's tragedies, examined in their historical context. By "Christian tragedy" I mean tragedies that mirror a Christian Weltanschauung. Tragedy is whatever any age makes it. The size of the category swells or shrinks ac- cordingly. In the English Renaissance through the Restoration into the eighteenth century, plays were generally divided between "comedies" and "tragedies," the latter usually treating in an elevated style high-born characters involved in suffering and evil and loss-whether or not the plays end happily, whether or not they meet Aristotle's criteria, much less Nietzsche's. Christianity does not preclude any of these things, cer- tainly, and its basic, "comic" pattern of fall and redemption, which some take to be inimical to tragedy, is a general pattern of history, to which the pattern of an individual's life may or may not conform. After all, Macbeth falls never to rise again, yet Scotland is redeemed, as if to prove life signifies much more than nothing. A far more important pattern for the individual in Christian art is that of trial. As this study argues, Rowe's tragedies, in the tradition of earlier English tragedy, borrow the metaphor from Scripture and Chris- tian apologetics and employ it over and over as a shaping pattern, the ul- timate trial being the temptation to despair, the most serious-and most sinister-temptation of man in the Christian scheme. This and other similar patterns, infused as they are with Christian language, imagery, and thought, are what make the tragedies of Nicholas Rowe Christian. Not that they are therefore true, or reflect ontological reality. Rowe obviously thought they did. But in our post-Kantian-indeed, post- HIS IS A STUDY of the meaning and the merit of Nicholas Rowe's tragedies, examined in their historical context. By "Christian tragedy" I mean tragedies that mirror a Christian Weltanschauung. Tragedy is whatever any age makes it. The size of the category swells or shrinks ac- cordingly. In the English Renaissance through the Restoration into the eighteenth century, plays were generally divided between "comedies" and "tragedies," the latter usually treating in an elevated style high-born characters involved in suffering and evil and loss-whether or not the plays end happily, whether or not they meet Aristotle's criteria, much less Nietzsche's. Christianity does not preclude any of these things, cer- tainly, and its basic, "comic" pattern of fall and redemption, which some take to be inimical to tragedy, is a general pattern of history, to which the pattern of an individual's life may or may not conform. After all, Macbeth falls never to rise again, yet Scotland is redeemed, as if to prove life signifies much more than nothing. A far more important pattern for the individual in Christian art is that of trial. As this study argues, Rowe's tragedies, in the tradition of earlier English tragedy, borrow the metaphor from Scripture and Chris- tian apologetics and employ it over and over as a shaping pattern, the ul- timate trial being the temptation to despair, the most serious-and most sinister-temptation of man in the Christian scheme. This and other similar patterns, infused as they are with Christian language, imagery, and thought, are what make the tragedies of Nicholas Rowe Christian. Not that they are therefore true, or reflect ontological reality. Rowe obviously thought they did. But in our post-Kantian-indeed, post- HIS IS A STUDY of the meaning and the merit of Nicholas Rowe's tragedies, examined in their historical context. By "Christian tragedy" I mean tragedies that mirror a Christian Weltanschauung. Tragedy is whatever any age makes it. The size of the category swells or shrinks ac- cordingly. In the English Renaissance through the Restoration into the eighteenth century, plays were generally divided between "comedies" and "tragedies," the latter usually treating in an elevated style high-born characters involved in suffering and evil and loss-whether or not the plays end happily, whether or not they meet Aristotle's criteria, much less Nietzsche's. Christianity does not preclude any of these things, cer- tainly, and its basic, "comic" pattern of fall and redemption, which some take to be inimical to tragedy, is a general pattern of history, to which the pattern of an individual's life may or may not conform. After all, Macbeth falls never to rise again, yet Scotland is redeemed, as if to prove life signifies much more than nothing. A far more important pattern for the individual in Christian art is that of trial. As this study argues, Rowe's tragedies, in the tradition of earlier English tragedy, borrow the metaphor from Scripture and Chris- tian apologetics and employ it over and over as a shaping pattern, the ul- timate trial being the temptation to despair, the most serious-and most sinister-temptation of man in the Christian scheme. This and other similar patterns, infused as they are with Christian language, imagery, and thought, are what make the tragedies of Nicholas Rowe Christian. Not that they are therefore true, or reflect ontological reality. Rowe obviously thought they did. But in our post-Kantian-indeed, post-  viii Preface Heideggerian-age, perhaps the best we can say is that Rowe's fictions take their meaning from the larger, dominant fiction of his age, the Christian myth. His words refer to another set of words. His poetical justice, for example, pretends to reflect providential justice, which is itself-as are all human notions of justice-poetical. Once we conclude that "reality" is a fiction, however, we must then realize that fiction is our reality: the projections of human consciousness are all we've got. Fiction, then, is no longer a pejorative term. We must take it seriously, and, as literary critics especially, we must construct our own fictions carefully, aware of our limitations, as out of necessity we scribble notes toward yet other fictions. Accordingly, in this study I have adopted the critical fictions that seem to me to account most fully for my conscious experience of the intentionality (in the phenomenological sense) of Rowe's consciousness as projected toward me in the stimuli of the text. The critical princi- ples (by changing a word, I thus legitimate them) are those of formalism and the history of ideas. In other words, I have accepted a formal im- perative as a necessary fiction: whatever their ontological status, we must treat verbal artifacts as if they were integral objects, for that allows us, I think, to get the most out of them. And I also assume that, since they use words (not to mention body language on the stage), they are therefore meaningful; that they are about states of mind and states of affairs, rooted in their own historical time; and that those meanings are more or less ascertainable, within vague but nevertheless present parameters (fane Shore is not a play about Watergate, however much the two Richards have in common). Why else read them? And why write about them? So ontology and epistemology finally yield to the fictions of common sense, and I set out not to save Rowe's plays for Christianity but to interpret their play of words as objectively as I can. With regard to the merit of Rowe's plays, I have done an evaluative analysis only of the plays which warrant it. Why kick a man when he's down? When Rowe is up, however, I have tried to show how and why. Perhaps such an analysis will convince others that he is worth reading, not because of his place in literary history or in the history of ideas but because of his occasional felicitous marriage of theme and form and language. For convenience's sake, I originally used as my text the 1792 edition of The Works of Nicholas Rowe, Esq., apparently the most read- ily available edition of the plays-until the 1971 reprinting of the 1720 edition of The Dramatick Works of Nicholas Rowe, Esq., which was not picked up by the standard bibliographies and came to my attention only viii Preface Heideggerian-age, perhaps the best we can say is that Rowe's fictions take their meaning from the larger, dominant fiction of his age, the Christian myth. His words refer to another set of words. His poetical justice, for example, pretends to reflect providential justice, which is itself-as are all human notions of justice-poetical. Once we conclude that "reality" is a fiction, however, we must then realize that fiction is our reality: the projections of human consciousness are all we've got. Fiction, then, is no longer a pejorative term. We must take it seriously, and, as literary critics especially, we must construct our own fictions carefully, aware of our limitations, as out of necessity we scribble notes toward yet other fictions. Accordingly, in this study I have adopted the critical fictions that seem to me to account most fully for my conscious experience of the intentionality (in the phenomenological sense) of Rowe's consciousness as projected toward me in the stimuli of the text. The critical princi- ples (by changing a word, I thus legitimate them) are those of formalism and the history of ideas. In other words, I have accepted a formal im- perative as a necessary fiction: whatever their ontological status, we must treat verbal artifacts as if they were integral objects, for that allows us, I think, to get the most out of them. And I also assume that, since they use words (not to mention body language on the stage), they are therefore meaningful; that they are about states of mind and states of affairs, rooted in their own historical time; and that those meanings are more or less ascertainable, within vague but nevertheless present parameters (Jane Shore is not a play about Watergate, however much the two Richards have in common). Why else read them? And why write about them? So ontology and epistemology finally yield to the fictions of common sense, and I set out not to save Rowe's plays for Christianity but to interpret their play of words as objectively as I can. With regard to the merit of Rowe's plays, I have done an evaluative analysis only of the plays which warrant it. Why kick a man when he's down? When Rowe is up, however, I have tried to show how and why. Perhaps such an analysis will convince others that he is worth reading, not because of his place in literary history or in the history of ideas but because of his occasional felicitous marriage of theme and form and language. For convenience's sake, I originally used as my text the 1792 edition of The Works of Nicholas Rowe, Esq., apparently the most read- ily available edition of the plays-until the 1971 reprinting of the 1720 edition of The Dramatick Works of Nicholas Rowe, Esq., which was not picked up by the standard bibliographies and came to my attention only Heideggerian-age, perhaps the best we can say is that Rowe's fictions take their meaning from the larger, dominant fiction of his age, the Christian myth. His words refer to another set of words. His poetical justice, for example, pretends to reflect providential justice, which is itself-as are all human notions of justice-poetical. Once we conclude that "reality" is a fiction, however, we must then realize that fiction is our reality: the projections of human consciousness are all we've got. Fiction, then, is no longer a pejorative term. We must take it seriously, and, as literary critics especially, we must construct our own fictions carefully, aware of our limitations, as out of necessity we scribble notes toward yet other fictions. Accordingly, in this study I have adopted the critical fictions that seem to me to account most fully for my conscious experience of the intentionality (in the phenomenological sense) of Rowe's consciousness as projected toward me in the stimuli of the text. The critical princi- ples (by changing a word, I thus legitimate them) are those of formalism and the history of ideas. In other words, I have accepted a formal im- perative as a necessary fiction: whatever their ontological status, we must treat verbal artifacts as if they were integral objects, for that allows us, I think, to get the most out of them. And I also assume that, since they use words (not to mention body language on the stage), they are therefore meaningful; that they are about states of mind and states of affairs, rooted in their own historical time; and that those meanings are more or less ascertainable, within vague but nevertheless present parameters (Jane Shore is not a play about Watergate, however much the two Richards have in common). Why else read them? And why write about them? So ontology and epistemology finally yield to the fictions of common sense, and I set out not to save Rowe's plays for Christianity but to interpret their play of words as objectively as I can. With regard to the merit of Rowe's plays, I have done an evaluative analysis only of the plays which warrant it. Why kick a man when he's down? When Rowe is up, however, I have tried to show how and why. Perhaps such an analysis will convince others that he is worth reading, not because of his place in literary history or in the history of ideas but because of his occasional felicitous marriage of theme and form and language. For convenience's sake, I originally used as my text the 1792 edition of The Works of Nicholas Rowe, Esq., apparently the most read- ily available edition of the plays-until the 1971 reprinting of the 1720 edition of The Dramatick Works of Nicholas Rowe, Esq., which was not picked up by the standard bibliographies and came to my attention only  Preface ix after this study was accepted for publication with the quotations thor- oughly woven into its fabric. I apologize for not using the more authori- tative text. Also, Landon Burns'recent monograph, Pity and Tears: The Tragedies of Nicholas Rowe (Salzburg, 1974), which reprints his disser- tation almost verbatim, came to my attention too late for me to alter my references from dissertation to book. Moreover, in the four-and-a- half-year lag between submission and publication of this study in its present form, I have attempted to incorporate references to recent work bearing directly on my reading of Rowe and Restoration tragedy; but, for expedience's sake, I have not included ancillary material, such as several recent and important books on Dryden and especially two ex- cellent related studies, Martin Battestin's The Providence of Wit: As- pects of Form in Augustan Literature and the Arts (Oxford, 1974), with whose formalistic approach I am in fundamental agreement, and Robert Hume's The Development of English Drama in the Late Seventeenth Century (Oxford, 1976), with whose affective approach I am in funda- mental disagreement. Battestin corroborates the findings of Aubrey Williams and Hume those of Eric Rothstein, to both of whom I do refer. I have used the following forms of reference: parenthetical cita- tions in the text (where I have tried to place most references to avoid the annoyance of brief notes); footnotes at the ends of chapters, contain- ing only author, short title, and an occasional date where necessary; and a bibliography of works cited, which may be consulted for full titles and publishing information. To streamline further, I have adopted the abbre- viations f and ff, except where exact termination must be identified (and I have eschewed redundant plurals, as in "pp. 218 ff," which I render "p. 218 ff"). Because my edition does not number lines, I cite act, scene (where applicable), and page numbers (e.g., II.iii, p. 39) and note every change of page as soon as it occurs. Finally, I have silently corrected accidentals and transposed italics in prefaces, prologues, epilogues, and the like in the body of the study, but for scholarship's sake I have repro- duced the text of the appendix as exactly as possible. A fully annotated edition of this sale catalogue of Rowe's library awaits a critical edition of the entire canon of his works. This volume was begun as a dissertation at the University of Flor- ida. For help in the revision I am grateful to the following: the staffs of the William Andrews Clark Memorial Library and the Henry E. Hunt- ington Library, for bibliographical assistance; the Regents of the Univer- sity of California, for financial assistance; Ethel Wallis, Stan Scott, and Renata Landres, for research assistance; and Henry Ansgar Kelly, Henry Preface ix after this study was accepted for publication with the quotations thor- oughly woven into its fabric. I apologize for not using the more authori- tative text. Also, Landon Burns' recent monograph, Pity and Tears: The Tragedies of Nicholas Rowe (Salzburg, 1974), which reprints his disser- tation almost verbatim, came to my attention too late for me to alter my references from dissertation to book. Moreover, in the four-and-a- half-year lag between submission and publication of this study in its present form, I have attempted to incorporate references to recent work bearing directly on my reading of Rowe and Restoration tragedy; but, for expedience's sake, I have not included ancillary material, such as several recent and important books on Dryden and especially two ex- cellent related studies, Martin Battestin's The Providence of Wit: As- pects of Form in Augustan Literature and the Arts (Oxford, 1974), with whose formalistic approach I am in fudamental agreement, and Robert Hume's The Development of English Drama in the Late Seventeenth Century (Oxford, 1976), with whose affective approach I am in funda- mental disagreement. Battestin corroborates the findings of Aubrey Williams and Hume those of Eric Rothstein, to both of whom I do refer. I have used the following forms of reference: parenthetical cita- tions in the text (where I have tried to place most references to avoid the annoyance of brief notes); footnotes at the ends of chapters, contain- ing only author, short title, and an occasional date where necessary; and a bibliography of works cited, which may be consulted for full titles and publishing information. To streamline further, I have adopted the abbre- viationsf and ff, except where exact termination must be identified (and I have eschewed redundant plurals, as in "pp. 218 ff," which I render "p. 218 ff"). Because my edition does not number lines, I cite act, scene (where applicable), and page numbers (e.g., II.iii, p. 39) and note every change of page as soon as it occurs. Finally, I have silently corrected accidentals and transposed italics in prefaces, prologues, epilogues, and the like in the body of the study, but for scholarship's sake I have repro- duced the text of the appendix as exactly as possible. A fully annotated edition of this sale catalogue of Rowe's library awaits a critical edition of the entire canon of his works. This volume was begun as a dissertation at the University of Flor- ida. For help in the revision I am grateful to the following: the staffs of the William Andrews Clark Memorial Library and the Henry E. Hunt- ington Library, for bibliographical assistance; the Regents of the Univer- sity of California, for financial assistance; Ethel Wallis, Stan Scott, and Renata Landres, for research assistance; and Henry Ansgar Kelly, Henry Preface in after this study was accepted for publication with the quotations thor- oughly woven into its fabric. I apologize for not using the more authori- tative text. Also, Landon Burns' recent monograph, Pity and Tears: The Tragedies of Nicholas Rowe (Salzburg, 1974), which reprints his disser- tation almost verbatim, came to my attention too late for me to alter my references from dissertation to book. Moreover, in the four-and-a- half-year lag between submission and publication of this study in its present form, I have attempted to incorporate references to recent work bearing directly on my reading of Rowe and Restoration tragedy; but, for expedience's sake, I have not included ancillary material, such as several recent and important books on Dryden and especially two ex- cellent related studies, Martin Battestin's The Providence of Wit: As- pects of Form in Augustan Literature and the Arts (Oxford, 1974), with whose formalistic approach I am in fundamental agreement, and Robert Hume's The Development of English Drama in the Late Seventeenth Century (Oxford, 1976), with whose affective approach I am in funda- mental disagreement. Battestin corroborates the findings of Aubrey Williams and Hume those of Eric Rothstein, to both of whom I do refer. I have used the following forms of reference: parenthetical cita- tions in the text (where I have tried to place most references to avoid the annoyance of brief notes); footnotes at the ends of chapters, contain- ing only author, short title, and an occasional date where necessary; and a bibliography of works cited, which may be consulted for full titles and publishing information. To streamline further, I have adopted the abbre- viations f and ff, except where exact termination must be identified (and I have eschewed redundant plurals, as in "pp. 218 ff," which I render "p. 218 ff"). Because my edition does not number lines, I cite act, scene (where applicable), and page numbers (e.g., IHiii, p. 39) and note every change of page as soon as it occurs. Finally, I have silently corrected accidentals and transposed italics in prefaces, prologues, epilogues, and the like in the body of the study, but for scholarship's sake I have repro- duced the text of the appendix as exactly as possible. A fully annotated edition of this sale catalogue of Rowe's library awaits a critical edition of the entire canon of his works. This volume was begun as a dissertation at the University of Flor- ida. For help in the revision I am grateful to the following: the staffs of the William Andrews Clark Memorial Library and the Henry E. Hunt- ington Library, for bibliographical assistance; the Regents of the Univer- sity of California, for financial assistance; Ethel Wallis, Stan Scott, and Renata Landres, for research assistance; and Henry Ansgar Kelly, Henry  x Preface Knight Miller, and Ben Ross Schneider, for careful critical readings of the manuscript. For help all along the road to this book, I am especially grateful to the following: John Logan, Richard Sewall, and Cleanth Brooks, who guided my initial steps toward an appreciative understanding of litera- ture in general and tragedy in particular; the late W. K. Wimsatt, who introduced me to the theory behind Restoration tragedy; the late D. C. Allen, who introduced me to the thought behind it; and Aubrey Wil- liams, who taught me how to read it. From start to finish of the study proper, Professor Williams has been my rod and my staff, a fact I ac- knowledge with appreciation and affection. I. Douglas Caneld x Preface Knight Miller, and Ben Ross Schneider, for careful critical readings of the manuscript. For help all along the road to this book, I am especially grateful to the following: John Logan, Richard Sewall, and Cleanth Brooks, who guided my initial steps toward an appreciative understanding of litera- ture in general and tragedy in particular; the late W. K. Wimsatt, who introduced me to the theory behind Restoration tragedy; the late D. C. Allen, who introduced me to the thought behind it; and Aubrey Wil- liams, who taught me how to read it. From start to finish of the study proper, Professor Williams has been my rod and my staff, a fact I ac- knowledge with appreciation and affection. J. Douglas Canfield Knight Miller, and Ben Ross Schneider, for careful critical readings of the manuscript. For help all along the road to this book, I am especially grateful to the following: John Logan, Richard Sewall, and Cleanth Brooks, who guided my initial steps toward an appreciative understanding of litera- ture in general and tragedy in particular; the late W. K. Wimsatt, who introduced me to the theory behind Restoration tragedy; the late D. C. Allen, who introduced me to the thought behind it; and Aubrey Wil- liams, who taught me how to read it. From start to finish of the study proper, Professor Williams has been my rod and my staff, a fact I ac- knowledge with appreciation and affection. J. Douglas Canfield  Contents Contents Contents INTRODUCTONr PARToONE. The Trialof therInnoent I. Prolegomna: The Armbitious Stepmrother, "Poetical justice," and "The Trial of Man" 11. Protagonist as Cbamrpion:c Tamelasnoe anad Ulysses 111. Protagonist as Saint: The Royal Converand Lady Jane Gray PART Two. The Trial of therSinner IV. Protagonist asPenitent (with Rlctane): The Fair P'enitent V. Protagonist as Penitent (w'ith Resignations):Jane Shore APENDsIn. A Cataloge of the Library of Nicholas Rowe, Esq. BIBOGAPHY A. A Tentative Twerntieth-Cenrtury Bibliography on Rowe's Tragedirs BIBIRAPHYoee B. A List of Works Cited 13 45 77 III 146 181 197 2WI TNTROD1'TIO5N PARnOac. The Trialof thelInnocent 1. Prolrgomrena; The Amsbitions Stepmsother, "Poetical justie," and "The Trial at Man" 11. Pratagonist as Chamspion: Tanmerlane and Ulysses I11L Protagonist as Saint: The Royal Convert and LadylJane Gray PART Two. The Trialaofthe Sinner IV. ProtagonislasPenitent (with Rlnctance): The Fair Penitent V. Protagonist as Penitent (wsih Resignation)Jane Shore APENDraIX. A Catalogne of the Library of Nicholas Rowe, Esq. BIBLIOGRAPoY A. A Tentative Twentieth-Centary Bibliography on Rowe's Tragedies BIBLIORoAPHYe B. A List at Warks Cited 13 415 77 illt 146 181 197 200 IsaNODCTON PAnToONE. The Trialof thelnnacent 1. Proleganmeno: The Amrbitioua Stepmsother, "Paetical justice," and "The Trial at Man" 11. Protagonist as Chamspian: Tamnerlane and Ulysacs ILL. Protagonist as Saint: The Royal Conveert and Lady Jone Gray PAnRT Twa. The Trialaofthe inner IV. Protagonist as Penitent (with Relactance): 77weFair Penitent V. Protagonist as Prnitent (with Rsignation):JanecShore APErNDIX. A Catalogne of the Library of Nicholas Rowe, Esy. BIBLIOGRsPHY A. A Tentative Twentieth-Centary Bibliography on Rowe's Tragedies BIBLIOGnRAH B. A List at Works Cited 13 45 77 ill 146 181 197 '200   Introduction eICHOLs RoWE is an important literary figure simply be- cause he was the first biographer and editor of Shake- speare, as most of us know. He is also important as the translator of Lucan's Pharsalia into what Samuel Johnson called "one of the greatest productions of English poetry,"'* as most of us do not know. But his greatest importance in his own time-as it should be in ours-is that he was the major tragedian of the early eighteenth century and became poet laureate in 1715 on that basis. Nearly all of his tragedies were initially successful, and after Shakespeare's, three of them-Tamerlane, The Fair Penitent, and The Tragedy of lane Shore-were among the most popular of the century.' Historically, Rowe's she-tragedies-The Fair Penitent, Jane Shore, and Lady Jane Gray-influenced not only the development of English and continental domestic tragedy but also Richardson and the development of the novel (Clarissa is obviously indebted to The Fair Penitent).' Be- cause of their popularity and their historical importance, the four plays mentioned are still being edited and anthologized anew (see Bibliogra- phy A), and one or another is still being taught in dramatic surveys of the period. Popularity and literary history aside, however, Rowe's tragedies deserve to be studied for their intrinsic meaning and merit. His Ulysses is one of the better classical tragedies of the many attempted in this neo- classical age, and his she-tragedies are the best tragedies of the entire century. In them Rowe achieves the naturalness of diction and the smoothness of verse for which he has been traditionally praised,' plus a fine weave of metaphoric and allusive patterns and a keenness of charac- terization, as in his famous "gay Lothario." The she-tragedies are, far- *Notes to the introduction begin on page 8. Introduction ICHOLA ROWE is an important literary figure simply be- cause e ewas the first biographer and editor of Shake- speare, as most of us know. He is also important as the translator of Lucan's Pharsalia into what Samuel Johnson called "one of the greatest productions of English poetry,"'* as most of us do not know. But his greatest importance in his own time-as it should be in ours-is that he was the major tragedian of the early eighteenth century and became poet laureate in 1715 on that basis. Nearly all of his tragedies were initially successful, and after Shakespeare's, three of them-Tamerlane, The Fair Penitent, and The Tragedy of Jane Shore-were among the most popular of the century.2 Historically, Rowe's she-tragedies-The Fair Penitent, Jane Shore, and Lady Jane Gray-influenced not only the development of English and continental domestic tragedy but also Richardson and the development of the novel (Clarissa is obviously indebted to The Fair Penitent).' Be- cause of their popularity and their historical importance, the four plays mentioned are still being edited and anthologized anew (see Bibliogra- phy A), and one or another is still being taught in dramatic surveys of the period. Popularity and literary history aside, however, Rowe's tragedies deserve to be studied for their intrinsic meaning and merit. His Ulysses is one of the better classical tragedies of the many attempted in this neo- classical age, and his she-tragedies are the best tragedies of the entire century. In them Rowe achieves the naturalness of diction and the smoothness of verse for which he has been traditionally praised,' plus a fine weave of metaphoric and allusive patterns and a keenness of charac- terization, as in his famous "gay Lothario." The she-tragedies are, for- *Notes to the introduction begin on page 8. Introduction ICHOLAs RowE is an important literary figure simply be- cause he was the first biographer and editor of Shake- speare, as most of us know. He is also important as the translator of Lucan's Pharsalia into what Samuel Johnson called "one of the greatest productions of English poetry,"'* as most of us do not know. But his greatest importance in his own time-as it should be in ours-is that he was the major tragedian of the early eighteenth century and became poet laureate in 1715 on that basis. Nearly all of his tragedies were initially successful, and after Shakespeare's, three of them-Tamerlane, The Fair Penitent, and The Tragedy of Jane Shore-swere among the most popular of the century.' Historically, Rowe's she-tragedies-The Fair Penitent, lane Shore, and Lady lane Gray-influenced not only the development of English and continental domestic tragedy but also Richardson and the development of the novel (Clarissa is obviously indebted to The Fair Penitent).' Be- cause of their popularity and their historical importance, the four plays mentioned are still being edited and anthologized anew (see Bibliogra- phy A), and one or another is still being taught in dramatic surveys of the period. Popularity and literary history aside, however, Rowe's tragedies deserve to be studied for their intrinsic meaning and merit. His Ulysses is one of the better classical tragedies of the many attempted in this neo- classical age, and his she-tragedies are the best tragedies of the entire century. In them Rowe achieves the naturalness of diction and the smoothness of verse for which he has been traditionally praised,' plus a fine weave of metaphoric and allusive patterns and a keenness of charac- terization, as in his famous "gay Lothario." The she-tragedies are, fur- *Notes to the introduction begin on page 8.  2 Introduction theensoee, engaging esamsinations of the central hsnoan problemss of suffering and sin. Yet Rowe's tragedies hose ceceised neeager attention fcons twentieth-century scholaeship. The only foil-length studies oee disserta- tions, and these are primacily conceened with Rowe's life, his sootces, and his position in the history oi English dcama as a transitional figure hetween "hectic" and "Sentimental" tragedy, or as on esemsplar of the "1pathetic" mode. In analyzing the playc themsselves, when not merely shetching choractees oe summarizing plots, critics have concentented almost entirely on Rowe's techniques of aerousing pity in his audience. Thin the criticism is most often affective instead of cognitive, ted Rowe's tcagedies simply do not seem to hate been tend for theiftull meaning.' Some critics have discusmed, in most instances briefly and tangentially, Rowe's "moralizing," hot even then they hate divorced the ethical from any metaphysical foundation.' In his volome of The Oxfoed Hiseoey of English Literaturw, Bonamy Dobede goes so foe as to may oi Rowe's teagedies that "one essential pact oi tragedy, the meta- physical sense, was missing"; for that mallet, "in nones1f the plays ti the period is thece any metaphysical idea, no geat theme which mahes the ohsterver say, 'This is what happens to man!''- In his Restoeation Teogedy, rly Rothstein argues that "theology does not set its mark in any teal way" on later Restoration tragedy (implicitly including Rowe, whom he mentions throghout) as it becomes mote affective and its "serial" form becomes detached Itom plot and thus fromn a mimetic re- flection of metaphysical reahity (pp. 1t7, t58 1, and passim). "All con- duct in these plays," writes Rothstein, "proceeds fcom an ethical eathee than a celigious. .. hasis" (p. t31). Although in his recent and generally excellent Resoeaeioe SerioosoDromGeoffrey Marshall admitscthatJae Shoe is a "fndamentally religious play" concerning "salvation" and "1penance" (p. 220), becaose of his emphasis on charactee throghout his seedy he consistently porttays the "seriouness" of Restoration teagedy -and the Cheistianity upon which it often depends in the plays-in stricely ethical teems: "Restocation plays ate concerned with the path through this life. -... [The playweights] asume that evecy man most mahe himself tight before the world will be tight. They believe that chacacter, that ethos, is evetything that counts. They ace therefore dis- tinguished from writees who find the answer to the morally good life in teems of any ti the following revelation, institutions, [etc.]..The Christian figuces [in these plays] . .. do not attempt to convect the audi- eneto a faith, bot to show the advantages of a Christian way of life... 2 Introduction theemnee, engaging examinations of the central human peoblems of suffering and sin. Yet Rowe's teagedies have received meagee attention from twentieth-centory scholarship. The only foll-length studies ate disserta- tins, and theme ace pcimaeily concernsed with Rowe's ite, his sources, and his position in the history of English deama as a teansitional figure between "hectic" and "sentimental" tragedy, or as an exemplar of the "1pathetic" mode. In analyzing the plays themselves, when not merely shetching characters or summarizing plots, ceitics have concentented almost enirely en Rowe's techniques of arousing pity in his audience. Thus the criticism is most often affective instead oi cogeitice, and Rowe's tragedies simply do not seem to have beet tend lot their full meaning.' Some critics have discossed, in most instances befly and tangentially, Rowe's "moealizing," but even thee they have divoced the ethical from any metaphysical foendation.' In his volume of The Oxfoed Histoey of Enghish Literotoe, Bonamy Dobeise goes so fat as to say of Rowe's teagedies that "one essential pact of teagedy, the meta- physical sense, was missing"; for that mallet, "in note of the plays of the period is thee any metaphysical idea, no geat theme which mahes the obseever say, 'This is what happens to man!''- In his Riestoretion Teagedy, ric Rothstein argues that "theology does not set its math in any teal way" on Ilet Restoeation teagedy (implicitly including Rowe, whom he mentions theroghout) as it becomes mote affective and its "serial" foem becomes detached from plot and thns from a mimetic re- flection of metaphysical reality [pp. 117, 15ff 1, and passim). "All con- dece it these plays," weites Rothstein, "peoceeds from an ethical eathee than a relhgious ... basis" (p. 131). Although in his recent nd genterally excellent Resoration Serious Detama Ceoffey Maeshall admits that Jane Shoee is a "fusndamentally religious play" contesting "salvation" and "1penance" (p. 220), because of his emphasis on charter throghoet his stody he consistently portrays the "seeiousness" of Restocation trngedy -and the Christianity upon which it often depends in the plays-in strictly ethical tecms: "Restoration plays ate concerned with the path therough this life. . .. [The playweights] income that every man most mahe himself eight before the woeld will be eight. They believe that character, that ethos, is evesything that tennts. They nre theeforee dis- tingoished lenin weiters who find the answer to the intently good life in teems of any of the following; revelation, institutions, [etc.]..The Christian figures [in these plays] ... do not attempt to conveet the audi- eneto a faith, hot to show the advantages ofaChristian way of life.... theemoce, engaging eaminations of the centeal human problems of suffering and sin. Yet Rowe's tragedies have eceived meager attention item twentlcth-century scholarship. The only intl-length stodies ace disserta- tiees, and these ate primarily contested with Rowe's life, his sources, and his position in the histocy of English deama as a teansitional figue between "heeoic" and "sentimental" teagedy, or as an esemplat of the "1pathetic" mode. In analyzing the plays themselves, when net merely shetching characters oe summarizing plots, ceitics have concentented almost enirely on Rowe's techniques of arousing pity in his audience. Thus the criticism is msost often affective instead of cognitive, and Rowe's tragedies simply do net seem to have been tend lee their full meaning. Some critics have discussed, in most instances briefly and tangentially, Rowe's "moralizing," hot even then they have divorced the ethical from any metaphysical fondation.' In his volume of The forfed Histoey of English Liteeatuo, Ronamy Dobede goes so ins as to say of Rowe's tcagedies that "one essential pact of tragedy, the meta- physical sense, was missing"; foe that matter, "in note of the plays of the period is thee any metaphysical idea, no geat thense which maknes the observer say, 'This is what happens to man!' - In his Restoeation Teogedy, Eric Rothstein argues that "theology does not set its math in any cent way" on later Restoration tragedy (implicitly including Rowe, whom he mentions throughout) as it becomes mote affective and its "merial" item becomes detached from plot and thus from a mimetic te- flection of metaphysical reality (pp. 117, 158 1, and patois. "ASl con- duct in tbese plays," writes Roebstein, "proceeds from an ethical rather than a religious ... basis" (p. 131). Although in his recent and generally excellent Restoeation Serio fDenma Ceoffey Macshall admits that lone Shoe is a "hundamsentally religious play" concerning "salvation" and "1penance" (p. 22ff], because of his emphasis on character theroghout his seedy he consistently portrays the "seriouness" of Restoration teagedy -and the Christianity upon which it often depends in the plays-in strictly ethical teems "Restoeation plays ace concerned with the path theough ebbs life. ... [The playwrights] assume that evety man mosst makne himself eight befoee the world will be tight. They believe that chaeactee, that ethos, is everything that conts. They mre theefote dis- tinguished from weiters who find the answee to the motally good lite in teems of any of the following tevelation, institutions, [etc.]..The Christian figures [in these plays] ... do not attempt to convect the audi- senct to a faith, bet to show the advantages tina Chrisian way of lift...  Introduction 3 The Restoration image of man, in outline, is not very different from the image of man in the Renaissance, with perhaps one significant difference -the Restoration man is a secular creature. He may have intimate ties with the divine or the macrocosmic or the metaphysical, but the plays make little of that. They focus instead on his worldly anguish and the possibilities, such as they are, for his worldly redemption, salvation, and peace" (pp. 30, 34 1, 65). On the other hand, Rowe's physician and first biographer, James Welwood, assures us that Rowe was an intensely religious man, one who studied philosophy and theology diligently; "He had a good Taste in Philosophy, and having a firm Impression of Religion upon his Mind, he took great delight in Divinity and Ecclesiastical History, in both which he made great Advances in the times he retir'd into the Country, which were frequent. He expresst on all Occasions his full Perswasion of the Truth of Reveal'd Religion."' Welwood also assures us that religion is a primary concern in Rowe's plays: "It may be justly said of them all, that never Poet painted Virtue or Religion in a more charming Dress on the Stage, nor were ever Vice and Impiety better expos'd to Contempt and Hatred. There runs through every one of them an Air of Religion and Virtue" (p. an). This religious dimension has either been denied or almost totally neglected in criticism of Rowe's tragedies, and yet, I submit, it is this dimension-in its metaphysical even more than its ethical aspects -which is the most apposite to their full understanding. For the trage- dies of Nicholas Rowe are Christian tragedies; that is, the solution which they dramatically proffer to the problems of suffering and sin and con- comitant metaphysical doubt is the traditional Christian solution, that man must above all avoid the nihilistic sin of despair and must trust im- plicitly in the Providence of God-in His justice and in His mercy. That Providence, as it manifests itself in the formal design of Rowe's tragedies, is the supreme metaphysical reality-eminently and imma- nently involved in "what happens to man," and upon which Christian ethics, at least as Christians view the world, is necessarily dependent. PART Five of Rowe's seven tragedies-The Ambitious Stepmother, Tamerlane, Ulysses, The Royal Convert, and Lady Jane Gray-concentrate on the figure of the suffering innocent. Tragedy with such a protagonist has generally put off most modern readers because of its polarization of good and evil and its lack of hamartia; but this particular type of tragedy, Introduction 3 The Restoration image of man, in outline, is not very different from the image of man in the Renaissance, with perhaps one significant difference -the Restoration man is a secular creature. He may have intimate ties with the divine or the macrocosmic or the metaphysical, but the plays make little of that. They focus instead on his worldly anguish and the possibilities, such as they are, for his worldly redemption, salvation, and peace" (pp. 30, 34 f, 65). On the other hand, Rowe's physician and first biographer, James Welwood, assures us that Rowe was an intensely religious man, one who studied philosophy and theology diligently: "He had a good Taste in Philosophy, and having a firm Impression of Religion upon his Mind, he took great delight in Divinity and Ecclesiastical History, in both which he made great Advances in the times he retir'd into the Country, which were frequent. He expresst on all Occasions his full Perswasion of the Truth of Reveal'd Religion."' Welwood also assures us that religion is a primary concern in Rowe's plays: "It may be justly said of them all, that never Poet painted Virtue or Religion in a more charming Dress on the Stage, nor were ever Vice and Impiety better expos'd to Contempt and Hatred. There runs through every one of them an Air of Religion and Virtue" (p. xx). This religious dimension has either been denied or almost totally neglected in criticism of Rowe's tragedies, and yet, I submit, it is this dimension-in its metaphysical even more than its ethical aspects -which is the most apposite to their full understanding. For the trage- dies of Nicholas Rowe are Christian tragedies; that is, the solution which they dramatically proffer to the problems of suffering and sin and con- comitant metaphysical doubt is the traditional Christian solution, that man must above all avoid the nihilistic sin of despair and must trust im- plicitly in the Providence of God-in His justice and in His mercy. That Providence, as it manifests itself in the formal design of Rowe's tragedies, is the supreme metaphysical reality-eminently and imma- nently involved in "what happens to man," and upon which Christian ethics, at least as Christians view the world, is necessarily dependent. PART 1 Five of Rowe's seven tragedies-The Ambitious Stepmother, Tamerlane, Ulysses, The Royal Convert, and Lady Jane Gray-concentrate on the figure of the suffering innocent. Tragedy with such a protagonist has generally put off most modern readers because of its polarization of good and evil and its lack of hamartia; but this particular type of tragedy, Introduction 3 The Restoration image of man, in outline, is not very different from the image of man in the Renaissance, with perhaps one significant difference -the Restoration man is a secular creature. He may have intimate ties with the divine or the macrocosmic or the metaphysical, but the plays make little of that. They focus instead on his worldly anguish and the possibilities, such as they are, for his worldly redemption, salvation, and peace" (pp. 30, 34 1, 65). On the other hand, Rowe's physician and first biographer, James Welwood, assures us that Rowe was an intensely religious man, one who studied philosophy and theology diligently: "He had a good Taste in Philosophy, and having a firm Impression of Religion upon his Mind, he took great delight in Divinity and Ecclesiastical History, in both which he made great Advances in the times he retir'd into the Country, which were frequent. He expresst on all Occasions his full Perswasion of the Truth of Reveal'd Religion."' Welwood also assures us that religion is a primary concern in Rowe's plays: "It may be justly said of them all, that never Poet painted Virtue or Religion in a more charming Dress on the Stage, nor were ever Vice and Impiety better expos'd to Contempt and Hatred. There runs through every one of them an Air of Religion and Virtue" (p. as). This religious dimension has either been denied or almost totally neglected in criticism of Rowe's tragedies, and yet, I submit, it is this dimension-in its metaphysical even more than its ethical aspects -which is the most apposite to their full understanding. For the trage- dies of Nicholas Rowe are Christian tragedies; that is, the solution which they dramatically proffer to the problems of suffering and sin and con- comitant metaphysical doubt is the traditional Christian solution, that man must above all avoid the nihilistic sin of despair and must trust im- plicitly in the Providence of God-in His justice and in His mercy. That Providence, as it manifests itself in the formal design of Rowe's tragedies, is the supreme metaphysical reality-eminently and imma- nently involved in "what happens to man," and upon which Christian ethics, at least as Christians view the world, is necessarily dependent. PART Five of Rowe's seven tragedies-The Ambitious Stepmother, Tamerlane, Ulysses, The Royal Convert, and Lady Jane Gray-concentrate on the figure of the suffering innocent. Tragedy with such a protagonist has generally put off most modern readers because of its polarization of good and evil and its lack of hamartia; but this particular type of tragedy,  4 Introduction like the tragicomedy which was so popular in the seventeenth century and with which it has so much in common, is really the other side of the coin to revenge tragedy in its theme of God's distributive-rather than primarily retributive (or vindictive)-justice. In Rowe's plays, as in so,, many of the type, the solution to the problem of suffering innocence is to trust in the providential care and justice of God, Who eventually re- wards and punishes according to deserts-if only in the hereafter-and Who ultimately brings good out of evil-if only in the eschaton. As Herschel Baker points out in The Wars of Truth, "The doctrine of providence has always served to justify the apparent evils of a world that, though sunk in sin and temporality, must somehow be adjusted to the hypothesis of a theocratic universe" (p. 13), and he relates how the doctrine was strenuously maintained throughout the Renaissance (p. 12 ff). In his study of Renaissance atheism, Doubt's Boundless Sea, Don Cameron Allen notes that in answer to the growing threat of free think- ing, and particularly deism, "the sections on theodicy in antiatheist books grew more and more extended" as the seventeenth century pro- gressed and that, accordingly, the English "were being very vigorous in their defense of special Providence," or God's particular intervention into the lives of men (p. 146 f). This intense activity-culminating in eighteenth-century optimism-was quite naturally reflected in the imag- inative literature of the period, most notably, of course, in Milton's Paradise Lost, whose theodicy Rowe constantly echoes. And in the major tragedians of the seventeenth century, Rowe found ample precedent for the Christian tragedy of suffering innocence. The major tragedian for Rowe and his contemporaries was, of course, William Shakespeare. Shakespeare's histories and tragedies con- stantly raise questions of suffering innocence and cosmic justice, and as numerous critics have argued (and as I am firmly convinced), those plays commonly portray a providentially ordered universe where suffer- ing is not meaningless and evil does not go unpunished. From Rich- mond's defeat of Richard III at the chronological end of the tetralogies; to the "special providence" in Hamlet which alone can right the state of Denmark and the world; to Cordelia's and Edgar's redemptive actions and Malcolm and Macduff's final triumph; to the providential accidents of Cymbeline (considered a tragedy throughout the seventeenth century and in Rowe's own edition, The Works of Mr. William Shakespear, q.v.), most of Shakespeare's serious plays, not to mention his comedies, are theodicean. In the Restoration period Shakespeare's subtle and complex treatment of theodicy was oversimplified by those infamous adapters 4 Introduction like the tragicomedy which was so popular in the seventeenth century and with which it has so much in common, is really the other side of the coin to revenge tragedy in its theme of God's distributive-rather than primarily retributive (or vindictive)-justice. In Rowe's plays, as in so many of the type, the solution to the problem of suffering innocence is to trust in the providential care and justice of God, Who eventually re- wards and punishes according to deserts-if only in the hereafter-and Who ultimately brings good out of evil-if only in the eschaton. As Herschel Baker points out in The Wars of Truth, "The doctrine of providence has always served to justify the apparent evils of a world that, though sunk in sin and temporality, must somehow be adjusted to the hypothesis of a theocratic universe" (p. 13), and he relates how the doctrine was strenuously maintained throughout the Renaissance (p. 12 ff). In his study of Renaissance atheism, Doubt's Boundless Sea, Don Cameron Allen notes that in answer to the growing threat of free think- ing, and particularly deism, "the sections on theodicy in antiatheist books grew more and more extended" as the seventeenth century pro- gressed and that, accordingly, the English "were being very vigorous in their defense of special Providence," or God's particular intervention into the lives of men (p. 146 f). This intense activity-culminating in eighteenth-century optimism-was quite naturally reflected in the imag- inative literature of the period, most notably, of course, in Milton's Paradise Lost, whose theodicy Rowe constantly echoes. And in the major tragedians of the seventeenth century, Rowe found ample precedent for the Christian tragedy of suffering innocence. The major tragedian for Rowe and his contemporaries was, of course, William Shakespeare. Shakespeare's histories and tragedies con- stantly raise questions of suffering innocence and cosmic justice, and as numerous critics have argued (and as I am firmly convinced), those plays commonly portray a providentially ordered universe where suffer- ing is not meaningless and evil does not go unpunished. From Rich- mond's defeat of Richard III at the chronological end of the tetralogies; to the "special providence" in Hamlet which alone can right the state of Denmark and the world; to Cordelia's and Edgar's redemptive actions and Malcolm and Macduff's final triumph; to the providential accidents of Cymbeline (considered a tragedy throughout the seventeenth century and in Rowe's own edition, The Works of Mr. William Shakespear, q.v.), most of Shakespeare's serious plays, not to mention his comedies, are theodicean. In the Restoration period Shakespeare's subtle and complex treatment of theodicy was oversimplified by those infamous adapters 4 Introduction like the tragicomedy which was so popular in the seventeenth century and with which it has so much in common, is really the other side of the coin to revenge tragedy in its theme of God's distributive-rather than primarily retributive (or vindictive)-justice. In Rowe's plays, as in so v' many of the type, the solution to the problem of suffering innocence is to trust in the providential care and justice of God, Who eventually re- wards and punishes according to deserts-if only in the hereafter-and Who ultimately brings good out of evil-if only in the eschaton. As Herschel Baker points out in The Wars of Truth, "The doctrine of providence has always served to justify the apparent evils of a world that, though sunk in sin and temporality, must somehow be adjusted to the hypothesis of a theocratic universe" (p. 13), and he relates how the doctrine was strenuously maintained throughout the Renaissance (p. 12 ff). In his study of Renaissance atheism, Doubt's Boundless Sea, Don Cameron Allen notes that in answer to the growing threat of free think- ing, and particularly deism, "the sections on theodicy in antiatheist books grew more and more extended" as the seventeenth century pro- gressed and that, accordingly, the English "were being very vigorous in their defense of special Providence," or God's particular intervention into the lives of men (p. 146 f). This intense activity-culminating in eighteenth-century optimism-was quite naturally reflected in the imag- inative literature of the period, most notably, of course, in Milton's Paradise Lost, whose theodicy Rowe constantly echoes. And in the major tragedians of the seventeenth century, Rowe found ample precedent for the Christian tragedy of suffering innocence. The major tragedian for Rowe and his contemporaries was, of course, William Shakespeare. Shakespeare's histories and tragedies con- stantly raise questions of suffering innocence and cosmic justice, and as numerous critics have argued (and as I am firmly convinced), those plays commonly portray a providentially ordered universe where suffer- ing is not meaningless and evil does not go unpunished. From Rich- mond's defeat of Richard III at the chronological end of the tetralogies; to the "special providence" in Hamlet which alone can right the state of Denmark and the world; to Cordelia's and Edgar's redemptive actions and Malcolm and Macduff's final triumph; to the providential accidents of Cymbeline (considered a tragedy throughout the seventeenth century and in Rowe's own edition, The Works of Mr. William Shakespear, q.v.), most of Shakespeare's serious plays, not to mention his comedies, are theodicean. In the Restoration period Shakespeare's subtle and complex treatment of theodicy was oversimplified by those infamous adapters  Introduction 5 with their strict and constricting interpretation of poetic justice. When examined thematically, as has seldom been done, several of the altera- tions in three of the most popular adaptations reveal attempts to further justify Providence. In Davenant's operatic version of Macbeth, a new emphasis is placed on trust in God, and Macduff becomes even more explicitly the agent of divine justice. In Tate's The History of King Lear, Providence is continually invoked; Edgar explicitly becomes God's Champion, and Cordelia interprets the happy ending thus: "Then there are Gods, and Vertue is their Care."' In Cibber's The Tragical History of King Richard III, against Richard's threat to world order the need for trust in Providence is stressed, from Henry VI's submission to "Heav'ns Will" (i.89), to the frequent appeals to Heaven, to the appearance of the ghosts "By Heavens high Ordinance" (V.v.35), to Richmond's role as God's Champion (V, passim). Critics have only begun to see that one of the dominant themes in the tragedies and heroic plays (if not the entire canon) of the major dramatist of the Restoration, John Dryden, is also trust in providential justice." Nearly all these plays focus on the problem of suffering inno- cence, and they are filled with challenges to, complaints against, and justifications of Providence, with the fiercest challenges coming perhaps from Dryden's villainesses, Zempoalla, Lyndaraxa, and Nourmahal; the most poignant complaints from Aureng-Zebe, Almeyda, and Cleomenes; and the most signal justifications from Tiresias and Saint Catharine. In the opening of Act V of Allfor Love, Charmion epitomizes the problem of suffering innocence (or at least misfortunate virtue) in Dryden's tragedies when she says of Cleopatra's suffering, Be juster, Heav'n: such virtue punish'd thus, Will make us think that Chance rules all above, And shuffles, with a random hand, the Lots Which Man is forc'd to draw." Yet whether already present, or acquired gradually as in The Conquest of Granada, faith in Divine Providence is tested and ultimately vindi- cated against those who scorn it-even if, as in the instances of Saint Catharine, Towerson, and Cleomenes, the test is death. That Dryden would attempt to adapt Milton's great theodicy to drama in The State of Innocence should not be at all surprising. There are other major precedents in seventeenth-century tragedy for Rowe's theodicean solution to the problem of suffering innocence. Introduction 5 with their strict and constricting interpretation of poetic justice. When examined thematically, as has seldom been done, several of the altera- tions in three of the most popular adaptations reveal attempts to further justify Providence. In Davenant's operatic version of Macbeth, a new emphasis is placed on trust in God, and Macduff becomes even more explicitly the agent of divine justice. In Tate's The History of King Lear, Providence is continually invoked; Edgar explicitly becomes God's Champion, and Cordelia interprets the happy ending thus: "Then there are Gods, and Vertue is their Care."' In Cibber's The Tragical History of King Richard III, against Richard's threat to world order the need for trust in Providence is stressed, from Henry VI's submission to "Heav'ns Will" (L.89), to the frequent appeals to Heaven, to the appearance of the ghosts "By Heavens high Ordinance" (V.v.35), to Richmond's role as God's Champion (V, passim). Critics have only begun to see that one of the dominant themes in the tragedies and heroic plays (if not the entire canon) of the major dramatist of the Restoration, John Dryden, is also trust in providential justice." Nearly all these plays focus on the problem of sufferisginno- cence, and they are filled with challenges to, complaints against, and justifications of Providence, with the fiercest challenges coming perhaps from Dryden's villainesses, Zempoalla, Lyndaraxa, and Nourmahal; the most poignant complaints from Aureng-Zebe, Almeyda, and Cleomenes; and the most signal justifications from Tiresias and Saint Catharine. In the opening of Act V of All for Love, Charmion epitomizes the problem of suffering innocence (or at least misfortunate virtue) in Dryden's tragedies when she says of Cleopatra's suffering, Be juster, Heav'n: such virtue punish'd thus, Will make us think that Chance rules all above, And shuffles, with a random hand, the Lots Which Man is for'd to draw." Yet whether already present, or acquired gradually as in The Conquest of Granada, faith in Divine Providence is tested and ultimately vindi- cated against those who scorn it-even if, as in the instances of Saint Catharine, Towerson, and Cleomenes, the test is death. That Dryden would attempt to adapt Milton's great theodicy to drama in The State of Innocence should not be at all surprising. There are other major precedents in seventeenth-century tragedy for Rowe's theodicean solution to the problem of suffering innocence. Introduction 5 with their strict and constricting interpretation of poetic justice. When examined thematically, as has seldom been done, several of the altera- tions in three of the most popular adaptations reveal attempts to further justify Providence. In Davenant's operatic version of Macbeth, a new emphasis is placed on trust in God, and Macduff becomes even more explicitly the agent of divine justice. In Tate's The History of King Lear, Providence is continually invoked; Edgar explicitly becomes God's Champion, and Cordelia interprets the happy ending thus: "Then there are Gods, and Vertue is their Care."' In Cibber's The Tragical History of King Richard III, against Richard's threat to world order the need for trust in Providence is stressed, from Henry VI's submission to "Heav'ns Will" (Ii.89), to the frequent appeals to Heaven, to the appearance of the ghosts "By Heavens high Ordinance" (V.v.35), to Richmond's role as God's Champion (V, passim). Critics have only begun to see that one of the dominant themes in the tragedies and heroic plays (if not the entire canon) of the major dramatist of the Restoration, John Dryden, is also trust in providential justice."' Nearly all these plays focus on the problem of suffering inno- cence, and they are filled with challenges to, complaints against, and justifications of Providence, with the fiercest challenges coming perhaps from Dryden's villainesses, Zempoalla, Lyndaraxa, and Nourmahal; the most poignant complaints from Aureng-Zebe, Almeyda, and Cleomenes; and the most signal justifications from Tiresias and Saint Catharine. In the opening of Act V of All for Love, Charmion epitomizes the problem of suffering innocence (or at least misfortunate virtue) in Dryden's tragedies when she says of Cleopatra's suffering, Be juster, Heav'n: such virtue punish'd thus, Will make us think that Chance rules all above, And shuffles, with a random hand, the Lots Which Man is force'd to draw." Yet whether already present, or acquired gradually as in The Conquest of Granada, faith in Divine Providence is tested and ultimately vindi- cated against those who scorn it-even if, as in the instances of Saint Catharine, Towerson, and Cleomenes, the test is death. That Dryden would attempt to adapt Milton's great theodicy to drama in The State of Innocence should not be at all surprising. There are other major precedents in seventeenth-century tragedy for Rowe's theodicean solution to the problem of suffering innocence.  6 Introduction Webster's The Duchess of Malfi and Tourneur's The Atheist's Tragedy are the best examples in the Jacobean period. In the Restoration some of Otway's tragedies are theodicean, certainly Alcibiades and Don Carlos." The same is true of Lee's Mithridates and Lucius Junius Brutus and of Settle's The Empress of Morocco. Finally, just a few years before Rowe's advent on the stage, Congreve wrote his popular tragedy, The Mourning Bride, which concludes, Seest thou, how just the Hand of Heav'n has been? Let us that thro' our Innocence survive, Still in the Paths of Honour persevere; And not from past or present ills Despair: For Blessings ever wait on vertuous Deeds; And tho' a late, a sure Reward succeeds." The same conclusion is echoed over and over in Rowe's five dramatic theodicies. PAnR 2 In Rowe's two most famous plays-The Fair Penitent and Jane Shore- the focus is not primarily on the problem of suffering innocence but on the problem of sin and repentance. The major theme remains, never- theless, trust in Providence-in God's mercy as the key to expiation and atonement. Rowe's sinful heroines, either early or late, follow the path of repentance to a human forgiveness which is itself emblematic of di- vine. The central importance to Christianity of the doctrine of repent- ance is epitomized in the authorized Anglican sermon "An Homily of Repentance, And of True Reconciliation unto God": "There is nothing that the Holy Ghost doth so much labour in all the Scriptures to beat into mens heads, as Repentance, amendment of Life, and speedy return- ing unto the Lord God of Hosts. And no marvel why; For we do daily and hourly by our wickedness and stubborn disobedience, horribly fall away from God, thereby purchasing unto our selves (if he should deal with us according to his justice) eternal damnation."" Accordingly, the themes of repentance and forgiveness permeate medieval and Renais- sance literature, including seventeenth-century English tragedy. With regard to that kind of tragedy which focuses on the problem of repent- ance, however, there is a particular tradition out of which Rowe's plays emerge. 6 Introduction Webster's The Duchess of Malfi and Tourneur's The Atheists Tragedy are the best examples in the Jacobean period. In the Restoration some of Otway's tragedies are theodicean, certainly Alcibiades and Don Carlos." The same is true of Lee's Mithridates and Lucius Junius Brutus and of Settle's The Empress of Morocco. Finally, just a few years before Rowe's advent on the stage, Congreve wrote his popular tragedy, The Mourning Bride, which concludes, Seest thou, how just the Hand of Heav'n has been? Let us that thro' our Innocence survive, Still in the Paths of Honour persevere; And not from past or present ills Despair: For Blessings ever wait on vertuous Deeds; And tho' a late, a sure Reward succeeds." The same conclusion is echoed over and over in Rowe's five dramatic theodicies. PAnT 2 In Rowe's two most famous plays-The Fair Penitent and Jane Shore- the focus is not primarily on the problem of suffering innocence but on the problem of sin and repentance. The major theme remains, never- theless, trust in Providence-in God's mercy as the key to expiation and atonement. Rowe's sinful heroines, either early or late, follow the path of repentance to a human forgiveness which is itself emblematic of di- vine. The central importance to Christianity of the doctrine of repent- ance is epitomized in the authorized Anglican sermon "An Homily of Repentance, And of True Reconciliation unto God": "There is nothing that the Holy Ghost doth so much labour in all the Scriptures to beat into mens heads, as Repentance, amendment of Life, and speedy return- ing unto the Lord God of Hosts. And no marvel why: For we do daily and hourly by our wickedness and stubborn disobedience, horribly fall away from God, thereby purchasing unto our selves (if be should deal with us according to his justice) eternal damnation."" Accordingly, the themes of repentance and forgiveness permeate medieval and Renais- sance literature, including seventeenth-century English tragedy. With regard to that kind of tragedy which focuses on the problem of repent- ance, however, there is a particular tradition out of which Rowe's plays emerge. 6 Introduction Webster's The Duchess of Malfi and Tourneur's The Atheist's Tragedy are the best examples in the Jacobean period. In the Restoration some of Otway's tragedies are theodicean, certainly Alcibiades and Don Carlos," The same is true of Lee's Mithridates and Lucius Junius Brutus and of Settle's The Empress of Morocco. Finally, just a few years before Rowe's advent on the stage, Congreve wrote his popular tragedy, The Mourning Bride, which concludes, Seest thou, how just the Hand of Heav'n has been? Let us that thro' our Innocence survive, Still in the Paths of Honour persevere; And not from past or present ills Despair: For Blessings ever wait on vertuous Deeds; And tho' a late, a sure Reward succeeds." The same conclusion is echoed over and over in Rowe's five dramatic theodicies. PART 2 In Rowe's two most famous plays-The Fair Penitent and Jane Shore- the focus is not primarily on the problem of suffering innocence but on the problem of sin and repentance. The major theme remains, never- theless, trust in Providence-in God's mercy as the key to expiation and atonement. Rowe's sinful heroines, either early or late, follow the path of repentance to a human forgiveness which is itself emblematic of di- vine. The central importance to Christianity of the doctrine of repent- ance is epitomized in the authorized Anglican sermon "An Homily of Repentance, And of True Reconciliation unto God": "There is nothing that the Holy Ghost doth so much labour in all the Scriptures to beat into mens heads, as Repentance, amendment of Life, and speedy return- ing unto the Lord God of Hosts. And no marvel why: For we do daily and hourly by our wickedness and stubborn disobedience, horribly fall away from God, thereby purchasing unto our selves (if he should deal with us according to his justice) eternal damnation."" Accordingly, the themes of repentance and forgiveness permeate medieval and Renais- sance literature, including seventeenth-century English tragedy. With regard to that kind of tragedy which focuses on the problem of repent- ance, however, there is a particular tradition out of which Rowe's plays emerge.  Introduction 7 Nearly all of Rowe's modern critics place The Fair Penitent and Jane Shore in the Renaissance-Restoration tradition of "domestic" tragedy." Indeed, both are adaptations of domestic tragedies by Mas- singer and Heywood, respectively, and Rowe announces in the pro- logue to The Fair Penitent that he is abandoning "the fate of Kings and Empires" for "an humbler theme," a "melancholy tale of private woes" (Works, , 156). But the important resemblance between Rowe's two tragedies and the domestic tradition is that they have the same religious dimension which both Henry Hitch Adams and Charles Howard Peake have shown to be predominant in seventeenth- and early eighteenth- century domestic-or "homiletic"-tragedies." Both critics argue very cogently that the meaning of these plays is heavily influenced by the contemporary theological concepts which are reflected throughout, so that the plays become something like "adjuncts to the pulpit" (Peake, passim). Adams offers a formula for the genre, which, if it is too sweep- ing, at least applies in the majority of instances: "The typical domestic tragedy followed a pattern, the sequence being: sin, discovery, repent- ance, punishment, and expectation of divine mercy" (p. 7). This pattern is roughly that to which Rowe adheres in his two domestic tragedies. His most important predecessor in this kind of tragedy is Thomas Heywood. The repentance of Heywood's sinful heroines in A Woman Killed with Kindness, The English Traveller, and Edward IV, and their final appeals to their husbands-and to Heaven-for forgiveness, anticipate Rowe, who in fact adapted Heywood's treatment of Jane Shore in his own most polished play. But Rowe is more subtle in his treatment of the pattern than most of his predecessors, including Heywood, and his plays are much more than mere "adjuncts to the pulpit." Through his excellence of characterization and through his powerful expression of mental and spiritual anguish, his two best plays transcend didactic formulae and be- come good art. Looming behind Rowe is another and far greater predecessor in the tragedy of repentaoce-John Milton. In Samson Agonistes, Samson fi- nally overcomes despair and places his "trust" in "the living God" and "his final pardon / Whose ear is ever open; and his eye / Gracious to re-admit the suppliant."" Samson's crucial turning point is his en- counter with Dalila, where he resists the very temptation to which he had succumbed-a pattern repeated in both The Fair Penitent and Jane Shore. For that matter, Milton's tragedy sheds light upon all of Rowe's, for besides being a penitence play, it is a dramatic theodicy as well. Mil- ton's conclusion may well serve as an epigraph for Rowe's tragedies: Introduction 7 Nearly all of Rowe's modern critics place The Fair Penitent and Jane Shore in the Renaissance-Restoration tradition of "domestic" tragedy." Indeed, both are adaptations of domestic tragedies by Mas- singer and Heywood, respectively," and Rowe announces in the pro- logue to The Fair Penitent that he is abandoning "the fate of Kings and Empires" for "an humbler theme," a "melancholy tale of private woes" (Works, I, 156). But the important resemblance between Rowe's two tragedies and the domestic tradition is that they have the same religious dimension which both Henry Hitch Adams and Charles Howard Peake have shown to be predominant in seventeenth- and early eighteenth- century domestic-or "homiletic"-tragedies. Both critics argue very cogently that the meaning of these plays is heavily influenced by the contemporary theological concepts which are reflected throughout, so that the plays become something like "adjuncts to the pulpit" (Peake, passim). Adams offers a formula for the genre, which, if it is too sweep- ing, at least applies in the majority of instances: "The typical domestic tragedy followed a pattern, the sequence being: sin, discovery, repent- ance, punishment, and expectation of divine mercy" (p. 7). This pattern is roughly that to which Rowe adheres in his two domestic tragedies. His most important predecessor in this kind of tragedy is Thomas Heywood. The repentance of Heywood's sinful heroines in A Woman Killed with Kindness, The English Traveller, and Edward IV, and their final appeals to their husbands-and to Heaven-for forgiveness, anticipate Rowe, who in fact adapted Heywood's treatment of Jane Shore in his own most polished play. But Rowe is more subtle in his treatment of the pattern than most of his predecessors, including Heywood, and his plays are much more than mere "adjuncts to the pulpit." Through his excellence of characterization and through his powerful expression of mental and spiritual anguish, his two best plays transcend didactic formulae and be- come good art. Looming behind Rowe is another and far greater predecessor in the tragedy of repentance-John Milton. In Samson Agonistes, Samson fi- nally overcomes despair and places his "trust" in "the living God" and "his final pardon / Whose ear is ever open; and his eye / Gracious to re-admit the suppliant."" Samson's crucial turning point is his en- counter with Dalila, where he resists the very temptation to which he had succumbed-a pattern repeated in both The Fair Penitent and Jane Shore. For that matter, Milton's tragedy sheds light upon all of Rowe's, for besides being a penitence play, it is a dramatic theodicy as well. Mil- ton's conclusion may well serve as an epigraph for Rowe's tragedies: Introduction 7 Nearly all of Rowe's modern critics place The Fair Penitent and Jane Shore in the Renaissance-Restoration tradition of "domestic" tragedy." Indeed, both are adaptations of domestic tragedies by Mas- singer and Heywood, respectively," and Rowe announces in the pro- logue to The Fair Penitent that he is abandoning "the fate of Kings and Empires" for "an humbler theme," a "melancholy tale of private woes" (Works, I, 156). But the important resemblance between Rowe's two tragedies and the domestic tradition is that they have the same religious dimension which both Henry Hitch Adams and Charles Howard Peake have shown to be predominant in seventeenth- and early eighteenth- century domestic-or "homiletic"-tragedies." Both critics argue very cogently that the meaning of these plays is heavily influenced by the contemporary theological concepts which are reflected throughout, so that the plays become something like "adjuncts to the pulpit" (Peake, passim). Adams offers a formula for the genre, which, if it is too sweep- tog, at least applies in the majority of instances: "The typical domestic tragedy followed a pattern, the sequence being: sin, discovery, repent- ance, punishment, and expectation of divine mercy" (p. 7). This pattern is roughly that to which Rowe adheres in his two domestic tragedies. His most important predecessor in this kind of tragedy is Thomas Heywood. The repentance of Heywood's sinful heroines in A Woman Killed with Kindness, The English Traveller, and Edward IV, and their final appeals to their husbands-and to Heaven-for forgiveness, anticipate Rowe, who in fact adapted Heywood's treatment of Jane Shore in his own most polished play. But Rowe is more subtle in his treatment of the pattern than most of his predecessors, including Heywood, and his plays are much more than mere "adjuncts to the pulpit." Through his excellence of characterization and through his powerful expression of mental and spiritual anguish, his two best plays transcend didactic formulae and be- come good art. Looming behind Rowe is another and far greater predecessor in the tragedy of repentance-John Milton. In Samson Agonistes, Samson fi- nally overcomes despair and places his "trust" in "the living God" and "his final pardon / Whose ear is ever open; and his eye / Gracious to re-admit the suppliant."" Samson's crucial turning point is his en- counter with Dalila, where he resists the very temptation to which he had succumbed-a pattern repeated in both The Fair Penitent and Jane Shore. For that matter, Milton's tragedy sheds light upon all of Rowe's, for besides being a penitence play, it is a dramatic theodicy as well. Mil- ton's conclusion may well serve as an epigraph for Rowe's tragedies:  8 Introdurtion All is best, though swe aft doubt, What thaunsearchable dispose Of highest wisdom brings abosst, And eerebest found intherrlose. (vs. 1745 ff) Is is in the tight of these traditions and themes, t snbmit, that the trag- edies of Nicholas Rowe most be read. As wilt become apparent in the course of this study, Rowe was instimately acquainted with the workos of several of the anthoes Ibhave mentioned, bat the impoetant point is that feam these major prederessaes heinherited notsomch souces in forms of tragedy that embody the Christian vision of a providential unirerse, a vision which was undr attarb, as Herscbel Staber's, Don Cameron Allen's, and others' studies boor shown," by nearly all the new isnmo an- trashed by the Renaissance and the Reformation: not only atheism, bet deteerminism and peedetrminism, Morhiavcltianisna and flobbism, Epi- cureanism and deism-anything that denied the immanence of Prov- idence and the efficocy of prayer. Perhaps this attach inspired Rome, libe Milton before him and his friend Pope after him, to justify the ways of God to men and to cxhort them to tenet in divine justice and mercy. Hombeit, this study attempts to show at least that Rome's tragedies in- deed narert eternal Providence in answer to the metaphysical dilemmas of snffering innocents and sinners abbke. N OTES 00 onE INTOoCONe 1. " The Life at Nicholas Ston," coneniently yehsrd to Stowe, Woreks, 1, 10 (T ,he pngination beta5 separate bar not Stoon, t dstiniguish it aids an asterisk.) 0. Se EmettL. Avery,-'TheropularityofmThedorigaBdeinthe Lndon Theatres in the ighteenth Century," p. 115f. Fomne's grnrrat muccess,nse Donald St. Clack, "Nicholas non," who discssses she seccets of each tenfedy in each chapter mnd who tabutates peeformancrs in Appendix C. 3. none's influence as toter Englih deaan so asSichnedrs is neS hown. His intluence ocontinental daaisnot, botswinessthenumeroffreignsotanamn nd adaptations (lised is lanes St. Sutherlnd, ed., Thr Plays, by Nichoas Stone, p. d2, Frdinand H. Schwarz, Nicholms Rowce's Pair Penitent, p. 14df nd Willy BOOigt Us- sescbssgc ib ae oShvore, p. 76)md see headeqae btsggesive asserS sketch is Alfred Stfrrcd, Nirholas Rowe ohs Sitaeradb,, p. no af. Continuing Cron interest is Stone is evidencedhby the spore of catly-teetd-estny dissronsisSteS helon (Stibliography A, critsicism) nd by she recest Geran repri'at of Bell's nd Sorb' halda's editios at Stone's ahc-seogcdict, also listed belon (Sibliography A, collected cdi- 4. See, e.., the most amons praise, chat of Samuel Johson, "The Life of Nicholas 8 Introdnction All is best, though we aft doubt, What thounsearchabte dispose Of highest wisdom beings about, And ever best found inthercls. (vs. 1745 f) It is in the light of these traditions and themes, I snbmit, that the trag- edies of Nicholas Rowe mast be read. As will become apparent in the coarse of this study, Rome was intimately acquainted with the workos of several of the onshore I hove mentioned, bet the important paint is that from these major predecessors he inherited not so much sourcesas forms of tragedy that embody the Christian vision al a providential universe, a vision which was andr attack, as Herschel Raber's, Dan Cameron Allen's, and others' studies have shown," by nearly all the new isms ma- trashed by the Renaissance and the Reformation: not only atheism, bat determinism and predeterminism, Macbiavettianism and Habbism, Epi- cureanism and deism-anything that denied the immsanene of Prov- idence and the eictacy of prayer. Perhaps this attach inspired Rome, like Milton before him and his friend Pope after him, to justify the ways of Cad to men and to exhort thems to trust in divine justice and mercy. Howbeit, this tady attempts to sham at least that Rome's tragedies in- deed asr eternal Providlence ho answer to the metaphysical dilemmas of suffering innocents and sinners abbke. NOE aye THo oNToneRODUTON 1"The Life of Nichoas Stone," ronceniently pefixed so Stone, Worbs, 1, 1W. (The paginationabeing separate has sot Stomans, I distineguish it with so asteris.) 0. ScreStemert L. Aerey, "The Psolarity at The Mouning Brdde in the London Theatres in theEighteenth Century," p.15f.PFor Rts's tgenrcss, eDoad St. Clnek, "Nicholas Ston," who disrusnes the scee of each tragedy an each rhapter andnwho salhlas perfomnces insdppendixaC. 3. Stone's ilce estlates EngSish deaa nd son Richardason is well knon. Hir ilnae snoestntare dramsas nt, bat wnss the onbroffreignaoeslasions nd adaptations (hasted is James St. Sutberlnd, oh., Thr Plas, by Nichoas Stone, . 42; Peedinand H. Schwarz, Nicholas owe's Paie eoiteet, p. s4Land Willy Stadeg,. - terscshsgrsie~rJShor,yp.76) andree teiadqateht sggesie general sketch in Alfred Stebeod, Nicholas noe a oh Gesotlicy p. 60 ff. Continuing Cerman isteerstcinRoneisevdenced b h spae ofearly-tnentethcentorydisertatioshlste belen (Stihliography A, risicism) nd by the recest Grom reprint at Bell's and Sorb. bold's edisians at Stone's deassragednc, also listed belen (Stibliography A, collected edi- class). 4. Scr, e.g.. the nest faneu proise, shotat of amuel Johnson, "The Life ad Nicholas Stone." 8 Introduction All ft best, thaugho me oft doubt, What tb'nnteaechabte dispose Of highest wisdom brings oboeS, Andevrbest fonndin theclos. (vs. 1745 ff) Itsis in she light of these traditions and themes, I submit, that the trag- edies of Nicholas Rowe most be read. As will become apparent in the coarse of ebbs seedy, Rome was inftmately acqainted with the maths of several of the authores IShove mentioned, bet she important paint is that from these maorpredecroesreinherftednot somuh soucs as forms of tragedy that embody the Christian vision of a providential universe, a vision which was nder attach, as Herschel Btaher's, Dan Cameron Allen's, and others' studies have sbown,-' by nearly all tbe new inms en- leasbed by the Renaissance and the Reformatin: not only atheism, bet determinism and peedeterminism, Mochiaveltianism and Habbisas, Epi- cueanism and deisme-anything that denied thn immanence of Pray- idence and tbr efficacy at prayer. Perhaps this attach inspired Rowe, lihe Milton before him and his fiend Pope after him, to justify the ways at Cad Sn men and to cxhort them to trust in divine justie and mrcy. Howbeit, this study attempts to sham at tenet that Rowe's tragedies in- deed amser eternal Providence in answer to the metaphysical dilemmas of sufftering innocents and sinners abbke. NOE aye TH oE IiNODUCTON 1. "The Life at Nicholas Stone," conreienly pefhxed eo Stone, Worbs, 1, 1S*. (The pagination biog sepaeate but eat SRaa, S distinguish ideit as asteris.) 0. hSe Eomets L. Avery, "The Populaiy of The ornming Brdde an the Lsndon Theates ihe Eisghteenth Century," p. 11th ee. Strnoe's geralS scen, weDonad St. Clash, "Nicholes Stone," nhs discusses she tocces of each tragedy is each chapter nd who tabults rfdomanres in Appendix C. 3. Stone's infscarce enlacer Stnglish drama sand an Richardson is wel hknw. His influence as continenal deaashonot, butwitnesthecnsmberaofforeign ralaos nd adaptations (listed in James RSt.herdand, ed., Thr Plas, by Nicholas Stone, p. a2; Prdeenand H. Shrze, Nirholas owce's Pair Penitent, p. Sd fh sand Wity nodigb Us- tmuechuagen thber Jane Shoe, p. 76) nd see she inadeqate bat suggestive general sketch ie Alfhed ebhound, Ni'holas owe ash Dooatbker p. 62ft. Continsing Gereas interes'in Rw sn eidecerdby thert e of eadly-tensheth-contry dietatonssted belan (Stihlioaphyy A, critirism) and hy the secrent Gereas erint aS Stell's nd Srb-, bald's editions of Stone's she-teagedie, also tosted helon (Biiohgraphy A, collected edi- tises). d. tee, e.g., the mot famos praise, that of Samuel Jobmns, "The Liar of Nicholas Stone."  Introduction 9 5. See Bibliography A, criticism, and subsequent citations in my text. A more spe- cific review of this criticism would be both tedious and irrelevant, since my approach is radically different from the bulk of it. 6. See especially Frank J. Kearful, "The Nature of Tragedy in Rowe's The Fair Penitent," and his dissertation, "The Rhetoric of Augustan Tragedy," ch. ii. His criticism is still mainly affective, however; he concentrates on Rowe's pathetic and didactic ap- peals to his "middle-class" audience, But see Richard H. Dammers, "Female Characters and Feminine Morality in the Tragedies of Nicholas Rowe," a 1971 dissertation that is subsequent to my own "Nicholas Rowe's Christian Tragedies" (1969). Damnmers mentions some of R e's religious themes while concentrating, obviously, on other matters. His own review of this criticism, "Recent Scholarship on Nicholas Rowe," overlooks not only mine (which is not included in Dissertation Abstracts but is cited in a few places, includ- ing a dissertation Dammers does review) but several other dissertations and theses (also, with one exception, not included in DA but cited in the standard bibliography in this field, Carl J. Stratman et al., eds., Restoration and Eighteenth-Century Theatre Research: A Bibliographical Guide, 1900-1968). 7. English Literature in the Early Eighteenth Century, 1700-1740, pp. 241, 243. In "Pathos and Personality in the Tragedies of Nicholas Rowe," Malcolm Goldstein concurs in denying Rowe's plays any "high eriosess of purpose" whatsoever (p. 185). 8. In Rowe, trans., Lucan's Pharsalia, p. nxiv. For probable evidence of Rowe's reading, see the numerous volumes of philosophy, theology, and ecclesiastical history and polity in A Catalogue of the Library f Nicholas Rowe, Esq., appended to this study. 9. V.vi.97, in Five Restoration Adaptations of Shakespeare, ed. Christopher Spen- cer. All the references to the adaptations are to this edition. 10. See Anne T. Barboau, The Intellectual Design of John Dryden' Heroic Plays, and Gail H. Compton, "The Metaphor of Conquest in Dryden's The Conquest of Gra- nada." 11. V.i.1 ff, in John Dryden: Four Tragedies, ed. L. A. Beaurline and Fedson Bowers. 12. See John David Walker, "Moral Vision in the Drama of Thomas Otway." 13. V.ii.317 , in The Complete Play, of William Congreve, ed. Herbert Davis. See Aubrey Williams, "The 'just Decrees of Heav'n' and Congreve's Moturning Bride. " 14. In Certain Sermons or Homailies, p. 334 f. These were the official Anglican ser- mons originally appointed to be read every Sunday, and as Donald Greene has pointed out, they were published forty to fifty times at least in the seventeenth century ("Augustin- ianism and Empiricism," p. 45n). 15. The quotation marks indicate the arbitrariness of the generic limitations, which can be stretched to include tragedies of the nobility such as Othello, The Duches of,1Malfi, and Venice Preseroed, or restricted to tragedies of the native common folk. 16. Viz. Massinger and Field, The Fatal Dowry, and Heywood, Edward IV. Rowe had one volurne each of Massinger and Heywood in his library, probably (since most of his sources have been found there) containing these plays (Catalogue, quarto 70). 17. Adams, English Domnestic or, Homiletic Tragedy 157.5 to 1642, and Peake, "Do- mestic Tragedy in Relation to Theology in the First Half of the Eighteenth Century." 18 Vss. 1140 and 1171 ff, in Complete Po,, ad Major Prose, ed. Merritt Y Hughes. All quotations from Milton's poetry are from this text. 19 See, eg., Peae, ch,. i; Adams, ch. ii; Roy W. Battenhouse, Marlowe's Tambrur- laine, p. 86 ff; and J. Paul Hunter, The Reluctant Pilgrim, ch. iii. Cf. the following state- ment concerning the great contemporary French bishop, JacquesBenigne Bossuet, and the doctrine of Providence: "De tous les dogmes chrtiens, c'est cli que Bosuet a dfendu aec le plus de rigueur, parce qu'l 6tait le plus vivement combattu par les aths" (F. Gendrt and F.-M. Eustache, eds., Autes, frangais, p. 266). The same doe- trine, the editors note, inspires the whole of Bossutl's Les Oraisons fubres and L, Discours sur l'histoire universelle. Introduction 9 5. See Bibliography A, criticism, and subsequent citations in my text. A more spe- cific review of this criticism would be both tedious and irrelevant, since my approach is radically different from the bulk of it. 6. See especially Frank J. Kearful, "The Nature of Tragedy in Rowe's The Fair Penitent," and his dissertation, "The Rhetoric of Augustan Tragedy," ch. ii. His criticism is still mainly affective, however; he concentrates on Roweo's pathetic and didactic ap- peals to his "middle-class" audience. But see Richard H. Dammaers, "Female Characters and Feminine Morality in the Tragedies of Nicholas Rowe," a 1971 dissertation that is subsequent to my own "Nicholas Rowe's Christian Tragedies" (1969). Dammers mentions some of Rowe's religious themes while concentrating, obviously, on other matters. His own review of this criticism, "Recent Scholarship on Nicholas Rowe," overlooks not only mine (which is not included in Dissertation Abstracts but is cited in a few places, includ- ing a dissertation Dammers does review) but several other dissertations and theses (also, with one exception, not included in DA but cited in the standard bibliography in this field, Car J. Stratman et al., eds., Restoration and Eighteenth-Century Theatre Research: A Bibliographical Guide, 1900-1968). 7. English Literature in the, Early Eighteenth Century, 1700-1740, pp. 241, 243. In "Pathos and Personality in the Tragedies of Nicholas Rowe," Malcolm Goldstein concurs in denying Rowe's plays any "high seriouness of purpose" whatsoever (p. 185). 8. In Rowe, trans., Lucan's Pharsalia, p. xxiv. For probable evidence of Rowe's reading, see the numerous volumes of philosophy, theology, and ecclesiastical history and polity in A Catalogue of the Library of Nicholas Rowe, Esq., appended to this study. 9. V.vi.97, in Fire Restoration Adaptations of Shakespeare, ed. Christopher Spen- eer. All the references to the adaptations are to this edition. 10. Se Anne T. Barbeau, The Intellectual Design of John Dryden's Heroic Plays, and Gail H. Compton, "The Metaphor of Conquest in Dryden's The Conquest of Gra- narda." 11. V.1.1 ff, in John Dryden: Four Tragedies, ed. L. A. Beaurline and Fredson Bowers. 12. See John David Walker, "Msoral Vision in the Drama of Thomas Otway." 13. V.ii.317 ff, in The Complete Plays of William Congree, ed. Herbert Davis. See Aubrey Williams, "he 'Just Decrees of Heav'n'sand Congreve's Mourning Bride. " 14. In Certain Sermons or Homilies, p. 334 f. These were the official Anglican ser- mons originally appointed to be read every Sunday, and as Donald Greene has pointed out, they were published forty to fifty times at least in the seventeenth century ("Augustin- 96i4an and Empiricism," p. 45n). 15. The quotation marks indicate the arbitrariness of the generic limitations, which can be stretched to include tragedies of the nobility such as Othello, The Duchess of Malfi, and Venice Preserved, or restricted to tragedies of the native common folk. 16. Viz. Massinger and Field, The Fatal Dowry, and Heywood, Edward IV. Rowe had one volume each of Massinger and Heywood in his library, probably (since most of his sources have been found ther) containing these plays (Catalogue, quarto 70). 17. Adams, English Domesic or, Homiletic Tragedy 1575 to 1642, and Peake, "Do- mestic Tragedy in Relation to Theology in the First Half of the Eighteenth Century." 18. Vss. 1140 and 1971 6f, in Complete Poems and Major Prose, ed. Merritt Y. Hughes. All quotations from Milton's poetry are from this text. 19. See, e.g., Peake, ch. i; Adams, ch. d; Roy W. Battenhouse, Marlowe' Tambur- laine, p. 86 ff; and J. Pul Hoter, The Reluctant Pilgrim, ch. iii.0. the following state- mnt concerning the great contemporary French bishop, Jacques-B6nigne Bossuet, and the doctrine of Providence: "De tous les dogmes chretiens, c'est celui que Bossuet a defendu avec Ie plus de rigueur, parce qu'il et le plus vivement combattu par les ath6es" (F. Gendrot and F.-M. Eustache, eds., Auteurs frangais, p. 266). The same doc- trine, the editors note, inspires the whole of Bossuet's Les Oraisons funbres and Le Discour~s sur l'histoire universelle. Introduction 9 5. See Bibliography A, criticism, and subsequent citations in my text. A more spe- cific review of this criticism would be both tedious and irrelevant, since my approach is radically different from the bulk of it. 6. See especially Frank J. Kearful, "The Nature of Tragedy in Rowe's The Fair Penitent," and his dissertation, "The Rhetoric of Augustan Tragedy," ch. ii. His criticism is still mainly affective, however; he concentrates on Rowe's pathetic and didactic ap- peals to his "middle-class" audience. But see Richard H. Dammers, "Female Characters and Feminine Morality in the Tragedies of Nicholas Rowe," a 1971 dissertation that is subsequent to my own "Nicholas Rowe's Christian Tragedies" (1969). Dam9mers mentions some of Rowe's religious themes while concentrating, obviously, on other matters. His own review of this criticism, "Recent Scholarship on Nicholas Rowe," overlooks not only mine (which is not included in Dissertation Abstracts but is cited in a few places, includ- ing a dissertation Damnmers does review) but several other dissertations and theses (also, with one exception, not included in DA but cited in the standard bibliography in this field, Carl J. Stratman et al., eds., Restoration and Eighteenth-Century Theatre Research A Bibliographical Guide, 1900-1968). 7. English Literature in the Early Eighteenth Century, 1700-1740, pp. 241, 243., "Pathos and Personality in the Tragedies of Nicholas Rowe," Malcolm Goldstein concurs in denying Row's plays any "high seriuness of purpose" whatsoever (p. 195). 8. In Rowe, trans., Luan's Pharsalia, p. xxi,. For probable evidence of Rowe's reading, see the numerous volumes of philosophy, theology, and ecclesiastical history and polity in A Catalogue of the Library ofNicholas Rowe, Esq., appended to this study. 9. V.vi.97, in Five Restoration Adaptations of Shakespeare, ed. Christopher Spen- cer. All the references to the adaptations are to this edition. 10. See Anne T. Barbeau, The Intellectual Design of John Dryden's Heroic Plays, and Gail H. Compton, "The Metaphor of Conquest in Dryden's The Conquest of Cra- n9a." 11. V.i.1 9, in John Dryden: Four Tragedies, ed. L. A. Beaurline and Fredson Bowers. 12. See John David Walker, "Moral Vision in the Drama of Thomas Otway." 13. V.ii.317 ff, in The Comrplete Plays of William Congvre, ed. Herbert Davis. See Aubrey Williams, "The 'Just Decrees of Heavn'and Congreve's Mourning Bride."- 14. In Certain Sermons or Hoilies, p. 334 f. These were the official Anglican se- mon originally appointed to be read every Sunday, and as Donald Greene has pointed out, they were published forty to fifty times a st in the seventeenth century ("Augustin- ianism and Empiricism," p. 45n). 15. The quotation marks indicate the arbitrariness of the generic limitations, which can be stretched to include tragedies of the nobility such as Othello, The Duchess ofMalf, and Venice Preserved, or restricted to tragedies of the native common folk. 16. Viz. Massinger and Field, The Fatal Dowry, and Heywood, Edward IV. Rowe had one volume each of Massinger and Heywood in his library, probably (since most of his sources have been found there) containing these plays (Catalogue, quarto 70). 17. Adams, English Domestic or, Homiletic Tragedy 1575 to 1642, and Peake, "Do- mestic Tragedy in Relation to Theology in the First Half of the Eighteenth Cntury." 18. Vss. 1140 and 1171 If, in Complete Poems and Major Prose, ed. Merritt Y. Hughes. All quotations from Milton's poetry are from this text. 19. See, e.g., Peake, ch. i; Adams, ch. ii; Roy W. Battenhouse, Marlowe's Tamnbr- laine, p. 86 ff; and J. Paul Hunter, The Reluctant Pilgrim, ch. iii. C. the following state- ment concerning the great contemporary French bishop, Jacques-Benigne Bossut, and the doctrine of Providence: "De tous les dogmes chr6tiens, c'est celui que Bossuet a defendu avec le plus de rigueur, parce qu'il 6tait le plus vivement combattu par les athees" (F. Gendrot and F.-M. Eustache, eds., Autes frangais, p. 266). The same doc- trine, the editors note, inspires the whole of Bossuet's Les Oraisons fun9bres and Le Discours sur l'histoire universelle.   One The Trial of the Innocent One The Trial of the Innocent One The Trial of the Innocent   -W-"' ' - ,V-M  14 The Trial of the Innocent 14 The Trial of the Innocent 14 The Trial of the Innocent of the virtuous] and Satisfaction [at that of the wicked]; and indeed every where endeavors to abolish the Notion of a particular Providence, and so is Impious."' The comment of one recent critic shows that the difficulty with the ending persists: "Artaban, in his final speech, claims that 'The Gods are great and just, ... but this is just what the last act has proved not true. If it were, then the pathos Rowe wanted to create, and in fact succeeds rather well in portraying, would be almost impos- sible. This kind of pathos is created rather by undeserved suffering and unjust action by 'the Gods,' or what Artemisa calls 'the Hand of Chance.' "' If these critics are right; if the play does "abolish the No- tion of a particular Providence, and so is Impious"; if the outcome for the virtuous and the vicious alike depends only on the caprice of "Chance"; if, in short, the play proves that the gods are not just, then not only is the judgment of Artaban contradicted, but the faith of the other virtuous characters in the play is belied, and the scorn of the usurpers is justified. For throughout the play the usurpers insist that the gods do not care, while the virtuous insist that they do. From the beginning it is clear that for the usurpers, religion is nothing more than a tool to placate and manipulate the populace. When the statesman Mirza proposes seizing Artaxerxes and Memnon in the temple of the Sun-god on that feast day which is the "most venerable" of all "sacred times," the high priest Magas balks at the "profanation" and raises the fear of "the vengeance of the Gods" (II.ii, p. 31 f). Mirza re- bukes him thus: The Gods shall certainly befriend our cause, At least not be our foes, nor will they leave Their happy seats (where free from care and pain, Blessd of themselves alone, of man regardless, They loll serene in everlasting ease) To mind the trivial business of our world. (p. 32) Thus Mirza's gods are those infamous deities of the Epicureans and their seventeenth-century atheistical disciples, who denied Divine Provi- dence and consequently were vigorously attacked by clergy, scholars, and poets alike.' After the sacrilege, Magas exclaims in terror, "Every God / Seems from his shrine to threaten us with vengeance" (IIL.iii, p. 45). Yet Mirza simply accuses him of being "superstitious" and of of the virtuous] and Satisfaction [at that of the wicked]; and indeed every where endeavors to abolish the Notion of a particular Providence, and so is Impious."' The comment of one recent critic shows that the dificulty with the ending persists; "Artaban, in his final speech, claims that The Gods are great and just,' . . . but this is just what the last act has proved not true. If it were, then the pathos Rowe wanted to create, and in fact succeeds rather well in portraying, would be almost impos- sible. This kind of pathos is created rather by undeserved suffering and unjust action by 'the Gods,' or what Artemisa calls 'the Hand of Chance.' -4 If these critics are right; if the play does "abolish the No- tion of a particular Providence, and so is Impious"; if the outcome for the virtuous and the vicious alike depends only on the caprice of "Chance"; if, in short, the play proves that the gods are not just, then not only is the judgment of Artaban contradicted, but the faith of the other virtuous characters in the play is belied, and the scorn of the usurpers is justified. For throughout the play the usurpers insist that the gods do not care, while the virtuous insist that they do. From the beginning it is clear that for the usurpers, religion is nothing more than a tool to placate and manipulate the populace. When the statesman Mirza proposes seizing Artaxerxes and Memnon in the temple of the Sun-god on that feast day which is the "most venerable" of all "sacred times," the high priest Magas balks at the "profanation" and raises the fear of "the vengeance of the Gods" (.nii, p. 31f). Mirza re- bukes him thus: The Gods shall certainly befriend our cause, At least not be our foes, nor will they leave Their happy seats (where free from care and pain, Blessd of themselves alone, of man regardless, They loll serene in everlasting ease) To mind the trivial business of our world. (p. 32) Thus Mirza's gods are those infamous deities of the Epicureans and their seventeenth-century atheistical disciples, who denied Divine Provi- dence and consequently were vigorously attacked by clergy, scholars, and poets alike.' After the sacrilege, Magas exclaims in terror, "Every God / Seems from his shrine to threaten us with vengeance" (III., p. 45). Yet Mirza simply accuses him of being "superstitious" and of of the virtuous] and Satisfaction [at that of the wicked]; and indeed every where endeavors to abolish the Notion of a particular Providence, and so is Impious. The comment of one recent critic shows that the difficulty with the ending persists: "Artaban, in his final speech, claims that 'The Gods are great and just,' . , . but this is just what the last act has proved not true. If it were, then the pathos Rowe wanted to create, and in fact succeeds rather well in portraying, would be almost impos- sible. This kind of pathos is created rather by undeserved suffering and unjust action by 'the Gods, or what Artemisa calls 'the Hand of Chance.' "' If these critics are right; if the play does "abolish the No- tion of a particular Providence, and so is Impious"; if the outcome for the virtuous and the vicious alike depends only on the caprice of "Chance"; if, in short, the play proves that the gods are not just, then not only is the judgment of Artaban contradicted, but the faith of the other virtuous characters in the play is belied, and the scorn of the usurpers is justified. For throughout the play the usurpers insist that the gods do not care, while the virtuous insist that they do. 1 From the beginning it is clear that for the usurpers, religion is nothing more than a tool to placate and manipulate the populace. When the statesman Mirza proposes seizing Artaxerxes and Memnon in the temple of the Sun-god on that feast day which is the "most venerable" of all "sacred times," the high priest Magas balks at the "profanation" and raises the fear of "the vengeance of the Gods" (I.ii, p. 31 f). Mirza re- bukes him thus: The Gods shall certainly befriend our cause, At least not be our foes, nor will they leave Their happy seats (where free from care and pain, Bless'd of themselves alone, of man regardless, They loll serene in everlasting ease) To mind the trivial business of our world. (p. 32) Thus Mirza's gods are those infamous deities of the Epicureans and their seventeenth-century atheistical disciples, who denied Divine Provi- dence and consequently were vigorously attacked by clergy, scholars, and poets alike.' After the sacrilege, Magas exclaims in terror, "Every God / Seems from his shrine to threaten us with vengeance" (IIItiii, p. 45). Yet Mirza simply accuses him of being "superstitious" and of  Prolegomena 15 fabricating "monsters"-the "coward's vice." When Magas later de- scribes to Mirza the righteous indignation of the mob, who vow "re- venge" upon their "slighted" gods (V.i, p. 64), Mirza merely sends him out to placate them by indulging their "fancy for religion" with the "gaudy shew" of a sacred procession, an "apt amusement for a crowd" (p. 65). On the other hand, the virtuous characters continually assert that the gods do care. To the flattering Magas, Memnon says, "The Gods, 'tis true, are just, and have, I hope, / At length decreed an end to my misfortunes" (IIi, p. 21). At the end of their encounter, Memnon warns Magas of divine retribution (p. 24), and in disgust with the corruption of the priesthood, calls upon the "awful powers" to assert their "justice" (p. 25). In the first encounter between Artaxerxes and his usurping step- mother, she ironically echoes Memnon's earlier words and hypocriti- cally invokes the "thunders" of the "righteous pow'rs, whose justice awes the world" (Iii, p. 27). But Artaxerxes roundly rebukes her: Thy priest instructs thee, Else sure thou hadst not dar'd to tempt the Gods, And trifle with their justice. Later, to quiet Amestris' fears that their bridal bliss will be destroyed, Artaxerxes says assuredly, "Doubt not the Gods, my fair, whose righteous power / Shall favour and protect our virtuous loves" (III.ii, p. 39). When they are captured a moment later, Artaxerxes challenges the Sun-god, from whom by virtue of his royalty he claims descent: "Canst thou behold, and not avenge thy race?" (III.iii, p. 45). The indignant Memnon correctly concludes that Mirza "laughs / At the fictitious jus- tice of the Gods, / And thinks their thunder has not wings to reach him" (p. 46). In response Mirza prophesies that Memnon soon will renounce the gods and be renounced by them. With supreme confidence in "the Gods" and in himself Memnon hurls Mirza's challenge back in his teeth. And when Amestris concludes that "There are no remedies for ills like ours" except to "indulge our grief" and wait for the gods "to end our woes in immortality" (p. 47), Artaxerxes exclaims, Ha! say'st thou? Gods! Yes certain there are Gods, To whom my youth with reverence still has bow'd, Whose care and providence are virtue's guard; Prolegomena 15 fabricating "monsters"-the "coward's vice." When Magas later de- scribes to Mirza the righteous indignation of the mob, who vow "re- venge" upon their "slighted" gods (V.i, p. 64), Mirza merely sends him out to placate them by indulging their "fancy for religion" with the "gaudy shew" of a sacred procession, an "apt amusement for a crowd" (p. 65). On the other hand, the virtuous characters continually assert that the gods do care. To the flattering Magas, Memnon says, "The Gods, 'tis true, are just, and have, I hope, / At length decreed an end to my misfortunes" (II.i, p. 21). At the end of their encounter, Memnon warns Magas of divine retribution (p. 24), and in disgust with the corruption of the priesthood, calls upon the "awful powers" to assert their "justice" (p. 25). In the first encounter between Artaxerxes and his usurping step- mother, she ironically echoes Memnon's earlier words and hypocriti- cally invokes the "thunders" of the "righteous pow'rs, whose justice awes the world" (II.ii, p. 27). But Artaxerxes roundly rebukes her Thy priest instructs thee, Else sure thou hadst not dar'd to tempt the Gods, And trifle with their justice. Later, to quiet Amestris' fears that their bridal bliss will be destroyed, Artaxerxes says assuredly, "Doubt not the Gods, my fair, whose righteous power / Shall favour and protect our virtuous loves" (III.ii, p. 39). When they are captured a moment later, Artaxerxes challenges the Sun-god, from whom by virtue of his royalty he claims descent: "Canst thou behold, and not avenge thy race?" (III.iii, p. 45). The indignant Memnon correctly concludes that Mirza "laughs / At the fictitious jus- tice of the Gods, / And thinks their thunder has not wings to reach him" (p. 46). In response Mirza prophesies that Memnon soon will renounce the gods and be renounced by them. With supreme confidence in "the Gods" and in himself Memnon hurls Mirza's challenge back in his teeth. And when Amestris concludes that "There are no remedies for ills like ours" except to "indulge our grief" and wait for the gods "to end our woes in immortality" (p. 47), Artaxerxes exclaims, Ha say'st thou? Gods! Yes certain there are Gods, To whom my youth with reverence still has bow'd, Whose care and providence are virtue's guard; Prolegomena 15 fabricating "monsters"-the "coward's vice." When Magas later de- scribes to Mirza the righteous indignation of the mob, who vow "re- venge" upon their "slighted" gods (V.i, p. 64), Mirza merely sends him out to placate them by indulging their "fancy for religion" with the "gaudy shew" of a sacred procession, an "apt amusement for a crowd" (p. 65). On the other hand, the virtuous characters continually assert that the gods do care. To the flattering Magas, Memnon says, "The Gods, 'tis true, are just, and have, I hope, / At length decreed an end to my misfortunes" (II.i, p. 21). At the end of their encounter, Memnon warns Magas of divine retribution (p. 24), and in disgust with the corruption of the priesthood, calls upon the "awful powers" to assert their "justice" (p. 25). In the first encounter between Artaxerxes and his usurping step- mother, she ironically echoes Memnon's earlier words and hypocriti- cally invokes the "thunders" of the "righteous pow'rs, whose justice awes the world" (II.ii, p. 27). But Artaxerxes roundly rebukes her: Thy priest instructs thee, Else sure thou hadst not dar'd to tempt the Gods, And trifle with their justice. Later, to quiet Amestris' fears that their bridal bliss will be destroyed, Artaxerxes says assuredly, "Doubt not the Gods, my fair, whose righteous power / Shall favour and protect our virtuous loves" (III.ii, p. 39). When they are captured a moment later, Artaxerxes challenges the Sun-god, from whom by virtue of his royalty he claims descent: "Cast thou behold, and not avenge thy race?" (III.iii, p. 45). The indignant Memnon correctly concludes that Mirza "laughs / At the fictitious jus- tice of the Gods, / And thinks their thunder has not wings to reach him" (p. 46). In response Mirza prophesies that Memnon soon will renounce the gods and be renounced by them. With supreme confidence in "the Gods" and in himself Memnon hurls Mirza's challenge back in his teeth. And when Amestris concludes that "There are no remedies for ills like ours" except to "indulge our grief" and wait for the gods "to end our woes in immortality" (p. 47), Artaxerxes exclaims, Ha! say'st thou? Gods! Yes certain there are Gods, To whom my youth with reverence still has bow'd, Whose care and providence are virtue's guard;  168 The Trial of the Innocent 16 The Trial of the Innocentt 16 The Trial of the Innocent Think then, my fair, they have not made us great, And like themselves, for miserable ends. (p. 47 f) Yet after the three captives have been led off to their temple-prison, Mirza muses, This night let 'em despair, and ban, and rage, And to the wooden deities within Tell frantic tales. (p. 48) Frantically complain they do, along with Artaban and Cleone, through- out the fourth act (q.v.); whether to "wooden deities" is the question. Finally, in Act V Amestris complains, Will ye not hear, ye ever-gracious Gods? (Since sure you do not joy in our misfortunes, But only try the strength of our frail virtue.) Are not my sorrows full? (sc. ii, p. 66) In contrast, as he prepares to ravish Amestris, Mirza speaks of a Jove who would "lay aside his providence" for similar pursuits, and when Amestris cries to the "awful Gods" for "lightning" to "blast him" (p. 69), Mirza replies, Oh no! Your Gods have pleasures of their own; Some mortal beauty charms the wanton Jove, Within whose arms he revels, nor as leisure To mind thy foolish screaming. She continues to call on the gods, complaining, "Is there no hope of aid from Gods or men?" When in desperation she kneels to beg Mirza that he do anything but dishonor her, Mirza gloats, Thou art, thou must be mine, nor heaven, nor earth, Nor the conspiring power of hell shall save thee. (p. 70) Thus the play is permeated with the question of whether the gods care, a fact which establishes the question as a major-if not the major- theme. At the end, although Amestris is not raped, she is murdered, and Memnon asks pointedly, "What has thy innocence done to merit this?" Think then, my fair, they have not made us great, And like themselves, for miserable ends. (p. 47 f) Yet after the three captives have been led off to their temple-prison, Mirza muses, This night let 'em despair, and ban, and rage, And to the wooden deities within Tell frantic tales. (p. 48) Frantically complain they do, along with Artaban and Cleone, through- out the fourth act (q.v.); whether to "wooden deities" is the question. Finally, in Act V Amestris complains, Will ye not hear, ye ever-gracious Gods? (Since sure you do not joy in our misfortunes, But only try the strength of our frail virtue.) Are not my sorrows full? (sc. ii, p. 66) In contrast, as he prepares to ravish Amestris, Mirza speaks of a Jove who would "lay aside his providence" for similar pursuits, and when Amestris cries to the "awful Gods" for "lightning" to "blast him" (p. 69), Mirza replies, Oh no! Your Gods have pleasures of their own; Some mortal beauty charms the wanton Jove, Within whose arms he revels, nor has leisure To mind thy foolish screaming. She continues to call on the gods, complaining, "Is there no hope of aid from Gods or men?" When in desperation she kneels to beg Mirza that he do anything but dishonor her, Mirza gloats, Thou art, thou must be mine, nor heaven, nor earth, Nor the conspiring power of hell shall save thee. (p. 70) Thus the play is permeated with the question of whether the gods care, a fact which establishes the question as a major-if not the major- theme. At the end, although Amestris is not raped, she is murdered, and Memnon asks pointedly, "What has thy innocence done to merit this?" Think then, my fair, they have not made us great, And like themselves, for miserable ends. (p. 47 f) Yet after the three captives have been led off to their temple-prison, Mirza muses, This night let 'em despair, and ban, and rage, And to the wooden deities within Tell frantic tales. (p. 48) Frantically complain they do, along with Artaban and Cleone, through- out the fourth act (q.v.); whether to "wooden deities" is the question. Finally, in Act V Amestris complains, Will ye not hear, ye ever-gracious Gods? (Since sure you do not joy in our misfortunes, But only try the strength of our frail virtue.) Are not my sorrows full? (sc. ii, p. 66) In contrast, as he prepares to ravish Amestris, Mirza speaks of a Jove who would "lay aside his providence" for similar pursuits, and when Amestris cries to the "awful Gods" for "lightning" to "blast him" (p. 69), Mirza replies, Oh no! Your Gods have pleasures of their own; Some mortal beauty charms the wanton Jove, Within whose arms he revels, nor has leisure To mind thy foolish screaming. She continues to call on the gods, complaining, "Is there no hope of aid from Gods or men?" When in desperation she kneels to beg Mirza that he do anything but dishonor her, Mirza gloats, Thou art, thou must be mine, nor heaven, nor earth, Nor the conspiring power of hell shall save thee. (p. 70) Thus the play is permeated with the question of whether the gods care, a fact which establishes the question as a major-if not the major- theme. At the end, although Amestris is not raped, she is murdered, and Memnon asks pointedly, "What has thy innocence done to merit this?"  Prolegomena 17 (p. 74). Their momentary hope shattered, Artaxerxes and Memnon kill themselves. These events temporarily shake even Artaban's confidence in divine justice, and he complains, "Then virtue is in vain, since base deceit / And treachery have triumph'd o'er the mighty" (p. 77). ii Artaban finally concludes, however, that the gods are just, and the re- port of Magas' death is the decisive factor. Artaban immediately tells Cleanthes, his general and the bearer of the report, to ponder the "re- cent story of this night" and he too will "wonder" at and "confess" the justice of the gods, whom Artaban addresses thus: Well have you mark'd, Celestial powers, your righteous detestation Of sacrilege, of base and bloody treachery. (V.ii, p. 78) In other words, he interprets the overthrow of the usurpers as a well- marked providential judgment. In the Dedication, Rowe maintains that their overthrow observes "that which they call the poetical justice" (p. 5). The point is that for this and all of Rowe's plays, as indeed for the tradition whence he writes, poetic and providential justice are the same. In recent years, two seminal articles by Richard H. Tyre and Au- brey Williamst have rescued the concept of poetic justice from its in- terpretation as a mere dramaturgical contrivance to effect a happy end- ing, to illustrate a moral, or even to escape from the realities of suffering and evil.' They have shown that in the time of Rowe, especially in the writings of Thomas Rymer, John Dennis, and Charles Gildon, and throughout the Renaissance as well (if not the entire Western tradition), the concept had a metaphysical foundation. As Williams puts it, the best critics and playwrights of the entire seventeenth century considered poetic justice to be "fully referential to an ontological reality that was truly immanent in all earthly events. If poesy were to reflect the essen- tial realities of man and his world, it had to image forth, they thought, the order of cosmic justice which they and the majority of persons in their age believed in. The imaging of that Divine Reality of Justice is 'poetical justice' " (p. 553). Dennis states the matter very strongly: "Po- etick Justice would be a Jest if it were not an Image of the Divine, and if it did not consequently suppose the Being of a God and Providence."' In his recent and important book, Restoration Tragedy: Form and the Process of Change, Eric Rothstein admits that "poetic(al) justice is Prolegomena 17 (p. 74). Their momentary hope shattered, Artaxerxes and Memnon kill themselves. These events temporarily shake even Artaban's confidence in divine justice, and he complains, "Then virtue is in vain, since base deceit / And treachery have triumph'd o'er the mighty" (p. 77). ii Artaban finally concludes, however, that the gods are just, and the re- port of Magas' death is the decisive factor. Artaban immediately tells Cleanthes, his general and the bearer of the report, to ponder the "re- cent story of this night" and he too will "wonder" at and "confess" the justice of the gods, whom Artaban addresses thus: Well have you mark'd, Celestial powers, your righteous detestation Of sacrilege, of base and bloody treachery. (V.ii, p. 78) In other words, he interprets the overthrow of the usurpers as a well- marked providential judgment. In the Dedication, Rowe maintains that their overthrow observes "that which they call the poetical justice" (p. 5). The point is that for this and all of Rowe's plays, as indeed for the tradition whence he writes, poetic and providential justice are the same. In recent years, two seminal articles by Richard H. Tyre and Au- brey Williams' have rescued the concept of poetic justice from its in- terpretation as a mere dramaturgical contrivance to effect a happy end- ing, to illustrate a moral, or even to escape from the realities of suffering and evil.' They have shown that in the time of Rowe, especially in the writings of Thomas Rymer, John Dennis, and Charles Gildon, and throughout the Renaissance as well (if not the entire Western tradition), the concept had a metaphysical foundation. As Williams puts it, the best critics and playwrights of the entire seventeenth century considered poetic justice to be "fully referential to an ontological reality that was truly immanent in all earthly events. If poesy were to reflect the essen- tial realities of man and his world, it had to image forth, they thought, the order of cosmic justice which they and the majority of persons in their age believed in. The imaging of that Divine Reality of Justice is 'poetical justice' " (p. 553). Dennis states the matter very strongly: "Po- etick Justice would be a Jest if it were not an Image of the Divine, and if it did not consequently suppose the Being of a God and Providence."' In his recent and important book, Restoration Tragedy: Form and the Process of Change, Eric Rothstein admits that "poetic(al) justice is Prolegomena 17 (p. 74). Their momentary hope shattered, Artaxerxes and Memnon kill themselves. These events temporarily shake even Artaban's confidence in divine justice, and he complains, "Then virtue is in vain, since base deceit / And treachery have triumph'd o'er the mighty" (p. 77). ii Artaban finally concludes, however, that the gods are just, and the re- port of Magas' death is the decisive factor. Artaban immediately tells Cleanthes, his general and the bearer of the report, to ponder the "re- cent story of this night" and he too will "wonder" at and "confess" the justice of the gods, whom Artaban addresses thus: Well have you mark'd, Celestial powers, your righteous detestation Of sacrilege, of base and bloody treachery. (V.ii, p. 78) In other words, he interprets the overthrow of the usurpers as a well- marked providential judgment. In the Dedication, Rowe maintains that their overthrow observes "that which they call the poetical justice" (p. 5). The point is that for this and all of Rowe's plays, as indeed for the tradition whence he writes, poetic and providential justice are the same. In recent years, two seminal articles by Richard H. Tyre and Au- brey Williams" have rescued the concept of poetic justice from its in- terpretation as a mere dramaturgical contrivance to effect a happy end- ing, to illustrate a moral, or even to escape from the realities of suffering and evil.' They have shown that in the time of Rowe, especially in the writings of Thomas Rymer, John Dennis, and Charles Gildon, and throughout the Renaissance as well (if not the entire Western tradition), the concept had a metaphysical foundation. As Williams puts it, the best critics and playwrights of the entire seventeenth century considered poetic justice to be "fully referential to an ontological reality that was truly immanent in all earthly events. If poesy were to reflect the essen- tial realities of man and his world, it had to image forth, they thought, the order of cosmic justice which they and the majority of persons in their age believed in. The imaging of that Divine Reality of Justice is 'poetical justice' " (p. 553). Dennis states the matter very strongly: "Po- etick Justice would be a Jest if it were not an Image of the Divine, and if it did not consequently suppose the Being of a God and Providence."' In his recent and important book, Restoration Tragedy: Form and the Process of Change, Eric Rothstein admits that "poetic(al) justice is  18s The Trial of the Innocent 18 The Trial of the Innocent 18 The Trial of the Innocent the dramatic analogue to Divine Providence" in the "fabulist," or plot- oriented, theory of Rymer and his tradition (p. 5), and that his demand for that justice "reflected a commitment to 'nature,' a metaphysically informed 'nature' which tragedy should map out" (p. 182). Yet after Rymer, Rothstein sees a new affectivism arising in both theory and prac- tice which is inimical to "dramatic forms that mirror Providence" (p. 118). No doubt critics wrote more about affective matters then as they wrestled with the theory of catharsis, and no doubt playwrights like Lee, Otway, and Banks became more sensational. But Rothstein simply does not prove that Restoration tragedies thus surrendered inte- gral form to "serial" form-that is, a form which mirrors physical and metaphysical reality to a form which dispenses with plot and presents merely a series of interchangeable scenes designed to titillate the audi- ence (ch. i). As he admits, the theoretical shift was one of "emphasis" and still "a copious number of early eighteenth-century critics reiter- ated the fabulist theories" (p. 23), a number which included not only minor critics like James Drake, who throughout his Antient and Modern Stages Suroey'd (1699) bases his answer to Jeremy Collier on the pri- mary importance of formal design, but also such major critics as Dennis and Gildon, whose names Rothstein carefully does not mention, for they weaken his case considerably.' What dilutes Rothstein's rase most is his illogical shifting of ground between formal and affective concerns, as in this passage: "The rhetori- cal basis of tragedy had changed. To be persuasive, pleasure had to be deeply satisfying; to be satisfying, it demanded sensationalism; and sen- sationalism, in turn, bludgeoned the sense of a providential whole out of recognition. For although logically the fabulist theory was tenable even after the older assumptions about tragic pleasure had shrunk in promi- nence, playgoers accustomed to looking for a succession of sensations rather than for overall order must have found it difficult to perceive a continuing and exact Providence animating the whole" (p. 8 f). Must sensationalism necessarily destroy overall design? Rothstein himself here admits that no logical connection exists between affective and formal matters, yet he speculates on a totally unempirical assertion about the habits and desires of playgoers and what they might have had difficulty observing. In his rage for generalization, I think, Rothstein has simply not carefully read later Restoration tragedy, particularly that of Dryden, Congreve," and Rowe. For the proof of whether a Restoration play- wright departed from the very long "fabulist" tradition lies in the de- the dramatic analogue to Divine Providence" in the "fabulist," or plot- oriented, theory of Rymer and his tradition (p. 5), and that his demand for that justice "reflected a commitment to 'nature,' a metaphysically informed 'nature' which tragedy should map out" (p. 182). Yet after Rymer, Rothstein sees a new affectivism arising in both theory and prac- tice which is inimical to "dramatic forms that mirror Providence" (p. 118). No doubt critics wrote more about affective matters then as they wrestled with the theory of catharsis, and no doubt playwrights like Lee, Otway, and Banks became more sensational. But Rothstein simply does not prove that Restoration tragedies thus surrendered inte- gral form to "serial" form-that is, a form which mirrors physical and metaphysical reality to a form which dispenses with plot and presents merely a series of interchangeable scenes designed to titillate the audi- ence (ch. i). As he admits, the theoretical shift was one of "emphasis" and still "a copious number of early eighteenth-century critics reiter- ated the fabulist theories" (p. 23), a number which included not only minor critics like James Drake, who throughout his Antient and Moderm Stages Survey'd (1699) bases his answer to Jeremy Collier on the pri- mary importance of formal design, but also such major critics as Dennis and Gildon, whose names Rothstein carefully does not mention, for they weaken his case considerably.' What dilutes Rothstein's case most is his illogical shifting of ground between formal and affective concerns, as in this passage: "The rhetori- cal basis of tragedy had changed. To be persuasive, pleasure had to be deeply satisfying; to be satisfying, it demanded sensationalism; and sen- sationalism, in turn, bludgeoned the sense of a providential whole out of recognition. For although logically the fabulist theory was tenable even after the older assumptions about tragic pleasure had shrunk in promi- nence, playgoers accustomed to looking for a succession of sensations rather than for overall order must have found it difficult to perceive a continuing and exact Providence animating the whole" (p. 8 ). Must sensationalism necessarily destroy overall design? Rothstein himself here admits that no logical connection exists between affective and formal matters, yet he speculates on a totally unempirical assertion about the habits and desires of playgoers and what they might have had difficulty observing. In his rage for generalization, I think, Rothstein has simply not carefully read later Restoration tragedy, particularly that of Dryden, Congreve," and Rowe. For the proof of whether a Restoration play- wright departed from the very long "fabulist" tradition lies in the de- the dramatic analogue to Divine Providence" in the "fabulist," or plot- oriented, theory of Rymer and his tradition (p. 5), and that his demand for that justice "reflected a commitment to 'nature,' a metaphysically informed 'nature' which tragedy should map out" (p. 182). Yet after Rymer, Rothstein sees a new affectivism arising in both theory and prac- tice which is inimical to "dramatic forms that mirror Providence" (p. 118). No doubt critics wrote more about affective matters then as they wrestled with the theory of catharsis, and no doubt playwrights like Lee, Otway, and Banks became more sensational. But Rothstein simply does not prove that Restoration tragedies thus surrendered inte- gral form to "serial" form-that is, a form which mirrors physical and metaphysical reality to a form which dispenses with plot and presents merely a series of interchangeable scenes designed to titillate the audi- ence (ch. i). As he admits, the theoretical shift was one of "emphasis" and still "a copious number of early eighteenth-century critics reiter- ated the fabulist theories" (p. 23), a number which included not only minor critics like James Drake, who throughout his Antient and Modern Stages Survey'd (1699) bases his answer to Jeremy Collier on the pri- mary importance of formal design, but also such major critics as Dennis and Gildon, whose names Rothstein carefully does not mention, for they weaken his case considerably.' What dilutes Rothstein's case most is his illogical shifting of ground between formal and affective concerns, as in this passage: "The rhetori- cal basis of tragedy had changed. To be persuasive, pleasure had to be deeply satisfying; to be satisfying, it demanded sensationalism; and sen- sationalism, in turn, bludgeoned the sense of a providential whole out of recognition. For although logically the fabulist theory was tenable even after the older assumptions about tragic pleasure had shrunk in promi- nence, playgoers accustomed to looking for a succession of sensations rather than for overall order must have found it diflicult to perceive a continuing and exact Providence animating the whole" (p. 8 f). Must sensationalism necessarily destroy overall design? Rothstein himself heere admits that no logical connection exists between affective and formal matters, yet he speculates on a totally unempirical assertion about the habits and desires of playgoers and what they might have had difficulty observing. In his rage for generalization, I think, Rothstein has simply not carefully read later Restoration tragedy, particularly that of Dryden, Congreve," and Rowe. For the proof of whether a Restoration play- wright depasted from the very long "fabulist" tradition lies in the de-  Prolegomena 19 sign of the individual plays themselves. Leaving affective concerns aside, then, let us examine the design of The Ambitious Stepmother on formal grounds to see whether Rowe was right to insist that it follows poetic justice, in the traditional mimetic sense, the theoretical founda- tion for which he most probably knew, since the sale catalogue of his library (q.v.) contains the relevant works of Jenson, d'Aubignac, Rapin, Rymer, Dennis, Gildon, and Blackmore. At the end of Rowe's play Artaban sees in the defeat of the usurpers that the gods have marked well their "righteous detestation / Of sacrilege, of base and bloody treachery." For the punishments inflicted on the usurpers are remarkably appropriate to their crimes. The corrupt priest Magas is destroyed in the midst of his hypocritical and sacrilegious pro- cession by the "superstitious" mob he is attempting to appease. More- over, the function of the mob as the gods' avenger is explicit. In the be- ginning of Act IV, immediately following the sacrilege in the temple, Cleanthes has said that while the "fearful crowd" dreads "the anger of the Gods," the "wise, who know th'effects of popular fury," expect "vengeance" from the crowd itself (sc. i, p. 49). Ironically, the "wise" are both right and wrong, as is obvious in Cleanthes' later report of the "fate" Magas "merited" (V.i, p. 78): on a sudden, like a hurricane, That starts at once, and ruffles all the ocean, Some fury more than mortal seiz'd the crowd; At once they rush'd, at once they cry'd revenge; Then snatch'd and tore the trembling priest to pieces. What was most strange, no injury was offer'd To any of the brotherhood beside, But all their rage was ended in his death: Like formal justice that severely strikes, And in an instant is serene and calm. Details such as the "hurricane," the "fury more than mortal," the crying "revenge," the strangeness and uniqueness, and the reference to "formal justice" seem calculated to leave no doubt in the audience's minds (as they do not in Artaban's) about the import of the entire account: this is not only a fitting fate, but a manifestation of the Hand of Heaven. It ap- pears that Memnon's earlier appeal for divine retribution upon this evil Prolegomena 19 sign of the individual plays themselves. Leaving affective concerns aside, then, let us examine the design of The Ambitions Stepmother on formal grounds to see whether Rowe was right to insist that it follows poetic justice, in the traditional mimetic sense, the theoretical founda- tion for which he most probably knew, since the sale catalogue of his library (q.v.) contains the relevant works of Jonson, d'Aubignac, Rapin, Rymer, Dennis, Gildon, and Blackmore. At the end of Rowe's play Artaban sees in the defeat of the usurpers that the gods have marked well their "righteous detestation / Of sacrilege, of base and bloody treachery." For the punishments inflicted on the usurpers are remarkably appropriate to their crimes. The corrupt priest Magas is destroyed in the midst of his hypocritical and sacrilegious pro- cession by the "superstitious" mob he is attempting to appease. More- over, the function of the mob as the gods' avenger is explicit. In the be- ginning of Act IV, immediately following the sacrilege in the temple, Cleanthes has said that while the "fearful crowd" dreads "the anger of the Gods," the "wise, who know th'effects of popular fury," expect "vengeance" from the crowd itself (sc. i, p. 49). Ironically, the "wise" are both right and wrong, as is obvious in Cleanthes' later report of the "fate" Magas "merited" (V.i, p. 78): on a sudden, like a hurricane, That starts at once, and ruffles all the ocean, Some fury more than mortal seiz'd the crowd; At once they rush'd, at once they cry'd revenge; Then snatch'd and tore the trembling priest to pieces. What was most strange, no injury was offer'd To any of the brotherhood beside, But all their rage was ended in his death: Like formal justice that severely strikes, And in an instant is serene and calm. Details such as the "hurricane," the "fury more than mortal," the crying "revenge," the strangeness and uniqueness, and the reference to "formal justice" seem calculated to leave no doubt in the audience's minds (as they do not in Artaban's) about the import of the entire account: this is not only a fitting fate, but a manifestation of the Hand of Heaven. It ap- pears that Memnon's earlier appeal for divine retribution upon this evil Prolegomoena 19 sign of the individual plays themselves. Leaving affective concerns aside, then, let us examine the design of The Ambitions Stepmother on formal grounds to see whether Rowe was right to insist that it follows poetic justice, in the traditional mimetic sense, the theoretical founda- tion for which he most probably knew, since the sale catalogue of his library (q.v.) contains the relevant works of Jenson, d'Aubignac, Rapin, Rymer, Dennis, Gildon, and Blackmore. At the end of Rowe's play Artaban sees in the defeat of the usurpers that the gods have marked well their "righteous detestation / Of sacrilege, of base and bloody treachery." For the punishments inflicted on the usurpers are remarkably appropriate to their crimes. The corrupt priest Magas is destroyed in the midst of his hypocritical and sacrilegious pro- cession by the "superstitious" mob he is attempting to appease. More- over, the function of the mob as the gods' avenger is explicit. In the be- ginning of Act IV, immediately following the sacrilege in the temple, Cleanthes has said that while the "fearful crowd" dreads "the anger of the Gods," the "wise, who know th'effects of popular fury," expect "vengeance" from the crowd itself (sc. i, p. 49). Ironically, the "wise" are both right and wrong, as is obvious in Cleanthes' later report of the "fate" Magas "merited" (V.i, p. 78): on a sudden, like a hurricane, That starts at once, and ruffes all the ocean, Some fury more than mortal seiz'd the crowd; At once they rush'd, at once they cry'd revenge; Then snatch'd and tore the trembling priest to pieces. What was most strange, no injury was offer'd To any of the brotherhood beside, But all their rage was ended in his death: Like formal justice that severely strikes, And in an instant is serene and calm. Details such as the "hurricane," the "fury more than mortal," the crying "revenge," the strangeness and uniqueness, and the reference to "formal justice" seem calculated to leave no doubt in the audience's minds (as they do not in Artaban's) about the import of the entire account: this is not only a fitting fate, but a manifestation of the Hand of Heaven. It ap- pears that Memnon's earlier appeal for divine retribution upon this evil  20 The Trial of the Innocent priest has finally been answered-by the "formal justice" of the gods, working, as usual, through secondary causes that serve as the instru- ments of their Providence. The imagery of serenity and calmness that ends Cleanthes' report- and the play-can also be seen to have supernatural and providential significance when viewed in relation to the imagery of darkness and im- minent chaos that has persisted from the opening description of the dying Arsaces. Magas says that "an universal horror" seized him as he watched the King: The chearful day was every where shut out With care, and left a more than midnight darkness, Such as might ev'n be felt. (Ii, p. 9) The "few dim lamps" only added to the dismalness, which is contrasted to the "majestic fire" the King's eyes once had. There seems to be a metaphoric analogy between the demise of the King and the chaotic absence of the Sun-god, whom he represents on earth" and who is the very principle of order and harmony in the universe (III.iii, p. 43). On this holiest of holy days, when, as Magas says, "Pernicious discord seems / Out-rooted from our more than iron age" (II.ii, p. 31), discord is far from "Out-rooted." It is imminent. And not merely because the King is dying, but because he is dying without securing the succession of the rightful heir. The usurpers are tampering with the very order of the universe, the very law of nature, as Memnon makes clear. In a scene marked with several references to the impending "universal rin" (11., p. 21 f, Memnon rebukes the usurpers and their plot thus: Can I, can they, can any honest hand, Join in an act like this? Is not the elder By nature pointed out for preference? Is not his right inroll'd among those laws Which keeps the world's vast frame in beauteous order[?] (p. 23) It is extremely significant that the King dies at the moment of the sacri- legious capture in the very Temple of the Sun, for the crime is at once against the gods themselves, against their "race" (the King and his law- ful successor), and consequently against the principle of order, both in heaven and on earth. The King's death presages the demise of order and the advent of chaos. Accordingly, after the sacrilege Magas reports to 20 The Trial of the Innocent priest has finally been answered-by the "formal justice" of the gods, working, as usual, through secondary causes that serve as the instru- ments of their Providence. The imagery of serenity and calmness that ends Cleanthes' report- and the play-can also be seen to have supernatural and providential significance when viewed in relation to the imagery of darkness and im- minent chaos that has persisted from the opening description of the dying Arsaces. Magas says that "an universal horror" seized him as he watched the King: The chearful day was every where shut out With care, and left a more than midnight darkness, Such as might ev'n be felt. (I.i, p. 9) The "few dim lamps" only added to the dismalness, which is contrasted to the "majestic fire" the King's eyes once had. There seems to be a metaphoric analogy between the demise of the King and the chaotic absence of the Sun-god, whom he represents on earth" and who is the very principle of order and harmony in the universe (III.iii, p. 43). On this holiest of holy days, when, as Magas says, "Pernicious discord seems / Out-rooted from our more than iron age" (II.ii, p. 31), discord is far from "Out-rooted." It is imminent. And not merely because the King is dying, but because he is dying without securing the succession of the rightful heir. The usurpers are tampering with the very order of the universe, the very law of nature, as Memnon makes clear. In a scene marked with several references to the impending "universal ruin" (II.i, p.21 f), Memnon rebukes the usurpers and their plot thus: Can I, can they, can any honest hand, Join in an act like this? Is not the elder By nature pointed out for preference? Is not his right inroll'd among those laws Which keeps the world's vast frame in beauteous order[?] (p. 23) It is extremely significant that the King dies at the moment of the sacri- legious capture in the very Temple of the Sun, for the crime is at once against the gods themselves, against their "race" (the King and his law- ful successor), and consequently against the principle of order, both in heaven and on earth. The King's death presages the demise of order and the advent of chaos. Accordingly, after the sacrilege Magas reports to 20 The Trial of the Innocent priest has finally been answered-by the "formal justice" of the gods, working, as usual, through secondary causes that serve as the instru- ments of their Providence. The imagery of serenity and calmness that ends Cleanthes' report- and the play-can also be seen to have supernatural and providential significance when viewed in relation to the imagery of darkness and im- minent chaos that has persisted from the opening description of the dying Arsaces. Magas says that "an universal horror" seized him as he watched the King: The chearful day was every where shut out With care, and left a more than midnight darkness, Such as might ev'n be felt. (Li, p. 9) The "few dim lamps" only added to the dismalness, which is contrasted to the "majestic fire" the King's eyes once had. There seems to be a metaphoric analogy between the demise of the King and the chaotic absence of the Sun-god, whom he represents on earth" and who is the very principle of order and harmony in the universe (III.iii, p. 43). On this holiest of holy days, when, as Magas says, "Pernicious discord seems / Out-rooted from our more than iron age" (II.ii, p. 31), discord is far from "Out-rooted." It is imminent. And not merely because the King is dying, but because he is dying without securing the succession of the rightful heir. The usurpers are tampering with the very order of the universe, the very law of nature, as Memnon makes clear. In a scene marked with several references to the impending "universal ruin" (II.i, p. 21 f), Memnon rebukes the usurpers and their plot thus: Can t, can they, can any honest hand, Join in an act like this? Is not the elder By nature pointed out for preference? Is not his right inroll'd among those laws Which keeps the world's vast frame in beauteous order[?] (p. 23) It is extremely significant that the King dies at the moment of the sacri- legious capture in the very Temple of the Sun, for the crime is at once against the gods themselves, against their "race" (the King and his law- ful successor), and consequently against the principle of order, both in heaven and on earth. The King's death presages the demise of order and the advent of chaos. Accordingly, after the sacrilege Magas reports to  Prolegomena 21 Prolegomena 21 Prolegomena 21 Mirza that the temple "reels" and "Nods at the profanation" (III.iii, p. 45), and he later describes in apocalyptic terms the "Infernal discord" that threatens the city (V.i, p. 64), while in "confus'd disorderly array" the crowd marches on the palace, crying, religion is no more, Our Gods are slighted, whom if we revenge not, War, pestilence, and famine will ensue, And universal ruin swallow all. Magas' death at the hands of this mob, then, must be seen in terms of the "revenge" of this slight to the gods in order to save the world from chaos. The mode of his death and the ordered calm that follows it both imply a providential judgment. The manifestation of Providence in the death of Magas enables Artaban, and should urge the audience, to reflect on the entire story of the night and a fortiori to see also the fates of Mirza and Artemisa as providential. Like Magas', their punishments are remarkably appropri- ate to their crimes. Mirza is killed in the act of his own lust; moreover, the instrument of his death is the maiden he is attempting to ravish and at whose cries for heavenly assistance he contemptuously scoffs. In the Dedication Rowe himself points out the appropriateness of the Queen's punishment: "The Queen is deposed from her authority by her own son; which, I suppose, will be allowed as the severest mortification that could happen to a woman of her imperious temper" (p. 5). Thus, lust is pun- ished by virgin innocence and usurpation by deposition. Both the pun- ishments and their modes, then, are signs of poetical-and providential -justice. The fate of the usurpers is appropriate not only to their particular crimes. It is appropriate to their entire philosophy. Mirza's attitude toward religion and the gods is shown to be woefully mistaken. But this attitude is also the basis for the usurpers' moral and political philosophy. Where there are no gods who care, self-interest becomes the guiding principle. Artemisa explicitly calls "self-interest" the "first and noblest law of nature" (IVi, p. 54). According to this view, mankind is divided into the "wise" and the "foolish." In the passage just cited, Artemisa is inveighing against Artaban's "foolish honour," which she calls a "ridicu- lous notion." From the opening scene of the play Mirza has delineated Mirza that the temple "reels" and "Nods at the profanation" (III.iii, p. 45), and he later describes in apocalyptic terms the "Infernal discord" that threatens the city (V.i, p. 64), while in "confus'd disorderly array" the crowd marches on the palace, crying, religion is no more, Our Gods are slighted, whom if we revenge not, War, pestilence, and famine will ensue, And universal ruin swallow all. Magas' death at the hands of this mob, then, must be seen in terms of the "revenge" of this slight to the gods in order to save the world from chaos. The mode of his death and the ordered calm that follows it both imply a providential judgment. The manifestation of Providence in the death of Magas enables Artaban, and should urge the audience, to reflect on the entire story of the night and a fortiori to see also the fates of Mirza and Artemisa as providential. Like Magas', their punishments are remarkably appropri- ate to their crimes. Mirza is killed in the act of his own lust; moreover, the instrument of his death is the maiden he is attempting to ravish and at whose cries for heavenly assistance he contemptuously scoffs. In the Dedication Rowe himself points out the appropriateness of the Queen's punishment: "The Queen is deposed from her authority by her own son; which, I suppose, will be allowed as the severest mortification that could happen to a woman of her imperious temper" (p. 5). Thus, lust is pun- ished by virgin innocence and usurpation by deposition. Both the pun- ishments and their modes, then, are signs of poetical-and providential -justice. The fate of the usurpers is appropriate not only to their particular crimes. It is appropriate to their entire philosophy. Mirza's attitude toward religion and the gods is shown to be woefully mistaken. But this attitude is also the basis for the usurpers' moral and political philosophy. Where there are no gods who care, self-interest becomes the guiding principle. Artemisa explicitly calls "self-interest" the "first and noblest law of nature" (IV.i, p. 54). According to this view, mankind is divided into the "wise" and the "foolish." In the passage just cited, Artemisa is inveighing against Artaban's "foolish honour," which she calls a "ridicu- lous notion." From the opening scene of the play Mirza has delineated Mirza that the temple "reels" and "Nods at the profanation" (III.iii, p. 45), and he later describes in apocalyptic terms the "Infernal discord" that threatens the city (V.i, p. 64), while in "confus'd disorderly array" the crowd marches on the palace, crying, religion is no more, Our Gods are slighted, whom if we revenge not, War, pestilence, and famine will ensue, And universal ruin swallow all. Magas' death at the hands of this mob, then, must be seen in terms of the "revenge" of this slight to the gods in order to save the world from chaos. The mode of his death and the ordered calm that follows it both imply a providential judgment. The manifestation of Providence in the death of Magas enables Artaban, and should urge the audience, to reflect on the entire story of the night and a fortiori to see also the fates of Mirza and Artemisa as providential. Like Magas', their punishments are remarkably appropri- ate to their crimes. Mirza is killed in the act of his own lust; moreover, the instrument of his death is the maiden he is attempting to ravish and at whose cries for heavenly assistance he contemptuously scoffs. In the Dedication Rowe himself points out the appropriateness of the Queen's punishment: "The Queen is deposed from her authority by her own son; which, I suppose, will be allowed as the severest mortification that could happen to a woman of her imperious temper" (p. 5). Thus, lust is pun- ished by virgin innocence and usurpation by deposition. Both the pun- ishments and their modes, then, are signs of poetical-and providential -justice. The fate of the usurpers is appropriate not only to their particular crimes. It is appropriate to their entire philosophy. Mirza's attitude toward religion and the gods is shown to be woefully mistaken. But this attitude is also the basis for the usurpers' moral and political philosophy. Where there are no gods who care, self-interest becomes the guiding principle. Artemisa explicitly calls "self-interest" the "first and noblest law of nature" (IVi, p. 54). According to this view, mankind is divided into the "wise" and the "foolish." In the passage just cited, Artemisa is inveighing against Artaban's "foolish honour," which she calls a "ridicu- lous notion." From the opening scene of the play Mirza has delineated  22 The Trial of the Innocent this philosophy: "The wise and active conquer difficulties / By daring to attempt 'em" (p. 12). Thus they overcome "Valiant fools" like Mem- non, who are but the "tools" of statesmen (p. 13): Dull heavy things! Whom nature has left honest In mere frugality, to save the charge She's at in setting out a thinking soul. The prime example in the play of such a "thinking soul," of course, is Mirza himself, who conceives evil plots in his mind "at once compleatly form'd" in the fashion of the typical Satan-Machiavel (ILIii, p. 31; of. p. 33 and Li, p. 10). By such a "fine project of the statesman's brain," "wit" overcomes "courage" and "boasted prowess" (I.ii, p. 33). Fur- thermore, Mirza predicts the conversion of the Pretender (Artaban) to the philosophy "that only fools would lose / A crown for notionary prin- ciples" (Hii, p. 42). When Artaban refuses to gain the throne dishonor- ably, Artemisa asks the "honourable fool" if he has forgotten the "wise arts of empire" and the "worth of power" in favor of a "notion," an "empty sound of virtue," a "dry maxim, / Which pedants have devised for boys to canvas" (IVi, p. 50 f). So the "wise" are opportunistic, self- interested nominalists-or Hobbists-and the enemies not only of re- ligion but of all traditional morality. Theirs is a morality of expediency, and their politics is based upon it. As Artemisa implies, the politics of the "wise" is the politics of "power." Earlier Magas argues, Unbounded pow'r, and height of greatness give To Kings that lustre, which we think divine. (IIi, p. 23) He thus denies the relationship between the King and the Sun-god which is stressed throughout the play. The boldest and most naked asser- tion of the doctrine of power is Artemisa's justification of her husband's murder: "Pow'r gives a sanction, and makes all things just" (Li, p. 15). Mirza echoes this doctrine when he begs Amestris to "think on power, on power and place supreme," and then she will consent to violate her bridal bed (V.ii, p. 67). Unchecked power is the goal of the usurpers, and the end justifies any means to obtain it. The political philosophy of the "wise," then, is a poetic exaggeration of the theories of Machiavelli and Hobbes, which, as Louis Teeter has shown, had become amalgamated in the Restoration, and which were seen as a threat to the Christian 22 The Trial of the Innocent this philosophy: "The wise and active conquer diffculties / By daring to attempt 'em" (p. 12). Thus they overcome "Valiant fools" like Mem- non, who are but the "tools" of statesmen (p. 13): Dull heavy things! Whom nature has left honest In mere frugality, to save the charge She's at in setting out a thinking soul. The prime example in the play of such a "thinking soul," of course, is Mirza himself, who conceives evil plots in his mind "at once compleatly form'd" in the fashion of the typical Satan-Machiavel (IIii, p. 31; cf. p. 33 and Li, p. 10). By such a "fine project of the statesman's brain," "wit" overcomes "courage" and "boasted prowess" (IIii, p. 33). Fur- thermore, Mirza predicts the conversion of the Pretender (Artaban) to the philosophy "that only fools would lose / A crown for notionary prin- ciples" (Hii, p. 42). When Artaban refuses to gain the throne dishonor- ably, Artemisa asks the "honourable fool" if he has forgotten the "wise arts of empire" and the "worth of power" in favor of a "notion," an "empty sound of virtue," a "dry maxim, / Which pedants have devised for boys to canvas" (IVi, p. 50 f). So the "wise" are opportunistic, self- interested nominalists-or Hobbists-and the enemies not only of re- ligion but of all traditional morality. Theirs is a morality of expediency, and their politics is based upon it. As Artemisa implies, the politics of the "wise" is the politics of "power." Earlier Magas argues, Unbounded pow'r, and height of greatness give To Kings that lustre, which we think divine. (ILi, p. 23) He thus denies the relationship between the King and the Sun-god which is stressed throughout the play. The boldest and most naked asser- tion of the doctrine of power is Artemisa's justification of her husband's murder: "Pow'r gives a sanction, and makes all things just" (Li, p. 15). Mirza echoes this doctrine when he begs Amestris to "think on power, on power and place supreme," and then she will consent to violate her bridal bed (V.ii, p. 67). Unchecked power is the goal of the usurpers, and the end justifies any means to obtain it. The political philosophy of the "wise," then, is a poetic exaggeration of the theories of Machiavelli and Hobbes, which, as Louis Teeter has shown, had become amalgamated in the Restoration, and which were seen as a threat to the Christian 22 The Trial of the Innocent this philosophy: "The wise and active conquer difficulties / By daring to attempt 'em" (p. 12). Thus they overcome "Valiant fools" like Mem- non, who are but the "tools" of statesmen (p. 13): Dull heavy things! Whom nature has left honest In mere frugality, to save the charge She's at in setting out a thinking soul. The prime example in the play of such a "thinking soul," of course, is Mirza himself, who conceives evil plots in his mind "at once compleatly form'd" in the fashion of the typical Satan-Machiavel (1.ii, p. 31; cf. p. 33 and Li, p. 10). By such a "fne project of the statesman's brain," "wit" overcomes "courage" and "boasted prowess" (IHii, p. 33). Fur- thermore, Mirza predicts the conversion of the Pretender (Artaban) to the philosophy "that only fools would lose / A crown for notionary prin- ciples" (Ittii, p. 42). When Artaban refuses to gain the throne dishonor- ably, Artemisa asks the "honourable fool" if he has forgotten the "wise arts of empire" and the "worth of power" in favor of a "notion," an "empty sound of virtue," a "dry maxim, / Which pedants have devised for boys to canvas" (IVi, p. 50 f). So the "wise" are opportunistic, self- interested nominalists-or Hobbists-and the enemies not only of re- ligion but of all traditional morality. Theirs is a morality of expediency, and their politics is based upon it. As Artemisa implies, the politics of the "wise" is the politics of "power." Earlier Magas argues, Unbounded pow'r, and height of greatness give To Kings that lustre, which we think divine. (H.i, p. 23) He thus denies the relationship between the King and the Sun-god which is stressed throughout the play. The boldest and most naked asser- tion of the doctrine of power is Artemisa's justification of her husband's murder: "Pow'r gives a sanction, and makes all things just" (Ii, p. 15). Mirza echoes this doctrine when he begs Amestris to "think on power, on power and place supreme," and then she will consent to violate her bridal bed (V.ii, p. 67). Unchecked power is the goal of the usurpers, and the end justifies any means to obtain it. The political philosophy of the "wise," then, is a poetic exaggeration of the theories of Machiavelli and Hobbes, which, as Louis Teeter has shown, had become amalgamated in the Restoration, and which were seen as a threat to the Christian  Prolegomena 23 vision of world order." In the tradition of Shakespeare and Dryden, Rowe is attacking those who, as a consequence of their denial of the spiritual and the providential-Mirza believes that "mankind is govern'd" only by the "finer arts" of the "wise" (I.ii, p. 42)-subscribe to a politics of de facto power, in which the most cunning can seize power and hold it with impunity. In her opening speech-"Be fix'd, my soul, fix'd on thy own firm basis" (Ii, p. 14 f)-Artemisa carries the self-interested philosophy of the "wise" to its logical conclusion: total reliance on self instead of the gods. Her self-assertion is the height of pride and tantamount to the assump- tion of divinity. Rowe drives the point home by having Mirza approach her as a goddess, an attribution she implicitly accepts (p. 15)." Again in Act IV Artemisa assumes the language and the prerogatives of divinity: she asks Artaban, Is not thy power the creation of my favour, Which in precarious wise on me depending, Exists by my concurrence to its being? (sc. i, p. 52) Finally she concludes in the ultimate of blasphemous self-assertion, "I am fate in Persia, / And life and death depend upon my pleasure" (p. 53). Artaban's retort ("The world would be well gover'd, should the Gods / Depute their providence to women's care") makes it clear that Artemisa is assuming powers which belong to Providence alone. Appropriately, the irony of the usurpers' defeat is precisely their inability to control events and their utter dependence on a fortune or a fate that ultimately proves to have a providential pattern. At the begin- ning Mirza wishes he could delay fate in the approaching death of Arsaces (Ii, p. 9), for, My royal mistress Artemisa's fate, And all her son, young Artaban's, high hopes, Hang on this lucky crisis. (p. 10) Speaking of the temporary truce between the princes, Mirza exclaims, Most fortunate event! which gives us more Than ev'n our wishes could have ask'd. This truce Gives lucky opportunity for thinking. (ii, p. 31) Prolegomena 23 vision of world order." In the tradition of Shakespeare and Dryden, Rowe is attacking those who, as a consequence of their denial of the spiritual and the providential-Mirza believes that "mankind is govern'd" only by the "finer arts" of the "wise" (IH.ii, p. 42)-subscribe to a politics of de facto power, in which the most cunning can seize power and hold it with impunity. In her opening speech-"Be fix'd, my soul, fix'd on thy own firm basis" (Ii, p. 14 f)-Artemisa carries the self-interested philosophy of the "wise" to its logical conclusion: total reliance on self instead of the gods. Her self-assertion is the height of pride and tantamount to the assump- tion of divinity. Rowe drives the point home by having Mirza approach her as a goddess, an attribution she implicitly accepts (p. 15)." Again in Act IV Artemisa assumes the language and the prerogatives of divinity: she asks Artaban, Is not thy power the creation of my favour, Which in precarious wise on me depending, Exists by my concurrence to its being? (sc. i, p. 52) Finally she concludes in the ultimate of blasphemous self-assertion, "I am fate in Persia, / And life and death depend upon my pleasure" (p. 53). Artaban's retort ("The world would be well govern'd, should the Gods / Depute their providence to women's care") makes it clear that Artemisa is assuming powers which belong to Providence alone. Appropriately, the irony of the usurpers' defeat is precisely their inability to control events and their utter dependence on a fortune or a fate that ultimately proves to have a providential pattern. At the begin- ning Mirza wishes he could delay fate in the approaching death of Arsaces (Ii, p. 9), for, My royal mistress Artemisa's fate, And all her son, young Artaban's, high hopes, Hang on this lucky crisis. (p. 10) Speaking of the temporary truce between the princes, Mirza exclaims, Most fortunate event! which gives us more Than ev'n our wishes could have ask'd. This truce Gives lucky opportunity for thinking. (l.ii, p. 31) Prolegomena 23 vision of world order." In the tradition of Shakespeare and Dryden, Rowe is attacking those who, as a consequence of their denial of the spiritual and the providential-Mirza believes that "mankind is govern'd" only by the "finer arts" of the "wise" (III.ii, p. 42)-subscribe to a politics of de facto power, in which the most cunning can seize power and hold it with impunity. In her opening speech-"Be fix'd, my soul, fix'd on thy own firm basis" (Ii, p. 14 f)-Artemisa carries the self-interested philosophy of the "wise" to its logical conclusion: total reliance on self instead of the gods. Her self-assertion is the height of pride and tantamount to the assump- tion of divinity. Rowe drives the point home by having Mirza approach her as a goddess, an attribution she implicitly accepts (p. 15)." Again in Act IV Artemisa assumes the language and the prerogatives of divinity: she asks Artaban, Is not thy power the creation of my favour, Which in precarious wise on me depending, Exists by my concurrence to its being? (sc. i, p. 52) Finally she concludes in the ultimate of blasphemous self-assertion, "I am fate in Persia, / And life and death depend upon my pleasure" (p. 53). Artaban's retort ("The world would be well govern'd, should the Gods / Depute their providence to women's care") makes it clear that Artemisa is assuming powers which belong to Providence alone. Appropriately, the irony of the usurpers' defeat is precisely their inability to control events and their utter dependence on a fortune or a fate that ultimately proves to have a providential pattern. At the begin- ning Mirza wishes he could delay fate in the approaching death of Arsaces (Ii, p. 9), for, My royal mistress Artemisa's fate, And all her son, young Artaban's, high hopes, Hang on this lucky crisis. (p. 10) Speaking of the temporary truce between the princes, Mirza exclaims, Most fortunate event! which gives us more Than ev'n our wishes could have ask'd. This truce Gives lucky opportunity for thinking. (I.ii, p. 31)  24 The Trial of the Innocent After Arsaces' death and the capture of Artaxerxes in the temple, Ar- temisa exhorts Artaban to "seize" fortune "While she is thine, or she is lost forever" (IV.i, p. 51). When Artaban rejects his mother's advice, Mirza warns, meddling fortune, (Whose malice labours to perplex the wise) If not prevented, will unravel all Those finer arts, which we with care have wove. (p. 54) As he has said earlier, "The wise should not allow / A possibility to for- tune's malice" (II.iii, p. 48). Yet Mirza allows fortune the possibility of undoing him and his faction. Consumed by lust, he becomes careless and, ironically, unprov- idential. Magas, fearful of the wrath of the people, taxes Mirza with underestimating the crowd's reaction to the capture of Artaxerxes and pleads with him to accompany the procession which is to placate the crowd, since they hold his "wisdom in most high regard": "Thoccasion is well worth your care and presence" (V.i, p. 65). But Mirza refuses, and we have already noted the subsequent fate of that procession. Mirza is about his own undoing, too. He is enraptured with the "fatal beauty" of Amestris (IILiii, p. 44). Struggling with himself, he says, Remember, statesman, Thy fate and future fortunes now are forming, And summon all thy counsels to their aid, Ev'n thy whole soul. Nevertheless, he soon turns to rationalizing his lust: the "wise" are free to "indulge" in a little lustful "riot," he argues, as long as they desist before it dulls "the faculty of thinking" (p. 49). Thus begins the fall of the "thinking soul." Finally, his "fine arts" are "Unravel'd all" (V.ii, p. 70). He cries out in agony, Malicious fortune! She took the moment when my wisdom nodded, And ruin'd me at once. 0 doating fool! (p. 72) Artemisa sums up the irony of his fall in terms of fate and chance: 24 The Trial of the Innocent After Arsaces' death and the capture of Artaxerxes in the temple, Ar- temisa exhorts Artaban to "seize" fortune "While she is thine, or she is lost forever" (IVi, p. 51). When Artaban rejects his mother's advice, Mirza warns, meddling fortune, (Whose malice labours to perplex the wise) If not prevented, will unravel all Those finer arts, which we with care have wove. (p. 54) As he has said earlier, "The wise should not allow / A possibility to for- tune's malice" (III.iii, p. 48). Yet Mirza allows fortune the possibility of undoing him and his faction. Consumed by lust, he becomes careless and, ironically, unprov- idential. Magas, fearful of the wrath of the people, taxes Mirza with underestimating the crowd's reaction to the capture of Artaxerxes and pleads with him to accompany the procession which is to placate the crowd, since they hold his "wisdom in most high regard": "Th'occasion is well worth your care and presence" (V.i, p. 65). But Mirza refuses, and we have already noted the subsequent fate of that procession. Mirza is about his own undoing, too. He is enraptured with the "fatal beauty" of Amestris (III.iii, p. 44). Struggling with himself, he says, Remember, statesman, Thy fate and future fortunes now are forming, And summon all thy counsels to their aid, Ev'n thy whole soul. Nevertheless, he soon turns to rationalizing his lust: the "wise" are free to "indulge" in a little lustful "riot," he argues, as long as they desist before it dulls "the faculty of thinking" (p. 49). Thus begins the fall of the "thinking soul." Finally, his "fine arts" are "Unravel'd all" (V.ii, p. 70). He cries out in agony, Malicious fortune! She took the moment when my wisdom nodded, And ruin'd me at once. 0 doating fool! (p. 72) Artemisa sums up the irony of his fall in terms of fate and chance: 24 The Trial of the Innocent After Arsaces' death and the capture of Artaxerxes in the temple, Ar- temisa exhorts Artaban to "seize" fortune "While she is thine, or she is lost forever" (IV.i, p. 51). When Artaban rejects his mother's advice, Mirza warns, meddling fortune, (Whose malice labours to perplex the wise) If not prevented, will unravel all Those finer arts, which we with care have wove. (p. 54) As he has said earlier, "The wise should not allow / A possibility to for- tune's malice" (II.iii, p. 48). Yet Mirza allows fortune the possibility of undoing him and his faction. Consumed by lust, be becomes careless and, ironically, unprov- idential. Magas, fearful of the wrath of the people, taxes Mirza with underestimating the crowd's reaction to the capture of Artaxerxes and pleads with him to accompany the procession which is to placate the crowd, since they hold his "wisdom in most high regard": "Th'occasion is well worth your care and presence" (V.i, p. 65). But Mirza refuses, and we have already noted the subsequent fate of that procession. Mirza is about his own undoing, too. He is enraptured with the "fatal beauty" of Amestris (ItI.iii, p. 44). Struggling with himself, he says, Remember, statesman, Thy fate and future fortunes now are forming, And summon all thy counsels to their aid, Ev'n thy whole soul. Nevertheless, he soon turns to rationalizing his lust: the "wise" are free to "indulge" in a little lustful "riot," he argues, as long as they desist before it dulls "the faculty of thinking" (p. 49). Thus begins the fall of the "thinking soul." Finally, his "fine arts" are "Unravel'd all" (V.ii, p. 70). He cries out in agony, Malicious fortune! She took the moment when my wisdom nodded, And ruin'd me at once. 0 doating fool! (p. 72) Artemisa sums up the irony of his fall in terms of fate and chance:  Prolegomena 25 Could not all thy arts, That dol'd about destruction to our enemies, Guard thy own life from fate? Vain boast of wisdom, That with fantastic pride, like busy children, Builds paper towns and houses, which at once The hand of chance o'erturns, and loosely scatters! (p. 76) It is not, however, either "fate" or "fortune" or the "hand of chance" that overturns Mirza. His death and its mode are remarkably appropriate not only to his particular crime but to everything he repre- sents as the "thinking soul." This appropriateness alone argues for the presence of the Hand of Heaven. But what is more, the presence of that hand is explicit. Over Mirza's dead body Artaxerxes exclaims, "0 all ye juster powers!" (p. 73). Memnon depicts Mirza's soul in hell, and Ames- tris says, and now he stands Arraign'd before the dread impartial judges, To answer to a long account of crimes. After she has recounted the latest of those crimes, Artaxerxes complains, "O ye eternal rulers of the world, / Could you look on unmov'd?" (p. 74). In his next breath he answers his own question: "But say, instruct me, / That I may bow before the God that sav'd thee." Amestris' reply makes fully explicit the intervention of Providence: Sure 'twas some chaster pow'r that made me bold, And taught my trembling hand to find the way With his own poniard to the villain's heart. Artemisa's fall is similarly ironic, and similarly appropriate to her philosophy. Immediately after laying claim to the regency of fate, she warns her son thus: The patience ev'n of Gods themselves has limits, Thu' they with long forbearance view man's folly, Yet if thou still persists to dare my power, Like them I may be urg'd to loose my vengeance, And tho' thou wert my creature, strike thee dead. (IVi, p. 53) Prolegomena 25 Could not all thy arts, That dol'd about destruction to our enemies, Guard thy own life from fate? Vain boast of wisdom, That with fantastic pride, like busy children, Builds paper towns and houses, which at once The hand of chance o'erturns, and loosely scatters! (p. 76) It is not, however, either "fate" or "fortune" or the "hand of chance" that overturns Mirza. His death and its mode are remarkably appropriate not only to his particular crime but to everything he repre- sents as the "thinking soul." This appropriateness alone argues for the presence of the Hand of Heaven. But what is more, the presence of that hand is explicit. Over Mirza's dead body Artaxerxes exclaims, "0 all ye juster powers!" (p. 73). Memnon depicts Mirza's soul in hell, and Ames- tris says, and now he stands Arraign'd before the dread impartial judges, To answer to a long account of crimes. After she has recounted the latest of those crimes, Artaxerxes complains, "O ye eternal rulers of the world, / Could you look on unmov'd?" (p. 74). In his next breath he answers his own question: "But say, instruct me, / That I may bow before the God that sav'd thee." Amestris' reply makes fully explicit the intervention of Providence: Sure 'twas some chaster pow'r that made me bold, And taught my trembling hand to find the way With his own poniard to the villain's heart. Artemisa's fall is similarly ironic, and similarly appropriate to her philosophy. Immediately after laying claim to the regency of fate, she warns her son thus: The patience ev'n of Gods themselves has limits, Tho' they with long forbearance view man's folly, Yet if thou still persists to dare my power, Like them I may be urg'd to loose my vengeance, And tho' thou wert my creature, strike thee dead. (IV.i, p. 53) Prolegomenao 25 Could not all thy arts, That dol'd about destruction to our enemies, Guard thy own life from fate? Vain boast of wisdom, That with fantastic pride, like busy children, Builds paper towns and houses, which at once The hand of chance o'erturns, and loosely scatters! (p. 76) It is not, however, either "fate" or "fortune" or the "hand of chance" that overturns Mirza. His death and its mode are remarkably appropriate not only to his particular crime but to everything he repre- sents as the "thinking soul." This appropriateness alone argues for the presence of the Hand of Heaven. But what is more, the presence of that hand is explicit. Over Mirza's dead body Artaxerxes exclaims, "0 all ye juster powers!" (p. 73). Memnon depicts Mirza's soul in hell, and Ames- tris says, and now he stands Arraign'd before the dread impartial judges, To answer to a long account of crimes. After she has recounted the latest of those crimes, Artaxerxes complains, "O ye eternal rulers of the world, / Could you look on unmov'd?" (p. 74). In his next breath he answers his own question: "But say, instruct me, / That I may bow before the God that sav'd thee." Amestris' reply makes fully explicit the intervention of Providence: Sure 'twas some chaster pow'r that made me bold, And taught my trembling hand to find the way With his own poniard to the villain's heart. Artemisa's fall is similarly ironic, and similarly appropriate to her philosophy. Immediately after laying claim to the regency of fate, she warns her son thus: The patience ev'n of Gods themselves has limits, Tho' they with long forbearance view man's folly, Yet if thou still persists to dare my power, Like them I may be urg'd to loose my vengeance, And tho' thou wert my creature, strike thee dead. (IV.i, p. 53)  26 The Trial of the Innocent 26 The Trial of the Innocent 26 The Trial of the Innocent As before, Artemisa is trifling with the truth, and her blasphemous anal- ogy portends the vengeance that waits for her, for in good Pauline tra- dition, it is her wisdom that is the "folly," and that which the usurpers have called "folly" is the real wisdom. Artemisa senses a power con- trolling events at cross-purposes to her will: Some envious pow'r above, some hostile Demon, Works underhand against my stronger genius, And countermines me with domestic jars. Malicious chance! When all abroad was safe, To start an unseen danger from myself! (p. 53 f) Mirza may call this "Demon" "meddling fortune," and Artemisa may call it "Malicious chance," but all the indications in the play are that they are wrong. Just like Mirza's dagger, the instrument of Artemisa's undoing comes, appropriately, from herself: her own son. Such "remark- able concurrences," to borrow a standard phrase from seventeenth- century homilies on Providence, can only be the signs of the Hand of Heaven. So in their "fantastic pride" Mirza and Artemisa have overreached themselves, as do most of the villains of Christian literature, in accord- ance with that vision of the nature of the universe which sees evil as willy-nilly contributing to a good that is providentially ordained. Iron- ically, they spin out of themselves, out of their self-centered and blas- phemous philosophy, their own destruction. Artemisa's final threat to Artaban shows her clinging to delusions of grandeur: When I assert the pow'r thou dar'st invade, Like Heaven I will resolve to be obey'd, And rule or ruin that which once I made. (V.ii, p. 78) The curse falls back upon Artemisa herself. Since she will not be ruled, that "Heaven," which has destroyed her faction and thereby passed judgment upon its perversity, will inevitably "rain" her. In the punish- ment of the usurpers, then, the justice of the gods has been unquali- fiedly, and most appropriately, asserted. Neither the necessity of fate nor the fortuity of chance, to which the usurpers continually allude, but rather Divine Providence governs their "fates."" As before, Artemisa is trifling with the truth, and her blasphemous anal- ogy portends the vengeance that waits for her, for in good Pauline tra- dition, it is her wisdom that is the "folly," and that which the usurpers have called "folly" is the real wisdom. Artemisa senses a power con- trolling events at cross-purposes to her will: Some envious pow'r above, some hostile Demon, Works underhand against my stronger genius, And countermines me with domestic jars. Malicious chance! When all abroad was safe, To start an unseen danger from myself! (p. 53f) Mirza may call this "Demon" "meddling fortune," and Artemisa may call it "Malicious chance," but all the indications in the play are that they are wrong. Just like Mirza's dagger, the instrument of Artemisa's undoing comes, appropriately, from herself: her own son. Such "remark- able concurrences," to borrow a standard phrase from seventeenth- century homilies on Providence, can only be the signs of the Hand of Heaven. So in their "fantastic pride" Mirza and Artemisa have overreached themselves, as do most of the villains of Christian literature, in accord- ance with that vision of the nature of the universe which sees evil as willy-nilly contributing to a good that is providentially ordained. Iron- ically, they spin out of themselves, out of their self-centered and blas- phemous philosophy, their own destruction. Artemisa's final threat to Artaban shows her clinging to delusions of grandeur: When I assert the pow'r thou dar'st invade, Like Heaven I will resolve to be obey'd, And rale or ruin that which once I made. (V.ii, p. 78) The curse falls back upon Artemisa herself. Since she will not be rled, that "Heaven," which has destroyed her faction and thereby passed judgment upon its perversity, will inevitably "ruin" her. In the punish- ment of the usurpers, then, the justice of the gods has been unquali- fiedly, and most appropriately, asserted. Neither the necessity of fate nor the fortuity of chance, to which the usurpers continually allude, but rather Divine Providence governs their "fates."" As before, Artemisa is trifling with the truth, and her blasphemous anal- ogy portends the vengeance that waits for her, for in good Pauline tra- dition, it is her wisdom that is the "folly," and that which the usurpers have called "folly" is the real wisdom. Artemisa senses a power con- trolling events at cross-purposes to her will: Some envious pow'r above, some hostile Demon, Works underhand against my stronger genius, And countermines me with domestic jars. Malicious chance! When all abroad was safe, To start an unseen danger from myself! (p. 53 f) Mirza may call this "Demon" "meddling fortune," and Artemisa may call it "Malicious chance," but all the indications in the play are that they are wrong. Just like Mirza's dagger, the instrument of Artemisa's undoing comes, appropriately, from herself: her own son. Such "remark- able concurrences," to borrow a standard phrase from seventeenth- century homilies on Providence, can only be the signs of the Hand of Heaven. So in their "fantastic pride" Mirza and Artemisa have overreached themselves, as do most of the villains of Christian literature, in accord- ance with that vision of the nature of the universe which sees evil as willy-nilly contributing to a good that is providentially ordained. Iron- ically, they spin out of themselves, out of their self-centered and blas- phemous philosophy, their own destruction. Artemisa's final threat to Artaban shows her clinging to delusions of grandeur: When I assert the pow'r thou dar'st invade, Like Heaven I will resolve to be obey'd, And rule or ruin that which once I made. (V.ii, p. 78) The curse falls back upon Artemisa herself. Since she will not be ruled, that "Heaven," which has destroyed her faction and thereby passed judgment upon its perversity, will inevitably "rain" her. In the punish- ment of the usurpers, then, the justice of the gods has been unquali- fiedly, and most appropriately, asserted. Neither the necessity of fate nor the fortuity of chance, to which the usurpers continually allude, but rather Divine Providence governs their "fates.""  Prolegomena 27 Prolegomena 27 Prolegomena 27 While the fate of the usurpers implies providential justice, the fate of the virtuous seems to contradict it. According to Gildon, their deaths violate "Poetic Justice and the Rules of Providence." And yet Rowe claims to have "strictly observed" poetic justice (Dedication, p. 5), which, as we have seen, implies Providence. The key to the enigma is that in Rowe's day there were different opinions about how much justice poets had to distribute in imitation of Providence, perfect distribution being the in- novation. As Corneille puts it in his "Discours do poeme dramatique" (1660), such perfect distribution 'nest pas un pr6eepte de l'art, mais un usage que nous avons embrass6, dont chacun peet se departir A ses perils" (Euvres complftes, ed. Andr6 Stegman, p. 823). In fact, from the dawn of criticism very few theorists have ever prescribed, without qualification, perfect distributive justice as a rule for tragedy. Plato and Aristotle may have obliquely implied it, but only after the Renaissance does such a rule find its few uncompromising supporters: besides Rymer, Dennis, Gildon, Blackmore, and Collier, cited earlier, they are Georges de Scud6ry, Edward Filmer, and the author of The Stage Acquitted." Almost all the other critics who speak of a poetic justice mean merely the punishment of the wicked." Even those critics usually cited for the development of the strict interpretation-Jean de Mairet, Jean Chape- lain, La Mesnardiere, d'Aubignac, Corneille, and Dryden-all qualify it in some way. In his preface to La Silvanire (1631), Mairet merely distinguishes his tragicomic ending (where everyone is happy) from that which Aristotle describes (sig. 66 ij'). In his prefatory letter to Marino's Adone (1623), Chapelain says merely that in the d6onement of a poem (as distinguished from an historical account) "the good man is recognized as such and the wicked man is punished, since their actions result from virtue or vice whose nature it is to reward or to destroy those who follow them" (Elledge and Schier, p. 12 f). If he means the kind of choric recog- nition Horace describes (De Arte Poetica, vs. 196 ff, Loeb), he is not really prescribing "reward" in the strict sense, just as he does not later in Les Sentiments de I 'Acadmie frangaise sur la tragi-cosmdie du Cid (1638), where he argues merely for "la punition" of vice (in La Querelle du Cid, p. 360 f). La Mesnardiere does lay down this maxim: "Que les plus instes Tragedies sont celles o les forfaits ont leurs punitions Idgitimes, & les vertus leurs recompenses" (La Poftiqee, p. 223). Yet he qualifies his maxim thus: "Si toutefois la Fable est telle que le Poete n'ait pas lieu d'y recompenser la Vertu, il doibt pour le moins faire en sorte que les While the fate of the usurpers implies providential justice, the fate of the virtuous seems to contradict it. According to Gildon, their deaths violate "Poetic Justice and the Rules of Providence." And yet Rowe claims to have "strictly observed" poetic justice (Dedication, p. 5), which, as we have seen, implies Providence. The key to the enigma is that in Rowe's day there were different opinions about how much justice poets had to distribute in imitation of Providence, perfect distribution being the in- novation. As Corneille puts it in his "Discours du poeme dramatique" (1660), such perfect distribution 'nest pas en precepte de l'art, mais un usage que nous avons embrasse, dont chacun pent se departir A ses p6rils" (Qtures complttes, ed. Andre Stegman, p. 823). In fact, from the dawn of criticism very few theorists have ever prescribed, without qualification, perfect distributive justice as a rule for tragedy. Plato and Aristotle may have obliquely implied it, but only after the Renaissance does such a rule find its few uncompromising supporters: besides Rymer, Dennis, Gildon, Blackmore, and Collier, cited earlier, they are Georges de Scud6ry, Edward Filmer, and the author of The Stage Acquitted." Almost all the other critics who speak of a poetic justice mean merely the punishment of the wicked. Even those critics usually cited for the development of the strict interpretation-Jean de Mairet, Jean Chape- lain, La Mesnardiere, d'Aubignac, Corneille, and Dryden-all qualify it in some way. In his preface to La Silvanire (1631), Mairet merely distinguishes his tragicomic ending (where everyone is happy) from that which Aristotle describes (sig. 66 ij'). In his prefatory letter to Marino's Adone (1623), Chapelain says merely that in the d6nouement of a poem (as distinguished from an historical account) "the good man is recognized as such and the wicked man is punished, since their actions result from virtue or vice whose nature it is to reward or to destroy those who follow them" (Elledge and Schier, p. 12 f). If he means the kind of choric recog- nition Horace describes (De Arte Poetica, vs. 196 ff, Loeb), he is not really prescribing "reward" in the strict sense, just as he does not later in Les Sentiments de lAcadhmie frangaise sur la tragi-cotmdie du Cid (1638), where he argues merely for "la punition" of vice (in La Querelle du Cid, p. 360 f). La Mesnardiere does lay down this maxim: "Que les plus instes Tragedies sont celles oit les forfaits ont leurs punitions Itgitimes, & les vertus leurs recompenses" (La Poetiqve, p. 223). Yet he qualifies his maxim thus: "Si toutefois la Fable est telle que le Pose n'ait pas lieu d'y recompenser la Vertu, il doibt pour le moins faire en sorte que les While the fate of the usurpers implies providential justice, the fate of the virtuous seems to contradict it. According to Gildon, their deaths violate "Poetic Justice and the Rules of Providence." And yet Rowe claims to have "strictly observed" poetic justice (Dedication, p. 5), which, as we have seen, implies Providence. The key to the enigma is that in Rowe's day there were different opinions about how much justice poets had to distribute in imitation of Providence, perfect distribution being the in- novation. As Corneille puts it in his "Discours du poeme dramatique" (1660), such perfect distribution "n'est pas un precepte de l'art, mais un usage que nous avons embrasse, dont chacen peut se departir A ses perils" (Wores completes, ed. Andre Stegman, p. 823). In fact, from the dawn of criticism very few theorists have ever prescribed, without qualification, perfect distributive justice as a rule for tragedy. Plato and Aristotle may have obliquely implied it, but only after the Renaissance does such a rule find its few uncompromising supporters: besides Rymer, Dennis, Gildon, Blackmore, and Collier, cited earlier, they are Georges de Scud6ry, Edward Filmer, and the author of The Stage Acquitted." Almost all the other critics who speak of a poetic justice mean merely the punishment of the wicked." Even those critics usually cited for the development of the strict interpretation-Jean de Mairet, Jean Chape- lain, La Mesnardiere, d'Aubignac, Corneille, and Dryden-all qualify it in some way. In his preface to La Silvanire (1631), Mairet merely distinguishes his tragicomic ending (where everyone is happy) from that which Aristotle describes (sig. 66 ijr). In his prefatory letter to Marino's Adone (1623), Chapelain says merely that in the denouement of a poem (as distinguished from an historical account) "the good man is recognized as such and the wicked man is punished, since their actions result from virtue or vice whose nature it is to reward or to destroy those who follow them" (Elledge and Schier, p. 12 f). If he means the kind of choric recog- nition Horace describes (De Arte Poetica, vs. 196 ff, Loeb), he is not really prescribing "reward" in the strict sense, just as he does not later in Les Sentiments de l'Acadmie frangaise Sur la tragi-comtdie du Cid (1638), where he argues merely for "la punition" of vice (in La Querelle du Cid, p. 360 f). La Mesnardibre does lay down this maxim: "Que les plus iustes Tragedies sont celles ou les forfaits ont leurs punitions lMgitimes, & les vertus leurs recompenses" (La Poetiqve, p. 223). Yet he qualifies his maxim thus: "Si toutefois la Fable est telle que le Polte n'ait pas lieu d'y recompenser la Vertu, il doibt pour le moins faire en sorte que les  28 The Trial of the Innocent 28 The Trial of the Innocent 28 The Trial of the Innocent Personnes vertueuses soient lon6es publiquemit par quelqu'vn des per- sonnages qui obserue & qui admire leurs glorieuses actions. . . . Si la Fable ne permet pas qu'ils {"des Vices"] regoiuent A l'heure mesme les punitions qui leur sont deuis, il faut qu'ils soient menacez de la lustice divine par quelqu'un des personnages qui exagere & qui deteste leur honteuse difformith" (p. 223 f). D'Aubignac and Corneille merely echo La Mesnardiere, but the actual phrasing is important, because these are the critics Rowe probably would have known on this subject (see Cata- logue, quarto 50 and octavos 135, 169) rather than La Mesnardiere or even Dryden (see below). In The Whole Art of the Stage, d'Aubignac writes, "One of the chiefest, and indeed the most indispensible Rule of Dramatick Poems, is, that in them Virtues always ought to be rewarded, or at least commended, in spight of all the Injuries of Fortune; and that likewise Vices be always punished, or at least detested with Horrour, though they triumph upon the Stage for that time" (p. 5; cf. p. 35 f). In the "Discours du poeme dramatique," Corneille writes, "Celle-ci [la vertu] se fait toujours aimer, quoique malheureuse, et celui-la [le vice] se fait toujours hair, bien que triomphant" (QuEvres complites, p. 823)." Dryden's seeming demand in Of Dramatic Poesy (1668) for perfect distribution of poetic justice" is belied both in some of his tragedies (Tyrannick Love, Amboyna, and Cleomenes, if not Oedipus and Don Sebastian) and in his later theory. He is talking only about punishment of the wicked when he discusses "poetical justice" in the Preface to An Evening's Love (1671) and in "The Grounds of Criticism in Tragedy" (1679)." In "Heads of an Answer to Rymer" (1677), Dryden's notes toward the "Grounds of Criticism in Tragedy," he walks a tightrope be- tween strict poetic justice and unrewarded virtue. Obviously influenced by the French theorists just mentioned, Dryden writes that if the true end of tragedy is the reformation of manners, then "not only pity and terror are to be moved as the only means to bring us to virtue, but gen- erally love to virtue and hatred to vice; by shewing the rewards of one, and punishments of the other; at least by rendering virtue always ami- able, though it be shown unfortunate; and vice detestable, tho' it be shown triumphant."" The reason for Dryden's qualification is immedi- ately clear: "The punishment of vice and reward of virtue are the most adequate ends of tragedy, because most conducing to good example of life. Now pity is not so easily raised for a criminal . .. as it is for an innocent man, and the suffering of innocence and punishment of the offender is of the nature of English tragedy" (p. 218). Yet Dryden ac- knowledges that if the protagonist is "altogether innocent, his punish- Personnes vertueuses soient loS6es publiquemet par quelqu'vn des per- sonnages qui obserue & qui admire leurs glorieuses actions.... Si la Fable ne permet pas qu'ils ["des Vices"] reeoiuent A l'heure mesme les punitions qui leur sont deufs, il faut qu'ils soient menacez de la Iustice divine par quelqu'un des personnages qui exagere & qui deteste leur honteuse difformitb" (p. 223 f). D'Aubignac and Corneille merely echo La Mesnardiere, but the actual phrasing is important, because these are the critics Rowe probably would have known on this subject (see Cata- logue, quarto 50 and octavos 135, 169) rather than La Mesnardiere or even Dryden (see below). In The Whole Art of the Stage, d'Aubignac writes, "One of the chiefest, and indeed the most indispensible Rule of Dramatick Poems, is, that in them Virtues always ought to be rewarded, or at least commended, in spight of all the Injuries of Fortune; and that likewise Vices be always punished, or at least detested with Horrour, though they triumph upon the Stage for that time" (p. 5; ef. p. 35 f). In the "Discours do poeme dramatique," Corneille writes, "Celle-ci [la vertu] se fait toujours aimer, quoique malheureuse, et celui-Ia [le vice] se fait toujours hair, bien que triomphant" (euvres completes, p. 823)." Dryden's seeming demand in Of Dramatic Foesy (1668) for perfect distribution of poetic justice" is belied both in some of his tragedies (Tyrannick Love, Amboyna, and Cleomenes, if not Oedipus and Don Sebastian) and in his later theory. He is talking only about punishment of the wicked when he discusses "poetical justice" in the Preface to An Evening's Love (1671) and in "The Grounds of Criticism in Tragedy" (1679)." In "Heads of an Answer to Rymer" (1677), Dryden's notes toward the "Grounds of Criticism in Tragedy," he walks a tightrope be- tween strict poetic justice and unrewarded virtue. Obviously influenced by the French theorists just mentioned, Dryden writes that if the true end of tragedy is the reformation of manners, then "not only pity and terror are to be moved as the only means to bring us to virtue, but gen- erally love to virtue and hatred to vice; by shewing the rewards of one, and punishments of the other; at least by rendering virtue always ami- able, though it be shown unfortunate; and vice detestable, tho' it be shown triumphant."" The reason for Dryden's qualification is immedi- ately clear: "The punishment of vice and reward of virtue are the most adequate ends of tragedy, because most conducing to good example of life. Now pity is not so easily raised for a criminal ... as it is for an innocent man, and the suffering of innocence and punishment of the offender is of the nature of English tragedy" (p. 218). Yet Dryden ac- knowledges that if the protagonist is "altogether innocent, his punish- Persounes vertueuses soient loSbes publiquemet par quelqu'vn des per- sonnages qui obserue & qui admire leurs glorieuses actions. .. . Si la Fable ne permet pas qu'ils ["des Vices"] regoiuent A l'heure mesme les punitions qui leur sont deuSs, il faut qu'ils soient menacez de la lustice divine par quelqu'un des personnages qui exagere & qui deteste leur honteuse difformit6" (p. 223 f). D'Aubignac and Corneille merely echo La Mesnardiere, but the actual phrasing is important, because these are the critics Rowe probably would have known on this subject (see Cata- logue, quarto 50 and octavos 135, 169) rather than La Mesnardiere or even Dryden (see below). In The Whole Art of the Stage, d'Aubignac writes, "One of the chiefest, and indeed the most indispensible Rule of Dramatick Poems, is, that in them Virtues always ought to be rewarded, or at least commended, in spight of all the Injuries of Fortune; and that likewise Vices be always punished, or at least detested with Horrour, though they triumph upon the Stage for that time" (p. 5; cf. p. 35 f). In the "Discours do poeme dramatique," Corneille writes, "Celle-ci [la vertu] se fait toujours aimer, quoique malheureuse, et celui-IA [le vice] se fait toujours hair, bien que triomphant" (Guceres complers, p. 823)." Dryden's seeming demand in Of Dramatic Poesy (1668) for perfect distribution of poetic justice" is belied both in some of his tragedies (Tyrannick Love, Amboyna, and Cleomenes, if not Oedipus and Don Sebastian) and in his later theory. He is talking only about punishment of the wicked when he discusses "poetical justice" in the Preface to An Evening's Love (1671) and in "The Grounds of Criticism in Tragedy" (1679)." In "Heads of an Answer to Rymer" (1677), Dryden's notes toward the "Grounds of Criticism in Tragedy," he walks a tightrope be- tween strict poetic justice and unrewarded virtue. Obviously influenced by the French theorists just mentioned, Dryden writes that if the true end of tragedy is the reformation of manners, then "not only pity and terror are to be moved as the only means to bring us to virtue, but gen- erally love to virtue and hatred to vice; by shewing the rewards of one, and punishments of the other; at least by rendering virtue always ami- able, though it be shown unfortunate; and vice detestable, tho' it be shown triumphant."" The reason for Dryden's qualification is immedi- ately clear: "The punishment of vice and reward of virtue are the most adequate ends of tragedy, because most conducing to good example of life. Now pity is not so easily raised for a criminal .. . as it is for an innocent man, and the suffering of innocence and punishment of the offender is of the nature of English tragedy" (p. 218). Yet Dryden ac- knowledges that if the protagonist is "altogether innocent, his punish-  Prolegomena 29 ment will be unjust" (p. 219), and that Aristotle "places tragedies of this kind in the second form" (p. 218). In obvious consternation, Dryden wants his poetic justice and his pity too." And that brings us to Rowe's own important theoretical pronouncements in the Dedication to The Ambitious Stepmother. Like Addison after him," Rowe admits that "tragedies have been allowed ... to be written both ways very beautifully" (p. 4), but he is opposed to the demand for perfect distributive justice (even to the point in his later tragedies of not punishing the wicked on stage). And like Dryden before him," Rowe sees "the suffering of innocence and punish- ment of the offender" as in the "nature" if not of English tragedy at least of many successful tragedies: "As for that part of the objection, which says, that innocent persons ought not to be shewn unfortunate; the suc- cess and general approbation, which many of the best tragedies that have been wrote, and which were built on that foundation, have met with, will be a suffieient answer for me" (p. 5). Examples of such trage- dies are among the most prominent on Rowe's London stage-many by Shakespeare, Dryden, Lee, Otway, Banks, and Southerne, as Addison was later to point out in Spectator 40. Indeed, the usual practice in English Renaissance tragedy-and Western tragedy up to that time gen- erally-provides a punishment for the wicked but not a temporal reward for the innocent. In other words, tragedy up to Rowe had almost always shown that sin will out by the workings of divine justice, whether or not the innocent survive. It is in the light of that tradition, then, that Rowe considers "poeti- cal justice" to be "strictly observed." Furthermore, like Dryden, Rowe wanted his poetic justice and his pity too: "But since terror and pity are laid down for the ends of tragedy by the great master and father of criticism, I was always inclined to fancy that the last and remaining impressions, which ought to be left on the minds of an audience, should proceed from one of these two. They should be struck with terror in several parts of the play, but always conclude and go away with pity; a sort of regret proceeding from good-nature, which, though an uneasi- ness, is not altogether disagreeable to the person who feels it. It was this passion that the famous Mr. Otway succeeded so well in touching, and must and will at all times affect people, who have any tenderness or humanity. If therefore I had saved Artaxerxes and Amestris, I believe (with submission to my judges) I had destroyed the greatest occasion for compassion in the whole play" (p. 4 1). Other critics have shown the foundations and subsequent developments of this affective (and very un- Prolegomena 29 ment will be unjust" (p. 219), and that Aristotle "places tragedies of this kind in the second form" (p. 218). In obvious consternation, Dryden wants his poetic justice and his pity too." And that brings us to Rowe's own important theoretical pronouncements in the Dedication to The Ambitious Stepmother. Like Addison after him," Rowe admits that "tragedies have been allowed . . . to be written both ways very beautifully" (p. 4), but he is opposed to the demand for perfect distributive justice (even to the point in his later tragedies of not punishing the wicked on stage). And like Dryden before him," Rowe sees "the suffering of innocence and punish- ment of the offender" as in the "nature" if not of English tragedy at least of many successful tragedies: "As for that part of the objection, which says, that innocent persons ought not to be shewn unfortunate; the suc- cess and general approbation, which many of the best tragedies that have been wrote, and which were built on that foundation, have met with, will be a sufficient answer for me" (p. 5). Examples of such trage- dies are among the most prominent on Rowe's London stage-many by Shakespeare, Dryden, Lee, Otway, Banks, and Southerne, as Addison was later to point out in Spectator 40. Indeed, the usual practice in English Renaissance tragedy-and Western tragedy up to that time gen- erally-provides a punishment for the wicked but not a temporal reward for the innocent. In other words, tragedy up to Rowe had almost always shown that sin will out by the workings of divine justice, whether or not the innocent survive. It is in the light of that tradition, then, that Rowe considers "poeti- cal justice" to be "strictly observed." Furthermore, like Dryden, Rowe wanted his poetic justice and his pity too: "But since terror and pity are laid down for the ends of tragedy by the great master and father of criticism, I was always inclined to fancy that the last and remaining impressions, which ought to be left on the minds of an audience, should proceed from one of these two. They should be struck with terror in several parts of the play, but always conclude and go away with pity; a sort of regret proceeding from good-nature, which, though an uneasi- ness, is not altogether disagreeable to the person who feels it. It was this passion that the famous Mr. Otway succeeded so well in touching, and must and will at all times affect people, who have any tenderness or humanity. If therefore I had saved Artaxerxes and Amestris, I believe (with submission to my judges) I had destroyed the greatest occasion for compassion in the whole play" (p. 4 f). Other critics have shown the foundations and subsequent developments of this affective (and very un- Prolegomena 29 ment will be unjust" (p. 219), and that Aristotle "places tragedies of this kind in the second form" (p. 218). In obvious consternation, Dryden wants his poetic justice and his pity too." And that brings us to Rowe's own important theoretical pronouncements in the Dedication to The Ambitious Stepmother. Like Addison after him," Rowe admits that "tragedies have been allowed . . . to be written both ways very beautifully" (p. 4), but he is opposed to the demand for perfect distributive justice (even to the point in his later tragedies of not punishing the wicked on stage). And like Dryden before him," Rowe sees "the suffering of innocence and punish- ment of the offender" as in the "nature" if not of English tragedy at least of many successful tragedies: "As for that part of the objection, which says, that innocent persons ought not to be shewn unfortunate; the suc- cess and general approbation, which many of the best tragedies that have been wrote, and which were built on that foundation, have met with, will be a sufflcient answer for me" (p. 5). Examples of such trage- dies are among the most prominent on Rowe's London stage-many by Shakespeare, Dryden, Lee, Otway, Banks, and Southerne, as Addison was later to point out in Spectator 40. Indeed, the usual practice in English Renaissance tragedy-and Western tragedy up to that time gen- ecrally-provides a punishment for the wicked but not a temporal reward for the innocent. In other words, tragedy up to Rowe had almost always shown that sin will out by the workings of divine justice, whether or not the innocent survive. It is in the light of that tradition, then, that Rowe considers "poeti- cal justice" to be "strictly observed." Furthermore, like Dryden, Rowe wanted his poetic justice and his pity too: "But since terror and pity are laid down for the ends of tragedy by the great master and father of criticism, I was always inclined to fancy that the last and remaining impressions, which ought to be left on the minds of an audience, should proceed from one of these two. They should be struck with terror in several parts of the play, but always conclude and go away with pity; a sort of regret proceeding from good-nature, which, though an uneasi- ness, is not altogether disagreeable to the person who feels it. It was this passion that the famous Mr. Otway succeeded so well in touching, and must and will at all times affect people, who have any tenderness or humanity. If therefore I had saved Artaxerxes and Amestris, I believe (with submission to my judges) I had destroyed the greatest occasion for compassion in the whole play" (p. 4 f). Other critics have shown the foundations and subsequent developments of this affective (and very un-  30 The Trial of the Innocent Aristotelian) theory," but the question before us is whether, as Roth- stein argues, such affective concerns militate against the reflection of providential order. Does Rowe's "pity," obtained by withholding justice from virtuous characters, undercut what we have seen to be the the- matic function of his "poetical justice" in the punishment of the usurpers? I contend that, far from being inimical to providential justice, such a tragedy as Rowe's The Ambitious Stepmother can and does image forth a providential universe in its design, precisely by means of the suffering of the innocent. In "The Grounds of Criticism in Tragedy," Dryden argues that the mis- fortunes of the "most virtuous, as well as the greatest," show that not even the innocent are safe from the "torus of fortune" (Essays, I, 245). He probably took the idea from his chief source, Rapin, who says un- deserved misfortune teaches that the "favors of fortune and the gran- deurs of the world are not always true goods" (Elledge and Schier, p. 279). D'Aubignac mentions similar lessons, which, by implication, can be taught by showing virtue either rewarded or unrewarded: that the "favours of Fortune are not real Enjoyments"; "that Happiness consists less in the possession of worldly things, than in the despising of them; that Virtue ought to seek its recompence in its self" (p. 5). There are many similar passages from other critics, but the point is that it is a commonplace of Judeo-Christian thought, from the Book of Job to Anglican theology, that no man is guaranteed a temporal recompense for his virtue, though Providence may grant him one. Throughout this tradition, life has been viewed as a trial in which man merits an eternal reward or punishment. In that trial, the things of this world are not re- liable, because they are subject to the caprice of fortune. Man must, therefore, patiently rely solely on Divine Providence, which provides the necessary grace to meet the trial. The metaphor of trial is thus cen- tral to Judeo-Christian theodicy and runs throughout Scripture and tra- dition, from "the trial of the innocent" in Job" to "the trial of man" in Milton (PL 1.366). Perhaps the most famous biblical topos is this one: Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, which according to his abundant mercy hath begotten us again unto a lively hope by the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, 30 The Trial of the Innocent Aristotelian) theory," but the question before us is whether, as Roth- stein argues, such affective concerns militate against the reflection of providential order. Does Rowe's "pity," obtained by withholding justice from virtuous characters, undercut what we have seen to be the the- matic function of his "poetical justice" in the punishment of the usurpers? I contend that, far from being inimical to providential justice, such a tragedy as Rowe's The Ambitious Stepmother can and does image forth a providential universe in its design, precisely by means of the suffering of the innocent. iii In "The Grounds of Criticism in Tragedy," Dryden argues that the mis- fortunes of the "most virtuous, as well as the greatest," show that not even the innocent are safe from the "turns of fortune" (Essays, 1, 245). He probably took the idea from his chief source, Rapin, who says un- deserved misfortune teaches that the "favors of fortune and the gran- deurs of the world are not always true goods" (Elledge and Schier, p. 279). D'Aubignac mentions similar lessons, which, by implication, can be taught by showing virtue either rewarded or unrewarded: that the "favours of Fortune are not real Enjoyments"; "that Happiness consists less in the possession of worldly things, than in the despising of them; that Virtue ought to seek its recompence in its self' (p. 5). There are many similar passages from other critics, but the point is that it is a commonplace of Judeo-Christian thought, from the Book of Job to Anglican theology, that no man is guaranteed a temporal recompense for his virtue, though Providence may grant him one. Throughout this tradition, life has been viewed as a trial in which man merits an eternal reward or punishment. In that trial, the things of this world are not re- liable, because they are subject to the caprice of fortune. Man must, therefore, patiently rely solely on Divine Providence, which provides the necessary grace to meet the trial. The metaphor of trial is thus cen- tral to Judeo-Christian theodicy and runs throughout Scripture and tra- dition, from "the trial of the innocent" in Job" to "the trial of man" in Milton (PL 1.366). Perhaps the most famous biblical topos is this one: Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, which according to his abundant mercy hath begotten us again unto a lively hope by the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, 30 The Trial of the Innocent Aristotelian) theory," but the question before us is whether, as Roth- stein argues, such affective concerns militate against the reflection of providential order. Does Rowe's "pity," obtained by withholding justice from virtuous characters, undercut what we have seen to be the the- matic function of his "poetical justice" in the punishment of the usurpers? I contend that, far from being inimical to providential justice, such a tragedy as Rowe's The Ambitious Stepmother can and does image forth a providential universe in its design, precisely by means of the suffering of the innocent. iii In "The Grounds of Criticism in Tragedy," Dryden argues that the mis- fortunes of the "most virtuous, as well as the greatest," show that not even the innocent are safe from the "turns of fortune" (Essays, I, 245). He probably took the idea from his chief source, Rapin, who says on- deserved misfortune teaches that the "favors of fortune and the gran- deurs of the world are not always true goods" (Elledge and Schier, p. 279). D'Aubignac mentions similar lessons, which, by implication, can be taught by showing virtue either rewarded or unrewarded: that the "favours of Fortune are not real Enjoyments"; "that Happiness consists less in the possession of worldly things, than in the despising of them; that Virtue ought to seek its recompence in its self" (p. 5). There are many similar passages from other critics, but the point is that it is a commonplace of Judeo-Christian thought, from the Book of Job to Anglican theology, that no man is guaranteed a temporal recompense for his virtue, though Providence may grant him one. Throughout this tradition, life has been viewed as a trial in which man merits an eternal reward or punishment. In that trial, the things of this world are not re- liable, because they are subject to the caprice of fortune. Man must, therefore, patiently rely solely on Divine Providence, which provides the necessary grace to meet the trial. The metaphor of trial is thus cen- tral to Judeo-Christian theodicy and runs throughout Scripture and tra- dition, from "the trial of the innocent" in Job" to "the trial of man" in Milton (PL 1.366). Perhaps the most famous biblical topos is this one: Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, which according to his abundant mercy hath begotten us again unto a lively hope by the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead,  Prolegomena 31 To an inheritance incorruptible, and undefiled, and that fadeth not away, reserved in heaven for you, Who are kept by the power of God through faith unto sal- vation ready to be revealed in the last time. Wherein ye greatly rejoice, though now for a season, if need be, ye are in heaviness through manifold temptations: That the trial of your faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire, might be found unto praise and honour and glory at the appearing of Jesus Christ." In Rowe's time, answering the theodicean complaint that the good are often not rewarded in this life, Bishop William Sherlock could write "what is commonly said upon this occasion": "That this world is not the place of Judgment, but a state of Trial, Probation, and Disci- pline; where good men many times suffer, not so much in Punishment of their sins, as to exercise their Faith and Patience, and to brighten their Vertues, and to prepare them for greater Rewards" (A Discourse Con- cerning the Divine Providence, p. 147 f). Archbishop James Ussher ar- gues that the trial of the innocent in this life assures us of such rewards: "The most godly having the remnant of sin that dwelleth in their mortall bodies, deserve everlasting condemnation, and therefore in this life are subject to any of the plagues of God; as for that they are sharplier handled oftentimes then the wicked, it is to make triall of their patience, and to make shew of the graces he hath bestowed upon them, which he will have known, and that it may be assured that there is a Judgment of the world to come, 2 Thess. I. wherein every one shall receive accord- ing to his dogin this life, either good or evill."" Furthermore, argues John Donne early in the century, such a trial produces God's champions on the stage of the world: "Militia, vita; our whole life is a warfare; God would not chose Cowards; bee had rather we were valiant in the fighting of his battels; for battels, and exercise of valour, we are sure to have.... And therefore think it not strange, concerning the fiery triall, as though some strange thing happened unto you [1 Pet. 4:12]; Make account that this world is your Scene, your Theater, and that God himself sits to see the combat, the wrestling."" In his recent book, Microcosmos: The Shape of the Elizabethan Play, Thomas B. Stroup has traced, through Western thought and drama up to the late seventeenth century, the metaphor of the world as a stage, in which the metaphor of trial is inherent. Stroup writes, "It seems a far Prolegomena 31 To an inheritance incorruptible, and undefiled, and that fadeth not away, reserved in heaven for you, Who are kept by the power of God through faith unto sal- vation ready to be revealed in the last time. Wherein ye greatly rejoice, though now for a season, if need be, ye are in heaviness through manifold temptations: That the trial of your faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire, might be found unto praise and bonour and glory at the appearing of Jesus Christ." In Rowe's time, answering the theodicean complaint that the good are often not rewarded in this life, Bishop William Sherlock could write "what is commonly said upon this occasion": "That this world is not the place of Judgment, but a state of Trial, Probation, and Disci- pline; where good men many times suffer, not so much in Punishment of their sins, as to exercise their Faith and Patience, and to brighten their Vertues, and to prepare them for greater Rewards" (A Discourse Con- cerning the Divine Providence, p. 147 f). Archbishop James Ussher ar- gues that the trial of the innocent in this life assureus of such rewards: "The most godly having the remnant of sin that dwelleth in their mortall bodies, deserve everlasting condemnation, and therefore in this life are subject to any of the plagues of God; as for that they are sharplier handled oftentimes then the wicked, it is to make triall of their patience, and to make shew of the graces he hath bestowed upon them, which he will have known, and that it may be assured that there is a Judgment of the world to come, 2 Thess. I. wherein every one shall receive accord- ing to his doing in this life, either good or evill."" Furthermore, argues John Donne early in the century, such a trial produces God's champions on the stage of the world: "Militia, vita; our whole life is a warfare; God would not chose Cowards; bee had rather we were valiant in the fighting of his battels; for battels, and exercise of valour, we are sure to have. ... And therefore think it not strange, concerning the fiery triall, as though some strange thing happened unto you [1 Pet. 4:12]; Make account that this world is your Scene, your Theater, and that God himself sits to see the combat, the wrestling."" In his recent book, Microcosmos: The Shape of the Elizabethan Play, Thomas B. Stroup has traced, through Western thought and drama up to the late seventeenth century, the metaphor of the world as a stage, in which the metaphor of trial is inherent. Stroup writes, "It seems a far Prolegomena 31 To an inheritance incorruptible, and undefiled, and that fadeth not away, reserved in heaven for you, Who are kept by the power of God through faith unto sal- vation ready to be revealed in the last time. Wherein ye greatly rejoice, though now for a season, if need be, ye are in heaviness through manifold temptations: That the trial of your faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire, might be found unto praise and honour and glory at the appearing of Jesus Christ.? In Rowe's time, answering the theodicean complaint that the good are often not rewarded in this life, Bishop William Sherlock could write "what is commonly said upon this occasion": "That this world is not the place of Judgment, but a state of Trial, Probation, and Disci- pline; where good men many times suffer, not so much in Punishment of their sins, as to exercise their Faith and Patience, and to brighten their Vertues, and to prepare them for greater Rewards" (A Discourse Con- cerning the Divine Providence, p. 147 f). Archbishop James Ussher ar- gues that the trial of the innocent in this life assures us of such rewards: "The most godly having the remnant of sin that dwelleth in their mortall bodies, deserve everlasting condemnation, and therefore in this life are subject to any of the plagues of God; as for that they are sharplier handled oftentimes then the wicked, it is to make triall of their patience, and to make shew of the graces he hath bestowed upon them, which he will have known, and that it may be assured that there is a Judgment of the world to come, 2 Thess. I. wherein every one shall receive accord- ing to his doing in this life, either good or evill."" Furthermore, argues John Donne early in the century, such a trial produces God's champions on the stage of the world: "Militia, vita; our whole life is a warfare; God would not chuse Cowards; bee had rather we were valiant in the fighting of his battels; for battels, and exercise of valour, we are sure to have.... And therefore think it not strange, concerning the fiery triall, as though same strange thing happened unto you [1 Pet. 4:12]; Make account that this world is your Scene, your Theater, and that God himself sits to see the combat, the wrestling."" In his recent book, Microcosmos: The Shape of the Elizabethan Play, Thomas B. Stroup has traced, through Western thought and drama up to the late seventeenth century, the metaphor of the world as a stage, in which the metaphor of trial is inherent. Stroup writes, "It seems a far  32 The Trial of the Innocent cry from Ptotinns to Ficino to John Banyan, but it is a clear one: the same figure has for all of them the same meanings and value. God the artist, stage-builder, and producer, puts on his cosmic drama and tests his creature, man. In this way they explain the presence of evil in the world and the suffering of the innocent" (p. 22). Thus the metaphor, es- pecially as adopted into the Christian tradition, has a theodicean func- tion that leads man to an acceptance of "the transitory nature of this life" (p. 13). Stroup argues that the metaphor was responsible for the structure of medieval and Renaissance drama, and from it emerges what he calls the "testing pattern"-"the trial or proving of a man," which is administered by Providence and "follows the pretty well-recognized pattern of Christian tests" (p. 179 f; see ch. vi entire). According to how the test is endured, the pattern carries with it the promise of reward or punishment, if not in this life, at least in the next (p. 181). Purporting to treat only the Elizabethan play (to 1642), Stroup traces this pattern right up to the time of Rowe: "Provided for in the ancient concept of the world as stage, this testing motif developed into a pattern in both the mystery and the morality plays and descended as a shaping force in the Elizabethan drama. Although it is apparent in all sorts of plays, it was perhaps most effectively used in tragedy. In those tragedies in which the protagonist succeeds in his quest, though he loses his life, one may dis- cern the special pattern of the career of the Christian hero, a Dante, a Red Cross or a Guyon, Adam and Eve, a Jesus in Paradise Regained, or a Samson" (p. 206). The "testing pattern" does not cease with Milton, however. Rather, I submit, it remains, with its still very Christian metaphysical orienta- tion, the basic pattern of tragedy throughout the Restoration and early eighteenth century, from Dryden to Rowe at least to Lillo. Certainly it is the basic pattern of Rowe's tragedies. In The Ambitious Stepnother, the metaphor of trial is central. Memnon boasts to Mirza that he can face "with ease" even death, if "the Gods" so will "in trial" of his "vir- tue" (III.iii, p. 46). Amestris later plaintively asserts of the "ever- gracious Gods" that surely they "do not joy in our misfortunes, / But only try the strength of our frail virtue" (V.ii, p. 66). The metaphor re- veals the very pattern of the play, the trial not only of virtue-as it was to become in subsequent melodrama-but of faith. In answer to Mem- non's boast, Mirza cynically says, "Rest well assur'd, thou shalt have cause to try / Thy philosophic force of passive virtue" (IILiii, p. 46). And throughout, the virtuous are severely tested by malice and misfor- tune, but mostly by what was considered in the Christian tradition the 32 The Trial of the Innocent cry from Plotines to Ficino to John Bunyan, but it is a clear one: the same figure has for all of them the same meanings and value. God the artist, stage-builder, and producer, puts on his cosmic drama and tests his creature, man. In this way they explain the presence of evil in the world and the suffering of the innocent" (p. 22). Thus the metaphor, es- pecially as adopted into the Christian tradition, has a theodicean func- tion that leads man to an acceptance of "the transitory nature of this life" (p. 13). Stroup argues that the metaphor was responsible for the structure of medieval and Renaissance drama, and from it emerges what he calls the "testing pattern"-"the trial or proving of a man," which is administered by Providence and "follows the pretty well-recognized pattern of Christian tests" (p. 179 f; see ch. vi entire). According to how the test is endured, the pattern carries with it the promise of reward or punishment, if not in this life, at least in the next (p. 181). Purporting to treat only the Elizabethan play (to 1642), Stroup traces this pattern right up to the time of Rowe: "Provided for in the ancient concept of the world as stage, this testing motif developed into a pattern in both the mystery and the morality plays and descended as a shaping force in the Elizabethan drama. Although it is apparent in all sorts of plays, it was perhaps most effectively used in tragedy. In those tragedies in which the protagonist succeeds in his quest, though he loses his life, one may dis- cern the special pattern of the career of the Christian hero, a Dante, a Red Cross or a Guyon, Adam and Eve, a Jesus in Paradise Regained, or a Samson" (p. 206). The "testing pattern" does not cease with Milton, however. Rather, I submit, it remains, with its still very Christian metaphysical orienta- tion, the basic pattern of tragedy throughout the Restoration and early eighteenth century, from Dryden to Rowe at least to Lillo. Certainly it is the basic pattern of Rowe's tragedies. In The Ambitious Stepmother, the metaphor of trial is central. Memnon boasts to Mirza that he can face "with ease" even death, if "the Gods" so will "in trial" of his "vir- tue" (III.iii, p. 46). Amestris later plaintively asserts of the "ever- gracious Gods" that surely they "do not joy in our misfortunes, / But only try the strength of our frail virtue" (V.ii, p. 66). The metaphor re- veals the very pattern of the play, the trial not only of virtue-as it was to become in subsequent melodrama-but of faith. In answer to Mem- non's boast, Mirza cynically says, "Rest well assur'd, thou shalt have cause to try / Thy philosophic force of passive virtue" (III.iii, p. 46). And throughout, the virtuous are severely tested by malice and misfor- tune, but mostly by what was considered in the Christian tradition the 32 The Trial of the Innocent cry from Plotinus to Ficino to John Bunyan, but it is a clear one: the same figure has for all of them the same meanings and value. God the artist, stage-builder, and producer, puts on his cosmic drama and tests his creature, man. In this way they explain the presence of evil in the world and the suffering of the innocent" (p. 22). Thus the metaphor, es- pecially as adopted into the Christian tradition, has a theodicean func- tion that leads man to an acceptance of "the transitory nature of this life" (p. 13). Stroup argues that the metaphor was responsible for the structure of medieval and Renaissance drama, and from it emerges what he calls the "testing pattern"-"the trial or proving of a man," which is administered by Providence and "follows the pretty well-recognized pattern of Christian tests" (p. 179 f; see ch. vi entire). According to how the test is endured, the pattern carries with it the promise of reward or punishment, if not in this life, at least in the next (p. 181). Purporting to treat only the Elizabethan play (to 1642), Stroup traces this pattern right up to the time of Rowe: "Provided for in the ancient concept of the world as stage, this testing motif developed into a pattern in both the mystery and the morality plays and descended as a shaping force in the Elizabethan drama. Although it is apparent in all sorts of plays, it was perhaps most effectively used in tragedy. In those tragedies in which the protagonist succeeds in his quest, though he loses his life, one may dis- cern the special pattern of the career of the Christian hero, a Dante, a Red Cross or a Guyon, Adam and Eve, a Jesus in Paradise Regained, or a Samson" (p. 206). The "testing pattern" does not cease with Milton, however. Rather, I submit, it remains, with its still very Christian metaphysical orienta- tion, the basic pattern of tragedy throughout the Restoration and early eighteenth century, from Dryden to Rowe at least to Lillo. Certainly it is the basic pattern of Rowe's tragedies. In The Ambitious Stepmother, the metaphor of trial is central. Memnon boasts to Mirza that he can face "with ease" even death, if "the Gods" so will "in trial" of his "vir- tue" (IILiii, p. 46). Amestris later plaintively asserts of the "ever- gracious Gods" that surely they "do not joy in our misfortunes, / But only try the strength of our frail virtue" (V.ii, p. 66). The metaphor re- veals the very pattern of the play, the trial not only of virtue-as it was to become in subsequent melodrama-but of faith. In answer to Mem- non's boast, Mirza cynically says, "Rest well assur'd, thou shalt have cause to try / Thy philosophic force of passive virtue" (III.iii, p. 46). And throughout, the virtuous are severely tested by malice and misfor- tune, but mostly by what was considered in the Christian tradition the  Prolegomena 33 most crucial trial of man: the temptation to despair, to lose trust in Di- vine Providence. For such distrust can lead to an eternal loss of grace and thus the loss of a human soul. That loss is the subject of the great Christian tragedies of Faustus and Macbeth, while victory over despair is the triumph of the Duchess of Malfi, of Hamlet and Samson, despite their deaths." Throughout this tradition, darkness, especially that of a prison or dungeon atmosphere, has been associated with despair. Some of the more famous literary treatments are those of job, of Boethius, of Chau- cer's Palamon and Troilus, of Spenser's Rederosse Knight, of Shake- speare's King Lear, of Milton's Samson, and of Bunyan's Christian. The association is especially prevalent in the tragedy of suffering innocence, where a prison is often the scene of a crucial theodicean complaint, as in Shakespeare's Cymbeline (V.iv), Webster's The Duchess of Malfi (IVi), Tourneur's The Atheist's Tragedy (IILiii), Settle's The Empress of Morocco (IILii), Congreve's The Mourning Bride (I1 ff), and many of Dryden's tragedies."' In Rowe's The Ambitious Stepmother, the "Night Scene of the Temple of the Sun" (IV.iii, p. 56) exploits this traditional motif of the prison of despair. Though he feels it is "in vain," Artaxerxes gives vent to his "rage" and "swelling passion," and utters a poignant complaint, vacillating between trust and distrust of the gods, while Memnon indicts the "malice" of "fate" and the "damu'd reverse of for- tune" (p. 56 f). Both go so far as to contemplate suicide (p. 57). Faced with the horrible thought of Amestris' rape, Artaxerxes even threatens to "blaspheme" those gods on whom he earlier so vociferously protested to rely (p. 59). He aptly describes his condition and the correspondence between the external scene and the internal state of his soul: This horrid night suits well my soul, Love, sorrow, conscious worth, and indignation Stir mad confusion in my lab'ring breast And I am all o'er chaos. The threat of the "universal ruin" of nature (ILi, p. 21) is paralleled in the play by the threat of the eternal ruin of a human soul. Into this "huge holy Dungeon" with "Not one poor lamp to cheer the dismal shade" enters Cleone with her "dark lanthorn and key" to help them escape (IV.iii, p. 59). When Memnon asks, "Ha! whence this gleam of light?" Artaxerxes says more than he knows: "Fate is at hand, lets haste to bid it welcome, / It brings an end of wretchedness." It is Prolegomena 33 most crucial trial of man: the temptation to despair, to lose trust in Di- vine Providence. For such distrust can lead to an eternal loss of grace and thus the loss of a human soul. That loss is the subject of the great Christian tragedies of Faustus and Macbeth, while victory over despair is the triumph of the Duchess of Malfi, of Hamlet and Samson, despite their deaths.0 Throughout this tradition, darkness, especially that of a prison or dungeon atmosphere, has been associated with despair. Some of the more famous literary treatments are those of Job, of Boethius, of Chau- cer's Palamon and Troilus, of Spenser's Redcrosse Knight, of Shake- speare's King Lear, of Milton's Samson, and of Bunyan's Christian. The association is especially prevalent in the tragedy of suffering innocence, where a prison is often the scene of a crucial theodicean complaint, as in Shakespeare's Cymbeline (V.iv), Webster's The Duchess of Malf (IVi), Tourneur's The Atheist's Tragedy (IILiii), Settle's The Empress of Morocco (HI.ii), Congreve's The Mourning Bride (III ff), and many of Dryden's tragedies."' In Rowe's The Ambitious Stepmother, the "Night Scene of the Temple of the Sun" (IV.iii, p. 56) exploits this traditional motif of the prison of despair. Though he feels it is "in vain," Artaxerxes gives vent to his "rage" and "swelling passion," and utters a poignant complaint, vacillating between trust and distrust of the gods, while Memnon indicts the "malice" of "fate" and the "damn'd reverse of for- tune" (p. 56 f). Both go so far as to contemplate suicide (p. 57). Faced with the horrible thought of Amestris' rape, Artaxerxes even threatens to "blaspheme" those gods on whom he earlier so vociferously protested to rely (p. 59). He aptly describes his condition and the correspondence between the external scene and the internal state of his soul: This horrid night suits well my soul, Love, sorrow, conscious worth, and indignation Stir mad confusion in my lab'ring breast And I am all o'er chaos. The threat of the "universal ruin" of nature (IIi, p. 21) is paralleled in the play by the threat of the eternal ruin of a human soul. Into this "huge holy Dungeon" with "Not one poor lamp to cheer the dismal shade" enters Cleone with her "dark lanthorn and key" to help them escape (IV.iii, p. 59). When Memnon asks, "Ha! whence this gleam of light?" Artaxerxes says more than he knows: "Fate is at hand, lets haste to bid it welcome, / It brings an end of wretchedness." It is Prolegomena 33 most crucial trial of man: the temptation to despair, to lose trust in Di- vine Providence. For such distrust can lead to an eternal loss of grace and thus the loss of a human soul. That loss is the subject of the great Christian tragedies of Faustus and Macbeth, while victory over despair is the triumph of the Duchess of Malfi, of Hamlet and Samson, despite their deaths.0 Throughout this tradition, darkness, especially that of a prison or dungeon atmosphere, has been associated with despair. Some of the more famous literary treatments are those of Job, of Boethius, of Chau- cer's Palamon and Troilus, of Spenser's Rederosse Knight, of Shake- speare's King Lear, of Milton's Samson, and of Bunyan's Christian. The association is especially prevalent in the tragedy of suffering innocence, where a prison is often the scene of a crucial theodicean complaint, as in Shakespeare's Cymbeline (V.iv), Webster's The Duchess of Malf (IVi), Tourneur's The Atheists Tragedy (II.iii), Settle's The Empress of Morocco (Il.ii), Congreve's The Mourning Bride (III ff), and many of Dryden's tragedies."' In Rowe's The Ambitious Stepmother, the "Night Scene of the Temple of the Sun" (IV.iii, p. 56) exploits this traditional motif of the prison of despair. Though he feels it is "in vain," Artaxerxes gives vent to his "rage" and "swelling passion," and utters a poignant complaint, vacillating between trust and distrust of the gods, while Memnon indicts the "malice" of "fate" and the "damn'd reverse of for- tune" (p. 56 f). Both go so far as to contemplate suicide (p. 57). Faced with the horrible thought of Amestris' rape, Artaxerxes even threatens to "blaspheme" those gods on whom he earlier so vociferously protested to rely (p. 59). He aptly describes his condition and the correspondence between the external scene and the internal state of his soul: This horrid night suits well my soul, Love, sorrow, conscious worth, and indignation Stir mad confusion in my lab'ring breast And I am all o'er chaos. The threat of the "universal ruin" of nature (II.i, p. 21) is paralleled in the play by the threat of the eternal ruin of a human soul. Into this "huge holy Dungeon" with "Not one poor lamp to cheer the dismal shade" enters Cleone with her "dark lanthoru and key" to help them escape (IV.iii, p. 59). When Memnon asks, "Ha! whence this gleam of light?" Artaxerxes says more than he knows: "Fate is at hand, lets haste to bid it welcome, / It brings an end of wretchedness." It is  34 The Trial of the Innocent not the fate either imagines, for Cleone is "the minister of a happier fate" (p. 60). But Artaxerxes and Memnon misinterpret Cleone's mission, and she is forced to kill herself to convince them of her innocence and sincerity. Yet, through her sacrifice, the light Cleone brings performs its symbolic function: as Memnon holds the lantern above her dead body, Artaxerxes says, A beam of hope Strikes thro' my soul, like the first infant light That glanc'd upon the chaos. (p. 63) Cleone has provided these desperate men with more than the literal "key" which "amidst the tumult of this night" opens them a "way" out of their prison (p. 62): she has brought the light of "hope" into the dark- ness of despair. Thus it appears that their complaint to the gods has been heard. In the meantime, Amestris' faith and virtue are being severely tried. Thinking her husband and father dead, she complains, "Are not my sor- rows full? can ought be added?" (V.ii, p. 66). She too is maddened with "raging sorrow" and longs for "vengeance" on Mirza (p. 68). When Mirza threatens her, she desperately begs to die since life has no more meaning for her and she has suffered the worst. Yet something can "be added" to her afflictions that is worse even than death. It is Mirza's ra- pacious lust. As he pursues her, she challenges the "awful Gods" to "blast him" with "lightning" (p. 69), and when none is forthcoming, she pathetically whimpers, "Is there no hope of aid from Gods or men?"" Finally, calling on Diana and Juno, she gains the strength and, the im- plication is, the grace from those "ever-gracious Gods," to stab Mirza and to save herself from rape. As we have noted before, she openly attributes that strength to "some chaster power." It appears, then, that her virtue has met the test and that Providence has "sav'd" her from Mirza's "most brutal outrage" to her "honour" (p. 74). The gods, it seems, have answered her prayer-and Artaxerxes'-that she be not dis- honored. And yet she dies. Amestris' death is not an indictment of Providence, any more than that of Cordelia or Webster's Duchess. Dennis himself wrote the fol- lowing: "'Tis true indeed upon the Stage of the World the Wicked sometimes prosper, and the Guiltless suffer. But that is permitted by the Governour of the World to show from the Attribute of his infinite Jus- tice that there is a Compensation in Futurity, to prove the Immortality 34 The Trial of the Innocent not the fate either imagines, for Cleone is "the minister of a happier fate" (p. 60). But Artaxerxes and Memnon misinterpret Cleone's mission, and she is forced to kill herself to convince them of her innocence and sincerity. Yet, through her sacrifice, the light Cleone brings performs its symbolic function: as Memnon holds the lantern above her dead body, Artaxerxes says, A beam of hope Strikes thro' my soul, like the first infant light That glanc'd upon the chaos. (p. 63) Cleone has provided these desperate men with more than the literal "key" which "amidst the tumult of this night" opens them a "way" out of their prison (p. 62): she has brought the light of "hope" into the dark- ness of despair. Thus it appears that their complaint to the gods has been heard. In the meantime, Amestris' faith and virtue are being severely tried. Thinking her husband and father dead, she complains, "Are not my sor- rows full? can ought be added?" (V.ii, p. 66). She too is maddened with "raging sorrow" and longs for "vengeance" on Mirza (p. 68). When Mirza threatens her, she desperately begs to die since life has no more meaning for her and she has suffered the worst. Yet something can "be added" to her afflictions that is worse even than death. It is Mirza's ra- pacious lust. As he pursues her, she challenges the "awful Gods" to "blast him" with "lightning" (p. 69), and when none is forthcoming, she pathetically whimpers, "Is there no hope of aid from Gods or men?"" Finally, calling on Diana and Juno, she gains the strength and, the im- plication is, the grace from those "ever-gracious Gods," to stab Mirza and to save herself from rape. As we have noted before, she openly attributes that strength to "some chaster power." It appears, then, that her virtue has met the test and that Providence has "sav'd" her from Mirza's "most brutal outrage" to her "honour" (p. 74). The gods, it seems, have answered her prayer-and Artaxerxes'-that she be not dis- honored. And yet she dies. Amestris' death is not an indictment of Providence, any more than that of Cordelia or Webster's Duchess. Dennis himself wrote the fol- lowing: " 'Tis true indeed upon the Stage of the World the Wicked sometimes prosper, and the Guiltless suffer. But that is permitted by the Governour of the World to show from the Attribute of his infinite Jus- tice that there is a Compensation in Futurity, to prove the Immortality 34 The Trial of the Innocent not the fate either imagines, for Cleone is "the minister of a happier fate" (p. 60). But Artaxerxes and Memnon misinterpret Cleone's mission, and she is forced to kill herself to convince them of her innocence and sincerity. Yet, through her sacrifice, the light Cleone brings performs its symbolic function: as Memnon holds the lantern above her dead body, Artaxerxes says, Abeam of hope Strikes thro' my soul, like the first infant light That glanc'd upon the chaos. (p. 63) Cleone has provided these desperate men with more than the literal "key" which "amidst the tumult of this night" opens them a "way" out of their prison (p. 62): she has brought the light of "hope" into the dark- ness of despair. Thus it appears that their complaint to the gods has been heard. In the meantime, Amestris' faith and virtue are being severely tried. Thinking her husband and father dead, she complains, "Are not my sor- rows full? can ought be added?" (V.ii, p. 66). She too is maddened with "raging sorrow" and longs for "vengeance" on Mirza (p. 68). When Mirza threatens her, she desperately begs to die since life has no more meaning for her and she has suffered the worst. Yet something can "be added" to her afflictions that is worse even than death. It is Mirza's ra- pacious lust. As he pursues her, she challenges the "awful Gods" to "blast him" with "lightning" (p. 69), and when none is forthcoming, she pathetically whimpers, "Is there no hope of aid from Gods or men?"" Finally, calling on Diana and Juno, she gains the strength and, the im- plication is, the grace from those "ever-gracious Gods," to stab Mirza and to save herself from rape. As we have noted before, she openly attributes that strength to "some chaster power." It appears, then, that her virtue has met the test and that Providence has "sav'd" her from Mirza's "most brutal outrage" to her "honour" (p. 74). The gods, it seems, have answered her prayer-and Artaxerxes'-that she be not dis- honored. And yet she dies. Amestris' death is not an indictment of Providence, any more than that of Cordelia or Webster's Duchess. Dennis himself wrote the fol- lowing: "'Tis true indeed upon the Stage of the World the Wicked sometimes prosper, and the Guiltless suffer. But that is permitted by the Governour of the World to show from the Attribute of his infinite Jus- tice that there is a Compensation in Futurity, to prove the Immortality  Prolegomena 35 of the Human Soul, and the Certainty of Future Rewards and Punish- ments" (Critical Works, II, 49). In opposition to Dennis' demand for perfect distributive justice on the stage itself, and in accordance with the bulk of tradition, Rowe chose here to picture the world closer to the literal truth of history than to the ideal truth of philosophy (poetry con- taining both, according to Aristotle and his Renaissance interpreters). But if the play imitates life more closely than Dennis or Gildon would like, still it points to an afterlife, however shadowy may be its appre- hension in the pre-Christian world of the play (as in King Lear). The immortality of the soul is stressed throughout Rowe's play (as indeed it was throughout the Renaissance and especially in answer to the neo- Epicureans and the Hobbists of the Restoration"). We have already noted Amestris' faith in the "immortality" promised by the gods, who "behold" the "sufferings" of these innocents (III.iii, p. 47). The most explicit statement about the immortality of the soul occurs in the "Hymn to the Sun" (written by Rowe's school chum, William Shippen): What is the soul of man, but light, Drawn down from thy transcendent height? What but an intellectual beam? A spark of thy immortal flame? Since then from thee at first it came, To thee, tho' clogged, it points its flame; And conscious of superior birth, Despises this unkindred earth. (p. 43) This is the traditional imagery-not only Persian, but also Platonic and especially, for a Christian audience, Johannine-for man's participation in the eternal source of light: "The true Light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world."" Finally (with regard to immortality), upon hearing the news of Arsaces' death (the description of the dying King which opens the play is, after all, something like a memento mori), Artaban says, 'Twas time the soul should seek for immortality, And leave the weary body to enjoy An bonourable rest from care and sickness. (IV.i, p. 50) Thus, not only is the human soul immortal, but death is actually not an Prolegomena 35 Prolegomena 35 of the Human Soul, and the Certainty of Future Rewards and Punish- ments" (Critical Works, II, 49). In opposition to Dennis' demand for perfect distributive justice on the stage itself, and in accordance with the bulk of tradition, Rowe chose here to picture the world closer to the literal truth of history than to the ideal truth of philosophy (poetry con- taining both, according to Aristotle and his Renaissance interpreters). But if the play imitates life more closely than Dennis or Gildon would like, still it points to an afterlife, however shadowy may be its appre- hension in the pre-Christian world of the play (as in King Lear). The immortality of the soul is stressed throughout Rowe's play (as indeed it was throughout the Renaissance and especially in answer to the neo- Epicureans and the Hobbists of the Restoration"). We have already noted Amestris' faith in the "immortality" promised by the gods, who "behold" the "sufferings" of these innocents (III.iii, p. 47). The most explicit statement about the immortality of the soul occurs in the "Hymn to the Sun" (written by Rowe's school chum, William Shippen): What is the soul of man, but light, Drawn down from thy transcendent height? What but an intellectual beam? A spark of thy immortal flame? Since then from thee at first it came, To thee, tho' clogged, it points its flame; And conscious of superior birth, Despises this unkindred earth. (p. 43) This is the traditional imagery-not only Persian, but also Platonic and especially, for a Christian audience, Johannine-for man's participation in the eternal source of light: "The true Light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world."" Finally (with regard to immortality), upon hearing the news of Arsaces' death (the description of the dying King which opens the play is, after all, something like a memento mori), Artaban says, 'Twas time the soul should seek for immortality, And leave the weary body to enjoy An honourable rest from care and sickness. (IV.i, p. 50) Thus, not only is the human soul immortal, but death is actually not an of the Human Soul, and the Certainty of Future Rewards and Punish- ments" (Critical Works, II, 49). In opposition to Dennis' demand for perfect distributive justice on the stage itself, and in accordance with the bulk of tradition, Rowe chose here to picture the world closer to the literal truth of history than to the ideal truth of philosophy (poetry con- taining both, according to Aristotle and his Renaissance interpreters). But if the play imitates life more closely than Dennis or Gildon would like, still it points to an afterlife, however shadowy may be its appre- hension in the pre-Christian world of the play (as in King Lear). The immortality of the soul is stressed throughout Rowe's play (as indeed it was throughout the Renaissance and especially in answer to the neo- Epicureans and the Hobbists of the Restoration"). We have already noted Amestris' faith in the "immortality" promised by the gods, who "behold" the "sufferings" of these innocents (III.iii, p. 47). The most explicit statement about the immortality of the soul occurs in the "Hymn to the Sun" (written by Rowe's school chum, William Shippen): What is the soul of man, but light, Drawn down from thy transcendent height? What but an intellectual beam? A spark of thy immortal flame? Since then from thee at first it came, To thee, tho' clogged, it points its flame; And conscious of superior birth, Despises this unkindred earth. (p. 43) This is the traditional imagery-not only Persian, but also Platonic and especially, for a Christian audience, Johannine-for man's participation in the eternal source of light: "The true Light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world."" Finally (with regard to immortality), upon hearing the news of Arsaces' death (the description of the dying King which opens the play is, after all, something like a memento mori), Artaban says, 'Twas time the soul should seek for immortality, And leave the weary body to enjoy An honourable rest from care and sickness. (IV.i, p. 50) Thus, not only is the human soul immortal, but death is actually not an  36 The Trial of the Innocent evil but a good, because it releases man from his trial. This metaphor of death as rest for the just is a traditional theodicean answer to the prob- lem of death, and it runs throughout Christian literature (e.g., The Di- vine Comedy, The Pardoner's Tale, King Lear, Gulliver's Travels), but nowhere is it more explicit than in Paradise Lost (God is speaking of man after the Fall): I at first with two fair gifts Created him endow'd, with Happiness And Immortality: that fondly lost, This other serv'd but to eternize woe; Till I provided Death; so Death becomes His final remedy, and after Life Tri'd in sharp tribulation, and refin'd By Faith and faithful works, to second Life, Wak't in the renovation of the just, Resigns him up with Heav'n and Earth renew'd. (XI.57 ff) So, in the Christian vision, death becomes-not an indictment of Provi- dence-but rather a proof of Providence, and in Rowe's play, with its stress on the immortality of the soul, the inevitable suggestion is that Amestris' constancy of virtue during her trial has merited her such an awakening. Yet despite the manifestation of Providence in the defense of Ames- tris' honor, Artaxerxes and Memnon lose their renewed hope when she dies. Their "philosophic force of passive virtue," as Mirza has called it, is found wanting when tested to the extreme, and Artaxerxes and Mem- non despair. Though he forbears to curse the gods as he has threatened (after all, Amestris' "honour" has not been "ruin'd"), Artaxerxes sinks to earth in self-loathing and stabs himself (V.ii, p. 74 ff). Ironically, he has forgotten to "bow before the God that sav'd" Amestris, and the imagery of gloom, annihilation, and hell underscores his despair. Mem- non, on the other hand, does explicitly renounce the gods, as Mirza has prophesied (p. 76). He then dashes out his brains, and Artemisa con- cludes, "Fierce despair / Has forc'd a way for the impetuous soul" (p. 77). Again ironically, Artaxerxes and Memnon kill themselves just as the usurpers are defeated in what we have already seen to be a manifesta- tion of Providence. Despite their personal loss in the death of Amestris, all is not lost, and while their plight is pitiful, their solution is damnable -yet it is certainly understandable, and that tension is at the heart of 36 The Trial of the Innocent evil but a good, because it releases man from his trial. This metaphor of death as rest for the just is a traditional theodicean answer to the prob- lem of death, and it runs throughout Christian literature (e.g., The Di- vine Comedy, The Pardoner's Tale, King Lear, Gulliver's Travels), but nowhere is it more explicit than in Paradise Lost (God is speaking of man after the Fall): I at first with two fair gifts Created him endow'd, with Happiness And Immortality: that fondly lost, This other serv'd but to eternize woe; Till I provided Death; so Death becomes His final remedy, and after Life Tri'd in sharp tribulation, and refin'd By Faith and faithful works, to second Life, Wak't in the renovation of the just, Resigns him up with Heav'n and Earth renew'd. (XI.57 ff) So, in the Christian vision, death becomes-not an indictment of Provi- dence-but rather a proof of Providence, and in Rowe's play, with its stress on the immortality of the soul, the inevitable suggestion is that Amestris' constancy of virtue during her trial has merited her such an awakening. Yet despite the manifestation of Providence in the defense of Ames- tris' honor, Artaxerxes and Memnon lose their renewed hope when she dies. Their "philosophic force of passive virtue," as Mirza has called it, is found wanting when tested to the extreme, and Artaxerxes and Mem- non despair. Though he forbears to curse the gods as he has threatened (after all, Amestris' "honour" has not been "ruin'd"), Artaxerxes sinks to earth in self-loathing and stabs himself (V.ii, p. 74 ff). Ironically, he has forgotten to "bow before the God that sav'd" Amestris, and the imagery of gloom, annihilation, and hell underscores his despair. Mem- non, on the other hand, does explicitly renounce the gods, as Mirza has prophesied (p. 76). He then dashes out his brains, and Artemisa con- cludes, "Fierce despair / Has forc'd a way for the impetuous soul" (p. 77). Again ironically, Artaxerxes and Memnon kill themselves just as the usurpers are defeated in what we have already seen to be a manifesta- tion of Providence. Despite their personal loss in the death of Amestris, all is not lost, and while their plight is pitiful, their solution is damnable -yet it is certainly understandable, and that tension is at the heart of 36 The Trial of the Innocent evil but a good, because it releases man from his trial. This metaphor of death as rest for the just is a traditional theodicean answer to the prob- lem of death, and it runs throughout Christian literature (e.g., The Di- vine Comedy, The Pardoner's Tale, King Lear, Gulliver's Travels), but nowhere is it more explicit than in Paradise Lost (God is speaking of man after the Fall): I at first with two fair gifts Created him endow'd, with Happiness And Immortality: that fondly lost, This other serv'd but to eternize woe; Till I provided Death; so Death becomes His final remedy, and after Life Tri'd in sharp tribulation, and refin'd By Faith and faithful works, to second Life, Wak't in the renovation of the just, Resigns him up with Heav'n and Earth renew'd. (XL.57 ff) So, in the Christian vision, death becomes-not an indictment of Provi- dence-but rather a proof of Providence, and in Rowe's play, with its stress on the immortality of the soul, the inevitable suggestion is that Amestris' constancy of virtue during her trial has merited her such an awakening. Yet despite the manifestation of Providence in the defense of Ames- tris' honor, Artaxerxes and Memnon lose their renewed hope when she dies. Their "philosophic force of passive virtue," as Mirza has called it, is found wanting when tested to the extreme, and Artaxerxes and Mem- non despair. Though he forbears to curse the gods as he has threatened (after all, Amestris' "honour" has not been "ruin'd"), Artaxerxes sinks to earth in self-loathing and stabs himself (V.ii, p. 74 ff). Ironically, he has forgotten to "bow before the God that sav'd" Amestris, and the imagery of gloom, annihilation, and hell underscores his despair. Mem- non, on the other hand, does explicitly renounce the gods, as Mirza has prophesied (p. 76). He then dashes out his brains, and Artemisa con- cludes, "Fierce despair / Has fore'd a way for the impetuous soul" (p. 77). Again ironically, Artaxerxes and Memnon kill themselves just as the usurpers are defeated in what we have already seen to be a manifesta- tion of Providence. Despite their personal loss in the death of Amestris, all is not lost, and while their plight is pitiful, their solution is damnable -yet it is certainly understandable, and that tension is at the heart of  Prolegomena 37 Prolegomena 37 Christian tragedy and distinguishes it from formal theology or theodicy. Such tension makes us, along with Shakespeare's Edgar, want to speak what we feet and not what we ought to say. iv The last virtuous character mentioned in Gildon's indictment of The Ambitious Stepmother is Cleone. It could perhaps be answered that she too commits suicide. But her death appears, upon closer scrutiny, to be quite different in motivation from Artaxerxes' and Memnon's and to be far from a violation of "Poetic Justice and the Rules of Providence." It is instead an act of self-sacrifice which is in sharp contrast to the self- interest of her father Mirza and of the rest of the usurpers. In the first act Mirza describes Cleone as By nature pitiful, and apt to grieve For the mishaps of others, and so make The sorrows of the wretched world her own. (sc. i, p. 15 f) Of course, Cleone's melancholy has another source besides her compas- sionate nature's response to human misery. Her tears are for her "unre- garded love" of Artaxerxes as well. Yet despite this more immediate mo- tivation for her tears, Cleone's compassion seems really a part of her nature, as her father suggests, and she appears to mean it when she tells Artaban that she grieves at the "miserable state of human kind" (III.i, p. 36). It is her compassion for the "poor Amestris," as well as her love for Artaxerxes, that leads her to pray for them to the "gentle powers, who view our cares with pity" (IV.ii, p. 55). Furthermore, despite her fears and doubts and the apparent inevitability of death, Cleone goes forth to "save" Artaxerxes in a genuine spirit of self-sacrifice (p. 56). To the suspicious Memnon and Artaxerxes, Cleone utters a sacred oath, calling on the present "awful God" to damn her if she have "any thought but" Artaxerxes' "safety" (IV.iii, p. 62). Stabbing herself as a last resort, she says to Artaxerxes that she has given him the last, And only proof remain'd that could convince you I held your life much dearer than my own. Through this total self-sacrifice, Cleone (like Arsaces) finally obtains peace and "everlasting rest" from her war with her passions (p. 63). Christian tragedy and distinguishes it from formal theology or theodicy. Such tension makes us, along with Shakespeare's Edgar, want to speak what we feel and not what we ought to say. iv The last virtuous character mentioned in Gildon's indictment of The Ambitious Stepmother is Cleone. It could perhaps be answered that she too commits suicide. But her death appears, upon closer scrutiny, to be quite different in motivation from Artaxerxes' and Memnon's and to be far from a violation of "Poetic Justice and the Rules of Providence." It is instead an act of self-sacrifice which is in sharp contrast to the self- interest of her father Mirza and of the rest of the usurpers. In the first act Mirza describes Cleone as By nature pitiful, and apt to grieve For the mishaps of others, and so make The sorrows of the wretched world her own. (sc. i, p. 15 f) Of course, Cleone's melancholy has another source besides her compas- sionate nature's response to human misery. Her tears are for her "unre- garded love" of Artaxerxes as well. Yet despite this more immediate mo- tivation for her tears, Cleone's compassion seems really a part of her nature, as her father suggests, and she appears to mean it when she tells Artaban that she grieves at the "miserable state of human kind" (IIIi, p. 36). It is her compassion for the "poor Amestris," as well as her love for Artaxerxes, that leads her to pray for them to the "gentle powers, who view our cares with pity" (IV.ii, p. 55). Furthermore, despite her fears and doubts and the apparent inevitability of death, Cleone goes forth to "save" Artaxerxes in a genuine spirit of self-sacrifice (p. 56). To the suspicious Memnon and Artaxerxes, Cleone utters a sacred oath, calling on the present "awful God" to damn her if she have "any thought but" Artaxerxes' "safety" (IV.iii, p. 62). Stabbing herself as a last resort, she says to Artaxerxes that she has given him the last, And only proof remain'd that could convince you I held your life much dearer than my own. Through this total self-sacrifice, Cleone (like Arsaces) finally obtains peace and "everlasting rest" from her war with her passions (p. 63). Prolegomena 37 Christian tragedy and distinguishes it from formal theology or theodicy. Such tension makes us, along with Shakespeare's Edgar, want to speak what we feel and not what we ought to say. iv The last virtuous character mentioned in Gildon's indictment of The Ambitious Stepmother is Cleone. It could perhaps be answered that she too commits suicide. But her death appears, upon closer scrutiny, to be quite different in motivation from Artaxerxes' and Memnon's and to be far from a violation of "Poetic Justice and the Rules of Providence." It is instead an act of self-sacrifice which is in sharp contrast to the self- interest of her father Mirza and of the rest of the usurpers. In the first act Mirza describes Cleone as By nature pitiful, and apt to grieve For the mishaps of others, and so make The sorrows of the wretched world her own. (sc. i, p. 15 f) Of course, Cleone's melancholy has another source besides her compas- sionate nature's response to human misery. Her tears are for her "unre- garded love" of Artaxerxes as well. Yet despite this more immediate mo- tivation for her tears, Cleone's compassion seems really a part of her nature, as her father suggests, and she appears to mean it when she tells Artaban that she grieves at the "miserable state of human kind" (IIIi, p. 36). It is her compassion for the "poor Amestris," as well as her love for Artaxerxes, that leads her to pray for them to the "gentle powers, who view our cares with pity" (IV.ii, p. 55). Furthermore, despite her fears and doubts and the apparent inevitability of death, Cleone goes forth to "save" Artaxerxes in a genuine spirit of self-sacrifice (p. 56). To the suspicious Memnon and Artaxerxes, Cleone utters a sacred oath, calling on the present "awful God" to damn her if she have "any thought but" Artaxerxes' "safety" (IV.iii, p. 62). Stabbing herself as a last resort, she says to Artaxerxes that she has given him the last, And only proof remain'd that could convince you I held your life much dearer than my own. Through this total self-sacrifice, Cleone (like Arsaces) finally obtains peace and "everlasting rest" from her war with her passions (p. 63).  38 The Trial of the Innocent Moreover, her sacrifice could atone for her father's sins and even more, as Artaxerxes says: Why hast thou stain'd me with thy virgin blood? Iswear, sweet saint, for thee I could forgive The malice of thy father, tho' he seeks My life and crown; thy goodness might atone Ev'n for a nation's sins. Memnon agrees: Sure the Gods, Angry ere while, will be at length appeas'd With this egregious victim. As we have seen, the light that she has brought symbolically becomes "the first infant light / That glanc'd upon the chaos," giving hope to the despairing and providing them with the "key" out of their prison. The suggestion of this accumulated imagery is that Cleone's sacri- fice is that kind of which Christ speaks: "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends" (John 15:13). The very diction-the forgiveness for her father, the atonement "Ev'n for a na- tion's sins," the appeasement of the gods, all obtained by this "egregious victim"-seems designed to invoke the Atonement itself, the fulfillment of the ultimate promise of the care of the gods: "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life" (John 3:16). Thus, by imagistically suggesting the Atonement, Cleone's sacrifice reinforces the primary lesson of the play: the need for absolute trust in Divine Providence. Moreover, the light that her death brings-"the first infant light / That glan'd upon the chaos"-symbolizes more than just the light of hope that momentarily redeems Artaxerxes from the internal "chaos" of his despair. As we have noted before, the Persian imagery of light is also Johannine, and because of the accumulation of allusions, it seems to me inescapably to suggest the light of the Creative Word of God, in Whom "was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not" (John 1:4 0. In effect, Cleone's sacrifice suggests the promise of redemption from the chaos (both external and internal) that threatens throughout the play. It presages the restoration of order and harmony, and, as Cleone came 38 The Trial of the Innocent Moreover, her sacrifice could atone for her father's sins and even more, as Artaxerxes says: Why hast thou stain'd me with thy virgin blood? I swear, sweet saint, for thee I could forgive The malice of thy father, tho' he seeks My life and crown; thy goodness might atone Ev'n for a nation's sins. Memnon agrees: Sure the Gods, Angry ere while, will be at length appeas'd With this egregious victim. As we have seen, the light that she has brought symbolically becomes "the first infant light / That glanc'd upon the chaos," giving hope to the despairing and providing them with the "key" out of their prison. The suggestion of this accumulated imagery is that Cleone's sacri- fice is that kind of which Christ speaks: "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends" (John 15:13). The very diction-the forgiveness for her father, the atonement "Ev'n for a na- tion's sins," the appeasement of the gods, all obtained by this "egregious victim"-seems designed to invoke the Atonement itself, the fulfillment of the ultimate promise of the care of the gods: "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life" (John 3:16). Thus, by imagistically suggesting the Atonement, Cleone's sacrifice reinforces the primary lesson of the play: the need for absolute trust in Divine Providence. Moreover, the light that her death brings-"the first infant light / That glanc'd upon the chaos"-symbolizes more than just the light of hope that momentarily redeems Artaxerxes from the internal "chaos" of his despair. As we have noted before, the Persian imagery of light is also Johannine, and because of the accumulation of allusions, it seems to me inescapably to suggest the light of the Creative Word of God, in Whom "was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not" (John 1:4 f). In effect, Cleone's sacrifice suggests the promise of redemption from the chaos (both external and internal) that threatens throughout the play. It presages the restoration of order and harmony, and, as Cleone came 38 The Trial of the Innocent Moreover, her sacrifice could atone for her father's sins and even more, as Artaxerxes says: Why hast thou stain'd me with thy virgin blood? I swear, sweet saint, for thee I could forgive The malice of thy father, tho' he seeks My life and crown; thy goodness might atone Ev'n for a nation's sins. Memnon agrees: Sure the Gods, Angry ere while, will be at length appeas'd With this egregious victim. As we have seen, the light that she has brought symbolically becomes "the first infant light / That glanc'd upon the chaos," giving hope to the despairing and providing them with the "key" out of their prison. The suggestion of this accumulated imagery is that Cleone's sacri- fice is that kind of which Christ speaks: "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends" (John 15:13). The very diction-the forgiveness for her father, the atonement "Ev'n for a na- tion's sins," the appeaserment of the gods, all obtained by this "egregious victim"-seems designed to invoke the Atonement itself, the fulfillment of the ultimate promise of the core of the gods: "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life" (John 3:16). Thus, by imagistically suggesting the Atonement, Cleone's sacrifice reinforces the primary lesson of the play: the need for absolute trust in Divine Providence. Moreover, the light that her death brings-"the first infant light / That glane'd upon the chaos"-symbolizes more than just the light of hope that momentarily redeems Artaxerxes from the internal "chaos" of his despair. As we have noted before, the Persian imagery of light is also Johannine, and because of the accumulation of allusions, it seems to me inescapably to suggest the light of the Creative Word of God, in Whom "was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not" (John 1:4 f). In effect, Cleone's sacrifice suggests the promise of redemption from the chaos (both external and internal) that threatens throughout the play. It presages the restoration of order and harmony, and, as Cleone came  Prolegomena 39 forth out of the loins of Mirza, it presages the intervention of Provi- dence to bring forth good out of evil. Artaban's conclusion, then, is justified by more evidence than he sees. Not only the punishment of the wicked, but also the care for Ames- tris' honor and the significance of Cleone's sacrifice indicate that "The Gods are great and just." Furthermore, the accession of Artaban to the throne represents the restoration of order. Throughout the play Artaban has reverenced the gods. He acknowledges no superiors but them and relies on their justice to reward his merit (IV.i, p. 50). Accordingly, he refuses to obtain the crown by underhanded means but would follow the "paths of honour" and "do as a King ought," armed against his mother's threats by his "own innate virtue" (p. 53). At the end the deposed Queen inveighs against Artaban's self-assertion: Thou talk'st as if thy infant hand could grasp, Guide, and command the fortune of the world; But thou art young in pow'r. (V.ii, p. 78) Unlike his mother, however, Artaban has learned that another hand commands the fortune of the world, and he resolves to build his reign in imitation of divine justice; May this example guide my future sway: Let honour, truth and justice crown my reign, Ne'er let my Kingly word be given in vain, But ever sacred with my foes remain. On these foundations shall my empire stand, The Gods shall vindicate my just command, And guard that power they trusted to my hand. (p. 78 f) All the other providential judgments in the play imply that the gods have indeed entrusted Artaban with the power of the throne, and the fact that he gains it not through his own defeat of Artaxerxes in combat as he had prophesied IV.i, p. 53), but through wondrous events, rein- forces that implication. He becomes the divinely established symbol of the repudiation of the usurpers and their philosophy; a symbol of the inevitable triumph of "honour, truth and justice"; a symbol of the ulti- mate (if sometimes posthumous) vindication of suffering innocence. Ar- taban's final declaration is nothing but complete trust in Providence, and that, after all, is the message of the play, for the world it images- Prolegomnena 39 forth out of the loins of Mirza, it presages the intervention of Provi- dence to bring forth good out of evil. Artaban's conclusion, then, is justified by more evidence than he sees. Not only the punishment of the wicked, but also the care for Ames- tris' honor and the significance of Cleone's sacrifice indicate that "The Gods are great and just." Furthermore, the accession of Artaban to the throne represents the restoration of order. Throughout the play Artaban has reverenced the gods. He acknowledges no superiors but them and relies on their justice to reward his merit (IVi, p. 50). Accordingly, he refuses to obtain the crown by underhanded means but would follow the "paths of honour" and "do as a King ought," armed against his mother's threats by his "own innate virtue" (p. 53). At the end the deposed Queen inveighs against Artaban's self-assertion: Thou talk'st as if thy infant hand could grasp, Guide, and command the fortune of the world; But thou art young in pow'r. (V.ii, p. 78) Unlike his mother, however, Artaban has learned that another hand commands the fortune of the world, and he resolves to build his reign in imitation of divine justice: May this example guide my future sway: Let honour, truth and justice crown my reign, Ne'er let my Kingly word be given in vain, But ever sacred with my foes remain. On these foundations shall my empire stand, The Gods shall vindicate my just command, And guard that power they trusted to my hand. (p. 78 f) All the other providential judgments in the play imply that the gods have indeed entrusted Artaban with the power of the throne, and the fact that he gains it not through his own defeat of Artaxerxes in combat as he had prophesied (IV.i, p. 53), but through wondrous events, rein- forces that implication. He becomes the divinely established symbol of the repudiation of the usurpers and their philosophy; a symbol of the inevitable triumph of "honour, truth and justice"; a symbol of the ulti- mate (if sometimes posthumous) vindication of suffering innocence. Ar- taban's final declaration is nothing but complete trust in Providence, and that, after all, is the message of the play, for the world it images- Prolegomena 39 forth out of the loins of Mirza, it presages the intervention of Provi- dence to bring forth good out of evil. Artaban's conclusion, then, is justified by more evidence than he sees. Not only the punishment of the wicked, but also the care for Ames- tris' honor and the significance of Cleone's sacrifice indicate that "The Gods are great and just." Furthermore, the accession of Artaban to the throne represents the restoration of order. Throughout the play Artaban has reverenced the gods. He acknowledges no superiors but them and relies on their justice to reward his merit (IVi, p. 50). Accordingly, he refuses to obtain the crown by underhanded means but would follow the "paths of honour" and "do as a King ought," armed against his mother's threats by his "own innate virtue" (p. 53). At the end the deposed Queen inveighs against Artaban's self-assertion: Thou talk'st as if thy infant hand could grasp, Guide, and command the fortune of the world; But thou art young in pow'r. (V.ii, p. 78) Unlike his mother, however, Artaban has learned that another hand commands the fortune of the world, and he resolves to build his reign in imitation of divine justice: May this example guide my future sway: Let honour, truth and justice crown my reign, Ne'er let my Kingly word be given in vain, But ever sacred with my foes remain. On these foundations shall my empire stand, The Gods shall vindicate my just command, And guard that power they trusted to my hand. (p. 78 f) All the other providential judgments in the play imply that the gods have indeed entrusted Artaban with the power of the throne, and the fact that he gains it not through his own defeat of Artaxerxes in combat as he had prophesied (IV.i, p. 53), but through wondrous events, rein- forces that implication. He becomes the divinely established symbol of the repudiation of the usurpers and their philosophy; a symbol of the inevitable triumph of "honour, truth and justice"; a symbol of the ulti- mate (if sometimes posthumous) vindication of suffering innocence. Ar- taban's final declaration is nothing but complete trust in Providence, and that, after all, is the message of the play, for the world it images-  40 ThaeTrialf thesInncenst however much a sale of tears ansd trials-is indeed a sworldl governed by a just and "gracious" God. Thus The Ambitious Sscpssotser is Rowe's first, but neither his last nor his best dramatic theodicy. The play is obviously trite and sensa- tional and at times positively lugubrious in plot and language. It pro- rides, nevertheless, an excellent introduction to the patterns and themes with which Rowe was working. Thee is no doubt, in my mind at least, that the play is, in its formal design, a Christian tragedy in the fullest metaphysical sense. Its most important aesthetic quality is that once we see this design of the whole, then all the parts fit; imagery; plaintive rhetoric; allusions; setting (particularly the temple-prison); all the ethi- cal, political, and metaphysical motifs; and especially the ending. In short, despite Rowe's immaturity, his first play is a unified whole, al- ready a succemsful marriage of form and theme. Contrary toprevailing opinion, then, Rowe's techniques ore not gratuitous but integral and therefore meaningful. fleeing their function in this early apprentice work prepares the way to understanding his later plays. NOESr TO CHAPER I L. These inclsde Prine Aerrs, she rightful heir to thes trn ofiersia; Ame- trihhis bridesadrthedaughtrrofhisfihful genral andfrirnd, Memnos; M~emnon him- sell, who hns beer eriled, allegedly for murdering thr Machiaceltimn tirrers brorher Ctcudcs, hstrrealyyrt ger hi adtheryogprinceoutoftshesrayotrhuurig stry- morher, Areis, rod her son Arrabue; mnd Cien she daughter at Mirro, who is is tore with Artaxeses bet belovedhby detain. 2. Cf. Alfred Schwrz, "The Literery Career at Nicholas Rore," e.0 3. Because itiscudes ceommenes uon at of Rote's tyIhose used tar 1715 edi- tion, Remsarks on Mr. Roec Tragedy of she Lady lore Gray. ans l Ois ether clay., edited by George L. Andesoee as 'Chaster Gilder A Ne,' Ocliccreel, o, Bay, thec Yeunger," p. 52 f. Gilder is seilling to ecre thr dresato Merunon beceure he did kill Ctrmnder (thorgh Mremnons detends himserlf to that cherge wrhile admritting partel gait is Oar murder ot Tidhuas, Astersae hesband [ILE, p.O 27l),but he cmaro torgire Rowe for allowigOrchmrrto gfread Asrnirsao remainalive (p.53). Thefactthat Or- climes is reported killed (vii. p. 77) rhowe shot Gilder did rot study rhe ploy carefrlly md muggresrs that hisanaelyeis md retalation otnRowe cry ire unustosrthy oal leeie. 4. Lader C. name, J'r., "Thr Tmagrdirs oftNicholas ose," p. 46. 5. car the ansi-Eicoreas moveument nhe rrrteesih-crenrry Engleand, see espe- cially Chaes T. Htasrrn "The Ancirns Asuirer end English Literesure at she treves- tenth Century,"rsec.2,and Gerge D.tFhtcddrLucretiusr'edlHiestlqece . 284d. For frtherrevidrace of lbs uro-Epicereen noeent itself, see Thrum F. Stays. Eyhcurus is Eneglrnd (1650-172, rod Wolfgarg B. Ctrbcseessm Lcreicsoan En Fglish Ltce, r 168,0~b-140b 6. Tyre,."VersionseofPetic jusein thceElyigheenh Cerey,"oad wi 40 The Trialof thenno'ent however much a vale of tears and trials-is indeed a world governed by a just and "gracifus" Cod. Thor The Ambitions Steepmoatee is Rowe's first, bat neither his last nor his best dramatic theodicy. The play is obvfuusly trite and sensa- tional and at times positively lugubrious in plot and language. It pro- vides, nevertheless, an excellent introduction la the patterns and themes with which Rowe was worhing. There is no doubt, in my mid at least, that the play is, in its formal design, a Christian tragedy in the fullest metaphysical sense. Its most important aesthetic quality is shot once we see this desigu of the whale, then all the parts fit: imagery; plaintive rhetoric; allusions; setting (particularly the temple-prison); all the ethi- cal, political, and metaphysical motifs; and especially the ending. In short, despite Rowe's immaturity, his first play is a unified whole, al- ready a successful marriage of form and theme. Contrary topeviing opinion, then, Rowe's techniques are not gratuitous but integral and therefore meaningful. teeing their function in this early apprentice worki prepares the way to understanding his later plays. NOES yO CHAPTan I L. These ilein Artuaere, the rightful heir to the throe si era; dmer sri,;his bridermddthedaughtereofhisfitehfl genraelmadtfred, Memnce; Mimos him- selfC uho her been exited, allegedly tee murdering die Mochiovellien Misr's brother Clerder, bus really to get him red she young prine our of thenway oftthe sspirg sp- cashe, Areris, and her see, Araa; red Cbesc, she daugher at Mesza, who is in lee with Areserseehet elored by Aloa5t. 2. Ci. Alfhed Sichwrz, "The Literary Career at Nicholas none," pa.0 3. Beas ticue comentsr en all of none's ploys, t here used she 1715 edi- been, Ocearb, or, tr. Rowe', Tragedy at the Lady lace Gray, erA 1a ib other rtey,, edied hy George L. Anderson as "Charles Gldes's A News Oeeral, or Bays thc Younger," p. 500f. Gilder is nills0g to racue the deadi of Mecror hecause hr did kilt Clemndrr (though Memnes detends himselt or that charge wehile admittisg partiat gals ha die nurder ofiTioibeas, Allemirers hurhend [Il.i, p. 07 fl), bat becaoe testie none for llowng Ochams toegofeebmmd Aitr oato remialiv(p.5). The fct tatOr- chumis is srolled killed (vii. p. 77) shons that Gildoc did ret study the ploy carehully rd suggestsdthathismanaysis audevaluatieoanRwemyeurstorhyon lllels. 4. Larder C. nums, fr., "The Tragedics at Nichlrasoe," p. 46. 5. Car she sicleroeene an reertsesah-csslary cngland, ree erpe- doally Chardes T. Harrs, 'The Ancient Animnstsred cnglirb Literature oldi teree- uteth Certory," se. C, and Gere D. Codais, Lucreisan el CAnfluece, p. 284 ff For futhcr evidence of she sre-ceicuseou uoveent itself, see Thormae F> Maya, Eyicrs is Erngland (1650-i725, red Wolfgang B. Fleircheoss, Luetrius andr Englih itrns, Irre, 168oe-11_ 6. Tyc, "Versinc of Coetic justice lurk thenaly Eighutt Crenroy," and wa.- 40 The Trial of the Innocent however much a vale of tears and trials-is indeed a world governed by a just and "gracious" Cod. Thus Tire Ambitios Sitepcmothee is Rowe's firet, but neither his fuss ear his best dramatic theadicy. The play is obviously trite and sensa- tional cr4 at times positively luguabrious in plot and language. It pro- vides, nevertheless, an excellent introduction to the patterns and themes with which Rowe was worhing. Thre is no doubt, in my mind at leas, that the play is, in its formal design, a Christian tragedy in the fullest metaphysical sense. Its mast important aesthetic quality is that once we mee this design of the whole, then all the parts fit: imagery; plaintive rhetoric; allusions; setting (particularly the temple-prison); all the ethi- cal, political, and metaphysical motifs; and especially the ending. In short, despite Rowe's immaturity, hir first play is a ratified whole, al- ready a successful marriagrof formand theme. Contrary topreailng opinion, then, Rowe's techniques are net gratuitous but integral and therefore meaningful, fleeing their function in this early apprentice nwork preparer the way to understanding hir later plays. NOES as CHATER I J. Theeinclude ridncde aertee thearghtfulheirthetronef Persi; Ames- trs, hisabridemaddiheddaghtereofhisfaihful generaleasdbfien, Memno; Merseshim- sell, whba haberen called, allegedy for eurdering die Machiesellian Mires's headier Cleoside, betirallyetogetabiu and the young easere oat of she nay ofiths usrrinste- masher, Artemis, mnd her see, Alloba; mnd Cbosc, she daughtr of Mare, who is in lovenwithdraserxs butbeloedhby Alohee. 2. Cf. Alfred Schnarz, "Thec Litecary Gameer at Nicholas none," ep. . 3. terrais includes commentr as all ot tone's plays, I hare used die 1715 edi- seen, Remrkes on M. osre's Tragedy of the Lady lose Gray. sod alO i other lays, edired by George L. Andeeson as "Charce.' Gilders A New Reeral or Barys the, Yousger," y. 500. Gilder ir nilling to ercuse she deedi oi Stesses because hr did hilt Ctemder (though Meceer dreeds himself as tat charge chits admitting partil gault ie she murder at Teibasu, Artemisa's husband [Ilii, p. 27 f]), het he canno frie Roie for altownig Orchlmes legals fread Allen ist remain ehive (p. 53). The fact dies Or- chases ir repelled killed (vii, p. 77) shear dire Gilder did eat study she ploy carelly adsests shoe his analyis and evalusatSon oe coy be aunstorhy as all levl. 4. Lardoc C. Bacs, Jr-., "The Tcagedies at Nicholas ose," p. 46. 5. For the anti-cicurean meets is sreerraeh-ceaesy cngland, see espe- cielly Chardes T. Herriso, 'The Artiest Atecigas and English Literature of the terra- teenth Cratury," sec. 2, end George D. ilodzits, Lereis sA s Influee, p. 2S4 ff. For fuather esidence of the eeo-cpioueas mee ntr titl, see Theoa F. Mayo CyeEicursr i'r Engband (150-1725), and Woelfgang . Cleischcmun, Lcreliee arrd Englash Liero- 0. Tyre, 'Terriers of Carie jusie is the carly cighteenth Century," mnd wil-  Proegooena 41 liams, "Poetical Justice, the Contrivances of Providence, and the Works of William Con- greve." Both critics were anticipated by three important, unpublished (even by University Microfilms), and therefore sadly neglected dissertations: Charles H. Peake, "Domestic Tragedy in Relation to Theology"; J. Leland Rude, "Poetic justice: A Study of the Problem of Human Conduct in Tragedy from Aeschylus to Shakespeare"; and Thomas A. Hart , "The Development and Decline of the Doctrine of Poetic Justice from Plato to Johnson." 7. See Saup Singh, The Theory of Drama in the Restoration Period, p. 64 ff, and Eugene Hnatko, "The Failure of Eighteenth-Century Tragedy," passim, for some of the latest (and most wrong-headed) of these interpretations. 8. 'The Critical Works of John Dennis, ed. Edward N. Hooker, I, 183. Williams and Tyre maintain, along with Singh and Michael A. Quinlan, Poetic Justice in the Drama, thant tbe conept is traditional in England, and Rude shows that, indeed, poetic justice is traditional in tragedy itself, for tragedy is ever concerned with the problem of justice and retribution and it has ever (at least through to the Rnaisance) rationalized its retribution in terms of divine justice. Cf. Hart, who recognizs the metaphysical foundation of poetic justice in much Renaissance practice and theory (through to the first half of the eighteenth century), bot who finally sees disproportionate punishment as an indictment of divine justice. Cf also John D. Ebbs, The Principle of Poetic justice Il- lostrated in Restoration Tragedy, who, along with Singh and Quinlan, completely fails to explain this metaphysical dimension. Even Rude backs off from it in his fear of imputing a didactic function to tragedy, particularly Shakespeare's. Those who still doubt the metaphysical foundation of poetic justice or, especially, the depths of its roots in English and continental theory should consult the following critics, who equate poetic with divine justice: Martin Bucer, De Begno Christi (1551), in E. K. Chambers, The Elizabethan Stage, IV, 189; William Bavande, A Woork of Ioonnes Ferrarius Montanus (1559), in Chambers, IV, 190; Antonio Minturo, LArte Poetica (1564), in Allan H. Gilbert, ed., Literary Criticism: Plato to Dryden, p. 292; Lodovico Castelvetro, The Poetics of Aristotle (1571), in Gilbert, p. 349; George Puttenham, The Arte of English Poese (1589), in G. Gregory Smith, ed., Elizabethan Critical Essays, IL, 35; Thomas Nashe, Pierce Peniesse (1592), in Chambers, IV, 239; Ben Jonson, Prefatory Epistle to Volpon (1607), in Ben Jonson: Volpone, ed. Alvin B. Keran, p. 32, where the "justice" the poet is enjoined to "imitate" is surely divine; Jules de La Mesnardiere, La Poetiqoe (1640), pp. 23 ff, 107 f; Fongos 116delin, abbe d'Aubignac, La Pratique do theatre (1657), trans. as the very popular Whole Art of the Stage (1684), p. 5 f; Rene Rapin, Reflesions suir la poetlue (1674), trans. by Rymer himself the same yar as Re- flections on Aristotle's Treatise of Poesy in General, in Scott Elledge and Donald Schi, eds., The Continental Model, p. 278. The relevant passages in Rymer, Dennis, and Gil- don are cited in Peake, p. 115 , Tyre and Williams, passim. As corrborative passages from a couple of Rooe's contemporaries, see also Sir Richard Blackmore, Prince Athur (1695), first page of the Preface (no sig.), recto and so; and Jeremy Collier, Second De- fence.fth Short View (1700), p. 83. Tyre and Ebbs point to several moder critics who have seen the connection be- tween poetic and providential justice in Elizabethan drama, including William L. Court- ney, The Idea of Tragedy in Ancient and Modern Drama, p. 67 ff; Richard G. Moulton, Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist, p. 245; and Lily B. Campbell, Shakespeares Tragic Heoes, ch. i, passim. Ebbs himself sees that poetic justice is equated with Providence in Samson Agonistes in his article "Milton's Treatment of Poetic Justice in Samson Agonises." See also Roy W. Battenhouse, Marlowe's Tamburlaine, who says that poetic justice is providential throughout Elizabethan tragedy and even makes the following ex- travagant claim in the light of the metaphor of the world as a stage: "Drama was the chief form of Elizabethan art largely because Providence was the central dogma of Elizabethan religion" (p. 126). Henry H. Adams, English Domestic or, Homiletic Tragedy, sees that poetic justice in Elizabethan domestic tragedy is providential but denies that it is so for Prolegomena 41 liams, "Poetical Justice, the Contrivances of Providence, and the Works of William Con- greve." Both critics were anticipated by three important, unpublished (even by University Microfilms), and therefore sadly neglected dissertations: Charles H. Peake, "Domestic Tragedy in Relation to Theology"; J. Leland Rud6, "Poetic justice: A Study of the Problem of Human Conduct in Tragedy from Aeschylus to Shakespeare"; and Thomas A. Hart, "The Development and Decline of the Doctrine of Poetic Justice from Plato to Johnson." 7. See Sar p Singh, The Theory of Drma in the Restoration Period, p. 64 ff, and Eugene Hnatko, "The Failure of Eigbteenth-Contury Tragedy," passim, for some of the latest (and most wrong-headed) of these interpretations. 8, The Critical Works of John Dennis, ed. Edward N. Hooker, 1, 183. Williams and Tyre maintain, along with Singh and Michael A. Quinlan, Poetic justice in the Drama, that the concept is traditional in England, and Rudd shows that, indeed, poetic justice is traditional in tragedy itself, for tragedy is ever concerned with the problem of justice and retribution and it has ever (at least through to the Renaissance) rationalized its retribution in terms of divine justice. Cf. Hart, who recognizes the metaphysical foundation of poetic justice in much Renaissance practice and theory (through to the first half of the eighteenth century), but who finally sees disproportionate punishment as an indictment of divine justice. Cf. also John D. Ebbs, The Principle of Poetic Justice Il- lustrated in Restoration Tragedy, who, along with Singh and Quinlan, completely fails to explain this metaphysical dimension. Even Rudd backs off from it in his fear of imputing a didactic function to tragedy, particularly Shakespeare's. Those who still doubt the metaphysical foundation of poetic justice or, especially, the depths of its roots in English and continental theory should consult the following critics, who equate poetic with divine justice: Martin Bucer, De Regso Christi (1551), in E. K. Chambers, The Elizabethan Stage, IV, 189; William Bavande, A Woork of boannes Feors Montanus (1559), in Chambers, IV, 190; Antonio Minturno, L'Are Poetica (1564), in Allan H. Gilbert, ed., Literary Criticism: Plato to Dryden, p. 292; Lodovico Castelvetro, The Poetics of Aristotle (1571), in Gilbert, p. 349; George Puenoohm, The Arte of English Poesie (1589), in G. Gregory Smith, ed., Elizabethan Critical Essays, 11, 35; Thomas Nasbe, Pierce Penilesse (1592), in Chambers, IV, 239; Ben Jonson, Prefatory Epistle to Volpone (1607), in Ben Jonson: Volpone, ed. Alvin B. Keron, p. 32, where the "justice" the poet is enjoined to "imitate" is surely divine; Jules de La Mestnrdiee, La Poetigoe (1640), pp. 23 ff, 107 f; Fran0ois HFdelin, abbe dAubignac, La Pratique dou theatre (1657), trans. as the very popular Whole Art of the Stage (1664), p. 5 f; Ren6 Rapin, Refios sur la poetique (1674), trans. by Rymer himself the same year as Be- fle'tions on Ariotle's Treatise of Poesy in General, in Scott Elledge and Donald Schie, eds., The Continental Model, p. 278. The relevant passages in Rymer, Dennis, and Gil- don ar cited in Peake, p. 115 f, Tyre and Williams, passio. As corroborative passages from a couple of Rowe's contemporaries, see also Sir Richard Blackmore, Prince Arthur (1695), first page of the Preface (no sig.), sooto and verso; and Jeremy Collier, Second De- fence of the Short View (1700), p. 83. Tyre and Ebbs point to several moder critics who have on the connection be- tween poetic and providential justice in Elizabethan drama, including William L. Court- ney, The Idea of Tragedy in Ancient and Modern Drama, p. 67 ff; Richard G. Moulton, Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist, p. 245; and Lily B. Campbell, Shakespeares Tragic Ileoes, ch. i, passim. Ebbs himself sees that poetic justice is equated with Providence in Soson Agonistes in his article "Milton's Treatment of Poeti Justice in Samon Agonistes." See also Roy W. Battenhouse, Mrlo4e's Tamburlaine, who says that poetic justice is providential throughout Elizabethan tragedy and even makes the following ex- travagant claim in the light of the metaphor of the world as a stage: "Drama was the chief form of Elizabethan at largely because Providence was the central dogma of Elizabethan religion" (p. 126). Henry H. Adams, English Domestic or, Homiletic Tragedy, sees that poetic justice in Elizabethan domestic tragedy is providential but denies that it is so for Prolegomena 41 iams, "Poetical Justice, the Contrivances of Providence, and the Works of William Con- greve." Both critics were anticipated by three important, unpublished (even by University Microfilms), and therefore sadly neglected dissertations: Charles H. Peake, "Domestic Tragedy in Relation to Theology"; J. Leland Rude, "Poetic Justice: A Study of the Problem of Human Conduct in Tragedy from Aeschylus to Shakespeare"; and Thomas A. Hart, "The Development and Decline of the Doctrine of Poetic Justice from Plato to Johnoon." 7. See Sarop Singh, The Theory of Drama in the Restoration Period, p. 64 ff, and Eugene Hnatko, "The Failure of Eighteenth-Century Tragedy," passim, for some of the latest (and most wrong-headed) of these interpretations. 8. The Critical Works of John Dennis, ed. Edward N. Hooker, 1, 183. Williams and Tyre maintain, along with Singh and Michael A. Quinlan, Poetic Jutice in the Drama, that the concept is traditional in England, and Rude shows that, indeed, poetic justice is traditional in tragedy itself, for tragedy is ever concerned with the problem of justice and retribution and it has ever (at least through to the Renaissance) rationalized its retribution in terms of divine justice. Cf. Hat, who recognizes the metaphysical foundation of poetic justice in much Renaissance practice and theory (through to the lost half of the eighteenth century), but who finally sees disproportionate punishment as an indictment of divine justice. Cf. also John D. Ebbs, The Principle of Poetic justice If lustrated in Restoration Tragedy, who, along with Singh and Quinlan, completely fails to explain this metaphysical dimension. Even Rude backs off from it in his fear of imputing a didactic function to tragedy, particularly Shakespeare's. Thoe who still doubt the metaphysical foundation of poetic justice or, especially, the depths of its roots in English and continental theory should consult the following critics, who equate poetic with divine justice: Martin Bucer, De Regno Christi (1551), in E. K. Chaobers, The Elizabethan Stage, IV, 189; William Bavande, A Woork of loannes Ferrars Montanus (1559), in Chambers, IV, 190; Antonio Minturno, LArte Poetica (1564), in Allan H. Gilbert, ed., Literary Criticism: Plato to Dryden, p. 292; Lodovico Castelvetro, The Poetics of Aristotle (1571), in Gilbert, p. 349; George Puttenham, The Arte of English Poesie (1589), in G. Gregory Smith, ed., Elizabethan Critical Essays, II, 35; Thomas Nasho, Pierce Penilesse (1592), in Chambers, IV, 239; Ben Jonson, Prefatory Epistle to Volpone (1607), in Ben Jonson: Volpone, ed. Alvin B. Kernan, p. 32, where the "justice" the poet is enjoined to "imitate" is surely divine; Jules de La Mesnardiee, La Poetie (1640), pp. 23 f, 107 f; Frangois H6delin, abb6 d'Aubignac, La Pratique do theatre (1657), trans. as the very popular Whole Art of the Stage (1684), p. 5 f; Ren Rapin, Reflexions sur la poetique (1674), trans. by Rymer himself the same year as Re- flections on Aristotles Treatise of Poesy in Geeral, in Scott Elledge and Donald Schier, ods., The Continental Moof p. 278. The relevant passages in Rymer, Dennis, and Gil- don are cited in Peake, p. 115 f, Tyre and Williams, passim. As corroborative passages from a Couple of Rowe's contemporaries, se also Sir Richard Blackmoe, Prince Arthur (1695), first page of the Preface (no sig.) recto and verso; and Jeremy Collier, Seond Do- fence of the Short View (1700), p. 83. Tyre and Ebbs point to several moden critics who have seen the connection be- tween poetic and providential justice in Elizabethan drama, including William L. Court- ney, The Idea of Tragedy in Ancient and Modern Drama, p. 67 ff; Richard G. Moulton, Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist, p. 245; and Lily B. Campbell, Shakespeares Tragic Heoes, ch. i, passim. Ebbs himself sees that poetic justice is equated with Providence in Soson Agonistes in his article "Milton's Treatment of Poetic Justice in S aon Agonistes." See also Roy W. Battenbouse, Marlowes Tambrlaine, who says that poetic justice is providential throughout Elizabethan tragedy and even makes the following ex- travagant claim in the light of the metaphor of the world as a stage: "Drama was the chief form of Elizabethan art largely becase Providence was the central dogma of Elizabethan religion" (p. 126). Henry H. Adams, English Domestic or, Homiletic 'Tragedy, sees that poetic justice in Elizabethan domestic tragedy is providential but denies that it is so for  42 The Trial of the Innocent Rymer and the Restoration (p. 18 f). Peake, Tyre, and especially Williams have con- vincingly proved that it is. 9. Rothstein does mention Dennis earlier but implies that as he adopted more affective theories in his "later" criticism (Rothstein only takes us up to 1698), he neglected "fabulist" theories (p. 18). This is simply not the case, Dennis continued to demand forms which mirror Providence, from The Adoancement and Reformation of Modern Poetry (1701) to his letter to the Spectator (1711) to An Essay on the Genius and Writings of Shakespear (1712), passim. In 1713, which takes us pretty nearly through the career of Rowe, Dennis wrote one of his strongest statements on the mimetic function of poetic justice: "'Tis certainly the Duty of every Tragick Poet, by an exact Distribution of a Po- etical Justice, to imitate the Divine Dispensation" (Remarks upon Cato, in Critical Work, II, 49). 10. See Aubrey Williams' answer to Rothstein on Congrve, "Poetical Justice," p. 546 f, as well as his formal analysis of The Mouoing Bride in "The 'Just Decrees of Heav'n,' " especially p. 13 f, where Williams appeals to the formal theories of James, Drake. See also Peake's entire dissertation, which argues exactly the contrary to Roth- stein on late seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century tragedy; he sees theology as setting its hand in a very heavy way upon this tragedy. 11. See the "Hymn to the Sun" (It.iii, p. 43 f), and the numerous references to the semidivinity of the royal family, e.g., Li, p. 16 ff; I.i, p. 23 f; III.ii, p. 40. 12. "The Dramatic Use of Hobbes's Political Ideas," ELH, 3 (1936), rpt. in H. T. Swedenborg, Jr., ed., Essential Articles for the Study ofJohn Dryden, p. 341 ff. For the atti-Hobbesian moemt , e especially Samuel 1. Mintz, The loting of Letiathan. Cf. John A. Winerbottom, "The Place of Hobbesian Ideas in Dryden's Tragedies," JEGP, 57 (1958), rpt. in Swedenbeg, p. 374 ff; and Anne T. Barbeau, The Intellectual Design oflJohn Dryden's Heroic Plays. 13. The sexual overtones seem to heighten the perversity of their blasphemous r- lationship; cf. Artaxerxes' intimation that Mirza was at one time Artemisa's paramour (I.1i, p. 30). 14. The doctrine of Providee was, in Anglican apologetics as well as the entire Christian tradition since Augustine's The City of God, the mean between fate and for- ton, which were sen, at best, as agencies of Providence. See Peake, ch. i, passime. 15. For Plato, as for Collier, the prescription is somewhat irrelevant, for both really want to ban the stage; they seem to feel the harm has already been done to an audience, whatever the ending of a play (see especially Republic III, and Collier's various De- fences). For Aristotle (Poetics xiii), and for Rymer, Dennis, and Gildon, the prescription is also somewhat qualified, for none thinks that tragic protagonists should ever be com- pletely innocent; but for these critics, it seems obvious that if oe were to portray an innocent person on the stage, he would have to reward him in the denouement. See do Scudhoy, Observations sur Le Cid (1637), in Arnaud Gastl, ed., La Querelle do Cid, p. 79 f; Filmer, A Defec 'ooflays (1707), p. 43; The Stage Acquitted (1699), p. 93 1. Cf. Philip Massnger, The Roman Acor (1626), who implies strict poetic justice (.i.20 ff, in Gilbert, p. 570). 16. See the references above (n. 8) to ouer, Bavande, Miturno, Castelvetro, Put- tenham, Nashe, and Rapin, in none of whom is there the demand for the reward of the innocent. Ben Jonson's Sejaus speaks for itself. See also Jacopo Mazzoni, On the De- fense of the Comedy (1587), in Gilbert, p. 399 f; Henry Chottle, Kind Hr.ts Dreame (1592), in Chambers, IV, 244; Thomas Heywood, An Apology for Actor (1612), in Gilbert, p. 558; Geard-Jean Vossius, Poeticum lotitutiorom (1647), as quoted in Edith G. Kern, The Influence of Hlinis ad Vossius upon French Drama...tic Theory, p. 126 (Heinsius himself in De Tragoediae Constitutione [1611] does not insist on ay kind of poetic justice); John Oldmion, Reflections on the Stage (1699), p. 117; A Vindication of the Stage (1698), p. 20, which implies that vice should always be punished but says nothing of virtue; James 42 The Trial of the Innocent Rymer and the Restoration (p. 19 f). Peake, Tyre, and especially Williams have con- vincingly proved that it is. 9. Rothstein does mention Dennis earlier but implies that as he adopted more affective theories in his "later" criticism (Rothstein only takes t up to 1698), he neglected "fabulist" theories (p. 18). This is simply ot the case. Dennis continued to demand forms which mirror Providence, from The Advancement and Reformation of Modern Poetry (1701) to his letter to the Spectator (1711) to An Essay on the Genius and Writings of Shakespear (1712), passiom. In 1713, which takes us pretty nearly through the career of Rowe, Dennis wrote one of his strongest statements on the mimetic function of poetic justice: "'Tis certainly the Duty of every Tragick Poet, by an exact Distribution of a Po- etical Justice, to imitate the Divine Dispensation" (Remarks upon Cato, in Critical Works, 11, 49). 10. See Aubrey Williams' answer to Rothstein on Congreve, "Poetical Justice," p. 546 f, as well as his formal analysis of The ouming Bride in "The 'Just Decrees of Heav'n,' " especially p. 13 ff, where Williams appeals to the formal theories of James Drake. See also Peake's entire dissertation, which argues exactly the contrary to Roth- stein on late seventeenth- and early eighteenth-contury tragedy; he sees theology as setting its hand in a very heavy way upon this tragedy. 11. See the "Hymn to the Son" (III.iii, p. 43 f), and the numerous references to the somidivinity of the royal family, e.g., .i, p. 16 ff; 11., p. 23 1 HI.ii, p. 40. 12. "The Dramatic Use of Hobbes's Political Ideas," ELH, 3 (1936), rpt. in H. T. Swedenborg, Jr., ed., Essential Articles for the Study of John Dryden, p. 341 ff. For the anti-Hobbesian movement, see especially Samuel I. Mintz, The Homng of Leoiathan. Cf. John A. Winterbottom, "The Place of Hobbesian Ideas in Dryden's Tragedies," IEGP, 57 (1958), rpt. in Swedenberg, p. 374 ff; and Anne T. Barbeau, The Intellectual Design ofJohn Dryden's Heoit Play,. 13. The sexual overtones seem to heighten the perversity of their blasphemous re- lationship; cf. Artaxerxes' intimation that Mirza was at one time Artemisa's paramour (Iii, p. 30). 14. The doctrine of Providence was, in Anglican apologetics as well as the entire Christian tradition since Augustine's The City of od, the mean between fate and for- tuo, which were seen, at best, as agencies of Providence. See Peake, ch. I, passim. 15. For Plato, as for Collier, the prescription is somewhat irrelevant, for both really want to ban the stage; they seem to feel the harm has already been done to an audience, whatever the ending of a play (see especially Republic III, and Collier's various De- fences). For Aristotle Poetics iii), and for Rymer, Dennis, and Gildon, the prescription is also somewhat qualified, for none thinks that tragic protagonists should ever be om- pletely innocent; but for these critics, it seems obvious that if oe were to portray an innocent person on the stage, he would have to reward him in the denouement. See de Scudery, Observations so Le Cid (1637), in Arnaud Gaste, ed., La Querelle do C, p. 79 f; Filmer, A Defo .o.of Play, (1707), p. 43; The Stage Acqithd (1699), p. 93 f. Cf. Philip Massinger, The Room, Actor (1626), who implies strict poetic justice (I.i.20 ff, in Gilbert, p. 570). 16. See the references above t. 8) to Boer, Bavande, Minturno, Castlvtooo, Pot- tonhmo, Nasho, and Rapin, in one of whom is there the demand for the reward of the innocent. Ben Jonson's Sejanus speaks for itself. See also Jacopo Mazzoni, On the De- fense of the Comedy (1587), in Gilbert, p. 399 f; Henry Chettle, Kind Hats Dreae (1592), in Chambers, IV, 244; Thomas Heywood, A nApology for Actors (1612), in Gilbert, p. 558; Gerard-Joan Vossits, Roeticaro lstitutiiort (1647), as quoted in Edith C. Kern, The Influence of Heinsius and ossus upon reh Dramatic Theory, p. 126 (Heinust himself in De Tragoodie Constitutione [1611] does not insist on any kind of poetic justice); John Oldmixon/,Reftions on the Stage (1699), p. 117; A Vindioation of the Stage (1698), p. 20, which implios that vice should always be punished but says nothing of virtue; James 42 The Trial of the Innocent Rymer and the Restoration (p. 18 ). Peake, Tyre, and especially Williams have con- vincingly proved that it is. 9. Rothstein does mention Dennis earlier but implies that as he adopted more affective theories in his "later" criticism (Rothstein only takes us up to 1698), he neglected "fabulist" theories (p. 18). This is simply not the case. Dennis continued to demand forms which mirror Providence, from [he Advancement and Reformation of Modern Poetry (1701) to his letter to the Spectator (1711) to An Essay on the Genius and Writings of Shakespear (1712), passim. In 1713, which takes us pretty nearly through the career of Rowe, Dennis wrote one of his strongest statements on the mimetic function of poetic justice; "'Tis certainly the Duty of every Tragick Poet, by an exact Distribution of a Po- etical Justice, to imitate the Divine Dispensation" (Remarks pot Cato, in Critical Woroks, 11, 49). 10. See Aubrey Williams' answer to Rothstein on Congreve, "Poetical Justice," p. 546 f, as well as his formal analysis of 'h1e Moauing Bride in "The 'Just Decrees of Heav'n,' " especially p. 13 ff, where Williams appeals to the formal theories of James Drake. See also Peake's entire dissertation, which argues exactly the contrary to Roth- stein on late seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century tragedy; he sees theology as setting its hand in a very heavy way upon this tragedy. 11. See the "Homn to the Sun" (III.ii, p. 43 f), and the numero s references to the semidivinity of the royal family, e.g., Ii, p. 16 ff; II.i, p. 23 f; III.ii, p. 40. 12. "The Dramatic Use of Hobbes's Political Ideas," ELH, 3 (1936), rpt. in H. T. Swedenberg, Jr., ed., Essential Articles for the Study of John Dryden, p. 341 ff. For the anti-Hobbesian movement, see especially Samuel 1. Mintz, The Hunting of Leviathan. Cf. John A. Winterbottom,, "Rho Place of Hobbesian Ideas in Dryden's Tragedies," JEGP, 57 (1958), rpt. in Swedenborg, p. 374 f; and Anne T. Barboau, The Intellectual Design ofJohn Dryden's Heroic Plays. 13, The sexual overtones seem to heighten the perversity of their blasphemous re- lationship; of. Artaxerxes' intimation that Mirza was at one time Artemisa's paramour (II.ii, p. 30). 14. The doctrine of Providence was, in Anglican apologetics as well as the entire Christian tradition since Augustine's The City of God, the mean between fate and for- tune, which were sen, at best, as agencies of Providence. See Peake, ch. i, paim. 15. For Plato, as for Collier, the prescription is somewhat irrelevant, for both really want to ban hthetage;tysemtofethe harm has already been done to an audience, whatever the ending of a play (see especially Republic III, and Collier's various De- fences). For Aristotle (Poetics ii), and for Rymer, Dennis, and Gildon, the prescription is also somewhat qualified, for none thinks that tragic protagonists should ever be com- pletely innocent; but for these critics, it seems obvious that if one were to portray an innocent person on the stage, he would have to reward him in the denouement. See de Souddry, Observations sur Le Cid (1637), in Arnaud Gat6, ed., La (uerelle do Cid, p. 79 f; Filmer, A Defence of Plays (1707), p. 43; The Stage Acquitted (1699), p. 93 f. Cf. Philip Mossinger, The Roman Actor (1626), who implies strict poetic justice (1.1.20 ff, in Gilbert, p. 570), 16. See the references above (n. 8) to Bucr, Bavande, Minturno, Castelvetro, Put- tenham, Nshe, and Rapin, in none of whom is there the demand for the reward of the innocent. Ben Jonson's Sejanus speaks for itself. See also Jacopo Mazzoni0,li the De- fense of the Comedy (1587), in Gilbert, p. 399 f; Henry Chottle, Kind IHars Dreamoe (1592), in Chambers, IV, 244; Thomas Heyood, An Apology for Atolrs (1612), in Gilbert, p. 558; Gerd-Jean Vossi, Pootia Is ltitutioru, (1647), as quoted in Edith G. Kern, The Influence of Heoiso and Voo u upon French Dramtic Theory, p. 126 (Heinsius himselfin le ragoediae Costitutione [1611] does not insist on any kind of poetic justice); John Oldmixon, Refetions on [th Stage (1699), p. 117; A Vindication of the Stage (1698), p. 20, which implies that vie should always be punished but says nothing of virtue; James  Prolegomena 43 Drake, Antientand Modern Stages, who seems to recommend strict poetic justice (p. 122), but then finds The Orphan and Hamlet acceptable despite unrewarded virtue (p. 204 ff) and suggests that the way to satisfy poetic justice in Cleomenes is merely to have the vicious die too (p. 213 f; ef. Peake, p. 113). Passages usually cited as prescribing strict poetic justice I have found to be generally either (a) statements recommending the prais- ing of virtue and blaming of vice-e.g., Plato, Laws ; Gialtdi Cinthio, On the Composti- tion of Romances (1549), in Gilbert, p. 271; and most comic theorists-or (b) purely de- scriptive statementS-e.g., Julius C. Scaliger, Poetices Lir Septem (1561), ps. 146; Bene- detto Varchi, Lezini (1590), p. 576, Sir Philip Sidney, The Defense of Poesie (1583), in Gilbert, p. 425; Sir William Temple, "Of Poetry" (1690), in Fite Misellaneos Essays, ed. Samuel H. Monk, p. 187; and William Congreve, Amendments of Mr. Collier's False and Imperfect Citations (1698), in The Mourning Bride, Poems, and Mislhanis, ed. Bonramy Dobote, p. 453-or (e) statements only about comedy-e.g, George Farquhar, A Discourse upon Comedy (1702), in The Complete Works, ed. Charles Stonehill, p. 343; and the anony- mous author of A Comparison beoteen the Two Stages (1702), ed. Staring B. Wells-or (d) statements with important qualifications (see below). 17. These important qualifications in La Mesneardiere, d'Aubignac, and Corneille have bvel noted by Ren6 Bray, La Formation de la doctrine classique en Frant , p. 81, and Edward N. Hooker in Dennis, Critical Works, IL 436. 18. Of Dramatic Poesy and Other Crtical Essay,, ed. George Watson, I, 38, 47- hereafter cited as Essays. 19. Essays, 1, 151 f, 245; see Hooker in Dennis, II, 437. 20. Essays1, 213; Sarp Singh has noticed the similarity to Corneille (p. 75). 21. See Baxter Hathaway, "John Dryden and the Function of Tragedy," p. 671; and Singh, p. 74 ff. Cf. Lewis M. Magill, "Poetic Justice: The Dilemma of the Early Crea. tors of Sentimental Tragedy." See also Rothstein, p. 13 ff, with whom I disagree em- phatically when he concludes from the "Heads" that "vire now receives its rewards not because God loves it and cherishes it, but because the pit and boxes do" (p. 15). This is again a confusion of affective and formal concerns despite his admission that Dryden's shift from "trditioa faibulist attitudes" is only ne "in stress, in degree, in intensity, in tone; not in kind" (p. 18), Rothstein concludes from the absence of explicit reference to Providence that poeti justice must now be rationalized in terms of public desire. Roth-7 stein's assertions are belied not only by his faulty logic but by Dryden's own practice in All for Love, Doni Sebastiam, and Cleomenes, where the outcomes are specifically ratio- nalized in terms of Providence (or "Hleaven"). 22. Spectators 40 and 548 (putative authorship), in The Spectator, td. G. Gregory Smith, I, 147, and IV, 279. Burs notices the similarity between Rowe's and Addison's positions on poetic justice, at least on this point (p. 15); cf. Amrik Singh, "The Arg- ment on Poetic justice (Addison versus Dennis)." 23. Of course, Rowe could not have known the passage in Dryden since it was not published till 1711 (Essays, 1, 211),. 24. See Hathaway, "John Dryden and the Function of Tragedy," and "The Lucre- tian 'Return Upon Ourselves' in Eighteenth-Centuy Theories of Tragedy"; Earl R. Wasserman, "The Pleasures of Tragedy"; A. Owen Aldridge, "The Pleasures of Pity"; and Rothstein, ch. i entire. The appeal to pity, to Christian charity, perhaps gained its impetus fromt the current Latitudinarian attack on the Calvinist and Hobbest views of the nature of man. See Peake, p. 56, and Ernest L. Tuveson, "The 1mportance of Shaftesbury," both of whom show, in answer to Ronald S. Crane's classic article, "Sugges- tions toward a Genealogy of the 'Man of Feeling,' " that the Latitudinarians' insistence on innate benevolence did not deny, as did Shaftesburianism, the inclination toward evil which resulted from Original Sin. From their constant allusion to the Fall throughout their drama, it appears that Dryden's theory of "concernment" sand Rowe's appeal to "good-nature" are in the Latitudinarian tradition. Cf. Rothstein, p. 20, who sees a "be- Prolegoena 43 Prolegotenat 43 Drake, Antient and Modern Stages, who seems to recommend strict poetie justice (p. 122), but then finds The Orphan and Hamlet acceptable despite unrewarded virtue (p. 204 f) and suggests that the way, to satisfy poetic justice in Cleoenes is merely to have the vicious die too (p. 213 f; cf. Peake, p. 113). Passages usually cited as prescribing strict poetic justice I have found to be generally either (a) statements recommending the prais- itg virtue and blaming of vice-e.g., Plato, Laws II; Giraldi Cinthio, 0n the Composi- tin of Rtotmcs (1549), in Gilbert, p. 271; and most comic theorists-or (b) purely d- scriptive statements-e.g., Julius C. Scaliger, Poetices Libri Septem (1561), p. 146; Bene- detto Varchi, Leioni (1590), p. 576; Sir Philip Sidney, The Defense of Poetit 1583), in Gilbert, p. 425; Sir William Temple, "Of Poetry" (1690), in Fire Misctllaneous Essays, ed. Samuel H. Monk, p. 187; and William Congreve, Amnmeonts of Mr. Collier's False and Imperfect Citations (1698), in The Mourning Bride, Poems, and Miscellanies, ed. Bomny Dobrde, p. 453-tr (c) statements only about comedy-e.g., George Farquhar, A Discourse upon Comedy (1702), in The Complete Works, ed. Charles Stonehill, p. 343; and the anony- mous author of A Comparison between the fTw Stages (1702), ed. Staring B. Wells-or (d) statements with important qualifications (see below). 17. These important qualifications in La Mesnardiere, d'Aubignac, and Corneille have been noted by Rend Bray, La Formation de Ia doctrine classique en France, p. 81, and Edward N. Hooker in Dennis, Critical Work, II, 436. 18. Of Dramatic Poesy and Other Critical Essays, ed. George Watson, 1, 38, 47- hereafter cited as Essays. 19. Essays, 1, 1511, 245; see Hooker in Dennis, II, 437. 20. Essays, 1, 213; Sap Singh has noticed the similarity to Corneille (p. 75). 21. See Baxter Hathaway, "John Dryden and the Function of Tragedy," p. 671; and Singh, p. 74 ff. Cf. Lewis M. Magill, "Poetic Justice: The Dilemma of the Early Crea- lts of Sentimental Tragedy." See also Rothstein, p. 13 ff, with whom I disagree emn- phatically when he concludes from the "Heads" that "virtue now receives its rewards not becaue God loves it and cherishes it, but because the pit and boxes do" (p. 15). This is again a confusion of affective and formal ontcrits: despite his admission that Dryden's shift from "traditional fabulist attitudes" is only one "in stress, to degree, in intensity, in tone; not in kind" p. 18), Rothstein concludes from the absence of explicit reference to Providence that poetic justice must now be rationalized in terms of public desire. Roth- stein's assertions are belied not only by his faulty logic but by Dryden's own practice in All for Love, Don Sebastian, and Cleomenes, where the outcomes are specifically ratio- nalized in terms of Providence (or "Heaven"). 22. Spectators 40 and 548 (putative authorship), in The Spectator, ed. G. Gregory Smith, I, 147, and IV, 279. Burns notices the similarity between Rowe's and Addison's positions on poetic justice, at least on this point (p. 15); cf. A"rik Singh, "The Argu- ment on Poetic Justice (Addison versus Dennis)." 23. Of corse, Rowe could not have known the passage in Dryden since it was not published till 1711 (Essays, 1, 2 11). 24. See Hathaway, "John Dryden and the Function of Tragedy," and "The Lucre- tian 'Return Upon Ourselves' in Eighteenth-Century Theories of Tragedy"; Earl R. Wasserman, "The Pleasures of Tragedy"; A. Owen Aldridge, "The Pleasurs of Pity"; and Rothstein, ch. i entire. The appeal to pity, to Christian charity, perhaps gained its impetus from the current Latitudinarian attack on the Calvinist and Hobbesian views of the nature of man. See Peake, p. 56, and Ernest L. Tuveson, "The Importance of Shaftesbury," both of whom show, in answer to Ronald S. Crane's classic article, "Sugges- tions toward a Genealogy of the 'Man of Feeling,' " that the Latitudinarians' insistence on innate benevolence did not deny, as did Shaftesburianism, the inclination toward evil which resulted from Original Sin. From their constant allusion to the Fall throughout their drama, it appears that Dryden's theory of "concernment" and Rowe's appeal to "good-ature" are in the Latitudinarian tradition. Cf. Rothstein, p. 20, who sees a "be- Drake, Antient and Mder Stages, who seems to recommend strict poetic justice (p. 122), but then finds The Orphan and Hamlet acceptable despite unrewarded virtue (p. 204 ff) and suggests that the way to satisfy poetic justice in Cleomnenes is merely to have the vicious die too (p. 213 f; cf. Peake, p. 113). Passages usually cited as prescribing strict poetic justice I have found to be generally either (a) statements recommending the prais- ing of virtue and blaming of vice-e.g., Plato, Laws II; Giraldi Cinthio, On the Composi- tion of Romaincs (1549), in Gilbert, p. 271; and most comic theorists-or (b) purely de- scriptive statements-e.g., Julius C. Scaliger, Poetices Libri Septem (1561), p. 146; Bene- detto Varchi, eioit (1590), p. 576; Sir Philip Sidney, Th, Defense of Poesie (1583), in Gilbert, p. 425; Sir William Temple, "Of Poetry" (1690), it Fie Mscellaneos, Issay, ed. Samuel H. Monk, p. 187; and William Congreve, Amendments of Mr. Collier's False and Imperfect Citations (1698), in The Mourning Bride, Poems, and Miscellanies, ed. Bovnmy Dooit, p. 453-or (c) statements only about comedy-e.g., George Farquhar, A Discourse upon Comedy (1702), in The Complete Works, ed. Charles Stonehill, p. 343; and the anony- ms author of A Comparison between the Tto Stages (1702), ed. Staring B. Wells-or (dt) statements with important qualifications (,see below). 17. These important qualifications in La Mesnardiere, d'Aubignac, and Corneille have been noted by Rene Bray, La Formation de t doctrine classique en France, p. 81, and Edward N. Hooker in Dennis, Critical Works, I1, 436. 18. Of Dramatic Poey ad Other Critclat Essays, ed. George Watson, 1, 38, 47- hereafter cited as Essays. 19. Essays, I, 151 , 245; see Hooker in Dennis, II, 437. 20. Essays, 1, 213; Sarp Singh has noticed the similarity to Corneille (p. 75). 21. See Baxter Hathaway, 'John Dryden and the Function of Tragedy," p. 671; and Singh, p. 74 ff. Cf. Lewis M. Magill, "Poetic Justice: The Dilemma of the Early Cea- tos of Sentimental Tragedy." See also Rothstein, p. 13 ff, with whom I disagree em- phatically when he concludes from the "Heads" that "virtue now receives its rewards not because God loves it and cherishes it, but because the pit and boxes do" (p. 15). This is again a confusion of affective and formal concerns: despite his admission that Dryden's shift from "traditional fabulist attitudes" is only one "in stress, in degree, in intensity, in tone; not in kind" (p. 18), Rothstein concludes from the absence of explicit reference to Providence that poetic justice most now be rationalized in terms of public desire. Roth- stein's assertions are belied not only by his faulty logic but by Dryden's own practice in All for Love, Don Sebastian, and Cleomenes, where the outcomes are specifically ratio- nalized in terms of Providence (or "Heaven"). 22. Spectators 40 and 548 (putative authorship), in The Spectator, td. G. Gregory Smith, 1, 147, and IV, 279. Burs notices the similarity between Rowe's and Addison's positions on poetic justice, at least on this point (p. 15); cf. Aoik Singh, "The Argu- ment on Poetic Justice (Addison versus Dennis)." 23. Of course, Rowe could not have known the passage in Dryden since it was not published till 1711 (Essays, 1, 211). 24. See Hathaway, "John Dryden and the Function of Tragedy," and "The Lucre- tian 'Return Upon Ourselves' in Eighteenth-Century Theories of Tragedy"; Earl R. Wasserman, "The Pleasures of Tragedy"; A. Owen Aldridge, "The Pleasures of Pity"; and Rothstein, ch. i entire. The appeal to pity, to Christian charity, perhaps gained its impetus from the current Latitudinarian attack on the Calvinist and Hlobbesian views of the nature of man. See Peake, p. 56, and Ernest L. Tuveson, "The 1mportance of Shaftesbury," both of whom show, in answer to Ronald S. Crane's classic article, "Sugges- tions toward a Genealogy of the 'Man of Feeling,'" that the Latitudinarians' insistence on innate benevolence did not deny, as did Shaftesburianism, the inclination toward evil which resulted from original Sin. From their constant allusion to the Fall throughout their drama, it appears that Dryden's theory of "concernment" and Rowe's appeal to "1good-natur" are in the Latitudinarian tradition. Cf. Rothstein, pt. 20, who sees a "be-  44 The Trial of the Innocent noelist philosophy" underlying Rowe's statement, and Eugene Waith, "Tears of Mag- nanimity in Otway and Racine," p. 19, who sees it as a "prime example" of "sentoim- talism." But Rowe's plays simply do not espouse philosophical bnevolism or senti- mentalism, however literally "sentimental" they may be in their appeal to "tenderness or humanity." In the criticism of Restoration and eighteenth-century drama, as Geoffrey Marshall has recently and ably argued (Restoration Serious Drama, p. 211 If), we mst begin to use such terms as "benevolist" and "sentimental" with more precision-o else abandon them altogether. 25. 9:23 (Authorized Version, whence all Biblical quotations are taken). See Black- more Preface to A Paraphrase o the BookofJob (in Rowe's library, Catalogue, fol. 116), where he gives the traditional eigetical interpretation that the story of Job is one of a providential trial in order to justify the ways of God to men (passim). 26, 1 Pet. 1:3 ff. See Samuel Clarke, Seventeen Seonons, p. 370, who in a seron entitled "The Present Life, a State of Probation in order to a Future Life" points out that the metaphor of "the purifying and Trying of Metals by Fire" is common in Scripture, and who gives many citations. 27. A Body of Diinitie, 4th ed. rev. (1653), p. 108, the edition Rowe possessed (se Catalogue, fol. 41). 28. The Sennons ofJohn Dane, ed. Evelyn M. Simpson and George R. Potter, VI, 108. For further proof that the metaphor was commonly used in contemporary apolo- getics, see, e.g., Clarke, p. 364 ff; Symon Patrick, The Works, ed. Alexander Taylor, IX, 197 f; Isaac Barrow, The Theological Works, ed. Alexander Napier, 111, 63, 86, 138 f; Richard Kingston, A Discos, o Dcine Pooide..,. p. 91, a copy of which Rowe possessed (Catalogue, oct. 336); and John Tillotson, The Works, 1, 687, 29. See Kilbee C. Brittain, "The Sin of Despair in English Renaissance Literature," for a thorough and excellennt of despair in Western thought and literature through Shakespeare. 30. Though this type of scene occurs often in Dryden's tragedies, nowhere is it dealt with more fully and more intensely than in Acts IV and V of Cleomenes. 3L We must not allow the triteness either of this scene or of its language to obscure its meaning. Amestris' cries of "Unhand me, villain!" and "Save me" must be seen in the context of the play's dominant theme of thedicy. She is not calling moeely for her "hero" to save her; she is challenging the very justice of the gods. Whatever became of the rape s tenn subsequent melodrama does not negate its function here. 32. See Don Cameron Allen, Doubt' Boundless Sea, ch. v, passim; Harrison on neo-Epicreanism; and Mintz on Hobbism. 33. John 1:9. The similarity between Persian and Judeo-Christian imagery has always been obvious, although in Rowe's day, the latter was thought to have influenced the former, and not vice-versa, as is the case. See Rustom Masai, Zoroastiani, pt. 1, ch. i. Rowe is obviously capitalizing on the similarity. 44 The Trial of the Innocent nevolist philosophy" underlying Rowe's statement, and Eugene Waith, "Tears of Mag- nanimity in Otway and Racine," p. 19, who sees it as a "prime example" of "sentimen- talism." But Rowe's plays simply do not espouse philosophical benevolism or senti- mentalism, however literally "sentimental" they may be in their appeal to "tenderness or humanity." In the criticism of Restoration and eighteenth-century drama, as Geoffrey Marshall has recently and ably argued (Restoration Serious Drama, p. 211 ff), we must begin to ue such terms as "benevolist" and "sentimental" with more precision-or else abandon them altogether. 25. 9:23 (Authorized Version, whence all Biblical quotations are taken). See Black- more's Preface to A Parphrase on the Book ofJob (in Rowe's library, Catalogue, fol. 116), where he gives the traditional exigetical interpretation that the story of Job is one of a providential trial in order to justify the ways of God to men (passim). 26. 1 Pet. 1:3 ff. See Samuel Clarke, Serenteen Sermos, p. 370, who in a sermon entitled "The Present Life, a State of Probation in order to a Future Life" points out that the metaphor of "the purifying and Trying of Metals by Far" is common in Scripture, and who gives many citations. 27. A Body of Diinitie, 4th ed. rev. (1653), p. 108, the edition Rowe possessed (see Catalogue, fol. 41). 28. The Sermons of Jol Donne, ed. Evelyn M. Simpson and George R. Potter, VI, 108. For further proof that the metaphor was commonly used in contemporary apolo- getics, see, e.g., Clarke, p. 364 ff; Symon Patrick, The Vorks, ed. Alexander Taylor, IX, 197 f; Isaac Barrow, The Theological Works, ed. Alexander Napier, 111, 63, 86, 138 f; Richard Kingston, A Discourse on Ditine Providence, p. 91, a copy of which Rowe possessed (Catalogue, oct. 336); and John Tillotson, The Works, I, 687. 29. See Kilbee C. Brittain, "The Sin of Despair in English Renaissance Literature," for a thorough and excellent treatment of despair in Western thought and literature through Shakespeare. 30. Though this type of scene occurs often in Dryden's tragedies, nowhere is it dealt with more fully and more intensely than in Acts IV and V of Cle 31. We must not allow the triteness either of this scene or of its language to obscure its meaning. Amestris' cries of "Unhand me, villain!" and "Save me" must be seen in the context of the play's dominant theme of theodicy. She is not calling merely for her "hero" to save her; she is challenging the very justice of the gods. Whatever became of the rape scene in subsequent melodrama does not negate its function here. 32. See Don Cameron Allen, Doubts Boundess Sea, ch. v, possim; Harrison on neo-Epicureanism; and Mintz on Hobbism. 33. John 1:9. The similarity betweeen Persian and Judeo-Christian imagery has always been obvious, although in Rowe's day, the latter wa, thought to have influenced the former, and not vice-versa, a is the case. See Rustom Masani, Zoostrianism, pt. 1, ch. i. Rowe is obviously capitalizigon the similarity. 44 The Trial of the Innocent nevolist philosophy" underlying Rowe's statement, and Eugene Waith, "Tears of Mag- nanimity in Otway and Racine," p. 19, who sees it a a "prime example" of "sentimen- talism." But Rowe's plays simply do not espouse philosophical benevolism or senti- mentalism, however literally "sentimental" they may be in their appeal to "tenderess or hunity." In the criticism of Restoration and eighteeth-century drama, as Geoffrey Marshall has recently and ably argued (Retoration Serious Drama, p. 211 ff), we must begin to use such terms as "benevolist" and "sentimental" with more precision-or else abandon them altogether. 25. 9:23 (Authorized Version, whence all Biblical quotations are taken). See Black- more's Preface to A Paraphrase on the Book of Job in Rowe's library, Catalogue, fol. 116), where he gives the traditional exigetical interpretation that the story of Job is one of a providential trial in order to justify the ways of God to men (passim). 26. 1 Pet.3 3. See Samuel Clarke, Seventeen Sermons, p. 370, who in a sermon entitled "The Present Life, a State of Probation in order to a Future Life" points out that the metaphor of "the purifying and Try/ing of Metals by Fire" is common in Scripture, and who gives many citations. 27. A Body of Divinitie, 4th ed. rev. (1653), p. 108, the edition Rowe possessed (see Catalogue, fol. 41). 28. The Serons of John Donne, ed. Evelyn M. Simpson and George R. Potter, VI, 108. For further proof that the metapho was commonly used in contemporary apolo- getics, see, e.g., Clarke, p. 364 ff; Symon Patrick, The Works, ed. Alexander Taylor, IX, 197 f; Isaac Barrow, The Theological Works, ed. Alexander Napier, 111, 63, 86, 138 f; Richard Kingston, A Discwse on Diine Providence, p. 91, a copy of which Rowe possessed (Catalogue, oct. 336); and John Tillotson, The Works, , 687. 29. See Kilbee C. Brittain, "The Sin of Despair in English Renaissance Literature," for a thorough and excellent treatment of despair in Western thought and literature through Shakespeare. 30. Though this type of scene occurs often in Dryden's trgede, nowhere is it dealt with more fully and more intensely than in Acts IV and V of Cleoenes. 31. We must not allow the triteness either of this scene or of its language to obscure its meaning. Amestris' cries of "Unhand me, villain!" and "Save me" must be seen in the context of the play's dominant theme of theodicy. She is not calling merely for her "hero" to save her; she is challenging the very justice of the gods. Whatever became of the rape scene in subsequent melodrama does not negate its function here. 32. See Don Cameron Allen, Doubts Boundless Sea, ch. v, passim; Harrison on neo-Epicureanism; and Mintz on lobbism. 33. John 1:9. The similarity between Persian and Judeo-Christian imagery has always been obvious, althotgh in Rowe's day, the latter was thought to have influenced the former, and not vice-versa. as is the case. See Rustm Masani, Zorastrinm, pt. 1, ch. i. Rowe is obviously capitalizing on the similarity.  II Protagonist as Champion Tamerlane and Ulysses N TWO oF HIS subsequent tragedies of suffering innocence, Tamerlane (1701) and Ulysses (1705), Rowe presents us with a protagonist who is unmistakably a Champion of Divine Justice. The title-character in each play acts, as munch as aman can, as the agent of Providence in the vindication of the innocent. But each is ultimately effective only through an act of self-sacrifice similar to that of Cleone in The Ambitious Step- mother. Thus, like Milton, Rowe continues to portray such vindication as the result of a higher heroism than simply that of the pagan epic hero. Tamerlane and Ulysses are very similar, then, in thematic development, though quite unequal, I think, in aesthetic value, Ulysses being far the better play and one of the better classical tragedies of the period. What- ever their merit, however, the meaning of these two plays as dramatic theodicies is manifest in their formal design. Tamerlane (Works, I, 81 ff) was one of the most popular plays of the early eighteenth century,' a fact critics have long attributed to the play's political significance. In The Politics of Drama in Augustan England, for instance, John C. Loftis points out that Tamerlane is "an allegorical eulogy" of King William III (p. 31). Indeed, in the Dedication Rowe tacitly admits that the characterization of Tamerlane is an implicit panegyric on William (just as the Dedication itself is an explicit pane- gyric), and for almost a century the play was performed annually on William's birthday and on the anniversary of his landing in England *Notes to this chapter begin on page 73. 45 II Protagonist as Champion Tamerlane and Ulysses N TWO OF HIS subsequent tragedies of suffering innocence, Tamerlane (1701) and Ulysses (1705), Rowe presents us with a protagonist who is unmistakably a Champion of Divine Justice. The title-character in each play acts, as mchas aman can, as the agent of Providence in the vindication of the innocent. But each is ultimately effective only through an act of self-sacrifice similar to that of Cleone in The Ambitious Step- mother Thus, like Milton, Rowe continues to portray such vindication as the result of a higher heroism than simply that of the pagan epic hero. Tamerlane and Ulysses are very similar, then, in thematic development, though quite unequal, I think, in aesthetic value, Ulysses being far the better play and one of the better classical tragedies of the period. What- ever their merit, however, the meaning of these two plays as dramatic theodicies is manifest in their formal design. Tamerlane (Works, I, 81 ff) was one of the most popular plays of the early eighteenth century," a fact critics have long attributed to the play's political significance. In The Politics of Drama in Augustan England, for instance, John C. Loftis points out that Tamerlane is "an allegorical eulogy" of King William III (p. 31). Indeed, in the Dedication Rowe tacitly admits that the characterization of Tamerlane is an implicit panegyric on William (just as the Dedication itself is an explicit pane- gyric), and for almost a century the play was performed annually on William's birthday and on the anniversary of his landing in England *Notesto this chapter begin on page 73. 45 II Protagonist as Champion Tamerlane and Ulysses N TWO OF HIS subsequent tragedies of suffering innocence, Tamerlane (1701) and Ulysses (1705), Rowe presents us with a protagonist who is unmistakably a Champion of Divine Justice. The title-character in each play acts, as much asamancanas the agent of Providence in the vindication of the innocent. But each is ultimately effective only through an act of self-sacrifice similar to that of Cleone in The Ambitious Step- mother. Thus, like Milton, Rowe continues to portray such vindication as the result of a higher heroism than simply that of the pagan epic hero. Tamerlane and Ulysses are very shilar, then, in thematic development, though quite unequal, I think, in aesthetic value, Ulysses being far the better play and one of the better classical tragedies of the period. What- ever their merit, however, the meaning of these two plays as dramatic theodicies is manifest in their formal design. Tamerlane (Works, I, 81 ff) was one of the most popular plays of the early eighteenth century,* a fact critics have long attributed to the play's political significance. In The Politics of Drama in Augustan England, for instance, John C. Loftis points out that Tamerlane is "an allegorical eulogy" of King William III (p. 31). Indeed, in the Dedication Rowe tacitly admits that the characterization of Tamerlane is an implicit panegyric on William (just as the Dedication itself is an explicit pane- gyric), and for almost a century the play was performed annually on William's birthday and on the anniversary of his landing in England "Notes to this chapter begin on page 73.  46 The Trial of the Innocent (November 4 and 5, respectively). Rowe himself notes similarities be- tween William's and Tamerlane's characters and even their "stories" (p. 85), and critics have since conjectured whether there are not simi- larities to other historical personalities as well.' It is at least certain that there is an analogy between Bajazet and Louis XIV, that infamous vio- lator of "all the most solemn engagements of public faith" whom Rowe describes in the Dedication (p. 84 f). Loftis sees even more political significance in the play. In its immediate historical context, he argues, Tamerlane is a "call to arms" at the beginning of the Wars of the Spanish Succession: "The dramatic action projects an English Whig's wish: that William would promptly defeat the forces of Louis and take him personally a captive." As such, the play dramatizes "war-inspired Francophobia" (p. 32). Moreover, according to Loftis, the play is propagandistic in a more general sense; "The frequency with which the play was performed in the first half of the eighteenth century would suggest that it was a chief vehicle by which Whig-and Lockeian-ideas on constitutional theory and reli- gious toleration were disseminated" (p. 34). Thus he attributes Rowe's obvious exaggerations of contemporary history to this function: "Rowe was writing propaganda, not political theory, and consequently a con- vincing confrontation of political philosophies does not emerge. The French conception of monarchy is distorted; for whatever the liabilities of the French theory of absolutism, it represented no such diabolical capriciousness as Rowe would suggest" (p. 32 f). While Loftis is fairly correct in his assessment of the play, he does not, perhaps because his thesis is limited, suggest the fuller ramifications of Rowe's exaggerations, especially Bajazet's "diabolical capricious- ness." Though Tamerlane is admittedly a political allegory,' it tran- scends propaganda. Through the same process of analogy that charac- terizes Augustan poetry of praise and blame, Rowe's Tamerlane and Bajazet come to represent much more than either historical or con- temporary personalities. Bajazet becomes a satanic figure and Tamer- lane God's Champion, and their conflict becomes emblematic of the eternal struggle between good and evil.' In "The Source and Characterization of Nicholas Rowe's Tamerlane," Donald B. Clark has shown that Rowe's primary source for the story and the characterization of Tamerlane and Bajazet was not, as might be 46 The Trial of the Innocent (November 4 and 5, respectively). Rowe himself notes similarities be- tween William's and Tamerlane's characters and even their "stories" (p. 85), and critics have since conjectured whether there are not simi- larities to other historical personalities as well' It is at least certain that there is an analogy between Bajazet and Louis XIV, that infamous vio- lator of "all the most solemn engagements of public faith" whom Rowe describes in the Dedication (p. 84 f). Loftis sees even more political significance in the play. In its immediate historical context, he argues, Tamerlane is a "call to arms" at the beginning of the Wars of the Spanish Succession: "The dramatic action projects an English Whig's wish: that William would promptly defeat the forces of Louis and take him personally a captive." As such, the play dramatizes "war-inspired Francophobia" (p. 32). Moreover, according to Loftis, the play is propagandistic in a more general sense: "The frequency with which the play was performed in the first half of the eighteenth century would suggest that it was a chief vehicle by which Whig-and Lockeian-ideas on constitutional theory and reli- gious toleration were disseminated" (p. 34). Thus he attributes Rowe's obvious exaggerations of contemporary history to this function: "Rowe was writing propaganda, not political theory, and consequently a con- vincing confrontation of political philosophies does not emerge. The French conception of monarchy is distorted; for whatever the liabilities of the French theory of absolutism, it represented no such diabolical capriciousness as Rowe would suggest" (p. 32 f). While Loftis is fairly correct in his assessment of the play, he does not, perhaps because his thesis is limited, suggest the fuller ramifications of Rowe's exaggerations, especially Bajazet's "diabolical capricious- ness." Though Tamerlane is admittedly a political allegory,' it tran- scends propaganda. Through the same process of analogy that charac- terizes Augustan poetry of praise and blame, Rowe's Tamerlane and Bajazet come to represent much more than either historical or con- temporary personalities. Bajazet becomes a satanic figure and Tamer- lane God's Champion, and their conflict becomes emblematic of the eternal struggle between good and evil.' In "The Source and Characterization of Nicholas Rowe's Tamerlane," Donald B. Clark has shown that Rowe's primary source for the story and the characterization of Tamerlane and Bajazet was not, as might be 46 The Trial of the Innocent (November 4 and 5, respectively). Rowe himself notes similarities be- tween William's and Tamerlane's characters and even their "stories" (p. 85), and critics have since conjectured whether there are not simi- larities to other historical personalities as well.' It is at least certain that there is an analogy between Bajazet and Louis XIV, that infamous vio- lator of "all the most solemn engagements of public faith" whom Rowe describes in the Dedication (p. 84 f). Loftis sees even more political significance in the play. In its immediate historical context, he argues, Tamerlane is a "call to arms" at the beginning of the Wars of the Spanish Succession; "The dramatic action projects an English Whig's wish: that William would promptly defeat the forces of Louis and take him personally a captive." As such, the play dramatizes "war-inspired Francophobia" (p. 32). Moreover, according to Loftis, the play is propagandistic in a more general sense: "The frequency with which the play was performed in the first half of the eighteenth century would suggest that it was a chief vehicle by which Whig-and Lockeian-ideas on constitutional theory and reli- gious toleration were disseminated" (p. 34). Thus he attributes Rowe's obvious exaggerations of contemporary history to this fimction: "Rowe was writing propaganda, not political theory, and consequently a con- vincing confrontation of political philosophies does not emerge. The French conception of monarchy is distorted; for whatever the liabilities of the French theory of absolutism, it represented no such diabolical capriciousness as Rowe would suggest" (p. 32 f). While Loftis is fairly correct in his assessment of the play, he does not, perhaps because his thesis is limited, suggest the fuller ramifications of Rowe's exaggerations, especially Bajazet's "diabolical capricious- ness." Though Tamerlane is admittedly a political allegory,' it tran- scends propaganda. Through the same process of analogy that charac- terizes Augustan poetry of praise and blame, Rowe's Tamerlane and Bajazet come to represent much more than either historical or con- temporary personalities. Bajazet becomes a satanic figure and Tamer- lane God's Champion, and their conflict becomes emblematic of the eternal struggle between good and evil.' In "The Source and Characterization of Nicholas Rowe's Tamerlane," Donald B. Clark has shown that Rowe's primary source for the story and the characterization of Tamerlane and Bajazet was not, as might be  Tamnerlane and Ulysses 47 expected, either Marlowe's play or his sources-both of which had been virtually forgotten-but Richard Knolles' The General Historie of the Turkes (1603), a history whose popularity is demonstrated in the num- ber of editions and revisions it received in the seventeenth century? Unlike Marlowe's historians, Knolles depicts Tamerlane as a model prince with even a special reverence for Christianity;' Bajazet is, on the other hand, still the cruel tyrant par excellence (p. 203 ff). But what Clark has failed to emphasize is that, in the tradition of Tudor Histori- ography, where history is viewed as the working out of God's plan,' Knolles portrays Tamerlane's victory over Bajazet as a manifestation of providential justice. For Tamerlane was a champion "by God himselfe appointed" (p. 213): "Hee was sent from heaven to punish his [Bajazet's] rashnesse, and to teach him, that the proud are hated of God, whose promise is to plucke downe the mightie, and raise up the lowly" (p. 217). Thus Tamerlane's title, "Scourge of God." Several times Knolles reiterates the lesson of "the just judgement of God against the arrogant follie of the proud" (p. 221), and his last reiteration is the most important, because it carries the process of analogy the furthest. He reports that Tamerlane told the Greeks he came not to conquer but to aid them, and that "his upright meaning therein, was the greatest cause, That God from above had beheld his power, and thereby brused the head of the greatest and fiercest enermie of mankind that was under heaven." As it did vaguely in the phrase, "to plucke downe the mightie, and raise up the lowly," Knolles' lan- guage here unmistakably echoes Scripture; "And I will put enmity be- tween thee [the snake] and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel" (Gen. 3:15); again, "And the God of peace shall bruise Satan under your feet shortly" (Rom. 16:20). Through the allusion, Knolles has implicitly made Tamer- lane a figure of the Messiah and Bajazet a figure of Satan. Such a use of implied analogy may be called the process of typification, whereby Knolles has related his characters and their conflict to archetypes in the Christian myth. Rowe adopts Knofles' typification into his play. Not only does he make Tamerlane and Bajazet model king and typal tyrant, but at the very outset he establishes the archetypal nature of their conflict. In the prologue he reviews the history reported in Knolles, characterizing Tamerlane and Bajazet accordingly. Then he says that Bajazet was given sway, Tamerlane and Ulysses 47 expected, either Marlowe's play or his sources-both of which had been virtually forgotten-but Richard Knolles' The General Historie of the Turkes (1603), a history whose popularity is demonstrated in the num- ber of editions and revisions it received in the seventeenth century.' Unlike Marlowe's historians, Knolles depicts Tamerlane as a model prince with even a special reverence for Christianity;' Bajazet is, on the other hand, still the cruel tyrant par excellence (p. 203 ff). But what Clark has failed to emphasize is that, in the tradition of Tudor Histori- ography, where history is viewed as the working out of God's plan,' Knolles portrays Tamerlane's victory over Bajazet as a manifestation of providential justice. For Tamerlane was a champion "by God himselfe appointed" (p. 213): "Hee was sent from heaven to punish his [Bajazet's] rashnesse, and to teach him, that the proud are hated of God, whose promise is to plucke downe the mightie, and raise up the lowly" (p. 217). Thus Tamerlane's title, "Scourge of God." Several times Knolles reiterates the lesson of "the just judgement of God against the arrogant follie of the proud" (p. 221), and his last reiteration is the most important, because it carries the process of analogy the furthest. He reports that Tamerlane told the Greeks he came not to conquer but to aid them, and that "his upright meaning therein, was the greatest cause, That God from above had beheld his power, and thereby brused the head of the greatest and fiercest enemie of mankind that was under heaven." As it did vaguely in the phrase, "to plucke downe the mightie, and raise up the lowly," Knolles' lan- guage here unmistakably echoes Scripture: "And I will put enmity be- tween thee [the snake] and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel" (Gen. 3:15); again, "And the God of peace shall bruise Satan under your feet shortly" (Rom. 16:20). Through the allusion, Knolles has implicitly made Tamer- lane a figure of the Messiah and Bajazet a figure of Satan. Such a use of implied analogy may be called the process of typification, whereby Knolles has related his characters and their conflict to archetypes in the Christian myth. Rowe adopts Knolles' typification into his play. Not only does he make Tamerlane and Bajazet model king and typal tyrant, but at the very outset he establishes the archetypal nature of their conflict. In the prologue he reviews the history reported in Knolles, characterizing Tamerlane and Bajazet accordingly. Then he says that Bajazet was given sway, Tamerlane and Ulysses 47 expected, either Marlowe's play or his sources-both of which had been virtually forgotten-but Richard Knolles' The General Historic of the Turkes (1603), a history whose popularity is demonstrated in the num- ber of editions and revisions it received in the seventeenth century.' Unlike Marlowe's historians, Knolles depicts Tamerlane as a model prince with even a special reverence for Christianity;' Bajazet is, on the other hand, still the cruel tyrant par excellence (p. 203 ff). But what Clark has failed to emphasize is that, in the tradition of Tudor Histori- ography, where history is viewed as the working out of God's plan,' Knolles portrays Tamerlane's victory over Bajazet as a manifestation of providential justice. For Tamerlane was a champion "by God himselfe appointed" (p. 213): "Hee was sent from heaven to punish his [Bajazet's] rashnesse, and to teach him, that the proud are hated of God, whose promise is to plucke downe the mightie, and raise up the lowly" (p. 217). Thus Tamerlane's title, "Scourge of God." Several times Knolles reiterates the lesson of "the just judgement of God against the arrogant follie of the proud" (p. 221), and his last reiteration is the most important, because it carries the process of analogy the furthest. He reports that Tamerlane told the Greeks he came not to conquer but to aid them, and that "his upright meaning therein, was the greatest cause, That God from above had beheld his power, and thereby brused the head of the greatest and fiercest enemie of mankind that was under heaven." As it did vaguely in the phrase, "to plucke downe the mightie, and raise up the lowly," Knolles' lan- guage here unmistakably echoes Scripture: "And I will put enmity be- tween thee [the snake] and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel" (Gen. 3;15); again, "And the God of peace shall bruise Satan under your feet shortly" (Rom. 16:20). Through the allusion, Knolles has implicitly made Tamer- lane a figure of the Messiah and Bajazet a figure of Satan. Such a use of implied analogy may be called the process of typification, whereby Knolles has related his characters and their conflict to archetypes in the Christian myth. Rowe adopts Knolles' typification into his play. Not only does he make Tamerlane and Bajazet model king and typal tyrant, but at the very outset he establishes the archetypal nature of their conflict. In the prologue he reviews the history reported in Knolles, characterizing Tamerlane and Bajazet accordingly. Then he says that Bajazet was given sway,  48 The Trial of the Innocent Till Heav'n, the growing evil to redress, Sent Tamerlane to give the world a peace. (p. 87) Thus Tamerlane "sav'd mankind." In the opening scene of the play the world looks to Tamerlane as a redeemer, and Mirva says, Well has our holy Alha mark'd him out The scourge of lawless pride, and dire ambition, The great avenger of the groaning world. Well has he worn the sacred cause of justice Upon his prosp'rous sword: approving Heav'n Still crown'd the right'ous warrior with success; As if he said, go forth, and be my champion, Thou most like me of all my works below. (p. 89) As Tamerlane enters, the Prince of Tanais exclaims that he "Comes like the proxy of inquiring Heav'n, / To judge and to redress" (p. 91). As he prepares for battle, Tamerlane prays to the "great spirit" that "fires" his "soul" to assist his "sword" in "the cause of Heav'n and injur'd Earth"(p. 9 f). After his triumph, Tamerlane disdains the homage paid to him and attributes his success to Heaven, content to be known only as "Heav'n's happy instrument, / The means of good to all my fellow creatures" (H.ii, p. 104). Thus, like Knolles, Rowe has made his hero God's Champion in what amounts to a holy war. Furthermore, as George W. Whiting has shown in "Rowe's Debt to Paradise Lost," Rowe has patterned Bajazet after Milton's Satan and perhaps even Tamerlane after Milton's Messiah (p. 272 ff). Whiting maintains that "it is not absurd to suggest a parallel between Tamerlane and the Son of God," especially in Mirva's speech, concluding, "go forth, and be my champion, / Thou most like me of all my works below" (Whiting, p. 272). Tamerlane is certainly, like Milton's Messiah, God's Champion, and he is certainly Christ-like in his mercy and humility (as we shall further see), but Whiting seems on firmer ground when he says, "If Tamerlane reminds one of Christ, Satan is even more unmistakably the prototype of Bajazet" (p. 273). He pro- ceeds to point to several of the numerous passages where Bajazet is com- pared to the "fallen archangel" both explicitly and implicitly (p. 273 ff). In an apposite passage he does not mention, the satanic analogy is clear. Tamerlane says to Bajazet in amazement, "Thou would'st scale Heav'n" (II.ii, p. 106): 48 The Trial of the Innocent Till Heav'n, the growing evil to redress, Sent Tamerlane to give the world a peace. (p. 87) Thus Tamerlane "sav'd mankind." In the opening scene of the play the world looks to Tamerlane as a redeemer, and Mirva says, Well has our holy Alha mark'd him out The scourge of lawless pride, and dire ambition, The great avenger of the groaning world. Well has he worn the sacred cause of justice Upon his prosp'rous sword: approving Heav'n Still crown'd the right'ous warrior with success; As if he said, go forth, and be my champion, Thou most like me of all my works below. (p. 89) As Tamerlane enters, the Prince of Tanais exclaims that he "Comes like the proxy of inquiring Heav'n, / To judge and to redress" (p. 91). As he prepares for battle, Tamerlane prays to the "great spirit" that "fires" his "soul" to assist his "sword" in "the cause of Heav'n and injur'd Earth"(p. 96 f). After his triumph, Tamerlane disdains the homage paid to him and attributes his success to Heaven, content to be known only as "Heav'n's happy instrument, / The means of good to all my fellow creatures" (I.ii, p. 104). Thus, like Knolles, Rowe has made his hero God's Champion in what amounts to a holy war. Furthermore, as George W. Whiting has shown in "Rowe's Debt to Paradise Lost," Rowe has patterned Bajazet after Milton's Satan and perhaps even Tamerlane after Milton's Messiah (p. 272 ff). Whiting maintains that "it is not absurd to suggest a parallel between Tamerlane and the Son of God," especially in Mirva's speech, concluding, "go forth, and be my champion, / Thou most like me of all my works below" (Whiting, p. 272). Tamerlane is certainly, like Milton's Messiah, God's Champion, and he is certainly Christ-like in his mercy and humility (as we shall further see), but Whiting seems on firmer ground when he says, "If Tamerlane reminds one of Christ, Satan is even more unmistakably the prototype of Bajazet" (p. 273). He pro- ceeds to point to several of the numerous passages where Bajazet is com- pared to the "fallen archangel" both explicitly and implicitly (p. 273 ff). In an apposite passage he does not mention, the satanic analogy is clear. Tamerlane says to Bajazet in amazement, "Thou would'st scale Heav'n" (H.ii, p. 106): 48 The Trial of the Innocent Till Heav'n, the growing evil to redress, Sent Tamerlane to give the world a peace. (p. 87) Thus Tamerlane "sav'd mankind." In the opening scene of the play the world looks to Tamerlane as a redeemer, and Mirva says, Well has our holy Alha mark'd him out The scourge of lawless pride, and dire ambition, The great avenger of the groaning world. Well has he worn the sacred cause of justice Upon his prosp'rous sword: approving Heav'n Still crown'd the right'ous warrior with success; As if he said, go forth, and be my champion, Thou most like me of all my works below. (p. 89) As Tamerlane enters, the Prince of Tanais exclaims that he "Comes like the proxy of inquiring Heav'n, / To judge and to redress" (p. 91). As he prepares for battle, Tamerlane prays to the "great spirit" that "fires" his "soul" to assist his "sword" in "the cause of Heav'n and injur'd Earth"(p. 96 f). After his triumph, Tamerlane disdains the homage paid to him and attributes his success to Heaven, content to be known only as "Heav'n's happy instrument, / The means of good to all my fellow creatures" (Il.ii, p. 104). Thus, like Knolles, Rowe has made his hero God's Champion in what amounts to a holy war. Furthermore, as George W. Whiting has shown in "Rowe's Debt to Paradise Lost," Rowe has patterned Bajazet after Milton's Satan and perhaps even Tamerlane after Milton's Messiah (p. 272 ff). Whiting maintains that "it is not absurd to suggest a parallel between Tamerlane and the Son of God," especially in Mirva's speech, concluding, "go forth, and be my champion, / Thou most like me of all my works below" (Whiting, p. 272). Tamerlane is certainly, like Milton's Messiah, God's Champion, and he is certainly Christ-like in his mercy and humility (as we shall further see), but Whiting seems on firmer ground when he says, "If Tamerlane reminds one of Christ, Satan is even more unmistakably the prototype of Bajazet" (p. 273). He pro- ceeds to point to several of the numerous passages where Bajazet is com- pared to the "fallen archangel" both explicitly and implicitly (p. 273 ff). In an apposite passage he does not mention, the satanic analogy is clear. Tamerlane says to Bajazet in amazement, "Thou would'st scale Heav'n" (Iii, p. 106):  Tamerlane and Ulysses 49 Thou vain, rash thing, That with gigantic insolence, hast dar'd To lift thy wretched self above the stars, And mate with pow'r almighty: Thou art fall'n! Although Whiting does not discuss their function, the allusions he has marked enable us to see the ultimate dimension of Rowe's exag- geration by analogy. On this typological level, Tamerlane conforms to an eternal pattern. It is a reiteration of God's triumph over Satan, another manifestation of His Providence. Like Satan, Bajazet threatens the very fabric of universal order, as Arpasia makes clear in the opening of Act V: Some ruling fiend hangs in the dusky air, And scatters ruin, death, and wild distraction, O'er all the wretched race of man below. (p. 140) But, as Tamerlane insists, "Heav'n is watchful o'er its worshippers" (Iii, p. 123), and he insists again at the end of the play that Provi- dence has acted, through him, to deliver the "wretched race of man" from this satanic evil: Behold the vain effects of earth-born pride, That scorn'd Heav'n's laws, and all its pow'r defied: That could the hand, which form'd it first, forget, And fondly say, I made myself be great: But justly those above assert their sway, And teach ev'n Kings what homage they should pay, Who then rule best, when mindful to obey. (p. 149) Like the great epic it echoes, then, and the central Christian myth it images, Rowe's Tamerlane is a theodicy which dramatically asserts the intervention of Providence to stem the spread of prosperous vice. As in Paradise Lost, however, the dramatic conflict in Tamerlane is not only between contending armies that emblematically represent the cosmic forces of good and evil. Against that background the play also drama- tizes a struggle between the philosophies of Tamerlane and Bajazet: between mercy and revenge; between tolerance and prejudice; be- tween compassion and hatred; in short, between Christian altruism and satanic (or Hobbesian) self-interest. Tamerlane and Ulysses 49 Thou vain, rash thing, That with gigantic insolence, hast dar'd To lift thy wretched self above the stars, And mate with pow'r almighty: Thou art fall'n! Although Whiting does not discuss their fsnction, the allusions he has marked enable us to see the ultimate dimension of Rowe's exag- geration by analogy. On this typological level, Tamerlane conforms to an eternat pattern. It is a reiteration of God's triumph over Satan, another manifestation of His Providence. Like Satan, Bajazet threatens the very fabric of universal order, as Arpasia makes clear in the opening of ActV: Some ruling fiend hangs in the dusky air, And scatters ruin, death, and wild distraction, O'er all the wretched race of man below. (p. 140) But, as Tamerlane insists, "Heav'n is watchful o'er its worshippers" (IILii, p. 123), and he insists again at the end of the play that Provi- dence has acted, through him, to deliver the "wretched race of man" from this satanic evil: Behold the vain effects of earth-born pride, That scorn'd Heav'n's laws, and all its pow'r defied: That could the hand, which form'd it first, forget, And fondly say, I made myself be great: But justly those above assert their sway, And teach ev'n Kings what homage they should pay, Who then rule best, when mindful to obey. (p. 149) Like the great epic it echoes, then, and the central Christian myth it images, Rowe's Tamerlane is a theodicy which dramatically asserts the intervention of Providence to stem the spread of prosperous vice. As in Paradise Lost, however, the dramatic confict in Tamerlane is not only between contending armies that emblematically represent the cosmic forces of good and evil. Against that background the play also drama- tizes a struggle between the philosophies of Tamerlane and Bajazet: between mercy and revenge; between tolerance and prejudice; be- tween compassion and hatred; in short, between Christian altruism and satanic (or Hobbesian) self-interest. Tamerlane and Ulysses 49 Thou vain, rash thing, That with gigantic insolence, hast dar'd To lift thy wretched self above the stars, And mate with pow'r almighty: Thou art fall'n! Although Whiting does not discuss their function, the allusions he has marked enable us to see the ultimate dimension of Rowe's exag- geration Icy analogy. On this typological level, Tamerlane conforms to an eternal pattern. It is a reiteration of God's triumph over Satan, another manifestation of His Providence. Like Satan, Bajazet threatens the very fabric of universal order, as Arpasia makes clear in the opening of Act V: Some ruling fiend hangs in the dusky air, And scatters ruin, death, and wild distraction, O'er all the wretched race of man below. (p. 140) But, as Tamerlane insists, "Heav'n is watchful o'er its worshippers" (II1ii, p. 123), and be insists again at the end of the play that Provi- dence has acted, through him, to deliver the "wretched race of man" from this satanic evil: Behold the vain effects of earth-born pride, That scorn'd Heav'n's laws, and all its pow'r defied: That could the hand, which form'd it first, forget, And fondly say, I made myself be great: But justly those above assert their sway, And teach ev'n Kings what homage they should pay, Who then rule best, when mindful to obey. (p. 149) Like the great epic it echoes, then, and the central Christian myth it images, Rowe's Tamerlane is a theodicy which dramatically asserts the intervention of Providence to stem the spread of prosperous vice. As in Paradise Lost, however, the dramatic conflict in Tamerlane is not only between contending armies that emblematically represent the cosmic forces of good and evil. Against that background the play also drama- tizes a struggle between the philosophies of Tamerlane and Bajazet; between mercy and revenge; between tolerance and prejudice; be- tween compassion and hatred; in short, between Christian altruism and satanic (or Hobbesian) self-interest.  50 The Trial of the Innocent Like Knolles', Rowe's Tamerlane has a special reverence for Christi- anity. Indeed, some of his followers are increasingly jealous of the in- fluence of his "Christian minion," Axalla (IV.i, p. 128), whom his soul attends "like a prophet, / That waits the inspiration of his God" (I, p. 92). The extent of this influence can be seen in Tamerlane's forgiveness of the Moslem Dervise who tries to assassinate him for his tolerance of the Christians: Tamerlane says to him, Now learn the difference 'twist thy faith and mine; Thine bids thee lift thy dagger to my throat; Mine can forgive the wrong, and bid thee live. Keep thy own wicked secret, and be safe; If thou continu'st still to be the same, 'Tis punishment enough to be a villain. If thou repent'st, I have gain'd one to virtue, And am, in that, rewarded for my mercy. (III.ii, p. 123) Later the Dervise complains to Bajazet's confederates that Tamerlane's forgiveness argues an abandonment of Islam for a "new faith": 'Tis what his Christian favourites have inspir'd Who fondly make a merit of forgiveness, And give their foes a second opportunity, If the first blow should miss. (IV.i, p. 127) In this "new faith" Tamerlane rejects the revenge code of Islam and the hypocrisy of its priesthood (III.ii, p. 122 ff). Appealing to Provi- dence's own toleration of the "fair variety" of "different faiths," he re- jects the attempt by any religious group to convert by force (p. 121 f). What is more, Tamerlane the Conqueror is opposed to war, considering it a "fell monster" I, p. 91); he goes into battle "unwillingly" and only because Bajazet forces his hand (p. 93). Astounded by Bajazet's "Cause- less" hatred and his unnatural, blasphemous pride and ambition (II.ii, p. 105), Tamerlane brands him a "monster" and expounds his own con- trasting ambition to "fix" his "name," by peace, By justice, and by mercy; and to raise My trophies on the blessings of mankind. (p. 106) 50 The Trial of the Innocent Like Knolles', Rowe's Tamerlane has a special reverence for Christi- anity. Indeed, some of his followers are increasingly jealous of the in- fluence of his "Christian minion," Axalla (IV.i, p. 128), whom his soul attends "like a prophet, / That waits the inspiration of his God" (I, p. 92). The extent of this influence can be seen in Tamerlane's forgiveness of the Moslem Dervise who tries to assassinate him for his tolerance of the Christians: Tamerlane says to him, Now learn the difference 'twixt thy faith and mine; Thine bids thee lift thy dagger to my throat; Mine can forgive the wrong, and bid thee live. Keep thy own wicked secret, and be safe; If thou continu'st still to be the same, 'Tis punishment enough to be a villain. If thou repent'st, I have gain'd one to virtue, And am, in that, rewarded for my mercy. (III.ii, p. 123) Later the Dervise complains to Bajazet's confederates that Tamerlane's forgiveness argues an abandonment of Islam for a "new faith": 'Tis what his Christian favourites have inspir'd Who fondly make a merit of forgiveness, And give their foes a second opportunity, If the first blow should miss. IVi, p. 127) In this "new faith" Tamerlane rejects the revenge code of Islam and the hypocrisy of its priesthood (IIL.ii, p. 122 ff). Appealing to Provi- dence's own toleration of the "fair variety" of "different faiths," he re- jects the attempt by any religious group to convert by force (p. 121 f). What is more, Tamerlane the Conqueror is opposed to war, considering it a "fell monster" (I, p. 91); he goes into battle "unwillingly" and only because Bajazet forces his hand (p. 93). Astounded by Bajazet's "Cause- less" hatred and his unnatural, blasphemous pride and ambition (II.ii, p. 105), Tamerlane brands him a "monster" and expounds his own con- trasting ambition to "fix" his "name," by peace, By justice, and by mercy; and to raise My trophies on the blessings of mankind. (p. 106) 50 The Trial of the Innocent Like Knolles', Rowe's Tamerlane has a special reverence for Christi- anity. Indeed, some of his followers are increasingly jealous of the in- fluence of his "Christian minion," Analla IVi, p. 128), whom his soul attends "like a prophet, / That waits the inspiration of his God" (I, p. 92). The extent of this influence can be seen in Tamerlane's forgiveness of the Moslem Dervise who tries to assassinate him for his tolerance of the Christians; Tamerlane says to him, Now learn the difference 'twixt thy faith and mine; Thine bids thee lift thy dagger to my throat; Mine can forgive the wrong, and bid thee live. Keep thy own wicked secret, and be safe; If thou continu'st still to be the same, 'Tis punishment enough to be a villain. If thou repent'st, I have gain'd one to virtue, And am, in that, rewarded for my mercy. (III.i, p. 123) Later the Dervise complains to Bajazet's confederates that Tamerlane's forgiveness argues an abandonment of Islam for a "new faith"; 'Tis what his Christian favourites have inspir'd Who fondly make a merit of forgiveness, And give their foes a second opportunity, If the first blow should miss. (IV.i, p. 127) In this "new faith" Tamerlane rejects the revenge code of Islam and the hypocrisy of its priesthood (IILii, p. 122 ff). Appealing to Provi- dence's own toleration of the "fair variety" of "different faiths," he re- jects the attempt by any religious group to convert by force (p. 121 f). What is more, Tamerlane the Conqueror is opposed to war, considering it a "fell monster" (I, p. 91); he goes into battle "unwillingly" and only because Bajazet forces his hand (p. 93). Astounded by Bajazet's "Cause- less" hatred and his unnatural, blasphemous pride and ambition (II.ii, p. 105), Tamerlane brands him a "monster" and expounds his own con- trasting ambition to "fix" his "name," by peace, By justice, and by mercy; and to raise My trophies on the blessings of mankind. (p. 106)  Tosossloe and Ulysses 51 Tamseloos and Ulysses 51 Tasmelane and Ulysses 51 Thus Tamerlanse eepretents a New Law (like that of the Cheistianas) Thee Tamerlanae eepreetentt a New Law (like that of the Cheistians) Thus Tamaeelane eepeesents a New Law (like that of the Christians) which is antithetical to Bajaaet's inoedinate hateed and peide. which is antithetical to Bajazet's inoedinate hateed and peide. which is antithetical to Bajacee's inoedinate hateed and pride. This conflict hetween salnes beconses srystallized into one coo- This conflict between saluses becomnes ceystallized into one son- This conflict hetween saints becomtes ceystallized into one con- trast (with ParadisLotstillvery much inthe ackgond; msercy trast (with ParadisLoststillsvery much in theackgond):nmecy teast (with ParadisLoststillerynmuch in theakgond):eey seesnsreesenge. Whenflajaaes desceibes the ceuel and mercilenseteat- versusesenge.When Bajaaet descibes the cuel andeciless tea- versusrevsenge. When Bajazetdescribes the cruelandmercilss teat- mtent Tamerlaneswol haereceied athis hand (p.l106 f, thogh naent Tamtelaneswoldhaereceied athis hand (p.10f, thogh soent Tamuelane woldhaeereceied athis hand (p.t106 f),though strictl"justice"and "engeance" demnand the samsepnishmaentforthimu, strict "justice' and "engeane" demnand the samoepunishment forhims, strict "justice" and "engeane" demand the samsepnisbmnentforhims, Tamelane instead would gie himsthe chancetoereformt,"that thou Tamselane instead wold giehimotheschance toerefoerm,"thatlthon Tamtelane instead wouldgive himsthe chance toseform, that thou soay'st learn / Whatnsan shonldbe tonman" (p. 107). Herecagainthen, soay'st leaen / Whatnsan shonldbe to man" (p. 107). Hereeagain, then, may'stlearn / Whatnman shonldtse tonsan" (p. 107. Hereeagain, then, asin his forgiveness of the Deesise, Tamterlane is mercifulin ordereto at inhis forgiseness of the Deesise, Tamoerlane is mteesiful in ordereto as in his foegiseness of the Dersise, Tamseelane is meeciful in oedersto reformthe sinner, ifpossile. Fo,ashbesay,hbeis desoted tothe "True reformtthe sinne, if posible. Fo, ashe says, heis desoted to the "Tnse eeforntthe sinner, ifpossile. For, asheosays, he isdesoted to the "Tre greatness' of sefoerning the woeld (Thu~i, p. 126)(. Like the IDeesise, geeatness" of refoersing the woeld (111ff, p. 126)(. Like the Deesise, greatness" of eefoerming the world (111ffi, p. 126)(. Like the Deesise, Bajaset eejects Tamseelane's msercy, calling kite a "vain fool" and stying, Bajaoet rejects Tamserlane's smeecy, salting hint a "vain fool' and ceying, Bajaset tejects Tamseelanets messy, calling hint a 'coin fool" and seying, 'Thy folly on thy head!" (TIff, p. 108). Tamteelane jnstifies his folly thns: "Thy folly on thy head!" (Hiii, p. 108). Tamteelane justifies his folly thns: 'Thy folly on thy head!" (Itfii, p. 108. Tamoeslane jusotifies his folly thus; Great minds (like Heas'n aepleas'd in doinggood, Great minds (likefleav'n aepleas'd in doing good, Greatlminds,(like Heas'n aepleas'din doing good, Tho' the ungrateful suhjects of theie fasones The' the ungrateful snhjects of their fasones Tho' the ungeateful subjects of skein fassets Are bassenin return. Are barrenineretun. Areebarreninereturn. Tamoelaneinsists thatsvirtueis itsowneeward, and hismercyis seen Tamterlane insfsts thatsvirtue is its owneeward, and hisnmercy is seen Tamterlane insists thatsvietue is its ownseward, and hismneey is seen tn he "folly" only in the eyes of the worldly, swhs disparage those wsho to he "folly" only in the eyes of the sworldly, who disparage those who to he "fully" only in the eyes of the worldly, who dispasage those who 'fondlynmake a meeit of forgiseness." In otherssords, as i The Am- "fondlynmake anterit of forgiseness." In otherword, safe TheAm-s "fondlyntake anmeritof forgiveness." Tn otherssords, as in The Am- hiifons Stspmthe, Rowe is alluding to that traditi on of Chsistian folly hitfone Stepmtothser, Rowe is alluding to that tradition of Cheistian folly hitfono Stepsmothee, Rowe is alluding to that tradition of Chtistian folly whisk has its toots in the epistles of Saint Paul, wchich has its eoots in the epistles of Saint Paul. whisk has its toots in the epistles of Saint Paul. Bajaaet answers Tamterlane'snmercy wth revsenge and hated. On Bajazet snswets Tamoelane'sumersy withevsenge and hated. On flajaaet answers Tamtelane's mtersyswithevsenge and hatred. On the way to hsdungeon ofiing helland despair-(see the desciptons thesway to hisdungeon of liing hell anddespai(see thedesciptons the way to his dungeon of liingheland despai(see thedesciptions on pp. 108 and t11), Bajaset encountees Atpasia and Moneses, the on pp. t08 and 111), Bajaset ensountees Aepasia and Moneses, the on pp. lBS and 111), Bajazet ensountees Aepasfa and Moneses, the Greek loversswhom he had captured and whohad masqeaded as Greek loverswhomthe hadsaptured and whohad asqueraded as Greeklovers whom he had captured andswhouhad masqueraded as brothereand sistereuntilflajaeet forced Aepasia tonmarryhiminnMoneses' brothereand sistereuntil Bajazet forced Aepasa to maneyhim inMoneses' brothereand sisteruntilBajaoetforsed Aepasia tomarry him inMoneses' absense. Spurned hy both, Bajazet takes delight in the "tesenge" of absense. Spumned by both, Bajat takes delight in the "resenge" of absence. Spumned hy hoth, Bajazet takes delight in tht "resenge" of leasing Moneses to hearin "horror" of thesrape of hishetrthed (p. 110 leaving Moneses to hearein "horro"of theerapeof hishetrothed (p. 110 leasing Moneses to hearein "horror" of theerape ofhishbetrothed (p. 110 f). Loter Bajaset rejests Analla's offee to "atone / The fatal beach" he- f). Loter Bajaset rejests Auntie's offee to "atone / The fatal heach" he- f). Latee Bajazet tejects ,hnalla's offet to 'atone / The fatal heash" he- tweeen him and Tamerlane and thus "Tobuy mankind apeace"hhI, p. tween him and Tamerlane and thusTouymankind apeae"I, p. Isseen him and Tamerlane and thus "Tobuy mankind apeace"(11T.i, p. 117); answering Analla's peomise to obtain the retun of Bajaset's ceown 117); answering Analla's peomise to obtain the retuen of Bajaset's croswn 117); answeefng Asalla's peomise to obtif the retuen of Bajazet's ceown in exchange foe his daughtee's hand, Bajaset demands "the Tartars in exshange foe his daughtee's hand, Bajaset demands 'the Tasea's in enchange foe his daughter's hand, Bajaset demands "the Tarsares head" to "sate" his "resenge" (p. i1S). And he commands Selima to head" to "sate" his "resenge" (p. 119). And he commands Selima to head" to 'sate" his 'resenge" (p. 115). And he commsands Selinta to emulate his hatted; emulate his hatted: emulate his hatted Henceforth, unless thou mean'st to cancel all Henceforth,unless thou mean'st to cancel all Henceforth,unless thouumean'sttoscanceliall My sharein thee, andswite thyselfa astad, Mey shaein thee, andswre thyself a astard, My shareeinthee, and wite thyselfaastard,  52 The Trial of the Innocent Die, starve, know any evil, any pain, Rather than taste a mercy from these [Christian] dogs. (p. 117) In Act V, against his captive Queen and his own daughter, Bajazet displays his merciless cruelty at its fullest. With his "wrath" and "ven- geance" he attempts to pierce Arpasia's "swelling heart" (p. 142), and asserting in hypocritical self-righteousness, "Here, mercy, I disclaim thee," he subjects her to a torture so cruel that it does indeed break her heart (p. 143 ff). Then, disdaining the escaped Axalla's reported pledge of "mercy" (p. 147), he turns on Selima, who arranged the es- cape, to "tear" her "to pieces" in "answer" to his "great revenge." Appropriately, Bajazet is foiled in the midst of his last attempt at ven- geance, and his abuse of mercy is now finally and fittingly repaid by its withdrawal from him in favor of "righteous vengeance": as Tamerlane says, Mercy at length gives up her peacefl scepter, And justice sternly takes her turn to govern. (p. 148) Bajazet's recalcitrance finally calls forth the world's "keenest sword, / To cut up villainy of monstrous growth." In poetic justice, Tamerlane administers a punishment "equal to Bajazet's crimes"-the very caging Bajazet had planned for Tamerlane-so that Bajazet can be home about, in public view, A great example of the righteous vengeance That waits on cruelty, and pride like thine. (p. 149) As Bajazet is led off desperately vowing to kill himself and to curse Tamerlane with his "parting breath," Tamerlane confirms the poetic justice done on him to be explicitly providential: "But justly those above assert their sway." In view of the deaths of the innocent Moneses and Arpasia, how- ever, Tamerlane's merciful attitude and his final victory in justice may appear to be vitiated. Ironically, Tamerlane-"whose word next Heav'n's, / Makes fate at second hand" (I, p. 98); who is "The Sovereign judge of equity on earth" (1.ii, p. 112); and "before whose awful throne / Th'afflicted never kneel in vain for justice" (Ih.ii, p. 123)-is unable from the beginning to redress the evil done this pair, which stands "bleeding fresh" and calls aloud to Heaven "for justice" (l.ii, p. 109). 52 The Trial of the Innocent Die, starve, know any evil, any pain, Rather than taste a mercy from these [Christian] dogs. (p. 117) In Act V, against his captive Queen and his own daughter, Bajazet displays his merciless cruelty at its fullest. With his "wrath" and "ven- geance" he attempts to pierce Arpasia's "swelling heart" (p. 142), and asserting in hypocritical self-righteousness, "Here, mercy, I disclaim thee," he subjects her to a torture so cruel that it does indeed break her heart (p. 143 ff). Then, disdaining the escaped Axalla's reported pledge of "mercy" (p. 147), he turns on Selima, who arranged the es- cape, to "tear" her "to pieces" in "answer" to his "great revenge." Appropriately, Bajazet is foiled in the midst of his last attempt at ven- geance, and his abuse of mercy is now finally and fittingly repaid by its withdrawal from him in favor of "righteous vengeance": as Tamerlane says, Mercy at length gives up her peaceful scepter, And justice sternly takes her turn to govern. (p. 148) Bajazet's recalcitrance finally calls forth the world's "keenest sword, / To cut up villainy of monstrous growth." In poetic justice, Tamerlane administers a punishment "equal to Bajazet's crimes-the very caging Bajazet had planned for Tamerlane-so that Bajazet can be borne about, in public view, A great example of the righteous vengeance That waits on cruelty, and pride like thine. (p. 149) As Bajazet is led off desperately vowing to kill himself and to curse Tamerlane with his "parting breath," Tamerlane confirms the poetic justice done on him to be explicitly providential: "But justly those above assert their sway." In view of the deaths of the innocent Moneses and Arpasia, how- ever, Tamerlane's merciful attitude and his final victory in justice may appear to be vitiated. Ironically, Tamerlane-"whose word next Heav'n's, / Makes fate at second hand" (I, p. 98); who is "The Sovereign judge of equity on earth" (I.ii, p. 112); and "before whose awful throne / Th'afflicted never kneel in vain for justice" (II.ii, p. 123)-is unable from the beginning to redress the evil done this pair, which stands "bleeding fresh" and calls aloud to Heaven "for justice" (II.ii, p. 109). 52 The Trial of the Innocent Die, starve, know any evil, any pain, Rather than taste a mercy from these [Christian] dogs. (p. 117) In Act V, against his captive Queen and his own daughter, Bajazet displays his merciless cruelty at its fullest. With his "wrath" and "ven- geance" he attempts to pierce Arpasia's "swelling heart" (p. 142), and asserting in hypocritical self-righteousness, "Here, mercy, I disclaim thee," he subjects her to a torture so cruel that it does indeed break her heart (p. 143 If). Then, disdaining the escaped Axalla's reported pledge of "mercy" (p. 147), he turns on Selima, who arranged the es- cape, to "tear" her "to pieces" in "answer" to his "great revenge." Appropriately, Bajazet is foiled in the midst of his last attempt at ven- geance, and his abuse of mercy is now finally and fittingly repaid by its withdrawal from him in favor of "righteous vengeance": as Tamerlane says, Mercy at length gives up her peaceful scepter, And justice sternly takes her turn to govern. (p. 148) Bajazet's recalcitrance finally calls forth the world's "keenest sword, / To cut up villainy of monstrous growth." In poetic justice, Tamerlane administers a punishment "equal to Bajazet's crimes-the very caging Bajazet had planned for Tamerlane-so that Bajazet can be borne about, in public view, A great example of the righteous vengeance That waits on cruelty, and pride like thine. (p. 149) As Bajazet is led off desperately vowing to kill himself and to curse Tamerlane with his "parting breath," Tamerlane confirms the poetic justice done on him to be explicitly providential: "But justly those above assert their sway." In view of the deaths of the innocent Moneses and Arpasia, how- ever, Tamerlane's merciful attitude and his final victory in justice may appear to be vitiated. Ironically, Tamerlane-"whose word next Heav'n's, / Makes fate at second hand" (I, p. 98); who is "The Sovereign judge of equity on earth" (11.i, p. 112); and "before whose awful throne / Th'afflicted never kneel in vain for justice" (HI.ii, p. 123)-is unable from the beginning to redress the evil done this pair, which stands "bleeding fresh" and calls aloud to Heaven "for justice" (II.ii, p. 109).  Tamerlane and Ulysses 53 Tamerlane bids Moneses forget "these lesser cares" and join him in re- forming the world (IIhii, p. 126). Confronted with Arpasia's beauty and virtue, however, Tamerlane himself complains: When sorrow dwells in such an angel form, Well may we guess that those above are mourners; Virtue is wrong'd, and bleeding innocence Suffers some wond'rous violation here, To make the saints look sad. Oh! teach my power To cure those ills which you unjustly suffer, Lest Heav'n should wrest it from my idle hand, If I look on, and see you weep in vain. (IV.ii, p. 129) Though he is God's own Champion on earth, Tamerlane is powerless to help Arpasia and Moneses, and their story, as well as their complaints and his, raises the problem of suffering innocence with a special poi- gnancy in this otherwise transparent dramatic theodicy. The solution that the play offers is once again couched in the metaphor of life as a trial. From the moment of their capture on the way to be married, Moneses and Arpasia, who are both Christians, have been tempted to despair. Arpasia describes their situation as hopeless: Our woes are like the genuine shade beneath, Where fate cuts off the very hopes of day, And everlasting night and horror reign. (It, p. 111) Arpasia wills to resist despair, however. Since the evil cannot be re- dressed on earth and since, on the other hand, she has sworn to maintain her marital faith, she clings to the hope that "Heav'n" will be "gracious" and take her to "that blest place / Where the good rest from care and anxious life" (p. 113). To sustain Moneses' "failing faith," she describes to him a "tract of endless joys" and provides them both with a "hope" to build on as they endure their ordeal, the trial of the innocent. Unlike the Stoic heroines Lucrece and Portia, Arpasia espouses the higher Christian heroism to "Live ... And dare to be unhappy" (IV.ii, p. 129). Yet they both gradually languish into a spiritual sloth where, porten- tously, "all the glorious lights of Heav'n look dim" as they await "the long night" in "sad society" (p. 135 1).' They are not permitted to languish thus, however; they must still face the supreme trial of martyrdom. And for Arpasia this is no ordinary Tamerlane and Ulysses 53 Tamerlane bids Moneses forget "these lesser cares" and join him in re- forming the world (tI.ii, p. 126). Confronted with Arpasia's beauty and virtue, however, Tamerlane himself complains: When sorrow dwells in such an angel form, Well may we guess that those above are mourners; Virtue is wrong'd, and bleeding innocence Suffers some wond'rous violation here, To make the saints look sad. Oh! teach my power To cure those ills which you unjustly suffer, Lest Heav'n should wrest it from my idle hand, If I look on, and see you weep in vain. (IV.ii, p. 129) Though he is God's own Champion on earth, Tamerlane is powerless to help Arpasia and Moneses, and their story, as well as their complaints and his, raises the problem of suffering innocence with a special poi- gnancy in this otherwise transparent dramatic theodicy. The solution that the play offers is once again couched in the metaphor of life as a trial. From the moment of their capture on the way to be married, Moneses and Arpasia, who are both Christians, have been tempted to despair. Arpasia describes their situation as hopeless: Our woes are like the genuine shade beneath, Where fate cuts off the very hopes of day, And everlasting night and horror reign. Hii, p. 111) Arpasia wills to resist despair, however. Since the evil cannot be re- dressed on earth and since, on the other hand, she has sworn to maintain her marital faith, she clings to the hope that "Heav'n" will be "gracious" and take her to "that blest place / Where the good rest from care and anxious life" (p. 113). To sustain Moneses' "failing faith," she describes to him a "tract of endless joys" and provides them both with a "hope" to build on as they endure their ordeal, the trial of the innocent. Unlike the Stoic heroines Lucrece and Portia, Arpasia espouses the higher Christian heroism to "Live ... And dare to be unhappy" (IV.ii, p. 129). Yet they both gradually languish into a spiritual sloth where, porten- tously, "all the glorious lights of Heav'n look dim" as they await "the long night" in "sad society" (p. 135 f).' They are not permitted to languish thus, however; they must still face the supreme trial of martyrdom. And for Arpasia this is no ordinary Tamerlane and Ulysses 53 Tamerlane bids Moneses forget "these lesser cares" and join him in re- forming the world (LI.ii, p. 126). Confronted with Arpasia's beauty and virtue, however, Tamerlane himself complains: When sorrow dwells in such an angel form, Well may we guess that those above are mourners; Virtue is wrong'd, and bleeding innocence Suffers some wond'rous violation here, To make the saints look sad. Oh! teach my power To cure those ills which you unjustly suffer, Lest Heav'n should wrest it from my idle hand, If I look on, and see you weep in vain. (IV.ii, p. 129) Though he is God's own Champion on earth, Tamerlane is powerless to help Arpasia and Moneses, and their story, as well as their complaints and his, raises the problem of suffering innocence with a special poi- gnancy in this otherwise transparent dramatic theodicy. The solution that the play offers is once again couched in the metaphor of life as a trial. From the moment of their capture on the way to be married, Moneses and Arpasia, who are both Christians, have been tempted to despair. Arpasia describes their situation as hopeless: Our woes are like the genuine shade beneath, Where fate cuts off the very hopes of day, And everlasting night and horror reign. (II.ii, p. 111) Arpasia wills to resist despair, however. Since the evil cannot be re- dressed on earth and since, on the other hand, she has sworn to maintain her marital faith, she clings to the hope that "Heav'n" will be "gracious" and take her to "that blest place / Where the good rest from care and anxious life" (p. 113). To sustain Moneses' "failing faith," she describes to him a "tract of endless joys" and provides them both with a "hope" to build on as they endure their ordeal, the trial of the innocent. Unlike the Stoic heroines Lucrece and Portia, Arpasia espouses the higher Christian heroism to "Live ... And dare to be unhappy" (IV.ii, p. 129). Yet they both gradually languish into a spiritual sloth where, porten- tously, "all the glorious lights of Heav'n look dim" as they await "the long night" in "sad society" (p. 135 f). They are not permitted to languish thus, however; they must still face the supreme trial of martyrdom. And for Arpasia this is no ordinary  54 The Trial of the Innocent trial by fire. She must watch her beloved be cruelly "butcher'd" in her sight (V, p. 142). She prays to "holy martyrs" for heavenly assistance and appears to be armed with a "sacred spirit," but like Mirza in The Ambitious Stepmother, Bajazet challenges her fortitude, asserting that she talks her virtue well but dares not meet the danger. Significantly he concludes, "This moment is the trial." As she begins to fail, though, Moneses, who rises from lassitude to meet the test, becomes her ex- ample and instructs her in the Christian ars moriendi: Since thou art arm'd for all things, after death, Why should the pomp and preparation of it Be frightful to thy eyes? (p. 144) The readiness is all, he insists with Hamlet and Edgar, and he goes to prove it. The anguished Arpasia breaks down into impatience and "distrac- tion": "Ye moralists, / Ye talkers, what are all your precepts now?" She screams for "Avenging lightnings," till human "Nature" can endure "no more" and she expires (p. 144 f). Critics of the ilk of Gildon would say that her death impugns Providence or that Rowe's sensationalism here undercuts his attempt to mirror Providence in the overall design. But despite her momentary impatience, Arpasia dies peacefully. In traditional Christian imagery, after wandering "bewilder'd with mis- fortunes" (p. 145), she finally reaches her "home," which must be that "blest place" she has prayed for, "Where the good rest from care," for she lies down in "peaceful slumber." We are led to infer that she has been granted that "peace" promised by the "gentle spirit" who whis- pers to her earlier (p. 140). It is a peace that is not languished into, how- ever, but is earned through an excruciating trial, from which she is finally released. Moreover, Arpasia has said that she would live to tri- umph over Bajazet a moment, and she does so when she says, "I am now beyond thy cruel pow'r." Bajazet's reaction expresses the ironic limi- tations of that power: What is royalty? If those that are my slaves, and should live for me, Can die, and bid defiance to my pow'r. The point is, as it was from Job and Plato to Milton, that no tyrant, not even Satan himself, has power over the mind.' God allows the satanic 54 The Trial of the Innocent trial by fire. She must watch her beloved be cruelly "butcher'd" in her sight (V, p. 142). She prays to "holy martyrs" for heavenly assistance and appears to be armed with a "sacred spirit," but like Mirza in The Ambitious Stepmother, Bajazet challenges her fortitude, asserting that she talks her virtue well but dares not meet the danger. Significantly he concludes, "This moment is the trial." As she begins to fail, though, Moneses, who rises from lassitude to meet the test, becomes her ex- ample and instructs her in the Christian ars moriendi: Since thou art arm'd for all things, after death, Why should the pomp and preparation of it Be frightful to thy eyes? (p. 144) The readiness is all, he insists with Hamlet and Edgar, and he goes to prove it. The anguished Arpasia breaks down into impatience and "distrac- tion": "Ye moralists, / Ye talkers, what are all your precepts now?" She screams for "Avenging lightnings," till human "Nature" can endure "no more" and she expires (p. 144 f). Critics of the ilk of Gildon would say that her death impugns Providence or that Rowe's sensationalism here undercuts his attempt to mirror Providence in the overall design. But despite her momentary impatience, Arpasia dies peacefully. In traditional Christian imagery, after wandering "bewilder'd with mis- fortunes" (p. 145), she finally reaches her "home," which must be that "blest place" she has prayed for, "Where the good rest from care," for she lies down in "peaceful slumber." We are led to infer that she has been granted that "peace" promised by the "gentle spirit" who whis- pers to her earlier (p. 140). It is a peace that is not languished into, how- ever, but is earned through an excruciating trial, from which she is finally released. Moreover, Arpasia has said that she would live to tri- umph over Bajazet a moment, and she does so when she says, "I am now beyond thy cruel pow'r." Bajazet's reaction expresses the ironic limi- tations of that power: What is royalty? If those that are my slaves, and should live for me, Can die, and bid defiance to my pow'r. The point is, as it was from Job and Plato to Milton, that no tyrant, not even Satan himself, has power over the mind.' God allows the satanic 54 The Trial of the Innocent trial by fire. She must watch her beloved be cruelly "butcher'd" in her sight (V, p. 142). She prays to "holy martyrs" for heavenly assistance and appears to be armed with a "sacred spirit," but like Mirza in The Ambitious Stepmother, Bajazet challenges her fortitude, asserting that she talks her virtue well but dares not meet the danger. Significantly he concludes, "This moment is the trial." As she begins to fail, though, Moneses, who rises from lassitude to meet the test, becomes her ex- asmple and instructs her in the Christian ars moriendi: Since thou art arm'd for all things, after death, Why should the pomp and preparation of it Be frightful to thy eyes? (p. 144) The readiness is all, he insists with Hamlet and Edgar, and he goes to prove it. The anguished Arpasia breaks down into impatience and "distrac- tion": "Ye moralists, / Ye talkers, what are all your precepts now?" She screams for "Avenging lightnings," till human "Nature" can endure "no more" and she expires (p. 144 f). Critics of the ilk of Gildon would say that her death impugns Providence or that Rowe's sensationalism here undercuts his attempt to mirror Providence in the overall design. But despite her momentary impatience, Arpasia dies peacefully. In traditional Christian imagery, after wandering "bewilder'd with mis- fortunes" (p. 145), she finally reaches her "home," which must be that "blest place" she has prayed for, "Where the good rest from care," for she lies down in "peaceful slumber." We are led to infer that she has been granted that "peace" promised by the "gentle spirit" who whis- pers to her earlier (p. 140). It is a peace that is not languished into, how- ever, but is earned through an excruciating trial, from which she is finally released. Moreover, Arpasia has said that she would live to tri- umph over Bajazet a moment, and she does so when she says, "I am now beyond thy cruel pow'r." Bajazet's reaction expresses the ironic limi- tations of that power: What is royalty? If those that are my slaves, and should live for me, Can die, and bid defiance to my pow'r. The point is, as it was from Job and Plato to Milton, that no tyrant, not even Satan himself, has power over the mind.' God allows the satanic  Tamerlane and Ulysses 55 Bajazets of the world to severely try, but not to coerce, the souls of men. For the soul is inviolable and thus can endure the gravest test. Tamerlane's inability to redress the injuries of Moneses and Ar- pasia, or to save their lives, argues the necessity of retribution in the afterlife that the couple so ardently expects. To recall the words of Dennis-and the homiletic tradition they echo-suffering innocence "is permitted by the Governour of the World to show from the Attribute of his infinite Justice that there is a Compensation in Futurity, to prove the Immortality of the Human Soul, and the Certainty of future Re- wards and Punishments" (Critical Works, It, 49). Tamerlane's final vic- tory seems the external ratification of the hope for ultimate providential justice, and Arpasia's prayer for "Avenging lightnings" seems answered, for at last "justly those above assert their sway." Furthermore, the death of Moneses and Arpasia is the play's ultimate confirmation of Tamerlane's boast that the virtuous "(like Heav'n) are pleas'd in doing good," even if they receive no reward in this life. What appears folly in the eyes of the world is actually the highest kind of heroism, even if, paradoxically, its victory is attained only through death. But the play's firmest guarantee of the peace in which Moneses and Arpasia trust seems to be the self-sacrifice of Selima. Tamerlane is enabled to foil Bajazet's plot only because Selima sets her beloved Axalla free at the risk of her own destruction. Through Selima, then, the world ob- tains a peace-a peace of justice and order which points to that for Moneses and Arpasia beyond. Throughout the play Selima is associated with imagery of peace, and even her name means peace in Arabic." Early in the play, impressed by Tamerlane's beneficence, Selima utters a speech that emphasizes the supremacy of Christian over martial virtues and that constitutes a prayer for peace Where shall my wonder and my praise begin! From the successful labours of thy arms? Or from a theme more soft, and full of peace, Thy mercy, and thy gentleness? oh, Tamerlane! What can I pay thee for this noble usage But grateful praise? So Heav'n itself is paid. Give peace, ye pow'rs above, peace to mankind; Nor let my father wage unequal war, Against the force of such united virtues. (p. 93) Tamerlane and Ulysses 55 Bajazets of the world to severely try, but not to coerce, the souls of men. For the soul is inviolable and thus can endure the gravest test. Tamerlane's inability to redress the injuries of Moneses and Ar- pasia, or to save their lives, argues the necessity of retribution in the afterlife that the couple so ardently expects. To recall the words of Dennis-and the homiletic tradition they echo-suffering innocence "is permitted by the Governour of the World to show from the Attribute of his infinite Justice that there is a Compensation in Futurity, to prove the Immortality of the Human Soul, and the Certainty of future Re- wards and Punishments" (Critical Works, II, 49). Tameelne's final vic- tory seems the external ratification of the hope for ultimate providential justice, and Arpasia's prayer for "Avenging lightnings" seems answered, for at last "justly those above assert their sway." Furthermore, the death of Moneses and Arpasia is the play's ultimate confirmation of Tamerlane's boast that the virtuous "(like Heav'n) are pleas'd in doing good," even if they receive no reward in this life. What appears folly in the eyes of the world is actually the highest kind of heroism, even if, paradoxically, its victory is attained only through death. But the play's firmest guarantee of the peace in which Moneses and Arpasia trust seems to be the self-sacrifice of Selima. Tamerlane is enabled to foil Bajazet's plot only because Selima sets her beloved Axalla free at the risk of her own destruction. Through Selima, then, the world ob- tains a peace-a peace of justice and order which points to that for Moneses and Arpasia beyond. Throughout the play Selima is associated with imagery of peace, and even her name means peace in Arabic." Early in the play, impressed by Tamerlane's beneficence, Selima utters a speech that emphasizes the supremacy of Christian over martial virtues and that constitutes a prayer for peace: Where shall my wonder and my praise begin! From the successful labours of thy arms? Or from a theme more soft, and full of peace, Thy mercy, and thy gentleness? oh, Tamerlane! What can I pay thee for this noble usage But grateful praise? So Heav'n itself is paid. Give peace, ye pow'rs above, peace to mankind; Nor let my father wage unequal war, Against the force of such united virtues. (p. 93) Tamerlane and Ulysses 55 Bajazets of the world to severely try, but not to coerce, the souls of men. For the soul is inviolable and thus can endure the gravest test. Tamerlane's inability to redress the injuries of Moneses and Ar- pasia, or to save their lives, argues the necessity of retribution in the afterlife that the couple so ardently expects. To recall the words of Dennis-and the homiletic tradition they echo-suffering innocence "is permitted by the Governour of the World to show from the Attribute of his infinite Justice that there is a Compensation in Futurity, to prove the Immortality of the Human Soul, and the Certainty of future Re- wards and Punishments" (Critical Works, II, 49). Tamerlane's final vic- tory seems the external ratification of the hope for ultimate providential justice, and Arpasia's prayer for "Avenging lightnings" seems answered, for at last "justly those above assert their sway." Furthermore, the death of Moneses and Arpasia is the play's ultimate confirmation of Tamerlane's boast that the virtuous "like Heav'e) are pleas'd in doing good," even if they receive no reward in this life. What appears folly in the eyes of the world is actually the highest kind of heroism, even if, paradoxically, its victory is attained only through death. But the play's firmest guarantee of the peace in which Moneses and Arpasia trust seems to be the self-sacrifice of Selima. Tamerlane is enabled to foil Bajazet's plot only because Selima sets her beloved Axalla free at the risk of her own destruction. Through Selima, then, the world ob- tains a peace-a peace of justice and order which points to that for Moneses and Arpasia beyond. Throughout the play Selima is associated with imagery of peace, and even her name means peace in Arabic."' Early in the play, impressed by Tamerlane's beneficence, Selima utters a speech that emphasizes the supremacy of Christian over martial virtues and that constitutes a prayer for peace: Where shall my wonder and my praise begin! From the successful labours of thy arms? Or from a theme more soft, and full of peace, Thy mercy, and thy gentleness? oh, Tamerlane! What can I pay thee for this noble usage But grateful praise? So Heav'n itself is paid. Give peace, ye pow'rs above, peace to mankind; Nor let my father wage unequal war, Against the force of such united virtues. (p. 93)  56 The Trial of the Innocent Her prayer is not immediately answered, however, and she is forced into a conflict between her love for Axalla and her duty to her father. Together Selimsa and Axalla approach Bajazet and through their love attempt to "buy mankind a peace," if he will only let their marriage "atone / The fatal breach" between him and Tamerlane (IIi, p. 117). Bajazet answers, however, by making it a duty for Selima to hate Axalla and all Christians as her father's "foes": "Hate shall be pious in thee" (p. 119). At her father's sentence Selima complains, "Undone for ever! / Now tyrant duty, art thou yet obey'd?" Axalla knows, nevertheless, that she is incapable of fulfilling such a duty: he has said earlier, Hate is not in thy nature; thy whole frame Is harmony, without one jarring atom. (I, p. 98) Accordingly, when Axalla is later condemned to death by Bajazet, Selima begs for his life and wins a momentary reprieve. She prays, "Some angel whisper to my anxious soul / What I shall do to save him" (IV.ii, p. 138). It appears that Providence answers her prayer, for she conceives the ruse whereby Axalla escapes. And her action must also be interpreted as a love to mankind ("to buy mankind a peace"), for she must know that Axalla will return with Tamerlane to defeat her father. Yet she still attempts to save her father, too. Just as before she would have maintained the balance between love and duty by remain- ing constant to Axalla though separated from him-"ev'n duty shall not force me to be false" (IIIi, p. 115)-so now she insists that even though she has disobeyed her father, she has not "betray'd" him: I made the gentle, kind, Axalla swear, Your life, your crown, and honour would be safe. (V, p. 147) She is willing to seal this gesture of peace even with her life. Though she will not sacrifice Axalla to duty, she will sacrifice herself: Plunge the ponyard deep! The life my father gave shall hear his summons, And issue at the wound. Her last words as he is about to kill her are, significantly, a prayer-"That Heav'n may guard my royal father" (p. 148)-and a request for his final 56 The Trial of the Innocent Her prayer is not immediately answered, however, and she is forced into a conflict between her love for Axalla and her duty to her father. Together Selima and Axalla approach Bajazet and through their love attempt to "buy mankind a peace," if he will only let their marriage "atone / The fatal breach" between him and Tamerlane (III.i, p. 117). Bajazet answers, however, by making it a duty for Selima to hate Axalla and all Christians as her father's "foes": "Hate shall be pious in thee" (p. 119). At her father's sentence Selima complains, "Undone for ever! / Now tyrant duty, art thou yet obey'd?" Axalla knows, nevertheless, that she is incapable of fulfilling such a duty: he has said earlier, Hate is not in thy nature: thy whole frame Is harmony, without one jarring atom. (I, p. 98) Accordingly, when Axalla is later condemned to death by Bajazet, Selima begs for his life and wins a momentary reprieve. She prays, "Some angel whisper to my anxious soul / What I shall do to save him" (IV.ii, p. 138). It appears that Providence answers her prayer, for she conceives the ruse whereby Axalla escapes. And her action must also be interpreted as a love to mankind ("to buy mankind a peace"), for she must know that Mxalla will return with Tamerlane to defeat her father. Yet she still attempts to save her father, too. Just as before she would have maintained the balance between love and duty by remain- ing constant to Axalla though separated from him-"ev'n duty shall not force me to be false" (III.i, p. 115)-so now she insists that even though she has disobeyed her father, she has not "betray'd" him: I made the gentle, kind, Axalla swear, Your life, your crown, and honour would be safe. (V, p. 147) She is willing to seal this gesture of peace even with her life. Though she will not sacrifice Axalla to duty, she will sacrifice herself: Plunge the ponyard deep! The life my father gave shall hear his summons, And issue at the wound. Her last words as he is about to kill her are, significantly, a prayer-"That Heav'n may guard my royal father" (p. 148)-and a request for his final 56 The Trial of the Innocent Her prayer is not immediately answered, however, and she is forced into a conflict between her love for Axalla and her duty to her father. Together Selima and Axalla approach Bajazet and through their love attempt to "buy mankind a peace," if be will only let their marriage "atone / The fatal breach" between him and Tamerlane (IIIi, p. 117). Bajazet answers, however, by making it a duty for Selima to bate Axalla and all Christians as her father's "foes": "Hate shall be pious in thee" (p. 119). At her father's sentence Selima complains, "Undone for ever! / Now tyrant duty, art thou yet obey'd?" Axalla knows, nevertheless, that she is incapable of fulfilling such a duty: he has said earlier, Hate is not in thy nature: thy whole frame Is harmony, without one jarring atom. (I, p. 98) Accordingly, when Axalla is later condemned to death by Bajazet, Selima begs for his life and wins a momentary reprieve. She prays, "Some angel whisper to my anxious soul / What I shall do to save him" (IV.ii, p. 138). It appears that Providence answers her prayer, for she conceives the ruse whereby Axalla escapes. And her action must also be interpreted as a love to mankind ("to buy mankind a peace"), for she must know that Axalla will return with Tamerlane to defeat her father. Yet she still attempts to save her father, too. Just as before she would have maintained the balance between love and duty by remain- ing constant to Axalla though separated from him-"ev'n duty shall not force me to be false" (III.i, p. 115)-so now she insists that even though she has disobeyed her father, she has not "betray'd" him: I made the gentle, kind, Axalla swear, Your life, your crown, and honour would be safe. (V, p. 147) She is willing to seal this gesture of peace even with her life. Though she will not sacrifice Axalla to duty, she will sacrifice herself: Plunge the ponyard deep! The life my father gave shall hear his summons, And issue at the wound. Her last words as he is about to kill her are, significantly, a prayer-"That Heav'n may guard my royal father" (p. 148)-and a request for his final  Tamerlane and Ulysses 57 Tamerlane and Ulysses 57 Tamerlane and Ulysses 57 blessing. It seems no exaggeration to say that Bajazet's final rejection of his own daughter is a rejection of the spiritual peace she represents. Since Tamerlane insists that through his force "justly those above assert their sway," Axalla's arrival in the nick of time implies a provi- dential intervention and a final divine judgment between Christian charity and inhuman cruelty. Selima's loving self-sacrifice has freed Axalla to arouse Tamerlane's sword as the instrument of Heaven's jus- tice. From Bajazet himself, then, comes the ultimate agent of peace. Emblematically, as in The Ambitious Stepmother, Rowe has dramatized the basic Christian theodicean principle that out of evil comes forth good, and like Cleone's (and Christ's), Selima's sacrifice represents the promise of that principle and the pledge of eternal reward and peace for virtue and suffering innocence. We have come a long way from William III, but then what greater compliment than to compare him to one of God's greatest Champions; to show him to be ultimately Christ-like and his enemy satanic; in short, to place him in the perspective of an eternal pattern. Rowe's Tamerlane goes far beyond the topical to the typological. It is not just an "alle- gorical eulogy" but an image of the eternal victory of good over evil, not just by the old heroism of a "Scourge of God" but by the new her- oism of Christ. The play is a justification of the ways of God-and es- pecially the Son of God-to men. ii In the introduction to the recent Twickenham edition of Pope's Homer, Robert Fagles maintains that the two great early English translations of the Odyssey-Chapman's and Pope's-are both theodicies." For Chapman, Fagles refers us (p. ecxviii) to George DeForest Lord's ex- cellent study, Homeric Renaissance: The Odyssey of George Chapman, which argues that the "dynamic allegory" in Chapman's translation is Ulysses' spiritual regeneration and that Ulysses' reunion with divine grace (symbolized by Pallas Athena) enables him to triumph at his re- turn to Ithaca (ch. iii). Thus the dominant theme in Chapman is "man's relation with the gods" (p. 79), and Ulysses' suffering is justified as the process of establishing the proper relationship. That Pope's translation is a theodicy is obvious from the very open- ing of the poem, when Jove, as Pope's note expresses it, "vindicates his divinity" (Odyssey I.45n): blessing. It seems no exaggeration to say that Bajazet's final rejection of his own daughter is a rejection of the spiritual peace she represents. Since Tamerlane insists that through his force "justly those above assert their sway," Axalla's arrival in the nick of time implies a provi- dential intervention and a final divine judgment between Christian charity and inhuman cruelty. Selima's loving self-sacrifice has freed Axalla to arouse Tamerlane's sword as the instrument of Heaven's jus- tice. From Bajazet himself, then, comes the ultimate agent of peace. Emblematically, as in The Ambitious Stepmother, Rowe has dramatized the basic Christian theodicean principle that out of evil comes forth good, and like Cleone's (and Christ's), Selima's sacrifice represents the promise of that principle and the pledge of eternal reward and peace for virtue and suffering innocence. We have come a long way from William III, but then what greater compliment than to compare him to one of God's greatest Champions; to show him to be ultimately Christ-like and his enemy satanic; in short, to place him in the perspective of an eternal pattern. Rowe's Tamerlane goes far beyond the topical to the typological. It is not just an "alle- gorical eulogy" but an image of the eternal victory of good over evil, not just by the old heroism of a "Scourge of God" but by the new her- oism of Christ. The play is a justification of the ways of God-and es- pecially the Son of God-to men. ii In the introduction to the recent Twickenham edition of Pope's Homer, Robert Fagles maintains that the two great early English translations of the Odyssey-Chapman's and Pope's-are both theodicies." For Chapman, Fagles refers us (p. cceiii) to George DeForest Lord's ex- cellent study, Homeric Renaissance: The Odyssey of George Chapman, which argues that the "dynamic allegory" in Chapman's translation is Ulysses' spiritual regeneration and that Ulysses' reunion with divine grace (symbolized by Pallas Athena) enables him to triumph at his re- turn to Ithaca (ch. iii). Thus the dominant theme in Chapman is "man's relation with the gods" (p. 79), and Ulysses' suffering is justified as the process of establishing the proper relationship. That Pope's translation is a theodicy is obvious from the very open- ing of the poem, when Jove, as Pope's note expresses it, "vindicates his divinity" (Odyssey I.45n): blessing. It seems no exaggeration to say that Bajazet's final rejection of his own daughter is a rejection of the spiritual peace she represents. Since Tamerlane insists that through his force "justly those above assert their sway," Axalla's arrival in the nick of time implies a provi- dential intervention and a final divine judgment between Christian charity and inhuman cruelty. Selima's loving self-sacrifice has freed Axalla to arouse Tamerlane's sword as the instrument of Heaven's jus- tice. From Bajazet himself, then, comes the ultimate agent of peace. Emblematically, as in The Ambitious Stepmother, Rowe has dramatized the basic Christian theodicean principle that out of evil comes forth good, and like Cleone's (and Christ's), Selima's sacrifice represents the promise of that principle and the pledge of eternal reward and peace for virtue and suffering innocence. - We have come a long way from William IL but then what greater compliment than to compare him to one of God's greatest Champions; to show him to be ultimately Christ-like and his enemy satanic; in short, to place him in the perspective of an eternal pattern. Rowe's Tamerlane goes far beyond the topical to the typological. It is not just an "alle- gorical eulogy" but an image of the eternal victory of good over evil, not just by the old heroism of a "Scourge of God" but by the new her- oism of Christ. The play is a justification of the ways of God-and es- pecially the Son of God-to men. ii In the introduction to the recent Twickenham edition of Pope's Homer, Robert Fagles maintains that the two great early English translations of the Odyssey-Chapman's and Pope's-are both theodicies." For Chapman, Fagles refers us (p. ccxviii) to George DeForest Lord's ex- cellent study, Homeric Renaissance: The Odyssey of George Chapman, which argues that the "dynamic allegory" in Chapman's translation is Ulysses' spiritual regeneration and that Ulysses' reunion with divine grace (symbolized by Pallas Athena) enables him to triumph at his re- turn to Ithaca (ch. iii). Thus the dominant theme in Chapman is "man's relation with the gods" (p. 79), and Ulysses' suffering is justified as the process of establishing the proper relationship. That Pope's translation is a theodicy is obvious from the very open- ing of the poem, when Jove, as Pope's note expresses it, "vindicates his divinity" (Odyssey I.45n):  58 The Trial of the Innocent Perverse Mankind! whose Wills, created free, Charge all their woes on absolute Decree; All to the dooming Gods their guilt translate, And Follies are miscall'd the crimes of Fate. (1.41 ff) Pope's note on Jove's entire speech is explicit: "This passage is . . . worthy of a Christian; it shews us that the Supreme Being is sovereignly good; that he rewards the just, and punishes the unjust; and that the folly of man, and not the decree of Heaven, is the cause of human ca- lamity" (I.41n). As Fagles points out, through his sufferings and trials" "Augustan Odysseus" has come to rely on that Supreme Being: "Finally, full circle from the man who courted disaster with Polyphemus, Odysseus is willingly 'resign'd to Providence,' " and he now at his re- turn "allies with Pallas to purify his land" (p. ccxiii). In The Ulysses Theme, W. B. Stanford describes the traditional treatments of Ulysses' return thus: "The third phase of Ulysses's career, his return to Ithaca, as described in the Odyssey, provided little scope for controversy in the post-Homeric tradition.... He returns as a King to claim his rightful kingdom and as a husband to rescue his wife from insolent suitors. Poetic justice prevails. The good are rewarded: the bad are punished. Ulysses is clearly the leader of the good party" (p. 193). Poetic justice certainly prevails in the Augustan Odyssey. A note adapted from Bishop Eustathius, the twelfth-century commentator on Homer, explains that since Antinous is "the first in guilt, he is the first in punishment": "This is an act of Poetical justice" (II.95n). And it is poetic justice in the Renaissance-Restoration-Augustan sense-that is, providential justice. From Penelope (XXIII.61 ff), to the shades of the suitors (XXIV.209), to Medon (XXIV.515, 517n), all attribute Ulysses' victory to the intervention of Heaven. Laertes concludes, "almighty Jove! / Heav'n rules us yet, and Gods there are above" (XXIV.409 f). The poem ends, as it began, with the manifestation of Providence, for Jove intervenes in Ulysses' final battle (XXIV.580 ff). Pope's Odyssey reflects the culmination of a whole tradition of Christian influences, not the least of which was Chapman's Christian- Platonic theodicy. Itself a collaboration, Pope's translation can be taken as representative of the Augustan view of Homer's great epic: thus Fagles' phrase "the Augustan Odyssey." It is not surprising, then, that only a few years earlier, Pope's friend Nicholas Rowe," a man of the same era and an heir to the same Christian and Homeric traditions, would render the return of Ulysses as theodicy. 58 The Trial of the Innocent Perverse Mankind! whose Wills, created free, Charge all their woes on absolute Decree; All to the dooming Gods their guilt translate, And Follies are miscall'd the crimes of Fate. (141 ff) Pope's note on Jove's entire speech is explicit: "This passage is . . . worthy of a Christian; it shews us that the Supreme Being is sovereignly good; that he rewards the just, and punishes the unjust; and that the folly of man, and not the decree of Heaven, is the cause of human ca- lamity" (I.41n). As Fagles points out, through his sufferings and trials" "Augustan Odysseus" has come to rely on that Supreme Being: "Finally, foll circle from the man who courted disaster with Polyphemus, Odysseus is willingly 'resign'd to Providence,' " and he now at his re- turn "allies with Pallas to purify his land" (p. ccxiii). In The Ulysses Theme, W. B. Stanford describes the traditional treatments of Ulysses' return thus: "The third phase of Ulysses's career, his return to Ithaca, as described in the Odyssey, provided little scope for controversy in the post-Homeric tradition.... He returns as a King to claim his rightful kingdom and as a husband to rescue his wife from insolent suitors. Poetic justice prevails. The good are rewarded: the bad are punished. Ulysses is clearly the leader of the good party" (p. 193). Poetic justice certainly prevails in the Augustan Odyssey. A note adapted from Bishop Eustathims, the twelfth-century commentator on Homer, explains that since Antinous is "the first in guilt, he is the first in punishment"; "This is an act of Poetical justice" (II.95n). And it is poetic justice in the Renaissance-Restoration-Augustan sense-that is, providential justice. From Penelope (XXIII.61 if), to the shades of the suitors (XXIV.209), to Medon (XXIV.515, 517n), all attribute Ulysses' victory to the intervention of Heaven. Laertes concludes, "almighty Jove! / Heav'n rules us yet, and Gods there are above" (XXIV.409 f). The poem ends, as it began, with the manifestation of Providence, for Jove intervenes in Ulysses' final battle (XXIV.580 ff). Pope's Odyssey reflects the culmination of a whole tradition of Christian influences, not the least of which was Chapman's Christian- Platonic theodicy. Itself a collaboration, Pope's translation can be taken as representative of the Augustan view of Homer's great epic: thus Fagles' phrase "the Augustan Odyssey." It is not surprising, then, that only a few years earlier, Pope's friend Nicholas Rowe," a man of the same era and an heir to the same Christian and Homeric traditions, would render the return of Ulysses as theodicy. 58 The Trial of the Innocent Perverse Mankind! whose Wills, created free, Charge all their woes on absolute Decree; All to the dooming Gods their guilt translate, And Follies are miscall'd the crimes of Fate. (1.41 ff) Pope's note on Jove's entire speech is explicit: "This passage is . . . worthy of a Christian; it shews us that the Supreme Being is sovereignly good; that he rewards the just, and punishes the unjust; and that the folly of man, and not the decree of Heaven, is the cause of human ca- lamity" (.41n). As Fagles points out, through his sufferings and trials" "Augustan Odysseus" has come to rely on that Supreme Being: "Finally, full circle from the man who courted disaster with Polyphemus, Odysseus is willingly 'resign'd to Providence,'" and he now at his re- turn "allies with Pallas to purify his land" (p. ecxiii). In The Ulysses Theme, W. B. Stanford describes the traditional treatments of Ulysses' return thus: "The third phase of Ulyses's career, his return to Ithaca, as described in the Odyssey, provided little scope for controversy in the post-Homeric tradition.... He returns as a King to claim his rightful kingdom and as a husband to rescue his wife from insolent suitors. Poetic justice prevails. The good are rewarded: the bad are punished. Ulysses is clearly the leader of the good party" (p. 193). Poetic justice certainly prevails in the Augustan Odyssey. A note adapted from Bishop Eustathius, the twelfth-century commentator on Homer, explains that since Antinous is "the first in guilt, he is the first in punishment": "This is an act of Poetical justice" (II.95n). And it is poetic justice in the Renaissance-Restoration-Augustan sense-that is, providential justice. From Penelope (XXIII.61 ff), to the shades of the suitors (XXIV.209), to Medon (XXIV.515, 517), all attribute Ulysses' victory to the intervention of Heaven. Laertes concludes, "almighty Jove! / Heav'n rules us yet, and Gods there are above" (XXIV.409 f). The poem ends, as it began, with the manifestation of Providence, for Jove intervenes in Ulysses' final battle (XXIV.580 ff). Pope's Odyssey reflects the culmination of a whole tradition of Christian influences, not the least of which was Chapman's Christian- Platonic theodicy. Itself a collaboration, Pope's translation can be taken as representative of the Augustan view of Homer's great epic: thus Fagles' phrase "the Augustan Odyssey." It is not surprising, then, that only a few years earlier, Pope's friend Nicholas Rowe," a man of the same era and an heir to the same Christian and Homeric traditions, would render the return of Ulysses as theodicy.  Tamerlane and Ulysses 59 Rowe's Ulysses (Works, II, 1 ff) begins with the question of Providence. Telemachus' opening lines complain of his condition in the absence of Ulysses and of justice: 0 MENTOR! urge no more my royal birth, Urge not the honours of my race divine, Call not to my remembrance what I am, Born of Ulysses, and deriv'd from Jove; For 'tis the curse of mighty minds opprest, To think what their state is, and what it should be; Impatient of their lot they reason fiercely, And call the laws of Providence unequal. (I, p. 7) Mentor counters this complaint by instructing Telemachus to restrain his passions and "To wait the leisure of the righteous Gods" till one day he will "bow, and bless thy fate, and own the Gods are just." Mentor says of the suitors, Doubt not but all their crimes, and all thy wrongs Are judg'd by Nemesis and equal love; Suffer the fools to laugh and loll secure, This is their day,-but there is one behind For vengeance and Ulysses. (p. 9) The much-injured Ulysses himself, disguised as the beggar Aethon, ad- vises Telemachus to bear his injuries and indignation (as he himself has done) in expectation of "That day of recompence and righteous justice." Upon her entrance Penelope renews the central question of the play: How can the gods allow the virtuous to suffer for so long the ad- versity of fate and the perversity of men? She reminds the suitors of what she has suffered-"From Troy, the winds and seas, the Gods and you"-all for her Ulysses (p. 14). She complains, Are not my wrongs gone up to Heav'n against you? Do they not stand before the throne of Jove; And call incessant on his tardy vengeance? (p. 15) In response to his threats against Telemachus, Penelope promises to marry Eurymachus, but she regains her fortitude and attempts to kill Tamerlane and Ulysses 59 Rowe's Ulysses (Works, II, 1 ff) begins with the question of Providence. Telemachus' opening lines complain of his condition in the absence of Ulysses and of justice: 0 MENTOR! urge no more my royal birth, Urge not the honours of my race divine, Call not to my remembrance what I am, Born of Ulysses, and deriv'd from Jove; For 'tis the curse of mighty minds opprest, To think what their state is, and what it should be; Impatient of their lot they reason fiercely, And call the laws of Providence unequal. (I, p. 7) Mentor counters this complaint by instructing Telemachus to restrain his passions and "To wait the leisure of the righteous Gods" till one day he will "bow, and bless thy fate, and own the Gods are just." Mentor says of the suitors, Doubt not but all their crimes, and all thy wrongs Are judg'd by Nemesis and equal Jove; Suffer the fools to laugh and loll secure, This is their day-but there is one behind For vengeance and Ulysses. (p. 9) The much-injured Ulysses himself, disguised as the beggar Aethon, ad- vises Telemachus to bear his injuries and indignation (as he himself has done) in expectation of "That day of recompence and righteous justice." Upon her entrance Penelope renews the central question of the play: How can the gods allow the virtuous to suffer for so long the ad- versity of fate and the perversity of men? She reminds the suitors of what she has suffered-"From Troy, the winds and seas, the Gods and you"-all for her Ulysses (p. 14). She complains, Are not my wrongs gone up to Heav'n against you? Do they not stand before the throne of Jove; And call incessant on his tardy vengeance? (p. 15) In response to his threats against Telemachus, Penelope promises to marry Eurymachus, but she regains her fortitude and attempts to kill Tamerlane and Ulysses 59 Rowe's Ulysses (Works, II, 1 ff) begins with the question of Providence. Telemachus' opening lines complain of his condition in the absence of Ulysses and of justice: 0 MENTOR! urge no more my royal birth, Urge not the honours of my race divine, Call not to my remembrance what I am, Born of Ulysses, and deriv'd from love; For 'tis the curse of mighty minds opprest, To think what their state is, and what it should be; Impatient of their lot they reason fiercely, And call the laws of Providence unequal. (I, p. 7) Mentor counters this complaint by instructing Telemachus to restrain his passions and "To wait the leisure of the righteous Gods" till one day he will "bow, and bless thy fate, and own the Gods are just." Mentor says of the suitors, Doubt not but all their crimes, and all thy wrongs Are judg'd by Nemesis and equal love; Suffer the fools to laugh and loll secure, This is their day,-but there is one behind For vengeance and Ulysses. (p. 9) The much-injured Ulysses himself, disguised as the beggar Aethon, ad- vises Telemachus to bear his injuries and indignation (as he himself has done) in expectation of "That day of recompence and righteous justice." Upon her entrance Penelope renews the central question of the play: How can the gods allow the virtuous to suffer for so long the ad- versity of fate and the perversity of men? She reminds the suitors of what she has suffered-"From Troy, the winds and seas, the Gods and you"-all for her Ulysses (p. 14). She complains, Are not my wrongs gone up to Heav'n against you? Do they not stand before the throne of love; And call incessant on his tardy vengeance? (p. 15) In response to his threats against Telemachus, Penelope promises to marry Eurymachus, but she regains her fortitude and attempts to kill  60 The Trial of the Innocent herself as the only way both to save her honor and to escape witnessing Telemachus' death. When she is disarmed by Aethon and constrained by Mentor and Eumaeus, she sinks down in despair and complains bit- terly against both gods and men: Cast not thy eyes up to yon azure firmament, Nor hope relief from thence, the Gods are pitiless, Or busy in their heav'n, and thou not worth their care; And oh! oh! cast 'em not on earth, to seek For succour from the faithless race of man. (It, p. 37) Penelope's complaint is the archetypal crisis of faith which is at the heart of the problem of suffering innocence. Rowe balances her doubt against the hope of others and finally against the testimony of the gods themselves. As he has done with Telemachus, Mentor now in- structs her to rely on Providence: Far be that thought, to think you are forsaken; Gods and good men shall make you still their care. Eumaeus seconds him with a prediction of an imminent Doomsday, "That good we daily pray'd for, but pray'd hopeless" (p. 38). Such a day is the theodicean promise, and Mentor marks its advent: And bark! vindictive Jove prepares his thunder, Let the wrong-doer and the tyrant tremble! The Gods are present with us. At that moment the beleaguered faithful are granted a theophany. Pallas descends to mark the return of justice, and the three pray for vin- dication. As she reascends, Pallas' smile appears an "omen," and "to the left auspicious rolls the thunder" to mark Ulysses' triumphal entry, "magnificently armed and habited" (p. 39). The import is clear. Ulysses is the agent of "vindictive love," his Champion, and justice is impend- ing. The day has come. As Penelope's (and later Telemachus') continual praising of the gods attests (p. 39 f), Ulysses' return is indeed providential. He is under the guidance of Jove, who provides him the "Opportunity" to seize his "right" and "empire" (p. 40). Moreover, as the continual references to Ulysses as "God-like" insist, he is explicitly the representative of Jove. 60 The Trial of the Innocent herself as the only way both to save her honor and to escape witnessing Telemachus' death. When she is disarmed by Aethon and constrained by Mentor and Eumaeus, she sinks down in despair and complains bit- terly against both gods and men: Cast not thy eyes up to yon azure firmament, Nor hope relief from thence, the Gods are pitiless, Or busy in their heav'n, and thou not worth their care; And oh! oh! cast 'en not on earth, to seek For succour from the faithless race of man. (III, p. 37) Penelope's complaint is the archetypal crisis of faith which is at the heart of the problem of suffering innocence. Rowe balances her doubt against the hope of others and finally against the testimony of the gods themselves. As he has done with Telemachus, Mentor now in- structs her to rely on Providence: Far be that thought, to think you are forsaken; Gods and good men shall make you still their care. Eumaeus seconds him with a prediction of an imminent Doomsday, "That good we daily pray'd for, but pray'd hopeless" (p. 38). Such a day is the theodicean promise, and Mentor marks its advent: And hark! vindictive Jove prepares his thunder, Let the wrong-doer and the tyrant tremble! The Gods are present with us. At that moment the beleaguered faithful are granted a theophany. Pallas descends to mark the return of justice, and the three pray for vin- dication. As she reascends, Pallas' smile appears an "omen," and "to the left auspicious rolls the thunder" to mark Ulysses' triumphal entry, "magnifcently ared and habited" (p. 39). The import is clear. Ulysses is the agent of "vindictive Jove," his Champion, and justice is impend- ing. The day has come. As Penelope's (and later Telemachus') continual praising of the gods attests (p. 39 f), Ulysses' return is indeed providential. He is under the guidance of Jove, who provides him the "opportunity" to seize his "right" and "empire" (p. 40). Moreover, as the continual references to Ulysses as "God-like" insist, he is explicitly the representative of Jove. 60 The Trial of the Innocent herself as the only way both to save her honor and to escape witnessing Telemachus' death. When she is disarmed by Aethon and constrained by Mentor and Eumaeus, she sinks down in despair and complains bit- terly against both gods and men: Cast not thy eyes up to yon azure firmament, Nor hope relief from thence, the Gods are pitiless, Or busy in their beav'n, and thou not worth their care; And oh! oh! cast 'em not on earth, to seek For succour from the faithless race of man. (I, p. 37) Penelope's complaint is the archetypal crisis of faith which is at the heart of the problem of suffering innocence. Rowe balances her doubt against the hope of others and finally against the testimony of the gods themselves. As he has done with Telemachus, Mentor now in- structs her to rely on Providence: Far be that thought, to think you are forsaken; Gods and good men shall make you still their care. Eumaeus seconds him with a prediction of an imminent Doomsday, "That good we daily pray'd for, but pray'd hopeless" (p. 38). Such a day is the theodicean promise, and Mentor marks its advent: And hark! vindictive Jove prepares his thunder, Let the wrong-doer and the tyrant tremble! The Gods are present with us. At that moment the beleaguered faithful are granted a theophany. Pallas descends to mark the return of justice, and the three pray for vin- dication. As she reascends, Pallas' smile appears an "omen," and "to the left auspicious rolls the thunder" to mark Ulysses' triumphal entry, "magnificently armed and habited" (p. 39). The import is clear. Ulysses is the agent of "vindictive love," his Champion, and justice is impend- ing. The day has come. As Penelope's (and later Telemachus') continual praising of the gods attests (p. 39 f), Ulysses' return is indeed providential. He is under the guidance of Jove, who provides him the "opportunity" to seize his "right" and "empire" (p. 40). Moreover, as the continual references to Ulysses as "God-like" insist, be is explicitly the representative of Jove.  Tamerlane and Ulysses He tells Telemachus, 61 Tamerlane and Ulysses He tells Telemachus, 61 Justice instructs her sword to this right hand, And I will see it faithfully employ'd. (p. 43) The last description of the suitors, who have been portrayed throughout as blasphemous, is the final justification of their fate: Ulysses prepares to invade yon' drunkards, Immerst in riot, careless, and defying The Gods as fables, start upon 'em sudden, And send their guilty souls to howl below, Upon the banks of Styx. (p. 44) The return of Ulysses proves that the gods are anything but "fables." By Telemachus' "fatal error," however (V, p. 56), Ulysses' cause is nearly lost and Providence nearly thwarted (so it would seem). Antinous seizes Penelope and bids Ulysses "In vain to Pallas and to Jove com- plain" (IV, p. 56). Indeed, Eumaeus does complain, and even Mentor expects only death, "That last relief, that refuge of despair" (V, p. 56 f). In contrast, Ulysses eschews despair and utters the supreme theodicean statement of the play: To doubt if there be justice with the Gods, Or if they care for ought below, were impious. Oft have I tried, and ever found 'em faithful, In all the various perils of my life, In battles, in the midst of flaming Troy, In stormy seas, in those dread regions where Swarthy Cimmerians have their dark abode, Divided from this world, and borderers on hell; Ev'n there the providence of love was with me, Defended, chear'd, and bore me thro' the danger; Nor is his pow'r, nor is my virtue less, That I should fear this rude tumultuous herd. (p. 63) Pallas' assistance throughout the Odyssey, then, stands as the proof of the care and the justice of Providence, Which must be trusted again at this crisis. Justice instructs her sword to this right hand, And I will see it faithfully employ'd. (p. 43) The last description of the suitors, who have been portrayed throughout as blasphemous, is the final justification of their fate: Ulysses prepares to invade yon' drunkards, Immerst in riot, careless, and defying The Gods as fables, start upon 'em sudden, And send their guilty souls to howl below, Upon the banks of Styx. (p. 44) The return of Ulysses proves that the gods are anything but "fables." By Telemachus' "fatal error," however (V, p. 56), Ulysses' cause is nearly lost and Providence nearly thwarted (so it would seem). Antinous seizes Penelope and bids Ulysses "In vain to Pallas and to love com- plain" (IV, p. 56). Indeed, Eumaeus does complain, and even Mentor expects only death, "That last relief, that refuge of despair" (V, p. 56 f). In contrast, Ulysses eschews despair and utters the supreme theodicean statement of the play: To doubt if there be justice with the Gods, Or if they care for ought below, were impious. Oft have I tried, and ever found 'em faithful, In all the various perils of my life, In battles, in the midst of flaming Troy, In stormy seas, in those dread regions where Swarthy Cimmerians have their dark abode, Divided from this world, and borderers on hell; Ev'n there the providence of Jove was with me, Defended, chear'd, and bore me thro' the danger; Nor is his pow'r, nor is my virtue less, That I should fear this rude tumultuous herd. (p. 63) Pallas' assistance throughout the Odyssey, then, stands as the proof of the care and the justice of Providence, Which must be trusted again at this crisis. Tamerlane and Ulysses 61 He tells Telemachus, Justice instructs her sword to this right hand, And I will see it faithfully employ'd. (p. 43) The last description of the suitors, who have been portrayed throughout as blasphemous, is the final justification of their fate: Ulysses prepares to invade yon' drunkards, Immerst in riot, careless, and defying The Gods as fables, start upon 'em sudden, And send their guilty souls to howl below, Upon the banks of Styx. (p. 44) The return of Ulysses proves that the gods are anything but "fables." By Telemachus' "fatal error," however (V, p. 56), Ulysses' cause is nearly lost and Providence nearly thwarted (so it would seem). Antinous seizes Penelope and bids Ulysses "In vain to Pallas and to love com- plain" (IV, p. 56). Indeed, Eumaeus does complain, and even Mentor expects only death, "That last relief, that refuge of despair" (V, p. 56 f). In contrast, Ulysses eschews despair and utters the supreme theodicean statement of the play: To doubt if there be justice with the Gods, Or if they care for ought below, were impious. Oft have I tried, and ever found 'em faithful, In all the various perils of my life, In battles, in the midst of flaming Troy, In stormy seas, in those dread regions where Swarthy Cimmerians have their dark abode, Divided from this world, and borderers on hell; Ev'n there the providence of Jove was with me, Defended, chear'd, and bore me thro' the danger; Nor is his pow'r, nor is my virtue less, That I should fear this rude tumultuous herd. (p. 63) Pallas' assistance throughout the Odyssey, then, stands as the proof of the care and the justice of Providence, Which must be trusted again at this crisis.  62 The Trial of the Innocent Confronting the rebellious Antinous, Ulysses actually goes so far as to disdain the help of the gods (p. 64). But Antinous spitefully grants him divine assistance: "Invoke those friendly Gods whose care thou art, / And let them save thee" (p. 65). Ulysses rightly brands him a "de- fler of the Gods" and attacks. Ulysses' boast is not justified, however, for he is not "alone sufficient" to defeat Antinous, and the gods must help. It is not Ulysses but Telemachus who wins the day. Ulysses inter- prets the significance of Telemachus' arrival: Celestial Pow'rs! ye guardians of the just! This wond'rous work is yours, and yours be all the praise. The truth of this interpretation is witnessed even by Antinous: "Thou and thy Gods at last have got the better" (p. 66). The point is that the gods do care and that man must rely on them for justice. The overall design of the play unmistakably images a providential universe. Penelope's and Ulysses' final comments are even more instructive of the theodicean argument of the play. She runs to Ulysses and exults, At length the Gods have prov'd us to the utmost, Are satisfied with what we have endur'd, And never will afflict nor part us more. Similarly, Ulysses says to Telemachus, 'Tis true the gracious Gods are kind at last, And well reward me here for all my sorrows past. (p. 67) Thus Providence does grant Ulysses and Penelope an earthly reward for their virtue-but not before they have endured their trial of suffer- ing. The pattern is basically the same as in The Ambitious Stepmother and Tamerlane-trial and providential judgment. Yet Rowe's Ulysses does not focus on the trial of the central hero. Ulysses has already been tried in the half of the Odyssey not represented but briefly alluded to in his remarks at his reunion with Penelope and in his references to his sufferings throughout. Instead the play focuses on his vengeance and vindication, in the process of which he himself, as the representative of justice, tries others, especially Penelope and Telemachus. In the 62 The Trial of the Innocent Confronting the rebellious Antinous, Ulysses actually goes so far as to disdain the help of the gods (p. 64). But Antinous spitefully grants him divine assistance: "Invoke those friendly Gods whose care thou art, / And let them save thee" (p. 65). Ulysses rightly brands him a "de- fler of the Gods" and attacks. Ulysses' boast is not justified, however, for he is not "alone sufficient" to defeat Antinous, and the gods must help. It is not Ulysses but Telemachus who wins the day. Ulysses inter- prets the significance of Telemachus' arrival: Celestial Pow'rs! ye guardians of the just! This wond'rous work is yours, and yours be all the praise. The truth of this interpretation is witnessed even by Antinous: "Thou and thy Gods at last have got the better" (p. 66). The point is that the gods do care and that man must rely on them for justice. The overall design of the play unmistakably images a providential universe. Penelope's and Ulysses' final comments are even more instructive of the theodicean argument of the play. She runs to Ulysses and exults, At length the Gods have prov'd us to the utmost, Are satisfied with what we have endur'd, And never will afflict nor part us more. Similarly, Ulysses says to Telemachus, 'Tis true the gracious Gods are kind at last, And well reward me here for all my sorrows past. (p. 67) Thus Providence does grant Ulysses and Penelope an earthly reward for their virtue-but not before they have endured their trial of suffer- ing. The pattern is basically the same as in The Ambitious Stepmother and Tamerlane-trial and providential judgment. Yet Rowe's Ulysses does not focus on the trial of the central hero. Ulysses has already been tried in the half of the Odyssey not represented but briefly alluded to in his remarks at his reunion with Penelope and in his references to his sufferings throughout. Instead the play focuses on his vengeance and vindication, in the process of which he himself, as the representative of justice, tries others, especially Penelope and Telemachus. In the 62 The Trial of the Innocent Confronting the rebellious Antinous, Ulysses actually goes so far as to disdain the help of the gods (p. 64). But Antinous spitefully grants him divine assistance: "Invoke those friendly Gods whose care thou art, / And let them save thee" (p. 65). Ulysses rightly brands him a "de- fier of the Gods" and attacks. Ulysses' boast is not justified, however, for he is not "alone sufficient" to defeat Antinous, and the gods must help. It is not Ulysses but Telemachus who wins the day. Ulysses inter- prets the significance of Telemachus' arrival: Celestial Pow'rs! ye guardians of the just! This wond'rous work is yours, and yours be all the praise. The truth of this interpretation is witnessed even by Antinous: "Thou and thy Gods at last have got the better" (p. 66). The point is that the gods do care and that man must rely on them for justice. The overall design of the play unmistakably images a providential universe. Penelope's and Ulysses' final comments are even more instructive of the theodicean argument of the play. She runs to Ulysses and exults, At length the Gods have prov'd us to the utmost, Are satisfied with what we have endur'd, And never will afflict nor part us more. Similarly, Ulysses says to Telemachus, 'Tis true the gracious Gods are kind at last, And well reward me here for all my sorrows past. (p. 67) Thus Providence does grant Ulysses and Penelope an earthly reward for their virtue-but not before they have endured their trial of suffer- ing. The pattem is basically the same as in The Ambitious Stepmother and Tamerlane-trial and providential judgment. Yet Rowe's Ulysses does not focus on the trial of the central hero. Ulysses has already been tried in the half of the Odyssey not represented but briefly alluded to in his remarks at his reunion with Penelope and in his references to his sufferings throughout. Instead the play focuses on his vengeance and vindication, in the process of which he himself, as the representative of justice, tries others, especially Penelope and Telemachus. In the  Tamerlane and Ulysses 63 Odyssey, Minerva praises Ulysses for his prudence in not, as soon as he reaches Ithaca, rushing home to wife and son as other men would have done: Not thus Ulysses; he decrees to prove His subjects faith, and Queen's suspected love. (XII.383 f) Unlike Homer, Rowe does not stress the actual testing of the suitors for any redeeming virtues, although he does portray Aethon as a railer who attempts in vain to goad the suitors to reform. Rowe does, however, stress the trial of Ulysses' Queen and then of his son, and the play can be roughly divided accordingly. The Greek for Pope's "to prove / His ... Queen's suspected love" is an* &hdXov eepipaeat (Od. XIII.336, Loeb). With the personal geni- tive, the verb (the Ionic future infinitive form of eeephs) means to make trial of a person, in this case Ulysses' spouse. Perhaps taking his cue from this line," Rowe has expanded the metaphor into a full-fledged and severe trial for Penelope. Having witnessed Penelope's rebuff to the suitors, Aethon extolls her exemplary virtue, which has already under- gone twenty years of trial: "0 matchless proof of faith and love un- chang'd" (I, p. 16). At this point he is convinced of her truth. There is no "suspected love" here. Yet Eurymachus raises a doubt, and Ulysses resolves that Penelope "must be try'd" (p. 19). Penelope's trial is that of Racine's Andromaque: a wife's honor versus a mother's love." In Racine's play, Andromaque must agree to marry Achilles' son Pyrrhus or else Hector's and her son Astyanax will be sent with Oreste back to the Greeks to be killed. To save her son she finally yields, but plans to kill herself once his safety is assured "par des nnouds immortels," the marriage bonds (vs. 1092). She is reprieved by Pyrrhus' death. In Rowe's play, Penelope is forced to the same ex- tremity. She passes the test of solicitation and indignantly rebukes Aethon's pandering, but Eurymachus abandons persuasion and threat- ens to kill Telemachus. Aethon comments aside, "That stroke was home -now, virtue, hold thy own" (II, p. 29), and Penelope demands such strictness from herself (p. 31). But like Andromaque's, her trial is even more demanding than her own death, and "A mother's mourning for her only son" causes her to yield. She is immediately aware of the cost, and pathetically, she exits murmuring that she gave her son a second birth "at a price too great" (p. 33). Despite Mentor's insistence on the "unequal terms" under which Tamerlane and Ulysses 63 Odyssey, Minerva praises Ulysses for his prudence in not, as soon as he reaches Ithaca, rushing home to wife and son as other men would have done: Not thus Ulysses; he decrees to prove His subjects faith, and Queen's suspected love. (XIII.383 f) Unlike Homer, Rowe does not stress the actual testing of the suitors for any redeeming virtues, although he does portray Aethon as a railer who attempts in vain to goad the suitors to reform. Rowe does, however, stress the trial of Ulysses' Queen and then of his son, and the play can be roughly divided accordingly. The Greek for Pope's "to prove / His ... Queen's suspected love" is nie eihdXov oeepsaea (Od. XIII.336, Loeb). With the personal geni- tive, the verb (the Ionic future infinitive form of vetpha) means to make trial of a person, in this case Ulysses' spouse. Perhaps taking his cue from this line," Rowe has expanded the metaphor into a full-fledged and severe trial for Penelope. Having witnessed Penelope's rebuff to the suitors, Aethon extolls her exemplary virtue, which has already under- gone twenty years of trial: "0 matchless proof of faith and love on- chang'd" (, p. 16). At this point he is convinced of her truth. There is no "suspected love" here. Yet Eurymachus raises a doubt, and Ulysses resolves that Penelope "must be try'd" (p. 19). Penelope's trial is that of Racine's Andromaque: a wife's honor versus a mother's love." In Racine's play, Andromaque must agree to marry Achilles' son Pyrrhus or else Hector's and her son Astyanax will be sent with Oreste back to the Greeks to be killed. To save her son she finally yields, but plans to kill herself once his safety is assured "par des noeuds immortels," the marriage bonds (vs. 1092). She is reprieved by Pyrrhus' death. In Rowe's play, Penelope is forced to the same ex- tremity. She passes the test of solicitation and indignantly rebukes Aethon's pandering, but Eurymachus abandons persuasion and threat- ens to kill Telemachus. Aethon comments aside, "That stroke was home -now, virtue, hold thy own" (It, p. 29), and Penelope demands such strictness from herself (p. 31). But like Andromaque's, her trial is even more demanding than her own death, and "A mother's mourning for her only son" causes her to yield. She is immediately aware of the cost, and pathetically, she exits murmuring that she gave her son a second birth "at a price too great" (p. 33). Despite Mentor's insistence on the "unequal terms" under which Tamerlane and Ulysses 63 Odyssey, Minerva praises Ulysses for his prudence in not, as soon as he reaches Ithaca, rushing home to wife and son as other men would have done: Not thus Ulysses; he decrees to prove His subjects faith, and Queen's suspected love. (XIII.383 f) Unlike Homer, Rowe does not stress the actual testing of the suitors for any redeeming virtues, although he does portray Aethon as a railer who attempts in vain to goad the suitors to reform. Rowe does, however, stress the trial of Ulysses' Queen and then of his son, and the play can be roughly divided accordingly. The Greek for Pope's "to prove / His ... Queen's suspected love" is oils rh6Xov vetp oEat (Od. XIII.336, Loeb). With the personal geni- tive, the verb (the Ionic future infinitive form of weeps) means to make trial of a person, in this case Ulysses' spouse. Perhaps taking his cue from this line," Rowe has expanded the metaphor into a full-fledged and severe trial for Penelope. Having witnessed Penelope's rebuff to the suitors, Aethon extolls her exemplary virtue, which has already under- gone twenty years of trial: "0 matchless proof of faith and love un- chang'd" (I, p. 16). At this point he is convinced of her truth. There is no "suspected love" here. Yet Eurymachus raises a doubt, and Ulysses resolves that Penelope "must be try'd" (p. 19). Penelope's trial is that of Racine's Andromaque: a wife's honor versus a mother's love." In Racine's play, Andromaque must agree to marry Achilles' son Pyrrhus or else Hector's and her son Astyanax will be sent with Oreste back to the Greeks to be killed. To save her son she finally yields, but plans to kill herself once his safety is assured "par des noeuds immortels," the marriage bonds (vs. 1092). She is reprieved by Pyrrhus' death. In Rowe's play, Penelope is forced to the same ex- tremity. She passes the test of solicitation and indignantly rebukes Aethon's pandering, but Eurymachus abandons persuasion and threat- ens to kill Telemachus. Aethon comments aside, "That stroke was home -now, virtue, hold thy own" (II, p. 29), and Penelope demands such strictness from herself (p. 31). But like Andromaque's, her trial is even more demanding than her own death, and "A mother's mourning for her only son" causes her to yield. She is immediately aware of the cost, and pathetically, she exits murmuring that she gave her son a second birth "at a price too great" (p. 33). Despite Mentor's insistence on the "unequal terms" under which  64 The Trial of the Innocent Penelope has struggled, Aethon concludes that her virtue is already "abandon'd, lost and gone" and that she is now a "Cursed object" (III, p. 34 f). Yet Eumaeus proves to be right: her compliance was only "one unheeded word, / Fore'd from her in the bitterest pangs of sorrow" (p. 35). The distraught Penelope is no longer hesitant. Unlike Andromaque, she has no perfect solution to save both her honor and her son. For the model of fidelity, the marriage itself would be a pollution. There is no way out. As Ulysses has demanded (p. 34), since she cannot conquer, she chooses to die-to preserve her virtue and to "shield" herself from the piteous spectacle of Telemachus' murder (p. 36 f). Her trial is over, and calling himself a "trifer," Ulysses stays her hand. The ensuing the- ophany is a sign that the disconsolate Penelope has been more than sufficiently proved; indeed, as her pitiful, desperate complaint indicates, she has reached the limits of human endurance. At last "vindictive Jove" is ready to reward and punish. Only the trial of Telemachus remains. Telemachus, "whose temper / Is open as the day, and unsuspect- ing" (I, p. 10), is led by the false Antinous to forsake "The fierceness, rage, and pride of youth" that suit his condition and to become "the love-sick youth [that] dotes ev'n to death / Upon the Samian Princess" (II, p. 22). So Telemachus in his naivety has allowed himself to be dis- tracted from the primary business at hand-the assumption of his role as Ulysses' son in the chaotic state of Ithaca. We recall his opening com- plaint to Mentor: Call not to my remembrance what I am, Born of Ulysses, and deriv'd from Jove; For 'tis the curse of mighty minds opprest, To think what their state is, and what it should be. Moreover, Telemachus' love leads him rash and overhasty into an illicit marriage, for Semanthe is a virgin dedicated to Diana-thus her fits and starts during and after the ceremony (1I, p. 23 ff). Her portentous dream, wherein Diana condemns her marriage and her father's corpse takes Telemachus' place, is expressive of Semanthe's guilt and prophetic of the fate of the marriage. Semanthe and Telemachus do not heed the dream, however. He tells her not to "dread the anger of the awful Gods," since she is "Safe" in her "native unoffending innocence" (p. 25). Yet a bit like Adam and Eve, they steal away from the "watchful eye" of Aethon, who recognizes their flirtation with "folly" (p. 26) and drives home the import of their actions: 64 The Trial of the Innocent Penelope has struggled, Aethon concludes that her virtue is already "abandon'd, lost and gone" and that she is now a "Cursed object" (III, p. 34 f). Yet Eumaeus proves to be right: her compliance was only "one unheeded word, / Forc'd from her in the bitterest pangs of sorrow" (p. 35). The distraught Penelope is no longer hesitant. Unlike Andromaque, she has no perfect solution to save both her honor and her son. For the model of fidelity, the marriage itself would be a pollution. There is no way out. As Ulysses has demanded (p. 34), since she cannot conquer, she chooses to die-to preserve her virtue and to "shield" herself from the piteous spectacle of Telemachus' murder (p. 36 f). Her trial is over, and calling himself a "trifler," Ulysses stays her hand. The ensuing the- ophany is a sign that the disconsolate Penelope has been more than sufficiently proved; indeed, as her pitiful, desperate complaint indicates, she has reached the limits of human endurance. At last "vindictive love" is ready to reward and punish. Only the trial of Telemachus remains."' Telemachus, "whose temper / Is open as the day, and unsuspect- ing" (I, p. 10), is led by the false Antinous to forsake "The fierceness, rage, and pride of youth" that suit his condition and to become "the love-sick youth (that] dotes ev'n to death / Upon the Samian Princess" (II, p. 22). So Telemachus in his naivety has allowed himself to be dis- tracted from the primary business at hand-the assumption of his role as Ulysses' son in the chaotic state of Ithaca. We recall his opening com- plaint to Mentor: Call not to my remembrance what I am, Born of Ulysses, and deriv'd from Jove; For 'tis the curse of mighty minds opprest, To think what their state is, and what it should be. Moreover, Telemachus' love leads him rash and overhasty into an illicit marriage, for Semanthe is a virgin dedicated to Diana-thus her fits and starts during and after the ceremony (It, p. 23 ff). Her portentous dream, wherein Diana condemns her marriage and her father's corpse takes Telemachus' place, is expressive of Semanthe's guilt and prophetic of the fate of the marriage. Semanthe and Telemachus do not heed the dream, however. He tells her not to "dread the anger of the awful Gods," since she is "Safe" in her "native unoffending innocence" (p. 25). Yet a bit like Adam and Eve, they steal away from the "watchful eye" of Aethon, who recognizes their flirtation with "folly" (p. 26) and drives home the import of their actions; 64 The Trial of the Innocent Penelope has struggled, Aethon concludes that her virtue is already "abandon'd, lost and gone" and that she is now a "Cursed object" (III, p. 34 f). Yet Eumaeus proves to be right: her compliance was only "one unheeded word, / Forc'd from her in the bitterest pangs of sorrow" (p. 35). The distraught Penelope is no longer hesitant. Unlike Andromaque, she has no perfect solution to save both her honor and her son. For the model of fidelity, the marriage itself would be a pollution. There is no way out. As Ulysses has demanded (p. 34), since she cannot conquer, she chooses to die-to preserve her virtue and to "shield" herself from the piteous spectacle of Telemachus' murder (p. 36 f). Her trial is over, and calling himself a "trifler," Ulysses stays her hand. The ensuing the- ophany is a sign that the disconsolate Penelope has been more than sufficiently proved; indeed, as her pitiful, desperate complaint indicates, she has reached the limits of human endurance. At last "vindictive Jove" is ready to reward and punish. Only the trial of Telemachus remains."' Telemachus, "whose temper / Is open as the day, and unsuspect- ing" (I, p. 10), is led by the false Antinous to forsake "The fierceness, rage, and pride of youth" that suit his condition and to become "the love-sick youth [that] dotes ev'n to death / Upon the Samian Princess" (II, p. 22). So Telemachus in his naivety has allowed himself to be dis- tracted from the primary business at hand-the assumption of his role as Ulysses' son in the chaotic state of Ithaca. We recall his opening com- plaint to Mentor: Call not to my remembrance what I am, Born of Ulysses, and deriv'd from Jove; For 'tis the curse of mighty minds opprest, To think what their state is, and what it should be. Moreover, Telemachus' love leads him rash and overhasty into an illicit marriage, for Semanthe is a virgin dedicated to Diana-thus her fits and starts during and after the ceremony (II, p. 23 ff). Her portentous dream, wherein Diana condemns her marriage and her father's corpse takes Telemachus' place, is expressive of Semanthe's guilt and prophetic of the fate of the marriage. Semanthe and Telemachus do not heed the dream, however. He tells her not to "dread the anger of the awful Gods," since she is "Safe" in her "native unoffending innocence" (p. 25). Yet a bit like Adam and Eve, they steal away from the "watchful eye" of Aethon, who recognizes their flirtation with "folly" (p. 26) and drives home the import of their actions:  Tamerlane and Ulysses 65 Tamerlane and Ulysses 65 This Sasnian King is happy in his arts: His daughter, vow'd a virgin to Diana, Is brought to play the wanton here at Ithaca: No matter for religion; let the Gods Look to their rites themselves. When he later reveals himself to Telemachus, Ulysses makes "harsh mention" of his love to remind him of what he owes to "honour" (III, p. 42). Telemachus is boldly assertive and would be tried in battle, but Ulysses has a greater trial for him: to defend his mother against Semanthe's father. When he warns Telemachus, "With powerful oppo- sition shalt thou strive" (p. 44), the audience is aware, as Ulysses him- self must be, that the struggle will be not only against the power of Eurymachus but also against the power of Telemachus' love for Semanthe. As he kneels to kiss his father's sword, like Corneille's Rodrigue, Telemachus responds to his charge by wagering what the French would call his gloire: I swear-And may my lot in future fame Be good or evil but as I perform it. Yet again like Rodrigue, Telemachus hesitates momentarily. His wed- ding night, which he has promised to Semanthe and to love (II, p. 26), he gives over only grudgingly to honor (IV, p. 46). From the first sight of Eurymachus he attempts to avoid the fatal confrontation to which he has pledged himself. Finally, in the climax of the problem of his identity and his "nature," Telemachus becomes what his heritage has destined him to be: Nay then 'tis time to speak like what I am, And tell you, Sir, you must not, nor you shall not [pass]. (p. 48) He dispels the last hesitation and becomes the champion not only of his mother's honor but also of "the Gods" themselves (p. 49). As he kills Eurymachus, he reignites the "heav'nly fire" that had nearly grown "ex- tinct within" him. Telemachus' trial is by no means over, however. Like Chimene, Semanthe adopts the code of honor that has destroyed her father and rejects love, along with its concomitant mercy and forgiveness, in favor This Samian King is happy in his arts: His daughter, vow'd a virgin to Diana, Is brought to play the wanton here at Ithaca: No matter for religion; let the Gods Look to their rites themselves. When he later reveals himself to Telemachus, Ulysses makes "harsh mention" of his love to remind him of what he owes to "honour" (III, p. 42). Telemachus is boldly assertive and would be tried in battle, but Ulysses has a greater trial for him; to defend his mother against Semanthe's father. When he warns Telemachus, "With powerful oppo- sition shalt thou strive" (p. 44), the audience is aware, as Ulysses him- self must be, that the struggle will be not only against the power of Eurymachus but also against the power of Telemachus' love for Semanthe. As he kneels to kiss his father's sword, like Coneille's Rodrigue, Telemachus responds to his charge by wagering what the French would call his gloire: I swear-And may my lot in future fame Be good or evil but as I perform it. Yet again like Rodrigue, Telemachus hesitates momentarily. His wed- ding night, which he has promised to Semanthe and to love (II, p. 26), he gives over only grudgingly to honor (IV, p. 46). From the first sight of Eurymachus he attempts to avoid the fatal confrontation to which be has pledged himself. Finally, in the climax of the problem of his identity and his "nature," Telemachus becomes what his heritage has destined him to be: Nay then 'tis time to speak like what I am, And tell you, Sir, you must not, nor you shall not [pass]. (p. 48) He dispels the last hesitation and becomes the champion not only of his mother's honor but also of "the Gods" themselves (p. 49). As he kills Eurymachus, he reignites the "heav'nly fire" that had nearly grown "ex- tinct within" him. Telemachus' trial is by no means over, however. Like Chimene, Semanthe adopts the code of honor that has destroyed her father and rejects love, along with its concomitant mercy and forgiveness, in favor Tamerlane and Ulysses 65 This Samian King is happy in his arts: His daughter, vow'd a virgin to Diana, Is brought to play the wanton here at Ithaca: No matter for religion; let the Gods Look to their rites themselves. When he later reveals himself to Telemachus, Ulysses makes "harsh mention" of his love to remind him of what he owes to "honour" (I, p. 42). Telemachus is boldly assertive and would be tried in battle, but Ulysses has a greater trial for him: to defend his mother against Semanthe's father. When he warns Telemachus, "With powerful oppo- sition shalt thou strive" (p. 44), the audience is aware, as Ulysses him- self must be, that the struggle will be not only against the power of Eurymachus but also against the power of Telemachus' love for Semanthe. As he kneels to kiss his father's sword, like Corneille's Rodrigue, Telemachus responds to his charge by wagering what the French would call his gloire: I swear-And may my lot in future fame Be good or evil but as I perform it. Yet again like Rodrigue, Telemachus hesitates momentarily. His wed- ding night, which he has promised to Semanthe and to love (II, p. 26), he gives over only grudgingly to honor (IV, p. 46). From the first sight of Eurymachus he attempts to avoid the fatal confrontation to which he has pledged himself. Finally, in the climax of the problem of his identity and his "nature," Telemachus becomes what his heritage has destined him to be: Nay then 'tis time to speak like what I am, And tell you, Sir, you must not, nor you shall not [pass]. (p. 48) He dispels the last hesitation and becomes the champion not only of his mother's honor but also of "the Gods" themselves (p. 49). As he kills Eurymachus, he reignites the "heav'nly fire" that had nearly grown "ex- tinct within" him. Telemachus' trial is by no means over, however. Like Chimene, Semanthe adopts the code of honor that has destroyed her father and rejects love, along with its concomitant mercy and forgiveness, in favor  66 The Trial of the Innocent of "blood, destruction and revenge" (p. 53). As she leaves cursing those who would still believe in love, Telemachus moans, Now arm thee for the conflict, oh my soul, And see how thou canst bear Semanthe's loss. (p. 54) The burden is too great to bear. He is immediately overwhelmed by the thought that his father's "cruel policy" has been responsible for his loss, and he rushes, desperately "Careless of all," into battle to be killed (p. 55). At the same moment, he breaks his vow to his father and there- by fails his test after all-a failure with consequences far more serious than the loss of Semanthe. For he leaves Penelope unattended, allowing her to be seized and carried off to a citadel where she appears to be des- tined the object of another Trojan War: "Troy and Hector are reviv'd again" (p. 56). Telemachus has failed not only because of his despondency but because he has yielded his secrets to a false friend, Antinous. At the beginning of the play, Aethon instructs the distraught Telemachus (whom he sig- nificantly calls his "son") how to patiently await the "day of recompence and righteous justice": Learn thou, my son, the cruel arts of courts; Learn to dissemble wrongs, to smile at injuries, And suffer crimes, thou want'st the power to punish; Be easy, affable, familiar, friendly, Search, and know all mankind's mysterious ways, But trust the secret of thy soul to none. (I, p. 9) Aethon is, of course, the perfect embodiment of the lesson he gives, for he is the disguised Ulysses, famous for his worldly wisdom, stealth, and craftiness. Throughout the play, moreover, and throughout the entire Odyssean tradition, secrecy is established as a primary virtue, and both of Telemachus' parents are its exemplars. As mentioned earlier, Minerva in the epic praises Ulysses for his secrecy at his return, without which he would have been destroyed by the suitors. He uses his secrecy to test his followers, the suitors, and his wife, and to await his divinely occa- sioned opportunity for vindication. In the meantime, as he tries Pene- lope in the play, he suffers the "racking, racking, pain of secret thought" 66 The Trial of the Innocent of "blood, destruction and revenge" (p. 53). As she leaves cursing those who would still believe in love, Telemachus moans, Now arm thee for the conflict, oh my soul, And see how thou canst bear Semanthe's loss. (p. 54) The burden is too great to bear. He is immediately overwhelmed by the thought that his father's "cruel policy" has been responsible for his loss, and he rushes, desperately "Careless of all," into battle to be killed (p. 55). At the same moment, he breaks his vow to his father and there- by fails his test after all-a failure with consequences far more serious than the loss of Semanthe. For he leaves Penelope unattended, allowing her to be seized and carried off to a citadel where she appears to be des- tined the object of another Trojan War: "Troy and Hector are reviv'd again" (p. 56). Telemachus has failed not only because of his despondency but because he has yielded his secrets to a false friend, Antinous. At the beginning of the play, Aethon instructs the distraught Telemachus (whom he sig- nificantly calls his "son") how to patiently await the "day of recompence and righteous justice" Learn thou, my son, the cruel arts of courts; Learn to dissemble wrongs, to smile at injuries, And suffer crimes, thou want'st the power to punish; Be easy, affable, familiar, friendly, Search, and know all mankind's mysterious ways, But trust the secret of thy soul to none. (I, p. 9) Aethon is, of course, the perfect embodiment of the lesson he gives, for he is the disguised Ulysses, famous for his worldly wisdom, stealth, and craftiness. Throughout the play, moreover, and throughout the entire Odyssean tradition, secrecy is established as a primary virtue, and both of Telemachus' parents are its exemplars. As mentioned earlier, Minerva in the epic praises Ulysses for his secrecy at his return, without which he would have been destroyed by the suitors. He uses his secrecy to test his followers, the suitors, and his wife, and to await his divinely occa- sioned opportunity for vindication. In the meantime, as he tries Pene- lope in the play, he suffers the "racking, racking, pain of secret thought" 66 The Trial of the Innocent of "blood, destruction and revenge" (p. 53). As she leaves cursing those who would still believe in love, Telemachus moans, Now arm thee for the conflict, oh my soul, And see how thou canst bear Semanthe's loss. (p. 54) The burden is too great to bear. He is immediately overwhelmed by the thought that his father's "cruel policy" has been responsible for his loss, and he rushes, desperately "Careless of all," into battle to be killed (p. 55). At the same moment, he breaks his vow to his father and there- by fails his test after all-a failure with consequences far more serious than the loss of Semanthe. For he leaves Penelope unattended, allowing her to be seized and carried off to a citadel where she appears to be des- tined the object of another Trojan War: "Troy and Hector are reviv'd again" (p. 56). Telemachus has failed not only because of his despondency but because he has yielded his secrets to a false friend, Antinous. At the beginning of the play, Aethon instructs the distraught Telemachus (whom he sig- nificantly calls his "son")how to patiently await the "day of recompence and righteous justice": Learn thou, my son, the cruel arts of courts; Learn to dissemble wrongs, to smile at injuries, And suffer crimes, thou want'st the power to punish; Be easy, affable, familiar, friendly, Search, and know all mankind's mysterious ways, But trust the secret of thy soul to none. (I, p. 9) Aethon is, of course, the perfect embodiment of the lesson he gives, for he is the disguised Ulysses, famous for his worldly wisdom, stealth, and craftiness. Throughout the play, moreover, and throughout the entire Odyssean tradition, secrecy is established as a primary virtue, and both of Telemachus' parents are its exemplars. As mentioned earlier, Minerva in the epic praises Ulysses for his secrecy at his return, without which he would have been destroyed by the suitors. He uses his secrecy to test his followers, the suitors, and his wife, and to await his divinely occa- sioned opportunity for vindication. In the meantime, as he tries Pene- lope in the play, he suffers the "racking, racking, pain of secret thought"  Tamerlane and Ulysses 67 Tamerlane and Ulysses 67 (II, p. 31). Secrecy has been equally important to Penelope. Through "The riddle of her mystic web" a, p. lt)-through what Polydamas the suitor calls "the secret malice of the night" which "Undid the labours of the former day"-she fooled the suitors for four years. For twenty years she has "preserv'd" the "heav'nly train" of marital virtues in her "secret soul" (It, p. 31). Now, even at the moment of ecstatic joy at Ulysses' return, she must yield to Mentor's call for secrecy and aban- don her lord again for a while: Mentor says, Think where you are, what eyes malicious chance May bring to pry into the happy secret, Untimely to disclose the fatal birth, And rashly bring it immature to light. (III, p. 40) Howbeit unwittingly, Telemachus does exactly what Mentor has feared, precisely because he does not heed Aethon's advice. Beseeching him to "heal" the "cares" that the son of Ulysses cannot escape (I, p. 10), Telemachus trusts Antinous with the "dear secret" of his soul-his love for Semanthe (p. 9)-and allows himself to be seduced into a secret and illicit marriage with her. Ironically, he hides his marriage from Aethon, who is in secret both his father and, as Ulysses makes clear at their re- union (III, p. 41), his truest friend. While the newlyweds steal away from his watchful eye, Aethon comments, Ha! what so close? how cautious to avoid me! As who should say, old man you are too wise, What has my youth to do with your instructions. (II, p. 26) Unaware of the marriage which makes the trial even more severe, Ulysses prepares to teach Telemachus a lesson. With grave irony, he promises Eurymachus for his secret marriage with Penelope a priest "try'd in these pious secrets" and "sworn to secrecy," one who is his "friend of ancient date" and "now in Ithaca" (II, p. 34)-meaning, of course, himself! But he sends instead Telemachus, who, if he is not actually sworn to secrecy by Ulysses, at least has been instructed in it by Aethon. Not only does Telemachus reveal the secret of his soul to his false friend, but he reveals his father's "fatal secret" too (IV, p. 45): Antinous exclaims, (II, p. 31). Secrecy has been equally important to Penelope. Through "The riddle of her mystic web" (I, p. 11)-through what Polydamas the suitor calls "the secret malice of the night" which "Undid the labours of the former day"-she fooled the suitors for four years. For twenty years she has "preserv'd" the "heav'nly train" of marital virtues in her "secret soul" (II, p. 31). Now, even at the moment of ecstatic joy at Ulysses' return, she must yield to Mentor's call for secrecy and aban- don her lord again for a while: Mentor says, Think where you are, what eyes malicious chance May bring to pry into the happy secret, Untimely to disclose the fatal birth, And rashly bring it immature to light. (III, p. 40) Howbeit unwittingly, Telemachus does exactly what Mentor has feared, precisely because he does not heed Aethon's advice. Beseeching him to "heal" the "cares" that the son of Ulysses cannot escape (I, p. 10), Telemachus trusts Antinous with the "dear secret" of his soul-his love for Semanthe (p. 9)-and allows himself to be seduced into a secret and illicit marriage with her. Ironically, he hides his marriage from Aethon, who is in secret both his father and, as Ulysses makes clear at their re- union (III, p. 41), his truest friend. While the newlyweds steal away from his watchful eye, Aethon comments, Ha! what so close? how cautious to avoid me! As who should say, old man you are too wise, What has my youth to do with your instructions. (II, p. 26) Unaware of the marriage which makes the trial even more severe, Ulysses prepares to teach Telemachus a lesson. With grave irony, he promises Eurymachus for his secret marriage with Penelope a priest "try'd in these pious secrets" and "sworn to secrecy," one who is his "friend of ancient date" and "now in Ithaca" (II, p. 34)-meaning, of course, himself! But he sends instead Telemachus, who, if he is not actually sworn to secrecy by Ulysses, at least has been instructed in it by Aethon. Not only does Telemachus reveal the secret of his soul to his false friend, but he reveals his father's "fatal secret" too (IV, p. 45): Antinous exclaims, Tamerlane and Ulysses 67 (II, p. 31). Secrecy has been equally important to Penelope. Through "The riddle of her mystic web" a, p. ll)-through what Polydamas the suitor calls "the secret malice of the night" which "Undid the labours of the former day"-she fooled the suitors for four years. For twenty years she has "preserv'd" the "heav'nly train" of marital virtues in her "secret soul" aI, p. 31). Now, even at the moment of ecstatic joy at Ulysses' return, she must yield to Mentor's call for secrecy and aban- don her lord again for a while: Mentor says, Think where you are, what eyes malicious chance May bring to pry into the happy secret, Untimely to disclose the fatal birth, And rashly bring it immature to light. (III, p. 40) Howbeit unwittingly, Telemachus does exactly what Mentor has feared, precisely because he does not heed Aethon's advice. Beseeching him to "heal" the "cares" that the son of Ulysses cannot escape (I, p. 10), Telemachus trusts Antinous with the "dear secret" of his soul-his love for Semanthe (p. 9)-and allows himself to be seduced into a secret and illicit marriage with her. Ironically, he hides his marriage from Aethon, who is in secret both his father and, as Ulysses makes clear at their re- union (III, p. 41), his truest friend. While the newlyweds steal away from his watchful eye, Aethon comments, Ha! what so close? how cautious to avoid me! As who should say, old man you are too wise, What has my youth to do with your instructions. (It, p. 26) Unaware of the marriage which makes the trial even more severe, Ulysses prepares to teach Telemachus a lesson. With grave irony, he promises Eurymachus for his secret marriage with Penelope a priest "try'd in these pious secrets" and "sworn to secrecy," one who is his "friend of ancient date" and "now in Ithaca" (II, p. 34)-meaning, of course, himself! But he sends instead Telemachus, who, if he is not actually sworn to secrecy by Ulysses, at least has been instructed in it by Aethon. Not only does Telemachus reveal the secret of his soul to his false friend, but he reveals his father's "fatal secret" too (IV, p. 45): Antinous exclaims,  68 The Trial of the Innocent The King return'd? so long conceal'd in Ithaca? Aethon the King? What words can speak my wonder? This is the "fatal secret" upon which depends not only Telemachus' own life but that of all his "royal race." For Telemachus reveals that which the secret workings of his parents are parallel to, guided by, and, in effect, representative of-the secret workings of Providence Itself: Yes, my Antinous, 'tis most amazing, 'Tis all the mighty working of the Gods, Unsearchable and dark to human eyes. Like Milton's Samson, Telemachus has "profan'd / The mystery of God" by his "Shameful garrulity."' Telemachus' phrase "the fatal secret" links Mentor's image of the providential "fatal birth" with his later naming of Telemachus' "fatal error." By rashly bringing the design of Providence "immature to light," Telemachus loses much more than SemantLe: he loses the "prize" for which Ulysses has yearned in his wanderings and has fought now at home (V, p. 56). Since the beginning of the Trojan War, Penelope has remained the very model of virtue in a world replete with strife. Just as order is about to be restored, Tele- machus allows the original act of rape to be repeated, and the world slips again into chaos and despair. Telemachus' despair is the greatest. In traditional Jobish fashion, he curses the day he was born (V, p. 59). Although he accepts the di- vine "justice" of his punishment (p. 60), he seeks to be annihilated, and he begs Semanthe to "Complete th'imperfect vengeance of the Gods." Semanthe refuses, however, and reverses her earlier repudiation of mercy for revenge. Despite the "cruel" (read retributive) decree of the gods that they must part forever (p. 62), Semanthe, in implied contrast to Corneille's Chimene, sacrifices her pride and sense of honor for "One last, one guilty proof" of love. Like Ulysses, keeping the secret of her soul and practicing "just deceit" (p. 66), she accuses Antinos of killing her father and turns her countrymen upon him, with Telemachus at their head. Thus her action not only redeems Telemachus from his des- perate sloth but also redeems the world from his "fatal error," from a new Trojan War, and it allows the "fatal birth" of Providence to be 68 The Trial of the Innocent The King return'd? so long conceal'd in Ithaca? Aethon the King? What words can speak my wonder? This is the "fatal secret" upon which depends not only Telemachus' own life but that of all his "royal race." For Telemachus reveals that which the secret workings of his parents are parallel to, guided by, and, in effect, representative of-the secret workings of Providence Itself: Yes, my Antinous, 'tis most amazing, 'Tis all the mighty working of the Gods, Unsearchable and dark to human eyes. Like Milton's Samson, Telemachus has "profan'd / The mystery of God" by his "Shameful garrulity."" Telemachus' phrase "the fatal secret" links Mentor's image of the providential "fatal birth" with his later naming of Telemachus' "fatal error." By rashly bringing the design of Providence "immature to light," Telemachus loses much more than Semanthe: he loses the "prize" for which Ulysses has yearned in his wanderings and has fought now at home (V, p. 56). Since the beginning of the Trojan War, Penelope has remained the very model of virtue in a world replete with strife. Just as order is about to be restored, Tele- machus allows the original act of rape to be repeated, and the world slips again into chaos and despair. Telemachus' despair is the greatest. In traditional Jobish fashion, he curses the day he was born (V, p. 59). Although he accepts the di- vine "justice" of his punishment (p. 60), he seeks to be annihilated, and he begs Semanthe to "Complete th'imperfect vengeance of the Gods." Semanthe refuses, however, and reverses her earlier repudiation of mercy for revenge. Despite the "cruel" (read retributive) decree of the gods that they must part forever (p. 62), Semanthe, in implied contrast to Corneille's Chimene, sacrifices her pride and sense of honor for "One last, one guilty proof" of love. Like Ulysses, keeping the secret of her soul and practicing "just deceit" (p. 66), she accuses Antinous of killing her father and turns her countrymen upon him, with Telemachus at their head. Thus her action not only redeems Telemachus from his des- perate sloth but also redeems the world from his "fatal error," from a new Trojan War, and it allows the "fatal birth" of Providence to be 68 The Trial of the Innocent The King return'd? so long conceal'd in Ithaca? Aethon the King? What words can speak my wonder? This is the "fatal secret" upon which depends not only Telemachus' own life but that of all his "royal race." For Telemachus reveals that which the secret workings of his parents are parallel to, guided by, and, in effect, representative of-the secret workings of Providence Itself: Yes, my Antinous, 'tis most amazing, 'Tis all the mighty working of the Gods, Unsearchable and dark to human eyes. Like Milton's Samson, Telemachus has "profan'd / The mystery of God" by his "Shameful garrulity."" Telemachus' phrase "the fatal secret" links Mentor's image of the providential "fatal birth" with his later naming of Telemachus' "fatal error." By rashly bringing the design of Providence "immature to light," Telemachus loses much more than Semanthe: he loses the "prize" for which Ulysses has yearned in his wanderings and has fought now at home (V, p. 56). Since the beginning of the Trojan War, Penelope has remained the very model of virtue in a world replete with strife. Just as order is about to be restored, Tele- machus allows the original act of rape to be repeated, and the world slips again into chaos and despair. Telemachus' despair is the greatest. In traditional Jobish fashion, he curses the day he was born (V, p. 59). Although he accepts the di- vine "justice" of his punishment (p. 60), he seeks to be annihilated, and he begs Semanthe to "Complete th'imperfect vengeance of the Gods." Semanthe refuses, however, and reverses her earlier repudiation of mercy for revenge. Despite the "cruel" (read retributive) decree of the gods that they must part forever (p. 62), Semanthe, in implied contrast to Corneille's Chimene, sacrifices her pride and sense of honor for "One last, one guilty proof" of love. Like Ulysses, keeping the secret of her soul and practicing "just deceit" (p. 66), she accuses Antinous of killing her father and turns her countrymen upon him, with Telemachus at their head. Thus her action not only redeems Telemachus from his des- perate sloth but also redeems the world from his "fatal error," from a new Trojan War, and it allows the "fatal birth" of Providence to be  Tamerlane and Ulysses 69 brought mature to light. As Mentor says, "Heav'n has approved the fraud of fond affection"- A turn so happy, and so imexpected, None but those over-ruling pow'rs who caus'd it, Could have foreseen. And finally, since the ultimate "safety" results from Semanthe's love and not from Ulysses' righteous vengeance, it can be seen that once again Rowe, like Milton, asserts the New Testament heroism of love and sacrifice as superior to the ancient heroism of revenge and force of arms. Ulysses' justice is implemented and superseded by Semanthe's mercy. And once again in Rowe, the daughter of a pernicious villain saves the world: out of evil comes forth good. Amidst the "wonder" and the "joy" at the victory made possible by Semanthe's love and at the end of suffering for Ulysses and Penelope enters the penitent Telemachus. He throws himself at his father's feet: Here let me kneel, and with my tears atone The rash offences of my heedless youth. Here offer the first trophies of my sword, And once more hail my father King of Ithaca. (p. 66 f) These first trophies being Eurymachus and Antinous, his action marks both his initiation into manhood and the atonement of his "fatal error." He has now resumed his proper relationship to his "race divine"-to both Ulysses and Jove-and is reintegrated into the order which they represent. Yet Telemachus still complains to his father (and who would not say justifiably so?): Joy like the chearful morning dawns on all, And none but your unhappy son shall mourn. Ulysses' only answer is to explain what it means to be a man: Tamerlane and Ulysses 69 brought mature to light. As Mentor says, "Heav'n has approved the fraud of fond affection"- A turn so happy, and so unexpected, None but those over-ning pow'rs who caus'd it, Could have foreseen. And finally, since the ultimate "safety" results from Semanthe's love and not from Ulysses' righteous vengeance, it can be seen that once again Rowe, like Milton, asserts the New Testament heroism of love and sacrifice as superior to the ancient heroism of revenge and force of arms. Ulysses' justice is implemented and superseded by Semanthe's mercy. And once again in Rowe, the daughter of a pernicious villain saves the world: out of evil comes forth good. Amidst the "wonder" and the "joy" at the victory made possible by Semanthe's love and at the end of suffering for Ulysses and Penelope enters the penitent Telemachus. He throws himself at his father's feet: Here let me kneel, and with my tears atone The rash offences of my heedless youth. Here offer the first trophies of my sword, And once more hail my father King of Ithaca. (p. 66 f) These first trophies being Eurymachus and Antinous, his action marks both his initiation into manhood and the atonement of his "fatal error." He has now resumed his proper relationship to his "race divine"-to both Ulysses and Jove-and is reintegrated into the order which they represent. Yet Telemachus still complains to his father (and who would not say justifiably so?): Joy like the chearful morning dawns on all, And none but your unhappy son shall mourn. Ulysses' only answer is to explain what it means to be a man: Tamerlane and Ulysses 69 brought mature to light. As Mentor says, "Heav'n has approved the fraud of fond affection"- A turn so happy, and so unexpected, None but those over-ruling pow'rs who caus'd it, Could have foreseen. And finally, since the ultimate "safety" results from Semanthe's love and not from Ulysses' righteous vengeance, it can be seen that once again Rowe, like Milton, asserts the New Testament heroism of love and sacrifice as superior to the ancient heroism of revenge and force of arms. Ulysses' justice is implemented and superseded by Semanthe's mercy. And once again in Rowe, the daughter of a pernicious villain saves the world: out of evil comes forth good. Amidst the "wonder" and the "joy" at the victory made possible by Semanthe's love and at the end of suffering for Ulysses and Penelope enters the penitent Telemachus. He throws himself at his father's feet: Here let me kneel, and with my tears atone The rash offences of my heedless youth. Here offer the first trophies of my sword, And once more hail my father King of Ithaca. (p. 66 f) These first trophies being Eurymachus and Antinous, his action marks both his initiation into manhood and the atonement of his "fatal error." He has now resumed his proper relationship to his "race divine"-to both Ulysses and Jove-and is reintegrated into the order which they represent. Yet Telemachus still complains to his father (and who would not say justifiably so?): Joy like the chearful morning dawns on all, And none but your unhappy son shall mourn. Ulysses' only answer is to explain what it means to be a man:  70 The Trial of the Innocent 70 The Trial of the Innocent 70 The Trial of the Innocent Like thee the pangs of parting love I've known, My heart like thine has bled-But oh! my son, Sigh not nor of the common lot complain, Thou that art born a man, art born to pain; For proof, behold my tedious twenty years All spent in toil, and exercis'd in cares. Telemachus himself has spoken earlier of "all those miseries mankind is born to" (IV, p. 52), and now he is fully aware that, along with the legacy of semidivinity (his "race divine"), he-like everyman-inherits a legacy of suffering. It is the curse of all men "To think what their state is, and what it should be." Nevertheless, the design of the play insists that the "laws of Providence" are not "unequal." Using his own life as an example, Ulysses can declare to Telemachus, " 'Tis true the gracious Gods are kind at last." Just as the trial of suffering is passed on from gen- eration to generation, so also is its theodicean solution: absolute trust in Divine Providence, Which vindicates at last. Armed with this faith, Telemachus must go forth on his own odyssey of toil and care, of suffering and trial, keeping the secret of his soul till his own "day of ree- ompence" arrive. For he, like each of us, is the new Ulysses. iii Ulysses is a far better play than not only The Ambitious Stepmother and Tamerlane but also most of the English classical plays of this neoclas- sical age. Many were attempted but few are choice: Dryden's All for Love and Cleomenes, and Lee's The Rival Queens and Lucius Junius Brutus. In my opinion, Rowe's play is inferior to Dryden's but at least equal to Lee's. Ulysses is a good play because Rowe captures something of the aura of his sources in Homer, Corneille, and Racine and because his characters are not the usual one-dimensional heroes and villains. His Ulysses is not the all-perfect champion (Christian or Stoic); he is great in virtue and in soul but a bit too suspicious, too vindictive, a "trifler" with virtue, even a boaster of too much self-reliance at the end. Penelope is magnificent in both her indignant disdain and her impa- tient complaint. Semanthe is a second-rate Chimene but nevertheless approaches Cornelian quality in her rejection of Telemachus and love in Act IV and in her resignation and redemptive love in Act V. Tele- machus is also a complex hero, and Rowe portrays with force and credi- Like thee the pangs of parting love I've known, My heart like thine has bled-But oh! my son, Sigh not nor of the common lot complain, Thou that art born a man, art born to pain; For proof, behold my tedious twenty years All spent in toil, and exercis'd in cares. Telemachus himself has spoken earlier of "all those miseries mankind is born to" (IV, p. 52), and now he is fully aware that, along with the legacy of semidivinity (his "race divine"), he-like everyman-inherits a legacy of suffering. It is the curse of all men "To think what their state is, and what it should be." Nevertheless, the design of the play insists that the "laws of Providence" are not "unequal." Using his own life as an example, Ulysses can declare to Telemachus, " 'Tis true the gracious Gods are kind at last." Just as the trial of suffering is passed on from gen- eration to generation, so also is its theodicean solution: absolute trust in Divine Providence, Which vindicates at last. Armed with this faith, Telemachus must go forth on his own odyssey of toil and care, of suffering and trial, keeping the secret of his soul till his own "day of ree- ompence" arrive. For he, like each of us, is the new Ulysses. iii Ulysses is a far better play than not only The Ambitious Stepmother and Tamerlane but also most of the English classical plays of this neoclas- sical age. Many were attempted but few are choice: Dryden's All for Love and Cleomenes, and Lee's The Rival Queens and Lucius Junius Brutus. In my opinion, Rowe's play is inferior to Dryden's but at least equal to Lee's. Ulysses is a good play because Rowe captures something of the aura of his sources in Homer, Corneille, and Racine and because his characters are not the usual one-dimensional heroes and villains. His Ulysses is not the all-perfect champion (Christian or Stoic); he is great in virtue and in soul but a bit too suspicious, too vindictive, a "trifer" with virtue, even a boaster of too much self-reliance at the end. Penelope is magnificent in both her indignant disdain and her impa- tient complaint. Semanthe is a second-rate Chimene but nevertheless approaches Cornelian quality in her rejection of Telemachus and love in Act IV and in her resignation and redemptive love in Act V. Tele- machos is also a complex hero, and Rowe portrays with force and credi- Like thee the pangs of parting love I've known, My heart like thine has bled-But oh! my son, Sigh not nor of the common lot complain, Thou that art born a man, art born to pain; For proof, behold my tedious twenty years All spent in toil, and exercis'd in cares. Telemachus himself has spoken earlier of "all those miseries mankind is born to" (IV, p. 52), and now he is fully aware that, along with the legacy of semidivinity (his "race divine"), he-like everyman-inherits a legacy of suffering. It is the curse of all men "To think what their state is, and what it should be." Nevertheless, the design of the play insists that the "laws of Providence" are not "unequal." Using his own life as an example, Ulysses can declare to Telemachus, " 'Tis true the gracious Gods are kind at last." Just as the trial of suffering is passed on from gen- eration to generation, so also is its theodicean solution: absolute trust in Divine Providence, Which vindicates at last. Armed with this faith, Telemachus must go forth on his own odyssey of toil and care, of suffering and trial, keeping the secret of his soul till his own "day of ree- ompence" arrive. For he, like each of us, is the new Ulysses. iii Ulysses is a far better play than not only The Ambitious Stepmother and Tamerlane but also most of the English classical plays of this neoclas- sical age. Many were attempted but few are choice: Dryden's All for Love and Cleomenes, and Lee's The Rival Queens and Lucius Junius Brutus. In my opinion, Rowe's play is inferior to Dryden's but at least equal to Lee's. Ulysses is a good play because Rowe captures something of the aura of his sources in Homer, Corneille, and Racine and because his characters are not the usual one-dimensional heroes and villains. His Ulysses is not the all-perfect champion (Christian or Stoic); he is great in virtue and in soul but a bit too suspicious, too vindictive, a "trifler" with virtue, even a boaster of too much self-reliance at the end. Penelope is magnificent in both her indignant disdain and her impa- tient complaint. Semanthe is a second-rate Chimene but nevertheless approaches Cornelian quality in her rejection of Telemachus and love in Act IV and in her resignation and redemptive love in Act V. Tele- machus is also a complex hero, and Rowe portrays with force and credi-  Tamerlane and Ulysses 71 bility both his triumph over Eurymachus and his piteous plight. Finally, Eurymachus is far superior to the usual Restoration villain, the melo- dramatic Machiavel." He is the noblest of the suitors and is even gra- cious and courtly in his early wooing of Penelope. Though his designs are evil, he achieves heroic stature enough to be the analogue of the father of Chimene. Lee and Otway at their best may equal or surpass Rowe's charac- terization here (Addison does not even come close), but Rowe is supe- rior to them in his control of language. James R. Sutherland has said, "No living Englishman could write blank verse more beautifully than Mr. Rowe" (Three Plays, p. 27). Admittedly, in his earlier plays and even in this one, Rowe often strains to achieve heroic and passionate diction, and his greatest weakness lies in the self-conscious ejaculations and tropes of his amorous dialogues; but the same is true of Lee, Otway, and Addison. In Ulysses, however, Rowe captures and controls the lan- guage of the higher passions of indignation and disdain as never before in his tragedies of suffering innocence (but see The Fair Penitent). Con- trast Artemisa's stiff and stilted speech, "Be fix'd, my soul" (Works, I, 14), with Penelope's smoother, more natural yet more powerful an- swers to the suitors in Act . In the former Rowe strains for a metaphor and then contorts it from "active sparks" of "ethereal energy" to "a busy restless principle" with an "appetite" that is "clogged" by the "dull mass" of a woman's body; in the latter Rowe reaches for no meta- phor but relies simply on the concrete details of Penelope's suffering, the suitor's riot and violence, and the slaughter of them all which is the price to win her (p. 14 ff). Rowe is at his best in the rhetoric of complaint-not amorous but metaphysical. Observe his progress in these passages: Artaxerxes. 'Tis past, 'tis past; [Lying down] And all those fires that lighted up my soul, Glory and bright ambition languish now, And leave me dark and gloomy as the grave. Oh thou soft dying sweetness!-shall I rage And curse myself? Curse ev'n the Gods?-Oh no: I am the slave of fate, and bow beneath The load that presses me; am sunk to earth, And ne'er shall rise again: here will I sit And gaze till I am nothing. (Works, I, 74) Tamerlane and Ulysses 71 bility both his triumph over Eurymachus and his piteous plight. Finally, Eurymachus is far superior to the usual Restoration villain, the melo- dramatic Machiavel." He is the noblest of the suitors and is even gra- cious and courtly in his early wooing of Penelope. Though his designs are evil, he achieves heroic stature enough to be the analogue of the father of Chimene. Lee and Otway at their best may equal orsurpass Rowe's charac- terization here (Addison does not even come close), but Rowe is supe- rior to them in his control of language. James R. Sutherland has said, "No living Englishman could write blank verse more beautifully than Mr. Rowe" (Three Plays, p. 27). Admittedly, in his earlier plays and even in this one, Rowe often strains to achieve heroic and passionate diction, md his greatest weakness lies in the self-conscious ejaculations and tropes of his amorous dialogues; but the same is true of Lee, Otway, and Addison. In Ulysses, however, Rowe captures and controls the lan- guage of the higher passions of indignation and disdain as never before in his tragedies of suffering innocence (but see The Fair Penitent). Con- trast Artemisa's stiff and stilted speech, "Be fix'd, my soul" (Works, I, 14), with Penelope's smoother, more natural yet more powerful an- swers to the suitors in Act 1. In the former Rowe strains for a metaphor and then contorts it from "active sparks" of "ethereal energy" to "a busy restless principle" with an "appetite" that is "clogged" by the "dull mass" of a woman's body; in the latter Rowe reaches for no meta- phor but relies simply on the concrete details of Penelope's suffering, the suitor's riot and violence, and the slaughter of them all which is the price to win her (p. 14 ff). Rowe is at his best in the rhetoric of complaint-not amorous but metaphysical. Observe his progress in these passages: Artaxerxes. 'Tis past, 'tis past; [Lying down] And all those fires that lighted up my soul, Glory and bright ambition languish now, And leave me dark and gloomy as the grave. Oh thou soft dying sweetness!-shall I rage And curse myself? Curse ev'n the Gods?-Oh no: I am the slave of fate, and bow beneath The load that presses me; am sunk to earth, And ne'er shall rise again: here will I sit And gaze till I am nothing. (Works, I, 74) Tamerlane and Ulysses 71 bility both his triumph over Eurymachus and his piteous plight. Finally, Eurymachus is far superior to the usual Restoration villain, the melo- dramatic Machiavel." He is the noblest of the suitors and is even gra- cious and courtly in his early wooing of Penelope. Though his designs are evil, he achieves heroic stature enough to be the analogue of the father of Chimene. Lee and Otway at their best may equal or surpass Rowe's charac- terization here (Addison does not even come close), but Rowe is supe- rior to them in his control of language. James R. Sutherland has said, "No living Englishman could write blank verse more beautifully than Mr. Rowe" (Three Plays, p. 27). Admittedly, in his earlier plays and even in this one, Rowe often strains to achieve heroic and passionate diction, and his greatest weakness lies in the self-conscious ejaculations and tropes of his amorous dialogues; but the same is true of Lee, Otway, and Addison. In Ulysses, however, Rowe captures and controls the lan- guage of the higher passions of indignation and disdain as never before in his tragedies of suffering innocence (but see The Fair Penitent). Con- trast Artemisa's stiff and stilted speech, "Be fix'd, my soul" (Works, I, 14), with Penelope's smoother, more natural yet more powerful an- swers to the suitors in Act I. In the former Rowe strains for a metaphor and then contorts it from "active sparks" of "ethereal energy" to "a busy restless principle" with an "appetite" that is "clogged" by the "dull mass" of a woman's body; in the latter Rowe reaches for no meta- phor but relies simply on the concrete details of Penelope's suffering, the suitor's riot and violence, and the slaughter of them all which is the price to win her (p. 14 ff). Rowe is at his best in the rhetoric of complaint-not amorous but metaphysical. Observe his progress in these passages: Artaxerxes. 'Tis past, 'tis past; [Lying down] And all those fires that lighted up my soul, Glory and bright ambition languish now, And leave me dark and gloomy as the grave. Oh thou soft dying sweetness!-shall I rage And curse myself? Curse ev'n the Gods?-Oh no: I am the slave of fate, and how beneath The load that presses me; am sunk to earth, And ne'er shall rise again: here will I sit And gaze till I am nothing. (Works, 1, 74)  72 The Trialnf the Innocent Arysnia. A little longer yet, be steong, my heaet, A little longer let the busy spirits Keep on their choeeful eound-It mont be; Lose, soreow, and the sting of vile eeproac'h, Sncceeding one another in theirsconrse, Like drops of eating mates on the mnarble, At length have woren my boasted courage down: m ill indulge the woman in my soul, And give a loome to teaes and to impatience; Death isattlast mydue, andIwillhaveit. (Work, 1, 134Sf) Penelope. Heee sit thee down then, humhty in the dust, Here sit, apooreforlorn, abandon'd woman; Cast not thy eyteup to you azure firmament, Nov hope retief from thence, the Gods ace pitiless, Orebusy in theireheao'n and thou not worth their cave; And oh! oh! cast 'emn not on earth, to seek Foe succoue fromn the faithless eace of man; But as thou act forsaken and alone, Hope not foe help, wheee there is none to help thee, But thinh-'tis desolation all about thee. (Works, 11, 37) The second seems to me bettee than the hirst, partly because its opening liues capture something of the rhythms of its souece in the opening tines of Samson Aganiotee, and pavtly hecause its metaphoe of "deops of eating water on the marble" seems tess steained than the feres and loads of the feest. Meteically, the passages are faiety regular, hot the feminine endings of the second, rather than weakening the poassage, as critics so often assert, appropriately reflect the weakening of the opeake. The thied passage seems to me better than the othees, howecer, peecisely because of its lack of imagery and its meteical ieregularity. Here Rowe does not steamn foe the sublime teope. He lets the plain language of des- pair do its own work and lets the emotion spill out into alexandrines to create the effect of loss of content in still-conteolled hot varied ehythms. The much move peevasive and yet not obteusive alliteration and assonance lend a musical resoance to the pausage lacking in the othees. Even the expletives "oh! oh!" are functional, as Penelope looks at the men who she feels have betrayed her and now hold hey on either side. Finally, the repetitive feminine ending "thee" in the last two lines 72 The TrialtofthetInnocent Aepasia. A little longey yet, be strong, my heart, A little longey let the buoy spirits Keep on their cheverful round-It mounot be; Love, soerow, and the sting of vile reproach, Suscceeding one anothee in theirccouese, Like deops of eating watee on the marble, At length have worn my boasted coueage down: I will indulge the woman in my soot, And give a loose to tears and to impatience; Death is at loot nmy doe, and T will have it. (Works, 1, 134 f) Penelope. Here sit thee down then, humbly in the dust, Heesit, apoorfolorn, ahandou'd woman; Cast not thy eyes up to you auee fiemament, Nov hope relief from thence, the Gods arv pitiless, Orebusy in their heavon and thou not woeth their care; And ok! oh! cost 'em not on earth, to seek Poe succour from the faithless race of moo; But as thouart foesaken and alone, Hope not foe help, where theee is none to help thee, But think-'tis desolation alt about thee. (Worko, 11, 37) The second seems to me bettee than the ferst, paetly because its opening tines copture something of the ehythms of its source in the opening tines of Samoon Agonses, and partly because its metaphor of "deops of eating water on the marble" seems teas steained than the feres and toads of the feest. Metrically, the passages are fairly regular, but the feminine endings of the second, rather than weakening the passoge, as critics so often assert, appeopeiately eeflect the weakening of the speoke. The thied passage seems to me better than the othevs, howevee, peecisely because of its tack of imagery and its meteical ieregularity. Hove Rome does not steamn foe the sublime trope. He lets the plain language of des- pair do its own woek and lets the emotion spill out into alexandine~s to create the effect of loss of conteol in still-controlled but varied rhythms. The mock move peevasive and yet not obtrutive altiteration andassonance tend a musical resonance to the passage lacking in the othees. Even the expletives "oh! oh!" ace functional, as Penelope looks at the men who she feels have betrayed bee and now hold bee on either side. Finally, the repetitive feminine ending "thee" in the last two tines 72 TheTrialtofthetnnocent Asyotio. A little longee yet, be steong, my heave, A little longer let the busy spirits Keep on their cheerful round-It wo'not be; Love, sorrow, and the sting of vile eeproach, Succeeding one another in theirecourse, Like drops of eating water nn the mavble, At length have worn my boasted coueage down ITwill indulge the woman in my soot, And give a loame to leave and to impatience; Death is at last my due, and I weillhave it. (Work, 1, 134 f) Penelope. Here sit thee down then, humbly in the dust, Hereesit, apoorforlorn, abandn'dmwoma; Cast not thy eyes up to you azure firmament, Not hope relief from thence, the Cods aee pitiless, Or busy in theie heavon and thou not worth their cave; And o! oh! cast 'emnnotn veth, to seek Poe succour feom the faithless eace of man; But as thou art forsaken and alone, Hope not foe help, where there is none to help thee, But think-tIfs desolation all about thee. (Woeks, It, 37) The second seems to me better than the feest, partly because its apening tines capture something of the rhythms of its souoece in the opening lines of Samson Agonioves, and partly because its metaphor of "drops of eating water on the marble" seemslets sterained than the feres and loads of the Berst. Metvically, the passages ae faiely regulae, but the feminine endings of the second, eathee than weakening the pasooge, as ceitics so often ausert, appropriately reflect the weakening of the opeabee. The third passage seems to me bettee than the othevs, howevee, pecisely because of its lack of imagery and its metrical ireegularity. Here Rome does not steamn fnc the sublime tropy. He lets the plain lanuage of des- pair do its own woek and lets the emotion spill out into alexndrines to create the effect of toss of content in still-controlled but varied ehythms. The much moee peevasive and yet not obteusive allitteratin ond ausonance lend a musical resonance to the passage tacking in the athees. Even the expletives "oh! oh!" are functional, as Penelope looks at the men who she feels have beteayed bee and now bold bee on either side. Finally, the eepetitive feminine ending "thee" in the last two lines  Tamseelane and Ulysses 73 Tamneelane and Ulysses 73 Tanterlane and Ulysses 73 sevsthe sanse fusnction as the fenminine endings at the second passage- ts cefledt a seeakening-but seeses it Settee, I think, in the repetition itself, which gives the illusian of a polysyllabic ehymse and has same- thing afthIe effect at Robeet Feast's famoaus eepetition in the last lines at "Slapping by Waods on a Snaswy Evening--a sureendering, a letting go. Penelape's complaint is ane at the best in Restneation tragedy and Rowe's best inciting up Is that lime. For hath pathos and control it sac- passes theauncontrolledstisadesaofLee and Osmay andsthe cld accents of Adtdison. Only the complaints at same ofl Dsyden's heroes ace belles. And wchat makes Raws's complaint so good, I think, is primarily his dis- carding ofl she technique at Lee and Otway-the grap fins the sublime, shocking, as seasational imnge. Roswe is geneaally at his best wshen he eschews the local metaphor and relies fins imagistic power an the nc- cumulatian at unobteusive motifs, like pence in Tamneelane, scecy hee in Ulyses, and breadanad bequestlatereinaneShoeandLady Jane Geay, eespectively. Besides its bettee langage, wshat finally makes Ulysses Rowe's best dramatic theadicy Is that date is the structuse. He handles eaposition and scene v'ariation much belles, and instead at finishing his subplot at the end at the foueth nct, as he does in the lass earlier plays, bee he dovetails it milk the main at the last moment ts cceate tight strusctueal unitynandaklendntftaem and theme. Emeegingtsaomtbe subplot,sonto speak, Telemachus comes foreth to atter his last complaint in the midst at triumph, adding a poignancy that is absent froam the cain thests and haughty enits at Aetemisa and Bajazet. The familiarcloasing assertion that the gods are just at last is balanced nicely against the suffering wshich is man's "common Int." By susta'ins'ng that tension In the end, Rowse achieves the least contrived and mast aesthetically consvincing yet at his justifications at the ways at Gad In men, serves the same fuanction as the feminine endinsgs at the secand passage- ts eefiect a weakening-but secves it belles, I think, in the eepetition itself, wshich gives she illusion at a polysyllabic ehyme and has same- thing at the effect of Rabet Frost's famous repetition in the last lines of "Slapping by Woods an a Snowy Evening--a sueeendeeing, a letting go. Penelope's complaint is one afltke best in Restoration tsagedy and Rowe's best melting up to that time, Foe bath pathos and conteol it sac- panses the uncontrolled tirades at Lee and Otway and the cold accents at Addison. Only the complaints at same of Dryden's heeoes ass better. And wshat makes Rowe's complaint so good, I think, is psimaeily his dis- caeding at the technique of Lee and Otmay-the gsasp foac the snblime, shocking, as seasational image. Rowe is geneeally at his best ashen he eschews the local smetaphoc and relies fine imagistic power an the ac- cumulation at unahtrsive matifis, like pece in Tamerlane, secrecy here in Ulysses, and bead and bequest ltes in Jane Share and Lady Jane Gray, respecticely. Besides its belles language, wshat finally makes Ulyascas Rams's best dramatic theadicy Is that date is the structure. He handles expasitian and scene variation much bettes, and instead ofl finishing his subplot at the end ofl the foausth act, as he does in the twoa caclies plays, hsss he dovetails it mitk the main at the last moment Is create light structural unity and a blend at form and theme. Emerging team lbesuabplot, so In speak, Telemachus comesforsth Is utter his last complaint in the midst oftriumph, adding apignancy thatis asenfram the vain threats and haughty saits at Astemisa and Bajazet. The familiar closing assertian that the gods ace aust at last is balanced nicely against the suffering wshich is man's "common lst." By sastaining that tension Is the end, Rams achieces she least contrived and mast aesthetically convincing yet at his justifications ofl she ways at Gad Is men. seress lbs same fanction as the feminine endings at the second passage- Is seflect a weakening-but serves it belles, I think, in the repetition itself, wshich gisves the illusion at a palysyllabic shyme and has some- thing at the effect at Robest Frst's famous repetition in the lass lines at "Slapping by Woods an a Snowy Ecsning"-a surrendering, a letting go. Penelape's complaint is sac at the bass in Restoation tragedy and Rame's best inciting up Is that time. For bath pathos and control it ssr- passes the uncontrolled tirades at Lee and Otmay and the cold accents at Addison. Only the complaints at same at Dryden's heroes ass belles, And wshat makes Rams's complaint sn good, I think, is primarily his dis- carding ofl the technique at Lee and Otmay-Ibs grasp fins the sublime, shocking, as sensational image. Rams is genesally at his best ashen he eschews the lacal metaphos and relies fnc imagistic powes an the ac- cumnlation at sunobtrusive motifs, like peace in Tasmerlane, secrecy bee in Ulyases, and bead and bequest ltes in Jane Shame and Lady Jane Gray, respectively. Bessides its betterclanguag, wata finally makes UlysssRowe'shbest dsamatic theadicy In that dats is the structure. He handles exposition and scene variatian much belles, and instead at finishing his sbplot at the end at the foursth act, askse does in the lass cachies plays, bee he dovetails it mitk lbs main at the last moment Is scrents tight structural unity and a blend at forsm and theme. Emerging frsom the subplot, so ts speak, Telemachus dames forsth In ulter his last complaint in lbs midst oftrsiumph, adding apignancysthatisasentfrom thecvain threats and haughty sails at Astemisa and Bajazet. The familiar closing assrtion that the gods ars just at last is balanced nicely against the suffesing wshich is man's "common tat." By sustaining that tension In lbs end, Rams achieves the least contrived and mast aesthetically convincing yet at his justifications afth bways at Gad Is men.  74 The TrilffthetInnocett 74 Tilt Triald of the Innocenti 74 The Trial off tilt Innocent NOTEmCATER 11 1. SeetLandonC. Butrn,J.,e., Tala ne as sTragedyp.f6fff, to hichlItami- detetd thtoghout thisopenitgsetio. 2. For the mst educated guesses see Jamest R. fStherland, ed., Three Plays, hy Nichls Rowe, p. 339; Willard Thorp, "A4e Pto Rosamerlpsa," p. 124 ff, and Donald B. Clark, "Nichls Rowe," p.l 65adta. a. Loftis eaggertes thecase, Ilthink. Toss that the play aepreets Whigawish- ffhlment o "ar-itttpiaed Fatephthia"semsr intstac of thitentional fallacy. A lso,aweintsotrtachPoffaWig ntitutinalitottabltst t denlythe "rigt ditate of kings (Prologue, p. 83;see alist IE p. 95) ails cmares Lotis XIV to tsatni "Foe" ad WilliamtII tilta CGlorious instrumtt oft Povidnce" sent for Louis' detstt (p. ff2 M; and Jonathan Swit, "Ode to tilt Kintg Pn latIrih Etpedition and tht Success ofhis Atta in Generl," it 'The Peavttt offststhan Swft~i/, ed. ffarold Witiams, 1, 47f, wtho aopares Wiltiamt to Tamerla and Louttta "Retless Trt" (nst ttplicitla Balzt, Ist implicitly so), Settbyjst Heae tthraten Earth With War, .sd Pestilecattd tDerth. (tt. 7) '5. Clttk, p. 147. At Ctark thos, Rsots htad aspy of this rtits it hit libtaty. Stt A Catalotg., tf the Library sf. R,, tfl. 73. 6f.Pra rfletiontofthis faoabletprtaalotttpasytoRowe,seeSi Witliatt Tttmple, "Of Heaoic Virtsut," its Fist Miscellaneos tEssa, ttt. Mtonk, p. 135 ff. Cf. Clatk, ffSarce lnd Characteriatisn," p. 14ff, and Attttd Stttt, "The Literta Career sf Nichls Rsstt," P. 9771. Stt Rwe't Catalogueacst 377, Its at editison sof Ttetplt't Miscellanties, Sstssnd~t~l Iff9f whptiilh cststtinstd Ttemple's essay. 7. Se ttspecitlty Irvintg fihbttt, the Englittt tHistory Play is ttte Agttf Shapearett, ph, ic, ld C. A. Ptrtfdtt, Tht l'ts,aidtttt th Ladder, patsiss. 8. Despai as trditioally asociatdtwithtsloth,,with s,,lia and tdrititt. Stt ttptcallt Kdhtse C. Brittail, 7Th1 Sit of Dttpair i Renasiasac English Literatr," pastict, and D. C. Atltts, Its Htffsrtdtss Vto., p. 76. 9. Tht intfluenct of Milttn tt RotwteP hat been sggeste tthroughout, as hs tht st tht Bssok of job. Whitittg has atstsda thowns ttptictt reterencs to Milton, tsd exlicit tittty (sethla iit '). In otherstwords,Iamsnt tying totsuggest atvaguettradittiontbthind Rowe t a leatton,ttowhicthhistwst aresltplitft-ifottetpctly-realated. 1ff Fttttt H. Lstsglstld, Dtlionr ostfsf Cists Aatts with PtttittesItritMeaings, Whethert Roswt knewt tite meanlif t ht word it uadetermtinalhl, td ultimtly is- cosetquenttial, st the imagerfty Pt srtotts Stits with it certily that ofl peact. Howevetr, Ittl sactatlogue of Pit tit-a (q.v), wttfh its ssttttts etrstt oft bots deal- ittg with tilt Nte Eat, suggets thatt Pt had mottt thana sutperffiil kntaledget fthtt cltr ltd htorayofthaltrgion. 11 . Howrs Iliad and Odpttty, td. Matynard Mack t al., vos. VII-X tof The Ttti,Ptshstt, Edittot ,,f ftte JPems f Alxandet tPspe, VIi, tttiii ff, tPII'ii., Cf. Gorgeif timttti, Csiotsatd Punishmentttf~tti heOys,t.'ahoishosatlthetoigiitt,sof se. a pthrshes, s wll. haSe Lantdon C. Butst, Jt., etdl, Tamerlan,,a Tragedy, p. 1 ff, to sticIsail in 2. Fot tilt mst eductsttd guttsstst tee James R. Sutheland, td., 17,e llt,, ha iclas Rowet, p. 339; tWillard Thossp, "A Kep ts Rowes stttsttt," p. 124 ff; and Donald4 B. Ctttk, "Nishls Roswt," p.65 and w 3. Lsiits exaggertes tilt case,I tinkd. Tosay~ that tilt play represttts Whig with- Also, Rsowt it not s tmuth sf I Whig costitutionlitt a, tstialsolstitt Is dttsy tht tiffght divsn"to ktings (Prologue, p. 83; set atso 1, p. 97). 4. Fos imilar cotemttporary anliesi, set Sit Richarsd Stetle, T7, thilst ttts, wils tctmpattt Lsuis XIV t astanit "Fte" ttsd W~ttilla II "Glorious instmet oftProvidence" tst tss Lsuis' detrtissnstp. 82ff7I); tsdJsonathan Swtift, "Odeto stht Ktng onhit Irith Etptditiss ltd the Sutcts sf is Attstit General, in Tilt t'stss sfdsssathss Stwift, td. Haatoid Willias, 1,44f, whs cotmpatet WiltiatottI Ttseriatt ssd Lssis ts "Rettless Tyratnt ssxtplititly BIjatet, bt imsplicitly so), Setb lastt Heaven5 Is threttttn Earth tsh Wartad Petience,ad Dearh. (t. 7 5. Clatk, p. 147. At Clttrk shos, Rsott had a cpy~ so17 thiditist it hit tihrary. SettA Cstsalgse sf the Librttty sf N. R(ssI, fol. 73. P.Fo at refletiost sf this favorable psrtrttstl ctemsporary ts Rsowt, stt Sir Wiltitts Tettplt, "Of Hettsic Vittte," t, Five Misllatsetus Etsayt, td. Mstnk, p. 137 ff. Cf. Cltrh, "Sssttt and Cttarattertiont," p. 14ff, and Alfred Schwtart, Tilt Littttty Career sf Nichlas Roswe," p. 97 1. Stt Rste't Cststsgst, sct. 377, fst Pt edition sf Temspltts tMistellssiei, Secstd Patt (1690), wtich costatistd Ttempltts e1117. 7. Stt ttpecistty Irvitng Btitt, Ths Englith Hitstory Plsy Is the At,,7 Sttaffstpeare, ch. is, andC.3A. Pltffdtp , helst,,itrtsdtth, Lsadder, ptsstt. 8.Despairswas trditionally assitedltsloth,lwilt,5s75lsad ttu,. See tsptscita Kiihtt C. Ittittit, "2T SitI sf Dttpait is Rettaitsstc EngishLtrttttt," pastims, tnd D. C. Alttn, Ihe Hasrmonisus Visson, p. 7ff. 9. Tilt itflsenct st Miltstt t, Rowt httshbetntsuggeted throughouts, tt has that sf tilt Book sf joh. Whiting hss already tsstts explicit rtftttnctt to Miltton, atd ttpiit titttytttt h.ii,).InsthertwosI amtstntt trin to gst f vagu taditiontbhid BRott htt aIclearstt, ts whiPh his wostks are impicitlyif nott explicitly-tettttd. Whethert Rowekne ilthe meain o511 fs the wortd is unldeterminable, and ultimately in-. contsquentil, sitce tilt imasgtty Pt stsssdtd htlilts wtfit iscerail thtt of pttce. However, thetsletlguesofhisliary (..),sitits tst ss tietstfbosshdeat- ing aith lt Ntet Eat, sgetstha1t h hd morel than alstpeficil kntaltdgt off tilt ctltrt andhistortpofthatltegiot. It. Hamer's Iliad atd Odyssey, edl. Maynard Mack3 et al, tos. VHI- of tI ft Twickhatm Edit of ths Poestt of Atttatdert Pope, VIIE tati ff, tatstiii. Cf. CGetrgt Iilsc atsedicy ax el NOTSt Ts CttAtsB 11 1. SeandonttC. Burns, Jrted.,Tmanes,sa Tssgdy, p.ffff,tsawhchla.in- debttd thtssughout tit opening secstio. 2. For tilt mst eduted gi15511, see Jamest R. Sutherland, ed, There Plast, by Nicholas Rotat, p. 339; Wiiittd Thostp, "A etoI Roat't Tamerlan, pt. 174 7f; ltd Dontld B. ClaPk, "Nitils Rowat," p. ff5 andw 3. Lftit exaggertes tht case, I thish. Tosaty thatt tilt plyttpresetts Whig wsh- filfftlmetso wat ittpirtd tltttplhi settan I intances sf lilt itenttional 1111117. Also, Rowat itst ot sti muctolaWhigf costituftoast tr at~ialtit t Isn th li ght dttine" ofkings (Ptologut, p. 83; see ltso 1,7p.5). aht coprest Losit XIV to atsatic "Foe Ptd William III ts t CGlorious itstaamett sf Ptsvidtnce" sent for Lsuist desttion (p. 82 ff); ltd Jonathan Saift, DOdeto tilt King onhis lrith Etptdito Id the Sucstt ofhis Armst in Cenerai," in The Paesstfdls-tls Sstft, td. Ha11ol4 Wiltiat, 1.4ff, ails comspares W~ilamIs Tamsetitne and Lost as WthtWay , andfPtstitlete, aDerh.il .7 5. Clark, p. 147. At Cittrk tsatw, Rowetat Pt cop o thit editions is htt libtttty. Stt A Cataloguetof t Ldbattisj. Bst, Itl. 73. Willam Ttaplt, 01f Httoic hitiltsPt77, in iIissEssattys, td. Montt, p. 135 ff. Cff. CIatk, "Soutce and ChlrattsPttltiss,' p. 14ff, std Aifttd Sthwatt, "Tilt Litetta Carets sf Nicholat Rowat," p. 97 1. hee Rowe's Catalsgtut, act. 377, Itt It edition ot Ttttpltlstisttffstits, ScondPar (17907, ahichtcontaited Temple'sttsy. 7. Settespttially tsttg Rilt, ht Engilih Histr Play is the Agsn Shaesptsre, tch. It, ltd C. A. PlatideI, ThPoni aisndt tsLdder,, passia. 8. Dspairtwastrdiioaly atsstated ildoth,wthI,,shttd titts.htte tspeilly Kiltht C. Btitttit, "Tilt Sint ot Despair it Rtnssantce Engish Literturel," pltiadD. C. Aitt, ThpfstH ,s tan tt,p.76f. P. Tilt itflutnct of Mil1t sn Rotae httas tt sggeted thrtssghott, tt has tht of tilt Bsck o1 job. Whititg Pat altttda shosws txpiit references ts Mtots, tatd ttpliit lielp see tttipit,t v ttIn ttae ws Iaam nttryaingftougsts a vatgueftritiontbhid Rowsatatlearlon, toahih haiorsaripiitlt -i dttt epitl y-related. 10. Flora H. Ltlffhtld, Distisnsty sf Given \stws wth tigtasd Mtsning. WhethertlRwe knewathetmeainigofstswod isudtermlinleandsltialyi- cosquniasiteimageryilhessuonstdtfimtaawithis cetailythatsofpeac. Howaever, tilt ttlt catlogue ofstlibrttty (q.t.,wih Ptsnuttrststtntriet of boss dttl- ing alPh t Near East, suggestst he Ptad aomtha a1 supefiIialtldge of t ctllt tsdiistrtoftht ttgiot. i1. Homstt Iliad atnd Odyttey, ed.l Malynard Mark t Il., ts. 71171 of The Tswadithatn Edits,, of t Poeml (df Atssdt, Pspe, VII, pttiii ff, tttsiii. Cf. Ctttgt Diassis, "Chateand Pishmeat Iin te Odyssy, ailsthosws tha~t tilt srigial is, of cus.atiltdicv s wel  Taerane and Ulysses 75 Tamserlase and Ul~ysses 75 Tamerlane and Ulysses 75 12 Pope ss thestheodicansmetaphorsftral toeplinsufferig incrc 'Thssagssswas telightened enoughetoknowsthat calamitsysis taprooflf ir, nnd a tryal not a pnshmnta" (XIX.434n). Suech suffeing also reinforces our "-ami hopesof a futurestate,"sa"tieof setribution"cawhich "willasimplyrecsmnsethe gssd man for all his calaniies, se as llillcs exprses, tUll jssify she wassof UCa1 tee mens" (XX.149n) 13. Fat these feiensdship, ses Nosrcan, Asut,Neu, Lighse on Popee, p. 128 ff Ase, it appesss that hefore he died hoe emade ssome csntsihbstian, hoees smail, to Pope's Hoe:see Pspe's acknowaledgnent in Twcceshces UEdities, VII, 23, ansd X, 443. 14. Stanfordasuggeststtthsee s nssos'oe'ststingssfPenelospe is Teiesiss' advice ts Ulysses "to snfer Peneetope to soe rich edelterer' preeteably as aesrial (ch. is, ns. 12). Ohviously, Rowe is seely expeanding what as already in Hosmer, but the ex- pansies was a brilliants strehw lee she deaaeie cnfliet of ehe play 15, Jean nnciss, Asassaroce (1667), is (Ewaeses ded. Rsdsne, ed. Paul hsasd, 1,1 af. Cs. Landoas C. Burns, Jr., "The Tsagediss sf Nichols Bswe," p. 17, whs also sees a reltionship hetwees Peseloe ansd Andtescaqcs. The populariey of Rtacine's play Sc Englanedecanb inferrssed frome she fact thatta s trasated Ice te Enghlsh sae tnice: anonynosly as Andieneehe in 1673, ad hy Amhrose Philips as The Dieeas teethe e is 17e2,the later being "byalleodds thesppulartad suessflctasltionsef aFrenh tragedy eves psodeuced," nccsrding Is Dorsthea (Casfield) Fishes, Cosneille sA Rscise ic Ensglacnd, p. 140. 0f couse, acne's e pete e psedes Philips' pleay, hbse Johns Uene wrotesinthePrs~eetoA nhc n'ihsthat eenthenRacine'splsynwas "mchesenmedis Feasce and hers, too, hy acne English, nho ane adairsers of te Fench Wit" (ae quoesd Sc Fishes, p. 89). Certainly Rcns ws a dieel desensdant of these adaissrs, a, is attested hy thesctaloe ofshis lhbrayc(qe.)naih its largsseshrescof Frechnsoks,andhbyhis Sates nork is editing, traslahing, and ees contributing to the norks of aoidea, Qedllet, asd La Becyhse. Bsides the remarkahles imarity in tragic confliet, hoeer, the stronsgsst iaplicaticn that acne nas iaitating Racsisse's play lis, pssradocally, Sc the faet these she Iciest of Telenachus is rearkabhly similar In that of Corneilles aedtsgse is Le lid csee Donald n, Clack, "Nicholss Rone," p. 145 af, who cearly estahlises thesre lstioship hetneec the twos piays thascugh a ssris of parallels). It appeas thst acne attenpted to inscorposse isle his adaptation of one of she word's greatedt c~lasiesl epics the major conflict s ns of Fesere's gratest cleasiccl tsagedis. 16. Rowe's addition ef thas tial of Telemaachs tothe dsoy ef lysses'retuasccans probably he attn'huted, at lest is pest, Is eke samazing popularity of Fessless dle Is tesths'Pissslee's Les Asseetes de T6eaese, f1 is petse (1 698 nhich, hy the tins acne nests I Ipysses, had heea puhlished at lest feve tines is Preach psee Alexander Cissassesas, aiblhogrsphicd I h hsese Jssesqehe da dixsspshte siiehl, 11, se, Pi6nelsal and at least lens tines in Eangslsh translatioa (see The Catslegse ef the arieah Mucesesmy Rownesserainlysnold haefoud Teriasddacticism agreeddle, paatuadly his isenscs thecagheet on the prinmacy ef arse as Provece.s And, difnRoeenrowd anythiag direstly hsam hia beyond the interest in Telemachus, ian prohabhly the theae ofteeua iono this rasUlyeses, the hess set only Is Ulysses' thrones het alstethe Odynsaspatternfsuffaereingnwhichsepresaeshthestrialo vte andfith.Me ovsers, Plaselca ineolved Telemaehuss ens loe-affais: as illieit oe nith Esehars, case of Calypso's nymsphs, nhieh theaes his manhood and his seal necok VtP, andes hli sass aith hetispe, wehish he nest defer, hcnsvsr, eat his father's husiness is accsomplished nBook XVII! Pehaps thses asiet acggsed Is owne Telemachhs' allele nith heracehe 17. SA 377 L, 491, Cf. Anne Davseohn Petty, teiltes and the AlIltesie Dryden, pt. ,sh. i, forsavery fine anals~islfhe temeaoflsececyin ISasonsdgsiets, ananalysis tosnhichlInidetdhroughoutthis sectin. Perhapasnwehimsslf,ainucedse 12. Pcpe ses the theedien eaphcr of trial ts explain suffering innocee: "The age netas nt enlhghened enaough ts knowa that caslamity is often a proffeiriteae, andsatrysasnt apunishan" (XIXU4,34sy Shs fferingglsotrinfores as"cerais hcpsof ahftuetstat," a"times afdleiseao"hch "widl amaply recoapese the gcsd as ice aSl his calamies, se as ltoen expesses, Wi yustifp the cays ef Cal tease" (X249n), 13, Pee theis frendship, sse Noran AsuiI, Vewe Ligiht oc Pope, p. 128 if. Alec, it appeas thee bsseoe he died lie ade soace contrihbution, honweversall, Is Poe's Homaer: sse Popes'a esknledigssss as 5'cicfeesce Eds'ticcc, VII, 13, and X, 443. 14. Stanford suggesstht theansuce ofhRowe's tedingeofPPenloesis Tieias' advce Is Ulysses "Is coste PenelopsIe tooe rch esdlteres"-peesahy as atil (ch. As, a, 12). Oheiosly, asse is amerely exanding wehat is already in Hoe, hut she en- pasies seas a hrilliant stroke fos the dramatic coflict of the platy. 15. Jean acine, Asdesessqss (1667), in (Euases deC .acdne, ed. Pant Meead, L, aI f.Cf. Landons C, Bum, Js., "The Tragedies of Nichlas asse," ps. 170, seho also sets asrlationsahip hetasen Penelope and Asdtsneqce. The popslarity of acsine's pls vi England see he infserd frome the lee't thse it was translateed fos the English stags tnice; ano'snmouly as Acdeesse is 1675, and hy Ambhse Philips as The Desemest Mosdsecin 1712, theslaerhbeg -yall ddtest popularnd ascesasltansoofaFrenh tragedy testr peedecedl," accrdang Is Dosoehea (Canid) Fishes, UeCnrole accd Hsc Sc UEsgland, p. 146. 0f cours, acne'a Ulyses predatsc Philip,' play, hess John Cesne wrote inthesPefacestodedaceche thteensthen a e's paynaw~asmch seemsed ia Framerad hee,to,hysomesEnglish,whoe admirssoslheFech Wet" hisquotedhin Fishes, p. 89). Cestainly asse s a dinest descendant of these adnires, as is attested hy the eaalogueo s hhbrary (qev.) nith its largge nues r of Frech necks, and hy his lattrawork inediting,trasnslating, and evsecntribuhing tthesworksaoileaus,Qdle, and Las 6enyst. Besides she remarekaesiarity in tagic conflict, hoeser, the stroagest inlications that hoese imitaing Seeins's play lies, paradoxically, is the lee't that she endSl if Teleahs as rearkabhly siadlar tee these ef Corealle's lRsdcigsn in ILe Cad (see Donald a. Clash, "Nicholas acne;" p.l1453f, whe clearly sabhishes the as- lationship hetnween the Ins playt throesgh a asesis of paralles. It appears that owne atnemptedeto incrpaeaintoahihhadpanofeofscthedrd'sgreatstslassiclpics she major esafistcIs i wcoeFance's greaest classical tragedis. 16. Rowe'sadditsonsofthe til of Telemsechus Is she steepsof Ulysses' Isetsr can prohbahly he attrihuted, as least in peart, Is the amazesing popularity of Pescgsia de Is. McsthPessirlas'a Le, Arecatse- dc Tlhae.sIi, flh s't' (s1699), sehish, hy the tins acne nre Ulses, had been pubhhshed at leass Seve Sases An Frncse e Alexander Ciseanesen, Bibhiegraphic de la hltsrtncs feense de di-sepiesesniiche, IL, sn, P7hrele) sand at lease lees tines in English translation sse The Catalogue ef the Britis tMttsse7 acnRoe certainly nould hae feound l1f selects dideetieas agreeaible, partsculaly his insistence thrsughout ons the priacsy of tacst in Providene, And, dfRoenbohrend anything directly 5cecs hiss bseyond she anteestl as Telemachus, it seas probsablly the these of the eduscation of this emUlyses, the heir set oaly Is Ulyse' throse hut alaso Is the Odysanpatn ofsfferignwhicheprsentshthe trialof itand fih. Mreoe, Fnslcs inveledTlemachs inctwolssalas: an llcite wsith Echaia,coescf Calypso's nyaph, which theates his mnahood and his soul (Booh VI, and aslediso with Aatssps, which he neat defe, honwever, untl his fashes's hbusinss is accomplished (Book XVII! Perhaps these affains sggsted Is acne Telemachus' efae nith ISnanthe 17. IA 377 U, 49l. Cf. Acne Daidms Petty, iltoen and the Miltesi Dryen. pt,2,ch. i,lfoea wy fnanalyasisftehemeaf secrecy inlSamsen Ageonuee, an anlysis In wehich I an indebteed shcenighsnt this setion. Perhaps acne himself, inaluenced so 12. Poesessthe hsedieanametaphorftsiltoeplain sueringsinnocece; "The agenwaseot enlhghtenedsenoughethaknwshatcalamityisefenaprofsfite, end a seal set a punihaent" AXIX.434s). Inch sffering else reinforces m"eti hopsesasutesae," a "timefrtreiuin"hih "illaplyrcomapese thegod man for sa his ealamsitis, se as Miltes exprses, Will iust'Is the sey, of lied ho ens' (XX.254fc). 13. Por shelr frienship, see Norman Ault, Nec Light see Ioe, p. 128 a,. Alas, it appeas that hefsts he died acne saeed soe ccntibionta, hoever small, Is Poe', Homnr; see Poe's acnledgament en seis'kschece Editon, VII, 23, and X, 443, 14. lSanfod suggss that the tesore of acne's testing oflPendepe as Tri-Sa' advice Is Ulysses "Is caser Peneloe Is soe tech edesllee"-peseahly ass teial (ch. en, n. 12). Ohviosnly, Rowe is neelyexpanding sehat is aleady in messes, leas sheen- parsiosn was aheillians teshe ice the dramatic conflict of the pes'. 15. Jeac Racin, Adaenes (1667), in GsO. s de J aciei, ed. Paul Masad, 1,1 a,. Cf. Leadon C. Buns, Jr., "The Tragedies of Nicholas Rowe," p. 170, weho aleso sas a elatiosaship hetween Penesloe end Andeenaqe. The popularity of Racin's play is England can he inferred henm the fast shate ntas translaedfor the Engsh stahgetwice: anonymses ly as Ancdrocheic 1675, ssd hy SAmbes Philips as The Disicesi Motcher is 1711, theslatterseing"bydalldds thespplarand sccchtessltaslaionsfeaFrench tragedy ses prodnced," acecsrding In Dorothea (Casfheld) Fiahec, Corele ndl~ifsse lee Esghl(, p. 140. Of course, Roes Ulysses predates Philips' play, lest Jshc Ceenese wroceis she Pceface toAdraethaeen then acines 'playnwas"sechsateemedin Franceand hee, too,hbyanoe nlisgh,whoeareadmiesf the French Wit" (asquoted in Fiher, p. 89). Usestanly Roe wasa Assect descendant of these admirer, as As attedted hy thescatlgeesfhhsebarqc . wt senitsageasenmerof Fenchnwsandhyhis laterwok ieditig,tnsatng,and eescotribcting tothseasorksofileda, Qle and La 6csywte. Besides the remnarkaehsilarity ice tragic confihet, hsowaeer she strsngest implicatioc that Rowe seas 'initating Riacinse's plesv lies, paradoxnically, is the fact that the trial si Telsemachss is cemaskabhly sismilarto that of Corseille's adeie ses LesChl (seeDsonaldB. Clarh, "Nicholasoe," p.4 ffs,awhcleardysablihshses tr- latiocship hetwees she teas plas thcsough a cesee of pacallels). It appeas that Rowea atemsptedetoeicorporaesitosicshadapsatinsofso e ohenword's greaestdclassicalhepics the aor nsssflicts is nsw of Peace's geatedt densiedl tagedies. 16. Soe's addsto 'Sasf the tria of Telemachcs Is te dsoy of Ulysesseturcees probhbdy in, attribsted, at lenst in pert, ts the anasang popnlarity of Peesasgs As he the-Peselses's Lee Acectues de Tdwacess, fihs d'Uhysss (16997, nhich, hy she isme Rone nre Ulyses, had heec pubhlished at least fie tines in French A55 Alexnder Cineanesen, Bihliographic d a lee hekciest feeshe An din tisss sle, 11, as, Phaslsa) and at lease fonr lines Sn English tranelation (see The Catalogne of the Britis Museeseum eeainlyswould havsesud Fssle'didacticismagrseebe, prticlaly his iitenaceethroughoutsnsthe priacsy of trest is Pesnidence, Ad, if Roeborrowed scnythineg diectly foma him heyoesd she inteestl in Telemaches, lenwa prohbahly the thene sf theeducsatin nf this see Etyasee, the heir act only Is Ulysses' thcone heat elan is ths Odyseenpattensofsuferingwhich represects thetrialso irtuhe asndfaith. Mene, TendoncieseolvedTeemachsninctolceesaillicithe withh rahs,nmesnf Calypsoseymaph, nhich theten, his anhood asd his sent (Beck VIan sa licit se aith Sneispe, wehich he acest defe, howeer, until his fathec's businsss a ccomplished (Back XVII7 Perhaps these affaisi sggestede to Raw Telemsachns' afaic with Semnshe 17. Sd 377 L 491. Cf. Anne Davisn Petty, Miltes nd tse teileesc Dryden, pt. 2,ch.I, foranery fine analyesis he ee ofserecy ad .Samsncdsse,ananaslysis ts which leam indeed throughout this sectin. Perhas asse himself, influenced an  76 The Trial of the Inocoent muchby Milton inhis earlie pay oametne weaboe) nd Th FairPtet se ch. re), was indebted to Sconon Agostes, asowllta to The Odyssey, for this themeo. 18. See Mark D. Hoome, "The Villain i Restoation Tragedy," for an, ineesting study of the triteness of this figure, whico heomes almost a pore abstraction. 76 The Trial of the Inntocett muh by Miltonoin his earlier plays, Tamrln (we boveoo) and The FairPenitent (e ch. iv), woot in~debtedto Sa-mo Agooi,oto wll to The Ody-e, forthisthemoe. 18. Sue Mark D). Horne, "The Villainoin Restoration Trageody," for a, inteesting tudy of the toiteneos of this figore, wehich heomes olot a pare ahstraction. 76 The Trial of the Iooet muchby Mitonoinhisearier ply, Tonooo (ee above) andTheoFairPeitent (see oh. io), woos indebted to toootoo Agoostoo, at wll osto The Odyssey, tor this theto. 1f. too Moth D. Hoooe, "Th Villain io Rtestoratioo Toaged,- tota Ointteesing tudy of the titeeso this fgue, hihbo mesto alot poeatratio.  III Protagonist as Saint The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray N RowE's Tamerlane we have seen that the "trial" of the Christians, Moneses and Arpasia, culminates in their death. Arpasia's prayer to the "holy martyrs," along with Moneses' faith in the certainty of an afterlife, places their suffering in the context of Christian martyrdom. Though they are not persecuted primarily for their religion (albeit Bajazet hates Christians), their story demonstrates that even in the face of torture and death the Christian dares meet his trial with trust in Providence. While the Arpasia-Moneses episode does not dominate Tamerlane, in The Royal Concert (1707) and Lady Jane Gray (1715) Rowe concentrates on the theme of Christian martyrdom as the extreme trial of the innocent-as the trial of the saint. Although the victims in The Royal Convert are reprieved at the last moment, the particular na- ture of their suffering-not only for their love but also for their faith- links the tragedy with Lady Jane Gray, and both can justly be called martyr plays. Significantly, though the historical backgrounds for both plays can be found in several sources, those same backgrounds are thoroughly treated in the great Protestant martyrology of the English Renaissance, John Foxe's Book of Martyrs, of which Rowe possessed a copy.' That Rowe used Foxe as one of his sources is probable-but im- possible to prove. What is more important is that the periods of history whence Rowe drew these plays-the Saxon conquest of Christian Britain and the English Reformation-were periods of religious persecution and martyrdom. Moreover, though the protagonists of The Royal Con- cert are fhetional characters, Lady Jane Gray was in fact one of Protes- tant England's most illustrious martyrs. *Notes to this chapter begin on page 105. 77 III Protagonist as Saint The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray N ROwE's Tamerlane we have seen that the "trial" of the Christians, Moneses and Arpasia, culminates in their death. Arpasia's prayer to the "holy martyrs," along with Moneses' faith in the certainty of an afterlife, places their suffering in the context of Christian martyrdom. Though they are not persecuted primarily for their religion (albeit Bajazet hates Christians), their story demonstrates that even in the face of torture and death the Christian dares meet his trial with trust in Providence. While the Arpasia-Moneses episode does not dominate Tamerlane, in The Royal Convert (1707) and Lady Jane Gray (1715) Rowe concentrates on the theme of Christian martyrdom as the extreme trial of the innocent-as the trial of the saint. Although the victims in The Royal Concert are reprieved at the last moment, the particular na- ture of their suffering-not only for their love but also for their faith- links the tragedy with Lady Jane Gray, and both can justly be called martyr plays. Significantly, though the historical backgrounds for both plays can be found in several sources, those same backgrounds are thoroughly treated in the great Protestant martyrology of the English Renaissance, John Foxe's Book of artyrs, of which Rowe possessed a copy.' That Rowe used Foxe as one of his sources is probable-but im- possible to prove. What is more important is that the periods of history whence Rowe drew these plays-the Saxon conquest of Christian Britain and the English Reformation-were periods of religious persecution and martyrdom. Moreover, though the protagonists of The Royal Con- vert are fictional characters, Lady Jane Gray was in fact one of Protes- tant England's most illustrious martyrs. *oto this chapter begin on page 105. 77 III Protagonist as Saint The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray N ROwE's Tamerlane we have seen that the "trial" of the Christians, Moneses and Arpasia, culminates in their death. Arpasia's prayer to the "holy martyrs," along with Moneses' faith in the certainty of an afterlife, places their suffering in the context of Christian martyrdom. Though they are not persecuted primarily for their religion (albeit Bajazet hates Christians), their story demonstrates that even in the face of torture and death the Christian dares meet his trial with trust in Providence. While the Arpasia-Moneses episode does not dominate Tamerlane, in The Royal Convert (1707) and Lady Jane Gray (1715) Rowe concentrates on the theme of Christian martyrdom as the extreme trial of the innocent-as the trial of the saint. Although the victims in The Royal Connert are reprieved at the last moment, the particular na- ture of their suffering-not only for their love but also for their faith- links the tragedy with Lady Jane Gray, and both can justly be called martyr plays. Significantly, though the historical backgrounds for both plays can be found in several sources, those same backgrounds are thoroughly treated in the great Protestant martyrology of the English Renaissance, John Foxe's Book of Martyrs, of which Rowe possessed a copy.* That Rowe used Foxe as one of his sources is probable-but im- possible to prove. What is more important is that the periods of history whence Rowe drew these plays-the Saxon conquest of Christian Britain and the English Reformation-were periods of religious persecution and martyrdom. Moreover, though the protagonists of The Royal Con- vert are fictional characters, Lady Jane Gray was in fact one of Protes- tant England's most illustrious martyrs. *Notes to this chapter begin on page 105. 77  78 The Trial of the Innocent It is instructive, then, to view these plays in the light of the Re- naissance concept of the function of hagiography. Foxe prefixed to the Book of Martyrs an essay entitled, "The Utility of this Story," in which he delineates that function, the primary aspect of which is the follow- ing: if men profit by reading "prophane" history, Foxe argues, "how much more then is it meet for Christians to conserve in remembrance the Lives, Acts, and Doings, not of bloody Warriors, but of mild and constant Martyrs of Christ, which serve not so much to delight the ear, as to garnish the life, to frame it with examples of great profit, and to encourage men to all kind of Christian godliness? As first, by reading thereof we may learn a lively testimony of Gods mighty working in the life of man, contrary to the opinion of Atheists, and all the whole Nest of Epicures. For like as one said of Harpalus in times past, that his doings gave a lively testimony against God, because he being so wicked a man, escaped so long unpunished; so contrariwise in these men we have a much more assured and plain witness of God, both in whose Lives and Deaths appeared such manifest Declarations of Gods divine working" (sig. a5'). Thus, according to Foxe, the primary function of hagiography is theodicean; to teach the workings of Providence and to answer thereby the problem of suffering innocence, raised with new urgency in this troublesome age of renascence and reformation by the doubting atheists and neo-Epicureans. In Tudor Books of Saints and Martyrs, Helen C. White quotes Eusebius, the first great Church historian and hagi- ographer, as saying that the events in his Ecclesiastical History evince " 'a vindication of the divine Word, in whom the faith of Christians centers' " (p. 12). According to White, all the martyr stories told in the Middle Ages were seen as episodes in "the divine epic" (p. 17); in Foxe's book, however, an even greater emphasis is put on Providence, es- pecially in miraculous occurrences (p. 115). Most of Foxe's marvels, she continues, are "miracles of Providence" and of "retribution" (p. 165): "The sixteenth-century attack on the miraculous spared retribution, and many who scoffed at the happy chances of the Golden Legend [Caxton's extremely popular translation of Jacobus de Voragine's colos- sal medieval martyrology, Legenda Aurea] would have a grim satis- faction in Providence's avenging of innocent blood and bringing the persecutors of the saints to poetic justice" (p. 115). White's terms are already quite familiar to us in our study of Rowe and the Christian tragedy of suffering innocence. The way that the lessons of martyrologies are to be taught, accord- 78 The Trial of the Innocent It is instructive, then, to view these plays in the light of the Re- naissance concept of the function of hagiography. Foxe prefixed to the Book of Martyrs an essay entitled, "The Utility of this Story," in which he delineates that fumction, the primary aspect of which is the follow- ing: if men profit by reading "prophane" history, Foxe argues, "how much more then is it meet for Christians to conserve in remembrance the Lives, Acts, and Doings, not of bloody Warriors, but of mild and constant Martyrs of Christ, which serve not so much to delight the ear, as to garnish the life, to frame it with examples of great profit, and to encourage men to all kind of Christian godliness? As first, by reading thereof we may learn a lively testimony of Gods mighty working in the life of man, contrary to the opinion of A theists, and all the whole Nest of Epicures. For like as one said of Harpalus in times past, that his doings gave a lively testimony against God, because he being so wicked a man, escaped so long unpunished; so contrariwise in these men we have a much more assured and plain witness of God, both in whose Lives and Deaths appeared such manifest Declarations of Gods divine working" (sig. a5r). Thus, according to Foxe, the primary function of hagiography is theodiceat: to teach the workings of Providence and to answer thereby the problem of suffering innocence, raised with new urgency in this troublesome age of renascence and reformation by the doubting atheists and neo-Epicureans. In Tudor Books of Saints and Martyrs, Helen C. White quotes Eusebius, the first great Church historian and hagi- ographer, as saying that the events in his Ecclesiastical History evince " 'a vindication of the divine Word, in whom the faith of Christians centers' " (p. 12). According to White, all the martyr stories told in the Middle Ages were seen as episodes in "the divine epic" (p. 17); in Foxe's book, however, an even greater emphasis is put on Providence, es- pecially in miraculous occurrences (p. 115). Most of Foxe's marvels, she continues, are "miracles of Providence" and of "retribution" (p. 165): "The sixteenth-century attack on the miraculous spared retribution, and many who scoffed at the happy chances of the Golden Legend [Caxton's extremely popular translation of Jacobus de Voragine's colos- sal medieval martyrology, Legenda Aurea] would have a grim satis- faction in Providence's avenging of innocent blood and bringing the persecutors of the saints to poetic justice" (p. 115). White's terms are already quite familiar to us in our study of Rowe and the Christian tragedy of suffering innocence. The way that the lessons of martyrologies are to be taught, accord- 78 The Trial of the Innocent It is instructive, then, to view these plays in the light of the Re- naissance concept of the function of hagiography. Foxe prefixed to the Book of Martyrs an essay entitled, "The Utility of this Story," in which he delineates that function, the primary aspect of which is the follow- ing: if men profit by reading "prophane" history, Foxe argues, "how much more then is it meet for Christians to conserve in remembrance the Lives, Acts, and Doings, not of bloody Warriors, but of mild and constant Martyrs of Christ, which serve not so much to delight the ear, as to garnish the life, to frame it with examples of great profit, and to encourage men to all kind of Christian godliness? As first, by reading thereof we may learn a lively testimony of Gods mighty working in the life of man, contrary to the opinion of Atheists, and all the whole Nest of Epicures. For like as one said of Harpalus in times past, that his doings gave a lively testimony against God, because he being so wicked a man, escaped so long unpunished; so contrariwise in these men we have a much more assured and plain witness of God, both in whose Lives and Deaths appeared such manifest Declarations of Gods divine working" (sig. a5r). Thus, according to Foxe, the primary function of hagiography is theodicean: to teach the workings of Providence and to answer thereby the problem of suffering innocence, raised with new urgency in this troublesome age of renascence and reformation by the doubting atheists and neo-Epicureans. In Tudor Books of Saints and Martyrs, Helen C. White quotes Eusebius, the first great Church historian and hagi- ographer, as saying that the events in his Ecclesiastical History evince " 'a vindication of the divine Word, in whom the faith of Christians centers' " (p. 12). According to White, all the martyr stories told in the Middle Ages were seen as episodes in "the divine epic" (p. 17); in Foxe's book, however, an even greater emphasis is put on Providence, es- pecially in miraculous occurrences (p. 115). Most of Foxe's marvels, she continues, are "miracles of Providence" and of "retribution" (p. 165); "The sixteenth-century attack on the miraculous spared retribution, and many who scoffed at the happy chances of the Golden Legend [Caxton's extremely popular translation of Jacobus de Voragine's colos- sal medieval martyrology, Legenda Aurea] would have a grim satis- faction in Providence's avenging of innocent blood and bringing the persecutors of the saints to poetic justice" (p. 115). White's terms are already quite familiar to us in our study of Rowe and the Christian tragedy of suffering innocence. The way that the lessons of martyrologies are to be taught, accord-  The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 79 ing to Foot, is by the "esanmple" of ths snartyrs, who themsselves did the "dance" ofChist (sig. aS') Thsesamae,of course, is trueoftmatyr plays lernm the Middle Ages theangh the Renaissansce. In the Restoca- tina, the Prefaee to John Dryden's Tyroonich Love, soe The Royal Maetyr (acted 1669), eeiteeates the concept of teaching "the psecepts of ass- religion" by esample, by drasmatic repeesesatations of "patteerns of piety: 'By the haesnony of woeds we [drasnatists] elevate the mind to a tease of devotion, as one solemon mstaic, which is inarticulate poesy, does inechurehes; asdhbythe livelvinmages ofpity, adonedy ations, through the tenses allots the soot; svhich wvhile it is eharsmed in a silent joy of what it tees and heats, is stench at the same time swith a secet veneration of things celestial, anad is w'oussd op insensibly into the prac- live of that which it admires" (Essnys, 1, 136 f). Hess affective oad foe- mal theores exist side by side. Whateves the affective mechanics, the overall desigs ass "images" as "patterns," lihe Foss's "dove," which are intended to instruct the andience soot merely in Christians ethics but its "thisngs celestial," in Christian metaphysics. At least op to the time of Rows, then, martyr statis and plays by their very noate west designedtopotraysntsmerely thespionshlves ofsaitst hmetaphysi- cat reality itself, As in Foss, the metaphysical reality porsrayed in Dryden's Tyson- nich Lace is the Divine Providence Which Saint Catharine so ably de- fends and Which snanifests Its cats in the miracnlous events of the play. The tame metaphysical reality is portrayed in Rows's two martyr plays, and his thesne remains truest in the case ansd nltimate sustice of that Frovidence, even in the fact of martyrdom. And while The Royal Convet-in its aces-beating rhetoeic and conteivances-is inferior to Tysannish Love, Lady Jane Geny-in its muted rhetoric and simplicity- is superior, It images forth better than any of Rowe's previons tragedies of snifering innocence a anisette that is meaningful despite even the death of the vistunas assd the trisumph of the wiched. As in Tameslone, the moldf of peace peevades The Royal Convert (Worhs, It, 69 ff) and thsprovides an approach tothesmeaningof the play. Although King Hengist of Kent and the bSon Princess Rodagesne ass betrothed at a pledge of alliance among the Sanons against the ritons, each is secretly in lovewith someoneelse: hewith theritish Princess Kthelindo, whom he has hidnapped bnt who is secretly married to his younger brother Aribert; and she with Aribtet himself. Both Hen- The Royal Cancert and Lady Janc Grmy 79 ing to Fast, is by the "eameple" of the smartyrs, who themselves did the "dance" of Christ (sig. aS'). The same, of coass, is tre of martyr plays team the Middle Ages throngh the Renaissance In the Restora- lion, the Preface to John Deyden's Tysannich Love, as The Royal Martyr (acted 1669), reitecates the concept of teaching "the precepts of one religion" by example, by drasmatic representations of "patterns of piety"; "By the has-many of woeds we [dramatists] elevate the mind to asense of devotion, as aoes solemn music, which is inarticulate potty, does inchucbet; and by thehlvly imagsnfpity,ndorned by action, throngh the tenses allots the soul; which while it is charmed in a silent joy of what it sets and heats, is struch at the same time with a statet veneration of things celestial, and is wond np insensibly into the prac- tics nf that which it admies" (Esnays 1, 138 f). flee affective and foe- mal theotiet exist tide by side. Whatevee the affective mechanics, the ovetall designs ass "images" as "patterns," lihe Foss's "dance," which as-s intended to instruct the andience not meely in Christian ethics best in "things celestial," in Christian metaphysics. At least np to the time of Rows, then, mactyr statis and plays hy their very natne west designed to portray not meely the pions lives of saints but metaphysi- cal reality itself, At in Foss, the metaphysical reality poetrayed in Dryden's Tyson' nick Lace is the Divine Peovidence Which Saint Catharine so ably de- tendt and Which nmanifests Its case s'n the miracnlons events of the play. The same metaphysical eality it portrayed in Rows's two maetyr plays, and his theme remains trust in the case and nltimate jnstice of that Providence, even in the face of martys-dom. And while The Royal Convcrt-in its overearsing rhetoric and contrivances-is infer-ior to Tymannieh Lace, Lady Jane Gray-in its mnted rhetos-ic and simplicidy- is snpeio-. It images forth bettee than any of Rows's previons tragedis of snffer-ing innocence a nniverse that is meaningfnl despite even the death of the vietnons and the trinsmph of the wiched. As in Tamneelane, the moldf of peace psevades The Royal Convert (Worhs, 11, 69 ff) and that provides an approach to the meaning of the play. Although King Hengist of Kent and the Saxon Princems Rodogn ass betrothed as a pledge of alliance among the Saxont against the ritons, each is secretly in lovewih smenseelse: he withlthersitish Ps-meets Rthelinda, whom he has hidnapped bnt who is secretly mactied to his youngerhs-othrsAibes; and sheswith Aise-t himself. oth Hen- The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 79 ing to Foss, is by the "esample' of she martyrs, who themselves did the "dance" of Christ (sig. a5'). The tame, of cans-se, is tre of mar-tyr plays fenom the Middle Ages throngh the Renaissance In the Restns-a- lion, the Peeface to John Dryden's Tytonnich Love, as The Royal Maclye (acted 1669), reiterates the concept of teaching "the precepts of one religion" by esamaple, by dramatic repr-esentations of "patterns of piety"; "By the harmony of words we [drameatists] elevate the mind to a sense of devotion, as one solemn mnsic, which is inar-ticnlate poesy, doss in churches; and ley the lively images of piety, adorned by action, throngh the senses allune the tool; which while it is char-med in a silent jaoy of what it sees and heats, is strsuch at the same time with a secet venecation of things celestial, and is wonnd op insensibly into the ps-ac- tics of that which it admir-es" (Essays, 1, 136 f). Hess affective and fnr- mal theories enist side by side. Whatever- the affective mechanics, the overall designs ass "images" as "patterns," lihe Fast's "dance," which ae intended to instrnct the aodienenot meely in Christian ethics bnt in "things celestial," in Cheistian metaphysics. At least op to the time of Rowe, then, martyr statis and plays by theft very natne wece designed to pos-Iray not meely the pious boses of saints bnt metaphysi- cal eality itself, As in Fans, the metaphysical reality portrayed in Dryden's Tyson- tich Lace is the Divine Frovidence Which Saint Catharine so ably de- fends and Which manifestt Its cats in the miracuousn events of the play. The same metaphysical reality is portrayed in Rowe's two martyr plays, and his theme remsains trust in the case and ultimate jostie of that Providence, ecen in the face of mar-tyrdom. And while The Royal Coonvet-in its overbearing rhetoric and contsivances-is inferior to Tytonnich Loet-, Lady Jane Geay-in its moted rhetoric and simplicity- is superior. It images forth belles than any of Rows's previous tragedies of suffering innocence a suniese that is meaingful despite even the death of the virtnons and the triumph of the wiched. As in Tameslane, the motif of peace per-vades The Royal Canvast (Wors, 11, 69 ff) and thus provides an approach to the meaning of the play. Although King Hengist of Kent and the Saxon Feincess Rodngne ass betrothed as a pledge of alliance among the Sasons against the ritnns, each is secretly in lovewith somenels; he with theBrsitish Princess Ethelinda, whom he has hidnapped bnt who is secelyv married to his younger brother- Aribert; and she with Aribset himself. Both Hen-  80 The Trial of the Innocent gist and Rodogune lose their peace of mind in pursuit of their uncon- trollable-and, they discover to their dismay, illicit-desires. As a con- sequence even the peace of the country is threatened, in the destruction of the alliance and the strife among the Saxons which ensue. Aribert and Ethelinda, on the other hand, despite the shattering of their bridal peace by these raging intruders, find peace of mind in their reliance on "The great o'er ruling author of our beings" (V.ii, p. 123), and they are rewarded for their constancy with a peace on earth in which their as- cendance to the throne signifies the crowning of virtue.' Hengist, whose "nature" is described as "warm," "fierce," and "prone to sudden passions" (11, p. 94), is "curst within" by his lust for Ethelinda (I, p. 83) and, despite the fact he is a king, lacks "that peace / Which ev'ry slave enjoys." For he must marry Rodogune or endanger his country's peace: But Kings must wed (Curse on the hard condition of their royalty!) That sordid slaves may sweat and eat in peace. (II, p. 85) And yet to marry Rodogse and lose Ethelinda would be "to reign in hell" and "never know one hour of peace again" (I, p. 83). Thus, the "medley war within" and "sickness of soul" (p. 81) which he suffers in- volve a conflict between his private passion and his public responsi- bility as king, a responsibility that requires him to be the "common vic- tim of the state" (p. 84) and the "nursing-father" of his people (p. 80).' Hengist and his cunning minister Seofrid devise a stratagem to save the alliance: Prince Aribert will marry Rodogune and will become the "pledge of peace" (p. 84). Yet ironically, he to whom Hengist turns for peace becomes the cause of his complete frustration, for Ethelinda turns out to be Aribert's secret bride. Ostensibly because Aribert has broken a solemn childhood vow never to become or to marry a Chris- tian, but really because of jealous rage, Hengist sentences him to death. Hengist's language evinces his lack of peace as he bids "ten thousand thousand horrors" come, for they "fit the present fury" of his "soul" The stings of love and rage are fix'd within, And drive me on to madness. Earthquakes, whirlwinds, A general wreck of nature now would please me. (III, p. 106) 80 The Trial of the Innocent gist and Rodogune lose their peace of mind in pursuit of their uncon- trollable-and, they discover to their dismay, illicit-desires. As a con- sequence even the peace of the country is threatened, in the destruction of the alliance and the strife among the Saxons which ensue. Aribert and Ethelinda, on the other hand, despite the shattering of their bridal peace by these raging intruders, find peace of mind in their reliance on "The great o'er ruling author of our beings" (V.ii, p. 123), and they are rewarded for their constancy with a peace on earth in which their as- cendance to the throne signifies the crowning of virtue. Hengist, whose "nature" is described as "warm," "fierce," and "prone to sudden passions" (II, p. 94), is "curst within" by his lust for Ethelinda (I, p. 83) and, despite the fact he is a king, lacks "that peace / Which ev'ry slave enjoys." For he must marry Rodogune or endanger his country's peace: But Kings must wed (Curse on the hard condition of their royalty!) That sordid slaves may sweat and eat in peace. (II, p. 85) And yet to marry Rodogne and lose Ethelinda would be "to reign in hell" and "never know one hour of peace again" (I, p. 83). Thus, the "medley war within" and "sickness of soul" (p. 81) which he suffers in- volve a conflict between his private passion and his public responsi- bility as king, a responsibility that requires him to be the "common vic- tim of the state" (p. 84) and the "nursing-father" of his people (p. 80). Hengist and his cunning minister Seofrid devise a stratagem to save the alliance: Prince Aribert will marry Rodogune and will become the "pledge of peace" (p. 84). Yet ironically, he to whom Hengist turns for peace becomes the cause of his complete frustration, for Ethelinda turns out to be Aribert's secret bride. Ostensibly because Aribert has broken a solemn childhood vow never to become or to marry a Chris- tian, but really because of jealous rage, Hengist sentences him to death. Hengist's language evinces his lack of peace as he bids "ten thousand thousand horrors" come, for they "fit the present fury" of his "soul": The stings of love and rage are fix'd within, And drive me on to madness. Earthquakes, whirlwinds, A general wreck of nature now would please me. (III, p. 106) 80 The Trial of the Innocent gist and Rodogune lose their peace of mind in pursuit of their uncon- trollable-and, they discover to their dismay, illicit-desires. As a con- sequence even the peace of the country is threatened, in the destruction of the alliance and the strife among the Saxons which ensue. Aribert and Ethelinda, on the other hand, despite the shattering of their bridal peace by these raging intruders, find peace of mind in their reliance on "The great o'er ruling author of our beings" (V.ii, p. 123), and they are rewarded for their constancy with a peace on earth in which their as- cendance to the throne signifies the crowning of virtue. 2 Hengist, whose "nature" is described as "warm, "fierce," and "prone to sudden passions" (II, p. 94), is "curst within" by his lust for Ethelinda (I, p. 83) and, despite the fact he is a king, lacks "that peace / Which ev'ry slave enjoys." For he must marry Rodogne or endanger his country's peace: But Kings must wed (Curse on the hard condition of their royalty!) That sordid slaves may sweat and eat in peace. (II, p. 85) And yet to marry Rodogune and lose Ethelinda would be "to reign in hell" and "never know one hour of peace again" (I, p. 83). Thus, the "medley war within" and "sickness of soul" (p. 81) which he suffers in- volve a conflict between his private passion and his public responsi- bility as king, a responsibility that requires him to be the "common vic- tim of the state" (p. 84) and the "nursing-father" of his people (p. 80).' Hengist and his cunning minister Seofrid devise a stratagem to save the alliance: Prince Aribert will marry Rodogune and will become the "pledge of peace" (p. 84). Yet ironically, he to whom Hengist turns for peace becomes the cause of his complete frustration, for Ethelinda turns out to be Aribert's secret bride. Ostensibly because Aribert has broken a solemn childhood vow never to become or to marry a Chris- tian, but really because of jealous rage, Hengist sentences him to death. Hengist's language evinces his lack of peace as he bids "ten thousand thousand horrors" come, for they "fit the present fury" of his "soul": The stings of love and rage are fix'd within, And drive me on to madness. Earthquakes, whirlwinds, A general wreck of nature now would please me. (III, p. 106)  The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 81 The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 81 The subsequent identification of his "inborn tempest" with an ex- ternal tempest suggests the far-reaching ramifications of Hengist's rage. As the King's soul is disordered, so is his kingdom: at this very moment Rodogune begins to plot the rescue of Aribert and the overthrow of Hengist by her brother and his band of Saxons, and Aribert's faithful lieutenant Oswald escapes to the Britons to enlist their aid in rescuing his master. Furthermore, nature itself seems really headed toward a "general wreck." The restraining bond of "nature" (p. 100) between brothers is overcome as Hengist prepares to carry out his sentence. When he learns that Ethelinda's destination is the Briton's camp, he threatens to "shake / Their Island to the centre" to get her back (IV, p. 112). Nor does the breach of nature stop there. When Hengist de- mands again the return of Ethelinda, Aribert reproaches him in terms common to Western, and particularly Christian, tragedy: Rage, and the violence of lawless passion, Have blinded your clear reason; wherefore else This frantic wild demand! What! should I yield, Give up my love, my wife, my Ethelinda, To an incestuous brother's dire embrace? But Hengist contemptuously boasts that he is not awed "with that fan- tom, incest." "Lawless passion" has perverted reason and nature, and only the arrival of Rodogune and the Saxons frustrates his evil designs. Since the gods thus refuse him "their better blessings" (V.i, p. 118), the defeated King disdains the "worthless crown" he has lost and deter- mines to "rest in sullen peace." The key word "sullen" connotes both apathy and despair and indicates no real peace of mind at all. And when Seofrid in desperation informs him that Ethelinda is to be killed by Rodogune, Hengist's "medley" of warring passions returns (p. 118 f). In- stead of securing the throne as Seofrid had intended, however, Hengist purposes to let "fighting fools contend in vain" for empire, while he es- capes to his castle, where, contemning "idle rules," he will "riot" in incestuous lust with Ethelinda (p. 121). Ironically, with Seofrid crying, "What know'st thou not the King?" (V.ii, p. 125), a soldier deals Hengist his mortal wound as he comes in pursuit of his designs. Thus this King who has rejected his public responsibility is himself the victim of the ensuing anarchy. Furthermore, though he does not succeed in his inces- tuous intent, he rejects the admonition of the "fair teacher" Ethelinda to repent and to "deprecate the wrath divine," concluding, "The Gods The subsequent identification of his "inborn tempest" with an ex- ternal tempest suggests the far-reaching ramifications of Hengist's rage. As the King's soul is disordered, so is his kingdom; at this very moment Rodogune begins to plot the rescue of Aribert and the overthrow of Hengist by her brother and his band of Saxons, and Aribert's faithful lieutenant Oswald escapes to the Britons to enlist their aid in rescuing his master. Furthermore, nature itself seems really headed toward a "general wreck." The restraining bond of "nature" (p. 100) between brothers is overcome as Hengist prepares to carry out his sentence. When he learns that Ethelinda's destination is the Briton's camp, he threatens to "shake / Their Island to the centre" to get her back (IV, p. 112). Nor does the breach of nature stop there. When Hengist de- mands again the return of Ethelinda, Aribert reproaches him in terms common to Western, and particularly Christian, tragedy: Rage, and the violence of lawless passion, Have blinded your clear reason; wherefore else This frantic wild demand! What! should I yield, Give up my love, my wife, my Ethelinda, To an incestuous brother's dire embrace? But Hengist contemptuously boasts that he is not awed "with that fan- tom, incest." "Lawless passion" has perverted reason and nature, and only the arrival of Rodogune and the Saxons frustrates his evil designs. Since the gods thus refuse him "their better blessings" (V.i, p. 118), the defeated King disdains the "worthless crown" he has lost and deter- mines to "rest in sullen peace." The key word "sullen" connotes both apathy and despair and indicates no real peace of mind at all. And when Seofrid in desperation informs him that Ethelinda is to be killed by Rodogune, Hengist's "medley" of warring passions returns (p. 118 f). In- stead of securing the throne as Seofrid had intended, however, Hengist purposes to let "fighting fools contend in vain" for empire, while he es- capes to his castle, where, contemning "idle rules," he will "riot" in incestuous lust with Ethelinda (p. 121). Ironically, with Seofrid crying, "What know'st thou not the King?" (V.ii, p. 125), a soldier deals Hengist his mortal wound as he comes in pursuit of his designs. Thus this King who has rejected his public responsibility is himself the victim of the ensuing anarchy. Furthermore, though he does not succeed in his inces- tuous intent, he rejects the admonition of the "fair teacher" Ethelinda to repent and to "deprecate the wrath divine," concluding, "The Gods The Royal Conert and Lady lane Gray 81 The subsequent identification of his "inborn tempest" with an ex- ternal tempest suggests the far-reaching ramifications of Hengist's rage. As the King's soul is disordered, so is his kingdom: at this very moment Rodogune begins to plot the rescue of Aribert and the overthrow of Hengist by her brother and his band of Saxons, and Aribert's faithful lieutenant Oswald escapes to the Britons to enlist their aid in rescuing his master. Furthermore, nature itself seems really headed toward a "general wreck." The restraining bond of "nature" (p. 100) between brothers is overcome as Hengist prepares to carry out his sentence. When he learns that Ethelinda's destination is the Briton's camp, he threatens to "shake / Their Island to the centre" to get her back (IV, p. 112). Nor does the breach of nature stop there. When Hengist de- mands again the return of Ethelinda, Aribert reproaches him in terms common to Western, and particularly Christian, tragedy: Rage, and the violence of lawless passion, Have blinded your clear reason; wherefore else This frantic wild demand! What! should I yield, Give up my love, my wife, my Ethelinda, To an incestuous brother's dire embrace? But Hengist contemptuously boasts that he is not awed "with that fan- tom, incest." "Lawless passion" has perverted reason and nature, and only the arrival of Rodogime and the Saxons frustrates his evil designs. Since the gods thus refuse him "their better blessings" (V., p. 118), the defeated King disdains the "worthless crown" he has lost and deter- mines to "rest in sullen peace." The key word "sullen" connotes both apathy and despair and indicates no real peace of mind at all. And when Seofrid in desperation informs him that Ethelinda is to be killed by Rodogune, Hengist's "medley" of warring passions returns (p. 118 f). In- stead of securing the throne as Seofrid had intended, however, Hengist purposes to let "fighting fools contend in vain" for empire, while he es- capes to his castle, where, contemning "idle rules," he will "riot" in incestuous lust with Ethelinda (p. 121). Ironically, with Seofrid crying, "What know'st thou not the King?" (V.ii, p. 125), a soldier deals Hengist his mortal wound as he comes in pursuit of his designs. Thus this King who has rejected his public responsibility is himself the victim of the ensuing anarchy. Furthermore, though he does not succeed in his inces- tuous intent, he rejects the admonition of the "fair teacher" Ethelinda to repent and to "deprecate the wrath divine," concluding, "The Gods  82 The Trial of the Innocent and I have done with one another" (p. 126). Remaining to the end "fierce, untam'd, disdainful" (p. 127), he curses the gods and his brother and dies. The implication is that he goes to suffer more than just an in- ternal hell. Such is the reward-"gnashing fiends beneath, and pains eternal" (I, p. 77)-clearly promised in the play for "man's injustice" and unbounded "passions." Despite her haughty pride, Rodogune also loses her peace of mind in her passion for Aribert. Her hopes in him of both love and empire are "blasted" (I1, p. 104) by his sudden declaration of his marriage, and "ten thousand racking passions" are released to plague her. Yet she approaches Aribert in his prison to offer him freedom, empire, and her- self, for despite his marriage, she can find no rest without him (IV, p. 109). Expecting to find him similarly distraught at the thought of death, however, she finds him instead patiently resolved, with a "face of tri- umph, not of mourning" (p. 107). "Has death so little in it?" she asks, utterly piqued. For she cannot comprehend the martyr's resolution.' Most of all, she cannot brook his refusal of her offer (p. 108 f). The fury of a woman scorned breaks out in storm imagery that recalls Hengist's passion and the threat of internal and external chaos: Blast me, ye lightnings, strike me to the centre, Drive, drive me down, down to the depths beneath; Let me not live, nor think-let me not think, For I have been despis'd. (p. 109 f) She surrenders herself to the passion of "revenge" and vows to make Ethelinda the "victim" of her "offended love" (p. 112). Nevertheless, when she returns to rescue Aribert from Hengist, Rodogune seems to have conquered her passions momentarily and to act with genuine magnanimity, for, "No matter what ensues," she breaks Aribert's "bonds" and bids him forget her and "Fly far away," presumably to Ethelinda (p. 114). When the recaptured Ethelinda ap- pears in the same room and rushes into Aribert's arms, however, Rodo- gone's jealous rage explodes, and she exclaims, "Hence, bear her hence. / My peace is lost for ever-but she dies" (p. 116). Rodogune bitterly grants Aribert's wish to die with her and vows to "tear" him from her "remembrance" and "be at ease for ever" (p. 117). But she is unable to free herself from her passion, and as she comes to put them to death, 82 The Trial of the Innocent and I have done with one another" (p. 126). Remaining to the end "fierce, untam'd, disdainful" (p. 127), he curses the gods and his brother and dies. The implication is that he goes to suffer more than just an in- ternal hell. Such is the reward-"gnashing fiends beneath, and pains eternal" (I, p. 77)-clearly promised in the play for "man's injustice" and unbounded "passions." Despite her haughty pride, Rodogune also loses her peace of mind in her passion for Aribert. Her hopes in him of both love and empire are "blasted" (III, p. 104) by his sudden declaration of his marriage, and "ten thousand racking passions" are released to plague her. Yet she approaches Aribert in his prison to offer him freedom, empire, and her- self, for despite his marriage, she can find no rest without him (IV, p. 109). Expecting to find him similarly distraught at the thought of death, however, she finds him instead patiently resolved, with a "face of tri- umph, not of mourning" (p. 107). "Has death so little in it?" she asks, utterly piqued. For she cannot comprehend the martyr's resolution.' Most of all, she cannot brook his refusal of her offer (p. 108 f). The fury of a woman scorned breaks out in storm imagery that recalls Hengist's passion and the threat of internal and external chaos: Blast me, ye lightnings, strike me to the centre, Drive, drive me down, down to the depths beneath; Let me not live, nor think-let me not think, For I have been despis'd. (p. 109 f) She surrenders herself to the passion of "revenge" and vows to make Ethelinda the "victim" of her "offended love" (p. 112). Nevertheless, when she returns to rescue Aribert from Hengist, Rodogune seems to have conquered her passions momentarily and to act with genuine magnanimity, for, "No matter what ensues," she breaks Aribert's "bonds" and bids him forget her and "Fly far away," presumably to Ethelinda (p. 114). When the recaptured Ethelinda ap- pears in the same room and rushes into Aribert's arms, however, Rodo- gone's jealous rage explodes, and she exclaims, "Hence, bear her hence. / My peace is lost for ever-but she dies" (p. 116). Rodogune bitterly grants Aribert's wish to die with her and vows to "tear" him from her "remembrance" and "be at ease for ever" (p. 117). But she is unable to free herself from her passion, and as she comes to put them to death, 82 The Trial of the Innocent and I have done with one another" (p. 126). Remaining to the end "fierce, untam'd, disdainful" (p. 127), he curses the gods and his brother and dies. The implication is that he goes to suffer more than just an in- ternal hell. Such is the reward-"gnashing fiends beneath, and pains eternal" (I, p. 77)-clearly promised in the play for "man's injustice" and unbounded "passions." Despite her haughty pride, Rodogune also loses her peace of mind in her passion for Aribert. Her hopes in him of both love and empire are "blasted" (ILL, p. 104) by his sudden declaration of his marriage, and "ten thousand racking passions" are released to plague her. Yet she approaches Aribert in his prison to offer him freedom, empire, and her- self, for despite his marriage, she can find no rest without him (IV, p. 109). Expecting to find him similarly distraught at the thought of death, however, she finds him instead patiently resolved, with a "face of tri- umph, not of mourning" (p. 107). "Has death so little in it?" she asks, utterly piqued. For she cannot comprehend the martyr's resolution.' Most of all, she cannot brook his refusal of her offer (p. 108 f). The fury of a woman scorned breaks out in storm imagery that recalls Hengist's passion and the threat of internal and extenal chaos: Blast me, ye lightnings, strike me to the centre, Drive, drive me down, down to the depths beneath; Let me not live, nor think-let me not think, For I have been despis'd. (p. 109 f) She surrenders herself to the passion of "revenge" and vows to make Ethelinda the "victim" of her "offended love" (p. 112). Nevertheless, when she returns to rescue Aribert from Hengist, Rodogune seems to have conquered her passions momentarily and to act with genuine magnanimity, for, "No matter what ensues," she breaks Aribert's "bonds" and bids him forget her and "Fly far away," presumably to Ethelinda (p. 114). When the recaptured Ethelinda ap- pears in the same room and rushes into Aribert's arms, however, Rodo- gune's jealous rage explodes, and she exclaims, "Hence, bear her hence. / My peace is lost for ever-but she dies" (p. 116). Rodogune bitterly grants Aribert's wish to die with her and vows to "tear" him from her "remembrance" and "be at ease for ever" (p. 117). But she is unable to free herself from her passion, and as she comes to put them to death,  The Royal Convert and Lady lane Gray 83 she must struggle to put her heart "at peace" (V.ii, p. 123). Finally, she is denied the "sullen pleasure" of her rage (p. 124)-one is reminded of the "sullen peace" Hengist seeks-by the arrival of Hengist and the Britons. Though she considers it "vain to rave and curse" her "fortune" (p. 126), she spitefully does curse the race of man and impotently prays that "woman" be allowed to Subdue mankind beneath her haughty scorn, And smile to see the proud oppressor mourn. (p. 127 f) But in so cursing Aribert she rejects his offer of mercy (which itself be- lies her judgment of man as "proud oppressor") and dooms herself to the total loss of peace concomitant to despair. Contrasted to the madness of uncontrolled passion which consumes Hengist and Rodogune is the inner peace attained by Aribert and Ethelinda, despite their loss of bridal peace and happiness. In the open- ing scene of the play Aribert describes to Oswald the joys of his and Ethelinda's love, joys comparable to "Elysium" or "the first Paradise, / When nature was not yet deform'd by winter" (, p. 76). But their para- dise is doomed from the start not to last in a fallen world, a world that is "deform'd by winter." Ethelinda has already described to Aribert the Christian vision of the human condition: I heard her with an eloquence divine, Reason of holy and mysterious truths; Of Heav'n's most righteous doom, of man's injustice; Of laws to curb the will, and bind the passions; Of life, of death, and immortality; Of gnashing fiends beneath, and pains eternal; Of starry thrones, and endless joys above. The passage is not just a gratuitous review of Christian doctrine, for its relevance to the entire play is obvious merely from the injustice and unbounded passion we have already observed. Aribert is soon to learn that, given such a world, the only "endless joys" are those "above." When Hengist asks him to share half the burden of his sorrow, Aribert unhesitatingly offers to bear "all" of it and to be "greatly tried" (It, p. 85). With Hengist's request that he marry Rodogune, however, The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 83 she must struggle to put her heart "at peace" (V.ii, p. 123). Finally, she is denied the "sullen pleasure" of her rage (p. 124)-one is reminded of the "sullen peace" Hengist seeks-by the arrival of Hengist and the Britons. Though she considers it "vain to rave and curse" her "fortune" (p. 126), she spitefully does curse the race of man and impotently prays that "woman" be allowed to Subdue mankind beneath her haughty scorn, And smile to see the proud oppressor mourn. (p. 127 f) But in so cursing Aribert she rejects his offer of mercy (which itself be- lies her judgment of man as "proud oppressor") and dooms herself to the total loss of peace concomitant to despair. Contrasted to the madness of uncontrolled passion which consumes Hengist and Rodogune is the inner peace attained by Aribert and Ethelinda, despite their loss of bridal peace and happiness. In the open- ing scene of the play Aribert describes to Oswald the joys of his and Ethelinda's love, joys comparable to "Elysium" or "the first Paradise, / When nature was not yet deform'd by winter" (I, p. 76). But their para- dise is doomed from the start not to last in a fallen world, a world that is "deform'd by winter." Ethelinda has already described to Aribert the Christian vision of the human condition: I heard her with an eloquence divine, Reason of holy and mysterious truths; Of Heav'n's most righteous doom, of man's injustice; Of laws to curb the will, and bind the passions; Of life, of death, and immortality; Of gnashing fiends beneath, and pains eternal; Of starry thrones, and endless joys above. The passage is not just a gratuitous review of Christian doctrine, for its relevance to the entire play is obvious merely from the injustice and unbounded passion we have already observed. Aribert is soon to learn that, given such a world, the only "endless joys" are those "above." When Hengist asks him to share half the burden of his sorrow, Aribert unhesitatingly offers to bear "all" of it and to be "greatly tried" (It, p. 85). With Hengist's request that he marry Rodogune, however, The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 83 she must struggle to put her heart "at peace" (V.ii, p. 123). Finally, she is denied the "sullen pleasure" of her rage (p. 124)-one is reminded of the "sullen peace" Hengist seeks-by the arrival of Hengist and the Britons. Though she considers it "vain to rave and curse" her "fortune" (p. 126), she spitefully does curse the race of man and impotently prays that "woman" be allowed to Subdue mankind beneath her haughty scorn, And smile to see the proud oppressor mourn. (p. 127 f) But in so cursing Aribert she rejects his offer of mercy (which itself be- lies her judgment of man as "proud oppressor") and dooms herself to the total loss of peace concomitant to despair. Contrasted to the madness of uncontrolled passion which consumes Hengist and Rodogune is the inner peace attained by Aribert and Ethelinda, despite their loss of bridal peace and happiness. In the open- ing scene of the play Aribert describes to Oswald the joys of his and Ethelinda's love, joys comparable to "Elysium" or "the first Paradise, / When nature was not yet deform'd by winter" (I, p. 76). But their para- dise is doomed from the start not to last in a fallen world, a world that is "deform'd by winter." Ethelinda has already described to Aribert the Christian vision of the human condition: I heard her with an eloquence divine, Reason of holy and mysterious truths; Of Heav'n's most righteous doom, of man's injustice; Of laws to curb the will, and bind the passions; Of life, of death, and immortality; Of gnashing fiends beneath, and pains eternal; Of starry thrones, and endless joys above. The passage is not just a gratuitous review of Christian doctrine, for its relevance to the entire play is obvious merely from the injustice and unbounded passion we have already observed. Aribert is soon to learn that, given such a world, the only "endless joys" are those "above." When Hengist asks him to share half the burden of his sorrow, Aribert unhesitatingly offers to bear "all" of it and to be "greatly tried" (11, p. 85). With Hengist's request that he marry Rodogune, however,  84 The Trial of the Innocent Aribert has only begun to be "tried," and yet he precipitately concludes that he is "lost for ever" (p. 89). Cursing the "Fantastic cruelty of hood- wink'd chance," he yearns for the comfort of his Ethelinda, "that dear one, / That gently us'd to breathe the sounds of peace" on his "tempes- tuous soul." Ironically, at that moment Seofrid drags in Hengist's cap- tive, Ethelinda herself. The amazed Aribert rashly suggests that they should "resolve to die together" to "Defy the malice" of their "fate" and "preserve the sacred bond" of their marriage "inviolable" (p. 90). Then, in an instant, he even more rashly concludes that to die is "in vain," for the bond is "broke already" through incest, And envious hell, with its more potent malice, Has ruin'd and deform'd the beauteous work of heav'n. Even though Ethelinda assures him that the "horrid incest" has not taken place, Aribert still concludes that "this bad world is leagu'd with hell against her" (p. 90 f) and that they "are doom'd to death," since Seofrid has overheard their secret. He goes into a "rash" and "frantic rage," desperately trying to buy a respite with Seofrid's murder (p. 91). Ethelinda's response to her plight is in sharp contrast to Aribert's. As he had offered to bear all of Hengist's sorrow, so she asks to suffer all manner of pains, except the "pollution" of incest (p. 90): Let me know All miseries beside, each kind of sorrow, And prove me with variety of pains, Whips, racks, and flames: For I was born to suffer: And when the measure of my woes is full, That power in whom I trust will set me free. Unlike Aribert, however, Ethelinda does not forget in the first moment of trial this faith and resolution of the martyr. Nor does she, like Aribert, blame her condition on "hoodwink'd chance" or the "malice" of "cruel fate," nor conclude that the "malice" of hell is "more potent" than Heaven. Instead she calls on "gracious Heaven," which till now has de- fended her chastity, to guard her from hell and "its blackest crime." When Aribert is about to kill Seofrid for their momentary safeties, Ethelinda beseeches him, "Trust 'em to Heaven" (p. 91). Ethelinda is an example, then, not only to the audience (like other saints in martyro- logies, in miracle and martyr plays), but also to her royal convert. She 84 The Trial of the Innocent Aribert has only begun to be "tried," and yet he precipitately concludes that he is "lost for ever" (p. 89). Cursing the "Fantastic cruelty of hood- wink'd chance," he yearns for the comfort of his Ethelinda, "that dear one, / That gently us'd to breathe the sounds of peace" on his "tempes- tuous soul." Ironically, at that moment Seofrid drags in Hengist's cap- tive, Ethelinda herself. The amazed Aribert rashly suggests that they should "resolve to die together" to "Defy the malice" of their "fate" and "preserve the sacred bond" of their marriage "inviolable" (p. 90). Then, in an instant, he even more rashly concludes that to die is "in vain," for the bond is "broke already" through incest, And envious hell, with its more potent malice, Has ruin'd and deform'd the beauteous work of heav'n. Even though Ethelinda assures him that the "horrid incest" has not taken place, Aribert still concludes that "this bad world is leagu'd with hell against her" (p. 90 f) and that they "are doom'd to death," since Seofrid has overheard their secret. He goes into a "rash" and "frantic rage," desperately trying to buy a respite with Seofrid's murder (p. 91). Ethelinda's response to her plight is in sharp contrast to Aribert's. As he had offered to bear all of Hengist's sorrow, so she asks to suffer all manner of pains, except the "pollution" of incest (p. 90): Let me know All miseries beside, each kind of sorrow, And prove me with variety of pains, Whips, racks, and flames: For I was born to suffer: And when the measure of my woes is full, That power in whom I trust will set me free. Unlike Aribert, however, Ethelinda does not forget in the first moment of trial this faith and resolution of the martyr. Nor does she, like Aribert, blame her condition on "hoodwink'd chance" or the "malice" of "cruel fate," nor conclude that the "malice" of hell is "more potent" than Heaven. Instead she calls on "gracious Heaven," which till now has de- fended her chastity, to guard her from hell and "its blackest crime." When Aribert is about to kill Seofrid for their momentary safeties, Ethelinda beseeches him, "Trust 'em to Heaven" (p. 91). Ethelinda is an example, then, not only to the audience (like other saints in martyro- logies, in miracle and martyr plays), but also to her royal convert. She 84 The Trial of the Innocent Aribert has only begun to be "tried," and yet he precipitately concludes that he is "lost for ever" (p. 89). Cursing the "Fantastic cruelty of hood- wink'd chance," he yearns for the comfort of his Ethelinda, "that dear one, / That gently us'd to breathe the sounds of peace" on his "tempes- tuous soul." Ironically, at that moment Seofrid drags in Hengist's cap- tive, Ethelinda herself. The amazed Aribert rashly suggests that they should "resolve to die together" to "Defy the malice" of their "fate" and "preserve the sacred bond" of their marriage "inviolable" (p. 90). Then, in an instant, he even more rashly concludes that to die is "in vain," for the bond is "broke already" through incest, And envious hell, with its more potent malice, Has ruin'd and deform'd the beauteous work of heav'n. Even though Ethelinda assures him that the "horrid incest" has not taken place, Aribert still concludes that "this bad world is leagu'd with hell against her" (p. 90 f) and that they "are doom'd to death," since Seofrid has overheard their secret He goes into a "rash" and "frantic rage," desperately trying to buy a respite with Seofrid's murder (p. 91). Ethelinda's response to her plight is in sharp contrast to Aribert's. As he had offered to bear all of Hengist's sorrow, so she asks to suffer all manner of pains, except the "pollution" of incest (p. 90): Let me know All miseries beside, each kind of sorrow, And prove me with variety of pains, Whips, racks, and flames: For I was born to suffer: And when the measure of my woes is full, That power in whom I trust will set me free. Unlike Aribert, however, Ethelinda does not forget in the first moment of trial this faith and resolution of the martyr. Nor does she, like Aribert, blame her condition on "hoodwink'd chance" or the "malice" of "cruel fate," nor conclude that the "malice" of hell is "more potent" than Heaven. Instead she calls on "gracious Heaven," which till now has de- fended her chastity, to guard her from hell and "its blackest crime." When Aribert is about to kill Seofrid for their momentary safeties, Ethelinda beseeches him, "Trust 'em to Heaven" (p. 91). Ethelinda is an example, then, not only to the audience (like other saints in martyro- logies, in miracle and martyr plays), but also to her royal convert. She  The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 85 is an "angel" who instructs him in the "way to everlasting happiness" (I, p. 79), and the focus of the play is on the development of his trust in Providence. Now in Act II, Ethelinda brings peace to the distracted, doubting soul of Aribert, as she introduces the theodicean argument of the play. She has a vision of angels who "succour truth and innocence below" (p. 94): Hell trembles at the sight, and hides its head In utmost darkness, while on earth each heart, Like mine, is fill'd with peace and joy unutterable. Such inner peace, what Milton calls a "paradise within" (PL XII.587), is the result of "hope and never-failing faith" in the "holy pow'r" (p. 95). It enables the Christian to "triumph o'er the world," despite his tem- porary paradise lost. Aribert is "touch'd with the sacred theme" and sees himself a vision of "the guardian-angels of the good," who "pity what we suffer here below" and make the saintly Ethelinda (and him- self) "their common care" (p. 95 f). The rest of the play shows Aribert vacillating between trust and distrust in Providence. Finally, condemned to die with Ethelinda for both his love and his faith, very much like Milton's Adam (PL XI.527 ff), he plaintively asks if Heaven has "decreed" that "none shall pass the golden gates above, / But those who sorrow here" to purge their "in- born stains away" (p. 123). Ethelinda's theodicean answer combines the traditional metaphor of trial with the traditional concept of the Happy Death (see PL XI.530 ff): The great o'er ruling author of our beings, Deals with his creature man in various ways, Gracious and good in all: some feel the rod, And own, like us, the Father's chast'ning hand. Sev'n times, like gold, they pass the purging flame, And are at last refin'd; while gently some Tread all the paths of life without a rub, With honour, health, with friends and plenty bless'd, Their years roll round in innocence and ease. Hoary at length, and in a good old age, They go declining to the grave in peace, And change their pleasures here for joys above. The Royal Concert and Lady Jane Gray 85 is an "angel" who instructs him in the "way to everlasting happiness" (I, p. 79), and the focus of the play is on the development of his trust in Providence. Now in Act II, Ethelinda brings peace to the distracted, doubting soul of Aribert, as she introduces the theodicean argument of the play. She has a vision of angels who "succour truth and innocence below" (p. 94): Hell trembles at the sight, and hides its head In utmost darkness, while on earth each heart, Like mine, is fill'd with peace and joy unutterable. Such inner peace, what Milton calls a "paradise within" (PL XII.587), is the result of "hope and never-failing faith" in the "holy pow'r" (p. 95). It enables the Christian to "triumph o'er the world," despite his tem- porary paradise lost. Aribert is "touch'd with the sacred theme" and sees himself a vision of "the guardian-angels of the good," who "pity what we suffer here below" and make the saintly Etbelinda (and him- self) "their common care" (p. 95 f). The rest of the play shows Aribert vacillating between trust and distrust in Providence. Finally, condemned to die with Ethelinda for both his love and his faith, very much like Milton's Adam (PL XI.527 ff), he plaintively asks if Heaven has "decreed" that "none shall pass the golden gates above, / But those who sorrow here" to purge their "in- born stains away" (p. 123). Ethelinda's theodicean answer combines the traditional metaphor of trial with the traditional concept of the Happy Death (see PL XI.530 ff): The great o'er ruling author of our beings, Deals with his creature man in various ways, Gracious and good in all: some feel the rod, And own, like us, the Father's chast'ning hand. Sev'n times, like gold, they pass the purging flame, And are at last refin'd; while gently some Tread all the paths of life without a rub, With honour, health, with friends and plenty bless'd, Their years roll round in innocence and ease. Hoary at length, and in a good old age, They go declining to the grave in peace, And change their pleasures here for joys above. The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 85 is an "angel" who instructs him in the "way to everlasting happiness" (I, p. 79), and the focus of the play is on the development of his trust in Providence. Now in Act II, Ethelinda brings peace to the distracted, doubting soul of Aribert, as she introduces the theodicean argument of the play. She has a vision of angels who "succour truth and innocence below" (p. 94): Hell trembles at the sight, and hides its head In utmost darkness, while on earth each heart, Like mine, is fill'd with peace and joy unutterable. Such inner peace, what Milton calls a "paradise within" (PL XII.587), is the result of "hope and never-failing faith" in the "holy pow'r" (p. 95). It enables the Christian to "triumph o'er the world," despite his tem- porary paradise lost. Aribert is "touch'd with the sacred theme" and sees himself a vision of "the guardian-angels of the good," who "pity what we suffer here below" and make the saintly Ethelinda (and him- self) "their common care" (p. 95 f). The rest of the play shows Aribert vacillating between trust and distrust in Providence. Finally, condemned to die with Ethelinda for both his love and his faith, very much like Milton's Adam (PL XI.527 ff), he plaintively asks if Heaven has "decreed" that "none shall pass the golden gates above, / But those who sorrow here" to purge their "in- born stains away" (p. 123). Ethelinda's theodicean answer combines the traditional metaphor of trial with the traditional concept of the Happy Death (see PL XL530 ff): The great o'er ruling author of our beings, Deals with his creature man in various ways, Gracious and good in all: some feel the rod, And own, like us, the Father's chast'ning hand. Sev'n times, like gold, they pass the purging flame, And are at last refin'd; while gently some Tread all the paths of life without a rub, With honour, health, with friends and plenty bless'd, Their years roll round in innocence and ease. Hoary at length, and in a good old age, They go declining to the grave in peace, And change their pleasures here for joys above.  86 The Trial of the Innocent Aribert still complains. He has not asked for the blessed life but only for "life and Ethelinda." Yet, "Heav'n thought that too much," he murmurs. Ethelinda also sorely feels the loss of that much happiness: she has admitted that Aribert's image "intercepts" her "journey to the stars" (p. 122). Yet she answers that since they have been denied their paradise on earth, they should seek That wond'rous bliss which Heav'n reserves in store, Well to reward us for our losses here; That bliss which Heav'n and only Heav'n can give. (p. 123) That promised bliss-and the inner peace of those who patiently expect it-is immediately juxtaposed to Rodogune's suffering ("still I am doom'd to suffer"), as it has all along been contrasted to the general lack of peace in the world. Strengthened by Ethelinda's instructions, Aribert boasts to Rodogune in the face of tortures, You shall behold how a Prince ought to die, And what a Christian dares to suffer. (p. 124) But now, since Rowe is never content to allow his protagonists the simple trial of merely dying, Aribert is submitted to the severest trial of all. He must watch Ethelinda die first: "And can my eyes endure it!" To Rodogune, then to the "saints and angels" (p. 125), Aribert pleads for Ethelinda, seemingly in vain. In contrast, as she meets her trial "arm'd and equal to the combat" like the true Christian hero, the con- stant Ethelinda would give Aribert the final lesson of example and "lead" him on "in the triumphant way" (p. 124): Be constant to the last, be fix'd my Aribert. 'Tis but a short, short passage to the stars. (p. 125) In the midst of this triumph of the martyr, Aribert and Ethelinda are saved, strangely enough, by the arrival of the brother who has come bent on their destruction but whose ironic death leaves them King and Queen of Kent and victors over Rodogune and her rebelling Saxons. Thus the play ends in perfect poetic justice, and every indication is that such justice is the work of Providence. The crowning of Aribert and 86 The Trial of the Innocent Aribert still complains. He has not asked for the blessed life but only for "life and Ethelinda." Yet, "Heav'n thought that too much," he murmurs. Ethelinda also sorely feels the loss of that much happiness: she has admitted that Aribert's image "intercepts" her "journey to the stars" (p. 122). Yet she answers that since they have been denied their paradise on earth, they should seek That wond'rous bliss which Heav'n reserves in store, Well to reward us for our losses here; That bliss which Heav'n and only Heav'n can give. (p. 123) That promised bliss-and the inner peace of those who patiently expect it-is immediately juxtaposed to Rodogune's suffering ("still I am doom'd to suffer"), as it has all along been contrasted to the general lack of peace in the world. Strengthened by Ethelinda's instructions, Aribert boasts to Rodogune in the face of tortures, You shall behold how a Prince ought to die, And what a Christian dares to suffer. (p. 124) But now, since Rowe is never content to allow his protagonists the simple trial of merely dying, Aribert is submitted to the severest trial of all. He must watch Ethelinda die first: "And can my eyes endure it!" To Rodogune, then to the "saints and angels" (p. 125), Aribert pleads for Ethelinda, seemingly in vain. In contrast, as she meets her trial "arm'd and equal to the combat" like the true Christian hero, the con- stant Ethelinda would give Aribert the final lesson of example and "lead" him on "in the triumphant way" (p. 124): Be constant to the last, be fix'd my Aribert. 'Tis but a short, short passage to the stars. (p. 125) In the midst of this triumph of the martyr, Aribert and Ethelinda are saved, strangely enough, by the arrival of the brother who has come bent on their destruction but whose ironic death leaves them King and Queen of Kent and victors over Rodogune and her rebelling Saxons. Thus the play ends in perfect poetic justice, and every indication is that such justice is the work of Providence. The crowning of Aribert and 86 The Trial of the Innocent Aribert still complains. He has not asked for the blessed life but only for "life and Ethelinda." Yet, "Heav'n thought that too much," he murmurs. Ethelinda also sorely feels the loss of that much happiness: she has admitted that Aribert's image "intercepts" her "journey to the stars" (p. 122). Yet she answers that since they have been denied their paradise on earth, they should seek That wond'rous bliss which Heav'n reserves in store, Well to reward us for our losses here; That bliss which Heav'n and only Heav'n can give. (p. 123) That promised bliss-and the inner peace of those who patiently expect it-is immediately juxtaposed to Rodogune's suffering ("still I am doom'd to suffer"), as it has all along been contrasted to the general lack of peace in the world. Strengthened by Ethelinda's instructions, Aribert boasts to Rodogune in the face of tortures, You shall behold how a Prince ought to die, And what a Christian dares to suffer. (p. 124) But now, since Rowe is never content to allow his protagonists the simple trial of merely dying, Aribert is submitted to the severest trial of all. He must watch Ethelinda die first: "And can my eyes endure it!" To Rodogune, then to the "saints and angels" (p. 125), Aribert pleads for Ethelinda, seemingly in vain. In contrast, as she meets her trial "arm'd and equal to the combat" like the true Christian hero, the con- stant Ethelinda would give Aribert the final lesson of example and "lead" him on "in the triumphant way" (p. 124): Be constant to the last, be fixd my Aribert. 'Tis but a short, short passage to the stars. (p. 125) In the midst of this triumph of the martyr, Aribert and Ethelinda are saved, strangely enough, by the arrival of the brother who has come bent on their destruction but whose ironic death leaves them King and Queen of Kent and victors over Rodogune and her rebelling Saxons. Thus the play ends in perfect poetic justice, and every indication is that such justice is the work of Providence. The crowning of Aribert and  The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 87 Ethelinda seems a reward for constancy in their trial, and Aribert attri- butes their final peace on earth to Heaven's influence: A day of comfort seems to dawn upon us, And Heav'n at length is gracious to our wishes. (p. 127) The punishment of the wicked, too, implies the Hand of Heaven, for it is remarkably appropriate. Seofrid, who to save his master would sacrifice Aribert, loses his master in rescuing Aribert. Hengist is killed in the pur- suit of hell's "blackest crime" (a circumstance considered by the theo- logians to be an instance of particular Providence), and the chaos he has caused consumes him. In her extreme pride and passion, Rodogune has attempted to take vengeance into her own hands: "The Gods are just at length," she exults to Aribert and Ethelinda as she prepares to mur- der them (p. 124), and she appears to be ironically right, for justice is ultimately served and her jealous rage thwarted. All her hopes of love and empire are destroyed as she sullenly banishes herself from the race of man. Moreover, the play has all along asked Rowe's primary question, whether the gods care. Ethelinda has insisted throughout that they do, but even Aribert at first blames either "hoodwink'd chance" or the "malice" of fate for his loss of paradisal peace. On the other hand, Seo- frid at first appears to believe in Providence, for he tells Aribert and Ethelinda, "Whatever Gods there be, their care you are" (II, p. 94), and he asserts that "the ruling Gods are over all, / And order as they please their world below" (III, p. 97). When Hengist's intention to rape Ethe- linda destroys Seofrid's plan for him to regain the throne, however, Seofrid (like Mirza, Bajazet, and Eurymachus before him) declares the "restless racking care" of statesmen "in vain" and swears allegiance to the "Blind goddess chance" (V.i, p. 122): henceforth I follow thee, The politicians of the world may talk, May make a mighty bustle with their foresight, Their schemes and arts, their wisdom is thy slave. Rodogune doubts whether there are really gods "who rule o'er love and jealousy" (IV, p. 117), and she blames whatever gods there are for deal- ing so "unjustly with their creatures" as to deny them pleasures and make them suffer (p. 108). She seems to see the gods as merely vengeful The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 87 Ethelinda seems a reward for constancy in their trial, and Aribert attri- butes their final peace on earth to Heaven's iniluence: A day of comfort seems to dawn upon us, And Heav'n at length is gracious to our wishes. (p. 127) The punishment of the wicked, too, implies the Hand of Heaven, for it is remarkably appropriate. Seofrid, who to save his master would sacrifice Aribert, loses his master in rescuing Aribert. Hengist is killed in the pur- suit of hell's "blackest crime" (a circumstance considered by the theo- logians to be an instance of particular Providence), and the chaos he has caused consumes him. In her extreme pride and passion, Rodogune has attempted to take vengeance into her own hands: "The Gods are just at length," she exults to Aribert and Ethelinda as she prepares to mur- der them (p. 124), and she appears to be ironically right, for justice is ultimately served and her jealous rage thwarted. All her hopes of love and empire are destroyed as she sullenly banishes herself from the race of man. Moreover, the play has all along asked Rowe's primary question, whether the gods care. Ethelinda has insisted throughout that they do, but even Aribert at first blames either "hoodwink'd chance" or the "malice" of fate for his loss of paradisal peace. On the other hand, Sea- frid at first appears to believe in Providence, for he tells Aribert and Ethelinda, "Whatever Gods there be, their care you are" (II, p. 94), and he asserts that "the ruling Gods are over all, / And order as they please their world below" (III, p. 97). When Hengist's intention to rape Ethe- linda destroys Seofrid's plan for him to regain the throne, however, Seofrid (like Mirza, Bajazet, and Eurymachus before him) declares the "restless racking care" of statesmen "in vain" and swears allegiance to the "Blind goddess chance" (V.i, p. 122): henceforth I follow thee. The politicians of the world may talk, May make a mighty bustle with their foresight, Their schemes and arts, their wisdom is thy slave. Rodogune doubts whether there are really gods "who rule o'er love and jealousy" (IV, p. 117), and she blames whatever gods there are for deal- ing so "unjustly with their creatures" as to deny them pleasures and make them suffer (p. 108). She seems to see the gods as merely vengeful The Royal Concert and Lady Jane Gray 87 Ethelinda seems a reward for constancy in their trial, and Aribert attri- butes their final peace on earth to Heaven's influence: A day of comfort seems to dawn upon us, And Heav'n at length is gracious to our wishes. (p. 127) The punishment of the wicked, too, implies the Hand of Heaven, for it is remarkably appropriate. Seofrid, who to save his master would sacrifice Aribert, loses his master in rescuing Aribert. Hengist is killed in the pur- suit of hell's "blackest crime" (a circumstance considered by the theo- logians to be an instance of particular Providence), and the chaos he has caused consumes him. In her extreme pride and passion, Rodogune has attempted to take vengeance into her own hands: "The Gods are just at length," she exults to Aribert and Ethelinda as she prepares to mur- der them (p. 124), and she appears to be ironically right, for justice is ultimately served and her jealous rage thwarted. All her hopes of love and empire are destroyed as she sullenly banishes herself from the race of man. Moreover, the play has all along asked Rowe's primary question, whether the gods care. Ethelinda has insisted throughout that they do, but even Aribert at first blames either "hoodwink'd chance" or the "malice" of fate for his loss of paradisal peace. On the other hand, Sea- frid at first appears to believe in Providence, for he tells Aribert and Ethelinda, "Whatever Gods there be, their care you are" (It, p. 94), and he asserts that "the ruling Gods are over all, / And order as they please their world below" (II, p. 97). When Hengist's intention to rape Ethe- linda destroys Seofrid's plan for him to regain the throne, however, Seofrid (like Mirza, Bajazet, and Eurymachus before him) declares the "restless racking care" of statesmen "in vain" and swears allegiance to the "Blind goddess chance" (V.i, p. 122): henceforth I follow thee. The politicians of the world may talk, May make a mighty bustle with their foresight, Their schemes and arts, their wisdom is thy slave. Rodogune doubts whether there are really gods "who rale o'er love and jealousy" (IV, p. 117), and she blames whatever gods there are for deal- ing so "unjustly with their creatures" as to deny them pleasures and make them suffer (p. 108). She seems to see the gods as merely vengeful  88 The Trial of the Innocent and otherwise scornful "of the world below" (p. 118), and her final prayer to the "partial goddess" Nature that woman be allowed to "Sub- due mankind beneath her haughty scorn" is an indication that she thinks the deities as perverse and spiteful as she. Hengist also sees the Saxon gods as vengeful: he offers Aribert as "a royal victim" to "glut the ven- geance of our angry Gods" (III, p. 105). Furthermore, in Epicurean fashion (which is the pervading fashion of all these comments), he blames "the meddling hand of chance" for causing the chaos in which he finds himself (V.i, p. 119). But Ethelinda's faith in the "great o'er ruling author of our beings," who "Deals with his creature man in various ways, / Gracious and good in all," is vindicated. Hengist says in Act It that "or love, / Or some di- vinity, more strong than love, / Forbids my bliss" (II, p. 88). He appears to be right, for in the next moment Ethelinda maintains that "gracious Heaven" has defended her up to that point from the "pollution" which Hengist's "bliss" would entail (p. 90). The implication is that "Heaven" continues to defend her throughout the play. Aribert has speculated that "the ruling hand of Heaven," working "thus unseen by second causes," has ordained Seofrid "for its instrument of good" (p. 92), and despite his machinations and his final allegiance to the "Blind goddess chance," Seofrid does appear to have been Heaven's instrument, for it is he who provokes Hengist to rescue Aribert and Ethelinda from Rodo- gune. Though the outcome is counter to Seofrid's and Hengist's separate designs, it appears to evince the design of Providence. And so we must conclude, I think, that "the ruling hand of Heaven is in it" and "at length is gracious" to its faithful (italics mine). Their virtue literally crowned, Aribert and Ethelinda become the monarchs of a new "Britain" which "takes its pledge of peace" from their union of Saxon and Briton. "Nor are those pious hopes of peace in vain," prophesies Ethelinda, for that "pledge" will be fulfilled when again "Auspicious Heav'n" shall "smile" and "bless" the "British Isle" of Rowe's Queen Anne with the "eternal UNION" of the Union Act of 1707.5 The inner peace of Aribert and Ethelinda's Christian faith, then, has received an external manifestation in the peace of the land, a mani- festation that is emblematic of the ultimate reward of Providence for those who, with the peace of mind of the saint and resolution of the martyr, trust in Its care. Thus the play has portrayed not only "patterns of piety" in the trusting royal couple but also "things celestial" in the care of that Providence, the metaphysical reality which corresponds to their faith. 88 The Trial of the Innocent and otherwise scornful "of the world below" (p. 118), and her final prayer to the "partial goddess" Nature that woman be allowed to "Sub- due mankind beneath her haughty scorn" is an indication that she thinks the deities as perverse and spiteful as she. Hengist also sees the Saxon gods as vengeful: he offers Aribert as "a royal victim" to "glut the ven- geance of our angry Gods" (III, p. 105). Furthermore, in Epicurean fashion (which is the pervading fashion of all these comments), he blames "the meddling hand of chance" for causing the chaos in which he finds himself (V.i, p. 119). But Ethelinda's faith in the "great o'er ruling author of our beings," who "Deals with his creature man in various ways, / Gracious and good in all," is vindicated. Hengist says in Act II that "or love, / Or some di- vinity, more strong than love, / Forbids my bliss" (II, p. 88). He appears to be right, for in the next moment Ethelinda maintains that "gracious Heaven" has defended her up to that point from the "pollution" which Hengist's "bliss" would entail (p. 90). The implication is that "Heaven" continues to defend her throughout the play. Aribert has speculated that "the ruling hand of Heaven," working "thus unseen by second causes," has ordained Seofrid "for its instrument of good" (p. 92), and despite his machinations and his final allegiance to the "Blind goddess chance," Seofrid does appear to have been Heaven's instrument, for it is he who provokes Hengist to rescue Aribert and Ethelinda from Rodo- gune. Though the outcome is counter to Seofrid's and Hengist's separate designs, it appears to evince the design of Providence. And so we must conclude, I think, that "the ruling hand of Heaven is in it" and "at length is gracious" to its faithful (italics mine). Their virtue literally crowned, Aribert and Ethelinda become the monarchs of a new "Britain" which "takes its pledge of peace" from their union of Saxon and Briton. "Nor are those pious hopes of peace in vain," prophesies Ethelinda, for that "pledge" will be fulfilled when again "Auspicious Heav'n" shall "smile" and "bless" the "British Isle" of Rowe's Queen Anne with the "eternal UNION" of the Union Act of 1707.' The inner peace of Aribert and Ethelinda's Christian faith, then, has received an external manifestation in the peace of the land, a mani- festation that is emblematic of the ultimate reward of Providence for those who, with the peace of mind of the saint and resolution of the martyr, trust in Its care. Thus the play has portrayed not only "patterns of piety" in the trusting royal couple but also "things celestial" in the care of that Providence, the metaphysical reality which corresponds to their faith. 88 The Trial of the Innocent and otherwise scornful "of the world below" (p. 118), and her final prayer to the "partial goddess" Nature that woman be allowed to "Sub- due mankind beneath her haughty scorn" is an indication that she thinks the deities as perverse and spiteful as she. Hengist also sees the Saxon gods as vengeful: he offers Aribert as "a royal victim" to "glut the ven- geance of our angry Gods" (III, p. 105). Furthermore, in Epicurean fashion (which is the pervading fashion of all these comments), he blames "the meddling hand of chance" for causing the chaos in which he finds himself (V.i, p. 119). But Ethelinda's faith in the "great o'er ruling author of our beings," who "Deals with his creature man in various ways, / Gracious and good in all," is vindicated. Hengist says in Act II that "or love, / Or some di- vinity, more strong than love, / Forbids my bliss" (II, p. 88). He appears to be right, for in the next moment Ethelinda maintains that "gracious Heaven" has defended her up to that point from the "pollution" which Hengist's "bliss" would entail (p. 90). The implication is that "Heaven" continues to defend her throughout the play. Aribert has speculated that "the ruling hand of Heaven," working "thus unseen by second causes," has ordained Seofrid "for its instrument of good" (p. 92), and despite his machinations and his final allegiance to the "Blind goddess chance," Seofrid does appear to have been Heaven's instrument, for it is he who provokes Hengist to rescue Aribert and Ethelinda from Rodo- gone. Though the outcome is counter to Seofrid's and Hengist's separate designs, it appears to evince the design of Providence. And so we must conclude, I think, that "the ruling hand of Heaven is in it" and "at length is gracious" to its faithful (italics mine). Their virtue literally crowned, Aribert and Ethelinda become the monarchs of a new "Britain" which "takes its pledge of peace" from their union of Saxon and Briton. "Nor are those pious hopes of peace in vain," prophesies Ethelinda, for that "pledge" will be fulfilled when again "Auspicious Heav'n" shall "smile" and "bless" the "British Isle" of Rowe's Queen Anne with the "eternal UNION" of the Union Act of 1707.' The inner peace of Aribert and Ethelinda's Christian faith, then, has received an external manifestation in the peace of the land, a mani- festation that is emblematic of the ultimate reward of Providence for those who, with the peace of mind of the saint and resolution of the martyr, trust in Its care. Thus the play has portrayed not only "patterns of piety" in the trusting royal couple but also "things celestial" in the care of that Providence, the metaphysical reality which corresponds to their faith.  The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 89 ii The Tragedy of Lady Jane Gray (Works, II, 187 ff) is Rowe's last play and his final examination of the problem of suffering innocence. Its sub- ject is an historical martyr, and it dramatizes her acceptance of the crown of England in a gallant attempt to save her country and its in- cipient Protestantism from "Bloody" Mary's succession at the death of the Boy King, Edward VI. When her attempt fails, Lady Jane no less gallantly accepts defeat and eventual martyrdom. Rowe summarizes her story thus in the Epilogue: The destin'd saint, unfortunately brave, Sunk with those altars which she strove to save. Greatly she dar'd to prop the juster side, As greatly with her adverse fate comply'd, Did all that Heaven could ask, resign'd, and died. (p. 248) Himself a staunch Protestant, Rowe exaggerates even the pro-Protes- tant accounts of her story in Foxe's Book of Martyrs and Bishop Burnet's History of the Reformation." In nearly every scene he depicts the "hor- rors" of a return of Papism to England, and John C. Loftis plausibly maintains that the religious element of the play was designed as anti- Jacobite propaganda during the revolution of 1715.7 Perhaps also, as the Dedication and the Epilogue suggest, the play was intended to be an elaborate compliment to the contemporary "patroness and defender of our holy faith" (p. 189), the Princess of Wales, Caroline of Ansbach, who had refused to abandon Protestantism for Roman Catholicism and the hand of Archduke Charles of Austria, pretender to the Spanish throne.' The religious dimension in Lady Jane Gray transcends topical motivation, however, as Loftis unfortunately does not point out. For Rowe's last play crowns his attempt at dramatic theodicy. Lady Jane is the suffering innocent par excellence, who never loses trust in Divine Providence and who acts with complete submission to God's will throughout. This "beauteous saint"-"a heroine, a martyr, and a queen" (Prologue)-is held up as "our great example" (Epilogue) to emulate. She is Rowe's finest embodiment of that "suff'ring virtue" which is tried and is not found wanting. And despite her suffering and that of England to follow her death, the play ends with the promise of ultimate provi- dential justice for both Lady Jane and her country. The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 89 ii The Tragedy of Lady Jane Gray (Works, II, 187 ff) is Rowe's last play and his final examination of the problem of suffering innocence. Its sub- ject is an historical martyr, and it dramatizes her acceptance of the crown of England in a gallant attempt to save her country and its in- cipient Protestantism from "Bloody" Mary's succession at the death of the Boy King, Edward VI. When her attempt fails, Lady Jane no less gallantly accepts defeat and eventual martyrdom. Rowe summarizes her story thus in the Epilogue: The destin'd saint, unfortunately brave, Sunk with those altars which she strove to save. Greatly she dar'd to prop the juster side, As greatly with her adverse fate comply'd, Did all that Heaven could ask, resign'd, and died. (p. 248) Himself a staunch Protestant, Rowe exaggerates even the pro-Protes- tant accounts of her story in Foxe's Book of Martyrs and Bishop Burnet's History of the Reformation.' In nearly every scene he depicts the "hor- rors" of a return of Papism to England, and John C. Loftis plausibly maintains that the religious element of the play was designed as anti- Jacobite propaganda during the revolution of 1715.7 Perhaps also, as the Dedication and the Epilogue suggest, the play was intended to be an elaborate compliment to the contemporary "patroness and defender of our holy faith" (p. 189), the Princess of Wales, Caroline of Ansbach, who had refused to abandon Protestantism for Roman Catholicism and the hand of Archduke Charles of Austria, pretender to the Spanish throne.' The religious dimension in Lady Jane Gray transcends topical motivation, however, as Loftis unfortunately does not point out. For Rowe's last play crowns his attempt at dramatic theodicy. Lady Jane is the suffering innocent par excellence, who never loses trust in Divine Providence and who acts with complete submission to God's will throughout. This "beauteous saint"-"a heroine, a martyr, and a queen" (Prologue)-is held up as "our great example" (Epilogue) to emulate. She is Rowe's finest embodiment of that "suff'ring virtue" which is tried and is not found wanting. And despite her suffering and that of England to follow her death, the play ends with the promise of ultimate provi- dential justice for both Lady Jane and her country. The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 89 ii The Tragedy of Lady Jane Gray (Works, II, 187 ff) is Rowe's last play and his final examination of the problem of suffering innocence. Its sub- ject is an historical martyr, and it dramatizes her acceptance of the crown of England in a gallant attempt to save her country and its in- cipient Protestantism from "Bloody" Mary's succession at the death of the Boy King, Edward VI. When her attempt fails, Lady Jane no less gallantly accepts defeat and eventual martyrdom. Rowe summarizes her story thus in the Epilogue: The destin'd saint, unfortunately brave, Sunk with those altars which she strove to save. Greatly she dar'd to prop the juster side, As greatly with her adverse fate comply'd, Did all that Heaven could ask, resign'd, and died. (p. 248) Himself a staunch Protestant, Rowe exaggerates even the pro-Protes- tant accounts of her story in Foxe's Book of Martyrs and Bishop Burnet's History of the Reformation.' In nearly every scene he depicts the "hor- rors" of a return of Papism to England, and John C. Loftis plausibly maintains that the religious element of the play was designed as anti- Jacobite propaganda during the revolution of 1715. Perhaps also, as the Dedication and the Epilogue suggest, the play was intended to be an elaborate compliment to the contemporary "patroness and defender of our holy faith" (p. 189), the Princess of Wales, Caroline of Ansbach, who had refused to abandon Protestantism for Roman Catholicism and the hand of Archduke Charles of Austria, pretender to the Spanish throne.' The religious dimension in Lady Jane Gray transcends topical motivation, however, as Loftis unfortunately does not point out. For Rowe's last play crowns his attempt at dramatic theodicy. Lady Jane is the suffering innocent par excellence, who never loses trust in Divine Providence and who acts with complete submission to God's will throughout. This "beauteous saint"-"a heroine, a martyr, and a queen" (Prologue)-is held up as "our great example" (Epilogue) to emulate. She is Rowe's finest embodiment of that "suff'ring virtue" which is tried and is not found wanting. And despite her suffering and that of England to follow her death, the play ends with the promise of ultimate provi- dential justice for both Lady Jane and her country.  90 The Trial of the Innocent Throughout the play Lady Jane, Henry VIII's grandniece, is portrayed as a "saint" indeed, whose only motivation for becoming queen is literally to be Defender of the Faith-to preserve English Protestantism from the impending ravages of Catholic Mary, Henry VIII's daughter and next heir after Edward? From the moment of her advent on the stage Lady Jane is preoccupied with the fate of England if Edward dies: she complains to her beloved, Oh, Guilford! what remains for wretched England, When he, our guardian angel, shall forsake us? For whose dear sake, Heav'n spar'd a guilty land, And scatter'd not its plagues while Edward reign'd. (I, p. 201) She envisions "the wan King of Terrors," Death, stalking the land, while "universal uin gathers round" and all England awaits an apocalyptic doom (p. 202), for the return of Rome portends the reign of Antichrist which is to precede "the fatal hour." Edward's dying words to Lady Jane are a prayer that England's "holy altars" be "undefil'd" and its people saved "from the yoke of Rome" (II, p. 205), and he beseeches her, to whom he has been joined throughout their young lives by a "sacred union" and a "wondrous sympathy" (p. 204), to "be good to England" (p. 205). But she does not yet know what shall be asked of her in order to do so. Until now, despite the fact that she loves him, Lady Jane has refused at such a solemn time to hear "th'ungrateful theme" of Guilford's suit for her hand (I, p. 202). Yet at the very moment of Ed- ward's death their parents, out of policy and "the common int'rest," "ordain" their immediate marriage (II, p. 205). In obedience to her mother's "command" (p. 206) and to avoid offending Guilford, Lady Jane reconciles herself to the marriage, though she is unaware of the ambitious designs of Guilford's father, the powerful Duke of Northum- berland? Yet (as if Rowe wished to secure her absolutely from any im- putation of political opportunism) she offers Guilford nothing but "sighs" and "tears" (p. 206 f) and exacts a pledge from him to join her on their wedding night not in bliss but in mourning. Only then does she plight him her troth, submitting not only to her parents' will but to the will of God: Whatever Providence allots for each, Be that the common portion of us both. 90 The Trial of the Innocent Throughout the play Lady Jane, Henry VIII's grandniece, is portrayed as a "saint" indeed, whose only motivation for becoming queen is literally to be Defender of the Faith-to preserve English Protestantism from the impending ravages of Catholic Mary, Henry VIII's daughter and next heir after Edward.' From the moment of her advent on the stage Lady Jane is preoccupied with the fate of England if Edward dies: she complains to her beloved, Oh, Guilford! what remains for wretched England, When he, our guardian angel, shall forsake us? For whose dear sake, Heav'n spar'd a guilty land, And scatter'd not its plagues while Edward reign'd. (I, p. 201) She envisions "the wan King of Terrors," Death, stalking the land, while "universal ruin gathers round" and all England awaits an apocalyptic doom (p. 202), for the return of Rome portends the reign of Antichrist which is to precede "the fatal hour." Edward's dying words to Lady Jane are a prayer that England's "holy altars" be "undefil'd" and its people saved "from the yoke of Rome" (II, p. 205), and he beseeches her, to whom he has been joined throughout their young lives by a "sacred union" and a "wondrous sympathy" (p. 204), to "be good to England" (p. 205). But she does not yet know what shall be asked of her in order to do so. Until now, despite the fact that she loves him, Lady Jane has refused at such a solemn time to hear "th'ungrateful theme" of Guilford's suit for her hand (I, p. 202). Yet at the very moment of Ed- ward's death their parents, out of policy and "the common int'rest," "ordain" their immediate marriage (II, p. 205). In obedience to her mother's "command" (p. 206) and to avoid offending Guilford, Lady Jane reconciles herself to the marriage, though she is unaware of the ambitious designs of Guilford's father, the powerful Duke of Northum- berland.'" Yet (as if Rowe wished to secure her absolutely from any im- putation of political opportunism) she offers Guilford nothing but "sighs" and "tears" (p. 206 f) and exacts a pledge from him to join her on their wedding night not in bliss but in mourning. Only then does she plight him her troth, submitting not only to her parents' will but to the will of God: Whatever Providence allots for each, Be that the common portion of us both. 90 The Trial of the Innocent Throughout the play Lady Jane, Henry VIII's grandniece, is portrayed as a "saint" indeed, whose only motivation for becoming queen is literally to be Defender of the Faith-to preserve English Protestantism from the impending ravages of Catholic Mary, Henry VIII's daughter and next heir after Edward.' From the moment of her advent on the stage Lady Jane is preoccupied with the fate of England if Edward dies: she complains to her beloved, Oh, Guilford! what remains for wretched England, When he, our guardian angel, shall forsake us? For whose dear sake, Heav'n spar'd a guilty land, And scatter'd not its plagues while Edward reign'd. (I, p. 201) She envisions "the wan King of Terrors," Death, stalking the land, while "universal ruin gathers round" and all England awaits an apocalyptic doom (p. 202), for the return of Rome portends the reign of Antichrist which is to precede "the fatal hour." Edward's dying words to Lady Jane are a prayer that England's "holy altars" be "undefil'd" and its people saved "from the yoke of Rome" (II, p. 205), and he beseeches her, to whom he has been joined throughout their young lives by a "sacred union" and a "wondrous sympathy" (p. 204), to "be good to England" (p. 205). But she does not yet know what shall be asked of her in order to do so. Until now, despite the fact that she loves him, Lady Jane has refused at such a solemn time to hear "th'ungrateful theme" of Guilford's suit for her hand (I, p. 202). Yet at the very moment of Ed- ward's death their parents, out of policy and "the common int'rest," "ordain" their immediate marriage (II, p. 205). In obedience to her mother's "command" (p. 206) and to avoid offending Guilford, Lady Jane reconciles herself to the marriage, though she is unaware of the ambitious designs of Guilford's father, the powerful Duke of Northum- berland."' Yet (as if Rowe wished to secure her absolutely from any im- putation of political opportunism) she offers Guilford nothing but "sighs" and "tears" (p. 206 f) and exacts a pledge from him to join her on their wedding night not in bliss but in mourning. Only then does she plight him her troth, submitting not only to her parents' will but to the will of God: Whatever Providence allots for each, Be that the common portion of us both.  The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 91 The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 91 The Royal Convert and Lady lane Cray 91 Thus Rowe creates a saintly Lady Jane, vulnerable to appeals from religion, country, parents, and husband, and all the details of the cli- mactic third act are artfully calculated to show her gradually over- whelmed by such appeals, until she attempts to fill the void left by Ed- ward herself. In the ominous Tower, while Edward's deathbed will, disinheriting Mary and Elizabeth, is secretly receiving its sanction from the council, Guilford cryptically informs Lady Jane that from her "heal- ing hand" the "Lords o'th'Council" expect "a cure / For England's loss in Edward" (I1, p. 217). At this moment her mother, the Duchess of Suffolk (who herself abdicates her claim to the throne) enters to declare Lady Jane queen by "Heav'n's decree" and Edward's last will, made "on the verge of Heav'n, in sight of angels-as if to give it a religious sanction. Northumberland proclaims her the savior of England's threat- ened faith, By whose bright zeal, by whose victorious faith, Guarded and fenc'd around, our pure religion, That lamp of truth which shines upon our altars, Shall lift its golden head, and flourish long. (p. 218) Lady Jane is skeptical, however, that the dying King had the authority to "Bequeath his crown" to her or to "give away a people for a legacy" (p. 219), but Northumberland sweeps her scruples aside and begs her not to aid the cause of Mary by failing to be "England's better angel" (p. 222). The phrase "better angel" picks up Lady Jane's earlier refer- ence to Edward as England's "guardian angel," and it appears to be her providential vocation to fulfill that role. The crescendo of emotional appeals finally climaxes in typical Restoration fashion, but Rowe has handled it convincingly. Overcome by pleas to save her "country," "re- ligion," "friends," "father," "Mother," and "Husband," in a genuine spirit of Christian self-sacrifice Lady Jane capitulates: Take me, crown me, Invest me with this royal wretchedness; Let me not know one happy minute more; Let all my sleepless nights be spent in care, My days be vex'd with tumults and alarms; If only I can save you, if my fate Has mark'd me out to be the public victim, I take the lot with joy. Yes, I will die Thus Rowe creates a saintly Lady Jane, vulnerable to appeals from religion, country, parents, and husband, and all the details of the cli- mactic third act are artfully calculated to show her gradually over- whelmed by such appeals, until she attempts to fill the void left by Ed- ward herself. In the ominous Tower, while Edward's deathbed will, disinheriting Mary and Elizabeth, is secretly receiving its sanction from the council, Guilford cryptically informs Lady Jane that from her "heal- ing hand" the "Lords o'th'Council" expect "a cure / For England's loss in Edward" (I1, p. 217). At this moment her mother, the Duchess of Suffolk (who herself abdicates her claim to the throne) enters to declare Lady Jane queen by "Heav'n's decree" and Edward's last will, made "on the verge of Heav'n, in sight of angels"-as if to give it a religious sanction. Northumberland proclaims her the savior of England's threat- ened faith, By whose bright zeal, by whose victorious faith, Guarded and fene'd around, our pure religion, That lamp of truth which shines upon our altars, Shall lift its golden head, and flourish long. (p. 218) Lady Jane is skeptical, however, that the dying King had the authority to "Bequeath his crown" to her or to "give away a people for a legacy" (p. 219), but Northumberland sweeps her scruples aside and begs her not to aid the cause of Mary by failing to be "England's better angel" (p. 222). The phrase "better angel" picks up Lady Jane's earlier refer- ence to Edward as England's "guardian angel," and it appears to be her providential vocation to fulfill that role. The crescendo of emotional appeals finally climaxes in typical Restoration fashion, but Rowe has handled it convincingly. Overcome by pleas to save her "country," "re- ligion," "friends," "father," "Mother," and "Husband," in a genuine spirit of Christian self-sacrifice Lady Jane capitulates: Take me, crown me, Invest me with this royal wretchedness; Let me not know one happy minute more; Let all my sleepless nights be spent in care, My days be vex'd with tumults and alarms; If only I can save you, if my fate Has mark'd me out to be the public victim, I take the lot with joy. Yes, I will die Thus Rowe creates a saintly Lady Jane, vulnerable to appeals from religion, country, parents, and husband, and all the details of the cli- mactic third act are artfully calculated to show her gradually over- whelmed by such appeals, until she attempts to fill the void left by Ed- ward herself. In the ominous Tower, while Edward's deathbed will, disinheriting Mary and Elizabeth, is secretly receiving its sanction from the council, Guilford cryptically informs Lady Jane that from her "heal- ing hand" the "Lords o'th'Council" expect "a cure / For England's loss in Edward" (11, p. 217). At this moment her mother, the Duchess of Suffolk (who herself abdicates her claim to the throne) enters to declare Lady Jane queen by "Heav'n's decree" and Edward's last will, made "on the verge of Heav'n, in sight of angels-as if to give it a religious sanction. Northumberland proclaims her the savior of England's threat- ened faith, By whose bright zeal, by whose victorious faith, Guarded and fene'd around, our pure religion, That lamp of truth which shines upon our altars, Shall lift its golden head, and flourish long. (p. 218) Lady Jane is skeptical, however, that the dying King had the authority to "Bequeath his crown" to her or to "give away a people for a legacy" (p. 219), but Northumberland sweeps her scruples aside and begs her not to aid the cause of Mary by failing to be "England's better angel" (p. 222). The phrase "better angel" picks up Lady Jane's earlier refer- ence to Edward as England's "guardian angel," and it appears to be her providential vocation to fulfill that role. The crescendo of emotional appeals finally climaxes in typical Restoration fashion, but Rowe has handled it convincingly. Overcome by pleas to save her "country," "re- ligion," "friends," "father," "Mother," and "Husband," in a genuine spirit of Christian self-sacrifice Lady Jane capitulates: Take me, crown me, Invest me with this royal wretchedness; Let me not know one happy minute more; Let all my sleepless nights be spent in care, My days be vex'd with tumults and alarms; If only I can save you, if my fate Has mark'd me out to be the public victim, I take the lot with joy. Yes, I will die  92 The Trial of the Innocent For that eternal truth my faith is fix'd on, And that dear native land which gave me birth. (p. 223) Thus she magnanimously (and beautifully) accepts her role with but one prayer: All that I ask, is, tho' my fortune frown, And bury me beneath this fatal crown; Let that one good be added to my doom, To save this land from tyranny and Rome. (p. 223 f) Her sacrifice leads only to martyrdom, however, and she will not only be buried beneath her crown, but her one request will go unanswered. For Princess Mary's cause gains the popular support; Northumberland's dwindling armies are defeated in the field, and Lady Jane is left to face the conquering Catholics virtually alone. In the early scenes of the play Rowe has well prepared us for Lady Jane's reversal of fortune. When Suffolk expresses reservations about his daughter's "hasty" marriage, Northumberland counsels him to "Doubt not any thing," for "good Heav'n," which "mixes still a comfort with afflictions," has given them a "blessing" in their children to "wipe away" their "tears for dying Edward" (II, p. 203). A moment later, how- ever, convinced that Heaven has given him "too much" in his new bride, Guilford in effect expresses the converse of his father's statement in a semiserious but ironically true prophecy of his and Lady Jane's fate: And by the common course of things below, Where each delight is temper'd with affliction, Some evil terrible and unforseen Must sure ensue, to poise the scale against This vast profusion of exceeding pleasure. (p. 208) The world the play describes, then, is one which contains an equal mix- ture of good and evil-a world where, as the Duchess puts it, Ev'ry state Allotted to the race of man below, Is, in proportion, doom'd to taste some sorrow. (11, p. 220) 92 The Trial of the Innocent For that eternal truth my faith is fix'd on, And that dear native land which gave me birth. (p. 223) Thus she magnanimously (and beautifully) accepts her role with but one prayer: All that I ask, is, tho' my fortune frown, And bury me beneath this fatal crown; Let that one good be added to my doom, To save this land from tyranny and Rome. (p. 223 f) Her sacrifice leads only to martyrdom, however, and she will not only be buried beneath her crown, but her one request will go unanswered. For Princess Mary's cause gains the popular support; Northumberland's dwindling armies are defeated in the field, and Lady Jane is left to face the conquering Catholics virtually alone. In the early scenes of the play Rowe has well prepared us for Lady Jane's reversal of fortune. When Suffolk expresses reservations about his daughter's "hasty" marriage, Northumberland counsels him to "Doubt not any thing," for "good Heav'n," which "mixes still a comfort with afflictions," has given them a "blessing" in their children to "wipe away" their "tears for dying Edward" (11, p. 203). A moment later, how- ever, convinced that Heaven has given him "too much" in his new bride, Guilford in effect expresses the converse of his father's statement in a semiserious but ironically true prophecy of his and Lady Jane's fate: And by the common course of things below, Where each delight is temper'd with affliction, Some evil terrible and unforseen Must sure ensue, to poise the scale against This vast profusion of exceeding pleasure. (p. 208) The world the play describes, then, is one which contains an equal mix- ture of good and evil-a world where, as the Duchess puts it, Ev'ry state Allotted to the race of man below, Is, in proportion, doom'd to taste some sorrow. (III, p. 220) 92 The Trial of the Innocent For that eternal truth my faith is fix'd on, And that dear native land which gave me birth. (p. 223) Thus she magnanimously (and beautifully) accepts her role with but one prayer: All that I ask, is, tho' my fortune frown, And bury me beneath this fatal crown; Let that one good be added to my doom, To save this land from tyranny and Rome. (p. 223 f) Her sacrifice leads only to martyrdom, however, and she will not only be buried beneath her crown, but her one request will go unanswered. For Princess Mary's cause gains the popular support; Northumberland's dwindling armies are defeated in the field, and Lady Jane is left to face the conquering Catholics virtually alone. In the early scenes of the play Rowe has well prepared us for Lady Jane's reversal of fortune. When Suffolk expresses reservations about his daughter's "hasty" marriage, Northumberland counsels him to "Doubt not any thing," for "good Heav'n," which "mixes still a comfort with afflictions," has given them a "blessing" in their children to "wipe away" their "tears for dying Edward" (11, p. 203). A moment later, how- ever, convinced that Heaven has given him "too much" in his new bride, Guilford in effect expresses the converse of his father's statement in a semiserious but ironically true prophecy of his and Lady Jane's fate: And by the common course of things below, Where each delight is temper'd with affliction, Some evil terrible and unforseen Must sure ensue, to poise the scale against This vast profusion of exceeding pleasure. (p. 208) The world the play describes, then, is one which contains an equal mix- ture of good and evil-a world where, as the Duchess puts it, Ev'ry state Allotted to the race of man below, Is, in proportion, doom'd to taste some sorrow. (11, p. 220)  The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 93 And with regard to royalty she adds, Nor is the golden wreath on a King's brow Exempt from care. Accordingly, throughout the play Rowe stresses the uncertainty of fortune in this life. After falling out with his best friend, the Earl of Pem- broke, over the love of Lady Jane, Guilford complains, "How cross the ways of life lie!" (I, p. 200). No man has "that piercing foresight" to see "Where all this mazy error will have end," he says; instead, "There is but one end certain, that is-Death," and "ev'n that certainty is still uncertain," for we know not which path leads to it. Guilford concludes, therefore, that "blind divining" is "in vain." When Northumberland sends for Lady Jane, upon whom all his plans depend, despite his pre- vious public assertion of Heaven's "blessing," he too speaks in soliloquy of the uncertainty of human affairs: What trivial influences hold dominion O'er wise men's counsels, and the fate of empire? The greatest schemes that human wit can forge, Or bold ambition dares to put in practice, Depend upon our husbanding a moment, And the light lasting of a woman's will; As if the Lord of nature should delight To hang this pond'rous globe upon a hair, And bid it dance before a breath of wind. (I, p. 197) Thus Northumberland consigns the world not to a benevolent deity but to an Epicurean "Lord of nature" who mockingly "delights" in the desperate contingency of human events. But Northumberland's image of "this pond'rous globe" hanging "upon a hair" is a perversion of the traditional image of the world de- pending on a golden chain, an image which originates in Homer (Iliad VIII.19) and which was interpreted by Robert Burton as that "golden chain, which reacheth down from heaven to earth, by which every crea- ture is annexed, and depends on his Creator."" The contingency in human affairs of which Northumberland speaks, then, does not mean, in the Christian vision, that the world is subject only to the caprice of fortune or to the "trivial influences" of a human will. For the world literally de-pends on Divine Providence, and its several events conform The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 93 And with regard to royalty she adds, Nor is the golden wreath on a King's brow Exempt from care. Accordingly, throughout the play Rowe stresses the uncertainty of fortune in this life. After falling out with his best friend, the Earl of Pem- broke, over the love of Lady Jane, Guilford complains, "How cross the ways of life lie!" (, p. 200). No man has "that piercing foresight" to see "Where all this mazy error will have end," he says; instead, "There is but one end certain, that is-Death," and "ev'n that certainty is still uncertain," for we know not which path leads to it. Guilford concludes, therefore, that "blind divining" is "in vain." When Northumberland sends for Lady Jane, upon whom all his plans depend, despite his pre- vious public assertion of Heaven's "blessing," he too speaks in soliloquy of the uncertainty of human affairs: What trivial influences hold dominion O'er wise men's counsels, and the fate of empire? The greatest schemes that human wit can forge, Or bold ambition dares to put in practice, Depend upon our husbanding a moment, And the light lasting of a woman's will; As if the Lord of nature should delight To hang this pond'rous globe upon a hair, And bid it dance before a breath of wind. (I, p. 197) Thus Northumberland consigns the world not to a benevolent deity but to an Epicurean "Lord of nature" who mockingly "delights" in the desperate contingency of human events. But Northumberland's image of "this pond'rous globe" hanging "upon a hair" is a perversion of the traditional image of the world de- pending on a golden chain, an image which originates in Homer (Iliad VI1.19) and which was interpreted by Robert Burton as that "golden chain, which reacheth down from heaven to earth, by which every crea- ture is annexed, and depends on his Creator."" The contingency in human affairs of which Northumberland speaks, then, does not mean, in the Christian vision, that the world is subject only to the caprice of fortune or to the "trivial influences" of a human will. For the world literally de-pends on Divine Providence, and its several events conform The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 93 And with regard to royalty she adds, Nor is the golden wreath on a King's brow Exempt from care. Accordingly, throughout the play Rowe stresses the uncertainty of fortune in this life. After falling out with his best friend, the Earl of Pem- broke, over the love of Lady Jane, Guilford complains, "How cross the ways of life lie!" (I, p. 200). No man has "that piercing foresight" to see "Where all this mazy error will have end," he says; instead, "There is but one end certain, that is-Death," and "ev'n that certainty is still uncertain," for we know not which path leads to it. Guilford concludes, therefore, that "blind divining" is "in vain." When Northumberland sends for Lady Jane, upon whom all his plans depend, despite his pre- vious public assertion of Heaven's "blessing," he too speaks in soliloquy of the uncertainty of human affairs: What trivial influences hold dominion O'er wise men's counsels, and the fate of empire? The greatest schemes that human wit can forge, Or bold ambition dares to put in practice, Depend upon our husbanding a moment, And the light lasting of a woman's will; As if the Lord of nature should delight To hang this pond'rous globe upon a hair, And bid it dance before a breath of wind. (I, p. 197) Thus Northumberland consigns the world not to a benevolent deity but to an Epicurean "Lord of nature" who mockingly "delights" in the desperate contingency of human events. But Northumberland's image of "this pond'rous globe" hanging upon a hair" is a perversion of the traditional image of the world de- pending on a golden chain, an image which originates in Homer (Iliad VII.19) and which was interpreted by Robert Burton as that "golden chain, which reacheth down from heaven to earth, by which every crea- ture is annexed, and depends on his Creator."" The contingency in human affairs of which Northumberland speaks, then, does not mean, in the Christian vision, that the world is subject only to the caprice of fortune or to the "trivial influences" of a human will. For the world literally de-pends on Divine Providence, and its several events conform  94 The Trialof thetInnocent to that divine patteen traditionally called the Histoey of Salvation, a pattern in which the hosman wilt can participate hy sobmitting itself to the will of God. To depend solely on "hunsan wit," howevee, as on the "husbanding" of a "monent" is, as Saint Pant would say, 'foolish- ness with God" (S Coe. 3:19). Despite Nortbsambeeland's own loch of faith in what he asseets to him, Soffolh "teusts" in this Peovidence, this "good Heav'n," when his sol presages ill at the maseiage of Lady Jane andfGifoed (11,p. 203). And when Goilfoed discavess Northumheetand's intentions to have Pemhrohe muedesed foe conspiring with Gasdinee, thoogh he hnows that Pemsbeoke will cash to join forces with Mary to bring about his downfall, he frees him nevestheless, placing his teast in a Heaven that governs with coae There is a Power, Whoasits above the stars; inhimtst: All that I have, his bonteous hand hestow'd: Ansdhe that gave it, can peeseeve it tome. If his s'ee-ruling will ordains my sofa, What is there moss hot to fall down hefoce him, And humbly yield ohedience! (IV, p. 230) Lady Jane herself has said so Goilford saslies, in tines that epitamfee the Christian attitude toward fate, fastue, and chance, Trust one fate To him whose graciaus wisdom guides our ways, And mahes what we thinh evil turen to good. (11, p. 20) Nor does Lady Jane lose hes least in Providence when, largely hecause of opposition to Northnmhssland (IV, p. 225), her camse is defeated in the field and hes erstwhile suppostess in the council detest her to de- class foe Prinsess Mary (p. 231)." As she eotess the Tawer room sending Socrates' asgument foe the immartality of the soot in "Plato's Phoodon" (p. 230)," she ecoonters Gulordand asks if it he not time to "exptore hereafter, / And seeh some better sass ahiding place." White they await their inevitable capture by the advancing asmies of Sussex, Lady Jane exhorts Guilford not to fight hot to summon his "nobler courage" and, along with her, to meet this "adverse fate" with "patience" and "sools secure of death" (p. 233 f), foe their "hearts have now another past to 94 The Trialof the Innocent to that divine pattern traditionally catted the Histocy of Salvation, a pattern in which the human will can pasticipate hy suhmitting itself to the will of God. To depend solely on "human wit," hawever, as an the "hnshanding" al a "moment" is, as Saint Pant would say, "foolish- ness with God" (I Gee. 3:19). Despite Northumberland's awn lash of faith in what he aosets to him, Suffolh "teasts" in this Providence, this "good Heavon," when his soot presages ill at the macsings of Lady Jane and Gilford (11, p. 203). And when Guilford discavess Northomberland's intentions to have Pembrake mordesed foe conspiring with Gardiner, thoogh he hows that Pembroke will eash to join losses with Mary to bring about his downfall, he frees him nevertheless, placing his least in a Heaven that govers with care: These is a Power, Whositssabovesthestars; inhim Itrust: All that I have, his bountous hand hestaw'd: And he that gave it, can preserve it to me. If his acer-eating wilt ordains my ruin, What is these mass bat to fall dawn before him, And hombly yield obedience! (IV, p. 230) Lady Jane hersell has said to Guilford castlies, in lines that epitomie the Christian attitode toard fate, fortune, and chance, Trust one fate Ta him whose gracioas wisdom goides ens ways, And makes what we think eviltursn to goad. (11, p. 208) Nor does Lady Jane toss hes least in Providence wvhen, largely because of apposition to Northumbesland (IV, p. 225), hes cane is defeated in the field and her erstwhile supporters in the caned desert her to de- class foe Princess Mary (p. 231)."1 As she entess the Tawer roam reading Socsates' argmsent las lbs immartality of the soot in "Plato's Phasdao" (p. 230), "the encountessGuifod and ass if itbenot timecto "explose hereaftes, / And seeh same best er sue abiding place." While they await theis inevitable captusse by the advancing armies of Sossex, Lady Jane eshorts Guilford ot to fight bat to summon his "nobles cousage" and, along with hes, to meet this "advesse fate' with "patine" and "tools sce of death" (p. 233 f), for their "beasts have now another past to 94 The Trial ofthecInnocent to that divine pattern tsaditianally called the Histosy of Salvation, a pattern in which the human will can pasticipate by submitting itself to the will of Gad. To depend salely an "human wit," howeves, as an the "hasbanding" of a "moment" is, as Saint Paut would say, "foolish- ness with Gad" (I Gas. 3:19). Despite Nosthambesland's awn lash of faith in what he assets to hiso, Suiffolh "leasHs" in this Providence, this "goad Heavon," when his toul presages ill at the masriage of Lady Jane and Guilford (H, p. 203). And when Lailfoed discovers Northumbesland's intentsons to have Pembrohe musdesed foe conspiring with Gasdine, thoogh he knows that Pembroke will rush to join faeces with Mary to being about his downfall, he frees him nevestheless, placing his trost in a Heaven that goverstwith care These is a Power, Who sits above the stars; in him I least: Alt that I have, his bonteoos hand bettoa'd: And he that gave it, can preserve it to me. If his o'er-suling will ordains my ruin, What is these mass hot to fall dawn before him, And humbly yield obedience! (IV, p.Z230) Lady Jane herself has said to Guilford easlin, in tines that epitomie the Christian attitude toward fate, fortone, and chance, Teast our fate Ta him whose gracioas wisdom guides one ways, And mahes what we think evil torn to goad. (11, p. 208) Nor doss Lady Jane lose her least in Providene when, largely because of apposition to Northombeeland (IV, p. 225), herscause is defeated in the field and her erstwhile soppoters in she canel desert her ta de- class foe Princess Mary (p.S231)." As she enters the Tawes soom eading Socrates' argument foe the immostality of the soot in "Plato's Phasetan" (p. 230), " she encountessGuilford and ass if itbe nttimeto "esplose hessafte, / And scab same belte suoe abiding place." White they await their inevitable captore by the advancing armies of Sosses, Lady Jane exhorts Guilford ot to fight hot to summon his "nobles courage" and, along with bee, to meet this "advere fate" wokh "patience" and "souls sce of death" (p. 233 f), foe their bheasts have now another past to  The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 95 play" and "must be steel'd with some uncommon fortitude" so that they "may tread the paths of horror" and, despite "fortune" and their "foes," "Ev'n in the hour of death be more than conq'rors" (p. 235). The part which they must play, of course, is that of the Christian martyr, and once again Rowe places the metaphor of trial at the center of his the- odicy when Lady Jane exhorts Guilford, "Be thyself, / For see the trial comes!" (p. 234). In "A Prologue to Lady Jane Gray, Sent by an un- known Hand," Alexander Pope, as in his translation of the Odyssey, points to the function of such trials as Lady Jane's: "Great souls shine brightest by misfortunes shown."" Guilford needs Lady Jane to "teach" him what "energy divine / In- spires" her with "such unshaken courage" (p. 235), for like Aribert in The Royal Convert and Arpasia in Tamerlane, he momentarily fears that death means annihilation. Lady Jane allays his fears with the di- urnal and vernal analogies that have always provided man the hope of his own resurrection from the dead: Behold the universal works of nature, Where life still springs from death. To us the sun Dies ev'ry night, and ev'ry morn revives: The flow'rs, which Winter's icy hand destroy'd, Lift their fair heads, and live again in Spring. (p. 236) So, like Ethelinda, Lady Jane points out the "triumphant way" of Chris- tian endurance, and her example seems to embody the lessons of martyr- stories noted by Foxe in the Preface to the Book of Martyrs-especially, those lessons of "patience," the "hope of heavenly Comfort," and "true Christian fortitude," or "the right way to conquer, which standeth not in the power of man, but in hope of the Resurrection to come" (sig. a5'). Lady Jane and Guilford must still prove the Scire mai of which the epigraph to the play speaks (p. 187). After nine months in prison, they are to be executed," and they meet their summons with "patience" (V, p. 237). Allowed to see her before the execution (and for the first time since their incarceration), Guilford comes upon Lady Jane as she kneels in preparation for martyrdom. "With a pleasing, sober chearfulness," she has spent the night in prayer and has "fix'd" her "hopes" upon a "rock unfailing." But the sight of Guilford "breaks the settled quiet" of her "soul" and wakens her "vanquish'd passions" once again (p. 241 f). Moreover, at this moment Pembroke arrives with news of a re- prieve. Guilford blesses Queen Mary for sparing his wife, and Lady The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 95 play" and "must be steel'd with some uncommon fortitude" so that they "may tread the paths of horror" and, despite "fortune" and their "foes," "Ev'n in the hour of death be more than conq'rors" (p. 235). The part which they must play, of course, is that of the Christian martyr, and once again Rowe places the metaphor of trial at the center of his the- odicy when Lady Jane exhorts Guilford, "Be thyself, / For see the trial comes!" (p. 234). In "A Prologue to Lady Jane Gray, Sent by an un- known Hand," Alexander Pope, as in his translation of the Odyssey, points to the function of such trials as Lady Jane's: "Great souls shine brightest by misfortunes shown."" Guilford needs Lady Jane to "teach" him what "energy divine / In- spires" her with "such unshaken courage" (p. 235), for like Aribert in The Royal Convert and Arpasia in Tamerlane, he momentarily fears that death means annihilation. Lady Jane allays his fears with the di- urnal and vernal analogies that have always provided man the hope of his own resurrection from the dead: Behold the universal works of nature, Where life still springs from death. To us the sun Dies ev'ry night, and ev'ry morn revives: The flow'rs, which Winter's icy hand destroy'd, Lift their fair heads, and live again in Spring. (p. 236) So, like Ethelinda, Lady Jane points out the "triumphant way" of Chris- tian endurance, and her example seems to embody the lessons of martyr- stories noted by Foxe in the Preface to the Book of Martyrs-especially, those lessons of "patience," the "hope of heavenly Comfort," and "true Christian fortitude," or "the right way to conquer, which standeth not in the power of man, but in hope of the Resurrection to come" (sig. a5r). Lady Jane and Guilford must still prove the Scire moot of which the epigraph to the play speaks (p. 187). After nine months in prison, they are to be executed," and they meet their summons with "patience" (V, p. 237). Allowed to see her before the execution (and for the first time since their incarceration), Guilford comes upon Lady Jane as she kneels in preparation for martyrdom. "With a pleasing, sober chearfulness," she has spent the night in prayer and has "fix'd" her "hopes" upon a "rock unfailing." But the sight of Guilford "breaks the settled quiet" of her "soul" and wakens her "vanquish'd passions" once again (p. 241 f). Moreover, at this moment Pembroke arrives with news of a re- prieve. Guilford blesses Queen Mary for sparing his wife, and Lady The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 95 play" and "must be steel'd with some uncommon fortitude" so that they "may tread the paths of horror" and, despite "fortune" and their "foes," "Ev'n in the hour of death be more than conq'rors" (p. 235). The part which they must play, of course, is that of the Christian martyr, and once again Rowe places the metaphor of trial at the center of his the- odicy when Lady Jane exhorts Guilford, "Be thyself, / For see the trial comes!" (p. 234). In "A Prologue to Lady Jane Gray, Sent by an on- known Hand," Alexander Pope, as in his translation of the Odyssey, points to the function of such trials as Lady Jane's: "Great souls shine brightest by misfortunes shown."" Guilford needs Lady Jane to "teach" him what "energy divine / In- spires" her with "such unshaken courage" (p. 235), for like Aribert in The Royal Convert and Arpasia in Tamerlane, he momentarily fears that death means annihilation. Lady Jane allays his fears with the di- urnal and vernal analogies that have always provided man the hope of his own resurrection from the dead: Behold the universal works of nature, Where life still springs from death. To us the sun Dies ev'ry night, and ev'ry morn revives: The flow'rs, which Winter's icy hand destroy'd, Lift their fair heads, and live again in Spring. (p. 236) So, like Ethelinda, Lady Jane points out the "triumphant way" of Chris- tian endurance, and her example seems to embody the lessons of martyr- stories noted by Foxe in the Preface to the Book of Martyrs-especially, those lessons of "patience," the "hope of heavenly Comfort," and "true Christian fortitude," or "the right way to conquer, which standeth not in the power of man, but in hope of the Resurrection to come" (sig. a5'). Lady Jane and Guilford must still prove the Scire mori of which the epigraph to the play speaks (p. 187). After nine months in prison, they are to be executed," and they meet their summons with "patience" (V, p. 237). Allowed to see her before the execution (and for the first time since their incarceration), Guilford comes upon Lady Jane as she kneels in preparation for martyrdom. "With a pleasing, sober chearfulness," she has spent the night in prayer and has "fix'd" her "hopes" upon a "rock unfailing." But the sight of Guilford "breaks the settled quiet" of her "soul" and wakens her "vanquish'd passions" once again (p. 241 f). Moreover, at this moment Pembroke arrives with news of a re- prieve. Guilford blesses Queen Mary for sparing his wife, and Lady  96 The Trialof thelInncent Jane, tbough "Life and dse woarld ace haedly werths" bee "naee," be- comes "recancil'd" In teen beds (p. 242). The Dadleys' new bopes ace sbattered, boeee, by Gaedinee's cenditien wrong lernm tbe Queen thal tbey first, as Lady Jane pnts it, "lace apostate" (p. 243), and Gail- feed bemoans tbe teansience of tbase "bnpes," wbicb "libe tbe spring, witb all its flamers," ace 'In see pens minute gene" (p. 244). Witb sucb flowees, tbe recurring imagery of spcing implies, may die Guilford's bope ef cesuecectien. Once again, bewevee, Lady Jane instructs bim, climaxng Use play's tbeme of tbeaunceetainty of tbings mundane; Sacb is this foolish world, and such the certainty Of all tbe boasted bslessings it bestows: Then Guilford, let as bane n mace In do with it; Think only bow In leave it as we ought; Bat trust es mace, andhbe deceived no mace. Hec weeds, and tbe play itself, embody tbe teaditinal Cbristian lessen, nic teasnsit glaea andi. As Acibert responded to Etbetinda, so new does Cuilfoed respond In Lady Jane and bee "divine enample." He nefanes Gaedinec's condition and goes In his death, relying en the bope of an afterlife and a reunion witb bis wife, and calling an Use mupport of Heaven (p. 244 f). Wbile be is led eat to bis deeds, Lady Jane swoons, complaining, "Can nacue bean this strobe?" (p. 245). It is dse "billing steobe" of bee tcial, Use grenatest thbeat In bee fortitude, yet sbe regains composuce, speabs of tbe naming "peace" and the end In all her sorrows, and manifests bec continued trust in Use "goad and gracious band of Providence." Ta her handmaid sbe beqeaths a boob which contains "Use law of everlasting scads" and wbicb was bec "sappert" when "all belp else forsoob" bec (p. 246). The boob is, of course, the Bible," and one cannel help viewing Lady Jane's bequest in the light of tbe otbee important bequest in Use play, Uses of King Edward. In a world wbere Ibe fate of crowns and bingdoms is unnertain, Lady Jane bequeatbs Use rcnrd of tbe testament ef Divine Provideance, apse Wbich alone can man nompletely cely. Lady Jane's lastewords ace Use final testament to ber leant in Provi- dence. Sbe altens Use prayer net only of the Englisb Protestants of bee day bat of all Cbeistians wbe endue Use trial of the innoena: "Tbnu, graiusnHeav', /Hearcanddefendt lengtty sffeng peple." Earlier sbe ban said Uses Heaven "disallows" bee "weabness" bat "In same dean selected bero'sbhand / Reseves theglory"of England's "de- 96 ThecTrial oftbheInncent Jane, tbeagb "Life and the went4 ace bardly weeds" bee "cane," be- cames 'recnneil'd" In tbem botb (p. 242). The Dadleys' new bopes ace sbattered, bowever, by Gardiner's condition wrng item Use Qeen Usat they flrst, an Lady Jane pats it, "lace apostate" (p. 243), and Gail- feed bemoans the transienne of Usose "bopes," wbicb "libe the spring, witb all its faowns," ace "In see pane minute gene" (p. 244). Witb sucb flowers, tbe recurrsing imagesy of spring implies, may die Cailford's bope of rnsurecetioa. Once again, bowever, Lady Jane instrcts bim, climaxing Use play's tbeme of Use uencertainty of things munane: Saab is this foolish world, and such the certanty Of all the boasted blessings it bestows: Thee Guilford, let as bane no mace to do with it; Think only bow to leave it as we ought; Bat Icedt no mace, and be deceived no moree. Hen weeds, and Use play itself, embody Use traditional Cbristian lessee, sin transit gladea mandi. As Aribent responded to Etbelinda, sn new des Guilford respond In Lady Jane and bee "divine example." He refuses Gardiner's condition and goes In bis deatb, relying en Use bope of an afterlife and areno with bis wife, and calling on dse sappert of Heaven (p. 244 f). Wbile be is lad eat to his deeds, Lady Jane swoons, complaining, "Can nacue been Ibis steobe?" (p. 245). It is tbe "billing strobe" of bee tial, the geatest dsreat In bee fortitude, yet sbe regains composure, speabs of Use naming "peane" end Use end to all bernsorrows, and manifestsbhee continued trust in the "goad and graciosbhand of Providence." Ta bee bandmnaid sbe beqeatbs a boob wbich contains "tbe lawn1f eveelasting lands" and wbicb was bee "suppoet" wben "all belp else forsoob" bee (p. 246). The bookis,aofnncrsefelible," and oaencannotbhelp viewing Lady Jane's bequest in the ligbt of nbc otber impoetant bequest in tbe play, Usat of King Edwaed. In a woeld wbere Use late of crowns and bingdoms is anceetan, Lady Jane beqeatbs tbe rennrd of the testament of Divine Peovideance, apse Wbinb aoe can man completely eely. Lady Jane's last weeds ace tbe final testament to her lrust in Peovi- deance. Sbe uttees tbe prayer not only of the Eaglisb Peotestants of bee day bet of all Cbristlans wbe endure the tral of tbe innocent: "Tbaa, graious Heav'n, /Heareand defend at lngthtysffeing pepl." Earliee sbe ban maid tbat Heaven "disallows" bee "weabness" bat "to same deae selectedbhero's band!/ Resevesthe glory"of England's "de- 96 The Trialnoftbthencent Jane, though "Life and Use world ae bardly worth" bee "care," be- names "reneil'd" to tbem botb (p. 242). Tbe Dadleys' new bopes ace sbattered, bowevee, by Cardiner's condition werong haom Use Qaeen Usat they fleet, as Lady Jane pats it, "teen apostate" (p. 243), and Gail- feed bemoeans the transience of tbose "bopes," wbinb "libe Use speing, with all its faowns," ae "In sac poor minute gene" (p. 244). With such flowers, tbe recuering imageey of spring implies, may die Guilfoed's bope of resacrection. Once again, bowevee, Lady Jane instructs bim, climaxing the play's tbeme of Use unceetainty of tbings muane: Saab is this foolisb wentd, and snob the certainty Of all Use boasted blamings it bestows: Tben Guilford, let as bane no moe te ds witb it; Think only bow to leave it as we ought; flat trust no mace, and be deceived ano mace. Hee wends, and the play itself, embody tbe teaditional Cbristian lessen, sc tranasit gladea mndi. As Aribeet responded to Etbelinda, so new does Guifoed respond to Lady Jane and bee "divine example." He refuses Cardinee's condition and goes to his death, relying en the bope of an afteelife nd a reunin wids bis wife, and netting en tbe sappert of Heaven (p. 244 f). Wbdle be is lad ot In bis deatb, Lady Jane swoons, complaining, "Can natue bean Usis stnobe?" (p. 245). Ift ib te "billing strobe" of bee tnial, Use geatest Usreet to bee fortitude, yet sbe regans composare, speabs of Use naming "peace" and dse end to alt bee sorrows, and manifests bee continued trust in Use "goad and graciousbhand of Providence." Ta bee bandmnaid sbe beqeatbs a boob wbicb nontains "the law of everlasting trush" and wbicb was bee "sappert" wben "all belp else fonsobk" ben (p. 246). The boob is, of coacse, the Bibla," and see cannet help viewing Lady Jane's bequest in dse ligbt of Use otben important bequest in Use play, Usat of King Edwaed. In a wonld wbere dse fate of crowns and bingdoms is auncertain, Lady Jane bequeaths Use rcasd of the testament of Divine Providenne, apse Wbicb atone can man completely rely. Lady Jane's lest wends are the final testament to bee least in Provi- dence. Sbe utters tbe prayer eat only of tbe Englisb Protesnants of bee day bat of alt Gbristians wbn endare the trial of tbe innacent: "Thea, graciouslleev'n, /Hearnddfendat lngthbtysffeing pepl." Earlier sbe baa said Usat Heaven "disallows" bee "weakness" ballst same dean selented been's band / Reserves the glory" of England's "de-  The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 97 liverance" (IV, p. 235 f), and now she prays for a "monarch of the royal blood" to "save" England "from the rage of Rome," to reign long, and to alleviate the problem of succession by leaving a son to "guard that faith for which I die to-day" (V, p. 246). Considering the contemporary political overtones and allusions of these passages and of the Dedication, Prologue, and Epilogue, we are led to infer that her final prayer is com- pletely fulfilled only with the Glorious Revolution of 1688 and the sub- sequent defeat of the Jacobite Revolution of 1715-events which marked the end (at least so Rowe thought) of any claim by Catholics to the throne of England. In other words, Lady Jane's "too weak a hand" is replaced by William III's "great hand," which was "doom'd" by "the secret laws of fate" (read Providence) to "end the hopes of Rome's tyrannic reign" (Prologue), and the "hero" and his "son" whom she seems to prophesy in her final prayer are George I and George Augustus, the Hanoverians brought to England at the death of Queen Anne to keep the crown out of the hands of the Catholic Stuarts and forever Protestant. The play insists, then, that though she herself fails, Lady Jane's faith in Providence and Its ultimate justice is historically vindicated, and as a great martyr to that faith, she stands herself a wit- ness to its truth. C- Pembroke's final comment is the play's (and Rowe's) summary state- ment of theodicy. In response to Gardiner's condemnation of the Dud- leys for "heresy and treason" and his prediction of their "everlasting punishment hereafter" (V, p. 247), Pembroke asks who can probe "The secret purposes of Heaven-that mystery of things at the heart of Judeo-Christian theodicy and the art which reflects it, from Job to King Lear to Paradise Lost. Pembroke continues, expanding the play's prom- ise of providential justice for a nation to include the promise of such justice for the Dudleys and other individuals like them who "follow faithfully truth's sacred light," for they, "Tho' suff'ring here, shall from their sorrows cease, / Rest with the saints, and dwell in endless peace." It is appropriate that Pembroke should speak these words, because he has learned, as Rowe must have hoped his audiences would, from the example of these Christian martyrs. When we first meet Pembroke, he is so insanely jealous in his love for Lady Jane that he cannot "with temper" (It, p. 210) even discuss the subject with his rival, his best friend Guilford. In contrast to Guilford's "gentle temper" (I, p. 199), The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 97 The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 97 liverance" (IV, p. 235 f), and now she prays for a "monarch of the royal blood" to "save" England "from the rage of Rome," to reign long, and to alleviate the problem of succession by leaving a son to "guard that faith for which I die to-day" (V, p. 246). Considering the contemporary political overtones and allusions of these passages and of the Dedication, Prologue, and Epilogue, we are led to infer that her final prayer is com- pletely fulfilled only with the Glorious Revolution of 1688 and the sub- sequent defeat of the Jacobite Revolution of 1715-events which marked the end (at least so Rowe thought) of any claim by Catholics to the throne of England. In other words, Lady Jane's "too weak a hand" is replaced by William III's "great hand," which was "doom'd" by "the secret laws of fate" (read Providence) to "end the hopes of Rome's tyrannic reign" (Prologue), and the "hero" and his "son" whom she seems to prophesy in her final prayer are George I and George Augustus, the Hanoverians brought to England at the death of Queen Anne to keep the crown out of the hands of the Catholic Stuarts and forever Protestant. The play insists, then, that though she herself fails, Lady Jane's faith in Providence and Its ultimate justice is historically vindicated, and as a great martyr to that faith, she stands herself a wit- ness to its truth. Pembroke's fimal comment is the play's (and Rowe's) summary state- ment of theodicy. In response to Gardiner's condemnation of the Dud- leys for "heresy and treason" and his prediction of their "everlasting punishment hereafter" (V, p. 247), Pembroke asks who can probe "The secret purposes of Heaven-that mystery of things at the heart of Judeo-Christian theodicy and the art which reflects it, from Job to King Lear to Paradise Lost. Pembroke continues, expanding the play's prom- ise of providential justice for a nation to include the promise of such justice for the Dudleys and other individuals like them who "follow faithfully truth's sacred light," for they, "Tho' suff'ring here, shall from their sorrows cease, / Rest with the saints, and dwell in endless peace." It is appropriate that Pembroke should speak them words, because he has learned, as Rowe must have hoped his audiences would, from the example of these Christian martyrs. When we first meet Pembroke, he is so insanely jealous in his love for Lady Jane that he cannot "with temper" (II, p. 210) even discuss the subject with his rival, his best friend Guilford. In contrast to Guilford's "gentle temper" (I, p. 199), liverance" (IV, p. 235 f), and now she prays for a "monarch of the royal blood" to "save" England "from the rage of Rome," to reign long, and to alleviate the problem of succession by leaving a son to "guard that faith for which I die to-day" (V, p. 246). Considering the contemporary political overtones and allusions of these passages and of the Dedication, Prologue, and Epilogue, we are led to infer that her final prayer is com- pletely fulfilled only with the Glorious Revolution of 1688 and the sub- sequent defeat of the Jacobite Revolution of 1715-events which marked the end (at least so Rowe thought) of any claim by Catholics to the throne of England. In other words, Lady Jane's "too weak a hand" is replaced by William III's "great hand," which was "doom'd" by "the secret laws of fate" (read Providence) to "end the hopes of Rome's tyrannic reign" (Prologue), and the "hero" and his "son" whom she seems to prophesy in her final prayer are George I and George Augustus, the Hanoverians brought to England at the death of Queen Anne to keep the crown out of the hands of the Catholic Stuarts and forever Protestant. The play insists, then, that though she herself fails, Lady Jane's faith in Providence and Its ultimate justice is historically vindicated, and as a great martyr to that faith, she stands herself a wit- ness to its truth. Pembroke's final comment is the play's (and Rowe's) summary state- ment of theodicy. In response to Gardiner's condemnation of the Dud- leys for "heresy and treason" and his prediction of their "everlasting punishment hereafter" (V, p. 247), Pembroke asks who can probe "The secret purposes of Heaven-that mystery of things at the heart of Judeo-Christian theodicy and the art which reflects it, from Job to King Lear to Paradise Lost. Pembroke continues, expanding the play's prom- ise of providential justice for a nation to include the promise of such justice for the Dudleys and other individuals like them who "follow faithfully truth's sacred light," for they, "Tho' suff'ring here, shall from their sorrows cease, / Rest with the saints, and dwell in endless peace." It is appropriate that Pembroke should speak these words, because he has learned, as Rowe must have hoped his audiences would, from the example of these Christian martyrs. When we first meet Pembroke, he is so insanely jealous in his love for Lady Jane that he cannot "with temper" (II, p. 210) even discuss the subject with his rival, his best friend Guilford. In contrast to Guilford's "gentle temper" (I, p. 199),  98 The Trial of the Innocent formed with "passions mix'd in due proportion," his passions disdain "reason and her laws" and, Like all thou canst imagine wild and furious, Now" drive me headlong on, now whirl me back, And hurry my unstable flitting soul To ev'ry mad extreme. In other words, like Hengist and Rodogune in The Royal Convert, Pem- broke is in danger of internal chaos. As Pembroke and Guilford part at the end of this uneasy encounter, Pembroke asks only that they "con- tend, as friends and brave men ought, / With openness and justice to each other." Thus when he later learns of Guilford's sudden betrothal to Lady Jane, he immediately accuses him of having "betray'd" him, a fault which he can "ne'er forgive" (II, p. 211). He turns, much like Rowe's Semanthe in Ulysses, "to deadly and remorseless hate" (p. 212). In this "rage" and "despair" at his loss of "peace of mind" and "para- dise," Pembroke betrays his friends to Gardiner and Princess Mary, re- pudiating the "cursed Dudley's race" for their "mock'ry" of him and asking only for "vengeance" (III, p. 213 ff).' Yet Pembroke is finally vanquished by Guilford's virtue. When Guilford has him arrested, Pembroke is at first defiant and spiteful, and Guilford answers him that he has come "In tenderness of friendship to preserve" him "from destruction" (IV, p. 226). But Pembroke scorns to "receive a grace" from the man he still suspects of ambition and vanity and fear of his "vengeance" (p. 227). Finally Guilford is compelled by his friend's suspicions to reveal his own father's planned vengeance against Pembroke for conspiring with Gardiner and the Catholics, Pem- broke is awestruck by Guilford's "honest heart" (p. 229), and he under- goes a kind of conversion: Thy virtues flash, They break at once on my astonish'd soul; As if the curtains of the dark were drawn To let in day at midnight. Guilford's Christian temperance, mercy, and love have thus redeemed the soul of his friend (much as Semanthe's is redeemed) from hatred and revenge, and Pembroke is finally and fully converted, not just to Guilford's friendship but to his Christian virtue. To repay Guilford for 98 The Trial of the Innocent formed with "passions mix'd in due proportion," his passions disdain "reason and her laws" and, Like all thou canst imagine wild and furious, Now" drive me headlong on, now whirl me back, And hurry my unstable flitting soul To ev'ry mad extreme. In other words, like Hengist and Rodogune in The Royal Convert, Pem- broke is in danger of internal chaos. As Pembroke and Guilford part at the end of this uneasy encounter, Pembroke asks only that they "con- tend, as friends and brave men ought, / With openness and justice to each other." Thus when he later learns of Guilford's sudden betrothal to Lady Jane, he immediately accuses him of having "betray'd" him, a fault which he can "ne'er forgive" (It, p. 211). He turns, much like Rowe's Semanthe in Ulysses, "to deadly and remorseless hate" (p. 212). In this "rage" and "despair" at his loss of "peace of mind" and "para- dise," Pembroke betrays his friends to Gardiner and Princess Mary, re- pudiating the "cursed Dudley's race" for their "mock'ry" of him and asking only for "vengeance" (III, p. 213 f)." Yet Pembroke is finally vanquished by Guilford's virtue. When Guilford has him arrested, Pembroke is at first defiant and spiteful, and Guilford answers him that he has come "In tenderness of friendship to preserve" him "from destruction" (IV, p. 226). But Pembroke scorns to "receive a grace" from the man he still suspects of ambition and vanity and fear of his "vengeance" (p. 227). Finally Guilford is compelled by his friend's suspicions to reveal his own father's planned vengeance against Pembroke for conspiring with Gardiner and the Catholics. Pem- broke is awestruck by Guilford's "honest heart" (p. 229), and he under- goes a kind of conversion: Thy virtues flash, They break at once on my astonish'd soul; As if the curtains of the dark were drawn To let in day at midnight. Guilford's Christian temperance, mercy, and love have thus redeemed the soul of his friend (much as Semanthe's is redeemed) from hatred and revenge, and Pembroke is finally and fully converted, not just to Guilford's friendship but to his Christian virtue. To repay Guilford for 98 The Trial of the Innocent formed with "passions mix'd in due proportion," his passions disdain "reason and her laws" and, Like all thou canst imagine wild and furious, Now" drive me headlong on, now whirl me back, And hurry my unstable flitting soul To ev'ry mad extreme. In other words, like Hengist and Rodogune in The Royal Convert, Pem- broke is in danger of internal chaos. As Pembroke and Guilford part at the end of this uneasy encounter, Pembroke asks only that they "con- tend, as friends and brave men ought, / With openness and justice to each other." Thus when he later learns of Guilford's sudden betrothal to Lady Jane, he immediately accuses him of having "betray'd" him, a fault which he can "ne'er forgive" (II, p. 211). He turns, much like Rowe's Semanthe in Ulysses, "to deadly and remorseless hate" (p. 212). In this "rage" and "despair" at his loss of "peace of mind" and "para- dise," Pembroke betrays his friends to Gardiner and Princess Mary, re- pudiating the "cursed Dudley's race" for their "mock'ry" of him and asking only for "vengeance" (III, p. 213 ff)." Yet Pembroke is finally vanquished by Guilford's virtue. When Guilford has him arrested, Pembroke is at first defiant and spiteful, and Guilford answers him that he has come "In tenderness of friendship to preserve" him "from destruction" (IV, p. 226). But Pembroke scorns to "receive a grace" from the man he still suspects of ambition and vanity and fear of his "vengeance" (p. 227). Finally Guilford is compelled by his friend's suspicions to reveal his own father's planned vengeance against Pembroke for conspiring with Gardiner and the Catholics. Pem- broke is awestruck by Guilford's "honest heart" (p. 229), and he under- goes a kind of conversion: Thy virtues flash, They break at once on my astonish'd soul; As if the curtains of the dark were drawn To let in day at midnight. Guilford's Christian temperance, mercy, and love have thus redeemed the soul of his friend (much as Semanthe's is redeemed) from hatred and revenge, and Pembroke is finally and fully converted, not just to Guilford's friendship but to his Christian virtue. To repay Guilford for  The Royal Cosserst and Lady Jlane Gray 99 saving his life and to make "amends" foe the hates he has done Lady Jane and hee "canoe" (V, p. 242), Pembroke obtains a pardon foe them fromn Queen Maey, begs Lady Jane's forgiseness, and in the spieit at Cheistian charity promises to "deserve" theie "thanhs" by offering him- self as the pledge of their futuee happiness (p. 242 f). When he fiest tenters with the pardon, Pembrokh's hemst 'Exults and labours with the joy it beats" and with she joy of Christian virte: 'Tis messy! eecy, The math of Heaven iaprsm'd on human hind; Moey, that glods the world, deals joy mrooed; Messy, that smooths the dreadful brow of power, And mahes dominion ighs; messy, that saves, Binds op the brohen heat, and heals despair. (p. 238) Mescy has healed Peesbrohe's own despair and is the answer, along with trust, to that most sinister of sins. The Machiavellian Gardiner, how- evet, one of those 'Rinnish priests" who teach theft followers "To mas- sate a nation, and believe is /An act well-pleasing to the Lord of Mercy" (1, p. 199), dismsnises ercy foe epediency (V, p. 238 f)." When he vows to contnermand the repeal, Psembroke retorts, Thy narrow seul Knows not the god-lihe glory of forgiving; Not can thy sold, thy ruthless heat conceive, How large the power, how faxd she empire is, Which benefits conies on genenons minds; Goodness prevails upon the stubborn foes, And conqers moss than eves Caeoars swoed slid. (p. 239) Pembrohe pointedly asks she "Churchman" Gardiner, "Is not the sa- cred purposnof ourfaith / Peaeand good-will to man?"(p. 239 f).Ansd despite the frustnation of Pembroke's endeavor and the final execntion of the Dodleys, "Peace and good-will" ass reaffirmed as the weapons of the hind of heroism which "conqers moss than eves Cotton's emend did" and which, as Foe has pointed ot, is the lesson of the mantyr's death. Rowe has focused on this Christian heroism from his first dea- matic theodicy, and to the lest he effete it es the exemplasy behavioe of suffering innocents. Lady Jane's achnowledgmsent that Heaven "dis- allows" her "weakess" to bs aneffective agent does not deny the fast The Royel Covestsand Lady Jane Gray 99 saving his life and to msahe "amends" fee the hones he has done Lady Jane and hee "cause' (V, p. 242), Psesbrohe obtains a pandon foe them from Qeen Mary, begs Lady Jane's fongiveness, and in the spirit of Cheistian charity proesises to "deserve" their "thanhs" by offeing him- self as the pledge of their futse happiness )p. 242 f). When he first tenters with the pardon, Pembroke's heat "KElls and labours with the joy it beans" and wish the joy of Cheistian vietue: 'Tis messy! erny, The mash of Heaven impreend on human hind; Messy, that glads the world, deals joy aound; Mersy, that sesooths the dreadful brow of powe, And mahes dominion light; ercny, that saves, Binds op the brohen heat, and heals despair. (p. '238) Messy has healed Pemsbroke's owe despair and is she answer, along with trst, to that most sinister of sins. The Machiavellian Gardine, how- eves, one of thoe "Romish priests" who teach their followers "To inas- saceea nation, and believeit /Anactswel-pleasingtosthesLordof Messy" (I, p. 196), dismisses ercy foe expediency (V, p. 238 f)'" When he vows to contermand the tepeal, Pembrohe retors, Thy narrow seeS Knows not the god-lihe glosy of fongiving: Non can shy cold, thy ruthlesheart conceive, How large the powen, how fle'd the empie is, Which benefits confer on generous esinds: Coodness prevadls uon the stubborn foes, And conquers most than even Canos's sword did. (p. 239) Pembrohe pointedly ashs the "Churchmsan" Cardiner, "Is net the so- cred panpose of ourfaith / Peace and good-willto man?")(p239 f).And despite the frustration of Pembrohe's endeavor and the final execution of the Dedleys, "Peace and good-will" ate reaffiresed as the weapons of thehind ofheoism whiche"onquers moenthannevereCaes's sword did" and wich, as Foe has pointed out, is the lesson of the mantyr's death. Rowehbas focsed en this Christian heroism frem his first dra- maticstheedicy, and to the last he offers it as she exemplary behavior of snifering innocents. Lady Jane's achnowledgent that Heaven "dis- allows" her "weakness" so bs an effective agent does not deny the fact TheRoal Coerct and LadlyJaeGay 99 saving his life and to msahe "amends" foe the hates he has done Lady Jane and hee "case" )V, p. 242), Pemsbrohe obtains a pardon foe them teem Qsseen Masy, begs Lady Jane's forgiveness, and in she spirit of Christian charity promises to "deserve" their "shanks" by offening him- self as the pledge of skein intone happiness (p. 242 f). When he first tenters with the pardon, Peesbroke's heat "Exults and labours wish the joy it beans" and with she joy of Christian virtue: 'Tis messy messy, The esark of HeaVen impreend on humnan hind; Messy, that glads she world, deals joy atond; Messy, that smooths the deadful brow of power, And esakes dominion light; messy, that saves, Binds op the beoken heat, and heals despain. (p. 239) Mercy has healed Pembroke's own despair and is the answer, along with least, to that most sinister of sins. The Machiavellian Gardine, how- even, one of those "Ronoish priests" who leach their fllowers "To mas- sacre anation, andhbelieve its/An actwel-pleasing to the Lodof Mercy" (1, p. 196), dismsses messy foe expediency (V, p. 239 f)." When he vows to contermandthenrepeal,Femboeetorsts, Thy nanrow tool Knows not the god-like glony of foegiving: Not can thy cold, shy ruthlnesheat conceive, Hew large the powe, hew faxd the empie is, Which benefits confer en generous minds Goodness prevails uon the stubbon foes, And conqers esore than eves Casesr' sword did (p. 239) Pembroke pointedly asks she "Charchesan" Carnet, "Is not the sa- cred purpose ofeaurfaith / Peacesand good-will toman?")(p. 239 f).And despite the fruastration of Pembeoke's endeavor and the final enecnion of the Dedleys, "Peace and good-will" mre reaffirmed as the weapons of thehind of heoismswhih "onqes more than everCaes's sword did" and which, as Pose has pointed eel, is the lemson of she mantyrs death. Rowe kms focused on this Christian heroism from his fiest dran matic theodicy, and to she last he offers it as the enemplasy behavior of suffering innocents. Lady Jane's acknowledgment that Heaven "dis- allows" her "weakess" to be an effective agent doss not deny the fact  100 The Trial of the Inocent that she has inodeed beess God's GChasopios, a brilianot esemsplae of Cheis- tians heroismo ansd virtue, ansd that her enodurance is as msagnsanimsous as the deeds of the heeoes of old, incloding Tanseelase assd Ulysses. Sorb endurance is sshat Miltosn iso a sisnilar rosntrast calls "the better foetitode / Of Patience and Heroic Martyrdoms" (FL IX.3t f). The assguished Pemsbroke's final commentsreterrates, aswe hav'eseen,therpromiseof sdtisnate reward foe soch Christias heroes, who piace theie trest in Proidenoce: Those, who, with honest hear, pursuse the eight, And follow faithfolly troth's sacred light, Tho' sniffring heee, shall frosm their sorrows cease, Rest with the saints, and dwell in endless peace. iii As his last play, Lady lone Gray nirely raps Rowe's attempt at dramatir throdiry, forit is oneof his best plays,onerof the best of the priod, and perhaps the best martyr play of the Esnglish Resnaissasnre asod Restoration -a genre not oftens attempted becanse of the great difficulties ino por- traying saints, Rowe's play socereds first of all, I thinh, becanse he has found, in his martyr plays and Jane Shore, ass excellent medium in the English history ploy, where the story and the rhararters hare a dimen- sion of veracity ossd interest that is often larhing io the esotic settings of his early plays and of Restoration heroir tragedy in general. His sor- ess with the medium in The Royot Gonrvert is frustrated becaose he tries to retain too many of the other features of heroic tragedy; bom- bastic langssage, estreme hantenr, and conflirts between lore and honor that snfferan incedible numhrofeversals. Moeovr, the trial of martydom is dragged oust over far too many scenes. In Ladyloane Gray, howev'er, Rowe surreeds not only with the medium hot ohso with plot, language, and rharacteriaation. As in our own time (Berket, A Man for All Seasons, Mary Queen of Scots, for instance), an historical setting sees well the purposes of a martyr play, for it relieves the stress on spiritoal ronflict by means of the political conflict. In the first three arts of Lady lone Gray the conflict is hetween Rome and England, Mary and Jane, and the qurstion is whether Jane will accept the challenge. On the other hand, what beeps this play (as well as those on Recket, More, and Mary Stuart) from bring mere chronicle or mere propaganda is the spiritual dimension of even the poitical conflict. The question is not whether Lady Jane will take 100 The Trial of the Innocent that she has indeed been God's Ghampion, a brilliant exemplar of Ghris- tian heroism and virtoe, and that bee enduranre is as magnanimoos as the deeds of the heroes of old, incloding Tamerlane and Ulysses. Sorb endorance is what Milton in a similar contrast calls "the better fortitode / Of Patience and Heroic Martyrdom" (FL IX.3l f). The angoished Pembroke's final comment riterates, as wehave seen,te pomise of ultimate reward foe sorb Ghristian heroes, who place their trust in Providence: Those, who, with honest hearts, pursue the right, And follow faithfully troth's sacred light, The' soffring here, shall from their sorrows cease, Rest with the saints, and dwell in endless peace. iii As his last play, Lady Jone Gray nicely raps Rowe's attempt at dramatic tbeodlicy, forit is ooeofbisbest plays, onerof the bestof theperiod, and perhaps the best martyr play of the English Renaissance and Restoration -a genre not often attempted because of the great difficolties in por- traying saints. Rowe's play succreds first of all, I think, because he has found, in his martyr plays and lane Shore, an encellent medium in the English history play, where the story and the characters have a dimen- sion of veracity and interest that is often lacking in the exotic settings of his early plays and of Restoration heroic tragedy in general. His sac- rems with the mediom in The Royal Gonrert is frustrated because hr tries to retain too many of the other features of heroic tragedy: bom- bastic language, extreme hauteur, and conflicts between tore and honor that sufler an incr edible nomber of reversals. Moreover, the trial of martydom is dragged ant over far too many scenes. In Lady lone Groy, however, Rowe socereds not only with the mediom hot also with plot, language, and characterization. As in one own time (Blechet, A Man for All Seosons, Mory Queen of Sears, foe instance,an historical setting serves well the purposes of a martyr play, for it relieves the stens on spiritual conflict by means of the political conflict. In the first three arts of Lady lone Gray the conflict is between Rome and England, Mary and Jane, and the question is whether Jane will accept the challenge. On the other band, what beeps this play (as well as those on Becket, More, and Mary Stoact) from being mere chronicle or mere propaganda is the spiritual dimension of even the political conflict. The question is not whether Lady Jane wilt take 100 The Trial of the Innocent that she has indeed been God's Gbampion, a brilliant enemplar of Gbris- ban heroism and virtue, and that her endurance is as magnanimous as the deeds of theheroes ofold, inclding Tamelane and Ulymes. Sorb enduarance is what Milton in a similar contrast calls "the better fortitude / Of Patience and Heroic Martyrdom" (FL IX.31 fi). The angoished Pembreoe's final commetreiteates, as whave seen, the pomise of ultimate reward foe such Gbeistian heroes, who place their trust in Providene: Those, who, weith honest hearts, porsue the eight, And follow faithfolly troth's sacred light, Tho' sosffring bee, shall from their sorrows cease, Rest with the saints, and dwell in endlems peace. As his last play, Lody Jone Groy nicely caps Rowe's attempt at dramatic tbrssdicy, for it is oneofbhisbest plays, one oftherbstof theperiod, and perhaps the best martyr ploy of the English Renaissance and Restoration -a genre not often attempted hecaose of the great difficolties in por- traying saints. Rowe's play soccerds first of all, I thin, becaose be has found, in his martyr plays and lone Share, an excellent medium in the English history ploy, where the story and the characters have a dimeno- ofion of veracity and interest that is often lacking in the exotic settings of his early plays and of Restoration heroic tragedy in general. His sssc- rems with the mediom in The Royal Gonvert is frstrated because be tries to retain too many of the other fratues of heroic tragedy: bom- bastic langoage, enteme haoteur, and conflicts between love and honor that suffer an incredible number of reversal. Moreover, the trial of martydfom is dragged oat over far too many scenes. In Ladylane Gry, however, Rowe socceeds not only with the medium hot also with plot, language, and crbacterization. As in our own time(Bcketr, A Man for All Sasons, Mary Queen of Scts, for instance), an historical setting serves well the porposes of a smartyr play, foe it relieves the stress on spiritual conflict by means of the political conflict. In the first three arts of Lady lane Gray the conflict is between Rome and England, Mary and Jane, and therqestinis whether Jane will accept the challenge. On the other hand, what beeps this play (as well as those on Becket, More, and Mary Stuart) from being mere croninle or mere propaganda is the spiritual dimension of even the political conflict. The question is not whether Lady Jane will take  The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 101 The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 101 The aIG a an Lay Jae Coy 10 Th Royl CocceeandLasl booCooplotThe Royal Csonvert sand Lasdy Janeo Grayto 101 the theone for chaovinistic reasons bet foe a genoine religious ooe. In other woods, befoee this nmartyr ptay asks whethee Lady Jane ssitt keep bee faith throogh bee teiat, it asks whethee she witt defend hee faith against Antichrist. Rowe nowhee noee effectivety estabtishes the at- mosphere of the ptay through setting than in Lady Jasne's noosing speech on the Towes: Why camoe we hither? Why was I drawn to this ontocky place, This Tow'e, so often stain'd with royal blood? Here the Fooeth Edwoed's helptess sons west noosslood, And pioos Honey felt by rothless Glosses: Is this the place allotted foe rejoicing? The bow'eoadosn'd tohkeep ouronupsiaifeaasin? Methinks suspioion and distrust dwell hose, Staring withomeagreeformssthoo' gratedwindows; Death looks within, and unrelenting pusnishnment; Withoet, geim danger, fear, and fiercest pow's titaon the code old towers, and Gothic battlements: White bassos overlooks she dreadful wall, And frowns on all aroond. (111, p t1 f) Rowe calls op the seal and allegoical ghosts that haunt this central syme- hot of the blood relationship betweeon English history and martyodom. Besides the peblic, poltical conflict, Rowe also adds to his msartyr play the private conflict between Geilford and Pemobroke. As in Ulysses, the poivate balances the public and reflects on it. Guilford's loyally and self-sacrifice misses Lady Jane's, white Pembroke's sage and vengeance mirrar those of Gardinor and the Gathobic canoe. Maoover, there is grave irony in the fact that as the satisfaction of one love sooves to save England, the frustration of she other serves to destroy it. Thus in the floss those acts Rowe plays off the upwaod maoment of England's public fortunes against the downward movement of Pembroke's private ones, a contoapuntal arrangement that is ironic and foreboding of final reversal. And again, as in Ulysses, Rowe beings together plot and sob- ploathe final moment. Even ifmercy doesnotsoriumph intheopubic ealm, it does in the private in Pembroke'sfinal attempt to redeem the foiend who had redeemed his frendship. Appropriately, Pembroke prophesies privete victney foe those who find their paeradise within, that which has replaced Pembroke's floss "lost paradise" of Lady Jane's love the throne foe chauvinistic seasons bet foe a genuine religious one. In ethos woods, befao this maotyr play asks whether Lady Jane will keep heo faith through boo sei, it asks whether she will defend hoer faith against Antichoist. Rowe nowhere moe effectively establishes the at- mosphere of the play throuegh sotling than in Lady Jane's moving speech on the Tower: Why came we hitheo? Why was I drawn to this unlucky place, This Towe, so often stain'd with royal blood? Hose the PFoth Edscard's helpless sans were meoderod, And pines Honey felt by ruthless Glosser: Is this the place allotted foe rejoicing? Thesbaw'eadaon'd to keep ornuptiallfeast in? Methinks suspicion and distrust dwell hose, Staring with meageformsthoo' gratedwindows; Death leeks within, and unentng punishment; Without, grim danger, fear,and fiercest pw' Ofteon the code old tawers, and Gothic battlements: While horor osverlooks the dreadful wall, And frowns on all aroend. (III, p.216 f) Rowe calls op she seal and allegorical ghosts that bans this central sym- betl s he blood relationship between Englis hisstory and martyrdom. Besides the public, political conflict, Rowe also adds to his martyr play the private conflict between Guilford and Pemboke. As in Ulysses, the private balances the public and reflects nit. Guilford's loyalty and self-sacrifice miror Lady Jane's, while Pembooke's sags and vengeance miroro those of Gardiner and the Gatholic cause. Morover, those is grave ioony in the fact that as the satisfaction al one love serves to nse England, the frustration of the other seoves to destroy it. Thes in the fiost three acts Rowe plays off she upsward movement of England's public fortunes against she downward movement of Pemboke's private ones, a contrapuntsal arrangement that is ironic and foeboding of final reversal. And again, as in Ulysses, Rowe beings together plot and sob- plot at the final moment. Even if moey does not triumph in the public realsm, it dossin the private in Pembroke's final attempt to redeem the friend who had redoemed his frendship. Appopriately, Pembroke prophesies private victory Ins those who find their paewdise within, that which has replaced Pembroke's floss "loss paradise" of Lady Jane's love the thone fns chauvinistic seasons bet foe a genuine oeligious one. In ashes woods, bofore this martyr play asks whether Lady Jane will keep hoer faith though hoer trial, it asks whether she wilt defend hoer faith against Antichrist. Rowe nowhoe nose effectively establishes she at- mosphere of the ploy through setting than in Lady Jane's moving speech on the Tower: Why came we hither? Why was I drawn to this unlucky place, This Tow', so often ssain'd withsroyal bood? Hoese the Fourth Edwaed's helpless sans woese meedoo'd, And pines Honey loll by ruthless Gloster: Is this the place allotted Inc rejoicing? Theobow's adoen'dto keep ourenuptial feast in? Methinks sespicion and distrust dwelt hose, Saring with meagre looms then' goosed windows; Death leeks within, and unreenting punishment; Without, grimdanger,lfear,and fiercest paw'o titaon the code old towors, and Goetsic battlements: White horror overlooks the dreadfl watt, And frowns an alt around. (ID, p. 2160) Rowe calls op the coal and allegorical ghosts that hant this contest symo- hal o1 the blood relationship between English history and martyrdaom. Resides the public, political conflict, Rowe also adds to his martyr play the private conflict between Guilford and Pembroko. As in Ulysses, the private balances the peblic and reflects onit. Geilford's loyalty and self-sacrifice miroroeLady Jane's, whe Pembroke's rage and vengeance mirror those of Gardiner and the Catholic canto. Moreover, those is graveoirony inthelfactsthat asthsaisfactinf oneovsees to save England, the frustration of the ashes serves to destroy it. Then in the floss thee acts Rows plays off the upward movement of England's public fortunes against the downward movement of Pemobroke's private ones, a conteapuntal arrangement that is irnnie and foeboding of final evesal. And again, as in Ulysses, Rowe brings together plot and sob- pltsatthe finalnmomen. Even ifmercy dosnosttriumph insthe pbic realmo, it does in the private in Pembroke's final attemopt to redeem the friend who had redeemed his friendship. Appropriately, Pembroke peophesies private s'ictory foe those who find their paraodise within, that which has replaced Pembroke's floss 'lost paradise" of Lady Jane's love  102 The Trial of the Innocent (III, p. 216) and his short-lived "paradise new-born" of her and Guil- ford's reprieve (V, p. 238). The language of Lady Jane Gray shows Rowe at his best. With re- gard to figurative language, Rowe is again not very good with amorous tropes (Guilford's) and perhaps his images of the ravages of Rome are a bit heavy-handed (though not in contrast to the imagery of Lee, Otway, and Banks). Rowe may again be better at the gradual building of motif than at the local metaphor. For example, especially through his alle- gorical imagery of Religion, Antichrist, Death, and Horror, Rowe es- tablishes well a sense of apocalyptic doom. Better yet, he achieves an excellent effect by building up imagery of defenses of the faith to the point of Northumberland's image of "our pure religion" "Guarded and fene'd around" by Lady Jane's "bright zeal" and "victorious faith" (III, p. 218), then whittling the fences down to the "spot / To which our narrow empire now is shrunk" and which Guilford vainly sets himself to "guard" (IV, p. 233). Rowe also establishes well the imagery of con- temptus mundi, not only in Northumberland's and Guilford's meta- physical musings in Act I but also in Lady Jane's persistent rejection of "all those unsubstantial empty forms" of kingship (IV, p. 232) and of "all the boasted blessings" the "foolish world" can give (V, p. 244). With this pattern of imagery that of bequests is nicely interwoven, until Lady Jane leaves to her woman the only thing of real worth in this world. Rowe is occasionally very successful even with a local metaphor, as in Northumberland's image of the world hanging "upon a hair" (I, p. 197), or in the play upon the image of Jane as the moon (p. 201). Rowe's best local metaphors in the play are those analogies for resurrection that close the fourth act: Behold the universal works of nature, Where life still springs from death. To us the sun Dies ev'ry night, and ev'ry morn revives: The flow'rs, which Winter's icy hand destroy'd, Lift their fair heads, and live again in Spring. (p. 236) Perhaps the metaphors work so well because, instead of being mere local coloring as are too many of the metaphors of Restoration tragedy, they are archetypal images of resurrection and immortality and, like Rowe's other, subdued patterns of imagery, have thematic significance. But the lines are also well-written. Before its proper ending the second line comes to an abrupt halt on the word "death," and thanks to a 102 The Trial of the Innocent 102 The Trial of the Innocent (III, p. 216) and his short-lived "paradise new-born" of her and Guil- ford's reprieve (V, p. 238). The language of Lady Jane Gray shows Rowe at his best. With re- gard to figurative language, Rowe is again not very good with amorous tropes (Guilford's) and perhaps his images of the ravages of Rome are a bit heavy-handed (though not in contrast to the imagery of Lee, Otway, and Banks). Rowe may again be better at the gradual building of motif than at the local metaphor. For example, especially through his alle- gorical imagery of Religion, Antichrist, Death, and Horror, Rowe es- tablishes well a sense of apocalyptic doom. Better yet, he achieves an excellent effect by building up imagery of defenses of the faith to the point of Northumberland's image of "our pure religion" "Guarded and fene'd around" by Lady Jane's "bright zeal" and "victorious faith" (III, p. 218), then whittling the fences down to the "spot / To which our narrow empire now is shrunk" and which Guilford vainly sets himself to "guard" (IV, p. 233). Rowe also establishes well the imagery of con- temptus mundi, not only in Northumberland's and Guilford's meta- physical musings in Act I but also in Lady Jane's persistent rejection of "all those unsubstantial empty forms" of kingship (IV, p. 232) and of "all the boasted blessings" the "foolish world" can give (V, p. 244). With this pattern of imagery that of bequests is nicely interwoven, until Lady Jane leaves to her woman the only thing of real worth in this world. Rowe is occasionally very successful even with a local metaphor, as in Northumberland's image of the world hanging "upon a hair" (I, p. 197), or in the play upon the image of Jane as the moon (p. 201). Rowe's best local metaphors in the play are those analogies for resurrection that close the fourth act: Behold the universal works of nature, Where life still springs from death. To us the sun Dies ev'ry night, and ev'ry morn revives: The flow'rs, which Winter's icy hand destroy'd, Lift their fair heads, and live again in Spring. (p. 236) Perhaps the metaphors work so well because, instead of being mere local coloring as are too many of the metaphors of Restoration tragedy, they are archetypal images of resurrection and immortality and, like Rowe's other, subdued patterns of imagery, have thematic significance. But the lines are also well-written. Before its proper ending the second line comes to an abrupt halt on the word "death," and thanks to a (III, p. 216) and his short-lived "paradise new-born" of her and Guil- ford's reprieve (V, p. 238). The language of Lady Jane Gray shows Rowe at his best. With re- gard to figurative language, Rowe is again not very good with amorous tropes (Guilford's) and perhaps his images of the ravages of Rome are a bit heavy-handed (though not in contrast to the imagery of Lee, Otway, and Banks). Rowe may again be better at the gradual building of motif than at the local metaphor. For example, especially through his alle- gorical imagery of Religion, Antichrist, Death, and Horror, Rowe es- tablishes well a sense of apocalyptic doom. Better yet, he achieves an excellent effect by building up imagery of defenses of the faith to the point of Northumberland's image of "our pure religion" "Guarded and fenc'd around" by Lady Jane's "bright zeal" and "victorious faith" (III, p. 218), then whittling the fences down to the "spot / To which our narrow empire now is shrunk" and which Guilford vainly sets himself to "guard" (IV, p. 233). Rowe also establishes well the imagery of con- temptus mundi, not only in Northumberland's and Guilford's meta- physical musings in Act I but also in Lady Jane's persistent rejection of "all those unsubstantial empty forms" of kingship (IV, p. 232) and of "all the boasted blessings" the "foolish world" can give (V, p. 244). With this pattern of imagery that of bequests is nicely interwoven, until Lady Jane leaves to her woman the only thing of real worth in this world. Rowe is occasionally very successful even with a local metaphor, as in Northumberland's image of the world hanging "upon a hair" (I, p. 197), or in the play upon the image of Jane as the moon (p. 201). Rowe's best local metaphors in the play are those analogies for resurrection that close the fourth act: Behold the universal works of nature, Where life still springs from death. To us the sun Dies ev'ry night, and ev'ry morn revives: The flow'rs, which Winter's icy hand destroy'd, Lift their fair heads, and live again in Spring. (p. 236) Perhaps the metaphors work so well because, instead of being mere local coloring as are too many of the metaphors of Restoration tragedy, they are archetypal images of resurrection and immortality and, like Rowe's other, subdued patterns of imagery, have thematic significance. But the lines are also well-written. Before its proper ending the second line comes to an abrupt halt on the word "death," and thanks to a  The Royal Convert and Lady Jane Gray 103 The Royal C et and Losty Jose Cmy 103 ~The Royal Converct anod Lady lane Grasy 13TeRylCcce n at aeC 0 103 The Royal Convert and Lady June Gray 103 spondee, a heavy accent msarks the hey woods of the line-and of the passage: "life," "still,' "sprins," and "death." "Springs' is apon, and both tenses animate the succeeding lines. In the nent line and a half, Rowe enjans at into another spondee which emephasizes the fieat teasdl "Dies,' andlthen he pudlspholhogh asoance (repeating the i somnd), a dental (t), and a definite eaesuea, all on the coed "night." Yet the second half of the line moses octalf "night" into "moon," as the line -and the woeld-"eives." Thus "life still springs frocm death." Ecen the repeated assonance in "revices" it betrayed by the coiced fricatices. to the neat two lines, the patteen is roghly the samte. The Beast ends with the heavily dental "hand destecy'd," bat the entiee effect of the halting (and of "Winter") is overthrown when the wcords of the neat hone speing tooth as octalf the geound, Rowe emphasizes the feast face monosyllables, especially the initial "Lift," in a handsome maeriage of metrics and tense, Finally, he links "Lift" alliteeaticely (and msetaphorically) with "live" and repeats "Speing" in the terminsal position, suggesting cot only the eternal cycle of life but the triumph of life ocee death, of coca- tion acer deteuction, and the perpetual speing at the human soot in beacon, What is best about the langusage is linhed with what is best aboot the entice play-Rowe's chaeacterization. The dialoguse in the play seems especially soiled to charactec: to the shifting moods at Noeth- timbeeland as he scanipulates others; to the shifting passions of Pem- broke in his encontees with Gudlfoed; and paeticularly to the tough- ness of Lady Jane. With a few esceptions, Rowe nee lets dialogue get too long. just aswe copedt a tedious tisade, he hasanother charactee entee to cot shoet the exchange. This general teeseness sett characters in bold relict and beeps the action fast-paced. It also allows toe less decla- mation and consequently less strainingAsaresult,owe get cispyet com- plexscharacteeshlie Noethumbeeland and Pembroke and een Gadine, who despite himself cannot help describing-and admiring-Lady Janets constancy, coueage, and chaem at bee trial, and who pleads with bee almost pathetically to oecans, Lady'vJane isone ofRow'sbfietheoines. Contrary to pecailing opinion of bee as totally maudlin, aftec mouening foe the death of Ed- waed she eschews teaot, "teodes thoughts, and soft endearments" to sumnthe "uncommon fortitude" of the martyr (IV, p. 235)' In coo- trast toGuidford'samoos dilations, hersposes tohim aebefand clipped throughout. She cots shoot his couetship in Act 1, demands his continece onotheireweddingcnight in Actit1 and asksverycpinted qos- spsodee, a heacy accent marks the hey woods of the line-and of the passage: 'life," "stll," "springs," and "death," "Springs" is a pu0, and both senses animate lbs su~ccceding lines. In the cent line and a half, Rowe oojambsus intoaotlhoerpondeeowhich emphasizes the first word, "Diet," and then he polls up shoot though ossonance (repeating the sound), a dental (t), and adefinite caesuca, allaon the wood " night:' Yet the second baRf of the lioo macco ons of 'night" into "moon," as the line -and the woeld-"eves," Thus "life still springs from death." Ecen the repeated assonance in "recices" is betrayed by the coiced fricatices. to the neat two lines, the pattern is roughly the same. The horst ends with the heacily dental 'hand desteay'd," bat the entice effect at the halting (and of "Winter") is ocerthrown when the woods of the nest lice spring tooth ascout of the grouond. Rowe esmphasizes the terst face monosyllables, especially the initial "Lift," in a handsome marriage of setrics and sense. Finally, ho links "Lift" alliteraticely (and metaphorically) with 'lice" and repeats "Spring" in the terminal position, suggesting ot only the eternal cycle of life hot the triumph of life ocer death, of coca- tion aces destruction, and the perpetual spring at the human saul in beacon. What is hint about the language is linhed with what is beat about the entice play-Rowe's characterization. The dialogue in the play seems especially suited to characterc to the shifting moods at North- umberland as ho manipulates others; to the shifting passions of Pem- broke in his ecounters with Guilford; and particularly to the tough- ness of Lady Jane. With a few esceptions, Rowe noose lets dialogue got too long. just as we expect a tedsous tieads, ho has another character solos to cut shoot theoehange. Thisgenealtcersenssscsts charactes in hold solidf and hoops the action last-p-aced. tt also allows toe lets decla- mation andconsequently lessstraining. Asaoresult, weget cispytom- plot characters like Northumberland and Pembroke and coon Gardiner, who despite himself cannot help describing-and admiring-Lady Jane's constancy, courage, and chasm at hoer trial, and who pleads with hoer almost pathetically to secant, Lady Jane is one of Rowe's finest becoines. Contrary to pevailing opinion of hoer as totally macdim, aefter mocning too the death of Ed- ward sheeschews tears,"enaderthoughts,and softndearments' Ito sumnthe "uncommon fortitude' of the scartyr (IV, p. 235).' In con- toast to Guilford's amorous dilations, hoer responses to him ace brief and clipped throughout. She ants shoot his courship in Act 1, demands his continence on their wedding night in Act II, and asks very pointed qucs- spondee, a heavy accent macha the hey woods of the booe-and of the passage; "life,"still,"spings," and "death." "Spcings" is a pun, and both senses animate the sccccdsng lines. In the cent line and o holf, Rowe enjambs us into another spordec which emphasizes the feast wood, "Dies," and then ho potts asp shoot thraough assonance (repeating the sound), a dental (t) anda definite casura, all on the wood "night." Yet the second half of the lice moves ant at "night" into "moon," as the line -and the woold-"oooioca." Thus "life still springs fom death." Even the repeated assonance in "revives" is betrayed by the oiced fricatioes. In the nest two lines, the pattern is rosughly the same. The floss ends with the heavily dental "hand dostesy'd," but the entice effect of the halting (and of "Winter") is overthrown when the woods of the nest hoce spring tooth as octalf the ground. Rowe emphasizes the float face monosyllables, especially the initial 'Lift," in a handsome macstage at metrics and sense. Finally, ho linhs "Lift" alliteratioely (and metaphaorically) with "lice' and repeats "Spring" in the terminal position, suggesting ot only the eternal cycle at life hot the triumph of life aces death, at coca- lion aces destructio, and the perpetual spring of the human saul in heaven. What is best about the langoage is linked with what is best abouct the entice play-Rowe's characterizatio. The diologue in the play seems especially soiled to character: to the shifting moods of North- umberland as he manipolates others; to the shifting passions at Pem- boke in his encounters with Godlford; and particularly la the toogh- ness of Lady Jane. With a low esceptions, Rowe ncase lets dialogue got too long. just as we expect a tedious trads, ho has aotoherocharacter solos to cot shoot the ehange, This general looseness tots characters in hold relict and hoops the action last-paced. It also allows too loss decla- motion and consequnly loss steaining. As a resuolt, we got crisp yet cam- pies characters like Northumberland and Pembroke and coon Gardiner, who despite himself cannot help describing-and admiciog-Lady Jane's constancy, couroge, and chasm at hoer triot, and who pleads with hoer almost pathetically to recant. Lady Jane is one oftRowe's finest becomnes. Contrarytoaprevaiing opinion of boo as totally macdim, alter mousrning toe the death of Ed- wood she eschews team, "teodes thoughts, and saft endearents" to sumnthe "uncommon fortitude" at the mnaclye (IV, p. 235)."' Ic con- toast to Guilford's aorous dilations, hoer responses to him ass bree and clipped throughout. She cots shoes his courtship in Act 1, demands his continence on their wedding night in Act 11, and asks very pointed ques-  104 104 TheTefa I he tosaest 104The Tria f h ooco 0 TeTjl of the Innocent 104 The Trial of the Innocent 104 The Trial of the Innocent tioss of hiss and the others io Act 111, demanodiog to hnow hoo she hoe the eight to he qoeeo. to Act IV the heaes hee defeat with a spieit which outshines that of all the otherechacactecs, as the eutters aphoristic yet ooteite oswees to the peohlemo of suffeeing innsocence. Is Act V, hoer langoage eeflects the "settled qoiet" of hee "soot" (p. 241) at the coo- trols her joy at pardon and in the next instant her disappointmsent at its repeal. Agaio she tooghly stases off Goitfoed's assaolts 00 hee tesdee feelings, sostaiss the "killiog steoke" of theie paetisg (p. 245), aod caps her refusal "Tohbaetee truth foe life" with these wtonderfuli closing lioes to Gaedinee: Goedioct. Woet shoes theo die? Thy htood he as thy head. Lady Jooc Geoy. My hlood he whose it folls; let the eaeth hide it; Ansd esay it nevee rise, on call foe vengeansce: Oh, that it weee the last shalt fall a victism To zeal's iohomao weath! Her fesot act of msagsnasnimity is the finat trioumph is the play of the New' Lao' over the Old. It is the asere, in a setting coloced wsith the htood of msartyrs, to the coy, "Blood foe blood." And her plea has a special poignancy as ane views the couese ot only of Resaissasce English his- toey heul of all huosao history op to present Noethees Ieeland. By focosing as the strength of this tees-age girl is his last deromatic theotlicy, Rowe morce poweefultly than esver hefose aesects oasacnevet- failing ahility to enduee mod to hope is the face of what appeaes apoca- lyptic "doom" and "univeesal ecin." The ploy concludes with the at- mospheee of doom, foe poetic justice is sot eves disteihuted to the wiched, and England is left is the hosds of Gardisee asd "Bloody" Maey. Thos the steihisg, teagic impact of the endisg. Yet thee is the sese that agaist overwvhelming odds here stood the nohbtest Cheistian of them all, whose defeat is, paradoxicalty, a gloeioos teiomph of the homao spirit. Asd to a Cheistian audiesce the tsiomph is eves greatee. Foe they woold believe sot only that Lady Jose shall "test with the sains, asd dwell is esdless peace," hot that hee peophecies of ultimate visdication aee histocically folfilled (to the satisfaction of the demands foe poetic justice of La Messoedihee and Dryden, if sat of Rymer, Dennis, asd Gildos). Thes Rowe concluded where he hegan, deamati- catty asseeting that, eves foe the most trsying afflictios cod adveesitis, at tiess of him and the othees is Act I11, demanding to hknow how she has the eight to he qeen. Is Act IV she beaes hee defeat with a spierit which outshines that of alt the othee chaeactees, as she uttees aphoeistic yet coteite answees to the peohlem of suffering inncence. Is Act V, hes language eeflects the "settled quiet" of hee "soot" (p. 241) as she coo- teals her joy at paedon sod is the seat instant her disappointment at its repeal. Again she toughly stayves off Guilfoed's assaults as Bee tendee feelings, sustains the "hilling steohe" of theie paeting (p. 245), mod caps hereefsal "Ta haetee teeth toe life" with these wondeeful closinghlies to Gaedinee; Gas-ioe. We't thee then die? Thy htood he as thy head. Lady lace Gray. My hlood he where it falls; let the eaeth hide it; And may it nevee rise, oe call foe vensgeance; Oh, that it weee the last shall fall a victim To seat's inhuman weath) Her hootl act of magnanimity is the fioot triumph is the ploy of the New Lam ovee the Old. It is the aswee, is a setting coloed with the blood of martyes, to the cey, "Blood foe blood." And hee ptea has a special poignancy as ace views the course ot only of Renaissansce English his- toey hot of off human history op to peesenst Noetheen Ieeland. By focusingaonthestengthof thistee-age girltinhfttoastdamatic theadicy, Rowe mote poweefultly than evee hefoee asses moo's nsevee- failing ability to enduce sod to hope is the face of what oppoes apoca- lyptic "deans" ad "snesal euin." The ploy conclodes with the at- mospheee of doom, fee poetic justice is sat even disteibuted to the wiched, sod Rngland Bs left is the hoods of Caedines sod "Bloody" Maey. Thus the steihing, teagic impact of the ensding. Yet theee is the sese that agaist oveewhelming odds heee stood the noblest Christian of them alt, whose defeat is, paeadoxically, a gloeious triumoph of the husman spieit. And to a Cheistian aesdience the teiumph is eves geate. Foe they would believe cat only that Lady Jose shalt "rest with the saints, sod dwelt in endless peace," hot that hee peophecies of ultimats vindication see historically fulfilled (to the satisfaction of the demands foe poetic justice of La Mesnaedifee mod Dryden, if sat of Ryme, Dennsis, mod Cildos). Thus Rowe concluded whee he began, dramati- catty asserting that, eves ino the most trying afltictions mod adveesi ties, at hamn of him sod the otheos in Act III, demanding to Bom hew she has the eight to be qee. to Act IV she heats hee defeat with a spieit which outshinses that of all the other characters, as she utters aphorstic yet astrite asers to the problem of suffering innocence. Is Act V, bee languageoreflects theo"settled qiet" of her soul" (p. 241) asseon- trols hoer jay at pandas and is the next instant her disappaotment at its repeal. Agaes she toughly staves off Cuilford's assaults as hoc teodes feelings, sustains the "hilling strokhe" of theis parting (p. 245), sod caps her refusal"To hastes tooth foe hife" with these wonderful closing hones to Caodinee; Gardiinco. We't thea then die? Thy blood be as thy head. Lady lost Coop. My blood be whose it folls; lot the tooth hide it; And may it coves rfte, as coBl foe vengeace: Oh, that fe west the lost shalt fall a victim Ta seal's inhuman wsoth! Hoer Besot act of magnanimity is the float triumph is the play of the New Lam os-es the Old. It is the aswer, is a setting coloed with the hlood of martyrs, to the coy, "Blood foe bleed." And hoer plea has a special poignancy as ass views the case~ sat only of Renaissanco Rnglish his- tory bat of all human history op to prsent Northesn treland. By focusing as the strength of this tess-ago gist is his lost dramatic thoodicy, Rome moss powerfully than eves befao asserts moo's coves- failing ability to endure sod to hope is the face of what appeas apoca- lyptic "doom" sod "univosal rusic." The ploy concludes with the at- mosphere of doom, foe poetic justice is sat es-es distributed to the wiched, sod Rngland is left is the hoods of Cardiner mod "Bloody" Mary. Ths the strihing, tragic impact of the ending. Yet these is the sense that against ov-etmhelming odds hoot stood the noblost Christian of them all, whose defeat is, paraoxically, a glorious triumph of the human spiedt. And to a Chrstian audiece the triumph ft es-to geater. Fat they would believe sat only that Lady Jose shall "test with the sainsts, mod dwelt is endless peace," hot that hoer psophocies of ultimato vindication one historically fulfilled (to the stisfaction of the domands foe poetic justice of La Msnsmdihss cod Dryden, if sat of Rymer, Dons, sod Cildas). Ths Rome conclueded whose ho hegans, dramati- sally asseeting that, es-es is the most trying afflitionas mod adversities, at  The RoyaltConvsetand LadlyJaneGray 105 last "The Gods are geeat acod just." Man moast oniy, like Lady Jance, place complete teast inc Peovidence, inc "him whose geacioas wisdom guides oureways, / Acdmakes what we thicckcevilturncto good." NOToES TO CHAPTcER III 1.ok sf .1ao oas the popolar title of Pose's As't.so malssosset, oflwhich owe possessed a copy of she ninth edihioc (1684) the suetI hose csed (ceA Cataogue osf she Liheary sfV Rs)owc, fol. 85). 2. Ascaglossonthecoacept oftpecofindland itsiporanceinthisplay, I offer these worsfromoIaacBarrw'ssermon 'OflContentoent": "Cooteotedoss [is] thcchsrtc, cwhich, ofll other, doth msoat rendes this world acceptahle, cod curcatilsdeth ahkinotmporal heasen;swhichhc thacthath, istherehysipsfaostingodocasurc happy. swhateser therhcthings he soap coca lom wathsch he that wasslech, doth. howo- ecercotherwisechh ehfurihscohe emseale, codcaooeh a kindcofhelo ithnhhss" (The Thesslsgiscal Wsrhs, l1t. 1). tnorsder so achseveconctetss Barrowe sonins, "We should with faith and hope aelp cod oait on Cad" (p. t3), for "the effect of,.. re- posing ourselvs fts the hfuture on God's providence wosld he perfect contcnt aod peace, accsrdisg so thae of she Psophct Icc. 20:3], th ssht loep hosts perfcctp'ace'. chose ssnis tasyedsocsheeylsc...so.h'sesthssinthes p. 71)tIdeedaorsow's cnssrc sermonscouldhbeused ascaglaoscnallsof Rwe'splays, codonthe Chrstilaoctrgedysof sufferig innocecign ctal, fsrhe dissssathescentratshcsdteao themesloo.rn plaint and despair serss shbmissioso the wilh of Cod, the acseptance sfife s a thiat (with its opportsnity fse Champiosu), cod the patsent expectaonof aticce, dsctplyhere- after. Ci. Gecosey Marsshatl, Rssesrtio Seross D~asssss pp. 0.065 cod passio, wosee the ioportance ohsi 10t oohspease is Rstosation tragsdp hoc agacn tisorces it hroc allth hemstanoinlChisiansmetachyis 3. The plop thus segaticely prosides as ssoplicit dcfinstsion soi a, ideal Chritia monearch, a dehinitisss which it fulihlled ic the play's closing panegyric on Qouecn Acce, whoae "reig"sisgracedhby"et'spirthe"hbucslyhby"peacedat" andswhc pro- videc the turing case ofia "soother's locc" toches country V.i. p.l128. Henogist's coo' mentsonhingship, particuladly in the isoagery 01 dlaesc tis ste0dep, sod peace, aeem rcminiccnt of Hienry V's facos soliloy 10 Act IV of Shahespease's play. 4, Cf. Corneille, Polteonste lI., whete Paulioe's feiineo appcal is simoilarly rehuffcd Isp Pslpesssc. cud where she is totally isncapahle of uoderstouding the sesl- hioc ofthesmattyt (until she hersefissiaclouslycovertedatstheceofihe ploy). Sec. ccl csitics have oted the resembhlanocsl bteen the two plays. especiatlp to this scene cud to Arihert's threat to tsrample on the pagan altars ycf Polircocty, l10, ttli), hot Pool Boegwosdt appearo to hose been she lirst to hace washed aut she compaison (The Royal Concert coo Nicholas owe 170,, p.O 420). 3. tee Alfhed Jackson, "Rowe's Histoaisal Tsagedies," p. 3113, who argues the oh' ciaus topical motlisation, hehind The Rotsl Conver, "the Usio oEgloud aod Scat- 6. Rowe omentios three sources is his Preface; Brod; jao, Racks, The Inocest Uksurper; and cdmunsd Smith's notes for a play cc the thesoe. (See Donald B. Cloth, "Nicholas Rowe," p. 240 R. foso ashorogh atody of these sousrces.) Osut Pace's accouat isuore detailddthan anyaofshese, evenssusetsaicits inclusionofarios letesad disccoescofshe odylJanet(111 110]f. Thoogh he doesoat record it, lowe may well owe The Royal Convertand LadypJane Gray 105 lose "The Gods ace grest sad just." Manc must onaly, like Lady Joane, place complete least inc Peosvidence, ina "him whose geacious wisdomo guides oureways,./ Aod makeswhatewethinkevil turnatogood." NcOES TO CHAPTEca III . Bsok ssf atrs was she popolas lisle of Pose's Accstn Aiocssscot, of which Rcwe potsesed a copy of the niecO editicon (1684), the ons, those sed (see A Catog,,, sfdsc Ld'sssodN 3. Rse Idl. 85). 2. As aglss onthe conceptcofpecof soisdandis imopa nce insthiscplayI coer theae wsords hromsaa leastrroow's sron "0f Cotentmet": "Ccsstesesa [it] the tissue, which, of oil other, doth msoct recder this wordd acceptahle, aud couclocuteth akindsofseo rasl hevn;which hehathah, isheeyipso faossie goodmeasr happy, whotever osher things he may seemo so waut; which he that ocoseth, dosh, how- evter otherwise he he famisched, become msealtde, asd cossieth a kind of hell wotlsn hiu" (The Theologisol Woreks, Itt, 1). Int order to achieve coatenteds, Rarrowo coat'ues, "Weashould with fta c hopesrelyand wait onstGod" tp. t3), its "the effect o..te- posingaousalvesfortheifture ontGd'spoideewoudhe perfec'tccotet and peace, accorshng ts shot of she Prophet (Iso. 20:3] Thasn wilt A-eel) hits is pcerfs't pecec 'close adsis styedsontheesbcasc tecteds inthc" (p. 71).tIdeed, Barrow'as etie semncodld he usad asoaglcocss o alt of Raowe's ploys ocd 00 the Christian cragedy of suffeinginnuocence an geneaiforhedicces the cetalhohceocshes ofcom- plaintl cod despair vesucs subhissioc to she will of Cud, the acceptance ofif is atia wovih its oppout forIt Chamcpions), ad the patiet ex pectation ofstce, if only here- after. Cf. Cecoffry Marshall, Resoaton Sedious Dsosoa. pp. 43, 65 and pooi, whawses she impotansce of this sootif of peace io Restoroticon tragedy hot again dicorce it hfrom calbttheuc m os oinalChritianlmtphysics. 3. The play thus negaticely prcvidec ac implicit definition of au ideal Chriatiac monoarch, a dehinition which is halfilled io she ploy's closng panegy'ic 00 Quecn Acne, whose "reigns" is graced hy "cuspy vitue" hot moastly hy "peaceful ats" anud who pat' oldes the nusidng tote ofia "motsher's love' toaher ccotry (.it, p. 128). Hengistsccom- 00tso kingthip, particulasly in she imagery of slaves, victis, dleep ocd peace, . reii c ofletsy Vs faos aoliloquy i0 Act 1V of Shohespeose's ploy. 4. (If. Corceille, Pslyrccso, 10.11, whese Pouline's feiine appeal is simlarsly rebhofed hy Polpeocte acd where she is totally icapohle of undestandion' the sesclsc hioscofthe maortyr (untl she herself imirclosly canverted at the cod of the play). 5cc- esol critcs haveotedsthe resemhloncehbetweensthe swo playsoepecially inthissse cod in Aadsess's threat to tample so the pagan altass (cf. Pulyecote tIulv, 111.11]. hot Paul BRasgsds oppeass to have heec the irse to haste washed out tshe csompaisn (The Royal Cover cos Nichuos owe 1707,. p. 42 0). 5. Scc Alhred Jocksson, "Rowe's isatoricol Trogedies," p. 307, who osgces the oh' viocs topical motivaton hehistd Thc oyal Convcct, "the Unons of Eoglacd sod Scot- 6. Rowe meotions thee soucee in his Pseface: Brcoc; Johst ccaoks, Thc Issnocent UsurpeoadEdmund Smith'sccote fuoaplaonhehemue.(See Donald. Clark, "Nicholas Rowe," p. 2400 tf oss ashorough coudy of these sources.) R oxe ' oasccouat ismine detadledsthancanycofsheset'evetBRc sciolis iclsioofvous leter, and scourseaaofthe Lady Jane (111 11 ii(. Though hedoesootrecord itRowecoay well owe ThecRoyal Convcertandd LadyfJaneGray 105 lost "The Gods see great ancd juot." Man must only, like Lady Jance, place complete least iR Providenace, inc "him whose gracious wisdom guides oureways, / And makeewhatwethinkheil tusto good." NcOTS TO CHAPEs R III 1Busk of Afero was the popular isle of Pooc's Achs sod .1fsocuscoc, oftwhich Rowe possessedacopy ofthecinthsdiion 16854),hemetIhovesady(ee A Catahogue of she Lihrary sf3.. owce, Io. 15). 2.As aglss onthe concepstp esuorad aoditstimportouce iuthisplay,lI offetheaeworsfom Isac Brrow's son "OfContetmet"; "Conteutduoss (is) the virtue, which, ofhall ashes, dosh moost render chic wodld acceptahle, cod scototh ackiod oftemorlheaven; which hehat hth, istheey ipso facthongoodmeasue happy whateoer other things he msem aeo succnt; which he shot wooteth, dash, how- eerootherwisehehefurished.hecomemieale, and cctiethoh itd ofhell wthinhim" (The Theological Wors, 111, 1) tnorder to achieve coctetednes, Rasrow contiue, "W5ecshold withfaith acd hoperely od waito C, od" (p. 13),5os "heeffectuf... c posistgocoselvesaforthehfturteconGad'sproidecewoldeperfet conet adpeace, accordiog to shot of she Psophet cc. 2603]. Than c-iSt keep tass io pesfect peasceschac chuba isc sydon thee; becuse he staet, is theep . 71. Iodeed, Brrtow's enoire semncouldhbe sed sa oss on oll of Rowec's ploys, cod so the Chrisuiao trogedy of Sofferiaginocceicl geoeral,tforhe disccssthe centraltheodiceao thems ofcom- ploiot cod despaohveorsus sumision to the wi oh Cad, the acceptanceutfhifeasatil (with its opportuaity lot Champos, cud thepatient expectaoofjosice, ifonlyhere- afhe. Ci. Cesoffey Masohdll, Rcstssoo Scriots Drawna, pp. 43.13 co ad passims. who se the imoportance of thic motif of peace 1st Reastaion, trogedy hot cloin distorces t from all hbut the most omoioal Christiau mstaophysics. 3. The ploy ths negatively provides ast imlicit definition ofca ideal Christan oarch, o defioition which it fuilled is the ploy's closing paoegyric ost Queen Annoe, whose "sells" is gracedhby "cuspy vuebut hmostlyhby "peaceful ast" and who pet- stidectheonuring caresioa"ohe'slove"so herssountry h.ip.l128).Hengidt'scom- soents cc hiogship, particolaly is she imaogery of slaves, vctioms, sleep ocd peoce, remiiset ao e.,, V's faous .oiloqoy io Act 1V ofthakespeare's play. 4. Ci. Cornelle, Pslyctct. 10.f11, whese Poelice's femisnine appeal is simoilaly rehuffed hy Palpeocte cod oh ee she is toally iocapahle of undertanding the ecolo' hiostofthe maretyr (untlshe herselfbimircolcy convertedthe cnofthe play. Scc- erl crtics have ntesdthe rsemanlcehbeweencthe too ploys eapecially inthisace cod ist Asiheet's theat to tramople on she pagan alctr ci. Poly....cte lId~, 111.ii). hot Pool Bocgwad appeas to have hoes, the lers to hace wosked cout the compaisoa (The ccoyal Convcertcvon ichhosRcwe 1707, p. 42 If]. 5. Pee Aliced Jackson, "Rowe's Htistosical Teagedies," p. 307, who arguses she obc clout topical motivatioo hehicd Thc Royal Concer, "the Unon of Eogland acd Scot- O. Rawe, meotions thee soces is, his Preface: cccrnet; John Banks, The hnocents Usurtpe adEdmound Smih's otes raplay onhehee. (ee onld B Clock, "Nicholas Rowe," p. 240hO, foa othorough study oi these sources.) Rot Poxses accaot is more detaided thao my of these, even Buct's, to its ioclusiono varioua leteo ostd dlacusaoftthe LadylJanel. (III II).Though hedoesnotsrecordaitRoweomaywellcwe  106 The Trial of the Innocent 7. The Politics of D a in Augtan England, p. 79 f. For the lackground of "the Fifteen" see Charles Petrie, The Jacobite Movement: The First Phase, 1688-1716, es- pecially chs. vii and viii. 8. In the Dedication Rowe praises Caroline for refusing the "first Crown of Europe . .. in obedience to the dictates of reason and conscience, for the sake of true religion, and for the honor of God" (p. 190). In the Epilogue Rowe writes that "For truth" and the British people "the heroine" Caroline "declines, / Austria's proud eagles, and the Indian mines," Spain's American colonies (p. 248). See Ruby L. Arkell, Caroline of Ansbtch, ch. i. 9. Cf. Banks, The Innocent Usurper, who portrays Lady Jane as accepting the crown only after the self-centered histrionics of Gifford and Northumberland convince her that she must do so to save them from suicide or beheading (III p. 26). All along Banks' Lady Jane knows she is a usurper, and Rowe seems, on the contrary, to paint her in as favorable a light as possible, perhaps in conscious opposition to Banks. 10. Rowe does not stress Northumberland's ambition, and he treats his cowardly re- vrsal of allegiance from Jane to Mary sympathetically (IV, p. 232), though he does reveal Northumberand's sinister machinations toward Pembroke throughout. But see J. D. Mackie, The Earlier Tudors, 1485-1558, p. 478 ff, for asummary of Edward VI's reign and Northumberland's lust for unlimited "auctoritye." I. The Anatomy of Melancholy, ed. Holbrook Jackson, III, 17 (III.1.1.2). Cf. Mil- to,, Paradie Lost, when Satan speaks of "Heaven and Earth" being "link'd in a golden Chain" (II.1004 f), and when the narrator describes the new universe thus: "hanging in a golden Chain, / This pendant world" (vs. 1051 f). In his note to this passage Merritt Hughes says, "The conception runs through literature from Plato's Theaetetus (153 C) to Chaucer's Knight's Tale I-A-2987-93)." Swift also employs the image in "Prometheus" (1724): There is a Chain let down from Jove, But facsten'd to his Throne above; So strong, that from the lower End, They say, all human Things depend: This Chain, as Antient Poets hold, When Jove was Young, was made of Gold. (vs. 31 ff, Poemrs, I, 345) 12. Northumberland was hated for his "traitor father" Edmund Dudley's alleged treason against Henry, for his own virtual murder of his rival protector, Somerset, and now for his attempted coup d'dtat (see IV, p. 224 f). See Mackie, pp. 267 and 478 ff, for ae- counts of Edmund Dudley's "treason" and Northumberland's rivalry with Somerset throughout the reign of Edward VI, and p. 528 f, for the story of the council's desertion of Lady Jane. 13. See Clark, "Nicholas Rowe," p. 257 If, for a comparison of this play with Addi- son's Cato (1713), which has a similar scne, 14. Rowe, Works, II, 249. For Pope's authorship see Norman Ault, New Light on Pope, p. 138 ff, though the prologue is listed as a poem of doubtful authorship in Pope's Mor, Poems, ed. Ault and John Butt, Twicknha, Edition, VI, 415. 15. Probably for the illusion of some unity of time, Rowe does not specify the dates of the Dudleys' incarceration or their trial, but they were in prison from July 1553 till the following February and were tried in the meantime in November, as Rowe would well have known from either Foxe or Burnet. Though they were sentenced to death, it ap- peared that Queen Mary was going to be lenient, until the nearly successful Wyatt con- spiracy (with which they had nothing to do) provoked her harshness, or rather that of Gardiner, her Lord Chancellor and Catholic Bishop of Winchester. See Mackie, p. 535 ff. 16. If the evidence in the text that this book is the Bible is insufficient, Rowe's audi- ence would have known from the historical accounts of Lady Jane's death that she sent to 106 The Trial of the Innocent 7. The Politics of Drama in Augustan England, p. 79 f. For the background of "the Fifteen" see Charles Petrie, The Jacobite Movement: The First Phase, 1688-1716, es- pecially chs. vii and viii. 8. In the Dedication Rowe praises Caroline for refusing the "first Crown of Europe . 1.i obedience to the dictates of reason and consciecem, for the sake of true religion, and for the honour of God" (p. 190). In the Epilogue Rowe writes tat "Fr tht" " and the British people "the heroine" Caroline "declines, / Austria's proud eagles, and the Indian mines," Spain's American colonies (p. 248). See Ruby L. Arkell, Caroline of Ansbach, ch. i. 9. Cf. Banks, The Innocent Usurper, who portrays Lady Jane as accepting the crown only after the self-centered histrionics of Gifford and Northumberland convince her that she must do so to save them from suicide or beheading (II, p. 26). All along Banks' Lady Jane knows she is a usurper, and Rowe seems, on the contrary, to paint her in as favorable a light as possible, perhaps in conscious opposition to Banks. 10. Rowe does not stress Northumberland's ambition, and he treats his cowardly re- versal of allegiance from Jane to Mary sympathetically (IV, p. 232), though he does reveal Northumberland's sinister machinations toward Pembroke throughout. But see J. D. Mackie, The Earlier Tudors, 1485-1558, p. 478 ff, for a summary of Edward VI's reign and Northumberland's lust for unlimited "auctoritye." 11. The Anatomay oft Melancholy, ed. Holbrook Jackson, III 17 (III.L1.2). Cf. Mil- ton, Parodive Lost, when Satan speaks of "Heaven and Earth" being "link'd in a golden Chain" (II004 f), and when the narrator describes the new universe thus: "hanging in a golden Chain, / This pendant world" (vs. 1051 f). In his note to this passage Merritt Hughes says, "The conception runs through literature from Plato's Theaeetus ( 153 C) to Chaucer's Knight's Tale (I-A-2987-93)." Swift also employs the image in "Promectheus" (1724): There is a Chain let down from Jove, Bt fasten'd to his Throne above; So strong, that from the lower End, They sa, all human Things, depend: This Chaino, as Antient Poets hold, When Jove was Young, was made of Gold. (vs. 31 ff, Pems, I, 345) 12. Northumberland was hated for his "traitor father" Edmund Dudley's alleged treason against Henry, for his own virtual murder of his rival protector, Somerset, and now for his attempted coup d'6tat (see IV, p. 224 f). See Mackie, pp. 267 and 478 ff, for ac- counts of Edmund Dudley's "treason" and Northumberland's rivalry with Somerset threoughout the reign of Edward VI, and p. 528 L, for the story of the council's desertion of Lady Jane. 13. See Clark, "Nicholas Rowe," p. 257 ff, for a comparison of this play with Addi- son's Cato (1713), which has a similar scene. 14. Rowe, Works, II, 249. For Pope's authorship see Norman Ault, New Light on Pope, p. 138 ff, though the prologue is listed as a poem of doubtful authorship in Pope's Minor Poems, ed. Ault and John Butt, Twickenham Edition, VI, 415. 15. Probably for the illusion of some unity of time, Rowe does not specify the dates of the Dudleys' incarceration or their trial, but they were in prison from July 1553 till the following February and were tried in the meantime in November, as Rowe would well have known from either Foxe or Burnet. Though they were sentenced to death, it ap- peared that Queen Mary was going to be lenient, until the nearly successful Wyatt con- spiracy (with which they had nothing to do) provoked her harshness, or rather that of Cardiner, her Lord Chancellor and Catholic Bishop of Winchester. See Mackie, p. 535 ff. 16. If the evidence in the text that this book is the Bible is insufficient, Rowe's audi- ence would have known from the historical accounts of Lady Jane's death that she sent to 106 The Trial of the Innocent 7. The Politics of Drama in Augustan England, p. 79 f. For the background of "the Fifteen" see Charles Petrie, The Jacobite Movement: The First Phase, 1688-1716, es- pecially chs. vii and viii. 8. I, the Dedcation Rowe praises Caroline for refusing the "first Crown of Europe . .. in obedience to the dictates of reason and conscience, for the sake of true religion, and for the honour of God" (p. 190). In the Epilogue Rowe writes that "For truth" and the British people "the heroine" Caroline "declines, / Austria's proud eagles, and the Indian mines," Spain's American colonies (p. 248). See Ruby L. Arkell, Caroline of Ansbach, ch. i. 9. Cf. Banks, The Innocent Usurper, who portrays Lady Jane as accepting the crown only after the self-centered histrionics of Cilford and Northumberland convince her that she must do so to save them from suicide or beheading (III, p. 26). All along Banks' Lady Jane knows she is a usurper, and Rowe seems, on the contrary, to paint her in as favorable a light as possible, perhaps in conscious opposition to Banks. 10. Rowe does not stress Northumberland's ambition, and he treats his cowardly re- versa] of allegiance from Jane to Mary sympathetically (IV, p. 232), though he does reveal Northumberland's sinister machinations toward Pembroke throughout. But see J. D. Mackie, The Earlier Tudr,, 148,5-1558, p. 478 ff for a summary of Edward VI's reign and Northumberland's lust for unlimited "auctoritye." 11. The Anatomny of Melancholy, ed. Holbrook Jackson, III, 17 (11.1.L.2). Cf. Mil- ton, Paradise Lost, when Satan speaks of "Heaven and Earth" being "link'd in a golden Chain" (11L1004 f), and when the narrator describes the new universe thus: "hanging in a golden Chain, / This pendant world" (vs. 1051 P. In his note to this passage Merritt Hughes says, "The conception runs through literature from Plato's Theaetetus (153 C) to Chaucer's Knight's Tole (I-A-2987-93)." Swift also employs the image in "Prometheus" (1724): There is a Chain let down from Aove, But fasten'd to his Throne above; So strong, that from the lower End, They say, all human Things depend: This Chain, as Antient Poets hold, When I.o was Young, was made of Gold. (,,. 31 ff, P61,345) 12. Northumberland was hated for his "traitor father" Edmund Dudley 'v's alleged treason against Henry, for his own virtual murder of his rival protector, Somerset, and now for his attempted coup d'etat (see IV, p. 224 f). See Mackie, pp. 267 and 478 ff, for ac- counts of Edmund Dudley' 's "treason" and Northumberland's rivalry with Somerset throughout the reign of Edward VI, and p. 528 f, for the story of the council's desertion of Lady Jane. 13. See Clark, "Nicholas Rowe," p. 257 ff, for a comparison of this play with Addi- son's Callo (1713), which has a similar scene. 14. Rowe, Works, II, 249. For Pope's authorship see Norman Ault, New, Light on Pope, p. 138 ff, though the prologue is listed as a poern of doubtful authorship in Pope's Minor Poemns, ed. Ault and John Butt, Twickenam Edition, VI, 415, 15. Probably for the illusion of some unity of time, Rowe does not specify the dates of the Dudleys' incarceration or their trial, but they' were in prison from July 155 till the following February and were tried in the meantime in November, as Rowe would well have known from either Foxe or Burnet. Though they were sentenced to death, it ap- peared that Queen Mary was going to be lenient, until the nearly successful Wyatt con- spiracy (with which they had nothing to do) provoked her harshness, or rather that of Gardiner, her Lord Chancellor and Catholic Bishop of Winchester. See Mackie, p. 535 ff. 16. If the evidence in the text that this book is the Bible is insufficient, Rowe's audi- ence would have known from the historical accounts of Lady Jane's death that she sent to  The Royal Convoon and Lady lane Gray 107T atitr e, reek Tetametwithcaletter wehichctans the lexcatofatoctecpcouacdi tcd caeata oaC, plus a diseaacon the ceceicg afther martyrdac. See Faew, 111, oaf. 17. Roadica frotm 1720 collected oditioc, The Dracoatck Woela of Niehotat owe, Esq. i8. It isaatual forPembhtohetofeel thisay,foheeNrthumhelad'lttey of himcandof hissuittforeLadyfJane'shand (,p. 19cf aadcciford'ssbsequentatti- metof that hand as ohviausly palitcally ectrived, thocgh Guilfordi himself is innoenct ofthia fathet's tmachiation. 10. Like Face aad ifarnet (q..), ifotwe presets Gardice, aed cot Quoeen Mcary,as the villain af the piece. tee V, p. 230 0f, and the Preface, p. 1t2. 20. ate Pope's "Ptologue," chete he tayt that tc Lady face, Rowce atee tfot chat- actecchere drawn before" wcho sigh "through to'r page" ad languish at the stage T. 249). Pope praitts Roet fat hit porttayal at Lady facets "gta'taoatcr" cod "patient ctoerage," -boaeecontempt ofhlie" aedc"mind achacg'd,superiortacrow." The Royal Cocveon acd Lady lace Cray 107 aaiserhe Geek Tesametith aeterhih cctainsatheesooc teoc,amuch cad memeno coot, phus adiscre o ntathecmeaningaofhertmatyrdaom.tSeeFae, 111,28tr 17. Rfeading froat 1720 colleeted edittaon, Tht Doocatich Worht oftietoat owa, Ott1. t8. It istnaturct for Pembhooke ta feet this cay, fot he seec Nahbaoohetfacdc flattery af himoatdof hissitcor Lcdyfjam'shand (L p 1970R andGailford'stsbsh etaettan ment of that hand at ahviously politay ccctried, thaagh Guilford himselftisinnooet of htc fathetos cachieation. 19. Lthe Fete ad Burnet (qov.),aRoe preaectc Giardinerandcanotuen ary, as the eillaic oftfhe piece. tee VO, p. 23800, ad the Preface, p. 192. 20. tee Pope's "Prologue," wheoe be tays that in Lady fate, Rowe atocec "fot chat- aceshere drawen betore" awto sigh "throodc evaty page" and langaish oc thtttageop. 249). Fope ptaises Rowte foe hit paottayal of Lady Jacets gettcocortc and "patiect coacrage," hraoacoteompt of lie"acdt"mindachacg'd,superitoao." The Royal Cocvert acd Lady lace Cray 107 casistet her GrtehkTtamenttwith alettehichheatainscthe lessosofcotepto tocoti ted memtecto to, pluaadisourcse otthecteanicg ofhert rtydtc. tSeeFoxe,t11,281 17. Reading froeo 1720 ollected edition, ihe tratoioo Work, of iiwtot ORow, Esq, 18. t iscatalforembhoketo feelthisoea, forheeeNothumbtterad'sfatey oofhitcandttt hitcit fortLadyfJane'shand(1, p.1970f acd Gilford'stchbeqcentattaic- oeof that hand as oiaously politically eoetrived, thaugh Gilford himself as inncet ofthis father's machination. I. Like Foxe acd Burnet (qv.) ifowe presentsGardiner, andot Queen Mcry, at the eillain of the pieee. tee tip. 239 if, and the Ftetace, p. 102. 20. tee Fopets FPrologue," ochere he says that it Lady face, ifowe ctore "fot chat- acters htere dawnobeforehoighthogh evoy page"ad anguih oo thestage p. 249). Fope praises ifotee foo hit portrayal of Lady facets fec'oto acooa aod pafitof ourtage, "bavecoempt ofhlfe"ad"id cagd, speror otacow."   Two The Trial of the Sinner Two The Trial of the Sinner Two The Trial of the Sinner   IV Protagonist as Penitent (with Reluctance) The Fair Penitent be Fair Peoieot ood Joot S/tore oee Nicholas Bosse's best-bost asd, by comono cosest, his best plays. To tbemohetus fro teprobemof sffeig inocencesto 'be probless of pecsitecsce, tbot is, feoos tbe tejal of tbe iscnocest to tbe tcial of tbe sinser. Accordicsgly, ssbile bis tbemse resmains trust is Providesce as tbe only astidote to despair, be obifts tbe emcpbasis fross Cod's justice to His osercy ocsd fromo coon's need for patience and enodoraoce to his nseed for repestaoce and atonemseot. to other swordo, despite the fact that these plays base bees esasmised is the past almsost ent/irely os affective grounds, they are sot coerely sr- hit/es foe pathos. Not ace they mserely gilded pills of ethical didacticissm. To parophrase Dessis, their moorality wcoold be a jest swere it sat foe theic asetaphysic. These plays ace Christios tragedies because is their forcoal desigs they coicror a universe tosses/led by a Cod Who cases, Who tres His creatuces adreventually rewards and pasishrs-o God Who is Rowe's othec ploys asswers prayers foe (s/ice osd Who sow aswers prayers foe mercy. The ecophasis as disise coercy is The Pais Pesitest (1703) is es- pecially apparent is Rowe's sariations as his source, Massisger assd Field's The Pa/al Dowey (acted to. 1f/f). Cocoparisass be/costs these ploys hose bees cocoo is Rowe riticisco, bst so critic has cocopored theco thecootitolly; yetosly suchaocompaisoscrevealsthe sigificasce of/the vaciatioss. Bosh ploys focss os problecos of jsstice asd coercy. The Pa/al Dowry begiss asd esds with Charotois (Rowe's Altoot) plead- isg before acs official easel of (uc itt;s foe the ce/ease of his deceased fathec's cs/ate (sot to coestios his father's corpse) fraom the hasds of IV Protagonist as Penitent (with Reluctance) The Fair Penitent he Pois Pesi/ent asd foot Shore are Nicholas Rowe's best-ksows asd, by tcommos consest, his best ploys. Is theco he lars from the probleco of sufferisg issotesce to the peobleco of penitesce, that is, froco the trial of the issoceat to/the trial of the sisnec. Accordingly, while his themes remains trast is Providence as the osly ostidols to despair, he shifts/the ecophasis froco Cod's jastice to His coercy asd feoco coos's seed foe patiesce and endurance to his seed foe repestase and atonemenst. Is other words, despise the fact that these plays hose bees esxcoised is the past almoost eotirely onaffective grounds, they ar ot mesrelysve- hit/es for pathos. Not ace they saerely gilded pills of ethical didacticisco. To paraphrase Dennis, their moorality would be a jest were it sot foe ther coetaphysic. These plays are Chtistian tragedies becasse is their formoal design they mtirror asunivrse coo/rolled by a God Who cas, Who ties His creatures and eventually rewords and psaishes-a God Who is Rowe's other plays asswrs prayters for jotice and Who sow answers prayers for mercy. The ecophasis as disise coercy is The Pair Penitent (/703) is es- pecially opparest is Rowe's sariotiass as his sasurce, tascisgee asd Field's The Pa/al Dowrsy (ated to. 1619). Cocoporisoss be/wets these plays hose been comono is Rowe critictism, ba/sno crit has cocopared themo/hemoatically; yet oslysuchhacomoparisonaeveals/hesignicanse of the variations. Ba/h ploys focus on problemos of justice asd moercy. The Pa/al Daowey begiss osd cads with Choraois (Rowe's AI/aoat) plead- ing before as official court of (os/ice: first far the ce/ease of his deceased father's es/ate (sot to coentios his father's carpe) fraom the hasds of IV Protagonist as Penitent (with Reluctance) The Fair Penitent he Pair Penites/ asd lose Showe are Nicholas Rowe's best-ksows asd, by commona tos/at, his best ploys. Is themo hr turnssfrom the problemo of suffering issocesceto the problemo of penitesce, that is, from the trial of the isoocest to the trial of/thr sisser. Accordisgly, while his themes remaiss trst is Providesce as the asly os/ida/s to despair, hr shifts/the ecophasis fraom Cod's jastice to His coercy asd from moo's seed for patieseeasdrsdrasce to hissneed frrepetasc adatonemest. Is other wards, d/spit/ the fact that these plays hav/ bees /samoiaed is the past almostrsntirely onaffecivr grassds, theyarersatmrrlysre- hit/es foe pathos. Nor are they measly gilded pills of ethical didacticism. To paraphrase Dennis,/theirmoraity woldbe a jest/were itanotfor their moetaphysic. These plays ore Christias tragedies because is their formal desigs they mirror a suniseese castro//rd by a Cad Who cases, Who tries His creotoes and evestally rewards asd panshrs-a Cod Who is Rowe's a/her plays answers praytas foe jotice and Who sow answers prayers for mercy. The /emphasis as disise mercy is The Pair Pesitest (1703) ises pecially apparest is Rowe's soriotioss as his source, Massisger and Field's The Pa/al Dowry (acted so. /619). Caoparisass hr/we/s these ploys hose bees commas is Rowe criticisco, bst na critic has compared them themoatically; yet asly sash a coparisos restals the sigsificasce af the sariatians. Bath ploys focus as prablesco f jotire asd merry. The Pa/al Dolwry begiss asd rods with Choraois (Rawe's Altanost) p/rod- isg befare as official coast of jotire: first far the release of his deceased father's estate (sat to coestios his father's corpse) fraom the hoods af  112 The Trial of the Sinner 112 The Trial of the Sinner 112 The Trial of the Sinner creditors; and fmnally for his own life in a trial for the murder of his wife Beaumelle (Calista) and her lover Novall (Lothario), whom he has taken in adultery. Moreover, the central scene of the play is an improvised kangaroo court for the trial of Beaumelle by Charalois and her father Rochfort (Sciolto). In accordance with strict justice, Rochfort finds her guilty of adultery and sentences her to death; Charalois complies with the verdict, executing her summarily. But strict justice had likewise in the play's opening trial demanded payment of Charalois' father's debts, yet Rochfort, out of pity for Charalois, had paid them. Now at Beau- melle's trial, when nature most demands such pity from a father and a husband, it is denied. The implication seems to be that Rochfort and Charalois have missed the lesson of the scriptural parallel of the woman taken in adultery (John 8:1 ff) and have cast the first-and last-stone. As a result, by the end of the play Rochfort becomes a broken, guilt-ridden man, and Charalois, though he wins the mercy of the court in his trial for murder, ironically is murdered by an avenger of Novall. As he dies, he justifies what has happened to him: what's falne upon me, Is by Heavens will, because I made my selfe A Judge in my owne cause without their {the judges'] warrant; But he that lets me know thus much in death, With all good men forgive meet* Thus the poetic justice is providential and embodies a lesson familiar in Elizabethan domestic and revenge tragedy: that just vengeance is the prerogative of God and His divinely established authority. The play in- sists, furthermore, that justice should be tempered with mercy on earth, as it is in heaven. Significantly, Charalois dies praying for the mercy which he and Rochfort refused the penitent Beaumelle-the mercy that Heaven guarantees to all repentant sinners. Rowe's major variation on Massinger's play, then, is to shift the focus from Charalois (Altamont) to Beaumelle (Calista), from the aven- ger to the penitent. Consequently, while The Fair Penitent still deals with the relationship between justice and mercy, the emphasis shifts from the former to the latter. Moreover, instead of an avenger, Alta- mont is made a forgiver, and his forgiveness, together with that of Sciolto, is the human analogue to-and testament of-divine forgiveness for the finally penitent Calista. *Notes to this chapter begin on page 143. creditors; and finally for his own life in a trial for the murder of his wife Beaumelle (Calista) and her lover Novall (Lothario), whom he has taken in adultery. Moreover, the central scene of the play is an improvised kangaroo court for the trial of Beaumelle by Charalois and her father Rochfort (Sciolto). In accordance with strict justice, Rochfort finds her guilty of adultery and sentences her to death; Charalois complies with the verdict, executing her summarily. But strict justice had likewise in the play's opening trial demanded payment of Charalois' father's debts, yet Rochfort, out of pity for Charalois, had paid them. Now at Beau- melle's trial, when nature most demands such pity from a father and a husband, it is denied. The implication seems to be that Rochfort and Charalois have missed the lesson of the scriptural parallel of the woman taken in adultery (John 8:1 ff) and have cast the first-and last-stone. As a result, by the end of the play Rochfort becomes a broken, guilt-ridden man, and Charalois, though he wins the mercy of the court in his trial for murder, ironically is murdered by an avenger of Novall. As he dies, he justifies what has happened to him: what's falne upon me, Is by Heavens will, because I made my selfe A judge in my owne cause without their [the judges'] warrant; But he that lets me know thus much in death, With all good men forgive mee.* Thus the poetic justice is providential and embodies a lesson familiar in Elizabethan domestic and revenge tragedy: that just vengeance is the prerogative of God and His divinely established authority. The play in- sists, furthermore, that justice should be tempered with mercy on earth, as it is in heaven. Significantly, Charalois dies praying for the mercy which he and Rochfort refused the penitent Beaumelle-the mercy that Heaven guarantees to all repentant sinners. Rowe's major variation on Massinger's play, then, is to shift the focus from Charalois (Altamont) to Beaumelle (Calista), from the aven- ger to the penitent. Consequently, while The Fair Penitent still deals with the relationship between justice and mercy, the emphasis shifts from the former to the latter. Moreover, instead of an avenger, Alta- mont is made a forgiver, and his forgiveness, together with that of Sciolto, is the human analogue to-and testament of-divine forgiveness for the finally penitent Calista. "Notes to this chapter begin on page 143. creditors; and finally for his own life in a trial for the murder of his wife Beaumelle (Calista) and her lover Novall (Lothario), whom he has taken in adultery. Moreover, the central scene of the play is an improvised kangaroo court for the trial of Beaumelle by Charalois and her father Rochfort (Sciolto). In accordance with strict justice, Rochfort finds her guilty of adultery and sentences her to death; Charalois complies with the verdict, executing her summarily. But strict justice had likewise in the play's opening trial demanded payment of Charalois' father's debts, yet Rochfort, out of pity for Charalois, had paid them. Now at Beau- melle's trial, when nature most demands such pity from a father and a husband, it is denied. The implication seems to be that Rochfort and Charalois have missed the lesson of the scriptural parallel of the woman taken in adultery (John 8:1 ff) and have cast the first-and last-stone. As a result, by the end of the play Rochfort becomes a broken, guilt-ridden man, and Charalois, though he wins the mercy of the court in his trial for murder, ironically is murdered by an avenger of Novall. As he dies, he justifies what has happened to him: what's falne upon me, Is by Heavens will, because I made my selfe A Judge in my owne cause without their [the judges'] warrant; But he that lets me know thus much in death, With all good men forgive mee.* Thus the poetic justice is providential and embodies a lesson familiar in Elizabethan domestic and revenge tragedy: that just vengeance is the prerogative of God and His divinely established authority. The play in- sists, furthermore, that justice should be tempered with mercy on earth, as it is in heaven. Significantly, Charalois dies praying for the mercy which he and Rochfort refused the penitent Beaumelle-the mercy that Heaven guarantees to all repentant sinners. Rowe's major variation on Massinger's play, then, is to shift the focus from Charalois (Altamont) to Beaumelle (Calista), from the aven- ger to the penitent. Consequently, while The Fair Penitent still deals with the relationship between justice and mercy, the emphasis shifts from the former to the latter. Moreover, instead of an avenger, Alta- mont is made a forgiver, and his forgiveness, together with that of Sciolto, is the human analogue to-and testament of-divine forgiveness for the finally penitent Calista. *Notes to this chapter begin on page 143.  The Fair Penitent 113 The Fair Penitent 113 The Fair Penitent 113 Like the relationship between Rowe and Massinger, that between Rowe and Thomas Otway, one of his acknowledged masters,' has often been assumed but rarely analyzed, except on such technical grounds as char- acterization and creation of pathos.' There is an important thematic similarity between The Fair Penitent and The Orphan (1680), however, which should not go unobserved. As David Walker has ably demon- strated in his unpublished dissertation on Otway, The Orphan meta- phorically recapitulates the Fall of man.' Acasto has retired from the court in an attempt to create an idyllic existence-implicitly another Eden-but his attempt fails, for the problem lies not in institutions but in the flawed nature of man, as the deceit between persons so close as twin brothers attests. After their unintentional incest, Monimia and Polydor prepare to leave Acasto's retreat like Adam and Eve departing out of Paradise,' and as in Paradise Lost, the really crucial question is how they (and Castalio) will respond to their fall from innocence. Un- like Adam and Eve, they despair. Whether Rowe garnered the idea from Otway or not-the plays are very similar in setting, characterization (Acasto and Sciolto, especially), pathos, and particularly in their concentration on the response to sin- The Fair Penitent (Works, I, 151 ff) has a similar relationship to the story of the Fall, for that story is constantly echoed to provide a framework for the actions of the play. By means of such a framework, the play, like Otway's, implies that ours is a fallen world and that attempts to achieve perfect happiness here are in vain. The scene opens in Sciolto's "gar- den" on Altamont and Calista's wedding day (I, p. 158). Altamont enters praying that "No mourning, no misfortunes" happen on this "sacred" day, for after terrible misfortunes, his "better stars" at last have shone, and "Heav'n" has rewarded his "virtue," bidding "Sciolto's bounty be its proxy" (p. 159). As a kind of heavenly agent, then, Sciolto is the "author" of Altamont's "happiness," who bids his days "be blest with peace and plenty" and who "satisfies" his soul "with love and beauty." Altamont even compares Sciolto directly to the Creator: Thus Heav'n from nothing rais'd his fair creation, And then with wond'rous joy beheld its beauty, Well pleas'd to see the excellence he gave. (p. 160) Moreover, the following paean by Altamont suggests, in both diction Like the relationship between Rowe and Massinger, that between Rowe and Thomas Otway, one of his acknowledged masters, has often been assumed but rarely analyzed, except on such technical grounds as char- acterization and creation of pathos.' There is an important thematic similarity between The Fair Penitent and The Orphan (1680), however, which should not go unobserved. As David Walker has ably demon- strated in his unpublished dissertation on Otway, The Orphan meta- phorically recapitulates the Fall of man.' Acasto has retired from the court in an attempt to create an idyllic existence-implicitly another Eden-but his attempt fails, for the problem lies not in institutions but in the flawed nature of man, as the deceit between persons so close as twin brothers attests. After their unintentional incest, Monimia and Polydor prepare to leave Acasto's retreat like Adam and Eve departing out of Paradise,' and as in Paradise Lost, the really crucial question is how they (and Castalio) will respond to their fall from innocence. Un- like Adam and Eve, they despair. Whether Rowe garnered the idea from Otway or not-the plays are very similar in setting, characterization (Acasto and Sciolto, especially), pathos, and particularly in their concentration on the response to sin- The Fair Penitent (Works, I, 151 ff) has a similar relationship to the story of the Fall, for that story is constantly echoed to provide a framework for the actions of the play. By means of such a framework, the play, like Otway's, implies that ours is a fallen world and that attempts to achieve perfect happiness here are in vain. The scene opens in Sciolto's "gar- den" on Altamont and Calista's wedding day (I, p. 158). Altamont enters praying that "No mourning, no misfortunes" happen on this "sacred" day, for after terrible misfortunes, his "better stars" at last have shone, and "Heav'n" has rewarded his "virtue," bidding "Sciolto's bounty be its proxy" (p. 159). As a kind of heavenly agent, then, Sciolto is the "author" of Altamont's "happiness," who bids his days "be blest with peace and plenty" and who "satisfies" his soul "with love and beauty." Altamont even compares Sciolto directly to the Creator: Thus Heav'e from nothing rais'd his fair creation, And then with wond'rous joy beheld its beauty, Well pleas'd to see the excellence he gave. (p. 160) Moreover, the following paean by Altamont suggests, in both diction Like the relationship between Rowe and Massinger, that between Rowe and Thomas Otway, one of his acknowledged masters,' has often been assumed but rarely analyzed, except on such technical grounds as char- acterization and creation of pathos.' There is an important thematic similarity between The Fair Penitent and The Orphan (1680), however, which should not go unobserved. As David Walker has ably demon- strated in his unpublished dissertation on Otway, The Orphan meta- phorically recapitulates the Fall of man.' Acasto has retired from the court in an attempt to create an idyllic existeen-implicitly another Eden-but his attempt fails, for the problem lies not in institutions but in the flawed nature of man, as the deceit between persons so close as twin brothers attests. After their unintentional incest, Monimia and Polydor prepare to leave Acasto's retreat like Adam and Eve departing out of Paradise,' and as in Paradise Lost, the really crucial question is how they (and Castalio) will respond to their fall from innocence. Un- like Adam and Eve, they despair. Whether Rowe garnered the idea from Otway or not-the plays are very similar in setting, characterization (Acasto and Sciolto, especially), pathos, and particularly in their concentration on the response to sin- The Fair Penitent (Works, I, 151 ff) has a similar relationship to the story of the Fall, for that story is constantly echoed to provide a framework for the actions of the play. By means of such a framework, the play, like Otway's, implies that ours is a fallen world and that attempts to achieve perfect happiness here are in vain. The scene opens in Sciolto's "gar- den" on Altamont and Calista's wedding day (I, p. 158). Altamont enters praying that "No mourning, no misfortunes" happen on this "sacred" day, for after terrible misfortunes, his "better stars" at last have shone, and "Heav'n" has rewarded his "virtue," bidding "Sciolto's bounty be its proxy" (p. 159). As a kind of heavenly agent, then, Sciolto is the "author" of Altamont's "happiness," who bids his days "be blest with peace and plenty" and who "satisfies" his soul "with love and beauty." Altamont even compares Sciolto directly to the Creator: Thus Heav'n from nothing rais'd his fair creation, And then with wond'rous joy beheld its beauty, Well pleas'd to see the excellence he gave. (p. 160) Moreover, the following paean by Altamont suggests, in both diction  114 The Trial of the Sinner 114 The Trial of the Sinner and content, a relationship between Sciolto and himself metaphorically more than familial: Oh great Sciolto! oh my more than father! Let me not live, but at thy very name My eager heart springs up, and leaps with joy. When I forget the vast, vast debt I owe thee, Forget! (but 'tis impossible) then let me Forget the use and privilege of reason, Be driven from the commerce of mankind, To wander in the desart among brutes, To bear the various fury of the seasons, The night's unwholesome dew and noon-day's heat, To be the scorn of earth, and curse of Heav'n! (p. 158 f) The sacredness of the father's "name," the "vast debt" owed by the son, and the Cain-like banishment, all seem to me to imply a Father-son relationship patterned after that between Adamic man and God. Indeed, despite Calista's ominously chilling trothplight kiss (p. 160), Altamont thinks that he has found an Edenic "peace." At the end of the first act, Horatio (who has discovered Calista's incriminating let- ter to Lothario) imagines Altamont at the wedding as being "satisfied with happiness" and thinking Calista "the perfect workmanship of Heav'n" (p. 166). In the next act the new bridegroom enters bidding cares "be gone" and predicting that "all" his "succeeding days" will be "lucky," for Calista "bids ev'n all my hours be good and joyful" (I1i, p. 171). Even after Calista has called theirs a "fatal marriage" wrought by "Some sullen influence, a foe to both," and even after Horatio has ac- cused her of infidelity (III, p. 184), Altamont asserts in blind assurance, Does she not come, like wisdom, or good fortune, Replete with blessings, giving wealth and honour? The dowry which she brings is peace and pleasure, And everlasting joys are in her arms. Sciolto himself, despite the fact that his call for Hymeneal music is met by a melancholy song of unrequited love and plaintive despair, mag- nanimously throws open his gates to the entire city and prays that he may see his children "Compleatly blest" (IL, p. 173)-as if it were pos- sible. and content, a relationship between Sciolto and himself metaphorically more than familial: Oh great Sciolto! oh my more than father! Let me not live, but at thy very name My eager heart springs up, and leaps with joy. When I forget the vast, vast debt I owe thee, Forget! (but 'tis impossible) then let me Forget the use and privilege of reason, Be driven from the commerce of mankind, To wander in the desart among brutes, To bear the various fury of the seasons, The night's unwholesome dew and noon-day's heat, To be the scorn of earth, and curse of Heav'n! (p. 158 f) The sacredness of the father's "name," the "vast debt" owed by the son, and the Cain-like banishment, all seem to me to imply a Father-son relationship patterned after that between Adamic man and God. Indeed, despite Calista's ominously chilling trothplight kiss (p. 160), Altamont thinks that he has found an Edenic "peace." At the end of the first act, Horatio (who has discovered Calista's incriminating let- ter to Lothario) imagines Altamont at the wedding as being "satisfied with happiness" and thinking Calista "the perfect workmanship of Heav'n" (p. 166). In the next act the new bridegroom enters bidding cares "be gone" and predicting that "all" his "succeeding days" will be "lucky," for Calista "bids ev'n all my hours be good and joyful" (I.i, p. 171). Even after Calista has called theirs a "fatal marriage" wrought by "Some sullen influence, a foe to both," and even after Horatio has ac- cused her of infidelity (1It, p. 184), Altamont asserts in blind assurance, Does she not come, like wisdom, or good fortune, Replete with blessings, giving wealth and honour? The dowry which she brings is peace and pleasure, And everlasting joys are in her arms. Sciolto himself, despite the fact that his call for Hymeneal music is met by a melancholy song of unrequited love and plaintive despair, mag- nanimously throws open his gates to the entire city and prays that he may see his children "Compleatly blest" (Iii, p. 173)-as if it were pos- sible. 114 The Trial of the Sinner and content, a relationship between Sciolto and himself metaphorically more than familial: Oh great Sciolto! oh my more than father! Let me not live, but at thy very name My eager heart springs up, and leaps with joy. When I forget the vast, vast debt I owe thee, Forget! (but 'tis impossible) then let me Forget the use and privilege of reason, Be driven from the commerce of mankind, To wander in the desart among brutes, To bear the various fury of the seasons, The night's unwholesome dew and noon-day's heat, To be the scorn of earth, and curse of Heav'n! (p. 158 f The sacredness of the father's "name," the "vast debt" owed by the son, and the Cain-like banishment, all seem to me to imply a Father-son relationship patterned after that between Adamic man and God. Indeed, despite Calista's ominously chilling trothplight kiss (p. 160), Altamont thinks that he has found an Edenic "peace." At the end of the first act, Horatio (who has discovered Calista's incriminating let- ter to Lothario) imagines Altamont at the wedding as being "satisfied with happiness" and thinking Calista "the perfect workmanship of Heav'n" (p. 166). In the next act the new bridegroom enters bidding cares "be gone" and predicting that "all" his "succeeding days" will be "lucky," for Calista "bids ev'n all my hours be good and joyful" (IiJ, p. 171). Even after Calista has called theirs a "fatal marriage" wrought by "Some sullen influence, a foe to both," and even after Horatio has ac- cused her of infidelity (III, p. 184), Altamont asserts in blind assurance, Does she not come, like wisdom, or good fortune, Replete with blessings, giving wealth and honour? The dowry which she brings is peace and pleasure, And everlasting joys are in her arms. Sciolto himself, despite the fact that his call for Hymeneal music is met by a melancholy song of unrequited love and plaintive despair, mag- nanimously throws open his gates to the entire city and prays that he may see his children "Compleatly blest" (UiJ, p. 173)-as if it were pos- sible.  The Fair Penitent 115 T he Fair Penitent 115 The Fair Penitent 115 Later, however, echoing Calista's talk of a "sullen influence, a foe to both," which has mismatched her and Altamont, Sciolto chides her for being "Perverse and sullen all this day of joy" (11, p. 178); he has ob- served her, like some malignant planet, Foe to the harvest, and the healthy year, Who seouls adverse, and lours upon the world; When all the other stars, with gentle aspect, Propitious shine, and meaning good to man. So it is as if a "sullen influence" or a "malignant planet"-some "foe"- has entered the propitious conjunction of stars which in the opening act had seemed to Altamont and Sciolto to dominate the world. This "foe" is spoken of in other associations. When Horatio and Altamont come to blows over Horatio's indictment of Calista, Lavinia rashes in and de- mands, "What busy, medling fiend, what foe to goodness, / Could kindle such a discord?" (p. 186). The connection of "busy, medling fiend" with the word "foe" implies a specific connotation-the "Foe" of medieval literature-and suggests that there is a snake (or some kind of satanic figure) in Sciolto's garden. Accordingly, Lothario sneaks into the garden on the morning of the wedding and reveals "the theft" that has already spoiled the marriage (I, p. 161)-and Sciolto and Altamont's dreams of perfection. Ironically, as if in mockery of their illusions, Rowe has Lothario describe his fornication with Calista as "perfect happi- ness" (p. 162). Horatio makes the analogy between Lothario and Satan -and indeed, that between the play and the story of the Fall-fully ex- plicit. Standing out in relief to the integrating, circular movement of the Hymeneal dance, Horatio scrutinizes Calista and observes the "starts of guilt" which show through her "specious face of innocence and beauty" (ILi, p. 173). He exclaims when she leaves, With such smooth looks, and many a gentle word, The first fair she beguil'd her easy lord; Too blind with love and beauty to beware, He fell unthinking in the fatal snare; Nor could believe that such a heav'nly face Had bargain'd with the devil, to damn her wretched race. In the very next scene, as if on cue, the devilish Lothario reenters Later, however, echoing Calista's talk of a "sullen influence, a foe to both," which has mismatched her and Altamont, Sciolto chides her for being "Perverse and sullen all this day of joy" (I, p. 178); he has ob- served her, like some malignant planet, Foe to the harvest, and the healthy year, Who scools adverse, and lours upon the world; When all the other stars, with gentle aspect, Propitious shine, and meaning good to man. So it is as if a "sullen influence" or a "malignant planet"-some "foe"- has entered the propitious conjunction of stars which in the opening act had seemed to Altamont and Sciolto to dominate the world. This "foe" is spoken of in other associations. When Horatio and Altamont come to blows over Horatio's indictment of Calista, Lavinia rushes in and de- mands, "What busy, medling fiend, what foe to goodness, / Could kindle such a discord?" (p. 186). The connection of "busy, medling fiend" with the word "foe" implies a specific connotation-the "Foe" of medieval literature-and suggests that there is a snake (or some kind of satanic figure) in Sciolto's garden. Accordingly, Lothario sneaks into the garden on the morning of the wedding and reveals "the theft" that has already spoiled the marriage (I, p. 161)-and Sciolto and Altamont's dreams of perfection. Ironically, as if in mockery of their illusions, Rowe has Lothario describe his fornication with Calista as "perfect happi- ness" (p. 162). Horatio makes the analogy between Lothario and Satan -and indeed, that between the play and the story of the Fall-fully ex- plicit. Standing out in relief to the integrating, circular movement of the Hymeneal dance, Horatio scrutinizes Calista and observes the "starts of guilt" which show through her "specious face of innocence and beauty" (Iti, p. 173). He exclaims when she leaves, With such smooth looks, and many a gentle word, The first fair she beguil'd her easy lord; Too blind with love and beauty to beware, He fell unthinking in the fatal snare; Nor could believe that such a heav'nly face Had bargain'd with the devil, to damn her wretched race. In the very next scene, as if on cue, the devilish Lothario reenters Later, however, echoing Calista's talk of a "sullen influence, a foe to both," which has mismatched her and Altamont, Sciolto chides her for being "Perverse and sullen all this day of joy" (III, p. 178); he has ob- served her, like some malignant planet, Foe to the harvest, and the healthy year, Who scouts adverse, and fours upon the world; When all the other stars, with gentle aspect, Propitious shine, and meaning good to man. So it is as if a "sullen influence" or a "malignant planet"-some "foe"- has entered the propitious conjunction of stars which in the opening act had seemed to Altamont and Sciolto to dominate the world. This "foe" is spoken of in other associations. When Horatio and Altamont come to blows over Horatio's indictment of Calista, Lavinia rushes in and de- mands, "What busy, medling fiend, what foe to goodness, / Could kindle such a discord?" (p. 186). The connection of "busy, medling fiend" with the word "foe" implies a specific connotation-the "Foe" of medieval literature-and suggests that there is a snake (or some kind of satanic figure) in Sciolto's garden. Accordingly, Lothario sneaks into the garden on the morning of the wedding and reveals "the theft" that has already spoiled the marriage (I, p. 161)-and Sciolto and Altamont's dreams of perfection. Ironically, as if in mockery of their illusions, Rowe has Lothario describe his fornication with Calista as "perfect happi- ness" (p. 162). Horatio makes the analogy between Lothario and Satan -and indeed, that between the play and the story of the Fall-fully ex- plicit. Standing out in relief to the integrating, circular movement of the Hymeneal dance, Horatio scrutinizes Calista and observes the "starts of guilt" which show through her "specious face of innocence and beauty" (Iti, p. 173). He exclaims when she leaves, With such smooth looks, and many a gentle word, The first fair she beguil'd her easy lord; Too blind with love and beauty to beware, He fell unthinking in the fatal snare; Nor could believe that such a heav'nly face Had bargain'd with the devil, to damn her wretched race. In the very next scene, as if on cue, the devilish Lothario reenters  116 The Trial of the Sinner 116 The Trial of the Sinner 116 The Trial of the Sinner and is surprised by Horatio, who defends the honor of his friend's bride and powerfully inveighs against Lothario and the "tribe" of neo-Epi- curean libertines (I~ii, p. 175), whose hedonism "spurns at sacred order" and leads to moral anarchy. But even in this confrontation, the analogy to the story of the Fall seems to remain, however subdued. Piqued at being discovered by Horatio for the second time (the first oc- curring in the garden when Lothario drops Calista's letter), Lothario calls him his "evil genius" (p. 174). There is a faint suggestion that, in- deed, Horatio is emblematically an interfering "genius," or angel-that he is something like the devilish Lothario's Gabriel-for a series of par- allels appears to establish an allusive referent for the scene in Satan's encounter with Gabriel in Book IV of Paradise Lost. In terms that seem to echo, howbeit obliquely, the discovery of the satanic toad at the ear of Eve, Horatio describes in retrospect his first discovery of Lothario: at that moment, Horatio says to him, Thou fled'st! and guilt was on thee, like a thief, A pilferer descried in some dark corner, Who there had lodg'd with mischievous intent To rob and ravage at the hour of rest, And do a midnight murder on the sleepers.' In their encounter Lothario and Horatio square off somewhat like Mil- ton's angelic champions, each vaunting his challenge; Lothario is as proud and contemptuous as Satan, and Horatio, like Gabriel, contin- ually exposes the speciousness of his arguments. Finally, when Lothario defiantly vows to act "like birds . .. / That haunt in woods, in meads, and flow'ry gardens" and to "Rifle the sweets, and taste the choicest fruits, / Yet scorn to ask the lordly owner's leave" (p. 176, italics mine), Horatio, somewhat like Gabriel, warns him to stay out of this garden (they are standing in the street that runs by it): But henceforth, boy, I warn thee shun my walks; If in the bounds of yon forbidden place Again thou'rt found, expect a punishment, Such as great souls, impatient of an injury, Exact from those who wrong 'em much. (p. 176 f)' As in Paradise Lost, these mighty opposites nearly come to blows, but and is surprised by Horatio, who defends the honor of his friend's bride and powerfully inveighs against Lothario and the "tribe" of neo-Epi- curean libertines (I.ii, p. 175), whose hedonism "spurns at sacred order" and leads to moral anarchy. But even in this confrontation, the analogy to the story of the Fall seems to remain, however subdued. Piqued at being discovered by Horatio for the second time (the first oc- curring in the garden when Lothario drops Calista's letter), Lothario calls him his "evil genius" (p. 174). There is a faint suggestion that, in- deed, Horatio is emblematically an interfering "genius," or angel-that he is something like the devilish Lothario's Gabriel-for a series of par- allels appears to establish an allusive referent for the scene in Satan's encounter with Gabriel in Book IV of Paradise Lost. In terms that seem to echo, howbeit obliquely, the discovery of the satanic toad at the ear of Eve, Horatio describes in retrospect his first discovery of Lothario: at that moment, Horatio says to him, Thou fled'st! and guilt was on thee, like a thief, A pilferer descried in some dark corner, Who there had lodg'd with mischievous intent To rob and ravage at the hour of rest, And do a midnight murder on the sleepers.' In their encounter Lothario and Horatio square off somewhat like Mil- ton's angelic champions, each vaunting his challenge; Lothario is as proud and contemptuous as Satan, and Horatio, like Gabriel, contin- ually exposes the speciousness of his arguments. Finally, when Lothario defiantly vows to act "like birds. . / That haunt in woods, in meads, and flow'ry gardens" and to "Rifle the sweets, and taste the choicest fruits, / Yet scorn to ask the lordly owner's leave" (p. 176, italics mine), Horatio, somewhat like Gabriel, warns him to stay out of this garden (they are standing in the street that runs by it): But henceforth, boy, I warn thee shun my walks; If in the bounds of yon forbidden place Again thou'rt found, expect a punishment, Such as great souls, impatient of an injury, Exact from those who wrong 'em much. (p. 176 f)' As in Paradise Lost, these mighty opposites nearly come to blows, but and is surprised by Horatio, who defends the honor of his friend's bride and powerfully inveighs against Lothario and the "tribe" of neo-Epi- curean libertines (II.ii, p. 175), whose hedonism "spurns at sacred order" and leads to moral anarchy. But even in this confrontation, the analogy to the story of the Fall seems to remain, however subdued. Piqued at being discovered by Horatio for the second time (the first oc- curring in the garden when Lothario drops Calista's letter), Lothario calls him his "evil genius" (p. 174). There is a faint suggestion that, in- deed, Horatio is emblematically an interfering "genius," or angel-that he is something like the devilish Lothario's Gabriel-for a series of par- allels appears to establish an allusive referent for the scene in Satan's encounter with Gabriel in Book IV of Paradise Lost. In terms that seem to echo, howbeit obliquely, the discovery of the satanic toad at the ear of Eve, Horatio describes in retrospect his first discovery of Lothario: at that moment, Horatio says to him, Thou fled'st! and guilt was on thee, like a thief, A pilferer descried in some dark corner, Who there had lodg'd with mischievous intent To rob and ravage at the hour of rest, And do a midnight murder on the sleepers.' In their encounter Lothario and Horatio square off somewhat like Mil- ton's angelic champions, each vaunting his challenge; Lothario is as proud and contemptuous as Satan, and Horatio, like Gabriel, contin- ually exposes the speciousness of his arguments. Finally, when Lothario defiantly vows to act "like birds . . . / That haunt in woods, in meads, and flow'ry gardens" and to "Rifle the sweets, and taste the choicest fruits, / Yet scorn to ask the lordly owner's leave" (p. 176, italics mine), Horatio, somewhat like Gabriel, warns him to stay out of this garden (they are standing in the street that runs by it): But henceforth, boy, I warn thee shun my walks; If in the bounds of yon forbidden place Again thou'rt found, expect a punishment, Such as great souls, impatient of an injury, Exact from those who wrong 'em much. (p. 176 f)' As in Paradise Lost, these mighty opposites nearly come to blows, but  The Fair Penitent 117 the conflict is interrupted and left inconclusive, to be fought by other combatants on other grounds (the garden itself). The allusive parallel here, as elsewhere, is admittedly very elusive. Of course, there is no direct one-to-one relationship between Milton and Rowe (after all, Calista has already sinned), but it is to Rowe's credit that he does not make this play a transparent allegory (compare Tamer- lane and countless other contemporary tragedies which unsubtly play off the greatest poem and favorite analogue of the period). Nevertheless, Horatio's speech directly-and the other distant echoes indirectly- serve, I think, to place the action of The Fair Penitent in a context which suggests that what is going on is a reiteration of the Fall of man, despite Sciolto and Altamont's paradisal expectations. Having clung to those expectations at the expense of his lifelong friendship with Horatio only to have his bride deny him the "peace" and "pleasure" he bad supposed her "dowry," Altamont, like the Adam Horatio has compared him to, has fallen "unthinking in the fatal snare." At the opening of Act IV, he enters Sciolto's garden (the very setting implies the significance of the action: here was the false paradise born and here it and the "fiend" that disturbed it will die), and he epitomizes the condition of the human soul as it vacillates from delusions of paradise to despair: WITH what unequal tempers are we form'd? One day the soul, supine with ease and fulness, Revels secure, and fondly tells herself, The hour of evil can return no more; The next, the spirits pall'd, and sick of riot, Turn all to discord, and we hate our beings, Curse the past joy, and think it folly all, And bitterness, and anguish. (p. 188 f) "I have lost my peace," he concludes (p. 190), and in a moment his false paradise is gone forever, for he discovers Calista and Lothario together and overhears her admission of guilt. After he has avenged himself and killed Lothario, Altamont complains in profound anguish that Calista has heaped "Curses and sorrows" on him and left him "more than mur- dered" (p. 191). Sciolto himself, having banished Calista forever, con- cludes in despair, "Oh Altamont! what a vast scheme of joy / Has this one day destroy'd!" (p. 194). Destroyed is Sciolto's paradise, because he was unable for even one day to shut out, as he has tried to do, "losses and disappointments, cares and poverty, / The rich man's insolence, The Fair Penitent 117 the conflict is interrupted and left inconclusive, to be fought by other combatants on other grounds (the garden itself). The allusive parallel here, as elsewhere, is admittedly very elusive. Of course, there is no direct one-to-one relationship between Milton and Rowe (after all, Calista has already sinned), but it is to Rowe's credit that he does not make this play a transparent allegory (compare Tamer- lane and countless other contemporary tragedies which unsubtly play off the greatest poem and favorite analogue of the period). Nevertheless, Horatio's speech directly-and the other distant echoes indirectly- serve, I think, to place the action of The Fair Penitent in a context which suggests that what is going on is a reiteration of the Fall of man, despite Sciolto and Altamont's paradisal expectations. Having clung to those expectations at the expense of his lifelong friendship with Horatio only to have his bride deny him the "peace" and "pleasure" he had supposed her "dowry," Altamont, like the Adam Horatio has compared him to, has fallen "unthinking in the fatal snare." At the opening of Act IV, he enters Sciolto's garden (the very setting implies the significance of the action: here was the false paradise born and here it and the "fiend" that disturbed it will die), and he epitomizes the condition of the human soul as it vacillates from delusions of paradise to despair: WITH what unequal tempers are we form'd? One day the soul, supine with ease and fulness, Revels secure, and fondly tells herself, The hour of evil can return no more; The next, the spirits pall'd, and sick of riot, Turn all to discord, and we hate our beings, Curse the past joy, and think it folly all, And bitterness, and anguish. (p. 188 f) "I have lost my peace," he concludes (p. 190), and in a moment his false paradise is gone forever, for he discovers Calista and Lothario together and overhears her admission of guilt. After he has avenged himself and killed Lothario, Altamont complains in profound anguish that Calista has heaped "Curses and sorrows" on him and left him "more than mur- dered" (p. 191). Sciolto himself, having banished Calista forever, con- cludes in despair, "Oh Altamont! what a vast scheme of joy / Has this one day destroy'd!" (p. 194). Destroyed is Sciolto's paradise, because he was unable for even one day to shut out, as he has tried to do, "losses and disappointments, cares and poverty, / The rich man's insolence, The Fair Penitent 117 the conflict is interrupted and left inconclusive, to be fought by other combatants on other grounds (the garden itself). The allusive parallel here, as elsewhere, is admittedly very elusive. Of course, there is no direct one-to-one relationship between Milton and Rowe (after all, Calista has already sinned), but it is to Rowe's credit that he does not make this play a transparent allegory (compare Tamer- lane and countless other contemporary tragedies which unsubtly play off the greatest poem and favorite analogue of the period). Nevertheless, Horatio's speech directly-and the other distant echoes indirectly- serve, I think, to place the action of The Fair Penitent in a context which suggests that what is going on is a reiteration of the Fall of man, despite Sciolto and Altamont's paradisal expectations. Having clung to those expectations at the expense of his lifelong friendship with Horatio only to have his bride deny him the "peace" and "pleasure" he had supposed her "dowry," Altamont, like the Adam Horatio has compared him to, has fallen "unthinking in the fatal snare." At the opening of Act IV, he enters Sciolto's garden (the very setting implies the significance of the action: here was the false paradise born and here it and the "fiend" that disturbed it will die), and he epitomizes the condition of the human soul as it vacillates from delusions of paradise to despair: WITH what unequal tempers are we form'd? One day the soul, supine with ease and fulness, Revels secure, and fondly tells herself, The hour of evil can return no more; The next, the spirits pall'd, and sick of riot, Turn all to discord, and we hate our beings, Curse the past joy, and think it folly all, And bitterness, and anguish. (p. 188 f) "I have lost my peace," he concludes (p. 190), and in a moment his false paradise is gone forever, for he discovers Calista and Lothario together and overhears her admission of guilt. After he has avenged himself and killed Lothario, Altamont complains in profound anguish that Calista has heaped "Curses and sorrows" on him and left him "more than mur- dered" (p. 191). Sciolto himself, having banished Calista forever, con- cludes in despair, "Oh Altamont! what a vast scheme of joy / Has this one day destroy'd!" (p. 194). Destroyed is Sciolto's paradise, because he was unable for even one day to shut out, as he has tried to do, "losses and disappointments, cares and poverty, / The rich man's insolence,  118 The Trial of the Sinner 118 The Trial of the Sinner 118 The Trial of the Sinner and great man's scorn" (ILi, p. 172)-in short, the evils of the world. As in Otway's The Orphan, evil cannot be escaped, and attempts to do so end in disaster. That night when all Genoa is in chaos, Sciolto says of Calista, Amidst the general wreck, see where she stands, Like Helen, in the night when Troy was sack'd, Spectatress of the mischief which she made. (V, p. 201) The analogy to Helen works, like the one to Eve, as a referent by which it is implied that Calista has recapitulated, on a lesser scale, the "mis- chief" of her ancestral prototypes. Complaining, "Hadst thou been honest, thou hadst been a cheru- bin" (p. 202), Sciolto asks Calista why she has cursed him and spoiled his happiness. Her answer is a perfectly appropriate rebuff to Sciolto's de- luded expectations and inhuman demands: Because my soul was rudely drawn from yours; A poor imperfect copy of my father, Where goodness, and the strength of manly virtue, Was thinly planted, and the idle void Fill'd up with light belief, and easy fondness; It was, because I lov'd, and was a woman. The answer is brilliantly in character for the proud Calista, who refuses to lose her "great spirit" (p. 201) before a father who had wanted a son (see I, p. 159) and who has been implacably righteous and demanding toward the daughter he got instead. But Calista's answer takes on its full meaning when she later says, Now think, thou curst Calista, now behold The desolation, horror, blood and ruin, Thy crimes and fatal folly spread around, That loudly cry for vengeance on thy head; Yet Heav'n, who knows our weak imperfect natures, How blind with passions, and how prone to evil, Makes not too strict inquiry for offences, But is aton'd by penitence and pray'r. (p. 204) The Prologue has announced Rowe's design to "still let Nature be his and great man's scorn" (H.i, p. 172)-in short, the evils of the world. As in Otway's The Orphan, evil cannot be escaped, and attempts to do so end in disaster. That night when all Genoa is in chaos, Sciolto says of Calista, Amidst the general wreck, see where she stands, Like Helen, in the night when Troy was sack'd, Spectatress of the mischief which she made. (V, p. 201) The analogy to Helen works, like the one to Eve, as a referent by which it is implied that Calista has recapitulated, on a lesser scale, the "mis- chief" of her ancestral prototypes. Complaining, "Hadst thou been honest, thou hadst been a cheru- bin" (p. 202), Sciolto asks Calista why she has cursed him and spoiled his happiness. Her answer is a perfectly appropriate rebuff to Sciolto's de- luded expectations and inhuman demands: Because my soul was rudely drawn from yours; A poor imperfect copy of my father, Where goodness, and the strength of manly virtue, Was thinly planted, and the idle void Fill'd up with light belief, and easy fondness; It was, because I lov'd, and was a woman. The answer is brilliantly in character for the proud Calista, who refuses to lose her "great spirit" (p. 201) before a father who had wanted a son (see I, p. 159) and who has been implacably righteous and demanding toward the daughter he got instead. But Calista's answer takes on its full meaning when she later says, Now think, thou curst Calista, now behold The desolation, horror, blood and ruin, Thy crimes and fatal folly spread around, That loudly cry for vengeance on thy head; Yet Heav'n, who knows our weak imperfect natures, How blind with passions, and how prone to evil, Makes not too strict inquiry for offences, But is aton'd by penitence and pray'r. (p. 204) The Prologue has announced Rowe's design to "still let Nature be his and great man's scorn" (IIi, p. 172)-in short, the evils of the world. As in Otway's The Orphan, evil cannot be escaped, and attempts to do so end in disaster. That night when all Genoa is in chaos, Sciolto says of Calista, Amidst the general wreck, see where she stands, Like Helen, in the night when Troy was sack'd, Spectatress of the mischief which she made. (V, p. 201) The analogy to Helen works, like the one to Eve, as a referent by which it is implied that Calista has recapitulated, on a lesser scale, the "mis- chief' of her ancestral prototypes. Complaining, "Hadst thou been honest, thou hadst been a cheru- bin" (p. 202), Sciolto asks Calista why she has cursed him and spoiled his happiness. Her answer is a perfectly appropriate rebuff to Sciolto's de- luded expectations and inhuman demands: Because my soul was rudely drawn from yours; A poor imperfect copy of my father, Where goodness, and the strength of manly virtue, Was thinly planted, and the idle void Fill'd up with light belief, and easy fondness; It was, because I lov'd, and was a woman. The answer is brilliantly in character for the proud Calista, who refuses to lose her "great spirit" (p. 201) before a father who had wanted a son (see I, p. 159) and who has been implacably righteous and demanding toward the daughter he got instead. But Calista's answer takes on its full meaning when she later says, Now think, thou curst Calista, now behold The desolation, horror, blood and ruin, Thy crimes and fatal folly spread around, That loudly cry for vengeance on thy head; Yet Heav'n, who knows our weak imperfect natures, How blind with passions, and how prone to evil, Makes not too strict inquiry for offences, But is aton'd by penitence and pray'r. (p. 204) The Prologue has announced Rowe's design to "still let Nature be his  The Fair Penitent 119 care" and not to "paint all things fair, / But shew you men and women as they are," for "Few to perfection ever found the way" (p. 156) The "Nature" of man is fallen, the play insists, and thus "a poor imperfect copy" of the heavenly father-"weak," "prone to evil," and emphat- ically not cherubic, as Sciolto would have it. Therefore, the Fall of man repeats itself, as in Otway's play, in each generation, despite man's efforts to avoid it, to create a false paradise, to "fondly" tell himself, "The hour of evil can return no more." ii As Calista stands amidst the desolation she has wrought, the full rami- fications of Horatio's early complaint are realized: "Oh, that the coin were but all thy own!" (I, p. 166). Calista has truly brought "ruin" to her husband, her family, and all of Genoa, and not so much because of her original sin but because of her indignation at Lothario, on the one hand, and her attempt to conceal her sin, on the other. She admits to Lothario that only "indignation" for his "unmanly insolence and scorn" urged her, out of "desperation," to marry Altamont and thus "wound" herself "to be reveng'd" on him (IV, p. 190). As Horatio points out to her, she has thereby not only given "her honour to a wretch" but com- pounded her sin by hypocritically plighting "to a noble youth her faith" (III, p. 181). In so doing, Calista also attempts to conceal her sin. To Lo- thario Lucilla describes her as seeking "some melancholy shade, / To hide her sorrows from the prying world" (I, p. 164). To Lucilla Calista announces her desire to hide me, From the base world, from malice, and from shame; For 'tis the solemn counsel of my soul, Never to live with public loss of honor. (II.i, p. 169) As her bridegroom approaches, she prepares to conceal from him her "soul's accesses" by "dissembling," so that his "hostile husband's eyes" cannot explore "The warring passions, and tumultuous thoughts" that "rage within" (p. 170 f). When Sciolto chastises Calista for being "Per- verse and sullen," he suspects that "some sullen thought that shuns the light, / Lurks underneath that sadness" in her "visage" (III, p. 178 f). Later Calista denies Horatio's accusations and tears the evidence against her-the letter to Lothario-to "atoms" (p. 192), a metaphor which sug- gests the havoc she is wreaking. Then, denying Horatio's allegations, she The Fair Penitent 119 care" and not to "paint all things fair, / But shew you men and women as they are," for "Few to perfection ever found the way" (p. 156).' The "Nature" of man is fallen, the play insists, and thus "a poor imperfect copy" of the heavenly father-"weak," "prone to evil," and emphat- ically not cherubic, as Sciolto would have it. Therefore, the Fall of man repeats itself, as in Otway's play, in each generation, despite man's efforts to avoid it, to create a false paradise, to "fondly" tell himself, "The hour of evil can return no more." ii As Calista stands amidst the desolation she has wrought, the full rami- fications of Horatio's early complaint are realized: "Oh, that the ruin were but all thy own!" (I, p. 166). Calista has truly brought "ruin" to her husband, her family, and all of Genoa, and not so much because of her original sin but because of her indignation at Lothario, on the one hand, and her attempt to conceal her sin, on the other. She admits to Lothario that only "indignation" for his "unmanly insolence and scorn" urged her, out of "desperation," to marry Altamont and thus "wound" herself "to be reveng'd" on him (IV, p. 190). As Horatio points out to her, she has thereby not only given "her honour to a wretch" but com- pounded her sin by hypocritically plighting "to a noble youth her faith" (III, p. 181). In so doing, Calista also attempts to conceal her sin. To Lo- thario Lucilla describes her as seeking "some melancholy shade, / To hide her sorrows from the prying world" (I, p. 164). To Lucilla Calista announces her desire to hide me, From the base world, from malice, and from shame; For 'tis the solemn counsel of my soul, Never to live with public loss of honor. (Ili, p. 169) As her bridegroom approaches, she prepares to conceal from him her "soul's accesses" by "dissembling," so that his "hostile husband's eyes" cannot explore "The warring passions, and tumultuous thoughts" that "rage within" (p. 170 f). When Sciolto chastises Calista for being "Per- verse and sullen," he suspects that "some sullen thought that shuns the light, / Lurks underneath that sadness" in her "visage" (III, p. 178 f). Later Calista denies Horatio's accusations and tears the evidence against her-the letter to Lothario-to "atoms" (p. 192), a metaphor which sug- gests the havoc she is wreaking. Then, denying Horatio's allegations, she The Fair Penitent 119 care" and not to "paint all things fair, / But shew you men and women as they are," for "Few to perfection ever found the way" (p. 156) The "Nature" of man is fallen, the play insists, and thus "a poor imperfect copy" of the heavenly father-"weak," "prone to evil," and emphat- ically not cherubic, as Sciolto would have it. Therefore, the Fall of man repeats itself, as in Otway's play, in each generation, despite man's efforts to avoid it, to create a false paradise, to "fondly" tell himself, "The hour of evil can return no more." ii As Calista stands amidst the desolation she has wrought, the full rami- fications of Horatio's early complaint are realized: "Oh, that the ruin were but all thy own!" (I, p. 166). Calista has truly brought "ruin" to her husband, her family, and all of Genoa, and not so much because of her original sin but because of her indignation at Lothario, on the one hand, and her attempt to conceal her sin, on the other. She admits to Lothario that only "indignation" for his "unmanly insolence and scorn" urged her, out of "desperation," to marry Altamont and thus "wound" herself "to be reveng'd" on him (IV, p. 190). As Horatio points out to her, she has thereby not only given "her honour to a wretch" but com- pounded her sin by hypocritically plighting "to a noble youth her faith" (III, p. 181). In so doing, Calista also attempts to conceal her sin. To Lo- thario Lucilla describes her as seeking "some melancholy shade, / To hide her sorrows from the prying world" (I, p. 164). To Lucilla Calista announces her desire to hide me, From the base world, from malice, and from shame; For 'tis the solemn counsel of my soul, Never to live with public loss of honor. (II.i, p. 169) As her bridegroom approaches, she prepares to conceal from him her "soul's accesses" by "dissembling," so that his "hostile husband's eyes" cannot explore "The warring passions, and tumultuous thoughts" that "rage within" (p. 170 f). When Sciolto chastises Calista for being "Per- verse and sullen," be suspects that "some sullen thought that shuns the light, / Lurks underneath that sadness" in her "visage" (11, p. 178 f). Later Calista denies Horatio's accusations and tears the evidence against ber-the letter to Lothario-to "atoms" (p. 192), a metaphor which sug- gests the havoc she is wreaking. Then, denying Horatio's allegations, she  120 The Trial of the Sinner 120 The Trial of the Sinner 120 The Trial of the Sinner turns Altamont against him and destroys their friendship. Finally, by stubbornly insisting in her indignation to see Lothario once again, she not only gets him killed but destroys her husband's and her father's happiness, catapults the whole city of Genoa into civil chaos, and causes her father to provoke his own death. But try as she may in her indignation and shame to conceal her sin, the action of the play demonstrates, in accordance with the Judeo- Christian, the Classical, and the English dramatic traditions, that Ca- lista's sin will find her out.' In his sermon, "Concealment of Sin no Secur- ity to the Sinner," Rowe's contemporary divine, Robert South, discusses several ways in which sin is revealed. "God sometimes takes the Work of Vengeance upon himself," he writes, and "repays the Sinner, by some notable Judgment from Heaven." For example, he continues, some- times God "strangely blasts him in his Name, Family, or Estate, so that all about him stand amazed at the Blow" (Forty-Eight Sermons, IV, 172). The ruin of her "Name," her "Family," and her "Estate" by the end of the play is, I submit, just such a judgment upon Calista, for the world of the play seems governed by such a Providence. Unlike Rowe's Ulysses, The Fair Penitent does not present a providential deity on the stage. There are several indications throughout the play, however, of the pres- ence of Providence. For instance, Sciolto's "bounty" is said to be Heaven's "proxy," and as Altamont says, By Heav'n, he found my fortunes so abandon'd, That nothing but a miracle could raise 'em. (I, p. 159) Lucilla prays to the "sacred Powers, whose gracious providence / Is watchful for our good," that she be kept from Calista's anguish (J.i, p. 170). When Lavinia and Horatio are banished, Lavinia places all her trust in a God Who provides for His creatures: in words reminiscent of the Sermon on the Mount and especially the analogy of "the lilies of the field" (Matt. 6:28 f), she says, The holy Pow'r, who clothes the senseless earth, With woods, with fruits, with flow'rs and verdant grass, Whose bounteous hand feeds the whole brute creation, Knows all our wants, and has enough to give us. (IV, p. 185) Horatio and Sciolto both insist that Heaven rewards virtue: Horatio says of "The brave" that "Heav'n and men are judges of their actions" turns Altamont against him and destroys their friendship. Finally, by stubbornly insisting in her indignation to see Lothario once again, she not only gets him killed but destroys her husband's and her father's happiness, catapults the whole city of Genoa into civil chaos, and causes her father to provoke his own death. But try as she may in her indignation and shame to conceal her sin, the action of the play demonstrates, in accordance with the Judeo- Christian, the Classical, and the English dramatic traditions, that Ca- lista's sin will find her out.' In his sermon, "Concealment of Sin no Secur- ity to the Sinner," Rowe's contemporary divine, Robert South, discusses several ways in which sin is revealed. "God sometimes takes the Work of Vengeance upon himself," he writes, and "repays the Sinner, by some notable judgment from Heaven." For example, he continues, some- times God "strangely blasts him in his Name, Family, or Estate, so that all about him stand amazed at the Blow" (Forty-Eight Sermons, IV, 172). The ruin of her "Name," her "Family," and her "Estate" by the end of the play is, I submit, just such a judgment upon Calista, for the world of the play seems governed by such a Providence. Unlike Rowe's Ulysses, The Fair Penitent does not present a providential deity on the stage. There are several indications throughout the play, however, of the pres- ence of Providence. For instance, Sciolto's "bounty" is said to be Heaven's "proxy," and as Altamont says, By Heav'n, he found my fortunes so abandon'd, That nothing but a miracle could raise 'em. (I, p. 159) Lucilla prays to the "sacred Powers, whose gracious providence / Is watchful for our good," that she be kept from Calista's anguish (I.i, p. 170). When Lavinia and Horatio are banished, Lavinia places all her trust in a God Who provides for His creatures: in words reminiscent of the Sermon on the Mount and especially the analogy of "the lilies of the field" (Matt. 6:28 ), she says, The holy Pow'r, who clothes the senseless earth, With woods, with fruits, with flow'rs and verdant grass, Whose bounteous hand feeds the whole brute creation, Knows all our wants, and has enough to give us. (IV, p. 185) Horatio and Sciolto both insist that Heaven rewards virtue: Horatio says of "The brave" that "Heav'n and men are judges of their actions" turns Altamont against him and destroys their friendship. Finally, by stubbornly insisting in her indignation to see Lothario once again, she not only gets him killed but destroys her husband's and her father's happiness, catapults the whole city of Genoa into civil chaos, and causes her father to provoke his own death. But try as she may in her indignation and shame to conceal her sin, the action of the play demonstrates, in accordance with the Judeo- Christian, the Classical, and the English dramatic traditions, that Ca- lista's sin will find her out.' In his sermon, "Concealment of Sin no Secur- ity to the Simer," Rowe's contemporary divine, Robert South, discusses several ways in which sin is revealed. "God sometimnes takes the Work of Vengeance upon himself," he writes, and "repays the Sinner, by some notable Judgment from Heaven." For example, he continues, some- times God "strangely blasts him in his Name, Family, or Estate, so that all about him stand amazed at the Blow" (Forty-Eight Sermons, IV, 172). The ruin of her "Name," her "Family," and her "Estate" by the end of the play is, I submit, just such a judgment upon Calista, for the world of the play seems governed by such a Providence. Unlike Rowe's Ulysses, The Fair Penitent does not present a providential deity on the stage. There are several indications throughout the play, however, of the pres- ence of Providence. For instance, Sciolto's "bounty" is said to be Heaven's "proxy," and as Altamont says, By Heav'n, he found my fortunes so abandon'd, That nothing but a miracle could raise 'em. (I, p. 159) Lucilla prays to the "sacred Powers, whose gracious providence / Is watchful for our good," that she be kept from Calista's anguish (I.i, p. 170). When Lavinia and Horatio are banished, Lavinia places all her trust in a God Who provides for His creatures: in words reminiscent of the Sermon on the Mount and especially the analogy of "the lilies of the field" (Matt. 6:28 f), she says, The holy Pow'r, who clothes the senseless earth, With woods, with fruits, with flow'rs and verdant grass, Whose bounteous hand feeds the whole brute creation, Knows all our wants, and has enough to give us. (IV, p. 185) Horatio and Sciolto both insist that Heaven rewards virtue: Horatio says of "The brave" that "Heav'n and men are judges of their actions"  T he Fair Penitent 1 21 The Fair Penitent 1 21 The Fair Penitent 121 (l.ii, p. 174); more explicitly, Sciolto says of "gracious Heav'n" that It has "endless blessings still in store, / For virtue, and for filial piety" (V, p. 207). Heaven evidently punishes vice, too, for when Lothario crosses swords with Altamont, he says defiantly, "Earth, Heav'n, and fair Calista judge the combat" (IV, p. 191). We can only assume when he is killed that, in accordance with the traditional trial by combat, Heaven has indeed passed Its judgment. With the presence of Providence suggested so often in the play, we must also assume, it seems to me, that such accidents as Lothario's loss of the letter and Altamont's overhearing of Calista's admission of guilt are to be interpreted as providential. Bishop South writes, "There is sometimes a strange, providential Concurrence of unusual, unlikely Accidents, for the Discovery of Great Sins" (p. 162). Even "dumb, in- animate Things"-like letters-"are sometimes unaccountably enabled to clamour and depose against the guilty Wretch; so that, to the Amaze- ment of the World, he is drawn forth into publick View, out of all his lurking Holes, and Pavilions of Darkness" (p. 156 f). Henry H. Adams describes throughout his study of Elizabethan domestic tragedy any number of such "accidents," as does Charles H. Peake in his similar study of eighteenth-century domestic tragedy-although the latter, while he labels the lost letter in Susanna Centlivre's The Perjur'd Hus- band (1700) an instance of providential intervention (p. 190), dismisses the same device in The Fair Penitent as "theatrical method" (p. 209). But then, Peake sees no evidence at all of particular Providence in the play, nor does he think Rowe places Calista's sin in a theological con- text (p. 209 f)." Such a reading denies the evidence already mentioned and much more. For what makes this play the most powerful Rowe wrote is its conflict, the struggle between remorse and repentance that rages in Calista's soul, as she undergoes the very Christian trial of the sinner. By handsomely orchestrating a series of key phrases and images first used by Horatio and Lavinia at the end of Act I and then echoed a mo- ment later by Calista and Lucilla at the beginning of Act 11, Rowe intro- duces us to Calista and her state of mind (p. 168 ff). Lavinia speaks of the "sound of joy" of the wedding party, while the bride herself bids Lucilla never to "disturb" her "solemn sadness with the sound of joy." Horatio, aware of the pollution of his friend's marriage, rails against "false ones," libertines, whose "Heav'n" is "variety" (or "changing"), (H.ii, p. 174); more explicitly, Sciolto says of "gracious Heav'n" that It has "endless blessings still in store, / For virtue, and for filial piety" (V, p. 207). Heaven evidently punishes vice, too, for when Lothario crosses swords with Altamont, he says defiantly, "Earth, Heav'n, and fair Calisa judge the combat" (IV, p. 191). We can only assume when he is killed that, in accordance with the traditional trial by combat, Heaven has indeed passed Its judgment. With the presence of Providence suggested so often in the play, we must also assume, it seems to me, that such accidents as Lothario's loss of the letter and Altamont's overhearing of Calista's admission of guilt are to be interpreted as providential. Bishop South writes, "There is sometimes a strange, providential Concurrence of unusual, unlikely Accidents, for the Discovery of Great Sins" (p. 162). Even "dumb, in- animate Things"-like letters-"are sometimes unaccountably enabled to clamour and depose against the guilty Wretch; so that, to the Amaze- ment of the World, he is drawn forth into publick View, out of all his lurking Holes, and Pavilions of Darkness" (p. 156 f). Henry H. Adams describes throughout his study of Elizabethan domestic tragedy any number of such "accidents," as does Charles H. Peake in his similar study of eighteenth-century domestic tragedy-although the latter, while he labels the lost letter in Susanna Centlivre's The Pcerjur'd Hus- band (1700) an instance of providential intervention (p. 190), dismisses the same device in The Fair Penitent as "theatrical method" (p. 209). But then, Peake sees no evidence at all of particular Providence in the play, nor does he think Rowe places Calista's sin in a theological con- text (p. 209 f)." Such a reading denies the evidence already mentioned and much more. For what makes this play the most powerful Rowe wrote is its conflict, the struggle between remorse and repentance that rages in Calista's soul, as she undergoes the very Christian trial of the sinner,. By handsomely orchestrating a series of key phrases and images first used by Horatio and Lavinia at the end of Act I and then echoed a mo- ment later by Calista and Lucilla at the beginning of Act II, Rowe intro- duces us to Calista and her state of mind (p. 168 ff). Lavinia speaks of the "sound of joy" of the wedding party, while the bride herself bids Lucilla never to "disturb" her "solemn sadness with the sound of joy." Horatio, aware of the pollution of his friend's marriage, rails against "false ones," libertines, whose "Heav'n" is "variety" (or "changing"), (ILii, p. 174); more explicitly, Sciolto says of "gracious Heav'n" that It has "endless blessings still in store, / For virtue, and for filial piety" (V, p. 207). Heaven evidently punishes vice, too, for when Lothario crosses swords with Altamont, he says defiantly, "Earth, Heav'n, and fair Calista judge the combat" (IV, p. 191). We can only assume when he is killed that, in accordance with the traditional trial by combat, Heaven has indeed passed Its judgment. With the presence of Providence suggested so often in the play, we must also assume, it seems to me, that such accidents as Lothario's loss of the letter and Altamont's overhearing of Calista's admission of guilt are to be interpreted as providential. Bishop South writes, "There is sometimes a strange, providential Concurrence of unusual, unlikely Accidents, for the Discovery of Great Sins" (p. 162). Even "dumb, in- animate Things"-like letters-"are sometimes unaccountably enabled to clamour and depose against the guilty Wretch; so that, to the Amaze- ment of the World, he is drawn forth into publick View, out of all his lurking Holes, and Pavilions of Darkness" (p. 156 f). Henry H. Adams describes throughout his study of Elizabethan domestic tragedy any number of such "accidents," as does Charles H. Peake in his similar study of eighteenth-century domestic tragedy-although the latter, while he labels the lost letter in Susanna Centlivre's The Perjurd Hus- band (1700) an instance of providential intervention (p. 190), dismisses the same device in The Fair Penitent as "theatrical method" (p. 209). But then, Peake sees no evidence at all of particular Providence in the play, nor does he think Rowe places Calista's sin in a theological con- text (p. 209 f)." Such a reading denies the evidence already mentioned and much more. For what makes this play the most powerful Rowe wrote is its conflict, the struggle between remorse and repentance that rages in Calista's soul, as she undergoes the very Christian trial of the sinner. By handsomely orchestrating a series of key phrases and images first used by Horatio and Lavinia at the end of Act I and then echoed a mo- ment later by Calista and Lucilla at the beginning of Act 11, Rowe intro- duces us to Calista and her state of mind (p. 168 ff). Lavinia speaks of the "sound of joy" of the wedding party, while the bride herself bids Lucilla never to "disturb" her "solemn sadness with the sound of joy." Horatio, aware of the pollution of his friend's marriage, rails against "false ones," libertines, whose "Heav'n" is "variety" (or "changing"),  122 The Trial of the Sinner 122 The Trial of the Sinner 122 The Trial of the Sinner while Lucilla urges Calista to reject the "false Lothario" forever in favor of her bridegroom, who knows not "the courtly vice of changing"-the vice to which Calista has fallen victim. Lavinia's comparison of her own heart to a "cottage," an hospitable "lonely dwelling" for her husband, evokes all the benign associations of retirement, while Calista's descrip- tion of the "melancholy scene" she longs to dwell in alone turns con- tented retirement into a "retreat" of "despair." Most importantly, La- vinia asks if there can be such "false ones" as Horatio describes, and have they peace of mind? Have they in all the series of their changing One happy hour? The very next instant, in perfect stage irony, Calista enters to provide the living answer, as she exclaims, "And my dear peace of mind is lost for ever." Despite her white wedding gown, then, and Altamoet's hopes of "white and lucky" days," Calista is shrouded in "black despair" (II.i, p. 169). She says that all her "thoughts" are "indignation, love or shame," and precisely these conflicting elements make up "The warring pas- sions, and tumultuous thoughts, / That rage within" and "deform" her "reason" (p. 171). The three elements are evident from our first glimpse into her tortured soul, her letter to Lothario. In it she announces her intention to marry Altamont "in spite of" her "weakness" for Lothario I, p. 165). The letter also reveals Calista's inner conflict between love and shame when she ambivalently calls Lothario "too faithless, yet too lovely." Then, in the opening scene of Act tI, while Calista desires to "hide" from "shame" (p. 169), her "lab'ring" heart "swells with indig- nation" (p. 170) at Lothario (as well as at the idea of being "a tale for fools"), and she longs "to discharge the burden" on him in one last inter- view. And yet, although she insists that she has been "wrong'd enough" to resist Lothario's charm, she admits that she would "pardon" the "dear betrayer" (the combination of words itself indicates her ambiv- alence) if he should "sigh to be forgiven." Lucilla's function during this scene is that traditional spiritual work of mercy, admonishing the sinner. She describes Calista as "Be- nighted in a wilderness of woe" after Lothario, "that wand'ring fire," has "misled" her "weary steps" (p. 169)-an ignis fatuus which is per- haps an allusion to the serpentine "wand'ring Fire" that misleads the steps of Eve in Paradise Lost (IX.634 ff). She herself represents, as her while Lucilla urges Calista to reject the "false Lothario" forever in favor of her bridegroom, who knows not "the courtly vice of changing"-the vice to which Calista has fallen victim. Lavinia's comparison of her own heart to a "cottage," an hospitable "lonely dwelling" for her husband, evokes all the benign associations of retirement, while Calista's descrip- tion of the "melancholy scene" she longs to dwell in alone turns con- tented retirement into a "retreat" of "despair." Most importantly, La- vinia asks if there can be such "false ones" as Horatio describes, and have they peace of mind? Have they in all the series of their changing One happy hour? The very next instant, in perfect stage irony, Calista enters to provide the living answer, as she exclaims, "And my dear peace of mind is lost for ever." Despite her white wedding gown, then, and Altamont's hopes of "white and lucky" days," Calista is shrouded in "black despair" (ILi, p. 169). She says that all her "thoughts" are "indignation, love or shame," and precisely these conflicting elements make up "The warring pas- sions, and tumultuous thoughts, / That rage within" and "deform" her "reason" (p. 171). The three elements are evident from our first glimpse into her tortured soul, her letter to Lothario. In it she announces her intention to marry Altamont "in spite of" her "weakness" for Lothario (I, p. 165). The letter also reveals Calista's inner conflict between love and shame when she ambivalently calls Lothario "too faithless, yet too lovely." Then, in the opening scene of Act II, while Calista desires to "hide" from "shame" (p. 169), her "lab'ring" heart "swells with indig- nation" (p. 170) at Lothario (as well as at the idea of being "a tale for fools"), and she longs "to discharge the burden" on him in one last inter- view. And yet, although she insists that she has been "wrong'd enough" to resist Lothario's charm, she admits that she would "pardon" the "dear betrayer" (the combination of words itself indicates her ambiv- alence) if he should "sigh to be forgiven." Lucilla's function during this scene is that traditional spiritual work of mercy, admonishing the sinner. She describes Calista as "Be- nighted in a wilderness of woe" after Lothario, "that wand'ring fire," has "misled" her "weary steps" (p. 169)-an ignis fatuus which is per- haps an allusion to the serpentine "wand'ring Fire" that misleads the steps of Eve in Paradise Lost (IX.634 ff). She herself represents, as her while Lucilla urges Calista to reject the "false Lothario" forever in favor of her bridegroom, who knows not "the courtly vice of changing-the vice to which Calista has fallen victim. Lavinia's comparison of her own heart to a "cottage," an hospitable "lonely dwelling" for her husband, evokes all the benign associations of retirement, while Calista's descrip- tion of the "melancholy scene" she longs to dwell in alone turns cou- tented retirement into a "retreat" of "despair." Most importantly, La- vinia asks if there can be such "false ones" as Horatio describes, and have they peace of mind? Have they in all the series of their changing One happy hour? The very next instant, in perfect stage irony, Calista enters to provide the living answer, as she exclaims, "And my dear peace of mind is lost for ever." Despite her white wedding gown, then, and Altamont's hopes of "white and lucky" days,' Calista is shrouded in "black despair" (Iti, p. 169). She says that all her "thoughts" are "indignation, love or shame," and precisely these conflicting elements make up "The warring pas- sions, and tumultuous thoughts, / That rage within" and "deform" her "reason" (p. 171). The three elements are evident from our first glimpse into her tortured soul, her letter to Lothario. In it she announces her intention to marry Altamont "in spite of" her "weakness" for Lothario (I, p. 165). The letter also reveals Calista's inner conflict between love and shame when she ambivalently calls Lothario "too faithless, yet too lovely." Then, in the opening scene of Act II, while Calista desires to "hide" from "shame" (p. 169), her "lab'ring" heart "swells with indig- nation" (p. 170) at Lothario (as well as at the idea of being "a tale for fools"), and she longs "to discharge the burden" on him in one last inter- view. And yet, although she insists that she has been "wrong'd enough" to resist Lothario's charm, she admits that she would "pardon" the "dear betrayer" (the combination of words itself indicates her ambiv- alence) if he should "sigh to be forgiven." Lucilla's function during this scene is that traditional spiritual work of mercy, admonishing the sinner. She describes Calista as "Be- nighted in a wilderness of woe" after Lothario, "that wand'ring fire," has "misled" her "weary steps" (p. 169)-an ignis fatuus which is per- haps an allusion to the serpentine "wand'ring Fire" that misleads the steps of Eve in Paradise Lost (IX.634 ff). She herself represents, as her  The Fair Penitent 123 The Fair Penitent1 123 The Fair Penitent 123 Dantesque name suggests, the far more reliable guiding light of grace. In language echoing homiletic admonitions to sinners, she warns Calista of "the manifest destruction, / The gaping gulf," into which she is rush- ing in her foolish desire to see "this faithless man again" while relying only on her "Rage" and "indignation" to preserve her from falling anew (p. 170). "Trust not to that," she implores, urging Calista to listen to her "ever-faithful" Lucilla and to embrace the "faithful" Altamont (p. 169). (By now the epithets "faithless" and "faithful" have taken on more than secular connotations.) But when Calista declares that her "genius" drives her on, Lucilla, unequal to the task, entrusts herself to the care of "gracious providence," lest she be similarly deceived. Thus trust in Providence is contrasted to a foolish trust in "indignation," and before Calista's shame and sense of guilt can be efficacious, the play seems to say, she must learn to turn to God with humility. "They that do from the bottom of their hearts acknowledge their sins, and are unfeignedly sorry for their offences," says the authorized "Homily of Repentance," "will cast off all hypocrisie, and put on true humility, and lowliness of heart" (Certain Sermons or Homilies, p. 346). Having observed Calista and "mark'd the starts of guilt, / That shook her soul" (p. 173), Horatio assumes the same function as Lucilla. He will try to convince Calista of "the crime and danger" of ever seeing Lothario again and will try to "wake" any "spark of Heav'n" that re- mains "unquenched / Within her breast" (H.ii, p. 177). Praying that he might find the "gracious words"" to "softly steal upon her soul" with- out arousing her "tempestuous passions" (IH, p. 179), Horatio ap- proaches Calista and offers To sooth the secret anguish of her soul, To comfort that fair mourner, that forlorn one, And teach her steps to know the paths of peace. (p. 180) Calista would like to learn of such a "paradise," for, she says, "'tis sure, I long to be at rest." She does not know that Horatio is aware of her real loss of peace. He responds to her curiosity with the Scholastic ethic that "to be good is to be happy" and that "Guilt is the cause of sorrow," cit- ing the example of "angels" and "the blest," who "Are happier than mankind, because they are better" and who, because they know no guilt, "rest in everlasting peace of mind, / And find the height of all their Heav'n is goodness." But, the implication is, since man is fallen and therefore subject to guilt, the only paradise and peace afforded him Dantesque name suggests, the far more reliable guiding light of grace. In language echoing homiletic admonitions to sinners, she warns Calista of "the manifest destruction, / The gaping gulf," into which she is rush- ing in her foolish desire to see "this faithless man again" while relying only on her "Rage" and "indignation" to preserve her from falling anew (p. 170). "Trust not to that," she implores, urging Calista to listen to her "ever-faithful" Lucilla and to embrace the "faithful" Altamont (p. 169). (By now the epithets "faithless" and "faithful" have taken on more than secular connotations.) But when Calista declares that her "genius" drives her on, Lucilla, unequal to the task, entrusts herself to the care of "gracious providence," lest she be similarly deceived. Thus trust in Providence is contrasted to a foolish trust in "indignation," and before Calista's shame and sese of guilt can be efficacious, the play seems to say, she must learn to turn to God with humility. "They that do from the bottom of their hearts acknowledge their sins, and are unfeignedly sorry for their offenes," says the authorized "Homily of Repentance," "will cast off all hypocrisie, and put on true humility, and lowliness of heart" (Certain Sermons or Homilies, p. 346). Having observed Calista and "mark'd the starts of guilt, / That shook her soul" (p. 173), Horatio assumes the same function as Lucilla. He will try to convince Calista of "the crime and danger" of ever seeing Lothario again and will try to "wake" any "spark of Heav'n" that re- mains "unquenched / Within her breast" (lii, p. 177). Praying that he might find the "gracious words"" to "softly steal upon her soul" with- out arousing her "tempestuous passions" (I1, p. 179), Horatio ap- proaches Calista and offers To sooth the secret anguish of her soul, To comfort that fair mourner, that forlorn one, And teach her steps to know the paths of peace. (p. 180) Calista would like to learn of such a "paradise," for, she says, " 'tis sure, I long to be at rest." She does not know that Horatio is aware of her real loss of peace. He responds to her curiosity with the Scholastic ethic that "to be good is to be happy" and that "Guilt is the cause of sorrow," cit- ing the example of "angels" and "the blest," who "Are happier than mankind, because they are better" and who, because they know no guilt, "rest in everlasting peace of mind, / And find the height of all their Heav'n is goodness." But, the implication is, since man is fallen and therefore subject to guilt, the only paradise and peace afforded him Dantesque name suggests, the far more reliable guiding light of grace. In language echoing homiletic admonitions to sinners, she warns Calista of "the manifest destruction, / The gaping gulf," into which she is rush- ing in her foolish desire to see "this faithless man again" while relying only on her "Rage" and "indignation" to preserve her from falling anew (p. 170). "Trust not to that," she implores, urging Calista to listen to her "ever-faithful" Lucilla and to embrace the "faithful" Altamont (p. 169). (By now the epithets "faithless" and "faithful" have taken on more than secular connotations.) But when Calista declares that her "genius" drives her on, Lucilla, unequal to the task, entrusts herself to the care of "gracious providence," lest she be similarly deceived. Thus trust in Providence is contrasted to a foolish trust in "indignation," and before Calista's shame and sense of guilt can be efficacious, the play seems to say, she must learn to turn to God with humility. "They that do from the bottom of their hearts acknowledge their sins, and are unfeignedly sorry for their offences," says the authorized "Homily of Repentance," "will cast off all hypocrisie, and put on true humility, and lowliness of heart" (Certain Sermons or Homilies, p. 346). Having observed Calista and "mark'd the starts of guilt, / That shook her soul" (p. 173), Horatio assumes the same function as Lucilla. He will try to convince Calista of "the crime and danger" of ever seeing Lothario again and will try to "wake" any "spark of Heav'n" that re- mains "unquenched / Within her breast" (11.ii, p. 177). Praying that he might find the "gracious words"" to "softly steal upon her soul" with- out arousing her "tempestuous passions" (III, p. 179), Horatio ap- proaches Calista and offers To sooth the secret anguish of her soul, To comfort that fair mourner, that forlorn one, And teach her steps to know the paths of peace. (p. 180) Calista would like to learn of such a "paradise," for, she says, " 'tis sure, I long to be at rest." She does not know that Horatio is aware of her real loss of peace. He responds to her curiosity with the Scholastic ethic that "to be good is to be happy" and that "Guilt is the cause of sorrow," cit- ing the example of "angels" and "the blest," who "Are happier than mankind, because they are better" and who, because they know no guilt, "rest in everlasting peace of mind, / And find the height of all their Heav'n is goodness." But, the implication is, since man is fallen and therefore subject to guilt, the only paradise and peace afforded him  124 The Trial of the Sinner 124 The Trial of the Sinner 124 The Trial of the Sinner in this life is that paradise within which comes from virtuous activity. Thus Horatio answers Calista's desire (as well as Sciolto and Altamont's, by the way) for "paradise" and "peace of mind." When, despite Horatio's awkward efforts to be subtly suggestive, Calista meets his admonition with indignation that some "bold para- site's officious tongue" should "dare to tax" her "with guilt" (p. 181), he is forced to name her sin explicitly (though ascribing the attribution to rumor): she is a false fair one, Who plighted to a noble youth her faith When she had giv'n her honour to a wretch. Thus Calista's worst crime is not the fornication itself, which was a sin of passion as Lothario describes it (I, p. 162), but rather the hypocrisy of her pledge of "faith" and her pollution of that "nuptial band," which Horatio tells Lavinia "should be the pledge of peace" (p. 168). Because Calista and Altamont are not "one," even as the "blended waters" of "meeting rivers" (III, p. 180); because they are not "join'd by Heav'n," as Horatio so pointedly implies, a "train of wretchedness" will follow their marriage. In other words, their marriage is in direct contrast to Horatio and Lavinia's, which, as Frank Kearful has pointed out in his article, "The Nature of Tragedy in Rowe's The Fair Penitent" (p. 357 ff), provides the marital norm in the play, expressed especially in the sen- tentious closing tags of each act. In the tag at the end of Act III, La- vinia's statement that for Horatio she will forsake "country, brother, friends, ev'n all I have" (p. 188), seems to me to establish positively, if Horatio's talk of "meeting rivers" is not enough, the scriptural standard for marriage: "Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh" (Gen. 2:24, etc.). As the concluding moral of the play indicates, Calista's violation of this sacred union is one of Horatio's-and the play's-chief concerns: By such examples are we taught to prove, The sorrows that attend unlawful love; Death, or some worse misfortunes, soon divide The injur'd bridegroom from his guilty bride: If you would have the nuptial union last, Let virtue be the bond that ties it fast. (V, p. 207) It is important for those who would dismiss this tag as obnoxious moral- in this life is that paradise within which comes from virtuous activity. Thus Horatio answers Calista's desire (as well as Sciolto and Altamont's, by the way) for "paradise" and "peace of mind." When, despite Horatio's awkward efforts to be subtly suggestive, Calista meets his admonition with indignation that some "bold para- site's officious tongue" should "dare to tax" her "with guilt" (p. 181), he is forced to name her sin explicitly (though ascribing the attribution to rumor): she is a false fair one, Who plighted to a noble youth her faith When she had giv'n her honour to a wretch. Thus Calista's worst crime is not the fornication itself, which was a sin of passion as Lothario describes it (I, p. 162), but rather the hypocrisy of her pledge of "faith" and her pollution of that "nuptial band," which Horatio tells Lavinia "should be the pledge of peace" (p. 168). Because Calista and Altamont are not "one," even as the "blended waters" of "meeting rivers" (III, p. 180); because they are not "join'd by Heav'n," as Horatio so pointedly implies, a "train of wretchedness" will follow their marriage. In other words, their marriage is in direct contrast to Horatio and Lavinia's, which, as Frank Kearful has pointed out in his article, "The Nature of Tragedy in Rowe's The Fair Penitent" (p. 357 ff), provides the marital norm in the play, expressed especially in the sen- tentious closing tags of each act. In the tag at the end of Act II, La- vinia's statement that for Horatio she will forsake "country, brother, friends, ev'n all I have" (p. 188), seems to me to establish positively, if Horatio's talk of "meeting rivers" is not enough, the scriptural standard for marriage: "Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh" (Gen. 2:24, etc.). As the concluding moral of the play indicates, Calista's violation of this sacred union is one of Horatio's-and the play's-chief concerns: By such examples are we taught to prove, The sorrows that attend unlawful love; Death, or some worse misfortunes, soon divide The injur'd bridegroom from his guilty bride: If you would have the nuptial union last, Let virtue be the bond that ties it fast. (V, p. 207) It is important for those who would dismiss this tag as obnoxious moral- in this life is that paradise within which comes from virtuous activity. Thus Horatio answers Calista's desire (as well as Sciolto and Altamont's, by the way) for "paradise" and "peace of mind." When, despite Horatio's awkward efforts to be subtly suggestive, Calista meets his admonition with indignation that some "bold para- site's officious tongue" should "dare to tax" her "with guilt" (p. 181), he is forced to name her sin explicitly (though ascribing the attribution to rumor): she is a false fair one, Who plighted to a noble youth her faith When she had giv'n her honour to a wretch. Thus Calista's worst crime is not the fornication itself, which was a sin of passion as Lothario describes it (I, p. 162), but rather the hypocrisy of her pledge of "faith" and her pollution of that "nuptial band," which Horatio tells Lavinia "should be the pledge of peace" (p. 168). Because Calista and Altamont are not "one," even as the "blended waters" of "meeting rivers" (I p. 180); because they are not "join'd by Heav'n," as Horatio so pointedly implies, a "train of wretchedness" will follow their marriage. In other words, their marriage is in direct contrast to Horatio and Lavinia's, which, as Frank Kearful has pointed out in his article, "The Nature of Tragedy in Rowe's The Fair Penitent" (p. 357 ff), provides the marital norm in the play, expressed especially in the sen- tentious closing tags of each act. In the tag at the end of Act I1, La- vinia's statement that for Horatio she will forsake "country, brother, friends, ev'n all I have" (p. 188), seems to me to establish positively, if Horatio's talk of "meeting rivers" is not enough, the scriptural standard for marriage: "Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh" (Gen. 2:24, etc.). As the concluding moral of the play indicates, Calista's violation of this sacred union is one of Horatio's-and the play's-chief concerns: By such examples are we taught to prove, The sorrows that attend unlawful love; Death, or some worse misfortunes, soon divide The injur'd bridegroom from his guilty bride: If you would have the nuptial union last, Let virtue be the bond that ties it fast. (V, p. 207) It is important for those who would dismiss this tag as obnoxious moral-  T he Fair Penitent 1 25 The Fair Penitent 125 The Fair Penitent 125 izing to see at least that the didacticism is based upon a sacramental definition of marriage and that the poetic justice practiced on Calista and promised for those who abuse the "nuptial union" is, in the uni- verse this play images, a divine judgment. Prompted by Calista's bold contempt and indignation, Horatio grows finally bold himself and insists that Calista, if her "fame" or "peace" are worth her "care," must "listen to the means are left to save 'em" (Itt, p. 181f: 'Tis now the lucky minute of your fate. By me your genius speaks, by me it warns you, Never to see that curst Lothario more. (p. 182) Just as he has been Lothario's "genius" (an "evil" one to the mind of Lothario but a good one in the world of the play), so now Horatio as- sumes the role of "genius" to Calista implicitly in opposition to the "genius" that she earlier says drives her on to see Lothario again (Idi, p. 170). In Rowe's obviously calculated repetition of the word, there is the intimation that Calista's opposing genii owe something to the good and bad angels of the Morality plays, who contend for the protagonist's soul. Lothario might be seen, then, as something like Calista's evil gen- ius or bad angel (certainly her satanic tempter), who seduces her when "Fierceness and pride, the guardians of her honor, / Were charm'd to rest" (, p. 162). Lucilla and Horatio are also something like guardians of her honor, metaphorically good or guardian angels. Horatio's com- mand that Calista "kneel" and "in the awful face of Heav'n" vow never to see Lothario again indicates his function (albeit assumed) of heavenly agent (11, p. 182). Nevertheless, as she did Lucilla's Calista rejects Ho- ratio's admonitions, squelching his triumphant display of the lost letter by snatching and destroying it. Finally she declares, I am myself the guardian of my honour, And wo'not bear so insolent a monitor. In the context I have been describing, the word guardian takes on spe- cial connotations which serve-not so much to identify Horatio as a guardian angel-but to complete the process of identifying his function as ad-monitor and to focus our attention on the theological nature of Calista's struggle. A moment later, despite her indignation at Horatio and subsequently at Altamont for defending his friend; despite her rail- izing to see at least that the didacticism is based upon a sacramental definition of marriage and that the poetic justice practiced on Calista and promised for those who abuse the "nuptial union" is, in the uni- verse this play images, a divine judgment. Prompted by Calista's bold contempt and indignation, Horatio grows finally bold himself and insists that Calista, if her "fame" or "peace" are worth her "care," must "listen to the means are left to save 'em" (III, p. 181 f): 'Tis now the lucky minute of your fate. By me your genius speaks, by me it warns you, Never to see that curst Lothario more. (p. 182) Just as he has been Lothario's "genius" (an "evil" one to the mind of Lothario but a good one in the world of the play), so now Horatio as- sumes the role of "genius" to Calista implicitly in opposition to the "genius" that she earlier says drives her on to see Lothario again (Iti, p. 170). In Rowe's obviously calculated repetition of the word, there is the intimation that Calista's opposing genii owe something to the good and bad angels of the Morality plays, who contend for the protagonist's soul. Lothario might be seen, then, as something like Calista's evil gen- ius or bad angel (certainly her satanic tempter), who seduces her when "Fierceness and pride, the guardians of her honor, / Were charm'd to rest" (I, p. 162). Lucilla and Horatio are also something like guardians of her honor, metaphorically good or guardian angels. Horatio's com- mand that Calista "kneel" and "in the awful face of Heav'n" vow never to see Lothario again indicates his function (albeit assumed) of heavenly agent (I1, p. 182). Nevertheless, as she did Lucilla's Calista rejects Ho- ratio's admonitions, squelching his triumphant display of the lost letter by snatching and destroying it. Finally she declares, I am myself the guardian of my honour, And wo'not bear so insolent a monitor. In the context I have been describing, the word guardian takes on spe- cial connotations which serve-not so much to identify Horatio as a guardian angel-but to complete the process of identifying his function as ad-monitor and to focus our attention on the theological nature of Calista's struggle. A moment later, despite her indignation at Horatio and subsequently at Altamont for defending his friend; despite her rail- izing to see at least that the didacticism is based upon a sacramental definition of marriage and that the poetic justice practiced on Calista and promised for those who abuse the "nuptial union" is, in the uni- verse this play images, a divine judgment. Prompted by Calista's bold contempt and indignation, Horatio grows finally bold himself and insists that Calista, if her "fame" or "peace" are worth her "care," must "listen to the means are left to save 'em" (III, p. 181 f): 'Tis now the lucky minute of your fate. By me your genius speaks, by me it warns you, Never to see that curst Lothario more. (p. 182) Just as he has been Lothario's "genius" (an "evil" one to the mind of Lothario but a good one in the world of the play), so now Horatio as- sumes the role of "genius" to Calista implicitly in opposition to the "genius" that she earlier says drives her on to see Lothario again (Ii, p. 170). In Rowe's obviously calculated repetition of the word, there is the intimation that Calista's opposing genii owe something to the good and bad angels of the Morality plays, who contend for the protagonist's soul. Lothario might be seen, then, as something like Calista's evil gen- ius or bad angel (certainly her satanic tempter), who seduces her when "Fierceness and pride, the guardians of her honor, / Were charm'd to rest" (I, p. 162). Lucilla and Horatio are also something like guardians of her honor, metaphorically good or guardian angels. Horatio's com- mand that Calista "kneel" and "in the awful face of Heav'n" vow never to see Lothario again indicates his function (albeit assumed) of heavenly agent (III, p. 182). Nevertheless, as she did Lucilla's Calista rejects Ho- ratio's admonitions, squelching his triumphant display of the lost letter by snatching and destroying it. Finally she declares, I am myself the guardian of my honour, And wo'not bear so insolent a monitor. In the context I have been describing, the word guardian takes on spe- cial connotations which serve-not so much to identify Horatio as a guardian angel-but to complete the process of identifying his function as ad-monitor and to focus our attention on the theological nature of Calista's struggle. A moment later, despite her indignation at Horatio and subsequently at Altamont for defending his friend; despite her rail-  126 The Trial of the Sinner ing at "the marriage chain" and "that tyrant, man," Calista reveals, however unintentionally, her awareness of the need for repentance in her threat to retire to a "cloister" to learn "religious hardships," to "fast, and freeze at midnight hours of pray'r." What she says in petulant spite is ironically the only appropriate course of action. Calista does not yet repent, however. Ignoring the warnings of Lucilla and Horatio, she keeps her rendezvous with Lothario in what is the cen- tral scene of the play. "They that do truly repent," says the "Homily of Repentance," "must be clean altered and changed, they must be- come new creatures, they must be no more the same that they were be- fore." Such an alteration is called "amendment of life," and it is one of the four necessary parts of repentance (p. 346). In Christian literature proof of such purpose of amendment usually takes the form of the trial of the sinner in the same temptation to which he has earlier succumbed. Milton's Samson Agonistes is a perfect example, where Samson's cli- mactic encounter with Dalila tests his incipient repentance against the uxoriousness to which he has twice fallen prey. Like Samson, Rowe's Calista must prove that she has leamed "so much of Adder's wisdom" to "fence" her ear against Lothario's "sorceries" (SA 936 f), and not to let, as Lucilla has warned, the "deceiver love" overcome her once more, Only then can she progress, as Samson does, toward placing her trust "in the living God" and despairing "not of his final pardon / Whose ear is ever open" (SA 1140, 1171 f). The severity of Calista's trial is emphasized by Rowe's portrayal of her tempter in such attractive colors that, as Frank Kearful and others have pointed out, many of Rowe's eighteenth-century critics, including Doctor Johnson, questioned either Rowe's morality or his artistic judg- ment-or both." Kearful rightly shows, however, that "such attacks fail to do justice to the complexity of ... Rowe's moral awareness"-and religious awareness, I would add. He continues, "Precisely because evil so often is more obviously attractive than goodness is Rowe's characteri- zation appropriate-and moral" (p. 354)." Indeed, Rowe's practice is in accord with that of Spenser (the Bower of Bliss), Marlowe (Helen of Troy), Shakespeare (tago or Cleopatra), Milton (Satan or Dalila), Otway (Don John"), and the Christian tradition in general. The appeal and ppoularity of the gay Lothario is thus not a mark of Rowe's failure but of his great success. Now on the one hand, the appeal of Lothario is a mitigating factor 126 The Trial of the Sinner 126 The Trial of the Sinner ing at "the marriage chain" and "that tyrant, man," Calista reveals, however unintentionally, her awareness of the need for repentance in her threat to retire to a "cloister" to learn "religious hardships," to "fast, and freeze at midnight hours of pray'r." What she says in petulant spite is ironically the only appropriate course of action. Calista does not yet repent, however. Ignoring the warnings of Lucilla and Horatio, she keeps her rendezvous with Lothario in what is the cen- tral scene of the play. "They that do truly repent," says the "Homily of Repentance," "must be clean altered and changed, they must be- come new creatures, they must be no more the same that they were be- fore." Such an alteration is called "amendment of life," and it is one of the four necessary parts of repentance (p. 346). In Christian literature proof of such purpose of amendment usually takes the form of the trial of the sinner in the same temptation to which he has earlier succumbed. Milton's Samson Agonistes is a perfect example, where Samson's cli- mactic encounter with Dalila tests his incipient repentance against the uxoriousness to which he has twice fallen prey. Like Samson, Rowe's Calista must prove that she has learned "so much of Adder's wisdom" to "fence" her ear against Lothario's "sorceries" (SA 936 f), and not to let, as Lucilla has warned, the "deceiver love" overcome her once more. Only then can she progress, as Samson does, toward placing her trust "in the living God" and despairing "not of his final pardon / Whose ear is ever open" (SA 1140, 1171 f). The severity of Calista's trial is emphasized by Rowe's portrayal of her tempter in such attractive colors that, as Frank Kearful and others have pointed out, many of Rowe's eighteenth-century critics, including Doctor Johnson, questioned either Rowe's morality or his artistic judg- ment-or both." Kearful rightly shows, however, that "such attacks fail to do justice to the complexity of ... Rowe's moral awareness"-and religious awareness, I would add. He continues, "Precisely because evil so often is more obviously attractive than goodness is Rowe's characteri- zation appropriate-and moral" (p. 354)." Indeed, Rowe's practice is in accord with that of Spenser (the Bower of Bliss), Marlowe (Helen of Troy), Shakespeare (Iago or Cleopatra), Milton (Satan or Dalila), Otway (Don John"), and the Christian tradition in general. The appeal and popularity of the gay Lothario is thus not a mark of Rowe's failure but of his great success. Now on the one hand, the appeal of Lothario is a mitigating factor ing at "the marriage chain" and "that tyrant, man," Calista reveals, however unintentionally, her awareness of the need for repentance in her threat to retire to a "cloister" to learn "religious hardships," to "fast, and freeze at midnight hours of pray'r." What she says in petulant spite is ironically the only appropriate course of action. Calista does not yet repent, however. Ignoring the warnings of Lucilla and Horatio, she keeps her rendezvous with Lothario in what is the cen- tral scene of the play. "They that do truly repent," says the "Homily of Repentance" "must be clean altered and changed, they must be- come new creatures, they must be no more the same that they were be- fore." Such an alteration is called "amendment of life," and it is one of the four necessary parts of repentance (p. 346). In Christian literature proof of such purpose of amendment usually takes the form of the trial of the sinner in the same temptation to which he has earlier succumbed. Milton's Samson Agonistes is a perfect example, where Samson's cli- mactic encounter with Dalila tests his incipient repentance against the uxoriousness to which he has twice fallen prey. Like Samson, Rowe's Calista must prove that she has learned "so much of Adder's wisdom" to "fence" her ear against Lothario's "sorceries" (SA 936 f), and not to let, as Lucilla has warned, the "deceiver love" overcome her once more. Only then can she progress, as Samson does, toward placing her trust "in the living God" and despairing "not of his final pardon / Whose ear is ever open" (SA 1140, 1171 f). The severity of Calista's trial is emphasized by Rowe's portrayal of her tempter in such attractive colors that, as Frank Kearful and others have pointed out, many of Rowe's eighteenth-century critics, including Doctor Johnson, questioned either Rowe's morality or his artistic judg- ment-or both." Kearful rightly shows, however, that "such attacks fail to do justice to the complexity of . ..Rowe's moral awareness"-and religious awareness, I would add. He continues, "Precisely because evil so often is more obviously attractive than goodness is Rowe's characteri- zation appropriate-and moral" (p. 354)." Indeed, Rowe's practice is in accord with that of Spenser (the Bower of Bliss), Marlowe (Helen of Troy), Shakespeare (tago or Cleopatra), Milton (Satan or Dalila), Otway (Don John5), and the Christian tradition in general. The appeal and popularity of the gay Lothario is thus not a mark of Rowe's failure but of his great success. Now on the one hand, the appeal of Lothario is a mitigating factor  The Fair Penitent 127 The Fair Penitent1 127 The Fair Penitent 127 in the imputability of Calista's guilt, for he is truly a seductive devil and has taken her in an hour of weakness (I, p. 162). As a final mitigating factor, Rowe has Lothario report that Calista, at their next meeting after the seduction, Call'd ev'ry saint and blessed angel down, To witness for her that she was my wife. Thus, "Heav'n, who knows our weak imperfect natures, / How blind with passions, and how prone to evil," would not make "too strict in- quiry" for her "offence" with Lothario (though the pollution of her marriage is a different story). On the other hand, by the time of her meet- ing with him in Act IV, Calista is fully aware of Lothario's intentions, as is the audience, which has heard him gloat to Rossano and tease and toy with Lucilla. So Calista would have no excuse for falling again. Yet, as she has admitted to Lucilla, she still loves him. This moment is the trial, as Rowe has said so often before, the climax of Calista's war of pas- sions, indignation, love, and shame. And she passes the test. In words that recall and reinforce her earlier talk of retiring to a "cloister," she meets Lothario with resignation and the kind of "Adder's wisdom" Sam- son learned: Seek not to sooth me with thy false endearments, To charm me with thy softness: 'tis in vain; Thou canst no more betray, nor I be ruin'd. The hours of folly, and of fond delight, Are wasted all and fled; those that remain Are doom'd to weeping, anguish, and repentance. (p. 189) She shuts her ears to his sensual reminiscing on their sin, bidding "That guilty night" be concealed forever since it gave her up to "shame" and "sorrow" (p. 189 f). Lothario's specious arguments that they continue their affair in adultery Calista meets with indignation and disdain. Though for a moment she thinks how happy she might have been with him, she finally and fully sees him for what he is-a libertine rake-and out of this awareness, not merely out of indignation, she makes her final rejection: But wherefore nam'd I happiness with thee? It is for thee, for thee, that I am curst; in the imputability of Calista's guilt, for he is truly a seductive devil and has taken her in an hour of weakness (I, p. 162). As a final mitigating factor, Rowe has Lothario report that Calista, at their next meeting after the seduction, Cad ev'ry saint and blessed angel down, To witness for her that she was my wife. Thus, "Heav'n, who knows our weak imperfect natures, / How blind with passions, and how prone to evil," would not make "too strict in- quiry" for her "offence" with Lothario (though the pollution of her marriage is a different story). On the other hand, by the time of her meet- ing with him in Act IV, Calista is fully aware of Lothario's intentions, as is the audience, which has heard him gloat to Rossano and tease and toy with Lucilla. So Calista would have no excuse for falling again. Yet, as she has admitted to Lucilla, she still loves him. This moment is the trial, as Rowe has said so often before, the climax of Calista's war of pas- sions, indignation, love, and shame. And she passes the test. In words that recall and reinforce her earlier talk of retiring to a "cloister," she meets Lothario with resignation and the kind of "Adder's wisdom" Sam- son learned: Seek not to sooth me with thy false endearments, To charm me with thy softness: 'tis in vain; Thou canst no more betray, nor I be ruin'd. The hours of folly, and of fond delight, Are wasted all and fled; those that remain Are doom'd to weeping, anguish, and repentance. (p. 189) She shuts her ears to his sensual reminiscing on their sin, bidding "That guilty night" be concealed forever since it gave her up to "shame" and "sorrow" (p. 189 f). Lothario's specious arguments that they continue their affair in adultery Calista meets with indignation and disdain. Though for a moment she thinks how happy she might have been with him, she finally and fully sees him for what he is-a libertine rake-and out of this awareness, not merely out of indignation, she makes her final rejection: But wherefore nam'd I happiness with thee? It is for thee, for thee, that I am curst; in the imputability of Calista's guilt, for he is truly a seductive devil and has taken her in an hour of weakness (I, p. 162). As a final mitigating factor, Rowe has Lothario report that Calista, at their next meeting after the seduction, Call'd ev'ry saint and blessed angel down, To witness for her that she was my wife. Thus, "Heav'n, who knows our weak imperfect natures, / How blind with passions, and how prone to evil," would not make "too strict in- quiry" for her "offence" with Lothario (though the pollution of her marriage is a different story). On the other hand, by the time of her meet- ing with him in Act IV, Calista is fully aware of Lothario's intentions, as is the audience, which has heard him gloat to Rossano and tease and toy with Lucilla. So Calista would have no excuse for falling again. Yet, as she has admitted to Lucilla, she still loves him. This moment is the trial, as Rowe has said so often before, the climax of Calista's war of pas- sions, indignation, love, and shame. And she passes the test. In words that recall and reinforce her earlier talk of retiring to a "cloister," she meets Lothario with resignation and the kind of "Adder's wisdom" Sam- son learned: Seek not to sooth me with thy false endearments, To charm me with thy softness: 'tis in vain; Thou canst no more betray, nor I be ruin'd. The hours of folly, and of fond delight, Are wasted all and fled; those that remain Are doom'd to weeping, anguish, and repentance. (p. 189) She shuts her ears to his sensual reminiscing on their sin, bidding "That guilty night" be concealed forever since it gave her up to "shame" and "sorrow" (p. 189 f). Lothario's specious arguments that they continue their affair in adultery Calista meets with indignation and disdain. Though for a moment she thinks how happy she might have been with him, she finally and fully sees him for what he is-a libertine rake-and out of this awareness, not merely out of indignation, she makes her final rejection: But wherefore nam'd I happiness with thee? It is for thee, for thee, that I am curst;  128 The Trial of the Sinner 128 The Trial of the Sinner 128 The Trial of the Sinner For thee, my secret soul each hour arraigns me, Calls me to answer for my virtue stain'd, My honour lost to thee; for thee it haunts me, With stem Sciolto vowing vengeance on me; With Altamont complaining for his wrongs. (p. 190f) While by no means a complete conversion to repentance, Calista's rejection does seem to open the way for grace (if she will only accept it). In the subsequent "combat" which Lothario calls on "Earth, Heav'n, and fair Calista" to judge, Altamnont must be seen as the champion of the cause of men, God, and Calista's soul. His role as a kind of champion is underlined when Lothario says, "thy genius is the stronger" (p. 191), for Rowe has weighted the word "genius" with angelic connotations. Altamont's defeat of Lothario, then, not only represents the just punish- ment of the libertine but also suggests a providential approbation of Calista's resistance to her tempter. And yet, because she has, against the warnings of her good genii, stubbornly insisted on seeing Lothario again, she pays a terrible price for her triumph: her lover is killed and the ruin of her "Name," her "Family," and her "Estate" has begun. iii The shock of Lothario's death and of her exposure impels the proud Calista not to contrition but to despair. She cannot bear to have her "shame" revealed or to be "forgiv'n," "Daily to be reproach'd" or "to be outdone" by Altamont's virtue (p. 191 ff). So she first tries in vain to kill herself, then longs for a "grave beneath," to be "sunk to the bottom low" (p. 192). When her outraged father learns the truth, Calista, com- pletely mortified, begs him for the "mercy" of death (p. 193). Such a plea is ironic, because Calista should be asking for mercy, but not that of a summary execution. Once again, as in Rowe's other tragedies-and Christian tragedies in general-the conflict is ultimately between trust in Providence and despair. The depth of Calista's despair is indicated by her desire to "curse / The chearful day, men, earth, and heaven," and even Sciolto "For being author of a wretch" like her-a desire reminis- cent of and as spiritually deadly as the temptation of Job to "curse God, and die" (2:9). Again in her spite and self-pity Calista vows to "fly" to a "dismal" and desperate retreat. Yet again her description of the retreat is ambiguous, since it also depicts a penitential sequestration. She talks of "Fasting, and tears, and hardship" without "light" or "food" or "comfort" (p. 194). Though she is describing a suicidal despair and is For thee, my secret soul each hour arraigns me, Calls me to answer for my virtue stain'd, My honour lost to thee; for thee it haunts me, With ster Sciolto vowing vengeance on me; With Altamont complaining for his wrongs. (p. 190 f)" While by no means a complete conversion to repentance, Calista's rejection does seem to open the way for grace (if she will only accept it). In the subsequent "combat" which Lothario calls on "Earth, Heav'n, and fair Calista" to judge, Altamont must be seen as the champion of the cause of men, God, and Calista's soul. His role as a kind of champion is underlined when Lothario says, "thy genius is the stronger" (p. 191), for Rowe has weighted the word "genius" with angelic connotations. Altamont's defeat of Lothario, then, not only represents the just punish- ment of the libertine but also suggests a providential approbation of Calista's resistance to her tempter. And yet, because she has, against the warnings of her good genii, stubbornly insisted on seeing Lothario again, she pays a terrible price for her triumph: her lover is killed and the ruin of her "Name," her "Family," and her "Estate" has begun. iii The shock of Lothario's death and of her exposure impels the proud Calista not to contrition but to despair. She cannot bear to have her "shame" revealed or to be "forgiv'n," "Daily to be reproach'd" or "to be outdone" by Altamont's virtue (p. 191 ff). So she first tries in vain to kill herself, then longs for a "grave beneath," to be "sunk to the bottom low" (p. 192). When her outraged father learns the truth, Calista, com- pletely mortified, begs him for the "mercy" of death (p. 193). Such a plea is ironic, because Calista should be asking for mercy, but not that of a summary execution. Once again, as in Rowe's other tragedies-and Christian tragedies in general-the conflict is ultimately between trust in Providence and despair. The depth of Calista's despair is indicated by her desire to "curse / The chearful day, men, earth, and heaven," and even Sciolto "For being author of a wretch" like her-a desire reminis- cent of and as spiritually deadly as the temptation of Job to "curse God, and die" (2:9). Again in her spite and self-pity Calista vows to "fly" to a "dismal" and desperate retreat. Yet again her description of the retreat is ambiguous, since it also depicts a penitential sequestration. She talks of "Fasting, and tears, and hardship" without "light" or "food" or "comfort" (p. 194). Though she is describing a suicidal despair and is For thee, my secret soul each hour arraigns me, Calls me to answer for my virtue stain'd, My honour lost to thee; for thee it haunts me, With stern Sciolto vowing vengeance on me; With Altamont complaining for his wrongs. (p. 190 f)" While by no means a complete conversion to repentance, Calista's rejection does seem to open the way for grace (if she will only accept it). In the subsequent "combat" which Lothario calls on "Earth, Heav'n, and fair Calista" to judge, Altamont must be seen as the champion of the came of men, God, and Calista's soul. His role as a kind of champion is underlined when Lothario says, "thy genius is the stronger" (p. 191), for Rowe has weighted the word "genius" with angelic connotations. Altamont's defeat of Lothario, then, not only represents the just punish- ment of the libertine but also suggests a providential approbation of Calista's resistance to her tempter. And yet, because she has, against the warnings of her good genii, stubbornly insisted on seeing Lothario again, she pays a terrible price for her triumph: her lover is killed and the ruin of her "Name," her "Family," and her "Estate" has begun. iii The shock of Lothario's death and of her exposure impels the proud Calista not to contrition but to despair. She cannot bear to have her "shame" revealed or to be "forgiv'n," "Daily to be reproach'd" or "to be outdone" by Altamont's virtue (p. 191 ff). So she first tries in vain to kill herself, then longs for a "grave beneath," to be "sunk to the bottom low" (p. 192). When her outraged father learns the truth, Calista, com- pletely mortified, begs him for the "mercy" of death (p. 193). Such a plea is ironic, because Calista should be asking for mercy, but not that of a summary execution. Once again, as in Rowe's other tragedies-and Christian tragedies in general-the conflict is ultimately between trust in Providence and despair. The depth of Calista's despair is indicated by her desire to "curse / The chearful day, men, earth, and heaven," and even Sciolto "For being author of a wretch" like her-a desire reminis- cent of and as spiritually deadly as the temptation of Job to "curse God, and die" (2:9). Again in her spite and self-pity Calista vows to "fly" to a "dismal" and desperate retreat. Yet again her description of the retreat is ambiguous, since it also depicts a penitential sequestration. She talks of "Fasting, and tears, and hardship" without "light" or "food" or "comfort" (p. 194). Though she is describing a suicidal despair and is  The Fair Penitent 129 spitefully taunting Sciolto, still she declares that before her death Sciolto will see, At length her tears have wash'd her stains away, At length 'tis time her punishment should cease. The implication of her equivocal words, then, is that her soul is torn between contrition and chagrin, and the question the play now asks, from the moment of Lothario's death, is whether Calista will die, like Lothario, indignantly recalcitrant. Her indignation is, of couise, both her greatest virtue and her greatest vice, and Rowe's successful por- trayal of it is what makes her the finest character he ever drew. From beginning to end Calista is magnificent in her indignant response to everything from false lovers to would-be monitors to tyrannic husbands and fathers to pedant "gownmen" (V, p. 200). The tragedy is that such a great spirit has been derailed, and the audience anxiously attends her end: whether indignation will lead ultimately to salvation or damna- tion; whether such a spirit can ever bear to be "forgiv'n." This is Ca- lista's final trial. With only a few recent exceptions, critics have long maintained that the title of this play is a misnomer, that Calista is not "penitent" at all." They argue that she completely rejects penitence in Act V. In his very fine article "The Tradition of the Formal Meditation in Rowe's The Fair Penitent," however, Lindley Wyman has shown us that the opening of the act is not "melodramatic," as most critics insist, but that the trappings of the scene-especially the skull and the book"--are tra- ditional devices for provoking a meditation on death that leads to peni- tence. Wyman points out that Calista's rejection of the artificial peni- tential book (and, I might add, of the "pageantry" and "farce" of the skull and bones) is not a rejection of penitence but a measure of the depth of remorse which Calista feels, a depth beyond that which such a book can reach (p. 416): as Calista says, I have more real anguish in my heart, Than all their pedant discipline e'er knew. (p. 201) Calista has not yet turned remorse into repentance, however. She is still on the brink of despair, as the act's opening song attests, with its phan- tasmagorical rendition of a demonic temptation to suicide (similar to that endured by Aribert in The Royal Convert). Indignation, love, and The Fair Penitent 129 spitefully taunting Sciolto, still she declares that before her death Sciolto will see, At length her tears have wash'd her stains away, At length 'tis time her punishment should cease. The implication of her equivocal words, then, is that her soul is torn between contrition and chagrin, and the question the play now asks, from the moment of Lothario's death, is whether Calista will die, like Lothario, indignantly recalcitrant. Her indignation is, of course, both her greatest virtue and her greatest vice, and Rowe's successful por- trayal of it is what makes her the finest character he ever drew. From beginning to end Calista is magnificent in her indignant response to everything from false lovers to would-be monitors to tyrannic husbands and fathers to pedant "gownmen" (V, p. 200). The tragedy is that such a great spirit has been derailed, and the audience anxiously attends her end: whether indignation will lead ultimately to salvation or damna- tion; whether such a spirit can ever bear to be "forgiv'n." This is Ca- lista's final trial. With only a few recent exceptions, critics have long maintained that the title of this play is a misnomer, that Calista is not "penitent" at all." They argue that she completely rejects penitence in Act V. In his very fine article "The Tradition of the Formal Meditation in Rowe's The Fair Penitent," however, Lindley Wyman has shown us that the opening of the act is not "melodramatic," as most critics insist, but that the trappings of the scene-especially the skull and the book'-are tra- ditional devices for provoking a meditation on death that leads to peni- tence. Wyman points out that Calista's rejection of the artificial peni- tential book (and, I might add, of the "pageantry" and "farce" of the skull and bones) is not a rejection of penitence but a measure of the depth of remorse which Calista feels, a depth beyond that which such a book can reach (p. 416): as Calista says, I have more real anguish in my heart, Than all their pedant discipline e'er knew. (p. 201) Calista has not yet turned remorse into repentance, however. She is still on the brink of despair, as the act's opening song attests, with its phan- tasmagorical rendition of a demonic temptation to suicide (similar to that endured by Aribert in The Royal Convert). Indignation, love, and The Fair Penitent 129 spitefully taunting Sciolto, still she declares that before her death Sciolto will see, At length her tears have wash'd her stains away, At length 'tis time her punishment should cease. The implication of her equivocal words, then, is that her soul is torn between contrition and chagrin, and the question the play now asks, from the moment of Lothario's death, is whether Calista will die, like Lothario, indignantly recalcitrant. Her indignation is, of couse, both her greatest virtue and her greatest vice, and Rowe's successful por- trayal of it is what makes her the finest character he ever drew. From beginning to end Calista is magnificent in her indignant response to everything from false lovers to would-be monitors to tyrannic husbands and fathers to pedant "gownmen" (V, p. 200). The tragedy is that such a great spirit has been derailed, and the audience anxiously attends her end: whether indignation will lead ultimately to salvation or damna- tion; whether such a spirit can ever bear to be "forgiv'n." This is Ca- lista's final trial. With only a few recent exceptions, critics have long maintained that the title of this play is a misnomer, that Calista is not "penitent" at all." They argue that she completely rejects penitence in Act V. In his very fine article "The Tradition of the Formal Meditation in Rowe's The Fair Penitent," however, Lindley Wyman has shown us that the opening of the act is not "melodramatic," as most critics insist, but that the trappings of the scene-especially the skull and the book"-are tra- ditional devices for provoking a meditation on death that leads to peni- tence. Wyman points out that Calista's rejection of the artificial peni- tential book (and, I might add, of the "pageantry" and "farce" of the skull and bones) is not a rejection of penitence but a measure of the depth of remorse which Calista feels, a depth beyond that which such a book can reach (p. 416): as Calista says, I have more real anguish in my heart, Than all their pedant discipline e'er knew. (p. 201) Calista has not yet turned remorse into repentance, however. She is still on the brink of despair, as the act's opening song attests, with its phan- tasmagorical rendition of a demonic temptation to suicide (similar to that endured by Aribert in The Royal Convert). Indignation, love, and  130 The Trial of the Sinner shame still divide her soul: her persistent ambivalence toward Lothario is reflected in the epithet "dear perfidious" (p. 202)," and she meets Sciolto's "fatal indignation" by mustering her own haughty spirit. When he asks if she has "dar'd to meditate on death" and "consider'd what may happen after it-how her "account may stand, and what to answer"-Calista responds that she has "turn'd" her "eyes inward" and has found such "foul offence" that she longs for death as "the end of shame and sorrow" and as a "place of rest."" Thus her shame, like Sam- son's at first, tends to self-loathing, a course of action, according to Mil- ton, which is diametrically opposed to Christian patience and righ- teousness (see SA 503n). In one of the play's (and Rowe's) most poignant passages, Calista says in her despair, Death is the privilege of human nature, And life without it were not worth our taking; Thither the poor, the pris'ner, and the mouner, Fly for relief, and lay their burdens down. (p. 203) As we have seen before in this study, according to the Christian vision, death is indeed rest-for the just. What is lacking in Calista's attitude is again couched in her very words, in the faint echo of that famous de- scription of the Christian's proper refuge from suffering and sin: "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest" (Mat. 11:28). Calista must learn to look not simply to death but to Heaven for "relief." What finally begins to overcome Calista's desperation is her fa- ther's "pity and forgiveness," which reduce her to tears at his feet and charm her, More than if angels tun'd their golden viols, And sung a requiem to my parting soul. The simile is significant, because an angelic requiem to her parting soul depends precisely upon the "pity and forgiveness" she must contritely seek from both her earthly and heavenly fathers. Yet even when she does consider how her "account may stand" with Heaven, her contrition is marred by her indignation at stem man, who, unlike Heaven, cannot be appeased with "penitence and pray'r" (p. 204), that "Cheap recom- pence" which "here" would "not be receiv'd," for here, 130 The Trial of the Sinner 130 The Trial of the Sinner shame still divide her soul: her persistent ambivalence toward Lothario is reflected in the epithet "dear perfidious" (p. 202)," and she meets Sciolto's "fatal indignation" by mustering her own haughty spirit. When he asks if she has "dar'd to meditate on death" and "consider'd what may happen after it-how her "account may stand, and what to answer"-Calista responds that she has "tur'd" her "eyes inward" and has found such "foul offence" that she longs for death as "the end of shame and sorrow" and as a "place of rest."' Thus her shame, like Sam- son's at first, tends to self-loathing, a course of action, according to Mil- ton, which is diametrically opposed to Christian patience and righ- teousness (see SA 503n). In one of the play's (and Rowe's) most poignant passages, Calista says in her despair, Death is the privilege of human nature, And life without it were not worth our taking; Thither the poor, the pris'ner, and the mourner, Fly for relief, and lay their burdens down. (p. 203) As we have seen before in this study, according to the Christian vision, death is indeed rest-for the just. What is lacking in Calista's attitude is again couched in her very words, in the faint echo of that famous de- scription of the Christian's proper refuge from suffering and sin: "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will giveyou rest" (Mat. 11:28). Calista must learn to look not simply to death but to Heaven for "relief." What finally begins to overcome Calista's desperation is her fa- ther's "pity and forgiveness," which reduce her to tears at his feet and charm her, More than if angels tun'd their golden viols, And sung a requiem to my parting soul. The simile is significant, because an angelic requiem to her parting soul depends precisely upon the "pity and forgiveness" she must contritely seek from both her earthly and heavenly fathers. Yet even when she does consider how her "account may stand" with Heaven, her contrition is marred by her indignation at stern man, who, unlike Heaven, cannot be appeased with "penitence and pray'r" (p. 204), that "Cheap recom- pence" which "here" would "not be receiv'd," for here, shame still divide her soul: her persistent ambivalence toward Lothario is reflected in the epithet "dear perfidious" (p. 202)," and she meets Sciolto's "fatal indignation" by mustering her own haughty spirit. When he asks if she has "dar'd to meditate on death" and "consider'd what may happen after it"-how her "account may stand, and what to answer"-Calista responds that she has "turn'd" her "eyes inward" and has found such "foul offence" that she longs for death as "the end of shame and sorrow" and as a "place of rest."" Thus her shame, like Sam- son's at first, tends to self-loathing, a course of action, according to Mil- ton, which is diametrically opposed to Christian patience and righ- teousness (see SA 503n). In one of the play's (and Rowe's) most poignant passages, Calista says in her despair, Death is the privilege of human nature, And life without it were not worth our taking; Thither the poor, the pris'ner, and the mourner, Fly for relief, and lay their burdens down. (p. 203) As we have seen before in this study, according to the Christian vision, death is indeed rest-for the just. What is lacking in Calista's attitude is again couched in her very words, in the faint echo of that famous de- scription of the Christian's proper refuge from suffering and sin: "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest" (Mat. 11:28). Calista must learn to look not simply to death but to Heaven for "relief." What finally begins to overcome Calista's desperation is her fa- ther's "pity and forgiveness," which reduce her to tears at his feet and charm her, More than if angels tun'd their golden viols, And sung a requiem to my parting soul. The simile is significant, because an angelic requiem to her parting soul depends precisely upon the "pity and forgiveness" she must contritely seek from both her earthly and heavenly fathers. Yet even when she does consider how her "account may stand" with Heaven, her contrition is marred by her indignation at stern man, who, unlike Heaven, cannot be appeased with "penitence and pray'r" (p. 204), that "Cheap recom- pence" which "here" would "not be receiv'd," for here,  The Fair Penitent 131 The Fair Penitent 131 The Fair Penitent 131 Nothing but blood can make the expiation, And cleanse the soul from inbred, deep pollution. She looks up and painfully sees Altamont, "another injur'd wretch" who she thinks has come "To call for justice." The precise point of the scene -and ultimately of the play-is that he has not, and it is his "gentler vir- tue" (p. 205)-his merciful forgiveness-that finally vanquishes Calista's pride. According to Charles H. Peake, the purpose of Calista's speech on Heaven's understanding of human weakness is "to contrast what she be- lieves is God's justice with that of men, and in so doing, to point to the great injustice in the double standard of morality" (p. 209). Indeed, throughout the play the plucky Calista has inveighed against man's tyr- anny over woman, especially in her fine soliloquy, "How hard is the condition of our sex," in which she pictures the tyranny of the husband succeeding to the tyranny of the father (III, p. 179). In the light of her enforced marriage, Calista's resentment is somewhat justified (although she does admit that no amount of forcing could have made her marry Altamont). Moreover, Sciolto is portrayed as a tyrant of strict justice toward his daughter. When Horatio thinks of showing Calista's lost let- ter to Sciolto, he hesitates, commenting, "It follows that his justice dooms her dead" (I, p. 166). Calista's soliloquy just mentioned is a reac- tion to Sciolto's vindictive threat to deny his "fond" parent's love if she "E'er stain" her "honour" (III, p. 179) and to cast her off, as one whose impious hands Had rent asunder Nature's nearest ties, Which once divided never join again. In the face of such a threat, it is no wonder that Calista would want to conceal her sin. After it is discovered and Lothario slain, she confuses her father's voice with the vindictive "voice of thunder" (IV, p. 192). Although Bonamy Dobrde considers this comparison bathetic (Resto- ration Tragedy, p. 156), it is, on the contrary, psychologically, artistically -and theologically-appropriate. As Adams and Peake show through- out their studies (and as we have seen throughout this study), such thun- der was considered in both theater and theatrum mundi a sign of divine justice. The confusion of her father's voice with divine thunder implies Nothing but blood can make the expiation, And cleanse the soul from inbred, deep pollution. She looks up and painfully sees Altamont, "another injur'd wretch" who she thinks has come "To call for justice." The precise point of the scene -and ultimately of the play-is that he has not, and it is his "gentler vir- tue" (p. 205)-his merciful forgiveness-that finally vanquishes Calista's pride. According to Charles H. Peake, the purpose of Calista's speech on Heaven's understanding of human weakness is "to contrast what she be- lieves is God's justice with that of men, and in so doing, to point to the great injustice in the double standard of morality" (p. 209). Indeed, throughout the play the plucky Calista has inveighed against man's tyr- anny over woman, especially in her fine soliloquy, "How hard is the condition of our sex," in which she pictures the tyranny of the husband succeeding to the tyranny of the father (III, p. 179). In the light of her enforced marriage, Calista's resentment is somewhat justified (although she does admit that no amount of forcing could have made her marry Altamont). Moreover, Sciolto is portrayed as a tyrant of strict justice toward his daughter. When Horatio thinks of showing Calista's lost let- ter to Sciolto, he hesitates, commenting, "It follows that his justice dooms her dead" (I, p. 166). Calista's soliloquy just mentioned is a reac- tion to Sciolto's vindictive threat to deny his "fond" parent's love if she "E'er stain" her "honour" (III, p. 179) and to cast her off, as one whose impious hands Had rent asunder Nature's nearest ties, Which once divided never join again. In the face of such a threat, it is no wonder that Calista would want to conceal her sin. After it is discovered and Lothario slain, she confuses her father's voice with the vindictive "voice of thunder" (IV, p. 192). Although Bonamy Dobrde considers this comparison bathetic (Resto- ration Tragedy, p. 156), it is, on the contrary, psychologically, artistically -and theologically-appropriate. As Adams and Peake show through- out their studies (and as we have seen throughout this study), such thun- der was considered in both theater and theatrum mundi a sign of divine justice. The confusion of her father's voice with divine thunder implies Nothing but blood can make the expiation, And cleanse the soul from inbred, deep pollution. She looks up and painfully sees Altamont, "another injur'd wretch" who she thinks has come "To call for justice." The precise point of the scene -and ultimately of the play-is that he has not, and it is his "gentler vir- tuce" (p. 205)-his merciful forgiveness-that finally vanquishes Calista's pride. According to Charles H. Peake, the purpose of Calista's speech on Heaven's understanding of human weakness is "to contrast what she be- lieves is God's justice with that of men, and in so doing, to point to the great injustice in the double standard of morality" (p. 209). Indeed, throughout the play the plucky Calista has inveighed against man's tyr- anny over woman, especially in her fine soliloquy, "How hard is the condition of our sex," in which she pictures the tyranny of the husband succeeding to the tyranny of the father (III, p. 179). In the light of her enforced marriage, Calista's resentment is somewhat justified (although she does admit that no amount of forcing could have made her marry Altamont). Moreover, Sciolto is portrayed as a tyrant of strict justice toward his daughter. When Horatio thinks of showing Calista's lost let- ter to Sciolto, he hesitates, commenting, "It follows that his justice dooms her dead" (I, p. 166). Calista's soliloquy just mentioned is a reac- tion to Sciolto's vindictive threat to deny his "fond" parent's love if she "Eer stain" her "honour" (III, p. 179) and to cast her off, as one whose impious hands Had rent asunder Nature's nearest ties, Which once divided never join again. In the face of such a threat, it is no wonder that Calista would want to conceal her sin. After it is discovered and Lothario slain, she confuses her father's voice with the vindictive "voice of thunder" (IV, p. 192). Although Bonamy Dobre considers this comparison bathetic (Resto- ration Tragedy, p. 156), it is, on the contrary, psychologically, artistically -and theologically-appropriate. As Adams and Peake show through- out their studies (and as we have seen throughout this study), such thun- der was considered in both theater and theatrum mundi a sign of divine justice. The confusion of her father's voice with divine thunder implies  132 The Trial of the Sinner 132 The Trial of the Sinner 132 The Trial of the Sinner that Calista's guilty conscience fears not only her father's but also God's retribution. Furthermore, Sciolto has in the opening scene already been characterized as a heavenly agent (his "bounty" is Heaven's "proxy") and a Creator-like figure. In a play in which the story of the Fall is an in- forming metaphor, Sciolto's voice is perhaps supposed to faintly remind us of God's calling for Adam and Eve while they vainly try to hide (Gen. 3:8 ff), as Calista has tried to do. Sciolto's immediate reaction to Calista's sin is the "rash revenge" of killing her (p. 193), and even when Altamont restrains him from that "crime," he vows still to "have justice done": he warns Calista, Hope not to bear away thy crimes unpunish'd, I will see justice executed on thee, Ev'n to a Roman strictness; and thou, nature, Or whatsoe'er thou art that plead'st within me, Be still, thy tender strugglings are in vain. After he banishes her to "some dark cell" where "death and hell de- tested rule maintain," he exclaims to Altamont, "Oh damn her! damn her!" (p. 195). He has assumed the role of a vindictive deity dooming his offenders to hell, and he rushes out of those gates he had opened even to his enemies to "sacrifice to justice" Lothario's entire "race" in the name of his and Altamont's vengeance. His vindictiveness brings Sciolto to Calista in Act V, where he maintains that her honesty is "a gem long lost, / Beyond redemption gone" (p. 202) and praises her prideful desire to die as worthy of that spirit That dwelt in ancient Latian breasts, when Rome Was mistress of the world. Finally, the "stubborn virtue" of his "Roman strictness" prevails over a father's tenderness, and after hesitating while "Thrice justice urg'd" it, he now presents her with a dagger. Though he allows himself a moment to subdue the "rigid judge" and indulge his tenderness, still he concludes that she "must die," and he bids his last farewell (p. 203 f). It is this strict justice that Calista contrasts to Heaven's and thus she expects nothing from Altamont but "upbraiding." Altamont answers her, however, "Falsly, falsly / Dost thou accuse me," for he does not now come "To call for justice" but to forgive. His first response that Calista's guilty conscience fears not only her father's but also God's retribution. Furthermore, Sciolto has in the opening scene already been characterized as a heavenly agent (his "bounty" is Heaven's "proxy") and a Creator-like figure. In a play in which the story of the Fall is an in- forming metaphor, Sciolto's voice is perhaps supposed to faintly remind us of God's calling for Adam and Eve while they vainly try to hide (Gen. 3:8 ff), as Calista has tried to do. Sciolto's immediate reaction to Calista's sin is the "rash revenge" of killing her (p. 193), and even when Altamont restrains him from that "crime," he vows still to "have justice done": he warns Calista, Hope not to bear away thy crimes unpunish'd, I will see justice executed on thee, Ev'n to a Roman strictness; and thou, nature, Or whatsoe'er thou art that plead'st within me, Be still, thy tender strugglings are in vain. After he banishes her to "some dark cell" where "death and hell de- tested rule maintain," he exclaims to Altamont, "Oh damn her! damn her!" (p. 195). He has assumed the role of a vindictive deity dooming his offenders to hell, and he rushes out of those gates he had opened even to his enemies to "sacrifice to justice" Lothario's entire "race" in the name of his and Altamont's vengeance. His vindictiveness brings Sciolto to Calista in Act V, where he maintains that her honesty is "a gem long lost, / Beyond redemption gone" (p. 202) and praises her prideful desire to die as worthy of that spirit That dwelt in ancient Latian breasts, when Rome Was mistress of the world. Finally, the "stubborn virtue" of his "Roman strictness" prevails over a father's tenderness, and after hesitating while "Thrice justice urg'd" it, he now presents her with a dagger. Though he allows himself a moment to subdue the "rigid judge" and indulge his tenderness, still he concludes that she "must die," and he bids his last farewell (p. 203 f). It is this strict justice that Calista contrasts to Heaven's and thus she expects nothing from Altamont but "upbraiding." Altamont answers her, however, "Falsly, falsly / Dost thou accuse me," for he does not now come "To call for justice" but to forgive. His first response that Calista's guilty conscience fears not only her father's but also God's retribution. Furthermore, Sciolto has in the opening scene already been characterized as a heavenly agent (his "bounty" is Heaven's "proxy") and a Creator-like figure. In a play in which the story of the Fall is an in- forming metaphor, Sciolto's voice is perhaps supposed to faintly remind us of God's calling for Adam and Eve while they vainly try to hide (Gen. 3:8 ff), as Calista has tried to do. Sciolto's immediate reaction to Calista's sin is the "rash revenge" of killing her (p. 193), and even when Altamont restrains him from that "crime," he vows still to "have justice done": he warns Calista, Hope not to bear away thy crimes unpunish'd, I will see justice executed on thee, Ev'n to a Roman strictness; and thou, nature, Or whatsoe'er thou art that plead'st within me, Be still, thy tender strugglings are in vain. After he banishes her to "some dark cell" where "death and hell de- tested rule maintain," he exclaims to Altamont, "Oh damn her! damn herl" (p. 195). He has assumed the role of a vindictive deity dooming his offenders to hell, and he rushes out of those gates he had opened even to his enemies to "sacrifice to justice" Lothario's entire "race" in the name of his and Altamont's vengeance. His vindictiveness brings Sciolto to Calista in Act V, where he maintains that her honesty is "a gem long lost, / Beyond redemption gone" (p. 202) and praises her prideful desire to die as worthy of that spirit That dwelt in ancient Latian breasts, when Rome Was mistress of the world. Finally, the "stubborn virtue" of his "Roman strictness" prevails over a father's tenderness, and after hesitating while "Thrice justice urg'd" it, he now presents her with a dagger. Though he allows himself a moment to subdue the "rigid judge" and indulge his tenderness, still he concludes that she "must die," and he bids his last farewell (p. 203 f). It is this strict justice that Calista contrasts to Heaven's and thus she expects nothing from Altamont but "upbraiding." Altamont answers her, however, "Falsly, falsly / Dost thou accuse me," for he does not now come "To call for justice" but to forgive. His first response  The Fair Penitent 133 The Enie Pmitcnt 133 ~The Faoir Penitent13Ttcoesitn13 133 The Fair Penitent 133 to Calista's sin has indeed been revenge, foe he attacks Lothasio, saying, "vengeance is Use only good is left" (IV, p. 191), though he is acting in the sole of something like a keavenly Champion. Howbeit, inmmediately afterwards hesrestrainslSciolto from thse"cimse" of "rashrevenge" and declares that his own sent non' "kindles not witk angee as sevenge" (p. 195). Instead, he esckewss "eke tesmpes of Italian hnsbonds" and (in sharp contrast tobSciolto and Msinger's Ckaaois) accepts is "infamey with patience, / As holy seen do punishmsents fronm Heav'n" (V, p. 204). jue- taposed to vengeance end vindictive humaen jnstice, thsen-to a "Ro- man" (as even Old Testament) "stsictness"-aee the Christian virtues of merscy and fosgiveness, and thse play repsesents on one level te teansmutation of tks Old Lose into eke Newe, swhere man tearns to patiently leave vengeance to Heaven and, in eseulation of Heaven, to temeper his justice weith merscy. Calista has not sinned "Beyond redesep- lion.'' The these of merscy is introduced in the opening scene of the play, when Horatio describes, in a passage reminiscent of Rowe's Tamerlane, how Attaseont redeemeed his fatsher's body lease Use "heed creditors" and "sentence of the crusel law" by selling himself to slaves who ne'ee knewsercy, Sons, unrelenting money-loving villais, Who laugh at humean nate and forgiveness, And ass lihe fiends the factoss of destrnction. (1, p. 159) Ret Sciolto's "keenly" towaed Altesont which redeeses hise tease his lathes's debts is Use "peony" foe Heaven's own sercy. Rowe tus en- trcts Use salient point of Maesingee's first two acls-Raehfeel's merscy in the face of demeands foe strict justice-and he meakes esplicit the provi- dential natere of that merscy. Feetheeseore, merecy is the controlling see- 111 fee the subplot concemning Ahaseont's qearrel wits Horatio, in which, ironically, Attain defends Calisla's false hones and banishes his tre friend (after all, his nose is Hosatio). To Lavinia Horatio de- closes that the cause of the qnaret is such a sin to friendship, as Heaven's merscy, Thatlstrivswithman's utowad,monstrsowickedes, Unweosy'd with foegiving, scarce could pardon. (III, p. 186) to Calista's sin has indeed be en revenge, leekse attacks Lothacia, saying, "vengeance is the only good is left" (IV, p. 191), thongh he is acting in the eels of soseething like a heavenly Champion. Howbeit, immsediately afterwardshserestrains Smiote lease the "crimee" of "sash revenge" and declares that his own soulnow "kindles not withnger oresevenge" (p. 195). Instead, he eschews "the teseper of Italian husbands" and (in shaep cntrast toSciolo and Massinges'tChaeotois accepts hist"infameywith patience, / As holysmendopnishmeents fromsellv'n" (V, p.24. ju- taposed to vengeance end vindictive human jettie, then-to a "Re- man" (as even Old Testameent) "steictness"-eee the Cheistian virtes of mercey and foegiveness, and the ploy repesents on one level the teanseutation of the Old Law into the New, whee seen leases to patiently leave vengeance to Heaven and, in eseulation of Heaven, to temeper hit justice with merscy. Calisle hat not sinned "Beyond redemep- lion." The these of merecy is introduced in the opening scene of the ploy, when Horatio descibes, in a passage remsiniscentlof Rowe's Tamerelae, hew Alloseont redeeseed his lathes's body lease the "hoed creditoes" and "sentence of the cruel low" by selling himself to stoves who nessr knew mercey, Sees, neeting money-loving villains, Whotlaughat human nteand fogiveness, And ass like fiends the factoes of destruction. (1, p. 159) Ret Sciolto's "bonty" toward Altomont which redeeses him from his lathes's debts is the "peony" foe Heaven's awn meecy. Rowe tus en- leavts the salient point of Mvassinger's fleet two acts-Roshfort's mercy in the face of demands for steict (notice-and he makes explicit the peovi- dential nature of that mercy. Furthermoe, merecy is the controlling mo- tif foe the subplot concerning Altamoef's quaerel with Horatio, in which, ironically, Altaseont defends Celisla's false honoe and banishes his tre friend (after alt, his nose is Hosatio). To Lavinia Hosatio de- claes that the cone of the quarrel is tech aosi to friendship, as Heev'n's mercy, That strives with seen's untoward, monsteous wickedness, Unweary'd with forgiving, scaece coeld pardon. (111, p. 186) to Catiste's sin has indeed been revenge, fee he attacks Lothoeio, saying, "vengeance is the only good is left" (IV, p. 191), though he is acting in Use eats of soseething like a heavenly Champion. Howbei, isesediately afterwards he resrins Smiote lease the "crimee" of "sash revene" and declaes that his own soul new "kindles not with angee as revenge" (p. 195). Instead, he eschews "the tempee of Italian hesbands" end (in sheep contrsttaSciotoadMainge's Chealois) accepts his "infamy with patience, / As holy seen do punishseents lease Heaven" (V, p. 204). jun- taposed to vengeance end vindictive hesean jestice, then-to a "Re- men" (as even Old Testament) "steiclnets"-oee Use Christian vistues of mercy and foegiveness, and Use ploy represents on one level Use transeetation of the Old Low into the New, where seen leases to patiently leave vengeance to Heaven end, in eseelation of Heaven, to temeper his justice with mercy. Calheta has not sinned "Beyond redemep- lion." The these of merscy is introduced in lbs opening scene of the ploy, when Horatio describes, in a passage remeiniscent of Rowe's Tamerlae, how Altaseont redeeseed his fasses body from the "hoed ceeditos" and "sentence of the cruel law" by selling himeself toaslaves who ns'ehnewecy, Sane, enelenting money-loving villains, Who laugh at humaennatue and forgivenss, And ass like Biends the factoes of destmuction. (1, p. 159) Ret Sciolte's "keenly" toard Altoseone which sedeeses him from his lathes's debts is the "penny" fee Heaven's own serey. Rowe thus ex- trasts the salient point of Maesinger's fleet two oets-Roehfoet's merecy in the face of demands foe esict justice-andhbe makes explicit the provi- dential natues of that serecy. Fuetherseore, serscy is Use sontrolling mo- tif Ins the subplot concesning Altmont's quarrel with Hosati, in wbich, irnically, Alteseent defends Catista's false hones and banishes his tre friend (aftes all, his ease is Heotio). Ta Lavinia Hosatio de- closes that the ceause of the quarrel is each a sin to frendship, as Heov'n's messy, That stsives with man's untoward, seonstroum wiehedness, Unweasy'd with forgiving, scarce could pardon. (III, p. 186)  134 The Trial of the Sinner 134 The Trial of the Sinner 134 The Trial of the Sinner The point is, of course, that Heaven "could" and would pardon it-or any sin, no matter how heinous-provided that the sinner is contrite and does not despair. Like Calista's speech in Act V, Horatio's speech here emphasizes the disparity between human and divine mercy. Heaven is "unweary'd with forgiving," while Horatio, as we see in Act IV, is implacably unforgiving-at first. Considering himself ordinarily "patient" (contrast his with Altamont's later "patience"!) and "willing to forgive," Horatio maintains that too great an injury has been offered him to relent (p. 197). But Lavinia reminds him of their need to emulate Heaven's mercy toward them in their recent escape from Lothario's friends: Oh, let us bless the mercy that preserv'd us, That gracious pow'r that sav'd us for each other; And, to adorn the sacrifice of praise, Offer forgiveness too; be thou like Heav'n, And put away th'offences of thy friend, Far, far from thy remembrance. (p. 196) Lavinia's speech echoes a familiar theme from the Sermon on the Mount: "Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful" (Luke 6:36). The echo further serves, in conjunction with similar echoes of the same topos, to invoke the entire Sermon and its central doctrine of mercy and forgiveness. Horatio is slow to heed Lavinia's advice, however. When Altamont confesses that he has "wrong'd" him and describes how "Heav'n has well aveng'd it," Horatio considers it "weakness to be touch'd" (p. 197 f). Yet, while Altamont refuses to ask Horatio "To pity or forgive" and instead applauds his attitude as "just" (p. 198), still he correctly brands that attitude "insolence of hate," just as Lavinia has called it a "sullen gloomy hate" (p. 197). To this "just" attitude Rowe contrasts Altamont's own loving, forgiving spirit, his "yielding softness" which would forgive Horatio for a similar offense. Only after Altamont collapses from the "blows" first Calista and now Horatio (not to mention Lothario) have dealt him does Horatio respond to Lavinia's constant appeal and finally forgive Altamont. Reciprocally, Horatio begs forgiveness of the other two for his "stubborn, unrelenting heart" and offers to "bear" Alta- mont's "sorrows" himself (p. 199). In his recovery, Altamont almost seems to have returned from the dead ("I thought that nothing could have stay'd my soul, / That long ere this her flight had reach'd the The point is, of course, that Heaven "could" and would pardon it-or any sin, no matter how heinous-provided that the sinner is contrite and does not despair. Like Calista's speech in Act V, Horatio's speech here emphasizes the disparity between human and divine mercy. Heaven is "unweary'd with forgiving," while Horatio, as we see in Act IV, is implacably unforgiving-at first. Considering himself ordinarily "patient" (contrast his with Altamont's later "patience"!) and "willing to forgive," Horatio maintains that too great an injury has been offered him to relent (p. 197). But Lavinia reminds him of their need to emulate Heaven's mercy toward them in their recent escape from Lothario's friends: Oh, let us bless the mercy that preserv'd us, That gracious pow'r that sav'd us for each other; And, to adorn the sacrifice of praise, Offer forgiveness too; be thou like Heav'n, And put away th'offences of thy friend, Far, far from thy remembrance. (p. 196) Lavinia's speech echoes a familiar theme from the Sermon on the Mount: "Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful" (Luke 6:36). The echo further serves, in conjunction with similar echoes of the same topos, to invoke the entire Sermon and its central doctrine of mercy and forgiveness. Horatio is slow to heed Lavinia's advice, however. When Altamont confesses that he has "wrong'd" him and describes how "Heav'n has well aveng'd it," Horatio considers it "weakness to be touch'd" (p. 197 f). Yet, while Altamont refuses to ask Horatio "To pity or forgive" and instead applauds his attitude as "just" (p. 198), still he correctly brands that attitude "insolence of hate," just as Lavinia has called it a "sullen gloomy hate" (p. 197). To this "just" attitude Rowe contrasts Altamont's own loving, forgiving spirit, his "yielding softness" which would forgive Horatio for a similar offense. Only after Altamont collapses from the "blows" first Calista and now Horatio (not to mention Lothario) have dealt him does Horatio respond to Lavinia's constant appeal and finally forgive Altamont. Reciprocally, Horatio begs forgiveness of the other two for his "stubborn, unrelenting heart" and offers to "bear" Alta- mont's "sorrows" himself (p. 199). In his recovery, Altamont almost seems to have returned from the dead ("I thought that nothing could have stay'd my soul, / That long ere this her flight had reach'd the The point is, of course, that Heaven "could" and would pardon it-or any sin, no matter how heinous-provided that the sinner is contrite and does not despair. Like Calista's speech in Act V, Horatio's speech here emphasizes the disparity between human and divine mercy. Heaven is "unweary'd with forgiving," while Horatio, as we see in Act IV, is implacably unforgiving-at first. Considering himself ordinarily "patient" (contrast his with Altamont's later "patience"!) and "willing to forgive," Horatio maintains that too great an injury has been offered him to relent (p. 197). But Lavinia reminds him of their need to emulate Heaven's mercy toward them in their recent escape from Lothario's friends: Oh, let us bless the mercy that preserv'd us, That gracious pow'r that sav'd us for each other; And, to adorn the sacrifice of praise, Offer forgiveness too; be thou like Heav'n, And put away th'offences of thy friend, Far, far from thy remembrance. (p. 196) Lavinia's speech echoes a familiar theme from the Sermon on the Mount: "Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful" (Luke 6:36). The echo further serves, in conjunction with similar echoes of the same topos, to invoke the entire Sermon and its central doctrine of mercy and forgiveness. Horatio is slow to heed Lavinia's advice, however. When Altamont confesses that he has "wrong'd" him and describes how "Heav'n has well aveng'd it," Horatio considers it "weakness to be touch'd" (p. 197 f). Yet, while Altamont refuses to ask Horatio "To pity or forgive" and instead applauds his attitude as "just" (p. 198), still he correctly brands that attitude "insolence of hate," just as Lavinia has called it a "sullen gloomy hate" (p. 197). To this "just" attitude Rowe contrasts Altamont's own loving, forgiving spirit, his "yielding softness" which would forgive Horatio for a similar offense. Only after Altamont collapses from the "blows" first Calista and now Horatio (not to mention Lothario) have dealt him does Horatio respond to Lavinia's constant appeal and finally forgive Altamont. Reciprocally, Horatio begs forgiveness of the other two for his "stubborn, unrelenting heart" and offers to "bear" Alta- mont's "sorrows" himself (p. 199). In his recovery, Altamont almost seems to have returned from the dead ("I thought that nothing could have stay'd my soul, / That long ere this her flight had reach'd the  The Fair Penitent 135 stars"), in order that he might "set all right" with his friend-the kind of squaring of accounts Jesus talks about in the Sermon on the Mount (Matt. 5:23 f)-and, with Horatio's and "Heav'n's forgiveness" on his "soul," die in peace and "be at ease for ever." It is as though the friend's forgive- ness is the earthly sign (or proxy) of Heaven's, for Altamont had not mentioned Heaven's forgiveness until Horatio forgave him. Thus the pathos of this scene is not a merely gratuitous evocation of the emotions of the audience (such an evocation may well not succeed, especially with our moden "sensibilities") but a functional element of the drama itself, as in many so-called "pathetic" tragedies. For, as Dryden says, pity is "the noblest and most god-like of moral virtues" (Essays, I, 245); as Lucilla says in this play, "pity" distinguishes "manhood" from "the brutes" (I, p. 163); and such tragedies as those of Dryden and Otway and Rowe, particularly All for Love, Venice Preserved, and the "she- tragedies," attempt to show the conquest of such men as Antony, Priuli, and Horatio by this chief virtue of Christianity, without which all the rest, however heroic, are as tinkling cymbals. Rowe develops the theme of mercy in the subplot thus to underscore its importance in the main. At the first sign of Altamont's mercy toward her-when he prevents her suicide and admits that despite her sin he still loves her-Calista exclaims in chagrin, "Think'st thou I mean to live? to be forgiv'n?" (IV, p. 192). Even when he defends her from her father's wrath, she refuses to be "indebted" to his "pity" or "oblig'd" to his "virtue" (p. 193). Finally in Act V, Altamont actually goes so far as to "mourn" with her for her "loss" in Lothario, accepting the fact that "fate" had not made her his (p. 204). Calista's pride and indignation are at last overwhelmed, her humiliation turned to humility: Oh, Altamont! 'tis hard for souls like mine, Haughty and fierce, to yield they've done amiss; But oh! behold my proud, disdainful heart, Bends to thy gentler virtue. (p. 205) She has lived to be forgiven after all, for now, as her heart is "bent" to- ward Altamont's "gentler virtue" of mercy, she seems to gain what the "Homily of Repentance" calls "contrition of the heart" (p. 342). She finally comes to see, furthermore, that "Such are the graces that adorn" Altamont that she might have been "blest" with him and "died in The Fair Penitent 135 stars"), in order that he might "set all right" with his friend-the kind of squaring of accounts Jesus talks about in the Sermon on the Mount (Matt. 5:23 f)-and, with Horatio's and "Heav'n's forgiveness" on his "soul," die in peace and "be at ease for ever." It is as though the friend's forgive- ness is the earthly sign (or proxy) of Heaven's, for Altamont had not mentioned Heaven's forgiveness until Horatio forgave him. Thus the pathos of this scene is not a merely gratuitous evocation of the emotions of the audience (such an evocation may well not succeed, especially with our modern "sensibilities") but a functional element of the drama itself, as in many so-called "pathetic" tragedies. For, as Dryden says, pity is "the noblest and most god-like of moral virtues" (Essays, I, 245); as Lucilla says in this play, "pity" distinguishes "manhood" from "the brutes" (I, p. 163); and such tragedies as those of Dryden and Otway and Rowe, particularly All for Love, Venice Preserved, and the "she- tragedies," attempt to show the conquest of such men as Antony, Priuli, and Horatio by this chief virtue of Christianity, without which all the rest, however heroic, are as tinkling cymbals. Rowe develops the theme of mercy in the subplot thus to underscore its importance in the main. At the first sign of Altamont's mercy toward her-when he prevents her suicide and admits that despite her sin he still loves her-Calista exclaims in chagrin, "Think'st thou I mean to live? to be forgiv'n?" (IV, p. 192). Even when he defends her from her father's wrath, she refuses to be "indebted" to his "pity" or "oblig'd" to his "virtue" (p. 193). Finally in Act V, Altamont actually goes so far as to "mourn" with her for her "loss" in Lothario, accepting the fact that "fate" had not made her his (p. 204). Calista's pride and indignation are at last overwhelmed, her humiliation turned to humility: Oh, Altamont! 'tis hard for souls like mine, Haughty and fierce, to yield they've done amiss; But oh! behold my proud, disdainful heart, Bends to thy gentler virtue. (p. 205) She has lived to be forgiven after all, for now, as her heart is "bent" to- ward Altamont's "gentler virtue" of mercy, she seems to gain what the "Homily of Repentance" calls "contrition of the heart" (p. 342). She finally comes to see, furthermore, that "Such are the graces that adorn" Altamont that she might have been "blest" with him and "died in The Fair Penitent 135 stars"), in order that he might "set all right" with his friend-the kind of squaring of accounts Jesus talks about in the Sermon on the Mount (Matt. 5:23 f)-and, with Horatio's and "Heav'n's forgiveness" on his "soul," die in peace and "be at ease for ever." It is as though the friend's forgive- ness is the earthly sign (or proxy) of Heaven's, for Altamont had not mentioned Heaven's forgiveness until Horatio forgave him. Thus the pathos of this scene is not a merely gratuitous evocation of the emotions of the audience (such an evocation may well not succeed, especially with our modern "sensibilities") but a functional element of the drama itself, as in many so-called "pathetic" tragedies. For, as Dryden says, pity is "the noblest and most god-like of moral virtues" (Essays, 1, 245); as Lucilla says in this play, "pity" distinguishes "manhood" from "the brutes" (I, p. 163); and such tragedies as those of Dryden and Otway and Rowe, particularly All for Love, Venice Preserved, and the "she- tragedies," attempt to show the conquest of such men as Antony, Priuli, and Horatio by this chief virtue of Christianity, without which all the rest, however heroic, are as tinkling cymbals. Rowe develops the theme of mercy in the subplot thus to underscore its importance in the main. At the first sign of Altamont's mercy toward her-when he prevents her suicide and admits that despite her sin he still loves her-Calista exclaims in chagrin, "Think'st thou I mean to live? to be forgiv'n?" (IV, p. 192). Even when he defends her from her father's wrath, she refuses to be "indebted" to his "pity" or "oblig'd" to his "virtue" (p. 193). Finally in Act V, Altamont actually goes so far as to "mourn" with her for her "loss" in Lothario, accepting the fact that "fate" had not made her his (p. 204). Calista's pride and indignation are at last overwhelmed, her humiliation turned to humility: Oh, Altamont! 'tis hard for souls like mine, Haughty and fierce, to yield they've done amiss; But oh! behold my proud, disdainful heart, Bends to thy gentler virtue. (p. 205) She has lived to be forgiven after all, for now, as her heart is "bent" to- ward Altamont's "gentler virtue" of mercy, she seems to gain what the "Homily of Repentance" calls "contrition of the heart" (p. 342). She finally comes to see, furthermore, that "Such are the graces that adorn" Altamont that she might have been "blest" with him and "died in  136 The Trial of the Sinner 136 The Trial of the Sinner 136 The Trial of the Sinner peace"; in other words, that where she found only "destruction" with the gay Lothario, with the not so gay but virtuous Altamont she would have found happiness and peace of mind, such as this world can afford. Altamont believes that they could still be happy together, but the consequences of Calista's compounding and concealing of her sin are not yet over. Sciolto having received the mortal wound "he seem'd to wish for" in his despair (p. 206), Calista backslides and in a similarly des- perate and "fatal rashoess" stabs herself. Altamont is prevented from following suit by Horatio, who exclaims, Some foe to man, Has breath'd on ev'ry breast contagious fury, And epidemic madness. Whether "foe to man" refers specifically to Satan or obliquely to the satanic Lothario, certainly the presence of evil in the world and in hu- man nature has been manifested to a horrifying degree. Yet it seems that Altamont's victory over Calista has not been in vain, for she humbly and penitently begs Sciolto to "forgive" and "bless" her before she dies. No longer the "rigid judge," Sciolto has finally, and at great cost, learned to dispense to his own daughter the mercy he had earlier shown Altamont and to view human imperfection as Heaven does. At last he judges Calista equitably in the light of the human trial and her perfor- mance within it: Thou hast rashly ventur'd in a stormy sea, Where life, fame, virtue, all were wreck'd and lost; But sure thou'st borne thy part in all the anguish, And smarted with the pain; then rest in peace, And may'st thou find with Heav'n the same forgiveness, As with thy father here.-Die, and be happy. Calista's anguish, then, has been her expiation, and she is released from her trial. Charmed with these "Celestial sounds" (as if it were her "fa- ther" there-in heaven-speaking), Calista's "soul" at last attains "Peace," and she dies praying, "Mercy, Heav'rn!" (p. 207). Ever since Lavinia's comparison of the distraught Horatio to a "sick man" lifting up his "hands and eyes for mercy" as he "thinks upon his audit" (I, p. 167), such a prayer has been the standard in the play for the proper peace"; in other words, that where she found only "destruction" with the gay Lothario, with the not so gay but virtuous Altamont she would have found happiness and peace of mind, such as this world can afford. Altamont believes that they could still be happy together, but the consequences of Calista's compounding and concealing of her sin are not yet over. Sciolto having received the mortal wound "he seem'd to wish for" in his despair (p. 206), Calista backslides and in a similarly des- perate and "fatal rashness" stabs herself. Altamont is prevented from following suit by Horatio, who exclaims, Some foe to man, Has breath'd on ev'ry breast contagious fury, And epidemic madness. Whether "foe to man" refers specifically to Satan or obliquely to the satanic Lothario, certainly the presence of evil in the world and in hu- man nature has been manifested to a horrifying degree. Yet it seems that Altamont's victory over Calista has not been in vain, for she humbly and penitently begs Sciolto to "forgive" and "bless" her before she dies. No longer the "rigid judge," Sciolto has finally, and at great cost, learned to dispense to his own daughter the mercy he had earlier shown Altamont and to view human imperfection as Heaven does. At last he judges Calista equitably in the light of the human trial and her perfor- mance within it: Thou hast rashly ventur'd in a stormy sea, Where life, fame, virtue, all were wreck'd and lost; But sure thou'st borne thy part in all the anguish, And smarted with the pain; then rest in peace, And may'st thou find with Heav'n the same forgiveness, As with thy father here.-Die, and be happy. Calista's anguish, then, has been her expiation, and she is released from her trial. Charmed with these "Celestial sounds" (as if it were her "fa- ther" there-in heaven-speaking), Calista's "soul" at last attains "Peace," and she dies praying, "Mercy, Heav'n!" (p. 207). Ever since Lavinia's comparison of the distraught Horatio to a "sick man" lifting up his "hands and eyes for mercy" as he "thinks upon his audit" (I, p. 167), such a prayer has been the standard in the play for the proper peace"; in other words, that where she found only "destruction" with the gay Lothario, with the not so gay but virtuous Altamont she would have found happiness and peace of mind, such as this world can afford. Altamont believes that they could still be happy together, but the consequences of Calista's compounding and concealing of her sin are not yet over. Sciolto having received the mortal wound "he seem'd to wish for" in his despair (p. 206), Calista backslides and in a similarly des- perate and "fatal rashness" stabs herself. Altamont is prevented from following suit by Horatio, who exclaims, Some foe to man, Has breath'd on ev'ry breast contagious fury, And epidemic madness. Whether "foe to man" refers specifically to Satan or obliquely to the satanic Lothario, certainly the presence of evil in the world and in hu- man nature has been manifested to a horrifying degree. Yet it seems that Altamont's victory over Calista has not been in vain, for she humbly and penitently begs Sciolto to "forgive" and "bless" her before she dies. No longer the "rigid judge," Sciolto has finally, and at great cost, learned to dispense to his own daughter the mercy he had earlier shown Altamont and to view human imperfection as Heaven does. At last he judges Calista equitably in the light of the human trial and her perfor- mance within it: Thou hast rashly ventur'd in a stormy sea, Where life, fame, virtue, all were wreck'd and lost; But sure thou'st borne thy part in all the anguish, And smarted with the pain; then rest in peace, And may'st thou find with Heav'n the same forgiveness, As with thy father here.-Die, and be happy. Calista's anguish, then, has been her expiation, and she is released from her trial. Charmed with these "Celestial sounds" (as if it were her "fa- ther" there-in heaven-speaking), Calista's "soul" at last attains "Peace," and she dies praying, "Mercy, Heav'n!" (p. 207). Ever since Lavinia's comparison of the distraught Horatio to a "sick man" lifting up his "hands and eyes for mercy" as he "thinks upon his audit" (I, p. 167), such a prayer has been the standard in the play for the proper  The Fair Penitent 137 Christian ars moriendi, a standard which Calista, who has "dar'd to meditate on death" and upon her "account," has finally met "when the trial comes" (p. 202). As if to assure us that Calista will "find with Heav'n the same for- giveness" as Sciolto grants, Rowe has Altamont say, Hadst thou a thousand faults, What heart so hard, what virtue so severe, But at that beauty must of force relented, Melted to pity, love, and to forgiveness. Furthermore, in a speech that recalls the opening scene of the play and Sciolto's role as Heaven's agent in rewarding Altamont's "piety," the dying Sciolto prays to "gracious Heav'n," which has "endless blessings still in store, / For virtue, and for filial piety," to "multiply" Its "mer- cies" on Altamont. Whether the failing Altamont will receive these "mercies" on earth is irrelevant, for the lesson of the scene is, as it has been throughout the play-and throughout Rowe's tragedies-trust in Providence. In The Fair Penitent, then, human forgiveness is both imitative and em- blematic of the mercy promised by Providence to all repentant sinners. Rowe seems to be saying that in a world where the Fall is being contin- ually reconfirmed, sinful man must place his trust in divine mercy and must attempt to emulate that mercy in his dealings with his fellow sin- ners: to paraphrase Lavinia, "Let us bless the mercy that preserves us, and to adorn the sacrifice of praise, offer forgiveness too; let us be like Heav'n." Such human mercy, as in Horatio's forgiveness of Altamont, Altamont's forgiveness of Calista, and especially Sciolto's dying words to Calista, becomes a sign of divine mercy. And Calista's final plea, "Mercy, Heav'n," becomes at once a mark of her complete repentance and of its efficacy. Calamitous as the ending of the play is, the final note is one of hope and reconciliation. Calista's atonement-that is, etymo- logically, her at-onement with her father and her husband-signifies her at-onement with God, by virtue of the Atonement, which Altamont's love and spirit of self-sacrifice recall. For the one thing that does achieve perfection amidst all the imperfections of the fallen world of the play is Altamont's love, rooted in Christian charitas and reminiscent of Christ's sacrifice to appease the vindictive wrath of the Old Testament Jehovah: interposing between Sciolto and Calista, Altamont proclaims, The Fair Penitent 137 Christian ars moriendi, a standard which Calista, who has "dar'd to meditate on death" and upon her "account," has finally met "when the trial comes" (p. 202). As if to assure us that Calista will "find with Heav'n the same for- giveness" as Sciolto grants, Rowe has Altamont say, Hadst thou a thousand faults, What heart so hard, what virtue so severe, But at that beauty must of force relented, Melted to pity, love, and to forgiveness. Furthermore, in a speech that recalls the opening scene of the play and Sciolto's role as Heaven's agent in rewarding Altamont's "piety," the dying Sciolto prays to "gracious Heav'n," which has "endless blessings still in store, / For virtue, and for filial piety," to "multiply" Its "mer- cies" on Altamont. Whether the failing Altamont will receive these "mercies" on earth is irrelevant, for the lesson of the scene is, as it has been throughout the play-and throughout Rowe's tragedies-trust in Providence. In The Fair Penitent, then, human forgiveness is both imitative and em- blematic of the mercy promised by Providence to all repentant sinners. Rowe seems to be saying that in a world where the Fall is being contin- ually reconfirmed, sinful man must place his trust in divine mercy and must attempt to emulate that mercy in his dealings with his fellow sin- ners: to paraphrase Lavinia, "Let us bless the mercy that preserves us, and to adorn the sacrifice of praise, offer forgiveness too; let us be like Heav'n." Such human mercy, as in Horatio's forgiveness of Altamont, Altamont's forgiveness of Calista, and especially Sciolto's dying words to Calista, becomes a sign of divine mercy. And Calista's final plea, "Mercy, Heav'n," becomes at once a mark of her complete repentance and of its efficacy. Calamitous as the ending of the play is, the final note is one of hope and reconciliation. Calista's atonement-that is, etymo- logically, her at-onement with her father and her husband-signifies her at-onement with God, by virtue of the Atonement, which Altamont's love and spirit of self-sacrifice recall. For the one thing that does achieve perfection amidst all the imperfections of the fallen world of the play is Altamont's love, rooted in Christian charitas and reminiscent of Christ's sacrifice to appease the vindictive wrath of the Old Testament Jehovah: interposing between Sciolto and Calista, Altamont proclaims, The Fair Penitent 137 Christian ars moriendi, a standard which Calista, who has "dar'd to meditate on death" and upon her "account," has finally met "when the trial comes" (p. 202). As if to assure us that Calista will "find with Heav'n the same for- giveness" as Sciolto grants, Rowe has Altamont say, Hadst thou a thousand faults, What heart so hard, what virtue so severe, But at that beauty must of force relented, Melted to pity, love, and to forgiveness. Furthermore, in a speech that recalls the opening scene of the play and Sciolto's role as Heaven's agent in rewarding Altamont's "piety," the dying Sciolto prays to "gracious Heav'n," which has "endless blessings still in store, / For virtue, and for filial piety," to "multiply" Its "mer- cies" on Altamont. Whether the failing Altamont will receive these "mercies" on earth is irrelevant, for the lesson of the scene is, as it has been throughout the play-and throughout Rowe's tragedies-trust in Providence. In The Fair Penitent, then, human forgiveness is both imitative and em- blematic of the mercy promised by Providence to all repentant sinners. Rowe seems to be saying that in a world where the Fall is being contin- ually reconfirmed, sinful man must place his trust in divine mercy and must attempt to emulate that mercy in his dealings with his fellow sin- ners: to paraphrase Lavinia, "Let us bless the mercy that preserves us, and to adorn the sacrifice of praise, offer forgiveness too; let us be like Heav'n." Such human mercy, as in Horatio's forgiveness of Altamont, Altamont's forgiveness of Calista, and especially Sciolto's dying words to Calista, becomes a sign of divine mercy. And Calista's final plea, "Mercy, Heav'n," becomes at once a mark of her complete repentance and of its efficacy. Calamitous as the ending of the play is, the final note is one of hope and reconciliation. Calista's atonement-that is, etymo- logically, her at-onement with her father and her husband-signifies her at-onement with God, by virtue of the Atonement, which Altamont's love and spirit of self-sacrifice recall. For the one thing that does achieve perfection amidst all the imperfections of the fallen world of the play is Altamont's love, rooted in Christian charitas and reminiscent of Christ's sacrifice to appease the vindictive wrath of the Old Testament Jehovah: interposing between Sciolto and Calista, Altamont proclaims,  I38 The Trial of the Sinner 138 The Trial of the Sinner 138 The Trial of the Sinner Stay thee, Sciolto, thou rash father, stay, Or turn the point on me, and thro' my breast Cut out the bloody passage to Calista; So shall my love be perfect, while for her I die, for whom alone I wish'd to live. (IV, p. 192) Altamont's meekness, so long the butt of criticism, is really that of Christ, and it is the leaven of his forgiveness that raises Calista's soul to humility and mediates her way from the "dark abode" of despair and hell to the "Celestial sounds" and "Peace" of the "Heav'n" upon which she finally calls (V, p. 206 f). Significantly, the "last dear object" of Calista's eyes as she sighs her soul toward heaven is the Christ-like Alta- mont, of whom she begs "pity" (p. 207). Thus, like Tamerlane, by means of the typological imagery that runs throughout-from the story of the Fall, to the good and bad genii, to Sciolto's Jehovah-like wrath, to Altamont's Christ-like love-The Fair Penitent reaches back through the traditions of Renaissance drama to its roots in medieval drama. Like his predecessors Marlowe, Shakespeare, Milton, and Otway, Rowe has transferred the portrayal of the trial of the sinner from allegory and religious ritual to psychologically realistic, if still richly emblematic, drama. And his heroine-unlike Faustus, Mac- beth, Satan, Acasto's children, or her own Lothario, and very much like Adam and Eve and Samson-finally eschews despair and avails herself of the means of grace, provided by a God Whose care for His lost sheep, according to the vision that informs the play, tempers His justice with mercy. iv The Fair Penitent is Rowe's most popular play today (witness the criti- cism) not because its allusions and typological imagery work so well and not because its language is his best-that of Jane Shore is better-but, I suspect, because its conflict and characters are the most engaging. Not that the language is bad. Rowe has his usual lapses in "softer" dialogue (between Horatio, Lavinia, and Altamont), but Calista's soliloquies in Acts III and V are excellent, not only in their powerful expression of the double standard but in the quality of the lines themselves. Let us examine them closely: How hard is the condition of our sex, Thro' ev'ry state of life the slaves of man? Stay thee, Sciolto, thou rash father, stay, Or turn the point on me, and thro' my breast Cut out the bloody passage to Calista; So shall my love be perfect, while for her I die, for whom alone I wish'd to live. (IV, p. 192) Altamont's meekness, so long the butt of criticism, is really that of Christ, and it is the leaven of his forgiveness that raises Calista's soul to humility and mediates her way from the "dark abode" of despair and hell to the "Celestial sounds" and "Peace" of the "Heav'n" upon which she finally calls (V, p. 206 f). Significantly, the "last dear object" of Calista's eyes as she sighs her soul toward heaven is the Christ-like Alta- mont, of whom she begs "pity" (p. 207). Thus, like Tamerlane, by means of the typological imagery that runs throughout-from the story of the Fall, to the good and bad genii, to Sciolto's Jehovah-like wrath, to Altamont's Christ-like love-The Fair Penitent reaches back through the traditions of Renaissance drama to its roots in medieval drama. Like his predecessors Marlowe, Shakespeare, Milton, and Otway, Rowe has transferred the portrayal of the trial of the sinner from allegory and religious ritual to psychologically realistic, if still richly emblematic, drama. And his heroine-unlike Faustus, Mac- beth, Satan, Acasto's children, or her own Lothario, and very much like Adam and Eve and Samson-finally eschews despair and avails herself of the means of grace, provided by a God Whose care for His lost sheep, according to the vision that informs the play, tempers His justice with mercy. iv The Fair Penitent is Rowe's most popular play today (witness the criti- cism) not because its allusions and typological imagery work so well and not because its language is his best-that of Jane Shore is better-but, I suspect, because its conflict and characters are the most engaging. Not that the language is bad. Rowe has his usual lapses in "softer" dialogue (between Horatio, Lavinia, and Altamont), but Calista's soliloquies in Acts III and V are excellent, not only in their powerful expression of the double standard but in the quality of the lines themselves. Let us examine them closely: How hard is the condition of our sex, Thro' ev'ry state of life the slaves of man? Stay thee, Sciolto, thou rash father, stay, Or turn the point on me, and thro' my breast Cut out the bloody passage to Calista; So shall my love be perfect, while for her I die, for whom alone I wish'd to live. (IV, p. 192) Altamont's meekness, so long the butt of criticism, is really that of Christ, and it is the leaven of his forgiveness that raises Calista's soul to humility and mediates her way from the "dark abode" of despair and hell to the "Celestial sounds" and "Peace" of the "Heav'n" upon which she finally calls (V, p. 206 f). Significantly, the "last dear object" of Calista's eyes as she sighs her soul toward heaven is the Christ-like Alta- mont, of whom she begs "pity" (p. 207). Thus, like Tamerlane, by means of the typological imagery that rns throughout-from the story of the Fall, to the good and bad genii, to Sciolto's Jehovah-like wrath, to Altamont's Christ-like love- The Fair Penitent reaches back through the traditions of Renaissance drama to its roots in medieval drama. Like his predecessors Marlowe, Shakespeare, Milton, and Otway, Rowe has transferred the portrayal of the trial of the sinner from allegory and religious ritual to psychologically realistic, if still richly emblematic, drama. And his heroine-unlike Faustus, Mac- beth, Satan, Acasto's children, or her own Lothario, and very much like Adam and Eve and Samson-finally eschews despair and avails herself of the means of grace, provided by a God Whose care for His lost sheep, according to the vision that informs the play, tempers His justice with mercy. iv The Fair Penitent is Rowe's most popular play today (witness the criti- ceism) not because its allusions and typological imagery work so well and not because its language is his best-that of Jane Shore is better-but, I suspect, because its conflict and characters are the most engaging. Not that the language is bad. Rowe has his usual lapses in "softer" dialogue (between Horatio, Lavinia, and Altamont), but Calista's soliloquies in Acts III and V are excellent, not only in their powerful expression of the double standard but in the quality of the lines themselves. Let us examine them closely; How hard is the condition of our sex, Thro' ev'ry state of life the slaves of man?  The Fair Penitent 139 In all the dear delightful days of youth, A rigid father dictates to our wills, And deals out pleasure with a scanty hand: To his, the tyrant husband's reign succeeds; Proud with opinion of superior reason, He holds domestic bus'ness and devotion All we are capable to know, and shuts us, Like cloister'd idiots, from the world's acquaintance, And all the joys of freedom. Wherefore are we Born with high souls, but to assert ourselves, Shake off this vile obedience they exact, And claim an equal empire o'er the world? (p. 179) Now think, thou curst Calista, now behold The desolation, horror, blood and ruin, Thy crimes and fatal folly spread around, That loudly cry for vengeance on thy head; Yet Heav'n, who knows our weak imperfect natures, How blind with passions, and how prone to evil, Makes not too strict inquiry for offences, But is aton'd by penitence and pray'r: Cheap recompence! here 'twould not be receiv'd, Nothing but blood can make the expiation, And cleanse the soul from inbred, deep pollution. (p. 204) The alliteration of d's in the opening of the first speech is a perfect ve- hicle for Calista's exploding indignation at the tyranny of fathers, an indignation that continues to explode in the alliteration of p's, empha- sized by the initial trochee, as the tyranny of the husband is introduced ("Proud with opinion of superior reason"). The explosion culminates in the wonderfully indignant phrase "cloister'd idiots." Finally, the pas- sage concludes very strongly with its masculine endings and two stressed initial words, "Born" and "Shake," the first of which is enjambed. And Calista's imperious temper is reflected in her very choice of metaphor (however justified it may be). She speaks as haughtily as Rowe's Arte- misa and Rodogune, yet here Rowe controls the rhetoric, as he does in Ulysses. In the second speech Rowe uses rhythms and sound effects well to signify Calista's three moods. The masculine endings and the alliter- ation of k sounds suggest her wrath and self-loathing in the first four The Fair Penitent 139 In all the dear delightful days of youth, A rigid father dictates to our wills, And deals out pleasure with a scanty hand: To his, the tyrant husband's reign succeeds; Proud with opinion of superior reason, He holds domestic bus'ness and devotion All we are capable to know, and shuts us, Like cloister'd idiots, from the world's acquaintance, And all the joys of freedom. Wherefore are we Born with high souls, but to assert ourselves, Shake off this vile obedience they exact, And claim an equal empire o'er the world? (p. 179) Now think, thou curst Calista, now behold The desolation, horror, blood and ruin, Thy crimes and fatal folly spread around, That loudly cry for vengeance on thy head; Yet Heav'n, who knows our weak imperfect natures, How blind with passions, and how prone to evil, Makes not too strict inquiry for offences, But is aton'd by penitence and pray'r: Cheap recompence! here 'twould not be receiv'd, Nothing but blood can make the expiation, And cleanse the soul from inbred, deep pollution. (p. 204) The alliteration of d's in the opening of the first speech is a perfect ve- hicle for Calista's exploding indignation at the tyranny of fathers, an indignation that continues to explode in the alliteration of p's, empha- sized by the initial trochee, as the tyranny of the husband is introduced ("Proud with opinion of superior reason"). The explosion culminates in the wonderfully indignant phrase "cloister'd idiots." Finally, the pas- sage concludes very strongly with its masculine endings and two stressed initial words, "Born" and "Shake," the first of which is enjambed. And Calista's imperious temper is reflected in her very choice of metaphor (however justified it may be). She speaks as haughtily as Rowe's Arte- misa and Rodogune, yet here Rowe controls the rhetoric, as he does in Ulysses. In the second speech Rowe uses rhythms and sound effects well to signify Calista's three moods. The masculine endings and the alliter- ation of k sounds suggest her wrath and self-loathing in the first four The Fair Penitent 139 In all the dear delightful days of youth, A rigid father dictates to our wills, And deals out pleasure with a scanty hand: To his, the tyrant husband's reign succeeds; Proud with opinion of superior reason, He holds domestic bus'ness and devotion All we are capable to know, and shuts us, Like cloister'd idiots, from the world's acquaintance, And all the joys of freedom. Wherefore are we Born with high souls, but to assert ourselves, Shake off this vile obedience they exact, And claim an equal empire o'er the world? (p. 179) Now think, thou curst Calista, now behold The desolation, horror, blood and ruin, Thy crimes and fatal folly spread around, That loudly cry for vengeance on thy head; Yet Heav'n, who knows our weak imperfect natures, How blind with passions, and how prone to evil, Makes not too strict inquiry for offences, But is aton'd by penitence and pray'r: Cheap recompence! here 'twould not be receiv'd, Nothing but blood can make the expiation, And cleanse the soul from inbred, deep pollution. (p. 204) The alliteration of d's in the opening of the first speech is a perfect ve- hicle for Calista's exploding indignation at the tyranny of fathers, an indignation that continues to explode in the alliteration of p's, empha- sized by the initial trochee, as the tyranny of the husband is introduced ("Proud with opinion of superior reason"). The explosion culminates in the wonderfully indignant phrase "cloister'd idiots." Finally, the pas- sage concludes very strongly with its masculine endings and two stressed initial words, "Born" and "Shake," the first of which is enjambed. And Calista's imperious temper is reflected in her very choice of metaphor (however justified it may be). She speaks as haughtily as Rowe's Arte- misa and Rodogune, yet here Rowe controls the rhetoric, as he does in Ulysses. In the second speech Rowe uses rhythms and sound effects well to signify Calista's three moods. The masculine endings and the alliter- ation of k sounds suggest her wrath and self-loathing in the first four  140 The Trial of the Sinner 140 The Trial of the Sinner 140 The Trial of the Sinner lines. But Rowe softens the next four with three feminine endings, al- literation of h and w sounds, assonance of oo sounds, and easy elisions, all of which seem to mute the continuing plosives and bring us to rest calmly on the phrase, "penitence and pray'r." The lulling effect of the lines is then immediately shattered by the sudden spondees of the next line and by the initial trochee and unmitigated plosives of the next two. Of course, as in almost any passage of poetry, it is the sense which finally tells us how to read the lines, but I think in both these passages Rowe has provided the necessary equipment to make them effective vehicles of powerful expression. There are other good speeches in the play, but most of them are in dialogue, which is difficult to discuss apart from character. The conflict of this play works so well, I think, not only because Rowe has excel- lently portrayed Calista's great spirit in travail but because he has structured the play in a series of dynamic encounters whose dialogue is crisp, lively, often powerful, and always perfectly in character. The first encounter is between Lothario and Lucilla, when the libertine's insouciance and insolence are beautifully displayed in his mockery of the pious servant, whom he sees as a treat for a "keeping cardinal" (, p. 164), and of her undone mistress, whom he perversely calls "the fair inconstant." The second important encounter is that between the jubilant and probably somewhat inebriated Altamont and the cold, disdainful Ca- lista, who answers his amorous entreaties and jocund overtures with a wintry blast: Some sullen influence, a foe to both, Has wrought this fatal marriage to undo us. (ILi, p. 171) One must imagine the looks on their faces as Sciolto exuberantly takes one in each arm and caresses them, as the song of unrequited love is sung, and as Horatio stares across at Calista (p. 172). It is a fine piece of stagecraft. The third encounter is between Horatio and Lothario, when the brave but unsophisticated warrior is pitted against the brazen cavalier rake. Lothario's flouting of Horatio's warnings and flaunting of his tri- umph over Calista provoke Horatio into this excellent invective against libertines: A skipping, dancing, worthless tribe you are, Fit only for yourselves: You herd together; lines. But Rowe softens the next four with three feminine endings, al- literation of h and w sounds, assonance of so sounds, and easy elisions, all of which seem to mute the continuing plosives and bring us to rest calmly on the phrase, "penitence and pray'r." The lulling effect of the lines is then immediately shattered by the sudden spondees of the next line and by the initial trochee and unmitigated plosives of the next two. Of course, as in almost any passage of poetry, it is the sense which finally tells us how to read the lines, but I think in both these passages Rowe has provided the necessary equipment to make them effective vehicles of powerful expression. There are other good speeches in the play, but most of them are in dialogue, which is difficult to discuss apart from character. The conflict of this play works so well, I think, not only because Rowe has excel- lently portrayed Calista's great spirit in travail but because he has structured the play in a series of dynamic encounters whose dialogue is crisp, lively, often powerful, and always perfectly in character. The first encounter is between Lothario and Lucilla, when the libertine's insouciance and insolence are beautifully displayed in his mockery of the pious servant, whom he sees as a treat for a "keeping cardinal" (I, p. 164), and of her undone mistress, whom he perversely calls "the fair inconstant." The second important encounter is that between the jubilant and probably somewhat inebriated Altamont and the cold, disdainful Ca- lista, who answers his amorous entreaties and jocund overtures with a wintry blast: Some sullen influence, a foe to both, Has wrought this fatal marriage to undo us. (IIi, p. 171) One must imagine the looks on their faces as Sciolto exuberantly takes one in each arm and caresses them, as the song of unrequited love is sung, and as Horatio stares across at Calista (p. 172). It is a fine piece of stagecraft. The third encounter is between Horatio and Lothario, when the brave but unsophisticated warrior is pitted against the brazen cavalier rake. Lothario's flouting of Horatio's warnings and flaunting of his tri- umph over Calista provoke Horatio into this excellent invective against libertines: A skipping, dancing, worthless tribe you are, Fit only for yourselves: You herd together; lines. But Rowe softens the next four with three feminine endings, al- literation of h and w sounds, assonance of oo sounds, and easy elisions, all of which seem to mute the continuing plosives and bring us to rest calmly on the phrase, "penitence and pray'r." The lulling effect of the lines is then immediately shattered by the sudden spondees of the next line and by the initial trochee and unmitigated plosives of the next two. Of course, as in almost any passage of poetry, it is the sense which finally tells us how to read the lines, but I think in both these passages Rowe has provided the necessary equipment to make them effective vehicles of powerful expression. There are other good speeches in the play, but most of them are in dialogue, which is dificult to discuss apart from character. The conflict of this play works so well, I think, not only because Rowe has excel- lently portrayed Calista's great spirit in travail but because he has structured the play in a series of dynamic encounters whose dialogue is crisp, lively, often powerful, and always perfectly in character. The first encounter is between Lothario and Lucilla, when the libertine's insouciance and insolence are beautifully displayed in his mockery of the pious servant, whom he sees as a treat for a "keeping cardinal" (I, p. 164), and of her undone mistress, whom he perversely calls "the fair inconstant." The second important encounter is that between the jubilant and probably somewhat inebriated Altamont and the cold, disdainful Ca- lista, who answers his amorous entreaties and jocund overtures with a wintry blast: Some sullen influence, a foe to both, Has wrought this fatal marriage to undo us. (HlI, p. 171) One must imagine the looks on their faces as Sciolto exuberantly takes one in each arm and caresses them, as the song of unrequited love is sung, and as Horatio stares across at Calista (p. 172). It is a fine piece of stagecraft. The third encounter is between Horatio and Lothario, when the brave but unsophisticated warrior is pitted against the brazen cavalier rake. Lothario's flouting of Horatio's warnings and flaunting of his tri- umph over Calista provoke Horatio into this excellent invective against libertines: A skipping, dancing, worthless tribe you are, Fit only for yourselves: You herd together;  The Fair Penitent And when the circling glass warms your vain hearts, You talk of beauties that you never saw, And fancy raptures that you never knew. (Hiii, p. 175) With apparent assuredness, he concludes, 141 The Fair Penitent And when the circling glass warms your vain hearts, You talk of beauties that you never saw, And fancy raptures that you never knew. (II.ii, p. 175) With apparent assuredness, he concludes, 141 The Fair Penitent 141 Rather than make you blest, they would die virgins, And stop the propagation of mankind. (p. 176) Horatio's indignation is thus well portrayed and articulated-as well as his naivety, we might at first be tempted to say, for, of course, he is wrong. But Rowe has created Horatio more complex than a tragic braggart-soldier. Even while he denies to Lothario the possibility that Calista has fallen, we know he is plagued within, for earlier his own "heart forebodes it must be true" (11.i, p. 173). He is merely defending the honor of his friend, to the point of dying for it if necessary. The ver- bal duel ends with dialogue which epitomizes the thematic and stylistic essence of the scene: Horatio enjoins Lothario from the garden upon the threat of death, Or something worse; an injur'd husband's vengeance Shall print a thousand wounds, tear thy fine form, And scatter thee to all the winds of Heav'n. (II.ii, p. 177) In other words, Horatio's arm will deliver that "vengeance" upon the fashionable, courtly figure cut by this impudent Don Juan-who taunt- ingly retorts, Is then my way in Genoa prescrib'd, By a dependent on the wretched Altamont, A talking Sir, that brawls for him in taverns, And vouches for his valor's reputation? This is dialogue perfectly in character-and vice versa. The fourth encounter is the best in the play, that between Horatio and Calista. Again Horatio's lack of sophistication betrays him, and his bumbling "gracious words" (III, p. 179) soon give way to the roughest plain-dealing. For Calista simply destroys him. Instead of falling on her knees in contrition as he had expected, she calls him "spy," "parasite," and "ruffian" (p. 180 f), and she decries his "ambiguous shuffling phrase" Rather than make you blest, they would die virgins, And stop the propagation of mankind. (p. 176) Horatio's indignation is thus well portrayed and articulated-as well as his naivety, we might at first be tempted to say, for, of course, he is wrong. But Rowe has created Horatio more complex than a tragic braggart-soldier. Even while he denies to Lothario the possibility that Calista has fallen, we know he is plagued within, for earlier his own "heart forebodes it must be true" (Ii, p. 173). He is merely defending the honor of his friend, to the point of dying for it if necessary. The ver- bal duel ends with dialogue which epitomizes the thematic and stylistic essence of the scene: Horatio enjoins Lothario from the garden upon the threat of death, Or something worse; an injur'd husband's vengeance Shall print a thousand wounds, tear thy fine form, And scatter thee to all the winds of Heav'n. (I.ii, p. 177) In other words, Horatio's arm will deliver that "vengeance" upon the fashionable, courtly figure cut by this impudent Don Juan-who taunt- ingly retorts, Is then my way in Genoa prescrib'd, By a dependent on the wretched Altamont, A talking Sir, that brawls for him in taverns, And vouches for his valor's reputation? This is dialogue perfectly in character-and vice versa. The fourth encounter is the best in the play, that between Horatio and Calista. Again Horatio's lack of sophistication betrays him, and his bumbling "gracious words" (III, p. 179) soon give way to the roughest plain-dealing. For Calista simply destroys him. Instead of falling on her knees in contrition as be had expected, she calls him "spy," "parasite," and "ruffian" (p. 180 f), and she decries his "ambiguous shuffling phrase" And when the circling glass warms your vain hearts, You talk of beauties that you never saw, And fancy raptures that you never knew. (UI.ii, p. 175) With apparent assuredness, he concludes, Rather than make you blest, they would die virgins, And stop the propagation of mankind. (p. 176) Horatio's indignation is thus well portrayed and articulated-as well as his naivety, we might at first be tempted to say, for, of course, he is wrong. But Rowe has created Horatio more complex than a tragic braggart-soldier. Even while he denies to Lothario the possibility that Calista has fallen, we know he is plagued within, for earlier his own "heart forebodes it must be true" (I.i, p. 173). He is merely defending the honor of his friend, to the point of dying for it if necessary. The ver- bal duel ends with dialogue which epitomizes the thematic and stylistic essence of the scene: Horatio enjoins Lothario from the garden upon the threat of death, Or something worse; an injur'd husband's vengeance Shall print a thousand wounds, tear thy fine form, And scatter thee to all the winds of Heav'n. (II.ii, p. 177) In other words, Horatio's arm will deliver that "vengeance" upon the fashionable, courtly figure cut by this impudent Don Juan-who taunt- ingly retorts, Is then my way in Genoa prescrib'd, By a dependent on the wretched Altamont, A talking Sir, that brawls for him in taverns, And vouches for his valor's reputation? This is dialogue perfectly in character-and vice versa. The fourth encounter is the best in the play, that between Horatio and Calista. Again Horatio's lack of sophistication betrays him, and his bumbling "gracious words" (III, p. 179) soon give way to the roughest plain-dealing. For Calista simply destroys him. Instead of falling on her knees in contrition as he had expected, she calls him "spy," "parasite," and "ruffian" (p. 180 f), and she decries his "ambiguous shuffling phrase"  142 The Trial of the Sinner (p. 181). In his last attempt to be diplomatic, Horatio sincerely but al- most comically compares himself to a husband who risks his life to save his "tender wife" and "little fondlings" from a burning house. Calista's response is a scathing rebuke not only to Horatio's accusations but to his ineptness: Is this! is this the famous friend of Altamnt, For noble worth, and deeds of arms renown'd? Is this! this tale-bearing, officious fellow, That watches for intelligence from eyes; This wretched Argus of a jealous husband, That fills his easy ears with monstrous tales, And makes him toss, and rave, and wreak at length Bloody revenge on his defenceless wife; Who guiltless dies, because her fool ran mad? After this speech, the tearing of the letter is simply the coup de grace and the verbal dissection of Altamont ("Go fawn upon him," p. 183) nearly anticlimactic. The climactic encounter of the play is that between Lothario and Calista. Throughout, Lothario is smooth and seductive as he tries to kindle her passion anew, and he is brilliantly impudent in his mock complaint to heaven: She calls me false, ev'n she, the faithless she, Who day and night, whom Heav'n and earth have heard Sighing to vow, and tenderly protest, Ten thousand times, she would be only mine, And yet behold, she has giv'n herself away, Fled from my arms, and wedded to another, Ev'n to the man whom most I hate on earth. (IV, p. 190) And Calista answers his mockery and his loose and easy temptation to adultery in perfect character: How didst thou dare to think that I would live A slave to base desires, and brutal pleasures, To be a wretched wanton for thy leisure, To toy, and waste an hour of idle time with? My soul disdains thee for so mean a thought. 142 The Trial of the Sinner (p. 181). In his last attempt to be diplomatic, Horatio sincerely but al- most comically compares himself to a husband who risks his life to save his "tender wife" and "little fondlings" from a burning house. Calista's response is a scathing rebuke not only to Horatio's accusations but to his ineptness: Is this! is this the famous friend of Altamont, For noble worth, and deeds of arms renown'd? Is this! this tale-bearing, officious fellow, That watches for intelligence from eyes; This wretched Argus of a jealous husband, That fills his easy ears with monstrous tales, And makes him toss, and rave, and wreak at length Bloody revenge on his defenceless wife; Who guiltless dies, because her fool ran mad? After this speech, the tearing of the letter is simply the coup de grace and the verbal dissection of Altamont ("Go fawn upon him," p. 183) nearly anticlimactic. The climactic encounter of the play is that between Lothario and Calista. Throughout, Lothario is smooth and seductive as he tries to kindle her passion anew, and he is brilliantly impudent in his mock complaint to heaven: She calls me false, ev'n she, the faithless she, Who day and night, whom Heav'n and earth have heard Sighing to vow, and tenderly protest, Ten thousand times, she would be only mine, And yet behold, she has giv'n herself away, Fled from my arms, and wedded to another, Ev'n to the man whom most I hate on earth. (IV, p. 190) And Calista answers his mockery and his loose and easy temptation to adultery in perfect character: How didst thou dare to think that I would live A slave to base desires, and brutal pleasures, To be a wretched wanton for thy leisure, To toy, and waste an hour of idle time with? My soul disdains thee for so mean a thought. 142 The Trial of the Sinner (p. 181). In his last attempt to be diplomatic, Horatio sincerely but al- most comically compares himself to a husband who risks his life to save his "tender wife" and "little fondlings" from a burning house. Calista's response is a scathing rebuke not only to Horatio's accusations but to his ineptness: Is this! is this the famous friend of Altamont, For noble worth, and deeds of arms renown'd? Is this! this tale-bearing, officious fellow, That watches for intelligence from eyes; This wretched Argus of a jealous husband, That fills his easy ears with monstrous tales, And makes him toss, and rave, and wreak at length Bloody revenge on his defenceless wife; Who guiltless dies, because her fool ran mad? After this speech, the tearing of the letter is simply the coup de grace and the verbal dissection of Altamont ("Go fawn upon him," p. 183) nearly anticlimactic. The climactic encounter of the play is that between Lothario and Calista. Throughout, Lothario is smooth and seductive as he tries to kindle her passion anew, and he is brilliantly impudent in his mock complaint to heaven: She calls me false, ev'n she, the faithless she, Who day and night, whom Heav'n and earth have heard Sighing to vow, and tenderly protest, Ten thousand times, she would be only mine, And yet behold, she has giv'n herself away, Fled from my arms, and wedded to another, Ev'n to the man whom most I hate on earth. (IV, p. 190) And Calista answers his mockery and his loose and easy temptation to adultery in perfect character; How didst thou dare to think that I would live A slave to base desires, and brutal pleasures, To be a wretched wanton for thy leisure, To toy, and waste an hour of idle time with? My soul disdains thee for so mean a thought.  The Fair Penitent 143 The Fair Penitent 143 The Fair Penitent 143 Even Lothario must retreat from this powerful squelch of the greatest of male tyrants in the play-one who threatens to make her a far greater slave than either father or husband. The last major encounter of the play really extends over the re- mainder of Act IV and throughout Act V. It is the encounter among Calista, Sciolto, and Altamont: the avenger and the forgiver on either side of the distraught sinner who defiantly rails at both of them and thrice tries desperately to kill herself or be killed before she finally suc- ceeds. Rowe sustains the quality of dialogue till the end, as she disdains to be forgiven by the one or to be a "triumph" for the other (IV, p. 193). She not only violently rejects the trappings of penance but she dares the "ghosts, fantastic forms of night" to ascend and "match the present hor- ror," the real horror of Lothario's corpse (V, p. 201). Even as she is nearly overcome by her father's forgiveness, she rouses herself to rail at his vindictive justice. She finally really yields only as her very life is ebb- ing. Rowe created no other character whose dialogue so perfectly ex- presses passion and greatness of soul. Neither did any other playwright of his time, not even Dryden. The quality of the play, then, lies not only in Rowe's adept hand- ling of theme and typological imagery but in his portrayal of profound psychological conflict mainly through the dialogue of a series of en- counters which serve very well indeed to give us excellent, unforgettable characters-Calista and Lothario, at least, if not also Horatio." The en- counters between Horatio, Altamont, and Lavinia do not work as well, but they are still good by Restoration standards. The play as a whole-in coherence of structure, in patterns of imagery, in characterization, and in dialogue-surpasses even Otway's Venice Preserved, I think (where both language and coherence go awry after the third act), to become second only to Dryden's All for Love among the best of Restoration trag- edy. NOTESTO CHAPTER IV 1. The Fatal Dowry, ed. T. A. Dunn, V.ii.384 f. 2. See the Dedication and the Prologue to The Ambitious Stepmtlhe, in Works, 1,5,7. 3. See, e.g., Malcolm Goldstein, ed., The Fair Penitent, by Nicholas Roe, p. sx. 4. "Moal Vision in the Drama of Thomas Otway," ch. iv. Cf. John M. Wallace, "Dryden and Ristory: A Problem in Allegorical Reading," p. 284. 5. IV.447 ff, in The Works of Thomas Otway, ed. J. C. Ghosh, It, 67. Even Lothario must retreat from this powerful squelch of the greatest of male tyrants in the play-one who threatens to make her a far greater slave than either father or husband. The last major encounter of the play really extends over the re- mainder of Act IV and throughout Act V. It is the encounter among Calista, Sciolto, and Altamont: the avenger and the forgiver on either side of the distraught sinner who defiantly rails at both of them and thrice tries desperately to kill herself or be killed before she finally suc- ceeds. Rowe sustains the quality of dialogue till the end, as she disdains to be forgiven by the one or to be a "triumph" for the other (IV, p. 193). She not only violently rejects the trappings of penance but she dares the "ghosts, fantastic forms of night" to ascend and "match the present hor- ror," the real horror of Lothario's corpse (V, p. 201). Even as she is nearly overcome by her father's forgiveness, she rouses herself to rail at his vindictive justice. She finally really yields only as her very life is ebb- ing. Rowe created no other character whose dialogue so perfectly ex- presses passion and greatness of soul. Neither did any other playwright of his time, not even Dryden. The quality of the play, then, lies not only in Rowe's adept hand- ling of theme and typological imagery but in his portrayal of profound psychological conflict mainly through the dialogue of a series of en- counters which serve very well indeed to give us excellent, unforgettable characters-Calista and Lothario, at least, if not also Horatio.' The en- counters between Horatio, Altamont, and Lavinia do not work as well, but they are still good by Restoration standards. The play as a whole-in coherence of structure, in patterns of imagery, in characterization, and in dialogue-surpasses even Otway's Venice Preserved, I think (where both language and coherence go awry after the third act), to become second only to Dryden's Allfor Love among the best of Restoration trag- edy. NOTES TO CHAPTER IV 1. The Fatal Dowry, ed. T. A. Dunn, V.ii.384 ff. 2. See the Dedication and the Prologue to The Ambitious Stepmother, in Works, 1, 5, 7. 3. See, e.g., Malcolm Goldstein, ed, The Fair Penitent, by Nicholas Rowe, p. x. 4. "Moral Vision in the Drama of Thomas Otway," ch. iv. Cf. John M. Wallace, "Dryden and History: A Problem in Allegorical Reading," p. 284. 5. IV.447 ff, in The Works of Thomas Otway, ed. J. C. Ghosh, It, 67. Even Lothario must retreat from this powerful squelch of the greatest of male tyrants in the play-one who threatens to make her a far greater slave than either father or husband. The last major encounter of the play really extends over the re- mainder of Act IV and throughout Act V. It is the encounter among Calista, Sciolto, and Altamont: the avenger and the forgiver on either side of the distraught sinner who defiantly rails at both of them and thrice tries desperately to kill herself or be killed before she finally suc- ceeds. Rowe sustains the quality of dialogue till the end, as she disdains to be forgiven by the one or to be a "triumph" for the other (IV, p. 193). She not only violently rejects the trappings of penance but she dares the "ghosts, fantastic forms of night" to ascend and "match the present hor- ror," the real horror of Lothario's corpse (V, p. 201). Even as she is nearly overcome by her father's forgiveness, she rouses herself to rail at his vindictive justice. She finally really yields only as her very life is ebb- ing. Rowe created no other character whose dialogue so perfectly ex- presses passion and greatness of soul. Neither did any other playwright of his time, not even Dryden. The quality of the play, then, lies not only in Rowe's adept hand- ling of theme and typological imagery but in his portrayal of profound psychological conflict mainly through the dialogue of a series of en- counters which serve very well indeed to give us excellent, unforgettable characters-Calista and Lothario, at least, if not also Horatio." The en- counters between Horatio, Altamont, and Lavinia do not work as well, but they are still good by Restoration standards. The play as a whole-in coherence of structure, in patterns of imagery, in characterization, and in dialogue-surpasses even Otway's Venice Preserved, I think (where both language and coherence go awry after the third act), to become second only to Dryden's Allfor Love among the best of Restoration trag- edy. NOTES TO CHAPTER IV L The Fatal Dowry, ed. T. A. Dunn, V.ii.384 ff. 2. See the Dedication and the Prologue to The Am'bitious Stepmother, in Works, I, 5, '. 3. See, e.g., Malcolm Goldstein, ed., The Fair Penitent, by Nicholas Rone, p. en. 4. "Morl Vision in the Drama of Thomas Otway," ch. iv. Cf. John M. Wallace, "Dryden and History: A Problem in Allegorical Reading," p. 284. 5. IV.447 ff, in The Works of Thomas Otway, ed. J. C. Gbosh, II, 67.  144 The Trialof theinnser 6. Cf.PL IV.77if, spily tb odsflteiies ad GbelshtSta,whb hs beets tempteto ta "Thief" IV.102) and wbo it discteref is the dark coero Adiet and Eve's bower: Why satst thou like an eey int wait fleet chingeat the head of thtse ltt tsep? bsploy'd it see s vilate dleep, ted these Whse dwcelling Godhetbh pianted bee is bitt) (sxt. 825 1, 883 1) 7. Cf. PC, IV.962 0f ButemakehateI eede theessnow, avaunt; Fly thither whence thou feifd'st; if from this hour Withie these halked limilts thisteppees, Back ts th'ifnl pitdrg thee hi'd. Followtisg George Whiting's bead ("Rowst Debt ts Parasise Lt"),I hav treteo tbroughut titudythtReev'stthemesd imgey sreeysyimcilartotMiltos.As Whitittg bet thown, nowbsre is Roes debt more explicit tea is Chmelts. Since The Fa.iPeneitent wcc the net play heewrots, it shouldnotb spsing to fied Stillons in- fluencetsill strtong, if lesstexpicit. 8. Mostciticshe echdthiststtsent t oisotetpiterpis g ittoefser tosRe't "doesetic" sharsacteizatiot. Onthescotraty, Row it justifyineg his potrayal of "soe frail vicios chartes" by eppealing to "Ntee-is thit instence, hstses nature.eSuch an appel its nt "nteite,"eeiFranbtiseehil asetst)"ThstNatue f Traedy is Roweet The Feir Penitent," p. 352). S. 'lbs proereb "Besue yousi wit finld you otl" it fouttd is Nitus. 32:23 ted it ebhoed is job 34:22; it asids edxpresion in the pagan writins of Tb ,eris, Cato, Seec, tc. See The IHome Book of Proverbs, Sltefees, ted PFamiliitt Pbtese, ed. Buerton Steeson, p. 2119. Tbe moe familiar proverb it "Murdefwil cutst," bet is either vaeietion it it aontat mtlif int Classia and Eglish tragedy (and svncmedy) of all kitndf- reene, domesttic, probltem, ets. The idea it explicit throutghout Henrey H. Adas, Englisb Dosteetic or, omeiletis Tragedy, teed Chedets H. Peae, "Dometic i Tragedy is Rlelaion to Thetology." 10. Peae concludet, "Roes The tFaft Penitenl t is beetarmoy with the Additesit ve'thtthe trgictwoldefslths themrstdiled coneptiontfPridenc,hicb virtuatlly tlicinaesa paeticlar Providence- (p. 210 P). Bet Rowte it merely ding eshat scuif lbethtser Chrittian tg eias-Shkespetee and Drydsen is parlisele-eftst do. Peae himelf admtis thtat Cateies Testesr's hehppy Peitent (1702) it dratci faiburs pesissly bsecause "tbs guiing besif of Providence is maeso obsies that all subleyedll islsresttslst, sd lbs isnteprettion of ever eent is madespiflly stplicit" (p. 180). Trotter's The F'stsl Piendship (1698) ittsbtter plty, Pesk ares, besshetb"attsepttotshapthe tin isuchawy s to eelhewokigsfProi- dences esitbsut destroyisg the illeus to attsity." esbsees is hser ote plty 'lbs mys- lsryesdbhsubtltty is lbs actios ase goes" (p. 182). Oeca easeily sow by lthesme srilseit (amoneg otbes) wsbtt mess Tbs Psir Pesitet abettebut nosst Cbtitties-pey tsa titber by Trtters, =sd a plty whobsthbemsite istt lesempbaticlly trst is Diviss Providee. IL. Doegeld MasMillan esd Hosesati Mstsfsd Joes, es., Plays of lbs Rsterstion ,adighyeet C'etenyglos ehre tss"By te Rosmatensfrueedy wseesep posesd tsosbeakedbytawhitstoes. Theeqivenstf osr 'red-lsete'day" (p. 454). 12. Libe lbs spitbesi "bditbtett" ted "ftitbbul," lbs sostinsal spitbst "gtacios," s insLesillt' "gracious providnce"tshowtaksseeles namm tnsearcottionsad remtind sifClit'ssdnee ftssHave's proisief-gre. 144 The Tefial of the Sisser 6. Cf. PC Iy.7f7 if, especilly ibete woss of Itbesiel sif Gebreto Silts, wsbo btt bees etempared lt "Thief" )ly.292) teif whs it ifitsoered is tbs derh coere ofl Adaee ted Fe's boer-e Why stt tso like te eseemy is ai Hestsewatcbingt tbehetdif thesthabt deep? beplsyif it setms sislsts sleep, esif tbss WhoetdweingGd bthplantdseihliss? eet. 8250f,0893f) 7. CC. PC IV.9ff:l Fly thitbet cheese thee fliddeCt if feet thit beet Within these beitteif listits thee eppea, flesh to th'infeessi pit I drsg thee cbeisif. Follocing eore Wbiting'tslead "fiseet Debt Si Paeetise Lost"), thtve tiedfi t hee lhrssglit thiststudy thatfRowe'sthes aned imgeyeersy iilaritoeilto'.s Wbiting htt thocn, etchsere it Roe'st debt te esplisit thee is Taerleeie. Sisse The FeirsPeitent wceetheet playhe wrote, itshouldsnt bsupsingitofindMiltosin- fluee stil trong, ifletsstepiit. &. Moseitiisthae ecihedithieeteetottfsctet, itepetingttoefer ts Ries "doetis" sharterizatio. Os the cotrarey, fle it juttifying bit poerttayal of "toe frail vicios sbrtest" by appealing ts "Nessee"-is tbis istancse, humane ntue, Such te appel is sit "naturalism," tas Frtek Kreteut txets ("The Natues of Tragedy is Rowee's The Faie Pentent," p.S32). i. The peet "Biesreyousinswilsid ysusst" isfound inNume.S2l3smidis eshoed is fsb 34:22; it ase fidt etptession is lbs pagan wrtis of Theeshit'. Cto, Seneca, etc. Stt The omee Books if Prebsee, Maxtis, ted Fameiia Phrses, edf. Burton Steveson, p. 2129. The moee famteiia proerb is "Muredee will set," bet is eiteetvaiation it is a esttlt moetif is Class'ica ted Englith trtgedy teif esescedy) of sit kisift- evene, domestis, ptsblem, etc. The ideatis explisit throughost Hlenry H. Adatet, Engitb Domtestic or, Hoieitic Teagedy, tsd Charlst H. Psaise, "Doestis Teagefy is Resletion ts Theoiogy." 10. Feaeeconsludet, "ite' Te FirPenditt isbn armoyith theeddisome diec this the tragic cord eeflest the teststbhtzedf sonception of Provdene, chish virtully ehiintet e paricslee Ptovidense" (p. 220 f). Bet fle it eely diftig chet teme of the bettser Cheistits ieegediaes-Shaespsess ted Deydes is partiseiteefies ifs. Peae bimself edmts tbet Cethetie Teotteets The Unheappy Penitent (i1701) is a dramatis failure precstelp lessree "the guiding btei f Povieincse it mtade so obviost thet sit subtletyti adilinerstrest,andfthinsterett feeyeevet ismapainfly explicit" (p. 180). yTttes The Peat Fiendhip (1698) it a bettee pity, Peae atrges, beeemsteshe "attestptststbape theesctioneinsuctheaeeyatoeeatlthseswokistf Proi- dence witbost deisrsping the ilusion of estuality," weest is bee tber pity "the eye- tery sed thee sblety is the action ae gtne" (p. 182). De sesidy thee by lbsteme sites'a (among sibere) whet maekets hFirsPenitent a better-but ne iete Christiets-pley thee eithet by Teottes, teif a pity whots themets ee lets emphtisaily trst is Divine 11. Dtsgdld MactMillan ted Howared bleettesi Joes, od., Plast if lbs Rsesaion andt Eigh~tett Century1, gltes the phease thes; "fly the Romse a foetunte daey ee tsp psed ts be marskedtbysaebite ste. The equivadest tfo'esd-letter' day" (p. 454). 12. Like the epithets "feithiss" ted "ttihifi," the constinul epithet "gsesie, " s is Lucille's "gseistprovidfee" aoetas, onhat mres thanesisseuarcontaltione d remtinsus tof Cafista's needf fee-ted fleaen's promises sf-grece. 144 The Triai tof the Sisses 6. Cf. PC IV.TOT 0f, etpecially these worst st ithetiel ted Gebiesl Is Seate, who he bees comspared teea "Thief' (IV. 192) ted who is istoesinh the datk coesrs tf Adast Why settt thee like te enesty is wait Hees eatching at the heed of thethaIbt dleep? tepley'd it tsetm to violstetisep, ted thte Whoes dwelling Gtd bath pleted here is blist? (ess. 022 1, 8030f) 7. Cf. PC IV.962 ff: Bue~teakewhat I ed thee nte, teessi; Fly tuhier cheese thtu flediftet if free thie best Withis thse helitevd limits thtu eppees. flesh to th'infirma pit I drag thee chouid. Fsolsewing CGeorge Whiting's lead ("Roe's Debt Is Pdisels Ctes) t hese tried Si thee theoughoutethisstuedy thatRowe'sthestmesadhimgey aeeysimilartoitt's. A, Whiting beesthhown, nswhese it fle's debt mtte expisit thee is Paeslane. Sisse The Fair Penient was the ext pity he weote, it shouldnot be surpising Is fied Miltons is- flene stili trtog,ifesstepisit. 8& Most sitis bee wencsed thit statestent set sof sotet, interpreting it to reter is Roses"dostic" sharsctsizastion. Os the sesiteev fles jusetifyingbhis psrteayad tf "toe bril icios sheessters" by appedling is "heitus--is this isasc, hsstan nturse. Such aneppealisecot "nturalism,"sFrankbKe aets)"hlieaueo Traesdy is fle's The FsirePentitent," p. 35). Si Theprotereb"Beesue youresi wil inedysout" is foundinNu. 3223aed is echoed is ftb 34s22; iit bethfnd expressisn is ihe pagan ertings tt Thessis, Lets, See, etc. See The Hsee, ook of Pesseebe, Maxisit, set Faiiarshrase, ed. Bureton Stevenes,p. 2119.Thesmoresfaiiart proerb ist"Mutdercwileot," bti eihervaeatio iiit iscostat testif is Cissisl ted English tregedy (ted seves scstedy) ot all kins- reene, doest is, peobies, tc i. The idea it esplicii theoughot Henry H. Adems, English Doesticsese, Holetic Trsged, asnd Chartis H. Peae, "Dostestis Traedy is Reslation ts Theology." i. Fsthsescldes,"Rosee'se FairePenitent isinsharmsyith theAddisia view that the tragic wsrld efsst the te subtilized sonseption sof Providence, which virtually elisentet a pertislae Fesvidense" (p. 210 0. fist fle it etely doing ehat somfth behtter Christien tsegsthtee-Sheketpetis ted Dryden is partisular-oftsn ifs. Psebe himelf admits that Cetherine Testers lie Unhappy Penitent (1701) itt a dramtis fiisre psecsey beseuse "lbs guiding heed of Feovidesse is cede s bvisss that all subtletyandealliteest es t, eed theitepreaion of seeyevent deedsd pinsfuly esphii" (p. 180). Trtiters The Fatai Piendship (18) is abettet plap, Feebe segtet, becsetshe"ttempts totshaethseeainisubce ewaysas edeltheseorigseofesi- dssss eithost destroying the illusion of astuelity," wheeas is hes othes pity "the mst- tery ted the subtlety is lbs estisn see fete" (p. 182). Osne nestup thee by the tae sriteria (amongsothers)whatemkes The FsirPenisteabette-but essChisian-play Stsa eithss by Trotte, tedsa play whse theme is no leesstphatically trust is Divins Provdee. 11. Deegeld Mactetillan esif Howaesd Msttfed Jones, ede., Phayt sf the Rlesetrasio sand Eighteenth Cetury, glss the phrate thee: "fly the Rostans s foetunate day ws tsup- psed tobetaeked byee hitstoeT eqivae tfoe'edlete'sey" (p. 45). 12. Liks the spithes "teithem" ted "fithful," ths sontinual spithst "grasios," te is Lssife'e "gtesiossproidene" these, takes set a stoee thee secslas connotation ted emidss f Cait's nfeeed r ln ee's proisef-grae.  The Fair Penitent 145 13. See Krarful, "The Nature of Tragedy," p. 353 1. Johnson's criticism is expressed in "The Life of Nicholas Rowe," in Rowe, W-k,, L 3 . Thc pagination being separate but not Roman, I distinguish it with an asterisk.) 14. Landon C. Bums, Jr., 'The Tragedies of Nicholas Rowe," p. 109 L further maintains that Lothario is more attractive than Altarnont became we most sympathize with Calista's initial choice between them. There is some merit to this opinion, but we most remember that Calista is wrong and that Scioto is right in the choice. 15. See Donald B. Clark, "An Eigbtreath-Century Adaptation of Massinger," p. 243 ff, for a comparison between Don John and Lothorio. 16. The play is, in short, like so much of the better Restoauticar duana-comedy as well as tragerly-antilibertine. Nowhere is this theme more powerfully enunciated than in Horatio's brilliant invective against the "false ones" in this world whose only "Heac'n" is "variety"-a heaven that turns cut to be hellish bestiality: One love, to mother still succeeds, Another, and another after that, And the last fool is welcome as the former: 'Till having lovd his hour out, he gives place, And mingles with the herd that went before him. j, p. 168) 17. The most recent of thew interpretations was given in a paper by Annibel Jen- kins, "Patience and Penitence: Love and Innocence in Dante, Rowe, and Goethe," de- livered in the Comparative Literature section of the thirty-eighth annual meeting of the South Atlantic MLA in Jacksonville, Fla., November 1968. Jenkins maintains that, like Dante's Francesca and unlike Goethe's Marguerite, Rowe's Catista is unrepentant .ad thus an eternal martyr to secular love. See The South Atlantic Bulletin, 36, 9, for a pmeis. Cf. Goldstein, rat, The Fair Penitent, p. xviii L who considers Calista's suicide the measure of her "self-loathing" and mentions no further development in the progress of her soul. Kendal, p. 360, refers to Calista's repentance as "presumed" (that is, in the title of the play) but never explicit. Astonishingly, Eugene Waith, Ideas of Greatness, says that "luxuriant grief" is "the sole and particular theme of the fifth act" (p. 274). 18. Donald B. Clark, "Nicholas Reove," p. 113, notes a general similauity between Rowo's play and Edward Raverecroft's The Italian Hwband (1697) and mentions that the In mine Alouisia, in a similar "chamel" scene, is discovered kneeling before a table with a book and a picture of Magdalene, but he does not carournent on the obvious sigutficance of such props. 19. Dryden has Dido apply the same epithet to Aeneas (Ameid, IV.439, in The of John Dryden, ed. James Kinsley, 111, 1156), and since the epigraph to the play also concerns Dido-"Quin morere, of morita es, ferroque averti dolorem" (p. 151; Am. IV.547)-we are invited to we Calista's struggle in the light of Dido's, to identify that struggle as the temptation to suicidal despair, and to fear its outcome. 20 Cf. Shakespeare's Gertrude in Hamlet, in The Co pletc Plays anti Pocar, of Willian, Shakespeare, ed. W. A. Neilson and C. J. Hill: 0 Hamlet, speak no more! Than toon"t -me eyes into mv very soul, And there I see such black and grained spots As will not leave their tinct. (III.iv.88 ff) 21, 1 am obviously in total disagreement with Eugene llnatko, "The Failure of Eighteenth-Centory Tragedy," p. 466, when he calls the play "a 'tragedy' of one- dimensional figures who do not engage the modern audience at all.... All the characters working within the simple moral framework are stick-figres declaiming, mere plot ne- cessities." The statements strike me as assertive and onempiricat. The Fair Penitent 145 13. See Kcarful, "The Nature of Tragedy," p. 353 1. Johnson's criticis. is expressed in "The Life of Nicholas Rowe," in Rowe, Works, L 3o. (The pagination being separate but not Roman, I distinguish it with a, asterisk.) 14. Landon C. Bums, Jr., "The Tragedies of Nicholas Rowe," p. 109 1, further maintains that Lothario is mom attractive than Altarnont became we most sympathize with Calista's initial choice between them. There is same merit to this opinion, but we must remember that Calista is wrong and that Sciolto is right in the choice. 15. See Donald B. Clark, "An Eighteenth-Century Adaptation of Mmsinger," p. 243 ff, for a comparison between Don John and Lothatio. 16. The play is, in short, like so much of the better Restoration dranna-comedy a well as tragraly-antilibertme. Nowhere is this theme more powerfully enunciated than in Horatio's brilliant invective against the "false ones" in this world whose only "Heav'n" is "variety"-a beaven that turns out to be hellish bestiality: One lover to =other still succeeds, Amotber, and another after that, And the last fool is welcome as the former: 'Till having lov'd his hour out, he gives place, And mingles with the herd that went before him. fl, p. 168) 17. The most recent of these interpretations was given in a paper by Annibel jen- kirs, "Patience and Penitence: Love and Innocence in Dante, Rowe, and Gorthe," de- livered in the Comparative Literature section of the thirty-eigbtb annual meeting of the South Atlantic MLA in Jacksonville, Fla., November 1968. Jenkins maintains that, like Dante's Francesca and unlike Goothe's Marguerite, Rowe's Calista is unrepentant and thus an eternal martyr to secular love. See The South Atlantic Bulletin, 36, 9, for a precis. Cf. Goldstein, ed., The Fair Penitent, p. xviii L who considers Calista's suicide the measure of her "wlf-loathing" and mentions no further development in the progress of her soul. Krarful, p. 360, refers to Calista's repentance as "presumed" (that is, in the title of the play) but never explicit. Astonishingly, Eugene Waith, Ideas of Greatness, says that -luxuriant grief" is "the sole and particular theme of the fifth act" (p. 274). 18. Donald B. Clark, "Nicholas Rowe," p. 113, notes a general similarity between Rowe's play and Edward Ravenscroft's The Italian Husband j697) and mentions that the heroine Almusia, in a similar "cloonel" scene, is discovered kneeling before a table with a book and a picture of Magdalene, but he does not comment on the obvious significance of such props. 19, Dryden has Dirk, apply the same epithet to Aeneas (Ameid, IV.439, in The Poemes of John Dryden, ed. James Kinsloy, 111, 1156), and since the epigraph to the play also concerm Dido-"Quin morcre, ut merita es, ferroque averti dolore." (p. 151; Am. IV.547)-we are invited to we Calista's straggle in the light of Dido's, to identify that straggle as the temptation to suicidal despair, and to fear its outcome. 20. Cf. Shakespeare's Gertrude in Handet, in The Complete Plays and Rome, of William Shakespeare, od. W. A. Neilson and C. J. Hill: 0 Hamlet, speak a more! Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul, And there I see such black and grained spots As will not leave their tmet. jU.N.88 IF) 21. 1 am obviously in total disagreement with Eugene Hnatko, "The Failure of Eighteenth-Contury Tragedy," p. 466, when he calls the play "a 'tragedy' of one- dimensional figures who do not engage the modern audience at all.... All the characters working within the simple moral framework are stick-figures declaiming, mere plot ne- cessities." The statements strike me as assertive and onempirical. The Fair Penitent 145 13. See Kcarfirl, "the Nature of Tragedy," p. 353 1. Johnson's criticism is expressed in 'The Life of Nicholas Rowe," in Rowe, Works, 1, 3*. (The pagination being separate but not Roman, I distinguish it with an asterisk.) 14. Landon C. Burns, Jr., '-fhe Tragedies of Nicholas Rowe," p. 109 L further maintains that Lothario is more attractive than Altamont became we must sympathize with Calista'.s initial choice between them. There is wane merit to this opinion, but we must remember that Calista is wrong and that Sciolto is right in the choice. 15. See Donald B. Clark, "An Eighteamth-Century Adaptation of Massinger," p. 243 11, for a comparison between Don John and Lothario. 16. The play is, in short, like so much of the better Restoration drama-conarly as well as tragedy-antilibertine. Nowhere is this theme mom powerfully enunciated than in Horatio's brilliant invective against the "false ones" in this world whose only "Heas'n" is "vatirty--a heaven that turns out to be hellish bestiality: One lover to mother still succeeds, Another, and another after that, And the last fool is welcome as the former 'Till having lov'd his hour out, be gives place, And mingles with the herd that went before him. J, p. 168) 17. The most recent of these interpretations was given in a paper by Annibel Jm- kins, "Pationce and Penitence; Love and Innocence in Dante, Rown, and Goethe," de- livered in the Comparative Literature section of the thirty-eighth annual meeting of the South Atlantic MLA in Jacksonville, Fla., November 1968. Jenkins maintains that, like Dante's Francesca and unlike Goothe's Marguerite, Rowe's Calista is unrepentant and thus am eternal martyr to secular love. See The South Atlantic Bulletin, 36, 9, for a pmeis. Cf Goldstein, ed., The Fair Penitent, p. will I, who considers Calista's suicide the measure of her "self loathing" and mentions no further development in the progress of her soul. Kcarful, p. 360, refers to Calista's repentance as "presumed" (that is, in the title of the play) but never explicit. Astonishingly, Eugene Waith, Ideas of Gosuness, says that "luxuriant grief" is "the sale and particular theme of the fifth act" (p. 274). 18. Donald B. Clark, "Nicholas Ifinve," p. 113, notes a general similarity between Rowe's play and Edward Ravenwroft's The Italian Husband (1697) and mentions that the heroine Alorrism, in a similar "chamel" scone, is discoweed kneeling before a table with a back and a picture of Magdalene, but he does not comment on the obvious significance of such Props. 19. Dryden has Dido apply the same epithet to Aeneas (Aemid, IV.439, in The Poems of John Dryden, ed. James Kinsley, 111, 1156), and since the epigraph to the play also concerns Did--Qam morere, ut merita ex, ferroque averti dolorem" (p. 151; Am. IV.547)-ve am invited to see Calista's struggle in the light of Dido's, to identify that struggle as the temptation to suicidal despair, and to fear its outcome. 20. Cf. Shakespeare'., Gertrude to 11 del, in It,, C-plen, Men, end Pa ..... c f William Shakespeare, cal. W. A. Neilson and C. J. Hill: 0 Hamlet, speal, no morel Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul, And there I we such black and grained spots As will not leave their tinct. (IlLiv.88 ff) 21, 1 am obviously in total disagreement with Eugene Hnatko, "The Failure of Eigbteenth-Century Tragedy," p. 466, when he calls the play "a 'tragedy' of one- dimensional figures who do not engage the modern audience at all.... All the characters working within the simple moral framework are stick-figures declaiming, more plot ne- cessities." The statements strike me as assertive and unempirical.  V Protagonist as Penitent (with Resignation) The Tragedy of Jane Shore orShore oas one of the most famos concobines in y English history, ond her story moo recorded ond reiter- ated from the tteoaissance theoogh tho Restoration by chronfie, lyric, drama, ond ballod." When Nicholas Romve come to treat her story, although he was obviously famitiar with many of its ersier treatments,' he evidently turned pei- mnasily to Heymood's homiletic history piay, Edscacd TV,' os Donald B. Claek hos oegued ("Nicholas Rome," p. 210 if), for Heymood's is the ooty treatment besidtes Rowe's ins which Janse dies ins the arms of her forgiving husbandl. Whot Clock does not discoss, however, aod what is most gee- mane to Rome's ptoy, is shot Hleywood's Edscord IV, ospeciatty the ,second port,is astdyof Chistianmecy adfogiveness, o variatioo onoatheme from theSermononote Mount:"Bessd aetemecifu, foe they sholl obtoin meecy" (Mot. 5:7). The mercy of Heywood's repentant Jane toward the poor sod the , Bater,, Robert, 83 i. peatic jutice, 18, 27, 28, 4149, Btt, Jtht, lO6tlO 43n3l,7; ,,,,ufferiginocence,30 Augtinet, Saint, 42n24 Camtpbell, (Sly Be.,, 4148 Autl, Normani, 79,23, 106t14 Catlltt, Lidoicii, 41t9, 42416 Atery, Emmett1 L., 943 Ctthe, Eldt,, 1444.9 C,,,tlivre, 03san444,121 Baker,, Hersche4,l, 4, 8 Chtpelat, Je,,27 Banks, John: a44 ,,,,,,, li,,,,Bt, 18; .44 Chapitat, George, 17,8 tragediesofsufferig innocenc, 29; Chaucer,, Geoffrey,33, 3, 1836m)I imaigery of,4 in oparison 8314 (hottli, Henry, 42410 Bitik., 183;141s play it Lady Jane Christia tragedy. Sit Tragedy, Christian Ctay, 105n6, 106n9 Churhyar, Thbitt, 14 0th,,,,,, At,,, T., 0320, 42.2 Chte, Athony, 163 Barrow,, 4..i, 44439, 10543, 177412 (144,,,, Clley,5 Adams,, Henry Hitch: on domesic, Batl,t,,,,s, Bty W., 9,,19, 4149 tragedy, 7;Chritian vision tf, under, Ba.10311, Mart8i, is attack, 9n9;o otic3jtic, B,,tvt434, Williami, 41,42n,6 41-42n8;i onignis it Providenc in Beh,,itO, Alfred, 843 literature,, 121, 131, 144ni9; t, Benevelism, (tsotim44ttlit4, 43, Heywooid'stJame S4hore, 152, 177n3 444344 Addison, Joseph: ti pmith jutice, 29, Blacktimon, 8ir Richad it poetic 43n22; stylt of, comparied with jttstic, 18, 27, 41.984 onjth, 44433 Bit,,', 71, 71, 73 (414 comtpared Blake, William,, 178,23 wi14 Lady Jane, Gray, 100413 Boet144,, 33 Providence,, 144,10 Btrgt..idl, Paul, 105n4 Aldridge,, A. Owen,,, 43434 B,,,,iit, J44q44t-B043gt4, 941 9 Allen, Don Cameroni, 4, 8,44r,32, 7449 Bra.y, R.n6, 4341 7 Aristotle: it poeti juti, 27, 4215; Breton4,, Nichola, 164 44 trag4icomey (ci1e4 by Dryden), 0,014,,, Y04,,, C., 44439, 74n8 29; mtisudetandin4gs tfhis theory 0,ur,,, Mittin, 41.9,42429 ofthars,,i, 29-30;144 pitry.. 04144ui Willy, 8n,3 mea twee h4is44 tory and philosophy, Bitnyit, John. 32,433 35 Bumet,, Cilbet, 88, 183.0,107n20 A1441, Rtby L., 106n9 Bttm, 434444 Crawford3, Jr,., 9s,83.4, Attiinhly Annotions,,, 158 43437,73,1,75429, 145,24 A44iptt, Ptit0,it 1161414, a446 d0: Buton,, BRoberit, 93 44 potictjutic, 19, 27, 28, 41.9, 0.11, John, 183,24 Atg.ti,, Sai,,42414 Capbll, Lily Bess,, 41,,9 1443t, Ntorma, 75,,13, 183,4 (tlt,,, Loilctki, 41n, 42n34 Avery, Etmett L., 843 Cato4the0Elde, 144n9 Bakert, Herschl, 4, 8 (htpelai., J,,it, 27 Bank, Jihn: and setioaism3i,,, 18 itO Chapmait, Geog, 57, 58 tragediest ,osuffeing 144444444, 29 Chaucer,, Ge4otfy, 33, 30,183.21I imagey 4f,1 itoparionith 34 hetl, Henry, 4326 Biwt', 1021 hi, play ioi Lady Jane (4ri0tia trgedy. 944 Tragdy, Christiit Cray, 105n,,0 839 Chuichyard, Thtiiitt, 14 0.14,,.,, Atne T., 9419, 42n12 Chut, Anithony, 104 Bow,,, Isaa,4439,19543, 177,12 (ibbet, Ctlley,5  208 Idexi Rowtes tragedies, 8n;,7, ouceo Tamerlane,., 46-47; on detity of 74n6;,on parallel beween Ulysses and Le 06, 75]5;, onsoreso LatdylJane Gray, 105nt6;o parallel seein Latdy Jane Gray and Cat, ...d Ottwty Dtt Jobn, 145t23; o Share and Hywoo's Edward1I, 146; Jam, Shore., 161; and tbe Jane Sbore Ctarke, Samuel2, 44t06, 44n28 A, 43n26 Copton.,Gil ., 9n20 Cogee Williamt, 6,18, 33, 43n]6 Constable, Henr.y, 164 CorneiIle, Pierre: o poetic jutice, 27, ad I e Ci2,65, 68, 70, 75.,23, and Ptl6,,tet, 165.2 Cr..batws Rihard, 164 Crotwt., Jothn, 75n15 Damtmers, Richard Hettmat, 9n6 Dante Atighicti, 32, 36,145n27 Dennist, John:to poetic jutice, 17-18 passim, 27, 41,8,42n,,42n5, 43,02, 55; mtionelttd, 111 33; symtboiized by prison, 33; in w~ith acdi dbtritit, 748; Dolbe6e, Roman.y, 2, 131,'176,178.21 Dmestic tragedy. See Tragedy, domestic Donne, John, 31 Drakeb, James, 18,420, 42-43n21 Drayton,. Michael, 177.L2 Dtydetn, John:, and Milton., 5;,o suffering inoec,182, 30;,o poticO jutice, 18, 27-306pasivet,43t21, 104; Christin.ision in tragedies otf, 18, 144nl0; ..d Hobbi,.t, 23; ..td te function. o pity, 29, 43n24, 135; ...d tbe mtaIphortofttil, 32; .td the tem.ptationt to despa.ir, 33, 44..30, .td -AlibI, Lovet, 5,43.21, 70,135, 143 -Attboytt, 5, 28 -COle,,,en,', 5,28, 43,16,43,0 -Don, Sebatian,,, 18, 43.22 -Essaty on Drtic tP-,y, 28 -Evening's ovt-, ProIogue, 28 28 -Oe6dipus, 5,26 -State oft totsstt, 5 -Tymntik Love., 5, 28, 79 -trans, Aett3.t, 145n19 Ebb., John Dale, 41n8 14,35; immtaity ofsoul2defended against, 35; mo~dem studies tf, 40n2, bagiograpby used against, 78; in The oyal Contvet, 87-88; in Lady Jane Gray, 83; int. he Fair Penitent, 116; inO, JaneShor, 148 Et..,bi,,, 78 Fagt,., Robert, 57, 58 Farqubar, Geotge, 43n16 E6,,l,,t, P,,.ti, dela Mottt,, 75n16 Ferry, Atwe Davitdson, 75n17 Fist,,, M,.8i,, 32 Field, Nathan,, 9n]6,111-12 Pit,,., Edwa, 2 7,42n13 Fbishe, Dorothea Fron-, (Car6Ifed), 208 Clard Dotnald D,tJeb.on 1ucce1sof ,Rowe'.stgdie, 8tn2i; onsurce2o Rowe's. Jtopy 18, 27ol, 4n8,42,1 74n6; onl~s bparallel btee Ulyssesg~t adL 43 ,t n5 o orso Cttg.lt; Wio,. 6,18,33betee43,26vi and,.I, HOty 164oh,14n;o 284,;o paralll between, Janett trditoistrature 165n4 C,lark, Wmiel, .26, 4,8 Col,,Jermy, 18b,2, 1 4 ComptoJn, ai pH.s jtti.,171 p...i..e, 27li,4,8,9,3,3,43,77, 33stl, HyenrI~dyp2t, 164 42, 43.17; parlle between Ulysse adi Lsk Ci, ,6, 7, 515 adb6, Btt..ttye, 2131,7017.2 Do,ti Ronaldy S.