Such a conception as this required a peculiar construction for the tragedy. Some may think its construction defective. It is no such thing. Essentially it is perfect; though in some accidental points, perhaps, improvable. But the fact is, that, with such a conception, the stage technicalities, of which so much ignorant talk has been made, were scarcely at all available. It was needful that the inmost heart and character of Martinuzzi should be thoroughly understood, before his conduct was presented. The play, therefore, opens with soliloquies and occasional conversations, which serve only to show that a suffering honest man in high station, and surrounded with manifold perplexities, stands before us. His interview with Rupert then puts us in possession of the circumstances which cause the hero internal trouble. Had we "only known the facts," as Rupert did, like him, we should have suspected the Cardinal's probity; but we already know the man, and therefore can interpret the facts better. We know that Martinuzzi is incapable of dishonour; we have seen him in his private moments-have overheard his heart-communings, and are ready, therefore, thoroughly to credit his statements. We believe him fully, when he exclaims "I saw the danger, and I cast My honour in the nation's gap; did force Does From this point we sympathize with him in every situation. he out-manœuvre Ferdinand, and brow-beat Castaldo? We justify him-we are sure that his motives are right, and vindicate by them his actions. That a soul suffering internal travail should so conquer its pain as to triumph over external forces also, and stand the chief among men, is a sublime spectacle, worthy of being classed with the Satan of Milton, the Prometheus of Eschylus, and the Job of the Bible. Isabella is a She is Medea, Every scene in In regard to the other characters, they are all of that stately kind which befits them for the adjuncts of a solemn theme. majestic character that finely counterpoises the hero. Clytemnestra, and Lady Macbeth combined in one. which she appears is Shakesperian, and is equal to the master's own. Each is sustained at the due tragic elevation-the slightest lapse would be fatal. The passions portrayed in them are full of peril to the dramatist; but he steers safely and triumphantly through. His wing is not wearied, nor his vigour at all impaired: he is equal to the heights and depths of passion-he is in his element, whether he dives or soars-all is genial. If Isabella may pair off with Lady Macbeth, Castaldo is very nearly equal to Macbeth himself. He is, in fact, just the same kind of character, without, however, his bravery, and is besides engaged with love-passages instead of war-accidents. Castaldo is touched by the poet with exceeding tact and delicacy-if in the other persons of the tragedy he has shown genius, in him he has shown taste. The state of delirium in which Castaldo is exhibited in the second scene of the fifth act, is a marvellous piece both of conception and construction. All the objects Castaldo beholds are coloured by the subjective condition of his mind. Every thing becomes unearthly-Czerina herself is but an apparition-and the sword she places in his hand is a spectral weapon, air-drawn ;-in a word, we have here the utmost sublimity of tragedy, requiring an actor of surpassing power to embody. The Czerina is a being who feels an inexplicable contradiction in her nature and destiny. She is throughout " She is throughout "queen and no queen." Something oracular within her intimates to her that she is in a false position. Her nature corresponds not with her regal destiny, and thus foreshows that she was not born to the state that invests her. riddle is at last explained when she learns that she is Martinuzzi's daughter-but its solution makes death for her the best expediency. The answer to the enigma is written in her blood. The tableau at the end of the drama is perhaps the most effective picture ever presented on the stage. The latter part of the fourth act is very good. In fact, the whole drama might easily be presented as a ballet d'action, without a word spoken, and be well understood, the previous history of the exchange of the children being premised. So much then for the conception and construction of the piece. We now come to the execution. First, the style is highly metaphorical. Shall we complain of this? Not we! So was that of Eschylus. This peculiarity marks and distinguishes the position of the author. He is the Eschylus of a new theatre. The Sophocles and Euripides will come by and bye, and soon enough, for we prefer Eschylus to either. Our Eschylus, like the one of old, speaks trumpet tongued. Let Aristophanes describe both. "Surely unbearable wrath will rise in the thunderer's bosom, Then shall we have plume-fluttering strife of helmeted speeches, Bristling the stiffened mane of his neck-enveloping tresses, Then will that smooth and diligent tongue, the touchstone of verses, Doughty labours of the lungs." We make a present of this translation to the ignorant detractors of Mr. Stephens; informing them that the verses belong to a chorus of initiated persons who are speaking of a contest between Eschylus and Euripides, and express in the above lines their expectation; comparing, by the way, Eschylus to a lion, and Euripides to a wild boar. Mr. Stephens, we are sure, will not reluctate at being classed with Eschylus. To the author of Martinuzzi, then, be great honour rendered. The nitiator of a new era of dramatic literature, he has come forward, with unexampled heroism, to incur the perils of martyrdom; he has put much of his property, and all his reputation, at risk for the sake of a noble cause. He has been met, as might have been expected, with reproach, misapprehension, and ingratitude-but his undaunted heart still dares to anticipate a triumph which shall still surely come to him, living or dead. To have at all partaken the labour shall be our pride till we perish. SOCRATES. BY FRANCIS BARHAM, ESQ. ACT II.-SCENE I. SOCRATES (before the Altar of the Unknown God). Be apprehended by the finite, till The finite merges in infinitude. 'Tis well. I would know God, as the Unknown, That shroud his name. The light of light must be That makes it so attractive. The deep wish Flourishes best among the dewy shades Of a most youth-like faith-too much of knowledge The GENIUS OF SOCRATES suddenly making an apparition. Socrates. SOCRATES. God of my fathers, shield me! Who, and whence Stealest like a spirit? Ah, thy eyes are kindling If thou be more or less than mortal, speak, GENIUS. Mark my answer well. And made thy echoing conscience resonant Thou hast obeyed me well; and, therefore, now, In sensible apparition I appear Before thee, to instruct thee what thou art, And what thou shall become. SOCRATES. Wonderful spirit Of love and wisdom. Then it was no dream GENIUS. Yes, 'twas I. Hast thou not marked a sudden flashing of light Glance o'er thee when thy weary eyelids slept On the tears they shed? Hast thou not caught the traces Of future scenes in tranced anticipation? And when those scenes came in reality, Felt sure that thou hast traversed them before, By past familiarity prepared To act aright through all their changes? When Do this, or do it not? Hast thou not found SOCRATES. I have; And when long intricate subtleties have wound GENIUS. All this, and more, Have I wrought in thee; for I longed to make thee And now before this altar, which the citizens Raised to the God that stayed the plague at Athens, List the command of Jove! Be all that other sages merely boast; The very vice of vices. They will bring thee. Shall doom thee to the death. But death will give thee We will exult together-evermore. |