Returned the forfeit sword, which, so returned, De Mon. When he disarmed this cursed, this worthless hand Of its most worthless weapon, he but spared Until that day, till that accursed day, I knew not half the torment of this hell Which burns within my breast. Heaven's lightnings blast him! Jane. Oh, this is horrible! Forbear, forbear! Lest Heaven's vengeance light upon thy head For this most impious wish. De Mon. Then let it light. Torments more fell than I have known already Jane. Oh! wouldst thou kill me with these dreadful words? De Mon. Let me but once upon his ruin look, Ha! how is this? Thou'rt ill; thou'rt very pale; I meant not to distress thee-O, my sister! De Mon. I have killed thee. Turn, turn thee not away! Look on me still! Jane. Thou, too, De Montfort, In better days was wont to be my pride. De Mon. I am a wretch, most wretched in myself, And still more wretched in the pain I give. O curse that villain, that detested villain! He has spread misery o'er my fated life; He will undo us all." Jane. I've held my warfare through a troubled world, And borne with steady mind my share of ill; For then the helpmate of my toil wast thou. But now the wane of life comes darkly on, And hideous passion tears thee from my heart, Blasting thy worth. I cannot strive with this. De Mon. What shall I do? [Female Picture of a Country Life.] Even now methinks Each little cottage of my native vale And with green trail-weeds clambering up its walls, The flowers grow not too close; and there within I'll gather round my board Shall, thundering loud, strike on the distant ear Shall have its suited pastime even winter [Fears of Imagination.] Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast, Or boatmen's oar, as vivid lightning flash One hasty glance in mockery of the night [Speech of Prince Edward in his Dungeon.] Do the green woods dance to the wind? the lakes Do the flocks bleat, and the wild creatures bound [Description of Jane de Montfort.] [The following has been pronounced to be a perfect picture of Mrs Siddons, the tragic actress.] Page. Madam, there is a lady in your hall Who begs to be admitted to your presence. Lady. Is it not one of our invited friends? Page. No; far unlike to them. It is a stranger. Lady. How looks her countenance? Page. So queenly, so commanding, and so noble, I shrunk at first in awe; but when she smiled, Methought I could have compassed sea and land To do her bidding. Lady. Is she young or old? Page. Neither, if right I guess; but she is fair, Lady. The foolish stripling! She has bewitched thee. Is she large in stature? 75 Page. I cannot well describe the fashion of it: Lady. Thine eyes deceive thee, boy; Freberg. [Starting from his seat, where he has been sitting during the conversation between the Lady and the Page.] It is an apparition he has seen, Or it is Jane de Montfort. WILLIAM GODWIN-WILLIAM SOTHEBY. in 1813, aided by fine original music, but it has not since been revived. It contains, however, some of Coleridge's most exquisite poetry and wild superstition, with a striking romantic plot. We extract the scene in which Alhadra describes the supposed murder of her husband, Alvar, by his brother, and animates his followers to vengeance. [Scene from Remorse."] The Mountains by Moonlight. ALHADRA alone, in a Alhadra. Yon hanging woods, that, touched by As they were blossoming hues of fire and gold; MR GODWIN, the novelist, attempted the tragic drama in the year 1800, but his powerful genius, which had produced a romance of deep and thrilling interest, became cold and frigid when confined to the rules of the stage. His play was named Antonio, or the Soldier's Return. It turned out a miracle of dulness,' as Sergeant Talfourd relates, and at last the actors were hooted from the stage. The author's equanimity under this severe trial is amusingly related by Talfourd. Mr Godwin, he says, 'sat on one of the front benches of the pit, unmoved amidst the storm. When the first act passed off without a hand, he expressed his satisfaction at the good sense of the house; "the proper season of applause had not arrived;" all was exactly as it should be. The second act proceeded to its close in the same uninterrupted calm; his friends became uneasy, but still his optimism prevailed; he could afford to wait. And although he did at last admit the great movement was somewhat tardy, and that the audience seemed rather patient than interested, he did not [She fixes her eyes on the earth. Then drop in, one after lose his confidence till the tumult arose, and then he another, from different parts of the stage, a considerable numsubmitted with quiet dignity to the fate of genius, ber of Morescoes, all in Moorish garments and Moorish armour. too lofty to be understood by a world as yet in its They form a circle at a distance round ALHADRA, and remain childhood.' The next new play was also by a man silent till the second in command, NAOMI, enters, distinguished of distinguished genius, and it also was unsuccessful. by his dress and armour, and by the silent obeisance paid to Julian and Agnes, by WILLIAM SOTHEBY, the trans-him on his entrance by the other Moors.] lator of Oberon, was acted April 25, 1800. In the course of its performance, Mrs Siddons, as the heroine, had to make her exit from the scene with an infant in her arms. Having to retire precipitately, she inadvertently struck the baby's head violently against a door-post. Happily, the little thing was made of wood, so that her doll's accident only produced a general laugh, in which the actress herself joined heartily.' This 'untoward event' would have marred the success of any new tragedy; but Mr Sotheby's is deficient in arrangement and dramatic art. We may remark, that at this time the genius of Kemble and Mrs Siddons shed a lustre on the stage, and reclaimed it from the barbarous solecisms in dress and decoration which even Garrick had tolerated. Neither Kemble nor Garrick, however, paid sufficient attention to the text of Shakspeare's dramas, which, even down to about the year 1838, continued to be presented as mutilated by Nahum Tate, Colley Cibber, and others. The first manager who ventured to restore the pure text of the great dramatist, and present it without any of the baser alloys on the stage, was Mr Macready, who made great though unavailing efforts to encourage the taste of the public for Shakspeare and the legitimate drama. S. T. COLERIDGE. The tragedies of Coleridge, Scott, Byron, Procter, and Milman (noticed in our account of these poets), must be considered as poems rather than plays. Coleridge's Remorse was acted with some success Naomi. Woman, may Alla and the prophet bless We have obeyed thy call. Where is our chief! circle.] Warriors of Mahomet! faithful in the battle! Naomi. Where is Isidore? Alhad. [In a deep low voice.] This night I went from His children all asleep; and he was living! All Morescoes. Perished? One Moresco to another. Did she say his murder? Alhad. Murdered by a Christian! [They all at once Alhad. [To Naomi, who advances from the circle.] Alhad. Yes, the mouth of yonder cavern. And once methought I heard the clash of swords! He flung his torch towards the moon in sport, Alhad. I crept into the cavern 'Twas dark and very silent. [Then wildly.] What No, no! I did not dare call Isidore, groan! Naomi. Comfort her, Alla. Alhad. I stood in unimaginable trance, And agony that cannot be remembered, Listening with horrid hope to hear a groan! But I had heard his last, my husband's death-groan! Naomi. Haste! let us onward. Alhad. I looked far down the pit My sight was bounded by a jutting fragment; And it was stained with blood. Then first I shrieked, All. Away, away! [She rushes off, all following. The incantation scene, in the same play, is sketched with high poetical power, and the author's unrivalled musical expression: Scene-A Hall of Armory, with an altar at the back of the stage. Soft music from an instrument of glass or steel. And lower down poor Alvar, fast asleep, Alv. My tears must not flow! I must not clasp his knees, and cry, My father! Enter TERESA and Attendants. Ter. Lord Valdez, you have asked my presence here, Ord. Believe you, then, no preternatural influence? Ter. Say rather that I have imagined it A possible thing: and it has soothed my soul here Hear our soft suit, and heed my milder spell: Who in broad circle, lovelier than the rainbow, Ye, as ye pass, toss high the desert sands, VALDEZ, ORDONIO, and ALVAR in a Sorcerer's robe are dis- By sighs unquiet, and the sickly pang covered. Of a half dead, yet still undying hope, Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell, And at evening evermore, Hark! the cadence dies away On the yellow moonlight sea: [A long pause. Alv. A joy to thee! What if thou heardst him now? What if his spirit Re-entered its cold corse, and came upon thee With many a stab from many a murderer's poniard? What if (his steadfast eye still beaming pity And brother's love) he turned his head aside, Lest he should look at thee, and with one look Hurl thee beyond all power of penitence? Vald. These are unholy fancies! Ord. [Struggling with his feelings.] Yes, my father, He is in heaven! Alv. [Still to Ordonio.] But what if he had a brother, Who had lived even so, that at his dying hour Val. Idly prating man! Thou hast guessed ill: Don Alvar's only brother Stands here before thee-a father's blessing on him! He is most virtuous. Alv. [Still to Ordonio.] What if his very virtues Had pampered his swollen heart and made him proud? And what if pride had duped him into guilt? Yet still he stalked a self-created god, Not very bold, but exquisitely cunning; And one that at his mother's looking-glass Would force his features to a frowning sternness ? Young lord! I tell thee that there are such beingsYea, and it gives fierce merriment to the damned To see these most proud men, that loathe mankind, At every stir and buz of coward conscience, Trick, cant, and lie; most whining hypocrites! Away, away! Now let me hear more music. [Music again. Ter. 'Tis strange, I tremble at my own conjectures! But whatsoe'er it mean, I dare no longer Be present at these lawless mysteries, This dark provoking of the hidden powers! Already I affront-if not high HeavenYet Alvar's memory! Hark! I make appeal Against the unholy rite, and hasten hence To bend before a lawful shrine, and seek That voice which whispers, when the still heart listens, Comfort and faithful hope! Let us retire. REV. CHARLES ROBERT MATURIN. The REV. CHARLES ROBERT MATURIN, author of several romances, produced a tragedy named Bertram, which, by the influence of Lord Byron, was brought out at Drury Lane in 1816. It was well received; and by the performance and publication of his play, the author realised about £1000. Sir Walter Scott considered the tragedy 'grand and powerful, the language most animated and poetical, and the characters sketched with a masterly enthusiasm.' The author was anxious to introduce Satan on the stage, a return to the style of the ancient mysteries by no means suited to modern taste. Mr Maturin was curate of St Peter's, Dublin. The scanty income derived from his curacy being insufficient for his comfortable maintenance, he employed himself in assisting young persons during their classical studies at Trinity college, Dublin. The novels of Maturin (which will be afterwards noticed) enjoyed considerable popularity; and had his prudence been equal CR Matwin to his genius, his life might have been passed in comfort and respect. He was, however, vain and extravagant-always in difficulties (Scott at one time generously sent him £50), and haunted by bailiffs. When this eccentric author was engaged in compo sition, he used to fasten a wafer on his forehead, which was the signal that if any of his family entered the sanctum they must not speak to him! The success of Bertram' induced Mr Maturin to attempt another tragedy, Manuel, which he published in 1817. It is a very inferior production; the absurd work of a clever man,' says Byron. The unfortunate author died in Dublin on the 30th of October 1824. [Scene from 'Bertram.'] [A passage of great poetical beauty, in which Bertram is represented as spurred to the commission of his great crimes by the direct agency of a supernatural and malevolent being. -Sir Walter Scott.] PRIOR-BERTRAM. Prior. The dark knight of the forest, So from his armour named and sable helm, Bertram. I'll ring a summons on his barred portal Shall make them through their dark valves rock and ring. Prior. Thou'rt mad to take the quest. Within my memory One solitary man did venture there- vent. Unto that dark compeer we saw his steps, Horrors to me are kindred and society. Or man, or fiend, he hath won the soul of Bertram. [Bertram is afterwards discovered alone, wandering near the fatal tower, and describes the effect of the awful interview which he had courted.] Bertram. Was it a man or fiend? Whate'er it was, How spoke the eloquent silence of its motion, I felt those unseen eyes were fixed on mine, Forgotten thoughts of evil, still-born mischiefs, To bide the eternal summons I am not what I was since I beheld him- Enter two of his band observing him. That brightness all around thee, that appeared To adorn its habitation with itself, In the same year with Mr Sheil's 'Evadne' (1820) appeared Brutus, or the Fall of Tarquin, a historical tragedy, by JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. There is no originality or genius displayed in this drama; but, when well acted, it is highly effective on the stage. In 1821 MR PROCTER'S tragedy of Mirandola was brought out at Covent Garden, and had a short but enthusiastic run of success. The plot is painful (including the death, through unjust suspicions, of a prince sentenced by his father), and there is a want of dramatic movement in the play; but some of the passages are imbued with poetical feeling and First Robber. Seest thou with what a step of pride vigorous expression. The doting affection of Miran he stalks? Thou hast the dark knight of the forest seen; For never man, from living converse come, Trod with such step or flashed with eye like thine. Second Robber. And hast thou of a truth seen the dark knight? Bertram. [Turning on him suddenly.] Thy hand is chilled with fear. Well, shivering craven, dola, the duke, has something of the warmth and the rich diction of the old dramatists. Duke. My own sweet love! Oh! my dear peerless By the blue sky and all its crowding stars, First Robber. Mock me not thus. Hast met him of I speak the truth, by Dian. Even now a truth? RICHARD L. SHEIL-J. H. PAYNE-B. W. PROCTER- Another Irish poet, and man of warm imagination, is RICHARD LALOR SHEIL. His plays, Evadne and The Apostate, were performed with much success, partly owing to the admirable acting of Miss O'Neil. The interest of Mr Sheil's dramas is concentrated too exclusively on the heroine of each, and there is a want of action and animated dialogue; but they abound in impressive and well-managed scenes. The plot of Evadne' is taken from Shirley's Traitor, as are also some of the sentiments. The following description of female beauty is very finely expressed : But you do not look altered-would you did! Gheraldi waits without (or should) to see me. Duke. We'll ride together, dearest, Some few hours hence. [Exit. Isid. Just as you please; farewell. About the same time Conscience, or the Bridal Night, by MR JAMES HAYNES, was performed, and afterwards published. The hero is a ruined Venetian, and his bride the daughter of his deadliest enemy, and the niece of one to whose death he had been a party. The stings of conscience, and the fears accompanying the bridal night, are thus described: [LORENZO and his friend JULIO.] Of dying; but pity bids me live! Never again: even at my bridal hour Thou sawest detection, like a witch, look on And smile, and mock at the solemnity, Lor. Have none approached us? |