Could e'er have been the crime of one so piteous, De Mon. So would I now but ask of this no more. All other troubles but the one I feel I have disclosed to thee. I pray thee, spare me. Feel like the oppressive airless pestilence. O Jane! thou wilt despise me. Jane. Say not so: I never can despise thee, gentle brother. A lover's jealousy and hopeless pangs Like two young trees, whose boughs in early strength From social pleasure, from my native home, Screen the weak saplings of the rising grove, And brave the storm together. It is the secret weakness of my nature. No kindly heart contemns. Jane. Then secret let it be: I urge no further. De Mon. A lover's, say'st thou? The eldest of our valiant father's hopes, So sadly orphaned: side by side we stood, No, it is hate! black, lasting, deadly hate! Which thus hath driven me forth from kindred peace, To be a sullen wanderer on the earth, Avoiding all men, cursing and accursed. I have so long, as if by nature's right, Thy bosom's inmate and adviser been, Nor ever known a change. Forgive me, Montfort; Jane. De Montfort, this is fiend-like, terrible! What being, by the Almighty Father formed Of flesh and blood, created even as thou, Could in thy breast such horrid tempest wake, Who art thyself his fellow! Unknit thy brows, and spread those wrath-clenched I thought through life I should have so remained, A humbler station will I take by thee; The close attendant of thy wandering steps, The cheerer of this home, with strangers sought, The soother of those griefs I must not know. This is mine office now: I ask no more. hands. Some sprite accursed within thy bosom mates To work thy ruin. Strive with it, my brother! De Mon. Oh, Jane, thou dost constrain me with thy Strive bravely with it; drive it from thy heart; love Would I could tell it thee! Jane. Thou shalt not tell me. Nay, I'll stop mine ears, Nor from the yearnings of affection wring What shrinks from utterance. Let it pass, my brother. De Mon. It will not pass away; 'twill haunt me still. Jane. Ah! say not so, for I will haunt thee too, That, though I wrestle darkling with the fiend, De Mon. Thou most generous woman! Jane. What sayst thou, Montfort? Oh! what words Then, if affection, most unwearied love, De Montfort, do not thus resist my love. De Mon. [Raising her, and kneeling.] With my first cares I felt its rankling touch. Jane. Whom didst thou say? E'en in our early sports, like two young whelps It drove me frantic. What, what would I give- Jane. And would thy hatred crush the very man De Mon. Ha! thou hast heard it, then! From all Returned the forfeit sword, which, so returned, And then, as says report, you parted friends. Shall, thundering loud, strike on the distant ear De Mon. When he disarmed this cursed, this worth- Solemn, and grave, and cloistered, and demure Jane. Oh, this is horrible! Forbear, forbear! De Mon. Then let it light. What all men shrink from; to be dust, be nothing, Jane. Oh! wouldst thou kill me with these dread- De Mon. Let me but once upon his ruin look, Then close mine eyes for ever! Ha! how is this? Thou'rt ill; thou'rt very pale; I meant not to distress thee-O, my sister! Jane. I cannot now speak to thee. 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. He has spread misery o'er my fated life; He will undo us all. We shall not be. Will this content ye, damsels? [Fears of Imagination.] Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast, Or boatmen's oar, as vivid lightning flash [Specch of Prince Edward in his Dungeon.] Doth the bright sun from the high arch of heaven, Send winding up to heaven their curling smoke Do the flocks bleat, and the wild creatures bound Jane. I've held my warfare through a troubled world, In antic happiness? and mazy birds 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, [Female Picture of a Country Life.] Even now methinks Each little cottage of my native vale Swells out its earthen sides, upheaves its roof, And with green trail-weeds clambering up its walls, Peep through its wreathed window, if indeed The flowers grow not too close; and there within I'll gather round my board Wing the mid air in lightly skimming bands? [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. Page. So queenly, so commanding, and so noble, I shrunk at first in awe; but when she smiled, 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; It is an apparition thou hast seen. 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. 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 lose his confidence till the tumult arose, and then he submitted with quiet dignity to the fate of genius, too lofty to be understood by a world as yet in its childhood.' The next new play was also by a man of distinguished genius, and it also was unsuccessful. Julian and Agnes, by WILLIAM SOTHEBY, the translator 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 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 autumn, seem As they were blossoming hues of fire and gold; [She fixes her eyes on the earth. Then drop in, one after another, from different parts of the stage, a considerable num ber of Morescoes, all in Moorish garments and Moorish armour. They form a circle at a distance round ALHADRA, and remain silent till the second in command, NAOMI, enters, distinguished by his dress and armour, and by the silent obeisance paid to him on his entrance by the other Moors.] Naomi. Woman, may Alla and the prophet bless thee! We have obeyed thy call. Where is our chief! Warriors of Mahomet! faithful in the battle! Naomi. Where is Isidore? Alhad. [In a deep low voice.] This night I went from forth my house, and left His children all asleep; and he was living! All Morescoes. Perished? Alhad. He had perished! Sleep on, poor babes! not one of you doth know One Moresco to another. Did she say his murder! Alhad. Murdered by a Christian! [They all at once draw their sabres. Alhad. [To Naomi, who advances from the circle.] Brother of Zagri, fling away thy sword; This is thy chieftain's! [He steps forward to take it.] 1 1 [A pause.] Ordonio was your chieftain's murderer! Naomi. He dies, by Alla! All. [Kneeling.] By Alla! Alhad. This night your chieftain armed himself, And hurried from me. But I followed him At distance, till I saw him enter there! Alhad. Yes, the mouth of yonder cavern. He flung his torch towards the moon in sport, Alhad. I crept into the cavern 'Twas dark and very silent. [Then wildly.] What saidst thou? Naomi. Comfort her, Alla. Alhad. I stood in unimaginable trance, And agony that cannot be remembered, | But I had heard his last, my husband's death-groan! 1 Naomi. Haste! let us onward. Alhad. I looked far down the pit My sight was bounded by a jutting fragment; 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. VALDEZ, ORDONIO, and ALVAR in a Sorcerer's robe are dis covered. Ord. This was too melancholy, father. My Alvar loved sad music from a child. And lower down poor Alvar, fast asleep, His head upon the blind boy's dog. It pleased me 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, And I submit; but (Heaven bear witness for me) My heart approves it not! 'tis mockery. Ord. Believe you, then, no preternatural influence Believe you not that spirits throng around us? Ter. Say rather that I have imagined it [To Alvar.] Stranger, I mourn and blush to see you here On such employment! With far other thoughts Ord. [Aside.] Ha! he has been tampering with her! Alv. O high-souled maiden! and more dear to me Than suits the stranger's name! I swear to thee 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, a voice sings the three words, 'Hear, sweet spirit.'] Hear the mild spell, and tempt no blacker charm ! So shall the church's cleansing rites be thine, [Song behind the scenes, accompanied by the same instrument as before.] Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell, And at evening evermore, Shall the chanters, sad and saintly, Hark! the cadence dies away On the yellow moonlight sea: Ord. The innocent obey nor charm nor spell! Alv. A joy to thee! 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 Alatvcin [A long pause. 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 composition, 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 What if thou heardst him now? What if his spirit 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 Who had lived even so, that at his dying hour Val. Idly prating man! Thou hast guessed ill: Don Alvar's only brother Alv. [Still to Ordonio.] What if his very virtues [Music again. Ter. 'Tis strange, I tremble at my own conjectures! 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 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, He dwells alone; no earthly thing lives near him, Bertram. I'll ring a summons on his barred portal ring. Prior. Thou'rt mad to take the quest. Within my 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, The invisible blast to which the dark pines groan, gloom, How spoke the eloquent silence of its motion, ! |