Born, in London, 4 Feb. 1693. Assisted his father in jewellery business. Play “Silvia” produced at Drury Lane, 10 Nov. 1730; “The Merchant” (afterwards called: “The London Merchant, or the History of George Barnwell”), Drury Lane, 22 June 1731; “Britannia, or the Royal Lovers,” Covent Garden, 11 Feb. 1734; “The Christian Hero,” Drury Lane, 13 Jan. 1735; “Fatal Curiosity,” Haymarket, 1736; “Marina” (adapted from “Pericles”), Covent Garden, 1 Aug. 1738; “Elmerick,” posthumously produced, Drury Lane, 23 Feb. 1740; adaptation of “Arden of Faversham,” posthumously produced, Drury Lane, 19 July 1759. Died, in London, 3 Sept. 1739. Buried in St. Leonard’s, Shoreditch. Works: “Silvia” (anon.), 1731; “The London Merchant,” 1731 (2nd edn. same year); “The Christian Hero,” 1735; “Fatal Curiosity,” 1737; “Marina,” 1738. Posthumous: “Britannia and Batavia,” 1740; “Elmerick,” 1740; “Arden of Faversham” (adapted), 1762. Collected Works: ed. by T. Davies, with memoir (2 vols.), 1775.

Personal

  He had a perfect knowledge of human nature, though his contempt of all base means of application, which are the necessary steps to great acquaintance, restrained his conversation within very narrow bounds. He had the spirit of an old Roman, joined to a primitive Christian. He was content with his little state of life, in which his excellent temper of mind gave him an happiness beyond the power of riches; and it was necessary for his friends to have a sharp insight into his want of their services, as well as good inclination, and abilities, to serve him. In short, he was one of the best of men, and those who knew him best, will most regret his loss.

  As a man he was honourable and just in all the relations of life. Like Richardson, “he kept his shop, and his shop kept him.” His disposition was genial, kind, and social; and, though prudent and correct himself, he could tolerate error in others, and render assistance to those who too often neglected to assist themselves.

  It was at the rehersals for the original production of “Fatal Curiosity” at the Haymarket that Lillo’s future editor and biographer, “Tom Davies,” who was cast for the part of Young Wilmot, made the acquaintance of the author. He describes Lillo as plain and simple in his address, and at the same time modest, affable, and engaging in conversation. Elsewhere he states him to have been in person lusty, but not tall, and of a pleasing aspect, though deprived of the sight of one eye.

George Barnwell, 1731

  A tragedy which has been acted thirty-nine times consecutively at Drury Lane, amidst unflagging applause from a constantly crowded house; which has met with similar success wherever it has been performed; which has been printed and published to the number of many thousand copies, and is read with no less interest and pleasure than it is witnessed upon the stage—a tragedy which has called forth so many marks of approbation and esteem must occasion in those who hear it spoken of one or other of two thoughts: either that it is one of those master-pieces the perfect beauty of which is perceived by all; or that it is so well adapted to the particular taste of the nation which thus delights in it that it may be considered as a certain indication of the present state of that nation’s taste.

  Avaunt, ye small wits, whose quality is not so much delicacy as subtlety and frivolity; ye thankless, hardened hearts, wrecked by excess and overmuch thinking! You are not made for the sweetness of shedding tears!

  As this was almost a new species of tragedy, wrote on a very uncommon subject, he rather chose it should take its fate in the summer, than run among the more hazardous fate of encountering the winter criticks. The old ballad of “George Barnwell” (on which the story was founded) was on this occasion reprinted, and many thousands sold in one day. Many gaily-disposed spirits brought the ballad with them to the play, intending to make their pleasant remarks (as some afterwards owned) and ludicrous comparisons between the antient ditty and the modern drama. But the play was very carefully got up, and universally allowed to be well performed. The piece was thought to be well conducted, and the subject well managed, and the diction proper and natural; never low, and very rarely swelling above the characters that spoke. Mr. Pope, among other persons distinguished by their rank, or particular publick merit, had the curiosity to attend the performance, and commended the actors, and the author; and remarked, if the latter had erred through the whole play, it was only in a few places, where he had unawares led himself into a poetical luxuriancy, affecting to be too elevated for the simplicity of the subject. But the play, in general, spoke so much to the heart, that the gay persons before mentioned confessed, they were drawn in to drop their ballads, and pull out their handkerchiefs. It met with uncommon success; for it was acted above twenty times in the summer season to great audiences; was frequently bespoke by some eminent merchants and citizens, who much approved its moral tendency: and, in the winter following, was acted often to crowded houses: And all the royal family, at several different times, honoured it with their appearance. It gained reputation, and brought money to the poet, the managers, and the performers.

  An admirable piece of work, with a moral which goes more straight to the point than that of any French play I am acquainted with.

  On the first night of representation, the greatest part of the audience assembled to laugh, and brought with them the old ballad on the subject, as a token of ridicule; but, as the play proceeded, they became attentive, then interested, and, at length, threw down the ancient ditty, and drew forth their handkerchiefs.

  “The Merchant of London” is remarkable from having been praised by Diderot and Lessing, as a model deserving of imitation. This error could only have escaped from Lessing, in the keenness of his hostility to the French conventional tone. For in reality, we must perpetually bear in mind the honest views of Lillo, to prevent us from finding “The Merchant of London” as laughable as it is certainly trivial. Whoever possesses so little knowledge of the world and of men ought not to set up for a public lecturer on morals. We might draw a very different conclusion from this piece, from that which the author had in view, namely, that we ought to make young people early acquainted with prostitutes, to prevent them from entertaining a violent passion, and being at last led to steal and murder, for the first wretch who spreads her snares for them, (which they cannot possibly avoid). Besides, I cannot approve of making gallows first visible in the last scene; such a piece ought always to be acted with a place of execution in the background. With respect to the edification to be drawn from a drama of this kind, I should prefer the histories of malefactors, which are usually printed in England at executions; they contain, at least, real facts, instead of awkward fictions.

  Lillo’s domestic tragedies were what she most admired; for “My lady used to declare,” said the old servant so often quoted, “that whoever did not cry at George Barnwell must deserve to be hanged.”

  It marks in the history of the stage the same change which Richardson introduced into the novel. Yet the comparison must not be carried too far; they agree in the most devoted respect for morality, but in art poor Lillo is the merest bungler, and by the side of Richardson he makes but a poor show.

  (At the Theatre Royal, Manchester, “George Barnwell” used within a recent date to be annually performed on Shrove Tuesday). “George Barnwell” retained possession of the English stage for more than a century, and experienced some notable “revivals.” Among these need only be mentioned that at Covent Garden on 28 Sept. 1796, when for the sake of her brother Charles Kemble, who appeared as the hero, Mrs. Siddons took the part of Millwood, and induced Miss Pope to act Lucy (Genest, vii. 287–8). Its popularity is further attested by various treatments of the same theme in novel and burlesque, Thackeray’s “George de Barnwell” being conspicuous among the latter.

  Read again to-day, the “master-piece” of this remarkable character seems less sublime. It is a melodrama of a decidedly sombre type, highly moral, and in parts, but in parts only, full of pathos…. “Manon” was as yet unwritten, and who shall say that Lillo’s play, which Prévost saw performed in London, and spoke of with such enthusiasm, did not count for something in the creation of his romance? However this may be, there is a touch of the rogue about Des Grieux, and Manon is too lovable; the lesson conveyed is less direct and less tragic. The manner in which the humble dissenter George Lillo determined to produce was very different. He aimed at producing a more forcible impression, and wrote, not a dramatic work, but a sermon in the form of a play. Nevertheless, crude as it is from an artistic point of view, this drama contains a presage of something great…. “George Barnwell,” which in England was regarded as a common and rather vulgar drama of some merit, produced on the continent the impression of a work of genius, and gave the theater a new lease of life. The Germans became as enthusiastic over Lillo as over Shakespeare; Gottsched and Lessing extolled him to the skies, and the latter imitated him in “Sara Sampson.” He became one of the classics of the modern drama. Yet, strange as it may seem, even to the Germans he appeared too brutal, and Sébastien Mercier’s “Jenneval,” a modified but inferior adaption, was played in preference.

Fatal Curiosity, 1736

  Lillo had many requisites for a tragedian; he understood, either from innate taste, or critical study, the advantage to be derived from a consistent fable; and, in the tragedy of the “Fatal Curiosity,” he has left the model of a plot, in which, without the help of any exterior circumstances, a train of events operating upon the characters of the dramatic persons, produce a conclusion at once the most dramatic and the most horrible that the imagination can conceive.

  On the 10th of February, Lillo’s most horrible tragedy of the “Fatal Curiosity” was brought out augmented by Mr. Mackenzie in a style sufficiently similar. Henderson and Mrs. Stephen Kemble rendered the audience completely miserable.

  That the play is distinguished by a homely, genuine pathos, rarely, if ever met with, in the dramatic efforts of the age, will be admitted by every reader. In fact, Lillo was to dramatic, what Crabbe, half a century later, was to narrative poetry. If not a genius of the highest order, he had strong and healthful sympathies; and at a period when profligacy, fustian, and affectation, held possession of the stage, it is refreshing to turn to his simple humanity and unexceptionable morality.

General

  Notwithstanding the power of Lillo’s works, we entirely miss in them that romantic attraction which invites to repeated perusal of them. They give us life in a close and dreadful semblance of reality, but not arrayed in the magic illusion of poetry. His strength lies in conception of situations, not in beauty of dialogue, or in the eloquence of the passions. Yet the effect of his plain and homely subjects was so strikingly superior to that of the vapid and heroic productions of the day, as to induce some of his contemporary admirers to pronounce that he had reached the acmè of dramatic excellence, and struck into the best and most genuine path of tragedy…. It is one question whether Lillo has given to his subjects from private life the degree of beauty of which they are susceptible. He is a master of terrific, but not of tender impressions. We feel a harshness and gloom in his genius even while we are compelled to admire its force and originality.

  There was more of moral purpose than of genius in his tragedies.

  Amused the town with some perfectly unreadable plays, principally “George Barnwell” and “The Fatal Curiosity,” which are interesting as the first specimens of “tragedie bourgeoise,” or modern melodrama. These artless dramas were composed in the interest of morality and virtue, and are the parents of a long line of didactic plays of crime and its punishment.

  One of the prominent offenders who followed in Steele’s wake was George Lillo whose highly moral tragedies, written for the edification of playgoers, have the kind of tragic interest which is called forth by any commonplace tale of crime and misery. In Lillo’s two most important dramas, “George Barnwell,” a play founded on the old ballad, and “The Fatal Curiosity,” there is a total absence of the elevation in character and language which gives dignity to tragedy. His plays are like tales of guilt arranged and amplified from the Newgate Calendar. The author wrote with a good purpose, and the public appreciated his work, but it is not dramatic art, and has no pretension to the name of literature.